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BORN FEB. 27, 1807. DIED MAR. 24, 1882. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW 
 
 Biography. Axecdote, Letters, Criticism 
 
 BY 
 
 W. SLOANE KENNEDY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "POEMS OF THE WEIRD AND THE MYSTICAL," ETC. 
 
 A Student of old books and days, 
 
 To whom all tongues and lands were known, 
 
 And yet a lover of his own : 
 
 With many a social virtue graced, 
 
 And yet a friend of solitude ; 
 
 A man of such a genial mood 
 
 The heart of all things he embraced, 
 
 And yet of such fastidious taste, 
 
 He never found the best too good. 
 
 Tales of n Wayside Inn. 
 
 PORTRAIT AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 
 MOSES KING, PUBLISHER 
 
 HARVARD SQUARE 
 

 
 
 Copyright by 
 
 MOSES KING, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., 
 
 1882. 
 
 JFranWm press : 
 
 RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
PEEFAOE. 
 
 TT is the part of a host who is entertaining a distinguished 
 -*- company to keep himself in the background, and see that 
 his guests are properly introduced and grouped. What is 
 true of a social gathering is true of such a work as the 
 present : it is eclectic in character, a mosaic of the choicest 
 thoughts of many minds, — for the most part digested and 
 incorporated into a continuous narrative by one whose own 
 personality is kept as much as possible out of view, — thus 
 fully justifying the pleasant and characteristic remark of 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes : " Your book," he said, " is like a 
 huckleberry-pie, containing a great many good huckleberries 
 and very little batter." 
 
 Materials for a biography of Longfellow were abundant and 
 rich. Much had been written about him previous to his 
 death ; and, after that event, reminiscences, anecdotes, and 
 reviews appeared in profusion, both at home and abroad. 
 Whatever was of permanent value and interest in this pub- 
 lished material has been culled for the present work, due 
 credit being given to the authors in every case. But scattered 
 throughout the volume are very many anecdotes and reminis- 
 cences now for the first time published. They were obtained 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 by personal conversation and correspondence with friends of 
 the poet. Authorities have been consulted at first hand 
 whenever it was possible. Proof-slips were sent to those 
 whose writings are quoted in the volume, and many correc- 
 tions and improvements have been made hy them. Proof- 
 sheets of the entire volume have been carefully read in 
 detail by several eminent men of letters who were intimate 
 friends of the poet. To these gentlemen, and to all who have 
 given their generous aid and advice, the writer renders most 
 sincere thanks. Yet, after all, such work as this is its own 
 reward. It is impossible to study so pure a life as this vol- 
 ume commemorates, without receiving some of its lustre and 
 perfume into one's own nature. 
 
 Besides the full biographical, anecdotical, and critical in- 
 formation furnished in the following pages, there are also 
 given Mr. Longfellow's juvenile poems hitherto unpub- 
 lished in America in book form, his letters to various 
 persons, a selection of poetical tributes, and a Longfellow 
 bibliography. It is believed that all readers of the juvenile 
 poems will find in their quiet beauty and tender purity of 
 sentiment abundant justification for their presentation here, 
 although they were not considered by their author to be 
 worthy of preservation in permanent form. It is interesting 
 to see, that, from the first note to the last of our poet's 
 songs, hardly one discord, or one instance of bad taste, can 
 be found. 
 
 Cambridge, Mass., May 15, 1882. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Biography . 9-166 
 
 Anecdotes and Letters 167-258 
 
 General Criticism 259-306 
 
 Poets' Tributes 307-334 
 
 Early Poems 335-352 
 
 Bibliography 353-362 
 
 Index 363-368 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Birthplace 17 
 
 Children's Arm-chair 119 
 
 Corner in the Poet's Study 251 
 
 Craigie House 45 
 
 Craigie House, "West Side 51 
 
 Craigie House, Mall on "West Side 177 
 
 Early Home 8 
 
 Elmwood Ill 
 
 Portrait 2 
 
 Howe Tavern (the Wayside Inn) 93 
 
 Old Round Tower, Newport 239 
 
 Profile Portrait 149 
 
 St. John's Memorial Chapel 305 
 
 The Poet's Study 155 
 
LONGFELLOW'S EARLY HOME. 
 
henby Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 BIOGEAPHY. 
 
 INFLUENCES THAT MOULDED HIS CHARACTER. 
 
 IT is no accident that the writings of the six chief 
 New England poets — Emerson, Longfellow, Whit- 
 tier, Bryant, Holmes, and Lowell — should be charac- 
 terized by exquisite moral purity. All of these poets, 
 except Whittier, are of Puritan stock ; and their poems 
 are nearly all suffused with a subtle moral atmosphere, 
 — as are also the romances and stories of Hawthorne. 
 
 The town of Portland, Me., where on the 27th of 
 February, 1807, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was 
 born, and the town of Brunswick, where, as a student 
 in Bowdoin College, he passed some years of his youth, 
 are, like the towns of Connecticut, pervaded by a spirit 
 of the most austere Puritanism. In the days of Long- 
 fellow's boyhood, this stern religious spirit was all- 
 dominant. Each community, in those days, was a little 
 theocracy. Tocqueville rightly says that the New Eng- 
 land town-meeting was the germinal unit of American 
 democracy ; but the town-meeting was ruled by the 
 pulpit and the pew. William Willis, in his history of 
 Portland, tells us that as late as the first quarter of 
 
10 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the present century public dancing in that town was 
 prohibited by law, and cases of actual arrest for the 
 violation of the law are noted. The inhabitants fought 
 with tireless persistency all attempts to introduce the- 
 atres and theatrical performances into the town. It 
 was not until 1831 that a theatre was built in Free 
 Street. It was a small affair, and never nourished, and 
 in 1836 was sold to a Baptist society for a church. 
 
 There were very few public amusements in the Port- 
 land of that day, and such as were in vogue were of a 
 very homespun character. Mr. Willis says (p. 783) 
 that " it was common for clubs and social parties to 
 meet at the tavern in those days ; and Mrs. Greele's, in 
 Congress Street, was a place of most fashionable resort 
 for both old and young wags before, as well as after, the 
 Revolution. It was the Eastcheap of Portland, and was 
 as famous for baked beans as the ' Boar's Head ' was for 
 sack." In an old number of The Cumberland Gazette 
 we read of a " spinning-bee," given at the house of the 
 Rev. Samuel Deane. Sixty fair hands made music with 
 the humming of sixty wheels, and near the close of the 
 day the company presented to Mrs. Deane two hundred 
 and twenty-four skeins of cotton and linen yarn spun 
 that day. Homely amusements enough, these ! 
 
 The Wheelers, in their history of Brunswick, Me., 
 say (p. 214) that " about 1821 an attempt was made to 
 introduce a bass-viol into the church of the First Parish ; 
 but the project was thwarted by Mr. William Randall, 
 an influential member of the societ} T , who declared that 
 he ' wouldn't hear a fiddle in God's house.' '' 
 
 Wagons were not introduced into Brunswick until 
 1816 or 1817, and there had been but two or three 
 carts in the town previous to that date. The first car- 
 
PATERNAL ANCESTORS. 11 
 
 pet ever made in Topsham (a neighboring village) 
 was made in 1799 by Miss Margaret Rogers, the late 
 Mrs. Nathaniel Greene. The first theatrical perform- 
 ance in Brunswick was given in 1828, for one week, at 
 Nichols Hall, by a company of comedians from the 
 Tremont Theatre, Boston. 1 In 1826 a man named 
 John Cleaves Symmes gave a course of three lectures 
 on an interior world which he maintained was open to 
 voyagers in the southern hemisphere. u His lectures 
 were well attended, and were listened to with respect and 
 interest " / 
 
 Such were some of the surroundings of Longfellow's 
 boyhood. The kind of societ}" described in the local 
 histories above quoted is similar to that depicted in 
 books on Connecticut history and antiquities ; such, for 
 instance, as the pleasant little book entitled " New Con- 
 necticut," recently published by Mr. A. Bronson Alcott; 
 or in such works as the Life of Horace Bushnell. 
 
 THE POET'S PATERNAL ANCESTORS. 
 
 Let us now turn our attention first to the paternal, 
 and then to the maternal ancestry of the poet. The 
 American ancestor of the Longfellow family was Wil- 
 liam Longfellow of Newbury, Mass., who came to this 
 country from Yorkshire, Eng., about the year 1651. 
 He was the great-great-great-grandfather of the poet, 
 and the lineal succession is as follows : — 
 
 William, merchant. 
 Stephen (1), blacksmith 
 Stephen (2), teacher, etc. 
 
 Stephen (3), judge. 
 
 Stephen (4), lawyer and legislator. 
 
 Henry Wads worth, the poet. 
 
 1 The entertainment of the evening consisted of Tobin's comedy of 
 " The Honeymoon," and the farce of " The Young Widow." 
 
12 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Of William Longfellow this much is known, that he 
 was a merchant in the parish of Byfield, Newbury ; that 
 he married Anne Sewall ; and that in 1690, as ensign 
 of a Newbury company, he took part in the ill-fated 
 expedition of Sir William Phips against Quebec. The 
 fleet, on its return, was overtaken by a violent storm in 
 the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the vessel containing 
 the Newbury company went ashore at the desolate 
 island of Anticosti. William Longfellow and nine 
 others were drowned. 
 
 Of Stephen (1) the blacksmith, little is known. He 
 married Abigail Thompson of Marshfield. 
 
 His son, Stephen (2), graduated at Harvard in 1742. 
 Stephen (2) was the first of the Portland Longfellows, 
 coming to the town, April 11, 1745, by invitation of 
 Parson Thomas Smith, to act as teacher. Portland 
 was then called the Neck. Stephen was schoolmaster 
 of the town for fifteen years (1745-60). His father, 
 dying in 1764, left him a small legacy. The son sent 
 the silver coin to Boston for the purpose of having it 
 converted into a memorial silver-service. Unfortu- 
 nately the vessel by which it was sent was lost, and 
 the coin with it. But Stephen immediately made up 
 the amount, and sent it to Boston, this time success- 
 fully, where it was manufactured, by the silversmith 
 John Butler, into a tankard, a can, and two porringers, 
 each piece bearing the initials S. L., and the words ex 
 dono pat r is. " The tankard has been preserved ; and one 
 of the porringers, after a somewhat eventful history, 
 has found its way back into the family, and is one of 
 the treasures of the poet's brother, Alexander W. 
 Longfellow." Stephen (2) held many important town 
 offices. It is interesting to find that his handwriting, 
 
HIS FATHER. 13 
 
 like that of his great-grandson the poet, was beautiful 
 and clear, " symbolical of the purity and excellence of 
 his own moral character." He married Tabitha Brag- 
 don of York in 1749, and died at Gorham in 1790. 
 
 Stephen (8), son of Stephen (2), was born in 1750, 
 married Patience Young of York, and died at his home 
 in Gorham in 1824. He represented Gorham in the 
 Massachusetts General Court for eight years; was. for 
 several years senator from Cumberland County, and 
 judge of the Court of Common Pleas from 1797 to 1811. 
 " He was a fine-looking gentleman, with the bearing of 
 the old school ; was erect, portly, rather taller than the 
 average, had a strongly marked face, and his hair was 
 tied behind in a 'club' with black ribbon. To the 
 close of his life he wore the old-style dress, — knee- 
 breeches, a long waistcoat, and white top-boots. He 
 was a man of sterling qualities of mind and heart, great 
 integrity, and sound common-sense." 
 
 Stephen (4), son of Stephen (8), was born in Gorham 
 in 1776, and was the father of Henry Wadsworth Long- 
 fellow, the poet. Stephen (4) entered Harvard College 
 in 1794, and graduated in 1798. Daniel Appleton 
 White, a college friend, said of him, that "he was evi- 
 dently a well-bred gentleman when he left the paternal 
 mansion for the universitj^. He seemed to breathe the 
 atmosphere of purity as his native element ; while his 
 bright intelligence, buoyant spirits, and social warmth 
 diffused a sunshine of joy that made his presence always 
 gladsome." He graduated with rank and honors. Re- 
 turning to Portland, he entered the law-office of Salmon 
 Chase (an uncle of Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase), and 
 in 1804 married Zilpah, eldest daughter of Gen. Peleg 
 Wadsworth. Stephen's sister, Abigail Longfellow, had 
 
14 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 married Samuel Stephenson, a rich merchant of Port- 
 land. In the winter of 1806-7, Mr. Stephenson having 
 gone to the West Indies on business, his wife invited 
 her brother Stephen and his wife to spend the winter at 
 her house, which they did ; and there Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow was born, Feb. 27, 1807. 1 He was named 
 from his uncle, Lieut. Henry Wadsworth of the United 
 States navy, who lost his life at Tripoli on the night 
 of Sept. 4, 1804, in a gallant attempt to destroy the 
 enemy's flotilla by a fire-ship. 
 
 In the spring of 1807 Gen. Peleg Wadsworth, the 
 maternal grandfather of the future poet, removed to 
 Hiram on the Saco River in order to occupy and im- 
 prove seventy-five hundred acres of wild land granted 
 him in consideration of his military services. Ac- 
 cordingly Stephen Longfellow took up his residence 
 in the Wadsworth house at Portland, and made it 
 thenceforth his home. This venerable brick building is 
 still standing, and, together with the Stephenson house 
 where the poet was born, attracts the attention of most 
 visitors to the city. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 was the second son, the first being named Stephen. 
 Besides these there were afterwards born two other 
 sons, Alexander Wadsworth and Samuel, and four 
 daughters, Elizabeth, Anne, Mary, and Ellen. The old 
 Wadsworth (or Longfellow) house on Congress Street 
 is now occupied by the poet's sister, Mrs. Anne L. 
 Pierce, and contains many interesting relics of the 
 Longfellow family. The Stephenson house (the poet's 
 birthplace) is also still standing on its original site, cor- 
 ner of Fore and Hancock Streets. It is now used as 
 a tenement-house. 
 
 1 It is a fact not generally known, that the poet Nathaniel Parker 
 Willis was also born in Portland in this same year. 
 
BYFIELD PEOPLE. 15 
 
 Before passing on to speak of Gen. Peleg Wadsworth 
 and the other maternal ancestors of the poet, let us 
 return for a moment to speak of the By field Longfellows 
 in Newbury, Mass. Byfield is the original " home- 
 nest " of the family. It is an interesting fact that the 
 families of the two poets, Whittier and Longfellow, 
 should have originated in the same neighborhood. The 
 Longfellow homestead in Byfield is only about five 
 miles distant from the old Whittier homestead in East 
 Haverhill. Near Byfield were born Cornelius Conway 
 Felton, president of Harvard University ; Professor 
 Parker Cleaveland, Judge Tenney of Maine, the poet 
 Albert Pike, and Chief Justice Parsons. The Byfield 
 Longfellows are prominent in local politics. One of 
 them, Joseph, who is quite a wit, says that when he was 
 a young man he was ashamed of his name, as he was 
 literally a Long-fellow. But when Henry Wadsworth 
 became famous, and people asked him if he were a 
 kinsman of his, he became proud of the name. 
 
 In February, 1882, Mr. Horace F. Longfellow of By- 
 field wrote to Mr. S. T. Pickard, one of the editors of 
 " The Portland Transcript," the following letter, de- 
 scriptive of the old homestead : — 
 
 Dear Sir, — At the request of my father, Joseph Long- 
 fellow, I answer yours of the 14th in regard to the old Long- 
 fellow house at Byfield, Mass. It was probably built by 
 William Longfellow, about 1676, at or about the time of his 
 marriage with Anne Sewall. The location of the house is 
 unsurpassed. It is situated on a sightly eminence at the 
 very head of tide-water on the river Parker, the sparkle of 
 whose waters, as they go tumbling over the falls, adds a pic- 
 turesqueness to the natural beauty of the scenery that lies 
 spread out on either hand, — hill and dale, forest and field, 
 
16 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the outgoing or incoming tide. Nature was lavish here ; 
 and young Longfellow, appreciating it all, erected the old 
 house to which he took his young bride. It still stands, al- 
 though two centuries and more have passed since its oaken 
 frame was put together. It has not been occupied for 
 twenty-odd years, and, of course, is in a dilapidated con- 
 dition. I was born under the old roof -tree m3 7 self ; and so 
 were my father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great- 
 great-grandfather (son of William) before me. The large 
 chimney was taken down years ago ; a part of the house 
 itself has been removed ; but 
 
 " The scenes of my childhood are brought fresh to my mind," 
 
 and I can see the old weather-beaten house, with its rear roof 
 descending nearly to the ground, the long kitchen with its 
 low ceiling and wide fireplace, the big brick oven in which 
 were baked the Thanksgiving pies and puddings (I can taste 
 them now), the big " best room," the winding stairs, the old 
 spinning-wheel in the attic, the well-curb and its long sweep 
 at the end of the house, in front the granite horse-block, and 
 the large elm spreading over all. The old elm still lives, but 
 is feeling the effects of age. The old elm and the house will 
 end their existence together, and soon. 
 Very truly, 
 
 HOKACE F. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HIS MATERNAL ANCESTORS. 
 
 Gen. Peleg Wadsworth, the maternal grandfather of 
 the poet, was the son of Deacon Peleg Wadsworth of 
 Duxbury, Mass., and was fifth in descent from Chris- 
 topher Wadsworth, who came from England and settled 
 in Duxbury previous to 1632. Peleg Wadsworth, jun., 
 was born at Duxbury in 1748, and graduated at Har- 
 vard College in 1769. In 1772 he married Elizabeth 
 Bartlett of Plvmouth, Mass. They had ten children, 
 
THE BIRTHPLACE OF LONGFELLOW, 
 
 CORNER OF FORE AND HANCOCK STREETS, PORTLAND, MAINE. 
 
18 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 one of whom was Zilpah, the mother of the poet. 
 Zilpah inherited the blood of four or five of the " May- 
 flower " Pilgrims, including Elder Brewster and Capt. 
 John Alden, immortalized in the " Courtship of Miles 
 Standish." Gen. Peleg Wadsworth served with great 
 distinction in the Revolutionary war. He was second 
 in command in the ill-fated expedition of 1779 against 
 the British at Castine, Me., on Penobscot Bay ; and 
 the next year, while in command on the coast, with 
 headquarters at Camden, a town situated on the same 
 bay, he was captured by the British, and imprisoned in 
 the fort at Castine. After four months' imprisonment 
 he made his escape in the following manner : — 
 
 " Major Burton," says the Hon. William Gould, " a 
 resident of St. George's River, who had served the 
 previous summer under Gen. Wadsworth, was a pris- 
 oner in the same room with him. After a long prepa- 
 ration, and after obtaining a gimlet from the fort 
 barber, they made their escape on the night of the 
 18th of June, 1781, by passing through an opening pre- 
 viously and laboriously made in the board ceiling with 
 the gimlet, the marks of which were filled with bread. 
 They adroitly evaded the sentinels, but got separated 
 in the darkness, both, however, getting off safely. 
 They kept much in the shoal-water of the shores, to 
 prevent being tracked by the bloodhounds which were 
 kept at the fort for that purpose. The two friends 
 came accidentally together on the next day. Major 
 Burton dropped a glove in the darkness, which pointed 
 out to their pursuers the route they had taken on 
 leaving the fort. They, however, found a canoe, got 
 across the river, and pursued their course through the 
 woods by a pocket-compass to the settlements, and were 
 assisted to Thomaston, after much suffering." 
 
THE PORTLAND OF THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 19 
 
 The appearance of Gen. Wadsworth after the close of 
 the Revolutionary war is thus described by the mother 
 of the poet Longfellow : — 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to see my father's picture as it 
 was when we came to this town after the war of the Revo- 
 lution, in 1784:. Imagine to yourself a man of middle size, 
 well proportioned, with a military air, and who carried him- 
 self so truly that many thought him tall. His dress, a bright 
 scarlet coat, buff small-clothes and vest, full ruffled bosom, 
 ruffles over the hands, white stockings, shoes with silver 
 buckles, white cravat bow in front ; hair well powdered, and 
 tied behind in a club, so called. ... Of his character others 
 may speak ; but I cannot forbear to claim for him an un- 
 common share of benevolence and kind feeling. 
 
 "Z. W. L. 
 
 " January, 1848." 
 
 It was the son of the Gen. Wadsworth described in 
 this letter who perished at Tripoli, and from whom the 
 poet Longfellow received his baptismal name. 
 
 From such noble ancestors descended, and in such 
 sternly religious communities educated, the poet Long- 
 fellow grew up. From such a stem sprang the beautiful 
 blossom of his song. 
 
 THE PORTLAND OF THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 
 
 But an account of the boyhood of Longfellow would 
 be incomplete without a few more picturesque details 
 of the Portland of that time. It has had its eras of 
 great commercial prosperity, as, for instance, during 
 the last decade of the preceding century. At present it 
 is a flourishing seaport city, beautifully situated on the 
 broad Casco Bay, with its quiet waters and numerous 
 beautiful islands. Landward the landscape stretches 
 away for eighty miles to the White Mountains, with 
 
20 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mount Washington indistinctly visible on the far hori- 
 zon. The town, as it was in Longfellow's boyhood, is 
 thus described by Mr. Edward Henry El well : " It lay on 
 the narrow peninsula, or Neck, in the depression between 
 the two hills which mark its extremities, — Munjoy 
 and Bramhall. In a square house, standing on the one 
 hand within a stone's throw of the spot where the first 
 settler landed and built his cabin in 1632, and on the 
 other not much farther from the site of old Fort Loyal, 
 our poet was born. ... It was a pleasant site, not then, 
 as now, hemmed in by new-made land encroaching on 
 the sea. It looked out on the waters of our beautiful 
 bay, commanding a view of those 
 
 — ' islands that were the Hesperides 
 Of all my boyish dreams.' 
 
 Near by was the beach, the scene of many a baptism 
 on ' the Lord's day.' " 
 
 " On Indian Point, where the Grand Trunk bridge 
 leaves the hill, stood seven or eight lofty ancient pine- 
 trees, and in the high branches the fish-hawks were 
 wont to build their nests. The boys went a-gunning 
 "• back of the Neck,' and shot plovers and curlews and 
 sand-birds, which visited the shore in great numbers." 
 
 " With the revival of commerce, after the war, trade 
 with the West India Islands sprang up, and low-decked 
 brigs carried out cargoes of lumber and dried fish, 
 bringing back sugar, rum, and molasses. This trade 
 made lively scenes on Long Wharf and Portland Pier. 
 From lack of system, and the aj^pliances of steam, 
 every thing was then done with great noise and bustle, 
 and by main strength. The discharging of a cargo of 
 molasses set the town in an uproar. The wharves re- 
 
THE PORTLAND OF THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 21 
 
 sounded with the songs of the negro stevedores hoist- 
 ing the hogsheads from the hold without the aid of a 
 winch ; the long trucks, with heavy loads, were tugged 
 by straining horses, under the whips and loud cries of 
 the truckmen. Liquor was lavishly supplied to labor- 
 ing men, and it made them turbulent and uproarious. 
 Adding to the busy tumult were the teams coining into 
 town by the two principal avenues, — over Deering's 
 Bridge and up Green Street, or over BramhaLTs Hill by 
 way of Horse Tavern, — bringing charcoal from Water- 
 borough, shooks from Fryeburg, Hiram, and Baldwin, 
 hoop-poles, heading, cord-wood, and screwed hay ; and 
 the Vermonters, in their blue woollen frocks, bringing 
 in their red pungs round hogs, butter, and cheese." 
 
 Rev. Elijah Kellogg, jun., gives a lively picture of 
 Portland at this time, on a winter morning : " Then 
 you might have seen lively times. A string of board- 
 teams from George Libby's to Portland Pier; sleds 
 growling ; surveyors running about like madmen, a 
 shingle in one hand and a rule-staff in the other ; 
 cattle white with frost, and their nostrils hung with 
 icicles ; teamsters screaming and hallooing ; Herrick's 
 tavern, and all the shops in Huckler's Row, lighted up, 
 and the loggerheads hot to give customers their morn- 
 ing dram." 
 
 It is with such scenes as these rising in his memory 
 that Longfellow sings, in his poem entitled 
 
 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
 
 And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
 And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
 And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
 
 And the made of the sea. 
 
22 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And the voice of that wayward song 
 Is singing and saying still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.-' 
 
 I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
 
 And the fort upon the hill ; 
 The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
 The drum-beat, repeated o'er and o'er, 
 And the bugle wild and shrill. 
 And the music of that old song 
 Throbs in my memory still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
 I remember the sea-fight far away, 
 How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
 And the dead captains, as they lay 
 In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 
 Where they in battle died. 
 
 And the sound of that mournful song 
 Goes through me with a thrill : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
 " Portland was a lumber-port, driving a brisk little 
 trade with more tumult and hurrah than now accom- 
 panies the transaction of ten times the amount of busi- 
 ness then done. In addition to its lumber-trade it had 
 its distilleries, its tanneries, its rope-walks, and its pot- 
 tery, — the latter two of which so impressed themselves 
 upon the memory of the boy Longfellow that in after- 
 years they suggested his poems, ' The Ropewalk ' and 
 ' Keramos,' the song of the potter. 1 Men now living, 
 
 1 Mr. H. H. Clark, who, as the proof-reader at the University Press, 
 read the proof of "Keramos," says that Mr. Longfellow spoke to him 
 of having visited the old potter at his wheel under the hill, and of see- 
 ing him go to and fro under the branches of the trees, as described 
 in the first stanza of the poem. 
 
THE PORTLAND OF THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 23 
 
 going back in memory to those bustling days, will tell 
 you those were the times when business was lively, and 
 think it but a dull town now, though with five times 
 the population and many times the amount of business." 
 
 There was a good deal of intellectual life in the town. 
 In 1790 the Rev. Dr. Samuel Deane published his 
 New-England Farmer, or Georgical Dictionary, which 
 was for a long time a standard work on matters of agri- 
 culture. In 1816 Enoch Lincoln of Portland published 
 his poem, The Village, containing over two thousand 
 lines, and "remarkable for its advanced moral senti- 
 ment, anticipating many of the reforms of our day, as 
 well as for its erudition and its evenly sustained poetical 
 merit." 
 
 Of the social life of the period, Mr. El well thus 
 speaks : — 
 
 " In social life the marked distinctions of the ante- 
 Revolutionary period are giving way under the influence 
 of our democratic institutions. Cocked hats, bush wigs, 
 and knee-breeches are passing out, and pantaloons have 
 come in. Old men still wear queues and spencers, and 
 disport .their shrunken shanks in silk stockings. A 
 homely style of speech prevails among the common peo- 
 ple. Old men are 'Daddies,' old ladies are 'Marms,' 
 ship-masters are ' Skippers,' and school-teachers are 
 ' Masters.' There are no stoves, and open fires and 
 brick ovens are in universal use. The fire is raked up 
 at night, and rekindled in the morning by the use of 
 flint, steel, and tinder-box. Nearly every house has 
 its barn, in which is kept the cow, pastured during the 
 day on Munjoy. The boys go after the cows at nightfall, 
 driving them home through the streets. There are few 
 private carriages kept in town, and fewer public vehi- 
 
24 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 cles. When, in 1824, Gen. Lafayette visits the town, 
 and Gov. Parris gives a ball in his honor, at his resi- 
 dence on Bridge Street, — the site of which is now 
 covered by the beautiful lawn attached to the residence 
 of H. P. Storer, Esq., — a storm coming up prevents the 
 attendance of a great part of the company invited, 
 because of the distance out of town and the scarcity of 
 carriages. The coin in circulation is chiefly Spanish 
 dollars, halves, quarters, pistareens, eighths, and six- 
 teenths, the last two of which are known as ninepence 
 and fourpence 'alfpennies. Federal money is so little 
 recognized that prices are still reckoned in shillings and 
 pence, — two-and-six, three-and-ninepence, seven-and- 
 sixpence. It is a journey of two days, by the accom- 
 modation stage, to Boston, costing eight to ten dollars. 
 If you go by the mail-stage you ma}^ be bounced through, 
 with aching bones, in the hours between two o'clock in 
 the morning and ten at night. Or you may take a 
 coaster, and perhaps be a week on the passage. The old 
 Portland Gazette and The Eastern Argus come out 
 once a week, and the town-crier supplies the place of 
 the daily newspaper. There are few amusements. The- 
 atrical performances have been voted down in town- 
 meeting, and prohibited under heavy penalties ; but by 
 1820 the poor players venture to make an occasional 
 appearance, and set up their scenery in Union Hall. 
 It is not until 1830 that a theatre is built, and it is soon 
 converted into a church. In the summer there are 
 excursions by sailing-boats to the islands, with an oc- 
 casional capsize and loss of life. In the winter, merry 
 sleighing parties drive out to ' Broad's ' for a dance 
 and a supper. These are merry times, especially if the 
 party is snowed up, and compelled to remain over night. 
 
THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 25 
 
 Flip and punch flow freely, and sobriety is the exception 
 rather than the rule." 
 
 THE POET'S BOYHOOD. 
 
 Of Mr. Longfellow's early boyhood not many details 
 are known. He manifested a turn for poetry and poeti- 
 cal composition at a very early age. It has been several 
 times stated that the first poem of his, known to be 
 preserved in manuscript, is that called "Venice, an 
 Italian Song,# and dated Portland Academy, March 17, 
 1820, when he was hardly thirteen. But the writer is 
 informed by Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson that 
 this is a mistake. The poem is by Samuel Rogers, and 
 may be found in his printed works. The poem had only 
 been copied by the boy-poet as an exercise in penman- 
 ship. His first published poem was entitled " Lovell's 
 Fight," 1 printed in the Poet's Corner of a Portland 
 paper previous to his entering college. Other poems of 
 his also appeared in the local papers at about the same 
 time. 
 
 The first school that young Longfellow attended was 
 kept by "Marin Fellows," in a small brick schoolhouse 
 on Spring Street. Later he went to the town school on 
 Love Lane, now Center Street ; and soon after, to the 
 private school of Nathaniel H. Carter, in a little one- 
 story house on the west side of Preble Street, now Con- 
 gress. Afterward he attended the Portland Academy, 
 under the same master, and also under the mastership 
 of Bezaleel Cushman, who had Jacob Abbott as one of 
 
 1 The scene of Lovell's fight (or " Lovewell " as it used to be called) 
 was but a few miles from Hiram. Here, at the Wadsworth homestead, 
 the boy Longfellow spent many of his summers. It is known that the 
 few of Lovell's men who escaped returned down the road to Ossipee 
 past the old Wadsworfh house- 
 
2G HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 his assistants. Here he fitted for college ; and at the 
 age of fourteen, in the year 1821, he entered Bowdoin 
 College at Brunswick, Me., in company with his elder 
 brother Stephen. 
 
 AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 
 
 The poet once told Mr. John Langdon Sibley, libra- 
 rian emeritus of Harvard College, that, if his father had 
 not been a trustee of Bowdoin, he would have been 
 sent to Harvard College, and that he wotfld have then 
 been in Mr. Sibley's class. 
 
 The Bowdoin class contained sons of some of the first 
 families of New England. Among Longfellow's class- 
 mates were such young men as Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
 George B. Cheever, John S. C. Abbott, and others. 
 One of his classmates, the Rev. David Shepley, D.D., 
 says of him, " He gave diligent heed to all departments 
 of study in the prescribed course, and excelled in all, 
 while his enthusiasm moved in the direction it has 
 taken in subsequent life. His themes, felicitous trans- 
 lations of Horace, and occasional contributions to the 
 press, drew marked attention to him, and led to the 
 expectation that his would be an honorable career." 
 The Hon. J. W. Bradbury, another classmate, describes 
 him as having a " slight, erect figure, delicate complex- 
 ion, and an intelligent expression of countenance. He 
 was always a gentleman in his deportment, and a model 
 in his character and habits." Professor A. S. Packard, 
 D.D., of Bowdoin College, remembers Longfellow as "an 
 attractive youth, with auburn locks, clear, fresh, bloom- 
 ing complexion, and, as might be expected, of well-bred 
 manners and bearing." 
 
 While in college he wrote a number of poems, many 
 
AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 27 
 
 of which were first published in The United-States 
 Literary Gazette, and thence found their way into the 
 daily and weekly papers of the country. This periodical, 
 published at New York and Boston simultaneously, was 
 much in favor with the poets of that day. It was 
 founded by the late Theophilus Parsons ; but at the 
 time Longfellow sent in his poems it was edited by 
 James Gordon Carter of Boston (Harvard, 1820), well 
 known from his relation to the public schools. Long- 
 fellow's poemf were probably anonymous ; for once, 
 when Professor Packard was spending an evening with 
 Mr. Carter in Boston, the latter asked him who that 
 young man was at Bowdoin who sent him such fine 
 poetry. Professor Packard thinks Longfellow was at 
 this time a junior in college. 
 
 Longfellow graduated second in a class of thirty-seven, 
 Joseph S. Little of Portland being first. Professor 
 Packard says : " Of his standing as a scholar in college, 
 one may judge from his assignment at Commencement 
 of an English oration, when fewer parts of that rank 
 were given than of late years. His was the first claim 
 to the poem ; but, as the poem had no definite rank, it 
 was thought due to him, since his scholarship bore a 
 high mark, that he should receive an appointment 
 which placed his scholarship beyond question." His 
 English oration had for its subject, " Our Native 
 Writers." "Chatterton and his Poems" had been as- 
 signed him as a subject, but was afterwards changed, 
 and the change noted in ink on the programmes. The 
 class poem was read by Frederic Mellen. During the 
 first half of his senior year, Longfellow read the poem 
 before the Peucinian Literary Society of the college. 
 Hawthorne embodied some features of Bowdoin Col- 
 lege life in his suppressed novel, " Fanshawe." 
 
28 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 It is now known that Longfellow received one dollar 
 each for his poems contributed to The Literary Ga- 
 zette, while William Cullen Bryant received two dollars 
 a poem, a sum fixed by himself. 1 For Sandalphon, 
 the poet received by way of payment a year's subscrip- 
 tion to the paper in which it was published. 
 
 In 1826, the year after Longfellow graduated, there 
 was published a little volume entitled Miscellaneous 
 Poems, selected from the United-States Literary Ga- 
 zette. The contributors to it were Bryant, Long- 
 fellow, Mellen, Percival, Dawes, and Jones. A writer 
 in the New- York Evening Post, understood to be Col. 
 Higginson, remarks that this volume " offered a curious 
 contrast to that equally characteristic volume of 1794, 
 The Columbian Muse, whose poets were Barlow, 
 Trumbull, Freneau, D wight, Humphreys, and a few 
 others ; not a single poem or poet being held in com- 
 mon by the two collections." In the Gazette collec- 
 tion were fourteen of Longfellow's poems, all written 
 before he was nineteen. Among them were The Hymn 
 of the Moravian Nuns, and The Rivulet: these and 
 four others are retained in the collected works of the 
 poet to this day. 2 
 
 Longfellow at first began the study of law in his 
 father's office in Portland, but took little interest in his 
 studies. In 1826 he received an invitation to fill, at 
 Bowdoin College, a chair which had been almost cre- 
 ated for him ; namely, a professorship of modern lan- 
 guages and literature. The establishment of such a 
 
 1 See the Reminiscences of Gen. James Grant Wilson, p. 215 of this 
 volume. 
 
 2 For Mr. Longfellow's juvenile poems never published in this 
 country in book form, see p. 335, where all of them will be found in full, 
 with interesting details concerning them. 
 
AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 29 
 
 chair as this was considered at that time to be quite 
 an innovation; the languages and literatures of Greece 
 and Rome having been considered, from time imme- 
 morial, as entirely sufficient for the culture and disci- 
 pline of the young mind. Mrs. Bowdoin had, however, 
 some years before, given one thousand dollars as the 
 beginning of a fund for such a chair. Mr. Lone-fellow 
 when appointed, was only nineteen years of age f and he 
 at once set off for Europe, visiting and studying for 
 nearly four years in Spain, France, Italy, and Germany, 
 in order to prepare himself for his duties. In Pierce's 
 Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner is recorded 
 the fact that Longfellow met Sumner at Marseilles in 
 1827, and they journeyed together to Rome. Sumner 
 afterwards became distantly connected with Lono-fellow 
 through Harriet Coffin Sumner, the second wife of 
 Nathan Appleton of Boston, Mr. Longfellow's second 
 wife being a daughter of Nathan Appleton by his first 
 wife. 
 
 _ In 1829 he returned to America, and entered upon 
 his duties at Bowdoin College. Such a rare oppor- 
 tunity for future success must have been appreciated 
 by him. The tradition is, that this appointment was 
 given to Longfellow as a result of the impression made 
 upon a member of the college examining committee by 
 his translation of one of Horace's odes. He entered 
 upon his professional duties with zeal and fidelity The 
 department was a new one, and there was a lack of 
 suitable text-books. Accordingly he prepared "Ele- 
 ments of French Grammar. Translated from the 
 French of C. F. L'Homond." (Boston : 1830.) "Syl- 
 labus de la Grammaire Italienne." (Boston: 1832.) 
 "Cours de la Langue Francaise " (Boston: 1832), in- 
 
30 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 eluding (1) " Le Ministre de Wakefield " and (2) 
 ,% Proverbes Dramatiques." " Saggi de' Novellieri Ital- 
 iani d' Ogni Secolo : Tratti da' piu celebri scrittori, con 
 brevi notizie intorno alia vita di ciascheduno." (Bos- 
 ton: 1832.) He also published " Coplas de Manrique. 
 A Translation from the Spanish." (Boston : Allen & 
 Ticknor, 1833.) Included in this volume are transla- 
 tions by Mr. Longfellow of sonnets of Lope de Vega 
 and others. The poem was prefaced by an essay on 
 Spanish Moral and Devotional Poetry, which had pre- 
 viously appeared in The North- American Review, xxxiv. 
 277. (For a complete list of Mr. Longfellow's con- 
 tributions to The North-American Review, see the 
 bibliography appended to this volume.) George Tick- 
 nor, in his History of Spanish Literature, speaks of the 
 translation of " Coplas " as " a beautiful one." This 
 edition is now very rare. Mr. Thomas Niles (of the firm 
 of Roberts Brothers), the Boston publisher, says that 
 when he first went into the book-trade, many years ago, 
 he found in his stock one hundred and fifty copies of 
 " Coplas de Manrique." He does not remember what 
 became of these books, but thinks they went to the 
 paper-mill, being then unsalable. They would now, 
 probably, be worth their weight in gold. The book 
 was a thin duodecimo, with Longfellow's name as Bow- 
 doin professor on the title-page. The translation was 
 afterwards slightly altered by the poet. The historian 
 Prescott said of it, "Mr. Longfellow's version is well 
 calculated to give the English reader a correct notion 
 of the Castilian bard, and, of course, a very exaggerated 
 one of the literary culture of the age." There was a 
 previous version of the " Coplas " by Bowring, but 
 Longfellow's was considered its superior. 
 
AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 31 
 
 At the Bowdoin College commencement, in 1832, 
 Mr. Longfellow delivered the poem before the Phi Beta 
 Kappa Society. In 1833 also appeared the first two 
 numbers of Outre-Mer ; or, A Pilgrimage to the Old 
 World by an American (Hilliard, Gray, & Co., Bos- 
 ton), and two years later the whole work was published 
 by Harper & Brothers of New- York City ; Mr. Long- 
 fellow selling it to them for five hundred dollars. It is 
 written in a most charming vein. The light and lambent 
 humor is like that of Irving or Lamb or Sterne. There 
 is a buoyancy in the style like that of the blue sky, 
 and a freshness as of clover or dew. The work is 
 picturesque, antiquarian ; golden and mellow as the 
 shield of its Lion cV Or, full of quiet causerie about 
 mediaeval legends, trouveres, and old chansons. Quaint 
 characters are depicted ; and the beautiful scenes of 
 classic Italy, sunburnt Spain, and vine-covered France 
 are lovingly portrayed. There is a chapter on " Old 
 Spanish Ballads," and in the second volume appears the 
 translation of the stanzas of Don Jorge Manrique on 
 the death of his father Don Bodrigo. 
 
 The title of the book was probably suggested by 
 Thibaut, who in his "Roi de Navarre " says, — 
 
 " Si j'ai long terns ete en Romanie, 
 Et outre-mer fait mon pelerinage." 
 
 On the title-page appears this quotation from .old 
 Sir John Maundeville : — 
 
 " I have passed manye landes and manye yles and 
 contrees, and cherched manye fulle straunge places, and 
 have ben in manye a fulle gode honourable companye. 
 Now I am comen home to reste. And thus recordynge 
 the tyme passed, I have fulfilled these thynges and putte 
 
32 HENBY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 hem WTyten in this boke, as it woulde come into my 
 mynde." 
 
 To the Epistle Dedicatory is prefixed this stanza 
 from Hurdis : — 
 
 " The cheerful breeze sets fair : we fill our sail, 
 And scud before it. When the critic starts, 
 And angrily unties his bags of wind, 
 Then we lay to, and let the blast go by." 
 
 In the course of his remarks in the Epistle Dedica- 
 tory the author says : — 
 
 " Besides, what perils await the adventurous author 
 who launches forth into the uncertain current of public 
 favor in so frail a bark as this ! The very rocking of 
 the tide may overset him ; or peradventure some free- 
 booting critic, prowling about the great ocean of let- 
 ters, may descry his strange colors, hail him through 
 a gray goose-quill, and perhaps sink him without more 
 ado." 
 
 The book is conceived (in a playful and merry vein) 
 to be a series of tales told by a pilgrim, — like those 
 told by palmers in baronial castles of old. The first 
 chapter begins thus : — 
 
 " ' Lystenyth, ye godely gentylmen, and all that ben 
 hereyn ! ' I am a pilgrim benighted on my way, and 
 crave a shelter till the storm is over, and a seat by the 
 fireside in this honorable company. As a stranger I 
 claim this courtesy at your hands ; and will repay 
 your hospitable welcome with tales of the countries I 
 have passed through in my pilgrimage. ... I have 
 traversed France from Normandy to Navarre ; smoked 
 my pipe in a Flemish inn ; floated through Holland in 
 a Trekschuit ; trimmed my midnight lamp in a Ger- 
 
AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 33 
 
 man university ; wandered and mused amid the classic 
 scenes of Italy ; and listened to the gay guitar and 
 merry Castanet on the borders of the blue Guadal- 
 quivir." 
 
 As a specimen of the book, take this description of 
 the old Norman diligence : — 
 
 " It was one of those ponderous vehicles which totter 
 slowly along the paved roads of France, laboring be- 
 neath a mountain of trunks and bales of all descrip- 
 tions, and, like the Trojan horse, bearing a groaning 
 multitude within it. It was a curious and cumbersome 
 machine, resembling the bodies of three coaches placed 
 upon one carriage, with a cabriolet on top for outside 
 passengers. On the panels of each door were painted 
 the fleurs-de-lis of France ; and upon the side of the 
 coach, emblazoned in gold characters, ' Exploitation 
 Grenerale des Messageries Royales des Diligences pour le 
 Havre, Rouen, et Paris' " 
 
 In an article on Longfellow in The Atlantic Monthly 
 for December, 1863, George William Curtis said of 
 Outre-Mer : " It is the romance of the Continent, and 
 not that of England, which inspires him. It is the 
 ruddy light upon the vines, and the scraps of old chan- 
 sons, which enliven and decorate his pilgrimage ; and 
 through all his literary life they have not lost their 
 fascination. While Irving sketches ' Rural Life in Eng- 
 land,' Longfellow paints ' The Village of Auteuil ; ' 
 Irving gives us 'The Boar's Head Tavern,' and Long- 
 fellow ' The Golden Lion Inn ; ' Irving draws a ' Royal 
 Poet,' Longfellow- discusses k The Trouveres ' or ' The 
 Devotional Poetry of Spain.' . . . Geoffrey Crayon is 
 a humorist, while the Pilgrim beyond the Sea is a poet. 
 The one looks at the broad aspects of English life with 
 
34 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 the shrewd twinkling eve of the man of the world : 
 the other haunts the valley of the Loire, the German 
 street, the Spanish inn, with the kindling fancy of the 
 scholar and poet." During the twenty years following 
 the publication of Outre-Mer, seventy-five hundred 
 copies were sold. 
 
 Under the title, The Schoolmaster, Mr. Longfellow 
 began, in Buckingham's New-England Magazine, the 
 sketches and studies which he afterwards published 
 with the title Outre-Mer. 
 
 To the Longfellow number of The Literary World 
 (Feb. 26, 1881) Mr. Horace E. Scudder contributed 
 a pleasant paper in which he compared the two produc- 
 tions. Mr. Scudder's paper shall here be given entire, 
 and will speak for itself : — 
 
 ■• There were kings before Agamemnon : and the 
 reader of ' The Atlantic ? to-day will find that his 
 fathers had also their literary magazines — of somewhat 
 precarious existence, to be sure, but containing often 
 papers and poems which have passed into the accepted 
 literature of the countrv. The Xew-England Maga- 
 
 ■J O O 
 
 zine, published and conducted by J- T. Buckingham 
 and his son until the son's death, and after that by the 
 father alone, was for a time a fair representative of the 
 culture of Boston. The contributions were rarely 
 signed, and the publisher could offer only very diminu- 
 tive golden bait ; but, besides the work of aspirants 
 who never came to fame, one may find here articles, 
 sketches, and poems, by Everett, Story, Hillard, 
 Hildreth, Withington, Dr. Howe, Dr. Peabody, Epes 
 Sargent, Holmes, and Longfellow. It was in this 
 magazine, the reader will remember, that Dr. Holmes 
 published a trial chapter of ' The Autocrat ; ' but so 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER. 35 
 
 completely had the title disappeared that nobody re- 
 membered it when he resumed it twenty-five years 
 afterward, in the more mature wit and wisdom which 
 made the early numbers of The Atlantic famous. 
 Many of his bright young poems appeared here ; and 
 a curious experiment, headed ' Report of the Editorial 
 Department,' and signed O. W. PL, will be found in 
 the number for January, 1833. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow's contributions, so far as we know, 
 are confined to a series of sketches, appearing at irregu- 
 lar intervals, which interest us from their relation to 
 his subsequent acknowledged work. In the first num- 
 ber of the magazine, that fur July, 1831, will be found 
 among the original papers one entitled 'The School- 
 master.* Chapter I., and having all the air of being the 
 first of a series. A motto from Franklin stands at the 
 head : — 
 
 " • My character, indeed. I would favor you with, but 
 that I am cautious of praising myself, lest I should be 
 told my trumpeter's dead: and I cannot find in my 
 heart at present to say any thing to my own disad- 
 vantage." 
 
 -The Schoolmaster opens with a half-confidential 
 disclosure to the reader. It is written in the first 
 person : — 
 
 "'I am a schoolmaster [it begins] in the little vil- 
 lage of Sharon. A son of New England, I have been 
 educated in all her feelings and prejudices. To her 
 maternal care I owe the little that is good within me ; 
 and upon her bosom I hope to repose hereafter when 
 my worldly task is done, and my soul, like a rejoicing 
 schoolboy, shall close its weary book, and burst forth 
 from this earthly schoolhouse. My childhood was 
 
36 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 passed at my native village, in the usual amusements 
 and occupations of that age ; but as I grew up I be- 
 came satiated with the monotony of my life. A rest- 
 less spirit prompted me to visit foreign countries. I 
 said, with the cosmopolite, " The world is a kind of 
 book in which he who has seen his own country only 
 has read but one page." Guided by this feeling, I be- 
 came a traveller. I have traversed France on foot, 
 smoked my pipe in a Flemish inn ' — 
 
 "And the reader who has read thus far finds the 
 words beginning to be familiar. He turns to Outre- 
 Mer, and discovers the same passage in the chapter 
 headed ' The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer.' The School- 
 master, however, immediately recovers its own separate 
 character, and for a page or two more one reads of the 
 return of the narrator to his native village, and thence- 
 forth of his travels by memory. 
 
 "In September, 1831, appeared' the second chapter of 
 The Schoolmaster, which proves to be substantially 
 the same as The Norman Diligence in ' Outre-Mer.' 
 The motto, indeed, is that which in the book precedes 
 the ' Journey into Spain,' and the chapter in The 
 Schoolmaster is longer. The slight mention of the 
 cabaret in Outre-Mer is an abbreviation of a fuller 
 and more detailed sketch in The Schoolmaster, where 
 an old soldier and some wagoners have a half-oper- 
 atic scene, and sing an apology for cider, an old 
 French song of the fifteenth century. Both the French 
 and an English version of the song are given ; and it is 
 a little curious, that, in the revised edition of Poets 
 and Poetry of Europe, Mr. Longfellow has given 
 Oliver Basselin's modernized version of the song as 
 translated by Oxenford, but says nothing of his own 
 earlier rendering. 
 
OUTRE-MER AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 37 
 
 " The third chapter of The Schoolmaster, published 
 April, 1832, is 'The Village of Auteuil ; ' and one or 
 two variations are interesting. The introductory para- 
 graphs in Outre-Mer are new; and a happy little im- 
 provement is made, when, in place of the words in The 
 Schoolmaster, — 
 
 " 'I took up my abode at a maison de sante ; not that 
 I was a valetudinarian, but because I there found society 
 and good accommodations,' — 
 
 " Outre-Mer has, — 
 
 " ' Not that I was a valetudinarian ; but because I 
 there found some one to whom I could whisper, How 
 sweet is solitude ! ' 
 
 " Dr. Dardonville in The Schoolmaster becomes 
 Dentdelion in Outre-Mer, and some details are given 
 in the first form which do not appear in the second. In 
 the ' Outre-Mer ' chapter, on the other hand, the account 
 of the fete -patronale is new. It would seem as if the 
 author, in revising his chapters, removed them a little 
 from a too literal transcript of his note-book, and threw 
 over them a further air of refinement and imagination. 
 
 "In July, 1832, the fourth chapter was printed, headed 
 'Recollections of the Metropolis,' and consisting of a 
 stroll through Paris with reference to certain historical 
 sights. The fifth chapter, in October of the same year, 
 continues this imaginary walk, but is occupied chiefly 
 with a romantic story from a chronicle of the time of 
 Charles VI. The sixth chapter, in February, 1833, 
 resumes the walk, interrupted by the story, and brings 
 the reader finally to the gates of Pere la Chaise. The 
 reader turns over the numbers afterward, expecting to 
 find the chapter so headed which he remembers in 
 Outre-Mer; but he discovers that The Schoolmaster 
 
38 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 has come to an abrupt close. The reason appears in 
 the publication, this 3'ear, of the first part of Outre- 
 Mer, containing, as we have shown, material used in 
 the first three chapters of The Schoolmaster. Outre- 
 Mer appeared at first with no name attached, but it 
 was probably tolerably well known who wrote it ; and 
 when the second part appeared, shortly afterward, Pro- 
 fessor Longfellow's name was openly mentioned with 
 it. It is a little odd, however, that, in the book-notices 
 of the September number, 1833, there is a very good- 
 natured notice of the first part of Outre-Mer, which 
 closed with Pere la Chaise, but without a word that 
 indicates a knowledge of the authorship, and several quo- 
 tations from pages which had already formed part of 
 The Schoolmaster. However, this innocence may have 
 been assumed, though one would not have predicated 
 it from an acquaintance with more modern magazine 
 editors. The last three chapters of The Schoolmaster 
 were not reprinted, and the serial was not resumed, 
 perhaps because the author preferred the more satisfac- 
 tory and more dignified appearance in book-form. A 
 prior publication in a magazine was more likely to ob- 
 scure a book then than now. It is not impossible that 
 the slight conception of a schoolmaster was reserved 
 also for future use in the tale of Kavanagh." 
 
 The publication of the Outre-Mer of Professor Long- 
 fellow, together with a number of articles by him 
 in The North-American Review, served to call atten- 
 tion to him in a marked degree. In 1835 Mr. George 
 Ticknor, professor of modern languages at Harvard, 
 having resigned his position, Mr. Longfellow was ap- 
 pointed his successor. 
 
 But we must return to Bowdoin for the purpose 
 
AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 39 
 
 of recording several things that took place previous 
 to the removal of the young and popular professor to 
 Cambridge. One of these events was his marriage, in 
 September, 1881, to Mary Storer Potter, daughter of 
 Judge Barrett Potter and Anne Storer Potter of 
 Portland. Those who saw him at this time describe 
 him as somewhat of an exquisite in appearance, 
 always swinging a slender little cane as he walked 
 about. This custom he continued for a time in Cam- 
 bridge also. He became very popular as an instructor. 
 President Hamlin of Middlebury College, who entered 
 Bowdoin in 1830, says : " Longfellow had occupied the 
 chair about one year. Our class numbered fifty-two, 
 the largest freshman class that had up to that time 
 entered college ; and many of its members were attracted 
 by Longfellow's reputation. His intercourse with the 
 students was perfectly simple, frank, and gentlemanly. 
 He neither flattered nor repelled : he neither sought 
 popularity, nor avoided it. He was a close and ardent 
 student in all Spanish and French literature. He had 
 no time to fritter away ; but he always and evidently 
 enjoyed having students come to him with any reason- 
 able question about- languages, authors, literature, me- 
 diaeval or modern history, more especially the former. 
 They always left him, not only with admiration, but 
 guided and helped and inspired." 
 
 During his residence in Brunswick Mr. Longfellow 
 became a member of the Maine Historical Society ; and 
 in 1834 he held the office of librarian and cabinet-keeper. 
 It was therefore peculiarly fitting, that, on the recent 
 occasion of Mr. Longfellow's seventy-fifth birthday, the 
 Maine Historical Society should celebrate the occasion 
 by having a series of careful and elaborate historical 
 
40 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and biographical articles prepared on the poet's ances- 
 try and birthplace, etc. These articles have been of 
 great use in the preparation of this volume. 
 
 AT HARVARD COLLEGE. 
 
 As Mr. Longfellow went abroad to prepare himself 
 for his Bowdoin College duties, so did he when he was 
 called to Harvard College, this time for the purpose 
 of studying the languages of Northern Europe, Danish, 
 Swedish, etc. He took with him his young wife, whom 
 he had the misfortune to lose at Rotterdam. She died, 
 Nov. 29, 1835, from an illness contracted after confine- 
 ment. 
 
 In an admirable and pains-taking article in The New- 
 York Evening Post for March 25, 1882, 1 the writer, 
 who is understood to be Col. Higginson, says, — 
 
 " How profound was the impression produced upon 
 him, is evident from The Footsteps of Angels, and 
 from the allusions in the early part of Hyperion. 
 Mrs. Longfellow was, by the testimony of all who 
 knew her, a person of rare loveliness of person and 
 mind. Her father, Hon. Barrett Potter of Portland, 
 was a judge of probate, and a man of strong char- 
 acter, holding very decided views as to the education 
 of his children, of whom only the daughters lived to 
 maturity. Although himself an old-fashioned classical 
 scholar, he believed the study of Greek and Latin to 
 be unsuitable for girls : all else was open to them, ■*— 
 modern languages, literature, and mathematics. For 
 all these, especially the last, his daughter Mary had a 
 
 1 The above-mentioned article, by reason of its fulness of detail, has 
 been of more use in the compilation of this volume than any other 
 newspaper memoir of the poet thus far published. It will be frequently 
 quoted in the following pages. 
 
MBS. LONGFELLOW. 41 
 
 strong taste. Her note-books preserved by her family 
 give, for instance, ample and accurate reports, recorded 
 as being k from memory,' of a series of astronomical 
 lectures ; and she learned to calculate eclipses, which 
 must have been quite beyond the average attainments 
 of young ladies of her day. She was for several years 
 a pupil at the excellent school of Miss Gushing, at 
 Hingham ; and all her school papers, abstracts and 
 compositions, show a thoughtful and well-trained mind. 
 Some exhibit a metaphysical turn, others are girlish 
 studies in history and geography ; but the love of lit- 
 erature is visible everywhere, in copious extracts from 
 the favorite authors of that day, — Cowper, Young, 
 Mrs. Hemaus, Bernard Barton, and even Coleridge and 
 Shelley. Farther on in the series of note-books the 
 handwriting becomes firmer and maturer; and notes 
 and translations appear upon the pages in the unmis- 
 takable autograph of Longfellow, almost precisely the 
 same at twenty-four as at seventy-four." 
 
 The spring and summer subsequent to the death of 
 his wife were spent in Switzerland and the Tyrol ; he 
 having previously travelled in Denmark, Sweden, Ger- 
 many, and Holland. In November, 1836, he returned 
 to Harvard, and entered upon the duties of his pro- 
 fessorship, which he discharged for eighteen years. At 
 the end of this period (1854; he resigned, to devote 
 himself to literature wholly, and was succeeded by 
 James Russell Lowell. Of his popularity and faithful- 
 ness during his service with the university, there are 
 many testimonials. Says one, — 
 
 " His professional service at Cambridge contributed 
 in no small degree to his own fame and to that of the 
 university. During eighteen years he was the valued 
 
42 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and ever popular head in the department of modern 
 literatures. His intellectual gifts and already great 
 acquirements were fortified and constantly refreshed 
 by new studies and explorations among the original 
 sources of information ; and herein lay the recognized 
 value of his services, while the great charm of his pres- 
 ence and manner, which made him the light of every 
 social circle which he entered, were an accompaniment 
 of what might otherwise in some particulars have been 
 a dull process of instruction. Thus he was ever a 
 favorite professor with the college youth. These in- 
 structions were chiefly in Italian and Spanish literature, 
 and largely from the writings of Dante and Cervantes, 
 and were given in the form of lectures. During the 
 period named, he usually lectured three times a week 
 during the college term ; and his method was mostly in 
 the form of a translation from the original. So per- 
 fect was his familiarity with the theme, and ready his 
 speech, that he would read Don Quixote in this way 
 almost into verse. The translation of Dante, which 
 was afterwards prepared for publication, was made in 
 its original form as incidental to this method of class 
 instruction." 
 
 Rev. Edward Everett Hale gives this account of Mr. 
 Longfellow's method with his students while professor 
 of modern literature at Harvard : " As it happened, 
 the regular recitation-rooms of the college were all in 
 use ; and we met him in a sort of parlor, carpeted, hung 
 with pictures, and otherwise handsomely furnished, 
 which was, I believe, called ' the Corporation Room.' 
 We sat round a mahogany table, which was reported to 
 be meant for the dinners of the trustees ; and the whole 
 affair had the aspect of a friendly gathering in a private 
 
AT HARVARD COLLEGE. 43 
 
 house, in which the study of German was the amuse- 
 ment of the occasion. He began with familiar ballads, 
 read them to us, and made us read them to him. Of 
 course we soon committed them to memory without 
 meaning to, and I think this was probably part of his 
 theory. At the same time, we were learning the para- 
 digms by rote. His regular duty was the oversight of 
 • five or more instructors who were teaching French, 
 German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese to two or 
 three hundred undergraduates. We never knew when 
 he might look in on a recitation, and virtually conduct 
 it. We were delighted to have him come. We all 
 knew he was a poet, and were proud to have him in 
 the college, but at the same time we respected him as 
 a man of affairs." 
 
 He was always careful to address the students as 
 "Mr.," — a rare thing in those days. This attitude 
 won the respect of the students. Once when there 
 were very threatening indications of a rebellion among 
 the students, and the other professors were unable to 
 get a hearing from the angry and excited mob, Mr. 
 Longfellow began to speak, and instantly the students 
 became quiet, saying, " Let's hear Longfellow, for he 
 always treats us as gentlemen." 
 
 The writer in The New- York Evening Post says 
 that "as an instructor he was clear, suggestive, and 
 encouraging; his lectures on the great French writers 
 were admirable, and his facility in equivalent phrases 
 was of great use to his pupils, and elevated their stand- 
 ard of translation. He was scrupulously faithful to 
 his duties, and even went through the exhausting 
 process of marking French exercises with exemplary 
 patience. . . . There was probably no college in the 
 
44 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 United States which had so large a corps of instructors 
 in the modern languages as had Harvard at that time." 
 
 At a memorial service held in East Boston, the Sun- 
 day succeeding Mr. Longfellow's death, the Rev. N. H. 
 Chamberlain said : " He laid the stress of his refine- 
 ment upon all the members of his class." The Rev. Mr. 
 Cud worth said: "His nature was so broad, that, while 
 he was ready to welcome the quickest and most acute 
 intellect in the class, he was so patient and considerate 
 that he waited for the natural development of the in- 
 tellect of the slowest." 
 
 One who was a pupil of Professor Longfellow at 
 Harvard says, in The Springfield Republican : " The 
 old New Englanders praise a man by calling him ' com- 
 municative ; ' and the word describes Longfellow in its 
 finest shades of meaning. He did not talk, or read, or 
 lecture for display, but to put his hearers in possession 
 of what he knew. No man had less of the school- 
 master, or of that dry and technical wisdom which the 
 title of ' professor ' too often implies. . . . He had a 
 weakness in dress which provoked the college satirist 
 to doggerel wit ; but this only brought him nearer to 
 the graceless young scamps who satirized him, for they 
 would all have been dandies if they could, even while 
 laughing at the professor as a dandy. The gibe of 
 Margaret Fuller about ' a dandy Pindar ' took its sting 
 from the slight youthful fondness of Longfellow for 
 display in cravats and waistcoats." 
 
 It should have been mentioned that Mr. Longfellow's 
 new title was Smith Professor of the French and Span- 
 ish Languages and Literature, and Professor of Belles 
 Lettres. On coming to Cambridge, in 1836, he was 
 attracted by the appearance of 
 
THE CRAIGIE HOUSE, THE HOME OF LONGFELLOW, 
 
 BRATTLE STREET IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
46 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE CRAIGIE HOUSE 
 
 on Brattle Street, and applied, there for rooms. The 
 house was occupied by Mrs. Craigie, widow of Andrew 
 Craigie. When Professor Longfellow made known his 
 errand, the quaint old turbaned lady drew herself up 
 with dignity, and replied, " I lodge students no longer." 
 But when he told her he was a professor, her manner 
 changed, and she showed him over the house. As she 
 closed the door of each room she said, " But you can't 
 have that." At last she led him to the north-east 
 chamber, told him that it had been Washington's room, 
 and said, " This you can have." 
 
 " The room," says George William Curtis, "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 domesticated, 
 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 forever past, and to which 
 she herself properly belonged, — ' this was Gen. Wash- 
 ington's chamber.' '" The room was then, and still is, 
 adorned by the gayly-painted Dutch tiles, characteristic 
 of houses built a century ago. It was afterwards the 
 nursery of the poet's children. He makes allusion to 
 it in his poem To a Child. 
 
 The lexicographer Joseph E. Worcester once lived 
 with the poet in this house ; also Miss Sally Lowell, an 
 aunt of James Russell Lowell. In 1843, after Mrs. 
 Craigie's death, the estate was bought for Mr. Long- 
 fellow by his father-in-law, Nathan Appleton, who also 
 
CRAIGIE HOUSE. 47 
 
 presented to him a deed of the lot opposite the house, 
 which assured him an unobstructed view of the broad 
 rich meadows of the Charles River and the steeples 
 of Brighton in the distance. It has always here- 
 tofore been erroneously stated that Mr. Longfellow 
 purchased this lot. He did purchase some adjoining- 
 lots, on one of which stands the house now occupied 
 by his son Ernest. He also bought a lot connecting 
 his lawn with Berkeley Street in the rear, and on this 
 lot Mr. Ernest Longfellow has erected a cottage in 
 the Queen Anne style. Mr. Longfellow's estate com- 
 prised about ten acres. The old house, which contin- 
 ued to be Mr. Longfellow's home for the rest of his 
 life, is rich in association. It was built midway in the 
 last century, b}^ a gentleman of family and distinction, 
 named Col. John Vassal, whose gravestone in the Cam- 
 bridge churchyard bears upon it, by way of inscription, 
 figures of a goblet and a sun ( Vas-soV), a pun upon the 
 family name. In the same churchyard reposes a lad}- 
 of the same family, with a slave buried at her feet 
 and another at her head. This is the lady of whom 
 Longfellow wrote in his poem entitled In The Church- 
 yard at Cambridge : — 
 
 " In the village churchyard she lies, 
 Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 
 
 No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; 
 At her feet and at her head 
 Lies a slave to attend the dead, 
 
 But their dust is White as hers. 
 
 " Was she a lady of high degree, 
 So much in love with the vanity 
 
 And foolish pomp of this world of ours? 
 
48 HENRY WABSW0R1H LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Or was it Christian charity, 
 And lowliness and humility, 
 
 The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 
 
 " Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
 No color shoots into those cheeks, 
 
 Either of anger or of pride, 
 At the rude question we have asked ; 
 Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
 
 By those who are sleeping at her side." 
 
 After the death of Col. Vassal the house was inher- 
 ited by his sod, who, being a Tory, forfeited all his prop- 
 erty. Washington, as everybody knows, made it his 
 headquarters for a time, his reception-room being the 
 front right-hand apartment used by the poet as a study, 
 while the opposite room was used by Mrs. Washington 
 for receptions. 
 
 " After the Revolutionary war the house was sold to 
 one Thomas Tracy, who appears to have been a sort 
 of American Vathek, emulating as far as possible in an 
 uncongenial clime the magnificent doings of the East- 
 ern prince. Some of his wealth he got by privateer- 
 ing. With the passing of his wealth, clouds gathered 
 about the old house. We hear of it no more until it 
 came into the hands of the last owner save one, An- 
 drew Craigie." Craigie was a wealtlry commissary or 
 apothecary-general in the Revolutionary army. He was 
 interested in land speculations in East Cambridge, and 
 built the bridge between Cambridge and Boston, which 
 was named for him, and still bears his name. 
 
 " The expenses it entailed ruined him : lie became 
 so embarrassed with debt that it is said he was afraid 
 to come out of his house except on SuiKhays. Necessity 
 
CRAIG IE HOUSE. 49 
 
 obliged him to part with all save eight of the two hun- 
 dred or a hundred and fifty acres, originally included 
 in the estate ; and after his death Mrs. Craigie was 
 forced to let lodgings to the youth of Harvard, pygmies 
 all to her, though to us such intellectual giants as 
 Everett, Sparks, and Longfellow were among them. 
 Of the reduced gentlewoman some curious stories are 
 told. On one occasion her young poet-lodger, entering 
 her parlor in the morning, found her sitting by the 
 open window, through which innumerable canker-worms 
 had crawled from the trees they were devouring out- 
 side. They had fastened themselves to her dress, and 
 hung in little writhing festoons from the white turban 
 on her head. Her visitor, surprised and shocked, asked 
 if she could do nothing to destroy the worms. Raising 
 her eyes from the book which she sat calmly reading, 
 like Indifference on a monument, she said, in tones of 
 solemn rebuke, 'Young man, have not our fellow- 
 worms as good a right to live as we?' — an answer 
 which throws ' Uncle Toby's ' ' Go, little fly,' quite into 
 the shade." 
 
 The house came into Mr. Longfellow's possession in 
 1843. It was built in the Georgian style of archi- 
 tecture, a capacious and imposing mansion, square in 
 front, the color buff, with window-framings, antique 
 pilasters, and balustrade on the roof, all in white. It 
 stands some fifty yards back from winding Brattle 
 Street, on a slight rise in the ground, which is broken by 
 two grassy terraces. The wall along the sidewalk has 
 inside of it a high hedge of purple and white lilac- 
 bushes. The grounds immediately surrounding the 
 house are adorned with not too many tall trees, and 
 with shrubs. In the rear is a stable, also buff in color. 
 
50 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Along each side of the house extends a wide veranda. 
 In front, the view stretches away to the Brighton 
 meadows and hills, often suffused with dim gray and 
 violet tints. 
 
 " The house," says The New- York Evening Post, 
 " had its stately halls, its cavernous recesses, its secret 
 crypts ; from one of which hiding-places came forth 
 mysteriously, dropping night by night upon the stairs, 
 those letters yellow with age, and recording some dim 
 secret, which have been made the theme of one of Saxe 
 Holm's best stories, i.e., "Esther Wynn's Love-Letters.' " 
 The Craigie House letters were addressed to the hus- 
 band of the picturesque old lady just referred to, who 
 sat with her fellow-worms by the parlor window. Mr. 
 Longfellow had intended to write a poem about these 
 letters, but Saxe Holm anticipated him. The age of 
 Craigie House is attested by an iron in the back of one 
 of the chimneys, which bears the date 1759. There is 
 a tradition that the house is connected with the Batch- 
 elder house on the opposite side of the street by a sub- 
 terranean passage. The poet took the greatest pride in 
 his house and in its traditions. He was fond of telling 
 how, in the room used by him as a study, Gen. Wash- 
 ington had received with the most freezing politeness 
 the gentleman sent from Boston by Gov. Hancock, 
 with the request that Gen. Washington would call upon 
 him. The governor conceived that in his own State 
 he was the superior of Washington. The general, on 
 learning this, slipped out of Boston, and, returning to 
 Cambridge, staid there until the governor avaled the 
 flag of his pride, and came to see him at Craigie 
 House. 
 
 A writer in The Boston Book Bulletin has given 
 
52 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 a complete and charming picture of the interior of the 
 Longfellow mansion : — 
 
 " Passing through the hall we enter ' Lady Washing- 
 ton's Drawing Room.' The furniture is white satin 
 covered with gay flowers in vines and clusters ; arm- 
 chairs and sofas are heaped with soft cushions covered 
 with the same material. The carpet is a bed of flowers. 
 
