Introduction
“THE ink of a Nation’s Scholars is more sacred than the blood of its martyrs,”――declares Mohammed. It is with this sentence in mind, and a desire to impress upon our fellow countrymen the excellence, scope and volume of American literature, and the dignity and personality of American authorship, that this work has been prepared and is now offered to the public.
The volume is distinctly American, and, as such it naturally appeals to the patriotism of Americans. Every selection which it contains was written by an American. Its perusal, we feel confident, will both entertain the reader and quicken the pride of every lover of his country in the accomplishments of her authors.
European nations had already the best of their literature before ours began. It is less than three hundred years since the landing of the Mayflower at Plymouth Rock, and the planting of a colony at Jamestown, marked the first permanent settlements on these shores. Two hundred years were almost entirely consumed in the foundation work of exploring the country, settling new colonies, in conflicts with the Indians, and in contentions with the mother country. Finally――after two centuries――open war with England served the purpose of bringing the jealous colonists together, throwing off our allegiance to Europe, and, under an independent constitution, of introducing the united colonists――now the United States of America――into the sisterhood of nations.
Thus, it was not until the twilight of the eighteenth century that we had an organized nationality, and it was not until the dawn of the nineteenth that we began to have a literature. Prior to this we looked abroad for everything except the products of our soil. Neither manufacturing nor literature sought to raise its head among us. The former was largely prohibited by our generous mother, who wanted to make our clothes and furnish us with all manufactured articles; literature was frowned upon with the old interrogation, “Who reads an American book?” But simultaneously with the advent of liberty upon our shores was born the spirit of progress――at once enthroned and established as the guardian saint of American energy and enterprise. She touched the mechanic and the hum of his machinery was heard and the smoke of his factory arose as an incense to her, while our exhaustless stores of raw materials were transformed into things of use and beauty; she touched the merchant and the wings of commerce were spread over our seas; she touched the scholar and the few institutions of learning along the Atlantic seaboard took on new life and colleges and universities multiplied and followed rapidly the course of civilization across the mountains and plains of the West.
But the spirit of progress did not stop here. Long before that time Dr. Johnson had declared, “The chief glory of every people arises from its authors,” and our people had begun to realize the force of the truth, which Carlyle afterwards expressed, that “A country which has no national literature, or a literature too insignificant to force its way abroad, must always be to its neighbors, at least in every important spiritual respect, an unknown and unesteemed country.” The infant nation had now begun its independent history. Should it also have an independent literature; and if so, what were the bases for it? The few writers who had dared to venture into print had dealt with European themes, and laid their scenes and published their books in foreign lands. What had America, to inspire their genius?
The answer to this question was of vital importance. Upon it depended our destiny in literature. It came clear and strong. To go elsewhere were to imitate the discontented and foolish farmer who became possessed of a passion for hunting diamonds, and, selling his farm for a song, spent his days in wandering over the earth in search of them. The man who bought this farm found diamonds in the yard around the house, and developed that farm into the famous Golconda mines. The poor man who wandered away had acres of diamonds at home. They were his if he had but been wise enough to gather them.
So was America a rich field for her authors. Nature nowhere else offered such inspiration to the poet, the descriptive and the scientific writer as was found in America. Its mountains were the grandest; its plains the broadest; its rivers the longest; its lakes were inland seas; its water-falls were the most sublime; its caves were the largest and most wonderful in the world; its forests bore every variety of vegetable life and stretched themselves from ocean to ocean; it had a soil and a climate diversified and varied beyond that of any other nation; birds sang for us whose notes were heard on no other shores; we had a fauna and a flora of our own. For the historian there was the aboriginal red man, with his unwritten past preserved only in tradition awaiting the pen of the faithful chronicler; the Colonial period was a study fraught with American life and tradition and no foreigner could gather its true story from the musty tomes of a European library; the Revolutionary period must be recorded by an American historian. For the novelist and the sketch writer our magnificent land had a rich legendary lore, and a peculiarity of manners and customs possessed by no other continent. The story of its frontier, with a peculiar type of life found nowhere else, was all its own.
It was to this magnificent prospect, with its inspiring possibilities that Progress,――the first child of liberty――stood and pointed as she awoke the slumbering genius of independent American Authorship, and, placing the pen in her hand bade her write what she would. Thus the youngest aspirant in literature stood forth with the freest hand, in a country with its treasures of the past unused, and a prospective view of the most magnificent future of the nations of earth.
What a field for literature! What an opportunity it offered! How well it has been occupied, how attractive the personality, how high the aims, and how admirable the methods of those who have done so, it is the province of this volume to demonstrate. With this end in view, the volume has been prepared. It has been inspired by a patriotic pride in the wonderful achievement of our men and women in literature, in making America, at the beginning of her second century as a nation, the fair and powerful rival of England and Continental Europe in the field of letters.
Wonderful have been the achievements of Americans as inventors, mechanics, merchants――indeed, in every field in which they have contended――but we are prepared to agree with Dr. Johnson that “The chief glory of a nation is its authors;” and, with Carlyle, that they entitle us to our greatest respect among other nations. The reading of the biographies and extracts herein contained should impress the reader with the debt of gratitude we as a people owe to those illustrious men and women, who, while wreathing their own brows with chaplets of fame, have written the name, “America,” high up on the literary roll of honor among the greatest nations of the world.
Illustration: THE POETS OF NEW ENGLAND
THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME.
THIS work has been designed and prepared with a view to presenting an outline of American literature in such a manner as to stimulate a love for good reading and especially to encourage the study of the lives and writings of our American authors. The plan of this work is unique and original, and possesses certain helpful and interesting features, which――so far as we are aware――have been contemplated by no other single volume.
The first and main purpose of the work is to present to our American homes a mass of wholesome, varied and well-selected reading matter. In this respect it is substantially a volume for the family. America is pre-eminently a country of homes. These homes are the schools of citizenship, and――next to the Bible, which is the foundation of our morals and laws――we need those books which at once entertain and instruct, and, at the same time, stimulate patriotism and pride for our native land.
This book seeks to meet this demand. Four-fifths of our space is devoted exclusively to American literature. Nearly all other volumes of selections are made up chiefly from foreign authors. The reason for this is obvious. Foreign publications until within the last few years have been free of copyright restrictions. Anything might be chosen and copied from them while American authors were protected by law from such outrages. Consequently, American material under forty-two years of age could not be used without the consent of the owner of the copyright. The expense and the difficulty of obtaining these permissions were too great to warrant compilers and publishers in using American material. The constantly growing demand, however, for a work of this class has encouraged the publishers of this volume to undertake the task. The publishers of the works from which these selections are made and many living authors represented have been corresponded with, and it is only through the joint courtesy and co-operation of these many publishers and authors that the production of this volume has been made possible. Due acknowledgment will be found elsewhere. In a number of instances the selections have been made by the authors themselves, who have also rendered other valuable assistance in supplying data and photographs.
The second distinctive point of merit in the plan of the work is the biographical feature, which gives the story of each author’s life separately, treating them both personally and as writers. Longfellow remarked in “Hyperion”――“If you once understand the character of an author the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.” He might have gone further and stated that when we have once read the life of an author his writings become the more interesting. Goethe assures us that “Every author portrays himself in his works even though it be against his will.” The patriarch in the Scriptures had the same thought in his mind when he exclaimed “Oh! that mine enemy had written a book.” Human nature remains the same. Any book takes on a new phase of value and interest to us the moment we know the story of the writer, whether we agree with his statements and theories or not. These biographical sketches, which in every case are placed immediately before the selections from an author, give, in addition to the story of his life, a list of the principal books he has written, and the dates of publication, together with comments on his literary style and in many instances reviews of his best known works. This, with the selections which follow, established that necessary bond of sympathy and relationship which should exist in the mind of the reader between every author and his writings. Furthermore, under this arrangement the biography of each author and the selections from his works compose a complete and independent chapter in the volume, so that the writer may be taken up and studied or read alone, or in connection with others in the particular class to which he belongs.
This brings us to the third point of classification. Other volumes of selections――where they have been classified at all――have usually placed selections of similar character together under the various heads of Narrative and Descriptive, Moral and Religious, Historical, etc. On the contrary, it has appeared to us the better plan in the construction of this volume to classify the authors, rather than, by dividing their selections, scatter the children of one parent in many different quarters. There has been no small difficulty in doing this in the cases of some of our versatile writers. Emerson, for instance, with his poetry, philosophy and essays, and Holmes, with his wit and humor, his essays, his novels and his poetry. Where should they be placed? Summing them up, we find their writings――whether written in stanzas of metred lines or all the way across the page, and whether they talked philosophy or indulged in humor――were predominated by the spirit of poetry. Therefore, with their varied brood, Emerson and Holmes were taken off to the “Poet’s Corner,” which is made all the richer and more enjoyable by the variety of their gems of prose. Hence our classifications and groupings are as Poets, Novelists, Historians, Journalists, Humorists, Essayists, Critics, Orators, etc., placing each author in the department to which he most belongs, enabling the reader to read and compare him in his best element with others of the same class.
Part I., “Great Poets of America,” comprises twenty of our most famous and popular writers of verse. The work necessarily begins with that immortal “Seven Stars” of poesy in the galaxy of our literary heavens――Bryant, Poe, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier, Holmes and Lowell. Succeeding these are those of lesser magnitude, many of whom are still living and some who have won fame in other fields of literature which divides honors with their poetry. Among these are Bayard Taylor, the noted traveler and poet; N. P. Willis, the most accomplished magazinist of his day; R. H. Stoddard, the critic; Walt Whitman; Maurice Thompson, the scientist; Thomas Bailey Aldrich and Richard Watson Gilder, editors, and Colonel John Hay, politician and statesman. The list closes with that notable group of well-known Western poets, James Whitcomb Riley, Bret Harte, Eugene Field, Will Carleton, and Joaquin Miller.
The remaining nine parts of the book treat in similar manner about seventy-five additional authors, embracing noted novelists, representative women poets of America; essayists, critics and sketch writers; great American historians and biographers; our national humorists; popular writers for young people; noted journalists and magazine contributors; great orators and popular lecturers. Thus, it will be seen that in this volume the whole field of American letters has been gleaned to make the work the best and most representative of our literature possible within the scope of a single volume.
In making a list of authors in whom the public were sufficiently interested to entitle them to a place in a work like this, naturally they were found to be entirely too numerous to be all included in one book. The absence of many good names from the volume is, therefore, explained by the fact that the editor has been driven to the necessity of selecting, first, those whom he deemed pre-eminently prominent, and, after that, making room for those who best represent a certain class or particular phase of our literature.
To those authors who have so kindly responded to our requests for courtesies, and whose names do not appear, the above explanation is offered. The omission was imperative in order that those treated might be allowed sufficient space to make the work as complete and representative as might be reasonably expected.
Special attention has been given to illustrations. We have inserted portraits of all the authors whose photographs we could obtain, and have, also, given views of the homes and studies of many. A large number of special drawings have also been made to illustrate the text of selections. The whole number of portraits and other illustrations amount to nearly one hundred and fifty, all of which are strictly illustrative of the authors or their writings. None are put in as mere ornaments. We have, furthermore, taken particular care to arrange a number of special groups, placing those authors which belong in one class or division of a class together on a page. One group on a page represents our greatest poets; another, well-known western poets; another, famous historians; another, writers for young people; another, American humorists, etc. These groups are all arranged by artists in various designs of ornamental setting. In many cases we have also had special designs made by artists for commemorative and historic pictures of famous authors. These drawings set forth in a pictorial form leading scenes in the life and labors of the author represented.
Illustration: THE NEW CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY, WASHINGTON, D. C.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ⭘ An Author at Fourteen ⭘ The Influence of his Father ⭘ Bryant’s Best Known Poems ⭘ Personal Appearance ⭘ A Long and Useful Life ⭘ ‘Thanatopsis’ ⭘ ‘Waiting By the Gate ⭘ ‘Blessed are They That Mourn’ ⭘ ‘Antiquity of Freedom’ ⭘ ‘To a Water Fowl’ ⭘ ‘Robert of Lincoln’ ⭘ ‘Drought’ ⭘ ‘The Past’ ⭘ ‘The Murdered Traveler’ ⭘ ‘The Battle-Field’ ⭘ ‘The Crowded Street’ ⭘ ‘Fitz Greene Halleck (Notice of)’ ⭘ ‘A Corn-Shucking in South Carolina’
EDGAR ALLEN POE. ⭘ Comparison with Other American Poets ⭘ Place of Birth and Ancestry ⭘ Career as a Student ⭘ The Sadness of his Life and Its Influence Upon his Literature ⭘ Conflicting Statements of his Biographers ⭘ Great as a Story Writer and as a Poet ⭘ His Literary Labors and Productions ⭘ ‘The City in the Sea’ ⭘ ‘Annabel Lee’ ⭘ ‘To Helen’ ⭘ ‘Israfel’ ⭘ ‘To One in Paradise’ ⭘ ‘Lenore’ ⭘ ‘The Bells’ ⭘ ‘The Raven’
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. ⭘ His Place in Literature ⭘ Comparison With American and English Poets ⭘ His Education, Collegemates and Home ⭘ His Domestic Life. His Poems ⭘ Prose Works and Translations ⭘ The Wayside Inn (A view of) ⭘ His Critics, Poe, Margaret Fuller, ♦Duyckinck
♦ ‘Duyckink’ replaced with ‘Duyckinck’
⭘ Longfellow’s Genius ⭘ ‘The Psalm of Life’ ⭘ ‘The Village Blacksmith’ ⭘ ‘The Bridge’ ⭘ ‘Resignation’ ⭘ ‘God’s Acre’ ⭘ ‘Excelsior’ ⭘ ‘The Rainy Day’ ⭘ ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’ ⭘ ‘The Old Clock On the Stairs’ ⭘ ‘The Skeleton in Armour’ ⭘ ‘King Witlaf’s Drinking Horn’ ⭘ ‘Evangeline On the Prairie’ ⭘ ‘Literary Fame (Prose)’
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ⭘ The Difficulty of Classifying Emerson ⭘ The Liberator of American Letters ⭘ A Master of Language ⭘ Emerson and Franklin ⭘ Birth, Education, Early Life ⭘ Home at Concord, Brook-Farm Enterprise ⭘ Influence on Other Writers ⭘ Modern Communism and the New Theology ⭘ ‘Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument (1836)’ ⭘ ‘The Rhodora’ ⭘ ‘A True Hero’ ⭘ ‘Mountain and Squirrel’ ⭘ ‘The Snow-Storm’ ⭘ ‘The Problem’ ⭘ ‘Traveling’ ⭘ ‘The Compensation of Calamity’ ⭘ ‘Self Reliance’ ⭘ ‘Nature’
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. ⭘ Whittier’s Humble Birth, Ancestry, Education ⭘ Poet of the Abolitionists ⭘ His Poems and His Prose ⭘ New England’s History Embalmed in Verse ⭘ Our Most Distinctively American Poet ⭘ ‘My Playmate’ ⭘ ‘The Changeling’ ⭘ ‘The ♦Worship of Nature’
♦ ‘Workskip’ replaced with ‘Worship’
⭘ ‘The Bare-foot Boy’ ⭘ ‘Maud Muller’ ⭘ ‘Memories’ ⭘ ‘In Prison For Debt’ ⭘ ‘The Storm’ (From ‘Snow Bound’) ⭘ ‘Ichabod’
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ⭘ Admired by the English-speaking World ⭘ His Education and Popularity ⭘ Early Poems ⭘ Autocrat and Professor at the Breakfast Table ⭘ Holmes’ Genial and Lovable Nature ⭘ ‘Bill and Joe’ ⭘ ‘Union and Liberty’ ⭘ ‘Old Ironsides’ ⭘ ‘My Aunt’ ⭘ ‘The Height of the Ridiculous’ ⭘ ‘The Chambered Nautilus’ ⭘ ‘Old Age and the Professor’ (Prose) ⭘ ‘The Brain’ (Prose) ⭘ ‘My Last Walk with the School Mistress’ ⭘ ‘A Random Conversation on Old Maxims, Boston and other Towns’
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ⭘ Profoundest of American Poets ⭘ Early Life and Beginning in Literature ⭘ Marriage, and the Influence of his Wife ⭘ Home at Cambridge (view of) ⭘ Humorous Poems and Prose Writings ⭘ Longfellow’s Poem on Mrs. Lowell’s Death ⭘ Public Career of the Author ⭘ How Lowell is Regarded by Scholars ⭘ ‘The Gothic Genius’ (From ‘The Cathedral’) ⭘ ‘The Rose’ ⭘ ‘The Heritage’ ⭘ ‘Act For Truth’ ⭘ ‘The First Snow-Fall’ ⭘ ‘Fourth-of-July Ode’ ⭘ ‘The Dandelion’ ⭘ ‘The Alpine Sheep’ (by Mrs. Lowell)
BAYARD TAYLOR. ⭘ Life as a Farmer Boy ⭘ Education ⭘ His First Book ⭘ Encouragement from Horace Greeley ⭘ A Two Years’ Tramp Through Europe ⭘ A Most Delightful Book of Travel ⭘ An Inveterate Nomad ⭘ Public Career of the Author ⭘ ‘The Bison Track’ ⭘ ‘The Song of the Camp’ ⭘ ‘Bedouin Song’ ⭘ ‘The Arab to the Palm’ ⭘ ‘Life on the Nile’
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. ⭘ A Devotee of Fashion ⭘ Birth and Ancestors ⭘ Educational Facilities ⭘ His First Poems ⭘ A Four Years’ Tour in Europe ⭘ Marriage and Home ⭘ A Second Journey to England ⭘ Death ⭘ An Untiring Worker ⭘ ‘David’s Lament for Absalom’ ⭘ ‘The Dying Alchemist’ ⭘ ‘The Belfry Pigeon’
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. ⭘ His Humble Origin and Early Struggles ⭘ Introduction into Literature ⭘ Stoddard’s Style ⭘ Literary Dinner in His Honor (1892) ⭘ Ik Marvel’s Letter and Whitcomb Riley’s Poem ⭘ ‘A Curtain Call’ ⭘ ‘Hymn to the Beautiful’ ⭘ ‘A Dirge’ ⭘ ‘The Shadow of the Hand’ ⭘ ‘A Serenade’
WALTER WHITMAN (WALT). ⭘ The Estimates of Critics ⭘ Charms of Whitman’s Poetry ⭘ Life and Works of the Poet ⭘ Biographies of the Poet ⭘ ‘Darest Thou Now, O Soul’ ⭘ ‘O Captain! My Captain’ ⭘ ‘In All, Myself’ ⭘ ‘Old Ireland’ ⭘ ‘Pæan of Joy’
JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ A Thorough Southerner ⭘ Man of Letters and Scientist ⭘ Chief of the State Geological Survey ⭘ Works of the Author ⭘ ‘Ceres’ ⭘ ‘Diana’
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. ⭘ At the Head of Modern Lyrical Writers ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Mercantile Career ⭘ War Correspondent ⭘ Life in Boston ⭘ Works ⭘ Visit to England ⭘ ‘Alec Yeaton’s Son’ ⭘ ‘On Lynn Terrace’ ⭘ ‘Sargent’s Portrait of Edwin Booth at “The Players.”’
RICHARD WATSON GILDER. ⭘ Purity of Sentiment and Delicacy of Expression ⭘ Education and Early Life ⭘ Journalist ⭘ Editor of “Hours at Home” ⭘ Politician and Reformer ⭘ A Staunch Friend of our Colleges ⭘ A Man of Exalted Ideals ⭘ ‘Sonnet (After the Italian)’ ⭘ ‘The Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln’ ⭘ ‘Sheridan’ ⭘ ‘Sunset From the Train’ ⭘ ‘O Silver River Flowing to the Sea’ ⭘ ‘There is Nothing New Under the Sun’ ⭘ ‘Memorial Day’ ⭘ ‘A Woman’s Thought’
JOHN HAY. ⭘ His Western Birth and Education ⭘ Service to President Lincoln ⭘ Military Career ⭘ Appointed Ambassador to Great Britain ⭘ A List of His Books ⭘ How He Came to Write “Little Breeches” ⭘ ‘Little Breeches’ ⭘ ‘Jim Bludso’ ⭘ ‘How it Happened’
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. ⭘ Great Popularity with the Masses ⭘ A Poet of the Country People ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ First Occupation ⭘ Congratulated by Longfellow ⭘ Mr. Riley’s Methods of Work ⭘ The Poet’s Home ⭘ Constantly “on the Wing” ⭘ ‘A Boy’s Mother’ ⭘ ‘Thoughts on the Late War’ ⭘ ‘Our Hired Girl’ ⭘ ‘The Raggedy Man’
BRET HARTE. ⭘ The Poet of the Mining Camp ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Emigrated to California ⭘ Schoolteacher and Miner ⭘ Position on a Frontier Paper ⭘ Editorial Position on the “Golden Era” ⭘ Secretary of the U. S. Mint at San Francisco ⭘ In Chicago and Boston ⭘ U. S. Consul to Crefield and Glasgow ⭘ A List of his Works ⭘ ‘The Society Upon the Stanislaus’ ⭘ ‘Dickens in Camp’
EUGENE FIELD. ⭘ The “Poet of Child Life” ⭘ Troups of Children for his Friends ⭘ Peace-maker Among the Small Ones ⭘ A Feast with his Little Friends ⭘ A Devoted Husband ⭘ Congenial Association with his Fellow-workers ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ His Works ⭘ ‘Our Two Opinions’ ⭘ ‘Lullaby’ ⭘ ‘A Dutch Lullaby’ ⭘ ‘A Norse Lullaby’
WILL CARLETON. ⭘ His Poems Favorites for Recitation ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Teacher, Farmhand and College Graduate ⭘ Journalist and Lecturer ⭘ A List of his Works ⭘ ‘Betsy and I Are Out’ ⭘ ‘Gone With a Handsomer Man’
CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER (JOAQUIN). ⭘ Removal from Indiana to Oregon ⭘ Experiences in Mining and Filibustering ⭘ Marries and Becomes Editor and Lawyer ⭘ Visit to London to Seek a Publisher ⭘ ‘Thoughts of My Western Home’ ⭘ ‘Mount Shasta’ ⭘ ‘Kit Carson’s Ride’ ⭘ ‘J. Miller’s Alaska Letter’
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. ⭘ First American Novelist ⭘ Birth and Childhood ⭘ The Wilderness his Teacher ⭘ Sailor Life ⭘ Marriage and Home ⭘ “The Spy” ⭘ Plaudits From Both Sides of the Atlantic ⭘ The First Genuine Salt-water Novel ⭘ Removal to New York ⭘ A Six Years’ Visit to Europe ⭘ His Remaining Nineteen Years ⭘ ‘Encounter With a Panther’ ⭘ ‘The Capture of a Whale’
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. ⭘ The Greatest of American Romancers ⭘ Birth, Ancestors, and Childhood ⭘ Twelve Years of Solitary Existence ⭘ His First Book ⭘ “Twice Told Tales” ⭘ A Staunch Democrat ⭘ Marriage and the “Old Manse” ⭘ The Masterpiece in American Fiction ⭘ Books Written by Hawthorne ⭘ Death and Funeral ⭘ ‘Emerson and the Emersonites’ ⭘ ‘Pearl’ ⭘ ‘Sights From a Steeple’ ⭘ ‘A Reminiscence of Early Life’
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. ⭘ Among the Best Known American Authors ⭘ A Noted Lecturer ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Career as a Clergyman ⭘ Newspaper and Magazine Work ⭘ A Prominent Short-Story-teller ⭘ An Historical Writer of Great Prominence ⭘ Patriotic Interest in Public Affairs ⭘ ‘Lost’
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. ⭘ One of the Greatest of Modern American Novelists ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Editor of the “Ohio State Journal” ⭘ His First Volume of Verse ⭘ His “Life of Abraham Lincoln” ⭘ Consul to Venice ⭘ Mr. Howells’ Works ⭘ Editor of the “Atlantic Monthly” ⭘ ‘The First Boarder’ ⭘ ‘Impressions on Visiting Pompeii’ ⭘ ‘Venetian Vagabonds’
GENERAL LEW WALLACE. ⭘ Began His Literary Career Late in Life ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Lawyer and Soldier ⭘ Governor of Utah ⭘ Appointed Minister to Turkey ⭘ His Most Popular Book ⭘ Enormous Circulation ⭘ ‘Description of Christ’ ⭘ ‘The Prince of India Teaches Re-incarnation’ ⭘ ‘The Prayer of the Wandering Jew’ ⭘ ‘Death of Montezuma’ ⭘ ‘Description of Virgin Mary’
EDWARD EGGLESTON. ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ A Man of Self-culture ⭘ His Early Training ⭘ Religious Devotion and Sacrifice ⭘ Beginning of his Literary Career ⭘ What Distinguishes his Novels ⭘ List of his Chief Novels and Stories ⭘ ‘Spelling down the Master’
THOMAS NELSON PAGE. ⭘ Birth and Earliest Recollections ⭘ Childhood, Ancestors, and Education ⭘ His First Literary Success ⭘ “In Ole Virginia” and other stories ⭘ Prominent Journalist and Lecturer ⭘ A Tour Abroad ⭘ ‘Old Sue’
EDWARD PAYSON ROE. ⭘ Great Popularity Among the Masses ⭘ The Character of his Novels ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Served as Chaplain During the Civil War ⭘ List of His Works ⭘ ‘Christine, Awake For Your Life’
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. ⭘ “The Most Versatile of Modern Novelists” ⭘ Birth, Ancestors, and Early Life ⭘ Editor on the “Allahabad Herald” ⭘ Varied Experiences ⭘ How he Came to Write “Mr. Isaacs” ⭘ His Most Popular Novels ⭘ A Novel Written in Twenty-four ♦Days
♦ ‘Hours’ replaced with ‘Days’
⭘ His Other Chief Works ⭘ ‘Horace Bellingham’ ⭘ ‘In the Himalayas’
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. ⭘ A Prolific and Popular Author ⭘ Birth and Educational Training ⭘ Engraver and Designer ⭘ One New Book Almost Every Year ⭘ Some of his Best Known Books ⭘ ‘The End of a Career’
EDWARD BELLAMY. ⭘ A Most Remarkable Sensation ⭘ 100,000 Copies Per Year ⭘ Mr. ♦Bellamy’s Ideal
♦ ‘Belamy’s’ replaced with ‘Bellamy’s’
⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ His Books ⭘ An Ideal Home ⭘ ‘Music in the Year 2000’
GEORGE W. CABLE. ⭘ “Circumstances Make the Man” ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Service in the Confederate Army ⭘ Errand Boy in a Store ⭘ On the “New Orleans Picayune” ⭘ Devotes his Life to Literature ⭘ His Most Prominent Works ⭘ ‘The Doctor’
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. ⭘ Ancestors, Birth, and Girlhood ⭘ Removal to Cincinnati ⭘ A Trip Across the River ⭘ Marriage ⭘ Severe Trials ⭘ A Memorable Year ⭘ “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” ⭘ Her Pen Never Idle ⭘ Removal to Hartford, Conn. ⭘ Her Death ⭘ ‘The Little Evangelist’ ⭘ ‘The Other World’
M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE (MARION HARLAND). ⭘ Wide Variety of Talent ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Marriage and Home ⭘ Her Most Prominent Works ⭘ ‘A Manly Hero’
MARY ABIGAIL DODGE (GAIL HAMILTON). ⭘ Essayist, Critic and Novelist ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Career as a Writer ⭘ Her Published Volumes ⭘ The Only Authorized Life of J. G. Blaine ⭘ ‘Fishing’
HELEN HUNT JACKSON. ⭘ Helen Hunt’s Cabin ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Marriage and Removal to Newport, R. I. ⭘ Her First Poems ⭘ Great Distinction as a Writer ⭘ Removal to Colorado ⭘ At the Foot of Pike’s Peak ⭘ List of her Most Prominent Works ⭘ Death and Burial Place ⭘ ‘Christmas Night at St. Peter’s’ ⭘ ‘Choice of Colors’
FRANCES H. BURNETT. ⭘ Pluck, Energy and Perseverance ⭘ Her First Story ⭘ Marriage and Tour in Europe ⭘ Her Children Stories ⭘ A Frequent Contributor to Periodicals ⭘ ‘Pretty Polly P.’
