Vs 
 
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 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A 
 COLLECTION MADE BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2281.S86 
 
 Henrv Wadsworth Lonofellow. :A medley In 
 
 3 1924 022 036 473 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 ^ Jttetrlcff 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 NEW TOEK: 
 
 GEORGE W. HARLATSr & CO., Publishers, 
 44 WEST 23d STREET. 
 
 1882. 
 

 A(^^^^^l 
 
 Copyright, 1888, by 
 GEORGE W. HAELAN & CO. 
 
 H. J. HEWITT, PRINTER, 37 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 
 
TO 
 
 Jlo8n mSvtenUaf aasijfttfer, 
 
 WITH THE LOVE OF 
 HIS FRIEND, 
 
 R. H. S. 
 
ANGESTOBS. 
 
 Beast not these titles o/your aTUXstors, 
 
 Brave youths; they're their possessions, none of yours 
 
 When your own virtues equaUed have their names, 
 
 ' Thi/iU be but fair to lean upon their fames, 
 
 For they are strong supporters ; hut, tilt then. 
 
 The greatest are but growing gentlemen. 
 
 It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds ; 
 
 What cUl men do, tliey urge not tlieir own deeds 
 
 Up to their ancestors ; the river's side, 
 
 By which you're planted, shows your fruit shaU bide ; 
 
 Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree : 
 
 'Tis virtue alone is true nobility, 
 
 Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fan ; 
 
 Study illustrious him, ami you'll have aU. 
 
 Ben Jonsok. 
 
 "nspoor, and not becoming petfeet gentry. 
 To build their glories at their fathers' cost ; 
 But at their own expense of blood or virtue 
 To raise them, living monuments. Our birth 
 Is not our own act ; honour upon trust 
 Our ill deeds forfeit ; and the wealthy sums 
 Purchas'd by others' fam^ or sweat will be 
 Our stain ; for we inherit nothing truly 
 But what our actions make us worthy of. 
 
 Chapman and SHtBi.ET 
 
SALVE. 
 
 The race of greatness never dies. 
 Sere, then, itsjiery children rise, 
 Perform their splendid parts. 
 And captive take our hearts. 
 
 Men, women of heroic mmiid 
 Home overcome us from of old ; 
 
 Crovms waited then, as now. 
 
 For every royal brow. 
 
 The Victor in the Olympian games — 
 Kis name among the proudest names 
 
 Was handed deathless down ; 
 
 To him the olive crown. 
 
 And they, the poets, grave and sage, 
 Stem masters of the tragic stage. 
 
 Who moved by art austere 
 
 To pity, love, and fear- 
 To these was given, the laurel crown, 
 Whose lightest leaf conferred renown 
 
 That through the ages fled 
 
 Still circles each gray head. 
 
 B. H. Stoddakd. 
 
THE PASSINa-BELL. 
 
 Bark! how chimes the passing-ieU. 
 T/tere^s no musick to a kndl : 
 AU the other sounds we h£ar 
 Flatter, and but cheat our ear. 
 This doth puttis still in mind 
 That our flesh must be resigned. 
 And a general silence made. 
 The world be m%ffled in a shade. 
 He thai on his pillow lies, 
 Tear-embalm'd before he dies. 
 Carries, like a sheep, his life 
 To meet the sacrijicer's knife. 
 And for Eternity is prest. 
 Sad bell-wether to the rest. 
 
 Jambb Shiblst. 
 
BIBLIOGEAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 Elements op Feench Qeammar. Translated from the French of C. P. 
 
 L'Homond. [Boston: 1830.] 
 Obigin and Progress op the French Language. North Amer. Bev. 
 
 32. 377. [April, 1831.J 
 Defence of Poetry. North Amer. Rev. 34 56. [Jan., 1883.] 
 History op the Italian Language and Dialects. North Amer. Bev. 
 
 85. 383. [October 1833.] 
 Syllabus de la Geammaire Italienne. [Boston: 1833.] 
 CouES DB Langue Fkanqaise. [Boston; 1883.] 
 
 I. Le Ministre de Wakefield. 
 
 II. Proverbes Dramatiques. 
 
 Saggi de' « Novellibei Italiani d'Ogki Secolo: Tratti da' pift celebri 
 sorittori, con brevi notizie intorno alia vita di ciasoheduno. [Bos- 
 ton: 1833.] 
 
 Spanish Devotional and Moeal Poetry. North Amer. Rev. 34. 277. 
 [April, 1832.] 
 
 CoPLAs DE Maneique. A translation from the Spanish. [Boston : Allen 
 & Tioknor. 1883.] 
 
 Spanish Language and Literature. North Amer. Rev. 36. 316. 
 [April, 1833.] 
 
 Old English Eomancbs. North Amer. Mev. 87. 874. [Oct., 1888.] 
 
 Outeb-Mee: a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. 2 vols. [Harpers: 1835.] 
 
 The Geeat Metropolis. North Amer. Rev. 44. 461. [April, 1887.] 
 A lively review of a new work on London. 
 
 Hawthorne's Twicb-Told Tales. North Amer. Rev. 45. 59. [July, 
 1837.] 
 
 Tegn^r's Peithiofssaga. North Amer. Rev. 45. 149. [July, 1837.] 
 
 AbtgLo-Saxon Literature. North Amer. Bev. 47. 90. [July, 1888.J 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Htpbmon: a romance. 2 vols. [New York: 1839.] 
 Voices of the Night. [Cambridge : 1839.J 
 
 Reviewed in North Amer. Rev. 50. 266-369; CJiriat. Ex. 28. 242. 
 The French Language in England. North Amer. Rev. 51. 385. [Oct. 
 
 1840.] 
 Ballads, and Other Poems. [Cambridge: 1841.] 
 Poems on Slavery. [1842.] 
 
 Composed during a return voyage from Europe, in 1842. 
 The Spanish Student: a play in three acts. [1843.] 
 [Editor.] The Waij? : a collection of poems. [Cambridge: 1845.] 
 [Editor.] The Poets and Poetry of Europe. [Philadelphia: 1845.] 
 The Belfry of Bruges, and other poems. [Boston : 1846.] 
 [Editor.] The Estray : a coUeotion of poems. [Boston : 1847.] 
 Evangeline : a tale of Acadie. [1847.] 
 Kavanaqh : a tale. Prose. [Boston: 1849.] 
 The Seaside AND THE Fireside. [Boston: 1850.] 
 The Golden Legend. [Boston : 1851.] 
 
 Reviewed in Blackwood, 5. 71 ; in Eclee. 4th s. 31. 455. 
 The Song of Hiawatha. [Boston : 1855.] 
 
 Reviewed by Rev. E. E. Hale in North Amer. Rev. 82. 273, 
 The Couetship of Miles Standish. [Boston: 1858.] 
 
 Reviewed by A. P. Peabody in North Amer. Rev. 88. 275. 
 Tales op a Wayside Inn. [Boston : 1863.] 
 Flower DE Luce. [Boston; 1867.] 13 poems. 
 New England Tragedies. [Boston: 1868.] 
 
 I. John Endieott. 
 
 II. Giles Cory of the Salem Farms. 
 
 Reviewed by B. J. Cutlei' in North Amer. Rev. 108. 669. 
 Dante's Divina Commedia. A translation. [Boston : 1867-70.] 
 
 Three vols. I. Inferno. II. Purgatorio. III. Paradise. The same 
 
 in one vol. 
 Reviewed by Charles Eliot Norton in North Am,er. Rev. 105. 135; 
 by George W. Greene in Atlantic M. 30. 188. 
 The Divine Tragedy. [Boston : 1873.] 
 Christus : A Mystery. [Boston : 1872.] 
 
 Collecting, for the first time, into their consecutive unity : 
 
 I. The Divine Tragedy. 
 
 II. The Golden Legend. 
 
 III. The New England Tragedies. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Three Books OP Song. [Boston: 1873.] 
 
 Aftermath. [Boston : 1874.] 
 
 The Masque of Pandora, and other poems. [Boston: 1875.] 
 
 [Editor.] Poems OF Places. 31 vols. [Boston: 1876-1879.] 
 
 Keramos, and other poems. [Boston : 1878.] 
 
 Ultima Thule. [Boston: 1880.] 
 
 The Poetical Works op Henry Wadswoeth Longfellow. Containing 
 a superb new steel portrait by Wm. B. Marshall, and illustrated 
 by more than six hundred wood-engravings, designed especially 
 for this work by the best American artists. [Houghton, Mifflin 
 & Co. : 1881.] 
 
 II. 
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTICES OF ME. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Arnaud, Simon. La Legende Doree. [In Le Correspondcmt : 10 
 
 Juillet, 1873.] 
 Cobb, J. B. Miscellanies. [1858:] pp. 330-357. 
 Curtis, G. W. Atlcmtic Monthly, 13. 369. 
 
 Mr. Curtis's "Easy Chair" in Harper's Monithly contains notices of 
 Mr. Longfellow and his writings, as follows : the " Dante," 85. 
 257; "Reception in England," 37. 561 ; "New England Tra- 
 gedies," 38. 371; "The Divine Tragedy," 44. 616. There is 
 also a general article on Longfellow in 1. 74. 
 Cochin, Augustin. La Poesi'e en Amerique. [In Le Correspondamt : 
 
 10 Juillet, 1873.] 
 Depret, Louis. Le Va-et-Vient [Paris : n. d.] 
 The Same. La Poesie en Amlrique. [Lille : 1876.] 
 Db Prins, a. JHudes Americaines. [Louvain : 1877.] 
 Friswell, J. H. Modern Men of Letters. [1870.] pp. 385-99. 
 Gilfillan, George. Literary Portraits. Second Series. [1849.] 
 Palmer, Ray. Longfellow and his Works. Int. Rev, [Nov., 1875.] 
 Peck, G. W. Review of Mr. Longfellow's Evcmgeline. [New York : 
 
 1848.] 
 P. T. C. Ealevala and Hiawatha. A review. [185-.] pp. 31. 
 Whipple, E. P. Essays and Reviews. 1. 60-61-63-63. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Ill, 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF MR. LONGFELLOW'S WORKS. 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 Noel. [A French poem by Longfellow in Flower de Luce.} Tr. by J. 
 E. Norcross. [PhUadelphia : 1867. Large paper. 50 copies 
 printed.] 
 
 GERMAi;. 
 
 Englische Oedichie aus Nexhtrer Zeit. Freiligrath, Ferdinand. . . . 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. . . . [Stuttgardt und Tubingen : 1846.] 
 Longfellow's Qedichte. tfbersetzt von Carl Bottger. [Dessau : 1856.] 
 Balladen mid Lieder von H. W. Longfellow. Deutsch von A. R. Melo. 
 
 [Miinster : 1857.] 
 Longfellow's Gedichte. Von Friedrich Marx. [Hamburg und Leipzig: 
 
 1868.] 
 Longfellow'' s altere und neuere Gedichte in Auswald. Deutsch von 
 
 Adolf Laun. [Oldenburg : 1879.] 
 Der Spanische Studente. tfbersetzt von Karl BOttger. [Dessau : 
 
 1854.] 
 The Same. Von Maria Helene Le Maistre. [Dresden : n. d.] 
 The Same. tJbersetzt von HSfeli. [Leipzig : n. d.] 
 Evangeline. Aus dem Englisehen. [Hamburg : 1857.] 
 T)ie Same. Aus dem Englisehen, von P. J. Belke. [Leipzig : 1854.] 
 The Same. Eine Erzahlung aus Acadien. Von Eduard Nickles. 
 
 [Karlsruhe : 1863.] 
 The Same, trbersetzt von Frank Siller. [Milwaukee : 1879.] 
 The Same, 'trbersetzt von Karl Knortz. [Leipzig : n. d.] 
 Longfellow's Evangeline. Deutsch von Heinrioh ViehofE. [Trier : 
 
 1869.] 
 Die ffoldene Legende. Deutsch von Karl Keck. [Wien : 1859.] 
 The Same. tJbersetzt von Elise Freifrau von Hohenhausen. [Leipzig: 
 
 1880.] 
 Das Lied von Hiawatha. Deutsch von Adolph Bottger. [Leipzig : 
 
 1856.] 
 Der Sang von Hiawatha. tTbersetzt von Ferdinand Freiligrath. 
 
 [Stuttgardt und Augsburg : 1857.] 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLO W. XI 
 
 Hiawatlux,. tJbertragen von Hermaim Simon. [Leipzig : n. d ] 
 
 Bzr Saiij von Hiawatha. tJbersetzt, eingeleitet und erklSrt von Karl 
 
 Kiioi-tz. [Jena : 1873.] 
 Miles Standish's Brautwerbung. Aus dem Bnglisohen von P. E. 
 
 Baumgarten. [St. Louis : 1859.] 
 Die Brautwerbung des Miles Standish. tJbersetzt von Karl Knortz. 
 
 [Leipzig : 18 — .] 
 Miles Standish's Brautwerbung. tJ^bersetzt von P. Manefeld. [1867.] 
 Die Sage von Konig Olaf. tTbersetzt von Ernst Rauscher. 
 The Same. tJbersetzt von W. Hertzberg. 
 Dorfschmid. Die Alte Uhr auf der Treppe. Des Sklaven Traum. 
 
 Ti-. by H. Sohmick. Archiv. f. d. Stud. d. n. Spr. 1858. 34 314- 
 
 217. 
 Gediehte von H. W. L. Deutsoh von Alexander Neidhardt. [Darm- 
 stadt : 1856.] 
 Der Bau des Schiffes. Tr. by Tli. Zermelo. Archiv. f. d. Stud. d. n. 
 
 Spr. 1881. 30. 293-304 
 Hyperion. Deutsoh von Adolph Bittger. [Leipzig : 1856.] 
 Ein Psalm des Lebens, etc. Deutsoh von Alexander Neidhardt. 
 
 Arohiv. f. d. Stud. d. n^ Spr. 1856. 29. 205-208. 
 Die ffottliehe Trayddie. tJbersetzt von Karl Keek. [MS.] 
 The Same. tJbersetzt von Hermann Simon. [MS.] 
 Pandora. tJbersetzt von Isabella Sohuchardt. [Hamburg : 1878.] 
 Moritwri Salutamus. tJbersetzt von Dr. Ernst Sshmidt. [Chicago : 
 
 1878.] 
 The Hanging of the Crane — Das Kesselhangen. tJbersetzt von G. A. 
 
 Zundt. [n. d.] 
 The Same. Das Einhangen des Kesselhakens, Irei gearbeitet von Joh. 
 
 Henry Becker, [n. d.] 
 
 Het Lied van Hiawatha. In het Nederdeutsch overgebragt door L. S. 
 
 P. Meijboom. [Amsterdam : 1862.] 
 Miles Standish. Nagezongen door S. I. Van den Berg. [Haarlem : 
 
 1861.] 
 
 SWEDISH. 
 
 Hyperion. Pa Svenska, af QrSnlund. [1853.] 
 Mvangeline. Pa Svenska, af Alb. Lysauder. [1854] 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The Same. Oiversatt af Hjalmar Erdgren. [Goteborg : 1875.] 
 The Same. Ofversatt af Philip Svenson. [Chicago : 1875.] 
 Hiawatha. Pa Svenska af Westberg. [1856.] 
 
 Evangeline. Paa Norsk Ted Sd. C. Knutsen. [Ohristiania : 1874.] 
 Sangen om Hiawatha. Oversat af G. Bern. [Kjobenhavn : I860.] 
 
 Evangeline; suivie des Voix de la Nuit. Par le Chevalier de Chatelain. 
 
 [Jersey, London, Paris, New York : 1856.] 
 The Same. Conte d'Acadie. Traduit par Charles Brunei. Prose. 
 
 [Paris : 1864.] 
 The Same. Par Leon Pamphile Le May. [Quebec : 1865.] 
 La Legende Doree, et Poemes sur I'Esclavage. Traduits par Paul Blier 
 
 et Edward Mac-Donnel. Prose. [Paris et Valenciennes : 1854.] 
 Hiawatha. Traduit de 1' Anglais par M. H. Gomont. [Nancy, Paris : 
 
 I860.] 
 Drames et Poisies. Traduits par X. Marmier. The New England 
 
 Tragedies. [Paris: 1873.] 
 Hyperion et Kavanagh. Traduit de 1' Anglais, et precede d'une Notice 
 
 sur I'auteur. 3 vols. [Paris et Bruxelles : I860.] 
 The Psalm of Ijife, and Other Poems. Tr. by Lucien de la Rive in 
 
 Essais de Traduction Poetigue. [Paris: 1870.] 
 
 Alcune poesie di Enrico W. Longfellow. Traduzione dall' Inglese di 
 
 Angelo Mossedaglia. [Padova: 1866.] 
 Lo Studente Spagnuolo. Prima Versione Metrioa di Messandro Baz- 
 
 zini. [Milano: 1871.] 
 The Same. Traduzione di Nazzareno Trovanelli. [Firenze : 1876.] 
 Poesie sulla SahiavitH. Tr. in versi Italiani da Louisa Grace Bartolini. 
 
 [Firenze : I860.] 
 Evangelina. Tradotta da Pietro Rotondi. [Firenze : 1857.] 
 2he Same. Traduzione di Carlo Paccioli. [Verona : 1873.] 
 La Leggenda d'Oro. Tradotta da Ada Corbelliui Martini. [Parma : 
 
 1867.] 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 11 CoMto cPHiawatha. Tr. da L. G. Bartolini. Frammenti. [B'irenze : 
 
 1867.J 
 Miles Standish. Traduzione dall' Inglese di Caterino Frattini. [Pa- 
 
 dova : 1868.] 
 
 POKTUGUESE. 
 
 El Rei Roherto de SiciKa. Tr. by Dom Pedro II., Emperor of Brazil. 
 
 [Autograph MS.] 
 Eva/ngelina. Traducida por Franklin Doria. [Rio de Janeiro : 1874.] 
 The Same. Poema de Henrique Longfellow. Traduoido por Miguel 
 
 Street de Arriaga. [Lisbon : n. d.] 
 The Same. By Flavio Reimar, in the Am-ora Brazileira, 1874 ; and by 
 
 Jose de Goes Filho, in the Mimioipio. 1874. 
 
 Uvcmgelina. Romance de la Acadia. Traducido del Ingles por Carlos 
 Morla Viouila. [Nueva York : 1871.] 
 
 Zlota Legenda. The Golden Legend. Tr. into Polish by F. Jerzierski. 
 
 [Warszawa : 1857.] 
 Eva/ngelina. Tr. into Polish by Felix Jerzierski. [Warszawa : 1857.] 
 iJwma o Hiawacie. The Song of Hiawatha. Tr. into Polish by Feliksa 
 
 Jerzierskiego. [Warszawa : I860.] 
 
 RUSSIAN AND OTHER LANGUAGES. 
 
 Excelsior, and other poems, in Russian. [St. Petersburg : n. d.] 
 Hiawatha, rendered into Latin, with abridgment. By Francis Wil- 
 liam Newman. [London : 1863.] 
 Excelsior. Tr. into Hebrew by Henry Gersoni. [n. d.] 
 A Psalm of Life. In Marathi. By Mrs. H. I. Bruce. [Satara : 1878.] 
 The Same. In Chinese. By Jung Tagen. [Written on a fan.] 
 The Same. In Sanscrit. By Blihu Burritt and his pupils. 
 
 There is one point in relation to the works of Longfellow which de- 
 serves especial mention. It is the frequency with which his poems have 
 
XIV BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 been selected by composers for musical illustration. Some of them are 
 the following : 
 
 Operas. — " The Masque of Pandora," libretto arranged by Bolton 
 Rowe, music by Alfred Cellier ; "Victorian, the Spanish Student," 
 libretto by Julian Edwards, music by J. Reynolds Anderson. 
 
 Cantatas. — " The Wreck of the Hesperus," composed by T. Ander- 
 ton ; "The Consecration of the Banner," by J. F. H. Bead ; "The 
 Building of the Ship," by J. F. Barnett, another by Henry Lahee ; " The 
 Golden Legend," by Dudley Buck, another by the Rev. H. E. Hodson ; 
 "The Bells of Strassburg Cathedral" (from "The Golden Legend "), 
 by Franz Liszt ; " The Tale of a "Viking " (" The Skeleton in Armor "), 
 by George E. Whidng. 
 
 Two, Three, and Four-Part Songs. — "Stars of Summer Night," by 
 Henry Smart, Dr. E. G. Monk, J. L. Hatton : "Good-Night, Beloved," 
 by Ciro Pinsuti, J. L. Hatton, Dr. E. G. Monk ; " Beware " (" I Know 
 a Maiden "), by J. L. Hatton, J. B. Boucher, H. De Burgh, Mrs. Moun- 
 sey Bartholomew, M. W. Balfe ; "The Reaper and the Flowers," by 
 J. B. Boucher, A. R. Gaul ; "Song of the Silent Land," by A. R. Gaul, 
 A. H. D. Prendergast ; "The Curfew," by T. Andei-ton, P. H. Diemer, 
 W. Maotaren, Henry Smart; "The Davis Done," by A. R. Gaul; 
 "The Hemlock Tree," by J. L. Hatton ; "The Village Blacksmith," 
 by J. L. Hatton ; "King Witlai's Drinking-Hom," by J. L. Hatton ; 
 "The Arrow and the Song," by Walter Hay ; "The Wreck of the 
 Hesperus," by Dr. H. Hiles ; "A Voice came over the Sea" ("Day- 
 break"), by P. Quinn ; "A Psalm of Life," by Henry Smart, Dr. 
 Mainzer ; " The Rainy Day," by A. S. Sullivan ; " Woods in Winter," 
 by W. W. Pearson ; "Up and Doing," by Dr. Mainzer ; " Heart 
 Within and God O'erhead," by Rossini ; "The Nun of Nidaros" and 
 "King Olafs Christmas," from the "Saga of King Olaf," by Dudley 
 Buck ; the latter two being choruses for male voices, with solos. As 
 for songs for a single voice, they ai-e very numerous. 
 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 I HAVE set myself a difficult task in undertaking 
 to write and edit a Medley which shall concern itself 
 with the life and works of Mr. Longfellow, but, hav- 
 ing undertaken it, I purpose to go on with it to the 
 best of my ability. About the middle of April, 1878, 
 I resolved to spend a few weeks on the seashore of 
 Massachusetts, and, not wishing to be entirely idle 
 while there, I procured the complete writings of Mr. 
 Longfellow, with the intention of making a study 
 thereof for the pages of Scribner's Monthly. I was, 
 of course, familiar with the body of his poetry and 
 had a tolerably clear idea of his prose, but this did 
 not satisfy me. I determined, therefore, to read the 
 books which I was to take with me, to make notes as 
 I read, and not write until I had reached conclu- 
 sions which I was prepared to stand by. I tried to 
 be critical : I know I was conscientious. 
 
 Before leaving town I naturally communicated with 
 Mr. Longfellow, and in what follows I shall make 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 some use of Ms answer, or answers, to my informal 
 notes. Mr. LongfeUow's first reply, which, is dated 
 at Cambridge, April 20, 1878, needs no comment : 
 
 "Deae Me. Stoddaed: In the 'Homes of Ameri- 
 can Authors,' published by Putnam of your city in 
 1853, you wiU find on page 265 a view of the house 
 in which I was born. It is still standing, overlook- 
 ing the harbor, as you see in the picture. 
 
 "Before I was two years old the family removed to 
 a house in the centre of the town. Of this house, 
 where my childhood was passed, I send you a photo- 
 graph. The upper room in the left-hand corner, with 
 the open windows, was mine. 
 
 "I am glad you are going to take the trouble of 
 writing the Sketch for Scribner. If there is to be any 
 biography in it, please say that the family came from 
 Yorkshire, not from Hampshire, as usually stated ;^ 
 and that my wife died at Rotterdam, and not Heidel- 
 berg. 
 
 "This is, perhaps, of no real importance, but, 
 generally speaking, fact is better in history than 
 fiction. 
 
 "Any other doubtful points I shall be happy to 
 settle for you, if you will put them in the form of 
 questions. 
 
 " You must greatly miss your friend Taylor. StUl, 
 I rejoice in his appointment. He will fill the place 
 better than any other man. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Hewey W. Longfellow." 
 
HEMRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 3 
 
 The substantial facts of Mr. Longfellow's life down 
 to tlie summer when I wrote were as follows : He was 
 born on the 27th of February, 1807, at Portland, 
 Maine. The family, as he said, came from York- 
 shire, where the first of the name were found in 1510 
 living in and about Ilkley, They appear to have 
 been sons of the soil. That is to say, they took their 
 name from some ancestor, or town, or trade — quite 
 likely from some ancestor whose height suggested 
 and justified the name of Longfellow. The original 
 Longfellow, John, a day-laborer, petitioned for a 
 tenement which belonged, I believe, to the Middle- 
 tons, in whose possession it still remains. He was a 
 laborer in 1523, when he paid the price of one day' s 
 work — f ourpence — to aid the King in his war with the 
 French. Farm-hands in the beginning, and then 
 farmers, a Longfellow in the reign of Henry VIII. 
 was the wealthiest man in his neighborhood, and 
 shortly before the Reformation two of the family 
 were vicars of churches. They started in poverty, 
 nevertheless, and so went on, handing down the bap- 
 tismal John. There was a John William Longfellow 
 in the third generation who had the lime-kilns of 
 Ilkley, for which he paid a rent of twenty shillings 
 per annum. They married daughters of the soil, 
 buxom lasses, whose sturdy descendants still till the 
 fertile meadows of Yorkshire. Tradition says that 
 
4 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 they would help themselves to green yews for bows, 
 and would keep dogs to hunt game — misdemeanors 
 for which they were repeatedly fined. 
 
 It becomes me to say here that I am indebted for 
 what I state in regard to the ancestry of Mr. Long- 
 fellow to my good friend Robert Collyer, who has 
 kindly loaned me a discourse which he delivered 
 upon the Longf ellows in England at the Messiah 
 on the 9 th of April and which, I think, is to form 
 part of a future volume. He traces the Longfellow 
 family through its Johns and "Williams until he finds 
 upon the old church register a William, the son of 
 a John, who was baptized at Ilkley on the 22d of 
 February, 16f|, and whom the vicar of Ilkley be- 
 lieved to be the founder of the family. According 
 to a record among the vicar's papers, he settled in 
 Newbury, Massachusetts, where he married Anne 
 Sewall on the 10th of November, 1676, a person 
 of some consequence, who bore him three sons and 
 two daughters. He was an ofiicer in the Essex regi- 
 ment, and was drowned oii Cape Breton in an expe- 
 dition against the French and Indians. The particu- 
 larity of this account would seem to authenticate it, 
 but it does not; for while it corresponds with the 
 account to which I gave currency four years ago, at 
 least as far as the place of settlement of this Wil- 
 liam Longfellow, the maiden name of the lady whom 
 
HENRY WA JDS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 5 
 
 he married, and Ms death by drowning are concerned, 
 it does not correspond with what I believed to be the 
 year of his birth, which I then fixed upon, 1651 — an 
 error, if it be an error, which was not perceived or 
 not corrected by Mr. Longfellow, who did me the 
 honor to read the proof of my Sketch. 
 
 Either I am no genealogist, which is likely, or, 
 which is quite as likely, the genealogy of the Long- 
 fellows in America is somewhat uncertain. I have 
 been consulting the Journals of those old-time Port- 
 land dominies, Thomas Smith and Samuel Deane, 
 and I find in the entries of the first, under the date 
 of April 11, 1745, " Mr. Longfellow came to live here." 
 Then, in a note, several Longfellows are bunched to- 
 gether. As first, the one who went to Portland at 
 the time specified — Stephen, who was graduated at 
 Harvard College in 1742, and who, the son of an ear- 
 lier Stephen, was born at Byfield in 1723. The first 
 of the name in New England (the note asserts) was 
 William, grandfather and great-grandfather of these 
 Stephens, who married Mistress Anne Sewall in 1678 
 and settled at Byfield, where he became a merchant. 
 But William is declared a little later not to have 
 been the first who emigrated, but to have followed 
 an older relative, a brother perhaps, a Stephen, who, 
 I imagine, was from Ilkley. Another Stephen, a de- 
 scendant in the third or fourth generation, married 
 
6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mistress Tabitha Blagdon, of York, in 1749, by whom 
 he had three sons, Stephen, Samuel, and William, 
 and a daughter Tabitha. The first of these, bom 
 in 1750, married Mistress Patience Yonng, of York, 
 in December, 1777, who was the mother of another 
 Stephen, who rose to provincial eminence. He was 
 for about fifteen years master of a Grammar School ; 
 for twenty-five years Parish Clerk ; for twenty-two 
 years Town Clerk ; for many years Clerk of the Pro- 
 prietors of the Public Land ; and, from the incor- 
 poration of the County in 1760 to the beginning of 
 the Revolution in 1775, Register of the Probate and 
 Clerk of the Judicial Courts. He died in 1790, at 
 Grorham. His son Stephen, who was Judge of the 
 Court of Common Pleas from 1797 to 1811, died in 
 Gorham in. 1824 at the age of seventy-four. He 
 left a son Stephen, who was bom in April, 1776, 
 and who was graduated at Harvard in 1798. He es- 
 tablished himseK at Portland, where for forty years 
 he was a magnate of the town. He was a member 
 of the Hartford Convention, and afterwards, when 
 the position was esteemed honorable, a member of 
 Congress. He married Tabitha, a daughter of Gene- 
 ral Wadsworth, who in the fulness of time was the 
 mother of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Such, as 
 nearly as I can make it out, is the tangled genealo- 
 gy of the American Longfellows. When I add to 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 7 
 
 this that the early emigrant William Longfellow is 
 reported, to have been drowned at Anticosti, a large 
 desert island in the estuary of the St. Lawrence ; that 
 the last Stephen Longfellow, besides being President 
 of the Maine Historical Society, was a good jurist, as 
 the Massachusetts and Maine Reports testify; and 
 that his wife was a descendant of the valorous John 
 Alden, as was also the mother of William CuUen 
 Bryant, I have done with pedigrees. 
 
 The Portland to which Mr. Stephen Longfellow 
 removed at the beginning of the present century 
 was a town of less than four thousand inhabitants. 
 It stood upon a little promontory fronting Casco 
 Bay, at the eastern end of which was his man- 
 sion — an old-fashioned, wooden, two-storied dwell- 
 ing, such as is common in New England, about a 
 stone's throw from the water. It remains pretty 
 much as it was, though it has been repaired of 
 late years, and is now occupied by several Celtic 
 families, whose fathers, and brothers, and sons, and 
 cousins are employed in the Eagle Sugar House, 
 the storehouse of which is adjoining. The country 
 quietness which originally characterized the place 
 still nestles in its old gardens and around the sha- 
 dows of its stately elms. Besides these were trees, 
 and vines, and flowers at the corner of Fore and 
 Hancock Streets, where the Longfellows lived, and 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 there was a wilderness of greenery in the Eastern 
 Burying Ground, where, surrounded by the dust of 
 earlier generations, side by side, like brothers who 
 had sheathed their swords, slept the brave com- 
 manders of the Blytlie and the Boxer. 
 
 The people of Portland were plain, simple folk, 
 seafaring traders, whose packets went to the West 
 Indies laden with Northern notions, and return- 
 ed with rum, sugar, molasses, and other " W. I. 
 Goods." Craft of all sorts lay at their wharves, 
 and sailors of different nationalities sauntered along 
 their streets and alleys, singing naval ditties about 
 Lawrence, and Hull, and Perry. Though no par- 
 ticulars of the life of Master Longfellow have yet 
 been vouchsafed to the outer world, it is certain 
 from his parentage and the period wherein he lived 
 that he was tenderly and thoughtfully nurtured. 
 We may readily imagine that his good mother 
 taught him the alphabet ; that he learned to read 
 out of the Bible ; that he was familiar with the 
 hymns of Watts and Doddridge; that he was pre- 
 sent at the morning and evening prayers of the 
 family ; that he went to Sunday-school twice a 
 day, and sat drowsily through the sermon. All this 
 goes without saying, for it was the custom of New 
 England at the beginning of the century. The 
 church to which he was carried, or led, was doubt- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 9 
 
 less the First Parish Meeting-House, which was 
 erected in 1740, and was extant nearly a century- 
 later. It was builded after the sacred architecture 
 then in vogue, and was an oblong box of a build- 
 ing, with a tall, spire steeple, an entrance in front, 
 and a porch entrance upon one of its sides. Such a 
 church, though apparently not so large, and minus 
 the tall steeple, is now extant in Hingham, and it 
 may be accepted as a representation of the old 
 meeting-house at Portland. Within the pews 
 branched ofl on both sides of the aisles, and the 
 male and female members of the congregation were 
 apart by themselves. The pulpit was reached from 
 a platform by a staircase of polished mahogany 
 banisters and rungs. There was a door behind it 
 that opened into a chamber in which the minister 
 put on his robe and bands. Above it was a sound- 
 ing-board, and below the railed space of the altar. 
 A gallery ran round three sides of the house, where, 
 in high pews and on hard seats, sat bolt upright 
 the unruly urchins of the parish, under the eyes 
 of their theological guardians, who kept them in 
 order, and when they could — awake. Facing the 
 pulpit was the choir, the members whereof warbled 
 their native wood-notes wild to the music of a 
 bass-viol, and, it may be, the rumbling of an organ, 
 rising to sing as their leader struck his tuning-fork. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and following the precentor line by line. Add to 
 this the long prayers, the longer sermons, the pass- 
 ing round of the contribution-boxes, and the doxo- 
 logy, you have a tolerably accurate picture of the 
 meeting-house of our fathers. 
 
 As the Longfellow brood grew larger we may con- 
 ceive of them as studying their lessons out of the 
 same books ; doing their sums upon opposite 
 sides of the same slates or blackboards ; reciting 
 in the same classes ; going to and from school morn- 
 ing and evening with their satchels, and enjoying 
 the same childish games and sports. Their Wed- 
 nesdays and Saturdays were holidays — the latter, 
 however, only till sundown. We may imagine all 
 happy things of these rosy Longfellow children and 
 their companions. They are in the dusk of the 
 best room, where the blinds are not allowed to let 
 in much sunshine ; they are in the garret, rummag- 
 ing over the faded finery of their ancestors ; they 
 dibble in the garden in their own little plots of 
 ground ; they pluck flowers, climb trees, tell stories, 
 sing, and live as if life were to be always as bright 
 as then, and as if (ah, that if !) there were to be no 
 more graves ! Sometimes they strolled about the 
 wharves on Fore Street, and watched the sunburnt 
 sailors with rings in their ears, 
 
 " Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard," 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ii 
 
 hoisting out hogsheads and bales, and lowering 
 them on drays, and taking into their dark holds 
 cargoes of Yankee merchandise. Or they sat be- 
 neath the elms in the Eastern Burying Ground, 
 under the infinite, cloudless summer sky, and gazed 
 down, up, and out along the shimmering waves of 
 Casco Bay and its multitudinous wooded islands. 
 That such a childhood as I have imagined for the 
 young Longfellows was not entirely imaginary is 
 eAddent from one of Mr. Longfellow's poems, writ- 
 ten in the maturity of his powers, and with the re- 
 membrance of Portland vividly before him. As a 
 proof of this I copy here the third stanza of "My 
 Lost Youth " : 
 
 ' ' I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
 And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
 And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
 And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
 And the magic of the sea. 
 And the voice of that wayward song 
 Is singing and saying stUl : 
 ' A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' " 
 
 There were several clever lads in Portland at this 
 time who went to the same school, or schools, as 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and among them 
 was John Owen, who, I believe, was a cousin, and 
 
12 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 who was his constant companion in after-life. He 
 was about a year the elder, and he has outlived his 
 illustrious friend less than, a month, for while I am 
 writing these paragraphs the journals contain the 
 intelligence of his death on the 22d of April, at 
 Cambridge. Another of his schoolfellows was pro- 
 bably Nathaniel Parker Willis, who was also a 
 year his senior, and who was to achieve poetic dis- 
 tinction at about the same time as himself. Other 
 Portland boys and men of this or a later period 
 were Isaac M'Lellan, John Keal, and Seba Smith, 
 all of whom figure in our poetic anthologies — self- 
 appointed, patriotic laureates of the woods, waters, 
 and warfare of their native land. They might have 
 said of themselves, as Dr. Johnson said of himself 
 and his fellow-students at Pembroke, "We were a 
 nest of nightingales." Master Longfellow is known 
 to have written verses in his childhood, and on his 
 seventy-fifth birthday there was exhibited at Port- 
 land, I think in a room of the Maine Historical 
 Society, a copy of one of these Juvenilia, which I 
 remember to have read at the time, and which I 
 hope to recover before this Medley is finished. 
 Like Dr. Bryant, Mr. Longfellow was proud of the 
 geinius of his son. 
 
 That young Mr. Longfellow had already obtained 
 a good education, either at the public schools, or 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 13 
 
 by diligent coach.ing under accomplislied masters, 
 is certain, or lie could not have entered Bowdoin 
 College, as he did, in his fourteenth year. Had 
 his father followed his inclinations he would, no 
 doubt, have sent him to his own Alma Mater ; but 
 Cambridge is a long way from Portland, and 
 Brunswick was nigh at hand, — so to Brunswick the 
 lad was sent. It is a charming spot, I hear, on the 
 right bank of the Androscoggin, at the head of 
 tide-water, with shady woods in which there are 
 winding walks, with falls that recall, on a small 
 scale, the cataract of Yelino, and with a bridge or 
 two over the roaring and tumbling river, down 
 which in spray drifted the clamped logs of the lum- 
 bermen. Bowdoin College was opened about the 
 time when Mr. Longfellow went to Portland, and 
 Seba Smith was graduated there three years before 
 Henry Wadsworth was entered. It was a famous 
 class in which he found himself, for before many 
 years were over the names of four of its members 
 had flown to the ends of the earth. These were 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, orphan son of a sea-captain 
 of Salem, Mass ; John S. C. Abbott, son of pious 
 parents, notorious twenty-five or thirty years ago 
 for his " Life of Napoleon" ; George B. Cheever, who 
 turned the flood of public indignation upon Deacon 
 Giles's Distillery, and was afterwards a pilgrim under 
 
14 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the shadow of Mont Blanc; and Jonathan Cilley, 
 whose forte was political debate, and who went down 
 in the prime of his manhood before the deadly rifle 
 of Graves, of Kentucky. While Master Longfellow 
 was dreaming in Bering Woods, and learning many 
 tongues at Brunswick, a fellow-poet, who was about 
 twelve years his elder, was wandering in the groves 
 of Berkshire, and, later, was studying the law at 
 Great Barrington and Plymouth. The blood of John 
 Alden ran in the veins of both. Mr. William Cullen 
 Bryant is the greatest poet, it seems to me, that has 
 yet appeared in the New World. If there be a great- 
 er it is the man who now lies in his coflBin at Concord, 
 whose genius was equal to that of Mr. Bryant, but 
 whose art never to the last put on the toga mrilis. 
 Henry Wadsworth studied books ; William Cullen 
 studied Nature. There was not a flower in his fa- 
 ther' s garden, not a blade of grass in his fields, not 
 a water-course in his neighborhood, that did not 
 sparkle, and wave, and bloom in his imagination. He 
 immortalized the yellow violet, as it peeped up mod- 
 estly from the beechen buds ; he contained the twi- 
 light flight of the water-fowl ; he interpreted the 
 mysterious secret of the forests, and hills, and hea- 
 vens—the universality of Death. Ko young man 
 ever chanted so grand an anthem as " Thanatopsis," 
 which carried his fame about the earth whUe the 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 15 
 
 down of manhood was light upon his cheek. And in 
 the summer of the year in which Henry Wads worth 
 went to Bowdoin he delivered before the young gen- 
 tlemen who composed the society of the Phi Beta 
 Kappa at Harvard the stateliest poem that was ever 
 delivered. It will reach its address — " The Ages." 
 
 The modern poet labors under a disadvantage 
 which did not attach to his predecessors. He can- 
 not saunter up and down the world chanting his pre- 
 pared impromptus, as the troubadors and minne- 
 singers did, stopping at one court after another, and 
 entrancing kings- and queens, lords and ladies, 
 knights, squires, pages, with strains of minstrelsy 
 wedded to the music of lyre and lute. He cannot 
 wander up and down the highways and byeways, 
 through, crowded city streets and solitary country 
 roads, singing aloud, like the larks above him, ro- 
 mances of old-time chivalry, ballads of battles lost 
 and won, traditions of faithless swains and faithful 
 maids, pathetic, homely tragedies of breaking hearts, 
 and death. ISTo; his path has been crossed by the 
 shadows of Faust, Caxton, Wynkin de Worde — ^pro- 
 fessors of the Black Art. He must have a printer ! 
 
