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L I FE
OF
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
WITH AEXTRACTS FROM HIS 700RAWAZS AAWD
COAEA’A.S.A’OAV/DAZAVCAE
EDITED BY
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW
VOL. I.
BO STON
TICKNOR AND COMPANY
1886 f

Copyright, 1886,
BY TICKNOR AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved.
Qānifiergitg Häregg;
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
P. R. E. F. A. C. E.
THE reader must be reminded at the outset, and
must remember all along, that this is the Life of a
man of letters. Mr. Longfellow was not that ex-
clusively, but he was that Supremely. He touched
life at many points; and certainly he was no book-
worm or dry-as-dust scholar shut up in a library.
He kept the doors of his study always open, both
literally and figuratively. But literature, as it
was his earliest ambition, was always his most
real interest; it was his constant point of view ; it
was his chosen refuge. His very profession was a
literary one. Now, the life of a man of letters
must needs be unexciting and uneventful in the
eyes of men of activities and affairs. In such a
life, a new book is a great adventure, a new poem
or tale a chief event. Such a life can be painted
only by a multitude of minute touches. For this
reason, and because it was desirable that he should
tell his own story as far as possible, a large part
of this biography is made up of extracts from a
daily journal. By such a method could the reader
best learn how a man of letters spends his time,
Vi FRIEFACE.
and what occupies his thoughts. It brings the
reader face to face with the author whom he has
known in his books; letting him, as far as it is
fitting, into his intimacy. It presupposes an in-
terest in, and a familiarity with, the writings
whose inception and completion are so frequently,
if briefly, noted. It trusts much to the personal
interest which, in this instance, the writings seem
in a remarkable degree to have inspired, - an
interest which it is believed this book, if it may
in some things modify, will in no degree diminish.
If in anything it should seem to fall short, let it
be remembered that the poet had already put the
best of himself into his books.
One word more. This is the Life of a man of
letters who was a worker, — a faithful user of his
powers; one who had too much respect for his art
ever to permit any carelessness in the execution
or unworthiness in the theme. His art he valued,
not for its own sake, but as a vehicle for noble,
gentle, beautiful thought and sentiment. If he
spoke of things common, it was to invest them
with that charm of saying, or show that poetic
element in them, which should lift them above the
commonplace.
CAMBRIDGE, February 15, 1886.
NoTE. – Some genealogical and other matter intended for an
Appendix has necessarily been omitted.
CHAPTER
II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
C O N T E N T S.
PAGE
EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 1807–1820 . . . 1
SCHOOL DAYs. 1810–1821 . . . . . . . . 16
CoLLEGE YEARs. 1821–1824 . . . . . . . 26
CoLLEGE PoEMs. 1824–1825 . . . . . . . 40
LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 1824–1825 . . . . 49
AFTER GRADUATION. 1825–1826 . . . . . . 67
IN FRANCE. 1826–1827 . . . . . . . . . 76
IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 1827 . . . . . . 102
IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. 1827 . . . . . . 125
A YEAR IN ITALY. 1828 . . . . . . . . 135
IN GERMANY. 1829 . . . . . . . . . . 159
PROFESSOR IN Bowdoin COLLEGE. 1829–1831 - 174
ProFEssoR IN Bowdon College. 1831–1835 - 187
IN ENGLAND AND NORTHERN EUROPE. 1835 . 204
WINTER AND SPRING IN HEIDELBERG. 1835–1836 212
IN TYROL AND SWITZERLAND. 1836 . . . . 224
PROFESSOR IN HARVARD Coli.EGE. 1836–1837 . 243
CRAIGIE HOUSE. 1837 . . . . . . . . . 258
viii
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
XIX.
PoEMs, LETTERs, AND Journal. 1838.
PAGE
268
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
HYPERION, AND VOICES OF THE NIGHT. — LET-
TERS AND JOURNAL. 1839 .
LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 1840.
LETTERs. 1841 .
THIRD VISIT To EUROPE. 1842
308
340
370
396
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
PortRAIT OF MR. LONGFELLOW. ETCHED BY S. A.
SCHOFF. FROM A PAINTING BY C. G. THOMPSON,
1840 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece
PoRTRAIT of MR. LONGFELLOw. ETCHED BY S. A.
SCHOFF. FROM A PASTEL BY FRANCIS ALEXANDER,
1852 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380
THE BIRTHPLACE, - IN 1807 (Vignette) . . . . Tillepage
THE WADSWORTH-LONGFELLOW HOUSE, PORTLAND . 4
FAC-SIMILES OF PENCIL SKETCHES . . . . 105, 160, 161
FAC-SIMILE OF A PEN DRAWING : GöTTINGEN, 1829 . 166
CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE . . . . . . . . . 258
FROM THE FIRST DRAFT OF THE ‘PSALM OF LIFE” . 270
FROM HYPERION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310
FROM THE FIRST DRAFT of ‘ExCELSIOR': written on
THE BACK OF A NOTE FROM MR. SUMNER ; Now IN
HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY . . . 384
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME.
1807–1820.
*
IN all New England there is no pleasanter town
than Portland, in the State of Maine. Built upon
a peninsula in Casco Bay, it looks down upon the
waters from a central ridge, and at each end rises
into a hill. The eastern One of these commands
an enchanting view down the bay and over its
wooded islands. From the western height extends
a charming prospect over lowlands and a tide-river
indented with many shady coves, far away to the
hill-ranges whose summits lie along the horizon.
Highest of these is the peak of Mt. Washington,
some seventy miles away as the bird flies, softly
blue in summer, in winter dazzling white, against
the sunset. The streets are shaded with arching
elms, under which one gets glimpses of the water,
and are cooled in summer by the sea-breezes. The
houses, of wood or brick, stand mostly apart from
each other in green yards and gardens. On the
VOL. I. — 1
2 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [1807.
Outskirts of the town are fields and pastures, and
a pretty piece of woods — a grove of Oaks — long
known as Deering's Woods; now, by gift of its
inheritors, preserved as a park. There are pleasant
drives along the neighboring shores. In summer
numerous little steamboats run to the various
islands of the bay, several of which are inhab-
ited ; and the waters are white with sails of pleas-
ure boats, of fishing vessels, and of merchant ships
bringing their cargoes to the wharves.
In the eastern quarter of the town, - the first
settled, and for many years the “court end,” — on
the corner of Fore and Hancock streets, stands a
house of three stories, somewhat spacious, and not
without slight architectural pretensions of an old-
fashioned sort. In its day it was a fine house,
such as were built seventy or eighty years ago in
all the New England sea-ports by well-to-do mer-
chants and sea-captains, and was the home of one
of these, Captain Samuel Stephenson. Built on a
street that ran along the shore, only the door-yard,
the street, and a little beach, separated it from the
water. The house is still standing, but years ago
the tide of fashion retreating westward left it bare,
and it is now a tenement house. The beach in
front of it has long been covered with the build-
ings of the Grand Trunk Railway.
In this house, on the twenty-seventh day of
February, in the year 1807, was born Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow. His parents were tem-
porarily living there; spending the winter with
1808.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 3
his father's sister, Mrs. Stephenson. They had
been married three years before, and had already
Oſle SOIOl. -
The boy did not long remain in this house.
When he was a little more than a year old, his
parents removed to the house on Congress Street
in which his childhood and youth were passed.
This house, noted as having been the first brick
house in Portland, had been built by his mother's
father, General Peleg Wadsworth, in the years
1784–86. Now quite in the heart of the business
quarter, it was then on the extreme outskirts of
the town, in the midst of fields. Hither Zilpah
Wadsworth, the boy's mother, had come when
seven years old; here she was married; here she
returned now with her husband and two boys, in
1808, to pass the rest of her life. She was the
third of eleven children of Peleg Wadsworth and
Elizabeth Bartlett, who had, after their marriage,
removed to Portland from Duxbury in Massachu-
setts, whither their ancestors had emigrated from
England." Their second son, Henry Wadsworth,
was a lieutenant in the American navy: he had
died, a young man of nineteen, in his country's
service. “Preferring death to slavery,” he had
voluntarily perished, with his companions, in the
fire-ship Intrepid, which was blown up before
Tripoli in the night of September 4, 1804, to save
* The Wadsworths, as well as the Longfellows, were from York-
shire. (See Appendix.) General Wadsworth was descended from
John Alden and Priscilla Mullens, of Mayflower memory.
4 IEARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [1808.
it from falling into the enemy's hands. From him
his sister had named her second son.
Beautiful in her youth, Mrs. Longfellow retained
through later years of invalidism a sweet and ex-
pressive countenance, a slight but upright figure.
From her must have come to her son the imagina-
tive and romantic side of his nature. She was fond
of poetry and music, and in her youth, of dancing
and Social gayety. She was a lover of nature in
all its aspects. She would sit by a window during
a thunder-storm, enjoying the excitement of its
splendors. Her disposition, through all trials and
Sorrows, was always cheerful, - with a gentle and
tranquil fortitude. Full of a tender, simple, un-
questioning piety, she was a lover of church and
Sermon and hymn ; a devout and constant reader
of the Bible, especially of its Psalms. She com-
mended religion by its fairest fruits. It was the
religion of the two great commandments. Despite
her military traditions, and her having in her
girlhood presented a flag, with a speech, to a
company of soldiers, she had in maturer years a
horror of war, and was an untiring advocate of
peace. She was a kind friend and neighbor, a
helper of the poor, a devoted mother to her chil-
dren, whose confidant she was, the sharer of their
little secrets and their joys, the ready com-
forter of their troubles, the patient corrector of
their faults. Her sister, Lucia Wadsworth, lived
with her, and was like a second mother to her
children.
–LoNGFELLow House, Port LAND.
THE WADsworth

1807.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 5
The boy's father, Stephen Longfellow, W3/S 3, IQ2.1
much honored in the community for his ability in
his profession of the law, for his sound good sense in
affairs, for his high integrity, his liberality and pub-
lic spirit, for his old-time courtesy of manners and
cordial hospitality. Born in 1776, upon his father's
farm in Gorham, he had graduated with honor at
Harvard College, where he was noted for his purity
of character, his gentlemanly bearing, his buoyant
spirits, and social warmth, as well as for his schol-
arship. He was classmate of Dr. Channing, Judge
Story, Judge White, among others. He early took
a high position at the Cumberland Bar. A “Fed-
eralist' in politics, he was sent as Representative
to the Legislature of Massachusetts, in 1814, and
was a member of that Hartford Convention of
which so much evil came unjustly to be spoken.
He also represented his State in the National Con-
gress for one term, in 1822–24. Retiring from
these public positions, he devoted himself assidu-
ously to his profession, in which he was much ab-
sorbed, till increasing ill health gradually disabled
him. In his family he was at once kind and strict,
bringing up his children in habits of respect and
obedience, of unselfishness, the dread of debt, and
the faithful performance of duty.
In this home, with such a father and mother, in
a circle which came to include four brothers and
four sisters, Henry Longfellow grew up...] The first
glimpse we get of him is in a letter of his mother,
when he was but eight months old: —
6 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [1812.
HIRAM, October —, 1807.
You will perceive that I am in Hiram. I have been
here two weeks with all my family excepting an essential
part of it — my husband. He came with us, staid one
day, and left us to attend to business he could not post-
pone. . . . You would be delighted with my little Stephen.
He is an engaging little fellow, now that he can talk and
begins to have some ideas. He will ask a thousand ques-
tions in a minute, and can manage his playthings and
draw about his horse, – “Just like all children,” you will
say. No doubt of it; but it is the same to parents as if
their child was the first in the world. I think you would
like my little Henry W. He is an active rogue, and
wishes for nothing so much as singing and dancing. He
would be very happy to have you raise him up to see the
balls on the mirror. . . . I should, I think, be fond of a
country life. The retirement pleases me; and the stillness
of the scene — when, after rambling miles without meet-
ing any one, we seat ourselves by the side of the river,
which we find unruffled by a breath of air — has a won-
derful effect in tranquillizing the spirit, and calming every
unpleasant emotion. Adieu, my dear brother, you will
write me, I am sure; and if I have no time to answer, my
little boys shall each of them write you a letter as soon
as they can hold a pen.
Our next sight of him is in a military guise.
The war of 1812 with England had broken out,
and an invasion of Canada was talked of. A letter
of his aunt (May 6, 1812) says: —
A prophet tells us that a part of this country is to
be laid waste by a hurricane the tenth of this month.
Another says that two thirds of the world will be de-
1814.] TARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 7
stroyed on the fourth of July. Canada must be subdued
before that time or the opportunity will be lost. Our little
Henry is ready to march; he had his tin gun prepared
and his head powdered a week ago.
When he next appears he has exchanged the
musket for the pen. In a letter of Jan. 13, 1814,
to her husband then attending the “General Court”
in Boston, his mother sends this message from
Henry: “Oh, tell papa I am writing at school —
a, b, c ; and send my love to him, and I hope he
will bring me a drum.” Not content with sending
the message, he is eager to use his new accomplish-
ment; and Soon, with patient labor, he constructs
with his own hand the following letter, the first
which he ever wrote — who was to write so many:
PORTLAND [Jan. —, 1814].
DEAR PAPA, - Ann wants a little Bible like little Bet- >
sey's. Will you please buy her one, if you can find any
in Boston. I have been to school all the week, and got
only seven marks. I shall have a billet on Monday. I
wish you to buy me a drum.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
It is pleasant to find him thinking of his sister's
Bible before his own drum. The “marks” were
for slight offences, doubtless; what the “billet”
meant we shall see presently. To the boy's letter
the father replied : —
. . . I have found a very pretty drum, with an eagle
painted on it, but the man asks two dollars for it; and they
do not let any vessels go from Boston to Portland now.
8 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [1817.
But if I can find any opportunity to send it down I shall
buy it. And if I cannot, I shall buy something else which
will please you as well. I am glad to hear that you have
been a good boy at school and are likely to get a billét.
You must save all your billets till I get home. . . . If I
can get time I shall write you and Stephen another letter,
and tell you about the State House, and the theatre, and
other things that are in Boston.
In a letter of his mother, in 1817, when he was
ten years old, we get another picture of the brothers.
Henry had lamed his elbow, turning a somersault
in coming out of school, and had his arm in a sling.
However —
He went to dancing-school Saturday afternoon, but ex-
cused himself from meeting on Sunday; Monday, attended
at the Academy Examination; Tuesday, attended the [mili-
tary] Review. Wednesday afternoon the boys went to
school to contend for the prize in reading. Henry was in
high spirits. He “did not know as he should get it, but
wanted to try, and have it over.” Stephen was rather
unwilling to go; he “knew he could not get the prize;
he did his best last time and could not get it, and he
could not read poetry.” However, he went. . . . My
pen glides with peculiar facility when I am writing to
you, dear husband, about our children. I could now
tell you a long story of the girls and of A , but I
have not time this morning, as I have a mantua-maker
to attend to.
It must have been earlier than this that his
mother wrote of him : “Henry is reading Gay's
Fables. He is quite indignant over the ‘The
Hare with Many Friends; — but now consoles
1817.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 9
himself with saying that he does n’t believe it is
true !”
A friend of the family writes in 1877, −
Most distinctly do I recall the bright, pleasant boy as I
often saw him at his father's house while I was living in
Portland, in the years 1816–17. My recollections of those
interviews in that time-honored mansion, and of the excel-
lent man whose reception of me was ever cordial, and
whose conversation was to me so agreeable and so instrue-
tive, have never ceased to be a pleasure."
emº"
ſ Henry is remembered by others as a lively boy,
with brown or chestnut hair, blue eyes, a delicate
complexion, and rosy cheeks; sensitive, impres-
sionable ; active, eager, impetuous, often impa-
tient ; quick-tempered, but as quickly appeased ;
kind-hearted and affectionate, – the sun-light of
the house. He had great neatness and love of
order. He was always extremely conscientious,
“remarkably solicitous always to do right,” his
mother wrote. “True, high-minded, and noble, –
never a mean thought or act,” says his sister;
“injustice in any shape he could not brook.” He
was industrious, prompt, and persevering; full of
ardor, he went into everything he undertook with
great Zest.
With all his liveliness, he disliked loud noises
and rude excitements. There is a family tradition
of his having, on some Fourth of July, privately
begged the maid to put cotton in his ears to deaden
the sound of the cannoº But being asked if he
* Letter of Nehemiah Cleaveland.
10 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [isiſ.
was afraid, he indignantly denied it." He was fond
of all boys' games, – ball, kite-flying, and swim-
ming, in summer ; in winter, Snowballing, coasting,
and skating. His elder brother was very fond of
a gun, and many were the excursions to the neigh-
boring woods and shores, and to the more distant
marshes, in search of birds. But one day Henry
came home with his eyes full of tears, and so
grieved at heart because he had shot a robin that
he never tried again. About fishing he was some-
what less tender-hearted, though never a sports-
Iſla, ſk.
His father could tell him of the theatre in
Boston; but the drama seldom came to Portland.”
The circus and the menagerie were more frequent
visitants. Eagerly attended, they were, of course,
imitated at home. Feats of “grand and lofty
tumbling” and horsemanship were exhibited for
his sisters' benefit, the steed being a large wooden
rocking-horse which stood in the back porch; but
the family annals record that once, vaulting with
1 In later life, a visitor speaks of his closing the shutters against
a thunder-storm, saying that he disliked everything violent. On one
of his book-plates was the motto Non clamor, Sed amor.
2 It seems to have been under some ban of the law, which led to
amusing evasions. In the Portland Gazette of July 4, 1820, is the
following advertisement: “The public are respectfully informed that
there will be a Concert of vocal and instrumental music this evening.
Between the parts of the Concert there will be performed (gratis) a
celebrated Play in three acts called The Point of Honor. To con-
clude with Shakespeare's admired farce in three acts (gratis), called
Katherine and Petruchio.” However, in the following year the Port-
land Theatre is boldly advertised, with Richard III. and George
Barnwell.
1817.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 11
too great vehemence over the horse's head, he
brought the horse over with him, breaking his
neck, -fortunately the horse's, not his own.
ITn the home, there were books and music. His
father's library, not large, but well selected for the
time, gave him, as he grew up, access to Shake-
speare, Milton, Pope, Dryden, Thomson, Goldsmith ;
the Spectator, the Rambler, the Lives of the Poets,
Rasselas, Plutarch's Lives; Hume's, Gibbon's, Gil-
lies's and Robertson's Histories, and the like. For
Sunday reading, which was scrupulously separated
from that of “week-days,” there were Hannah
More's Works; for some reason, possibly theologi-
cal, The Pilgrim's Progress seems not to have been
on the shelves. Cowper's poetry the boy was fond
of ; and Moore's Lalla Rookh. Robinson Crusoe,
of course, and the Arabian Nights were read by
the children together; and Henry took delight in
Don Quixote, and Ossian, and would go about the
house declaiming the windy and misty utterances
of the latter)
He had access, also, to the shelves of the old
Portland Library. And sometimes, of evenings,
he got permission to go down to Mr. Johnson's
bookstore to look over the few new books that
from time to time arrived from Boston. There
the boy might listen, also, to his elders, John
Neal and Nathaniel Deering, talking about lit-
erature.
He has himself left us a record of one part of
his early reading: —
12 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. . [1819.
Every reader has his first book; I mean to say, one book
among all others which in early youth first fascinates his
imagination, and at Once excites and Satisfies the desires
of his mind. To me, this first book was the Sketch-
Book of Washington Irving. I was a school-boy when it
was published, and read each succeeding number with ever
increasing wonder and delight, spell-bound by its pleasant
humor, its melancholy tenderness, its atmosphere of rev-
ery, -nay, even by its gray-brown covers, the shaded
letters of its titles, and the fair clear type, which seemed
an outward symbol of its style. — How many delightful
books the same author has given us. . . . Yet still the
charm of the Sketch-Book remains unbroken ; the old
fascination remains about it; and whenever I open its
pages, I open also that mysterious door which leads back
into the haunted chambers of youth.*
On Sundays, according to the habit of the time,
all ordinary books and occupations were laid aside.
There was church-going twice a day, - “going to
meeting,” it was always called, - never to be
omitted by any of the family, save for reason of
sickness. In the winter, Henry must often have
carried for his mother, as he walked by her side,
the little foot-stove of coals which in those days
supplemented the very imperfect warming of the
old First Parish meeting-house, where was the
family pew. But in summer he carried flowers,
— a bunch of pinks, or apple-blossoms from the
great tree in the garden.
1 Remarks in presenting the Resolutions upon the death of Irving
at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Dec. 5, 1859.
The first number of the Sketch-Book came out in 1819.
1819.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 13
There were no Sunday-schools as yet; but on
Sunday afternoons, after the meeting, the mother
gathered her children around her, to read in turn
from the great family Bible, and to look over, and
talk over, its rude engravings of Scripture scenes
and events; or to turn, for the hundredth time, to
the “family record” of deaths and births which
grew upon the pages between the Old and New
Testaments. On Sunday evenings there was always
the singing of hymns to the familiar psalmody of
the old “Bridgewater Collection,” — St. Martin's,
and Dundee, and Brattle Street, with its favorite
hymn by Helen Maria Williams, –
While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled.
In the congregation of the First Parish of Port-
land, the moderate Calvinism of the old preachers,
Parson Smith and Parson Deane (the latter not
unsuspected of Arminian leanings) had gradually
passed into the early form of Unitarianism. The
Rev. Ichabod Nichols was now its minister, — a
man of high intellectual power, an elevated reveren-
tial spirit, and great dignity of character and pres-
ence, whose retiring disposition alone kept him from
being more widely known. Stephen Longfellow
was one of his most valued parishioners. A class-
mate and intimate friend of Channing in his college
years, he had followed the line of his friend's lib-
eral thought. It is believed that it was at his
instance that the old church covenant of the First
Parish was modified in its doctrinal statement,
14 EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. [1819.
before he could conscientiously assent to it in
becoming a “church member.” f was in the
doctrine and the spirit of the early Unitarianism
that Henry Longfellow was nurtured at church
and at home. And there is no reason to suppose
that he ever found these insufficient, or that he
ever essentially departed from them. Of his genu-
ine religious feeling his writings give ample tes-
timony. His nature was at heart devout ; his
ideas of life, of death, and of what lies beyond,
were essentially cheerful, hopeful, optimistic. He
did not care to talk much on theological points;
but he believed in the Supremacy of good in the
world and in the universe.
In the home parlor the sister's piano had replaced
the spinet of his mother's youth. The Battle of
Prague, Governor Brooks's March, Washington's
March, and other music of the period were famil-
iar; to such songs as Henry's Cottage Maid,
Brignal's Banks, Bonnie Doon, The Last Rose of
Summer, Oft in the Stilly Night, Henry lent his
voice and the training of the singing-school;
while the lessons of the dancing-class were re-
peated in the parlor, to the tunes of Money Musk,
The Haymakers, or Fisher's Hornpipe.
In the evenings, there were lessons to be learned ;
and the children opened their satchels, and gath-
ered, with their books and slates, round the table
in the family sitting-room. The silence would be
broken for a moment by the long mysterious blast
of a horn, announcing the arrival in town of the
1817.] EARLY DAYS IN THE HOME. 15
evening mail, then-the rattle of its passing wheels,
and then silence again, save the singing of the
wood-fire. Studies over, there would be games
till bed-time. If these became too noisy, or the
father had brought home his law-papers from the
office, enjoining strictest quiet, then there was
flight to another room, -perhaps, in winter, to the
kitchen, where hung the crane Over the coals in
the broad old fireplace, upon whose iron back a
fish forever baked in effigy. When bed-time came,
it was hard to leave the warm fire to go up into
the unwarmed bed-rooms; still harder next morn-
ing to get up out of the comfortable feather-beds
and break the ice in the pitchers for washing. But
hardship made hardihood. In summer it was pleas-
ant enough to look out from the upper windows:
those of the boys' room looked out over the Cove
and the farms and woodlands toward Mount Wash-
ington, full in view on the western horizon; while
the eastern chambers commanded a then unob-
structed view of the bay, White Head, Fort Preble,
and the light-house on Cape Elizabeth. [.
“Out of my childhood,” wrote Mr. Longfellow in later
years, “rises in my memory the recollection of many
things rather as poetic impressions than as prosaic facts.
Such are the damp mornings of early spring, with the
loud Crowing of cocks and the cooing of pigeons on roofs
of barns. Very distinct in connection with these are the
indefinite longings incident to childhood; feelings of won-
der and loneliness which I could not interpret and scarcely
then took cognizance of. But they have remained in my
mind.”
CHAPTER II.
SCHOOL-DAYS.
1810–1821.
THE boy's school-life began at three years of age,
when he went with his brother of five to a school
kept by one Mrs. Fellows, – “Ma’am Fellows,” she
was called, - who taught him his letters and re-
spect for elders, if nothing more. He remembered
being carried to school sometimes on horseback,
in front of the colored man who worked for his
father. At five years he was thought old enough
to go to the public school in Love Lane, quite near
his home. But the companionship of some of the
rough boys was so very distasteful to him that he
stayed only a week. It was, perhaps, from this
school that he came home One day, his cheeks and
his heart burning with anger; the Schoolmaster
had accused him of a lie. So he was removed to
a private school kept by Mr. Wright, and after-
ward by Mr. N. H. Carter. And when, in 1813,
Mr. Carter took charge of the Portland Academy,
Henry followed him. And there we find him at
the age of six. And one day he brings home this
“billet ’’: —
1813–17.] SCHOOL-DAYS. 17
Master Henry Longfellow is one of the best boys we
have...in school. He spells and reads very well. He also
can add and multiply numbers. His conduct last quarter
was very correct and amiable.
N. H. CARTER.
June 30, 1813.
The next spring he is reported as having “gone
half through his Latin Grammar” and as standing
“above several boys twice as old as he.” By this
time, as we have seen, he had written his first
letter. In 1817, when he is ten years old, the new
preceptor, Mr. Cushman, certifies that he “has
during the week distinguished himself by his good
deportment, — Monday morning's lesson and occa-
sional levity excepted.” These were pardonable
derelictions. At other times he is reported as
“very ambitious to do well; ” and once comes the
mysterious statement that he “is wise enough to
listen to the advice of his best friends.” At the
Academy he came also under the instructions of
Mr. Jacob Abbot, and of Mr. Cobb and other
assistants.
Of one of his teachers he in later years records
this recollection : —
I remember the schoolmaster at the Academy, and the
mingled odor that hovered about him of tobacco, india-
rubber, and lead pencil. A nervous, excitable man. When
We left School I went with a schoolmate to take leave of
him and thank him for his patience with us. He thought
We were in jest; and gave me a stern lecture on good be-
havior and the trials of a teacher's life.
VOL. I. — 2
18 SCEIOOL-DAYS. [1817.
One of his schoolmates has given us this remem-
brance of the boy at the Academy: —
I recollect perfectly the impression made upon myself
and others. He was a very handsome boy. Retiring,
without being reserved, there was a frankness about him
that won you at once. He looked you square in the face.
His eyes were full of expression, and it seemed as though
you could look down into them as into a clear spring.
. . . He had no relish for rude sports; but loved to bathe
in a little creek on the border of Deering's Oaks; and
would tramp through the woods at times with a gun,
but this was mostly through the influence of others; he
loved much better to lie under a tree and read. . . . If
he was a thoughtful, he certainly was not a melancholy,
boy; and the minor key to which so much of his verse
is attuned, and that tinge of Sadness his countenance
wore in later years, were due to that first great sorrow
that came upon him, which was chiselled still deeper by
subsequent trials."
The school-year was divided into “quarters,”
with a week’s vacation at the end of each, which
was extended perhaps, in summer, to a fortnight.
These holidays were often spent in visits to his
grandfather Longfellow's house in Gorham, his
father's birth-place, a few miles from Portland.
The road was a rather dreary one, and passed a
wood which the boy believed to be haunted. His
grandfather was Judge of the Court of Common
Pleas, and also carried on a farm. The homestead
was a comfortable house of two stories, the road on
either side of it shaded with long rows of slender
1 Letter of Elijah Kellogg in the Bowdoin Orient, Feb., 1885.
1817.] SCEIOOL-DAYS. 19
elm-trees, which Henry's father when a boy had
helped to plant. Under the windows grew syringa
bushes and sweetbriers, and the dark-red “low
damask” roses bloomed in their season. Across the
way was a blacksmith's shop, where the farm horses
were shod; and further along, a little brook crossed
by a wooden bridge; and at a turn of the road,
a one-story school-house of the forlorn pattern
which was then in vogue. The village of Gorham
– “Gorham Corner,” it was called — was about
three miles further on. Judge Longfellow, the
grandfather, is described as “a fine-looking gen-
tleman, with the bearing of the old-school; an
erect, portly figure, rather tall; wearing almost
to the close of his life the old-style dress, – long-
skirted waistcoat, small-clothes, and white-topped
boots, his hair tied behind in a club, with black
ribbon.” The freedom and range of the farm were,
of course, delightful to the town boy. His uncle
and aunt Stephenson, in whose house he had been
born, had removed to Gorham when Jefferson's
embargo kept the ships “rotting at the wharves,”
and now carried on the adjoining farm. And there
Henry had the companionship of his cousins and
played a little at farming, — following the mowers
at hay time, and going for the cows at evening
in the pennyroyal-scented pastures; picking the
wild strawberries; peeping into the dairy to see
the cheese-presses, and the butter-making in the
tall churns; in autumn entering into the work
and fun of the corn-husking; watching the great
20 SCHOOL-T)AYS. [1817.
spinning wheel while the spinner walked to and
fro, as she fed the spindle from the heap of
carded wool; or even filling the quills when
the household loom was in use weaving the
homespun.
Sometimes the vacation journey was extended —
a long day's drive—to Hiram, where his grand-
father Wadsworth had built himself a house in the
midst of his estate of seven thousand acres, called
On the maps of the time “Wadsworth's Grant,”
between the Saco and the Ossipee rivers. His
grandchildren looked with a kind of awe upon his
upright form, in the cocked hat and buckled shoes
which he continued to wear." As they sat in the
spacious and breezy hall, they never tired of hear-
ing him tell the thrilling story of his capture by
British soldiers, his imprisonment in Fort George at
Castine, and his adventurous escape. Perhaps he
1 Of her father's appearance thirty years earlier, when he first came
to Portland, Mrs. Longfellow gave this description: “Imagine to your-
self a man of middle size, well proportioned, with a military air, and
who carried himself 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 with 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 uncommon share of benevolence and kind
feeling.”
General Wadsworth was, during the war of the Revolution, Adju-
tant-General of Massachusetts, and afterwards chief in command upon
the coast of Maine. After moving to Portland he was sent as Repre-
sentative to Congress for fourteen years (1792–1806). In Hiram,
where he spent his later years, he was for twelve years Treasurer of
the town. He died in 1829, at the age of eighty-one.
1820.] SCHOOL-DAYS. 21
told the school-boy some stories of his college life
at Harvard; or of the patriotic indignation with
which, a recent graduate, he heard of the “Servile
reception,” by the College, of the Royal Governor,
Hutchinson, in 1771; * perhaps, even, read the
verses which he had written at the time, “On the
Decay of Virtue and Increase of Politeness and
Servility at Harvard College.”
Not far from Hiram, in the neighboring town
of Fryeburg, lies one of those small lakes of which
the State of Maine is full, their clear waters rimmed
with a beach of pale sand. It is called Lovewell's
(or Lovell's) Pond, and is the scene of an event
famous in New England history as “Lovewell's
Fight” with the Indians. The story made a deep
impression on the boy's imagination. One morning
— the 17th of November, 1820 — there appeared
in the poet’s corner of the Portland Gazette the
following verses: —
THE BATTLE OF LOWELL’S POND.
Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.
The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er
And the war-clarion’s voice is now heard no more.
1 See Quincy’s History of Harvard College.
22 SCHOOL-DAYS. [1820.
The warriors that fought for their country — and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.
They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.
HENRY.
There is very little, even of promise, in these
verses. Other boys of thirteen have written better.
Their only interest lies in their being, as far as is
known, the first printed verses of our poet." But
the boy's first printed verses were to him, at least,
of vast interest. He recalled, in after years, the
trembling and misgiving of heart with which he
ran down to Mr. Shirley's printing-office at the
foot of Exchange Street, and cautiously slipped his
manuscript into the letter-box. The evening be-
fore the publication of the paper— it was a semi-
weekly — he went again, and stood shivering in
the November air, casting many a glance at the
windows, as they trembled with the jar of the ink-
balls and the press— afraid to venture in. No one
but his sister, the receiver of all his confidences,
had been let into his secret; and she shared with
him the excited expectation with which the appear-
1 It may not be amiss to say, on Mr. Longfellow's own authority,
that some silly lines about “Mr. Finney and his turnip,” which went
the rounds of the papers a few years ago as his “first poem,” were
never written by him.
1820.] SCHOOL-T)AYS. 23
nce of the paper was looked for, the next morning.
R. e may imagine the impatience with which they
watched the unfolding of the damp sheet in their
father's methodical hands, and the rising vapor as
he held it before the wood-fire to dry. Slowly
he read the paper, and said nothing — perhaps saw
nothing—of the verses, and the children kept their
secret. But when they could get the paper—the
poem was there ! Inexpressible was the boy's de-
light, and innumerable the times that he read and
re-read his performance, each time with increasing
satisfaction. In the evening he went to visit at
the house of Judge Mellen, his father's friend,
whose son Frederic was his own intimate. In the
circle gathered about the fire, the talk turned upon
poetry. The Judge took up the morning's Gazette:
“Did you see the piece in to-day’s paper ? Very
stiff, remarkably stiff; moreover, it is all bor-
rowed, every word of it.” The boy's heart shrunk
within him and he would gladly have sunk through
the floor. He got out of the house as soon as pos-
sible, without betraying himself. Shall we blame
him that there were tears on his pillow that night 2
It was his first encounter with “the critic,” from
whom he was destined to hear much, not always
complimentary, and of whom he had more than
Once something not very complimentary to say."
This first mishap, however, did not discourage
him. He was not of a temperament easily dis-
couraged. From time to time other pieces appeared
in the Gazette, with the signature known to a few
24 SCHOOL-DAYS. [1821.
friends. They are not worth reprinting. With
his friend William Browne, a bright youth a little
older than himself, he established a literary inter-
change and, indeed, partnership. In his friend's
letters, which alone are preserved, we get such
hints as these : “I think your lines were excel-
lent ; ” “As to your Epigram, which you pronounce
so bad, I find no fault in it; ” “I have done my
best to proceed with our play; ” “I hope you will
send me the whole of your Tragedy, in partibus,
i. e. by inches; ” “Concerning that thing you call
a Comedy, I shall not send it you, quia non habeo ;
in plain Greek, oxetat ; anglicé, it is destroyed.”
In 1821 there comes a proposal for a series of
papers to be written by the two alternately, for
which “the less assuming name of The Spectator”
is suggested.
Meanwhile neither studies, play, nor literary
enterprises occupied all the time. In the New
England of that day “co-education” was not dis-
cussed, but practised without question. In the
Portland Academy the girls and boys were duly
placed apart on either side of the aisle that ran
from the door to the teacher's platform ; but these
two sets of desks faced each other. Imagine the
lessons that were learned above the grammar and
the arithmetic, the romances which were composed
but never submitted to the teachers for criticism
There is even a trustworthy tradition that some
of the shyer, or more ardent, boys cut peep-holes in
the lids of their desks, to be furtively used in the
1820.] SCHOOL-DAYS. 25
prolonged intervals of putting away a slate or get-
ting out a writing-book. Deering's Woods also
afforded lovely opportunities in its leafy glades,
which our school-boy frequented, not only with his
boy companions in search of autumnal acorns and
walnuts, but with the pretty maidens, his sister's
friends, when April winds stirred the blossoming
of the rosy-white May-flowers under their blanket
of rough leaves, – very good emblems of the inno-
cent flames that hid their tender glow under the
school-boy's jacket. Nor had Nature failed to
provide a few beech-trees among the oaks, – her
ready tablets for the school-boy's stylus, the pen-
knife, in its practice of the alphabet. More elabo-
rate records of these “early loves” and their
romance may have found their way to the poets'
corner of the newspaper. At any rate he did not
forget them when in after years he recalled his
Lost Youth.*
* I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain ;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
— My Lost Youth.
CHAPTER III.
*
COLLEGE YEARS. W’ y
1821–1824. × y
IN 1821 the school-boy becomes the collegian,
passing successfully, in company with his brother
two years older than himself, the entrance exami-
nations for Bowdoin College. Of this college —
then but twenty years in existence — his father,
himself a graduate of Harvard, was one of the
Trustees. Maine had, the year before, been sepa-
rated from Massachusetts, and erected into an in-
dependent State; and there was all the new ardor
of local pride in the State institutions. Perhaps
on account of Henry's youth, – he was not yet
fifteen, – the boys pursued their first year's studies
at home; and did not go up for residence at the
College till the autumn of 1822.
On going to Brunswick at the beginning of the
Sophomore year, the brothers took a room to-
gether at the house of Rev. Mr. Titcomb' in the
village. It must have been very plainly furnished,
for such was the custom of the time. Carpets even
1 It was in this house, many years after (when it was occupied by
Professor Stowe), that Uncle Tom's Cabin was written.
1821.] COLLEGE YEARS. 27
were then unknown in students' rooms. We hear
of no adornments to theirs but some bombazine
window-curtains, and a set of card-racks painted
by their sister; and they complain of difficulty in
keeping their room warm in the bitter Northern
winter, with their wood-fire in the open fireplace."
Of Henry Longfellow's college career we have
glimpses in the recollections of one of his Profes-
sors and some of his fellow-collegians. Professor
Packard writes of him as “an attractive youth, of
well-bred manners and bearing,” “ of unblemished
character as a pupil, and a true gentleman in all
his relations with the college and its teachers.”
His classmate, Bradbury, gives this picture of
him : —
I met him for the first time in the autumn of 1822,
when I entered, as Sophomore, the class of which he was
a member. As we both had our rooms out of college and
in the same vicinity, we were often together in passing to
and from the recitation-room, and became well acquainted.
He was genial, Sociable, and agreeable, and always a gen-
tleman in his deportment. He was uniformly cheerful.
He had a happy temperament, free from envy and every
corroding passion and vice. In personal appearance, ac-
cording to my present recollection of him, . . . his figure
* His mother writes, “I am sorry to find that your room is cold.
I fear learning will not flourish, nor your ideas properly expand, in a
frosty atmosphere; and I fear the Muses will not visit you, and that
I shall have no poetic effusion presented on New Year's Day.” This
probably refers to the printed “Address” in verse which it was the
custom of the time for the Carriers of the various newspapers to pre-
sent to their patrons on the first of January, as an occasion for a
gratuity. One of these Henry Longfellow is known to have written.
28. COLLEGE YEARS. [1821.
was slight and erect, his complexion light and delicate as
a maiden's, with a slight bloom upon the cheek; his nose
rather prominent, his eyes clear and blue, and his well-
formed head covered with a profusion of brown hair waving
loosely. While he was understood in college to be a gen-
eral reader, and more especially devoted to the Muses, he
never allowed himself to come to the recitation-room with-
out thorough preparation. I have some knowledge that
he found more difficulty in mastering the hard problems
in the higher branches of mathematics than he did in any
of his other studies. His class was one in which there
was a large amount of ambition and an intense struggle
for rank in scholarship. . . . Longfellow maintained a high
rank in a class which contained such names as Hawthorne,
Little, Cilley, Cheever, Abbot, and others. In this class
Longfellow stood justly among the first. . . . We had in
our class the sons of Judge Bridge, Simon Greenleaf,
Stephen Longfellow, Jeremiah Mason, Chief Justice Mel-
len, and Commodore Preble.
Another classmate speaks of him as “uniformly
regular and studious in his habits, rather disin-
clined to general intercourse, maintaining high
rank as a scholar, and distinguished especially
for the excellence of his compositions.” “Such
was his temperament,” he adds, “that it appeared
easy for him to avoid the unworthy.” A towns-
man and fellow-collegian writes : —
An intimacy commenced between us in his Junior year,
as we were both of us Peucinians," and happened to board
1 There were two literary societies in the College, the Athenean
and the Peucinian, which latter took its name from the neighboring
pine-woods, and had for its motto “Pinos loquentes Semper habemus.”
*-
1823.] COLLEGE YEARS. 29
together in a little private club. After supper we some-
times took a stroll together in the Brunswick woods, and
then adjourned to his room for a little chat and smoke.
He never seemed to care for gun or rod, and as we wan-
dered together through the woods he never expressed a
wish to fire a shot at the flocks of wild pigeons, nor to
take the fish of the Androscoggin, though I enjoyed both
sorts of sport, and had sometimes for a companion his
brother Stephen. Neither did Hawthorne care for field
sport."
Lively as he was in disposition, both his instincts
and his principles kept him from taking part in
any college escapades or mischief. His books,
his companions, – in whose choice he was, from
instinct also, somewhat fastidious, though friendly
toward all, - his rambles in the pines and along
the river banks, well occupied the uneventful days.
Of course, he kept up a correspondence with his
family, and especially with his father, who during
two of these college years spent the winters in
Washington, as member of the House of Repre-
sentatives. These letters will give some idea of
what he was doing and thinking in these years.
And first we get a glance at his reading : —
To his Mother.
BOWDOIN COLLEGE, April —, 1823.
. . . I have this evening been reading a few pages in
Gray's Odes. I am very much pleased with them. The
‘Progress of Poesy' and the “Ode on Eton College’ are
admirable. And many passages of ‘The Bard, though,
* Letter of Isaac McLellan.
30 COLLEGE YEARS. [1823.
I confess, quite obscure to me, seem to partake in a great
degree of the sublime. Obscurity is the great objection
which many urge against Gray. They do not consider
that it contributes in the highest degree to sublimity;
and he certainly aimed at sublimity in these Odes. Every
one admires his Elegy, and if they do not his Odes, they
must attribute it to their own want of taste.
To this letter his mother replied: —
I am not very conversant with the poetry of Gray, dear
H., and therefore cannot tell whether I should be as much
pleased with it in general as you are. His Elegy I have
read frequently and always with pleasure; I admire it for
its truth and simplicity. I presume you will not allow
it any sublimity. Obscurity, you think, is favorable to
the sublime. It may be so, but I am much better pleased
with those pieces which touch the feelings and improve
the heart than with those which excite the imagination
only and raise perhaps an indistinct admiration, — that
is, an admiration of we know not exactly what. I have
been looking over some of our books, but have not yet
found anything of Gray's, not even in the Poetical Epi-
tome; but I shall continue the search. In Johnson's
Lives I find some account of him. He was “perhaps
the most learned man in England.” Of his poetry, his
learned biographer does not seem to be much enamored.
He wishes to know the meaning of the first line in the
• Progress of Poesy, and speaks of that and ‘The Bard’ as
£ncomprehensible. But to the Elegy even Johnson was
obliged to do justice: “Had Gray often written thus, it
had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him.”
In another letter she wrote : —
To return to our old subject, Gray's poems, – I wish
you would bring the book home with you. I have a
1823.] COLLEGE YEARS. 31
strong inclination to read the poems, since you commend
them so highly. I think I should be pleased with them,
though Dr. Johnson was not. I do not think the Doctor
possessed much sensibility to the charms of poetry, and
he was sometimes most unmerciful in his criticisms.
The collegian also begged modestly to differ
from the Doctor: —
To his Mother.
April 25, 1823.
The partial and uncandid manner in which Dr. John-
son criticised the poems of Gray, gives great offence to
many, and is condemned by all of candid minds. The
cause of his severity is generally believed to be the differ-
ence of their religious and political opinions. This is
sufficient to make the opinions advanced by the great
Lexicographer of little weight. Though he were the
greatest man alive, and possessed of the greatest learning,
yet this, without he possessed also impartiality, would not
constitute him the best critick.” I do not see what is
so incomprehensible in the first line of the ‘Progress of
Poesy.' Is it not as plain as a passage somewhat similar
in the Psalms ? Gray's poem commences thus, -
“Awake, AEolian lyre, awake!”
and David says, –
“Awake, my glory; awake, lute and harp !”
I know and acknowledge that I am not a competent
judge in this matter, and I only advance such opinions as
suggest themselves to my mind, that you may know, not
embrace, them. I am in favor of letting each one think
for himself, and I am very much pleased with Gray's
poems, Dr. Johnson to the contrary notwithstanding.
* This and similar words were, sixty years ago, always spelled
with a k, and this spelling is preserved in these letters, as character-
istic of the period.
32 - COLLEGE YEARS. [1823.
To his Mother.
November 9, 1823.
Since I wrote you last I have read but one volume.
That is Heckwelder's Account of the History, Manners,
and Customs of the Indian Natives of Pennsylvania and
the neighboring States. This is a very interesting volume,
and exhibits in a new and more agreeable light the charac-
ter of this reviled and persecuted race. It appears from
this account of them and of their customs (and I see no
reason why he should not be relied upon as correct, since
he passed the greater part of a long life amongst the
Indians) that they are a race possessing magnanimity,
generosity, benevolence, and pure religion without hy-
pocrisy. This may seem a paradox, but nevertheless I
believe it true. They have been most barbarously mal-
tréâted by the whites, both in word and deed.
Their “outrages”—what ear has not heard of them a
thousand times 2—whilst the white people, who rendered
their cruelty more cruel, their barbarity more vindictive,
publish abroad their crimes and thank Heaven that they
are not like these heathen
This reading of Heckwelder may have had some
connection with the fact that for the Junior Exhi-
bition which took place in December, Longfellow
and his classmate Bradbury had as the subject of
their “part” a “Dialogue between a North Ameri-
can Indian and a European.” About this, Mr.
Bradbury says: —
He had the character of King Philip and I of Miles
Standish. He maintained that the continent was given
by the Great Spirit to the Indians, and that the English
were wrongful intruders. My reply was . . . that the
Great Spirit never intended that so few in number should
1823.] COLLEGE YEARS. 33
hold the whole continent for hunting-grounds, and that we
had a right to a share of it to improve and cultivate. . . .
One thing is certain, that he subsequently made a great
deal more of Miles Standish than I did on that occasion."
To his Father.
December 1, 1823.
Our returning ride from Portland on the Saturday we
left you was vastly disagreeable. Night overtook us long
before we reached Codman's at Freeport, and we did not
arrive at Brunswick until nearly nine in the evening,
heartily sick of the darkness, mud, and misery. I have
but little leisure at present, for the Exhibition comes on
next Wednesday, and I wish to have my performance per-
fectly committed, so as to have no opportunity for embar-
rassment, as far as it depends upon myself. I have too
much confidence to feel any solicitude about the thing,
and if the contrary were true, I have too much resolution
to let it be known. I wish, though, that the appointment
was anything in the catalogue but what it is. It is diffi-
cult in the extreme to write a good dialogue. I am rather
sorry that the Exhibition falls so late in the year. The
Chapel will be very cold and uncomfortable, both for the
performers and the spectators; for after snow has fallen
the cold is too severe to be detained an hour or two in a
building without fire.
We commenced Locke on the Human Understanding
more than , a week since. I find it thus far neither re-
markably hard nor uninteresting. I began with the
determination to like it at any rate, and so get on very
easily. How long a time did you devote to a lesson of
* Letter to Maine Historical Society: Proceedings in celebration
of Mr. Longfellow's seventy-fifth birthday.
VOL. I. — 3
34 - COLLEGE YEARS. [1823.
six or seven pages 2 We had no recitation this after-
noon. Instead thereof a discussion was proposed, to wit:
“Whether the soul always thinks.” This was extempo-
raneous. Most of those that said anything upon the sub-
ject spoke in the affirmative, controverting Mr. Locke's
Opinion. . . . -
I wish I could be at Washington during the winter,
though I suppose it rather vain to wish when it is almost
impossible for our wishes to become realities. It would
be more pleasant to get a peep at Southern people and
draw a breath of Southern air, than to be always freezing
in the North ; but I have very resolutely concluded to
enjoy myself heartily wherever I am. I find it most
profitable to form such plans as are least liable to failure.
I think I am rather fortunate in not obtaining a school
for this coming vacation, and begin already to congratu-
late myself upon being so free from necessary and regu-
lar employment as to have time to devote to reading.
Really, my leisure at present is so very limited that I can
scarcely find time for my necessary exercise, of which I
take more than ordinary. And I find it absolutely and
indispensably requisite to my health, and consequently
to my comfort. My chief exercise consists in walking.
The small fall of snow we had here a few days since
makes this rather uncomfortable; and when the Snow
becomes deep and drifted I hardly know what I shall
do, without I take to cutting wood again, which is rather
irksome.
To his Father.
December 11, 1823.
The Exhibition took place last evening, and I must
confess I am glad it is past. I feel that a great weight is
removed from my shoulders, for I could not but feel some
solicitude, though I would never confess it. I shall now
1823.] COLLEGE YEARS. 35
have a great deal more leisure, which to me is one of the
sweetest things in the world. And it will really be a
rarity to me, for I have seen very little of it for some
weeks past. I think I shall now enjoy myself heartily.
Winter has commenced with us pretty violently, which
renders the walking very uncomfortable. This I should
lament very much, since it deprives me of that exercise,
had I not adopted another mode as a substitute, which is
this: I have marked out an image upon my closet-door
about my own size, and whenever I feel the want of ex-
ercise I strip off my coat and, considering this image as
in a posture of defence, make my motions as though in
actual combat. This is a very classick amusement, and
I have already become quite skilful as a pugilist. My
only doubt with regard to its utility is, whether it may
not be too violent. I find thus far considerable advantage
arising from it, and shall not discontinue it until I expe-
rience some inconvenience. I rather think that my ap-
pearance is very appalling, as I constantly, whilst under
action, wear the leathern gauntlet, or, more properly,
mitten.
I take the New York Statesman, edited by Mr. N. H.
Carter, who, the paper mentions, is now in Washington.
He has commenced an account of Congressional proceed-
ings in the form of an editorial correspondence, so that
I shall have a good opportunity of seeing all that is
going on at the metropolis during the session of Congress,
which from all accounts will be one of great interest.
However, I must confess I care but little about politicks
or anything of the kind, and therefore read and know
but very little about them, so that the columns of my
paper devoted to political speculations are to me almost
as uninteresting as so many columns of the tradesmen's
advertisements. . .
36 COLLEGE YEARS. [1823.
To his Mother.
- December 25, 1823.
. . . If you look for news to the Orient you stand a
better chance than anybody in the world to be disap-
pointed. We have nothing here but what is old. We see
the newspapers after they are worn out ; we read a novel
after it has become obsolete everywhere else. So far from
telling you anything new, to attempt such a thing would
be like serving up a dish of minced fish to a person on
Sunday morning when he had dined upon it in its original
state on Saturday. I beg you to observe the delicacy of
the comparison. . . . More from necessity than inclina-
tion I have become almost as spare in my diet as Daniel
was when he lived in Babylon on pulse. Notwithstand-
ing, if I were in England now (and I have been wishing
myself there all the day long so warmly that, if my
wishes could but turn to realities, I should have been
there) I should become a bacchanalian for a while. I do
not believe any person can read the fifth number of the
Sketch-Book without feeling, at least, if not expressing, a
wish similar to my own. Irving, the papers say, has
already written another novel. I hope we shall have
the pleasure of reading this new work of his, and also The
Pilot by the author of The Spy. This will afford fine
winter amusement for us in the long evenings.
It has been a great day with us here to-day. I do not
refer to the celebration of Christmas. But the Conso-
ciation of ministers met at this place to-day. They have
exercises of a religious and publick kind both forenoon
and afternoon, and I might add morning and evening. I
have been so much of a heretick as to be audacious enough
to shut my eyes against this clear and shining light and
remain all day at home. I cannot find anybody who was
present that remembers the text of the sermon. So much
for going to meeting out of mere curiosity
1824.] COLLEGE YEARS. 37
In the winter vacation of this year our collegian
made his first visit to Boston, where he had rela-
tives, and he sends the following account of it
To his Father, in Washington.
March 2, 1824.
I will describe to you as well and as briefly as I can
my visit to Boston. As we left Portland in the “accom-
modation-stage,” the first night was passed at Portsmouth.
We arrived towards evening, and after tea I called upon
my classmate Mason, and we walked about the streets a
little. But it was too dark to see much of the town, and
too wet to be at all comfortable. So I returned to the
inn, with the consoling expectation that the storm which
seemed threatening would be a storm of rain, and that the
morning would find no snow on the ground. Nor were
these fears without foundation. When we again set off
on our journey, in the morning, there was very little snow
left beneath the sleigh-runners. However, we dragged
along until we came to Newburyport, when we took
wheels, and arrived at the “Literary Emporium ”* late in
the evening. I slept, the first night, the 11th of Febru-
ary, at the Exchange Coffee House,” and could not help
thinking how much my situation resembled yours when
you were first there. If this were not another building,
I should have imagined I occupied the same chamber that
you did in former times, for it seemed to be the very
highest point of the dwelling, the very apogee, so to speak.
I had a delightful visit. We went to Charlestown; to
the Navy Yard and Breed's Hill; to the Athenaeum; to
* A name then frequently given to Boston.
* The stopping-place of the stage-coaches in Boston ; built in
1808 on Congress Square, seven stories high, crowned with a dome.
Burned in 1818, it was rebuilt and occupied as a hotel till 1853.
38 COLLEGE YEARS. [1824.
the State House, and took a beautiful view from the
dome; to Stewart's painting-room ; to Dogget's Reposi-
tory, and to all places of repute, excepting the Milldam.
The day we fixed upon for seeing this was so severely
cold that we relinquished the plan. I was also at Cam-
bridge. And I must not forget the splendid ball I at-
tended. This was a private ball given by Miss Marshall,
one of the most celebrated of the city belles." It was
indeed a most splendid entertainment, more so by far
than any I had ever beheld before. Here I saw and
danced with Miss Eustaphiève, the daughter of the Rus-
sian consul. She is an exceedingly graceful and elegant
dancer, and plays beautifully upon the piano-forte. I
furthermore was at the theatre when the Shakespeare
Jubilee was represented. This Jubilee in honor of the
Bard of Avon is nothing more than select scenes from
his most celebrated tragedies and comedies, together with
an elegant pageant representing the Tragick Muse in a car
drawn by fiends, and the Muse of Comedy drawn by
satyrs, – severally preceded by standards of the trage-
dies and of the comedies. Mr. [Charles] Sprague's prize
poem, written for the occasion, I did not hear. And so
much for the “Shakespeare Jubilee.”
I saw a great number of elegant buildings in Boston,
and was much pleased with the city itself as well as with
the inhabitants. I was there but eight days, and would
have staid as long again had it been in my power, But
this was out of the question altogether ; for, as it was,
I did not get back to college again until after the com-
mencement of the term. I have hardly got calmed and
settled down to my studies yet.
1 Miss Emily Marshall, a lady as celebrated for her attractions of
mind and heart as for her beauty of face and figure. See Figures of
the Past, by Josiah Quincy, p. 334.
1824.] COLLEGE YEARS. 39
The college vacations, however, were usually
spent at home. The pleasant society of Portland
offered its hospitalities in the summer to many
visitors from abroad; and in the winter enjoyed
the usual social gayeties within its own circle. To
these the young collegians were of course welcomed.
Portland then, as since, was noted for the beauty
of its young ladies, and to them the young and
susceptible poet did not fail to render a romantic
homage. “You were ever,” — one of his compan-
ions wrote to him, - “you were ever an admirer
of the sex; but they seemed to you something
enshrined and holy, - to be gazed at and talked
with, and nothing further.” This chivalrous feel-
ing towards women was all his life characteristic
of him ; and it might have been said of him, as it
was of Villemain, that “whenever he spoke to a
woman it was as if he were offering her a bouquet
of flowers.” It was this tone of feeling which
made him in later years to have less sympathy
with the movements for woman's enfranchise-
ment from homage and privilege to equal stand-
ing with men.
CHAPTER IV.
COLLEGE POEMS.
1824–25.
AMID all these occupations and relaxations Long-
fellow did not neglect what used to be called “the
Muse.” In his first year at Brunswick he con-
tinued to send verses to the Portland paper, none
of them worth reprinting. One specimen will
suffice : the first and last stanzas have a pretty
melody of their own.
TO IANTHE.
When upon the western cloud
Hang day’s fading roses,
When the linnet sings aloud
And the twilight closes, –
As I mark the moss-grown Spring
By the twisted holly,
Bensive thoughts of thee shall bring
Love's own melancholy.
Then when tranquil evening throws
Twilight shades above thee,
And when early morning glows, –
Think on those that love thee
1825.] COLLEGE POEMS. 41
Tor an interval of years
We ere long must Sever,
But the hearts that love endears
Shall be parted never.
His friend Browne quotes from a poem entitled
‘Youthful Years’ two lines, which, he says, “ring
in my ears and are never out of my mouth : ” –
Sorrow is for the sons of men
And weeping for earth's daughters.
But another correspondent writes: “With your
poetry I was much pleased; but that our cheerful
and laughter-loving friend should write in strains
of melancholy was an enigma to me.”
He also appears to have written some prose
articles for the American Monthly Magazine, edited
in Philadelphia by Dr. James McHenry, author of
The Spectre of the Forest, and O'Halloran, or
the Insurgent Chief. The editor administers this
bit — or bait — of flattery to the young author.
“If The Spectre should fall into your hands, I
should be glad to have your opinion of it; for the
taste and talent displayed in the “Poor Student’
and your article on ‘Youth and Age, have im-
pressed me with a high opinion of your literary
judgment. Your pieces shall always meet with a
favorable reception.” This praise was all the young
author got for his pieces; the promised honorarium
never being forwarded.
In April, 1824, appeared the first number of a
new semi-monthly periodical, The United States
Literary Gazette, published in Boston by Cum-
42 COLLEGE POEMS. [1825.
mings, Hilliard, and Co., and edited by Mr.
Theophilus Parsons, a young lawyer, afterwards
distinguished as a jurist. “Many gentlemen,”
Says the Prospectus, “have engaged to contribute
to our pages; . . . among them are minds as highly
gifted by nature, and as well nurtured and disci-
plined by habits of study and composition as those
employed in the support of any periodical work in
this land.” The first number contains a review
of The Pilot, in which the author is all along
called “Mr. Cowper,” and another, of Mr. Bryant's
first volume of poems, published three years before.
It has also a new poem by Bryant, — ‘Rizpah.'
Among the “new books” advertised are Hobomok,
by an American [Mrs. Child]; a reprint of the new
Waverley novel, St. Ronan's Well; and Bancroft's
Translation of Heeren’s Politics. In the fifteenth
number of the Gazette, with the date of Novem-
ber 15, appears a poem entitled “Thanksgiving,'
signed with the initials which became so familiar
to the readers of the magazine, — H. W. L. It is
dated Sunday evening, October, 1824. It begins, –
When first in ancient times, from Jubal's tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
and ends thus, –
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.
1825..] COLLEGE POEMS. 43
Two sonnets by Bryant are upon the same page.
Plain enough is the influence of Bryant upon the
young poet, who himself recognized it many years
after in a note which has been published : —
Let me say what a stanch friend and admirer of yours
I have been from the beginning, and acknowledge how
much I owe to you, not only of delight, but of culture.
When I look back upon my earlier years I cannot but
smile to see how much in them is really yours. It was an
involuntary imitation, which I most readily confess, and
say, as Dante says to Virgil, -
“Tu se’ lo mio maestro, e 'l mio autore.”
‘Thanksgiving' was followed in succeeding num-
bers of the Gazette by sixteen poems; the last but
one of which was printed in the issue of November
15, 1825, exactly a year after the first, — a fruitful
year indeed. Of these poems five were afterwards
selected by their author to be reprinted in his first
volume of poetry, the Voices of the Night." The
1 Of one of these poems a few words may be said. The young
student one day read in a number of the North American Review,
an article upon Count Casimir Pulaski, in which occurred this
sentence : “The standard of his legion was formed of a piece of
crimson silk embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in
Pennsylvania.” The words vividly touched his fancy. Misled by
the word nuns, which should have been sisters, he immediately con-
ceived the scene of the consecration as given in the poem, pictured
after what he had read of Roman Catholic ritual. Of the Moravians
he knew nothing. The scene was purely imaginary. In the world
of fact, the plain church of the Moravians at Bethlehem had, of course,
neither censer, nor cowled head, nor chant of nuns, nor dim myste-
rious aisle, nor consecration of the banner. It seems that Count
Pulaski, recruiting for his legion in Pennsylvania, came to Bethlehem,
and finding that the Sisters were accustomed to work at embroidery
44 COLLEGE POEMS. [1825.
rest he was very willing should be forgotten."
Besides these verses he contributed to the Gazette
three articles in prose, with the title of “The Lay
Monastery.” They were essays after the manner
of the Sketch-Book, or Salmagundi. Two or three
poems inserted in them appear to be original; and
one of these, “The Angler's Song,’ was reprinted
with his name in a collection of poems published
in 1826.”
THE ANGLER'S SONG.
From the river's plashy bank
Where the sedge grows green and rank
And the twisted woodbine springs,
Upward speeds the morning lark
To its silver cloud — and hark |
On his way the woodman sings.
Where the embracing ivy holds
Close the hoar elm in its folds
In the meadow’s fenny land,
And the winding river Sweeps
Thro' its shallows and still deeps,
Silent with my rod I stand.
as a means of livelihood, he ordered from them a small banner, such
as is borne upon a spear or lance. The faded banner, far too small
for either cloak or shroud, is still preserved in the rooms of the Mary-
land Historical Society in Baltimore. A description and picture of
it will be found in Lossing’s Field Book of the Revolution, vol. ii.,
p. 392. (See also North American Review for April, 1825)
1 In 1878 they were looked up and reprinted in England, in a vol-
ume, without his knowledge. Mr. Longfellow thought this “a ques-
tionable proceeding.” -
2 Miscellaneous Poems selected from the U. S. Literary Gazette,
Boston, 1826.
1825.] coLLEGE POEMs. 45
But when sultry suns are high
Underneath the Oak I lie,
As it shades the water’s edge;
And I mark my line away
In the wheeling eddy play,
Tangling with the river Sedge.
When the eye of evening looks
On green woods and winding brooks,
And the wind sighs o'er the lea, –
Woods and streams, I leave you then,
While the shadows in the glen
Lengthen by the greenwood tree.
Neither the true skylark nor the true ivy is
found in the New England landscape, but there are
a bird and a vine popularly called by those names.
In the essay which contains these verses as a
memory of summer, the writer says: “No poet
paints critically from nature; but the ideal world
of poetry is not only peopled with its own chil-
dren, but is shadowed and beautified with its own
woods and waters. The most striking features
of different landscapes are taken and the outline
filled up by imagination.” There is, however, one
little touch of realism : “I stand amid the tall
and widowed trees. The forest and valley and
upland are silent about me, save when an icicle
drops from the withered branch and slides away
on the crusted snow.” Every New England boy
knows that sound. *
The young collegian's contributions to the Ga-
Zette naturally brought him into correspondence
46 COLLEGE POEMs. [1824.
with the editor, for they were not sent anony-
mously. On the first of November, 1824, Mr.
Parsons writes : —
SIR, - Messrs. Cummings, Hilliard, & Co. have handed
me some verses sent by you to them for the Editor of the
U. S. Literary Gazette. In reply to the question attached
to them, I can only say that almost all the poetry we
print is sent us gratis, and that we have no general rule
or measure of repayment. But the beauty of your poetry
makes me wish to obtain your regular aid. . . . Would
you be kind enough to let me know what mode or amount
of compensation you desire. For the prose we publish
we pay one dollar a column.
Soon after he writes again, –
TAUNTON, Nov. 17.
T)EAR SIR, - Your letter containing some additional
poetry was received by me some days ago. I should be
gratified by an arrangement which would induce you to
become a regular correspondent. Perhaps the best course
will be for you to supply me for a few numbers with both
prose and poetry. For all that is used you shall receive
a compensation which you shall think adequate. . . . Will
you permit me to add that I am equally well satisfied that
your literary talents are of no ordinary character, and *
that they have not received their highest culture. I think
you will not be offended by my sincerity in saying that
while all the pieces which you have sent me would be
creditable to any journal, they are susceptible of improve-
ment, from alterations calculated, not to supply deficien-
cies, but to remove imperfections. The book of which
you offer me a review is rather beyond my reach ; but the
North American Review does not seek for novelty so
much as a Gazette must; and if you will send me the
1824.] COLLEGE POEMS. 47
article I will transmit it to the editor of that work, with
whom I am personally intimate.
December 23, 1824.
. . . I fear it will be difficult for you to supply much
to the N. A. Review, as that journal does not admit mis-
cellany, and all the new books fit for its notice are eagerly
caught up here. Respecting the poetry sent me for the
Gazette, it has convinced me most decidedly of the vigor
and originality of your mind. At your age it is remark-
able; and what is far more important, it is most encour-
aging that you can do so well. Some of my alterations
please me now no better than they please you. I think
I was unduly influenced by the belief that you suffered
your imagination to run riot. Assure yourself that you
need nothing which care and labor will not supply; but
these are indispensable to all. An exuberance of blos-
soms is a good promise for fruit, and as many of your
flowers as you can spare I shall be glad to exhibit.
Your little piece in four-line stanzas [ Autumnal Night-
fall ') was thought Bryant's ; if you are aware of the
estimation in which he is held here, you will think this a
high compliment.
His correspondent Browne also writes him that
he sees his name in the Galaxy, favorably men-
tioned in connection with Bryant's and Percival's.
A letter from his mother speaks of some verses
which he had sent to the Portland paper on hear-
ing that the time-honored and time-worn meeting-
house of the old First Parish was to be pulled down
and replaced by one of a more modern style.
48 COLLEGE POEMS. [1824.
From his Mother.
- December 26, 1824.
I should really be pleased to have a letter from you
once in a term. The novelty would be quite delightful.
Do you not love to write prose 3 Seriously, not a day
passes that I do not think of my absent sons, nor do
I ever forget them in my daily petitions to that Being
who can alone protect us. And do you not suppose it
would give me great satisfaction to hear frequently that
they are well and happy Z Mr. Nichols was here the
other day. He said he was much pleased with your lines
on the ‘Old Parish Church; though he thought you
had not done much to promote the erection of the new
one. I told him that you wrote, I supposed, from the feel-
ings of the moment, without considering the expediency.
“Well,” he said, “that is the best way, particularly when
one is writing poetry.” Yesterday, Christmas, was a very
delightful day with us, – the ground perfectly free from
snow. I attended the public services at the church,"
which I have not done before for many years. They were
very interesting. Indeed, I think the day should be cele-
brated by all who call themselves Christians.
1 That is, the Episcopal church, to which alone the word was
then applied, and where alone Christmas was then observed. The
Congregational houses of worship were called meeting-houses.
CHAPTER V.
LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE.
1824–1825.
THE question which is put to all undergradu-
ates, both by their friends and by themselves, –
Gwhat are you going to do when you leave col-
lege 7” was beginning to press upon our collegian,
and to make its appearance in his letters.
To his Father.
r March 13, 1824.
I forgot to tell you in my last that we were read-
ing Horace. I admire it very much indeed, and in
fact I have not met with so pleasant a study since the
commencement of my college life. Moreover, it is ex-
tremely easy to read, which not a little contributes to the
acquisition of a thorough knowledge of every line and
every ode."
One hour each day during this spring-term, for four
days in every week, is employed in attending Professor
Cleaveland's chemical lectures. Most of the lectures which
we have thus far attended have been very interesting.
1 The copy of Horace used by Longfellow in college is now in the
Library at Bowdoin, the gift of Professor Egbert Smyth of Andover.
VOL. I. — 4
50 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1824.
There were one or two upon the subject of chemical
affinity which were not so. And yet I believe it is con-
sidered of the greatest importance for those who would
devote themselves to the study of medical science.
WTI feel very glad that I am not to be a physician, –
that there are quite enough in the world without me.
And now, as somehow or other this subject has been
introduced, I am curious to know what you do intend
to make of me, — whether I am to study a profession or
not; and if so, what profession. I hope your ideas upon
this subject will agree with mine, for I have a particular
and strong prejudice for One course of life, to which you,
I fear, will not agree. It will not be worth while for me
to mention what this is, until I become more acquainted
with your own wishes.
I wish you would be kind enough to seal, and direct
the inclosed letter to “The Editor of The Christian, care
of Mr. John Mortimer, the publisher, Philadelphia.”
The letter is an acknowledgment, from the Philalethian
Society at college, of the reception of the first seven
numbers of that paper, presented by the editor. I dare
say you have already seen this paper, devoted to “Religion,
Morals, and Literature.”
To his Father, in Washington.
April 11, 1824.
I have no news to tell you, none at all ! In fact, I
believe, with Solomon, that “there is no new thing under
the sun.” I had a letter from home yesterday, and they
were all well there, but that was no news.
But I suppose you are curious about college affairs.
And with regard to these there is nothing new. Yet I will
say something concerning the lectures, – Professor Cleave-
land's lectures. The last was upon the galvanick heat
1824.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 51
produced by Professor Hare's deflagrator. I think the
subject of galvanism very interesting, though the experi-
ments with the dead dogs, in producing respiration and
endeavoring to restore life (unsuccessfully), were more
curious than pleasing. They have been trying the same
upon Johnson, lately hung at New York, and with as little
effect. º
Although we in Brunswick cannot boast the mildness
of your Southern winters, yet we should prove ourselves
very fastidious, not to be pleased with the delightful
spring mornings we have already had. Winter has aban-
doned us very much in a hurry. For my own part, I
heartily wish him good-by. I am glad to tread upon dry
land again, and am now able to take more exercise than
I could at the commencement of the term. Of course I
feel better than I did then. I wish I had a horse here.
I should in that case ride daily, when the weather permit-
ted. This has been a very sickly term in college. How-
ever, within the last week, the government, seeing that
something must be done to induce the students to exer-
cise, recommended a game of ball now and then ; which
communicated such an impulse to our limbs and joints,
that there is nothing now heard of, in our leisure hours,
but ball, ball, ball. I cannot prophesy with any de-
gree of accuracy concerning the continuance of this
rage for play, but the effect is good, since there has
been a thorough-going reformation from inactivity and
torpitude.
Pardon my being so cheap and commonplace in my
letter to-night, and also the dilution and dilation of a
meagre subject which I have been practising upon you.
But do write me soon, lest I become apprehensive that
you have forgotten me, – and so forth.
We are all very anxious to see you, but I suppose you
cannot tell when Congress will rise.
52 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE, [1824.
To his Father.
April 30, 1824.
Your letter of the 21st was particularly acceptable to
me, as it was the only one I have received from you for a
great many weeks, and I shall keep the cypress from the
tomb of Washington, as a sacred relick. But in thinking
to make a lawyer of me, I fear you thought more par-
tially than justly. I do not, for my own part, imagine
that such a coat would suit me. I hardly think Nature
designed me for the bar, or the pulpit, or the dissecting-
room. I am altogether in favor of the farmer's life. Do
keep the farmer's boots for me!!
To George W. Wells.
November —, 1824.
r . . . Somehow, and yet I hardly know why, I am un-
willing to study any profession. I cannot make a lawyer
of any eminence, because I have not a talent for argument;
I am not good enough for a minister, and as to Physic,
I utterly and absolutely detest it. ..] e
I have heard nothing of your fellow-student, P
since he was here in August. He was resolute, though
feeble enough in health, and though poor, yet he was very
generous. I presume he has frequently mentioned to you
our little Unitarian Society at Bowdoin. I wish some-
thing could be done for us; we are as Small as a grain of
mustard-seed . There are but six members, now, in col-
lege, and our library is limited to a hundred or two vol-
umes. I wish you would exert your influence in our behalf.
And I want you to purchase twenty-five or thirty copies of
a little work called Objections to Unitarian Christianity
2
* Doubtless an allusion to something in his father's letter, which
has not been preserved.
1824.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 53
Considered. I want to distribute one or two of them in
this section of the globe. To these you may add such
other works of the Unitarian Tract Society as you think
will be useful, together with Mr. Adam's State of Christi-
anity in India, – the whole amount not exceeding two or
three dollars, which I will send you as soon as I receive
49e books.
To his Father.
December 5, 1824.
I take this early opportunity to write to you, because I
wish to know fully your inclination with regard to the
profession I am to pursue when I leave college.
For my part, I have already hinted to you what would
best please me. I want to spend one year at Cambridge
for the purpose of reading history, and of becoming famil-
iar with the best authors in polite literature ; whilst at
the same time I can be acquiring a knowledge of the
Italian language, without an acquaintance with which
I shall be shut out from one of the most beautiful de-
partments of letters. The French I mean to understand
pretty thoroughly before I leave college. After leaving
Cambridge, I would attach myself to some literary periodi-
cal publication, by which I could maintain myself and
still enjoy the advantages of reading. Now, I do not
think that there is anything visionary or chimerical in
my plan thus far. The fact is — and I will not disguise
it in the least, for I think I ought not — the fact is, I most
eagerly aspire after future eminence in literature; my
whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every earthly
thought centres in it. There may be something visionary
in this, but I flatter myself that I have prudence enough
to keep my enthusiasm from defeating its own object by
too great haste. Surely, there never was a better opportu-
nity offered for the exertion of literary talent in our own
54 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE, [1824.
country than is now offered. To be sure, most of our
literary men thus far have not been professedly so, until
they have studied and entered the practice of Theology,
Law, or Medicine. But this is evidently lost time. I do
believe that we ought to pay more attention to the opinion
of philosophers, that “nothing but Nature can qualify a
man for knowledge.”
Whether Nature has given me any capacity for knowl-
edge or not, she has at any rate given me a very strong
predilection for literary pursuits, and I am almost confi-
dent in believing, that, if I can ever rise in the world, it
must be by the exercise of my talent in the wide field of
literature. With such a belief, I must say that I am un-
willing to engage in the study of the law.
Here, then, seems to be the starting point: and I think
it best for me to float out into the world upon that tide
and in that channel which will the soonest bring me to
my destined port, and not to struggle against both wind
and tide, and by attempting what is impossible lose every-
thing.
To George W. Wells.
December 18, 1824.
. . . The study of divinity I always regard with the
greatest reverence; and I should not wish to enter so
beautiful a vineyard, – however great the harvest and few
the laborers, – unless I thought that by my care the holy
vine would flourish more, and its branches yield more
fruit. Men, indeed, have thrown a veil of mystery over
this beautiful subject, and have made it difficult for the
way-faring man to walk in the light and liberty of religion;
and I am confident that human systems have done much
to deaden the true spirit of devotion and to render religion
merely speculative. Would it not be better for mankind
if we should consider it as a cheerful and Social com-
1824.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 55
panion, given us to go through life with us from childhood
to the grave, and to make us happier here as well as here-
after; and not as a stern and chiding task-master, to whom
we must cling at last through mere despair, because we
have nothing else on earth to which we can cling?
I conceive that if religion is ever to benefit us, it must
be incorporated with our feelings, and become in every
degree identified with our happiness. And hence I love
that view of Christianity which sets it in the light of a
cheerful, kind-hearted friend, and which gives its thoughts
a noble and a liberal turn. The doctrines of men have
long been taught as the doctrines of an infinitely higher
authority; and many have been led to think that faith
without works is an active and Saving principle. Though
these are my feelings upon this subject, and I think yours
will be in unison with them, yet I am not willing to pur-
sue the profession of Divinity. I shall earnestly endeavor
to reside one year in Cambridge, before I conclude upon
the course of my future life. Never fear the vicinity of
Boston. I have the faculty of abstraction to a wonderful
degree. . . .
Have you ever seen any numbers of the Westminster
Review 2 If you can get a number by any means, either
for love or money, pray send it to me, as I have a great
longing to see the work. -
To his Father, in Washington.