MARY N. MURFREE (CHAS. EGBERT CRADDOCK). ⭘ An Amusing Story ⭘ Birth, Ancestry and Misfortunes ⭘ A Student of Humanity ⭘ Her Style Bold and Full of Humor ⭘ ‘The Confession’
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. ⭘ Favorable Reception of “Gates Ajar!” ⭘ An Early Writer ⭘ A Long Series of Books ⭘ Marriage and Home ⭘ Her Purpose Always High ⭘ ‘The Hands at Hayle and Kelso’s’
AMELIA E. BARR. ⭘ Popularity of her Works ⭘ Her Sorrows and Hardships ⭘ Birth and Early Education ⭘ Marriage and Travels ⭘ Death of her Husband and Four Sons ⭘ An Instantly Successful Book ⭘ ‘Little Jan’s Triumph’ ⭘ ‘The Old Piano’
ALICE FRENCH (OCTAVE THANET). ⭘ A Genuine Yankee Woman ⭘ Her Puritan Ancestry ⭘ Education and First Manuscript ⭘ Her First Book ⭘ Her Most Prominent Publications ⭘ Her nom-de-plume ⭘ Philosopher, Artist, and Novelist ⭘ An Assiduous Student of her Subjects ⭘ ‘Two Lost and Found’
JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. ⭘ A Famous Daughter of the “Pilgrims” ⭘ Birth and Parents ⭘ A List of her Best Books ⭘ Her Personality ⭘ ‘An Afternoon in Nantucket’
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. ⭘ The Most Prolific of American Women Writers ⭘ Critical Estimate of her Works ⭘ Birth and Educational Advantages ⭘ Her First Book ⭘ Some of her Other Works ⭘ A Tour of Europe ⭘ Death ⭘ ‘Columbus’ ⭘ ‘The Alpine Flowers’ ⭘ ‘Niagara’ ⭘ ‘Death of an Infant’ ⭘ ‘A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave’
ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. ⭘ Ancestors and Birth ⭘ A Liberal Contributor to Periodicals ⭘ Her Published Works ⭘ ‘The Step-mother’ ⭘ ‘Guardian Angels’ ⭘ ‘The Brook’ ⭘ ‘The April Rain’ ⭘ ‘Flowers’ ⭘ ‘Eros and Anteros’
LUCY LARCOM. ⭘ Operative in a Cotton Factory ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Her First Literary Production ⭘ Some of her Best Works ⭘ The Working Woman’s Friend ⭘ ‘Hannah Binding Shoes’
ALICE AND PHŒBE CARY. ⭘ Their Birth and Early Lot ⭘ Encouragement From Editors ⭘ Their First Volume ⭘ Some of their Prominent Works ⭘ A Comparison Between the Two Sisters ⭘ One in Spirit through Life ⭘ United in Death ⭘ ‘Pictures of Memory’ ⭘ ‘Nobility’ ⭘ ‘The Gray Swan’ ⭘ ‘To the Evening Zephyr’ ⭘ ‘Death Scene’ ⭘ ‘Memories’ ⭘ ‘Equal to Either Fortune’ ⭘ ‘Light’
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Her First Book at Nineteen Years ⭘ Her Following Publications ⭘ Residence in Boston and Trips Abroad ⭘ A Systematic Worker ⭘ Personal Friendship ⭘ ‘If There Were Dreams to Sell’ ⭘ ‘Wife to Husband’ ⭘ ‘The Last Good-Bye’ ⭘ ‘Next Year’ ⭘ ‘My Mother’s Picture’
WASHINGTON IRVING. ⭘ The First Great Pioneer in American Letters ⭘ Birth and Ancestors ⭘ Named After George Washington ⭘ Early Success as a Journalist ⭘ A Two Years’ Trip in Europe ⭘ A Shrewd Advertisement ⭘ Seventeen Years Abroad ⭘ The Winning Character of his Genius ⭘ ‘The Organ of Westminster Abbey’ ⭘ ‘Baltus Van Tassel’s Farm’ ⭘ ‘Columbus at Barcelona’ ⭘ ‘The Galloping Hessian’
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. ⭘ The Meditative School in American Literature ⭘ Birth, Ancestry and Education ⭘ Early Life ⭘ In “The Brotherhood of Authors” ⭘ His First Literary Work ⭘ A Few of his Other Publications ⭘ ‘The Moral Quality of Vegetables’
DONALD G. MITCHELL. ⭘ Characteristics of the Author ⭘ A Disciple of Washington Irving ⭘ Birth, Education, and Early Life ⭘ Home and Marriage ⭘ U. S. Consul to Venice ⭘ Semi-public Positions ⭘ His Most Prominent Books ⭘ ‘Washington Irving’ ⭘ ‘Glimpses of “Dream Life”’
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. ⭘ A Noble Part in the Battles for Freedom ⭘ Activity in the Anti-Slavery Agitation ⭘ His Contributions to Literature ⭘ A Popular Historian ⭘ ‘A Puritan Sunday Morning’
HAMILTON W. MABIE. ⭘ Birth, Family, and Education ⭘ Familiar with the Classics ⭘ On the Staff of the “Christian Union” ⭘ Profound Study of the Problems of Life ⭘ A Declaration Typical of all his Thought ⭘ ‘Country Sights and Sounds’
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. ⭘ Two Sensational Poems ⭘ Birth, Ancestry, and Early Life ⭘ Journalist at Twenty-one ⭘ On the New York “Tribune” ⭘ Editor of the “World” ⭘ A Remarkable War Letter ⭘ A List of his Prominent Works ⭘ Poet and Man of Business ⭘ An Ideal Home Life ⭘ ‘Betrothed Anew’ ⭘ ‘The Door-Step’
GEORGE H. BANCROFT. ⭘ The First Among American Historians ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Extensive Studies in Europe ⭘ Appointed to the Chair of Greek in Harvard College ⭘ A School of High Classical Character ⭘ Official Service ⭘ Removal to New York ⭘ Minister to Russia and to Germany ⭘ His “History of the United States” and other Works ⭘ A Long and Useful Life ⭘ ‘Character of Roger Williams’ ⭘ ‘Destruction of the Tea in Boston Harbor’ ⭘ ‘Chivalry and Puritanism’ ⭘ ‘The Position of the Puritans’
JAMES PARTON. ⭘ Ancestry, Birth, and Education ⭘ A Very Successful Teacher ⭘ His Career as a Literary Man ⭘ On the Staff of “The New York Ledger” ⭘ His Most Prominent Works ⭘ ‘Old Virginia’
FRANCIS PARKMAN. ⭘ Birth, Education, and Visit Abroad ⭘ A Summer With the ♦Dacotah Indians
♦ ‘Dakotah’ replaced with ‘Dacotah’
⭘ Compelled to Suspend Intellectual Work ⭘ An Interesting Example of his Persistency ⭘ His Interest in Horticulture ⭘ ‘The New England Colonies’ ⭘ ‘The Heights of Abraham’
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. ⭘ A Popular Historian ⭘ Birth, Parentage and Early Life ⭘ A Thorough Preparation ⭘ Marriage and Happy Home ⭘ His Method of Composition ⭘ Successful as a Writer from the First ⭘ A List of his Works ⭘ Many Engaging Qualities ⭘ ‘The Golden Age of Tezcuco’ ⭘ ‘The Banquet of the Dead’
JOHN L. MOTLEY. ⭘ Birth, Boyhood, and Early Associates ⭘ Intimate Friend of Prince Bismarck ⭘ Member of Massachusetts’ Legislature ⭘ “History of Holland” ⭘ Minister to Austria, 1861; to England, 1869 ⭘ Patriot, Scholar, Historian ⭘ ‘Bismarck’ ⭘ ‘The Siege of Leyden’ ⭘ ‘Assassination of William of Orange’
JOHN FISKE. ⭘ Precocious Ability ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ His Literary Work and Most Noted Books ⭘ His Principal Historical Works ⭘ His School-books ⭘ ‘Land Discovered’ ⭘ ‘The Federal Convention’
JOHN B. McMASTER. ⭘ Excelling in Different Fields ⭘ Parentage, Birth and Early Life ⭘ Professor of American History ⭘ His View of History ⭘ Instructor of the Young ⭘ ‘The American Workman in 1784’ ⭘ ‘The Minister in New England’
FRANCES M. WHITCHER (THE WIDOW BEDOTT). ⭘ Her nom-de-plume ⭘ Richness of Humor ⭘ Birth, Childhood and Education ⭘ Marriage and Literary Fame ⭘ Removal from Elmira, N. Y. ⭘ ‘Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles’ ⭘ ‘The Widow’s Poetry and her Comments on the Same About Hezekiah’
CHARLES F. BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD). ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ On the “Commercial,” Toledo, Ohio ⭘ Local Editor of the “Plain Dealer” ⭘ Successful Lecturer in England ⭘ Death at Southampton ⭘ His Works ⭘ ‘Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers’ ⭘ ‘At the Tomb of Shakespeare’
HENRY W. SHAW (JOSH BILLINGS). ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ His Early Life of Adventure ⭘ Entered the Lecture Field ⭘ Contributor to “The New York Weekly” ⭘ His Published Books ♦⭘ ‘Josh Billing’s Advertisement’
♦ added work omitted from the TOC
⭘ ‘Manifest Destiny’ ⭘ ‘Letters to Farmers’
SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN). ⭘ A World-wide Reputation ⭘ Birth, Boyhood and Education ⭘ His Pilot Life ⭘ Editor of the Virginia City “Enterprise” ⭘ Journalist and Gold Digger ⭘ A Trip to Hawaii ⭘ Innocents Abroad ⭘ Some of his Other Works ⭘ A Lecturing Trip Around the World ⭘ ‘Jim Smiley’s Frog’ ⭘ ‘Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer’ ⭘ ‘The Babies’
MARIETTA HOLLEY (JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE). ⭘ A Writer at an Early Age ⭘ Birth and Ancestors ⭘ Rise and Increase of Her Fame ⭘ Some of her Prominent Works ⭘ A Quarter Million Copies Sold ⭘ Characteristics of her Books ⭘ ‘Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President’
CHARLES F. ADAMS (YAWCOB STRAUSS). ⭘ A Not-Soon-to-be-Forgotten Author ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ Service in Many Hard-fought Battles ⭘ Prominent Business Man ⭘ A Contributor to Prominent Journals ⭘ A Genial and Companionable Man ⭘ ‘Der Drummer’ ⭘ ‘Hans and Fritz’ ⭘ ‘Yawcob Strauss’ ⭘ ‘Mine Moder-in-Law’ ⭘ ‘Yawcob’s Dribulations’ ⭘ ‘The Puzzled Dutchman’ ⭘ ‘Der Oak and Der Vine’
EDGAR WILSON NYE (BILL NYE). ⭘ A Man of Genuine Wit ⭘ Birth and Early Surroundings ⭘ Studied Law, Admitted to the Bar ⭘ Organized the Nye Trust ⭘ Famous Letters from Buck’s Shoals, N. C. ⭘ “History of the United States” ⭘ His Death ⭘ ‘The Wild Cow’ ⭘ ‘Mr. Whisk’s True Love’ ⭘ ‘The Discovery of New York’
JOEL C. HARRIS (UNCLE REMUS). ⭘ “An Accidental Author” ⭘ Birth and Humble Circumstances ⭘ In the Office of the “Countryman” ⭘ Beginning of his Literary Career ⭘ Studied and Practiced Law ⭘ Co-editor of the Atlanta “Constitution” ⭘ His Works ⭘ ‘Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard’
ROBERT J. BURDETTE. ⭘ A Prominent Place Among “Funny Men” ⭘ Birth and Early Education ⭘ Fought in the Civil War ⭘ Journalist, Lecturer and Baptist Minister ⭘ Contributor to “Ladies’ Home Journal” ⭘ His Other Works ⭘ ‘The Movement Cure for Rheumatism’
LOUISA M. ALCOTT. ⭘ Architect of her Own Fortune ⭘ Her Father’s Misfortunes ⭘ Her Early Writings ⭘ Her Letters in the Government Hospitals ⭘ Young People’s True Friend ⭘ Her Books ⭘ An Admirer of Emerson ⭘ A Victim of Over-Work ⭘ ‘How Jo Made Friends’
WILLIAM T. ADAMS (OLIVER OPTIC). ⭘ Writer for the Young ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ Teacher in Public Schools of Boston ⭘ His Editorials and Books ⭘ His Style and Influence ⭘ ‘The Sloop That Went to the Bottom’
SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (GRACE GREENWOOD). ⭘ Favorite Writer for Little Children ⭘ Birth and Childhood ⭘ Her Marriage ⭘ Contributions to Journals and Magazines ⭘ Her Numerous Books ⭘ Life Abroad ⭘ ‘The Baby in the Bath Tub’
HORATIO ALGER. ⭘ A Wholesome Author for Young People ⭘ His First Book, Great Success ⭘ A New Field ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ Residence in New York ⭘ Some of his Most Prominent Books ⭘ ‘How Dick Began the Day’
EDWARD ELLIS. ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ His Historical Text-Books ⭘ His Contributions to Children’s Papers ⭘ ‘The Signal Fire’
MARTHA FINLEY. ⭘ Birth, Ancestry and Early Life ⭘ Beginning of her Literary Career ⭘ Struggle Against Adversity ⭘ Great Exertions ⭘ ‘Elsie Series,’ Great Popularity ⭘ ‘Elsie’s Disappointment’
MARY MAPES DODGE. ⭘ Writer of Stories for Children ⭘ Birth and Parentage ⭘ Married William Dodge ⭘ Contributor to “Hearth and Home” ⭘ Success of her Works ⭘ Editor of “St. Nicholas Magazine” ⭘ Her Home in New York ⭘ ‘Too Much of a Good Thing’
HORACE GREELEY. ⭘ Birth and Early Taste for Literature ⭘ On the “Northern Spectator” ⭘ Tries his Fortune in New York ⭘ Part Owner of the “New Yorker” ⭘ The “Log Cabin” and the N. Y. “Tribune” ⭘ Elected to Congress ⭘ His Works ⭘ Nominated for Presidency ⭘ His Last Resting Place ⭘ ‘A Debtor’s Slavery’ ⭘ ‘The Press’
CHARLES A. DANA. ⭘ One of Our Foremost Men ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ A Remarkable Life ⭘ His Education and College Career ⭘ Joining the “Brook Farm” Men ⭘ His First Journalistic Experience ⭘ On the New York “Tribune” ⭘ Busy Years ⭘ Difference Between Mr. Greeley and Mr. Dana ⭘ Assistant Secretary of War ⭘ One Year in Chicago ⭘ Manager of the New York “Sun” ⭘ ‘Roscoe Conkling’
LYMAN ABBOTT. ⭘ Ancestors, Birth and Education ⭘ Ordained a Minister ⭘ Secretary to the American Freedmen’s Commission ⭘ Work as a Journalist ⭘ Successor of Henry Ward Beecher ⭘ Prolific Publisher ⭘ Successful Pulpit Speaker ⭘ ‘The Jesuits’ ⭘ ‘The Destruction of the Cities of the Plain’
HENRY W. WATTERSON. ⭘ Influential Modern Journalist ⭘ Birth and Education ⭘ Editor of the “Republican Banner” ⭘ Service in the Confederate Army ⭘ The “Courier-Journal,” Louisville, Ky. ⭘ Prominent Part in Politics ⭘ ‘The New South’
MURAT HALSTEAD. ⭘ One of the Greatest Living Journalists ⭘ Nativity, Early Life and Education ⭘ Editor of “The Commercial,” Cincinnati, Ohio ⭘ A Continued Success ⭘ Correspondent During the Franco-Prussian War, 1870 ⭘ In Washington and New York ⭘ Home and Family Life ⭘ ‘The Young Man at the Door’
WHITELAW REID. ⭘ “Fortune Favors the Brave” ⭘ Birth and Early Training ⭘ War Correspondent to the “Cincinnati Gazette” ⭘ An Important Work ⭘ Editorial Writer Upon N. Y. “Tribune” ⭘ His Most Prominent Works ⭘ His Palatial Home and Family Life ⭘ ‘Pictures of a Louisiana Plantation’
ALBERT SHAW. ⭘ Birth, Education and Personal Characteristics ⭘ Residence in Baltimore ⭘ On the Minneapolis Daily “Tribune” ⭘ Extensive Studies Abroad ⭘ Editor of the “Review of Reviews” ⭘ Great Success ⭘ ‘Recent Development of the West’
JULIAN HAWTHORNE. ⭘ His Imaginative Power, Vivid Statement ⭘ Parentage, Birth and Travels Abroad ⭘ College Life and Early Training ⭘ Long Sojourn Abroad ⭘ Some of his Most Prominent Works ⭘ Expedition to India ⭘ ‘The Wayside and the War’ ⭘ ‘First Months in England’ ⭘ ‘The Horrors of the Plague in India’
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. ⭘ Marvelous Skill in Seeing the World ⭘ A Clever Newspaper Reporter ⭘ Birth and Hereditary Bent for Letters ⭘ Interesting Career as a Journalist ⭘ The Book that Made Him Famous ⭘ Some of His Other Works ⭘ ‘The Greek Defence of Velestino’
PATRICK HENRY. ⭘ His Talents as a Popular Orator ⭘ Parentage and Education ⭘ Marriage and Early Life ⭘ A Prominent Lawyer ⭘ Bold Principles ⭘ The Leader of his Colony ⭘ The First Governor of Virginia ⭘ His Death ⭘ ‘Resistance to British Aggression’ ⭘ ‘The War Inevitable’
HENRY CLAY. ⭘ The “Great Pacificator” ⭘ Birth, Early Hardships, Toil and Poverty ⭘ Removal to Kentucky and Success ⭘ Marriage and Home ⭘ In the Senate of the United States ⭘ Member of the House of Representatives ⭘ Elected Speaker ⭘ Secretary of State ⭘ The Conflict of 1818 ⭘ The Disappointment of His Life ⭘ The “Compromise” of 1850 ⭘ The Leading Object of His Life ⭘ ‘Defence of Jefferson,’ 1813 ⭘ ‘Reply to John Randolph’ ⭘ ‘On Recognizing the Independence of Greece’
DANIEL WEBSTER. ⭘ First among the “Makers of the Nation” ⭘ Birth, Ancestors and Early Life ⭘ The “Webster’s Boy” ⭘ Extraordinary Memory ⭘ Majestic Appearance ⭘ Lawyer, Orator and Statesman ⭘ A Famous Case ⭘ His Most Famous Speeches ⭘ Secretary of State ⭘ Home and Home Life ⭘ Death and Funeral ⭘ ‘South Carolina and Massachusetts’ ⭘ ‘Liberty and Union’ ⭘ ‘The Eloquence of Action’ ⭘ ‘The Twenty-second of February’ ⭘ ‘America’s Gift to Europe’
EDWARD EVERETT. ⭘ The Great Charm of His Orations ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ Professor of Greek at Harvard College ⭘ Editor of the “North American Review” ⭘ Member of Congress ⭘ Minister to England ⭘ President of Harvard College ⭘ Secretary of State ⭘ His Lectures and Orations ⭘ Death ⭘ ‘Twenty-five Years of Peace’ ⭘ ‘The Father of the Republic’ ⭘ ‘The Land of Our Forefathers’
WENDELL PHILLIPS. ⭘ “The Silvery-tongued Orator” ⭘ How He came into Prominence ⭘ A Memorable Speech ⭘ Birth, Parents and Education ⭘ A Popular Lecturer ⭘ His Most Celebrated Addresses ⭘ ‘Political Agitation’ ⭘ ‘Toussaint L’Ouverture’
HENRY WARD BEECHER. ⭘ No Superior as Pulpit Orator ⭘ Parentage, Birth and Childhood ⭘ Education and Conversion ⭘ His Marriage and First Pastorate ⭘ Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, N. Y. ⭘ A Bold Abolitionist ⭘ Ever the Champion of the Right ⭘ His Death and Funeral ⭘ ‘Public Dishonesty’ ⭘ ‘Eulogy on General Grant’ ⭘ ‘From “The Sparks of Nature”’
JOHN B. GOUGH. ⭘ A Great National Orator ⭘ Birth and Early Life ⭘ A Life of Hopeless Dissipation ⭘ Public Confession and Reformation ⭘ A Popular Lecturer ⭘ Called to England ⭘ A Happy Life ⭘ His Published Works ⭘ ‘Water and Rum’ ⭘ ‘The Power of Habit’ ⭘ ‘What is a Minority?’
CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. ⭘ Great Versatility ⭘ Birth, Ancestors and Boyhood ⭘ A Close Student of Politics ⭘ A Highly Successful Lawyer ⭘ A Giant in Politics ⭘ Member of Congress ⭘ Secretary of State ⭘ Minister to Japan ⭘ His Career as a Railway Man ⭘ ‘The Pilgrims’
HENRY W. GRADY. ⭘ Devoid of Sectional Animosities ⭘ The Union His Pride ⭘ Eloquent, Logical and Aggressive ⭘ His Principal Speeches ⭘ Birth, Parentage and Education ⭘ Marriage and Struggle for Existence ⭘ “A Friend in Need” ⭘ Success at Last ⭘ Premature Death ⭘ ‘The New South’ ⭘ ‘Regard for the Negro Race’ ⭘ ‘Appeal for Temperance’
JULIA WARD HOWE. ⭘ Her Home a Meeting Place for Great Men ⭘ Birth, Parentage and Education ⭘ Marriage and Tour Abroad ⭘ Her First Book ⭘ Interest in the Anti-Slavery Question ⭘ Her Famous “Battle Hymn” ⭘ Visit to England ⭘ A New Journey Abroad ⭘ ‘The Battle Hymn of the ♦Republic’
♦ ‘Rebublic’ replaced with ‘Republic’
⭘ ‘Our Country’ ⭘ ‘The Unspeakable Pang’
MARY A. LIVERMORE. ⭘ Her Early Experience ⭘ Birth, Parentage and Education ⭘ Teacher of Latin and French ⭘ In the South ⭘ Marriage ⭘ An Active Temperance Worker ⭘ Her Literary Work ⭘ War Service ⭘ An Ardent Woman-Suffragist ⭘ Her Pen Never Idle ⭘ ‘Useful Women’
BELVA ANN LOCKWOOD. ⭘ One of the Greatest Benefactors of Her Sex ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ Professor at Lockport Academy ⭘ Admission to the Supreme Court of the U. S. ⭘ A Remarkable Nomination ⭘ Great Popularity ⭘ Several Times Delegate to International Congresses of Peace ⭘ Assistant Editor to the “Peacemaker” ⭘ ‘Address before the Committee of the House of Delegates, Washington, in Support of Woman Suffrage’
SUSAN B. ANTHONY. ⭘ Early Life and Education ⭘ How She Became an Abolitionist, Woman-Suffragist and Temperance Worker ⭘ Arrested, Tried and Fined for Voting ⭘ Speeches and Lectures ⭘ Celebration of Her Seventieth Birthday ⭘ ‘Woman’s Right to Suffrage’
ELIZABETH CADY STANTON. ⭘ Forceful, Logical and Eloquent Orator ⭘ Primarily a Woman-Suffragist ⭘ Birth, Childhood and Education ⭘ How She Became a Woman’s Rights Believer ⭘ How She Became an Abolitionist ⭘ The First Woman’s Rights Convention ⭘ Her Addresses and Speeches ⭘ Her Literary Works ⭘ A Thoroughly Domestic Woman ⭘ ‘A Plea for Equal Rights’ ⭘ ‘Address to the Legislature of New York’
FRANCES E. WILLARD. ⭘ Birth, Childhood and Early Life ⭘ Teacher and President of Evanston College ⭘ The Women’s “Crusade against Rum Shops” ⭘ Joining in the Crusade ⭘ The Result of Her Work ⭘ ‘Home Protection’
LYDIA MARIA CHILD. ⭘ Activity against the “Fugitive Slave Law” ⭘ Birth, Education and Early Life ⭘ Her First Book a Success ⭘ Marriage and Anti-Slavery Work ⭘ The First Anti-Slavery Book in America ⭘ ‘A Little Waif’ ⭘ ‘To Whittier on His Seventieth Birthday’ ⭘ ‘Politeness’ ⭘ ‘Flowers’ ⭘ ‘Unselfishness’
ANNA ELIZABETH DICKINSON. ⭘ A Fearless Girl ⭘ Birth, Childhood and Education ⭘ Her Debut Before the Public ⭘ Cast Upon the World ⭘ How She was Named “The Girl Orator” ⭘ The Mistake of Her Life ⭘ Misfortunes and Difficulties ⭘ Rare Eloquence and Dramatic Fervor ⭘ ‘Why Colored Men Should Enlist in the Army’
MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. ⭘ ‘Home, Sweet Home’ ⭘ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ ⭘ ‘The American Flag’ ⭘ ‘Blind Man and the Elephant’ ⭘ ‘Hail, Columbia!’ ⭘ ‘Betty and the Bear’ ⭘ ‘Visit of St. Nicholas’ ⭘ ‘Woodman, Spare that Tree’ ⭘ ‘Sanctity of Treaties, 1796’ ⭘ ‘The Bloom was on the Alder and the Tassel on the Corn’ ⭘ ‘The Declaration of Independence’ ⭘ ‘Washington’s Address to His Soldiers, 1776’ ⭘ ‘The General Government and the States’ ⭘ ‘What Saved the Union’ ⭘ ‘The Birthday of Washington’ ⭘ ‘Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?’ ⭘ ‘Columbus in Chains’ ⭘ ‘The Bivouac of the Dead’ ⭘ ‘Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery’ ⭘ ‘Memory’ ⭘ ‘All Quiet Along the Potomac’ ⭘ ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’ ⭘ ‘The Blue and the Gray’ ⭘ ‘Roll-call’ ⭘ ‘Theology in the Quarters’ ⭘ ‘Ruin Wrought by Rum’ ⭘ ‘To a Skeleton’ ⭘ ‘Pledge with Wine’ ⭘ ‘Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua’ ⭘ ‘The Crabbed Man’ ⭘ ‘Putting up O’ the Stove’ ⭘ ‘The Poor Indian!’ ⭘ ‘Jenkins Goes to a Picnic’ ⭘ ‘Sewing on a Button’ ⭘ ‘Casey at the Bat’ ⭘ ‘The Magical Isle’ ⭘ ‘Stray Bits of Character’
FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS.
WHOSE WRITINGS, BIOGRAPHIES AND PORTRAITS APPEAR IN THIS VOLUME.
Abbott, Lyman. Adams, Charles Follen, (Yawcob Strauss). Adams, Wm. T., (Oliver Optic). Alcott, Louisa May. Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. Alger, Horatio, Jr. Anthony, Susan B. Artemus Ward, (Charles F. Browne). Austin, Jane Goodwin. Bancroft, George H. Barr, Amelia E. Beecher, Henry Ward. Bellamy, Edward. Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye). Browne, Charles F., (Artemus Ward).¹ Bryant, William Cullen. ♦Burdette, Robert J.
♦ ‘Burdett’ replaced with ‘Burdette’
Burnett, Frances Hodgson. Cable, George W. Carleton, Will. Cary, Alice. Cary, Phoebe. Child, Lydia Maria.¹ Clay, Henry. Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). Cooper, James Fenimore. Craddock, Charles Egbert, (Mary N. Murfree). Crawford, Francis Marion. Dana, Charles A. Davis, Richard Harding. Depew, Chauncey M. Dickinson, Anna Elizabeth. Dodge, Mary Abigail, (Gail Hamilton).¹ Dodge, Mary Mapes.¹ Eggleston, Edward. Ellis, Edward. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Everett, Edward. Field, Eugene. Finley, Martha. Fiske, John.¹ French, Alice, (Octave Thanet). Gail Hamilton, (Mary Abigail Dodge).¹ Gilder, Richard Watson. Gough, John B. Grady, Henry W. Greeley, Horace. Grace Greenwood, (Sarah J. Lippincott). Hale, Edward Everett. Halstead, Murat. Harris, Joel Chandler, (Uncle Remus). Harte, Bret. Hawthorne, Julian. Hawthorne, Nathaniel. Hay, John. Henry, Patrick. Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. Holley, Marietta, (Josiah Allen’s Wife).¹ Holmes, Oliver Wendell. Howe, Julia Ward. Howells, William Dean. Ik Marvel, (Donald G. Mitchell). Irving, Washington. Jackson, Helen Hunt. Joaquin Miller (Cincinnatus Heine Miller). Josiah Allen’s Wife, (Marietta Holly).¹ Josh Billings, (Henry W. Shaw).¹ Larcom, Lucy. Lippincott, Sarah Jane, (Grace Greenwood). Livermore, Mary A. Lockwood, Belva Ann. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. Lowell, James Russell. Mabie, Hamilton W. Mark Twain, (Samuel L. Clemens). Marion Harland, (Mary V. Terhune). McMaster, John B. Miller, Cincinnatus Heine, (Joaquin). Mitchell, Donald Grant (Ik Marvel). Motley, John L. Moulton, Louise Chandler. Murfree, Mary N., (Chas. Egbert Craddock). Nye, Edgar Wilson, (Bill Nye). Oliver Optic, (William T. Adams). Octave Thanet, (Alice French). Page, Thomas Nelson. Parkman, Francis.¹ Parton, James. Phillips, Wendell. Poe, Edgar Allen.¹ Prescott, William. Reid, Whitelaw. Riley, James Whitcomb. Roe, Edward Payson. Shaw, Albert. Shaw, Henry W., (Josh Billings). Sigourney, Lydia H. Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. Stanton, Elizabeth Cady. Stedman, Edmund Clarence. Stockton, Frank. Stoddard, Richard Henry. Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Taylor, Bayard.¹ Terhune, Mary Virginia. Thompson, Maurice.¹ Wallace, General Lew.¹ Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Warner, Charles Dudley. Watterson, Henry. Webster, Daniel. Whitman, Walt. Whittier, John Greenleaf. Willard, Frances E. Willis, Nathaniel Parker. Whitcher, Mrs. (The Widow Bedott).¹
¹ No Portrait.
Illustration: “UNDER A SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE THE VILLAGE SMITHY STANDS.” Longfellow.
GREAT POETS OF AMERICA.
Illustration: WELL KNOWN AMERICAN POETS
N. P. WILLIS THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH • WALT WHITMAN RICHARD HENRY STODDARD RICHARD WATSON GILDER • COL. JOHN HAY
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE POET OF NATURE.
IT is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him. He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled “The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occasion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut River” and also the lines entitled “Drought” which show the characteristic observation as well as the style in which his youthful muse found expression. It was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found among the succeeding selections.
“Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This production is called the beginning of American poetry.
William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Hampshire Co., Mass., November 3rd, 1784. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with which Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was
“Marked with some act of goodness every day,”
is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic eloquence in the “Hymn to Death” written in 1825:
Alas! I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease―― For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes, And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave――this――and the hope To copy thy example.
Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plainfield and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for literature, and removed to New York where in 1826 he began to edit the “Evening Post,” which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his death. William Cullen Bryant and the “Evening Post” were almost as conspicuous and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church.
In 1821 Mr. Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose character is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. The one beginning
“O fairest of the rural maids,”
was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her:――
“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
“Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,―― That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?”
Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the Flowers,” “Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age.
Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets was such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “I once proposed,” says a friend, “to send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear. ‘You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a copy with you?’ said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful memory. ‘If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘I could recall every line of poetry I have ever written.’”
His tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr. Bryant, who was reading a review of a little book of wretchedly halting verse, said to me: ‘I wish you would deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’”
Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “It is a fine sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judgment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.... I remember once to have been at a lecture where Mr. Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely-sized head was especially noticeable.... The observer of Bryant’s capacious skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of a noble manhood.”
The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty-four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life――though editor for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public――he had kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades, continually before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “Thanatopsis” written by himself seventy years before.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
* * * * *
THANATOPSIS.¹
The following production is called the beginning of American poetry.
That a young man not yet 19 should have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste language and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary history.
¹ The following copyrighted selections from Wm. Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton & Co., the publishers of his works.
TO him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;―― Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around―― Earth and her waters, and the depths of air―― Comes a still voice.――Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone,――nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world,――with kings, The powerful of the earth――the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,――the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods,――rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all, Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,―― Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save its own dashings,――yet――the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep,――the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men―― The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man―― Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
* * * * *
WAITING BY THE GATE.
BESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.
The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o’er.
Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now, There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his ♦allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.
In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man’s courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.
Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.
Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not where.
I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on; And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.
Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!
So from every region, so enter side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride, Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.
And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.
I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.
♦ ‘alloted’ replaced with ‘allotted’
* * * * *
“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.”
O DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.
The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.
There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.
Nor let the good man’s trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,―― Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God hath marked each sorrowing day, And numbered every secret tear, And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.
* * * * *
THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.
HERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass A fragrance from the cedars thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades―― Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old―― My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of Liberty. O FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crown’d his slave, When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch’d His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birth-right was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes: and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side, Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, The enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obey’d, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His wither’d hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps. And thou must watch and combat, till the day Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.
* * * * *
TO A WATERFOWL.
WHITHER, ’midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,―― The desert and illimitable air,―― Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann’d, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest.
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
* * * * *
ROBERT OF LINCOLN.
MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers, while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half-forgotten that merry air, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.
* * * * *
DROUGHT.
PLUNGED amid the limpid waters, Or the cooling shade beneath, Let me fly the scorching sunbeams, And the southwind’s sickly breath!
Sirius burns the parching meadows, Flames upon the embrowning hill, Dries the foliage of the forest, And evaporates the rill.
Scarce is seen the lonely floweret, Save amid the embowering wood; O’er the prospect dim and dreary, Drought presides in sullen mood!
Murky vapours hung in ether, Wrap in gloom, the sky serene; Nature pants distressful――silence Reigns o’er all the sultry scene.
Then amid the limpid waters, Or beneath the cooling shade, Let me shun the scorching sunbeams And the sickly breeze evade.
* * * * *
THE PAST.
No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.
He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.
THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, And, last, Man’s Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends――the good――the kind, Yielded to thee with tears,―― The venerable form――the exalted mind.
My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back;――yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
In vain:――thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv’st them back,――nor to the broken heart.
In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown;――to thee Earth’s wonder and her pride Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea;
Labors of good to man, Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,―― Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.
Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.
Thine for a space are they:―― Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!
All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth, to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime.
They have not perish’d――no! Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul’s apparent seat,
All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
And then shall I behold Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her who, still and cold, Fills the next grave,――the beautiful and young.
* * * * *
THE MURDERED TRAVELER.
WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again; The murdered traveler’s bones were found, Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by.
The red bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o’erhead; And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o’er the desert snow, Unarmed and hard beset;
Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.
Long, long they looked――but never spied His welcome step again. Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen.
* * * * *
THE BATTLEFIELD.
Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza ♦beginning――“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,”――said: “Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king’s ransom.”
♦ ‘begining’ replaced with ‘beginning’
ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter’d in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,―― Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon’d throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown――yet faint thou not,
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help’d thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.
* * * * *
THE CROWDED STREETS.
LET me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
How fast the flitting figures come; The mild, the fierce, the stony face―― Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass to toil, to strife, to rest―― To halls in which the feast is spread―― To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the bed.
And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye, Go’st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?
Keen son of trade, with eager brow, Who is now fluttering in thy snare, Thy golden fortunes tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleams again? To sorrow o’er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
Some, famine struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to night.
Each where his tasks or pleasure call, They pass and heed each other not; There is one who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
* * * * *
NOTICE OF FITZ-GREEN HALLECK.
As a specimen of Mr. Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York Historical Society in February 1869. This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a literary estimate of Mr. Halleck.
“WHEN I look back upon Halleck’s literary life, I cannot help thinking that if his death had happened forty years earlier, his life would have been regarded as a bright morning prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career may be said to have ended then. All that will hand down his name to future years had already been produced. Who shall say to what cause his subsequent literary inaction was owing? It was not the decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate on what he had written, and therefore resolved to write no more? Was it because he feared lest what he might write would be unworthy of the reputation he had been so fortunate as to acquire?
“I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in the latter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems by him, that he might give them the last and happiest touches. Having composed his poems without committing them to paper, and retaining them in his faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner, murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering the enthusiasm with which they were first conceived, and in this state of mind heightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression....
“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody of his numbers. In this way I believe that he wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness of expression which causes the thought to be seen through them without any interposing dimness, so that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the habit of composing in this manner, and that he found it so necessary to the perfection of what he wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”
* * * * *
A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.
From “The Letters of a Traveler.”
In 1843, during Mr. Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those antebellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking――one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which finished shucking the allotted pile of corn. Mr. Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel occasions:
BARNWELL DISTRICT, South Carolina, March 29, 1843.
BUT you must hear of the corn-shucking. The one at which I was present was given on purpose that I might witness the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire of light-wood was made near the corn-house. Light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel.
The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing as they came. The driver of the plantation, a colored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. These are the words:
Johnny come down de hollow. Oh hollow! Johnny come down de hollow. Oh hollow! De nigger-trader got me. Oh hollow! De speculator bought me. Oh hollow! I’m sold for silver dollars. Oh hollow! Boys, go catch the pony. Oh hollow! Bring him round the corner. Oh hollow! I’m goin’ away to Georgia. Oh hollow! Boys, good-by forever! Oh hollow!
The song of “Jenny gone away,” was also given, and another, called the monkey-song, probably of African origin, in which the principal singer personated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “Dan, dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs commonly sung on these occasions, represents the various animals of the woods as belonging to some profession or trade. For example――
De cooter is de boatman――
The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boatman he is.
De cooter is de boatman. John John Crow.
De red-bird de soger. John John Crow.
De mocking-bird de lawyer. John John Crow.
De alligator sawyer. John John Crow.
The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line.
When the work of the evening was over the negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-shucking. From the dances a transition was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named Toby to address the company in his stead. Toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of de state,” “de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. At length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech.
Illustration: CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
EDGAR ALLEN POE.
THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS.
EDGAR Allen Poe, the author of “The Raven,” “Annabel Lee,” “The Haunted Palace,” “To One in Paradise,” “Israfel” and “Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, perhaps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett says of him:――
“He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear; All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim; Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim, At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.
By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air, Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl And met delirium in her awful lair.”
Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Marylander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland.
When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family. Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar (who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia, and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies, but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to submit to the discipline of the institution.
In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and permanent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympathetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing not how to make money――yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,――we have the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature――struggling for nearly twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849, at forty years of age.
To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “Annabel Lee;” or that he should wail over the “Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should “nevermore” be lifted from the shadow of the “Raven” upon the floor. These poems and others are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced. They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature are often grown.
To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne has also written a poem entitled, “Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote:――
“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him: One, a wild demon, weird and dim, The darkness of whose ebon wings Did shroud unutterable things: One, a fair angel, in the skies Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes Were seen the lights of Paradise.
To these, in turn, he gave the whole Vast empire of his brooding soul; Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell, Now thrilled with awful tones of hell: Wide were his being’s strange extremes, ’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleams Of tender, or majestic dreams.”
It must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography published of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies, notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as published statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favorable light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from his father who, before him, was a drunkard.
It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sorrow those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to stand with uncovered heads.
As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing.
As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a nearby, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As one of his biographers has written, “He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest. “In that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “in knowledge of the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.”
Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by him in Richmond says: “I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the ‘Raven’ will ever forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. The audience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive ‘nevermore.’”
Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848 as critic and editor on the “Literary Messenger” of Richmond, Virginia, the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, the “Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “Broadway Journal” of New York, which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was published in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic composition, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “Manuscript Found in a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for poetry. The latter, however, he did not ♦receive because the judges found the same author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took up his residence at Fordham, New York, where his wife died in 1847, and where he continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “Raven” was published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “Eureka” and “Elalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect. To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “Memoir” and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman’s “Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863.
♦ ‘recieve’ replaced with ‘receive’
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
* * * * *
Illustration: THE CITY IN THE SEA.
THE CITY IN THE SEA.
LO! Death has rear’d himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim west, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines, and palaces, and towers, (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently―― Gleams up the pinnacles far and free―― Up domes――up spires――up kingly halls―― Up fanes――up Babylon-like walls―― Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers―― Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond eye―― Not the gayly-jewell’d dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass―― No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea―― No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave――there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide―― As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy heaven. The waves have now a redder glow―― The hours are breathing faint and low―― And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.
* * * * *
ANNABEL LEE.
IT was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love―― I and my ANNABEL LEE―― With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre, In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me―― Yes!――that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea), That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we―― Of many far wiser than we―― And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling――my darling――my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea―― In her tomb by the sounding sea.
* * * * *
TO HELEN.
The following poem was published first “To ――――,” afterwards the title was changed, “To Helen.” It seems to have been written by Poe to Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes.
I SAW thee once――once only――years ago: I must not say how many――but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe―― Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death―― Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.
Illustration: CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOON FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES, AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED――ALAS! IN SORROW.
Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight―― Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. I paused――I looked―― And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All, all expired save thee――save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes―― Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them――they were the world to me. I saw but them――saw only them for hours―― Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep―― How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go――they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me, they lead me through the years; They are my ministers――yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle―― My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire―― And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still――two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
* * * * *
ISRAFEL.¹
¹ “And the angel ISRAFEL, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.” ――KORAN.
IN heaven a spirit doth dwell “Whose heart-strings are a lute;” None sing so wildly well As the angel ISRAFEL, And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamour’d moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven) Pauses in heaven.
And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That ISRAFELI’S fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings―― The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty―― Where Love’s a grown-up god―― Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong, ISRAFELI, who despisest An unimpassion’d song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit―― Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute―― Well may the stars be mute! Yes, heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely――flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell Where ISRAFEL Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.
* * * * *
TO ONE IN PARADISE.
THOU wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine―― A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreath’d with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, “On! on!”――but o’er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me The light of life is o’er! No more――no more――no more―― (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams―― In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.
* * * * *
LENORE.
Mrs. Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing of these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,――as yet a boy of about sixteen years,――he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son. The boy was so overcome that it is said he stood for a ♦minute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodiment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem.
♦ ‘miuute’ replaced with ‘minute’
AH, broken is the golden bowl, The spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll! A saintly soul Floats on the Stygian river; And, GUY DE VERE, Hast thou no tear? Weep now or never more! See, on yon drear And rigid bier Low lies thy love, LENORE! Come, let the burial-rite be read―― The funeral-song be sung!―― An anthem for the queenliest dead That ever died so young―― A dirge for her the doubly dead, In that she died so young!
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, And hated her for her pride; And when she fell in feeble health, Ye bless’d her――that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read? The requiem how be sung By you――by yours, the evil eye―― By yours the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence That died, and died so young?”
Peccavimus; But rave not thus! And let a sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet LENORE Hath “gone before,” With Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild For the dear child That should have been thy bride―― For her, the fair And debonair, That now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair But not within her eyes―― The life still there, Upon her hair―― The death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night My heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight With a pæan of old days! Let no bell toll!―― Lest her sweet soul, Amid its hallow’d mirth, Should catch the note, As it doth float―― Up from the damned earth. To friends above, from fiends below, The indignant ghost is riven―― From hell unto a high estate Far up within the heaven―― From grief and groan, To a golden throne, Beside the King of Heaven.”
* * * * *
THE BELLS.
This selection is a favorite with reciters. It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the sounds of the ringing bells.
HEAR the sledges with the bells―― Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells―― From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells―― Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells.
On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells,―― Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells―― To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells―― Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now――now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells―― Of the bells―― Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells―― In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells―― Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright, At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people――ah, the people―― They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone―― They are neither man nor woman―― They are neither brute nor human―― They are ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells―― Of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells―― Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time. As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells,―― Of the bells, bells, bells,―― To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,―― Bells, bells, bells,―― To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
* * * * *
THE RAVEN.
This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment with rhythmical expression to be found in any language. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavoring to win from books “surcease of sorrow for the lost Lenore,” a raven――the symbol of despair――enters the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas. A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen with its haunting croak of “Nevermore.”
Illustration: THE RAVEN.
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of ♦forgotten lore,―― While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. “’Tis some visitor,” I mutter’d, “tapping at my chamber-door―― Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow――sorrow for the lost Lenore,―― For the rare and ♣radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,―― Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, Thrilled me,――filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,―― Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; That it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”――here I opened wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “LENORE!” Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore,―― Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;―― ’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door,―― Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door―― Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plutonian shore?” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door With such name as “Nevermore!”
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered―― Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore!”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow’d fast and follow’d faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of――‘Never――nevermore!’”
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door, Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore―― What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore!”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er She shall press――ah! nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor, “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee,――by these angels he hath sent thee Respite――respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost Lenore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet!” cried I, “thing of evil!――prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted―― On this home by horror haunted――tell me truly, I implore,―― Is there――is there balm in Gilead?――tell me――tell me, I implore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet!” cried I, “thing of evil!――prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting,―― “Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!――quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted――nevermore!
♦ ‘forgotton’ replaced with ‘forgotten’ ♣ ‘raidant’ replaced with ‘radiant’
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE POET OF THE PEOPLE.
“He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.”
“IN an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in Portland, Maine, February 7th, 1807.
In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learning and his wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant, Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities. Critics also say that “he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life. It is on these themes that he tuned his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song has found a lodgement in every household in America, “swaying the hearts of men and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle verse.”
“Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.”
Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has made famous in “The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a family in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back. The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John S. C. Abbott, and others who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he was requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in his alma mater, which he accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Germany, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when he resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s resignation.
The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic associations as well; for it was none other than the old “Cragie House” which had been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “Homes of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with a magnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous productions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy-five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Longfellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bowdoin College. In 1843 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing injuries from which she died. She was buried on the 19th anniversary of their marriage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event.
Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the woof of the story in the threads of his song.
“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847), and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pré and the real Louisiana, not a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in painting the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others. The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless because he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest reader could understand.
Illustration: THE WAYSIDE INN.
Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”
In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but real persons. The musician was none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull; Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was the Sicilian; Dr. Henry Wales was the youth; the poet was Thomas W. Parsons, and the theologian was his brother, Rev. S. W. Longfellow. This poem shows Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other living man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was so familiar.
Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline”――as many other of Longfellow’s poems――may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted that he would not live in literature.
It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimulating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths, and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three directions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of his distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (which Chas. Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read.
* * * * *
THE PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
This poem has gained wide celebrity as one of Mr. Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the poem “Excelsior,” (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,――act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
* * * * *
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
Illustration: THEY LOVE TO SEE THE FLAMING FORGE, AND HEAR THE BELLOWS ROAR, AND CATCH THE BURNING SPARKS THAT FLY LIKE CHAFF FROM THE THRESHING FLOOR.
And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling――rejoicing――sorrowing―― Onward through life he goes: Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted――something done, Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of Life Our fortunes must be wrought, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
* * * * *
THE BRIDGE.
A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to pass, almost daily. “I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and again, “We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making sundry comparisons.” Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that “The old sea was flashing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track; the dark waves are dark provinces of God; illuminous though not to us.”
The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at midnight.
I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church tower;
And like the waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thought came o’er me, That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me, Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each having his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old, subdued and slow!
And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
* * * * *
RESIGNATION.
THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended, But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven’s distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition: This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,――the child of our affection,―― But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister’s ♦stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, She lives whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child:
But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion Shall we behold her face.
And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean That cannot be at rest,――
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing The grief that must have way.
♦ ‘stillnes’ replaced with ‘stillness’
* * * * *
GOD’S ACRE.
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God’s acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.
God’s Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God! This is the place where human harvests grow!
* * * * *
EXCELSIOR.
THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!
“Try not to Pass!” the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!
“O, stay,” the maiden said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!
“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant’s last Good-night; A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!
A traveler, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!
There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!
* * * * *
THE RAINY DAY.
THE day is cold, and dark and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark dreary.
* * * * *
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef――“Norman’s Woe”――where many disasters occurred. It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is said, hardly an effort.
IT was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main: “I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and colder blew the wind, A gale from the north-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so, For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat, Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.
“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say what may it be?” “’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast;” And he steered for the open sea.
“Oh father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh, say, what may it be?” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea.”
“O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh, say, what may it be?” But the father answered never a word―― A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face to the skies, The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow, On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves On the lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.
And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts, went by the board; Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank―― Ho! ho! the breakers roared.
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe
* * * * *
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
SOMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber door, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,―― “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,―― “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
All are scattered now, and fled,―― Some are married, some are dead: And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah!” when shall they all meet again? As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care And death, and time shall disappear,―― Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, “Forever――never! Never――forever!”
* * * * *
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.
The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to Mr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts――a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cambro Britons on their Harp.”
SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretch’d, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?”
Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart’s chamber.
“I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man’s curse! For this I sought thee.
“Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic’s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.
“Oft to his frozen lair Track’d I the grizzly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf’s bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.
“But when I older grew, Joining a corsair’s crew, O’er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-bout Wore the long winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk’s tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Fill’d to o’erflowing.
“Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning out tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.
“I woo’d the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest’s shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosen’d vest Flutter’d her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s hall Shields gleam’d upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I ask’d his daughter’s hand, Mute did the minstrel stand To hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaff’d Loud then the champion laugh’d, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.
“She was a Prince’s child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blush’d and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew’s flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,―― Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen!―― When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.
“Then launch’d they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind fail’d us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hail’d us.
“And as to catch the gale Round veer’d the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman’s hail, Death without quarter! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water.
“As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden. So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o’er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to lee-ward; There for my lady’s bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking sea-ward.
“There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden’s tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne’er shall the sun arise On such another!
“Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sun-light hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful!
“Thus, seam’d with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, Skål! to the Northland! skål!”¹ ――Thus the tale ended.
¹ Skål! is the Swedish expression for “Your Health.”
* * * * *
KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN.
WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed,――
That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass; In their beards the red wine glistened Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac And Saint Basil’s homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomæus, Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, “Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!”
* * * * *
EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.
BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?” Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. “Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”
* * * * *
LITERARY FAME.
As a specimen of Mr. Longfellow’s prose style we present the following extract from his “Hyperion,” written when the poet was comparatively a young man.
TIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,――Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this: well knowing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought.
Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,――at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.
It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them.
And, oh! how majestically they walk in history! some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!
And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,――not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;――and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,――and the world talks of them, while they sleep!
It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun’s eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever!
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF LONGFELLOW
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
THE LIBERATOR OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.
TO classify Emerson is a matter of no small difficulty. He was a philosopher, he was an essayist, he was a poet――all three so eminently that scarcely two of his friends would agree to which class he most belonged. Oliver Wendell Holmes asks:
“Where in the realm of thought whose air is song Does he the Buddha of the west belong? He seems a winged Franklin sweetly wise, Born to unlock the secret of the skies.”
But whatever he did was done with a poetic touch. Philosophy, essay or song, it was all pregnant with the spirit of poetry. Whatever else he was, Emerson was pre-eminently a poet. It was with this golden key that he unlocked the chambers of original thought, that liberated American letters.
Until Emerson came, American authors had little independence. James Russell Lowell declares, “We were socially and intellectually bound to English thought, until Emerson cut the cable and gave us a chance at the dangers and glories of blue waters. He was our first optimistic writer. Before his day, Puritan theology had seen in man only a vile nature and considered his instincts for beauty and pleasure, proofs of his total depravity.” Under such conditions as these, the imagination was fettered and wholesome literature was impossible. As a reaction against this Puritan austerity came Unitarianism, which aimed to establish the dignity of man, and out of this came the further growth of the idealism or transcendentalism of Emerson. It was this idea and these aspirations of the new theology that Emerson converted into literature. The indirect influence of his example on the writings of Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier and Lowell, and its direct influence on Thoreau, Hawthorne, Chas. A. Dana, Margaret Fuller, G. W. Curtis and others, formed the very foundation for the beautiful structure of our representative American literature.
Emerson was profoundly a thinker who pondered the relation of man to God and to the universe. He conceived and taught the noblest ideals of virtue and a spiritual life. The profound study which Emerson devoted to his themes and his philosophic cast of mind made him a writer for scholars. He was a prophet who, without argument, announced truths which, by intuition, he seems to have perceived; but the thought is often so shadowy that the ordinary reader fails to catch it. For this reason he will never be like Longfellow or Whittier, a favorite with the masses. Let it not be understood, however, that all of Emerson’s writings are heavy or shadowy or difficult to understand. On the contrary, some of his poems are of a popular character and are easy of comprehension. For instance, “The Hymn,” sung at the completion of the Concord Monument in 1836, was on every one’s lips at the time of the Centennial celebration, in 1876. His optimistic spirit is also beautifully and clearly expressed in the following stanza of his “Voluntaries:”
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When duty whispers low, “Thou must,” The youth replies, “I can.”
These are but two instances of many that may be cited. No author is, perhaps, more enjoyed by those who understand him. He was a master of language. He never used the wrong word. His sentences are models. But he was not a logical or methodical writer. Every sentence stands by itself. His paragraphs might be arranged almost at random without essential loss to the essays. His philosophy consists largely in an array of golden sayings full of vital suggestions to help men make the best and most of themselves. He had no compact system of philosophy.
Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston, May 25, 1803, within “A kite-string of the birth place of Benjamin Franklin” with whom he is frequently compared. The likeness, however, consists only in the fact that they were both decidedly representative Americans of a decidedly different type. Franklin was prose, Emerson poetry; Franklin common sense, real; Emerson imaginative, ideal. In these opposite respects they both were equally representative of the highest type. Both were hopeful, kindly and shrewd. Both equally powerful in making, training and guiding the American people.
In his eighth year young Emerson was sent to a grammar school, where he made such rapid progress, that he was soon able to enter a higher department known as a Latin school. His first attempts at writing were not the dull efforts of a school boy; but original poems which he read with real taste and feeling. He completed his course and graduated from Harvard College at eighteen. It is said that he was dull in mathematics and not above the average in his class in general standing; but he was widely read in literature, which put him far in advance, perhaps, of any young man of his age. After graduating, he taught school for five years in connection with his brother; but in 1825, gave it up for the ministry. For a time he was pastor of a Unitarian Congregation in Boston; but his independent views were not in accordance with the doctrine of his church, therefore, he resigned in 1835, and retired to Concord, where he purchased a home near the spot on which the first battle of the Revolution was fought in 1775, which he commemorated in his own verse:――
“There first the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.”
In this city, Emerson resided until the day of his death, which occurred in Concord, April 27, 1882, in the seventy-eighth year of his age.
Illustration: HOME OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON, CONCORD, MASS.
It was in Concord that the poet and essayist, as the prophet of the advanced thought of his age, gathered around him those leading spirits who were dissatisfied with the selfishness and shallowness of existing society, and, who had been led by him to dream of an ideal condition in which all should live as one family. Out of this grew the famous “Brook Farm Community.” This was not an original idea of Emerson’s, however. Coleridge and Southey, of England, had thought of founding such a society in Pennsylvania, on the Susquehanna River. Emerson regarded this community of interests as the clear teachings of Jesus Christ; and, to put into practical operation this idea, a farm of about two hundred acres was bought at Roxbury, Mass., and a stock company was formed under the title of “The Brook Farm Institution of Agriculture and Education.” About seventy members joined in the enterprise. The principle of the organization was coöperative, the members sharing the profits. Nathaniel Hawthorne, the greatest of romancers, Chas. A. Dana, of the New York Tribune, Geo. W. Curtis, of Harper’s Monthly, Henry D. Thoreau, the poet naturalist, Amos Bronson Alcott, the transcendental dreamer and writer of strange shadowy sayings, and Margaret Fuller, the most learned woman of her age, were prominent members who removed to live on the farm. It is said that Emerson, himself, never really lived there; but was a member and frequent visitor, as were other prominent scholars of the same school. The project was a failure. After five years of experience, some of the houses were destroyed by fire, the enterprise given up, and the membership scattered.
But the Brook Farm served its purpose in literature by bringing together some of the best intellects in America, engaging them for five years in a common course of study, and stimulating a commerce of ideas. The breaking up of the community was better, perhaps, than its success would have been. It dispersed and scattered abroad the advanced thoughts of Emerson, and the doctrine of the society into every profession. Instead of being confined to the little paper, “The Dial,” (which was the organ of the society) its literature was transferred into a number of widely circulated national mediums.
Thus, it will be seen how Emerson, the “Sage of Concord,” gathered around him and dominated, by his charming personality, his powerful mind, and his wholesome influence, some of the brightest minds that have figured in American literature; and how, through them, as well as his own writings, he has done so much, not only to lay the foundation of a new literature, but to mould and shape leading minds for generations to come. The Brook Farm idea was the uppermost thought in Edward Bellamy’s famous novel, “Looking Backward,” which created such a sensation in the reading world a few years since. The progressive thought of Emerson was father to the so-called “New Theology,” or “Higher Criticism,” of modern scholars and theologians. It is, perhaps, for the influence which Emerson has exerted, rather than his own works, that the literature of America is mostly indebted to him. It was through his efforts that the village of Concord has been made more famous in American letters than the city of New York.
The charm of Emerson’s personality has already been referred to,――and it is not strange that it should have been so great. His manhood, no less than his genius was worthy of admiration and of reverence. His life corresponded with his brave, cheerful and steadfast teachings. He “practiced what he preached.” His manners were so gentle, his nature so transparent, and his life so singularly pure and happy, that he was called, while he lived, “the good and great Emerson;” and, since his death, the memory of his life and manly example are among the cherished possessions of our literature.
The reverence of his literary associates was little less than worship. Amos Bronson Alcott,――father of the authoress, Louisa M. Alcott,――one of the Brook Farm members, though himself a profound scholar and several years Emerson’s senior, declared that it would have been his great misfortune to have lived without knowing Emerson, whom he styled, “The magic minstrel and speaker! whose rhetoric, voiced as by organ stops, delivers the sentiment from his breast in cadences peculiar to himself; now hurling it forth on the ear, echoing them; then,――as his mood and matter invite it――dying like
Music of mild lutes Or silver coated flutes.
... such is the rhapsodist’s cunning in its structure and delivery.”
Referring to his association with Emerson, the same writer acknowledges in a poem, written after the sage’s death:
Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend: By the hand thou took’st me, and did’st condescend To bring me straightway into thy fair guild; And life-long hath it been high compliment By that to have been known, and thy friend styled, Given to rare thought and to good learning bent; Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled. Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be A scholar in thy university.
* * * * *
HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, 1836.
BY the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit that made those heroes dare To die or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.
* * * * *
THE RHODORA.
IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook; The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black waters with their beauty gay; Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school; The lively show beguiled me from my way. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew, But in my simple ignorance suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you.
* * * * *
THE TRUE HERO.
AN EXTRACT FROM “VOLUNTARIES.”
The following story is told of the manner in which the poem, “Voluntaries,” obtained its title. In 1863, Mr. Emerson came to Boston and took a room in the Parker House, bringing with him the unfinished sketch of a few verses which he wished Mr. Fields, his publisher, to hear. He drew a small table to the centre of the room and read aloud the lines he proposed giving to the press. They were written on separate slips of paper which were flying loosely about the room. (Mr. Emerson frequently wrote in such independent paragraphs, that many of his poems and essays might be rearranged without doing them serious violence.) The question arose as to title of the verses read, when Mr. Fields suggested ♦“Voluntaries,” which was cordially accepted by Mr. Emerson.
O WELL for the fortunate soul Which Music’s wings unfold, Stealing away the memory Of sorrows new and old! Yet happier he whose inward sight, Stayed on his subtle thought, Shuts his sense on toys of time, To vacant bosoms brought; But best befriended of the God He who, in evil times, Warned by an inward voice, Heeds not the darkness and the dread, Biding by his rule and choice, Telling only the fiery thread, Leading over heroic ground Walled with immortal terror round, To the aim which him allures, And the sweet heaven his deed secures. Peril around all else appalling, Cannon in front and leaden rain, Him duty through the clarion calling To the van called not in vain. Stainless soldier on the walls, Knowing this,――and knows no more,―― Whoever fights, whoever falls, Justice conquers evermore, Justice after as before;―― And he who battles on her side, God, though he were ten times slain, Crowns him victor glorified, Victor over death and pain Forever: but his erring foe, Self-assured that he prevails, Looks from his victim lying low, And sees aloft the red right arm Redress the eternal scales. He, the poor for whom angels foil, Blind with pride and fooled by hate, Writhes within the dragon coil, Reserved to a speechless fate.
♦ ‘Voluntaires’ replaced with ‘Voluntaries’
* * * * *
MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL.
THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter “Little Prig.” Bun replied: “You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I’m not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I’ll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”
* * * * *
THE SNOW STORM.
ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. The sled and traveler stopp’d, the courier’s feet Delay’d, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind’s masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnish’d with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are number’d, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish’d Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
* * * * *
THE PROBLEM.
I LIKE a church, I like a cowl, I love a prophet of the soul, And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature roll’d The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano’s tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,―― The canticles of love and wo. The hand that rounded Peter’s dome, And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity. Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew, The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast; Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell; Or how the sacred pine tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone; And morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O’er England’s Abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye; For, out of Thought’s interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air, And nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grew as grows the grass, Art might obey but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d, And the same power that rear’d the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentacost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken, Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sybils told In groves of oak or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost I know what say the Fathers wise,―― The book itself before me lies,―― Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear. And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.
* * * * *
TRAVELING.
I HAVE no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.
Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions; but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.
But the rage of traveling is itself only a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the universal system of education fosters restlessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but the traveling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our whole minds, lean to and follow the past and the distant as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. It was an application of his own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed. And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American artist will study with hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the wants of the people, the habit and form of the government, he will create a house in which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also.
* * * * *
THE COMPENSATION OF CALAMITY.
WE cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover and nerve us again. We cannot find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, “Up and onward for evermore!” We cannot stay amid the ruins, neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards.
And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed; breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener, is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men.
* * * * *
SELF-RELIANCE.
INSIST on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another you have only an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is the master who could have taught Shakspeare? Where is the master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon or Newton? Every great man is a unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. If anybody will tell me whom the great man imitates in the original crisis when he performs a great act, I will tell him who else than himself can teach him. Shakspeare will never be made by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is assigned thee, and thou canst not hope too much or dare too much.
* * * * *
FROM “NATURE.”
TO go into solitude a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate between him and vulgar things. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are!
If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these preachers of beauty and light the universe with their admonishing smile.
The stars awaken a certain reverence, because, always present, they are always inaccessible; but all natural objects make kindred impression when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort all her secrets and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains reflected all the wisdom of his best hour as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.
