when they came to Boston in 1852. Longfellow helped Kossuth, subscribed
to Kalapka's riding-school, and entertained a number of them at his
house. Afterwards, when one of the exiles set up a business in Hungarian
wines, Longfellow made a large purchase of him, which he spoke of twenty
years later with much satisfaction. He liked Tokay, and also the white
wine of Capri, which he regretted could not be obtained in America.
Those who supposed that Longfellow was easily imposed upon made a great
mistake. He had the reputation among his publishers of understanding
business affairs better than any author in New England; but he was almost
too kind-hearted. Somewhere about 1859 a photographer made an excellent
picture of his daughters--indeed, it was a charming group--and the man
begged Mr. Longfellow for permission to sell copies of it as it would be
of great advantage to him. Longfellow complied and the consequence was
that in 1860 one could hardly open a photograph album anywhere without
finding Longfellow's daughters in it. Then a vulgar story originated that
the youngest daughter had only one arm, because her left arm was hidden
behind her sister. It is to be hoped that Longfellow never heard of this,
for if he did it must have caused him a good deal of pain, in return for
his kindness; but that is what one gets. Fortunately the photographs have
long since faded out.
Much in the same line was his interest in the children of the poor. A
ragged urchin seemed to attract him much more than one that was nicely
dressed. Perhaps they seemed more poetic to him, and he could see more
deeply into the joys and sorrows of their lives.
Where the Episcopal Theological School now stands on Brattle Street there
was formerly a sort of tenement-house; and one day, as we were taking a
stroll before dinner, we noticed three small boys with dirty faces
standing at the corner of the building; and just then one of them cried
out: "Oh, see; here he comes!" And immediately Longfellow appeared
leaving the gate of Craigie House. We passed him before he reached the
children, but on looking back we saw that he had stopped to speak with
them. They evidently knew him very well.
It is remarkable how the impression should have been circulated that
Longfellow was not much of a pedestrian. On the contrary, there was no
one who was seen more frequently on the streets of Cambridge. He walked
with a springy step and a very slight swing of the shoulders, which
showed that he enjoyed it. He may not have walked such long distances as
Hawthorne, or so rapidly as Dickens, but he was a good walker.
His sister, Mrs. Greenleaf, built a memorial chapel in North Cambridge
for the Episcopal society there, and from this Longfellow formed the
habit of walking in that direction by way of the Botanic Garden.
Somewhere in the cross streets he became acquainted with two children,
the son and daughter of a small shop-keeper. They, of course, told their
mother about their white-haired acquaintance, and with the fate of
Charlie Ross before her eyes, their mother warned them to keep out of his
way. He might be a tramp, and tramps were dangerous!
However, it was not long before the children met their white-haired
friend again, and the boy asked him: "Are you a tramp? Mother thinks
you're a tramp, and she wants to know what your name is." It may be
presumed that Mr. Longfellow laughed heartily at this misconception, but
he said: "I think I may call myself a tramp. I tramp a good deal; but you
may tell your mother that my name is Henry W. Longfellow." He afterwards
called on the mother in order to explain himself, and to congratulate her
on having such fine children.
When the Saturday Club, popularly known as the Atlantic Club, was
organized, one of the first subjects of discussion that came up was the
question of autographs. Emerson said that was the way in which he
obtained his postage stamps; but Longfellow confessed that he had given
away a large number of them. And so it continued to the end. "Why should
I not do it," he would say, "if it gives them pleasure?" Emerson looked
on such matters from the stoical point of view as an encouragement to
vanity; but he would have been more politic to have gratified his
curious, or sentimental admirers; for every autograph he gave would have
made a purchaser for his publishers.
Harmony did not always prevail in the Saturday Club, for politics was the
all-embracing subject in those days and its members represented every
shade of political opinion. Emerson, Longfellow, and Lowell were strongly
anti-slavery, but they differed in regard to methods. Lowell was what was
then called a Seward man, and differed with Emerson in regard to John
Brown, and with Longfellow in regard to Sumner. Holmes was still more
conservative; and Agassiz was a McClellan Democrat. William Hunt, the
painter, believed that the war was caused by the ambition of the leading
politicians in the North and South. Longfellow had the advantage of more
direct information than the others, and enjoyed the continued successes
of the Republican party.