December 31, 1824.
VI am very desirous to hear your opinion of my project
of residing a year at Cambridge.] Even if it should be
found necessary for me to study a profession, I should
think a twelve-months’ residence at Harvard before com-
mencing the study would be exceedingly useful. Of
divinity, medicine, and law, I should choose the last.
Whatever I do study ought to be engaged in with all my
56 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1824.
soul, - for I will be eminent in something. The question
then is, whether I could engage in the law with all that
eagerness which in these times is necessary to success.
I fear that I could not. Ought I not then to choose
another path, in which I can go on with better hopes
Let me reside one year at Cambridge; let me study belles-
lettres; and after that time it will not require a spirit of
prophecy to predict with some degree of certainty what
kind of a figure I could make in the literary world. If I
fail here, there is still time enough left for the study of a
profession; and while residing at Cambridge I shall have
acquired the knowledge of some foreign languages which
will be, through life, of the greatest utility.
Pray write me soon upon this subject, for I am exceed-
ingly desirous of knowing your opinion of the matter.
Here is his father's reply: —
TThe subject of your first letter is one of deep interest
and demands great consideration. A literary life, to one
who has the means of Support, must be very pleasant.
But there is not wealth enough in this country to afford
encouragement and patronage to merely literary men.
And as you have not had the fortune (I will not say
whether good or ill) to be born rich, you must adopt a
profession which will afford you subsistence as well as
reputation. I am happy to observe that my ambition
has never been to accumulate wealth for my children,
but to cultivate their minds in the best possible manner,
and to imbue them with correct moral, political, and re-
ligious principles, -believing that a person thus educated
will with proper diligence be certain of attaining all the
wealth which is necessary to happiness. With regard to
your spending a year at Cambridge, I have always
thought it might be beneficial{}and if my health should
not be impaired and my finańées should allow, I should
1825.] IAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 57
be very happy to gratify you. . . . In the Advertiser
of the 18th, I observe some poetry from the U. S.
Literary Gazette, which, from the signature, I presume to
be from your pen. It is a very pretty production, and I
read it with pleasure. But you will observe that the
second line of the sixth verse has too many feet. “Be-
neath the dark and motionless beech.” I think it would
be improved by substituting lonely for motionless. I sug-
gest this for your consideration. I have the pleasure of
hearing frequently from home. They complain that they
have not heard a word from you since you left. This is
unpardonable.
In another letter his father expresses the pleas-
ure which he has in reading his “poetical produc-
tions,” but warns him against too great haste in
printing. “I think you publish your productions
too soon after they are written, . . . without al-
lowing time for reflection and examination. If
you re-examine them you will find some defects
which would have been corrected if you had
adopted the course I recommend. I hope you
will not be wounded by these observations. They
proceed from the kindest feelings.”
To his Father, in Washington.
PORTLAND, Jan. 24, 1825.
. . . From the general tenor of your last letter it seems
to be your fixed desire that I should choose the profession
of the law for the business of my life. I am very much
rejoiced that you accede so readily to my proposition of
studying general literature for one year at Cambridge.
My grand object in doing this will be to gain as perfect a
58 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1825.
knowledge of the French and Italian languages as can be
gained without travelling in France and Italy, - though,
to tell the truth, I intend to visit both before I die. . . .
I am afraid you begin to think me rather chimerical in
many of my ideas, and that I am ambitious of becoming
a “raža avis in terris.” But you must acknowledge the
usefulness of aiming high, – at something which it is
impossible to overshoot — perhaps to reach. The fact is,
I have a most voracious appetite for knowledge. To its
acquisition I will sacrifice everything. . . . Nothing de-
lights me more than reading and writing. And nothing
could induce me to relinquish the pleasures of literature,
little as I have yet tasted them. Of the three professions
I should prefer the law. I am far from being a fluent
speaker, but practice must serve as a talisman where tal-
ent is wanting. I can be a lawyer. This will support my
real existence, literature an ideal one.
I purchased last evening a beautiful pocket edition of
Sir William Jones's Letters, and have just finished read-
ing them. Eight languages he was critically versed in ;
eight more he read with a dictionary; and there were
twelve more not wholly unknown to him. I have some-
where seen or heard the observation that as many lan-
guages as a person acquires, so many times is he a man.
To his Father, in Washington.
PoRTLAND, February 7, 1825.
I received, some days since, your letter of January 28,
and should have answered ere this the interesting propo-
sitions which it contains, had not the arrival of my class-
mate Weld, from Brunswick, caused a short delay.
Your good advice I shall hereafter follow, and have
therefore sent no poetry for the next number of the
Gazette, though I have a piece written for that purpose.
Your opinion upon the subject of my Writing coincides
1825.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE, 59
in a great measure with that of Mr. Parsons, the editor
of the Gazette, – who says that I must use more care, or
rather, that it will be for my own advantage to use more
care than my communications generally exhibit. All this
is very candid in him, and, so far from displeasing me, is
very acceptable advice. For although it may seem para-
doxical that any reference to one's defects can be pleasant
to the individual, yet the difficulty vanishes when this
reference is followed by an expression of the belief that
his own exertion can remedy the defect. You need not
be apprehensive that my feelings will be wounded by any-
thing that you deem it just to say in the way of criticism;
on the contrary, it will please as well as improve me, to
hear what you think particularly needs improving.
The date of my last was January 24, and it contained
some remarks upon the plan of residing a year at Cam-
bridge. I received a letter from George Wells, in which
he observes that the government of Harvard College are
very willing to receive graduates from other colleges to
reside there, with the privilege of attending all lectures
and the use of the Library. “The only charge is $1.00
per quarter for the Library. Room rent is from $30.00 to
$50.00 per year, and board from $2.00 to $3.00 per week.”
The expenses for one year will not be very great, —
$184.00 I suppose to be about a fair calculation.
Our State Legislature have made no donation to Bow-
doin College this session. The petition was for $3,000
annually for three years, that it might be in their power
to build a new chapel and establish a professorship of
modern languages, but so far from granting it, the Legis-
lature refuse to grant us anything whatever. They think
Bowdoin rich enough already; and one member of the
house observed, to use his own expression, that “they
manage things there so slick that the college saves an-
nually three thousand dollars” . But it appears from
60 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1825.
facts that Bowdoin College has but $80.00 after the bal-
ance of receipts and expenditures; at least, the remainder
is very small.
In February Mr. Parsons writes that he is about
to give up the editorship of the Gazette to Mr.
J. G. Carter. He encloses the following letter from
Mr. Jared Sparks, then editor of the North Ameri-
can Review, in reference to an article before spoken
of : —
DEAR SIR, - I return the article you were so good as
to send me. In many respects it has a good deal of merit,
but on the whole I do not think it suited to the Review.
Many of the thoughts and reflections are good, but they
want maturity and betray a young writer. The style,
too, is a little ambitious, although not without occasional
elegance. With more practice the author cannot fail to
become a good writer; and perhaps my judgment in regard
to this article would not agree with that of others whose
Opinion is to be respected; but, after all, you know, we
editors have no other criterion than our own judgment.
A letter from the new editor of the Gazette,
Mr. Carter, begs, with due compliments, a continu-
ance of contributions for the new volume, hopes
that at no distant day the Gazette may be able to
adopt the Edinburgh Review price of a guinea a
page; and promises to be “as agreeable as possi-
ble; ” tells him that arrangements have been made
by which Mr. Percival will become a stated and
constant contributor, – “if he does not disappoint
us, as poets sometimes do,” — and adds, “We
shall then bring the “two American poets,’ as some
1825.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 61
of the newspapers call them [Bryant and Percival],
side by side. I think you had better let us have
three American poets. It is high time some efforts
were made to convince our brethren on the other
side of the Atlantic that ‘the Muses' do not ‘sicken
and droop without song as soon as they cross the
water.’”
To his Mother.
February 26, 1825.
I make shift to keep along in my studies and to attend
two lectures a day, of an hour each, the one on Anatomy
by Dr. Wells, and the other on Chemistry, by Professor
Cleaveland.
I sent by Mr. Kelly for paper and quills, and so forth;
but as I have not received them yet, I am apprehensive
that he forgot to deliver his message. I sent also for
Rousseau, but this I do not want. What I now wish for
is a quire of letter-paper, a bunch of quills, and half a
quire of common writing-paper, together with the large
French grammar that has Henry Wadsworth's name in it,
and — to be still more minute — is covered with blue
paper and gnawed a little by mice. I left it in the office;
and this is as full and correct a description as I can give
of the book, since the author's name — a very long, hard
name — has escaped my memory.
Mr. Weld is very well, and if he were here would, I
presume, send his respects to you and the rest of the
family. I dined with him yesterday, on venison, which
is a great rarity here, this being the first that has been
brought to market in this village, for a great many years.
March 2.
If you choose to read some of my prose writing, look
into the U. S. Literary Gazette for March 1, No. 22, under
62 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1825.
the title of “The Lay Monastery,” and you will find the
first number of a series of essays, which I am writing
occasionally, for your amusement and my own profit.
There is no wood to be had from the College wood-
yard, and very little from my wood-closet, so that I will
thank you to send me without delay three dollars, to buy a
cord of that necessary article.
To his Mother.
April, 1825.
Your frequent rebukes in reference to my negligence in
Writing have not been to me vain chidings: I have felt
them, although you may have had reason to think other-
wise. With all my usual delinquency, however, I should
have answered your letter of the 13th before this, had I
not received, on Monday, Chatterton's Works, for which
I had some time since sent to Boston."
It is an elegant work, in three large octavo volumes;
and since Monday noon I have read the greater part of
two of them, besides attending two lectures a day, of
an hour each, and three recitations of the same length,
* There is a certain interest attached to this copy of Chatterton’s
Works. It was the first handsome book owned by the young student
—a very fine one, indeed, for a Bowdoin student of those days—
and it was earned with his own pen. The book is still in Mr. Long-
fellow's library. It is the Longman & Rees edition of 1803, edited
by Robert Southey and Amos Cottle, and is bound in full calf. It
appears that the price agreed upon for his contributions to the Gazette
was one dollar a column for prose, and two dollars a column for verse.
Several of the poems, however, filled only a half a column, and were
so estimated. For his contributions to the first volume of the Gazette
there were due seventeen dollars. From this the subscription price
of the magazine—three dollars—was to be deducted. In answer to
his request for a copy of Chatterton, the publishers wrote that they
had the one above-mentioned, the only one for sale in Boston, for
which they should ask him fourteen dollars ; thus exactly Squaring
his account. -
1825.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 63
together with my study-hours for preparation. Of course, I
have had no time for writing letters; and this is my ex-
cuse for not writing you Sooner.
With Chatterton I am, of course, very much pleased.
You will find a short account of his life and the faults
and follies of his genius, in Rees's Cyclopædia. I wish I
could here spare room to copy something from his poems:
as I cannot without relinquishing another plan I have in
view, I shall wait another opportunity.
If you will turn to Knox's Essays, No. 144, you will
find there a dolorous prose ditty upon Chatterton, which
I must confess to be rather affectedly pathetic and Senti-
mental.
In order to give a little more interest to my letters I
shall occasionally take the liberty of transcribing a tale or
essay or something of the kind, which you may read or
not as you fancy it. The first, of which I can send you
but a part at this time, was suggested by Chatterton's
Life. . -
To his Mother.
May 15, 1825.
You will find the continuation of my last letter in the
“Pedestrian,” Portland Advertiser. William Browne writes
the “ Pedestrian,” and he has requested me to write a No.,
and I sent him what you saw the beginning of Our
Examination is on Tuesday, but whether in the forenoon
or afternoon I cannot say. If in the forenoon, I shall be
with you at tea. My great haste to get home is that I
may go to Fryeburg on Wednesday; Preble is going up
with me.
The occasion of this visit to Fryeburg must have
been the Commemoration of the Battle of Lovell’s
Pond. For this he had written an Ode, to be sung
64 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. [1825.
to the tune of “Bruce's Address.” It is reprinted
in the volume of the Maine Historical Society's
celebration of his seventy-fifth birthday. It is
certainly better than his juvenile verses on the
Same theme, but not much better. His verse did
not readily flow to order, and he constantly de-
clined in after life the many invitations to write
for public occasions.
The collegian’s Senior year, and with it his col-
lege life, was coming to its close. By the end of
June the assignment of “parts '' for the Commence-
ment was made to the graduating class. The col-
lege years had been well spent and brought their
due reward of recognition. Longfellow was fourth
in a class of thirty-eight. Mr. Packard says: “Of
his standing as a scholar in college One may judge
from the assignment to him 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 defi-
nite rank, it was thought due to him that he
should receive an appointment which placed his
scholarship beyond question.” The poem was
assigned to his friend Frederic Mellen.
To his Sister Anne.
June 29, 1825.
The appointments for Commencement were given out
this afternoon. Little has the first Oration, in English;
Bradbury the second ; your brother Henry the third.
Weld has a disquisition ; Mellen, a poem, and so forth
and so on.
1825.] LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE. 65
The moon is just rising over our beautiful pines, and
the twilight grows too dark for me to write without a
lamp. Good night, I shall have a word or two more for
you in the morning.
Thursday morning. My appointment, they tell me, is
considered the fourth in the class; I having only Little,
Deane, and Bradbury above me." How I came to get So
high is rather a mystery to me, inasmuch as I have never
been a remarkably hard student, touching college studies;
except during my Sophomore year, when I used to think
that I was studying pretty hard. In five weeks we shall
be set free from college for one month. Then comes Com-
mencement; and then — and then — I cannot say what
will be after that.
To his Father.
July 22, 1825.
. . . With regard to our studies, we are looking over —
perhaps I ought to say over-looking — Chemistry and Stew-
art's Philosophy, on the review. We have about sixty
octavo pages at a lesson, upon which I sometimes study
ten minutes, sometimes five. Touching Commencement
exercises, I have written my oration long ago.” The sub-
ject is “The Life and Writings of Chatterton,” seven
minutes long. I hardly know how this will answer, but
am rather of the opinion that it must do. But this is not
all. The class have requested me to deliver a poem on the
day after Commencement, just before our final separation,
which invitation I have accepted, and consequently shall
be rather busy the remaining part of the term.
And in fact I have been very busy thus far. To be
sure, I read very little, but I am continually writing. I
wish I could read and write at the same time. However,
* Deane died before the Commencement.
* The Commencement was held in September.
VOL. I. -º- 5
66 LAST YEARS IN COLLEGE, [1825.
...”
as the case is, I am more industrious than if I read, since
I am never tired of writing, though I sometimes am of
reading.
Upon the subject of his oration, his father had
doubts. “To the man of genius,” he wrote, “the
poet, the scholar, the life and writings of Chat-
terton would be an interesting subject ; but so
few of your audience have ever heard of his
name that I fear you will not be able to make
the subject interesting to them. If you doubt, it
is not too late to make another choice.”
Following this suggestion, a new theme was
chosen, – “Our Native Writers.” How interest-
ing that could be made in seven minutes the
reader may imagine."
1 Or, if he wishes, may read the oration, recovered and printed in
the Boston Every Other Saturday of April 12, 1884.
CHAPTER WI.
AFTER GRADUATION.
1825–1826.
WE have seen that young Longfellow's plan
was to spend a year after his graduation in studies
at Cambridge, with the hope of his way opening
into a literary career, or if not that, with an out-
look into the profession of the Law. But a dif-
ferent destiny was before him. Madam Bowdoin
had given to the College named for her husband
the sum of one thousand dollars toward the found-
ing of a Professorship of the Modern Languages.
At the Commencement in 1825 the Board of Trus-
tees voted to establish the Professorship, though
disappointed in State aid for the purpose. And to
fill the chair, their eyes turned upon the young
graduate whose literary tastes and attainments had
attracted their attention and gained him reputa-
tion. The story runs that one of the Board, Mr.
Benjamin Orr, had been much struck by Long-
fellow's elegant translation of an Ode of Horace,
at the Senior Examination, and warmly presented
his name for the new chair. His father returned
68 AFTER GRADUATION. [1825.
to Portland from the meeting of the Board, with
the news that an informal proposal had been made
that he should visit Europe for the purpose of fit-
ting himself for the position, with the understand-
ing that on his return he should be appointed to
the Professorship.
The proposal was of course received by the
young graduate with delight, as settling the ques-
tion of a profession and opening the way to the
career of his preference. The season, however,
not being favorable for a sea-voyage, which must
be made in a sailing packet, — Ocean steamers be-
ing then unknown, – the autumn and winter were
spent in Portland. For occupation, he read Black-
stone in his father's office. But his law studies,
not being undertaken professionally, did not inter-
fere with his literary activity. Adjoining the office,
which at that time was in the lower north-eastern
room of the dwelling-house, was a closet about six
feet square, known as “the little room.” In this
room the young graduate scribbled many a sheet.
There was a set of young men of about his own
age, some of them his classmates, some of them fel-
low-students in the law-office, with whom he was
very intimate. With them he undertook to write
for the Portland Advertiser a series of papers after
the fashion of Irving's Salmagundi. They were
printed, with a portentous woodcut as a heading.
The authorship was kept a profound secret ; and
the youths doubtless got a vast amount of amuse-
ment out of their project, and their readers some
1826.] AFTER GTRADUATION. 69
mystification if not much profit. In verse, he
wrote at this time “Autumn,’ ‘Musings,’ and
‘Song, for the Literary Gazette, and also ‘The
Burial of the Minnisink,’ and the ‘Song of the
Birds’ which he sent to the Atlantic Souvenir, a
picture-annual published in Philadelphia.
To Miss Caroline Doane.
PORTLAND, March 13, 1826.
I am at present looking “from the loop-holes of re-
treat” upon a busy and bustling world, with whose joys
and sorrows I have very little to do. I am just as rusty
as ever, by reason of going very little into Society, and
joining very little in the gayeties of this town. Now and
then I Sally forth of an evening to chat with Miss K., and
now and then listen to the music of that excellent piece
of divinity, S. C. Touching literary matters, I sometimes
peep into a book. My reading leads me to think that it
is with thoughts, as with money: those who have most
appear before the world in a plain dress; those who have
little dash out in tawdry splendor. With regard to poe-
try, I have not stopped writing, but I have stopped pub-
lishing, for certain reasons which I cannot go into at
length in a letter. I take the liberty to send you a little
song founded upon a beautiful appearance in the scenery
of morning, which you who are a traveller will under-
stand, for you must have observed it.
SONG.
Where from the eye of day
The dark and silent river
Pursues thro' tangled woods a way
O'er which the tall trees quiver,
70 AFTER GRADUATION. [1826.
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;
But soon the clouds that veil
The eye of Love when glowing
Betray the long unwhispered tale
Of thoughts in darkness flowing.”
The winter over, — and in Maine that is not till
the end of March, – he began to prepare for his
voyage. At the close of April he left home for
New York, where he was to take the packet-ship
for France. A European journey was in those
days, especially for a young man of nineteen, a
somewhat rare event; and he was to be absent for
three years. From Boston he wrote—
To his Mother.
BosTON, May 2, 1826.
I have been too constantly engaged since my arrival
here to write you, until this last hour of my stay, when
I am expecting every moment to hear the stage, which is
to carry me to Northampton, drive up to the door. We
were to start at two o'clock A.M., but the stage is not here
I This was the last of his poems published in the Gazette. (April
1, 1826.) t
1826.] AFTER GRADUATION. 71
yet, so that I shall have at least time enough to tell you
how kindly my friends have received me here, and how
I have succeeded with letters, etc.
I heard Dr. Channing on Sunday. He preached a most
eloquent sermon, and preached it most eloquently. I have
passed part of an evening with him since. I dined to-day
with Mr. Ticknor." He is exceedingly kind and affable.
He has supplied me with letters to Washington Irving,
Professor Eichhorn in Germany, and Robert Southey. He
strongly recommends a year's residence in Germany, and
is very decidedly in favor of commencing literary studies
there.
One of Dr. Wells's letters introduced me to Dr. Lowell,”
who has given me a letter to the celebrated Mrs. Grant,
of Laggan, author of a poem which you will find some-
where about the house, called ‘The Highlanders.' I have
several other letters.
On Monday I was at Cambridge and saw President
Kirkland.” He is a jolly little man, and does not pre-
tend to put on all that dignity and high decorum which
sometimes hang – and Oddly enough, too — upon the
shoulders of men in office.
Stage has come; good-by
In reply, his mother wrote her parting
words : —
It was very fortunate for me that your stage was
late. . . . I will not say how much we miss your elastic
* George Ticknor, author of the History of Spanish Literature,
then holding the Professorship at Harvard College to which Mr.
Longfellow in after years succeeded.
* Rev. Charles Lowell, of the West Church, Boston, – father of
the poet.
* Rev. John Thornton Kirkland. See the sketch of him in Low-
ell's Fireside Travels, p. 63.
72 AFTER GRADUATION. [1826.
step, your cheerful voice, your melodious flute. I will say,
farewell, my dear son, may God be with and prosper you.
May you be successful in your pursuit of knowledge; may
you hold fast your integrity, and retain that purity of
heart which is so endearing to your friends. I feel as
if you were going into a thousand perils.
His father sends his counsels : —
It is impossible, with all my solicitude, to give you all
the instructions which your youth and inexperience re-
quire ; but permit me to conjure you to remember the
great objects of your journey and keep them constantly
in view. . . . Be careful not to take any part in opposi-
tion to the religion or politics of the countries in which
you reside. They are local concerns, in which a stranger
has no right to interfere. I want to say a thousand
things, but the time for the mail to close has arrived. In
all your ways remember the God by whose power you
were created, by whose goodness you are sustained and
protected.
His way to New York lay through Northamp-
ton to Albany, and down the Hudson." At Albany
he wrote — -
To his Father.
ALBANY, May 5, 1826.
With the village of Northampton I was highly de-
lighted. The mountain and river scenery near it are
1 It has been suggested that, as the Red Horse Tavern at Sud-
bury was the stopping-place of all stage-coaches going west from
Boston, the author of the Tales of the Wayside Inn must at this time
have made acquaintance with that ancient hostelry. He however
made no note of it.
1826.] AFTER GRADUATION. 73
certainly very beautiful, and from Round Hill, the seat
of Messrs. Coggswell and Bancroft's School, you have an
extensive view of the village and its environs.
These gentlemen received me with the greatest kind-
ness, and have furnished me with a number of excellent
letters. They coincide with Professor Ticknor of Cam-
bridge in recommending a year's residence at Göttingen.
Mr. Ticknor and Mr. Bancroft have both studied at Göt-
tingen, and of course their opinion on the subject is of
much weight.
At Northampton he spent an evening with his
classmate and intimate friend George Pierce, who
was pursuing his law studies there. The two
friends sat together late into the night, opening
their hearts to each other in the mutual confi-
dences of those hopes, dreams, ambitions, those
“noble longings for the strife,” which stir the
thoughts of high-minded and generous young
IſleIO . -
While waiting in New York for the sailing of
the packet-ship, Longfellow made a short visit in
Philadelphia. It was during this visit that, stroll-
ing through the streets of the city one morning,
he came upon the pleasant enclosure of the Penn-
sylvania Hospital. The picture of this remained
in his mind when, many years after, he made it
the scene of the last meeting of Evangeline and
Gabriel."
* It was this building, on Spruce Street between Eighth and
Ninth, and not, as has been supposed, the Friends' almshouses.
74 AFTER GRADUATION. [1826.
To his Sister Anne.
NEW YORK, May 14, 1826.
The little note which you sent by W. G. reached me
in Safety as I was walking up Broadway; though I am
Sorry to say that the “noble youth" was not with me. I
saw him to-day for the first time. He was dressed very
genteelly in black, with a nice pair of Wellington boots,
and a whole row of little buttons at the bottom of his
pantaloons. We were of course very glad to see each
other after so long an absence, and he made particular
inquiries after the health of all his Portland friends. I
am going to take tea with him at his sister's house this
evening. This, you see, is putting Uriah in “the fore-
front of the battle.”
I sail for Havre de Grace to-morrow at ten o'clock in
the forenoon, on board the ship Cadmus, Captain Allen.
She left the wharf yesterday noon, and the passengers are
to be taken down the bay to her by the steamboat Nauti-
lus. There are twenty cabin passengers, two of whom are
ladies; and many of the gentlemen are French, which will
be of great advantage to me. The ship is a very fine one,
and the captain has the reputation of being an excellent
man. This will make everything as pleasant as can be ;
and at this season of the year I cannot but anticipate a
good passage. -
I was not so much pleased with Philadelphia as I
expected to be. It is not half so pleasant to me as New
York. Whilst there, I visited Pratt's Gardens and the
Water Works at Fair Mount. You can get a better
description of the latter at home than I can possibly
give you.
I saw Mr. and Mrs. Derby at Philadelphia, and went
with them to a little “sociable" in the evening, where we
1826.] AFTER, GRADUATION. 75
had dancing. It is worthy of remark that in that city
they dance on all occasions.
Carey and Lea, the Philadelphia booksellers, will pub-
lish the second volume of the Atlantic Souvenir in Octo-
ber next. I forgot to tell you that the pieces I wrote for
it were entitled ‘The Spirit of Poetry,’ ‘The Burial of the
Minnisink,’ ‘Song of the Birds,’ and ‘The Dead Bird, a
Ballad.'
Love to all! Farewell !
CHAPTER WII.
IN FRANCE.
1826–1827.
THE voyage was a month long. On the fifteenth
of June he writes from Havre —
To his Mother.
HAVRE DE GRACE, June 15, 1826.
I have at length reached the shores of the Old World.
We arrived yesterday at four o'clock P.M., and I employ
the first leisure moment to send you tidings of my safety.
I suppose you will wonder that I did not employ my time
at sea in writing to my friends, and I almost wonder at it
too; but there was so much confusion on board the ship,
such a continual talking of French and broken English, –
for Frenchmen, you know, talk incessantly, and we had, at
least, a dozen of them with us, – that I found it utterly
impossible to write a coherent epistle, and threw by my
first and only attempt, in despair.
You will see by the date of this that our passage was
thirty days. On many accounts it was a remarkably fine
one. We saw none of the terrors of the Sea. We had
not one heavy gale, and the Sea was so Smooth that the
whole voyage might have been safely made in a yawl-boat.
I forget what I used to think of a sea voyage when on
1826.] IN FRANCE. 77
land, but I have found it a dreary blank. I had little else
to do than to busy myself with my own thoughts and
meditations, so few circumstances were there at Sea to
call me away from them. I cannot describe my sensa-
tions on taking my last look of my native land, and my
first of a foreign one. -
You perceive in what great haste I write, and mus
excuse me from giving any particular description of Havre,
which I leave in a few minutes in the steamboat for
Rouen.
But I know you will be well satisfied to hear of my
safe arrival, and that I am in the best possible health.
To his brother Stephen.
HAVRE DE GRACE, June 15, 1826.
Having lost my passage to Rouen by delay in obtaining
a passport, I am obliged to remain another night in this
city, and to complete the catastrophe, instead of journey-
ing up the fair waters of the Seine in the steamboat as I
intended, I shall be jolted and jostled along a rough high-
way in a French diligence.
I have been much pleased with this city, because every-
thing about it is perfectly novel to me. What first at-
tracted my attention, as we came slowly up the quay, was
the singular construction of the houses, all of which are
old and dilapidated. No description can give you any
conception of their quaint and peculiar style, though you
can conceive how Odd a spectacle it must be to see, in a
street of only one rod's width, with tall dingy houses six
stories high, a grand display from every upper window, of
blankets and bed-clothes, old shirts and old sheets, flapping
in the wind, not to mention
“Loose pantaloon and petticoat
Pendent on dyer's pole afloat.”
78 IN FRANCE. [1826.
As I walked from the ship to the hotel, I was irresisti-
bly seized with divers fits of laughter. At almost every
step I encountered gens d'armes, with fierce whiskers and
curling beards, women with wooden shoes full of feet and
straw, [men in paper hats and tight pantaloons, and the
dames of Normandy, with tall pyramidal caps of muslin,
reaching at least two feet above the head, and adorned
with long ear-lappets.
A French table d'hôte is well worth mentioning, from its
novelty to a stranger. It is very amusing to see a French-
man tuck his napkin under his chin and fall to ; and yes-
terday the very counterpart of Paddy Carey was at table.
He was a great burly-faced dragoon, — a Bold Dragoon, —
about seven feet high, – with nothing French about him
but his language and his uniform ; and as this “proper
man" talked and laughed with the landlady, I could not
help thinking of Widow Leary and -
“Pat so sly
Ogle throws” —
which put me in mind of Ned Preble. If Ned only knew
the one hundredth part of the laughable things which I
have seen during one day's residence in Havre, he would
lament long and loudly that he had not come to France
with me.
The fortifications of this city are very grand. I cannot
describe them to you, because I know not military terms
enough to make you comprehend me; but they seem to
me to be impregnable. Beyond the gates of these, on the
eastern side, are the Boulevards of the city, and beyond
these, a thickly wooded hill with country houses. In this
direction, too, the road leads you through an avenue of
trees to the Havre light-houses.
Stopping on his way at Rouen to see his first
cathedral, of which we have a full account in Outre
1826.] IN FRANCE. 79
Mer, our traveller reached Paris on the 19th of
June.
To his Father.
PARIs, June 20, 1826.
I arrived in this great Babylon of modern times on Sun-
day evening, the 19th of June, and am in haste to let you
know exactly how I am situated, before I See anything of
the wonders of this city. As soon as I got out of the
diligence, and my trunks had been searched to the Satis-
faction of the officer, whose conscience allowed him to be
satisfied with thrusting his hands down at the sides of the
trunks, I jumped into a cabriolet and crossed the river to
the Faubourg St. Germain. I went immediately to Madame
Potet's, No. 49 Rue Monsieur le Prince, where I intend
to reside whilst I remain in Paris. You cannot conceive
how very fortunate I am in getting into this family.
Madame Potet is one of the best women in the world,
and though I have been here but two days, I feel myself
perfectly at home. -
I know of but one objection to my residing here whilst
at Paris, and that is that there are seven of us boarders, –
“sons,” as Madame calls us, – all Americans; but we sel-
dom assemble except at meals, at which all English is
forbidden, and he who speaks a word of it is fined one Sou.
Moreover, three of the boarders have resided some time in
Paris and speak French well.
If I had my chambers at a hotel, I should have a
thousand solitary hours, because I cannot speak French
well enough to go into French society. But now, if I
wish to be alone, I can shut myself up in my chamber;
if I wish for Society, I can go at any hour into Madame's
parlor, and talk my kind of French with her and her
daughters, – besides the pleasure of hearing most deli-
ClOllS IIlllS1C.
80 IN FRANCE, [1826.
We pay thirty-six dollars a month for our board
and rooms. Our house is finely situated for a student, —
within five minutes' walk of the public lectures on all
Subjects, and but a few steps from the Luxembourg Gar-
dens and the Pantheon. I have reserved all description
of persons, places, and things in general until I have seen
more of the city, and have had time to collect my thoughts
a little, which are altogether in confusion from the total
novelty of everything about me. I feel as happy as possi-
ble, am in the best health in the world, and am delighted
with Paris, where a person if he pleases can keep out of
vice as well as elsewhere; though, to be sure, temptations
are multiplied a thousand-fold if he is willing to enter
into them.
To his Sisters.
PARIs, July 10, 1826.
Whenever I think how far I am from you, and how
long it will be before I see you again, I am half-disposed
to be a little melancholy, - just as I felt when I left you.
In truth, a man has not much time to spare in melan-
choly thought when surrounded, as I am, by the continual
gayety of Paris; but at the same time these are thoughts
which one would not wholly banish, when they spring
from the recollections of home and absent friends, and
“auld lang syne.”
I suppose you will think on reading thus far, that I am
going to be exceedingly tender and sentimental throughout
the whole of a long letter; but I cannot be so prodigal of
my sighs and tears, and the daffy-down-dilly style which
makes some writers so touching and pathetic. For in-
stance, a certain letter in verse which I treasure up as
a holy relick of departed days, and in which the writer
expresses himself with great ease and elegance in that
fine passage, –
1826.] IN FRANCE. 81
'Tis I that regret to bid you farewell,
'T is me that does wish that you would here dwell.
A truce to this badinage.
You can hardly imagine how delighted I was to catch
a glimpse of green fields again after a long sea-voyage.
And then there was such an air of novelty about every-
thing in France, and it was so delightful to be set free
from the prison of a ship's cabin, and to wander at one's
“own sweet will,” like one of Wordsworth's rivers, that
I felt quite beside myself at my first landing.
A postilion, with deerskin breeches and ponderous jack-
boots, was a subject of sublime speculation to me; and
when once crowded into the capacious bowels of a French
diligence, I thought French dust much more palatable
than that we have at home. There are some remarkable
features in French scenery, and the lives of the peasantry,
which attracted my attention at once. For instance, there
were large fields of ripening grain reaching to the road-
side, without the least defence of hedge or railing. Every
cow I saw was tied with a cord just long enough to per-
mit it to crop the grass in the ditch at the wayside with-
out touching the grain, which grew and ripened before its
eyes day after day, - a very tantalizing situation 1 Now
and then, too, I saw a flock of sheep watched by a shep-
herd and his dog, which of course appeared very Arcadian
and very classical. -
Paris is a gloomy city, built all of yellow stone,
streaked and defaced with smoke and dust; streets nar-
row and full of black mud, which comes up through the
pavements, on account of the soil on which the city is
built; no sidewalks; cabriolets, fiacres, and carriages of
all kinds driving close to the houses and Spattering or
running down whole ranks of foot-passengers; and noise
and stench enough to drive a man mad. But the city
buys a redemption of the curse that all these inconven-
VOL. I. — 6
82 IN FRANCE. [1826.
iences would bring upon it, by the elegance of its public
gardens, its boulevards, etc., etc., etc.
Here I must close, only mentioning that in the Louvre
there is a painting of Venus which is an exact portrait
of Miss K I was absolutely thunderstruck when it
caught my eye, and am rejoiced to find an old friend in
Paris.
To his Parents.
PARIs, July 11, 1826.
As usual, I am in the greatest haste imaginable, –
not from any fault of mine, but rather that I have a vast
multitude of letters to write. And it never gives one
much self-possession, when bewildered in a labyrinth of
ideas, to be told that his letters for the packet must be
ready at a particular moment which is drawing on apace.
But I will not lengthen out this prologue.
First of all, I wish you to have as exact a knowledge as
possible of my affairs and finances. My board and room-
rent amount to about six francs a day. There are charges,
of course, for clothing, and little incidental expenses. If I
live as I do at present, at the end of my year in France,
I expect that my expenses will amount to little if any
less than six hundred dollars. Perhaps you may think
this too large an allowance. I am certainly very desirous
of living as economically as I can, and at the same time
respectably and genteelly. I do not expect to remain all
summer in the heat of the city, but think of leaving the
attractions of this most attractive of cities, and residing
till winter in the environs, at a place called Montmorenci,
the former residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and the
spot where he wrote the Nouvelle Heloïse. . . . I now occa-
sionally attend the public lectures, though not understand-
ing one sentence out of fifty; still, during my three weeks'
residence in Paris, I can observe a great difference in my
1826.] IN FRANCE. 83
ability to comprehend what is said. I have not forgotten
what I came to Paris for.
Dr. Wells among other letters gave me one to Mr.
Storrow, which has introduced me to a most delightful
American family. They have resided in Paris about eight
years; and I find it very pleasant to have a visiting place
where I can almost believe myself at home again.
. . . Now come the salutations and the greetings, –
such as love and remembrance to all the family, in Com-
mon and severalty. “Greet Phoebe with a holy kiss,” —
that is to say, all the little Ones.
To his brother Stephen.
PARIs, July 23, 1826.
After five weeks in Paris, I have settled down into
something half way between a Frenchman and a New
Englander, — within all Jonathan, but outwardly a little
of a Parlez-vous. So I jostle along among the crowds of
the Luxembourg, which is the favorite promenade of St.
Germain.
But after all, the Boulevards are the most attractive
places of resort of a warm summer evening. The Italian
Boulevards are the oldest and most frequented. The trees
there have gained a noble height, and overhang the side-
walk with their mingled branches, forming a delightful
shade at noon-day and a high gloomy arch at night.
There the people of quality crowd in their coaches to taste
ice-creams, and persons of every character and description
throng the foot-path, a living mass wedged together, and
moving together, like the crowd in the aisle of a church
on the Fourth of July (Who delivered the oration in
Portland this Summer ?); musicians singing and playing
the harp; jugglers; fiddlers; blind beggars, and lame beg-
gars, and beggars without any qualifying term except im-
portunity; men with monkeys; venders of toothpicks ;
84 IN FRANCE. [1826.
Turks in Oriental costume; Frenchmen with curling
whiskers and round straw hats, long-skirted coats, tight
trowsers of nankeen, etc., etc., etc.
On the Boulevards are several minor theatres, where
parodies and farces are performed. A little while ago I
attended the Variétés, and saw Apollo in red hat and
striped pantaloons, and Vulcan dressed in a flame-colored
coat. A monstrous heavy man played the part of Zephyr,
with a little Sugar-loaf hat, tight white pantaloons, and
the belly of an alderman They are very fond of taking
off John Bull at these theatres, and I have seen his lord-
ship represented in deerskin breeches, singing “Auld Lang
Syne” with most ludicrous trills and quavers. . . . [In
my French] I am coming on famously, I assure you.
As the summer heats grew too intense in Paris,
our traveller began to think of some refuge in the
environs. A young Frenchman, whose acquaint-
ance he had made on the voyage, recommended
Auteuil, beyond the Bois de Boulogne, and accom-
panied him to a boarding-house there in search of
rooms. He was pleased with the situation, though
he remarked, as he left the house, that all the in-
mates looked very pale. He did not know that it
was a maison de Santé. However, he had no
reason to regret his going there. To Auteuil a
pleasant chapter is devoted in Outre Mer. Some
letters give the first impression.
To his Father.
The Village of AUTEUIL, August 12, 1826.
One would think that nothing could be easier to a
stranger in France than to find every facility for making
1826.] IN FRANCE. 85
himself acquainted with the language. Hence you can
hardly imagine the perplexities I have been surrounded
with, in searching out a situation which should offer any
advantages at all peculiar and remarkable to a foreigner
wishing to acquire the French purely and correctly.
I mentioned in one of my former letters, that I thought
of residing a month or two at Montmorenci; I went
there to see if I could obtain an agreeable situation, but
not being successful, I returned to Paris, after visiting the
Hermitage of Rousseau, and sitting upon the rock upon
which he composed the Nouvelle Heloïse. What was to
be done then 2 At Madame Potet's there were other
Americans; we spoke our own language too much ; I
could not, and did not, attempt to persuade myself to the
contrary.
I found, at length, a young French gentleman who was
my fellow-passenger from America, who recommended me
to the house in which I am at present residing. It is
what, in the language of the country, is called a “maison
de Santé’’ or “house of health,” where, retired from the
noise and dust of the city, valetudinarians can breathe
the country air and become healed of their infirmities.
Attached to the house is an extensive garden, full of
fruit-trees, and bowers, and alcoves, where the boarders
ramble and talk from morning till night. This makes
the situation an excellent one for me; I can at any time
hear French conversation, — for the French are always
talking. Besides, the conversation is the purest of French,
inasmuch as persons from the highest circles in Paris are
residing here, — amongst others, an old gentleman who
was of the household of Louis the Sixteenth, and a
Madame de Sailly, daughter of a celebrated advocate
named Berryer, who was the defender of Marshal Ney in
his impeachment for treason. There is also a young stu-
dent of law here, who is my almost constant companion,
86 IN FRANCE. [1826.
and who corrects all my mistakes in speaking or writing
the French. As he is not much older than I am, I do not
feel so much embarrassment in speaking to him as I do
in speaking to others. These are some of the advantages
which I enjoy here, and you can easily imagine others
which a country residence offers over that of a city, dur-
ing the vacation of the literary institutions at Paris and
the cessation of their lectures.
To his Mother.
AUTEUIL, August 17, 1826.
I have been residing for the last fortnight at this pleas-
ant village of Auteuil. It is situated about three miles
northward from Paris, and watered on one side by the
Seine, whilst the Wood of Boulogne shades the other, and
affords a delightful promenade, morning and evening. As
to the village itself, there is nothing remarkable about it,
at least nothing further than that it was formerly the
residence of Benjamin Franklin, and of the tragic poet
Racine. This may have sanctified the place, by making
it classic ground; but after all, a French village, in its best
estate, can be little to the taste of Brother Jonathan.
There is so little about it—except, indeed, its quiet and
tranquillity — to remind one that he is out of town; no
corn-fields garnished with yellow pumpkins; no green
trees and orchards by the roadside; no slab-fences; no
well-poles; no painted cottages with huge barns and
out-houses, ornamented in front with monstrous piles of
wood for winter firing; nothing, in fine, to bring to the
mind of an American a remembrance of the beautiful
villages of his native land. In every respect, as far as
regards its construction, it resembles the city. You have
1 Dr. Franklin’s residence, when Commissioner to France in 1777,
was really at Passy, a village in the neighborhood of Auteuil.
1826.] IN FRANCE. 87
the same paved streets, the same dark, narrow alleys
without sidewalks, the same dingy stone houses, each
peeping into its neighbor's windows, the same eternal
stone walls, shutting in from the eye of the Stranger all
the beauty of the place, and opposing an inhospitable
barrier to the lover of natural Scenery. Indeed, a French
village looks like a deserted town. But you know how
fresh and cheerful and breezy a New England village is;
how marked its features, – so different from the town, so
peculiar, so delightful! And I think you would hardly
wish to find yourself more than once in a village of Nor-
mandy or Seine. I hope that in the vine country and
the south of France, I shall find Some more distinguishing
and characteristic features of the village.
You can easily imagine with what impatience I am
waiting for the arrival of your letters, which I know must
before this time be somewhere near the coast of France.
Kiss the little ones for me, and for yourself receive my
kindest love.
A letter from his father advised him to go to
Spain for the winter, and then to Italy, instead of
Germany.
To his Father.
PARIs, October 2, 1826.
I was overjoyed a day or two ago in receiving your
letter of August 11th, the first which I have received from
home since my arrival in France. . . .
You either over-rate my abilities and my advantages, if
you think that I am already master of the French, or I
have Sadly misimproved them both, which I do not wish
to allow. But I will confess that I had no idea of the
difficulties attending my situation, no idea that it was
88 IN FRANCE. [1826.
indeed so difficult to learn a language. If I had known
before leaving home how hard a task I was undertaking,
I should have shrunk. My friends at home, and espe-
cially my young friends, imagine that I am enjoying a most
delightful existence, without care and without labor, sur-
rounded by all the allurements of a splendid metropolis,
and living in continual delight. But nothing can be far-
ther from the truth. There are allurements enough
around me, it is true, but I do not feel myself at liberty
to indulge in them ; and there is splendor enough, but it
is a splendor in which I have no share. No | The truth
is, that the heavy responsibility which I have taken upon
myself, the disappointments I have met with, – in not find-
ing my advantages So great as I had fancied them, and in
finding my progress comparatively slow, - together with
the continual Solicitude about the final result of my studies,
and the fear that you will be displeased with my expenses,
are hanging with a terrible weight upon me. I have never
imagined the business I have taken in hand a very light
affair, but I thought there would be fewer perplexities
attending it.
Unfortunately, there is no one at Paris to whom I can
apply for advice, most of the persons to whom I have
letters being still at their country residences. In this par-
ticular, my arrival at the commencement of the summer
was rather disadvantageous. . . .
The lectures, which I expected would commence the
first of September, do not in reality commence before the
first of November. I have therefore resolved to leave
Paris a second time, and go to Tours. When the winter
has really set in, I shall wish to return to Paris again, in
order to get what good I can hope to derive from my
letters of introduction, and also to cultivate the excellent
French society into which I have had the good fortune
to be introduced.
1826.] IN FRANCE. 89
I met General Lafayette in the street not long ago; he
was alone, on foot, and nobody seemed to notice him
particularly | What a difference from what it was in
America | He gives a great dinner to all the Americans
in Paris on the anniversary of his return to France. I
have not yet been at Lagrange. It is said that there are
never less, than thirty or forty at his table daily. So
many visitors must be a great burden to him ; this re-
strains me from going at present. He sends his regards
to you."
To his brother Stephen.
PARIs, October 26, 1826.
I am going to describe to you, as well as I can in the
compass of a single letter, a foot-expedition which I made
a few weeks ago, and which I mentioned in the letter I
sent by yesterday's packet. It was a journey of a few
days along the romantic borders of the Loire and Cher, —
a few days stolen from the melancholy of a city life and
filled with all the joy and lightheartedness which a foot-
traveller feels, when, leaving his cares behind him, he
shoulders his knapsack and wanders away.
Orléans was the first city I had seen whose ancient
walls remained, and the sensations it excited were of a
1 Mr. Longfellow had sent his letter of introduction to General
Lafayette and received this response from him, dated at Lagrange,
June 29 : —
My DEAR SIR, - With much pleasure I have Heard of your
Arrival in paris and Hope we may Have at Lagrange our Share of
your European tour. I leave here Sunday Morning on a visit Half-
way to town, where I shall of Course attend the Anniversary dinner.
There, if you dont come Before, I expect the pleasure to see You, after
which time you are sure to find us at this place. Be pleased to
present my affectionate Regards to your father when you write to
portland and Believe me
Most Sincerely Yours,
LAFAYETTE.
90 IN FRANCE. [1826.
*
powerful and thrilling kind; for though what is now left
of the fortifications has been changed into a public prom-
enade looking upon a richly cultivated landscape and
shaded with fine old trees, still all the thoughts and asso-
ciations which pass through a stranger's mind on first
Seeing the mass of an ancient wall are of other days. . . .
From Orléans I started on foot for Tours on the fifth of
October. October is my favorite month of the twelve.
When I reflected that if I remained in Paris I should lose
the only opportunity I might ever enjoy of seeing the
centre of France in all the glory of the vintage and the
autumn, I “shut the book-lid" and took wing, with a
little knapsack on my back, and a blue cap, — not exactly
like Quentin Durward, but perhaps a little. More anon
of him. I had gone as far as Orléans in the diligence
because the route is through an uninteresting country.
I began the pedestrian part of my journey on one of
those dull, melancholy days which you will find uttering
a mournful voice in Sewall's Almanack: “Expect — much
— rain — about — this — time !” “Very miscellaneous
weather, good for sundry purposes,”—but not for a journey
on foot, thought I. But I had a merry heart, and it went
merrily all day. At Sundown I found myself about seven
leagues on my way and one beyond Beaugency. I found
the route one continued vineyard. On each side of the
road, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but
vines, save here and there a glimpse of the Loire, the tur-
rets of an old château, or spire of a village church. The
clouds had passed away with the morning, and I had
made a fine day's journey, cutting across the country,
traversing vineyards, and living in all the luxury of
thought which the occasion inspired. I recollect that at
sunset I had entered a path which wound through a wide
vineyard where the villagers were still at their labors, and
I was loitering along, talking with the peasantry and
1826.] IN FRANCE. 91
searching for an auberge to pass the night in. I was
presently overtaken by a band of villagers; I wished them
a good evening, and finding that the girls of the party
were going to a village at a short distance, I joined myself
to the band. I wanted to get into one of the Cottages, if
possible, in order to study character. I had a flute in my
knapsack, and I thought it would be very pretty to touch
up at a cottage door, Goldsmith-like, – though I would
not have done it for the world without an invitation.
Well, before long, I determined to get an invitation, if
possible. So I addressed the girl who was walking be-
side me, told her I had a flute in my sack, and asked her
if she would like to dance. Now laugh long and loud
What do you suppose her answer was 2 She said she
liked to dance, but she did not know what a flute was
What havoc that made among my romantic ideas My
quietus was made; I said no more about a flute, the whole
journey through ; and I thought nothing but starvation
would drive me to strike up at the entrance of a village,
as Goldsmith did.
The company I was with conducted me to the village
of Tivher, the most beautiful and romantic village I was
ever in. I found the village inn, and fell asleep at night
with the thought that perhaps a part of The Traveller was
written in that very village.
When I awoke next morning, a clear, bright autumn
sun was shining upon the romantic valley of Tivher; the
villagers were already at their work, the ducks were gab-
bling in the pool, the wine-press labored in the shade, a
grist-mill was going, — and so was I. . . . At night-fall
I arrived at the very celebrated old château of Chambord,
celebrated as being the most splendid of the old Gothic
châteaux in France, but at present in a very desolate state,
unoccupied, and falling to decay. If you can call to mind
any engraving of a French château, you will have a more
92 IN FRANCE. [1826.
perfect picture than I can give you in a letter. Preble used
to make excellent ones on the covers of old writing-books
at School, with battlements and peaked roofs. Within are
magnificent halls, splendid staircases, long corridors; but
the only piece of furniture is a massive Oak table of the
Maréchal de Saxe, to whom Louis XV. gave the château
after the battle of Fontenoy. That puts me in mind of a
paraphrase of Robinson Crusoe which I attempted once,
[when a boy] and of which two lines have always adhered
to my memory : —
His eldest boy
Was killed at Fontenoy.
The next day I reached Blois. . . . The next carried me
to Amboise. On the route I saw many of the houses of
the peasantry cut into the solid rock of the hillside, and
overhung, from the vineyards on top, with the thick foli-
age of the vines. I peeped into one of them; it was dark
and damp like a dungeon, and seemed at best good for
nothing but a wine cellar. But I have not time to finish
my history.
Why do you not write One letter for five months is
rather short allowance. Haud immemor mali Succurrère
disco; which means I write you two for one. God bless
you.
To his brother Stephen.
PARIs, November 19, 1826.
. . . The road from Blois to Tours upon the northern
bank of the Loire is exceedingly uninteresting to a foot-
traveller, — on one side of your path the river, on the
other an unbroken line of poplars. Crossing the river at
a little village called Moines, I found myself in a very
delicious country and trudged on merrily to the town of
Amboise. On the road I met an old fellow who said he
1826.] IN FRANCE. 93
was a sailor at the siege of Rochelle. I asked him if he
knew Lord Nelson; and afterwards he managed to turn
this to account by pretending that he thought me Lord
Nelson's son, and begging a few Sous “to drink the Com-
modore's health.” . . . From Amboise I crossed the coun-
try to the banks of the Cher. There I saw the beautiful
château of Chenongeau, built by Francois I. for Diane de
Poitiers. . . . Everything about this building is enchant-
ing, -its park, in which Rousseau resided, its noble for-
tifications, and the beauty of the river scenery on each
side. I lingered near it as long as my time would permit,
and turned back at every two steps to take another last
look, till a bend in the Cher hid the old edifice from my
sight, and I jogged on toward Tours. . . . From Tours I
went south as far as Savonières, a little village on the
banks of the Cher, celebrated for its “caves gouttières.”
There is a fine description of these in the guide-books, and
I thought I should afterwards repent if I neglected seeing
them. So down I went in spite of mud and mire, in
search of these wonderful caverns, and also of Plessis-les-
Tours, which lies somewhere on the same route. I per-
suaded myself, when I came to the ford of the river, that
it was the same at which Quentin Durward crossed." But
* Scott's description of his hero might well stand as a portrait of
our young American traveller. “It was upon a delicious summer
morning, before the sun had yet assumed its scorching power, and
while the dews yet cooled and perfumed the air, that a youth com-
ing from the north-eastward approached the ford of a small river
tributary to the Cher near the royal castle of Plessis-les-Tours. . . .
The age of the young traveller might be about nineteen. His face and
person, which were very prepossessing, did not, however, belong to
the country of which he was now a sojourner. . . . He was tall and
active, and the lightness of step with which he advanced showed that
his pedestrian mode of travelling was pleasure rather than pain to
him. His complexion was fair; . . . his features without being quite
regular were frank, open, and pleasing. A half smile which seemed
94 IN FRANCE. [1826.
Plessis-les-Tours I could not find; nobody knew any-
thing about it. The caves I expected to find large cham-
bers, with columns of white stalactites, all glowing, bright,
and beautiful. Instead of which, I had to slide down a
bank of clay, -rendered very proper for that purpose by
the rain over night, — and after Searching round with a far-
thing candle for the splendid apartments with alabaster pil-
lars, scrambling through holes and stumbling over heaps
of clay, I found nothing to reward my pains but a few mis-
erable fossil shells. N. B. I tore a hole in the back of
my coat, which added much to the young man's general
appearance, and induced him to start off forthwith on
his return to Paris, by a direct route through Vendome
and Chartres. . . .
I am now fixed, for the rest of my sojourn in Paris, in
very comfortable quarters, and feel much at my ease and
very happy. I feel, however, a little solicitude about the
future, and do not like the idea of going alone either into
Germany or Italy. . . . French comes on famously. I
have now got to enjoy the society around me; but it was
dull enough at first, as it must necessarily be to one who
cannot speak French and does not wish to speak English.
I have been here five months. . . .
Returned to Paris, he had taken up his winter
quarters in Rue Racine, No. 5, taking his meals
at restaurants and tables d'hôte. In December his
father writes, –
to arise from a happy exuberance of animal spirits, showed now and
then that his teeth were well-set and as pure as ivory; while his
bright, blue eye, with a corresponding gayety, had an appropriate
glance for every object which it encountered, expressing good-humor,
lightness of heart, and determined resolution.” – Quentin. Durward,
vol. i. chap. 1.
1826.] IN FRANCE. 95
On the 30th of November, Thanksgiving-day, when
we were wishing for you to join our family circle, we
had the pleasure of receiving your letter. . . . Your ulte-
rior object cannot be accomplished unless you obtain an
accurate knowledge of the French and Spanish languages.
Such are the relations now existing between this country
and South America that a knowledge of the Spanish is
quite as important as of the French. If you neglect either
of these your whole object will be defeated. If the state
of Spain is such that it is not safe to visit it, you will
undoubtedly find instructors in France. If you neglect
either of these languages you may be sure of not obtain-
ing the station which you have in view. And I should
never have consented to your visiting Europe had it not
been to secure that station.
. . . I consider the German language and literature much
more important than the Italian ; and if you can learn
only one, the former is to be preferred. . . . You will be
glad to hear that we have established an Atheneum and
Reading-Room in Portland which promise much advan-
tage to the town. We have purchased the old Portland
Library and have raised a permanent fund of more than
$12,000. This, with annual subscriptions, will in a few
years make a very respectable establishment, and will, I
hope, give a little excitement to the literary taste of the
town. . . . I hope and pray that you will have virtue and
prudence. I commend you to the care of your Heavenly
Father.
At the same time his mother wrote, –
I have just sent the younger part of the family to bed,
at half past seven, and having the prospect of a quiet
hour I will devote it to my absent son. Lucia only is
with me; she is reading the ‘Northern Traveller.' Alex.
is trying some chemical experiments in the kitchen.
96 IN FRANCE. [1826.
Papa and Stephen have gone to the office. E. and A.
Spend the evening with A. G. The evening abroad is
most delightful, - clear and cold, and a fine bright moon,
but no snow. Our Thanksgiving this year was on the
30th of November. We had no one to join our circle but
George Pierce. The evening before, we were talking of
you and regretting your absence; and behold in the
morning, John [the man-servant] came in [from the post-
office] with a smiling countenance. He “guessed here
Was a letter from Henry.” And so it was, and well filled.
Nothing could have been more acceptable, for we had not
heard from you since your letter dated August 16. . . .
I am sure you did not, you could not, anticipate the
disadvantages under which you have labored. Have you
never repented and wished yourself at home 2 I was very
Sorry that you could not have the company of some one
older and more experienced than yourself in the ways of
the world. But there is one comfort; if you get home safe
(which God in his mercy grant), your acquirements will
be of permanent benefit, while the vexations and troubles
you have endured will have passed from your mind as a
dream. Do you recollect two young gentlemen, sons of
H. G. Otis, who spent an evening with us rather more
than a year ago? The eldest was here again, a month or
two since, and we were speaking of you. He enquired
your age, with whom you went out, etc. “Really,
madam, you must have great confidence in him,” he said.
It is true, Henry, your parents have great confidence in
your uprightness, and in that purity of mind which will
instantly take alarm on coming in contact with anything
vicious or unworthy. We have confidence; but you must
be careful and watchful. But enough. I do not mistrust
you. And here come the girls to change the subject–
1 The law-office, which the elder brother had entered, had been
removed down in town.
1826.] IN FRANCE. 97
! »
“Oh, we have had a fine time !” . . . But I can Write no
more to-night.
The winter passed on, occupied with lectures and
studies, attending the Theatre and occasionally the
Opera, taking lessons in Italian of one Ferranti,
with whom his cousin Eben Storer was learning
the guitar, in the intervals of his medical studies.
He also went more into Society, having made
several French acquaintances.
To his Mother. º
PARIs, December 23, 1826.
When I look at the date of your letter, I say to myself,
“Two months ago this was in my mother's hand.” It
makes me sensible that time as well as distance separates
us. . . . In this way I moralize upon the past, and then
I look forward to the distant day of our meeting until my
heart swells into my throat and tears into my eyes. I
cannot help thinking that it is a pardonable weakness. . . .
I do not know how I came to fall into this “meditation
among the tombs’ kind of style. But I think it must be
owing to the weather, which is dull and melancholy. This
is the legitimate Parisian winter. It is not cold, - not
the clear cold of our New England winter, which braces a
man into good health, and while it pinches his nose puts
him into a buoyant humor, – but a gloomy, chill, damp air,
that gives one the rheumatism and makes him sad. No
Sooner do I set my foot upon the wet, cold pavement, than
I begin to think of a graveyard; and whole hosts of pale,
ghost-like beings, with overshoes shaped like coffins (by
reason that French people wear square-toed shoes) are
apt to put me into a doleful way. Indeed, I think I
should have passed altogether a melancholy life of it, even
VOL. I. — 7
98 IN FRANCE. [1826.
amid the gayeties of Paris, if my cousin E. S. had not been
here. He leaves in a week or two for London, and I shall
not stay long after his departure. All that keeps me now
is the Carnival, which commences in a few days, and the
strong desire I have of profiting by the kindness of some
new French acquaintances I have lately had the good
fortune to make. [Among them is] a gentleman by the
name of Guillet, who was an acquaintance of Lafayette in
the time of the Revolution, and afterwards Interpreting
Secretary of Foreign Affairs under Napoleon. He speaks
six or seven different languages; but though so learned
he is always in a frolick, and exhibits what I should call
a good specimen of the green old age of a Frenchman of
the ancien régime. He has been exceedingly kind to us
and exceedingly useful. He has introduced us to his
family and to the soirées of a celebrated traveller, where
We go once a week if we choose. We meet there Sir
Sidney Smith, Mr. Cooper the novelist, Mr. Carter, Mr.
Julian, editor of the French Encyclopedic Review, who
is a correspondent of the literary and scientific men in
Europe and America; and who offers us letters to any
quarter of the continent. Mr. Warden, also, former consul
of the United States, has treated us very politely, and being
a member of the Institut has introduced us to Some pri-
vate meetings where we had our curiosity gratified by a
peep at the wise heads of Cuvier, Laplace, Legendre, Gay-
Lussac, etc.
. . . You will hear from me soon in Italy. With how
much delight I shall leave the populous and noisy streets
of Paris for the sunny regions of the South and the eter-
nal summer of the Italian valleys | Then our intercourse
by letters will become more uncertain. I shall, instead of
letters, keep a journal for you, - a thing that I have not
done in France, on many accounts, and chiefly on account
of the little interest I attach to anything in Paris, and a
1827.] IN FRANCE. 99
thorough disgust for French manners and customs. . . .
It is but half after three o'clock, but so dark that I can
hardly see to finish my letter. This is the gloomy French
climate, – darkness visible at noon-day.
His fears in regard to the safety of travelling
in Spain had subsided. From two countrymen
of his who had just come from Spain — Mr. David
Berdan and Mr. Pierre Irving, the nephew and
biographer of Washington Irving — he heard such
enthusiastic accounts that he determined not to
give up his plan of visiting that country. To his
father he writes on the 19th of February, -
It is now exactly eight months since my arrival in
Paris. And setting all boasting aside, I must say that I
am well satisfied with the knowledge I have acquired of
the French language. My friends all tell me that I have
a good pronunciation, and although I do not pretend to
anything like perfection, yet I am confident that I have
done well. I cannot imagine who told you that six months
is enough for the French. I shall leave Paris for Spain
on Wednesday, day after to-morrow. My health continues
excellent, with the exception mentioned in my last.
To his Father.
BORDEAUx, February 26, 1827.
I will improve a few minutes of the last day of my
nineteenth year in describing to you how I have been
engaged since leaving Paris.
The route I pursued in coming to this city was that of
Orléans, Châteauroux, Limoges, Périgueux, etc. I wished
to penetrate into the very heart of the kingdom, and by
So doing I had the toil of five days and four nights through
I00 IN FRANCE. [1827.
a mountainous country, more resembling ours than any
part of France which I have visited. Particularly, the
highlands about Périgueux resemble much the fine moun-
tain scenery in the vicinity of Lebanon Springs. But the
towns I passed through are all unworthy of descrip-
tion. I had a most cold and uncomfortable ride of it,
and I assure you I felt my heart leap within me when
I heard the horse's hoofs clatter upon the stone bridge
of Bordeaux.
This is the most beautiful city I have seen in France.
The climate, I think, must be delicious; for to-day, when
you are shivering over the brands of a huge wood-fire,
around me the warmth of Spring is breathing already. . . .
The public walks of the city are numerous and beautiful;
and the commerce of all kinds carried on here gives the
place an air of life and activity delightful to a traveller.
Thus you see me on my way to Spain: and I cannot
say that I leave France with much regret. It may be
that my curiosity leaves no room for feelings of this kind,
by painting the land to which I am going as fairer than
that I am leaving; or it may be a Secret disappointment
lurking in my heart, at having found more perplexities to
escape and more difficulties to encounter than I had an-
ticipated; but true it is that I look forward to a happier
life in Spain than I have led in France. The impression,
however, which I carry away with me is, that the French
are a hospitable, kind-hearted people, and much more en-
thusiastic than we are. They have not that unbounded
levity and light-heartedness which is generally ascribed to
them; and when the writers of Salmagundi said that a
Frenchman passed one third of his time between heaven
and earth, they meant a Frenchman of the old régime,
not one of the present century. Indeed, the young people
here seem quite as sedate as we are; and I have been
frequently told by some of the “ancient land-marks” of
•
O
© & e º • *e
© o
to ©
1827.] IN FRANCE. 101
politeness that, in this particular feature of the national
cl.aracter, the Revolution has produced as great a change as
it did in politicks, and a much more durable one. Strange
as it may appear, after the awful and bloody experience of
that Revolution, and the most appalling warning it thun-
ders continually in the ears of rulers, the French ministry
is laboring hard to shackle the spirit of the nation, and
with the most bold shamefacedness endeavoring to re-
trench their liberty of thought by retrenching that of the
press. It is the dark and dangerous policy of the priest-
hood that is doing this. The Jesuits rule the mind of a
weak, good-hearted king [Charles X.]. Think, with what
strides a nation is going back to the dark ages, when a
printer is publickly prosecuted for publishing the moral
precepts of the Evangelists without the miracles | This
took place at Paris last Summer. The “law project,” as
it is called, concerning the liberty of the press, now in
full discussion in the two branches of the national gov-
ernment, the Chamber of Peers and that of Deputies,
excites everywhere a most lively interest ; and I have
seen many a Frenchman, in speaking of it, shake his head
profoundly, shrug his shoulders, and with a sigh, exclaim,
“Ah, mon Dieu ! another Revolution l’” But I suppose
I am giving you all this second-handed, as you have
probably seen the substance of it in the papers. I shall
leave this city day after to-morrow for Madrid.
1 The revolution which dethroned Charles X. and enthroned Louis
Philippe took place, it will be remembered, three years later.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN.
1827.
To his Father.
MADRID, March 20, 1827.
NOTWITHSTANDING the accounts of the troubled and
dangerous state of Spain which filled my ears at Paris,
and the tales of bloody murder and highway robbery
which my friends recited to me there, to turn me away
from the Spanish border, I have reached the very heart
of the empire, without falling among thieves or becoming
such a melancholy illustration of Spanish blood-guiltiness
as Some of my friends anticipated. All is at present tran-
quil, - as quiet and peaceful as France itself. True, there
are “rumors of wars,” and we hear almost daily that the
king will immediately march off his troops to Portugal;
then a royal guard marches up the Street, and then marches
down again, – and so the matter ends.
In this city I feel as quiet and secure as you could
wish. The traveller alone has cause for apprehension, for
in sober sadness the country is infested, nook and corner,
with hordes of banditti.
With Madrid I am very much delighted. I have not
seen a city in Europe which has pleased my fancy so
much, as a place of residence. I anticipate no incon-
venience whatever from the excessive heat of the summer
1887.) IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 103
months, because the Sunshine is easily avoided, and in the
shade the excess of heat is not much felt, they tell me,
on account of the great purity of the atmosphere. The
situation of the city, too, is very favorable to health, for
its site is an extensive plain, in the neighborhood of high
mountains, and standing itself eighteen hundred feet
above the level of the sea. But this vicinity of snowy
mountains, which tempers the warmth of Summer, has.
proved a dangerous one in winter.
I forgot to mention the day of my arrival; it was the
6th of this month. I soon found a situation in a family,
which would be vacant in a fortnight from that time.
To fill up the interval, I took the occasion to visit Segovia,
St. Ildefonso, and the Escorial. You will find descriptions
of this tour, and of my journey from Bordeaux to Madrid,
enclosed. As it will be impossible to send letters fre-
quently from such a distance, I shall endeavor to sup-
ply the deficiencies of my correspondence by a kind of
journal.
I left the pleasant city of Bordeaux just as the melan-
choly days of Lent were closing like a curtain over the
noise and gayety of the last scene of the carnival. The
streets and public walks were thronged with many groups
in masks; at every corner crowds were listening to the
discordant tones of the wandering ballad-singers; and
grotesque figures, mounted on stilts and dressed in the
garb of the shepherds of the Landes of Gascony, were
stalking up and down like merry and noisy cranes. But
these scenes of gayety I soon left behind me when I had
seated myself in a French diligence, and enveloped in a
cloud of dust the ponderous vehicle thundered away to
the sandy deserts of the Landes. I can give you no
better idea of that province of France called the Landes
104 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
of Gascony, than by telling you that it resembles pre-
cisely the pine plains which surround the village of
Brunswick, - which makes one wonder that the French
do not place a college there; it would “keep the students
out of temptation ”!
From Bordeaux to Bayonne, the road winds through
immense forests of pine, with here and there a miserable-
looking hut, and a patch of cultivated land blooming in
the desert. The distance between these two places is
sixty-six leagues: and as, like Sterne, “I hate the man
that can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say 'tis all
barren,” I must tell you that the way is occasionally diver-
sified by towns and straggling villages; and one evening
I was quite delighted to find the romantic little village of
Roquefort, built upon the sides of the green valley of the
river Douze, that has scooped out a hollow for it in the
midst of an immense Sandy plain.
Bayonne is a little city, worthy of no description but
such as you will find in guide-books and gazetteers. I
was forced to drag out one dull day there, and on the
morrow was on my way for the Spanish frontier, through
the Basques.
The Basque girls are very beautiful; they are literally
“nut-brown maidens.” They appear to be very indus-
trious, and several of them earn a livelihood by conduct-
ing travellers on horseback from Bayonne to Irun. This
is a very singular and very agreeable mode of travelling.
At the gate of Bayonne you find these girls stationed,
with their horses. The saddle is constructed with a large
frame-work, extending two feet on each side of the horse
and covered with a cushion, so that the traveller and the
guide sit balancing each other, with their feet hanging
down in front by the horse's neck. We saw a great many
persons travelling in this way, and I wished myself out
of the diligence a thousand times.
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 105
I said that the Basque girls were handsome. They
have most beautiful dark eyes, fine teeth, a Sun-burnt
complexion, and glossy, black hair parted over the fore-
head, gathered behind the ears, and falling down to the
knees in a large, beautiful braid. The first I saw were
those travelling in the way described ; one, in particular,
whose image haunts me still, - a most cheerful-looking
girl, in the dress of the peasantry, her hair braided, and a
large gypsy straw-hat thrown over her shoulders; and
then that comfortable way of jogging on together
As I am not expert in drawing horses' legs, you will
please to imagine, in the above sketch, that they are
hidden by a hill, or that the horse had none, or what
you will. With regard to the gentleman's, if they are too
long or too short, imagine his knees bent at such an angle
as will bring them right. With regard to the lady's, –I
decline interfering.
South from Bayonne, the scene suddenly changes from
the waste Sands to a broken and mountainous country.
On this road I caught glimpses of the sea, as it came tum-
bling in among the rocks. It was the first time I had seen
it for nearly a twelvemonth. I was glad to hear its old
familiar voice; and you can hardly imagine what feelings
it awakened within me. I thought I was quite near you

106 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
again. It seemed but a step — a little step — from one
shore to the other; and with my mind's eye I saw White
Head looming through the mists that gathered on the
horizon, — White Head, Bangs's Island, the Light-house,
and old Freeman, all as usual.
The little river Bidassoa is the boundary between
France and Spain, and you cross it to Irun, on the Span-
ish side. We passed it at night, and when the morning
broke we were high up amongst the mountains of St.
Salvador, the continuation of the chain of the Pyrénées.
In the little of Pyrenean scenery which I saw in thus
passing there was nothing remarkably bold or striking.
The mountain sides were neither rugged nor precipitous,
and the trace of the plough-share was occasionally seen
quite to their summits. Besides, there was no forest sce-
nery to cheer the eye, and as the season of vegetation had
not commenced, the huge outline of the mountains lay
black and barren and uninviting. What alone gave ro-
mance to the scene was the dashing of a little mountain-
brook that we followed for miles through the valley,
now breaking into a cascade, now foaming under a rural
bridge.
One of the first things which attract the attention of
the traveller on entering the northern provinces of Spain
is the poverty-stricken appearance of everything around
him. The country seems deserted. There are no herds
in the fields, no flocks by the wayside. The villages are
half depopulated, the cottages ruinous and falling away
piecemeal, whilst the people have nothing left them but
rags and religion. Of these, such as they are, they have
enough. Among the bleak and barren mountains, the
traveller will frequently find a little chapel, with a cluster
of not more than six cottages around it, where, as soon as
the bell sounds for noonday, all within hearing fall to
prayer; and whenever you stop on the road, the village
1827.] IN. THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 107
children come about the doors of the carriage with little
crucifixes, curiously ornamented and set off with many-
colored ribbons. As you pass through the towns, too,
you see an idle and ragged population, lounging about at
the corners, and, wrapped in tattered brown cloaks, Sun-
ning themselves on the south sides of the houses and walls.
Everybody in Spain wears a cloak; rich or poor, high or
low, old or young. To be sure, this in the poorer classes
sometimes dwindles down to a blanket, but it is always
gracefully worn, and you see the muleteers sitting on their
saddles with their cloaks wrapped round them and the
corner thrown over the left shoulder, and riding along with
all the dignity of dons and noblemen. But throughout
Biscay and the northern provinces, such as Old and New
Castile, the poor are clad with brown rags.
The route I pursued on leaving Irun lay through To-
losa, Victoria, and Burgos; thence directly south through
Aranda to Madrid. Part of the distance an armed guard
accompanies the diligence. This sounds very formidable;
but happening to be alone in the carriage the first night
of my journey, this guard consisted of a mere scare-crow
of a soldier with a flannel jacket and a gun, who slept as
soundly as was becoming to a good sentinel,- and so
we kept guard over each other. But to be guarded in
this way was rather irritating, for it only kept me sen-
sible of the danger I was in, when I most wished to
forget it.
In broad daylight, too, one who travels in this country
has always something to remind him of the perilous ways
he is treading. The cold, inhospitable, uncultivated look
of the country itself, the dark, fiendish countenances which
peep at him from the folds of the Spanish cloak in every
town and village, but more than all, the little black
crosses which one comes upon at almost every step, stand-
ing by the road-side, in commemoration of a murder or
108 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
other violent death which has taken place upon the spot, —
these keep his fancy busy.
Desides these general remarks, I have little to say of my
journey to Madrid. I was hurrying on, night and day,
with all possible speed, and regretted only that I could not
tarry a little at Burgos, the capital of Old Castile, to see
the tomb of the Cid, the Campeador, so celebrated in the
Moorish wars. Thus my journey was by no means fruitful
in adventures, I being neither robbed and pillaged, nor
having the honor of a little black cross by the roadside.
I have already so overrun all bounds in this letter of
mine that I must postpone to another occasion the descrip-
tion of my ride to Segovia and the Escorial. Behold me
then in Madrid, most happily situated and with most bril-
liant prospects before me. I must not forget to mention
that I have immediately taken a Spanish instructor, and
feel enough enthusiasm about the language to make good
progress in it. -
The society of the Americans here is very limited; Mr.
Everett and family, Mr. Smith his secretary, Mr. Rich
the consul, Washington Irving and his brother Peter, Lieu-
tenant Slidell of the navy, and myself, compose the whole.
Mrs. Everett is a very agreeable lady, and we pass very
pleasant evenings at her house. She receives one in a
friendly, not an official way. Mr. Rich's family circle is
also a very agreeable one; and Washington Irving, who
resides in the same house, always makes one there in the
evening. This is altogether delightful, for he is one of
those men who put you at ease with them in a moment.
He makes no ceremony whatever with One, and, of course,
is a very fine man in society, all mirth and good humor.
He has a most beautiful countenance, and at the same
time a very intellectual one, but he has some halting and
hesitating in his conversation, and says very pleasant,
agreeable things, in a husky, weak, peculiar voice. He
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. I09
has a dark complexion, dark hair, whiskers already a little
gray. This is a very off-hand portrait of so illustrious a
man; but after writing through three sheets of paper at a
sitting, I do not feel much in the Spirit of minute descrip-
tions of any kind.
The family with whom I reside is a very kind and at-
tentive one. It consists of an elderly gentleman and lady,
with their daughter, a young lady about eighteen, who has
already become quite a sister to me. Under her attentions
I hope to find the acquisition of the Spanish a delightful
task.
. . . Indeed, it is like going back two centuries in this
old world, this visit to Spain. There is so little change
in the Spanish character, that you find everything as it is
said to have been two hundred years ago. You see the
same dresses and the same equipages that are represented
in the old plates of Gil Blas and Don Quixote ; the same
leather doublets, trunk hose, and odd-looking little car-
riages. But I am becoming garrulous on my old theme,
so let me bring things to a close.
The visit to Segovia and the Escorial, with which
he filled up the fortnight of waiting for his rooms,
was made in company with Lieutenant Alexander
Slidell (afterwards Mackenzie) of the United States
Navy; who, in his pleasant book, A Year in Spain,
speaks thus of his fellow traveller, —
Nor was I doomed on this occasion to travel without a
Companion. Fortune in a happy moment provided one in
the person of a young countryman who had come to Spain
in search of instruction. He was just from college, full
of all the ardent feeling excited by classical pursuits, with
health unbroken, hope that was a stranger to disappoint-
ment, curiosity which had never yet been fed to satiety.
110 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
Then he had sunny locks, a fresh complexion, and a clear
blue eye, all indications of a joyous temperament.
Here is Mr. Longfellow's own account of the
journey : —
To his Mother.
MADRID, May 13, 1827.
If my first letters from this city have safely arrived,
you will not yet have forgotten the promise they contained
of a description of my excursion to Segovia.
