the white mr. longfellow-第5节

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〃Olimipico　something。〃　　But　I　fancy　his　sweetest　pleasure　in　his　vast
renown　came　from　his　popular　recognition　everywhere。　　Few　were　the　lands；
few　the　languages　he　was　unknown　to：　he　showed　me　a　version　of　the　〃Psalm
of　Life〃　in　Chinese。　　Apparently　even　the　poor　lost　autograph…seeker　was
not　denied　by　his　universal　kindness；　I　know　that　he　kept　a　store　of
autographs　ready　written　on　small　squares　of　paper　for　all　who　applied　by
letter　or　in　person；　he　said　it　was　no　trouble；　but　perhaps　he　was　to　be
excused　for　refusing　the　request　of　a　lady　for　fifty　autographs；　which
she　wished　to　offer　as　a　novel　attraction　to　her　guests　at　a　lunch　party。

Foreigners　of　all　kinds　thronged　upon　him　at　their　pleasure；　apparently；
and　with　perfect　impunity。　　Sometimes　he　got　a　little　fun；　very；　very
kindly；　out　of　their　excuses　and　reasons；　and　the　Englishman　who　came　to
see　him　because　there　were　no　ruins　to　visit　in　America　was　no　fable；　as
I　can　testify　from　the　poet　himself。　　But　he　had　no　prejudice　against
Englishmen；　and　even　at　a　certain　time　when　the　coarse…handed　British
criticism　began　to　blame　his　delicate　art　for　the　universal　acceptance　of
his　verse；　and　to　try　to　sneer　him　into　the　rank　of　inferior　poets；　he
was　without　rancor　for　the　clumsy　misliking　that　he　felt。　　He　could　not
understand　rudeness；　he　was　too　finely　framed　for　that；　he　could　know　it
only　as　Swedenborg's　most　celestial　angels　perceived　evil；　as　something
distressful；　angular。　　The　ill…will　that　seemed　nearly　always　to　go　with
adverse　criticism　made　him　distrust　criticism；　and　the　discomfort　which
mistaken　or　blundering　praise　gives　probably　made　him　shy　of　all
criticism。　　He　said　that　in　his　early　life　as　an　author　he　used　to　seek
out　and　save　all　the　notices　of　his　poems；　but　in　his　latter　days　he　read
only　those　that　happened　to　fall　in　his　way；　these　he　cut　out　and　amused
his　leisure　by　putting　together　in　scrapbooks。　　He　was　reluctant　to　make
any　criticism　of　other　poets；　I　do　not　remember　ever　to　have　heard　him
make　one；　and　his　writings　show　no　trace　of　the　literary　dislikes　or
contempts　which　we　so　often　mistake　in　ourselves　for　righteous　judgments。
No　doubt　he　had　his　resentments；　but　he　hushed　them　in　his　heart；　which
he　did　not　suffer　them　to　embitter。　　While　Poe　was　writing　of　〃Longfellow
and　other　Plagiarists；〃　Longfellow　was　helping　to　keep　Poe　alive　by　the
loans　which　always　made　themselves　gifts　in　Poe's　case。　　He　very；　very
rarely　spoke　of　himself　at　all；　and　almost　never　of　the　grievances　which
he　did　not　fail　to　share　with　all　who　live。

He　was　patient；　as　I　said；　of　all　things；　and　gentle　beyond　all　mere
gentlemanliness。　　But　it　would　have　been　a　great　mistake　to　mistake　his
mildness　for　softness。　　It　was　most　manly　and　firm；　and　of　course　it　was
braced　with　the　New　England　conscience　he　was　born　to。　　If　he　did　not
find　it　well　to　assert　himself；　he　was　prompt　in　behalf　of　his　friends；
and　one　of　tho　fine　things　told　of　him　was　his　resenting　some　censures　of
Sumner　at　a　dinner　in　Boston　during　the　old　pro…slavery　times：　he　said　to
the　gentlemen　present　that　Sumner　was　his　friend；　and　he　must　leave　their
company　if　they　continued　to　assail　him。

But　he　spoke　almost　as　rarely　of　his　friends　as　of　himself。　　He　liked　the
large；　impersonal　topics　which　could　be　dealt　with　on　their　human　side；
and　involved　characters　rather　than　individuals。　　This　was　rather　strange
in　Cambridge；　where　we　were　apt　to　take　our　instances　from　the
environment。　　It　was　not　the　only　thing　he　was　strange　in　there；　he　was
not　to　that　manner　born；　he　lacked　the　final　intimacies　which　can　come
only　of　birth　and　lifelong　association；　and　which　make　the　men　of　the
Boston　breed　seem　exclusive　when　they　least　feel　so；　he　was　Longfellow　to
the　friends　who　were　James；　and　Charles；　and　Wendell　to　one　another。　　He
and　Hawthorne　were　classmates　at　college；　but　I　never　heard　him　mention
Hawthorne；　I　never　heard　him　mention　Whittier　or　Emerson。　　I　think　his
reticence　about　his　contemporaries　was　largely　due　to　his　reluctance　from
criticism：　he　was　the　finest　artist　of　them　all；　and　if　he　praised　he
must　have　praised　with　the　reservations　of　an　honest　man。　　Of　younger
writers　he　was　willing　enough　to　speak。　　No　new　contributor　made　his　mark
in　the　magazine　unnoted　by　him；　and　sometimes　I　showed　him　verse　in
manuscript　which　gave　me　peculiar　pleasure。　　I　remember　his　liking　for
the　first　piece　that　Mr。　Maurice　Thompson　sent　me；　and　how　he　tasted　the
fresh　flavor　of　it；　and　inhaled　its　wild　new　fragrance。　　He　admired　the
skill　of　some　of　the　young　story…tellers；　he　praised　the　subtlety　of　one
in　working　out　an　intricate　character；　and　said　modestly　that　he　could
never　have　done　that　sort　of　thing　himself。　　It　was　entirely　safe　to
invite　his　judgment　when　in　doubt；　for　he　never　suffered　it　to　become
aggressive；　or　used　it　to　urge　upon　me　the　manuscripts　that　must　often
have　been　urged　upon　him。

