Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)
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THE MUSICIAN’S TALE : INTERLUDE
THE MUSICIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE MUSICIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE NATIVE LAND
THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST
THE NATIVITY: A MIRACLE-PLAY.
THE NATURE OF LOVE
THE NORMAN BARON
THE NUN OF NIDAROS
THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA
THE OCCULTATION OF ORION
THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS
THE OPEN WINDOW
THE PEASANT LEAVES HIS PLOUGH AFIELD
THE POET AND HIS SONGS
THE POET’S CALENDAR
THE POET’S TALE
THE POET’S TALE
THE POET’S TALE
THE POET’S TALE: FINALE
THE POET’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE POET’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE POETS
THE QUADROON GIRL
THE RAINY DAY
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS
THE RETURN OF SPRING
THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE
THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER
THE ROPEWALK
THE SAGA OF KING OLAF
THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER
THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS
THE SEA-DIVER
THE SECOND PASSOVER.
THE SECRET OF THE SEA
THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS
THE SICILIAN’S TALE
THE SICILIAN’S TALE
THE SICILIAN’S TALE
THE SICILIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SICILIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SICILIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SIEGE OF KAZAN
THE SIFTING OF PETER
THE SINGERS
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS
THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP
THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT
THE SLAVE’S DREAM
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY
THE SOUND OF THE SEA
THE SPANISH JEW’S SECOND TALE
THE SPANISH JEW’S SECOND TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE SPINNING-WHEEL
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY
THE STARS
THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR
THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE
THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE: FINALE
THE STUDENT’S TALE
THE STUDENT’S TALE
THE STUDENT’S TALE
THE STUDENT’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE STUDENT’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE STUDENT’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE: INTERLUDE
THE THIRD PASSOVER.
THE THREE KINGS
THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS
THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS
THE TIDES
THE TWO ANGELS
THE TWO HARVESTS
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR
THE TWO RIVERS
THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS
THE WARNING
THE WAVE
THE WEDDING-DAY
THE WHITE CZAR
THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY
THE WINDMILL
THE WINE OF JURANÇON
THE WITNESSES
THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHÆSTUS
THE WRAITH OF ODIN
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
THORA OF RIMOL
THREE FRIENDS OF MINE
TO A CHILD
TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK
TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU
TO G. W. G.
TO IANTHE
TO ITALY
TO MY BROOKLET
TO THE AVON
TO THE DRIVING CLOUD
TO THE FOREST OF GASTINE
TO THE RIVER CHARLES
TO THE RIVER RHONE
TO THE RIVER YVETTE
TO THE STORK
TO VITTORIA COLONNA
TO VITTORIA COLONNA
TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING
TO-MORROW
TO-MORROW
TORQUEMADA
TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS
TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE
TWILIGHT
VENICE
VICTOR AND VANQUISHED
VICTOR GALBRAITH
VIDA DE SAN MILLAN
VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO
VIRE
VIRGIL’S FIRST ECLOGUE
VITERBO
VITTORIA COLONNA
VITTORIA COLONNA
VOX POPULI
WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID
WANDERER’S NIGHT-SONGS
WAPENTAKE
WEARINESS
WHITHER?
WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?
WOODS IN WINTER
WOODSTOCK PARK
YOUTH AND AGE
The Novels
Harvard College, Cambridge, Massachusetts — where Longfellow worked as a professor. In December 1834, following his distinguished work at Bowdoin College, Longfellow received a letter from Josiah Quincy III, president of Harvard College, offering him the Smith Professorship of Modern Languages with the stipulation that he spend a year abroad.
The college in Longfellow’s time
HYPERION, A ROMANCE
This novel is one of Longfellow’s earliest works, which was published in 1839, alongside his first volume of poems, Voices of the Night. The novel concerns a young American protagonist named Paul Flemming, who travels through Germany. The character’s wandering is partially inspired by the death of one of the author’s friends and his several trips to Europe. The novel often alludes to and quotes from German writers such as Heinrich Heine and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Although the publisher went bankrupt shortly after the novel’s release, Longfellow was paid $375 for the work and he was optimistic about his writing, in spite of its lukewarm reception from critics. At this time, he wrote to his father: “As to success, I am very sanguine... it will take a great deal of persuasion to convince me that the book is not good.” Since the author’s fame increased over time, so did interest in his early work. By 1857, Longfellow calculated that Hyperion had sold 14,550 copies.
The first edition
CONTENTS
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. THE HERO.
CHAPTER II. THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH.
CHAPTER III. HOMUNCULUS.
