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42281	----	WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET "_There's this little street and this little house_" EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY [Illustration: 328 MICKLE STREET FROM A PAINTING [1908] BY MARSDEN HARTLEY] WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET ELIZABETH LEAVITT KELLER NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY MCMXXI COPYRIGHT 1921 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK EDITOR'S NOTE Elizabeth Leavitt Keller was born at Buffalo, N. Y., on November 3, 1839. Both her parents were descended from the first settlers of this country, and each in turn came to Buffalo in its early days, her mother, Sarah Ellis, by private conveyance in 1825, and her father, James S. Leavitt, by way of the newly opened Erie Canal in 1834. Elizabeth was the second daughter. In the spring of 1841 she was taken to Niagara Falls, and all her childhood recollections are clustered around that place. Returning to Buffalo in 1846, her father opened a book-bindery, and later added a printing office and stationery store. At nineteen years of age Elizabeth Leavitt was married to William Wallace Keller, of Little Falls, N. Y. Seven years later she became a widow. Her natural instinct for nursing was developed during the Civil War and the years that followed, but the time and opportunity for professional training did not come until 1876, when, her two children being provided for, she was free to apply for admission to the school for nurses connected with the Women's Hospital in Philadelphia--one of the three small training schools then existing in the United States. Before her course was finished her younger sister died. Mrs. Keller left the hospital to take care of the five motherless children, and it was not until ten years later that she was free to resume her training. When she graduated she was a grandmother--the only one, it need scarcely be said, in the class. While nursing her patient, Walt Whitman, during his last illness, she learnt much about his personality and home life, and much also about his unselfish friend and housekeeper, Mrs. Davis. The desire to tell the truth about the whole case--so often misunderstood or distorted--grew stronger with the passing years, and finally Mrs. Keller entered an old ladies' home in her own city, where she would have leisure to carry out her design. Here the book was commenced and completed. "After numerous struggles and disappointments," she writes, "my second great desire--to set Mrs. Davis in her true light--has been fulfilled--this time by a great-grandmother!" It is not often that a great-grandmother, after a long life of service to others, sees her first book published on her eighty-second birthday. Mrs. Keller uses her pen as if she were twenty or thirty years younger. Her letters are simple but cheery, her outlook on life contented but in no way obscured. Not deliberately, but through a natural gift, she conveys vivid impressions of the world as it now appears to her, just as she conveys so unpretentiously but unforgettably in her book the whole atmosphere of Walt Whitman's world, when it had been narrowed to the little frame house in Mickle Street, and finally to a bed of suffering in one room of that little house. Whatever else her book may be, it is an extraordinary instance of revelation through simplicity; the picture stands out with all its details, not as a work of conscious art, but assuredly as a work that the artist, the student of life and of human nature, will be glad to have. CHARLES VALE PREFACE Had it ever occurred to me that the time might come when I should feel impelled to write something in regard to my late patient, Walt Whitman, I should have taken care to be better prepared in anticipation; would have kept a personal account, jotted down notes for my own use, observed his visitors more closely, preserved all my correspondence with Dr. Bucke, and recorded items of more or less interest that fade from memory as the years go by. Still, I have my diary, fortunately, and can be true to dates. After I had been interviewed a number of times, and had answered various questions to the best of my knowledge and belief, I was surprised to see several high-flown articles published, all based on the meagre information I had furnished, and all imperfect and unsatisfactory. Interviewers seemed to look for something beyond me; to wait expectantly in the hope that I could recall some unusual thing in Mr. Whitman's eccentricities that I alone had observed; words that I alone had heard him speak; opinions and beliefs I alone had heard him express; anything remarkable, not before given to the public. They wanted the sensational and exclusive, if possible. I suppose that was natural. But it set me thinking that if my knowledge was of any value or interest to others, why not write a truthful story myself, instead of having my words enlarged upon, changed and perverted? Simple facts are surely better than hasty exaggerations. I have done what I could. One gentleman (_Mr. James M. Johnston, of Buffalo_), who has read the manuscript, and for whose opinion I have the greatest regard, remarked as he returned it: "It appears to me that your main view in writing this was to exonerate Mrs. Davis." He had discovered a fact I then recognized to be the truth. My greatest fear is that I may have handled the whole truth too freely--without gloves. E. L. K. CONTENTS I MARY OAKES DAVIS 1 II WALT WHITMAN'S HOME 8 III THE MICKLE STREET HOUSE 18 IV THE NEW RÉGIME 27 V CURIOUS NEIGHBORS 37 VI MR. WHITMAN DRIVES 47 VII BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL CHLOROFORM 55 VIII VISITING AND VISITORS 67 IX A BUST AND A PAINTING 73 X REST--AND ROUTINE 87 XI A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES 100 XII ANCHORED 113 XIII WARREN FRITZINGER 119 XIV FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSOLEUM 133 XV THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY 142 XVI THE NEW NURSE 150 XVII "SHIFT, WARRY" 167 XVIII WINDING UP 176 XIX THE TRIAL 182 XX CONCLUSION 187 WALT WHITMAN'S MONUMENTS, BY GUIDO BRUNO 195 WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS 207 INDEX 225 WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET _I write this book in loving memory of three of the most kind-hearted, unselfish and capable people I ever knew I Dedicate It to ALEX. McALISTER, M.D._ HALCYON DAYS Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honored middle-age, Nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame like fresher, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, And the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all, The brooding and blissful halcyon days! WALT WHITMAN WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET I MARY OAKES DAVIS "_She hath wrought a good work on me.... This also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her._"--ST. MARK XIV: 6, 9. "_Whitman with the pen was one man--Whitman in private life was another man._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. Someone has said: "A veil of silence, even mystery, seems to have shut out from view the later home life of Walt Whitman." There is no reason for this, but if it be really so, the veil cannot be lifted without revealing in a true light the good woman--Mary Oakes Davis--so closely connected with the poet's later years, and of whom he often spoke as "my housekeeper, nurse and friend." Mrs. Davis's life from the cradle to the grave was one of self-sacrifice and devotion to others. Her first clear recollection was of a blind old woman to whom her parents had given a home. In speaking of this she said: "I never had a childhood, nor did I realize that I had the right to play like other children, for at six years of age 'Blind Auntie' was my especial charge. On waking in the morning my first thought was of her, and then I felt I must not lie in bed another minute. I arose quickly, made my own toilet and hastened to her." She continued with a detailed account of the attention daily given to "Auntie," how she put on her stockings and shoes, and handed her each article of clothing as it was needed; how she brought fresh water for her ablutions, combed her hair and made her presentable for the table; how at all meals she sat by her side to wait upon her, and how, after helping her mother with the dishes, she walked up and down the sidewalk until schooltime to give "Auntie" her exercise, the walks being repeated when school was over. It seems strange that parents could permit such sacrifice for an outsider, however helpless, unmindful of their injustice toward the little daughter who so willingly and unconsciously yielded up her young life. No wonder this lesson of utter devotion to another, so early implanted in the tender heart of the child, should in after years become part and parcel of the woman. When Mary was twelve years of age "Blind Auntie" died. Then came two more years of schooling, after which the girl voluntarily assumed another burden--the care of a melancholy, selfish invalid, a distant relative living in the country, of whom she had heard much from time to time. With her she stayed for six years, being in turn nurse, companion, housekeeper or general servant, as need required. Poor child, she failed in brightening the invalid's life--which was her only hope in going there. All her efforts were unappreciated and misunderstood, and it was a hard task to follow out what she conceived to be her duty. During the first four years her sole remuneration was a small sum of money on rare occasions, or a few articles of clothing; during the last two, a modest monthly salary. The entire period was one of unremitting care and self-abnegation, and at the age of twenty, utterly disheartened, she summoned up resolution to leave. She had long contemplated paying a visit to an old schoolmate and dear friend, Mrs. Fritzinger, the wife of a sea-captain, whose home was in Camden, New Jersey, and to this city she now went. Arriving, to her great sorrow she found her friend in a serious physical condition, and remained to nurse her through a protracted illness, which ended fatally. On her deathbed Mrs. Fritzinger confided her two young sons to Mary's care, and from this time on they called her mother. Captain Fritzinger soon became blind and had to give up the sea. He still however retained marine interests in Philadelphia, to and from which city Mary led him daily. Then came a long illness. The Captain appointed Mary co-guardian to his two sons, and at his death divided his property equally between the three. Captain Davis, a friend of the Fritzingers, had met Mary during Mrs. Fritzinger's lifetime. He was much attracted to her, proposed marriage and was accepted on condition that the wedding should not take place as long as her friends had need of her. But time slipped by; it may be Captain Davis thought their need of her would never end; so, meeting her in Philadelphia one morning, he insisted upon their going to a minister's and becoming man and wife. Mary, thus forcefully pressed, consented, but exacted the promise that he would not tell the Fritzingers until his return from the trip he was on the eve of taking. In a few days he left Camden. His vessel was wrecked off the coast of Maine, and he was buried where he washed ashore. His hasty marriage and unlooked-for death prevented him from making the intended provision for his wife, and as she shrank from any contest with his family, all that was left to her was his name and the cherished memory of her one brief love. During Captain Fritzinger's nine years of blindness, and through all his long sickness, Mary's ingrained habit of devotion to one person made her somewhat forgetful of others; and dearly as she loved the boys who called her mother, their happiness was too often sacrificed to their father's infirmities. Strange--and yet not strange, perhaps--that one whose childhood had been an unbroken martyrdom, should now be not always conscious of the needs of a new generation. The house in which they lived, in a little street running at right angles to Stevens Street, was closed at dusk. Then, when she had read the daily papers, Mary would extinguish the lights, feeling that to read to herself, or for the boys to play games, would be selfish, as the sick man was deprived of such enjoyments. It didn't occur to her that these wide-awake youngsters had nothing of her own childhood spirit of resignation, or that the noise and laughter of other boys frolicking in the streets could have any attraction for them. They were sent early to bed, but time and again made their escape through the window, creeping along the shed, and so to the fence and the street. Both boys had an innate love for the sea, and at the age of fourteen and sixteen respectively had become so restless and urgent for a change, that their father yielded to their wishes and procured berths for them aboard the same ship. In two years they returned to find him dead, and in a short time they embarked again in separate vessels and for longer voyages. During their first absence, Captain Fritzinger had invited another ex-captain--an old shipmate and intimate friend--to come to his house to board, and for mutual companionship. The new guest was in poor health and extremely crotchety, and immediately upon his host's demise he took possession of the bed left empty. Then ensued for Mrs. Davis two more years of fidelity and constant care, until the one old shipmate went the way of the other. But even now the long-tried woman was not left without someone to minister to, for shortly before a young orphan girl had been entrusted to her. It was certainly her destiny to find full scope for the spirit of self-sacrifice so early implanted, and so persistently called upon. But it was almost inevitable for such a nature to be unconscious of the vein of irony in human affairs, of the element of the grotesque in the sublime. She went quietly on her accustomed way. It was her vocation to be victimized, and her daily business to be a blessing to others. Such was the woman who entered so closely into Walt Whitman's life during the seven years spent in Mickle Street. She meant more to him than he was perhaps aware of; more, certainly, than he ever cared to admit. If she was incapable of realizing the fulness of his genius, he seemed unable to measure the fulness of hers. But he was glad to profit by it. II WALT WHITMAN'S HOME "_And whether I come into my own to-day or in ten thousand or in ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now or with equal cheerfulness I can wait._"--WALT WHITMAN. "_I only thought if I didn't go, who would?_"--MARY O. DAVIS. After physical disability had incapacitated him for duty, Walt Whitman went to Camden, the New Jersey suburb of Philadelphia, and there the remaining years of his life were spent, at first in his brother's house in Stevens Street and later in a little frame cottage, No. 328 Mickle Street, "where he lived alone with a single attendant," as a magazine writer phrased it. This attendant was Mary Oakes Davis. With but one exception (_Thomas Donaldson, in "Walt Whitman the Man"_), all writers who have touched upon Whitman's domestic life seem to have failed to mention the interval between his two Camden homes. Fortunately it was of short duration, but in it came the great turning point in his career. Of his early habits something may be learned from his brother George, who says: "Wait was always a trying person to live with." ("_In Re Walt Whitman._") Then he goes on to relate some of the poet's peculiarities, irregularities and eccentricities. "He had an idea that money was of no consequence.... He would lie abed late, would write a few hours if he took the notion, perhaps would go off for the rest of the day. If we had dinner at one, like as not he would come at three; always late. Just as we were fixing things on the table he would get up and go around the block. He was always so. "He would come to breakfast when he got ready. If he wished to go out, he would go, go where he was a mind to, and come back in his own time." It cannot be denied that a person with these traits of character would be an uncomfortable inmate to have in any home, and with Mr. Whitman this disregard for the convenience of others grew more marked as he advanced in years and deteriorated in body. Notwithstanding this, when his good brother and his most excellent sister-in-law retired to their farm in Burlington, New Jersey, they urged him to accompany them. Their kind offer of a home Mr. Whitman thought best to decline, for although at this time he had but a restricted popularity as an author, he had some staunch friends in his own city, in New York, Philadelphia and abroad, and after twelve years' residence in one locality he thought it unwise to change. No doubt he did not take into consideration the difficulties he would have to encounter alone, nor realize how unfitted he was to cope with them; but as usual he overruled all opposition and followed his own inclination. Or he may have had a premonition of the popularity just at hand. First he rented a room, taking his meals at odd times and in odd places. This he soon found to be a miserable mode of existence, for he was crippled financially as well as physically, and even to this late day, "his medium of circulating his views to the world was through very limited editions, which he himself usually paid for, or which failed to circulate at all." (_Thomas Donaldson._) The old man with his basket of literature upon his arm, plodding his way through the streets of Camden and Philadelphia, had long been a familiar sight, and now with slow sales and lack of former comforts it was doubly hard on him. But at this time his life had settled down to one great desire, that of rewriting his book, _Leaves of Grass_, and living to see it put before the world in a full, improved and complete form. He believed it was to be, and this was his principal object in remaining in a city where he had already suffered the delays and disappointments that make the heart sick and wear out the body. Yet dark as was the outlook, this hope buoyed him up, and after the struggles of half a century his courage had not forsaken him. "In the period named, he was hungry, cold and neglected," says Donaldson; and again: "Whitman was extremely poor in Camden after his brother moved away, and up to about 1884. His change of luck began about then. He had previously, to use a sailor's phrase, 'been scudding under bare poles.' He had several runs of luck after 1884." Walt Whitman and Mrs. Davis were not personally acquainted. To be sure, he had seen her innumerable times leading Captain Fritzinger past his brother's house, but he had never spoken to her. As for her, the poor old man had long been a secret pensioner upon her tender heart, drawing a full bounty of pity therefrom. Their first interview took place on one cold frosty morning, when in deepest dejection he came a suppliant to her door. Surprised as she was to find him there, she warmly invited him in, and a good breakfast soon followed the kind reception. With his writings she was totally unacquainted, and she naturally shared the universal opinion of her neighbors, that he was "a little off." Nevertheless, when from the grateful warmth and good cheer he grew loquacious, and dilated upon his work and aired his lofty hopes, she listened attentively, that he might not suspect that to her all this seemed but an empty dream and delusion. She talked encouragingly, and on his rising to go cordially invited him to repeat his visit. He did so, and thenceforward this compassionate woman's homely kitchen became his one haven of rest. He knew that a hot meal and many thoughtful attentions always awaited him there; attentions such as lacing his shoes, washing and mending his clothing, and not infrequently superintending a refreshing foot-bath. "Being an invalid he felt his helplessness, so attentions were doubly dear to him." (_Thomas Donaldson._) As the fall advanced and the weather grew severe, his bachelor quarters became more and more unsuitable, and he was indeed fortunate in the friendship he had so auspiciously formed. He developed into a daily visitor, and each morning might have been seen scuffing along in his unclasped antiquated arctics, cane in hand, and his long white hair and beard blowing in the wind. Mrs. Davis said that the very sight of those ungainly old arctics always brought tears to her eyes. During this winter (1884-5), through the generosity of a Philadelphian (Mr. George W. Childs), and from the sale of his book, Mr. Whitman was in a way to arrange for a payment upon a small house. He was not the man to ask advice, and the selection he made was not a wise one. "It was a coop at best," as Thomas Donaldson says, and a much more comfortable home in a far more suitable location could have been secured for less than the price he had agreed to pay. However, it promised him a regular abiding place. The house being occupied when he became the owner, he made an arrangement with the tenants: they were to remain, and he would come there to live with them, his board to offset the rent. But the scheme did not work, and at the expiration of the first month he was left solitary and alone with his personal household goods, consisting of a scantily furnished bedstead, a home-made table, a rickety chair and a large packing box. The table served as writing desk and the packing box as kitchen and dining table. "Upon it was a small coal oil stove, where he would cook a bite at the risk of his life." (_Thomas Donaldson._) His daily visits to Mrs. Davis were resumed. Her back door would slowly open and he would appear saying in a pathetic voice: "Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, whose trembling limbs have brought him to your door." He was always welcomed and former relations were renewed. This continued for awhile, but light housekeeping being so great a tax upon him, and his house being so "forlorn, dirty and untenantable," (_Thomas Donaldson_), Mrs. Davis went there with him in his perplexity. How could the place be anything but cold when it was heated only by the occasional flame of an oil lamp? Worse still, the back door was held partly open by an accumulation of ice resulting from a ruptured water pipe. Seeing how matters stood, Mrs. Davis, at that time a "strong, rosy-cheeked Jersey woman" (_Thomas Donaldson_), went to work with a will, and the ice was rapidly dispersed by her vigorously wielded axe. With the door closed things soon assumed a more cheerful aspect, and at her suggestion Mr. Whitman purchased a small second-hand cooking stove, which, unassisted, she set up and got into running order. She carpeted his sleeping room, gave him a mattress and bedding, and in many other ways helped to make "the coop," as Whitman himself called it, more habitable and homelike. Then, unmindful of the distance--several blocks--she came each evening to attend to the fire, cook the food, run the invalid's errands and wait upon him generally. In speaking of this time she said: "When the poor old man was not in sight, he was so much upon my mind I could not pass one peaceful hour." Suffice it to say, Walt Whitman had become the next object of her solicitude. He has been called a prophet. Was it prophetical when, some years before, he wrote: "Though poor now even to penury, I have not been deprived of any physical thing I need or wish for whatever, and I feel confident I shall not in the future"? Some have considered him a cunning man; all agree that he was a remarkable judge of character. Understanding this woman as he did,--as he must have done,--had he resolved to have her devote herself to him? This question can never be truthfully answered, but whether with premeditation or not, he certainly had gained a great influence over her. Although comparatively comfortable in his new home now, he did not discontinue his accustomed morning visits, and as he persisted in his old delinquencies he completely upset the routine of Mrs. Davis's daily life and work. Things ran on in this way until one morning late in February, while he was sipping his coffee, he told her he had a proposition to make. He said: "I have a house while you pay rent; you have furniture while my rooms are bare; I propose that you come and live with me, bringing your furniture for the use of both." A suggestion of this kind was so unlooked for that she refused to give it a moment's consideration. He said no more at the time, but a few days later again broached the subject. And this he continued to do daily until Mrs. Davis, who remained firm for awhile, at last began to waver. The young orphan girl strongly opposed such a step, but Mr. Whitman's persistence prevailed, for Mrs. Davis at last gave a reluctant consent. The advantage was all on the poet's side, as he must have seen, but recent events had raised his hopes and he made promises of adequate and more than adequate returns for all that had been done or might be done for him. As his money was "only in sight," to use his own words, the expenses of moving were paid by Mrs. Davis; as he was disabled, the work and worry were hers as well; but finally all was accomplished, her goods were transferred to his house and put in their new places, and the seven years of their domestic life together commenced. In this way did the "good gray poet" retire with his "single attendant" to the little frame cottage, No. 328 Mickle Street, Camden, New Jersey. III THE MICKLE STREET HOUSE "_The tide turned when he entered the Mickle Street house._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. "_Whitman had great satisfaction in the managing skill of his housekeeper._"--SIDNEY MORSE. Added to "managing skill," Mrs. Davis had patience, perseverance, determination, courage and health; furthermore--having accompanied the Fritzinger family upon a number of ocean trips, undertaken in the hope of benefiting Mrs. Fritzinger--she had shipboard experience which enabled her to make available every inch of space in a house smaller than the one she had left. It was an unpretentious brown frame structure, sadly out of repair, and decidedly the poorest tenement in the block. On the right was a brick house whose strong walls seemed to be holding it up, while on the left was an alley--scarcely more than a gutter--closed from the street by a wooden door. This narrow passage, filled with ice and snow in the winter, often damp and slippery even in warm weather, was unfit for general use; and as the house was not properly drained, the cellar through its one little window was often flooded from dripping eaves. Three wooden steps without a banister led from the sidewalk to the front door, which had to be closed to allow those who entered to ascend the stairs. This narrow staircase, an equally narrow hall and two connecting rooms called "the parlors" comprised the first floor of the main building. Between the parlors were folding doors, and each room had an exit into the hall. There were two windows in the front parlor and a single one in the back. Between and under the front windows was an entrance to the cellar, with old-fashioned slanting doors. The rear and smaller portion of the house was divided into but two apartments, the kitchen below and a sleeping room above. At the back of the kitchen was a small shed, and quite a large yard. Some people believed that this yard, with its pear tree and grape vine, had been the main attraction of the place for Mr. Whitman. On ascending the staircase, a small landing and the back sleeping room were reached; then, turning about, came more stairs, with a larger landing, part of which had been made into a clothespress. Apart from this landing and a little den, sometimes known as "the anteroom," the upper portion of the main building had only one room. But the two doors in it, and a deep rugged scar across the low ceiling, testified to its having formerly been divided by a partition. As one of the doors was permanently fastened, the only access was through the den, anteroom, or "adjoining apartment," as it was also occasionally called. In the larger room was a fireplace with a mantel shelf above. There were two windows corresponding with the windows below, while the smaller room or den, reduced to one-half its proper width by some pine shelves and an outjutting chimney, had like the room below but one. The outlook from this window, into which the sun made but a few annual peeps, was the brick wall on one side, the back roof on the other, and a glimpse of the sky. The situation of the house was anything but inviting, and the locality was one that few would choose to live in. It was near both depot and ferry, and as the tracks were but a block away, or scarcely that, being laid in what would have been the centre of the next street, there was an uninterrupted racket day and night. The noise of the passenger and excursion trains--for the excursions to the coast went by way of Camden--was only a minor circumstance compared with that of the freight trains as they thundered by, or passed and re-passed in making up. Close at hand was a church with a sharp-toned bell, and a "choir of most nerve-unsettling singers" (_Thomas Donaldson_); and as if this were not enough, there was at times a most disagreeable odor from a guano factory on the Philadelphia side of the Delaware. Such was the house to which Mary Davis had now come, and where through the strange, busy days of the next seven years she was destined to be Walt Whitman's indispensable "housekeeper, nurse and friend"--or, from the outsider's point of view, his "single attendant." The spring of 1885 was far advanced before things were fairly in running order, for from the first there had been no intermission in the poet's erratic mode of living, and Mrs. Davis had been obliged to devote much time to his personal wants. Somehow he had a way of demanding attention which she found it impossible to resist. Truly she had been hampered on all sides, this faithful Martha-Mary; so many things to be seen to, so many things to handle and rehandle and change about before an established place for them could be found; the strenuous cleaning, for the former tenants had left the place extremely dirty; and the pondering over repairs, and deciding which were absolutely essential and unpostponable, and which could be put off for a little while longer. She first carpeted, furnished and settled the parlors, intending the back one as the sleeping room for her young charge, until her marriage in the fall, when it could be used as a spare room. But Mr. Whitman had different intentions, for he at once appropriated both rooms, and would not allow the doors separating them to be closed. One of the front windows became his favorite sitting place, and here he wrote, read his papers and sat while entertaining his friends. He was delighted with these rooms, and in them he enjoyed himself to his heart's content: first in getting things into disorder at once, and then in keeping them so. The back room, which became kitchen, dining room and sitting room combined, was so compactly filled that many people remarked its close resemblance to the cabin of a ship, in the way of convenience as compared with space. It was lighted by one window, and over the ingrain carpet a strip of stair carpeting made a pathway from the hall to the outer door. On the sitting room side were a lounge, sewing machine, two rocking chairs, a stand and some small pieces of furniture; on the other was a dining table against the wall, one leaf extended and always set, with the dining chairs pushed under it when not in use; the range--a veritable giant--standing in place of the dwarf it had ousted; a sink with cubby-hole below, crowded to overflowing with pots and kettles, and shelves above loaded with dishes while their enclosing doors were closely hung with kitchen utensils. As the lower shelf only could be reached by hand, a stool (a chair that had lost its back) was kept under a projection of the range. The shed, where Mr. Whitman's stove was set up, was packed with household goods and chattels, classified and stored ready for momentary use, and around the walls were suspended the extra chairs. A shelf in the inside cellarway off the hall was the only pantry, and the sides of the cellarway the only tin-cupboard; then for want of a place for the flour barrel, it was left standing opposite the cellar door in the hall. In this part of the house people went by feeling, not by sight, and strangers as a rule always collided with the barrel before entering the kitchen. The little passage between the back part of the house and the wall of the one adjoining it--simply a pathway to the back entrance of the cellar--Mrs. Davis canopied with old sails and utilized as a laundry. Here she kept her washing bench, tubs and pails, and here she washed and ironed when the weather permitted. This furnished the view from the back parlor window. The cellar and its hanging shelf had their share of plunder, and here the firewood was sawed and split. As for pictures, there were more than enough for all the rooms, and between them wall pockets, paper racks and brackets abounded. Her family of birds--a robin she had rescued from a cat, a pair of turtle doves and a canary--she attached to the kitchen ceiling. She made a little place in the shed for her cat's bed, and found a shelter for a few hens in the small outhouse. Her dog, more aristocratic, slept on the lounge. On a shelf over the dining table were a clock, some china vases, and a stuffed parrakeet. No wonder that upon entering the house the first thing observed was the over-filled appearance of each small room. Upon a bracket in the front parlor she placed a model of a ship that had been given to Captain Fritzinger by the maker. This pleased Mr. Whitman exceedingly, for he had often noticed and admired it. He said that the first time he had desired to write anything was when he saw a ship in full sail. He tried to describe it exactly and failed; had often since studied ships in the vain hope of getting the whole beautiful story into words, but had never been able to do so. The mantels of both parlors Mrs. Davis heaped with shells and curiosities from distant parts of the world. Some of them were rare and valuable. Such was the inside of the house after it had passed through Mary's transforming hands. There were many things in it that might have been better elsewhere, perhaps. But where? It was only a little house, and Mary had come to it from a larger one, with all her possessions. She had nowhere else to put them now, without losing them. If Mr. Whitman had any sense of being over-crowded, it was his own fault. She had come at his urging--and he had taken the two large parlors on the first floor, and the large front chamber with the anteroom above, entirely for his own use, thus leaving for the two women the kitchen (which he shared with them in its aspect of dining room) and the only remaining room in the house--the little back chamber on the second floor. Into this, they condensed and squeezed their more personal belongings. IV THE NEW RÉGIME "_I know an old story. It goes back to 1826, when a monument to Bellman, the Swedish poet, was unveiled in Stockholm. The King and Queen were there, and Bellman's old wife. And the King spoke of the dead poet, and praised him in a flight of purple phrases; but the old wife said, 'Oh yes, but if your Majesty only knew what a nuisance he was about the house....' But frankly, wouldn't you like to know what kind of a nuisance the poet was at home?