 " The effect is greatly heightened by a large mirror 
 opening another gay vista, and a picture in gorgeous 
 colors extending from wall to ceiling. It is one of 
 Copley's, ' The Grandchildren of Sir William Pepperell.' 
 A quaint little maiden, in a high cap and stiff bodice, a 
 youth with flowing curls, and a wooden-looking poodle, 
 compose the group. The picture is set in a massive 
 burnished frame, and the effect would be oppressive in 
 another room, but is in admirable harmony with this 
 state apartment. 
 
 " On an etagere, laden with treasures, is an agate 
 cup from the hand of no less a master than Benvenuto 
 Cellini, — clear, exquisitely carved, graceful in shape, 
 and guarded by two tiny open-mouthed dragons. It 
 was sent to Longfellow from the collection of the poet 
 Rogers, and had therefore a double value in his eyes. 
 As he held it in his hand, and pointed out its beauties, 
 one could but think what a crowd of associations were 
 gathering in its delicate cup. 
 
 " In the dining-room we see rare old china, a modern 
 picture of a cardinal in red, walking in the Borghese 
 Gardens, and several family portraits. Among them is 
 Buchanan Read's picture of ' Longfellow's Daughters,' 
 that has been photographed so often, — the 'blue-eyed 
 banditti ' that the poet-father has so charmingly apos- 
 trophized in The Children's Hour : — 
 
THE POET'S LIBRARY. 53 
 
 ' Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair.' 
 
 " From this room we pass into a long, narrow ball, 
 running the length of the house. At its head great 
 Jove looks before him with big, unseeing eyes ; while on 
 either side are those lovely marble women, who, in spite 
 of Lord Byron's couplet, — 
 
 ' I've seen more beauty, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal,' 
 
 still hold their own — as embodied ideas in human 
 shape — against their living sisters. 
 
 " The library is the most beautiful room in the 
 house, — dark and rich in tone, with a look of spacious 
 elegance and home-like comfort. On three sides the 
 walls are lined with books. The bronzes and Japa- 
 nese screens are studies. 
 
 " Here hangs a portrait of Liszt. The background 
 is dark, and he is dressed in the long black convent 
 robe. High above his head he holds a lighted candle. 
 The rays shape themselves like a halo round his head, 
 and throw into fine relief the thin, spirited face. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow saw him thus for the first time as he 
 stood in the convent-door peering out into the night. 
 The vision impressed itself upon the poet, and he per- 
 suaded Liszt to have his picture painted. 
 
 " From the library a passage leads to the billiard-room, 
 now fallen into disuse, and converted into an eesthetic 
 lumber-room, where one would delight to dream away 
 a rainy day. 
 
 " The rooms up-stairs are as full of interest as those 
 below. 
 
 " One suite has been fitted up by Mr. Longfellow's 
 
54 HENRY WADSWOIITH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 son (Charles Appleton) in Japanese style. The wall- 
 paper is of neutral tint, ornamented with Japanese fans 
 in groups of twos and threes. The heathen gods frown 
 at you, national arms are collected, tables are heaped 
 with Japanese books made on the principle of cat-stairs, 
 and photographs of Japanese beauties, with button-hole 
 mouths and long bright eyes, abound. 
 
 " This article would become a catalogue of descrip- 
 tion should I try to enumerate half the curiosities to be 
 seen in this grand old house. One cabinet alone, with 
 its medley of treasures, is worth an afternoon's study. 
 Here is a bit of Dante's coffin ; there an agate cylinder, 
 and some brilliant African beetles. Two canes attract 
 you : one is made from the spar of the ship on which 
 1 The Star-spangled Banner ' was written ; the other 
 comes from Acadie, and is surmounted by a hideous 
 head, which, Mr. Longfellow used to say, with a twinkle 
 in his eye, was the poet's idea of Evangeline." 
 
 HYPERION. 
 
 In 1839 appeared " Hyperion : a Romance," the first 
 of the poet's works written in Craigie House. It was 
 published in New York. It was the only one of his 
 works ever published outside of Boston and Cambridge, 
 with the exception of Poets and Poetry of Europe, 
 a compilation made for Philadelphia publishers, and 
 Outre-Mer (Harpers, 1835). 1 It may be noted that 
 the only one of Hawthorne's works published outside 
 of Boston was his " Mosses from an Old Manse," pub- 
 lished in New York. 
 
 1 Reference is made here to the first publication of his works. All 
 his works have been republished in England, and an illustrated edition 
 was published in Philadelphia. 
 
SECOND MARRIAGE. 55 
 
 The origin of Hyperion was as follows. Being in 
 Switzerland in 1839, some considerable time after the 
 death of his wife, Mr. Longfellow chanced to meet 
 the family of Mr. Nathan Appleton of Boston. They 
 were travelling in style through the country, with foot- 
 men and postilions. 1 Miss Fanny Elizabeth Appleton, 
 the daughter of Mr. Nathan Appleton, and sister of Mr. 
 Thomas Gold Appleton, the well-known Boston author, 
 was at that time a most beautiful girl of eighteen or 
 twenty, and she completely captivated the heart of the 
 poet. The suit was not well received by her at first, 
 the disparity of age probably seeming disagreeable to 
 her. But the suitor was not to be put off, and deliber- 
 ately set to work to win her by writing his Hyperion, 
 in which Miss Appleton was introduced under the name 
 Mary Ashburton. 
 
 THE POET'S SECOND MARRIAGE. 
 
 It is well known that the heroine of the romance was 
 not wholly pleased at being the recognized subject of 
 so much sentiment. The marriage, however, took place 
 at last, in July, 1843 ; and for nearly twenty years their 
 married life was one of unmingled happiness. Five 
 
 i A pleasant little incident is related in this connection. Mr. Long- 
 fellow had joined the Appleton party; and "at Zurich the innkeeper, 
 as innkeepers often do, thought he could charge heavily for what he 
 gave. Mr. Appleton had written his name in the travellers' book, with 
 compliments to the hotel, which he regretted when the hill was brought 
 to him. ' But I have not written my name,' said Mr. Longfellow; ' and 
 if you will allow me, I will treat the innkeeper as he deserves.' The 
 name of the inn was ' The Raven.' Mr. Longfellow withdrew with the 
 book, and in five minutes returned with these witty lines written under 
 
 his name : — 
 
 ' Beware of the Raven of Zurich ! 
 
 'Tie a bird of omen ill ; 
 With a noisy and an unclean nest, 
 And a very, very lonsr bill.' " 
 
56 HENRY WADSWQRTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 children blessed their household, — two sons, Charles 
 Appleton and Ernest Wadsworth ; and three daughters, 
 Alice M., Edith (now wife of Richard. Henry Dana), 
 and Annie Allegra. Mrs. Longfellow was a lady of rare 
 beauty and. great dignity of bearing : her " deep, un- 
 utterable eyes " have been sung by her husband. On 
 July 9, 1861, Mrs. Longfellow was burned, to death by 
 her clothing catching fire from a wax taper with which 
 she was sealing a letter enclosing a lock of hair of 
 one of her children. She wore a licdit summer dress 
 of inflammable material, which made the extinguishing 
 of the flames more difficult. Mr. Longfellow ran out 
 from an adjoining room, clasped his wife in his arms, 
 and succeeded in partially subduing the fire on one 
 side of her face and person ; but the envious flames 
 had done their work, and she presently expired in great 
 suffering. Mr. Longfellow was himself severely burned. 
 He was nearly crazed with grief : he shut himself up in 
 his room, walking to and fro, wringing his hands, and 
 crying out, "Oh, my beautiful wife, my beautiful wife!" 
 The writer of these lines was told by a friend of the 
 Longfellow family, that, when Mrs. Longfellow was 
 placed in the coffin, the side of her face which had been 
 protected by the effort of her husband to extinguish the 
 flames was placed uppermost, and was so fresh and 
 beautiful that it seemed as if she lay there asleep. Mr. 
 Longfellow never fully recovered from this shock, and 
 ever afterwards seemed an old man. 
 
 Of this grief Mr. II. II. Stoddard in "Poets' Homes'* 
 (D. Lothrop & Co.) writes : — 
 
 " He has known poignant sorrow. Death has entered 
 his home, and taken from it his dearest. That this, a 
 sorrow ever abiding, is one from which, in a sense, he 
 
NATHAN APPLETON. SI 
 
 will never recover, the years have proved. His melan- 
 choly is but dimly seen, like a smoke curling upward 
 from a blazing fire. Yet it is present always, veiling 
 his cheerfulness and saddening his smiles/' 
 
 " I never heard him make but one allusion to the great 
 grief of his life," said an intimate friend. " We were speak- 
 ing of Schiller's fine poem, The Ring of Poly crates. He 
 said, ' It was just so with me. I was too happy. I might 
 fancy the gods envied, if I could fancy heathen gods.'" 
 
 NATHAN APPLETON, — MRS. LONGFELLOW'S FATHER. 
 
 The father of the lamented Mrs. Longfellow, Mr. 
 Nathan Appleton of Boston, was in many respects a 
 remarkable man. He was born in New Ipswich, N.H., 
 Oct. 6, 1779, and was descended from respectable and 
 knightly ancestry. He married Miss Maria Theresa, 
 daughter of Thomas Gold, Esq., a Pittsfield lawyer. 
 The reader will peruse with much interest the following 
 sketch of Nathan Appleton, written by the Hon. Robert. 
 C. Winthrop : — 
 
 " At early dusk on some October or November even- 
 ing, in the year 1794, a fresh, vigorous, bright-eyed lad, 
 just turned of fifteen, might have been seen alighting 
 from a stage-coach near Quaker Lane, 1 as it was then 
 called, in the town of Boston. He had been two days 
 on the road from his home in the town of New Ipswich, 
 in the State of New Hampshire. On the last of the 
 two days the stage-coach had brought him all the way 
 from Groton in Massachusetts ; starting for that pur- 
 pose early in the morning, stopping at Concord for the 
 passengers, to dine, trundling them through Charlestown 
 about the time the evening lamps were lighted, and 
 
 1 Now Congress Street. 
 
5% HENRY WADSW0RT1I LONGFELLOW. 
 
 finishing the whole distance of rather more than thirty 
 miles in season for supper. The Boston stage-coach in 
 those days went no farther than Groton in that direc- 
 tion. His father's farm-horse, or perhaps that of one 
 of the neighbors, had served his turn for the first six 
 or seven miles ; his little brother of ten years old hav- 
 ing followed him as far as Townsend, to ride the horse 
 home again. But from there he had trudged along to 
 Groton on foot, with a bundle-handkerchief in his hand, 
 which contained all the wearing-apparel he had, except 
 what was on his back. 
 
 " At early dawn on the morning of Sunday, July 14, 
 1861, there died, at his beautiful residence in Beacon 
 Street, adorned within by many choice works of luxury 
 and art, and commanding without the lovely scenery of 
 the Mall, the Common, and the rural environs of Bos- 
 ton, a venerable person of more than fourscore years; a 
 merchant of large enterprise and unsullied integrity; 
 a member of many learned societies ; a writer of many 
 able essays on commerce and currency ; a wise and pru- 
 dent counsellor in all private and public affairs; who 
 had served with marked distinction in the legislative 
 halls both of the State and of the Nation, and who had 
 enjoyed through life the esteem, respect, and confidence 
 of the community in which he lived." 
 
 HYPERION. 
 
 To return to Hyperion. The work became extreme- 
 ly popular, and remained so for many years. Up to 
 1857 upwards of 14,550 copies had been sold. On 
 March 18, 1840, Charles Sumner writes from London 
 to his friend, George S. Hillard: '.'I have just found 
 
HYPERION. 59 
 
 Longfellow's Hyperion, and shall sit np all night to 
 read it. I have bought up all the copies of Voices of 
 the Night in London to give to my friends." The 
 book has a sweet and mellow tone, like Outre-Mer. 
 What reader of books does not remember how it 
 charmed him with its subdued humor, its fresh pictures 
 of German life, and its solemn pathos ? What young 
 man that read after Flemmiug these words on the 
 tablet in the church, did not carry them away for- 
 ever impressed on the tablets of his heart? — "Look 
 not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back 
 again. Wisely improve the Present, It is thine. Go 
 forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and 
 with a manly heart." How beautiful, too, the follow- 
 ing!— "In ancient times there stood in the citadel of 
 Athens three statues of Minerva. The first was of 
 olive-wood, and, according to tradition, had fallen from 
 heaven ; the second was of bronze, commemorating the 
 victory of Marathon ; and the third of gold and ivory, a 
 great miracle of art in the age of Pericles. And thus in 
 the citadel of Time stands Man himself. In childhood, 
 shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen from heaven ; 
 in manhood, a statue of bronze, commemorating struggle 
 and victory ; and lastly, in the maturity of age, perfectly 
 shaped in gold and ivory, — a miracle of art ! " Or this 
 often-quoted passage about the Rhine: "By heavens, 
 if I were a German I would be proud of it too, and of 
 the clustering grapes that hang about its temples, as 
 it reels onward through vineyards in triumphal march, 
 like Bacchus crowned and drunken!" The book is 
 written in a style more verbose and rhetorical than now 
 prevails, and therefore is apt to be "skimmed" by 
 readers of to-day; but it is still the best guide-book 
 
60 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 to the Rhine and Heidelberg. Professor Felton said of 
 it on its appearance, " It is a book for minds attuned to 
 sentiments of tenderness, — minds of an imaginative 
 turn, and willing and ready to interest themselves in 
 reveries as gorgeous as morning dreams, and in the 
 delicate perceptions of art and poetry, — minds tried by 
 suffering, and sensitively alive to the influence of the 
 beautiful. ... In tender and profound feeling, and in 
 brilliancy of imagery, the work will bear a comparison 
 with the best productions of romantic fiction which 
 English literature can boast." 
 
 In the Longfellow number of The Literary World 
 Col. Hiffginson said, — 
 
 "The travelling American will find himself an object 
 of interest to every Englishman so soon as he claims 
 personal acquaintance with Mark Twain ; and to every 
 English woman, after she discovers that he has the 
 honor of a personal acquaintance with Professor Long- 
 fellow. We heard a lady of that section say to her 
 companions, on a Rhine steamer, that it was all non- 
 sense to carry guide-books, since nothing was really 
 essential on that river except the writings of Long- 
 fellow. On the lofty heights of the Gorner Grat, above 
 Zermatt, we met a party of English school-girls, who 
 declared that Hyperion was their favorite book; and 
 we encountered an elderly Englishman at Chamonix, 
 who sighed over the memory of Emma of Ilmenau, and 
 murmured solemnly, ' That night there fell a star from 
 heaven.' This is fame, — a fame almost as substantial 
 as to have written Robinson Crusoe or Don Quixote. 
 
 " Emerson tells us to hitch our wagons to a star ; and 
 it is a good thing when a romance has a permanent place 
 among the guide-books. No traveller can fully enjoy 
 
HEIDELBERG. 61 
 
 Quebec without Howells's Wedding Journey, or Hei- 
 delberg without Hyperion. Our copy — the cheap Ger- 
 man imprint — gained a new charm from being carried as 
 a pocket treasure among the ruined halls of the beauti- 
 ful castle, and to the summit of the ' Rent Tower.' It 
 produced a momentary doubt when we failed to find on 
 that eminence any ' great linden trees ; ' but it was easy 
 to convince one's self that forty years might have re- 
 moved them from their airy perch, and that even Paul 
 Flemming and his Baron would now have to content 
 themselves with second-growth trees. But the glory of 
 the castle is still there, and the throng of people ; and 
 the American visitor enjoys it all the more from the 
 knowledge that his own fellow-countryman has em- 
 balmed it in literature. 
 
 "Yet, while reading Hyperion at Heidelberg, and 
 while passing maturer judgment on a book which we 
 almost knew by heart at sixteen, we were compelled to 
 recognize a certain crudeness of quality and a turgid- 
 ness of style which were singularly absent from Mr. 
 Longfellow's poetry at the same period. Hyperion 
 did great service in its day, and certainly shared with 
 Carlyle's essays the merit of directing the attention of 
 English-speaking people to the wealth of German liter- 
 ature. When we now read what the author says of 
 Goethe and Jean Paul, and the wild thoughts he has 
 gleaned from Fichte and Schubert, we judge them in 
 the light of forty years of later literature ; but at the 
 first publication this book brought Germany to us 
 almost as Madame de Stael had brought it to French 
 readers; and was our guide into a new world of 
 delight. Moreover, the blossoming period of German 
 poetry was then less remote, by nearly half a century, 
 
62 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 than now : and the bards whom Longfellow translated 
 seemed contemporaries. Now we know that, for what- 
 ever reason, their reign is over, and that Germany no 
 longer produces even Ruckerts and Freiligraths. But 
 it is none the less true that Hyperion will represent, 
 so long as it is read, the freshness of German romance 
 as it was transmitted to the still fresher apprehension 
 of newly-awakened America. 
 
 " An enthusiastic young Dane, a Harvard student, 
 who in those days beguiled a summer vacation by 
 translating the Heinrich von Ofterdingen of Nova- 
 lis, closed his preface to that charming and incompre- 
 hensible tale by saying solemnly : ' Novalis died young. 
 The translator is also young.' Probably much of the 
 power of Hyperion lay in the fact that the interpret- 
 er of all this romance was ' also young.' He was but 
 thirty-two when it appeared, and was indeed but twenty- 
 nine when he returned from Europe, where most of the 
 book was probably written. All that could be fairly 
 asked of a romance produced at that age and under 
 such circumstances was that it should have superabun- 
 dant wealth, and this Hyperion certainly had. With 
 fewer faults it would have had less promise. Professor 
 Channing used to say that it was a bad sign for a young 
 man to write too well : there must be something to be 
 pruned down." 
 
 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Since the publication of Coplas de Manrique, Mr. 
 Longfellow had at various times been contributing 
 poems to the magazines, and particularly to The 
 Knickerbocker. In 1839 these, together with some 
 of his earlier poems and translations, were published 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. -63 
 
 at Cambridge, Mass., by John Owen, who was then 
 conducting the University Bookstore, corner of Harvard 
 and Holyoke Streets. The volume was a pretty little 
 16mo, in light cream-colored binding, the covers having 
 elaborate colored designs, — the front one showing a 
 curtain half-drawn back upon a night landscape. " It 
 is remembered as if it were yesterday," says one, " when 
 a printer's devil invaded the peaceful recitation-room 
 of Harvard, where the students sat in the pleasant 
 fashion of those days around a table, and laid upon it 
 the proof-sheet of a title-page, Voices of the Night." 
 
 The success of the book was striking and immediate. 
 Up to 1857 more copies of it had been sold than of any 
 other work of the poet except Hiawatha (namely, forty- 
 three thousand of the " Voices," against fifty thousand 
 of Hiawatha). The Psalm of Life appeared here, as 
 well as The Reaper and the Flowers, and Footsteps 
 of Angels, The Beleaguered City, and Midnight Mass 
 for the Dying Year. 
 
 In Pierce's Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner 
 (ii., 227), there is a letter from Sumner to Longfellow, 
 in which he says, " A few days ago an old classmate, 
 upon whom the world has not smiled, came to my office 
 to prove some debts in bankruptcy. While writing the 
 formal parts of the paper, I inquired about his reading 
 and the books which interested him now (I believe he 
 has been a great reader). He said that he read very 
 little ; that he hardly found any thing which was written 
 from the heart and was really true. 'Have you read 
 Longfellow's Hyperion?' I said. k Yes,' he replied, 
 ' and I admire it very much : I think it a very great 
 book.' He then added in a very solemn manner, 'I 
 think I may say that Longfellow's Psalm of Life saved 
 
64 HENRY WABSWOItTIl LONGFELLOW. 
 
 me from suicide. I first found it on a scrap of news- 
 paper, in the hands of two Irishwomen, soiled and 
 worn ; and I was at once touched by it.' ' 
 
 The Chinese translator and notecj. scholar, Tung 
 Tajen, a great admirer of Mr. Longfellow, sent the 
 poet a Chinese fan, upon which was inscribed in 
 Chinese characters a translation of the Psalm of Life. 
 The fan is one of the folding kind, and the characters 
 are inscribed on it in vertical columns. 
 
 A still greater curiosity is a re-translation of the 
 Psalm of Life into English out of the Chinese. It was 
 made by an Englishman serving on the staff of the 
 Hon. Anson Burlingame, then American minister to 
 China. The first stanza of the " Psalm " is given be- 
 low, accompanied by the re-translation : -?S 
 
 Tell me not in mournful numbers 
 
 Life is but an empty dream ; 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Re-thaxslation. 
 Do not manifest your discontent in a piece of verse : 
 A hundred years [of life] are, in truth, as one sleep [so soon are 
 
 they gone] ; 
 The short dream [early death], the long dream [death after long 
 
 life], alike are dreams [so far as the body is concerned; 
 
 after death] 
 There still remains the spirit [which is able to] fill the universe. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow used to tell the following incident : 
 " I was once riding in London, when a laborer ap- 
 proached the carriage, and asked, ' Are you the writer 
 of the Psalm of Life ? ' — 'I am.' — ' Will you allow 
 me to shake hands with you ? ' We clasped hands 
 
BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 65 
 
 warmly. The carriage passed on, and I saw him no more ; 
 but I remember that as one of the most gratifying 
 compliments I ever received, because it was so sincere." 
 Mr. Longfellow's next published work was 
 
 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 This contained Excelsior, The Village Blacksmith, 
 The Wreck of the Hesperus, The Skeleton in Armor, 
 etc., and was published at Cambridge in 1841. All 
 of the pieces mentioned have been extremely popu- 
 lar, and are among his best minor poems. It is said 
 that Oliver Wendell Holmes, when once riding by 
 Mr. Longfellow's residence, was asked by a friend 
 which of Mr. Longfellow's poems he considered to 
 be the finest. " Excelsior," he replied ; and when 
 asked which of his own he thought the best, he said, 
 " The Chambered Nautilus." The critical and the un- 
 critical alike have almost universally admired the 
 ballads in this collection. Even Poe could not with- 
 hold his meed of praise, although he objected to the 
 salt tears in the eyes of the skipper's daughter, in 
 the poem called The Wreck of the Hesperus; and 
 Mr. John Burroughs has, with characteristic devotion 
 to truth, revealed the inaccuracy of Mr. Longfellow's 
 statement about the cormorant sailing: with wines 
 aslant, when bearing off his prey : such birds always 
 flap their wings heavily when they rise from the water 
 with a fish, or are carrying off any prey in their talons. 
 
 In 1812 appeared a thin volume entitled 
 
 POEMS ON SLAVERY, 
 
 composed during a return voyage from Europe in 1842 
 (the summer of this }'ear having been passed by Mr. 
 
66 IIENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Longfellow at Boppard on the Rhine). At a meeting 
 of the Cambridge Sunday Club, shortly after Mr. Long- 
 fellow's death, a gentleman who had had access to 
 unpublished letters of Charles Sumner during the 
 editing of Mr. Sumner's complete works remarked 
 that in these unpublished letters were many urgent ap- 
 peals from Mr. Sumner to Mr. Longfellow that he would 
 write some stirring anti-slavery poems. Longfellow, 
 like Sumner, was by nature (it is needless to say) 
 a peace-man ; and it was late before he responded to 
 his friend's requests. The letters, however, show that 
 Sumner was highly gratified with the Poems on Slavery 
 when they did appear. Longfellow's poems, while 
 spirited, are not considered equal to the war-poems 
 of Whittier, or the Drum- Taps of Whitman, which 
 won so much praise in Europe. But his views on 
 slavery were far in advance of the prevalent thought 
 and sentiment of the day. When the poet's works 
 were reprinted in Philadelphia, the Poems on Slavery 
 were omitted by the publishers, without any authoriza- ' 
 tion, and for political reasons. 
 
 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 In 1843 appeared The Spanish Student, a play in 
 three acts (Cambridge). The popular song entitled 
 Serenade, and more familiarly known by its first line, 
 Stars of the Summer Night, appears in this play, or 
 poem as it should more properly be called. The follow- 
 ing are some of its stanzas : — 
 
 Stars of the summer night ! 
 
 Far in yon azure deeps, 
 Hide, hide your golden light ! 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 Sleeps 1 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 67 
 
 Moon of the summer night ! 
 
 Far down yon western steeps, 
 Sink, sink in silver light ! 
 She sleeps 1 
 My lady sleeps I 
 Sleeps 1 
 
 Wind of the summer night ! 
 
 "Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
 Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 
 She sleeps 1 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Of The Spanish Student, the critic Edwin Percy 
 Whipple said, " In this poem the affluence of his imagi- 
 nation in images of grace, grandeur, and beauty is 
 most strikingly manifest. The objection to it as a play 
 is its lack of skill or power in the dramatic exhibition 
 of character; but read merely as a poem, cast in the 
 form of a dialogue, it is one of the most beautiful in 
 American literature. None of his other pieces so well 
 illustrate all his poetical faculties, — his imagination, 
 his fancy, his sentiment, and his manner. It seems 
 to comprehend the whole extent of his genius." This 
 was written, it must be remembered, almost in the in- 
 fancy of our literature. 
 
 The verdict of other critics has by no means been so 
 favorable. Poe, in one of his terrible pieces of ratio- 
 cination and steel-cold logic, asserts that The Spanish 
 Student has originality neither in thesis, incidents, nor 
 manner of treatment. The theme is taken from La 
 Gitanilla of Cervantes. Of the incidents Poe says 
 that there is not one, from the first page to the last, 
 which he would not " undertake to find boldly at ten 
 
68 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 minutes' notice in some one of the thousand and one 
 comedies of intrigue attributed to Calderon and Lope 
 de Vega ; " that in treating his subject he " has jumbled 
 together the quaint and stilted tone of the old English 
 dramatists with the degagee air of Cervantes," and that 
 his " Chispa discourses pure Sancho Panza." 
 
 Poe shows the dramatic inconsistencies and improba- 
 bilities of the plot, points out a few instances of tau- 
 tology and bad grammar, and concludes as follows: 
 " Upon the whole, we regret that Professor Longfellow 
 has written this work, and feel especially vexed that he 
 has committed himself by its publication. Only when 
 regarded as a mere poem can it be said to have merit 
 of any kind. For, in fact, it is only when we separate 
 the poem from the drama, that the passages we have 
 commended as beautiful can be understood to have 
 beauty. We are not too sure, indeed, that a ' dramatic 
 poem ' is not a flat contradiction in terms. At all 
 events, a man of true genius (and such Mr. Longfellow 
 unquestionably is) has no business with these hybrid 
 and paradoxical compositions. Let a poem be a poem 
 only ; let a play be a play, and nothing more. As for 
 The Spanish Student, its thesis is unoriginal ; its in- 
 cidents are antique ; its plot is no plot ; its characters 
 have no character : in short, it is little better than a 
 play upon words to style it ' A Play ' at all." 
 
 It is a noteworthy fact, in view of such criticisms as 
 these, that in fourteen years thirty-eight thousand copies 
 of The Spanish Student were sold. 
 
 In 1844 Mr. Longfellow edited " The Waif: a Col- 
 lection of Poems." It was published at Cambridge by 
 John Owen. It is a very slight volume. It was re- 
 printed in England in 1849. In 1845 also appeared 
 
POETS AjVD POETRY OF EUROPE. 69 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF EUROPE, 
 
 edited, with a preface, by Mr. Longfellow, and published 
 in Philadelphia. It contained selections from three hun- 
 dred and sixty authors, translated from ten different 
 languages ; Mr. Longfellow himself gave translations 
 from eight languages. Professor Francis Bowen said of 
 it, " In this great crowd of translations by different hands, 
 certainly very few appear equal to Professor Longfel- 
 low's in point of fidelity, elegance, and finish." The 
 Irish Quarterly Review said, " Longfellow's translations 
 from the German, Swedish, Spanish, French, Danish, 
 Italian, and Anglo-Saxon possess in a very high degree 
 that elegance of diction and thoroughly classical coloring 
 for which all his other poems are remarkable." The 
 preface to The Poets and Poetry of Europe begins 
 with this quaint extract from the writings of the old 
 Spanish Jew, Alfonso de Baena : " The art of poetr}', 
 the gay science, is a most subtle 'and most delightful sort 
 of writing or composition. It is sweet and pleasurable 
 to those who propound and to those who reply, to 
 utterers and to hearers. This science, or the wisdom 
 or knowledge dependent on it, can only be possessed, 
 received, and acquired by the inspired spirit of the Lord 
 God ; who communicates it, sends it, and influences 
 by it those alone who well and wisely, and discreetly 
 and correctly, can create and arrange, and compose and 
 polish, and scan and measure feet, and pauses, and 
 rhymes, and syllables, and accents, by dextrous art, by 
 varied and by novel arrangement of words. And even 
 then, so sublime is the understanding of this art, and 
 so difficult its attainment, that it can only be learned, 
 possessed, reached, and known to the man who is of 
 
70 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 noble and of ready invention, elevated and pure discre- 
 tion, sound and steady judgment ; who has seen, and 
 heard, and read many and divers books and writings ; 
 who understands all languages ; who has, moreover, 
 dwelt in the courts of kings and nobles ; and who has 
 witnessed and practised many heroic feats. Finally, he 
 must be of high birth, courteous, calm, chivalric, gra- 
 cious ; he must be polite and graceful ; he must possess 
 honey, and sugar, and salt, and facility and gayety in 
 his discourse." 
 
 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES, AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 was the title of a volume published in Boston in 1846 
 (the first of his books to be published there). It con- 
 tained the poem To a Child : — 
 
 O child ! O new-born denizen 
 Of life's great city ! on thy head 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Here also appeared Seaweed, doubtless inspired by 
 some scene at Nahant, the poet's seaside residence : — 
 
 When descends on the Atlantic 
 
 The gigantic 
 Storm-wind of the equinox, 
 
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 71 
 
 Landward in his wrath he scourges 
 
 The toiling surges, 
 Laden with seaweed from the rocks. 
 
 Other songs in the collection are The Day is Done, 
 and The Old Clock on the Stairs : — 
 
 Somewhat back from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
 And from its station in the hall 
 An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 By day its voice is low and light ; 
 But in the silent dead of night, 
 Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
 It echoes along the vacant hall, 
 Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
 And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 From that chamber, clothed in white, 
 The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
 There, in that silent room below, 
 The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
 And in the hush that followed the prayer 
 Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever! " 
 
 It is generally believed that the old clock referred to 
 is the one which now stands on the landing half-way 
 up the stairs in the old Craigie House at Cambridge, 
 and which has been gazed upon with wonder and 
 veneration by so many visitors. This, however, is a 
 
72 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 mistake. "The original clock, which served as the in- 
 spiration of the poem, is an heirloom in the Appleton 
 family, and stands at present at the head of the stair- 
 case in the home of Mr. Thomas G. Appleton, No. 10 
 Commonwealth Avenue, in Boston. Mrs. Longfellow's 
 mother was a Miss Gold of Pittsfield ; and the clock 
 originally stood in the family mansion at that place, 
 where the Appletons resided for some thirty years. 
 When Mr. Appleton decided to remove to the seaside 
 in 1853, he sold the old home, the purchaser being a 
 Mr. Plunkett. At this time Mr. Thomas G. Appleton 
 insisted that the clock should not be sold with the 
 house ; and his wishes were complied with, although 
 Mrs. Plunkett was very unwilling to give it up." This 
 clock is in an excellent state of preservation, and 
 its appearance would hardly indicate its age. Mr. 
 Longfellow bought a handsome old-fashioned clock at 
 an auction-sale in Boston several years ago, 'and this is 
 the one now standing on the staircase in the Craigie 
 House. Visitors naturally associated the clock with the 
 poem, and it was not always possible or convenient 
 to correct the error. Another clock of similar appear- 
 ance, which now stands in the old family mansion in 
 Pittsfield, has also been erroneously taken for the clock 
 mentioned in the poem. The poem refers entirely to 
 incidents in the history of the Appleton family, and 
 was written by Mr. Longfellow while spending a sum- 
 mer in Pittsfield. One of his friends asked the poet 
 one day if he would not write a poem upon some sub- 
 ject which he had in mind. Mr. Longfellow replied 
 that he thought he had an idea, and the next day pro- 
 duced the poem as it now stands. 
 
 In 1847 Mr. Longfellow edited another small collec- 
 
ORIGIN OF EVANGELINE. 73 
 
 tion of poems called " The Estray," and in the same 
 year also appeared 
 
 EVANGELINE, A TALE OF ACADIE. 
 
 Of this poem upwards of thirty-seven thousand copies 
 were sold in ten years : the whole reading world was 
 full of enthusiasm over it. It was reviewed by The 
 North-American Review, The American Whig Review 
 (in which Poe had published his Raven a few years 
 previous), The New-Englander, The Southern Liter- 
 ary Messenger, Brownson s Quarterly, and The Eclec- 
 tic. In England it was favorably reviewed in Fraser's, 
 The Irish Quarterly, Blackwood's, The Athenoeum, 
 and The Examiner. The picture of Evangeline, which, 
 not long after the publication of the poem, was de- 
 signed by Faed, is universally known and admired, and 
 gave Mr. Longfellow himself much pleasure. 
 
 The origin of the poem is this : Hawthorne one day 
 came to dine with Mr, Longfellow, bringing with him 
 a friend from Salem. While at dinner the friend of 
 Hawthorne said that he had been tryiug to persuade 
 him to write a story about the banishment of the 
 Acadians, founded upon the life of a young Acadian 
 girl who got separated from her lover, and spent the 
 rest of her life in searching for him. Hawthorne 
 thought that it would hardly do for a story, and gave 
 it to Longfellow for a poem. The poet, when in Phila- 
 delphia, had his fancy touched by the hospital on 
 Spruce Street, with its high-walled grounds and an- 
 tique appearance ; and he decided to locate there the 
 final scene of the poem, namely, the meeting between 
 Gabriel and Evangeline. 
 
 There is a passage in Hawthorne's " American Note- 
 
74 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Books " which gives the kernel of the story as Haw- 
 thorne had it : " H. L. C heard from a French Ca- 
 nadian a story of a young couple in Acadia. On their 
 marriage-day all the men of the province were sum- 
 moned to assemble in the church to hear a proclamation. 
 When assembled, 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.' ' 
 
 One who is familiar with the place, in a private note 
 to the writer, speaks of the scenery which probably in- 
 spired the opening stanzas of Evangeline. He says : — 
 
 " Longfellow often visited, when a boy, the old 
 Wadsworth mansion in Hiram, which is still standing, 
 and loved to ramble over it and look out from the bal- 
 cony on the roof upon the woods and hills in the midst 
 of which it is situated, and especially upon the river 
 winding through the beautiful valley. Near by the 
 Great Falls of the Saco tumble over the steep ledges, 
 and in spring present a grand spectacle with the logs 
 leaping furiously over each other and plunging into the 
 foaming abyss below. As I have sat watching this 
 tumult of waters, how often have I thought of Long- 
 fellow drinking in the scene with all a boy's enthusiasm ; 
 and the prelude to the Evangeline came forcibly to 
 mind : 
 
 ' This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hem- 
 locks, 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, 
 Stand like Druids of eld.' 
 
EVANGELINE. 75 
 
 And as I listened to the roar of the falls and the mur- 
 mur of the forest, I could but think it was here Long- 
 fellow took in the scene that in after-years he so 
 beautifully wrought into his imperishable song." 
 
 The Scotch author Gilfillan has said, "Next to Ex- 
 celsior, and the Psalm of Life, we are disposed to 
 rank Evangeline. Indeed, as a work of art it is supe- 
 rior to both, and to all that Longfellow has written in 
 verse. . . . Nothing can be more truly conceived or 
 more tenderly expressed than the picture of that primi- 
 tive Nova Scotia, and its warm-hearted, hospitable, 
 happy, and pious inhabitants. We feel the air of the 
 fore-world around us. The light of the golden age — 
 its joy, music, and poetry — is shining above. There 
 are evenings of summer or autumn-tide so exquisitely 
 beautiful, so complete in their own charms, that the 
 entrance of the moon is felt almost as a painful and 
 superfluous addition. It is like a candle dispelling the 
 weird darkness of a twilight room. So we feel at first 
 as if Evangeline when introduced were an excess of 
 loveliness, an amiable eclipse of the surrounding beau- 
 ties. But even as the moon by and by vindicates her 
 entrance, and creates her own holier day, so with the 
 delicate and lovely heroine of this simple story: she 
 becomes the centre of the entire scene." 
 
 Fraser's Magazine said, " This is an American poem ; 
 and we hail its appearance with the greater satisfaction, 
 inasmuch as it is the first genuine Castalian fount which 
 has burst from the soil of America." The Metropolitan 
 said, "No one with any pretensions to poetic feeling 
 can read its delicious portraiture of rustic scenery, and 
 of a mode of life long since defunct, without the most 
 intense delight." President Charles King, of Columbia 
 
76 HEN BY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 College, said : " The Evangeline is the most perfect 
 specimen extant of the rhythm and melody of the 
 English hexameter." But The [London] Athenseum 
 thought that " with the sorrows of Evangeline a simpler 
 rhythm would have been more in harmony," and sug- 
 gested that the "real charm of the tale lay in its insu- 
 lated pictures of scenery." Speaking in a recent issue 
 of the metre of Evangeline, The London Daily News 
 thought it a failure, but said : " Evangeline contains 
 one line, — 
 
 ' Chanting the Hundredth Psalm — that grand old Puritan anthem,' 
 
 which is metrically perfect ; but this is an isolated in- 
 stance, and may be fairly confronted with another verse 
 from the same poem, — 
 
 ' Children's children sat on his knee, and heard his great watch 
 tick,' 
 
 which is almost as bad as it can be." 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes has said of Evangeline : 
 " Of the longer poems of our chief singer I should 
 not hesitate to select ' Evangeline ' as the masterpiece, 
 and I think the general verdict of opinion would con- 
 firm my choice. The German model which it follows 
 in its measure and the character of its story was itself 
 suggested by an earlier idyl. If Dorothea was the 
 mother of Evangeline, Louise was the mother of Doro- 
 thea. And what a beautiful creation is the Acadian 
 maiden! From the first line of the poem, — from its 
 first words, — we read as we would float down a broad 
 and placid river, murmuring softly against its banks, 
 heaven over it, and the glory of the unspoiled wilder- 
 ness all around. 
 
 ' This is the forest primeval.' 
 
EVANGELINE. 77 
 
 The words are already as familiar as 
 
 ' N//viv uecde, dtu,' 
 
 or 
 
 ' Arma virumque cano.' 
 
 The hexameter has been often criticised ; but I do not 
 believe any other measure could have told that lovely 
 story with such effect as we feel when carried along the 
 tranquil current of these brimming, slow-moving, soul- 
 satisfying lines. Imagine for one moment a story like 
 this minced into octosyllabics. The poet knows better 
 than his critics the length of step which best befits his 
 music." A Blackwood critic said, " It is a peculiarity 
 of this sweet singer, that his best strains are always 
 wistful, longing, true voices of the night." 
 
 Mr. F. Blake Crofton of Nova Scotia has in The 
 Literary World an article on Evangeline, from which 
 the following extracts are made : — 
 
 "A Nova Scotian doctor, with a practice involving 
 frequent long drives, observed to the writer that he 
 seldom passed through a forest of native firs without 
 thinking of the ' murmuring pines and the hemlocks ' 
 in the first line of Evangeline. He held that the epi- 
 thet suited these particular trees better than any others. 
 Whether his idea was objectively true, or only fanciful, 
 our senses are not fine enough to decide. In the latter 
 case, however, the tribute to the poet's art is quite as 
 great as in the former. The physician's fancy then be- 
 comes another of the many instances that prove how 
 much the coloring of Evangeline tinges the feelings 
 and views of Nova Scotians about Nova Scotia. 
 
 " The first appearance of Evangeline gave rise to 
 sundry warm efforts to vindicate Gov. Lawrences treat- 
 ment of the Acadians. We have now before us three 
 
78 HENBY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 histories of this Province published within the last 
 decade ; and they unite in condemning the manner of 
 the expulsion, — 'at which,' says one historian, 'the 
 moral instincts of mankind shudder.' Evangeline has 
 proved, in fact, one of the decisive poems of the 
 world. The most sanguine partisans, we think, have 
 realized the impossibility of stemming the flood of phvy 
 it has created for the Acadians, by pleading the politi- 
 cal expediency of removing them somewhere. The 
 people of the Province, albeit prosaic in the main, 
 glory in the soft poetic halo Mr. Longfellow has 
 thrown round their rugged coasts. And they have no 
 inclination to depreciate the Acadians. They have 
 their lands, and think they see some distant prospect 
 of inheriting their enviable reputation too ! 
 
 " The tragedy of le grand derangement, as the Acadi- 
 ans termed their expatriation, is, in truth, thrown into 
 more striking relief by the great dissimilarity of the 
 men who occupy their fields. A genial population has 
 been replaced by an austere one (we use the epithets 
 comparatively, and admit thousands of exceptions) ; a 
 chaste by a squeamish, a temperate by a ' temperance ' 
 people ; a people that preferred practising virtues, by 
 a people that prefers professing them. Raynal and 
 Longfellow represent the Acadians as singularly peace- 
 ful among themselves. Governors Armstrong and 
 Lawrence, writing before the expulsion, called them 
 ' litigious.' There is no dispute about the litigiousness 
 of their successors. Stern Scotch Presbyterianism and 
 New England Puritanism, unmellowed by the trans- 
 planting, are foils to the gentle, undictatorial religion 
 of Father Felician. There is, indeed, a little Roman 
 Catholic chapel in the valley of Grand-Pre*; but the 
 
EVANGELINE. 79 
 
 picturesque superstitions of Rome are scowlingly toler- 
 ated in the surrounding country. ' The common drink 
 of the Acadians,' says the Abbe* Raynal, ' was beer and 
 cider, to which they sometimes added rum.' Nova 
 Scotians warm their colder temperaments almost ex- 
 clusively with strong spirits, and do so unconvivially 
 and furtively. A modern maiden who bore 
 
 ' flagons of home-brewed ale 
 
 to the reapers, or filled for her father's guests 
 
 ' the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
 Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village,' 
 
 would be charged with every sin the ingenuity of the 
 scandal-mongers could invent. 
 
 ' Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
 Linger a few Acadian peasants.' 
 
 "Small communities of these returned exiles still 
 exist at Clare, at Minudie, at Chezzelcook, at Tracadie, 
 at Arichat, in parts of Prince Edward Island, and on 
 the north coast of New Brunswick, speaking a corrupt 
 French patois in most cases, and preserving some of the 
 traits depicted by Raynal. If their maidens still 
 
 ' by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,' 
 
 they repeat Mr. Longfellow's own version of it now. 
 His tale was gracefully translated into French alexan- 
 drines in 1865 by a Canadian, M. Le May. ' The 
 great poet of America,' says a writer in the Canadian 
 Monthly, ' occupies a warm corner in the French 
 Canadian heart ' ; and Frechette, the first foreign poet 
 crowned by the French Academy, has paid him more 
 than one liberal tribute of song." 
 
80 HENBY WADSWORT1I LONGFELLOW. 
 
 KAVANAGH, 
 
 a prose tale of New-England life and manners, ap- 
 peared in 1849. It was written by the poet during a 
 summer that he passed at the old Melville House in 
 Pittsfield, Mass, The house was situated half a mile 
 from the village, on the road to Lenox, and very near 
 Dr. Holmes's house. Kavanagh is replete with de- 
 scriptions of the mountainous scenery of that part of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 Of this book James Russell Lowell said (North- 
 American Review, July, 1849), "Kavanagh is, as far 
 as it goes, an exact daguerrotype of New-England 
 life. We say daguerrotype, because we are conscious 
 of a certain absence of motion and color, which detract 
 somewhat from the vivacity, though not from the truth, 
 of the representation. From Mr. Pendexter with his 
 horse and chaise, to Miss Manchester painting the door 
 of her house, the figures are faithfully after nature." 
 
 " The story, too, is remarkably sweet and touching. 
 The two friends with their carrier-dove correspondence 
 give us a pretty glimpse into the trans-boarding-school 
 disposition of the maiden mind, which will contrive to 
 carry every-day life to romance, since romance will not 
 come to it." 
 
 Lowell further says, " If we hold Kavanagh strictly 
 to its responsibility as a ' tale,' we shall be obliged to 
 condemn in it a disproportion of parts to the whole, 
 and an elaboration of particulars at the expense of 
 unity. 
 
 "It is a story told to us, as it were, while we lie 
 under a tree, and the ear is willing at the same time 
 to take in other sounds. The gurgle of the brook, the 
 
THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 81 
 
 rustle of the leaves, even noises of life and toil (if 
 they be distant) such as the rattle of the white- 
 topped wagon and the regular pulse of the thresher's 
 flail, reconcile themselves to the main theme, and re- 
 enforce it with a harmonious accompaniment." 
 
 THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 In 1850 appeared The Seaside and the Fireside, 
 a further collection of his poems, among which was The 
 Building of the Ship, a remarkably powerful work, equal 
 to Schiller's Song of the Bell. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LEGEND 
 
 was published in 1851. In Homes of American Poets, 
 George William Curtis speaks thus of the work : 
 "In this poem he has obeyed the highest human- 
 ity of the poet's calling by revealing — what alone 
 the poet can — not coldly, but with the glowing and 
 affluent reality of life, this truth : that the same human 
 heart has throbbed in all ages, and under all circum- 
 stances, with the same pulse, and that the devotion of 
 love is for ever and ever, and from the beginning, the 
 salvation of man." 
 
 From Blackwood's Magazine for February, 1852, the 
 following is extracted : " We have no hesitation in 
 expressing our opinion that there is nearly as much 
 fine poetry in Mr. Longfellow's Golden Legend as in 
 the celebrated drama of Goethe. . . . We have already, 
 at the commencement of this paper, expressed our de- 
 cided objection to the machinery employed by Mr. 
 Longfellow. It is the reverse of original, being now 
 very hackneyed ; and it is absurdly disproportionate 
 to the object for which it is introduced. . . . Occasion- 
 
82 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ally, whilsc retaining rhyme and the semblance of 
 metre, Mr. Longfellow is betrayed into great extrava- 
 gance.'' 
 
 Ruskin said, " Longfellow in The Golden Legend 
 has entered more closely into the temper of the monk, 
 for good and for evil, than ever yet theological writer 
 or historian, though they may have given their life's 
 labor to the analysis." 
 
 The following is from an article by Mr. N. H. Cham- 
 berlain of Cambridge, in The Literary World : — 
 
 " Longfellow is undoubtedly our American Minne- 
 singer, with no rival on either side the Atlantic. He 
 belongs to the morning, the summer, and the sunshine ; 
 and shuns, in his authorship, the Dantesque, the gloom, 
 and the flame. If ever forced to paint the gates of 
 the grave, he would be sure to plant some spring vio- 
 let or anemone by the grim portals, and scatter along 
 the path to it some tender mementos of a weak, cling- 
 ing, undying human affection. The roots of his nature, 
 saturate with mercy, good-will, and beauty, choke out 
 from his song the lower and coarser qualities of our 
 human life. That sister of Beauty, Purity, dwells 
 everywhere in his song; and the landscapes of his 
 poetry, even to their flora and grasses, in a purity 
 approaching to austerity, remind one of the vestal 
 chasteness of Alpine flowers. Only the sunshine of 
 his gracious nature drives away the Alpine gloom. 
 
 " The Golden Legend is in point. It is a brief 
 .song of mediaeval life in its aspects of religion and 
 monasticism. It is only after due inspection that we 
 find it to be a singularly inclusive story of that life in 
 its dominant features. Undoubtedly, in his plan he 
 excludes some characteristics ; and if, with his mediaeval 
 
THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 83 
 
 lore, more profound, perhaps, than that of any other 
 American, Longfellow had been led to write a mediaeval 
 story in prose, after the manner of Hyperion, he 
 would have given us a more encyclopaedic narrative 
 of the aesthetics and ethics of that singular age. The 
 Golden Legend introduces us to the monasteries and 
 churches when .they had now been long established, 
 and were ripe towards decay. 
 
 " He has not told us of the wandering monks, hutted 
 by the river-side among German or Celtic savages, tilling 
 land with their own toil, and preaching under the great 
 oaks to the painted and fair-haired barbarians in those 
 
 better days of 
 
 ' Crosier of wood 
 And bishop of gold,' 
 
 but rather of the comfortable monk, with his stately 
 cloister and well-filled cellars, fed by the largess of dead 
 generations of the pious, when 
 
 ' We have changed 
 That law so good 
 To crosier of gold 
 And bishop of wood.' 
 
 "The Golden Legend, which is neither comedy nor 
 tragedy, but an historic melodrama, has a very simple 
 plot, elastic almost to looseness. It serves as a thread 
 for the stringing of pearls, only the thread itself leads 
 the thoughtful into the presence of profound problems 
 of life and duty, pointed at but not dissected, as Mr. 
 Longfellow's habit is. The three chief characters are a 
 prince, a peasant-girl, and Lucifer, whom the poet in 
 charity has painted hardly as black as he is. The story 
 opens around the spire of Strasburg Cathedral, with 
 
84 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 devils raging in the night and storm to destroy that 
 house of God. Here, as everywhere, Longfellow shows 
 that exquisite discernment of the spiritual in material 
 things, as where he notes that the apostles are in stone 
 over the great portal to show the way in — angels inside, 
 and devils and brutes outside, all in stone — as is ever 
 the church and the world ; and even when in his note 
 of explanation he makes the choir sing a Gregorian 
 chant, which of all music, as running to monotones, has 
 most the sense of eternity in it, he shows his insight and 
 craft." 
 
 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 
 
 followed The Golden Legend, appearing in 1855. Its 
 success was phenomenal, ten thousand copies having 
 been sold at the end of the fourth week after publica- 
 tion, and thirty thousand at the end of half a year. 
 The author called it "an Indian Edda." The scene 
 was laid among the Ojibways, on the southern shore of 
 Lake Superior, between the Grand Sable and the Pic- 
 tured Rocks. Four months after its appearance it was 
 translated into German by Adolph Bottger, and was 
 soon hailed with acclamations by the entire European 
 world as it already had been by the New World. Two 
 months after the appearance of Bottger's translation, 
 another was published by Ferdinand Freiligrath. It 
 had been printed in the original English at Leipzig be- 
 fore the translations appeared. Hiawatha was written 
 in unalliterative rlrymeless trochaics, a novelty which 
 the poet's readers accepted with some wincing and 
 shrugging of shoulders. Sir John Bowring, in review- 
 ing Hiawatha, said, " Most of the poetry of the Finns is 
 written in that peculiar metre to which Longfellow has 
 given a certain popularity in his Hiawatha ; but I be- 
 
HIAWATHA. 85 
 
 lieve I may take credit to myself for having been the 
 first to introduce it into our language in an article 
 which appeared in The Westminster Review of April, 
 1827." 
 
 Perhaps no poem in the English language was ever so 
 immediately popular. It furnished topics to the sculp- 
 tor, the painter, the litterateur, the ethnologist, and the 
 philologist. In The Literary World, Edward Everett 
 Hale has spoken of the origin of Hiawatha as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " A floating anecdote gives this history of the origin 
 of Hiawatha. It is said that one of Mr. Longfellow's 
 Harvard pupils, of one of those early classes which were 
 favored with much of his personal care, returned to 
 Cambridge a few years after graduating, fresh from a 
 summer on the plains among the Indians. Meeting Pro- 
 fessor Longfellow at dinner one day, he eagerly told his 
 kind friend some of the legends of lodge and camp-fire, 
 and begged him to rescue them from the extinction 
 which seemed almost certain, by making them the sub- 
 ject of a poem. Now, Mr. Longfellow has the historic 
 instinct as strong as any other of the poetical instincts. 
 To put yourself in another's place is the business of a 
 poet ; to be able to do it is the warrant of success in 
 poetry. Whoever gave the hint, Mr. Longfellow en- 
 tered thoroughly into Indian life ; and Hiawatha is 
 now a handbook, which may be relied on, of the best 
 Algonkin legends. 
 
 " Hundreds, not to say thousands, of people had said 
 this very thing ought to be done. Every Phi Beta 
 Kappa oration dwelt on the resources of 'boundless 
 prairies and untrodden forests ' for poetry. Campbell 
 tried his hand in ' Wj'oming ; ' Goldsmith even put an 
 
86 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 accent on the penult of ' Niagara ; ' Southey made a 
 failure in ' Madoc ' so far as presenting Indian life was 
 concerned ; and as for ' Yamoydens ' and similar forgot- 
 ten Indian poems, there is no end to the catalogue. 
 Hiawatha is wholly different. Mr. Longfellow took the 
 simplest and most entertaining of the Indian legends, 
 did not think it his business to improve upon them, nor 
 even to adapt them to each other. He sang the song 
 as an Indian singer would sing it. 
 
 " He had the resource of Schoolcraft's collections in 
 the line of Algonkin legends. Schoolcraft had the 
 advantage of marrying a half-breed wife, — herself an 
 accomplished lady, — and of living most of his life 
 among the tribes of the North-west. As early as 1839 
 he published, from her dictation, two volumes called 
 ' Algic Researches,' which are to this moment the mine 
 where one finds the most charming of these stories. No 
 nursery library is complete without the book, for chil- 
 dren cry for the stories when they have once tasted. 
 And the scholar who has selected the best editions of 
 the Arabian Nights, of Grimm, and other Aryan folk- 
 lore, puts on his shelf by the side of them Schoolcraft's 
 Algic Researches. The name, of course, ruined the 
 circulation of the book. The public does not know up 
 to this hour that under this cumbrous name is buried 
 the most charming collection of pure American stories. 
 
 " Afterwards somebody persuaded Congress to publish 
 some immense ornamented quartos, with all Mr. School- 
 craft's lore about the Indians. It was none too soon ; 
 and in those great picture-books, as in an ark of safety, 
 will be found preserved all manner of learning and 
 speculation, the bad and the good, about the Indian 
 tribes and their history. Like specks of gold in these 
 
HIAWATHA. 8< 
 
 great pans of gravel may be found the glistening grains 
 of the stories in the Algic Researches. 
 
 " All these pans of gravel has Mr. Longfellow rocked 
 and rocked, pouring on fresh water and cold and clear 
 all the while, and has washed out the pure gold.- Not 
 once has he introduced the Harvard professor into the 
 lodges or on the prairies. Always it is the Indian girl 
 or the Indian boy who sings. You have, pure and 
 unalloyed, the Indian legend. 
 
 "It is said that he has never yet seen the Falls of 
 Minnehaha, as he never saw the ' coast ' of the Missis- 
 sippi, where Evangeline lost her lover. All the more 
 wonderful is the insight which paints for us the one and 
 the other better than those do who have seen." 
 
 In dedicating his work called " Algic Researches " to 
 Mr. Longfellow, Dr. Henry R. Schoolcraft expressed 
 his admiration of Hiawatha in respect of its fidelity 
 to local coloring and to Indian manners and customs. 
 No living man was a better judge of these things than 
 Dr. Schoolcraft. 
 
 A few weeks after the appearance of Hiawatha, a 
 writer in The National Intelligencer, Washington, D.C., 
 published an article charging the poet with having 
 " borrowed the entire form, spirit, and many of the most 
 striking incidents, of Kalevala, the great epic of the 
 Finns." A great storm of controversy thereupon broke 
 forth. A writer in The [London] Athenseum said, 
 " Rhymeless trochaic dimeter is commonly used through- 
 out Europe ; and Mr. Longfellow, in his unalliterative 
 trochaics, may with as little reason be said to imitate 
 the metre of the Kalevala as Philalethes, in his rhyme- 
 less iambic trimeter catalectic version of The Divine 
 Comedy, can be asserted to represent the music of 
 
88 HENBY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Dante." Ferdinand Freiligrath said, in The Athense 
 urn, that Hiawatha "is written in a modified Finnish 
 metre, — modified by the exquisite feeling of the Ameri 
 can poet according to the genius of the English language 
 and to the wants of modern taste. I feel perfectly 
 convinced, that, when Mr. Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, 
 the sweet monotony of the trochees of Finland, and not 
 the mellow and melodious fall of those of Spain, vibrated 
 in his soul." It is thought with justice that Hen 
 Freiligrath's intimate acquaintance with the Finnish 
 runes and with the Kalevala made him entirely com- 
 petent to detect any close imitation of the Finnish work, 
 if any such existed. That such imitation did not exist 
 has now for a long time been thoroughly established. 
 
 There was some adverse criticism, — much of it true. 
 Blackwood's Magazine said, " This song is a quaint 
 chant, a happy illustration of manners ; but it lacks all 
 the important elements which go to the making of a 
 poem. We are interested, pleased, attracted, yet per- 
 fectly indifferent. The measure haunts the ear, but not 
 the matter ; and we care no more for Hiawatha, and are 
 as little concerned for the land of the Ojibways, as if 
 America's best minstrel had never made a song." 
 
 " Das Ausland " said, " Anybody who has read the 
 five thousand and odd verses of ' Hiawatha ' has cer- 
 tainly had enough of the epic metre, which very soon 
 becomes as tiresome to the ear as the tune of a barrel- 
 organ." 
 
 On the other hand, The Oxford and Cambridge 
 Magazine thus expressed itself : " Henceforth the 
 Ojibway and the Dacotah are to us realities, — men of 
 like passions with ourselves. In our own dear mother- 
 tongue, their sweet singer, Nawadaha, has spoken to 
 
HIAWATHA. 89 
 
 us ; and the voice has gone directly from his heart 
 to ours." A writer in The Revue des Deux Mondes 
 said, " The melody of the verse, rapid and monotonous, 
 is like the voice of nature, which never fatigues us 
 though repeating the same sound. Two or three notes 
 comprise the whole music of the poem, melodious and 
 limited as the song of a bird. . . . The feeling for nature 
 that pervades the poem is at once most refined and most 
 familiar. The poet knows how to give, as a modern, 
 voices to all the inanimate objects of nature ; he knows 
 the language of birds, he understands the murmur of 
 the wind amongst the leaves, he interprets the voices 
 of the running streams ; and yet, notwithstanding this 
 poetic subtlety, he never turns aside to minute descrip- 
 tion, nor attempts to prolong by reflection the emotion 
 excited. His poem, made with exquisite art, has thus 
 a double characteristic : it is Homeric from the precision, 
 simplicity, and familiarity of its images, and modern 
 from the vivacity of its impressions and from the lyric 
 spirit that breathes in every page." 
 
 Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes has thus expressed him- 
 self concerning Hiawatha : " Suddenly and immensely 
 popular in this country, greatly admired by many 
 foreign critics, imitated with perfect ease by any clever 
 schoolboy, serving as a model for metrical advertise- 
 ments, made fun of, sneered at, admired, abused, but at 
 any rate a picture full of pleasing fancies and melodious 
 cadences. The very names are jewels which the most 
 fastidious muse might be proud to wear. Coming from 
 the realm of the Androscoggin and of Moosetukmagun- 
 tuk, how could he have found two such delicious names 
 as Hiawatha and Minnehaha? The eight-syllable tro- 
 chaic verse of Hiawatha, like the eight-syllable iambic 
 
90 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 verse of The Lad}'' of the Lake and others of Scott's 
 poems, has a fatal facility, which I have elsewhere en- 
 deavored to explain on physiological principles. The 
 recital of each line uses up the air of one natural expira- 
 tion, so that we read, as we naturally do, eighteen or 
 twenty lines in a minute without disturbing the normal 
 rhythm of breathing, which is also eighteen or twenty 
 breaths to the minute. The standing objection to this 
 is, that it makes the octosyllabic verse too easy writing 
 and too slipshod reading. Yet in this most frequently 
 criticised piece of verse-work, the poet has shown a 
 subtle sense of the requirements of his simple story of 
 a primitive race, in choosing the most fluid of measures 
 that lets the thought run through it in easy sing-song, 
 such as oral tradition would be sure to find on the lips 
 of the story-tellers of the wigwam." 
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 
 
 is another of the poet's purely American productions, ' 
 published at Boston, in 1858. It touched the New 
 England heart, and became at once a favorite. Like 
 Evangeline, it is written in hexameters. 
 
 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 In 1863 was published the first instalment of this, 
 which was eventually to become the poet's longest 
 work. 
 
 These poems first appeared singly in the magazines, 
 and were afterwards collected and published in book 
 form, with interludes. The idea and plan of the series 
 were taken from Chaucer, and in the treatment we are 
 continually reminded of the Canterbury Tales. But 
 what of that ? What lover of sweet and quaint stories 
 
TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 91 
 
 can object to another Dan Chaucer, " on fame's eternal 
 bead-roll," as " worthy to be filed," as was his English 
 brother? Longfellow's forte lay in power of translat- 
 ing, adapting, re-stating quaint and picturesque legends 
 in melodious verse ; and this gift of his flames out in 
 all its sunset splendor and gorgeousness in the Tales 
 of a Wayside Inn. They are capital reading for a 
 rainy day, or for the winter fireside. They correspond 
 in length and in antiquarian character with Tennyson's 
 Idyls of the King. The diction is rich and varied, 
 and the handling of the metres shows the mature poet. 
 In short, in these tales the poet felt himself in his 
 element : the music rolls true and perfect, and with the 
 power of all the pedals and stops at the musician's com- 
 mand. Story succeeds story, — from the old Scandina- 
 vian Eddas, from Spanish legends, and from Italian 
 sources. In The Theologian's Tale, the poet tries his 
 hand once more at the familiar task of writing hex- 
 ameters. The following very discriminating and deli- 
 cate criticism of this work is taken from The London 
 Spectator for 1863: "Even in subjects there is a greater 
 and a less capacity for what we may call the crystal 
 treatment; and Longfellow always selects those in 
 which a clear, still, pale beauty may be seen by a 
 swift, delicate vision, playing almost on the, surface. 
 Sometimes he is tempted by the imaginative purity 
 of a subject (as was Matthew Arnold, in his poem of 
 Balder Dead) to forget that he has not adequate 
 vigor for its grasp, as in the series in this volume 
 on King Olaf, which is, in his hands, only classical, 
 while by its essence it ought to be forceful. . . . Long- 
 fellow's reputation was acquired by a kind of rhetorical, 
 sentimental class of poem, which has, we are happy to 
 
92 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 say, disappeared from his more recent volumes, — the 
 ' life is real, life is earnest ' sort of thing, and all the 
 platitudes of feverish youth. Experience always sooner 
 or later niters a genuine poet clear of that class of sen- 
 timents, teaching him that, true as they are. they should 
 be kept back, like steam, for working the mill, and not 
 let off by the safety-valve of imaginative expression. 
 In this volume such beauty as there is, is pure beauty, 
 though it is not of a very powerful kind. . . . Long- 
 fellow does not catch the deepest beauty of the deepest 
 passions which human life presents to us. . . . But he 
 catches the surface bubbles, — the imprisoned air which 
 rises from the stratum next beneath the commonplace, 
 the beauty that a mild and serene intellect can see 
 issuing everywhere, both from nature and from life, — 
 with exceedingly delicate discrimination ; and his poetry 
 affects us with the same sense of beauty as the blue 
 wood-smoke curling up from a cottage chimney into an 
 evening sky." In speaking of The Falcon of Ser 
 Federigo, the critic quotes with admiration the lines 
 describing — 
 
 " The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare 
 The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air." 
 
 When, the volume containing King Robert of Sicily 
 appeared, a graduate of Brown University carried 
 a copy of it to the Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro 
 II. It was the year in which the two princes, the 
 Count Gaston d'Orleans, and the Prince August 
 Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, grandsons of Louis Philippe, had 
 come to Brazil to marry the two princesses. The 
 young men were living in the city of Rio de Janeiro, 
 but went every day into the emperor's palace of Boa 
 
THE OLD HOWE TAVERN AT SOUTH SUDBURY, MASS. 
 
 NOW FAMOUS AS THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
94 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Vista, where, after the emperor had devoured the 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn, they also read them with 
 avidity. They were all especially charmed with King 
 Robert of Sicily ; and, before the departure of the 
 American gentleman, the emperor gave him his auto- 
 graph manuscript of a translation of the poem into 
 Portuguese, which he was to deliver to Mr. Longfellow. 
 Mr. Longfellow told the bearer of the manuscript, when 
 he came to Cambridge, that several Portuguese poets 
 had translated the poem, but that the one made by the 
 Emperor of Brazil was the best. 
 
 The interest of the reader in these beautiful poems 
 never flags, and his only regret is that the series should 
 end at all. One echoes heartily the words of George 
 W. Curtis when he says, " So ends this ripe and mel- 
 low work, leaving the reader like one who listens still 
 for pleasant music i' the air which sounds no more." 
 
 " ' Farewell ! ' the portly Landlord cried ; 
 ' Farewell ! ' the parting guests replied, ■ 
 But little thought that nevermore 
 Their feet would pass that threshold o'er ; 
 That nevermore together there 
 Would they assemble, free from care, 
 To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, 
 And breathe the wholesome country air." * 
 
 The first series of Tales of a Wayside Inn came 
 out during the progress of the civil conflict. The war 
 
 1 From what is known of Mr. Longfellow's character, many of his 
 readers have been led to suppose that the picture of the student, drawn 
 in these tales, was but a description of himself. The wayside inn is an 
 old house in Sudbury, Mass., the story-tellers are guests who used to 
 gather there. The names given to the story-tellers are as follows: 
 the Sicilian, Professor Luigi Monti; the student, Henry Wales; the 
 musician, Ole Bull; the poet, Thomas William Parsons; the merchant, 
 Edulei, a Boston Oriental dealer; the theologian, Professor Treadwell; 
 the innkeeper, Lyman Howe. 
 
CHARLES APPLETON LONGFELLOW. 95 
 
 made a great impression upon Mr. Longfellow, from the 
 fact that his oldest son, Charles Appleton, was then a 
 lieutenant in the First Massachusetts Cavalry, in which 
 he served with credit for two years. Lieut. Longfellow 
 was very severely wounded in the Mine Run campaign 
 in Virginia, in the autumn of 1863, and Mr. Longfellow 
 went down to meet him at Washington. It is very 
 likely that his beautiful poem, Killed at the Ford, 
 was inspired by this event. While in the city the poet 
 suffered from an attack of malaria. Lieut. Longfellow 
 inherited the bravery and daring energy of his great- 
 grandfather, Gen. Wadsworth, and the manliness and 
 generosity of his father. Gen. Horace Binney Sargent 
 used often to speak of him with admiration. It was 
 the custom of Lieut. Longfellow to give all his salary 
 to be divided between two of his comrades ; but it was 
 only after urgent solicitation on the part of Gen. Sargent l 
 that he consented to have it made known to the soldiers 
 that the money came from him. He has travelled ex- 
 tensively in the East, and has brought home from China 
 
 1 Gen. Sargent writes from Salem, under date of April 20, 1882, that 
 the facts were as follows: "Two lieutenants of the First Massachusetts 
 Cavalry were captured, and dropped from the rolls as lost. We thought 
 them dead. Meanwhile Professor Longfellow's son, afterwards Major 
 C. A. Longfellow, was assigned to this regiment, and had, I think, 
 served six months when the missing officers came hack. The United 
 States paymaster had no authority to pay two extra lieutenants dropped 
 from the roster, and properly enough paid Lieut. Longfellow his deserved 
 pay, leaving the officers who had been captured to whistle for their 
 money. When Lieut. Longfellow heard their case, he instantly deter- 
 mined to surrender the whole of his merited salary, and asked me to 
 give it to one or both of them, ' as from an unknown friend, without letting 
 (him) be knoivn in the matter.' It was with great difficulty that I per- 
 suaded him that a knowledge of his generous and manly act would con- 
 duce to discipline and good order, by letting the command know how 
 worthy he was of every soldier's affectionate respect. You are right in 
 saying I admired this young officer." 
 
96 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and Japan large quantities of bric-a-brac. Once when 
 a lad he made a trip to England, — he and two other 
 young friends making the passage in a small sloop in 
 eighteen days. 
 
 In the year 1864 Hawthorne died (May 24) ; and 
 Longfellow, who attended the funeral in Concord, 
 soon afterwards wrote his beautiful poem on his dear 
 friend. 
 
 FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 
 
 In 1866 Flower-de-Luce appeared. It contained 
 among other pieces that marvellous poem on the Divina 
 Commedia, part of which shall here be quoted : — 
 
 Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
 A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
 Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
 Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 
 Kneel to repeat his Paternoster o'er; 
 Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 
 The loud vociferations of the street 
 Become an undistinguishable roar. 
 So, as I enter here from day to day, 
 And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
 Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 
 The tumult of the time disconsolate 
 To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
 While the eternal ages watch and wait. 
 
 DANTE'S DIVINE COMEDY. 
 