In a huge covered wagon, drawn by six mules, – and
in its ponderous construction resembling one of the trav-
elling equipages of the backwoodsman of our own country,
when, sick of the quiet of the fruitful valleys of New
England, he bundles his wife and children, together with
pots and kettles and household gods, into a lumbering
wain, and shouldering his axe, trudges off to Ohio, - on a
fine sunny morning in April, we thundered out of the
northern gate of the city. Our driver, who was also pro-
prietor of the vehicle, was a stout, healthy young fellow,
in blue velvet jacket, and brown homespun small-clothes,
with a red sash round his waist, and a little round hat
like a porringer, perched on one side of his head. He sat
in front of the vehicle Smoking a little paper cigar, now
and then urging his mules into trot, and occasionally
breaking forth into a stave of some old national song.
Beside him sat his companion, copartner of his cares and
of his wagon, asleep in the folds of a tattered cloak, with
his head resting upon a jolly little goatskin filled with
wine and hanging by a peg from the side of the cart. For
fellow-passenger, I had only the friend who was making
the tour with me, – Lieutenant Slidell of the navy, who
has since left Madrid for Gibraltar.
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 111
You can hardly imagine how little there is in the prov-
inces of Old and New Castile to interest the traveller.
The country lies waste and open to the Sun; you see the
traces of former tillage; and here and there a ruined vil-
lage, deserted by its inhabitants, presents the melancholy
picture of falling roofs and mouldering walls. I was glad
when the shades of evening hid these Sad mementos
from my sight; and as we rattled into a little village in
the hollow of the mountains, all mournful reflections were
put to flight by the glare of a cheerful fire from the open
door of the village inn. Without ceremony we entered
the inn kitchen. At the further extremity blazed a huge
wood-fire against the wall, sending up volumes of pitchy
Smoke through a kind of tunnel in the roof, and lighting
the whole apartment with its blaze. Beside it was a seat
covered with mats of straw, upon which was seated mine
host, a “little, round, fat, oily,” pot-bellied man, in black
breeches and a little narrow-brimmed oil-cloth hat sur-
mounted with a red cockade, showing the wearer to be a
faithful subject of the king, and a volunteer in the royal
cause. Here and there upon the benches sat a weary
muleteer, patiently awaiting his supper from the hand of
the busy cook-maid, who was scouring about the kitchen
with all the busy importance of her station. Apart from
the rest I observed a hungry peasant plying heartily away
at his flagon and trencher, and only relaxing his mighty
exertions to catch a glance of the figures that entered. He
was seated at a small table in the middle of the floor,
lighted by a little lamp in the shape of a pot-hook, sus-
pended from the ceiling, — such as you find in the plates
of Don Quixote. As a new-comer entered the room, he
would pause with the spoon raised to his mouth and lift
up his voice, “Does it please your Grace to eat with me?”
This invitation the Spanish peasants always give on
sitting down at table. I mention it as a peculiarity; I
112 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
Suppose it has been a custom with them time out of
mind. *
In the morning we were on our way before daybreak.
As the day opened we found ourselves among the winding
mountain paths. Beneath us stretched a wide-sweeping
valley, half hidden in mist, and all around us were barren
hills. -
The reader will gladly spare the description of
the ancient city of Segovia, with its grand Roman
aqueduct, its Gothic cathedral and Moorish alca-
zar; and of San Ildefonso or Lagranja, the summer
residence of the Spanish court, with its encompass-
ing hills and beautiful palace-gardens stretching up
the mountain side.
It was about noon when we left Lagranja for the Esco-
rial. Our route lay across the Guadarrama mountains. To
the guidance of a scarecrow of a muleteer we trusted our
lives and our knapsacks. The road led through the finest
scenery I have seen in Spain. Laying our baggage upon
our mules, we trudged merrily along on foot with all that
buoyancy of spirit which springs from fine health and
pure air. In a few hours we reached the last house upon
the mountains. At the door sat two hunters who had
just come down from the pass which we were to cross.
They gave us the unwelcome tidings that it was impassa-
ble for mules on account of the Snow.
To his sister Elizabeth.
- MADRID, May 15, 1827.
It is just a year to-day since I said, “My Native Land,
Good-night !” And I hardly need assure you that every
circumstance of the departure is fresh in my memory.
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 113
Indeed, it seems to me but yesterday; and the taste of the
luncheon of ham and porter which I took on board ship
with Greenleaf and Weld is still lingering in my mouth,
or I fancy it so. How soon the year has stolen away from
me! I should really be disposed to quarrel with old Time
for shifting so rapidly the scenes of life's little drama,
were it not that he promises me that each succeeding one
shall be brighter than the last. I have the comfortable
assurance that, as soon as he gets through with this slack-
wire performance in Europe, he will light up the theatre
anew for a happy little scene on your side of the water;
in which will be introduced the much admired demi-
chorus, –
Captain C 's a coming home ;
I shall die
In the mean time, as my letter left me in an uncomfortable
situation, half-way up the Guadarrama mountains, I beg
leave to continue my journey.
In spite of the bad news of the mountains being im-
passable, which we received at the inn, we resolved to
continue our jaunt, and left the house in cºcellent good hu-
mor with our guide for having led us into such a perplexity.
We were soon among the snows; and then our mules began
to show their laudable spirit of patience and long-suffering
by quietly lying down in the road. Fortunately, encoun-
tering a troup of rough mountaineers who were contriving
to clear away a foot-path in the Snow, we left our mules
with them to be taken back to the inn; and piling our
luggage upon the shoulders of our guide, together with a
multitude of blessings for his sagacity, we pushed on. It
was getting late, and the Sun was only lingering on the
Snowpeaks of the mountains, when we emerged upon
the Southern declivity into the Smile of the sunlight and
the warm breath of the wind. Here we had a long,
weary descent to make, and it was already twilight when
VOL. I. — 8
II.4 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
We arrived at a little cluster of cottages at the foot of the
mountain. We had still several leagues to walk, because,
I will confess, we were rather startled at the idea of sleep-
ing in a lonely Spanish inn among the hills. Now a new
calamity befel us. The spirit of our guide began to flag.
His knees smote together. It was just in front of the
tavern door; and he, like his mules, refused to go. But
as we had not paid him, he found upon reflection that
this resolution was rather premature; and having spirited
up his courage with a bottle of wine, he began again to
drag his slow length along. The people at the door of
the inn shook their heads as we passed, and we soon dis-
covered the real cause of our guide's reluctance. It
was not so much fatigue as the fear of robbers. As we
descended into a wooded hollow, the last ray of day-
light forsook us, and with it the last ray of hope vanished
from the soul of . our Palinurus. He told us in a low,
cautious voice, that the valley we were entering was the
scene of many a midnight robbery, and the burial-place
of many a belated traveller. For about three miles we
passed all cross-roads with the speed with which a school-
boy would pass...a graveyard after dark, -startled at the
least noise, holding our breath at the Whisper of the wind,
and looking with fearful expectation that from behind
every bush would peer the head of some bold highway-
man. At length this suspense was alleviated by the
twinkle of a cheerful light, and soon after, the friendly
bark of a dog informed us that we were near the habita-
tion of man. I never heard Sweeter music ; and have
seldom seen a more agreeable sight than were the dusky,
indistinct towers of a village church against the sky.
As you have probably enough of wayfaring by this
time, I shall not detail the continuation of our route next
morning, which brought us to the Escorial. It will be
enough to say that it was also on foot; and, from the Sad
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. II.5
condition of my boots, was something like making a peni-
tential pilgrimage with peas in one's shoes. Notwith-
standing, the day was not far advanced when we reached
our resting-place.
The Escorial is at once a palace, a church, a convent,
and a sepulchre. It was built by Philip the Second in ful-
filment of a vow made in the battle of St. Quentin. . . .
It is constructed of a dark sombre granite. The church
is magnificently grand. I could not help lingering among
its gloomy arches, indulging in that pleasant kind of
melancholy which such scenes are apt to inspire. I heard
Mass said in the twilight of its aisles; and as the chant
of the priests reached my ear at intervals, with the peal
of the organ echoing amid the arches and dying away in
indistinct murmurs along the roof, the effect was most
powerful. From the church you descend by a magnifi-
cent marble staircase into the tomb of the kings of Spain.
It is a circular vault of forty or fifty feet in diameter,
lighted by a sepulchral lamp which hangs from the ceil-
ing, and finished in black marble. . . . From the church,
too, you pass into the Sacristy, where you are shown a
fine painting of Raphael's, - one of the most celebrated
and valuable in the world, called “the Pearl.” It repre-
sents the Holy Family. Other apartments of the convent
are full of fine paintings." But as I am no connoisseur
in things of the kind, I shall not attempt any descrip-
tion, — for which I dare say you will thank me. .
We were only one day at the Escorial. We left for
Madrid, our abiding city, mounted upon mules. I was
rejoiced beyond measure when I saw the spires of the
city rising at a distance, but rather weary and woe-begone
with my thirty miles ride. Since then, for six weeks, we
* The paintings have been removed from the Escorial to the
Museum at Madrid.
116 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
have had nothing but wind and rain, which have laid
me up with a fit of rheumatism. Thanks to a change
of weather and to the “warm good feeling” of a pair of
flannel drawers, I am now fast getting rid of my trouble-
Some companion. I cannot conceive how I should be
Subject to rheumatism, unless it be an inheritance from
old Dick Richards, which has come down to me together
with the cottage under the hill."
I know that it will give you joy to learn that I am
very pleasantly situated here. I am in one of the kind-
est families possible. The whole house is goodness, from
the mistress down to the domestick; and the daughter —
a young lady of “sweet sixteen,” with the romantic name
of Florence — supplies the place of a sister much better
than I had thought could be possible. I find much more
frank and sincere feeling of kindness toward me as a
stranger here in Spain than I found in France. The out-
side of the Spanish character is proud, and on that ac-
count at first a little forbidding. But there is a warm
current of noble sentiment flowing round the heart. The
Spaniards are, at the same time, perhaps the most cour-
teous people in the world. You cannot imagine how very
punctilious they are. In saluting a lady the common
phrase is, “Señora, I throw myself at your Grace's feet.”
The lady replies, “I kiss your Grace's hand, Señor.” How
would that do in Portland 2 You must say a thousand
good things from me to all my fair friends around you, in
general and particular; and also to all the children of the
family, of whom I think very often.
We have seen that our traveller found a small
but very agreeable circle of Americans in Madrid.
1 This personage was the negro servant who had carried him, when
a little boy, to school, and who had always promised to bequeath to
him his cottage on Munjoy’s Hill.
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 117
To Mr. Alexander Everett, the American minister,
he had brought letters from his father's friend, Mr.
Charles Stuart Daveis, of Portland, and was very
cordially received. Mrs. Everett wrote to Mrs.
Daveis, –
I dare say [Mr. E. has told you] how much satisfaction
we felt at the introduction of your young friend Mr. Long-
fellow. His countenance is itself a letter of recommenda-
tion. He arrived about a fortnight since. . . . I will only
add that we are much pleased with this addition to our
little American circle. . . . He bids fair to be a great
light in your State, if you can keep him there. I cannot
but hope that his friends will put him up, after his return,
to writing something about Spain.
Washington Irving, then forty years old, was
engaged upon his Life of Columbus. In his diary
he mentions, on the eighth of March, that “Mr.
Longfellow arrived safely and cheerily the day
before yesterday, having met with no robbers.”
And on the thirtieth of August, he notes that
he had just written “letters of introduction for
Mr. Longfellow, to Rumigny, Böttiger, Löwenstein,
Sir Walter Scott, and Sotheby.”
Many years after, Mr. Longfellow, recalling these
days, gave this picture of the writer who had been
the admiration of his boyhood: —
I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Irving in Spain, and
found the author, whom I had loved, repeated in the man.
The same playful humor; the same touches of sentiment;
the same poetic atmosphere; and what I admired still
more, the entire absence of all literary jealousy, of all
118 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
that mean avarice of fame, which counts what is given to
another as so much taken from one's self, -
And rustling hears in every breeze
The laurels of Miltiades.
At this time Mr. Irving was at Madrid, engaged upon
his Life of Columbus; and if the work itself did not bear
ample testimony to his zealous and conscientious labor,
I could do so from personal observation. He seemed to
be always at work. “Sit down,” he would say, “I will
talk with you in a moment, but I must first finish this
sentence.”
One summer morning, passing his house at the early
hour of six, I saw his study window already wide open.
On my mentioning it to him afterwards, he said, “Yes, I
am always at my work as early as six.” Since then I
have often remembered that Sunny morning and that open
window, - so suggestive of his sunny temperament and
his open heart, and equally so of his patient and per-
sistent toil, - and have recalled those striking Words of
Dante : — -
“Seggendo in piuma,
In fama non si vien, né Sotto coltre,
Senza la qual chi sua vita consuma,
Cotal vestigio in terra di Sé lascia
Qual fummo in aere, ed in acqua la Schiuma.”
“Seated upon down,
Or in his bed, man cometh not to fame,
Withouten which whoso his life consumes,
Such vestige of himself on earth shall leave
As smoke in air, and in the water foam.”
His letters give some of his experiences in Mad-
rid and its neighborhood : —
1 Remarks in offering Resolutions at the meeting of the Massa-
chusetts Historical Society. (Ante, p. 12.) The quotation is from
the Inferno, xxiv. 47–51.
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 119
To his Father.
MADRID, July 16, 1827.
The news of a further remittance was very acceptable
to me; for, although I live with all decent economy, yet I
must confess that European economy would be extrava-
gance in New England. In residing in Madrid my ex-
penses have been greater then they would have been in a
provincial town; but unfortunately it is only in Castile
that the language is spoken with purity.
. . . The religious ceremonies of the Roman Catholic
Church are still celebrated in Spain with all the pomp
and circumstance of darker ages. The Spaniards, in their
faith, are the most obedient people in the world. They
will believe anything a priest tells them to, without ask-
ing why or wherefore. But at the same time, as you may
readily infer from this, they have as little pure religion as
can be found upon the face of the earth. In fact, their
religion may justly be compared to one of those little
grocery stores in the purlieus of Green Street, which has
its whole stock of sugar hats and gingerbread images
stuck up at the windows.
The ceremony most frequently witnessed is the passage
of the Host, or “consecrated wafer,” — or, as the Spaniard
firmly believes it to be, the body of God himself, - to the
death-bed of some poor child of mortality. It is carried
upon the end of a silver staff by some bareheaded friar,
preceded by the banners of the church and a short pro-
cession of priests with wax candles and the tinkling of a
little bell. As the procession passes through the street,
the people take off their hats and throw themselves upon
their knees; the noise and bustle of the city ceases, and
you hear nothing but the tinkling of the bell. These are
common, every-day processions. But the other night I
witnessed a spectacle far more imposing. I was at the
I20 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
Opera; and in the midst of the scene, the tap of a drum
at the door, and the sound of the friar's bell, announced
the approach of the Host. In an instant the music
ceased; a hush ran through the house; the actors on the
stage in their brilliant dresses kneeled and bowed their
heads; and the whole audience turned toward the street
and threw themselves on their knees. It was a most
singular spectacle; the sudden silence, the immense kneel-
ing crowd, the group upon the stage, and the decorations
of the scene, produced the most peculiar sensations in my
mind.
He next describes a ceremony at the palace,
where the queen gave a supper to twelve poor
women, washing their hands and waiting upon
them at table with her maids of honor; and a
like performance where the king served twelve
poor men, washing their feet. “The queen,” he
says, “is eaten up by a most gloomy religious
frenzy — and writes poetry.”
Have you received the books I sent from Paris?—
books are so very cheap there. At Brunswick they have
an excellent French library. Do you know whether they
have any Spanish books As nobody can work without
tools, it might not be amiss to inquire. I am still in my
former intention of going to Germany by the way of Mar-
seilles, unless some objection should offer itself. Pray do
not think me too changeable in my designs; many of
them are rather suggestions than mature plans. Rest
assured that I shall do what will result most to my ad-
vantage, so far as I am capable of judging. Do not
believe what people tell you of learning the French lan-
guage in six months and the Spanish in three. Were
I guided by such counsellors I should return a sheer
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. I2]
charlatan; and, though I might deceive others as to the
amount of my knowledge, I cannot so easily deceive
myself. Whatever vanity I may possess with regard to
my natural abilities, I have very little with regard to my
acquisitions.
We did not celebrate the “glorious Fourth” here;
though it so happened that the day was “ushered in,”
as the newspapers say, by the firing of cannon and the
ringing of bells, — which ring every day and all day. I
dare say you had the usual allowance of Orations.
To his Mother.
MADRID, July 16, 1827.
Since I last wrote you, I have spent a week or two in
the country to enjoy a little rural life in Spain, and see
if the shepherds who inhabit the green valleys of Castile
are the same with those that sigh through the pages of
pastoral romance. In the villages of the north of Spain
there is little to tempt one away from the city. You see
nothing but a cluster of one-story huts of a dirty yellow-
ish stone, roofed with thatch or red tiles, thrown disorderly
together in some nook among the hills. There is seldom
a tree to be seen. And those who love to “babble of
green fields” must content themselves, in place of velvet
meadows and Waving woods, with the matter-of-fact
beauty of beans and barley. I had the good fortune,
however, to find a village which enjoyed the shadow of a
few trees. It is called Pardillo, and is situated on the
Southern slope of the Guadarrama mountains, about five
leagues from this city. It is the most picturesque village
I have yet seen in Spain. And the view of the surround-
ing country, sprinkled here and there with clumps of forest
and cultivated uplands, and shut in by a curve of bare and
Stormy mountains, was very delightful.
122 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
It was the morning of a village holiday when we
arrived, and as we entered the street we encountered groups
of the peasants in their best dress, adorned with flowers
and ribbons, moving along to church. This was an irregu-
lar little building, of the same rude material as the cot-
tages, with the tombstone of some village patriarch placed
as a step at the door, and a large shady tree in front. I
recollect lingering about the humble edifice, and listening
to the voice of the priest within and the mournful tones
of a poor little organ that was groaning most sadly be-
neath the heavy hands of the gray-headed sacristan. After
mass the villagers hurried away to their sports. In the
evening we had a rustic dance in front of the house.’
There is something very amusing in these village dances.
One almost thinks he has got back into old pastoral
times; and the peculiar dress of the Spanish peasantry
adds much to this romantic self-deception. They wear a
short jacket of brown or black cloth, with breeches of the
same, white stockings, and black leather gaiters. The
waistcoat is generally of some bright color; and below it,
around the waistband, is passed a red Sash. The back of
the head is covered with folds of a colored handkerchief,
and above this the round Spanish hat with velvet band
and tassels is cocked a little on one side. In the dress
of the girls there is nothing peculiar. The music of these
rural festivities consists of two or three guitars of differ-
ent tones, accompanied by a voice, the tap of a drum,
and castanets, which are nothing but two circular pieces of
wood a little hollowed in the centre and attached to the
thumb by a silken cord. The dance which I saw the most
is called the Manchegas, -a dance of the province of La
Mancha of chivalrous memory. There seems to be no
regular step, but every one swings his legs about like a
pendulum, and balances his arms in all directions. I used
occasionally to join in with the rest; and I very distinctly
1827.] IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. 123
recollect that the first motion of my arms in the air was
so violent and so well directed as to deprive the manager
of his hat ; and the first Swing of my leg brought my
boots into collision with a pair of nice white stockings,
— manoeuvres which excited universal and unbounded
applause.
By the kindness of Mr. Irving, who introduced me to the
Marchioness of Casa-Yrugo, I have had the opportunity
of a peep into good Spanish Society. The marchioness
is a Philadelphia lady, who married one of the Spanish
ministers, and since her husband's death has become the
heiress of a large property. She is now somewhat ad-
vanced in life, but still gives large parties. I have been
several times to her evening jams; but, as it was Lent,
there was no dancing. Some childish sport took the place
of it; and I have seen a whole room-full of the “high-
born Spanish noblemen” and daughters of dons and .
cavaliers engaged in such games as in Our country belong
only to children.
But the Society which I have at home pleases me most.
The daughter of the old lady with whom I am residing is
one of the sweetest-tempered little girls that I ever met
with. The grace of the Spanish women and the beauty
of their language makes her conversation quite fascinating.
I could not receive greater kindness than I receive at the
hands of this good family. I shall feel the most sincere
regret in bidding them farewell. There is another family
in the house, – a Malaga lady with her daughter, a very
handsome young lady of about seventeen, with bright blue
eyes and fine auburn hair. She frequently reminds me of
my sister A.; and, by the way, has the same name. The
two young ladies are very intimate. Whilst I write, I
see them in the balcony below me, very busy with their
needles and their tongues, little dreaming that I am send-
124 IN THE NORTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
ing tidings of them across the sea. I confess that I feel
very little desire to leave Madrid, as you may imagine.
But as you claim me for your own, and as I have just
thrown my purse out of the window because it was full
of holes and told no flattering tale, I shall not be able
to linger much longer in this land of the Sun. Indeed, I
shall take my departure as soon as the immoderate heat
of the weather abates a little, so as to permit one to travel,
if not comfortably, at least without perishing. I seldom
go out, excepting very early in the morning to bathe in
the river, and at nine o'clock at night to walk in the
Prado. . . . There are the principal fountains. On Sun-
days the “salon’ of the Prado is so crowded just after
sunset that one can hardly elbow his way along, or see
through the cloud of dust which envelops him. This the
Spaniards seem to enjoy highly. God bless them in such
enjoyment
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN.
1827.
AT the beginning of September, the summer
heats being abated, our traveller left Madrid and
moved slowly toward Italy through the south of
Spain. His road led across La Mancha, with its
wind-mills, its ventas, and all its Don Quixote
memories, to Cordova.
The withered leaves were already dropping, and the
immense plains, as far as the eye could reach, looked
brown, barren, and Sunburnt. I have never seen a coun-
try that wore so desolate a look. You trace the road for
miles before you, with neither cottage nor green tree. In
some parts, when you start on your journey in the morn-
ing, you may see in a direct line before you the village in
which you are to pass the night. As I dislike to be hur-
ried through a country, however sad and solitary it may
be, without Seeing its peculiarities, I took a seat in the
wagon of a carrier from Castile to Andalusia. You cannot
imagine with what fear and trembling one travels at the
present day in Spain. The whole country is overrun with
robbers. Every village in La Mancha has its tale to tell
of atrocities committed in its neighborhood. At night,
126 IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
in the capacious inn-kitchen, my fellow-travellers would
huddle together and talk of the dangers we were to pass
through on the morrow, and converse for hours in that
mysterious undertone which always fills the mind with
phantoms. But fortunately, we passed through all unmo-
lested. It was undoubtedly owing to that poor-gentleman
look which every one of us carried about him. A poverty-
stricken country; everywhere in the roofless cottages and
ruined walls we trace the footsteps of the Peninsular War.
A lapse of ten years has not changed the scene. As you
approach the wretched habitations of the peasantry, a
troop of half-starved children, some absolutely naked,
others with but a fragment of a shirt, or a tattered jacket,
will come shouting forth, begging, dancing, and tum-
bling along the road, with such strange gambols that it
raises a smile at the same time that it makes your heart
ache. One circumstance which much surprised me in
La Mancha was the cleanliness of the inn-kitchens. A
paved carriage-road generally passes directly through the
centre of the inn, and upon each side of it are the rooms
and bed-chambers of the family. I recollect one that had
two cross-roads in it; it somewhat resembled four cottages
under one large roof. In this thoroughfare you always
find the heavy baggage of muleteers and wagoners; and
in some nook the fire glances upon the whitewashed walls
of the kitchen. The kitchen of a country inn is seldom a
separate room; it is rather a large alcove, with its fire in
the middle of the floor, benches built against the walls
on each side and covered with mats, on which sleeps the
tired muleteer, wrapped in his cloak. Above is a great
tunnel of a chimney which embraces the whole ceiling.
One may well wonder how there can be much neatness in
such an arrangement; but the glitter of brazen pans, and
a goodly show of crockery arranged with care against the
white walls have such a meat, comely look, that they appeal
1827.] IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. 127
as feelingly and persuasively to a man's stomach as the
tidy kitchen-maid with nicely braided hair, to his heart.
The traveller is occasionally cheered by green olive
fields; and as you approach the village of Val-de-Peñas,
celebrated for its wines, the hills are covered with vine-
yards. South of Val-de-Peñas, the country wears a more
cheerful aspect. The landscape breaks into hill and dale;
you catch glimpses of whitewashed villages sheltered in
the hollows of the mountains. In the Sierra Morena,
the chain of mountains which separates La Mancha from
Andalusia, there is a wild narrow pass called Despeña-
perros. It is the thoroughfare of all travellers from Ma-
drid to Seville, – the most bold and picturesque scenery I
have yet met with in Spain. Just at the entrance of the
pass stands the Venta of Cadenas, - the inn at which the
poor knight-errant suffered so many misfortunes. It is a
long, low house, with paved cart-road passing through the
centre; the kitchen a mere nook, and within it a strapping
wench busy among pots and kettles. She was the very
counterpart of the faithful Maritornes, whose midnight
assignation with the muleteer began the melancholy his-
tory of Don Quixote's adventures at the inn, when, faithful
to the laws of chivalry, he guarded at midnight the gates
of the enchanted castle and listened to the lament of the
captive princess. Immediately on leaving the inn, you
enter the wild mountain Scenery. It becomes wilder and
wilder. The Wood runs along near the summit of the
mountains, - on one side huge overhanging rocks, on the
other a precipice of immense depth covered with rugged
forest, shrubs, and wild vines. At the bottom of the ravine
wind the silver waters of a little stream. You pursue this
road for miles, now skirting the brow of the hills, and now
Winding down into shadowy hollows. The scene resembles
that of the White Mountains, but it is not so fine. .
At the close of the day we reached a little village called
128 IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
La Carolina, the first Spanish village I saw which had any-
thing of rural beauty about it. The bloom of Andalusia
opens before you there. *
The environs of Cordova are truly enchanting. You
not only have the beauty of the vine and the olive-tree,
but you pass along in the shadow of hedges of the wild
fig, and above you towers the palm. The city itself is by no
means handsome. The only object worthy the traveller's
attention is the cathedral. In its outward appearance
there is nothing imposing, but on entering you are lost
among the multitude of columns, all of beautiful colored
marbles, and formerly eighteen hundred in number. Some
of the Moorish chapels are still preserved, and are of the
most costly workmanship. From the church-tower you
have a beautiful view of the city and surrounding country:
on one side is a range of mountains sprinkled over with
little white hermitages; on the other, the clear waters of
the Guadalquivir sweep through a reach of Soft lowland
landscape.
On the thirteenth day of my journey and the fifteenth
of the month, I reached Seville, — sick, weary, and Out of
spirits, – and took a room at the Fonda de los Americanos.
I was disappointed in Seville. The Spaniards speak of it
as the French do of Paris, - “If you have not seen it you
have not seen anything.”" The streets are extremely nar-
row; the houses are low. The street-door opens into a
short passage through which you pass into the court, — in
Spanish, the patio, -by a gate of light iron-work, highly
ornamented. A kind of colonnade runs quite round this
court, supporting a gallery above from which open the
chambers. The colonnade is hung round with pictures, and
furnished with sofas and chairs, like an apartment. Almost
1 Quien no ha visto Sevilla
No ha visto maravilla.
1827.] IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. I29
always in this court is a fountain, lulling you with the
tinkling of its waters. An awning is drawn across from
the eaves during the heat of the day.
Of course he visited the Cathedral, with its
court-yard full of orange trees; its Giralda, – that
beautiful Moorish tower, crowned with a Renais-
sance belfry; its interior so lofty, so noble, so
religiously impressive, perhaps the most beautiful
Gothic interior in the world. He begins a de-
scription of it, but breaks off abruptly, -
I was never born to write a guide-book; I have no
patience in describing churches, palaces, cities, so I have
left a blank to be filled up with engravings. . . .
Farewell to Seville ! I left it without regret and
took the steamboat for San Lucar at daybreak. As we
passed rapidly down the Guadalquivir I was reminded
of the Delaware. There is some resemblance, but the
banks are infinitely more fertile, and the river itself more
majestic. The Guadalquivir wants those happy-looking
villages which are scattered along the Delaware. In
place of them, occasionally, the hut of a poor fisherman,
the thatched cottage of a peasant, with a herd of horses
feeding in its field. On reaching San Lucar, I took a gig
across to the Puerto di Santa Maria, in company with a
young gentleman of that place with whom I had come
from Madrid. I stopped a day at his father's house and
was much pleased with the village. The public walks are
very beautiful, and the principal street a fine one. From
Port St. Mary I took a boat across to Cadiz.
Cadiz. I have a pleasant chamber looking out upon
the principal Square of the city. At morning the sun
awakes me, and at evening the fresh sea breeze comes in
at my window. At night the square is crowded with the
VOL. I. — 9
130 IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
beauty and fashion of the city. The trees that surround
it have lamps hung in their branches, and a stone balus-
trade, with benches, runs completely round the area.
I found the American consul, Mr. Burton, a very kind
and agreeable old gentleman. At his house I met Mr.
Maynard, of Gibraltar. He is a merry fellow, and we
had a thousand things to talk of concerning Portland in
the “olden time.” He has resided in Gibraltar about
eleven years. We passed as many pleasant days together
in Cadiz, and left that city in company for Gibraltar.
As there is no carriage-road between the two places we
were obliged to make the journey on horseback, - a
fatiguing ride, though a very merry one. The country
is wild and uncultivated; and the road, or rather path-
way — for it is nothing more — carries you through
forest and valley, now scrambling up a rugged rock, now
plunging into a deep glen, and at length brings you at
night to some solitary inn, whose very loneliness startles
you. We made, however, but a two days’ journey of it,
and are now safely within the walls of Gibraltar. The
tap of the English drum has already become familiar, and
I have ceased to wonder at the odd figure of a bare-legged
Highlander, with plaid kilt and long red coat. The
* Bladensburg’ regiment is here.
I went by sea from Gibraltar to Malaga, and I must
confess that I felt a secret joy when the night veiled from
my eyes the rock to which I had been so long chained
[waiting for a passage]. In two days we reached Malaga.
. . . The consul at Malaga, Mr. George Barrel, was for-
merly a midshipman in the service of the United States,
on board the same vessel and at the same time with
Henry Wadsworth. I found that he knew you all per-
sonally, and he told me several anecdotes of the family
circle. He is one of the most generous, free, noble-
1827.] IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. 131
hearted men I ever met. . . . I passed a week very agree-
ably, and then set off in company with Mr. Ruden, a
gentleman from New York, on a visit to Granada. The
road from Malaga to Velez-Malaga is full of variety.
Sometimes it winds along the Sea-beach beneath high,
overhanging rocks, representing well the scenery in the
Antiquary where the heroine is so near being drowned;
and at other times stretches away through long level
tracts of cultivated land teeming with Olive and vine.
From Velez to Granada is nothing but a rugged moun-
tain path; the whole way is through a wild, mountainous
country. About halfway between the two cities stands
Alhama, - “Ay de mi, Alhama.” -
We reached Granada after nightfall. As we crossed the
beautiful Vega, – those delicious and luxuriant meadows
which stretch away to the south and west of Granada, –
the lights of the city glimmering in the distance and
the sound of the evening bells called my thoughts away
from the realities of life to the musings of romance. The
gradual closing of twilight added enchantment to the
Scene, and as my companions Crossed some eminence in
the road and, Wrapped in their Spanish cloaks, became
relieved against the dusky sky, I could not help fancying
them a band of Christian knights bound on some chival-
rous adventure to the walls of the besieged city. Behold
me, then, in Granada |
November 11, 1827. Whilst “the sound of the church-
going bell” was chiming in my ears, and the streets were
full of black-eyed maids and matrons crowding to their
devotions (and by way of parenthesis glancing from be-
neath their veils at the passing stranger), I sallied forth to
the Alhambra. This ancient fortress of the Moors is on a
hill, on one side commanding a view of the city and the
Vega, and on the other looking down a steep precipice
4
132 IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
into the romantic valley of the Darro. You are soon lost
amid the labyrinth of galleries and halls and corridors, –
spacious halls, with wrought columns and walls covered
with curious devices, and gleaming with colors so brilliant
that even centuries have not dimmed their lustre; balco-
nies overlooking the finest landscapes; windows opening
upon court-yards and gardens, green with the orange and
the lemon, and freshened with the gush of fountains. It is
the refinement of luxury. It was the view from the
windows which most enchanted me. The romantic valley
of the Darro directly beneath me, the river stealing along
its Sandy bed, the gardens overhanging it ; the yellow
foliage of the autumn ; the merriment of a troop of chil-
dren, the sound of whose voices just reached my ear; the
cluster of gypsy huts excavated in the hillside opposite;
and over all, the soft vapory sky, -composed a scene
which I cannot well describe. There are moments in our
lives to which we feel that romance could add nothing, and
which poetry itself could not beautify. Such were those
I passed in lingering about the Alhambra and dreaming
over the warlike deeds of other days. . . . The hands of
the authorities of Granada, with singular disregard to
posterity and something like disrespect to antiquity, are
whitewashing the walls of the palace. After ages will
lose an immense deal of bad poetry which wandering
bards have written on those walls.
I was in Granada but five days. But in those five I
lived almost a century. No portion of my life has been so
much like a dream. It was a season of most singular excite-
ment to me. How much I wanted in those happy mo-
ments some early bosom friend to share these feelings with
me . . . . How many solitary moments a traveller has
There is some truth in Madame de Staël's remark,
that “ of all the pleasures of life, travelling is the
saddest l”
1827.] IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. 133
November 12. Mr. Kreisler accompanied us to the con-
vent of the Carthusians, just without the city. The gate Was
opened by a “jolly fat friar” in coarse white garment, who
seemed delighted with the sight of strangers. The Carthu-
sian monks are very rigorous in their discipline. They
eat no meat whatever, never converse among themselves
nor speak to any one except on days of indulgence, never
leave the enclosure of the convent, and when they meet
each other in their solitary walks in the gardens of the
monastery their salutation is the warning of death, – the
two short words, “Memento mori /* The convent chapel is
magnificent and costly; the sacristy exceeds it in the Splen-
dor of its marbles. . . . When we left the convent we
found the jolly little man waiting at the gate. He told us
he had been twenty-nine years in the convent. I asked
him if he never ate meat. “No,” he said. “Do you not
like it 2 Are you more fond of fish 2" “Ah, Sir, meat is
much better, but we cannot eat it !” . . . On leaving the
convent, we took the country road and walked out to the
country-house of a Spanish nobleman — the Count of
Montijo. He is an old Bartolo of a fellow, married to a
young wife. . . . I forgot to mention in its place our visit
to the Insane Hospital. There was a poor vicar of Ronda
there, who asked me why I wore glasses. “When you
came in,” said he, “I thought you one of the French saints,
for they have clear eyes, but cannot see.” “Santos di
Francia, que tiemen oftos claros y San visio” is a Spanish
proverb.
After dinner, as we were sitting quietly in our chamber,
a deputation of law-students was ushered in by the little
negro Anthony. They were dressed in black robes, and
wore a military cap, something resembling the chapeau-
bras. As one after another entered silently and solemnly
I thought that the iniquity of our travelling caps had
brought the whole Inquisition upon us. We went with
134 IN THE SOUTH OF SPAIN. [1827.
them to visit two country-seats. . . . Theatre; Opera
of the Bella Tabernera, taken from Howard Payne's
comedy The Merry Days of Charles II. . . . At supper,
little Anthony quite as high as he ought to be. He wants
to go to America, because they “insult him in his own
country.”
Midnight. Dog howling. The song of a watchman, –
“Ave Maria Purissima 1 los doce y medio, y Sereno /*
15th. Visited for the last time the Alhambra, and took
a last lingering look of those scenes of romance, which I
thought I could gaze on forever.
17th. Reached Malaga about noon.
Mr. Longfellow spent eight months in Spain.
The details of this visit have been given here thus
fully, because it was to him a period of great de-
light. It appealed with the most romantic charms
to him in his most romantic years. He always
referred to it with a warm glow of interest. One
of his latest poems, ‘Castles in Spain, is made up
of his reminiscences of this visit. He was thrice
in Europe in after years, but never again visited
Spain. He was unwilling to break the spell of
that early time. -
CHAPTER X.
A YEAR IN ITALY.
1828.
To his Father.
MARSEILLES, December 14, 1827.
. . . WE sailed from Malaga on the 22d of November.
At the end of a week we reached the entrance of the Gulf
of Lyons, where a blustering north-wester, which continued
four days, blew us off to Corsica. We at length got up
near Toulon, and were just steering into the harbor of
Marseilles, when a second gale, more tremendous than the
first, sent us sea-faring again. Fortunately it was of very
short duration, and two days afterward we were comforta-
bly sitting by our fireside in this city. . . .
We start for Toulon day after to-morrow. I go in com-
pany with Lieutenants Carr and Saunders, and Purser
Harris of the U. S. Schooner Porpoise, which is now at
this place. Another young gentleman, by the name of
Greene, – a grandson of the old General, - goes with us.
I am very happy to have such excellent company. I
shall leave them at Genoa and proceed to Florence, where
I shall put myself into an Italian family without loss
of time.
From Marseilles the lively company of young
men went along the coast to Nice; thence, by the
136 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
beautiful Cornice road, overhanging the sea and
Occasionally descending to some Mentone, Oneglia,
or Savona upon its shore, they reached Genoa on
Christmas eve.
Journal.
December 24. Reached Genoa, the “superb city,” and
took chambers at the Hotel des Quatres Nations, with a
terrace overlooking the Sea. It is Christmas eve, – a
beautiful night. The moon is shining on the water, and
here and there a boatman's lantern glimmers upon the
silent wave. . . . Attended the midnight mass at the
Annunziata.
25th. The Strada Nuova, the most beautiful street
I ever beheld, - a long succession of palaces. But what
misery at their gates | The schooner Porpoise arrived.
Happy meeting of the officers with Our party over a
foaming tureen of egg-nog.
26th. Visited the Palazzo Rosso, and the Durazzo,-
both very splendid and very rich in paintings by celebrated
masters. Those which struck me were a Magdalene by
Titian and a Cleopatra by Guido.
29th. Reached Pisa after a long day's ride from Spezzia.
Rich plantations of olive, and by the roadside vines
trained from tree to tree.
January 1, 1828. Left Pisa for Florence; beautiful
country, and beautiful peasant girls.
4th. At the Pitti palace; the collection of paintings very
beautiful. There is also the Venus of Canova. What
beauty, what elegance, what modesty! It is the rival of
the Venus de' Medici; the posture is nearly the same, but
the Venus of Canova has drapery. I saw them both in
one day. I had heard much of the skill of sculptors.
But when I saw before me a statue that seemed to breathe
and move, and the hardness of marble softening away into
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 137
the delicate beauty of rounded outline,—I could not but
wonder at what man had done."
In Florence he took up his abode in a house
looking upon the Piazza Novella and its church of
Santa Maria, where Boccaccio, as he remembered,
placed the opening scene of the Decameron. But
he does not mention the forlorn Madonna in its
chapel, which makes one wonder that it should
ever have caused that quarter of the city to be
named the Borgo Allegro.
To his Father.
FLORENCE, January 13, 1828.
I have now been in Florence about a fortnight, as I
arrived on New Year's Day. I propose remaining a month
or six weeks longer, and then going to Rome. I cannot
yet say how long it will be necessary to remain in Italy in
order to acquire its language and see its wonders. I shall,
however, divide the time principally between this place
and Rome. The language is spoken more grammatically
here than elsewhere, but the accent is very harsh. I find
it very easy to read and not very difficult to understand
when spoken. At the same time, when I attempt to speak
it myself, I find some difficulty in keeping clear of Spanish
words. There is a great deal of similarity between the
two languages, yet there are not perhaps a dozen words
precisely the same in both, – always a slight difference,
which perplexes me very much.
The Carnival is about commencing. There are seven
theatres open. For eleven cents you can attend one of the
1. It may be noticed that in all this journey and residence abroad,
Mr. Longfellow appears more interested in sculpture than in
painting.
138 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
most charming, and see a performance of tragedy or com-
edy by some of the best actors. Theatres are at half price
during the Carnival.
In our consul here, I find not only an excellent, kind
man, but also an acquaintance of yours, – Mr. Ambrosi,
who was in Portland in 1802. He speaks very often of
your kindnesses to him when sick with the yellow fever at
Mr. Cutter's tavern in Portland. He takes great pleasure
in repaying them to me; and has been exceedingly kind
in introducing me into society in Florence; of which I
shall send you a few very hasty notes.
When I look upon my table and see about twenty un-
answered letters, and then reflect how exacting some of
my correspondents are, and what kind of letters are gen-
erally expected from a man travelling in Italy, I am almost
desperate. If I should take the time necessary to write
long letters, with rounded periods, I should never find a
moment for my French, Italian, and Spanish studies, all of
which I carry on. For the same reason I keep no journal
— nothing more than a few loose notes. It is to the
family only that I write without care.
When I reached Florence, the first thing I heard was—
Demidoff. If I asked who such a lady was –“Oh, she is
so and so; I saw her the other night at Demidoff’s.” “Do
you go to the opera to-night !” “Opera, no; I am going to
Demidoff’s.” “Pray tell me, is there a French theatre in
Florence?” “Oh, yes, certainly there is — at Demidoff’s.”
I at length grew desperate. “Who the deuce is Demidoff?”
said I. “Ah, don’t know him 2 have n’t been presented ?
sorry for you.” At length I got at the truth of the mat-
ter. Demidoff is a Russian count of immense wealth,
living on an income of a million dollars a year, – about
two a minute. He is now on the down-hill of life, but
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 139
fond of the pleasures of society. He gives splendid balls
and parties three times a week; which—after being once
presented—you attend when you please, without further
invitation. *
A few evenings since I was presented there by the con-
sul, in company with one or two other American gentle-
men. Passing through the ante-chambers, we found the
company assembled in the theatre. The Count has a
private company of French comedians attached to his
suite, to lend a hand in clearing away the rubbish of his
million a year. The room used for these theatricals was
very neatly carpeted, and furnished with chairs enough to
accommodate about a hundred spectators. Near the door
sat the old Count, in an elbow chair with two large wheels,
— his infirmity being that he cannot walk. The play was
what the French call a vaudeville, – a genteel kind of farce
interspersed with songs. The acting was very indifferent,
but as it cost nothing to the audience, they could not in
conscience be out of humor; and so the play was more
or less applauded by all present, lest it should be thought
they did not understand the language. When the play
was over, the Count was rolled off in his car to his fire-
side in the Salom , and the company, being too small to
entertain itself, after chatting awhile about the weather
and the play, dispersed. Two days after, there was a ball
and supper; but I did not go. . . . I must confess that I
hardly understand the old Count's philosophy. I should
not think he could be happy with so much revelry about
him. His countenance bespeaks a great deal of benev-
olence, and you hear of him as being very generous in his
charities to the poor. He likes to see the world happy
around him; and I dare say has more than one passing
regret that he cannot break that two-wheel chair of his
and figure away in the dance with the best of them.
140 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
To his Mother.
FLORENCE, January 18, 1828.
I suppose the very names of Florence and the Arno are
full of romance and poetry for you, who have not seen
them ; and that you imagine me sitting at night in the
shadow of some olive grove, watching the rising moon
and listening to the song of the Italian boatman or the
chimes of a convent bell. Alas ! distance and poetry
have so much magic about them | Can you believe that
the Arno –
that glassy river,
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales —
is a stream of muddy water, almost entirely dry in sum-
mer ? and that Italian boatmen, and convent bells, and
white-robed nuns, and midnight song and soft Serenade
— are not altogether so delightful in reality as we some-
times fancy them to be 2 But I must not tell tales I
may spoil the market for some beautiful effusion that, at
the very moment when I write, is making its appearance
in the delicate folds of Oliver’s “State Banner”!
There is very excellent society in Florence, chiefly com-
posed of French and English. By the kindness of Mrs.
Derby, I have been enabled to visit in the former, and
have been received with great kindness. At Marseilles I
received a letter from her, inclosing an introduction to
Princess Charlotte (the daughter of Joseph Bonaparte),
who is at present residing in Florence. I received an
invitation from her ladyship to pass the evening, which
I, of course, accepted. There was very little company,
mostly connexions of the family. The princess is a small,
delicate person, about your own size. The Countess de
Survilliers, wife of Joseph Bonaparte, was present; a fine,
sensible old lady, with a countenance marking a great
deal of firmness and character; and also the Duchess of
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 141
Istria, – a beautiful Frenchwoman. And I must not
forget to mention that I made the acquaintance of the
son of Marshal Soult. The evening slipped away very
pleasantly. It was there that I saw for the first time
an improvisatore. I was talking with a gentleman in the
corner of the room, when from the opposite end I heard
the sound of a piano, and a moment afterwards a voice,
neither singing nor declaiming, but something between
these. I turned to listen, and was told that it was an
improvisatore. He was reciting the Invasion of Italy by
Hannibal, with a good deal of action; whilst another
person accompanied his voice upon the piano. The next
subject given him was the Battle of Navarino. He paused
for a few moments, then commenced in the same recitative
tone as before, with an accompaniment, and without any
hesitation. After this, a list of rhymes was written down
upon a sheet of paper, and nine different subjects given
him, each of which he was obliged to adapt to those
rhymes; composing extemporaneously nine different pieces
of poetry with the same endings. I did not understand
Italian well enough to judge of his performance, but the
occasional applause bestowed upon him by those who did
understand led me to conclude that some parts were beau-
tiful, if not brilliant.
The next day I dined with the Countess de Survilliers,
a plain, good dinner, without any kind of ceremony. There
was at table an Italian lady of the family of Michael
Angelo, with her daughter, who sang in the evening most
divinely. After dinner the same society I had seen the
day before dropped in, and I felt quite at home. There
was no improvisatore; in place of one, the Princess
Charlotte played Yankee Doodle for me !
January 23.
I shall stay but a few days longer in Florence. I feel
anxious to get into Germany; at least as much so as I do to
142 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
See Rome and Naples. I must confess it, I am travelling
through Italy without any enthusiasm, and with just curi-
Osity enough to keep me awake. I feel no excitement, —
nothing of that romantic feeling which everybody else
has, or pretends to have. The fact is, I am homesick for
Spain. I want to go back there again. The recollection
of it completely ruins Italy for me. Next to going home,
let me go to Spain
I forgot to mention a splendid ball at the English Am-
bassador's a few nights ago, at which we were present.
He gives a masked ball on Monday next to which we
are also invited.
Journal.
February 6. Left Florence for the warmer sun of South-
ern Italy, with a vetturino, by way of Siena. During
the winter season the traveller finds little, even in Italian
landscape, to interest his fancy. Wrapped in his travel-
ling cloak, he looks from the coach window upon the pitiless
rain, and throwing himself back in his seat rather dreams
that he is in Italy than feels it. A fat priest entertained
us with merry tales. -
11th. Entered Rome under the bright rays of a noon-
day sun. Rome is announced by Nero's tomb.
Quoi! c'est là Rome 7 quoi!
C'est le tombeau de Neron qui l’annonce.
— Dupaty.
It is the commencement of the last week of the Car-
nival, and the city echoes with gayety,+the Corso crowded
with carriages and walking gentry, throwing conſetti at
each other. . . . These gayeties banished from my thoughts
the memory of ancient days and deeds. But now, in the
silence of the night and the solitude of imy chamber, they
come crowding upon me.
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. I43
I saw on Sunday a ceremony worth all the fooleries of
the merry season; it was the taking of the Black Veil. . . .
To his Mother.
ROME, March 26, 1828.
An interval of nearly three months has elapsed since
receiving any letters from the family. . . . Upon my
word, I’m quite as ignorant of your sayings and doings
for nearly a year as if I had been travelling in the
moon. Thus far, you are debtors to my curiosity; and
with regard to the anxiety we reciprocally feel — as I am
only one and you at home are ten—mine is to yours
in the inverse ratio of these numbers. Excuse my
arithmetic.
I have been in Rome six weeks, but I have as yet
hardly commenced seeing Rome. I have been pursuing
my studies with some little care, and the busy days of
Carnival hardly left room to visit curiosities. But I am
rather anticipating myself. I should have told you that
I remained in Florence but a month. The fact was, I
disliked very much the sound of the Tuscan pronuncia-
tion. I got quite out of humor with the language, and
concluded that I would not give further attention to
speaking, but would make my way through Italy with
the little I had acquired, and be contented with reading.
I accordingly left Florence, and arrived here with the
intention of seeing the city in a few weeks and, after
taking a peep at Naples, go north, visit Venice and Milan,
and pass through Switzerland into Germany.
On arriving at Rome I found a friend of mine, – Mr.
Greene, of Greenwich, Rhode Island, - with whom I had
travelled from Marseilles to Leghorn, and I went into the
same family where he is residing. And such a delightful
144 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
family I could write you a volume upon my good for-
tune in getting so pleasant a situation. The family was
Once very rich ; political changes have reduced it some-
what, - reduced, I mean, in a pecuniary way, - and I feel
that I am now in it by peculiar privilege. There are
three young ladies, who have all been excellently edu-
cated and speak, besides their native tongue, both Eng-
lish and French. They are great musicians also ; one
plays the harp with great perfection, the other the piano
with the skill of a professor; and both sing. But the
family is so very kind, we see so much good society in
the evening, and I have so good an opportunity for prac-
tising French, Spanish, and Italian, that I shall make my
residence in Italy something longer than I had intended
on leaving Florence. Next week is the “Holy Week,”
so noted in the Catholic world, and so splendid in its
ceremonies at Rome. . . .
There is one subject upon which I have for a long
time wished and intended to write you, - that is, to set
the girls to studying French, or one of the languages. If
you could get instruction for the Spanish in Portland,
begin with that. It is much simpler in its principles
and easier in its pronunciation than either of the other
living languages. The fact is, with this study of the
languages I am completely enchanted. Indeed I am
very passionately fond of it. So much so that I wish
my brothers and sisters to go hand in hand with me.
In April he made a trip to Naples, in company
with his friend, Mr. Greene.
To his brother Stephen.
NAPLEs, April 22, 1828.
It is just a fortnight to-day that I have been sojourning
in this delightful land. You see nature here as it glows
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 145
*
in painting and blooms in song; not that nature is not
always more lovely in herself than in the poet's album
and the painter's sketch-book, - but you find in the
scenery of Naples those rich combinations which, were
they found everywhere, would make the world we live
in too much of a Paradise.
My windows overlook the bay of Naples, and directly
in front of me on the other side of the water, rises the
broken cone of Vesuvius, with a thin light cloud of Smoke
wreathing itself about its summit, and fading away into
the blue of the atmosphere. The long curve of the Sea-
shore is lined with white villages; beyond, the blue pro-
montory of Sorrento juts into the sea, and farther out
lies the island of Capri, so famous as the Scene of the
retirement of Augustus and the follies of Tiberius. It
is not however my intention to go into minute descrip-
tions, because they are tedious as well as useless.
I find this commencement of a letter among my papers.
By the date you will find when I was in Naples, and that
will save me the trouble of telling you that I have been
there. I was there about three weeks.
One of the most interesting jaunts I made from Naples,
was to Baiae and the Elysian fields. On my way I visited
lake Acheron, — though the scene is now changed. The
thick, black forests which the poets describe as surround-
ing it no longer exist; and instead of Charon's boat, that
ferried the disembodied spirit across those waters, a little
flat-bottomed scow took me across to an oyster-house for
two cents | The only truth in Virgil's description is the
“facilis descensus ; ” for the lake is situated in a hollow
among the hills, with steep banks enclosing it. There is
a ruin of the temple of Apollo upon its brink. The tomb
of Virgil at Posilippo is also a spot full of interest; and
at Sunset it is lovely beyond description. In a word, I
VOL. I. — 10
146 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
could give you the names of a thousand delightful rides
about Naples,-the names, and very little more. . . .
You at home must not keep me long in want of letters.
Every little circumstance which takes place in Portland is
interesting to me, – from the Brazen Nose of Temple Bar
(which I understand has been again snoring its inspira-
tion among the Boeotians of Fish Street) down to David
Ross going round Trull's corner in a windy day. By the
way, I wish you of Temple Bar would keep me a kind
of journal or day-book recording interesting facts, and
send it to me once a month. Amongst so many of you it
would cost you nothing to make a few loose notes and
illustrations. . . .
A few months ago I received a long letter from Pitt
Fessenden, which I intend to answer soon. I am also in
debt to my most punctual correspondent, Greenleaf. . . . I
most heartily wish that one of you Templars would come
out and spend with me the rest of my sojourn in Europe.
You must make Ned Preble “Chargé d'affaires et Envoyé
extraordinaire,” to my court at Göttingen, whose vener-
able walls I hope yet to see; though all depends upon the
letters which I am waiting for from home. . . .
A thousand kind remembrances to all friends, in town
and country; with my warmest love to every member of
the family.
Of this visit in Naples Mr. Greene has given
us an interesting reminiscence in the dedication
to his friend of his Life of General Greene : —
Thirty-nine years ago, this month of April, you and
I were together at Naples. . . . We were young then,
with life all before us; and in the midst of the records
of a great past our thoughts would still turn to our own
future. . . . One day — I shall never forget it — We re-
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 147
turned at sunset from a long afternoon amid the statues
and relics of the Museo Borbonico. . . . We went up to
the flat roof of the house, where, as we walked, we could
look down into the crowded street and out upon the won-
derful bay and across to Ischia and Capri and Sorrento,
and over the housetops and villas and vineyards to Vesu-
vius. . . . And over all, with a thrill like that of solemn
music, fell the splendor of the Italian sunset. We talked
and mused by turns, till the twilight deepened and the
stars came forth to mingle their mysterious influence with
the overmastering magic of the scene. It was then that
you unfolded to me your plans of life, and showed me
from what “deep cisterns' you had already learned to
draw. From that day the office of literature took a new
place in my thoughts.
In Naples he became acquainted with Nicander,
the Swedish poet. After a three weeks' visit he
returned to Rome. -
To his brother Stephen.
ROME, June 28, 1828.
As you see by the date, I am still in Rome, where I
only wait for letters. As soon as they reach me I shall
take my leave. . . . I have been so delighted with Rome
that I have extended my residence much beyond my
original intention. There is so much in the city to delay
the stranger; the villages in the environs are so beautiful,
and there is such a quiet and stillness about everything
that, were it in my power, I should be induced to remain
the whole year round. You can imagine nothing equal to
the ruins of Rome. The Forum and the Coliseum are
beyond all I had ever fancied them; and the ruined tem-
ples and the mouldering aqueducts which are scattered
148 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
in every direction over the immense plain which sur-
rounds the city give you an idea of the ancient grandeur,
and produce in your mind ideas which cannot be easily
defined nor communicated.
But how different from ancient Rome is the modern
Perhaps it is hard to criticise manners and customs; but
I wish to mention one or two facts. I speak of the disso-
luteness of manners. There seems to be no kind of shame
attached to it. Whenever I go to the principal street of
the city at the hour for promenade, I see a lady of the
highest ton (who has a rich young banker for her “ce-
cisbeo”) driving in her carriage with her daughter, her
husband, and her lover ! However, there are many fami-
lies, of manners and morals as uncorrupted as ours.
Though in morality, as in geography, a great deal depends
upon difference of longitude; and in Europe playing
cards and dancing and going to the theatre on Sunday
night are thought very innocent amusements. Nobody
here has the least suspicion of its being immoral, any
more than we have of any immorality in eating dinner
on Sunday. The only idea they have of hallowing the
seventh day is that of going to Mass in the morning.
And all the other festivals of the Church are kept just
as holy as the Sabbath.
At Rome there is a great deal of religious Supersti-
tion. . . . But I have been so long in Roman Catholic
countries that the abuses in this religion have little effect
upon me. Its principles are as pure and holy as could be
wished.
You must not be astonished at what I have written
you with regard to the corruption of manners at Rome.
It is a problem easily solved. The great folly of mingling
together religion and politics explains the matter at once.
All offices of any note are held by the clergy. The only
career which is open to a young man is that of the Church.
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. I49
This implies celibacy. Marriage, in Rome, shuts the door
to advancement.
In Outre Mer we find a chapter upon “Rome in
Midsummer.” It is not often that the traveller
from other lands lingers so late in the city of
malaria. Nor would our traveller have done so,
but for an unexplained delay and miscarriage of
letters, including a letter of credit to Germany,
for which he long waited in vain. The delay
proved a perilous one to him. In the beginning
of July he took a violent cold, which ended in a
fever, that grew high and dangerous. The crisis,
however, passed favorably, thanks to the devoted
attentions of the kind family — the Persiani — in
whose house he was living. He felt that he owed
his life to the care of the eldest daughter, who,
having the freedom of a married woman, was his
especial nurse. She administered to him a heal-
ing medicine as he lay gasping for breath, and pre-
vented the surgeon from bleeding him a fourth
time. As soon as it was possible for him to be
moved, he left Rome, “completely shattered,” for
the village of Arricia. The country air, working
with a good constitution and temperate habits, soon
gave him back his strength. He passed a month
in Ariccia, “in the wedge-shaped Casa Anto-
mini” at the junction of the streets. Here he
made the acquaintance of his countryman, Mr.
George Cooke, of Virginia, “an artist, an enthu-
siast, and a fellow of infinite jest.” And here,
in the weeks of convalescence, he read Italian
150 A YEAR, IN ITALY. [1828.
poetry, strolled in the Chigi villa, rambled about
the wooded environs of the village and through
the green “galleries' di Sopra and di Sotto, threw
stones into the Alban lake, talked with the monks
of the convent, and being seized at intervals with
the artist fancy, sketched the trunk of a hollow
tree or the tower of a distant church or a fountain
in the shade. -
To his Sisters.
L’ARICCIA, September 1, 1828.
You will see by the date of this that I am still at
L'Ariccia — the village from which my last letters were
dated. The month, which was to be the limit of my So-
journ here, is nearly finished; and I shall return to Rome
in a few days, with my health perfectly restored, and, of
course, in very good Spirits. . . .
I dare say you have wondered not a little that in none
of my letters I have spoken of Rome in the rapturous
language of a modern tourist. But with me all deep im-
pressions are silent ones. I like to live on, and enjoy
them, without telling those around me that I do enjoy
them. Besides, when I attempt a description, I find the
effect it produces in reading so infinitely inferior to the
effect I think it should produce, — and all I have seen
described in painting and poetry is so very inadequate to
convey an idea of what Rome is, – that when I sit down to
my task, I find it a very cold and ungrateful one. From
this motive, I have sent you nothing from Rome, but a
short description of the buffooneries of Carnival; and I
do not know whether this ever reached you.
But, I assure you, there is something in the ruins of Old
Rome which is grand and beautiful beyond conception;
and the effect produced on you is almost delirious. I do
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 151
not believe there is a finer view in the world than that
from the eastern gate of the city, embracing the Campagna,
with its ruined aqueducts diverging in long broken ar-
cades, and terminated by the Sweep of the Albanian hills,
sprinkled with their white villages, and celebrated in song
and story ! But the great charm of the Scene springs from
association ; and though everything in Italy is really pic-
turesque, yet strip the country of its historic recollections,
— think merely of what it is, and not of what it has
been, - and you will find the dream to be fading away.
You would be shocked at the misery of the people,
especially in the Pope's dominions : but their element
seems to be in rags and misery; and with the ceremonials
of their religion and the holidays of the church, which
average nearly three a week, they are poor—and lazy and
happy. I mean, happy in their way. . . .
You know not what a longing desire I have to get some
of your Portland news. There must be a great budget of
them for me somewhere. But where to look for them —
and whence — and when I may expect them, I know not.
When you next write, tell me every little particular you
can lay your hands on.
Are you studying French, or Spanish, now-a-days 2 If
not, you should lose no time in commencing, for I assure
you that, by every language you learn, a new world is
opened before you. It is like being born again; and new
ideas break upon the mind with all the freshness and de-
light with which we may suppose the first dawn of intellect
to be accompanied.
To his Mother.
ROME, November, 1828.
For me, a line from my mother is more efficacious than
all the homilies preached in Lent; and I find more incite-
ment to virtue in merely looking at your handwriting
152 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
than in a whole volume of ethics and moral discourses.
Indeed, there is no book in which I read with so much
interest and profit as one of your letters.
I think that to-day must be Thanksgiving Day with
you. To a wanderer like myself, there is no season which
so vividly recalls the endearments of home, and so fully
awakens the recollection of its blessings, as the return of
these annual holidays which signalize the close of the year.
. . . I imagine myself seated in the midst of you — re-
calling earlier days, and renewing the broken links that
absence has made in the Social chain
Here, too, the winter festivals are just commencing;
and the toy-shops are full of dolls and gew-gaws for the
Bifana, who acts here the same comedy for children that
Santiclaus does in America. The pifferari, or pipers, begin
to come in from the neighboring villages, to play before
the images of the Virgin, and hail the approach of merry
Christmas. . . . º,
The month of October is also a merry month in Rome.
It is the vintage time, and there are a thousand little social
parties in the different vineyards near the city. This year
there was a great concourse of all classes twice a week at
the garden of the Villa Borghese; when the lower classes,
decked out in their Sunday finery, danced beneath the trees
to the music of tambourines. These dancing groups, scat-
tered here and there among the groves and over the lawns
of the park, - with the splendid equipages moving along
the stately avenues, – produced a very pleasing picture.
All this merry-making finished with the month of October.
November ushered in the melancholy Festival of the Dead;
and for eight days you could hear nothing but the mourn-
ful knell of funeral bells. It was a great tribulation to
me, for I live between two churches.
Rome is now becoming quite gay. The crowd of Eng-
lish who have come to winter here is immense. Walter
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 153
Scott and Mr. Cooper are both expected. There are also
great crowds from other quarters of the world; and
amongst other notable personages, a Russian Princess,
who is travelling with a suite of forty. . . .
Like all other people, the traveller has his cares and
sorrows. Sometimes he is gay — at others, Sad : some-
times he feels like a bird uncaged; and then again he
seems to “drag at each remove a lengthening chain.” But
my sheet is full, and my exhausted lamp just expiring. I
can only see to trace the letters, and those hardly legibly.
It is after midnight. At so lonely an hour my thoughts
return homeward with double force, to centre in the happy
circle which is now gathered around your fireside.
So I wish you, one and all, a pleasant Thanksgiving, a
merry Christmas, a happy New Year, and a good-night.
Returned to Rome, he still lingered, caught in
its proverbial fascination, until December, when
he set out through the north of Italy on his way
to Germany. From Venice he writes, –
To Gecrge W. Greene.
VENICE, December 17, 1828.
All the incidents of our early acquaintance, as well
as those of our first travels together, must still be fresh
and vivid in your recollection. In mine, they are almost
too much so: for you will call to mind those expressive
words of Dante, in the melancholy story of Francesca di
Rimini, -
nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
It was at this season of the year that we were to-
gether in Genoa. I remember it as if it were but yes-
154 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
terday, - the view from our windows, and the terrace
overlooking the bay. You cannot have forgotten Christ-
mas eve. I remember we sat together until midnight.
. . . When I call to mind all this, and reflect that it
was but a year ago, the lapse of time seems a dream.
Still, how fruitful of events has that little space of time
been to both of us. Chance, that threw us together then,
has now jostled us apart again.
You see by my date that I am in Venice. Indeed, my
present situation recalls to my mind very vividly ours a
year ago. My windows look out upon the bay; it is a
winter night; the moon is shining quietly upon the water.
As I write, too, the sound of the Austrian drum, and the
distant ringing of bells reaches my ear. Nothing is want-
ing to complete the illusion, and to make the shadow go
back one year on the dial-plate of time, but to see you
enter the door.
I dislike to be alone at Christmas time. I feel as if I
were an outcast from the world. The return of these
annual holidays is the signal for bringing friends together,
and uniting around the family fireside. Even the Italians,
— little as they have of true home-feeling about them, -
seem to feel this, – and I find more than one Wanderer
turning his footsteps homeward to pass Christmas with
his friends. They have a proverb, too,
Natale coi tuoi;
Pasqua — dove puoi!"
Venice is the most wonderful city I ever beheld. You
will be delighted with it. The Italian language in the
mouth of a Venetian woman is perfect music. You Can-
not conceive how soft it is, Indeed, I have not yet heard
a harsh sound, even among the common people. I am
1 Christmas with your clan;
Easter — where you can
1828.] A YEAR IN ITALY. 155
very sorry I left Childe Harold in Rome. Mr. Hooper
has it; you must get it from him; it will serve you when
you come here. The Europa is the best hotel here, and is
very reasonable. I pay two francs a day for my room.
I am very much occupied, as I think of leaving next
Monday.
To his Father.
VENICE, December 19, 1828.
On receiving yours of the 15th September, I left Rome
immediately. I unsealed your letter with the usual de-
lightful feelings of hearing from home. But the tidings
that the anticipated appointment at Bowdoin has been
refused me were very unexpected and very jarring to my
feelings; and the more so, because it was a situation which
neither yourself nor I had solicited, but which had been
gratuitously offered me upon certain conditions, – which
I have scrupulously fulfilled.
I assure you, my dear father, I am very indignant at
this. They say I am too young ! Were they not aware
of this three years ago 2 If I am not capable of perform-
ing the duties of the office, they may be very sure of my
not accepting it. I know not in what light they may
look upon it, but for my own part, I do not in the least
regard it as a favor conferred upon me. It is no sine-
cure; and if my services are an equivalent for my salary,
there is no favor done me: if they be not, I do not desire
the situation. If they think I would accept the place
[of tutor, instead of professor] which they offer me, they
are much mistaken in my character. . . .
Excuse my warmth. I do not think so meanly of
myself as to accept such an appointment. It was not
necessary to come to Europe for such an office as they
offer me. It could have been had at a much cheaper rate
and at an earlier hour.
156 A YEAR, IN ITALY. [1828.
I feel no kind of anxiety for my future prospects.
Thanks to your goodness, I have received a good educa-
tion. I know you cannot be dissatisfied with the progress
I have made in my studies. I speak homestly, not boast-
ingly. With the French and Spanish languages I am
familiarly conversant, so as to speak them correctly, and
write them with as much ease and fluency as I do the
English. The Portuguese I read without difficulty. And
with regard to my proficiency in the Italian, I have only
to say that all at the hotel where I lodge took me for an
Italian until I told them I was an American.
I intend leaving Venice in a few days for Dresden. I
do not wish to return without a competent knowledge
of German ; and all that I can do to acquire it shall
be done. The time is short, but I hope to turn it to good
advantage.
In the mean time please to give my kindest remem-
brances and most cordial thanks to those friends who
have taken so much interest in my behalf ; particularly
to Judge Preble and Professor Cleaveland. I should be
sorry that my refusal [of the tutorship] should cause
them any pain, but more so should it cause you any."
To his Mother.
VENICE, December 20, 1828.
I have been in this city about five days. My journey
from Rome was a very uncomfortable one. Rainy days,
sleepless nights, wind and cold, and “stumbling among
dark mountains,” compose not one half the melancholy
catalogue of my woes. But I will spare you the details.
Your imagination can readily picture the miseries of a
2
1 His father wrote him that the principal reason of the offer of
an inferior situation by the college authorities was their want of funds
for a professor's salary.
1828.] A YEAR, IN ITALY. 157
traveller at this season of the year. Italy's eternal sum-
mer blooms only in Song.
I shall never forget the delightful feelings awakened
within me on approaching Venice, and entering its prin-
cipal canal. It was a bright moonlight night, and a thou-
sand lamps glimmered in the distance along the Water's
edge. Above rose the palaces, and domes, and spires of
the city, emerging from the sea. Occasionally a gondola,
with its little lamp, darted, like a shooting star, along the
water, and disappeared in some dark alley. The only
sound that reached me was the distant chime, measuring
the march of night, the dashing of an oar, or the voice
of a gondolier. There was something so like enchantment
in the scene that I almost expected to see it sink into the
sea, and disappear like an optical delusion, or some magic
city in the clouds. Indeed, all is so visionary and fairy-
like here that one is almost afraid of Setting foot upon
the ground, lest he should sink the city.
The object that has most interested me is the old
Palace of the Doges. . . . The old dungeons are shown
you. Most of them are entirely dark; into others a feeble
ray of daylight struggles. From the walls of one of them
I copied the following inscription, traced in rude charac-
ters by some hard instrument : “Confide in no one;
think and be silent, if thou wishest to escape the smare
and treachery of spies. Sorrow and repentance avail not
here.” . . .
To draw your thoughts from so melancholy a theme, I
will mention a little incident that befel me upon this spot.
As I was busily engaged in sketching the Bridge of Sighs,
a wench of a chambermaid emptied a pitcher of water
from a window of the palace directly upon my head. I
came very near slipping into the canal.
Yesterday I took a boat upon the Grand Canal, and
floated from one extremity to the other. On the borders
158 A YEAR IN ITALY. [1828.
of this canal stand some of the most magnificent palaces I
ever beheld. Still you trace in many of them the melan-
choly marks of decay and desolation. In some, the win-
dows are closed up; in others, the casements are without
glass My gondolier pointed out to me, as we passed, the
habitation of Lord Byron. He had formerly served him
as gondolier, and recited to me a sonnet he composed to
his Lordship. It is very curious. He told me also several
anecdotes of his manner of life at Venice. He said he
was a “piccol womo, pallido, ma pien' di Spirito 6 di tal-
ento” (a little pale man, but full of vivacity and talent).
In fact, everybody at Venice knows Lord Byron.
My gondolier was quite a poet, and Sang me two or
three stanzas from Tasso. This morning he called and
brought me a copy of his sonnet to Lord Byron. I told
him to write one for me, which he did. It is too long to
be copied here, but you will see it one of these days. It
is a very singular composition.
21st. I left my letter last might to go to a conversazione
at Madame Benzon's, at half past eleven o'clock. It is
the house where Lord Byron visited constantly. She is
an elderly lady, and receives company every evening from
ten or eleven o'clock until three in the morning. These
are the fashionable hours at Venice, because they go after
the theatre to finish the evening, or rather the night, in
society. The Venetian ladies are not handsome, but they
have a great deal of vivacity.
I intend leaving to-morrow evening for Verona, on my
way to Dresden. I do not anticipate a very delightful
journey. The weather is very cold and uncomfortable,
even here; and I cannot hope for a diminution of its
severity on advancing further north.
CHAPTER XI.
IN GERMANY.
1829.
To his Father.
TRIESTE, December 27, 1828.
I REACHED this city yesterday on my way to Dresden.
Trieste is a busy commercial city, with wide streets
intersecting each other at right angles. Its active pop-
ulation and houses of modern construction give it an
aspect widely different from the old and ruinous cities I
have lately visited, such as Bologna, Ferrara, Padua. There
is very little to interest any but a commercial man. Still,
the different costumes, and the different languages, and the
different physiognomies, – Greek, Turk, Italian, German,
French, and English, – afford an amusing and instructive
study for the traveller who is pleased with novelties,
and is willing to be pleased.
To Dresden I have many introductory letters from
Washington Irving, to whom I am indebted for many
kindnesses. This makes me desirous of remaining there,
should I find my expenses moderate and my advantages
for study good. But these long journeys eat up quantities
of money, and a city residence must needs be more expen-
sive than a country One.
I write this from a coffee-house, where I am surrounded
by noisy groups, of all nations; some dozing over the
160 IN GERMANY. [1829.
columns of the gazettes, others talking the day's gossip,
and others smoking over their coffee. I am afraid my
letter will exhale the fumes of pipes and beer, and not
of the midnight oil.
I shall write again soon. Meanwhile I hope something
may be done more favorable in regard to my prospects
touching the professorship at Bowdoin.
To his brother Stephen.
VIENNA, January 3, 1829.
I write you this from the banks of the Danube. To
the usual congratulations of the season I would add the
kindest good wishes of brotherly affection, and repeat that,
though far from you in reality, I am not so in imagination.
I am continually coming upon some object which vividly
presents your image to my mind and makes me regret that
you are not with me. Such was the case this morning, in
visiting a large collection of antique armor. Such helmets
as these would have been chronicles to you :
They are of burnished steel, more than a quarter of an
inch in thickness. The corresponding parts for the body
are equally curious.

1829.] IN GERMANY. 161
Yesterday I took a carriage and drove to Greifenstein,
to see the ruins of an ancient castle, celebrated as having
been the prison of Richard of the Lion-heart. It is about
sixteen miles from Vienna, upon the summit of a steep
hill “bosomed high in tufted trees.” Beneath it winds the
lordly Danube, spreading its dark waters over the lowland.
The little village of Greifenstein stands at the foot of the
hill, from which a winding pathway leads to the Old Castle.
Upon the angle of the rock on which the castle stands, is
the impression of a human hand. This, according to tra-
dition, gave rise to the name. Greifen answers to Our grip;
and Stein is Stone. Every knight, when he entered and gave
his right hand to his host, laid his left hand on the stone
[as a guard against a treacherous blow]. So, in process of
time, the stone was worn away, and the impression of a
hand remains. The chamber of Richard's confinement is
in the large square tower.
I have before me a copy of a song made by Richard
during his confinement, which I picked up in France
among Some old troubadour poetry of the twelfth cen-
tury. It is in the dialect of Provence. He begins by
WOL. I. — 11

162 IN GERMANY. [1829.
lamenting his sad fate, and says that his friends should
blush to leave him “nearly two years in chains.”
Let them know, my noble barons,
English, Normans, and Gascons,
That never so poor a yeoman had I
That I would not have bought his liberty.
I may not reproach their noble line,
But chains and a dungeon still are mine!
He then calls upon his fellow-troubadours, – for Richard
himself was a troubadour, – and tells them to name him in
their songs.
Troubadours and friends of mine,
Generous Chail and Pensavin, –
Ye whom I love and have loved so long, —
Repeat to the foeman in your song
That little glory will be to him
In quenching a flame already dim ;
That never yet did Richard show
A heart that was false to friend or foe ;
And that he more shame than glory gains
Who wars with an enemy in chains.
u It is throughout very simple and beautiful,-the most so
of any troubadour poetry I have read. I would translate
the whole for you; but what I have already written is so
lame and inexpressive that I desist.
Prague, 11th. I left Vienna on the 9th, and reached
this city to-day at noon. I travelled in company with a
Hungarian noble and his “homme d'affaires.” The route
was not very interesting. The Bohemian pine-forests re-
minded me of Brunswick; and Bohemian small beer, of
old Uncle Trench's. Prague is a pretty city, and very an-
cient; situated on the banks of the Moldau, which divides
it into the old and new city. A beautiful stone bridge
connects them.
I shall leave to-morrow for Dresden. Good-night !
1829.] IN GERMANY. 163
Arrived in Dresden, he settled himself down to
the study of German. The letters which he had
brought from Mr. Irving opened to him the literary
and social advantages of the city.
Journal.
Dresden, January 25, 1829. Der Freischutz, the cele-
brated German opera of Weber, represented at the theatre.
The orchestra very good; the singers, with one exception,
very bad. The Devil, dressed like a collier, with smutty
face and pudding-dish hat, frightened the grand-duchess
into hystericks.
26th. Presented an introductory letter from Wash-
ington Irving to Counsellor Böttiger. Found him in his
study, in fur-lined morning gown and slippers; a venera-
ble, gray-headed old man. He received me very cordially;
offered me the use of his library, and also to procure me
other facilities for pursuing my studies. “When you come
again,” said he, pressing me by the hand as I was about
to retire, “you must tell me all about Washington Irving,
— what he is doing, and what he is going to do. And
if I can be of any service to you, I am always at your
command.”
27th. Passed the evening at the Baron von Löwen-
stein's. Tableaux. The evening concluded with a ball
and Supper.
28th. A soft, Spring-like day; of course, grand thaw;
everything afloat. Feel decidedly blue, – deep blue; as
blue as Mr. Warren's map of Jerusalem.