_"--VANCE THOMPSON. Discovering so quickly that her new charge was decidedly a self-centered person, and seeing that waiting upon him promised to be her chief occupation, Mrs. Davis planned her work accordingly, and being an early riser was able to devote the untrammelled morning hours to preparations for the day. Mr. Whitman usually arose at nine o'clock, but in this, as in all things, he consulted his own wishes alone. His breakfast hour was any time during the forenoon; and no doubt he did not understand how or why this could discommode his new housekeeper. When the signal came--one that Mrs. Davis soon learned, three or four loud peremptory raps upon the floor above--she dropped whatever she might be doing and hastened upstairs. Since Mr. Whitman's first stroke of paralysis, nearly twenty years before, he had become so disabled that he required much assistance while dressing, and for this he was not at all diffident in asking. Besides, he was "very curiously deliberate." There being no water on the second floor, Mrs. Davis carried up and down all that he needed for his baths,--and he used water freely. Then when fully dressed he consulted his own feelings in regard to coming downstairs. In his mother's house in Long Island, and in his brother's in Camden, Walt had seldom taken his meals with the family. While living in Brooklyn, New Orleans and Washington, his meal times were of no importance to anyone except himself, and he could not see why this rule should not apply to his own house, or any house where he might be staying. To him regular meals were a bondage he could not endure. Going up and down stairs was a difficult task, and after coming to the Mickle Street house he seldom did so unaided, so the old signal was repeated when he was ready to descend, and again Mrs. Davis hastened to him. As he never would tell what he wanted until he was seated at the table, she always kept a supply of special things on hand; nothing elaborate,--maybe steak, chops, oysters or eggs. He never found fault with his food, and although he did not often commend it he must have been fully appreciative, for all through his letters and conversations, as given in the various books about him, are allusions to Mary's good cooking. Occasionally, to suit her own convenience, she would have his breakfast prepared; but if she mentioned this fact while helping him to dress he would invariably say, "Ah! I will not eat anything for awhile." When the dishes had been set aside to be kept warm, and Mary was again busily engaged,--the wash perhaps partly hung on the line, or her deft hands in the dough,--the peremptory signal would come, and on being helped down and seated at the table he would coolly demand something entirely different from what she had provided. He commenced housekeeping by inviting company--lord or beggar--to dine with him, and would keep these guests at the table for hours; even "when he was eating off a dry goods box for a table, and drinking milk warmed over a coal oil lamp, and a few crackers with it, he would ask you to dine, with the dignity of a prince, and never apologize or mention the food." (_Thomas Donaldson._) A biographer (_Horace Traubel_) says, "He was very simple in his tastes, taking only two meals in a day." True; but the day was nearly consumed in getting and serving these two meals, with the after work that followed. To Mrs. Davis's surprise he did not hesitate to entertain visitors in his sleeping room if they arrived while he was there, and many of them would remain until "the wee sma' hours." There was a charm in fellowship with him, and ill and lethargic as he had grown, it was said: "Walt Whitman's friends rarely visited him without having a good laugh over something or other"; and "gifted with a clear resonant voice, the poet often gratifies his friends as he sits by a blazing wood fire--which is his delight--singing old-fashioned songs." It was this irregularity that had worn upon his sister-in-law, for during the years in which she had endured Walt's thoughtlessness, she had had the care of Edward, the irresponsible, feeble-minded brother; and when, by the doctor's advice, she left Camden for the country, the home was tendered to Walt with this option: he was to conform to their way of living and cease turning night into day. He did indeed have "runs of luck" after 1884, and who can deny that the greatest of these was in securing the undivided attention of a warm-hearted, unselfish woman, and in her making it possible for him to live untrammelled, in his own home? Surely the tide turned when this good woman ceased to be an independent being and became the strong prop on which he leaned; a shield between him and all annoyances. While perplexed with settling the house, and having no time to go over the same ground twice, although the condition of the parlors troubled her, Mrs. Davis had let them go, awaiting a favorable time to clean and regulate them thoroughly. This opportunity came in the summer, during the first of Mr. Whitman's temporary absences. Since he had been in his own house, old friends had occasionally called to take him to spend the day with them. This time he was asked to remain a week. He gladly availed himself of the change, and his housekeeper was no less pleased to have a week to herself. In it she did her best to restore order, and when she had finished was really proud of the improvement she had effected. Mr. Whitman returned. He at once discovered what had taken place during his absence, and his consternation knew no bounds! He said that he had left _everything exactly_ as he wished it to remain; where he could find it; now the very things he needed most were gone; in fact he could find nothing he wanted, and in the future he forbade _anyone_ to meddle with his private property; he desired and expected to find--at all times and upon all occasions--his personal matters unmolested, undisturbed, left entirely alone. Mrs. Davis mildly replied that she had only taken from the room some useless papers, scraps of letters, old envelopes, bits of twine and wrapping paper. He declared that these were the very things he needed most; the ones he specially missed. She remonstrated, but to no purpose; he silenced her; just how, she could not comprehend. To Walt Whitman's credit be it said, he never spoke an unkind word to Mrs. Davis; never was arrogant or overbearing to her; never belittled her or put her down before others; always treated her as an equal; relied upon her judgment and often sought her advice;--but he would have his own way, and she with her yielding nature soon gave in; the struggle was only a short one; before winter commenced, confusion once more reigned. In due time piles of periodicals were stacked on the table and on chairs; newspapers, letters, envelopes and bundles of manuscript were in the corners; and as he had immediately set about the work he had so greatly at heart, cuttings, rejected scraps of paper and general litter soon covered the floor, the confusion gradually making its way into the next room and threatening to invade the hall. The front parlor became a veritable editor's sanctum; nothing but the smell of printer's ink and the sound of the press were wanting. Some of his poems he altered and revised again and again, and in a short time the large waste basket Mary had placed in the room was filled to overflowing. As he would not allow her to remove or empty the basket, it became the foundation of a hillock of débris. Sometimes when he seemed off-guard she would surreptitiously remove a few dust pans full, but he was not deceived, and even this she had to discontinue. The first summer and fall in his own house were decidedly pleasant and beneficial to Mr. Whitman. He worked as he felt able or inclined; was encouraged with the progress he was making, and gratified with the prospect before him. He believed, and must have seen, that situated so advantageously the one desire of his life was to be consummated, and that even though it were to be accomplished in a slow way, he would live to see his book completed and in a form to meet his most sanguine wishes. Visitors retarded his work, but this was no real detriment, nor did he feel the time lost that he spent in returning visits. Making over the old material and adding to it the poems he had composed since the issue of the last edition, was something he could lay down and take up at any time. And he certainly did enjoy agreeable company, delighting whole-heartedly in their companionship as he dispensed the hospitality of his own board. By degrees Mrs. Davis accustomed herself to her new surroundings and was no longer astonished at any of Walt's remarkable ways or unreasonable requests; besides, she remembered that the step she had taken was after all self-imposed, that all her friends had protested, and that it was now irrevocable; so with good sense and in good time she became, if not fully reconciled, at least resigned. She didn't exactly regret coming to Mickle Street, but she could judge from the few months she had passed there what the years to come might bring; yet even with this outlook she resolved not to shrink from but bravely to face the future, whatever might betide; and so unconsciously she transferred to Walt Whitman the devotion she had given to others. She seldom left the house when he was there alone, for with that enigmatical instinct chronic patients develop he knew, and always wanted something, whenever she was busiest or on a momentary absence. Therefore after awhile she put all other considerations aside, and gave her full energies to the work she had undertaken; individual wishes were surrendered as she strove to adjust her ways to the erratic ones of the old man; familiar customs were discarded and former friends neglected. She seemed almost to lose her personality and to become a part of the house and the peculiar life lived there. She was never obtrusive, and did all things in a quiet manner. If company lingered until midnight she remained up to assist her charge to bed; she humored his vagaries, and always had a smile and a pleasant word for him. When he was inclined to be despondent, she cheered him; when he was in pain, she had some simple remedy at hand; when he was in danger of overtaxing his strength, she gently cautioned him; and if the disorder of his rooms troubled her, she did not let him guess how much. At first she supposed he was not in a position to purchase new clothing, and did her best to make him presentable in what he had, while she patiently awaited the time when the expected money should come in; and through her efficiency in washing, darning, patching and mending he soon presented a much improved appearance, often commented on. His brother, his good sister-in-law, his other relatives and all his friends rested in peace. They knew the hands he was in, the shoulders upon which the burden had fallen. V CURIOUS NEIGHBORS "_Mr. Whitman and his housekeeper were closely watched by some curious people who had never lived near a poet before. In addition they minded their own business. That Camden should contain two such people in one street was enough to create wonder._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. The inhabitants not only of Mickle Street, but of contiguous ones, were deeply interested in the strange couple who had come to live among them, and kept a close watch upon every movement. Their vigilance troubled Mrs. Davis, for she could see no reason why anyone should be curious about them. It was different with Mr. Whitman, who never saw anything he did not choose to. "I don't think a man ever existed so entirely indifferent to criticism and slander." (_Sidney Morse._) If Mrs. Davis chanced to go to her front door, half a dozen women would appear at theirs; if she swept her sidewalk, her broom seemed to set in motion half a dozen others. If she left her house for five minutes or remained away for hours, she would find sentinels awaiting her return. Sometimes as she was approaching home she would hear a shrill childish voice call out: "Mama! Mama! here she comes!" Or she would see a young urchin--presumably on guard--scamper into the house to give the alarm. "They seemed always upon the alert, and saw to it that whatever went into Mr. Whitman's house should have an eye escort in and an eye escort out." (_Thomas Donaldson._) From behind curtains, shutters and blinds Mrs. Davis could see and instinctively feel eyes fastened upon her, and what appeared especially remarkable was that this intrusive neighborly interest failed to die out or lessen with time. It was a matter of genuine personal curiosity, keen and continuing, and not of the transient attention any newcomer might awaken. Unquestionably there was an atmosphere of perplexity and perhaps suspicion in the locality. For one thing, extravagant and impossible as it may seem, it had been rumored about that some people who entered "The Poet's" house never came out again. A frequent caller during Mr. Whitman's first years of housekeeping says: "Opposite, as I slid into the house one day, sat a bundle of dirt with bread and sugar upon it, on watch. As I hurried in I heard it yell, 'Hurry, Mama! A fat man at Whitman's door!' and presently a female watcher of two hundred and fifty pounds pattered to the door, wiping her fat arms on a checked apron. I heard her say as she retreated, 'Jimmie, watch if he comes out!' This confirmed the suspicion I had long had, that someone in the vicinity held that persons entered but didn't leave the Whitman house, and that they mysteriously disappeared." (_Thomas Donaldson._) This is no doubt curiously exaggerated; the woman probably only wished to get another glimpse of the "fat man" as he came out; but it is interesting as showing the feeling of a visitor. The effect of such conditions upon a woman like Mrs. Davis, living in the house itself and constantly exposed to the oppressive surveillance, might well have been serious. But she had a placid disposition and took things quietly. She was not at all disturbed because none of the older watchers made overtures towards an acquaintance. It was different with the young people, however, for after their awe had somewhat subsided they began to be venturesome--to show their hardihood perhaps--and soon became quite familiar, making the cellar doors (old-fashioned slanting ones) their regular rendezvous. Here they would come to "mind babies," to hold mimic school and singing classes, to play games, keep house, take lunch and eat taffy purchased at a little corner store. Undoubtedly one inducement for their constant visits was the chance of getting one of the pennies that rolled occasionally out of the window above. Before summer had ended they had grown decidedly sociable, and in one of their favorite pastimes--running up and sliding down the cellar doors--each would pause for a moment at the top and peek in at the "good gray poet" as he sat anchored in his great chair, and ask, "How do you do to-day, Mr. Whitman?" The poet's original style of dressing was probably one reason why he attracted so much notice. He wore gray clothes, large of make and uncertain of fit, with an open vest, over which was turned the broad collar of his shirt. The latter, during his entire sojourn in Camden, was invariably made of a good quality of unbleached cotton. He preferred this to any other material, and he could not tolerate a separate collar, starched bosom or necktie. He despised an ordinary pocket-handkerchief, and carried instead a generous piece of soft cotton or cheesecloth. His wide-brimmed hat, always looking the worse for wear, was usually turned up in front. All this, with his size and long white hair and beard, made him a picturesque individual, and it was only natural that he should be recognized at once as a decidedly uncommon person. Walt was an invalid and infirm, nevertheless when he was equipped and started he could go unaccompanied to Philadelphia and other nearby places. This enabled him to call upon friends, transact matters of business and keep in touch with the world generally. Sometimes he would take an extended ride on a street car, but the greatest source of enjoyment to him was a trip back and forth on the Delaware River. From the ferry boat he could feast his eyes upon ships--"those floating poems" (_his own words_)--either in the distance or passing close at hand. And here he was sure to meet some old acquaintance or to make a new one, and so feel himself still a factor in the busy bustling life around him. Pleasant as were these rides to him, each one brought more or less tribulation to Mrs. Davis, for governed as he apparently was by the impulse of the moment, she was never given warning of his intentions or allowed time for preparations. His excursions therefore were a trial she had not counted upon. He would not mention the ferry, or hint of going there, until he was seated at the table, or more likely had finished his breakfast. This made much extra running up and down for Mary, who could have simplified matters by having him dressed to begin with for the weather and the occasion. This did not seem to occur to him. Crippled, slow, and requiring so much assistance, and feeling that neither his own time nor that of anyone else was of much account, it was often past noon before he was ready for the start. Then Mrs. Davis, who always saw him safely on the street car, would hurriedly don her outer garments, for Mr. Whitman had little patience with delay in other people. The housekeeper helping the poet down the front steps was a sight none of the neighbors would willingly lose, therefore the couple always sallied forth under the musketry of glances shot out at them from every direction. When walking in the street Mr. Whitman carried his cane in one hand, and with the other he clung tightly to the arm of his companion. His size and weight (even now, in spite of his invalidism, he weighed two hundred pounds) would have made a fall a serious matter. The street cars--horse cars, running at fifteen minute intervals--on their way to the ferry crossed Mickle Street at the first corner above. If unfortunately one was missed, it seemed a long and tedious wait for the next. To Mrs. Davis this was both tiresome and embarrassing; embarrassing because of the lookers-on, and tiresome because during the delay Mr. Whitman depended mainly upon her arm for support. All the conductors knew the picturesque old man, and were obliging and attentive to him. When he was entrusted to their care Mrs. Davis had nothing to fear; she was also confident that he would find a helping hand wherever he might go, so quickly doing her buying and errands she would hasten home, where a myriad of duties awaited her. Mr. Whitman never gave a clue to his calculations--if he happened to have any--and consequently there could be no certainty as to the length of time he might be away. However, in the case of a ferry ride a few hours might be counted upon. Of these Mary would make full use; then as the afternoon lengthened and dinner time approached, she would grow restless and commence going to meet the cars. The return route was two blocks away, but the distance could be shortened by way of the back gate. If Mr. Whitman was not in the first car met, she would hurry back, accomplish what she could in the next quarter of an hour, and then go again. Frequently when the car was not on time, some domestic calamity would occur; the fire would go out, or something burn, or a pot boil or stew over. In this case she would make what reparation she could in the limited time allotted her, then go again. This order of things would be kept up until Mr. Whitman's arrival; then would come the slow walk home, and the equally slow removing of wrappings, over-shoes and so on. He always returned hilarious, braced up by the good time he had enjoyed, and totally unconscious that his housekeeper had had any extra work whatever, or a minute of anxiety on his account. The rides were indeed trying to her, and in pleasant weather he would go no less than three or four times a week. Following the ferry ordeals, there came another unlooked-for tax, that of getting him ready for winter engagements and taking him wherever he had to go. There would have been less trouble in this if he had possessed a suitable outfit, but as he had made but few additions to his scanty wardrobe, the threadbare garments needed constant renovation. He had sufficient shirts, however, now; for soon after getting into his own house he had given her money for material, and she had made him six new ones. He himself superintended the cutting out and putting together, as they were to be fashioned with exactitude after the old pattern. With one of them he was particularly pleased, for around the collar and cuffs Mrs. Davis had sewed some lace edging of her own. This shirt he kept for special occasions, and never put it on without making some pleasant remark in regard to the trimming. But of the two, Mrs. Davis had much the more pride in his appearance, for she had learned that he was often invited to meet distinguished people. She accompanied him on his way to all social gatherings, and unless other escort was assured, called for him. This, however, was of rare occurrence, as guests began to vie with each other in seeing him home. She also went with him to places of business in Camden and Philadelphia, at which times he depended upon her alone, both going and coming back. The task of walking with him was doubly burdensome when the roads were rough and uneven, or slippery with snow and ice, which caused him to cling to her arm with a grip of iron. He had lost strength in his lower limbs, but gained it in the upper, as Mary often realized, though Mr. Whitman was unaware of the severity of the pressure. As he could not carry his cane in his left hand, the entire strain came upon her right arm, and as he became more and more dependent upon her, these walks grew almost unendurable; especially so when, for some purpose or other, or upon meeting a friend, he would thoughtlessly stand to talk, never releasing his grip. VI MR. WHITMAN DRIVES "_I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house, and I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air._"--WALT WHITMAN. "_For such a lover of nature not to be able to get out of doors, was a calamity than which no greater was known._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. The first winter over, spring came and was passed in about the same daily routine; but before the summer was far advanced Mrs. Davis was convinced that the old man's walking days were rapidly drawing to a complete close. This troubled her greatly, and during one of Mr. Thomas Donaldson's frequent evening visits she talked earnestly with him about it. Mr. Donaldson, the poet's intimate and constant friend, was a practical man; one ready to listen to the suggestions of others, and to assist in forwarding their plans. Between him and Mrs. Davis there was a mutual understanding; each knew the other's worth. He had always shown consideration for her; had sought her out in her own house, and stood manfully by her side in her ministrations to the invalid. She told him she was certain, from the number of letters Mr. Whitman received, his many visitors from other cities and abroad, his increasing list of invitations and requests for personal interviews, that he must be a man in whom others were deeply interested. She said that for some time she had had a plan in her mind. It was this: that he should write to Mr. Whitman's friends--as he knew just who they were--and solicit a subscription of ten dollars from each of them, the fund to be appropriated to the purchase of a horse and carriage for the poet's use. Mr. Donaldson fell in with the scheme, and thirty-one of the thirty-five letters written by him received prompt replies, and in each was the sum asked for. As the gift was to be a surprise, only a few friends were let into the secret. A comfortable buggy was ordered and a gentle pony selected, as it was supposed the drives would be quiet ones, in suburban places. On the fifteenth of September all was completed, and Mr. Donaldson came over in the afternoon, ostensibly to make a call. He found his friend on a lounge in the front room, and seating himself commenced to chat with him upon the topics of the times. This he continued to do until he heard the gift carriage drive up to the door. His young son Blaine sat by the driver's side. Mr. Donaldson went to the window, and Mr. Whitman hobbled after him to see who had arrived. "Bless me," he said, "what a fine turnout! And there is Blaine! Well, well, how the lad does seem to fit it; how comfortable it does look! What does it all mean?" "It certainly does look comfortable," Mr. Donaldson replied, "and Walt, it's yours." This statement he repeated twice before his astonished friend could believe he had heard aright, and even then he did not appear to take in or comprehend the full meaning of such an announcement. While still dazed and hardly himself--impassive as was his natural demeanor--his friend handed him a letter containing the names of the contributors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed. Mr. Whitman read the letter and was completely overcome; tears trickled down his cheeks, and he was unable to articulate a word. When he was somewhat composed, Mrs. Davis, who had been slyly watching the scene, came in with his coat and hat, and proposed that he should at once--and for the first time--take a drive in a turnout of his own. It proved to be a long drive, as it was late in the afternoon when he returned. Mrs. Davis was delighted; the gift surpassed her highest expectations, was much nicer and more expensive than she had thought it was to be; and she rejoiced to see the poor old man, who not two years before had shuffled to her door, now riding in a carriage of his own!--and one provided, too, by those friends he had told her of, friends she had believed to be but myths conjured up in his own lonesome mind. Mr. Whitman deeply appreciated the compliment paid him. He said: "I have before now been made to feel in many touching ways how kind and thoughtful my loving friends are, but this present is so handsome and valuable, and comes so opportunely, and is so thoroughly a surprise, that I can hardly realize it. My paralysis has made me so lame lately that I have had to give up my walks. Oh! I shall have a famous time this fall!" Previous to the presentation an arrangement had been made at a nearby stable for the care of the horse, the running expense of which was to be met by a number of friends; a young man was also engaged to harness the horse and drive the rig to the door. But who was to summon it? That part being unprovided for, it fell to Mrs. Davis, and Mr. Whitman became as erratic with his horse as he was with all other things. Some mornings it would be: "I must give up my ride to-day, the weather is so uncertain"; soon after: "It looks like clearing up, I will go"; then on Mrs. Davis's return from the stable: "I have made up my mind to defer my ride." Again would come the determination to go, followed with the afterthought of remaining at home, until ordering the carriage and countermanding the order would keep the obliging messenger running to and from the stable until dark. Riding was so great an enjoyment to Mr. Whitman that when once in his carriage he was loth to leave it. "Only one thing seemed to have the power of forcing from him an occasional lament, and that was prolonged stormy weather when bad health kept him indoors for days and weeks." Poor Frank, the pony, had not been selected for speed or endurance, and in an amazingly short time he succumbed to over-driving. At the expiration of only two months, Mr. Donaldson says, "the pony showed the effects of Mr. Whitman's fast driving, and had a shake in the forelegs--or rather tremble--that gave the impression that he was getting ready to lie down.... Some weeks after this I was again in Camden, and while on the main street I saw a cloud of dust rising from a fast-approaching vehicle. In a moment a splendid bay horse attached to a buggy came into view. He was coming in a mile in three minutes' gait, and to my amazement, in the buggy was Walt Whitman holding on to the lines with one hand for dear life. When he observed me, he drew up with great difficulty and called out, 'Hello, Tom, ain't he splendid?' My breath was about gone. I managed to speak. 'Mr. Whitman, in the name of common sense what has come over you? Where is Frank?' 'Sold; I sold him. He was groggy in the knees and too slow. This horse is a goer, and delights me with his motion.'" The ready sale of Frank was a great mortification to Mrs. Davis, and she felt it keenly; the more so as the pony had been, in a measure, the outcome of her suggestion. Although the horse and carriage were "a source of infinite joy and satisfaction to Mr. Whitman, and aided him to pass three years of his invalid life in comparative ease, giving him touches of life and air and scenery otherwise impossible," they were a constant expense and vexation to others. He seldom went for a drive alone, and as a rule chose as his companion one of the many young men of his acquaintance. He always wished to hold the lines himself. Although Mrs. Davis was the usual messenger to and from the stable, although she got her charge ready for his drives, assisted him to the carriage and almost lifted him in and out of it, neither he nor anyone else ever proposed that she should have the pleasure of a drive, or suggested that an occasional airing might do her good. While owning the horse Mr. Whitman did not wholly discontinue his ferry rides, but he no longer "haunted the Delaware River front" as formerly. What a change two years had made in his surroundings!--and what a change in those of Mary Davis! He had come more prominently before the great world; she had nearly passed out of her own limited sphere. The tide which turned when they entered the Mickle Street house was now in full flood for him. But what for her? His book had had a good sale; private contributions were sent to him, amounting to many hundreds of dollars; and from this time on he did little with his pen, though he got occasional lifts from periodicals for both old and new work, and the New York _Herald_ paid him a regular salary as one of its editorial staff. But he resigned this position the following year. VII BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL CHLOROFORM "_He detested a broom. He considered it almost a sin to sweep, and always made a great fuss when it was done._"--EDDIE WILKINS. "_The tremendous firmness of Walt Whitman's nature grew more inflexible with advancing years._"--HORACE TRAUBEL. The second winter in Mickle Street passed much like the previous one. To Mr. Whitman it brought heavier mail, an increase of complimentary notes and invitations, more numerous requests for autographs, steady progress with revision-work, a little new and profitable composition, the delightful companionship of old friends, the pleasure of making new ones, and the comfortable assurance that come what might, there was a capable captain at the helm, who would on all occasions guide the ship of affairs smoothly along. To Mrs. Davis it brought the same old round of work. The next spring and part of the summer were charming seasons to the poet. In them he revelled in his turnout; was sought after, eulogized and lauded. His day-star was truly in the ascendant. This acknowledged popularity was a revelation to Mrs. Davis, who often asked herself, "Where were these friends--the ones in particular who have always lived in Camden--when a short time ago poor old Mr. Whitman, homeless and uncared for, so much needed their help?" But as his popularity increased and grew more marked, as letters and invitations came pouring in, and as at certain gatherings she knew him to be the honored guest, it began to dawn upon her that his poetry--the poetry she had so often heard derided--might mean something after all, and she set herself assiduously to studying it. Finding so much that was beyond her comprehension, she sometimes sought elucidation from the author. This he never vouchsafed, and gave but one reply to all her questions: "Come, you tell me what it means." Unable to comply, she soon laid the book aside and gave her time and attention to other matters. Thus, failing to understand anything of his "soul flights," she no doubt was the better prepared to minister to his mundane needs. A domestic angel in the house she certainly could be. An intellectual angel might have worried Mr. Whitman. Yes, his day-star was truly shining. It was no will-o'-the-wisp he was chasing the day he came hungry and cold, weary and desolate to a good woman's door. Evidently he might have done better with his "little money" at that time, even if it was "only in sight," as "driblets were occasionally coming in." With these driblets he might have kept himself more presentable, seemed less of a derelict. But he had one preëminent need: he needed Mary Davis, and he got her. She had not peered into the future with his prophetic insight, and in helping to open the way for the good times to come--times he had told her so much about--she had been governed by her kind heart alone. Her associates had never spoken of her protégé in any too flattering terms, and weighing all poets by his local standard, had congratulated themselves that not one of them was in danger of ever degenerating into such genius. By midsummer Mr. Whitman had visited in and near Camden, and had made two or three trips to Atlantic City and New York. Everyone was kind and considerate to him, wherever he might be, and as a reliable person always accompanied him on these expeditions, Mrs. Davis was never uneasy on his account, and his absences were her opportunities for resting up and putting the house to rights. Nor did she altogether skip the parlors, for she had somewhat lost her confidence in Mr. Whitman's gift of missing the very thing that was gone. Another Mary--an unfortunate woman; but who ever attached themselves to Mrs. Davis who were not in some trouble or other?--used to come in to assist when extra help was required. Her field of action ended at the kitchen door when the master was at home, for she stood in great awe of him and knew better than to appear in his presence with any order-restoring implement in her hands, especially a broom. But how she exulted when he was at a distance; when she could pass the old boundary unchallenged, and could rub and polish to her heart's desire, and according to her own ideas of cleanliness. She was often heard to remark that Mr. Whitman was the most "unthrifty" man she had ever met. Mr. Whitman might be able to control the use of brooms about his own premises, but his authority did not extend beyond. How the women of the locality learned of his antipathy to sweeping, either in or out of doors, is not known. Probably in some unguarded moment he had condemned it in their hearing. "He was extremely annoyed by the habit the women of his neighborhood had of coming out two or three times a day with their brooms, and stirring up the water in the gutter. He thought it caused malaria. If they would only let it alone!" (_Thomas Donaldson._) It may be that the women made their brooms an excuse for tantalizing "The Poet." He was no less opposed to their sweeping in dry weather, and one morning when six or seven appeared simultaneously and set to sweeping with a will, he knew that it was nothing less than a concerted plan, and this he would not endure. Irritated beyond self-control, he let his indignation fly out of the window in passionate and pointed sentences, which the sweepers totally ignored. In 1867, about four years after his general breakdown, he had commenced to give occasional lectures. This spring (1886) he delivered two, the first on March 1, in Morton Hall, Camden, the second on the afternoon of April 15, in the Chestnut Street Opera House, Philadelphia. Both lectures were upon the same subject, his favorite theme: Abraham Lincoln. He was not an orator, and his audiences were at all times made up of people more curious perhaps to see than to hear him. This second lecture--his last appearance but one as a speaker in the "Quaker City"--was a greater strain than he had calculated upon, although the arrangements had been made for him by his friends, and he was conveyed from his own house direct to the back door of the theatre. He always remained in his carriage while crossing the river. Few people attended this lecture, and out of the $692 it netted him, only $78.25 was received at the door. The rest was made up by appreciative admirers. Two gentlemen gave each $100, four gave $50 each, eight gave $10, two $5, and a society--The Acharon--gave $45. The money was handed to Mr. Whitman in a large white envelope as he left the stage. It was not removed from the envelope until the next forenoon, when it was deposited unbroken in the bank. During the summer Mr. Whitman sustained a sunstroke, fortunately not a serious one, but while suffering from the effects of it he was obliged to give up his jaunts and remain indoors. However, on pleasant evenings he could sit in a chair on the sidewalk, under his one cherished shade tree, into the bark of which he soon wore a hole with the restless movement of his right foot. Of the passers-by there were few who did not know him; many would pause for a moment's speech, others would occasionally get a chair and remain for an hour's chat. He soon recovered, but if the similar stroke he had suffered a few years before had served "to lower his fund of strength, weaken the springs of his constitution and almost wholly destroy his walking powers," (_Thomas Donaldson_), there was certainly little encouragement in store for him. His housekeeper, too, had her physical troubles. She had visibly changed; how could it be otherwise? The back part of the house was gloomy, at times damp and unwholesome, and she had grappled with so many difficulties that she had lost strength and flesh, felt run down and nervous, while the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever. This sickness not only made Mr. Whitman even more dependent upon her than usual, but it caused her great anxiety in another way. She realized the great risk she had taken and was taking, for on coming into the house she had relied upon verbal promises alone; no written contract or agreement had been entered into. Now month had followed month and she had waited in vain for the old man to allude to living expenses or inquire as to her ability to meet them longer. Strange as it may seem, since being settled in his own house Walt had never mentioned money, or in any way broached the subject of his financial standing. During the first year she had not been at all disturbed in mind; she had confidence in his integrity, and believed he had no means of meeting present embarrassments. The next summer she saw that money was coming in from a number of sources, but had no way of learning the amounts received or in what way they were disbursed. This sunstroke and the consequences that might have resulted from it were enough to arouse her thoroughly. Not that she had lost confidence in Mr. Whitman, but it came home to her that should he die she would be in no way secured. Before long the bequest left her by Captain Fritzinger would be following her own savings, which were rapidly dwindling away. After thinking the matter over seriously, she resolved that as soon as the sick man had somewhat recuperated she would make an effort to have things put on a new and safer basis. She knew that from private donations, sale of books, government pension, receipts from lectures and so on, he had opened a bank account. She also knew he was paying one-half the expenses of Edward at a sanitarium and was sending a weekly remittance to his sister in Vermont,--and knowing all this, she felt that she was being treated with injustice. She had already spoken to Mrs. Whitman and to one or two others, and they had assured her that Walt was abundantly able to meet all household expenses, and would without doubt do so in his own good time. She had never solicited his confidence, and yet while they were strangers, or comparative strangers,--long before she had entertained the slightest thought that she should one day exchange her home for his,--he had talked freely, even confidentially, to her; had voluntarily spoken of his money matters, his past disappointments and future expectations. But since she had come into the Mickle Street house he had never renewed these subjects, and his way of passing them over was inexplicable to her. When the first repairs had been made in the house, she had taken the bill to him for approval and payment. He had simply glanced at it, and returned it with the words: "I think it must be all right." She had remained standing in the doorway until, silent, seemingly absorbed in his reading and oblivious of her presence, he had made her feel so uncomfortable that she had quietly glided away to pay the carpenter out of her own purse. This happened so early in their housekeeping together that she, so charitable by nature, had excused him on the ground that, having no money, he had disliked to talk further about the bill. But a year had passed, she understood his position better, and she could not excuse him again on this plea. She had mentioned the urgent need of further repairs (and when were they not needed in this little rookery?) and he had promptly replied: "Have it done; certainly, certainly; have everything done that is required." The result was still the same; although ordering the work, he was just as indifferent as before in regard to settling for it. And so it had gone on in all cases where money had been needed, until Mrs. Davis, who was neither dull nor obtuse, saw that it was merely a matter of choice with him whether he paid for things promptly or not. The receipted bills she had carefully filed away, but what proof had she that they had been met with her own money? At the expiration of the second year, Mr. Whitman at his own expense had the water carried upstairs and a bathtub put in. This was a blessing to both of them, and Mrs. Davis ungrudgingly saw a portion of her own room--the one little back chamber--sacrificed that it might be made possible. Up to the time of the sunstroke she had made a number of futile attempts to introduce the subject of finances, but he had simply uttered "Ah!" (what a world of meaning he could put into that monosyllable!) and had silenced her with a look. An observer says: "I found Whitman sitting on the front stoop talking with a negative pugnacious reformer. The poet entertained his ideas without a trace of impatience or severity of judgment, and yet he was capable of quietly chloroforming him if he became too disagreeable." Another writes: "This leading trait of his character lasted until life glimmered faintly." It was this "leading trait" that prevented Mrs. Davis from introducing any subject not pleasing to him. Again: "He has his stern as well as sad moods; in the former there is a look of power in his face that almost makes one tremble." Mrs. Davis had no fear of Mr. Whitman; he never gave her cause to tremble, but he quietly chloroformed her times without number. The expenses of the house were not light; amongst other things, two coal fires in winter, and a wood fire much of the time. Wood was a luxury to him, but it was an expensive item to his housekeeper, and the little stove in his sleeping room devoured it like an insatiate monster. "He enjoyed a wood fire." Then she supplied his table and entertained his guests--his many guests. She never bothered him; was always on hand and ready to help him to mature his plans, however inexpedient or impracticable they might appear to her. VIII VISITING AND VISITORS "_His haunt on 'Timber Creek' is one of the loveliest spots imaginable; no element lacking to make it an ideal ground for a poet, or study place for a lover of nature._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY. "_April 11, 1887. I expect to go to New York to speak my 'Death of Lincoln' piece Thursday afternoon