Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

But it is a vast step from this to Browning’s mountain picture

In Browning everything is vigorous and individualized. We see the ships, we know the nationality, we recall the very battle, and over these we see in imagination the very shape and movements of the clouds; but there is no conceivable reason why Longfellow’s lines should not have been written by a blind man who knew clouds merely by the descriptions of others. The limitation of Longfellow’s poems reveals his temperament. He was in his perceptions essentially of poetic mind, but always in touch with the common mind; as individual lives grow deeper, students are apt to leave Longfellow for Tennyson, just as they forsake Tennyson for Browning. As to action, the tonic of life, so far as he had 271 it, was supplied to him through friends,—Sumner in America; Freiligrath in Europe,—and yet it must be remembered that he would not, but for a corresponding quality in his own nature, have had just such friends as these. He was not led by his own convictions to leave his study like Emerson and take direct part as a contestant in the struggles of the time. It is a curious fact that Lowell should have censured Thoreau for not doing in this respect just the thing which Thoreau ultimately did and Longfellow did not. It was, however, essentially a difference of temperament, and it must be remembered that Longfellow wrote in his diary under date of December 2, 1859, “This will be a great day in our history; the date of a new Revolution,—quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write, they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia, for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind, which will come soon.”

His relations with Whittier remained always kindly and unbroken. They dined together at the Atlantic Club and Saturday Club, and Longfellow wrote of him in 1857, “He grows milder and mellower, as does his poetry.” He went to Concord sometimes to dine with Emerson, “and meet his philosophers, Alcott, Thoreau, and Channing.” 272 Or Emerson came to Cambridge, “to take tea,” giving a lecture at the Lyceum, of which Longfellow says, “The lecture good, but not of his richest and rarest. His subject ‘Eloquence.’ By turns he was grave and jocose, and had some striking views and passages. He lets in a thousand new lights, side-lights, and cross-lights, into every subject.” When Emerson’s collected poems are sent him, Longfellow has the book read to him all the evening and until late at night, and writes of it in his diary: “Throughout the volume, through the golden mist and sublimation of fancy, gleam bright veins of purest poetry, like rivers running through meadows. Truly, a rare volume; with many exquisite poems in it, among which I should single out ‘Monadnoc,’ ‘Threnody,’ ‘The Humble-Bee,’ as containing much of the quintessence of poetry.” Emerson’s was one of the five portraits drawn in crayon by Eastman Johnson, and always kept hanging in the library at Craigie House; the others being those of Hawthorne, Sumner, Felton, and Longfellow himself. No one can deny to our poet the merits of absolute freedom from all jealousy and of an invariable readiness to appreciate those classified by many critics as greater than himself. He was one of the first students of Browning in America, when the latter was known chiefly by his “Bells and 273 Pomegranates,” and instinctively selected the “Blot in the ’Scutcheon” as “a play of great power and beauty,” as the critics would say, and as every one must say who reads it. He is an extraordinary genius, Browning, with dramatic power of the first order. “Paracelsus” he describes, with some justice, as “very lofty, but very diffuse.” Of Browning’s “Christmas Eve” he later writes, “A wonderful man is Browning, but too obscure,” and later makes a similar remark on “The Ring and the Book.” Of Tennyson he writes, as to “The Princess,” calling it “a gentle satire, in the easiest and most flowing blank verse, with two delicious unrhymed songs, and many exquisite passages. I went to bed after it, with delightful music ringing in my ears; yet half disappointed in the poem, though not knowing why. There is a discordant note somewhere.”

One very uncertain test of a man of genius is his “table-talk.” Surrounded by a group of men who were such masters of this gift as Lowell, Holmes, and T. G. Appleton, Longfellow might well be excused from developing it to the highest extent, and he also “being rather a silent man,” as he says of himself, escaped thereby the tendency to monologue, which was sometimes a subject of complaint in regard to the other three. Longfellow’s reticence and self-control saved him 274 from all such perils; but it must be admitted, on the other hand, that when his brother collects a dozen pages of his “table-talk” at the end of his memoirs, or when one reads his own list of them in “Kavanagh,” the reader feels a slight inadequacy, as of things good enough to be said, but not quite worth the printing. Yet at their best, they are sometimes pungent and telling, as where he says, “When looking for anything lost, begin by looking where you think it is not;” or, “Silence is a great peace-maker;” or, “In youth all doors open outward; in old age they all open inward,” or, more thoughtfully, “Amusements are like specie payments. We do not much care for them, if we know we can have them; but we like to know they may be had,” or more profoundly still, “How often it happens that after we know a man personally, we cease to read his writings. Is it that we exhaust him by a look? Is it that his personality gives us all of him we desire?” There are also included among these passages some thoroughly poetic touches, as where he says, “The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout, and hands full of flowers.” Or this, “How sudden and sweet are the visitations of our happiest thoughts; what delightful surprises! In the midst of life’s most trivial 275 occupations,—as when we are reading a newspaper, or lighting a bed-candle, or waiting for our horses to drive round,—the lovely face appears, and thoughts more precious than gold are whispered in our ear.”

The test of popularity in a poet is nowhere more visible than in the demand for autographs. Longfellow writes in his own diary that on November 25, 1856, he has more than sixty such requests lying on his table; and again on January 9, “Yesterday I wrote, sealed, and directed seventy autographs. To-day I added five or six more and mailed them.” It does not appear whether the later seventy applications included the earlier sixty, but it is, in view of the weakness of human nature, very probable. This number must have gone on increasing. I remember that in 1875 I saw in his study a pile which must have numbered more than seventy, and which had come in a single day from a single high school in a Western city, to congratulate him on his birthday, and each hinting at an autograph, which I think he was about to supply.

At the time of his seventy-fourth birthday, 1881, a lady in Ohio sent him a hundred blank cards, with the request that he would write his name on each, that she might distribute them among her guests at a party she was to give on that day. The same day was celebrated by some 276 forty different schools in the Western States, all writing him letters and requesting answers. He sent to each school, his brother tells us, some stanza with signature and good wishes. He was patient even with the gentleman who wrote to him to request that he would send his autograph in his “own handwriting.” As a matter of fact, he had to leave many letters unanswered, even by a secretary, in his latest years.

It is a most tantalizing thing to know, through the revelations of Mr. William Winter, that Longfellow left certain poems unpublished. Mr. Winter says: “He said also that he sometimes wrote poems that were for himself alone, that he should not care ever to publish, because they were too delicate for publication.”[105] Quite akin to this was another remark made by him to the same friend, that “the desire of the young poet is not for applause, but for recognition.” The two remarks limit one another; the desire for recognition only begins when the longing for mere expression is satisfied. Thoroughly practical and methodical and industrious, Longfellow yet needed some self-expression first of all. It is impossible to imagine him as writing puffs of himself, like Poe, or volunteering reports of receptions given to him, like Whitman. He said to Mr. Winter, again and again, “What you 277 desire will come, if you will but wait for it.” The question is not whether this is the only form of the poetic temperament, but it was clearly his form of it. Thoreau well says that there is no definition of poetry which the poet will not instantly set aside by defying all its limitations, and it is the same with the poetic temperament itself.