29th. The counterpart of yesterday. Towards evening
took a solitary walk along the terrace overlooking the
Tlver.
30th. Mr. Paganini gave a concert. So full, I could
get no place. How the world goes mad after a “fiddler”
- r
*--!
7 **
164 IN GERMANY. [1829.
31st. A snow-storm. Busy with studies all day. In
the evening, in the dining-room, a queer-looking Dutch-
man, with a head like a “hurra's nest” and a great wooden
pipe, kept the room in a roar with his drollery.
February 1. Evening at the Baron Löwenstein's. Tea,
music, and supper. The French minister's wife a very
graceful and fascinating woman. After all, the French
ladies bear away the palm from all Europeans, as far as
grace and gentility go.
2d. At the Menschen Markt, before the Catholic
church; where the villagers who wish to be hired as
Servants were assembled. Among them heard the old
Sclavonic tongue spoken. Music in the church. In the
afternoon, at the Public Garden, a short way out of the
city. Great concourse of people; music at the Coffee-
house; tailors and apprentices in all their glory.
3d. In the evening, with Mr. Walther at the beer-
house, to see the world. Mine host, a jolly good-natured
tapster, — a “Yankee clever” fellow, with a little black
cap on his head, a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard of ale
in his hand. His wife had still the lineaments of beauty
about her. In one corner, a group playing checkers; in
another, a poor musician singing the Robber's Song, from
Schiller, accompanied by his wife and a tinkling guitar.
Over the entrance was the head of a laughing philosopher,
with the inscription “Wer weiss ob es wahr ist.” Music,
also, at Günter's, my lodgings.
4th. At the Public Library in the morning till one
o'clock. Found a very curious old Spanish book treating
of the troubadour poetry of Spain, entitled the Cancionero
General.
5th. Mr. Böttiger gave me a letter to the librarian of
the Royal Library, enabling me to take books home. In
1 Clever, in New England, used to mean good-natured.
1829.] IN GERMANY. I65
the evening, went to a kind of ball, interspersed with decla-
mations by an antiquarian bookseller. Ho spregiato la lis-
clatura, as the Italians Say.
*-------.
> 3’.
.”
While in Dresden he wrote to Carey & Lea, the
Philadelphia publishers, that he had planned, and
begun to write, a series of Sketches and Tales of
New England life, homeward to which turned his
“untravelled heart.” His note-book gives these
hints : —
1. New England Scenery: description of Sebago Pond;
rafting logs; tavern scene; a tale connected with the
“Images.”
2. A New England Village: country Squire; the parson;
the little deacon; the farm-house kitchen.
3. Husking Frolic: song and tales; fellow who plays
the fife for the dance; tale of the Quoddy Indians; de-
scription of Sacobezon, their chief.
5. Thanksgiving Day: its merry-making, and tales (also
of the Indians).
7. Description of the White Mountains: tale of the
Bloody Hand.
10. Reception of Lafayette in a country village.
13. Down East: the missionary of Acadie.”
1 Sebago is a considerable sheet of water about twenty miles from
Portland, to which the Portland boys used to make occasional fishing
excursions. On its eastern side is a point of rocks, on which are
some weather stains, or Indian marks, called the “Images.” If Henry
Longfellow chanced to visit them when he was twelve years old,
he may have seen a shy, dark-eyed boy of his own age fishing, or
steering his boat, among these rocks. At any rate, Nathaniel Haw-
thorne used to frequent them, having his home, at that time, in the
neighborhood.
* Only one of these sketches was ever published.
166 IN GERMANY. [1829.
In Dresden the social advantages may have
overbalanced the studious influences. Besides,
his friend Preble was now in Göttingen, and that
was naturally a strong attraction to one who, so
long among strangers and so far from home, was
getting a little homesick. So the stay in Dresden
was shortened, and on his twenty-second birthday
we hear from him in Göttingen.
To his Father.
GöTTINGEN, February 27, 1829.
Finding Göttingen everything I imagined it, my desire
to pass a year here springs up anew. Allow me at least,
then, to pass the summer here. In the mean time my
friends can probably think of some other situation equally
good as the professorship at Brunswick. If they cannot,
upon my return I might be permitted to deliver a course
of lectures on modern literature at the Portland Atheneum;
and in the mean time I could look out for myself. As I
have already told you, upon this point I feel not the
slightest anxiety or mistrust. . . .
While at Dresden, I felt no other desire than that of
returning home. I had got a little down-hearted. But
meeting here with an old and good friend has given a new
elasticity to my spirits. I am contented and happy. In
this disposition I am a little unwilling to give up what is
now in my reach, as I shall never again be in Europe.
I brought letters to several of the professors here from
Bancroft and Ticknor, and have been well received. Göt-
tingen is a small city, and there are no amusements here;
so there is no alternative but study. The library is the
largest in Germany, and the advantages for a student in
my particular pursuits are certainly not over-rated. There
:#
|-:
{
i

1829.] - IN GERMANY. 167
are about fifteen hundred students; as in all universities,
some are scholars, and others high, wild fellows. He who
wishes to be distinguished must fight his way to distinc-
tion; but he who wishes to pursue his studies quietly is
no more molested here than at one of our colleges.
Please write me immediately upon the subject of this
letter. In the mean time I have other literary projects in
view, which shall be duly made known to you. . . .
What Preble tells me of the improvements going on in
Portland delights me. It might be made one of the most
beautiful cities in the world. Besides, he tells me the
“march of mind” goes forward. I see Mr. Neal attributes
it to his “Preface to Niagara.”
To his sister Elizabeth.
GöTTINGEN, March 28, 1829.
After spending an idle hour in a vain attempt to put
into English verse a lovely little Portuguese song, which
I got from the library to-day, I have thrown the book aside
for some more fortunate moment, and will devote the rem-
nant of daylight to my absent sister. To show you how
badly I have succeeded, I will here transcribe one verse of
the Song as it lies before me, premising that the subject is
The Poet's Farewell to his Lyre : —
How oft, alas! when lonely,
Awakening from my slumbers,
Thou lyre of gentlest numbers,
My hand hath tuned thy strings
Thou, said I, and thou only,
Canst soothe my soul; I borrow
From thee my joy in sorrow
From thee . . . . . . ings!!!
You must get S, to fill up the hiatus.
After reading this, you can easily imagine me sitting
alone in my chamber, at the close of a chill, melancholy
168 IN GERMANY. [1829.
day in March, with a leaden sky overhead, and twilight
stealing in at the window. It is a disheartening day;
and then its hue,
Who ever saw so fine a blue 3 —
one of those days which makes one just sad enough to
translate a sad ballad, and just poor enough in spirit to
make a poor translation.
I have lighted my lamp, and am going forthwith to
write you a letter about myself. Preble has gone to Ber-
lin. At the moment I write I am the only American here.
I remain entrenched behind a rampart of books; with
intellectual provision enough to hold out quite through the
vacation. With Göttingen I am much delighted, though
I have no other society than my books. My studies, you
already know, are modern languages and modern litera-
ture. My poetic career is finished. Since I left America.
I have hardly put two lines together; . . . and no soft
poetic ray has irradiated my heart since the Goths and
Vandals crossed the Rubicon of the front entry, and
turned the sanctum sanctorum of the “Little Room” into
a china closet.
. . . The muse being in the penitentiary, I can Write
you no epithalamium, but I can send you a volume of
good wishes, which I think much better. I wish you all
happiness, all rest, all confidence; and, with all, a love that
passeth understanding. Jeremy Taylor says in his Mar-
riage Ring, “She that is loved is safe; and he that loves
is joyful.” . . . *
As I was tumbling over some old papers this morning
I found a billet, sent me, according to the custom of
the country, by a Spanish lady, a few days after her mar-
riage. It runs thus: “Don Gonzalo de H. and Doña Clem-
entina de O. give your Grace a share in their marriage.
1 Upon the occasion of her engagement in marriage.
1829.] IN GERMANY. 169
and offer you their house.” All that was meant was that
“his Grace” was at liberty to make a morning call upon
the bride and bridegroom when he pleased.
There are some of my correspondents who keep an
exact account of debtor and creditor with me. You must
know that this makes me a martyr, for I am scarcely ever
debtor. Mr. O. K. B. writes on with an ardor and per-
severance worthy of a better cause; bearing the whole
burden of our correspondence upon his own shoulders, and
setting at nought all the safeguards and barriers which
human prudence has devised in similar cases of peril.
My dear sister A., the place you occupy in my heart is
much larger than the place assigned you in this letter.
There is, however, some analogy, for you are at the bottom
of both. The account you gave me in your last of the
manner in which you had furbished up your mind [by
mathematical studies] was very interesting to me. I hope
you will soon demonstrate to me your affection in straight
lines produced to infinity, - that is, in a long letter, and
not in an epistle like this, cut up into fractions.
A month of the spring vacation he spent in a
tour to England.
To his Mother.
GöTTINGEN, May 15, 1829.
It is to-day three years since I left America. It seems
more like an interlude in the drama of life, than a part of
the play. My own part in this world’s comedy is so con-
nected with the parts my friends have to act upon the
Same stage, that without their presence I am not sure of
my own identity. Hence I look upon this visit to Europe
170 IN GERMANY. [1829.
as a song sung between the acts. And I am sorry that
Some of the variations lately introduced have not gained
me much applause."
I have just returned to Göttingen from a journey through
Flanders to London, and back by way of Holland. At
Mayence I took the steamboat on the Rhine. It is a
noble river, but not so fine as the Hudson. The ruins of
old castles and monasteries which look down upon it from
every eminence along its banks, give it a more pictur-
esque appearance. The most beautiful scene is at the
Bingerloch — the “Highlands” of the Rhine. It is there
the river makes its great bend; the Nahe empties into it
at the same spot, and at their junction stands the beau-
tiful town of Bingen. The river rushes in shallow rapids
round the bend, and below spreads out into a long silver
sheet, over which looks the most beautiful ruin of the
Rhine. It is the old castle of Vautsberg, which stands
upon the edge of a rugged precipice, several hundred feet
high, overhanging the river.” I never saw a more pictur-
esque object, and seldom a more lovely view.
What shall I say of London, — of my pilgrimages
to Temple Bar, Eastcheap, and Little Britain Indeed, I
know not what to say. We will talk of these things here-
after. If I hurry you along with too much speed, bear in
mind that I was also hurried along through Scenes in
which I fain would have lingered. I remained but a week
in London, and then embarked for Rotterdam. With Hol-
land I was much delighted. . . . I was pleased, too, with
the happy look of the people. The Dutch women are not
handsome, but they possess that beauty which springs
from health and a quiet, peaceful life; and I read an
assurance of ease and plenty in the fair rotundity and
1 Alluding to changes in his plans.
2 He afterwards made this castle the Scene of Some passages in the
Golden Legend.
1829.] IN GERMANY. 171
bright buttons of the contented tradesman, whose golden
face, like the round and ruddy physiognomy of the Sun
on the sign of a village tavern, seems to say, “Good enter-
tainment here.” Haarlem I think the prettiest of the
Dutch cities. . . .
I have not time to give you a more particular account
of this very interesting tour. I was exactly a month
absent, and now that the lectures have begun, I am so
very busy that I have hardly a moment for letters.
To his Father.
GöTTINGEN, May 15, 1829.
I am now very much occupied with my studies. But
unfortunately there are no lectures on modern literary
history. The courses I attend are: Wendt on Natural
Law, and Heeren on Ancient, and on Modern, History.
This occupies three hours of the day; the remainder is
occupied in study of the German language under the
guidance of an able professor, and in pursuing other
branches of modern literature. I am also writing a
book, - a kind of Sketch-Book of scenes in France, Spain,
and Italy. This is what I spoke of in my last letter. I
hope by it to prove that I have not wasted my time;
though I have no longer a very high estimate of my own
talents. The further I advance, the more I see to be
done. The more, too, I am persuaded of the charlatanism
of literary men. For the rest, my fervent wish is to
return home. I would not remain a moment, were it not
from the persuasion of its necessity. But the German
language is beyond measure difficult; not to read, - that
is not so hard, – but to write. And one must write, and
write correctly, in order to teach. I can only promise
you to do my best. I can assuredly lay a good founda-
tion, and much more I cannot expect to do. If I can
172 IN GERMANY. [1829.
have the Professorship at Bowdoin, I should like it. But
I must have it on fair grounds.
He did not confine his studies to German lit-
erature. His note-books show readings in Spanish
and French, and in old English writers. Among
these notes we find a favorite passage from
Locke," which reappears many years afterward
in one of his letters, and in his impromptu ad-
dress to the children of Cambridge in 1880; and
also a quotation from John Lyly's Endymion,
with which, ten years later, he opened the first
chapter of Hyperion. Here is a bit of his own
about a more modern poet : —
Next to Byron, there is no poet whose writings have
had so much influence on the taste of the age as Words-
worth. Byron drove on through the upper air till the thun-
der of his wheels died on the ear. Wordsworth drove to
Parnassus by the lower road, got sometimes lost in bushes
and lowland fogs, and was much molested by mosquito
critics. In our own country the Wordsworth School has
evidently the upper hand. His simple austerity and re-
publican principle in poetry were in unison with our moral
and political creed. Our modes of thought are sober and
practical. So, in most instances, were his.
He had wished, and purposed, to spend the
whole summer in Göttingen. But letters from
home changed his plan.
1 “Thus the ideas as well as the 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.”
Book ii. chap. 10, −Of Retention.
1829.] IN GERMANY. 173
To George W. Greene, in Florence.
PARIs, June 18, 1829.
I write you two lines—no more — merely to say good-
by. I was obliged to leave Göttingen on account of
letters from home requiring my return. My parents
think I have been long enough absent ; and, in addition
to this, by my last letters I learn that one of my sisters is
dangerously sick.
I had intended to write you very minutely respecting
the University of Göttingen, but I have now no time. I
can only say, do not on any account omit studying there.
I never saw so great advantages for a student.
Day before yesterday I was at General Lafayette's
soirée. All the family spoke very affectionately of you.
From Paris he passed through London, spent a
day in Oxford, another in Stratford, and on the
first of July set sail from Liverpool, in the ship
Manchester, for New York, which he reached on
the 11th of August.
In Paris he had heard of the death of his eldest
sister, Elizabeth.
CHAPTER XII.
PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE.
1829–1831.
“TRAVELLING has its joys” — so he wrote upon
his homeward voyage — “for him whose heart can
whirl away in the sweep of life and the eddies
of the world, like a bubble catching a thousand
different hues from the sun ; but happier is he
whose heart rides quietly at anchor in the peaceful
haven of home.”
The opening of the term at Bowdoin College
was at hand. We have seen that instead of the
expected professorship, he had been offered only
the position of instructor, and that he had with
warmth rejected this change. His father's sugges-
tion that he should accept the instructorship tenta-
tively for a year had not any more pleased him.
On the sixth of September he received from the
• Trustees of the College the following votes : —
In the Board of Trustees of Bowdoin College, Septem-
ber 1, 1829: .
Mr. Henry W. Longfellow having declined to accept
the office of Instructor in Modern Languages,
1829.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 175
Voted, That we now proceed to the choice of a Professor
of Modern Languages.
And Mr. H. W. Longfellow was chosen.
Voted, That the salary of said professor be established
at eight hundred dollars annually, until further order of
the Board."
Voted, That H. W. Longfellow be appointed Librarian
for one year, with a salary of one hundred dollars.
Very soon after the appointment Mr. Longfellow
took up his residence in Brunswick. He was now
twenty-two years old. He occupied rooms in one
of the college halls, taking his meals in a private
family. He at once devoted himself zealously to
his duties of teaching. Finding no French Gram-
mar which suited him, he translated and printed
for the use of his pupils the Grammar of L'Homond,
which had the merit, always a great one in his
eyes, of containing all essentials in a small com-
pass. He had always a dislike of large books.
In the same year he edited for his classes a col-
lection of French Proverbes Dramatiques, and a
small Spanish Reader, Novelas Españolas, taken
from the Tareas de un Solitario of Jorge W. Mont-
gomery, - a copy of which had been given him
by Mr. Everett in Madrid. In acknowledging the
receipt of copies of these books sent him by the
author, Professor Ticknor wrote, “The books in
themselves are valuable, I think, and excellently
suited to the object you propose ; but I value still
* It was afterwards raised to a full professor's salary of one thou-
sand dollars.
176 PROFESSOR IN Bowdon college. [1829.
more the spirit that prompted you to such extra
labor in order to promote the success of your de-
partment. It is by such means, it seems to me, –
and by such alone, – that the standard of improve-
ment in our colleges can be further raised.”
To his Father.
BOWDOIN COLLEGE, December 20, 1829.
Our examinations are at length over and the college
closed. I now occupy Dr. Wells's room at Mrs. Barnes's
near Professor Cleaveland, where I intend to pass the
greater part of the vacation. The executive government
have thought it advisable to introduce considerable
changes into the plan of studies. The new arrangement
puts a hard laboring oar into my hands, and will give me
three recitations a day, besides the hour occupied in the
Library. The prospect before me seems thick-sown with
Occupation, promising me little leisure for my private
studies, which, on account of my busy life the last term,
already begin to assume a retrograde march.
What detains me in Brunswick at present is my
IFrench Grammar. The notes and additions have ren-
dered it larger than I anticipated; and the trouble of
correcting Griffin's proofs is not to be expressed in words.
This, however, does not discourage me from engaging
further in the same Occupation. Among the French
books in the Library, I have just found a few volumes
which are so much what is wanted for a text-book that
I have concluded to make a selection from them for my
pupils and others. The work is a collection of Dramatic
Proverbs, or small plays, such as are performed in Paris
by ladies and gentlemen in private Society. The book is so
exactly what we stand in need of that I am only surprised
that something of the kind has not appeared here before.
1830.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 177
The more I see of the life of an instructor, the more
I wonder at the course generally pursued by teachers.
They seem to forget that the young mind is to be inter-
ested in order to be instructed. Look at the text-books in
use. What are they Extracts from the best and most
polished writers of the nation; food for mature minds,
but a fruit that hangs beyond the reach of children, or
those whom ignorance of a foreign language puts on the
footing of children. But the little collection which I pro-
pose to publish unites the simplicity and ease of conver-
sation with the interest of a short comedy which turns
upon some situation in common life, and whose plot illus-
trates some familiar proverb which stands at its head by
way of motto.
I wrote to Dr. Nichols a few days since, and sent him
the outline of a prospectus for the new Female High
School [in Portland] which I drew up at his request. I
hope they do not mean to let the subject drop.
Among the students the new professor became
at once extremely popular. Nearer to them in
age than their other professors; less imbued, it is
likely, with the old-fashioned ideas of the relation
and its discipline; full of fresh interest in his
work; with the glow of foreign travel upon him,
and always cordial, courteous, and sympathetic in
his intercourse, he met them not merely as an
instructor but as a friend. One of them, President
Hamlin, of Middlebury College, writes, –
When I entered Bowdoin College, in 1830, Professor
Longfellow had occupied the chair but one year. Our
class numbered fifty-two, - the largest Freshman class
that had up to that time entered the college, – and many
VOL. I. — 12
178 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1830.
of the members were attracted by Longfellow's reputa-
tion. His intercourse with the students was perfectly
simple, frank, and manly. He neither sought popularity
nor repelled it. He always and evidently enjoyed having
students come to him with any reasonable question about
languages, authors, literature, mediaeval or modern his-
tory, - especially the former. They always left him not
Only with admiration, but guided, helped, and inspired.
Another remembers that “his manner was in-
variably full of that charming courtesy which it
never lacked throughout his whole life. At the
same time he never forgot his position. . . . He
was always on the alert, quick to hear, ready to
respond. We were fond of him from the start;
his speech charmed us; his earnest and dignified
demeanor inspired us. A better teacher, a more
sympathetic friend, never addressed a class of
young men.” An anecdote is reported which well
illustrates his relations with his pupils. A student
had incurred the censure of the college Faculty
for some slight offence against the regulations, and
Mr. Longfellow was instructed to “admonish" him.
The Professor met the youth the next day in the
Library, and was addressed by him with a ques-
tion upon some point in French literature. An
animated and instructive disquisition followed
upon the subject; in course of which the Pro-
fessor forgot his duty and was turning away, when,
recollecting himself, he came back with “Ah! I
was near forgetting. The Faculty voted last
night that I should admonish you for [naming
1830.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 179
the offence], and you will consider yourself admon-
ished.” Coming from him, this was perhaps a
more effective admonition than a sterner and more
formal one from a less friendly teacher."
Another anecdote relates that in one of his
French classes a student was called upon who had
evidently made little or no preparation, and was
prompted by his classmates very audibly. The
Professor took no notice of this till the young
man was seated ; then he quietly said: “Your
recitation reminds me of the Spanish theatre,
where the prompter performs a more important
part than the actor.”
We have seen that he was college librarian as
well as professor; but the duty was in those days
a light one, occupying only one hour in each
day. “As freshmen,” says one of his pupils,
“we saw him only in the library. He was al-
ways apparently pursuing some investigation or
absorbed in some book; and yet nothing escaped
his attention. The assistants were kept up to
the mark, and no irregularity was allowed. He
attended readily to any question about book or
subject, and then resumed his reading; and al-
ways seemed so absorbed and yet so attentive that
he seemed to have two personalities.”
He did not confine himself exclusively to his
own department, but occasionally would take a
class from one of his brother professors.
1 Letter of Judge Barrows, who thinks the student was John A.
Andrew, afterward Governor of Massachusetts.
180 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1830.
“He had the correction,” says the student just quoted,
“of my written translations from Cicero's De Natura
Deorum. After every effort to produce a faultless transla-
tion, it would be defaced by his corrections. ‘Is not my
translation correct ' ' I inquired. ‘Oh yes, severely cor-
rect, but that is not the only quality of a good transla-
tion.’ His occasional remarks upon authors and literature
were in reality the best of lectures. He guided me to the
study of Cousin, Degerando, and Benjamin Constant as
giving some knowledge of French thought in Philosophy.
Having to give the oration before the Peucinian Society
in my Junior year, I mentioned as a proposed subject
some philosophical errors of the Middle Ages. He en-
tered into the idea at once with interest, and afterwards
complimented my poor performance altogether beyond
the truth. It was his way. He was never insincere, but
his ready and hearty sympathy with every honest effort
would betray him into language that had its degree of
truth in his feelings.” 2. - –
It was not till the succeeding Commencement,
in the autumn of 1830, that the new Professor de-
livered his inaugural address, taking for his theme
the Origin and Growth of the Languages of South-
ern Europe and of their Literature. The subject
was of course treated in outline, but was enli-
vened by translations of characteristic passages
in prose and verse. This was the preface : —
MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN, - I have looked
forward to this day with feelings of pleasure and Solici-
tude. It is natural for me to have desired an occasion on
which I might express to you how grateful to my feelings
1 Letter of Cyrus Hamlin in Bowdoin Orient.
1830.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 181
has been the confidence you have reposed in me in con-
ferring on me the Professorship of the Modern Languages
in this institution. When a man's duty and his inclina-
tion go hand in hand, Surely he has no small reason to
rejoice, no feeble stimulus to act. I regard the profession
of a teacher in a far more noble and elevated point of
view than many do. I cannot help believing that he who
bends in a right direction the pliant disposition of the
young, and trains up the ductile mind to a vigorous and
healthy growth does something for the welfare of his
country and something for the great interests of human-
ity. Feeling such motives to action as these, and feeling
moreover the great responsibility which is inseparable
from such motives, I cannot on an occasion like the pres-
ent banish all sensations of solicitude. Reduce a man's
duties to as narrow limits as you will, no one can feel
certain that he has done all that he might have done.
Enlarge their sphere and you increase this uncertainty.
Perfection is rather to be aspired after than hoped for.
And if I have in anything failed to discharge worthily
the duties imposed upon me, I ask that you would place
it to the score of inexperience and human fallibility rather
than to a want of interest or a want of exertion.
Here is a passage from the sketch of the ancient
ballad poetry of Spain: —
There is no page in the history of the warlike ages,
which to my mind presents a picture of more signal
moral beauty than that in which is portrayed the out-
lines of the Moorish sovereignty in Spain. We catch
glimpses of something like a Golden Age. It is true that
the heart of Castile still throbbed with the pulsations
of liberty, and the iron tempest of war beat against the
northern frontier of their realm. But in the quiet bosom
J.82 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, [1830.
of the country all was peace. No terrors had followed
the footsteps of the Moslem conqueror ; no captive
chained to his chariot wheels adorned his triumph; no
iron sceptre smote the land and blasted the fruitful field.
The husbandman sowed his seed, and gathered his harvest
in Security; and the spires of the Christian church rose
amid the domes of the Saracen mosque. The conquerors
and the conquered seem to have had common interests
and common pleasures; and they sat together beneath
the shadow of the palm-tree and the olive, and sang their
common loves and jealousies. The tolerance that prevailed
is every way remarkable. In the zeal of the Moorish
government to spread their learning and arts through the
country, colleges and libraries were established in all the
principal cities of the South of Spain, and thrown open
alike to Mohammedans, Jews, and Christians. These
genial influences gave a softer tone to national feeling.
And, though the spirit of the warrior is visible in a great
portion of the Spanish romances, in others the knight
throws down his spear and unclasps his helmet. The
sound of the Moorish flute mingles with the brazen voice
of the trumpet, and the rough feelings of the chieftain
give way to gentler affections and more peaceful dreams.
One more quotation may be given, as character-
istic : —
It is this religious feeling, — this changing of the finite
for the infinite, this constant grasping after the invisible
things of another and a higher world,—which marks
the spirit of modern literature. The ancients, it is true,
dreamed of an immortality; but their heaven Was an
earthly heaven, and the eye could take in at a glance the
sensuous paradise of the Elysian Fields, where the prerog-
ative of the soul is not that it should grow better, but that
it should merely live longer. But to the modern poet the
1830.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 183
world beyond the grave presents itself with all the force
of reality, and yet with all the mystery of a dream. It
is a glorious certainty to some, an appalling certainty to
others. Thitherward the confiding spirit turns, as to “the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land;” or, fearing, tremb-
ling, doubting, shrinks back and yet aspires, denies and
yet believes. -
The rules of his professorship did not require
anything beyond the teaching of the languages.
But Mr. Longfellow's interest in his work led him
to prepare courses of written lectures.
To George W. Greene.
June 27, 1830.
Your letter was just what I wanted. That is, it was a
letter which gave me a graphic picture of yourself and
your situation. I could see you at your study window,
enjoying in Narragansett and Mount Hope a delightful
[certainly a very faint] reminiscence of Naples and Vesu-
vius. It is there your Tasso and Ariosto sound sweetest
to your ear, that the dolce far miente of a summer even-
ing is most heavenly, and that you take most delight in
reading your own happiness
dentrole pozzette
Che forma un dolce riso in bella guancia.”
My window looks out upon a balm-of-Gilead tree and the
college chapel; and, by way of back-ground, I have a fine
view of the President's barn and the high road to Port-
land. I rise at six in the morning, and hear a French
recitation of Sophomores immediately. At seven I break-
fast, and am then master of my time till eleven, when I
1 within the little pits
Which a sweet Smile forms in a lovely cheek.
184 PROFESSOR, IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1830.
hear a Spanish lesson of Juniors. After that I take a
lunch; and at twelve I go into the library, where I remain
till one. I am then at leisure for the afternoon till five,
When I have a French recitation of Juniors. At six, I
take coffee; then walk and visit friends till nine; study
till twelve, and sleep till six, when I begin the same round
again. Such is the daily routine of my life. The inter-
vals of college duty I fill up with my own studies. Last
term I was publishing text-books for the use of my pupils,
in whom I take a deep interest. This term I am writing
a course of lectures on French, Spanish, and Italian litera-
ture. I shall commence lecturing to the two upper classes
in a few days. You See, I lead a very Sober, jog-trot kind
of life. My circle of acquaintances is very limited. I
am on very intimate terms with three families, and that is
quite enough.” I like intimate footings; I do not care for
^ general Society.
I am delighted more and more with the profession I
have embraced, and I hope ere long to see you in a situa-
tion similar to my OWn.
I am proud to have your favorable opinion of those
little poetic attempts of mine which date so many years
back. I had long ceased to attach any kind of value to
them, and, indeed, to think of them. Since my return I
have written one piece of poetry, but have not published
a line. You need not be alarmed on that score. I am all
prudence now, since I can form a more accurate judgment
of the merit of poetry. If I ever publish a volume, it
will be many years first.” Indeed, I have such an engross-
ing interest in the studies of my profession that I write
very seldom except in connection with those studies.
1 “His coming into our house,” said a member of one of these,
“ was always like sunshine.”
2 It was nine years later that the Voices of the Night appeared.
1831.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 185
Mr. Alexander Everett, whose acquaintance, as
will be remembered, he had made in Spain, had
returned to Boston and become the editor of the
North American Review, then the only, or the
principal, Quarterly in the United States. In ac-
knowledging the receipt of some of Professor Long-
fellow's text-books, he had urged him to become a
contributor to the Review. Later he wrote : —
I am very happy to find that you enter with so much
spirit into the plan of contributing to the Review, and
shall calculate much on your co-operation in the future
numbers. I shall hope to receive in season for that of
January the article you mention on ‘The Origin and Prog-
ress of the French Language.’ The subject is very inter-
esting, and belongs to a department of literature in which
we find it less easy to obtain assistance than in most
others. I think that a series of papers of this kind, ex-
ecuted with ability, may, by making you known in this
quarter, produce a good effect upon your prospects. At
all events they will be very useful to me, and very enter-
taining and instructive to the community. Allow me to
ask if you do not mean to publish anything in the way of
travels. Slidell has done himself great credit by his book
on Spain, and you would probably write a much better
one. . . . Have you ever published any collection of your
poems ?
In response to this invitation, the young pro-
fessor began those contributions to the Review
which continued through several succeeding years.
In April, 1831, appeared the first of these, – an
article of forty pages, upon the subject mentioned
in Mr. Everett's letter. In this paper were intro-
I86 DROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1831.
duced some translations of his own, afterwards
reprinted in his works, – such as the Renouveau
of Charles D’Orléans, ‘Now Time throws off his
cloak again;' the ‘Friar Lubin’ of Clement Marot;
and the lovely verses attributed to Clotilde de
Surville, ‘Sweet babe, true portrait of thy father's
face.’ Similar articles followed in the Review,
upon the Italian and the Spanish languages and
literature, containing also original translations."
Thus Mr. Longfellow was fairly launched into
the literary career toward which his heart and will
were turned in his college days. In the full vigor
of young manhood, interested in his professional
work and studies, his mind and pen grew busy with
an activity and an industry which never ceased
while life lasted. In the years that followed they
were to know few idle days.
1 A full list of Mr. Longfellow’s articles in the North American
will be given in the Appendix. -
CHAPTER XIII.
PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE,
1831–1835.
BUsy as the young professor was with his books
and his pen, interested as he was in his pupils and
his work, something was still wanting. His heart
was always ideally sensitive to feminine attrac-
tions, his domestic affections always warm. He
was no mere bookworm or dry-as-dust scholar. In
his visits to Portland he renewed his acquaint-
ance with the friends of his earlier years. Among
the young ladies whose beauty kept up the repu-
tation of his native town, were now conspicuous
the daughters of his father's friend and neighbor,
Judge Barrett Potter. In September of 1831, Mr.
Longfellow was married to the second daughter,
Mary Storer Potter. Her character and person
were alike lovely. Under the shadow of dark hair,
eyes of deep blue lighted a countenance singularly
attractive with the expression of a gentle and
affectionate disposition. She was well educated
at a time when Greek and Latin were less com-
monly included in the studies of girls than were
188 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1831.
the mathematics. She is commemorated in the
well-known lines as —
the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me.”
They were tenderly devoted to each other; and
never was a home more happy than theirs, when,
soon after their marriage, they began housekeeping
in Brunswick, in a house still standing under its
elms in Federal Street. The room on the right-
hand of the entrance was made his study, and here
he began to gather a library. He has himself
given us a little picture of it: —
June 23. I can almost fancy myself in Spain, the morn-
ing is so soft and beautiful. The tessellated shadow of the
honeysuckle lies motionless upon my study floor, as if it
were a figure in the carpet; and through the open window
comes the fragrance of the wild brier and the mock Orange.
The birds are carolling in the trees, and their shadows flit
across the window as they dart to and fro in the Sunshine;
while the murmur of the bee, the cooing of doves from
the eaves, and the whirring of a little humming-bird that
has its nest in the honeysuckle, Send up a sound of joy to
meet the rising Sun.
In this pleasant home, and with this blessed
companionship, Mr. Longfellow devoted himself
with fresh interest to his literary pursuits. He
continued to write for the North American. He
prepared a second course of written lectures, upon
the Literary History of the Middle Ages, beginning
1 ‘Footsteps of Angels.”
1832.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 189
with the Christian Fathers and coming down to
the origin of the modern languages. These lec-
tures still exist in manuscript, in the characteristi-
cally meat yet flowing back hand which the author
had adopted during his stay in Europe; the lines
as even as if ruled, and with scarcely an erasure or
interlineation. It is noticeable that several pages
of illustrative extracts are in his wife's handwrit-
ing. The first lecture opens with the passage
from Lucretius,"
Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis
E terrá magnum alterius spectare laborem, etc.,
with Lord Bacon's paraphrase.”
How busy his days were, and in what way, we
may gather from a few entries in a scanty journal.
November 29, 1832. Five o'clock in the morning. Com-
mence the preparatory reading for an essay on the History
of the Spanish Language; beginning with the Origines de
la Lengua Española . . . por Don Gregorio Mayáns y
Siscár. Finished the first volume. In the evening read
four chapters of the first book of Livy.
30th. Rose at half-past five. Ran over the second vol-
ume of Mayáns; commenced the second book of Aldrete's
Origen y Principio de la Lengua Castellana. Read five
chapters in Livy, and the fourth and fifth acts of Ben
Jonson's Alchemist ; a fine comedy, though too broad, -
the better suited to the prurient taste of his age, of which
his noble genius should have been the castigator, not
the pander.
1 De Rerum Natură, lib. ii.
* In the Essay on Truth : “It is a pleasure,” says Lucretius, the
poet who beautified the sect, “to stand upon the shore and see ships
tost upon the Sea,” etc.
190 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1832.
December 1. Commenced a new introduction to my Phi
Beta Kappa poem, to be delivered in Cambridge in August
next. I am flattered that the committee of the Society
should have thought of me as Poet. Finished Aldrete.
He is altogether too diffuse for my taste. His work wants
perspective; all objects seem of equal size, and he devotes
as much time to points of minor consideration as to the
most important. Cortes read to me chapters xv.–xvii. of
Don Quixote. It is a pleasure to hear it read by a Span-
iard. One might believe that the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance and his Squire were talking with us.
2d. Sunday. A bright Sunshine after yesterday's snow-
storm. Read Massillon's sermon, Sur les Tentations des
Grands; one of Wieland's Psalms; Livy, three chapters.
3d. Revised and corrected a paper for ‘The School-
master,’ entitled, ‘Saturday Afternoon.” Read Moratin’s
Comedy, El Si de las Niñas, one of the best pieces of the
modern theatre. In the evening, four chapters of Livy;
among them chapter xxix. of Book first, containing the
beautiful description of the destruction of Alba.
4th. Ran over a Dissertation on the best method of
studying the languages of the Bible, translated from the
German by Professor Stuart. Livy, four chapters.
11th. Wrote an apostrophe to Truth, part of my Phi
Beta Kappa poem. Ran through the Glosa Famosa Sobre
las Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique, by Luis Perez; stupid
enough, though in some parts ingenious.
Mr. Longfellow had said to his sister, in a letter
from Göttingen, that he had written no poetry
since leaving America, which was almost literally
true; and since his return we have seen him busy
in other ways. But now, after an interval of eight
years, he again puts his pen to verse. At the
1832.] PROFESSOR IN BOW DOIN COLLEGE. I91
college Commencement in September, 1832, he de-
livered the Poem before the Bowdoin chapter of the
Phi Beta Kappa Society. It was not printed, but
some fame of it reached Cambridge, which he vis-
ited in the same autumn; and he was invited to
give the Poem before the Harvard chapter of the
same society in the following August. His friend,
Mr. Charles Folsom, in sending him the invitation,
wrote: “I thought we ought to be sure of having
a poem by choosing a poet. Was I not right to
wish to bring a minstrel from Maine, if the best
was to be had there 2 And if I had a regard for
that minstrel ought I not to wish to find him fit
audience and marty 2 * The large audience was
expected because it was supposed that the Oration
would be given by John Quincy Adams. For
some reason this was not the case. Mr. Edward
Everett was the Orator; and the audience cer-
tainly was not diminished in numbers. The poem
was the Brunswick poem refreshed with many
new stanzas. Its title was “The Past and the
Present,” and its subject, Education. The poet, in
view of the Orator's fame, had modestly requested
that the usual order should be changed, and that
his poem should be recited first. When Mr.
Everett rose he said that his subject also was
Education, and that he found himself but a
follower in a field where the flashing sickle had
already passed."
* Some of the young ladies of Cambridge remembered this ; and
when the young professor afterward came to Harvard they called him
“the Flashing Sickle.”
192 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, [1833.
To George W. Greene.
March 9, 1833.
Out of a pile of twelve unanswered letters, I take yours
first ; not because it has the oldest date, – for it has none
at all, - but because I have been thinking of you this
evening, and feel more disposed to write to you than to
any one else. Till I read your letter, I thought I was a
great babbler about myself and my concerns. Now that
you tell me I am not, I am determined that you shall
know all I have published since my return from Europe
[not including text-books].
1. Article on The French Language, in the North American Review.
. Article on The Defence of Poetry; in the same.
. Article on The Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain; the same.
. Article on The Italian Language and Dialects; the same.
Notice of an Italian Reading-book, in the Cambridge Monthly.
Sundry papers of prose and verse, in the New England Magazine.
In the Token for 1832, a story.
In the same, for 1833, a story.
i
To these add, as delivered in public, though not pub-
lished: One poem (by courtesy so called); one inaugural
address; one address before a literary Society in Portland;
one address before the Benevolent Society in Portland;
one address on Female Education [in Augusta); and Sun-
dry college lectures.
There, — I believe that is all, except a translation of a
paper on the old French Romances, published in January
last in a new Cambridge periodical, the Select Journal of
Foreign Periodical Literature.
And shall I tell you what I am engaged in now ! I am
writing a book, -a kind of Sketch-Book of France, Spain,
Germany, and Italy; composed of descriptions, sketches
of character, tales illustrating manners and customs, and
tales illustrating nothing in particular. Whether the book
will ever see the light is yet uncertain. If I conclude to
1833.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 193
publish it I think I shall put it out in numbers or parts,
and shall, of course, send you a copy as Soon as it peeps.
I find that it requires little courage to publish grammars
and school-books; but in the department of fine writing—
or attempts at fine writing—it requires vastly more.
To Alexander H. Everett.
July 16, 1833.
I feel highly flattered that you should miss me [from
the North American]; though I think in the next number
to spare myself that gratification. I have been intending
for some time to send you a paper on the Old English
Romances, a subject which has considerable attractions.
A few days ago I sent you Outre-Mer, No. I., being the
first number of the European sketches we were speaking
of. I fear they may strike you as rather too trivial in
their character. My object is to give variety; and in the
next number, which will appear in the fall, I shall give
something of a different hue.
In one of his letters from Göttingen, Mr. Long-
fellow had mentioned that he was writing some
sketches of his travels. And when, in 1831, Mr.
Joseph T. Buckingham established the New Eng-
land Magazine, and applied to him for contribu-
tions, he sent for the opening number the first of
a series called ‘The Schoolmaster.” Five of these
papers followed, – the sixth appearing in Febru-
ary, 1833. They have nothing to do with educa-
tion, as the title might imply. They are scenes
from his travels in France and his walks in Paris,
and end at the gate of Père-la-chaise. They
were the first sketches for his Outre-Mer, and
VOL. I. — 13
I94 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, [1833.
they ceased when the first number of that work
came out in a pamphlet form." It was in marbled
covers; and in a large type, like the numbers of
the Sketch-Book. A second number followed, and
then the publication stopped, to be resumed and
completed in a book form two years later. The
author's name did not appear, but it was an open
secret. The numbers as they came out met with
favorable notices in the newspapers, some of them
very cordial. The charm, the transparency, the
animation of the style were recognized in all the
criticisms; almost always there was a reference to
Irving and the Sketch-Book. The Bath Inquirer
ventured to say, “A careful reading of the con-
tents fails not to meet our approbation, and we
recommend it for a place in the library of every
family.” A friendly review in the North Amer-
ican was written by Rev. W. O. B. Peabody.
It was in connection with the publication of
Outre-Mer that Mr. Longfellow began what be-
came a habit, — the collecting into a scrap-book
the newspaper criticisms upon his books. At the
beginning of this first one he printed as a title
“Puffs and Counterblasts,” and added a woodcut
of George Cruikshank’s, which represents a royal
personage feeding with pap an already over-fed
baby, while below stands a group of ragged chil-
dren lifting their haggard faces and emaciated
1 OUTRE-MER ; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. No. I. Boston :
Hilliard, Gray, and Co., 1833; pp. 107. No. II. Lilly, Wait, and
Co., 1834; pp. 108–208.
1833.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 195
hands in vain entreaty for a share of the pudding.
Another cut shows an excited cat looking at her
own reflection in a highly polished boot. A third
—a battle scene — may be supposed to figure some
fierce critical onslaught ; while on a later page —
was it some unconscious prescience that inserted a
distant view of Westminster Abbey 7
It was in connection, too, with the first number
of Outre-Mer that Mr. Longfellow for the first and
almost the only time — there was but one other —
appeared in public defence of himself against a criti-
cal charge." An article in the New York Atlas
brought against him the accusation of having
stolen the tale of ‘Martin Franc, or the Monk of
St. Anthony’ from George Colman’s ‘Knight and
Friar.’ The “Author of Outre-Mer ‘’ (using that
signature) replied that the story was a very an-
cient one, that it was professedly taken “from a
manuscript of the Middle Ages,” and that he had
found it in a collection of Fabliaua, and in several
other forms, – as far back, indeed, as the Little
Hunchback of the Arabian Nights. “Thus the
story,” he said, “has passed through as many
hands as did the body of Friar Gui. Mr. Colman
* The second instance was in 1845, when Mr. Poe charged him
with having passed off a ballad of Motherwell, “The Bonnie George
Campbell,’ with slight changes, as his own translation from the
German. Mr. Longfellow replied that he had found the ballad in
a German collection, with no indication of its being a translation,
and had put it into English without any idea of its origin. Mr.
Poe, as far as is known, took no notice of this explanation; though
the number of the Magazine containing it was noticed in his paper.
&
196 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1833.
evidently drew the incidents of the ‘Knight and
Friar' from the same source whence I drew those
of ‘Martin Franc. Unfortunately I was not aware
that any modern writer had availed himself of
this old fiction. . . . In this quarter,” he adds, “it
is quite an old story; the professor you speak of
has always cited it in his college lectures as a speci-
men of the fictions of the early poets of France.”
Outre-Mer, however, at first only a brochure, was
not Mr. Longfellow's first book. In his article on
“The Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain’ in the
North American, he had translated several stanzas
of the Coplas of Don Jorge Manrique, a monody
on the death of his father. He now completed
this translation, — there are forty-two stanzas in
all, - and adding a half dozen Sonnets from
Lope de Vega, Aldana, and Mendrano, and pre-
fixing a considerable part of the North American
article, he published the whole in a little volume,
with the Spanish original on the opposite pages.
This was his first book ; a thin volume of ninety
pages." The translation is more literal than pre-
vious English versions, but less strictly exact than
he would have made it in later years. In his
preface he says, –
As there are certain beauties of thought and expression
in a good original which cannot be fully represented in
1 Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique, translated from the Spanish
with an introductory essay. . . . By Henry W. Longfellow, Pro-
fessor of Modern Languages and Literature in Bowdoin College.
Boston : Allen & Ticknor, 1833.
1833.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN, COLLEGE, 197
the less flexible material of another language, [the trans-
lator] may at times be permitted to transgress the rigid
truth of language.
He illustrates this view by the parallel of the
sculptor who, unable in marble to represent the
human eye, may, by sinking it deeper or making
the brow more prominent, give, through the deep-
ened shade, more of the spirit and life of the
original than an exact copy of nature would have
done. “So,” he says, “I have occasionally used
the embellishment of an additional epithet or
more forcible turn of expression.” In later years
he adopted, as is known, a much stricter canon of
the translator's art.
From Professor Ticknor.
BOSTON, December 6, 1833.
DEAR SIR,--I received last summer, from your kind-
ness, a copy of Outre-Mer, which I read with great pleas-
ure, and have ever since been hoping to see the promise of
some new number. . . . A few days since, I received
through your publishers a copy of your translations from
the Spanish. They are more faithful and valuable than
either Bowring's, Lockhart's, or Lord Holland's; to say noth-
ing of those of Rodd and the early versifiers, which do not
deserve to be in any way compared with them. I cannot
help adding that I hope you will be induced to proceed
further both in prose and poetry. . . . In your versions
from the Spanish, you open a pure and lovely vein of rich
ore, little known to the world, but which runs very deep
into the mysteries of life and passion.
Will you not publish your dº. B. K. poem I have
heard only golden opinions of it from all quarters; and
198 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, [1834.
the more regret not having been present when it was
delivered.
Very sincerely, your friend and servant,
GEORGE TICKNOR.
The prevalent theological tone of the college
and the town was a pretty rigid Calvinism. “The
Unitarian Society,” of which Mr. Longfellow
spoke in one of his early letters, must have been
only an association among the students. After
his return to Brunswick a Unitarian church was
established there, small in numbers and humbly
housed, to which he gave the encouragement of
his attendance, his interest, and his purse. He
also took charge, at One time, of its Bible class,
and lent his aid to its choir.
To George W. Greene.
April 26, 1834.
The books have arrived safely, and I am as delighted
with them as a child with a new drum. The present, I
assure you, is most acceptable, and is of great value to me.
My review of Willis's poems, I regret to say, is still in
the inkstand. -
What you say concerning the impression which your
own writings leave upon your mind after the excitement
of composition is over, I am very glad that you can Say.
Woe be to you if it were otherwise It is, to be sure, a
cruel pang; it is one which I feel often, often, -every time
I open a page of my own writing. I console myself with
thinking — what is very true — that to be fully satisfied
with what one has done is but a bad prognostic of what
one is going to do. -
1834.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 199
I am much rejoiced at your enthusiasm on the subject
of Italian literature, and of a history of this beautiful
province of letters. Let me advise you to whisper it to
no one. Keep the plan a secret in your own bosom —
to think about when you are Sad. Believe me, these plans
we form are of so ethereal an essence, that the moment.
you uncork them the flavor escapes.
No news from Virginia. Oh, vile pen, ink, and paper!
I write this in agony.
To George W. Greene.
October 28, 1834.
It is somewhat past midnight by the clock, and before
me lies “The Journey into Italy’ [a chapter in Outre-Mer]
which I have just completed. The motto will give you the
character of the chapter. It is from Goethe's Faust —
“What I catch is at present only sketchways; but I pre-
pare myself betimes for the Italian journey.” . . . I only
touch the salient points, and that very lightly. My next
chapter will be ‘Rome in Summer.” The number on Spain
is finished. A thousand topics are touched upon, and I
consider this number far superior to either of the preced-
ing. The style is more spirited and vigorous, and the
subjects less familiar to most people. You see I am push-
ing on with vigor, and, unless the estro leaves me, I shall
have Italy finished before I write you again. There is
nothing like Writing when one is in the vein. The moment
you stop, you grow cool, and then it is all over with you.
And lo, as I write this, one lamp has shut its burning
eye, and the other begins to wink.
29th. Need I say how much pleasure we should take
in visiting you at your father's 2 But the cruel winter
Oh, no, my friend, it is impossible. Our visit shall be
a Summer visit ; SO as to give you an opportunity of
200 PROFESSOR, IN BOWDöIN COLLEGE. [1834.
drowning us in the Bay, in testimony of your skill as
Palinurus !
A new edition of the Vocabulario della Crusca is in press
at Florence.
There is no very good reason why two months should
elapse between our letters, is there ?
Mr. Longfellow had enjoyed the quiet and seclu-
sion of Brunswick. Nevertheless, after a while,
there are indications in his letters that he was
finding his situation there rather monotonous
and restricted. In 1832 he had written to a
friend, –
On commencing my professional duties, I was actuated
by the same feelings which seem now to influence you.
I sought retirement; and I am confident that I did wisely.
Next September completes three years that I have been
laboring on in this little solitude; and I now feel a strong
desire to tread a stage on which I can take longer strides
and speak to a larger audience.
Besides, the affairs of the college were not pros-
pering. The Legislature had refused much needed
appropriations to its treasury. There was trouble,
too, about the presidency, and an appeal to the
courts. In this condition of things Mr. Longfel-
low cast his eyes round in hope of bettering him-
self elsewhere. His friend, Mr. Greene, newly
returned from Europe, had suggested to him a
professorship in the New York University; and
there was a good deal of negotiation and corre-
spondence with the authorities there, and finally a
visit to New York; but after much delay and
1834.] PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE, 201
postponement, nothing came of it." There was
a plan for taking the Round Hill School in
Northampton, which Mr. Cogswell was about to
give up, but with a like result ; and a scheme for
a school in Boston with Mr. Greene, which also
came to nought. There were even some glances
toward the University of Virginia.
But one day the mail brought to Brunswick the
following letter from the President of Harvard
College : —
CAMBRIDGE, December 1, 1834.
DEAR SIR, - Professor Ticknor has given notice that it
is his intention to resign his office of Smith Professor of
Modern Languages in Harvard University, as soon as the
Corporation shall have fixed upon a successor.
The duty of nominating to that office devolves upon
me; and after great deliberation and inquiry my deter-
* It was in furtherance of this plan that Mr. Ticknor wrote a cor-
dial letter of recommendation, in which he said, - “Soon after he
was graduated at Brunswick, he became known to me by an interest
quite remarkable at his age, – and still more so, perhaps, from the
circumstances in which he was placed, - an interest, I mean, in the
early Provençal literature, and in the literatures of Spain and Italy.
He passed some time in France, and still more in Italy and in Spain;
and his knowledge of the language and literature of each of these
countries has, for several years past, seemed to me extraordinary.
He writes and speaks Spanish with a degree of fluency and exactness
which I have known in no American born of parents speaking Eng-
lish as their vernacular. His knowledge of Spanish literature is
extensive and to be relied upon ; and several publications he has made
on the subject have been accompanied with poetical translations of
much spirit and fidelity. Besides this, he is, for his years, an accom-
plished general scholar, particularly in modern literature, and full of
activity and eagerness in the pursuit of knowledge. His address and
manners are very prepossessing, his temper amiable, and his character
without blemish from his earliest years.”
202 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1834.
mination is made to nominate you for that office under
circumstances which render your appointment not doubt-
ful, - provided I receive a previous assurance from you
of your acceptance of it. To ascertain this is the object
of the present letter.
The salary will be fifteen hundred dollars a year.
Residence in Cambridge will be required. The duties
of the professorship will be of course those which are
required from the occupant of a full professorship, and
such as the Corporation and the Overseers may appoint.
If a relation such as I suggest with this University be
one acceptable to you, I shall be obliged by an early
3.0 SW6T.
Should it be your wish, previously to entering upon
the duties of the office, to reside in Europe, at your own
expense, a year or eighteen months for the purpose of a
more perfect attainment of the German, Mr. Ticknor will
retain his office till your return.
Very respectfully, I am
Yours, etc., etc.,
JOSIAH QUINCY.
This proposal was too agreeable to be otherwise
than accepted. “Good fortune comes at last,” —
he wrote to his father in communicating President
Quincy's letter, —“ and I certainly shall not reject
it. The last paragraph of the letter, though put
in the form of a permission, seems to imply a re-
quest. I think I shall accept that also.” It will
be remembered that during his visit in Europe Mr.
Longfellow had spent much less time in Germany
than in the Southern countries. He wished also
to make himself familiar with the Scandinavian
tongues.
1835.] BROFESSOR, IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 203
The nomination was undoubtedly owing to
Mr. Ticknor, whose opinion of his young friend's
ability and qualifications we have already seen. A
formal vote of the Corporation of the University
confirmed the President’s letter with the assur-
ance of an election on his return from Europe.
The Bowdoin professorship, which he had now
held for five and a half years, was resigned, the
household broken up, and in April, 1835, accom-
panied by his wife and two young ladies, friends
of hers, he set sail from New York in the packet-
ship Philadelphia, Captain Morgan.
Before leaving he had arranged with the Har-
pers for the publication of Outre-Mer, in two
volumes.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN ENGLAND AND NORTHERN EUROPE.
1835.
IN London Mr. Longfellow stayed about three
weeks. Here he made many pleasant acquaint-
ances, – breakfasting with Sir John Bowring ;
dining with Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart; spending an
evening at Mr. Babbage's, where were Miss Jane
Porter, Lady Morgan, Mr. Hayward the translator
of Faust, and Mrs. Blackwood and Lady Seymour,
the reigning beauties. At the house of Lady Dud-
ley Stuart, daughter of Lucien Bonaparte, he heard
Rubini and Grisi sing. But of more interest than
all these was the acquaintance of the Carlyles, to
whom he brought an introduction from Mr. Emer-
son, whose visit at Craigenputtoch was remem-
bered by Mrs. Carlyle as “the visit of an angel.”
Mrs. Longfellow wrote: —
Mr. Carlyle, of Craigenputtoch, was soon after an-
nounced, and passed a half-hour with us much to our
delight. He has very unpolished manners and a broad
Scottish accent, but such fine language and beautiful
thoughts that it is truly delightful to listen to him. He
1835.] IN ENGLAND AND NORTHERN EUROPE. 205
invited us to take tea with them at Chelsea, where they
now reside. We were as much charmed with Mrs. C.
as with her husband. She is a lovely woman, with very
simple and pleasing manners. She is also very talented
and accomplished; and how delightful it is to see such
modesty combined with such power to please. On Tues-
day we visit Chantrey's studio with them.
There were visits, also, among the booksellers
and publishers. With Bentley he made arrange-
ments for an edition of Outre-Mer." ^
On the ninth of June Mr. Longfellow and his
party took the steamer for Hamburg; and thence
journeyed to Copenhagen, and to Stockholm, where
the midsummer months were to be spent. At
Lydköping he could read with perfect ease in the
public square at midnight, and hear the watchman
cry aloud from the church-tower, four times toward
the four quarters of the heavens, his chant, —
“Ho, watchman, ho! Twelve the clock hath
stricken. God keep our town from fire and
brand and enemy's hand l’’
On the way he noted the groves of pine and
drooping fir-trees with rose-colored cones; the
troops of white-haired boys and girls hurrying to
open the frequent gates; the civility of the peas-
ants; the timber houses painted red; the beauty
of the summer night, which was not night but
sunless and unclouded day, - a long mild twilight,
which like a silver clasp united the day with
* A notice in the London Spectator closed with these words:
“Either the author of the Sketch-Book has received a warning, or
there are two Richmonds in the field.”
206 IN NORTELERN EUROPE. [1835.
yesterday. From the scenes of this journey he wove
the charming description of rural life in Sweden
with which he prefaced his article upon Tegnér's
Frithiofs Saga in the North American Review."
Reaching Stockholm at the end of June, he at
once presented his letters of introduction. He
made the acquaintance of Berzelius, of Liljogren,
of Professor Schröder, of Mellin the clergyman
and poet, and of some of the younger literati.
He met Mr. Hughes, then the American minister,
and Mr. Appleton, formerly chargé d'affaires ; Mr.
Arfwedson, whose wife was an American lady,
and Baron Stackelbach, who had been for many
years Swedish minister at Washington. He found
himself received with most cordial and friendly
hospitality, - “They are unwearied in their atten-
tions.” .
He was somewhat scandalized to find the clergy-
men smoking in the streets, drinking punch in the
cafés, and playing cards on Sunday. The peas-
antry, spite of their courtesy, seemed “dull and
lumpish.”
Established in Stockholm, he immediately be-
gan his studies in Swedish, under the direction of
Professor Lignel of the University of Upsala, who
was passing his summer vacation in the capital.
Mellin gave him lessons in Finnish, which he
found “abounding in vowels.”
1 N. A. R., July, 1837. This description was afterwards reprinted
as a preface to the translation of ‘The Children of the Lord's Sup-
per' in Ballads and Other Poems.
1835.] IN NORTHERN EUROPE. 207
“The Swedish language,” he wrote, “is soft and
musical, with an accent like the lowland Scotch.
It is an easy language to read, but difficult to
speak with correctness, owing to some grammati-
cal peculiarities. Its literature swarms with trans-
lations. Cooper and Irving are well known, most
of their works having been translated, and are
read with delight. I have also a Swedish copy
of Slidell's Year in Spain. Sweden has one great
poet, and only one. That is Tegnér, Bishop of
Wexió, who is still living. His noblest work is
Frithiofs Saga, a heroic poem, founded on an old
tradition. Franzén, Stagnelius, Bellman, Atter-
bom, Nicander, — these are other Scalds of the
North ; and then there are a multitude of Small
authorlings.” Nicander he had met in Italy in
1829.
In August he made an excursion to Upsala to
visit the University. He found the professors re-
ceiving their salary in corn, which was sold for
them by an appointed agent, their salary depend-
ing upon the market price; for private instruction
they received thirty-seven cents an hour. In the
Library he of course looked over the famous Codex
Argenteus of the sixth century; and in the cathe-
dral saw an ancient wooden image of the god Thor.
The new Library, with its handsome staircase of
marble, was yet unfinished, and only the six thou-
sand MSS. were upon its shelves. The botanical
garden had its memories of Linnaeus and also his
statue. But the summer was cold and rainy.
208 IN NORTHERN EUROPE. [1835.
“Winter,” said the Spanish minister, “has de-
cided to pass the summer here.”
Leaving Stockholm at the end of August for
Copenhagen, he was detained a week in the pretty
town of Gothenburg waiting for a steamboat.
Gothenburg, September 2. We arrived last evening from
Stockholm, having passed through the great Gotha Canal
and the large lakes of the interior. It is about three hun-
dred miles; but Owing to the great number of locks and
the difficult navigation of the lakes, we were six days on
the way. There are seventy-two locks. The canal is a
noble work. -
3d. Called upon Olof Wijk, to whom I have a letter of
introduction. A giant in person, and a pleasant giant,
withal. He came this evening with his carriage and took
us out into the environs. Every landscape near the town
has something wild about it; some huge, round sterile
hill or barren crag,- something of untamed and untama-
ble nature. This gives striking contrasts at every view.
The town itself is well built, the houses being finer than
those in Stockholm.
Arrived in Copenhagen he writes —
To his Father.
September 20, 1835.
With Copenhagen I am much delighted. It is a finely
built city, with spacious streets and handsome houses. In
parts, however, it has a desolate look. There is a marble
church, half built and falling to decay; and they will get
quite a crop of grass this year from the great paved square
in front of the Palace. Put other quarters are more lively.
There is a library of four hundred thousand volumes; a
crowd of literary men, and a great deal of mental activity.
1835.] IN NORTHERN EUROPE. 209
I brought letters to Molbech, Thomsen, Rafn, and Finn
Mágnussen. Rafn is a historian, and editor of old Ice-
landic books, which he transcribes from the MSS. of which
the libraries are full, - a tall, thin man, with white hair
standing out in all directions like a brush. His eyes are
always wide open, like a man who sees a ghost. He is
a very friendly, pleasant man, and gives me lessons in
Icelandic. Finn Mágnussen is one of the great scholars of
the North; an Icelander by birth, and learned in the lit-
erature, language, and antiquities of his native island, - a
man of medium stature, with high cheek-bones and a
tawny skin.
He took lessons in Danish from Mr. Bolling, one
of the librarians, and found it to have an unpleas-
ant burr, in comparison with the soft and beautiful
Swedish. Hearing one day the national air of
Kong Christian" from some strolling musicians in
a coffee-house, he looked up the words, by Evald,
and translated them. With Professor Thomsen he
visited the great Museum of Northern Antiquities,
with its collections from pagan times and the ages
of chivalry. Going with Professor Rafn to the
University library in the Round Tower, which is
climbed by a spiral inclined plane in place of a
staircase, he found there a hundred thousand vol-
umes and a large collection of Icelandic MSS.
Before leaving Copenhagen, after a delightful fort-
night, he was, on Professor Rafn’s nomination,
made a member of the Royal Society of Northern
Antiquities.
1 “King Christian stood by the lofty mast.”
VOL. I. — 14
210 IN NORTHERN EUROPE. [1835.
Reaching Amsterdam on the first of October, he
was detained there for nearly a month by the ill-
ness of his wife. He occupied this enforced leisure
in studying the Dutch language and its literature;
in haunting the booksellers and buying old books
of the Jews. His wife having recovered, they
resumed their journey by the Hague and Delft.
To his Father.
ROTTERDAM, October 12, 1835.
From Hamburg we took the steamer for Amsterdam,
having relinquished the idea of passing the winter at
Berlin. The objects I had in view could be equally well
accomplished in a pleasanter and cheaper place. That
place is Heidelberg, on the Neckar, the seat of a uni-
versity, and renowned for its beautiful situation. We
have now been a month in Holland. I have been buying
books for the college, and studying the Dutch language, –
in sound the most disagreeable I remember to have heard,
except the Russian. It is, however, a very important lan-
guage to me, being of all the modern Gothic tongues the
one which bears the strongest resemblance to the mother-
tongue from which they all come. It has also a strong
affinity with our own.
At the Hague we stopped but one day. I think it a
very beautiful place, and our lodgings were in the most
beautiful part of it, at the “Niewe Doelen,” with windows
looking out on the Vijverburg. The park, too, is mag-
nificent; the foliage of the large trees bronzed by Sun and
wind, the walks all carpeted with yellow leaves; under the
trees the little blue lake, the rustic bridges, and the seats.
About the time that Outre-Mer was published in Amer-
ica, a work on the West Indies with the same title made
its appearance in Paris.
1835.] IN NORTHERN EUROPE. 211
In Rotterdam his wife again fell ill.
To his Father.
ROTTERDAM, November 26.
. . . My own health is perfectly good. I pass most of
my time in reading and writing, having one or two ac-
quaintances here who supply me with books. The most
agreeable and friendly man I have met here is an English
clergyman, Dr. Bosworth, known in the literary world by
an Anglo-Saxon grammar. He is now publishing a
dictionary of the same language. Rotterdam is rather a
pretty place. The houses are large, and many of them
fine; and there are public walks on the banks of the river,
though at this season the trees are bare and black.
28th. I am much grieved to say that Mary is not so
well to-day. She is very feeble, and the physicians tell
me that her situation is dangerous. My anxiety is very
great. She suffers no pain, and is perfectly calm, but
does not regain her strength. . . . It is a great comfort to
have C. with us. She takes the place of a sister and does
all she can to comfort and soothe us.
On the 29th Mrs. Longfellow died, “closing her
peaceful life by a still more peaceful death; and
though called away when life was brightest, yet
going without a murmur and in perfect willingness
to the bosom of her God.”
CHAPTER XV.
WINTER AND SPRING IN HEIDELBERG.
1835–1836.
ON the second of December Mr. Longfellow left
Rotterdam for Heidelberg. At Dusseldorf, stopping
for half an hour, he strayed into a Roman Catholic
church ; and the Solemn stillness at the elevation
of the Host, the kneeling crowd, and the soft, sub-
duing hymn, chanted to the music of the organ,
soothed and cheered him. Sunday found him in the
cathedral of Bonn. Spending a day here, he called
upon August Wilhelm Schlegel, the translator of
Shakespeare, then a man bowed under some three-
score years, with an intellectual and pleasant coun-
tenance and courteous manners. In the afternoon,
taking a carriage with his companion, he resumed
his journey along the Rhine, and passed the night
at Rolandseck, in a pleasant little inn upon the
river-bank, looking out upon the island and Kloster
Nonnenwerth. The next morning he rose before
daybreak, and opening his window in the chill
and misty morning, listened to the rushing of the
Rhine. The day dawned slowly, and Drachenfels
1835.] WINTER AND SPRING IN HEIDELBERG. 213
stood opposite in its hood of mist, like a monk,
solemn and severe. Leaving Rolandseck at an
early hour, our traveller stopped in Andernach at
noon, and reached Coblenz in the afternoon in
time to cross the river and stand upon the espla-
made of Ehrenbreitstein in the gathering twi-
light. The next day's journey was from Coblenz
to Bingen, stopping on the way to climb through
the falling snow to the ruins of castle Stolzenfels,
not then restored. At Salzig, while the landlady
of the picturesque Star on the river-bank was get-
ting dinner, there was time to cross the river and
climb the steep and stony path to the ruins of
“the Brothers,” and down the defile beyond to the
Kloster, under the walnut-trees of Kamp, whose
bells were ringing noon. Passing through May-
ence without stopping, and at Worms the next
day only long enough to visit the cathedral, at
evening our travellers reached Mannheim. Here
they stayed only to change horses, and hurried
on to Heidelberg. It was night when they drove
through the long Hauptstrasse and alighted at the
Prinz Karl.
After a few days Mr. Longfellow established
himself in pleasant rooms in the house of Frau
Himmelhahn, toward the end of the Hauptstrasse
near the Karls Thor. His windows looked out
upon the river, commanding a grand prospect.
At the back of the house a path led steeply
up to the garden terrace of the castle. In
this house he met, as fellow-lodgers, Professor
214 WINTER AND SPRING IN HEIDELBERG, [1885.
Bertrand of the University, and the Russian Baron
Von Ramm, whose quiet tone and gentle manners
attracted him, and who became the companion of
many a ramble. To Mittermaier, the famed law-
professor, “a man of expanded views and leader
of the liberals,” he had brought an introduction
from Dr. Lieber. He became acquainted with
Gervinus, then young but already known by his
writings on German literature ; with Schlosser,
the Professor of Modern History, who reminded
him of Judge Story; and with Reichlin-Meldegg,
who was lecturing on Shakespeare and Schiller.
He heard the venerable-looking Thibaut lecture
upon the Pandects; and met, on the Anlage, Paulus,
the rationalistic theologian, too old now to lecture.
Dr. Umbreit showed him the manuscripts in the
University library, - some of Luther's sermons,
and portions of his translation of the Bible, – and
offered him the use of any of his books that were
not in the library, to whose shelves the Pro-rector
Bähr, the librarian, gave him free access.
At this time, too, he made the acquaintance of
his countryman, Mr. Bryant. A lover of his
poetry, the poet he had never met. Learning
that he was in Heidelberg with his family, he
called upon him, was cordially received, and his
visit immediately returned. This was followed
by other meetings and some long walks over the
hills. The mild, expressive eye, the calm counte-
nance, the thoughtful spirit of the author of
* Thanatopsis’ were very attractive to him. But
1835.] WINTER IN HEIDELIBERG. 215
at the end of January Mr. Bryant was unexpect-
edly called home, and they seldom met afterwards,
though an occasional letter passed between them.
Mrs. Bryant remained at Heidelberg through the
winter with her daughters. And one evening at
her lodgings Mr. Longfellow met Mr. Sam. Ward,
of New York, a cousin of his friend Mr. Greene,
and began a long intimacy with him.
Of course, there were lonely hours which no
Society could fill. But sometimes into these came
the sense and assurance of the spiritual presence
of her who had loved him and who loved him
still, and whose dying lips had said, “I will be
with you and watch over you; ” and he repeated
the hymn which had soothed her last hours, –
Father, I thank Thee ; may no thought
E'er deem thy chastisement severe;
But may this heart, by sorrow taught,
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.
or at midnight recalled a favorite verse from
Watts, –
Cold mountains and the midnight air
Witnessed the fervor of thy prayer;
The desert thy temptation knew, -
Thy conflict, and thy victory too.
Christmastide came with its festivals. For the
first time he saw the Weihnachtsbaum, the Christmas-
tree, which was then unknown in America. But
festivals are the renewers of sorrow to those who
mourn. And Christmas Eve brought a new grief,
in a letter telling him of the death of his brother-
216 WINTER IN HEIDELBERG. [1835.
in-law and dearest friend, George W. Pierce." He
received it as an added admonition “to set about
the things he had to do in greater earnestness.”
And so ended the year, begun with new hopes
and bright prospects, shutting down over a sorrow
that well-nigh broke the springs of action, but
which he bore with courage and with a silent,
tender, religious faith. “Henceforth let me bear
upon my shield the holy cross.”
He did not let his sorrows absorb him, or lead
him into listless idleness. His friend, Mr. Ticknor,
had written to him from Dresden, “I pray God to
give you that support without which all external
consolation is idle and unavailing. Give yourself
to constant and interesting intellectual labor; you
will find it will go further than any other merely
human means; at least such is my experience.”
He applied himself diligently to books. With the
opening of the new year he began a careful study
of German literature from its origin, making full
1 Nearly twenty years after, he paid this tribute to his friend: “I
have never ceased to feel that in his death something was taken from
my own life which could never be restored. I have constantly in
my memory his beautiful and manly character, frank, generous,
impetuous, gentle; by turns joyous and sad, mirthful and serious;
elevated by the consciousness of power, depressed by the misgiv-
ings of self-distrust; but always kind, always courteous; and, above
all, noble in thought, word, and deed. Such was the friend of my
youth, of whom I have said elsewhere, —
FIe, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife, –
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life.”
1836.] WINTER IN HEIDELIBERG. 217
notes of his reading. As he says of Paul Flem-
ming, into whose experiences he afterwards wove
much of his own at this time, with such modifica-
tions as the exigencies of fiction suggested, -he
“buried himself in books, in old, dusty books.
He worked his way diligently through the ancient
poetic lore of Germany, into the bright sunny land
where walk the modern bards and sing.” Among
the “modern bards” was Salis, whose ‘Song of the
Silent Land’ he translated at this time. He did
not, of course, confine himself to poetry, but read
the prose of Goethe, Tieck, Hoffmann. But most
of all did he take delight in Jean Paul Richter,
attracted by his sentiment, his pathos, his humor,
his prodigal fancy, though annoyed sometimes with
his freaks.
To George W. Greene, in Florence.
January 22, 1836.
Oh, my dear George, what have I not suffered during
the last three months and I have no friend with me to
cheer and console me. . . . I am most sincerely grieved
to hear of the cause of your leaving home. Mr. Ticknor
writes me that it is on account of ill-health. Be careful.
Above all, put your heart at ease, and banish that “cor-
roding ambition” which you speak of Oh! I wish I
could be with you, could speak with you one half-hour.
I think I could set the matter in such a point of view
that you would feel the tooth of the destroyer no more.
You have a higher and nobler motive of action within
you, believe me; look into your own heart, and you will
find the motive there. It is the love of what is intel-
lectual and beautiful; the love of literature; the love of
218 WINTER IN EIEIDELIBERG. [1836,
high converse with the minds of the great and good; and
then, the speaking the truth in what you write and thereby
exercising a good influence on those about you, bringing
them, as far as you may, to feel a sympathy with all that
“is lovely and of good report.” Think of this, and your
heart will be lighter. For my own part, I feel at this
moment more than ever that fame must be looked upon
only as an accessory. If it has ever been a principal ob-
ject with me — which I doubt — it is so no more.
To his Father.
HEIDELBERG, January 24, 1836.
It is now two months since I have written you, and yet
I have hardly courage to begin this letter. I feel very
lonely and dejected, and the recollection of the last three
months of my life overwhelms me with unceasing sorrow.
Every day makes me more conscious of the loss I have
suffered in Mary's death; and when I think how gentle
and affectionate and good she was, every moment of her
life, even to the last, and that she will be no more with
me in this world, – the sense of my bereavement is deep
and unutterable.
You can well imagine that it requires a great effort for
me to discipline my thoughts to regular study. I am
doing, however, all that I can. Fortunately, Heidelberg
is a very beautiful place. The town stands between steep
and high mountains on the Neckar, just where the valley,
before so narrow that you can almost throw a Stone across,
spreads out trumpet-mouthed into the broad plain of the
Rhine. The change in the face of the landscape is sudden
and beautiful, - no gradual transition, with broken arid
irregular hills, but the mountains go down with one
grand sweep into the plain. Overlooking the town stand
the ruins of a magnificent old castle, –the finest I have
1836.] WINTER IN HEIDELBERG. 219
seen in Europe, excepting the Alhambra. Indeed, the
whole scene reminds me of Granada, and the valley of the
Darro, and is hardly less beautiful.
The University of Heidelberg is celebrated as a law
school, having three very great men in this Faculty, -
Mittermaier, Thibaut, and Zaccharie. Its literary Faculty
is null and void; though the library is large and good,
and very rich in old manuscripts. The students are not
very numerous, – about four hundred. They smoke in
the streets, and even in the lecture-rooms. The people in
general seem to be rather limited in their notions; and
one of the professors' wives said the other day that in
America the ladies sit with their feet out of the
window !
Mr. Bryant, the poet, who has been here through the
winter, leaves town for America to-morrow ; affairs of
importance requiring his immediate return. His family
remains here till spring. Professor Ticknor is in Dresden,
but will be here in the spring on his way to Italy. My
friend Greene has established himself in Florence.
The news of George's sickness and death was most un-
expected. I warmly sympathize with you all in this great
affliction; and desire most ardently to be with you once
more. At most, it will not be long; only a few months
after this letter reaches you. And then will end a tour
which has been productive of very little pleasure and
much pain.
The short winter was over, and March came
bringing the early spring. Windows were opened,
and through them came the warm air and the
smell of the fresh-turned earth as the gardeners
began their work. Boys offered flowers for sale
in the streets, –“ pinks such as I used to take
220 SPRING IN HEIDELIBERG. [1836.
to church when a boy.” The almond-trees blos-
somed. Long walks began to be taken, oftenest
with his friend the Baron, — to Handschuhsheim,
to Rohrbach, with its silver waterfalls and old
mill, to the Königsstuhl tower on the mountain
top. Many hours were spent in solitary rambles in
the neighboring woods which were daily growing
greener, in sketching among the castle ruins, or
enjoying the magnificent views from its terraces.
Under the garden trees he read Herder. Sitting
on the benches of the road that climbs to the
Wolfsbrunnen, Richter's Kampamer-Thal is his
companion. Spring brings the wandertrieb, -
the longing to be on the wing. In April, with
three friends, he made a trip to Frankfort, — a
four days’ excursion, — along the lovely Berg-
strasse, with the cherry-blossoms shining over-
head and whitening the plain below “like a
silver mist.” At Frankfort was the annual fair,
and the statue of Ariadne, and Goethe's house;
and he stayed over a day to hear his favorite
opera, Don Giovanni.
By the end of April the nightingales had begun
their song in the castle-grounds, and were heard
by day and night in the house under the hill.
Crowds began to fill the garden-alleys in the
evenings, sipping tea under the blossoming trees,
and listening to the horn-players instead of the
nightingales. Only in the mornings could he now
be solitary there. In May he heard Händel's
Judas Maccabeus rendered by five hundred musi-
1836.] SPRING IN HEIDELIBERG. 221
cians in the castle court-yard. But for Oratorios
he never had much liking, remembering, perhaps,
how in his youth he had heard the choruses
shouted and screamed under the low ceiling of
Beethoven Hall. It was pleasanter for him, now,
to walk up the Philosophen Weg, across the river,
and through the woods to the Angel's Meadow —
the Engel Wiese — on the brow of the hill of
All Saints, where bloomed the forget-me-nots, and
where his initials may possibly be found carved
on one of the beech-trees; then down by Kloster
Neuburg to sup on bread and milk at the Stifts-
miihle, and back to town in a boat down the
Neckar, while the cuckoos sang, and the German
girls questioned them in the traditional rhyme.