When we speak of Nature in this manner, we have a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impression made by manifold Nature objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts――that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men’s farms, yet to this their land-deeds give them no title.
To speak truly, few adult persons can see Nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of Nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other――who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of Nature a wild delight runs through the man in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, He is my creature, and, maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun nor the summer alone, but every hour and season, yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common in snow-puddles at twilight under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good-fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear to think how glad I am. In the woods, too, a man casts off his years as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of his life is always a child. In the woods is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life――no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes)――which Nature cannot repair.
* * * * *
The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old.
It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.
Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight does not reside in Nature, but in man or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance. For Nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs is overspread with melancholy to-day. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population.
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF EMERSON
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
“THE POET OF FREEDOM.”
IN a solitary farm house near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the valley of the Merrimac, on the 17th day of December, 1807, John Greenleaf Whittier was born. Within the same town, and Amesbury, nearby, this kind and gentle man, whom all the world delights to honor for his simple and beautiful heart-songs, spent most of his life, dying at the ripe old age of nearly eighty-five, in Danvers, Massachusetts, September 7th, 1892. The only distinguishing features about his ancestors were that Thos. Whittier settled at Haverhill in 1647, and brought with him from Newberry the first hive of bees in the settlement, that they were all sturdy Quakers, lived simply, were friendly and freedom loving. The early surroundings of the farmer boy were simple and frugal. He has pictured them for us in his masterpiece, “Snowbound.” Poverty, the necessity of laboring upon the farm, the influence of Quaker traditions, his busy life, all conspired against his liberal education and literary culture. This limitation of knowledge is, however, at once to the masses his charm, and, to scholars, his one defect. It has led him to write, as no other poet could, upon the dear simplicity of New England farm life. He has written from the heart and not from the head; he has composed popular pastorals, not hymns of culture. Only such training as the district schools afforded, with a couple of years at Haverhill Academy comprised his advantages in education.
In referring to this alma mater in after years, under the spell of his muse, the poet thus writes:――
“Still sits the school house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow And black-berry vines are running.
Within, the master’s desk is seen, Deep-scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife carved initial.”
It was natural for Whittier to become the poet of that combination of which Garrison was the apostle, and Phillips and Sumner the orators. His early poems were published by Garrison in his paper, “The Free Press,” the first one when Whittier was nineteen years of age and Garrison himself little more than a boy. The farmer lad was elated when he found the verses which he had so timidly submitted in print with a friendly comment from the editor and a request for more. Garrison even visited Whittier’s parents and urged the importance of giving him a finished education. Thus he fell early under the spell of the great abolitionist and threw himself with all the ardor of his nature into the movement. His poems against slavery and disunion have a ringing zeal worthy of a Cromwell. “They are,” declares one writer, “like the sound of the trumpets blown before the walls of Jericho.”
As a Quaker Whittier could not have been otherwise than an abolitionist, for that denomination had long since abolished slavery within its own communion. Most prominent among his poems of freedom are “The Voice of Freedom,” published in 1849, “The Panorama and Other Poems,” in 1856, “In War Times,” in 1863, and “Ichabod,” a pathetically kind yet severely stinging rebuke to Daniel Webster for his support of the Fugitive Slave Law. Webster was right from the standpoint of law and the Constitution, but Whittier argued from the standpoint of human right and liberty. “Barbara Frietchie,”――while it is pronounced purely a fiction, as is also his poem about John Brown kissing the Negro baby on his way to the gallows,――is perhaps the most widely quoted of his famous war poems.
Whittier also wrote extensively on subjects relating to New England history, witchcraft and colonial traditions. This group includes many of his best ballads, which have done in verse for colonial romance what Hawthorne did in prose in his “Twice-Told Tales” and “Scarlet Letter.” It is these poems that have entitled Whittier to be called “the greatest of American ballad writers.” Among them are to be found “Mabel Martin,” “The Witch of Wenham,” “Marguerite” and “Skipper Ireson’s Ride.” But it is perhaps in the third department of his writings, namely, rural tales and idyls, that the poet is most widely known. These pastoral poems contain the very heart and soul of New England. They are faithful and loving pictures of humble life, simple and peaceful in their subject and in their style. The masterpieces of this class are “Snowbound,” “Maud Muller,” “The Barefoot Boy,” “Among the Hills,” “Telling the Bees,” etc. The relation of these simple experiences of homely character has carried him to the hearts of the people and made him, next to Longfellow, the most popular of American poets. There is a pleasure and a satisfaction in the freshness of Whittier’s homely words and homespun phrases, which we seek in vain in the polished art of cultivated masters. As a poet of nature he has painted the landscapes of New England as Bryant has the larger features of the continent.
Whittier was never married and aside from a few exquisite verses he has given the public no clew to the romance of his youth. His home was presided over for many years by his sister Elizabeth, a most lovely and talented woman, for whom he cherished the deepest affection, and he has written nothing more touching than his tribute to her memory in “Snowbound.” The poet was shy and diffident among strangers and in formal society, but among his friends genial and delightful, with a fund of gentle and delicate humor which gave his conversation a great charm.
Aside from his work as a poet Whittier wrote considerable prose. His first volume was “Legends of New England,” published in 1831, consisting of prose and verse. Subsequent prose publications consisted of contributions to the slave controversy, biographical sketches of English and American reformers, studies of scenery and folk-lore of the Merrimac valley. Those of greatest literary interest were the “Supernaturalisms of New England,” (1847,) and “Literary Recreations and Miscellanies,” (1852.)
In 1836 Whittier became secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and he was all his life interested in public affairs, and wrote much for newspapers and periodicals. In 1838 he began to edit the “Pennsylvania Freeman” in Philadelphia, but in the following year his press was destroyed and his office burned by a pro-slavery mob, and he returned to New England, devoting the larger part of his life, aside from his anti-slavery political writings, to embalming its history and legends in his literature, and so completely has it been done by him it has been declared: “If every other record of the early history and life of New England were lost the story could be constructed again from the pages of Whittier. Traits, habits, facts, traditions, incidents――he holds a torch to the dark places and illumines them every one.”
Mr. Whittier, perhaps, is the most peculiarly American poet of any that our country has produced. The woods and waterfowl of Bryant belong as much to one land as another; and all the rest of our singers――Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and their brethren――with the single exception of Joaquin Miller, might as well have been born in the land of Shakespeare, Milton and Byron as their own. But Whittier is entirely a poet of his own soil. All through his verse we see the elements that created it, and it is interesting to trace his simple life, throughout, in his verses from the time, when like that urchin with whom he asserts brotherhood, and who has won all affections, he ate his
* * * “milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone gray and rude. O’er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple curtains fringed with gold Looped in many a wind-swung fold;”
and, when a little older his fancy dwelt upon the adventures of Chalkley――as
“Following my plough by Merrimac’s green shore His simple record I have pondered o’er With deep and quiet joy.”
In these reveries, “The Barefoot Boy” and others, thousands of his countrymen have lived over their lives again. Every thing he wrote, to the New Englander has a sweet, warm familiar life about it. To them his writings are familiar photographs, but they are also treasury houses of facts over which the future antiquarian will pour and gather all the close details of the phase of civilization that they give.
The old Whittier homestead at Amesbury is now in charge of Mrs. Pickard, a ♦niece of the poet. She has recently made certain changes in the house; but this has been done so wisely and cautiously that if the place some day becomes a shrine――as it doubtless will――the restoration of the old estate will be a simple matter. The library is left quite undisturbed, just as it was when Whittier died.
♦ ‘neice’ replaced with ‘niece’
* * * * *
MY PLAYMATE.
THE pines were dark on Ramoth Hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year,
For more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father’s kine?
She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o’er The seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.
I walk with noiseless feet the round Of uneventful years; Still o’er and o’er I sow the Spring And reap the Autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.
There haply with her jeweled hands She smooths her silken gown,―― No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond, The birds build in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems,―― If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice; Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father’s kine?
What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours,―― That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o’er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea,―― The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee!
* * * * *
THE CHANGELING.
FOR the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church,――
Or bringing from the meadows, At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay.
Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-years bride, She scowls in the face of her husband, And spurns her child aside.
“Rake out the red coals, goodman, For there the child shall lie, Till the black witch comes to fetch her, And both up chimney fly.
“It’s never my own little daughter, It’s never my own,” she said; “The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead.
“O, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old.
“I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It’s not the milk from my bosom, But my blood, that she sucks in.
“My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone!―― Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own.
“She’ll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she’ll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat.”
Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head: “Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee,” he said.
“The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it: My poor wife, let us pray.”
Then he said to the great All-Father, “Thy daughter is weak and blind; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind.
“Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild; Let the holy love of the mother, Turn again to her child.
“Make her lips like the lips of Mary, Kissing her blessed Son; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one.
“Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison door, And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore.”
Then into the face of its mother, The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.
A beam of slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair, Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder And the rings of pale gold hair.
She kissed it on lip and forehead, She kissed it on cheek and chin; And she bared her snow-white bosom To the lips so pale and thin.
O, fair on her bridal morning Was the maid who blushed and smiled But fairer to Ezra Dalton Looked the mother of his child.
With more than a lover’s fondness He stooped to her worn young face And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace.
“Now mount and ride, my goodman As lovest thine own soul! Woe’s me if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole!”
His horse he saddled and bridled, And into the night rode he,―― Now through the great black woodland; Now by the white-beached sea.
He rode through the silent clearings, He came to the ferry wide, And thrice he called to the boatman Asleep on the other side.
He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newburg town, And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown.
And the grave and worshipful justice, Upon whose soul be peace! Set his name to the jailer’s warrant For Goody Cole’s release.
Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail: And Goody Cole at cock crow Came forth from Ipswich jail.
* * * * *
THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.
THE ocean looketh up to heaven, As ’twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshiping.
They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, The priesthood of the sea!
They pour the glittering treasures out Which in the deep have birth, And chant their awful hymns about The watching hills of earth.
The green earth sends its incense up From every mountain-shrine, From every flower and dewy cup That greeteth the sunshine.
The mists are lifted from the rills, Like the white wing of prayer; They lean above the ancient hills, As doing homage there.
The forest-tops are lowly cast O’er breezy hill and glen, As if a prayerful spirit pass’d On nature as on men.
The clouds weep o’er the fallen world, E’en as repentant love; Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl’d, They fade in light above.
The sky is as a temple’s arch, The blue and wavy air Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers at prayer.
The gentle moon, the kindling sun, The many stars are given, As shrines to burn earth’s incense on The altar-fires of Heaven!
* * * * *
THE BAREFOOT BOY.
BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace! From my heart I give thee joy; I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art――the grown-up man, Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye: Outward sunshine, inward joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy.
O! for boyhood’s painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, Knowledge never learned of schools: Of the wild bee’s morning chase, Of the wild flower’s time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole’s nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; Of the black wasp’s cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy.
O for boyhood’s time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for! I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day, and through the night: Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too, All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
O, for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O’er me like a regal tent, Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs’ orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man! Live and laugh as boyhood can; Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt’s for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil, Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
* * * * *
MAUD MULLER.
MAUD MULLER, on a summer’s day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast――
A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid.
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me! That I the Judge’s bride might be!
“He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.
“My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.
“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.
“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door.”
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.
“A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
“And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.
“Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:
“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
“But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words.”
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, “Ah, that I were free again!
“Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”
She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein,
And gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, “It might have been.”
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!
* * * * *
MEMORIES.
A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl With step as soft as summer air, And fresh young lip and brow of pearl Shadow’d by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair: A seeming child in every thing Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, As nature wears the smile of spring When sinking into summer’s arms.
A mind rejoicing in the light Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf serenely bright And stainless in its holy white Unfolding like a morning flower: A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute, From eye and lip in music spoke.
How thrills once more the lengthening chain Of memory at the thought of thee!―― Old hopes which long in dust have lain, Old dreams come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me; I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine, As when I lean’d to hear thee speak, Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.
I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, And timidly again uprise The fringed lids of hazel eyes With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah! memories of sweet summer eves, Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they!
Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see, When half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled, And folly’s self seem’d wise in thee. I too can smile, when o’er that hour The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood’s power Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream.
Years have pass’d on, and left their trace Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman’s pensive beauty brought, On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise The schoolboy’s name has widely flown; Thine in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known.
And wider yet in thought and deed Our still diverging thoughts incline, Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed, While answers to my spirit’s need The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line. For thee the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day and solemn psalm, For me the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm.
Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress time has not worn out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see Lingering even yet thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers.
Thus, while at times before our eye The clouds about the present part, And, smiling through them, round us lie Soft hues of memory’s morning sky―― The Indian summer of the heart, In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain!
* * * * *
THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.
LOOK on him――through his dungeon-grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed, His hand upholds his drooping head―― His bloodless cheek is seam’d and hard, Unshorn his gray, neglected beard; And o’er his bony fingers flow His long, dishevell’d locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,―― And yet the winter’s breath is chill: And o’er his half-clad person goes The frequent ague-thrill! Silent――save ever and anon, A sound, half-murmur and half-groan, Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip: O, sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chain’d and desolate!
Just GOD! why lies that old man there? A murderer shares his prison-bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, Gleam on him fierce and red; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear, And, or in wakefulness or sleep Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep, Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb, Crimson’d with murder, touches him!
What has the gray-hair’d prisoner done? Has murder stain’d his hands with gore? Not so: his crime’s a fouler one: God made the old man poor! For this he shares a felon’s cell―― The fittest earthly type of hell! For this――the boon for which he pour’d His young blood on the invader’s sword, And counted light the fearful cost―― His blood-gain’d liberty is lost!
And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, pour’d thy blood as rain On Concord’s field, and Bunker’s crest, And Saratoga’s plain? Look forth, thou man of many scars, Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars! It must be joy, in sooth, to see Yon monument uprear’d to thee―― Piled granite and a prison cell―― The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And fling the starry banner out; Shout “Freedom!” till your lisping ones Give back their cradle-shout: Let boasted eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame; Still let the poet’s strain be heard, With “glory” for each second word, And everything with breath agree To praise, “our glorious liberty!”
And when the patriot cannon jars That prison’s cold and gloomy wall, And through its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind, and fall―― Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer! Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry? Sorrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb, What is your carnival to him?
Down with the law that binds him thus! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of GOD and human kind! Open the prisoner’s living tomb, And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code, To the free sun and air of GOD! No longer dare as crime to brand, The chastening of the Almighty’s hand!
* * * * *
THE STORM.
FROM “SNOW-BOUND.”
Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. It is a New England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, “The Winter Evening,” of Cowper, and Burns’ “Cotter’s Saturday Night”; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these. Snow-bound is a faithful description of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s home in Connecticut. The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., by whose ♦permission this extract is here inserted.
♦ ‘permisssion’ replaced with ‘permission’
UNWARNED by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag wavering to and fro Crossed and recrossed the winged snow; And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with lines Of Nature’s geometric signs, In starry flake, and pellicle, All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone, We looked upon a world unknown, On nothing we could call our own. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below,―― A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sight of ours Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.
A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted: “Boys, a path!” Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy?) Our buskins on our feet we drew; With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through, And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave, And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish the luck were ours To test his lamp’s supernal powers.
* * * * *
ICHABOD.
The following poem was written on hearing of Daniel Webster’s course in supporting the “Compromise Measure,” including the “Fugitive Slave Law”. This speech was delivered in the United States Senate on the 7th of March, 1850, and greatly incensed the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many New Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster. The lines are full of tender regret, deep grief and touching pathos.
SO fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!
Revile him not,――the Tempter hath A snare for all! And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall.
Oh! dumb be passion’s stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven?
Let not the land, once proud of him, Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim Dishonor’d brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honor’d, nought Save power remains,―― A fallen angel’s pride of thought Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!
Then pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward with averted gaze, And hide the shame!
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF WHITTIER
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.
THIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the English speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29th, 1809, and died in Boston, October 27th, 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five――the “last leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another.
Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated. One of his classmates said of him:――“He made you feel like you were the best fellow in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, and Rev. Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and have been wittily described in his poem “The Boys.” Dr. Holmes once humorously said that he supposed “the three people whose poems were best known were himself, one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was; the one Brown was author of ‘I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”
After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Professor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume of medical essays, issued in 1883.
Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “My Aunt,” “The height of the Ridiculous” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880.
Dr. Holmes is popularly known as the poet of society, this title attaching because most of his productions were called forth by special occasions. About one hundred of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,” in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,” “The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment of a lofty theme; “The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to what extent he can play in real fun. In fact, Dr. Holmes was a many-sided man, and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “No other American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully.” We might further add, no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those who knew him.
As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “Autocrat at the Breakfast Table,” “Professor at the Breakfast Table” and “Poet at the Breakfast Table,” published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The “Autocrat” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its typical characters forms the scene. The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this work will also be found “The Wonderful One Horse Shay” and “The Chambered Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems.
Holmes wrote two novels, “Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographer Dr. Holmes has also given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “A Mortal Antipathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887).
Holmes was one of the projectors of “The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its editor. It was to this periodical that the “Autocrat” and “The Professor at the Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the permanent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “Hub of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared was “located exactly at the Boston State House.”
Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physiology, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul. His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,――“The last Leaf on the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race.
Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor, among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readiness to amuse and be amused, together with an endless store of anecdotes, his tact and union of sympathy and originality, make him the best of companions for an hour or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writings. We feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely for this reason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood more courageously through the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we had been wont to regard it.
The following paragraph published in a current periodical shortly after the death of Mr. Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished author:
“Holmes himself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness. His father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that ‘he made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.’”
Dr. Holmes was first and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper. There was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech.
One of his most quoted poems “Dorothy Q,” is full of this sparkle, and carries a suggestion of his favorite theme:
Grandmother’s mother: her age I guess Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.
* * * * *
What if a hundred years ago Those close shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that looked so still The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another to nine tenths me?
* * * * *
BILL AND JOE.
COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by―― The shining days when life was new, And all was bright as morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail, Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail: And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You’ve won the great world’s envied prize, And grand you look in people’s eyes, With HON. and LL.D., In big brave letters, fair to see―― Your fist, old fellow! off they go!―― How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe; You’ve taught your name to half the globe; You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain; You’ve made the dead past live again; The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say, “See those old buffers, bent and gray; They talk like fellows in their teens! Mad, poor old boys! That’s what it means”―― And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe――
How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes―― Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go―― How vain it seems, this empty show―― Till all at once his pulses thrill: ’Tis poor old Joe’s “God bless you, Bill!”
And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears,―― In some sweet lull of harp and song, For earth-born spirits none too long, Just whispering of the world below, Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.
* * * * *
UNION AND LIBERTY.
FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields’ thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illuminated in story, Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame. Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation’s cry―― UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!
Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! Empire unsceptred! What foe shall assail thee Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man! Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then with the arms to thy million united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!
Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, O keep us the MANY IN ONE! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation’s cry―― Union and Liberty! One Evermore!
* * * * *
OLD IRON SIDES.
The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the “Boston Daily Advertiser,” when the Frigate “Constitution” lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown. The department had resolved upon breaking her up; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the newspapers with universal applause; and, according to “Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of January, 1837, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington.
AY, tear her tatter’d ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout, And burst the cannon’s roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, Where knelt the vanquish’d foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquer’d knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
O, better that her shatter’d hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms,―― The lightning and the gale!
* * * * *
MY AUNT.
MY aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o’er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her,――though she looks As cheerful as she can: Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.
My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?
Her father――grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles―― Vow’d she would make the finest girl Within a hundred miles. He sent her to a stylish school; ’Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, “Two towels and a spoon.”
They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small; They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair, They screw’d it up with pins,―― Oh, never mortal suffer’d more In penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track); “Ah!” said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, “What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!”
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade Tore from the trembling father’s arms His all-accomplish’d maid. For her how happy had it been! And Heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungather’d rose On my ancestral tree.
* * * * *
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
I WROTE some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer, I laugh’d as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.
I call’d my servant, and he came: How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!
“These to the printer,” I exclaim’d, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), “There’ll be the devil to pay.”
He took the paper, and I watch’d, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth, his waistband split; The sixth, he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watch’d that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.
* * * * *
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadow’d main,―― The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wreck’d is the ship of pearl! And every chamber’d cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies reveal’d,―― Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d!
Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:――
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
* * * * *
OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR.
Mr. Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. The following sketches are characteristic of his happy and varied style.
OLD AGE, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Professor, this is Old Age.
Old Age.――Mr. Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down the street together?
Professor (drawing back a little).――We can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger?
Old Age.――I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s recognition until I have known him at least five years.
Professor.――Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that?
Old Age.――I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.
Professor.――Where?
Old Age.――There, between your eyebrows,――three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token,――“Old Age, his mark.” Put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look before I left my card on you.
Professor.――What message do people generally send back when you first call on them?
Old Age.――Not at home. Then I leave a card and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; leave another card. So for five or six――sometimes ten――years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, I break in through the front door or the windows.
We talked together in this way some time. Then Old Age said again,――Come, let us walk down the street together,――and offered me a cane,――an eye-glass, a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.――No, much obliged to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone;――got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter.
* * * * *
THE BRAIN.
OUR brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection.
Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves; sleep cannot still them; madness only makes them go faster; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads.
* * * * *
MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.
I CAN’T say just how many walks she and I had taken before this one. I found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the schoolhouse steps.
* * * * *
The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant that passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,――unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.
It was on the Common that we were walking. The mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs downward from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.
I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,――Will you take the long path with me? Certainly,――said the schoolmistress,――with much pleasure. Think,――I said,――before you answer: if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.
One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,――the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,――I said. No, no,――she answered softly,――I will walk the long path with you!
The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,――“Good-morning, my dears!”
* * * * *
A RANDOM CONVERSATION
ON OLD MAXIMS, BOSTON AND OTHER TOWNS.
(From “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.”)
SIN has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.
I think Sir,――said the divinity student,――you must intend that for one of the sayings of the Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the other day.
I thank you, my young friend,――was the reply,――but I must say something better than that, before I could pretend to fill out the number.
The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said.
Why, let us see,――there is that one of Benjamin Franklin, “the great Bostonian,” after whom this land was named. To be sure, he said a great many wise things,――and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow this,――he speaks as if it were old. But then he applied it so neatly!――
“He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged.”
Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his flashing moments:――
“Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries.”
To these must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men:――
“Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.”
The divinity student looked grave at her, but said nothing.
The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after New York or Boston.
A jaunty looking person, who had come in with the young fellow they call John,――evidently a stranger,――said there was one more wise man’s saying that he had heard; it was about our place, but he didn’t know who said it.――A civil curiosity was manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the young fellow who brought him to dinner, Shall I tell it? To which the answer was, Go ahead!――Well,――he said,――this was what I heard:――
“Boston State-House is the hub of the solar system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crow-bar.”
Sir,――said I,――I am gratified with your remark. It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness. The satire of the remark is essentially true of Boston,――and of all other considerable――and inconsiderable――places with which I have had the privilege of being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the only place in the world. Frenchmen――you remember the line about Paris, the Court, the World, etc.――I recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which ran thus: “Hotel de l’Univers et des États Unis;” and as Paris is the universe to a Frenchman, of course the United States are outside of it. “See Naples and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places. I have been about lecturing, you know, and have found the following propositions to hold true of all of them.
1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the center of each and every town or city.
2. If more than fifty years have passed since its foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabitants the “good old town of ――――” (whatever its name may happen to be).
3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared to be a “remarkably intelligent audience.”
4. The climate of the place is particularly favorable to longevity.
5. It contains several persons of vast talent little known to the world. (One or two of them, you may perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the “Pactolian” some time since, which were “respectfully declined.”)
Boston is just like other places of its size――only, perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid fire department, superior monthly publications, and correct habit of spelling the English language, it has some right to look down on the mob of cities. I’ll tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it would only send away its first-rate men instead of its second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known exceptions, of which we are always proud), we should be spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I have observed, by the way, that the people who really live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within the intellectual basin, or suction range, of one large one, of the pretensions of any other. Don’t you see why? Because their promising young author and rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained off to the neighboring big city,――their prettiest girls have exported to the same market; all their ambition points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities.
Would I be so good as to specify any particular example?――Oh,――an example? Did you ever see a bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused.
Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. If they have an old church or two, a few stately mansions of former grandees, here and there an old dwelling with the second story projecting (for the convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the front-door with their tomahawks)――if they have, scattered about, those mighty square houses built something more than half a century ago, and standing like architectural boulders dropped by the former diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left them as its monument,――if they have gardens with elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the high board-fence and drop their fruit on the sidewalk,――if they have a little grass in their side-streets, enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,――I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up, you may see the sun through it by day and the stars by night.
Do I think that the little villages have the conceit of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts? Well, they read it,――
“All are but parts of one stupendous Hull!”
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF HOLMES
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST.
WHILE the popularity of Lowell has not been so great as that of Whittier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any other American poet, unless the exception be the “transcendental philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second only to Whittier.
James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22, 1819, and died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He was the youngest son of the Rev. Charles Lowell, an eminent Congregational clergyman, and was descended from the English settlers of 1639. He entered Harvard in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. He began to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote the anniversary poem, and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered upon the practice of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even that first client whom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch.
His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary suspension from College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he had a distaste. In this poem he satirized the Abolitionists, and the transcendental school of writers, of which Emerson was the prophet and leader. This poem, while faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which portended future prominence for its author.
Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeared, entitled “A Year’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings, thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which his first publication had ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Nature the representative and minister of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capricious a young author’s character may be. A notable parallel is found in the great Englishman, Carlyle whose “Life of Schiller” and his “Sator Resartus,” are equally as unlike himself as were Lowell’s first two publications. In 1844, came another volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The longest in this collection――“The Legend of Brittany”――is, in imagination and artistic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s admission into the company of men of genius.
During this same year (1844) Mr. Lowell married the poetess, Maria White, an ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. Two of Mrs. Lowell’s poems, “The Alpine Sheep” and the “Morning Glory” are especially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. They were both contributors to the “Liberty Bell” and “Anti-slavery Standard,” thus enjoying companionship in their labors.
Illustration: HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consisting of a series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so famous, that he was styled “The First Critic of America.”
Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comical and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and prose. His “Fable for Critics” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a good-natured manner. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass in procession for their share of criticism――which is as excellent as amusing――and Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous “Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by the Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil War between the states. Hosea Biglow, the country Yankee philosopher and supposed author of the papers, and the Rev. Homer Wilber, his learned commentator and pastor of the first church at Jaalem, reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee character as faithfully as they are amusing and funny to the reader.
In 1853, Mrs. Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell. The coincident inspired Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent to Mr. Lowell with his expression of sympathy:
“’Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine Uttered a word that had a sound like death.
“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A ♦shaddow on those features fair and thin, And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.
“Angels of life and death alike are His; Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er: Who then would wish, or dare, believing this, Against His messengers to shut the door?”
♦ spelling not corrected: artifact of poem
Quite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified author. His patriotic poems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the right and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descriptions of nature that his imagination manifests its greatest range of subtilty and power. “The Vision of Sir Launfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for the “Holy Grail” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles drank at the last supper.
Lowell’s prose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were afterwards gathered in book form, and his public addresses and his political essays. He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Harvard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow); as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine, in 1857, his editorial work on the “North American Review” from 1863 to 1872, together with his political ministry in Spain and England, gave him, he says, “quite enough prosaic work to do.”
It was to magazines that he first contributed “Fireside Travels,” “Among My Books,” and “My Study Window,” which have been since published in book form. These publications cover a wide field of literature and impress the reader with a spirit of inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was an optimist of the most pronounced type. In none of his writing does he express a syllable of discontent or despair. His “Pictures from Appledore” and “Under the Willows” are not more sympathetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind, his healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future.
In 1877, Mr. Lowell was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes, and, in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This position he resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard University. While in England, Mr. Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturer and speaker. Oliver Wendell Holmes thus writes of his popularity with the “British Cousins:”
By what enchantment, what alluring arts, Our truthful James led captive British hearts,――
* * * * *
Like honest Yankees we can simply guess; But that he did it, all must needs confess.
He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge in Westminster Abbey. On his return to America, this oration was included with others in his volume entitled “Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887).
As a public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the purest lessons of patriotism――ever preferring his country to his party――and has criticised, with energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American citizenship.
Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man, noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes.
Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel; but his insight into character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his “Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of Lowell’s works published was “Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 1892, after his death.
* * * * *
THE GOTHIC GENIUS.
FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.”
I SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk, Who drench you with æsthetics till you feel As if all beauty were a ghastly bore, The faucet to let loose a wash of words, That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse; But, being convinced by much experiment How little inventiveness there is in man, Grave copier of copies, I give thanks For a new relish, careless to inquire My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please―― Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art. The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness, Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained, The one thing finished in this hasty world―― For ever finished, though the barbarous pit, Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout As if a miracle could be encored. But ah! this other, this that never ends, Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb, As full of morals half divined as life, Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise Of hazardous caprices sure to please; Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern, Imagination’s very self in stone! With one long sigh of infinite release From pedantries past, present, or to come, I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth. Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream, Builders of aspiration incomplete, So more consummate, souls self-confident, Who felt your own thought worthy of record In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill, After long exile, to the mother tongue.
* * * * *
THE ROSE.
I.
IN his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, “Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw it Where there’s none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth, And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast; On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest, Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind.”
Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breaking, all alone.
II.
Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope, and half in sorrow Tracing words upon the sand: “Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long,―― Ever to this sick heart fold him,―― Be the spirit of his song?
“Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forever more!” Swells the tide and overflows it, But with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose and throws it Humbly at the maiden’s feet.
Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean’s fierce unrest. “Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.”
III.
In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new, and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night.
Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder Flows a maiden’s golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. “Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind.
Hope is truth, the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day.” Not a word the maiden muttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet’s cheek.
* * * * *
THE HERITAGE.
THE rich man’s son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man’s son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man’s son inherits wants. His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit? A patience learn’d of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man’s son! there is a toil, That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft, white hands,―― This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-fill’d past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.
* * * * *
ACT FOR TRUTH.