 In 1867 Longfellow finished his translation of the 
 Divina Commedia of Dante. In 1863 Mr. George 
 William Curtis said, in The Atlantic Monthly (De- 
 cember, p. 772), " Would not a translation of Dante's 
 
THE D I VINA COMMEDIA. 97 
 
 great poem be a crowning work of Longfellow's literary- 
 life ? " This was said in ignorance of the fact that Mr. 
 Longfellow had already been engaged upon such a task 
 for more than twenty-one years. 1 The revival of interest 
 in Dantesque literature began in England about 1840. 
 As early as 1831 Mr. George Ticknor used to expound 
 Dante to his scholars at Harvard College, and to him 
 belongs the credit of introducing the study of the Tus- 
 can poet into America. Almost at the beginning of his 
 career as professor at Harvard, Longfellow must have 
 begun his translation of Dante's DiviDe Comedy. 
 One of his earliest courses of lectures was on Dante. 
 In The Poets and Poetry of Europe, published in 
 1845, appeared his translation of his own selections 
 from the Purgatorio ; he also wrote the essay pre- 
 fixed to these selections. He had published a few 
 translations from the Purgatorio as early as 1839. 
 In 1867 the complete work appeared in three volumes 
 royal octavo (Boston : Ticknor & Fields). It was in 
 the same year that Professor Charles Eliot Norton pub- 
 lished his fine translation of Dante's Vita Nuova. In 
 the same memorable year, also, Mr. Thomas William 
 Parsons published his admirable version of the In- 
 ferno. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's version was hailed with delight at 
 home and abroad. Professor Norton, in reviewing 
 the work (North-American Review, July, 1867), uaid, 
 " His translation is the most faithful version of Dante 
 that has ever been made. . . . His work is the work 
 of a scholar who is also a poet. Desirous to give the 
 
 1 Mr. George Ticknor wrote to Prince John of Saxony, in 1867, that 
 Mr. Longfellow had then been engaged upon his translation of Dante 
 for twenty-five years at least. 
 
98 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 reader unacquainted with the Italian the means of 
 knowing precisely what Dante wrote, he has followed 
 the track of his master step by step, foot by foot, and 
 has tried, so far as the genius of translation allowed, to 
 show also how Dante wrote." 
 
 It may be remarked here that Mr. Longfellow did not 
 attempt to reproduce the rhymes of the original, but 
 he has reproduced its deep interior music or rhythm. 
 Schopenhauer remarks in his Die Welt als Wille und 
 Vorstellung, that rhythm is intuitive, has its origin in 
 the deeps of the soul, in pure sensibility ; while rhyme 
 is " a mere matter of sensation in the organ of hearing, 
 and belongs only to empirical sensibility. Hence rhythm 
 is a far nobler and worthier aid than rhyme." 
 
 To return to Professor Norton's review. He says that 
 the version is characterized by naturalness, simplicity, 
 and directness. "Mr. Longfellow has proved that an 
 almost literal rendering is not incompatible with an ex- 
 quisite poetic charm ; and, although he may in some 
 instances have followed the exact order of the Italian 
 phrase too closely for the best effect, his diction is in 
 the main graceful and idiomatic." He has given " the 
 spirit of Dante's poem." His translation "will take 
 rank among the great English poems." 
 
 Undoubtedly the version of Mr. Longfellow is disap- 
 pointing to many, especially to those who have not read 
 Dante in the original. And those who have must miss 
 in the translation the deep glow and passionate inten- 
 sity of the Inferno. The sharp lines of the fresh- 
 minted gold are often (but inevitably) blurred in the 
 version. The alti guai that rise from Dante's pit of 
 woe, passing through the alembic of Mr. Longfellow's 
 gentle soul, are somehow changed into milder plaints, 
 
THE D IV IN A COMMEDIA. 99 
 
 — as the wailings of the damned in Poe's Due de 
 l'Omelette are transmuted into sweet music when 
 passed through the medium of the enchanted panes. 
 Thomas Carlyle should have translated Dante's In- 
 ferno. It seems to the writer, that, for the general 
 reader, the prose version of the Inferno by John A. 
 Carlyle (brother of Thomas Carlyle) still gives the best 
 idea of the intensity of Dante's soul. 
 
 Professor C. L. Speranza of Yale College has published 
 in The Literary World the following remarks on the 
 translation, in which he compares Longfellow's version 
 with Cary's, as Mr. Norton, in the article just quoted, 
 compares it with that of Rossetti : — 
 
 " The difficulty of Longfellow's undertaking did not 
 lie, perhaps, so much in the actual rendering of the 
 ' Commedia,' as in that industrious and conscientious 
 preparatory process which rewarded him with the abso- 
 lute mastery over the poem. This once attained, a poet 
 and a man like Longfellow must needs have done what 
 he has done with not only ' unqualified success, but 
 even comparative ease. This is not our opinion merely, 
 but so strong a conviction on our part, that, when we 
 imagine him set about the work of translating, we see 
 in him not a writer who is toiling over a literary task, 
 but a messenger of Dante, who repeats his master's mes- 
 sage — that poem which he has made a sacred part of 
 himself — with the natural flow and faithfulness of an 
 ardent disciple. The reader will not, however, be con- 
 tent with these generalities ; and we proceed to such 
 illustrations as the limits of our space allow, only pre- 
 mising that our standpoint is that of persons who, while 
 familiar with the Commedia in its original, that is writ- 
 ten in their own native tongue, have but a recent and 
 
100 HENRY WADBWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 very imperfeot knowledge of English; so that any inquiry 
 relative to the value of the translation Prom a literary 
 point of \ Lew exclusively English is w ide of cur purpose. 
 M We v. ill take < Santo Kill, of the [nferno, since it is 
 quite popular. Ets first part describes the punishmenl of 
 suicides; they are changed Into trees, on the leaves of 
 which the harpies feed, causing ceaseless torment. We 
 quote here Longfellow's version o{ the description of 
 the forest formed In these trees, as it appeared to Dante 
 when he entered ii with Virgil: — 
 
 'We had put ourselves within a wood, 
 That was doI marked bj anj path whatever. 
 Not foliage green, but of a dusky color; 
 Xol liraiH'hcs smooth, bul gnarled and intertangled ; 
 Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison. 1 
 
 '•In four lines not only is the fantastic forest power- 
 fully sketched, but the real one which forms its antithe- 
 sis. Each line gives one of the contrasting features, and 
 is complete in itself. By means simply of this arrange- 
 ment and fewness A appropriate words, the reader, 
 while beholding the forest in all its mysterious sullen- 
 ness, is foreed to stop and think. Then he is reminded 
 o{ Dante, sees the amazement which at each step deters 
 him from proceeding and examining more minutely. 
 This continued pausing a1 the very entrance of the awful 
 
 wilderness, marked by no path whatever, enables vis to 
 hear the breath of the poet, the rapid pulsations of his 
 frightened heart, and we feel his horror stealing over us. 
 Longfellow fell it ; consequently, aware that any slight- 
 est change in the arrangement or words oi' the original 
 would spoil the scene, by a sorcerous power o[' his own 
 has transported it from hell to Ameriea. Then 1 it 
 
THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. ](i| 
 
 stands untouched, as arid and dismal, as infernally 
 natural, as Dante saw it. Let as read now (,'ary's 
 version of this same passage: — 
 
 'We enter'd on a forest, where no track 
 
 Of steps had worn a way. Xot, verdant there 
 
 The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light 
 
 The boughs and tapering, \>ut with knares deform'd 
 
 Ami 1 1 1 .- 1 f f < - * i thick ; fruits there were none, 
 
 But thorns instead, with venom fill'd.' 
 
 "This is not Dante's forest, it is Cary's: the outline 
 is different, differenl the movement. The very redun- 
 dance of the words, their polish, breaks the spell. We 
 lose sight of the wood to wonder at the task of the 
 translator: we see him busy deforming his trees with 
 knares, 'matting' them 'thick' together, and filling 
 them up with poison. Alas! could lie, at least, have 
 found upon them sonic fruits to refresh his lips! But 
 1 fruits i here were uone.' " 
 
 As early as sixteen years ago, Mr. Longfellow, while 
 engaged on his translation of Dante, used to gather 
 Dante scholars together, and read to them portions of 
 
 his translation, for the sake of Criticism and discussion. 
 At a meeting held at his house on Feb. 11, 1881, and at 
 a later meeting at- the house of Professor Norton, March 
 17, 1881, a Dante Society was organized, — the first in 
 America. The writer is indebted to Professor Norton, 
 and to Mr. John Woodbury, secretary of the society, 
 for details of its organization and work. Some young 
 gentlemen of Harvard College proposed such a society 
 to Professor Norton, who said at once, "There is one 
 man in Cambridge who should be its president, and that 
 is Mr. Longfellow." When the matter was proposed 
 
102 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 to him, he consented, on condition that no duties should 
 be laid upon him. At the third meeting of the society, 
 May 21, 1881, at the house of Mr. Justin Winsor, Mr. 
 Longfellow was present, and made some remarks on 
 a translation of Dante's poem into the Catalan dialect 
 of Spain. One object of the Dante Society is to estab- 
 lish at Harvard University a library of Dantesque lit- 
 erature, and another object is to translate such works 
 of Dante as have not yet appeared in English. The 
 vice-president is James Russell Lowell, and the mem- 
 bership now numbers about fifty. 
 
 CHRISTUS. 
 
 The New England Tragedies (1868), and The Divine 
 Tragedy (1872), were not successful as poems. They 
 fell flat on the market, the books remaining largely 
 unsold. In 1872 they were published with The Golden 
 Legend in one volume, under the title Christus, a 
 Mystery, and thus formed a consecutive series. They 
 were not included in Osgood & Co.'s popular centennial 
 ( 1876 ) " complete " edition of Longfellow's poems. 
 
 The New England Tragedies are in two parts : I. 
 John Endicott ; aud II. Giles Corey of the Salem 
 Farms. 
 
 John Endicott describes the persecution of the 
 Quakers. Both poems deal with scenes in early colo- 
 nial times, and show deep study. The following pas- 
 sage has the accustomed ring of Mr. Longfellow's 
 poetry : — 
 
 " As the earth rolls round, 
 It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel, 
 Upon whose whirling spokes we are bound fast, 
 And must go with it ! Ah, how bright the sun 
 
VISIT TO EUROPE. 103 
 
 Strikes on the sea, and on the masts of vessels, 
 That are uplifted in the morning air, 
 Like crosses of some peaceable crusade ! " 
 
 Mr. Henry H. Clark, who for more than thirty years 
 was either a compositor or proof-reader of Mr. Long- 
 fellow's works, has kindly furnished the writer with the 
 following reminiscences and remarks concerning The 
 Divine Tragedy: — 
 
 " I thought he had a consciousness that this book had 
 not taken the place it ought, as if somehow the public 
 did not comprehend it or appreciate it according to the 
 time and pains he had taken in its production. But 
 this is the experience of authors. The work thrown off 
 in a moment of impulse is often caught up as the most 
 precious gem. But perhaps the prime cause of its fail- 
 ure is not so much in the poet as in the impossibility of 
 any one, however gifted, improving upon the simple 
 beauty of the Bible narrative. 
 
 "One day Mr. Longfellow came in with a sort of 
 triumphant air, and handed me a copy of The Divine 
 Tragedy, brought out in London (as if it were worth 
 reprinting, anyhow, on the other side of the water), 
 and said he had received two copies from the publish- 
 ers, and he thought perhaps I would like one of them. 
 Upon opening it I found it inscribed, ' With the compli- 
 ments of the author.' " 
 
 VISIT TO EUROPE. 
 
 In 1868-69 Mr. Longfellow revisited Europe, where 
 he was received with marked honors, which naturally 
 reached their climax in England, where it was said by 
 The Westminster Review that not one of his English 
 contemporaries had had a wider or longer supremacy. 
 
104 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The London Times published a poetical welcome signed 
 " C. K.," generally attributed to Charles Kingsley, of 
 which the following are the opening lines: — 
 
 Welcome to England, thou whose strains prolong 
 The glorious bead-roll of our Saxon song : 
 Ambassador and Pilgrim-Bard in one, 
 Fresh from thy home, — the home of Washington. 
 On hearths as sacred as thine own, here stands 
 The loving welcome that thy name commands; 
 Hearths swept for thee aud garnished as a shrine 
 By trailing garments of thy Muse divine. 
 Poet of Mature and of Nations, know 
 Thy fair fame spans the ocean like a bow, 
 Born from the rain that falls into each life, 
 Kindled by dreams with loveliest fancies rife ; 
 A radiant arch that with prismatic dyes 
 Links the two worlds, its keystone in the skies. 
 
 Among the numerous festive occasions that were 
 made in his honor was one at which Mr. Gladstone was 
 present. Although it had been decided that no speeches 
 should be delivered, Mr. Gladstone was compelled to 
 respond to the inexorable demands of the company, 
 saying, among other graceful things, that, " after all, it 
 was impossible to sit at the social board with a man 
 of Mr. Longfellow's world-wide fame without offering 
 him some tribute of their admiration. Let them, there- 
 fore, simply but cordially assure him that they were 
 conscious of the honor which they did themselves in 
 receiving this great poet among them." The University 
 of Cambridge conferred upon him the degree of LL. D., 
 which he had previously received at Harvard in 1859. 
 
 An English reporter thus describes him as he ap- 
 peared, arrayed in the scarlet robes of an academic 
 dignitary : " The face was one which, I think, would 
 
COLLEGIATE HONORS. 105 
 
 have caught the spectator's glance, even if his attention 
 had not been called to it by the cheers which greeted 
 Longfellow's appearance in the robes of a LL. D. 
 Long, white, silken hair, and a beard of patriarchal 
 length and whiteness, enclosed a young, fresh-colored 
 countenance, with fine-cut features and deep-sunken eyes 
 overshadowed by massive black eyebrows. Looking at 
 him, you had the feeling that the white head of hair 
 and beard were a mask put on to conceal a young man's 
 face ; and that if the poet chose he could throw off the 
 disguise, and appear as a man in the prime and bloom of 
 life." This was the patriarchal appearance of the poet: 
 of what he was in his early prime we have the following 
 mere glimpse, furnished by one who met him on his 
 first trip to Europe. He was just from college, says 
 this gentleman, and "full of the ardor excited by 
 classical pursuits. He had sunny locks, a fresh com- 
 plexion, and clear blue eyes, with all the indications of 
 a joyous temperament." 
 
 In 1828 Mr. Longfellow received the degree of A.M. 
 from Bowdoin College, which also conferred upon him 
 in 1874 the degree of LL.D. In 18G8 Mr. Longfellow 
 was also elected a member of the Reform Club. In 
 July, 18G9, he received the degree of J. CD. at Ox- 
 ford ; and he returned to this country in the "China" 
 on the 31st of August, 18G9. In 1874 Mr. Longfellow 
 was nominated Lord Rector of the University of Edin- 
 burgh, and received a large complimentary vote. He 
 was a member of the Historical and Geographical 
 Society of Brazil, of the Scientific Academy of St. 
 Petersburg, of the Royal Academy of Spain, of the 
 Massachusetts Historical Society, and of the Mexican 
 Academy of Arts and Sciences. 
 
106 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 In 1874 the volume entitled " Aftermath " was pub- 
 lished. In 1875 appeared The Masque of Pandora, 
 and other Poems. This latter contained the beautiful 
 poem, The Hanging of the Crane, a little domestic 
 idyl, which was made the subject of a beautiful series 
 of tableaux represented on the stage of the Fifth-ave- 
 nue Theatre in New York. It is said that the subject 
 of the poem was suggested by a visit Mr. Longfellow 
 made at the rooms of Thomas Bailey Alclrich and his 
 newly married wife. The book formed one of the most 
 popular holiday works ever issued. 
 
 It may be mentioned here, that Mr. Longfellow's 
 poetic dramas have seldom been put upon the stage. 
 Two years ago Miss Blanche Roosevelt proposed the 
 production of The Masque of Pandora, and Mr. Long- 
 fellow was much interested in the matter. He recast 
 the poem, and added a few verses for stage purposes. 
 The score for The Masque was written by Mr. Alfred 
 Cellier, the composer of Prince Toto ; and a company 
 including Miss Blanche Roosevelt, Mr. Hugh Talbot, 
 and others, was engaged for its representation. The 
 play was creditably brought out in Boston (January, 
 1880), but was a complete failure. It was utterly 
 lacking in attractive power. It is said that the poet 
 himself was considerably out of pocket by the transac- 
 tion. Another attempt will be made to bring out 
 The Masque on the stage in New York. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow was very fond of the theatre and the 
 opera. The first night of Rossi's engagement at the 
 Globe Theatre, in Boston, he occupied a box with his 
 friend Luigi Monti, and applauded very heartily. 
 
MOBITUBI SALUTAMUS. 
 
 107 
 
 In the volume entitled The Masque of Pandora 
 was published 
 
 MORITURI SALUTAMUS, 
 
 a poem read at Bowdoin College in 1875, on the occa- 
 sion of the semi-centennial celebration of his class. It 
 is a poem pitched in a lofty and solemn key, and ranks 
 with Bryant's Thanatopsis, and excels Wordsworth's 
 Intimations of Immortality. The Rev. Dr. Charles 
 Carroll Everett of Harvard University said, in his 
 funeral address upon Longfellow, that the "marvellous 
 poem, Morituri Salutamus, is perhaps, to-day, the 
 grandest hymn to age that was ever written." 
 ' Mr. Henry H. Clark says, in a private note to the 
 writer, that the poet took the most elaborate pains in 
 the perfecting of the poem. " Months before he was to 
 deliver it at Bowdoin, he had it put in type, his pen- 
 cilled copy bearing evidence of many erasures, and look- 
 ing like some old palimpsest which had been written 
 over and over again. Then in proof he revised it and 
 revised it, and finally had it printed in large, clear type, 
 as if for preservation or presentation to his friends. 
 
 " I knew how fearful he was that what he was writ- 
 ing would be noised abroad, and I never felt so great 
 anxiety for any thing intrusted to my care. He charged 
 me to keep it quiet ; and it was not known at the time 
 that he was preparing it for any especial occasion, and 
 no unusual curiosity was excited in regard to it among 
 those through whose hands it necessarily had to pass in 
 the process of correction. But I have always observed 
 that printers as a class have a nice sense of honor in 
 such matters, and no oath could bind them to greater 
 secrecy than the simple request that what they have in 
 
108 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 hand should not be mentioned. With every new proof 
 taken of this poem, Longfellow would require the old 
 one returned, that by no possibility it should be left 
 about where it could be seen or taken away ; and we 
 were as careful as those employed in the Printing Bureau 
 of the United-States Treasury, to return every scrap of 
 proof. In the intervals of waiting, I would sometimes 
 look to see that the dust on the type-form had not been 
 disturbed ; for I felt more than ever before that it would 
 not only be doing him a great wrong to allow it to get 
 out. but would rob him of the pleasure he had so long 
 contemplated, of coming before his old classmates fresh 
 with the richest treasures of his heart." 
 
 Says one (speaking of the reading of the poem by Mr. 
 Longfellow), " Of those who were present on that mem- 
 orable day, none will ever forget the scene in the church, 
 when the now venerable poet, surrounded by his class- 
 mates, saluted the familiar places of his youth; beloved 
 instructors, of whom all but one had passed into the 
 land of shadows ; the students who filled the seats he 
 and his companions had once occupied ; and, finally, his 
 classmates, — 
 
 ' against whose familiar names not yet 
 The fatal asterisk of death is set.' 
 
 " One of these classmates, Rev. David Shepley, D.D., 
 referring to the poet, says, 'How did we exult in his 
 pure character and his splendid reputation ! with 
 what delight gaze upon his intelligent and benignant 
 countenance ! with what moistening eye listen to his 
 words ! And what limit was there to the blessing we 
 desired for him from the Infinite Author of mind ! ' 
 And he adds, ' Just before leaving for our respective 
 
PABKEB CLEAVELAND. 109 
 
 homes, we gathered in a retired college-room for the 
 last time ; talked together a half-hour, as of old ; agreed 
 to exchange photographs, and prayed together. Then, 
 going forth and standing for a moment once more under 
 the branches of the old tree, in silence we took each 
 other by the hand and separated, knowing well that 
 Brunswick would not again witness a gathering of the 
 class of 1825.' 
 
 " But the poet had not indulged in any vain regrets. 
 Manifestly he revealed somewhat his own purpose 
 when, in closing his poem on that occasion, he said, — 
 
 ' Something remains for us to do or dare ; 
 Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear. 
 
 For age is opportunity no less 
 
 Than youth itself, though in another dress ; 
 
 And as the evening twilight fades away, 
 
 The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.' " 
 
 In 1876 Mr. Longfellow published a centennial poem 
 in The Atlantic Monthly. Some time during the 
 year 1877 a Parker Cleaveland memorial tablet was 
 placed on the walls of the entrance stairway in Massa- 
 chusetts Hall, Bowdoin College. It was done at the 
 instance of Peleg W. Chandler of Boston. One morn- 
 ing there was quietly placed on the opposite side an- 
 other tablet bearing photographic likenesses of Mr. 
 Cleaveland and the poet Longfellow, between which 
 likenesses was placed the following epitaph, written by 
 Mr. Longfellow during his visit to Brunswick in 1875 : 
 
 PARKER CLEAVELAND. 
 
 Among the many lives that I have known, 
 None I remember more serene and sweet, 
 More rounded in itself and more complete, 
 
HO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Than his who lies beneath this funeral stone. 
 
 These pines that murmur in low monotone, 
 
 These walks frequented by scholastic feet, 
 
 Were all his world ; but in this calm retreat 
 
 For him the teacher's chair became a throne. 
 
 With fond affection memory loves to dwell 
 
 On the old dark days when his example made 
 
 A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen. 
 
 And now amid the groves he loved so well 
 
 That nought could bear him from their grateful shade, 
 
 He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God has said, Amen I 
 
 KERAMOS, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 In 1877 Keramos, and other Poems, was published. 
 It included the beautiful tribute to James Russell Low- 
 ell, entitled The Herons of Elmwood, and the poem 
 of The White Czar. 
 
 The poem to Lowell is pitched in a high heroic strain, 
 and breathes a most noble spirit. Elmwood is a great 
 haunt for birds, a perfect medley of bird-voices often 
 saluting the ear of the passer-by. Mr. John Holmes, in 
 an article in The Harvard Register, gives a pleasant 
 sketch of rural Elmwood, with its trees and birds and 
 whispering pines, showing that others besides Long- 
 fellow have heard and enjoyed — 
 
 " The cry of the herons winging their way 
 O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets." 
 
 Those familiar with the Portland of Longfellow's 
 boyhood have thought that the imagery of Keramos, or 
 the potter, must have been suggested to the poet by the 
 old Portland pottery, with which he was familiar in his 
 youth. The truth of this surmise is now established 
 by the following note communicated to the writer by 
 
112 HENRY WABSWOBTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mr. Henry H. Clark, to whom the reader is already in- 
 debted for pleasant reminiscences : — 
 
 " He went over the poem many times in proof, elabor- 
 ating and perfecting it, and making the verse smoother 
 and sweeter each time. There was one little halt in the 
 measure, I thought. The expression ' quilted sunshine 
 and leaf-shade ' jarred slightly on the ear. I told him 
 if he would remove this there would not be one imper- 
 fect line in it. He said he would consider it ; but in the 
 morning he came down saying it must stand ; for it ex- 
 pressed just what he wished to say, and any other 
 arrangement of words would fail to do it. And he 
 related how when a boy he had watched the old potter 
 at his work under the hill, going back and forth under 
 the branches of a great tree ; and it was the light and 
 shade falling on him that he wished to picture in the 
 verse. And how beautifully he has done it in the open- 
 ing stanzas of the poem ! " 
 
 ' Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn r&uffil and round 
 Without a pause, without a sounil : 
 
 So spins the flying icorld away ! 
 This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, 
 Follows the motion of my hand ; 
 For some must follow, and, some command, 
 Though all are made of clay! 
 
 1 Thus sang the Potter at his task 
 Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, 
 While o'er his features, like a mask, 
 The quilted sunshine and leaf -shade 
 Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, 
 And clothed him, till he seemed to be 
 A figure woven in tapestry.' " 
 
 The year 1879 saw the completion of 
 
POEMS OF PLACES. 113 
 
 POEMS OF PLACES, 
 
 edited by Mr. Longfellow with the assistance of his 
 friend John Owen. These thirty-seven dainty volumes 
 certainly form a most enticing and valuable thesaurus 
 of poems. But because the sale of the books was not 
 pushed, or for some other reason, they never obtained 
 much circulation, and the publishers lost many thou- 
 sand dollars by the undertaking. Mr. Owen's work was 
 chiefly in verifying and ascertaining the authorship of 
 the poems. In order readily to distinguish the volumes 
 devoted to the different countries, Mr. Owen has had his 
 set of Poems of Places bound in a unique and fanciful 
 style, in cloth of many colors. The volumes devoted 
 to English poetry are bound in smoke-tinted cloth, 
 Ireland rejoices in a green binding, Spain appears in a 
 wine-color, Greece in olive, Africa in black, etc. 
 
 The following from the charming preface to the 
 series will be read with interest : — 
 
 " Mauame de Stael has somewhere said, that ' travel- 
 ling is the saddest of all pleasures.' But we all have 
 the longing of Rasselas in our hearts. We are ready 
 to leave the Happy Valley of home, and eager to see 
 something of the world beyond the streets and steeples 
 of our native town. To the young, travelling is a 
 boundless delight ; to the old, a pleasant memory and 
 a tender regret. 
 
 " I have often observed that among travellers there 
 exists a kind of free-masonry. To have visited the 
 same^seenes is a bond of sympathy between those who 
 have no other point of contact. A vague interest sur- 
 rounds the man whom we have met in a foreign land ; 
 and even reserved and silent people can become com- 
 
114 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 municative when the conversation turns upon the 
 countries they have seen. 
 
 " I have always found the Poets my best travelling 
 companions. They see many things that are invisible 
 to common eyes. Like Orlando in the forest of Arden, 
 they ' hang odes on hawthorns and elegies on thistles.' 
 They invest the landscape with a human feeling, and 
 cast upon it 
 
 ' The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream.' 
 
 Even scenes unlovely in themselves become clothed in 
 beauty when illuminated by the imagination, as faces 
 in themselves not beautiful become so by the expres- 
 sion of thought and feeling. 
 
 " This collection of Poems of Places has been made 
 partly for the pleasure of making it, and partly for the 
 pleasure I hope to give to those who shall read its 
 pages. It is the voice of the Poets expressing their 
 delight in the scenes of nature, and, like the song of 
 birds, surrounding the earth with music. For myself, 
 I confess that these poems have an indescribable charm, 
 as showing how the affections of men have gone forth 
 to their favorite haunts, and consecrated them forever. 
 
 " Great is the love of English poets for rural and 
 secluded places. Greater still their love of rivers. In 
 Drayton's Poly-Olbion the roar of rivers is almost 
 deafening ; and if more of them do not flow through 
 the pages of this work, it is from fear of changing it 
 into a morass, which, however beautiful with flowers 
 and flags, might be an unsafe footing for the wayfarer." 
 
 To Mr. Clark the reader is again indebted for the 
 following charming account of the compilation of the 
 poems : — 
 
POEMS OF PLACES. 115 
 
 " These selections were made at a time when he was 
 confined to his house by illness that would not permit 
 him to go out or engage in more serious labors ; and it 
 was his delight to take down the ' treasured volumes of 
 his 0110106,' and mark the passages .appropriate for the 
 collection. This was more truly a selection, and an 
 original selection by himself, than any other collection 
 of verse heretofore published ; for the pieces are culled 
 largely from long poems, now little read, and from a 
 wide range of authors, and would seem to include all 
 of interest that has been written about places of note 
 by the best poets. The volumes on England are fitting 
 companions to Hawthorne's Note-Books ; and if brought 
 out together, accompanied by illustrations, the two 
 would form a delightful guide-book to the traveller. 
 
 " Longfellow was choice in his selections. He did 
 not take every thing that came to hand, and was criti- 
 cised for having omitted some familiar pieces ; but he 
 would not include any he felt were unfit in language or 
 unworthy in merit, and, even after the pieces were in 
 type, many at first selected were cut out for some pas- 
 sage he could not approve, or to make room for some 
 better choice. And in this he showed the same purity 
 of taste and discriminating judgment as in his own 
 works. But sometimes, in consequence of these changes 
 when the forms were made up, he was compelled to 
 write a poem to fill the place when no other was avail- 
 able ; and scattered through the volumes are many origi- 
 nal poems of his that had never appeared before and do 
 not appear elsewhere. But, having been written for this 
 purpose, and with more haste than usual, he at first 
 credited them to ' Anonymous,' that prolific writer, as if 
 he did not feel they were fully up to his standard ; but 
 
116 HENRY WADSWOBTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 he was persuaded at last to give them his name, and they 
 stand as worthy of his muse as any other work of his pen. 
 
 " It was singular to note, in reprinting from ' best edi- 
 tions/ how errors had crept in ; and sometimes I came 
 upon a passage I thought incorrect or obscure, or a piece 
 too commonplace, when he would say, 'Let us read it; 1 
 and he would at once discover the defect, while I had 
 the benefit of his fine reading (for it may not be gen- 
 erally known that he Mas a fine reader, the melody 
 of his voice giving a sweetness to his expression that, 
 was charming, and his eyes glowing with the rapture of 
 the thought. He would sometimes brace himself up, 
 and throw back his shoulders, and read with all the 
 impression of the professional actor). It Avas such a 
 treat to hear him read, that I fear I was tempted to find 
 difficulties to be decided by so pleasant an ordeal. 
 
 "However coldly the public received this work, I 
 enjoyed it intensely. Mr. Emerson coming in one day, 
 and finding him looking over his proof, asked what lie 
 was doing. When told he was making a compilation, 
 the old sage shook his head doubtfully, and said, ' The 
 world is expecting better things of you than this. You 
 are wasting time -that should be bestowed upon original 
 production.' But Longfellow explained that he was 
 not feeling well enough for other work, and this diverted 
 and interested him. And inasmuch as Emerson himself 
 had but a short time before made a collection of verse 
 (Parnassus), they grew jolly over the incident, and 
 shook hands heartily as they parted, — perhaps never to 
 meet again, I thought ; for Emerson was very feeble, and 
 it seemed as if he would be the first to be called to 
 realize the glories of the better land. 
 
 " What a picture for memory — these two authors 
 
THE CHILDREN'S ARM-CHAIR. 117 
 
 grasping hands, as it were, on the verge of eternity ! 
 so dissimilar in appearance, so unlike in their work, but 
 the foremost men of the time in all that ennobles 
 and enriches literature, and elevates the heart, and 
 sanctifies the home. 
 
 " What a delight it was to have all the great poet's 
 library to go over! for the books were brought to the 
 office, and the type set directly from them. These were 
 the 'grand old masters' whose 'footsteps echo through 
 the corridors of time ; ' these were the friends with 
 whom he took counsel, but not from whom he drew his 
 inspiration ; for Nature was his master, and these but 
 his servants. He drank of the living fountain, and was 
 refreshed himself, and gave refreshment to others.''' 
 
 We approach now the last years of the poet's life, 
 every one of which, from 1879 to 1882, was signalized 
 by some public ovation in his honor. How unspeakably 
 precious now is the thought that these tributes of love 
 were made before it should be forever too late ! 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 The year 1879 was the children's year, when, on the 
 occasion of his seventy-second birthday (Feb. 27), they 
 presented Mr. Longfellow with the now famous arm- 
 chair, made from the wood of the old horse-chestnut 
 tree, that stood at the corner of Brattle and Story 
 
 L Streets, by the "■ village smithy," 1 celebrated by Long- 
 fellow in his poem of The Village Blacksmith. 
 
 Says a writer in The New York Evening Post: 
 " In the half rural city where Longfellow spent his 
 maturer life, — that which he himself described in 
 
 1 The house in which the village smith lived is still standing at 
 No. 54 Brattle Street. 
 
118 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Hyperion as ' this leafy, blossoming, and beautiful 
 Cambridge,' — he held a position of as unquestion- 
 able honor and supremacy as that of Goethe at Wei- 
 mar or Jean Paul at Baireuth. He was the First 
 Citizen, — the man whose name had weight beyond all 
 others not only in social but in civic affairs. This was 
 the more remarkable as he rarely attended public meet- 
 ings, seldom volunteered counsel or action, and was not 
 seen very much in public. But his weight was always 
 thrown on the right side ; he took an unfeigned interest 
 in public matters, always faithful to the traditions of 
 his friend Sumner ; and his purse was always easily 
 opened for all good works. < On one occasion there was 
 something like a collision of opinion between him and 
 the city government, when it was thought necessary for 
 the widening of Brattle Street to remove the 'spread- 
 ing chestnut-tree' that once stood before the smithy 
 of the village blacksmith, Dexter Pratt. The poet 
 earnestly expostulated : the tree fell, nevertheless ; but, 
 by one of those happy thoughts which sometimes break 
 the monotony of municipal annals, it was proposed to 
 the city fathers that the children of the public schools 
 should be invited to build out of its wood, b} r their 
 small subscriptions, a great arm-chair for the poet's 
 study. The unexpected gift, from such a source, salved 
 the offence, but it brought with it a sore penalty to Mr. 
 Longfellow's household : for the kindly bard gave orders 
 that no child who wished to see the chair should be ex- 
 cluded ; and the tramp of dirty little feet through the 
 hall was for many months the despair of housemaids." 
 The chair was set in a place of honor by the study 
 fireside. Its design is very pretty, and in perfect taste. 
 The color is a dead black, an effect produced by eboniz- 
 
THE CHESTNUT ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 THE GIFT OF THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE. 
 
120 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ing the wood. The upholstering of the arms and the 
 cushion is in green leather, and the casters are glass 
 balls set in sockets. In the back of the chair is a cir- 
 cular piece of exquisite carving, representing horse- 
 chestnut leaves and blossoms. Horse-chestnut leaves 
 and burrs are presented in varied combinations at other 
 points. Around the seat, in raised German text, are 
 the following lines from the poem : — 
 
 " And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door : 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor." 
 
 Underneath the cushion is a brass plate on which is 
 the following inscription : — 
 
 To 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 of 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH, 
 
 This chair, made from the wood of the spreading 
 
 Chestnut Tree, 
 
 is presented as 
 
 an expression of grateful regard and A-encration 
 
 by 
 
 The Children of Cambridge, 
 
 who with their friends join in the best wishes and 
 
 congratulations 
 
 on 
 
 This Anniversary, 
 
 February 27, 1879. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow conveyed his thanks to the children 
 in a beautiful little poem, entitled "From my Arm 
 
SPEECH AT SANDERS THEATRE. 121 
 
 Chair," first published, very appropriately, in The Cam- 
 bridge Tribune : — 
 
 " Am I a king', that I should call my own 
 This splendid ebon throne? 
 Or by what reason, or what right divine, 
 Can I proclaim it mine ? 
 
 "And thus, dear children, have ye made for me 
 This day a jubilee, 
 And to my more than threescore years and ten 
 Brought back my youth again." 
 
 SPEECH AT SANDERS THEATRE. 
 
 On Dee. 28, 1880, at the celebration of the two 
 hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of 
 Cambridge, Mr. Longfellow appeared with his friend 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes on the platform at Sanders 
 Theatre. It was his last public appearance. He and 
 his brother poet Holmes stood up to receive the storm 
 of applause that greeted them from the audience, 
 among which were a thousand grammar-school chil- 
 dren. The pleasantest feature of the occasion was this 
 ovation of the children to their poet. Contrary to all 
 expectation, and against his own uniform custom, he 
 made a speech to the children by way of response : — 
 
 " My dear young friends, I do not rise to make an 
 address to you, but to excuse myself from making one. 
 I know the proverb says that he who excuses himself 
 accuses himself ; and I am willing on this occasion to 
 accuse myself, for I feel very much as I suppose some 
 of you do when you are suddenly called upon in your 
 class-room, and are obliged to say that you are not pre- 
 pared. I am glad to see your faces and to hear your 
 voices. I am glad to have this opportunity of thank- 
 
122 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ing you in prose, as I have already done in verse, for 
 the beautiful present you made me some two years ago. 
 Perhaps some of you have forgotten it, but I have not; 
 and I am afraid, — yes, I am afraid that fifty years hence, 
 when you celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of 
 this occasion, this day and all that belongs to it will 
 have passed from your memory : for an English philos- 
 opher has said that 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." 
 
 At the close of the exercises the children pressed 
 around their dear friend in crowds, — little boys and 
 girls with albums, begging for his signature. His 
 patience and good nature were inexhaustible ; and, 
 when the dinner hour came, he told all who had not 
 got the signature to come to his house, every one, and 
 he would give them the autograph there. When a 
 gentleman present made some pleasant remark to him 
 about his speech, he said, " My best speech to the Cam- 
 bridge children is my poem on the arm-chair." 
 
 LOVE OF CHILDREN. 
 
 This seems a fit place to give a few anecdotes of his 
 rare love of children. Probably no other poet ever had 
 so many lovers and friends among " the little people of 
 God." One day, during his last sickness, some little 
 children were passing his gate ; and, when told that 
 their dear friend was soon to die, they began to speak 
 in whispers, and one little boy said to his companion, 
 " Let's walk softly by, and not make a noise." A 
 company of little five-year-old soldiers, marching by 
 
LOVE OF CHILDREN. 123 
 
 the house the clay after the passing away of the poet, 
 lowered their flag out of respect. On the occasion of 
 Mr. Longfellow's last birthday (Feb. 27, 1882) the 
 children of the schools all through the country, to a 
 large extent, gave up the day, or a part of it, to the 
 honoring of their poet, — the exercises consisting of 
 studies and readings of his poems, and essays and 
 addresses upon his character and genius. 
 
 " His native city of Portland desired to honor him 
 with a public reception upon the same occasion, but 
 failing health and his aversion ■ to public displays com- 
 pelled him to decline the honor. The members of the 
 Maine Historical Society, however, kept the daj r with 
 eulogies, critical and personal essays, and a poem. At 
 the Blind Asylum in South Boston there was a pleas- 
 ing celebration, in which the pupils participated, and in 
 preparation for which a volume in raised letters had 
 been printed, containing tributes to Mr. Longfellow 
 and some passages from his poems." 
 
 Among his many poems expressing his love and 
 tenderness for children, Weariness is one of the best : — 
 
 O little feet ! that such long years 
 
 Must wander on through hopes and fears, 
 
 Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; 
 I, nearer to the wayside inn 
 Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
 
 Am weary, thinking of your road ! 
 
 The following story has been widely copied by the 
 newspapers. For many years Mr. Luigi Monti was 
 in the habit of dining at Longfellow's house on Sat- 
 urdays, and then playing on the piano for the enter- 
 tainment of Mr. Longfellow, who was very fond of 
 music. On Christmas Day, while walking briskly 
 
124 HENRY WADSWOETII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 toward the old historic house, he was accosted by two 
 ladies and a girl about twelve years old, who inquired 
 the way to Longfellow's home. He told them it was some 
 distance down the street, but if they would walk along 
 with him he would show them. When they reached the 
 gate, the girl said, " Do you think we can go into the 
 yard ? " — " Oh, yes ! " said Signor Monti. " There are no 
 dogs barking at anybody/' As they entered the lawn 
 the little girl exclaimed : " Oh, I should like to see Mr. 
 Longfellow so much ! " To which Mr. Monti replied : 
 " Do you see the room on the left ? That's where Martha 
 Washington held her receptions a hundred years ago. 
 If you look at the windows on the right, you will prob- 
 ably see a white-haired gentleman reading a paper. 
 Well, that will be Mr. Longfellow." She looked grati- 
 fied and happy at the unexpected pleasure of really see- 
 ing the man whose poems she said she loved. As Signor 
 Monti drew near the house, he saw Mr. Longfellow 
 standing with his back against the window, his head of 
 course out of sight. When he went in, the kind- 
 hearted Italian said, " Do look out of the window, and 
 bow to that little girl, who wants to see you very much." 
 — "A little girl wants to see me very much, — where is 
 she ? " He hastened to the door, and, beckoning with 
 his hand, called out, " Come here, little girl, come here, 
 if you want to see me." She needed no second invita- 
 tion ; and, after shaking her hand and asking her name, 
 he kindly took her into the house, showed her the " old 
 clock on the stairs," the chair made from the village 
 smithy's chestnut-tree, and the curious pictures and 
 souvenirs gathered in many years of foreign residence. 
 Not many months before the poet's death, he called 
 on Rev. Minot J. Savage of Boston. Mr. Savage's little 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 125 
 
 boy and he struck up quite an acquaintanceship ; and 
 when Mr. Longfellow was leaving, and had got quite 
 to the bottom of the stairs, the little fellow called out, 
 "Mr. Longfellow, 'oo must come back, and tiss me 
 once more ! " And back he went to the top of the 
 stairs to kiss the little fellow. 
 
 A gentleman relates, that once, when he was a small 
 boy, he was present with a large company of ladies 
 and gentlemen whom Longfellow had, with accustomed 
 kindness, consented to show over the old historical 
 mansion. All the rest had been introduced save him- 
 self (the small boy), and the company evidently con- 
 sidered him too insignificant to deserve notice. The 
 host noticed the omission, "and, grasping his hand, 
 gave him a more cordial greeting even than he had 
 given to the rest of the company." 
 
 Mr. J. Q. A. Johnson of Cambridge is the authority 
 for the statement that a gentleman of that city pre- 
 serves a pleasant memento of the poet in the shape of a 
 little boat, whittled out of a shingle, with places for 
 three masts. It was made several years ago by Mr. 
 Longfellow, for a little girl. The noticeable feature of 
 it, says Mr. Johnson, is that — 
 
 " With nicest skill and art, 
 Perfect and finished in every part, 
 A little model the master wrought." 
 
 ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 It was during 1880 that Ultima Thule, the last pub- 
 lished volume of the poet, appeared. The title was, 
 alas ! prophetic and true. He was nearing the end of 
 those songs that he had so long and so sweetly sung to 
 cljeer his own pathway, and that of others, through 
 the world of sense. 
 
126 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Ultima Thule contained the graceful poem on the 
 pen presented by " beautiful Helen of Maine." * The 
 following lines are from the poem which gives its title 
 to the book : — 
 
 " With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, 
 We sailed for the Hesperides, 
 The land where golden apples grow ; 
 But that — ah ! that was long ago. 
 
 " Ultima Thule .' Utmost isle ! 
 Here in thy harbors for a while 
 We lower our sails ; a while we rest 
 From the unending, endless quest." 
 
 In 1881 The Literary World published a Longfellow 
 Number, a beautiful tribute to the poet. Extracts from 
 its careful papers have been embodied in this book. In 
 this year was published The Longfellow Birthday Book, 
 edited by Miss Charlotte Fiske Bates. Of this book 
 nineteen thousand copies were sold during the first year 
 after its publication. It is a handsome little volume, 
 with quotations from Longfellow's writings sprinkled 
 through a calendar containing blank spaces for auto- 
 graphs and dates of birth. On Feb. 27, 1882, the school- 
 children of the country, as has been said, devoted the 
 day to honoring the name of Longfellow. 
 
 > 
 
 LAST SICKNESS. 
 
 The last two summers of his life were spent at Nahant, 
 his daughter and her children being there. He found 
 the sea air very cold, however ; and it was his custom to 
 
 1 The pen was made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the prisoner of 
 Chillon; the handle, of wood from the frigate "Constitution," bound 
 with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones, from Siberia, 
 Ceylon, and Maine. 
 
LAST SICKNESS. 127 
 
 wear a heavy overcoat to protect him from the chill 
 breezes. At Nahant Mr. Longfellow wrote very little. 
 He took only a few volumes with him, but received 
 impressions which he later expressed in verse. 
 
 His health remained tolerably good until within about 
 three months of his death, although his digestive powers 
 were considerably impaired, and he was obliged to live 
 at times almost exclusively on bread and milk. His 
 health had received a shock on the occasion of the 
 death of his friend Louis Agassiz, and he perhaps never 
 fully recovered from that blow. During the last three 
 months he scarcely walked outside of his private 
 grounds. He now wrote very few letters, using a printed 
 form for the acknowledgment of such communications 
 as he received from others. On Saturday morning, the 
 18th of March, he walked for a while on the piazza, and 
 on going into the house complained of being chilled. At 
 dinner he expressed a fear that he should have a return 
 of vertigo. On retiring to his chamber, he was taken 
 violently ill with vomiting and diarrhoea. Dr. Morrill 
 Wyman was summoned, and later Dr. Francis Minot. 
 Sunday morning he was so dizzy as to be unable to rise. 
 His sufferings were severe, and opiates were adminis- 
 tered. On Monday the symptoms were alarming and 
 dangerous in character, and peritonitis had plainly de- 
 veloped. On Tuesday the lungs became affected, and 
 bronchitis set in, the patient suffering extremely from 
 coughing fits. Wednesday and Thursday he suffered 
 less pain ; and, recovering during the latter day from a 
 sleepiness that was upon him the day before, he became 
 as bright and genial in conversation as was his wont. 
 An increase of inflammation, Thursday night, induced 
 partial unconsciousness, which recurred at intervals. 
 
128 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 His talk was often incoherent and rambling. As the 
 morning of Friday wore on, there was a return of com- 
 plete consciousness, and the sick man knew his end 
 was near. Pain was now nearly absent, but there was 
 a disposition to dulness. He' talked very little, and 
 for an hour before death became unconscious. He died 
 easily and peacefully, at ten minutes after three o'clock 
 on Friday afternoon, March 24, 1882, surrounded by 
 the complete circle of his family. By the bedside were 
 the three daughters, Edith (wife of Richard Henry 
 Dana^), Alice M., and Annie Allegra (unmarried) ; the 
 two sons, Ernest and Charles Appleton ; his brother, 
 Alexander W. Longfellow of Portland; his sisters, Mrs. 
 James Greenleaf of Cambridge and Mrs. Annie L. 
 Pierce of Portland; his brothers-in-law. Thomas Gold 
 Appleton and Nathan Appleton of Boston ; Mrs. Er- 
 nest Longfellow ; and Wadsworth and William P. P. 
 Longfellow, nephews, of Portland. The poet's brother, 
 Rev. Samuel Longfellow of Germantown, Penn., arrived 
 too late at Craigie House : its owner had passed into 
 the silent land. 
 
 The people of Cambridge were most of them well 
 informed of the dangerous character of his sickness, so 
 that, when the solemn bells slowly tolled seventj^-five 
 strokes, they knew what had occurred ; and deep and 
 genuine was the sorrow, as if each had suffered a severe 
 personal bereavement. It was touching to witness the 
 grief of the servants of the house. Soon after the death 
 became known, tokens of mourning were exhibited on 
 many houses, and the poet's portrait draped in black 
 was seen in many shop-windows. 
 
 Among those who sent letters of inquiry, or called 
 personally, during the sickness, were Dr. Oliver Wen-j 
 
THE FUNERAL. 129 
 
 dell Holmes, President Charles William Eliot and many 
 Harvard professors, William D. Ho wells, John G. 
 Whittier, Mayor Samuel A. Green of Boston, Hon. 
 Robert C. Winthrop, Walt Whitman, James Russell 
 Lowell, and George W. Childs. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 The funeral was held on Sunday, March 26, and was 
 both private and public. To the service at the house 
 none were admitted but the members of the family and 
 a very few of the poet's most intimate friends who had 
 cards of invitation. The services at the house began 
 at three o'clock. At that time the sky was heavily 
 overcast ; and soon the snowflakes began to fall, recall- 
 ing Longfellow's beautiful poem : — 
 
 Out of the bosom of the Air, 
 
 Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
 Silent, and soft, and slow 
 Descends the snow. 
 
 Even as our cloudy fancies take 
 
 Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
 Even as the troubled heart doth make 
 In the white countenance confession, 
 The troubled sky reveals 
 The grief it feels. 
 
 Throughout the city, flags were displayed at half-mast. 
 Before the gate of the Longfellow mansion were a few 
 hundred people braving the snow and the cold. A 
 reverential stillness characterized the company ; and, 
 when the remains were brought out to the hearse, 
 
130 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 nearly all stood with uncovered heads. Many eyes were 
 moistened with tears. 
 
 Among those present in the house, besides the rela- 
 tives above mentioned, were Alexander Agassiz and 
 Mrs. Louis Agassiz ; Peter Thacher ; Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
 I. Eustis ; Mr. and Mrs. I. M. Spellman; Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson, and his daughter Ellen Emerson ; Oliver Wen- 
 dell Holmes; George William Curtis; Professor Charles 
 Eliot Norton ; Miss Grace Norton ; Rev. Cyrus A. Bar- 
 tol, D.D. ; Dr. Morrill Wyman ; Miss Charlotte Fiske 
 Bates ; Samuel Ward of New York ; Luigi Monti ; Mrs. 
 James Ticknor Fields; Mrs. Ole Bull; Mrs. Beane 
 (Helen Marr) ; Mr. and Mrs. Eben N. Horsford and 
 daughters ; John Owen ; the Misses Palfrey ; Mr. Wil- 
 liam Dean Howells ; Mr. James Myers ; Professor Louis 
 Dyer ; Mr. and Mrs. John Brooks ; Mr. and Mrs. Joseph 
 Warner ; Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Vaughan. 
 
 The remains were laid in a plain casket covered 
 with broadcloth embossed with black ornaments. On 
 the top were placed two long palm-leaves crossed ; and 
 the casket was encircled with a rim of the passion- 
 flower vine, bearing one beautiful blossom. The silver 
 plate bore the inscription : — 
 
 iii ?/ 
 
 Wra 
 
 r / /n / (A, 
 
 Born February 27, 1807. 
 Died March 24, 1882. 
 
 The brother, the Rev. Samuel Longfellow, conducted 
 the services, making a short prayer, and reading selec- 
 tions from Mr. Longfellow's poems, one of which was 
 the exquisite poem entitled Suspiria : — 
 
THE FUNERAL. 131 
 
 Take them, O Death ! and bear away 
 Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 
 
 Thine image, stamped upon this claj', 
 Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 
 
 Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
 
 Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 
 As garments by the soul laid by, 
 • And precious only to ourselves ! 
 
 Take them, O great Eternity ! 
 
 Our little life is but a gust 
 That bends the branches of thy tree, 
 
 And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 
 
 During the services the aged poet Ralph Waldo Emer- 
 son was observed to come forward several times to the 
 coffin to take one more long look at the face of his dead 
 brother-singer and friend. 
 
 The remains were deposited in the family vault in 
 Mount Auburn Cemetery, the only ceremony there 
 being the repeating of the following words by the 
 Rev. Mr. Longfellow : " O Death, where is thy sting ? 
 O Grave, where is thy victory? Dust thou art, and 
 unto dust shalt thou return. The Lord gave, and 
 the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the 
 Lord." 
 
 The company were then driven to Appleton Chapel, 
 Harvard College, where impressive public services were 
 held. On a table in front of the altar was a beautiful 
 floral harp, nearly three feet in height, made of smilax 
 and white and yellow flowers, with one broken string. 
 The harp was the gift of the Bohemian Club of San 
 Francisco, and had been ordered by telegraph. The 
 exercises were conducted by the Rev. Dr. Charles Carroll 
 
132 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Everett, who, it is interesting to remember, was in his 
 youth an instructor at Bowdoin College. He was as- 
 sisted by the Rev. Francis Greenwood Peabody, who 
 was formerly the pastor of the First Parish Church. 
 Among selections read at this service was one from 
 Hiawatha, beginning, — 
 
 " He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
 He the sweetest of all singers ! 
 He has gone from us forever, 
 He has moved a little nearer 
 To the Master of all music, 
 To the Master of all singing ! " 
 
 From the remarks of Professor Everett the following 
 beautiful passages are extracted : — 
 
 " I said he poured his life into his work. It is singu- 
 lar that the phase of life and of experience which forms 
 so large a portion of most poetry, which many sing if 
 they sing nothing else, he was content to utter in prose, 
 if prose we must call the language of his romances. He 
 seems content to have scattered unbound the flowers of 
 romantic love at the door of the temple of his song. 
 There is something strange, too, in the fascination 
 which the thought of death has for so many generous 
 youth. You remember that Bryant first won his fame 
 by a hymn to death ; and so, I think, the first poem of 
 Longfellow's which won recognition for him was that 
 translation of those sounding Spanish lines which exalt 
 the majesty of death, and sing the shortness of human 
 life. But the first song that rang with his own natural 
 voice, which won the recognition of the world, was not 
 a song of death, it was a Psalm of Life. That little 
 volume of the Voices of the Night formed an epoch 
 in our literary history. It breathed his whole spirit, 
 
WORDS OF PROFESSOR EVERETT. 133 
 
 his energy, his courage, his tenderness, his faith : it 
 formed the prelude of all that should come after. 
 
 " That marvellous poem M oritur! Salutamus is per- 
 haps to-day the grandest hymn to age that was ever 
 written. It is no distant dream, as it was when those 
 sounding Spanish lines flowed from his pen. He feels 
 its shadows, he feels that the night is drawing nigh, and 
 yet he stands strong and calm and bold as at first. He 
 greets the present as he greeted in old times the future. 
 He gathers from the coming on of age, the approaching 
 night, no signal for rest, but a new summons to activity. 
 He cries, — 
 
 ' It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late 
 Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.' 
 
 " He had breathed himself into his songs : in them, 
 he is with us still. Wherever they go, as they wander 
 over the world, he will be with them, a minister of love. 
 He will be by the side of the youth, pointing to heights 
 as yet unsealed, and bidding him have faith and cour- 
 age. He will be with the wanderer in foreign lands, 
 making the beauty he sees more fair. He will be with 
 the mariner upon the sea, he will be with the explorer 
 in the woods, he will be in the quiet beauty of home; 
 he will be by the side of the sorrowing heart, pointing 
 to a higher faith ; and, as old age is gathering about the 
 human soul, he will be there to whisper courage, still to 
 cry, — 
 
 ' For age is opportunity no less 
 Than youth itself.' 
 
 " Thus will he inspire in all faith and courage, and 
 point us all to those two sources of strength that alone 
 can never fail, w heart within, and God o'erhead.' " 
 
134 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 TRIBUTES. 
 
 When the death of Longfellow was made known in 
 England, there was not a single paper of repute in 
 Great Britain that did not contain a long editorial on 
 the poet's life and writings, with reminiscences of his 
 visits to England. The Daily Telegraph said, " It is for 
 a singer and for a friend for whom America and England 
 are mourning alike." The general sentiment of the 
 whole nation was that a dear friend had gone. 
 
 Among the many American tributes to Longfellow's 
 memory and name, the following by George William 
 Curtis bears the stamp of great tenderness and beauty : — 
 
 " No American could have died who would have 
 been more universally mourned than Longfellow. He 
 had come into all homes, and was beloved of all hearts. 
 His sweet and pure and tender genius has hallowed all 
 domestic relations and events, and there is no emotion 
 which does not readily and fitly express itself in his 
 verse. He was the most famous of Americans, and his 
 fame had become a personal affection and a national 
 pride. This was from no misconception of his position 
 in literature, or of his peculiar power ; but it is the 
 most significant tribute to the man. 
 
 " A more symmetrical and satisfactory character it is 
 not easy to conceive. Rectitude and simplicity, exqui- 
 site courtesy and gentleness, infinite patience and sym- 
 pathy and tact, blended in a manner which was as 
 gracious as a poem, and benignant as a benediction. 
 His accomplishment in letters, his elegant scholarship, 
 were extraordinary. The felicity of citation, the aptness 
 of allusion, were delightful ; and with all his wealth of 
 resource he never tipped a sneer, or permitted an innu- 
 
TRIBUTE OF G. \V. CURTIS. 135 
 
 endo. His perfect humanity instinctively apprehended 
 every fellow-man ; and, known to everybody, not one 
 who knew him personally can have had any unkindness 
 of feeling for one who could not be unkind. His home, 
 if deeply saddened in recent years, was always the 
 House Beautiful ; and its noble, urbane, and beloved 
 master welcomed guests from every land, and, greeting 
 them in their own language, revealed to them an 
 America which they had not suspected, and which 
 they could never forget. 
 
 " Although for many months his friends have watched 
 him wistfully, and waited for news with half-foreboding 
 hearts, the old, old sorrow comes at last with the old 
 pang and unappeasable sense of loss. He was old, but 
 still his sweet song was heard with all the familiar music 
 and the inexpressible charm. Age touched his silvering 
 head, but not his heart nor his mind. His place among 
 us, in our busy life, was that of the bard in the fond 
 old golden legends that he loved, the honored and cher- 
 ished singer whose hand the youth and maidens kiss, 
 and in whose lofty and tender melody the older men 
 and women hear once more the accents of their early 
 aspiration, and own a consolation for long-baffled hopes. 
 
 ' And though at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way.' " 
 
 The Christian Register had these sentences: "'It 
 
136 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 often happens,' said Thomas a Kempis, 'that a stranger, 
 whom the voice of fame had made illustrious, loses all 
 the brightness of his character the moment he is seen 
 and known.' Such was not the case with Henry Wads- 
 worth Longfellow. To know him as a man was to add 
 to the impression he had made as a poet. The sweet- 
 ness, the refinement, the gentle and lovable qualities of 
 his character, strongly endeared him to those who came 
 within the circle of his personal influence. It was this 
 underlying richness of his nature which bloomed into 
 fragrance and color in his poetry." 
 
 At a memorial service in the Unitarian Church of 
 East Boston, Sunday, April 2, 1882, Gov. John Davis 
 Long spoke as follows : — 
 
 " It was a delightful thought to devote the happiness 
 and April softness of this Sunday afternoon, this best 
 day of our cheerful and sunny religion, to Longfellow, 
 — to the companionship of an exquisite, uplifting poet, 
 and to the influence of a gentle, refining spirit, which 
 now, and for time to come, will mellow our sadnesses 
 with tender hymns of resignation, will inspire us far up 
 the heights with his soul-stirring songs, and will fill our 
 lives, though we grow to be bent and gray, with chil- 
 dren's hours. We are here to sing with him, not to 
 mourn him. W T hy is it that we used to shudder at this 
 death, which now we find only strings the chords of a 
 more comprehending love, and opens full to view the 
 rarer sweetness and the pure gold which the dust of life 
 half hid before ? Have you not looked at a picture, and 
 only been blinded by the sunbeam that shot across it? 
 It was not till the sunbeam went out and died, that the 
 lineaments stood forth relieved, distinct, and perfect. 
 What a poor and meagre chain of little-meaning links 
 
TRIBUTE OF GOVERNOR LONG. 137 
 
 is this narrative of dates and events, which we some- 
 times call a man's life ! It is of little consequence, 
 except for the dear association's sake, what was the 
 name or residence or birthplace or age of the poet. Of 
 what interest to us is even the great globe of the sun in 
 itself, compared with the radiance which is its soul and 
 which fills the universe with light? Do not tell me that 
 Longfellow was born, and had honors and degrees and 
 a professorship, and crossed the seas ; for these things 
 come and go, and now flash, now faint. But tell me 
 that his mind was full of gentle and ennobling thoughts ; 
 for these live forever, and are now in your hearts and 
 speaking in you. Tell me that he loved children, and 
 wrote songs for them and of them ; and let me hear my 
 little girl, as she comes down the stairs in the morning, 
 repeat untaught the verses which he made, and which 
 are a bridge from his soul to hers, and from all human 
 souls to one another. The material is nothing, and dies ; 
 but the soul sings on, and in these tributes which we 
 and many another assembly are paying it, we are ac- 
 knowledging, we are asserting, we are proving its im- 
 mortality. When some poor creature with nothing but 
 a throne and a crown is dead, his subjects hail his succes- 
 sor, and shout, The king is dead, long live the king! 
 When our king, the poet, is laid to rest, we may well 
 cry, The poet is dead, long live the poet! For he succeeds 
 himself, and is dead only to live, even on earth, a larger 
 and more present life in his verse, and in the songs and 
 hearts of the people. 
 
 " It is a poor commonplace to say that Longfellow is 
 the poet of the people, for no poet is a great or true poet 
 who is not that. And what a tribute is this to our 
 common humanity ! Lives of great men all remind us 
 
138 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 not so much that we can make our lives sublime, as that 
 our lives are sublime, if only we will not cumber or 
 debase them. Not by putting into melody something 
 that is beyond and above you and me, not by breathing 
 a music so exquisite that it never trembles in our fancies 
 and prayers, does the poet rise to excellence ; but by 
 voicing the affections, the finer purpose, the noblenesses, 
 that are in the great common nature, — in the sailor up 
 the shrouds, in the maiden lashed to the floating mast, 
 in the mother laying away her child, in the schoolboy 
 at his task or play or counting the sparks that fly 
 from the blacksmith's forge, in the youth whose heart 
 beats Excelsior, in the man at his work or, when he 
 rests from it, raided by blue-eyed banditti from the stair- 
 way and the hall. So the poet teaches us not our dis- 
 parity from him, but our level with him ; not our mean- 
 ness, but our loftiness. Let us not forget that he owes 
 as much to those who inspire him to sing their thoughts, 
 as they to him for singing them. Or, rather, not trying 
 to strike the balance of credit, let this name and memory 
 and life of Longfellow, this recognition of the poet and 
 the poet's work, in. which we are all sharers in common, 
 lift us all, as he would have wished, to higher consecra- 
 tion, to the sweet, angelic community of finer feeling 
 and thinking, and to that moral elevation, like a dewy 
 hill in the morning sunrise, where we all wake to the 
 divinity of our natures and the glory of these souls that 
 come from God's own harmony. At such a lofty and 
 serene height, we find there has been and can be no 
 death. For here is Dickens, and the children are laugh- 
 ing and crying by turns at his humor or his tears. Here 
 are the rounded character of Washington, the eloquent 
 loyalty of Webster, the patient faith of Lincoln, all up- 
 
TRIBUTE OF GOVERNOR LONG. 139 
 
 holding, far more than before, the idea of a nation of 
 liberty and union. Here are the serene illumination of 
 Channing and the chivalrous enthusiasm of Bellows. 
 We do not see them, but they live and breathe and are 
 of the very air in which we live and move. Something 
 is indeed gone from them, but it is only the dross. And 
 so Longfellow was never more present with you than 
 here and now. It is for us to tune our hearts and 
 voices in harmony with his. Remember that his fame 
 and effluence came not so much from the long poems, — 
 these are in most poets often buoyed by the shorter 
 songs, — but from these utterances of the heart which, 
 like the Psalm of Life, Resignation, The Day is done, 
 The Children's Hour, The Footsteps of Angels, seem 
 like the spoken language of our own souls. The music 
 he wrote is all lying unwritten in us. Let us sing it 
 in our lives, which we can, as he sung it from his pen, 
 which we cannot. 
 
 "It was a beautiful life. It was felicitous beyond 
 ordinary lot, and yet not so far beyond. The birds sang 
 in its branches.* The pleasant streams ran through it. 
 The sun shone and the April showers fell softly down 
 upon it. The winds hushed it to sleep. And, while 
 now he falls asleep, let us read his verse anew; and 
 through the lines let us read him, and draw into our 
 lives something of these serenities and upliftings. So 
 for ourselves and one another, remembering this Sunday 
 afternoon, remembering the poet's life, living hereafter 
 with the poet's hymns in our ears, may we, like him, 
 leave behind us footprints in the sands of time ; may our 
 sadness resemble sorrow only as the mist resembles the 
 rain ; may we know how sublime a thing it is to suffer 
 and be strong ; may we wake the better soul that slum- 
 
140 UENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 berecl to a holy, calm delight ; may we never mistake 
 heaven's distant lamps for sad funereal tapers ; and 
 may we ever hear the voice from the sky like a falling 
 star, — Excelsior ! " 
 
 On Sunday, April 2, Dr. Cyrus A. Bartol delivered 
 a eulogy upon Longfellow. It was filled with the sweet 
 fragrance and mellow maturity of thought and diction 
 which make Dr. Bartol's sermons such enduring gems 
 of Christian oratory. He said : — 
 
 " I knew the early haunts in Portland of his fledgling 
 muse, spreading its wing to the woods on the bay and 
 the observatory on the hill, hovering over the wharf and 
 the ropewalk, looking into the sky and the creek, listen- 
 ing to the wind and the brook and the sea. How little 
 he thought some of his lines would come to be trans- 
 lated into ten languages, to have popularity without 
 precedent, — one of his pieces, ' The Hanging of the 
 Crane,' not a very long poem, having been sold for four 
 thousand dollars, a price beyond all parallel in this 
 country ! I have some personal cause to speak of him. 
 Almost fifty-four years ago Mr. Longftllow, at the age 
 of twenty-three, taught in Bowdoin College, Bruns- 
 wick, Me., the Spanish language and French to me, a 
 boy of sixteen. 
 
 " I had listened with him to the same instruction from 
 that man of genius, Dr. Nichols, in Portland, his native 
 town. He was the same gentleman then, instinctively 
 treating every student as such, that sat in the Bowdoin 
 or afterwards the Harvard recitation-rooms. Just so, 
 too, he walked Boston streets, or at home yonder an- 
 swered every letter, received every caller, wrote his 
 name in every album, gave his autograph to boys and 
 girls without number, won the love and praise of school- 
 
TRIBUTE OF DR. BARTOL. 141 
 
 children throughout the land, and was so large and free 
 in his hospitality that I, for one, felt it a duty rather to 
 stay away from his frequented house, in the doubtless 
 vain fear that even his abundant courtesy might be 
 overtasked or strained. 
 
 " From his father, whom I well remember, this most 
 fortunate of our poets, resembling him in feature, also 
 inherited a singular modest and winsome mood of tem- 
 per, only barely stirred as by American slavery into 
 burning heat, as though a beam of the moon became one 
 of the sun. Never did imagination have happier blend- 
 ing with love. His fancy transfigured the details of 
 common life. Nothing to his eye was stiff and stark 
 and straight. All danced and sang, revolved or swung. 
 Every thing and everybody, like the person in the nurs- 
 ery-ballad with rings and bells, to his ear made music 
 wherever it went. With no other bard had the measure 
 such freedom and ease. He could not hear of Acadia 
 but Evangeline started up, nor think of Indian story 
 without Hiawatha, nor see the word ' Excelsior ' on a 
 bit of paper but the youth scaled the mountain. The 
 ocean-cable that brought to our breakfast-boards lauda- 
 tions of the London press the next morning after his 
 decease showed what universal esteem he was held in, 
 how broad and cosmopolite the web of sympathy that 
 drew his fellows to him by millions of threads, and how 
 mankind are woven together and telegraph to each 
 other by every tone of harmony and syllable of truth. 
 Beyond any other writer of our time, he made the 
 music, the 'folk-songs' of the English race. The Scot- 
 tish Burns says of a projected piece of his own, — 
 
 ' Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon.' 
 
142 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 "Dewey, the impressive preacher, and Longfellow, 
 the melodious rhymer, had the very same word of God 
 to say or sing, as if the eloquent periods of the former 
 had but been raised to a higher power in the rhythmical 
 accords of the latter, the identical truth in verse reach- 
 ing a thousand to one that would peruse or had listened 
 to the homiletic prose. Indeed, this singer has become 
 part of the atmosphere with his song, in which sorrow 
 is more musical than joy. He is in the air we breathe, 
 he is part of the light we see by, he breaks part of the 
 bread we eat : and the marvel of the phenomenon is 
 that by no peculiar or sublime originality he so becomes. 
 He ranks not with the grander bards of the nations — 
 Greek, Roman, Italian, German, English — in every age. 
 He must be placed among the minor, secondary ones, 
 if we compare him with Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, 
 Milton, and Wordsworth, not to speak of others nearer 
 than those to us in time or space, who have hewn out 
 of the living rock their shrines or voiced at first hand 
 the Holy Ghost. Because he is so familiar and home- 
 like, he is so welcome. He does not soar like Emerson, 
 or dive like Browning. He does not quarry or mine. 
 He is the ground swallow, dear among us and in the 
 mother land ; not admired and wondered at, as the eagle 
 is, but more cherished and oftener distinctly in our view. 
 If he is not a virile guide through the grand and dread- 
 ful passes, he is a womanly comforter. 
 
 " A poet may be too high or deep for immediate effect 
 or common esteem, and so may have to wait, like Kepler 
 in science and Plato in philosophy, for a far-off future 
 to appreciate the work which only a select and sifted 
 class feels or suspects the beauty of now. He did not 
 have to winnow his audience. What Longfellow sur- 
 
TRIBUTE OF DR. BARTOL. 143 
 
 passes all his contemporaries in, overmatches the com- 
 rades and fellow-artists who join to love and generously 
 delight in him and his success, is his broad, present, and 
 instant influence, his sure striking of the common chord 
 vibrating and resounding through two hemispheres in 
 the human breast, his revealing to the meanest capacity 
 the poetry hid in the human soul, putting into his 
 picture-gallery blacksmith and duke, sailor and king, 
 translating not only the Coplas of Don Manrique, but 
 out of invisible ink on the heart's tables bringing out 
 the lines written in the general image of God, rendering 
 ordinary experience of pleasure or toil into strains so 
 simple as to be commonplace, yet as sweet as they are 
 clear; composing, not seldom, a symphony, without 
 profundity, of delicious words, a combination of con- 
 cords to the ear, if not always an interior creation of 
 melody created by thought, holding up a mirror for 
 everybody to see his own face in, idealizing nature and 
 human nature, legend and history, and making, to our 
 pride and joy and gratitude, poets of us all, placing his 
 poetry on the level of actual life. 
 
 " Every stroke told. His arrows hit. With conscious 
 aim or unawares, he never missed his mark. Young 
 men and maidens he poetized, psychologized, with his 
 verse. Every latent bit of romance in all minds he 
 touched and stirred into life. Dirge or serenade, his 
 music was for the million, the people. This, like the 
 old harper, has gone, not in bodily form, but ghost-like, 
 from door to door through the land, for two continents, 
 stringing and striking his lyre. 
 
 " The modest man, devoid of boasting, lowly, while 
 wide -as the prairie, the Acadian wood, or the watery 
 main, understood his especial function and singular 
 
144 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 strength. In that charming poem, The Day is done, 
 he calls for one to read to him, — 
 
 'Not from the grand old masters, 
 
 Not from the bards sublime, 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 
 Through the corridors of Time. 
 