Longfellow　had　a　house　at　Nahant　where　he　went　every　summer　for　more　than
a　quarter　of　a　century。　　He　found　the　slight　transition　change　enough
from　Cambridge；　and　liked　it　perhaps　because　it　did　not　take　him　beyond
the　range　of　the　friends　and　strangers　whose　company　he　liked。　　Agassiz
was　there；　and　Appleton；　Sumner　came　to　sojourn　with　him；　and　the
tourists　of　all　nations　found　him　there　in　half　an　hour　after　they
reached　Boston。　　His　cottage　was　very　plain　and　simple；　but　was　rich　in
the　sight　of　the　illimitable；　sea；　and　it　had　a　luxury　of　rocks　at　the
foot　of　its　garden；　draped　with　sea…weed；　and　washed　with　the
indefatigable　tides。　　As　he　grew　older　and　feebler　he　ceased　to　go　to
Nahant；　he　remained　the　whole　year　round　at　Cambridge；　he　professed　to
like　the　summer　which　he　said　warmed　him　through　there；　better　than　the
cold　spectacle　of　summer　which　had　no　such　effect　at　Nahant。

The　hospitality　which　was　constant　at　either　house　was　not　merely　of　the
worldly　sort。　　Longfellow　loved　good　cheer；　he　tasted　history　and　poetry
in　a　precious　wine；　and　he　liked　people　who　were　acquainted　with　manners
and　men；　and　brought　the　air　of　capitals　with　them。　　But　often　the　man
who　dined　with　Longfellow　was　the　man　who　needed　a　dinner；　and　from　what
I　have　seen　of　the　sweet　courtesy　that　governed　at　that　board；　I　am　sure
that　such　a　man　could　never　have　felt　himself　the　least　honored　guest。
The　poet's　heart　was　open　to　all　the　homelessness　of　the　world；　and　I
remember　how　once　when　we　sat　at　his　table　and　I　spoke　of　his　poem　of
〃The　Challenge；〃　then　a　new　poem；　and　said　how　I　had　been　touched　by　the
fancy　of

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃The　poverty…stricken　millions
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Who　challenge　our　wine　and　bread；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　And　impeach　us　all　as　traitors；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Both　the　living　and　the　dead；〃

his　voice　sank　in　grave　humility　as　he　answered；　〃Yes；　I　often　think　of
those　things。〃　　He　had　thought　of　them　in　the　days　of　the　slave；　when　he
had　taken　his　place　with　the　friends　of　the　hopeless　and　hapless；　and　as
long　as　he　lived　he　continued　of　the　party　which　had　freed　the　slave。
He　did　not　often　speak　of　politics；　but　when　the　movement　of　some　of　the
best　Republicans　away　from　their　party　began；　he　said　that　he　could　not
see　the　wisdom　of　their　course。　　But　this　was　said　without　censure　or
criticism　of　them；　and　so　far　as　I　know　he　never　permitted　himself
anything　like　denunciation　of　those　who　in　any　wise　differed　from　him。
On　a　matter　of　yet　deeper　interest；　I　do　not　feel　authorized　to　speak　for
him；　but　I　think　that　as　he　grew　older；　his　hold　upon　anything　like　a
creed　weakened；　though　he　remained　of　the　Unitarian　philosophy　concerning
Christ。　　He　did　not　latterly　go　to　church；　I　believe；　but　then；　very　few
of　his　circle　were　church…goers。　　Once　he　said　something　very　vague　and
uncertain　concerning　the　doctrine　of　another　life　when　I　affirmed　my　hope
of　it；　to　the　effect　that　he　wished　he　could　be　sure；　with　the　sigh　that
so　often　clothed　the　expression　of　a　misgiving　with　him。




VII。

When　my　acquaintance　with　Longfellow　began　he　had　written　the　things　that
made　his　fame；　and　that　it　will　probably　rest　upon：　〃Evangeline；〃
〃Hiawatha；〃　and　the　〃Courtship　of　Miles　Standish〃　were　by　that　time　old
stories。　　But　during　the　eighteen　years　that　I　knew　him　he　produced　the
best　of　his　minor　poems；　the　greatest　of　his　sonnets；　the　sweetest　of　his
lyrics。　　His　art　ripened　to　the　last；　it　grew　richer　and　finer；　and　it
never　knew　decay。　　He　rarely　read　anything　of　his　own　aloud；　but　in　three
or　four　cases　he　read　to　me　poems　he　had　just　finished；　as　if　to　give
himself　the　pleasure　of　hearing　them　with　the　sympathetic　sense　of
another。　　The　hexameter　piece；　〃Elizabeth；〃　in　the　third　part　of　〃Tales
of　a　Wayside　Inn；〃　was　one　of　these；　and　he　liked　my　liking　its
rhythmical　form；　which　I　believed　one　of　the　measures　best　adapted　to　the
English　speech；　and　which　he　had　used　himself　with　so　much　pleasure　and
success。

About　this　time　he　was　greatly　interested　in　the　slight　experiments　I　was
beginning　to　make　in　dramatic　form；　and　he　said　that　if　he　were　himself　a
young　man　he　should　write　altogether　for　the　stage；　he　thought　the　drama
had　a　greater　future　with　us。　　He　was　pleased　when　a　p