In the spring of 1866 a number of Southerners came to Boston to borrow
funds in order to rehabilitate their plantations, and were introduced at
the Union League Club. Finding themselves there in a congenial element
they made speeches strongly tinged with secession doctrines. Sumner, of
course, could not let this pass without making some protest against it,
and for this he was hissed. The incident was everywhere talked of, and
came under discussion at the next meeting of the Saturday Club. Otto
Dresel, a German pianist, who had small reason for being there, said, "It
was not Mr. Sumner's politics but his bad manners that were hissed."
Longfellow set his glass down with emphasis, and replied: "If good
manners could not say it, thank heaven bad manners did;" and Lowell
supported this with some pretty severe criticism of the Union League
Club. In justice to the Union League Club, however, it ought to be said
that there was applause as well as hisses for Sumner.
Longfellow had a leonine face, but it was that of a very mild lion; one
that had never learned the use of teeth and claws. Yet those who knew him
felt that he could roar on occasion, if occasion required it. Once at
Longfellow's own table the conversation chanced upon Goethe, and a
gentleman present remarked that Goethe was in the habit of drinking three
bottles of hock a day. "Who said he did?" inquired the poet. "It is in
Lewes's biography," said the gentleman. "I do not believe it," replied
Longfellow, "unless," he added with a laugh, "they were very small
bottles." A few days afterwards Prof. William James remarked in regard to
this incident that the story was quite incredible.
In his youth Longfellow seems to have taken to guns and fishing-rods more
regularly than some boys do, but pity for his small victims soon induced
him to relinquish the sport. His eldest son, Charles, also took to guns
very naturally, and in spite of a severe wound which he received from the
explosion of a badly loaded piece, he finally became one of the most
expert pigeon-shooters in the State. At the intercession of his father,
who considered the game too cruel, he afterwards relinquished this for
target-shooting, in which he succeeded equally well. I was talking one
day with him on this subject and remarked that I had recently shot two
crows with my rifle. "What did you do it for?" interposed his father, in
a deprecatory tone. So I explained to him that crows were outside of the
pale of the law; that they not only were a pest to the farmers but
destroyed the eggs and young of singing birds,--in fact, they were bold,
black robbers, whose livery betokened their evil deeds. This evidently
interested him, and he finally said with a laugh: "If that is the case,
we will give you and Charlie a commission to exterminate them."
There was a story that when young Nicholas Longworth came to Harvard
College in the autumn of 1862 and called on Mr. Longfellow, who had been
entertained at his father's house in Cincinnati, the poet said to him:
"It is _worth_ that makes the man; the want of it the _fellow_"
--a compliment that almost dumfounded his young acquaintance. It is
certain that Longfellow addressed a poem to Mrs. Longworth which will be
found in the collection of his minor poems, and in which he speaks of her
as--
"The Queen of the West in her garden dressed,
By the banks of the beautiful river."
In the midst of this unrivalled prosperity, this distinction of genius,
and public and private honor, on the ninth of July, 1861, there came one
of the most harrowing tragedies that has ever befallen a man's domestic
life. Longfellow was widowed for the second time, and five children were
left without a mother. It seemed as if Providence had set a limit beyond
which human happiness could not pass. It was after this calamity that
Longfellow undertook his metrical translation of Dante's "Divina
Commedia," a much more difficult and laborious work than writing original
poetry. As his brother said, "He required an absorbing occupation to
prevent him from thinking of the past."
No wonder that in later years he said, in his exquisite verses on the
Mountain of the Holy Cross in Colorado, these pathetic words, "On my
heart also there is a cross of snow." In Longfellow's diary we meet with
the names of many books that he read, and these as well as the pertinent
comments on them tell much more of his intellectual life than we derive
from his letters. "Adam Bede," which took the world by storm, did not
make so much of an impression on him as Hawthorne's "Marble Faun," which
he read through in a day and calls a wonderful book. Of "Adam Bede" he
says: "It is too feminine for a man; too masculine for a woman." He says
of Dickens, after reading "Barnaby Rudge": "He is always prodigal and
ample, but what a set of vagabonds he contrives to introduce us to!"