 ' Read from some humbler poet, 
 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 Or tears from the eyelids start. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 He is just that. His marvellous acceptance is especially 
 due to his being, among poets, the consoler. Mr. Long- 
 fellow's instrument is not the trumpet, but the flute. 
 He does not so much stir as assure and soothe, more 
 lullaby than appeal. He croons a cradle-song to this 
 great humanity, still a child, tired and worn, on its way. 
 He gives the peace it implores. A religious trust 
 breathes through all his books, the spirit of faith. He 
 flouts no one's convictions. In a doubting or half- 
 believing age, there is no query of the primal truths of 
 God and heaven on his page. He sings to the last as 
 his childhood learned. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow is dead : but, as he himself has 
 written, ' The artist never dies ; ' and, like Benvenuto 
 Cellini in gems and metals, he was a worker in words. 
 The Latin poet Horace writes, ' I shall not wholly die ; ' 
 and Shakspeare in his Sonnets betrays his sense of im- 
 
TRIBUTE OF MINOT J. SAVAGE. 145 
 
 mortality ; and Milton avers, in one of his, he can confer 
 fame on the 'Captain, Colonel, or Knight at Arms,' who 
 spares his dwelling. This American songster shall sur- 
 vive, like the song-birds in the forest he loved to hear. 
 He tells us of the hour-glass on his desk, — 
 
 ' A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 
 
 Of Arab deserts brought, 
 Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 
 The minister of Thought.' 
 
 While the sand shall run or flow may the verses last, — 
 clean as the drift on the shore, pure as pearls, polished 
 and un specked as the coated grains in the deep, decora- 
 tion and delight of the world, from whose crowding he 
 did not, like Goethe's lonely youth, turn aside to muse 
 deeply, but mixed with so humanely to give his own 
 gifts broadcast and gather his themes from every scene 
 and sight. As a rosy cloud, so his mortal presence 
 melts away ; but all his genius, which was his spirit, is 
 left in colors that are now fine and fast. His excellence, 
 his moral elevation, is large part of his fame. Faith, 
 Hope, Love abiding, — was not such not so much the 
 burden as the flying pinion of Longfellow and Dewey, 
 as of Paul? They mount on wings, as do the eagles." 
 
 Rev. Minot J. Savage, in his pulpit in Boston, spoke 
 thus of the poet (the words are given in abstract) : — 
 
 " Singularly fortunate was the poet. He achieved 
 his reputation early, and kept it to the last. As a 
 robin in spring he was welcomed. He was heard and 
 given the freedom of every home in Christendom. Un- 
 like many unfortunate and unappreciated poets, he 
 flew on free pinions through a clear sky, and only 
 ceased at the declining of the sun. He went through 
 
146 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 life loving and loved, till the light faded into the 
 sunrise of another life. He made himself the best-loved 
 poet of the nineteenth century. Probably more homes 
 in England and America are familiar with his poetry 
 than with that of any other poet in the world. He Was 
 on a level with the people. Hardly a line he wrote is 
 not clear to every one. Browning, perhaps the greatest 
 poet of the century, is a poet of scholars, and needs to 
 be interpreted to the people. Tennyson's poetry is 
 frequently a sinewy grappling with great problems. 
 Longfellow wrote but little on transitory themes. Low- 
 ell's and Whittier's poetry sprang like men full armed to 
 engage in the conflict of the times. But reforms achieved 
 become history, and most men are too busy for any thing 
 but the present duty. Longfellow came into every home 
 in the country." 
 
 On the Sunday following Longfellow's death, the Rev. 
 Dr. Franklin Johnson of Cambridge preached a sermon 
 in his memory. He said : 
 
 " His writings are distinguished for their beauty, 
 but they are distinguished not less for their purity. As 
 he lay dying, there was no line which he would wish to 
 blot. His songs have gone into all the world, a help 
 to the struggling, an inspiration to the weak, a consola- 
 tion to the sorrowing, a benediction to childhood, a stay 
 and staff to age. The pulpit will learn more and more 
 to prize the aid he has given it, and to use his words as 
 the Apostle to the Gentiles used those of the Greek 
 poets who had caught some glimpses of divine truth, 
 and had uttered their thought in language made charm- 
 ing with the genius of song. 
 
 " Longfellow may be called pre-eminently the poet of 
 humanity. No other poet has so fully entered into our 
 
TRIBUTES FROM ENGLAND. 147 
 
 various struggles and trials, and brought to our strug- 
 gles and trials so much of hope and cheer. Miss Bates 
 has collected those portions of his writings which are 
 most helpful, under the title of ' Seven Voices of Sym- 
 pathy,' and they make a large volume. From no other 
 poet that ever wrote could so many things of this kind 
 be culled. We find in the writings of all great sino-- 
 
 o o o 
 
 ers utterances which go to our hearts, and aid us in the 
 pain and sadness of life ; though usually they are few 
 and far between. But they constitute the very sub- 
 stance of all that our poet has produced." 
 
 TRIBUTES FROM ENGLAND. 
 
 There were many tributes of respect from England. 
 The Times said, "The purity of Mr. Longfellow's 
 thoughts, his affinity with all that is noblest in human 
 nature, his unfailing command of refined, harmonious 
 language, will continue to draw readers notwithstanding 
 the judgment of critics that he is not a poet of the very 
 first rank. It will seem to many that his death marks 
 the close of a distinct era of American literature. One 
 cannot readily point to worthy successors of the brilliant 
 group to which he belonged." 
 
 Said The Globe, " It is not yielding to the supposed 
 prevailing tendency indiscriminately to extol Americans 
 to say that the death of Mr. Longfellow is a national 
 loss to England. A general and true appreciation was 
 accorded him here, even at a time when America was 
 anything but popular." 
 
 The Telegraph said, "The place Longfellow occu- 
 pies in English literature is decidedly bright. He is 
 almost as well known and widely read in England as 
 in America. His influence has been wholly good. As 
 
148 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 long as the English language lasts, his works will be 
 quoted as models of simplicity of style, and purity of 
 thought. Death has taken America's greatest literary 
 son.'' 
 
 PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND HABITS. 
 
 Among the recent friends of Mr. Longfellow was 
 Madam A. Machetta, better known by her maiden 
 name, Miss Blanche Roosevelt, the young cantatrice 
 who took the part of Pandora when his Masque was 
 put upon the stage in New York and Boston. She 
 often visited him at Cambridge and at Nahant, and is 
 now preparing a book about him to be called " Remi- 
 niscences of a Poet's Life." From the manuscript of 
 this volume the following description of Mr. Long- 
 fellow's personal appearance has been furnished to the 
 public : " His face, filled with rugged lines, presents 
 a contour of great firmness and intelligence. The 
 nose is Roman rather than Greek, with the very slight- 
 est aquiline tendency. His eyes are clear, straight- 
 forward, almost proud, yet re-assuring. They are 
 rather deeply set, and shaded by overhanging brows. 
 In moments of lofty and inspired speech they have an 
 eagle-like look ; the orbs deepen and scintillate and 
 flash ; like the great bird of prey, they seem to soar off 
 into endless space, grasping in the talons of the men- 
 tal vision things unattainable to less ambitious flight. 
 With his moods they vary, and when calm nothing 
 could exceed the quietness of their expression. If sad, 
 an infinite tenderness reposes in their depths ; and, if 
 merry, they sparkle and bubble over with fun. In fact, 
 before the poet speaks, these traitorous eyes have 
 already betrayed his humor. I must not forget the 
 greatest of all expressions, humility. To one whose soul 
 
150 HENRY WADSWORTI1 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and mind are given to divine thought, it is in the eye 
 that this sentiment finds its natural outcome; and the 
 world knows that Longfellow's faith is the crowning 
 gem in a diadem of virtues. His face is not a mask, but 
 an open book, — a positive index to his character. The 
 forehead is high, prominent, and square at the temples; 
 numberless fine lines are engraved on its surface, and 
 on either side a. slender serpentine vein starts from the 
 eyes, and, mounting upwards, loses itself beneath a mass 
 of silvery white hair. I should scarcely call them the 
 work of time, but rather the marks of an over-active in- 
 telligence. They may have appeared to others at thirty 
 as plainly as they do to me to-day. The cheek-bones 
 are high, and near the jaw the cheeks are slightly sunken. 
 The mouth is the most sensitive feature in the face : its 
 character is mobile, even yielding, absolutely belying 
 the outspoken firmness of the other features. The lips 
 are rather full, sharply outlined, and faintly tinged with 
 color. They close softly, and are sometimes tremulous 
 with emotional speech. Longfellow might be coaxed, 
 but never driven. The whole of the face glows with a 
 beautiful carnation, more suggestive of youth than old 
 age. The lower part is completely hidden by a wavy 
 beard of snowy whiteness, which also half conceals the 
 slender throat. The chest is broad, not deep. With a 
 supple and graceful carriage, he is as straight as an 
 arrow, and has a nature of extraordinary vigor. The 
 hair mingling with the beard sets the rosy face in an 
 aureole of snow. The charm of a well-bred manner 
 asserts itself over every other personal attribute." 
 
 To this description may be added an account of his 
 daily life at seventy. He rose early, took a rather 
 light breakfast, and, if the day were pleasant, generally 
 
LITERARY HABITS. 151 
 
 set out for a walk, either in his own grounds or else- 
 where, varying his route each day, if possible. It was 
 always his custom to carry his overcoat on his arm if 
 there was the slightest indication of a change in the 
 weather, i.e., a fall of the thermometer. Whenever he 
 was preparing any work or poem for publication, he 
 would often call on his printers at the University Press, 
 not far from his residence, and receive and return proofs 
 of his works. He studied his matter carefully after it 
 was in type. He kept his productions by him, and used 
 the file with patient industry. The Divine Tragedy 
 is said to have been entirely re-written after it was in 
 type. Perhaps the recasting of it spoiled it. for it is 
 unpopular. He sometimes (not, as has been stated, 
 always) sent his copy to the publishers in a printed 
 form. His manuscripts were written with a lead pencil, 
 in a clear, round, back hand, and he has preserved 
 them all bound in handsome volumes. In writing 1 he 
 made many erasures with a rubber, writing neatly over 
 the erased spaces, so that the manuscript presented a 
 perfectly neat appearance. It was his custom to have 
 every scrap of his manuscripts sent back to him from 
 the printers. 
 
 He was accustomed to alter more or less the poems 
 published in magazines and papers before putting them 
 into book-form. He was never discovered writing a 
 poem. Mr. Longfellow could not write u poems to 
 order" for anniversaries, re-unions, and other occasions. 
 Apropos of this fact, a little incident is in point. At 
 the time of the death of President Garfield, Mr. Moses 
 King of Cambridge called on the poet, at the request of 
 the managers of The Boston Daily Globe, for the pur- 
 pose of securing, if possible, a poem for that journal. 
 
152 HENRY WADSWORTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 He was authorized to offer as much as one thousand 
 dollars, if necessary, to secure the coveted prize. But 
 Longfellow, although he was known at the time to have 
 in his pocket the sonnet which later appeared in 
 The Independent, and was subsequently reprinted in 
 The Poets' Tributes to Garfield, could not be influ- 
 enced by any means to part with it, because he had not 
 yet satisfied himself that it was perfect enough to give 
 to the world ; this, too, in spite of the fact that Joaquin 
 Miller had read it previously, and had congratulated 
 Longfellow on its production. As illustrating this 
 positive reluctance to write for occasions, one who was 
 witness to the colloquy says, " I remember with what 
 earnestness Gilmore tried to persuade him to write an 
 ode for the opening of the great Peace Jubilee, picturing 
 with all his own enthusiasm the greatness of the occa- 
 sion, and the glory it would give the poet. But no. 
 He never sought popularity : it came to him. He could 
 not do any thing for the sake of applause." 
 
 A word should be said of his humor. It was of so 
 quiet and furtive a nature that it was only discovered 
 by personal intercourse. One who knew him, speak- 
 ing of the tender glance of his e} r e, says: "It had 
 a peculiar brightness. There was a sharpness, yet 
 softness, in it that was fascinating, — a lurking wit that 
 seemed to peep out from behind his wisdom." His 
 glance was penetrating and keen, and seemed to read 
 one through and through. Professor Charles Eliot 
 Norton has thus alluded to his friend's humor : " One 
 day I ventured to remonstrate with him on his endur- 
 ance of the persecutions of one of the worst of the class 
 of mendicants, who to lack of modesty added lack of 
 honesty, — a wretched creature; and when I had done, 
 
HIS STUDY. 153 
 
 he looked at me with a pleasant, reproving, humorous 
 glance, and said : ' Charles, who would be kind to him 
 if I were not?' It was enough. He was helped by a 
 gift of humor, which, though seldom displayed in his 
 poems, lighted up his talk, and added a charm to his 
 intercourse.*' 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that Mr. Longfellow spoke 
 several European languages fluently. A French gentle- 
 man well known in Boston told a friend that Mr. Long- 
 fellow was the only American he knew who spoke 
 French quite like a Parisian. 
 
 His study at Craigie House has been thus described 
 by a foreigner : — 
 
 - A door opens, and you are in the study of the great 
 poet of the New World. The walls are panelled to 
 the ceiling with dark polished oak ; and you see from 
 the circular-headed windows with their heavy wooden 
 mullions and the tall oak chimney-piece with its classic 
 ornamentation, that the architect has but reproduced 
 some mansion of the early Georgian era with which he 
 was familiar, across the sea. At one end of the room 
 stand lofty oaken bookcases, framed in drapery of dark 
 red cloth. Here and there on ornamental brackets are 
 some marble busts, among them a fine effigy of Wash- 
 ington. Easy chairs and reading stands are scattered 
 around. 
 
 " In the centre of the room, which is covered with a 
 well-worn Persian carpet, there sits, writing at a round 
 table littered with books and papers, a medium-sized, 
 bony man, apparently about seventy. His hair and beard 
 are white as snow ; but from beneath an ample forehead, 
 indicating considerable intellectual power, there gleam 
 a pair of dark lustrous eyes, from which the fire of 
 
154 11EN11Y WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 youth seems not yet to have fled. He rises with a 
 grave sweetness to salute you. Some chance remark 
 or some tone of your voice, that recalled to him the 
 wild fells and moors of distant Yorkshire, makes you at 
 once something more than a mere passing stranger. 
 He tells you with pride of the remote Yorkshire ances- 
 try to which perhaps his poetry owes something of its 
 manliness and vigor. And, if you happen to be famil- 
 iar with many of the scenes which he visited nearly 
 half a century ago in Europe, he listens with strange 
 interest as you tell of -the changes which time has 
 wrought in some of the spots on which his muse has 
 bestowed an undying fame." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's study generally contained flowers. 
 Upon the walls are crayon likenesses of Emerson, Haw- 
 thorne, and Sumner. The bookcases completely cover 
 the sides of the room. Among other precious relics are 
 Coleridge's inkstand, Tom Moore's waste-paper basket, 
 a fragment of Dante's coflin, the children's arm-chair, 
 and the pen presented by " Helen of Maine." 
 
 He was the most modest of men. His gentle, un- 
 assuming manner charmed his friends very much. Mr. 
 Thomas J. Kiernan of the Harvard Library says that 
 Mr. Longfellow used the College library very little, 
 his own private library being very complete ; but 
 when he did come in to consult a work he was ex- 
 tremely modest, seeming to be afraid of making 
 trouble. He would work away between the two cases 
 of the card-catalogue for a long time before the assist- 
 ants noticed his presence, or could render him any 
 help. What could be more charming than such utter 
 freedom from pride and assumption? Only the per- 
 sonal, and very intimately personal, friends of Mr. 
 
< ill 
 
156 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Longfellow will ever be able to tell the story of his 
 inner life. Some, even of his own townsmen, consid- 
 ered him aloof and unsocial. They did not know that 
 what seemed so in him was only the result of his 
 shrinking sensitiveness and exquisitely tuned suscepti- 
 bility. 
 
 He has been charged with lack of sympathy with 
 the great common humanity, — with the broad national 
 life of his own country. The truth of the matter is, 
 that he was sensitive, he was a scholar, he had a 
 scholar's fastidiousness, and he was the gentlest of 
 poets. Being so, he was not born to enter into the 
 stormy life of the rude and comparatively coarse-fibred 
 masses : he did not sympathize with them in the full 
 range of their existence to such an extent, for instance, 
 as Walt Whitman does ; he only entered sympatheti- 
 cally into their spiritual natures ; he interpreted their 
 gentler and holier moods, and sympathized with them 
 in their joys, their sufferings, and their bereavements. 
 Yes, he did sympathize with our common humanity, 
 but as a poet, as a scholar. We may blame him, if we 
 choose, for a certain aloofness ; but this was the source 
 of his strength. We are always quarrelling over the 
 great poets ; but there is not one of them that the 
 world could spare, — all different, all imperfect, but 
 all the delight and solace of mankind. Different im- 
 pressions as to his sociability exist, especially in his 
 own Cambridge. A neighbor of his, writing anony- 
 mously to The New York Independent, says that " he 
 became closely identified with all classes of the com- 
 munity in which he lived," and that there was " ap- 
 parently absolute unconsciousness of distinction " in 
 the " intercourse of Mr. Longfellow and his family 
 
HIS SENSIBILITY. 157 
 
 with Cambridge society." This is undoubtedly true. 
 But one must remember the position in which a world- 
 famous man is placed : he cannot, if he is sensitive, 
 endure to be stared at incessantly by everybody, and 
 especially if he lives in a village, such as Old Cam- 
 bridge essentially is, and always has been. The world 
 knows Mr. Longfellow as the most cordial of hosts. He 
 loved all gentle people. He could love children with- 
 out feeling any jar or disturbance: hence his frequent 
 exhibitions of fondness for them. His phenomenal 
 kindness to strangers is proverbial. Let us not com- 
 plain, then, of his aloofness, but take him as he was, 
 and thankfully. 
 
 " According to his virtue let us use him." 
 
 He was a man who had suffered deeply, and more 
 deeply than others on account of his sensibility. 
 His first wife died in the bloom of womanhood; and 
 his second idolized wife was burned to death before 
 his eyes, while friend after friend went away into the 
 silent land, leaving him behind. Suffering gave a 
 sweet and pensive sadness of tone to his poetry. And 
 yet his essential cheerfulness never left him for any 
 long period of time. He was religious, a believer in 
 God and in immortality ; and his life was blameless, and 
 sweet with love and good deeds. One who knew him 
 says, — 
 
 " To the poorer classes Mr. Longfellow was endeared 
 by his discriminating and unostentatious benevolence. 
 I happened to be often brought in contact with a very 
 intelligent but cynical and discontented laboring-man, 
 who never lost an opportunity of railing against the 
 rich. To such men, wealth and poverty are the only 
 
158 HENRY WABSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 distinctions in life. In one of his denunciations I 
 heard him say, ' I will make an exception of one rich 
 man, and that is Mr. Longfellow. You have no idea 
 how much the laboring-men of Cambridge think of 
 him. There is many and many a family that gets a 
 load of coal from Mr. Longfellow, without anybody 
 knowing where it comes from.' " 
 
 The writer of this volume, although having access 
 to some details of the inner life of the poet, has studi- 
 ously refrained from making use of them, agreeing 
 therein with his friend Professor Charles Eliot Norton, 
 that these " sweet privacies of life " should be scrupu- 
 lously respected. If others have not this feeling, the 
 world will some day know in how many cases of dis- 
 tress the purse of the great-hearted singer was opened 
 to relieve suffering and want. 
 
 After the above paragraph had been written, there 
 appeared in The New York Independent an interesting 
 letter from an anonymous lady writer, who had been 
 encouraged and financially assisted by the Cambridge 
 poet. She had come to Boston from a distant part of 
 the country, and was eking out a living by teaching 
 music and writing for the press. " One day," she says, 
 " I visited an editor, with some verses of greater length 
 than usual. He said, ' This is too long for a newspaper 
 or magazine. Finish it, and then I want you to take it 
 to Mr. Longfellow.' I opened my eyes in wonder. ' I 
 go to Mr. Longfellow ! ' ' She thought the editor was 
 speaking ironically. It was three months later that she 
 one day impulsively decided to write to the poet. She 
 received an answer inviting her to visit him. She went, 
 and found a life friend. She went abroad, and the 
 poet's constant care and watchfulness followed her. 
 She says : — 
 
THOUGHTFUL KINDNESS. 159 
 
 " At one time his letters before me show him taking- 
 charge of a production of my pen, to place it in the 
 hands of the editor ; at another, visiting the dust}' office 
 of the paper for which I was writing letters, to sub- 
 scribe for it with his own hand, and the editor, who 
 never expected such an honor to be paid his poor paper, 
 immediately begs me to consider myself engaged to 
 write the following year. Finally, when I chose an 
 operatic career, and made my debut in Italy, where 
 temptations are no longer temptations, but deliberately 
 set nets of the most intricate description to waylay and 
 trip the footsteps of the most clear-headed, he gave his 
 warnings and suggestions very wisely and kindly. This 
 friend of friends taught me to confide my trials to him, 
 until I wrote as freely as if to the pages of my journal. 
 
 " Again and again would he give some little com- 
 mission to do for him, as if it were granting him a great 
 favor, while it is only his delicate way of presenting me 
 to persons who might be interested in my struggles and 
 prove themselves friends. 
 
 " Too proud to reply to his oft-repeated question of 
 whether he might aid me, he finally visited some of my 
 friends, to learn my exact needs ; and then one New 
 Year's morning I remember myself seated on the side 
 of my bed, where letters have been brought to me, the 
 tears rolling down my cheeks, for I feared I must yield 
 to the inevitable and go home. k Only a little New 
 Year's gift that will serve to buy gloves,' said his letter. 
 Did he know that it was bread, not gloves, I feared I 
 should need, and which his generous gift supplied ? 
 
 " But I copy from these letters, my choicest treasure, 
 a few paragraphs which will give an idea of his thought- 
 fulness and kindness. In one of his earlier letters he 
 writes : — 
 
160 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " k Your last letter in Italian showed your great prog- 
 ress in the language. But now I think it would be 
 well to come back to the English again ; for one's pen 
 gallops and gossips more easily in one's native language, 
 and perhaps you would write oftener if you wrote in 
 English. You can keep your diary in Italian ; and do 
 not forget to put down everybody's name whom you 
 care to remember. . . . Do not mind what I say about 
 writing in Italian. Only write ; and, whether in Eng- 
 lish or not, your letters will always be welcome.' 
 
 " His criticisms of a young author's work were ten- 
 derness itself, and full of appreciating encouragement. 
 When he made a criticism, it was so delicate as to be 
 hardly felt. There was not a bit of severity intended 
 in the following mention of a very immature and per- 
 haps ambitious poetical venture : — 
 
 " ' Your poem I read in The . It is a little bit 
 
 mystical, but I had no great difficulty in understanding 
 it. Now that you tell we where it was written, it has a 
 double interest for me. 
 
 " ' This brief note is another of my poor returns for 
 your longer and better ones ; but, if you saw the pile 
 of unanswered letters heaped up around me, you would 
 pardon and pity me.' 
 
 " The following was in response to some confidences, 
 such as I have referred to above : — 
 
 " w I feel now, more than ever before, the dangers that 
 surround you ; but I am sure you will be strong and 
 valiant. Instead of giving you good advice, I send you 
 a song I wrote the other day. It has already been set 
 
THOUGHTFUL KINDNESS. 161 
 
 to music two or three times ; but that is no reason why 
 you should not set it again, if you feel inclined to do so.' 
 " The song is that beginning ' Stay, stay at home, my 
 heart, and rest,' the last verse of which is, — 
 
 ' Then stay at home, my heart, and rest, 
 The bird is safest in its nest : 
 O'er all that flutter their wings and fly, 
 A hawk is hovering in the sky ; 
 To stay at home is best.' 
 
 "Again he writes, speaking of an attempted injury : — 
 " ' Alas ! an artist's life is never without its thorns ; 
 but it has its roses also. Above all, it has — 
 
 La procellosa e trepida, 
 Gioja (Tun gran disegno 
 .... La gloria 
 Maggior dopo il periglio 
 La fuga e la viltoria.' " 
 
 Another instance of the poet's benevolence is fur- 
 nished by a young lady who tells her story in The 
 Congregationalist. In the year 1867 there was, in a 
 well-known New England academy, a young girl who 
 was trying to complete her academic course with very 
 slender resources. At length the time came when she 
 must leave her studies, and teach, unless she could ob- 
 tain funds. The interruption of her studies would have 
 been a serious injury. She thought of her pen as a 
 means of livelihood, wrote some poems, and sent them 
 to Mr. Longfellow, hoping that his influence might pro- 
 cure their publication. He took them to Mr. James T. 
 Fields of The Atlantic Monthly, and then wrote to her 
 that while the poems were not exactly available for 
 that periodical, and neither he nor Mr. Fields knew any 
 way of disposing of them, yet they both felt a great 
 
162 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 interest in her, and were so desirous that she should 
 continue her studies that they begged her to accept an 
 enclosed check for a generous amount of money. She 
 did accept it, finished her studies, became a clergyman's 
 wife, and is leading an influential and successful life. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S RELIGION. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow was not, as has been stated, a regular 
 attendant at the First Parish Unitarian Church in 
 Cambridge. He was not a regular attendant at any 
 church, but had a family pew in Appleton Chapel of 
 Harvard College. He was not a member of the college 
 church, his name not appearing in the record book : 
 nor was he a member of any church. The Rev. Minot 
 J. Savage, from whose address on the poet a quotation 
 has already been given, speaks thus of his personal 
 relations to the churches : — 
 
 " Longfellow's grave is hardly closed ; and already, 
 as I hear, he is beginning to be claimed as an ' evan- 
 gelical.' If it be indeed so, it is only because evan- 
 gelicalism has been converted. You may study his 
 complete works from one end to the other, and find no 
 single trace of belief in any one of the distinctive and 
 peculiar doctrines of the so-called evangelical churches. 
 It is no wonder they would like to claim him ; for if 
 flowers like him can grow out of doors, in the common 
 air and sunshine of the world, then it is conclusively 
 proved that their walled hot-houses have no monopoly 
 of the sweet blossoms of the religious life. As matter 
 of fact, his Christ ideal is only the traditional one of 
 Unitarianism. And if sweet and loving words about 
 him of Nazareth make one evangelical, then, behold, 
 the Church has suddenly become wide enough to enfold 
 
HIS RELIGION. 163 
 
 Theodore Parker and John Stuart Mill. Mr. Long- 
 fellow's own brother, who spoke the last loving words 
 at his house, hardly clings to the name of Christian 
 even, but loves the wider fellowship of all true souls 
 of whatever name." 
 
 Quite another view is given by the Rev. Franklin 
 Johnson, D.D., of Cambridge, a life-long student of 
 Longfellow : — 
 
 " But ' sweet and loving words about him of Naza- 
 reth ' do not constitute the sum of his religious teach- 
 ing. He belonged to no school of dogmatic theology ; 
 and it is idle for a sect to claim one who did not 
 identify himself with any particular denomination ; yet 
 it is remarkable that there is scarcely a single important 
 doctrine of our holy religion which may not be expressed 
 in his exquisite language. The excellence of the Scrip- 
 tures ; the existence, the justice, and the love of God ; 
 the divinity, the miracles, the atoning death, and the 
 glorious resurrection of Christ ; the efficacy of prayer, 
 the necessity of the new birth, the forgiveness of sins, 
 the salutary influence of the Church, and a thousand 
 other verities akin to these, — may be found upon his 
 pages. Sometimes they occur in translations from for- 
 eign authors, sometimes they are put into the mouths 
 of historic characters, and sometimes they are the 
 utterances of his own thought ; but they form one of 
 the most prominent features of all his writings. This 
 great man, who was sincerity itself, could not have 
 veined his poems so deeply and so uniformly with the 
 truths of revelation, had he not believed them. It is 
 equally remarkable that he wrote no syllable of doubt 
 or denial ; that scepticism cannot discover, from the 
 beginning to the end of his works, a line in which to 
 
164 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 clothe itself. His position was as far as possible from 
 that of Theodore Parker and John Stuart Mill." 
 
 RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Ray Palmer speaks thus beautifully of 
 the poet's religious life : — 
 
 " Most of the poetical writings of Mr. Longfellow 
 reveal his genuine sympathy with the Christian reli- 
 ligion ; not only with its aesthetic aspects, but with the 
 grand spiritual truths which give it power to awaken 
 the best affections and the highest aspirations of the 
 soul. Even his choice of pieces for translation and his 
 legendary renderings, in many cases, indicate the reli- 
 gious habit of his mind ; as, for example, the Coplas 
 de Manrique, The Image of God, The Children of the 
 Lord's Supper, and The Legend Beautiful. Many 
 poems, not in form directly religious, bear about them 
 the aroma of myrrh, spikenard, and frankincense, as 
 offered on God's altars, and the fragrance of the rose 
 of Sharon and the lily of the valley. One cannot but 
 recognize the genuineness of the Christian tone, or, 
 where not positively this, the elevated moral tone, 
 which everywhere pervades them. The style of treat- 
 ment is not such as might have been assumed by a 
 writer, who, in deference to public opinion, has wrought 
 into his compositions some conventional expressions 
 of respect for Christianity. It is such as fitly and 
 unequivocally expresses the honest conviction and feel- 
 ing of one whose mind and heart have been so entirely 
 possessed by a healthful religious spirit, that, sponta- 
 neously and half-unconsciously, this spirit habitually 
 suffuses the whole substance of his thought, and be- 
 comes an element of his best inspirations. A religious 
 
IMMORTALITY. 165 
 
 style may easily be borrowed. Genuine religious feel- 
 ing, it is nearly or quite impossible successfully to 
 counterfeit." 
 
 In the Revue Politique et Litteraire for April 1, 
 1882, M. L6o Quesnel has some important remarks 
 bearing upon the development of Longfellow's genius. 
 He says (after speaking of the death of his second 
 wife), "From this time onward, as he approaches the 
 evening of his life, his tone becomes modified. He had 
 always been a moralist : he becomes a Christian moral- 
 ist. He approaches nearer and nearer to those doctrines 
 of Christianity, the intimate affinity of which with 
 human nature is only brought out by suffering. Still 
 the change in the case of Mr. Longfellow was an evo- 
 lution, and not a revolution. He had always been too 
 much of a poet, and too spiritual, to permit the change 
 which was taking place within him to be abruptly per- 
 ceived. It was at first only from certain secret signs 
 that a penetrating eye could discover it: there was 
 more sweetness, and more benevolence still towards all 
 men, more true humility of soul. But little by little 
 the ideas that took possession of him made themselves 
 apparent in his works, and religious morality became 
 the very marrow of his writings." 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 The Rev. H. R. Haweis of England, in a work en- 
 titled Poets in the Pulpit, thus speaks of Longfellow's 
 belief in immortality : — 
 
 " And whether he touches on the passing away of a 
 little child in the first dawn of life, or a young woman 
 taken in the glowing bloom of youth, or the more ma- 
 ture companion of our later years, there is the same 
 
166 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 undefinable glow of hope and aspiration, and the same 
 recurrent feeling that they are not dead, but gone be- 
 fore, — the very message which every one who has lost 
 a dear friend longs to receive. Ah ! we often hear it 
 from lijDs which pronounce it apparently without feeling 
 it, and are not able to convey to those who want to feel 
 it, the precious faith in the existence, perchance the 
 presence, of the dear, the forever-remembered dead ! 
 Then are the words of the true and faithful poet help- 
 ful. He never sounds the note of despair : doubt never 
 sweeps darkly across his soul. But the spirit world it- 
 self becomes visible to him : he is looking out from the 
 loneliness of his life with the e}*es of an inspired seer; 
 and we sit at his feet and listen whilst he pours forth, 
 without constraint or effort, such a flood of spiritual 
 emotion that our drooping souls are indeed lifted up 
 with the hope that is full of immortality." 
 
ANECDOTES AND LETTERS. 
 
 THE heading of this portion of the volume should 
 not lead the reader to suppose that all the anec- 
 dotes about Mr. Longfellow are collected here. The 
 biographical portion of the work is rich in anecdotes, 
 and only those are grouped here which could not be 
 conveniently woven into the narrative. 
 
 INTERVIEW WITH A FRENCHMAN. 
 
 The writer is indebted to Professor Charles Eliot 
 Norton for the following little incident : A certain 
 Frenchman called on Mr. Longfellow for the purpose 
 of getting an account of his life to send to some 
 journal in France. Mr. Longfellow, with his usual 
 patient good-nature, submitted to be interviewed on all 
 points connected with his public and objective life. At 
 length the Frenchman said, " Maintenant, monsieur, 
 quelques anecdotes, iil vous plait, de la vie intime f " — 
 "That," said Mr. Longfellow, "is just what I cannot 
 tell you." His inner life he never revealed to the pub- 
 lic, and let us hope that these sacred privacies never 
 will be revealed. 
 
 FAVORITE PIECES OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 When Mr. Longfellow returned from Europe in 
 1869, he was enthusiastic in his praise of two pieces 
 
 167 
 
168 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of sculpture which had been exhibited, — one at the 
 World's Fair of 1862, in London, and the other at that 
 of 1867, in Paris. They were " The Reading Girl " by 
 P. Magni, and tu The Last Hours of Napoleon," often 
 called " The Sitting Napoleon," by Vela. One under- 
 stands at once why he should be captivated by the 
 Reading Girl, such a deep, almost unutterable calm, 
 and unconscious purity and intellectual earnestness 
 breathe from the face ; but one is unable to account 
 for his admiration of the Napoleon. 
 
 JOHN OWEN AND LONGFELLOW. 
 
 John Owen published Longfellow's first volume of 
 poems, "Voices of the Night," and was for many 
 years his publisher in Cambridge. He occupies a 
 quaint suite of rooms on the third floor of a Cam- 
 bridge house. The rooms are pervaded by an anti- 
 quarian aura, and are stuffed and crowded with 
 bric-a-brac and books. One of the curiosities of the 
 rooms is the manner in which the owner admits 
 visitors. He has a speaking-tube, a bell, and a wire 
 connecting his room with the street-door below. 
 When the bell is rung the visitor receives the query, 
 " Who is it ? " through the tube, and, if invited to 
 ascend, finds the door-catch pulled back by the wire ; 
 and, thus invisibly ushered in, he mounts the stairs. 
 Mr. Longfellow frequently called on his friend in these 
 rooms. They called each other by their initials, — " My 
 dear J. O.," and " My dear H. W. L." Pleased indeed 
 was the amiable solitaire, when, in familiar tones, he 
 heard the magic letters " H. W. L." gently spoken 
 through the tube. Mr. Owen and Mr. Longfellow 
 were accustomed to sip a little spirits or wine together 
 
LITERARY EXECUTOR OF SUMNER. 169 
 
 of an evening while they chatted ; Mr. Longfellow 
 sometimes not retiring till eleven o'clock on these occa- 
 sions, although his usual hour was ten. Mr. Long- 
 fellow, being one of the literary executors of Charles 
 Sumner, superintended the publication of his complete 
 works ; the bulk of the editorial work being performed 
 with admirable thoroughness by Mr. George Nichols, 
 who had previously assisted Little, Brown, & Co. to 
 bring out an edition of the works of Edmund Burke. 
 Mr. Owen had suggested to Sumner the publishing of 
 his works, and he says Sumner waited several years 
 for him to get ready to do the editing. In the end 
 he was employed to oversee the phraseology, and sug- 
 gest rhetorical emendations. During the progress of 
 the work he had one of the longest and most curious 
 hunts after a quotation that was ever heard of. It is 
 worth telling, to show the exhaustive accuracy with 
 which the works of Sumner (Boston : Lee & Shepard) 
 have been edited. The writer got the anecdote from 
 Mr. Owen. Sumner, in his " Prophetic Voices," had 
 quoted from Daniel Webster these lines : — 
 
 " In other lands another Britain see, 
 ^ And as thou art, America shall be." 
 
 The question was, who wrote them? Where did 
 Webster get them ? Webster quoted from any thing 
 and every thing, and was just as likely to embellish a 
 speech with a sentence from a spelling-book as from 
 any other source. The quotation could not be found. 
 It was published in all the literary journals : it was 
 given out at dinner-parties. Holmes and Emerson, and 
 about every other author of note, were enlisted in behalf 
 of the quotation. No one could find it. One day Mr. 
 
170 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Owen, in verifying another reference, read through by 
 accident the preface to an old edition of Griswold's 
 " Poets and Poetry of America." At the very close 
 what should he see but the long-sought lines ! But 
 alas ! the author's name was not given. The next thing 
 to do was to hunt up the library of the deceased Gris- 
 wold (" sea-green " Rev. Griswold, the defamer of poor 
 Poe). The library was discovered in Philadelphia, 
 where Griswold lived when he died. But in the mean 
 time Mr. Owen had written to the librarian of the 
 Lenox Library in New York. This gentleman solved 
 the riddle : the lines had never been published in a book, 
 so far as could be determined, but had been written with 
 a diamond on a window-pane in London by Gulian 0. 
 Verplanck of New York. Some one had sent them to a 
 newspaper, and it was probably in a newspaper that 
 Webster saw them. But the indefatigable editors of 
 Sumner's works were still unsatisfied. Perhaps Ver- 
 planck had at some time written them in a book : if so, 
 perhaps the newspaper lines were not absolutely as he 
 had written them. Webster had made one mistake, 
 substituting " lands " for " worlds ; " there might be 
 others. So the search through Griswold's library was 
 renewed. But the lines have never as yet been found 
 in book form. 
 
 READING BY TWILIGHT. 
 
 Longfellow told Mr. George Nichols of Cambridge 
 that in 1845 his eyes were so much injured by his habit 
 of reading too late into the twilight, that, when he was 
 applied to by a Philadelphia firm to edit " The Poets 
 and Poetry of Europe," he had to get the assistance of 
 Professor Felton, at whose house he was a constant 
 
THE FIVE OF CLUBS. 171 
 
 caller. He also drew on his college lectures for the 
 introductions to the selections in the book. 
 
 THE FIVE OF CLUBS. 
 
 In the " Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner," by 
 Edward L. Pierce (2 vols., Boston: 1877. Roberts 
 Brothers), is found the following (vol. L, p. 161) : — 
 
 " In the early part of the year 1837, an intimate friend- 
 ship was formed between Cornelius C. Felton, Henry 
 W. Longfellow, George S. Hillard, Henry R. Cleve- 
 land, and Charles Sumner : they called themselves the 
 ' Five of Clubs.' They were near to each other in age ; 
 Longfellow being thirty, Felton twenty-nine, Hillard 
 and Cleveland twenty-eight, and Sumner twenty-six. 
 Of the five Hillard only was married. All achieved an 
 honorable place in literature. Cleveland was a teacher 
 by profession, refined and delicate in character, but 
 poor in health. He died at the age of thirty-four. 
 The Five came together almost weekly, generally on 
 Saturday afternoons. They met simply as friends with 
 common tastes, and the fullest sympathy with each 
 other, talking of society, the week's experiences, new 
 books, their individual studies, plans, and hopes, and 
 of Europe, — which Longfellow and Cleveland had 
 seen, and which the others longed to see. They loved 
 good cheer, but observed moderation in their festivi- 
 ties. A table simply spread became a symposium when 
 Felton, with his joyous nature, took his seat among 
 his friends ; and the other four were not less genial and 
 hearty. There was hardly a field of literature which 
 one or the other had not traversed, and they took a 
 constant interest in each other's studies. Each sought 
 the criticism of the rest upon his own book, essay, or 
 
172 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 poem, before it was given to the public. Their mutual 
 confidence seemed to know no limitation of distrust, 
 or fear of possible alienation ; and they revealed, as 
 friends do not often reveal, their inner life to each 
 other. Rarely in history has there been a fellowship so 
 beautiful as that of these gifted young men." 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE'S REMINISCENCES. 
 
 In The Critic for April 8, 1882, Mrs. Julia Ward 
 Howe says, Mr. Longfellow "once told me that he dis- 
 liked the study of history ; . . . I will mention in this 
 connection that he told me one day of a very dispara- 
 ging criticism of his works which had just appeared, and 
 of which Miss Margaret Fuller was the author. I asked 
 him what she had said ; and he replied that he had not 
 read the article, and that he usually thought it best not 
 to read what would be likely to cause him useless irri- 
 tation." 
 
 HIS KINDNESS TO STRANGERS. 
 
 Madam A. Machetta thus describes the poet's man- 
 ner of receiving visitors : " In a general conversation 
 an unerring instinct guides his questions and replies. 
 He is so quick a reader of character, that not one word 
 fell on an unappreciative person. Betrayed into some 
 warmth of feeling at a casual remark, he commenced 
 what would have been a glowing description of some- 
 thing that he had seen ; but, glancing a second time at 
 his visitor, he quietly dropped the thread of his remark. 
 He knows instantaneously, by the questions put to him, 
 the mental calibre of each and every interlocutor. Of 
 course, as many epistolary tramps visit him out of curi- 
 osity, as well as well-intentioned litterateurs who wor- 
 ship at the shrine of poetic art, it was really delicious to 
 
KINDNESS TO STRANGERS. 173 
 
 see him quietly put down the former without their ever 
 being aware of it, and to remark with what astuteness 
 he divined the tastes of the latter. Evidently the old 
 adage of casting pearls before swine is not unknown 
 to him. A bright little lad was shown into the room. 
 He was very young, perhaps seven years of age, and 
 held in his hand a newly bound volume. His manner 
 suggested foreign breeding, as he bowed with marion- 
 ette gravity to every one in the room, and then stood 
 still as if at a loss how to proceed. Longfellow looked 
 up smilingly, and his great love of children was evi- 
 dent in the mildness of his speech. 
 
 " ' Good-morning, my lad,' said he amiably. ' Did you 
 wish to see me ? ' 
 
 " The boy said hesitatingly, ' Professor Longfellow? 7 
 
 "'Yes,' responded the poet kindly. 'What is it? 
 Come here.' 
 
 "•'This is nry birthday,' he said excitedly, 'and I 
 have come to ask you to put your autograph in my new 
 album. Mother just gave it to me, and she thought I 
 might ask you.' 
 
 " ' What is your name ? ' asked the poet. 
 
 " The boy looked up shyly. ' I am named for you,' 
 he said simply ; ' and my father works in the college.' " 
 
 AN AFTERNOON AT HIS HOME. 
 
 A correspondent of The Chicago Times writes of a 
 visit to the poet Longfellow as follows : — 
 
 " In contrast with this day my thoughts revert to a 
 bright day in last September, when, with a friend, I 
 passed the morning and the greater part of the after- 
 noon in Longfellow's home with the poet and his daugh- 
 ters, Misses Alice and Annie Longfellow. Over the 
 
174 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 door of the old-fashioned and very interesting house 
 hung the American flag, half furled, and draped in 
 mourning for President Garfield, who had died but two 
 days before. I lifted the brass knocker with nervous- 
 ness, thinking of the many distinguished people who 
 had sought admittance there ; and at once it was an- 
 swered by a neat maid-servant, who ushered us into the 
 quaint old drawing-room, the walls of which were hung 
 with light-colored paper with vines of roses trailing over 
 it, a style of many years ago. We had no time for 
 further observation ; for almost immediately Mr. Long- 
 fellow came in, greeting us most kindly, saying, ' Come 
 into my room, where we shall be more at ease : I cannot 
 make strangers of you ! ' How gladly we followed him, 
 but without a word of reply ; for, to acknowledge the 
 truth, my heart at least was beating too painfully with 
 the realization that I was in the presence of the poet 
 beloved from my childhood. In person he was smaller 
 than I had fancied him, — only of medium height, — 
 but his face, made familiar by his portraits, seemed that 
 of an old friend. His silvery hair was carelessly thrown 
 back from his forehead, the full beard and mustache 
 partially concealed the pleasant mouth, but his mild 
 blue eyes expressed the kindliness of his heart and his 
 quick reading of the hearts of others. He wore a Prince 
 Albert coat of very dark brown cloth, with trousers of 
 a much lighter shade, having an invisible plaid running 
 through them. A dark-blue necktie and sj)otless linen 
 completed his costume. In his study we sat some hours, 
 listening to his low, musical voice as he talked on many 
 interesting topics ; read aloud to us from his own beau- 
 tiful ' Evangeline,' or selections from other poets. He 
 read aloud the sonnets to the Nile by Keats, Shelley, 
 
AT HIS HOME. 175 
 
 and Leigh Hunt, comparing them, telling us how cor- 
 rect they were and how incorrect were those of Shak- 
 speare. To Leigh Hunt's sonnets he gave the preference, 
 and seemed to enjoy all as if it were his first reading of 
 them. So in every thing he read he found some new 
 beauty, and spoke of it with almost boyish pleasure. 
 We listened with delight to all: then he said, 'You will 
 tire of me and my nonsense. Come and meet my 
 daughters. I shall not let you go : you must drink a 
 cup of tea with us.' Then we were led into the large, 
 cheerful dining-room, where was spread a delicious 
 luncheon. Miss Alice presided ; Miss Annie being en- 
 gaged in superintending the meal laid on a tiny table 
 out on the broad porch, where two little children were 
 being made happy. Mr. Longfellow was called, and 
 we followed, to look upon the pretty scene ; and when 
 the children saw him they dropped their ' goodies,' and 
 ran to climb up and receive his kiss and beg him to 
 play with them. Then we gathered around the table, 
 spread with delicate china, the copper kettle singing 
 merrily; and Mr. Longfellow made the tea with his own 
 hands, and poured it from the antique silver teapot for 
 our enjoyment. While many dishes were offered us, 
 the poet took simply his tea and Graham biscuit : there 
 was no ostentatious ceremony, but all was served with 
 quiet ease, as if only the family circle were gathered 
 there. After lunch Mr. Longfellow led us through the 
 house, pointing out his favorite pictures and treasures, 
 relating interesting incidents as we passed from room 
 to room. He said he first took up his residence in the 
 historical house as a bachelor, with several bachelor 
 friends, each renting rooms therein ; then he took half 
 the house, a friend the other half, and set up house- 
 
176 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 keeping ; finally his means enabled him to purchase the 
 house and grounds, and there had been his home ever 
 since. Nothing had been changed in the arrangements 
 of the house since the days when it had served as the 
 headquarters of Gen. Washington. Much of the paint 
 and paper looked as though it, too, had stood the wear 
 and tear of time since those old days. All was scrupu- 
 lously clean, but so different from the house decoration 
 of to-day. Then we nestled upon the broad south porch, 
 while the poet smoked a cigarette and chatted the while 
 of many books and authors, and I was closely cpuestioned 
 about our little city of Pullman, in which he expressed 
 great interest, saying that it seemed impossible that such 
 a work could be done in so short a time. He said that 
 he more than ever wanted to visit the great West, 
 where we must have won the assistance of Eastern genii 
 in our magical growth. When the hour arrived for our 
 departure, the venerable poet walked with us to the 
 gate ; and, under the beautiful lilac hedge which sur- 
 rounds the place, we said good-by, and promised to 
 make another visit soon. A few days later, on opening 
 the door of our little hotel parlor, we beheld the friend, 
 who had come to return our visit. He apologized for 
 not sending a card, and we pardoned him on condition 
 that he would write his name in our birthday books. 
 To this he cheerfully assented, and now we value those 
 autographs beyond price." 
 
 A neighbor of Mr. Longfellow writes to The New 
 York Independent as follows : — 
 
 " The poet was never more attractive than in these 
 unexpected interviews with absolute strangers. He 
 received them with gentle courtesy, glided readily into 
 common topics, but carefully warded off all compli- 
 
LONGFELLOW'S HOME 
 
 MALL ON THE WEST SIDE OF THE CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDCE. * 
 
178 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 mentary references to his works. This was his invaria- 
 ble custom in general conversation. I was present 
 when a distinguished party from Canada was intro- 
 duced, and remember, when a charming lady of the 
 party gracefully repeated a message of high compli- 
 ment from the Princess Louise, how courteously he 
 received it, and how instantly he turned the conversa- 
 tion in another direction. I remember, at another of 
 these introductions, a stranger lady distrustfully asked 
 Mr. Longfellow for his autograph. He assured her by 
 at once assenting, while he remarked, ' I know some 
 persons object to giving their autographs; but if so 
 little a thing will give pleasure, how can one refuse ? ' 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow often amused his friends with hu- 
 morous accounts of some of these visits. I recall his 
 account of one which seemed to delight him hugely. 
 An English gentleman thus abruptly introduced him- 
 self without letters : ' Is this Mr. Longfellow ? Well, 
 sir, as you have no ruins in your country, I thought,' 
 growing embarrassed, 'I thought I would call and see 
 you.' 
 
 " I suspect that even very distinguished visitors some- 
 times bored him. I recollect his telling me that the 
 Duke of Argyll, a persistent ornithologist, troubled 
 him considerably by asking him names of birds whose 
 notes they heard while sitting on his veranda. Mr. 
 Longfellow was no naturalist : he did not know our 
 birds specifically, and flowers are sometimes found 
 blooming at extraordinary seasons in his poetry. He 
 remarked to me once upon the flaming splendor of the 
 Cydonia Japoniea (red-flowering quince), and asked 
 the name of that familiar shrub, saying, ' I know 
 nothing about flowers.' Yet he saw in Nature what 
 no mere naturalist could ever hope to see." 
 
SOME OF HIS VISITORS. 179 
 
 Another says, " I was in his library last fall with a 
 you no- girl from California. She had been the wide 
 world over, but stood shy and silent in his presence, 
 moved to tears by his kindly welcome. It was touch- 
 ing to see the poet's appreciation of this, and his quick 
 glance over his table, that he might find something to 
 interest her and make her forget her embarrassment. 
 Taking up a little box covered with glass, he put it 
 into her hand, and said, ' This is a mournful thing to 
 put into the hands of a beautiful, bright girl ; but 
 think of it ! six hundred years ago the bit of wood in 
 that box touched Dante's bones.' And he related how 
 this piece of Dante's coffin had come into his posses- 
 sion. He led her to his piano, and asked her to play 
 for him. He told her anecdotes of Coleridge and 
 Moore, as he showed her their inkstands. He touched 
 upon the fascinating life of Cellini as he pointed out a 
 bit of his marvellous work, and concisely showed the 
 difference between the Italian and French schools of 
 art, illustrated by Cellini's Tintoretto and David. Soon 
 his young visitor was chatting with him as freely as if 
 she had not entered his door with a timidity amount- 
 ing almost to fear. After that, he turned to us. I 
 hope he understood how this act had been silently 
 appreciated by us ; yet I think he was all-unconscious 
 of the picture he created, — a picture never to be for- 
 gotten by those of us who witnessed it." 
 
 An anonymous newspaper contributor says : — 
 " Neilson, the beautiful English actress, Miss Gene- 
 vieve Ward, Blanche Roosevelt, Miss Sarah Jewett, — 
 whose poems he thoroughly appreciated, and whom he 
 encouraged with his advice both as an actress and a 
 p 0e t, — and many others, have a charming recollection 
 
180 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of their reception at the Craigie House. When Mile. 
 Rhea was here during the last winter of his life, she 
 expressed an earnest desire to visit Cambridge and be 
 introduced to the great poet. Mr. Longfellow was 
 unwell at the time, and there was some doubt as to 
 whether he would be able to see her. She was driven 
 out by Capt. Nathan Appleton, however ; and to her 
 great joy the poet was able to receive her in his custom- 
 ary gracious manner. The short call was highly enjoyed 
 both by the poet and the actress. Mile. Rhea recited 
 to the author in English the little poem, ' The Maiden 
 and the Weathercock,' then recently written, a graceful 
 compliment, which gave great pleasure to the venerable 
 poet. 
 
 " At Nahant he was constantly receiving visitors, 
 some of whom came from distant countries across the 
 ocean. Often they would drive with him at the early 
 hour of three, and return to Boston on the afternoon 
 boat. 
 
 VISITS FKOM YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 " Two young ladies from Iowa, visiting in Boston, 
 wrote a note to him, telling how much they loved his 
 poems, and what a wish they had to see him. In the 
 next mail came a most cordial reply, appointing a time 
 when he would be at liberty to meet them ; and since 
 then they have loved the man even more than his poetry. 
 This is but one instance of his universal kindness. 
 His neighbors and friends in his own city will feel his 
 loss far more than his world-wide circle of admirers. 
 Said a gentleman who had known him long, ' I shall 
 miss his familiar form, which I used to see so often on 
 our street ; I shall miss the cheery voice and gracious 
 wave of the hand with which he always greeted me. 
 
ORIGIN OF SOME POEMS. 181 
 
 I don't believe he had an enemy in the world, and I am 
 sure that every person who ever knew him feels that he 
 has lost a friend.' " 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF SOME OF HIS POEMS. 
 
 The late James T. Fields, writing about Longfellow, 
 said : — 
 
 " You must look to Shakspeare for a larger stock of 
 the currency of thought than Longfellow's ; for he is 
 quoted in Westminster Palace, in the British Parlia- 
 ment, and in all the pulpits of England. It is because 
 he humanizes whatever he touches, that his lyre has 
 nothing alien to any soil. I have heard him quoted by 
 an Armenian monk with a cowl, and sung at camp- 
 meetings on the hills of New Hampshire. 
 
 " As I happen to know of the birth of many of Long- 
 fellow's poems, let me divulge to you a few of their 
 secrets. The ' Psalm of Life ' came into existence on a 
 bright summer morning in July, 1838, in Cambridge, as 
 the poet sat between two windows at a small table in 
 the corner of his chamber. It was a verse from his 
 inmost heart, and he kept it unpublished for a long 
 time. It expressed his own feelings at that time, when 
 recovering from a dee]) affliction, and he had it in his 
 own heart for many months. The poem of ' The Reaper 
 and the Flowers ' came without effort, crystallized into 
 his mind. ' The Light of the Stars ' was composed on a 
 serene and beautiful summer evening, exactly suggestive 
 of the poem. ' The Wreck of the Hesperus ' was written 
 the night after a violent storm had occurred; and, as 
 the poet sat smoking his pipe, the Hesperus came sailing 
 into his mind. He went to bed, but could not sleep, 
 and wrote the celebrated verses. It hardly caused him 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. . 
 
 an effort, but flowed on without let or hindrance. On 
 a summer afternoon in 1840, as he was riding on the 
 beach, ' The Skeleton in Armor ' rose as out of the deep 
 before him, and would not be laid. 
 
 " One of the best known of all of Longfellow's shorter 
 poems is ' Excelsior.' That one word happened to catch 
 his eye one autumn eve in 1841 on a torn piece of news- 
 paper ; and straightway his imagination took fire at it. 
 Taking up a piece of paper, which happened to be the 
 back of a letter received that day from Charles Sumner, 
 he crowded it with verses. As first written down, 
 ' Excelsior ' differs from the perfected and published 
 version ; but it shows a rush and glow worthy of its 
 author." 
 
 fcONG FELLOW ABROAD. 
 
 Cardinal Wiseman, in an enthusiastic eulogy of Mr. 
 Longfellow, says, " He was a true philosopher who said, 
 ' Let me make the songs of a nation, and I care not who 
 makes its laws.' There is one writer who approaches 
 nearer than any other to this standard, and he has al- 
 ready gained such a hold on our hearts that it is almost 
 unnecessary for me to mention his name. Our hemi- 
 sphere cannot claim the honor of having brought him 
 forth ; but still he belongs to us, for his works have 
 become as household words wherever the English lan- 
 guage is spoken. And whether we are charmed by 
 his imagery, or soothed by his melodious versification, 
 or elevated by the high moral teachings of his pure 
 muse, or follow with sympathizing hearts the wanderings 
 of Evangeline, I am sure that all who hear my voice 
 will join me in the tribute I desire to pay to the genius 
 of Longfellow." 
 
QUEEN VICTORIA AND DOM PEDRO. 183 
 
 At a dinner given in London in 1877, to Chief 
 Justice Shea of the Marine Court, Sir (then Mr.) 
 Theodore Martin, the biographer of Prince Albert, re- 
 lated to the judge that the queen once told him, when 
 he called at Windsor Castle, " I wished for you this 
 morning, for you would have seen something that 
 would have delighted you as a man of letters. The 
 American poet Longfellow has been here. I noticed an 
 unusual interest among the attendants and servants. I 
 could scarcely credit that they so generally understood 
 who he was. When he took leave, they concealed 
 themselves in places from which they could get a good 
 look at him as he passed. I have since inquired among 
 them, and am surprised and pleased to find that many 
 of his poems are familiar to them. No other distin- 
 guished person has come here that has excited so pecu- 
 liar an interest. Such poets wear a crown that is 
 imperishable." 
 
 DOM PEDRO II. OF BRAZIL. 
 
 Among the many opinions of the dead poet recorded 
 in every tongue, there may be mentioned those of Dom 
 Pedro II. of Brazil. In 1855 Rev. J. C. Fletcher took a 
 number of specimens of American literature, art, and 
 manufactures to the capital of Brazil, where he was 
 permitted to exhibit them in the National Museum. 
 They were first visited by Dom Pedro, who, after an ex- 
 amination of the various works, made remarks on Irving, 
 Cooper, and Prescott, showing an intimate acquaintance 
 with each. He then, with great earnestness of manner, 
 said, " M. Fletcher, avez-vous les poemes de M. Long- 
 fellow? " Mr. Fletcher replied in the negative, where- 
 upon his Majesty said, " I am exceedingly sorry ; for I 
 
184 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 have sought in every bookstore in Rio cle Janeiro for 
 Longfellow, and I cannot find it. I have a number of 
 beautiful morceaux from him, but I wish the whole 
 work. I admire him so much." Afterward, at the 
 Palace of St. Christopher, when Mr. Fletcher took 
 leave of the emperor, the latter said to him, " When 
 you return to your country, have the kindness to say to 
 Mr. Longfellow how much pleasure he has given me, 
 and be pleased to tell him combien je Vestime, combien 
 je Vaime." 
 
 ONE OF THE POET'S LAST ACTS 
 
 was to sign a petition to the Legislature to remove the 
 disability of atheists in the matter of testimony in 
 courts. 
 
 THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow was an enthusiastic admirer of the 
 climate and scenery of the South of France, and often 
 expressed a desire to revisit the localities with which 
 he was so charmed. He talked quite seriously of ac- 
 companying Mr. and Mrs. Dana in their proposed trip 
 to Europe in the spring of 1882, but it is improbable 
 that his health would have permitted him to leave home 
 for such an extended journey. 
 
 THE POET AND THE COMPOSERS. 
 
 Mr. D. E. Hervey of New York has published in 
 The Tribune of that city the following classified list of 
 poems of Mr. Longfellow which have been set to music. 
 He remarks that it is by no means a complete list, 
 but embraces such cases only as have fallen under his 
 notice. 
 
 " Operas. — ' The Masque of Pandora,' libretto ar- 
 
 
THE POET AND THE COMPOSERS. 185 
 
 ranged 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,' com- 
 posed by T. Anderton ; ' The Consecration of the Ban- 
 ner,' by J. F. H. Read; 'The Building of the Ship,' 
 by J. F. Barnett, and another by Henry Lahee ; ' The 
 Golden Legend,' by Dudley Buck, and another by the 
 Rev. H. E. Hodson ; 'The Bells of Strasburg Cathedral ' 
 (from 'The Golden Legend '), by Franz Liszt; 'The 
 Tale of a Viking ' (' The Skeleton in Armor '), by 
 George E. Whiting. 
 
 " Two, Three, and Four Part Songs. — ' Stars of the 
 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. Mounsey Bartholomew, M. W. Balfe, H. M. Dow ; 
 ' 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. Anderton, P. H. 
 Dremer, W. Macfaren, Henry Smart ; ' The Day is 
 Done,' by A. R. Gaul ; ' The Hemlock Tree,' by J. L. 
 Hatton ; ' The Village Blacksmith,' by J. L. Hatton ; 
 ' King Witlaf's Drinking-PIorn,' 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 ' (' Daybreak '), by F. Quinn, J. C. D. Parker ; 
 'A Psalm of Life,' by Henry Smart, Dr. Mainzer ; ' The 
 Rainy Day,' by A. S. Sullivan, J. Blockley ; ' 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 Olaf's 
 
 
186 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Christmas,' from the ' Saga of King Olaf,' by Dudley 
 Buck; 'Brooklet,' by F. Booth ; 'Excelsior,' by M. W. 
 Balfe ; ' Hymn to the Night,' by S. Glover ; ' Sea hath 
 its Pearls,' by Ciro Pinsuti. As for songs for a single 
 voice, they are very numerous." 
 
 The following are found, alphabetically arranged, in 
 the list published by Oliver Ditson & Co. of Boston : — 
 
 " Sonys for a Single Voice. — ' Arrow and the Song,' 
 by M. W. Balfe; 'The Bells,' by J. L. Hatton ; 'Be- 
 ware,' by B. F. Gilbert ; ' Bridge,' by Lady Carew, A. 
 Landon, M. Lindsay ; ' Brook and the Wave,' by J. 
 L. Molloy ; ' Catawba Wine,' by W. R. Dempster ; 
 'Changed' ('Aftermath'), by F. Boott ; 'Children, 
 by W. R. Dempster; 'The Curfew,' by T. Anderton; 
 'Daybreak' ('Wind came up out of the Sea'), by M. 
 W. Balfe ; ' Day is Done,' by M. W. Balfe ; ' Death of 
 Minnehaha,' by C. C. Converse ; 'The Dead ' by Y. Van 
 Antwerp; 'Excelsior,' by J. Blockley, S. Glover, M. 
 Lindsay ; ' Footprints on the Sands of Time,' by A. W. 
 Titus; 'Footsteps of Angels,' by W. R. Dempster; 
 ' Good-night, Beloved,' by M. W. Balfe ; ' Green Trees 
 whispered Low,' by M. W. Balfe, J. Blockley ; ' It is 
 not always May,' by C. Gounod ; ' Kyrie Eleison,' by F. 
 Boott; 'My Lady sleeps,' by G. W. Marston ; 'Night 
 is Calm and Cloudless,' by J. L. Hatton ; ' Old Clock 
 on the Stairs,' by Dolores ; ' Old House by the Lindens ' 
 (' Open Window '), by J. Blockley ; ' Psalm of Life,' by 
 J. Blockley, G. W. Hewitt ; ' Rainy Day," by W. R. 
 Dempster; 'Reaper and the Flowers,' by M. W. Balfe, 
 J. R. Thomas; 'Resignation,' by J. E. Gould; 'Sad 
 Heart, O take thy Rest,' by V. Gabriel ; ' Sea hath its 
 Pearls,' by F. Lichner, J. C. D. Parker, B. Tours; 'She 
 is fooling Thee,' by A. H. N. B.; 'Stars of the Summer 
 
LETTER TO GEORGE W. CHILDS. 187 
 
 Night,' by F. Boott, C. H. Compton, H. Kleber, B. 
 Tours ; ' Suspiria,' by Y. Van Antwerp ; ' Village Black- 
 smith,' by D. A. Warden, W. H. Weiss; 'Voice of 
 Christ,' by D. A. Warden; 'Wreck of the Hesperus,' 
 by J. Blockley." 
 
 In the catalogue of Ditson & Co., lists of other au- 
 thors* poems that have been set to music are given. 
 Longfellow heads the list with thirty-nine poems, next 
 comes Tennyson with twenty-six, Byron has sixteen, 
 Goethe eight, Holmes six, Whittier four, and Words- 
 worth one. 
 
 It may be mentioned here that Professor J. K. Paine 
 of Harvard College has, since the death of Longfellow, 
 expressed an intention of setting some of his poems to 
 music. 
 
 A Scotch laborer in Cambridge told Mr. John Owen 
 that very many of Longfellow's poems had been set to 
 music in Scotland. 
 
 LETTER TO GEORGE W. CHILDS. 
 
 Cambridge, March 13, 1877. 
 
 My dear Mr. Childs, — You do not know yet what it 
 is to be seventy years old. I will tell you, so that you may 
 not be taken by surprise when your turn comes. 
 
 It is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned 
 summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching" miles 
 and miles away, and before you other summits higher and 
 whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. 
 Then you sit down and meditate, and wonder which it will be. 
 
 That is the whole story, amplify it as you may. All that 
 one can say is, that life is opportunity. 
 
 With seventy good wishes to the dwellers in Walnut 
 Street, corner of Twenty-second, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
188 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HERMES TRISMEGISTUS. 
 
 Hermes Trismegistus, his last published poem but 
 one, appeared in The Century (Scribner's) Magazine 
 for February, 1882. It has all of its author's customary 
 grace, the opening and closing stanzas reading as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 Still through Egypt's desert places 
 
 Flows the lordly Nile, 
 From its banks the great stone faces 
 
 Gaze with patient smile ; 
 Still the Pyramids imperious 
 Pierce the cloudless skies, 
 And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, 
 Solemn, stony eyes. 
 
 But where are the old Egyptian 
 
 Demi-gods and kings? 
 Nothing left but an inscription 
 
 Graven on stones and rings. 
 Where are Helius and Hephaestus, 
 
 Gods of eldest eld ? 
 Where is Hermes Trismegistus, 
 
 Who their secrets held ? 
 
 Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately 
 
 Found I in the vast 
 Weed-encumbered, sombre, stately 
 
 Graveyard of the Past ; 
 And a presence moved before me 
 
 On that gloomy shore, 
 As a waft of wind, that o'er me 
 
 Breathed, and was no more. 
 
 ONE OF LONGFELLOW'S LAST LETTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Marie J. Pitman {alias Margery Deane), of New- 
 port, sent Mr. Longfellow some spring flowers, among 
 which was a large number of tulips. In a letter written 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A JOURNALIST. 189 
 
 just two weeks before his death, and among the very 
 last which he wrote, having employed an amanuensis 
 for ten days previous to his death, he says, " I have 
 been arranging these wonderful flowers under the lamp 
 in my library. I can only think of the floral games 
 of Toulouse in the times of the Troubadours : and, 
 were I a good Troubadour, I would write you a letter 
 in verse to-night ; but I am worn and weary, so that 
 I find it difficult to write even prose." The handwrit- 
 ing showed greatly increased feebleness. In this same 
 letter he says, " Thanks is a little word ; but it has 
 much meaning when it has a heart behind it, and thus 
 I send you mine for these Newport flowers." Mr. 
 Longfellow loved Newport, and said not long ago to 
 this lady : " I would choose Pelham Street, facing the 
 town park and the Old Stone Mill, could I live in New- 
 port. I like that street very much, but in the Newport 
 air I should want no work to do. That is the climate 
 to be idle in." Where stands the new Channing Me 
 morial Church, Mr. Longfellow thought the most beau- 
 tiful site for a home in all Newport. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF A JOURNALIST. 
 
 A Boston journalist writes to The Boston Herald : 
 " In the years 1870-71 I was employed by Fields, Os- 
 good, & Co., and James R. Osgood & Co., in their old 
 store at the corner of Tremont Street and Hamilton 
 Place. Mr. Longfellow was a frequent visitor ; and it 
 was many a time my privilege to walk with him to 
 Bowdoin Square, and carry a parcel too heavy for his 
 own strength. I say privilege, for such indeed it was. 
 On these occasions he invariably kept up a lively con- 
 versation, sometimes serious, and sometimes with a 
 
190 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 quaint strain of humor. He had a keen sense of humor ; 
 and I recollect, that, as we were once walking through 
 Court Street, he pointed to a huge Newfoundland dog 
 that was wagging his tail vigorously, and said to me, 
 ' Do you know why I am like that dog's tail ? ' and then, 
 without waiting for me to answer, he replied, ' Because 
 I am something of a wag.* 
 
 "I well recollect New Year's Day, 1871. On that 
 day the late Mr. James T. Fields called me up to his 
 little room, looking out on Tremont Street. Mr. Long- 
 fellow was there, with Oliver Wendell Holmes, and, I 
 think, Mr. Whittier and Mr. Emerson. Mr. Fields said 
 to me, ' After working for others for a great many } r ears, 
 I am now going to enjoy myself. I have to-day retired 
 from active business life ; and these gentlemen (calling 
 them by name, and each of whom nodded as his name 
 was called), Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Emerson, Mr. Whit- 
 tier, and Mr. Holmes, have called on me to celebrate 
 the happy event. Now, I want you to go to the peanut- 
 stand on the corner, and get me a quart of peanuts. 
 These gentlemen have called on me, and it is only right 
 that I should treat them.' 
 
 " I brought in the peanuts ; and Mr. Fields, after pass- 
 ing the bag to his guests — each of whom took a liberal 
 handful — offered it to me, saying, ' You have been so 
 good as to get these for us, you must eat some too.' 
 
 " So I sat down with these great and good men, and 
 listened to a conversation, which, if I had been old 
 enough to understand, I should have always treasured. 
 This much I do remember : when I left Mr. Fields's 
 room, the last peanut had been eaten. 
 
