CAMBRIDGE, October 29, 1837.
MY DEAR MARGARET, — I was very much delighted with your present of the slippers. They are too pretty to be trodden under foot; yet such is their destiny, and shall be accomplished, as soon as may be. The colors look beautifully upon the drab ground; much more so than on the black. Don’t you think so? I should have answered your note, and sent you my thanks, by Alexander on Wednesday last; but when I last saw him, I had not received the package. Therefore you must not imagine from my delay, that I do not sufficiently appreciate the gift....
There is nothing very new in Boston, which after all is a gossiping kind of Little Peddlington, if you know what that is; if you don’t, you must read the story. People take too much cognizance of their neighbors; interest themselves too much in what no way concerns them. However, it is no great matter.
There are Indians here: savage fellows; — one Black-Hawk and his friends, with naked shoulders and red blankets wrapped about their bodies: — the rest all grease and Spanish brown and vermillion. One carries a great war-club, and wears horns on his head; another had his face painted like a grid-iron, all in bands: — another is all red, like a lobster; and another black and blue, in great daubs of paint laid on not sparingly. Queer fellows! — One great champion of the Fox nation had a short pipe in his mouth, smoking with great self-complacency as he marched out of the City Hall: another was smoking a cigar! Withal, they looked very formidable. Hard customers....
Very truly yours
H. W. L.
Note, again, how this tendency to home themes asserts itself explicitly in Longfellow’s notice of Hawthorne’s “Twice-Told Tales” at about the same time in “The North American Review,” (July, 1837): —
“One of the most prominent characteristics of these tales is, that they are national in their character. The author has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions of New England; the dusty legends of ‘the good Old Colony times, when we lived under a king.’ This is the right material for story. It seems as natural to make tales out of old tumble-down traditions, as canes and snuff-boxes out of old steeples, or trees planted by great men. The puritanical times begin to look romantic in the distance. Who would not like to have strolled through the city of Agamenticus, where a market was held every week, on Wednesday, and there were two annual fairs at St. James’s and St. Paul’s? Who would not like to have been present at the court of the Worshipful Thomas Gorges, in those palmy days of the law, when Tom Heard was fined five shillings for being drunk, and John Payne the same, ‘for swearing one oath’? Who would not like to have seen the time, when Thomas Taylor was presented to the grand jury ‘for abusing Captain Raynes, being in authority, by thee-ing and thou-ing him;’ and John Wardell likewise, for denying Cambridge College to be an ordinance of God; and when some were fined for winking at comely damsels in church; and others for being common-sleepers there on the Lord’s day? Truly, many quaint and quiet customs, many comic scenes and strange adventures, many wild and wondrous things, fit for humorous tale, and soft, pathetic story, lie all about us here in New England. There is no tradition of the Rhine nor of the Black Forest, which can compare in beauty with that of the Phantom Ship. The Flying Dutchman of the Cape, and the Klabotermann of the Baltic, are nowise superior. The story of Peter Rugg, the man who could not find Boston, is as good as that told by Gervase of Tilbury, of a man who gave himself to the devils by an unfortunate imprecation, and was used by them as a wheelbarrow; and the Great Carbuncle of the White Mountains shines with no less splendor, than that which illuminated the subterranean palace in Rome, as related by William of Malmesbury. Truly, from such a Fortunatus’s pocket and wishing-cap, a tale-bearer may furnish forth a sufficiency of ‘peryllous adventures right espouventables, bryfefly compyled and pyteous for to here.’”