"Barnaby Rudge" is certainly the most bohemian and esoteric of Dickens's
novels. He liked much better Miss Muloch's "John Halifax,"--a popular
book in its time, but not read very much since. He calls Charles Reade a
clever and amusing writer. We find nothing concerning Disraeli, Trollope,
or Wilkie Collins. Neither do we hear of critical and historical writers
like Ruskin, Matthew Arnold, Carlyle, and Froude. He went, however, to
call on Carlyle in England, and was greatly impressed by his
conversation. The scope of Longfellow's reading does not compare with
that of Emerson or Marian Evans; but the doctors say that "every man of
forty knows the food that is good for him," and this is true mentally as
well as physically.
He refers more frequently to Tennyson than to any other writer, and
always in a generous, cordial manner. Of the "Idyls of the King" he says
that the first and third Idyls could only have come from a great poet,
but that the second and fourth are not quite equal to the others.
Once, at his sister's house, he held out a book in his hand and said:
"Here is some of the finest dramatic poetry that I have ever read." It
was Tennyson's "Queen Mary;" but there were many who would not have
agreed with his estimate of it. Rev. Samuel Longfellow considered the
statement very doubtful.
In the summer of 1868 Longfellow went to Europe with his family to see
what Henry James calls "the best of it." Rev. Samuel Longfellow and T. G.
Appleton accompanied the party, which, with the addition of Ernest
Longfellow's beautiful bride, made a strong impression wherever they were
seen. In fact their tour was like a triumphal procession.
Longfellow was everywhere treated with the distinction of a famous poet;
and his fine appearance and dignified bearing increased the reputation
which had already preceded him. His meeting with Tennyson was considered
as important as the visit of the King of Prussia to Napoleon III., and
much less dangerous to the peace of Europe. It was talked of from
Edinburgh to Rome.
Longfellow, however, hated lionizing in all its forms, and he avoided
ceremonious receptions as much as possible. He enjoyed the entertainment
of meeting distinguished people, but he evidently preferred to meet them
in an unconventional manner, and to have them as much to himself as
possible. Princes and savants called on him, but he declined every
invitation that might tend to give him publicity.
His facility in the different languages was much marvelled at. While he
was in Florence a delegation from the mountain towns of Tuscany waited
upon him and he conversed with them in their own dialect, greatly to
their surprise and satisfaction.
From a number of incidents in this journey, related by Rev. Samuel
Longfellow, the following has a permanent interest:
When the party came to Verona in May, 1869, they found Ruskin elevated on
a ladder, from which he was examining the sculpture on a monument. As
soon as he heard that the Longfellow party was below, he came down and
greeted them very cordially. He was glad that they had stopped at Verona,
which was so interesting and so often overlooked; he wanted them to
observe the sculptures on the monument,--the softly-flowing draperies
which seemed more as if they had been moulded with hands than cut with a
chisel. He then spoke in grievous terms of the recent devastation by the
floods in Switzerland, which had also caused much damage in the plains of
Lombardy. He thought that reservoirs ought to be constructed on the sides
of the mountains, which would stay the force of the torrents, and hold
the water until it could be made useful. He wished that the Alpine Club
would take an interest in the matter. After enjoying so much in
Switzerland it would be only fair for them to do something for the
benefit of the country. Mr. Appleton then said: "That is a work for
government to do;" to which Ruskin replied: "Governments do nothing but
fill their pockets, and issue this,"--taking out a handful of Italian
paper currency, which was then much below par.
Everyone has his or her favorite poet or poets, and it is a common
practice with young critics to disparage one in order to elevate another.
