"I received this morning a poem with the usual request to give 'my
real opinion' of it. I give you one stanza."
After quoting the verse and giving the subject of the poem, he
continues:--
"In his letter the author says, 'I did so much better on poetry than I
thought I could as a beginner, that I really have felt a little proud
of my poems.' He also sends me his photograph 'at sixty-five years of
age,' and asks for mine 'and a poem' in return. I had much rather send
him these than my 'real opinion,' which I shall never make known to
any man, except on compulsion and under the seal of secrecy."
His kindness and love of humor carried him through many a tedious
interruption. He generously overlooked the fact of the subterfuges to
which men and women resorted in order to get an interview, and to help
them out made as much of their excuses as possible. Speaking one day
of the persons who came to see him at Nahant, he said: "One man, a
perfect stranger, came with an omnibus full of ladies. He descended,
introduced himself, then returning to the omnibus took out all the
ladies, one, two, three, four, and five, with a little girl, and
brought them in. I entertained them to the best of my ability, and
they stayed an hour. They had scarcely gone when a forlorn woman in
black came up to me on the piazza, and asked for a dipper of water.
'Certainly,' I replied, and went to fetch her a glass. When I brought
it she said, 'There is another woman just by the fence who is tired
and thirsty; I will carry this to her.' But she struck her head as she
passed through the window and spilled the water on the piazza. 'Oh,
what have I done!' she said. 'If I had a floor-cloth, I would wipe it
up.' 'Oh, no matter about the water,' I said, 'if you have not hurt
yourself.' Then I went and brought more water for them both, and sent
them on their way, at last, refreshed and rejoicing." Once Longfellow
drew out of his pocket a queer request for an autograph, saying "that
the writer loved poetry in most any style, and would he please copy
his 'Break, break, break' for the writer?" He also described in a note
a little encounter in the street, on a windy day, with an elderly
French gentleman in company with a young lady, who introduced them to
each other. The Frenchman said:--
"'Monsieur, vous avez un fils qui fait de la peinture.'
"'Oui, monsieur.'
"'Il a du mérite. Il a beaucoup d'avenir.'
"'Ah,' said I, 'c'est une belle chose que l'avenir.'
"The elderly French gentleman rolled up the whites of his eyes and
answered:--
"'Oui, c'est une belle chose; mais vous et moi, nous n'en avons pas
beaucoup!'
"Superfluous information!--H. W. L."
It would be both an endless and unprofitable task to recall more of
the curious experiences which popularity brought down upon him. There
is a passage among Mr. Fields's notes, however, in which he describes
an incident during Longfellow's last visit to England, which should
not be overlooked. Upon his arrival, the Queen sent a graceful
message, and invited him to Windsor Castle, where she received him
with all the honors; but he told me no foreign tribute touched him
deeper than the words of an English hod-carrier, who came up to the
carriage door at Harrow, and asked permission to take the hand of the
man who had written the "Voices of the Night."
There was no break nor any change in the friendship with his publisher
during the passing of the years; but in 1861 there is a note
containing only a few words, which shows that a change had fallen upon
Longfellow himself, a shadow which never could be lifted from his
life. He writes:--
"MY DEAR FIELDS,--I am sorry to say No instead of Yes; but so it must
be. I can neither write nor think; and I have nothing fit to send you
but my love, which you cannot put into the magazine."
For ever after the death of his wife he was a different man. His
friends suffered for him and with him, but he walked alone through the
valley of the shadow of death. "The blow fell entirely without
warning, and the burial took place upon the anniversary of her
marriage day. Some hand placed on her beautiful head, lovely and
unmarred in death, a wreath of orange blossoms."
There was a break in his journal at this time. After many days he
inscribed in it the following lines from Tennyson's poem addressed to
James Spedding:--
"Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace.
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul!
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll."
His friends were glad when he turned to his work again, and still more
glad when he showed a desire for their interest in what he was doing.
It was not long before he began to busy himself continuously with his
translation of the "Divina Commedia," and in my diary of 1863, two
years later, I find:--
"_August._--A delightful day with Longfellow at Nahant. He read
aloud the last part of his new volume of poems, in which each one of a
party of friends tells a story. Ole Bull, Parsons, Monti, and several
other characters are introduced."
"_September_ 1st.--A cold storm by the seashore, but there was
great pleasure in town in the afternoon. Longfellow, Paine, Dwight,
and Fields went to hear Walcker play the new organ in the Music Hall
for the first time since its erection. Afterwards they all dined
together. Longfellow comes in from Cambridge every day, and sometimes
twice a day, to see George Sumner, who is dying at the Massachusetts
General Hospital."
"_September_ 19th.--Longfellow and his friend George W. Greene,
Charles Sumner, and Dempster the singer, came in for an early dinner.
A very cosy, pleasant little party. The afternoon was cool, and
everybody was in kindly humor. Sumner shook his head sadly when the
subject of the English iron-clads was mentioned. The talk prolonged
itself upon the condition of the country. Longfellow's patriotism
flamed. His feeling against England runs more deeply and strongly than
he can find words to express. There is no prejudice nor childish
partisanship, but it is hatred of the course she has pursued at this
critical time. Later, in speaking of poetry and some of the less known
and younger poets, Longfellow recalled some good passages in the poems
of Bessie Parkes and Jean Ingelow. As evening approached we left the
table and came to the library. There in the twilight Dempster sat at
the piano and sang to us, beginning with Longfellow's poem called
'Children,' which he gave with a delicacy and feeling that touched
every one. Afterwards he sang the 'Bugle Song' and 'Turn, Fortune,'
which he had shortly before leaving England sung to Tennyson; and then
after a pause he turned once more to the instrument and sang 'Break,
break, break.' It was very solemn, and no one spoke when he had
finished, only a deep sob was heard from the corner where Longfellow
sat. Again and again, each time more uncontrolled, we heard the
heartrending sounds. Presently the singer gave us another and less
touching song, and before he ceased Longfellow rose and vanished from
the room in the dim light without a word."
"_September_ 27th.--Longfellow and Greene came in town in the
evening for a walk and to see the moonlight in the streets, and
afterwards to have supper.... He was very sad, and seemed to have
grown an old man since a week ago. He was silent and absent-minded. On
his previous visit he had borrowed Sidney's 'Arcadia' and Christina
Rossetti's poems, but he had read neither of the books. He was
overwhelmed with his grief, as if it were sometimes more than he could
endure."
"_Sunday, October_.--Took five little children to drive in the
afternoon, and stopped at Longfellow's. It was delightful to see their
enjoyment and his. He took them out of the carriage in his arms and
was touchingly kind to them. His love for children is not confined to
his poetic expressions or to his own family; he is uncommonly tender
and beautiful with them always."
I remember there was one little boy of whom he was very fond, and who
came often to see him. One day the child looked earnestly at the long
rows of books in the library, and at length said:--
"Have you got 'Jack the Giant-Killer'?"
Longfellow was obliged to confess that his library did not contain
that venerated volume. The little boy looked very sorry, and presently
slipped down from his knee and went away; but early the next morning
Longfellow saw him coming up the walk with something tightly clasped
in his little fists. The child had brought him two cents with which he
was to buy a "Jack the Giant-Killer" to be his own.
He did not escape the sad experiences of the war. His eldest son was
severely wounded, and he also went, as did Dr. Holmes and other less
famous but equally anxious parents, in search of his boy.