THE busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task mark’d out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds; Reason and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the after-time. The field lies wide before us, where to reap The easy harvest of a deathless name, Though with no better sickles than our swords. My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake, Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; Then let it come: I have no dread of what Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence, With endless change, is fitted to the hour: Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly great Must understand his own age and the next, And make the present ready to fulfil Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. The future works out great men’s destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever: better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand From out the pathless desert where he gropes, And set him onward in his darksome way. I do not fear to follow out the truth, Albeit along the precipice’s edge. Let us speak plain: there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. Let us all call tyrants tyrants, and maintain That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by His grace must fall; For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.
* * * * *
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.
THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down, And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?” And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall And thought of the leaden sky That arched o’er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered, “The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!”
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.
* * * * *
FOURTH OF JULY ODE.
I. OUR fathers fought for liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell―― But did they leave us free?
II. Are we free from vanity, Free from pride, and free from self, Free from love of power and pelf, From everything that’s beggarly?
III. Are we free from stubborn will, From low hate and malice small, From opinion’s tyrant thrall? Are none of us our own slaves still?
IV. Are we free to speak our thought, To be happy, and be poor, Free to enter Heaven’s door, To live and labor as we ought?
V. Are we then made free at last From the fear of what men say, Free to reverence To-day, Free from the slavery of the Past?
VI. Our fathers fought for liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell―― But ourselves must set us free.
* * * * *
THE DANDELION.
DEAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth――thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; ’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at GOD’s value, but pass by The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.
Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tint, His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
Then think I of deep shadows on the grass―― Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways―― Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind――of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap――and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of GOD’s book.
* * * * *
THE ALPINE SHEEP.
It is proper, in connection with the writings of Lowell, to insert the following poem by his wife, Maria White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and beautiful woman, born July 8, 1821, married to the poet Lowell in 1844, died on the 22d of October, 1853. In 1855 her husband had a volume of her poetry privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following touching lines addressed to a friend after the loss of a child.
WHEN on my ear your loss was knell’d, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory well’d, Which once had quench’d my bitter thirst,
And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be a healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief.
After our child’s untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of Death Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit’s swift remove, The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love.
They, in the valley’s sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb
To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain’s side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams slide.
But naught can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged path to try, Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings, And sear’d below the pastures lie,
Till in his arms his lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go: Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on o’er rock and snow.
And in these pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.
This parable, by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south wind free O’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea.
A blissful vision through the night Would all my happy senses sway Of the Good Shepherd on the height, Or climbing up the starry way,
Holding our little lamb asleep, While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep, Saying, “Arise and follow me.”
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF LOWELL
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
BAYARD TAYLOR.
RENOWNED POET, TRAVELER AND JOURNALIST.
THE subject of this sketch ♦began life as a farmer boy. He was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, January 11th, 1825. After a few years study in country schools he was apprenticed to a West Chester printer, with whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his boyhood he wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age published his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.” Through this book he formed the acquaintance of Dr. Griswold, editor of “Graham’s Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of recommendation to New York, where he received encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his making a journey, contemplated, to the old world.
♦ “begun” replaced with “began”
Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having less than one hundred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He was absent two years, during which time he traveled over Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now and then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary correspondence, for which he received only $500.00. He was fully repaid for this hardship, however, by the proceeds of his book (which he published on his return in 1846), “Views Afoot, or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared up to that time, and six editions of it were sold within one year. It is still one of the most popular of the series of eleven books of travel written during the course of his life. In 1848 he further immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing “Rhymes of Travel,” a volume of verse.
Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the remotest regions. “His wandering feet pressed the soil of all the continents, and his observing eyes saw the strange and beautiful things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes and heard through his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe, India, Japan, Central Africa, the Soudan, Egypt, Palestine, Iceland and California contributed their quota to the ready pen of this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of buoyant nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a remarkable memory, and a talent for learning languages. His poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in style suggestive of both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song” is strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was an admirable parodist and translator. His translation of “Faust” so closely adheres to Goethe’s original metre that it is considered one of the proudest accomplishments in American letters. Taylor is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell.
The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the scenes being laid in Pennsylvania and New York, possess the same eloquent profusion manifest in his verse, and give the reader the impression of having been written with the ease and dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life was too much hurried to allow the spending of much time on anything. His literary life occupied only thirty-four years and in that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered almost every department of literature and always displayed high literary ability. Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels referred to he was a constant newspaper correspondent, and then came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he regarded as his realm, and it was his hope of fame. Voluminous as were the works of travel and fiction and herculean the efforts necessary to do the prose writing he turned off, it was, after all, but the antechamber to his real labors. It was to poetry that he devoted most thought and most time.
In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by President Hayes, and died December 19th, 1878, while serving his country in that capacity.
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THE BISON-TRACK.
STRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribb’d the dawn, And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan; Prime afresh the trusty rifle――sharpen well the hunting-spear―― For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!
Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the morning’s fire, And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire; Strike the tent――the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack, For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the bison’s track!
See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar, Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore! Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van, And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded caravan.
Now the storm is down upon us――let the madden’d horses go! We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow! Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes’ angry glare Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!
Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race, And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space: Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider’s eye look back―― Death to him whose speed should slacken on the madden’d bison’s track!
Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm: Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless――swing your rifles as we run! Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!
Look not on him as he staggers――’tis the last shot he will need; More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede―― Ere we stem the swarthy breakers――while the wolves, a hungry pack, Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!
* * * * *
THE SONG OF THE CAMP.
“GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow, Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”
There lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon, Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”
Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,―― Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something on the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.”
Sleep, soldier! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,―― The loving are the daring.
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BEDOUIN SONG.
FROM the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
* * * * *
THE ARAB TO THE PALM.
NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;
Next to the fearless Nedjidee, Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;
Next to ye both I love the Palm, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;
Next to ye both I love the Tree Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three With love, and silence, and mystery!
Our tribe is many, our poets vie With any under the Arab sky; Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.
The marble minarets that begem Cairo’s citadel-diadem Are not so light as his slender stem.
He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glance As the Almehs lift their arms in dance――
A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, That works in the cells of the blood like wine.
Full of passion and sorrow is he, Dreaming where the beloved may be.
And when the warm south-winds arise, He breathes his longing in fervid sighs――
Quickening odors, kisses of balm, That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.
The sun may flame and the sands may stir, But the breath of his passion reaches her.
O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, Teach me how I shall soften mine!
Give me the secret of the sun, Whereby the wooed is ever won!
If I were a King, O stately Tree, A likeness, glorious as might be, In the court of my palace I’d build for thee!
With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, And leaves of beryl and malachite.
With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase:
And there the poets, in thy praise, Should night and morning frame new lays――
New measures sung to tunes divine; But none, O Palm, should equal mine!
* * * * *
LIFE ON THE NILE.
――――“The life thou seek’st Thou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.” ――Moore’s Alciphron.
THE Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the depths of enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life could reach――enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the best influences of nature. Every day opens with a jubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there must be another Nile somewhere in the world.
Other travelers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There are also many trifling desagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby.
* * * * *
Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous; but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foreground that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river, the alternations of wind and calm,――each of these is enough to content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before. We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx.
* * * * *
My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition, mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by unassuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.
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NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY.
IT is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “foppishness.” Almost all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England, had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems. The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius. A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals, flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject.
Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “foppishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th 1806. The family traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803. He founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “Youth’s Companion.” Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best educational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several religious poems ♦under the signature of “Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize of fifty dollars for the best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of a series of volumes published by S. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.” He next established the “American Monthly Magazine” which he merged after two years into the New York “Mirror,” to which paper his “Pencilings by the Way” were contributed during a four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer.
♦ ‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’
After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with his wife and established a home on the Susquehanna River, which he called Glenmary, the latter part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and in connection with Dr. Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the interest of this publication Mr. Willis made a second journey to England, engaging Mr. Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he published a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel” and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found that Dr. Porter had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new connection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred, his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the meantime his health grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various magazines. He established a home, “Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.
Throughout his life Mr. Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “The poetry of Mr. Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputation where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand his novel in rhyme, ‘Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a traveler Mr. Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive. That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence is another claim to consideration which the public should be prompt to acknowledge.
* * * * *
DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.
THE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse. The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world.
King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem: and now he stood With his faint people, for a little space, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner’s covering, and had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full,――when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy, Are such a very mockery――how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those, Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,―― For his estranged, misguided Absalom.―― The proud bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him――for him he poured In agony that would not be controlled Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
* * * * *
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls. His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:
“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,―― Thou who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair―― How could he mark thee for the silent tomb; My proud boy, Absalom!
“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee―― How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee―― And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young: And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,―― But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come To meet me, Absalom!
“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin――oh! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!”
He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: And as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly and composed the pall Firmly and decently,――and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
* * * * *
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.
THE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by, And the old shutters of the turret swung Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. The fire beneath his crucible was low, Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy; and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips, Muttered a curse on death!
The silent room, From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath; the humming in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell; and when Duly the antique horologe beat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head, And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself:
“I did not think to die Till I had finished what I had to do; I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through With this my mortal eye; I felt,――Oh, God! it seemeth even now―― This cannot be the death-dew on my brow; Grant me another year, God of my spirit!――but a day,――to win Something to satisfy this thirst within! I would know something here! Break for me but one seal that is unbroken! Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!
“Vain,――vain,――my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, And I am freezing,――burning,―― Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live! My phial――――Ha! it thrills me,――I revive.
“Aye,――were not man to die, He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,―― Could he but train his eye,―― Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,―― Only his Maker would transcend his power!
“This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,―― To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream! And death――――Aha! I reel,―― Dim,――dim,――I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,―― Cover me! save me!――――God of heaven! I die!”
’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild, His frame was wasted, and his features wan And haggard as with want, and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of the last agony had wrung him sore.
The storm was raging still. The shutter swung, Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, And all without went on,――as aye it will, Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
The fire beneath the crucible was out. The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them, and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master’s will.
And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire,――a sun-bent eagle stricken. From his high soaring, down,――an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,―― A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.
* * * * *
THE BELFRY PIGEON.
ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well, In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air. I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. ’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There’s a human look in its swelling breast. And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with “nine at night,” When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast; Then drops again, with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street; But, unlike me, when day is o’er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar; Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that in such wings of gold, I could my weary heart up-fold; I would I could look down unmoved, (Unloving as I am unloved,) And while the world throngs on beneath, Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe; And never sad with others’ sadness, And never glad with others’ gladness, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
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RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
POET AND JOURNALIST.
WITH no commanding antecedents to support him, Richard Henry Stoddard has, step by step, fought his way to a position which is alike creditable to his indomitable energy and his genius. Stoddard was born July 2, 1825, at Hingham, Mass. His father was a sea-captain, who, while the poet was yet in his early youth, sailed for Sweden. Tidings of his vessel never came back,――this was in 1835. The mother removed, the same year, with her son to New York, where he attended the public schools of the city. Necessity compelled the widow, as soon as his age permitted, to put young Stoddard to work, and he was placed in an iron foundry to learn this trade. “Here he worked for some years,” says one of his biographers, “dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even then moulding his thoughts into the symmetry of verse while he moulded the moulten metal into shapes of grace.” At the same time he pursued a course of private reading and study, and began to write poems and sketches for his own pleasure.
It was in 1847 that the earliest blossoms of his genius appeared in the “Union Magazine,” which gave evidence that his mind as well as his body was toiling. In 1848 he issued a small volume of poems entitled, “Footprints,” which contained some pieces of merit; but he afterwards suppressed the entire edition. About this time his health failed and, to recuperate, he gave up, temporarily, his mechanical vocation; but literature took such possession of him that he never returned to the foundry.
In 1852 he issued his second volume entitled, “Poems,” and became a regular contributor to the magazines. In 1860 he was made literary editor of the “New York World,” which position he retained until 1870, and since 1880 he has held a similar position on the “New York Mail and Express.” He, also, from 1853 to 1873 held a government position in the Custom House of New York. During this time Mr. Stoddard also edited a number of works with prefaces and introductions by himself, among which may be mentioned the “Bric-a-Brac Series.” Prominent titles of the author’s own books are “Songs of Summer,” which appeared in 1856; “The King’s Bell,” a series of most delicate suggestive pictures, (1862); “Abraham Lincoln, A Horatian Ode,” (1865); “The Book of the East,” poems, (1871); a collective edition entitled, “Poems,” (1880), and “The Lion’s Cub,” poems, (1890).
One of our most eminent literary critics declares: “Mr. Stoddard’s mind is essentially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness. His style is characterized by purity and grace of expression. He is a master of rythmical melody and his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is no rude writing. All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol which strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, and the moon that silvers his roof are to him things that play an intimate part in his existence. Thus in all his poems will be found an echo from an internal to an external nature, the harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.”
Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, the wife of the author, has shared heartily in the literary labors of her husband, assisting him in his compilations, and is, herself, author of numerous contributions to the magazines and a number of pleasing poems. She has also written several novels.
A dinner was given to Mr. Stoddard by the Author’s Club at the Hotel Savoy on March 25th, 1897, at which more than one hundred and fifty persons gathered to do honor to the venerable poet. Mr. E. C. Stedman, the poet, presided, and good talk abounded. It is impossible in this space to give any extended note of the addresses. Letters of regret were received from many friends of Mr. Stoddard who were unable to be present, including Bishop Potter, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, Dr. Andrew D. White, William Allen Butler, Donald G. Mitchell, James Whitcomb Riley and others.
The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik Marvel), closed in these words:
“There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell him so, and that only the weakness of age――quickened by this wintry March――keeps me from putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the roll-call of your guests.”
The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him:
O princely poet! kingly heir Of gifts divinely sent―― Your own――nor envy anywhere, Nor voice of discontent.
Though, of ourselves, all poor are we, And frail and weak of wing, Your height is ours――your ecstasy, Your glory, where you sing.
Most favored of the gods and great In gifts beyond our store, We covet not your rich estate, But prize our own the more.
The gods give as but gods may do; We count our riches thus―― They gave their richest gifts to you, And then gave you to us. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
Mr. Stoddard responded to Mr. Riley and others in the poem quoted below, which shows the vigor of mind and spirit enjoyed by this venerable poet of three score years and ten and five, on whom the snows of three-quarters of a century have fallen so lightly that they seem but to have mellowed rather than weakened his powers.
* * * * *
A CURTAIN CALL.
GENTLEMEN: If I have any right To come before you here to-night It is conferred on me by you, And more for what I tried to do Than anything that I have done. A start, perhaps, a race not won! But ’tis not wholly lost, I see, For you, at least, believe in me. Comrades, nay, fellows, let me say, Since life at most is but a play, And we are players, one and all, And this is but a curtain call, If I were merely player here, And this assumption of his part, I might pretend to drop a tear, And lay my hand upon my heart And say I could not speak, because I felt so deeply your applause! I cannot do this, if I would; I can but thank you, as I should, And take the honors you bestow―― A largess, not a lawful claim; My share thereof is small, I know, But from your hands to-night is fame―― A precious crown in these pert days Of purchased or of self-made bays; You give it――I receive it, then, Though rather for your sake than mine. A long and honorable line Is yours――the Peerage of the Pen, Founded when this old world was young, And need was to preserve for men (Lost else) what had been said and sung, Tales our forgotten fathers told, Dimly remembered from of old, Sonorous canticles and prayers, Service of elder gods than theirs Which they knew not; the epic strain Wherein dead peoples lived again! A long, unbroken line is ours; It has outlived whole lines of kings, Seen mighty empires rise and fall, And nations pass away like flowers―― Ruin and darkness cover all! Nothing withstands the stress and strain, The endless ebb and flow of things, The rush of Time’s resistless wings! Nothing? One thing, and not in vain, One thing remains: Letters remain! Your art and mine, yours more than mine, Good fellows of the lettered line, To whom I owe this Curtain Call, I thank you all, I greet you all. Noblesse oblige! But while I may, Another word, my last, maybe: When this life-play of mine is ended, And the black curtain has descended, Think kindly as you can of me, And say, for you may truly say, “This dead player, living, loved his part, And made it noble as he could, Not for his own poor personal good, But for the glory of his art!”
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HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.
MY heart is full of tenderness and tears, And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; With all my grief, content to live for years, Or even this hour to die. My youth is gone, but that I heed not now; My love is dead, or worse than dead can be; My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough, But nothing troubles me, Only the golden flush of sunset lies Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!
Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe’er thou art, I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power; It is thy presence fills this charméd hour, And fills my charmed heart; Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now, That know not what they feel, nor why they bow; Thou canst not be forgot, For all men worship thee, and know it not; Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes, New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!
We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands, The gift and heirloom of a former state, And lie in infancy at Heaven’s gate, Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands! Around our pillows golden ladders rise, And up and down the skies, With winged sandals shod, The angels come, and go, the messengers of God! Nor do they, fading from us, e’er depart,―― It is the childish heart; We walk as heretofore, Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore! Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears, Groping our way along the downward slope of years!
From earliest infancy my heart was thine; With childish feet I trod thy temple aisle; Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine! By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,―― I saw thee everywhere! A voice of greeting from the wind was sent; The mists enfolded me with soft white arms; The birds did sing to lap me in content, The rivers wove their charms, And every little daisy in the grass Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass!
Not long can Nature satisfy the mind, Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame; We feel a growing want we cannot name, And long for something sweet, but undefined; The wants of Beauty other wants create, Which overflow on others soon or late; For all that worship thee must ease the heart, By Love, or Song, or Art: Divinest Melancholy walks with thee, Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine; And Music leads her sister Poesy, In exultation shouting songs divine! But on thy breast Love lies,――immortal child!―― Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild: The more we worship him, the more we grow Into thy perfect image here below; For here below, as in the spheres above, All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love!
Not from the things around us do we draw Thy light within; within the light is born; The growing rays of some forgotten morn, And added canons of eternal law. The painter’s picture, the rapt poet’s song, The sculptor’s statue, never saw the Day; Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong; Hue after hue divinest pictures grow, Line after line immortal songs arise, And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes! And in the master’s mind Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, That echoes through a range of ocean caves, And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves! The mystery is thine, For thine the more mysterious human heart, The temple of all wisdom, Beauty’s shrine, The oracle of Art!
Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath; Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth? Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,―― But all the keys of Death; And all the worlds, with all that they contain Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; The universe is girdled with a chain, And hung below the throne Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,―― Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!
* * * * *
A DIRGE.
A FEW frail summers had touched thee, As they touch the fruit; Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine, Not so sweet as thy voice the lute. Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over: An urn of white ashes remains; Nothing else save the tears in our eyes, And our bitterest, bitterest pains!
We garland the urn with white roses, Burn incense and gums on the shrine, Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Dear tunes that were thine! But in vain, all in vain; Thou art gone――we remain!
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THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.
YOU were very charming, Madam, In your silks and satins fine; And you made your lovers drunken, But it was not with your wine! There were court gallants in dozens, There were princes of the land, And they would have perished for you As they knelt and kissed your hand―― For they saw no stain upon it, It was such a snowy hand!
But for me――I knew you better, And, while you were flaunting there, I remembered some one lying, With the blood on his white hair! He was pleading for you, Madam, Where the shriven spirits stand; But the Book of Life was darkened, By the Shadow of a Hand! It was tracing your perdition, For the blood upon your hand!
* * * * *
A SERENADE.
THE moon is muffled in a cloud, That folds the lover’s star, But still beneath thy balcony I touch my soft guitar.
If thou art waking, Lady dear, The fairest in the land, Unbar thy wreathed lattice now, And wave thy snowy hand.
She hears me not; her spirit lies In trances mute and deep;―― But Music turns the golden key Within the gate of Sleep!
Then let her sleep, and if I fail To set her spirit free! My song shall mingle in her dream, And she will dream of me!
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WALT WHITMAN.
AUTHOR OF “LEAVES OF GRASS.”
PERHAPS the estimates of critics differ more widely respecting the merits or demerits of Whitman’s verse than on that of any other American or English poet. Certain European critics regard him as the greatest of all modern poets. Others, both in this country and abroad, declare that his so called poems are not poems at all, but simply a bad variety of prose. One class characterizes him the “poet of democracy; the spokesman of the future; full of brotherliness and hope, loving the warm, gregarious pressure of the crowd and the touch of his comrade’s elbow in the ranks.” The other side, with equal assurance, assert that the Whitman culte is the passing fad of a few literary men, and especially of a number of foreign critics like Rosetti, Swinburne and Buchanan, who were determined to find something unmistakably American――that is, different from anything else――and Whitman met this demand both in his personality and his verse. They further declared that his poetry was superlatively egotistical, his principal aim being always to laud himself. This criticism they prove by one of his own poems entitled “Walt Whitman,” in which he boldly preaches his claim to the love of the masses by declaring himself a “typical average man” and therefore “not individual” but “universal.”
Perhaps it is better in the scope of this article to leave Walt Whitman between the fires of his laudators on one side and of his decriers on the other. Certainly the canons of poetic art will never consent to the introduction of some things that he has written into the treasure-house of the muses. For instance,――
“And (I) remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He stayed with me a week before he was recuperated and passed North.”
These worse than prosaic lines do not require a critic to declare them devoid of any element of poetry. But on the other hand, that Whitman had genius is undeniable. His stalwart verse was often beautifully rhythmic and the style which he employed was nobly grand. Time will sift the wheat from the chaff, consuming the latter and preserving the golden grains of true poetry to enrich the future garners of our great American literature. No one of the many tributes to Lincoln, not even Lowell’s noble eulogy, is more deeply charged with exalted feeling than is Whitman’s dirge for Abraham Lincoln written after the death of the President, in which the refrain “O Captain, my Captain,” is truly beautiful. Whitman was no mean master in ordinary blank verse, to which he often reverted in his most inspiring passages.
One of the chief charms of Whitman’s poetry consists in the fact that the author seems to feel, himself, always happy and cheerful, and he writes with an ease and abandon that is pleasant to follow. Like one strolling about aimlessly amid pleasing surroundings, he lets his fancy and his senses play and records just what they see or dictate. This characteristic, perhaps, accounts for the fact that his single expressions are often unsurpassed for descriptive beauty and truth, such as the reference to the prairies, “where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles.” Whoever used a more original and striking figure? Many of his poems strikingly remind one in their constructions (but not in religious fervor) to the Psalms of David. There is also often a depth of passion and an intoxication in his rhythmic chant that is found perhaps in no other writer, as this specimen, personifying night, will illustrate:
“Press close, bare-bosomed night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing night! Night of the South wind! Night of the few larger stars! still, nodding night! Mad, naked, summer night!”
Again, Whitman was always hopeful. Like Emerson, he renounced all allegiance to the past, and looked confidently to the future. And this reminds us that Emerson wrote the introductory to the first edition of “Leaves of Grass,” which suggests that that writer may have exerted no small influence in forming Whitman’s style, for the vagueness of his figures, his disconnected sentences, and occasionally his verbiage, are not unlike those of the “Concord Prophet.” Again, the question arises, did he not seek, like Emerson, to be the founder of a school of authorship? His friendliness toward young authors and his treatment of them indicate this, and the following he has raised up attests the success he attained, whether sought or unsought. But the old adage, “like king like people,” has a deal of truth in it; and as Whitman was inferior to Emerson in the exaltation of his ideals, and the unselfishness and sincerity of his nature, so his followers must fall short of the accomplishments of those who sat at the feet of “the good and great Emerson.”
Walt Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819, and was educated at the public schools of Brooklyn and New York. Subsequently he followed various occupations, among which were those of printer, teacher, carpenter, journalist, making in the meantime extended tours in Canada and the United States. During the Civil War he served as a volunteer nurse in the army hospitals, and at the close was appointed as government clerk at Washington. In 1873 he had a severe paralytic attack, which was followed by others, and he took up his residence in Camden, New Jersey, where he died in 1892. He was never married.
Mr. Whitman’s principal publications are “Leaves of Grass,” issued first in 1855, but he continued to add to and revise it, the “finished edition,” as he called it, appearing in 1881. Succeeding this came “Drum Taps,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,” “Sands at Seventy.” “Democratic Vista” was a prose work appearing in 1870. “Good-Bye, My Fancy,” was his last book, prepared between 1890 and his death. His complete poems and prose have also been collected in one volume.
Two recent biographies of the poet have been published: one by John Burroughs, entitled “Walt Whitman, a Study;” the other, “Walt Whitman, the Man,” by Thomas Donaldson. The titles indicate the difference in the two treatments. Both biographers are great admirers of Whitman.
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DAREST THOU NOW, O SOUL.
The following poems are from “Leaves of Grass” and are published by special permission of Mr. Horace L. Trauble, Mr. Whitman’s literary executor.
DAREST thou now, O soul, Walk out with me toward the unknown region, Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?
No map there, nor guide, Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.
I know it not, O soul, Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us, All waits undream’d of in that region, that inaccessible land.
Till when the ties loosen, All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.
Then we burst forth, we float, In Time and Space, O soul, prepared for them, Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O soul.
* * * * *
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up――for you the flag is flung――for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths――for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
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IN ALL, MYSELF.
FROM “SONG OF MYSELF.”
The following lines have been commented upon as presenting a strange and erratic combination of the most commonplace prose with passionate and sublime poetic sentiment.
I AM the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me; The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecation about enough, I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there everyone, and still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night.
Press close bare-blossom’d night――press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of the South winds――night of the large few stars! Still nodding night――mad naked summer night. Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of the departed sunset――earth of the mountain misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of the shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow’d earth――rich apple-blossom’d earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love――therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable, passionate love.
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OLD IRELAND.
FAR hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen, now lean and tatter’d seated on the ground, Her old white hair drooping dishevel’d round her shoulders, At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir, Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love.
Yet a word, ancient mother, You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead between your knees; O you need not sit there veil’d in your old white hair so dishevel’d, For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead; The Lord is not dead, he is risen again, young and strong, in another country, Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave, What you wept for was translated, pass’d from the grave; The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it; And now, with rosy and new blood, Moves to-day in a new country.
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PÆAN OF JOY.
FROM “THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER.”
Reference has been made to the similarity in style manifested in some of Whitman’s poems to the style of the Psalmist. Certain parts of the two selections following justify the criticism.
NOW trumpeter for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy.
O glad, exulting, culminating song! A vigor more than earth’s is in thy notes, Marches of victory――man disenthral’d――the conqueror at last, Hymns to the universal God from universal man――all joy! A reborn race appears――a perfect world, all joy! Women and men in wisdom, innocence and health――all joy! Riotous, laughing bacchanals fill’d with joy! War, sorrow, suffering gone――the rank earth purged――nothing but joy left! The ocean fill’d with joy――the atmosphere all joy! Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of life! Enough to merely be! enough to breathe! Joy! joy! all over joy!
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JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
POET AND SCIENTIST.
DURING the past forty years Indiana has been prolific in producing prominent men. General Lew Wallace, James Whitcomb Riley, Joaquin Miller and Maurice Thompson are among the prominent men of letters who are natives of the “Hoosier State.”
Maurice Thompson is claimed as belonging to both the North and South, and his record, perhaps, justifies this double claim. He was born at Fairfield, Indiana, September 9th, 1844, but his parents removed to Kentucky during his childhood and subsequently to Northern Georgia. He grew up in the latter state, and was so thoroughly Southern in sentiment that he enlisted and fought in the Confederate Army. At the end of the war, however, he returned to Indiana, where he engaged with a Railway Surveying Party in which he proved himself so efficient that he was raised from a subordinate to the head position in that work, which he followed for some years. After a course of study in law, he began his practice in Crawfordsville, Indiana, the same town in which General Lew Wallace lived. It was from this section that he was elected to the legislature in 1879.
Maurice Thompson is not only a man of letters, but is a scientist of considerable ability. In 1885, he was appointed chief of the State Geological Survey. He was also a Naturalist devoting much attention to ornithology. Many of his poems and most delightful prose sketches are descriptive of bird life.
Mr. Thompson has traveled much in the United States, and his writings in various periodicals as well as his books have attracted wide attention for their original observation and extensive information while they are excelled by few modern writers for poetic richness and diction.
The first book published by this author was entitled “Hoosier Mosaics” which appeared in 1875. Since then he has issued quite a number of volumes among which are “The Witchery of Archey;” “The Tallahassee Girl;” “His Second Campaign;” “Songs of Fair Weather;” “At Loves Extremes;” “By Ways and Bird Notes;” “The Boy’s Book of Sports;” “A Banker of Bankersville;” “Sylvan Secrets;” “The Story of Louisiana;” “A Fortnight of Folly.”
In 1890 Mr. Thompson published “Bankers of Boonville” and the same year became a staff writer for the New York Independent.
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CERES.¹
(THE GODDESS OF GRAIN.)
THE wheat was flowing ankle-deep Across the field from side to side; And dipping in the emerald waves, The swallows flew in circles wide.
The sun, a moment flaring red, Shot level rays athwart the world, Then quenched his fire behind the hills, With rosy vapors o’er him curled.
A sweet, insinuating calm,―― A calm just one remove from sleep, Such as a tranquil watcher feels, Seeing mild stars at midnight sweep
Through splendid purple deeps, and swing Their old, ripe clusters down the west To where, on undiscovered hills, The gods have gathered them to rest,――
A calm like that hung over all The dusky groves, and, filtered through The thorny hedges, touched the wheat Till every blade was bright with dew.
Was it a dream? We call things dreams When we must needs do so, or own Belief in old, exploded myths, Whose very smoke has long since flown.
Was it a dream? Mine own eyes saw, And Ceres came across the wheat That, like bright water, dimpled round The golden sandals of her feet.
¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”
* * * * *
DIANA.¹
(THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.)
SHE had a bow of yellow horn Like the old moon at early morn.
She had three arrows strong and good, Steel set in feathered cornel wood.
Like purest pearl her left breast shone Above her kirtle’s emerald zone;
Her right was bound in silk well-knit, Lest her bow-string should sever it.
Ripe lips she had, and clear gray eyes, And hair pure gold blown hoyden-wise.
Across her face like shining mist That with dawn’s flush is faintly kissed.
Her limbs! how matched and round and fine! How free like song! how strong like wine!
And, timed to music wild and sweet, How swift her silver-sandalled feet!
Single of heart and strong of hand, Wind-like she wandered through the land.
No man (or king or lord or churl) Dared whisper love to that fair girl.
And woe to him who came upon Her nude, at bath, like Acteon!
So dire his fate, that one who heard The flutter of a bathing bird,
What time he crossed a breezy wood, Felt sudden quickening of his blood;
Cast one swift look, then ran away Far through the green, thick groves of May;
Afeard, lest down the wind of spring He’d hear an arrow whispering!
¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”
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THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
WITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Stedman, Mr. Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remuneration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards became attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil War he was for a time with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The Weekly Journal” every Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The degree of A. M. was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard University.
Mr. Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collection of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” appeared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), “Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wyndham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896).
Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Romance” (1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),――which became at once a favorite by its naturalness and purity of spirit,――“♦Marjorie Daw and Other People” (1873), “Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883), “The Sisters Tragedy” (1890), “An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” (1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were published in 1897. Mr. Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine:
♦ ‘Majorie’ replaced with ‘Marjorie’
During a visit to England, upon one occasion, Mr. Aldrich was the guest of William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journalist of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of poets, met Mr. Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. The last night of their stay came, and after dinner Mr. Black made a little speech, in which he spoke of Mr. Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London journalist gave a gasp, and looked at Mr. Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and said:――
“Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books?”
“Yes,” Mr. Aldrich said. “I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked me for myself.”
Illustration: THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.
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ALEC YEATON’S SON.¹
GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.
THE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, And the white caps flecked the sea; “An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned, “I had not my boy with me!”
Snug in the stern-sheets, little John Laughed as the scud swept by; But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan As he watched the wicked sky.
“Would he were at his mother’s side!” And the skipper’s eyes were dim. “Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, What would become of him!
“For me――my muscles are as steel, For me let hap what may: I might make shift upon the keel Until the break o’ day.
“But he, he is so weak and small, So young, scarce learned to stand―― O pitying Father of us all, I trust him in thy hand!
“For Thou, who markest from on high A sparrow’s fall――each one!―― Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye On Alec Yeaton’s son!”
Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailed Towards the headland light: The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, And black, black fell the night.
Then burst a storm to make one quail Though housed from winds and waves―― They who could tell about that gale Must rise from watery graves!
Sudden it came, as sudden went; Ere half the night was sped, The winds were hushed, the waves were spent, And the stars shone overhead.
Now, as the morning mist grew thin, The folk on Gloucester shore Saw a little figure floating in Secure, on a broken oar!
Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck! Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”―― They knew it, though ’t was but a speck Upon the edge of death!
Long did they marvel in the town At God His strange decree, That let the stalwart skipper drown And the little child go free!
¹ By special permission of the Author.
* * * * *
ON LYNN TERRACE.¹
ALL day to watch the blue wave curl and break, All night to hear it plunging on the shore―― In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take, I cannot ask for more.
Behind me lie the idle life and vain, The task unfinished, and the weary hours; That long wave softly bears me back to Spain And the Alhambra’s towers!
Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass, To list the mule-bells jingling on the height; Below, against the dull esparto grass, The almonds glimmer white.
Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns, Invite my fancy, and I wander through The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns The world’s first sailors knew.
Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise; Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days, Venice salutes my eyes.
Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair; I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine, And catch, through slits of windows here and there, Blue glimpses of the Rhine.
Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld, And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s fires Light up the white-walled Russian citadel, The Kremlin’s domes and spires.
And now I linger in green English lanes, By garden plots of rose and heliotrope; And now I face the sudden pelting rains On some lone Alpine slope.
Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars, I saunter, and the merchants at the doors Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars, And curved knives of the Moors;
Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates; What would Howadji――silver, gold, or stone? Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates The camels make their moan.
All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here, High on the windy terrace, day by day; And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear, Ringing across the bay.
For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me; For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight; And mine the tender moonrise on the sea, And hollow caves of night.
¹ By special permission of the Author.
* * * * *
SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”
By Permission of the Author.
WHAT face which no man ever saw And from his memory banished quite, With eyes in which are Hamlet’s awe And Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle light Looks from this frame. A master’s hand Has set the master-player here, In the fair temple¹ that he planned Not for himself. To us most dear This image of him! “It was thus He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; With that same grace he greeted us―― Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!” Sad words that shall be said some day―― Far fall the day! O cruel Time, Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, Spare long this image of his prime, That others standing in the place Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, May know what sweet majestic face The gentle Prince of Players wore!
¹ The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him and named “The Players.”
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”
AMONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary preliminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the world of letters――having not this passport through the gateway――it is the more indicative of the “real genius” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an applauding public.
Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father, Rev. Wm. H. Gilder. Mr. Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to study for that profession in Philadelphia; but the death of his father, in 1864, made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, New Jersey, “Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he resigned and founded the “Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as joint editor. The next year, Mr. Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called to New York as editor of “Hours at Home,” a monthly journal.
His editorials in “Hours at Home” attracted public attention, and some of his poems were recognized as possessing superior merit. Dr. G. Holland, editor of “Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, in 1870, it became the “Century Magazine,” Dr. Holland chose Mr. Gilder as his associate editor. On the death of Dr. Holland, in 1881, Mr. Gilder became editor-in-chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes of poems, among which are “The New Day;” “The Poet and His Master’; “Lyrics;” and “The Celestial Passion.”
Aside from his literary works, Mr. Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “spoils-hunting partisan class,” but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. Thus “he was born,” as the saying goes, “with printer’s ink in his veins.” When sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made――running over a period of eight months――vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done much good also in other cities.
Mr. Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no stauncher friend than he. His address on “Public Opinion” has been delivered by invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty as it should be taught by our institutions of learning:――
“Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are scattered throughout our country? They are the responsible press, and the unsensational but fearless pulpit――it is these that must discriminate; that must set the standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes leadership effectual and saving.”
As appears from the above Mr. Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises sham, hypocrisy and all “wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers and enemies of the public. In his own words,――
“He, only, is the despicable one Who lightly sells his honor as a shield For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun. Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yield For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”
* * * * *
SONNET.
(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)
From the “Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The Century Co.
I KNOW not if I love her overmuch; But this I know, that when unto her face She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space, Then slowly falls――’tis I who feel that touch. And when she sudden shakes her head, with such A look, I soon her secret meaning trace. So when she runs I think ’tis I who race. Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch I am if she is gone; and when she goes, I know not why, for that is a strange art―― As if myself should from myself depart. I know not if I love her more than those Who long her light have known; but for the rose She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.
* * * * *
THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co.
THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day―― Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armed strength――his pure and mighty heart.
* * * * *
SHERIDAN.
From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co.
QUIETLY, like a child That sinks in slumber mild, No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar, Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.
Though his the power to smite Quick as the lightning’s light,―― His single arm an army, and his name a host,―― Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.
But in the battle’s flame How glorious he came!―― Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore, While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.
’Twas he,――his voice, his might,―― Could stay the panic flight, Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat, And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.
He was our modern Mars; Yet firm his faith that wars Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth, And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.
Blest land, in whose dark hour Arise to loftiest power No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part, But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!
Of such our chief of all; And he who broke the wall Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend; And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.
And now above his tomb From out the eternal gloom “Welcome!” his ♦chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s knell; And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”
♦ “chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”
* * * * *
SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN.¹
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
BUT then the sunset smiled, Smiled once and turned toward dark, Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed Along the horizon’s edge; Like hooded monks that hark Through evening air The call to prayer;―― Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away; When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge, Brown-gray, Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew, The interspace, green-blue―― The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore, The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.
Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now, Wondering if thy deep brow In dreams of me were lifted to the skies, Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies; If thou didst stand alone, Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here, But closer and more dear, Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line Of blackening pine; When lo! that second smile;――dear heart, it was thine own.
¹ Copyright, The Century Co.
* * * * *
“O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THE SEA.”¹
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
O SILVER river flowing to the sea, Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be! Poets have sung thy ever-living power, Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour; Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep, What commerce thine, how many myriads reap The harvest of thy waters. They have sung Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves―― Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves; The waving outline of thy wooded mountains, Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains On either side, far to the salty main, Like golden coins alternate on a chain. Thou pathway of the empire of the North, Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth! I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout That follows when a hero from the rout Of battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he, How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But she Who knows him best――“How tender!” So thou art The river of love to me! ――Heart of my heart, Dear love and bride――is it not so indeed?―― Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.
¹ Copyright, The Century Co.
* * * * *
“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.”¹
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
THERE is nothing new under the sun; There is no new hope or despair; The agony just begun Is as old as the earth and the air. My secret soul of bliss Is one with the singing stars, And the ancient mountains miss No hurt that my being mars.
I know as I know my life, I know as I know my pain, That there is no lonely strife, That he is mad who would gain A separate balm for his woe, A single pity and cover; The one great God I know Hears the same prayer over and over.
I know it because at the portal Of Heaven I bowed and cried, And I said: “Was ever a mortal Thus crowned and crucified! My praise thou hast made my blame; My best thou hast made my worst; My good thou hast turned to shame; My drink is a flaming thirst.”
But scarce my prayer was said Ere from that place I turned; I trembled, I hung my head, My cheek, shame-smitten, burned; For there where I bowed down In my boastful agony, I thought of thy cross and crown―― O Christ! I remembered thee.
¹ Copyright, The Century Co.
* * * * *
MEMORIAL DAY.¹
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling; She saw the tattered banners falling About the broken staffs, as one by one The remnant of the mighty army passed; And at the last Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.
She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet As the long line swept round the crowded square; She heard the incessant hum That filled the warm and blossom-scented air―― The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meet To honor thus the dead, Who chose the better part, Who for their country bled! ――The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street, Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart―― While far away His grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands to-day.
¹ Copyright, The Century Co.
* * * * *
A WOMAN’S THOUGHT.¹
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
I AM a woman――therefore I may not Call him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!
And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet; Still as a stone―― All silent and cold. If my heart riot―― Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him―― What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning―― That he were lost to me. Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure―― Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me―― How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.
Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!
¹ Copyright, The Century Co.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JOHN HAY.
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE BREECHES.”
ASIDE from General Lew Wallace and Edmund Clarence Stedman few business men or politicians have made a brighter mark in literature than the subject of this sketch.
John Hay was born at Salem, Indiana, October 8th, 1838. He was graduated at Brown’s University at the age of twenty, studied law and began to practice at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. Soon after this he was made private secretary of President Lincoln, which position he filled throughout the latter’s administration. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant and aid-de-camp, and it was in consequence of this that he was brevetted colonel. He also saw service under Generals Hunter and Gilmore as major and assistant adjutant general. After the close of the war Mr. Hay was appointed United States ♦Secretary of Legation at Paris, serving in this capacity from 1865 to 1867, when he was appointed charge d’affaires, where he served for two years, being removed to take a position as Secretary of Legation at Madrid, where he remained until 1870, at which time he returned to the United States and accepted an editorial position on the “New York Tribune.” This he resigned and removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1875, where he entered politics, taking an active part in the presidential campaigns of 1876, 1880 and 1884. Under President Hayes he was appointed as first assistant Secretary of State, which position he filled for nearly three years, and has made his home at Washington since that date. On March 17th, Mr. Hay was appointed by President McKinley as ambassador to Great ♣Britain, where he was accorded the usual hearty welcome tendered by the British to American ambassadors, many of whom during the past fifty years having been men of high literary attainment. Shortly after Mr. Hay’s arrival he was called upon to deliver an address at the unveiling of the Walter Scott monument, in which he did his country credit and maintained his own reputation as an orator and a man of letters.
♦ ‘Secrectary’ replaced with ‘Secretary’
♣ ‘Britian’ replaced with ‘Britain’
As an author Mr. Hay’s first published works were the “Pike County Ballads and Other Pieces” (1871), “Castilian Days” (1871), “Poems” (1890), and, (in conjunction with Mr. Nicolay), “Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which is regarded as the authoritative biography of Mr. Lincoln. This was first published in serial form in the “Century Magazine” from 1887 to 1889. Colonel Hay has also been a frequent contributor to high class periodicals, and to him has been ascribed the authorship of the anonymous novel “The Bread Winners,” which caused such agitation in labor circles a few years ago.
Like many authors, Mr. Hay came into popularity almost by accident. Certainly he had no expectation of becoming prominent when he wrote his poem “Little Breeches;” yet that poem caused him to be remembered by a wider class of readers, perhaps, than anything else he has contributed to literature. The following account of how this poem came to be written was published after Mr. Hay’s appointment to the Court of St. James in 1897. The statement is given as made by Mr. A. L. Williams, an acquaintance of Mr. Hay, who lives in Topeka, Kansas, and knows the circumstances. “The fact is,” says Mr. Williams, “the poem ‘Little Breeches’ and its reception by the American people make it one of the most humorous features of this day. It was written as a burlesque, and for no other purpose. Bret Harte had inaugurated a maudlin literature at a time when the ‘litery’ people of the United States were affected with hysteria. Under the inspiration of his genius, to be good was commonplace, to be virtuous was stupid――only gamblers, murderers and women of ill fame were heroic. Crime had reached its apotheosis. John Hay believed that ridicule would help cure this hysteria, and thus believing, wrote the burlesque, ‘Little Breeches.’ Wanting to make the burlesque so broad that the commonest intellect could grasp it, he took for his hero an unspeakably wretched brat whom no angel would touch unless to drop over the walls into Tophet, and made him the object of a special angelic miracle.
“Well, John sprung his ‘Little Breeches’ and then sat back with his mouth wide open to join in the laugh which he thought it would evoke from his readers. To his intense astonishment, people took it seriously, and instead of laughing Bret Harte out of the field, immediately made John Hay a formidable rival to that gentleman.”
Next to “Little Breeches” the poem “Jim Bludso,” perhaps, contributed most to Mr. Hay’s reputation. Both of these selections will be found in the succeeding pages.
* * * * *
LITTLE BREECHES.
I DON’T go much on religion, I never ain’t had no show; But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, On the handful o’ things I know. I don’t pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort of thing―― But I b’lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along―― No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight―― And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart’s store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started―― I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie; I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And searched for ’em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot――dead beat――but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critters’ aid, I jest flopped down on my marrowbones, Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
* * * * *
By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night, We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, “I want a chaw of terbacker, An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”
How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, An’ fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.
* * * * *
JIM BLUDSO.¹
OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.”
WALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives, Because he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren’t no saint――them engineers Is all pretty much alike―― One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied―― I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had―― To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire―― A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last―― The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed, And so she come tearin’ along that night―― The oldest craft on the line―― With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word, And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell―― And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren’t no saint; but at judgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He seen his duty――a dead-sure thing―― And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men.
¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
* * * * *
HOW IT HAPPENED.¹
I PRAY your pardon, Elsie, And smile that frown away That dims the light of your lovely face As a thunder-cloud the day, I really could not help it,―― Before I thought, it was done,―― And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, Like an icicle in the sun.
I was thinking of the summers When we were boys and girls, And wandered in the blossoming woods, And the gay wind romped with her curls. And you seemed to me the same little girl I kissed in the alder-path, I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas! I have roused a woman’s wrath.
There is not so much to pardon,―― For why were your lips so red? The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold From the proud, provoking head. And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes And played round the tender mouth, Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind That blows from the fragrant South.
And where after all is the harm done? I believe we were made to be gay, And all of youth not given to love Is vainly squandered away, And strewn through life’s low labors, Like gold in the desert sands, Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows And the clasp of clinging hands.
And when you are old and lonely, In memory’s magic shrine You will see on your thin and wasting hands, Like gems, these kisses of mine. And when you muse at evening At the sound of some vanished name, The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips And kindle your heart to flame.
¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
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Illustration: WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS.
EUGENE FIELD • BRET HARTE JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY JOAQUIN MILLER • WILL CARLETON (CINCINNATUS HEINE)
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JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
“THE HOOSIER POET.”
NO poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with the masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living verse writer. The productions of this author have crystallized certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,” “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart of Mine,” and others, go straight to the heart of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, tenderness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its effect.
Mr. Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its atmosphere that his readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorship of his early poems. To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on the school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons, or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past.
Mr. Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching sing-song in his verses, not unlike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.” Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy ♦rhythm, are the pieces describing “Little Orphant Allie” and “The Ragged Man.”
♦ ‘rythm’ replaced with ‘rhythm’
An’ Little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue, An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo! An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray, An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,―― You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear, An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear, An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about, Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you Ef you――don’t――watch――out.
James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyer of his son; but Mr. Riley tells us, “Whenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Greenleaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to his education, the poet further says, “I never had much schooling, and what I did get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I always was fond of reading in a random way, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.”
Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine man, with whom he traveled for a year. On leaving this employment he organized a company of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertainments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, “All the members of the company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Graphic Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in various magazines, “sending them from one to another,” he says, “to get them promptly back again.” Finally, he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly, as did also Mr. Lowell, to whose “New England Dialectic Poems” Mr. Riley’s “Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than busy in supplying their eager demands upon his pen.
Mr. Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are composed as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves him. He cannot be driven. On this point he says of himself, “It is almost impossible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem at a certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect, that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers the recognized poetic form; “but,” he adds, “dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very commonplaceness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as I have achieved is due to this.”
The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and “’Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “Armazindy,” which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe Poem, “Leonainie,” written and published in early life as one of the lost poems of Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven;” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories;” “Afterwhiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, pathetic, humorous and dialectic; “Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “Rhymes of Childhood;” “Flying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in verse; “Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two poems and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious.
The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant nature; and he is scarcely less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renowned child poet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion of Mr. Riley to his aged parents, whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly commented upon in the current notices of the poet. Mr. Riley has personally met more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly “on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the past several years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves, at one time or another, to the treat of listening to his inimitable recitation of his poems. His short vacation in the summer――“his loafing days,” as he calls them――are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found at his best.
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A BOY’S MOTHER.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
MY mother she’s so good to me, Ef I wuz good as I could be, I couldn’t be as good――no, sir!―― Can’t any boy be good as her!
She loves me when I’m glad er sad; She loves me when I’m good er bad; An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says She loves me when she punishes.
I don’t like her to punish me.―― That don’t hurt,――but it hurts to see Her cryin’.――Nen I cry; an’ nen We both cry an’ be good again.
She loves me when she cuts an’ sews My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes; An’ when my Pa comes home to tea, She loves him most as much as me.
She laughs an’ tells him all I said, An’ grabs me an’ pats my head; An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa, An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.
¹ By Permission of the Century Co.
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THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
I WAS for Union――you, ag’in’ it. ’Pears like, to me, each side was winner, Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it. Le’ ’s go to dinner.
Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down together And do some pardnership forgittin’―― Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather, Or somepin’ fittin’.
The war, you know, ’s all done and ended, And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass; Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendid As ’fore the rumpus.
The old farms and the old plantations Still ockipies the’r old positions. Le’ ’s git back to old situations And old ambitions.
Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’ And git back home to the eternal Ca’m we’re a-wantin’.
Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet―― When women does my cookin’ for me, Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie et Durin’ the army.
¹ By Permission of the Century Co.
* * * * *
OUR HIRED GIRL.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
OUR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann; An’ she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet; An’ nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stop An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow, In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slop An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It’s custard-pie, first thing you know! An’ nen she’ll say, “Clear out o’ my way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”
When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad, An’ says folks got to walk the chalk When she’s around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an’ talk To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn; An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn! Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies, It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!” An’ nen he’ll say, “Clear out o’ my way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”
Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an’ we all et, An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,―― An’ nen when we come home, an’ see A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’- O’-Gracious! who can her beau be?” An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man! Better say, “Clear out o’ the way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take the hint, an’ run, child, run! Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”
¹ By permission of The Century Co.
* * * * *
THE RAGGEDY MAN.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
O THE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay; An’ he opens the shed――an’ we all ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf; An’ nen――ef our hired girl says he can―― He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.―― Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W’y, the Raggedy Man――he ’s ist so good, He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood; An’ nen he spades in our garden, too, An’ does most things ’t boys can’t do.―― He clumbed clean up in our big tree An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me―― An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann―― An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.―― Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves, An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therselves! An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got, ’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann! Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man――one time, when he Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me, Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is, Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his―― An’ be a rich merchunt――an’ wear fine clothes?―― Er what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?” An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann, An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!―― I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!” Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
¹ By permission of The Century Co.
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FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS.
THE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers-on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity which he employs in his descriptions. It should be remembered, however, that a faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have been presented in more polite language than that employed.
Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a scholar of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary. He died poor when Bret was quite young, consequently the education of his son was confined to the common schools of the city. When only seventeen years of age, young Harte, with his widowed mother, emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he walked to the mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a short time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished the material for his early literature. After leaving his school he became a miner, and at odd times learned to set type in the office of one of the frontier papers. He wrote sketches of the strange life around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the proofs to the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain of acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the paper, and in the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal and incurred popular wrath for censuring a little massacre of Indians by the leading citizens of the locality, which came near bringing a mob upon him.
The young adventurer,――for he was little else at this time,――also served as mounted messenger of an express company and as express agent in several mountain towns, which gave him a full knowledge of the picturesque features of mining life. In 1857 he returned to San Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly literary journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and submitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These were accepted and soon earned him an editorial position on the “Golden Era.” After this he made many contributions to the daily papers and his tales of Western life began to attract attention in the East. In 1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings. He attempted to publish a newspaper of his own, “The Californian,” which was bright and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management.
In 1864 Mr. Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this position found leisure to write some of his popular poems, such as “John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “How Are You, Sanitary?” and others, which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. He also became editor of the “Overland Monthly” when it was founded in 1868, and soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on the Pacific Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series of sketches of California life which have won a permanent place in literature. Among these sketches are “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, dissolute gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who, without noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “The Outcast of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Red Gulch,” and many other stories which revealed the spark of humanity remaining in brutalized men and women, followed in rapid succession.
Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply with the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received at the hands of the early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did much to soften and mollify the actions of those who read them――and it may be safely said that almost every one did, as he was about the only author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His poem, “The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese were shiftless and weak-minded settlers. This poem appeared in 1870 and was wonderfully popular.
In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the University of California was offered to Mr. Harte, on his resignation of the editorship of the “Overland Monthly,” but he declined the proffer to try his literary fortunes in the more cultured East. He endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts failed, and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “Atlantic Monthly,” since which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing demand from various magazines and literary journals. Mr. Harte has issued many volumes of prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say in which field he has won greater distinction. Both as a prose writer and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal facility. His reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his sketches have been translated into French and German, and of late years he has lived much abroad, where he is, if any difference, more lionized than he was in his native country.
From 1878 to 1885 Mr. Harte was United States Consul successively to Crefield and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German translators, and himself a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar excellence:
“Nevertheless he remains what he is――the Californian and the gold-digger. But the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of rivers――not the gold in veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of goodness, of fidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts――even under the rubbish of vices and sins――remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to the world――that is his greatness and his merit.”
His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “Condensed Novels,” “Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and West Poems,” “Poetical Works,” “Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands,” “Echoes of the Foothills,” “Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table Mountain and Other Stories,” “In the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By Shore and Ledge,” “Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the Excelsior,” “A Phyllis of the Sierras.” One of Mr. Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled “Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published as a serial in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe, the vividness of the description and the accurate delineations of the miner character are as strikingly real as if it had been produced by the author while residing in the mining country of his former Western home.
* * * * *
SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.
Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was at fault, It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass,――at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen; And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more;
For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of the palæozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, was a sin, ’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
* * * * *
DICKENS IN CAMP.
ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth
’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew.
And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,――for the reader Was the youngest of them all,―― But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall.
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadows Wandered and lost their way.
And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken As by some spell divine, Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire, And he who wrought that spell; Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive glory That thrills the Kentish hills;
And on that grave, where English oak and holly, And laurel-wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine!
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EUGENE FIELD.
THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET.
ON the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day that Eugene Field, the most congenial friend young children ever had among the literary men of America, died at the early age of forty-five. The expressions of regard and regret called out on all sides by this untimely death, made it clear that the character in which the public at large knew and loved Mr. Field best was that of the “Poet of Child Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled hold on the popular heart is their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe to the fact that Mr. Field almost lived in the closest and fondest intimacy with children. He had troops of them for his friends and it is said he wrote his child-poems directly under their suggestions and inspiration.
We might fill far more space than is at our command in this volume relating incidents which go to show his fondness for little ones. It is said that on the day of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to settle a quarrel between some urchins who were playing marbles in the street. So long did he remain to argue the question with them that all might be satisfied, the time for the wedding actually passed and when sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker. It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted divine, Dr. Gunsaulus, to visit his home. The children of the family had been reading Field’s poems and looked forward with eagerness to his coming. When he arrived, the first question he asked the children, after being introduced to them, was, “Where is the kitchen?” and expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrassment of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he seized upon the remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal, carried it into the dining-room, seated himself and made a feast with his little friends, telling them quaint stories all the while. After this impromptu supper, he spent the remainder of the evening singing them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went away, the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way with all children with whom he came into contact.
The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally show itself in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most pronounced. In all the world she was the only woman he loved and he never wished to be away from her. Often she accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together being in the summer of ’95 to the home of Mrs. Field’s girlhood. While his wife was in the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they expected, he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage and visited all of the old scenes of their early associations during the happy time of their love-making.
His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man who had ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him. He had the happy faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was a common happening in the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of a fellow, who had known him in the days gone by, to walk boldly in and blurt out, as if confident in the power of the name he spoke――“Is ’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, or I worked with ’Gene Field on the ‘Kansas City Times.’” These were sufficient passwords and never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room――“That’s all right, show him in here, he’s a friend of mine.”
One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname them. When his first daughter was born he called her “Trotty,” and, although she is a grown-up woman now, her friends still call her “Trotty.” The second daughter is called “Pinny” after the child opera “Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time she was born. Another, a son, came into the world when everybody was singing “Oh My! Ain’t She a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of “Daisy.” Two other of Mr. Field’s children are known as “Googhy” and “Posy.”
Eugene Field was born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. Part of his early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He was educated in a university in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was connected with various newspapers in Missouri and Colorado. He joined the staff of the Chicago “Daily News” in 1883 and removed to Chicago, where he continued to reside until his death, twelve years later. Of Mr. Field’s books, “The Denver Tribune Primer” was issued in 1882; “Culture Garden” (1887); “Little Book of Western Friends” (1889); and “Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889).
Mr. Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some first-class Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an excellent newspaper correspondent, and a critic of no mean ability; but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to chastise a brother severely who did not come up to the highest literary standard. He was a hard worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to three columns to the “Chicago News,” besides writing more or less for the “Syndicate Press” and various periodicals. In addition to this, he was frequently traveling, and lectured or read from his own writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter, Miss Mary French Field (“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the country, delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her appearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father is always liberally responded to by an appreciative public.
* * * * *
OUR TWO OPINIONS.¹
US two wuz boys when we fell out―― Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about, Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow, Lived next neighbors twenty years, A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim―― He havin’ his opinyin uv me ’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak, Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too ’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week, A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through. But when Abe Linkern asked the West F’r soldiers, we answered――me ’nd Jim―― He havin’ his opinyin uv me ’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Down in Tennessee one night, Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away, ’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight With the Johnnie Rebs some time next day; ’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home, Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim―― He havin’ his opinyin uv me ’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be Serious trouble f’r me ’nd him―― Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me, But never a word from me or Jim! He went his way, and I went mine, ’Nd into the battle’s roar went we―― I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim ’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!
Jim never come back from the war again, But I haint forgot that last, last night When waitin’ f’r orders, us two men Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight; ’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know That here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim―― He havin’ his opinyin uv me ’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
LULLABY.¹
FAIR is the castle up on the hill―― Hushaby, sweet my own! The night is fair and the waves are still, And the wind is singing to you and me In this lowly home beside the sea―― Hushaby, sweet my own!
On yonder hill is store of wealth―― Hushaby, sweet my own! And revellers drink to a little one’s health; But you and I bide night and day For the other love that has sailed away―― Hushaby, sweet my own!
See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep Ghostlike, O my own! Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; Oh, see them not and make no cry, ’Till the angels of death have passed us by―― Hushaby, sweet my own!
Ah, little they reck of you and me―― Hushaby, sweet my own! In our lonely home beside the sea; They seek the castle up on the hill, And there they will do their ghostly will―― Hushaby, O my own!
Here by the sea, a mother croons “Hushaby, sweet my own;” In yonder castle a mother swoons While the angels go down to the misty deep, Bearing a little one fast asleep―― Hushaby, sweet my own!
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
A DUTCH LULLABY.¹
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe―― Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. “Where are you going, and what do you wish?” The old moon asked the three. “We have to come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea: Nets of silver and gold have we,” Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sung a song, And they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea; “Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeared are we”―― So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home. ’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one’s trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three―― Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
THE NORSE LULLABY.¹
FROM “A LITTLE BOOK OF WESTERN VERSE” (1889).
THE sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night, And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep!” He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: “Sleep, little one, sleep!”
On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing And only the vine can hear her sing: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep―― What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep.”
The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song I sing the best: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, anext my heart, Sleep, little one, sleep.”
¹ Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.
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WILL CARLETON.
AUTHOR OF “BETSY AND I ARE OUT.”
FEW writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selections for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they are portraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of education is fast relegating to the past.
Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of sixteen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four years divided his time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “boarding round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically detailed in his poems.
There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,” etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. “The First Settler’s Story” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is pathetically told.
Mr. Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “Toledo Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of his poems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm Festivals,” and “City Ballads.”
In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do not often deign to tread.”
But Mr. Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, if indeed any depicter of Western farm life.
Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to public esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature.
* * * * *
BETSY AND I ARE OUT.¹
DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout, For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,―― We who have worked together so long as man and wife Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.
“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell! Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well; I have no other woman――she has no other man; Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.
So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me; And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree; Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime; We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had for a start; Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart; I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone, And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, Was somethin’ concerning heaven――a difference in our creed; We arg’ed the thing at breakfast――we arg’ed the thing at tea―― And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t agree.
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; She had kicked the bucket, for certain――the question was only――How? I held my opinion, and Betsy another had; And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl; And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.
And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way; Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,―― And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong, And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.
And there have been days together――and many a weary week―― When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak; And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer and fall, If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.
And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me; And we have agreed together that we can never agree; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine; And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.
Write on the paper, lawyer――the very first paragraph―― Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day, And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam, But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home. And I have always determined, and never failed to say, That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.
There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable pay, A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,―― Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at; Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.
I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much; Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such; True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young, And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.
When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps, For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps; And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down, And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once when I had a fever――I won’t forget it soon―― I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon―― Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight; She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen, And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts, Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right; And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know―― And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur; That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her, And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.
And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me; And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree; And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queer If we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.
¹ From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.
* * * * *
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.¹
(FROM “FARM BALLADS.”)
JOHN. I’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;” I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak; I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,) When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.
I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats; I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats; And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel, And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.
Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key, Under the step, in a place known only to her and me; I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell; But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray! The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away; I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true; But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”
A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say; There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day. There’s han’somer men than me――I ain’t of the han’some kind; But a loven’er man than I was, I guess she’ll never find.
Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings! May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion stings! Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt, And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!
Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day; She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play; And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born, And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.
As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me; And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do, That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim, And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him, She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost; And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind, And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind; And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me――for me――but no! I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.
And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she had That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad; And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last; But I mustn’t think of these things――I’ve buried ’em in the past.
I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse; She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse; But I’ll live a life so square――and I well know that I can,―― That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur; It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her. And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat, And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.
’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest dear,” And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here; O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!
Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart. You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart. I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray, And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear, And if I thought I had some little influence there, I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.
JANE (entering). Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around! Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found? And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too; I’ve been a riding with him――he’s that “handsomer man than you.”
Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track? I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.
JOHN (aside). Well, now, if this ain’t a joke, with rather a bitter cream! It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream; And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer, I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!
’Twas one of her practical drives――she thought I’d understand! But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land. But one thing’s settled with me――to appreciate heaven well, ’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
¹ Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.
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JOAQUIN MILLER.
“THE POET OF THE SIERRAS.”
IN the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash district in Indiana to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught boy of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincinnatus Hiner Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm until he was about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the family log-cabin in the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to try ♦his fortune as a gold miner.
♦ ‘this’ replaced with ‘his’
A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year old youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history, just after the report of the discovery of gold had caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. A miscellaneous and turbulent population swarmed over the country; and, “armed to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life of these gold-hunters――millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow――deeming it a virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl――was, at once, novel, picturesque and dramatic.――Such conditions furnished great possibilities for a poet or novelist.――It was an era as replete with a reality of thrilling excitement as that furnished by the history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier ♦Greek poets.
♦ ‘Greeks’ replaced with ‘Greek’
It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught――but observant and daring――farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not giddy and fast enough for him, or palled upon his more exacting taste for excitement and daring adventure, he left it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With Walker he became a filibuster and went into Nicaragua.――He became in turn an astrologer; a Spanish vaquero, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem.
For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as suddenly as he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the prodigal returned home to his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right thigh another, and on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian arrows. Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted to practice within a few months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 1861 we find him in the gold mines of Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into his “Pan” sufficiently fast and he gave it up to become an express messenger in the mining district. A few months later he was back in Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaper at Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contributor, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in 1862――in his usual short-order way of doing things――after an acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin” Miller――for he was now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom he had defended――got his education is a mystery; but through the years of wandering, even in boyhood, he was a rhymester and his verses now began to come fast in the columns of his paper.
Illustration: JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA.
In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in 1866, at the age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County. This position he held for four years during which time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual “suddenness” he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to seek a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. This introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “Songs of the Sierras” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and passionate, and the wild and adventurous life they described was a new revelation in the world of song, and, verily, whatever the austere critic said, “The common people heard him gladly” and his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to California, visited the tropics and collected material for another work which he published in London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; “Songs of the Mexican Seas” 1887. Later he has published “With Walker in Nicaragua” and he is also author of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the West among which are “The Danites in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and ’49, or “The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.”
The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line of truth in his delineations after all.
Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers in the Klondike regions of Alaska.
* * * * *
THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.
WRITTEN IN ATHENS.
SIERRAS, and eternal tents Of snow that flashed o’er battlements Of mountains! My land of the sun, Am I not true? have I not done All things for thine, for thee alone, O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? From other loves and other lands, As true, perhaps, as strong of hands, Have I not turned to thee and thine, O sun-land of the palm and pine, And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies, Till Europe lifted up her face And marveled at thy matchless grace, With eager and inquiring eyes? Be my reward some little place To pitch my tent, some tree and vine Where I may sit above the sea, And drink the sun as drinking wine, And dream, or sing some songs of thee; Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome Again, and be with gods at home, Salute my mountains――clouded Hood, Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood―― Where sweeps the Oregon, and where White storms are in the feathered fir.
* * * * *
MOUNT SHASTA.
TO lord all Godland! lift the brow Familiar to the noon,――to top The universal world,――to prop The hollow heavens up,――to vow Stern constancy with stars,――to keep Eternal ward while ♦eons sleep; To tower calmly up and touch God’s purple garment――hems that sweep The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!
Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt I knew thee in my glorious youth, I loved thy vast face, white as truth, I stood where thunderbolts were wont To smite thy Titan-fashioned front, And heard rent mountains rock and roll. I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll The awful autograph of God!
♦ ‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’
* * * * *
KIT CARSON’S RIDE.
RUN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so. But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa! No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes, But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;――
We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. “Forty full miles if a foot to ride, Forty full miles if a foot and the devils Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed, And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,―― Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,―― “Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed, if ever for life you would speed; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And feet of wild horses, hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore; While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”
We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years, Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.
Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows, Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.
Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles! thirty miles――a dim distant speck―― Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.
As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher, And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.
I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet look of despair, And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head With a look of delight, for this Paché, you see, Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown; And so when I won the true heart of my bride,―― My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,―― She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight, From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side; And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her,――and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape,――a love,――a desire,―― Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.―― Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight.
Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under, And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,―― Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,―― Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone, And into the Brazos I rode all alone―― All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.
“Sell Paché――blind Paché? Now, mister! look here! You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,” For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near; “But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too small For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer, Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all? Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold! You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told! Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old! ... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin To them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”
* * * * *
JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER.
As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we present the following extract from a syndicate letter clipped from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.”
Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska, August 2, 1897.
I WRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at the fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if not the first of American rivers. We have crossed the summit, passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take me up the river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle, brought from Seattle.
* * * * *
THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.
All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass. Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long, steep and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave conquerers came back, and only died away when the distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And now we began to ascend.
It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain, the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away before us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we stood against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that marked the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable as it looked, and it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, it is no boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.
Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry, and as I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly blue lake that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.
OUR MOST NOTED NOVELISTS.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
THE WALTER SCOTT OF AMERICA.
OUR first American novelist, and to the present time perhaps the only American novelist whose fame is permanently established among foreigners, is James Fenimore Cooper. While Washington Irving, our first writer of short stories, several years Cooper’s senior, was so strikingly popular in England and America, Cooper’s “Spy” and “Pilot” and the “Last of the Mohicans” went beyond the bounds of the English language, and the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the German, the Italian and others had placed him beside their own classics and were dividing honors between him and Sir Walter Scott; and it was they who first called him the Walter Scott of America. Nor was this judgment altogether wrong. For six or seven years Scott’s Waverly Novels had been appearing, and his “Ivanhoe,” which was first published in 1820――the first historical novel of the world――had given the clue to Cooper for “The Spy,” which appeared in 1821, the first historical novel of America. Both books were translated into foreign languages by the same translators, and made for their respective authors quick and lasting fame.
James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 1789――the same year that George Washington was inaugurated President of the United States. His father owned many thousand acres of wild land on the head waters of the Susquehanna River in New York, and while James was an infant removed thither and built a stately mansion on Otsego Lake, near the point where the little river issues forth on its journey to the sea. Around Otsego Hall, as it was called, the village of Cooperstown grew up. In this wilderness young Cooper passed his childhood, a hundred miles beyond the advancing lines of civilization. Along the shores of the beautiful lake, shut in by untouched forests, or in the woods themselves, which rose and fell unbroken――except here and there by a pioneer’s hut or a trapper’s camp――he passed his boyhood days and slept at night among the solemn silence of nature’s primeval grandeur. All the delicate arts of the forest, the craft of the woodsman, the trick of the trapper, the stratagem of the Indian fighter, the wiley shrewdness of the tawny savage, the hardships and dangers of pioneer life were as familiar to Cooper as were the legends of North Britain and the stirring ballads of the highlands and the lowlands to Walter Scott. But for this experience we should never have had the famous Leather Stocking Tales.
From this wilderness the boy was sent at the age of thirteen to Yale College, where he remained three years, but was too restless and adventurous to devote himself diligently to study and was dismissed in disgrace at sixteen. For one year he shipped before the mast as a common sailor and for the next five years served as a midshipman in the United States Navy, making himself master of that knowledge and detail of nautical life which he afterwards employed to so much advantage in his romances of the sea.
In 1811 Cooper resigned his post as midshipman, and married Miss Delancey, with whom he lived happily for forty years. The first few years of his married life were spent in quiet retirement. For some months he resided in Westchester County, the scene of his book “The Spy.” Then he removed to his old home at Cooperstown and took possession of the family mansion, to which he had fallen heir through the death of his father. Here he prepared to spend his life as a quiet country gentleman, and did so until a mere accident called him into authorship. Up to that date he seems never to have touched a pen or even thought of one except to write an ordinary letter. He was, however, fond of reading, and often read aloud to his wife. One day while reading a British novel he looked up and playfully said: “I could write a better book than that myself.” “Suppose you try,” replied his wife, and retiring to his library he wrote a chapter which he read to Mrs. Cooper. She was pleased with it and suggested that he continue, which he did, and published the book, under the title of “Precaution,” in 1820.
No one at that time had thought of writing a novel with the scene laid in America, and “Precaution,” which had an English setting, was so thoroughly English that it was reviewed in London with no suspicion of its American authorship. The success which it met, while not great, impressed Cooper that as he had not failed with a novel describing British life, of which he knew little, he might succeed with one on American life, of which he knew much. It was a happy thought. Scott’s “Ivanhoe” had just been read by him and it suggested an American historical theme, and he wrote the story of “The Spy,” which he published in 1821. It was a tale of the Revolution, in which the central figure, Harvey Birch, the spy, is one of the most interesting and effective characters in the realm of romantic literature. It quickly followed Scott’s “Ivanhoe” into many languages.
Encouraged by the plaudits from both sides of the Atlantic Cooper wrote another story, “The Pioneers” (1823), which was the first attempt to put into fiction the life of the frontier and the character of the backwoodsman. Here Cooper was in his element, on firm ground, familiar to him from his infancy, but the book was a revelation to the outside world. It is in this work that one of the greatest characters in fiction, the old backwoodsman Natty Bumpo――the famous Leather-Stocking――appeared and gave his name to a series of tales, comprised, in five volumes, which was not finally completed for twenty years. Strange to say, this famous series of books was not written in regular order. To follow the story logically the reader is recommended to read first the “Deerslayer,” next the “Last of the Mohicans,” followed by “The Pathfinder,” then “The Pioneers,” and last “The Prairie,” which ends with the death of Leather-Stocking.
The sea tales of Cooper were also suggested by Walter Scott, who published the “Pirate” in 1821. This book was being discussed by Cooper and some friends. The latter took the position that Scott could not have been its author since he was a lawyer and therefore could not have the knowledge of sea life which the book displayed. Cooper, being himself a mariner, declared that it could not have been written by a man familiar with the sea. He argued that it lacked that detail of information which no mariner would have failed to exhibit. To prove this point he determined to write a sea tale, and in 1823 his book “The Pilot” appeared, which was the first genuine salt-water novel ever written and to this day is one of the best. Tom Coffin, the hero of this novel, is the only one of all Cooper’s characters worthy to take a place beside Leather-Stocking, and the two books were published within two years of each other. In 1829 appeared “The Red Rover,” which is wholly a tale of the ocean, as “The Last of the Mohicans” is wholly a tale of the forest. In all, Cooper wrote ten sea tales, which with his land stories established the fact that he was equally at home whether on the green billows or under the green trees.
In 1839 Cooper published his “History of the United States Navy,” which is to this day the only authority on the subject for the period of which it treats. He also wrote many other novels on American subjects and some eight or ten like “Bravo,” “The Headsman” and others on European themes; but it is by “The Spy,” the five Leather-Stocking tales, and four or five of his sea tales that his fame has been secured and will be maintained.
In 1822, after “The Spy” had made Cooper famous, he removed to New York, where he lived for a period of four years, one of the most popular men in the metropolis. His force of character, big-heartedness, and genial, companionable nature――notwithstanding the fact that he was contentious and frequently got into the most heated discussions――made him unusually popular with those who knew him. He had many friends, and his friends were the best citizens of New York. He founded the “Bread and Cheese Lunch,” to which belonged Chancellor Kent, the poets Fitz-Green Halleck and Wm. Cullen Bryant, Samuel Morse, the inventor of the telegraph, and many other representatives of science, literature, and the learned professions. In 1826 he sailed for Europe, in various parts of which he resided for a period of six years. Before his departure he was tendered a dinner in New York, which was attended by many of the most prominent men of the nation. Washington Irving had gone to the Old World eleven years before and traveled throughout Great Britain and over the Continent, but Cooper’s works, though it was but six years since his first volume was published, were at this time more widely known than those of Irving; and with the author of the “Sketchbook” he divided the honors which the Old World so generously showered upon those two brilliant representatives of the New.
Many pleasant pages might be filled with the records of Cooper’s six years in Europe, during which time he enjoyed the association and respect of the greatest literary personages of the Old World. It would be interesting to tell how Sir Walter Scott sought him out in Paris and renewed the acquaintance again in London; how he lived in friendship and intimacy with General Lafayette at the French capital; to tell of his associations with Wordsworth and Rogers in London; his intimate friendship with the great Italian Greenough, and his fondness for Italy, which country he preferred above all others outside of America; of the delightful little villa where he lived in Florence, where he said he could look out upon green leaves and write to the music of the birds; to picture him settled for a summer in Naples; living in Tasso’s villa at Sarento, writing his stories in the same house in which the great Latin author had lived, with the same glorious view of the sea and the bay, and the surf dashing almost against its walls. But space forbids that we should indulge in recounting these pleasant reminiscences. Let it be said that wherever he was he was thoroughly and pronouncedly an American. He was much annoyed by the ignorance and prejudice of the English in all that related to his country. In France he vigorously defended the system of American government in a public pamphlet which he issued in favor of General Lafayette, upon whom the public press was making an attack. He was equally in earnest in bringing forward the claims of our poets, and was accustomed at literary meetings and dinner parties to carry volumes of Bryant, Halleck, Drake and others, from which he read quotations to prove his assertions of their merits. Almost every prominent American who visited Europe during his seven years’ sojourn abroad brought back pleasant recollections of his intercourse with the great and patriotic novelist.
Cooper returned to America in 1833, the same year that Washington Irving came back to his native land. He retired to his home at Cooperstown, where he spent the remaining nineteen years of his life, dying on the 14th day of September, 1852, one day before the sixty-second anniversary of his birth. His palatial home at Cooperstown, as were also his various places of residence in New York and foreign lands, were always open to his deserving countrymen, and many are the ambitious young aspirants in art, literature and politics who have left his hospitable roof with higher ideals, loftier ambitions and also with a more exalted patriotism.
A few days after his death a meeting of prominent men was held in New York in honor of their distinguished countryman. ♦Washington Irving presided and William Cullen Bryant delivered an oration paying fitting tribute to the genius of the first great American novelist, who was first to show how fit for fiction were the scenes, the characters, and the history of his native land. Nearly fifty years have passed since that day, but Cooper’s men of the sea and his men of the forest and the plain still survive, because they deserve to live, because they were true when they were written, and remain to-day the best of their kind. Though other fashions in fiction have come and gone and other novelists have a more finished art nowadays, no one of them all has succeeded more completely in doing what he tried to do than did James Fenimore Cooper.
♦ ‘Washingion’ replaced with ‘Washington’
If we should visit Cooperstown, New York, the most interesting spot we should see would be the grave of America’s first great novelist; and the one striking feature about it would be the marble statue of Leather Stocking, with dog and gun, overlooking the last resting-place of his great creator. Then we should visit the house and go into the library and sit in the chair and lean over the table where he was created. Then down to the beautiful Otsego Lake, and as the little pleasure steamer comes into view we peer to catch the gilded name painted on its side. Nearer it comes, and we read with delight “Natty Bumpo,” the real name of Leather Stocking. Otsego Hall, the cemetery and the lake alike, are a shrine to the memory of Cooper and this greatest hero of American fiction. And we turn away determined to read again the whole of the Leather Stocking Tales.
* * * * *
ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER.
(FROM “THE PIONEERS.”)
BY this time they had gained the summit of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their course under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm, and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they had experienced in the ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower called forth some simple expression of admiration. In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly started and exclaimed:
“Listen! There are the cries of a child on this mountain! Is there a clearing near us, or can some little one have strayed from its parents?”
“Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. “Let us follow the sounds; it may be a wanderer starving on the hill.”
Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick impatient steps. More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and pointing behind them, cried, “Look at the dog!”
Brave had been their companion from the time the voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel, to the present moment. His advanced age had long before deprived him of his activity; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground and await their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter, for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his teeth in a manner that would have terrified his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities.
“Brave!” she said, “be quiet, Brave! what do you see, fellow?”
At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking.
“What does he see?” said Elizabeth; “there must be some animal in sight.”
Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned her head, and beheld Louisa, standing with her face whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing upward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated by her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, and threatening to leap.
“Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow.
There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert a companion in such an extremity. She fell on her knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the person of her friend, with instinctive readiness, such parts of her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging their only safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sounds of her voice.
“Courage, Brave!” she cried, her own tones beginning to tremble, “courage, courage, good Brave!”
A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling that grew under the shade of the beech which held its dam. This ignorant, but vicious creature, approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. Standing on its hind-legs, it would rend the bark of a tree with its forepaws, and play the antics of a cat; and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling and scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifestations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific. All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and his eyes following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gambol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, until the younger beast, overleaping its intended bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to render it completely senseless.
Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was warming with the triumph of the dog when she saw the form of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It was a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accompanied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple continued on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap. When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which was its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake off his furious foe like a feather, and rearing on his hind-legs, rush to the fray again, with jaws distended and a dauntless eye. But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mastiff for such a struggle. In everything but courage he was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who was making a desperate but fruitless dash at her, from which she alighted in a favorable position, on the back of her aged foe. For a single moment only could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, and directly, that his frame was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog followed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, when the short convulsions and stillness that succeeded announced the death of poor Brave.
Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of his creation; and it would seem that some such power in the present instance suspended the threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant, when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe; next to scent her luckless cub. From the latter examination it turned, however, with its eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides furiously, and its claws projecting inches from her broad feet.
Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy――her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were slightly separated with horror. The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termination, and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves behind seemed rather to mock the organs than to meet her ears.
“Hist! hist!” said a low voice, “stoop lower, gal! your bonnet hides the creature’s head.”
It was rather the yielding of nature than a compliance with this unexpected order, that caused the head of our heroine to sink on her bosom; when she heard the report of the rifle, the whiz of the bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. At the next instant the form of Leather-Stocking rushed by her, and he called aloud:
“Come in, Hector, come in old fool; ’tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump agin.”
Natty fearlessly maintained his position in front of the females, notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which gave several indications of returning strength and ferocity until his rifle was again loaded, when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was extinguished by the discharge.
* * * * *
THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE.
“TOM,” cried Barnstable, starting, “there is the blow of a whale.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain, with undisturbed composure; “here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward; the easterly gale has driven the creater to leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He’s been sleeping, while he should have been working to windward!”
“The fellow takes it coolly, too! he’s in no hurry to get an offing.”
“I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, “the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and don’t know which way to head, to take himself back into blue water.”
“’Tis a fin back!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “he will soon make headway, and be off.”
“No, sir; ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his spout; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He’s a raal oil-butt, that fellow!”
Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed, in joyous tones――
“Give strong way, my hearties! There seems nothing better to be done; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent rascal.”
The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whaleboat sprang forward like a courser for the goal. During the few minutes they were pulling towards their game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparation to strike the whale as the occasion required.
The tub, containing about half of a whale line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place of the rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if necessary, the boat might be whirled around when not advancing.
Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throwing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with graceful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head downwards, and, without apparent effort, reared his immense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded like the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he beheld the creature assuming his formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After the wanton exhibition of his terrible strength, the monster sunk again into his native element, and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers.
“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barnstable, the moment the whale was out of sight.
“Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the cockswain, whose eye was gradually brightening with the excitement of the sport; “he’ll soon run his nose against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and will be glad enough to get another snuff of pure air; send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of his track.”
The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true, for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that which is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time, into its proper element. After the evolution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts.
His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing toward one of the fins, which was, at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view.
The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted, with singular earnestness,――
“Starn all!”
“Stern all!”, echoed Barnstable; when the obedient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance; ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a violence that threw the sea around him into increased commotion, and then disappeared, with the quickness of lightning, amid a cloud of foam.
“Snub him!” shouted Barnstable; “hold on, Tom; he rises already.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line, which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manœuvre rather hazardous.
The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the ocean. When long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried,――
“Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life! It must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean.”
“I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said his commander, who entered into the sport with all the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits; “feel your line, Master Coffin; can we haul alongside of our enemy? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner.”
“’Tis the creater’s way, sir,” said the cockswain; “you know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man; but lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him.”
The seaman now seized their whale-line, and slowly drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of death.
“Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried Barnstable; “a few sets from your bayonet would do it.”
The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, and replied to this interrogatory,――
“No, sir, no; he’s going into his flurry; there’s no occasion for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier’s weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater’s in his flurry.”
The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to the animal a clear space while under its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the view. Gradually these efforts subsided, and, when the discolored water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side; and when the white and glistening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
“THE GREATEST OF AMERICAN ROMANCERS.”
NO black knight in Sir Walter Scott’s novels, nor the red Indians of Cooper, nor his famous pioneer, Leather Stocking of the forest, nor his long Tom of the ocean, ever seemed more truly romantic than do Hawthorne’s stern and gloomy Calvinists of “The Scarlet Letter,” and “The House of Seven Gables,” or his Italian hero of “The Marble Faun.”
We have characterized Hawthorne as the greatest of American romancers. We might have omitted the word American, for he has no equal in romance perhaps in the world of letters. An eminent critic declares: “His genius was greater than that of the idealist, Emerson. In all his mysticism his style was always clear and exceedingly graceful, while in those delicate, varied and permanent effects which are gained by a happy arrangement of words in their sentences, together with that unerring directness and unswerving force which characterize his writings, no author in modern times has equalled him. To the rhetorician, his style is a study; to the lay reader, a delight that eludes analysis. He is the most eminent representative of the American spirit in literature.”
It was in the old town of Salem, Massachusetts――where his Puritan ancestors had lived for nearly two hundred years――with its haunted memories of witches and strange sea tales; its stories of Endicott and the Indians, and the sombre traditions of witchcraft and Puritan persecution that Nathaniel Hawthorne was born July 4, 1804. And it was in this grim, ancient city by the sea that the life of the renowned romancer was greatly bound up. In his childhood the town was already falling to decay, and his lonely surroundings filled his young imagination with a ♦weirdness that found expression in the books of his later life, and impressed upon his character a seriousness that clung to him ever after. His father was a sea-captain,――but a most melancholy and silent man,――who died when Nathaniel was four years old. His mother lived a sad and secluded life, and the boy thus early learned to exist in a strange and imaginative world of his own creation. So fond of seclusion did he become that even after his graduation from college in 1825, he returned to his old haunt at Salem and resumed his solitary, dreamy existence. For twelve years, from 1825 to 1837, he went nowhere, he saw no one; he worked in his room by day, reading and writing; at twilight he wandered out along the shore, or through the darkened streets of the town. Certainly this was no attractive life to most young men; but for Hawthorne it had its fascination and during this time he was storing his mind, forming his style, training his imagination and preparing for the splendid literary fame of his later years.
♦ ‘wierdness’ replaced with ‘weirdness’
Illustration: “THE OLD MANSE,” CONCORD, MASS.
Built for Emerson’s grandfather. In this house Ralph Waldo Emerson dwelt for ten years, and, here, in the same room where Emerson wrote “Nature” and other philosophic essays, Hawthorne prepared his “Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from an Old Manse.” He declares the four years (1842–1846) spent in this house were the happiest of his life.
Hawthorne received his early education in Salem, partly at the school of Joseph E. Worcester, the author of “Worcester’s Dictionary.” He entered Bowdoin College in 1821. The poet, Longfellow, and John S. C. Abbott were his classmates; and Franklin Pierce――one class in advance of him――was his close friend. He graduated in 1825 without any special distinction. His first book, “Fanshawe,” a novel, was issued in 1826, but so poor was its success that he suppressed its further publication. Subsequently he placed the manuscript of a collection of stories in the hands of his publisher, but timidly withdrew and destroyed them. His first practical encouragement was received from Samuel G. Goodrich, who published four stories in the “Token,” one of the annuals of that time, in 1831. Mr. Goodrich also engaged Hawthorne as editor of the “American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,” which position he occupied from 1836 to 1838. About this time he also contributed some of his best stories to the “New England Magazine,” “The Knickerbocker,” and the “Democratic Review.” It was a part of these magazine stories which he collected and published in 1837 in the volume entitled, “Twice Told Tales,” embodying the fruits of his twelve years’ labor.
This book stamped the author as a man of stronger imagination and deeper insight into human nature than Washington Irving evinced in his famous sketches of the Hudson or Cooper in his frontier stories, for delightful as was Irving’s writings and vivid as were Cooper’s pictures, it was plain to be seen that Hawthorne had a richer style and a firmer grasp of the art of fiction than either of them. Longfellow, the poet, reviewed the book with hearty commendation, and Poe predicted a brilliant future for the writer if he would abandon allegory. Thus encouraged, Hawthorne came out from his seclusion into the world again, and mixed once more with his fellow-men. His friend, the historian, Bancroft, secured him a position in the Custom House at Salem, in 1839, which he held for two years. This position he lost through political jobbery on a trumped-up charge. For a few months he then joined in the Brook Farm settlement, though he was never in sympathy with the movement; nor was he a believer in the transcendental notions of Emerson and his school. He remained a staunch Democrat in the midst of the Abolitionists. His note-books were full of his discontent with the life at the Brook Farm. His observations of this enterprise took shape in the “Blythedale Romance” which is the only literary memorial of the association. The heroine of this novel was Margaret Fuller, under the name of “Zenobia,” and the description of the drowning of Zenobia――a fate which Margaret Fuller had met――is the most tragic passage in all the writings of the author.
In 1842 Hawthorne married Miss Sophia Peabody――a most fortunate and happy marriage――and the young couple moved to Concord where they lived in the house known as the “Old Manse,” which had been built for Emerson’s grandfather, and in which Emerson himself dwelt ten years. He chose for his study the same room in which the philosopher had written his famous book “Nature.” Hawthorne declares that the happiest period of his life were the four years spent in the “Old Manse.” While living there he collected another lot of miscellaneous stories and published them in 1845 as a second volume of “Twice-Told Tales,” and the next year came his “Mosses from an Old Manse,” being also a collection from his published writings. In 1846 a depleted income and larger demands of a growing family made it necessary for him to seek a business engagement. Through a friend he received an appointment as Surveyor of Customs at Salem, and again removed to the old town where he was born forty-two years before. It was during his engagement here, from 1846 to 1849, that he planned and wrote his famous book “The Scarlet Letter,” which was published in 1850.
A broader experience is needed to compose a full-grown novel than to sketch a short tale. Scott was more than fifty when he published “Waverly.” Cooper wrote the “Spy” when thirty-three. Thackeray, the author of “Vanity Fair,” was almost forty when he finished that work. “Adam Bede” appeared when George Elliot was in her fortieth year; and the “Scarlet Letter,” greater than them all, did not appear until 1850, when its author was in his forty-seventh year. All critics readily agree that this romance is the masterpiece in American fiction. The only novel in the United States that can be compared with it is Mrs. Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and, as a study of a type of life――Puritan life in New England――“The Scarlet Letter” is superior to Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work. One-half a century has passed since “The Scarlet Letter” was written; but it stands to-day more popular than ever before.
Enumerated briefly, the books written by Hawthorne in the order of their publication are as follows: “Fanshawe,” a novel (1826), suppressed by the author; “Twice-Told Tales” (1837), a collection of magazine stories; “Twice-Told Tales” (second volume, 1845) “Mosses from an Old Manse” (1846), written while he lived at the “Old Manse”; “The Scarlet Letter” (1850), his greatest book; “The House of Seven Gables” (1851), written while he lived at Lenox, Massachusetts; “The Wonder Book” (1851), a volume of classic stories for children; “The Blythedale Romance” (1852); “Life of Franklin Pierce” (1852), which was written to assist his friend Pierce, who was running for President of the United States; “Tanglewood Tales” (1853), another work for children, continuing the classic legends of his “Wonder Book,” reciting the adventures of those who went forth to seek the “Golden Fleece,” to explore the labyrinth of the “Minotaur” and sow the “Dragon’s Teeth.” Pierce was elected President in 1853 and rewarded Hawthorne by appointing him Consul to Liverpool. This position he filled for four years and afterwards spent three years in traveling on the Continent, during which time he gathered material for the greatest of his books――next to “The Scarlet Letter”――entitled “The Marble Faun,” which was brought out in England in 1860, and the same year Mr. Hawthorne returned to America and spent the remainder of his life at “The Wayside” in Concord. During his residence here he wrote for the “Atlantic Monthly” the papers which were collected and published in 1863 under the title of “Our Old Home.” After Mr. Hawthorne’s death, his unpublished manuscripts, “The Dolliver Romance,” “Septimius Felton” and “Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret,” were published. Mrs. Hawthorne, also, edited and published her husband’s “American and English Note-Books” and his “French and Italian Note-Books” in 1869. The best life of the author is perhaps that written by his son, Julian Hawthorne, which appeared in 1885, entitled “Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife; a Biography.”
A new and complete edition of Hawthorne’s works has been lately issued in twenty volumes; also a compact and illustrated library edition in seven volumes.
Nathaniel Hawthorne died May 18, 1864, while traveling with his friend and college-mate, Ex-President Pierce, in the White Mountains, and was buried near where Emerson and Thoreau were later placed in Concord Cemetery. Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier were at the funeral. His publisher, Mr. Field, was also there and wrote: “We carried him through the blossoming orchards of Concord and laid him down in a group of pines on the hillside, the unfinished romance which had cost him such anxiety laid upon his coffin.” Mr. Longfellow, in an exquisite poem describes the scene, and referring to the uncompleted romance in the closing lines says:
“Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clue regain? The unfinished window in Alladin’s tower Unfinished must remain.”