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CHAPTER XXIV
LONGFELLOW AS A MAN

Longfellow always amused himself, as do most public men, with the confused and contradictory descriptions of his personal appearance: with the Newport bookseller who exclaimed, “Why, you look more like a sea captain than a poet!” and a printer who described him as “a hale, portly, fine-looking man, nearly six feet in height, well proportioned, with a tendency to fatness; brown hair and blue eyes, and bearing the general appearance of a comfortable hotel-keeper.” More graphic still, and on the whole nearer to the facts, is this description by an English military visitor who met him at a reception in Boston in 1850. I happened upon the volume containing it amid a pile of literary lumber in one of the great antiquarian bookstores of London:—

“He was rather under the middle size, but gracefully formed, and extremely prepossessing in his general appearance. His hair was light-colored, and tastefully disposed. Below a fine forehead gleamed two of the most beautiful eyes 279 I had ever beheld in any human head. One seemed to gaze far into their azure depths. A very sweet smile, not at all of the pensively-poetical character, lurked about the well-shaped mouth, and altogether the expression of Henry Wordsworth [sic] Longfellow’s face was most winning. He was dressed very fashionably—almost too much so; a blue frock coat of Parisian cut, a handsome waistcoat, faultless pantaloons, and primrose-colored ‘kids’ set off his compact figure, which was not a moment still; for like a butterfly glancing from flower to flower, he was tripping from one lady to another, admired and courted by all. He shook me cordially by the hand, introduced me to his lady, invited me to his house, and then he was off again like a humming bird.”[106]

A later picture by another English observer is contained in Lord Ronald Gower’s “My Reminiscences.” After a description of a visit to Craigie House, in 1878, he says: “If asked to describe Longfellow’s appearance, I should compare him to the ideal representations of early Christian saints and prophets. There is a kind of halo of goodness about him, a benignity in his expression which one associates with St. John at Patmos saying to his followers and brethren, ‘Little children, love one another!’... Longfellow 280 has had the rare fortune of being thoroughly appreciated in his own country and in other countries during his lifetime; how different, probably, would have been the career of Byron, of Keats, or of Shelley, had it been thus with them! It would be presumptuous for me, and out of place, to do more here than allude to the universal popularity of Longfellow’s works wherever English is spoken; I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that his works are more popular than those of any other living poet. What child is there who has not heard of ‘Excelsior,’ or of ‘Evangeline,’ of ‘Miles Standish,’ or of ‘Hiawatha’? What songs more popular than ‘The Bridge,’ and ‘I know a maiden fair to see’? Or who, after reading the ‘Psalm of Life,’ or the ‘Footsteps of Angels,’ does not feel a little less worldly, a little less of the earth, earthy? The world, indeed, owes a deep debt of gratitude to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.... Bidding me note the beauty of the autumnal tints that make America in the ‘fall’ look as if rainbows were streaming out of the earth, Longfellow presented me with a goodly sample of the red and golden leaves of the previous autumn, which, although dry and faded, still glowed like gems; these leaves I brought away with me, and they now form a garland round the 281 poet’s portrait; a precious souvenir of that morning passed at Craigie House.”[107]

Lord Ronald Gower then quotes the words used long since in regard to Longfellow by Cardinal Wiseman,—words which find an appropriate place here.

“‘Our hemisphere,’ said the Cardinal, ‘cannot claim the honor of having brought him forth, but he still belongs to us, for his works have become as household words wherever the English language is spoken. And whether we are charmed by his imagery, or soothed by his melodious versification, or elevated by the moral teachings of his pure muse, or follow with sympathetic hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I am sure that all who hear my voice will join with me in the tribute I desire to pay to the genius of Longfellow.’”[108]

“We have but one life here on earth,” wrote Longfellow in his diary; “we must make that beautiful. And to do this, health and elasticity of mind are needful, and whatever endangers or impedes these must be avoided.” It is not often that a man’s scheme of life is so well fulfilled, or when fulfilled is so well reflected in his face and bearing, tinged always by the actual 282 mark of the terrible ordeal through which he had passed. When Sydney Dobell was asked to describe Tennyson, he replied, “If he were pointed out to you as the man who had written the Iliad, you would answer, ‘I can well believe it.’” This never seemed to be quite true of Tennyson, whose dark oriental look would rather have suggested the authorship of the Arab legend of “Antar” or of the quatrains of Omar Khayyám. But it was eminently true of the picturesqueness of Longfellow in his later years, with that look of immovable serenity and of a benignity which had learned to condone all human sins. In this respect Turgenieff alone approached him, in real life, among the literary men I have known, and there is a photograph of the Russian which is often mistaken for that of the American.

Indeed, the beauty of his home life remained always visible. Living constantly in the same old house with its storied associations, surrounded by children and their friends, mingling with what remained of his earlier friends,—with his younger brother, a most accomplished and lovable person, forming one of his own family, and his younger sister living near him in a house of her own,—he was also easily the first citizen of the little University City. Giving readily his time and means to all public interests, even those 283 called political, his position was curiously unlike that of the more wayward or detached poets. Later his two married daughters built houses close by and bore children, and the fields were full of their playmates, representing the exuberant life of a new generation. He still kept his health, and as he walked to and fro his very presence was a benediction. Some of his old friends had been unfortunate in life and were only too willing to seek his door; and even his literary enterprises, as for instance the “Poems of Places,” were mainly undertaken for their sakes, that they might have employment and support.

It is a curious but indisputable fact that no house in Cambridge, even in the tenfold larger university circle of to-day, presents such a constant course of hospitable and refined social intercourse as existed at Craigie House in the days of Longfellow. Whether it is that professors are harder worked and more poorly paid, or only that there happens to be no one so sought after by strangers and so able, through favoring fortune, to receive them, is not clear. But the result is the same. He had troops of friends; they loved to come to him and he to have them come, and the comforts of creature refreshment were never wanting, though perhaps in simpler guise than now. It needs but to turn the pages 284 of his memoirs as written by his brother to see that with the agreeable moderation of French or Italian gentlemen, he joined their daintiness of palate and their appreciation of choice vintages, and this at a time when the physiological standard was less advanced than now, and a judicious attention to the subject was for that reason better appreciated. His friends from Boston and Brookline came so constantly and so easily as to suggest a far greater facility of conveyance than that of to-day, although the real facts were quite otherwise. One can hardly wonder that the bard’s muse became a little festive under circumstances so very favorable. His earlier circle of friends known as “the five of clubs” included Professor Felton, whom Dickens called “the heartiest of Greek professors;” Charles Sumner; George S. Hillard, Sumner’s law partner; and Henry R. Cleveland, a retired teacher and educational writer. Of these, Felton was a man of varied learning, as was Sumner, an influence which made Felton jocose but sometimes dogged, and Sumner eloquent, but occasionally tumid in style. Hillard was one of those thoroughly accomplished men who fail of fame only for want of concentration, and Cleveland was the first to advance ideas of school training, now so well established that men forget their ever needing an advocate. He died young, and Dr. Samuel G. Howe, a man of worldwide 285 fame as a philanthropist and trainer of the blind, was put in to fill the vacancy. All these five men, being of literary pursuits, could scarcely fail of occasionally praising one another, and were popularly known as “the mutual admiration society;” indeed, there was a tradition that some one had written above a review of Longfellow’s “Evangeline” by Felton, to be found at the Athenæum Library, the condensed indorsement, “Insured at the Mutual.” At a later period this club gave place, as clubs will, to other organizations, such as the short-lived Atlantic Club and the Saturday Club; and at their entertainments Longfellow was usually present, as were also, in the course of time, Emerson, Holmes, Lowell, Agassiz, Whittier, and many visitors from near and far. Hawthorne was rarely seen on such occasions, and Thoreau never. On the other hand, the club never included the more radical reformers, as Garrison, Phillips, Bronson Alcott, Edmund Quincy, or Theodore Parker, and so did not call out what Emerson christened “the soul of the soldiery of dissent.”