 Without entering upon American Literature, which 
 is too large to be traversed by a Medley like this, and 
 without attempting the Life of Bryant, which Mr. 
 Parke Godwin has nearly finished, I believe, the 
 
l6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 reader of what immediately follows will be good 
 enouglL to conceive the condition of our letters half a 
 century ago, and imagine himself at Brunswick and 
 in Berkshire. There is no occasion for him to im- 
 agine or conceive the United States Literary Qa- 
 zette, for copies of that periodical are doubtless to 
 be found in most public libraries. It was projected 
 and published by Mr. Theophilus Parsons, of Boston 
 — a graduate of Harvard, a lawyer, afterwards a theo- 
 logical writer, and a judge. If he be still living — and 
 I have no recollection of his decease — Judge Parsons 
 has almost completed his eighty-fifth year. The 
 United States Literary Gazette, a quarto sheet about 
 the size of the London AthencBum, was published 
 every two weeks. If my memory of it is to be de- 
 pended upon, it began appropriately on April 1, 
 1824. At any rate, Mr. Bryant's first contribution to 
 it was printed in the number which bears that date. 
 It was the Hebrew study, "Rizpah," and it was suc- 
 ceeded by other studies in rapid succession — so rapid, 
 indeed, that in eleven months they reached the num- 
 ber of twenty-one different poems, in various mea- 
 sures, amounting to over one thousand lines. This 
 would not have been many for a poet like Mr. Bryant 
 to produce in that time, if literature had been his 
 profession. But it was not. He was a lawyer in 
 good practice in his native county ; he was also a new- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. xf' 
 
 ly married man! Mr. Longfellow's contributions to 
 the Literary Oazette began on November 15, 1824, and 
 ended on November 15, 1825. There were sixteen of 
 them, and they covered the space of a twelvemonth. 
 It would not be fair to compare the poems of the two 
 poets, remembering the difference between their 
 ages, but it is curious to contrast them ; for the con- 
 trast brings out as nothing else could do the marked 
 characteristics of each, and the intellectual superior- 
 ity of Mr. Bryant, who was always imaginative, while 
 Mr. Longfellow never was so until time had brushed 
 away the eflBlorescence of his fancy, and matured his 
 indolent, easy-going judgment. Mr. Bryant strode 
 along like the giant he was, leaving " Rizpah " to at- 
 tend "The Old Man's Funeral" on April 15, and 
 passing from that solemnity to pursue " The Rivu- 
 let " on May 15. He turned his back upon " March" 
 on June 1, and related "An Indian Story" on 
 July 1. Then he floated away to " Summer 
 Wind" on July 16, and was "An Indian at the 
 Burial-place of his Fathers" on August 1. He 
 sang the "Hymn of the Waldenses" on September 
 1, and meditated upon "Monument Mountain" on 
 September 15. He found himself "After a Tem- 
 pest" on October 1, and was dreaming in "Au- 
 tumn Woods "on October 15. The "Song of the 
 Greek Amazon" fired his heart on December 1; he 
 
i8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 tracked "The Murdered Traveller" on January 1 
 (1825) ; became the chapel-master of the heavens in 
 his "Hymn to the North Star" on January 15; 
 pursued and reached "The Lapse of Time" on Feb- 
 ruary 15; and broke into jubilance on the 1st of 
 March with his " Song of the Stars." As I shall re- 
 print in their proper place all the early poems of Mr. 
 Longfellow, with the exception of those which he 
 preserved in "Yoices of the Night," fourteen years 
 later, I will only say here that when Mr. Bryant, 
 on November 15, was musing on "Mutation" and 
 "November," he was deep in "Thanksgiving" ; that 
 when Mr. Bryant was penning his beautiful ad- 
 dress "To a Cloud" he was painting "Italian 
 Scenery" ; that when Mr. Bryant discovered "The 
 Murdered Traveller" he was caring for "The Lu- 
 natic -Girl" ; and that when Mr. Bryant was chant- 
 ing his magnificent "Hymn to the North Star" he 
 was carolling about " The Venetian Grondolier." 
 The contrast between Master and Scholar was strik- 
 ing and instructive. 
 
 Mr. Richard Heme Shepherd, the bibliographer of 
 Tennyson, Euskin, and Carlyle, collected from the 
 columns of the Literary Gazette the early poems of 
 Mr. Longfellow, and reprinted them in 1877 through 
 the time-honored house of Pickering. He was under 
 the impression that they had not been collected be- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 19 
 
 fore, but he was mistaken. They were included in a 
 volume of "Miscellaneous Poems," selected from 
 the Literary Gazette, and published in Boston in 
 1826. Here are the firstlings of Mr. Longfellow in 
 their original order and chronology : 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 When first in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue 
 The tuneful anthem fiU'd the morning air, 
 To sacred hymnings and elysian song 
 His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke, 
 Devotion breath'd aloud from every chord : 
 The voice of praise was heard in every tone, 
 And prayer, and thanks to Him the eternal one — 
 To Him that with bright inspiration touch'd 
 The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song. 
 And warm'd the soul with new vitality. 
 A stirring energy through Nature breath'd: 
 The voice of adoration from her broke. 
 Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard 
 Long in the sullen waterfall — what time 
 Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth 
 Its bloom or blighting — when the Summer smil'd, 
 Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned. 
 The Deity was there !— a nameless spirit 
 Mov'd in the breasts of men to do Him homage; 
 And when the morning smil'd, or evening pale 
 Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn, 
 •They came beneath the broad, o'erarchtag trees, 
 And in their tremulous shadow worshipp'd oft 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars, 
 And gray moss mantling hung. Ahove was heard 
 The melody of winds, breath'd out as the green trees 
 Bow'd to their quivering touch in living beauty, 
 And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below 
 The bright and widely wandering rivulet 
 Struggl'd ajid gush'd amongst the tangled roots 
 That chok'd its reedy fountain, and dark rocks 
 Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there 
 The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice 
 Where reeds grew rank on the rushy- fring'd brink. 
 And the green sedge bent to the wandering wind, 
 Sang with a cheerful song of sweet tranquillity. 
 Men felt the heavenly influence, and it stole 
 Like balm into their hearts till all was peace; 
 And even the air they breath'd— the light they saw- 
 Became rehgion, for the ethereal spirit 
 That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, 
 And mellows everything to beauty, mov'd 
 With cheering energy within their breasts, 
 And made all holy there— for aU was love. 
 The morning stars, that sweetly sang together ; 
 Tlie moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky ; 
 Dayspring, and eventide, and all the fair 
 And beautiful forms of Nature, had a voice 
 Of eloquent worship. Ocean with its tides 
 Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm 
 Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat 
 The pulses of the sea, sent forth a voice 
 Of awful adoration to the Spirit 
 That, wrapt in darlmess, mov'd upon its face. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 21 
 
 And wlien the bow of evening arched the east, 
 
 Or, in the moonlight pale, the curling wave 
 
 Kiss'd with a sweet embrace the sea-worn beach, 
 
 And soft the song of winds came o'er the waters. 
 
 The mingled melody of wind and wave 
 
 Touch'd like a heavenly anthem on the ear ; 
 
 For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship. 
 
 And have our hearts grown cold ? Are there on earth 
 
 No pure reflections caught from heavenly light ? 
 
 Have our mute lips no hymn, our souls no song ? 
 
 Let him that in the summer day of youth 
 
 Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling. 
 
 And him that in the nightfall of his years 
 
 Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace 
 
 His dim, pale eyes on life's short wayfaring, 
 
 Praise Him that rules the destiny of man. 
 
 SlTNDAY EVEMTNG, OCTOBEE, 1824. 
 
 AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. 
 
 EOUND Autumn's mouldering urn 
 Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale. 
 When nightfall shades the quiet vale, 
 
 And stars in beauty burn. 
 
 'Tis the year's eventide. 
 The wind, like one that sighs in pain 
 O'er joys that ne'er will bloom again. 
 
 Mourns on the far hillside. 
 
22 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And yet my pensive eye 
 Bests on the faint blue mountain long, 
 And for tlie fairy-land of song, 
 
 That lies beyond, I sigh. 
 
 The moon unveils her brow ; 
 In the mid-sky her urn glows bright, 
 And in her sad and mellowing light 
 
 The valley sleeps below. 
 
 Upon the hazel gray 
 The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung. 
 And o'er its tremulous chords are flung 
 
 The fringes of decay. 
 
 I stand deep musing here, 
 Beneath the dark and motionless beech. 
 Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach 
 
 My melancholy ear. 
 
 The air breathes chill and free ; 
 A Spirit in soft music calls 
 From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls, 
 
 And round her wither'd tree. 
 
 The hoar and mantled oak. 
 With moss and twisted ivy brown. 
 Bends in its lifeless beauty down 
 
 Where weeds the fountain choke. 
 
 That fountain's hollow voice 
 Echoes the sound of precious things — 
 Of early feeling's tuneful springs 
 
 Chok'd with our blighted joys. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 23 
 
 Leaves, that the night- wind bears 
 To earth's cold bosom with a sigh, 
 Are types of our mortality. 
 
 And of our fading years. 
 
 The tree that shades the plain, 
 "Wasting and hoar as time decays. 
 Spring shall renew with cheerful days — 
 
 But not my joys again. 
 Decembee 1. 
 
 ITALIAN SCENERY. 
 
 Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto. 
 Beneath its shade the beauteous Arno sleeps 
 In Vallombrosa's bosom, and dark trees 
 Bend with a calm and quiet shadow down 
 Upon the beauty of that silent river. 
 Still in the west a melancholy smile 
 Mantles the lips of day, and twilight pale 
 Moves like a spectre in the dusky sky ; 
 While eve's sweet star on the fast-fading year 
 Smiles calmly. Music steals at intervals 
 Across the water, with a tremulous swell. 
 From out the upland dingle of tall firs. 
 And a faint footfall sounds where dim and dark 
 Hangs the gray wUlow from the river's brink, 
 O'ershadowing its current. Slowly there 
 The lover's gondola drops down the stream. 
 Silent, save when its dipping oar is heard 
 Or in its eddy sighs the rippling wave. 
 
24 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mouldering and moss-grown, through the lapse of years, 
 
 In motionless beauty stands the giant oak, 
 
 Whilst those that saw its green and flourishing youth 
 
 Are gone and are forgotten. Soft the fount. 
 
 Whose secret springs the starlight pale discloses, 
 
 Gushes in hollow music, and beyond 
 
 The broader river sweeps its silent way. 
 
 Mingling a silver current with that sea 
 
 Whose waters have no tides, coming nor going. 
 
 On noiseless wing along that fair blue sea 
 
 The halcyon flits ; and where the wearied storm 
 
 Left a loud moaning, all is peace again. 
 
 A calm is on the deep ! The winds that came 
 O'er the dark sea-surge with a tremulous breathing, 
 And mourn'd on the dark clifl' where weeds grew rank, 
 And to the autumnal death-dirge the deep sea 
 Heaved its long bQlows — with a cheerless song 
 Have pass'd away to the cold earth again, 
 Like a wayfaring mourner. Silently 
 Up from the calm sea's dim and distant verge. 
 Full and unveU'd, the moon's broad disk emerges. 
 On Tivoli, and where the fairy hues 
 Of Autumn glow upon Abruzzi's woods, 
 The silver light is spreading. Far above, 
 Encompass'd with their thin, cold atmosphere. 
 The Apennines uplift their snowy brows. 
 Glowing with colder beauty, where unheard 
 The eagle screams in the fathomless ether. 
 And stays his wearied wing. Here let us pause ! 
 The spirit of these solitudes — the soul 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ' 25 
 
 That dwells within these steep and difficult places — 
 Speaks a mysterious language to mine own, 
 And brings unutterable musings. Earth 
 Sleeps in the shades of nightfall, and the sea 
 Spreads like a thin blue haze beneath my feet. 
 Whilst the gray columns and the mouldering tombs 
 Of the Imperial City, hidden deep 
 Beneath the mantle of their shadows, rest. 
 My spirit looks on earth ! A heavenly voice 
 Comes silently : " Dreamer, is earth thy dwelling ? 
 Lo ! nurs'd within that fair and fruitful bosom 
 Which has sustain'd thy being, and within 
 The colder breast of Ocean, lie the germs 
 Of thine own dissolution ! E'en the air. 
 That fans the clear blue sky and gives thee strength— 
 Up from the sullen lake of mouldering reeds. 
 And the wide waste of forest, where the osier 
 Thrives in the damp and motionless atmosphere- 
 Shall bring the dire and wasting pestUence 
 And blight thy cheek. Dream thou of higher things ; 
 This world is not thy home ! " And yet my eye 
 Rests upon earth again ! How beautiful. 
 Where wild Vehno heaves its sullen waves 
 Down the high clifiE of gray and sha;peless granite, 
 Hung on the curling mist, the moonlight bow 
 Arches the perilous river ! A soft light 
 Silvers the Albanian mountains, and the haze 
 That rests upon their summits mellows down 
 The austerer features of their beauty. Faint 
 And dim-discover'd glow the Sabine Hills, 
 And, listening to the sea's monotonous shell. 
 
26 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 High on the cliflPs of Terracina stands 
 The castle of the Royal Goth * in ruins. 
 
 But night is in her wane ; day's early flush 
 Glows like a hectic on her fading cheek, 
 Wasting its beauty. And the opening dawn 
 With cheerful lustre lights the royal city, 
 Where with its proud tiara of dark towers 
 It sleeps upon its own romantic bay. 
 Dbcembeb 15. 
 
 THE LUNATIC GIRL. 
 
 Most beautiful, most gentle ! Yet how lost 
 
 To all that gladdens the fair earth ; the eye 
 
 That watch'd her being ; the maternal care 
 
 That kept and nourish'd her ; and the calm light 
 
 That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests 
 
 On youth's green vaUeys and smooth-sliding waters. 
 
 Alas ! few suns of life, and fewer winds, 
 
 Had wither'd or had wasted the fresh rose 
 
 That bloom'd upon her cheek ; but one chill frost 
 
 Came in that early autumn, when ripe thought 
 
 Is rich and beautiful, and blighted it ; 
 
 And the fair stock grew languid day by day, 
 
 And droop'd, and droop'd, and shed its many leaves. 
 
 'Tis said that some have died of love, and some. 
 
 That once from beauty's high romance had caught 
 
 Love's passionate feelings and heart-wasting cares, 
 
 ♦ Theodoric. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 27 
 
 Have spurn'd life's threshold with, a desperate foot; 
 
 And others have gone mad — and she was one ! 
 
 Her lover died at sea ! and they had felt 
 
 A coldness for each other when they parted ; 
 
 But love return'd again, and to her ear 
 
 Came tidings that the ship which bore her lover 
 
 Had suddenly gone down at sea, and all were lost. 
 
 I saw her in her native vale, when high 
 
 The aspiring lark up from the reedy river 
 
 Mounted on cheerful pinion ; and she sat 
 
 Casting smooth pebbles into a clear fountain. 
 
 And marking how they sunk; and oft she sigh'd 
 
 For him that perish'd thus in the vast deep. 
 
 She had a sea-shell that her lover brought 
 
 From the far-distant ocean, and she press'd 
 
 Its smooth, cold lips unto her ear, and thought 
 
 It whisper'd tidings of the dark blue sea ; 
 
 And, sad, she cried: "The tides are out! and now 
 
 I see his corse upon the stormy beach ! " 
 
 Around her neck a string of rose-lipp'd shells, 
 
 And coral, and white pearl was loosely hung, 
 
 And close beside her lay a delicate fan, 
 
 Made of the halcyon's blue wing; and when 
 
 She look'd upon it, it would calm her thoughts ■ 
 
 As that bird calms the ocean— for it gave 
 
 Mournful yet pleasant memory. Once I mark'd, 
 
 When through the mountain hoUows and green woods, 
 
 That bent beneath its footsteps, the loud wind 
 
 Came with a voice as of the restless deep, 
 
 She raised her head, and on her pale, cold cheek 
 
 A beauty of diviner seeming came : 
 
28 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And then she spread her hands, and smil'd, as if 
 
 She welcom'd a long-absent friend — and then 
 
 Shrunk timorously back again, and wept. 
 
 I tum'd away: a multitude of thoughts, 
 
 Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind, 
 
 And as I left that lost and ruin'd one — 
 
 A living monument that still on earth 
 
 There is warm love and deep sincerity — 
 
 She gazed upon the west, where the blue sky 
 
 Held, like an ocean, in its wide embrace 
 
 Those fairy islands of bright cloud, that lay 
 
 So calm and quietly in the thin ether. 
 
 And then she pointed where, alone and high, 
 
 One little cloud sail'd onward, like a lost 
 
 And wandering bark, and faiater grew, and fainter, 
 
 And soon was swallow'd up in the blue depths. 
 
 And when it sunk away she tum'd again 
 
 With sad despondency and tears to earth. 
 
 Three long and weary months — yet not a whisper 
 Of stem reproach for that cold parting ! Then 
 She sat no longer by her favorite fountain 1 
 She was at rest for ever. 
 jAHtTAET 1, 1825. 
 
 THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER. 
 
 Here rest the weary oar ! — soft airs 
 Breathe out in the o'erarching sky ; 
 
 And Night ! — sweet Night — serenely wears 
 A smile of peace ; her noon is nigh. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 29 
 
 Where the tall fir in quiet stands, 
 
 And waves, embracing the chaste shores, 
 
 Move o'er sea-shells and bright sands, 
 Is heard the sound of dipping oars. 
 
 Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs; 
 
 Love's midnight hour draws lingering near: 
 And list ! his tuneful viol strings 
 
 The young Venetian Gondolier. 
 
 Lo ! on the silver-mirror'd deep. 
 
 On earth and her embosom 'd lakes, 
 And where the silent rivers sweep, 
 
 From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks. 
 
 Soft music breathes around, and dies 
 
 On the calm bosom of the sea ; 
 Whilst in her cell the novice sighs 
 
 Her vespers to her rosary. 
 
 At their dim altars bow fair forms. 
 
 In tender charity for those 
 That, helpless left to life's rude storms, 
 
 Have never found this calm repose. 
 
 The bell swings to its midnight chime, 
 
 Eeliev'd against the deep blue sky! 
 Haste ! dip the oar again 1 'tis time 
 
 To seek Genevra's balcony. 
 
 jANtTAJiY 15. 
 
3° HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 DIEGE OVER A NAMELESS GRA.VE. 
 
 By yon still river, where the wave 
 Is winding slow at evening's close, 
 
 The beech, upon a nameless grave. 
 Its sadly-moving shadow throws. 
 
 O'er the fair woods the sun looks down 
 Upon the many-twinkling leaves, 
 
 And twilight's mellow shades are brown, 
 Where darkly the green turf upheaves. 
 
 The river glides in silence there. 
 And hardly waves the sapling tree; 
 
 Sweet flowers are springing, and the air 
 Is fuU of balm— but where is she! 
 
 They bade her wed a son of pride, 
 And leave the hopes she cherish'd long: 
 
 She loved but one, and would not hide 
 A love which knew no wrong. 
 
 And months went sadly on— and years: 
 And she was wasting day by day 
 
 At length she died, and many tears 
 Were shed that she should pass away. 
 
 Then came a gray old man, and knelt 
 With bitter weeping by her tomb : 
 
 And others mourn'd for him, who felt 
 That he had seal'd a daughter's doom. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 31 
 
 The funeral train has long passed on, 
 And time wiped dry the father's tear ! 
 
 Farewell, lost maiden ! There is one ', 
 That mourns thee yet — and he is here. 
 Maeoh 15. 
 
 A SONG OF SAVOY. 
 
 As the dim twilight shrouds 
 The mountain's purple crest. 
 
 And Summer's white and folded clouds 
 Are glowing in the west, 
 
 Loud shouts come up the rocky deU, 
 
 And voices hail the evening-beU. 
 
 Faint is the goatherd's song. 
 And sighing comes the breeze : 
 
 The sUent river sweeps along 
 Amid its bending trees — 
 
 And the full moon shines faintly there, 
 
 And music fills the evening air. 
 
 Beneath the waving firs 
 The tinkling cymbals sound; 
 
 And as the wind the foliage stirs, 
 I feel the dancers bound 
 
 Where the green branches arch'd above 
 
 Bend over this fair scene of love. 
 
32 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And he is there that sought 
 My young heart long ago ! 
 
 But he has left me, though I thought 
 He ne'er could leave me so. 
 
 Ah 1 lovers' vows — ^how frail are they ! 
 
 And his — were made but yesterday. 
 
 Why conies he not ? I call 
 
 In tears upon him yet ; 
 'Twere better ne'er to love at all 
 
 Than love and then forget ! 
 Why comes he not ? Alas ! I should 
 Reclaim him still, if weeping could. 
 
 But see ! he leaves the glade 
 
 And beckons me away: 
 He comes to seek his mountain maid ! 
 
 I cannot chide his stay. 
 Glad sounds along the valley swell, 
 And voices hail the eveniug-bell. 
 Mabch 15. 
 
 THE INDIAN HUNTER. 
 
 When the Summer harvest was gather'd in, 
 And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, 
 And the ploughshare was in its furrow left 
 Where the stubble land had been lately cleft. 
 An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, 
 Look'd down where the valley lay stretch'd below. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 33 
 
 He was a stranger there, and all that day- 
 Had been out on the hills, a perilous way ; 
 But the foot of the deer was far and fleet. 
 And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet, 
 And bitter feelings pass'd o'er him then 
 As he stood by the populous haunts of men. 
 
 The winds of Autumn came over the woods 
 As the sun stole out from their solitudes, 
 The moss was white on the maple's trunk, 
 And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk. 
 And ripen'd the mellow fruit hung, and red 
 Were the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed. 
 
 The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, 
 And the sickle cut down the yellow corn ; 
 The mower sung loud by the meadow-side. 
 Where the mists of evening were spreading wide, 
 And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea. 
 And the dance went round by the greenwood tree. 
 
 Then the hunter turn'd away from that scene. 
 Where the home of his fathers once had been. 
 And heard, by the distant and measur'd stroke. 
 That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak. 
 And burning thoughts flash'd over his mind 
 Of the white man's faith, and love unkind. 
 
 The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, 
 As her golden horn pierc'd the cloud of white ; 
 A footstep was heard in the rusthng brake, 
 
34 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Where the beech overshadow'd the misty lake, 
 And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore ; 
 And the hunter was seen on the hills no more. 
 
 When years had pass'd on, by that still lakeside 
 The fisher look'd down through the silver tide, 
 And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd, 
 A skeleton, wasted and white, was laid ; 
 And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, 
 That the hand was stiU grasping a hunter's bow. 
 Mat 15. 
 
 JECKOTVA. 
 
 The Indian chief Jeokoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the moun- 
 tain which now bears his name. Night oyertook him whilst hunting among the 
 cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when his half-decayed corpse 
 was found at the foot of a high rook, over which he must have fallen. Mount 
 Jeckoy va is near, the White Hills. 
 
 Tecey made the warrior's grave beside 
 The dashing of his native tide : 
 And there was mourning in the glen — 
 The strong waU of a thousand men — 
 
 O'er him thus fallen in his pride, 
 Ere mist of age, or blight, or blast 
 Had o'er his mighty spirit pass'd. 
 
 They made the warrior's grave beneath 
 The bending of the wild elm's wreath. 
 When the dark hunter's piercing eye 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 35 
 
 Had found that mountain rest on high, 
 
 Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath, 
 Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown 
 The strong belt and the mouldering bone. 
 
 Where was the warrior's foot when first 
 The red sun on the mountain burst ? 
 Where, when the sultry noontime came 
 On the green vales with scorching flame. 
 
 And made the woodlands faint with thirst ? 
 'Twas where the wind is keen and loud. 
 And the gray eagle breasts the cloud. 
 
 Where was the warrior's foot when night 
 Veil'd La thick cloud the mountaiu-height ? 
 None heard the loud and sudden crash. 
 None saw the fallen warrior dash 
 
 Down the bare rock so high and white ! 
 But he that droop'd not in the chase 
 Made on the hills his burial-place. 
 
 They found him there, when the long day 
 Of cold desertion pass'd away, 
 And traces on that barren cleft 
 Of struggling hard with death were left — 
 Deep marks and footprints in the clay ! 
 And they have laid this feathery helm 
 By the dark river and green elm. 
 
 August 1. 
 
36 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE SEA-DIVER. 
 
 My way is on the bright blue sea, 
 My sleep upon its rocking tide ; 
 
 And many an eye has follow'd me 
 Where billows clasp the worn seaside. 
 
 My plumage bears the crimson blush 
 When ocean by the sea is kiss'd ! 
 
 When fades the evening's purple flush, 
 My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. 
 
 Full many a fathom down beneath 
 The bright arch of the splendid deep 
 
 My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe 
 O'er living myriads in their sleep. 
 
 They rested by the coral throne 
 
 And by the pearly diadem, 
 Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown 
 
 The glorious dwellings made for them. 
 
 At night upon my storm-drench'd wing 
 I pois'd above a helmless bark. 
 
 And soon I saw the shatter'd thing 
 Had pass'd away and left no mark. 
 
 And when the wind and storm were done, 
 A ship, that had rode out the gale, 
 
 Sunk down, without a signal-gun, 
 And none was left to tell the tale. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 37 
 
 I saw the pomp of day depart, 
 
 The cloud resign its golden crown, 
 When to the ocean's beating heart 
 
 The sailor's wasted course went down. 
 
 Peace be to those whose graves are made 
 
 Beneath the bright and silver sea ! 
 Peace, that their relics there were laid 
 
 With no vain pride and pageantry. 
 
 AUSTTST 15. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 I SAT by my window one night, 
 And watch'd how the stars grew high ; 
 
 And the earth and skies were a splendid sight 
 To a sober and musing eye. 
 
 From heaven the silver moon shone down 
 
 With gentle and meUow ray, 
 And beneath the crowded roofs of the town 
 
 In broad light and shadow lay. 
 
 A glory was on the silent sea, 
 
 And mainland and island too, 
 Till a haze came over the lowland lea 
 
 And shrouded that beautiful blue. 
 
 Bright in the moon the Autumn wood 
 
 Its crimson scarf unroU'd, 
 And the trees hke a splendid army stood 
 
 In a panoply of gold 1 
 
38 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I saw them waving their banners high, 
 As their crests to the night-wind bow'd, 
 
 And a distant sound on the air went by, 
 Like the whispering of a crowd. 
 
 Then I watch'd from my window how fast 
 The lights all around me iled. 
 
 As the wearied man to his slumber pass'd, 
 And the sick one to his bed. 
 
 All faded save one, that burn'd 
 With distant and steady light; 
 
 But that, too, went out — and I turn'd 
 Where my own lamp within shone bright I 
 
 Thus, thought I, our joys must die ; 
 
 Yes, the brightest from earth we win : 
 Till each turns away, with a sigh, 
 
 To the lamp that burns brightly within. 
 
 NOVEatBEB 15 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Where, from the eye of day, 
 
 The dark and silent river 
 Pursues through tangled woods a way 
 
 O'er which the tall trees quiver; 
 
 The silver mist, that breaks 
 From out that woodland cover, 
 
 Betrays the hidden path it takes, 
 And hangs the current over ! 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 39 
 
 So oft the thoughts that burst 
 
 From hidden springs of feeling, 
 Like silent streams, unseen at first, 
 
 From our cold hearts are stealing ; 
 
 But soon the clouds that veil 
 
 The eye of Love, when glowing, 
 Betray the long-un whispered tale 
 Of thoughts in darkness flowing ! 
 Apbil 1, 1826. 
 
 The poems excluded from those that we have 
 printed, and from the list that we have given, but in- 
 cluded in "Voices of the Mght," are "Woods in 
 Winter" (February 1, 1825), "An April Day" 
 (AprU 15), "Hymn of the Moravian Nuns" (June 
 1), " Sunrise on the Hills " (July 1), and " Autumn" 
 (October 1). The poetry of the Literary Gazette 
 (Mr. Godwin informs me) attracted so much atten- 
 tion that when the collection of which I have spoken 
 appeared the North American Review thought the 
 publication of it a signal event in the history of our 
 letters. Mr. Bryant was of the same opinion, for in 
 noticing it afterwards in the New York Bemew, of 
 which he was editor, he remarked: "We do not 
 know, of all the numerous English periodical works, 
 any one that has furnished within the same time as 
 much really beautiful poetry. We might cite in 
 proof of this the ' April Day,' the ' Hymn of the 
 
40 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Moravian Nuns," and the ' Sunrise on the Hills,' 
 by H. W. L. (we know not who he is), or more par. 
 ticularly those exquisite morceaux, ' True Grreatness,' 
 'The Soul of Song,' 'The Graves of the Patriots,' 
 and 'The Desolate City,' by P., whom it would be 
 aifectation not to recognize as Dr. Percival." I have 
 read the four poems by Dr. Percival, and I see little 
 or nothing in them, except a determination to surpass 
 Campbell in brevity, and soar away from him on the 
 pinions of inflated rhetoric. Such a query as this 
 concerning the Soul of Song is certainly not to be 
 hastily answered : 
 
 " Loves it the gay saloon, 
 Where wme and dances steal away the night, 
 
 And bright as summer noon 
 Burns round the pictured walls a blaze of light ? " 
 
 Dr. Percival was nearly twelve years older than Mr. 
 Longfellow ; he was a century younger in practical 
 knowledge of poetry — one of those scholarly men of 
 genius who disappoint everyHJody, themselves most of 
 all. The estimation in which Mr. Longfellow's early 
 verse was held was well stated by his college friend, 
 Mr. Cheever, who, five years later than the publica- 
 tion of the volume specified above, compiled a mis- 
 cellaneous medley of melodies of home manufacture, 
 which he unthinkingly entitled " The Commonplace 
 
HENRY WAD SWORTH LONGFELLOW. 41 
 
 Book of American Poetry," and wMcli Mr. Poe un- 
 feelingly declared had at least tlie merit of not belying 
 its title, for it was exceedingly commonplace. Mr. 
 Clieever included seven of Mr. Longfellow's poems 
 therein, and subjoined to the last the following note : 
 "Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry — ^indeed, we be- 
 lieve nearly all that has been published — appeared 
 during his college life in the United States Literary 
 Gazette. It displays a very refined taste, and a very 
 pure vein of poetical feeling. It possesses what has 
 been a rare quality in the American poets — simpli- 
 city of expression, without any attempt to startle 
 the reader, or to produce an effect by far-sought epi- 
 thets. There is much sweetness in his imagery and 
 language ; and sometimes he is hardly excelled by 
 any one for the quiet accuracy exhibited in his pic- 
 tures of natural objects. His poetry will not easily 
 be forgotten ; some of it wiU be remembered with 
 that of Dana and Bryant." 
 
 The year in which Mr. Cheever published his Com- 
 monplace Book was an eventful year for American 
 Song. Mr. William CuUen Bryant published his 
 second collection of Poems, and Mr. Edgar AUan Poe 
 published his second (or third) collection of Poems, 
 both in Kew York, in the same year, and through 
 the same publisher, Elam Bliss. Mr. Bryant was the 
 editor of the Emning Post; Mr. Poe was the editor 
 
42 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of nothing. He had just been expelled from West 
 Point by court-martial, charged with gross neglect 
 of aU duties, and disobedience of orders, and was 
 tinkering over his old verses (perhaps in New York), 
 and receiving subscriptions of two dollars and fifty- 
 cents for his projected opuscule from his whilom 
 fellow-cadets. What Tie thought of the GJieever- 
 Literary Gazette Poets may easily be- divined. " I 
 never heard him speak in terms of praise of any 
 English writer, living or dead," was the bitter testi- 
 mony of one who knew him at this time. Every 
 other man was a plagiarist; he was original. 
 
 The eminence of Mr. Bryant was seen in the influ- 
 ence that he exercised over his contemporaries, and 
 over his intellectual son, Mr. Longfellow. Mr. Bry- 
 ant' s well-head of inspiration was Nature ; the ear- 
 liest fountains from which he drank were the La- 
 tin and Greek classics; after these Pope, Dryden, 
 Gray, Collins, Cowper, Wordsworth. The spirit 
 that sparkled in their lucid waters quenched and 
 increased his thirst. His first American masters 
 were Timothy Dwight and Philip Freneau — Dwight 
 in "Greenfield HiU," particularly in the third part 
 of that rustic epic, which is devoted to the destruc- 
 tion of the Pequods, and Freneau in such poems as 
 "The Dying Indian," and "The Indian Burying- 
 Ground." Mr. Bryant's first scholars in nature-wor- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 43 
 
 ship and in aboriginal lore were Miss Lydia Huntley, 
 Mr. Jolin Gardiner Calkins Brainard, Mr. Carlos 
 Wilcox, and Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 There was a clever monitor and a sprightly moni- 
 tress in the school to which Mr. Longfellow went, 
 and from them he derived much of his second-hand 
 knowledge. One was his old school-feUow, Nathan- 
 iel Parker WUlis ; the other was a young English gen- 
 tlewoman, of Irish and Italian descent, who was 
 penning Welsh melodies at Bronwylfa, Miss Feli- 
 cea Dorothea Browne. Her sensitive genius is felt 
 in "An April Day" as surely as the influence of 
 Willis, heightened by the strength of Bryant, is felt 
 in "Autumn" and "The Spirit of Poetry." It is 
 impossible not to recognize Willis in lines like these : 
 
 " It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
 When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
 O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf." 
 
 There is mere millinery. Bryant overshadows every- 
 thing. His "March" is repeated in "Woods in 
 Winter." The testimony of any stanza of the last 
 is convincing. Take the first : 
 
 " When winter winds are piercing chill, 
 
 And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 
 With solemn feet I tread the hill 
 itat overbrows the lonely vale.'' 
 
44 HENR Y WADS WOR TH LONGFELL W. 
 
 And what but the close of " Thanatopsis " can have 
 suggested the close of "Autumn" % 
 
 " For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves. 
 Shall have a voice and give him eloquent teachings. 
 He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death 
 Has hf ted up for all that he shall go 
 To his long resting-place without a tear." 
 
 He went to his long resting-place nearly fifty-seven 
 years later, with the tears of the world. 
 
 I have not written these last paragraphs with the 
 intention of depreciating Mr. Longfellow, or casting 
 the shadow of a doubt upon his originality, but 
 simply to point out that all poets, small and great 
 alike, start by echoing the songs of others. Ho- 
 mer's masters, if we could discover them, were old 
 rhapsodists. We know the lords paramount of the 
 Greek and Roman tragic writers, idyllic pipers, bit- 
 ing satirists. Chaucer was the child of Petrarcha and 
 Boccaccio, Grower of Chaucer, Surrey of the Italian 
 sonneteers, Shakespeare of Daniel and Marlowe, Mil- 
 ton of Du Bartas, Cowley of Spenser, Pope of Dry- 
 den, Cowper of Thomson, Burns of Ramsay, Fer- 
 guson, and early balladists, Wordsworth of aU poets, 
 Keats of Chaucer and Spenser, Tennyson of Keats, 
 and Longfellow of Bryant. It is an illustrious 
 pedigree. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 45 
 
 Graduating with, honors in his eighteenth year, to 
 the delight of his college friends, Mr. Longfellow be- 
 took himself to Portland, and entered the office of his 
 father to study the law. But it was not to be, for 
 the faculty of Bowdoin thought so highly of their 
 poetic scholar that they. appointed him Professor of 
 Modern Languages and Literature, with the privilege 
 of going abroad for three years that he might qualify 
 himself for his duties. He accepted — he would have 
 been mad not to have accepted, for he was averse from 
 the law, and not disposed to become a teacher either 
 of wealthy or beautiful pupils ; so in the following 
 year he set sail for Europe. Americans of fifty years 
 ago were not so accustomed to travel as their descen- 
 dants have grown to be. Now and then one did cross 
 the Atlantic biUows, and one of the first to go from 
 Portland was Mr. John Neal, who had wandered to 
 London while Mr. Longfellow was at college, and was 
 supporting himself by his pen in BlackwooW s Maga- 
 zine and other British periodicals. Him, no doubt, 
 Mr. Longfellow met, either at his chambers, or the 
 Kbraries, or in the crowded study of Mr. Jeremy 
 Bentham. Mr. Irving he certainly met in 1827. "I 
 had parted with Mm at Paris early in the year," 
 writes Mr. Pierre Irving. "His sojourn in Madrid 
 had commenced with the 6th of March, Mr. Irving, in 
 a letter to me of the 8th, having this mention of him : 
 
46 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ' Mr. Longfellow arrived safe and cheerily the day be- 
 fore yesterday, having met with no robbers.' " Mr. 
 Pierre Irving then proceeds to pay Mr. Longfellow a 
 compliment for his beautiful allusion to his distin- 
 guished uncle, and quotes a passage from a discourse 
 delivered by him before the Massachusetts Histori- 
 cal Society, and expressing his admiration for the 
 "Sketch-Book," published when he was a school- 
 boy. " Many years afterwards I had the pleasure of 
 meeting Mr. Irving in Spain, and found the author, 
 whom I had loved, repeated in the man. The same 
 playful humor, the same touch of sentiment, the 
 same poetic atmosphere, and, what I admired still 
 more, the entire absence of all literary jealousy, of 
 all that mean avarice of fame which counts what is 
 given to another as so much taken from one's self — 
 
 " ' And, trembling, hears on every breeze 
 The laurels of Miltiades.' 
 
 "At this time Mr. Irving was at Madrid, engaged 
 upon his ' Life of Columbus,' and if the work itself 
 did not bear ample testimony to his zealous and con- 
 scientious labor I could do so from personal observa- 
 tion. He seemed to be always at work. ' Sit down,' 
 he would say ; ' I wUl talk with you in a moment, but 
 I must first finish this sentence.' 
 
 "One summer morning, passing his house at the 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 47 
 
 early hour of six, I saw his study already wide open. 
 On my mentioning it to him afterwards he said: 
 ' Yes, I am always at my work as early as six.' 
 Since then I have often remembered that sunny 
 morning and that open window, so suggestive of his 
 sunny temperament and his open heart, and equally 
 so of his patient and persistent toil, and have recalled 
 those striking words of Dante : 
 
 ' ' ' Seggendo in piuma, 
 In fama non si vien, ne sotto coltre; 
 
 Senza la qual, cM sua vita consuma, 
 Cotal vestigio in terra, di se lascia 
 
 Qual fummo in aere el in acqua la schiuma.' 
 
 ' ' ' Seated upon down, 
 Or in his bed, man cometh not to fame ; 
 
 Without which, whoso his life consumes, 
 Such vestige of himself on earth shall leave 
 
 As smoke in air and in the water foam.' " 
 
 A graceful tribute from a scholar to his dead master. 
 A reasonable amount of originality was expected 
 of, and demanded from, an American tourist in the 
 second quarter of the century. He was not asked to 
 entertain but to instruct his readers. He might be 
 anything that he could fish up from his inkstand — 
 whimsical, desultory, pedantic, even a little dull, if 
 he must needs be. What was looked for were his 
 
48 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 impressions, Ms notions about effete aristocracies, 
 ideals of bygone time to wMcli Ideality was a stran- 
 ger. I shall not go here into tlie itinerary of the tra. 
 veiling poet further than to say that it was directed 
 through England, France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and 
 Holland. A ripe scholar and a good one, he returned 
 to his duties at Brunswick in 1829. From this date 
 begins his fifty-three years' devotion to literature as 
 tutor, teacher, lecturer, critic, poet, translator, ma- 
 gazinist, and man of letters generally — honorable ser- 
 vice in a high cause. I hope before I have done to 
 trace the bibliography of his work with tolerable ac- 
 curacy ; at present I can only speak of the first of 
 his works in my own possession. It is a shabby 
 12mo of 104 pages, bound in red cloth, and is entitled 
 " Syllabus de la Grammaire Italienne. Par H. W. 
 Longfellow, Professor de Langues Modernes a Bow- 
 doin-CoUege. A 1' Usage de Ceux qui Possedent 
 la Langue Frangaise. Boston : Gray et Bowen. 
 MDCCCXXXII." It was ushered into the world by 
 this Avertissement : " J'ai prepare cet Abrig§ de la 
 Grammaire Italienne, non pour instruire ceux qui 
 auraient a parler cette langue, mais pour faciliter les 
 progrSs de ceux, qui voudront I'apprendre a Hre. 
 Pour atteindre ce but il suifit d'en avoir expos6 suc- 
 cinctement les principes. II serait superflu de les 
 developper dans tons leur etendue. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 49 
 
 "J'ai employe 1' accent aigu sur presque tous les 
 mots Italiens, pour marquer les syllabes sur lesquelles 
 il faut appuyer la voix dans la prononciation ; mais 
 il faut observer que les Italiens ne s'en servent que 
 trds rarement. Ou trouvera les regies pour 1' usage 
 de r accent aigu dans la traite de 1' Orthographie ; 
 voyez cliapitre viii., page 104. H. W. L." 
 
 Of the fate of this little pony, whereupon those who 
 had mounted it might amble easily from France to 
 Italy, I have no knowledge. I dare say it took le 
 grand prix, for it was not handicapped, and was rid- 
 den by a jockey of lightweight, behind whom, booted 
 and spurred, was not yet riding Black Care. Neither 
 were "Yoicks forward!" and "Ho, Tally-Ho!" 
 among the greetings that saluted it. Gray et Bowen 
 were not plungers. 
 