 "In May, 1871, just after recovering from a severe 
 illness, I called in the store, and Mr. Benjamin H. Tick- 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A JOURNALIST. 191 
 
 nor — widely known as one of the best and most kind- 
 hearted of men — asked me if I would not like to ride 
 out to Cambridge. Of course I was glad to go. He 
 gave me a parcel to take to Mr. Longfellow. I rode 
 out to the old mansion of the poet, and found him 
 at home somewhat indisposed. He took me into his 
 library, and bade me be seated. He would not allow 
 me to remove the wrappers, but, with his own hands, 
 carefully untied the strings, and took out the volumes, 
 — some rare ones which had been hunted up for him, — 
 and reverently wiped them with a silk handkerchief. 
 Meanwhile I had not been idle. My eyes, in wander- 
 ing around the room, lit on his waste-basket, and I 
 asked permission to pick out a scrap of his writing. 
 This was cheerfully granted ; and, as a result of my 
 search, I found a sheet on which was a draught, with 
 many corrections, of the first verse of his poem 'Amalfi.' 
 At last, 'having put away his books, he turned to me 
 and said, 'Well, what have you found?' 
 
 " ' Something worth keeping,' said I, jealously putting 
 it in my pocket. 
 
 " ' Let me see it,' said the poet. 
 
 " I gave it to him, and he laughed. Then he went to 
 his desk, and wrote thereon, — 
 
 Rubbish, sacrificed to fame. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " This treasure I gave to a western library some j r ears 
 ago. 
 
 " I have, in connection with Longfellow, but one re- 
 gret ; that is, that in the time when I met him so fre- 
 quently, I was but a mere boy, unable to appreciate the 
 man's greatness, and garner up words which fell from 
 his lips, and which I alone heard." 
 
192 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 CRITICISED BY A BARBER. 
 
 It is related of Mr. Longfellow, that when his poem 
 of The Village Blacksmith was going through the 
 press, he read the first two stanzas to a hairdresser in 
 Cambridge. The barber criticised the first line of the 
 second stanza, tk His hair is crisp and black and long," 
 by saying that crisp black hair is never long. Mr. 
 Longfellow was struck with the merit of this criticism, 
 and instructed his publisher to substitute the word 
 " strong " for " long " in that line. The next day, how- 
 ever, he reconsidered the matter, and sent his publisher 
 the following note, now in the possession of a resident 
 of Washington : — 
 
 Cambridge, Oct. 1, 1845. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I wrote to you yesterday to have the word 
 ' ' long ' ' changed to ' ' strong, ' ' in The Village Blacksmith. 
 The word "strong" occurs in the preceding line, and the 
 repetition would be unpleasant. It had, therefore, better 
 stand as it is, notwithstanding the hairdresser's criticism, 
 which, after all, is only technical, for hair can be both crisp 
 and long. Have you received any more numbers of The 
 Mabinogion, a collection of Welsh stories? I have only 
 five. Will you please furnish the remainder, if you have 
 them, and, if not, import them for me? 
 
 I am glad to find that the ' ' Poets of Europe ' ' has been 
 so well received. Do you mean to take out a copyright in 
 England? If not, I shall, as it is best to keep the control 
 of the book. 
 
 Yours very truly. 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ORGAN-GRINDERS. 
 
 One of the duties of the policeman on guard at the 
 Longfellow grounds on Friday, the day of the death 
 
ANECDOTE OF THE SLIPPEBS. 193 
 
 of the poet, was to turn away the players on hand- 
 organs. For years it has been the custom of the 
 family to give six cents to each hand-organ man, the 
 result being that few of the peripatetic musicians who 
 come into the vicinity fail to take the house into their 
 circuit. Three appeared on Friday afternoon. 
 
 VISITS TO PORTLAND. 
 
 It was Longfellow's custom always to visit Portland, 
 his old home, for a week or so every year. He was 
 always glad, however, to get back to Cambridge, which 
 he regarded as his home, and from which he never liked 
 to be absent. This reminds one of Carlyle's similar 
 custom of annually visiting Scotland. 
 
 ANECDOTE OF THE SLIPPERS. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow had a strong sense of the humorous, 
 and many a witty impromptu resulted from the occur- 
 rence of some slight incident or accident. One sum- 
 mer, twenty years ago and more, when the Appletons 
 were living in Lynn, the poet's son Charles Long- 
 fellow, who was always very fond of sailing a boat, 
 and who has since become known as a great yachts- 
 man, came over in his boat one day to make a call. 
 The surf was very high, the boat was capsized, and he 
 was thrown into the water. He was wet to the skin, of 
 course, and was compelled to make an entire change 
 of clothing. Capt. Nathan Appleton, in place of his 
 shoes, loaned him a pair of slippers which he wore 
 home. A few days afterward his father, Mr. Long- 
 fellow, returned the slippers in a neatly wrapped parcel, 
 with the following lines written on the outside : — 
 
194 HENRY WABSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ' Slippers that perhaps another, 
 
 Sailing o'er the bay of Lynn, 
 
 A forlorn or shipwrecked nephew, 
 
 Seeing, may purloin again.'" 
 
 LONGFELLOW AND POLITICS. 
 
 " Longfellow never took part in politics, and rarely 
 expressed an opinion on this subject ; yet he was well 
 read in the current events of the time, and had a fair 
 idea of the direction of events, and the movements of 
 jDarties. I never heard him talk politics but once, and 
 this was at his summer cottage at Nahant, I think in 
 1873. Charles Sumner was his guest. He had just 
 got back from Europe. I called to see the distin- 
 guished senator about a certain political movement 
 then on foot to give Gen. Butler the Republican nomi- 
 nation for governor. Longfellow was present, and, 
 taking umbrage at Sumner's conservatism and reti- 
 cence, launched out in a furious tirade against the men 
 who were engineering the Butler movement, denoun- 
 cing the whole scheme as a disgrace to Massachusetts. 
 From this subject he drifted to the vote of censure 
 passed by the Legislature on Sumner for his battle-flag 
 resolution in the Senate, and said that Massachusetts 
 had been falling pretty low of late years. 1 His blue 
 eyes, usually so gentle, flashed fire as he alluded to 
 these two incidents in the politics of the Common- 
 wealth, which he was pleased to cite as air instance of 
 the degeneracy of her statesmanship, and the lowering 
 of the high standard she had always maintained in the 
 sisterhood of States. It was a cold, misty morning, and 
 
 1 It does not appear clearly from this language whether Mr. Long- 
 fellow sustained Sumner in his position. Such was, however, the fact, 
 according to the testimony of Mr. Longfellow's friends in Cambridge. 
 
A KANSAS INCIDENT. 195 
 
 the conversation was carried on in the poet's library, 
 where coffee was brought in as the proper beverage 
 with which to treat a visitor. As the poet drained his 
 cup of Mocha, he said, with more emphasis than he was 
 in the habit of using, " Put me down as an anti-Butler 
 man." — New York Herald. 
 
 THE WOLF BALLAD. 
 
 The history of the controversy about the plagiarism 
 or non-plagiarism by Longfellow of a certain ballad by 
 Wolf may be found in Graham's Magazine for 1845. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN KANSAS. 
 
 In the summer of 1877, Acting Gov. Stanton of Kansas 
 paid a visit to the citizens of Lawrence, in that State. 
 After partaking of the hospitalities extended him by 
 Gov. Robinson, he addressed, by request, a crowd of 
 some five hundred Free-State men, who did not hesitate 
 to manifest their disapprobation at such portions of his 
 speech as did not accord with their peculiar political 
 views. At the close of his speech Mr. Stanton pic- 
 tured in glowing language the Indian tradition of Hia- 
 watha, of the " peace-pipe " shaped and fashioned by 
 Gitchie Manito, and by which he called tribes of men 
 together, and in his own language addressed them : — 
 
 " I have given you lands to hunt in, 
 I have given you streams to fish in, 
 I have given you bear and bison, 
 I have given you roe and reindeer, 
 I have given j^ou brant and beaver, 
 Filled the marshes full of wild fowl, 
 Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 
 Why, then, are you not contented ? 
 Why, then, will you hunt each other? 
 
196 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " I am weary of your quarrels, 
 Weary of your wars and bloodshed, 
 Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
 Of your wranglings and dissensions ; 
 All your strength is in your union, 
 All your danger is in discord ; 
 Therefore be at peace henceforward, 
 And as brother's live together." 
 
 The application of this quotation was felt by the 
 excited crowd, and those who but a moment before 
 had murmured the loudest joined heartily in the unani- 
 mous applause that followed the close of the speaker's 
 remarks. 
 
 PAYMENT FOR HIS POEMS. 
 
 Mr. Francis H. Underwood writes thus of a visit 
 he paid to the poet a few weeks before his death: 
 " He told me of the early poems, and of the payments 
 which he did not receive. The Psalm of Life and 
 The Reaper appeared in the Knickerbocker, and were 
 never paid for at all. The Voices of the Night were 
 printed in the United States Literary Gazette, and 
 the compensation was — dubious. Mr. Longfellow, hav- 
 ing been informed on one occasion that the sum of 
 thirteen dollars was subject to his order (for two prose 
 articles and one poem), declined the so-called honora- 
 rium, and accepted a set of Chatterton's Works, which 
 are still in his library. For his contributions to another 
 periodical, covering some two or three years, he got — 
 a receipted bill for the same period ! We all know 
 what magnificient appreciation came later." — Boston 
 Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
LETTERS TO CHARLES LAN MAN. 197 
 
 LETTERS OF LONGFELLOW TO CHARLES LANMAN. 
 
 Charles Lanman, in a letter to The New York Tri- 
 bune, gives some interesting reminiscences of Long- 
 fellow, with a number of his letters, together with an 
 extract from his diary. Mr. Lanman writes : — 
 
 " In 1871, while exhibiting a portfolio of my sketches 
 in oil to a nephew of Mr. Longfellow, we stumbled upon 
 a view of Norman's Woe, near Cape Ann, when he re- 
 marked, ' My uncle should see that picture, for I know 
 it would greatly interest him.' On the next day, ac- 
 cordingly, I packed up the picture, and, with another, 
 — a view on the coast of Nova Scotia, the home of 
 Evangeline, — sent it off by express to Mr. Longfellow, 
 accompanied by a note of explanation, in which I re- 
 called the fact of our meeting many years before at the 
 house of Park Benjamin in New York, who was the 
 fust to publish the poem about the Hesperus, and who 
 paid for it the pittance of twenty-five dollars. The 
 letter which Mr. Longfellow sent me in return, worth 
 more than a thousand sketches, was as follows : — 
 
 ' Cambridge, Nov. 24, 1871. 
 
 ' My dear Sir, — Last night I bad the pleasure of re- 
 ceiving your friendly letter, and the beautiful pictures that 
 came with it ; and I thank you cordially for the welcome 
 gift, and the kind remembrance that prompted it. They 
 are both very interesting to me, particularly the Reef of 
 Norman's Woe. What you say of the ballad is also very 
 gratifying, and induces me to send you in return a bit of 
 autobiography. 
 
 ' Looking over a journal for 1839, a few days ago, I found 
 the following!; entries : — 
 
 ' " Dec. 17. News of shipwrecks, horrible, on the coast. Forty 
 bodies washed ashore near Gloucester. One woman lashed to a piece 
 
198 HENBY WADSWOBTB LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where many of 
 these took place. Among others, the schooner Hesperus. Also the 
 Seanower, on Black Kock. I will write a ballad on this. 
 
 ' "'Dec. 30. Wrote last evening a notice of Allston's Poems ; after 
 which, sat till one o'clock by the fire, smoking, when suddenly it 
 came into my head to write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus, 
 which I accordingly did. Then went to bed, but could not sleep. 
 New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them 
 to the Ballad. It was three by the clock." 
 
 ' All this is of no importance but to myself. However, I 
 like sometimes to recall the circumstances under which a 
 poem was written ; and as y.ou express a liking for this one, 
 it may perhaps interest you to know why and w r hen and how 
 it came into existence. I had quite forgotten about its first 
 publication ; but I find a letter from Park Benjamin, dated 
 Jan. 7, 1840, beginning (} T ou will recognize his style) as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 ' " Your ballad, The Wreck of the Hesperus, is grand. Enclosed are 
 twenty-five dollars (the sum you mentioned) for it, paid by the pro- 
 prietors of The New World, in which glorious paper it will resplen- 
 dently coruscate on Saturday next." 
 
 ' Pardon this gossip, and believe me, with renewed thanks, 
 ' Yours faithfully, 
 
 'HENRY W. LONGEELLOW.' 
 
 " During the summer of 1873, while spending a few- 
 weeks at Indian Hill, in Massachusetts, the delightful 
 residence of Ben : Perley Poore, it was again my privi- 
 lege to meet Mr. Longfellow. He had come down 
 from Nahant, with his friend Charles Sumner, for the 
 purpose of visiting, for the first time, the Longfellow 
 homestead in Newbury. After that visit he came by 
 invitation, with the Senator, to Indian Hill, where they 
 enjoyed an early dinner and a bit of old wine ; after 
 which Mr. Poore took us all in his carriage on a visit 
 
A VISIT TO WHITTIER. 199 
 
 to the poet John G. Whittier at Amesbiuy. The day 
 was charming ; the route we followed was down the 
 Merrimac, and very lovely ; and the conversation of 
 the lions was of course delightful. We found Mr. Whit- 
 tier at home ; and it was not oidy a great treat to see 
 him there, but a noted event to meet socially and under 
 one roof three such men as Whittier, Sumner, and Long- 
 fellow. (The deportment of the two poets was to me 
 most captivating. The host, in his simple dress, was 
 as shy as a schoolboy ; while Mr. Longfellow, with his 
 white and flowing hair and jolly laughter, reminded 
 me of one of his own vikings ; and when Mr. Whittier 
 brought out and exhibited to us an anti-slavery docu- 
 ment which he had signed forty years before, I could 
 not help recalling some of the splendid things which 
 that trio of great men had written on the subject of 
 slavery. The drive to Newburyport, whence Mr. Sum- 
 ner aird Mr. Longfellow were to return to Nahant, was 
 no less delightful than had been the preceding one ; 
 and the kindly words which were spoken of Mr. Whit- 
 tier proved that he was highly honored and loved by 
 his noted friends, as he is by the world at large. Be- 
 fore parting from Mr. Longfellow, he took me one side, 
 and spoke with great interest of the old homestead he 
 had that morning visited, and expressed a wish that I 
 should make a sketch of it for him, as it was then two 
 hundred year? old, and rapidly going to decay. On 
 the following morning I went to the spot, and complied 
 with his request. A few weeks afterward I sent him 
 a finished picture of the house, not forgetting the well- 
 sweep and the old stone horse-block, in which he felt a 
 special interest; and he acknowledged the receipt of 
 the picture in these words : — 
 
200 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ' Cambridge, Oct. 18, 1873. 
 
 ' My dear Sm, — I have had the pleasure of receiving 
 your very friendly note, and the picture of the old home- 
 stead at Newbury ; for both of which I pray you to accept 
 my most cordial thanks. Be assured that I value your gift 
 highly, and appreciate the kindness which prompted it. and 
 the trouble you took in making the portraits of the old house 
 and tree. They are very exact, and will always remind me 
 of that pleasant summer day, and Mr. Poore's chateau and 
 his charming family, and yours. If things could ever be 
 done twice over in this world, — which they cannot, — I 
 should like to live that day over again. 
 
 ' With kind regards to Mrs. Lanman, not forgetting a word 
 and a kiss to your little Japanese ward (Ume Tsuda). I am, 
 my dear sir, 
 
 ' Yours truly, 
 
 'HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.' 
 
 " When the poem of Keramos was published, in No- 
 vember, 1877, I had a translation made into Japanese 
 of that portion of it alluding to Japan, and forwarded 
 it to the poet, with an explanation as to how the trans- 
 formation had taken place ; the young gentleman who 
 made the translation having 'been Mr. Amano Koziro, 
 then of the Japanese legation. The acknowledgment 
 sent me by Mr. Longfellow was as follows : — 
 
 ' Cambridge, Nov. 23, 1877. 
 ' Mr dear Sir, — I have this morning had the pleasure of 
 receiving your letter, and the Japanese version of a portion 
 of Keramos, which you were kind enough to send me, and 
 for which I beg you to accept my cordial thanks. I shall 
 put it away with The Psalm of Life, written in Chinese on a 
 fan. What I should like now is a literal retranslation of the 
 Japanese into English. 
 
LETTERS TO CHARLES LANMAN. 201 
 
 ' In the introduction there is a slight error, which is worth 
 correcting. It is the Poet, not the Potter, who takes the 
 aerial flight, and in imagination visits far-off lands ; also, 
 Keramos is rather potter's earth than earthenware. But the 
 difference is slight, and hardly worth noticing, unless one 
 wishes to be very particular. 
 
 ' You will rejoice, as I do. in the complete vindication of 
 Sumner's memory from the imputations so recklessly cast 
 upon it. With great regard, 
 
 ' Yours very truly, 
 
 'HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.' 
 
 " In November, 1881, when my work entitled Curious 
 Characters and Pleasant Places was published in Edin- 
 burgh, because of the fact that it contained a chapter 
 on Anticosti, where Mr. Longfellow's first American 
 ancestor lost his life (he who had built the Newbury 
 homestead), I sent him a copy ; and in my note I asked 
 him for his views on the propriety of printing the pri- 
 vate letters of living men without their consent. I had 
 noticed in Barry Cornwall's autobiography several of 
 Mr. Longfellow's own letters ; and as I was then exam- 
 ining the very interesting correspondence of the late 
 Professor Samuel Tyler, with a view to publication, I 
 desired to be fortified with the poet's opinion ; and the 
 result of my application was as follows : — 
 
 ' Cambridge, Dec. 3, 1881. 
 ' Dear Mr. Lanman, — I was very glad to get your letter, 
 and the copy of your Recollections. It is a handsome vol- 
 ume, and most inviting in appearance. I shall read it with 
 the greatest interest, as soon as I am able to read any thing ; 
 but at present I am confined to my room by illness, — a 
 trouble in the head which prevents continuous attention to 
 
202 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 any thing. I hope this will soon pass away, and all be right 
 again. 
 
 ' The publication of private letters of living persons is cer- 
 tainly a delicate question. It is, however, universally prac- 
 tised in biographies. One must be guided by the importance 
 of the letters themselves. I should omit every thing that 
 could in any way compromise the writer, as I see by your let- 
 ter you would. There are letters that do honor to the writer 
 and the receiver. These certainly should not be omitted. 
 
 ' Meanwhile, accept my sincere and cordial thanks for 
 your kind remembrance, and believe me, 
 ' Yours faithfully, 
 
 'HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.' 
 
 " The foregoing letter was among the last written by 
 
 Mr. Longfellow ; and the brief allusion to his illness, 
 
 as we read it to-day, has a pathos allied to some of his 
 
 saddest poems. 
 
 "CHARLES LANMAN. 
 
 "Washington, D. C, April 13, 1882." 
 
 THE POET'S EXPLANATION OF EXCELSIOR. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow wrote the following letter to Henry 
 T. Tuckerman many years ago, and it has just found 
 its way into print in The London Telegraph : — 
 
 I have had the pleasure of receiving your note in regard 
 to the poem Excelsior, and very willingly give you my inten- 
 tion in writing it. This was no more than to display, in 
 a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, resisting 
 all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all warn- 
 ings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His 
 motto is Excelsior, — "higher." He passes through the 
 Alpine village, — through the rough, cold paths of the world, 
 — where the peasants cannot understand him, and where 
 
THE CRAIG IE HOUSE. 203 
 
 his watchword is "an unknown tongue." He disregards the 
 happiness of domestic peace, and sees the glaciers — his 
 fate — before him. He disregards the warnings of the old 
 man's wisdom and the fascinations of woman's love. He 
 answers to all, " Higher yet ! " The monks of St. Bernard 
 are the representatives of religious forms and ceremonies, 
 and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles the sound of his 
 voice, telling them there is something higher than forms or 
 ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations he perishes with- 
 out having reached the perfection he longed for ; and the 
 voice heard in the air is the promise of immortality and 
 progress ever upward. You will perceive that " excelsior," 
 an adjective of the comparative degree, is used adverbially ; 
 a use justified by the best Latin writers. I remain, 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 AN APT QUOTATION. 
 
 It is said, that,, when Mr. Longfellow was introduced 
 to the late Nicholas Longworth of Cincinnati, reference 
 was made to the similarity of the first syllables of 
 their names, whereupon Mr. Longfellow immediately 
 responded with the line from Pope, — 
 
 " Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow." 
 
 The repartee, therefore, is one of the best on record. 
 
 CATAWBA WINE. 
 
 Speaking of Mr. Longworth, it is apropos to say that 
 our poet's genial song, Catawba Wine, is understood 
 to have been written on the receipt of a case of that 
 delicate liquor from his Cincinnati friend. It was Mr. 
 Longworth who first produced the Catawba grape by 
 elaborate experiments in cross-fertilization. Let us 
 hear a stanza or two : — 
 
204 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 For richest and best 
 
 Is the wine of the West, 
 That grows by the Beautiful River ; 
 
 Whose sweet perfume 
 
 Fills all the room 
 With a benison on the giver. 
 
 And this Song of the Vine, 
 
 This greeting of mine, 
 The winds and the birds shall deliver 
 
 To the Queen of the West, 
 
 In her garlands dressed, 
 On the banks of the Beautiful River. 
 
 WASHINGTON AT CRAIGIE HOUSE. 
 
 At the close of the Revolutionary War, it was no- 
 ticed that there was a large quantity of lead on the 
 roof. Undoubtedly, if Washington had known this 
 fact, he would have confiscated it for the purpose of 
 having it cast into bullets, — lead being very scarce in 
 those days. The fact that he did not discover it seems 
 to indicate that he never visited the roof of the mansion 
 which he was making his headquarters. The roof is 
 four-sided, and has on its summit a flat area which 
 is railed in, and forms a very pleasant place for loun- 
 ging or star-gazing. But the Father of his Country had 
 sterner business in hand than star-gazing, and looking 
 at landscapes. His business was to think and plan 
 wearily and anxiously in his own room below. 
 
 VIA SOLITARIA. 
 A curious bit of literary history is the following story 
 of a poem published in The New York Independent 
 shortly after Longfellow's death. It purported to be 
 
VIA SOLITARIA. 205 
 
 a posthumous production of the Cambridge poet, and 
 to have been written by him in 1863, two years 
 after the afflicting death of his second wife. It was 
 nearly enough like Mr. Longfellow's other minor 
 poems in style to pass unchallenged by anybody, yet 
 doubtless many must have felt that somehow it had 
 not the Longfellow stamp upon it. It is strange, too, 
 that editors had not noticed the internal evidence 
 against its authenticity. In the last stanza but one, 
 the poet speaks of a " child and mother straying in 
 robes of white." On the supposition that the poem 
 was written by Mr. Longfellow, these lines are explic- 
 able only if referred to his first wife ; but evidently 
 only one jjerson is referred to throughout the poem, 
 and it is almost impossible that Mr. Longfellow would 
 have referred to his first wife in a poem the subject of 
 which is the death of his second wife. As a matter 
 of fact, the poem was written by Mr. O. M. Conover 
 of Madison, Wis., and was published in The New 
 York Independent for July 2, 1863, p. 6, and signed 
 " O. M. C, Madison, Wis." A Cambridge lady sent a 
 copy of the poem to Mr. Conover, not long after it 
 was published, and received a reply from him, with his 
 corrections of certain errors that had crept into the 
 piece during its wanderings. 
 
 The mistake probably arose in this way : The poem 
 was sent in manuscript form to more than one friend 
 in or near Boston. It is presumable that one of these 
 manuscript copies was by some mistake sent to Professor 
 H. M. Goodwin of Olivet College, Michigan, as a 
 poem by Longfellow, after whose death Professor Good- 
 win sent it in good faith to The Independent. 
 
 It is here reproduced with its author's corrections 
 (five in number) : — 
 
206 HEN BY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 VIA SOLITARIA. 
 
 Alone I walk the peopled city, 
 
 Where each seems happy with his own ; 
 O friends, I ask not for your pity, — 
 I walk alone. 
 
 No more for me yon lake rejoices, 
 
 Though wooed by loving airs of June ; 
 
 birds, your sweet and piping voices 
 
 Are out of tune. 
 
 In vain for me the elm-tree arches 
 
 Its plumes in many a feathery spray; 
 In vain the evening's starry marches 
 And sunlit day. 
 
 In vain your beauty, summer flowers ; 
 Ye cannot greet those cordial eyes ; 
 They gaze on other fields than ours, — 
 On other skies. 
 
 The gold is rifled from the coffer, 
 
 The blade is stolen from the sheath ; 
 Life has but one more boon to offer, 
 And that is — Death. 
 
 Yet well I know the voice of Duty, 
 
 And therefore life and health must crave, 
 Though she who gave the world its beauty 
 Is in her grave. 
 
 1 live, O lost one ! for the living 
 
 Who drew their earliest life from thee, 
 And wait until, with glad thanksgiving, 
 I shall be free. 
 
 For life to me is as a station 
 
 Wherein apart a traveller stands — 
 One absent long from home and nation, 
 In other lands ; 
 
MAD RIVER. 207 
 
 And I, as he who stands and listens, 
 
 Amid the twilight's chill and gloom, 
 To hear, approaching in the distance, 
 The train for home. 
 
 For death shall bring another mating; — 
 
 Beyond the shadows of the tomb, 
 On yonder shore a bride is waiting 
 Until I come. 
 
 In yonder fields are children playing, 
 
 And there — O vision of delight ! — 
 I see a child and mother straying 
 In robes of white. 
 
 Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest, 
 
 Stealing its treasures one by one, 
 I'll call thee blessed when thou makest 
 The parted — one. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S LAST PUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 It was apppropriate, indeed, that Mr. Longfellow's 
 last poem should appear posthumously in The Atlantic 
 Monthly (May, 1882), a magazine to which, for nearly 
 a quarter of a century, the world has turned with eager 
 expectation for the first reading of so many poems from 
 the pen of the most popular of living poets. It was 
 fitting that his own eminent publishers, Messrs. Hough- 
 ton, Mifflin, & Co., should publish his last poem. And 
 that last manuscript, written in the old familiar hand, 
 both publishers and printers might well have received 
 with reverent hands, and with moistened eyes ; for now 
 the last string of the sweet instrument had snapped, 
 and the music was forever ended. 
 
 But how delicate and melodious the last strain ! How 
 faithful to nature the imagery ! The poem is entitled 
 
208 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 MAD RIVER. 
 
 Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 
 
 Mad River, O Mad River ? 
 Wilt thou not pause, and cease to pour 
 Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er 
 
 This rocky shelf forever? 
 
 What secret trouble stirs thy breast? 
 
 Why all this fret and flurry ? 
 Dost thou not know that what is best 
 In this too restless world is rest 
 
 From overwork and worry? 
 
 A brooklet nameless and unknown 
 
 Was I at first, resembling 
 A little child, that all alone 
 Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, 
 
 Irresolute and trembling. 
 
 Later, by wayward fancies led, 
 For the wide world I panted ; 
 
 Out of the forest dark and dread 
 
 Across the open fields I fled, 
 Like one pursued and haunted. 
 
 Men call me Mad, and well they may, 
 
 When, full of rage and trouble, 
 I burst my banks of sand and clay, 
 And sweep their wooden bridge away, 
 Like withered reeds or stubble. 
 
 Now go and write thy little rhyme, 
 
 As of thine own creating. 
 Thou seest the day is past its prime ; 
 I can no longer waste my time ; 
 
 The mills are tired of waiting. 
 
 
DE FRET'S REMINISCENCES. 209 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF M. LOUIS DEPRET. 
 
 A valued friend and correspondent of Mr. Long- 
 fellow was M. Louis Depret of Paris. He says the poet 
 " was wonderfully well acquainted with the capital of 
 France ; because he had lived in it a couple of years 
 almost half a century ago when he was preparing him- 
 self, by conscientious study of the Old World, for the 
 chair of professor of foreign literature in Harvard 
 College. . . . Longfellow was, of all the great writers 
 whom it has been my good fortune to approach, the one 
 whose genial intercourse, without affectation, but still 
 singularly authoritative, best exemplified what one 
 ought to understand by a noble spirit." 
 
 M. Depret thinks that the conversation of Longfellow 
 was " the original expression of a soul." He says he 
 had a way of saying things as if he had found them 
 out for himself. He continues, "I accompanied him all 
 about Paris, — to the Sainte Chapelle, to the Hotel Lam- 
 bert, where the lamented M. Vautrain, the intimate 
 friend of the Czartoriski princes, officiated as a guide ; 
 and we also visited numerous theatres. At the Comedie- 
 Francaise, Longfellow made the curious remark that the 
 French language was no longer pronounced by the 
 actors of 1869 as it was by their elders of 1829. The 
 apartment of the great American was in one of the 
 pleasantest hotels in the Rue de Rivoli, and was visited 
 by a very variegated collection of people daily. Among 
 them was the Dominican, Hyacinthe. And in Long- 
 fellow's parlor we met for the first time the man whose 
 name was famous, and whose personality was almost 
 completely unknown, the old poet of the Iambics," 
 namely, Auguste Barbier. 
 
210 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 KERAMOS AND THE LONGFELLOW JUG. 
 
 Some one in The Literary World has written the 
 following account of the Longfellow Jug : — 
 
 " It was certainly a bright and happy thought to 
 enshrine ' Keramos ' in a ' Longfellow Jug.' For 
 many a day Mr. Richard Briggs, the Boston dealer 
 in potter's wares, had been looking, as he tells us, for 
 a fitting subject for such an achievement, and when 
 1 Keramos ' appeared he felt his opportunity had come. 
 He undertook an expedition in person to the cele- 
 brated works of Josiah Wedgwood & Sons, at Etruria, 
 Staffordshire, Eng., and gave an order for the execution 
 of a ' Longfellow Jug ' in the well-known Wedgwood 
 ware. The jug is now ready for the market, and is a 
 beauty as well as a novelty, both intrinsically and in 
 its suggestions. 
 
 " It is of a stout and useful-looking pattern, not very 
 heavy in texture, but broad and capacious, standing 
 about seven inches high, four inches and a half open 
 at the top, and nearly seven inches wide at its greatest 
 diameter. It is thus just about ' as broad as it is 
 long ; ' proportions which give it a very solid, com- 
 mon-sensible, New-England aspect. It has an honest 
 handle, and a nose which, as that on the human face 
 may be, is a character in itself. It holds, when filled 
 to the brim, two quarts and nearly a pint, and 'pours ' 
 excellently well, which is no mean virtue in a pitcher. 
 Its body color is, of course, the cream-white which the 
 name of Wedgwood has made so familiar. 
 
 " The special charm of the jug, however, is in its 
 decoration, which is appropriate, tasteful, and pleasing 
 in almost every particular, while altogether simple and 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 211 
 
 free from ostentation, as becomes the subject. Two 
 panels occupy the sides, — one presenting a portrait of 
 Mr. Longfellow, the other a verse of the potter's song. 
 The verse is enclosed in a pretty border of antique 
 design, the leading feature of which is a picture of the 
 potter at his work. The border around the portrait 
 might better have been a wreath of ivy or laurel than a 
 girdle of stars and bars ; but this is the single infelicity, 
 in our judgment, in the whole work. The portrait, as a 
 likeness, is simply admirable. No portrait of Mr. Long- 
 fellow which we have ever seen — in magazine, book, 
 or even photograph — presents more accurately, not 
 merely the general contour of his head and cast of 
 countenance, but that peculiar expression, particularly 
 of eyes and mouth, which cannot be described in words, 
 but which is so marked and winning in the original. 
 It is wonderful that such a likeness could have been 
 secured on clay, and especially on a convex surface. 
 The reader will be interested to know how it was done. 
 A selected photograph of Mr. Longfellow was carried 
 by Mr. Briggs to London, and a costly copper-plate 
 engraving made from it by a very skilful artist for the 
 foundation. From this copper-plate, impressions are 
 taken on tissue paper, not in ordinary ink, but in the 
 pigment used in ceramic work ; and a paper print is 
 then applied directly to every jug when yet in the 
 un burnt clay. The jug then goes to the furnace ; and 
 the fires, consuming the paper, leave the print indelibly 
 affixed." 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 A minister once delivered a sermon which had a 
 somewhat novel theme for the pulpit. He called it 
 " Expounding Longfellow's Poem entitled Maiden- 
 
212 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 hood." He read the poem through, and then read it 
 again in portions, enlarging on the thoughts in each part, 
 and drawing many useful life-lessons from the verses. 
 But the most noteworthy thing in the sermon was the 
 narration of the circumstance which gave rise to it. 
 The preacher told a story of a poor woman living in a 
 lonely cabin in a sterile portion of the Northwest, to 
 whom a friend of his had sent illustrated papers. From 
 these the woman had cut the pictures, and papered the 
 walls of her cabin with them ; and an illustration of 
 Longfellow's ' Maidenhood,' with the poem underneath 
 it, she had placed directly over her work-table. There, 
 as she stood at her bread-making or ironing, day after 
 day, she gazed at the picture and read the poem, till, by 
 long brooding on it, she understood it, absorbed it, 
 as few people appropriate the things they read. When 
 the friend who had sent the papers visited her after a 
 time, he, himself a man of letters, stood amazed and 
 humbled while she talked to him artlessly about the 
 poem, expounded to him its interior meaning, and ex- 
 pressed the thoughts she had drawn from it. The 
 preacher said it was an instance of that benign compen- 
 sation by which those who have little may draw the 
 more from that little, so that one cup deeply drained 
 may yield more of life's elixir than many that are 
 sipped. Altogether, it shows how a poet may be a 
 preacher, both from a pulpit and from a cabin-wall, 
 sweetening the lowliest life as well as enchanting the 
 highest. 
 
 "I KNEW BY THE BOOTS THAT SO TERRIBLY CREAKED." 
 
 The mother of Capt. Nathan Appleton was a Miss 
 Sumner, a cousin of Charles Sumner. She was of 
 
HIS WORKS IN ENGLAND. 213 
 
 about the same age as Longfellow, and the two were 
 always intimate friends. Before she married Mr. Apple- 
 ton, and before Mr. Longfellow was married, one day 
 when the poet came from Portland to call upon her, he 
 wore a pair of new boots, which were very noisy. When 
 he went away the next day he left a little poem written 
 on a card, which Capt. Appleton still has in his posses- 
 sion. It is as follows : — 
 
 " I knew by the boots that so terribly creaked, 
 Along the front entry, a stranger was near : 
 I said, If there's grease to be found in the world. 
 My friend from the East stands in need of it here." 
 
 SALE OF HIS WORKS IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Amelia B. Edwards, of Westbury, Eng., gives in The 
 Literary World some interesting data concerning the 
 sale of Longfellow's works in England : — 
 
 " There cannot, I imagine, be any doubt that Profes- 
 sor Longfellow is in England the most widely read of 
 living poets. Messrs. Routledge & Sons, who are his 
 authorized publishers in this country, have on sale at 
 ihe present moment eight different editions of his works, 
 varying in price from one shilling to one guinea ; while 
 at least a dozen other houses — profiting by the absence 
 of an international copyright law — publish unauthor- 
 ized editions adapted in like manner to the tastes and 
 purses of all classes. Thus it is that our English ver- 
 sions, answering to the demand created by an unbounded 
 popularity, are as the leaves on the trees, or the pebbles 
 on the shore. Thus it is that at every bookseller's shop 
 in town or country ' Longfellow's Poems ' are a staple 
 of trade. As a prize-book for schools, as a gift-book, as 
 a drawing-room table-book, as a pocket volume for the 
 
214 HENRY WADSW011TII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 woods and fields, our familiar and beloved friend of 
 something like forty years meets us at every turn. Of 
 new copies alone, it is calculated that not less than 
 thirty thousand are annually sold in the United King- 
 dom ; and who shall estimate the average sale of copies 
 in the second-hand market? That it should repay his 
 English publishers, in the face of unlimited competition, 
 to purchase a few weeks' precedence at the high rate 
 paid by Messrs. Routledge for Professor Longfellow's 
 early sheets, is evidence enough of the eagerness with 
 which we welcome every line that falls from his pen. 
 For advance proofs of the ' New-England Tragedies ' — 
 perhaps the poet's least successful volume — those emi- 
 nent publishers gave no less a sum than one thousand 
 pounds sterling." 
 
 A LETTER OF THE POET. 
 
 Cambridge, Mass., Nov. 29, 1852. 
 
 Dear Miss Cook, — It gives me very sincere pleasure to 
 add my name to the list of subscribers for Hood's monu- 
 ment, as you request in your friendly note ; and I will for- 
 ward my contribution through Mr. Fields, who will have 
 some others to send at the same time. 
 
 Do not weigh my admiration for Hood's genius by the 
 amount of my subscription. That must be estimated by a 
 very different scale of weights and measures. Dear Hood 
 I should say instead of Poor Hood ! For he who wrote the 
 "Song of the Shirt" and the "Bridge of Sighs" is very 
 dear to eveiy human heart. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hood and the children, who have lost him ! 
 They will have forgotten the stranger who called one Octo- 
 ber morning some years ago with Dickens, and was hospita- 
 bly entertained by them. But I remember the visit, and the 
 pale face of the poet, and the house in St. John's "Wood. 
 
GENERAL WILSON'S REMINISCENCES. 215 
 
 If the family is still there, may I beg you to present my 
 regards ami remembrances. With many thanks for your 
 note and man}' expressions of friendly interest, 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 Pkk Steam Packet. 
 Miss Eliza Cook, 54, Gt. Ormond St., 
 Queen Square, London. 
 
 — The Athenaeum. 
 GEN. JAMES GRANT WILSON'S REMINISCENCES. 
 
 From an article by Gen. James Grant Wilson, in 
 The New York Independent, the following charming 
 reminiscences are extracted : — 
 
 " The poet having told me that he had seen scores of 
 parodies of ' Excelsior,' but had never met with one 
 that my father had written, in which many dialects 
 are introduced, I sent it to him ; and when we met 
 again he amused all present by repeating three or four 
 of the twenty-five verses describing a singing hodman's 
 ascent of a lofty ladder : — 
 
 ' Mou ami I vill parley vous 
 Von leetle vord ; 'tis mah you do ! 
 Ver goot, save ; Chacun a son gout; 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 'Brava! brava ! bravissima! 
 Encore ! excellentissima ! 
 Primo tenor ! dolcissima ! 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 ' By coot Saint Tavit an' hur leek ! 
 She'd rather fast for half ta week 
 Tan shuffle on tat shoggy stick ! 
 Excelsior ! 
 
216 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ' Mein Cot ! dot man vill break him pones, 
 And knock him prain upon de stones ; 
 Der Teufel ! did you heert vat tones ! 
 Excelsior ! ' 
 
 Longfellow imitating the French, Italian, Welsh, and 
 German speakers in a most successful manner. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow writes to me in 1870 saying : — 
 
 " ' I have read your privately printed volume with 
 great pleasure. It is a most interesting life, and the 
 sweet and dignified face of the Chief Justice gives an 
 added grace to it. The powdered hair and white cra- 
 vat remind me of the old judges and gentlemen of the 
 bar that I used to see when I was a boy in Portland.' 
 
 " Writing in 1872, the poet says : — 
 
 " ' Your letter and the valuable present of Mr. S. C. 
 Hall have reached me safely. Please accept my best 
 thanks for the great kindness you have shown in tak- 
 ing charge of and bringing from the Old World a gift 
 so precious as the inkstand of the poet who wrote the 
 Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Will you be so good 
 as to send me the present address of Mr. Hall? I 
 wish, without delay, to acknowledge this mark of his 
 remembrance and regard, and am not sure where a let- 
 ter will find him.' 
 
 "Referring to this precious souvenir, the venerable 
 Richard Henry Dana wrote to me soon after : — 
 
 " 'It greatly pleased me to receive a few lines from 
 you, just returned from that glorious old city, London, 
 which, it is sad to think, I shall never see. . . . And 
 so you brought over Mr. Coleridge's inkstand for Mr. 
 Longfellow. I am almost tempted to commit burglary, 
 or even murder if necessary, to possess it. Mr. Long- 
 fellow must look out for himself.' 
 
PAYMENT FOE EARLY POEMS. 217 
 
 " This inkstand, I may mention, had been used for 
 many years by Coleridge, and also for nine years by 
 Longfellow, on the centre of whose library-table he 
 pointed it out to my daughter, while showing her his 
 most highly prized treasures. Said Mr. Longfellow, — 
 
 « ' This memento of the poet recalls to my recollection 
 that Theophilus Parsons, subsequently eminent in Mas- 
 sachusetts jurisprudence, paid me for a dozen of my 
 early pieces, that appeared in his United-States Literary 
 Gazette, with a copy of Coleridge's poems, which I 
 still have in my possession. Mr. Bryant contributed 
 the Forest Hymn, The Old Man's Funeral, and many 
 other poems, to the same periodical, and thought 
 he was well paid by receiving two dollars apiece, — a 
 price, by the way, which he himself placed upon the 
 poems, and at least double the amount of my honora- 
 rium. Truly, times have changed with us UttSrateurs 
 during the last half-century.' 
 
 "The year following (1873) Mr. Longfellow writes: — 
 
 " ' It was only a day or two ago, that, happening to 
 be in the college library, I found the volume you were 
 kind enough to send me. As Mr. Sibley does not 
 undertake to distribute the parcels sent to his care, 
 they being very numerous, one sometimes may wait 
 for weeks before getting his own. This is my apology 
 for not thanking you sooner for your most entertaining- 
 book ; but it has come safe, at last, and I have read it 
 with great interest. ... I remember very well the 
 poem of " Sukey," an imitation of Halleck's " Fanny." 
 It was written by William Bicker Walter, a contem- 
 porary of mine at Bowdoin College, who died young. 
 You will find an account of it and its author in the 
 second volume, of Duyckinck's American Cyclopaedia.' 
 
218 HENRY WADSWOETII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Writing in April, 1875, the poet says, — 
 " ' I shall be most happy to subscribe to the S. C. 
 Hall testimonial. Please let me know the average 
 amount of subscription, and I will immediately send 
 you mine. Many thanks for the Gaelic versions of 
 Suspiria and the Psalm of Life. They are indeed 
 literary curiosities. ... I send you a copy of the 
 poem you mention for your daughter, which please 
 present to her, with my kindest regards.' 
 
 "Mr. Longfellow, writing in 1876, remarks, — 
 " 'I am much obliged to you for sending me the proof- 
 sheets of Mr. Symington's article on Freiligrath. I 
 return a portion of it, with a few corrections. He is 
 wrong in attributing to me any translations of Frei- 
 ligrath's poems. There are several in the Poets and 
 Poetry of Europe, which probably led him astray. 
 Had he, however, looked at the table of contents, he 
 would have found the authors or sources of all the 
 translations. If you are writing to Mr. Symington, 
 please set this matter right. ... In the volumes of my 
 Poems of Places, devoted to Scotland, you will find 
 several of your father's compositions.' 
 
 " At our last meeting, as I learn from a little memo- 
 randum-book, he alluded to the death of Bryant and 
 Dana, and said, ' The years are thinning us out, and 
 we old graybeards must close up our ranks.' Pointing 
 out the portraits of Emerson, Hawthorne, and Sumner, 
 which hung in his library, he said of them and of his 
 own pictures, that some of the photographs were ad- 
 mired, and remarked that they ' rendered justice with- 
 out mercy.' A fine oil portrait, which was painted 
 long ago by Alexander, had been engraved for some 
 
VISIT FROM THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 219 
 
 magazine. He preferred it and some other early coun- 
 terfeit presentments to the later ones, saying, 'We old 
 gentlemen, like Irving, generally prefer to be remem- 
 bered as we were, rather than as we are/ He dwelt 
 at considerable length and with undisguised pleasure 
 on his last sojourn in Italy, alluding to our meetings at 
 Sorrento, Naples, and elsewhere, and concluded by say- 
 ing, ' Alas ! I shall never see that sunny land again.' 
 
 " Longfellow spoke of some mutual friends at Nahant, 
 from which place he had recently returned, and said, 
 ' Yes, I have had two months of delicious idleness at 
 Nahant, and it is time that I put on the harness again.' 
 Alluding to Bryant having taken up the translating 
 of Homer at seventy-two, for occupation of mind, he 
 remarked that he 'found that translating was like 
 floating with the tide.' He agreed with what Bryant 
 said to me, that old men should keep the mind occu- 
 pied, to preserve it, and introduced the incident of the 
 old horse who fell down the moment that he stopped ! 
 Showing some of his pictures, he particularly dwelt on 
 Buchanan Read's famous group of his three daughters, 
 and on one of Copley's, representing two of Sir Wil- 
 liam Pepperell's children, the style of which the poet 
 thought strongly resembled some of Gainsborough's 
 paintings. It occupied the place of honor in his recep- 
 tion-room. 
 
 " The poet mentioned an agreeable visit that he had 
 received the previous summer from the Duke of Argyll, 
 and expressed admiration for him as a man of ability 
 and as a member of the literary guild. ' When I was 
 in England the last time,' said Mr. Longfellow, ' I lis- 
 tened to an extremely interesting and able debate be- 
 tween the Duke and Bishop Wilberforce, sometimes 
 
220 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 described as " Soapy Sam ; " and in the lower house I 
 heard a warm encounter between Disraeli and that truly 
 great man, Gladstone ; ' adding, in answer to my in- 
 quiry, ' Yes, it was my good fortune to have met these 
 political rivals.' 
 
 " Having been intrusted with a commission from an 
 English author, who wished to obtain data from the 
 poet with a view to writing his life for a series then in 
 course of publication, 1 Longfellow said, ' I have no pos- 
 sible objection to your friend's undertaking a memoir, 
 if he deems me worthy of being included among his 
 biographies ; but for me to sit down, and prepare mate- 
 rial for Mr. Symington, would be like writing my auto- 
 biography.* And in urging him to be present during 
 the unveiling, in the following month, of the Burns 
 statue in the Central Park, and to be our guest at that 
 time, he said, ' Unfortunately, I have too many friends 
 in New York, and, troubled as I am at present with 
 neuralgia, I fear the excitement and bustle would be 
 too much for me. No : I could not keep quiet there, 
 and I trust that you will kindly excuse me to your 
 committee. I feel sure that it will be a pleasant occa- 
 sion ; and I promise myself much pleasure from reading 
 the address that Mr. Curtis is to deliver, for Burns is a 
 subject in which I am always interested. Pray, do not 
 feel that it is necessary to send me a formal invitation, 
 as I cannot possibly come.' 
 
 " Before our departure we were invited to sit down 
 in the carved chair made from the ' spreading chestnut- 
 tree,' presented to the poet by the school-children of 
 Cambridge, and shown many other objects of interest, 
 
 1 Biographies of Bryant, Lover, Moore, and Wordsworth. By An- 
 drew J. Symington, F.R.S. 
 
ORIGIN OF A SONNET. 221 
 
 including the old clock on the stairs and the pen re- 
 ceived from 'beautiful Helen of Maine,' with its 'iron 
 link from the chain of Bonnivard,' ' its wood from the 
 frigate's mast ' that wrote on ' the sky the song of the 
 sea and the blast,' and its three jewels from the sands 
 of Ceylon, the mountains of Maine, and the snows of 
 Siberia. 
 
 " We parted at the poet's gate on that sunny Septem- 
 ber morning, never to meet again ; but I shall always 
 retain the remembrance of his venerable appearance, 
 his sweet old-school courtesy of manners, and of the 
 many meetings that it was my privilege to have en- 
 joyed with the best loved of American poets. 
 
 ' Say not the poet dies ! 
 
 Though in the dust he lies, 
 He cannot forfeit his melodious breath, 
 
 Unsphered by envious Death ! 
 Life drops the voiceless myriads from its roll : 
 
 Their fate he cannot share, 
 
 Who, in the enchanted air, 
 Sweet with the lingering strains that Echo stole, 
 Has left his dearer self, the music of his soul ! ' " 
 
 ORIGIN OF ONE OF HIS SONNETS. 
 
 Apphia Howard, writing to The Providence Star, 
 of how one of Mr. Longfellow's famous sonnets came 
 to be written, says, — 
 
 "I found in 1864, on a torn scrap of The Boston 
 Saturday Evening Gazette, a description of a burying- 
 ground in Newport News, where on the headboard of a 
 soldier might be read the words: 'A Union soldier 
 mustered out,' and this was the only inscription. 
 Knowing Mr. Longfellow's intense patriotism and de- 
 
222 IIENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 votion to the Union, I thought it would impress him 
 greatly. After carefully pasting the broken pieces to- 
 gether on a bit of cardboard, I sent it to Mr. Long- 
 fellow by Mr. Greene, who did not think Longfellow 
 would use it, for he declared ' a poet could not write 
 to order/ In a few days Mr. Longfellow acknowl- 
 edged it by a letter, which I did not at all expect, as 
 follows : ' In the writing of letters more, perhaps, than 
 in any thing else, Shakespeare's words are true ; and 
 
 " The flighty purpose never is o'ertook 
 Unless the deed go with it." 
 
 For this reason, the touching incident you have sent me 
 has not yet shaped itself poetically in my mind as I 
 hope it some day will. Meanwhile I thank you most 
 sincerely for bringing it to my notice, and I agree with 
 you in thinking it very beautiful.' After a while it did 
 shape itself in the poet's mind into the form of the 
 exquisite sonnet beginning, — 
 
 ' " A soldier of the Union mustered out," 
 Is the inscription on an unknown grave 
 At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, 
 Nameless and dateless.'" 
 
 SMALL BOOKS. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow once said to J. J. Piatt, " People like 
 books of poems which they can read through at a sit- 
 ting. The publishers insist on quantity, but I have 
 always aimed to have my books small." 
 
 QUID PRO QUO. 
 
 There was one matter in which Mr. Longfellow set 
 a fine example to professional men. He was always 
 extremely scrupulous not to receive something for 
 
AN APOCRYPHAL POEM. 223 
 
 nothing. That is, he always paid for books, papers, 
 and other things which some authors and professional 
 men are accustomed to get gratis. 
 
 HIS AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 As many persons know, he was perpetually besieged 
 for his autograph. His patience never failed. He 
 kept in advance of the demand a large number of his 
 autographs written on little slips, storing them away 
 in an envelope for future use. These slips he would 
 paste on larger slips when needed. 
 
 RELATIONS TO PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow never exhibited any irritability in his 
 relations with his printers. A gentleman connected 
 with the University Press, where most of Mr. Long- 
 fellow's works were printed, has stated that in all the 
 years of his business relations with the poet, as printer 
 of his books and other work, he never heard him utter 
 an impatient or irritable word. 
 
 AN APOCRYPHAL POEM. 
 
 The following story and poem carry within them- 
 selves their own refutation. They are admitted here 
 only that the reader may enjoy a laugh over them. 
 They have gone the rounds of American newspapers as 
 though they were matters of fact ; but Mr. Longfellow 
 himself stated to the compiler of the Longfellow Birth- 
 da}' Book that the story and the poem were both unau- 
 thentic. The story runs as follows : — 
 
 " When our great poet was nine years old, his master 
 wanted him to write a 'composition.' Little Henry, 
 like all children, shrank from the undertaking. His 
 master said, ' You can write words, can you not ? ' 
 
224 HEN BY WABSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " ' Yes,' was the reply. 
 
 " ' Then, you can put words together? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 "'Then,' said the master, 'you may take your slate, 
 and go qut behind the schoolhouse, and there you can 
 find something to Write about, and then you can tell 
 what it is, what it is for, and what is to be done with 
 it ; and that is a composition.' 
 
 "Henry took his slate, and went out. He went 
 behind Mr. Finney's barn, which chanced to be near , 
 and, seeing a fine turnip growing, he thought he knew 
 what it was, what it was for, and what would be done 
 with it. 
 
 " A half-hour had been allowed to him for his first 
 undertaking in writing compositions. In a half-hour 
 he carried in his work all accomplished." 
 
 MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP. 
 
 Mr. Finney had a turnip, 
 
 And it grew, and it grew ; 
 And it grew behind the barn, 
 
 And the turnip did no harm. 
 
 And it grew", and it grew, 
 
 Till it could grow no taller ; 
 Then Mr. Finney took it up, 
 
 And put it in the cellar. 
 
 There it lay, there it lay, 
 
 Till it began to rot ; 
 When his daughter Susie washed it, 
 
 And put it in the pot. 
 
 Then she boiled it, and she boiled it, 
 
 As long as she was able ; 
 Then his daughter Lizzie took it, 
 
 And she put it on the table. 
 
LADY HARDY'S REMINISCENCES. 225 
 
 Mr. Finney and his wife 
 
 Both sat down to sup ; 
 And they ate, and they ate, 
 
 Until they ate the turnip up. 
 
 NAHANT. 
 
 Lady Duffus Hardy, in the last pages of her work, 
 entitled Through Cities and Prairie Lands, gives a 
 slight and airy, but pretty picture of the poet at his 
 seaside cottage in Nahant (about 1881) : — 
 
 " After shaking hands, and exchanging the usual 
 greetings, he presented us to his two brothers-in-law, 
 who reside with him. The household was not entirely 
 masculine, however : the poet's two daughters were 
 out in their yacht enjoying a sail ; the one is married, 
 and, with her little child, is only on a visit ; the other, 
 a very charming young lady, lives at home with her 
 father. We went through the house, and sat in the 
 back veranda. A tempting-looking hammock swung 
 there ; and wild roses climbed up the lattice-work, and 
 nodded their odorous heads at us, and showered their 
 pink petals at our feet. The poet gathered us a bunch 
 of the fairest blossoms : they lie faded and scentless 
 in my album to-day, but the memory of that July 
 afternoon at Nahant is fresh and green still. . . . We 
 sat there chatting in a pleasant way of the Old World 
 and the New. . . . Mr. Longfellow is no egotist: he 
 evidently does not care to talk of himself or his work. 
 He is full of that modesty which generally character- 
 izes great genius. . . . The meal, gastronomically con- 
 sidered, was on strictly gastronomical principles : we 
 sipped the vintage of Champagne while Ave enjoyed 
 the pork and beans of Boston, and washed down corn- 
 
226 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 cobs and hominy with mineral waters of Germany." 
 Probably very few of Lady Hardy's British readers 
 understand that in speaking here of corn-cobs, she re- 
 fers to that strictly aboriginal prandial custom, so rife 
 amongst us, of eating green Indian corn from the cob. 
 
 LONGFELLOW AT VESUVIUS. 
 
 A correspondent of The London Times for March 
 28, 1882, gives some crude although interesting im- 
 pressions derived from a single day's intercourse with 
 our American Chaucer at Naples and Vesuvius. They 
 struck up an acquaintanceship at a table-d'hote, and 
 agreed to ascend Vesuvius together, in company with 
 three vivacious young ladies from Boston. The vehi- 
 cles were open carriages. Mr. Longfellow was in his 
 happiest vein, and talked incessantly. Our somewhat 
 pert tourist may now speak for himself : — 
 
 "In Mr. Longfellow I could see no difference be- 
 tween the poet and the pleasant elderly gentleman 
 who was discoursing gayly on all things in heaven and 
 earth ; and, as I listened, a sufficiently obvious reflec- 
 tion was forced upon me. What was this most perfect 
 product of American civilization but a serious, severe 
 — I had almost said bigoted — conservative, and a 
 most fervent Christian? Longfellow's talk was his 
 poetry rendered into flowing prose. I conjured up 
 Paul Flemming in ' Hyperion,' and at length mustered 
 courage to ask, ' Was Paul Flemming a character 
 drawn from life ? ' He paused a full half-minute, then 
 answered exactly in the following words : ' He was 
 what I thought I might have been ; but I never ' — 
 He shaded his face with one hand, and did not complete 
 the sentence. From the sadness of the poet's tone I 
 
VISIT TO VESUVIUS. 227 
 
 conjectured that there was some implied confession of 
 failure in his reticence. I guessed that he was strug- 
 gling between the natural humility of a religious man 
 and the unwillingness of a well-bred man to intrude 
 the sorrows of his mind upon others. Mr. Longfellow 
 was right : he never attained to those cold heights on 
 which he had placed the creation of his fancy ; he 
 found a better resting-place. 
 
 " All three persons in the carriage, the Englishman 
 and the two ladies, almost simultaneously, now besought 
 the poet to recite some of his poetry, which he did. 
 The gentleman then asked him how long he had taken 
 to compose The Golden Legend. He replied, ' It 
 seems easy, doesn't it ? ' The friend replied, that he 
 supposed that, after he had thoroughly saturated his 
 mind with mediaeval lore, the composition of the poem 
 would have been a comparatively easy matter. ' Well,' 
 he rejoined, ' you are about right. The first draught I 
 did in four weeks, not counting the Sundays — I don't 
 like to work on Sundays — not even to write a hymn. 
 But I spent about six months correcting — and cutting 
 down.' The dashes in this little speech stand for the 
 pauses so frequent in Mr. Longfellow's utterances, — 
 pauses which were the result of constant introspection. 
 One fancied the poet had been asking his conscience 
 whether he had been telling the truth, the whole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth. A terribly exact man in 
 moral dealings with himself, — afraid even of an in- 
 accuracy which might possibly cause a fellow-man to 
 make a mistake twenty years after. 
 
 " We lunched at a small inn on the side of Vesuvius, 
 where the wine, by the way, was not of a kind to fire 
 
228 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 a poet's fancy ; after this we went to sniff and sneeze, 
 in the usual way of tourists, over the sulphurous gases 
 of the water, suggesting a poem on Empedocles, and 
 wondering what rhymes Longfellow could hammer out 
 for the name of this 'young man with the indestructi- 
 ble boots,' as the poet called him [because his sandal 
 was thrown up undestroyed from the crater]. Our 
 French companion was busy with a paradox of his own 
 as to Empedocles having been a young shoemaker 
 nobly desirous of advertising his father's shop a VAme- 
 ricaine, — i.e., regardless of cost, — and we were about 
 to descend the steeps laughing over this fancy, when, 
 to our considerable dismay, Mr. Longfellow expressed 
 his intention of spending the night upon the mountain. 
 Within a short distance of the crater, then only 
 smouldering with occasional unsavory whiffs and puffs, 
 stood a ruined plank shed, used in fine weather by a 
 screaming old woman who sold ornaments made of 
 lava ; and this place it was that the poet chose for his 
 vigil. Without a smile on his face he said, ' I want to 
 gather poetic impressions.' We looked becomingly 
 serious, and only begged to be permitted to keep watch 
 with him. ' No,' with two or three shakes of the 
 head ; ' I must be alone.' 
 
 "A whispered consultation between some members of 
 the party followed. ' He is quite in earnest, and must 
 do as he pleases,' said a brother of the fair Bostonians ; 
 and he added that there was no danger just then of 
 the greatest of American poets meeting with the same 
 fate as the younger Pliny. ' But the brigands ? ' sug- 
 gested the Frenchman. ' Dear me ! he will catch such 
 a dreadful cold,' chimed in one of the ladies. Finally 
 we decided to leave the poet to his reveries, after order- 
 
A CALL FROM RURAL PEOPLE. 229 
 
 ing a Maltese courier to stand sentinel, unobserved, 
 within hailing distance. It is probable that this courier 
 fulfilled at least the half of his duties faithfully, for his 
 presence was certainly never noticed by Mr. Longfellow. 
 The author of Excelsior turned up in the morning, 
 looking none the worse for his night's frolic with the 
 ghosts of Herculaneum and Pompeii ; but he persist- 
 ently parried every question put to him as to whether 
 he had found ' inspiration.' All he would say was, 
 that, on coming down from the mountain, he had been 
 requested by a gendarme to exhibit his passport,, and, 
 being unable to produce this document, had been nearly 
 marched off to the police-station. ' I purchased my lib- 
 erty for two lire,' he remarked smiling : ' the price of 
 that commodity has decreased since Cceur de Lion's 
 time.' " 
 
 BASS'S PALE ALE. 
 
 At a dinner-party in London, some one asked Mr. 
 Longfellow what he had been most impressed with in 
 England. " Bass's pale ale," he replied. Thereupon 
 some one at the lower end of the table perpetrated an 
 execrable pun by saying in a deep bass voice, " A good 
 joke, that ! " 
 
 A RURAL PARTY VISIT CRAIGIE HOUSE. 
 
 One day some people from way down in Maine 
 called at Mr. Longfellow's, and said they would like 
 to see " Washington's house." The host good-naturedly 
 acted as their cicerone, showing them over the various 
 rooms, and explaining matters as he went along. When 
 they reached the dining-room, one of them said, " And 
 so Washington sot in this room, did he ? " — u Yes." — 
 "And who lives here now?" — "I do, and my name 
 
230 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 is Longfellow." — " Longfeller ! Longfeller ! Air you 
 any relation of the Wiscasset Longfellers ? " 
 
 BYFIELD. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow had never seen the old family home- 
 stead at Byfield, Mass., until about the year 1876, when 
 he visited it in company with Charles Sumner. They 
 drove to Amesbury, and called on the poet Whittier ; 
 thence to Newburyport, where they took the cars for 
 Nahant. While visiting Indian Hill, near Byfield, they 
 planted an oak-tree. 
 
 An exquisite story is told of this visit to Byfield. 
 The Longfellows there are long-fellows indeed, and 
 heavily-built into the bargain. Mr. Longfellow felt the 
 difference between his size and theirs, and remarked to 
 one of them, with a twinkle in his eye, " It seems to 
 me that our branch of the family is sadly degenerat- 
 ing." 
 
 THE POET'S VIGOROUS OLD AGE. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow in his seventy-sixth year was said 
 to be the only poet whose productions, in his old age, 
 were fully equal to those written in the days of his 
 prime. 
 
 THOROUGHNESS OF PREPARATION. 
 
 " I had the fever a long time burning in my own 
 brain," said Mr. Longfellow, " before I let my hero take 
 it. ' Evangeline ' is so easy for you to read, because 
 it was so hard for me to write." 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHPLACE. 
 
 The house in which Longfellow was born in Portland 
 is now used as a tenement-house. One day a school- 
 
PORTRAITS. 231 
 
 mistress in one of the schools in Portland asked the 
 scholars if any one of them could tell her where the 
 poet Longfellow was born. After considerable cogita- 
 tion, a little boy shouted out, " I know, — in Patsy 
 Connor's bedroom ! " 
 
 PORTRAITS BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 One of the best likenesses of Mr. Longfellow was 
 painted by Read, and now hangs in the poet's library. 
 The famous group of the three daughters of Longfel- 
 low was also painted by Read. One of the daughters 
 was so depicted that she seemed to be without arms. 
 It is well known that there was a widely spread belief 
 among people that the daughter was actually born 
 without arms. The poet Lowell was one day riding 
 up Brattle Street, Cambridge, in a horse-car, when he 
 overheard one woman telling another, with an air of the 
 most solemn conviction, the story of the armless child. 
 Mr. Lowell was unable to refrain from the attempt to 
 undeceive her, and said, " My dear madam, I assure 
 you that you are mistaken. I am an intimate friend 
 of the family, and I know that the facts are not as you 
 say." The woman drew herself up with an injured 
 look, and replied, " I have it, sir, from a lady who got 
 it from a member of the family ! " When the picture 
 of the children was engraved, Mr. Longfellow received 
 many letters asking if it were* true that one of his 
 daughters had been born without arms. 
 
 PORTRAIT BY WYATT EATON. 
 
 In the November (1878) number of Scribner's 
 Monthly was published Wyatt Eaton's portrait of 
 Longfellow engraved on wood for that magazine. 
 
232 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Opposite to the portrait is the following verse, in fac- 
 simile of the poet's handwriting : — 
 
 All are architects of Fate 
 
 Working in these walls of Time, 
 Some with massive deeds and great, 
 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme. 
 
 The handwriting of this stanza, written Sept. 20, 
 1878, is as clear and firm as if it had been written by 
 a youth of twenty. 
 
 ANECDOTE OF LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 " Lord Houghton, when in this country, was delight- 
 ed, but somewhat surprised, to hear a gentleman at a 
 social gathering quoting something from his own favor- 
 ite Keats ; but no American would be surprised to 
 hear Longfellow quoted anywhere in the world," says 
 a writer in The Philadelphia Ledger and Transcript. 
 
 HIS WALKS. 
 
 One who knew Longfellow sa}*s that in the early 
 days of his Cambridge life it was "a pleasant sight to 
 see Longfellow out walking with his children, always 
 with his stately, calm, and noble bearing, though bend- 
 ing to their slightest word, and seeming to take great 
 delight in their company. Before the country west of 
 his mansion was cut up by cross-streets and built upon, 
 it was customary to see him, on pleasant days, in the 
 winding lanes leading to Fresh Pond, or strolling over 
 the hills." 
 
 When Professor Longfellow came into possession of 
 Craigie House, there were scarcely any houses on the 
 south side of Brattle Street, and what is now Sparks 
 Street was then a winding grassy way, called Vassal 
 Lane. 
 
VISIT TO ENGLAND. 233 
 
 INCIDENT IN ENGLAND. 
 
 In a letter by Hon. Robert C. Winthrop, read before 
 the Massachusetts Historical Society, after the death 
 of Longfellow, the following pleasant little incident 
 was mentioned : " The last time he was in Europe I 
 was there with him, and I was a witness to not a few 
 of the honors which he received from high and low. I 
 remember particularly that when we were coming away 
 from the House of Lords together, where we had been 
 hearing a fine speech from his friend the Duke of Ar- 
 gyll, a group of the common people gathered around 
 our carriage, calling him by name, begging to touch his 
 hand, and at least one of them reciting aloud one of his 
 most familiar poems." 
 
 HIS LATER YEARS. 
 
 Professor Charles Eliot Norton, in his remarks at the 
 meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, has 
 spoken feelingly of the last years of Longfellow : — 
 
 " Life was fair to him almost to its end. On his 
 seventy-fourth birthday, a little more than a year ago, 
 with his family and a few friends round his dinner- 
 table, he said, ' There seems to me a mistake in the 
 order of the years : I can hardly believe that the four 
 should not precede the seven.' But in the year that 
 followed he experienced the pains and languor and 
 weariness of age. There was no complaint : the sweet- 
 ness of his nature was invincible. 
 
 " On one of the last times that I saw him, as I 
 entered his familiar study on a beautiful afternoon of 
 this past winter (1881-82), I said to him, ' I hope this 
 is a good day for you.' He replied, with a pleasant 
 smile, 'Ah, there are no good days now ! ' ' 
 
234 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 STATUE TO LONGFELLOW IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 A few clays after Mr. Longfellow's death, Mr. Francis 
 Brown Gilman, in conversation with his kinsman, Mr. 
 Arthur Gilman of Cambridge, suggested the propriety 
 of purchasing the open ground in front of the Long- 
 fellow mansion, on the opposite side of the street, and 
 erecting on it a statue to the " First Citizen " of Cam- 
 bridge. Mr. Arthur Gilman thereupon brought the 
 matter before the public in a communication to The 
 Boston Daily Advertiser, and also called at his house 
 a meeting of friends anc\ neighbors of the poet. At 
 this meeting a committee was appointed, which drew 
 up a constitution for the " Longfellow Memorial Asso- 
 ciation." The constitution was adopted at a meeting 
 held Thursday, April 13, 1882. 
 
 The object of the Association, as set forth in the 
 constitution, is to provide " suitable memorials to the 
 late Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and to ar- 
 range for their care and preservation." The immediate 
 object is to purchase of the Longfellow heirs the lot 
 that has been mentioned, and erect on it the statue of 
 Longfellow. The owners have already signified their 
 willingness to part with the land. As soon as the 
 officers of the Association have been elected, subscrip- 
 tion-books will be opened. "All persons who con- 
 tribute to the funds of the Association the sum of one 
 dollar or more at one time shall become honorary mem- 
 bers." The annual meeting for the election of officers 
 is to be held on Longfellow's birthday, the 27th of 
 February. The active members are all either promi- 
 nent in the municipal and social life of the city, or are 
 eminent in some department of art or science. It is 
 
SAMUEL WARD'S REMINISCENCES. 235 
 
 intended to raise a hundred thousand dollars in sub- 
 scriptions of any amount, no matter how small, from 
 any person in the Old World or the New, who may 
 wish to contribute, as it is intended that the movement 
 shall be strictly popular. James Russell Lowell was 
 chosen first president of the Association, and Dr. 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, President Charles William 
 Eliot, John G. Whittier, Charles Deane, and Alex- 
 ander Agassiz, vice-presidents. 
 
 SAMUEL WARD'S REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Mr. Samuel Ward first became accpaainted with Long- 
 fellow in Europe. Their friendship was very intimate. 
 He relates that the poet on Thanksgiving Day in 1881 
 expressed to him great admiration for George Cable's 
 " Grandissimes," and hoped that it would be the type 
 of a new style of American novels. It was due to Mr. 
 Ward that the translation of " The Children of the 
 Lord's Supper " was made. Baron Nordin, Swedish 
 Minister to Washington, gave him the poem, and he 
 took it to the poet in Cambridge. 
 
 SALE OF A POEM. 
 
 There was some doubt in the minds of the poet's 
 Boston friends as to the value of " The Skeleton in 
 Armor." Mr. Ward says, " I took the poem, and read 
 it aloud with a certain fervor inspired by its heroic 
 measure, and I think that his own opinion was con- 
 firmed by my enthusiastic rendering of the part. I 
 carried it to New York, where, having shown it to the 
 poet Halleck, and obtained a certificate from him of its 
 surpassing l}-ric excellence, I sold it to Lewis Gaylord 
 Clarke of the Knickerbocker Magazine, for fifty dollars, 
 
236 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 a large price in those days for any poetical produc- 
 tion." 
 