It would be a mistake to assume that on these occasions Longfellow was a recipient only. Of course Holmes and Lowell, the most naturally talkative of the party, would usually have the lion’s share of the conversation; but Longfellow, with all his gentle modesty, had a quiet wit of 286 his own and was never wholly a silent partner. His saying of Ruskin, for instance, that he had “grand passages of rhetoric, Iliads in nutshells;” of some one else, that “Criticism is double edged. It criticises him who receives and him who gives;” his description of the contented Dutch tradesman “whose golden face, like the round and ruddy physiognomy of the sun on the sign of a village tavern, seems to say ‘Good entertainment here;’” of Venice, that “it is so visionary and fairylike that one is almost afraid to set foot on the ground, lest he should sink the city;” of authorship, that “it is a mystery to many people that an author should reveal to the public secrets that he shrinks from telling to his most intimate friends;” that “nothing is more dangerous to an author than sudden success, because the patience of genius is one of its most precious attributes;” that “he who carries his bricks to the building of every one’s house will never build one for himself;”—these were all fresh, racy, and truthful, and would bear recalling when many a brilliant stroke of wit had sparkled on the surface and gone under. As a mere critic he grew more amiable and tolerant as he grew older, as is the wont of literary men; and John Dwight, then the recognized head of the musical brotherhood of Boston, always maintained that Longfellow was 287 its worst enemy by giving his warm indorsement to the latest comer, whatever his disqualifications as to style or skill.

Holmes said of him in a letter to Motley in 1873:—

“I find a singular charm in the society of Longfellow,—a soft voice, a sweet and cheerful temper, a receptive rather than aggressive intelligence, the agreeable flavor of scholarship without any pedantic ways, and a perceptible soupçon of the humor, not enough to startle or surprise or keep you under the strain of over-stimulation, which I am apt to feel with very witty people.”

And ten years later, writing to a friend and referring to his verses on the death of Longfellow, printed in the “Atlantic Monthly,” he said: “But it is all too little, for his life was so exceptionally sweet and musical that any voice of praise sounds almost like a discord after it.”

Professor Rolfe has suggested that he unconsciously describes himself in “The Golden Legend,” where Walter the Minnesinger says of Prince Henry:—

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He also points out that this is the keynote of the dedication of “The Seaside and the Fireside,” the volume published in 1849.

In another age or country Longfellow would have been laurelled, medalled, or ennobled; but he has had what his essentially republican spirit doubtless preferred, the simple homage of a nation’s heart. He had his share of foreign honors; and these did not come from Oxford and Cambridge only, since in 1873 he was chosen a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, and in 1877 of the Spanish Academy. At home he was the honored member of every literary club or association to which he cared to belong. In the half-rural city where he spent his maturer life—that which he himself described in “Hyperion” as “this leafy blossoming, and beautiful 289 Cambridge”—he held a position of as unquestioned honor and reverence as that of Goethe at Weimar or Jean Paul at Baireuth. This was the more remarkable, as he rarely attended public meetings, seldom volunteered counsel or action, and was not seen very much in public. But his weight was always thrown on the right side; he took an unfeigned interest in public matters, always faithful to the traditions of his friend Sumner; and his purse was always easily opened for all good works. On one occasion there was something like a collision of opinion between him and the city government, when it was thought necessary for the widening of Brattle Street to remove the “spreading chestnut-tree” that once stood before the smithy of the village blacksmith, Dexter Pratt. The poet earnestly expostulated; the tree fell, nevertheless; but by one of those happy thoughts which sometimes break the monotony of municipal annals, it was proposed to the city fathers that the children of the public schools should be invited to build out of its wood, by their small subscriptions, a great armchair for the poet’s study. The unexpected gift, from such a source, salved the offence, but it brought with it a penalty to Mr. Longfellow’s household, for the kindly bard gave orders that no child who wished to see the chair should be excluded; and 290 the tramp of dirty little feet through the hall was for many months the despair of housemaids. Thenceforward his name was to these children a household word; and the most charming feature of the festival held on the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Cambridge (December 28, 1880) was the reception given by a thousand grammar-school children to the gray and courteous old poet, who made then and there, almost for the only time in his life, and contrary to all previous expectations, a brief speech in reply.

On that occasion he thus spoke briefly, at the call of the mayor, who presided, and who afterwards caused to be read by Mr. George Riddle, the verses “From My Arm-Chair,” which the poet had written for the children. He spoke as follows:—

My dear Young Friends,—I do not rise to make an address to you, but to excuse myself from making one. I know the proverb says that he who excuses himself accuses himself,—and I am willing on this occasion to accuse myself, for I feel very much as I suppose some of you do when you are suddenly called upon in your class room, and are obliged to say that you are not prepared. I am glad to see your faces and to hear your voices. I am glad to have this 291 opportunity of thanking you in prose, as I have already done in verse, for the beautiful present you made me some two years ago. Perhaps some of you have forgotten it, but I have not; and I am afraid,—yes, I am afraid that fifty years hence, when you celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of this occasion, this day and all that belongs to it will have passed from your memory; for an English philosopher has said that the ideas as well as children of our youth often die before us, and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are approaching, where, though the brass and marble remain, yet the inscriptions are effaced by time, and the imagery moulders away.

Again, upon his seventy-fifth birthday, there were great rejoicings in the Cambridge schools, as indeed in those of many other cities far and wide.

Craigie House, his residence, has already been described. In this stately old edifice dwelt the venerable poet, who was usually to be found in his ample study, rich with the accumulations of literary luxury. One might find him seated with Coleridge’s inkstand before him, perhaps answering one of the vast accumulations of letters from the school children of Western cities—an enormous mass of correspondence, which 292 was a little while a delight, and then became a burden. Before him was a carved bookcase containing a priceless literary treasure,—the various editions of his works, and, which was far more valuable, the successive manuscripts of each, carefully preserved and bound under his direction, and often extending to three separate copies: the original manuscript, the manuscript as revised for the printer, and the corrected proofs. More than once his friends urged him to build a fireproof building for these unique memorials, as Washington did for his own papers elsewhere; but the calm and equable author used to reply, “If the house burns, let its contents go also.”