We must always remember that Longfellow came forward at a time when cultivated Americans were wasting a great deal of superfluous sympathy on themselves. It was the general impression that the soil was barren, that the past offered no material and they must be European or die. Yet Longfellow’s few predecessors had already made themselves heard by disregarding this tradition and taking what they found on the spot. Charles Brockden Brown, although his style was exotic and Godwinish, yet found his themes among American Indians and in the scenes of the yellow fever in Philadelphia. It was not Irving who invested the Hudson with romance, but the Hudson that inspired Irving. When in 1786, Mrs. Josiah Quincy, then a young girl, sailed upon that river in a sloop, she wrote, “Our captain had a legend for every scene, either supernatural or traditional or of actual occurrence during the war, and not a mountain reared its head unconnected with some marvellous story.” Irving was then but three years old, yet Ichabod Crane and Rip Van Winkle or their prototypes were already on the spot waiting for biographers; and it was much the same with Cooper, who was not born until three years later. What was needed was self-confidence and a strong literary desire to take the materials at hand. Irving, Cooper, Dana, had already done this; but Longfellow followed with more varied gifts, more thorough training; the “Dial” writers followed in their turn, and a distinctive American literature was born, this quality reaching a climax in Thoreau, who frankly wrote, “I have travelled a great deal — in Concord.”
And while thus Longfellow found his desire for a national literature strengthened at every point by the example of his classmate Hawthorne, so he may have learned much, though not immediately, through the warning unconsciously given by Bryant, against the perils of undue moralizing. Bryant’s early poem, “To a Water-Fowl,” was as profound in feeling and as perfect in structure as anything of Longfellow’s, up to the last verse, which some profane critic compared to a tin kettle of moralizing, tied to the legs of the flying bird. Whittier’s poems had almost always some such appendage, and he used to regret in later life that he had not earlier been contented to leave his moral for the reader to draw, or in other words, to lop off habitually the last verse of each poem. Apart from this there was a marked superiority, even on the didactic side, in Longfellow’s moralizing as compared with Bryant’s. There is no light or joy in the “Thanatopsis;” but Longfellow, like Whittier, was always hopeful. It was not alone that he preached, as an eminent British critic once said to me, “a safe piety,” but his religious impulse was serene and even joyous, and this under the pressure of the deepest personal sorrows.
It is also to be observed that Longfellow wrote in this same number of “The North American Review” (July, 1837) another paper which was prophetic with regard to prose style, as was the Hawthorne essay in respect to thought. It was a review of Tegner’s “Frithiof’s Saga” which showed a power of description, brought to bear on Swedish life and scenery, which he really never quite attained in “Hyperion,” because it was there sometimes vitiated by a slightly false note. A portion of it was used afterwards as a preface to his second volume of poems (“Ballads and Other Poems”), a preface regarded by some good critics as Longfellow’s best piece of prose work. It was, at any rate, impossible not to recognize a fresh and vigorous quality in a descriptive passage opening thus; and I can myself testify that it stamped itself on the memories of young readers almost as vividly as the ballads which followed: —
“There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that northern land, — almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, ‘God bless you.’ The ho
uses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons, — an heirloom, — to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark.”
CHAPTER XII. VOICES OF THE NIGHT
There was never any want of promptness or of industry about Longfellow, though his time was apt to be at the mercy of friends or strangers. “Hyperion” appeared in the summer of 1839, and on September 12, 1839, he writes the title of his volume, “Voices of the Night;” five days later he writes, still referring to it: —
“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.”
It is to be noticed that neither of these four projects, except it be the second, seems to imply that national character of which he dreamed when the paper in “The North American Review” was written. It is also to be noticed that, as often happens with early plans of authors, none of these works ever appeared, and perhaps not even the beginning was made. The title of “The Saga” shows that his mind was still engaged with Norse subjects. Two months after he writes, “Meditating what I shall write next. Shall it be two volumes more of ‘Hyperion;’ or a drama of Cotton Mather?” Here we come again upon American ground, yet he soon quits it. He adds after an interruption, “Cotton Mather? or a drama on the old poetic legend of Der Armer Heinrich? The tale is exquisite. I have a heroine as sweet as Imogen, could I but paint her so. I think I must try this.” Here we have indicated the theme of the “Golden Legend.” Meantime he was having constant impulses to write special poems, which he often mentioned as Psalms. One of these was the “Midnight Mass for the Dying Year,” which he first called an “Autumnal Chant.” Soon after he says, “Wrote a new Psalm of Life. It is ‘The Village Blacksmith.’” It is to be noticed that the “Prelude,” probably written but a short time before the publication of “Voices of the Night,” includes those allusions which called forth the criticism of Margaret Fuller to the “Pentecost” and the “bishop’s caps.” Yet after all, the American Jews still observe Whitsunday under the name of Pentecost, and the flower mentioned may be the Mitella diphylla, a strictly North American species, though without any distinctly “golden ring.” It has a faint pink suffusion, while the presence of a more marked golden ring in a similar and commoner plant, the Tiarella Pennsylvanica, leads one to a little uncertainty as to which flower was meant, a kind of doubt which would never accompany a floral description by Tennyson.