CHAPTER IV. THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER V. JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE.
CHAPTER VI. HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON.
CHAPTER VII. LIVES OF SCHOLARS.
CHAPTER VIII. LITERARY FAME.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. SPRING.
CHAPTER II. A COLLOQUY.
CHAPTER III. OWL-TOWERS.
CHAPTER IV. A BEER-SCANDAL.
CHAPTER V. THE WHITE LADY’S SLIPPER AND THE PASSION-FLOWER.
CHAPTER VI. GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND.
CHAPTER VII. MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS.
CHAPTER VIII. OLD HUMBUG.
CHAPTER IX. THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE FALLING STAR.
CHAPTER X. THE PARTING.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. SUMMER-TIME.
CHAPTER II. FOOT-TRAVELLING.
CHAPTER III. INTERLACHEN.
CHAPTER IV. THE EVENING AND THE MORNING STAR.
CHAPTER
V. A RAINY DAY.
CHAPTER VI. AFTER DINNER, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF THE BEST CRITICS.
CHAPTER VII. TAKE CARE!
CHAPTER VIII. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.
CHAPTER IX. A TALK ON THE STAIRS.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I. A MISERERE.
CHAPTER II. CURFEW BELLS.
CHAPTER III. SHADOWS ON THE WALL.
CHAPTER IV. MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF JOHN KREISLER.
CHAPTER V. SAINT GILGEN.
CHAPTER VI. SAINT WOLFGANG.
CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS.
CHAPTER VIII. FOOT-PRINTS OF ANGELS.
CHAPTER IX. THE LAST PANG.
The author, close to the time of publication
BOOK I.
Epigraph
“Who ne’er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne’er the mournful, midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed has sate,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.”
CHAPTER I. THE HERO.
In John Lyly’s Endymion, Sir Topas is made to say; “Dost thou know what a Poet is? Why, fool, a Poet is as much as one should say, — a Poet!” And thou, reader, dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, — a hero! Some romance-writers, however, say much more than this. Nay, the old Lombard, Matteo Maria Bojardo, set all the church-bells in Scandiano ringing, merely because he had found a name for one of his heroes. Here, also, shall church-bells be rung, but more solemnly.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection, — itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming, lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
Paul Flemming had experienced this, though still young. The friend of his youth was dead. The bough had broken “under the burden of the unripe fruit.” And when, after a season, he looked up again from the blindness of his sorrow, all things seemed unreal. Like the man, whose sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld men, as trees, walking. His household gods were broken. He had no home. His sympathies cried aloud from his desolate soul, and there came no answer from the busy, turbulent world around him. He did not willingly give way to grief. He struggled to be cheerful, — to be strong. But he could no longer look into the familiar faces of his friends. He could no longer live alone, where he had lived with her. He went abroad, that the sea might be between him and the grave. Alas! betweenhim and his sorrow there could be no sea, but that of time.
He had already passed many months in lonely wandering, and was now pursuing his way along the Rhine, to the south of Germany. He had journeyed the same way before, in brighter days and a brighter season of the year, in the May of life and in the month of May. He knew the beauteous river all by heart; — every rock and ruin, every echo, every legend. The ancient castles, grim and hoar, that had taken root as it were on the cliffs, — they were all his; for his thoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told him tales.
He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck, and had risen before daybreak. He opened the window of the balcony to hear the rushing of the Rhine. It was a damp December morning; and clouds were passing over the sky, — thin, vapory clouds, whose snow-white skirts were “often spotted with golden tears, which men call stars.” The day dawned slowly; and, in the mingling of daylightand starlight, the island and cloister of Nonnenwerth made together but one broad, dark shadow on the silver breast of the river. Beyond, rose the summits of the Siebengebirg. Solemn and dark, like a monk, stood the Drachenfels, in his hood of mist, and rearward extended the Curtain of Mountains, back to the Wolkenburg, — the Castle of the Clouds.
But Flemming thought not of the scene before him. Sorrow unspeakable was upon his spirit in that lonely hour; and, hiding his face in his hands, he exclaimed aloud;
“Spirit of the past! look not so mournfully at me with thy great, tearful eyes! Touch me not with thy cold hand! Breathe not upon me with the icy breath of the grave! Chant no more that dirge of sorrow, through the long and silent watches of the night!”
Mournful voices from afar seemed to answer, “Treuenfels!” and he remembered how others had suffered, and his heart grew still.