The wonder of Mr. Longfellow’s later years was not so much that he kept up his incessant literary activity as that he did it in the midst of the constant interruptions involved in great personal popularity and fame. He had received beneath his roof every notable person who had visited Boston for half a century; he had met them all with the same affability, and had consented, with equal graciousness, to be instructed by Emerson and Sumner, or to be kindly patronized—as the story goes—by Oscar Wilde. From that room had gone forth innumerable kind acts and good deeds, and never a word of harshness. He retained to the last his sympathy 293 with young people, and with all liberal and progressive measures. Indeed, almost his latest act of public duty was to sign a petition to the Massachusetts legislature for the relief of the disabilities still placed in that State upon the testimony of atheists.

Mr. Longfellow’s general health remained tolerably good, in spite of advancing years, until within about three months of his death. After retiring to bed in apparent health one night, he found himself in the morning so dizzy as to be unable to rise, and with a pain in the top of his head. For a week he was unable to walk across the room on account of dizziness, and although it gradually diminished, yet neither this nor the pain in the head ever entirely disappeared, and there was great loss of strength and appetite. He accepted the situation at once, retreated to the security of his own room, refused all visitors outside of the family, and had a printed form provided for the acknowledgment of letters, leaving his daughters to answer them. During the last three months of his life he probably did not write three dozen letters, and though he saw some visitors, he refused many more. He might sometimes be seen walking on his piazza, or even in the street before the house, but he accepted no invitations, and confined himself mainly within doors. His seventy-fifth birthday, February 294 27, was passed very quietly at home, in spite of the many celebrations held elsewhere. On Sunday, March 19, he had a sudden attack of illness, not visibly connected with his previous symptoms. It was evident that the end was near, and he finally died of peritonitis on Friday afternoon, March 24, 1882.

It will perhaps be found, as time goes on, that the greatest service rendered by Longfellow—beyond all personal awakening or stimulus exerted on his readers—was that of being the first conspicuous representative, in an eminently practical and hard-working community, of the literary life. One of a circle of superior men, he was the only one who stood for that life purely and supremely, and thus vindicated its national importance. Among his predecessors, Irving had lived chiefly in Europe, and Bryant in a newspaper office. Among his immediate friends, Holmes stood for exact science, Lowell and Whittier for reform, Sumner for statesmanship, Emerson for spiritual and mystic values; even the shy Hawthorne for public functions at home and abroad. Here was a man whose single word, sent forth from his quiet study, reached more hearts in distant nations than any of these, and was speedily reproduced in the far-off languages of the world. Considered merely as an antidote to materialism, such a life was of incalculable 295 value. Looking at him, the reign of the purely materialistic, however much aided by organizing genius, was plainly self-limited; the modest career of Longfellow outshone it in the world’s arena. Should that reign henceforth grow never so potent, the best offset to its most arrogant claims will be found, for years to come, in the memory of his name.

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APPENDIX

I
GENEALOGY

[From Life, etc., by Samuel Longfellow, iii. 421.]

The name of Longfellow is found in the records of Yorkshire, England, as far back as 1486, and appears under the various spellings of Langfellay, Langfellowe, Langfellow, and Longfellow. The first of the name is James Langfellay, of Otley. In 1510 Sir Peter Langfellowe is vicar of Calverley. In the neighboring towns of Ilkley, Guiseley, and Horsforth lived many Longfellows, mostly yeomen: some of them well-to-do, others a charge on the parish; some getting into the courts and fined for such offences as “cutting green wode,” or “greenhow,” or “carrying away the Lord’s wood,”—wood from the yew-trees of the lord of the manor, to which they thought they had a right for their bows. One of the name was overseer of highways, and one was churchwarden in Ilkley.

It is well established, by tradition and by documents, that the poet’s ancestors were in Horsforth. In 1625 we find Edward Longfellow (perhaps from Ilkley) purchasing “Upper House,” in Horsforth; and in 1647 he makes over his house and lands to 298 his son William. This William was a well-to-do clothier who lived in Upper House, and, besides, possessed three other houses or cottages (being taxed for “4 hearths”), with gardens, closes, crofts, etc. He had two sons, Nathan and William, and four or five daughters. William was baptized at Guiseley (the parish church of Horsforth), October 20, 1650.

The first of the name in America was this William, son of William of Horsforth. He came over, a young man, to Newbury, Massachusetts, about 1676. Soon after, he married Anne Sewall, daughter of Henry Sewall, of Newbury, and sister of Samuel Sewall, afterward the first chief justice of Massachusetts. He received from his father-in-law a farm in the parish of Byfield, on the Parker River.[109] He is spoken of as “well educated, but a little wild,” or, as another puts it, “not so much of a Puritan as some.” In 1690, as ensign of the Newbury company in the Essex regiment, he joined the ill-fated expedition of Sir William Phipps against Quebec, which on its return encountered a severe storm in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. One of the ships was wrecked on the island of Anticosti, and William Longfellow, 299 with nine of his comrades, was drowned. He left five children. The fourth of these, Stephen (1), left to shift for himself, became a blacksmith. He married Abigail, daughter of Rev. Edward Tompson, of Newbury, afterward of Marshfield. Their fifth child, Stephen (2), born in 1723, being a bright boy, was sent to Harvard College, where he took his first degree in 1742, and his second in 1745. In this latter year (after having meanwhile taught a school in York) he went to Portland in Maine (then Falmouth), to be the schoolmaster of the town.[110]

He gained the respect of the community to such a degree that he was called to fill important offices; being successively parish clerk, town clerk, register of probate, and clerk of the courts. When Portland was burned by Mowatt in 1775, his house having been destroyed, he removed to Gorham, where he resided 300 till his death, in 1790. It was said of him that he was a man of piety, integrity, and honor, and that his favorite reading was history and poetry. He had married Tabitha, daughter of Samuel Bragdon, of York. Their eldest son, Stephen (3), was born in 1750, inheriting the name and the farm; and in 1773 he married Patience Young, of York. He represented his town in the Massachusetts legislature for eight years, and his county for several years after as senator. For fourteen years (1797–1811) he was judge of the Court of Common Pleas, and is remembered as a man of sterling qualities, great integrity, and sound common-sense. His second child, Stephen (4), born in Gorham in 1776, graduated at Harvard College in 1798, studied law in Portland, and in 1801 was admitted to the Cumberland Bar, at which he soon attained and kept a distinguished position. In 1814, as a member of the Federalist party, to whose principles he was strongly attached, he was sent as a representative to the Massachusetts legislature. In 1822 he was elected representative to Congress, which office he held for one term. In 1828 he received the degree of LL. D. from Bowdoin College, of which he was a Trustee for nineteen years. In 1834 he was elected President of the Maine Historical Society. He died in 1849, highly respected for his integrity, public spirit, hospitality, and generosity. In 1804 he had married Zilpah, daughter of General Peleg Wadsworth, of Portland. Of their eight children, Henry Wadsworth was the second. He was named for his mother’s brother, a gallant young lieutenant 301 in the Navy, who on the night of September 4, 1804, gave his life before Tripoli in the war with Algiers. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on the 27th February, 1807; graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825; in 1829 was appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the same college; was married in 1831 to Mary Storer Potter (daughter of Barrett Potter of Portland), who died in 1835; in 1836 was appointed Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres in Harvard College, which office he held till 1854. He was again married in July, 1843, to Frances Elizabeth Appleton, daughter of Nathan Appleton, of Boston. She died in 1861. Their children were Charles Appleton, Ernest Wadsworth, Frances (who died in infancy), Alice Mary, Edith, and Anne Allegra. He died on the 24th March, 1882.