Or he drove to Weinheim and into the Birkenauer
Thal beside the rushing Wechnitz, and climbed
to the ruins of Windeck. Once he went to Mann-
heim to see Nathan der Weise enacted by the cele-
brated Esslaer, then seventy years old.
In June, he made an excursion to the baths of
Ems, in company with Mrs. Bryant and some other
friends. At Mayence he saw the cathedral, the
turkey-cock beadle, the cloisters of St. Willigis,
and the tomb of Frauenlob the Minnesinger, with
his fine serious face carved in relief, and, below,
the women bearing him to the tomb. At the table
d'hôte of the Rheinischer Hof he drank the Lau-
benheimer wine of the neighborhood; but it was
not there, but at Heidelberg, that he sat beside
the man “with broad, smooth forehead and large
222 SPRING IN HEIDELIBERG. [1836.
intelligent eyes,”—a tradesman with the head of
a scholar, - who entertained him with personal
reminiscences of Jean Paul, as described in
Hyperion.
Returned to Heidelberg, he still found himself
restless. He began to long for home, and yet
dreaded the return alone. He had never been
in Switzerland, and determined upon a journey
thither, passing through the Tyrol.
To George W. Greene (in Florence).
HEIDELBERG, June 5, 1836.
. . . I foresee, by the way in which I have commenced
this letter, that it will not be worth the trouble of reading.
I think one feels from the very first word whether he is
going to Write a letter, properly so called, or only a thing
With a date at one end of it and a “Yours and so forth *
at the other. The Soul betrays itself as well in the move-
ment of a pen as in a glance of the eye. I am on the
eve of my departure for Munich. I wish I could say
Florence; but, alas, that lies not in the circle of prob-
abilities; though my very Soul languishes for “a beaker
full of the warm South.” From Munich I intend to go
[through the Tyrol] to Milan; then to cross the Simplon
into Switzerland, return to Heidelberg, and, after a few
days’ tarry, start for home by way of Paris. Come to
Milan, that we may pass a day or two together. . . . Your
cousin, Sam. Ward, has met with a very serious accident.
On his way to Paris he fell from his carriage and injured
his knee so badly that he was confined a month in Luxem-
bourg, from which place he wrote me. He holds you in
high esteem; so does Felton. See what he says in his
last letter to me: “Greene has uncommon talent. His
1836.] SPRING IN HEIDELBERG. 223
article in the North American on Macchiavelli is ad-
mirable.” . . . It is of great importance for a man to
know how he stands with his friends; at least, I think so.
Through good report and through evil report, the voice
of a friend has a wonder-working power; and from the
very hour we hear it, “the fever leaves us.”
You ask for German catalogues with prices. Infatuated
young man | Did you not know that Germany is full of
antiquarian booksellers, from whom you can obtain every-
thing you want at about half the price marked in the
trade-catalogues? . . . The new works are all dear. Every
little authorling sets a price upon his writings which would
astonish you. Since I last wrote you I have met with a
serious loss. Two large boxes of books, mostly Dutch, –
ponderous folios with brass clasps and curious engravings,
a treasure in their way, - all gone down into the great
deep; food for fishes . The vessel sank in sight of Boston
harbor, and went to the bottom “with man and mouse.”
And thus my epistle takes an end. You must come to
Milan. The Lago di Como is beautiful; and the Alps, sub-
lime. You have seen them only once; to me it will be
all new.
CHAPTER XVI.
IN TYROL AND SWITZERLAND.
1836.
IT was near the end of June that Mr. Longfellow
left Heidelberg for the Tyrol. Spending the Sun-
day in Stuttgard he heard Luther's hymn “Ein
feste Burg’ sung by the congregation; but, tiring
of the long sermon, he left the church and went
to visit the veteran Sculptor Dannecker, of whose
Ariadne he was so great an admirer. He found
him a man of seventy-eight years, with white locks
flowing over his shoulders, a mild blue eye, and a
profile recalling Franklin. He tried in vain to
find Uhland. From Augsburg he caught the first
sight of the Tyrolean mountains, their Snowy sum-
mits flushed by the setting sun. In Munich he
was most delighted with the exquisite work and
Superb colossal figures of the bronze monument to
the emperor Ludwig, in the cathedral; with the
statues of the Glyptothek; with Schnorr's frescos
from the Nibelungen in the Royal Palace; and
with the English Garden, laid out under the direc-
tion of his countryman, Count Rumford, whose
1836.] IN TYROL. 225
monument therein he transferred to his sketch-
book.
In the diligence from Munich to Salzburg he met
with Grillparzer, the Viennese poet, and found him
a very agreeable companion. Salzburg charmed
him with its beautiful situation ; but its chimes
recalled too painfully those of Holland. Leaving
the next day for Ischl, he had for his companion
Mr. K., the intelligent, good-hearted, and eccen-
tric Englishman who figures in Hyperion as Mr.
Berkley, and who really ate his breakfast at
St. Gilgen in the hydropathic fashion there de-
scribed. It was a disappointment at Ischl not to
find Mr. Ticknor, whom he had expected there;
and, disliking the crowd and the too city-like
aspect of the watering-place, he returned at once
to St. Gilgen, and the Gasthaus zur Post with its
sun-dial and the half-effaced painting of a bear-
hunt on the outside. It was at this time that,
coming back from a walk to the lake, he saw the
funeral procession of a child passing through the
arched opening under the belfry into the church-
yard. And it was in this church-yard that he read,
on the wall of its little chapel, the inscription
which he afterward made the motto of Hyperion,
and which has been the watch-word of life to so
many who read it in those pages. It is a little
mortuary chapel, holding a few rude wooden seats,
and having an extraordinary frieze of human skulls
arranged just under its ceiling. There are several
funeral tablets affixed to the walls, and on one of
VOL. I. — 15
226 IN TYROL. [1836.
these — a tablet of metal, not marble — is the in-
scription, which in full is this, –
Hier ruhet die Asche des Hochedelgeboren Herrn
Tinzens Kayetan von Sonnenburg. Er verstarb den
24ten November 1809 in Seinen 37sten Lebensjahre.
Herr, lass ihm in Frieden ruhen und verleihe ihm.
einstens eine fréhliche Auferstehung.
>{
Blicke nicht trauernd in die Vergangenheit,
sie kommt nicht wieder; nütze weise die Gegenwart,
sie ist dein; der distern Zukunft geh ohne
Furcht mit mannlichen Sinne entgegen.”
On the sixth of July, having bidden farewell to
the eccentric Englishman and to St. Gilgen, “one of
the few spots to which I say farewell with regret,”
at Salzburg he took the Eilwagen and drove through
the magnificent passes of Unken and Waidering
to Innsbruck. Many things in this Tyrol jour-
ney had reminded him of New England, - the
pines and fir-trees, the wooden houses, fences, and
bridges, the fields of Indian corn.
It will be remembered that he was on his way
to Milan. At Innsbruck he had concluded a bar-
gain with an Italian vetturino to take him to
1 Here repose the ashes of the high-noble-born Lord Tinzens
Kayetan von Sonnenburg. He died the 24th of November, 1809,
in the 37th year of his life. LORD, let him rest in peace, and grant to
him at last a joyful resurrection.
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.
1836.] IN TYROL. 227
Botzen on his way into Italy. But a trifle may
often change one's plans, and sometimes with im-
portant results. At the police office they refused
for some reason to viser his passport for Italy.
In vain he remonstrated; they would only sign
it for Switzerland, and to Switzerland he must go.
So, after looking at the fine bronze statues that
guard the tomb of Maximilian in the Kapuciner
Church," and sketching an outline of that of
Alfred, he set out in the afternoon by post for
Bregenz, along the banks of the Inn. Night
came on with a storm; thunder bells were ring-
ing, peasants kneeling and praying by the road-
side, and he woke at midnight to see that they
were passing a church-yard with a lamp burning
before an image of the Madonna. His com-
panions were some Prussian officers. Crossing
Lake Constance he visited the Schaffhausen Falls
in company with Herr Ruhl, the court architect
of Hesse Cassel, and enjoyed, with the help of his
German guide-book, that “powerful water-mass
of the Rhine which dashes, with thunder-like,
three-miles-distant-audible, rushing, and mighty
dust-rain, over a seventy-five-to-eighty-feet-high
rock-wall downward.” From Zurich his way led
over the Righi to Arth and the Tell scenes, on
the shores of the Lake of Lucerne; then up the
Reussthal to Andermatt. There he parted with
his pleasant companion and took his way alone
on foot over the Furca pass. On the afternoon
* Spoken of, long after, in his lines on the death of Bayard Taylor.
228 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
of the 16th of July, he was looking back from
the steep Maienwand to see the Rhone glacier
“lying like a glove with its palm downward, and
the fingers crooked and close, – a gauntlet of ice
which centuries ago Winter threw down in defiance
to the Sun.”
The rest of this journey we are able to read
in his own words.
Journal.
Monday, July 18. Left the Grimsel Hospice at six in
the morning and reached Handeck at eight. At Handeck
is the finest water-fall I have seen in Switzerland. The
river Aar pitches down a precipice of nearly two hundred
feet into a narrow and fearful abyss, and at right angles
with it comes the Aerlenbach, a beautiful mountain-
brook; half-way down, the double water-fall mingles into
one. It is far more beautiful than the fall at Schaff-
hausen, though not so abundant in water. Reached the
pleasant village of Meyringen at two o'clock, having
walked a distance of twenty-four miles over stones and
hot sand, and most of the way down steep hills. Mey-
ringen lies on the banks of the Aar, in the Haslithal, with
water-falls tumbling from the hills on each side of it. Of
these the Reichenbach is the most picturesque. It is a
sheet of foam. It looks not unlike the spire of a Gothic
church inverted, with its numerous crockets and little
spires. After lunching, I took a char-d-bane, a vehicle
which somewhat resembles a pulpit on wheels, continued
my journey to Brienz, and crossed the lake to the falls
of the Giessbach. I have seen so many water-falls to-day
that my brain grows dizzy at the thought. And yet, a
water-fall in a green quiet landscape is my great delight;
and when I see these streams revelling in their freedom,
1836.] IN SWITZERLAND. 229
and sliding down the mountain-side, leaping and shouting,
all life and gladness, I envy them their play and wish I
could be their playmate. We continued our sail along
the lake to the village of Bönigen, where we passed the
night at an inn on the shores of the lake.
19th. Drove up the Lauterbrunnen Thal. . . . Turned
back and went up the valley of Lütschinen to Grindel-
wald, where we cooled ourselves by the great glacier,
upon whose top stood pyramids and blocks of ice like
tombstones in a cemetery. From Bönigen to Interlaken,
where we passed the night.
20th. Drove over to Neuhaus in the morning to take
the steamboat for Thun. The Lake of Thun is more beau-
tiful, I think, than that of Brienz, and the town of Thun
has one of the loveliest situations imaginable. At the
Hotel Bellevue I met Mr. Appleton, of Boston, going with
his family to Interlaken. How unlucky I am in not
having met them there! I had but a few moments’ con-
versation with him and was off for Berne, this curious old
city. Oh, what a solitary, lonely being I am / Why do
I travel ? Every hour my heart aches.
21st. Left Berne for Lausanne. Avenches and Payerne
are pretty towns in the Pays de Vaud, a French canton.
You have here little to remind you that you are in
Switzerland; only occasionally a farm-house with over-
hanging eyebrows says, “I am Swiss.” The language is
a French patois. The approach to the Lake of Geneva
by this road is beautiful. Half-way down the hill stands
the city of Lausanne, not on the lake, but overlooking it,
with terraces and gardens. No. 11, at the Falcon, is my
dwelling-place for the night.
22d. This is an excellent hotel, and No. 11 a nice little
room. I have just returned from a walk through the town.
I have seen no town in Switzerland which pleases me half
so much. In order to see things expeditiously I was
230 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
obliged to take a cicerone, – an arrangement which gives
me no pleasure. It always reminds me of Horace's “black
care” sitting on the horseman's crouper; which will pass
for a classical allusion, in a journal where no other is to
be found. . . . From Gibbon's house I passed to the public
promenade; then through cross streets to the university,
on whose porch I saw a list of prizes for various literary
performances. The highest offered was eighty francs for
the best poem on the Youth of Jeanne d'Arc. The other
prizes were for Criticism on the New Testament, Mathe-
matics, History, etc., from forty to sixty francs. Close by
the university, on a terrace looking down upon the roofs
of the town, stands the cathedral. There are tombs, with
marble figures lying upon them, whose features have been
hardly less effaced by time than the mouldering forms
in the vaults beneath. Here also are monuments of many
Englishmen; among others, a marble urn and pedestal
in memory of the wife of Stratford Canning. Tears
started to my eyes when I read the inscription. . . . A
Gothic cathedral is always a work of wonder and delight.
The Gothic style is to me the most beautiful.
Took the steamer for Vevay. I was disappointed in the
shores of the lake as seen from the boat. There are too few
trees, and the hills around look sterile, though the landscape
is sprinkled with villages, and the slopes are covered with
vineyards. At Vevay jumped into a cabriolet and drove
to Chillon, passing through Clarens. There is a little
tavern on the shore whose sign is the “Bosquet de Julie,”
and opposite rise the cliffs of Meillerie. The château of
Chillon is not so picturesque in reality as in the engrav-
ings. An old soldier stood sentinel on the drawbridge,
with a pipe in his mouth instead of a musket on his
shoulder. He presented arms, however, by taking the
pipe from his mouth as we passed, and consigned us to an
elderly woman who made her appearance with a great key
1836.] IN SWITZERLANT). 231
in her hand. The terror of the description we read is
overcharged. Chillon is the most delightful prison I was
ever in. The principal dungeon is a large vault with
handsome columns and a high-arched roof. The shimmer
of the sunshine glances in at the grated windows, and the
murmur of the lake has a pleasant Sound.
23d. Having passed the night at Vevay, I took the
steamboat this morning for Geneva. On the whole, I have
had a dull day, and have been not a little disappointed
in Lake Leman. Stopped at the Hotel des Bergues.
24th. I have been early this morning with my French
companions to visit Voltaire's residence at Ferney. As I
have neither love nor veneration for this arch-scoffer, the
visit has not afforded me much gratification. . . . At ten
o'clock my Frenchmen started for Lyons, leaving me once
more alone. I went to several hotels to see if by any
accident I might meet with some friend or even ac-
quaintance. Vain "hope I returned disappointed and
low-spirited, threw myself on the bed and gave way to
my melancholy reflections. Every friend seems to keep
out of my path; and the world seems so lonely .
25th. To Chamouni. Took the diligence as far as Sal-
lenches. It was a dark, rainy day, and the cliffs were
festooned with mist. The summer has been hot and dry,
and the grain was over-ripe and the grass brown and
curled, so that the valley was covered with a tawny coat
dappled with yellow spots, like the hide of a panther.
From Sallenches in a char-d-banc to Chamouni. We
jolted along through rain and darkness and alighted at
ten o'clock at the Hotel de l’Union. We had seen little
of the road, but had heard torrents roar, and plunged
through mountain-brooks.
26th. As soon as I got up this morning I ran to the
window. The heavy vapors were rolling away, and I saw
the summit of Mont Blanc for a moment, and the crested
232 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
heads of the other great apostles of nature, whose ser-
mons are avalanches and whose voice is that of One
crying in the wilderness. On the right and left mighty
glaciers descended into the valley, huge monsters with
bristling crests. They are motionless to the eye, yet they
move slowly downward. They are like the dragons of
Northern romance which came down from the mountains
and depopulated whole villages; for at the base of the
Glacier du Bois is a little hamlet from which the inhabi-
tants were about taking their flight, so near had the icy
dragon approached. Immediately after breakfast went to
the source of the Aveiron, which flows out of the glacier.
My companion was an Englishman, with red whiskers,
checked coat, hob-nailed shoes, and white kid gloves.
The Aveiron comes pouring from an arch of ice, but the
view is much embellished in the engravings. We crossed
the valley and ascended to the Croix de la Flegére. It
was here that I was most moved by the magnificence of
Swiss scenery. The clouds that were hovering about on
huge shadowy wings added to the magnificence. Before
me lay the whole panorama of the Alps, – pine forests
standing dark and Solemn at their base, and half-way
up a veil of mist from which the Snowy summits looked
forth, and above which rose here and there a sharp needle
of rock which seemed floating in the air. The Mer de
Glace wound up through the mountain valley like a
great highway. Above all, towered the dome-like summit
of Mont Blanc. And ever and anon from the shroud of
mist came the Solemn Sound of an avalanche, and a con-
tinual roar as of wind through a forest of pines filled the
air. It was the Arve and Aveiron rushing from their icy
fountains. And then the mists began to pass away, and
it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling together.
And I recalled that Sublime passage of the Apocalypse,
“I saw a great white throne and Him that sat thereon,
1836.] - IN SWITZERLAND. 233
before whose face the heavens and the earth fled away
and found no place.”
Geneva, July 28. Received a call from Mr. Thomas
Motley, of Boston, who is here with his family. I have
passed a very pleasant day with them. A beautiful even-
ing; with a full moon shining over the silver cone of Mont
Blanc, which looks more like a thin vapor than a moun-
tain “rock-ribbed, and ancient as the Sun.” The shadows
of the tall trees on the little island in front of the hotel
lie black and motionless in the waters of the lake; the
air is soft and warm.
30th. Started with Mr. and Mrs. Motley in the dili-
gence for Berne. We rode all night, and at nine o'clock on
Sunday morning saw face to face the white bears which
stand like sentinels on the western gate of Berne.
31st. Immediately after breakfast we took a carriage
for Thun. Leaving our luggage on board the little steamer
which was to start at two for Interlaken, we strolled along
the road on the edge of the lake. I was delighted to see
this lovely scene Once more. On reaching Interlaken we
found the Appletons still stationary, as if there were a
charm about the place. But the hotels are all full. Mr.
Motley finds a corner at Müller's ; I am secluded in a con-
vent, or what was once a convent. It was just twilight
when I came over from the hotel to my cell in the cloister.
An arch-way led us into a court-yard, from which round
towers' rose above the convent's roof, with conical spires,
looking like great tapers with extinguishers upon them.
Green grass grows in the yard, and there is a pleasant air
of seclusion about the place. My “cell” is large, and the
long narrow windows look into a garden; and beyond are
the mountains of the Lauterbrunnen Thal. Sleep in a
great bed in a corner, with blue-checked curtains. I hope
* So they may have looked in the twilight; but they are really
Square and octagon.
234 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
for an adventure; and Mr. Motley says that if he were a
younger man I should certainly See an apparition.
August 1. Passed the night in quiet sleep. No shaven
crown, no cowled monk or veiled nun, appeared to me
even in dream. The Sun is shining brightly on the trees
and vines of the garden, and far, far beyond, rises the
Jungfrau with a veil of snow; and the Silberhorn, which is
the Virgin's bosom, is pure and spotless. I like my dor-
mitory very much. It is wainscoted, though not with
oak ; is on the lower floor; has a sofa, a chest of drawers,
and a huge stove of painted tiles in the corner. Sundry
pictures adorn the walls; Swiss Scenes, interiors of cot-
tages, the Wrestlers, and Steinstosser. -
I left this room with regret, to take up my abode at the
Pension of one Christen Hofstetter, where the Appletons
are. After breakfast we went off in a body to stroll in
the woods as far as the ruins of an old castle, which some
of the ladies sketched, while the rest of us sat under the
trees. And thus the time slipped pleasantly away till
dinner, which is here served up at three. After dinner
we took a drive of an hour or two to the Lake of Brienz,
and to the top of a hill commanding a view. After the
drive, a walk on the banks of the Aar; and after the walk,
a concert of Tyrolese.
2d. A cold and cloudy day. No excursion made.
The ladies writing letters and finishing sketches. Read
Uhland and Count Auersperg, till dinner. Since I have
joined these two families from America the time passes
pleasantly. I now for the first time enjoy Switzerland.
3d. Left Interlaken for Thun in the steamer at
eleven. Passed the rest of the day at Thun, a large
party of us, the Appletons and the Motleys. We shall
be some days together, a week or more probably.
4th. A day of true and quiet enjoyment, travelling
from Thun to Entelbuch on Our way to Lucerne. The
1836.] IN SWITZERLANT). 235
time glided too swiftly away. We read the ‘Genevieve’
of Coleridge, and the ‘Christabel, and many scraps of
song, and little German ballads of Uhland, simple and
strange. At noon we stopped at Langnau, and walked
into the fields, and sat down by a stream of pure
water that turned a mill; and a little girl came out of
the mill and brought us cherries; and the shadow of
the trees was pleasant, and my Soul was filled with
peace and gladness.
5th. Lucerne. Hotel du Cygne. Balcony overlooking
the beautiful lake of the Four Forest Cantons. Stone
Lion; see guide-book.
6th. Left Lucerne in a boat with four oars, and had a
beautiful row up the lake, returning to Brunnen for the
night. The day was cloudy and sad. But this lake is so
beautifull I think it the most picturesque of all the
Swiss lakes. At Brunnen there is no watchman, but a
watchwoman, who chants the hour with an invocation to
the Virgin Mary. I got up at midnight and went out
upon the balcony. It was perfectly quiet, save the sound
of the water as it heaved up on the beach now and then,
not in ripples but with a heavy beating, like the pulsa-
tion of some living thing. The stars were looking through
the clouds, and in the mirror of the lake I could see the
reflection of the great mountains opposite.
7th. The whole party, with the exception of myself,
ascended the Righi in the afternoon. I walked down to
Arth and passed the night there with William Apple-
ton, a very interesting young man of the party, slowly
sinking with consumption. He is a most gentle spirit,
resigned and uncomplaining, as one who has already
commenced “his conversation in heaven.”
8th. Reached Zurich at night-fall. The young ladies
found their brother Tom waiting at the door, with a
slouched hat and a merry heart.
236 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
9th. There is not much in Zurich to detain us, but it
is pleasant here. In the evening we took a walk, and
then a boat on the lake. Then we went home and I
translated Uhland's ballad, ‘The Castle by the Sea, with
the assistance of , who was scribe on the occasion.
10th. Another hot day. Boating again; and a glorious
bath out in the deep part of the lake; so that when we
jumped out of the boat we went down, down, down “into
those depths so calm and cool.” T. is a mighty swimmer,
and my element is cold water.
11th. Prepared to leave Zurich. At the Hotel du
Corbeau they brought us in a most exorbitant bill, where-
upon I made the following beautiful lines: —
Beware of the Raven at Zurich,
'T is a bird of omen ill;
A noisy and an unclean bird,
With a very, very long bill.
Started for Schaffhausen, and stopped at Bülach to dine.
A pretty, rural little spot, with a garden behind the hotel,
and a grass-plot beneath beautiful linden-trees. Poor
William is very feeble. We were fearful he would not
reach Schaffhausen. But he rallied in the afternoon, and
was so anxious to go on that we started again, and are
now at the Golden Falken. As we came along toward
evening, we got out of our carriage and walked a mile or
two. The scene was perfectly quiet; a breathless stillness
as if all Nature were at prayer; and, as Said, the trees
looked as if they were standing up in their pews to sing.
The waters of the Rhine were of a most lovely green.
Nothing in the colors of human art could equal their
beauty.
12th. William is very much exhausted. It seems im-
possible that he should live many days. He is himself
conscious of this, and is making his little gifts to friends
1836.] IN SWITZERLAND. 237
with a calmness which is beautiful. How heavenly it is
to die thus !
While we were at dinner this afternoon, who should
come into our parlor but Mr. Ticknor' He has just
arrived with his family from Constance. His winter in
Germany has given him a most portly look.
13th. After dinner strolled through the town. The
quaint style of building pleases me. Some of the houses
are painted with strange figures. Some have three-sided
windows projecting over the street, looking like crystals
clinging to the wall. At night, when the lamps are lighted
within, they resemble great lanterns.
After going to bed, I read two sermons of Mr. Dewey."
He is a poet of fine imagination and great beauty of lan-
guage. Some of his appeals are truly thrilling.
14th. Read sermons to William, who is very feeble.”
At midnight there was a storm, with ghost-like sheeted
lightning.
17th. Received a letter just before dinner which ren-
dered it absolutely necessary for me to start for Heidel-
berg without delay. Engaged a carriage at once, and at
six in the evening took leave, and started on my way
through the Black Forest. The landscape during the
evening's drive was solitary; long undulating hills, over
whose summits runs the road, and here and there patches
of forest. After dark I walked along in advance of the
carriage. But I was not in luck. No free-booter would
relieve me of my few remaining napoleons. But no doubt
the tavern-keepers will. The night at Blomberg; which
to the best of my recollection consists of one house and
one barn.
* Rev. Orville Dewey, a distinguished preacher of the Unitarian
Church.
* He died a few days after, and was buried in the church-yard at
Schaffhausen.
238 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
20th. Reached Heidelberg at noon, having been absent
two months. A Sad and lonely journey I have had, and
am glad, glad that it is over. But in a few days the toil
of travelling begins again.
25th. This afternoon the Frau Schnaffnerin invited us
to a tea-party at the Stiftsmühle. We stayed in the open
air, under the trees on the banks of the Neckar, till late
in the evening. The lights and the merry party had a
fine effect. The moon lighted us home. After leaving
the ladies, I walked with Ritchie and Goodwin to the
castle, and from the terrace of the garden heard the clock
on the Giant's Tower strike twelve, and then the clocks
of the town below us take up the story and tell it to the
echo of the Heiligenberg.
26th. Took leave of friends and acquaintances. One
nasty little professor in a dirty Schlafrock took the pipe
out of his mouth and kissed me on the lips. I had a
great mind to shake him by the ears.
27th. Said farewell to Heidelberg and started with
Mrs. Bryant and her family for Baden-Baden, in a car-
riage and pair.
29th. Rain again, which gave us a gloomy day from
Baden to Strasbourg. Whiled away the time with whist;
for the sky all tears, and the landscape with drenched gar-
ments, had no charms for us poor people, whose spirits
were sufficiently Sad, and whose voices had a muffled and
mournful sound.
30th. Passed the morning at the cathedral, - the
great wonder of Strasbourg. It surpasses my power of
description. In truth, when I gaze on a grand Gothic
edifice like this my feelings are too dreamy and indistinct
to be described. They are like the building itself, so intri-
cate, so curious, so grotesque withal, that words cannot
embody them. Music perhaps might. The two round
windows or rosettes are exquisitely beautiful.
1836.] IN SWITZERLAND. 239
September 3. Passed through Epernay at daybreak.
About nine in the evening we went thundering through
the narrow streets of Paris; now in a glare of light from
a thousand shop windows, and now in almost utter dark-
ness, as we plunged into some muddy lane with hardly a
solitary lamp. At ten o'clock we alighted at Meurice's
Hotel, weary and wayworn.
4th. Took a carriage to St. Germain-en-Laye, to see
the Féte des Loges. The day was pleasant, with shifting
clouds and sunshine. They told me I was in good spirits.
It was the surface only, stirred by the passing breeze and
catching the sunshine of the moment. I have often ob-
served, amid a chorus of a hundred voices and the sound
of a hundred instruments, – amid all this whirlwind of
the vexed air, – that I could distinguish the melancholy
vibration of a single string, touched by a finger. It had
a mournful, sobbing sound. Thus, amid the splendor of
a festival, - the rushing crowd and song and sounds of
gladness and a thousand mingling emotions, – distinctly
audible to the mind's ear are the pulsations of some
melancholy chord of the heart touched by the finger of
memory. And it has a mournful, sobbing sound.
5th. Strolled on the Boulevards. What a throng !
what a confusion of sounds ! How marvellous it is to
me, – the great and good providence of God, that holds
in its hand all this varied world. Goethe makes one of
his heroes say that whenever he lay down in the grass,
and with his ear close to the ground listened to the con-
tinuous hum of the innumerable little world in the stub-
ble, he comprehended better the omnipresence of the
Deity, who made and preserved them all. With me, the
feeling is stronger in the crowds of a great city. Pause
a moment and reflect, as you pass through a narrow lane
in the Suburbs of a metropolis; listen to the continuous
hum of this “little world in the stubble;” make yourself
240 IN SWITZERLANT). [1836.
feel, if you can, that the beings around you are not the
insects of a day, but human beings, each with his history,
insignificant to us, to him all-important, — each with a
heart whose fibres are woven into the great web of human
sympathies, and none so small that when he dies some of
the mysterious meshes are not broken, – follow out this
train of thought and then say with me, “Field and forest
and stream, the earth and the air and the countless myri-
ads of living things that dwell therein preach the gospel
of God's providence; but more than all does man, the
human creature, in his crowded cities and his manifold
powers and wants and passions and deeds preach the
same gospel. He is the great evangelist of his Creator's
wisdom, power, and goodness. And yet how often is he
unconscious of his mission or reluctant to fulfil it, —
though to the studious mind he preaches still the one
great doctrine.”
7th. I hardly know what I have been doing to-day,
— walking about on the Boulevards, which is as amusing
as a play; and “breathing the pavement” of the streets,
which is as fatiguing as a tread-mill; though the latter
I have not tried yet.
9th. Called upon Madame Potet, at whose house I
lived when I first came to Paris, in 1826. Everything
unchanged. The evening at the Grand Opera, to see
the Huguenots, by Meyerbeer. Tedious enough, though
the music was at times grand. Came away quite tired
with sitting squeezed into a little box, bent up like the
letter Z.
11th. How the great living cataract goes thundering
through the streets in one unbroken roar ! A thousand
currents meet and mingle. And beneath the sparkling
surface there is ever a muddy undertow, which works
up from the bottom and seams the purer waters with its
darker hue.
1836.] IN SWITZERLAND. 241
17th. Mr. came soon after breakfast. He seems
to have not the slightest curiosity to see Paris, now that
he is here. We walked together on the Boulevards this
morning; but I am sure he saw nothing, for he was deep
in an argument on predestimation and the depravity of
human nature, — points of doctrine to which he clings
with great pertinacity. “Death and the judgment to
come” make this Felix to tremble. I told him that in
general I was pretty quiet and calm in regard to these
matters, and troubled only when at times a horrible doubt
cut into the cool, still surface of my soul, as the heel of a
skate cuts into Smooth ice.
20th. At the table d'hôte to-day we had a frog
pie. Little J. asked if they were really frogs, and if
“they only pulled the stems off and put them right in,
whole.” C. Said a good thing this evening, speaking of the
changes she should find in the families she knew, when
she returned home. “A new generation will have sprung
up, like a second set of teeth.”
22d. It amuses me to observe how my present judg-
ments differ in many instances from my past. It is so
with Père-la-Chaise, which formerly awakened so much
enthusiasm in me. The only monument which has given
me any pleasure to-day is the Gothic chapel under which
sleep Abelard and Héloïse. It is the most beautiful
church-yard monument I ever saw.
23d. A dismal, rainy day. Sorrow seeks out such
days as this. . . . He spoke well who said that graves
are the foot-prints of angels.
25th. Read aloud W. J. Fox's Sermon on Human
Brotherhood; the introduction of which is like a mag-
nificent triumphal arch,-leading to a hospital. Drove
to the Bois de Boulogne to revisit scenes once so familiar.
I found my favorite haunts much changed. The little
village of Auteuil, however, seems to have undergone no
VOL. I. — 16
242 IN SWITZERLAND. [1836.
vicissitude during the last nine years. The maison de Samté
is still inhabited by those in search of health. The garden
behind the house, in which I spent so many listless hours,
looks green and beautiful. I almost wished, for the mo-
ment, to take up my abode once more in a place where
nine years ago I passed some happy weeks, –no, not
happy; I was not happy then, I was too young and fever-
ish, – never satisfied with the present, and reaching out
my hands to grasp the future, as a child tries to grasp a
Star.
Hávre, October 8. This was our day for sailing. But
the ship is not ready, and the wind is right in our teeth.
So we must idle our time away in this muddy place, where
everything looked so strange and new to me ten years ago,
as I first set foot on this side of the ocean, and where now
all seems so stale and familiar.
CEIAPTER XVII.
PROFESSOR IN HARWARD COLLEGE.
1836–1837.
IN December of 1836 Mr. Longfellow estab-
lished himself in Cambridge, and entered upon
the duties of his professorship by preparing his
first course of lectures. He took rooms in the
house of Dr. Stearns, on Kirkland Street, — then
called Professors' Row; where Cornelius Conway
Felton, Professor of Greek in the College, –
“heartiest of Greek Professors,” Mr. Dickens
afterwards called him, - was already established.
Their acquaintance, begun two years before, soon
ripened into a warm friendship, which continued
through life. Charles Sumner was then lecturing
in the Law School at Cambridge, and with him
sprang up an equally close and life-long intimacy.
An ardent lover of books, he had not yet dreamed
of a political career. George Stillman Hillard,
his law partner, and Henry R. Cleveland, then
living at Jamaica Plain, – both men of literary
pursuits, – completed the friendly circle. These
five young men, of like tastes, and of nearly the
244 PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE (1886.
same age, formed themselves into what they came
to call “The Five of Clubs.” Somewhat later on,
when they began to speak well of each others'
books in the Reviews, the newspapers, gave them
the name of “the Mutual Admiration Society.”
Harvard College had just celebrated the two-
hundredth anniversary of its founding. Josiah
Quincy was its energetic and honored president.
Among the older professors, Edward Tyrrel Chan-
ning made the young men his debtors by clipping
the wings of their rhetoric and training them
to write sound English ; and Charles Beck had
brought from Germany his Latin scholarship, his
Horatian metres, his ideas of a university, and
his love of liberty. Among the younger profes-
sors, besides Felton, were Francis Bowen, Benjamin
Peirce, and Joseph Lovering. In the College
Chapel, on Sundays, the elder Henry Ware gave
his Divinity lectures in the morning, while the
afternoon services were shared between the devout
younger Ware and the scholarly John Gorham
Palfrey, then Dean of the Theological Faculty and
editor of the North American Review. Andrews
Norton had retired from his professorship to the
lettered ease and studies of Shady Hill. Jared
Sparks was living in Cambridge, editing the writ-
ings of Washington and Franklin, and not yet
1 Perhaps it was over Mr. Felton's review of ‘Evangeline’ in the
North American, that some reader at the Athenaeum wrote in pencil,
“Insured in the Mutual.” After Mr. Cleveland’s early death, Dr.
S. G. Howe, the philanthropist, became one of the club.
1836.] PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE, 245
appointed Professor of History in the College.
Judge Joseph Story and Simon Greenleaf, whose
friendship Mr. Longfellow inherited from his father,
were professors in the Law School. In Cambridge-
port, then separated by open fields from “Old
Cambridge,” Washington Allston, the painter, had
his house and studio.
Cambridge was still a village; and the dwellers
in its remoter quarters, when they went to Harvard
Square, always called it “going to the village.”
The Common had not long before been enclosed.
The First Parish Church, in all the freshness of
its quasi-Gothic, had but lately taken its post as
“sentinel” at the end of the burying-ground,
opposite to the lowly “nun” of Christ Church."
The great elms were still in the Square, untouched
by the arboricidal instincts of the “authorities,”
and spreading their ample shelter for the Omnibus-
drivers and their waiting horses. The Omnibus,
called the “hourly,” from its times of going, was
the only public means of communication with
Boston, and if infrequent, was accommodating;
since, on command, it called for, and left, its pas-
sengers at their houses. The fare was a quarter
of a dollar. So the students generally combined
economy with exercise, and walked in and out
of “town,” as Boston was, and is, called.
* Like sentinel and nun they keep
Their vigil on the green ;
One seems to guard and one to weep
The dead who lie between.
— O. W. Holmes.
246 PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE. [1837.
In Cambridge society Mr. Longfellow soon be-
came a favorite, for his sunny presence, his amiable
disposition, his native refinement, his cultivated
tastes, and the poetic cast of his mind. As a new
comer into a staid and sober community he was
not exempt from some social criticism, particularly
in the matter of dress, he having a fondness for
colors in coats, waistcoats, and neck-ties. To such
comment he may have had reference when he
wrote to Sumner, then in Europe, “If you have
any tendency to ‘curl your hair and wear gloves’
like Edgar in Lear, do it before your return.”
And the same thing may have been in his mind
when in Hyperion he made the Baron say to Paul
Flemming, “The ladies already begin to call you
Wilhelm Meister, and they say that your gloves
are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man.”
His friend Ward writes him somewhat later : “I
have for you an Endymion waistcoat better suited
to your style than mine;” and even good Mrs.
Craigie thought that he had somewhat too gay
a look. These were very trivial matters of the
outside. His genuine good qualities of mind and
heart won him friends everywhere. He went a
good deal into Boston society. In the elder Otis
and Prescott he found acquaintances of his
father. His predecessor and friend, Mr. George
Ticknor, after his return from Europe dispensed
in Park Street a lettered hospitality. With the
younger Prescott, who was a member of the
Examining Committee in his department, he soon
1837..] PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE, 247
formed a delightful acquaintance; and he renewed
that which he had made with Mr. Charles Amory
at Göttingen. In the circle of these and other
families, he was a welcome guest, at the dinner-
table and in the drawing-room.
Of his early residence in Cambridge his corre-
spondence shall now speak more in detail.
To his Father.
CAMBRIDGE, December 7, 1836.
My time is very much taken up with furnishing my
rooms, and in making and receiving calls. This is the
reason why I have not written before. I have not yet
entered upon my college duties; nor shall I this term.
What these duties will be seems quite uncertain, though I
think I shall have nothing to do but lecture. I have
already begun my preparations for a course on German
Literature, which I hope to deliver next summer.
On Thanksgiving Day I dined with Judge Prescott in
Boston. You know him, - a very cordial old gentleman.
His son is one of our Examining Committee in the Modern
Languages, and a man of letters.
Professors Hedge and Popkin I have had a glimpse of
I fancy it must make them feel rather old to see the son
of one of their pupils here as professor, −placed before
them as a kind of living mile-stone, or finger-post, pointing
both ways on the road of life.
To Mrs. Anna Greene.
January 9, 1837.1
. . . I regret very much that it will not be in my power
to accept your invitation for the present. I enter upon my
* From now on, the letters will be understood to be written from
Cambridge unless otherwise noted.
248 PROFESSOR IN HARWARD COLLEGE. [1837.
duties here this week; and have so much to attend to
that an absence of even a few days would be attended
with no little inconvenience. I will come and see you,
however, as soon as I can find time. . . . I have done
nothing and written nothing for a long, long time; and
for a long time to come I shall be occupied in preparing
lectures.
While steamboats and locomotives traverse field and
flood with the speed of light, there are, alas ! none on the
great streams of thought and the vast fields of learning.
Almost single-handed must we breast the stream, and over
stocks and stones travel on — on foot. So that the labor
of weeks is sometimes necessary for the production of a
lecture, which can be delivered in the short space of an
hour.
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
February 1, 1837.
Two nights ago, as I returned from an evening visit,
your letter looked down upon me from the mantel-piece
with a most friendly, albeit outlandish, aspect, — its face
being tattooed with postmarks black and red. I sat down
and read it through, Solemn and glad by turns, as the
string was touched. It seemed to me like a voice of
Eld, -like the voice of the northern god Mimer, who sits
by the wave of the Destiny of the Past, and utters tradi-
tions. But of the past, enough. Let me tell you of the
present. I have taken up my abode in Cambridge. My
chambers are very pleasant, with great trees in front,
whose branches almost touch my windows; SO that I
have a nest not unlike the birds, being high up in the
third story. Right under me, in the second, lives and
laughs Cornelius, whose surname is Felton. . . . My life
here is very quiet and agreeable. Like the clown in
Shakespeare, I have “no enemy but winter and rough
1837.] PROFESSOR IN EIARWARD COLLEGE. 249
weather.” I wish never a worse one. To Boston I go
frequently, and generally on foot. It is a pleasant walk,
and one has an object in view. I am now occupied in
preparing a course of lectures on German Literature, to be
delivered next summer. I do not write them out, but
make notes and translations. I think this the best way,
decidedly. In this course something of the Danish and
Swedish (the new feathers in my cap) is to be mingled.
From all this you will gather that my occupations are of
the most delightful kind. All would be well with me,
were it not for the excited state of my nervous system,
which grows no quieter, although I have entirely discon-
tinued smoking.
This letter will reach you in Rome, whither you will
have gone to assume the consular dignity. . . . My
friend, learn to enjoy the present, — that little space
of time between the great past and the still greater
future. Rome must be delightful to you. We were
there together in the days of our youth. Walk with
me again, in the spirit, through the Forum ; and visit
La Riccia in the summer time, and all the old familiar
SCéIlêS.
And now rises up before me a picture of heaven upon
earth, which I met with a few days ago in Jean Paul
Richter, the most magnificent of the German prose writ-
ers. Listen to his words ! “A look into a pure, loving
eye; a word without falseness to a bride without false-
ness; and then a soft-breathing breast in which there
is nothing but Paradise, a sermon, and an evening
prayer.” "
The next letter has a special interest from its
being the beginning of a cordial friendship with
one whose name will often illuminate these pages.
* Quintus Fixlein, Eighth Letter-box.
250 PROFESSOR IN HARWARD COLLEGE, [1837.
From Nathaniel Hawthorne.
SALEM, March 7, 1837.
DEAR SIR, - The agent of the American Stationers'
Company will send you a copy of a book entitled Twice
Told Tales, of which, as a classmate, I venture to request
your acceptance. We were not, it is true, so well ac-
quainted at college that I can plead an absolute right to
inflict my twice-told tediousness upon you; but I have
often regretted that we were not better known to each
other, and have been glad of your success in literature
and in more important matters. I know not whether you
are aware that I have made a great many idle attempts in
the way of Magazine and Annual scribbling. The present
volumes contain such articles as seemed best worth offer-
ing to the public a second time; and I should like to flat-
ter myself that they would repay you some part of the
pleasure which I have derived from your own Outre-Mer.
Your obedient servant, ,”
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
To his Father.
March 22, 1837.
. . . There is such a social spirit here and in Boston,
that I seldom see a book by candle-light. Indeed, I pass
half of my evenings, at least, in Society, - it being almost
impossible to avoid it. All that I have done in the way
of study is to prepare lectures for the summer. I have
also written an article for the April number of the North
American, – a review of a book called The Great Metropo-
lis. So, you perceive, I take things very easily. People
here are too agreeable to let a man kill himself with
study.
I see Dr. Palfrey frequently, Mr. Sparks every day;
and play whist with Mr. Norton as often as once a week.
1837.] PROFESSOR IN HARWARD COLLEGE. 251
My most intimate friend is Felton, the best fellow in the
world — or one of the best. He is full of talent and good
sound sense, and as simple as a child; moreover, very
learned, and a good critic, save being a little inclined to
exaggerated praise. The review of Ion in the next North
American is by him. There is also a review of Bulwer by
Willard Phillips; but I will give you a complete list on
the next page. In the July number I shall have two arti-
cles: one on the Legend of Frithiof, a Swedish poem ;
the other on a book entitled Twice Told Tales, – a beauti-
ful work by a classmate of mine, N. Hawthorne, of
Salem. -
My friend Slidell is here, — or rather in Charlestown.
He sails soon as first lieutenant in the Independence.
To his Father.
May 12, 1837.
Since my return to Cambridge I have been pretty busily
employed. I have a class in German, and shall soon com-
mence my lectures. I give you a sketch of my course : —
1. Introduction. History of the French Language.
2. The other Languages of the South of Europe.
3. History of the Northern, or Gothic, Languages.
4. Anglo-Saxon Literature.
5 and 6. Swedish Literature.
7. Sketch of German Literature.
8, 9, 10. Life and Writings of Goethe. -
11 and 12. Life and Writings of Jean Paul Richter.
Some of these are written lectures; others will be deliv-
ered from notes. If I feel well during the summer and
am in good spirits, I may extend the course. People seem
to feel some curiosity about the lectures, and consequently
I am eager to commence, relying mainly for success on
the interesting topics I shall be able to bring forward.
Having in my own mind an idea, and a pretty fixed one,
252 PROFESSOR, IN HARWARD COLLEGE, [1837.
of what lectures should be, and having undertaken noth-
ing but what I feel myself competent to do without effort,
I have no great anxiety as to the result. I lecture to the
Senior class and to those members of the Law and Divinity
Schools who choose to attend.
Cambridge is growing very green and pleasant, and your
sons thrive in this climate. Two days ago I saw Dr. Pierce,
of Brookline, who says he used to be your tutor. Mr.
Walker's Dudleian lecture was very excellent.” We think,
in Cambridge, that he is more powerful than Dr. Channing.
To George W. Greene.
May 21, 1837.
How fares it with you, my dear George, afar off in your
Italy 2 Do you think of us often ? Do you say, now and
then, “I wish some of those good souls were with me.”
We would fain believe this. But you write very seldom,
and your letters are short.
In Cambridge all is peace. Spring has come, bringing
buds and blossoms, and [N. P.] Willis from the South.
They are all welcome. Willis is writing a tragedy; the
subject is some passage in the history of the Italian Re-
publics. He writes the piece to order, for Miss Clifton,
who gives him a thousand dollars. I can hardly tell you
how sorry I am for this. When Goethe wrote his Götz von
Berlichingen, a Berlin bookseller was so much pleased with
it (or with its success, probably) that he straightway sent
the author an order for a dozen more dramas on subjects
connected with the Middle Ages. This coolly ordering a
1 Rev. James Walker, then a minister in Charlestowº, afterwards
Professor and President of Harvard College. The Dudleian Lecture
was annually given on the ancient foundation of Paul Dudley, but
has long been discontinued, from the smallness of the fund and the
superannuated condition of the appointed subjects.
1837..] PROFESSOR IN HARWARD COLLEGE. 253
dozen makes the matter ridiculous. But why not order a
dozen as well as one 7 Non 6 vero £ Willis is in good
spirits, and stout; Dr. Howe is likewise in good spirits, but
lean. Felton is well. For my own part, I lead a some-
what studious life, and take long solitary walks through
the green fields and woodlands of this fair neighborhood.
Yesterday I was at Mount Auburn, and saw my own grave
dug; that is, my own tomb. I assure you, I looked quietly
down into it, without one feeling of dread. It is a beau-
tiful spot.”
Where is Mr. Tickmor now 2 When you next meet,
Salute him from me. Tell him that the lectures of his
Successor commence in two days from this date.
To his Father.
May 25, 1837.
Since I last wrote you I have commenced my lectures.
The first was on Tuesday last; the second, to-day, Thurs-
day. I lecture from notes, and have succeeded very much
to my own Satisfaction, feeling no more embarrassment
than if I were eating dinner. I am rather astonished at
this, and very much pleased; for now, instead of being a
source of anxiety, these lectures are a source of pleasure
to me. As far as I can perceive and hear, the audience is
quite as much pleased as I am ; and they sit motionless
and attentive for nearly an hour.
This is the only news I have to send you; except that
I intend to change my lodgings. I have found two large
and beautiful rooms in the Craigie House, and thither I go
at the close of this term. I shall be entirely my own mas-
ter, and have my meals by myself and at my own hours.
So I form to myself a vision of independence which I do
not now enjoy.
* On “Indian Ridge.”
254 PROFESSOR IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. [1837.
From Nathaniel H.authorne
SALEM, June 4, 1837.
DEAR SIR,-Not to burden you with my correspond-
ence, I have delayed a rejoinder to your very kind and
cordial letter until now. It gratifies me to find that you
have occasionally felt an interest in my situation; but
your quotation from Jean Paul about the “lark's nest”
makes me Smile. You would have been much nearer the
truth if you had pictured me as dwelling in an owl's nest,
for mine is about as dismal; and, like the owl, I seldom
venture abroad till after dark. . . . Since we last met, —
which I remember was in Sawtelle's room, when you read
a farewell poem to the relics of the class [in 1825], - ever
since that time I have secluded myself from society. And
yet I never meant any such thing, nor dreamed what sort
of life I was going to lead. . . . You tell me that you have
met with troubles, and changes. I know not what they
may have been ; but I can assure you that trouble is the
next best thing to enjoyment, and that there is no fate in
the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys
or its sorrows. . . . -
You give me more credit than I deserve in supposing that
I have led a studious life. I have, indeed, turned over a
good many books; but in so desultory a way, that it can-
not be called study, nor has it left me the fruits of study.
As to my literary efforts, I do not think much of them;
neither is it worth while to be ashamed of them. They
would have been better, I trust, if written under more
favorable circumstances. I have had no external excite-
ment, — no consciousness that the public would like what
I wrote; nor much hope, nor a very passionate desire, that
they should do so. Nevertheless, having nothing else to
be ambitious of, I have felt considerably interested in lit-
erature; and if my Writings had made any decided impres-
1837..] PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE. 255
sion I should probably have been stimulated to greater
exertions. But there has been no warmth of approbation,
so that I have always written with benumbed fingers. I
have another great difficulty, in the lack of materials;
for I have seen so little of the world that I have nothing
but thin air to concoct my stories of; and it is not easy to
give a life-like semblance to such shadowy stuff. Some-
times, through a peep-hole I have caught a glimpse of the
real world; and the two or three articles in which I have
portrayed such glimpses, please me better than the others.
The copy of my Tales was sent through Mr. Owen, the
bookseller in Cambridge. I am glad to find that you had
read and liked some of the stories. To be sure, you could
not well help flattering me a little; but I value your praise
too highly not to have faith in its sincerity. . . .
Yours sincerely, -
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
From Wathaniel Hawthorne.
SALEM, June 19, 1837.
DEAR LONGFELLOW,- I have to-day received and read
with huge delight your review of Twice Told Tales [in the
North American]. I frankly aver that I was not without
hopes that you would do this kind office for the book;
though I could not have anticipated how very kindly it
would be done. Whether or no the public will agree to
the praise which you bestow on me, there are at least five
persons who think you the most sagacious critic on earth;
viz., my mother and two sisters, my old maiden aunt, and
finally,– the sturdiest believer of the whole five, -my
own self. If I doubt the sincerity and correctness of any
of my critics, it shall be of those who censure me. Hard
would be the lot of the poor scribbler if he may not have
this privilege. I intend to set out on my travels early
256 PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE. [1837.
next Week; and as I must come first to Boston I will, if
possible, ride out to Cambridge; for I am anxious to hold
a talk.
Very sincerely yours,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
In the summer vacation Mr. Longfellow made a
little journey to the mountains, in company with
his friend, Mr. Hillard, who was to give an Oration
at Dartmouth College. Mr. Rufus Choate and Dr.
S. G. Howe were of the party, and a young college
friend.
To his Father.
HANOVER, N. H., July 25, 1837.
We have safely reached this place on our way to the
White Mountains: and here we remain for two days.
This afternoon Mr. Hillard delivers his Oration; and to-
morrow is Commencement, with thirty-five orations. If
we survive this, we shall start in the evening for Littleton,
by way of Haverhill; thence go to Franconia; and then
through the Notch to Portland.
Last evening I was at Dr. Mussey's, – where there was
music and lemonade. I dine with him to-day, though on
his assurance that at Commencement time they live not
on bread alone."
Hanover stands on the broad level summit of a hill,
— surrounded by a valley, like the fosse of a citadel; and
beyond this are pleasant green hills, forming an amphi-
theatre to the north, east, and west, and opening South-
ward upon the plains. In this direction lies Enfield, with
its three Shaker villages, on the border of a beautiful lake;
1 Dr. Mussey was Professor in Dartmouth College, and a vege-
tarian.
1887.] PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE, 257
the most beautiful scene we have beheld on our journey
thus far.
26th. Hillard's Oration yesterday afternoon was bril-
liant and very highly finished. It has gained him great
applause, and in truth does him infinite credit. Of the
thirty-five orations I heard twenty-five this forenoon. A
greater part of the afternoon I have passed on the balcony
of the hotel, looking at the great crowd assembled around
the carts of the pedlers, who are selling their wares at
auction. This evening I take tea with President Lord.
Last evening I was at Mr. Olcott's. He was a member
of the Hartford Convention. Do you remember him
A quiet, pleasant man.
VOL. I. — 17
CHAPTER XVIII.
CRAIGIE HOUSE.
1837.
ALL visitors to Cambridge are familiar with the
spacious old-fashioned house, painted in yellow
and white, which stands far back from Brattle
Street on the right, as one goes from Harvard
Square to Mount Auburn. A gateway in the
Oddly patterned fence opens through a lilac hedge
into the long walk, at the end of which, up low
flights of steps, the house stands on its grassy ter-
races. Its ample front of two stories extends,
including the broad verandahs, to a width of
more than eighty feet. There are large clumps of
lilac bushes upon the greensward, and on the left
an aged and lofty elm-tree throws its shadows
upon the house, and sighs for its companion, killed
many years ago by canker-worms and too vigorous
pruning. An Italian balustrade along the first
terrace is a late addition; but the roof is crowned
with a similar railing, of the old days. Between
the tall white pilasters which mark the width of
the hall-way, the front door still retains the brass
į#·
CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE.

1837.] CRAIGTE HOUSE. 259
knocker which announced many a visitor to the
ancient hospitalities, and which even now occa-
sionally answers to the hand of a stranger, or the
small boy who does not see the modern bell-knob,
and whose wonder is duly roused by the Cumbrous
old lock, with its key that might almost have
belonged to a Bastile. In the white-wainscoted
hall is a handsome staircase, with broad, low steps,
and variously twisted balusters. On the left opens
the drawing-room, which, with its deep window-
seats, its arched recesses, its marble mantel Sur-
mounted by a broad panel set in an architectural
frame, remains a fine specimen of a “colonial ‘’
interior. Opposite to this is a similar room, of
much simpler, but still substantial, style, – in all
the later years the poet's study. Beyond is a
spacious apartment now used as a library, whose
windows command the garden and grounds.
Above are the chambers, whose broad fireplaces
are framed in old-fashioned Dutch tiles.
The history of this house is also familiar. Built
by the wealthy Colonel John Vassall, in the last
century, - the accepted date is 1759, -in the
midst of his large inherited estate of between one
and two hundred acres, it was left by him on the
eve of the Revolution, when, taking, or keeping,
the side of the king, he went to England, and
erased from his family coat of arms the motto,
“Always for my country, often for my king”
(Semper pro republica, Saepe pro rege). Then it
was confiscated to the State. When, after the
260 CRAIGIE HOUSE. [1837.
battle of Bunker Hill, the American army gathered
about Boston, the Marblehead regiment was quar-
tered under its roof. Then Washington came to
Cambridge to take command, and after a short.
stay in the “President's house” (now known as
the Wadsworth House) established his headquarters
in this Vassall House, which had been meanwhile
put in order for him."
Here he remained nine months, till the evacu-
ation of Boston by the British troops. And
here Mrs. Washington joined him and spent the
winter. If tradition be trustworthy, the drawing-
room remembers the gayety of a Twelfth Night
party given by her. The south-eastern room, now
the study, was used, according to the testimony of
one of the General's aids, as the dining-room.”
The chamber over it was Washington's private
I’OODOl.
Yes, within this very room
Sat he in those hours of gloom,
Weary both in heart and head, -
wrote the poet when he had made that chamber
his (first) study. Yet, serious as were those days,
and often weary with the weight of cares, we are
1 In Washington's Account Book is the following entry in his own
handwriting : — “July 15, 1775. Paid for cleaning the House which
was provided for my Quarters, and which had been occupied by the
Marblehead Regiment, #2, 10. 9.”
2 MS. letter of Colonel John Trumbull, who in 1775, when just
graduated from Yale College, at the age of nineteen, was made aide-de-
camp to General Washington. He was afterwards well known as a
painter of persons and scenes of the Revolution.
1837.] CRAIGIE HOUSE. 261
glad to know that they were not without their
enlivenment. Among the traditions of the house
are two stories of “Washington's laughter.” In
the first, an old woman had one day been arrested
in the American lines as a spy, and brought before
General Putnam. He thought the matter impor-
tant enough to be referred to the Commander-in-
Chief, and took the woman to headquarters.
Arrived at the gate, she refused to go in. Where-
upon Putnam seized her, and lifting her on his
back, bore her up the pathway to the door. This,
Washington, looking from his window, beheld, and
laughed heartily at the spectacle of “Old Put ’’
and his burden. At another time, the second
story runs, several of the generals were at the Was-
sall House when word was brought that the British
were making a demonstration from Boston. The
officers rushed for their accoutrements, and General
Greene's voice was heard calling to the barber,
“My wig where is my wig’” “Behind the look-
ing-glass, General,” said Lee; and the mirror
revealed that Greene's wig was already on his
head. Again Washington joined in the general
laugh.
After Washington's departure to follow south-
ward the fortunes of the war, the house came into
the brief possession of Mr. Tracy, of Newbury-
port, of whose wealth and luxury there are fabu-
lous tales; and then of Mr. Russell, a Boston
merchant. On the first of January, 1793, it was
purchased, with one hundred and fifty acres of
262 CRAIGIE HOUSE. [1837.
land (including what is now the Observatory hill),
by Andrew Craigie, who immediately set up a
“princely establishment ’’ with the fortune which
he had made as Apothecary-general to the Ameri-
can Army (if such was his title). His wealth and
style won the hand, if not the heart, of the beauti-
ful Miss Shaw, of Nantucket, whose young lover
had gone to seek his fortune on the seas, and
came back only to find her married. Mr. Craigie,
it is believed, built the western wing of the house,
with its kitchen and dependencies; and being a
giver of dinners, enlarged the square north-east-
ern room to its present spacious dimensions, and
adorned it with columns, to serve as a grand dining-
room. Here he entertained the merchant-princes
of Boston ; and once, according to tradition, a
prince of diplomats, Talleyrand, with whom Mrs.
Craigie, much better educated than her husband,
could converse in his native French. Nor was
a royal prince wanting. Tradition again avers
that the Duke of Kent, father of Queen Victoria,
was once a guest at this table, and adds that
when the Royal Duke had left Boston Mr. Craigie
purchased his carriage and horses. *
Mr. Craigie—having, as he said, “lost him-
self” in his house, its grounds, greenhouses, equi-
pages, and hospitalities (not to mention outside
speculations, such as the bridge which still bears
his name) — departed this world, leaving to his
widow a life interest in the estate. Left alone
in the large house with a very small income,
1837.] CRAIGIE HOUSE. 263
Mrs. Craigie reserved certain rooms for herself
and let the others to various Occupants, among
whom Jared Sparks and Edward Everett, it is
remembered, brought their brides to these cham-
bers. The writer of this remembers very well
visiting Mrs. Craigie, in his early college days, to
beg some autograph letters of Revolutionary per-
sonages, of which she had a store. She sat in her
south-eastern parlor, in white muslin turban and
gray silk gown, with the Sun Shining among her
window-plants and singing-birds; and as often as
he took his leave she said, “Be good; I want you
to be good.” There was an awful whisper in
Cambridge circles that she read Voltaire in the
Original. At any rate, her copy of his works
remained in the library of Craigie House.
The story of Mr. Longfellow's coming to live in
the house has been often told, especially in the
charming sketch by Mr. George William Curtis
in Homes of American Authors. The reader may
like to read the Professor's own account, as writ-
ten from his dictation many years ago: —
The first time that I was in the Craigie House was on
a beautiful summer afternoon in the year 1837. I came
to see Mr. McLane, a law-student, who occupied the
South-eastern chamber. The window-blinds were closed,
but through them came a pleasant breeze, and I could see
the waters of the Charles gleaming in the meadows.
McLane left Cambridge in August, and I took possession
of his room, making use of it as a library or study, and
having the adjoining chamber for my bed-room. At first
Mrs. Craigie declined to let me have rooms. I remember
264 CRAIGIE HOUSE. [1837.
how she looked as she stood, in her white turban, with her
hands crossed behind her, snapping her gray eyes. She
had resolved, she said, to take no more students into the
house. But her manner changed when I told her who I
was. She said that she had read Outre-Mer, of which
one number was lying on her side-board. She then took
me all over the house and showed me every room in it,
saying, as we went into each, that I could not have that
one. She finally consented to my taking the rooms men-
tioned above, on condition that the door leading into the
back entry should be locked on the outside. Young
Habersham, of Savannah, a friend of Mrs. Craigie's, occu-
pied at that time the other front chamber. He was a
skilful performer on the flute. Like other piping birds,
he took wing for the rice-fields of the South when the
cold weather came, and I remained alone with the widow
in her castle. The back part of the house was occupied,
however, by her farmer. His wife supplied my meals
and took care of my rooms. She was a giantess, and very
pious in words; and when she brought in my breakfast
frequently stopped to exhort me. The exorbitant rate at
which she charged my board was rather at variance with
her preaching. Her name was Miriam ; and Felton called
her “Miriam the profit-ess.” Her husband was a meek
little man.
The winter was a rather Solitary one, and the house
very still. I used to hear Mrs. Craigie go down to break-
fast at nine or ten in the morning and go up to bed
at eleven at night. During the day she seldom left her
parlor, where she sat reading the newspapers and the
magazines, – occasionally a volume of Voltaire. She read
also the English Annuals, of which she had a large col-
lection. Occasionally, the sound of voices announced a
visitor; and she sometimes enlivened the long evenings
with a half-forgotten tune upon an old piano-forte.
1837.] CRAIGIE HOUSE. 265
During the following summer the fine old elms in front
of the house were attacked by canker-worms, which, after
having devoured the leaves, came spinning down in myri-
ads. Mrs. Craigie used to sit by the open windows and
let them crawl over her white turban unmolested. She
would have nothing done to protect the trees from these
worms; she used to say, “Why, sir, they are our fel-
low-worms; they have as good a right to live as we
have.”
Mrs. Craigie was eccentric to the last. In matters of
religion she was a “free-thinker.” She used to say that
she saw God in nature, and wanted no mediator to come
between Him and her. She had a passion for flowers, and
for cats, and in general for all living creatures. A day or
two before her death she said to me, “You’ll never be
married again; because you see how ugly an old woman
looks in bed.” She had a great hatred for the Jews; and
when Miss Lowell said to her, “Why, Mrs. Craigie, our
Saviour was a Jew ” she answered, “I can’t help it,
ma'am.” Shortly before her death she burned a large
quantity of papers which she had stowed away in an
upper chamber, and among them the letters of her young
lover.
Whether or not she knew of the letters hidden
away in the back staircase, which many years
afterwards came mysteriously dropping one by
one upon the cellar-stairs below, history does not
record. These proved to be letters — not of love,
but of duty — from a young girl, a ward of Mr.
Craigie, absent at School. Why one of the stairs
should have been made into a box for holding
them, it is not easy to see ; probably it was origi-
nally constructed for some other purpose.
266 CRAIGIE HOUSE. [1837.
To his Father.
[CRAIGIE Hous E], August 23, 1837.
The new rooms are above all praise; only they do want
painting. I have made arrangements for my breakfasts
and dinners, with Miriam, the giantess, of whom Mrs.
Craigie says, “Take her by and large, she is a good creature.”
At the sound of a bell, she is to bring me my breakfast;
at the sound of the same bell, later in the day—namely,
at five o'clock—my dinner.
Moreover, — and more important, — I have seen the
President. The Committee accede to all my alterations
and improvements in the schedule of duties, save one,
which is in relation to the number of oral lectures.
Therefore my duties are: 1. One oral lecture per week,
the year through. 2. Superintendence of studies and
instructors, by being present at least once a month at
the recitation of every student in each language. 3. In
the summer term two lectures per week on Belles-Lettres
or Literary History, in addition to the oral lectures as
above. This is the only point they insist upon ; and
they say if I find I have too much to do, I may deliver
in summer only one written lecture instead of two per
week. Thus everything is settled to my entire satisfaction;
and I shall commence the term in great spirits, and lec-
ture on the Faust of Goethe.
To his Father.
October 29, 1837.
My lectures make something of a parade on paper, and
require of course some attention, though they are all un-
written, save the summer course, which I think I shall
this year write out. The arrangement with the Commit-
tee requires me to lecture but once a week. I throw in
another, to show that I am not reluctant to work, and
1837.] CRAIGIE HOUSE. 267
likewise for my own good; namely, to make me read
attentively, give me practice, and keep me from growing
indolent. It is, however, astonishing how little I accom-
plish during a week. And then this four-in-hand of out-
landish animals [the foreign instructors], all pulling the
wrong way, except one, – this gives me more trouble than
anything else. I have more anxiety about their doing
well than about my own. I think I should be more satis-
fied if I did the work all myself. Nevertheless, I take
things very easily, not expecting perfection, and making
the best of all things.
There is a grand display of Indians in Boston, —
Black-Hawk and 'some dozen other bold fellows, all grease
and red paint; war-clubs, bears-teeth, and buffalo-scalps
in profusion ; hair cut close, like a brush, and pow-
dered with vermilion; one cheek red, one black; forehead
striped with bright yellow, with a sprinkling of flour be-
tween the eyes, – this will fit almost any one of them.
They are to have a pow-wow on the Common to-morrow.
You will see it all in the papers.
To his Father. -
December 10, 1837.
. . . The Little-Peddlington community of Boston is
in a great toss, or has been ; first about the college, and
then about Dr. Channing and the abolitionists." But all
this you see in the papers. Boston is only a great village.
The tyranny of public opinion there surpasses all belief.
I have finished my lectures for this term, and am very
busy in preparing for next spring and summer. It is
delightful. I have a great deal of time at my command,
and make pretty good use of it. -
1 The meeting called by Dr. Channing and others after the murder
of Lovejoy, at which Wendell Phillips made his first anti-slavery
speech.
CHAPTER XIX.
POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL.
1838.
ESTABLISHED in these comfortable quarters, –
to the two rooms mentioned already, the western
front chamber was afterward added as a dining-
room, - our Professor pursued with diligence his
various Occupations, academic, poetic, and social.
At the early dinner or the evening supper one or
more friends were often his companions. Felton
was of course the most frequent visitor, coming at
all hours of the day, with some new subject of
mirth, some new book or criticism, or for friendly
talk, prolonged into the night. Sumner and Hil-
lard came often from Boston; and the former, as a
bachelor, not unfrequently spent a night with his
friend. At times, Allston and Palfrey were guests
at the round table where “many more things were
discussed than the Johannisberger and the roasted
hare,” or whatever was the New England sub-
stitute. And when in 1842 young Charles Dickens
came over from London, there was a bright little
breakfast, at which Felton's mirthfulness helped,
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 269
and Andrews Norton's gravity did not in the least
hinder, the exuberant liveliness of the author of
Pickwick. From New York, from time to time
appeared the vivacious, warm-hearted, and multi-
farious Sam. Ward, saluting his friend in true
German heartiness, as the Baron did Paul Flem-
ming, “with a kiss on each cheek, and one on the
mouth ; ” opening his budget of literary gossip
from the metropolis, lending a friendly ear and
enthusiastic welcome to whatever new poem might
be brought out of the portfolio, and bearing off
the MS. to show to Halleck, and dispose of to the
Knickerbocker, or Arcturus, or the New World.
For the green walls of the study looked down not
only upon the professor, busy over his books and
lecture-notes or his students’ German or French
exercises, or copying the well-ordered lists of
names for his examinations and term reports:
they saw the poet also, sitting by his little table
between the eastern and southern windows, weav-
ing into verse the river that flowed “so blue”
through the meadows opposite, “the freighted
clouds,” “the elm-trees' nodding crest,” or the
red planet of the night. In this upper chamber
were composed all of his poems from 1837 to
1845; and here, too, his Hyperion was written.
The most of these were here subjected to the
friendly but often exacting criticism of Felton,
Sumner, and Hillard. The first poem written in
this room must have been the one entitled
‘Flowers,'—
270 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
Spake full well in language quaint and olden
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.
It was sent, in October, 1837, to a friend, with a
gift of autumnal flowers, and was published in the
Knickerbocker Magazine, with the title ‘Floral
Astrology.’ The allusion in the first verse is to
Carové, who in the Story without an End, speaks
of “flowerets that shine as blue stars in the green
firmament of the earth.” This poem has a mystical
tone quite new to the poet's verse, and which sug-
gests a German influence, appearing then for the
first time in our American literature. The next
poem written in this room was the ‘Psalm of Life.’
It was written one bright summer morning, has-
tily, upon the blank portions of a note of invita-
tion, and is dated July 26, 1838. These two poems
mark an epoch in the writer's life. They were
widely separated from what had gone before, not
only by a considerable interval of time, but by an
intellectual space, by the change and deepening
of thought which is spoken of in the ‘Prelude,”
afterwards published with them in the Voices of
the Night. The slight reminiscences of Goethe
and Schiller in two of the lines of the ‘ Psalm,”
show again the German influence. Indeed, it is
remembered that before its publication, Mr. Long-
fellow read the poem to his class at the close of
a lecture on Goethe. It was published in the
Knickerbocker of October, 1838, and at once at-
tracted attention. Here was evidently a new
[From the first draft of the Psalm of Life.]


1838.] POEMs, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 271
strain in American poetry. It has perhaps grown
too familiar for us to read it as it was first read.
But if the ideas have become commonplace, it has
been well said that it is this poem that has made
them so. Those who remember its first appear-
ance know what wonderful freshness it had. It
was copied far and wide. Young men read it
with delight; their hearts were stirred by it as
by a bugle summons. It roused them to high
resolve, and wakened them to a new sense of
the meaning and worth of life. They did not
stop to ask critically whether or not it passed
the line which separates poetry from preaching,
or whether its didactic merit was a poetic defect.
It was enough that it inspired them and enlarged
their lives. Thirty years later, a man high in the
community for integrity and generosity came to
his old professor in chemistry, and, reminding him
of his having one day read this poem to his class,
added, “I feel that I can never repay you for the
good you did me that day in reading us the ‘Psalm
of Life.' I grasped its spirit instantly and made
it the inspiration of my life.” Mr. Sumner tells
us of a classmate of his who was saved from
suicide by reading this poem. And as late as the
time of the recent Franco-German war, General
Meredith Read relates this incident : —
In the midst of the siege of Paris, a venerable man
presented himself to me, bowed with grief. He said,
“I am Monsieur R., Procureur-General of the Cour de
Cassation. I have just learned that my son has been
272 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
arrested by the German authorities at Versailles on an
entirely unfounded charge. He is to be sent to a German
fortless and may be condemned to death. I am here
alone and helpless. I feel that my mind will give way
if I cannot find occupation ; can you tell me of some
English book which I can translate into French 2" I
promised to do so, and he left me. Within an hour or
two, however, I received a line from him saying that he
had found what he required. A few days afterward he
came again to see me ; but now erect, his face bright with
hope, his voice clear and strong. He said, “I have been
translating Longfellow’s ‘Psalm of Life,’ and I am a new
man; I feel that my mind is saved, and that faith and
hope have taken the place of despair. I owe it all to
Longfellow.”
All this, of course, is apart from the question
of the merit of the verses as poetry. Yet while
poetry must certainly not be prosily didactic, is
there any canon forbidding it to be morally
ânspiring 2 -
An English reviewer spoke of the peculiarly
“American tone’’ of this poem, as shown in its
energy and hopefulness.
The question has sometimes been asked, Who is
the “Psalmist" to whom the “heart of the young
man” responds 2 As none of the Hebrew Psalms
is remembered as containing the combated expres-
sion, it has been supposed that the word should
have been the “Preacher,” in reference to Eccle-
siastes. But we have the author's own word,
written in after years, that “the ‘Psalmist was
neither David nor Solomon,” but simply the writer
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 273
of this psalm. It was the young man's better
heart, answering and refuting his own mood of
despondency."
The Professor's summer course in 1838 was a
written one, upon the Lives of Literary Men.
Considerable portions of these lectures were after-
wards woven into Hyperion, and may be read there.
Among them were the chapters on Jean Paul, on
the Lives of Scholars, and on Literary Fame, in
the first Book; the sketch of an artist's life in
Rome and the picture of the Middle Ages, which
in the third Book are feigned to be read from
Mary Ashburton's sketch-book; and the chapter
on Hoffmann and his writings in Book fourth.
The glowing style of the young Professor's lec-
tures was a novelty in the college class-room.
“Too flowery,” said the more prosaic of the stu-
dents, accustomed to a drier academic style. Dut
others found in them “a feast of delicious and
dainty dishes.”
Deside his lectures, the Professor had the su-
perintendence of the recitations of the different
teachers in his department, who at that time were
all foreigners. Bachi, the Italian, with his charm-
ing accent and the shadow upon his life, had been
1 The critics soon drew attention to the resemblance of the verse
about “muffled drums” to one in the Bishop of Chichester's poem
on the death of his wife. Mr. Longfellow asserted that the Bishop's
poem was certainly not in his mind when he wrote, even if he had
ever read it, but the thought came with entire freshness to him. The
figure is not so recondite a one but that it might easily occur to two
persons, without any borrowing,
VOL. I. — 18
274 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
in his place for many years. So had the French-
Spaniard Sales, with his old-fashioned courtesy
and powdered head, whose hearty, “Haw, haw,
by George l’ Mr. Lowell has celebrated." But many
of these subordinates were of a transient, not to
say erratic, character. So the Professor some-
times took the classes himself. His first class in
German have not forgotten the pleasant experi-
ence of which Rev. E. E. Hale has given us this
aCCOunt : —
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 Fellows; and
the whole affair had the aspect of a friendly gathering in
a private house, in which the study of German was the
amusement 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
four or more instructors who were teaching French, Ger-
man, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese to two or three
hundred under-graduates. 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.
1 * Cambridge Thirty Years Ago,' in Fireside Travels.
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 275
The lectures on Faust mentioned above, as well
as another course upon Dante, were what were
called “oral lectures.” The Professor read the book
into English to his class, with a running commen-
tary and illustration. For his purpose he had
bound an interleaved copy of the author; the
blank pages of which he gradually filled with
notes and with translations of noteworthy pas-
sages. In this way were written those passages
from the Divina Commedia — the “Celestial Pilot,’
the ‘Terrestrial Paradise,’ and the “Meeting of
Dante and Beatrice,’ — which were first printed
in the Voices of the Night in 1839, and which,
twenty-eight years afterwards, with very slight
mending, made part of the completed translation.
To his Father.
February 8, 1838.
All my time, save for recreation, is taken up with lec-
tures. I am now upon Dante, as you know, - unwritten
lectures; but I have petitioned the Corporation for the
use of the chapel next summer for a course of written,
public lectures. By public I mean free to any and every
one who chooses to attend, whether in college or out of
college. What the gentlemen of the Corporation will think
of such a plan, I know not yet, but shall know soon. In
the mean time, I am preparing; and devote the whole day
to it. After which—about sunset — I generally walk to
town, which gives me the necessary exercise. Time passes
almost too quickly.
There is a troupe of French opera-dancers in Boston.
People hardly know what to make of them. Some look
and are pleased; others behold such things with pretty
276 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
much such feelings as those with which Michal, Saul's
daughter, beheld David dancing before the ark, - namely,
“despise them in their heart.” -
Journal.
February 27, 1838. I am this day thirty-one years old.
How much I have lived through this last year ! It has
been rich in experiences.
EVENING SHADOWS.
When the hours of day are numbered,
And the soul-like voice of night
Wakes the better soul that slumbered
To a holy calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like spectres grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall, -
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The belov’d ones, the true-hearted
Come to sit with me once more.
And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a Saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes she, like a shape divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 277
And she sits and gazes at me,
With her deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars so still and Saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
March 1. This day I meant to devote to study, calling
to mind that nervous line of the great poet, —
“Pensa che questa di mai non raggiorna.” 1
oo
But alas! students came in. I remembered that I had
letters to write; wrote them. Then a youth came with an
article for the North American, which I, as a friend, must
read. And finally, the one o'clock bell rang; and the
golden morning and crown of the day was gone.