It is interesting to put beside this inspirational aspect of poetry the fact that the poet at one time planned a newspaper with his friends Felton and Cleveland, involving such a perfectly practical and business-like communication as this, with his publisher, Samuel Colman, which is as follows: —
CAMBRIDGE, July 6, 1839.
MY DEAR SIR, — In compliance with your wishes I have ordered 2200 copies of Hyperion to be printed. I do it with the understanding, that you will give your notes for $250 each, instead of the sums mentioned in the agreement: and that I shall be allowed 50 copies instead of 25 for distribution. This will leave you 150, which strikes me as a very large number.
The first Vol. (212 pp.) will be done to-day: and the whole in a fortnight, I hope. It is very handsome; and those who praise you for publishing handsome books, will have some reason for saying so.
Will you have the books, or any part of them done up here? — and in the English style, uncut? — Those for the Boston market I should think you would.
With best regards to Mellen and Cutler,
Very truly yours in haste
LONGFELLOW.
P. S. By the way; I was shocked yesterday to see in the New York Review that Undine was coming out in your Library of Romance. This is one of the tales of the Wonderhorn. Have you forgotten? I intend to come to New York, as soon as I get through with printing Hyperion; and we will bring this design to an arrangement, and one more beside.
Addressed to SAMUEL COLMAN, ESQ. 8 Astor House, New York.
That was at a time when it was quite needful that American authors should be business-like, since American publishers sometimes were not. The very man to whom this letter was addressed became bankrupt six months later; half the edition of “Hyperion” (1200 copies) was seized by creditors and was locked up, so that the book was out of the market for four months. “No matter,” the young author writes in his diary, “I had the glorious satisfaction of writing it.” Meanwhile the “Knickerbocker” had not paid its contributors for three years, and the success of “Voices of the Night” was regarded as signal, because the publisher had sold 850 copies in three weeks.
The popularity of the “Voices of the Night,” though not universal, was very great. Hawthorne wrote to him of these poems, “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.” Halleck also said of the “Skeleton in Armor” that there was “nothing like it in the language,” and Poe wrote to Longfellow, May 3, 1841, “I cannot refrain from availing myself of this, the only opportunity I may ever have, to assure the author of the ‘Hymn to the Night,’ of the ‘Beleaguered City,’ and of the ‘Skeleton in Armor’ of the fervent admiration with which his genius has inspired me.”
In most of the criticisms of Longfellow’s earlier poetry, including in this grouping even the “Psalm of Life,” we lose sight of that fine remark of Sara Coleridge, daughter of the poet, who said to Aubrey de Vere, “However inferior the bulk of a young man’s poetry may be to that of the poet when mature, it generally possesses some passages with a special freshness of their own and an inexplicable charm to be found in them alone.” Professor Wendell’s criticisms on Longfellow, in many respects admirable, do not seem to me quite to recognize this truth, nor yet the companion fact that while Poe took captive the cultivated but morbid taste of the French public, it was Longfellow who called forth more translators in all nations than all other Americans put together. If, as Professor Wendell thinks, the foundation of Longfellow’s fame was the fact that he introduced our innocent American public to “the splendors of European civilization,” how is it that his poems won and held such a popularity among those who already had these splendors at their door? It is also to be remembered that he was, if this were all, in some degree preceded by Bryant, who had opened the doors of Spanish romance to young Americans even before Longfellow led them to Germany and Italy.