 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 
 
 Mr. Ward says, " About ten years ago, when paying 
 my usual Christmas visit, he read to me ' The Hanging 
 of the Crane,' two hundred lines, for which Robert 
 Bonner of ' The New York Ledger ' paid me four thou- 
 sand dollars, having offered one thousand when I men- 
 tioned the existence of the poem. Mr. Longfellow 
 declined that price, when the owner of 'Dexter' — 
 whom the poet, in his letters to me, called ' Diomed, 
 the tamer of horses' — quadrupled his bid, and ob- 
 tained the prize." 
 
 LONGFELLOW IN HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Mr. Ward tells of calls he made upon Longfellow in 
 Heidelberg in the spring of 1836. "Longfel]ow had 
 led a secluded life since the death of his young wife, in 
 Holland, the previous summer. My budget of rattling 
 talk was, therefore, a cheering and interesting peep into 
 the social world from which his mourning had so long 
 excluded him. . . . The following day I visited him at 
 his rooms, which were strewn with books, in a house on 
 the main street, embracing a view of the castle. He 
 was ready for another of my Sindbad narratives ; and in 
 later years more than once recalled, with a smile, the 
 fact of my taking off my coat, as his room was warmed 
 by a German stove, to talk more freely in my shirt- 
 sleeves. With me it was a case of love at first sight, 
 which has burned with the steady light of a Jewish 
 tabernacle ever since." 
 
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 237 
 
 ONE OF THE POET'S LATEST LETTERS. 
 
 The following letter, addressed to Mr. Ward, is one 
 of the last Mr. Longfellow ever wrote. It appeared in 
 The North American Review for May, 1882. 
 
 Cambridge, Jan. 23, 1882. 
 
 My dear Uncle Sam, — "Whom the gods love die 
 young," because they never grow old, though they may live 
 to fourscore years and upward. 
 
 So say I, whenever I read your graceful and sportive fan- 
 cies in the papers you send me, or in those I send you. 
 
 I am now waiting for the last, announced in your letter of 
 yesterday, not yet arrived. 
 
 Pardon my not writing sooner and oftener. My day is 
 very short ; as I get up late, and go to bed early, — a kind of 
 Arctic winter's day, when the sun is above the horizon for a 
 few hours only. 
 
 Yes, the " Hermes " went into The Century. 
 
 I come back to where I began, the perpetual youth of 
 some people. You remember the anecdote of Ducis. When 
 somebody said of him, " 11 est tombe en enfance," a friend 
 replied, " Non, il est ventre en jeunesse." That is the polite 
 way of putting things. But, old or young, 
 Always yours, 
 
 H. W. L. 
 
 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 
 
 Of " The Skeleton in Armor " Mr. Longfellow says, 
 " This ballad was suggested to me while riding on the 
 seashore at Newport. A year or two previous, a skel- 
 eton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken 
 and corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to me of 
 connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, gen- 
 erally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though 
 
238 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. * 
 
 now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early- 
 ancestors. " Mr. Longfellow rode to see the exhumed 
 skeleton, accompanied by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe and 
 others. The poet urged Mrs. Howe to write a poem 
 on the subject, but fate ordered it that the honor 
 should fall to him. The ballad has been set to very 
 spirited music, and has also furnished themes for the 
 pencil of the artist, the Old Round Tower proving 
 especially attractive to the artistic eye. 
 
 TAX-BILL OF WILLIAM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The following note, received from Mr. H. F. Long- 
 fellow, explains itself : — 
 
 April 18, 1882. 
 Mr. W. S. Kennedy. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I have in my possession a tax-bill of 
 William Longfellow (the emigrant ancestor), and send you 
 the following copy : — 
 
 Mr. William Longfelow 
 
 his rates in the year 16S6. 
 
 1— 2 — 9 
 Credit — 15 — 
 
 Joseph Ilsley [then Constable for Newbury]. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 HOKACE FAIRBANKS LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Byfield, Mass. 
 
 SOUVENIR OF LONGFELLOW. 
 
 A most valuable and interesting memento of the 
 dead poet, which we have been permitted to examine, 
 is owned by a gentleman of Boston. It consists of 
 the poem of Excelsior, in the poet's own handwriting, 
 and signed by him. This is preceded by a two-page 
 autographic letter from Mr. Longfellow, explaining how 
 
OLD ROUND TOWER, NEWPORT. 
 
240 HENRY WADSWORTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 he came to select the title for the poem ; another auto- 
 graph letter is to the present owner, forwarding the 
 lines to him. A series of twenty-five illustrations by 
 various artists, which are inlaid to quarto size, illustrate 
 the poem. This is followed by a curious parody in Chi- 
 nese " pigeon English," with four illustrations. 
 
 In addition to this, in the same volume, is an extract 
 from The Bridge : — 
 
 " I stood on the bridge at midnight," 
 
 also verses in the poet's handwriting, and signed by 
 him in 1845, with a proof illustration of the same; 
 then comes an autographic letter of Jared Sparks to a 
 friend, announcing that Mr. Longfellow is preparing 
 another poem. "It relates," says the writer, "to the 
 Plymouth Pilgrims ; and it contains a romantic story 
 about Miles Standish, the military champion of the Pil- 
 grim band." This is followed by an autographic letter 
 of Longfellow's respecting the writing and publishing 
 of Miles Standish, and proof illustrations of the poem. 
 A notable autographic memento in this unique volume 
 is a letter from Charles Dickens to Moxon, the London 
 publisher, which runs as follows : — 
 
 Devonshire Terrace, 
 
 Tuesday, Oct. 17, 1842. 
 
 My dear Sir, — Mr. Longfellow, the best of American 
 poets (as I have no doubt you know), is staying with me, 
 and wishes to see you on the subject of republishing his 
 verses. 
 
 We breakfast with Mr. Rogers to-morrow morning, and 
 will call upon you, if convenient, when we leave his house. 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 Edward Moxon, Esq. 
 
POETIC INSPIRATION. 241 
 
 Fourteen different portraits of the poet, from the 
 earliest to the latest taken, principally proof impres- 
 sions of the engravings, are contained in the work, 
 which is farther illustrated by fine engravings of the 
 poet's residence in Cambridge, both exterior and inte- 
 rior views, and also of the Longfellow mansion at Port- 
 land, Maine. Other engravings referring directly to 
 the poet and his career, and others of his letters, — one 
 referring to the Wadsworth coat-of-arms, — are con- 
 tained in this collection, which the owner proposes to 
 have placed in a sumptuous binding, and which, as a 
 whole, is certainly a unique as well as an exceedingly 
 valuable memento. — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 POETIC INSPIRATION. 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow had a peculiar gift for ingratiating 
 himself into the good-will of children, and always 
 showed a keen appreciation of their bright speeches. 
 He was one day walking in the garden with a little 
 maiden of five years who was fond of poetry, and occa- 
 sionally " made up some " herself. " I, too, am fond of 
 poetry," he said to her. " Suppose you give me a little 
 of yours this beautiful morning 9 " — " Think," cried he 
 afterward to a friend, who tells the story in The Boston 
 Courier, throwing up his hands, his eyes sparkling with 
 merriment, " think what her answer was. She said, 
 ' O Mr. Longfellow, it doesn't always come when you 
 want it ! ' Ah me ! how true, how true ! " Several 
 months later the friend and the little girl called at the 
 poet's home. After showing his little friend many 
 things of interest in his study, and especially delighting 
 himself at her amazement on telling her he " supposed 
 the Ancient Mariner came out of the inkstand upon 
 
242 HEN BY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 his table " (it once belonged to Coleridge), he said in 
 a low tone, as if thinking aloud, " It doesn't always 
 come when you want it ! " — New York Tribune. 
 
 HIS AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 A friend of Mr. Longfellow writes : — 
 
 " It is the penalty of famous men to be pestered for 
 autographs. Mr. Longfellow was not chary of his, 
 when properly asked for, but rather took it as an evi- 
 dence of good-will, and complied with pleasure. But 
 knowing how annoyed noted men are by the profes- 
 sional autograph-seekers, who make a business of beg- 
 ging their names to sell for a consideration, I disliked 
 very much to ask the poet for a bit of his writing, even 
 to gratify a friend who I knew would value it. I 
 noticed that he would take the book home I wished 
 him to write in. I disliked to give him this trouble, 
 and told him so : but he said it was no trouble at all ; 
 and in the morning lie would come down with it as 
 cheery and pleasant as if I had done him a favor instead 
 of having received one. 
 
 " This habit of writing at home may account for the 
 uniform appearance of his autograph : at least it shows 
 the deliberate care with which he did every thing, even 
 to writing his name. Sometimes he would give a stanza 
 from the poem most admired in the book, or in some 
 way show his genuine good feeling. I once expressed 
 my delight with a poem he had written about a locality 
 I was familiar with, and wished he could give me a 
 few lines of it. He brought me the whole poem care- 
 fully written out on the broad sheet he was accustomed 
 to use for his writing (for he had one kind of paper 
 for his pencil, and another for his pen, and both were 
 of the usual letter size). 
 
AT HOME. 243 
 
 " But even he sometimes rebelled at the demand for 
 his name. People would apply by postal-card for his 
 autograph, not reflecting, that, in order to send it, he 
 would have to furnish an envelope and pay postage. 
 There may be some who will say he never replied to 
 them ; but I believe it will be those who would impose 
 upon him in this way, or who, at least, were very 
 thoughtless and inconsiderate, and those whose letters 
 may have never been received by him." 
 
 LONGFELLOW AT HOME. 
 
 A neighbor of the poet writes to The New York 
 Independent as follows : — 
 
 " While all the English-speaking world mourns the 
 departed poet, Cambridge, the community in which 
 Mr. Longfellow lived, groans at the loss of the man, 
 the friend, the neighbor, the most honored, and the 
 most beloved. I will respond to your request to speak 
 of Mr. Longfellow in his ordinary relations as a mem- 
 ber of a New England community. I speak from no 
 greater intimacy, perhaps, than hundreds of his neigh- 
 bors enjoyed ; but thus, it may be, being without the 
 partiality of special friendship, I can better express the 
 general sentiment with which he was regarded. 
 
 " That the kind of appreciation in which Mr. Long- 
 fellow was held here may be better understood, it may 
 be well to mention some of the social characteristics of 
 ' Old Cambridge,' as it is familiarly called, or rather 
 that portion of it in which Mr. Longfellow lived. 
 Whether from Puritan inheritance, or the happy influ- 
 ence of letters, or the simple tastes and modest means 
 of the scholars who have given tone to its society, or 
 the semi-rural habits encouraged by the possession of 
 
244 HENRY WABSWORTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 broad grounds and extensive gardens, there is a simpli- 
 city, almost homeliness, in the social life of Cambridge, 
 not ordinarily attributed to the New England metrop- 
 olis of letters. There # is not only a pervading kindli- 
 ness within what might be esteemed the more select 
 circles, but a freedom and friendliness of intercourse 
 among all classes of the community seldom seen else- 
 where. To this excellent social spirit Mr. Longfellow 
 greatly contributed ; certainly he largely partook of it. 
 And this may explain how he became so closely iden- 
 tified with all classes of the community in which he 
 lived, and how he gained the privilege of that general 
 appreciation which he enjoyed. 
 
 " Hundreds of men honored him who knew nothing of 
 him as a poet. The first notice I had of the impending 
 calamity was from an Irish porter in an office in Bos- 
 ton, who rushed into my room with this exclamation : 
 ' It is on the bulletin-boards that our dear good friend 
 Mr. Longfellow is dying. I have worked at his house, 
 repairing his furnace, many a day. There was nobody 
 like him in all Cambridge.' On the way home in the 
 horse-cars, the fatal end being then publicly known, 
 men and women talked about it to their fellow-passen- 
 gers, though strangers, as they are wont to do in some 
 great public calamity. And in his own town I believe 
 that on that night there was scarcely a home which was 
 not pervaded by the common sorrow. On the next 
 morning the sentiment, if not the words, was uttered 
 from every lip : ' The sun of Cambridge is extin- 
 guished.' 
 
 " The sturdy and practical men of Cambridge liked 
 Mr. Longfellow for his methodical business habits, his 
 
LOVABLE TRAITS. 245 
 
 punctuality in his engagements, his good sense in his 
 affairs, his interest in the concerns of the town, and 
 his soundness on public questions. Though he rarely 
 attended political meetings, he was a pronounced Repub- 
 lican, and always contributed to the funds required for 
 political exigencies. Though never engaging in con- 
 troversy, he took care that his political sympathies 
 should be known ; and while the people of his town 
 are somewhat conspicuous for their erratic, or, as they 
 would call them, independent views in politics, Mr. 
 Longfellow, with his practical good sense, recognized 
 the necessity of parties in politics, and was accustomed 
 to say, 'I vote with my party.'' 
 
 " The people of Cambridge delighted in Mr. Long- 
 fellow's loyalty to the town of his residence and its 
 society. They could not fail to be gratified that he and 
 his family did not seek the society of the neighboring 
 metropolis, or rather usually declined its solicitations, 
 and preferred the simple and familiar ways and old 
 friends of the less pretentious suburban community. 
 Nothing could be more charming than the apparently 
 absolute unconsciousness of distinction which pervaded 
 the intercourse of Mr. Longfellow and his family with 
 Cambridge society. 
 
 " The people of Cambridge are quite justly proud of 
 their historic monuments, which, with the growing 
 greatness of the West, will soon be nearly all left us of 
 the East to boast of. Under any circumstances, they 
 would be chiefly proud of the Craigie mansion, the 
 headquarters of Washington during the siege of Bos- 
 ton. They were doubly proud that this mansion should 
 receive a new glory from the world's poet and their 
 friend. They became accustomed to associate him with 
 
246 HENRY WADSWOBTll LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Washington : at least, they regarded him as the only 
 one worthy of being Washington's successor in that 
 residence. 
 
 " I know the peculiar charm of his language in talk- 
 ing of the commonest things ; how, in speaking of the 
 trees, the clouds, or the weather, he would express some 
 delicate thought or quaint conceit, as agreeable as un- 
 expected. But I can recall but a few of these expres- 
 sions, and these too trivial to be preserved, if they had 
 not fallen from him. 
 
 " My first impression of his sweetness I gathered some 
 } r ears ago, when I accidentally overheard him in con- 
 versation with Mr. James Russell Lowell, as I walked 
 behind them on Brattle Street. A sweet little girl 
 came running by them ; and I heard Mr. Longfellow say 
 to Mr. Lowell, k I like little girls the best,' and he con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 • What are little girls made of ? 
 Sugar and spice 
 And all things nice, — 
 That's what little girls are made of.' 
 
 We can see how lyy a sort of instinct all the little girls 
 in the land are repeating the verses of the poet who 
 loved them so well. 
 
 " Of late years Mr. Longfellow has gone very little into 
 general society : but the archery-parties recently given 
 in his neighborhood seemed to afford him especial pleas- 
 ure ; and we have several beautiful afternoons to remem- 
 ber when he honored the Elmwood Archery Grounds, 
 and gazed upon the sport. ' How they come like a band 
 of young braves ! ' I remember hearing him say, as the 
 young men returned with arrows from the targets. In 
 
THE OLD CHESTNUT-TREE. 247 
 
 the most ordinary conversation he was forever dropping 
 pearls ; and I recall a walk on the Charles-river Bridge, 
 when, as the breeze from the river swept through the 
 commonplace telegraph-wires, he called them ' an seolian 
 harp hung in the sky.' 
 
 " We felt the loss of our beloved friend the more 
 because it was so unexpected ; for although his health 
 had been delicate for some months, there was no serious 
 apprehension of fatal results. His bearing was so erect, 
 and his gait so light and springing, he was so genial, so 
 cheerful, so beautiful, and apparently so untouched by 
 old age, that when I last saw him and talked with him, 
 not three weeks ago, it seemed as though he would live 
 many years longer, the most cherished possession of the 
 old town he loved so well. The legacy he has left is 
 not merely his divine poems : it is also the memory of 
 the benign presence which almost consecrated the scenes 
 among which he dwelt." 
 
 THE OLD CHESTNUT-TREE. 
 
 Some years ago the " village smithy " on Brattle 
 Street was removed, and a dwelling-house erected in 
 its place. To make room for the house, it became 
 necessary to lop the branches of the famous old horse- 
 chestnut. The tree was also trimmed from the street 
 side, and had become so unsightly an object, that, when 
 the order came from the City Council that it must be 
 cut down, Mr. Longfellow, although loath to have it 
 fall, yet said to a Cambridge citizen, that it might as 
 well come down now, for its beauty was forever gone. 
 A friend who was in Cambridge at the time writes : — 
 
 " Early in the morning the choppers were at it. Like 
 burning sparks from the anvil the chips flew in every 
 
248 HENRY WADSWORTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 direction ; and soon a crash was heard, and the cry 
 went up, ' The old chestnut is down ! ' The word ran 
 from lip to lip ; and a crowd was quickly collected, — 
 all rushing out from house and shop, just as they were, 
 without coat or hat, and bearing off some fragment as 
 a souvenir. They looked like ants bearing a burden 
 bigger than themselves. But some city officer inter- 
 fered, and the work of plunder ceased. 
 
 " From this destruction sprung the arm-chair which 
 the children of Cambridge presented to Longfellow, — 
 if not to appease the manes of the old tree which had 
 been so abused, certainly to show their love for the 
 good old poet who had immortalized it by his verse. 
 How busy the children were making their little collec- 
 tions for this object ! It was the talk in the school and 
 in the street, and was in the heart and mind of every- 
 body. But when the gift came it was a genuine sur- 
 prise to Longfellow, — not that he had not heard of 
 what was doing, but it came with such an enthusiastic 
 outburst of feeling, and was so fine a piece of work, 
 that he was fairly overcome, and conquered in the 
 ' round tower of his heart.' He seemed to have writ- 
 ten the poem to the children, in acknowledgment of 
 their gift, with great spontaneity, and scarcely a change 
 was made in the proof of it. It came from the heart, 
 and went to the heart ; and he took delight in having 
 it printed to distribute among the school-children." 
 
 A PITEOUS INCIDENT. 
 
 Mr. George W. Childs of Philadelphia, who several 
 years ago entertained the poet at dinner in Rome, re- 
 lates, that, while they were walking to the dining-room, 
 on the way through the corridor of the hotel, they 
 
GENTLENESS AND GRACE. 249 
 
 passed a series of lighted wax candles placed in can- 
 delabra surrounded by flowers ; and Longfellow imme- 
 diately shaded his face with his hand, and begged his 
 companion to hasten his footsteps. He had probably 
 been reminded of the death of his wife by burning. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S GENTLENESS AND GRACE. 
 
 Sydney Chase contributes to The Washington Post 
 the following story of a visit to the poet : — 
 
 " Provided with a letter of introduction, I entered 
 the gate of the grounds, which is ever hospitably open ; 
 and standing on the piazza was the gray-haired poet 
 himself. He advanced, and saluted his visitor with a 
 gracious courtesy that would have put the most timid 
 at their ease, and kept the most presumptuous in check. 
 He has an artful kindliness and a beautiful simplicity 
 in manner, — that which the French have aptly called 
 the politeness of the heart. 
 
 ' His eyes diffuse a venerable grace, 
 And charity itself was in his face.' 
 
 There is something about him, in his nice observance 
 of the small, sweet courtesies of life, that carries one 
 back to the bygone days when good-breeding was a 
 study and politeness an art. He is so natural and un- 
 assuming that he is of necessity elegant in deportment, 
 — as simplicity is the last form of elegance to be 
 attained. A young enthusiast exclaimed, after seeing 
 him, 'All the vulgar and pretentious people in the 
 world ought to be sent to see Mr. Longfellow, to learn 
 how to behave.' Mr. Longfellow himself thus defined 
 the law of politeness : ' The consciousness of being 
 assured of one's position is the great promoter of good 
 
250 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 manners ; and this explains the utter absence of preten- 
 sion in English people of rank, — there is, for them, no 
 need of assertion. They can afford to be polite.' He 
 led the way to his library, a sunny corner room, and, 
 wheeling up a comfortable chair for his visitor, seated 
 himself in his own especial chair. 
 
 " ' Now,' said he in his kindest voice, ' tell me what 
 you have written.' 
 
 " He listened with an admirable attention to the 
 story, old, but always interesting to a veteran, of the 
 struggles of a literary beginner. Then he said impress- 
 ively, 'Always write your best," — repeating it with 
 his hand upraised. ' Remember, your best. Keep a 
 scrap-book, and put in it every thing you write. It will 
 be of great service to you.' 
 
 " His visitor mentioned to him the pleasant lines 
 in which his lot was cast, in comparison with other 
 literary men, noticeably Sir Walter Scott, — that he 
 had all 
 
 That which should accompany old age. 
 
 As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends.' 
 
 " ' Yes,' he said, ' I feel it, — I feel it daily." When he 
 was asked as to the number of visitors who came to pay 
 him their respects, he said, ' They come every day from 
 all parts of the country.' He might have added from all 
 parts of the world. 
 
 " He spoke of Thackeray with admiration. ' He was 
 so great, — so honest a writer.' In speaking of the 
 saints whom the Roman Catholics revere, he said, ' I, too, 
 have a favorite saint, — St. Francis of Assisi.' 
 
 " I told him of having been forced in childish days to 
 learn the Psalm of Life. He laughed heartily at the 
 
A CORNER IN LONGFELLOW'S STUDY 
 
 IN THE POET'S HOME, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
252 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 description of the profound distaste and complete mys- 
 tification of a miss of eight years at this, his immortal 
 poem; but he asked, 'You came at last to understand 
 it, did you not ? ' 
 
 " He agreed with his visitor in a dislike for the 
 modern verse that makes sense subservient to sound, 
 and turns poetry into an elaborate arrangement of 
 ornate phrases. In response to a quotation on the 
 question, from Macaulay, to the effect that literary 
 style should not only be so clear that it can be under- 
 stood, but so clear that it cannot be misunderstood, he 
 said, ' I like simplicity in all things, but above all in 
 poetry.' 
 
 " He spoke with strong aversion of the crude scep- 
 ticism of the day, explaining that the term 'sceptic' was 
 habitually misapplied, as it meant not necessarily an 
 unbeliever, but a seeker after truth. I remarked that 
 the first order of mind was not sceptical, — Shakspeare, 
 Dante, Milton, Bacon, Pascal, as compared with minds 
 of the caliber of Voltaire and Gibbon ; following with a 
 quotation of Thackeray's noble lines, ' O awful, awful 
 Name of God ! Light unbearable ! Mystery unfathom- 
 able ! Vastness immeasurable ! O Name that God's 
 people did fear to utter ! O Light that God's prophet 
 would have perished had he seen ! Who are they who 
 now are so familiar with it ! ' He seemed much struck.' 
 ' That,' he said, ' is a very grand sentence.' 
 
 He took down his magnificent volumes of Dante. 
 4 This is my latest present,' said he. I opened it, and 
 exclaimed, 'Why, this is Dutch!' — 'Yes, it is — high 
 Dutch,' said Mr. Longfellow, smiling ; k and do you 
 know there is no language in the world in which Dante 
 can be so successfully translated as in Dutch, owing to 
 
THE POET'S VILLA IN OCTOBER. 253 
 
 the formation of the participle ; ' and he gave a short 
 explanation of the differences and difficulties of trans- 
 lating Dante into English verse." 
 
 THE POET'S VILLA IN OCTOBER. 
 
 " October is • the best month for seeing the place in 
 all its beauty," says a writer in The Boston Book Bulle- 
 tin. " Then the clustering lilacs, still green with sum- 
 mer freshness, are overrun with the wild, red beauty of 
 riotous woodbine, dying in a glow of defiance. Then 
 from the trees fluttering leaves of welcome float into 
 the outstretched hand, or fall gently before the advan- 
 cing feet. 
 
 " The old elm at the door is stripped of its leaves, and 
 you wonder at the fine network of interlacing boughs. 
 Charles River, now clearly seen, winds along like an S 
 of running silver. October, too, is the time to walk in 
 the old-fashioned garden, — a garden such as Andrew 
 Marvell's must have been : — 
 
 1 1 have a garden of my own, 
 But so with roses overgrown, 
 And lilies, that you would it guess 
 To be a little wilderness.' 
 
 " This ' little wilderness ' is shut out from inharmo- 
 nious sights and sounds. To come from the noisy world 
 into its cool retreat, is from Avernus to the Happy 
 Valley. 
 
 " One can imagine fairies in the flower-cups, and spir- 
 its gliding down the shaded walks, — spirits of stately 
 dames in embroidered petticoats and high-heeled slip- 
 pers, and gallant courtiers with sheathed swords and 
 powdered cues ; and, with these majestic ghosts, the 
 
254 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 fair young Muse of poetry, gazing at them with clear 
 eyes unabashed, knowing that at her hands they lose 
 not one grace or remembered glory. 
 
 " Sitting in the half-ruined summer-house, I sometimes 
 almost wished the doctrine of Pythagoras were reversed, 
 and that my soul might pass into the flower growing 
 beside me, or the bird singing overhead. I envied the 
 little golden lady-bugs that sunned their magnificence 
 in the poet's garden, and wondered if the lazy cater- 
 pillars knew what good fortune awaited them as butter- 
 flies in this earthly paradise." 
 
 JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE'S REMINISCENCES. 
 
 John T. Trowbridge, in an entertaining biographical 
 sketch in The Youth's Companion, says : — 
 
 " A little more than sixty-five years ago, in the city 
 of Portland, Me., — which, by the way, was not a city 
 then, — an important literary event took place ; though 
 surely nobody was aware of its importance at the time 
 (with the exception, perhaps, of one small boy), and 
 the world has not rung with it since. 
 
 "The said small boy, aged ten, stole out of his father's 
 house one evening, with an agitating secret in his breast 
 and something precious in his breast-pocket. That 
 something was a copy of verses, — a little, a very little 
 poem, — which he had written by stealth, and which 
 he was now going to drop into the letter-box of the 
 newspaper-office on the corner. 
 
 " More than once he walked by the door, fearing to 
 be seen doing so audacious a deed. But hope inspired 
 him ; and, running to the editor's box when nobody was 
 near to observe him, he stood on his toes, and, reaching 
 up, dropped the poem in. 
 
HIS FIRST POEM. 255 
 
 " He hurried home with a fluttering heart. But the 
 next evening he walked by the office again, and from 
 the opposite side of the street looked up at the printers 
 at their work. 
 
 " It was summer-time, and the windows were open ; 
 and seeing the compositors in their shirt-sleeves, each 
 with a shaded lamp over his case, making a little halo 
 of hope and romance to the boy's eyes, he said to him- 
 self, ' Maybe they are printing my poem ! ' 
 
 " When the family newspaper came, and he carried it 
 to a secret corner, and opened it with hope and fear — 
 sure enough, heading the Poet's Corner, and looking 
 strange, but oh, so beautiful in print, there were his 
 precious verses ! 
 
 " Many years after, he told me the story of this first 
 literary venture, much as I have told it here. That 
 earliest poem had been followed by works which had 
 become familiar as household words in the mouths of 
 English-speaking people all over the world. Honor 
 and fame were his in full measure. But he said, with 
 a smile, ' I don't think any other literary success in my 
 life has made me quite so happy since ! ' . . . 
 
 " He became a contributor to the best periodicals of 
 those days. But the pay he received was ridiculously 
 small. In later years, when editors were glad to get 
 a contribution from him on any terms, he once spoke 
 of having just received for a poem a price which seemed 
 to him very large. I replied, that it did not seem to 
 me excessive, considering the name and fame that went 
 with it. 'Ah,' said he, ' you young fellows [to be called 
 by him a young felloiv was delightfully flattering to my 
 gray hairs !] have had the luck to come along at a time 
 when good prices prevail. You would think differently 
 
256 HENRY WALSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 if you had written as many poems for five dollars apiece 
 as I have.' . . . 
 
 " He was of medium height, with strong, symmetri- 
 cal features, mild blue eyes under fine brows, and hair 
 and beard of patriarchal whiteness in his later years. 
 Charles Kingsley said of him in 1868, ' Longfellow is 
 far handsomer and nobler than his portraits make him : 
 I do not think I ever saw a finer human face.' This 
 might have been truly said of him to the last. 
 
 " The same gentle and humane spirit which charac- 
 terized his writings showed itself also in the manners 
 of the man. He had the simplicity which belongs to 
 strong and true natures. He never remembered, and 
 his affability made you forget, that you were in the 
 presence of one of the most eminent of living men. 
 
 " His fine sympathy prompted him to meet people on 
 their own ground of thought and interest, and to anti- 
 cipate their wishes. His ways with children were de- 
 lightful. I well remember his setting the musical clock 
 in his hall to playing its tunes for a little girl while he 
 was occupied with her elders, because he could not bear 
 that she should not also be entertained. 
 
 " On another occasion, when the same little girl and 
 her younger sister, in their own home, approached with 
 bashful pleasure as he held out his arms to them, he 
 broke down all barriers at once by saying, ' Where are 
 your dolls ? I want you to show me your dolls. Not 
 the fine ones which you keep for company, but those 
 you love best and play with every day.' 
 
 " Before the mother could interfere, they had taken 
 him at his word, and brought the shabby little favorites 
 with battered noses, and were eagerly telling Mr. Long- 
 fellow their names and histories, while he questioned 
 
KIND-HEARTEDNESS. 257 
 
 them with an interest which wholly won their childish 
 hearts. 
 
 " It was some time before this that he brought a 
 friend to the house, and our W , then a boy of thir- 
 teen, took us out on the lake in his boat. The friend, 
 
 who was in feeble health, wished to pull one oar. W , 
 
 full of health and spirits, pulled the other, and pulled 
 too hard for him. He continued to do so, in spite of 
 my remonstrance, when Mr. Longfellow said, — 
 
 " ' Let him row in his own way. He enjoys it, and 
 we mustn't interfere with a boy's happiness. It makes 
 no difference to us whether we go forward, or only 
 around and around.' 
 
 " He seemed to consider the happiness of the young 
 as something sacred. 
 
 " He was hospitable and helpful to other and younger 
 writers. How many are indebted to him for words of 
 encouragement and cheer! The last letter I ever re- 
 ceived from him was written during his illness in the 
 winter, when he took the trouble to send me an exceed- 
 ingly kind word regarding something of mine he had 
 just seen in a magazine, and which had chanced to 
 please him. 
 
 " He was tolerant to the last degree of other people's 
 faults. I never heard him speak with any thing like 
 impatience of anybody, except a certain class of critics 
 who injure reputations by sitting in judgment upon 
 works they have not the heart to feel or the sense to 
 understand. 
 
 " Some kind friend once sent me a review in which 
 a poor little volume of my own verses was scalped and 
 tomahawked with savage glee. Turning the leaf, I was 
 consoled to see a volume of Longfellow's treated in the 
 
258 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 same slashing style. For I reflected, ' The critic who 
 strikes at him blunts the weapon with which he would 
 wound others.' 
 
 "Meeting him in a day or two, I found that some 
 equally kind friend had sent a copy of the review to 
 him. Seeing that he was annoyed by it, I said, ' I may 
 well be disturbed when they try to blow out my small 
 lantern, but why should you care when they pun away 
 at your star?' He replied, 'The ill-will of anybody 
 hurts me. Besides, there are some people who will be- 
 lieve what this man says. If he cannot speak well of 
 a book, why speak of it at all ? The best criticism of 
 an unworthy book is silence.' 
 
 "He had suffered from abundant foolish and unjust 
 criticism in earlier days ; but his wise, calm spirit was 
 never more than temporarily ruffled by it." 
 
 HIS RELIGION 
 
 At a Longfellow memorial service in the Unitarian 
 Church at Newport, the pastor took occasion to remark 
 that Longfellow, in his religious sympathies, was an 
 earnest and life-long Unitarian, and, like his fellow- 
 poets William Cullen Bryant, Bayard Taylor, John 
 Greenleaf Whittier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and James 
 Russell Lowell, had given distinguished honor to the 
 liberal faith to which he, as they, belonged. 
 
GENERAL CRITICISM. 
 
 " T)OETRY," says Ruskin, " is the presentation to 
 -L the imagination, in musical form, of noble 
 grounds for the noble emotions ; " and Goethe said that 
 art is form alone (JDie Kunst ist nur Grestaltung). 
 
 If these canons are applied to the poems of Long- 
 fellow, most of them will be found to stand the test. 
 His poetry is musical, is imaginative, is noble. He is 
 the moral poet, the children's poet, the people's poet. 
 He is "everybody's poet." His poetical productions are 
 monochromatic, monotonic ; the range of their rhythms 
 and rhymes is narrow ; but the diction is so felicitous, 
 the sentiment so artless, the thought so pure, and the 
 melody so perfectly sweet, that we not only do not miss 
 the intricate harmonies and winding rhyihmus of Swin- 
 burne and Tennyson, but are well pleased that the poet 
 of the fireside should sing in his own simple way. We 
 like to remember him as one 
 
 " Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 Or tears from the eyelids start." 
 
 The man who could write Sandalphon, The Ladder 
 of St. Augustine, Snow-Flakes, Daybreak, The Chil- 
 dren's Hour, Suspiria, Seaweed, The Day is Done, The 
 Wreck of the Hesperus, The Skeleton in Armor, Ex- 
 celsior, A Psalm of Life, The Old Clock on the Stairs, 
 
 259 
 
260 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride, Noel, and Morituri Salutamus, — 
 the man' who can write such poems as these, is immortal: 
 In accordance with the plan pursued throughout this 
 work, the writer will give in this part the thought and 
 criticism of various minds, thus bestowing upon the 
 reader some portion of the pleasure experienced in a 
 social cr literary conversation. Detailed criticisms on 
 the poet's separate volumes have already been given. 
 
 INFLUENCE ON AMERICAN LITERATURE. 
 
 An anonymous critic says, " To appreciate aright Mr. 
 Longfellow's literary service to this country, it is ne- 
 cessary to go back in imagination to the epoch when 
 he began his literary career, — 1825. American litera- 
 ture was not then born. The very appetite for it 
 had to be evoked ; the very means of giving it to the 
 public, to be created. The only great publishing house 
 of the day was almost wholly devoted to furnishing 
 readers with English reprints. Not one of our present 
 magazines or literary periodicals existed. A few reli- 
 gious weeklies were narrow, intolerant, and controver- 
 sial : the dailies were intensely partisan and bitterly 
 personal. Charles Dickens's caricatures in Martin 
 Chuzzlewit, published in 1843, would not have been 
 so hateful if they had not been so true. Companionship 
 in letters hardly existed for the Americans. Bryant 
 had indeed published his Thanatopsis, and Washing- 
 ton Irving his Knickerbocker's History of New York, 
 a few years previous. But Poe had not yet issued his 
 first book. Motley was trying his pen unsuccessfully at 
 fiction, and was yet to learn that he was an historian. 
 Whittier was just leaving the farm and the shoemaker's 
 bench, to become editor of a short-lived tariff news- 
 
LONGFELLOW A PURITAN. 261 
 
 paper. Cooper had yet in the crucible his unformed 
 stories of Indian and pioneer life. Hawthorne had 
 hardly touched pen to paper, except in college exer- 
 cises; and Preseott was unknown, save as a brilliant 
 essayist, and only to the limited circle of readers of The 
 North American Review. American life was prosaic ; 
 and, before it could feel the glow of its own poetry, it 
 must know something of the poetry of the past, This 
 was Mr. Longfellow's first service to his countrymen : 
 he was a mediator between the old and the new; he 
 translated the romance of the past into the language of 
 universal life. Out of the closed volume he gathered 
 the flowers that lay there pressed and dead and odor- 
 less. He breathed into them the breath of life ; and 
 they bloomed, and were fragrant again. He came to 
 the past as the south winds come to the woods in 
 spring; and the trees put out their leaves, and the 
 earth its mosses, and the dell its wild-flowers, to greet 
 him. Each of his larger poems is thus a revivification of 
 a buried past. For each he made patient preparation 
 in most careful and pains-taking study." 
 
 LONGFELLOW A PURITAN. 
 
 Another has said : — 
 
 " The Puritan in some directions was strong in him. 
 It made him manful, and it kept him cleanly. It made 
 him deplore the misused talents of a De Musset, and 
 sorrow with real sorrow over the grand genius of Swin- 
 burne grovelling in the mire of sense. The women he 
 has given us — Evangeline, Minnehaha, Priscilla — are 
 pure creations. They are not void of emotion, though 
 they may not thrill with passion. As he was a Puritan, 
 he made them live with a full consciousness of life in its 
 
262 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 duties and affections. As he was a Puritan, he turned 
 away from the wilder tumults of their hearts. His, in 
 fine, was a Puritanism which had lost its rancor, its 
 narrowness, and its bigotry, and displayed only its 
 vigor, its virtues, and, if not its overshadowing God- 
 fearing, at least that simple reverence for the Godlike 
 essence which tells its story more in the turn of thought 
 to divine attributes than in the loud cry to the clouds. 
 His passing away is the end of a beautiful song that 
 has not had a single false note in it. Such gentle 
 voices as Whittier's and Holmes's remain behind him, 
 but with him falls the lordly oak of American poetry; 
 and, let his decline have been ever so gentle, the earth 
 must resound as he touches the clay." 
 
 THE AMERICAN. 
 
 In an editorial The American thus spoke of his 
 genius : — 
 
 " His is a book for a quiet hour, a sweet solace when 
 the heart is weary (as whose is not?) with the cares 
 and turmoils of the world. In his pages we find home, 
 friends, loving companionships, and the hopes and fears 
 common to humanity, all transfigured and glorified by 
 the touch of genius. In the translucent mirror of his 
 mind are reflected, not only the brightness of the sky 
 and the brave splendors of the flowers, but the veiled 
 beauty of the clouds that pass." 
 
 WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. 
 
 William Dean Howells in The Harvard Register for 
 January, 1881, called Longfellow k 'a poet only less 
 known than Shakspeare." And of his art he says, 
 " Never marred by eccentricity or extravagance, by fal- 
 
THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 263 
 
 tering good feeling or faltering good taste, it is still, 
 what it lias always been, a humane and beneficent influ- 
 ence, as well as an exquisite science." 
 
 LITEEARY STYLE. 
 
 Of his style some one has said : — 
 
 " The subtle analysis of a simple feeling follows the 
 simple musical statement of its cause, and is illustrated 
 by a figure growing directly from that statement, and 
 all combined in a manner that is masterly in its pres- 
 entation." 
 
 THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 
 
 The New York Tribune said : — 
 
 " It has been his fortune to exemplify the value of 
 literature in the world's affairs. During an era spe- 
 cially marked by devotion to material advancement and 
 successes, he has maintained the dignity of literature. 
 It is unnecessary to inquire here whether he was a man 
 of great and original genius ; nor would he probably 
 have claimed to be, since his critical faculties were of 
 that kind which are proof against an over-estimate of 
 self : but he was a dexterous interpreter of the highest 
 genius of others, while his work was marked by that 
 talent which sometimes it is difficult ■ to distinguish 
 from marked original faculty and indisputable creative 
 power. His taste was infallible. In all his numerous 
 volumes it would not be easy to find a single instance 
 of careless or slovenly work. In scholarly acquire- 
 ments, in the almost universal knowledge which in- 
 forms much of his poetry, in thorough acquaintance 
 with the books of all ages and of all peoples, among 
 American men of letters he stood almost alone, — at 
 
264 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 least, was surpassed by none. As the memory recalls 
 the variety of his productions, ranging as they do 
 through ancient and modern themes, and the rare and 
 unusual knowledge which informs them and lends to 
 them perpetual illustration, we comprehend the differ- 
 ence between a mere lumber of learning which makes 
 the pedant, and that universal research which richly 
 furnishes the poet. He was eminently a gracious 
 writer. Through all his pages one anxious to make 
 such a quest would look in vain for any trace of irri- 
 tability, of satirical impatience, of morbid feeling, of 
 jealousy, or of vanity. There was in him a natural 
 amiability which forbade the least thought of giving 
 pain. He always sang with a kind of native politeness, 
 and put into his poetry a sympathetic courtesy which 
 won the hearts of his innumerable readers. To this 
 more than to any other cause Mr. Longfellow owed his 
 remarkable popularity. If his talents and acquirements 
 had been less, he would still have been' admired and 
 beloved. The world yields its highest reverence to 
 few ; but it surrenders its heart and its grateful appre- 
 ciation the more readily to those who make no inordi- 
 nate demands upon its intellect, but keenly comprehend 
 the vicissitudes of life, mourning with those who 
 mourn, rejoicing with those who rejoice, and extending 
 sympathy wherever and whenever the need of it is most 
 keenly felt." 
 
 MARGARET FULLER'S CRITICISM. 
 
 A writer in The Nation has spoken of Margaret 
 Fuller's criticism of the poet, and touched upon his 
 general characteristics. He says : — 
 
 " It is nearly forty years since Margaret Fuller, writ- 
 
MARGARET FULLER'S CRITICISM. 265 
 
 ing in The New York Tribune, startled the proprieties 
 of Boston by some sharp criticisms on Longfellow and 
 Lowell, then in the first flush of their fame. She de- 
 clared Lowell's early poems to be crude and imitative, 
 and those of Longfellow to be, in a great degree, ' ex- 
 otic' Each poet met the charge in his own way, — 
 Lowell with brilliant sarcasm, and Longfellow with 
 good-natured indifference. Public sympathy went with 
 them ; but we can now see, at this distance of scene, 
 how each profited by these criticisms. Lowell dropped 
 from his collected works the greater part of his early 
 poems, and Longfellow soon achieved his greatest suc- 
 cesses by boldly drawing strength from his own soil. 
 
 "In justice to Margaret Fuller, it must be remem- 
 bered that she was one of the first to recognize the pure 
 and elevating tone of Longfellow's verse, and to defend 
 him cordially from the charge of plagiarism as brought 
 in those day* by Poe and others. But she pointed out 
 with some truth, that it was at first his tendency to 
 offer us, as she pointedly phrased it, 'flowers of all 
 climes, and wild flowers of none ; " that in the pretty 
 prelude to Voices of the Night, for instance, which 
 all schoolgirls were then reciting, he sought the woods 
 at 'Pentecost,' and found ' bishop's-caps,' when both 
 of these words came really out of books, and did not 
 habitually pass current on any New England hillside. 
 She also said, with perfect truth, that in The Spanish 
 Student — then his only long poem — the execution was 
 to a certain extent 'academical;' and she instanced 
 as works of far more promise on his part such short 
 poems as The Village Blacksmith and To the Driv- 
 ing Cloud, which she considered to be, so to speak, 
 indigenous. These criticisms were expressed somewhat 
 
266 1IENRY WADSWOTLTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 abruptly, no doubt, for tact, which has been called the 
 virtue of cowards, certainly was not Miss Fuller's prime 
 merit; but it will always remain doubtful whether, 
 without them, we should have had Evangeline and 
 Hiawatha. 
 
 " It is impossible to say, at this distance of time, how 
 much of Longfellow's poetic change of base was due to 
 criticism, and how much to inward development. It is 
 to be noticed that he had already published a few other 
 poems essentially American in niotjf besides those Miss 
 Fuller mentioned ; among which should especially be 
 named The Skeleton in Armor and The Wreck of the 
 Hesperus. It is at any rate certain that from this time 
 he dwelt more and more upon these home themes 
 which he had been accused of discarding, so that he 
 soon became as essentially national in his poetic spirit 
 as Emerson or Whittier. It is now clear that his great 
 successes, his signal triumphs, were won by throwing 
 himself wholly upon cis-Atlantic themes in Evange- 
 line and Hiawatha. 
 
 " That tempting phrase of Coleridge's has much to 
 answer for, — ' the kind of obscurity which is a com- 
 pliment to the reader.' Coleridge himself certainly 
 flattered his readers pretty profusely, if this be the 
 standard ; while Longfellow, though he wrote from 
 Coleridge's own inkstand, drew from it no such ink. 
 There is undoubtedly a profound delight in poems like 
 many in Browning's ' Men and Women,' which seem 
 to be inexhaustible in what they yield to you, because 
 they yield very slowly. They are like the fountain 
 called ' La Roche qui Pleure ' at Fontaineblean, which 
 gives the thirsty traveller only a drop at a time, but 
 
LE TEMPS. 267 
 
 you can always go back to it, and be sure of another 
 (Iron. Shall we, therefore, do injustice to Longfellow's 
 ever-fresh and ever-living spring? As we turn the 
 leaves of his books, each page tells an experience, utters 
 an emotion, or affords a thought ; each page, like each 
 day in the life of his Village Blacksmith, offers ' some- 
 thing attempted, something done.' If you say, that, 
 after all, the very ease of the execution shows that the 
 work is not difficult to do, the answer is obvious : why 
 does not some one else do it ? After all, poetry has two 
 factors, — the thought or emotion and the expression ; 
 and the success lies in the just combination of the two/ 
 Grant that we or our cousins and friends get up every 
 morning with thoughts profounder than any of Long- 
 fellow's : it does the world no good unless we express 
 them. Take the poets we proclaim as greater than 
 Longfellow, — Browning, for instance, or Emerson, — 
 and how often they fail to express their thoughts so 
 that anybody can enjoy them without a course of les- 
 sons from an experienced professor ! If we admit as 
 true for poets what Ruskin says of painters, that ' it is 
 in the perfection and precision of the instantaneous 
 line that the claim to immortality is made,' we must 
 say that no American up to this time has built his fame 
 on surer grounds than Longfellow." 
 
 LE TEMPS. 
 
 In Le Temps of Paris (Jan. 13, 1879), almost a whole 
 feuilleton was given up to a review of Keramos and its 
 author. The writer of the article thought that "the 
 French translations of Longfellow surpass all the rest, 
 and seem to have been produced by magic." He 
 further said, "Is it not strange to see one of the most 
 
268 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 illustrious and most popular citizens (a representative 
 man, according to the expression of Emerson) of this 
 great, go-ahead nation, taking delight in these visions 
 of Europe, and the evocation of the past? An explana- 
 tion of this contrast, after all very reasonable, will be 
 given to us some da} r . 
 
 "In America, bv the side of intrepid explorers, un- 
 daunted miners and colonists, by the side of engineers 
 with vertiginous conceptions, bankers or silk-merchants 
 whose millions or failures seem to come to us from 
 fabulous countries, there is a people who live in the 
 past. Their minds dwell on the places consecrated by 
 history, for which they feel a kind of nostalgia ; places 
 where ruins testify that man has loved and suffered : 
 they dream with passion of Europe, — its legendary 
 personages ; the monuments of Rome, of Paris, of Lon- 
 don, and of Vienna ; the paintings of Florence ; the 
 marble palaces of Genoa, of Venice ; the ' burgs ' of 
 Germany. Their minds constantly commune with the 
 soul of the past. 
 
 " Besides other very great merits, we cannot deny to 
 Longfellow that of having been and of still being the 
 most learned and most eloquent interpreter of that 
 class (numerous, we are informed) of his valiant fellow- 
 countrymen." 
 
 THE BOSTON EVENING TRANSCRIPT. 
 
 A contributor to The Boston Evening Transcript 
 has some words on the poet as a translator of German 
 verse : — 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow has been said to have borrowed 
 largely from German sources ; and, indeed, his more 
 popular lyrics are filled with the spirit, and often with 
 
THE BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. 269 
 
 the melody, of German poetry. He has, as it were, 
 acclimatized a foreign flower, and made its fragrance 
 our own ; though all that he has given us is sweet, too, 
 with the natural aroma of his own gracious personality. 
 It is a true service he has rendered his countrymen, 
 and a good they may well be grateful for. Not all of 
 us may leave our cares, and wander at will beside the 
 Rhine, or float upon lakes that mirror the snow-wreathed 
 summits of Switzerland : shall we not, then, thank the 
 friend who brings us home the forget-me-not and the 
 mountain-violet to plant beside our doorways? This 
 is what Longfellow has done for us in much of his own 
 song, and still more in his translations, which have 
 become a part of our household words. Has he not 
 made UhlancVs delightful ballad, 'The Castle by the 
 Sea,' as dear a possession to the English as it ever was 
 to the German heart ? The student of German litera- 
 ture misses, perhaps, the indescribable harmony of 
 Uhland's melodious verse; but the main current of 
 feeling and remarkable simplicity of the original are 
 given us with a faithfulness that is almost as rare in 
 works of this kind as it is altogether admirable. 
 
 " Indeed, it is one of the pleasantest glimpses we get 
 of the charming simplicity of Mr. Longfellow's char- 
 acter, — this faithful following of the author he would 
 introduce to his countrymen. He never adds any thing 
 for effect, but simply repeats the words they have given 
 him as they were uttered ; and the result is, Ave get the 
 flavor of the German vintage, not some pleasant bever- 
 age of an entirely different growth. Most translations 
 are too much like the delicate foreign wines, fortified 
 with brandy for trans-shipment till all the ' bouquet ' 
 is lost in the fiery addition. Longfellow brings them 
 
270 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 to us unchanged, except that in the transportation, 
 necessarily losing an evanescent something of their 
 distinctive character, they have imbibed a trace of his 
 own gracious and sunny nature. It would be pleasant 
 to recall them all, were there space to do so, — the 
 tender sadness of the Song of the Silent Land, a word- 
 for-word translation ; the gushing brooklet of Miiller's 
 'Whither?' the many lovely voices he has made musi- 
 cal again in all our hearts." 
 
 MERITS AS A TRANSLATOR. 
 
 In regard to his general merits as a translator, an- 
 other critic thinks that " some of his versions of Ger- 
 man and Spanish poems are incomparable save with 
 Freiligrath's finest Germanizations of English verse, 
 and Fitzgerald's superb reproductions of Omar Khay- 
 yam. The plaintive minor of the ballads of Uhland, 
 Tieclge, M tiller, Von Salis, the serene Catholic earnest- 
 ness and virile feeling of Spanish devotional poets, and 
 the pastoral evangelic spirit of Tegner, he has echoed 
 exactly. Even as a translator, it is true, he has his 
 limitations. His Jasmin is not the fiery loving Gascon 
 barber, last of the Troubadours. It is a Cambridge 
 version, gloved and cravatted for drawing-rooms, and 
 the society of young ladies, not perhaps 'of the period.' 
 His Dante, severely accurate as it is, is accurate only, 
 not adequate. This he felt himself, for no man had a 
 more truly delicate and sensitive literary perception. 
 He used to say, and say truly, that there was ' more 
 of Dante in Thomas William Parsons's noble lines on 
 a bust of the great Florentine, than in all his versions.' 
 He never attempted to recast the matchless }*et cynic 
 grace of Heine's bitterest verse ; and he quite failed to 
 
PROFESSOR HARRISON. 271 
 
 interpret the lyric rush of Johannes Ewald's ' King 
 Christ,' the high national hymn of Denmark. In his 
 own walk he is without an equal. The grace, the 
 purity, the sweetness, the unaffected dignity, the 
 rhythmic felicity in the form of his work, are his alone. 
 . . . Longfellow has done more than any other Ameri- 
 can writer to dignify the literary character in America. 
 Often assailed, and often with virulence and brutality, 
 he kept his pen free from controversy, eschewing bit- 
 terness, and adorned his art by steadfast devotion. 
 Posterity will honor in him an artist, who, in an emi- 
 nently sensational and heady and uproarious age, never 
 wrote a sensational nor a heady line ; and never printed 
 a poem till he had brought it by repeated polishings as 
 near perfection as he could. " 
 
 PROFESSOR J. A. HARRISON. 
 
 The sonnets of Longfellow are exquisite productions, 
 faultless and lucid. Mr. Charles D. Deshler thinks 
 that the finest are those entitled ' Three Friends of 
 Mine ' (Agassiz, Sumner, Felton), and the ones on 
 Dante, Chaucer, Keats, Shakspeare, and Milton. Pro- 
 fessor J. A. Harrison of the University of Virginia has, 
 in The Literary World for Feb. 26, 1881, a most dainty 
 and poetical paper on Longfellow's sonnets. Happy 
 the poet who falls into the hands of such a critic as 
 this! 
 
 Professor Harrison says : — 
 
 "English is full of beautiful sonnets. Sidney, Shak- 
 speare, Wordsworth, Keats, Browning, — it needs not the 
 mention of these names to call up. troops of beautiful 
 things that have taken this subtile form, and tremble 
 before us like dewdrops in amber, — immortal loves, 
 
272 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 .shining eulogies, contemplations that sing themselves 
 into poems, passion 
 
 ' That eagle-like doth with her starry wings 
 Beat,' — 
 
 as old Chapman sings ; but few of them are subtler or 
 tenderer than these airy filaments of Longfellow, woven 
 of his memories and his tears, 
 
 ' Like his desire, lift upward and divine.' 
 
 "How free Longfellow is from those 'jigging veins 
 of rhyming mother-wit * from which Marlowe called his 
 audience ! how natural and spontaneous his utterances 
 are ! Quocumque adspicias, nihil nisi pontus et aer, might 
 well in Ovid's tongue typify the large features of his 
 art — its breadth, ambience, and simplicity. Howells 
 delicately caught the tone of these sonnets when he 
 said of one of them 'that the effect in the sonnet on 
 Chaucer is of a rich translucence, like that of precious 
 stones.' In them the poet is the prey of memories and 
 whisperings. ' The Old Bridge at Florence ' stirs him 
 to quaint monos}dlables as of ' an old man babbling of 
 green fields ; ' ' Milton ' is a far and mysterious music 
 on his spirit, like the wooings of some Vita Nuova ; in 
 ' Keats ' there is pity as for some glorious chrysalis that 
 never found the way out of its own beauteous laby- 
 rinth into the yellow light of day ; in ' Shakspeare ' 
 alone is full fruition of memory and hope. Changing a 
 word in Habington's lines, we might read, — 
 
 ' while our famous Charles 
 Doth whisper Sidney's Stella to her streams,' — 
 
 so full of pleasant rememberings is the poet of the 
 winding: river at his feet. There are few more touch- 
 
PROFESSOR HARRISON. 278 
 
 ins lines in all literature than those that close the son- 
 net to Charles Sumner, — 
 
 ' Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; 
 I stay a little longer, as one stays 
 To cover up the embers that still burn." 
 
 " Longfellow is wonderful in these homely felici- 
 ties. Reproach him as you please for excessive har- 
 moniousness, — a swan overladen with song, — there is 
 a spiritual sweetness that penetrates like the odor of 
 aloe-wood, a richness as of ambergris, a reverence for 
 things holy and absent that is not so much unction as 
 awe. With all his comprehensive learning, he is as 
 plain and pure as an ascetic ; the dust of libraries has 
 become an illumined dust, which flickers in his sunny 
 fantasy, and moulds itself into all imaginable gracious 
 forms. He exhales his poems as a flower does its per- 
 fume ; he never writes good poetry and then spoils it 
 by keeping it by him till old age, as Davenant said of 
 Lord Brooke. The beauty of his youth is with us no 
 less than the wisdom and pathos of his age, — a circle 
 in which the two edges of the golden ring are but a 
 span apart. 
 
 " A friend finely said that the Greek worship of ideas 
 was the least gross of all idolatries. This ethereal pagan- 
 ism is not an obvious part of Longfellow's poetry : he is 
 no would-be psychologist, though he is so full of the first 
 part of that compound. An overshadowing tenderness, 
 regret, longing, is the burden of much of his poetry and 
 many of these sonnets. He touches the spirit with an 
 infinite softness, like a hand from the other world : he 
 breathes upon the clear mirror of the soul, and for a 
 moment it is clouded with tears. He is a voice like 
 
274 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 those beautiful muezzin voices of the East, that are 
 chosen for their harmony and depth, rather than a trum- 
 pet. Could the liquid intonations of Voices of the Night 
 break into the discords of a war-song? Could a violet 
 burst into a tiger-lily ? The gentle philosophies of the 
 past are more to him than the criard speculations of 
 the present, — a mellow drop out of the cellars of the 
 monks, than all the ' fuming vintages of the morrow. 
 Essentially a romanticist, a deep drinker of German mys- 
 ticism, a sonneteer devoted to the forms in which Dante 
 and Petrarch breathed their early and their late efful- 
 gence, a delightful traveller lingering in his wayside 
 inns to tell us some musical story, a swallow that has 
 built under the roof of Legend, a scholar that has the 
 instinct of picking out the precious things from an an- 
 cient or dilapidated literature, like the diamond eye of 
 the Delhi idol, and transforming them into palpitating 
 lines, — how many things does the poet suggest ! 
 
 " If there is one quality in him, however, which 
 pleases the writer beyond all others, it is his lovely 
 tranquillity, — that dew of Hermon which he sprinkles 
 on his readers with a gesture of such benignity. In 
 an age so full of storm as ours, — of dissolving beliefs, 
 and groaning theologies, and metaphysical phantasma- 
 goria, — the spell of his serene and potent verse is what 
 the Orientals call kief, a state which Bayard Taylor 
 describes in a chapter on pipes and tobacco. Anxiety, 
 disease, impatience, are remote from this delicate indo- 
 lence in which, as Longfellow says in one of his son- 
 nets, our thoughts 
 
 ' Slowly upon the amber air unroll,' 
 and one's whole physiology and psychology become 
 
THE LONDON TIMES. 275 
 
 pure vision. Do not these visualized memories and 
 foreshado wings come to us more richly in Longfellow 
 than in any other ? Quaint Thomas Carew must have 
 been writing of him, two hundred and fifty years ago, 
 when he said, — 
 
 ' Ask me no more where those stars lighte 
 That downwards fall in dead of nighte, 
 For in your eyes they sit, and there 
 Fixed become as in their sphere.' " 
 
 THE LONDON TIMES. 
 
 The London Times of March 25, 1882, contained 
 a long editorial on Longfellow, from which the follow- 
 ing is extracted : — 
 
 " Those who hereafter may read the poems of Bryant, 
 Whittier, Mrs. Sigourney, or Longfellow, will find it 
 difficult to understand that they wrote just while the 
 development of the United States was most striking ; 
 and that they penned their finished lines in the vicinity 
 of mighty rivers, pathless forests, and untrodden prai- 
 ries. In the well-turned classic allusions, and in the 
 ample knowledge of European models, they will find 
 much for admiration. They will miss — and the omis- 
 sion may affect the durability of the reputation of this 
 school — native savor and that true local color which 
 atone for much uncouthness and lack of skill in versifica- 
 tion. . . . We are not forgetting his Hiawatha, when we 
 say that he might have written his best poems with as 
 much local fitness in our own Cambridge as in its name- 
 sake across the Atlantic. . . . 
 
 " There will be no disposition at this season to speak 
 a harsh word of a poet who had in a remarkable degree 
 the gift of inspiring his readers with affection for him ; 
 
276 HENRY WAD8W0RTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 and, in fact, there are few points at which criticism can 
 find an opening. His dulcet verses, or some specimens 
 of them, — for posterity is pitilessly fastidious to all but 
 a few singers, — are likely long to be attractive to the 
 multitude of those who do not care to analyze their 
 pleasures too minutely, or to sift the ethical beauty of 
 their moral or sentiments from the elements of imagina- 
 tion. Some of his touching and simple ballads are 
 pretty sure to be familiar to generations yet to come. 
 The purity of his thoughts, his affinity to all that is 
 noblest in human nature, and his unfailing command of 
 refined, harmonious language, may continue to draw to 
 him readers who will not be deterred by the judgment 
 of critics that he was not a great poet. He himself 
 well knew that he was not in the first rank. He had 
 in the youth of both countries ardent admirers; and 
 there was a time when men their elders used to say 
 that he was to prove another Tennyson. But poetry at 
 its best is a fabric spun only by the strongest brains. 
 Force of will and strength of mind — qualities akin 
 to the gifts of the successful general or the great 
 mathematician — go to the making of a poem which the 
 world cares to read. The elegance and refinement and 
 ingenuity of The Golden Legend are far away from 
 mediocrit} r , and are worth more than the affectation 
 of vigor and profuse inspiration in more pretentious 
 writers. But the author of that poem does not belong 
 to the same strong, swift-souled race as Byron or Shel- 
 ley, and has little affinity to it. 
 
 " One cannot readily point to worthy successors to 
 the brilliant Boston group. We are told that in Walt 
 Whitman's rough, barbaric, untoned lines, full of ques- 
 
THE SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN "111 
 
 tionable morality, and unfettered by rhyme, is the 
 nucleus of the literature of the future. That may be 
 so, and the Leaves of Grass may prove, as is pre- 
 dicted, the foundation of a real American literature, 
 which will mirror the peculiarities of the life of that 
 continent, and which will attempt to present no false 
 ideal. Yet we shall be surprised if the new school, 
 with its dead set towards ugliness, and its morbid turn 
 for the bad sides of nature, will draw people wholly 
 away from the stainless pages, rich in garnered wealth 
 of fancy and allusions, and the sunny pictures, which 
 are to be found in the books of the poet who has just 
 died. Mr. Longfellow has left no enemies behind him ; 
 he had many warm friends and admirers ; and his rep- 
 utation as a poet may survive much longer than those 
 who vaunt the ' poetry of realism ' care to admit." 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard has said of the poet : " He 
 has more than held his own against all English-writing 
 poets, and in no walk of poetry so positively as that of 
 telling a story. In an age of story-tellers, he stands at 
 their head. . . . Mr. Longfellow's method of telling a 
 story will compare favorably with any of the recog- 
 nized masters of English narrative verse from Chaucer 
 down.'' 
 
 THE SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. 
 
 " He never lacked," says The Springfield Republican, 
 " the essential moral sympathy with America, yet that 
 sympathy never became with him a flaming fire, as with 
 Whittier, or a rapier edge, as with Lowell ; nor did he 
 have that grand sweep of external nature which set 
 aside Bryant as the embodiment of the American 
 
278 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 scene ; or the inimitable brilliancy that marks Holmes 
 so far in advance of contemporary England ; or the 
 shrewd union of Yankee and Orient genius that re- 
 vealed a gospel in Emerson. The scarcity of Long- 
 fellow's anti-slavery and patriotic poems proves this 
 lack of absolute Americanism in the humanitarian as- 
 pect of his verse." 
 
 THE LONDON DAILY NEWS. 
 
 The London Daily News thinks that " Perhaps one 
 secret of Longfellow's being a favorite with us is, that 
 he is apt to be one of the first poets who are read at all. 
 He is an author fit in every sense for boys and girls, 
 and especially congenial to the more healthy minds 
 among the young. He thus acquires a hold upon the 
 imagination at a time when it is ' wax to receive, and 
 marble to retain ; ' and much that lie wrote is seen 
 through the delusive vista of early charm and old 
 association." 
 
 GEORGE STEWART. 
 
 Of the influence of Longfellow upon Canadian 
 thought, George Stewart writes thus in The Literary 
 World : — 
 
 " In Lower Canada, where the highest mental devel- 
 opment is exemplified by French writers, who do their 
 work with singular grace and expression, and whose 
 muse takes the spirituelle form, Longfellow's influence 
 may be perceived to a very great extent. His sugges- 
 tiveness and harmony can frequently be seen in the 
 poetry of such men as Frechette, Suite, and Le May ; 
 and it is worth noting the controlling tendency which 
 such minds as Longfellow's and De Musset's and Be*- 
 
REV. GEORGE ELLIS. 279 
 
 ranger's have on the intellectual action of these young 
 poets. The blending of American and French thought 
 forms a striking combination, and its charming outcome 
 may be readily enough detected in many of the really 
 delightful things which these clever young singers have 
 sent out. Pamphile Le May, a tender poet himself, 
 and a man of exquisite taste, has done much to encour- 
 age a love of Longfellow among his compatriots. We 
 are told, that, by reading Le May's Evangeline, many 
 persons were induced to learn English, that they might 
 get the gentle story at first hand, and in the exact 
 words of its creator. Some, too, learned English from 
 the book itself and a dictionary ; but a very great deal 
 of the poem's present popularity among the French 
 is due to Le May's efforts to crystallize it in the suscep- 
 tible hearts of his countrymen. For many years the 
 Longfellow version of the story has been implicitly 
 regarded as historically correct, even among the Eng- 
 lish, who cared to accept no other authority. Among 
 the French, of course, no other account of the expulsion 
 will ever be looked upon as true. This one poem, be- 
 cause of the sympathy of the author, as well as his 
 treatment of the incident, has wound itself around the 
 hearts of the people of French Canada ; and Longfel- 
 low's name is as reverently treasured and respected 
 and loved by them as any of their own writers, ecclesi- 
 astical, historical, or poetical." 
 
 REV. GEORGE E. ELLIS, D.D. 
 
 At a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society 
 held soon after the poet's death, the Rev. Dr. George 
 E. Ellis thus characterized his writings : — 
 
 " But few of our associates in its nearty a century of 
 
280 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 years can have studied our local and even national his- 
 tory more sedulously than did Mr. Longfellow. And 
 but fewer still among us can have found in its stern 
 and rugged and homely actors and annals so much that 
 could be graced and softened by rich and delicate fan- 
 cies, by refining sentiments, and the hues and fragrance 
 of simple poetry. He took the saddest of our New 
 England tragedies and the sweetest of its rural home 
 scenes, the wayside inn, the alarum of war, the Indian 
 legend, and the hanging of the crane in the modest 
 household, which his genius has invested with enduring 
 charms and morals. Wise and gentle was the heart 
 which could thus find melodies for the harp, the lute, 
 the lyre, and the plectrum in our fields and wildernesses, 
 wreathing them as nature does the thickets and stumps 
 of the forest with flowers and mosses. While all his 
 utterances came from a pure, a tender, and a devout 
 heart, addressing themselves to what is of like in other 
 hearts, there is not in them a line of morbidness, of de- 
 pression or melancholy, but only that which quickens 
 and cheers with robust resolve and courage, with peace 
 and aspiring trust. He has, indeed, used freely the 
 poet's license in playful freedom with dates and facts. 
 But the scenes and incidents and personages which most 
 need a softening and refining touch receive it from him 
 without prejudice to the service of sober history." 
 
 REV. T. T. MUNGER, D.D. 
 
 In an article in The New York Independent entitled 
 " The Influence of Longfellow on American Life," the 
 Rev. T. T. Munger, D.D., said: — 
 
 " In a restless age he has given us an example of 
 quiet, and breathed not a little of it into our lives. No 
 
UK V. T. T. MUNGER. 281 
 
 one ever reads a line of this poet without feeling rested. 
 He never lacks spirit. The thought is up to the theme ; 
 there is no indolence, no Oriental, will-less dreaming ; 
 there is nothing that enervates or unfits for action. 
 Still the feeling inserted into the reader is that of re- 
 pose. This is not so in the greatest poets, but it may- 
 be so in a great poet. Milton and Shelley and Tenny- 
 son and Browning summon you to the intensest activity, 
 and leave you in a stress of tumultuous thought; but 
 Longfellow both feeds and refreshes the mind. He 
 takes off your burden, instead of adding to it: he does 
 not withdraw the lesson he sets before you, but he 
 soothes you while you fulfil it. He is pre-eminently 
 the poet of peace and repose. In Whittier we feel the 
 pressure of an over-acute moral nature : his lash of 
 duty drives us to our tasks again (a very useful thing 
 to do), but at the same time we need a little rest in 
 a less rasping air. It is a marvel, when we think of it, 
 that this restless age, this age of the superlative, this 
 driving, crowding, loud-mouthed age, that is nothing if 
 not extreme, should produce a poet utterly without 
 these characteristics. I think this is a main reason why 
 we love him. We need him, as a tired child needs a 
 soothing nurse. This influence is not fanciful. I do 
 not mean that busy merchants and harassed lawyers 
 and perplexed railroad managers go to the pages of 
 Longfellow for rest; but many a scholar, many a 
 preacher and editor and teacher, reads these pages, and 
 turns to his work with a calmer spirit, that shows itself 
 in other printed pages, in sermons and editorials of a 
 better temper, and in patience and cheer in the school- 
 room. 
 
 " He has made a fine example of the value and power 
 
282 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of simplicity in thought and feeling. Hardly any thing 
 in him is so conspicuous. Read any poem of his, and 
 you say : How simple ! There is nothing startling in 
 the thought. It may or may not be new ; it is certainly 
 true ; but it comes to you in so natural a way that it 
 does not surprise you. It is the same in his language. 
 There are no contortions demanding your wonder, noth- 
 ing of what is sometimes called style, except transpar- 
 ency. No surging and pounding and piling on and 
 extravagance, or striving for effect; but only a clear, 
 simple reflection of clear and beautiful thought. It is 
 not a slight thing that a million or more of children 
 are daily drilled in this utter truthfulness of speech." 
 
 THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. 
 
 A writer in The Southern Literary Messenger as long 
 ago as March, 1840, in reviewing Voices of the Night, 
 thus characterized Mr. Longfellow's poetry in gen- 
 eral : — 
 
 " Professor Longfellow ranks among the first of our 
 American poets. There may be those who excel him 
 in profundity and grasp of thought, in beauty of lan- 
 guage, and smoothness of versification ; but there is no 
 one to whose vision the ' land of song ' opens fairer and 
 brighter. His are 
 
 ' The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes ; ' 
 
 and when he touches the chords of his lute, — that has 
 been charmed, perchance, by the spell of some gay 
 troubadour, and awakened from its silence of ages, — 
 when he touches the chords of his lute, his thoughts 
 drop in music from its golden wires, and thrill us with 
 a pleasant melody and a wizard power. His poetry is 
 
THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. 283 
 
 quaint, sweet, and beautiful. While we read it, we are 
 surrounded with visions, forms, and images — fancy- 
 summoned, thought-created. We read his rhymes, 
 where the sun streams through stained windows and 
 Gothic arches upon curious carvings of oak, and storied 
 monuments, and illuminated volume, or by the side of 
 streams that glide along under green and drooping 
 leaves, and flow with sweet murmurings over silver 
 sands ; or we look out ever and anon, and catch the 
 glimpses of the watching heavens and the solemn stars, 
 and hear 
 
 ' the trailing garments of the Night, 
 Sweep through her marble halls.' 
 