next. Probably the shake up will do me good...._ "_Stood it well in New York. It was a good break from my monotonous days here, but if I had stayed longer, I should have been killed with kindness and attentions._"--WALT WHITMAN. It was decided that Mr. Whitman should make one of his delightful visits to his friends, the Staffords, in their beautiful country home, "Timber Creek," just as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take the trip, and Mrs. Davis thought best to defer talking with him or considering any definite step regarding home matters until he returned. She took pains to get him ready, and, as she had done before, persuaded him to purchase some new clothing and look his best. This visit, like previous ones, was charming to the poet, and he came home much benefited. While he was away Mrs. Davis rested and paid a short visit to the aged parents of Mrs. Fritzinger in Doylstown, Pennsylvania. In this breathing spell she had thought home matters over and had planned her mode of procedure; but alas! when the poet appeared upon the spot and she had welcomed him, the courage she had summoned up when he was out of sight deserted her. She threw out hints, then made attempts to speak, but to no avail; an understanding was not brought about and things went on in the old fashion. Much as Mr. Whitman enjoyed his visits and jaunts, coming back to his own home was the one great joy of his life, and meeting his housekeeper after even a brief absence was always a pleasure to him. It was quite late in the fall when he returned. He resumed his work at once, and the winter was not an unpleasant one to him; only somewhat tedious, because he was so closely confined to the house. In other ways it was made cheerful with social events and agreeable company, and it was brightened with anticipations of the delightful drives to be enjoyed in the spring. (It was about this time that Horace Traubel commenced to come to the house.) Each season had added to his popularity, until he had attained the zenith of his most sanguine imaginations; his most potent daydreams had truly materialized; he was fully on the crest of the wave! His housekeeping had surpassed his fondest expectations, for to him his home was ideal. Deprivation was a thing of the past; there was no lack of means, as private contributions were sent to him amounting to many hundreds of dollars. That he was poor and needy, and "was supported in his final infirmities by the kind interest of his friends, who subscribed each his mite that the little old frame house in Camden might shelter the snowy head of the bard to the end," was the universal belief, and a kindly feeling was manifested towards him in his own home and in England. It is to be regretted that he was not better fitted physically to enjoy all his later blessings. Out-of-doors life seemed essential to him, and after a number of outings he was able, as early as April 6, 1887, to read his Lincoln lecture--the last he gave in his own city. It was well attended, and listened to with deep attention. On the 12th of the same month he went to New York for the purpose of reading his lecture there. He was accompanied by William Duckett, a young friend who acted as valet and nurse, and it was on his arm the old man leaned as he came forward on the stage and stood a few minutes to acknowledge the applause of the audience. When the tumult had subsided, the poet sat down beside a stand, laid his cane on the floor, put on his glasses and proceeded to read from a little book, upon whose pages the manuscript and printed fragments were pasted. "The lecturer was dressed in a dark sack coat, with dark gray waistcoat and trousers, low shoes, and gray woollen socks. The spotless linen of his ample cuffs and rolling collar was trimmed with a narrow band of edging, and the cuffs were turned up over the ends of his sleeves." Thus says the New York _Tribune_ of the next day, and it cannot be denied that his appearance did credit to his housekeeper's attention at this time, as it did on all other public occasions. The "spotless linen," however, was unbleached cotton, one of the six new shirts Mrs. Davis had made for him. The lecture was very successful. At the close, a little girl, Laura Stedman, the five year old granddaughter of the "banker poet," walked out upon the stage and presented Mr. Whitman with a basket of lilac blossoms. The New York _Times_ had this account of the event the next morning: "Forth on the stage came a beautiful basket of lilac blossoms, and behind it was a little bit of a maiden in a white Normandy cap and a little suit of Quaker gray, her eyes beaming, and her face deeply impressed with the gravity of the occasion. She walked to where he sat and held out her gift without a word. He started, took it and then took her. "It was December frost and May-time blossom at their prettiest contrast, as the little pink cheek shone against the snow-white beard, for the old man told his appreciation mutely by kissing her and kissing her again, the audience meanwhile applauding sympathetically." Mr. Whitman then recited his poem "O Captain!" and the curtain fell--fell to shut him from the sight of a New York audience forever. Mrs. Davis always dreaded Mr. Whitman's New York visits, and this episode caused her extra anxiety. She knew that his many and influential friends would give him a warm welcome and a great reception, and she also knew how prone the poet was to go beyond the bounds of prudence. He could stand only a little fatigue and excitement now. He returned in good condition, however, and she flattered herself that a quiet summer was before them. He had told her that this lecture (which increased his bank account by six hundred dollars) was to be his last public function, but she had no knowledge of something else he had in near view; something he had already arranged for. IX A BUST AND A PAINTING "_Sidney Morse has made a second big head (bust), an improvement, if I dare to say so, on the first. The second is the Modern Spirit Awake and Alert as well as Calm--contrasted with the antique and Egyptian calmness of the first._"--WALT WHITMAN. "_Oh, that awful summer of 1887!_"--MARY DAVIS. Early in the summer, when he had fully recovered from his exertions in New York, Mr. Whitman received a letter from a sculptor, Mr. Sidney Morse, requesting the privilege of coming to Camden at once, to make a plaster bust of him. The promise had been given to Mr. Morse for the summer, but the actual date had not been fixed upon. Eleven years before this artist had made a very unsatisfactory bust of Walt, one he had always wished to improve upon. On the first occasion Walt had not entertained the thought of such an undertaking in his brother's house, but had gone to Philadelphia for the sittings. This time, as before, the choice of location had been left to him; and it seemed almost incredible that he, who had been initiated in this line of art, should have imposed upon his housekeeper to the extent of giving his own stuffy little house the preference over a more suitable place. He had answered Mr. Morse's letter, telling him he would cheerfully put himself at his disposal; the summer was before them, and nothing else impending. In short, he would engage himself to him for the summer, and he was confident the result would be better this time. About two weeks elapsed, and nothing had been said to Mrs. Davis on the subject when one morning to her surprise the artist arrived, prepared to go to work without delay. Had she been consulted, she could have made preliminary preparations; had she been better informed she would have persuaded Mr. Whitman to select a different place, and had she been fully enlightened she would have insisted upon it. Mr. Morse writes: "I found Mr. Whitman more crippled and quieter in manner than when we met before. Eleven years had wrought their changes. He was however in a less perturbed frame of mind." Naturally so; in his own home, contradicted in nothing, with his own carriage, and a devoted woman to wait upon him,--one who never intimated that there existed such exigencies as living expenses or household entanglements. It was left to the artist to tell Mrs. Davis the purpose for which he had come. He said that he was desirous of beginning his work as soon as was compatible with Mr. Whitman's convenience, and the poet seeing no obstacle in the way of an immediate commencement, it was decided that the first sitting should take place the following afternoon. Mrs. Davis was somewhat enlightened as to what the making of a bust implied when a load of mysterious and cumbersome articles drove up to the door in the morning. Puzzled both as to their use and where they could be housed, she had them delivered at the back gate and piled up in the yard. Mr. Morse kept his appointment with promptitude, and after a few minutes' conversation with his subject, he summoned the housekeeper, and then, "the litter of everything under heaven was poked aside" to make a clearing by the window. Mrs. Davis assisted him in bringing some of the articles from the yard, such as boards and boxes upon which to fashion the clay; then when the necessity came for something in which to mix it, her wash tubs were at once appropriated, and as smaller vessels were from time to time required, many of her dishes and kitchen utensils were one by one pressed into service. During the first afternoon the work was put well in progress, and what a time was thus inaugurated! Before the week ended there was clay and plaster on all sides. The two men, interested in the bust alone, were oblivious to everything else, and passed the time chatting in a lively strain. The artist was satisfied with his work and delighted with the prospect of being undisturbed until its completion. He writes: "My deep satisfaction overflowed to the housekeeper, who admonished me that there was an element of uncertainty in Mr. Whitman's programme nowadays"--and sooner than he had counted upon, her words were verified, for on the morning following her mild warning a telegram came and "the damper fell," as Mr. Morse says. This was the telegram: "Am in New York and may arrive in Camden at any moment. Herbert Gilchrist." "He's coming to paint me," said Mr. Whitman on reading the message; "I had forgotten about him. We will put him over there somewhere; I don't see what I can do to stop it; he has come all the way from England--from England, Sidney, to paint me. Make the best of it, share the crust with him." "The damper fell" for Mrs. Davis as well, when Mr. Whitman in his usual off-hand manner announced the news to her. Another artist coming! a portrait painter! And Mr. Whitman who had known of this for an indefinite time had given her no warning, had taken her unaware. She was completely overcome, and not a little indignant. Had he really forgotten it, or had he thought it a matter of too little importance to mention? It was not often that Mrs. Davis shed tears in self-pity, but now they were her only relief. It was not the extra work and expense that troubled her most; it was Mr. Whitman's indifference towards her. Mr. Morse was also touched, and confesses that in his disappointment he was half inclined to pack his traps and go. For a moment the housekeeper's mind tended in the same direction. "But," continues Mr. Morse, "when the young man appeared on the scene in person, I was calm once more and ready to be pacified." Mrs. Davis also calmed herself and, as was her disposition, concealed her feelings and roused herself to meet the emergency. "The litter of everything under heaven" was poked still further aside, the stove was taken down and put into the cellar, things heaped and packed higher in the corners or carried out of the room, and a place made for the newcomer. Mr. Gilchrist proved to be an agreeable, enthusiastic young man, and one never to get into another's way. Mr. Morse could keep his place at the window, and Mr. Gilchrist could place his easel a little way back, so that the sitter didn't need to change his position to be in a good light for both. But what of Mrs. Davis when paint and oil were added to plaster and the other refuse pervading the parlors? Had the confusion been confined to these rooms alone it could have been held in check, but for lack of room the kitchen soon became an auxiliary to the improvised studio. Again quoting Mr. Morse: "For a week we kept it up, working some, talking more, Mr. Whitman's wistful eye on us both." This favorable state of affairs was, however, of short duration, for after the first week the progress of the artists was unsatisfactory; they were hindered by constant interruptions, and as company began to pour in upon them, some days would pass and find little accomplished by either. It seemed a fatality that so many people should have chosen this very time to make their visits, especially people from abroad. Before long the strain of it told visibly on Mr. Whitman. Mr. Morse observed not only this, but the anxious look on Mrs. Davis's face as well, and on consulting her found she was much alarmed, and feared that their subject would give out unless some change could be made. The change was made when early the next morning the sculptor betook himself with his effects to the yard. This arrangement not merely gave additional space in the parlors where two or three spectators could sit or stand, but it also removed from them their chief attraction. Some of Mr. Whitman's friends called daily, several twice or even three times in a single day. Mr. Morse was satisfied with the new order of things and says: "In the cool shadow of the house, under a propitious sky (when it was propitious), with high boarded fence, and a grape vine wreathing itself into a pear tree for a background, my work proceeded. Occasional excursions to the studio in front for memory sketches seemed to be serving me all right." Up to this time Mrs. Davis had had undisputed possession of the yard, and this constant running back and forth was almost unendurable to her. For the excursions were not confined to the sculptor; all comers, casual or constant visitors, old friends and strangers, even ordinary passers-by--following the lead of others--deliberately took the right of way through the hall and kitchen, until it might as well have been a public passage from street to yard. Then in unfavorable weather, when the work could not go on, came another complication, as the unwieldy appurtenances had to be brought into the little canvas-covered alcove, shed and kitchen, obstructing everything. It was worse still in case of a sudden shower, when the things had to be hustled in anywhere and anyhow. But the front of the house! It was vacation time, and the "plaster man" and "painter man" at Whitman's were the great source of entertainment in the neighborhood. Children thronged the cellar doors from early morning until late at night; babies were held up to look in, and there was a general scramble for the best point of view. Pedestrians, market people and others passing the house were attracted by this manifest excitement, and there was scarcely one of them who did not pause to satisfy his or her inquisitiveness with a peep. From a distance it was difficult to discern what could be taking place at the poet's, and everybody, old and young, even the halt and the lame, seemed to have time to walk an extra block or two to ascertain. However, as there was no alternative, Mrs. Davis was willing to bear it all patiently for a few weeks at most, as she supposed. Mr. Morse, pressed by his host, fell into the habit of remaining to lunch; Mr. Gilchrist often joined them; and as in the course of conversation interesting subjects would come up, the day's work for both frequently ended at noon. Should incidental visitors arrive during meal time, they were invited without ceremony or apology to the kitchen, and Mr. Whitman always pressed them to eat something, regardless of the time of day or what might be upon the table. His talk was animated and arresting. He would usually begin with current events, then run into discussions on various themes, often intricate, and the two artists felt themselves extremely fortunate to be the privileged recipients of some of his most striking thoughts and phrases. It was at this juncture that one day an English gentleman accompanied by two ladies rang at the open door. Mr. Whitman had never met them, but seeing them from his seat at the table he welcomed them with these words: "Oh, darlings, come right this way, come right this way." On their complying he continued: "Herbert, Sidney, move a little. Mary, lay the plates and bring the chairs." (The extra ones hanging in the shed.) Then came a hitching and shuffling of chairs, and a crowding together. At first the party looked a little annoyed, but when they were fairly seated they soon became so absorbed in the poet's talk and in his associates that, unconsciously to everyone except the housekeeper, lunch merged into dinner. But this was no unusual occurrence. Indeed there were days when Mr. Whitman would remain at the table from lunch until a very late hour, company coming and leaving in relays. This summer, and for some time previous, he had dispensed with the regular breakfast, taking an early cup of coffee and a piece of toast in his own room. But the other meals certainly involved plenty of work and patience. Well might he say: "Mrs. Davis has a knack of anticipating what I want, and in case of emergency at the dinner table knows right well how to make the best of it. She has rare intelligence and her tact is great." She indeed had tact. "Jolly dinners you have here," quoth one distinguished visitor, notwithstanding they were served in the little heated kitchen. Mrs. Davis always waited upon the guests in a pleasant genial manner, and few knew to whom it was due that the "jolly dinners" ran so agreeably along. Her watchful eye detected when any article of food was getting low, either for present company or when their places were about to be taken by newcomers. A thousand times she slipped out quietly to the little side gutter and ran (she always ran) to procure a loaf of bread, an extra supply of butter, crackers or cheese. The home-made supplies rarely gave out, as she provided bountifully for all. Mr. Whitman had good reason for going on to say, as he did: "I am well pleased with my housekeeper. She does better for me than a whole retinue of pompous bothering waiters. I detest the critters; bowing and watching"--and probably expecting their just remuneration--for to complete his appreciation of her virtues he could have added: "And she furnishes the means." Yes; the lingering lunches and "jolly dinners" were paid for out of her fast decreasing bank account, as was everything else. It was doubtful if Mr. Whitman realized in how many ways he was indebted to her, or if the idea ever occurred to him that he could ask too much of her. So confident was he of her always making "the best of it" that nothing agitated or worried him. Yet this entertaining anyone and everyone in the kitchen often placed her in unpleasant and embarrassing predicaments. Of these he seemed to have no knowledge, as he never made an attempt to extricate her from one. Visitors were often more observing, and no doubt most of them saw under what disadvantages she was placed. Some of them kindly helped her over difficulties, and others just as kindly passed awkward little occurrences by apparently unnoticed. Although Mr. Whitman did not mind what people said or thought about him, Mrs. Davis was sensitive and criticism hurt her feelings. She knew full well that she was sometimes blamed, by visitors who did not understand the conditions, for things for which she was not at all responsible. She knew that to her charge was laid the air of negligence that pervaded the house, and even Mr. Whitman's bluntness towards certain people. "There were grim and repellent traits in Walt Whitman. He was naked of manners and suave apologies as the scarred crag of the Matterhorn of verdure." That physical suffering was many times the key to the old man's roughness Mrs. Davis understood, and she had a mild way of smoothing it over and putting other people at ease. She always spoke highly of both the artists, and in many ways they were more considerate of her than was their host. With things going on as they did, both were retarded in their work, and each in turn became discouraged. Mr. Whitman would sometimes be out of humor for sitting, or so worn out and ill that he could not come downstairs until late in the day; or again, when all looked promising he would order his carriage, drive off and leave them in the lurch. Consequently each work of art required more time for its completion than had been calculated. Mrs. Davis did her best to encourage both the sculptor and the painter, and in every way she could devise, endeavored to forward their work. She removed obstacles; she influenced their sitter, and persuaded him to be quieter, to avoid over-exertion and excitement, to see less company and to lie down during the heat of the day. At length both bust and picture were finished. Each proved to be highly satisfactory, and by many they are thought to be the most lifelike representations of the original. Of the bust Mr. Whitman himself said: "I am quite clear _this_ is the typical one; modern, reaching out, looking ahead, democratic, more touch of animation, unsettledness, etc., etc. Not intended to be polished off, left purposely a little in the rough." X REST--AND ROUTINE "_Heat, heat, heat, day and night!... I am still getting along through the hot season--have things pretty favorable here in my shanty, with ventilation (night and day), frequent bathing, light meals, all of which makes it better for me in my shattered helpless condition to tug it out here in Mickle Street, than to transfer myself somewhere, to seashore or mountains. It is not for a long time, anyway._"--WALT WHITMAN. Mr. Whitman had reached the limit of endurance when the artists bid him and Camden adieu, while Mrs. Davis, with the constant demands upon her time and strength, the condition of the house, unlimited entertaining and lengthened working hours, had completely succumbed. Another thing that had been to their disadvantage was the extreme heat, for it had been and still was an extremely hot summer--a Jersey summer. Each was prostrated, and for awhile rest and relaxation alone could be thought of. A short lull that followed the recent turmoil, however, and succeeding cool weather, did much towards their recuperation; but unfortunately sick-headaches, which had been occasional with Mrs. Davis, now became persistent; her vitality was gone, and her courage was on the wane. In fact she never fully recovered, nor did she ever forget "that awful summer of 1887." But while she was so miserable and ill she was not forgotten by her old friends, who rallied at once to her assistance, and it was through their thoughtfulness and kind attentions that a general and final collapse was avoided. None of them had been willing to give her up altogether when she moved into the Mickle Street house. She for her part had never willingly neglected them; one or another, understanding this, had run in the back way at odd times, and if by chance they had found the kitchen in her undisputed possession, had gladly remained to lend her a helping hand. Nor with her multiplicity of new duties and in her new surroundings had she been unmindful of her habit of protectiveness, and this house became, as her own had been, the temporary shelter for some orphan girl or boy, some friendless woman or stranded young man. Crowded as it was, the little Whitman home could make room for an emergency case. As the owner was just now confined for some weeks to his sleeping apartment, Mrs. Davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge when the kind ministrations of her friends relieved her of immediate household duties; then in turn rouse herself, drag herself upstairs and attend to the wants of the sick man there. Her helpers were glad to prove their friendship for her, but it didn't reach the extent of waiting upon the disabled poet; this rested with her alone. Not that they were afraid of him, or that he had ever been rude or impolite to them, but not one of them was exactly at ease in his presence. By good fortune, at this opportune time a gentleman and his wife invited Mrs. Davis to accompany them upon an excursion to Southern California. At first she declined the invitation; the distance seemed so great, and Mr. Whitman was so poorly, there was no telling what might happen during her absence. But she was still pressed to go, and unknown to her the project was broached to Mr. Whitman, who highly approved of it. Finally she accepted the proffered kindness; her friends assisted her in her preparations, and she set off with pleasurable anticipations. This journey was the one great delight of her life, and she returned much benefited. But how about the good little woman who had strongly urged her going, who had added her earnest persuasions to those of the others, and who had offered her own and her daughter's services in place of hers? Poor little woman, she did her best willingly and uncomplainingly; but she did openly avow at the expiration of the three weeks that had Mary stayed another day, she would have gone insane. During his housekeeper's brief absence, Mr. Whitman had found how truly his home was not home without her. He frankly told her this, and acknowledged to her that no one living could fill her place to him; that others around him irritated him--unconsciously, he knew--while she instinctively soothed and quieted him, overwrought and impatient as he might sometimes feel. Furthermore, he presented her with a nice gold ring. Soon after her return, Walt, who was quite himself once more, paid another visit to the Staffords, and getting him ready for this trip was her first work on reaching home. "Timber Creek" was his favorite resort, a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that it flashed across the mind of a friend while sauntering about with him there, that it would be a capital idea to raise a "Walt Whitman Cottage Fund," and build him a little summer home there. On cautiously sounding Walt upon the subject, he eagerly responded: "Oh, how often I have thought of it!" So it was decided to build a cottage here, or by the seaside somewhere, where he could spend part of the year with nature and away from the noise and turmoil of the city. Eight hundred dollars were quickly raised towards the fund; the site for building, tiles for the chimney and plan by the architect were donated; but alas, it was seen that it was too late in his life for the scheme to be feasible, and the money was cheerfully given to him by the contributors to be used as he thought best. On this particular occasion Mrs. Davis was more than glad to be alone. The parlors were much as the artists had left them, and a general housecleaning was instituted. And such a cleaning! Everything had to be handled and looked over, discarded or packed away. It was a disheartening task. Dried paint and plaster were on every side and resisted all attempts at removal, as though they had learned the lesson of persistency from the late sitter; besides, some repairs had to be made against the coming winter, and the stove had rusted in the cellar. In good time all was accomplished and order again restored. Mr. Whitman returned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back to his own home once more. But as a matter of course he acted as though beside himself for awhile, and the old act of hunting for lost or missing articles was repeated. Mrs. Davis, however, who had taken more than one lesson from him, passed his perturbation by without apparent notice. She knew the time was not far in the future when rapidly failing health would altogether prevent his leaving home; he would probably be confined to the upper part of the house, perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise to be in readiness for whatever was in store. Although he had been situated so auspiciously for his comfort, and in a way to attain the great object he desired, Mr. Whitman's past four years had not been all sunshine. He had had spells of deep depression, days when he felt no inclination to come downstairs, or even to speak; and during the winter of this year the dark cloud hovered more persistently above him than ever before. For one thing, there were weeks when extremely cold or stormy weather prevented his going out of doors. Mrs. Davis had much sympathy for him while the dreary mood lasted, and in many ways endeavored to dispel it. During the inclement weather she found in her cheery canary bird a valued assistant, and knowing the old man's fondness for the little fellow, she would at times stealthily place the cage in his room, "and let the sun shine out for a moment, this bird would flood the room with trills of melody." (The canary outlived Mr. Whitman, and through his long sickness, lasting from the summer of 1888 to the spring of 1892, it was always a welcome visitor in his room.) This would act as an inspiration, and Mr. Whitman would often take this time to write to some friend, always mentioning the singing of the bird and the shining of the sun. "Pleasant weather as I write seated here by the window, my little canary singing like mad." "Sunny and summery weather here, and my canary is singing like a house on fire." "Dull weather, the ground covered with snow, but my little bird is singing as I write." Good cheer may have been another comforting agent, for he writes: "We have (Mrs. Davis has) just had a baking. Oh! how I do wish I could send the dear frau one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little ginger, no other spice." "A cold freezing day. Have had my dinner of rare stewed oysters, some toasted Graham bread, and a cup of tea." "Have had a bad spell of illness again, but am better to-day. Have just eaten a bit of dinner for the first time in over a week--stewed rabbit with a piece of splendid home-made bread, covered with stew-gravy." "Have just had my dinner--a great piece of toasted Graham bread, salted and well buttered with fresh country butter, and then a lot of panned oysters dumped over it, with hot broth; then a nice cup custard, and a cup of coffee. So if you see in the paper that I am starving (as I saw the other day), understand how." In speaking of Mrs. Davis in a letter of the previous summer, he writes: "Very hot weather here continued. I am feeling badly, yet not so badly as you might fancy. I am careful and Mrs. Davis is very good and cute." "Am idle and monotonous enough in my weeks and life here; but on the whole am thankful it is no worse. My buying this shanty and settling down here on half, or one-fourth pay, and getting Mrs. Davis to cook for me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way, but I am satisfied it is all as well as it is." Through the winter Mr. Whitman plodded on with his literary work, and by spring the parlors were once more transformed into a regular printing and mailing establishment. To these over-filled rooms he had added an oil portrait of an ancestor, a life-size bust of Elias Hicks, and a seated statuette of himself. He was very careful of the two latter works of art, and to protect them from dust kept them partially encased in newspapers. When a caller once slyly lifted the paper from the statuette, he found a colony of ants had made the lap of it their home. The bust of Hicks was very conspicuous, and looked spectral in its paper headgear. Mrs. Davis would occasionally remove the yellow and time-worn papers, and replace them with clean ones. The owner no doubt noticed this, but he had ceased to be too observant of some things, and had become more lenient where "Mary" was the offender. And Mary had learned just how far she could go with impunity. In a way their lives had merged together. It was a custom with Mr. Whitman to have his manuscripts set up in type before sending them away--even his "little bits" of newspaper contributions. This was done in a "quaint little printing office" in town, the proprietor of which was "an old fellow acquaintance" of Walt's. In this matter, as in all others, he was very impatient, for the moment anything was ready for the press he would summon Mrs. Davis, regardless of time, weather or her own occupations, saying: "Take this to the printer's, Mary, and tell him I want it _immediately_"; and although most of this work was done gratuitously, the "old fellow acquaintance" was decidedly accommodating to his honored patron, and often laid other jobs aside for his "odd bits." He was as well always courteous to Mrs. Davis. It may be that he could not withstand her appeals for haste, and was willing to incommode himself to save her from fruitless trips to the office; for he knew that in an unreasonably short time the poet would demand his printed bit. In fact, so impatient would the writer often become, that to pacify him his good housekeeper would make half a dozen trips to the office. Frequently he would correct the proof and return it for a second, perhaps a third or fourth printing, and frequently he would say: "Don't come back without it, Mary; wait for it." It would have been inconsistent with Mrs. Davis's natural activity for her to remain sitting in a printing office for an unlimited time, therefore she usually took advantage of these opportunities to do a little shopping, make a friendly call, or even a hasty run to Philadelphia. The corrected copies were never destroyed, but, like everything else, were dropped on the floor. It was no wonder that "to some Walt Whitman's house was a sort of conglomerated dime museum." Strangers who called drew their own inferences and reported accordingly, and in this way contradictory stories were told and sent out into the world. Much that was false was believed, until the prevailing impression was that "he was living in poverty and neglect." He was extremely non-committal, and his housekeeper never intruded her knowledge upon anyone, so it was natural that errors as to his home life should creep in. It was certainly difficult to credit that from sheer preference any human being could live in and enjoy the state of disorder that was found in the Whitman house, thanks to the poet's peculiarities. But this manner of living suited him, and in it he found true comfort. It must be confessed that things were outwardly so indicative of neglect that mistakes were bound to be made, while little of the actual life was known or understood, except by intimate friends. "The junk shop jumble of those lonesome rooms," writes one; and again: "I found the venerable poet in his garret, living in neglect and want, cooking soup in a yellow bowl on a sheet-iron stove nearby." (_S. T. Packard in a magazine article._) (The bowl merely contained clean water for the purpose of moistening the overheated atmosphere of the room.) Still further he writes: "Whenever his strength permitted he rose from his armchair with the rough bear-robe thrown over the back." It was really a white wolf-skin robe, a present to Mr. Whitman and of great service to him. In truth the elucidation, explanation and straightening out of the various stories concerning the life of Walt Whitman in Mickle Street would require a volume in itself. No fancifulness, however, on the part of more or less observant visitors could rival that of their subject, for "His imagination could and did convert the narrow walls of the house in Camden into boundaries of nations, seas, oceans, mountain-chains, vistas of Eden, forests, cities, palaces, landscapes, hovels, homes of the rich, and art galleries, so that Whitman was thus of the great world while out of it." "A peculiar feature of Walt Whitman's rooms, those I mean which his housekeeper is not allowed to put into order, is the chaos and confusion in which his papers are coiled. The bump of order does not exist in his cranium." (_William Sloane Kennedy._) But visitors were left to their own impressions, and these were too often unjust to the woman who always did her best to prevent the confusion from growing still worse confounded. XI A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES "_You have a good housekeeper._"--E. L. KELLER. "_Yes, good, square--tip-top--devoted to me. Behind all she has spunk, very sensitive, the least word sets her off. A good woman._"--WALT WHITMAN. "_Sunsets and sunrises to his soul were almost equal to food for his body._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. At last the long tedious winter ended, and never was a spring more welcome to Mr. Whitman, for his acme of enjoyment was still to be out of doors. During the months when he was so closely confined to the house he had become even more dependent upon his housekeeper, had more often sought her companionship, had been more confidential towards her, and had repeatedly expressed his thankfulness that he was in his own domicile, and was so fortunate as to have her efficient services. He would saunter more frequently into the kitchen for a social chat, and preferred to take his meals there whenever he felt equal to it. Altogether, he was much more domesticated. Still, he had been able to go out sometimes, had taken part in a number of social gatherings, where he had enjoyed the pleasure of congenial company, had even had "some jolly dinners" in his own house; but nothing could compete with the delight he experienced when he was under the blue sky. His drives were absolutely joyful to him, and the first one set all his recuperative forces in action. His rapid gain was distinctly perceptible, and everything looked hopeful and promising. On May 31, 1888--his sixty-ninth birthday--a lawyer, one of his later friends (_Mr. Thomas B. Harned, Horace Traubel's brother-in-law_), and one at whose hospitable board he was often found, gave a reception and supper in his honor. It was a most enjoyable affair. But four days later, after a lengthened drive Mr. Whitman was tempted to visit the river bank to contemplate the setting sun. He imprudently prolonged his stay until the evening dampness caused him to feel a sensation of chilliness, which increased momentarily until upon his reaching home it terminated in a real chill, followed by still more serious consequences, for from it resulted a paralytic shock. It was not a heavy shock, but was quite violent enough to cause alarm. At the first symptom Mrs. Davis summoned a physician, and did everything in her own power to alleviate his sufferings. He was seriously ill throughout the night, and next day had two recurrences of the shock, one in the morning and the other at noon. After the third it was believed, even by his physicians, that the termination of all was near at hand. For hours he was speechless, and to every appearance in a comatose condition. His friend Dr. R. M. Bucke of Canada--who had come to Camden to attend the birthday celebration--had not yet returned home, and hurried at once to the bedside, where he was unremitting in his care and attention. Dr. Bucke was a skilful physician and a man of great executive ability, and his timely presence was a great blessing to all. His appreciation of Mr. Whitman as a writer, and his personal friendship for him, were of long standing. To the surprise and relief of everybody, an unlooked-for reaction took place, and the sick man's first words on recovering his speech were: "It will soon pass over, and if it does not it will be all right." He was carried to his sleeping apartment, and from this time to his death he used the front parlor only as a sitting room. Dr. Bucke and Mr. Donaldson had talked much while their old friend was lying in the comatose state, and both were troubled that things were so complicated, and that no one in particular seemed to have the least supervision over him or his personal belongings. Both were surprised when they learned that he had never made a will, and had never offered a suggestion or given any directions in regard to his literary affairs. They were anxious as well, because they knew that in case of death, which seemed so close at hand, his papers and manuscripts would be scattered and lost. As to home matters, Dr. Bucke said that Mrs. Davis was worn out and a permanent nurse must be provided. This point Mr. Donaldson cordially endorsed. Of Mr. Whitman's pecuniary standing the Doctor had no knowledge, but Mr. Donaldson was better informed in regard to the sums he had received, and after consultation both fully agreed that the time had come when someone must take charge of affairs and no longer allow them to run on in the old haphazard way. They decided to talk with Mrs. Davis, and upon their doing this she gave them a correct, full and truthful statement of the facts of the case. She could well enlighten them on the subject of outgoings, and both men were genuinely astonished to learn that Walt Whitman had never contributed one farthing towards the maintenance of the house,--for repairs, supplies, furniture or fuel. She told them that while so many had been solicitous of Mr. Whitman's comfort and interests, she felt aggrieved that no one had ever exhibited the least consideration for her; that she had spoken to Mr. and Mrs. George Whitman a number of times, and they had assured her that Walt was in a position to meet all expenses of the house, and to the best of her belief they both supposed that he was doing this, though neither had made any inquiries of her. She said that in addition to her giving her time as general servant to all, her funds were rapidly diminishing, her goods going to rack and ruin, her health failing; and she felt that she could bear the burden no longer. She mentioned the promises Walt had made, and added that she did not doubt that in his way of thinking, and of doing things, he still intended to deal honestly and honorably by her; that she had endeavored to talk with him and come to a satisfactory understanding, until she was convinced that he avoided the subject purposely. She felt that in no way was she secured, and it was a positive fact that two years more would bankrupt her. What she asked was a settlement on the spot, and that someone might be found to take her place. _Take her place!