"Passed the evening at Longfellow's. As we lifted the latch and
entered the hall door, we saw him reading an old book by his study
lamp. It was the 'Chansons d'Espagne,' which he had just purchased at
what he called the massacre of the poets; in other words, at the sale
that day of the library of William H. Prescott. He was rather
melancholy, he said: first, on account of the sacrifice and separation
of that fine library; also because he is doubtful about his new poem,
the one on the life of our Saviour. He says he has never before felt
so cast down.
"What an orderly man he is! Well-ordered, I should have written.
Diary, accounts, scraps, books,--everything where he can put his hand
upon it in a moment."
"_December_, 1871.--Saturday Mr. Longfellow came in town and went
with us to hear twelve hundred school children sing a welcome to the
Russian Grand Duke in the Music Hall. It was a fine sight, and Dr.
Holmes's hymn, written for the occasion, was noble and inspiring. Just
before the Grand Duke came in I saw a smile creep over Longfellow's
face. 'I can never get over the ludicrousness of it,' he said. 'All
this array and fuss over one man!' He came home with us afterwards,
and lingered awhile by the fire. He talked of Russian literature,--
its modernness, and said he had sent us a delightful novel by
Tourguéneff, 'Liza,' in which we should find charming and vivid
glimpses of landscape and life like those seen from a carriage window.
We left him alone in the library for a while, and returning found him
amusing himself over the 'Ingoldsby Legends.' He was reading the
'Coronation of Victoria,' and laughing over Count Froganoff, who could
not get 'prog enough,' and was 'found eating underneath the stairs.'
He wants to have a dinner for Bayard Taylor, whose coming is always
the signal for a series of small festivities. His own 'Divine Tragedy'
is just out, and everybody speaks of its simplicity and beauty."
"_April._--In the evening Longfellow came in town for the purpose
of hearing a German gentleman read an original poem, and he persuaded
me to go with him. The reader twisted his face up into frightful
knots, and delivered his poem with vast apparent satisfaction to
himself if not to his audience. It was fortunate on the whole that the
production was in a foreign tongue, because it gave us the occupation,
at least, of trying to understand the words,--the poem itself
possessing not the remotest interest for either of us. It was in the
old sentimental German style familiar to the readers of that
literature. Longfellow amused me as we walked home by imitating the
sing-song voice we had been following all the evening. He also recited
in the original that beautiful little poem by Platen, 'In der Nacht,
in der Nacht,' in a most delightful manner. 'Ah,' he said, 'to
translate a poem properly it must be done into the metre of the
original, and Bryant's "Homer," fine as it is, has this great fault,
that it does not give the music of the poem itself.' He came in and
took a cigar before walking home over the bridge alone....
"Emerson asked Longfellow at dinner about his last visit to England,
of Ruskin and other celebrities. Longfellow is always reticent upon
such subjects, but he was eager to tell us how very much he had
enjoyed Mr. Ruskin. He said it was one of the most surprising things
in the world to see the quiet, gentlemanly way in which Ruskin gave
vent to his extreme opinions. It seems to be no effort to him, but as
if it were a matter of course that every one should give expression to
the faith that is in him in the same unvarnished way as he does
himself, not looking for agreement, but for conversation and
discussion. 'It is strange,' Ruskin said, 'being considered so much
out of harmony with America as I am, that the two Americans I have
known and loved best, you and Norton, should give me such a feeling of
friendship and repose.' Longfellow then spoke of Mrs. Matthew Arnold,
whom he liked very much,--thought her, as he said, 'a most lovely
person.' Also of the 'beautiful Lady Herbert,' as one of the most
delightful of women....
"Longfellow came in to an early dinner to meet Mr. Joseph Jefferson,
Mr. William Warren, and Dr. Holmes. He said he felt like one on a
journey. He had left home early in the morning, had been sight-seeing
in Boston all day, was to dine and go to the theatre with us
afterwards. The talk naturally turned upon the stage. Longfellow said
he thought Mr. Charles Mathews was entirely unjust in his criticisms
upon Mr. Forrest's King Lear. He considered Mr. Forrest's rendering of
the part as very fine and close to nature. He could not understand why
Mr. Mathews should underrate it as he did. Longfellow showed us a book
given him by Charles Sumner. In it was an old engraving (from a
painting by Giulio Clovio) of the moon, in which Dante is walking with
his companion. He said it was a most impressive picture to him. He
knew it in the original; also there is a very good copy in the
Cambridge Library among the copies of illuminated manuscripts."
There is a little note belonging to this period full of poetic feeling
and giving more than a hint at the wearifulness of interrupting
visitors:--
"I send you the pleasant volume I promised you yesterday. It is a book
for summer moods by the seaside, but will not be out of place on a
winter night by the fireside.... You will find an allusion to the
'blue borage flowers' that flavor the claret-cup. I know where grows
another kind of bore-age that embitters the goblet of life. I can
spare you some of this herb, if you have room for it in your garden or
your garret. It is warranted to destroy all peace of mind, and finally
to produce softening of the brain and insanity.