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			Edward Longfellow, of Horsforth.
			William, b. 1620; d. 1704.
		Nathan, d. 1687.	William, b. 1650; em. to America; m. 10 Nov., 1676 to Anne Sewall; d. 31 Oct., 1690.	Mary. Isabella.	Lucy. Martha.
William.	Stephen, d. in infancy.	Anne.	Stephen (1), b. 22 Sept., 1685; m. 13 Mar., 1713 to Abigail Tompson; d. 17 Nov., 1764.	Elizabeth, m. Benj. Woodman.	Nathan.
		William. Ann. Edward. Sarah.	Stephen (2), b. 7 Feb., 1723; (H. C., 1742) (Portland, 1745); m. 19 Oct., 1749 to Tabitha Bragdon; d. Gorham, 1 May, 1790.	Samuel. Abigail. Elizabeth. Nathan.
			Stephen (3), b. 3 Aug., 1750; m. 13 Dec., 1773 to Patience Young; d. Gorham, 1824.	Samuel. Tabitha. Abigail.
		Tabitha, m. Lothrop Lewis.	Stephen (4), b. 23 Mar., 1776; (H. C., 1798) m. 1 Jan., 1804 to Zilpah Wadsworth; d. ——, Aug., 1849.	Abigail, m. Saml. Stephenson.	Ann. Catherine. Samuel.
		Stephen (5), d. 1850.	Henry W. b. 27 Feb., 1807; m. (1) 14 Sept., 1831 to Mary S. Potter; (2) 13 July, 1843 to Frances E. Appleton; d. 24 Mar., 1882.	Elizabeth. Anne.	Alex. W. Mary.	Ellen. Saml.

303

II
BIBLIOGRAPHY

[This does not include detached poems or his youthful prose contributions, but begins with his first published volume.]

1830.

Elements of French Grammar. Translated from the French of C. F. L’Homond. Portland.

[Editor.] Manuel de Proverbes Dramatiques. Portland. With a long preface in French by the Editor.

[Editor.] Novelas Españolas. Portland. With an original preface in Spanish.

1831.

Origin and Progress of the French Language. Article in North Am. Rev., 32. 277. April.

1832.

Defence of Poetry. North Am. Rev., 34. 56. January.

History of the Italian Language and Dialects. North Am. Rev., 35. 283. October.

Syllabus de la Grammaire Italienne. Written in French. Boston.

[Editor.] Cours de Langue Française. Boston.

[Editor.] Saggi de’ Novellieri Italiani d’Ogni Secolo: Tratti da’ più celebri Scrittori, con brevi 304 Notizie intorno alla Vita di ciascheduno. Boston. With preface in Italian by the Editor.

Spanish Devotional and Moral Poetry. North Am. Rev., 34. 277. April.

1833.

Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique. A translation from the Spanish. Boston.

Spanish Language and Literature. North Am. Rev., 36. 316. April.

Old English Romances. North Am. Rev., 37. 374. October.

1835.

Outre-Mer; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. 2 vols. New York.

1837.

The Great Metropolis. North Am. Rev., 44. 461. April.

Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales. North Am. Rev., 45. 59. July.

Tegnér’s Frithiofs Saga. North Am. Rev., 45. 149. July.

1838.

Anglo-Saxon Literature. North Am. Rev., 47. 90. July.

1839.

Hyperion; a Romance. 2 vols. New York.

Voices of the Night. Cambridge.

305

1840.

The French Language in England. North Am. Rev., 51. 285. October.

1841.

Ballads and other Poems. Cambridge.

1842.

Poems on Slavery. Cambridge.

1843.

The Spanish Student. A Play in Three Acts. Cambridge.

1845.

[Editor.] The Waif: a Collection of Poems. Cambridge. With Proem by the Editor.

[Editor.] The Poets and Poetry of Europe. Philadelphia.

Poems. Illustrated. Philadelphia.

1846.

Poems. Popular Edition. New York.

The Belfry of Bruges, and other Poems. Boston.

[Editor.] The Estray: a Collection of Poems. Boston. With Proem by the Editor.

1847.

Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie. Boston.

306

1849.

Kavanagh: a Tale. Boston.

1850.

The Seaside and the Fireside. Boston.

1851.

The Golden Legend. Boston.

1855.

The Song of Hiawatha. Boston.

1858.

The Courtship of Miles Standish. Boston.

1863.

Tales of a Wayside Inn. Boston.

1867.

Flower-de-Luce. Boston.

1868.

The New England Tragedies. Boston.

1867–70.

Dante’s Divine Comedy. A Translation. Boston.

1871.

The Divine Tragedy. Boston.

307

1872.

Christus: a Mystery. Boston.

Three Books of Song. Boston.

1874.

Aftermath. Boston.

1875.

The Masque of Pandora, and other Poems. Boston.

1876–79.

[Editor.] Poems of Places. 31 vols. Boston.

1878.

Kéramos, and other Poems. Boston.

1880.

Ultima Thule. Boston.

1882.

In the Harbor. Boston.

1883.

Michael Angelo. Boston.

1886.

A Complete Edition of Mr. Longfellow’s Poetical and Prose Works, in 11 volumes, with introductions and notes, was published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.

308

III
TRANSLATIONS OF MR. LONGFELLOW’S WORKS

The following catalogue of translations of Mr. Longfellow’s works is based, of course, upon that prepared by Mr. Samuel Longfellow for the memoir of his brother. This is here, however, revised, corrected, and much enlarged, partly by the addition of later versions and partly by others gathered from European bibliographies and publishers’ lists; this work being aided by the learned guidance of Professor Wiener of Harvard University. Even with this enlargement the list is doubtless quite incomplete; so widely scattered are these translations among the periodicals and even the schoolbooks of different nations, and so much time and labor would be required to furnish an absolutely complete exhibit.

GERMAN

Longfellow’s Gedichte. Übersetzt von Carl Böttger. Dessau: 1856.

Balladen und Lieder von H. W. Longfellow. Deutsch von A. R. Nielo. Münster: 1857.

