[Boston—Thursday, 18 April 1872]
Thursday April 18. The weather is already beautiful with the breath of Spring—the air is cold & as if blowing from the high seas but somewhere the news of Spring lies concealed in it. We heard a very beautiful concert—Beethoven’s 7th Symphony and music by Bach—also Dixey played very beautifully—it was one of the first appearances also of our neighbour Apthorp.
In the evening Longfellow came to go with me to hear a German read his own poem. Jordon is the man’s name—and he is ugly enough to look upon to have long ago relinquished all hope of ever going to the right bank of the river of that name. He twisted his face up into frightful knots and delivered himself of his poem with vast apparent satisfaction to himself & his audience although we ourselves were obliged to confess that we esteemed it rather fortunate that his production was in a foreign tongue as it gave us the occupation of endeavoring to understand the words—the poem itself possessing not the remotest interest for either of us. It was in the old sentimental German style familiar to the readers of the old German literature. Longfellow amused me much as we came away by imitating the sing-song voice we had been following all the evening. He also recited in the original that beautiful little poem by Platen “in der Nacht in der Nacht” with exquisite melody & appreciation. Ah! he said to translate a poem properly it must be in the metre of the original and Bryant Homer, fine as it is has this great fault that it does not give you the music of the poem itself. He came in and took a cigar before walking out over the bridge alone.
Dear J. had gone to the Club.