 Or, in perusing his earlier poetry, our brows are fanned 
 by the breezes that come from the hills and the living 
 streams, and we behold the sunshine, and the freshness 
 and the gladness of nature."' 
 
 The following estimate of our poet is found in vol. 
 viii. (1842) of the journal just quoted : — 
 
 " Nor is it on paper alone that Longfellow is a poet. 
 Poetry enters into the very nature of the man, and 
 forms a portion of his being. Unlike those ' who coin 
 their brain for daily bread, 1 and whose inspiration only 
 lasts with the occasion which calls it forth, Longfellow 
 is a poet by nature, to whose gifted eye the humble clod 
 of the valley bears the impress of its great Creator. 
 His melodious words, gushing forth full of tenderness 
 and melody, are but the outpourings of a soul as re- 
 sponsive to each touch of human sympathy, as the fa- 
 bled lyre of Memnon to the rays of the morning sun. 
 The selfish man cannot be a poet. To charm the eye 
 and fascinate the ear of those who know him not ; to 
 
284 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 cause the selfish and indifferent to forget the reality, 
 and to regard the phantoms of his imagination as living 
 and breathing beings ; to touch the hearts of the cold, 
 the callous, and the vain, and to transfer to them the 
 light of that inspiration which kindled his own soul, — 
 this is the province of the poet. And, to do this, it re- 
 quires that he should himself possess the most bound- 
 less sympathy with human weakness and human suffer- 
 ing. Some few matchless spirits there have been, who 
 seem to soar above human weakness and human 
 folly ; who, enthroned in a majestic serenity of soul, sit 
 like monarchs of the intellectual world. But these, 
 though they command our admiration, cannot win our 
 sympathy and love. 
 
 " Professor Longfellow has written more prose than 
 poetry. Outre-Mer and Hyperion are, however, steeped 
 in the poetry of the writer's thoughts : and the lat- 
 ter may well be regarded as a poem in every thing 
 except the metre ; for it bears about the same analogy 
 to the ordinary novel, that Spenser's ' Faerie Queene ' 
 does to the ' Columbiad ' of Dwight. In these volumes 
 much of the inner life of the student is unconsciously 
 revealed, embodying, as they do, the thoughts and feel- 
 ings of the scholar who visits for the first time the land 
 so rich in historic recollections, and who wanders with 
 rapt enthusiasm among the castled ruins of the glorious 
 Rhine. An abler hand than ours has already done jus- 
 tice to the merits of Hyperion. But there is one thought 
 which struck us as peculiarly true and beautiful, and 
 which seems to have escaped the notice of the reviewer. 
 It is this : speaking of the troubles which beset the 
 path of life, the author thus concludes : ' The shadows 
 
THE ECLECTIC MAGAZINE. 285 
 
 of the mind are like those of the body : in the morning 
 of life they all lie behind us ; at noon we' trample them 
 under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, 
 broad, and deepening before us. But the mornino- 
 shadows soon fade away ; while those of evening stretch 
 forward into night, and mingle with the coming dark- 
 ness.' The depth and beauty of this thought must 
 strike the most careless observer." 
 
 THE ECLECTIC MAGAZINE. 
 
 In The Eclectic Magazine for February, 1862, the 
 following is found : — 
 
 " As a truly popular poet, — the man of the million, 
 — no American songster has obtained such a favorable 
 hearing as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. How it may 
 be in his own hemisphere we know not, but certainly 
 in this part of the world Mr. Longfellow's poems have 
 had a greater circulation than those of all the other 
 American poets together. Possibly it might be no 
 great disgrace even to be ignorant that Bryant and 
 others had written poetry at all ; but it would argue a 
 strange isolation from the world of letters to know 
 nothing of Excelsior and the Psalm of Life. These, 
 and other lyrics from the same pen, have been pro- 
 moted to the rank of household words. Young 
 ladies everywhere sing Excelsior to the accompa- 
 niment of the piano ; and promising lads, just gliding 
 out of their teens, are imbued by thousands with the 
 stirring sentiments of the Psalm of Life, — resolved, at 
 all hazards, not to quit the world without leaving some 
 'footprints on the sands of time.' Nay, we have heard 
 of a certain minister, better known as a popular lec- 
 turer, who frequently commences his Sabbath worship 
 
286 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 with ' Tell me not in mournful numbers,' etc. This 
 somewhat strange effusion, while in many quarters re- 
 garded almost with a veneration due to inspired words, 
 has not always been spared from running the gauntlet 
 of adverse criticism. There is no mystery about the 
 success it has obtained. It has a certain number of 
 pithy aphoristic utterances on the value of time and 
 the greatness of men's destinies ; and these, given in 
 the full flow of poetic grandiloquence, produce their 
 effect. There is genuine poetry in the composition ; 
 though some of the lines are exceedingly uncouth, and 
 the figures such as will not bear much handling. To 
 many a reader, who refuses to sacrifice logic for sound, 
 the following lines are still a stumbling-block : — 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; — 
 
 Footprints that perhaps another, 
 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 " How it is that these footprints can make any per- 
 manent impression on the ' sands ' of time, how it is 
 that this forlorn brother sailing o'er the solemn main 
 can manage to see these prints on the shore, or what is 
 the particular connection between seeing them and 
 taking heart again, are, we confess, things not easily 
 understood. It is useless, however, to quarrel with 
 them now: the world has consented to receive them. 
 A more important question, we think, remains. What 
 is to be understood by the lives of great men reminding 
 us that we may make our own lives ' sublime ' ? Senti- 
 
THE ECLECTIC MAGAZINE. 287 
 
 ments like this have occasioned a deal of castle-building. 
 The sophistry that identifies a sublime life with a life 
 that makes a great figure in the world is a very common 
 snare and delusion. The true sublime of life is to turn 
 to the best account the means which Providence has 
 actually placed at men's disposal ; and were this actu- 
 ally done, all the world over, the number would be very 
 small of those who were sublime enough to have books 
 written about them. As a rule, the lives of great men 
 cannot do much by way of example, whatever they may 
 suggest in the way of instruction ; for that which has 
 made them great in the world is not imitable by the 
 generality of mankind. It is all very well that exam- 
 ples should be given of those who, through difficulties 
 mostly regarded as insurmountable, have made their 
 way to eminence of whatever kind ; but that is a false 
 and pernicious teaching which leaves the impression 
 that, where what the world calls ' greatness ' is wanting, 
 — the sublime of life is wanting. No more important 
 lesson can be learned than that the ordinary, the un- 
 poetical business and duties of every-day life are 
 enough to stamp that life with its true greatness ; that 
 
 ' The simple round, the daily task, 
 Will furnish all we want or ask ; ' 
 
 for those ordinary duties are very often neglected by 
 many a precocious aspirant after greatness, whose life 
 in consequence exhibits a sad predominance of the 
 sublime over the beautiful. It would be captious thus 
 to dwell on an occasional poetical extravagance, were 
 it not that sentiments of a false or doubtful character 
 are, when embodied in popular poetry, mischievous in 
 the extreme. In Excelsior the leading idea — that 
 
288 HENRY WADSWORTR LONGFELLOW. 
 
 progress must be resolutely maintained, come what 
 will — is unexceptionable ; and this moral, conveyed 
 as it is in words of much force and beauty, makes us 
 comparatively indifferent to the circumstantials of the 
 tale, which have in some quarters been mercilessly 
 ridiculed. 'We have no very bright example,' it is 
 said, ' of the true spirit of progress, in the career of 
 a hasty and inconsiderate youth, who, at a very un- 
 seasonable time of the night, hurries through an Alpine 
 village with his Excelsior banner in his hand ; and, 
 disregarding all manner of peril from torrent, preci- 
 pice, and avalanche, treads his way upward, eventually 
 perishing in the snow, where the monks of St. Bernard 
 find him on the following morning.' This statement 
 cannot be gainsaid. The jury at the coroner's inquest 
 would, doubtless, express their opinion that deceased 
 met his death from causes too clearly attributable to 
 want of proper caution. But when the voice comes 
 'like a falling star,' answering to the watchword of 
 the noble victim, we must have done with these matter- 
 of-fact objections, or take them elsewhere. No greater 
 injustice, however, could be done to Mr. Longfellow 
 than that of testing his merits as a poet by the verses 
 which have found most favor in the drawing-room. He 
 is confessedly at the head of all the American bards. 
 No other has written so much and so well in the main, 
 although we can easily point out in the other collec- 
 tions some single poems which please us better than 
 any thing this author has produced. His longer pieces, 
 — Evangeline, Hiawatha, and Miles Standish, — his 
 many and varied Lyrical effusions, and his translations 
 from the German, Spanish, and other languages, are 
 scarcely ever below mediocrity, and are generally of 
 
THE ECLECTIC MAGAZINE. 289 
 
 great excellence. True, his flights are never of the 
 highest character: he never rises to those altitudes 
 upon the mount of song where the great poets of the 
 world have 'based the pillars of their imperishable 
 thrones.' On the other hand, it must be remembered 
 that the men to whom the genius of poesy has dis- 
 tributed its noblest of gifts have mostly written for a 
 limited class of readers. Paradise Lost has never been 
 a popular poem ; Hamlet, Macbeth, and The Tempest 
 can hardly yet be said ' to take ' with the people. Ten- 
 nyson's poetry is not for the million ; and Wordsworth 
 is still ' like a star, dwelling apart.' It may be said, 
 in reply to this, that poets of less caliber are not much 
 complimented by being told that their popularity is 
 mainly owing to the fact that the best poetry is not 
 the most highly appreciated ; and this may be granted. 
 But there is another side to the story. 
 
 " To gain the ear, to stir the pulses, to delight the 
 imagination, of the thousands and tens of thousands 
 on whom the highest efforts of poetic genius are com- 
 paratively lost, is no mean triumph. Mr. Longfellow 
 has done this. His pages are everywhere instinct with 
 life, beauty, and grace. Seldom very sublime, seldom 
 very pathetic, — for the cast of his mind is, on the 
 whole, gleesome and joyous, — no writer exhibits a 
 better combination of those general qualities which 
 make poetry pleasant and lovable. The healthful and 
 breezy freshness of nature is on all his productions ; 
 and in the rich and teeming variety of his muse we 
 have the results of that passion for the fair and bright 
 things of the present and the past, so well described" in 
 his own Prelude." 
 
290 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 PRESIDENT C. C. FELTON. 
 
 President Cornelius Conway Felton of Harvard 
 University, in reviewing Ballads and Other Poems in 
 The North-American Review for July, 1842, said, — 
 
 " Mr. Longfellow's profound knowledge of German 
 literature has given a very perceptible tincture to his 
 poetical style. It bears the romantic impress, as distin- 
 guished from the classical, though at the same time it is 
 marked by a classical severity of taste. Nothing can 
 exceed the exquisite finish of some of his smaller pieces, 
 while they also abound in that richness of expression 
 and imagery which the romantic muse is supposed to 
 claim as her more especial attribute. The melody of 
 his versification is very remarkable : some of his stanzas 
 sound with the richest and sweetest music of which 
 language is capable. It is unnecessary to illustrate this 
 remark by quotations: the memories of all readers of 
 poetry involuntarily retain them. In the range of 
 American poetry, it would not be easy to find any that 
 is so readily remembered, that has sunk so" deeply into 
 the hearts of the people, and that so spontaneously rises 
 to the speaker's tongue in the pulpit and the lecture- 
 room." 
 
 THE PENN MONTHLY. 
 
 The Penn Monthly for Februaiy, 1874, said, in 
 speaking of Aftermath, "It is a common fault among 
 writers of a certain order, that when they have attained 
 to a recognized excellence in their art, they are willing, 
 under cover of their reputation, to produce works that 
 are unworthy of it. . . . 
 
 "Without supposing for a moment that Mr. Long- 
 fellow has any thing in common with this set, we wish 
 
THE PENN MONTHLY. 291 
 
 that he would not act so much like them. In other 
 words, we would be glad to have him explain the 
 raison d'etre of this last volume of poems. It cannot be 
 that he thinks that he had any thing new to say, for he 
 has not said it ; and it is hardly possible that he believes 
 that the tones of his 'one clear harp, 1 which have 
 echoed so long in our ears, will bear continual rever- 
 beration. Mr. Longfellow must compose with the as- 
 surance that whatever he writes will be eagerly read by 
 the people of both hemispheres, in whose hearts he is 
 so safely enthroned that no one but himself can dethrone 
 him ; and the consciousness of this fact should make 
 him very critical. We, for our part, have so often seen 
 his kindly face in his charming poems, and, we may add, 
 his poetry in his kindly face, that the associations there- 
 with are among the last that we should part with. 
 Indeed, there is no poet of the day so popular. He is 
 translated into as many languages as he has translated. 
 He is the most frequently read of foreign verse-writers 
 in Germany, for his lines are brimming with the simpli- 
 city and sentiment that the Germans have learned to 
 love in their own poets. His charms have long since 
 broken down the stiff barriers of English prejudice, 
 and in the first cheap edition of standard poets pub- 
 lished in England (the Chandos Classics) he comes 
 second in order after their own Shakspeare. He is 
 described in the preface as 'the American writer, whose 
 poems are as household words in English homes, and 
 whose genius has naturalized him in our land ; ' and his 
 poetical works may be bought to-day in London, and 
 are bought, in good clear type, for the small sum of 
 ninepence. Our chiefest dread, then, in reading After- 
 math, is that the position which he has acquired among 
 
292 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 us, and which we would protect from even his own 
 assaults, may be thus by himself materially affected. 
 For if it be shown that the secret which produced the 
 many beautiful poems that gush from his heart with 
 the freshness of sunshiny April showers from the shy, 
 and whose power over us we ever love to acknowledge, 
 is indeed no secret, but a 'knack,' and that the sym- 
 pathy and comfort in the gentle rhythmical flow of his 
 verses may be served up to order in lines of seven and 
 six, — if such a dreadful revelation is in store for us, 
 then, as Tiny Tim says, ' God bless us every one ! ' ' 
 
 DR. O. W. HOLMES. 
 
 Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in a masterly address 
 before the Massachusetts Historical Society, of which 
 Longfellow was a member, spoke with keen and deli- 
 cate discrimination of the writings of his brother-poet 
 and friend : — 
 
 " From the first notes of his fluent and harmonious 
 song to the last, which comes to us as the ' voice fell 
 like a falling star,' there has never been a discord. The 
 music of the mountain-stream in the poem which 
 reaches us from the other shore of life is as clear and 
 sweet as the melodies of the youthful and middle 
 periods of his minstrelsy. It has been a fully rounded 
 life ; beginning early with large promise, equalling every 
 anticipation in its maturity, fertile and beautiful to its 
 close in the ripeness of its well-filled years." 
 
 Speaking of the simplicity of Longfellow's style, he 
 continued : — 
 
 "In respect of this simplicity and naturalness, his 
 style is in strong contrast to that of many writers of 
 our time. There is no straining for effect, there is no 
 
DE. O. W. HOLMES. 293 
 
 torturing of rhythm for novel patterns, no wearisome 
 iteration of petted words, no inelegant clipping of syl- 
 lables to meet the exigencies of a verse, no affected 
 archaism, rarely any liberty taken with language, un- 
 less it may be in the form of a few words in the trans- 
 lation of Dante. 
 
 " Although Longfellow was not fond of metrical con- 
 tortions and acrobatic achievements, he well knew the 
 effects of skilful variation in the forms of verse and 
 well-managed refrains or repetitions. In one of his 
 earlier poems (' Pleasant it was when woods were 
 green '), the dropping a syllable from the last line is an 
 agreeable surprise to the ear, expecting only the com- 
 mon monotony of scrupulously balanced lines. In Ex- 
 celsior, the repetition of the aspiring exclamation which 
 gives its name to the poem lifts every stanza a step 
 higher than the one which preceded it. In The Old 
 Clock on the Stairs, the solemn words, ' Forever — never, 
 Never — forever,' give wonderful effectiveness to that 
 most impressive poem. 
 
 " I suppose if the great multitude of readers were to 
 render a decision as to which of Longfellow's poems 
 they most valued, the Psalm of Life would command 
 the largest number. This is a brief homily, enforcing 
 the great truths of duty, and of our relation to the 
 Eternal and Invisible. Next in order would very prob- 
 ably come Excelsior, a poem that springs upward like 
 a flame, and carries the soul up with it in its aspiration 
 for the unattainable ideal. If this sounds like a trum- 
 pet-call to the fiery energies of youth, not less does the 
 still, small voice of that most sweet and tender poem, 
 
294 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Resignation, appeal to the sensibilities of those who 
 have lived long enough to have known the bitterness 
 of such a bereavement as that out of which grew the 
 poem. Or take a poem before referred to, The Old 
 Clock on the Stairs ; and in it we find the history of 
 innumerable households told in relating the history of 
 one, and the solemn burden of the song repeats itself 
 to thousands of listening readers as if the beat of the 
 pendulum were throbbing at the head of every stair- 
 case. Such poems as these — and there are many 
 more of not unlike character — are the foundation of 
 that universal acceptance his writings obtain among all 
 classes. But for these appeals to universal sentiment, 
 his readers would have been confined to a comparatively 
 small circle of educated and refined readers. There 
 are thousands and tens of thousands who are familiar 
 with what we might call his household poems, who 
 have never read The Spanish Student, The Golden 
 Legend, Hiawatha, or even Evangeline. Again, ask 
 the first schoolboy you meet which of Longfellow's 
 poems he likes best, and he will be very likely to 
 answer, Paul Revere's Ride. When he is a few years 
 older lie might perhaps say, The Building of the Ship, 
 that admirably constructed poem, beginning with the 
 literal description, passing into the higher region of 
 sentiment by the most natural of transitions, and end- 
 ing with the noble climax, 
 
 ' Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! ' 
 
 which has become the classical expression of patriotic 
 emotion. 
 
 " Nothing lasts like a coin and a lyric. Long after the 
 dwellings of men have disappeared, when their temples 
 
DR. O. W. HOLMES. 295 
 
 are in ruins, and all their works of art are shattered, 
 the ploughman strikes an earthen vessel holding the 
 golden and silver disks on which the features of a dead 
 monarch, with emblems, it may be, betraying the beliefs 
 or the manners, the rudeness or the finish of art, and 
 all which this implies, survive an extinct civilization. 
 Pope has expressed this with his usual Horatian felicity 
 in the letter to Addison on the publication of his little 
 Treatise on Coins, — 
 
 ' A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, 
 And little eagles wave their wings in gold.' 
 
 Conquerors and conquered sink in common oblivion ; 
 triumphal arches, pageants the world wonders at, all that 
 trumpeted itself as destined to an earthly immortality, 
 pass away ; the victor of a hundred battles is dust, the 
 parchments or papyrus on which his deeds were written 
 are shrivelled and decayed and gone, 
 
 ' And all his triumphs shrink into a coin.' 
 
 So it is with a lyric poem. One happy utterance of 
 some emotion or expression which comes home to all 
 may keep a name remembered when the race to which 
 the singer belonged exists no longer. The cradle-song 
 of Danae to her infant as they tossed on the waves in 
 the imprisoning chest has made the name of Simonides 
 immortal. Our own English literature abounds with 
 instances which illustrate the same fact so far as the 
 experience of a few generations extends. And I think 
 we may venture to say that some of the shorter poems 
 of Longfellow must surely reach a remote posterity, 
 and be considered then, as now, ornaments to English 
 literature. We may compare them with the best short 
 poems of the language without fearing that they will 
 
296 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 suffer. Scott, cheerful, wholesome, unreflective, should 
 be read in the open air ; Byron, the poet of malecon- 
 tents and cynics, in a prison-cell; Burns, generous, 
 impassioned, manly, social, in the tavern-hall ; Moore, 
 elegant, fastidious, full of melody, scented with the 
 volatile perfume of the Eastern gardens in which his 
 fancy revelled, is pre-eminently the poet of the draw- 
 ing-room and the piano ; Longfellow, thoughtful, mu- 
 sical, home-loving, busy with the lessons of life, which 
 he was ever studying, and loved to teach others, finds 
 his charmed circle of listeners by the fireside. His 
 songs, which we might almost call sacred ones, rarely, 
 if ever, get into the hyrm-books. They are too broadly 
 human to suit the specialized tastes of the sects, which 
 often think more of their differences from each other 
 than of the common ground on which they can agree. 
 
 " Shall we think less of our poet because he aimed in 
 his verse not simply to please, but also to impress some 
 elevating thought on the minds of his readers ? The 
 Psalms of King David are burning with religious de- 
 votion and full of weighty counsel ; but they are not 
 less valued, certainly, than the poems of Omar Khayyam, 
 which cannot be accused of too great a tendency to 
 find a useful lesson in their subject. Dennis, the fa- 
 mous critic, found fault with The Rape of the Lock 
 because it had no moral. It is not necessary that a 
 poem should carry a moral, any more than that a pic- 
 ture of a Madonna should always be an altar-piece. 
 The poet himself is the best judge of that in each par- 
 ticular case. In that charming little poem of Words- 
 worth's ending, 
 
 1 And then my heart with rapture thrills, 
 And dances with the daffodils,' 
 
FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD. 297 
 
 we do not ask for any thing more than the record of the 
 impression which is told so simply, and which justifies 
 itself by the way in which it is told. But who does 
 not feel with the poet that the touching story, Hart- 
 leap Well, must have its lesson brought out distinctly 
 to give a fitting close to the narrative ? Who would 
 omit those two lines — 
 
 ' Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that lives ' ? 
 
 No poet knows better than Longfellow how to impress 
 a moral without seeming to preach. Didactic verse, as 
 such, is no doubt a formidable visitation ; but a cathe- 
 dral has its lesson to teach, as well as a schoolhouse. 
 These beautiful medallions of verse which Longfellow 
 has left us might possibly be found fault with as con- 
 veying too much useful and elevating truth in their 
 legends ; having the unartistic aim of being serviceable 
 as well as delighting by their beauty. Let us leave 
 such comment to the critics who cannot handle a golden 
 coin fresh from the royal mint without clipping its 
 edges, and stamping their own initials on its face." 
 
 FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD. 
 
 Mr. Francis H. Underwood has thus spoken of sev- 
 eral of Longfellow's poems : " The poems, Voices of the 
 Night, about the earliest of his writings, though not the 
 first printed, really formed the turning-point of his 
 career. He has written greater poems, and had after- 
 ward a wider education ; but he never wrote any thing 
 more characteristic of his genius and of his judgment 
 than those early poems. They have become current as 
 proverbs ; the lines are interchangeable, like fragments 
 
298 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 of Shakspeare ; they are current as coin in conversa- 
 tion ; they are, and they will remain, a gospel of good- 
 will and good music ; they were written, not for admira- 
 tion, but for the hearts of the people, and have become 
 heart treasures." Referring to Longfellow's participa- 
 tion in public affairs, Mr. Underwood said the poet was 
 probably never seen on the platform at any anti-slavery 
 meeting, yet his anti-slavery poems gave all the influ- 
 ence of his mind and character on that subject. The 
 Arsenal at Springfield was written very shortly after 
 Mr. Sumner had delivered his oration on The True 
 Grandeur of Nations ; and Paul Revere's Ride was 
 written in January, 1861, three months before the at- 
 tack on Fort Sumter; and both of these were written 
 to have an influence upon the public mind in regard to 
 slavery and the impending war. 
 
 EDITH M. THOMAS. 
 
 In The Critic for April 22, 1882, Edith M. Thomas 
 said : " Have not astronomers told us that certain re- 
 mote stars are already stricken from the firmament? 
 And yet, because their light is still coming, their lamps 
 nightly re-appearing in the roof of heaven, we will not 
 believe in their annihilation. How can we credit the 
 cold fact of mortality while the poet's starlight still 
 reaches us ? It seems to us that never, in all his long 
 ministry of song, has Longfellow been so clearly pres- 
 ent, so vividly alive, to the eyes of the heart and the 
 imagination, as in the few days since his death. In 
 many and diverse circles his verse has been re-read, and 
 found to be wondrously eloquent of the author him- 
 self, — authentic spiritual autobiography, not before re- 
 vealed, and not to be revealed except under the light 
 
THE BOSTON BOOK BULLETIN. 299 
 
 of the inverted torch. New pathos and beauty are dis- 
 covered in such lyrics as The Bridge ; an added deli- 
 cacy and grace in such poems as Endymion ; and the 
 chords struck in The Ladder of St. Augustine vibrate 
 with more resonance and sweetness when we accept 
 them as the embodied music of a life so fair, high- 
 purposed, and trustful as Longfellow's. Remembering 
 his parable of The Singers, could it not be said that he 
 united in himself the several missions of that God-sent 
 triad, ' to charm, to strengthen, and to teach ' ? for his 
 voice had been heard in youth, in his strong prime, and 
 in his harmonious old age. . . . 
 
 " The ' slender reeds of song ' have always bent with 
 love and reverence in the direction of this strong pillar 
 in the temple of American literature. If the truth were 
 told, doubtless every one of the younger brood of poets 
 would confess that he had long anticipated the deserved 
 red-letter day when he should be permitted to touch the 
 old poet's kindly hand, to gaze in that face, 
 
 ' Whose looks increased 
 The silvery setting of his mortal star.' 
 
 Where this privilege has been granted, 'what Long- 
 fellow said' has been passed on from one custodian to 
 another as a sort of sacred oral tradition, just as in old 
 time the oracle may have been forwarded from Delphi 
 to some far outpost of Thule." 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK BULLETIN. 
 
 Says a contributor to The Boston Book Bulletin, 
 " In his home his hospitality was proverbial. Bret 
 Harte has called him the ideal poet, and he was ideal 
 host as well. His gentle tact and exquisite courtesy 
 
300 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 remind one of that fine compliment paid to Villemand, 
 — which is a fine definition of politeness, — ' When he 
 spoke to a lady, one would think he had offered her a 
 bouquet.' 
 
 " He was emphatically the poet of the beautiful, and 
 his life was as rounded and complete as. one of his own 
 sonnets, or a Beethoven symphony. He was not one 
 of those great men who must be seen like an oil-paint- 
 ing, at a distance ; but the nearer one approached, the 
 finer showed the outlines and shadings of his character. 
 Success did not make him indifferent to the aspirations 
 of the unknown. The young poet who went to Long- 
 fellow with his verses needed not to fear a cold recep- 
 tion nor an indifferent listener. Sympathy he would 
 surely find ; and also, did his verses contain one glim- 
 mer of the sacred fire, that encouragement for want of 
 which many a young genius has been stifled. 
 
 " He was to the last an earnest worker, composing 
 with great care. Time took from him only the gold of 
 his hair and the smoothness of his brow, and gave him 
 year by year added grace and sweetness and strength. 
 Wide-spread as his influence was, yet his mission is but 
 begun ; for, as long as the heart of humanity shall beat, 
 his voice will be heard in tones of music, singing words 
 of consolation and hope." 
 
 PROFESSOR C. E. NORTON. 
 
 In his address before the Massachusetts Historical 
 Society, Professor Charles Eliot Norton said, " The 
 accord between the character and life of Mr. Longfel- 
 low and his poems was complete. His poetry touched 
 the hearts of his readers because it was the sincere ex- 
 pression of his own. The sweetness, the gentleness, the 
 
PBOFESSOR C. E. NORTON. 301 
 
 grace, the purity, the humanity, of his verse, were the 
 image of his own soul. But, beautiful and ample as 
 this expression of himself was, it fell short of the truth. 
 The man was more and better than the poet. . . . 
 
 " Intimate, however, as was the concord between the 
 poet and his poetry, there was much in him to which 
 he never gave utterance in words. He was a man of 
 deep reserves. He kept the holy of holies within him- 
 self, sacred and secluded. Seldom does he admit his 
 readers to even its outward precincts. The deepest 
 experiences of life are too sacred to be shared with any 
 one whatsoever. ' There are things of which I may not 
 speak,' he says in one of the most personal of his poems. 
 
 'Whose hand shall dare to open and explore 
 Those volumes closed and clasped f oreverniore ? 
 Not mine. With reverential feet T pass.' 
 
 " It was the felicity of Mr. Longfellow to share the 
 sentiment and emotion of his coevals, and to succeed 
 in giving to them their apt poetic expression. It was 
 not by depth of thought, or by original views of nature, 
 that he won his place in the world's regard; but it was 
 by sympathy with the feelings common to good men 
 and women everywhere, and by the simple, direct, sin- 
 cere, and delicate expression of them, that he gained the 
 affection of mankind. 
 
 "He was fortunate in the time of his birth. He" 
 grew up in the morning of our Republic. He shared in 
 the cheerfulness of the early hour, in its hopefulness, 
 its confidence. The years of his youth and early man- 
 hood coincided with an exceptional moment of national 
 life, in which a prosperous and unembarrassed democ- 
 racy was learning its own capacities, and was beginning 
 
302 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 to realize its large and novel resources, — in which the 
 order of society was still simple and humane. He be- 
 came, more than any one else, the voice of this epoch of 
 national progress, an epoch of unexampled prosperity 
 for the masses of mankind in our new world, — prosperity 
 from which sprang a sense, more general and deeper 
 than had ever before been felt, of human kindliness and 
 brotherhood. But, even to the prosperous, life brings 
 its inevitable burden. Trial, sorrow, misfortune, are 
 not to be escaped by the happiest of men. The deepest 
 experiences of each individual are the experiences com- 
 mon to the whole race. And it is this double aspect 
 of American life, — its novel and happy conditions, 
 with the genial spirit resulting from them, and, at the 
 same time, its subjection to the old, absolute, universal 
 laws of existence, — that finds its mirror and manifes- 
 tation in Longfellow's poetry. . . . 
 
 " No one can read his poetry without a conviction of 
 the simplicity, tenderness, gentleness, and humanity of 
 the poet. And we who were his friends know how 
 these qualities shone in his daily conversation. Praise, 
 applause, flattery, — and no man ever was exposed to 
 more of them, — never touched him to harm him. He 
 walked through their flames unscathed, as Dante 
 through the fires of purgatory. His modesty was per- 
 fect. He accepted the praise as he would have ac- 
 cepted any other pleasant gift, — glad of it as an 
 expression of good-will, but without personal elation. 
 Indeed, he had too much of it, and often in an absurd 
 and trying form, not to become at times weary of what 
 his own fame and virtues brought upon him. But his 
 kindliness did not permit him to show his weariness to 
 those who did but burden him with their admiration. 
 
THE LONDON ECHO. 303 
 
 It was the penalty of his genius, and he accepted it with 
 the pleasantest temper and a humorous resignation. 
 Bores of all nations, especially of our own, persecuted 
 him. His long-suffering patience was a wonder to his 
 friends. It was, in truth, the sweetest charity. No 
 man was ever before so kind to these moral mendi- 
 cants." 
 
 THE LONDON ECHO. 
 
 Longfellow's patriotism was commented on by The 
 London Echo, March 25, 1882, as follows : " Perhaps 
 one of the chief reasons of Longfellow's fame on this 
 side the ocean is that he was less national than some 
 of his distinguished compeers, such as Whittier and 
 Lowell. And yet he was no lukewarm patriot. While 
 as yet it was regarded as almost treason to the Common- 
 wealth to denounce the sum of all villanies, as far back 
 as 1843, he published his Poems on Slavery, in one of 
 which, with almost prophetic foresight, he compared the 
 African race in America to that poor blind slave of 
 Gaza, the scoff and jest of all, in whose fall thousands 
 perished. The great civil war did not kindle in him 
 the passionate enthusiasm that inspired the chief anti- 
 slavery poets ; but he took occasion, on the destruction 
 of the Cumberland, to pay a tribute to the brave men 
 who died in her, and to predict, in the dark hours of 
 Northern defeat, that the old flag should yet once more 
 float 'without a seam.' It seems strange that American 
 poets should revert so sparingly to the Revolutionary 
 period of which they are so proud. Longfellow has 
 done so only once, in the spirited story of Paul Revere's 
 Ride ; but even here he avoids the blood and smoke of 
 battle, and the fury of national passion. It was not in 
 him to hate. He could not hate even the Evil One. 
 
304 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 In The Golden Legend he has created the least devilish 
 devil that ever the heart of man conceived, and then 
 closes the book with the eminently optimist and charita- 
 ble conclusion, that, ' since God suffers him to be, he, too, 
 is God's minister, and labors for some good by us not 
 understood. 1 ' 
 
 RELIGIOUS ATTITUDE. 
 
 At the close of the biographical portion of this vol- 
 ume were quoted opinions of various persons upon the 
 religious attitude of Mr. Longfellow. The great hu- 
 manitarian poets are always broader than all sects : 
 they include such sects in the scope and range of their 
 sympathies. Hence they are claimed by the most radi- 
 cally antagonistic thinkers. It is known to the writer 
 that Mr. Longfellow expressed to an eminent Harvard 
 instructor his strong disapproval of the invitation ex- 
 tended to the Rev. Phillips Brooks, D.D., to become 
 preacher at the Harvard-College Chapel, on the ground 
 that he was not a Unitarian. 
 
 The Rev. George Zabriskie Gray, D.D., dean of the 
 Episcopal Theological School in Cambridge, said in a 
 recent sermon : " He was a Christian poet. Though 
 not of our particular fold, yet his influence was cast, 
 through all his long career, on the side of our precious 
 faith. . . . Some years ago he met Dr. Stone in front 
 of St. John's Memorial Chapel, and said, ' I never pass 
 your grounds, and this chapel, without thinking of the 
 words of the benediction in the prayer-book, " The 
 peace of God which passeth all understanding." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's residence almost adjoined St. John's 
 Chapel ; and in it were baptized his two grandchildren, 
 on which occasion he was present, the Rev. Dr. Phillips 
 
306 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Brooks standing as their godfather. He has made the 
 chapel famous by a beautiful sonnet beginning, — 
 
 " I stand beneath the tree whose branches shade 
 Thy western window, Chapel of St. John, 
 And hear its leaves repeat their benison 
 On him whose hands thy stones memorial laid." 
 
POETS 1 TRIBUTES. 
 
 " Garlands upon his grave, 
 
 And flowers upon his hearse, 
 And to the tender heart and true 
 The tribute of this verse." — LONGFELLOW. 
 
 TO H. W. L. 
 
 (On his birthday, 27th February, 1867.) 
 
 I need not praise the sweetness of his song, 
 
 Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds 
 Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong 
 The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, 
 Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds. 
 
 With loving breath of all the winds his name 
 
 Is blown about the world ; but to his friends 
 A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, 
 And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim 
 To murmur a God bless you ! and there ends. 
 
 As I muse backward up the checkered years 
 Wherein so much was given, so much was lost, 
 
 Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears, — 
 
 But hush! this is not for profaner ears: 
 Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the cost. 
 
 Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core, 
 
 As nought but nightshade grew upon earth's ground: 
 Love turned all his to heart' s-ease; and the more 
 Tate tried his bastions, she but forced a door 
 Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. 
 
 307 
 
308 HENRY WADSWORTJI LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade 
 
 Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun, 
 So through his trial faith translucent rayed 
 Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed 
 A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. 
 
 Surely if skill in song the shears may stay, 
 
 And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, 
 If onr poor life be lengthened by a lay, 
 He shall not go, although his presence may, 
 And the next age in praise shall double this. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 1 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 (Dead March 24, 1882.) 
 
 Alone, at night, he heard them sigh, — 
 These wild March winds that beat his tomb, 
 
 Alone, at night, from those that die 
 He sought one ray to light his gloom. 
 
 And still he heard the night winds moan, 
 And still the mystery closed him round, 
 
 And still the darkness cold and lone 
 Sent forth no ray, returned no sound. 
 
 But Time at last the answer brings ; 
 
 And he, past all our suns and snows, 
 At rest with peasants and with kings, 
 
 Like them the wondrous secret knows. 
 
 Alone, at night, we hear them sigh, — 
 These wild March winds that stir his pall; 
 
 And helpless, wandering, lost, we cry 
 To his dim ghost, to tell us all. 
 
 He loved us while he lingered here : 
 We loved him — never love more true! 
 
 He will not leave, in doubt and fear, 
 The human grief that once he knew. 
 
 1 Printed with permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 309 
 
 For never yet was born the day 
 
 When, faint of heart and weak of limb, 
 One suffering creature turned away, 
 
 Unhelped, unsoothed, uncheered by him ! 
 
 But still through darkness, dense and bleak, 
 The winds of March moan wildly round; 
 
 And still we feel that all we seek 
 Ends in that sigh of vacant sound. 
 
 He cannot tell us — none can tell 
 
 What waits behind the mystic veil! 
 Yet he who lived and died so well, 
 
 In that, perchance, has told the tale. 
 
 Not to the wastes of Nature drift — 
 
 Else were this world an evil dream — 
 The crown and soul of Nature's gift, 
 
 By Avon or by Charles's stream. 
 
 His heart was pure, his purpose high, 
 
 His thought serene, his patience vast: 
 He put all strifes of passion by, 
 
 And lived to God from first to last. 
 
 His song was like the pine-tree's sigh 
 
 At midnight o'er a poet's grave, 
 Or like the sea-bird's distant cry, 
 
 Borne far across the twilight wave. 
 
 There is no flower of meek delight, 
 
 There is no star of heavenly pride, 
 That shines not sweeter and more bright 
 
 Because he lived, loved, sang, and died. 
 
 Wild winds of March, his requiem sing! 
 
 Weep o'er him, April's sorrowing skies! 
 Till come the tender flowers of Spring, 
 
 To deck tbe pillow where he lies; 
 
 Till violets pour their purple flood, 
 
 That wandering myrtle shall not lack, 
 And, royal with the Summer's blood, 
 
 The roses that he loved come back: 
 
310 HENRY WABSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Till all that Nature gives of light, 
 
 To rift the gloom and point the way, 
 Shall sweetly pierce our mortal night, 
 
 And symbol his immortal day ! 
 
 William Winter, in Tlie New York Tribune. 
 
 THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. 
 
 With a glory of winter sunshine 
 
 Over his locks of gray, 
 In the old historic mansion 
 
 He sat on his last birthday, 
 
 With his books and his pleasant pictures, 
 And his household and his kin, 
 
 While a sound as of myriads singing 
 From far and near stole in. 
 
 It came from his own fair city, 
 From the prairie's boundless plain, 
 
 From the Golden Gate of sunset, 
 And the cedarn woods of Maine. 
 
 And his heart grew warm within him, 
 And his moistening eyes grew dim ; 
 
 For he knew that his country's children 
 Were singing the songs of him: 
 
 The lays of his life's glad morning, 
 The psalms of his evening time, 
 
 Whose echoes shall float forever 
 On the winds of every clime. 
 
 All their beautiful consolations, 
 Sent forth like birds of cheer, 
 
 Came flocking back to his windows, 
 And sang in the poet's ear. 
 
 Grateful, but solemn and tender, 
 
 The music rose and fell 
 With a joy akin to sadness 
 
 And a greeting like farewell. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 3H 
 
 With a sense of awe he listened 
 
 To the voices sweet and young: 
 The last of earth and the first of heaven 
 
 Seemed in the songs they sung. 
 
 And waiting a little longer 
 
 For the wonderful change to come, 
 He heard the summoning angel 
 
 Who calls God's children home! 
 
 And to him, in a holier welcome, 
 
 Was the mystical meaning given 
 Of the words of the blessed Master: 
 
 "Of such is the kingdom of heaven!" 
 John Greenleaf Whittier, in The Wide Awake. 
 
 On the occasion of the poet's seventy-fourth birthday, 
 The Literaiy World published the following poetical trib- 
 utes : — 
 
 Not yet ! " O loved historian of hearts ! " 
 "Ultima Thule" draweth not in sight; 
 For Love's own angel in her raiment white 
 Stands at the prow, and as the bright foam parts 
 She gives her mandate: " Helmsman, bear away 
 From rocky coast where hidden dangers throng: 
 Rich freight we bear, the crowned king of song, — 
 A king to whom the nations homage pay J" 
 Not yet! for great "Sandalphon" waiting stands, 
 And gathers prayers and wishes one by one, 
 To bear to that far clime beyond the sun, 
 All changed to flowers in his immortal hands. 
 Ah, royal friend ! Love would detain thee long 
 From that far distant " Utmost Isle " of song! 
 
 Mrs. J. Oliver Smith. 
 
 Throned in thine ebon chair, O Poet! may 
 
 We bring thy brow a wreath ? 'Tis twined with more 
 
 Than the Ravenna myrtle Dante wore, 
 
 Or than Petrarca's crown of Roman bay, 
 
312 UENRY WADSWOBTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Or sad Torquato's, which he could not stay 
 From heaven to await. For if thy deathless store 
 Of song were lost to us, with all its lore, 
 How poorer were the whole world's heart to-day! 
 
 Therefore, among the laurel leaves we bind 
 
 Rose, heather, shamrock, olive, fleur-de-lys, 
 
 And Alpine edelweiss, with aster blue, 
 
 And Mayflower, and magnolia ; and close-twined 
 
 Among them, breathing grateful odor, see 
 
 A shy Virginia violet wet with dew ! 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 Some souls are vernal — thine is young to-day, 
 
 As sun-dawn melting in the eyes of May; 
 Age a mist-woven, futile mask wherethrough 
 
 Shines thy brave Life, still touched by morning dew! 
 
 No sin-begotten wrinkles mar the grace, 
 
 The fair, frank lustre of thy spirit's face: 
 Time's snows on thee have brought no saddening blight, 
 
 But crowned thy heart as head with radiant white! 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 When thou didst hymn the " Voices of the Night," 
 While youth's fresh flowers were still thy path adorning, 
 
 Their deep-toned music thrilled the advancing light, 
 And they were thy true Voices of the Morning. 
 
 Thy latest lays, that, echoing from afar, 
 Peach us as on thou sail'st toward Ultima Thule, 
 
 Thy Vespers — Voices of the Evening — are: 
 
 The sun sinks low — the stars will shine forth duly. 
 
 The world's great heart, between thy morn and eve, 
 Thy verse has charmed, as manifold as glorious; 
 
 Nor need' st thou dread the night, for thou wilt leave 
 A light that through the dark will stream victorious. 
 
 But may the twilight of thy day be long; 
 
 May day so blessed have e'en as blessed an ending, 
 And soft reverberations of thy song 
 
 Lull thee to sleep, with psalms celestial blending ! 
 
 W. L. Shoemaker. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 313 
 
 I. 
 
 To the land of grantie and ice, 
 
 In the month of frost and snow, 
 A strain of music from Paradise 
 
 Came seeking a home below. 
 It entered a child's white heart; 
 
 And the little human tent 
 Grew to a shrine for its guest divine, 
 
 The poem the gods had sent. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now the rocky hills are crossed 
 
 By snatches of happy tune : 
 The month of darkness and frost 
 
 We honor above the June. 
 For thou, O Poet we love ! 
 
 Art the bloom of our northern clime; 
 And we know that song, through the ages long, 
 
 Is the sweetest fruit of time. 
 
 Catherine E. Bates. 
 
 Great souls there are like mountain heights, 
 
 Which through the mists uprear 
 Their stately heads in shining light, 
 
 And know no stain nor peer. 
 
 And souls there are which shine like stars, 
 
 Far off in evening skies, 
 And ever move, unchanged, undimmed, 
 
 Before our wondering eyes. 
 
 Like mount and star to future years, 
 
 Wise singer, thou wilt seem ; 
 But more to us thy gracious life 
 
 Is like a noble stream, 
 
 Whose course through all the meadow-lands 
 
 Is marked by trees and flowers, 
 And whose broad breast, unvexed by storms, 
 
 Reflects our sunniest hours. 
 
 Annie Sawyer Downs. 
 
314 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Not seldom genius bids us call men great 
 Who are ignoble in their deeds or soul; 
 Not seldom genius, with supreme control, 
 Makes us unmindful of the body's trait 
 
 That ill befits the royal dweller's state. 
 But with thy genius is the liberal dole 
 Of gifts that make it shine unmarred and whole, 
 And that the years augment and not abate. 
 
 As though unconscious of the laurelled name, — 
 Its heavy honors on thy temples bound, — 
 Thou treadest life's familiar, simple way; 
 
 And thy whole self accords so with thy fame, 
 
 That with consummate fitness, thou art crowned. 
 Joy to this sabbath of thy fame and day ! 
 
 Charlotte Fiske Bates. 
 
 WHOSE SHALL THE WELCOME BE? 
 
 The wave goes down, the wind goes down, 
 
 The gray tide glitters on the sea, 
 The moon seems praying in the sky. 
 
 Gates of the New Jerusalem 
 
 (A perfect pearl each gate of them) 
 Wide as all heaven swing on high: 
 
 Whose shall the welcome be ? 
 
 The wave went down, the wind went down, 
 
 The tide of life turned out to sea ; 
 Patience of pain, and grace of deed, 
 
 The glories of the heart and brain, 
 
 Treasure that shall not come again ; 
 The human singing that we need, 
 
 Set to a heavenly key. 
 
 The wave goes down, the wind goes down, 
 
 All tides at last turn to the sea. 
 We learn to take the thing we have. 
 
 Thou who hast taught us strength in grief, 
 
 As moon to shadow, high and chief, 
 Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave, 
 
 And light our loss of thee! 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, in N. Y. Independent. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 315 
 
 LAUS LAUEEATI. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 FEB. 27, 1807-1882. 
 
 (Read before the Maine Historical Society at their celebration of the poet's seventy, 
 fifth birthday.) 
 
 I sing no common theme, but of a man, — 
 One who, full-voiced, the highway of the King 
 Gladdens with song ; inspiring lives which span 
 A fruitless field where little joy may spring, 
 And which, from birth, may win no better thing 
 Than paltry bread, and shelter from the blast, 
 Till unto Death's low house they come at last. 
 
 It needs more fluent tongue than mine to sing, 
 
 In fitting measure, of a poet born — 
 
 Greater than crosiered priest or sceptred king. 
 
 Since such are made, and may by chance be shorn 
 
 Of all their glory by to-morrow morn; 
 
 But born a poet, he shall surely be 
 
 Ever a poet to eternity. 
 
 Of such I strive to sing: one who shall live 
 
 In Fame's high house while stars make glad the sky, — 
 
 That happy house which many hapless give 
 
 Life's choicest pearls to gain, since none may die 
 
 Who come within its halls so fair and high. 
 
 Would I might win it, with no thought but this, 
 
 That I might others bring soul-health and bliss. 
 
 But, Master, one who is about to die 
 
 Brings thee a crown, which, though not one of bay, 
 
 May haply mind thee of some things gone by 
 
 Pleasant to think of, — matters put away 
 
 In rooms forgot, where truant memories play 
 
 At hide and seek ; for, beareth it, forsooth, 
 
 Savor of things well loved by thee in youth. 
 
 Of Deering's Woods, which whisper softly, still, 
 
 A boy's will is the wind's will, as of yore 
 
 They lisped to thee, where sweet-voiced birds would trill, 
 
 In haunts wherein thou soughtest tuneful lore. 
 
 Of bluff and beach along our rugged shore, 
 
316 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Girting the bay, whose isles enchanted drew 
 Thy venturous thoughts to havens ever new. 
 
 Dear Master let me take thy hand a space, 
 And lead thee gently wheresoe'er I may; 
 With the salt sea's cool breath upon thy face, 
 And in thine ears the music of the spray, 
 Which rapt in days agone thy soul away, 
 Where hung full low the golden fruit of truth, 
 Within the reach of thy aspiring youth. 
 
 Thou knowest well the place : here built George Cleeves 
 Almost two centuries before thy birth; 
 Here was his cornfield ; here his lowly eaves 
 Sheltered the swallows, and around his hearth 
 The red men crouched, — poor souls of little worth: 
 Thou with clear vision seest them, I know, 
 As they were in the flesh long years ago. 
 
 Surely the shrewd, persistent pioneer 
 
 Built better than he knew : he thought to build 
 
 A shelter for himself, his kith and gear; 
 
 But felled the trees, and grubbed and ploughed and tilled, 
 
 That in the course of time might be fulfilled 
 
 A wondrous purpose, being no less than this, 
 
 That here a poet might be born to bliss. 
 
 Ah! could he but have tracked adown the dim 
 Long, weary path of years, and stood to-day 
 With thee and me, how would the eyes of him 
 Have flashed with pride and joy to hear men say, 
 Here Cleeves built the first house in Casco Bay; 
 Here, too, was oxvc Longfellow's place of birth, 
 And sooth, God sent his singers upon earth. 
 
 Thou canst not find Clay Cove ? 'Twas here, wilt say, 
 
 When thou didst listen to the runnet's song, 
 
 Leaping to meet the full lips of the bay. 
 
 Well, let us climb Munjoy; lo! good and strong, 
 
 In the same coat of red it hath so long 
 
 Disported bravely, spite of flood and flame, 
 
 The old Observatory, still the same. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 317 
 
 And there the forts; and, farther seaward yet, 
 A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day, 
 The lighthouse standeth still, as firmly set 
 Upon its flinty throne amidst the spray, 
 As erst when thou didst dream thy soul away 
 To the hoarse Hebrides, or bright Azore, 
 Or flashing surges of San Salvador. 
 
 And, ere we leave, look, where still sleep the two 
 Brave captains, who in bloody shrouds were brought 
 From the great sea-fight whilst the bugles blew, 
 And drums rolled, and gaunt cannon terror wrought 
 In childish hearts: the place thou oft hast sought 
 To dream the fight o'er, while the busy hum 
 Of toil from wharf and street would strangely come. 
 
 But now along the teeming thoroughfare 
 
 Thread we our way. Strange faces, sayest thou ? 
 
 Yet names well known to thee, some haply bear, 
 
 And, shouldst thou scan more closely face and brow, 
 
 Old looks would come well known to thee enow, 
 
 Which shone on faces of the girls and boys 
 
 Who shared with thee the sweets of youthful joys. 
 
 And now we come where, rough with rent and scar, 
 The ancient ropewalk stood, low-roofed and gray, 
 Embalmed with scent of oakum, flax, and tar, 
 Cobwebbed and dim, and crammed with strange array 
 Of things which lure the thoughts of youth away 
 To wondrous climes, where never ship hath been, 
 Nor foot hath trod, nor curious eye hath seen. 
 
 Gone ! — why, I dreamt ! A moment since 'twas there, 
 Or seemed to be. Their lives' frail thread, 'tis true, 
 The spinners long since spun ; the maidens fair, 
 Swinging and laughing as their shadows flew 
 Along the grass, have swung from earthly view, 
 And the gay mountebanks have vaulted quite 
 Into oblivion's eternal night. 
 
 And they are gone. The woman at the well ; 
 The old man ringing in the noontide heat; 
 The shameless convicts with their faces fell; 
 The boy and kite, and steeds with flying feet, 
 And sportsmen ambushed midst of leafage sweet; 
 
318 EENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Ay, and the ships rejoicing in the breeze 
 Are rotting on the shores of unknown seas. 
 
 But, Master, let us fare to old Bramhall, 
 
 Up Free and Main Streets — this is State, full well 
 
 The house where Mellen lived you must recall, 
 
 Seeing a poet once therein might dwell ; 
 
 Though short of Fame's fair house he hapless fell, 
 
 Tracing his name, half listless, in the reach 
 
 Of every tide which sweeps Time's treacherous beach. 
 
 And here is cool Bramhall ; and there still stands 
 The Deering house, as thou hast known it long; 
 Where Brackett's house stood, ere with murderous hands 
 The Indians thronged around it — witched of wrong — 
 One August day, with torch and savage song, 
 And swept it from the earth. Ah ! void of hope, 
 Might feeble Falmouth then midst ruin grope. 
 
 But time hath made all right now. Lo! a-west, 
 Whither the red man gazed with fervid eyes, 
 The mountains in eternal whiteness drest, 
 He called the crystal hills, and, childishwise, 
 Did fondly deem, that way lay Paradise; 
 Whither each evening went the chief of day, 
 Bedecked with painted robes and feathers gay. 
 
 'Twas not so far amiss, for type more grand 
 Of the celestial hills no eye may see; 
 Towering in splendid majesty, they stand 
 Like the fixed portals of eternity, 
 Curtained with shining clouds tumultuously, 
 Which rise and fall, yet ever seem to hold 
 A mystery bosomed in each shadowy fold. 
 
 Pile upon pile they rise ; and meet the sky, 
 
 Blue, overarching, like a mighty dome. 
 
 Even such a temple doth my spirit's eye 
 
 Limn for those souls who through achievement come 
 
 To well-won fame. Lo! in this glorious home 
 
 I see them sit august, and, crowned with bays, 
 
 Across the silent centuries calmly gaze. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 319 
 
 Homer unkempt, with close, sagacious look; 
 Plato, in whose calm face pale mysteries bide ; 
 Virgil, smooth-cheeked, with oaten pipe and crook; 
 Grave Sophocles, with eyes unsatisfied, 
 Where riddles all unread in ambush hide; 
 Keen-eyed Euripides, whose books were men, 
 And jovial Horace with satiric pen ; 
 
 And dear old Chaucer, loved of gods and men, 
 Benign, keen-witted, childlike, quaint, and wise; 
 Spenser, pure knight, whose lance was his good pen, 
 The praise of ladyes f ayre his loved emprise ; 
 Great Shakspeare, with a seer's unhindered eyes; 
 Blind Milton, listening for a seraph's wings; 
 And Burns, in whose blithe face a skylark sings; 
 
 Wordsworth, so simple; and poor, fragile Keats, 
 
 Who poured his heart out like a nightingale, 
 
 Whose affluent verse half cloys with wealth of sweets; 
 
 A master, spite of faulty work and frail, 
 
 Whose luckless loss the world full long shall wail : 
 
 And here, placed fairly in this hall of Fame, 
 
 A glorious seat with newly-carven name. 
 
 'Tis plain, dear Master, 'tis thy name forsooth 
 
 Deep graven in the everlasting stone. 
 
 There shall it be untouched of Time's sharp tooth, 
 
 While sunshine kisses bud to bloom, and zone 
 
 Answers to zone with fruitage all its own; 
 
 And quiring stars with universal song 
 
 The boundless arch of heaven majestic throng. 
 
 Here will I bid thee, Master, fond good-by, 
 
 Wishing thee soul-health and full many a day 
 
 Of blissful living, ere thou mayest try 
 
 The scope of other joys. And now I may 
 
 This wreath from Deering's Woods, O Master! lay 
 
 Upon thy brow. God speed thee while the sun 
 
 Shines on the faithful work which thou hast done! 
 
 James P. Baxter, in the Portland Advertiser. 
 
320 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Seventy-five bright golden years, 
 Journeying toward an all-wise Giver; 
 
 Seventy-five ! — yet scarce he hears 
 The rippling sob of Time's great river! 
 
 .Still is the Minstrel's music heard, 
 
 Strong and clear are his notes of warning; 
 
 Still are his lute-strings sweetly stirred. 
 Warm is his heart as in life's morning. 
 
 Turn, O Muse ! to that wondrous page, 
 Glowing for aye with? song and story; 
 
 Brush with thy wing the mists of Age, 
 Sing of the Minstrel's youthful glory. 
 
 His was a triumph brave and grand, 
 Worthy the laurel's fond caressing; 
 
 His the touch of a master-hand, 
 Ever the notes of Hate suppressing. 
 
 Turn, O Potter! thy magic wheels, — 
 
 Ixion-like, turn on forever; 
 While at thy shrine Keramos kneels, 
 
 Nought from his song thy name can sever. 
 
 Here the scenes of his boyhood's hours, 
 And here old ocean's blue is gleaming; 
 
 Yonder the oaks' primeval bowers, 
 Where infant Fancy fell a-dreaming. 
 
 Low the sun on the western wave, 
 Slowly the night aj^ace is creeping; 
 
 Strong is the Minstrel's heart and brave, 
 Ever is Faith her vigils keeping. 
 
 Fancy leans from her casement-bar, 
 
 Lists to the song that's upward pealing; 
 
 Into the Isle of Dreams afar, 
 Lo ! a shadowy bark is stealing ! 
 
POETS' THIBUTES. 321 
 
 Only the gleam of silver sails, 
 
 Under the even's purple glowing; 
 Only a glimpse of distant vales, 
 
 Where the fountains of Youth are flowing. 
 
 Yet still for thee, O Minstrel ! beam 
 
 Twinkling lights from Memory's portal; 
 Dancing away on life's dark stream. 
 
 Into the realms of blest Immortal ! 
 
 Robert Rexdale, in The Portland Transcript. 
 
 Feb. 27, 1882. 
 
 TO H. W. L. 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 (Suggested by the poem, My Lost Youth.) 
 
 They err who say the poet dies, 
 
 Or suffers foul eclipse: 
 Old age is never in his eyes, 
 
 Nor palsy on his lips. 
 
 Nature and love and truth and faith 
 
 Know no black, biting frost. 
 The poet feels no bated breath, 
 His youth is never lost. 
 Israel Washburn, Just., in The Portland Transcript. 
 
 THE NESTOR-POET. 
 
 His day is spent, and he is dead : 
 The Nestor-poet's silvered head 
 Is lying low, as, sad and slow, 
 They bear him to his hollow bed. 
 
 His lips a voiceless silence keep; 
 He sleeps, alas! a mortal sleep; 
 His rayless eye cannot reply 
 To other eyes that vainly weep. 
 
 No more, through sinuous tones, his song, 
 In fresh-drawn notes, shall move along; 
 No magic theme through him shall dream 
 In rhythmic music to the throng. 
 
322 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 We call it Death : it cannot be! 
 From land to land, from sea to sea, 
 A winged fame has borne his name: 
 No Death can still his minstrelsy. 
 
 O poet of the golden lyre! 
 O glory of onr western choir! 
 Thy living page, from age to age 
 Shall light with an immortal fire. 
 
 S. H. Thayer in Christian at Work. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 'Twas but a few brief days ago, so proud 
 
 We were of thy long life and what it bore : 
 And now, for all that wealth of praise, the shroud, 
 
 And hearts all hushed, since they thy loss deplore; 
 For swift as glowing sunset dies in gloom, 
 Thy flashing brightness darkens in the tomb, 
 And we that gazed with rapture and delight 
 Now stand bereft of that inspiring sight ! 
 Yet no ! thy years were long, thy song was sweet, 
 
 And welcome won from all who heard its strain; 
 As birds our own New-England woodlands greet, 
 
 So came to us thy pleasant, glad refrain. 
 And, while the seasons come with flowers and song, 
 Our Minstrel shall their happiness prolong. 
 
 William Brunton in The Christian Register. 
 
 A LAUREL-LEAF. 
 
 How sweet he sung ! The laborer heard 
 His carol, like a cheering bird, 
 Till labor grew a noble thing, 
 With music in the anvil's ring. 
 
 How sweet he sung 'midst dying men, 
 The song that souls will meet again; 
 Till mourners rolled doubt's stone away, 
 And through the tomb saw breaking day! 
 
POETS 7 TRIBUTES. 323 
 
 Eternal life is in his song, 
 Forever lifting sonls from wrong: 
 If thus the earthly, what must he 
 His song of immortality ? 
 
 Fletcher Bates, in The Cambridge Tribune. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 He who would wield the glorious power of song, 
 Who in the immortal choir would take his stand, 
 Must win his birthright in that sacred band 
 
 By suffering and by strivings stern and long; 
 
 And at the best oft bear this cruel wrong, — 
 To feel the lyre torn from his stricken hand 
 Ere its sweet chords have waked the unheeding land 
 
 To fame's responsive anthem full and strong. 
 
 Not so with thee, great master whom we love, 
 Harsh Fate herself has helpless passed thee by; 
 No room was there for envy, malice, hate, 
 
 So laurels thicken still thy brows above, 
 And still the world beholds, with well-pleased eye, 
 Thy peace-crowned life whereon all blessings wait. 
 
 Charles Turner Dazey, in The Harvard Register. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Alas, our harp of harps ! the instrument, 
 On whose fine strings the nymph Parnassus-bred 
 Played ever most melodiously, is rent, 
 And all its music fled. 
 
 Alas, our torch of truth! the lofty light, 
 That yet a tender household radiance cast, 
 And made the cottage as the palace bright, 
 Is blotted out at last. 
 
 Alas! the sweet pure life, that ripened still 
 To holier thought and more benignant grace, 
 Hath spread its wings, and who is left to fill 
 The dear and empty place ? 
 
324 HENRY WADSWOIiTll LONGFELLOW. 
 
 How poor thou art, O bleak Atlantic coast! 
 How barren all thy hills, my mother-land! 
 Where now amid the nations is thy boast, 
 And where thy Delphic band ? 
 
 Of that bright group who sang among thy wheat. 
 And cheered thy reapers lest their brown arms tire, 
 Whom ermined Europe raised a hand to greet, 
 As princes of the lyre, 
 
 The first have fallen, and the others wait. 
 The snow of years on each beloved head, 
 With weary feet before the sunset gate 
 That opens toward the Dead. 
 
 And who abides to sing away our pain, 
 As these our bards we carry to their rest? 
 'l\e need thy comfort for the tears that rain, 
 < > poet ! on thy breast. 
 
 It is our earth, where prophet steps grow few, 
 For which we weep, and not, O harper gray ! 
 For thee, who carolled from the morning dew 
 To noontide of the day, 
 
 Nor left thy task when twilight down the wall 
 Stole silently in shadowy flakes and bars, 
 And whose clear tones, while night enfolded all, 
 Sang on beneath the stars. 
 
 The knights and dames had bent their heads to list, 
 The serving-maids were hearkening from the stair, 
 And little childish faces, mother-kissed, 
 Had flocked about thy chair, 
 
 When ceased thy fingers in the strings to weave, 
 O'er thine anointed sight the eyelids fell; 
 And thou wert sleeping, who from dawn to eve 
 Hadst wrought so wondrous well. 
 
 O gentle minstrel, may thy rest be dee]) 
 And tranquil, as thy working-day was long! 
 Our lonely hearts will grudge thee not thy sleep, 
 Who grudged us not thy song. 
 
 Katharine Lee Bates, in The Literary World. 
 Wellesley, Mass. 
 
POETS' Till BUTE 8. 325 
 
 "ULTIMA THULE." 
 
 Wrap the broad canvas close ; furl the last sail ; 
 
 Let go the anchor; for the utmost shore 
 
 Is reached at length, from which, ah! nevermore, 
 Shall the brave bark ride forth to meet the gale, 
 Or skim the calm with phosphorescent trail, 
 
 Or guide lost mariners amid the roar 
 
 Of hurricanes, or send, far echoing o'er 
 Some shipwrecked craft, the music of his "Hail." 
 
 And lit; has laid aside his travel gear; 
 
 And forth to meet him come the mystic band 
 Whom he has dreamed of, worshipped, loved so long, — 
 The veiled Immortals, who, with lofty cheer 
 
 Of exultation, take him by the band. 
 And lead him to the inner shrine of Song ! 
 
 Makoaukt J. Preston, in The Literary World. 
 Lexington, Va. 
 
 DEATH OF THE POET LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Departed! and no "prophet's son" to say, 
 As all unseen along its star-path came 
 The God-sent chariol with its steeds of flame, - 
 " Behold, thy Master shall be called to-day!" 
 If some far gleam of radiance we had caught, 
 How mute a throng those parted waves had sought! 
 
 Less than six moons have waned since one sad morn, 
 Our royal bard so felt a nation's pain. 
 That, born of tears, fell his melodious strain 
 On weary hearts by tooth of anguish torn. 
 Then Death, that marksman all too sure of aim, 
 nad ruthless borne away our nation's head. 
 Again our heart he rends : but "deathless fame" 
 Above his range shall proudly be upborne. 
 
 And still Columbia mourns — by Sorrow led, 
 She stands like Xiobe beside her dead! 
 
 Mrs. J. Oliver Smith, in The Literary World. 
 Johnstown, X.V. 
 
326 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 (Born Feb. 27, ISO". Died March 24, 1882.) 
 
 A Life Psalm, staidly sweet and simply strong 
 As any the dead Singer gave the throng. 
 Sinks to its close. But Fame will yet prolong, 
 
 In echoes clear, across two worlds wide winging, 
 And in all English hearts like home hells ringing, 
 Glad memory of the Singer and his singing. 
 
 From London " Punch. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Poet whose sunny span of fruitful years 
 Outreaches earth, whose voice within our ears 
 Grows silent, shall we mourn for thee ? Our sigh 
 Is April's breath, our grief is April's tears. 
 
 If this be dying, fair it is to die : 
 Even as a garment weariness lays by, 
 Thou layest down life to pass, as Time hath passed 
 From wintry rigors to a springtime sky. 
 
 Are there tears left to give thee at the last, 
 Poet of spirits crushed and hearts downcast, 
 Loved of worn women who when work is done 
 Weep o'er thy page in twilights fading fast ? 
 
 Oh, tender-toned and tender-hearted one! 
 We yield thee to the season new begun, 
 Lay thy white head within the arms of Spring: 
 Thy song had all her shower and her sun. 
 
 Nay, let us not such sorrowful tribute bring 
 Now that thy lark-like soul hath taken wing: 
 A grateful memory fills and more endears 
 
 The silence when a bird hath ceased to sing. 
 
 H. C. Bunnek, in Puck. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 327 
 
 THE DEAD POET. 
 
 Singer serene! in whose calm compass lay 
 The mellowed richness of deep sunset glows, 
 
 The unclouded freshness of clear, opening day, 
 The stately sombre shade of night's repose, 
 
 Long hast thou stood, and in unbroken strain 
 Poured forth the plenitude of thy pure art : 
 
 Now that thy voice hath ceased we pause in vain. 
 Loath from the sacred stillness to depart. 
 
 Mute are those lips which once with music flowed; 
 
 Mute to all life, to beauty and to fame: 
 Yet may we marvel if some rare abode 
 
 Of death hath grown melodious through thy name. 
 
 Or do we only in time's chalice hold, 
 
 Imperishable still, the fragrance of thy years ? 
 
 God knows alone, whose hands alike unfold 
 Life, giving song, and death, dispensing tears. 
 
 Emily B. Ellis, in The Christian Union. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sweetly as sinks the sun 
 
 In golden west, 
 So sank our honored one 
 
 Calmly to rest. 
 
 Home of the poet-soul 
 
 Tenantless now: 
 Still we, in reverence, 
 
 O'er thy dust bow. 
 
 Like sweetest melody 
 
 His songs linger yet. 
 Words so familiar grown 
 
 Who can forget ? 
 
 Poet no more than friend, 
 
 Teacher of life sublime, 
 Thy name be honored still 
 
 Through coming time. 
 Eliza M. Hickok, in The Christian Register. 
 
328 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW: IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Nee turpem senectain 
 Degere, nee citbara carentem. 
 
 " Not to be tuneless in old age! " 
 Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage, 
 
 Who, in his winter's snow, 
 Still sings with note as sweet and clear 
 As in the morning of the year 
 
 When the first violets blow! 
 
 Blest! — but more blest, whom summer's heat, 
 Whom spring's impulsive stir and beat. 
 
 Have taught no feverish lure ; 
 Whose muse, benignant and serene, 
 Still keeps his autumn chaplet green 
 
 Because his verse is pure ! 
 
 Lie calm, O white and laureate head! 
 Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead, 
 
 Since from the voiceless grave 
 Thy voice shall speak to old and young 
 While song yet speaks an English tongue 
 
 By Charles' or Thainis' wave ! 
 
 Austin Dobson, in The London Athenceum. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 Sweet Poesy, most shy and gentle maid, 
 
 Hiding alone, far off, by English rills, 
 
 How didst thou flee our wind-swept, sunny hills, 
 Till he, pursuing long in bosky glade, 
 His gentle spell on thy sweet wildness laid ! 
 
 Now, by our rivers, how thy wood-note thrills, 
 
 How the far echo each deep valley fills, 
 Since thy dear feet came hither unafraid! 
 
 Mourn for him now, — our eldest son of song, — 
 Eldest but one, — and dearest in thy sight, 
 
 That made the New World echo of thee long, — 
 Mourn with those thousand voices of the night 
 
 That rose and fell along that rocky shore 
 
 Whose solemn music he shall hear no more. 
 
 James Herbert Morse, in The Critic. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 329 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 Gone to his rest, —such rest as they must find 
 Who leave but sweetness with their fellow-kind. 
 
 How flowed his life one silver song of praise, 
 How beautiful his crown of many days! 
 
 Age seemed not age, so fresh the spirit grew, 
 Such broadened love to God and man he knew. 
 
 His sympathies went out to lonely lives, 
 
 And breathed that hope which every grief survives. 
 
 At last hath come his goodly recompense, 
 Above the cold, dim world of mortal sense. 
 
 " The faces of the children " shall be there, 
 And all pure things that claimed his tender care. 
 
 Gone to his rest: oh, be our own as sweet, 
 When fail like his our weary pilgrim feet! 
 
 George H. Coomer, in The Youth's Companion. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 (On his seventy-fifth birthday, Feb. 27, 1882.) 
 
 I come as one who feels how near thou art, 
 And yet how far — how near in thy sweet song, 
 That wafts us like the breath of heaven along, ' 
 
 And breathes its blessing into every heart: 
 
 And yet how far — as if from all apart 
 Thou wert uplifted from the minstrel throng, 
 To bear the sceptre as becomes the strong 
 
 Who learn by suffering how to heal its smart. 
 