_ Was there a woman upon earth who could or would do this? It was a proposition that neither of her auditors would consider; up to this time the thought of her leaving had never entered their minds; indeed, no one had ever stopped to think that she might in time wear out and be obliged to give up, or perhaps get discouraged and go of her own free will. They urged her to abandon such an idea. What would the Mickle Street house be without her? The mere suggestion was the extreme of cruelty, for the sick man, although a little better at present, was too low for any change, especially one that would touch him so closely. Dr. Bucke gave her his word that he would be personally responsible for all she had spent, and for proper payment for her services as housekeeper both in the past and the future; he told her that her work would be lightened immeasurably, as a regular nurse was to be engaged; and that in case Mr. Whitman should die before matters were settled, her interests should be carefully looked after. Relying on this promise, she remained. In a few days Mr. Whitman's friends spoke to him and proposed that out of his bank account, which had grown to some thousands of dollars, he should hereafter purchase his own wood, pay for one-half the other fuel, keep the house in repair, and settle his private expenditures, to all of which he gave a ready and willing assent. Next day they advised his making a will, which he did, and it is known that in this he made some provision for Mrs. Davis, but its full contents were never disclosed, as he wrote it himself. On learning that according to Jersey law a woman could be the executor of an estate, he said it was his wish and desire that his esteemed sister-in-law, Louise Whitman, should close his. (This will was replaced by one made in December, 1891, during his last sickness.) In regard to his literary matters, it was thought best that they should be placed in the hands of three executors, Dr. Bucke being one. When it was made known that in future Mr. Whitman was to have a regular nurse, some of his young admirers volunteered to solicit a monthly contribution from his numerous friends to meet this expense. The patient made some inquiries regarding the nurse fund, and on being told that it was all right and attended to, never alluded to the subject again. The task of keeping the fund up fell to Horace Traubel; for when it was first started people subscribed under the impression that it was a temporary matter, that Mr. Whitman's life hung on a thread, and that they would only be called upon once or twice; so all ran smoothly for a while. But as months merged into years some donors became tired of giving, while others found themselves unable to continue. Mr. Traubel was indefatigable in his endeavors to serve his friend. As one subscriber after another fell out, he called upon people or wrote to them in order to fill the vacant places. Besides this matter, in the four years in which he was connected with the poet he did much writing and corresponding for him, and was of great service to him. The sick man improved slowly, and when there were no longer any indications of a relapse and everything had been satisfactorily arranged, Dr. Bucke returned to his home; not however until he had again talked with Mrs. Davis and had once more assured her that full justice should be done, and that she need no longer feel uncertain as to her own well-being. While Mr. Whitman was so very ill, there was no difficulty in securing a professional nurse. The first, a gentlemanly middle-aged man named Musgrove, left when the patient had in a measure regained his normal condition. Other nurses were in turn engaged, but the place was so undesirable, the duties so varied and uncongenial, accommodations so lacking and the remuneration so small, that after a short trial each one left, all of them testifying to the housekeeper's goodness to them, and to her unselfish surrender of herself to their patient. After Mr. Musgrove's first few weeks there was not much regular nursing, and at Mr. Whitman's request Mrs. Davis did most of this; but there remained the heavy lifting and hard work. The wood was bought in cord lengths and thrown through the slanting door into the cellar, where it was sawed and split. The cellar was not only cold and damp, but the wood was often wet and clumsy to handle. Besides sawing, splitting and carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the nurse was expected to do sufficient carpentering to keep the house in repair, shovel snow in winter, run errands for his patient, and later wheel him about the streets in an invalid chair. This chair was purchased from the proceeds of a birthday dinner given for the poet in his own city, May 31, 1889. One hundred and twenty-five dollars were donated on the occasion, and as Mr. Whitman had now become too decrepit to use his carriage, that and the horse were disposed of, and the wheel-chair substituted. There was so much trouble in getting a nurse who cared to remain, that late in the fall following the shock Dr. Bucke sent a young Canadian to fill the place. This young man, who desired to study medicine, had accepted the position with that object in view, and coming through personal interests alone he was naturally much engrossed in his own affairs, and never lost sight of his own advantages. He saw that by embracing this opportunity he could attain the necessary knowledge, keep a roof over his head (one that generally leaked, but this did not dampen his ardor), earn his board and clothing, and have besides the great benefit of attending lectures in Philadelphia. During the five months between the shock and the advent of the student nurse, Mr. Whitman had resumed his writing, and his bedchamber became his sanctum. Before his illness Mrs. Davis had managed to keep the upper portion of the house in passable order. Now it was gradually assuming the late appearance of the parlors, for here at least Mr. Whitman had full control, and would brook no interference whatever. When the nurse found that his best endeavors to bring about a change in this merely meant wasted time, he quietly went his own way and left his patient to do the same. He confessed that he thought him "the most singular mortal" he had ever met, and said: "When I was first employed he would chat ten minutes at a time with me; now we pass about twenty words a day. Keeps his own business to himself, and talks but little even with his intimates." The young man's application to his studies appeared so commendable to Mrs. Davis that she at once set about trying to forward his efforts. The only method she saw was to do his washing, ironing and mending, that the small weekly sum thus saved might go towards purchasing books he needed and could not afford to buy. He was delighted to own the volumes so obtained, and would pore over them for hours at a time, totally unmindful of the fact that the real donor was performing many duties that should justly have fallen to him. Having no room of his own, the kitchen was necessarily his study, and in a letter he writes: "Mr. Whitman calls me by knocking on the floor, I usually being in the room below." Mrs. Davis always prepared the invalid's meals, carried them to him, and if possible sat with him when he partook of them. These were their times for exchanging confidences and chatting on home topics. "More than anyone else was she his confidant, and deserved to be." (_Thomas Donaldson._) He was interested in simple things, and little home talks never wearied him. He used few, plain and ordinary words in conversation, and his manner was simplicity itself. Mrs. Davis never spoke of anything unpleasant to him, and was always on guard lest others might do so; she was a good listener, not a loquacious talker, and her voice, naturally soft, had a soothing effect. His literary matters were well looked after, and he seldom called his nurse except for some actual need. Such comments, however, as the following are misleading: "He treats his household as by a holy law, Mrs. Davis his housekeeper never finds him indifferent, condescending or morose. His spirit ignores all petty household worries...." ("_In Re Walt Whitman._") Mrs. Davis also sat with the sick man, or within call, whether his nurse had gone on an errand for him, or to Philadelphia on his own account. And yet the student-nurse made no sign of reciprocating her many kindnesses to him; took everything she did for him as his just due; accepted any and every service she might render him, but most emphatically refused to give one in return. He left Camden the last of October, 1889, and returned to Canada. He parted both with Mr. Whitman and Mrs. Davis on the most friendly terms, saying that much as he disliked to leave them, his own worldly future depended upon other work than nursing. [Illustration: "_A time-worn look and scent of oak attach both to the chair and the person occupying it_" (_Letter from Walt Whitman_)] XII ANCHORED "_Am anchored helpless here all day, but get along fairly. Fortunately have a placid, quiet, even, solitary thread quite strong in weft of my disposition._"--WALT WHITMAN (Aug. 22, 1890). "_Whitman's stalwart form itself luxuriates in a curious great cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like a ship's spars; altogether the most imposing heavy-timbered, broad-armed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind possible. It was the gift of the young son and daughter of Thomas Donaldson of Philadelphia, and was made especially for the poet._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY. The long confinement to his room covering more than half of '88, and extending into the next year, had forced Mr. Whitman to relinquish his summer and autumn drives. This was the one thing to which he could not be reconciled; the one thing to which he had looked forward so wistfully all the previous winter and spring. Alas! the fatal river drive was his last. As already explained the horse and carriage, now useless to him, were disposed of, and the wheel-chair took their place. This chair was indeed a boon to him, and he appreciated the thoughtful kindness of his friends in the appropriate gift. As soon as his strength would permit, which was some months after his attack, he had resumed his writing. He had also read his papers and periodicals, and thus managed to wear the long days through. The cheery canary had done his part in helping to beguile the irksome hours, and Watch, the coach dog, sure of a friendly greeting had made a daily call. Towards spring the time had been less tedious, and in March the invalid had become sufficiently strong to be assisted downstairs. At this he was highly encouraged, for he realized the advancement he had made. While he had been so low in the past summer, Mrs. Davis had once more instituted a regular cleaning and renovating of the parlors. This he must have noticed, but he made no remarks in regard to it. He was led now to his favorite window, where stood his armchair with the white wolf-skin thrown over the back; in this he was placed, and day after day sat contentedly anchored. It was a sad disappointment to him when ailments occasionally prevented his coming downstairs; here he preferred taking his evening meal and meeting his friends. Writing materials were always at hand on a small shelf under the window sill, but these he used only to jot down passing thoughts or to indite a friendly line. Soon he could come into the kitchen, where he often chose to dine. Sometimes his friends would join him in a "jolly dinner" in the dear old place; but things had changed--were but a semblance of what had been--and his desire to remain undisturbed and with his housekeeper alone during meal times grew upon him. During the summer and fall he had incidental outings with his nurse (Eddie Wilkins, the student). The first few were necessarily of short duration and slow of motion, then as his strength returned they were lengthened, and he realized the pleasure in store for him should his life be prolonged another year. After each ride Mrs. Davis met him with some light refreshment, after which all he desired was rest--a long rest, sometimes of several days. It was impossible to receive one-half of the people who called upon him--indeed, this would have been a tax upon a strong man. Mrs. Davis always answered the door bell; and it was no uncommon thing for him to tell her that as he wanted to have a day of unbroken tranquillity, no one was to be admitted to his room--excepting always a number of dear old friends, and his ever-welcome brother and good sister-in-law. Strange that these were often the days when visitors would flock there, the great majority of whom would leave deeply disappointed, and for this cause the inoffensive housekeeper--she who had to bear the brunt of everything--incurred the displeasure, even the enmity, of some people. So little was known to the world at large of the poet's private life and of his state of health, that strangers would sometimes go to certain persons in Philadelphia to inquire how they might have an audience with him. This condition of things did not develop until after the illness of the previous year, and much trouble resulted from it, as visitors would show their cards or letters of introduction and insist upon going to his room. Friends living either in Philadelphia or in Camden, especially those who saw much of the poet, should have been mindful that so sick a man might not at all times feel inclined to talk with strange people, or might not be equal to it if he were so inclined. But his wishes or needs were not conformed with, and in some cases the protestations of Mrs. Davis were wholly disregarded. She invariably met each individual pleasantly and never spoke hastily or abruptly to anyone; she always gave civil answers to their questions; often went to Mr. Whitman to intercede for them; and it was through her influence alone that many were admitted to his presence. But if he was not disposed to yield, her best efforts would be in vain, and the only alternative left her was to offend others instead of him. During the seven years she was with him she had numberless strange or even unique experiences, but having quick perception she was seldom deceived. Some people would haughtily demand an audience with the poet; others would compromise by interviewing her, while the more determined would force their way in uninvited and positively refuse to leave the house until they had spoken with the owner. Many brought gifts which they wished to present in person; and veterans came asking that they might only clasp the hand that had ministered to them so tenderly at some time during the civil war. Nor were souvenir fiends wanting, and many trinkets, ornaments and keepsakes belonging to Mrs. Davis were surreptitiously carried off. A few people spoke slightingly of the housekeeper, but never in Mr. Whitman's presence, for "Mary" was "Mary" to him at all times and in all places. A number who had rendered him services--those in particular who within the last year or two had given money towards his support (as was supposed)--were indignant that Mrs. Davis should presume to speak so decidedly to them, believing that were their names only taken to Walt he would be delighted to see them. And yet a visit to the poet in his own house was to some people a decided disappointment, even when they were able to see and talk with him. They did not find what they had been looking for, something based on idle rumor and curious expectation, something extraordinary or even outlandish. One of the most noticeable things about him, says one, was "an absence of all effort to make a good impression, or of posing." Instead of finding a gruff old fossil, or bearding a lion in his den, they found an everyday, quiet, dignified man. XIII WARREN FRITZINGER "_He (Mr. Wilkins) left Mr. Whitman in October, 1889, and was succeeded as nurse by Warren Fritzinger, a young man of twenty-five, and a son of Mary O. Davis, his housekeeper and friend. Mr. Fritzinger (Warry) remained with Mr. Whitman until his death, a faithful, earnest man._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. "_I get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite, and keep a good oak fire._"--WALT WHITMAN. While the question of getting another nurse was pending, Harry and Warren Fritzinger returned to Camden. It was a mutual surprise, for the brothers had lost trace of each other and came from different parts of the world. It was indeed a joyful reunion, and though seven years had elapsed since they had seen their foster-mother, their love had not abated and each brought her a substantial gift in money. Coming from California, Warren's gift was in gold--double eagles. They remembered Walt Whitman as a man, but neither of them had read his poetry, and although their mother had mentioned the change at the time it was made, they knew nothing of the way in which she was living, and both were much alarmed at her altered appearance. Not at all satisfied, they urged her to resign her position; to move into a more fitting place, and let them take care of her. But believing, as did others, that Mr. Whitman's life was drawing to a close, she pleaded that she could not reconcile her mind to deserting him in his helplessness. She enlightened them in regard to financial matters, saying that she thought it wiser to wait quietly where she was until things were adjusted. Again, the house practically contained her possessions only, and these she could not think of moving at a time like the present; the sick man could not abide the confusion. She furthermore said that the house had become homelike to her, that all of Mr. Whitman's friends were kind to her, especially his sister-in-law, who made weekly visits, always bringing something with her; that she had implicit confidence in Mrs. Whitman, and knew that should any controversy arise in the settling of affairs, this upright and capable woman would be on her side. Again, she had pledged her word to stay; it was expected of her; and yet the strongest argument came from her own kind heart--the old man needed her. In her many talks with Warren she told him how she dreaded the coming of another strange nurse, even though his term of service was likely to be so short; and as she could not see how a few months, at most, could make any material difference to him, she did wish that he would make up his mind to apply for the position. Mr. Whitman's friends and literary executors at once caught at this, and all brought their influence to bear, pressing the place upon him and promising that, should he remain until Mr. Whitman's demise, they would stand by him and see him placed in some good way of earning a livelihood. The situation had no inducements for him; it was in fact decidedly distasteful; but feeling assured that it couldn't really affect his worldly career, he consented. He was not one to do things by halves, and from the day he undertook this work until the last hour of his patient's life, he performed his manifold duties in a cheerful, willing and most capable manner. He loved the sea, with its broad spaces, and soon the narrow limits of the little house became intolerable to him. This he did not betray, and being naturally light-hearted and always appearing happy, few who met him realized the trial he was undergoing. He was honest and straightforward, and believed everyone to be the same. Mr. Whitman, who had taken to him at once, was delighted when he was told that this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next attendant. Warren was indeed a blessing, not only to the patient, but to his mother, for he was always ready to assist her and to help out in times of need. But, better than all, he soon acquired a way of quietly managing the "good gray poet" that no other living mortal ever attained. When it was decided that massage would benefit Mr. Whitman, he took a course in a Philadelphia hospital and became a professional masseur, as well as wood-sawyer and amateur carpenter. Good places were offered him, but he was bound, and could accept none of them. One excellent position was kept open for months and he was advised by his friends not to let so good an opportunity go by, but Mr. Whitman lingered on, and the place was filled. In going to sea as a boy, Warren was at a disadvantage on land. This he realized, and in the situation thus surrendered he had seen a way in which he could retrieve his lost time. Walt's literary attainments and associations were pleasant enough to encounter, but they were of no material benefit to him, and the remuneration was much smaller than he had ever before received. This was a great drawback, for having met a young lady whom he hoped to marry, he felt inclined and perfectly able to better himself. As his predecessor's prediction, that Mr. Whitman would not outlive the year, was not verified, and New Year's Day, 1890, not only found him alive but in a much improved condition, with no indications of immediate danger, it came home to Warren that he had unfortunately tied himself to an uncertainty, and that his term of service might be years instead of weeks. There seemed no present help, however, so he philosophically accepted the conditions and stuck to his work with manly courage. Warren's engagement commenced so late in the season that Mr. Whitman had but a few outings before another winter shut him in. He had however two or three trips to the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly; all the more because they led to conversations on ships and ocean life. Warren was a fluent and interesting talker, which made him an enviable companion for anyone who, like the poet, was an ardent lover of freedom and the boundless deep. He often referred to Warren as his "sailor boy," and said that he was of much service to him when he was at a loss about the names of different parts of a ship. The young "sailor boy" had a vein of poetry in his own composition, and although he might not be qualified to weigh the bard's words and their import in the same scale with some others, he got a clear insight into their meaning. The sick man had his ups and downs during this winter, but was seldom confined to his bed more than a week at a time. When he was at all able, he was helped downstairs to sit by the window. He spent more time in the kitchen with Mrs. Davis, and took a lively interest in anything she might be doing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate of the cat, had fellowship with the dog--in short his home life resembled that of any old man in his own home and with his own kin. He would read and write a little at a time, or glance over his papers, but there was a perceptible falling off in all ways, and his domestic life became more and more dear to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along, and was to him his world. He was still just as inflexible about having his own way. However, it had so long been a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to this, that he seldom had to insist upon anything. He would usually retire early now, though this was not a stated rule. He might be in bed by eight o'clock, or up until midnight, and he was as ingenious as ever in making work for other people. As his massage was to be the last thing before sleep, Warren could not calculate upon his own doings for a single evening. He might go out before dark, make a call or do an errand, then hasten home to wait up two or three hours or even longer; or on going out and remaining but a little beyond eight, would on his return find his patient in bed groaning, and saying that he had been suffering severely for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he called it. Suffice it to say he was as exacting with his willing nurse as he had always been with his faithful housekeeper. During the two and a half years that Warren was with him, he had but a single untrammelled evening, for Mr. Whitman wanted him always near, even when no service was required. And so things jogged on satisfactorily to friends and admirers, but tediously indeed to the young marine. Horace Traubel writes: "Warren Fritzinger, who attends upon Mr. Whitman and is provided for through a fund steadily replenished by a group of Walt's lovers--and who finds his services a delight--attests that whatsoever the hour or necessity, Whitman's most intimate humor is to the last degree composed and hopeful." ("_In Re Walt Whitman._") Others have written of this period as one of grave neglect; a time when the aged man was deprived of the care and comfort so essential to one in his condition. They underrated both his means and the attention lavished upon him. "He is old and poor," says one, "and were it not for small contributions from time to time from friends who sympathize with him in his poverty, age and helplessness, would actually suffer for the bare necessaries of life. For many years his income from all sources has not exceeded an average of two hundred dollars, which to a person in his helpless condition goes but a little way even in supplying the roughest and commonest of food and care." And again: "His wants are not many, for he lives simply from necessity and choice; but in his old age and constantly failing health, he needs that comfort and attendance which he has not the means to procure." The poet himself was neither discontented nor dull. As his infirmities brought new privations, he bowed to the inevitable. He missed the outdoor life keenly, but was grateful for such trips as he could get under Warren's care. As for indoors, conversations if protracted wore upon him, and he could no longer take part in them with anything of his old enthusiasm and vim. But there was no fundamental infirmity of mind, no childishness of senility; he was essentially young in his habits, thought and manner, and remained so until his death. Sometimes, indeed, the flame of mental energy rose high again; and it was never extinguished. "The body was fading; the vital parts seemed reluctant to die even in their own exhaustion. The soul, the mind, the man were there, and at times in full vigor, while the case was wrecked. Grandly and clearly his mentality stood above the slowly straining and wasting body." (_Thomas Donaldson._) But others suffered with and through him. Warren had relinquished hope after hope, had on several occasions abandoned his resolve to better himself and get married; his mother's entreaties and the reiterated promises and solicitations of Mr. Whitman's friends, especially his literary executors, were more than he could combat. But with all outward signs of contentment, the confinement soon left visible marks upon him; a second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from handling the icy wood in the cellar a lasting cold was contracted. He purchased a writing desk--one that fitted the niche between the chimney and the window in the anteroom--and here he wrote, studied and read when not actively employed; always busy, always within call. When the monotony and confinement became too pressing, he purchased a violin and took music lessons. He declared that this saved him from fits of desperation. Mr. Whitman himself was not the only old person dependent for comfort upon Mrs. Davis and her sons, for the maternal grandparents of the latter, living in Beardstown, Pennsylvania, octogenarians and both amazingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited, looked after and consoled. One great annoyance to Warren was Mr. Whitman's aversion to prompt payment. The old man had signified his willingness to purchase his own wood, but he was so delinquent about settling for it that the proprietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart had never been warmed by the poet's effusions, saw no reason why he should warm his body gratis, and so sent him bill after bill, until at length he refused to deliver a load until the previous one was paid for. Be it understood, Mr. Whitman intended to pay for his wood, but he intended to pay in his own time, and not be dictated to; consequently there was a controversy when each load was delivered. "His pride was adamant to anything that seemed concession." (_John T. Trowbridge._) Warren knew that the old man had money, that right was on the wood-dealer's side, and he would not follow his mother's way of putting people off--telling them that Mr. Whitman was too miserable to be troubled, asking for an extension of time, etc., then paying the bill herself and lacking the courage to present the receipt. No, "Warry" would approach the subject in such an original fashion and hand the bill to his patient in such an offhand way that it would appeal to him directly, and as a rule the money was counted out with a quiet chuckle. Eddie Wilkins wrote: "Mr. Whitman is stubborn and self-willed. You can only get along with him by letting him have his own way." Warren would meet the stubbornness and self-will with just as persistent good-nature, and would usually gain his point. He was the only person Walt Whitman never chloroformed with one of his "Ahs!" Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked to read his Lincoln lecture at the Art Club rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He was just recovering from a bad spell, and Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his resolution once more and had his own way. With the assistance of Warren and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared for the last time in public as a speaker. But the effort was too great, and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged to remain. However, on May 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia. When the guests were assembled--some fifty or sixty in number--Warren wheeled him into the room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of the occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this, nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him there. During the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and appreciation. When feeling particularly well he would make up for lost time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it passed through the streets of Camden and adjacent suburbs. This chair stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs. Davis appeared with Warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a good-sized and extremely attentive audience. No doubt they had long since ceased to look upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious personage, but they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new connected with him still excited their curiosity. Warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing to his mother. Now she could count upon her time and arrange for her work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have the kitchen to herself when she wished. The heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art. For days the old man would now be too overcome for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in the shade of his cherished tree. He spent some evenings with friends, and occasionally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet certain people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too serious. The chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late in the fall. "Was out in wheel-chair yesterday, November 8, from twelve to two-thirty." He made a few visits to the river, and seated in his chair took his last boat rides across it. In October he visited Philadelphia for the last time. XIV FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSOLEUM "_Christmas Day, 1890, was spent by Walt Whitman in giving himself and all his family a Christmas present for all eternity. He went out to Harleigh Cemetery, a suburb of Camden, to select a site for a tomb._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY. On the evening of October 21, Colonel Robert Ingersoll gave a lecture in Horticulture Hall, Philadelphia, for the benefit of Mr. Whitman. The subject was "Liberty in Literature." This form of assistance to the poet was suggested to Colonel Ingersoll by Mr. Johnston of New York, one of Walt's oldest and most valued friends, who came to Camden to talk the matter over and make the necessary arrangements. Mr. Whitman took unusual interest in the project and was desirous of being present. Mr. Johnston, who had great confidence in Mrs. Davis and much regard for her opinion, consulted her upon the subject. She said that recent cool weather had done much for the old man, and barring unlooked-for accidents, she believed that he could be counted upon. Mr. Whitman himself, who was well aware that his later appearances in public had proved a great tax upon his strength, declared his intention of husbanding the little that remained for the event. This he did; the evening arrived, the weather was favorable, and all was well. Every possible exertion had been spared him, and he started off in high spirits. An easy carriage had been secured, and he reached the hall without fatigue; even in better condition than had been anticipated. He was accompanied by a friend, and by Warren and Mrs. Davis, for both Mr. Johnston and Colonel Ingersoll had insisted upon her being one of the party. On alighting from the carriage and entering the hall, Mrs. Davis was given a seat in the audience not far from the stage, and Mr. Whitman and Warren were taken behind the scenes, where the lecturer and some gentlemen awaited them. An armchair had been placed for the poet by the speaker's stand. A few moments before the lecture began, he came upon the stage and seated himself. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the overflowing house, and when the eloquent speaker had closed his fine address, he arose, came forward and spoke a few words. This was his last appearance in public. Colonel Ingersoll had engaged a room in a nearby hotel, where at the close of the lecture a small company were invited to partake of a collation and pass an informal, social hour. When all were seated at the table, the Colonel handed Mr. Whitman $870 as his share of the proceeds, and upon doing so remarked to Mrs. Davis: "That sum will keep you all in comfort this winter." But like all other sums received by Mr. Whitman, it was deposited unbroken in the bank. Mr. Whitman stood this exertion well, but the reaction came later; the borrowed strength gave out, and the winter found him much the worse for wear. He came downstairs a number of times in October and November, and had occasional outings, but he passed the time chiefly in his own room, and the big chair which Warren and his mother had carried up and down stairs, to the place where it was needed for the time being, was never again taken below. He sat up much less, however, and would lie upon his back for hours, with his eyes partially closed and his hands crossed upon his breast. Letters came with kind wishes and friendly words; these he appreciated, though he could seldom answer them. Yet he still read and wrote a little, still looked over his newspapers and periodicals, and the accumulating litter therefore received its weekly contributions; but at his mother's earnest request Warren did not interfere. When little things were carried upstairs, the old man would often ask that they might be left. If any article were taken up he would usually say, "Leave it a while longer; I may want it by and by." This accounts for the soiled dishes frequently seen in his room. Old friends and new ones were constant, and seemed to devise ways in which they could shower attentions upon the sick man. The oysterman in the next street sent word that he was at all times welcome to a free share of his stock in trade, and there was no time when oysters were not kept unopened in the cellar; but Mr. Whitman beyond doubt overstepped the bounds of the donor's generous intentions when he treated his company so lavishly to stews and half-shells, also when he ordered supplies for his young men friends in return for services they rendered him. Mrs. Davis and Warren did not approve of this, and each was ashamed to visit the little place so many times; they without money, and the oysters without price. Did Mr. Whitman, in truth, have an accurate or an undeveloped knowledge of the cost of living? Eddie Wilkins writes: "Oh, he knows the value of money, and is very careful with his own." His benevolence to the sick and wounded soldiers during a great part of the civil war is an old and often repeated story, but in this he was to a great extent the almoner of others. His self-sacrificing labors as a volunteer visiting nurse were his own free-will offering, and from them came his long years of suffering, for his early paralysis was the result of these exhaustive and unremitted efforts. "His devotion surpassed the devotion of woman." (_John Swinton, in a letter to the New York Herald_, April 1, 1876.) Most of the time while he was living in Washington he occupied a small room up three flights of stairs. He had but little furniture and no dishes; he ate out of paper bags and subsisted upon a very meagre sum of money. This sufficed for that period of his life, when he was in "his splendid prime." (_John Swinton._) He had health, strength and only himself to think of; and taking a house of his own in after years--humble as was the one in Mickle Street--did not seem to mature in him any realizing sense of the intrinsic value of money, or reveal to him his own pecuniary obligations. He never seemed to question what housekeeping involved, never seemed to pause and think that certain responsibilities rested upon him alone, or feel that he might be wronging others, especially those whose services he accepted and whose embarrassments he never inquired into, never offered to relieve. But Mrs. Davis, conservative, conscientious, and true to him, did not disclose his domestic failures or discuss them with others. His financial standing was not revealed to his English friends, and remained quite a secret until the Christmas season of this year, when he was given a site for a grave in Harleigh Cemetery. It is not unreasonable to believe that he had special designs in putting money so quietly aside, one of which--and the greatest, perhaps--was to build a family vault. It has been said that it was for this very purpose he accumulated money; hoarded, accepted and saved in the most minute of things. Thomas Bailey Aldrich often told the delightful story of a certain $9.00 which Whitman borrowed from him--magnificently, but also irrevocably--in Pfoff's restaurant on Broadway. After he had accepted and secured the site, he spoke freely of his wishes and intentions regarding the tomb. He specified that certain members of his family should be placed in it, and requested in particular that his parents should be brought from Long Island to sleep with them there. It was to be of granite, massive and commodious; and on a projection above the door was to be a granite statue of himself, standing. His ideas were excessive, and the expense far beyond his means; still, he may have thought that the proceeds accruing from his book would warrant an extravagance for death that he never vouchsafed to life. The tomb was begun according to his orders, but was finished on a much smaller scale--as it now stands--and just in time to lay him therein. When it became known that preparations had been made to erect this costly mausoleum, it dawned upon some of his friends that he had a way of keeping things to himself. It certainly did seem strange that some of them should pay a monthly tax for his support when he had means of his own, and could contemplate such an expenditure as this. In truth people were getting tired of the constant drain upon their purses, and many had long questioned why they should so frequently be called upon, and wondered what _could_ become of the money that flowed in large and small streams into the Whitman exchequer. A few even suspected Mrs. Davis of appropriating it, and of this--unknown to her--she was accused. She was also charged with wastefulness, neglect of the invalid, and gross incompetence. The poet still kept his affairs to himself, and "it may be he thought that what he received from his admirers was but a portion of the debt they owed him." (_William Sloane Kennedy._) January and February of this winter were hard months to the sick man. He suffered with severe headaches, lassitude and inertia, added to which he had long and obstinate spells of indigestion. He remarked to some old friends that he suffered somewhat from want of persons to cheer him up; most visitors came to him to confess their own weakness and failures, and to disburden themselves of their sorrows. It was just the opposite disposition in his two constant attendants that made their companionship so agreeable to him. Warren's witty and playful sallies always provoked a quiet smile, and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness" was rewarded with an appreciative, approving look. During March he made some gain, but it was not until April 15 that he got out of doors to enjoy the sunshine and invigorating air. With his rides new courage came to him, and in May he was able to be taken to the cemetery to witness the progress made on the tomb. But in the last ten months of his life he was so worn by pain, and had so aged, that his restful, reliable home comforts were the dearest of all earthly things to him. XV THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY "_There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891. Whitman was seventy-two. That privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was one of the kinds of happiness which he didn't experience._"--BLISS PERRY. "_Munching a little bread dipped in champagne and talking about Death. He had never been more picturesque._"--BLISS PERRY. On May 31, when Mr. Whitman had reached the age of seventy-two, his last birthday (as it proved) was celebrated by a dinner given in his own home. This arrangement was adopted as the only means of ensuring his presence, and the gathering was the final social event in that little house. The managing committee was composed of young men, most of whom knew nothing of the limited dimensions of the place, and had not reflected upon the incongruity of their undertaking; nor, until the plans were all made, arrangements nearly completed and the invitations issued, was Mrs. Davis told what was to take place. When the youngest of the three literary executors, who had devised and was at the head of the scheme, finally informed her, she said she feared that such a thing as seating thirty-six people in the parlors was impracticable; however, she would do her best in helping them to carry out their wishes. It was by good luck that the arrangements were in the hands of inexperienced, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged older and more experienced folk at the outset. It was better still for them that they found a well-balanced mind, willing hands and managing skill in their home agent, as this alone saved them from ignoble failure. First the parlor doors, double and single, together with the hall and kitchen doors, secured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges, were removed and carried into the yard; the spare bed put up since Mr. Whitman's last stroke was taken down, together with the stove, and with the entire furniture likewise removed. This was literally turning the parlors inside out. Mrs. Davis, as usual, succeeded in making a place for everything. Warren did most of the hard work and lifting, while his mother swept the rooms, cleaned the windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient coöperation. On the morning of the birthday she was of equal service to the waiters who, when the tables, chairs and dishes arrived, discovered many drawbacks in such an unlooked-for banquet hall. The head table was placed across the front parlor, in a line with the windows, the other, the length of the back parlor, forming a T with it; and these, with the small chairs, so completely filled the rooms that only just sufficient space was left for the waiters to serve the guests through the two doorways. Most of the viands came ready cooked, and the caterer had done full justice to them; the coffee was made on the kitchen stove, which, with the little one in the shed, was brought into requisition for heating purposes. Mrs. Davis was usefulness itself in getting things in readiness, advising with the caterer and helping him out of quandaries. When the dinner had been decided upon she had been told that it should put her to no extra work; and when she made the matter really possible she was told that she had done her part, which should end there, as the committee would attend to putting things to rights afterwards. Getting Mr. Whitman ready, and seeing that he was in no way overtaxed, was of much importance, and it was carefully looked after. At the appointed hour, seven P. M., the guests assembled, and there being no reception room, each took his or her assigned place at the table; then, when all were seated, the venerable host was brought down. He was met with congratulations, and led to the head of the table. There were twenty-seven men and five women present, and not until the greetings were over did he and his old friends observe that Mrs. Davis had been left out. Room at the table was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant through the non-arrival of the expected occupants; besides, two of the ladies were strangers to the poet. Mrs. Davis felt the slight, although she could not very well have formed one of the company in any event, her presence being indispensable elsewhere. It was a good dinner and well served, all things considered. The day was insufferably hot, and the windows and the front door were left wide open. Many noticed and remarked that during the dinner no loungers were about the front of the house, "no boys looking in, yelling or throwing stones or mud--no curiosity gazers. Respect for Mr. Whitman possibly prevented this." (_Thomas Donaldson._) Respect for Mr. Whitman in part, no doubt, but a greater respect for a contract made beforehand; Mrs. Davis had bought them off; something good for each one of them for good conduct. She was not so successful in securing the same considerate behavior from Watch, her coach dog, for to her great mortification, just as one gentleman commenced to read "O Captain! my Captain!" he came into the parlor doorway, "put his nose up in the air and uttered a series of the most ungodly howls ever listened to." (_Thomas Donaldson._) He continued to howl until the reading ceased, then abruptly left the room. The dinner lasted until ten o'clock--three hours. A stenographer took down the toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc. But while these were at their height, one compliment, one little speech, was not recorded. Mr. Whitman looked around the table as if seeking something, and on being asked, "Is there anything you want, Walt?" replied, "Yes, I want a piece of _Mary's bread_." It was brought to him. Mr. Whitman, no doubt, feeling that Mary had been slighted, took this peculiar way of his own to show his regard for her. The next day the tables and chairs were taken away, but the committee's promises of assistance were probably forgotten, for regardless of the poor days Mr. Whitman passed in consequence of the dinner, and his need of extra care, no help whatever was proffered and Mrs. Davis and Warren were left to right the house by degrees, working as they could. The summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room. The heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. Part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more than this. His outings were few in number, the reading fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. However, this did not prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies. His world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four walls of his own room enclosed it. He had relinquished his hold upon outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished to be left alone, left to himself. He was his own best company, apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one of his long reveries. At intervals he would seem to be the old-time man, would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of depression or dreaded indigestion. In the latter case, day would succeed day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small glass of iced buttermilk. The fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady decline until December 17, when after a number of miserable days he was seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. For a week his life hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best medical advice was procured. Each hour the final call seemed at hand; then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight improvement. The burden of all this fell mainly upon Warren, who was only relieved temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. Believing that each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the 28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance. As the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia to engage a professional nurse. XVI THE NEW NURSE "_Well, I told you doctors when I was so very bad, 'let me go; let me die.' I felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of it for a moment, and here I am._ "_I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. You are all making a strong pull for me, I can see that._"--WALT WHITMAN. The requirements in the nurse were maturity, experience in the care of sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. Dr. Bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly to her about the patient, his physical condition and his eccentric habits. He said it was his firm belief that his life could not last more than a few days longer, and that he was confident that another such room as the one he was in, littered and uncared for, did not exist upon the face of the earth. He further said that his poor old friend had been in wretched health for some years past, that he was in no way able to look out for himself, and that he was in the hands and at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled woman,--the unrefined and ignorant widow of a sailor,--who as a housekeeper was unreliable and dishonest, and who alone was responsible for the condition in which the sick room was to be found. He added that it had been arranged that the nurse should go out to all her meals at the expense of the patient's friends; that she was to have nothing whatever to do with the housekeeper, _and above all things she was not to allow her to enter the sick man's room_. To put the matter to her concisely, she was, during the entire engagement, long or short as it might prove, to speak to but three persons, these being the two literary executors living in Camden, Mr. Harned and Mr. Traubel, and her own colleague, Warren Fritzinger. He told her that the first things he desired her to do were to get the sick room into order, and to begin recording the daily transactions; she must be careful to note all Mr. Whitman's words as they were uttered, and to write them down faithfully. Dr. Bucke spoke as one having full authority, and the nurse had no reason for disbelieving anything he had said. (And ever after believed that Mrs. Davis had been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and that Dr. Bucke, who lived at a distance and saw little of his friend's home life, had been deceived and misled.) He assured her that _money in abundance_ would be supplied for all the sick man's needs, and that it was the wish of his friends that he should have every comfort possible until the end. By a second appointment Dr. Bucke met the nurse at the ferry, and they set out together for the dying poet's home, the Doctor, while crossing the Delaware, repeating and dwelling upon what he had previously said. The ring at the door was answered by a pleasant, ladylike woman, between whom and the Doctor there was a show of mutual good feeling. The back parlor was given to the nurse as her room, and when she had laid her wraps aside Dr. Bucke led the way upstairs. To the relief of all Mr. Whitman had made no objections to a lady as nurse, and when she entered his room he extended his hand. A number of gentlemen were present, among them his brother George and the two literary executors, who had remained to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An artist who had just completed some etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which he presented to his departing friend, at whose request he was raised up to autograph it. This, it was supposed, would be his last signature. The prospect being that he would not only survive the night, but would pass it in comparative comfort, his friends and relatives left, excepting only his niece, Miss Jessie Whitman, the daughter of his brother Jefferson. Poor Warren was overjoyed at the idea of going to bed, for in the last four days and nights he had had no rest, and since the chill, ten days before, had not found time to change or remove his clothing. While giving the nurse her instructions he confessed that he was completely done up, that such a siege as he had just passed through was worse than a storm at sea; nevertheless he wished and expected to be called at any moment if his services were required. Mrs. Davis, totally unconscious of any ill feeling toward her and disposed to show every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice supper to which she invited her to come. What could the nurse do? No way had been opened for her to go outside to her meals--at least for the present--and no one except Dr. Bucke had mentioned such a thing; it was dark, she was in a strange city and ravenously hungry. She could not make up her mind to refuse and run off at once to seek a restaurant, especially at a time like this; could not risk leaving a patient so dangerously ill, even for a minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to her for relaxation and relief. No; she would sooner fast for the night. But fasting was not necessary; so descending the stairs, passing through the hall and running headlong into the flour barrel, she entered the little cabin-like kitchen. Mrs. Davis was so worn out for sleep that even while standing her eyelids would close. She apologized, saying that she had been awake so many hours she was not at all herself. The nurse begged her to lie down at once, believing this weary, sad-looking woman must be a relative of her patient's, or a dear friend who had come there to bridge over the present crisis. Dr. Bucke had not mentioned the housekeeper's name, and the kindly, hospitable person who had been introduced as Mrs. Davis belied in every way the description of the sailor's unrefined widow. Besides, Warren called her mother. The sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to assure herself that he was breathing. Warren came in twice to reconnoitre and turn him over, and when morning peeped into the window of the dull little anteroom and he found that no new complications had developed and that Mr. Whitman had not suffered from the change, he was jubilant over it. After preparing breakfast, Mrs. Davis, as was her custom, went upstairs to sit with the patient while the others were below. She entered his room, and he--who up to this time had lain with downcast eyes, speechless, almost immovable--looked up, smiled, and exclaimed in a pleased voice, "Ah, Mary!" There was no mistaking the friendly relation between these two people, and before noon the nurse learned that the coarse housekeeper, the _dreaded_ housekeeper, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because she had at once made her feel so much at home. What did the nurse think! When Mr. Whitman was supposed to be dying, Mrs. Davis had in a way managed to meet the emergencies of the occasion; when a rubber sheet was called for, and no one offered to procure or order one, she gave her own oilcloth table cover to supply the need. When extra sheets were in demand and were not forthcoming from any quarter, she bought a piece of cloth, tore off the lengths, and was obliged to use them unlaundered and unhemmed, for even in this trying time only one person, besides her personal friends, had offered her the least assistance or inquired as to the straits to which she was put. This single exception was Mr. Whitman's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed to come to Camden and do what she could. When with the coming of the nurse, and cessation from immediate anxiety, Mrs. Davis found time to look around, she discovered more than an abundance of work. An enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything within doors. Then as the eaves trough had fallen down, and the kitchen ceiling leaked, Warren's skill in carpentering was in instant demand. They found the nurse willing to assist in any way, and the housekeeper was delighted that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact, and knew almost nothing of her patient as a writer; that she regarded him only as a sick and helpless old man, needing personal care, and not the adulation with which he was surfeited. Mr. Whitman himself took kindly to her, for like Mrs. Davis she never questioned him, and if she spoke at all, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace subjects. On one occasion she ventured to say to him: "I suppose you would be disgusted with me if I told you that I had never heard of _Leaves of Grass_ until I came here?" He laughed a little and replied: "I guess there are plenty of people in the world who can say the same. _Leaves of Grass_ was the aim of my life. In these days and nights it is different: my mutton broth--my brandy--to be turned promptly and kept clean--are much more to me and appeal to me more deeply." Little by little, much was accomplished; the sheets were hemmed, and the nurse with part of the small and only sum of money given to her soon had a new boiler on the stove; then when the table cover, which had become stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs. George Whitman added some things to the supply, after which it fell to Mrs. Davis to resort to her own means as of old, and one by one the gold pieces--Warren's gift--melted away. In the course of a couple of weeks the nurse learned that she was boarding at the expense of the housekeeper, and finding that no arrangements had been made to this effect she wrote to Dr. Bucke, laying the matter before him, as it had been agreed that she should write to him semi-weekly and in full confidence. In her next letter she told him of her own belief in Mrs. Davis as a most excellent woman; she enlarged upon her devotion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken in anyone. In reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had been misled. Mrs. Davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick room. She feared it would make Mr. Whitman unhappy, and she felt that as his life was to end in so short a time, further indulgence might be granted him. But he was found to be not at all disposed to make objections; indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and when the nurse in any doubt or difficulty would occasionally appeal to him, he had but one reply: "Ask Mary." To the surprise of everyone he lingered on, improving instead of growing worse, and by the end of the month had regained something of his former condition. He even wrote a few short letters, autographed the five remaining etchings, and a photograph for the nurse. When the ominous symptoms had disappeared and he was not only out of danger, but quite comfortable, and Mrs. Davis had got the most pressing work well in hand, things assumed an almost unbroken routine. Warren took the night work, as reporters often came to the house at late hours and he was accustomed to meeting them; even friends would come thus unseasonably to inquire for the poet and perhaps beg for admittance to his room. Yet there were many nights during the long sickness--lasting to March 26--when following a number of good days he would sink into a state of collapse, and then both nurses would remain up together. As Warren did his home work in the forenoon, which was also his mother's busiest time, the nurse prepared the patient's breakfast and gave it to him; but seeing that he really preferred Mary's presence to her own, she often exchanged work with her, and the only actual difference was that Walt had three nurses instead of two. Getting the sick room into order was a tedious task. The nurse was directed to leave every scrap of paper with writing upon it in the room, to remove only the newspapers, magazines, circulars, bound books, wrapping papers and so on. Then there were days when it was evident that Mr. Whitman wished to be alone, other days when he was very low and could not be disturbed, still other days when he had long visits from friends; and the work would have to be postponed for the time being. All the newspapers and magazines were stacked upon the landing outside the anteroom door; the books--usually dropped anywhere, open--were placed upon the pine shelves; the manuscripts were piled upon one side of the sick room, and the old envelopes, wrapping paper and odds and ends of string alone were thrown away. Warren's desk came in nicely, and seated at this the nurse wrote her record, going into the details and minutiæ of the case, as she had been instructed. In this Warren took his part, and as he knew most of the people who called, his information and night notes were a valuable addition. A cot under the shelves in the anteroom, which had served as a bed for the nurses at night and a settee by day, was taken out and a comfortable lounge substituted, which had been hidden from view under the débris in the other room. This gave both rooms a better appearance, besides providing a more comfortable seat and sleeping place. Mr. Whitman did not take medicine with regularity; only when some acute pain or persistent discomfort rendered it essential. His temperature was never taken, his pulse and respiration but seldom; and in no way was he roused up, except for an unavoidable cause, or perhaps to meet company. He fully understood his own condition, and pleaded for but one thing: rest. When he had his poor days--when it seemed that he could not again rally--he saw no one, and in the last two months he wished to see few beside his nurses, his two doctors (Dr. Alex. McAlister of Camden, and Dr. Longaker of Philadelphia), and his faithful Mary. He said that others tired him, and yet many saw him and held conversations with him, even at this late stage in his life. Colonel Ingersoll came twice, and sent him a basket of champagne, of which he took sparingly from time to time. It was not so lonesome for Warren when there was someone associated with him in his work, and the nurse listened with interest to the stories he told of his early escapades, and of his subsequent adventures in strange countries and at sea. He could boast of having saved two fellow creatures from drowning, that is, if he were at all inclined to boast, which he was not. After awhile he confided the disappointments of his love affair, saying he thought it hard that after being engaged for over two and a half years, he had not, since he had assumed the care of Mr. Whitman, had the opportunity and pleasure of inviting and escorting his fiancée to an evening entertainment. The nurse thought so too; she sympathized with him; and his one untrammelled evening was when, unknown to his mother, she slipped over to Philadelphia, bought tickets and secured seats that he might have the gratification of taking "Coddie" to the theatre. This plot was several days in maturing, and when the secret was disclosed Mrs. Davis was terribly exercised, fearing that something dreadful might come up just at that particular time. She tried to dissuade Warren from going, but it was two against one, and he went. Nothing eventful occurred; Mr. Whitman was at his best, and when he asked for "Warry," and was told where he had gone, he was perfectly satisfied. But day by day the patient steadily declined, and as one of his lungs was nearly useless, it affected his breathing to such an extent that his only relief was in change of position--"shifting," as he called it when he was being turned from one side to the other. He could eat while lying down, but could drink only when his head was raised with the pillow to support it. Often when Mrs. Davis went into the room to turn him, or to take him some little home-made delicacy, she came out in tears. What was said when the two were alone--if they spoke at all--was never repeated, never reported. Mr. Whitman did not know that the nurse kept an account of his words, or wrote anything whatever regarding him; for of all things he disliked, the worst was to feel that there was someone at hand or just out of sight with pencil and paper in readiness for instant use. One day Warren told him that his brother Harry's Christmas present was a little boy that he had named for him: Walt Whitman Fritzinger. This pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little namesake. The child was kept in readiness for a week; then early one evening, when Mr. Whitman was feeling better than usual, he was sent for. His nurse brought him over, carried him into the sick room and laid him in the arms of the old man, who kissed the little fellow, held him a few minutes and repeated a number of times: "Well, well, Little Walt Whitman, Little Walt Whitman." There were present the child's mother and nurse, Mrs. Davis, Warren, and Mrs. Keller, Mr. Whitman's nurse. He never saw the child again, but often inquired after him, and added a codicil to his will bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (My name is on the codicil as witness to the signature.--E. L. K.) The invalid had never bought himself a new mattress, and the one given him by Mrs. Davis seven years before--too wide for the bedstead and extending several inches beyond it at the back--had from long and constant usage become hollow in the centre, making it difficult to turn him from one side to the other, for he would often slip back into the hollow place. Warren once said: "When I come on this side of the bed you slip away from me." "Ah, Warry," he replied, "one of these fine mornings I shall slip away from you forever." One evening a member of the editorial staff of the New York _Evening Telegram_ visited him. Mr. Whitman knew that he was coming, and had made up a little roll of his writings to give him. (Mr. Traubel always made these engagements, met the parties and accompanied them to the house.) Upon leaving, the gentleman said that the paper had raised a fund wherewith to purchase flowers for the poet's room. Afterwards learning that the defective lung made the fragrance of flowers stifling to him, the paper requested that the money be applied in some other way. Mrs. Davis suggested a longer bed and a firm, level mattress. This was agreed to, the money came duly to hand, and the two nurses went together to select the bed. The one decided upon was a single one, made of oak and standing at least three inches higher than the old one; the mattress was of sea-grass. When the useful gift, which was a surprise to Mr. Whitman, arrived and was being set up--February 22, 1892--Walt was seated for the last time in his big chair. Warren said it would be a pity to have this bedstead battered up as the old one had been--for the old man still kept his cane within reach and often pounded upon the footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the anteroom, and carried the wire over the door and into the sick room, where a drop string came down to the bed. Mr. Whitman found this an easier way of summoning aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by two or three writers. When the patient was settled on the new bed, he looked at Mrs. Davis and said: "You can have the old one, Mary." The _Evening Telegram_ gift was a great acquisition, and it is to be regretted, for the sake both of the invalid and those who waited upon him, that it did not come in some way years before. XVII "SHIFT, WARRY" "_Come, lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death._" --WALT WHITMAN. "_She was his loyal friend and nurse. She stood by him in life, and closed his eyes in death._"--THOMAS DONALDSON. In January, when Mr. Whitman first rallied, wrote the few short letters and autographed the pictures, his friends were much encouraged; but subsequent sinking spells destroyed their hopes, and his extremely low condition led them to believe that he would wield his pen no more. In his poor days scarcely a word was spoken in the house, and his three nurses worked silently, almost mechanically, about him. Then with another temporary reaction, hopes were again renewed and a change in everything was manifest; even the dull little anteroom seemed brighter. On February 5, he had so far regained his strength as to request writing materials. His old way of writing in bed was to be firmly propped up, with a pillow before him on which to rest a light smooth-covered book. Now he was too weak to hold the book, and although well supported at the back he found it an almost insurmountable task to indite even a few words. Mrs. Davis believed he could do much better were something devised on which the paper before him could rest firmly. She was equal to the occasion, for going to a young artist and teacher of painting (a young lady named Miss Button) next door she procured a drawing board, to which she had legs attached,--two short stationary ones in front, and two longer at the back, fastened with hinges--thus making it adjustable to almost any angle. The invention worked well, and the next day, when he again requested pen and ink, it was placed before him. He was surprised and pleased, and all he could say was, "Just the thing; just the thing"; then looking at the nurse he added: "_That's Mary_; that's Mary; just the right thing at the right time." Not Mary the efficient housekeeper or capable manager, but just the right woman in the right place. It was on this board that Walt Whitman's last words were inscribed. His book, which had been completed, was out of the press, and a few copies had been hurried through that he might see the work as it would go out into the world. Mr. D. McKay, his publisher, brought them over one evening, and the dying poet expressed to him the great satisfaction he felt at the manner in which the edition had been produced. He asked to have fifty copies bound at once in Manila paper covers, that he might give or send them to certain friends. This was done; he designated the people who were to receive them, and Mr. Traubel attended to the inscriptions. The last thing Walt wrote for printing was a notice in regard to this edition. His writing board was of the greatest service to him in accomplishing this task; without it, not only this notice, but his last written words to his friends at large, his farewell Greeting or Salutation, would never have been written. When he had completed the notice, making numerous alterations until he seemed satisfied, he called for Mrs. Davis, who on coming into the room held a secret "confab" with him, after which she got ready and left the house. The following afternoon she again left the house and on her return handed Walt a printed proof. In this, as of old, he made some corrections, and it was again taken out and again called for. These were Mary's last visits to the "quaint little printing office," and the "old fellow acquaintance's" last acts of kindness to his dying patron. In the two days intervening between the writing of this notice and its ultimate approval, Walt wrote his last words to all--the final Greeting just mentioned to his friends at large. He wrote it himself on post office paper, and when he had covered one piece, he called for mucilage with which to add a second. He had measured the little printed slip, and had left a space for it. He worked intently until the task was completed. His tendency to recline backward made it difficult for him to use the pen properly, therefore Mrs. Davis or the nurse usually sat behind him, and by leaning forward and holding him in her arms supported him in a more comfortable and convenient position. While one assisted him in this way, the other held the inkstand near him, as he could no longer reach it from its accustomed place, the chair beside his bed. When the Greeting was finished, the printed notice was pasted in its place. The original writing was sent to Mr. Bolton of England, with the request that he would have it facsimiled and distributed amongst all Walt's friends. Here is the letter Horace Traubel wrote conveying the poet's wishes. CAMDEN, N. J., February 8th, 1892 "W. asked me this ev'g to give you this counsel.--'If entirely convenient, facsimile the letter of February 6th, and send it copiously to European and American friends and friends anywhere,'--letting us have copies here as well. It was a great struggle to get this letter written and he wishes it to go out as his general salutation of friends to whom his strength will not permit him specially to write. It was framed with that end in view." The request was promptly complied with and an exact reproduction was made, even to the use of two pieces of paper pasted together, as in the original. The desired copies arrived before Walt's death, and he gave or sent them to his friends, as he had done with the author's copies of his book. He evinced much interest in doing this, and kindly presented his nurses with both a facsimile and a book. As may be supposed, everyone was on the alert to secure his last signature, and the nurse, who had the advantage of being on the spot when he was able to write, had this honor. Selecting one of the numerous photographs with which his room abounded--she subsequently learned that this was his own favorite ("_Mr. Whitman was not vain as to pictures of himself. He seemed to like best the photograph showing him sitting in a chair with a butterfly in his hand._"--_Thomas Donaldson_)--she kept it near his bed, and when the watched-for opportunity came, one morning after he had signed some papers and had written a kindly word to his sister (Mrs. Heyde of Burlington, Vt.), while she sat behind him as a support, she reached for it, telling him that she would like to own it, and hoped if he were not too fatigued he would autograph it for her. He willingly complied, saying: "Yes, for you; but I would do it for no one else." (I gave this picture, with feelings of gratitude for kindness shown me, to Dr. Lucien Howe, of Buffalo, New York.--E. L. K.) The signature was written with a blue pencil, as he had now discarded ink. Only once again did he sign his name in full, and this was in a business document. He used simply his initials in his last effort to write to his sister. Unhappily, a change of care was in prospect, for Mrs. Keller was to leave him the second week in March, in consequence of an engagement previously made. She had mentioned this to Dr. Bucke, who had assured her that it could not possibly conflict with his friend's case. But when the sick man lingered until late in February, it was seen that some steps must be taken. And yet his span of life was so uncertain, that even at this late day it was deemed wiser not to mention the subject to him until it could no longer be postponed. The matter was talked over between his executors, his sister-in-law and the doctors, and all agreed that under the circumstances a stranger in the house would not be desirable. Mrs. Davis in particular dreaded it, and had made provision against it. The friend who had before kept house for her, while she made her trip to Southern California, was to come again to do the housework, so that her own undivided time and attention might be given to the dying man. The nurse left on March 8. From this time on Mr. Whitman grew more and more uneasy in bed, and as he could now lie upon his left side but a few moments at a time, he required almost constant turning; and for eighteen days and nights his two faithful attendants did this. A water bed was bought for him; he only had the comfort of it for a single night. "March 25, 1.15 A. M., 1892.