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 145 ‘burning doubloon of the celestial bank’?”[51] It is a curious fact that this exuberant poet Chivers claimed a certain sympathy[52] 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.”[53] Their personal relation 146 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.[54]
Thus much for first experiences with the world of readers. The young professor’s academical standing and services must be reserved for another chapter. But he at once found himself, apart from this, a member of a most agreeable social circle, for which his naturally cheerful temperament admirably fitted him. It is indeed doubtful if any Harvard professor of to-day could record in his note-books an equally continuous course of mild festivities. There are weeks when he never spends an evening at home. He often describes himself as “gloomy,” but the gloom is never long visible. He constantly walks in and out of Boston, or drives to Brookline or Jamaica Plain; and whist and little suppers are never long omitted. Lowell was not as yet promoted to his friendship because of youth, nor had he and Holmes then been especially brought together, but Prescott, Sumner, Felton, and others constantly appear. 147 He draws the line at a fancy ball, declining to costume himself for that purpose; and he writes that he never dances, but in other respects spends his evenings after his own inclination. Two years later, however, he mentions his purpose of going to a subscription ball “for the purpose of dancing with elderly ladies,” who are, he thinks, “much more grateful for slight attentions than younger ones.”
It is curious to find the fact made prominent by all contemporary critics, in their references to the young professor, that he was at this time not only neat in person, but with a standard of costume which made him rather exceptional. To those accustomed to the average dress of instructors in many colleges up to this day, this spirit of criticism may afford no surprise. His brother tells us that “good Mrs. Craigie thought he had somewhat too gay a look,” and “had a fondness for colors in coats, waistcoats, and neckties.” It will be remembered that in “Hyperion” he makes the Baron say to Paul Flemming, “The ladies already begin to call you Wilhelm Meister, and they say that your gloves are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man.” He wrote also to Sumner when in Europe: “If you have any tendency to curl your hair and wear gloves like Edgar in ‘Lear,’ do it before your return.” It is a curious fact that he wrote of himself 148 about the same time to his friend, George W. Greene, in Rome: “Most of the time am alone; smoke a good deal; wear a broad-brimmed hat, black frock coat, a black cane.”[55]
Of the warmth of heart which lay beneath this perhaps worldly exterior, the following letter to his youthful sister-in-law gives evidence:—
Friday evening [1837].
My good, dear Madge,—You do not know how sorry I am, that I cannot see you. But for a week past I have hardly left my chamber. I have been so ill as to give up all College duties, Lectures, &c.; and am very happy to get through—(as I trust I shall) without a fever, which I have been expecting for several days past. To-night I am better and have crawled off the sofa, to write you half a dozen lines.
My dear little child; I am truly delighted to know you are in Boston. It is an unexpected pleasure to me. Of course you mean to stay all summer; and I shall see you very often. Write me immediately; and tell me everything about everybody. I shall come and kiss you to death, as soon as my bodily strength will permit.
Till then very truly
my little dear,Yr. Brother Henry.
[46] From the Chamberlain Collection of Autographs, Boston Public Library.
[47] Life, i. 349.
[48] Literary History of America, p. 384.
[49] The Lovers Seat, London, i. 36.
[50] Passages from the Correspondence of Rufus W. Griswold, p. 46.