Longfellow’s Gedichte. Von Friedrich Marx. Hamburg und Leipzig: 1868.

Longfellow’s ältere und neuere Gedichte in Auswald. Deutsch von Adolf Laun. Oldenburg: 1879.

Der Spanische Student. Übersetzt Karl Böttger. Dessau: 1854.

309

The Same. Von Marie Hélène Le Maistre. Dresden: n. d.

The Same. Übersetzt von Häfeli. Leipzig: n. d.

Evangeline. Aus dem Englischen. Hamburg: 1857.

The Same. Aus dem Englischen. Von P. J. Belke. Leipzig: 1854.

The Same. Mit Anmerkungen von Dr. O. Dickmann. Hamburg: n. d.

The Same. Eine Erzählung aus Acadien. Von Eduard Nickles. Karlsruhe: 1862.

The Same. In deutscher Nachdichtung von P. Herlth. Bremen: 1870.

The Same. Übersetzt von Frank Siller. Milwaukee: 1879.

The Same. Übersetzt von Karl Knortz. Leipzig: n. d.

Longfellow’s Evangeline. Deutsch von Heinrich Viehoff. Trier: 1869.

Die Goldene Legende. Deutsch von Karl Keck. Wien: 1859. Also Leipzig, 1860.

The Same. Übersetzt von Elise Freifrau von Hohenhausen. Leipzig: 1880.

Das Lied von Hiawatha. Deutsch von Adolph Böttger. Leipzig: 1856.

The Same. Übersetzt von A. und K. Leitz. Hannover: 1859.

Der Sang von Hiawatha. Übersetzt von Ferdinand Freiligrath. Stuttgart und Augsburg: 1857.

Hiawatha. Übertragen von Hermann Simon. Leipzig: n. d.

310

Der Sang von Hiawatha. Übersetzt, eingeleitet und erklärt von Karl Knortz. Jena: 1872.

Miles Standish’s Brautwerbung. Aus dem Englischen von F. E. Baumgarten. St. Louis: 1859.

Die Brautwerbung des Miles Standish. Übersetzt von Karl Knortz. Leipzig: 18--.

Miles Standish’s Brautwerbung. Übersetzt von F. Manefeld. 1867.

Die Sage von König Olaf. Übersetzt von Ernst Rauscher.

The Same. Übersetzt von W. Hertzberg.

Gedichte von H. W. L. Deutsch von Alexander Neidhardt. Darmstadt: 1856.

Hyperion. Deutsch von Adolph Böttger. Leipzig: 1856.

Pandora. Übersetzt von Isabella Schuchardt. Hamburg: 1878.

Morituri Salutamus. Übersetzt von Dr. Ernst Schmidt. Chicago: 1878.

The Hanging of the Crane. Das Kesselhängen. Übersetzt von G. A. Zündt: n. d.

The Same. Einhängen des Kesselhakens, frei bearbeitet von Joh. Henry Becker: n. d.

Sämmtliche Poetische Werke von H. W. L. Übersetzt von Hermann Simon. Leipzig: n. d.

Longfellow’s Tales of a Wayside Inn und ihre Quellen, etc. Varnhagen: 1884.

DUTCH

Evangeline. Een verhaal van Arcadie, d. S. J. van den Bergh en B. Ph. de Kanter. Haarlem: 1856.

311

Outre Mer en Kavanagh. Haar het Engelisch, B. T. L. Weddik. Amsterdam: 1858.

Het Lied van Hiawatha. In het Nederduitsch overgebragt door L. S. P. Meijboom. Amsterdam: 1862.

Miles Standish. Nagezongen door S. J. Van den Bergh. Haarlem: 1861.

The Same. Perpetua. Oorspronkelijk dichtstuck, en Miles Standish naverteld; door C. S. A. van Scheltema. Amsterdam: 1859.

Longfellow’s Gedighten. Nagezongen door S. J. Van den Bergh. Haarlem: 1861.

An Anthology. A. J. ten Brink, H. W. Longfellow. Bloemlezing en waardeering. Beverw. 1872.

J. J. L. ten Kate en A. Bechger’s Longfellow. Met een tal van Longfellow’s gedichten. Culemb. 1883.

De Smid van het dorp. Door Fiore della Neve. Amsterdam: 1884.

[Mr. Longfellow speaks in a letter, dated September 26, 1881, of having “received from Holland translations in Dutch of Outre-Mer, Kavanagh and Hyperion;” but I have found no other trace of such a translation of Hyperion. T. W. H.]

SWEDISH

Hyperion. På Svenska, af J. W. Grönlund. 1853.

Evangeline: en saga om kärlek i Acadien. På Svenska, af Alb. Lysander. 1854.

The Same. Öfversatt af Hjalmar Edgren. Göteborg: 1875.

312

The Same. Öfversatt af Philip Svenson. Chicago: 1875.

Hiawatha. På Svenska af A. G. Vestberg. 1856.

The Poets and Poetry of Europe. Öfversättning [af A. G. Vestberg]. 1859.

Valda Dikter [selected poems]. Tolkade af Hjalmar Edgren. Göteb. 1892.

DANISH

Evangeline. Paa Norsk, ved H. C. Knutsen. Christiania: 1874.

The Same. (et Digt.) bearb. af B. S.

Sangen om Hiawatha. Oversat af G. Bern. Kjöbenhavn: 1860.

Den Gyldne Legende, ved Thor Lange. Kjöbenhavn: 1880; also 1891.

Fire Digte. [four poems]. Overs. fra Engelsk. 1891.

Prosavaerker. Paa Dansk ved E. M. Thorson.

FRENCH

Evangeline; suivie des Voix de la Nuit. Par le Chevalier de Chatelain. Jersey, London, Paris, New York: 1856.

The Same. Conte d’Acadie. Traduit par Charles Brunel. Prose. Paris: 1864.

The Same. Par Léon Pamphile Le May. Québec: 1865. Also Quebec, 1870.

The Same. Adaptation [in prose] par A. Dubois, avec une notice sur Longfellow. Limoges: 1889.

La Légende Dorée, et Poëmes sur l’Esclavage. 313 Traduits par Paul Blier et Edward Mac-Donnel. Prose. Paris et Valenciennes: 1854.

Hiawatha. Traduction avec notes par M. H. Gomont. Nancy, Paris: 1860.

Drames et Poésies. Traduits par X. Marmier. (The New England Tragedies.) Paris: 1872.

Hyperion et Kavanagh. Traduit de l’Anglais, et précédé d’une Notice sur l’Auteur. 2 vols. Paris et Bruxelles: 1860.

The Psalm of Life, and other Poems. Tr. by Lucien de la Rive in Essais de Traduction Poétique. Paris: 1870.

ITALIAN

Alcune Poesie di Enrico W. Longfellow. Traduzione dall’Inglese di Angelo Messedaglia. Padova: 1866. Also Torino, 1878.

Lo Studente Spagnuolo. Prima Versione Metrica di Alessandro Bazzini. Milano: 1871.