--We put him on the water bed at twelve o'clock. I have turned him twice since, and I can assure you from present indications if it does the old man no good, it will us. He turns just as easy again; can turn him with one hand, and then it does away with the ring. He was turned sixty-three times in the last twenty-four hours; how is that for business? Kind of beats when you were here.... Mama has one of her old headaches, has had it since yesterday, but hopes to be clear of it by morning.... We had a run of visitors to-day, and the old gent had four letters in the morning mail, of which three were applications for autographs." (_Extracts from Warren's letter to Mrs. Keller._) His last days were a repetition of the preceding ones; a flaring up of the torch, and a dying down; a fainter flare, and a gentle going out. On the evening of March 26 a little card was printed and widely circulated. Camden, N. J., March 26, '92. Whitman began sinking at 4.30 P. M. He continued to grow worse and died at 6.43 P. M. The end came peacefully. He was conscious until the last. There were present at the bedside when he died--Mrs. Davis, Warren Fritzinger, Thos. B. Harned, Horace L. Trauble and myself. Alex. McAlister, M. D. This young physician saw much of Mr. Whitman during the last three months of his life, and his faithful services were given without price. The evening previous to his death Mr. Whitman requested to see Mr. Donaldson, the trusted friend who had done so much to make his home life a success. He came at once, and they had a long last interview. Mrs. Davis promised to notify him if the patient grew worse, and the next day at three P. M. she wrote for him to come, saying that Mr. Whitman was surely "slipping away" from them. He died before his friend reached the house. His last words were addressed to his faithful "sailor boy": "Shift, Warry." It was the time for the final turn, from life into death. Mrs. Davis closed his eyes. XVIII WINDING UP "_... the grand old man whose kindly face we never shall forget._"--DR. ALEX. MCALISTER (_In a letter to Mrs. Keller_). "_These promises are fair, the parties sure._" --SHAKESPEARE (_I King Henry IV_). On the morrow the little parlors were again cleared--this time to make room for a coffin--and Walt Whitman, at last free from pain, was brought downstairs. An artist was in waiting to take a cast of his face, and later a post-mortem was held. Mrs. Davis thought the latter something dreadful, believing as she did that it was either prompted by curiosity or was done simply for the sake of a newspaper article. When all preliminaries were over, the poet, clothed in his accustomed style, was laid in his coffin. This, of heavy oak, was placed in the centre of one room, and all through the afternoon friends and acquaintances came to see him. The following day the public was admitted, and thousands thronged in to look at the familiar form and face: that placid face, telling that the long sought-for rest was at last attained. People entered through one parlor door, then passing around the coffin left by the other. During the morning Mrs. Davis made a hurried run to Philadelphia to procure some needful things for the funeral, and on her return was surprised and horrified to find that during her absence a load of empty barrels had arrived, and that into these the literary executors--Dr. Bucke having arrived the night before--were hastily packing all the movable contents of the two upper rooms. This, to her, heartless expediency was more than she could bear, and going upstairs she asked why Mr. Whitman's things might not remain undisturbed until after he was buried. Dr. Bucke told her curtly that his own time was limited, and it was not convenient for _him_. Overcome with grief, she sought her own room. She knew that Mr. Whitman's literary effects belonged legally to his executors, but she felt that his home was sacred to him while he remained in it. The barrels containing his writings and some articles coming under the head of personal property, such as books, pictures, his knapsack, the inkstand Mrs. Davis had bought for him while on her journey, and by him returned to her, etc., were taken from the house while he, the owner, lay there sleeping in his coffin. Of Walt Whitman's funeral much has been said and written. It was arranged and conducted by friends, and was attended by many celebrated people. Warren was sick and worn out, but kept up bravely and was at everybody's bid and "on deck" throughout all; then he was obliged to yield to a heavy cold and utter exhaustion. Mrs. Davis was little better off, but was able to be around. It has been said that in Mr. Whitman's will he provided generously for his housekeeper. He left her one thousand dollars; not one-fourth of the sum she had expended for him, without taking into consideration her seven years of unpaid service--and such service! The only additional bequest to her was the free rentage of the house for the term of one year. In a few months Mrs. Louise Whitman followed her brother-in-law, and the will went into other hands. Still a few months later Edward Whitman died in the asylum and was buried from the undertaker's, with no services whatever. But three people followed him to the grave: his brother George, Mrs. Davis, and Warren Fritzinger. When the professional nurse left Camden, Mrs. Whitman, to simplify matters, settled with her from her own private bank account. This she did in anticipation of the winding-up of the estate at the expiration of one year after the death of her brother-in-law. She had talked with Mrs. Davis on this subject and had instructed her to put in her claim at the proper time. The year expired, but Mrs. Davis on presenting the claim was told that it was thought that in all ways full justice had been done her, and that no demands whatever of hers would be recognized; furthermore, that it was the wish of the executors that she should vacate the premises _at once_. This was an unexpected blow, and although her regard for Dr. Bucke personally was lessened, her confidence in his integrity remained unshaken, and she immediately wrote to him. Unmindful of his promises that all should be well for her, and that he would be personally responsible, he coolly refused to take any part in the matter, saying that it was something which did not in the least concern him; she must settle it with those at hand. She saw no way of redress, and was given barely time in which to find another house. What an exit! Watch, the dog, showed more resistance, and was determined to remain in his old quarters. He absolutely refused to leave, and as a last resort was carried away in a securely locked cab. Warren was no better dealt with than his mother. Sadly changed from the once robust sailor boy, he tramped the streets of Camden and Philadelphia in search of work. _Any_ work this time; any work but nursing! He applied to those who had been Mr. Whitman's most active friends when anything of note was going on, but no encouragement was given him; some went so far as to tell him that his services to his late patient had about incapacitated him for many kinds of employment. He solicited and applied, but no helping hand was held out to him. He took soap orders, then accepted the only thing that presented itself, the position of night watchman in a Camden bank. After awhile a tea merchant--one of the most kind-hearted of men and a friend of both his mother and Mr. Whitman--offered him a clerkship in his store. He would have preferred outside work, but had no choice and gladly accepted. In a year he married, and notwithstanding disappointments and discouragements, was the same bright cheerful Warry to the end of his short life. He died after a few days' sickness in October, 1899, aged thirty-three years. XIX THE TRIAL "_'Tis called ungrateful With dull unwillingness to repay a debt._" --SHAKESPEARE (_Richard III_). "_Proceed in justice, which shall have due course._" --(_The Winter's Tale_). But to go back. Mrs. Davis's friends, many of Mr. Whitman's, and a number of outsiders were disgusted and indignant at the treatment she had received and united in urging her to sue the estate and take her case into court. She was loath to do this, and hesitated for a long while; but in 1894 the unsolicited offer of an eminent judge to represent her without a fee (he said she was the worst used woman he had ever met) and the continued persuasions of her friends roused her at last to stand up for herself, and for once to take her own part. The loss of her money did not trouble her so much as the thought of what might be (and had been) said against her. She was confident that had Mrs. Whitman lived all would have been different. But Mrs. Whitman had not lived, and she had to face a problem that perplexed and saddened her, darkening her view of human nature, and throwing a shadow over the past and the future. The whole thing seemed so impossible, so hopelessly unfair. The trial came off in the county court house, Camden, in April, 1894. Mrs. Davis's witnesses came voluntarily to her aid--the tea merchant only, and at his own request, being subpoenaed. There was the former orphan girl, now a wife and mother, who told the story of the poet's coming to the widow's door; of her many kind offices to him, and his appreciation; of his repeated promises to repay her if she would come to live with him, and his urgent appeals to her to do so. She gave the particulars of the transfer into the Mickle Street house, and much that followed after; the purchases Mrs. Davis had made, and the expense she had been put to. The first professional nurse, Mr. Musgrove, came forward that he might speak his good word for the late housekeeper, and the second and last trained nurse (Mrs. Keller) was glad to testify in public to the plaintiff's devotion to her distinguished patient, and his great regard for her. Warren told the plain and convincing story of Mr. Whitman's intentions, as expressed to himself, of repaying his mother for the money she had spent. When asked how he knew that she had spent her own money, he answered that he had recognized at least the new gold pieces he had given her--the double eagles--which had gone one by one during the last two years. Then when the defendant's lawyer asked, in a very insinuating manner, what had become of the champagne left in the cellar at the time of Mr. Whitman's death, the young artist who lived next door told how some boys had made their way into the cellar one day, had drunk the wine and become hopelessly intoxicated. The friend who had kept house on the two special occasions, and who had been a constant visitor there for seven years; neighbors who had seen Mrs. Davis helping the old man in and out of his carriage and rolling chair, and carefully covering and protecting him while he was sitting out of doors; and others who knew of her unremitting attentions, all spoke for her, while quite a number of citizens told her that her case was so strong they would not volunteer as witnesses, but were with her heart and soul. Among these was the young doctor. On the opposite side were the two literary executors, George Whitman, and a few others. The oyster man was there to tell of the quantity of oysters he had taken or sent to the house--more than one man, a sick man at that, could possibly consume; the object was to accuse Mrs. Davis by suggestion of getting them for herself in a dishonorable manner; but when on the stand the man could not speak, and after the trial went to her and begged her pardon. Much interest was manifested in the case, which lasted two days; the court room was crowded at each session, and it was not difficult to tell on which side lay the sympathy. Her opponents could bring no charge against her; they could only try to slur her and belittle what she had done. The testimony taken, Mrs. Davis's counsel called his client forward, placed a chair for her in the sight of all, and then in touching, eloquent words summed up the case, saying that many among those present had seen Walt Whitman going about the streets of Camden, alone, cold and neglected, that it was a well-remembered sight, just as it was a well-known fact that this good woman's heart and home alone had been opened to him. As was expected, Mrs. Davis won her case; she received a fair sum of money, and the congratulations, spoken or written, of all who knew her sterling worth and the true story of her years of service. XX CONCLUSION "_Which makes her story true, even to the point of her death._"--SHAKESPEARE (_All's Well That Ends Well_). "_A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion._"--(_Richard III_). If, profiting from past experience, Mrs. Davis had learned to realize that into all lives there comes a time when self has the right of consideration, she could have avoided further complications. But the early precepts were too deeply implanted, and before she had left the Mickle Street house a selfish uninteresting woman had in some insidious way fastened upon her. This burden she carried to the end. Nor were money troubles wanting, grave and crippling, and due of course to the same fatal habit of helping others at her own expense. One day there came to her in great agitation an admirer of her late friend and patient, saying that he was threatened with financial ruin, even defamation of character, unless a certain sum of money was at once forthcoming; simply a loan for a few months; it would be faithfully repaid. Mrs. Davis had long contemplated purchasing a small home; she had the means of doing so, and this money was at once offered and accepted, but never returned. Warren's death followed, and her one strong prop was gone. Mrs. Davis was not much of a correspondent; but notwithstanding this, she and the nurse, Mrs. Keller, occasionally exchanged letters, and the most friendly relations existed between them. After there had been a longer silence than usual, Mrs. Keller wrote to Dr. McAlister, asking him if their friend still lived in Berkley Street (the house she went to from Mickle Street, and the only one she lived in after that), and if so, requesting him to call and learn why she did not write. He did so, and replied that he had found Mrs. Davis about as usual, that she had sent much love and the promise of writing soon. Another long interval of silence followed, and finally came this letter--the last communication that passed between them. "434 Berkley Street, CAMDEN, N. J. October 16, 1908. "DEAR MRS. KELLER, I am just in receipt of your letter. Yes, Dr. McAlister did call last spring and I told him I would write you in a few days, which I fully intended to do, but it so turned out that I went to France with a friend, where I spent the summer; I have been home about three weeks. My going away was entirely unexpected, and I had but a few hours to get in readiness; left everything at loose ends, and one vexatious oversight was I forgot my address book. I thought about you many times, and would have written to you from over there had I had your address. I was delighted to hear from you--will write to you in a few days. I am wrestling with a bad cold. Hope you are well. "Lovingly, "M. O. DAVIS." Mrs. Davis had always wished to see Niagara Falls, and Mrs. Keller, whose home was near that city, hoped that the long looked-for and talked-of visit was at last near at hand; would take place in the following summer. Instead, at the expiration of a month she received a black-edged envelope, the contents reading: "Yourself and family are respectfully invited to attend the funeral of Mary O. Davis on Monday, November 23, at 3 P. M., from the son's residence--H. M. Fritzinger, 810 State Street, Camden, N. J. Interment at Evergreen Cemetery." On November 20, 1908, the following notice appeared in several papers. WHITMAN'S LAST NURSE DEAD Woman Who Cared for Poet Succumbs Too. Mrs. Mary L. Davis, who nursed Walt Whitman, the "Good Gray Poet," during his last illness, and was with him at his death, at No. 328 Mickle street, Camden, died last night in Cooper Hospital of intestinal troubles. She was the widow of Levin J. Davis. After the death of Whitman Mrs. Davis resided for a short time at No. 432 Clinton street, Camden, and then she went to live with a wealthy family in New York City. About a year ago she developed intestinal troubles. The family she was living with took her to Paris for treatment by eminent specialists. She returned a month ago and went to Camden to visit Henry M. Fritzinger, of No. 810 State street. There Mrs. Davis was taken ill with the affliction from which she suffered so much, and was removed to Cooper Hospital. The nurse who had cared for him in his last illness!--not his "faithful housekeeper, nurse and friend." But the brief report, it will be seen, had more than one error. Perhaps the best way of giving a clear picture of the concluding stages will be to quote a letter from her son--as he was always called; Warren's brother Harry. It is a very human document. "DEAR FRIEND, I am convinced that you think this letter should have been written long before, but on account of how things have gone I can assure you that I was taxed to the utmost. Mother died on the 18th of November; buried on the 23rd. You would be surprised how people who were her friends through money have changed.... "When Mother moved from Mickle Street to 434 Berkley Street she lived there until she died, although I tried for years to get her to come and live with me, as she would have been company for my wife when I was away. She had a party living with her by the name of Mrs. H----, a big lazy impostor. She waited on her, carried coal and water upstairs, ashes and slops downstairs, until she worked herself into the condition which she died from. "About eighteen months or two years ago, there was a family by the name of Mr. and Mrs. Mailloux, and Dr. Bell of New York, admirers of Walt Whitman, who came on and got acquainted with Mother. They took a great liking to her and offered her a home with them, but she still stayed on in Berkley Street. Mother paid them several visits, and at last was persuaded to accompany Mrs. Mailloux to Paris on their regular trip, as a companion. She left America feeling as well as ever. My wife and I saw her aboard the train at Broad Street, and she was met in Jersey City by her friends. "While she was in Paris, this woman who was living with her started the devil going, when I was compelled to go down and take charge of the house. It warmed up until I was compelled to write to Mother and ask her to send me authority to protect her interests. This spoiled her visit; she returned to America before the rest of the party. When she arrived she came directly to my house; was suffering with a severe cold. She was with us about six weeks. In the meantime my wife had her fixed up in fairly good shape. She told me that she was going to break up and come to live with us, but could not do it in a day or two. "After she was home about a week she was sick. She fooled along until I became dissatisfied and sent my doctor down to her. He attended her two days, and ordered her to the hospital, as an operation was the only thing to save her. After she was opened they found the bowels separated, also a cancerous tumor. She lived five days after the operation. "All this trouble was not felt until two weeks before she died. Where the report came from about her ill health and going to Paris for aid I do not know, but you always find newspaper reports wrong. "Well, there is one thing that I feel thankful for: that she died before I did. If such had not been the case, she would have been buried in a pauper's grave, or gone to the dissecting table. "Mother has been a friend to many; they have handled what money she had, amounting to hundreds of dollars. When she died all debts were cancelled as far as they were concerned, and not one would say: 'Here is five cents towards putting a good and faithful servant away.' But Mother was laid away as fine as anybody...." Little more need be said. Mrs. Davis was comparatively a young woman at the time of Walt Whitman's death,--being then in her fifty-fifth year,--and in the sixteen years that followed, his friends passed away one by one, and she almost passed out of the memory of his life, as though she had never taken part in it. But the part she did take deserves remembrance. Harry Fritzinger's letter speaks for itself, and I have tried, poorly as I may have done so, to speak for one whom I valued and value as a good woman and a loving friend. WALT WHITMAN'S MONUMENTS A LETTER WRITTEN IN CAMDEN ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS DEATH BY GUIDO BRUNO DEAR WALT WHITMAN: To-day is the 27th anniversary of your death. I came here to worship at your shrine. I am a European, you must know, and reverence of our great writers and artists is bred in us, is part of our early training. We love to visit the houses where genius lived, to see with our own eyes the places our great men loved. Camden hasn't changed much since you left. The people among whom you lived are to-day the same as they were then: petty, mean, vain, unforgiving. Your friends are few just as in the olden days. Let me tell you about it. It never entered my mind to make sure of the street number of your old residence. "Any child on the street will direct me," I thought, "to Whitman's house." Getting off the ferry, the same ferry on which you loved to ride back and forth, in spring and autumn, I asked a policeman how to get to your house. "The Whitman House?" he repeated; "it's somewhere out of the way, I'm sure. You had better stop in the Ridgely House. That's the best place in town." He knew nothing of you and thought I was looking for a hotel. A druggist at the nearby corner knew about you. "William Kettler used to be a great friend of his," he told me. "He'll tell you all about him." And he gave me Mr. Kettler's address. Mr. Kettler still lives on North Street, and has become chief city librarian lately. He's very deaf, but extremely kind and friendly. He was in the midst of moving. Mrs. Kettler is ill, you must know, and they will live on the shore for the rest of the season. "This Whitman cult makes me sick," he commenced. "Who was Whitman anyway? A poet? I dare say that there are hundreds of magazine writers to-day as there were during his lifetime, who write just as good verse as he did. And his prose is abominable. His writings are not fit to be read in a respectable home. They corrupt the mind and are dangerous to the morals. We knew him well, we saw him daily and his disgraceful way of living was open town talk. "I was a newspaper man and associated with the old Camden _Post_ at the time of Bonsall, when Whitman used to come to see us almost daily. Bonsall used to be a friend of his and did him a great many good turns. But Whitman was an ingrate. "Shall I tell you what we respectable citizens of Camden think of him? I don't mean the young generation, but the people who actually knew him. It doesn't sound nice to speak badly about dead people. But we knew him as an incorrigible beggar who lived very immorally ... an old loafer. "Why, only a few months ago, one of the most prominent citizens of our town, John J. Russ, the great real estate dealer, objected to Whitman's name on the Honor Tablet of our new library. Judge Howard Carrot of Merchantville could tell you how that old scoundrel got people into trouble, and if the case had come into court, the scandal would have been so great, that the Judge decided to dispose of it privately. "I remember, several years after the Civil War, Whitman's last visit to the Camden _Post_. Mr. Bonsall, the chief editor, myself and Whitman were chatting in the office. There was a very young reporter in the room. Mr. Whitman insisted on telling us one of his filthy stories. He knew many of them and would tell them without discriminating who was present. Filth seemed to be always on his mind. Mr. Bonsall was shocked. And I remember distinctly what he told him, before turning him out of the office. 'Look here, Whitman,' he said, 'why don't you become a useful citizen, like every one of us? You never did anything decent and worthy of an American citizen. While we took up our guns and went out to fight the enemy, you stalked about hospitals, posing as a philanthropist. Later on, we returned to civilian life, hunting jobs and pensions, trying to earn a livelihood, while you were preaching Humanitarian principles and talking against the cruelties of warfare on Union Square. _Now_, while we are chained to our jobs, you are writing pornographic pieces that no self-respecting publisher would print, and loaf about most of the time, corrupting our young folk. I will not tolerate loose talk in these offices, therefore, get out and never let me see you again.'" "But haven't you said," I interjected, "that Mr. Bonsall was a friend of Whitman?" "They used to be friends," cried Mr. Kettler, "until that treacherous business of the poem came up. Whitman was getting up a little book of poems. Mr. Bonsall, who, in my estimation, was not only an excellent man and writer, but also a poet of no mean ability, sent in a contribution. This particular poem was very beautiful. It was the only one that Whitman did not print. Ever since Mr. Bonsall and myself had not much use for Whitman, who stabbed his friends in the back at the first opportunity." "Hurt vanity," I thought. How small this man Kettler seemed to me with his petty grievances. Forty years have passed and he couldn't forget your refusal of a poem. "But what is the worst," Mr. Kettler continued, "Whitman has spoiled the life of Horace Traubel. What an excellent young man he used to be, the son of an honored, upright citizen. Traubel got obsessed with Whitman's greatness. He devoted his whole life to Whitman. He took Whitman's morals for his own standard." And Mr. Kettler proceeded to tell about Traubel's private life. Some stories a policeman's wife, Traubel's next door neighbor, had told him. Does all this amuse you, Walt Whitman? The frame-house where you lived is in a dreadful condition. An Italian family is living there. A taxi driver, Thomas Skymer. He has three children and four boarders. The boarders have children, too. A litter of young ones are playing in your back yard, around the broken well. Your front room, where you used to sit near the window and entertain your visitors, is a living and dining room combined. Not even a picture of yours is in this room. Over the mantel hangs a cheap chromo of the Italian King. One of the little boys knew your name. "Do you want to see where the old guy died?" he asked, and led me into the back room on the same floor. There was a big bed there. I never saw a bigger one in my life. "We all sleep in it," said the boy. I know, Walt Whitman, you are shrugging your shoulders, smiling indifferently. What does it matter to you who is sleeping now in the room where you died, who is living now in the house where you lived, loved and sang? But my heart cramped and ached. The poverty, the bad odor, the utter irreverence! This Italian pays $10 a month rent. The neighborhood is run down, and the property could be easily bought for a few thousand dollars. Is this how the greatest nation honors its greatest literary genius? Your enthusiastic young physician, Dr. Alexander McAlister, has grown a bit old, but not in spirit. He took me up to his library and here, as well as in his heart, you have found your sanctuary. "I loved Walt Whitman," Dr. McAlister said, "ever since I was a student in the medical school, and met the old gentleman regularly on the street. We talked occasionally; once he asked me to his house, later on, after my graduation, I had occasion to render him professional services, and for all the years, until Whitman's death, I called on him at least once a day. He was the most clean-minded and kind man I have ever met. I never heard him utter an obscene word. The magnificent personality of Walt Whitman and his general comradeship, inspired by his ingrained feelings and intuitive beliefs concerning the destiny of America, must certainly have impressed all who met him long before he was known as a poet. He lived a life so broad and noble that it will be more studied and emulated, and will sink deeper and deeper into the heart. The social, human world, through his aid, will reach a level hitherto unattained. The new life which he preached has not been even dreamed of yet, has not become yet an object of aspiration to us Americans. He has set the spark to the prepared fuel, the living glow has crept deeply into the dormant mass; even now tongues of flame begin to shoot forth. The longer Whitman is dead the better he will be known. He seems to me the typical American, the typical modern, the source and centre of a new, spiritual aspiration, saner and manlier than any heretofore. Whitman thought that man has within him the element of the Divine, and that this element was capable of indefinite growth and expansion. "He was the most democratic man that ever lived. Everybody was welcome to his house, everybody his equal, he was everybody's friend. He had many enemies, but also many friends. He thought Ingersoll his best friend. Dr. Longaker and Horace Traubel were almost always present, especially during the last years of his life. Once in a while they got on his nerves because they continually carried paper and pencil, writing down every word he said. Let me tell you a few incidents of his last illness. They all expected him to die. Traubel and Dr. Longaker were constantly in the hall outside of the sick room, eager to catch every one of Whitman's words. Warren Fritzinger, his nurse, was with him. "'Are those damn fools out there this afternoon?' he remarked when his condition became very weak and the rustling of papers in the hall seemed to annoy him. "The day before he died I came in the morning and asked him, 'How do you feel?' "'Well, Doctor,' he answered, 'I am tired of this dreadful monotony of waiting. I am tired of the sword of Damocles suspended over my head.'" Would it interest you, Walt Whitman, to know about your last minutes on earth, when you lay unconscious in a coma? Dr. McAlister described them to me. "His end was peaceful. He died at 6:43 P. M. At 4:30 he called Mrs. Davis and requested to be shifted from the position he was lying in. The nurse was sent for, and later on they sent me a message. When I reached his bedside, he was lying on his right side, his pulse was very weak and his respiration correspondingly so. I asked him if he suffered pain and if I could do anything for him. He smiled kindly and murmured low. He lay quietly for some time with closed eyes. A little after 5 his eyes opened for a moment, his lips moved slightly, and he succeeded in whispering: '_Warry, Shift._' Warry was his nurse, and these were the last words of Whitman. Then the end came. I bent over him to detect the last sign of the fleeting life. His heart continued to pulsate for fully fifty minutes after he ceased breathing." Dr. McAlister was a great friend of yours, Walt Whitman, and I feel that you are with him every minute of his life. He showed me letters from your old nurse, Mrs. Keller, who wrote a few articles about you. He treasures the books you inscribed for him, your pictures hang on his walls and he especially loves the little plaster cast you gave him. Of course, you know that an autopsy was performed shortly after your death. May I tell you about your brain, which is at present in the possession of the Anthropometric Society? I believe it is an honor to have one's brains placed in this society's museum, because this society has been organized for the express purpose of studying high-type brains. The cause of your death was pleurisy of your left side and consumption of the right lung. You had a fatty liver, and a large gall stone in the gall bladder. The good doctors marvelled that you could have carried on respiration for so long a time with the limited amount of useful lung tissue. They ascribed it largely to that indomitable energy "which was so characteristic of everything pertaining to the life of Walt Whitman." They said in their official report that any other man would have died much earlier with one-half of the pathological changes which existed in your body. In the late afternoon while the sun was setting over an ideal spring day, I walked out to the Harleigh Cemetery, where you built for yourself that magnificent tomb. How wise you were, Walt Whitman, to supervise the cutting of the stones, to watch the workmen while they were preparing your grave. What a beautiful spot you chose for your last resting place. The lake lay still in the warm evening air, the willows swayed gently as if patted by unseen hands. An old working-man, about to leave the cemetery, showed me the spot where you used to sit and watch them work. He told me how you wrote "pieces" on scraps of paper that you borrowed here and there, and how you read them to the stonecutters, who were building your tomb. I asked for the key. They keep it locked lately. I opened the heavy granite door, and stood for quite a while in the semi-darkness of your little house. I thought of you lying there on your bier, peaceful, indifferent, kind. Then I thought of the other monument you had built in words, a temple not made with hands, builded for eternity. Always self-sufficing, walking your own path towards your own goal. No legend tells of you, of your life or achievement. You live in the hearts of thousands of Americans. Soon, very soon, perhaps, your name and America will be synonymous. Walt Whitman, we here on earth are awakening to your ideals of America. Affectionately yours, GUIDO BRUNO WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS Ever upon this stage Is acted God's calm annual drama, Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, The liliput countless armies of the grass, The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra, The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes, The high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars, The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products. [_The Return of the Heroes_] Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn, The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors; The light, the general air possess'd by them--colors till now unknown, No limit, confine--not the Western sky alone--the high meridian-- North, South, all, Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last. [_A Prairie Sunset_] Ever the undiscouraged, resolute, struggling soul of man; (Have former armies fail'd? then we send fresh armies--and fresh again); Ever the grappled mysteries of all earth's ages old or new; Ever the eager eyes, hurrahs, the welcome-clapping hands, the loud applause; Ever the soul dissatisfied, curious, unconvinced at last, Struggling to-day the same--battling the same. [_Life_] Spirit that form'd this scene, These tumbled rock-piles grim and red, These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness, These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own, I know thee, savage spirit--we have communed together, Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse? The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace--column and polish'd arch forgot? But thou that revellest here--spirit that form'd this scene, They have remember'd thee. [_Spirit That Formed This Scene_] Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither, Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me, Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, eludes not, One's-Self must never give way--that is the final substance--that out of all is sure, Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains? When shows break up what but One's-Self is sure? [_Quicksand Years_] O living always, always dying! O the burials of me past and present, O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever; O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content); O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them, To pass on (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind. [_O Living Always, Always Dying_] This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars. [_A Clear Midnight_] I was thinking the day most splendid till I saw what the not-day exhibited, I was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless around me myriads of other globes. Now while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me I will measure myself by them, And now touch'd with the lives of other globes arrived as far along as those of the earth, Or waiting to arrive, or pass'd on farther than those of the earth, I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my own life, Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive. O I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death. [_Night on the Prairies_] Now the great organ sounds, Tremulous, while underneath (as the hid footholds of the earth, On which arising rest, and leaping forth depend, All shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all hues we know, Green blades of grass and warbling birds, children that gambol and play, the clouds of heaven above) The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not, Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest, maternity of all the rest, And with it every instrument in multitudes, The players playing, all the world's musicians, The solemn hymns and masses rousing adoration, All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals, The measureless sweet vocalists of ages, And for their solvent setting earth's own diapason, Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves, A new composite orchestra, binder of years and climes, ten-fold renewer, As of the far-back days the poets tell, the Paradiso, The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done, The journey done, the journeyman come home, And man and art with Nature fused again. [_Proud Music of the Storm_] 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! [_The Mystic Trumpeter_] The touch of flame--the illuminating fire--the loftiest look at last, O'er city, passion, sea--o'er prairie, mountain, wood--the earth itself; The airy, different, changing hues of all, in falling twilight, Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; The calmer sight--the golden setting, clear and broad: So much i' the atmosphere, the points of view, the situation whence we scan, Brought out by them alone--so much (perhaps the best) unreck'd before; The lights indeed from them--old age's lambent peaks. [_Old Age's Lambent Peaks_] Thanks in old age--thanks ere I go, For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you, my mother dear--you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends), For all my days--not those of peace alone--the days of war the same, For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, We never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long); For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, For all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, For braver, stronger, more devoted men--(a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--the foremost leaders, captains of the soul): As soldier from an ended war return'd--as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective, Thanks--joyful thanks!--a soldier's, traveller's thanks. [_Thanks in Old Age_] _Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death._ [_When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd_] INDEX Acharon Society, 60 Aldrich, T. B., 139 Anthropometric Society, 204 "Auntie, Blind," 1, 2, 3 Bell, Dr., 192 "Blind Auntie," 1, 2, 3 Bolton, Mr., 171 Bonsall, Mr., 197 Bruno, Guido, 195, 206 Bucke, Dr. R. M., IX, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 109, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 158, 173, 177 Button, Miss, 168 Camden _Post_, 197 Carrot, Judge Howard, 197 Childs, George W., 13 "Coddie," 162 Cooper Hospital, 190 Davis, Capt. L. J., 4, 190 Davis, Mary O., _passim_ Donaldson, Blaine, 49 Donaldson, Thomas, 1, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18, 21, 30, 37, 38, 39, 47, 48, 49, 52, 61, 100, 103, 111, 113, 119, 127, 146, 172, 175 Duckett, Wm., 69 Ellis, Sarah, V Fritzinger, Capt., 4, 5, 11, 25, 62 Fritzinger, Henry M., 119, 163, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194 Fritzinger, Mrs., 3, 18, 68 Fritzinger, Walt Whitman, 164 Fritzinger, Warren, 119 _sqq._, 203, 204 Gilchrist, Herbert, 76 _sqq._ Harleigh Cemetery, 133, 138, 205 Harned, Thomas B., 101, 151 Heyde, Mrs., 172 Hicks, Elias, 95 Howe, Dr. Lucien, 172 Ingersoll, Col. Robt., 133, 134, 135, 161, 202 _In Re Walt Whitman_, 9, 112, 126 Johnston, Jas., X Johnston, Mr. (N. Y.), 133, 134 Keller, Mrs. E. L., V, VI, VII, 164, 172, 173, 174, 176, 183, 188, 204 Keller, Wm. Wallace, V Kennedy, Wm. Sloane, 67, 99, 113, 133, 140, 189 Kettler, Wm., 196, 198, 199 Kettler, Mrs. W., 196 _Leaves of Grass_, 157 Leavitt, Jas. S., V Lincoln lecture, 60, 69, 130 Longaker, Dr., 161, 202 McAlister, Dr. Alex., 161, 175, 176, 188, 189, 201, 203, 204 McKay, D., 169 Mailloux, Mr., 192 Mailloux, Mrs., 192 Mary, 58 Morse, Sidney, 18, 37, 73 _sqq._ Musgrove, Mr., 108, 183 N. Y. _Evening Telegram_, 165, 166 N. Y. _Herald_, 54, 137 N. Y. _Times_, 71 N. Y. _Tribune_, 70 Packard, S. T., 98 Perry, Bliss, 142 Russ, J. J., 167 St. Mark (quoted), 1 Shakespeare (quoted), 176, 182, 187 Skymer, Thomas, 200 Stafford family, 67 Stedman, Laura, 70 Swinton, John, 137, 138 Thompson, Vance, 27 "Timber Creek," 67, 90 Traubel, Horace, 30, 55, 68, 101, 107, 126, 151, 165, 171, 199, 202 Trowbridge, John T., 129 _Walt Whitman the Man_, 8 Whitman, Edward, 31, 63, 178 Whitman, George, 9, 104, 153, 179, 185 Whitman, Jefferson, 153 Whitman, Miss Jessie, 153 Whitman, Mrs. G., 63, 104, 106, 156, 158, 178, 182 Wilkins, E., 55, 115, 119, 129, 137 Women's Hospital, Phila., VI TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. 