3d. At home all day, reading Dante. Tea at Mrs.
Eliot's, and evening with Sparks and Giles at Felton's
room, discussing everything.
6th. A most lovely, lovely day ! Spring begins again.
The air is soft, the sunshine warm and bright, the turf
under foot like a Saturated Sponge. A happy, happy
day ! for I was at home and in good spirits, and could
work easily and cheerfully, without straining a muscle.
7th. I have not been out of doors to-day, but have
been busily translating from Hoffmann and finishing my
lecture upon his life and writings. It has been snowing
and raining all day. The whole world seems afloat when
I look at it from my windows.
8th. This evening [Ralph Waldo Emerson lectured on
the Affections; a good lecture. He mistakes his power p
somewhat, and at times speaks in oracles, darkly. He is
vastly more of a poet than a philosopher. He has a bril-
liant mind, and develops and expands an idea very beau-
tifully, and with abundant similitudes and illustrations.
Jeremiah Mason said a sharp thing, the other day, when
* Think that to-day will never dawn again. — Dante.
278 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
asked whether he could understand Mr. Emerson. His
answer was, “No, I can’t, but my daughters can.” After
the lecture we supped at Felton's. was there, much
less transcendental in his manifestations than usual.
However, a few green buds did peep out.
12th. Went [to Boston] to see Vandenhoff perform
Ring Lear. As I walked out over the bridge, the rising
moon shone through the misty air. The reflection of the
stars in the dark water looked like sparks of fire. Stood
still to hear the soft sound of the dissolving ice-cakes in
the brine, – a low and musical sound, a gentle simmering
like the foaming of champagne.
13th. Read Tieck on Art, — Phantasien über die
Runst, — a pleasant, poetical, deep-feeling, reverential
book. My mornings are glorious; and so are the even-
ings and nights. But the afternoons, the last three hours
of the sun, are inexpressibly gloomy.
14th. Dined with Charles Amory. Sparks, Prescott,
and William Amory were present. We had a very
pleasant time, – literary converse, sprinkled with broken
banks and broken characters. After dinner played whist
till nine; then to a party at Governor Everett's.
15th. Too delightful to stay in doors. So at noon I
Sallied forth. Took Felton to town on foot. Dined and
came out in season for Emerson's lecture on “Being and
Seeming.” I always stop on the bridge; tide-waters are
beautiful. From the ocean up into the land they go, like
messengers, to ask why the tribute has not been paid.
The brooks and rivers answer that there has been little
harvest of snow and rain this year. Floating sea-weed
and kelp is carried up into the meadows, as returning
sailors bring oranges in bandanna handkerchiefs to friends
in the country. *
16th. Wrote part of an introductory lecture for the
summer course. Toward evening Sallied forth from my
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 279
owl's nest. Met the President [Quincy] wrapt in thought
and blue camlet. He told me of Dr. Bowditch's death.”
17th. Prepared my lecture for Monday. Then went
to town. Took S. G. to see piano-fortes. Think of buying,
so that my fingers may serve as lightning-rods, and draw
off from my brain and heart the superfluous electricity.
Had half a mind to bargain for a second-hand affair at
Parker's; but the keys rattled a little, and put me in
mind of an old woman with loose teeth. This conceit
ended the matter; I concluded not to try it.
In the street met Bridge and Hawthorne, my class-
mates. Bridge stands and looks plumb down upon the
top of my head. He has got the place of Purser in the
navy. Promised to dine with them to-morrow. Walked
out [to Cambridge]. Stopped at the Port to see Washing-
ton Allston. Took tea with him and smoked. He does
himself wrong by living in such solitude.
18th. Tremendous snow-storm. Shut up all day.
Through the gusts of the mighty north wind and the
snow, the church bells seemed to cry for help. Winter
has come back for his umbrella. Begone, old man, and
wag not thy hoary beard at me!
19th. Snow melted, almost quite gone. Walked to
town to dine and came out in the hourly. Evening at
Faculty-meeting.” Then a party at Mrs. Eliot's, where I
played whist all the while the others danced. I like
whist set to music.
20th. Pleasant, with vapors in the air. A little bird
singing, querulous, forlorn. This is the second I have
heard this year. Poor thing poor pioneer and back-
woodsman what do you think of those patches of
* Nathaniel Bowditch, the astronomer, translator of Laplace's
Mécanique Céleste. ,
* The College Faculty met every Monday evening in University
Hall.
280 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
Snow, -those milk-stains and flecks on the brown meadow-
grass?
Sparks always makes me laugh when he describes
He told me of Seeing him (at a party) in the attitude of
the Discus-player, with a plate of ice-cream in his hand;
and how he hopped about, like a hen with her head cut
off, in pursuit of B. *:
21st. Closed my lectures on Dante's Purgatory by an
analysis of the whole. I breathe more freely, now that
the appointed task is done. I play the part of an un-
strung bow for a while; let the mind lie a while in the
rain and Sunshine of heaven unvexed by laborious plough-
share.
From Wathamiel Hawthorne.
SALEM, March 21, 1838.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I was sorry that you did
not come to dinner on Sunday, for I wanted to have a
talk with you about that book of Fairy Tales which you
spoke of. I think it a good idea, and am well inclined
to do my part toward the execution of it. . . . Not but
what I am terribly harassed with magazine scribbling, and
moreover, have had overtures from two different quarters
to perpetrate children's histories and other such iniquities.
But it seems to me that your book will be more creditable,
and perhaps quite as profitable. Possibly we may make
a great hit, and entirely revolutionize the whole system of
juvenile literature. Ought there not to be a slender
thread of story running through the book as a connecting
medium for the other stories? If so, you must prepare it.
. . . You shall be editor, and I will figure merely as a con-
tributor; for as the conception and system of the work
will be yours, I really should not think it honest to take
an equal share of the fame which is to accrue. Seriously,
I think a very pleasant and peculiar kind of reputation
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 281
may be acquired in this way. We will twine for ourselves
a wreath of tender shoots and dewy buds instead of such
withered and dusty leaves as other people crown them-
selves with. . . . Think about it and write me, and let us
get our baby-house ready by October."
Your friend, in much of a hurry,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
23d. Wrote sketch of Homer for my introductory
lecture.” Then went to town with S. Eliot. and Guild,
two of my young favorites. Walked out at evening.
Found Sparks and Prescott on the bridge. Prescott brim-
ful of his book; glorious in young fame. He is a striking
example of what perseverance and concentration of one's
powers will accomplish.
25th. Salem. Called on Hawthorne in his Hubert
Street house, in the outskirts. Dined with Mr. Salton-
1 Apparently, Mr. Longfellow thought, on reflection, that there
were difficulties in the way of such a partnership-book. For not
long after, Hawthorne wrote to him: —
“You see I have abundance of literary labor in prospect, and this
makes it more tolerable that you refuse to let me blow a blast upon
the “Wonder Horn.' Assuredly you have a right to make all the
music on your own instrument ; but I should serve you right were I
to set up an opposition, — for instance, with a cornstalk fiddle or a
pumpkin-vine trumpet. Really, I do mean to turn my attention to
writing for children, either on my own hook or in the series of works
projected by the Board of Education, to which I have been requested
to contribute. . . . I shall remove to Boston in the course of a fort-
night [to take the office of Inspector in the custom-house, offered him
by Mr. Bancroft]; and, most sincerely, I do not have any pleasanter
anticipation than that of frequently meeting you.”
It needs not be said how charmingly Hawthorne carried out his
purpose of writing children's stories. Mr. Longfellow wrote none,
except one for his own children, which was never printed ; indeed,
never completed.
* See Hyperion, Book iii. chap. 5.
282 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
stall; a pleasant family circle. After dinner found Haw-
thorne at the Coffee House. Passed the afternoon with
him, discussing literary matters. A man of genius and a
fine imagination.
26th. Reached Cambridge at seven. Went to Faculty
meeting. The President told me that the Corporation
would not allow me the use of the [college] chapel for
public lectures in the summer. They do not approve my
plan. So it ends. Human life is made up mostly of a
series of little disappointments and little pleasures. The
great wonder-flowers bloom but once in a lifetime; as
marriage and death. The evening at Mrs. Eliot's, where
there was a child's party. Beautiful little girls, — grace-
ful, hopeful; awkward boys in their gosling age, green
and gawky.
28th. Hear Emerson’s lecture on Holiness, which he
defines to be “the breath of the Soul of the world.” This
lecture is a great bugbear to many pious, feeble Souls.
Not exactly comprehending it (and who does 2) they seem
to be sitting in the shadow of some awful atheism or
other.
April 19. All night long a fearful ague, which still
continues. Hawthorne's idea of gnomes digging with
pickaxes in hollow teeth is a good one.
20th. Letter from Charles Sumner dated on my birth-
day. Must be answered straightway. But I am very
busy at work on Anglo-Saxon poetry, - on Beowulf the
Scylfing, — making translations, and criticising.
To Charles Sumner (in Europe).
- a April 20, 1838.
Your warm-hearted letter, written on my birthday, did
not reach me till yesterday. You knew, all the time, that
you were touching me on my weak side when you chose
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 283
that date. I confess I was pleased you should remember
it. (We did not remember it here; it was not cele-
brated 1) I now indulge the pleasing fancy that at times,
as you walk metropolitan streets, – London or Paris, –
you do ever and anon remember that the wondrous ob-
jects you behold have at a former day had their reflected
image in my eye as now in yours, exciting in me thoughts
akin to those that rise in you. This shall be a bond of
union between us, as you go from city to city, begging
your bread and butter in unknown tongues.
Having let off this sentimental sky-rocket or blue-light,
I proceed to inform you that your friend is engaged.
Henry Cleveland has got back from his bridal tour, but I
have not seen him. They say he is very happy. Felton
is to be married next July, at the beginning of the sum-
mer vacation. I am lonely. When you come back, with
your great Soul brimful of wondrous impressions of that
world to which “the streets of the sea” lead, my soul
will rejoice at your coming and go out to meet you. They
who have read in the same book understand each other
better. You will reassure me of the reality of many things
which are growing unreal in my imagination. Is it not
glorious to see what a great and convenient world we live
in And to go sailing aloft over it all, looking down into
the strange nests man has made for himself and called
cities | Therefore, while you may, soar ! revel in the sun-
shine and be glad. And, finally, if you have, like Edgar
in Lear, a fancy “to curl your hair and wear gloves,”—do
it now, and not when you come back
Hillard I have not seen for a week. I go seldom to town.
I am making myself very busy now, so as to have a vaca-
tion when you return. We will then dig up the Five of
Clubs, which, since you went your ways, has been buried,
— covered over with a Spade / We have no recreations,
now, not one. All hard work and dull boys! This very
284 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
pen I write you with, thus late in the night, has been
hard at work all day for the Dean, – an article on Anglo-
Saxon literature, which I am condemned to write, and
which you will be condemned to read, friendship forc-
ing you thereunto. . . . Of your friends here I have to
Say only that they are well,—all well, I believe. I strut
about among them with your letter in my pocket, and am
welcome. I say to them, “I have just received a letter
from Sumner.” And they say, “Ah, have you? how is
he what is he doing 2 Paris Z London 2 date 2* and so
forth. . . . To the Ticknors my kindest regards. Tell them
everybody stands tiptoe here to see who shall have the
first glimpse of them as they rise over the verge of the
Atlantic, home-bound. . . . There ! I wish this sheet were
larger, — how I would bore you. But I forbear. I scorn
to take advantage of your position. I will not write a
double letter
24th. Read Anglo-Saxon matters till noon. Then
walked to town to dine with my friend Amory. After
dinner called on Prescott. He had been thrown from his
horse this morning, and was a good deal hurt.
28th. Finished article on Anglo-Saxon literature. A
long breath after that | Now for something new. Passed
the evening with Felton. A long talk, like the olden
time ; one of the pleasantest evenings I have had for a
long time. Talking of matters which lie near one's soul,
and how to bear one's self doughtily in life's battle, and
make the best of things.
29th. Sunny and bright. The chapel in the afternoon
so hot that it was a martyrdom. As I leaned against the
bars in Felton's pew, and felt the hot air coming up from
below, as if from live coals, I could think of nought but
St. Lawrence and his gridiron.
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 285
To his Father.
April 30, 1838.
You must not blame me that I have not written you
sooner. Since my return I have been very busy, as I
foretold you I should be, working with a cheerful alacrity,
in good health and good spirits. The article on Anglo-
Saxon literature [for the North American] was finished
last week. It is long and elaborate, and I think will in-
terest and amuse you. A heavy, learned article would
have sunk the whole affair. I have therefore tried to
write a pleasant and agreeable paper. You shall judge
how well I have succeeded. Well for me was it that I
was prepared for the task by previous study of some years
ago, or I could not have accomplished it. I take the lib-
erty to think well of my essay, because it cost me no
little labor; and I do not mean to disparage my own
handiwork by false modesty. *
To-morrow is Exhibition Day. Wednesday, the day
after, I begin my lectures on Literature and Literary
Life. I have been writing busily all this evening at the
Second, and in the course of the week shall have them in
advance, and the whole will go merrily.
The historian Prescott was thrown from his horse two
days ago, and came down upon the paved sidewalk of
Winter Street all bent up like a Hindoo god. Miracu-
lously preserved, with only a strained muscle or so.
May 1. How pleasant it is to write this date, – to
Say May, and think of flowers It is a glorious spring
morning, and Exhibition Day [in the college]; and eke
the Ladies' Fair. Peace be with them | I am tired of
hearing great themes discussed by boys. And as to a
Fair, – why — why I
286 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
2d. First lecture on Literature and Literary Life.
Miserable room, to begin with [No. 3 University Hall].
Windows behind me and behind my audience, so that I
could not see them nor they me. I had as lief lecture
through a key-hole.
3d. It is raining, raining with a soft and pleasant
Sound. I cannot read, I cannot write, – but dream only.
The visits of many pleasant thoughts, the coming and
going of strange and foreign fantasies, have left my mind
ajar, and it swings to and fro in the wind of various
Opinions. I have been looking at the old Northern Sagas,
and thinking of a series of ballads or a romantic poem on
the deeds of the first bold viking who crossed to this
western world, with storm-spirits and devil-machinery
under water. New England ballads I have long thought
of. This seems to be an introduction. I will dream
more of this.
4th. Went to town to dine with Pitt Fessenden."
Passed the remainder of the day with him, and went to
the play in the evening. An old English comedy, with
all its caricature, — farce on a large scale. In the English
comedy the Somersetshire peasant is peculiar. Into his
mouth are put all the wise Saws and moral precepts. He
is not like the gracioso in the Spanish comedy, but an-
swers to that character.
6th. Went to see Fessenden again. Afternoon with
Bridge and Hawthorne. Tea at Hillard's. Mr. Hedge”
there, and Miss Peabody. Walked home alone, under a
most beautiful moon.
8th. A gloomy kind of a day. I am prodigiously
low-spirited, and in no humor for writing ; though to-
1 William Pitt Fessenden, his townsman and fellow-collegian,
afterward Member of Congress and Secretary of the Treasury.
2 Rev. Frederic Henry Hedge, then of Bangor; afterward Pro-
fessor of German Literature in Harvard College.
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 287
morrow's lecture is not yet finished, and what I have
written seems worthless. I am in doubt whether to de-
liver it or pass on to Dante, which I have ready.
At sunset walked to town. Felt revived. Determined
not to finish writing my lecture, but to close extempore.
11th. Forenoon, hearing the German classes. I get
much interested whenever I go, and must go oftener. At
noon walked to town. Met Prescott hobbling along the
street, and went home to dine with him. Had a very
delightful symposium. Looked over his fine library.
Then walked down Beacon Street to Cambridge, under
one of the most glorious twilights ever sent from heaven
to earth.
17th. A hot, Summer-like day, which I passed upon a
sofa, reading Dante's Infermo. In the evening met the
Nortons at Mrs. E.'s. Whist, of course. came in
and scowled and growled. He does not play whist. At
night the whole air full of fragrance from the fresh
cherry-blossoms.
18th. Raining, and the birds shrieking! The storm
will thresh all the blossoms from the trees. Where do
the birds hide themselves in such storms ? At what fire-
sides do they dry their feathery cloaks 2 At the fireside
of the great Sun, to-morrow, - not before; they must sit in
wet clothes till then.
19th. Went to town to dine, with Felton. Had a quiet
recherché dinner at the Albion. Afterwards walked in the
Mall in the cool of the evening. Met with a pretty
young friend in black. Why don't all ladies wear black,
like the Spanish 7 Passed the evening with Hillard and
Felton at Allston's.
20th. How glorious these spring mornings are I sit
by an open window and inhale the pure morning air and
feel how delightful it is to live! Peach, pear, and cherry
trees are all in blossom together in the garden.
288 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
From Dr. W. H. Julius.
- HAMBURG, May 28, 1838.
MY DEAR FRIEND, -I have just received your kind
letter. . . . To fulfil your wishes I order this moment
my booksellers to procure for you a copy of Hoffmann's
Serapionsbrüder. I shall send it to London to Mr.
Ticknor, who will forward it to you. Since you left, a
story very similar to the most phantastical and poetical
Works ever published in our language has made its ap-
pearance. It is Gockel, Hinkel, und Gockelein, by Clemens
Brentano. On the whole I think it the most remarkable
German poetical publication during the last twenty years.
My next letter to Mittermaier will fulfil your com-
mands. My work on the Moral State of America, in two
volumes, is just printing. I wish you may not be dis-
pleased with it. You complain of the want of Spanish
books. Still, you would not find in the whole Union as
many valuable works from Castile as in the libraries of
Messrs. Ticknor and Prescott. My late friend De Faber,
editor of the Floresta des Rimas Antiguas, in three volumes,
and of the Teatro Antiguo Español, has left his whole
collection of Spanish poetry to the Library of this city.
It contains seventeen hundred volumes, collected during
thirty years in times so troublesome that old heirlooms
changed their masters.
It is very cheering to us to learn that you have lec-
tured on Faust. You are in possession, I suppose, of all
that has lately appeared in Germany on the subject.
Are you acquainted with Mr. Marsh, in Burlington, Ver-
mont ? He is the most eminent Scandinavian scholar I
have met with in America. This day I had a long, inter-
esting letter from Mrs. Robinson [Talvi) who will pass
some time in Dresden.
Very truly yours, JULIUS.
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 289
You know of course the Collection of Eugenio de Ochoa,
in five volumes, now printing at Paris.
To his Father.
June 2, 1838.
Two days ago I had a proposition from the [Boston]
Society of Useful Knowledge to deliver several lectures
before them next winter. They offer me thirty dollars
each. I am not sure that I shall not accept. I have
almost given up the Portland plan. It does not promise
much ; and I fear would look like Sponging, in these hard
times.
Nothing can well surpass the beauty of Cambridge at
this season. Every tree is heavy with blossoms, and the
whole air laden with perfume. My residence here in the
old Craigie House is a paradise; and occasionally I drive
over to Brookline, where I have many friends from Bos-
ton, ruralizing. This, with the college engagements, makes
a very pleasant life to lead. Only the winter is rather
solitary; and we are to remedy that now, by a long vaca-
tion. We are henceforth to have only two terms and two
vacations a year: the first vacation from middle of July
to first of September, as now ; the second, from middle
of January to the beginning of March. In addition to
this, the voluntary ſelective] system is to be introduced
into the classical department, after the Freshman year;
and one step farther taken towards the beau ideal of a
university. As to my own department, I know of no
changes proposed.
June 7. The morning wholly consumed by callers.
Read a part of Goethe's Wahlwerwandtschaftem, and wrote
upon lecture on his character and works.
VOL. I. — 19
290 IETTERS AND JOURNAL, [1838.
10th. Prodigiously hot. Lay upon the sofa, reading
Goethe's Hermann und Dorothea, – a very simple, singu-
lar, and beautiful poem.
22d. A thunderstorm is now sailing up majestically
from the southwest with almost unbroken volleys of
thunder. The wind seems to be storming a cloud-
redoubt in gallant style, and marches onward with dust,
and green banners of the trees waving, and rattle of
musketry, and occasional heavy cannonading, and an ex-
plosion like the blowing up of a powder-wagon. In the
midst of this a funeral has just gone by ; – a dismal look-
ing hearse with a convoy of six coaches, one carryall, and
three chaises of the most antique pattern.
28th. At home, writing letters, and preparing to start
for New York to-morrow. Read Balzac's Femme Su-
périeure, — a book of a good deal of wit, and sketches of
character ably drawn.
July 26. No journalizing of late. I have been flitting
to and fro; and tarrying for a while at Nahant, beside the
sublime Sea. Felton is married and happy, and lives in
his own hired house. I sit at an open window this bright
morning, and am also happy, though alone.
Wrote a ‘Psalm of Life,' which I suppose will soon go
into the Knickerbocker, or some other magazine.” Read a
paper on Voltaire by Carlyle; truth, but not the whole
truth. How far tolerance should go may yet be a question.
31st. Had a quiet dinner with Hillard at his house.
In the evening, left in the steamer for Portland, through
the fair harbor of Boston, amid the Soft glories of a sum-
mer Sunset.
August 1. Portland. At sunrise caught a glimpse of
the fair city of my birth, rising beautifully in terraces
1 He afterwards wrote, “I kept it some time in manuscript, unwill-
ing to show it to any one, it being a voice from my inmost heart at a
time when I was rallying from depression.”
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 29]
above the sea, –the calm, solemn sea, that I have seen
so often, and that Jean Paul longed to see once before he
died. A glorious scene, with market boats rowing city-
ward, rocks, promontories, light-houses, forts, and wooded
islands. We saw the city first Over the land, and a rude
man at my elbow said, “That 'ere hill takes off the heft
of the city.”
2d. Weary and sleepy. In Beethoven Hall opposite,
discordant musicians are practising loudly with drums
and trumpet obligato.; and in the rear, a circus, - the band
playing “Zip Coon,” and “Clar de Kitchen.”
3d. Time passes rather idly; without study; reading
now and then, and writing letters. We dine at one
o'clock; then sit out-doors under the damson-trees, that
form a bower. Therein is a bench, – part of a pew from
the Old [First Parish] Church of yore. How many dull
sermons that dull wood has heard . How many weary
heads have rested upon the high, straight back This
bench and its fellows heard the wondrous eloquence of
Parson Smith, when he “continued an hour and a half in
prayer,” and in his sermon “was all in a blaze.” And now
it stands under the plum-trees, and we sit upon it and
smoke pipes after dinner. To such uses may church pews
come at last !
5th. A hot Sunday, such as we used to have when I
was a boy; only no fish at breakfast. Instead thereof, a
letter from Charles Sumner, in the epistolary style general.
Oh, give details of thy life, dear friend! and not generalities,
which nowise Satisfy.
The oft-repeated prayer, “we want rain,” is answered.
It is raining now, late at night; raining gently, - a most
Christian rain. Calm and holy quiet is around, and
thoughts of the departed, the ministering angels who so
soon unfolded their immortal wings. How well they lived
and died, - the holy ones |
292 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
PORTLAND, August 6, 1838.
Five or six days ago I received your very welcome
letter, as I was leaving Cambridge for this city. It de-
lighted me with its warm sympathies, and vexed me with
its brevity. You must write me more in detail; and
remember that a sheet of paper will hold a vast deal, if
you only fill it full. The next time you write tell me
what you had for breakfast, and who visits you; what
Americans you see, and what you think of them; and
what interesting Italians you know, and what new poet
is putting his head above water. Make me also move in
the living present about you. Where do you live; what
kind of a house have you? Oh, I should ask you fifty
thousand questions, if you were beside me. Only imagine
these and answer them.
Your article on ‘Romance in Italy’ [in the North
American] is the best thing I have seen of yours. And,
in general, let me say, you have made a great stride for-
ward in point of style. You are simple, forcible, and clear
as noonday. Felton agrees with me. So don’t be nervous,
and quarrel with the American literary public, which is
as good as anybody's literary public, - though the book-
sellers won’t bite at Mr.
You desire a newspaper. You shall have one soon.
Mr. Cogswell, Sam. Ward, Mr. Sparks, and myself think
of starting a new one in New York. The plan, however,
is not yet ripe, and may come to nought [as it did]; par-
ticularly, as Cogswell will doubtless go to Europe again,
on the following most agreeable footing. Old Mr. Astor
has given the city of New York three hundred and
fifty thousand dollars for a public library; and Cogswell
has the management of the matter, I believe, and will
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 293
doubtless be librarian and go forth to buy books. This
may break up the plan.
Felton is married and safely boxed up in Cambridge,
never probably to go abroad and Smell the mortality of
ruins in the Old World; which I, from my heart, regret.
It would do him so much good. He is, however, perfectly
happy, -just like a child with both hands full of flowers.
He lives in a pretty, new-built house, about as large as a
fly-cage. •
My friend Charles Sumner will be with you in the
spring. You will not fail to make much of him, as
nature has done before you; for he stands six feet two
in his stockings, – a colossus holding his burning heart in
his hand, to light up the Sea of life. I am in earnest. He
is a very lovely character, as you will find, - full of talent;
with a most keen enjoyment of life; simple, energetic,
hearty, good; with a great deal of poetry and no nonsense
about him. You will take infinite delight in his society,
and in walking old Rome with him. And, moreover, he
will tell you all things which I cannot write; and answer
questions, which letters will not.
I live in a great house which looks like an Italian villa;
have two large rooms opening into each other. They
were once General Washington's chambers. I breakfast
at seven on tea and toast, and dine at five or six, generally
in Boston. In the evening I walk on the Common with
Hillard, or alone; then go back to Cambridge on foot. If
not very late, I sit an hour with Felton or Sparks. For
nearly two years I have not studied at night, save now
and then. Most of the time am alone; Smoke a good
deal; wear a broad-brimmed black hat, black frock-coat, a
black cane. Molest no one. Dine out frequently. In
winter go much into Boston Society. The last year have
written a great deal, enough to make volumes. Have
not read much. Have a number of literary plans and
294 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
projects, some of which will ripen before long and be made
known to you. I do not like this sedentary life. I want
action. I want to travel. Am too excited, too tumultuous
inwardly. And my health suffers from all this. My
intimate friends are Felton, and Hillard, Mr. Sumner's
partner in the law, a brilliant youth, and Cleveland, a
scholar living at ease in Brookline. Wide Sumner's reports :
You see by the date of this that I am now in Portland.
It is vacation. I go to Brunswick to-morrow. I have not
been there since my return [from Europe].
8th. Professor Cleaveland 1 came from Brunswick, all
in brown, with a white hat. Looks younger and fresher
and happier than ever. Only the silver hairs streak his
head with the twilight of old age.
13th. Returned from Brunswick, where I have been
since Thursday last, — considering the time past, and see-
ing how in the village there all things move on “remote,
unfriended, melancholy, slow.” Found a Frenchman wait-
ing my return. He looks like a bird, and wants the vacant
place in Cambridge. I fear he cannot have it.
14th. Cogswell” is here, and is truly a God-send. He
is not yet appointed Librarian of Astoria. Passed the
evening with him at C. S. Daveis's.
17th. The great event of this day has been a hard
trot on the Judge's horse, – a tremendous animal, that
shook my heart into my mouth at every step. Inhuman
beast ! In future I shall be more chary of my promises to
ride with ladies.
19th. Dr. Nichols preached two striking Sermons, with
material enough in them for a dozen Small clergymen.
1 Parker Cleaveland, of Bowdoin College ; one of the earliest
writers on Mineralogy in America.
2 Joseph Green Cogswell was the first Librarian of the Astor
Library in New York.
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 295
20th. Gone, and left no trace. I grow weary of doing
nothing, and grow impatient. How horrible it must be to
rust, as in prison
21st. Walked with Cogswell and discussed the pro-
posed paper. Evening at Mrs. Wingate's. Large, well-
lighted rooms, and beautiful girls enough.
September 2. Cambridge. Once more the ever wel-
come and ever glorious autumn. On the trees are no
longer leaves only, but brown fruits. On the bushes no
longer blossoms, but clusters of red berries. And the
wind has a rough manliness in its voice, — not the tone
of a lover, but of a husband.
To his Father.
- September 2, 1838.
The Commencement week is over, and things begin to
assume their wonted course. The new order of things
begins to-morrow. My German is here, but I have not
yet selected a Frenchman. I shall therefore take the
French class, for the present, under my own charge.
The Phi Beta oration was by Mr. Stetson, a clergyman
of Medford, and was very good. He is somewhat of a
Transcendentalist, and a friend of Emerson. By the way,
Mr. Emerson's sermon before the Theological class, which
created such a sensation, has been published. I will send
you a copy. A critique upon it, by Mr. Norton, has ap-
peared in the Daily Advertiser, with answer and rejoinder.
You will see this controversy in your paper. This is the
newest matter on foot, and the most talked about.
Mr. Tellkampf proposes to pass the winter in Boston,
and deliver a course of lectures on the various schools of
German philosophy. I think the plan very good, as at
the present moment the minds of the reading, lecture-
going people in this quarter are much excited on the sub-
ject. Mons. Picard also proposes to lecture in Boston, in
296 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
the French language. I have encouraged him so to do.
There are so many who would understand him, or would
like to have it thought they could.
3d. College arrangements. Difficult setting the great
wheels in motion, and the little wheels within wheels.
8th. Moped and groped about, unwell. Dejected,—
no Sunshine in the Soul. Cannot bring my mind to work.
Prepared introductory lecture on Faust for Monday.
9th. The choir at church to-day absolutely howled, in-
stead of singing ; all harsh and out of tune. Important
but who likes to sit in those narrow pews with his knees
crooked, and then have every nerve in him quiver in
agony ? -
10th. Perhaps the worst thing in a college life is this
having your mind constantly a playmate for boys, – con-
stantly adapting itself to them, instead of stretching out
and grappling with men's minds.
11th.
Was heute nicht geschieht ist morgen nicht gethan,
says Goethe, –
What to-day is not a-doing
Is to-morrow still undone.
12th. Lecturing is all well enough, and in my history
is an evident advance upon the past. But now one of
my French teachers is gone ; and this dragooning of
school-boys in lessons is like going backward. I do not
like it, yet it makes the weeks whirl by at an incredible
rate.
13th. Looked over my notes and papers for Hyperion."
Long for leisure to begin once more.
1 This is the first mention of it in the Journal.
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 297
Sparks passed the evening with me. We discussed
the professorship of History which has been offered him.
We all hope he will accept.
14th. First lecture on Lope's Estrella de Sevilla. If
I can only interest the youngsters in this, and make
them see the beauties more than the defects At sunset
drove with Rölker to Mr. Cushing's, where was a musical
party. We strolled through the gardens till dark. Then
music, then Supper, with great store of fruits.
15th. A glorious morning ; bright, and not too warm.
Drove with Mrs. Eliot to Milton Hill, to see the Follens.”
Pound them buried in trees, in complete solitude and Se-
clusion. The broad-fronted German is writing a book on
the soul.
Milton Hill commands a grand prospect, over villages,
fields, forests, and the city, to the great sea itself, stretch-
ing blue and vapory beyond.
27th. Wrote a chapter in Hyperion. But I am so
interrupted that my mind does not get into full play.
Patience 1 there must be drawbacks in everything.
28th. Fridays, I lecture on the Spanish drama : at
present, La Estrella de Sevilla, with comparisons between
it and Fanny Kemble's play, The Star of Seville.
October 1. Oh, what glorious, glorious moonlight
nights I never beheld in Italy aught more passing fair.
The river in the meadow in front of my house spreads
out into a silver lake, and the black shadows lie upon the
grass like engravings in a book. Autumn has written
his rubric on the illuminated leaves. The wind turns
them over and chants, like a friar.
1 Dr. Charles Follen, a German exile for liberty, had been Pro-
fessor of German Literature in Harvard College, and was afterward a
clergyman. He perished in the burning of the steamboat Lexington
on Long Island Sound, in 1840.
298 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
3d. Passed the evening at Dr. Beck's with Rölker,
singing German songs. We then had whist and a supper.
The songs ring in my ears still:—
“Es ist mir alles eins
Ob ich Geld habe oder keins !”
and the Sweet song beginning —
“Wenn ich durch die Strassen ziehe
Recht wie Bursch im Saus und Braus.”
4th. Worked a little, though with many interruptions,
at Hyperion. Beautiful is now the harvest moon, set
like a ruby in the horizon's ring.
5th. It is an old saying that men laugh in many ways,
but cry in only one. This is an excellent hint for an
author to bear in mind.
From Wathaniel Hawthorne.
SALEM, October 12, 1838.
MY DEAR PROFESSOR, - It is a dreadfully long time
since we have collogued together. I have been rambling
about since the middle of July till within a week or two
past, and have had such a pleasant time as seldom hap-
pens to a man of my age and experience. Meantime how
comes on the Boy's Wonder-Horn ? Have you blown your
blast; or will it turn out a broken-winded concern ? I have
not any breath to spare just at present, yet I think it a
pity that the echoes should not be awakened far and wide
by such an admirable instrument. I suppose it would
require only a short time to complete the volume, if we
were to set about it in good earnest.
From Boston to Salem (as from the Sublime to the
ridiculous) it is but a step now-a-days. Suppose you
come down shortly 2 Or I would meet you in Boston any
pleasant day next week. Have you given up your plan of
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 299
lecturing here 2 If you say the word, I will set in motion
all the machinery over which I have any control. . . .
And I will puff, puff, puff, in the newspapers, till you
shall blush as red as any rose.
Truly your friend,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
13th. Dined at Mr. Abbott Lawrence's. A grand dinner,
with exquisite wines. John Quincy Adams, Governor
Everett, Sparks, Palfrey, Ticknor, and others of note were
present. But nobody got upon his hobby, and the spirit
rather flagged. Why could not some of the “big bugs”
have shown his wings 2 What is the use of freezing
together ?
17th. Face swollen with tooth-ache; look like King
Henry VIII. A working day in college. Have I been
wise to give up three whole days [in the week] to college
classes 2 I think I have ; for thus I make my presence
felt here, and have no idle time to mope and grieve.
18th. Wrote a chapter in Hyperion. Thus slowly goes
on the work. Well or ill, I must work right on, and wait
for no happier moments. This is a glorious autumn
day. The coat of arms of the dying year hangs on the
forest wall, -as the coat of arms on the walls of a noble-
man’s house in England, when he dies.
22d. Neglected record of a mind neglected,
Unto what “lets and stops” art thou subjected
The day with all its toils and occupations,
The night with its reflections and sensations,
The future, and the present, and the past, —
All I remember, feel, and hope at last,
All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass, –
Find but a dusty image in this glass.
300 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
October 22, 1838.
An hour or two ago I had the pleasure — the great
and infrequent pleasure — of receiving a letter from you,
who have the heart to answer my long letters by little
short things which rather deserve the name of billets.
Write closer. Serrez vos rangs. Crowd the words. Don't
write as if you lived next door. And now open your
heart and hold it open by the four corners while I pour
into it “all thoughts, all passions, all delights” which fill
my Own. . . .
I labor and work right on with what heart and courage
I may. I do a great deal in college, and devote my hours
to literature, and “by the vision splendid am on my way
attended.” As soon as I can bring my mind to bear upon
a single point with any effect, I mean to write something
that you shall hear of in distant Italy, - if in no other
way, by a letter from me !
This morning, as I was sitting at breakfast, a gentle-
man on horseback sent up word that I should come down
to him. It was Prescott, author of Ferdinand and Isa-
bella. He is an early riser and rides about the country.
There on his horse sat the great author. He is one of the
best fellows in the world, and much my friend; hand-
some, gay, and forty; a great diner-out; gentle, compan-
ionable, and modest; quite astonished to find himself so
famous.
I shall see Hawthorne to-morrow. He lives in Salem,
and we are to meet and sup together to-morrow evening
at the Tremont House. Your health shall be remem-
bered. He is a strange owl; a very peculiar individual,
with a dash of originality about him very pleasant to
behold. How I wish you could be with us ! Ach, my
beloved friend, when I one day sit with you in Italy again,
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 301
with nothing on the snow-white table-cloth save bread
still whiter, and fruit, and that most delicate wine, – in
“beakers full of the warm South" will we pledge the
happy present time, and those sorrows and disappoint-
ments which are our Schoolmasters. And it shall be an
overflow of heart under the light of evening lamps, which
have so long beheld my countenance Sorrowful and sad
that they know not how it looks when gay. . . . Sumner
is the nearest and warmest thing I can send you. When
you have him you will think you have me, he can tell
you so much of me.
There is not much stirring in the literary world. A
huge satire in Octavo, with great parade of Greek and
Latin erudition in the notes, has just appeared; and all
this to annihilate two New York editors, – Colonel Stone
and Mr. King. The Vision of Rubeta is the title. A
new American novelist has arisen; his name is Professor
Ingraham. He is author of The Pirate of the Gulf, -
dedicated to me, but without permission,- and The Sieges.
He is tremendous — really tremendous. I think he may
say that he writes the worst novels ever written by any-
body. But they sell; he gets twelve hundred dollars
apiece. Kennedy, author of Swallow Barn, and Horse-shoe
Robinson, has a new novel in press. Willis has bought
a farm on the Susquehanna, and writes plays for Miss
Clifton, and letters for the New York Mirror, and the text
to Views of American Scenery. We do not correspond,
though he is very pleasant when we meet. In this quar-
ter of the world, lecturing is the fashion. Mr. Combe, the
Scotch phrenologist, is in Boston, well attended; and Eng-
lish Mr. Buckingham, the traveller, lecturing on Egypt.
He gets three hundred dollars for each lecture. Also Mr.
Emerson, a clergyman, with New Views of Life, Death,
and Immortality; author of Nature, and friend of Car-
lyle. He is one of the finest lecturers I ever heard, with
302 POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. [1838.
magnificent passages of true prose-poetry. But it is all
dreamery, after all.
You ask about my library. It improves slowly. I
have not much money to spend upon it, or I should
delight to send you a carte blanche for Italian books.
Have you seen Rossetti's work, Sullo Spirito Antipapale 3
Probably not. Such a book would make the earth quake
in Italy. It is written in a grand, Smashing style; but is
full of strange notions. I think it improves an Italian
amazingly to breathe the air of England or America. If
a blast or two of the North had breathed through the soul
of Pellico and aired his sentimentality, he would never
have written that soft, sweet book. There would have
been some thunder, and not all tears.
Enough for to-night. Now I shall go to bed; for I am
Suffering dismally, and have been for a fortnight past,
with a swollen jaw.
23d. This is a glorious autumnal morning, like the
winter mornings which used to shine into our parlor in
the Piazza Madama. If you can pick up that magnifi-
cent great plan of Rome by I wish you would buy
it for me. One of them hangs in a friend's entry here.
I never go into the house without stopping to look at it.
I should like also the Poeti Lirici Italiani, which Good-
win brought home, – a bound copy. I never buy books
unbound now-a-days. I am too poor. The binding costs
more than the books, I find. I give you this advice gratis,
about binding. The rest of the letter is to M.
My dear M., though I never write to you, I think of
you often. The little bronze chapel with the cerino, which
in days long past you gave my wife as a Souvenir, stands
always on my table and reminds me of the happy days
now gone forever. The time has come to me, which
sooner or later comes to every one, to suffer and be silent;
1838.] POEMS, LETTERS, AND JOURNAL. 303
and so shall it be. I trust that in Rome you are very
happy. I remember what a Roman lady once said to me,
as we sat together at evening among the ruins of Caesar's
palace and saw the sun set, with the Coliseum before
us, – “How can any one live out of Rome 2 I should
wish once a year to behold this scene; else I should die.”
Does not that sound Romantic 2 I thought it very fine
at the time. I always liked the city, as Greene knows,
and hope one day to see it again. But when 2 alas, when 2
Pray how do you employ your time ! It was always a
wonder to me what ladies do with their time. I hope G.
keeps in good spirits. If ever his impatient spirit makes
him restless and unhappy, tell him from me that it is folly
to vex himself about the future. Live in the present. I
find no other way of keeping my nerves quiet than this, –
namely, to do with all my might whatever I have to do,
without thinking of the future, in which most people live.
Don’t blame me for preaching, nor for writing you so short
a note. It is only a forget-me-not.
23d. Worked at Hyperion again. Wrote chapter six
of Book IV., -a touch at philosophical dreamery. But I
have so many interruptions ! No matter, — onward | If
it be but one chapter a week it would complete the book
within a year. That's too long.
24th. After lessons, toward evening, went to Boston
to meet Hawthorne at Supper, but he had just gone
back to Salem. He could not have received my letter.
Passed therefore a dull evening all alone, reading
Nicholas Nickleby and the newspapers. My ‘Psalm
of Life’ Seems to take effect here and there. This
is a great pleasure, to see the working of it upon other
minds.
304 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
25th. At breakfast with the editor of the Democratic
Review; a delicate, refined-looking personage. I cannot
believe he is at heart a radical.
26th. First lecture on Calderon. After all, I pray
a benediction on drudgery. It occupies my thoughts
and takes the fever out of my blood and keeps me
from moping too much. But the time speeds away
almost too fast. I cannot say to the passing moment,
“Stay, thou art so fair;” but I say, “Drive not too fast,
O Time !”
27th. I said to myself this morning, as I rose and saw
“the imprisoning rain,” To-day at least I have leisure, and
will give it to my Romance. But, as has often happened
to me on such occasions, I passed the morning in listless
inactivity, and my mind said, “To-day is holiday and I
will not work; get you another slave.”
The Five of Clubs dined at Felton's. We stayed till ten.
A pleasant time, without any prodigality of wit. Wrote a
long letter to Sumner.
28th. Sunday. Henry Ware preached a good ser-
mon on the character of Christ, which is wonderful, even
if looked upon as a mere human character. Wherever
touched, sweet and refreshing waters flow therefrom, -
words that encourage, deeds that cheer and make us
hopeful, trustful.
29th. After Faculty-meeting, went to work on Hy-
perion, and wrote half of chapter eight, Book II. : namely,
the last night at Heidelberg Castle.
30th. After breakfast wrote the remainder of chapter
eight; then drove with Felton to Pine Bank to dine with
Cleveland. A pleasant dinner; got home late and was so
sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Nevertheless,
ran over my Faust lecture. Talked with Felton and
Cleveland about setting up a newspaper in Boston, de-
voted to literature and general intelligence.
1838.] IETTERS AND JOURNAL. 305
31st. The newspaper prints itself upon my imagina-
tion. I have already published several numbers, and have
a large subscription list. Ha, cheating Fancy! I know
your old tricks, and this time you shall not catch me."
November 5. I feel better these college work-days, when
I can let my electricity off among my pupils, and, like
Eugene Aram, with a great sorrow at my heart, “sit among
the urchins in the school.” Activity, - constant, ceaseless
activity, - this is what I need. . . . A rainy day, and now
a rainy night, — for a chapter in Hyperion | Let me see
what I can do at a dash! Come out of thy drawer, thou
thin, marbled portfolio. Open thy lips, and Speak of
Heidelberg and the Baron
And out of this flourish came nothing but revision of
my work, and meditation. And as I sat and meditated
deep into the night, I resolved to suppress one entire
book; namely, St. Clair's Day-Book.”
6th. The work of changing and remodelling began, and
prospered well enough. Thus passed the morning. At
noon went into town to dine with Oh, I was dull
enough !
8th. A rainy day. Passed the greater part of it at
work upon Hyperion, retouching and writing. Wrote a
new chapter one to Book III. ; namely, the short chapter
on Spring.
10th. Company till noon. Felton, and a Pole,_young,
gallant, and poor. He wishes to get French classes. What
a fate After they had gone, sat down to Hyperion.
Went without my dinner and wrote till dark; the
Baron and Heidelberg; and the arrangement of the last
chapter of Book I. The first volume is now ready for
the press.
* This project was never carried out.
* His hero was at first named Hyperion, afterward St. Clair, finally
Paul Flemming.
VOL. I. — 20
306 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1838.
12th. Election day, and no lectures. Went down to
vote from sacred sense of duty. Tea at Professor Green-
leaf’s. Then Faculty-meeting. Then supper at my rooms,
— Felton, Peirce, and Rölker. Sat till midnight.
13th. Have not accomplished much to-day. Dreamed
over Hyperion, the second volume, and arranged the out-
line in my mind. Open with a description of summer,
forming chapter one. In the evening thought over my
last lecture on Faust, for to-morrow.
December 6. A beautiful holy morning within me. I
was softly excited, I knew not why; and wrote with
peace in my heart and not without tears in my eyes, ‘The
Reaper and the Flowers, a Psalm of Death.’ I have had
an idea of this kind in my mind for a long time, without
finding any expression for it in words. This morning it
seemed to crystallize at once, without any effort of my
own. It would seem as if thoughts, like children, have
their periods of gestation, and then are born whether we
will or not.
7th. In the afternoon, copied ‘The Reaper’ for the
Knickerbocker, having in the morning received a letter
from Clark.1 Added two stanzas. Dissatisfied with them
and struck them out; leaving the piece as it came from
my mind yesterday in a gush.
9th. Sunday. I have a mighty cold, and think I will
stay at home, for there is a tremendous wind blowing;
and through the bare trees it sounds like the wind at sea.
Read the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus; a
work full of excellent life-maxims, though the views of
life are too vapory. He tries to reconcile us to death by
making life worthless.
10th. “Young Faculty-meeting” at Peirce's.” A pleas-
ant time. Stayed till after midnight, with pleasant
1 Lewis Gaylord Clark was editor of the Knickerbocker Magazine.
2 Apparently, a social meeting of the younger professors.
1838.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 307
discourse. These meetings are cheerful, and make one
glad in the sober round of village life.
11th. Made my first appearance at a party this season.
It was at Mrs. S. Appleton's. A very bright, beautiful
affair.
12th. Could not work this morning. Wrote a page in
Hyperion and could go no further. Walked to town and
dined with Charles Amory, my usual resource.
18th. Contrived to write a short chapter in Hyperion ;
chapter eight, Book IV. Hope to get into train again
Soon, and go on gallantly as before. So much for breaks.
19th. Examinations [in college], and so no classes for
me this morning. Sat in my chamber, cold and cheerless.
The fire would not burn; and I could not write. Thought
seemed to freeze in my inkstand. I must change my
heroine's name. Now let me try, - the evening having
come and the tall candles being lighted.
CHAPTER XX.
HYPERION, AND VOICES OF THE NIGHT. — LETTERS AND
JOURNAL.
1839.
THE year 1839 was marked by the publication
of Hyperion, the writing of which, – begun, as
we have seen, in the autumn of 1838, - had occu-
pied the winter's leisure." With its fair paper and
open pages, it was a handsomer book than usually
appeared from the American press at that time.
But its contents were more novel than its appear-
ance. In vigor of thought and depth of feeling,
in richness, sometimes exuberance, of style, it was
an advance upon Outre-Mer. If that had slight
traces of Irving's influence, this had reflections
of German readings. And it introduced German
literature to American readers, as Irving had made
familiar to them old English customs. In Outre-
Mer we had the fresh, joyous aspect of foreign
nature and life, as seen by the impressible spirit
1 Hyperion : a Romance. By the author of “Outre-Mer.” New
York: published by Samuel Colman, 8 Astor House, 1839. It was
in two volumes, of 213 and 226 pages, in board covers of a pale olive
color; printed at the University Press, Cambridge.
1839.] HYPERION. 309
of a happy and poetic youth. In Hyperion are
the records of deeper experiences; nature looked
at with more serious eye, — the thoughts and
feelings and studies of youth still, but a riper
and more deeply romantic youth. The love-story,
which forms but a small part of the book, at-
tracted in some quarters the largest interest. It
came to be understood that the heroine was painted
from life; the portrait was that of the lady who
afterwards became his wife. He had met her, as
we have seen, in Switzerland, had travelled with
her for a fortnight there, and had renewed the
acquaintance when the family returned to Boston
in 1837. The portrait, the feelings recorded in the
story are undoubtedly true. The incidents are
imaginary. Into this romance the author put the
glow, the fervor, the fever of his heart. He wove
into it some pages of his own travels, modified,
and some passages of literary criticism, as has
been said, from his lectures. This Romance has
a perennial charm for those who read it in their
youth, and to whom it seemed the revelation of a
new world. Many a phrase and passage remain
fixed in their memories. More than one of them,
in afterwards visiting Europe, has taken pains to
follow the very steps of Paul Flemming; has
sought out the very inns where he dimed or slept,
the Star at Salzig, the White Horse at Bingen;
has turned aside to rest a Sunday at St. Gil-
gen, and read with his own eyes the inscription
on the tablet above the dead which had become
310 WOICES OF THE NIGHT. [1839.
a motto for his own life; has lingered with an
inexplicable feeling, that seemed as if the memory
of a previous existence, under the walnut-trees of
Interlaken or the lindens that crown the Rent
Tower of Heidelberg Castle, – looking “at all
things as they are, but through a kind of glory,”
the glory with which poetry and romance indue
a place even beyond history.
Hyperion was published in the summer. Late
in the autumn Mr. Longfellow gave to the public
his first volume of original poems, the Voices of
the Night." To his recent poems, collected from
various magazines and papers, he added a selection
of five of his early poems, – all that he wished
to acknowledge of those contributed in his col-
lege days to the Literary Gazette. These he
followed with the translations of French and Ger-
man poems which had appeared in Outre-Mer and
Hyperion, including the Manrique monody. He
prefixed a Prelude, in which he shadowed the
change of feeling and thought between the earlier
and later poems,” and a ‘Hymn to the Night, justi-
fying the title of the book; and added an Envoi
referring to the three divisions of the book, - the
Voices, the Earlier Poems, and the Translations.
1 Voices of the Night. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Cam-
bridge: published by John Owen, 1839. It was a 16mo of 144
pages, in light olive colored boards. Large paper copies were printed
of the third edition in 1840.
2 Dr. O. W. Holmes afterward spoke of the charming and subtle
metrical effect produced by the omission of a syllable from the begin-
ning of the fifth line of each stanza in this Prelude:
['uouad/H. uto.4:1)
-, -ºvº's
~o ‘ ^**t \º º * tº-ale
~! ~~\o →y |- →º, it
º wb ~3 –º c-ºw –1.
. … Sºº--> → -Wºº Tº
~ cº-ºr --~~~, Sºus
–y ºv *—º ºb ºf
tº 4. - Are”.) → ~~~~~ rºw)
^+%, * - A --~~~e – c -aº *
_e= (-, Sºo-º-º-º-º- *79
tºº--> ~~~~~ rºm cers
= • Mºo ^ Sierº, ~~~~ *† ~~ “Yen.

1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 311
To his Father.
January 3, 1839.
I write only to wish you all a happy New Year, and
to say that I am well and very busy. The Bostonians
have renewed the old-fashioned Assemblies. The first
was held on the last night of the year. Your friend Wm.
Sullivan is head-manager. He figured in a white cravat,
and a chapeau-bras with a black silk cockade. Daniel
Webster shone conspicuous in tights, and Mrs. in
the diamonds of her predecessor. Old people danced who
had not danced for years beyond the memory of man;
and some looked like the stone figures in the French
drama, which got up from the tombs one night in an old
cathedral and danced the Old Year out — of countenance.
The ball, however, was beautiful, and went off well. It
makes some excitement in town; and those who cannot
get in try to laugh at it, and call it the Boston Almack's.
Prom Nathaniel Hawthorne.
SALEM, January 12, 1839.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I was nowise to blame for
going down the steps of the Tremont almost at the mo-
ment that you were coming up, inasmuch as I did not
receive your letter appointing the rendezvous till I reached
Salem that evening. Those little devils in your hollow
teeth had made you oblivious, and caused you to carry
the epistle in your pocket at least a week before putting
it in the post-office. But never mind; for, please God,
we will meet in future often enough to make up for lost
time. It has pleased Mr. Bancroft (knowing that what
little ability I have is altogether adapted to active life) to
offer me the post of Inspector in the Boston custom-
house; and I am going to accept it with as much confi-
dence in my suitableness for it as Sancho Panza had in
his gubernatorial qualifications. I have no reason to
312 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
doubt my capacity to fulfil the duties, for I don't know
what they are. . . . They tell me that a considerable por-
tion of my time will be unoccupied, the which I mean to
employ in sketches of my new experiences, under some
such titles as follow : “Passages in the Life of a Custom-
house Officer, “Scenes in Dock, ‘Nibblings of a Wharf-
Rat, ‘Trials of a Tide-waiter,’ ‘Romance of the Revenue
Service;’ together with an ethical work, in two volumes,
on the subject of Duties, – the first volume to treat of
moral and religious duties, and the second of duties im-
posed by the revenue laws, which I already begin to con-
sider as much the most important class . . .
I received a letter the other day from Bridge, dated at
Rome. I wish some one of the vessels which are to be
put under my command would mutiny, and run away
with the worshipful Inspector to the Mediterranean. Well,
I have a presentiment that I shall be there some day.
I shall remove to Boston in the course of a fortnight,
and, most sincerely, I do not know that I have any
pleasanter anticipation than that of frequently meeting
you. I saw Mr. Sparks some time since, and he said that
you were thinking of a literary paper. Why not ? Your
name would go a great way toward insuring its success;
and it is intolerable that there should not be a single
belles-lettres journal in New England. Whatever aid a
custom-house officer could afford should always be forth-
coming. By the way, The Inspector would be as good a
title for a paper as The Spectator.
- Yours truly,
NATHL. HAWTHORNE.
To his Father.
NEW YORK, January 26, 1839.
I have got thus far on my way to Washington, and
shall remain here three days longer. My New York
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 313
friends are so very attentive that I find it impossible to
get away so soon as I expected. Last evening I was at
a supper-party at Mr. Stevens's. Dr. Wainwright, Prof.
McVickar, and Mr. Gallatin * were there. Gallatin is the
funniest old gentleman I have seen for many a day; very
antique in his dress, with a great nose and a brown wig.
He is seventy-eight years old, and has not yet got rid of
his French accent.
This evening I go to General Tallmadge's, and after-
wards to Chief Justice Jones's ; and dine there to-morrow ;
and have already engagements for Monday and Tuesday.
You see I am very busy.
To his Father.
WASHINGTON, February 9, 1839.
I have been already a week in this city, and have seen
and heard a great deal. The Commodore * and his family
are all well, and make me as comfortable and as much at
home as possible. In the Senate I have heard some of
the best speakers, – Preston, Clay, and Benton and
Calhoun. Yesterday Mr. Clay made a great speech on
abolition, which I shall not report, as you will see it in
the papers. It was highly interesting. Some tears were
shed, a part of which came from his own eyes. His voice
reminded me of Dr. Channing. I heard also John Sergeant
in the Supreme Court ; and Mr. Webster told me he
should argue a case there on Saturday. I think I have
been very fortunate.
I called to see the President [Van Buren] last evening.
The Commodore introduced me and a Bostonian. We
found him sitting in his elegant parlor with Mr. Silas
* Albert Gallatin, the Genevan, who came to America in 1780,
and afterward filled many important public offices here. He died in
1849.
* His uncle, Commodore Alexander Scammel Wadsworth.
314 - LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
Wright, one of the “Kitchen Cabinet” [the President's
unofficial advisers]. We talked about the weather, the
comparative expense of wood and coal as fuel, and the
probability that as the season advanced it would grow
milder . We stayed fifteen minutes, – the Commodore
beginning to show symptoms of impatience at the end of
ten. We took him home, and then called upon Judge
Story, who received us very kindly and sent for all the
judges of the Supreme Court to come down and see us.
So down they came, and sat all in a row in front of the
fire. I could hardly believe my eyes when I beheld these
men, – so raw and rusty | What an inferior-looking set !
— and that one of these should have been put over Judge
Story ! Ye gods ! it doth amaze me ! I find it very
pleasant here, and shall stay a week longer.
To his Mother.
BosTON, February 27, 1839.
. . . You will see by the date that I have returned from
Washington. I had a very delightful visit ; never was
more affectionately received and entertained than by the
Commodore and his wife, and was at home with them and
the neighborhood in five minutes. I was delighted with
the warm welcome, and the warm weather, and passed
fifteen days much to my satisfaction. We often wished
we could take you from the cold northern blasts and let
you breathe the southern Sunshine. Aunt L is a
very lovely woman. She has bound me to her with cords
of love; and moves on so gently and peacefully through
this world of troubles that one cannot be with her and
not feel something of the quiet influence. One has pleas-
ant company enough in Franklin Row and the neighbor-
hood.
And now the vacation is over, and I am going to work
again after all this play.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 315
March 6. I am weary and sick to-night. College
duties called me from my bed before daylight. I hate
such over-early rising. The apparition of a tall negro
with a lantern in my bedroom at such a holy hour dis-
turbs the morning vision. Breakfast at six is intolerable.
The great red sun looked through the window curtain and
seemed to say, “Come on, my little man, the day is ours!”
I have been bewildered all day, and am now as sleepy as a
child. A benediction on such early rising ! It needs one.
Shall I have no more glorious midnights º Shall I Creep
to bed at nine stuffed with daylight, like a drowsy peasant
“stuffed with distressful bread” 2
To Samuel Ward.
March 11, 1839.
After all, Cambridge delighteth my heart exceedingly. I
have fallen upon books with a most voracious appetite;
and have already devoured since my return three or four
comedies of Molière, a strange work on the Millennium,
twelve cantos of the Faery Queen, a Greek tragedy, the
Life of Cheverus, some cantos of Dante, part of Nicholas
Nickleby, portions of Fairfax's Tasso (a grand book), and
a good many of Goethe's minor poems. There was once
a man who took a fancy to see the quantity and quality of
food he devoured in a day, and put into a milk-pan the
same amount of the same things which he ate. The odd
mixture — this ambigu — rather startled him ; and I am
quite startled at this heterogeneous mass which I have
put into my brain-pan. What have you put into yours ?
Nothing new in Boston, except an old painting by
Allston, just brought to light and for show. A beautiful
fancy-sketch ; two girls, — one from Titian, the other his
own dreamerie. They talk of getting up an exhibition of
all his paintings, for his benefit. He needs it. O ye gods !
how hard a fate | This old painting, which he loved and
316 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
cherished as a child of his youth, and valued at fifteen
hundred dollars, he has been obliged to part with for five
hundred.
Anglo-Saxon book and music for your sister Julia, as
soon as I can find an opportunity.
Liegt dir Gestern klar und offen,
Wirkst du heute kräftig frei,
Kannst auch auf ein Morgen hoffen
Das nicht minder glücklich sei."
— Goethe.
To his Father.
March 18, 1839.
I am working pretty hard in college. I have three
lectures a week, and recitations without number. Three
days in the week I go into my class-room between seven
and eight, and come out between three and four, — with
one hour's intermission. The other days are consumed in
preparation, and in doing the usual small matters which
every man has to do, with the usual interruptions. How-
ever, I like it very well; and am very well, and very
happy; and have nothing in particular to annoy me. The
season is opening beautifully, and everything Smiles.
. . . Richard Derby's fancy-ball went off brilliantly.
I did not attend ; not wishing to figure in fantastic robes.
I am so busy that I am obliged to give up Society for the
present. Besides, I am quite too comfortable here in this
château of a Craigie House.
26th. A lovely morning. Sat at home and wrote a
third Psalm of Life [.. Footsteps of Angels’], which I
1 Lies thy yesterday all clear and open,
Workest thou to-day with vigor free,
Then may’st thou look forward to a morrow
That shall surely no less happy be.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 317
began long ago, but could never rightly close and com-
plete till now. The beginning was written more than a
year ago, and is copied under date of February 27, 1838;
though, if I remember, I composed it a year earlier, even.
In the afternoon I carried it to Felton and left it with
him. He came up in the evening and said that he had
read it to his wife, who “cried like a child.” I want no
more favorable criticism than this.
27th. In the evening Dr. Follen's second lecture, on
Pantheism. All I remember of it is the maxim of the
old Mystics, -“Sitting still is better than running; sleep-
ing, better than waking; and death, better than all.”
28th. Fast Day. Have been at work upon a paper
for the North American, on the French Language in Eng-
land, till my head aches. I would rather write psalms.
April 5. Confined to my chamber with a bad cold and
feverish unrest. Worked at Hyperion, like a hero. The
weather lovely beyond the season; summer air and open win-
dows; only a fire to remind me that it is not yet summer.
6th. An exact counterpart of yesterday; and I at
work upon my Romance, — changing and arranging and
writing out various portions. Wrote the last chapter,
though others remain to be written.
To his Father.
April 7, 1839.
I never knew such a spring in America. It is quite
Italian ; and makes one almost believe, with Mr. Amos,
that the Millennium is coming. . . . The storm of war
[on the North-Eastern Boundary] seems, indeed, already
to have blown over; and people here think the affair will
be peaceably settled. The Great Western is expected to-
day, and we shall soon see what effect the warlike mani-
festations of Governor Fairfield [of Maine] have produced
in England.
3.18 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
We have here a plague which troubles us more than
War, pestilence, or famine; namely, canker-worms, which
devour the largest trees, – I mean the leaves. The fine
elms round the Craigie House were entirely stripped last
year, and the worms came swinging down on long threads
into all the windows. This year I am putting everything
in operation to prevent their climbing. I have Lynched all
the trees, – that is, tarred them; renewing it every night,
and inspecting in the morning, to see that no rascally bug
has escaped his impending doom. I hope next summer to
be able to sit in the shade, without being covered with
creeping things, and brought daily, like Martin Luther,
before a Diet of Worms. Are you plagued to death with
these creatures 2 I do not remember Seeing any in Port-
land. In college everything is quiet and tame enough;
and the students very industrious.
To his Father.
April 14, 1839.
I am learning to write with a steel pen, so as to be
ready for the Millennium. This is a specimen. I don't
think I shall stand very high. It saves time, but spoils
my hand, and makes me red with angry impatience as I
write. However, having begun, I shall persevere to the
end of this letter.
We have nothing new here; and I write this only to
tell you I am well, and to show you what I can do with a
steel pen. If the letter tires your patience as much as
it has mine, I shall think the moral influence of steel
pens very bad. Perhaps the fault lies in the paper. I
should write a very Savage criticism with such a pen as
this.
After I have delivered fifteen more lectures, at the rate
of three a week, I am coming down to see you, - probably
about the first of June.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 319
Give my sharpest regards to all, and believe me, with
the greatest hatred of cold steel in every shape, yours
affectionately.
19th. Felton dined with me to-day. After dinner we
were looking over Horace. We were struck with the
great similarity between his morality and Goethe's. For
example, in the fine Ode to Thaliarchus, how much like
Goethe is this : —
Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere ; et
Quem sors dierum cumque dabit, lucro
Appone, nec dulces amores
Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas.”
21st. Quite Savage with dyspepsia. Took a stroll
with my friend Mrs. E., and towards evening, with Hil-
lard. He lent me a long letter from Charles Sumner [in
Europe]. What a run the youth has had
To Samuel Ward.
April 21, 1839.
I Ought to have answered your letter sooner, and
thanked you for the Spanish ballads, and for your excel-
lent Address, which I read with very great pleasure. I
should have thought it a very clear and spirited descrip-
tion of the Long Island affair, if Park Benjamin had not
stepped in with his great light of criticism and showed
me I was all Wrong Are you thin-skinned 2 I trust
not. I have one excellent remedy on all such occasions,
which I commend likewise to you. I never read what is
written against me. Therefore it is to me as if it had
never been written, and I am saved the momentary pang
* What may the morrow be shun thou to question ;
Whate'er the days may bring make thou the best of ;
Spurn not, O boy, the Sweet loves, nor the dances.
• — Odes, i. 9.
320 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
arising from abuse. I have had one or two occasions to
try this during the last year, and find it perfectly success-
ful. I mean to try it several times this year, so that any
abuser may as well spare his ink, if he intends to disturb
my equanimity. Try this, when you next hear your
articles have been abused. I trust I need not say that I
disagree with Benjamin about the article on ‘Romance,
likewise. The only fault I can find with it is that it is
not long enough ; and it seems to me you might have
gone deeper into the discussion of literature, considered
as an art. However, you have made the beginning, and
“Dimidium facti, qui capit, habet.”
You ask me to recommend an English book. Yes, my
friend, - one which I have just been reading with infinite
delight, namely, Spenser's Faery Queen; and then, after
it, Wieland's Oberon, to see how heaven-wide they stand
apart, and how vastly superior Spenser is. I have just
done this. As to classics, Cogswell is a much better guide
than I am. Still, if I may venture to advise, I should say,
take Horace, — for fifty reasons which you will please to
imagine. He is the Latin Goethe, – or rather (Spirit of
the past, forgive me!) Goethe is the German Horace. He
is my favorite classic, and whenever I quote Latin, which,
as you very well know, is not often, I quote him ; because
his phrases stick. What a beautiful affair, for instance, is
the Ad Thaliarchum Ode (I. 9), which I beg you to read
after dinner to Dr. Francis. It contains all Goethe's phi-
losophy, or nearly all; and half of what we now cry up as
so wonderfully said by the German, was quite as well said
some two thousand years ago by Horace.
There – the church bells begin to ring, Shall I go, or
stay 3 Do you know, I seldom stay at home from church
without thinking of that pretty little poem of Goethe,
where he says a truant boy was chased over field and
through forest by a church-bell!
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 321
P. S.–Can you give me some autographs of the French
novelists and others ? Pray make me a small collection,
and I will send by some friend for them. Please inquire
if there is any young Parisian who would be qualified to
teach French here. I want some one to take charge of
the classes, – a youth of spirit and a gentleman, – such
as I have in German and Italian. If you can hear of
such, please let me know.
22d. Almost crazed with this infernal firebrand burn-
ing my life out; namely, dyspepsia. It makes me irritable
and unhappy. I must go to work and diet like a hermit.
23d. As yesterday; but sat and wrote in Hyperion
after breakfast, till came in. The thread being
Snapped, I went to Fresh Pond, and sat an hour by the
soft-plashing lakeside, and mused and sketched.
24th. I think I never translated or lectured worse than
to-day, and no wonder. I have never felt such a total
want of interest in everything.
From Baron, vom Ramm.
[The original is in German.]
BALTISPORT (Russia), 29 April, 1839.
MOST ESTEEMED FRIEND, - A special chance gives me
the opportunity by these lines to recall myself to your
mind, and also to let you know into what corner of the
earth you are to turn your thoughts, if for a moment you
will favor me with your remembrance. . . . Some years
already lie between the day when I so warmly took leave
of you in never-to-be-forgotten Heidelberg and my lonely
present. But the memory of that time of our friendly
life together, — of the winter evenings which we passed
with each other in intimate talk, and the glorious walks
in Spring-time through the country round Heidelberg, —
WOL. I — 21
322 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
lives as fresh and warm in my soul as if we had parted
only yesterday. Since then I have been again in Heidel-
berg, and for a longer time, and I continually thought with
regret of you and our pleasant intercourse. May it have
been at least sometimes the same with you, dear friend;
may you not have quite forgotten me ! . . . In the autumn
of the same year in which you left Europe, after I had
passed the summer with my sister at the Baths in Bohe-
mia, I went alone to Paris and spent a very enjoyable
winter. In May I was for some weeks in London, and
the next winter I passed at Heidelberg. In the spring of
1838 I was obliged to make my long-postponed return
home. It was hard for me to leave the beloved town, and
I lived the last weeks entirely at the Castle, with the old
gardener Winkler. Now behold me for eight months past
installed upon my paternal acres as a very zealous man-
ager of the estate. The house stands upon a high shore,
and from my window I look out far over the lovely blue
sea and upon every ship that passes to the Bay of Finland.
This is my only entertainment, for I live in the greatest
solitude. So I have ample leisure to think of the past
and of old dear friends. If you knew how much inter-
ested I should be in all that concerns you, you would not
need that I should entreat you to write me. Do take to
heart my wish. Every year ships sail from Boston to
Petersburg, and they generally stop at Baltisport.
And so farewell, my very dear friend, my companion
of brighter days. Think with sympathy of your heartily
devoted
J. VON RAMM.
May 22. [After some weeks of illness.] I have not
yet got out. Was in bed nearly all day, quite worn and
exhausted. How many and various reflections I have
made as I have been lying on my back. Read first volume
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 323
of Huet's Autobiography. He was Bishop of Avenches:
and his interesting Life is full of sketches of the Savans of
the seventeenth century.
23d. I am amusing myself with Miss Austen's novels.
She has great power and discrimination in delineating
common-place people ; and her writings are a capital pic-
ture of real life, with all the little wheels and machinery
laid bare like a patent clock. But she explains and fills
out too much. Those who have not power to fill up gaps
and bridge over chasms as they read, must therefore take
particular delight in such minuteness of detail. It is a
kind of Bowditch's Laplace in the romantic astronomy. But
readers of lively imagination naturally prefer the original
with its unexplained steps, which they so readily supply.
24th. Felton comes and reads me his [translation of]
Menzel’s History of German Literature. A vigorous, live
book, and most faithfully done into English. Told him
of my plan of a heroic poem on the Discovery of America
by the Northmen, in which the Round Tower at New-
port and the Skeleton in Armor have a part to play.
The more I think of it, the more I like it. [No epic came
of this; only a lyric.]
To Sam Mel Ward.
May 30, 1839.
I should have written you sooner, but have been very
unwell, confined to my chamber for a fortnight, and to my
bed for several days. I have not been really well for a
year past. I think I have overworked myself a little.
This pulling by the head (as oxen do in some countries) is
not conducive to health, I am persuaded.
How are you ? What is the news with you? When
does Morton of Morton Hope" make its appearance 2 Do
* A novel,-the first book of John Lothrop Motley, afterward so
well known by his histories.
324 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
you know, I have this design: if I can get the sheets
of the book, to write a notice for the July North American,
provided the book is to appear before July, and provided,
likewise, I can praise it heartily and warmly; . . . because
I have no idea of doing such a thing unless I can praise
it with a relish. Then I will most gladly; for it would
be a grateful welcome to a young author to have early
laudation. I am on very friendly terms with the author,
and like him, and wish to do all I can to give him a fair
start in the field.
June 4. Took steamboat last night and came back
[from Portland]. Early breakfast in Boston; then to the
Atheneum gallery. Fine collection; but as to “original
Raphaels,” that is quite out of my belief.
5th. Stepped back again into college labor and a rain-
storm. A dripping, steaming fore-Summer. Legions of
canker-worms crawling all over creation.
6th. Sat down to prepare my lecture. Weary again
already. When I am away I feel revived, but as soon
as I see again these four green walls [of the study] and
the printed pages, my Spirit faints. -
8th. Put into the printers' hands the first chapter of
Hyperion. So now I am fairly embarked. Drove to
Pine Bank to dine with Cleveland. He is panting to
undertake some great historical work. Prescott's example
will fire many and cause many “great works” to be writ-
ten. I proposed to him the history of the Jews in the
Middle Ages, which seemed to strike his fancy, and is
really a grand subject. -
10th. I think it exquisite to read good novels in bed
with wax lights in silver candlesticks, – Disraeli's Vivian
Grey, for example.
11th. Got the first proof sheet of Hyperion. It will
look well. -
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 325
12th. Hear that Schlesinger, the great pianist in New
York, is dead. I shall hear him no more. No more /
How those words sound like the roaring wind through
melancholy pines | He was an exquisite musician ; and
from the ivory keys pressed overflowing harmonies, “like
water from a sponge.”
14th. Last night I slept but one hour and a half, from
ten to half past eleven. Got up soon after four and went
out for a bath. The bath house not open. There never
was a more dismal wretch than I, as I stood on the
Brighton bridge looking at the black current underneath.
Cold, showery Sunshine, and wet wind blowing.
To his Father.
June 16, 1839.
I have begun to print Hyperion, and have three men at
work upon it, setting type. I hope to have it out in about
a month; and shall, unless Colman delays. As to the
noney part of the business, he is to pay me three hundred
and seventy-five dollars, by his notes, on the day of publi-
cation; Said notes payable in three and six months. .
At all events, I get the book very handsomely printed, and
widely circulated ; and this is a great point. As to its
success, I am very sanguine. I look upon the work of my
hands with a very complacent Smile; and it will take a
great deal of persuasion to convince me that the book is
not good. This is my candid opinion. -
Tarring the trees did not succeed with the canker-
worms. On the ten magnificent elms which stand in front
of my window, not one leaf is to be seen. All is as bare
as in winter. We shall try again in autumn. They are
talking seriously here of forming a Society for the Sup-
pression of Canker-Worms, and making a regular crusade
against them.
326 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
July 2. Printing Hyperion. I am nearly through the
first volume, – at times remodelling, and introducing such
new chapters as strike my fancy.
To Samuel Ward.
July 13, 1839.
It will not be in my power to leave Cambridge for a
week or ten days. I cannot move an inch till Hyperion
is out of press. We are now half through the second
volume. I must bring you a copy with me. You will
like it, because you will understand it with the heart as
well as with the brain. I hope others will, likewise; for
if the book does not succeed, will not the author — as an
author — be dished 3
Please tell Mr. Cogswell that his last Number [of the
N. Y. Review] is excellent. Motley has said in it the
best thing on Faust (so far as it goes) that I have ever
heard or read. The French Revolution paper I like also
exceedingly; even the placing Carlyle above Thiers as an
historic scene-painter. Who wrote the interesting paper
on Claudius 2 Capital only no poetry, - none of those
peculiar, racy, Charles-Lamb-like little pieces, and those
quaint fancies; as, for example, in the ‘Happy Peasant,’
when he says, speaking of hay and harvests: —
Oh, he who never hath seen this,
He cannot understand ;
One takes God in the very act
With blessings in his hand.
On Monday I shall be much less agreeably employed than
in sailing down the Sound with you; namely, in my col-
lege examinations, which fall upon that day. So I must
of necessity disappoint you.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 327
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
July 23, 1839.
Three pages of fault-finding you call a letter. I don't.
Find fault to your heart's content; but be more concen-
trated. There you are in Rome, with all the world march-
ing and countermarching before you, and you have no
more to say than if you were in East Greenwich. And
when I want particulars about yourself, you laugh in my
face, and then fill a whole page with broken columns,
moonlight, and the Coliseum ; as if I were a female cousin,
and kept an album. This is not fair; I am regularly
Savage about it. Now having disgorged this crude mass,
let us pass to more important matters. Is not Sumner
a glorious youth 2–with a halo round his head, as it
were. His presence is beneficent, and we shall all await
his return with fluttering impatience. A warm-hearted,
manly fellow, and an ardent friend. I know you must
have enjoyed his Society.
I have written a Romance during this past year. The
feelings of the book are true; the events of the story mostly
fictitious. The heroine, of course, bears a resemblance to
the lady, without being an exact portrait. There is no
betrayal of confidence, no real scene described. Hyperion
is the name of the book, not of the hero. It merely
indicates that here is the life of one who in his feelings
and purposes is a “Son of Heaven and Earth,” and who
though obscured by clouds yet “moves on high.” Further
than this the name has nothing to do with the book, and in
fact is mentioned only once in the course of it. I expect to
be mightily abused. People will say that I am the hero
of my own romance, and compare myself to the sun, to
Hyperion Apollo. This is not so. I wish only to embody
certain feelings which are mine, not to magnify myself.
I do not care for abuse, if it is real, manly, hearty abuse.
328 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
All that I fear is the laudatur et alget, the damnation of
faint praise ; that I hope to avoid, this time.
. . . And now for American literature. Hillhouse is pub-
lishing a new edition of his poems. Prescott is writing a
History of the Conquest of Mexico. has published
a poem (?) — most rabid trash, trash with a tin pail tied
to its tail. Yet Willis says, “If God ever made a poet, it
is .” Willis's A l'Abri is a collection of letters
written from his country-seat on the Susquehanna, and
published in the Mirror as ‘Letters from under a Bridge;’
very racy and beautiful. Hillard has in the press a new
and beautiful edition of Spenser, with preface and notes
by himself. Felton is busily at work upon a translation
of Menzel’s German Literature. He is doing it finely.
