# The Female Prose Writers of America/Sara J. Clarke/Extract from a Letter

published in The Female Prose Writers of America
​I am reminded of an incident, or rather the incident of yesterday—an accidental meeting with the poet Longfellow.
​Aside from mere curiosity, of which I suppose I have my woman’s share, I have always wished to look on the flesh and blood embodi ment of that rare genius, of that mind stored with the wealth of many literatures, the lore of many lands,—for in Longfellow it is the scholar as well as the poet that we reverence. The first glance satisfied me of one happy circumstance—that the life and health which throbbed and glowed through this poet’s verse had their natural correspondences in the physical. He appears perfectly healthful and vigorous—is rather English in person. His head is simply full, well-rounded, and even, not severe or massive in character. The first glance of his genial eyes, which seem to have gathered up sunshine through all the summers they have known, and the first tones of his cordial voice, show one that he has not impoverished his own nature in so generously endowing the creations of his genius—has not drained his heart of the wine of life, to fill high the beaker of his song.
Mr. Longfellow does not look poetical, as Keats looked poetical, perhaps; but, as Hood says of Gray’s precocious youth, who used to get up early
“To meet the sun upon the upland lawn”—
“he died young.” But, what is better, our poet looks well, for, after all, health is the best, most happy and glorious thing in the world. On my Parnassus, there should be no half-demented, long haired, ill-dressed bards, lean and pale, subject to sudden attacks of poetic frenzy—sitting on damp clouds, and harping to the winds; but they should be a hearty, manly, vigorous set of inspired gentlemen, erect and broad-chested, with features more on the robust than the romantic style—writing in snug studies, or fine, large libraries, surrounded by beauty, elegance, and comfort—receiving inspiration quietly and at regular hours, after a hot breakfast, the morning paper, and a cigar—given to hospitality and great dinners—driving their own bays, and treating their excellent wives to a box at the opera, a season at Newport, a trip to the Falls, or a winter in Rome.
The comforts of life have been long enough monopolized by thrifty tradesmen—“men in the coal and cattle line”—and good ​living by bishops and aldermen. It is the divine right of genius to be well kept and cared for by the world, which too often “entertains the angel unaware,” on thin soups and sour wines, or, at the best, on unsubstantial puff-paste.
I heard yesterday that Fredrika Bremer had really arrived in New York. I hope that it is so. She has hosts of admirers all over our country, and is actually loved as few authors are loved, with a simple, cordial, home affection—for she is especially a writer for the fireside, the family circle, and thus addresses herself to the affections of a people whose purest joys and deepest interests centre in domestic life. America will take to her heart this child of genius and of nature—her home shall be by every hearth in our land, which has been made a dearer and a brighter place by her poetry, her romance, and her genial humour. She will be welcomed joyfully by every nature which has profited by her pure teachings, and received her revelations—by every spirit which has been borne upward by her aspirations, or softened by the spring breath, the soft warmth and light of her love.
To woman has the Swedish novelist spoken, and by woman must she be welcomed and honoured here; but to the men of America comes one whose very name should cause the blood to leap along their veins—he, the heart’s brother of freemen all over the world—the patriot, prophet, and soldier, the hero of the age—Kossuth the Hungarian!
How will he be received here? How will the deep, intense, yet mournful sympathy, the soul-felt admiration, the generous homage of the country, find expression? Not in parades and dinners, and public speeches, for Heaven’s sake!
Would you feast and fête a man on whose single heart is laid the dead, crushing weight of a nation’s sorrow—about whose spirit a nation’s despair makes deep, perpetual night?
I know not how my countrymen will meet this glorious exile; but were I a young man, with all the early love and fresh enthusiasm for liberty and heroism, I would bow reverently, and silently kiss his hand. Were I a pure and tried statesman, an honest patriot, I would fold him to my breast. Were I an old veteran, ​with the fire of freedom yet warming the veins whose young blood once flowed in her cause, I should wish to look on Kossuth and die.
Who can say this man has lived in vain? Though it was not his to strike the shackles from his beloved land, till she should stand free and mighty before Heaven, has he not struggled and suffered for her? Has he not spoken hallowed and immortal words—words which have gone forth to the nations, a power and a prophecy, which shall sound on and on, long after his troubled life is past—on and on, till their work is accomplished in great deeds—and the deeds become history, to be read by free men with quickened breath, and eyes that lighten with exultation? And it is a great thing that Europe, darkened by superstition and crushed by despotism, has known another hero—a race of heroes, I might say, for the Hungarian uprising has been a startling and terrific spectacle for kings and emperors. And “the end is not yet.” There must be a sure, a terrible retribution for the oppressors—a yet more fearful finale to this world-witnessed tragedy. While the heavens endure, let us hold on to the faith that the right shall prevail against the wrong, when the last long struggle shall come, that the soul of freedom is imperishable, and shall triumph over all oppressions on the face of the whole earth.