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intelligible　manner。　　Your　letter；　however；　set　me　a…voyaging　about

my　bookshelves；　taking　up　a　volume　of　poetry　here　and　there。



What　an　interesting　tract　might　be　written　by　any　one　who　could

remember；　and　honestly　describe；　the　impressions　that　the　same　books

have　made　on　him　at　different　ages！　　There　is　Longfellow；　for

example。　　I　have　not　read　much　in　him　for　twenty　years。　　I　take　him

up　to…day；　and　what　a　flood　of　memories　his　music　brings　with　it！

To　me　it　is　like　a　sad　autumn　wind　blowing　over　the　woods；　blowing

over　the　empty　fields；　bringing　the　scents　of　October；　the　song　of　a

belated　bird；　and　here　and　there　a　red　leaf　from　the　tree。　　There　is

that　autumnal　sense　of　things　fair　and　far　behind；　in　his　poetry；

or；　if　it　is　not　there；　his　poetry　stirs　it　in　our　forsaken　lodges

of　the　past。　　Yes；　it　comes　to　one　out　of　one's　boyhood；　it　breathes

of　a　world　very　vaguely　realizeda　world　of　imitative　sentiments

and　forebodings　of　hours　to　come。　　Perhaps　Longfellow　first　woke　me

to　that　later　sense　of　what　poetry　means；　which　comes　with　early

manhood。



Before；　one　had　been　content；　I　am　still　content；　with　Scott　in　his

battle　pieces；　with　the　ballads　of　the　Border。　　Longfellow　had　a

touch　of　reflection　you　do　not　find；　of　course；　in　battle　poems；　in

a　boy's　favourites；　such　as　〃Of　Nelson　and　the　North；〃　or　〃Ye

Mariners　of　England。〃



His　moral　reflections　may　seem　obvious　now；　and　trite；　they　were

neither　when　one　was　fifteen。　　To　read　the　〃Voices　of　the　Night；〃　in

particularthose　early　piecesis　to　be　back　at　school　again；　on　a

Sunday；　reading　all　alone　on　a　summer's　day；　high　in　some　tree；　with

a　wide　prospect　of　gardens　and　fields。



There　is　that　mysterious　note　in　the　tone　and　measure　which　one

first　found　in　Longfellow；　which　has　since　reached　our　ears　more

richly　and　fully　in　Keats；　in　Coleridge；　in　Tennyson。　　Take；　for

example；





〃The　welcome；　the　thrice　prayed　for；　the　most　fair；

The　best…beloved　Night！〃





Is　not　that　version　of　Euripides　exquisitedoes　it　not　seem

exquisite　still；　though　this　is　not　the　quality　you　expect　chiefly

from　Longfellow；　though　you　rather　look　to　him　for　honest　human

matter　than　for　an　indefinable　beauty　of　manner？



I　believe　it　is　the　manner；　after　all；　of　the　〃Psalm　of　Life〃　that

has　made　it　so　strangely　popular。　　People　tell　us；　excellent　people；

that　it　is　〃as　good　as　a　sermon；〃　that　they　value　it　for　this

reason；　that　its　lesson　has　strengthened　the　hearts　of　men　in　our

difficult　life。　　They　say　so；　and　they　think　so：　　but　the　poem　is

not　nearly　as　good　as　a　sermon；　it　is　not　even　coherent。　　But　it

really　has　an　original　cadence　of　its　own；　with　its　double　rhymes；

and　the　pleasure　of　this　cadence　has　combined；　with　a　belief　that

they　are　being　edified；　to　make　readers　out　of　number　consider　the

〃Psalms　of　Life〃　a　masterpiece。　　Youmy　learned　prosodist　and

student　of　Browning　and　Shelleywill　agree　with　me　that　it　is　not　a

masterpiece。　　But　I　doubt　if　you　have　enough　of　the　experience

brought　by　years　to　tolerate　the　opposite　opinion；　as　your　elders

can。



How　many　other　poems　of　Longfellow's　there　are　that　remind　us　of

youth；　and　of　those　kind；　vanished　faces　which　were　around　us　when