New York is becoming more and more literary. It is also
becoming a little less bigoted; Mr. Brooks, ci-devant
Unitarian clergyman in Hingham, has been elected Pro-
fessor of Botany in the New York University. Cooper,
the novelist, is up to his arm-pits in law-suits, – libel
cases against the editors of newspapers for abusing him.
Decidedly a disagreeable individual Bulwerism is dying
out ; Marryatism, ditto. Dickens reigns supreme as the
popular writer. Bancroft has written a violent article
against Goethe in the Christian Examiner. Washington
Irving is writing away in the Knickerbocker, – old rem-
nants, odds and ends about Sleepy Hollow and Granada.
What a pity! A Miss Fuller has published a translation
of “flunky” Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe.
Dr. Bird, a new novel.
To his Father.
July 27, 1839.
In a couple of hours I shall be on my way to New
York. It requires some nerve to move southward in such
hot weather. I had much rather take the Portland
1839.] *A LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 329
steamer. But I must attend to my affairs with Colman,
for fear he should fail; and I must get a French instructor
for next year. -
The book [Hyperion] is finished. I expect Some copies
from the binder to-day. It is a very handsome book. I
hope you will like it, and think it better than. Outre-Mer,
as I do.
I do not know how long I shall be gone. I have an
invitation from my friend Sam. Ward in the city; an-
other from Redhook on the Hudson ; and a third from
Washington Irving at Sleepy Hollow. I think it doubtful,
however, whether I go farther than the city. I shall do
pretty much as the Spirit prompts at the moment.
I hope to come back in better trim than I go. I am
a martyr to toothache; and for three months have not
been free from it a day. It makes me feverish and
uncomfortable. -
To his Father.
NEW YORK, August 2, 1839.
Instead of going out this morning, I will sit down
quietly and write you a letter. I am enjoying myself
highly in this red-hot city; being very cool and quiet in
the home of my friend Ward. We are keeping Bachelors'
Hall, - the family having gone to Newport, and Mr.
Cogswell, my friend Sam., and myself being the only per-
sons left in this great palace of a dwelling. During the
heat of the day, I sit at home in the cool, large rooms;
and stroll out in the evening. So you need not fear
cholera, nor yellow fever, whatever the papers may say.
How do you like Hyperion ? My friends here are very
extravagant in their praises; and if the public coincides
with their judgment I shall be quite famous. It will be
published next week.
330 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
By the way, I had yesterday the offer of a Professor-
ship in the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa. I de-
clined and recommended S Good climate, and two
thousand dollars a year. -
To his Father.
September 1, 1839.
Since my return I have received the following vote of
the Corporation: “That it is not expedient to increase the
number of instructors in Modern Languages, and that the
Smith Professor ought to continue to give all instruction
required in the French language.”
Now the Smith Professor does not wish, nor intend, to
do any such thing, if he can help it. At all events, if I
stay I shall hit upon some way of shortening the time
devoted to instruction in languages; or the labor will
finish me before winter. . . . No doubt, if I could bring
myself to give up all my time to the college, and not
pursue any other study, I could get along very comfort-
ably. But the idea of standing still, or of going back-
ward, is not to be entertained by such an ardent temper
as mine.
To his Father.
- September —, 1839.
Hyperion attracts great attention; and excites very
strong and opposite feelings. Some praise, and others
condemn in no measured terms; and the book sells with
a rapidity far beyond my expectations. I hear that a new
edition will soon be called for ; which, if so, will be a tri-
umph, considering the nature of the book. People seem
to be much puzzled about it, and some are quite angry be-
cause they cannot see through it as easily as their a b c.
But I have the approbation of those whose approbation I
most desire; and, of course, do not much care how others
abuse. What delights me is that it calls forth very strong
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 331
and decided opinions. I am free for once from the laudatur
et alget. I have organized my classes and the term be-
gins under very favorable circumstances.
September 10. A glorious autumnal morning. I have,
too, leisure to enjoy it. I could live very happily here if
I could chain myself down to college duties and be noth-
ing but a professor. I should then have work enough
and recreation enough. But I am too restless for this.
What should I be at fifty . A fat mill-horse, grinding
round with blinkers on. But now, with my Meleager's
firebrand, shall I reach fifty
11th. I have taken to the Greek poets again, and
mean to devote one hour every morning to them. Began
to-day with Anacreon. What exquisite language Why
did I ever forget my Greek 2 - -
12th. I mean to publish a volume of poems, under
the title of Voices of the Night. As old Michel Drayton
Says, –
I will; yea, and I may !
Who shall oppose my way ?
For what is he alone
That of himself can say,
He 's heire of Helicon 2
13th. For a few days past I have been dipping at
leisure moments into Egerton Brydges' Autobiography.
An interesting book, showing how a man of real talent
and love of literature may live a long life with a longing
desire to do something great, and then “die and make no
sign.” -
14th. Golden autumnal mornings Bright shines the
dewy Sun ; fresh and bracing is the air; crickets chirp in
the grass; and caw, caw, sings the solitary distant crow. I
will finish a letter to Charles [Sumner] and then go into
to Wn.
332 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
16th. Exhausted with labors in college. This will
not do. It is too much for one's daily bread, when one
can live on so little. I must learn to give up superfluous
things and devote myself wholly to literature.
17th. Wrote an autumnal chant [.. Midnight Mass for
the Dying Year'], and did no more. Have great literary
plans in my brain. First, I shall publish a collection of
poems. Then, –
History of English Poetry.
Studies in the Manner of Claude Lorraine; a series of
sketches.
Count Cagliostro; a novel.
The Saga of Hakon Jarl; a poem."
18th. Another letter from New York, urging me to
lecture there, and offering me two hundred dollars for
three lectures. Shall I go Ż
19th. Completed the poem of ‘The Beleaguered City.”
Sent the ‘Autumnal Chant’ to the Knickerbocker. At
evening bathed in the river, — a magnificent bath, the
sunset seeming to mingle with the Water.
To his Father.
September 21, 1839.
My work here grows quite intolerable, and unless they
make some change, I will leave them,--with or without
1 None of these plans ever came to fruit, except the volume of
poems.
2 During his visit to his friend Ward, in New York, in August,
strolling into the library one day after breakfast, he took carelessly
from the shelf a volume of Scott's Border Minstrelsy, and opened at
one of the notes, containing the tradition about the city of Prague upon
which this poem is founded: “ Similar to this was the Nacht Lager,
or midnight camp, which seemed nightly to beleaguer the walls of
Prague, but which disappeared upon the recitation of [certain] magi-
cal words.” – Introduction to the Tale of Tamerlane. .
In the same note occurs the legend of the Luck of Edenhall.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 333
anything to do. I will not consent to have my life
crushed out of me so. I had rather live a while on bread
and water. I feel, all the time, that I am doing wrong to
stay here under such circumstances; though I know this
is not prudent.
This week I have written two more psalms. One of
them you will have in the next Knickerbocker; and the
other, I know not when. Moreover, I am going to put to
press a volume of poems without delay, - all my last
pieces, and a selection from the earlier ones, together
with translations.
October 1. Some one has made a savage onslaught
upon Hyperion in the Boston Mercantile Journal. What
care I? Not one straw. He has pulled so hard that he
has snapped the bow-string. He seems to be very angry.
What an unhappy disposition he must have, to be so
much annoyed -
3d. A glorious day. Could not stay at home, but
went alone to Fresh Pond. What a lovely lake it is,
with the forest hanging round it, — like a mirror with a
garland of oak-leaves | Took a boat and floated away,
rocked in dreams.
4th. With what coarse contrast these constantly-recur-
ring three days (les Trois Jours") come crushing in
Poetic dreams shaded by French irregular verbs! I wish
I were a free man
5th. Wrote a new Psalm of Life. It is ‘The Village
BlackSmith.” Then went to town.
8th. Another golden autumnal morning, Translated
Anacreon’s ‘Grasshopper,'—an exquisite ode. A dream-
day.
* “Les Trois Jours” was a phrase applied to Parisian revolutions.
334 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
10th. Walked to town and passed the evening with
Hawthorne in his attic. He is a grand fellow, and is
destined to shine as “a bright particular star” in our
literary heavens.
November 27. [Read in Sir James Mackintosh's Life.
Very interesting. What a life of projects, as he himself
Said. Reading and resolving passed his life away. Here
is the moral, then, as the chorus chants it in the second
part of Faust: —
Säume nicht dich zu erdreisten,
Wenn die Menge zaudernd Schweift :
Alles kann der Edle leisten
Der versteht und rash ergreift.”
Read Byron’s ‘Prophecy of Dante, which I think very
Ordinary, Save the grand passage on Ariosto and Tasso in
the third Canto. Then dined on bread and rice. Medi-
tating what I shall write next. Shall it be two volumes
more of Hyperion ? Or a drama on Cotton Mather ? —
(Here a knock at the door, and a voice saying, “Are
visitors admitted 2 ° and then enter M. A. and Mr.
Mackintosh.” He looks like the portrait of his father.
God speed you! A pleasant call, and now I am alone
again.)
Cotton Mather ? or a drama on the old poetic legend
of Der Armer Heinrich 38 The tale is exquisite. I have
a heroine as sweet as Imogen, could I but paint her so. I
think I must try this. But first, a lecture on Jean Paul.
In the afternoon read Massinger's Virgin Martyr. I
have not read it before since I left Brunswick. The
1 Hesitate not to dare, when the crowd wavers delaying: all can
the noble man accomplish, who understands and Swiftly grasps (the
opportunity). — Act 1.
2 Mr. Robert J. Mackintosh, the son of Sir James. He married the
elder Miss Appleton, and was at one time Governor of St. Kitt's.
3 This he afterwards made the theme of the Golden Legend.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 335
beauty of the versification is in parts striking; and the
thoughts likewise. This evening I have been reading
extracts from Jean Paul, in order to make a few transla-
tions for my lecture.
30th. Dined at Mr. Ticknor's with Mackintosh, Kean
[the actor], Prescott, Appleton, father and son, and one
or two others. T. G. A. is a fellow of infinite jest. Kean,
pleasant and modest.
To his Father.
December 5, 1839.
It is so long since I wrote you last that it seems as if
I never did write you. Of late I have had many business
letters to write, and have found my time taken up more
than usual by company. Do you remember Dr. , the
German, who visited me last Summer in Portland, - no,
the summer before, — and Smoked under the trees after
dinner – the same who was banished from Göttingen,
because, as he said, the “king of Hanover wanted him to
swallow his oats" (oaths) and he would not. He is now
here on a visit. I never see him that he does not allude
to the cigar and coffee after dinner, under the trees. It
took him captive entirely. It was, he says, so German, 1
Have you seen the last Knickerbocker . They are
raising a slight breeze in it against the “wind Euroclydon.”
[in the ‘Midnight Mass for the Dying Year']. But I am
right, notwithstanding. It means a storm-wind — or a
north-easter, coming over the Sea ; and is no more
confined to the Mediterranean than rude Boreas. Look
into Robinson's Lexicon and you will find the whole
explained.
The Voices of the Night will be out in a few days. It
will succeed finely, I have no doubt. Having got this off
my hands, I shall now get my lectures ready for New
York. They come on in January.
336 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
The Corporation have finally settled my case, by put-
ting it on the old footing. I can now have a French
instructor, when I see fit, which will be sometime in the
course of the year.
How are you all ? Well, I hope. The wind Eurocly-
don is blowing tremendously, announcing winter.
December 6. We stayed into the small hours of this
morning at Dr. Beck's, and had a merry time of it, with
delicious hock. Telkampf tells stories; one of them
quite fresh. A fellow lodging in the house of a Jew buys
of him all the flies in the house, with permission to kill
them as he pleases, for his amusement. He then coolly
takes out his pistol and begins to shoot at them wherever
they alight, — on windows, looking-glasses, no matter
where; bang ! bang ! till finally the Jew is glad to buy
him off.
7th. Wrote letters. Dined on rice. Then walked to
town with Felton. Took tea with Mrs. E., then went to
Mr. Ticknor's. Saw the folio edition of Stapfer's Faust
with engravings; large, coarse, and very expressive. I
like them better than Retzsch's. Ticknor thinks them
worthless.
8th. Read Faust and compared several translations.
All the poetic ones are heartily poor [1839]. Hayward's
prose one is incomparably the best. Read one of Stag-
nelius's Dramatic Sketches.
12th. A drenching rain. Read Jean Paul. Drowsy,
dull, desoeuvré, not having a book in press, and having
given up smoking. It cleared up and I went to town.
Bought a handsome edition of Minot's Poems,'—I believe
1 Poems on Events in the Reign of Edward III., written in 1352
by Laurence Minot. London. 1795.
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 337
the only edition of an English bard before Chaucer and
Gower, though of the fourteenth century. This even-
ing, have been reading his ten lyrics on the Battles of
Edward III. A melodious versifier for his age, certainly,
but not gifted with the higher endowments of the poet.
Now for a modern poet, a German, Count Auersperg
[Anastasius Grün].
14th. Highly commendatory notice of Poems [Voices
of the Night] in the Mercantile Journal and Morning
Post, papers which abused Hyperion.
17th. News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast.
Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one
lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called
Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among
others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-flower on
Black Rock. I must write a ballad upon this; also two
others, – ‘The Skeleton in Armor, and ‘Sir Humphrey
Gilbert.’
Prom Nathaniel Hawthorne.
BOSTON, December 26, 1839.
DEAR LONGFELLOW, - . . . I read your poems over and
over, and over again, and continue to read them at all my
leisure hours; and they grow upon me at every re-perusal.
Nothing equal to some of them was ever written in this
World, - this western world, I mean ; and it would not
hurt my conscience much to include the other hemisphere.
I have not yet begun the review of the Poems and Hype-
rion. My heart and brain are troubled and fevered now
with ten thousand other matters; but soon I will set about
it. God Send you many a worthier reviewer.
Your friend,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
VOL. I. — 22
338 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1839.
To his Father.
December 29, 1839.
. . . I am very much grieved to see that you are so low-
Spirited. Believe me, what you attribute to your com-
plaint — forgetfulness of names, and of spelling — hap-
pens to me and everybody else almost every day. I can
Seldom remember a date; and am sometimes so much in
doubt as to my own age that I have to begin at 1807 and
count up. Christmas day I dined with Mr. W. Appleton.
Your friend and classmate, Richard Sullivan, was present.
He said it always made him feel very old to see me, and
made very particular inquiries after you. I mentioned to
him these tricks of memory. He said it was precisely so
with him. You see, the disorder is common ; and I recol-
lect perfectly well, when in Spain, that if any one asked
Washington Irving a date, he would turn to his brother
and say, “When was that, Peter 2" and Peter always
replied: “Well, Washington, I don't exactly recollect.” . . .
You do not know how grandly my Voices has succeeded.
The publisher tells me he has only forty copies left on
hand out of nine hundred printed, and it is hardly a fort-
night since the publication. In addition to which, I get a
good deal of praise, and constant applications to write for
periodicals, at my own price. But of these offers I am
rather shy just now. Colman writes me that he shall pay
all his debts in the course of fifteen months, having put
his property into the hands of trustees for that purpose.
We shall see. My lectures in New York are on the 24th,
27th, and 28th of January.’
30th. I wrote last evening a notice of Allston's
poems. After which I sat till twelve o'clock by my fire,
smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to write
1839.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 339
the ‘Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus;” which I accord-
ingly did. Then I 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. I then
went to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with the
ballad. It hardly cost me an effort. It did not come
into my mind by lines but by stanzas.
31st. Shake hands, old friend; I have learned much
from thee; and sung thy Spring in prose and thy autumn
in song. And now farewell !
“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!
Take this new tenant to thy trust,
And give these sacred relics room
To slumber in the silent dust.”
1839.
CHAPTER XXI.
LETTERS AND JOURNAL.
1840.
From Washington Allston.
CAMBRIDGEPORT, January 1, 1840.
MY DEAR SIR,--I beg you to accept my thanks for
your Voices of the Night. It was my wish to have ac-
knowledged the receipt of it sooner; but in truth I could
not sooner command the poetic mood (which I hold to be
no less essential to the reader than the writer), in order to
do justice to your book. I know not how it is with
others, but there are days when Some prosaic demon seems
to stand at every avenue of my mind. At Such times I
dare not approach Poetry, lest she “write me down block-
head.”
The desirable mood, however, has at length come upon
me, when I could open your volume without fear of in-
justice either to writer or reader; and my forbearance
has been rewarded by no common pleasure. Among
the recent poems I was most touched by the ‘Prelude,
and the ‘Footsteps of Angels.” They breathe the true
spirit of poesy. Nor was I less pleased with the freshness
of some of the earlier pieces. The ‘Sunrise on the Hills'
is beautifully painted. Among the translations, I was
especially taken with the Ode of Don Jorge Manrique. It
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. . 341
is an exquisite poem, and reads so like an original I Can-
not help thinking that, like Coleridge's translation of
Wallenstein, – which Scott preferred to Schiller's orig-
inal, - it owes not a little to some subtile infusion from
the translator's own mind. Be that às it may, it is so
masterly that I cannot help wishing for more translations
of a like spirit.
I remain, dear Sir, with sincere regard,
Yours, WA. ALLSTON.
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
January 2, 1840.
It is now half-past nine at night. I have just been
taking a solitary supper of Sardines, and wishing myself
where they came from. . . .
I wrote immediately to New York about your letters
from Rome; but not to the Knickerbocker, because it
has been in trouble, and not able to pay anybody. I
wrote to Sargent. After Some delay I got an answer
showing that nobody pays now-a-days: “The fact is that
all our publishers, whether of books or periodicals, are
desperately poor at present. Money is not to be had.”
And this is very true; you have no idea of the state of
things. My publisher (Colman) has just failed. Most
publishers will not look at a book. Yet don't despair.
Clark writes me that the Knickerbocker, — that is, the
business part of it, — will be in new hands. He has not
paid me for three years. Poor fellow, he has had a hard
time, and been almost desperate, I fear.
Since my last letter, I have published another book, -
a volume of poems, with the title, Voices of the Night.
It contains the ‘ Psalms,’ ‘Manrique, and some of the
earlier poems. Its success has been signal. It has not
been out three weeks, and the publisher has not more
342 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
than fifty copies left, out of nine hundred. But see what
ill luck with Hyperion: the publisher fails; half the edi-
tion (that is, twelve hundred copies) is seized by creditors
and locked up; and the book has been out of the market
for four months. No matter, I had the glorious satisfaction
of writing it. . . . I called it Hyperion, because it moves on
high, among clouds and stars, and expresses the various
aspirations of the soul of man. It is all modelled on this
idea, style and all. It contains my cherished thoughts
for three years. Pardon my saying so much. In offset, I
will send you the “horrible dispraise” I spoke of, though
the papers that uttered it have since nearly come round,
and have even praised some parts of it. How victorious
is silence!
I have written to Park Benjamin to send you his new
paper, the New World,—a monstrous sheet, full of all
that is going on here; by far the best paper I see.
Now for a few items. We are eagerly looking for
Sumner, in the course of a month or two. Ticknor lives
quite secluded, and goes little into society. I had a
gaudiolum here last evening,-Hillard, Hawthorne, Felton;
no more. I go to New York in a fortnight to lecture on
Dante. The Lowell Lectures (the first free lectures in
this country) commenced last week [in Boston]. Governor
Everett gave the Introductory. A theological controversy
is going on between Norton and Ripley, a young divine
of the new school, who maintains that Spinoza was no
atheist.
I have broken ground in a new field; namely, ballads;
beginning with the “Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus, on
the reef of Norman's Woe, in the great storm of a fort-
night ago. I shall send it to some newspaper. I think I
shall write more. The national ballad is a virgin soil
here in New England; and there are great materials.
Besides, I have a great notion of Working upon the people's
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 343
feelings. I am going to have it printed on a sheet, with a
coarse picture on it. I desire a new sensation and a new
set of critics. Nat. Hawthorne is tickled with the idea.
Felton laughs and says, “I wouldn't.”" . . . I understand
there is a spicy article against me in the Boston Quarterly.
I shall get it as soon as I can ; for, strange as you may
think it, these things give me no pain.
I am glad you are at work on something. Keep your
secret. I have great faith in not saying much about a
thing until you can say, “I have done it.” It is often
with authors as with money-diggers; if a Word is spoken,
the treasure sinks. Only be sure you are not on the
wrong track.
January 2, 1840. Read Dante. Looked over some
lectures. Copied ‘Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus.’ See
in the papers sundry notices of the Voices of the Night;
all favorable. Bought a lettern. Here it stands, with the
illustrated Molière open upon it. But how different from
an old church lettern, curiously carved and inlaid with
brass, – quaint, Oaken, old.
3d. Dined with He seems to be much my
friend, and I like him, - all Save his confounded positive
way about everything.
4th. Hawthorne came to pass the evening. We had a
long conversation on literature. He means to write a
child's book. I told him of my ballad, and that I meant
to have it printed on a sheet with a picture on top, like
other ballads. He is delighted with the idea; and says he
will distribute them to every skipper of every craft he
boards in his custom-house duties, so as to hear their
criticisms. Hillard and Felton came late, and we had
a pleasant Supper.
1. It was not done,
344 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
From Park Benjamin.
NEw York, January 7, 1840.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW,-- Your ballad, ‘The Wreck of
the Hesperus, is grand. Enclosed are twenty-five dollars,
the sum you mentioned for it, paid by the proprietors of
the New World, in which glorious paper it will resplend-
ently coruscate on Saturday next. Of all American jour-
nals the New World is alone worthy to contain it !
Your good and beautiful letter about Allston's poems
appears in the Signal to-day. You will also see it in the
New World. Do you wish to do a favor to a brother
poet 2 Richard H. Dana is in town, and about to commence
a course of literary lectures at the Stuyvesant Institute.
Write me something in praise of his fine powers and his
reputation in New England. Hillard told Sargent that
he should send me a notice of Voices of the Night. When
are you coming to New York 2 You Ought to remain
here long enough to repeat your lectures on your own
account.
9th. Read five cantos in Dante's Inferno. I am struck
with the prevailing desire of fame everywhere heard.
Above the wailings of the damned Spirits, the groaning
branches of the accursed forest, the hollow roar of the
falling Phlegethon, the shrieks, curses, and howlings of
despair, – resounds the “silver-snarling” blast of “the
trumpet that speaks of fame.” This was the longing in
the soul of Dante, finding its expression everywhere.
“See that thou speakest of us to the people,” cry the souls
in agony. “Their fame—fama di loro; ” “leaving behind
them horrible dispraise; ” “that fame of yours — voStra
nominanza;” these and the like are phrases constantly
recurring, like the theme of an opera, with thousand-fold
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 345
variations. I know of no book so fearfully expressive of
human passions as this. -
10th. Read four cantos of the Inferno. Then went to
town on business. Evening at Professor Channing's; and
afterwards at Felton's till midnight.
11th. Dined with Cleveland. Then went back to
Hillard's office. He read me a lampoon on myself from
the Evening Journal, - a parody on One of my transla-
tions from the German. -
12th. Read ten cantos of the Inferno ; then went to
dine with Felton. This evening have been reading Cam-
oens, – the fine episodes of Inez de Castro, and Adamastor.
13th. My Examinations [of college classes] in divers
tongues. The scholars did well. Prescott, Frothingham,
and Stackpole [of the Examining Committee] were present.
Prescott seems to doubt whether I can imitate successfully
the Old English ballad.
From John, Neal.
PoRTLAND, January 13, 1840.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW,-Until last evening I have
had no time, since I received your poems, even to cut the
leaves. But I have now read them ; and as I did so with
a feeling which you, as a poet just beginning to draw from
the core, will understand, I choose to say as much without
a moment's delay.
One fault I have to complain of (the others I like (). In
your disposition to avoid monotony, you roughen a line
occasionally, after a fashion that frets me. . . . I say this
just to prove my impartiality. Not being blinded alto-
gether to such things only proves that I must have a
better eye for the beauties. So I have. Some of the later
poems are admirable. The earlier ones I don't like. And
why Partly because they cannot be found fault with,
346 IETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
and partly because they are just of a piece with all the
respectable poetry of their day. Your last are of a newer
and much deeper spirit; Sanctified and Sanctifying. Per-
severe ! God bless you !
Your friend,
J. NEAL.
14th. A dismal kind of day. Finished the Inferno
after breakfast. Wrote a letter. Then came in and
bored me till three o’clock,-three mortal hours besides
keeping me from my dinner.
16th. Bitter cold. Heard rumors of the loss of the
Lexington, a steamer between New York and Providence.
Burned at night with a hundred and fifty passengers on
board. Among them Dr. Follen, who has just closed his
lectures before the Mercantile Library in New York.
Horrible negligence, — a deck-load of cotton |
To his Father.
NEw York, January 19, 1840.1
Happening to find on the table here this half-sheet of
paper, and pen and ink convenient, in the private parlor
of the Astor House, I sit down to send you word of my
safe arrival in the city. I left Cambridge on Monday last
and arrived here this morning at one o'clock, crowded to
death in a Jersey wagon from New Haven, – feet pinched
with india-rubbers, and hat pock-marked with the rain,
which was falling in torrents. I have just had breakfast,
and the day looks bright. I am in haste to write you,
1 He had gone to New York to give three lectures (on Dante and
Jean Paul) before the Mercantile Library Association. Charles
Francis Adams, Horace Mann, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Professors
Silliman and Torrey, and Samuel Ward were among the other lec-
turers. Mr. Emerson's subject was “The Philosophy of History.’
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 347
that you may know I am alive, having seen two days
ago my name in the papers, as having been lost in the
Lexington.
My first lecture is on Friday evening (to-morrow), after
which I shall write you again. Mr. Charles Adams (son
of John Quincy) lectures to-night. Mr. Dana is also de-
livering a course of lectures in town. I have no news to
send you. The [steamer] British Queen is just coming
up the harbor.
To his Father.
February 10, 1840.
My lectures in New York went off very well (though
I was quite ill with an influenza all the time), and I had
very good audiences. On the whole, a pleasant visit, Sav-
ing the unpleasant weather; snowing and thawing and
raining. On Saturday night—the Sound being frozen
as far as Hurlgate, so as to prevent any steamer's going,
— I started in the mail-stage, in a drizzling, foggy rain,
the roads very bad, and everything afloat. We were on
wheels; and about one o'clock the driver went off the
road and pitched us into a ditch four feet deep. There
were three insides besides myself, and a dozen mail-bags.
Only one passenger was hurt. When the coach tipped he
cried out, “We are going over !” and made a spring at the
door; by which operation he got his head cut severely, and
bruised himself not a little. On a post-mortem examina-
tion of the carriage I found a pile of stones within a foot
of where my head came down. Had there not been snow
in the ditch I should have been severely hurt. We were
more than an hour in getting the coach into the road
again. We reached New Haven at noon the next day;
having left the wounded passenger at a tavern, in bed
and in the doctor's hands. After dinner I drove on to
Hartford, sitting on top of the mail-bags, which were
348 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
piled in an uncovered pung. The last eighteen miles it
rained like fury, and I reached Hartford wet through.
To-day's journey has been more lucky; and I hope to
have a better one still to Portland, though it is raining
again to-night.
To his Mother.
February 27, 1840.
This is your letter, it being to-day the 27th ; and I
trust you will be glad to hear of my safe arrival home.
It was not so speedy as I imagined it would be. The
roads were very rough, and we did not reach Boston till
half-past eight in the evening.
March 1. I was interrupted in the midst of my letter
by business. Indeed, I am now full of little occupations,
— arrangements with the new French instructor, who
has just arrived. There is a good deal of perplexity about
new arrangements always. . . .
It is a bright, breezy March day. The trees and the
meadows look russet, and the river blue. Everything is
clothed with sunshine, and a quarter's Salary due on Mon-
day. I am consequently in very good spirits, and begin
the new term under good auspices. I hope I shall be a
better home-correspondent than I have been heretofore.
But I do not know that I shall be able to reform my bad
habits. I will try.
March 2. To-day I heard the song of the blue bird,
the herald of spring. It is exquisite music to my ear.
It announces the approach of Nature's great procession
of grass, leaves, flowers, and waving cornfields. The
spring, the spring, the ever beautiful! with its rushing
waters, and floating clouds like thistle-down, and buds
whose pale parting lips prophesy delight and love.
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 349
3d. Mrs. Sparks has sent me, to read, a letter from
, in which he speaks in most enthusiastic language
of the effect my poems produce upon him. I am pleased
to work thus on the hearts of the young.
4th. I cannot sit at home. Spring is no time to read
books. Out, out into the free air, ye book-worms; revel .
in the sunshine, and thank God for the Spring !
Walked to town in the afternoon. In Beacon Street
met the Pole, , with a knotted Stick in his hand.
He is now teaching French in New Bedford, where, he
says, several ladies have “the great charm of dotage.”
He meant dowry.
5th. Read Franz Stern bold's Wanderungen, one of
Tieck's novels. It treats of art and its enthusiasm. Some
passages are fine ; as a whole, not great. My admiration
for Tieck, which was never high, is rather diminished.
There is, however, a Claude Lorraine atmosphere about
the book which is delightful. .
6th. M. De Goy is translating Hyperion into French.
He came this morning and read me the first three chap-
ters, which are well done. It seems like seeing my own
ghost.
7th. Felton dined with me. This is pleasant, — a
fine suite of rooms in the old château here, a good ser-
vant, a table of my own to sit down at, and the face of a
friend opposite. In the evening read in Moratin's Collec-
tion of old Spanish plays anterior to Lope de Vega. One
of the earliest is a pretty dialogue between Love and an
Old Man, by Rodrigo de Cota.
To his Father.
March 8, 1840.
You know how much one finds to do at home after an
absence, however short: the greeting of friends, the visits,
the unanswered letters lying on the table. These I have
350 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
at last despatched, and have arranged the classes for the
term. The French instructor turns out to be just what I
have so long wanted; and I feel that I have a great
weight taken from my shoulders (as well as from my
pocket). I begin my lectures on Dante to-morrow, with
the first sentence of Rasselas: “Ye who listen with credu-
lity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness
the phantoms of hope,” etc. When I have finished Dante
— say, twelve lectures or so—I take up the Spanish
drama. I have One class in French, – those farthest
advanced. All this occupies only two hours a day in the
lecture-room. Judge if I am in good spirits. Moreover,
I have made a good arrangement here with Mrs. Craigie.
I take another chamber [as a dining-room], and a kitchen.
One of Miss Lowell's servants remains. I thus have
everything comfortable; dine in my own room, as well as
breakfast ; and, in fine, am the most independent man in
town. I therefore promise myself a delightful summer.
We have had soft, summer-like weather since my re-
turn. The blue-birds begin to sing, and the South wind
blows. But to-day is a wild, untamed Orson of a day,
— cold and surly. The canker-worms have begun their
journey up the trees, and to-morrow I shall tar. I hope
to abate this nuisance.
11th. Introductory lecture [in college], - the Life of
Dante.
26th. Worked away at the early Spanish drama. Hard
work. I long to get down to Lope, Cervantes, and Cal-
deron. Dined with Felton. In the evening De Goy came
and read me two more chapters of his translation of
Hyperion. -
27th. Went splashing through the mud and melting
snow to my lecture. How much depends upon animal
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 351
spirits in intellectual efforts | Sometimes one dashes on
in gallant style, and language flows in rhythmic numbers.
At other times one has hardly words enough to furnish
forth a tolerable prose sentence. Felton dined with me.
In the evening I read El Major Alcalde el Rey, a glorious
play of the great Lope. It is magnificent, — full of
movement and dramatic power, and with a tide of lan-
guage like a mighty river. Read likewise the Moza de
Cºntaro, which belongs to the capa y espada School.” But
these are stolen pleasures, – glimpses into the dramatic
paradise, foretastes. To-morrow I must go back.
28th. Read the Comedia Aquilana of Torres Naharro.
This is the fourth I have waded through, out of eight he
wrote. Glad I have no more. Now for the prose come-
dian, Lope de Rueda ; who, judging by a peep here and
there, is full of fun.
A good idea Yes, I will write a comedy, - “The
Spanish Student l’
April 2. This is Fast Day. A bright, lovely morning,
—the eaves dripping with a ceaseless sound, sun bright,
and birds singing. Oh! such a day makes me long for
wings I cannot read, I cannot write. I would be
away ! But it is too wet to walk, and I cannot ride; so
here I sit and dream.
3d. There is one law-student who comes in occasion-
ally to my class, and I always lecture better when he is
there. This shows how much depends upon the audience.
Went to town in the evening, and met Hillard and
Cleveland at J. C.’s, at supper.
4th. Read Shakspeare's sonnets. One is exquisite, –
beyond compare, almost. It is that beginning, —
How oft when thou, my music, music playest
Upon the blessed wood, etc.
* “Cloak and sword” would seem to indicate something melo-
dramatic or mysteriously romantic.
352 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
5th. Hillard, Hawthorne, and Felton dined with me
and passed the evening. Hawthorne is a taciturn youth.
He never speaks except in a tête-d-tête, and then not
much.
6th. It seems to me the world is growing amazingly
dull. Books, books, books No lively intercourse; all
the world asleep. But Sumner will be back in a few
days [from Europe]; and we shall be kindled, - literally
set fire to. f
8th. Last lecture on Dante. I hate to lecture before
such small audiences as the Corporation in their wisdom
prescribe to me here. I must change this.
9th. Made a holiday of this beautiful day. Walked to
town. Went to see Prescott. He says his History of the
Conquest of Mexico will not be finished for three or four
years, though the papers have announced it for next
autumn. Showed me a letter from Gayangos," and an-
other from Ford, who reviewed him in the Edinburgh and
in the Quarterly.
On my way to town stopped at Allston's painting-
room. It stands in the Port ; an awkward-looking house
on the Common, with one long window, looking north.
Rnocked at the green door; all silent. Went over to his
house. He was still in his chamber. He keeps late
hours. The parlor-window was wide open, and a smell of
cigars still lingering there showed how late the evening
session had been.
10th. Read the Wumantia, a tragedy of Cervantes.
A good deal of power in his description of the famine-
stricken city. But the drama is not his forte, that is
certain.
1 Pascual de Gayangos, the Spanish scholar, who gave important
help to Mr. Prescott in the collection of materials for his histories.
The Conquest of Mexico was published in 1843.
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 353
24th. Introductory lecture on the Spanish Drama.
Drove to Brookline to dine with the Guilds. The stately
elms by the roadside just gilded with yellow leaf-buds.
Fine view, from the hill on Mr. G.'s grounds, of the dis-
tant city and the sea.
27th. Gave up the whole day to college work. After
lecture went in to various classes. Heard of Dr. Kirk-
land's death."
May 1. A bouquet of wild flowers, which Margaret
[the maid] placed on my table to-day, reminded me that
it was May-day. Felton dined with me.
2d. Once more the sheltering night has come. Went
to town to-day and dined tâte-à-téte with Hillard. Then
walked up and down the Common. Came back to Cam-
bridge and went to Mr. Norton's. There I beheld what
perfect happiness may exist on this earth, and felt how I
stood alone in life, cut off for a while from those dearest
sympathies for which I long.
3d. A balmy day. After church strolled with Mr.
and Mrs. Sparks into Dr. Palfrey's garden and the pine
woods near. On returning, they gave me, as a joint gift,
Macray’s translations from the German. They are not
good. Among them is a translation of Claudius's Rhine
Wine Song, — the first I ever met with. I wish it were
better. In the afternoon read La Dama. Duemda of
Calderon, — a very good comedy of “cloak and sword.”
6th. Began the day by reading El Galan Fantasma of
Calderon, a kind of pendant to his Dama. Duenda, but not
so good. College duties consumed the rest of the day.
Did not lecture well. A letter from Greene. He seems
to work hard; is engaged, I find, on a history of Italy. I
am Sorry for it. The early history of Italy is a series of
&
* John Thornton Kirkland, D.D., the genial and beloved Presi-
dent of Harvard College from 1810 to 1829.
VOL. I. — 23
354 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
tavern brawls and idle quarrels of noblemen; and fights
for Some empty bucket or the like, between one town
and another. These are dignified into wars by the his-
torian. Greene had better write a history of Italian
Literature.
7th. Have been to town to see Sumner." He looks
older, more manly, more European; but no dandyism;
simple and strong, and most thoroughly un-American.
I fear that his head is a little turned, and no wonder.
But he is a strong man, and will see in the end that
there is something better than breakfasting at ten and
dining at six.”
8th. Dined with Sumner at Felton's. He is vastly
improved by foreign travel; more ease, more aplomb, and
no affectation. -
9th. Club, at Cleveland's. Dined at four. Sumner
discoursed in one continuous flow from that time till
eleven, when we came away. He has seen everybody,
and is full of anecdotes of the most important personages
now on the stage.
12th. Sumner, Hillard, and Felton dined with me, and
stayed through the evening. A delightful gaudiolum.
16th. In town. Sumner striding down Hancock Street
in his white mackintosh. Drive to Cambridge in the 'bus.
Club dinner at Felton's, and long discourse, continuing till
midnight. A magnificent moonlight.
1 On the 18th of March Mr. Sumner wrote from London : “I
have just found Longfellow's Hyperion, and shall sit up all night to
devour it. I have bought up all the copies of the Voices of the
Night to give my friends.” On the third of May he arrived in
New York, and was soon at his home in Boston, receiving the cordial
welcome of his old friends.
2 Some years later, Sumner wrote: “I have always enjoyed the
refinement of the best society, but I have never sat in the palaces of
England without being pained by the inequality of which the in-
ordinate luxury was the token.”— Pierce's Life of Sumner, ii. 141.
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 355
17th. Melancholy reflections that I am doing nothing.
Must rouse up and begin. Begin what ? Dined with
Felton and Sumner. When I came home, found that S.
Ward had been here.
18th. Sam. Ward came out, and we had a long chat.
After my lecture went to town to dine with him, and see
him off for New York. Cogswell remains behind and
makes me a visit. A cool, delicious night. The air
embalmed with blossoms. The moon blazing red among
the clouds, like a bale-fire on the Summit of a dark hill.
Sat by the open window till midnight, weaving fond,
foolish dreams. -
26th. [After a visit in Portland.] Once more in
delightful Cambridge, with blossoms, sunshine, and sing-
ing-birds all around. And now to work again, if possible,
in earnest; though Heaven knows I have little desire for
work. The second edition of the Voices is out.
27th. Some books and engravings from Germany,
which in reality I do not want, and ought not to have
imported. When shall I be wise?
To George W. Greene (in Rome).
May 28, 1840.
I am right glad, my dear George, that Hyperion pleases
you, and that you sympathize with me in such moods of
feeling as those which produced this book. Here, the
Poems are much more generally liked than Hyperion. With
strange perversity, too, many like the earlier poems best.
This is because they understand them best. For my own
part, I should be very much mortified to think them so,
and maintain that there is no kind of comparison between
them [and the later ones]. I trust you will agree with
me. The Poems have gone to a second edition; which
is worth mentioning, as it does not often happen now-
356 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
a-days that a volume of poems runs through an edition so
SOOIl.
I see that is writing a life of Dante. I hope he
does not mean to publish it. He cannot write. He can
collect materials. But let him work on ; and the Lord
deliver us from evil |
Since your last letter Sumner, Cogswell, and N. P.
Willis have all returned safe and sound from foreign
travel. Sumner is full of life and soul and anecdote; only
a little too much Anglomania about him, which will wear
off. Otherwise he seems to us unchanged, save for the
better. Of course they lionize him. Rather too much
for my purposes, as I can never get a chance at him. To-
morrow I meet him at dinner at Prescott's, with Ticknor
and others. Cogswell was here a few days only; in good
Spirits, and vigorous as a young man. He is as delightful,
in his way, as Sumner is. I wish he lived here instead of in
New York; but the east winds would kill him in a week.
Nat. Willis I did not see. He was in Boston but one day;
and has now gone to Glen-Mary for the summer. This
Glen-Mary, you know, is his country seat on the Susque-
hanna. He says he has made ten thousand dollars the
last year by his writings. I wish I had made ten hun-
dred. He has just published three plays in London.
They are full of poetry and do him honor. Those who
read the modern English plays, – for instance, those of
Bulwer, Knowles, etc., - which I do not, give the prefer-
ence to Willis; say his are decidedly the best; which,
after all, would not be saying much, I fancy.
American literature has taken a decidedly poetic turn of
late. Mr. has published a large volume of very weak
productions. A Sophomore in our college has done the
same foolish thing. Congdon, nephew of Dr. Wayland,
who was in college last year, has put out a thin volume, of
a good deal of merit. Hillhouse has sent forth two
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 357
volumes; and Halleck one, containing ‘Fanny,' and the
Croker poems, once so well known in New York. Felton's
translation of Menzel will be very dº propos just now, when
everybody talks about German literature and German
philosophy, as if they knew something of them. It comes
out in Ripley's collection [Specimens of Foreign Literature].
Now it is four o'clock, and I go to dinner. Oh, how I
wish you were here to take the arm-chair on the opposite
side of yonder round table, whereon await me a bottle of
Italian wine, Sardines in oil, and a ham; with whatsoever
may come after. Alas, I must sit down alone. But I
will begin by pledging you in a goblet of iced Calabria.
May you live a thousand years
There, I have achieved that important action single-
handed, and am now Smoking a pipe and continuing the
letter. In the volume I send you, you will find a sketch
of the house I live in. The situation is delightful, having
fields and trees and flowers all about it. I will now draw
you a plan of the interior; and if you will do the like in
your next letter, you will do me a pleasure you little
dream of, but which I dream of in drawing this. . . .
Don't fail to send me your bust by Crawford to adorn my
dwelling with.
30th. It is now five o'clock in the morning, and I have
been up an hour and returned from a walk. It is a mag-
nificent morning, and a new sensation to be up so early.
Dined in town. When I reached Cambridge found Dr.
Woods, of Brunswick [President of Bowdoin College,
alighting from his gig. Went with him to Allston's, where
we sat telling ghost-stories till near midnight.
31st. The last day of May has come, presenting the
heavens like a crystal goblet, full of sunshine iced with
an east wind.
358 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
June 2. Began the review [of Felton's translation of
Menzel]. Then went to town to dine with Charles Amory.
In the afternoon, to Gouraud's rooms to see his daguer-
reotype views. Evening at Mrs. Eliot's. Sumner, Hillard,
Cleveland at Supper. Flings at the college, and general
depreciatory tone about everything. I hate this, and
am quite ready to quarrel about it. There is nothing more
silly.
5th. The steam-ship Unicorn arrived yesterday from
England; and to-day was a public dinner in Faneuil Hall.
I made a few remarks at table," to introduce a toast, which
called up Mr. Friedrichsthal. Hillard spoke eloquently;
Sumner would not speak.
To his Father.
June 10, 1840.
Since my last, the arrival of the steamer Unicorn has
set Boston in motion for a couple of days. There was
a public dinner in Faneuil Hall, at which I was present;
and being called upon by the Mayor for a toast, I was
obliged to make a short speech by way of introduction.
In this I alluded to Mr. Friedrichsthal, an attaché of the
Austrian embassy who was present, and gave as my toast,
“The steam-ships; the pillars of fire by night and of cloud
by day, which guide the wanderer through the wilderness
of the sea.” The connection between Mr. F. and this toast
is, that the toast is a translation of a stanza from a Ger-
man poet of Vienna, the city from which he comes. This,
of course, called him up.
I think the most amusing part of the affair Was my
speaking at all at a commercial dinner. Of course I had
no intention of doing so when I went. Several very
1 “In an inaudible voice,” said the reporters. The Unicorn Was
the first of the Cunard line of Ocean steamers.
1840.] IETTERS AND JOURNAL. 359
good speeches were made; the best were the Mayor's
and Hillard's.
I have written a short review of Mr. Felton's transla-
tion of Menzel, which you will find in the next number
of the New York Review." Rakemann, the celebrated
pianoforte player is here, and dines with me to-morrow.
I wish you could hear his exquisite music.
15th. Sumner came to bivouac with me for a night or
two, being engaged here in the Law School.
16th. Called to see Rakemann. He played to me a
lovely piece by Liszt,- Une Nuit dans les Montagnes, –
a Swiss picture. After dinner, heard him and Schmidt
play Beethoven the whole evening through.
22d. A hot, oppressive day. In the morning wrote
notes and letters. In the afternoon fell asleep over
Manzoni’s Promessi Sposi, which does not bear me away
as it does some others. This evening I have been at Fel-
ton's with Hillard; and now will sit by my window in the
warm, ambrosial night.
27th. Worked at an article on the French Language
in England [for the North American].
28th. Dr. Walker preached a fine, strong sermon in
the morning. In the afternoon I read a work which Hil-
lard has just translated from the French, – Guizot's In-
troduction to Sparks's Washington; a plain, sensible view
of the great man's character, without a particle of French
declamation.
* This paper was sent to the New York Review, then under the
charge of Mr. Cogswell. But as it contained some views upon uni-
versity education at variance with those expressed in an article pre-
pared for the same number by the editor, it was given to the New
World.
360 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
To his Father.
October 18, 1840.
Since I last wrote you, Sundry novelties have appeared
in this quarter of the world, which you may see hinted at
in the papers. They are among the moral reforms of the
day; and have at once something serious and something
comic about them. You probably have heard of the Non-
Resistance Society in Boston, who wish to follow out
literally the injunctions “If a man strike you on one
cheek,” and “If a man take away your cloak,” etc. One
of the chief men of this society is Mr. Edmund Quincy,
second son of our President. They have now called a
convention, inviting people of all Creeds and denomina-
tions to attend, and discuss the great questions, “What is
the Church, the Sabbath, Religion ?” Not long ago there
was a similar convention held in Groton. The first reso-
lution was, “Voted, that we are not sectarian; ” where-
upon discussion arose as to what constituted a sect; which
discussion lasted for three days, when the convention
adjourned. Not long after, came up from Cape Cod a
new sect called the “Come-outers,” who formed a holy
alliance with the Transcendentalists.
Out of this fermentation of mind has sprung up a new
plan; namely, to form a community to be called “The
Practical Christians.” Each individual is to subscribe two
hundred dollars, and each family one thousand; a farm is
to be bought near Boston, cottages to be built, and then
the community goes to work. Every member is to labor
three hours a day; the remainder of the time is to be
at his own disposal. There is no further community of
goods than this. The three hours' labor it is thought will
feed, clothe, and lodge them all; and the rest of the time
is to be devoted to the fine arts, music, literature, etc., etc.
I hear that the Rev. George Ripley, Mr. Emerson, Miss
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 361
Fuller, and other prominent Transcendentalists are going
to this Land of Promise. Likewise Mr. Alcott, the author
of ‘Orphic Sayings’ in the Dial; though I fear he will be
an unprofitable farmer, for, being a great Grahamite, he
refuses to put manure on the land he now cultivates in
Concord, thinking it too stimulating !” What will be the
final result of all these movements it is impossible to fore-
See ; some good end, I trust, for they are sincere men, and
have a good intent.
To his Father.
October 25, 1840.
I am glad you found anything interesting in the French
article. To most people it must be very dull. It is the
result of some studies I made formerly in Brunswick, and
which probably at the present moment I should not have
either time or inclination to make. Having the materials
ready at hand, I thought it worth while to work them
up. Mr. Duponceau of Philadelphia” has read it ; and
wrote to Mr. Pickering to say that he liked it, and that
I had taken the true ground. My pen has not been very
prolific of late ; only a little poetry has trickled from it.
There will be a kind of ballad on a Blacksmith in the
next Knickerbocker, which you may consider, if you
please, as a song in praise of your ancestor at Newbury.”
The third edition of the Voices is now in press; and the
publisher, John Owen, has so lively a faith in the con-
tinued sale of the work, that he is stereotyping it.
* Neither Mr. Emerson, nor Miss Fuller, nor Mr. Alcott joined
the Brook Farm Community.
* Peter S. Duponceau, a distinguished jurist and learned in lan-
guages, – as was John Pickering of Massachusetts.
* This was the first Stephen Longfellow, who, one of five children,
by the early death of his father was left to care for himself, and be-
came a blacksmith. He married the daughter of Rev. Mr. Tompson,
and sent his son, the second Stephen, to Harvard College, from which
he came to Portland in 1745, to be schoolmaster and town clerk.
362 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
If the New York Review falls in your way I wish you
would read an article headed ‘Brisbane's Social Destiny
of Man.’ It will serve as a comment on my last letter;
and show you how far the same notions have been already
Carried in France and England. I am thankful I am too
old to have any of Brisbane's experiments tried on me.
AS, for example: —
“The cradles can be moved by a mechanical contrivance,
So that twenty can be rocked at once.” At two years old,
the children are set to work. “Two children, between
three and four years of age, are seated at the upper side
[of an inclined table]; they pod the peas, which roll to
the lower side, where three little commencers of the ages
of twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five months are seated,
who have merely to separate the smaller from the larger
peas,” etc. After the peas have passed through all these
little hands, they are ready for cooking, and the Lord
have mercy upon the eater thereof. There is more matter
of this kind, which will amuse you.
Prom Nathaniel Hawthorne.
BosTON, November 20, 1840.
DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I have suspended my thermom-
eter outside of the window ; and, looking at it a moment
ago, I perceive that it is polar weather out of doors.
Really, an excursion into the country is not to be thought
of in this first fierceness of the winter. So pray do not
expect me to-morrow. By occupying Grandfather's Chair
for a month past I really believe I have grown into an
old man prematurely,– and not very prematurely either.
My youthful ardor and adventurous spirit have left me,
and I love to keep my feet on the hearth, and dread many
shapeless perils when I contemplate such a journey as
from here to Cambridge, with the prospect of spending a
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 363
night, or perhaps two, away from my own roof. Such is
always the case with aged men . . . I am a custom-house
officer still. However, my duties are merely nominal, as
well as my emoluments. In fact, it is an office of honor
now. Whenever you come into the city in Season to find
me at my room, I shall be most happy to have you take
a humble dinner with me. I generally walk out at about
twelve and return at three, dining in the interim.
Your friend, -
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
From Samuel Ward.
WALL STREET, November 25, 1840.
Why have you not put that beautiful lyric of Uhland's,
Das Glück von Edenhall, into your own masterly verse ?
We all exclaimed, when I read it aloud the other night,
“Oh for Longfellow to put this into English ' " I agree
with you (don't you with me?) that it is in poetry, and
especially in Smaller poems, that the Germans excel.
Have you read Goethe's Briefwechsel mit Zelter 2 What
a pleasant book. But I want a copy of your ‘Skeleton
in Armor.' Won't you send it to me 21
Your affectionate S. W.
From Elihu, Burritt.”
WORCESTER, December 1, 1840.
Your very kind invitation to take up my residence in
Cambridge is to me a very interesting proposition, and I
* Later he acknowledges the receipt of the translation of ‘The
Luck of Edenhall,” and the copy of the ‘Skeleton.” The latter he hands
to Clark for the Knickerbocker, which is to pay $25 for it. It ap-
peared in the number for January, 1841, printed with marginal notes,
like the ‘Ancient Mariner; ” but these were omitted when it was
printed afterwards in a volume.
* Known as “the learned blacksmith.” In the intervals of his
364 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
wish, my dear sir, that I could tell you how gratefully I
am affected by your benevolent interest in my pursuits.
I have a job of work, which I hope to complete in the
course of four weeks, when I shall be at liberty. There is
one thing, though, – may I bring my hammer with me?
I thank you from my whole heart for your kind proffer
of pecuniary assistance in the prosecution of my studies.
I have always confined my “literary leisure” to those
unoccupied hours of the day when no man can work.
When I return at evening to my little chamber, with the
consciousness of having performed a full day's labor, I sit
down at my desk and commune with my little shelf of
books with a relish which makes it indeed a recreation.
And in the morning, after having blown out my lamp,
I resume my hammer with an equal relish. My physical
constitution will admit of no suspension of athletic exer-
cise, which, in whatever situation I may be placed, I could
never resist my inclination to seek in honest and honor-
able manual labor. Then there is another thing. I am
not odd; I affect no singularity, no eccentricity. But
still I am ambitious, – everybody is ambitious, – and I
am particularly so to stand in the ranks of the working
men of New England, and beckon them onward and up-
ward, if I can, to the full stature of intellectual men. . . .
I assure you, I am not an amateur Working-man ; with
my own hands I earned, last year, nearly one thousand
dollars. If I should take up my residence in Cambridge,
I trust it would not be necessary to interrupt my usual
course. I mean to visit Cambridge the first pleasant day,
when I hope to tell you face to face how much and how
sincerely I am Yours, etc.,
ELIHU BURRITT.
labor he mastered many languages. Many years after, he sent Mr.
Longfellow a version of the ‘Psalm of Life’ in Sanscrit, made by
himself and his pupils. He died in 1879.
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 365
To Samuel Ward.
December 1, 1840.
. . . Why can't you come here for a day or two 2 I
want to see you very much, and have a great many things
to show you in the literary way. I will read you the ‘Skel-
eton in Armor, which is too long to copy; and Something
still longer, which as yet no eye but mine has seen, and
which I wish to read to you first." . . . At present, my dear
friend, my soul is wrapped up in poetry. The scales fell
from my eyes suddenly, and I beheld before me a beau-
tiful landscape, with figures, which I have transferred
to paper almost without an effort, and with a celerity
of which I did not think myself capable. Since my
return from Portland I am almost afraid to look at it,
for fear its colors should have faded out. And this is the
reason why I do not describe the work to you more par-
ticularly. I am not sure it is worth it. You shall your-
self see and judge before long.
Mr. Coxe, in the notes to his poems, speaks of the
“pantheism of Cambridge.” This is too gross. Why,
there is in all Cambridge only one Transcendentalist, —
and he a tutor In the Theological School there is none
of it; the infected class is gone. The students are now
inclining to rigid Puseyism. You New Yorkers are alto-
gether mistaken in your notions about Cambridge. Take
my word for it, you are.
To his Father.
December 13, 1840.
I let last Sunday slip by without writing you, because
I had a visit from my friend Ward, of New York, who
came to pass the day and night with me.
* Doubtless “The Spanish Student.”
366 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
I have been hard at work, - for the most part wrapped
up in my own dreams. Have written a translation of a
German ballad, and prepared for the press another origi-
mal ballad, which has been lying by me some time. It is
called ‘The Skeleton in Armor, and is connected with the
old Round Tower at Newport. This skeleton in armor
really exists. It was dug up near Fall River, where I
saw it some two years ago [when returning from New-
port]. I suppose it to be the remains of one of the old
Northern sea-rovers, who came to this country in the
tenth century. Of course I make the tradition myself;
and I think I have succeeded in giving the whole a Nor-
thern air. You shall judge soon, as it will probably be in
the next Knickerbocker; and it is altogether too long to
copy in a letter. I hope it may be successful, though I
fear that those who only glance at it will not fully com-
prehend it; and I must say to the benevolent reader, as
Rudbeck says in the preface of his Atlantica (a work of
only 2,500 folio pages), “If thou hast not leisure to study it
through ten times, then do not read it once, — especially if
thou wilt utter thy censure thereof.” A modest request
On Christmas-day I dine with your old friend and
political comrade, Harrison Gray Otis."
To his Father.
December 20, 1840.
My third edition [of the Voices] is published, and is
quite superb. I shall send you a copy by first opportu-
1 His father wrote him : “My acquaintance with Mr. Otis was
principally of a political character during the last war [1812–15],
when we were members of the Legislature of Massachusetts (of the
Federal party), and members of the Hartford Convention, which
has unjustly excited so much odium. Well knowing the pure and
patriotic motives of those gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to
hear from them.”
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 367
nity. The fourth is now printing, — the third, a large-
paper edition, being only two hundred and fifty copies.
In the Brother Jonathan of last week you will find a
favorable notice, written by [N. P.] Willis. The ballad
of ‘The Skeleton in Armor' will appear in the January
number of the Knickerbocker. My friend Ward, to whom
I sent it, is very enthusiastic about it ; which I am not,
though I am very well satisfied with it. You will be
amused to see how my friend's heart and head take fire
and blaze away together. He writes: —
“I could not forbear reading it to Halleck (the poet) this
morning. His bright eyes glistened like diamonds, and he
read it through aloud himself with delight. He thanked
me warmly for the pleasure it had afforded him ; said it
placed you extremely high, and was superior to any of
your previous efforts. It will spread like wildfire over
the country, and richly reward you. Halleck remarked
there was nothing like it in the language l’
In order not to be led away by this, you ought to know
the glowing and Sanguine temperament of my friend.
You must not expect to find the poem so fine as he does.
He has associations with Newport which make him in-
vest it with a charm which it will not have in the eyes of
others. I think, however, that it is striking, and in its
conception, perhaps, unique, – at least in our country.
It is a national ballad, as the “Wreck of the Hespe-
rus’ is.
I have also written a much longer and more difficult
poem, called ‘The Spanish Student,’ — a drama in five acts;
on the success of which Irely with some self-complacency.
But this is a great Secret, and must not go beyond the
immediate family circle; as I do not intend to publish it
until the glow of composition has passed away, and I can
look upon it coolly and critically. I will tell you more of
this by and by.
368 LETTERS AND JOURNAL. [1840.
I hope you will not think me self-conceited because I
parade all these things before you. I remember that I
am Writing to my father.
From John Kenyon.
4 HARLEY PLACE, LONDON, December 27, 1840.
MY DEAR SIR, - It is your good fortune to have not
only warm admirers, but warm friends, - those who love
you, as it seems to me, quite as much for what you are as
for what you have done; who, valuing your powers, yet do
not think them the best part of you. So I am led to
conclude. I have received from some of these two copies
of your Hyperion and one of the Voices of the Night.
Mr. Greene had shown me some of the verses at Rome
before they were published. I was much struck with
them at the time; but in these viva voce cases one some-
times distrusts one's admiration. But I have calmly read
and re-read them here, and with no less gratification. I
have lent them, too, to friends whose judgment I respect,
and who feel as I do. Your Hyperion I have not yet
read, for I have been absent from home till very lately.
. . . It will not remain unread, however, many days,
for I am in sight of leisure; and as I look among
the leaves I catch snatches of verse which, after the
Voices, I am sure to like. Your “Prelude ' (which, I
suppose, like other prefaces, was written last, — perhaps
after the “Envoi’) particularly delights me. The verses
which I think Greene more particularly pointed out to me
were the ‘Psalm of Life.’ I find them as effective by my
own hearth here as by his at Rome. •
You will have had enough of my writing by this time.
Not as a return, but as a testimony of the pleasure I have
had from yours, I beg your acceptance of two books of
1840.] LETTERS AND JOURNAL. 369
mine. . . . The Rhymed Plea for Tolerance was printed
anonymously. I dare say you will not agree in all I have
said there, but you will agree in many things. I did not
mean, when I began, to worry you so long.
I am, my dear sir, truly yours,
JOHN KENYON.
From Thomas Carlyle.
CHELSEA, LoNDON, December, 1840.
MY DEAR SIR, - About two weeks ago arrived your
letter. . . . From you, since the morning when we parted
at the end of Leigh Hunt's Row, some fitful reports and
notices have reached me ; one in particular which, I re-
member, frightened us all, - the rumor that you were in
that fatal steamer where so many perished Happily, this
was soon contradicted; and about the same time there
came an indistinct message that a copy of your Poems
had been left for me at Fraser, the bookseller's. It now
beckons to me from one of my shelves, asking always,
When wilt thou have a cheerful vacant day ? . . .
Alas, my dear sir, what a wretched scrawl is this, with
the worst of pens; time, composure, and all elements of
social intercourse entirely denied me ! It is a hideous,
immeasurable treadmill, this smoky soul-confusing Baby-
lon; I address one prayer to the heavens that I were well
out of it, before it take the life from me ! Happy you
who sit in Cambridge, Old or New, with clear air around
you, with liberty to commune with your own thoughts,
not compulsion to commune with the infinite hubbub of
Cockney thoughts and no-thoughts, which — mag der
Teufel holen / But, patience 1 we must have patience,
and shuffle the cards. -
Adieu, dear sir, and Good be with you ever.
Yours most truly,
VOL. I. — 24 - T. CARLYLE.
CHAPTER XXII.
LETTERS.
1841.
To his Father.
January 3, 1841.
I MET yesterday, in a book-store in Boston, your old
friend Dr. Channing. He inquired very particularly after
you; Said you used to be intimate in former times; that
he had not seen you for many years; but he hoped to see
you next Summer, as he intended to make the tour of the
White Mountains and return by the way of Portland.]
He appears to be very well. He wears a blue camlet
wrapper, silver-bowed spectacles, a shawl round his neck,
and an enormous hat, coming down over his eyes.
In Boston, the year ended with an assembly,–not
political, but fashionable. As I never dance, my duty on
such occasions is to console those who — not wishing, or
not being asked, to dance — perform that respectable part
1 “With Dr. Channing,” wrote his father, in reply, “my friend-
ship was of the most sincere and intimate kind, as a college classmate.
I shall always remember it with the greatest pleasure. I do not
know of any occurrence which would afford me more gratification
than to meet my old friend again. And I most sincerely hope that I
shall enjoy that pleasure next summer.” Mr. Longfellow's own
infirm health prevented him for many years from going from home
even as far as Boston.
1841.] LETTERS. 3.71
of feminine duty in a ball-room known under the name of
“sustaining the walls” (wall-flowers, – the only kind of
flowers I cultivate). It was a very pleasant evening; and
we stayed till the morning of the New Year, when the
company, wishing each other a happy future, gradually
Separated.
Last night I went to hear “The Song of the Bell’ per-
formed at the Odeon, — words by Schiller, translated by
Mr. S. A. Eliot; music by Romberg. The singers will
not compare with the Portland singers, not one of them;
but the instrumental performers are much superior.
To his Father.
January 10, 1841.
I have got through the labor of the term. I had my
examinations on Friday last; they were very satisfactory
to the committee. The department is in a flourishing
condition, and the number of students in it greater than
ever before.
To-morrow I go to work again on my drama, to retouch
Some of the scenes and get the whole copied out fairly. I
have great confidence in its success. But I do not mean
to publish it before the summer.
I have not the slightest idea what I shall write next,
and am much more curious to know than anybody else
can be.
I hope the New Year begins as pleasantly with you as it
does with me. I feel very happy, and very well contented
with the present state of things.
From Samuel Ward.
WALL STREET, January 12, 1841.
You have heard that in 1750 or thereabouts a vessel,
owned in Newport, and which had been out on a long
372 LETTERS. [1841.
voyage, was seen standing into the harbor with all sails
Set. To the amazement of those who boarded her, they
found the fire kindled in the cook's galley, the tea-kettle
boiling, a cat and dog alive about the deck, - and not a
Soul of crew or captain was seen or ever heard of from
that day. It struck me, a few moments ago, that such a
mystery, so well authenticated as this is, would afford
admirable material for your poetical loom.
Or, in the Magnalia Christi, by Cotton Mather, which
you will undoubtedly find in the college library, there is an
account of a vessel, belonging to New Haven, which had
been lost sight of for many months. So deeply did the
uncertainty as to her fate prey upon the inhabitants that
prayers were offered up in church on Sunday that the
Almighty would at all events reveal what had been the
fate of the vessel and her crew. The following morning
the long-missed ship was seen standing into the harbor.
At a certain point it seemed to the multitude whom the
glad news had brought to the wharves, to be suddenly
taken aback; her foremast broke, down went the main
and mizzen masts, and the hull heeled over and Sank.
The stirring description in old Mather's chronicle will,
rouse you amazingly. If you cannot lay hand upon it in
Cambridge, I will have it copied for you here, so that you
may poetically delineate so Schauervoll a spectacle. It
will suit the present bent of your genius, - the preacher
in his pulpit, the excited earnestness of the congregation,
the phantom bark appearing and enacting the dreadful
shipwreck."
Your affectionate
S. W.
1 The story from the Magnalia Mr. Longfellow versified in ‘The
Phantom Ship. The other incident may have been the theme of
« another Phantom Ship,” which he speaks of having written and
burned.
1841.] LETTERS. 373
From Samuel Ward.
WALL STREET, January 14, 1841.
De Goy called yesterday, speaking in terms of warmest
commendation of the alterations you have made in ‘The
Spanish Student.’ -
G 'sl third-born made its appearance on Sunday
night. The doctor took the child in his arms and asked
for something to wrap it up in. G drew near; “Is it
a boy?” he inquired, and being answered yes, “Then,”
said he, exultingly, “he shall be named Immanuel Kant.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” replied the doctor, “that will do very
well by and by, but it won't serve to cover him now.” So
the poor father's old military coat was got out and the
babe wrapped therein. What a strange scene; what a
picture Jean Paul or Carlyle would have made of it !
I enter into your wishes to have Preciosa played, and
will see thereabout. I regret deeply that the exquisitely
dramatic scene of the dance before the Archbishop should
be excluded.” It must be printed. I was vastly amused
to hear that Sumner and Felton were against Halleck and
myself in the matter of the ‘Skeleton in Armor.’ It was
strange. I rejoice that Allston should have enjoyed the
“regalias,” and would have given a sum to have assisted
at your delightful dinner.
Always your affectionate
HYPOLITO.
To his Father.
NEw York, February 3, 1841.
I have got back thus far homeward. My friend Sumner
is with me, and next week I shall be in Portland. We
* A learned but impecunious German protégé of Mr. Ward.
* “The Spanish Student’ was never brought upon the stage.
374 LETTERS. [1841.
have been as far as Philadelphia, where we passed a week,
and saw many agreeable people; among them, Judge Hop-
kinson, Mr. Ingersoll, Mr. Binney, Mr. Biddle, and many
more. We were received with the utmost cordiality and
kindness; dined and breakfasted and supped, and seldom
went to less than three parties in an evening. All this is
very agreeable for a while; but a week satiated me, and I
have come back to this place in hope of being a little
more quiet. But, alas ! fallacious hope I have already
received six invitations to dinner, and I know not how
many to parties and concerts. In fine, for the sake of
change, I have turned my habits of life upside down, and
do nothing but run to and fro from morning till night and
from night till morning. It grows very tiresome, and the
effect is to make me cling more closely to Cambridge and
the life of a student.
In Philadelphia it was so mild as to require no fire.
Old Mr. John Vaughan was very ill. At his door a bul-
letin of his health was placed every morning, and those
who called left their names on a list. It is not probable
that he will recover.
To his Father.
March 21, 1841.
We have such a celestial day that I am enjoying it by
the open window. The blue river runs in front, and the
wind roars loud in the trees, and it is all spring-like.
We deserve this for the purgatory of Snow, mud, and rain
we have just passed through. My friend Sumner is
passing the Sunday with me, and lies stretched in all
his majestic length upon the sofa, reading Poliziano, the
Italian poet. It is delicious to get one's window open again,
and breathe freely as in summer. But I think Spring a
most restless season. I cannot possibly sit still Change
of place seems almost indispensable; yet, being chained,
1841.] LETTERS. - 375
I can only move in thought. This term I have an easier
time than usual in college, and am occupied on three days
only, four hours each. I have no lectures, which relieves
me much; and the recitation of classes is a thing very
easily managed and needing no preparation. So that I
have a great deal of time to myself, and do not find it
disagreeable. . . .
And so the days wear away in doing the self-same
things over and over again. Only occasionally a stranger,
—as last evening at the President's, Professor Silliman
[the elder], who is now lecturing in Boston. A distin-
guished man he certainly is, and his lectures are so
crowded that he is obliged to repeat the course.
In literature there is nothing new, save Mr. Emerson's
Essays, which have just appeared; full of sublime prose-
poetry, magnificent absurdities, and simple truths. It is
a striking book; but as it is impossible to see any connec-
tion in the ideas, I do not think it would please you much,
and I shall not send it.
To his Father.
April 2, 1841.
Mrs. Craigie in all probability will not live long. She
will have neither doctor nor nurse, and has nobody to
attend upon her but her cook, who is lame. She says her
system is not adapted to medicine. She is determined to
die as she has lived, pretty much in her own way, with-
out regard to the opinions of others.” . She is very calm
and untroubled.
I have not written anything lately save the translation
of a German ballad, ‘The Luck of Edenhall,’ published in
the Boston Notion.
* Poor lady | Her disease proved, after death, to have been a
cancer in the breast.
376 - LETTERS. - [1841.
To his Father.
April 4, 1841.
I agree with you in thinking it very important to have
a good School in Portland. When I look back upon the
years I wasted within those gloomy brick walls, I feel
ready to cry about it. It was too bad ; but the milk is
spilt, and there is no remedy but to milk the cow over
again.
I have the pleasure of informing you that the fifth
edition of the Voices will go to press as soon as paper can
be made or bought suitable for the purpose. I am very
agreeably surprised at the success of this work.
Has the Eclectic Review, published in New York, ever
reached you in Portland 7 I am going to publish in it a
Syllabus of the History of German Literature during the
Middle Ages, –an account of all the works, what editions
have been published, and where extracts may be found of
such as have not been published. It is a kind of guide-
book for the student in German literature, and I hope
may prove useful. As soon as it appears I will send you
a copy. The North American for April is out. I have
nothing in it but a brief notice of a Spanish grammar.
To Edgar A. Poe.
May 19, 1841.
Your favor of the 3d inst., with the two numbers of the
Magazine, reached me only a day or two ago.
I am much obliged to you for your kind expressions of
regard, and to Mr. Graham for his very generous offer, of
which I should gladly avail myself under other circum-
stances. But I am so much occupied at present that I
could not do it with any Satisfaction either to you or
to myself. I must therefore respectfully decline his
proposition.
1841.] IETTERS. 377
You are mistaken in supposing that you are not “favor-
ably known to me.” On the contrary, all that I have
read from your pen has inspired me with a high idea of
your power; and I think you are destined to stand among
the first romance-writers of the country, if such be your
alDOl.
To his Father.
May 31, 1841.
Eor the last week this house has been a scene of Con-
fusion and desolation, such as I hope never to See again.
The sale of Mrs. Craigie's furniture began on Tuesday
and continued two days; and the delivery after the sale,
and clearing the house, continued till Saturday. But at
length all is quiet again. Mr. Worcester" takes the house
for one year, and I keep my rooms. I should dislike to
move. Had it come to that, I should have gone into Col-
lege; an arrangement which, on the whole, I should not
be very well satisfied with.
Everything goes on here in its usual monotonous train.
As the spring opens, I keep out in the air as much as
possible; and have taken to riding on horseback for exer-
cise and recreation. I like it very well, though I have to
run for luck as to horses, which is not so agreeable.
In literature, nothing new. I hear that Hyperion has
been republished in London, though I have not received
a copy of it.
To Samuel Ward.
[With a copy of ‘The Two Locks of Hair.’
Thursday night, 10.30, June 24, 1841.
Sitting sad and sorrowful, the other morning, I felt the
mood come over me of turning into English those sweet
* Joseph E. Worcester, author of the English Dictionary.
378 LETTERS. [1841.
lines of Pfizer which, when you asked me to do it, I said
I could not." You have now the piece entire. But I beg
of you, do not give it to any one to print, as I have given
it to my friend Hillard for a book of which he is editor,
and which is now in press.
On Tuesday I drove over with Sumner to see your
Sweet sisters. They are all well, rejoicing in delicious
coolness and the green of the country. We passed a
couple of delightful hours with them, and have only to
regret they are so far off.
To his Father.
June 27, 1841.
There is nothing in our green and flourishing Cambridge
worthy of record. One quiet day succeeds another and
leaves no trace. Each finds us well, and leaves us well;
and so we go on. I am glad to hear by James Greenleaf
that it is pretty much the same with you. We are looking,
however, with anxiety towards Washington. Things seem
to be going on very badly there, — as badly as under
the last administration. . . . Neither of the men [ap-
pointed to foreign missions] knows anything about courts
or foreign policy or foreign languages. Other bad news
you will see in the papers. We fear the Whig adminis-
tration will be a failure; and that instead of Setting a
noble example in its appointment of worthy men to places
of honor and trust, the party which came in professedly
as a reform party will close its career with ignominy, after
having perpetuated the evil courses of its adversary.
I intended, when I sat down, to write you a long letter,
to atone for past delinquencies; but have been inter-
rupted, and the clock has struck midnight.
1 After the death of Mr. Ward's wife and her babe, he had sent
Pfizer's Junggesell to his friend, begging him to translate it.
1841.] LETTERS. 379
From Mrs. Harrison, G. Otis.
July 4, 1841.
A lady, my dear sir, has requested me to offer you this
little tribute, hoping that you will not deem it too small.
She bought last week the Voices of the Night, and gave
the volume to her little girl, after reading to her ‘The
Reaper and the Flowers.’ The same evening the child, on
repeating her prayers, said, “Mother, do you not think
‘The Reaper’ beautiful enough to mix with my prayer this
lovely moonlight night !” — and she recited the whole
poem.
As a pendant to this: my German maid, who reads
nothing else, left her copy on the piazza, and our New-
foundland dog Tiger took it out into the fields and lit-
erally devoured it. Il parait que tout le monde s'en méle.
Yours ever,
E. HENDERSON OTIS.
To his Father.
- July 5, 1841.
You have probably seen by the papers that we have
had a rebellion in college. It lasted, however, only two
days. All is again quiet and Orderly. There was never
a more silly and boyish outbreak, nor one with less cause.
Two students have been expelled, and six dismissed from
college. Luckily, the term is nearly over, and vacation
will soon intervene, – giving time for hot-headed youth
to cool.
I began yesterday to read Washington's letters from
Cambridge, as yesterday was the date of the first of them.
He came to Cambridge July 2, 1775, took command of
the army on the 3d, and wrote his first letter on the 4th.
It will be very pleasant to read, here in Headquarters, the
letters he wrote sixty-six years ago, perhaps in this very
room, - certainly in this very house.
380 LETTERS: [1841.
Sumner is passing a day or two with me, and I must
close my letter suddenly; for I am expecting Mr. Halleck
the poet and some other gentlemen to breakfast this
morning.
From Samuel Ward.
WALL STREET, August 13, 1841.
MY DEAR HYPERION, - “Is not Longfellow a tall, thin
man; has he not great dark, melancholy eyes, with a deep
expression ?” said a lady to me the other day. “No,
madam, he is as rosy-cheeked as yourself; and his eyes
resemble blue water-lilies.” “But is not he often very
unhappy; does he not sit abstracted, with his eyes fixed,
musing mournfully * * “Not that I ever saw ; he is gen-
erally cheerful. You must know,” continued I, “that the
‘Psalm of Life’ was written as an exorcism against all bad
spirits and blue devils. It was sung to cheer the unhappy,
not to chime in with their wailings.”
A busy day, and time only to sign myself
Affectionately, S. W.
To Samuel Ward.
August 24, 1841.
I did write you a long epistle, a few days before leav-
ing Portland, touching on all the one hundred and ninety-
nine topics of your Genesee-farmer-prince project, and
sundry others. It may be a good project, but I think
you would get tired of it in a year. I shall think you in
earnest when you have first established your Magnetic Ob-
servatory at Milwaukee. I will discuss the matter with
you to your heart's content when we next meet.
C 's little girl (you remember her), as she lay
musing in her crib, saw a “father-long-legs” crawl over
her pillow, and cried out to her mother, “Oh, mamma,
here’s Mr. Longfellow in here !”
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1841.] IETTERS. 381
Felton has returned from Niagara. He enjoyed his
journey highly, making friends of whole families, - with
room enough for more in his capacious heart.
I saw [Professor] Peirce a few moments ago. He
was wishing that Dr. Woods “would only publish that
Oration on Science. Only let him print, that is all !”
“Why, Peirce, you are like a ravenous shark, swimming
round a vessel and saying to the captain, ‘Only jump over-
board, that's all.’”