Slowly the landscape brightened. Down therushing stream came a boat, with its white wings spread, and darted like a swallow through the narrow pass of God’s-Help. The boatmen were singing, but not the song of Roland the Brave, which was heard of old by the weeping Hildegund, as she sat within the walls of that cloister, which now looked forth in the pale morning from amid the leafless linden trees. The dim traditions of those gray old times rose in the traveller’s memory; for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was still looking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth, as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the faithful Paladin to stone, and he were watching still to see the form of his beloved one come forth, not from her cloister, but from her grave. Thus the brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened, and, on the page illuminated by the misty rays of the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and Siegfried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Meanwhile the mists had risen from the Rhine, and the whole air was filled with golden vapor, through which hebeheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of blood. Even thus shone the sun within him, amid the wintry vapors, uprising from the valley of the shadow of death, through which flowed the stream of his life, — sighing, sighing!
CHAPTER II. THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH.
Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey. The morning was still misty, but not cold. Across the Rhine the sun came wading through the reddish vapors; and soft and silver-white outspread the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface, or visible motion of the ever-moving current. A little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at anchor, keel to keel with another, that lay right under it, its own apparition, — and all was silent, and calm, and beautiful.
The road was for the most part solitary; for there are few travellers upon the Rhine in winter. Peasant women were at work in the vineyards; climbing up the slippery hill-sides, like beasts of burden, with large baskets of manureupon their backs. And once during the morning, a band of apprentices, with knapsacks, passed by, singing, “The Rhine! The Rhine! a blessing on the Rhine!”
O, the pride of the German heart in this noble river! And right it is; for, of all the rivers of this beautiful earth, there is none so beautiful as this. There is hardly a league of its whole course, from its cradle in the snowy Alps to its grave in the sands of Holland, which boasts not its peculiar charms. By heavens! If I were a German I would be proud of it too; and of the clustering grapes, that hang about its temples, as it reels onward through vineyards, in a triumphal march, like Bacchus, crowned and drunken.
But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine; it would make this chapter much too long. And to do it well, one should write like a god; and his style flow onward royally with breaks and dashes, like the waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothic times, be reflected in it. Alas! this evening my style flows not at all. Flow, then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of the Rhine! out of thy prison-house, — out of thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape not unlike a church-spire among thy native hills; and, from the crystal belfry, loud ring the merry tinkling bells, while I drink a health to my hero, in whose heart is sadness, and in whose ears the bells of Andernach are ringing noon.
He is threading his way alone through a narrow alley, and now up a flight of stone steps, and along the city wall, towards that old round tower, built by the Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in the twelfth century. It has a romantic interest in his eyes; for he has still in his mind and heart that beautiful sketch of Carové, in which is described a day on the tower of Andernach. He finds the old keeper and his wife still there; and the old keeper closes the door behind him slowly, as of old, lest he should jam too hard the poor souls in Purgatory, whose fate it
is to suffer in the cracks of doors and hinges. But alas! alas! the daughter, the maiden with long, dark eyelashes! she is asleep in her little grave, under the linden trees of Feldkirche, with rosemary in her folded hands!
Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. As he passed along the narrow streets, he was dreaming of many things; but mostly of the keeper’s daughter, asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on turning the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, his attention was arrested by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. It was only a small thatched roof, like a bird’s nest; under which stood a rude wooden image of the Saviour on the Cross. A real crown of thorns was upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if in the death agony; and drops of blood were falling down his cheeks, and from his hands and feet and side. The face was haggard and ghastly beyond all expression; and wore a look of unutterable bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had given it this, but his art could go no farther. The sublimity of death in a dying Saviour, the expiring God-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth was not there. The artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from his theme. All was coarse, harsh, and revolting to a sensitive mind; and Flemming turned away with a shudder, as he saw this fearful image gazing at him, with its fixed and half-shut eyes.
He soon reached the hotel, but that face of agony still haunted him. He could not refrain from speaking of it to a very old woman, who sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in a high-backed, old-fashioned arm-chair. I believe she was the innkeeper’s grandmother. At all events she was old enough to be so. She took off her owl-eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the glasses with her handkerchief, said;
“Thou dear Heaven! Is it possible! Did you never hear of the Christ of Andernach?”
Flemming answered in the negative.
“Thou dear Heaven!” continued the old woman. “It is a very wonderful story; and a true one, as every good Christian in Andernach will tell you. And it all happened before the deathof my blessed man, four years ago, let me see, — yes, four years ago, come Christmas.”
Here the old woman stopped speaking, but went on with her knitting. Other thoughts seemed to occupy her mind. She was thinking, no doubt, of her blessed man, as German widows call their dead husbands. But Flemming having expressed an ardent wish to hear the wonderful story, she told it, in nearly the following words.