we　read　〃The　Reaper　and　the　Flowers〃！　　I　read　again；　and；　as　the

poet　says；





〃Then　the　forms　of　the　departed

Enter　at　the　open　door；

The　beloved；　the　true…hearted

Come　to　visit　me　once　more。〃





Compare　that　simple　strain；　you　lover　of　Theophile　Gautier；　with

Theo's　own　〃Chateau　de　Souvenir〃　in　〃Emaux　et　Camees；〃　and　confess

the　truth；　which　poet　brings　the　break　into　the　reader's　voice？　　It

is　not　the　dainty；　accomplished　Frenchman；　the　jeweller　in　words；　it

is　the　simpler　speaker　of　our　English　tongue　who　stirs　you　as　a

ballad　moves　you。　　I　find　one　comes　back　to　Longfellow；　and　to　one's

old　self　of　the　old　years。　　I　don't　know　a　poem　〃of　the　affections；〃

as　Sir　Barnes　Newcome　would　have　called　it；　that　I　like　better　than

Thackeray's　〃Cane…bottomed　Chair。〃　　Well；　〃The　Fire　of　Driftwood〃

and　this　other　of　Longfellow's　with　its　absolute　lack　of　pretence；

its　artful　avoidance　of　art；　is　not　less　tender　and　true。





〃And　she　sits　and　gazes　at　me

With　those　deep　and　tender　eyes；

Like　the　stars；　so　still　and　saintlike；

Looking　downward　from　the　skies。〃





It　is　from　the　skies　that　they　look　down；　those　eyes　which　once　read

the　〃Voices　of　the　Night〃　from　the　same　book　with　us；　how　long　ago！

So　long　ago　that　one　was　half…frightened　by　the　legend　of　the

〃Beleaguered　City。〃　　I　know　the　ballad　brought　the　scene　to　me　so

vividly　that　I　expected；　any　frosty　night；　to　see　how





〃The　white　pavilions　rose　and　fell

On　the　alarmed　air；〃





and　it　was　down　the　valley　of　Ettrick；　beneath　the　dark　〃Three

Brethren's　Cairn；〃　that　I　half…hoped　to　watch　when　〃the　troubled

army　fled〃fled　with　battered　banners　of　mist　drifting　through　the

pines；　down　to　the　Tweed　and　the　sea。　　The　〃Skeleton　in　Armour〃

comes　out　once　more　as　terrific　as　ever；　and　the　〃Wreck　of　the

Hesperus〃　touches　one　in　the　old；　simple　way　after　so　many；　many

days　of　verse…reading　and　even　verse…writing。



In　brief；　Longfellow's　qualities　are　so　mixed　with　what　the　reader

brings；　with　so　many　kindliest　associations　of　memory；　that　one

cannot　easily　criticize　him　in　cold　blood。　　Even　in　spite　of　this

friendliness　and　affection　which　Longfellow　wins；　I　can　see；　of

course；　that　he　does　moralize　too　much。　　The　first　part　of　his

lyrics　is　always　the　best；　the　part　where　he　is　dealing　directly

with　his　subject。　　Then　comes　the　〃practical　application〃　as

preachers　say；　and　I　feel　now　that　it　is　sometimes　uncalled　for；

disenchanting；　and　even　manufactured。



Look　at　his　〃Endymion。〃　　It　is　the　earlier　verses　that　win　you：





〃And　silver　white　the　river　gleams

As　if　Diana　in　her　dreams

Had　dropt　her　silver　bow

Upon　the　meadows　low。〃





That　is　as　good　as　Ronsard；　and　very　like　him　in　manner　and　matter。

But　the　moral　and　consolatory　application　is　too　longtoo　much

dwelt　on：





〃Like　Dian's　kiss；　unasked；　unsought；

Love　gives　itself；　but　is　not　bought。〃





Excellent；　but　there　are　four　weak；　moralizing　stanzas　at　the　close；

and　not　only　does　the　poet　〃moralize　his　song；〃　but　the　moral　is

feeble；　and　fantastic；　and　untrue。　　There　are；　though　he　denies　it；

myriads　of　persons　now　of　whom　it　cannot　be　said　that





〃Some　heart；　though　unknown；

Responds　unto　his　own。〃





If　it　were　true；　the　reflection　could　only　console　a　school…girl。