 Future bibliographers will, no doubt, work out the 
 succession of Mr. Longfellow's writings, from his 
 greatest work — when time shall have determined 
 which that is — down to the smallest scrap that pro- 
 ceeded from his pen. My business now is chiefly 
 with his books, and not with his papers in periodi- 
 cals — such, for instance, as the North American Re- 
 mew, va. which, I believe, the earliest of these papers 
 was published. His next book after the "Syllabus 
 de la Grammaire Italienne " was a model of scholarly 
 and spirited translation. Its full title was: "Cop- 
 
so HENRY WADSWORTH LQNGFELLOW, 
 
 las de Don Jorge Manrique. Translated from the 
 Spanish. With an Introductory Essay on the Moral 
 and Devotional Poetry of Spain." The name of the 
 author foUows, and the imprint of "Boston: Al- 
 lan and Ticknor. 1833." Of the accuracy of Mr. 
 Longfellow's reproduction of the grave and stately 
 original I am no adequate judge; but,, if I may 
 trust the impression which it has always made upon 
 me, it certainly reflects the moral and devotional 
 spirit of Don Jorge Manrique, and his deep though 
 temperate grief on the death of his father, Roderigo 
 Manrique, Conde de Parades and Maestre de Santi- 
 ago, who died in 1476, according to Mariana, in the 
 town of XJcles, but according to his son, who sur- 
 vived him three years, in Ocana. Mr. George Tick- 
 nor, the historian of Spanish literature, directs our 
 attention to the simplicity and directness of its title, 
 " The Stanzas of Manrique," as if it needed no more 
 distinctive name. " Nor does it. Instead of being a 
 loud exhibition of his sorrows, or, what would have 
 been more in the spirit of the age, a conceited ex- 
 hibition of his learning, it is a simple and natural 
 complaint of the mutability of all earthly happiness ; 
 the mere overflowing of a heart filled with despon- 
 dency at being suddenly brought to feel the worthless- 
 ness of what it has most valued and pursued. His 
 father occupies hardly half the canvas of the poem, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 51 
 
 and some of the stanzas devoted naore directly to 
 him are the only portion of it we could wish away." 
 Mr. Ticknor quotes three stanzas of this solemn dirge 
 over mortality, and pronounces Mr. Longfellow's 
 translation a beautiful one. It is more than that — 
 it is noble and weighty in the lines on the court of 
 John II. : 
 
 " Where is the King Don Juan ? Where 
 Each royal prince and noble heir 
 
 Of Aragon ? 
 Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
 The deeds of love and high emprise 
 
 In battle done ? 
 Tourney and joust that charm'd the eye, 
 And scarf, and gorgeous panoply. 
 
 And nodding plume : 
 What were they but a pageant scene ? 
 What but the garlands gay and green 
 
 That deck the tomb ? 
 
 " Where are the high-born dames, and where 
 Their gay attire, and jewell'd hair, 
 
 And odors sweet ? 
 Where are the gentle knights that came 
 To kneel and breathe love's ardent flame 
 
 Low at their feet ? 
 Where is the song of Troubadour ? 
 Where are the lute and gay tambour 
 
52 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 They loved of yore ? 
 Where is the mazy dance of old, 
 The flowing robes inwrought with gold 
 
 The dancers wore ? " 
 
 The little" volume which ushered this thoughtful 
 strain into the world contained besides seven trans- 
 lations of Spanish sonnets of no great poetical value. 
 When Mr. Longfellow reprinted the collection he 
 omitted two which have never reappeared among 
 his writings. They are by Francisco de Medrano: 
 
 I. 
 
 AET AND NATURE. 
 
 The works of human artifice soon tire 
 The curious eye ; the fountain's sparkling rill, 
 And gardens, when adorn'd by human skill. 
 Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire. 
 
 But, O the free and wild magnificence 
 Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal. 
 In admiration silent and intense. 
 The soul of him, who hath a soul to feel. 
 
 The river moving on its ceaseless way. 
 The verdant reach of meadows fair and green, 
 And the blue hills that bound the sylvan scene — 
 
 These speak of grandeur that defies decay ; 
 Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high. 
 Who stamps on all his works his own eternity. 
 
BENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. S3 
 
 n. 
 THE TWO HAEVESTS. 
 
 But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves 
 Waved in the golden harvest ; from the plain 
 I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain 
 Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves. 
 
 Then the glad upland smil'd upon the view, 
 And to the air the broad green leaves unroll'd, 
 A peerless emerald in each silken fold, 
 And on each palm a pearl of morning dew. 
 
 And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space 
 All that beneath the reaper's sickle died, 
 All that smiled beauteous in the summertide. 
 
 And what are we ? — a copy of that race, 
 The later harvest of a longer year! 
 And, O how many fall before the ripened ear. 
 
 A half-hour's glance over the early volumes of the 
 Knickerbocker Magazine has put me upon the lite- 
 rary trail of Mr. Longfellow after the publication of 
 this volume of Spanish translations. I struck it in 
 the number for May, 1834, in the first of a series of 
 scattered paragraphs under the general heading of 
 "The Blank-Book of a Country Schoolmaster." 
 As the reader may like to see one of these para- 
 graphs, I will copy the fifth : 
 
 " MIDNIGHT DEVOTION. 
 
 " If there be one hour more fitted to devotion than 
 
54 HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow: 
 
 the rest, it is this — the sUent, solemn, solitary hour 
 of midnight in midwinter. Not a light can be seen in 
 the village — the world is asleep around me. How 
 breathless and how still ! Not air enough to shake 
 down the feathery snow from the branches of the 
 trees and the leafless vine at my window. 
 
 ' ' The moon, a Virgin Queen, 
 Eeigns absolute in her celestial city. 
 One lonely star, beside the western gate, 
 Stands sentinel. All else around the throne 
 Submissive veil their faces, for in her 
 Reflected shine the majesty and light 
 Of her departed lord, the glorious sun. 
 The air itself is awed into a whisper ! 
 And yet amid the stillness comes a sound, 
 Like the sad music of a mufiled drum. 
 Distant and indistinct. It is the voice 
 Of many waters down the shelving rock 
 Falling, still falling through the silent night, 
 Fit music for the solemn march of Time. 
 
 Father, who art in heaven ! with contrite heart 
 I bow before thee ! Hallowed be thy name ; 
 I have fled from thee — but thou hast not cursed me ; 
 I have forsaken thee — ^yet thou hast blessed me ; 
 Forgotten thee — yet thou hast loved me still ! " 
 
 - This little leaf from the schoolmaster's blank- 
 book possesses no intellectual value, though it is 
 not without interest as a midnight record of Profes- 
 sor Longfellow's life at Bowdoin, and it is very curi- 
 ous as containing the germ of a famous stanza in a 
 future poem — a stanza which has hitherto been sup- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 55 
 
 posed to be a mere echo of four lines in the deathless 
 " Exequy of Bishop King " : 
 
 'But hark! My Pulse like a soft Drum 
 Beats my approch, tells Thee I come; 
 And slow howere my marches be, 
 I shairat last sit down by Thee." 
 
 " Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 Still, hke muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave." 
 
 The publication in parts of " Salmagundi " in 1807, 
 of "The Sketch-Book" in 1819, and of "The Idle 
 Man" in 1821, suggested to Mr. Longfellow the pub- 
 lication of his observations of travel in 1834. I 
 find a notice of the second part of "Outre-Mer," 
 v?hich bore the double imprint of Boston and Kew 
 York, in the July number of the Knickerbocker: 
 "There is not in our country a writer who so nearly 
 approaches the ease and grace of style, the purity 
 of sentiment and language, which distinguish the 
 'Sketch-Book' and 'Bracebridge' Hall' as the au- 
 thor of 'Outre-Mer.' We remember to have seen 
 many years since a touching sketch from his pen, 
 which was copied from an English periodical into 
 which it had found its way, and circulated widely 
 in American journals as the production of Wash- 
 
S6- HENRY WAD SWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ington Irving. His liumor is of the same oblique, 
 happy cast, and his pathos has the power to awaken 
 the same thrilling echoes in the human bosom." The 
 kindly writer of this enthusiastic notice was proba- 
 bly Mr. Willis Graylord Clark, who was unques- 
 tionably the means of inducing Professor Longfel- 
 low to send his prose and verse to the Knickerbocker, 
 of which Jiis brother, Mr. Levsds Gay lord Clark, was 
 editor. A curious sample of the last, which I think 
 has hitherto escaped detection, will be found in tlie 
 Knickerbocker for January, 1835. Here it is : 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 And is this education ? This the training 
 
 Of an immortal spirit for the skies ? 
 Would you, then, teach it virtue by restraining 
 
 Its heavenward aspirations till it dies ? 
 Thus fit it for a life beyond the grave 
 
 By making it a helot and a slave 
 
 To earth-born passions, and unholy lust, 
 And grovelling appetites ? Oh ! no. The soul 
 
 Blazoned with shame, and foul with earthly dust 
 And for an emblem bearing o'er the whole 
 
 The crafty serpent, not the peaceful dove, 
 
 Has no escutcheon for the courts above. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 57 
 
 Why, then, prove false to Nature's noblest trust ? 
 
 Why, then, restrain the spirit's upward flight, 
 And make its dwelling in the loathsome dust, 
 
 UntU ' earth's shadow hath eclipsed its light ' ? 
 Why deck the flesh, the sensual slave of sin. 
 And leave in rags the immortal guest within ? 
 
 Beware 1 The Israelite of old who tore 
 The lion in his path — when, poor and blind. 
 
 He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 
 Shorn of his nobler strengt ., and forced to grind 
 
 In prison, and at times led forth to be 
 
 A pander to Philistine revelry. 
 
 Destroyed himself, and with him those that made 
 A cruel mockery of his sightless eyes ! 
 
 So, too, the immortal soul, when once betrayed 
 To minister to lusts it doth despise, 
 
 A poor blind slave, the scofE and jest of all, 
 
 Expires, and thousands perish in the fall I 
 
 I have not resurrected these dead bones to prove 
 that Mr. Longfellow sometimes wrote as indifferently 
 as lesser poets, but to point out the beginning of a 
 noble image in the last two stanzas of this abortive, 
 unfinished poem. It had a happy ending seven years 
 later in "Poems on Slavery." Let me give it here as 
 a lesson in the art of revision : 
 
S8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE WAENING. 
 
 BewareJ The Israelite of old, who tore 
 The lion in his path — ^when, poor and blind, 
 
 He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 
 Shorn of his noble strength, and forced to grind 
 
 In prison, and at last led forth to be 
 
 A pander to Philistine revelry, 
 
 Upon the pillars of the temple laid 
 His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 
 
 Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
 A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 
 
 The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 
 
 Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 
 
 There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 
 Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel. 
 
 Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
 And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 
 
 Till the vast Temple of our liberties 
 
 A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 
 
 When " Outre-Mer," which appears to have failed 
 when issued in parts, was published in two volumes 
 by the Harpers in 1835, the genial critic of the 
 Knickerbocker remembered not to forget. "The 
 author of this work, in our opinion, has a glorious 
 career before him. With a mind pure and simple, 
 yet strong and ardent, and stored with learning, he 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 59 
 
 writes always as if under the influence of a true in- 
 spiration. As a scholar, especially in his acquain- 
 tance with modern languages, we believe Professor 
 Longfellow unequalled by any author of his years in 
 America or England. His style, which is peculiarly 
 his own, is polished and free, his moral ken is ex- 
 quisite, his humor rich without rudeness, and keen 
 without asperity. "With all the good old English 
 writers he is a familiar acquaintance, and, having 
 thumbed their black-letter tomes to some purpose, 
 he has saturated his mind with their refreshing 
 spirit." If the opinion of one who has thumbed 
 black-letter tomes, in a limited way, in libraries, and 
 who, if he has a familiar acquaintance with any- 
 thing, has it vnth good old English literature, 
 should weigh in the scale, this was just what* Mr. 
 Longfellow had not done. 
 
 A reasonable estimate of the Longfellow of this 
 period was reached by the Athenceum three years 
 later. Here is the gist of it, which I think was from 
 the pen of Henry Fothergill Chorley : " This writer 
 — not unknown here as the author of 'Outer-Mer' 
 — comes nearer to a literary character than most of 
 his associates. A .professor of modern tongues in 
 Harvard University, it is said ; not of unknown 
 tongues, we presume, though we were just about to 
 call him an Iningite. We speak in the literary ac- 
 
6o . HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ceptation, not theological. We cannot say that he 
 imitates the author of the ' Sketch-Book ' ; he has a 
 spirit of his own. But it seems to ns that his mind 
 is much of the same description. He is sprightly, 
 and witty, and graphic ; he has seen much of the 
 world and used his opportunities well. There is an 
 elegant ease in his style — ^finished, but not finical; 
 just the thing, as we say of a private gentleman 
 whose manners and dress excite no other remark, 
 while they satisfy all who observe them. And with- 
 al he has the genial hoiiTiomie of Irving. He sees 
 the pleasant side of things. He likes that his reader 
 should be innocently pleased, and is content if he 
 be so. If Longfellow, in a word, had come before 
 Irving his fame would be that of a founder of a 
 school (so far as America is concerned) rather than 
 one of the scholars. As it is he may be popular, but 
 not famous, and will hardly have credit even for 
 what he is worth." Before leaving for his Europe- 
 an tour Professor Longfellow married a daughter of 
 Judge Barrett Potter, of his native town. That is to 
 say, as nearly as I can make out, for he may have 
 met and married the young lady abroad. The sha- 
 dow of his first great sorrow fell upon him at Rotter- 
 dam, where she passed suddenly into the world of 
 souls, and where, amid the plashing of its sluggish 
 waters, her dust is mouldering away. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 6i 
 
 Let me return to " Outre- Mer" long enongli to 
 give my early impression of it. It is (toc judice) 
 more scholarly than the "Sketch-Book," and the 
 style is sweeter and mellower than Irving had yet 
 attained ; like Sidney, the writer warbled in poetic 
 prose. Among the countries which he visited France 
 awakened the deepest interest in him, and partook of 
 his tenderest emotion, partly because he was deeply 
 read in its literature, and partly because it was opu- 
 lent in old-time picturesqueness. We find in the 
 ninth chapter, which glances at "The Trouveres," 
 the first two of his many French translations. One 
 is a song in praise of Spring, by Charles d' Orleans, 
 the other a copy of verses upon a sleeping child. 
 They are elegantly rendered, but we feel in reading 
 them (whether we know French or not) that the 
 spirit of their originals has evaded Professor Long- 
 fellow, as it evaded Miss Costello, who published in 
 the same year a volume of similar mistakes, which 
 are redolent of the nineteenth but not of the fifteenth 
 century. " Outre-Mer" will always possess a charm 
 to the student of American literature as a rare ex- 
 ample of a nondescript sort of prose — ^half narrative, 
 half legendary, and wholly poetical — which ranks, 
 and ought to rank, among the things which were. It 
 will never flourish here again ; but forty years ago 
 it surprised and delighted literate and sympathetic 
 
62 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 readers, to whom, and their children after them, it 
 unlocked the treasure-house of European travel, and 
 flung its jewels about lavishly. It was the Old World 
 in the New World, with all its storied rivers and 
 mountains, its royal palaces, and parks, and cathe- 
 drals, its libraries and picture-galleries, and its 
 peoples with their customs and literatures. Quietly 
 humorous, prettily pathetic, pensive and imagina- 
 tive, sentimental readers were drawn to the tiny 
 sketch of "Jacqueline," humorous readers to " Mar- 
 tin Franc and the Monks of St. Anthony " and "The 
 Notary of Perigueux," and bookish readers to "The 
 Trouveres," "Ancient Spanish Ballads," and "The 
 Devotional Poetry," with which the admirers of 
 " Coplas de Manrique " were already familiar. Writ- 
 ing in May, 1882, I cannot say that "Outre-Mer" is 
 a remarkable volume ; but remembering what Ameri- 
 can literature was in 1835, I see that it was an im- 
 portant book then ; that it fairly won all the praise 
 it received ; that it eminently represented the talents 
 and the genius of its writer ; and that it mapped out 
 his future career as if by inspiration. The reputa- 
 tion of Professor Longfellow was so assured at this 
 time that he was selected by the faculty of Harvard 
 University to succeed Mr. George Ticknor, who re- 
 signed his professorship of modern languages and lit- 
 erature. He gave up his chair at Bowdoin, and went 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 63 
 
 abroad again to continue and finisli Ms studies in the 
 literature of Northern Europe. A summer in Den- 
 mark and Sweden and an autamn and winter in Grer- 
 many consumed little more than a year. The death 
 of Mrs. Longfellow at Kotterdam arrested his studies 
 and his travel until the following spring and STimmer, 
 which were passed in the Tyrol and Switzerland. 
 He returned to the United States in November, 1836, 
 and entered upon his duties at Harvard. 
 
 I have now completed the circle which started with 
 Mr. Longfellow's note of April 20, 1878, and I have 
 before me the book to which he there referred. I vio- 
 late no confidence when I say that the paper devoted 
 to Mr. Longfellow in " Homes of American Authors " 
 is from the brilliant and versatile pen of Mr. George 
 William Curtis. Mr. Curtis was the life-long friend 
 of Mr. Longfellow, and the accuracy of what he 
 wrote about him and his surroundings may be de- 
 pended upon. I shall use the substance of it in what 
 follows, either in his words or my own, as may seem 
 best. 
 
 One calm afternoon in the summer of 1837 a young 
 gentleman of thirty sauntered from the high-road of 
 Cambridge down the elm-shaded walk that led to the 
 old Craigie House. Gaining the door, he halted sud- 
 denly to study the huge, old-fashioned brass knock- 
 er and the quaint handle that bespoke familiarity 
 
64 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 with, things Colonial and Revolutionary. These, of 
 course, were not without their charm to this travelled 
 student, who must have seen the like many times over 
 in England and Holland ; but it was not this that de- 
 tained him there, let us fancy with his hat uplifted, 
 and the wind rippling through his hair. It was not 
 antiquity but memory that held him fast — the mem- 
 ory of a soldier and a statesman whom the world 
 admires and reveres — Washington. Hither he came 
 with his army after the lost battle of Bunker Hill- 
 stalwart farmers' sons in ragged regimentals, bronzed 
 at the plough and in the h'ay-field, scarred in Indian 
 wars, indomitable — and drilling them, along the road, 
 and in the green pastures. Harvard students, profes- 
 sors of learned tongues and the humane arts, doctors, 
 lawyers, and a host of fighting parsons baptized with 
 fire at Lexington and Concord. He thought of the 
 great Commander. "Had his hand, perhaps, lifted 
 this same latch, lingering as he clasped it in a whirl 
 of emotions ? Had he, too, paused in the calm sum- 
 mer afternoon, and watched the silver gleam of the 
 broad river in the meadows, the dreamy blue of the 
 Milton hills beyond ? And had the tranquUlity of 
 that landscape penetrated his heart with ' the sleep 
 that is among the hills,' and whose fairest dream to 
 him was a hope now realized in the peaceful prosper- 
 ity of his country ? " 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 65 
 
 "The dreamer upraised the huge brass knocker, 
 which fell with a heavy clang. A servant appeared 
 as the wide door opened, and invited the visitor to 
 enter. He bowed and asked for Mrs. Craigie. The 
 door of a little parlor was opened softly, and that 
 lady appeared — a tall, erect figure, crowned with a 
 majestic turban, such as our stately grandmothers 
 delighted to wear, and calmly surveyed him with keen 
 gray eyes. Everything about her bespoke the gen- 
 tlewoman of a past generation. To an inquiry of the 
 young gentleman, who bent his manliness before her 
 widowhood, she gravely answered : ' But I lodge stu- 
 dents no longer.' ' But I am not a student ; I am 
 a Professor in the University.' 'A Professor?' she 
 demanded, with perhaps a shade of incredulity. 
 'Professor Longfellow,' he added, thus introducing 
 himself. 'Ah ! that is different. I will show you what 
 there is.' " What is that which she seems to hear be- 
 fore her ? Only the ticking clock, which says : " This 
 is the master of the house — the master, master." 
 There are spirits about you, Mrs. Craigie. "There- 
 upon she preceded the Professor up the stairs, and, 
 gaining the upper hall, paused at each door, opened it, 
 permitted him to perceive its delightful fitness for his 
 purpose — kindled expectation to the utmost — then 
 quietly closed the door again, observing, ' You can- 
 not have that.' It was most Barmecide hospitality. 
 
66 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The professorial eyes glanced restlessly around the 
 fine old-fashioned points of the mansion, marked the 
 wooden carvings, the air of opulent respectability in 
 the past — which corresponds in New England to the 
 impression of ancient nobility in old England— and 
 wondered in which of these pleasant fields of sugges- 
 tive association he was to be allowed to pitch his 
 tent. The turbaned hostess at length opened the door 
 of the southeast comer room in the second story, and 
 while the guest looked wistfully in, and awaited the 
 customary ' You cannot have that,' he was agree- 
 ably surprised by a variation of the strain to the ef- 
 fect that he might occupy it. The room was upon the 
 front of the house, and looked over the meadows to 
 the river. It had an atmosphere of fascinating re- 
 pose, in which the young man was at once domesti- 
 cated as in an old home. The elms of the avenue 
 shaded his windows, and as he glanced from them 
 the summer lay asleep upon the landscape in the 
 windless day. 'This,' said the old lady, with a slight 
 sadness in her voice, as if speaking of times for ever 
 past and to which she herself properly belonged — 
 ' this was General Washington's chamber ! ' " 
 
 Professor Longfellow was housed as a poet should 
 be— in a noble mansion, in the shadows of immemorial 
 elms, and in the midst of a pastoral landscape. " Tlie 
 traveller upon the high-road before the Craigie House, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 67 
 
 even ii he knew nothing of its story, would be struck 
 by its quaint dignity and respectability, and make a 
 legend, if he could not find one already made. If, 
 however, his lot had been cast in Cambridge, and he 
 had been able to secure a room in the mansion, he 
 would not rest until he had explored the traditions of 
 its origin and occupancy, and had given his fancy 
 moulds in which to run its images. He would have 
 found in the churchyard of Cambridge a freestone 
 tablet, supported by five pillars, upon which, with the 
 name Col. John Vassal, died in 1747, are sculptured 
 the words Vas-sol and the emblems, a goblet and 
 sun. Whether this device was a proud assertion of 
 the fact that the fortunes of the family should be al- 
 ways as 
 
 'A beaker full of the warm South,' 
 
 happily no historian records ; for the beaker has long 
 since been drained to the dregs, and of the stately 
 family nothing survived in the early part of the Poet's 
 residence in the house but an old black man who had 
 been born, a slave, in the mansion during the last days 
 of the Vassals, and who occasionally returned to visit 
 his earliest haunts, like an Indian the hunting-grounds 
 of his extinct tribe. This Col. John Vassal is sup- 
 posed to have built the house tawards the close of 
 the first half of the last century. Upon an iron in 
 
68 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the back of one of the chimneys there is the date 
 1759, which probably commemorates no more than 
 the fact of its own insertion at that period, inas- 
 much as the builder of the house would hardly 
 commit the authentic witness of its erection to the 
 mercies of smoke and soot. History capitulates be- 
 fore the exact date of the building of the Craigie 
 House as completely as before that of the foundation 
 of Thebes. But the house was evidently generously 
 built, and Col. John Vassal, having lived there in gene- 
 rous style, died, and lies under the freestone tablet. 
 His son John fell upon revolutionary times, and 
 was a royalist. The observer of the house wiU not 
 be surprised at the fact. That the occupant of such 
 a mansion sTiould, in colonial troubles, side with the 
 government was as natural as the fealty of a Doug- 
 las or a Howard to the king. The house, however, 
 passed from his hands, and was purchased by the 
 provincial government at the beginning of serious 
 work with the mother-country. After the battle of 
 Bunker Hill it was allotted to General Washington 
 as his lieadquarters. It was entirely unfurnished, 
 but the charity of neighbors filled it with necessary 
 furniture. The southeastern room upon the lower 
 floor, at the right of the front door, and now occupied 
 as a study by Mr. Longfellow, was devoted to the 
 same purpose by Washington. The room over it, as 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 69 
 
 Madame Craigie has already informed us, was his 
 chamber. The room upon the lower floor, in the rear 
 of the study, which was afterwards enlarged, and is 
 now the Poet' s library, was occupied by the aids-de- 
 camp of the commander-in-chief. And the southwest 
 room upon the lower floor was Mrs. Washington's 
 drawing-room. The rich old wood-carving in this 
 apartment is still remarkable, stUl certifies the fre- 
 quent presence of fine society. For, although during 
 the year in which Washington occupied the mansion 
 there could have been as little desire as means for gay 
 festivity, yet Washington and his leading associates 
 were all gentlemen — men who would have graced the 
 elegance of a court with the same dignity that made 
 the plainness of a republic admirable. Many of 
 Washington's published letters are dated from this 
 house. And could the walls whisper, we should hear 
 more and better things of him than could ever be re- 
 corded. In his chamber are still the gay-painted tiles 
 peculiar to fine houses of the period ; and upon their 
 quaint and grotesque images the glancing eyes of the 
 Poet' s children now wonderingly linger, where the sad 
 and doubtful ones of Washington must have often 
 fallen as he meditated the darkness of the future. 
 Many of these peculiarities and memories of the man- 
 sion appear in the Poet's verses. In the opening of 
 the poem ' To a Child ' the tiles are painted anew : 
 
70 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ' The lady with the gay macaw, 
 The dancing girl, the grave Bashaw 
 
 With bearded lip and chin ; 
 And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 
 Beneath the imperial fan of state, 
 The Chinese mandaria.' 
 
 " The next figure that distinctly appears in the old 
 house is that of Thomas Tracy, a personage of whom 
 the household traditions are extremely fond. He was 
 a rich man in the fabulous style of the East — such a 
 nabob as Oriental imaginations can everywhere easily 
 conjure, while practical experience wonders that they 
 are so rare. He carried himself with a rare lavish- 
 ness. Servants drank costly wines from carved 
 pitchers in the incredible days of Thomas Tracy; 
 and in his stately mansion a hundred guests sat down 
 to banquets, and pledged their host in draughts 
 whose remembrances keep his name sweet, as royal 
 bodies were preserved in wine and spices. In the 
 early days of national disorder he sent out privateers 
 to scour the seas, and bleed Spanish galleons of 
 their sunniest juices, and reap golden harvests of 
 fruits and spices, of silks and satins, from East and 
 West Indian ships, that the bountiful table of Vas- 
 sal House might not fail, nor the carousing days 
 of Thomas Tracy become credible. But these ' spa- 
 cious times' of the large-hearted and large-handed 
 
HENRY WADSWORTXi LONGFELLOW. 71 
 
 gentleman suddenly ended. The wealthy man failed ; 
 no more hundred guests appeared at banquets ; no 
 more privateers sailed into Boston Bay, reeking with 
 riches from every zone ; Spain, the Brazils, the Indies 
 no more rolled their golden sands into the pockets of 
 Thomas Tracy ; servants, costly wines, carved pitch- 
 ers, all began to glimmer and go, and finally Thomas 
 Tracy and his incredible days vanished as entirely as 
 the gorgeous pavilions with which the sun in setting 
 piles the summer west. 
 
 "After this illuminated chapter in the history of 
 the house Captain Joseph Lee, a brother of Madame 
 Tracy, appears in the annals, but does npt seem to 
 have illustrated them by any special gifts or graces. 
 Tradition remains silent, pining for Thomas Tracy, un- 
 til it lifts its head upon the entry into the house of 
 Andrew Craigie, apothecary -general to the Iforthern 
 provincial army, who amassed a fortune in that office, 
 which, like his great predecessor, he presently lost, 
 but not until he had built a bridge over the Charles 
 Eiver, connecting Cambridge with Boston, which is 
 still known by his name. Andrew Craigie did much 
 for the house, even enlarging it to its present form ; 
 but tradition is hard upon him. It declares that he 
 was a huge man, heavy and dull, and evidently 
 looks upon his career as the high lyric of Thomas 
 Tracy's, muddled into tough prose. In the best and 
 
72 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 most prosperous days of Andrew Craigie the estate 
 comprised two hundred acres. Upon the site of the 
 present observatory, not far from the mansion, stood 
 a summer-house, but whether of any rare architectu- 
 ral device — whether, in fact, any orphic genius of 
 those days ' said' a summer-house, which, like that of 
 Mr. Emerson's, only lacked 'scientific arrangement' 
 to be quite perfect — does not appear. Like the apo- 
 thecary to the Northern army, the summer-house is 
 gone, as likewise an aqueduct that brought water a 
 quarter of a mile. Tradition, so enamored of Tracy, 
 is generous enough to mention a dinner- party given 
 by Andrew Craigie every Saturday, and on one occa- 
 sion points out peruked and powdered Talleyrand 
 among the guests. This betrays the presence in the 
 house of the best society then to be had. But the 
 prosperous Craigie could not avoid the fate of his 
 opulent predecessor, who also gave banquets. Things 
 rushed on too rapidly for him. The bridge, aqueduct, 
 and summer-house, two hundred acres and an enlarg- 
 ed house, were too much for the fortune acquired in 
 dealing medicaments to the Northern army. The 
 ' spacious times ' of Andrew Craigie also came to an 
 end. A visitor walked with him through his large 
 and handsome rooms, and, struck with admiration, 
 exclaimed : ' Mr. Craigie, I should think you would 
 lose yourself in all this spaciousness.' ' Mr.' (tradi- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 73 
 
 tion has forgotten the name), said the hospitable 
 and ruined host, ' I Tiave lost myself in it, ' and we 
 do not find him again. 
 
 "After his disappearance Mrs. Craigie, bravely swal- 
 lowing the risings of pride, and stUl revealing in her 
 character and demeanor the worthy mistress of a 
 noble mansion, let rooms. Edward Everett resided 
 here just after his marriage, and whUe still Professor 
 in the college of which he was afterwards President. 
 WiUard Phillips, Jared Sparks, now the head of 
 the University, and Joseph E. Worcester, the Lexi- 
 cographer, have all resided here, sometimes sharing 
 the house with Mrs. Craigie, and, in the case of Mr. 
 Worcester, occupying it joiatly with Mr. Longfellow 
 when the grave old lady removed her stately turban 
 for the last time." Such was Craigie House, its tra- 
 ditions, and early dweUei;s, as they were repeated and 
 painted by Mr. Curtis about thirty years ago. 
 
 The letters of Charles Sumner, who was connected 
 by friendship and intermarriage with Mr. Longfel- 
 low, are sprinkled with allusions to his poetic neigh- 
 bor. For example, in a letter to Dr. Lieber, at New 
 York, dated from Boston on November 17, 1836, he 
 writes : " Longfellow has returned home, having ar- 
 rived only three days ago, full of pleasant reminis- 
 cences and of health. He tells me that he called 
 upon Mittermaier with a letter from you. He is a 
 
74 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 very pleasant fellow, and will at once assume the 
 charge of Ticknor's department." We learn a little 
 further on that he left the Appletons in Switzerland. 
 This brings me to a meeting between Mr. Longfellow 
 and Mr. Samuel Ward at the house of Herr Adolph 
 Zimmern, the banker of the latter^ at Heidelberg, on 
 an evening in March, 1836. There were present be- 
 sides Mr. Ward and his man of millions Mrs. Wil- 
 liam Cullen Bryant and her young daughter, and 
 Professor Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Port- 
 lander and the New-Yorker adjourned early to the 
 hotel of the latter, the Badischer Hof, where they 
 talked until daybreak, of how Tieck used to read to 
 them his admirable translations of Shakespeare, and 
 poems by Uhland and the old balladists, and how he 
 told them of the noble rendering of Dante by Prince 
 John of Saxony. The next day Mr. Ward went to 
 the rooms of his late-and-early-talking friend, which 
 were strewn with books, and were situated in a house 
 on the main street with a view of the castle in the 
 near distance. More and later talk over bottles of 
 Rhine wine. Two days afterwards these hons cama- 
 rades started for the town of Treves, the younger 
 dropping behind at Mannheim. 
 
 The reputation of Professor Longfellow began in 
 the Knickerbocker for September, 1838. Its germ 
 was this : 
 
HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 75 
 
 A PSALIiJ OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE 
 PSALMIST. 
 
 " Life that shall send 
 A challenge to its end, 
 And when it comes say, ' Welcome, friend ! ' " 
 
 TTie Slimmer before it appeared Mr. Ward visited 
 the room of Ms young crony. It was at the Astor, in 
 the fourth story, and was empty. Not exactly, for 
 there was a poem there, probably "A Psalm of 
 Life," which chanted itself into the soul of Willis 
 and the purse of Lewis Gfaylord Clark. Never since 
 young Drake and Halleck had stirred New York to 
 the deeps was there such a commotion. It passed 
 from HaUeck to Washington Irving, from the two to 
 King, the editor of the American., and to Dr. Hawks, 
 and from these to high and low. It did not pass to 
 Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, who was on the eve of moving 
 from Arch Street, Philadelphia, into a new house, 
 and was on the point of running his critical stiletto 
 into Mr. Washington Irving. "A Psalm of Life" 
 was a dirge of death to him, for he hated the psalm- 
 ist, as he showed in the pages of the Gentleman^ s 
 Magazine, of which he was soon to be Sylvanus 
 Unufban. Here is what he wrote about "Voices 
 
76 HEMRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of the Mglit" : "In looking over a file of news- 
 papers not long ago our attention was arrested by 
 the opening lines of a few stanzas headed 'Hymn 
 to the Mght.' We read them again and again, and, 
 although some blemishes were readily discoverable, 
 we bore them away in memory with the firm belief 
 that a poet of high genius had at length arisen 
 amongst us, and with the resolve to so express our 
 opinion at the first opportunity which should offer. 
 The perusal of the entire volume now presented to 
 the public by the author of this ' Hymn to the 
 Mght' has not, indeed, greatly modified our im- 
 pressions in regard to that particular poem, not 
 greatly even in regard to the genius of the poet, 
 but very greatly in respect to his capacity for the 
 ultimate achievement of any well-founded monu- 
 ment, any enduring reputation. Our general con- 
 clusion is one similar to that which ' Hyperion ' in- 
 duced, and which we stated of late in a concise notice 
 of that book. The author has in one or two points 
 ability, and in these one or two points that ability 
 regards the very brightest qualities of the poetical 
 soul. His imagination, for example, is vivid ; and in 
 saying thus how much do we say ! But he appears 
 to us singularly deficient in all those important facul- 
 ties which give artistical form, and without which 
 never was immortality effected. He has no combin- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 77 
 
 ing or binding force. He has absolutely nothing of 
 unity. 
 
 "His brief pieces (to whose brevity he has been 
 led by an instinct of the deficiencies we now 
 note) abound in high thoughts, either positively 
 insulated, or showing these same deficiencies by the 
 recherche spirit of their connection. And thus his 
 productions are scintillations from the highest poet- 
 ical truth, rather than this highest truth itself. By 
 truth, here, we mean that perfection which is the 
 result only of the strictest proportion and adapta- 
 tion in all the poetical requisites — these requisites 
 being considered as each existing in the highest 
 degree of beauty and strength." This reads a 
 little severely, but is mild beside the next paragraph, 
 which was written shortly before it by the same in- 
 cisive pen : "Were it possible to thrust into a bag 
 the lofty thought and manner of the ' Pilgrims of the 
 Rhine,' together with the quirks and quibbles and 
 true humor of 'Tristram Shandy,' not forgetting 
 a few of the heartier drolleries of Rabelais and one 
 or two of the Phantasy Pieces of the Lorrainean 
 Callot, the whole, when well shaken up, and thrown 
 out, would be a very tolerable imitation of 'Hy- 
 perion.' This may appear to be commendation, but 
 we do not intend it as such. Works like this of Pro- 
 fessor Longfellow are the triumphs of Tom o' Bed- 
 
78 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 lam and tlie grief of all true criticism. They are 
 potent in unsettling the popular faith in Art— a 
 faith which at no day more than the present needed 
 the support of men of letters. That such things 
 succeed at all is attributable to the fact that there 
 exist men of genius who now and then, unmiudful 
 of duty, indite them — that men of genius ever indite 
 them is attributable to the fact that they are often 
 the most indolent of human beings. A man of true 
 talent who would demur at the great labor requisite 
 for the stern demands of high art — at that unre- 
 mitting toil and patient elaboration which, when 
 soul- guided, resiilt in Beauty, Unity, Totality, and 
 Truth — men, we say, who would demur at such 
 labor make no scruple of scattering at random a 
 profusion of rich thought in the pages of such far- 
 ragoes as 'Hyperion.' Here, indeed, there is little 
 trouble, but even that little is most unprofitably lost. 
 To the writers of these things we say — aU Ethics 
 lie, and all History lies, or the world shall forget 
 ye and your worJcs. We have no design of com- 
 menting, at any length, upon what Professor Long- 
 fellow has written. We are indignant that he, too, 
 has been recreant to the good cause. We, there- 
 fore, dismiss his 'Hyperion' in brief. We grant 
 him high qualities, but deny him the Future. In 
 the present instance, witliout design, without shape. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 79 
 
 without beginning, middle, or end, what earthly- 
 object has his book accomplished \ What definite 
 impression has it left?" 
 
 Let me present here, as the reverse of the Poe 
 medal, an old, tattered letter which explains itself : 
 
 "Cambridge, Deo. 7, 1839. 
 
 "My dear Ollapod : I hope this letter will find 
 you in better health than when your last dateless 
 epistle was written. You were then on the point of 
 starting for New York and Albany. Have you got 
 back again to Philadelphia, or did you not go out of 
 its lovely gates ? I felt quite startled at the account 
 you gave of your health. Why did you refuse to 
 go to Santa Cruz 1 You could have taken WiUie or 
 have left him with your brother. I think you were 
 wrong. It would have been a delightful excursion. 
 I hope yon will think better of it and go, even now. 
 It will not do for you to sit at home and grieve your 
 soul away. Your Autumnal Dirge is one of the most 
 sweetly solemn poems I ever read. There is the dif- 
 ference of writing from the heart and from the imagi- 
 nation merely. In that poem I recognize my friend 
 in his better hours. I got Clapp to publish it, with 
 two or three lines introducing it, in his paper. The 
 piece is much admired here. 
 
 "I am glad you find something good in 'Hype- 
 rion,' and trust that you vdll likewise find some- 
 thing to like in 'Voices of the Mght,' which I shall 
 send you next week, though there will be very little 
 in the volume which you have not seen before. 
 
8o HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " On the next page you will find two Literary Ifo- 
 tices, which I wish you would publish and send me 
 a copy thereof. I think Menzel's book will delight 
 you vastly. Take my word for it. Spencer you 
 liave probably heard of before! 
 
 "IN'ow, Clark, don't let such an age pass before 
 you write again. I never see your paper nor your 
 handwriting nowadays. I sometimes think you have - 
 taken offence at something, yet cannot really 'believe 
 so, but have put it down to multifariousness and 
 iU-health. 
 
 "Very tridy yours, as ever, 
 
 "Henry Wad. Longfellow." 
 
 To show Mr. Longfellow' s kindness I wUl give here 
 the substance of two little notes which he wrote to 
 me in November and December, 1871. They referred 
 to a young person who had recently emigrated to the 
 United States, I have no doubt for good and sufficient 
 reasons. He wrote and spoke several languages in- 
 differently, English not being one of them ; sang 
 some, and drew a great deal, especially at the long 
 bow ; was rather at sea in regard to property, per- 
 sonal, literary, and other ; remembered to forget 
 when he passed off a German translation for an 
 American original, stating under precisely what cir- 
 cumstances he happened to write it, and with the 
 strongest and most impudent determination to be— he 
 was already — a man of letters. This cool youth Mr. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 81 
 
 Longfellow took the liberty of introducing to me, 
 though he had not the honor of his personal acquain- 
 tance. He brought him a letter of introduction from 
 an English lady of rank, and he was anxious to aid 
 him in his plans. He wished to write for the perio- 
 dicals, and Mr. Longfellow ventured to ask from me 
 a friendly hearing for him. My friendly hearing, 
 which would have been given any way, put a few 
 shekels into his pockets, and put Mr. Longfellow to 
 the trouble of writing again to me. He wa's obliged 
 to me for what I had done, and his protege had writ- 
 ten to him to express his gratification for my kind- 
 ness. He enclosed the letter of introduction which 
 induced him to appeal to me in his despair of doing 
 anything for him there. Would I be so kind as tc 
 return the letter after I had read it 1 If Master 
 Nameless could not make his way in New York with 
 the start I had given him, he should despair of his suc- 
 cess in the line he had chosen. With great regard 
 and many thanks, he was mine faithfully. I have alsc 
 before me another note from the pen of this genial 
 gentleman, written in the early autumn of 1850, and 
 addressed to a Southern man of letters who was 
 stopping at the Revere House. He hopes that this 
 child of the South will come out to Cambridge as 
 early as he can, that he may have the pleasure of in- 
 troducing him to any gentleman that he might like 
 
82 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 to know there, and still have time to drive to Mount 
 Auburn. He hopes also that he will do him the fa- 
 vor to dine with him, and he will order dinner early, 
 so that he may have ample time for the afternoon 
 for Springfield, if he still adhered to his plan of 
 going that way. And he was his faithfully. The 
 Shadow cloaked from head to foot has borne both 
 away, one to the cemetery at Richmond that over- 
 looks the winding James, the other to Mount Auburn 
 and his dwn river of song — the Charles. 
 
