and song, and sounds of gladness, and a thousand mingling
emotions,--distinctly audible to the mind's ear are the pulsations
of some melancholy chord of the heart, touched by the finger of
memory. And it has a mournful, sobbing sound."

But tearing himself away from the sadness of the old memory and the
fascination of the new presence alike, Mr. Longfellow returned to
America in December, 1836, and assumed the duties of his professorship
at Cambridge. Here he soon formed those friendships which were to him a
life-long blessing and delight. They fall naturally into two groups, the
earlier and later, though some of the most intimate of these friendships
formed in youth lasted until near the close of Mr. Longfellow's life.
Among the early friends were George W. Greene, with whom he corresponded
most affectionately for many years; Mr. Samuel Ward, a brother of Mrs.
Julia Ward Howe; Professor Felton; Hilliard, Mr. Sumner's law partner;
Cleveland, a scholar living at ease in Brookline; Hawthorne; and always
and ever Mr. Sumner himself. Emerson, also, and Prescott were his
friends, but not so intimate as the others. Here is a glimpse of the
author of that series of fascinating histories, since so popular, in a
letter to Greene:--

"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