But good-by. I am off to dine with Cleveland. Wil-
lard's gig will be at the door in a few moments.
To his Father.
September 1, 1841.
Commencement week passed off pleasantly. Mr.
Hedge's oration before the Phi Beta Kappa was in the
main good, and in parts brilliant, though rather deep and
oracular. Mr. Ingersoll's poem was a kind of prose run
mad; full of jests and puns, more amusing than digni-
fied. I did not attend the dinner.
And now the term has begun. Nor am I sorry for it.
I gave my first lecture yesterday. I never commenced a
term in better health and spirits, and I think everything
will go on vigorously and harmoniously.
I enjoyed my trip to Nahant very much. I found a
great many of my friends and acquaintances there, and
three days were soon passed. Sparks, Prescott, and Ban-
croft were there; Legaré, from South Carolina; the Wads-
worths of Geneseo, and the Eliots and Lowells and many
others."
* Nahant, on its cool peninsula, was the precursor of the numer-
ous summer resorts along the eastern coast of Massachusetts. Rich
Bostonians built cottages on its cliffs, and its hotel was greatly re-
sorted to. Mr. Longfellow for many years spent his summers there
with his family ; and finally, with his brother-in-law, Mr. T. G.
Appleton, purchased and occupied the Wetmore cottage on the
382 LETTERS. [1841.
The painting arrived safely; I fear I gave you a great
deal of trouble about it. It now hangs in my bed-room,
there being no place for it in the study.
Have you read Pitt Fessenden's speech on the Bank-
rupt Bill ? It seems to be direct and forcible, and I think
will please his constituents.
To Samuel Ward.
September 17, 1841.
I had no sooner sealed and sent my last, with “Endy-
mion’ asleep under its leaves, than who should come in
but Park Benjamin himself | I told him what I had dome,
whereat he expressed great grief; and to console him, I
promised to write you and cry “Stop that poem " If,
therefore, it is not already in the hands (paws 8) of
“Arcturus ”’ or the claws of “Old Knick,” you may send
it to Benjamin.
It is a long while (that is, three days) since I heard
from you. I am glad to know by your last that you like
Lieber better on knowing him more. He is a strong man,
and one whose conversation, like some tumultuous moun-
tain-brook, sets your wheels all in motion. . . . He it
is who has made you restless. Sing, then, with old
Goethe, –
“Der du von dem Himmel bist.”
Thou, that from the realms of bliss
All our care and sorrow stillest, —
Him who doubly wretched is
Doubly with refreshment fillest, —
Oh I’m weary of contending !
Why this sorrow, this unrest
Peace, descending,
Come, oh come, into my breast !”
southern shore. One of Mr. Appleton's well-known mots was the
calling Nahant “cold roast Boston.”
1 “Arcturus” was a New York magazine of the period.
2 A more exact translation will be found in Ultima Thule.
1841.] LETTERS. 383
This term begins beautifully with me. My lectures
come in the afternoon, so that I have all these golden
autumnal mornings to myself. Believe me, I both enjoy
and improve them. I have fairly cast anchor here, as in
a safe harbor, drying my sails, and Occasionally (as now,
for instance) dropping a line out of the cabin windows
to catch a friend. Life is Sanctified by its uses
I have two or three literary projects; foremost among
which are the ‘Student’ and the ‘Skeleton.’ I have been
thinking this morning which I shall bring out first. The
‘Skeleton, with the few other pieces I have on hand, will,
it is true, make but a meagre volume. But what then 2
It is important to bring all my guns to bear now ; and
though they are small ones, the shot may take effect.
Through the breach thus made, the ‘Student’ may enter
the citadel in triumph. In fine, such are my thoughts
this morning.
Washington Allston has a book in press; a tale, writ-
ten twenty years ago I Scene in Italy, title and subject
unknown. [Monaldi.]
From Samuel Ward.
NEW YORK, October 4, 1841.
DEAR LONGFELLOW,- It is but five minutes since I
read your exquisite “Excelsior,’ and I hasten to thank you;
just as one rises, the instant a divine harmony has ceased,
to grasp the friendly hand that has lifted us to a calmer
life, a Seraphic world. It is your finest effort. Its effect
is magical, electrical. I speak more hastily than Felton,
and perhaps should defer my opinion until to-morrow.
But I believe my judgments have not been wrong about
your productions; and this one has the mingled effect of
poesy and music.
384 LETTERS. [1841.
I am glad, too, that it comes at this moment. I had
last night a discussion with M. about you and George
Sand; and these lines come to justify my conclusion.
Although French romances are barren to you as the east
wind, yet I am sure you feel that George Sand is a poet,
and one who moves thousands, especially in her later pro-
ductions. Her motto is “Excelsior.” In her last romance,
Which I am just concluding, Le Compagnon du Tour de
France, the hero is a journeyman menuisier, and the scene
lies among the working class, from among whom the no-
blest materials are drawn with a truth, an earnestness, an
indifference to the public applause or censure, which invest
the narrative with an almost apostolic gravity.
Again I say, thank you for “Excelsior.”
Always affectionately yours,
- SAMUEL WARD.
* The history of this poem may bear repetition. One day Mr.
Longfellow’s eye fell upon a scrap of newspaper, a part of the heading
of one of the New York journals, bearing the seal of the State of
New York, -a shield, with a rising sun, and the motto in heraldic
Latin, “EXCELSIOR.” At once there sprang up in his imagination the
picture of the youth scaling the Alpine pass, bearing in his hand—
surely not the broad trailing banner with which the “illustrators”
have furnished him, but rather some slender pennant affixed to his
alpenstock, sufficient to bear his chosen motto. This the poet made
a symbol of the aspiration and sacrifice of a nobly ideal soul, whose
words and aim are “an unknown tongue” to the multitude; and who,
refusing to listen to the cautions of experience or prudence, or to the
pleadings of home affections, of woman's love, or of formal religion,
presses on to a higher goal. That goal he does not perfectly attain in
this life, but in dying still presses on to a higher beyond. The Latinity
of the motto was questioned by some of the poet's friends at the time,
and afterwards by critics, who thought it should be either eaccelsius or
ad excelsiora. He at first thought excelsior justified by good Latin
usage, but finding that this was not really the case, he explained it
more satisfactorily as part of the phrase “Scopus meus excelsior est”—
my goal is higher. In truth, he was not responsible for the borrowed
Latin; and evidently the word excelsior was the word the poem needed.
[From the first draft, written on the back of a note from
Mr. Summer, now in Harvard College Library.]
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1841.] LETTERS. 385
To Samuel Ward.
- October 24, 1841.
. . . Now let me thank you for your letters, which
always give me great satisfaction and consolation. I am
glad you think better of the Wasser-Cur (Water-dog).
That will be my pool of Bethesda. I shall never get well
till my good angel troubles the water for me. More of
this anon. But send me Graeter's book as Soon as it comes
out. I am curious to see it. I have faith myself, but
wish to strengthen the faith of others.
How strange | While you are urging me to translate
Nattvardsbarmen [The Children of the Lord's Supper] comes
a letter from Bishop Tegnér himself, saying that of all
the translations he has seen of Frithiof, my fragments
are the only attempts “that have fully satisfied him.”
“The only fault,” he says, “that I can find with your
translation is, that it is not complete. I take the liberty
of urging you to complete the task, that I may be able to
Say that Frithiof has been translated into at least one
language.” Highly complimentary is the Bishop to my
humble endeavor. He is about publishing his complete
works in some twenty volumes, prose and poetry, and
promises me a copy, hoping I shall find something therein
to translate. After this kind letter, can I do less than
over-set the Wattvardsbarmen, 3
Your late visit to Cambridge was as delightful
as the sigh
Of Summer winds, that breathe and die.
But you left a deeper imprint of yourself upon the minds
of your friends. I am delighted to hear the words of
praise that Spring to the lips of Hillard and Felton, when
they speak of you. tº
Lord Morpeth was kind enough to drive out to see me
with Sumner, the evening of his arrival. He is a very
VOL. I. — 25
386 LETTERS. [1841.
simple, cordial man, mezzo cammin ; with a ruddy face
and white hair, – a live coal with ashes on it. A very
unostentatious, friendly man.
I wrote the other evening a song to the River Charles;
quite successful; though, as it is local, I think it had
better appear first in the volume, not in any magazine.
Also last night, a funeral chant called ‘God's Acre.' I
would like to be burned, not buried.
P. S. This evening I have added twenty-six lines to
the nine I translated for you in Nattvardsbarmen.
To Samuel Ward.
[With a copy of ‘Blind Bartimeus.”]
November 3, 1841.
I was reading this morning, just after breakfast, the
tenth chapter of Mark, in Greek, the last seven verses of
which contain the story of blind Bartimeus, and always
seemed to me remarkable for their beauty. At once the
whole scene presented itself to my mind in lively colors, –
the walls of Jericho, the cold wind through the gate-way,
the ragged, blind beggar, his shrill cry, the tumultuous
crowd, the serene Christ, the miracle ; and these things
took the form I have given them above, where, perforce,
I have retained the striking Greek expressions of entreaty,
comfort, and healing ; though I am well aware that Greek
was not spoken at Jericho. The poem is for your private
eye. It must see the light first in the volume, which is
going bravely on. I think I shall add to the title ‘sup-
posed to be written by a monk of the Middle Ages, as
it is in the legend style.
A letter from Park Benjamin to-day. He wants two
poems (orders two pair of boots (), and offers twenty
dollars each. If you have not disposed of ‘Charles
River, send it to him. If you have, send one of the
1841.] LETTERS. 387
others. I shall send him a new poem, called simply
‘ Fennel, which I do not copy here on account of its
length. It is as good, perhaps, as ‘Excelsior.’ Hawthorne,
who is passing the night with me, likes it better. Thanks
for the illustrations (?) of ‘Excelsior.” Hawthorne laughs
mightily at them; and says “the absurdity of ambition is
now rendered obvious to him by seeing this figure carry-
ing the huge log of wood up the Alps, with as much fervor
as if the safety of the world depended upon it.” They are
funny.
When shall I look for you here 2 I am delighted to
hear you are coming. But is it my visit, or Ticknor's :
At all events, come alone ; for I shall have the ‘Children’
to show you. The work is more than half done, and goes
into the volume of Ballads and other Poems. For Skele-
ton in Armor is no longer an appropriate title, the volume
being now more than one hundred pages.
I told Felton of your riding ten miles before breakfast.
His only comment was, “Poor fellow !” You know he
has the hippophobia. I have much, much more to say,
but alas, where is the time !
To Samuel Ward.
November 6, 1841.
It is Saturday night, and eight by the village clock.
I have just finished the translation of the ‘Children of
the Lord's Supper;' and with the very ink that wrote the
last words of it, I commence this letter to you. That
it is with the same pen, too, this chirography sufficiently
makes manifest. With your permission I will mend that.
The poem is indeed very beautiful; and in parts so
touching that more than once in translating it I was
blinded with tears. Perhaps my weakness makes the
poet strong. You shall soon judge; for, as I told you in
388 O
LETTERS. [1841.
my last, this poem goes into the forthcoming volume; and
with many, - with all of you Episcopalians, – will make
the most attractive part of it. I hope the ‘Monk's Hymn'
[“Blind Bartimeus’] pleased your fancy. As to the other
pieces now in your hands, pray give yourself no trouble
about them. Turn the ‘Charles River, into Benjamin's
office, and like another Peneus let it wash away the filth
of the three thousand oxen Ye gods, what a figure
He deserves it for so captiously abusing me at times.
Sumner is passing the night and Sunday with me.
While I write, he has run down to Judge Story's, but
will be back in a minute and send his love to you. From
your short note, which reached me this afternoon, I read
him the story of the lady's work-bag. He seemed to think
it a lady's ridicule.
Speaking of stories (not the Judge nor the lady's) the
best things for Graeter to translate from are Zschokke's
Tales. What a magnificent name that is ; six consonants
and two vowels; reminding one of Lenore's bridal bed,
Sechs Bretter und Zwei Brettchen,
(which an unfortunate wight in college the other day
translated, “six chairs and two tables”). But to return to
Zschokke. His tales, I think, would please; SO would some
parts of Hoffmann's Serapionsbrüder; in fine, almost any-
thing but Tieck.
There is but a single entry, in the Journal, of
this year; but it is a significant one, being the
first hint of a design which was not completed till
more than thirty years after.
November 8, 1841. This evening it has come into my
mind to undertake a long and elaborate poem by the
holy name of CHRIST; the theme of which would be the
1841.] LETTERS. 389
various aspects of Christendom in the Apostolic, Middle,
and Modern Ages.
And the swete smoke of the odorous incense
whych came of the wholsome and fervent
desyres of them that had fayth ascended
up before God, out of the aungel's hande.
-- — Bale. IMAGE, pt. i.
Of this work, the second part, the mediaeval, was
published in 1851, as The Golden Legend; the
third part, The New England Tragedies, in 1868;
the first part, which was the last written, was The
Divine Tragedy, 1871. The whole, completed and
united by introduction, interludes, and finale, was
published with the title Christus, in 1873.
From George S. Hillard.
BosTON, November 9, 1841.
DEARLY BELOVED HENRY, - The subject before us is
to be considered cooking-stove-ically ; which is to be
divided into two parts; to wit, Doolittle-cooking-stove-
ically and non-Doolittle-cooking-stove-ically. I duly paid
my respects to the Doolittle stove yesterday; and though
I have no knowledge of such articles in general, it seems
to me that this one differs very little from others of its
class. It is unsightly, and has no resemblance whatever
to an open fireplace. But why do you want one at all?
As to the poesy. Sumner has laid open to me the dif-
ference of opinion, and I am Sorry to range myself under
the banner of the party opposed to you. I do not alto-
gether like the last line of that striking poem, ‘The
Goblet of Life' [at first called “Fennel']. It is too
Scandinavian and Berserker-like for the elevated tone of
sentiment in the preceding sentences. I should prefer
your alteration. . . .
Ever yours, G. S. H.
390 LETTERS. [1841.
To Samuel Ward.
November 17, 1841.
“O'Sullivan is to have the ‘God's Acre” [for the Demo-
cratic Review. That is right; and now all will doubtless
flow on harmoniously. Benjamin has probably been in
some perplexity between my negotiations with him and
yours, – in a misty, dubious frame of mind, like Fibel's
father" when the bird and baby came together, and grasp-
ing one and looking at the other, he exclaimed, “Hab' ich
ihn 3 ° To make matters in all respects equal on each
side, I here add a concluding stanza for “God’s Acre,’
which I think improves the piece, and rounds it off more
perfectly than before, — the thought no longer resting on
the cold furrow, but on the waving harvest beyond : —
Green gate of Paradise ! let in the sun'
Unclose thy portals, that we may behold
Those fields Elysian, where bright rivers run,
And waving harvests bend like seas of gold.”
I handed the last sheets of my new volume to the
printer this morning; the proofs will soon be read and
the book in your hands. I am now free to think of my
next movement, which undoubtedly will be sea-ward.
. . . My present plan is to sail for England in January,
pass a few weeks there, and be in Germany in March ;
and if the water-dog's bark is not better than his bite, to
return in August hale and hearty.
I hope you will drop in suddenly upon me next Satur-
day. It would delight my weary heart exceedingly. Pray
come soon. I am truly glad to learn that Sparks's lectures
[in New York] are so successful. Viva la Storial
1 In Jean Paul Richter's Leben Fibel's.
2 This verse was afterward omitted.
1841.] LETTERS. 391
From Samuel Ward.
WALL STREET, November 24, 1841.
. . . Yours of the 20th came to hand only yesterday.
I cannot consent to the suppression of the Wattvards-
barnen [.. Children of the Lord's Supper’]. I accordingly
write to Owen to-day to suspend the destruction of the
condemned sheets.' . . . At least, let me have a look at
them. I am a pretty good judge, and identify myself a
good deal with your success. I might add lots of quota-
tions from your letters, showing how enchanted you were
with the poem, and how much interest you took in the
translation, and how wrong and inconsistent it is to reject
it now, in a fit of panic. I suppose you have read it to
the Hater-of-horses-and-of-Jean-Paul [Felton], as you did
the ‘Skeleton in Armor.' I regard this as an extremely
serious matter, the excluding these Children, from the
Supper of glory which awaits your new volume, and the
other children of your fancy which it contains.
Let me have a Thanksgiving epistle from Portland.
Ever thine affectionately,
S. W.
From Park Benjamin.
NEW YORK, December 4, 1841.
MY DEAR PROFESSOR,- I am your debtor for forty
dollars. ‘The Goblet of Life' and ‘To the River Charles'
are disposed of, for that sum, to “respectable sources.”
I did not take the poems for the New World, for two
reasons; the first is that we have entered into costly
arrangements for a correspondence in England. The
second is that I do not like the poems so well as many
others you have written. They are by no means so
1. It will be remembered that Mr. Ward had sent the Swedish
poem to his friend for translation.
392 LETTERS. [1841.
worthy of your genius as ‘Excelsior, a magnificent piece,
which I regret having parted with. . . .
I write now not only to say what foregoes, but to ask
you to furnish an occasional prose article and poem for
Graham's Magazine . . . of which Edgar A. Poe is one
editor; by far the best of this class of periodicals. It
will pay liberally and punctually."
Faithfully yours,
PARK BENJAMIN.
To his Father.
December 18, 1841.
The Ballads and Other Poems will be published to-
morrow. I shall send you a copy by the earliest oppor-
tunity. I hope you will like it as much as you expect.
I think the last two pieces the best, — perhaps as good as
anything I have written. [.. Maidenhood’ and ‘Excelsior."
We have had a delightful musician here, — a Miss
Sloman,—a pianiste of great talent, and only seventeen
years old. I wish you could hear her; for to wonderful exe-
cution she unites the greatest delicacy of touch imaginable.
She and old Braham are filling Boston with music.
The time spared from these is taken up in dining Lord
Morpeth, who is so much in demand that he is no more
to be had. The modern German critics have proved from
the Iliad that Ulysses accepted three dinner invitations
on one day. I doubt whether his Lordship is up to that:
though he certainly can do a good deal in that Way. I
gave him a small dinner on my friend Sumner's account,
and had Mr. Prescott, Mr. Norton, and one or two other
pleasant people. We dined from five o'clock till ten, and
had a pleasant time.
1 Mr. Longfellow sent an article on Heine, and afterward became
a regular contributor of verse to the Magazine.
1841.] LETTERS. 393
I find I can have the old picture entirely restored. It
will make a brilliant affair."
To his Father.
December 26, 1841.
My Ballads, etc., is at length published, and some copies
are on the way to you. The first edition was small, -
only about four hundred, and went off immediately. The
second, of five hundred, came out yesterday. It is neater
than the first. A large-paper edition will be in readiness
soon, being already printed and in the binder's hands. I
hope you will like these poems as well as the last.
I dined yesterday, Christmas-day, with Mr. Ticknor.
Mr. Prescott, Frank Gray, Sumner, Norton, etc., were the
other guests, – with Lord Morpeth, for whom the dinner
was given. He is a very pleasant, jolly, sociable, ruddy-
faced man, with gray hair, blue coat, and red waistcoat, —
a laughing bachelor of forty. He is the oldest son of the
Earl of Carlisle;” has been for many years Secretary for
Ireland, and in all probability when the Whigs come into
power again, will be Prime Minister. He seems to be
enjoying himself in Boston, but leaves for Washington on
Tuesday.
1 This fine old picture is a full-length of a boy and girl, - the
grandchildren of Sir William Pepperell, of Louisburg fame. It is
believed to have been painted by Brown, a fellow-pupil of Copley.
It was found, a very dilapidated canvas, at the sale of the old “Port-
land Museum,” among a rubbish of wax-works, Indian weapons,
stuffed animals, etc., was bought for a trifle, and, after being carefully
restored, was hung in the drawing-room of Craigie House, which it
still adorns.
• 2 Himself afterward the seventh Earl. He died in 1864.
394 LETTERS. [1841.
From Samuel Ward.
NEW YORK, December 29, 1841.
The dinner yesterday [to Lord Morpeth] was pleasant.
Many good things were said. related the anecdote of
Roger Sherman in Congress, in 1776, when a red-hot
member arose and moved that the use of the English
language be abolished. Sherman seconded the motion
with the amendment “that we compel the English to
learn Greek, and keep their language for ourselves.” Lord
Morpeth was extremely agreeable.
Apropos of ‘Excelsior, an aunt of mine professed that
it reminded her of a story she once read. An aeronaut
was preparing for his ascent, when a stranger presented
himself and offered to accompany him. He appeared so
interested, and so sure of his courage for the undertaking,
that the aeronaut consented. After they had risen many
thousand feet, he remarked that they were over the town
of Hexenheim. “Throw out more ballast,” Cried the
stranger, “go higher; they have sharp eyes in Hexen-
heim.” “Where 2° inquired the astonished aeronaut. “In
the madhouse,” replied his compagnon-de-voyage, and kept
throwing out bag after bag, crying out, “Higher; higher!”
Finally he rose and threw the aeronaut out of the car,
having first inquired if he had any wives and children.
“I,” said the madman, “ have 300 wives and 7,000 chil-
dren in the stars; so bundle out, for I must get there.”
JEaccelsior 1
Your affectionate S. W.
From William H. PreScott.
BOSTON, December 30, 1841.
My DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I do not know that an old
stager in authorship, like you, cares for anybody's opinion.
1841.] LETTERS. 395
And yet I think one is never indifferent to the opinion of
a friend. At all events I am too much your debtor for
the beautiful poems you have just published not to express
my pleasure to you. I have read most of them several
times, and not with less satisfaction that I recognized now
and then an old familiar face. The ballads I never saw
before. The hexameters strike me as the most doubtful.
Every experiment, even by the best hand, shows that our
language is not nicely enough modulated for them. I
don’t think, either, that the original tone of thought in
this piece de longue haleine [“The Children of the Lord's
Supper’] is of so decided a poetical character as your own
Writing. You are too good for translation; though you
certainly improve your natural vein by a slight infusion
into it — I will not say imitation — of foreign and ancient
models. In two or three ballads, especially the ‘Skeleton’
and the ‘Hesperus,' you have seized the true coloring of
the antique. Nothing better have I seen in this way since
the ‘Ancient Mariner.' The smaller pieces are graceful
and touching, showing that delicate blending of sentiment
and poetic imagery which art must despair to reach. I
bought a copy at the same time with our noble friend,
who expressed a warm admiration for your writings.
I do not believe that these remarks will seem intrusive
or impertinent, from, my dear Longfellow,
Your sincere friend,
WM. H. PRESCOTT.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE.
1842.
JFrom John Neal.
PORTLAND, January 16, 1842. .
DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I am greatly obliged to you for
your new poems. What I think of them you will know
by the next Brother Jonathan. I shall sit down directly
and try to do you justice. Meanwhile, that you may not
shake in your shoes, like the unhappy wretch whom the
judge was trying to comfort by saying he should have
justice done him, - “Please your honor,” said he, “that's
just what I'm afraid of,”—let me add that I look upon
the whole as a prodigious leap forward, and upon portions
as quite unequalled in their way.
Yours truly,
JOHN NEAL.
To his Father.
January 30, 1842.
Many thanks for your kind letters, which I should
have answered long ago. I cannot plead business as my
excuse, but idleness. The weather for ten days past has
been so delicious and summerlike that I have not been
able to keep in-doors. I am trying, though I am Sorry to
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 397
say with little success, the effect of air and exercise. To-
day I have walked ten miles. I am disappointed in not
getting well.
You see by the papers that Dickens has arrived. He
is a glorious fellow; and the greatest possible enthusiasm
exists among all classes. He has not a moment's rest, —
calls innumerable, invitations innumerable, – and is
engaged three deep for the remainder of his stay, in the
way of dinners and parties. He is a gay, free-and-easy
character; with a fine bright face, blue eyes, and long dark
hair. He went with Sumner and me to hear Father
Taylor" preach this morning; and then we took him to
Copp's Hill, and to Bunker Hill. The other evening he
was at the theatre; and was received with nine cheers,
and forced to come forward in the box and make a bow.
On Tuesday he has a public dinner, and leaves town on Sat-
urday for Worcester, where he passes Sunday with the
Governor. There, on Monday, he is to be met by a com-
mittee of young men from Springfield, who take him on
to dine. At Springfield he passes into the hands of an-
other committee, who take him to Hartford for the same
purpose; and so on, through New Haven to New York.
Luckily he is young, — only thirty, next month, – and
has a good constitution, and likes the fun of the thing.
From Washington Allston.
* * January 30, 1842.
MY DEAR SIR, - I beg you to accept my thanks for
your volume of poems, which I have read with great pleas-
ure. Your preface [on rural life in Sweden] has a simple
beauty, both of thought and expression, which to me is
quite touching. You have certainly bent your “inexor-
* The then celebrated preacher to the sailors, described in Ameri-
can Notes.
398 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
able” hexameters into as graceful forms as the English
material will admit. They are to my ear easier than
Southey's, whose English hexameters have hitherto been
considered the best. The gentle and pious strain of the
good Bishop [Tegnér] makes one love him. Of the smaller
poems I like best your own originals. Among these I
read with most pleasure ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,’
‘Endymion,’ ‘God's Acre,’ ‘Maidenhood, and the ‘Goblet of
Life.’ The two last are exceedingly beautiful.
I have been five weeks confined by illness, and am still
very infirm. It is a great disappointment to me that I
have not been able to see Mr. Dickens, I hope, however,
to be well enough to call upon him before he leaves
Boston. With sincere regard, yours,
WA. ALLSTON.
To his Father.
February 27, 1842.
. . . My friend Felton has just returned from New York.
He brings me a note from Dickens, a copy of which I send
you, that you may see what a cordial person he is : —
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW, - You are coming to Eng-
land, you know. Now listen to me. When you return
to London, I shall be there, please God! Write me from
the continent, and tell me when to expect you. We live
quietly — not uncomfortably –and among people whom
I am sure you would like to know, as much as they would
like to know you. Have no home but mine ; see nothing
in town on your way towards Germany, and let me be
your London host and cicerone. Is this a bargain?
Always faithfully your friend,
CHARLES DICKENS.
So hearty an invitation as this I shall not hesitate to ac-
cept, if he is in London when I am there. It will render
1842.] THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. 399
my visit very agreeable. My lectures begin to-morrow.
I have them three hours a week, on the afternoons of
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
To
March 17, 1842.
I beg you to accept my thanks for your expressions of
regard. I feel sincerely happy when I hear that anything
I have written from my own heart finds a response in an-
other's. I feel this to be the best reward an author can
receive; as his highest privilege is to speak words of
sincerity to those who in sincerity will hear them.
A good deal run down in health, Mr. Long-
fellow, in the spring of 1842, obtained leave of
absence for six months, and went abroad to try
the virtues of the “water-cure” at Marienberg,
near Boppard on the Rhine. On the day before
his sailing from New York there appeared in the
Boston Advertiser the following verses, bearing the
signature of his friend Mr. Hillard : —
TO THE SHIP VILLE DE LYON.
Navis quae tibi creditum
Debes Virgilium, finibus Atticis
Reddas incolumem, precor,
Et serves animae dimidium meas.
— Horace.
O ship, beneath whose cleaving prow
The deep sea soon shall roar,
Were wishes winds, how soon thy keel
Would graze thy destined shore
400
THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
With eyes whose vision love makes keen
We watch thy lessening sail, -
And covet, when that fades from sight,
The pinions of the gale.
Firm be thy bolts, thy cable sure,
And stout thy ribs of oak;
Strong be thy canvas to resist
The storm-blast’s rending stroke.
Far from thy path those perils fly
That haunt the watery world,
Till, safe upon thy haven's breast,
The weary sail be furled.
Wind of the North, with hollow blast
Vex not the tranquil air;
Ye whirlwinds, sleep, with folded wing,
Within your caverned lair
But west winds, blow from skies serene
A keel-compelling gale,
And press against the sloping mast
A silent marble saill -
Ye gales that breathe, ye founts that gush
With renovating power,
Upon that loved and laurelled head
Your gifts of healing shower
And jocund health, that loves to climb
The breezy mountain side,
Wake with thy touch to bounding life
His pulse's languid tide
G. S. H. .
1842.] TEIIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 401
From Charles Sumner.
CourT STREET [BoSTON], April 23.
DEAR HENRY, - Will this parting word reach you ?
I write without knowing. . . . We are all sad at your
going; but I more than the rest, for I lose more than
they do. It was to me a Source of pleasure and strength
untold to see you; and when I did not see you, to feel that
you were near, with your swift sympathy and kindly
words. . . . God bless you, my dear friend, from my heart
of hearts | You know not the depth of my gratitude
to you.
This morning Hillard's lines appear. They excite uni-
versal admiration. Judge Story, President Quincy, Green-
leaf, - to say nothing of younger wits, – all admire
them.
Enjoy Europe gain your health, and with fresh happi-
ness return to make us happy
Ever your loving friend,
CHARLES SUMNER.
Of the Summer at Marienberg the letters that
follow will give the story. The pleasantest feature
of it was the acquaintance made at St. Goar with
Ferdinand Freiligrath, who, three years his junior,
was already distinguished among the younger Ger-
man poets. The warm friendship then formed
was continued by correspondence through life; but
after that summer they never met face to face.
On his way to the Rhine, Mr. Longfellow spent
a few days at Paris, and visited Antwerp and
Bruges. In Paris he looked up some old friends,
and made the acquaintance of Jules Janin, the
VOL. I. — 26
402 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
critic, whom he found living au quatrième in Rue
Vaugirard, No. 20.
I was ushered by the servant into his library, and
thence up a narrow winding staircase into a dressing-
room. There sat the feuilletoniste of the Journal des
Débats under the hands of his barber. I gave him Sam.
Ward's letter, which he read through, and then said that I
Was Welcome to his house. He has a frank, pleasing face,
fine forehead and eye, and long black hair and beard. In
person he is short and stout. . . . I asked him if he knew
Alexandre Dumas, who is in the Hôtel de Paris, where I
lodge. He had known him, but they had quarrelled. He
has quarrelled with most of the authors, save Lamartine,
whom he calls “good as an angel.”
Dined with Janin. His drawing-room is a continuation
of his library, a very pretty room overlooking the garden of
the Luxembourg, furnished in the antique style, the ceiling
covered with tapestry, and a picture or two on the walls.
His books are elegant editions of the best authors, mainly
French, in handsome bindings. Presently Janin came in,
dressed in a green coat and light trousers. At dinner, we
had his wife, a pretty woman, and her mother, and a silent
lawyer, whose name I did not hear, not being introduced.
After dinner we had whist, and I came away after a three
hours' visit. Janin is a merry, nonchalant, easy person;
evidently having no sympathies, yet very happy in his
own little world. He dislikes the Society of literary men;
says that he never sees them and never wants to see them.
While we were at dinner an author of dramatic pieces was
shown in. Janin received him quite cavalierly, did not
ask him to take a glass of wine, nor to sit down, which he
did without being asked. He is to bring out a new piece
to-morrow at the Variétés, and evidently wanted to be-
speak a favorable notice.
1842.] THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. 403
Here are the days in Bruges, to which we owe
the “Belfry’’ poems.
May 30. In the evening took the railway from Ghent
to Bruges. Stopped at La Fleur de Blé, attracted by
the name, and found it a good hotel. It was not yet
night; and I strolled through the fine old streets and felt
myself a hundred years old. The chimes seemed to be
ringing incessantly ; and the air of repose and antiquity
was delightful. . . . O those chimes, those chimes | how
deliciously they lull one to sleep ! The little bells, with
their clear liquid notes, like the voices of boys in a choir,
and the solemn bass of the great bell tolling in, like the
voice of a friar !
31st. Rose before five and climbed the high belfry
which was once crowned by the gilded copper dragon now
at Ghent. The carillon of forty-eight bells; the little
chamber in the tower; the machinery, like a huge barrel-
Organ, with keys like a musical instrument for the caril-
loneur; the view from the tower; the singing of swallows
with the chimes; the fresh morning air; the mist in the
horizon; the red roofs far below ; the canal, like a silver
clasp, linking the city with the sea, – how much to
remember
Except letters, Mr. Longfellow wrote little, while
at Marienberg. In his note-book appear some
hints that Christus was shaping itself in his mind,
— this outline, for instance : —
CHRISTUS, a dramatic poem, in three parts:
Part First. The Times of Christ. (Hope)
Part Second. The Middle Ages. (Faith.)
Part Third. The Present. (Charity.)
404 THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
The words in parenthesis are in pencil, and
apparently added afterwards. ‘The Belfry of
Bruges' may have been begun here, as he speaks
of finishing it when, a little later, he visited that
place again on his way to England. Otherwise,
he wrote no verse at Marienberg, except the
following personal sonnet, which has never been
printed : — 4.
MEZZO CAMMIN.
Boppard on the Rhine. August 25, 1842.
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, –
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights, –
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
To Mrs. Andrews Worton.
MARIENBERG, June 8, 1842.
Here is the counterfeit presentment of Marienberg, the
ancient cloister of noble nuns, whose gates I entered five
days ago. I did not say on that occasion, as Thomas
Aquinas did on entering the convent at Terracina, “Here
let me rest in peace forevermore ;” but the quiet of the
place delighted me and prophesied at once a pleasant
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 405
summer. We had a three weeks' passage to Havre. Find-
ing no steamer there for Antwerp, I took the diligence to
Paris, and loitered there three or four days, reviving some
old associations and acquaintances. Among others was
the Countess de Sailly, a very interesting woman, sister
of Berryer, the distinguished orator. I saw with perfect
delight Rachel, the actress, in Racine’s “Mithridate,” and
discovered that one of Racine's plays could be made inter-
esting. The play seemed to me admirable, as well as the
performance of the two principal parts. The rest was
the poorest declamation imaginable. I saw likewise Sum-
ner's brother [George], who seemed to be spending his
time most industriously and usefully, and who is a person
of decided talent.
From Paris I went to Brussels. Please tell Mr. Tick-
nor that his letter to Count Arrivabene gained me a most
cordial welcome from that kind-hearted and excellent
gentleman. He made a dinner for me, at which were
present an Italian philosopher and a Belgian poet. From
Brussels I took a run through Belgium. The day at Ant-
werp was, beyond comparison, the happiest I have passed
since I left you. It was filled with exciting thoughts.
The glorious spire of the cathedral, the well of Quintin
Matsys, his paintings in the gallery, his grave at the
church door, with the remembrance of his struggles and
his success; the noble paintings of Rubens, the antique
streets, the chiming bells, all touched me deeply. Had
you passed the Sunday there you would have wept with
emotion many times. I confess to having my eyes often
filled. It was a day to be remembered. . . .
From Cologne I came up the Rhine to this place in a
steamboat. Out of forty passengers, thirty were English.
There was a lady with four daughters, each with a little
straw hat without any trimming whatever, and each with
a sketch-book and paint-box. They worked their way up
406 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
the Rhine with untiring energy. We dined very pleas-
antly on deck under an awning. Beside me sat another
English family, man, wife and child, with whom I was
exceedingly amused. Here is a brief specimen of the
man's conversation: “Now Ernestine (his wife), look at
that castle. (Her back was towards it.) That's Harmer-
steen (Hammerstein). Remember, there's a long tale to
that. Jemmy, if you want your plate changed tell the
servant; there, the man’s right behind you. Do look at
Harmersteen, my dear. That’s where the man was swal-
lowed up by rats. (The scene of that event is really some
fifty miles higher up.) Pay attention | Here come ducks
and roast mutton. We have had our plates changed at
least a dozen times. Oh, do look at that castle ! Beautiful!
charmant l’” etc., etc. I landed at Boppard, and came at
once to Marienberg, whose walls almost touch the old
walls of the town. I was shown to a chamber without
delay; and on throwing open the window (one of the first
things a traveller does, you will remember) I beheld right
beneath it a great well; around whose brink were growing
bright blue flowers. Instantly came to my mind the lines
of Tasso, - f
Cosi all’ egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi
Gli orli del vaso di soave licore.
I find Marienberg a delightful place. . .
June 12. Yesterday I went with a party to St. Goar.
On the steamboat I saw the first beautiful woman I
have seen in Germany. I scaled two ancient ruins, and
sitting alone amid solitary walls indulged myself in a little
romance. I likewise made the acquaintance of a poet, —
one of the best of the young poets of Germany. His
name is Freiligrath. I found him Writing in a very
pleasant room overlooking the Rhine (I wonder how many
times I shall use that phrase before I return home), and
near him, writing a letter, his wife. They are exceedingly
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 407
agreeable. Imagine Dr. Follen with long, thick, black
hair, and a moustache and beard flowing into each other
like the Mosel and the Rhine, – and behold Ferdinand
Freiligrath . His poetry is fresh and virtuous. Another
young poet, Nikolaus Becker, has acquired fame among
his countrymen by a single piece. It is a patriotic Song
on the Rhine, which appeared a year or two ago, when a
war was anticipated between Germany and France. It
begins —
Sie sollen ihn nicht haben
Den freien deutschen Rhein
The author received sundry silver pitchers from cities on
the Rhine, and a thousand thalers from the king of Prus-
sia, and an office under government, — all literally for a
80719. . . .
I cannot tell you how often we walk together through
these scenes, and how I long to see you again. There are
so many things to recall the absent, — the fragrance of a
flower, a strain of music, a casual resemblance in voice,
manner, or feature; in fine, a thousand little things with-
out a name, which suddenly startle me from my dream
and Emake my pulses beat quicker. tº
To his Father.
[With a picture-heading.]
MARIENBERG, June 21, 1842.
I wrote you about three weeks ago from Paris, inform-
ing you of my safe arrival there and of my plans for
reaching Germany. I had a very pleasant journey through
Belgium, visiting Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, and Brussels.
The Rhine looks very much as in former days. Half a
dozen steamers ply up and down its yellow waters, and
Cockney tourists infest its towns. Boppard is a very
ancient place, — an old Roman town ; parts of the Roman
408 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
walls are still standing. The church whose roof and
spires you see above is as old as the thirteenth century.
The spires are connected by a covered bridge, in which are
two rooms, – a bed-room and a kitchen. The watchman
formerly lived up there. Marienberg is just above the
town. It is a fine old building, — once a convent of
noble nuns. The cloisters still remain, with the tomb-
stones of the nuns in the wall. Behind the house is a
large garden and park, from which walks run up the sev-
eral valleys and hills in the neighborhood. It is a very
beautiful establishment. I have a window towards the
garden, as you see by the mark.
At present there are about sixty persons here, going
through what is called the water-cure. Among them are
some very agreeable persons. The process of cure varies
of course somewhat, with the nature of the disease ; but
in general it is this: About four o'clock in the morning
a servant comes in and wraps you in a wet sheet, then in
a blanket, then covers you up in a mass of bed-quilts.
There you lie for an hour or more, until you perspire
freely. You are then wheeled in an arm-chair to the
bathing-room, where you plunge into a large bath of run-
ning water, and remain a couple of minutes, Splashing
and rubbing. You then dress, and walk an hour in the
garden, drinking at intervals at the fountains, to the
amount of four or five glasses. Next follows breakfast,
which consists of bread, butter, and milk, and sometimes
strawberries. After breakfast, another walk (or a letter,
as to-day). At eleven o'clock a douche, which is nothing
more nor less than standing under a spout. The douches
vary from eighteen to thirty-five feet in height, and are
perhaps the pleasantest baths, – the force of the water
making you warm in an instant. The water from the
hills is brought into the bathing-rooms by pipes, under
which you place yourself for three or four minutes. You
1842.] THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. 409
then take another walk for an hour; then a fliessendes
sitzbad, or flowing bath, in which you sit for half an hour,
the water flowing through continually. Then you walk
till one o'clock. At one, dinner, – very frugal, without
wine or spice of any kind. After dinner, sit or walk or
play billiards till five. At five, another Sitzbad, as at
twelve ; and then a long walk, up the hills or to the
neighboring villages, till Supper, which is on the table
from half-past seven to nine, and is the same as the
breakfast; at ten, to bed.
Such is a day in Marienberg, where one day is like
another, — saving Sunday, when we rest from our bath-
ing. You will think the treatment quite barbarous, but
it is not half so much so as it seems. To me, indeed, it
is extremely pleasant. I delight in the cold baths, and
have great faith in their efficacy. I have been here
now a fortnight, and enjoy myself much. I like particu-
larly the long walks we take at Sunset. From morning
till night we are out in the open air. This part of the
treatment, and the diet, I think you will approve; and
there are here Some striking proofs of the benefits of the
Water-Cure.
I hope that ere long we shall have some such establish-
ments in America. The White Hills would be a capital
place, — having a great abundance of cold water, and
plenty of high hills to climb." -
To Ferdinand Freiligrath.
MARIENBERG, July 20, 1842.
Many thanks, my dear Freiligrath, for your letter,
and the superb translation [of the ‘Skeleton in Armor'].
* A “Water-Cure” was not long after established by Dr. Wessel-
hoeft in the charming village of Brattleboro’, in Vermont. Mr.
Longfellow spent the summer of 1845 there. He thought Brattle-
boro' like a German village.
410 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
It must have been a hard nut to crack, but you have
despatched it in the style of a most successful musskracker.
The old Berserk seems now to speak his native tongue.
The changes are not important, and sometimes are im-
provements. In the stanza of that “gusty flaw" there
seems to be a little confusion. It is the Berserk's ship that
is struck by the flaw and driven back upon Hildebrand’s.
Finding his sails flapping in this head-flaw, the old Viking
puts about, and runs down before the wind right into his
pursuer and sinks him. *
I reached home safely on Monday. The pale gentle-
man in spectacles was very polite, and gave me a copy of
his Sagen und Märchenwald.
I hope no untoward accident will prevent my coming
to St. Goar on Friday. A clergyman once announced to
his congregation that there would be a collection for the
poor “on the next Sunday, God willing, or on the Sunday
after, whether or no.” I shall not go so far as this, but
will come to St. Goar if I can.
It seemed very strange to me to lie Snugly in bed on
Monday morning, instead of being waked from my slum-
bers by a servant. But on Tuesday I began again in the
old course, and my first consciousness in the morning was
the striped Mathias, who, like the executioner in one of
Shakespeare's plays, entered with his “Master Bernardino
Master Bernardino, wake up and be hanged (drowned) *
But habit, habit, — everything depends upon that. Friendly
salutations to the ladies and to the Heubergers.
To Ferdinand Freiligrath.
MARIENBERG, July 22, 1842.
I was very agreeably surprised this morning by your
package of papers and letters. Many, many thanks for
such repeated marks of your kindness and regard. Your
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 411
introductory notice is just the friendly word I expected,
from what you told me last Sunday, and the translation of
‘Excelsior' is exceedingly fine. *..
This morning, at six o'clock, in the cloisters of our con-
vent, I read to three admiring nuns your delightful poem
of Der Blumen Rache, and I wished that you yourself,
invisible, could have witnessed their eager attention, and
could have heard their applause. A fair hand is now
copying the poem into a book. -
A countryman of mine, Mr. Calvert, of Baltimore, ar-
rived here yesterday, with his wife. I want them to
know you and Mrs. Freiligrath, and you to know them.
He is a young man of fortune, and an author, having
published a translation of Schiller's Don Carlos.
I shall join you on Monday on board the earliest
Dampfschiff, promising myself great pleasure from the
tour, and hoping that your friends will not be annoyed
by the addition of a stranger to the party.
To Samuel Ward.
MARIENBERG, August 6, 1842.
I have been here now exactly two months, and have
gone on crescendo in the number of my baths. I have
now six a day, with long walks between ; and if you will
look at the matter dispassionately, you will see that I
have very little leisure. . . .
Your account of Felton's carpet-bag trying to elope
with Dickens's was very amusing. Felton enjoys himself
exceedingly in New York. He has written me about his
visit with Howe. I am glad you like Howe so much. He
is one of the noblest characters in the world. Are they not
a glorious set of friends, – Sumner, Hillard, Howe, Felton,
Cleveland 2
412 THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
Enclosed is a translation of ‘Excelsior, by Freiligrath;
it was published first in the Morgenblatt, of which Pfizer
is the editor. I had a letter from Pfizer touching my
translation of his Junggesell [“The Two Locks of Hair’].
It is singular, -it was not his own personal experience,
but was written for a friend to whom it was applicable,
and I translated it for a friend to whom it was equally so.
Freiligrath has also translated ‘The Skeleton in Armor.’
It will appear in a few days in the Morgenblatt, and I will
send it to you.
I have been giving as much attention as possible to
the young poets. Freiligrath stands at the head of them
all, and at present attracts more notice than any other liv-
ing poet, Save Uhland. Nikolaus Becker has published a
volume remarkable only for One song, on the Rhine, which
procured the author a place under government, and a
great deal of reputation. Herwegh is another poet, who
has won a hearing by his political (radical) songs. They
are full of fire and energy. Geisel, a young man of Lübeck,
imitates Freiligrath, but is a poet of promise. Lenau and
Auersperg stand high, of course. “Young Germany ” is
rather quiet just now. Heine has injured himself ex-
ceedingly by a book against Börne, which I have not read.
Three remarkable novels have appeared within as many
years: Münchhausen, by Immerman, who died lately,–
a work in six volumes, satiric and idyllic ; William's
Dichten und Trachten (meaning William Shakespeare), by
H. König, — an imaginary romance of his youth and
manhood; and Blasedow, by Gutzkow. Zedlitz, author
of the Wächtliche Heerschau, is writing a long poem in the
style of the Minnesänger. He passed down the Rhine
the other day; so did Uhland; I was not fortunate enough
to see either of them.
Farewell, my dear Sam. I shall soon be with you again ;
sitting once more by the fireside with the old Dutch
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 413
tiles, in Castle Craigie. Home is pleasanter than this
wandering alone over the world. If I come back well !
If– ah, that is the worst thought ; for I am not well yet,
but fluctuating between the same and better.
To Mrs. Andrews Norton.
MARIENBERG, August 26, 1842.
I shall feel some regret at leaving Marienberg. I shall
miss the cold baths in the early morning. I shall miss
the strange, but now familiar, figures that haunt the place:
the old Dutch Admiral thundering through the cloisters
at night with his great cane; the pale young Jewess, who
is carried out in her chair every morning to sit on the
terrace; the gouty English surgeon, who rides into his
chamber on a donkey, and tumbles out of the saddle into
bed; the meek suffering faces of so many youthful martyrs
to disease, teaching constant lessons of patience; the pretty
Miss , who walks with a stride like Ellen Tree in the
“Bandit's Bride; ” the prima donna of the Düsseldorf
theatre, [whom I meet] every morning at half-past five
o'clock at the fountain in the garden, gallantly filling the
tin dipper for her; the Russian colonel, who roars like a
maniac in the douche, the merry music-master, who sings
in bed and in his baths; and, finally, thee, sweet Jacobina,
born on the margin of this river of romance, and now just
under the eaves of twenty, looking forth upon the world,
with thy tender eyes, dark hair, and green album ! All
these and many more I shall recall with interest and a
certain painful pleasure when I look upon their faces no
more. For it is one of my Weaknesses to become attached
to people and places.
414 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
From Charles Summer.
BOSTON, September 16, 1842.
DEAR HENRY, - This shall be a short scrawl to wel-
come you in London with your face homeward.
Have you seen how the English Monthly Review, in its
number for August, has filched your article on Frithiofs
Saga 3 There it is, in your peculiar style, made to proceed
from the pen of an English reviewer. I shall expose it in
the “respectable Daily.”
I enclose some letters, which you can use as you list
in London. The force of my acquaintance was among
lawyers, judges, and politicians, whom you would not care
to know. But you will be in London at a season when it
will require a lantern to find a man. I doubt if you will
See a human being; that is, except the two millions who
throng the streets, and J. H. Everybody will have hied
to the country. God bless you!
- Ever yours, C. S.
I send here with the sheets from Graham's Magazine
for September, containing Act I. of ‘The Spanish Student.’
The two other Acts will appear in October and November.
To Ferdinand Freiligrath.
MARIENBERG, September 17, 1842.
As usual, I have only a couple of minutes to Write in,
as I am just starting for Bornhofen and the Brothers. I
must not let the afternoon go by without Writing to urge
you once more to go with me to the Manoeuvre. Let not
your hard heart resist my appeal And thou of gentler
nature and soul more sensitive, - Countess Ida, -intercede
for me ! Tell him that this is the only opportunity I
shall ever have of seeing an army and a camp (excepting
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 415
Camp near Bornhofen (). Tell him it is hard for me to
subdue my Cologne-inclining wishes, and that a bivouac
and a night under a tent and the reveillé are things to
make an impression upon one for evermore.
Have you seen the Magazin für ausländische Litteratur Ż
It has a paragraph on English hexameters, in which an
extract is given from my translation of Tegnér.
The clock strikes three, – signal for our departure to-
wards the ruins. Drum, adé, adé, adé !
To his Father.
MARIENBERG, September 17, 1842.
I write you but a short note, to say that I leave
Marienberg to-morrow. I am going up the Rhine as far
as Frankfort, perhaps as far as Heidelberg; and then re-
turn to Cologne, and cross Belgium to Ostend, where I
shall take steamer for London. I am not so entirely
well as I could wish to be. The doctor urges me to go
on with the baths, and I wish I could do so. But my
leave of absence expires in October. --
I promise myself great pleasure from my visit to Eng-
land. You know I am to stay with Dickens while in
London; and beside his own agreeable society I shall
enjoy that of the most noted literary men of the day, -
which will be a great gratification to me. I hope to have
time to run up to Edinboro' this time, never having pene-
trated into Scotland. That, however, must depend upon
circumstances. . . .
Upon the whole, the Summer here has been pleasant to
me; though the want of intellectual excitement has at
times been hard to bear. By way of change, I have
made Occasional excursions up and down the Rhine. A
few days ago I was at the great Prussian camp near
Bonn, in which, and the neighboring cantonnements, there
416 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
was an army of fifty thousand men. But the weather
was bad, and upon the whole I was much more fatigued
than amused. In a day or two I shall visit a camp of
learned men, – a society that comes together once a year,
and this year meets at Mayence. I am curious to see the
Scholars from all quarters of Germany.
To Charles Summer.
MARIENBERG, September 17, 1842.
The Sun is setting, and it is the last I shall see set
Over the gardens of Marienberg. I start to-morrow morn-
ing early for Bingen, from which point I shall make a
little tour in the Niederwald as far as Johannisberg, and
then to Mayence to attend the meeting of the Natur-
forscher. I of course am a Naturforscher, eo; officio, having
investigated the Marienberg waters to a great depth. I
promise myself great pleasure in this assembly of simple-
hearted, strange, wild-looking delvers into the mysteries
of Nature. You shall hear about it hereafter, if it turns
out worth the while."
There rises the moon, broad and tranquil, through the
branches of a walnut-tree on a hill opposite. I apostro-
phize it in the words of Faust: “O gentle moon, that
look'st for the last time upon my agonies,” – or some-
thing to that effect.
Ten o’clock at night. My trunk is packed, my bill paid,
my farewells said, and I give you one last thought before
going to bed, and one last word. I despatched to-day to
Rotterdam a large box of books, to go by first ship to
Boston. I know not how it is, but during a journey I
collect books as a ship does barnacles. These books are
1 Afterwards he wrote of the “intellectual heads” which he saw
at Mayence.
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 417
German, Flemish, and French. Tell Felton that I have
bought him a copy of the Nibelungen Lied.
I have had a “crisis.” It lasted about a fortnight.
Since then I am better. I am Sorry to Say, however, that
I am not yet perfectly well. Begging your pardon for
the insult, I do not believe that any one can be perfectly
well who has a brain and a heart. You will not be well
long; and I consider Felton an invalid, though he is not
aware of it. Good-night ! Be contented for the moment
with this brief missive, and take it without a murmur.
To Ferdinand Freiligrath.
NüRNBERG, September 24, 1842.
Without any doubt, I am in the ancient city of Nürn-
berg. I arrived last night at ten o'clock, and took my
first view by moonlight, strolling alone through the broad,
silent streets, and listening to the musical bells that ever
and anon gave a hint that it was bed-time.
To-day has been a busy, exciting day. I have seen the
best works of Albrecht Dürer, Peter Vischer, and other
worthies of Nürnberg. I have seen Dürer's house and
his grave; also those of Hans Sachs. The old shoemaker's
house is now an ale-house. His portrait is on the sign of
the door, with this inscription : “Gasthaus zum Hams
Sachs.” I went in with my companion (an old doctor
from Grätz, returning from the Naturforscher-meeting at
Mayence), and we drank a tankard of ale to the memory
of the poet, reading at the same time from a volume of
his works—a venerable folio — the story of Der Geist mit
den klappernden Ketten. We then made a pilgrimage to
his grave. He is buried literally on top of his father; it
being the fashion here to bury people one upon another
in the same grave, – the second driving the first deeper
down, like the infamous Popes in Dante's Inferno.
VOL. I. — 27
418 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
I am taking a solitary cup of tea in a double-bedded
room, highly suggestive of domestic felicity, up two pair
of stairs front, in the Straus, – a poor hotel near the
Post. I hope to be drinking tea much more pleasantly
with you on the 30th of this month. Till then, farewell!
P. S. Two nights ago, on the way to Würzburg,
as We stopped to change horses, the hostler made his
appearance with a lantern; whereupon my travelling-
companion in the coupé — a young Geschäfts-reisender
[commercial traveller] — exclaimed, “Gebt Feuer / Ec-
oriare aliquis 1° He then said that you were a “herr-
licher Dichter,” and your poem on General Leon glorious.
He said he did not know you personally, but you had
been pointed out to him in Frankfurt once. Fame !
JFrom Charles Dickens.
BROADSTAIRs, KENT, September 28, 1842.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW,-How stands it about your
visit, do you say ? Thus: your bed is waiting to be
slept in ; the door is gaping hospitably to receive you. I
am ready to spring towards it with open arms at the
first indication of a Longfellow knock or ring. And the
door, the bed, I, and everybody else who is in the secret,
have been expecting you for the last month.
The states of mind that I have undergone — and all
along of you — since I have been down here, a term of
nine weeks The imaginings I have had of the possibil-
ity of your knocking at my door in London without no-
tice, and finding nobody there but an old woman; the
misgivings that have come across me of your being, suc-
cessively, in every foreign steamer that has passed these
windows homeward bound, since the first of the month ;
the hideous train of fancies from which your letter has
relieved me, – baffle description.
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 419
The forged letter of which Felton speaks was published
in the New York papers, with a statement that I had ad-
dressed it to the editor of the London Morning Chronicle,
who had published it in his columns. In this production
I disparaged America very much, and girded at my own
reception. You know what the American press is; and
will be, I dare say, as little surprised at this outrage as I
was. Still, it exasperated me — I am of rather a fierce
turn at times — very much ; and I walked about for a
week or two with a vague desire to take somebody by the
throat and shake him, - which was rather feverish.
I have decided, perhaps you know, to publish my
American Višit. By the time you come to me I hope I
shall have finished writing it. I have spoken very hon-
estly and fairly; and I know that those in America for
whom I care will like me better for the book. A great
many people will like me infinitely the worse, and make a
devil of me straightway.
Rogers is staying here, and begs me to commend him
to you, and to say that he has made me pledge myself,
on pain of non-forgiveness ever afterward, to carry you to
see him without loss of time when you come.
Faithfully your friend,
CHARLES DICKENS.
I have heard thrice from Felton, whom I love ; and
once from Prescott.
From Charles Summer.
BosTon, October 1, 1842.
I have time only to enclose the last two Acts of ‘The
Spanish Student.’ The whole play reads very well, -
better than I expected ; and I always expected much.
Mrs. Farrar says it is the finest work of art that ever
came from you; and that there are many opera-dancers
420 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE [1842.
more worthy of salvation than crowds with whom we
mingle in daily life.
I have received a letter from Mr. [Samuel] Rogers in
which he says: “I cannot express the delight with which
I have read again and again the volumes of Mr. Longfel-
low. Very few things, if any, have ever thrilled me so
much ; and very sorry indeed shall I be if I lose the
opportunity of seeing and of thanking one to whom I am
under such great obligations. Pray tell him so, if you
write to him. If I am within any railroad distance and
in tolerable health, I shall not fail to return when I
hear of his arrival here. But why make so short a stay
where he would be so welcome 2'' We have all been much
delighted by this tribute from the ancient poet to the
young One.
Ever affectionately yours,
To Charles Summer.
October 16, 1842.
I write this from Dickens's study, the focus from which
so many luminous things have radiated. The raven croaks
from the garden, and the ceaseless roar of London fills my
ears. Of course, I have no time for a letter, as I must run
up in a few minutes to dress for dinner. I can only tell
you that I shall return in the Great Western. As soon as
you get this, therefore, start for New York to meet me.
If you cannot, send Hillard or Felton or Cleveland; or
Howe, - for I think he must have more business with
the Bible Society about this time ! Somebody must come.
The Great Western sails from Bristol on the 22d. Dickens
goes with me to Bath to dine with Landor. Mr. Rogers
has just been here sitting a half-hour with me. He ar-
rived in town last night. We breakfast with him on
Tuesday and dine with him on Wednesday.
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 421
I am so excited about starting for home that I can
hardly hold this pen. I have had a most delightful visit
here in London. But, alas, the town is quite empty, and
I shall miss seeing persons whom I desire to look upon.
I have so many, many things to say to you that I am
dumb. And let it go at that. I will only add, that
delighted as I am with London, my desire to be at home
again overwhelms every other. I come back with tre-
mendous momentum !
I have read Dickens's book [American Notes]. It is
jovial and good-natured, and at times very severe. You
will read it with delight and, for the most part, approba-
tion. He has a grand chapter on Slavery. Spitting and
politics at Washington are the other topics of censure.
Both you and I would censure them with equal severity,
to say the least. He gives due laud to the New-York
oysters “for thy dear sake, heartiest of Greek professors;”
and says of Howe, “There are not many persons, I hope
and believe, who after reading these pages can ever hear
that name with indifference.”
Don't fail, one or two of you, to come to New York.
To Ferdinand Freiligrath.
LONDON, October 18, 1842.
. . . After leaving you at Coblenz, I journeyed solemnly
down the Rhine and through Belgium to Ostend. Seen in
a bright, Sunshiny day, antique Bruges had lost some of
its glories, and did not look so old as I remembered it.
Nevertheless, I finished there the poem on its Belfry,
which I will send you as soon as it is printed. I have
been in London about ten days and have enjoyed my visit
to Dickens very much. He thanks you most kindlily for
your poems, – which, alas! he cannot read, - and will
send you in a few days a copy of his American Notes.
422 THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
In the same package I send you Outre-Mer and The
Spanish Student. -
I am Sorry to send you so short a note as this. It is
only to wave you farewell,—to thank you again and again
for all your kind attentions during the summer, and to
promise a longer letter on reaching home.
From Wathaniel Hawthorme.
CONCORD, November 26, 1842.
DEAR LONGFELLOW,--I have been looking to receive
somewhat in the shape of a letter of congratulation from
you on the great event of my marriage; but it does not
seem to be forthcoming. Perhaps it is the etiquette that
I should congratulate you on your return from Outre-Mer.
Be it done accordingly.
I exceedingly desire to see you ; and the object of this
present writing is to entreat you to come to Concord and
deliver a lecture before the Lyceum. Mr. Emerson, who is
one of the curators, has mentioned it to me several times.
I inquired what remuneration could be offered you, and
he spoke of the magnificent sum of ten dollars which, he
says, is the highest amount paid by country lyceums. Do
come, – if not for filthy lucre, yet to gratify the good
people here, and to see my wife and me. Choose your
own time; only I should like to have it as Soon as possible.
I am very well and happy; so is my wife.
Truly your friend,
NATH. HAWTHORNE.
From Richard H. Dana, Senior.
BOSTON, December 1, 1842.
My DEAR SIR, - I was on a very sick bed when the
copy of Dickens and the translation of the ‘Dying Raven’
was brought to me by Richard. I was sadly prostrated ;
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 423
too much so, I thought, to care for anything. Yet I did
say it was very kind in Mr. Longfellow to remember me
when he was so far from home, and to bring me this
translation, knowing it would give me pleasure, — and I
felt it. . . . Let me thank you now, and that most heartily.
Sincerely yours,
RICHARD H. DANA.
To Samuel Ward.
December 18, 1842.
Did you ever, in a circus, See a man leap through a
paper balloon, tearing his way before him, and falling
into the arms of an associate 2 If you have, then have
you some image faint and feeble of the manner in which
my heart comes tearing through this letter (as you break
the Seal) to fall upon yours. Receive it gently; do not
let it fall to the ground. As yet I have not seen you
since my return, – I mean inwardly, - and I am looking
forward to your visit next Sunday with a desire you will
better comprehend when you get here than I can express
to you now. To-day Summer is sitting in the great arm-
chair that you will then occupy; and at length, after this
long, long, long separation, I shall lay my heart open to
you and tell you all my hopes, fears, and plans for the
present and the immediate future.
And now for a few trifles. Why did you let Griswold
have that head of me by Franquinet, to engrave for Gra-
ham's Magazine ! Do you know what the engraver has
made of it? Why, the most atrocious libel imaginable; a
very vulgar individual, looking very drunk and very cun-
ning ! An unredeemed blackguard air hovers over the
whole. Now, when I think that forty thousand copies of
this thing—this tasteless caricature—are to be printed
and distributed through the country as my “counterfeit
(very counterfeit) presentment,” I am in an indescribable
424 BOEMS ON SLAVERY. - [1842.
agony. I solemnly protest against this whole proceed-
ing, and shall write to Graham this very day to prevent
the publication. . . . I sent you on Saturday a copy of the
Poems on Slavery. I trust that you will like, at least, the
spirit in which they are written.
Write to me straightway, and as often as you can. It
is delightful to find your hand at the post-office, on my
way to lecture.
Jules Janin has written The American in Paris. Are
you his hero !
On his voyage home Mr. Longfellow had occu-
pied himself in writing some poems upon Slavery.
These he published on his return, in a pamphlet
of thirty pages. As a young man he had been
accustomed to read in his father's house the num-
bers of Benjamin Lundy's Genius of Universal
Emancipation. While in Brunswick he had con-
ceived the idea of writing a drama on the subject
of Toussaint l’Ouverture, “that thus I may do.
something in my humble way for the great cause
of Negro emancipation.” The feeling against
slavery was growing more and more intense in
the free States. It had many sides. There
were the Colonizationists, who believed in freeing
slaves only on condition of their being sent to
Africa; the Liberty Party, which believed in poli-
tical action and to which Mr. Whittier belonged ;
the “Abolitionists” proper, whose motto was “im-
mediate emancipation,” and who, “for conscience
sake,” could not vote under a “slave-holding Consti-
tution; ”— of these Garrison and Wendell Phillips
1842.] POEMS ON SLAVERY. 425
were the leaders. Besides these were the unclassi-
fied “anti-slavery men’’ and women who for one
reason or another did not join either of the above
organizations, but trusted to moral influences to
lift up the sentiment and conscience of the nation
to the destruction of Slavery ; among these were
Mr. Emerson and Mr. Longfellow, who lent their
word and pen to the service of freedom. When
the little brochure of the latter came out, the Dial
spoke of it, in the shortest of notices, as “the thin-
nest of all Mr. Longfellow’s thin books; spirited
and polished like its fore-runners; but the subject
would warrant a deeper tone.” The tone, indeed,
was more literary than Tyrtaean ; yet there were
not wanting strong verses, as in the dedication to
Dr. Channing, in the “Witnesses,’ and in the ‘Warn-
ing.’ At any rate, the book threw the author's
influence on the side against Slavery ; and at that
time it was a good deal simply to take that un-
popular side, publicly. With the “abolitionist'
leaders he was not acquainted. To his pacific
temper, constitutionally averse to controversy and
“disliking everything violent,” these brave and
unrelenting fighters for justice, humanity, and lib-
erty seemed often harsh, violent, and dictatorial.
He found more congenial the earnestness of his
friend Mr. Summer, who was beginning that career
of political anti-slavery activity which ended only
with his death, but of whom one of the abolition-
ists declared in the heat of his discourse, that
“Charles Sumner was a greater enemy of the
426 POEMS ON SLAVERY. [1842.
slave than the slave-holders themselves.” The
editor of Graham's Magazine wrote to Mr. Long-
fellow, in excusing a short and guarded notice of
his book, that “the word slavery was never allowed
to appear in a Philadelphia periodical, and that
the publisher objected to have even the name of
the book appear in his pages.” The following
letter is printed, without the writer's name, to show
the tone of thought on this subject which quite
largely prevailed even in New England at the
time. Such a letter goes far to excuse all the
indignation which kindled the tongue of the fiery
abolitionist Orator, as he flung the burning words
of the old Hebrew prophets against the cold heart
of the nation.
From — —.
December 20, 1842.
My DEAR SIR, - I received your package and kind
note last evening, and handed the copy of Poems [on
Slavery] to Mr. Tracy. I was already in possession of a
copy. I have read it over with great attention several
times. I am not to speak now of the beauty of the
poems; they are, in my opinion, of various shades (a
phrase appropriate to the subject). You have well sus-
tained your theory; but (suffer, I beseech you, the word
of exhortation) I believe your theory to be false.
No man can scorn and detest cruelty, injustice, and op-
pression more than I do, and I think no one would make
more real sacrifices to right the wrong. On this ground I
go for the betterment of the human character generally,
nowhere what it ought to be, and for the melioration of the
condition of the slave and the poor, everywhere oppressed;
1842.] POEMS ON SLAVERY. 427
and for the freedom of the slave too, upon just terms, at
a proper time, and whenever his own character may en-
title him to the distinction of a freeman. So far, how-
ever, from desiring it now, I wish half the Irishmen in
the country were slaves too, with somebody to keep them
from starving, and prevent their troubling our elections !
Indeed, I do not regard the external condition of men So
important as many do. The rich and the powerful are
not so happy as those who envy them; and Heaven, We
know, calls the Philemons and the “midnight singers,”
the mean, the abased, and the enslaved, rather than the
great ones of the earth. I need not say to a scholar that
the fetters which Terence and AEsop wore may be carried
very gracefully, and usefully too; and certainly our own
slavery is not to be named in the same breath with that
of antiquity. I am not so sure about English slavery in
the East Indies. Not to enlarge on this subject, in regard
to which many docéa 3éAm might be drawn both from
reason and Scripture, I honestly believe that freedom to
the slave in his present condition, or any condition which
he could assume while remaining in this country, would
be the greatest curse that could possibly befall him. I
do not like, therefore, the sentiment of your first piece ;
and though respecting Dr. Channing as an eminently good
man, I think every word he wrote on the subject at least
did no good. Luther did a vast deal of real, practical, and
immediate service to the human cause. The “chartered
lie" of our respected Declaration is no doubt a lie, and
would not have been inserted except for the “present
necessity;” but it is only so because men are not in fact
created free and equal, and if they were, could not remain
so a single moment. There must be “thrones, domina-
tions, princedoms, virtues, powers.” I regret, too, that in
piece second you should consider your African, riding
like mad in such guise over the desert killing men,
428 POEMS ON SLAVERY. [1842.
**, and children, and being himself killed in turn,
stealing everything he can lay his hands on, Seizing his
neighbors' little ones for sale, or perhaps Selling his own,
– in one word, an unreclaimed barbarian, – as a more
respectable character than the same personage pursuing
agriculture as a profession at the South, attending church
on Sunday, dancing care off when his work is done, play-
ing with his master's children possibly, and on the whole
enjoying himself ten times as much as half our surly free-
men who commiserate him. Ivery much doubt the senti-
ment you impute to him. In fact, my dear sir, they are
used to these things at home. ‘The Good Part’ is a picture
too beautiful to be laughed at. I commend and admire
her; and am, indeed, a thorough colonizationist. Our
friends the abolitionists look upon this as being worse
than a slave-holder; and I fear they will regard this piece
as particularly heterodox. In regard to the “Dismal
Swamp” negro, I will only say that I cannot blame him,
if he had run away from a bad master. It was injudicious
to start, perhaps, in the condition which you impute to him,
but I wish him well off. The next article is most beautiful
in every respect, and a pleasing and delightful picture,
very skilfully drawn. I can inform you, however, whence
came his “glad evangel,”—“I have learned in whatsoever
state I am, therewith to be content.” I pass over the
“Witnesses, as describing things too often and dreadfully
inflicted upon the human race of every color by its fel-
low, and turn with unalloyed pleasure to the ‘Quadroon,'
beyond all cavil the gem of the book. The description of
herself is as sweet a thing as I remember to have seen,
and as touching, and above all praise. The whole piece is
exquisitely wrought, and the thing it depicts too horrible
for the human heart to endure, — almost, to believe. This
is indeed the great evil of slavery, and deserves all the
assaults which indignant humanity can hurl at it. Every
1842.] POEMS ON SLAVERY. 429
influence and every law ought to be brought to bear upon
these enormities, until summary punishment, if shame
will not, has eradicated such terrible practices.
I have no knowledge of your esoteric doctrines upon the
details of this great question, and do not know but I may
have been taking too much freedom in alluding to your
work in such a tone; but I am in the habit of speaking
frankly, and though I truly admire much of the work, I am
forced to doubt whether all of it is just in Sentiment or cal-
culated to work permanent benefit. Besides, rest assured,
my dear sir, that “if I laugh at any mortal thing, 't is
that I may not weep;” and I should not have ventured so
far had I not felt some of the freedom of an old acquaint-
ance, since other productions of yours have so often
afforded unqualified delight at a fireside now most deso-
late. Do not think me, then, a friend of slavery or in-
human because I differ with you in some particulars.
JFrom Samuel Ward.
NEW YORK, December 20, 1842.
Many thanks for your letter and the Poems [on Slavery].
They excite a good deal of attention and sell rapidly. I
have sent one copy to the South, and others shall follow.
I admire particularly the ‘Quadroon Girl” and the ‘Warn-
ing.' But I have a bone to pick with you abolitionists.
I am fresh from among the negroes, and pity the masters
more than the slaves. When the Eastern negrophilists
are prepared to pay a tax, they will have a right to dis-
pose of the property of their Southern brethren. It were
a shame that our government should be less just than
that of Great Britain. . . .
Your loving S. W.
430 BOEMS ON SLAVERY. (1842.
From Henry Ware, Junior.
FRAMINGHAM, December 24, 1842.
MY DEAR SIR,--Though a little late for a congratula-
tion on your return home, I am not ashamed to offer you
this letter; for such absences are so frequent that we
hardly remember one has been gone. But such poems on
Slavery are never to be forgotten; and I must not refrain
from giving you my heartiest thanks. They are all one
could wish them to be, — poetry, simple, graceful, strong;
without any taint of coarseness, harshness, or passion. I
think the ‘Quadroon' is my favorite. My wife and I
have agreed that when we have the means to spare we
will have two pictures from that piece painted by Allston,
How exquisite they might be. I want you to write the
“Witnesses’ again. You want more sea-room for so grand
an idea. You are cramped by the measure as if you were
manoeuvring a seventy-four in Jamaica Pond. However,
the big ship would be a noble thing, even there; so I hope
you will pardon me all these poor words and believe me,
Very truly yours,
BIENRY WARE, J.R.
Prom, Wathamiel Hawthorne.
CONCORD, December 24, 1842.
T)EAR LONGFELLOW,- I should have responded to your
letter some time since, but I am very busy with the pen,
and hate to ink my fingers more than is necessary. As
to coming to dine with you, it is a pleasure that I cannot
promise myself at present, on account of the inconvenience
of leaving home unless I take my whole establishment
with me; and I believe you do not extend your invitation
to my wife and maid-servant. Some time when I am in
Boston I will come out with Hillard.
1842.] THIRD WISIT TO EUROPE. 431
Now for your coming to see me. I do pray that so
desirable an event may take place ; no matter how soon.
You must give us one or two days' notice, so that no other
engagement may interfere. Not that we are much troubled
with engagements; but it might happen. I have some
scruples of conscience about asking you to come in mid-
winter, for it would be preposterous, I suppose, to expect
anybody to be comfortable or contented here, except our-
selves. You will have to warm yourself by the glow of
our felicity, - aided by as large a wood-fire as we can pile
into the chimney. If you like skating, there is enough of
it on the river. I get up at sunrise to skate | | | |
I never was more surprised than at your writing poems
about Slavery. I have not seen them, but have faith in
their excellence; though I cannot conjecture what species
of excellence it will be. You have never poetized a
practical subject hitherto.
Your friend, NATH. HAWTHORNE.
From John Weal.
PopTLAND, December 28, 1842.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW, - Many and hearty thanks
for your bold and generous poems on Slavery. Abroad,
and at sea, that question must have pressed heavily
upon you, which is now on trial before a jury of nations.
The poem to Dr. Channing is not equal to the rest; though
it has the true stamp, after all. - -
Of course you look for a rib-roasting from the South.
And yet if I understand the South, and I think I do,
there are men enough there to like manhood in the North
much better than the temper of the “dough-faces,” whom
Randolph used to make mouths at." Go on, conquering
and to conquer Yours heartily, JOHN NEAL.
* Randolph of Virginia applied this name, in contempt, to those
Northern men in Congress who had not the courage of their opinions,
432 THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. [1842.
From Charles Dickens.
LONDON, December 29, 1842.
MY DEAR LONGFELLOW, - I was delighted to receive
your assurance of your safe arrival among our hearty
friends, and to think of your sitting down in your com-
fortable rooms after all your cold watering (and what a
quantity of water you had in that half-year, counting the
two passages!) safe and sound again. I was but poorly
received when I came home from Bristol that night, in
consequence of my inability to report that I had left you
actually on board the Great Western, and that I had seen
the chimney smoking. But I have got over this gradually,
and am again respected.
I have been blazing away at my new book, whereof the
first number will probably be published under the black
flag [of the unpaid-for American reprint] as soon as you re-
ceive this. The Notes had an enormous sale; and I trust
the Chuzzlewit (so I call the new baby) will go and do
likewise. I quite agree with you that we shall never live
to see the passing of an International [Copyright] law;
but we may sow the seed and leave the gathering of the
fruit to others. Heaven speed your Slavery poems I am
looking for them eagerly. By the way, I have been some-
what shocked to find that plays fast and loose in our
English society on that question, and says that “it is easy
to find fault with the system, and not so easy to propound
a remedy.” As if any man, with a head on his shoulders
fit for anything but a block to put his hat on, did not
know perfectly well that it is only after many years of
strong denouncement that any remedy in such a case has
birth. But here is another instance of the discordant
but instead of setting a firm face against the encroachments of the
slave power, yielded in every instance to its domineering temper.
1842.] THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE. 433
material he represents. The Federal Government upholds
slavery; wherefore the man of Massachusetts goes to the
wall, and Freedom with him. -
After you left us, Charley invented and rehearsed with
his sisters a dramatic scene in your honor, which is still
occasionally enacted. It commences with expressive pan-
tomime, and begins immediately after the ceremony of
drinking healths. They look at each other very hard; then
Charley cries, “Mr. Longfellow ! Hoo-ra-a-ah ( " The whole
concludes with a violent rapping of the table, and a hide-
ous barking from the little dog, who wakes up for the pur-
pose. They all send their loves to you, in which K. joins
very earnestly.
P. S. McDowall the boot-maker, Beale the hosier,
Laffin the trowsers-maker, and Blackmore the coat-cutter
have all been at the point of death; but have slowly re-
covered. The medical gentlemen agreed that it was ex-
haustion, occasioned by early rising, — to wait upon you
at those unholy hours
Ever, my dear Longfellow, faithfully your friend,
* CHARLES DICKENS.
VOL. I. — 28
END OF WOL. I.

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