 " And did you once see Shelley plain, 
 And did he stop and speak to you ? 
 And did you speak to him again ? 
 How strange it seems, and new I " 
 
 The mention of "Hyperion" and "Voices of the 
 Night" sends me back to Charles Sumner, who ad- 
 dressed a letter from London to Mr. George S. Hil- 
 lard, of Boston, on March 18, 1840: "I have just 
 found Longfellow's 'Hyperion,' and shall sit up all 
 night to devour it. I have bought up all the copies 
 of ' Voices of the Mght ' in London to give to my 
 friends." Two years later Mr. Sumner wrote from 
 Boston to his brother George : " I cannot forbear say- 
 ing how much pleasure it gave me to see your few 
 words about Longfellow. He cares not at all for 
 politics or statistics, for the Syrian question or the 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 83 
 
 disasters of Afghanistan. But to him the magnifi- 
 cent world of literature and Nature is open ; every 
 beauty of sentiment and truth and language has for 
 him a relish ; and every heart that feels is sure of a 
 response from him. I feel for his genius and worth 
 the greatest reverence, as for him personally the 
 warmest love." Sumner's letters, always charming, 
 are. never more charming than when they follow the 
 fortunes of his friend, whom they bring before us 
 continually. One would like to know when he final- 
 ly became Master of Craigie House. Sumner shall 
 tell us, speaking from Cambridge on May 9, 1841 : 
 "Once again from the headquarters of our great 
 chief. Since I last wrote you Mrs. Craigie, the wi- 
 dow of the builder of Craigie' s Bridge and the own- 
 er of this house, has died and been removed from 
 the spacious rooms to a narrow bed at Mount Au- 
 burn." He shall also teU us, as he told him, about 
 the usefulness of his poems, in a letter from London 
 in the autumn of 1842: "A few days ago an old 
 classmate, upon whom the world had not smiled, 
 came to my office to prove some debts before me in 
 bankruptcy. While writing the formal parts of the 
 paper I inquired about his reading and the books 
 which interested him now (I believe that he has been 
 a great reader). He said that he read very little ; 
 that he hardly found anything that was written from 
 
84 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the heart and was really true. ' Have you read. Long- 
 fellow' 9 "Hyperion"?' I said. 'Yes,' he replied, 
 'and I admire it very much. I think it is a very 
 great book.' He then added, in a very solemn man- 
 ner : 'I think I may say that Longfellow's "Psalm 
 of Life " saved me from suicide. I first found it on 
 a scrap of newspaper, in the hands of two Irishwo- 
 men, soiled and worn, and I was at once touched, by 
 it.' Think, my dear friend, of this soul into which 
 you have poured the waters of life. Such a tribute 
 is higher than the words of Rogers, much as I value 
 them." 
 
 Two brief extracts from Sumner's letters shall con- 
 clude what I have to say about Longfellow's life at 
 Craigie House at this time. He is writing to Mr. 
 John Jay, of New York, from Boston, on May 25, 
 1843: "If you and Mrs. Jay should visit Boston— 
 perhaps Nahant may be an attraction in the heats of 
 summer — ^we all count upon renewing our acquain- 
 tance with you. You will probably find Longfellow 
 a married man, for he is now engaged to Miss Fanny 
 Appleton — the Mary Ashburton of 'Hyperion' — a 
 lady of the greatest sweetness, imagination, and ele- 
 vation of character, with the most striking personal 
 charms." About two months later he writes to 
 Dr. Lieber : " Longfellow is to be happy for a 
 fortnight in the shades of Cambridge, then to visit 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 85 
 
 his wife's friends in Berkshire, then his own. I 
 am all alone — alone. My friends fall away from 
 me." 
 
 The extravagance of Mr. Sumner's opinion of Mr. 
 Longfellow's poetry leads me to observe that I have 
 wandered too far away from it ; so, without more 
 ado, I will go back to where I was when I began to 
 track him through this labyrinth of reminiscence. 
 His first literary labors in Craigie House, as nearly as 
 I can make out, were a paper on "Frithiofs Saga," 
 and another on his friend Hawthorne's "Twice-told 
 Tales," both of which were published in the North 
 American in 1837. It is to his honor as well as 
 his sagacity that he was among the earliest to dis- 
 cover and proclaim the excellence of Hawthorne's 
 imaginative stories and essays. These papers were 
 followed during the next year by one upon ' ' Anglo- 
 Saxon Literature," and a second upon "Paris in the 
 Seventeenth Century." If they are pleasant reading 
 for leisure moments after the lapse of forty years — 
 and they certainly are — they were much better read- 
 ing when the dew and the bloom were upon them. 
 For, without boasting in regard to our familiarity 
 with other literatures than our own, there can be no 
 manner of doubt that our ancestors knew much less 
 about them than we do ; there can also be no manner 
 of doubt that our earliest knowledge of German lite- 
 
86 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 rature is largely due to the writings of Professor Long- 
 fellow. The first Englishman to transplant the wild 
 flowers and wUder weeds of the German garden into 
 the parterres of England was the Mr. Benjamin 
 Thompson who translated "The Stranger" of Kotze- 
 bue — ^that lugubrious, sentimental melodrama which 
 drenched with hot tears the handkerchiefs of our 
 grandmothers (possibly our own, likewise, in the 
 green and salad days), which Sheridan declared that 
 he had written every word of, and in which the Foth- 
 eringay was so magnificent, as poor Pendennis found 
 to his cost. Mr. Thompson was succeeded by Mr. 
 Coleridge, two years afterwards, with a spirited but 
 loose rendering of Schiller's " Wallenstein," and he 
 by Mr. Lewis with wonder-tales and other diablerie 
 for the closet and the stage and hysteria, whose read- 
 ing of "Faust" to Shelley resulted in that glorious 
 fragment of a translation of his, and indirectly re- 
 sulted in Byron's "Deformed Transformed." They 
 came in troops and battalions — forgotten translators 
 of indifferent German into bad English : Gillies, 
 De Quincey, and Carlyle, who represented scholarly 
 waste, opiates, and dyspeptic eccentricity. The glory 
 of first scattering a largesse of German fancy and 
 feeling in the New World belongs to Henry Wads- 
 worth Longfellow. The papers that I have enume- 
 rated were written, or finished, at Craigie House, as 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 87 
 
 well as a series of others descriptive of travel in Ger- 
 many and Switzerland, through, which, like a silken 
 string through a rosary of beads, ran a slight per- 
 sonal story, half real, half imaginative, and through- 
 out poetic. It concerned itself with the life-his- 
 tory of Paul Flemming, a tender-hearted, rather 
 shadowy young gentleman, who had lost the friend 
 of his youth and had gone abroad, that the sea 
 might be between him and the grave. "Alas! be- 
 tween him and his sorrow there could be no sea but 
 that of time." He loitered from place to place, not- 
 ing what hit his sensitive fancy, and prattling about 
 men and women and books — pUgrim, student, and 
 dreamer. The hand that had penned "Outre-Mer" 
 was visible in every word of "Hyperion," but the 
 hand had grown firmer in the Craigie House than it 
 was at Bowdoin, and the learned sympathies of the 
 penman had embraced the singularities of a richer 
 literature than that of old Spain and old France. 
 Dismissing the romantic element of "Hyperion" for 
 what it is worth (and {here must have been genuine 
 worth in it, since it was the cause of its immediate 
 popularity), the chief and permanent value of the 
 book lay in the new element of German fantasy and 
 romanticism which it poured into American letters. 
 It would have come in time, without doubt, but to 
 Professor Longfellow belongs the honor of having has- 
 
88 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 tened the time and ushered in the dawn. He was the 
 herald of German Poetry in the New World. The 
 second book of "Hyperion" contains, I believe, his 
 first published translations from the German — the 
 "Whither?" of MiiUer. The third book contains 
 "The Black Knight," "The Castle by the Sea," 
 "The Song of the Silent Land," and "Beware!" 
 Besides these translations in verse there is, in the 
 first book, a chapter on "Jean Paul, the Only One," 
 and in the second book a chapter on "Goethe," 
 whom Mr. Paul Flemming does not greatly admire. 
 His friend, the Baron, defends the old heathen by 
 saying that he is an artist and copies nature. ' ' So did 
 the artists who made the bronze lainps of Pompeii. 
 Would you hang one of those in your hall ? To say 
 that a man is an artist and copies nature is not 
 enough. There are two great schools of art>— the 
 imitative and the imaginative. The latter is the 
 more noble and the more enduring." 
 
 The dignity of the literary profession was earnestly 
 maintained by Mr. Longfellow. "I do not. see," 
 said the Baron, in one of his conversations with Paul 
 Flemming — ^"I do not see why a successful book is 
 not as great an event as a successful campaign, only 
 different in kind, and not easily compared." The 
 lives of literary men are melancholy pictures of 
 man's strength and weakness, and on that very ac- 
 
HENRY WADSivORTH LONGFELLOW. 89 
 
 count, he thought, were profitable for encourage- 
 ment, consolation, and warning. "And after all," 
 continued Flemming, "perhaps the greatest lesson 
 which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a 
 single word : Wait ! Every man must patiently bide 
 his time. He must wait. More particularly in lands 
 like my native land, where the pulse of life beats 
 with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the les- 
 son needful. Our national character wants the dig- 
 nity of repose. We seem to live in the midst of a 
 battle — there is such a din, such a hurrying to and 
 fro. In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult 
 to walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, 
 and rush with it onward. In the press of our life 
 it is difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and 
 tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors and 
 are swept out into the main. The voices of the Pre- 
 sent say, ' Come ! ' But the voices of the Past say, 
 ' Wait ! ' With calm and solemn footsteps the ris- 
 ing tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream, 
 and pushes back the hurrying waters. With no less 
 calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainty, does 
 a great mind bear up against public opinion and 
 push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should 
 every man wait — should bide his time. Not in list- 
 less idleness, not in useless pastime, not in queru- 
 lous dejection, but in constant, steady, cheerful en- 
 
90 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 deavors, always willing and fulfilling, and accom- 
 pUsMng his task, that, when the occasion comes, he 
 may be equal to the occasion. And if it never comes, 
 what matters it? What matters it to the world 
 whether I, or you, or another man did such a deed 
 or wrote sucli a book, so be it the deed and book 
 were well done % It is the part of an indiscreet and 
 troublesome ambition to care too much about fame, 
 about what the world says of us ; to be always look- 
 ing into the faces of others for approval ; to be al- 
 ways anxious for the effect of what we do and say ; 
 to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own 
 voices. If you look about you, you will see men 
 who are wearing life away in feverish anxiety of 
 fame, and the last we shall ever hear of them wiU 
 be the funeral bell that tolls them to their early 
 graves ! Unhappy men, and unsuccessful ! because 
 their purpose is, not to accomplish well their task, 
 but to clutch the 'trick and fantasy of fame' ; and 
 they go to their graves with purposes unaccom- 
 plished and wishes unfulfilled. Better for them, 
 and for the world in their example, had they known 
 how to wait ! Believe me, the talent of success is 
 nothing more than doing what you can do well, and 
 doing well whatever you do, without a thought of 
 fame. If it come at all, it will come becaiise it is 
 deserved, not because it is sought after. And, more- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 91 
 
 over, there will be no misgivings, no disappointment, 
 no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement." 
 
 If fame comes because it is deserved, which may- 
 or may not be true, assuredly it comes to some much 
 sooner than to others — much sooner to the Byrons 
 than the Wordsworths, the Longfellows than the 
 Hawthornes — why, their contemporaries and rivals 
 do not perceive as clearly as those who come after 
 them. Poor Mr. Poe could never understand why 
 Mr. Longfellow was a more successful writer than 
 he was. He might have discovered the reason, how- 
 ever, if he had looked for it, since it lay upon the 
 surface of the American character. Our ideals were 
 not lofty forty years ago, nor are they very lofty 
 now. But then, as now, we knew what we wanted 
 in song and art, and we thought we could distinguish 
 what was new from what was old. We knew what 
 to expect from our poets. Bryant was calm, medi- 
 tative, philosophic ; Willis, when not modishly 
 Scriptural, was light and airy ; Halleck, spirited and 
 martial ; Pierpont, occasional and moral — a few epi- 
 thets described them, and others who were not worthy 
 to rank with them. We recognized their excellence, 
 but it by no means exhausted our admiration and 
 capacity for greater excellence. There was — there 
 always is — room for a new poet, though old poets, and 
 old critics, and old readers are generally slow to ad- 
 
92 BENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 mit the fact. There were fertile gardens which yield- 
 ed our elder singers no flowers — gardens in which no 
 seed of theirs had ever been sown, or, having been 
 sown, had refused to germinate. I scarcely know 
 how to describe the seed which Professor LongfeUow 
 began to scatter in "Hyperion" and " Voices of the 
 Night." Romanticism does not describe it, for there 
 is nothing romantic in "The Hymn to the Mght" ; 
 nor does morality describe it, except, perhaps, as it 
 bourgeoned in " A Psalm of Life." The lesson of the 
 last was the lesson of endurance, and patience, and 
 cheerfulness. It had been taught by other poets, 
 but not as this one taught it — not in verse that set 
 itself to music in the memory of thousands, and in 
 words that were pictures. The young man who wrote 
 "A Psalm of Life" possessed the art of saying 
 things, and a very rare art it is. Shakespeare possess- 
 ed it in a supreme degree, and Pope and Gray in a 
 greater measure than greater poets. Merciless critics 
 have pointed out flaws in the literary workmanship 
 of "A Psalm of Life," but its readers never saw 
 them, or, seeing them, never cared for them. They 
 found it a hopeful, helpful poem. "Footsteps of 
 Angels" is to me the most satisfactory of all these 
 nocturnal melodies. There is an indescribable ten- 
 derness in it, and the vision of the poet's dead wife 
 gliding into his chamber with noiseless footsteps, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 93 
 
 taking a vacant chair beside him, and laying her 
 hand in his, is very pathetic. "The Beleaguered 
 City" is a product of poetic artifice of which there 
 are but few examples in English poetry. It appears 
 to have been compounded after a recipe which called 
 for equal parts of outward fact and inward meaning. 
 Griven a material city, a river, a fog, and so on, the 
 poet sets his wits to work to discover what corre- 
 sponds, or can be made to correspond, with them 
 spiritually. If he is skilful he constructs an inge- 
 nious poem of doubtful intellectual value. "Mid- 
 night Mass for the Dying Year" is a medley of medi- 
 aeval suggestion and Shakespearean remembrance 
 which demands a large and imaginative appreciation. 
 The Shakespearean element seems to me out of place, 
 though it adds to its impressiveness and effect as a 
 whole. It is a medley, however, as I have said, and 
 it must be judged by its own fantastic laws. What- 
 ever faults disfigured "Voices of the Night" were 
 lost sight of, or forgiven, for the sake of the beauties, 
 and for the admirable poetic spirit which these beau- 
 ties displayed. Such substantially is what I wrote 
 four years ago, after re-reading the poems in ques- 
 tion, and after mature deliberation, and I cannot de- 
 part from it now. 
 
 The growing popularity of Mr. Longfellow was 
 hateful to the jealous spirit of Mr. Poe, who accused 
 
94 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 him of plagiarizing from Tennyson in Ms " Midnight 
 Mass for the Dying Year," and from himself in "The 
 Beleaguered City." He emphasized the last charge 
 in a note to the Reverend Rufus WUmot Griswold 
 under the date of March 22 (1841). Dr. Griswold 
 was about to publish his " Poets of America," and 
 Mr. Poe, who naturally desired to see himself among 
 them, sent him what he considered his best poems, 
 one or two of which he would be proud to see in his 
 book. "The one called 'The Haunted Palace' is 
 that of which I spoke in reference to Professor Long- 
 fellow's plagiarism. I first published the 'H. P.' in 
 Brooks's Museum, a monthly journal of Baltimore, 
 now dead. Afterwards I embodied it in a tale called 
 ' The House of Usher,' in Burton's Magazine. Here 
 it was, I supjjose, that Professor Longfellow saw it ; 
 for about six weeks afterwards there appeared in the 
 Southern Literary Messenger a poem by him called 
 ' The Beleaguered City,' which may be found in his 
 volume. The identity in title is striking, for by 
 ' The Haunted Palace ' I mean to imply a mind 
 haunted by phantoms — a disordered brain ; and by 
 ' The Beleaguered City ' Prof. L. means just the 
 same. But the whole tournure of the poem is based 
 upon mine, as you will see at once. Its allegorical 
 conduct, the style of its versification and expression 
 — all are mine." 1 have just re-read "The Haunted 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 95 
 
 Palace" and "The Beleaguered City," with a view 
 to substantiating or refuting Mr. Poe's charge of 
 plagiarism against Mr. Longfellow, and, for the life of 
 me, I can find nothing in it. It was either the delu- 
 sion of a disordered brain, such as they both cele- 
 brated, or it was the weak invention of an enemy. 
 There was a mountain in Macedon, and a mountain in 
 Wales, and Poe's was — Nascitur monfe ridiculus 
 mus. But the ingenious Mr. Poe was not alone in 
 depreciating Professor Longfellow ; for Miss Marga- 
 ret Fuller, as able, and honest, and conscientious a 
 gentlewoman as ever wielded the goose-quill in any 
 country, shared his heretical opinions, and promul- 
 gated her critical censure at a later period. Let me 
 give here the precis of this censure, as I find it in 
 her " Papers on Literature and Art," and as it proba- 
 bly appeared in the New York Tribune. My notes 
 are not so clear as I could wish, but I believe they 
 represent the words — they certainly do the thoughts 
 — of Miss Puller. I cannot be sure of the order of 
 their succession: "We must confess to a coolness 
 towards Mr. Longfellow in consequence of the ex- 
 aggerated praises that have been bestowed upon him. 
 When we see a person of moderate powers receive 
 honors which should be reserved for the highest, we 
 feel somewhat like assailing him, and taking from 
 him the crown which should be reserved for grander 
 
96 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 brows. And yet this is, perhaps, Tingenerous. It 
 may be that the management of publishers, the hy- 
 perbole of paid or nndiscriminating reviewers, or 
 some accidental cause which gives a temporary inte- 
 rest to productions beyond what they would perma- 
 nently command, have raised such an one to a place 
 as much above his wishes as his claims, and which he 
 would rejoice, with honorable modesty, to vacate at 
 the approach of a worthier. We the more readily 
 believe this of Mr. Longfellow, as one so sensible of 
 the beauties of other writers, and so largely indebted 
 to them, inust know his comparative rank better than 
 his readers have known it for him. So much adula- 
 tion is dangerous, for he is so lauded on all hands 
 that he is now able to collect his poems, which have 
 so vndely circulated in previous volumes, and been 
 paid for so handsomely by the handsomest annu- 
 als, and have them illustrated by the most distin- 
 guished of our younger artists, and has found a flat- 
 terer in that very artist." Miss Fuller strenuously 
 objected to the portrait, especially the eyes, which 
 had an expression thrown into them that the original 
 lacked, and which made the xest of the face look 
 more weak, suggesting the idea of a dandy Pindar. 
 " Such is not the case with Mr. Longfellow himself. 
 He is not a Pindar, though he is sometimes a dandy, 
 even in the clean and elegantly ornamented streets 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 97 
 
 and trim gardens of Ms verse. But lie is still a man 
 of cultured taste, delicate thougli not deep feeling, 
 and some, though not much, poetic force. Mr. Long- 
 fellow has been accused of plagiarism. We have 
 been surprised that any one should have been anx- 
 ious to fasten special charges of this sort upon him, 
 when we had supposed it so obvious that the greater 
 part of his mental stores were derived from the works 
 of others. He has no style of his own growing out 
 of his own experiences and observations of nature. 
 Nature, with him, whether human or external, is 
 always seen through the windows of literature. 
 There are in his poems sweet and tender passages 
 descriptive of his personal feelings, but very few 
 showing him as an observer, at first hand, of the 
 passions within or the landscape without." 
 
 But I will now leave Miss Fuller and Mr. Poe, of 
 whom, I dare say, the readers of this Medley have 
 had more than enough, and introduce them to a 
 pleasanter person than either, the gentleman of whom 
 I have already spoken — Mr. Samuel Ward. That Mr. 
 Ward is an able financier, and a very bright writer, 
 both in prose and verse, is no secret to those who 
 know him or have tracked the streams of his spark- 
 ling fancy along the meadows of light and fugitive 
 literature. The last writing of his that I have seen 
 is a charming paper entitled ' ' Days with Longf el- 
 
98 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 low," in the North American for May ; and as it 
 bears upon the literary as weU as personal history of 
 Mr. Longfellow, I intend to use a page or two of it 
 here. I begin with what he says after mentioning 
 the eminent New-Yorkers who were captivated by the 
 tender grace and the serions purpose of " The Psalm 
 of Life," the popularity of which is as great now as 
 it was forty -five years ago : "I hardly need say that 
 many of the matrons of our city and their young 
 daughters committed the lyrical treasure to memory, 
 and thus formed the nucleus of that expanding circle 
 of English humanity to which so many of Longfel- 
 low's future verses became household words. Our 
 correspondence, stimulated, on my part, by admi- 
 ration for this unsuspected genius of my friend, 
 became and continued for several years extremely 
 active. Sometimes I ventured to suggest a Ger- 
 man poem as worthy of being transferred to our 
 language, and, in several cases, a week or a fort- 
 night brought me fresh proof of the marveUons 
 adaptation of his mind and ear to perform what 
 I heard him call, many years after, ' translation, the 
 last infirmity of noble minds.' I was then reading 
 Uliland, and I remember my surprise and delight at 
 his version of the ' Luck of Edenhall ' and of the 
 ' Two Locks of Hair,' the latter, I believe, by Gustav 
 Pfizer. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 99 
 
 "About this time, during tlie years from 1838 to 
 1843, 1 made a practice of running on to Cambridge to 
 spend Sunday and Monday at the Craigie House, and 
 was always entertained by some new tender or heroic 
 lyric. Once I carried to him Tegner' s ' Children of 
 the Lord's Supper,' which had been given to me by 
 Baron Kordin, then Swedish minister at Washington. 
 PamUiar as he was with all the Scandinavian lan- 
 guages, he devoured this poem sUently, kept it, and, 
 when I returned a fortnight after, read me his lovely 
 version in the hexameter of the original. It seemed 
 to have been written at one gush, for he took the 
 manuscript from a closet, and I observed that it was 
 written in pencil, with few, if any, corrections. In 
 fact, like the occultists of the East, he seemed noise- 
 lessly to have projected his work straight from his 
 brain upon the paper. He was a noiseless craftsman, 
 and performed his work with a neatness and despatch 
 I have never seen equalled. He was method itself in 
 all his arrangements, and could lay his hand upon 
 the most minute note or manuscript, however long it 
 had lain hidden in its repository. 
 
 "I remember once his writing to me to come on 
 next Sunday, as he had something to show me and 
 to consult me about. I obeyed the call with alacrity, 
 and reached the house, as usual, in season for a tub 
 before breakfast. It was his habit, during the boiling 
 
lOO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of Ms coffee-kettle, to work, at a standing-desk, ■upon 
 a translation of Dante. So soon as tlie kettle hissed 
 lie folded Ms portfolio, not to resume that work until 
 the following morning. In this wise, by devoting ten 
 minutes a day during many years, the lovely work 
 grew, like a coral reef, to its completion. On the 
 morning of the day in question, however, that task 
 was relinquished, and, after breakfast, he told me that 
 he had recently written a poem which smiled to him, 
 but which his habitual counsellors and companions — 
 who, I presume, were Charles Sumner, C. C. Felton, 
 and George S. Hillard — had frowned upon as beneath 
 the plane of his previous lyrical performances. He 
 then proceeded to read me the ' Skeleton in Armor,' 
 which so stirred my blood that I took the manuscript 
 from his hands and read it to him, with more dramatic 
 force than his modesty had permitted him to display. 
 This may have been presumptuous on my part, but I 
 remember, when I came to the crescendo, 
 
 ' As with his wings aslant, 
 Sails the fierce cormorant, 
 Seeking some rocky haunt 
 
 With his prey laden ; 
 So toward the open main, 
 Beating to sea again 
 Through the wild hurricane. 
 Bore I the maiden,' 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. loi 
 
 lie sprang to his feet and embraced me. Tlie doubt- 
 ing Thomases were at a discount that morning. This 
 poem revealed to me his methods of work. After 
 the emotions of mutual satisfaction had subsided he 
 told me that he had carried the scheme in his head 
 ever since the previous summer, when, after having 
 visited, with a cavalcade of my brothers and sisters 
 — among whom was the present Mrs. Julia Ward 
 Howe — the skeleton in armor dug up at Taunton, 
 and then visible in a museum at Fall River — since 
 burned to the ground — he challenged my sister, ia 
 their home gallop over the Newport beaches, to make 
 a poem out of the rusty hauberk and grim bones they 
 had been inspecting. ' That,' said he, ' was nearly a 
 year ago, and the poem only flashed upon me last 
 week.' It wiU be remembered that the closing scene 
 is laid 
 
 ' In that tower 
 Which to this very hour 
 Is looking seaward.' 
 
 " And now comes a curious illustration of the mar- 
 ket value of poetry, past and present.. I proposed to 
 take the manuscript to New York and sell it for not 
 less than fifty dollars. On my return thither my first 
 visit was to the poet Halleck, at his desk in the dingy 
 counting-house of the primeval John Jacob Astor, in 
 
102 HENRY WADSWORTir LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Prince Street. We had often talked about Longfel- 
 low, and Halleck felt and displayed a lively apprecia- 
 tion of his genius, wMcli he denied to the English 
 laureate, whom we all venerate. The old poet was 
 delighted with this new effusion of his younger lyri- 
 cal brother, and, knowing the value of his opinion in 
 the eyes of our literati, I asked him to express his 
 admiration in a few brief words at the foot of the 
 manuscript. If I remember rightly the inscription 
 ran : ' I unhesitatingly pronounce the above to be, 
 in my opinion. Professor Longfellow's finest effort.' 
 This was duly signed, and I rushed down to Lewis 
 Gaylord Clarke, of the KnickerhocJcer Magazine, 
 who stood aghast when I announced the price of this 
 poem, he having only paid twenty -five dollars for 
 its predecessors. The intrinsic beauty of the lyric, 
 which by this time I had learned to read with tole- 
 rable effect, overcame a reluctance to which his pov- 
 erty, not his will, consented, and I had pride and 
 pleasure in remitting the fifty dollars to Cambridge 
 that evening." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's character as a poet was determin- 
 ed by his next volume, "Ballads and Other Poems," 
 which was more mature and more robust than 
 "Voices of the Night," and which made his readers 
 feel sure that he felt sure of himself. "The Skele- 
 ton in Armor" was the most vigorous poem that he 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 103 
 
 had yet written— a strong conception embodied in 
 terse, picturesque, sweeping words, and in a measure 
 which had not been used, so far as I remember, for 
 more than two centuries — the magnificent measure 
 of old Michael Drayton's "Ballad of Agincourt." 
 I do not see where a line, a phrase even, could be 
 spared or improved. It is as compact, as imperish- 
 able, as adamant. Two new elements not previously 
 noticed cropped out in this collection of Mr. Long- 
 fellow' s song. One was the power of beautifying com- 
 mon things, the clothing of the palpable and familiar 
 with golden, exhalations of the dawn ; the other was 
 the oft-renewed and always dangerous experiment 
 of hexameter verse. What I mean by beautifying 
 common things is the making a village blacksmith a 
 subject, and an appropriate subject, for poetry. Mr. 
 Longfellow has done this, I do not know how, and 
 has, likewise, drawn a lesson, for which I care no- 
 thing. More purely poetical, more gracious and spiri- 
 tual, than this paradoxical "ViUage Blacksmith" are 
 "Endymion" and "Maidenhood," the spirit of the 
 last being as refined as the budding nature which it 
 describes with such exquisite purity and tenderness. 
 "Very different from these are "It is not always 
 May," "The Eainy Day," and "God's Acre," each 
 perfect of its kind, and, until one has mastered the 
 art of each kind, of diflicult accomplishment. "The 
 
104 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Rainy Day," for example, is in the manner of "The 
 Beleaguered City" — a bad manner, which for once has 
 produced a good poem. "To the River Charles" is 
 a glimpse of Professor Longfellow's early Cambridge 
 life, and the art of it is perfect. By far the most 
 popular piece here, "Excelsior," has more moral 
 than poetical value. The conception of a young man 
 carrying a banner up a mountain suggests a set scene 
 in a drama or opera, and the end of this imaginary 
 stripling does not affect us as it should — does not 
 affect me at all — his attempt to excel being so fool- 
 hardy. That he would — that he must — be frozen to 
 death was a foregone conclusion. 
 
 The most important of all the translations in Mr. 
 Longfellow's second collection was "The Children of 
 the Lord's Supper," from the Swedish of Tegner. It 
 revived, as I have intimated, the attempt to natural- 
 ize the hexameter in English verse— an attempt which 
 he had made four years before in his paper on 
 "Frithiof's Saga," where he translated into this 
 measure the description of Frithiof ' s ancestral estate 
 at Framnas. As I have something to say about the 
 hexameter and its vicissitudes, I must carry my read- 
 ers back for a moment to the latter half of the six- 
 teenth century, when the poetic mind of Elizabeth's 
 England was clamoring for a new departure in mea- 
 sure. It originated simultaneously, or nearly so, in 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 105 
 
 the half -addled brains of a number of pedantic poet- 
 asters, among whom was Gabriel Harvey, who pro- 
 jected what was called the " English reformed versi- 
 fying," and what, if it had been successful, would 
 have reformed versifying out of England, and caused 
 "a general surceasing of rhyme." This project was 
 taken up by a coterie who were for abolishing rhyme 
 altogether and introducing in its stead the Latin sys- 
 tem of quantity. They amused themselves, and pro- 
 bably bored each other, by writing hexameters, penta- 
 meters, Sapphics, and what not, and Spenser, who 
 was drawn into the foolish scheme, worked away for 
 a twelvemonth (as Professor Child tells us) at hexa- 
 meters and iambic trimeters quite seriously, going so 
 far as to write an " Epithalamion Thamesis " in quan- 
 titative metre, which, happily for his reputation, never 
 saw the light. One of the first to take this infection 
 was Master Abraham Fraunce, concerning whom and 
 his performances Mr. Edward PhilUps, in his " Thea- 
 trum Poetarum" (1675); Mr. William Winstanley, 
 in "The Lives of the Most Famous English "Poets" 
 (1687) ; and Mr. Grerard Langbaine, in "An Account of 
 thq English Dramatick Poets" (1691), free their criti- 
 cal minds according to the crabbed fashion of their 
 period. Mister Ritson — as he insisted upon desig- 
 nating himself — enumerates, in his " Bibliographia 
 Poetica," six of Master Fraunce' s titles between 1588 
 
lo6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and 1592, one being " The Lamentations of Amintas 
 for the Death of Phillis" ; another, "The Countess of 
 Pembroke's Emanuel" ; and a third, "Lawyer's Lo- 
 gic"! It shook — this folly — the fealty to rhyme 
 of Spenser, Sidney, Dyer, and other lesser lumina- 
 ries in the heaven of English song. It did not shake 
 the fealty of Thomas Nash, a savage young satirist, 
 who immediately declared war upon Harvey, a rope- 
 maker's son, and upon the hexameter, whom he ad- 
 mitted to be a gentleman of an ancient house (dating 
 back, he might have added, to the ringing plains of 
 windy Troy), but who, he conceived, was not at home 
 in the English language, which was too craggy for 
 him to run his long plough in — a censure in which 
 he was anticipated by good old Roger Ascham, who 
 declared (in substance) that the just-mentioned long 
 plough trotted and hobbled rather than ran smoothly 
 therein. After this time and this squabble the un- 
 fortunate hexameter 
 
 " Sank like the day-star in the ocean's had " 
 
 for about two and a quarter centuries, when he 
 popped up his head again in Southey's "Vision of 
 Judgment"— a piece of obsequious profanity^and 
 brought down the bludgeon of Byron upon the heads 
 of poor Southey and George the Fourth. Such, so 
 far as I remember, is the history of this alien mea- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 107 
 
 sure in English poetry. Mr. Longfellow thonglit 
 well of it, as we have seen, and was justified in so 
 thinking from the excellence of his own practice in 
 hexameters. "The Children of the Lord's Supper" 
 is a charming poem, to which its antique setting is 
 very becoming. 
 
 Professor Longfellow made a third voyage to Eu- 
 rope shortly after publishing his " Ballads and Other 
 Poems," and spent the summer months on the Rhine. 
 The fruits.of this leisure were several poems, written 
 at sea, and expressing his detestation of the Pecu- 
 liar Institution. "Poems on Slavery" appeared in 
 1842, and were dedicated to WiUiam EUery Chan- 
 niug, who did not live to read the poem in which his 
 character and life-work were commemorated. The 
 dedication, which has the ring of Campbell's lyrics 
 contains a noble stanza : 
 
 " Well done ! Thy words are great and bold; 
 At times they seem to me 
 Like Luther's, in the days of old, 
 Half battles for the free." 
 
 " The Slave's Dream" is one of the few remember- 
 able poems in this volume. It is exceedingly pic- 
 turesque, and the movement of the stanzas is spirit- 
 ed and rapid. If it reminds me of anything it is of 
 Pringle's "Afar in the Desert," which, however, is 
 
io8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 very different, and much more carelessly written. 
 Even Poe admired "The Slave's Dream," particu- 
 larly, I believe, the third of the stanzas v^hich fol- 
 low : 
 
 ' ' Wide through the landscape of his dreams 
 
 The lordly Niger flowed ; 
 Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 
 
 Once more a king he strode ; 
 And heard the tinkling caravans 
 
 Descend the mountain-road. 
 
 " He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 
 
 Among her children stand; 
 They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 
 
 They held him by the hand ! — 
 A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 
 
 And fell into the sand. 
 
 " And then at furious speed he rode 
 Along the Niger's bank ; 
 His bridle-reins were golden chains, 
 
 And, with a martial clank. 
 At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 
 Smiting his stallion's flank. 
 
 " Before him, like a blood-red flag. 
 The bright flamingoes flew ; 
 From morn till night he followed their flight, 
 
 O'er plains whei-e the tamarind grew, 
 Till he saw the roofs of CafPre huts, 
 And the ocean rose to view. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 109 
 
 " At night he heard the lion roar, 
 And the hyena scream, 
 And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 
 
 Beside some hidden stream ; 
 And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 
 Through the triumph of his dream." 
 
 The fertility of Mr. Longfellow's mind and the 
 variety of his powers were manifested in his thirty- 
 sixth year, in his dramatic study, "The Spanish Stu- 
 dent," which was originally published in Oraham's 
 Magazine, then edited, I believe, by Dr. Griswold, 
 in whose possession I remember to have seen it about 
 thirty years ago. The personages in "The Spanish 
 Student" were the dusky antipodes of the swarthy 
 figures which preceded them. If we Judge — and we 
 ought to — this curious production by the intention of 
 its creator and the laws of its construction, it is 
 beautiful. It should be read without the least 
 thought of the stage, which may have been, but 
 should not have been, before the mental eye of the 
 author when he wrote it ; and, so read, it wUl be 
 found radiant with poetry. Not of a passionate or 
 profound kind — which it is not and should not be, 
 for the plot is in no sense a tragic one — but of a kind 
 that suggests the higher walks of serious poetic 
 comedy. The dramatis personcB are sketched with 
 sufficient distinctness — as distinctly, it seems to me, 
 
no HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 as those in the early comedies of Shakespeare — and 
 the conversation, which is as lively and bustling as 
 that of Biron and Rosaline, is suited to the speakers 
 and their station in Spanish life. The dancing-girl, 
 Preciosa, is a lovely creation of the poet's fancy. 
 The sweetest passage in "The Spanish Student," 
 which is in praise of woman, is put into the 
 mouth of the lover of this same dancing-girl, Vic- 
 torian : 
 
 " What I most prize in woman 
 Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
 The intellect is finite; but the affections 
 Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
 Compare me with the great men of the earth; 
 What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants ! 
 But if thou lovest — mark me ! I say lovest, 
 The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
 The world of the affections is thy world, 
 Not that of man's ambition. In that stUlness 
 Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
 Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
 Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
 Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature. 
 But burns as brightly in a gipsy, camp 
 As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? " 
 
 Another tender passage drops from the lips of the 
 same amorist : 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. iii 
 
 " I will forget her! AJl dear recollections 
 Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
 Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds ! 
 I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
 When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 
 A voice within her will repeat my name, 
 And she will say, ' He was indeed my friend ! ' 
 Oh ! would I were a soldier, not a scholar. 
 That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 
 The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, 
 The dia of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
 And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever 
 To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! " 
 
 The soul of Music breath.es out its impassioned 
 sweetness in the first Act : 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 Stars of the summer night! 
 
 Far in yon azure deeps, 
 Hide, hide your golden light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Moon of the summer night ! 
 
 Far down yon western steeps, 
 Sink, sink in sUver light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
112 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Wind of the summer night ! 
 
 Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
 Fold, fold thy pinions light 1 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Dreams of the summer night ! 
 
 Tell her her lover keeps 
 Watch ! while in slumbers light 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Of course Mr. Poe did not like " The Spanish Stu- 
 dent." How could he? "Its thesis is unoriginal, 
 its incidents are antique, its plot is no plot, its cha- 
 racters have no character — in short, it is little better 
 than a play upon words to style it ' A Play' at all." 
 Besides, it was pilfered — not so much from the Ex- 
 emplary Novels of Cervantes as from his own tragi- 
 comedy, "Politian" : 
 
 " His body is in Segovia, 
 His soul is in Madrid." 
 
 Two years after the appearance of this feeble 
 shadow of "Romeo and Juliet" we had bodies of 
 corporeal substance in "The Belfry of Bruges and 
 Other Poems." Traces of Professor Longfellow's 
 early manner as unsuccessfully put forth in "The 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 113 
 
 Beleaguered City" were triumphant in the prologue, 
 "Carillon," and in "The Arrow and the Song," 
 winged, far-flying, and, as many think, the most 
 perfect of all his smaller pieces. 
 
 THE AEROW AND THE SONG. 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
 For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flight. 
 
 I breathed a song into the air. 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
 For who has sight so keen and strong 
 That it can follow the fl.ight of song ? 
 
 Long, long afterward in an oak 
 I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 In the address " To a Child " and in " The Occulta- 
 tion of Orion" Mr. Longfellow reached a table-land 
 of imagination not before attained by his Muse. 
 "The Bridge" is a manifestation of his personality, 
 and of one phase of his genius that has never ceased 
 to charm the great body of his readers, whom it sup- 
 ports upon the broad bosom of the shining Charles, 
 as it supported aforetime the heavy figure of An- 
 drew Craigie, apothecary, and as it supported until 
 
114 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 lately the lithe and light figure of Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow. Hear him as he muses aloud : 
 
 ' ' How often, oh ! how often, 
 In the days that had gone by, 
 I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
 And gazed on that wave and sky 1 
 
 " How often, oh! how often, 
 
 I had wished that the ebbing tide 
 Would bear me away on its bosom 
 O'er the ocean wild and wide. 
 
 " For my heart was hot and restless, 
 And my life was full of care, 
 And the burden laid upon me 
 Seemed greater than I could bear. 
 
 " But now it has fallen from me, 
 It is buried in the sea ; 
 And only the sorrow of others 
 Throws its shadow over me. 
 
 " Yet whenever I cross the river 
 On its bridge with wooden piers, 
 Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
 Comes the thought of other years. 
 
 " And I think how many thousands 
 Of care-eucumbered men, 
 Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 
 Have crossed the bridge since then. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 115 
 
 " I see the long procession 
 Still passing to and fro, 
 The young heart hot and restless, 
 And the old subdued and slow ! 
 
 " And for ever and for ever. 
 As long as the river flows. 
 As long as the heart has passions, 
 As long as life has woes ; 
 
 " The moon and its broken reflection 
 
 And its shadows shall appear. 
 
 As the symbol of love in heaven, 
 
 And its wavering image here." 
 
 If the train of thonglit wMcli has been suggested 
 here is not new, it is because no train of thought that 
 embraces mankind ever is new. It is tender, pathet- 
 ic, natural, and that is enough. The lines to "The 
 Driving Cloud ' ' were Mr. Longfellow' s first valuable 
 contribution to our scanty store of aboriginal poetry 
 — the forerunner of an immortal production not yet 
 transmuted into limpid melody. Under the head of 
 "Songs" came eight poems, two of which were 
 moulded after a fashion that Mr. Longfellow had 
 now succeeded in making his own. I refer to "Sea- 
 Weed" and "The Arrow and the Song " —fantasies 
 wherethrough the doctrine of poetic correspondences 
 works out happily and victoriously its own excuse for 
 being. " The Belfry of Bruges" is a picturesque de- 
 
ii6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. , 
 
 scription of that quaint old city as beheld from the 
 tower of the belfry in the market-place one morning 
 in summer, accompanied by an imaginative remem- 
 brance of its past history, which passes before the 
 kindling eye of the poet like a court masque or 
 pageant. Everything is clearly conceived and in 
 orderly succession, and in no poem that he had yet 
 written was the hand of the artist so firm. "Nu- 
 remberg," a companion-piece in the same measure, is 
 distinguished by the same precision of touch and the 
 same broad excellence. There is an indescribable 
 charm, a grace allied to melancholy, in "A Gleam of 
 Sunshine," which is one of the few poems that refuse 
 to be forgotten. "The Arsenal at Springfield" is 
 didactic, but I cannot perceive how it could be other- 
 wise than didactic and be a poem at all. A poet 
 should be a poet first, but he should also be a man, 
 and a man who concerns himself with the joys and 
 sorrows of his fellow-creatures. There was a great 
 lesson in the burnished arms at Springfield, and a 
 lesser poet than the Master of Craigie House would 
 either not have guessed it, or would have missed it : 
 
 " Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
 Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts. 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
 There were no need of arsenals or forts : 
 
HENR Y WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 117 
 
 " The warrior's name 'would be a name abhorred! 
 And every nation that should lift again 
 Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
 Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 
 
 " Down the dark future, through long generations, 
 The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 
 And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
 I hear once more the voice of Christ say, ' Peace ! ' 
 
 " Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals 
 
 The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 
 But beautiful as songs of the immortals 
 The holy melodies of love arise.'' 
 