 Oh, may the years touch lightly as they fall, 
 And leave thee long to sing as thou hast sung, 
 
 The friend, companion, and delight of all 
 Who love the pure and good in every tongue — 
 
 The grand ideal of the world's best thought, 
 
 Teaching by truth as thou by truth art taught. 
 
330 II EN BY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 (March 24, 1882.) 
 
 Bu„ late the land was ringing with his fame, 
 And city vied with city to express 
 The nation's and the world's indebtedness 
 
 To the enduring works that bear his name ; 
 
 And the whole people with their tributes came 
 As round the Patriarch of Song to press, 
 Leading the children in their loveliness 
 
 To crown him master, with the world's acclaim. 
 
 But now the universal voice of praise 
 
 Is saddened by the muffled cry of pain 
 That bursts from every heart in blind amaze, 
 
 And bows the nation in deep grief again; 
 But in the love that triumphs o'er Ihe grave 
 He lives immortal with the good and brave. 
 
 Henry H. Clark, in The Boston Transcript. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 Poet of simple folk, thou art so wise, 
 And from such wisdom-deeps hast drawn thy song, 
 Thy page is magical to children's eyes, 
 And still to thee the old and learned throng. 
 Not thine tempestuous verse of writhing thought 
 That tosses frothing words against bleak skies. 
 Or from black bottoms in a whirlpool caught. 
 Stirs up a gleaming slime of passion-dyes. 
 These are hot shallows: where the sea is deep, 
 The mightiest storm leaves the cool waters clean. 
 So doth thy verse blow fervently, but sweep 
 No foulness up from the heart-deeps serene. 
 Where in sweet visions child and man unite, 
 Appear the heights and depths of human sight. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beading a while, I said — This poet's verse, 
 Whereunto shall I liken it ? A brook 
 That in the valley doth the songs rehearse 
 Of mountain-tops, that is this poet's book; 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 331 
 
 And children wade in it from side to side, 
 
 And toss its sparkling drops from face to face. 
 
 Reading again, I said, 'Tis a river wide, 
 
 A stately stream that flows by towns apace, 
 
 And gathers in its breast toil-songs of men. 
 
 Reading once more, I cried, I sail a sea, 
 
 A deep where storms and calms of joy and pain 
 
 Mingle in harmony with heaven and me. 
 I ceased: yet not opprest with thoughts in strife 
 How this could be. I had been reading Life. 
 
 J. Vila Blake, in The Literary World. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 It flashed through the sea, — that message; 
 
 And the heart of England again 
 To the brief, sad words responded 
 
 With the thrill of a sudden pain. 
 
 For next to his own great country 
 
 She cherished the poet's name, 
 Rejoiced in his song, and crowned him 
 
 With the laurel-wreath of fame. 
 
 And wherever her tongue is spoken, 
 
 Wherever her children tread. 
 Will be heard with a throb of sorrow 
 
 That Longfellow is dead. 
 
 For in spirit he dwelt amongst us; 
 
 His name is a "household word:" 
 Where liveth the Anglo-Saxon 
 
 Whose feeling he hath not stirred? 
 
 And in spirit we stand beside you, 
 
 O brothers beyond the wave! 
 As' with sorrowful hearts ye bear him, 
 
 Love-crowned, to his honored grave. 
 Lay him to rest in " God's Acre; " 
 
 But in earth's remotest lands 
 Will be seen through the coming ages 
 
 His "footprints on the sands " 
 
 Modbury, England, March 27, 1882. MH *' K R PliIDEAlTX - 
 
332 HENBY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 SONNET TO H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 A little onward tend thy feet, sweet friend: 
 How brief the space since, side by side, were we, 
 Weird children, in that "city by the sea," — 
 •Each golden-haired, — whose mystic visions tend 
 
 To nobler heights than youthful fancy kenned! 
 Then Cushman's 1 classic mind enthused thee, 
 And Martin's- stately grace coerced me. 
 
 Thy retrospective eye a moment bend: 
 I was thy Dian then, Endymion thou, — 
 
 A timid boy, a thoughtful girl, — nor knew 
 
 The bond that linked, and yet estranged, us two. 
 I see the glory of thy youth but now, 
 
 As, rolling back, the golden gateway threw 
 Its Hash of light athwart thy entering brow. 
 
 Elizabeth Oakes Smith, in Baldwin s Monthly. 
 Blue Point, L. I., April 2. 
 
 LONGFELLOW DEAD ! 
 i. 
 Aye, it is well! . . . Crush back your selfish tears; 
 For from the half-veiled face of earthly Spring 
 Hath he not risen on heaven-aspiring wing 
 To reach the spring-tide of the eternal years ? 
 
 1 Bezaleel Cusbman, who kept the Portland Academy when I was a child, was 
 a most accomplished educator for perhaps half a century. He was an enthusiast for 
 literature and scholarship, and formed the minds of William Fitt Fessenden, Seba 
 Smith, Henry W. Longfellow, and others who made their mark in the world. 
 
 2 The Martins were three English sisters, who, for the same length of time, edu- 
 cated the girls of Maine. They were conscientious, thorough teachers, and accom- 
 plished women. They used to boast that " all their pupils turned out well." 
 
 The young gentlemen of the Academy were assiduous in their respectful atten- 
 tions to Miss Penelope Martin's scholars, which amounted to little more than lifting 
 the hat as they passed. There was an old post at the corner of Middle and King 
 Streets into which time had deftly wrought a pigeon-hole, which served us as a 
 post-office; and into this aperture the young gentlemen of the Academy deposited 
 harmless missives addressed to heathen deities of the feminine order. Once upon 
 a time the hoys of the public school detected the treasures thus hidden, and with 
 irreverent curiosity sought to identify the designated deities by peering impudently 
 under the school-bonnets that shielded our divinities; but the girls of that day were 
 somewhat dignified, and, being above all giggle, the annoyance did not last long. 
 
POETS' TRIBUTES. 333 
 
 With life full-orbed, lie stands amid his peers, 
 The grand Immortals ! . . . a fair, mild-eyed king, 
 Flushing to hear their potent welcomes ring 
 Hound the far circle of those luminous spheres. 
 
 Mock not his heavenly cheer with mortal wail. 
 
 Unless some human-hearted nightingale, 
 
 Pierced by Grief's thorn, shall give such music birth 
 
 That he, the new-winged soul, the crowned and shriven, 
 
 May lean beyond the effulgent verge of heaven, 
 
 To catch his own sweet requiem, borne from earth ! 
 
 Such marvellous requiem were a pfean too — 
 
 (Woe, touched and quivering with triumphant fire); — 
 
 For him whose course flashed always high and higher, 
 
 Hath passed beyond the strange, mysterious blue: 
 
 Ah! yet, we murmur, can this loss be true ? 
 
 Forever silent here, that tender lyre, 
 
 Tuned to all gracious themes, all pure desire, 
 
 Whose notes dropped sweet as honey, soft as dew ? 
 
 No tears! you say — since rounded, brave, complete, 
 
 The poet's work lies radiant at God's feet. 
 
 Nay! nay! . . . our hearts with grief must hold their tryst: 
 
 How dim grows all about us and above! 
 
 Vainly we grope through death's bewildering mist, 
 
 To feel once more his clasp of human love! 
 
 Pact. Hamilton Hayne, in Baldwin's Monthly. 
 1 CorsE Hill," Georgia, March 27, 1882. 
 
 VALE ET SALVE. 
 
 What greeting reached our poet from the skies, 
 Just when the farewells, lowly uttered here, 
 Past echo died in spaces fair and clear ? 
 
 What rumors on his starward progress rise ? 
 
 What glad salutes the entering guest surprise ? 
 
 And who — what sweet-lipped bard, or ancient seer- 
 Is first to render him large heaven-cheer, 
 
 And break the light to unaccustomed eyes ? 
 
334 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONUFELLOW. 
 
 Farewell, — and hail ! Oh, doubt not he renews 
 
 The interrupted measure of his song, 
 The gyves of age undone that weighed him long: 
 
 Shall poets folded in Elysium lose 
 Their native fire, the theme each here pursues ? 
 
 'Tis there the same, but soars more rapt and strong. 
 
 Edith M. Thomas, in The Critic. 
 
EARLY POEMS. ■ 
 
 HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED IN AMERICAN BOOKS. 
 
 THE twelve poems which appear below are reprinted 
 directly from the United States Literary Gazette, 
 where they appeared during the years 1824-26. They 
 were written by Longfellow when he was between the 
 ages of eighteen and twenty, and were not thought by 
 him to be worthy of a place among his later poems. 
 Five others, however, which appeared in the same peri- 
 odical, he has included in his complete works. Yet 
 many which he saw fit to reject are characterized by so 
 quiet and pensive a beauty, that they will be eagerly 
 perused by all admirers of his poetry. 
 
 In 1831 George B. Cheever, in his American Common- 
 place Book of Poetry, said of these earlier poems : — 
 
 " Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry, indeed, we believe 
 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, — simplicity of expres- 
 sion, without any attempt to startle the reader, or to pro- 
 duce an effect by far-sought epithets. There is much 
 sweetness in his imagery and language ; and sometimes 
 he is hardly excelled by any one for the quiet accuracy 
 
 335 
 
336 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 exhibited in his pictures of natural objects. His poetry 
 will not easily be forgotten." 
 
 The dates of the appearance of the poems are here 
 given : — 
 
 Thanksgiving. — ' When first in ancient time, from Jubal's 
 tongue.' Nov. 15, 1824. 
 
 Autumnal Nightfall. — ' Round Autumn' s mouldering urn. ' Dec. 
 1, 1824. 
 
 Italian Scenery. — 'Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto.' Dec. 
 15, 1824. 
 
 The Lunatic Girl. — ' Most beautiful, most gentle ! ' Jan. 1, 
 1825. 
 
 The Venetian Gondolier. — ' Here rest the weary oar ! ' Jan. 
 15, 1825. 
 
 Dirge over a Na7iieless Grave. — ' By yon still river, where the 
 wave.' March 15, 1825. 
 
 A Song of Savoy. — 'As the dim twilight shrouds.' March 
 15, 1825. ' 
 
 The Indian Hunter. — ' When the summer harvest was gathered 
 in.' May 15, 1825. 
 
 Jeckoyva. — 'They made the warrior's grave beside.' Aug. 
 1, 1825. 
 
 The Sea Diver. — 'My way is on the bright blue sea.' Aug. 
 15, 1825. 
 
 Musings. — ' I sat by my window one night.' Nov. 15, 1825. 
 
 Song. — ' Where, from the eye of day.' April 1, 1826. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 When first in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue 
 The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, 
 To sacred hymnings and elysian song 
 His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke. 
 Devotion breathed 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 touched 
 The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, 
 
EARLY POEMS. 337 
 
 And wanned the soul with new vitality. 
 
 A stirring energy through nature breathed: — 
 
 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 smiled, 
 
 Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned. 
 
 The Deity was there! — a nameless spirit 
 
 Moved in the breasts of men to do him homage; 
 
 And when tbe morning smiled, or evening pale 
 
 Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn, 
 
 They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees, 
 
 And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, 
 
 Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars, 
 
 And gray moss mantling hung. Above was- heard 
 
 The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees 
 
 Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, 
 
 And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, 
 
 The bright and widely wandering rivulet 
 
 Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, 
 
 That choked 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-fringed 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 breathed, — the light they saw, — 
 
 Became religion, — for the ethereal spirit 
 
 That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, 
 
 And mellows every thing to beauty, — moved 
 
 With cheering energy within their breasts, 
 
 And made all holy there — for all was love. 
 
 The morning stars, that sweetly sang together — 
 
 The 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 
 
338 HEN BY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The pulses of the sea, — sent forth a voice 
 
 Of awful adoration to the spirit, 
 
 That, wrapt in darkness, moved upon its face. 
 
 And when the bow of evening arched the east, 
 
 Or, in the moonlight pale, the curling wave 
 
 Kissed 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 
 
 Touched 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. 
 
 Sunday Evening, October, 1824. 
 
 H. W. L. 
 
 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 years eventide. 
 The wind, — like one that sighs in pain 
 O'er joys that ne'er will bloom again, 
 
 Mourns on the far hillside. 
 
 And yet my pensive eye 
 Kests on the faint blue mountain long, 
 And for the 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. 
 
EARLY POEMS. 339 
 
 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 heech, 
 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 
 
 Choked with our blighted joys. 
 
 Leaves, that the night-Mind 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. 
 
 ITALIAN" SCENEEY. 
 
 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 
 
340 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 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 foot-fall sounds, where dim and dark 
 
 Hangs the gray willow 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. 
 
 Mouldering and moss-grown, through the lapse of years, 
 
 In motionless beauty stands the giant oak, 
 
 Whilst those, that saw its green and nourishing youth, 
 
 Are gone and are forgotten. Soft the fount. 
 
 Whose secret springs the star-light 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 mourned on the dark cliff where weeds grew rank, 
 And to the autumnal death-dirge the deep sea 
 Heaved its long billows, — with a cheerless song 
 Have pass'd away to the cold earth again, 
 Like a way-faring mourner. Silently 
 Up from the calm sea's dim and distant verge, 
 Full and unveiled 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, 
 Encompassed 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 
 
EARLY POEMS. 341 
 
 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! nursed within that fair and fruitful bosom 
 
 Which has sustained 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 pestilence 
 
 And blight thy cheek. Dream thou of higher things; — 
 
 This world is not thy home ! " And yet my eye 
 
 Eests upon earth again! How beautiful, 
 
 Where wild Velino heaves its sullen waves 
 
 Down the high cliff of gray and shapeless 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-discovered glow the Sabine hills, 
 
 And listening to the sea's monotonous shell, 
 
 High on the cliffs 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. 
 
 * Theodoric. 
 
M2 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE LUNATIC GIRL. 
 
 Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost 
 
 To all that gladdens the fair earth; the eye 
 
 That watched her being; the maternal care 
 
 That kept and nourished her; and the calm light 
 
 That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests 
 
 On youth's green valleys and smooth-sliding waters. 
 
 Alas! few suns of life, and fewer winds, 
 
 Had withered or had wasted the fresh rose 
 
 That bloomed 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 stalk grew languid day by day, 
 
 And drooped, — and drooped, 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, 
 
 Have spurned 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 returned 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 sighed 
 
 For him that perished thus in the vast deep. 
 
 She had a sea-shell, that her lover brought 
 
 From the far-distant ocean, and she pressed 
 
 Its smooth cold lips unto her ear, and thought 
 
 It whispered 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-lipped 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 
 
EARLY POEMS. 343 
 
 As that bird calms the ocean, — for it gave 
 
 Mournful, yet pleasant memory. Once 1 marked, 
 
 When through the mountain hollows 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: 
 
 And then she spread her hands, and smiled, as if 
 
 She welcomed a long-absent friend, — and then 
 
 Shrunk timorously back again, and wept. 
 
 I turned away: a multitude of thoughts, 
 
 Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind ; 
 
 And as I left that lost and ruined 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 sailed onward, like a lost 
 
 And wandering bark, and fainter grew, and fainter, 
 
 And soon was swallowed up in the blue depths. 
 
 And when it sunk away, she turned again 
 
 With sad despondency and tears to earth. 
 
 Three long and weary months, — yet not a whisper 
 Of stern reproach for that cold parting ! Then 
 She sat no longer by her favorite fountain ! — 
 She was at rest forever. 
 
 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. 
 
 Where the tall fir in quiet stands, 
 And waves, embracing the chaste sbores, 
 
 Move o'er sea-shells and bright sands, — 
 Is heard the sound of dipping oars. 
 
344 HEX It Y WAD8W0BTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Swift o'er the wave the light hark springs, 
 Love's midnight hour draws lingering near: 
 
 And list! — his tuneful viol strings 
 The young Venetian Gondolier. 
 
 Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep, 
 On earth, and her embosomed 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, 
 Relieved against the deep blue sky! 
 
 Haste! — dip the oar again! — 'tis time 
 To seek Genevra's balcony. 
 
 DIRGE OVER A NAMELESS GRAVE. 
 
 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 full of balm, — but where is she! 
 
EARLY POEMS. 345 
 
 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 mourned for him, who felt 
 
 That he had sealed a daughter's doom. 
 
 The funeral train has long past on, 
 
 And time wiped dry the father's tear! 
 Farewell, — lost maiden ! — there is one 
 
 That mourns thee yet, — and he is here. 
 
 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 dell, 
 
 And voices hail the evening-bell. 
 
 Faint is the goatherd's song, 
 And sighing comes the breeze : 
 
 The silent 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 see the dancers bound 
 
 Where the green branches, arched above, 
 
 Bend over this fair scene of love. 
 
346 HENRY WADSWORTII 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! lovers' vows, — how frail are they! 
 And his — were made but yesterday. 
 
 Why comes 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 evening-bell 
 
 THE INDIAN HUNTER. 
 
 When the summer harvest was gathered 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, 
 Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. 
 
 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 passed 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 ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red 
 Were the tree's wither' d leaves round it shed. 
 
EARLY POEMS. 347 
 
 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 turned away from that scene, 
 Where the home of his fathers once had been, 
 And heard by the distant and measured stroke, 
 That the woodman hewed down the giant oak, 
 And burning thoughts flashed 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 pierced the cloud of white — 
 A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, 
 Where the beech overshadowed 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 passed on, by that still lakeside 
 The fisher looked down through the silver tide, 
 And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, 
 A skeleton wasted and white was laid. 
 And 'twas seen, as tbe waters moved deep and slow, 
 That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. 
 
 JECKOYYA. 
 
 The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the mountain 
 which now bears his name. Night overtook 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 rock, over which he must have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva 
 is near the White Hills. 
 
 Tiiey made the warrior's grave beside 
 The dashing of his native tide : 
 And there was mourning in the glen — 
 The strong wail 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 past. 
 
348 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 They made the warrior's grave beneath 
 The bending of the wild elm's wreath, 
 When the dark hunter's piercing eye 
 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 noon-time 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 in thick cloud the mountain-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 drooped not in the chase 
 Made on the hills his burial-place. 
 
 They found him there, when the long day 
 Of cold desertion passed away, 
 And traces on that barren cleft 
 Of struggling hard with death were left — 
 Deep marks and foot-prints in the clay! 
 And they have laid this feathery helm 
 By the dark river and green elm. 
 
 THE SEA-DIVER. 
 
 My way is on the bright blue sea, 
 My sleep upon its rocking tide; 
 
 And many an eye has followed me 
 
 Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. 
 
 My plumage bears the crimson blush, 
 When ocean by the sun is kissed! 
 
 When fades the evening's purple flush, 
 My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. 
 
EARLY POEMS. 349 
 
 Full many a fathom down beneath 
 
 That 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-drenched wing, 
 
 I poised above a helmless bark, 
 And soon I saw the shattered 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. 
 
 I saw the pomp of day depart, — 
 
 The cloud resign its golden crown, 
 When to the ocean's beating heart, 
 
 The sailor's wasted corse 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. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 I sat by my window one night, 
 And watched 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 mellow ray, 
 And beneath the crowded roofs of the town 
 
 In broad light and shadow lay. 
 
350 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 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 unrolled, 
 And the trees like a splendid army stood 
 
 In a panoply of gold ! 
 
 I saw them waving their banners high, 
 As their crests to the night wind bowed, 
 
 And a distant sound on the air went by, 
 Like the whispering of a crowd. 
 
 Then I watched from my window how fast 
 
 The lights all around me fled, 
 As the wearied man to his slumber passed 
 
 And the sick one to his bed. 
 
 All faded save one, that burned 
 With distant and steady light; 
 
 But that, too, went out, — and I turned 
 Where my own lamp within shone bright! 
 
 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. 
 
 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! 
 
 So oft the thoughts that burst 
 From hidden springs of feeling, 
 
 Like silent streams, unseen at first, 
 From our cold hearts are stealing: 
 
EARLY POEMS. 351 
 
 But soon the clouds that veil 
 
 The eye of Love, when glowing, 
 Betray the long unwhispered tale 
 
 Of thoughts in darkness flowing! 
 
 TWO SONNETS FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 
 MEDRANO. 1 
 
 Art and Nature. 
 
 The works of human artifice soon tire 
 
 The curious eye; the fountain's sparkling rill, 
 And gardens, when adorned 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Two Harvests. 
 
 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 smiled upon the view, 
 And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled, 
 A peerless emerald in each silken fold, 
 And on each palm a pearl of morning dew. 
 
 1 These Sonnets appeared in Mr. Longfellow's first volume, "Coplas de Don 
 Jorge Manrique, translated from the Spanish, with an introductory essay on the 
 Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain. By Henry W. Longfellow, Professor of 
 Mod. Lang, and Lit. in Bowdoin College." Boston : Allen & Tieknor, 1S33. pp. 
 85-87. They were accompanied by the Spanish original on the opposite page. 
 
352 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space 
 All that beneath the reaper's sickle died, 
 All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide. 
 
 And what are we ? a copy of that race, 
 The later harvest of a longer year! 
 And, 0! how many fall before the ripened ear! 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 [From The Literary World, Boston, with corrections and additions.] 
 
 PUBLISHED WORKS TO DATE. 
 
 Manuel de Proverbes Dramatiques. [Portland, Me., S. Col- 
 man, 1830.] 
 
 [Editor.] Montgomery, Jorge (Washington). Novelas Espafiolas. 
 El Serrano de las Alpujarras; y El Cuadro niisterioso. [Bruns- 
 wick: Griffin, 1S30. 1 
 The Preface states thaf'Estas novelitas, sacadas de las tareas de un solitario, 
 
 son iraitaciones del Rip Van Winkle y del Joven Italiano . . . del celebre Washing. 
 
 ton Irving." 
 
 Elements of French Grammar. Translated from the French of 
 
 C. F. L'Homond. [Boston: 1830.] 
 Ouigin and Progress of the French Language. North Am. Rev., 
 
 xxxii. 277. [April, 1831.] 
 Defence of Poetry. North Am. Rev., xxxiv. 56. [January 
 
 1832.| 
 History of the Italian Language and Dialects. North Am. 
 
 Rev., xxxv. 2S3. [October, 1832.] 
 Syllabus de da Grammaire Italienxe. [Boston: 1832.] 
 Couks de Lan<;fe Francaise. [Boston: 1832.] 
 
 I. Le Ministre de Wakefield. 
 II. Proverbea Dramatiques. 
 
 Saggi de' Novellieri Italiani d'Ogni Secolo: Tratti da' piii 
 
 celebri Scrittori, con brevi Notizie intorno alia Vita di ciascheduno. 
 
 [Boston: 1832.] 
 Spanish Devotional and Moral Poetry. North Am. Rev., 
 
 xxxiv. 277. [April, 1S32.] 
 Coplas de Maneique. A translation from the Spanish. [Boston: 
 
 Allen & Ticknor. 1833.] 
 
 Jorge Manrique was a Spanish poet of the fifteenth century. His Coplas is a 
 funeral poem on the death of his father, extending to five hundred lines. Mr. Long- 
 
354 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 fellow's volume is prefaced with the above essay on the moral and devotional poetry 
 of Spain, from the North Am. Rev., xxxiv. 277 ; and included in it are translations of 
 sonnets by Lope de Vega and others. 
 
 Spanish Language and Literature. North Am. Rev., xxxvi. 
 
 316. I April. 1833.1 
 Old English Romances. North Am. Rev., xxxvii. 374. [Octo- 
 ber, 1833.] 
 Outre-Mer; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. 2 vols. [New York: 
 Harpers. 1835.] 
 
 A series of prose descriptions of foreign travel; a sort of "sketch-book." Re- 
 viewed by O. W. B. Peabody in North Am. Rev., xxxix. 459-467 ; in Am. Month. Rev., 
 iv. 157. Its publication was begun in numbers, by Hilliard, Gray, & Co. [Boston : 
 1833.] 
 
 The Great Metropolis. North Am. Rev., xliv. 461. [April, 
 
 1837. ] 
 
 A lively review of a new work on London. 
 
 Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales. North Am. Rev., xlv. 59. 
 
 [July. 1837.| 
 Tegner's Frithiofs Saga. North Am. Rev., xlv. 140. | July, 
 
 1837.| 
 Anglo-Saxon Literature. North Am. Rev., xlvii. 90. [July, 
 
 1838. | 
 
 Hyperion, a Romance. 2 vols. [New York: S. Colman, 1839. ] 
 
 This was the first of Mr. Longfellow's works written in his Cambridge home, — 
 in the very Washington chamber, indeed, of Craigie House. Reviewed by C. C. 
 Felton in North Am. Rev., li. 145-161 ; in So. Lit. Mess., v. 839. 
 
 Voices of the Night. [Cambridge: John Owen. 1839.1 
 
 Mr. Longfellow's first volume of poems, containing the "Psalm of Life," "The 
 Reaper and the Flowers," and six other poems, some of which were originally pub- 
 lished in The Knickerbocker Magazine; also seven " Earlier Poems," as follows, all 
 of which were composed before the author was nineteen: "An April Day," 
 " Autumn," " Woods in Winter," "Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at Bethlehem," 
 " Sunrise on the Hills," " The Spirit of Poetry," " The Burial of the Minnisink." 
 
 Reviewed in North Am. Rev., 1. 2(56-269; Christ. Ex., xxviii. 242. 
 
 The French Language in England. North Am. Rev., li. 
 
 2S5. | October. 1840. | 
 Ballads and Other Poems. [Cambridge: 1841.] 
 
 Including "The Skeleton in Armor," "The Wreck of the Hesperus," "The 
 Village Blacksmith." "God's Acre," "To the River Charles," and " Excelsior." 
 Reviewed by C. C. Felton in North Am. Rev., Iv. 114-144; by Poe in his Literati. 
 
 Poems on Slavery. [Cambridge: 1S42. 1 
 
 Composed during a return voyage from Europe, in 1S42. 
 The Spanish Student. A play in three acts. [Cambridge: 1843.] 
 
 In this dramatic poem maybe found the song entitled " Serenade," beginning 
 •Stars of the Summer Night." Reviewed in Lond. Ath., IS 14, S; in Irish Quart. 
 Rev., June, 1855, 202; in Poe's Literati; in Whipple's Essays and Reviews. i., 66. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 355 
 
 [Editor.] The Waif: a Collection of Poems. [Cambridge: 1844.] 
 |Editoi\] The Poets and Poetry of Europe. [Philadelphia: 
 
 1845. ] 
 
 A collection of selections, translated from a large number of European poets, 
 with introductions and biographical and critical sketches. Many of the translations 
 are by Mr. Longfellow. A new edition, revised and enlarged, was published in 
 1S71. Reviewed by Francis Bowen in North Am. Rev., lxi. li>9. 
 
 The Belfry of Bruges, and Other Poems. [Cambridge: John 
 
 Owen. 1845.] 
 [Editor.] The Estray: a Collection of Poems. [Boston: 1847.] 
 Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie. | Boston: 1847. | 
 Kavanagh: a Tale. Prose. [Boston: 1849.] 
 The Seaside and the Fireside. [Boston: 1849.] 
 
 Contains "The Building of the Ship," "Resignation," and twenty -one other 
 poems. 
 
 The Golden Legend. [Boston: 1851.] 
 
 Reviewed in Blackwood, v. 71; in Eclec, 4th s., xxxi. 455. 
 
 The Song of Hiawatha. [Boston: 1855.] 
 
 Reviewed by E. E. Hale in North Am. Rev., Ixxxii. 272. 
 
 The Courtship of Miles Standish. [Boston: 1858.] 
 
 With "Birds of Passage, Flight the First," twenty-two poems, including " In the 
 Churchyard at Cambridge " and "The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz." 
 
 Reviewed by Rev. Dr. A. P. Peabody in North Am. Rev., lxxxviii. 275. 
 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn. [Boston: 180:!.] 
 
 " First Day," with " Birds of Passage, Flight the Second," seven poems, includ- 
 ing " The Children's Hour " and " The Cumberland." 
 
 Floaver-de-Luce. [Boston: 1806.] 
 
 Twelve poems. 
 
 New England Tragedies. [Boston: 1S68.] 
 
 I. John Endicott. 
 
 II. Giles Corey of the Salem Farms. 
 
 Reviewed by E. J. Cutler in North Am. Rev., cviii. 669. 
 
 Dante's Divine Comedy. A Translation, with essay and notes. 
 
 [Boston: 1805-1807.] 
 
 Three vols. I. — Inferno. II. — Purgatorio. III. — Paradise The same in one 
 vol. 
 
 Reviewed by Charles Eliot Norton in North Am. Rev., cv. 125; by George W. 
 Greene in Atlantic M., xx. 188. 
 
 The Divine Tragedy. [Boston: 1872.] 
 Ciiristus: 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. 
 
356 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Three Books of Song. [Boston: 1872. | 
 
 Contents: "Tales of a Wayside Inn, Second Day;" "Judas Maccabseus'" (a 
 dramatic poem in five acts) ; and " A Handful of Translations," eleven in number. 
 
 Aftermath. [Boston: 1874. | 
 
 Contents: "Tales of a Wayside Inn, Third Day;" and "Birds of Passage, 
 Flight the Third." 
 
 The Masque of Pandora, and Other Poems. | Boston: 1875-1 
 
 Contents: "The Hanging of the Crane," " Morituri Salutamus," the Bowdoin 
 College poem for the semi-centennial of the author's class of 1825; "Birds of Pas- 
 sage, Flight the Fourth ; " and ". A Book of Sonmts," fourteen in all. (An operatic 
 version of " The Masque of Pandora" was produced on the Boston stage in Janu- 
 ary, 1881.) 
 
 [Editor.] Poems of Places. 31 vols. [Boston: 1876-1879.1 
 Keramos, and Other Poems. [Boston: 1878.] 
 
 ( 'ontents • A " Fifth Flight " of " Birds of Passage," sixteen in all, among which 
 are the tribute to .Tames Russell Lowell, entitled " The Herons of Elmwood," and 
 "The White Czar;" a second "Book of Sonnets," nineteen of them, including 
 " The Three Silences," the Literary World tribute to Whittier, " The Two Rivers," 
 and " St. John's, Cambridge," and fifteen translations, eight from Michael Angelo. 
 
 Ultima Thule. [Boston: 1880.] 
 
 II. 
 
 NOTICES OF MR. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Arnaud, Simon. La Legend e Doree. [In Le Correspondant : 10 
 
 j nil let, 1872.] 
 Cobb, J. B. Miscellanies. [1858.] pp. 330-357. 
 Curtis, George William. Atlantic Monthly, xii. 769. 
 
 Mr. Curtis's "Easy Chair" in Harper's Monthly contains notices of Mr. Long- 
 fellow and his writings, as follows: "The Dante," xxxv. 257; "Reception in 
 England," xxxvii. 561; "New England Tragedies," xxxviii. 271; "The Divine 
 Tragedy," xliv. 616. There is also a general article on Longfellow in l. 74. 
 
 Cochin, Augustin. La Poesie en Amerique. [In Le Correspon- 
 dant: lOjuillet, 1872.] 
 Depret, Louis. Le Va-et-Vient. [Paris: n.d.| 
 The Same. La Poesie en Amerique. [Lille: 1876.] 
 De Prins, A. Etudes Americaines. [Louvain: 1877. | 
 Friswell, J. II. Modern Men of Letters. [1870. | pp. 2S5-299. 
 GilfilLan, George. Literary Portraits. Second Series. 
 Palmer. Bay. Longfellow and his Works. Int. Rev. [Nov., 1S75. | 
 Peck, G. W. Review of Mr. Longfellow's Evangeline. [New York: 
 
 1S48. ) 
 P. T. C. Kalevala and Hiawatha. A review. [185-. | pp. 21. 
 Whipple, E. P. Essays and Reviews, i. 60-63. 
 
 Note. — In Poole's forthcoming Index to Periodical Literature there will be 
 found a very full set of references to notices and reviews of Longfellow's works. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 357 
 
 III. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF MR. LONGFELLOW'S WORKS. 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 Noel. [A French poem by Longfellow in Flower-de-Luce. ] Tr. by 
 J. E. NoKCROSS. Philadelphia: 1S67. Large paper. Fifty copies 
 printed. | 
 
 GERM AX. 
 
 Englische Gedichte Ai!S Neuerer Zeit. Freiligrath, Ferdi- 
 nand. . . . II. W. Longfellow . . . [Stuttgardt und Tubingen: 
 1840. | 
 Longfellow's Gedichte. Ubersetzt von Carl Bottger. [Dessau: 
 
 1856. | 
 Balladex und Lieder vox II. W. Loxgfellow. Deutsch von 
 
 A. R. Nielo. [Minister: 1S57-1 
 Longfellow's Gedichte. Von Friedrich Marx. | Hamburg and 
 
 Leipzig: 1S6S. | 
 Longfellow's aeltere uxn neuere Gedichte in- Auswald. 
 
 Deutsch von Adolf Lann. [Oldenburg: 1879. | 
 Der Spanische Studext. Ubersetzt von Karl Bottger. | Des- 
 sau: 1854.] 
 The Same. Von Maria Helen e Le Maistre. [Dresden: n. d.] 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von Hafeli. [Leipzig: n. d.| 
 Evangeline. Aus dem Englischen. [Hamburg: 1857.] 
 The Same. Aus dem Englischen, von P. J. Belke. [Leipzig: 
 
 1854. | 
 The Same. Eine Erzahlung aus Acadien. Von Eduard Nickles. 
 
 | Karlsruhe: 1S62.| 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von Frank Siller. [Milwaukee: 1S79.] 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von Karl Knortz. |Leipzig: n. d.| 
 Longfellow's Evangeline. Deutsch von Heinrich Viehoff. 
 
 | Trier: 1869. | 
 Die Goldexe Legexde. Deutsch von Karl Keck. [Wien: 1859.] 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von Elise Freifrau von Hohenbausen. [Leip- 
 zig: 1880.| 
 Das Lied vox Hiawatha. Deutsch von Adolph Bottger. [Leip- 
 zig: 1850. | 
 Der Saxg vox Hiawatha. Ubersetzt von Ferdinand Freiligrath. 
 
 [Stuttgart und Augsburg: 1857.] 
 Hiawatha. Ubertragen von Hermann Simon. |Leipzig: n. d.j 
 Der Saxg vox Hiawatha. Ubersetzt, eingeleitet und erklart von 
 Karl Knortz. [Jena: 1872.] 
 
o5S< HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Miles Standish's Brautwerbung. Aus clem Englischen von F. 
 
 E. Baumgarten. [St. Louis: 1859.] 
 Die Brautwerbung des Miles Standish. Ubersetzt von Karl 
 
 Knortz. [Leipzig: IS-.] 
 Miles Standish* s Brautwerbung. Ubersetzt von F. Manefeld. 
 
 [1807. | 
 Die Sage vox Koxig Olaf. Ubersetzt von Ernst Kauscher. 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von W. Hertzberg. 
 Dorfschmid. Die Alte Uhr auf der Treppe. Des Schlaven Traum. 
 
 Tr. by II. Scbmick. Arcliiv. f. d. Stud. d. n. Spr. 1858. xxiv. 
 
 214-1' IT. 
 Gediciite von H. W. L. Deutsch von Alexander Neidhardt. 
 
 | Darmstadt: 1856. ] 
 Der Bait des Schiffes. Tr. by Tb. Zermelo. Arcliiv. f. d. Stud. 
 
 d. n. Spr. 1861. xxx. 293-304. 
 Hyperion. Deutsch von Adolpb Bottger. |Leipzig: 1856.] 
 Eix Psalm des Lebexs, etc. Deutsch von Alexander Neidhardt. 
 
 Arcliiv. f. d. Stud. d. n. Spr. 1850. xxix. 205-208. 
 Die Gottliche Tijagodie. Ubersetzt von Karl Keck. [MS.] 
 The Same. Ubersetzt von Hermann Simon. [Ms.] 
 Paxdora. Ubersetzt von Isabella Schuchardt. [Hamburg: 1878.] 
 Morituri Salutamus. Ubersetzt von Dr. Ernst Schmidt. [Chi- 
 cago: 1S7S. 1 
 Das Kesselhaxgex. Ubersetzt von G. A. Ziindt. [n. d.] 
 The Same. Das Einhangen des Kesselhakens, frei gearbeitet von 
 
 Job. Henry Becker, [n. d. ] 
 
 Het Lied van Hiawatha. In bet Nederdeutsch overgebragt 
 door L. S. P. Meijboom. [Amsterdam: 1S62.] 
 
 Miles Staxdish. Nagezongen door S. I. Van den Berg. [Haar- 
 lem: 1801.] 
 
 SWEDISH. 
 
 Hyperiox. Pa Svenska, af Grdnlund. [1S53.] 
 Evaxgelixe. Pa Svenska, af Alb. Lysander. [1854.] 
 The Same. Ofversatt af Hjalmar Erdgren. [Goteborg: 1875. j 
 The Same. Ofversatt af Philip Svenson. [Chicago: 1875.] 
 Hiawatha. Pa Svenska af Westberg. [1850.] 
 
 DANISH. 
 
 Evaxgelixe. Paa Norsk ved Sd. C. Knutsen. [Christiania: 1S74.] 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 359 
 
 Sangen om Hiawatha. Oversat af G. Bern. [Kjdbenhavn: 
 1860. | 
 
 FRENCH. 
 
 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 Legexde Doree, et Poemes sur l'Esclavage. Traduits par Paid 
 Blier et Edward MacDonnel. Prose. [Paris et Valenciennes: 
 1854. ] 
 
 Hiawatha. Traduit de l'Anglais par M. H. Goniont. [Nancy. 
 Paris: I860.] 
 
 Dkames et Poesies. Traduits par X. Marmier. The New Eng- 
 land Tragedies. [Paris: 1872.] 
 
 Hyperiox et Kavanagii. Traduit de l'Anglais, et precede d'une 
 Notice sur l'Auteur. 2 vols. | Paris et Bruxelles : I860.] 
 
 The Psalm of Life, and Other Poems. Tr. by Lucien de la 
 Kive in his Essais de Traduction Poetique. [Paris: 1870.] 
 
 ITALIAN. 
 
 Alcune Poesie di Enrico W. Longfellow. Traduzione dall' 
 
 Inglese di Angelo Messedaglia. [Padova: 1866.] 
 Lo Studente Spagnuolo. Prima Versione Metrica di Messan- 
 
 dro Bazzini. [Milano: 1871.) 
 The Same. Traduzione di Nazznreno Trovanelli. [Firenze: 1S76.] 
 Poesie sulla Schiavitu. Tr. in Yersi Italiani da Louisa Grace 
 
 Bartolini. [Firenze: I860.] 
 Evangelina. Tradotta da Pietro Rotondi. [Firenze: 1S57.] 
 The Same. Traduzione di Carlo Faccioli. [Verona: 1S73.] 
 La Leggenda d' Oro. Tradotta da Ada Corbellini Martini. [Parma : 
 
 1867. J 
 II Canto d' Hiawatha. Tr. da L. G. Bartolini. Frammenti. 
 
 [Firenze: 1867. | 
 Miles Standish. Traduzione dall' Inglese di Caterino Frattini. 
 
 [Padova: 1S68.] 
 
 PORTUGUESE. 
 
 El Rei Roberto de Sicilia. Tr. by Dom Pedro II., Emperor of 
 
 Brazil. [Autograph Ms | 
 Evangelina. Traducida por Franklin Doria. [Rio de Janeiro: 
 
 1874.] 
 
360 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The Same. Poema ile Henrique Longfellow. Traducido por Miguel 
 
 Street de Arriaga. | Lisbon: n. d. | 
 The Same. By Flavio Reiraar, in the Aurora Brasileira, 1874; and 
 
 by Jose de Goes Filho, in the Municipio, 1874. 
 
 Evaxgelina. Romance de la Acadia. Traducido del Ingles por 
 Carlos Morla Vicuna. [NuevaYork: 1871. | 
 
 POLISH. 
 
 Zlota Legend a. The Golden Legend. Tr. into Polish by F. 
 
 -Jerzierski. [Warszawa: 1857. | 
 Ev Angelina. Tr. into Polish by F. Jerzierski. [Warszawa: 1857. | 
 Duma o Hiawacie. The Song of Hiawatha. Tr. into Polish by 
 
 Feliksa Jerzierskiego. [Warszawa: 1860. | 
 
 RUSSIAN AND OTHER LANGUAGES. 
 
 Excelsior, and Other Poems, in Russian. [St. Petersburg: n. d.| 
 Hiawatha, rendered into Latin, with abridgment. By Francis 
 
 William Newman. [London: 1862. | 
 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 Elihu Burritt and his pupils. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The sales of Longfellow's works up to 1857 are thus given by 
 Allibone in his Dictionary of Authors: — 
 
 DATE OF 
 TITLE. PUBLICATION. COPIES. 
 
 Voices of the Night 1839 43,000 
 
 Ballads and other Poems 1S41 40,000 
 
 The- Spanish Student 1843 38,000 
 
 The Belfry of Bruges 1846 38,000 
 
 Evangeline 1847 37,000 
 
 The Seaside and the Fireside 1850 30,000 
 
 The Golden Legend 1S51 17,000 
 
 Hiawatha 1855 50,000 
 
 Outre-Mer 1835 7,500 
 
 Hyperion 1839 14,550 
 
 Kavanagh 1S49 10,500 
 
 Total 325,550 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 361 
 
 Of Longfellow's collected works, in four of the leading editions, 
 there were printed up to February, 1881, as follows: — 
 
 DATE OF 
 EDITION. PUBLICATION. COPIES. 
 
 "Diamond" 1867 110,000 
 
 "Red Line" 1S69 20,500 
 
 "Household" is;:; 57,500 
 
 "Library" 1S76 6,000 
 
 Total 194,000 
 
 "Longfellow Leaflets" is the title of a collection of short poems 
 and prose passages from the poet's writings, selected for school use. 
 (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.. 1881.] 
 
 The first work in the series entitled '"'American Classics for 
 Schools " is a selection of Longfellow's poems, edited by Horace E. 
 Scudder. [Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., ISM.'.] 
 
 A very pretty " Longfellow Birthday Book" was compiled by Miss 
 Charlotte Fiske Bates, and published by Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., 
 in 1881. It is described on p. 12(1 of this volume. 
 
 A volume of selections from the prose and poetry of Longfellow 
 has also been edited by Miss Bates. It is entitled "Seven Voices of 
 Sympathy," and is published by the firm mentioned above. 
 
 After the publication of " Ultima Thule," Mr. Longfellow pub- 
 lished in The New York Independent a poem on Garfield; and in The 
 Century for February, 1882, " Hermes Trismegistus." A posthu- 
 mous poem entitled "Mad River" was published in The Atlantic 
 Monthly for May, 1882. It is probable that the "Mad Liver" was 
 not the last written poem; but it is the last one which has as yet 
 been published. 
 
 At the close of 1880 Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. published in two 
 quarto volumes a superb edition de luxe of the complete poetical 
 works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It contains about six hun- 
 dred illustrations on wood, and a steel portrait engraved by Marshall. 
 Among the artists who helped to make the work are F. O. C. Darley, 
 George H. Boughton, F. S. Church, Mary Hallock Foote, John La 
 Farge, and others. Few poets have ever been so lavishly illustrated. 
 One feature of the work is the faithfulness of the pictures to actual 
 local scenery. For instance, the designs illustrating Evangeline rep- 
 resent actual scenes in Grand Pre and other localities mentioned 
 in the poem, and the costumes are those of Acadie one hundred and 
 fifty years ago. The numerous half-titles and the vignette head- 
 pieces and tail-pieces are of most delicate and intricate workmanship. 
 The books are printed on thick, toned paper, made, like the type 
 
362 HENRY WABSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 itself, especially for this edition. It is known that these superb vol- 
 umes gave great pleasure to the poet. Had their contents no literary 
 merit, they would command high praise as works of fine art: for 
 almost all of the six hundred engravings arc gems executed in every 
 detail with the utmost skill: and, combined as they are with the 
 purest poetic productions of the English language, the volumes be- 
 come unsurpassed representatives of American literature and of the 
 typographical and artistic skill of the nineteenth century. 
 
 In 1S45 Huntington of Philadelphia published a costly illustrated 
 edition of Longfellow's Poems. 
 
 In 1840 the Harpers of New York published a collection of Long- 
 fellow's Poems in cheap form. 
 
 Bogue of London published elegant editions of Evangeline, the 
 Poems, The Golden Legend, and Hyperion. To prepare original 
 designs for these London books, the artist, Birket Foster, made a 
 special tour on the Continent. Cassell, Petter, Galpin, «fe Co., of 
 London, have also published an edition de luxe of Evangeline, con- 
 cerning which Mr. Longfellow wrote: "It is a very handsome book, 
 and the paper and print remind me of the publications of Bodoni, the 
 famous printer of Parma, who gloried in his art. The illustrations 
 by Mr. Dicksee are very beautiful; particularly the face of Evan- 
 geline, so characteristic and expressive, pleases and touches me. I 
 beg you to convey to him my thanks and my congratulations on his 
 successful work." 
 
 In 1882 the John W. Lovell Co., of New York, taking advantage 
 of the expiration of the copyright of the original edition of Outre- 
 Mer and Hyperion, issued both these works in pamphlet form at 
 twenty cents each. Immediately Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., of Bos- 
 ton, Longfellow's own publishers, issued the same works in equally 
 attractive form at fifteen cents each, at the same time announcing the 
 Lovell edition as an infringement of copyright; Mr. Lovell, it being 
 said, having used a revised reeopyrighted edition instead of the origi- 
 nal, in making his reprint. Whatever may be the result to the pub- 
 lishers, the sale of the two books received a great impetus, and many 
 thousand copies were sold in a few weeks. 
 
I^DEX 
 
 Abbott, Jacob, 25. 
 
 Abbott, John S. C, 26. 
 
 Acadie, present state of, 77-79. 
 
 Advertiser, Boston, 234, 238-241. 
 
 "Aftermath," 106, 290, 356. 
 
 Afternoon, an, at Craigie House, 
 173-176. 
 
 Agassiz, Louis, death of, 127. 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 106. 
 
 " Algic Researches," 86, 87. 
 
 American literature in 1825, 260. 
 
 American, The, 262. 
 
 Ancestry, paternal, 11-16; mater- 
 nal, 16-19. 
 
 Anecdotes and Letters, 167-258. 
 
 Appleton, Capt. Nathan, 180, 193, 
 212, 213. 
 
 Appleton Chapel, 162; memorial 
 service in, 131-133. 
 
 Appleton, Fanny Elizabeth, mar- 
 riage to, 55; death of, 56; allu- 
 sions to, 57, 157, 165, 205, 249. 
 
 Appleton, Nathan, 29, 46, 47, 55, 57; 
 sketch of, by Hon. R. C. Win- 
 throp, 57, 58. 
 
 Appleton, Thomas G., 55, 57; pos- 
 sessor of " the old clock on the 
 stairs," 72. 
 
 Apt quotation, an, 203. 
 
 Arm-chair, the children's, 117-121, 
 154, 220, 248. 
 
 Argyll, Duke of, 178, 219, 233. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, 33-35, 109, 207. 
 
 Autographs, 223, 242, 243. 
 
 'Autumnal Nightfall," 336, 338, 339. 
 
 " Ballads and Other Poems," 65, 354. 
 Barber, criticised by a, 192. 
 Bartol, Rev. C. A., 130, 140-145. 
 Bates, Catherine E., poem by, 313. 
 Bates, Charlotte Fiske, 126, 130, 147, 
 
 361; sonnet by, 314. 
 Bates, Fletcher, poeni by, 322, 323. 
 Bates, Katharine Lee, poem by, 
 
 323, 324. 
 Baxter, James P., poem by, 315-319. 
 ••Belfry of Bruges, The," 70-72, 
 
 355. 
 Benevolence, 157-162, 214, 218. 
 Benjamin, Park, 197; note of, 198. 
 Bibliography, 353-302. 
 BtoGKAr-HY, 9-166. 
 Birthday Book, the Longfellow, 126. 
 Birthplace, 9, 24; anecdote, 230, 231. 
 Blackwood's Magazine, 88. 
 Blake, J. Vila, poem by, 330, 331. 
 Bonner, Robert, anecdote of, 230. 
 Book Bulletin, 253, 254, 299, 300. 
 Bowdoin College, 9, 26-40; " Mori- 
 
 turi Salutamus," 107-109; Parker 
 
 Cleaveland memorial tablet, 110. 
 Boyhood, 25, 26. 
 
 Brooks, Rev. Phillips, D.D., 304. 
 Brunswick, Me., 10, 11, 39, 109. 
 Brunton, William, sonnet, 322. 
 Bryant, William C, 9, 28, 107, 132, 
 
 217-219, 25S, 260, 277. 
 " Building of the Ship, The," 81. 
 Bull, Ole, 94. 
 
 Bunner, H. C, poem by, 326. 
 Byrield, Mass., 12, 15, 16, 230. 
 36! 
 
364 
 
 IXDEX. 
 
 Cambridge, removal to, 39; resi- 
 dence in, 46-54, 193, 232, 243-248: 
 First Citizen, US; anniversary of, 
 121; in mourning, 128; society of, 
 157, 24:», 244. 
 
 Canada, influence in, 278, 279. 
 
 " Catawba Wine," 203, 204. 
 
 Chase, Sydney, 249-253. 
 
 Cheever, George B., 26, 325, 326. 
 
 Chestnut-tree, the old. 247, 248. 
 
 Children, love of, 122-125, 173. 241. 
 24G, 256, 257. 
 
 " Children of the Lord's Supper, 
 The," origin of. 235. 
 
 Childs, George "W., letter to, 187; 
 incident told by, 248, 249. 
 
 "Christus, a Mystery," 102, 355. 
 
 "Churchyard at Cambridge, In 
 the," 47, 48, 355. 
 
 Clark, Henry H., reminiscences, 22, 
 74, 103, 107, 108, 112, 115-117. 232. 
 242, 243. 247. 24S; sonnets, 329,330. 
 
 Cleaveland, Parker, 15; memorial 
 tablet and epitaph, 109, 110. 
 
 Coleridge's inkstand, 154, 179, 21G, 
 217, 241, 266. 
 
 Conover, O. M., poem of, attributed 
 to Mr. Longfellow, 205-207. 
 
 Cook, Eliza, letter to, 214, 215. 
 
 Coomer, George H., poem by, 329. 
 
 " Coplas de Manrique," 30, 353. 
 
 Courtesy, 39, 43, 176-181, 264, 300. 
 
 " Courtship of Miles Standish, 
 The," 90, 240, 355. 
 
 Craigie, Andrew, 48, 50. 
 
 Craigie House. 40-54: age of, 50; 
 objects of interest in, 52-54; old 
 clock, 71, 72; described by visit- 
 ors, 153, 154. 173-170. 253, 254: 
 incidents concerning, 204 ; visit of 
 a rural party, 229, 230. 
 
 Craigie, Mrs. Andrew, 40, 48-50. 
 
 Critic. The 298, 299. 
 
 Curtis, George W., 3:;, 34, 46, 81, 
 94, 96, 97, 130. 134, 135, 220, 356. 
 
 Cushman, Bezaleel, 25, .132. 
 
 Dana, Richard H., note of. 210. 
 
 Dante, 96-103; in Dutch, 252, 253; 
 translator of, 270; sonnet on, 271. 
 
 Dante Society, 101, 102. 
 
 Dazey, Charles T., sonnet, 323. 
 
 Deane, Margery, 188, 180. 
 
 Death, 128. 
 
 Degrees conferred, 104, 105. 
 
 Dickens, Charles. 214; autograph 
 Letter of, 240. 
 
 "Dirge over a Nameless Grave,*' 
 336, ''44. 345. 
 
 Ditson, Oliver, & Co., 187. 
 
 "Divine Comedy, The," transla- 
 tion of. 96-102: Professor C. E. 
 Norton on, 97, 98; Carlyle's ver- 
 sion, 99; Professor C. L. Speranza 
 on, 99-101; 355. 
 
 "Divine Tragedy, The," 102, 103; 
 re- written, 151; 355. 
 
 Dobson, Austin, poem by, 328. 
 
 Dom Pedro II., 92, 94, 183, 184, 359. 
 
 Downs, Anne S., poem by, 313. 
 
 Early Poems, 335-352. 
 Echo, The London, 303, 304. 
 Eclectic Magazine, The, 285-289. 
 Edition de here of complete works, 
 
 361, 362; of "Evangeline," 362. 
 Ellis, Emily B., poem by, 3.27. 
 Ellis, Rev. George, D.D., 279, 280. 
 Elwell, E. II., historian, 20-24. 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 9, 116, 130, 
 
 131, 192, 278. 
 England, a favorite poet in, 147, 182, 
 
 is:;. 213, 214, 27S, 291. 
 "Estray, The." 73, 355. 
 "Evangeline," 73-79, 230, 266,355; 
 
 popularity in Canada, 279. 
 Everett, Dr. C. C, 107; memorial 
 
 address, 132, 133. 
 " Everybody's poet." 181, 183, 233, 
 
 259, 262, 264, 267, 285, 291, 294. 
 "Excelsior," 65, 182, 238; his own 
 
 explanation of, 202, 203; parodies 
 
 of, 215, 240; criticism of, 288. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 365 
 
 Faed's " Evangeline," 73. 
 Favorite saint, 250. 
 Favorite sculptures, 167, 168. 
 Felton, President C. C, 15, 170, 171, 
 
 on romantic style, 290. 
 Fields, James T., 161; origin of 
 
 poems, 1^1, 182; anecdote of, 190. 
 First literary venture, 251, 255. 
 '• Five of Clubs, The," 171, 172. 
 Fletcher, Rev. J. C, 18:!, 184. 
 " Flower-de-Luce," 96, 355. 
 ' Flowers, love of, 178, 189. 
 Fuller, Margaret, 14, 172; effect of 
 
 criticisms on Longfellow and 
 
 Lowell, 264-266. 
 Funeral services, 129-133. 
 
 Garfield sonnet, anecdote, 151, 152. 
 General Criticism, 259-306. 
 Gentleness and grace, 219-252, 256. 
 German literature, 61, 62; his style 
 
 influenced by, 290. 
 German verse, faithful translator 
 
 of, 268-270. 
 Germany, popularity in, 291. 
 Giltillan, George, 75, 356. 
 Gilman, Arthur, 231. 
 " Golden Legend, The," 81-84, 102, 
 
 227, 276, 304, 355. 
 Gray, Rev. George Z., D.D., 304. 
 Greene, George \Y~., 222. 
 
 Hale, Rev. Edward E., 42, 45. 
 Hamlin, President, 39. 
 Handwriting, 41, 151, 232. 
 " Hanging of the Crane, The," 106; 
 
 bought by Robert Bonner, 236. 
 Hardy, Lady Duffus. 225, 226. 
 Harrison, Professor J. A., 271-275. 
 Harte, Bret. 299. 
 Harvard College, 40-44, 63. 
 Harvard Register, 110, 262, 323. 
 Haweis, Rev. H. R., 165, 166. 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 9, 26, 27, 54, 
 
 354; origin of " Evangeline," 73, 
 
 74; death of, 96. 
 
 Hayne, Paul H., poems, 312, 332, 333. 
 
 "Hermes Trismegistus," 188, 237. 
 
 Hervey, D. E., list of poems set to 
 music, 184-187. 
 
 " Hiawatha," 84-90,355; popularity 
 of, 85 ; E. E. Hale on,S5-S7 ; contro- 
 versy regarding, 87,88; Dr. O. W. 
 Holmes on, 89, 90; read at memo- 
 rial service, 132; incident in Kan- 
 sas, 195, 196. 
 
 Hickok, Eliza M., poem by, 327. 
 
 Higginson, Col. T. W., 25, 28, 40, 
 41,60-62. 
 
 Holmes, Dr. O. W., 5, 9, 34, 35, 65, 
 129, 130, 187, 102, 235, 258, 278; on 
 " Evangeline," 76, 77; at Sanders 
 Theatre, 121; address, 292-297. 
 
 Hospitality, 141, 299. 
 
 Houghton, Lord, anecdote of, 232. 
 
 Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., 207, S61. 
 
 Howard, Apphia, 221, 222. 
 
 Howe, Mrs. Julia Ward, 172, 238. 
 
 Howells, William D., 61, 129, 130, 
 262, 26.'!, 272. 
 
 Humor, 152, 153, 190, 193. 
 
 " Hyperion," 54, 55, 58, 51', 22(1. 284, 
 285, 354 ; Col. Higginson on. 60- 
 62; Charles Sumner on, 63. 
 
 Immortality of Longfellow 1 * lame, 
 2'. 15. 2(16. 309. 
 
 Independent, The N. Y., 280-282. 
 
 " Indian Hunter," 336, 346, ."47. 
 
 Influence on American literature 
 260, 261. 
 
 Interview with a Frenchman, 167. 
 
 Irving, Washington, 260 ; contrast- 
 ed with Longfellow, 33, 34. 
 
 "Italian Scenery.' 336, 339-3)41 . 
 
 " Jeckoyva," 336, 347, 348. 
 
 Johnson, Rev. Franklin, tribute of, 
 146, 147, 163, 164. 
 
 Journalist, reminiscences of a Bos- 
 ton, 189 191. 
 
 Juvenile poems, 6, 28, 196, 254, 255. 
 
w^ 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 " Kavacagh," 80, 81, 355. 
 
 Kellogg, Rev. Elijah, 21. 
 
 " Ke'ramos," 110, 111, 200,210,211, 
 267, 356. 
 
 Kindness, instances of, 157-1(12, 173, 
 178-181, 242, 249, 257. 
 
 King, Moses, and the sonnet to Gar- 
 field, 151, 152. 
 
 "King Robert of Sicily," trans- 
 lated by Dorn Pedro, 94, 359. 
 
 Kingsley, Charles, poem attributed 
 to, 104 ; cited, 256. 
 
 Languages, thorough knowledge of, 
 42, 43, 69, 153, 209. 
 
 Laninan, Charles, 197-202. 
 
 Last published poem, 207, 208. 
 
 Last letters, one of, 237. 
 
 Last illness, death, and burial, 
 126-133. 
 
 "Laus Laureati," 315-319. 
 
 Le May, Pamphile, translator of 
 " Evangeline," 278, 279. 
 
 Liszt, portrait of, 53. 
 
 Literary "World, The, 34, GO, 77-79, 
 S2-84," 99-101, 210, 211, 213, 214, 
 271-275, 278, 279 ; Longfellow 
 Number, 12(3 ; poems from, 311- 
 314, 323-325. 
 
 Longfellow, Charles Appleton, 54, 
 95, 96, 193 ; letter from Gen. H. 
 B. Sargent concerning, 95. 
 
 Longfellow, Ernest Wadsworth, 47. 
 
 Longfellow homestead at Byfield, 
 Mass., 15, 16, 230; picture by 
 Charles Lanman. 199, 200. 
 
 Longfellow, Horace P., letters 
 from, 15, 10, 238. 
 
 Longfellow Jug, the, 210, 211. 
 
 " Longfellow Leaflets," 3G1. 
 
 "Longfellow Memorial Associa- 
 tion," 234, 235. 
 
 Longfellow, Rev. Samuel, 128, 130, 
 131, 163. 
 
 Longfellow, William, ancestor, 10, 
 11, lo, 201 ; tax-bill of, 238. 
 
 Long, Gov. John D., tribute of, 
 
 136-140. 
 Longworth, Nicholas, 203. 
 "Lovell's Fight," 25. 
 Lowell, James Russell, 9, 41, 46, 
 
 102, 129, 235, 246, 258, 277 ; on 
 " Kavanagh," 80, 81; poem to, 
 110 ; anecdote of, 231 ; criticised 
 by Margaret Fuller, 265 ; poem 
 by, 307, 308. 
 
 "Lunatic Girl, The," 336, 342, 343. 
 
 Machetta, Madam A., 148, 172, 173. 
 " Mad River," 207, 208. 
 "Maidenhood," anecdote, 211, 212. 
 Maine Historical Society, 39, 123. 
 Marriage, first, 39; second, 55. 
 "Masque of Pandora," 106, 356. 
 Massachusetts Historical Society, 
 
 2:;;, 279, 292, 300. 
 Merits as a translator, 270, 27 1 . 
 Monti, Luigi, 94, 106, 123, 124, 130. 
 " Morituri Salutamus," 107, 133. 
 Morse, James H., poem by, 328. 
 Munger, Rev. T. T., D.D., 280-2S2. 
 " Musings," 336, 349, 350. 
 " My Lost Youth," 21, 22. 
 
 Nahant, 180, 194, 219, 225. 
 Nation, The New-York, 264-267. 
 "New England Tragedies," 102, 
 
 103, 355. 
 Newport, 189, 237, 238. 
 
 " Norman's "Woe," sketch by 
 
 Charles Lanman, 197; origin of 
 
 the ballad, 197, 198. 
 North- American Review, 30, 38, 
 
 80, 81, 97, 98, 261, 290. 
 Norton, Professor Charles Eliot, 97, 
 
 98, 101, 130, 152, 167, 233, 300-303. 
 
 " Old Clock on the Stairs, The," 71; 
 
 original of, 72. 
 Old Mill at Newport, 189, 237, 238. 
 Outre-Mer, 31-38, 54, 354. 
 Owen, John, 63, 68, 113, 130, 168-170. 
 
IXUEX. 
 
 807 
 
 Paiue, Professor J. K., 187. 
 
 Palmer, Rev. Ray, D.D., 104,165, 356. 
 
 Payment for early poems, 28, 196, 
 197, 217, 235, 255, 250. 
 
 Penn Monthly, The, 290-292. 
 
 Personal appearance and habits, 39, 
 44, 148-154, 174, 203, 250. 
 
 Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, poem, 314. 
 
 Pike, Albert, 15. 
 
 Pitman, Mrs. M. J., letter to, 188. 
 
 " Poems of Places, 113-117, 218, 358. 
 
 " Poems on Slavery,*' 05, 00. 278, 
 298, :;54. 
 
 Poems set to music, list of, 184-1S7; 
 of other authors, 187. 
 
 Poetic inspiration, anecdote of, 241. 
 
 " Poets and Poetry of Europe," 54, 
 69, 70, 97, 170, 192, 218, 352. 
 
 Ports' Tkiuutks, 307-334. 
 
 Politeness, law of defined, 249, 250. 
 
 Politics, 194. 
 
 Poore, Ben: Perley, 198. 
 
 Portland, Me , 9,. 10, 19-25, 110; vis- 
 its to, 1!)3. 
 
 Portraits of Mr. Longfellow, 211, 
 218, 219,231,241, 256. 
 
 Posr, The Washington, 249-25:;. 
 
 Potter, Mary Storer, marriage to, 
 39; death of, 40; sketch of, by Col. 
 Higginson, 40, 41; allusions to. 
 157, 205. 236. 
 
 Pres on, Margaret J., sonnets by, 
 311, 312,325. 
 
 Prideaux, Mrs. E. B., poem by, 331. 
 
 Printers and publishers, relations 
 with, 107, 223. 
 
 "Psalm of Life," 03; translation 
 into Chinese, and re-translation, 
 01; allusions to, 132, 139, 252; ori- 
 gin of, 181; criticism of, 280, 287. 
 
 Punch, The London, poem, 320. 
 
 Puritanism, 201, 202. 
 
 Queen Victoria, anecdote of, 183. 
 Quid pro quo, 222. 
 Quotation, an apt, 203. 
 
 Read, T. Buchanan, picture of 
 "Longfellow's Daughters," 52, 
 219, 231. 
 
 Reading by twilight, 170. 
 
 Religious character, 142-145, 157, 
 162-105, 220. 227, 304: belief in 
 immortality, 157, 105, 106. 
 
 Reminiscences of a Boston jour- 
 nalist, 189-191. 
 
 Rcxdale, Robert, poem, 320, 321. 
 
 Rhea, Mile., 180. 
 
 Roosevelt, Blanche, 100, 148, 179. 
 
 Ruskiu, John, 82, 259. 
 
 Sale of his works, 34, 58, 03, 08, 
 
 120, 2: H, 300, 301. 
 Savage, Rev. M. J., anecdote, 124, 
 
 125; tribute of, 145, 140, 10'-', 10:;. 
 School-books, editor and translator 
 
 of, 29, 30, 353. 
 Schoolcraft, Dr. Henry R., 86, 87. 
 " Schoolmaster, The," 34-38. 
 Schools, 25, 20. 
 
 Scotland, poems set to music in, 187. 
 Scudder, Horace E., 34-38, 361. 
 " Seaside and Fireside," 85, 355. 
 " Sea-Diver, The," 330, 348, 349. 
 " Seven Voices of Sympathy," 147, 
 
 301. 
 Seventy-fifth birthday, 39, 123, 126. 
 Shoemaker, W. L., poem by, 312. 
 Simplicity, 249, 252, 250, 282, 292. 
 "Skeleton in Armor, The," 235; 
 
 origin of, 237, 238. 
 Slippers, anecdote of, 193, 194. 
 Small books, 222. 
 
 Smith, Elizabeth Oakes, sonnet, 382. 
 Smith, Mrs. J. Oliver, poems by, 
 
 31 L, 325. 
 " Song," 336, 350. 
 " Song of Savoy, A," 330, 345, 340. 
 Sonnets, criticism of, 271-275. 
 Sonnets, two, from Spanish, 351, 352. 
 Southern Literary Messenger, The, 
 
 282-285. 
 South of France, 184. 
 
368 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Souveuir volume, a unique, 238-241. 
 
 " Spanish Student, The," 66-68, 354. 
 
 Speech at Sanders Theatre, 121, 122. 
 
 Springfield Republican, 277, 278. 
 
 " Stars of the Summer Night," ser- 
 enade, 66, 67, 185. 
 
 Statue in Cambridge, 234. 
 
 Stephenson, Samuel, 14. 
 
 Stewart, George, 278, 279. 
 
 Stoddard, It. H, 56, 57, 277. 
 
 Studying law, 28. 
 
 Sumner, Charles, 29, 58, 6:;, 66, 169- 
 171, 194, 198, 199, 201, 230; sonnet 
 
 to, 27::. 
 " Suspiria," 131. 
 
 Sympathy. 147, 156, 256.257, 264,300. 
 
 "Tales of a Wayside Inn," 90- 
 96, .'155. 
 
 Taste, 263. 
 
 Temps, Le, of Paris, 267, 268. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred T.. 146, 187. 
 
 Thackeray, Longfellow's admira- 
 tion for, 251, 252. 
 
 " Thanksgiving," 336-338. 
 
 Thayer, S. II , poem by, 321, 322. 
 
 Thomas, Edith M., 298, 299; sonnet, 
 533, :;:;t. 
 
 Thoroughness of preparation, 230, 
 261, 271. 
 
 Times, The London, 275-277. 
 
 " To a Child," 70. 
 
 Transcript, The Boston, 208-270. 
 
 Translations, 30, 42, 69, 96; quality 
 of, 268-271; his own poems in 
 other languages, 291, 357-360. 
 
 Travels, 29, 40, 41, 65, (III, 103-105. 
 
 Tribune, The New York, 241, 242, 
 263, 264; Margaret Fuller's criti- 
 cisms in, 265. 
 
 Tributes, American, 134-147; from 
 England, 147, 148. 
 
 Trowbridge, John T., reminis- 
 cences of, 254-258. 
 
 Tuckerman, Henry T., letter to, 
 202, 203. 
 
 " Ultima Thiile," 125. 126, 356. 
 Underwood, F. K.. 196, 297, 298. 
 " Union soldier mustered out," ori- 
 gin of sonnet, 221, 222. 
 
 Vassal, Col. John, 47, 48. 
 "Venetian Gondolier, The," 336, 
 
 343, 344. 
 Vesuvius, ascent of, 226-229. 
 " Via Solitaria," 204-207. 
 Vigor in old age, 230, 247. 
 "Village Blacksmith, The," 192, 
 
 265, 267. 
 " Voices of the Night," 59, 62, 63, 
 
 132, 196, 265, 297, 298, 354. 
 
 Wadsworth, Gen. Peleg, 14-19. 
 
 Wadsworth homestead at Hiram, 
 Me., 25, 74, 75. 
 
 Wadsworth. Lieut. Henry, 14. 
 
 "Waif, The," 68, 555. 
 
 Ward, Samuel, 235-237. 
 
 Washburn, Israel, jun., poem, 321. 
 
 Washington, General, at Craigie 
 House. 46, 48, 50, 204. 
 
 Wheeler's history of Brunswick, 10. 
 
 Whipple, Edwin P., 67, 356. 
 
 Whitman, Walt, 66, 129, 156, 276, 277. 
 
 Whittier, John (',., 9, 15, 61!, 129, 187, 
 190, 230, 235, 258, 260, 277, 281; 
 visit to, 199; poem by, 310, 311. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel P., 14. 
 
 Willis, William, history of Port- 
 land, 9, 10. 
 
 Wilson, Gen. James G., 28; remi- 
 niscences, 215-221. 
 
 Winter, William, poem by, 308-310. 
 
 Winthrop, Hon. Robert C, 233. 
 
 Wiseman, Cardinal, 182. 
 
 Wolf Ballad, 195. 
 
 Works republished in England, 54, 
 OS, 213, 214. 
 
 " Wreck of the Hesperus," 65. 
 
 Zurich, The Raven of, 55. 
 
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