The Same. Traduzione di Nazzareno Trovanelli. Firenze: 1876.

Poesie sulla Schiavitù. Tr. in Versi Italiani da Louisa Grace Bartolini. Firenze: 1860. [Other poems by Longfellow translated by the same lady were included in her volume entitled Baron Macaulay. Canti di Roma Antica, 1869.]

Evangelina. Tradotta da Pietro Rotondi. Firenze: 1856.

The Same. Traduzione di Carlo Faccioli. Verona: 1873.

La Leggenda d’Oro. Tradotta da Ada Corbellini Martini. Parma: 1867.

314

Il Canto d’Hiawatha. Tr. da L. G. Bartolini. Frammenti. Firenze: 1867.

Miles Standish. Traduzione dall’Inglese di Caterino Frattini. Padova: 1868.

Liriche e Novelle. Tradotte da C. Faccioli. Firenze: 1890.

Uccelletti di Passo. [Birds of Passage.] Dall’Inglese di H. W. Longfellow. Rovigo: 1875.

Excelsior. Traduzione dall’Inglese. A. Tebaldi.

PORTUGUESE

El Rei Roberto de Sicilia. Tr. by Dom Pedro II., Emperor of Brazil. Autograph MS.

Evangelina. Traduzida por Franklin Doria. Rio de Janeiro: 1874.

The Same. Poema de Henrique Longfellow. Traduzido por Miguel Street de Arriaga. Lisbon: n. d.

SPANISH

Evangelina. Romance de la Acadia. Traducido del Ingles por Carlos Mórla Vicuña. Nueva York: 1871.

The Same. Traducción de D. Alvaro L. Núñez. Barcelona. Tipolitografía del Comercio. 1895.

POLISH

Ewangelina. Przełożona na język Polski przez. A. Ch. [A. Chodźko?] Poznań. 1851.

Zlota Legenda. The Golden Legend. Tr. into Polish by F. Jezierski . Warszawa: 1857.

315

Ewangelina. Tr. into Polish by Felix Jezierski. Warszawa: 1857.

Duma o Hiawacie [The Song of Hiawatha.] Tr. into Polish by Felix Jezierski. Warszawa: 1860.

Excelsior, z Longfellowa przełozył. El ... y (in Pamietnik str. 87–88).

BOHEMIAN

Píseň o Hiavatě. Přeložil J. V. Sládek. 1882.

Evangelína. Povidka Akadská. Přeložil P. Sobotka. 1877.

HUNGARIAN

Hiavata. Forditotta Tamásfi Gy. 1885.

Az Arany Legenda. Forditotta Jánosi Gusztáv. 1886.

RUSSIAN

Poem of Hiawatha. Moscow, 1878.

Excelsior, and Other Poems. St. Petersburg: n. d.

OTHER LANGUAGES

Hiawatha, rendered into Latin, with abridgment. By Francis William Newman. London: 1862.

Excelsior. Tr. into Hebrew by Henry Gersoni. n. d.

A Psalm of Life. In Marathi. By Mrs. H. I. Bruce. Satara: 1878.

The Same. In Chinese. By Jung Tagen. Written on a fan.

316

The Same. In Sanscrit. By Elihu Burritt and his pupils. MS.

Judas Maccabæus, a prose translation in Judea-German. Odessa, 1882.

[The above list does not include reprints of Longfellow in the English language published in foreign countries; as, for instance, Evangeline published in Sweden in the Little English Library; Poems and fragments selected by Urda, published at Amsterdam, Holland, and various editions of Hyperion and other works in German editions, as mentioned in the introduction to this book.]

IV
A VISIT TO HIAWATHA’S PEOPLE

The following narrative of the reception given to the Longfellow family by the Ojibway Indians was prepared by Miss Alice M. Longfellow for the Riverside Literature Series, and is used by permission.

When the idea of writing an Indian poem began first to take form in Mr. Longfellow’s mind, he followed the adventures of Manabozho (a mythical character, whose exploits figure largely in all Ojibway legends) and gave his name to the poem; but feeling the need of some expression of the finer and nobler side of the Indian nature, he blended the supernatural deeds of the crafty sprite with the wise, noble spirit of the Iroquois national hero, and formed the character of Hiawatha.

317

Early in the last century the scattered bands of the Ojibways who had their home near Lake Superior and Lake Huron, with their principal village at Garden River in Algoma, not far from Sault Ste. Marie, were ruled over by Chief Shingwauk, a ruler of force and character. He held the remnants of the tribe together, cherished their national pride, and laid great stress on the importance of preserving the national legendary history. He imbued his son Bukwujjinini with the same feeling, and carefully instructed him in all the legendary lore of his people. Bukwujjinini became thus well versed in these legends, and it was from him that Mr. Schoolcraft, who had married an Indian woman, received them, turning them into English and printing them in his great work on the Indians.

The old chief was a fine specimen of the aboriginal red man, dignified, wise, and thoughtful, and deeply beloved by his people. He selected his nephew, George Kabaoosa—or Daguagonay—as his successor in continuing the legendary history of his people, constantly repeating to him all he had heard from his father, and this Kabaoosa is now engaged in writing out all these legends to preserve them for posterity. In addition to his knowledge of these tales from his uncle’s lips, Kabaoosa had heard the poem of “Hiawatha” read by his Sunday-school teacher in his youth.

In the winter of 1900 a band of Ojibway Indians was formed to illustrate Indian life at the Sportsmen’s Show in Boston. Among them was the old chief 318 Bukwujjinini, and one of the inducements he had to take the journey was the hope of visiting the home of the writer who had cared enough for the legends of his people to turn them into poetry. But this could not be, for the old man, who was over ninety, fell ill, and died on the very day the Indians were to set forth, and they took their journey without their father, and with genuine sorrow in their hearts.

For some time the Canadian gentleman who arranged the expedition had been cherishing the idea of training the Indians to perform scenes from “Hiawatha” in the forest on the shores of the “big sea water.” Kabaoosa readily fell in with this scheme, and after the visit of the Indians to Mr. Longfellow’s home in Cambridge the plan rapidly matured, and a formal invitation was sent to Mr. Longfellow’s family to be present at the representation as guests of the Indians. The invitation was written on birch bark, in Ojibway, and was as follows:—

Ladies: We loved your father. The memory of our people will never die as long as your father’s song lives, and that will live forever.

Will you and your husbands and Miss Longfellow come and see us and stay in our royal wigwams on an island in Hiawatha’s playground, in the land of the Ojibways? We want you to see us live over again the life of Hiawatha in his own country.

Kabaoosa.
Wabunosa.

Boston, Onahbaunegises, The month of crusts on the snow.

319

The invitation was cordially accepted, and in August the party of guests, twelve in all, left the train at Desbarats on the north shore of Lake Huron; there they were met by the Indians in full costume, and in sailboat and canoes they set forth for the little rocky island, which had been prepared for them. There was a square stone lodge on the highest part of the island, most picturesquely finished inside and out, with the flag of England floating above it. Surrounding this were several tepees of tanned hide and stained canvas, and nearer the shore two little groups of tents, where two Indian families lived, who cooked and served, sailed the boats, entertained their guests with songs, dancing, and story-telling, doing all with a quiet dignity, ease of manner, and genuine kindliness that removed every difficulty.