 Nothing could be more unlike than " The Norman 
 Baron," a study of the mediaeval age, and " Rain in 
 Summer," a fresh, off-hand description of a summer 
 shower at Cambridge. My feeling about the last is 
 tliat it would have been better if it had been cast in 
 a regular stanza instead of its present form, which 
 strikes me as being a singular one, and that it is not 
 improved by the introduction, at the close, of a higher 
 element than that of simple description. The last 
 three sections are poetical and imaginative, but they 
 disturb, it seems to me, the harmony and unity of 
 the poem. 
 
 Not many English- writing poets, good fathers as 
 most of them were and are, have addressed poems to 
 their children. Rare old Ben Jonson wrote twelve 
 
Ii8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 mournful lines about Ms first daughter, Mary, wlio 
 died in infancy : 
 
 " At six months' end she parted hence, 
 With safety of her innocence." ' 
 
 Shakespeare bewailed in "King John" the loss of 
 his little son Hamnet. Coleridge sang a touching 
 cradle-song over his' poor boy Hartley in "Frost at 
 Midnight"; Shelley wept bitter tears at the death 
 of his son William ; Barry Cornwall celebrated the 
 birth of his lovely daughter Adelaide in a delight- 
 ful sonnet ; and Leigh Hunt, most melodious of aU, 
 rollicked about two of his children in two character- 
 istic ditties, the most natural of which he inscribed 
 to his son John in ' 'A Nursery Song for a Four- Year- 
 Old Romp." These are some of the best-known Eng- 
 lish poets who have been inspired by children. Pro- 
 fessor Longfellow distanced all but Shakespeare, and 
 apparently without an effort, in his lines ' ' To my 
 Child." We have in it the first glimpse of the poet's 
 house, and of the Washington chamber in which 
 he wrote so many of his poems, and which had now 
 become his daughter' s nursery : 
 
 " With what a look of proud command 
 Thou shakest in thy little hand 
 The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
 Making a merry tune ! 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 119 
 
 Thousands of years in Indian seas 
 
 That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
 
 Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
 
 Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 
 
 Those silver bells 
 
 Reposed of yore, 
 
 As shapeless ore, 
 
 Far down in the deep-sunken wells 
 
 Of darksome mines, 
 
 In some obscure and sunless place. 
 
 Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 
 
 Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 
 
 And thus for thee, O little child. 
 
 Through many a danger and escape. 
 
 The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 
 
 For thee in foreign lands remote. 
 
 Beneath a burning, tropic clime. 
 
 The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 
 
 Himself as swift and wild. 
 
 In falling, clutched the frail arbute. 
 
 The fibres of whose shallow root, 
 
 Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 
 
 The silver veins beneath it laid. 
 
 The buried treasures of the miser, Time." 
 
 He turns from tlie child to the memory of the great 
 Man whose feet once trod so heavily where hers glide 
 so lightly : 
 
 " Through these once solitary halls 
 Thy pattering footstep falls. 
 
HENR Y WADS WOR TH LONGFELLO W. 
 
 The sound of thy merry voice 
 
 Makes the old walls 
 
 Jubilant, and they rejoice 
 
 With the joy of thy young heart, 
 
 O'er the light of whose gladness 
 
 No shadows of sadness ' 
 
 From the sombre background of memory start. 
 
 " Once, ah! once, within these walls, 
 One whom memory oft recalls. 
 The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
 And yonder meadows broad and damp 
 The fires of the besieging camp 
 Encircled with a burning belt. 
 Up and down these echoing stairs. 
 Heavy with the weight of cares, 
 Sounded his majestic tread ; 
 Yes, within this veiy room 
 Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
 Weary both in heart and head. 
 But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 
 Out, out! into the open air: 
 Thy only dream is liberty, 
 Thou carest little how or where. 
 I see thee eager at thy play. 
 Now shouting to the apples on the tree. 
 With cheeks as round and red as they ; 
 And now among the yellow stalks. 
 Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 
 As restless as the bee. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Along the garden walks 
 
 The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 
 
 And see at every turn how they efface 
 
 Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 
 
 That rise like golden domes 
 
 Above the cavernous and secret homes 
 
 Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 
 
 Ah ! cruel little Tamerlane, 
 
 Who, with thy dreadful reign, 
 
 Dost persecute and overwhelm 
 
 These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 
 
 " What! tired already! with those suppliant looks. 
 And voice more beautiful than a poet's books. 
 Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. 
 Thou comest back to parley with repose I 
 This rustic seat in the old apple-tree. 
 With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
 Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues. 
 And shining with the argent light of dews. 
 Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
 Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest. 
 From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 
 By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 
 Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
 A sailless vessel drops adown the stream. 
 And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
 Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 
 
 " O child! O new-born denizen 
 Of life's great city ! on thy head 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The glory of the morn is shed, 
 
 Like a celestial benison ! 
 
 Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
 
 And with thy little hand 
 
 Thou openest the mysterious gate 
 
 Into the future's undiscovered land. 
 
 I see its valves expand, 
 
 As at the touch of Fate ! 
 
 Into those realms of love and hate, 
 
 Into that darkness blank and drear. 
 
 By some prophetic feeling taught, 
 
 I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 
 
 Freighted with hope and fear ; 
 
 As upon subterranean streams. 
 
 In caverns unexplored and dark. 
 
 Men sometimes launch a fragile bark. 
 
 Laden with flickering fire, 
 
 And watch its swift-receding beams. 
 
 Until at length they disappear, 
 
 And in the distant dark expire. 
 
 ' By what astrology of fear or hope 
 Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 
 Like the new moon thy life appears ; 
 A little strip of silver light, 
 And widening outward into night 
 The shadowy disk of future years ; 
 And yet upon its outer rim 
 A luminous circle, faint and dim, 
 And scarcely visible to us here. 
 Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 123 
 
 A, prophecy and intimation, 
 A pale and feeble adumbration, 
 , Of the great world of light that lies 
 Behind all human destinies. 
 
 " Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
 Should be to wet the dusty soil 
 With the hot tears and sweat of toU, 
 To struggle with imperious thought 
 Until the overburdened brain, 
 Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
 Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
 Only its motion, not its power — 
 Eemember, in that perilous hour, 
 When most afflicted and oppressed. 
 From labor there shall come forth rest." 
 
 "The Day is Done" belongs to a class of poems 
 that depend for their success upon the human ele- 
 ment which they suggest or contain, and to which 
 they appeal. "The Old Clock on the Stairs" is an 
 illustration of what I would convey, and as good a 
 one as any with which I am acquainted in the writ- 
 ings of contemporary poets. The humanities, never 
 long absent from Craigie House, were present in the 
 ticking of the old clock on the stairs, and were chant- 
 ing a lusty stave as they turned the yellow leaves of 
 the old Danish song-book. What is it that they are 
 troUing out in the haunted shadows of the poet's 
 library ? 
 
124 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 "Thou art stained with wine 
 Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
 As the leaves with the libations 
 Of Olympus. 
 
 " Yet dost thou recall 
 Days departed, half forgotten. 
 When in dreamy youth I wandered 
 By the Baltic, 
 
 "When I paused to hear 
 The old ballad of King Christian 
 Shouted from suburban taverns 
 In the twilight. 
 
 "Thou recallest bards 
 Who, in solitary chambers, 
 And with hearts by passion wasted, 
 Wrote thy pages. 
 
 "Thou recallest homes 
 Where thy songs of love and friendship 
 Made the gloomy Northern winter 
 Bright as summer. 
 
 " Once some ancient Scald, 
 In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
 Chanted staves of these old ballads 
 To the Vikings. 
 
 " Once in Elsinore, 
 At the court of old King Hamlet, 
 Yorick and his boon companions 
 Sang these ditties. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 125 
 
 "Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
 Sang them in their smoky barracks : — 
 Suddenly the EngUsh cannon 
 Joined the chorus. 
 
 "Peasants in the field, 
 SaUors on the roaring ocean, 
 Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 
 All have sung them. 
 
 "Thoii hast been their friend; 
 They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
 Yet at least by one warm fireside 
 Art thou welcome. 
 
 ' ' And, as swallows build ^ 
 
 In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
 So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
 In my bosom — 
 
 "Quiet, close, and warm. 
 Sheltered from all molestation, 
 And recalling by their voices 
 Youth and travel." 
 
 This volume introduced Mr. Longfellow in a spe- 
 cies of composition in whicli we had not Mtherto 
 seen Mm, save in translations — the sonnet, of which 
 there were three specimens here, the best, perhaps, 
 being on "Dante." One feature of his poetry, and 
 mot the strongest, was the first which his imitators 
 
126 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 seized on, and sought to transfer to their own rhymes. 
 I allude to his habit of comparing one thing with an- 
 other thing— an outward fact with an inward experi- 
 ence, or mce versa. A few examples will illustrate 
 what I mean : 
 
 "Before Mm, like a blood-red flag. 
 The bright flamingoes flew." 
 
 "And it passed like a glorious roll of drums 
 Through the triumph of his dream." 
 
 "Through the closed blinds the golden sun 
 Poured in a dusky beam, 
 Like the celestial ladder seen 
 By Jacob in his dream." 
 
 " And the night shall be filled with music, 
 And the cares that infest the day 
 Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away." 
 
 It was Mr. Longfellow's fancy, not his imagination, 
 which commended his verse to poetasters of both 
 sexes throughout the world of English readers, and 
 what was excellent in him — and is excellent in itself, 
 when restrained within due bounds— became absurd 
 in them, it was carried to such excesses. Mr. Thomas 
 Buchanan Kead was prodigal of comjoarisons. A de- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 127 
 
 serted road, for instance, sweeps in Ms verse towards 
 the crowded market, 
 
 ' Like a stream without a sail." 
 
 He muses beside this wonderful old road until he 
 opines that he 
 
 " Sees the years descend and vanish 
 Like the tented wains and teams." 
 
 He is singing about a summer shower, and, with a cer- 
 tain sort of picturesqueness which is marred by in- 
 congruous fancies, he sees the silvery rain, in the first 
 stanza, 
 
 "Like a long line of spears, brightly burnished and tall." 
 
 In the second stanza it is "like cavalry fleet," and 
 the wild birds listening to the raindrops are "like 
 a musical school," while the rain breaks the face of 
 the spring "like pebbles." Another example, and I 
 have done with Mr. Read's minstrelsy : 
 
 "The shadow of the midnight hours 
 Falls like a mantle round my form ; 
 And all the stars, like autumn flowers, 
 Are banished by the whirling storm." 
 
 AU our minor singers imitated Mr. LongfeUow, as 
 the minor singers of an earlier period imitated Mr, 
 
128 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Bryant, and the result was a curious medley of crude 
 thought and far-fetched imagery. It was the experi- 
 ence of Mr. Tennyson anticipated, as he has told us 
 in "The Flower" : 
 
 " Read my little fable : 
 He that runs may read. 
 Most can raise the flowers now, 
 For all have got the seed." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's next venture was the gift of his 
 admiring but careless friend Hawthorne. The cir- 
 cumstance that led to-this profuse generosity is stat- 
 ed briefly in the first volume of his " American Note- 
 Books," in a congeries of memoranda written be- 
 tween October 24, 1838, and January 4, 1839. Yoila: 
 
 "H. L. C heard from a French-Canadian a story 
 
 of a young couple in Acadie. On their marriage-day 
 all the men of the village were summoned to assem- 
 ble in the church to hear a proclamation. When as- 
 sembled they were all seized and shipped off to be 
 distributed through New England, among them the 
 new bridegroom. His bride set off in search of him, 
 wandered about New England all her lifetime, and at 
 last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom on 
 his death-bed. The shock was so great that it killed 
 her likewise." This forcible deportation of a whole 
 people occurred in 1755, when the French, to the ex- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 129 
 
 tent of eighteen thousand souls, were seized by the 
 English in the manner stated. History, which excuses 
 so much, has perhaps excused the act, but humanity 
 never can. It is as indefensible as the Inquisition. 
 
 "Evangeline" disputed the palm with " The Prin- 
 cess,'' which was published in the same year, 1847. 
 The two poems are so unlike, so divergent, that no 
 comparison can or should be instituted between them. 
 Each shows its writer at his best as a story-teller, 
 and if the mediaeval medley surpasses the modern 
 pastoral in richness of coloring — ^and I think it does 
 —it is surpassed in turn by the tender interest, the 
 pathetic feeling of its younger rival. Both poems 
 are curious as betraying the mental habits of their 
 authors — the never-satisfied taste of one, the easily 
 and permanently satisfied taste of the other. A great 
 many lines have been written in and out of "The 
 Princess" — the divine lyrics between the books have 
 all been written in — but ' ' Evangeline ' ' stands to-day, 
 I believe, as it was first printed. The English poet 
 always quarrelled with his work ; the American poet 
 never quarrelled with his work, nor with any human 
 being, if he could help it. The tautologies that Poe 
 noted in " The Spanish Student " are stiU there : 
 
 " Never did I behold thee so attired 
 And garmented in beauty as to-night " ; 
 
I30 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and, worse stillj this excess of lucidity : 
 
 " What we need 
 Is the celestial fire to change the fruit 
 Into transparent crystal, bright and clear I " 
 
 Or, more monstrous still, for a Latinist, the inappro- 
 priate adjective of this line in ' ' Sand of the Desert 
 in an Hour-Glass" : 
 
 " Its unimpeded sky." 
 
 But to return to "Evangeline," which I intended 
 to analyze, but shall not. It is what the critics had 
 been so long demanding and clamoring for — an Ame- 
 rican poem — and it is narrated with commendable 
 simplicity, and a fluency which is not so commendable. 
 Poetry, as poetiy merely, is kept in the background ; 
 the descriptions, even when they appear redundant, 
 are siibordinated to the main purpose of the poem, 
 out of which they rise naturally ; the characters, if 
 not clearly drawn, are distinctly indicated, and the 
 landscapes through which they move are perfectly cha- 
 racteristic of the New World. It is the French vil- 
 lage of Grrand-Pre which we behold ; it is the Colo- 
 nial Louisiana and the remote West — not the fairy- 
 land which Campbell (who might have known bet- 
 ter) imagined for himself when he sat down in his 
 study, with a bottle before him, to compose ' ' Gertrude 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 13 1 
 
 of Wyoming" — a non-existent Wyoming, with its 
 shepherd swains tending their flocks on green declivi- 
 ties, and skimming the lakes with light canoes, while 
 lovely maidens danced in brown forests to the masic 
 of the flageolet ! (Certes, Tarn, the bee was buzzin' 
 in your bonnet then.) Evangeline, loving, patient, 
 sorrowful maiden, has taken a permanent place 
 among the heroines of English song; but whether 
 the picturesque hexameters in which her story is 
 told will hereafter rank among the standard mea- 
 sures of the language can only be conjectured. Be- 
 fore I quit this vexed question of the adaptability of 
 the hexameter to English ears I will copy here the 
 substance of a review of Merivale's translation of 
 the "Iliad " into English rhymed verse, which I wrote 
 for the World over twelve years ago. I ran through 
 the early translators of Homer — Chapman, Ogilby, 
 Hobbes — and passed lightly over the good and bad 
 points of Pope, Covrper, Morrice, Wright, Sotheby, 
 Newman, Lord Derby, Blackie, all of which transla- 
 tions I then believed, from the data before me, had 
 proved failures. Blank verse and rhyme having 
 failed, what measure is there left for a translator of 
 Homer ? Newman hit upon -one, or, to speak more 
 reverently of that learned and accomplished man of 
 letters, reasoned out one which he convinced himself 
 was the great To Kalon. It resembles Chapman's, 
 
132 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 except tliat tlie lines do not rhyme, and that they end 
 with double-syllabled words. It ought to have the 
 flow of the ballad, one would think, and it ought to 
 have the freedom of blank verse ; but it has neither, 
 being, in brief, as uncouth and barbaric as the war- 
 song of a Pacific-islander. Newman' s failure brought 
 Matthew Arnold out against him, and brought out Ar- 
 nold' s own idea of the way in which Homer should be 
 translated, and the best — the only — measure in which 
 Homer should be done into English. He gave some of 
 the reasons why Chapman, Pope, Cowper, and New- 
 man did not succeed, and some of the reasons why 
 the coming translator ought to succeed, in hexame- 
 ters. They are plausible but not convincing, for the 
 reason which scholars like himself cannot or will not 
 see — that hexameters are foreign to the spirit of the 
 English language, and are, to all but scholars and 
 students in rhythm, difficult and tiresome reading. 
 They have been tried over and over again, and never 
 vdth success — never with success enough to make 
 them enjoyable to the mass of readers of English 
 poetry. We ought to like them, perhaps ; but we 
 do not, and cannot be made to. At any rate, we 
 have not been made to Uke them, in spite of Clough's 
 "Bothie of Tober-na-Yuolich," Longfellow's "Evan- 
 geline," Kingsley's "Andromeda," and the spirited 
 bits of Homer which Arnold himself has given us. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 133 
 
 Not to linger longer, however, on the generalities of 
 criticism, let me pick out a passage or two of Homer 
 as it has been rendered by some of the writers I 
 have named, and as it is rendered by Merivale, the 
 general drift of whose measure recalls that of the old 
 ballads, with variations such as have not been intro- 
 duced into any English version I am acquainted with, 
 which variations, when not original with Merivale, 
 are apparently derived from his studies of our irregu- 
 lar baUadists and metrists. 
 
 One of the most famous passages in the "Iliad" 
 is the conclusion of the eighth book — the descrip- 
 tion of moonlight, and the comparison of the 
 Grecian watch-fires to the stars. I will begin with 
 Pope: 
 
 " As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night I 
 O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumbered gUd the glowing pole, 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower lustre shed, 
 And tip with silver every mountain's head ; 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
 Eye the blue vault and bless the useful light. 
 
1 34 HENR V WADS WOJi TH LONGFELLO W. 
 
 So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, 
 
 And lighten glimmering Xanthus with, their rays ; 
 
 The long reflections of the distant fires 
 
 Gleam on the walls and tremble on the spires. 
 
 A thousand pdes the dusky horrors gild, 
 
 And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field. 
 
 Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, 
 
 Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send; 
 
 Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of com, 
 
 And ardent warriors wait the rising morn." 
 
 This florid and ornate passage was mnch extolled 
 by Pope's contemporaries, and justly enough, accord- 
 ing to their false poetic standard ; but judged by the 
 higher standard of to-day— higher, that is, in regard 
 to poetry in general, and the poetry of Homer in par- 
 ticular—it would not be easy to find anything more 
 radically bad as poetry, and more unfaithful to the 
 sense and manner of Homer. Nothing can be worse 
 than the feeble Latinity of "refulgent lamp erf 
 night," and nothing more prosaic than "rocks in 
 prospect rise," "conscious swains," "ardent war- 
 riors," etc. There is nothing in Homer about gilding 
 the pole ; nothing about the reflections of the fires 
 gleaming on walls and trembling on spires ; nothing, 
 in a word, that justifies the mincing elegance of Pope. 
 What Homer did say in the passage so emasculated 
 may be got at through Buckley's prose version of the 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 135 
 
 " Iliad," wkere its substance remains intact, though 
 lacking, of course, the rich, poetic, old-world atmos- 
 phere of the original : 
 
 " As when in heaven the stars appear very conspic- 
 uous around the lucid moon, when the ether is wont 
 to be without a breeze, and all the pointed rocks and 
 lofty summits and groves appear ; but in heaven the 
 immense ether is disclosed, and all the stars are seen, 
 and the shepherd rejoices in his soul. Thus did 
 many fires of the Trojans kindling then appear before 
 nium between the ships and the stream of Xanthus. 
 A thousand fires blazed with flame, and by each sat 
 fifty men at the light of the blazing fire. But their 
 steeds, eating white barley and oats, standing by the 
 chariots, awaited beautiful- throned Aurora." 
 
 Cowper's version is better than Pope's, but weak- 
 ened by Latinity, and one or two feeble Miltonic in- 
 versions. The last two lines are flat enough : 
 
 " As when around the clear bright moon the stars 
 Shme in full splendor, and the winds are hushed. 
 The groves, the mountain-tops, the headlong heights 
 Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks 
 The boundless blue, but ether opened wide 
 All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheered; 
 So numerous seemed those fires the bank between 
 Of Xanthus, blazing, and the fleet of Greece, 
 In prospect all of Troy— a thousand fires. 
 Each watched by fifty warriors seated near. 
 
136 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The steeds beside the chariots stood, their corn 
 Chewing, and waiting till the golden-throned 
 Aurora should restore the light of dty." 
 
 Lord Derby's version is somewhat better, and New- 
 man's not bad — for Newman, thougb Ms long lines 
 are weakened by such phrases as "bursteth" and 
 " seemeth," and the interpolation " I say." But let 
 us see how Merivale renders it : 
 
 " As when the stars in heaven burn round their sliining 
 
 queen 
 Brilliantly, and without a breath expands the broad serene; 
 And every cliff and valley stands out, and headlong height; 
 And breaks o'er all the firmament immeasurable light; 
 The stars all sparkle, and the swain's heart gladdens at the 
 
 sight : — 
 So many 'twixt the galleys and Xanthus' yellow stream, 
 Kindled in front of Ilium, the Trojan bale-fires gleam ; 
 In the plain bale-fires a thousand are burning, and by each 
 In firelight glow full fifty men their limbs reclining stretch; 
 And ranged beside their chariots, and munching pulse and 
 
 com. 
 Their steeds await the fair-pavilioned Goddess of the Morn." 
 
 If the old English ballad measure is not the best 
 one to render Homer in, it is, I think, better than 
 the heroic couplets of Pope and the blank verse of 
 Cowper. Its defect, in Merivale' s hands, is a ten- 
 dency to indulge in expansion of his original, and to 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 137 
 
 make it clearer, or, more strictly speakings to bring it 
 nearer home to us by allusions to modern customs, as 
 in the instance under consideration, by the use of the 
 word " bale-fires," which is perfectly in keeping in 
 our old ballads, but not quite in keeping in Homer. 
 But let us see what Arnold makes of this passage in 
 hexameters : 
 
 " So shone forth, in front of Troy, hy the bed of Xanthus, 
 Between that and the ships, the Trojans' numerous fires. 
 In the plain there were kindled a thousand fires : by each one 
 Tiere sat Bfty men in the ruddy light of the fires: 
 By their chariots stood the steeds, and champed the white 
 
 barley, 
 While their masters sat by the fire, and waited for Morning." 
 
 Arnold has written better hexameters than these, 
 as I shall show by and by ; so I will say nothing of 
 those just quoted, but pass on to another version of 
 this passage— the best that I have yet seen. It is by 
 one who possesses many qualities indispensable to 
 the future translator of Homer — Tennyson.: 
 
 " As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
 Look beautiful, when aU the winds are laid, 
 And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
 And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
 Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
 Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his heart: 
 
138 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 So many a fire between the ships and stream 
 Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
 A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
 Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
 And, champing golden grain, the horses stood 
 Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn." 
 
 Pope nowhere appears to more advantage tlian in 
 the interview between Hector and Andromache, es- 
 pecially where he describes the child's fright at the 
 helmet of his father. He exercised all his artistic in- 
 genuity in writing the passage below, as may be seen 
 by the fac-simile of a page of it, made from the 
 existing MS. of the rough draft in the British Mu- 
 seum, and to be found in some editions of DisraeU's 
 " Curiosities of Literature " : 
 
 " Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy 
 Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
 The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
 Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
 With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, 
 And Hector hasted to relieve his child : 
 The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, 
 And placed the beammg helmet on the ground, 
 Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, 
 Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer." 
 
 This is Pope at his best, I think, and very pretty 
 writing it is. Very different is the version of Chap- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 139 
 
 man, whose rough and careless lines remind one of 
 tlie vigorous sketches of the old masters : 
 
 " This said, he reached to take his son; who of his arms afraid, 
 
 And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so over- 
 laid, 
 
 Nodded so horribly, he dinged back to his nurse and cried. 
 
 Laughter affected his great sire, who doffed and laid aside 
 
 His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light; 
 
 Then took and kissed his loving son; and (balancing his 
 weight 
 
 In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he used, 
 
 And all the other bench of gods." 
 
 As I have quoted nothing yet from Newman, the 
 reader, if unacquainted with his Homer, may like to 
 see what he makes out of this pretty little bit of do- 
 mestic life, which is as fresh and natural to-day as it 
 was three thousand years ago : 
 
 " Thus saying, gallant Hector stretched his arms toward his 
 
 infant ; 
 But back into the bosom of the nurse with dapper girdle 
 The child recoiled with wailing, scared by his dear father's 
 
 aspect, 
 In terror dazzled to behold the brass and crest of horse-hair 
 Which, from the helmet's topmost ridge, terrific o'er him 
 
 nodded. 
 Then did his tender father laugh, and laughed his queenly 
 • mother. 
 
I40 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And gallant Hector instantly beneath his chin the helmet 
 Unfastened ; so upon the ground he laid it, all resplendent, 
 Then poised his little son aloft, and dandled him and kissed 
 
 him, 
 And raised a prayer to Jupiter and other gods immortal." 
 
 More to my taste than either of these renderings is 
 Merivale's, which contains a specimen of his varia- 
 tions of the common ballad measure in the short line 
 sandwiched into his first couplet, which rhymes, as 
 will be perceived, with the middle of the last line of 
 the couplet : 
 
 " This said, bright-crested Hector reached forth to take his child ; 
 
 The infant viewed him with affright, 
 
 And, shrilly screaming at the sight, in his nurse's arms re- 
 coiled. 
 
 Scared by the brazen armor, and the helmet's horse-hair 
 plume 
 
 Nodding above the lofty crest and waving all its gloom. 
 
 Smiled sire and reverend mother ; hut Hector from his head 
 
 The helmet loosed, and on the ground the shining trophy laid ; 
 
 Then kissed the child and tossed him, and to his bosom pressed. 
 
 And thus almighty Jove in prayer and all the gods addressed." 
 
 The passage immediately preceding this, in which 
 Hector replies to his wife, who has endeavored to 
 persuade him not to expose his life as he has done, 
 is pathetically rendered by Merivale, but not near 
 so finely as by Arnold, who still fails, however, to 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 141 
 
 make us admire Ms hexameters, grave and well sus- 
 tained as we cheerfully admit them to be : 
 
 " Woman, I too take" thought for this; but then I bethink mo 
 What the Trojan men and Trojan women might murmur, 
 If like a coward I skulked behind, apart from the battle. 
 Nor would my own heart let me — my heart, which has ."bid me 
 
 be valiant 
 Always, and always fighting among the first of the Trojans, 
 Busy for Priam's fame and my own, in spite of the future. 
 For that day will come, my soul is assured of its coming, 
 It will come, when sacred Troy shall go to destruction — 
 Troy, and warlike Priam too, and the people of Priam. 
 And yet not that grief, which then will be, of the Trojans 
 Moves me so much — not Hecuba's grief, nor Priam my father's. 
 Nor my brethren's, mainy and brave, who then will be lying 
 In the bloody dust under the feet of the foemen — 
 As thy grief, when, in tears, some brazen-coated Achaian 
 Shall transport thee away, and the day of thy freedom be ended. 
 Then, perhaps, thou shalt work at the loom of another, in 
 
 Argos, 
 Or bear pails to the well of Messeis, or Hypereia, 
 Sorely against thy will, by strong Necessity's order. 
 And some man may say, as he looks and sees thy tears falling : 
 See, the wife of Hector, that great pre-eminent captain 
 Of the horsemen of Troy, in the day they fought for their city. 
 So some man will say ; and then thy grief will redouble 
 At the want of a man like me, to save thee from bondage. 
 But let me be dead, and the earth be mounded above me, 
 Ere I hear thy cries, and thy captivity told of." 
 
142 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 There is a strong flavor of Homer here ; but if Lord 
 Derby and Merivale interpret the feeling of the 
 opening line correctly, the phrase "woman" is un- 
 necessarily harsh. Nor are we satisfied to have 
 Priam characterized by the epithet "warlike," when 
 the original makes him "armed with good ashen 
 spear,'.' which Newman translates "ashen-speared," 
 and Merivale "prince of the ashen spear." And 
 this, by the way, reminds me that Arnold follows 
 Pope in making the masters of the horses, and not 
 the horses themselves, watch for the morning. His 
 reason for the change is ingenious, but overstrained — 
 as much so, I think, as Buskin's comment on the 
 epithet "life-giving," which follows Helen's mention 
 of her brothers as alive, when they were in reality 
 dead. "The poet," says Euskin, "has to speak of 
 the earth in sadness ; but he will not let that sadness 
 change his thought of it. ISTo ; though Castor and 
 Pollux be dead, yet the earth is our mother still- 
 fruitful, life-giving." "This," Arnold remarks, and 
 I must apply the censure to him as well as to Euskin 
 — "this is just a specimen of that sort of application 
 of modern sentiment to the ancients against which a 
 student who wishes to feel the ancients truly cannot 
 too resolutely defend himself." 
 
 The passage just alluded to (it is in the third book 
 of the " Iliad ") has been very nobly translated by Dr. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 143 
 
 Hawtrey, late provost of Eton, and, as it is short, I 
 will give it here : 
 
 " Clearly the rest I behold of the dark-eyed sons of Achaia; 
 
 Known to me well are the faces of all ; their names I remem- 
 ber; 
 
 Two, two only remain, whom I see not among the com- 
 manders, 
 
 Kastor, fleet in the car; Polyduktus, brave with the cestus — 
 
 Own dear brethren of mine : one parent loved us as infants. 
 
 Are they not here, in the host, from the shores of loved Lake- 
 daimon, 
 
 Or, though they came with the rest in ships that bound 
 through the waters, 
 
 Dare they not enter the flght or stand in the Council of 
 Heroes, 
 
 All for fear of the shame and the taunts my crime has awa- 
 kened ? 
 
 So said she — they long since in Earth's soft arms were repos- 
 ing, 
 
 There, in their own dear land, their fatherland, Lakedaimon." 
 
 This is, perhaps, the best specimen of hexameters 
 in the language (it is certainly the best I have ever 
 seen), and I do not say that Homer, so rendered, 
 could not be read with considerable pleasure. But, 
 unfortunately. Homer has not been so rendered, and 
 cannot, I am persuaded, be so rendered throughout, 
 for reasons which exist in the very structure of our 
 
144 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 language, and wliicli will readily suggest themselves 
 to the students thereof. Let me see now what Meri- 
 vale makes of the passage in his fluent rhymes : 
 
 " ' And all the rest behold I, the Greeks with glancing eyes, 
 And well can I remember all their names and histories. 
 But two discern I cannot — two princes have I missed : 
 Castor, the quellerof the steed, and Pollux, stout of fist; 
 Two children of one mother, and brothers both to me. 
 What ! have they not with the others sailed from the land 
 
 beyond the sea ? 
 Or swam they in their galleys from Lacedaemon's shore, 
 But now, by keen reproaches stung. 
 And hate and scorn upon me flung, join they the flght no 
 
 more ? ' 
 So spake she; but those heroes there, on the Spartan 
 
 strand, 
 Already fruitful Earth confined in their dear native land." 
 
 From this long digression about what Lord Derby 
 called the "pestUent heresy" of the hexameter I 
 return to "Evangeline," which seemed likely at one 
 time to have a long line of followers, the first of 
 which, "The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich," was only 
 a year after it, and the second, "Andromeda," only 
 ten years more. Later experiments of this kind have 
 been made by Mr. E. C. Stedman in his translations 
 from Theocritus, Homer, and ^schylus ; by Mr. 
 Bayard Taylor in his "Home Pastorals"; by Mr. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 145 
 
 Arthur J. Munby in Ms "Dorotliy " (though, that, by 
 the way, is in pentameters) ; and by Mr. Paul Pastnor 
 in "Lora." If I dared to prophesy it would be that 
 the hexameter will never attain such currency in Eng- 
 lish as it has attained in German in Voss's Homer 
 and in Goethe's " Hermann und Dorothea," which is 
 the forerunner of all similar and later productions 
 in the same school, beginning with "Evangeline" 
 and ending at present with "Dorothy." 
 
 What impresses me most strongly while I read 
 Mr. Longfellow is the extent of his poetic sym- 
 pathy, and the ease with which he passes from one 
 class of subjects to another. His instinct is sure in 
 Ms choice of all his subjects, and his perception of 
 their poetic capacities never at fault. They translate 
 themselves readily into his language, and he clothes 
 them in their singing-robes when the spirit moves 
 him. 
 
 He was a very rapid writer, all things consider- 
 ed ; for, while literature in a certain sense was his 
 profession, the business of his life was to be Pro- 
 fessor of Languages and Belles-Letters at Harvard. 
 "Evangeline" was succeeded in 1845 by " The Poets 
 of Europe,'' a large and scholarly contribution to 
 English literature, of which Mr. Longfellow was the 
 editor, and which contained specimens of European 
 poets in ten different languages, representing the 
 
146- HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 labors of upwards of one hundred translators, includ- 
 ing himself. Four years later he published "Kav- 
 anagh," which had no plot to speak of, though its 
 sketches of character were bright and amusing, and 
 its glimpses of New England life enjoyable. "The 
 Seaside and the Fireside" came next (1850), then 
 "The Golden Legend" (1851), and then "The Song 
 of Hiawatha" (1855), all of which added to his re- 
 putation. There are twenty- three poems in " The 
 Seaside and the Fireside," no two of which are 
 alike, though all authenticate the cunning hand by 
 which they were wrought. The most important; 
 poem in the collection is "The Building of the 
 Ship." I may be singular in my opinion, but 
 my opinion nevertheless is that "The Building of 
 the Ship" is a better poem than "The Song of 
 the Bell." I think its theme is more adapted to 
 poetic treatment than Schiller's theme— partly, no 
 doubt, because it is more tangible to the imagina- 
 tion, and capable, therefore, of more definite presen- 
 tation before the eye of the mind ; but largely, I 
 suppose, because its associations are not attached to 
 so many memories as cluster about the ringing of a 
 bell. Its unity is in its self-concentration. 
 
 " The Golden Legend" carries us back to the Mid- 
 dle Ages, of which we had transitory gleams in the 
 earlier writings of Mr. Longfellow. The poetic 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 147 
 
 atmosphere of that remote period — lovelier to our 
 Grothic imaginations than the more distant past of 
 Greece and Rome — envelops a lovely story, which 
 turns, like the story of "Evangeline," upon the love 
 and devotion of woman, which here are happily re- 
 warded. The figure of the peasant girl Elsie, who 
 determines to sacrifice her life to restore her 
 prince to the sanity of happiness, is worthy of a 
 high place in any poet's dream of fair woman — aS' 
 high a place as that filled by Joan of Arc, 
 
 " Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
 Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, 
 Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
 Sweet as new buds in Spring." 
 
 The charm of the poem, apart from its poetry, is 
 the thorough and easy scholarship of the poet, who 
 contrives to conceal the evidences of his reading — an 
 art which few poets have possessed in an equal de- 
 gree, which Moore did not possess at all, but which 
 was masterly in Scott and eminent in Shakespeare. 
 If the opinion of an unlettered man is worth any- 
 thing — and it cannot be worth much — the miracle- 
 play of "The Nativity" is conceived in the very 
 spirit of those archaic entertainments which cleric 
 pens devised for the edification of the laity. So far 
 as I know, it had no prototype in modem English 
 
148 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 poetry, and has had no successor worthy of it, except 
 Mr. Swinburne's "Masque of Queen Bersabe." Mr. 
 Ruskin, whose opinions are often sound in spite of 
 the extravagance of his language, detects one phase 
 of the poem in the fourth volume of his " Mod- 
 ern Painters," and states it vsdth unusual brevity: 
 "Longfellow, in 'The Golden Legend,' has entered 
 more closely into the temper of the Monk, for good 
 and evil, than ever yet theological writer or historian, 
 though they may have given their life's labor to the 
 analysis." 
 
 Poets are distinguished from writers of verse not 
 only by superiority of genius but by superiority of 
 knowledge. The one has insight, the other outsight 
 merely. The versifier gropes about in search of po- 
 etical subjects, while the poet goes to them directly, 
 instinctively, and always finds them, often where 
 others had sought for them in vain. That there was, 
 or might be, a poetic element in the American Indian 
 several ambitious American poets had persuaded 
 themselves, and, so persuaded, had striven to quicken 
 their sluggish numbers with its creative energies. Ro- 
 bert C. Sands and James Wallis Eastburn wrote to- 
 gether the ponderous poem of ' ' Yamoy den ' ' ; Charles 
 Fenno Hoflfman v^rote "A Vigil of Faith" ; Seba 
 Smith, a "Powhatan" ; Alfred B. Street, a "Fron- 
 tenac " ; and others, I dare say, other aboriginal epics 
 
ffENHY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 149 
 
 whose names are forgotten. They were Tinanimous in 
 one thing — they failed to interest their readers. The 
 reason of this was not far to seek and find, we can see, 
 since success has been achieved, but it demanded a vis- 
 ion which was not theirs— the vision and the facul- 
 ty divine — and which, it seemed, only one American 
 poet had in its fulness. This man saw that the In- 
 dian himself, as he moves duskily through our his- 
 tory, was not in himself a poetic hero. But he also 
 saw that he had a poetic side to him, and that if it 
 existed anywhere it existed in his legends. That he 
 had many legends, and that they were remarkably 
 primitive, was well known. They were brought to 
 light by the late Mr. Henry Eowe Schoolcraft, who 
 heard of their existence among the Odjibwa !N"ation, 
 inhabiting the region about Lake Superior in 1822. 
 Specimens of these unique traditions were published 
 by him in his " Travels in the Central Portions of the 
 Mississippi Valley" (1825) and his "Narrative of 
 the Expedition to Itasca Lake " (1834); but they were 
 not given to the world in their entirety until 1839, 
 in his "Algic Researches." They were as good as 
 manuscript (as the bibliographers say) during the 
 next sixteen years, though one American poet had 
 mastered them thoroughly. This was Mr. Longfel- 
 low, who turned this Indian Edda, as he happily calls 
 it, into "The Song of Hiawatha." The immediate 
 
150 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and immense success of this poem, and the increase 
 of reputation which it hurried upon the writer, re- 
 called the early years of the present century, when 
 Scott and Byron were sure of thousands of readers, 
 and thousands of pounds, when it pleased them to 
 rattle ofE a metrical romance — a " Lady of the 
 Lake," a "Marmion," or a "Lara." "The Song of 
 Hiawatha ' ' was read by all classes, who at once 
 found themselves interested in the era of flint- 
 arrow heads, earthen pots, and skin clothes, and its 
 elemental inhabitants, who, dead centuries before, if 
 they ever existed, are now living the everlasting life: 
 of Poetry. It passed through many editions in the 
 United States, in England, and elsewhere in the Old 
 World in other languages. Its value as a contribu- 
 tion to mythology and ethnology was universally ad- 
 mitted, but the fitness of its form was questioned, as 
 all new forms are sure to be ; for the form was new to 
 most readers, though not to scholars in the literatures : 
 of northern Europe. Mr. Longfellow's unscholarly 
 admirers declared that it was original with him, No, 
 his enemies answered, he has borrowed it from the 
 Finnish epic, "The Kalevala." The quarrel, which 
 was a pretty one while it lasted, was stimulated by 
 critical paragraphists — ^who are never happy except 
 when they are hectoring each other — but nobody else 
 cared a button about it. The novel singularity of 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 151 
 
 the body of this Indian Edda led to innumerable 
 parodies, but . to nothing serious that I remember, 
 unless Doesticks is to be considered seriously ; this 
 circumstance I take to be a silent verdict against 
 its permanency — even against its adoption — in Eng- 
 lish versification. That the poetry of Professor Long- 
 fellow has changed much in the last twenty years I 
 do not perceive, except that it has grown graver and 
 more meditative in its purpose. Its technical excel- 
 lence has steadily increased, until what was once arti- 
 fice has become Art. Professor Longfellow has held 
 his own against all English-writing poets, and in 
 no walk of poetry so positively as in that of telling a 
 story. In an age of story-tellers he stands at their 
 head — Master of many scholars — not only in the nar- 
 rative poems that I have mentioned, but in the lesser 
 stories included in his "Tales of a Wayside Inn," to 
 which the literatures of the whole world have lavishly 
 contributed. He preceded by several years the au- 
 thor of "The Earthly Paradise" and artistic wall- 
 papers, who has no abiding sense of the value of 
 time, and not the shadow of a suspicion that there 
 may be too much of a good thing. I admire Mr. 
 Morris — no one more — but I would rather praise than 
 read his long narratives in verse. Which is but an- 
 other way of saying that I prefer short poems to long- 
 ones. About the only piece of criticism that Poe 
 
IS2 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ever wrote to wMch I can assent without quaMca- 
 tion is, that long poems are mistakes. A poem pro- 
 per should produce a unity of impression, which can 
 be obtained only within a reasonable time ; it should 
 never provoke the reader into closing the book. This 
 may be destructive criticism, but I am inclined to 
 think there is something in it, although it is disre- 
 spectful to the memory of MUton. A Poem should be 
 read at a single sitting. Any of Shakespeare's great 
 Tragedies can be read at a single sitting, but "Para- 
 dise Lost" cannot. There must go to the reading 
 of. that grandiose epic as many sittings as there are 
 books. One suflBices for "Comus" or "Samson Ago- 
 nistes." Any of Professor Longfellow's stories, long 
 or short, can be read without rising from the chair. 
 As he had always shown good taste, it was a fore- 
 gone conclusion that he would delight us with his 
 "Tales of a Wayside Inn.'' Every old tale there- 
 in was worth a new version, even " The Falcon of Sii? 
 Fedrigo," which young Barry Cornwall pursued 
 when Master Longfellow was at school. Mr. Long- 
 fellow's method of telling a story will compare favor- 
 ably with the method of any English story-telUng 
 poet from the days of Chaucer. His heroic couplets 
 are as facUe as those of Hunt and Keats, from whose 
 affectations and mannerisms he is free. They suggest 
 the heroics of no other poet, American or English, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 153 
 
 and, unlike some of Ms early verses, are without man- 
 nerism. They as surely attain a pure poetic style as 
 the prose of Hawthorne attains a pure prose style. 
 