Longfellow was the most popular American poet of his time, but there were
others besides Edgar A. Poe who pretended to disdain him. I have met more
such critics in Cambridge than in England, Germany, or Italy; and the
reason was chiefly a political one. At a distance Longfellow's politics
attracted little attention, but in Cambridge they could not help being
felt. In 1862 a strong movement emanated from the Harvard Law-School to
defeat Sumner and Andrew, and the lines became drawn pretty sharply. As
it happened, the prominent conservatives with one or two exceptions all
lived to the east and north of the college grounds, while Longfellow,
Lowell, Doctor Francis (who baptized Longfellow's children), Prof. Asa
Gray, and other liberals lived at the west end; and the local division
made the contest more acrimonious. The conservatives afterwards felt the
bitterness of defeat, and it was many years before they recovered from
this. A resident graduate of Harvard, who was accustomed to converse on
such subjects as the metaphysics of Hamilton's quaternions, once said
that Longfellow was the paragon of schoolgirls, because he wrote what
they would like to so much better than they could. This was contemptible
enough; but how can one expect a man who discourses on the metaphysics of
Hamilton's quaternions to appreciate Longfellow's art, or any art pure
and simple. "Evangeline," which is perhaps the finest of Longfellow's
poems, is not a favorite with youthful readers.
He was greater as a man, perhaps, than as a poet. Future ages will have
to determine this; but he was certainly one of the best poets of his
time. Professor Hedge, one of our foremost literary critics, spoke of him
as the one American poet whose verses sing themselves; and with the
exception of Bryant's "Robert of Lincoln," and Poe's "Raven," and a few
other pieces, this may be taken as a judicious statement.
Longfellow's unconsciousness is charming, even when it seems childlike.
As a master of verse he has no English rival since Spenser. The trochaic
meter in which "Hiawatha" is written would seem to have been his own
invention; [Footnote: At least I can remember no other long poem composed
in it.] and is a very agreeable change from the perpetual iambics of
Byron and Wordsworth. "Evangeline" is perhaps the most successful
instance of Greek and Latin hexameter being grafted on to an English
stem. Matthew Arnold considered it too dactylic, but the lightness of its
movement personifies the grace of the heroine herself. Lines like
Virgil's
"Illi inter sese multa vi brachia tollunt
In numerum, versantque tenaci forcipe massam,"
would not have been suited to the subject.
It has often been said that "Hiawatha" does not represent the red man as
he really is, and this is true. Neither does Tennyson represent the
knights of King Arthur's court as they were in the sixth century A.D.
They are more like modern English gentlemen, and when we read the German
Neibelungen we recognize this difference. Virgil's Aeneid does not belong
to the period of the Trojan war, but this does not prevent the Aeneid
from being very fine poetry. The American Indian is not without his
poetic side, as is proved by the squaw who knelt down on a flowery
Brussels carpet, and smoothing it with her hands, said: "Hahnsome!
hahnsome! heaven no hahnsomer!" There is true poetry in this; and so
there is in the Indian cradle-song:
"The poor little bee that lives in the tree;
The poor little bee that lives in the tree;
Has but one arrow in his quiver."
Either of these incidents is sufficient to testify to Longfellow's
"Hiawatha."
The best poetry is that which forces itself upon our memories, so that it
becomes part of our life without the least effort of recollection. Such
are Emerson's "Problem," Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie," and Longfellow's
"Santa Filomena."
"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise."
Those are fortunate in this life who feel the glad surprise of
Longfellow.
"Hiawatha" is equally universal in its application to modern life. The
questions of the Indian boy and the replies of his nurse, the good
Nikomis, are not confined to the life of the aborigines. Every spirited
boy is a Hiawatha, and in one form or another goes through the same
experiences that Longfellow has represented with such consummate art in
his American epic-idyl.
LOWELL
The Lowell family of Boston crossed over from England towards the middle
of the seventeenth century. One of their number afterwards founded the
city of Lowell, by establishing manufactures on the Merrimac River, late
in the eighteenth century; and in more recent times two members of the
family have held the position of judge in the Supreme Court of
Massachusetts. They are a family of refined intellectual tastes, as well
as of good business and professional ability, but of a retiring
disposition and not often conspicuous in public life,--a family of
general good qualities, nicely balanced between liberal and conservative,
and with a poetic vein running through it for the past hundred years or
more. In the Class of 1867 there was an Edward J. Lowell who was chosen
class odist, and who wrote poetry nearly, if not quite, as good as that
of his distinguished relative at the same period of life.