A　poem　like　〃My　Lost　Youth〃　is　needed　to　remind　one　of　what　the

author　really　was；　〃simple；　sensuous；　passionate。〃　　What　a　lovely

verse　this　is；　a　verse　somehow　inspired　by　the　breath　of

Longfellow's　favourite　Finnish　〃Kalevala；〃　〃a　verse　of　a　Lapland

song；〃　like　a　wind　over　pines　and　salt　coasts：





〃I　remember　the　black　wharves　and　the　slips；

And　the　sea…tide；　tossing　free；

And　Spanish　sailors　with　bearded　lips；

And　the　beauty　and　the　mystery　of　the　ships；

And　the　magic　of　the　sea。〃





Thus　Longfellow；　though　not　a　very　great　magician　and　master　of

languagenot　a　Keats　by　any　meanshas　often；　by　sheer　force　of

plain　sincerity；　struck　exactly　the　right　note；　and　matched　his

thought　with　music　that　haunts　us　and　will　not　be　forgotten：





〃Ye　open　the　eastern　windows；

That　look　towards　the　sun；

Where　thoughts　are　singing　swallows；

And　the　brooks　of　morning　run。〃





There　is　a　picture　of　Sandro　Botticelli's；　the　Virgin　seated　with

the　Child　by　a　hedge　of　roses；　in　a　faint　blue　air；　as　of　dawn　in

Paradise。　　This　poem　of　Longfellow's；　〃The　Children's　Hour；〃　seems；

like　Botticelli's　painting；　to　open　a　door　into　the　paradise　of

children；　where　their　angels　do　ever　behold　that　which　is　hidden

from　menwhat　no　man　hath　seen　at　any　time。



Longfellow　is　exactly　the　antithesis　of　Poe；　who；　with　all　his

science　of　verse　and　ghostly　skill；　has　no　humanity；　or　puts　none　of

it　into　his　lines。　　One　is　the　poet　of　Life；　and　everyday　life；　the

other　is　the　poet　of　Death；　and　of　bizarre　shapes　of　death；　from

which　Heaven　deliver　us！



Neither　of　them　shows　any　sign　of　being　particularly　American；

though　Longfellow；　in　〃Evangeline〃　and　〃Hiawatha；〃　and　the　〃New

England　Tragedies；〃　sought　his　topics　in　the　history　and　traditions

of　the　New　World。



To　me　〃Hiawatha〃　seems　by　far　the　best　of　his　longer　efforts；　it　is

quite　full　of　sympathy　with　men　and　women；　nature；　beasts；　birds；

weather；　and　wind　and　snow。　　Everything　lives　with　a　human　breath；

as　everything　should　live　in　a　poem　concerned　with　these　wild　folk；

to　whom　all　the　world；　and　all　in　it；　is　personal　as　themselves。　　Of

course　there　are　lapses　of　style　in　so　long　a　piece。　　It　jars　on　us

in　the　lay　of　the　mystic　Chibiabos；　the　boy　Persephone　of　the　Indian

Eleusinia；　to　be　told　that





〃the　gentle　Chibiabos

Sang　in　tones　of　deep　emotion！〃





〃Tones　of　deep　emotion〃　may　pass　in　a　novel；　but　not　in　this　epic　of

the　wild　wood　and　the　wild　kindreds；　an　epic　in　all　ways　a　worthy

record　of　those　dim；　mournful　races　which　have　left　no　story　of

their　own；　only　here　and　there　a　ruined　wigwam　beneath　the　forest

leaves。



A　poet's　life　is　no　affair；　perhaps；　of　ours。　　Who　does　not　wish　he

knew　as　little　of　Burn's　as　of　Shakespeare's？　　Of　Longfellow's　there

is　nothing　to　know　but　good；　and　his　poetry　testifies　to　ithis

poetry；　the　voice　of　the　kindest　and　gentlest　heart　that　poet　ever

bore。　　I　think　there　are　not　many　things　in　poets'　lives　more

touching　than　his　silence；　in　verse；　as　to　his　own　chief　sorrow。　　A

stranger　intermeddles　not　with　it；　and　he　kept　secret　his　brief　lay

on　that　insuperable　and　incommunicable　regret。　　Much　would　have　been

lost　had　all　poets　been　as　reticent；　yet　one　likes　him　better　for　it

than　if　he　had　given　us　a　new　〃Vita　Nuova。〃



What　an　immense　long　way　I　have　wandere