 The most distinctive of Mr. Longfellow's poems are 
 probably those which he entitled "Birds of Pas- 
 sage," and prophetically, for they have flown into 
 many lands and into all hearts. What first impresses 
 me in reading them is the multifarious reading of 
 their writer, who appeared to have no favorite au- 
 thors, but to read for the delight that he took in read- 
 ing. He had the art of finding unwritten poems in the 
 most out-of-the-way books and in even every-day oc- 
 currences. When the Duke of Wellington died he 
 hymned his departure in " The Warden of the Cinque 
 Ports," which the populace preferred to the Lau- 
 reate's scholarly Ode. His good friend Hawthorne 
 went before him, and he embalmed his memory and 
 his unfinished romance in imperishable verse : 
 
 " I only hear above his place of rest 
 Their tender undertone, 
 The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 
 The voice so like his own. 
 
 " There in seclusion and remote from men 
 The wizard hand lies cold, 
 Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 
 And left the tale half told. 
 
IS4 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 
 And the lost clew regain? 
 The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 
 Unfinished must remain ! " 
 
 Charles Sumner died, Ms dear friend of many long 
 years, and ever his admirer, and he bewailed him as 
 tenderly and sadly as the young Manrique bewaUed 
 his father : 
 
 ' ' Were a star quenched on high, 
 For ages would its light, 
 Still travelling downward from the sky, 
 Shine on our mortal sight. 
 
 " So, when a great man dies. 
 For years beyond our ken 
 The light he leaves behind him lies 
 Upon the paths of men." 
 
 I have been looking over a few of Mr. Longfellow' s 
 notes to me, and have concluded to insert them here 
 in the order in which they were written, elucidating 
 them where I can : 
 
 " Camb., Jan. 8, 1878. 
 
 "Deae Me. Stoddaed: Please accept my thanks 
 for your kind letter, for the poems you send me 
 and those you refer to in Griswold. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 155 
 
 "I have not his 'Female Poets' at hand, but 
 shall lose no time in getting a copy and examining 
 the poems you mention. 
 
 "Your tribute to Lincoln is beautiful and very just. 
 I will keep it carefully out of sight till it appears in 
 the magazine. 
 
 "As to your estimate of Mrs. Stoddard's literary 
 abilities, I do not wonder at it. You do not rate 
 them a bit too high; and if her writings have not 
 found that swift recognition which they merit, I hope 
 it will not discourage her. Often the best things win 
 their way slowly, but are pretty sure of being found 
 out sooner or later. 
 
 " Some of your volumes I have. The rest I shall 
 find in the libraries, here or in Boston. I thank you 
 for pointing out the pieces that will be of use to me. 
 I have frequently been obliged to omit poems of me- 
 rit because I could not ascertain their localities. 
 
 "I was very glad to renew my acquaintance with 
 you at the pleasant Atlantic Dinner, and am, with 
 great regard, 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Hewrt W. Lokgfello-w." 
 
 " Oamb., Jan. 14, 1878. 
 
 "Dear Me. Stoddaed : The three handsome vol- 
 umes of Griswold have arrived safely, and I hasten to 
 thank you for your great kindness in sending them. 
 Though I have not yet had time to examine them 
 carefully, yet I have glanced at them here and there, 
 and see that they will be of much use to me. 
 
1S6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 "I wish I had possessed a copy of the 'Female 
 Poets ' sooner. I should not then have missed those 
 three striking poems by Mrs. Stoddard—' The Bull- 
 Fight,' 'El Capitano,' and 'On the Campagna,' 
 whose absence in 'Poems of Places' I much re- 
 gret. 
 
 "With renewed thanks for your careful kind- 
 ness, 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Heney W. Longfellow." 
 
 " Camb., April 28, 1878. 
 
 " Deae Me. Stoddaed : I am much obliged to you 
 for the ' Earlier Poems ' of Mrs. Browning, and for 
 your fine Ode, 'Hospes Civitatis,' which is strong 
 and beautiful. 
 
 " I am sorry that it comes to me too late for India ; 
 but it is in season for China and the Nile, and I am 
 very glad to have it. Those regions will be the richer 
 for it. Thanks. 
 
 " In great haste, 
 
 " Yours very truly,- 
 
 " Heney W. Longfellow." 
 
 The following note refers to a poem which I had 
 the honor of reading before the young gentlemen of 
 Harvard : 
 
 "Camb., June 30,1878. 
 
 " Deae Me. Stoddaed : I was very sorry and 
 much disappointed not' to see you and Mrs. Stod- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 157 
 
 dard when you were here last week. But it was 
 such a busy week that I could not go to town in 
 search of you, and probably should not have found 
 you if I had gone. 
 
 " I failed also to hear you deliver your poem. 
 Being delayed by visitors, and thinking the poem 
 would follow the oration, I arrived too late. 
 
 " The next best thing to hearing the poem is read- 
 ing it. Thanks for the opportunity of doing so thus 
 early. It is both vigorous and beautiful. The war- 
 like ages you have described with a tumult of verse 
 finely adapted, to the theme. 
 
 ' ' Fifty years ago, before the same society, Bryant 
 recited his poem, 'The Ages,' in Spenserian stanzas. 
 On the year of his death you take up the theme once 
 more, and paint an Historic Picture in the same 
 metre. Was it accident or design ? I know not ; but 
 whichever it was, the idea is very felicitous. I con- 
 gratulate you on your success. 
 
 " I was glad to see Mr. Gifford. He made some 
 capital sketches, with which I think you will be 
 pleased. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Hekby W. Lokgfellow." 
 
 " Camb., Sept, 8, 1878. 
 
 "Dear Me. Stoddaed : Your sketch is more than 
 satisfactory, and the frank and easy style in which it 
 is written adds to its attraction. 
 
 " I return it to the editor to-day, with one or two 
 corrections in the genealogy, etc. 
 
158 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Please correct also what you say of translations 
 of Homer in hexameters. I have two : one by Her- 
 schel, 1866, and another by Cochrane, 1867. Whe- 
 ther these preceded or followed Arnold' s suggestion 
 I cannot say, as I have not his book at hand. 
 
 " Please tell me by postal-card where Harley River 
 is. I wish to have it in ' Poems of Places,' but do not 
 find it in the Grazetteer. 
 
 " Yours, with many thanks, 
 
 " Henby W. Low&fellow. 
 
 "P.S. — One omission I notice. You say nothing 
 of my translation of the 'Divina Commedia,' pub- 
 lished in 1867, which perhaps it would be well to 
 notice, if only to correct an error in regard to its 
 composition. 
 
 "In the 'Life and Letters of Ticknor' (ii. 479) it 
 is stated that I was engaged upon it ' over five-and- 
 twenty years.' 
 
 " In Mr. Richardson's ' Primer of American Litera- 
 ture,' p. 55, the time is magnified into ' more than 
 thirty years.' 
 
 " The fact is, I was engaged upon it, as I find by 
 dates in the MS., just two years (Feb. 20, 1862-Feb. 
 4, 1864)." 
 
 I have omitted one note from its proper place, 
 but I shall publish it after the following hasty re- 
 view of Mr. Longfellow's "Keramos" in the Inde- 
 pendent of May 16, 1878, to which it refers, and 
 which I had entirely forgotten : 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 159 
 
 "About the beginning of the present century a 
 German poet, who had written well in many direc- 
 tions, reached the great audience of his countrymen 
 by a song — ^if it may be called such — which has been 
 popular ever since and in all lands. I allude to Schil- 
 ler and his ' Song of the Bell,' which has been the 
 model that other poets have kept before them when 
 writing upon similar themes. Mr. Longfellow, for 
 example, followed the shining trail of that divine 
 singer of labor in ' The Building of the Ship ' — a beau- 
 tiful craft which was launched upon the wide sea of 
 literature twenty-eight years ago. 
 
 "Mr. Thomas Buchanan Read, who began his ca- 
 reer as an imitator of Mr. Longfellow and ended as 
 an imitator of everybody, struck a more earthly key 
 in ' The Brickmaker ' ; and Mr. Samuel Ferguson, an 
 Irish poet, smote a lusty lyric in his ' Forging of the 
 Anchor.' Akin to these productions was ' The Bells ' 
 of Poe, the sound of whose verse in that marvellous 
 epical ditty echoes and re-echoes the sense, and con- 
 veys the exact impression that he intended. 
 
 "There must be something very attractive in this 
 class of subjects, or so practical a poet and so clear 
 a thinker as Mr. Longfellow would not have return- 
 ed to it, as he has just done in ' Keramos and Other 
 Poems.' He has excelled himself in the poem which 
 gives this volume its name, and, if any of the Eng- 
 lish versions of ' The Song of the Bell ' do it justice 
 (which is scarcely probable), he has at least equalled 
 Schiller. ' Keramos ' is a series of artistic concep- 
 tions, which are thoroughly and perfectly executed. 
 
i6o HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The work of the potter grows under his shaping 
 hands, while he sings a refrain which perpetually 
 changes and deepens, and which exhausts the inner 
 meaning of his handiwork : 
 
 " ' Where more is meant than meets the ear.' 
 
 " The poet is borne along on the wings of his sing- 
 ing until he reaches and passes the world's great pot- 
 tery places — Delft, Sainte.s (where he sees Palissy 
 burning his furniture to keep his furnace going), 
 and the studios of Gubbio, Xanto, Georgio, and 
 Lucca della Robbia. The treasures of Etruria are 
 restored : 
 
 ' ' ' Vases and urns, and bas-reliefs, 
 Memorials of forgotten griefs, 
 Or records of heroic deeds — 
 Of demigods and mighty chiefs.' 
 
 The swift wings of his genius transport him (the 
 potter working and singing meanwhile) to Egypt, 
 where he has on either bank of the Nile huge wa- 
 ter-wheels, 
 
 " ' Belted with jars and dripping weeds,' 
 
 and where he has visions of the old Egyptian deities 
 — Ammon, Osiris, and Isis — crowned and veiled. 
 
 " ' The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx; 
 Bracelets with blue enamelled links; 
 The Scarabee in emerald mailed, 
 Or spreadmg wide his funeral wings ; 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 161 
 
 Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept 
 
 O'er Cleopatra while she slept— 
 
 All plundered from the tombs of kings.' 
 
 .Bird-like he flies over the Ganges and over the 
 Himalaj'as to the Central Flowery Kingdom, where 
 he hovers over the town of King-te-tching, where 
 three thousand furnaces are burning — a great grove 
 of chimneys, which whirls its leaves of porcelain to 
 all the markets of the world. He sees things beau- 
 tiful (as those almond-eyed artists understand beau- 
 ty) and things useful : 
 
 " ' The willow pattern, that we knew 
 In childhood, with its bridge of blue 
 Leading to unknown thoroughfares ; 
 The solitary man who stares 
 At the white river flowing through 
 Its arches, the fantastic trees 
 And wild perspective of the view.' 
 
 He sees the Tower of Porcelain, and the grandeur 
 and beauty of the landscapes of Japan, which are so 
 fantastically reproduced in its pottery -work. Pic- 
 ture after picture passes before his eyes and before 
 ours— thanks to his beautiful gift of poetry — ^in a 
 succession of exquisite melodies, which flow on and 
 along to a music of their own making. 
 
 "The second section of the volume, 'Birds of 
 Passage,' opens with 'The Herons of Elmwood,' 
 which everybody knows is the residence of the poet 
 Lowell, a stately old mansion haunted with scholarly 
 memories. The herons are called upon to sing of the 
 
1 62 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 air, of the wild delight of the wings that uphold 
 them, the rapture of flight through the mists that 
 enfold them, of the landscapes below and the splen- 
 dor of light above, and are told to ask the poet if the 
 songs of the Troubadours and Minnesingers are sweet- 
 er than theirs : 
 
 " ' And if yours are sweeter and wilder and better.' 
 
 Say to him at his gate that some one hath lingered 
 there and sends him a friendly greeting : 
 
 " ' That many another hath done the same, 
 
 Though not by a sound was the silence broken ; 
 The surest pledge of a deathless name 
 Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.' 
 
 " This charming poem refutes the notion that there 
 is no genuine friendship and intellectual recognition 
 among poets. Mr. Longfellow has always been ready 
 to stretch forth the hand of good-fellowship toward 
 his fellow-singers, and no previous volume of his 
 shows such a readiness as the one before us, which 
 contains, in addition to this poem, a sonnet address- 
 ed to Tennyson, wherein his mastery is proclaimed. 
 We must quote its terzettes, which are admirable : 
 
 " ' Not of the howling dervishes of song, 
 
 Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 
 Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
 Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, 
 To thee our love and our allegiance, 
 For thy allegiance to the poet's art.' 
 
 Could anything be more characteristic of the present 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 163 
 
 school of spasmodic poetry than that phrase ' howling 
 dervishes ' % Another proof of the friendship of men 
 of genius is the sonnet entitled ' The Three Silences ' 
 (which are those of speech, desire, and thought), ad- 
 dressed to the poet Whittier. We can recall no tri- 
 bute to the Quaker singer which is at once so jast 
 and so discriminating as the conclusion of this noble 
 sonnet : v 
 
 " ' O thou, whose daily life anticipates 
 
 The life to come, and in whose thought and word 
 The spiritual world preponderates, 
 Hermit of Amesbury ! thop. too hast heard 
 Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, 
 And speakest only when thy soul is stirred.' 
 
 " There are sixteen ' Birds of Passage ' here, and 
 they have flown from many lands. ' A Dutch Pic- 
 ture ' tells the story of its nativity in its title, which, 
 however, gives no hint of the Flemish landscapes and 
 gardens and interiors that are painted therein. It is 
 thoroughly in keeping and admirable as a gallery 
 of figure-pieces. ' Castles in Spain ' is still more pic- 
 turesque and delightful, exhausting, as it does, a 
 world of historic, personal, and architectural associa- 
 tions, completing the circle of Spanish poetry which 
 Mr. Longfellow began with his ' Coplas de Manrique,' 
 continued in 'The Spanish Student,' and has closed 
 ui this felicitous production. From Spain he passes 
 to Italy in ' Vittoria Colonna,' a melodious monody 
 on the great wife of the Marchese di Pescara. Here 
 is an exquisite stanza ; 
 
i64 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " ' For death, that breaks the imarriage band 
 In others, only closer pressed 
 The wedding-ring upon her hand 
 And closer looked and barred her breast.' 
 
 The memory of this noble lady, whom the Italians 
 call Divine, is further honored among the sonnets of 
 Michael Angelo, of which Mr. Longfellow has trans- 
 lated seven, two of which are addressed to her. 
 ' The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face ' recalls the young- 
 er Mr. Longfellow of tlie hexameters ' To the Driv- 
 ing Cloud ' and the brook-like measure of ' The 
 Song of Hiawatha.' It celebrates better than any 
 other poem that we have seen the destruction of the 
 White Chief with the yellow hair and all his men in 
 the fatal snare into which Sitting Bull entrajoped 
 them. 
 
 "The three following poems are on French and 
 Spanish themes, the most spirited being ' A Ballad of 
 the French Fleet.' The time of the last is 1746 ; the 
 occasion the threatening of Boston by a French fleet, 
 which is scattered and sunk by a great October storm, 
 that was prayed for in the Old South Church by 
 the narrator of the incident, Mr. Thomas Price, whose 
 stern Puritan character, as shown in the ballad, is 
 strongly drawn. ' The Leap of Roushan Beg ' is 
 a vivid seizure of the tumultuous life of a great bandit 
 chief, and of his perilous escape from his pursuers. 
 He had a wonderful horse, over whom he had the 
 most perfect control, and who obeyed his wish as he 
 obeyed his own will, leaping with him across a yawn- 
 ing mountain^ chasm thirty feet wide and landing 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 165 
 
 him safely on the farther side. Here is a magnifi- 
 cent stanza of this great poem : 
 
 " ' Eoushan's tasselled cap of red 
 Trembled not upon his head, 
 
 Careless sat he and upright ; 
 Neither hand nor bridle shook, 
 Nor his head he turned to look. 
 As he galloped out of sight.' 
 
 " <l 
 
 'Haroun-al-Raschid' is one of those apologues 
 which the Eastern poets are so fond of relating, and 
 of which Hunt's ' Abou-Ben-Adhem ' is perhaps the 
 best example. The lesson which the poet teaches the 
 great Caliph is the old, sad lesson of mortality : 
 
 " ' thou who choosest for thy share 
 
 The world, and what the world calls fair, 
 
 " ' Take all that it can give or lend, 
 But know that death is at the end ! ' 
 
 '"The Three Kings' is a fresh and picturesque 
 handling of the beautiful old tradition of the Three 
 Wise Kings of the East (sometimes called the Three 
 Kings of Cologne), Melchior, Gaspar, and Baltasar, 
 and how they followed the star to Bethlehem. The 
 little song beginning 'Stay, stay at home, my heart, 
 and rest,' is the best lyric that Mr. Longfellow has 
 written since ' The Rainy Day,' which sang itself into 
 the world' s remembrance nearly forty years ago. The 
 child was, indeed, the father of "the man ; bat in the 
 case of Mr. Longfellow the father is much greater 
 
l66 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and broader and wiser than the child gave promise 
 of being. 
 
 " The hero of ' The White Czar ' is Peter the Great, 
 who figures in the popular songs of the Russian 
 people as Batyuska (Father dear) and Gosudar (sov- 
 ereign). His spirit has arisen, and declares that the 
 ships of his successors, which he thinks are his ships, 
 shaU sail to the Pillars of Hercules — a prophecy 
 which may yet be fulfilled. There is a martial ring 
 to the poem which is very effective, and which closes 
 this section of the book like the blast of a trumpet. 
 
 '"A Book of Sonnets' contains twenty-two of Mr. 
 Longfellow's exercises in that ' scanty plot of ground.' 
 Mr. Longfellow, like Mr. Bryant, showed no aptness 
 for writing sonnets in the earlier collections of his 
 verse ; but of late years he has cultivated this charm- 
 ing specialty with great care, and with perfect success. 
 He has mastered all the laws which govern the body 
 and soul of the legitimate Italian sonnet, and is to- 
 day the finest living sonneteer. He does not attempt 
 the grandiose and the magnificent, but confines his 
 genius within the range of its sympathies, which are 
 generous, and tender, and spiritual thoughts and 
 things, with the serious mysteries of life and death 
 and the world to come. If I were called upon to 
 name the most imaginative poem tliat Mr. Longfel- 
 low has ever written, I should select the four sonnets 
 which celebrate 'Two Rivers'— the rivers being those 
 of Yesterday and To-morrow. There is a largeness 
 and a strangeness in these sonnets which defies an- 
 alysis, and is very remarkable. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 167 
 
 "The last section of the volume is devoted to 
 'Translations,' of which there are fifteen. In the 
 first two of these — 'Virgil's First Eclogue' and 
 'Ovid in Exile' — ^Mr. Longfellow returns to his old 
 love, the hexameter, which rewards his affection 
 better than 'Evangeline.' I am inclined to think his 
 last hexameters the best yet written by an Ameri- 
 can poet. I still regard the hexameter, however, as 
 an experiment in English poetry, and I doubt its ul- 
 timate triumph. There are, in addition to those I 
 have named, three translations from the French and 
 two from the German, and translations of Michael 
 Angelo's sonnets, and one of his canzones. Mr. Long- 
 feRow is easily the master of all translators into Eng- 
 lish poetry, and the specimens of his powers here are 
 among the best that he has given us." 
 
 "Camb., May 19, 1878. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Stoddard : Accept my thanks for 
 your generous notice of > Keramos ' in the Indepen- 
 dent^ which I have read with pride and pleasure. 
 
 "I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, 
 to what people say or think of my books. They are 
 my children, and I like to have them liked. 
 
 "When I send you the volume of ' Poems of Places ' 
 containiag China, which I will do as soon as it is pub- 
 lished, I hope you will not think I have taken too 
 many of your ' Chinese Songs.' 
 
 "For these, also, I thank you. They have helped 
 me greatly in that part — " 
 
 The hiatus which occurs here (made probably by 
 
i68 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the pilfering fingers of some autograpli-liunter) re- 
 minds me of the hiatus at the unfinished conclusion 
 of "Thealma and Clearchus," and the quaint words 
 of honest old Izaak Walton, who edited John Chalk- 
 hill's MSS.: '■'■And here the author died, and I Jiope 
 the reader will be sorry y ^ 
 
 Before this reaches the reader the June number 
 of the Century magazine will no doubt have fallen 
 under his eye, and he will have read the following 
 note from the pen of its editor, Mr. Eichard Watson 
 Gilder. It was dated at Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
 October 1, 1879. Shanklin is a more famous locality 
 than Mr. Gilder remembered when he was there, for 
 it was there that John Keats and Charles Armitage 
 Brown resided after the former had finished his 
 "Eve of St. Agnes," and it was there that he wrote 
 his tragedy of "Otho the Great," and no doubt pro- 
 jected his "King Stephen" : 
 
 ' ' Just look at this group of thatched cottages ! 
 The one on the right is a library where we go for 
 books. In the middle is the Crab Inn. Do you see 
 what looks like a pile of stones to the right of it ? 
 That is a fountain for the use of the public. I read 
 some verses painted there on a piece of tin, and said 
 to myself : ' That must be from Longfellow.' I found 
 afterwards that they were written by him, by request, 
 when he was here, some years ago : 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 169 
 
 " ' Traveller, stay thy weary feet ; 
 Drink of this fountain pure and sweet ; 
 
 It flows for rich and poor the same. 
 Then go thy way, remembering still 
 The wayside well beneath the hill, 
 
 The cup of water in His name. ' " 
 
 From a manuscript copy of this little inscription I 
 learn that it was written on July 21, 1868, and that 
 Mr. Longfellow afterwards substituted "cool" for 
 "pure" in the second line. 
 
 When I entered my office on the morning of Fri- 
 day, March 24, I was handed a despatch from Bos- 
 ton which had been waiting for me, and which an- 
 nounced the death of Mr. Longfellow, and was asked 
 to write an editorial upon it. As it was near noon, 
 the editorial was necessarily brief. In the evening 
 of the same day the editor of the Tribune asked me 
 to furnish him with a column letter for the next 
 morning's paper. I did the best I could under the 
 circumstances. Another gentleman did much better 
 under the same circumstances, for about the time 
 that I was writing in New York my good friend 
 Mr. Charles Q-. Whiting was writing in Springfield, 
 in the office of the Republican, and writing after his 
 day's work was thought to be finished, hurrying for 
 dear life to have his editorial in the next morning's 
 paper. The next day he wrote another editorial, 
 
lyo HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 either for the paper of the following day, or the day- 
 after. I have printed only one communication. It 
 is from a young lady who prefers to be known only 
 by her initials. I believe I need say no more, or 
 need only say that the address which vsdll foUow 
 this commnnication was read by me on the fore- 
 noon of April 2 ; that the letters by which that is 
 followed were written, at my request, by singular 
 good friends of mine ; and that the verse which 
 closes all wrote itself in six" hours on the evening 
 and in the night and morning of the day of Mr. 
 Longfellow's interment. 
 
 And here the author ends, and I hope the 
 reader will be sorry. 
 
(Mail and Express Editorial.) 
 
 On the midniglit of the twenty-sixth day after the 
 celebration of his seventy-fifth birthday throughout 
 the civilized world the most fortunate and honored 
 of all the English poets since Shakespeare, Henry 
 Wadsworth Longfellow, began to enter into the sha- 
 dow of the Invisible World. He was surrounded by 
 those he loved best, dear children, hosts of worship- 
 ping friends, the great memory of Washington, and 
 the best wishes of aU. good men and women. ]!^o 
 passing away could be more felicitous than his. The 
 haste with which this paragraph must be written pre- 
 vents any — the least allusion to the many splendid 
 intellectual achievements of this largely-gifted man, 
 who illustrated all known literatures in the spirit 
 of their original creators. He was the first Ameri- 
 can to introduce his countrymen to the treasure- 
 house of Grerman letters, to the abundant wealth of 
 Spanish and Portuguese song and fable, to the awful 
 kingdom of the stern old Florentine and his gentle 
 Roman Master, to the glorious domain of the Golden 
 Legend, the primitive poetry of Hiawatlia and his 
 beloved Minnehaha, to the grim Puritan ancestry of 
 
172 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the ISTew England oi which we are so humbly prond, 
 to the universe of human emotion and tenderness. 
 Craigie House is henceforth doubly haunted. Two 
 gracious Presences are now pacing its shining cham- 
 bers, and the race is poorer from their departure. 
 Master of sovran spirits. — Atie aique Vale. 
 
 March 24. 
 
 (Tribune Editorial.) 
 
 To THE BdITOE op THE TRIBUNE : 
 
 Sir : I made my first acquaintance with the poetry 
 of Mr. Longfellow at a much later period than I 
 should have done, several years after I was familiar 
 with the noble verse of his early master- — the mas- 
 ter of all of us — Bryant, and about the time that Mr. 
 Edgar Allan Poe, his bitterest enemy, published "The 
 Raven." It was in a cheap reprint of the "Voices 
 of tlie Mght," by the Harpers— a double-column 
 paged pamphlet, dated somewhere in the fourth de- 
 cade of the present century. It was, as nearly as I 
 can recollect, in my twentieth year, which would be 
 nearly at the time of the Langley-Matthews republi- 
 cation of the Poetical Works of Miss Elizabeth Bar- 
 rett Barrett. I read it carelessly, as young people 
 are apt to read metrical writing, and I did not under- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 173 
 
 stand it as I miglit have done. I could not perceive 
 tlie delicate grace of the correspondences in the 
 "Prelude" — that airy fantasy in vrhich substance 
 and shadow, body and soul, play at hide-and-seek, 
 reminding one of 
 
 " The swan that on St. Mary's Lake 
 Moats double, swan and shadow." 
 
 Whether the peculiar structure of this poem origi- 
 nated with Mr. Longfellow, or was borrowed by him 
 from some romantic German master — Uhland, per- 
 haps, or Heine — I am not scholar enough to know. 
 It is a very dangerous form of composition, as the 
 readers of "The Reaper and the Flowers," "The 
 Beleaguered City," and "Midnight Mass for the Dy- 
 ing Year " could not fail to discover. How exquisite 
 it could be, in more skilful hands, they felt a few 
 years later when they read "The Rainy Day," 
 "Maidenhood," and "The Arrow* and the Song" — 
 which last perfect lyric has always flown into the 
 hearts of poets, making its divinest flight into the 
 heart of the greatest of her sex — Mrs. Browning. It 
 is the finest bay-leaf in the crown of young Mr. Long- 
 fellow that he was learned enough, while a professor 
 at Bowdoin, to transmute into his own charming Eng- 
 lish the El Dorado of several Continental literatures 
 — the weighty solemnity of Don Jorge Manrique, the 
 
174 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 tender loveliness of Lope de Vega, the heavenliness 
 of De Aldana and De Medrano, and, later still, the 
 sacred Vision of the " Celestial Pilot " in the " Pur- 
 gatorio," and the blessedness of the holy Beatrice — 
 '■'■ Manibus o date Uliaplenis." 
 
 Lighter and darker strains succeeded, from Charles 
 d' Orleans, from the Anglo-Saxon, from stout Danish 
 Ewald, and from Tiedge, Miiller, Uhland, and Sa- 
 ils. Professor Longfellow transplanted the choicest 
 flowers of the German Tempe into his (and Bryant's) 
 own green land of groves. All this while poor Edgar 
 Allan, unhappy, unsuccessful, with a sick wife, and a 
 demon struggling in his shattered soul, was reviling 
 Mr. Longfellow and other plagiarists in the Mirror,' 
 the Broadway Journal, and every other periodical 
 into which he could thrust his envenomed stylus, 
 and was exhausting his purchased praises of certain 
 literary ladies, who shall be nameless, since they have 
 long since joined our vanished race of Sapphos and 
 EsteUes. And all this while his sovran in song and 
 the virtues forgave Mm. "I never blamed him," he 
 wrote in substance, in a note which I have mislaid, 
 *' for he was suffering and sorrowful, and he thought 
 me prosperous and happy." It was so with all of us, 
 O my brothers of the genus irritdbile — we were en- 
 vious of him, we were jealous of his superior powers 
 and place in the world's regard, and he heeded it not ; 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 175 
 
 he knew beforehand all our calamities, how we begin 
 in gladness (as the great Master sings) and end — so 
 many of us end — in madness. Pardon the least of 
 thy followers, loving and illustrious Spirit. 
 
 " For there shall come a mightier blast, 
 There shall be a darker day ; 
 And the stars, from heaven downcast. 
 Like red leaves be swept away ! 
 Kyrie eleison ! 
 Christe eleison ! " 
 
 But all this, though heartfelt, is from my present 
 purpose, which is simply to jot down the little — it 
 is not much— that I know of Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow. I paid him my first visit between thir- 
 ty and forty years ago. It~ was a bright, hot sum- 
 mer day, and he was living with his family, his 
 stately wife and his gentle children, in a house 
 which he had at Kahant. It was, as I remember, 
 perched upon a bold and precipitous cliff, abrupt 
 and steep to the slip of sand which separated it 
 from the tumbling waU of surf, which was the wild- 
 est that I, almost sea-born, had ever seen. I was the 
 obscurest of the obscure ; he the most gracious of 
 men. With me was my good friend Fields, who 
 has passed before us into the Silent Land, and my 
 living friend, if he will let me call him such. Whip- 
 
176 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 pie. We walked, tlie Kniglit and his squires and 
 pages, across some fields, and the youngest of the 
 last asked him if he remembered -a certain image of 
 Bryant's, but he had forgotten it. "It can be 
 found," I said, "in 'After a Temj)est,' " and I quot- 
 ed the lines I had in mind, for I never forgot my 
 Bryant : 
 
 ' And darted up and down the butterfly, 
 That seemed a living blossom in the air.' " 
 
 He nodded his head like one who was well pleased. 
 "He made a note of that," said James Thomas, as 
 we sauntered slowly behind. We went to dinner 
 soon afterward. I sipped a little Lafitte, which I 
 never liked, and the host told of his fancy for ab- 
 surd books, some of which he had with him. I re- 
 collect that in one the hero bolted the door — and then 
 bolted himself ! I dare say he had a case full of Co- 
 lumbiads, Fredoniads, Powhatans, Yamoydens, Mil- 
 ford Bards, Alonzo Levrises, and other dead and 
 gone old Dunces. "Kest, perturbed spirits, rest!" 
 Some time later — I have no memory for dates— I 
 called upon him, on another summer day, at Cam- 
 bridge. I walked up the stately entrance to Craigie 
 House, and was at once admitted, was shown into an 
 ante-room lined with books, and, the family being 
 at dinner, a glass of wine was sent to me untU the 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 177 
 
 host could leave his guests. In a moment I was seat- 
 ed at his table, as I had lately been on the seashore, 
 surrounded by his children, and a gossiping chat 
 went round. What was it about ? I could sooner 
 recall what song the Sirens sung to Ulysses, what dit- 
 ty Marsyas piped before Apollo, what tune AchiUes 
 whirled out of his distaff, or what courtly dance 
 Charmian trod before the Herculean Eoman and the 
 serpent of old Nile, than that midsummer medley 
 over the walnuts and the wine. I dare say it was 
 something like this : 
 
 " Care, like a dun. 
 Lurks at the gate ; 
 Let the dog wait." 
 
 Or more like this, in esse, if not va. posse : 
 
 " Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
 
 Then you know a boy is an ass. 
 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty Year." 
 
 I met, or rather saw, Mr. LongfeUow thrice again. 
 Once at the Old Corner Bookstore haunted with 
 memories of Ticknor, Fields, Hawthorne, Holmes, 
 Whittier, Emerson, Sumner, and Taylor — more glo- 
 rious memories of those immortal boys, William 
 Makepeace and Charles, and, I fear, dwindling 
 
ryS HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 memories of several youngsters in the A's, and 
 H's, and J's, and L's — bnt of tMs meeting only the 
 shadow of a gracious Presence remains. The next 
 time we met was at the Brunswick, where some 
 winter forenoon lang syne we gathered to do hon- 
 or to the first of Friends, singer of New England's 
 legendary lore, a good gray head which all men 
 knew — (hail, John Greenleaf Whittier !) — and where 
 the Poet of "The Golden Legend" welcomed me 
 with his clear eye and reverent beard, the Nestor 
 then of our bards — ^Nestor, but younger than Bryant 
 by over twelve years. The third and last time I 
 heard of, but saw not, Longfellow, who came stealing 
 into Sanders Theatre on a hot June forenoon to hear 
 a certain rhapsodist essay a poem upon History be- 
 fore the young scholars of his beloved Alma Mater, 
 but came late, for the sly wag of a poet contrived to 
 go before the learned divine who strove for an hour 
 and a half to reconcile our Science and his Canadian 
 Orthodoxy. Futile propounder of Paradoxes, I pit- 
 ied thee ! Two dear to me saw the venerable figure 
 gliding in and out, but the man he so honored beheld 
 him not, nor ever again. 
 
 I might have seen Longfellow two weeks ago, but I 
 had not the heart to disturb his age. I remembered 
 the melancholy death of our great Commander of the 
 "Flood of Years," and broke not his peace. Gene- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 179 
 
 rally speaking, I come to praise Caesar, not to bury 
 Mm. What more need I say of tlie Man and Ms 
 Work \ OMy wliat lie said of our dear friend Haw- 
 thorne : 
 
 " Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power 
 And the lost clew regain ? 
 The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 
 Unfinished must remaiu ! " 
 
 New Yobk, March 34, 1882. 
 
 THE POET LONGFELLOW DEAD. 
 
 (Springfield Republican.) 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the best-beloved 
 of American poets, and the most widely read not 
 only of American but of all living poets, died on 
 Friday afternoon at his home in Cambridge, having 
 survived not quite a month the hearty celebration all 
 over his country of his seventy-fifth birthday. Mr. 
 Longfellow has been growing physically feebler with 
 the infirmities of age for the last two or three years, 
 and finally yielded to an attack of peritonitis of 
 several days' duration. Thus closes a life wholly 
 valuable and beneficent in all its relations, and one 
 
l8o HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of the early forces of our literature, that half a cen- 
 tury ago was active, and yet was vital still in his last 
 year of life. 
 
 Longfellow was born of a sturdy English ancestry, 
 the old Puritan stock, unblent with other strains, 
 and notable from its first entrance in the New World. 
 The first of the name in this country was William 
 LongfeUow, who came from the English Hampshire in 
 1651 and settled in ISTewbury, where he married a sis- 
 ter of Chief -Justice Sewall, and who was wrecked 
 with a boat's crew of the unlucky expedition of Sir 
 William Phipps on its retreat from Quebec in 1690. 
 His widow was left with six children, and one of 
 them, named Stephen (after Stephen Dummer, grand- 
 father of Mrs. Anne Sewall .LongfeUow), became a 
 blacksmith. A recent novelist has made a college 
 professor shrink with repulsion from a young man he 
 has warmly befriended, when he learns the man's 
 father was a blacksmith. But Longfellow the poet 
 had nothing of this snobbery, and must have thought 
 of his grandfather's grandfather when he wrote of 
 the vUlage blacksmith, who 
 
 " — looks tlie whole world in the face, 
 For he owes not any man." 
 
 The blacksmith Longfellow married well, a minis- 
 ter's daughter of Marshfield, Abigail Thompson ; and 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. l8l 
 
 their son Stephen, who graduated from Harvard in 
 1742, became the schoolmaster of Portland, Me. , and 
 there remained through life, serving the community 
 in many offices, such as town clerk, register of pro- 
 bate, etc. His oldest son, another Stephen, was im- 
 portant, too, in Gorham, where he lived, and whence 
 he went eight years as representative in the G-eneral 
 Court of Massachusetts ; moreover, he was justice of 
 the Court of Common Pleas in Portland from 1797 to 
 1811. His son Stephen, the poet's father, was a dis- 
 tinguished lawyer, a member of the Hartford conven- 
 tion of New England federal disunionists in 1814, and 
 member of the Eighteenth Congress. He married 
 Zilpah, daughter of Gen. Peleg Wadsworth, and 
 through her ancestry it was that Longfellow traced 
 his descent to John Alden and Priscilla Mullins of 
 the Mayflower. The poet was born February 27, 
 1807, in a large, square wooden house still standing 
 in Portland, and was named Henry Wadsworth after 
 his mother's brother, a lieutenant in the United 
 States navy, who three years before in the harbor of 
 Tripoli had given his Kfe to his country in an at- 
 tempt to destroy the Barbary pirate flotilla. This is 
 the record of the race from which Longfellow the 
 poet sprang to crown it with fame — a steady, seri- 
 ous, conscientious race, of more than average ability, 
 so that their fellow-citizens commonly found it wise 
 
i82 HEATH Y WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ■ 
 
 to employ them in public affairs ; with, a finer strain 
 about them, too, than about their neighbors, for we 
 find that one Longfellow after another is noted as 
 "gentle." The poet is a true practical as well as 
 moral inheritor from his forefathers, for there have 
 been no vagaries in his life, but a faithful and con- 
 tinuous service of his fellows ; but the poetic gift, 
 which we find no trace of among them, must have 
 come from the mother, where the characterizing 
 quality of genius is so like to dwell. Thus we 
 come to the career of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 In a home where honor and fortune and accom- 
 plishment were fortunately imited the poet grew 
 up. He began rhyming early, and the few poems of 
 his boyhood that have been given to the world- 
 only two or three besides those he has included in 
 his collected "Poems" — testify to the inevitable 
 course of his poetic bent. He was a poet at thirteen, 
 and might as well have stopped breathing as rhym- 
 ing. He was quick in all his intellectual processes, 
 and entered Bowdoin College at the age of fourteen, 
 in the same class with his elder brother, Stephen. 
 This class, that of 1825, was the most distinguished 
 one that was ever graduated from Bowdoin, and 
 preserves the fame of the college. Its great stars 
 are Longfellow and Hawthorne, but John S. C. 
 Abbott, George B. Cheever, and Jonathan CUley, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 183 
 
 the brilliant politician who fell in a meaningless 
 duel with Graves of Kentucky, were also members ; 
 Franklin Pierce, afterward President, was in the class 
 preceding. Longfellow excelled in all studies, and 
 easily took class honors, graduating second among 
 thirty-seven with an English oration on "Native 
 Writers." This, together with other literary work 
 of his during his college life, led to his election to 
 the newly established chair of modem languages and 
 literature in less than a year after his graduation, 
 and when he was but nineteen years old. He left his 
 father' s law-offlce for Europe, and spent three years 
 and a half in study of the principal European lan- 
 guages ; and probably an equal term of study never 
 resulted in more excellent general preparation. In a 
 year from his entering upon his duties as professor 
 his reputation was a magnet to attract students to 
 Brunswick. In 1833 his first published work appear- 
 ed, "Coplas de Manrique," a translation of the la- 
 ment of a young Spanish knight on his father's 
 death, and one of the noblest of elegiac poems, which 
 was prefaced by an essay on the moral and devo- 
 tional poetry of Spain. During this period he con- 
 tributed to the North American Review, and pub- 
 lished his "Oufcre-Mer," a book of travel. In 1835 
 Mr. Longfellow was called to succeed G-eorge Tick- 
 nor as Professor of Modern Languages and Liter- 
 
1 84 HEMR V WADS won TH LONGFELLO W. 
 
 ■ "-TT- : T 
 
 ature in Harvard College, and lie again visited 
 the Old World, especially to study the languages 
 of northern Earope. Daring this residence abroad 
 his wife, the daughter of Judge Barrett Potter, of 
 Portland, whom he had married in 1831, died at 
 Rotterdam, and he finished his work under the bur- 
 den of this first great sorrow. The shadow of it 
 tinges the pages of "Hyperion," the most exqui- 
 site of prose-poems, which was published in 1839. 
 Mr. Longfellow entered upon his duties as professor 
 at Harvard in 1836, and held the position for seven- 
 teen years, resigning then to live a purely literary 
 life. He made another visit to Europe in 1842, and 
 in 1845 published "The Poets and Poetry of Eu- 
 rope," one of the finest literary cyclopaedias, not only 
 in the choice and the translation of representative 
 poetry, but in biographical and critical comment, 
 that has ever been made. 
 