The noble wife, who had been the inspiration and practical stimulus of the great romancer, survived her distinguished husband nearly seven years. She died in London, aged sixty, February 26, 1871, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, near the grave of Leigh Hunt.
* * * * *
EMERSON AND THE EMERSONITES.
(FROM “MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.”)
THERE were circumstances around me which made it difficult to view the world precisely as it exists; for severe and sober as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a little way beyond its threshold before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have been encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles. These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the wide spreading influence of a great original thinker who had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face.
Young visionaries, to whom just so much of insight had been imparted as to make life all a labyrinth around them, came to seek the clew which should guide them out of their self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theorists, whose systems――at first air――had finally imprisoned them in a fiery framework, traveled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their own thralldom. People that had lighted upon a new thought――or thought they had fancied new――came to Emerson as a finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary to ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon burning upon a hill-top, and climbing the difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects unseen before:――mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of creation among the chaos: but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and owls and the whole host of night-birds, which flapped their dusty wings against the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather. Such delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindled.
For myself there had been epochs of my life when I too might have asked of this prophet the master-word that should solve me the riddle of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no question to be put; and therefore admired Emerson as a poet of deep beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood-paths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure intellectual gleam diffused about his presence, like the garment of a shining one; and he so quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if expecting to receive more than he could impart. And in truth, the heart of many a man had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which in the brains of some people wrought a singular giddiness――new truth being as heady as new wine.
Never was a poor country village infected with such a variety of queer, strangely-dressed, oddly-behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of this world’s destiny, yet were simply bores of the first water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered breath, and thus become imbued with a false originality. This triteness of noveltry is enough to make any man of common sense blaspheme at all ideas of less than a century’s standing, and pray that the world may be petrified and rendered immovable in precisely the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefitted by such schemes of such philosophers.
* * * * *
PEARL.
(THE SCARLET LETTER. A ROMANCE. 1850.)
WE have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little creature, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child! Her Pearl!――For so had Hester called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated by the comparison. But she named the infant “Pearl,” as being of great price,――purchased with all she had,――her mother’s only treasure! How strange, indeed! Men had marked this woman’s sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and disastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could reach her, save it were sinful like herself. God, as a direct consequence of the sin which was thus punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place was on that same dishonored bosom, to connect her parent forever with the race and descent of mortals, and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven! Yet these thoughts affected Hester Prynne less with hope than apprehension. She knew that her deed had been evil; she could have no faith, therefore, that its result would be good. Day after day, she looked fearfully into the child’s expanding nature, ever dreading to detect some dark and wild peculiarity, that should correspond with the guiltiness to which she owed her being.
Certainly, there was no physical defect. By its perfect shape, its vigor, and its natural dexterity in the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy to have been brought forth in Eden; worthy to have been left there, to be the plaything of the angels, after the world’s first parents were driven out. The child had a native grace which does not invariably coexist with faultless beauty; its attire, however simple, always impressed the beholder as if it were the very garb that precisely became it best. But little Pearl was not clad in rustic weeds. Her mother, with a morbid purpose that may be better understood hereafter, had bought the richest tissues that could be procured, and allowed her imaginative faculty its full play in the arrangement and decoration of the dresses which the child wore before the public eye. So magnificent was the small figure, when thus arrayed, and such was the splendor of Pearl’s own proper beauty, shining through the gorgeous robes which might have extinguished a paler loveliness, that there was an absolute circle of radiance around her, on the darksome cottage floor. And yet a russet gown, torn and soiled with the child’s rude play, made a picture of her just as perfect. Pearl’s aspect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety; in this one child there were many children, comprehending the full scope between the wild-flower prettiness of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an infant princess. Throughout all, however, there was a trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she never lost; and if, in any of her changes she had grown fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be herself,――it would have been no longer Pearl!
One peculiarity of the child’s deportment remains yet to be told. The very first thing which she had noticed, in her life, was――what?――not the mother’s smile, responding to it, as other babies do, by that faint embryo smile of the little mouth, remembered so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond discussion whether it were indeed a smile. By no means! But that first object of which Pearl seemed to become aware was――shall we say it?――the scarlet letter on Hester’s bosom! One day, as the mother stooped over the cradle, the infant’s eyes had been caught by the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the letter; and, putting up her little hand, she grasped at it, smiling, not doubtfully, but with a decided gleam, that gave her face the look of a much older child. Then, gasping for breath, did Hester Prynne clutch the fatal token, instinctively endeavoring to tear it away; so infinite was the torture inflicted by the intelligent touch of Pearl’s baby-hand. Again, as if her mother’s agonized gesture were meant only to make sport of her, did little Pearl look into her eyes, and smile! From that epoch, except when the child was asleep, Hester had never felt a moment’s safety; not a moment’s calm enjoyment of her. Weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during which Pearl’s gaze might never once be fixed upon the scarlet letter; but then, again, it would come at unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always with that peculiar smile and odd expression of the eyes.
* * * * *
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
HOW various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desperate, dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue――guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are descending.
The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, traveling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching storm. All people hurry homeward――all that have a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure.
And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery glare. The large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far-distant points, like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead; and turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author’s prospects, I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow!
* * * * *
A REMINISCENCE OF EARLY LIFE.
(FROM AMERICAN NOTE BOOKS.)
SALEM, Oct. 4th.
Union Street, [Family Mansion.]
... Here I sit in my old accustomed chamber, where I used to sit in days gone by.... Here I have written many tales,――many that have been burned to ashes, many that doubtless deserved the same fate. This claims to be called a haunted chamber, for thousands upon thousands of visions have appeared to me in it; and some few of them have become visible to the world. If ever I should have a biographer, he ought to make great mention of this chamber in my memoirs, because so much of my lonely youth was wasted here, and here my mind and character were formed; and here I have been glad and hopeful, and here I have been despondent. And here I sat a long, long time, waiting patiently for the world to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not know me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at all,――at least, till I were in my grave. And sometimes it seemed as if I were already in the grave, with only life enough to be chilled and benumbed. But oftener I was happy,――at least, as happy as I then knew how to be, or was aware of the possibility of being. By and by, the world found me out in my lonely chamber, and called me forth,――not, indeed, with a loud roar of acclamation, but rather with a still, small voice,――and forth I went, but found nothing in the world that I thought preferable to my old solitude till now.... And now I begin to understand why I was imprisoned so many years in this lonely chamber, and why I could never break through the viewless bolts and bars; for if I had sooner made my escape into the world, I should have grown hard and rough, and been covered with earthly dust, and my heart might have become callous by rude encounters with the multitude.... But living in solitude till the fulness of time was come, I still kept the dew of my youth, and the freshness of my heart.... I used to think that I could imagine all passions, all feelings, and states of the heart and mind; but how little did I know!... Indeed, we are but shadows; we are not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream,――till the heart be touched. That touch creates us,――then we begin to be,――thereby we are beings of reality and inheritors of eternity....
When we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies, I think that they will be so constituted that we may send thoughts and feelings any distance in no time at all, and transfuse them, warm and fresh, into the consciousness of those whom we love.... But, after all, perhaps it is not wise to intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of affection. Let us content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion of spirit in such modes as are ordained to us.
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF HAWTHORNE
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
“THE ROBINSON CRUSOE OF AMERICA.”
EDWARD EVERETT HALE is to-day one of the best known and most beloved of American authors. He is also a lecturer of note. He has probably addressed as many audiences as any man in America. His work as a preacher, as a historian and as a story-teller, entitles him to fame; but his life has also been largely devoted to the formation of organizations to better the moral, social and educational conditions of the young people of his own and other lands. Recently he has been deeply interested in the great Chatauqua movement, which he has done much to develop.
His name is a household word in American homes, and the keynote of his useful life may be expressed by the motto of one of his most popular books, “Ten Times One is Ten:”――“Look up and not down! Look forward and not backward! Look out and not in! Lend a hand!”
Edward Everett Hale was born in Boston, Massachusetts, April 3, 1822. He graduated at Harvard University in 1839, at the age of seventeen years. He took a post graduate course for two years in a Latin school and read theology and church history. It was in 1842 that he was licensed to preach by the Boston Association of Congregational Ministers. During the winter of 1844–45 he served a church in Washington, but removed the next year to Worcester, Massachusetts, where he remained for ten years. In 1856 he was called to the South Congregational (Unitarian) Church in Boston, which he has served for more than three decades.
When a boy young Hale learned to set type in his father’s printing office, and afterwards served on the “Daily Advertiser,” it is said, in every capacity from reporter up to editor-in-chief. Before he was twenty-one years old he wrote a large part of the “Monthly Chronicle” and “Boston Miscellany,” and from that time to the present has done an immense amount of newspaper and magazine work. He at one time edited the “Christian Examiner” and also the “Sunday School Gazette.” He founded a magazine entitled “The Old and the New” in 1869, which was afterwards merged into “Scribner’s Monthly.” In 1866 he began the publication of “Lend a Hand, a Record of Progress and Journal of Organized Charity.”
As a writer of short stories, no man of modern times, perhaps, is his superior, if indeed he has any equals. “My Double and How He Undid Me,” published in 1859, was the first of his works to strike strongly the popular fancy; but it was “The Man Without a Country,” issued in 1863, which entitled its author to a prominent place among the classic short story-tellers of America, and produced a deep impression on the public mind. His “Skeleton in a Closet” followed in 1866; and, since that time his prolific pen has sent forth in the form of books and magazine articles, a continuous stream of the most entertaining literature in our language. He has the faculty of De Foe in giving to his stories the appearance of reality, and thus has gained for himself the title of “The Robinson Crusoe of America.”
Mr. Hale is also an historical writer and a student of great attainment, and has contributed many papers of rare value to the historical and antiquarian societies of both Europe and America. He is, perhaps, the greatest of all living authorities on Spanish-American affairs. He is the editor of “Original Documents from the State Paper Office, London, and the British Museum; illustrating the History of Sir Walter Raleigh’s First American Colony at Jamestown,” and other historical works.
Throughout his life, Mr. Hale has always taken a patriotic interest in public affairs for the general good of the nation. While he dearly loves his native New England hills, his patriotism is bounded by no narrow limits; it is as wide as his country. His voice is always the foremost among those raised in praise or in defence of our national institutions and our liberties. His influence has always been exerted to make men and women better citizens and better Americans.
* * * * *
LOST.¹
(FROM “PHILIP NOLAN’S FRIENDS.”)
¹ Copyright, Roberts Bros.
BUT as she ran, the path confused her. Could she have passed that flaming sassafras without so much as noticing it? Any way she should recognize the great mass of bays where she had last noticed the panther’s tracks. She had seen them as she ran on, and as she came up. She hurried on; but she certainly had returned much farther than she went, when she came out on a strange log flung up in some freshet, which she knew she had not seen before. And there was no clump of bays. Was this being lost? Was she lost? Why, Inez had to confess to herself that she was lost just a little bit, but nothing to be afraid of; but still lost enough to talk about afterwards she certainly was.
Yet, as she said to herself again and again, she could not be a quarter of a mile, nor half a quarter of a mile from camp. As soon as they missed her――and by this time they had missed her――they would be out to look for her. How provoking that she, of all the party, should make so much bother to the rest! They would watch her now like so many cats all the rest of the way. What a fool she was ever to leave the knoll! So Inez stopped again, shouted again, and listened and listened, to hear nothing but a swamp-owl.
If the sky had been clear, she would have had no cause for anxiety. In that case they would have light enough to find her in. She would have had the sunset glow to steer by; and she would have had no difficulty in finding them. But with this horrid gray over everything she dared not turn round, without fearing that she might lose the direction in which the theory of the moment told her she ought to be faring. And these openings which she had called trails――which were probably broken by wild horses and wild oxen as they came down to the bayou to drink――would not go in one direction for ten paces. They bent right and left, this way and that; so that without some sure token of sun or star, it was impossible, as Inez felt, to know which way she was walking.
And at last this perplexity increased. She was conscious that the sun must have set, and that the twilight, never long, was now fairly upon her. All the time there was this fearful silence, only broken by her own voice and that hateful owl. Was she wise to keep on in her theories of this way or that way? She had never yet come back, either upon the fallen cottonwood tree, or upon the bunch of bays which was her landmark; and it was doubtless her wisest determination to stay where she was. The chances that the larger party would find her were much greater than that she alone would find them; but by this time she was sure that, if she kept on in any direction, there was an even chance that she was going farther and farther wrong.
But it was too cold for her to sit down, wrap herself never so closely in her shawl. The poor girl tried this. She must keep in motion. Back and forth she walked, fixing her march by signs which she could not mistake even in the gathering darkness. How fast that darkness gathered! The wind seemed to rise, too, as the night came on, and a fine rain, that seemed as cold as snow to her, came to give the last drop to her wretchedness. If she were tempted for a moment to abandon her sentry-beat, and try this wild experiment or that, to the right or left, some odious fallen trunk, wet with moss and decay, lay just where she pressed into the shrubbery, as if placed there to reveal to her her absolute powerlessness. She was dead with cold, and even in all her wretchedness knew that she was hungry. How stupid to be hungry when she had so much else to trouble her! But at least she would make a system of her march. She would walk fifty times this way, to the stump, and fifty times that way; then she would stop and cry out and sound her war-whoop; then she would take up her sentry-march again. And so she did. This way, at least, time would not pass without her knowing whether it was midnight or no.
“Hark! God be praised, there is a gun! and there is another! and there is another! They have come on the right track, and I am safe!” So she shouted again, and sounded her war-whoop again, and listened,――and then again, and listened again. One more gun! but then no more! Poor Inez! Certainly they were all on one side of her. If only it was not so piteously dark! If she could only walk half the distance in that direction which her fifty sentry-beats made put together! But when she struggled that way through the tangle, and over one wet log and another, it was only to find her poor wet feet sinking down into mud and water! She did not dare keep on. All that was left for her was to find her tramping-ground again, and this she did.
“Good God, take care of me! My poor dear father――what would he say if he knew his child was dying close to her friends? Dear mamma, keep watch over your little girl!”――
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Illustration: (‡ decoration)
WM. DEAN HOWELLS.
(THE REALISTIC NOVELIST OF AMERICA.)
THE West has contributed many notable men to our nation within the last half of the present century. There seems to be something in the spirit of that developing section to stimulate the aspirations and ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enterprise, “Excelsior” are the three words written upon its banner as the motto for the sons of the middle West. It is there we go for many of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from any other section, and the world of modern literature is also seeking and finding its chiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, but they were born and grew up in the West.
Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention William Dean Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, March 1st, 1837. Mr. Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a collegiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father’s printing office, which he followed until he reached manhood, employing his odd time in writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he became the editor of the “Ohio State Journal” at Columbus. Two years later he published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled “Poems of two Friends.” These youthful effusions were marked by that crystal like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of expression which characterize his later writings. Mr. Howells came prominently before the public in 1860 by publishing a carefully written and most excellent “Life of Abraham Lincoln” which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential campaign, and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate. Mr. Lincoln, in furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as ♦consul to Venice.
♦ ‘cousul’ replaced with ‘consul’
During four years’ residence in that city Mr. Howells, in addition to his official duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gathered, the material for two books, “Venitian Life” and “Italian Journeys.” He arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that city in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return, appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. “Venetian Life” is a delightful description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. “Italian Journeys” is a charming portrayal――almost a kinetoscopic view――of his journey from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes.
The first attempt of Mr. Howells at story-telling, “Their Wedding Journey,” appeared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual bridal tour across New York. “A Chance Acquaintance” (1873) was a more complete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after “The Wedding Journey,” but described a holiday season spent in journeying up the St. Lawrence River, stopping at Quebec and Saguenay.
Since 1874 Mr. Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which are the following: “A Foregone Conclusion” (1874), “A Counterfeit Presentment” (1877), “The Lady of the Aroostook” (1878), “The Undiscovered Country” (1880), “A Fearful Responsibility” (1882), “A Modern Instance” and “Dr. Breen’s Practice” (1883), “A Woman’s Reason” (1884), “Tuscan Cities” and “The Rise of Silas Lapham” (1885), “The Minister’s Charge” and “Indian Summer” (1886), “April Hopes” (1887), “Annie Kilburn” (1888), “Hazard of New Fortune” (1889). Since 1890 Mr. Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather than abating, energy. Among his noted later novels are “A Traveler from Altruria” and “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable books of his are “Stops at Various Quills,” “My Literary Passion,” “Library of Universal Adventure,” “Modern Italian Poets,” “Christmas Every Day” and “A Boy’s Town,” the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations.
Mr. Howells’ accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing characters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an intimate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer in America has approached. For instance, his “Undiscovered Country” was an exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in New England. And those who admire Mr. Howells’ writings will find in “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” a clear-cut statement of the important sociological problem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other of his books. Thoughtful readers of Mr. Howells’ novels gain much information on vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail to be of permanent benefit.
From 1872 to 1881 Mr. Howells was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” and since 1886 he has conducted the department known as the “Editor’s Study” in “Harper’s Magazine,” contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote “No Love Lost; a Romance of Travel,” which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability.
* * * * *
THE FIRST BOARDER.
(FROM “THE LANDLORD AT LION’S HEAD.” 1897.)
By Permission of Messrs. Harper & Brothers, Publishers.
THE table was set for him alone, and it affected him as if the family had been hurried away from it that he might have it to himself. Everything was very simple; the iron forks had two prongs; the knives bone handles; the dull glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups were white, but so was the cloth, and all were clean. The woman brought in a good boiled dinner of corned beef, potatoes, turnips and carrots, from the kitchen, and a teapot, and said something about having kept them hot on the stove for him; she brought him a plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she said to the boy, “You come out and have your dinner with me, Jeff,” and left the guest to make his meal unmolested.
The room was square, with two north windows that looked down the lane he had climbed to the house. An open door led into the kitchen in an ell, and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a parlor or a ground-floor chamber. The windows were darkened down to the lower sash by green paper shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of brown roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, a life-size pencil-drawing of two little girls, one slightly older and slightly larger than the other, each with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her hand clasped in the other’s hand.
The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, and he sat fallen back in his chair gazing at it, when the woman came in with a pie.
“Thank you, I believe I don’t want any dessert,” he said. “The fact is, the dinner was so good that I haven’t left any room for pie. Are those your children?”
“Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture with the pie in her hand. “They’re the last two I lost.”
“Oh, excuse me!” the guest began.
“It’s the way they appear in the spirit life. It’s a spirit picture.”
“Oh! I thought there was something strange about it.”
“Well, it’s a good deal like the photographs we had taken about a year before they died. It’s a good likeness. They say they don’t change a great deal, at first.”
She seemed to refer the point to him for his judgment; but he answered wide of it:
“I came up here to paint your mountain, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Durgin――Lion’s Head, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. Well I don’t know as we could stop you, if you wanted to take it away.” A spare glimmer lighted up her face.
The painter rejoined in kind. “The town might have something to say, I suppose.”
“Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale in place of it. We’ve got mountains to spare.”
“Well, then, that’s arranged. What about a week’s board?”
“I guess you can stay, if you’re satisfied.”
“I’ll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do you want?”
The woman looked down, probably with an inward anxiety between the fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little. She said, tentatively, “Some of the folks that come over from the hotels say they pay as much as twenty dollars a week.”
“But you don’t expect hotel prices?”
“I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any body before.”
The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence, “I’m in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed several weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?”
“I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand.
* * * * *
IMPRESSIONS ON VISITING POMPEII.¹
FROM “ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 1867.
¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pompeii yet interred: happy the generation that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold on your imagination than any living city, and becomes and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of your spell? Something not death, something not life,――something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheel-worn lava with the black, black shadows of the many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining-halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drinking-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a modern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii....
THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS. From “Italian Journeys.”
The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor or drawing-room next that; then the impluvium, or unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and where the household used to come to wash itself, primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its painted columns, behind the impluvium, and, at last, the dining-room.
* * * * *
After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced, Mr. Howells thus continues:
Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the community of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal with her nymphs,――not to mention frequent representations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg carelessly crossing the other, and both hands resting lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses before him await his sentence. Naturally, the painter has done his best for the victress in this rivalry, and you see
“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,”
as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious.
“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.”
Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery of the eyes,――still, beautiful, unhuman. You cannot believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of no words in literature which give a sense (nothing gives the idea) of the stare of these gods, except that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated slowly up and their eyes
“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.”
* * * * *
VENETIAN VAGABONDS.¹
(FROM “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.)
¹ By special permission of the author and of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
THE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy――that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at the café; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best café; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not rich.
It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and does not call him “Shop!” (Bottéga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the servant places his modest drink before him, “who is that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasagnone: “She regards me! I have broken her heart!” This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone――to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no condition――neither rank nor wealth is any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara!” and sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers――neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get “Galignani” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as “Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire-if-you-please.” He sits very late in the café, he touches his hat――his curly French hat――to the company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion of his body. He is a dandy, of course――all Italians are dandies――but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy――to stand in the pit at the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes――to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and contadinas――to stand at the church doors and ogle the fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended.
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GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE.
AUTHOR OF “BEN HUR.”
THERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invariably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet Letter” at forty-six, Sir Walter Scott produced the first Waverly Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Perhaps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It was not until the year 1873 that General Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he had filled the double position of lawyer and soldier, and it was his observations and experiences in the Mexican War, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country.
Lew. Wallace was horn at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a common school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the Mexican War, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such a character that he received special mention from General Grant for meritorious conduct and was made major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered out of service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” was published; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General Wallace was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield――that year elected President――considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said that when President Garfield gave General Wallace his appointment, he wrote the words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as Wallace was coming away from his visit of acknowledgement at the White House, the President put his arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene in Constantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for writing “The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “The Boyhood of Christ” (1888).
None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great success attained by “Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a cheap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “Ben Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield had honored the author with this ♦significant portfolio that the trade commenced to call for it in thousand lots.
♦ ‘significent’ replaced with ‘significant’
* * * * *
DESCRIPTION OF CHRIST.¹
(FROM “BEN HUR.” 1880.)
¹ Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.
THE head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped with long hair and slightly waved, and parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to the latter type, and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in Him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have said He was not beautiful.
The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all――a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned――love, sorrow, pity――are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; and such, indeed, was the air of this one.
* * * * *
THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHES REINCARNATION.¹
(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890.)
¹ Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.
“THE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the speaker went on, after a pause referable to his consummate knowledge of men, “has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for genius.”
There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no time.
“Ask you now how I could identify the ♦Spirit so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I do in fear of God, that in several repeated appearances of which I speak it was the very same Spirit? How do you know the man you met at set of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had salute from this morning? Well, I tell you the Father has given the Spirit features by which it may be known――features distinct as those of the neighbors nearest you there at your right and left hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example of righteousness, teaching God and the way to God; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed ♠is the man appointed to carry it about!’”
♦ ‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’
♠ ‘in’ replaced with ‘is’
Again the murmur, but again he passed on.
“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen; still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good works in the world veiled; now in one form, now in another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at another, an angel; at another, a descending dove”――
“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing both hands up.
“Be quiet!” the Patriarch ordered.
“Thus always when its errand was of quick despatch,” the Prince continued. “But if its coming were for residence on earth, then its habit has been to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such”――he paused, then exclaimed shrilly――“such was Jesus Christ!”
* * * * *
THE PRAYER OF THE WANDERING JEW.¹
(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.”)
¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.
“GOD of Israel――my God!” he said, in a tone hardly more than speaking to himself. “These about me, my fellow-creatures, pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the happiness there is in serving thee.
“Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed――Amen.”
* * * * *
DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.¹
(FROM “THE FAIR GOD.”)
¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.
THE king turned his pale face and fixed his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”
“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.
With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued:
“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours――lands, people, empire,――enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”
Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.
“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”
The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they began to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,――
“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over him, listening.
“A message to Guatamozin,――to whom I give my last thought, as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did.
“And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him――”
His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the accents stooped,――
“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,――his will. A wail from the women pronounced him dead.
* * * * *
DESCRIPTION OF VIRGIN MARY.¹
(FROM “BEN HUR.”)
¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.
SHE was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more indefinable――an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
“THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY.”
HERDER says with truth that “one’s whole life is but the interpretation of the oracles of his childhood,” and those who are familiar with the writings of Edward Eggleston see in his pictures of country life in the Hoosier State the interpretation and illustration of his own life with its peculiar environment in “the great interior valley” nearly a half-century ago. The writers who have interpreted for us and for future generations the life and the characteristic manners which prevailed in the days when our country was new and the forests were yielding to give place to growing cities and expanding farms have done a rare and peculiar service, and those sections which have found expression through the genius and gifts of novelist or poet are highly favored above all others.
Edward Eggleston has always counted it a piece of good-fortune to have been born in a small village of Southern Indiana, for he believes that the formative influences of such an environment, the intimate knowledge of simple human nature, the close acquaintance with nature in woods and field and stream, and the sincere and earnest tone of the religious atmosphere which he breathed all through his youth, are better elements of culture than a city life could have furnished.
He was born in 1837 in Vevay, Indiana, and his early life was spent amid the “noble scenery” on the banks of the Ohio River. His father died while he was a young boy, and he himself was too delicate to spend much time at school, so that he is a shining example of those who move up the inclined plane of self-culture and self-improvement.
As he himself has forcefully said, through his whole life two men have struggled within him for the ascendency, the religious devotee and the literary man. His early training was “after the straitest sect of his religion”――the fervid Methodism of fifty years ago, and he was almost morbidly scrupulous as a boy, not even allowing himself to read a novel, though from this early period he always felt in himself a future literary career, and the teacher who corrected his compositions naively said to him: “I have marked your composition very severely because you are destined to become an author.”
At first the religious element in his nature decidedly held sway and he devoted himself to the ministry, mounting a horse and going forth with his saddle-bags as a circuit preacher in a circuit of ten preaching places. This was followed by a still harder experience in the border country of Minnesota, where in moccasins he tramped from town to town preaching to lumbermen and living on a meagre pittance, eating crackers and cheese, often in broken health and expecting an early death.
But even this earnest life of religious devotion and sacrifice was interspersed with attempts at literary work and he wrote a critical essay on “Beranger and his Songs” while he was trying to evangelize the red-shirted lumbermen of St. Croix. It was in such life and amid such experiences that Eggleston gained his keen knowledge of human nature which has been the delight and charm of his books.
He began his literary career as associate editor of the “Little Corporal” at Evanston, Illinois, in 1866, and in 1870 he rose to the position of literary editor of the New York “Independent,” of which he was for a time superintending editor. For five years, from 1874 to 1879, he was pastor of the Church of Christian Endeavor in Brooklyn, but failing health compelled him to retire, and he made his home at “Owl’s Nest,” on Lake George, where he has since devoted himself to literary work.
His novels depict the rural life of Southern Indiana, and his own judgment upon them is as follows: “I should say that what distinguishes my novels from other works of fiction is the prominence which they give to social conditions; that the individual characters are here treated to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of a study of a society, as in some sense the logical result of the environment. Whatever may be the rank assigned to these stories as works of literary art, they will always have a certain value as materials for the student of social history.”
His chief novels and stories are the following: “Mr. Blake’s Walking Stick” (Chicago, 1869); “The Hoosier School-master” (New York, 1871); “End of the World” (1872); “The Mystery of Metropolisville” (1873); “The Circuit Rider” (1874); “School-master’s Stories for Boys and Girls” (1874); and “The Hoosier School-boy” (1883). He has written in connection with his daughter an interesting series of biographical tales of famous American Indians, and during these later years of his life he has largely devoted himself to historical work which has had an attraction for him all his life.
In his historical work as in his novels he is especially occupied with the evolution of society. His interest runs in the line of unfolding the history of life and development rather than in giving mere facts of political history.
His chief works in this department are: “Household History of the United States and its People” (New York, 1893); and “The Beginners of a Nation” (New York, 1897).
Though possessed of a weak and ailing body and always on the verge of invalidism, he has done the work of a strong man. He has always preserved his deep and earnest religious and moral tone, but he has woven with it a joyous and genuine humor which has warmed the hearts of his many readers.
* * * * *
SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER.¹
(FROM “THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER.”) (ORANGE JUDD CO., PUBLISHERS.)
¹ Copyright, Orange Judd Co.
EVERY family furnished a candle. There were yellow dips and white dips, burning, smoking, and flaring. There was laughing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and ogling, and flirting, and courting. What a dress party is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to Hoophole County. It is an occasion which is metaphorically inscribed with this legend, “Choose your partners.” Spelling is only a blind in Hoophole County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as there are some in society who love dancing for its own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were those who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smelling the battle from afar, had come to try their skill in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they had won in their school-days.
“I ’low,” said Mr. Means, speaking as the principal school trustee, “I ’low our friend the Square is jest the man to boss this ere consarn to-night. Ef nobody objects, I’ll appint him. Come, Square, don’t be bashful. Walk up to the trough, fodder or no fodder, as the man said to his donkey.”
There was a general giggle at this, and many of the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure of nudging.
The squire came to the front.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, shoving up his spectacles, and sucking his lips over his white teeth to keep them in place, “ladies and gentlemen, young men and maidens, raley I’m obleeged to Mr. Means fer this honor,” and the Squire took both hands and turned the top of his head round several inches. Then he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was obliged to Mr. Means for the honor of being compared to a donkey, was not clear. “I feel in the inmost compartments of my animal spirits a most happyfying sense of the success and futility of all my endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, and the people of Tomkins township, in my weak way and manner.” This burst of eloquence was delivered with a constrained air and an apparent sense of danger that he, Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces in his weak way and manner, and of the success and futility (especially the latter) of all attempts at reconstruction. For by this time the ghastly pupil of the left eye, which was black, was looking away round to the left while the little blue one on the right twinkled cheerfully toward the front. The front teeth would drop down so that the Squire’s mouth was kept nearly closed, and his words whistled through.
“I feel as if I could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion,” twisting his scalp round, “but raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling you want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge of a good eddication. I put the spellin’-book prepared by the great Daniel Webster alongside the Bible. I do raley. The man who got up, who compounded this little work of inextricable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human race or any other.” Here the spectacles fell off. The Squire replaced them in some confusion, gave the top of his head another twist, and felt for his glass eye, while poor Shocky stared in wonder, and Betsy Short rolled from side to side at the point of death from the effort to suppress her giggle. Mrs. Means and the other old ladies looked the applause they could not speak.