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Switzerland (Switzerland) (search for this): chapter 24
he most fallacious assertions of the English critics. Upon this point I differ entirely from you in opinion. A national literature is the expression of national character and thought; and as our character and modes of thought do not differ essentially from those of England, our literature cannot. Vast forests, lakes, and prairies cannot make great poets. They are but the scenery of the play, and have much less to do with the poetic character than has been imagined. Neither Mexico nor Switzerland has produced any remarkable poet. I do not think a Poets' Convention would help the matter. In fact, the matter needs no helping. Life, II. 19, 20. In the same way he speaks with regret, three years later, November 5, 1847, of The prospectus of a new magazine in Philadelphia to build up a national literature worthy of the country of Niagara—of the land of forests and eagles. One feels an inexhaustible curiosity as to the precise manner in which each favorite poem by a favorit
Black Rock (New York, United States) (search for this): chapter 24
e. We know that The Arrow and the Song, for instance, came into his mind instantaneously; that My Lost Youth occurred to him in the night, after a day of pain, and was written the next morning; that on December 17, 1839, he read of shipwrecks reported in the papers and of bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck, and that he wrote, There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad upon this, also two others,— The Skeleton in Armor and Sir Humphrey Gilbert. A fortnight later he sat at twelve o'clock by his fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into his mind to write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus, which he says, I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with th
Mexico (Mexico, Mexico) (search for this): chapter 24
ating one of the most fallacious assertions of the English critics. Upon this point I differ entirely from you in opinion. A national literature is the expression of national character and thought; and as our character and modes of thought do not differ essentially from those of England, our literature cannot. Vast forests, lakes, and prairies cannot make great poets. They are but the scenery of the play, and have much less to do with the poetic character than has been imagined. Neither Mexico nor Switzerland has produced any remarkable poet. I do not think a Poets' Convention would help the matter. In fact, the matter needs no helping. Life, II. 19, 20. In the same way he speaks with regret, three years later, November 5, 1847, of The prospectus of a new magazine in Philadelphia to build up a national literature worthy of the country of Niagara—of the land of forests and eagles. One feels an inexhaustible curiosity as to the precise manner in which each favorite poem
Niagara Falls (search for this): chapter 24
oets. They are but the scenery of the play, and have much less to do with the poetic character than has been imagined. Neither Mexico nor Switzerland has produced any remarkable poet. I do not think a Poets' Convention would help the matter. In fact, the matter needs no helping. Life, II. 19, 20. In the same way he speaks with regret, three years later, November 5, 1847, of The prospectus of a new magazine in Philadelphia to build up a national literature worthy of the country of Niagara—of the land of forests and eagles. One feels an inexhaustible curiosity as to the precise manner in which each favorite poem by a favorite author comes into existence. In the case of Longfellow we find this illustrated only here and there. We know that The Arrow and the Song, for instance, came into his mind instantaneously; that My Lost Youth occurred to him in the night, after a day of pain, and was written the next morning; that on December 17, 1839, he read of shipwrecks reported
Europe (search for this): chapter 24
ble in its tone. It would be idle to say that this alone constitutes, for an American, the basis of fame; for the high imaginative powers of Poe, with his especial gift of melody, though absolutely without national flavor, have achieved for him European fame, at least in France, this being due, however, mainly to his prose rather than to his poetry, and perhaps also the result, more largely than we recognize, of the assiduous discipleship of a single Frenchman, just as Carlyle's influence in Amr comprehended at the end of his career than he can be analyzed at its beginning; and of men possessed of the poetic temperament, this is eminently true. We now know that at the very time when Hyperion and the Voices of the Night seemed largely European in their atmosphere, the author himself, in his diaries, was expressing that longing for American subjects which afterwards predominated in his career. Though the citizen among us best known in Europe, most sought after by foreign visitors, he
France (France) (search for this): chapter 24
best; the line between them being drawn only where foreign languages are in question, and there Longfellow has of course the advantage. In neither case, it is to be observed, was this Americanism trivial, boastful, or ignoble in its tone. It would be idle to say that this alone constitutes, for an American, the basis of fame; for the high imaginative powers of Poe, with his especial gift of melody, though absolutely without national flavor, have achieved for him European fame, at least in France, this being due, however, mainly to his prose rather than to his poetry, and perhaps also the result, more largely than we recognize, of the assiduous discipleship of a single Frenchman, just as Carlyle's influence in America was due largely to Emerson. Be this as it may, it is certain that the hold of both Longfellow and Whittier is a thing absolutely due, first, to the elevated tone of their works, and secondly, that they have made themselves the poets of the people. No one can attend po
Concord, N. H. (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 24
y 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. 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 t
Gloucester (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 24
s an inexhaustible curiosity as to the precise manner in which each favorite poem by a favorite author comes into existence. In the case of Longfellow we find this illustrated only here and there. We know that The Arrow and the Song, for instance, came into his mind instantaneously; that My Lost Youth occurred to him in the night, after a day of pain, and was written the next morning; that on December 17, 1839, he read of shipwrecks reported in the papers and of bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck, and that he wrote, There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad upon this, also two others,— The Skeleton in Armor and Sir Humphrey Gilbert. A fortnight later he sat at twelve o'clock by his fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into his mind to write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus, which he says, I accordingly did. Then I went t
New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 24
nzas. A few weeks before, taking up a volume of Scott's Border Minstrelsy, he had received in a similar way the suggestion of The Beleaguered City and of The Luck of Edenhall. We know by Longfellow's own statement to Mr. W. C. Lawton, The New England Poets, p. 141. that it was his rule to do his best in polishing a poem before printing it, but afterwards to leave it untouched, on the principle that the readers of a poem acquired a right to the poet's work in the form they had learned to lo in a similar manner, and the shepherd is supposed by many young readers to be pouring out a story of love or of adventure, whereas he is merely counting up the number of his sheep. It will always remain uncertain how far Poe influenced the New England poets, whether by example or avoidance. That he sometimes touched Lowell, and not for good, is unquestionable, in respect to rhythm; but it will always remain a question whether his influence did not work in the other direction with Longfello
Caribbean Sea (search for this): chapter 24
rk to Mr. Lawton does not tell quite the whole story. As with most poets, his alterations were not always improvements. Thus, in The Wreck of the Hesperus, he made the fourth verse much more vigorous to the ear as it was originally written,— Then up and spoke an old sailor Had sailed the Spanish Main, than when he made the latter line read Sailed to the Spanish Main, as in all recent editions. The explanation doubtless was that he at first supposed the Spanish Main to mean the Caribbean Sea; whereas it actually referred only to the southern shore of it. Still more curious is the history of a line in one of his favorite poems, To a Child. Speaking of this, he says in his diary, Life, II. 189. Some years ago, writing an Ode to a child, I spoke of The buried treasures of the miser, Time. What was my astonishment to-day, in reading for the first time in my life Wordsworth's ode On the power of sound, to read All treasures hoarded by the miser, time. As a mat
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