Yet a common ground of criticism on Longfellow’s early poems lay in the very simplicity which made them, then and ever since, so near to the popular heart. Digby, in one of his agreeable books, compares them in this respect to the paintings of Cuyp in these words: “The objects of Cuyp, for instance, are few in number and commonplace in their character — a bit of land and water, a few cattle and figures in no way remarkable. His power, says a critic, reminds me of some of the short poems of Longfellow, where things in themselves most prosaic are flooded with a kind of poetic light from the inner soul.” It is quite certain that one may go farther in looking back upon the development of our literature and can claim that this simplicity was the precise contribution needed at that early and formative period. Literature in a new country naturally tends to the florid, and one needs only to turn to the novels of Charles Brockden Brown, or even Bancroft’s “History of the United States,” to see how eminently this was the case in America. Whatever the genius of Poe, for instance, we can now see that he represented, in this respect, a dangerous tendency, a
nd Poe’s followers and admirers exemplified it in its most perilous form. Take, for instance, such an example as that of Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers of Georgia, author of “Eonchs of Ruby,” a man of whom Bayard Taylor wrote in 1871, speaking of that period thirty years earlier, “that something wonderful would come out of Chivers.” It is certain that things wonderful came out of him at the very beginning, for we owe to him the statement that “as the irradiancy of a diamond depends upon its diaphanous translucency, so does the beauty of a poem upon its rhythmical crystallization of the Divine Idea.” One cannot turn a page of Chivers without recognizing that he at his best was very closely allied to Poe at his worst. Such a verse as the following was not an imitation, but a twin blossom: —
“On the beryl-rimmed rebecs of Ruby Brought fresh from the hyaline streams, She played on the banks of the Yuba Such songs as she heard in her dreams, Like the heavens when the stars from their eyries Look down through the ebon night air, Where the groves by the Ouphantic Fairies Lit up for my Lily Adair, For my child-like Lily Adair, For my heaven-born Lily Adair, For my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.”
It is easy to guess that Longfellow, in his “North American Review” article, drew from Dr. Chivers and his kin his picture of those “writers, turgid and extravagant,” to be found in American literature. He farther says of them: “Instead of ideas, they give us merely the signs of ideas. They erect a great bridge of words, pompous and imposing, where there is hardly a drop of thought to trickle beneath. Is not he who thus apostrophizes the clouds, ‘Ye posters of the wakeless air!’ quite as extravagant as the Spanish poet, who calls a star a ‘burning doubloon of the celestial bank’?” It is a curious fact that this exuberant poet Chivers claimed a certain sympathy with the Boston “Dial” and with the transcendental movement, which had a full supply of its own extravagances; and it is clear that between these two rhetorical extremes there was needed a voice for simplicity. Undoubtedly Bryant had an influence in the same direction of simplicity. But Bryant seemed at first curiously indifferent to Longfellow. “Voices of the Night” was published in 1839, and there appeared two years after, in 1841, a volume entitled “Selections from the American Poets,” edited by Bryant, in which he gave eleven pages each to Percival and Carlos Wilcox, nine to Pierpont, eight to himself, and only four to Longfellow. It is impossible to interpret this proportion as showing that admiration which Bryant seems to have attributed to himself five years later when he wrote to him of the illustrated edition of his poems, “They appear to be more beautiful than on former readings, much as I then admired them. The exquisite music of your verse dwells more than ever on my ear.” Their personal relation remained always cordial, but never intimate, Longfellow always recognizing his early obligations to the elder bard and always keeping by him the first edition of Bryant’s poems, published in 1821. Both poets were descended from a common pilgrim ancestry in John Alden and Priscilla Mullins, whose story Longfellow has told.
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 212
