Home Life of Great Authors

by Hattie Tyng Griswold

"This morning, as I was sitting at breakfast, a gentleman on horseback sent up word that I should come down to him. It was Prescott, author of 'Ferdinand and Isabella.' He is an early riser, and rides about the country. There on his horse sat the great author. He is one of the best fellows in the world, and much my friend; handsome and forty; a great diner-out; gentle, companionable, and modest; quite astonished to find himself famous."

Then comes a glimpse of the as yet unknown author of "The Scarlet Letter:"—

"I shall see Hawthorne to-morrow. He lives in Salem, and we meet and sup together to-morrow evening at the Tremont House. Your health shall be remembered. He is a strange owl; a very peculiar individual, with a dash of originality about him very pleasant to behold. How I wish you could be with us! Ach! my beloved friend, when I one day sit with you in Italy again, with nothing on the snow-white tablecloth save bread still whiter, and fruit, and that most delicate wine 'in beakers full of the warm South,' will we pledge the happy present time and those sorrows and disappointments which are our schoolmasters. Sumner is the nearest and warmest thing I can send you. When you have him you will think you have me, he can tell you so much of me."

To this early group were added, later on, Agassiz, Lowell, Dana, James T. Fields, Norton, Dr. Holmes, and others; but those mentioned were his real intimates throughout life. With Emerson he maintained a calm and admiring friendship, but saw less of him than of the others. Bryant and Whittier and George W. Curtis he loved and admired, but they were more distant and not his every-day companions. Dr. Samuel G. Howe belonged, if not exactly to the earliest group of friends, yet among friends both early and late. These men are all historic now, and it seems strange to find Longfellow writing of them as he does in letters and journals. For instance:—

"Also Mr. Emerson, a clergyman, with new views of life, death, and immortality; author of 'Nature,' and friend of Carlyle. He is one of the finest lecturers I ever heard, with magnificent passages of true prose poetry. But it is all dreamery, after all."

Strange, too, to find Carlyle writing to the young poet after the receipt of a volume of his poems, before reading them, as is said to be the fashion of great men when they wish to let unknown authors down easily and gracefully:—

"About the same time there came an indistinct message that a copy of your poems had been left for me at Fraser the bookseller's. It now beckons to me from one of my shelves, asking always, 'When wilt thou have a cheerful, vacant day?'"

Very natural it seems, though, to find that Carlyle is already writing from "a hideous immeasurable treadmill, a smoky, soul-confusing Babylon," and that he addresses "only one prayer to the heavens,—that he were well out of it before it takes the life out of him."

Pleasantest and strongest perhaps of all his friendships was that for Charles Sumner, who was lecturing at the Law School when Mr. Longfellow first came to Cambridge. Begun when both were young men just launching forth on their great but so different career, it continued until death separated them, without a shadow of estrangement or disloyalty, but with ever increasing ardor of affection. Sumner was inclined to literature at that time, and indeed for many years afterwards, his political career being rather forced upon him by the stormy times. A club was formed at this time, called the "Five of Clubs," consisting of Longfellow, Sumner, Hilliard, Cleveland, and Felton. They read and criticised each other's writings, and enjoyed a hearty social intercourse. Awhile afterwards, when they began to speak well of each other's articles in the reviews, the newspapers gave them the name of the "Mutual Admiration Society." Not inapplicable, probably, but applicable to the literary men of all time. What is the great literary guild anywhere but a mutual admiration society? What a large portion of our best literature would be blotted out if what one great writer has said of another should be destroyed! Would we have this so? Nay, verily! Certainly there was no lack of warm admiration, and warm expression of it, among this little group of friends; and between Sumner and Longfellow, at least, these expressions continued throughout life, and were heartily sincere to the last. One after another Longfellow's poems were submitted to his friends' criticism, and each received its due meed of praise or gentle censure. Mr. Sumner's speeches were received by Longfellow with great enthusiasm always, and praised heartily and unreservedly. Every step in his career was watched with the most eager interest and intense sympathy. It is one of the most beautiful friendships on record. One wonders in reading the journal what Longfellow's life would have been without these constant visits and letters from Sumner. Every Sabbath was spent by the statesman at the poet's house, when the former was in the vicinity of Boston, and many and many are the records during the week,—Sumner to dine, Sumner to tea, Sumner to pass the night, and always some note made of the late and pleasant talk the pair had together. When Sumner goes to Washington he is sadly missed, and such little notes as this sent after him in tender remembrance:—