James Russell Lowell was born at Elmwood, as it is now called, on
Washington's birthday in 1819,--as if to make a good staunch patriot of
him; and, what is even more exceptional in American life, he lived and
died in the same house in which he was born. It was not such a house as
the Craigie mansion, but still spacious and dignified, and denoted very
fair prosperity for those times.
Elmwood itself extends for some thirty rods on Brattle Street, but the
entrance to the house is on a cross-road which runs down to the marshes.
Beyond Elmwood there is a stonecutter's establishment, and next to that
Mount Auburn Cemetery, which, however, was a fine piece of woodland in
Lowell's youth, called Sweet Auburn by the Harvard students, much
frequented by love-sick swains and strolling parties of youths and
maidens.
The Lowell residence was well into the country at that time. There were
few houses near it, and Boston could only be reached by a long detour in
a stage; so that an expedition to the city exhausted the better part of a
day. It was practically further in the country than Concord is at
present; and it was here that Lowell enjoyed that repose of mind which is
essential to vigorous mental development, and could find such interests
in external nature as the poet requires for the embellishment of his
verse.
He went to college at the age of fifteen, two years older than Edward
Everett, but sufficiently young to prove himself a precocious student.
Cambridge boys of good families have always been noted at Harvard for
their gentlemanly deportment. Besides this, Lowell had an immense fund of
wit and good spirits, and the two together served to make him very
popular--perhaps too much so for his immediate good. His father had
great hopes of his promising son,--that he would prove a fine scholar and
take a prominent part in the commencement exercises. He even offered the
boy a reward of two hundred dollars in case this should happen; but the
attractions of student and social life proved too strong for James. He
was quick at languages, but slow in mathematics, and as for Butler's
analogy he cannot be blamed for the aversion with which he regarded it.
He writes a letter in which he confesses to peeping over the professor's
shoulder to see what marks have been given for his recitations, so that
his father's exhortation would seem at one time to have been seriously
felt by him; but the effort did not last long, and we find him repeatedly
reprimanded for neglect of college duties.
He did not live the life of a roaring blade, but more like the humming-
bird that darts from one plant to another, and gathers sweetness from
every flower in the garden. Finally he was rusticated, just after he had
been elected poet of his class, with directions not to return until
commencement. We recognize the Puritanic severity of President Quincy in
this sentence, which robbed young Lowell of the pleasantest term of
college life, as well as the honor of appearing on the stage on Class
Day. That his poem should have been read by another to the assembled
families of his classmates, served to make his absence more conspicuous.
Nor can we discover any sufficient reason for such hard statement.
At the same age that Longfellow was writing for the _United States
Literary Gazette_, Lowell was scribbling verses for an undergraduates'
periodical called _Harvardiana_. They were not very serious
productions, and might all be included under the head of bric-a-brac; but
there was a-plenty of them. While Longfellow's verse at nineteen was
remarkable for its perfection of form, Lowell's suffered chiefly from a
lack of this. He had an idea that poetry ought to be an inspiration of
the moment; a good foundation to begin with, but which he found
afterwards it was necessary to modify.
In the preface to one of his Biglow Papers he speaks of his life in
Concord as being
"As lazy as the bream
Which only thinks to head up stream."
The men whom he chiefly associated with there were named Barziliai and
Ebenezer, and the hoar frost of the Concord meadows would seem to have
had a chilling effect on Lowell's naturally tolerant and amiable
disposition. He was not attracted by Emerson at this time, but, on the
contrary, would seem to have felt an aversion to him. The following lines
in his class poem could not have referred to anyone else:
"Woe for Religion, too, when men who claim
To place a 'Reverend' before their name
Ascend the Lord's own holy place to preach
In strains that Kneeland had been proud to reach;
And which, if measured by Judge Thatcher's scale,
Had doomed their author to the county jail!
Alas that _Christian ministers_ should dare
To preach the views of Gibbon and Voltaire!"
To confound the strong spiritual assertion of Emerson with the purely
negative attitude of the French satirist was a common mistake in those
days, and the Lowell of 1838 needs small excuse for it. He must have been
in a biting humor at this time, for there is a cut all round in his class
poem, although it is the most vigorous and highly-finished production of
his academic years.