 In 1843 Mr. Longfellow married again, his bride 
 being Frances Elizabeth Appleton (the Mary Ash- 
 burton of "Hyperion"), daughter of Nathan Ap- 
 pleton, of Boston, and bought the Craigie House 
 at Cambridge, the Washington headquarters, where 
 Edward Everett and Jared Sparks had lived be- 
 fore him. Here he has lived ever since ; here his 
 children, two sons and three daughters, were born ; 
 and here his lovely wife met her sudden and dread- 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 185 
 
 ful death by fire, her flowing sleeves catching flame 
 from a lamp in an evening entertainment with the 
 children. For her the poet remained a mourner to 
 his death. The years continued to be fruitful in 
 literary work, his volumes of verse following each 
 other at short intervals, the most noted coming thus : 
 "Voices of the Mght," 1839; "The Spanish Stu- 
 dent," 1843; "Evangeline," 1847; "The Golden Le- 
 gend," 1851; "The Song <5f Hiawatha," 1855; "The 
 Courtship of Miles Standish," 1858; "Tales of a 
 Wayside Inn," 1863; "The New England Tra- 
 gedies," 1868; "The Divine Tragedy," 1872; and 
 "Aftermath," in 1873. Kotwithstanding the sad 
 finality of this last title, the poet was fortunately 
 wrong, for he has plucked from his hearth and fields 
 since then " The Hanging of the Crane," 1874 ; "The 
 Masque of Pandora," 1875; "Keramos," 1878 ; and 
 "Ultima Thule," 1880— even since this last we have 
 had some worthy grain from him, not to speak of 
 his admirable editorial work in the selection of 
 "Poems of Places," which in thirty-one volumes 
 comprises a wonderful variety of fine verse. Within 
 a year, also, a superb subscription edition of all his 
 poetical works has been issued in this country 
 and England, illustrated by the principal artists of 
 America. 
 Mr. Longfellow has received abundant honors in 
 
1 86 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 his own country and abroad : Harvard made him 
 LL.D. in 1859, and both Oxford and Cambridge gave 
 him the degree of D.C.L. on his latest visit to Eng- 
 land and the Continent, in 1868-9. But his true hon- 
 ors have been the adoption of his poems into many 
 other literatures ; aU the languages of Europe, and 
 some of Asia, have given his verse a new public in some 
 degree, and " Evangeline," "Hiawatha," "The Gold- 
 en Legend," " The Spanish Student" especially have 
 been made familiar. The sale in America of Long- 
 fellow' s works during the first sixteen years of his au- 
 thorship numbered 325,550 copies, 293,000 of which 
 were poetical and 32,550 prose. Since then no one has 
 taken the trouble to compute, but the popularity of 
 Longfellow, far from waning, has steadily increased. 
 No other poet of to-day, it is safe to say, has reached 
 anything like the number of readers, or touched so 
 universally the chords of human sympathy, as Long- 
 fellow has. AU this time he has remained a modest, 
 noble, sweet -hearted gentleman, untouched by vani- 
 ty, clear of pretension, certain of his mission ; a cen- 
 tre of interest in the literature of America, and to the 
 literary men and women of all countries who visit 
 America ; loved in thousands of households where he 
 must remain unknown except by his verse ; and an 
 unending influence for beauty in life, and all the sur- 
 roundings of life. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 187 
 
 HIS QUALITY AS POET. 
 
 Longfellow, in the foreign estimation, holds the 
 highest place among all the names of our literature. 
 He was one of the first to catch the attention of Eng- 
 lish critics, and they have clung to him as to a sheet- 
 anchor in the overwhelming rush of American writers 
 since. They are fond of calling him "America's 
 greatest literary son," because such an attribution 
 would restrict our literature to a certain level of ex- 
 cellence which without doubt has been far exceeded 
 by others of our authors. This has occasioned a per- 
 ceptible reaction among home critics, and perhaps 
 caused them to depreciate the real merit of Longfel- 
 low. It will be agreed that he is not a poet of the 
 first, or even of the second, order. He cannot rank 
 with Emerson, or with Tennyson and Browning. 
 Not the exalted treasure of celestial thought, not the 
 dramatic power of intense passions, not the mystic 
 subtlety of refined ideals, is his. But the chords of 
 daUy human experience, the level beauty of common 
 life, the sense of content and of grief, the imaginative 
 picturing of legend and allegory — ^these he knew well. 
 He was never false in a word or a form of words. 
 His lyre sang true every note, whether in major or 
 minor keys. All humanity responds to its music, 
 and that music is exquisite. There is a great variety 
 
l88 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 in his work, yet he has not written anything without 
 the charm that indicates poetry. He has never been 
 a sloven in his verse ; while at the same time he has 
 never wandered in search of mechanical elaboration, 
 as the fashion has been since Swinburne scared the 
 whole guild of English writers by his exhaustive 
 gymnastics with the entire resources of the language. 
 Without any fantastic devices of rhythm and metre, 
 he never failed in fitting his form to his thought, and 
 is justly to be called a master in the mechanism of 
 poesy. The hexameters of "Evangeline," the tro- 
 chaics of " Hiawatha," the blank verse of " The New 
 England Tragedies '' and "Christus," owe their charm 
 to their fitness to the burdens they bear. "Hiawa- 
 tha," for instance, although its metre is the same as 
 that of the Finnish epic "Kalevala," is as close an 
 echo of the movement of Indian song as could be at- 
 tained in verse — -at times it is like an inspiration of 
 the prairies and forests which are the scenes of the 
 legends. And while the tremendous artifice of Swin- 
 burne will inevitably pall on the ear, and finally sink 
 into the abyss of half-forgotten curiosities, Longfel- 
 low's pure and simple melody will live in perennial 
 freshness, because it is sweet, unaifected, genuine, 
 and, beyond all, because it conveys noble messages 
 instead of ignoble. 
 Mr. Longfellow had a true and high poetic pur- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 189 
 
 pose, which he fulfilled. He was not an enthusiast 
 for any one cause, but he had his aim fixed on the 
 great family, to reach the feeling of men and women, 
 ay, and children, so that they should find his verses 
 household words, inspired with encouragement in 
 urgent need, touched with sympathy in daily expe- 
 rience, and satisfying with consolation in defeat and 
 sorrow. He is often called the poet of the common- 
 place, and this is not an unjust characterization, ex- 
 cept as the critic's animus makes it so. Life is com- 
 monplace, even its worst and best features are con- 
 stantly reproducing themselves, and it has been 
 Longfellow's gift and glory to unite his verse to so 
 many various phases of our experience, to associate 
 Ms words with our pleasures and our griefs. The 
 "Voices of the Mght" have sounded in our ears, 
 the "Psalm of Life" has come to our rescue repeat- 
 edly ; even if it be sometimes recited shallowly in 
 jest, it is always inspiriting to say : 
 
 " Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 .Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labor and to wait." 
 
 Is not this a worthy pilotage for life % Time would 
 fail to recall the poems wherein such help as this has 
 
190 HENRY WADSWORTff LONGFELLOW. 
 
 been afforded Ms fellows by this poet. And where 
 the higher fancy is stimulated, who offers freer- wing- 
 ed carriage than he in the wonderful music of ' ' San- 
 dalphon, the 'Angel of Prayer' " ? — ^when 
 
 '' Serene in the rapturous throng, 
 Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
 
 With eyes unimpassioned and slow. 
 Among the dead angels the deathless 
 Sandalphon stands listening breathless 
 
 To sounds that ascend from below." 
 
 And the judgment of Lowell stands unimpeached on 
 the poem of the Acadian maiden — 
 
 " ^that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral ' Evangeline,' 
 
 That's not ancient or modern ; its place is apart 
 Where Time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art. 
 'Tis a shrme of retreat from earth's hubbub and strife, 
 As quiet and chaste as the author's own life." 
 
 Longfellow was such a translator as a poet would 
 wish to have. A German or Swedish or Spanish poem 
 in his hands became an English poem. But he was 
 not successful in reproducing Dante. It is an evi- 
 dence of his superiority to jealousy that he regard- 
 ed Dr. Parsons as a better translator of Dante than 
 himself, and once said that there was more of the 
 great Italian in Parsons' s lines on a bust of Dante 
 
HENRY WADSWORTB LONGFELLOW. 191 
 
 than in all Ms own version of the "Divina Comme- 
 dia." 
 
 Longfellow was not peculiarly an American poet, 
 although he turned his attention to American themes. 
 His was — as the English said in the day when Sydney 
 Smith wanted to know who read an American book, 
 and when Lowell' s Apollo declared that — 
 
 " Our literature suits each whisper and raotion 
 To what will be thought of it over the ocean " 
 
 — an English mind, with the culture of Europe mould- 
 ing its utterances. He never lacked the essential mo- 
 ral sympathy with America, yet that sympathy never 
 became with htm a flaming fire as with Whittier, or 
 a rapier-edge as with Lowell ; nor did he have that 
 grand sweep of external natare which set aside Bry- 
 ant as the embodiment of the American scene, or the 
 inimitable brilliancy that marks Holmes so far in ad- 
 vance of contemporary England, or the shrewd union 
 of Yankee and orient genius that revealed a gospel in 
 Emerson. The scarcity of Longfellow's anti-slavery 
 and patriotic poems proves this lack of absolute Ame- 
 ricanism in the humanitarian aspect of his verse. But 
 he was emphatically a universal people's poet, and 
 gained a fame that will not fade so long as English 
 is spoken — an immortality of the good, the true, and 
 the beautiful. 
 
192 HENRY WADSWORTB LONGFELLOW. 
 
 In the point of character Longfellow possesses his 
 finest "strength. His soul was as clean as a child's 
 through his whole life, and. yet nowhere devoid of 
 manly strength and fellowship. The work he did is 
 the transcript of his nature to an extraordinary de- 
 gree. Pure, inspiring purity, and rebuking gross- 
 ness of life, like Arthur in his Round Table, was 
 LongfeUow. This has been a common characteristic 
 of aU our elder poets : of Bryant — " the master of us 
 aU," as Stoddard calls him— of Emerson, Whittier, 
 Holmes, Lowell, Bayard Taylor, Parsons. These have 
 not only avoided coarseness and open sensuality, but 
 they have not borne that insinuation of evil which is 
 so common among the younger writers of the day. 
 Tlie same decadence is more noticeable, and far lower, 
 in England than here. From Tennyson to Swinburne, 
 from Browning to Dante Rossetti, is a great descent. 
 And in the next younger poets we behold an array 
 of boys trying verbal gymnastics in rondeaux, bal- 
 lades, etc. In this country there is as yet less ar- 
 tifice, but there is also less sign of any genius at 
 aU. 
 
 There arise in our poetical horizon no poetic stars 
 of great magnitude. We have an abundance of men 
 and women who, sometimes strongly, sometimes dain- 
 tily, strike the lyre of song, but it is a grave question 
 whether our first poetic era be not now at an end, and 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1 93 
 
 its successor not yet dawned. The spontaneous note 
 is lacking among our songsters. There is a good deal 
 of fine singing, but it is singing that has been learn- 
 ed in school, and very imperfectly understood. It 
 would be invidious to mention the names of the 
 youngest men who may suddenly outburst in some- 
 thing new and worthy. There are yet those who 
 survive to set a great example : Holmes and Whit- 
 tier, and their juniors, Lowell and Stoddard, and 
 Parsons, who writes too little for a poet of so fine 
 quality, and who rests his fame securely on his 
 translation of Dante, which stiQ engages his labors. 
 Stedman has sunk the bard in the critic of late — to 
 the great advantage of criticism ; Aldrich and How- 
 ells and Lathrop have become novelists; Boyle 
 O' Reilly has allowed the editor to wreck the poet ; 
 and Walt Whitman stands alone — great, incompara- 
 ble, and unfoUowed. The score or more of younger 
 men seem given over to fantasies and humors, and 
 poisoned by egotism. This last fault seems hopeless. 
 What can be done with a lot of youth who regard 
 their personal feelings as the supreme subject of their 
 verse, and drag their morbid notions into every phase 
 of thought, study of outer nature, or picture of 
 human life? How free from this dragging per- 
 sonality was Longfellow — how far above this low 
 self-consciousness, even in his deepest emotional 
 
194 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 poems ! He never became the centre of tlie poetic 
 thought, for he was greater than his sole experi- 
 ence. 
 
 KE EVENING IN THE OLD CRAIGIE HOUSE. 
 
 To THE EdITOE of THE TeIBTTNE : 
 
 Sir : No face was better known or loved in Cam- 
 bridge (alas ! that we must say was) than the genial 
 face of America's best-known poet, Longfellow, with 
 its silvery crown of radiant white hair. His brown 
 overcoat, too, was as well known and almost as his- 
 torical, though for a far different reason, as the gray 
 redingote of the first Napoleon. But all the world 
 has not been to Cambridge (though the Cantabrigians 
 seem to think otherwise), and perhaps an account of 
 an evening with the poet may pass over some ground 
 hitherto untravelled. 
 
 It was in the winter of 1880 that I had the pleasure 
 of first seeing Longfellow in his own home. I was a 
 stranger in Cambridge, but there is nothing more 
 charming and delightful than Cambridge hospitality. 
 In the old Craigie Mansion on Brattle Street used to 
 be free-hearted hospitality, and that hospitality re- 
 ceived a fresh lease of life when the poet took up his 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 195 
 
 home there. I had been in Cambridge only a few- 
 weeks when with two friends I was invited to dine 
 with Mr. Longfellow and spend the evening ; the in- 
 vitation was not for a dinner-party, but for a purely 
 informal meal, and was all the more welcome. It 
 was a moonlight night when we left our home and 
 walked down Brattle Street facing the Charles ; as 
 we entered the gate the old mansion stood trans- 
 figured in the moonlight, the river gleamed sUver 
 white, the sheltering row of bare Klac bushes had a 
 spectral effect, which was enhanced by the two tall 
 poplars, bare and straight, standing like sentinels in 
 the quiet moonlight. But when we mounted the 
 steps, rang the bell of the old door with its quaint 
 brass knocker, and stepped inside the broad hall, 
 there was nothing unreal or unsubstantial in our 
 welcome. The bell was hardly touched when the 
 door swung open and we stepped into a hospitable 
 hall as large as an ordinary room, its walls hung 
 with paintings ; facing the door was the old-fashioned 
 broad staircase ; half-way up the stairs, on the first 
 landing, stood the tall clock, saying : 
 
 " For ever, never; 
 Never, for ever." 
 
 On the left of the entrance was the small reception- 
 room, and back of it the dining-room ; on the other 
 
igS HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 side was the historic study which has been so many 
 times described. In the rear of this was the large 
 drawing-room or library, into which we were ushered 
 after laying aside our wraps. The drawing-room was 
 cheery with red hangings ; in the corner stood a large 
 grand piano, the waUs were literally lined with book- 
 shelves, and in the centre of the room stood a table 
 bestrewn with books and papers. A cheery open 
 fireplace, whose yawning mouth was encircled by a 
 row of quaintly-colored tiles, and which gave forth 
 a genial warmth from a huge log crackling on some 
 curious brass andirons, added color and warmth to 
 the home picture. But why linger on the mere out- 
 side shell ? 
 
 The door suddenly opened and Longfellow walked 
 in. He was rather shorter in stature than we had 
 anticipated, but very erect and vigorous ; his frame 
 was neither stout nor thin ; his face was ruddy in 
 complexion and surrounded by a mass of silvery 
 white hair ; the eyes, surmounted by bushy eye- 
 brows, were the chief charm of the mobile face ; 
 they looked out so bright and keen that it was diffi- 
 cult to tell their color, though it appeared to be- 
 blue ; we were inclined to be struck by the brilliancy 
 rather than the shade. Around the eyes were some 
 characteristic wrinkles, which gave a genial and hap- 
 py expression to the face when the poet smiled. As 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 197 
 
 he entered there was a cordial grace and ease in his 
 manner which put every one at ease. It is related 
 that before Heine met Goeth© he had prepared a fine 
 speech to deliver, but when he saw the great man he 
 could only stammer, "AhJ the plums are very fine 
 on the road to Weimar." But one needed not to 
 prepare a speech before meeting Longfellow ; he 
 himself was your inspiration. When you met him 
 you felt you were with a friend ; immediately " your 
 dumb devil took leave of you." 
 
 After shaking hands with us all the poet laugh- 
 ingly said: "It is an embarrassment of riches — I'd 
 offer my arm to one of you, but I don't know 
 which ! " So the six ladies went in arm-in-arm, Mr. 
 Longfellow followed, and the company of seven sat 
 down at the cheerful round table. On the wall at 
 the left of the pleasant dining-room hung a large oil- 
 painting of the three daughters of the poet ; from 
 this picture the photograph which is so popular has 
 been taken. All through dinner-time the poet chat- 
 ted and talked, flying like a bird lightly from branch 
 to branch, and making whatever subject he lingered 
 on cheerful and bright. He spoke of Carlyle, who 
 was still alive, and praised him in very high terms. 
 " I particularly admire his 'French Revolution' and 
 'Frederick the Great,'" he said; "I consider him 
 as one of the few writers who have made history 
 
198 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 really live. Carlyle saw facts witli Ms imagina- 
 tion." 
 
 Then the poet gave s(5me reminiscences of his col- 
 lege days at Bowdoin. ' ' The study that I- most dis- 
 liked was Forensics," he continued. "I begged the 
 president to excuse me, but, to my surprise, when the 
 class came up I was the first one called upon to re- 
 cite ! I don' t think the president was very fond of 
 me. Some of our professors, too, were very amus- 
 ing; one of them in Mental Science always began 
 questioning us in this manner : ' Now, young gentle- 
 men, what is logic ; or, in the words of the author, 
 logic is what ? ' I did not care so much for the mere 
 bare facts of Mental Science ; I loved them clothed 
 in appropriate words. Do you remember this fine 
 quotation from John Locke : ' Thus the ideas, as well 
 as children, of our youth often die before us; and 
 our minds represent to us those tombs to which we 
 are approaching where, though the brass and marble 
 remain, yet the inscriptions are effaced by time and 
 the imagery moulders away'?" Then he solemnly 
 added: "God grant that I may be preserved from 
 that!" The prayer has been granted, and he has 
 been taken from us whUe still strong and able to 
 bear the poet's message to humanity. 
 
 Soon after reciting this passage the conversation 
 turned to poets and poetry. "Dante is a transcen- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 199 
 
 dent poet," said his translator, and then recited in 
 Italian a portion of the opening canto of the " Infer- 
 no." "Can anything be more simple and direct than 
 that, and yet more mnsical and fuU of thought?" 
 he asked. "It is easy enough to be simple at the 
 expense of beauty," he added, "or to be musical at 
 the expense of thought ; the great poet is the man 
 who, at a white heat, welds simplicity with beauty, 
 and thought with music." 
 
 After dinner the ladies retired to the drawing- 
 room; about half an hour later Longfellow entered 
 and turned over the bound pages of Vanity Fair, a 
 periodical filled witli caricatures of different cele- 
 brated men. All the time he was turning the leaves 
 there flowed forth a running commentary of wit, 
 memories, and anecdotes which it is as impossible 
 to describe as it would be to picture by words a 
 mountain brook. Upon the mantel there was a 
 beautiful photograph of a refined, delicate . face. It 
 was a man of about thirty-five apparently, with a 
 fine broad forehead, soft, sUky hair brushed care- 
 lessly back, dark, dreamy eyes, and an exquisitely 
 chiselled mouth and chin. *' I am glad you like the 
 photograph," said the poet to me. "It represents 
 my dear friend Ruskin at his best. I met Ruskin 
 first in Paris. His manner was very qiuet, gentle, 
 and mild, but tinged with deep melancholy ; it wag 
 
200 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 just after Ms domestic trouble. His first words on 
 meeting me were, ' Sir, you know I hate Americans ! ' 
 but he said it with such a gentle smile and manner 
 I could not take offence. ' Very well, sir,' I replied. 
 From that time we were firm friends. When I saw 
 him for the last time he said to me : ' It' s very strange ; 
 I cannot understand it ! I hate Americans, and yet 
 you, Mr. Longfellow,- and Mr. Norton, both Ameri- 
 cans, are the only two men with whom I feel tho- 
 roughly happy, sympathetic, and at ease.' After 
 our first meeting in Paris I met Ruskin again at 
 Verona, a city which I admire greatly. I stopped by 
 chance at the same hotel with him, ran across his 
 valet one morning, and told him to ask his master to 
 come down to table-d'hSte. 'I never go to table- 
 d'hote,' was the response ; but he came in to see me 
 later, and we spent a charming evening together. 
 Next day we drove around Verona and visited the 
 amphitheatre together. A few days later I saw him 
 busily sketching away in the Piazza della Erba, while 
 his valet was holding a crowd of Italian lazzaroni at 
 bay. The last time I saw Ruskin he was perched on 
 top of a ladder in front of the grand monument to 
 Can Grande, sketching in some architectural details. 
 I am afraid that Ruskin's love for detail leads him to 
 overlook breadth ; for instance, he took me to a little 
 church in Verona, where the one thing he singled out 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 201 
 
 as worthy of admiration was a small twisted pillar 
 mounted on a griffin's back! Ruskin has really a 
 wonderful fondness for delicacy of effect and fine- 
 ness, however. He has a thoroughly sensitive, fine 
 nature, which demands thoroughness in the least. 
 His manner, courteous, refined, with the old-school 
 politeness which is fast passing away in our rough 
 and hurried life, is most charming." 
 
 After leaving Ruskin the conversation flowed light- 
 ly on around other topics. " I hate parodies," said 
 the poet warmly. "A man who parodies a good 
 poem ought to be hanged — metaphorically, of course," 
 he added quickly. " I do not mind critics or criti- 
 cism so much. A man' s best critic should be him- 
 self. You generally believe a critic only when he 
 agrees with you. But it is much more important to 
 make your life fit your own standard than theirs. 
 The great struggle of a poet should be toward ori- 
 ginality." 
 
 In a short discussion upon American novelists he 
 
 said: "I cannot see how can place so much 
 
 value upon mere bric-a-brac ; those things are the 
 trappings of art, the stage properties merely. Did 
 it vitally matter to Hawthorne that there were no 
 castles in America \ The true life is the life of the 
 soul, and not of the body ; within our four walls lies 
 our home ; all of human life lies in the home. Ame- 
 
202 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 rica, having tHs, has all that the richest nation in the 
 world could desire.' 
 
 So the conversation flowed on ; but who can repro- 
 duce its thousand felicities, its cheeriness, its breadth, 
 its kindliness and world-wide sympathy % What has 
 been given is the mere shadow of the past ; let those 
 who love the poet take it as it was meant — an attempt 
 to throw a single flower, dwarfed though it may be, 
 upon the newly-made grave of that loved poet whom 
 the whole world delights to honor ! E, A. T. 
 
 Beooelyn, April 7, 1882. 
 
 There were memorial addresses before the Society 
 for Ethical Culture in the forenoon of April 2. The 
 following is an account of the services, which were 
 begun by Professor Felix Adler : 
 
 Peof. Felix Abler : 
 
 Our platform is graced to-day by the presence of 
 a poet whose name is familiar and dear to many 
 thousands in this land. To such a one it behooves 
 us to show honor and respect in all things. I shall 
 do so now by respecting the wish which he has 
 uttered, that I may be wholly brief in presenting 
 him to this audience. Mr. Richard H. Stoddard 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 203 
 
 will now address you on tlie Poet and the Divine 
 Poetic Art. 
 
 MR. EICHAED H. STODDAED'S ADDRESS. 
 
 I have been asked to speak for a few minutes 
 about Mr. Longfellow, but not so much, about Mm 
 personally as about the choir of poets to which he 
 belonged, and the place that the faculty which he 
 and they possess, and possessed, holds among the 
 endowments of the race. It is not with the Man, 
 or the Men, that I propose to detain you, but with 
 the genesis of his, and their. Work. He was one 
 of many — but not so many, after all — who were 
 gifted with powers that are not common to the gen- 
 erations of mankind. Why they were so gifted no 
 man knows, and of the source of their powers all 
 must remain ignorant. It is one of the mysteries 
 that surround us, perhaps the heart of the dear- 
 est, as the Infinite Unknown of our poor human 
 speech is the soul of the profoundest — the creative 
 energy which we call Father. The first poet, was 
 the first man who was conscious of himself and of 
 the Universe — the chUdly -hearted creature of whom 
 the twinkle of a dewdrop, the delicate grace of a 
 spring blossom, or the fingers of the wind that dal- 
 lied with his hair made a lyrical singer; to whom 
 the surf sang strophes of jubilance ; the fiash of 
 
204 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 liglitning and tlie crash of thunder were Ode and 
 Epode of a mighty measure ; moonlights epithala- 
 mia, and darkness the pall of the tragedy of the 
 Unknowable. When he opened his eyes to the 
 glory and the terror that were about him he was 
 a poet. If we could recall our childish conceptions 
 of these we might recall the voices that awakened 
 his spirit, the apparitions that beckoned to and 
 eluded it. The earliest message that approached 
 his ear from the lips of Nature was half inaudible 
 and of uncertain import. He knew not whether to 
 be delighted or afraid. He was aware of another 
 and a stronger than himself — of something above 
 him, below him, within liim, from Whom he could 
 not escape, a perpetual environment and fulfilment 
 — the Maker securing the made. So far as they can 
 be traced, the primitive utterances of man were a 
 recognition of Power, which speedily became pow- 
 ers, which assumed names, and were clothed upon 
 by shadowy, elemental, fleshly shapes — adumbra- 
 tions of their worshippers projected against the 
 wall of the worlds. Man made his gods, in his 
 own image, but superior, for good and evil ; and as 
 he made them, so they remain to-day — the good, let 
 us hope, trampKng the evil under foot. The old- 
 est poems extant a,re invocations to deities — orphic 
 hymns that strove to capture and detain their 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 205 
 
 singers hardly knew what, to translate the origi- 
 nal language of encircling Presences into the dia- 
 lects of barbaric tribes ; confessions of. transgres- 
 sion and supplications for forgiveness ; mortal ac- 
 knowledgments of the divine, like those in the Sa- 
 cred Book of the Hebrews: "Lord, what is man 
 that thou art mindful of him, or the son of man 
 that thoji visitest him?" Such were these old for- 
 gotten poets, and such their strains in the morn- 
 ing of Time. 
 
 While the spiritual needs of man were demand- 
 ing those rhythmic recognitions, his physical needs 
 were demanding their recognition in stormier music 
 — in the rugged songs that narrated his encounters 
 with savage beasts, and in the short, sharp odes that 
 strengthened his sinews to heave great rocks upon 
 his foes, and to brain them with upwrecked forests 
 ^valorous, vindictive, victorious. The hands of 
 Mmrod conquered in the one, the fires of Moloch 
 consumed in the other, and the earth was darken- 
 ed with the smoke of battle. From out this tumult 
 stole forth slowly, but surely, a Woman not seen 
 before, stern, but sad and gracious, whose office it 
 was to recover and embalm the memory of heroes, 
 friends and foes, both noble, now they were gone ; 
 so just, so human, is the twin sister of song — Tra- 
 dition. But back of all these shapes and sounds. 
 
2o6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 back of the soldier in battle and the gray-bearded 
 priest in sacred places, are beauteous shadows and 
 melodious voices, figures of youths and maids sit- 
 ting upon banks of flowers, or stealing through 
 the twilight of secluded woods, whispering secrets, 
 exchanging hearts, clasping hands, looking immor- 
 tal Ufe, old-world lovers, singing the song that 
 never is old. Perhaps they touch rude instru- 
 ments, fetch music from string and shell, or up 
 and dance for utter joy ; whatever they do, all's 
 well. 
 
 " Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not." 
 
 Through aU these jocund ditties float, from vine- 
 yards where grapes are trodden into wine, from pro- 
 cessions along the highways crowned with vine- 
 leaves, with faces flushed, trumpets blowing, cym- 
 bals clashing, emptied cups and stumbling feet, pass- 
 ing away, the sons of Belial, Thammuz and the Sy- 
 rian damsels, Bacchus and Silenus, poetic impersona- 
 tions of opulence and waste. Be sure that more than 
 revelry was meant in these, that hidden therein were 
 myths whose original meaning hath escaped us — 
 parables of the use and abuse of good, parents of 
 Saadi and Omar Khayyam. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 207 
 
 " Wliy, be this juice the growth of God, who dare 
 Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare ? 
 
 A blessing we should use it, should we not ? 
 And if a curse, why, then, who set it there ? " 
 
 The soul solicits wisdom. It is delivered by the 
 poet. The limits of our vision and our set habits of 
 mind narrow our knowledge and conceptions of po- 
 etry. Before Greece was, and her mighty mother, 
 Egypt, there was a world of song. There were poets 
 in the steppes of Scythia, in the defiles of the Hima- 
 layas, along the banks of the Niger, in the mines of 
 Cornwall, in the endless forests of the unfound con- 
 tinent, on the surf-washed beaches of the Pacific, and 
 over the sunken cities of the Atlantides — wherever 
 mankind was, there were poets. Everywhere the 
 fourfold stream of religion, and love, and war, and 
 wine was flowing, and men and women rose and 
 floated and sunk therein from of old, as they are 
 rising and floating and sinking now. It sings about 
 a thousand little islands peopled with lyrical birds ; 
 it lapses gaUy along the sunny shore of comedy ; it 
 sets perpetually to the world where tragedy is, sur- 
 rounded by lost lovers and unwedded maids, dis- 
 crowned and unsceptred kings and queens, wan rulers 
 of crushed empires weighed down vrith Fate. What- 
 ever the race has been, is, or may be, that poetry has 
 been, is, and must be. It is human life and death. 
 
2o8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From the beginning it has broadened and deepened. 
 The simple worship of the world's forefathers shaped 
 itself into prayers, invocations, and mystic hymns — 
 the Vedas, the Zendavesta, the Theogony, the He- 
 brew Writings, and the Evangelists. The anger 
 of its children shaped itself into war-songs in aU 
 lands, and into the epical ocean wherein they were 
 discharged — Iliads, Mahabharratas, ^neids, Divine 
 Comedies, Paradises Lost. The wine-bibbing of its 
 grandchildren shaped itself into satiric combats be- 
 tween rival wits, who set the rustics agape, and 
 whose torches reached us through the hands of 
 Aristophanes, Terence, Molidre, and Shakespeare; 
 the sorrow and sullenness of all reaching us in 
 Prometheus, Medea, Antigone, gliding away in a 
 thousand pallid figures, to reappear as Hamlet, Lear, 
 Queen Katharine, Lady Macbeth. Amorists of an- 
 tiquity readied us through, the souls of Hero and 
 Leander, Dante and Beatrice, 
 
 " And many more the Muse may not rehearse." 
 
 Akin to these crying and laughing ones, were and 
 are, the shepherd-folk and countrymen of Theocritus, 
 Bion and Moschus, Keats and Tennyson. Such are 
 the dwellers in, and such the dominion of. Song, 
 whereof the Poet is Sovereign, Lord under the Great 
 Lord of the lesser universe. It is an awful sceptre 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 209 
 
 wMch lie holds, this Porphyrogenltus, for the honor 
 which accompanies it mast be borne meekly, and the 
 burden which, it imposes is for life and death. He 
 receives what the Giver sends, and gives it again^ 
 what, he knows not, save that it is good. 
 
 " There is a soul of goodness in things ill. 
 Would men observingly distil it out." 
 
 The divine light streams : 
 
 " Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity." 
 
 First-born of Nature, and more closely held to her 
 heart than any of her children, the poet apprehends 
 and comprehends the Universal Mother. What es- 
 capes the trained eye of the painter he instinctively 
 discerns ; foreseeing the unseen light, and preventing 
 the distant darkness, master of his moods and inter- 
 preter of her mysteries, she has no secrets from her 
 darling ! Wisdom whispers her oracles through him. 
 He is the mouthpiece of wit, art, eloquence of words, 
 purity of sculpture, glory of color, ineffable tender- 
 ness and might of music ; fourfold waters of the Un- 
 known are the rivers of his Eden, before whose gates 
 flames no flery sword, for man has never been driven 
 forth, but walks there at morn and eventide — familiar 
 with the gods. 
 
2IO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sucli is the Poet, and sucli, within his limitations, 
 was Longfellow, whom the world laments — most 
 gracious of Puritans, beneficent flower from the 
 stern old stem of John Alden. 
 
 Peof. Felix Adlbe: 
 
 The poet has spoken of poetry, as we have heard. 
 It is for the appreciative critic to mark for us the dis- 
 tinctive merits of the bard whose loss we deplore to- 
 day. No one is more competent to do this than Mr. 
 Edwin P. Whipple, a name eminent in American 
 literature. Mr. Whipple is prevented by indisposi- 
 tion from being with us to-day, and Ms address will 
 be read by Mr. Charles Roberts, Jr., whose perfect 
 delivery wiU form the beautiful vehicle for admirable 
 thought. 
 
 MR. EDWIN P. Whipple's addeess. 
 
 It was affirmed by one of the great poets of the 
 century, who spoke from his inspired insight into the 
 external world, that 
 
 " They do not err 
 Who say, that when a poet dies 
 Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
 And celebrates his obsequies." 
 
 Indeed, it is the Mind in this Nature — dumb, but 
 neither deaf nor blind — ^that the poet interprets, and 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 211 
 
 shows to be one witli the Mind in human nature, 
 happily gifted with an articulate voice. The death 
 of a poet, therefore, as contrasted with that of the 
 most eminent scientist, strikes us all as an abrupt 
 withdrawal of one of those exceptional beings 
 through whose vivid spiritual vision of the life of 
 things we are enabled to catch glimpses of vital reali- 
 ties which are not revealed to the keenest scientific 
 observation or the most patient scientific analysis. 
 , In the case of the departure of Longfellow this 
 sense of loss is deepened by our love and admiration 
 of the character of the man. It was said, years ago, 
 by a competent foreign critic, that there was some- ,, 
 thing, he hardly knew what, in the poems of Long- 
 fellow which made them universally attractive ; but 
 those who personally knew the man readily under- 
 stood what constituted the peculiar attractiveness of 
 the poet. He was, in the first place, one of the hu- 
 manest of men, utterly incapable of envy, malice, or 
 intolerance, and gifted not only with the power of 
 discerning merit in others, but of heartily rejoicing 
 in its contemplation. Wherever he appeared he ra- 
 diated the spirit of kindliness and beneficence. It 
 was impossible to know him without feeling an affec- 
 tion for him. And he was very comprehensive in his 
 humanity. It included sects and parties that hated 
 and despised each other, and diversities of individual 
 
212 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 character which were mutually repulsive. His tole- 
 ration extended to the toleration of intolerance, even 
 when he himself was its victim. Thus, when he 
 was vehemently denounced by some earnest aboli- 
 tionists for that passage in " The Bnilding of the 
 Ship " glorifying the Union of the States, he quietly 
 said to an indignant friend : ' ' These men are justified 
 in attacking me. Knowing their opinions as I do, 
 they could not honestly act otherwise. " 
 
 This breadth of sympathetic feeling gave variety to 
 the products of his genius. It enabled him to repro- 
 duce many different moods of mind and many diflfer- 
 erent forms of character. A glance over his poems 
 shows how wide is the field his writings cover. He 
 rarely, if ever, repeats himself. If we take his long 
 poems, such as "The Spanish Student," "The Grold- 
 en Legend," "Hiawatha," "Evangeline," we wonder 
 how the same poet could have selected subjects so 
 different, and have treated each with such masterly 
 adaptation of his genius to his theme. Our won- 
 der is increased when we remember the throng of 
 lyrics and minor poems with which he has enriched 
 our literature, and the flexibility of mind he displays 
 in placing himself on an equality with every idea, 
 sentiment, situation, and topic he represents. In all 
 these the individuality of the man is constantly per- 
 ceived, but the range of the genius is remarkable. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 213 
 
 Perhaps the controlling element in his nature was 
 the moral sentiment, and it is also the dominant qual- 
 ity observed in his writings. And his morality is 
 the morality of most good men and women. He 
 deals in no moral paradoxes, while he touches no 
 moral truism without vitalizing it — without impart- 
 ing to it a new life, freshness, elevation, beauty, and 
 power. He thus finds his way into all self-respecting 
 homes and is domesticated at all pure firesides. His ; 
 extraordinary intensity of perception of ordinary \ 
 feelings and beliefs is the chief source of his popu- 1 
 larity. 
 
 The intellectual equipment of this fine nature was 
 of exceptional excellence. He was a man of large 
 and liberal scholarship, gifted with a creative and 
 realizing mind. His learning, therefore, was all 
 alive, connecting itself throughout its wide scope of 
 accomplishment with suggested thoughts, emotions^ 
 pictures, and persons. And then consider his power 
 of what may be called executive expression. His 
 words and images always tell. He ever succeeds in 
 conveying to another mind the matter that fills his 
 own. It is impossible to miss his meaning, or fail to 
 feel it as he feels it. Generally his style impresses 
 us by the solidity and weight of its melodiously ar- 
 ranged words. In "The Arsenal at Springfield,'' 
 "Seaweed," "Sand of the Desert," "The Occulta- 
 
214 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 tionof Orion," " Sandalphon," "The Lighthouse," 
 not to mention others, note the massiveness of the 
 diction ! What a description is this of the effects of 
 war: 
 
 " The tumult of each sacked and bummg village, 
 The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns, 
 The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage, 
 The wail of famine in beleaguered towns.'" 
 
 How sound helps sense and imagination in this 
 verse from "The Lighthouse": 
 
 " The startled waves leap over it, the storm 
 Smites it with all the scourges of the rain ; 
 And steadily against its solid form 
 Press the great shoulders of the hurricane." 
 
 Most of Longfellow's poems are characterized by 
 this clearness, picturesqueness, and especially this 
 weight of diction. The effect on the ear is as great as 
 the effect on the eye. We instinctively read his most 
 celebrated pieces aloud. When, as in "Endymion" 
 and "Maidenhood," he succeeds in embodying sub- 
 tile thoughts and melodies, we commonly find that 
 he has failed in reaching his audience of fifty thou- 
 sand readers. The most wonderful poem of this kind 
 in modern English literature is Tennyson's "Echo 
 Song" in "The Princess" — a lyric whose interior 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 215 
 
 music has never been adequately rendered by the 
 voice of any singer or elocutionist. Longfellow's 
 efforts in this direction, though perhaps artistically 
 his best, have never obtained popularity. 
 
 It would be difficult to state in a short address how 
 many avenues Longfellow has opened to the popular 
 heart and brain. The effect of all his writings is to 
 purify as well as to please. Few whose sense of 
 beauty was so keen have combined with it an ethical 
 purpose so high. He belongs to that class of poets, 
 we gratefully remember, who have quickened and 
 strengthened conscience through kindling appeals to 
 the emotions and imagination : 
 
 " Filling' the soul with sentiments august, 
 The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just." 
 
 PEOF. FELIX ADLEE'S ADDEESS. 
 
 You may inquire in wonder why another w^ord 
 should be added to what has already been said. It 
 was our wish to-day that the poet should speak to us 
 of his noble art, and the distinguished critic point 
 out the merits of our Bard. And amply has this wish 
 been fulfilled in the words which you have heard. 
 And yet I speak as one of many thousands who have 
 derived a sweet and restful pleasure from the songs 
 of the dead poet. And it is the desire to say my 
 
2l6 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 thanks, the simple impulse of gratitude, that prompts 
 me to add my humbler tribute to what has already; 
 been said so much better. 
 
 The office of the poet is, indeed, a holy one. Some- 
 times he is both poet and prophet in one. Such a 
 one Longfellow was not. But always he is both poet 
 and priest in one : priest at the sacred shrine of the 
 feelings. But you may think of certain ones who are 
 known as poets, and may ask : Are these, too, to be 
 classed as priests ? Yes ; for as there are false priests 
 in religion, so there are false priests in poetry. There 
 have been priests who converted their temples into 
 temples of lust, and the ceremonies of religion into 
 orgies of wild desire, and lifted up the senses upon 
 tlie pedestals of the gods, and chained the soul xipon 
 the ground. So there are false priests in poetry at 
 the present day — men who are filled vnth the wind of 
 passion and drive lawlessly whithersoever the gusts 
 of desire urge them on ; men who select what is base 
 and foul in human nature to throw over it the gla- 
 mour of their art, and who dip the golden goblets of 
 poetry into the green morass to fill tliem with its rank 
 and fetid waters. Such a one Longfellow was not. 
 He was a white-robed priest — a priest clad in purity. 
 Whatever his clean eyes saw became clean under his 
 gaze ; whatever his fine hands seized became fine un- 
 der his touch. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 217 
 
 Secondly, it behooves us to mention the sympathy 
 with which he responded to the life of nature and of 
 man. He would not have been a poet, indeed, had he 
 been devoid of such sympathy. And yet the quali- 
 ty of his sympathy, the tender pathos that thrills all 
 through it, is peculiar to him. To all his singing 
 may be applied what he himself said of his " Hiawa- 
 tha": that every letter "is full of hope and yet of 
 heart-break"; or what he causes Prince Henry to say 
 in the ' ' Golden Legend " : " This life of ours is a wild 
 ^olian harp of many a joyous strain, but underneath 
 them all there runs a loud, perpetual wail, as of souls 
 in pain." So underneath his verses there seems to 
 run the wail as of a soul in pain. And yet sorrow 
 with him was subdued, and grief did not prevent him 
 from receiving into his heart every mood of nature, 
 and giving forth again in song the echo of all her 
 loveliness and her mystery. Whether he speaks of 
 the stars, which he calls "thoughts of God in the 
 heavens," or, in a childlike way, " the forget-me-nots 
 of the angels " ; whether he tells us of the thunders 
 of the avalanche — those voices in which the mountains 
 open their snowy lips to speak to each other in the 
 primeval language ; whether it is the magic moonlight 
 on Louisiana's lakes, or the wild, wailing winter of 
 the north, where the snow falls ever deeper, deeper, 
 deeper — his soul is still the faithful mirror of nature, 
 
2i8 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and it is tlie very spirit of the scenes lie describes 
 that breathes through him and touches us in his 
 song. 
 