"'Better juice of vine
Than berry wine!
Fire! fire! steel, oh, steel!
Fire! fire! steel and fire!'"
The following, written in the spring of the same year, gives a hint of
what a festival season it was to him while the lilacs which surround
his house were in bloom:--
"Here is the poem, copied for you by your humble scribe. I found it
impossible to crowd it into a page of note paper. Come any pleasant
morning, as soon after breakfast or before as you like, and we will go
on with the 'Michael Angelical' manuscript. I shall not be likely to
go to town while the lilacs are in bloom."
The rambling diary continues: "To-day Longfellow sent us half a dozen
bottles of wine, and after them came a note saying he had sent them
off without finding time to label them. 'They are wine of Avignon,' he
added, 'and should bear this inscription from Redi:--
"'Benedetto
Quel claretto
Che si spilla in Avignone.'"
About this period Longfellow invited an old friend, who had fallen
into extreme helplessness from ill health, to come and make him a
visit. It was a great comfort to his friend, a scholar like himself,
"to nurse the dwindling faculty of joy" in such companionship, and he
lingered many weeks in the sunshine of the old house. Longfellow's
patience and devoted care for this friend of his youth was a signal
example of what a true and constant heart may do unconsciously, in
giving expression and recognition to the bond of a sincere friendship.
Long after his friend was unable to rise from his chair without
assistance or go unaccompanied to his bedroom, Longfellow followed the
lightest unexpressed wish with his sympathetic vision and performed
the smallest offices unbidden. "Longfellow, will you turn down my coat
collar?" I have heard him say in a plaintive way, and it was a
beautiful lesson to see the quick and cheerful response which would
follow many a like suggestion.
In referring to this trait of his character, I find among the notes
made by Mr. Fields on Longfellow: "One of the most occupied of all our
literary men and scholars, he yet finds time for the small courtesies
of existence, those minor attentions that are so often neglected. One
day, seeing him employed in cutting something from a newspaper, I
asked him what he was about. 'Oh,' said he, 'here is a little
paragraph speaking kindly of our poor old friend Blank; you know he
seldom gets a word of praise, poor fellow, nowadays; and thinking he
might not chance to see this paper, I am snipping out the paragraph to
mail to him this afternoon. I know that even these few lines of
recognition will make him happy for hours, and I could not bear to
think he might perhaps miss seeing these pleasant words so kindly
expressed.'"
"_May Day_, 1876.--Longfellow dined with us. He said during the
dinner, when we heard a blast of wintry wind howling outside, 'This is
May day enough; it does not matter to us how cold it is outside.' He
was inclined to be silent, for there were other and brilliant talkers
at the table, one of whom said to him in a pause of the conversation,
'Longfellow, tell us about yourself; you never talk about yourself.'
'No,' said Longfellow gently, 'I believe I never do.' 'And yet,'
continued the first speaker eagerly, 'you confessed to me once'--'No,'
said Longfellow, laughing, 'I think I never did.'"
And here is a tiny note of compliment, graceful as a poet's note
should be:--
"I have just received your charming gift, your note and the stately
lilies; but fear you may have gone from home before my thanks can
reach you.
"How beautiful they are, these lilies of the field; and how like
American women! Not because 'they neither toil nor spin,' but because
they are elegant and 'born in the purple.'"
There is a brief record in 1879 of a visit to us in Manchester-by-the-
Sea. Just before he left he said, "After I am gone to-day, I want you
to read Schiller's poem of the 'Ring of Polycrates,' if you do not
recall it too distinctly. You will know then how I feel about my
visit." He repeated also some English hexameters he had essayed from
the first book of the Iliad. He believes the work may be still more
perfectly done than has ever yet been achieved. We drove to Gloucester
wrapped in a warm sea fog. His enjoyment of the green woods and the
sea breeze was delightful to watch. "Ay me! ay me! woods may decay,"
but who can dare believe such life shall cease from the fair world!
Seeing the Portland steamer pass one night, a speck on the horizon,
bearing as he knew his daughter and her husband, he watched it long,
then said, "Think of a part of yourself being on that moving speck."
The Sunday following that visit he wrote from Portland:--
"Church bells are ringing; clatter of church-going feet on the
pavement; boys crying 'Boston Herald;' voices of passing men and
women: these are the sounds that come to me at this upper window,
looking down into the street.
"I contrast it all with last Sunday's silence at Manchester-by-the-
Sea, and remember my delightful visit there. Then comes the thought of
the moonlight and the music and Shelley's verses,--
"'As the moon's soft splendor
O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven
Is thrown;'
and so on
"'Of some world far from ours,
Where moonlight and music and feeling
Are one.'
"How beautiful this song would sound if set to music by Mrs. Bell and
chanted by her in the twilight."
Later he enclosed the song, which is as follows, and I venture to
reprint it because it is seldom found among Shelley's poems:--