The play of “Hiawatha” was performed on a rocky, thickly wooded point about two miles away. Near the shore a platform was built around a tall pine-tree, and grouped around this were tepees and wigwams forming the Indian village. Behind this the ground sloped gradually upward, forming a natural amphitheatre.

As a prelude to the play a large pile of brushwood was lighted.

“And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,

As a signal to the Nations.”

Down the hillsides rushed the braves in war-paint and feathers,—

“Wildly glaring at each other,

In their hearts the feuds of ages.

320

Then upon the ground the warriors

Threw their weapons and their war-gear,

Leaped into the rushing river,

Washed the war-paint from their faces,

And in silence all the warriors

Broke the red stone of the quarry,

Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes.”

Then appeared old Nokomis leading by the hand the youthful Hiawatha, and taught him how to shoot the bow and arrow, while the warriors stood around watching and applauding when he hit the mark.

The third scene was the journey of Hiawatha in his manhood after his battle with Mudjekeewis, a picturesque figure striding through the woods flecked with sunshine and shadow.

“Only once his pace he slackened,

Paused to purchase heads of arrows

Of the ancient arrow-maker.”

The wigwam of the ancient arrow-maker was placed far from the rest in the shade of the trees, to give an idea of distance. The arrow-maker himself, a very old man, sat by the entrance, cutting arrowheads; his daughter, a modest Indian maiden, stood beside him with downcast eyes, while the stranger paused to talk with her father.

This scene was followed by the return of Hiawatha to the land of the Dakotahs. Again the old man sat in the doorway, and by him was Minnehaha, “plaiting mats of flags and rushes.”

“Then uprose the Laughing Water,

Laid aside her mat unfinished,

321

Brought forth food, and set before them,

Gave them drink in bowls of bass wood.”

She stood modestly on one side while Hiawatha urged his suit, and then putting her hand in his, she followed him home through the forest.

Then came the wedding dances, full of life and spirit, the figures moving always round and round in a circle, with a swaying motion, the feet scarcely lifted from the ground. Under the pine-tree, tall and erect, with head and eyes uplifted, stood the musician, chanting his songs with a strange rhythmical cadence, and accompanying them on the flat Indian drum.

The old Nokomis in one corner guarded with a war-club a group of maidens who were dancing all the while, and the braves circling round slyly stole one maiden after another, until Nokomis was left alone. Then followed the caribou dance, the dancers with arms uplifted like horns, knocking and striking one another; the bear dance, with its clumsy, heavy motion; and the snake dance, where the dancers wound and twisted in and out, round and round; and always the singer continued his rhythmic chant.

Last came the gambling dance, the favorite with the actors. A mat of rushes was placed on the ground, and on each side kneeled the contestants. At the back stood the old singer, drumming and chanting advice to the players. On each side were grouped the women watching the game, their bodies swaying in time to the music, while the players grew more and more excited, arms, heads, bodies all moving 322 in perfect rhythm, calling out and shouting as one by one pouches, knives, belts, etc., were passed to the winning side. One side hid a small metal counter under one of two moccasins, while the other side tried to find it.

This game was interrupted by a sudden shout, and across the water was seen approaching a canoe, and seated in it the missionary, “the black robe chief, the prophet.” On the shore he was graciously received by Hiawatha, and led to a wigwam for refreshment and repose. Then he addressed the attentive tribes in Ojibway,—

“Told his message to the people,

Told the purport of his mission.”

Thereupon Hiawatha arose, greeting the missionary, took farewell of all his people, and—

“On the clear and luminous water

Launched his birch canoe for sailing.”

With hands uplifted he glided slowly out upon the lake, floating steadily onward across the rippling water toward the setting sun.

“And the people from the margin

Watched him floating, rising, sinking,

Till the birch canoe seemed lifted

High into that sea of splendor.

And they said, ‘Farewell, forever!’

Said, ‘Farewell, O Hiawatha.’”

A beautiful ending to a most unique and interesting drama of the forest, with the broad stretch of the lake in front, and the forest trees closing in the scene.

After this followed an evening of songs and dancing, 323 addresses of welcome in Ojibway to the paleface strangers, and then the return of the guests to the little island, quietly sailing in the starlight, while the Indians sang their favorite hymns in the strange Ojibway tongue. The next day being Sunday, all the Indians gathered on the island, where a church was improvised, and a simple service was held in their native tongue by the English clergyman from Garden River, who had impersonated the missionary in the play.

After the service an old man arose, welcoming the strangers, because their father had written in poetry the legends of his people, and with pride produced a large silver medal given to his ancestors by King George III. as a pledge that their rights should be respected. “And,” he said, “he told us that as long as the sun shone the Indians should be happy, but I see the sun still shining, and I do not think Indians always happy. But the medal he told us always to wear when with persons of distinction;” and with great dignity the old man slipped the medal with its broad blue ribbon around his neck, looking proud and happy.

The party of strangers made a visit to Garden River, the home of the Indians for many generations, where they were most hospitably received; the old chief’s house was opened for them, and all his treasures displayed.

A few days before the end of the visit, the Indians were very busy building a small platform on the island, and decorating it with green boughs, doing 324 everything with much secrecy. After sunset, when the fire was lighted on the rocks near by, the Indians assembled together, and Kabaoosa as the spokesman announced that they wished to have the pleasure of taking some of the party into the tribe as members. First came the ladies, as their father had turned the Ojibway legends into verse. They were led in turn before Kabaoosa, who took one of their hands in his, and made a spirited discourse in Ojibway. Then striking them three times on the shoulder, he called aloud the Indian name of adoption, and all the bystanders repeated it together. Then the new member of the tribe was led around the circle, and each Indian came forward, grasping the stranger by the hand, and calling aloud the new name. The names, which were valued names in the tribe, were all chosen with care, and given as proofs of high regard; the men of the party were honored as well as the women.

Odenewasenoquay, The first flash of the lightning [Miss Longfellow]; Osahgahgushkodawaquay, The lady of the open plains [Mrs. J. G. Thorp]; Daguagonay, The man whom people like to camp near [J. G. Thorp, Esq.]; and the names of the old chiefs Shingwauk, or Sagagewayosay [Richard Henry Dana], and Bukwujjinini [Henry W. L. Dana].

The ceremonies were followed by much singing and dancing, of which the Indians never tire, and the following day came the farewells,—farewells to the broad, beautiful lake, the islands, the sweet fragrance of the forest, and the kind and devoted hosts. With many regrets the party turned their faces eastward, 325 while the Indians accompanied their farewells with a parting dance.

“And they said, ‘Farewell forever!’

Said, ‘Farewell, O Hiawatha.’”

Alice M. Longfellow.

Cambridge, April 6, 1901.

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