 And as his gentle sympathies go out toward na- 
 ture, so do they lovingly twine around his human 
 fellow-beings. He has the tenderest heart for chil- 
 dren. Listen to these verses which he addresses to 
 the little ones : 
 
 " Ye open the eastern windows, 
 That look towards the sun, 
 Where thoughts are singing swallows 
 And the brooks of morning run. 
 
 " Ye are better than all the ballads 
 That ever were sung or said; 
 For ye are living poems, 
 And all the rest are dead." 
 
 He feels finely for little birds, as is shown by his 
 beautiful poem on Walter von der Vogelweide, where- 
 in he tells how the famous Minnesinger learned his 
 art from the feathered songsters in the air, and out of 
 gratitude made provision in his will that birds should 
 always be fed on his tomb. He has a true sense of 
 the miseries endured by the oppressed, as is shown 
 by his beautiful poem on the Jewish Cemetery at 
 Newport. But, above all, he expresses the noblest 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Z19 
 
 American feeling for woman. And lie has given ns 
 three ideal types of women, of which it is not too 
 much to say that they are likely to become a heri- 
 tage for our remote descendants: Evangeline, the 
 type of woman's fidelity ; Elsie, the type of woman's 
 self-sacrifice ; and the beautiful Minnehaha, the type 
 of wifely fondness. 
 
 I have said that Longfellow is not a poet of the 
 prophetic order. His poetry expresses certain gene- 
 ral tender and noble feelings of the human heart. 
 But the deepest regions of the heart he does not en- 
 ter. The way into those regions lies through strug- 
 gle and conflict. And struggle and conflict, inward 
 as well as outward, the gentle poet shuns-. There- 
 fore the sublimest themes, the profoundest aspira- 
 tions, of our time find no expression in his song. 
 He soothes us, but he does , not stir. Even when he 
 sees great wrongs before him he never strikes the 
 lyre in wrathful chords. The waves of his song do 
 not rise high up against the beetling rocks of wrong ; 
 they do but sob and moan upon the sands below. 
 That such was the case we perceive in his poems on 
 slavery. It was not in his nature to do battle. He 
 appeals to Channing that he should "write and tell 
 out this bloody tale." For his own part he sings 
 of the slave's dream of liberty, or of the noble lady 
 who liberated her slaves, or of the witnesses at the 
 
220 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 bottom of the sea. He sympathizes keenly with the 
 sufferings of the oppressed, but he does not lend a 
 voice to the protest against the wrong of oppression, 
 or against the cruel oppressors. It is only in the 
 last of the series on slavery, in the "Warning," that 
 he rises for a moment to the height of prophecy in 
 speaking of the poor blind Samson of our land, the 
 negro, who may some day raise his hand against the 
 pillar of our commonweal tli and make the vast tem- 
 ple of our liberty a shapeless mass of wreck and 
 rubbish. 
 
 But it is chiefly in one respect that we should re- 
 gard Longfellow as a national poet. It is the mis- 
 sion of the poet to express the spirit of his age and 
 of his people. He must not utter only what he him- 
 self feels ; then he will be no true poet. He must 
 say what all feel ; then all will love him. Because 
 the poet expresses for us what moves all our hearts, 
 but what none of us can express so well as he, there- 
 fore our feelings find their satisfaction in pouring 
 through the channels which his verse has made. 
 And it is because Longfellow reflects in his poetry 
 the spirit of this people that he has come to be so 
 near and dear to the heart of the people. The spirit 
 of the American people is cosmopolitan. So is the 
 spirit of Longfellow's poetry cosmopolitan. We call 
 these United States the commingling place of all na- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 221 
 
 tionalities, and we are proud to draw tlie elements 
 that make up our citizenship from every quarter of 
 the globe. So does Longfellow draw the elements 
 of his poetry from every clime and every time, bor- 
 rowing not only his themes, but also seeking to re- 
 produce the feelings of distant lands and ages ; and 
 lie invites the^ poets of all places and periods, as it 
 were, to an ideal citizenship on the American Par- 
 nassus. From the beginning of his career we see 
 him doing this, and he does not cease doing so 
 until the end. He goes to Spain to reproduce the 
 sombre martial spirit of the Spanish past, in the 
 funeral hymn of Manrique. He goes to Germany 
 for the inspiration of what is, perhaps, the finest 
 of his longer poems, the "Golden Legend" — a poem 
 ringing with the echoes of cloister bells, haunted by 
 visions of castles on- the Rhine, and dim with the 
 dimness of cathedrals. He goes to France to revive 
 the songs of the Troubadours ; to Sweden and Nor- 
 way, to the land of the Vikings, and to far-off Asia. 
 And when he returns to his own America it is even 
 then not so much the life of the present or the an- 
 ticipation of the future that kindles his imagination, 
 but the old traditions, the oldest that such a young 
 American can offer— the legends of the Ojibways, 
 the traditions of the Puritans, and the touching tale 
 of love in an Acadian village, with thatched roofs 
 
222 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and dormer windows — wMch. he rehearses in his 
 flowing verses. 
 
 It is the Past that shines in the eyes of Longfel- 
 low. In him the spirit of America, ere it set out to 
 create the glories of the future, has turned back 
 once more to revisit, as in a dream, the mystic splen- 
 dors of the past. There wiU come hereafter a grander 
 America, a new national life, new attitudes of mind, 
 new and original modes of feeling, new themes for 
 action, new inspirations for song. And a mightier 
 race of bards will then strike the lyre of America. 
 But, however great the future may be, the people 
 will never forget him who was the poet of their 
 younger life, and of whom we may weU say, using 
 his own words concerning another, he was "a noble 
 poet, one whose heart was like a nest of singing 
 birds, rocked on the topmost bough of life." On 
 the topmost bough of life, high up under the clear 
 ether, in the golden light, hung the heart of Long- 
 fellow— that nest of song ! To-day the nest is empty, 
 the singing birds have flown away, but they have 
 flown into the hearts of thousands, and are stOl 
 singing there, and will go on singing for years and 
 years to come, their sweet and purifying music. 
 
LETTEES. 
 
 New York, April 8, 1883. 
 
 What impression would the work of Northern 
 poets, as interpretative of Nature, make on a reader 
 who had never seen the countries, or even the geo- 
 graphical zones, which they describe ? 
 
 The question is a curious one. I may contribute 
 something to it from my own experience. 
 
 I was born and brought up, untU eighteen years 
 old, in a tropical country that is exceptionally fortu- 
 nate in its climate ; winter or rough weather, in the 
 sense of cold, there is none, "nor ever storm blows 
 rudely," and, though the snow lay visibly, nine days 
 out of ten, upon the distant mountain-tops, it was 
 through all my earlier years a mystery to me in its 
 remoteness ; and doubly tantalizing that I was eager- 
 ly reading, day by day, in my father's house by the 
 seaside, of Northern winters and winter sports, of 
 skating, snow-balUng, sleighing, and striving to re- 
 construct in imagination the conditions of life in 
 the fatherland. During these years the touch of 
 
224 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 snow was unknown to me, while all the time the 
 snow itself lay in sight upon the mountain summits. 
 It was naturally to the poets' descriptions of 
 winter and of autumn that I turned with especial 
 interest. Bryant taught me what the American au- 
 tumn was before I had seen its hectic in New Eng- 
 land fields. Longfellow gave me most vivid im- 
 pressions of winter. What pleasure it was to read 
 and read again the " Midnight Mass for the Dying 
 Year," "Woods in Winter," "Afternoon in Febru- 
 ary," and many a pictorial line or passage in the 
 longer poems ! In these I took an interest beyond 
 their strictly poetical or imaginative charm — the in- 
 terest, namely, of a mind seeking to find in those 
 passages something literally interpretative of the 
 alien outward nature which they described, some 
 touch that should put before the inward eye the 
 strange life which the bodily eye had not seen. I 
 may say that the realization was fairly successful, 
 though my efforts had to be supplemented by other 
 viTiters than Longfellow, whose favorite season of the 
 four was rather spring than winter, and who in none 
 of his descriptions practised the extreme minuteness 
 of realistic portraiture that was already becoming a 
 common thing. Wordsworth has shown how unsafe 
 the descriptions even of the professed apostles of 
 Nature maybe. In his poem on the "Influence of 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 225 
 
 Natural Objects," as it first appeared in "The 
 Friend," he describes his sports on the ice; and he 
 tells us that not seldom he left the tumultuous 
 throng of his fellow-skaters 
 
 ' ' To cut across the image of a Star 
 That gleamed upon the ice," 
 
 This is a flagrant example of scholastic athletics that 
 have no counterpart in the possibilities of outward 
 life. Longfellow dared less than Wordsworth in 
 the minutely descriptive way, and consequently lies 
 under the blame of fewer errors of commission. But 
 the positive data which the tropical reader found in 
 his poetry for the reconstruction of the North, with 
 its ice and fogs and tempests, though they were 
 valuable, were not abundant. One thing which the 
 Northern p'oets might have described for the South- 
 ern reader, but inexcusably did not describe, was 
 frozen snow — snow that has been softened and recon- 
 gealed ; and I shall never forget the disappointment 
 caused me by tins culpable neglect on the part of the 
 various poets of Nature whom I had read. For when 
 at last, grown to an active boy, I climbed the sum- 
 mit of Manna Kea to touch the wondrous snow 
 that I had gazed on so long, I found it no fleecy 
 substance, no pile of plastic flakes, but on the 
 contrary a rigid mass of crystals that refused to 
 
226 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 yield to my touch., and clung as stubbornly to the 
 ground as if they were a part of the lava-bed on 
 wbich. they rested. It was a surprise for which I 
 blamed th.e poets. 
 
 Still the poets were full of belp for th.e recon- 
 struction of the N'orth.ern seasons. When first I 
 saw falling snow (I remember it was in the college 
 grounds at New Haven) it seemed a thing familiar 
 enough., and I was glad of this, fearing to be scoffed 
 at for my ignorance. But as none of my companions 
 seemed to suspect it, I confessed to one of them that 
 this was my first snow-storm ; and learned that it 
 was well not to be too frank, as he instantly pro- 
 posed a sound snow-balling as the correct treatment 
 of the stranger from the tropics. Longfellow' s poems 
 had not prepared me for this reception. 
 
 Titus Munson Coan. 
 
 6 East Fourteenth Street, New York, 
 April 10, 1883. 
 
 The death of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow re- 
 minds me once more of some of the pleasantes 
 hours of my youth, and of the evidence of the wide 
 diffusion of his writings as far back as 1853. I was 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 227 
 
 then fresh, from my first enthusiasm in poetry, hav- 
 ing read " Rokeby " with the pleasure that one takes 
 when he enters a new and beautiful land, and eagerly 
 looks forward to the pleasure he anticipates from 
 continued pursuit of its unexplored attractions. Liv- 
 ing then on the enchanting shores of the Bosphorus, 
 at the village of Bebek, in the suburbs of Constanti- 
 nople, where every prospect suggested some historic 
 legend, and every glimpse of the scenery fired the im- 
 agination ; where the climate is of the softest, the 
 landscape hued in the most vivid tints, the people 
 picturesque to the last degree, the nightingale's song 
 pervading the still, moonlit watches of the night, and 
 life steeped in an atmosphere of romance, there could 
 have been no poetry better qualified to please the 
 ardor of a youth spent in that spot than tlie cantos 
 of "Rokeby," the strophes of "Childe Harold," and 
 the pathetic cadences of "Evangeline,", or the state- 
 ly measures of "Nuremberg" and the "Belfry of 
 Bruges." 
 
 ' Already were the poems of Longfellow familiar to 
 the English and American residents at the Turkish 
 capital, and even to some of the better educated of 
 the Greek population, through the choice little vol- 
 umes bearing the imprimatur of Ticknor & Fields, 
 and bound in brown cloth stamped with a design 
 which is well known to all who are familiar with 
 
228 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 American poetry. At the delightful little waterside 
 hamlet of Bebek we English-speaking boys had 
 formed a small literary club, where we recited the- 
 poems of Longfellow, while in our idle hours he was 
 one of our favorites. I well remember often sitting 
 in a certain window overlooking the Bosphorus, 
 watching or sketching the fleets slowly dropping 
 down the azure current from the Black Sea ; nearer 
 by gleamed the gilded spire of the minaret above 
 the grove of chenars beneath whose shade the Turk 
 enjoyed his nargile, and beyond arose the pointed 
 roof of the sultan's pavilion in the Valley of Hea- 
 venly Waters. There we read and reread the admi- 
 rable translation of Jasmin's " Blind Girl of Castel 
 Cuille," and discussed or learned by heart the thrill- 
 ing lines of "Excelsior," or passages from the ro- 
 mance of the heroine of Acadie. The melodious 
 descriptions of American scenery filled ns with long- 
 ings to see the great continent beyond the sea, or 
 the "Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus" thrilled 
 the imagination like a touch of winter and storm 
 suddenly infused into the amenity of the scene npon 
 which we were gazing. An English youth, one of 
 the brightest of our number, was for ever reciting 
 verses from Byron's "Isles of Grreece" or Longfel- 
 low's "Excelsior." About that time also a cloud 
 which for a while threw its shadow over the noonday 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 229 
 
 of our happiness gave peculiar significance to the 
 "Voices of the Mght " and " Resignation" — a poem 
 which has probably contributed more to console the 
 sorrowing than any other poem of its length in the 
 language. 
 
 Was it a small thing that the dead poet should 
 have diffused so widely the influence of his genius, 
 helping to shape character in other lands, to ennoble 
 the heart, to inspire just sentiments of life, and en- 
 courage the inexperienced or the afflict-ed with songs 
 of hope and cheer % With the ever-increasing ad- 
 vance of foreign influences and education in the East 
 it may be safely predicted that the poems of Long- 
 fellow are destined to be more widely read and ap- 
 preciated there for many years to come. 
 
 S. G. W. Benjamin. 
 
 The Studio, New York, April 15, 1883. 
 
 My dear Me. Stoddaed : Ever since my visit 
 to Cambridge to make drawings for your article in 
 Scrribner I have felt glad to have had such an oppor- 
 tunity to know the peculiarly gentle and considerate 
 qualities of mind and heart that characterized Mr. 
 Longfellow. 
 
 On presenting your letter of introduction, making 
 
230 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 known the object of my visit to Cambridge, lie re- 
 ceived me most cordially, and gave me every opportu- 
 nity to do my work. 
 
 His life appeared to be a very busy one, conse- 
 quently I took particular pains not to disturb bim. 
 He quickly perceived this feeling, and would look me 
 up two or three times a day, somewhere about the 
 grounds or in some part of the house, wherever I 
 happened to be. He said one day: "A plate was 
 placed for you at the table yesterday, but when the 
 dinner-hour came I looked for you where I had seen 
 you a moment before, and you were not to be found. 
 You reminded me of a Prince Rupert's drop." 
 
 One lovely, sunny morning, while I was sketch- 
 ing in the rear of the house, sounds of a voice sing- 
 ing, accompanied by a piano, came to me through an 
 open window. Presently Mr. Longfellow came out 
 and asked me to go in and hear the singing, saying a 
 lady friend had called and that she sang so finely he 
 could not let her go without hearing her sing, and 
 that he believed I, too, would enjoy, it. 
 
 The singing was admirable, and song after song 
 was called for. Mr. Longfellow's face expressed the 
 great pleasure he felt. After the music he talked of 
 places and associations vividly recalled by the music. 
 
 On another occasion the conversation drifted upon 
 the immortality of the soul and the future life. He 
 
HENRY WADSWORTB LONGFELLOW. 231 
 
 spoke with great feeling, and expressed a firm belief 
 that we should preserve our identity and that we 
 should aieet our old and loved friends. 
 
 He left upon my mind a strong impression that 
 his life had been spent in a world quite different from 
 the common, and that the beauty of his character had 
 in great part created it. 
 
 Yery truly your friend, 
 
 R. SVPAIW GflFPOED. 
 
 CoMOKD, Mass., April 34, 1883. 
 
 My deak Stodda'ed : It is nearly twenty years 
 since I saw Mr. Longfellow. At that time I was a 
 boy in school or college, and he had for me the in- 
 terest of a handsome historical subject chiefly — an 
 object whose name was Longfellow, and who had 
 written most of the poetry with which at that period 
 I was familiar. But, as you know, he and my father 
 were college friends, and as long as our household 
 held together he was a household word with us. He 
 was among the first to speak up about " Twice-Told 
 Tales." And, on the other hand, my mother used to 
 tell us that my father made him a present of " Evan- 
 geline"; for, the two being in talk together, Haw- 
 thorne alluded to the theme as one that he might 
 
232 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 possibly use in a story, and Longfellow thereupon 
 evinced such a hearty appreciation of the poetical 
 potentialities of it that Hawthorne finally said, with a 
 smile, " WeU, it belongs to you," or words to that 
 effect. I remember reading to my father a few months 
 before he died the passage in " Evangeline " which de- 
 scribes her discovery of her lover in the hospital, and 
 his deatli. He listened with a certain profound and 
 still attention that sometimes characterized him, and 
 at the end seemed inwardly and quietly moved. My 
 mother, who probably had some presentiment even 
 then that her own grief might not be far distant, said 
 to me afterwards, half reproachfully: "Why did 
 you read papa that?" But perhaps it was as fit a 
 word as any other for the time. 
 
 How much or often my father used to read Long- 
 fellow I know not ; but he used to encourage or urge 
 me to learn many of his poems by heart, stimulating 
 my appetite thereto by first reading them aloud to 
 me himself and giving ear afterwards to my declama- 
 tions of them, v^hich were apt to take place during 
 our walks through fields and woods. " The Skeleton 
 in Armor" was one of my first and best-loved acqui- 
 sitions in this kind, and the first "piece" I spoke at 
 school was the passage in "The Building of the Ship " 
 beginning "Thou, too, saU on, O Ship of State!" 
 which my father selected for me, and which (this was 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 233 
 
 in 1861) doubtless had for Mm a sufficiently grave 
 and earnest significance, th.e Ship being then under 
 much stress of weather. "Hiawatha had appeared 
 previously, while we were still in England, and my 
 father chuckled over some parts of it ; but on the 
 whole I think he admired it as much as anything 
 that Longfellow wrote, and returned to it oftener. 
 
 When my father died Longfellow came to the 
 funeral, and I saw him standing at the open grave 
 with his hat off, the sunshine falling on his gray hair. 
 A week or two afterwards he wrote to my mother en- 
 closing the first draft of the eloquent little poem that 
 ends, you remember, 
 
 " Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power. 
 Or the lost clew regain? 
 The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 
 Unfinished must remain " 
 
 — true poetry, and truth, too, if there ever was any. 
 The letter itself was very beautiful and kind, and if I 
 knew where it was I would send it to you. Possibly 
 it may have been published already, for all New Eng- 
 land seems to have taken to writing Longfellow' s bio- 
 graphy. 
 
 Another little poem of his, about the battle in 
 Hampton Roads between the Merrvmae and the 
 Curriberland, was read to my father and me by James 
 
234 HF.NEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 T. Fields before its publication in the A tlantic. Mr. 
 Fields read with, good emphasis and discretion, and 
 my father expressed a strong liking for the poem, 
 which likewise had the distinction of being declaimed 
 by me the following Wednesday at school, much to 
 Mr. Sanborn's edification, he not having, of course, 
 heard it before. 
 
 This pretty nearly exhausts my available reminis- 
 cences of Longfellow. They resemble those of every 
 one else who was brought into any kind of relations 
 with him, in being wholly pleasant. It was easy to 
 comprehend that gracious and gentle character, and 
 impossible not to love him, at least as far as one's 
 comprehension went. He died a few days after my 
 return from a ten years' visit to Europe, so that I had 
 no opportunity to supplement my boyish by any ma- 
 turer knowledge of him. Many famous men are leav- 
 ing us nowadays, but none, perhaps, has been so 
 generally mourned ; and it is certainly much to the 
 general credit that this should be so. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 Julian Hawthoene. 
 
 Boston Public Library, May 5, 1883. 
 
 Mt dear Stoddard : I have delayed answering 
 your letter because I did not know what to say ; nor 
 
HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 235 
 
 do I now, only this : A thousand words, or ten thou- 
 sand, might be written about "some uncollected 
 poems of Longfellow." There are, as you weU know, 
 a dozen or more which were printed in his college 
 days, of which only four or five were published in 
 his collected writings as "earlier poems." 
 
 A reference to these, with a few lines and stanzas 
 culled from them here and there as specimens, might 
 be prefaced by an account of the circumstances under 
 which they were published in the United 'States Lit- 
 erary Gazette. This Gazette has a history not with- 
 out interest ; for among the contributors to its first 
 volumes, contemporaneously with the Longfellow boy, 
 were Bryant, Percival, Grenville Mellen, etc., etc., 
 all of which you know, and more too. 
 
 In a letter in my collection, written to the editor, 
 Longfellow aspired to be associate editor of the 
 journal ; and from this some extracts might be made. 
 You see the nature of the materials which might be 
 worked up into a readable chapter by "a literary 
 feUer " who has a light hand and deft touch for such 
 matters, the which I neither am nor have. 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Mellebt Chambeelaiw. 
 
236 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The Century, New York, May 8, 1881. 
 
 Mt deae Stoddaed : You ask me to tell you 
 what I may know of Mr. Longfellow. I wisk I 
 could say I knew Mm ; yet tke little I saw of Mm — 
 only twice — made me seem at least to know the 
 genial, kindly, true poetic nature of the man. I met 
 him first at the University Press, in Cambridge, and 
 was introduced to Mm by my friend, that most 
 capable of printers, Mr. Welch. Mr. Longfellow 
 seemed to know something of me, greeted me very 
 cordially, and asked me to walk up with Mm to his 
 house. I had the pleasure of doing so and of talk- 
 ing an hour with him, he inquiring of many English 
 matters, among others, I recollect, of the poems of 
 my old friend, W. B. Scott. Need I say it was a 
 pleasant hour, memorable, though I do not pretend 
 to repeat anything he said ? This must have been ten 
 years ago. Some two years ago I ventured to call 
 again to introduce the editor of the American Art 
 .Retiiew, Mr. Koehler, we wanting some authorization 
 or aid from Mr. Longfellow in order to obtain per- 
 mission to copy a certain portrait. Mr. Longfellow 
 himself opened the door to us, and on my asking if 
 he recollected me, answered graciously that he did, 
 and took us into his sitting-room. Our visit being 
 really on business, we did not feel justified in pro- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 237 
 
 longing it, thougli certainly we were not hurried off ; 
 and again I recall tlie pleasantness of a most infor- 
 mal and kindly reception. This is nothing to teU 
 you, but it is much for me to recoUect. I saw and 
 spoke with him — that was enough. 
 
 W. J. LlWTON. 
 
 AsTOR Library, New York, May 8, 1883. 
 
 Among the cherished memories of distinguished 
 men of letters, in both hemispheres, it has been my 
 privilege to have met, not the least interesting is that 
 of Professor Longfellow. Some few summers since, 
 when visiting the "modern Athens of America," 
 and in company with a clerical friend from Newton, 
 we drove to the classic town of Cambridge, so re- 
 nowned for its halls of learning and its picturesque 
 beauties, both of nature and art. We caUed at the 
 Craigie House to pay our respects to Mr. Longfellow, 
 and we were not only so fortunate as to find him at 
 leisure, but he received us with such courteous ur- 
 banity and unostentatious kindness as at once made 
 us feel at ease in his presence, and led to a very 
 interesting conversation concerning literature and 
 literary men, his travels in Europe, etc. 
 
 Not having noted down any memoranda of these 
 items, many, or most of them, have now escaped my 
 memory ; and yet, now that he has passed away, 
 
238 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 even fragments of Ms wise words possess for us a 
 value unknown before. His generous, and even en- 
 thusiastic, praise of tlie works of several of his bro- 
 ther bards was conspicuous, as illustrative of his 
 native modesty — the modesty of true genius. In this 
 respect he not only resembled Washington Irving, 
 but also no less in his kindliness of nature and gen- 
 tle courtesy of deportment. As we entered the his- 
 toric home of th.e poet the first object that met our 
 gaze was the quaint "old clock on tbe stairs," and, 
 passing into the drawing-room, we were cordially 
 received by the host, although my acquaintance witli 
 him had Mtherto been merely by correspondence. 
 This reception-room was decked and garnished with 
 great artistic taste, the walls being covered with 
 choice paintings and portraits, while the bookcases 
 were surmounted with statuary, and the tables load- 
 ed with valuable relics and objects of virtu and bi- 
 jouterie. In fine, this presence-chamber looked like 
 a combination of a poet's pleasaunce and an artist's 
 studio. In course of our gossip, having referred to 
 the great popularity of Mr. Ruskin in England, and 
 also in the United States, as an authority in the de- 
 partment of Art Criticism, Mr. Longfellow replied : 
 "He resembles a squadron of cavalry sweeping 
 all before them and taking the field. Ruskin is 
 a master of style," he continued, "and, although 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 339 
 
 not wholly nnimpeacliable, lie is usually correct." 
 When the names were mentioned of James Russell 
 Lowell, the author of the "Autocrat of the Break- 
 fast-Table," and Whittier, he did not fail to recog- 
 nize and applaud their distinctive and characteristic 
 merits. And yet more earnestly did lie accord to 
 Ealph "Waldo Emerson his high meed of fame. It 
 was our good fortune to visit the philosopher on the 
 following day, and to listen to his sententious vris- 
 dom for a brief, delightful hour. Mr. Longfellow 
 took us through his several apartments and into 
 sundry nooks and corners, in which many a precious 
 tome was carefully treasured and "kept from eyes 
 profane." When travelling in Italy, he said, he 
 found an incomplete set of Bodoni's celebrated edi- 
 tion of Dante ; it lacked but one volume, yet, im- 
 perfect as it was, it was too great a prize to be lost 
 or left behind, so he brought the volumes home with 
 him, never expecting to find the missing one. To his 
 joyful surprise, however, he found it, some months 
 after his return home, at a bookstall in an obscure 
 street of Boston. His eye lighted up with evident 
 pleasure and pride as he exhibited to us the now 
 complete set of this dainty edition of Dante. Just 
 as we were about to take our leave he referred to 
 the splendidly illustrated edition, in two volumes 
 quarto, of his Complete Works, and expressed his 
 
240 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 unqualified pleasure and satisfaction at the rare 
 beauty of the designs and the typography. He also 
 mentioned the fact that such was the scarcity of the 
 first edition of his poems that a copy had been 
 offered for sale at five hundred dollars. The home 
 of Professor Longfellow — which has been often de- 
 scribed by the pen and portrayed by the pencil — like 
 the quaint, picturesque Cottage at Sunnyside, and 
 that of the Sage of Concord, is so well known to the 
 lovers of elegant literature and poesy that hereafter 
 many pilgrim feet will wend their way thither, as to 
 the "Meccas of the mind," to pay their tribute of 
 grateful regard. And for myself, never shall the 
 delightful episode of a summer vacation be lost to 
 memory that brought me face to face, for a brief 
 interval, with one of the most gifted and genial of 
 men I have ever met ; and, if I may cite the words 
 of an eminent English author and tourist who 
 shared the like pleasure, I would add, "Nor shall I 
 ever forget that I have been permitted to touch the 
 hand and to listen to the discourse, full of calm, and 
 wise, and gentle things, of a noble American gentle- 
 man—of him who wrote the ' Psalm of Life,' ' The 
 Village Blacksmith,' and 'Evangeline' ; of him 
 whose life has been blameless, whose record is 
 pure, whose name is a sound of fame to all peo- 
 ple." Feedeeick Satjndees. 
 
HEXRY WADSWOETH LOKGFELLOW. 
 
 (AN IMPBOVISATJON.) 
 
 The clamorous, sorrowful bells 
 Are swinging out their knells. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Def unctos ploro ! 
 Pestem f ugo ! 
 Festa decoro ! 
 
 Moating under heaven's wide arch, 
 
 Along on the boisterous winds of March, 
 
 Over the multitudinous street, 
 
 Where, hushed with awe, the mourners meet, 
 
 Are flinging about their knells, 
 
 As when the great oi^an sinks and swells. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Funera plango ! 
 Fulgura frango! 
 Sabbata pango 1 
 
 Winging their ghostly way above, 
 Like the snow-white Pentecostal Dove ; 
 Singing the being just begun : 
 This is my well-beloved son, 
 
 2il 
 
242 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 On his journey to Paradise, . 
 With its light in his eyes ; 
 Saying: " Benedictus qui venis; 
 Manibus o date lilia plenis" ; 
 Passing the houses, hung with black, 
 As though the world was a- wrack ; 
 Passing the hearses, with nodding plumes, 
 Sable as night ; passing the tombs. 
 
 Daily and nightly 
 
 Gleaming whitely, 
 As when March snoweth. 
 He Cometh and goeth. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Laudo Deum verum! 
 Congrego clerum ! 
 
 Who are those that come on the Atlantic waves to the west- 
 ward. 
 
 Crossing in low, little vessels, a fair-haired Germanic people. 
 
 Masters of horses and steers, the wit of the wise and wary. 
 
 Masters, and stalwart of arm, that know not to be down- 
 trodden? 
 
 These are the sons of the meadows of Yorkshire, sons of the 
 Aldens. 
 
 Summers two hundred and thirty departed in old-fashioned 
 England • 
 
 Since the first of these comers, stout William, was christened 
 Longfellow. 
 
 William crossed ov er in youth with others, and landed elated. 
 
H^NRY WADSWORTH LOMGFELLOW. 243 
 
 Soon was he happily wed to a maiden, his neighbor, Anne 
 Sewall. 
 
 WUliam and Anne ere long were the parents — for they were 
 prolific — 
 
 Who knows of how many children, with grandchildren — last of 
 all Stephen, 
 
 Sire of the sweet singer, Henry, who late, to our sorrow, de- 
 parted. 
 
 Such was the birth and such were the parents of Longfellow, 
 Poet. 
 
 Duly in the morning. 
 
 With his satchel in his hands, 
 
 Childe Henry hastened school ward 
 
 And into faery lands : 
 
 A studious youth who conned his books. 
 
 Which were to him like wayside brooks 
 
 That sparkled 
 
 And darkled 
 
 As is the look of country streams 
 
 To wee, wee boys in summer dreams — 
 
 Such as our young master. 
 
 All alive. 
 
 Like a bee in his hive, 
 
 Singing faster and faster. 
 
 When twice the teens came round him 
 The rooms of Bowdoin bound him; 
 There with many a college-mate. 
 Some of them jocund, some sedate, 
 One of them famous, another great. 
 
244 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
 
 Mighty was Captain Nathaniel, 
 
 Whose father was lost at sea ; 
 
 With the insight of Hebrew Daniel, 
 
 Seer of men was he, 
 
 And will be ever, the world now knows ; 
 
 Sharp as the hawthorn, sweet as the rose. 
 
 They studied shelves of learned tomes. 
 
 Both in and out of season — 
 
 Georgeous Cheever who chose the Church, 
 
 And the Abbott of Unreason. 
 
 What is the ditty that Hawthorne sings, 
 
 Like a little robin that prunes its wings ? 
 
 " We are beneath the dark blue sky. 
 
 And the moon is shining bright ; 
 Oh ! what can lift the soul so high 
 
 As the glow of a summer night, 
 When all the gay are hushed to sleep. 
 And they that mourn forget to weep, 
 
 Beneath that gentle light ? " 
 
 And what is the song that Henricus sings. 
 
 Like an angel that spreads his new-come wings ? 
 
 He chants the hymns that he hears at Church 
 
 To the drone of the dull precentor. 
 
 Who sometimes leaves the choir in the lurch, 
 
 A sorry sort of Mentor ; 
 
 Dirges for dead folk, lauds for the living, 
 
 And evermore Thanksgiving, 
 
 Then to the tinkle of light guitars. 
 
 Under Venetian moon and stars. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 24S 
 
 He trills, where gondolas glide, 
 
 His donna by his side. 
 
 " Fair Juliet ! oh ! ease the woe 
 
 Of your heart-breaking Romeo ; 
 
 O Eosaline ! be love of mine, 
 
 For my sick soul doth peak and pine. 
 
 Marino ! no, it must not be ; 
 
 Fly for your Ufe, O Foscari ! 
 
 Or the Doges will cease to wed the sea ! 
 
 The Bucentaur will nevermore 
 
 Put proudly from old Adria's shore ; 
 
 For note, a Shadow mounting stark 
 
 Upon the Wing'd Steed of St. Mark ! 
 
 Whence doth that fearful cry arise ? 
 
 What dark Shape crosses the Bridge of Sighs ? 
 
 The Council of Ten are One — 
 
 The deed of death will be done." 
 
 The pupil becomes Professor 
 
 Of Languages and Letters ; 
 
 Able they knew at twenty-two 
 
 To teach his elders^not betters ; 
 
 For better than poets none can be, 
 
 So their hearts are high and their souls are free. 
 
 Imagine where our Professor went, 
 
 Seeking the clerkly Continent ; 
 
 Over the sunk Atlantides; 
 
 Between the Pillars of Hercules ; 
 
 Past Calpe, and the Afric shore, 
 
 Where Hanno sailed in days of yore, 
 
246 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Dipping his weary oar 
 
 From Nothing into the Nevermore — 
 
 For Carthage is fall'n, and Hannibal 
 
 Has gone — great hero — the way of all 1 
 
 Conceive the course our Pilot steered, 
 
 The coasts that appeared and disappeared, 
 
 The mirror of blue 
 
 His bark went through, 
 
 The mountains that rose and sunk again, 
 
 The firmament and the under-plain ; 
 
 Hither and thither, as sea-birds wheel, 
 
 Pushes his prow and glides his keel ; 
 
 Jason reaching the Golden Fleece, 
 
 And the Isle of the Hesperides, 
 
 Where the guarded apples are rosy mellow, 
 
 And drop in the hands of this good fellow: 
 
 Evoe Bacchus ! lo Pcean ! 
 
 Over the waves of the glad ^gean ! 
 
 (LONGFELLOW VATES LOQUITUR.) 
 
 " Genius of Petrarch! guide my willing pen, 
 WhUe I essay therewith an amorous lay, 
 Such as thou shapedst for Laura — well-a-day, 
 
 Priest as thou wert, thou hadst the lover's ken ; 
 
 So had thy greater, Dante, man of men. 
 For grimly daring in the downward way. 
 To the Inferno, whence its punished may 
 
 Perchance emerge — oh ! tell us, Vergil, when ? 
 
 A nun my spirit hath perceived in dreams, 
 Like her whom Milton saw through Cambridge trees, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 247 
 
 What time he slumbered by the reedy shore 
 Of Camus, lucidest of poetic streams, 
 Sacred to chaste Sabrina, couched at ease 
 On sliding waves that waft her back no more. 
 
 Lordlings, will ye hear me tell. 
 If I can, of poor Rudel ? 
 How the dreamer lived to reach 
 The far Tripolitan beach, 
 Though he was deprived of speech; 
 How the Countess, as was meet, 
 Kissed him, dymg at her feet ? 
 Or is Pierre Vidal your friend, 
 Who of Troubadours was first. 
 Who celebrated each diurna, 
 Now Le Louve and now Na Vierna, 
 Fond and fickle to the end ? 
 No ; a manlier strain be mine : 
 True love, losing, does not whine ; 
 Such a gracious strain was thuie, 
 Masterful Poet, most Divine ! 
 
 Shut here at Bankside by the loathed stage, 
 My fancy wanders through Verona's streets, 
 Where by the moonlight in unnatural rage 
 Rash Eomeoj reft of reason, Tybalt meets ; 
 So would not I my lover, who I know 
 Doth much abuse my poor, confiding faith. 
 Wild Heart ! why trample on thy vassal so, 
 Strange Rose of Beauty, who arts till my scathe ? 
 
248 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Can no two men be true when comes between 
 Their twin-dear souls a woman — fiend, I say, 
 For such is she, my bane, that is thy Queen, 
 Poor Marlowe's fatal Hero, born to slay. 
 But her I love no longer 5 stronger far 
 Over me rises now a western star. 
 
 The Phosphor Nun sets slowly where I am. 
 
 Behind these dim old wharves of Rotterdam; 
 
 But Hesper floateth hither, for she sees 
 
 I yearn for the rich dusk of Cambridge trees, 
 
 The shadows of my immemorial elms, 
 
 Wherethrough a sunset glory overwhelms 
 
 The life that is, foretelling that to be. 
 
 When she I love bethinks her to love me ; 
 
 And from our heaven-made marriage nuptial joys 
 
 Shall bourgeon into beauteous girls and boys. 
 
 Whose tiny feet, that creep in unawares, 
 
 Tick with the half -heard Clock upon the stairs, 
 
 Under the roof that sheltered One 
 
 Who was the New World's noblest son, 
 
 Fatherless father of generations, 
 
 Which will break into sorest lamentations 
 
 When he, who is as strong as just. 
 
 Sinks down, as all must sink, to dust; 
 
 Going down, as I — I see my going — 
 
 Not when June winds but March are blowing, 
 
 Done to death, but not afraid. 
 
 Who made will care for what He made. 
 
 Rapt in a wind of prophecy 
 
 (Or does a Presence speak through me ?) 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 249 
 
 I know to-day what I shall be. 
 
 Not of myself — I am but lent, 
 
 To Something a ready instrument, 
 
 Subject to that, as to winds the lute, 
 
 Powerless the high gods to salute — 
 
 Nothing, but all when breathed upon 
 
 By the awful mouth of the Unseen One ! 
 
 Therefore I say that I shall teach 
 
 Thousands in sinewy Saxon speech, 
 
 Out of French, German, and Spanish 
 
 Recall what the ages strove to banish : 
 
 Chansons as light as a humming-bird's wing ; 
 
 A song of sorrow a seraph might sing 
 
 (" Yo el Re!" doth Death repeat 
 
 To Don Jorge in the skirmish near Canavete) ; 
 
 The three Worlds of the Florentine, 
 
 Whose soul re-risen hath entered mine ; 
 
 A Danish stave, where cannon roar; 
 
 A tavern-ballad of Elsinore, 
 
 Trolled in the castle where Hamlet dwells, 
 
 Where the jester Yorick jangles his bells ; 
 
 A quiet alehouse on the Rhine, 
 
 Where I with other old comrades dine, 
 
 Burschen all, and dozens of stein, 
 
 (There is no harm in this good wine) ; 
 
 Lays such as Michael Drayton sang. 
 
 Whose lines like swords upon armor rang; 
 
 Homeric hexameters restored 
 
 To honor the Supper of our Lord ; 
 
 Oalderon, a little sub rosa, 
 
 To glance at the dancing of Preciosa ; 
 
250 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Belgic carillons (none can be purer) ; 
 
 The Nuremberg of Albrecht Diirer; 
 
 A-building of ships, and sailor lore ; 
 
 The lost playmate that comes no more ; 
 
 Indian Eddas, old as the leaves 
 
 That whirl through their woods on autumn eves ; 
 
 Spirits of bird and beast at one, 
 
 Human as we, when all is done ; 
 
 The elements in their natural shapes, 
 
 What pursues and what escapes ; 
 
 Runic sages, rough and wrong ; 
 
 Tartar, mayhap, and Turkman song; 
 
 A Golden Legend, not beat out thin ; 
 
 A hundred Tales of a Wayside Inn ; 
 
 Rabbis, musicians, scientists, doctors, 
 
 Very reverend dons and proctors ; 
 
 There will be no end to the songs I sing, 
 
 TUl the cold hand shatters my string. 
 
 Then the world will own it has missed us, 
 
 When we quit it like Trismegistus ! 
 
 These make me beloved in a hundred lands. 
 
 And give me the grasp of a million hands. 
 
 The friendship of man, woman, child. 
 
 Who are to mortality reconciled. 
 
 Poets will love me, peoples crown — 
 
 With one only sorrow that will not down; 
 
 Darkly it looms like a funeral pyre 
 
 Where what was woman is lapped in fire ! 
 
 Jesu merci I But no, if it must. 
 
 Let the heavens fall, we know Whom to trust. 
 
 The end will come when my beard is white. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 251 
 
 Will suddenly come in a still March night. 
 For hark ! I hear — they are drawing near — 
 The clamorous, sorrowful bells 
 Wherewith Mount Auhurn tells 
 That a singer has crossed its portals 
 And joined the immortals. 
 The holy Mount Auburn bells 
 Are pealing their farewell knells." 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Fnnera ■plango I 
 Fulgura frango ! 
 Sabbata pango ! 
 
 Kyrie eleison ! 
 
 Christe eleison I 
 
 Passion Suitoat, March 25-36, 1882. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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