12402	----	THE POETS AND POETRY OF CECIL COUNTY, MARYLAND COLLECTED AND EDITED BY GEORGE JOHNSTON, AUTHOR OF THE HISTORY OF CECIL COUNTY. A verse may finde him whom a sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice. --Herbert. ELKTON, MD: PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR. 1887 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by GEORGE JOHNSTON, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. PREFACE. This volume owes its existence to the desire of some of the teachers and pupils of the public schools in the northeastern part of Cecil county, to do honor to the memory of the late School Commissioner David Scott. Shortly after Mr. Scott's death, some of the parties referred to, proposed to collect enough money by voluntary contributions to erect a monument over his grave, in order to perpetuate his memory, and also to show the high regard in which he was held by them. This project being brought to the knowledge of the editor, he ventured to express the opinion that the best monument Mr. Scott could have, would be the collection and publication of his poems in book form. This suggestion met the approbation of the originators of the project, who asked the writer to undertake the work of collecting the poems and editing the book. Subsequent investigation showed that Mr. Scott had not left enough poems to justify their publication in a volume by themselves; and the original plan of the work was changed, so as to include, so far as it has been practicable to do so, the writings of all the native poets of the county, and those who though not natives, have resided and written in it. Owing to causes not necessary to state it was impracticable, in some cases, to make as creditable a selection as could have been made had it been possible to have had access to all the poetry of the different writers. In a few instances the book contains all the poetry of the different writers that it has been practicable to obtain. Herein, it is hoped, will be found sufficient apology, if any apology is needed, for the character of some of the matter in the book. If any apology is needed for the prominence given to the poems of David Scott (of John.) it may be found in the foregoing statement concerning the origin of the book; and in the fact, that, for more than a quarter of a century, the editor was probably his most intimate friend. So intimate indeed were the relations between Mr. Scott and the writer, that the latter had the pleasure of reading many of his friend's poems before they were published. The same may be said in a more extended sense, of the poems of David Scott (of James) to whose example and teaching, as well as to that of the other Mr. Scott--for he was a pupil of each of them--the writer owes much of whatever literary ability he may possess. The editor is also on terms of intimacy with many of the other contemporary writers whose poetry appears in the book, and has striven to do justice to their literary ability, by the selection of such of their poems as are best calculated, in his opinion, to do credit to them, without offending the taste of the most fastidious readers of the book. From the foregoing statement it will be apparent that the object of the editor was not to produce a book of poetical jems, but only to select the poems best adapted to the exemplification of the diversified talents of their authors. The work has been a labor of love; and though conscious that it has been imperfectly performed, the compiler ventures to express the hope that it will be received by a generous and discriminating public, in the same spirit in which it was done. EDITORIAL NOTES It is a remarkable fact that all the native poets of Cecil county except one or two were born in the northern part of it, and within about eight miles of the boundary line between Maryland and Pennsylvania. What effect, if any, the pure atmosphere and picturesque scenery of the country along the banks and romantic hills of the Susquehanna and Octoraro may have had to do with producing or developing poetical genius, cannot be told; but nevertheless it is a fact, that William P., and Edwin E. Ewing, Emma Alice Browne, Alice Coale Simpers, John M. Cooley and Rachel E. Patterson were born and wrote much of their poetry, as did also Mrs. Caroline Hall, in that beautifully diversified and lovely section of the county. It is also worthy of note that Tobias and Zebulon Rudulph were brothers, as are also William P. and Edwin E. Ewing; and that Mrs. Caroline Hall was of the same family; and that Folger McKinsey and William J. Jones are cousins, as are also Mrs. James McCormick and Mrs. Frank J. Darlington, and Emma Alice Browne and George Johnston. Owing to the fact that the size of the book was necessarily limited by the price of it; and to the fact that the poems of three of the writers were not obtained until after a large part of the book had been printed, it was impossible to give some of the writers, whose proper places were in the latter part of the book, as much space as was desirable. For the reason just stated, the editor was compelled to omit a large number of excellent poems, written by David Scott (of James,) and others. CONTENTS. DAVID SCOTT (of John.) Biography Lines Suggested by the Singing of a Bird An Eastern Tale The Market-Man's License Lines on the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Scott My Schoolboy Days The Donation Visit Lines on the death of Miss Mary Hayes Lines on the death of Miss Eleanora Henderson Lines on the death of Mrs. Burnite Stanzas read at the Seventy-second Anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele To Mary Impromptu to Mrs. Anna C. Baker Lament for the year 1877 Verses presented to my Daughter Lines on the death of a young lady of Wilmington Youthful Reminiscences Stanzas to a little girl on her birthday To Miss Mary Bain Stanzas addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott Birthday Verses written for a little girl on her ninth birthday Roll Call In Memoriam Rensellaer Biddle Stanzas written on the fly leaf of a child's Bible Christmas Greeting, 1877 Anniversary Poem read at the anniversary of the Seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson Lines on the death of Jane Flounders What is Matter? Anniversary Hymn The Intellectual Telegraph Lines on an Indian Arrow-Head Acrostic to Miss Annie Eliza McNamee Minutes of the Jackson Hall Debating Society, Dec. 5, 1877 Retrospection Acrostic to Miss Florence Wilson McNamee The Book of Books The Lesson of the Seasons John A. Calhoun, My Joe John EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Biography My Brother My Father. In Memoriam, 1857 At the Nightfall The Midnight Chime May-Thalia Memories The Old Homestead Gurtha In Memoriam. John B. Abrahams Missive to ---- Chick-A-Dee's Song To My Sister Measuring the Baby The Light of Dreams Ben Hafed's Meed Winter Bound Misled At Milking time The Singer's Song Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving In Hoc Signo Vinces How Katie Saved the Train Off the Skidloe Life's Crosses NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS. Biography The Mother to her dead boy To a Dove Fall of Superstition The Infant St. John the Baptist Shelley's Obsequies The Fountain Revisited Death of Samson An Infant's prayer JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. Biography A Story with a Moral Forty Years After The Past Loved and Lost Death of Henry Clay, Jr. A Valentine Lines suggested on visiting the grave of a dear Friend GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. Biography Stonewall Jackson In Memoriam New Year Ode My Birthday MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Biography A Birthday Greeting Murmurings The Old Oak Tree Sweet Florida Evening REV. WILLIAM DUKE. Biography Hymn Hymn Rejoicing in Hope Hymn Remorse Morning EDWIN EVANS EWING. Biography The Cherubim Death and Beauty Take the Harp Death of the Beautiful Asphodel WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. Biography The Angel Voice Then and Now The Neglected Harp Alone Gone Astray Lay of the Last Indian CHARLES H. EVANS. Biography Influences Musings Lines MRS. SARAH HALL. Biography Sketch of a Landscape With a Rose in January Life MRS. SALLIE W. HARDCASTLE. Biography On Receipt of a Bouquet October Old Letters June Roses Music Lines on the death of a Friend MRS. MARY E. IRELAND. Biography At the Party Mother and Son The Missionary's Story Transition Dorothy Moore Homeward Bound GEORGE JOHNSTON. Biography Here and Hereafter The Turtle's Sermon Skye If You don't believe it, try it Bye and Bye WILLIAM JAMES JONES. Biography Autumn Mary's Grave To Anselmo Flowers Life JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. Biography His Last Tune Advice to an Ambitious Youth Too Late After the Shower Tribute to the Memory of David Scott (of John) Spring JAMES McCAULEY. Biography Henry Clay Virtuous Age Acrostic Work To-day On the death of a Child Spring Hope Autumn MRS. IDA McCORMICK. Biography My Fancy Land With the Tide The Old Fashion My Baby and the Rose FOLGER McKINSKY. Biography Waiting their Crowns Sea Echoes Where Fancy Dwells At Key's Grave The Eternal Life MRS. ROSALIENE R. MURPHY. Biography Woman's Rights Only A Baby To Helen RACHEL E. PATTERSON. Biography Judge Not The Wish The Christian's Anchor CALLANDER PATTERSON. Biography God Is Great TOBIAS RUDULPH. Biography Selection from Tancred ZEBULON RUDULPH. Biography The Surprise Thoughts on the death of my grandchild Fanny The Decree A view from Mount Carmel MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. Biography The Miller's Romance The Last Time Only a Simple Maid The Mystic Clock Rube and Will The Legend of St. Bavon DAVID SCOTT (of James.) Biography The Forced Alliance My Cottage Home The Mighty One The Surviving Thought The Working-Man's Song Ode to Death HENRY VANDERFORD. Biography On the Mountains Progress Winter Lines Written in St. Ann's Cemetery Merry May DAVID SCOTT (of John.) David Scott (of John,) so-called to distinguish him from his first cousin David Scott (of James,) was the grandson of David Scott, who emigrated from Ireland in the latter part of the eighteenth century and settled not far from Cowantown in the Fourth district. His son John, the father of the subject of this sketch, was born in Ireland, but was quite young when his father came to this country. David, the subject of this sketch, was born quite near to what was formerly known as Dysart's Tavern, now Appleton, on the 2nd of September, 1817, and died near Cowantown, on the 14th of November, 1885. All his life was spent within about two miles of the place of his birth, and most of it on the Big Elk creek at what was known while he owned them, as "Scott's Mills." His early life was devoted to farming, but upon reaching the proper age he learned the trade of augermaking, which at that time was one of the leading industries of this county, and at which he soon became an expert workman, as well as a skilful worker in iron and steel. The editor of this book has heard him remark that when he could find no one else capable of making odd pieces of ironwork for the machinery in his mills he would take the hammer and make them himself, and has also seen him make and temper the knives for a spoke machine which he used for a time in his bending mill. He and the late Palmer C. Ricketts were intimate friends in boyhood and remained such during the lifetime of Mr. Ricketts. Mr. Ricketts being of a literary turn of mind, their friendship probably had much to do with forming the literary tastes and shaping the political opinions of Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott was originally a Democrat, and when only about 23 years of age is said to have aspired to a seat in the General Assembly of his native State. But the leaders of the party failed to recognize his claims, and he shortly afterwards was instrumental in the formation of the first politico temperance organization in this county, and ran for the House of Delegates on the first temperance ticket placed before the people in 1845. For a few years afterwards he took no part in politics, his whole time and talents being engrossed in business, but in 1853 at the solicitation of his friend Ricketts, he consented to be a candidate for County Commissioner, and succeeded in carrying the Fourth district in which he lived, which was then known as the Gibraltar of Democracy, by a small majority, and securing his election by a majority of one vote over Griffith M. Eldredge, his highest competitor on the Democratic ticket. In 1855 he ran on the American ticket, with the late Samuel Miller and Dr. Slater B. Stubbs, for the House of Delegates, and was elected by a handsome majority. In 1859 Mr. Scott consented to run on the American ticket for the State Senate. His competitor was the late Joseph J. Heckart, who was elected. This was a memorable campaign on account of the effect produced by the John Brown raid upon the State of Virginia and the capture of Harper's Ferry, which had a disastrous effect upon Mr. Scott's prospects, owing probably to which he was defeated. At the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion he espoused the Union cause and gave it his hearty support during the continuance of the struggle, and remained a consistent Republican until his death. In 1864 he was a delegate to represent Cecil county in the Constitutional Convention, his colleagues being Thomas P. Jones, George Earle and the late Joseph B. Pugh. He was assigned to a place upon the Committee on the Elective Franchise and had more to do with originating that section of the Constitution which provided for the passage of a registration law than any other person on the committee--probably more than any other member of the Convention. He was an intimate friend of Henry H. Goldsborough, whom he had previously nominated in the Republican State Convention for the office of Comptroller of the State Treasury, which office he still held, and whom Mr. Scott also nominated for President of the Constitutional Convention in the Republican caucus, and, as was very natural, was often called upon by Mr. Goldsborough to preside over the Convention in his absence, which he did with that _suaviter in modo_ and _fortiter in re_ for which he was remarkable and with great acceptability to the members of both political parties. During the invasion of the State in July, 1864, he was one of the most active members in urging upon the loyalists of Annapolis and the military authorities in that city and at Camp Parole the necessity of defending the Capital of the State. He held the handles of the plow with which the first furrow that marked the line of the fortifications around the city was made. It may not be out of place to say that the editor of this book, in company with Mr. Scott, walked along the line of the ditch the morning before, and that the former walked ahead of the team attached to the plow so that the person who led the team might know where to go. Mr. Scott was also one of about a dozen members who remained in Annapolis for about two weeks, during much of which time the arrival of the rebel raiders was hourly expected, and kept the Convention alive by adjourning from day to day, without which, by the rules adopted for the government of the Convention, it could not have maintained a legal existence. He was appointed School Commissioner in 1882, which office he filled with great acceptability to the public until incapacitated by the disease which terminated his life. Mr. Scott, though one of the most amiable of men, was fond of argument when properly conducted, and from the time he was twenty years of age until nearly the close of his life was always ready to participate in a debate if he could find any person to oppose him; and thought it no hardship to walk any where within a radius of four or five miles, in the coldest weather, in order to attend a debating society. He was possessed of a large and varied stock of information and a very retentive memory, which enabled him to quote correctly nearly everything of importance with which he had ever been familiar. His ability in this direction, coupled with a keen sense of the ridiculous and satirical, rendered him an opponent with whom few debaters were able to successfully contend. But it was as a companion, a friend and a poet that he was best known among the people of his neighborhood, to which his genial character and kind and amiable disposition greatly endeared him. Mr. Scott began to write poetry when about twenty-one years of age, and continued to do so, though sometimes at long intervals, until a short time before his death. His early poems were printed in "The Cecil Whig," but being published anonymously cannot be identified. Like many others, he did not preserve his writings, and a few of his best poems have been lost. Of his poetic ability and religious belief, we do not care to speak, but prefer that the reader should form his own judgment of them from the data derived from a perusal of his poems. In 1844, Mr. Scott married Miss Agatha R. Fulton, a most estimable lady, who, with their son Howard Scott and daughter Miss Annie Mary Scott, survive him. In conclusion, the editor thinks it not improper to say that he enjoyed the pleasure of Mr. Scott's intimate friendship for nearly thirty years, and esteemed him as his best and most intimate friend. And that while his friend was only mortal, and subject to mortal frailities, he had a kind and generous heart; a soul which shrank from even the semblance of meanness, and was the embodiment of every trait which ennobles and elevates humanity. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SINGING OF A BIRD EARLY IN MARCH, 1868. Sing on, sweet feathered warbler, sing! Mount higher on thy joyous wing, And let thy morning anthem ring Full on my ear; Thou art the only sign of spring I see or hear. The earth is buried deep in snow; The muffled streams refuse to flow, The rattling mill can scarcely go, For ice and frost: The beauty of the vale below In death is lost. Save thine, no note of joy is heard-- Thy kindred songsters of the wood Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird, Art left behind-- A faithful friend, whose every word Is sweet and kind. But Spring will come, as thou wilt see, With blooming flower and budding tree, And song of bird and hum of bee Their charms to lend; But I will cherish none like thee, My constant friend. Like the dear friends who ne'er forsake me-- Whatever sorrows overtake me-- In spite of all my faults which make me Myself detest, They still cling to and kindly take me Unto their breast. AN EASTERN TALE ADDRESSED TO MRS. S.C. CHOATE. A Persian lady we're informed-- This happened long, long years before The Christian era ever dawned, A thousand years, it may be more, The date and narrative are so obscure, I have to guess some things that should be sure. I'm puzzled with this history, And rue that I began the tale; It seems a kind of mystery-- I'm very much afraid I'll fail, For want of facts of the sensation kind: I therefore dwell upon the few I find. I like voluminous writing best, That gives the facts dress'd up in style. A handsome woman when she's dressed Looks better than (repress that smile) When she in plainer costume does appear; The more it costs we know she is more _dear_. The story is a Grecian one, The author's name I cannot tell; Perhaps it was old Xenophon Or Aristotle, I can't dwell On trifles; perhaps Plutarch wrote the story: At any rate its years have made it hoary. The Greeks were famous in those days In arts, in letters and in arms; Quite plain and simple in their ways; With their own hands they tilled their farms; Some dressed the vine, some plow'd the ocean's wave; Some wrote, were orators, or teachers grave. They were Republicans, in fact; The Persians might have called them "black Republicans;" they never lacked The power to beat a foeman back. Thermopylæ, so famed in Grecian story Is but another name for martial glory. A busy hive to work or fight, Like our New England bold and strong; A little frantic for the right, As sternly set against the wrong; And when for right they drew the sword, we know, Stopped not to count the number of the foe. To me it is a painful sight To see a nation great and good Reduced to such a sorry plight, And courtiers crawl where freemen stood, And king and priests combine to seize the spoil, While widows weep and beggar'd yeomen toil. The philosophic mind might dwell Upon this subject for an age: The philanthropic heart might swell Till tears as ink would wet the page; The mystery, a myst'ry will remain-- The learning of the learned cannot explain. The Persians were a gaudy race, Much giv'n to dress and grand display; I'm grieved to note this is the case With other people at this day; And folks are judged of from outside attractions, Instead of from good sense and genteel actions. The dame in question was a type Of all her class; handsome and rich And proud, of course, and flashing like A starry constellation, which She was, in fact a moving mass of light From jewels which outshone the stars at night. The tale is somewhat out of joint-- I'm not much given to complain; 'Tis in a most essential point A blank; I've read it oft in vain To find one syllable about her size, The color of her hair, or of her eyes. Or whether she was short or tall, Or if she sung or play'd with grace, If she wore hoops or waterfall I cannot find a single trace Of proof; and as I like to be precise, My disappointment equals my surprise. This Persian belle; (confound the belle) Excuse me, please; I won't be rude; She's in my way, so I can't tell My tale, so much does she intrude; I wish I knew her age, and whether she Was single, married, or engaged to be. These are important facts to know, I wonder how they slipped the pen Of him who wrote the story, so I wonder at the taste of men Who wrote for future ages thus to spoil A tale to save time, paper, ink or oil. Our Persian lady, as I said, Decked out in costly jewels rare, A visit to a Grecian made-- A lady of great worth, and fair To look upon, of great domestic merit Which from a noble race she did inherit. Puffed up with vanity and pride, The Persian flashing like a gem, Displayed her brilliants, glittering wide; The Grecian coldly looked at them: "Have you no jewelry at all, to wear? Your dress and person look so poor and bare." She called her children to her side, Seven stalwart sons of martial mien; "These are my jewels," she replied, "I'm richer far than you, I ween: These are the glory and the strength of Greece, Which all the gems on earth would not increase," Let others shine in diamonds bright, Or hoard their greenbacks, bonds or gold, You have your jewels in your sight, And hearing, like the matron old; And should they still continue to increase, You'll beat the model mother of old Greece. Then hail Columbia, happy land! While California yields her ore, May you increase your jewel band, By adding every year one more; And when you're asked your jewels to display. Point to your score of sons saying "these are they." THE MARKET-MAN'S LICENSE, OR THE FARMER'S APPEAL FROM A JACKASS TO THE MAYOR. The following poem grew out of a misunderstanding between Mr. Scott and the clerk of the Wilmington market. In the winter of 1868, Mr. Scott was in the habit of selling hominy in the market, and the clerk treated him rudely and caused him to leave his usual stand and remove to another one. From this arbitrary exercise of power Mr. Scott appealed to the Mayor, who reinstated him in his old place. Mr. Scott soon afterwards had several hundred of the poems printed and scattered them throughout the market. In an introductory note he says, "the lines referring to Mayor Valentine are intended as a compliment to that officer, as well as a play on his official title of Mayor." I've horses seen of noble blood, And stopped to gaze and stare: But ne'er before to-day I stood In presence of a Mayor. I've talked with rulers, in and ex, With working man and boss; Mayor Valentine! they you unsex-- You surely are a horse. For every blooded horse one meets, Or clever mare he passes, He finds in all the city streets A score of brainless asses. A Jackass, in the days of old, Dress'd in a lion's skin, Went forth to ape the lion bold, And raised a mighty din: His ass-ship's ears he could not hide; His roaring would not pass; The startled beasts his ears descried, And recognized the ass. The moral of this tale you'll meet Each market day in town, With scales in hand, in Market street, Dress'd in the lion's gown: He roars, 'tis true, but scan him well Whene'er you see him pass; Look at his ears and you can tell He's but a braying ass. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH SCOTT. Ransom'd spirit, spread thy wings, Leave thy broken house of clay; Soar from earth and earthly things, To the realms of endless day. Weary pilgrim, take thy rest, Thine has been a tiresome road; Aching head and tortur'd breast, Added to thy galling load. Patient sufferer, dry thy tears, All thy sorrows now are o'er; Foes without, or inward fears, Never can afflict thee more. Faithful soldier of the cross, All thy conflicts now are done; Earthly triumphs are but loss, Thine is an immortal one. Palms of vict'ry thou shall bear, And a crown of fadeless light Will be given thee to wear, And a robe of spotless white. Thou shalt join the countless throng, Which, through tribulation, came: And repeat the angels' song-- "Worthy! worthy is His name Who hath conquered death and hell; Captive led captivity; Always doing, all things well; Giving us the victory!" MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS. The following poem was read at the forty-fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. James Swaney, on January 11th, 1883. Mr. and Mrs. Swaney's residence is not far from the site of the school house where Mr. Scott first went to school. Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here; 'Tis fit that we should make this call Thus early in the year. That time flies rapidly along, And hurries us away, Has been the theme of many a song, And it is mine to-day. I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore. The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade. Have disappeared--no trace I see Of them upon the glade. The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see. The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know It must have been hard by. The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard-- I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard-- Is dry land now where grain or grass Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pass, No ice nor pond is there. A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood. I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change. I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here. In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie; While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear. A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they! Like the small band assembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray. Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years. This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears. The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn. In all the ups and downs of life-- Of which they've had their share-- They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare. They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity. When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the shining gate, No more to grieve or part. THE DONATION VISIT. The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit by the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James I. Vallandigham. Fair ladies dear, and gentlemen. I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey. I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway. I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men, Who really have been to college, And know the Latin and the Greek; And are so charged with general knowledge That it requires no little cheek In an obscure and modest bard To meet a galaxy so bright,-- Indeed, I find it rather hard To face the music here to-night. Dear friends, we've met, as it is meet That we should meet at such a time, Each other and our host to greet,-- Or guest, 'tis all the same in rhyme. No king nor queen do I revere; The majesty of God I own. An honest man, though poor, is peer To him that sits upon a throne. I long to see the coming day When wicked wars and strifes shall cease, And ignorance and crime give way Before the march of truth and peace. That welcome day is drawing near; I sometimes think I see its dawn; The trampling of the hosts I hear, By science, truth and love led on. I see the murderous cannon fused, With its death-dealing shot and shell, For making railway carwheels used, Or civil railway tracks as well. And small arms, too, will then be wrought Into machines for cutting wheat; While those who used them will be taught To labor for their bread and meat. God speed the day,--'tis bound to come, But not as comes the lightning's stroke; But slowly, as the acorn dumb Expands into the giant oak. Now, reverend sir, I turn to you, To say what all your flock well know; You, as a pastor kind and true, Have led the way we ought to go. You have rejoiced in all our joys, And sympathised with us in trouble; You have baptized our girls and boys-- And often you have made them double. With all your gifts and talents rare, You meekly take the servants place, And guard the sheep with jealous care And hold the lambs in your embrace. In all the ups and downs of life We've found in you a constant friend; You've counselled peace, discouraged strife, And taught us all our ways to mend. For eight-and-twenty years you've stood A watchman on the outer wall; Repressing evil, aiding good, And kindly watching over all. Though age may enervate your frame And dim the lustre of your eye, No lapse of time can soil your name, For names like yours can never die. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES. Another star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; The fairest are the first to die, The best go earliest to the tomb. That radiant star, whose cheering ray, Adorn'd her quiet, rural home, Went down, in darkness, at mid-day. And left that quiet home in gloom. That lovely flower, admired so much, In all its loveliness, was lost, It withered at the fatal touch Of death's untimely, killing frost. The mourners go about the street, While children tell their tale of woe To every passer-by they meet, In faltering accents, faint and low. "Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say, While tears roll down their cheeks like rain, "Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay," And then their tears gush out again. And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech. Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear. Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead, The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To shine with ever glowing light. For, on that ever-vernal shore, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will shine forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON. She is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke 8:52. She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier. She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day. She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing God's praises in the sky. She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more! No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone: Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up. She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, God's will must be obeyed. She is not dead, she's shining In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining? God's ways are always right. She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's passed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back? Back from the joys of heaven! Back from that world of bliss! Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this? A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife, She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?" LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878. Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling'ring, loath to let thee go. Husband fond and children dear, Crushed and stricken by the blow, Banish ev'ry anxious fear, While we lay the lov'd one low. For the angel's trump shall sound, And the bands of death will break; Then the pris'ner in this mound Shall to endless life awake. Then the spirit which is gone Will return and claim this dust, And this "mortal will put on Immortality," we trust. When that glorious day shall dawn, And the bridegroom shall descend With a gorgeous angel throng, The glad nuptials to attend, Oh, the rapture of that meeting! We of earth can never know Till we mingle in the greeting, Of our lov'd, lost long ago. Let me like the righteous die, Let my last end be like his; When I close, on earth, my eye, Let me wake in realms of bliss. STANZAS Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884. Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here to-day; 'Tis nice for neighbors thus to call, In such a social way. We meet to celebrate a day, Which people seldom see; Time flies so rapidly away 'Tis like a dream to me; Since I, a lad with flaxen hair First met our friend, so gray; We both were free from thought and care, But full of hope and play. Well Joseph Steele, we may be glad That we are here to-day, Although it makes me somewhat sad To think of friends away. Of all our schoolboy friends but few Alas! can now be found, Not many but myself and you Are still above the ground. I count upon my fingers' ends About the half, I know. Of all acquaintances and friends With whom we used to go; To _Humphreys_ and _Montgomery_ To _Cochran_ and to _Dance_, And some, who slip my memory, That used to make us prance, Whene'er we missed a lesson Or placed a crooked pin Just where some one would press on Enough to drive it in. O, it was fun alive, I vow, To see that fellow bounce And hear him howl and make a row And threaten he would trounce The boy that did the mischief, But that boy was seldom found, And so, he had to bear his grief And nurse the unseen wound; But time and rhyme can never tell The half our funny pranks, And that we ever learned to spell, We ought to render thanks. Poor Dance! I always pitied him For he was just from college, And never having learned to swim, Was drowned with all his knowledge. Of Cochran, I but little knew, He was a stranger here, 'Twas always said he would get blue, And acted very queer. Montgomery I knew right well, He was rather kind than cross, He taught the willing how to spell, And always would be boss. He wrote a very pretty hand And could command a school: His appetite got the command, And that he could not rule. One day he took a heavy slug Of something rather hot; He took that something from a jug, And shortly he was not. Who "took" him, though, I never can Nor need I ever say; But when the Lord doth take a man, 'Tis seldom done that way. Poor Humphreys was a sort of crank (Folks said his learning made him mad,) But this I know, he always drank, And that will make the best man, bad. Excuse this rather long digression, My pen has carried me astray; These schoolboy days make an impression From which 'tis hard to get away. Then let me turn, and return too, For I have wandered from my text,-- Well, Mr. Steele, how do you do? I hope you are not vexed. 'Tis pleasant in our riper years To have our children come And bring their children--little dears, They make it seem like home. An old man's children are his crown, And you may well be proud When from your throne you just look down Upon this hopeful crowd. But now my neighbors dear, adieu; "The best of friends must part;" I'll often kindly think of you, And treasure each one in my heart; And if we never meet again On this poor frozen clod, O! may we meet to part no more Around the throne of God. TO MARY. The following lines suggested by the beautiful story of the sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, (Luke, 10:38-42,) were addressed to Miss Mary M., of Wilmington, Del. In Bethany there dwelt a maid, And she was young and very fair; 'Twas at her house that Jesus stayed, And loved to stay, when he was there. For Mary seated at his feet, In rapture hung upon His word: His language flow'd in accent sweet, Such language mortal never heard. Her sister, cross in looks and word, (The cares of life have this effect,) Came and accused her, to her Lord, Of idleness and of neglect. "Martha, Martha," He kindly said, Forego thy troubles and thy care-- One needful thing, a crust of bread, Is all I ask with thee to share. "Mary hath chosen that good part, To hear my word and do my will, Which shall not from her trusting heart Be taken." It shall flourish still. Dear Mary, in this picture see Thy own, drawn by a master hand; Name, face and character agree Drawn by Saint Luke, an artist grand. IMPROMPTU TO MRS. ANNA C. BAKER. Composed in the top of a cherry tree when the wind was blowing a gale. In fishing for men, I should judge from your looks You've always had biters enough at your hooks. And whenever you dipp'd your net in the tide You had little need to spread it out wide. To encircle so many you wish'd for no more And like the old fishers sat down on the shore, Casting all the worthless and bad ones away-- Preserving the good and the true to this day. May the promising youth, I saw by your side All blooming and beaming, your hope and your pride, Be a pillar of state, so strong and so tall As to make you rejoice, that you made such a haul. LAMENT FOR THE YEAR 1887. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. My tale to-night is full of woe, I would that it were one of gladness; I would not thrill your hearts, you know, With notes of grief or sadness. My friend and yours is near his end, His pulse is beating faint and low, 'Tis sad to lose so good a friend, His time has come and he must go. His life is ebbing fast away, His mortal race is almost run, He cannot live another day, Nor see another rising sun. While watching round his dying bed, The tears we shed are tears of sorrow, We'll close his eyes for he'll be dead, And carried hence before to-morrow. His frame, so fragile now and weak, Was late the seat of vital power, But now, alas! he cannot speak, He's growing weaker every hour. Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine, Has done his part by you and me, Then friends, let us unite and twine, A bright wreath to his memory. His reign has been a checker'd reign, While some have suffered loss and wrong, We have no reason to complain, So come and join me in my song. He found me in the lowly vale, In poverty with robust health, And sweet contentment in the scale, Outweighing fame and pomp and wealth. Destroying war beneath his reign, Has drench'd the earth with blood and tears, Which ever flow, but flow in vain, As they have done through countless years. When will the reign of peace begin? When will the flood of human woe, That flows from folly, pride, and sin, Subside, and ever cease to flow? God speed the time when war's alarms, Will never more convulse the earth, And love and peace restore the charms Which dwelt in Eden at its birth. Old seventy-seven, again adieu, We'll ne'er again each other see. I've been a constant friend to you, As you have always been to me. "Step down and out" you've had your day, Your young successor's at the gate, Let him be crowned without delay, The royal stranger seventy-eight. VERSES Presented to my daughter with a watch and a locket with a picture of myself. Receive, my child, this gift of love, And wear it ever near thy heart, A pledge of union may it prove, Which time nor distance ne'er can part. I've watched thy infant sleep, and prest My eager lips against thy brow, And lingered near thy couch, and blest, Thy tender form with many a vow. But O! the rapture of that hour, None but a parent's heart can know When first thy intellectual power Began the germ of life to show. I've marked the progress of thy mind, And felt a thrill of joy and pride, To see thy youthful steps inclined To wisdom's ways and virtue's side. And when this fiery restless soul, Has chafed the thread of life away And reached, or high or low, the goal, And fought and won or lost the day,-- Then cherish this bright gift, my dear, And on those features kindly gaze, And bathe them with a filial tear, When I'm beyond all blame or praise. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF WILMINGTON. Chill frost will nip the fairest flower; The sweetest dream is soonest pass'd; The brightest morning in an hour, May be with storm clouds overcast. So Josephine in early bloom, Was blighted by death's cruel blast, While weeping round her early tomb, We joy to know, she is not lost. Fond mother, dry that tearful tide, Your child will not return, you know: She's waiting on the other side And where she is, you too may go. YOUTHFUL REMINISCENCES. Their schoolboy days have form'd a theme, For nearly all the bards I know, But mine are like a fading dream Which happen'd three score years ago. My memory is not the best, While some things I would fain forget Come like an uninvited guest, And often cause me much regret. I see the ghosts of murdered hours, As they flit past in countless throngs, They taunt me with their meager powers, And ridicule my senseless songs. 'Tis useless now to speculate, Or grieve o'er that which might have been, My failures though they have been great, Are not the greatest I have seen. In school I was a quiet child, And gave my teachers little fash, But as I grew I grew more wild, And hasty as the lightning's flash. Of study I was never fond, My school books gave me no delight, I patronized the nearest pond, To fish or swim by day or night. And when the frosts of winter came, And bound the streams in fetters tight, It gave me pleasure all the same To skate upon their bosom bright. I was athletic in my way And on my muscle went it strong, And stood to fight or ran to play, Regardless of the right or wrong. In wrestling I did much excel And lov'd to douse a boasting fop, Nor cared I how or where we fell Provided I fell on the top. I loved my friends with all my might, My foes I hated just as strong, My friends were always in the right, My foes forever in the wrong. A sportsman early I became, A sort of second Daniel Boone, And bagg'd my share of ev'ry game From cony, up or down, to coon. No tawny chieftain's swarthy son, Was ever fonder of the chase, Than I was of my trusty gun, Although I had a paler face. I shot the squirrel near his den. The silly rabbit near her lair; And captured ev'ry now and then, A pheasant in my cunning snare. And many things I think of here, Which time forbids me now to say, That happen'd in my wild career, To me, since that eventful day When my fond mother wash'd my face, And combed my flaxen hair, And started me in learning's race, And breath'd to heav'n a silent prayer, That I might grow to man's estate, And cultivate my opening mind; And not be rich or wise or great, But gentle, true and good and kind. My mother's face, I see it yet, That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue, I trust I never shall forget Her words of counsel, sage and true. She left me, when she pass'd away, More than a royal legacy, I would not for a monarch's sway, Exchange the things she gave to me. She gave me naught of sordid wealth, But that which wealth can never be, Her iron frame and robust health, Are more than diadems to me. She left to me the azure sky, With all its countless orbs of light, Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye, And beautify the dome of night. The deep blue sea from shore to shore, The boundless rays of solar light, The lightnings flash, the thunders roar-- I hold them all in my own right. And lastly that there be no lack, Of any good thing by her given, She left to me the shining track, Which led her footsteps up to heaven. STANZAS TO A LITTLE GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY. My dear, the bard his greeting sends, And wishes you and all your friends, A happy birthday meeting. Let social pleasures crown the day, But while you chase dull care away, Remember time is fleeting. Then learn the lesson of this day, Another year has pass'd away, Beyond our reach forever. And as the fleeting moments glide, They bear us on their noiseless tide, Like straws upon the river, Into that vast, unfathomed sea, Marked on the map "eternity," With neither bound nor shore. There may we find some blissful isle Where basking in our Saviour's smile, We'll meet to part no more. TO MISS MARY BAIN. My cousin fair, dear Mary B, Excuse my long neglect I pray, And pardon too, the homely strain, In which I sing this rustic lay. My muse and I are sorted ill, I'm in my yellow leaf and sere; While she is young and ardent still And urges me to persevere. She reads to me the roll of fame, And presses me to join the throng, That surge and struggle for a name, Among the gifted sons of song. Of that vain stuff the world calls fame I've had I think my ample share. At best 'tis but a sounding name An idle puff of empty air. For more than once I've been the choice Of freemen to enact their laws, And patriots cheered me when my voice, I raised to vindicate their cause. And more than this I've brought to pass, For I have made a lot of ground Produce the second blade of grass, Where formerly but one was found. But now I love the calm retreat, Away from tumult, noise and strife, And in the works of nature sweet I learn her laws, the laws of life. The monuments which I erect Will hand my name for ages down, While tombs of kings will meet neglect, Or worse, be greeted with a frown. My trees will bloom and bear their fruit, My carp-pond glitter in the sun; My cherished grape-vines too, though mute, Will tell the world what I have done. Now lest you think that I am vain, And that my trumpeter is dead, I'll drop this graceless, boasting strain, And sing of you, dear Coz, instead. Of all my Cousins, old or new, I love the prairie chicken best, I see the rising sun in you,-- Although you're rising in the west. The picture you are working on, I'd almost give my eyes to see, I know it is a striking one, For it is of the "deep blue sea." But how you ever took the notion To paint a picture of the sea Before you ever saw the ocean, Is something that surprises me. I'm glad you have the skill to paint, And pluck to labor and to wait; And too much sense to pine and faint, Because the world don't call you great. True greatness is achieved by toil, And labor for the public good, 'Tis labor breaks the barren soil, And makes it yield our daily food. Then cultivate your talents rare, And study nature's lovely face, And copy every tint with care; Your work will then have life and grace. When fame and fortune you attain, And more than royal sway is sure, 'Twill be the majesty of brain, A majesty that must endure, Till thrones of kings and queens shall tumble, And monuments of stone and brass, Shall into shapeless ruin crumble, And blow away like withered grass. The world moves on with quickening pace, And those who falter fall behind, Then enter for the mental race, Where mind is pitted against mind. While we are cousins in the flesh, In mind I think we're nearer still, Your genius leads you to the brush, But mine inclines me to the quill. And now, my cousin fair, adieu, My promise I have somehow kept, That I would write a line for you, I hope you will these lines accept. STANZAS Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882. Kind gentlemen and ladies fair, I have a word or two to say, If you have got the time to spare, Sit down, and hear my humble lay. No tiresome homily, I bring, To chill your joys and make you sad, I'd rather hear you laugh or sing, Than see you solemn, dull or mad, A bow that's always bent, they say, Will lose its force and wonted spring, And Jack's all work and never play, Makes him a dull and stupid thing. Man's greatest lesson is mankind, A problem difficult to solve, I've turned it over in my mind, And reached, at last, this sage resolve: That when I know myself right well, I have a key to all the race, Thoughts, purposes and aims that tell On me, are but a common case. There is a time to laugh and sing, A time to mourn and grieve as well; Then let your song and laughter ring, This is no time on griefs to dwell. We've met to greet our friend, T.J., And tender our congratulations, Without forgetting Phebe A., In our most heartfelt salutations. For four-and-twenty changeful years They've worn the bright hymenial bands, And shared each other's hopes and fears, And each held up the other's hands. He, like a stately, giant oak, Has spread his branches wide and high, Unscathed by lightning's fatal stroke, Or tempest raving through the sky. She, like a tender, trusting vine, Twines round and through and o'er the tree; Her modesty and worth combine, To hide what roughness there might be, Beneath this cool, refreshing shade, The wretched quite forget their woes, The hungry find the needed bread, The weary wanderer, his repose. Long live this honored, worthy pair! May fortune come at their command! And may their sons and daughter fair, Grow up to grace their native land! And when their earthly toils are o'er, And they repose beneath the sod, Theirs be a home on that bright shore, Illumined by the smile of God. BIRTHDAY VERSES. Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday. In the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, Or the morn's uncertain beam, Falling on a misty stream. In the morning of thy youth, Learn this sober, solemn truth; Life is passing like a stream, Or a meteor's sudden gleam; Like the bright aurora's blaze, Disappearing while we gaze; Soon the child becomes a maid, In the pride of youth arrayed, And her mind and form expand To proportions great and grand; Then she changes to a wife, Battling with the ills of life; Thus we come and thus we go, And our cups with joy and woe, Oft are made to overflow. Each returning bright birthday, Like the mile-stones by the way, Will remind you as you go-- Though at first they pass so slow That behind there is one more And, of course, one less before; Watch the moments as they fly, With a never tiring eye-- Since you cannot stop their flow, O! improve them as they go. ROLL CALL. Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of Good Templars. Call the roll! Call the roll of our band, Let each to his name answer clear, There's danger abroad, there's death in the land, Call the roll, see if each one is here. The roll call is through, one answers not, Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore, Has answered another roll call; the spot Which knew him shall know him no more. He's at rest by the beautiful river, Which flows by the evergreen shore, Where the verdure of spring lasts forever, And sickness and death are no more. O alas! that the righteous should die, While sinners so greatly abound, In the world that's to come we'll know why, The latter incumber the ground. This mystery we'll then comprehend, And all will be plain to our sight, Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend, In full faith that God doeth right. IN MEMORIAM RENSELLAER BIDDLE. A noble heart is sleeping here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground. The mortal frame that rests below This consecrated sward, Was late with heavenly hope aglow, A temple of the Lord. His charity was like a flood, It seemed to have no bound, But reached the evil and the good, Wherever want was found. The poor and needy sought his door, The wretched and distressed, He blessed them from his ample store, With shelter, food and rest. Giving his substance to the poor, He lent it to the Lord; While each returning harvest brought Him back a rich reward. Thus passed his useful life away, Dispensing good to all, Till on the evening of his day, He heard his Master call. "Brave soldier of the cross, well done, You've fought a noble fight; Come up, and claim the victor's crown, And wear it as your right." "For all your works of christian love And heaven-born charity, Are registered in Heaven above As so much done to Me." STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE. Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer. Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high. Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy. And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just. CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day. And day and night in quick succession, Are passing by like a procession. While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried shore, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity. Where then shall we poor mortals go? No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land. Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more. This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found. And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is prone to run, The sire succeeded by the son. May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have passed away, We all may meet on that blessed shore, Where friends shall meet to part no more. ANNIVERSARY POEM. Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson. No costly gifts have I to bring, To grace your festive board, This humble song, I've brought to sing, Is all I can afford. Then let my humble rhyme be heard In silence, if you please, You'll find it true in ev'ry word, It flows along with ease. We've met in honor of our friend Who seventy years ago, Came to this earth some years to spend, How many none can know. The world is using her so well, I hope she'll tarry long, And ten years hence I hope to tell, "I have another song." THE PETERSON GENEALOGICAL TREE. I'll sing you a song of a wonderful tree, Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me; Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky, While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy, Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw, Which fill'd him with wonder, amazement and awe. This vision the wise men all failed to expound, Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. What the king saw in vision, we lit'rally see, In the Peterson genealogical tree; It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew; Its roots being small and its branches but few. The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it, And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure, And like plants of slow growth 'tis bound to endure. While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession, And the ages move on in an endless procession, While the sun in its glory reigns over the day, And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway, While the planets their courses pursue in the sky, And far distant stars light their torches on high, May this family tree grow taller and stronger And its branches increase growing longer and longer. May every branch of this vigorous tree, Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea, And under its shade may the poor and distressed Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest, And when the great harvest we read of shall come When the angels shall gather and carry it home May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found, Transplanted from earth into holier ground, Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight, Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful shore, May we hope that the friends who have met round this board, And greeted each other in social accord, May each meet the others to part never more. LINES Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill public school, and read at her funeral. The mysteries of life and death, Lie hidden from all human ken, We know it is the vital breath Of God, that makes us living men. We also know, _that_ breath withdrawn, And man becomes a lifeless clod, The soul immortal having gone Into the presence of its God. Here knowledge fails and faith appears, And bids us dry the scalding tear, And banish all our anxious fears, Which cluster round the loved ones here. The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave Has closed o'er lovely Jennie's face, No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save Her from its terrible embrace. Home now is dark and desolate, And friends and schoolmates are in tears, While strangers wonder at the fate, Which crushed her in her tender years. Death never won a brighter prize, Nor friends a richer treasure lost, Another star has left our skies, But heaven is richer at our cost. We mourn but not in hopeless grief, In tears we kiss the chast'ning rod, This sweet reflection brings relief, That all is good that comes from God. Through and beyond this scene of gloom, Faith points the mourner's downcast eyes, While from the portals of the tomb, They see their lost loved one arise, In blooming immortality; As she comes forth they hear her sing O! grave, where is thy victory! O! monster death where is thy sting! WHAT IS MATTER? DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE JOHNSTON. How are you, George, my rhyming brother? We should be kinder to each other, For we are kindred souls at least; I don't mean kindred, like the beast,-- Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,-- But what this last is makes no matter. Philosophers have tried to teach it, But all their learning cannot reach it; 'Tis matter still, "that's what's the matter" With all their philosophic chatter, And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter, Crucibles, retorts, and receivers, Wedges, inclined planes, and levers, Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light, And fifty other notions, quite Too much to either read or write. Just ask the wisest, What is matter? And notice how he will bespatter The subject, in his vain endeavor, With deep philosophy so clever, To prove you what you knew before, That matter's matter, and no more. Well, this much then, we know at least, That matter's substance, and the beast And bird and fish and creeping thing That moves on foot, with fin or wing, Is matter, just like you and me. Are they our kindred? Must it be That all the fools in all creation, And knaves and thieves of every station In life, can call me their relation? But that's not all--the horse I ride, The ox I yoke, the dog I chide, The flesh and fish and fowl we feed on Are kindred, too; is that agreed on? Then kindred blood I quite disown, Though it descended from a throne, For it connects us down, also, With everything that's mean and low-- Insects and reptiles, foul and clean, And men a thousand times more mean. Let's hear no more of noble blood, For noble brains, or actions good, Are only marks of true nobility. The kindred which I claim with you, Connects us with the just and true, And great in purpose, heart and soul, And makes us parts of that great whole Whose bonds of all embracing love A golden chain will ever prove To bind us to the good above. Then strive to elevate mankind By operating on the mind; The empire of good will extend, A helping hand in trouble lend, Go to thy brother in distress, One kindly word may make it less, A single word, when fitly spoken, May heal a heart with sorrow broken, A smile may overcome your foe, And make his heart with friendship glow, A frown might turn his heart to steel. And all its tendencies congeal, Be it our constant aim to cure The woes our fellow men endure, Teach them to act toward each other As they would act toward a brother. Thus may our circle wider grow, The golden chain still brighter glow; And may our kindred souls, in love United live, here and above, With all the good and wise and pure, While endless ages shall endure. ANNIVERSARY HYMN. Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug. 23rd, 1870. The ever rolling flood of years, Is bearing us, our hopes and fears, With all we are or crave, Into that fathomless abyss-- A world of endless woe or bliss, Beyond the darksome grave. One year of priceless time has passed, Since we in Sabbath school were class'd, To read and sing and pray; To hear the counsels of the good; Have we improved them as we should? How stands the case to-day? How have we used this fleeting year? Have we grown wiser? O, I fear, And tremble to reflect, How sadly it has gone to loss, How I have shunn'd my daily cross, Some idol to erect. To gain some trifling, selfish end, It may be I have wronged a friend, And turned his love to hate; How many idle words I've said; How many broken vows I've made; How shunn'd the narrow gate! O Lord! forgive our wanderings wide, Our oft departures from thy side, And keep us in thy fold; Be thou our Shepherd and our all; Protect these lambs, lest any fall, And perish in the cold. On this our Anniversary, Help us to put our trust in Thee, And lean upon Thy arm; Direct us through the coming year; Protect us, for the wolf is near, And shield us from all harm. Our Superintendent superintend; On him Thy special blessings send, And guide him in the way; Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace, So that he may adorn the place, He fills so well to-day. Write on our Secretary's heart Thy perfect law; and O, impart, To our Librarian dear, The volume of thy perfect love Which cometh only from above, And casteth out all fear. In pastures green, O lead us still! And help us all to do thy will, And all our wants supply; Help us in every grace to grow, And when we quit thy fold below, Receive us all on high. Then, by life's river broad and bright, Our blissful day will have no night; On that immortal plain May all the Jackson scholars meet, And all their loving teachers greet, And never part again. THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH. ADDRESSED TO MISS C. CASHO. Dear friend! O, how my blood warms at that word, And thrills and courses through my every vein; My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr'd-- Friend! Friend! repeats it o'er and o'er again. I'll make a song of that sweet word, and sing It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours, Till list'ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring, And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers. 'Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt If any can explain, though all have seen, How kindred spirits find each other out, Though deserts vast or oceans lie between. Some golden sympathetic cords unseen, Unite their souls as if with bands of steel, So finely strung, so sensitively keen, The slightest touch all in the circle feel. Their pulses distance electricity, And leave the struggling solar rays behind, The slightest throb pervades immensity, And instant reaches the remotest mind. 'Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me, Which raises me above this earthly clod, To think the cords which bind our souls may be Connected some way with the throne of God. I sometimes think my wild and strange desires, And longings after something yet unknown, Are currents passing on those hidden wires To lead me on and upward to that throne. These visions often do I entertain, And, if they are but visions, and the birth Of fancy, still they are not all in vain; They lift the soul above the things of earth. They teach her how to use her wings though weak, And all unequal to the upward flight-- The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak, Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight. LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD. Rude relic of a lost and savage race! Memento of a people proud and cold! Sole lasting monument to mark the place Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled. Cold is the hand that fashion'd thee, rude dart! Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow! And cold the dust of the heroic heart, Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow. Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown; Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone; All that remains is this rude pointed stone, To tell of nations mighty as our own. Such is earth's pregnant lesson: through all time Kingdom succeeds to kingdom--empires fall; From out their ashes, others rise and climb, Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall. ACROSTIC TO MISS ANNIE ELIZA M'NAMEE. My much respected, fair young friend In youth's bright sunshine glowing: Some friendly token I would send, Some trifle, worth your knowing. A lovely bird; the garden's pride; Nurs'd with the utmost care, No flow'r, in all the gardens wide; Incited hopes so rare: Each passing day develops more Each beauty, than the day before. Lovely in form, in features mild; In thy deportment pure: Zealous for right, e'en from a child, A friend, both true and sure. May thy maturer years be bright, Cloudless and fair thy skies; No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight, And cause thy fears to rise. May thy last days, in peace go past, Each being better than the last; Eternally thy joys grow brighter-- So prays D. Scott the humble writer. MINUTES OF THE JACKSON HALL DEBATING SOCIETY, DEC. 5, 1877. My muse inspire me, while I tell The weighty matters that befell On Monday night at Jackson Hall December fifth. I'll tell it all, Day and year I'll tell you even, 'Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven. The Jacksonites were out in force, No common thing was up of course, But something rare and rich and great, 'Twas nothing short of a debate; What was the question? Let me see, Yes; "Can Christians consistently Engage in war against a brother And at the same time love each other?" But first and foremost let me say, My muse has taken me astray, So I'll return to the beginning Digression is my common sinning For which your pardon I implore, If granted, I will sin no more, That is no more till the next time, For when I'm forging out a rhyme, The narrative which I would fix up, I somehow rather oddly mix up. A president must first be got, So they elected James M. Scott, He said he'd serve; (and that was clever,) A little while, but not forever. A paper called a "constitution," Was read and on some person's motion, Was all adopted, at a word, A thing that seemed to me absurd. Then instantly to work they went, And filled the chair of president, And William Henderson they took, They knew their man just like a book. A scribe was wanted next to keep, A record of their doings deep. On looking round they cast the lot, And so it fell on David Scott. A treasurer was next in order When looking up and down the border, For one to hoard the gold and silver, The mantle fell on Joseph Miller. The executive committee Was now to fill and here we see A piece of work I apprehend, May lead to trouble in the end, For while they only wanted five, Yet six they got, as I'm alive, First they installed Peter Jaquett, Then John Creswell, two men well met, James Law, but they were not enough, And so they added William Tuft. One more was wanted that was plain, That one was found in John McKane, But when the five were call'd to meet There were but four came to the seat; There are but four, said one so racy, So they elected William Gracy. Now you perceive this grave committee Which numbers five both wise and witty, Has got into a pretty fix With but five seats and numbers six. The question for the next debate Was then selected, which I'll state If I have only got the gumption To make some word rhyme with resumption, "Should Congress now repeal the act To pay all debts in gold in fact." The speakers now were trotted out Their sides to choose and take a bout Upon the question, which I stated As having been so well debated, Namely, "Can christians go to war," The very devil might abhor To contemplate this proposition Offspring of pride and superstition That brothers by a second birth, Should make a very hell of earth. The war of words waxed loud and long, Each side was right, the other wrong; The speakers eager for the fray, Wished their ten minutes half a day; But time and tide will wait for none, So glibly did the gabble run, That nine o'clock soon spoiled the fun, And all that rising tide of words, Was smothered never to be heard. The fight is o'er, the race is run, And soon we'll know which side has won, But this is not so easy done; Indeed I have a world of pity For the executive committee Who hear in silence all this clatter And then decide upon the matter; To give each speaker justice due, And sift the error from the true, Is not an easy thing to do. To decide what facts have any bearing Upon the question they are hearing, And generally keep in hand The arguments, so strong and grand, And draw from them a just conclusion Without a mixture of confusion; The negative got the decision Unanimous, without division. The speakers then took their position, Upon the doubtful proposition Of the repeal of gold resumption, Upon the plausible presumption, That those who pay must have the money, That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,) Are not above the laws of trade, And therefore cannot be obeyed. Here now my muse, poor worthless jade, Deserted, as I was afraid From the beginning she would do; So I must say good-night to you, And these long rambling minutes close, In just the dullest kind of prose. RETROSPECTION. The phantoms have flown which I cherished; The dreams which delighted have passed; My castles in air have all perished-- I grieved o'er the fall of the last. 'Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow; It passed like a vapor away-- As the mist which hangs over the meadow Dissolves in the sun's burning ray. The joys of my youth are all shattered; My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore; The friends of my childhood are scattered; Their faces I'll see never more. Some are estranged, some have gone under; The battle of life is severe. When I stand by their graves, the wonder, The mystery, seems to be clear: They were vet'rans more noble than I; And placed in the van of the fight, They fell where the hero would die, When he bleeds for truth and the right. The battle of life is proceeding-- The rear will advance to the van; I'll follow where duty is leading, And fall at my post like a man. ACROSTIC TO MISS FLORENCE WILSON M'NAMEE. Maiden, lovely, young and gay, In the bloom of life's young May! Sweet perfumes are in the air; Songs of gladness ev'rywhere! Flowers are springing round thy way, Lovely flowers, bright and gay: Over head and all about Rings one constant joyous shout! Earth is carpeted with green, Nature greets you as her queen. Call the trees and flow'rs your own, Each will bow before your throne. While in youth's enchanting maze, Incline thy steps to wisdom's ways! Lead a quiet peaceful life; Swiftly fly from noise and strife; Own thy Lord before mankind; 'Neath his banner you will find More than all this world can give; Contentment while on earth you live, Nearer to your journey's end, All your aspirations tend: May you end your days in peace; Earthly ties in joy release; Eternally thy joys increase; That this may be thy joyous lot Ever prays thy friend D. Scott. THE BOOK OF BOOKS. Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June 1st, 1868. Esteemed young friend This book I send, I know full well thou wilt receive; For thou canst read Its shining creed, And understand it and believe. Oh could I say As much to-day, What joys would thrill this heart of grief,-- I do believe. Oh Lord, receive My prayer--help THOU mine unbelief! This book though small, Is more than all The wealth of India to thee; Oh priceless treasure! Rich beyond measure Are all who build their hopes on thee. THE LESSON OF THE SEASONS. Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday. Fleeting time is on the wing-- Surely Winter, joyous Spring, Glowing Summer, Autumn sere, Mark the changes of the year. Late the earth was green and fair, Flowers were blooming everywhere; Birds were singing in the trees, While the balmy healthful breeze, Laden with perfume and song, Health and beauty flowed along. But a change comes o'er the scene; Still the fields and trees are green, And the birds keep singing on, Though the early flowers are gone; And the melting noon-day heat, Strips the shoes from little feet, And the coats from little backs; While the paddling bare-foot tracks, In the brooklet which I see, Tell of youthful sports and glee. Hay is rip'ning on the plain, Fields are rich in golden grain, Mowers rattle sharp and shrill, Reapers echo from the hill, Farmer, dark and brown with heat, Push your labor--it is sweet, For the hope, in which you plow, And sow, you are reaping now. Corn, which late, was scarcely seen, Struggling slowly into green, 'Neath the Summer's torrid glow-- How like magic it does grow; Rising to majestic height, Drinks the sunbeams with delight, Sends its rootlets through the soil, Foraging for hidden spoil; Riches more than golden ore, Silent workers they explore: With their apparatus small, Noiselessly they gather all. When their work is done, behold Treasures, richer far than gold, Fill the farmers store-house wide-- And his grateful soul beside. But the scene must change again, Hill and dell and spreading plain, Speak so all can comprehend Summer's reign is at an end. Forests, gorgeously arrayed, (Queens such dresses ne'er displayed) Grace the coronation scene Of the lovely Autumn queen. Birds, with multifarious notes, Ringing from ten thousand throats, Shout aloud that Summer's dead, And Autumn reigns in her stead. Now another change behold-- All the varied tints of gold, Purple, crimson, orange, green-- Every hue and shade between, That bedecked the forest trees, Now lie scattered by the breeze. The birds have flown. Faithless friends Love the most when they're best fed; And when they have gained their ends, Shamefully have turned and fled. Winter claims his wide domain, And begins his frigid reign. Thus the seasons come and go: Spring gives place to Summer's glow; Then comes mellow Autumn's sway, Rip'ning fruits and short'ning day; Gorgeous woods in crimson dress, Surpassing queens in loveliness. Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast. Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear. Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow'rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way. Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen. Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day. All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had-- All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the butterfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball-- Childish joys, I know them all. Childish sorrows, too I've felt-- Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak. Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near--just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear. All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, Those bright visions would return. For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near. Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear. I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost. JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN. A PARODY. This poem was the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy between John A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of "Turkey," in which Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee, who was the other party engaged in the controversy. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, "I wonder what you mean?" You're always getting in some scrape and getting off your spleen; Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the "Turkey" let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own. "There's nothing in a name," John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour. But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those "open eyes" of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-- But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Emma Alice Browne was born about forty-five years ago, in an unpretentious cottage, which is still standing near the northeast corner of the cross-roads, on the top of Mount Pleasant, or Vinegar Hill, as it was then called, about a mile west of Colora. She is the oldest child of William A. Browne and Hester A. Touchstone, sister of the late James Touchstone. Her father was the youngest son of William Brown, who married Ann Spear, of Chester county, and settled a few yards north of the State Line, in what is now Lewisville, Chester county, Pennsylvania, where his son William was born, early in the present century. He was a stonemason by trade, and though comparatively uneducated, was possessed of a brilliant imagination, and so highly endowed by nature with poetic ability that he frequently amused and delighted his fellow-workmen by singing songs which he extemporized while at his work. There is no doubt that his granddaughter, the subject of this sketch, inherited much of her poetic talent from him; though her family is connected with that of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, the English poetess, whom though in some respects she resembles, we hesitate not to say she greatly surpasses in grandeur of conception and beauty of expression. William Brown was a half-brother of the mother of the editor of this book; consequently Emma and he are cousins. If, therefore, this sketch should seem to exceed or fall short of the truth, the reader must attribute its imperfections to the inability of the writer to do justice to the subject, or to the great, but he hopes pardonable, admiration which he has long entertained for his relative's literary productions. The Brown family are of Scotch-Irish extraction, and trace their lineage away back through a long line of ancestors to the time when the name was spelled Brawn, because of the great muscular development of the rugged old Scotch Highlander who founded it. William Brown's early education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood where he was born. He was endowed by nature with a logical mind, a vivid imagination and great practical common sense; and a memory so tenacious as to enable him to repeat a sermon almost, if not quite, verbatim, a year after he had heard it delivered. Early in life he became an exemplary member of the Methodist Church, and was ordained as a Local Preacher in the Methodist Protestant persuasion, by the Rev. John G. Wilson, very early in the history of that denomination, in the old Harmony Church, not far south of Rowlandville. Subsequently he was admitted to the Conference as a traveling minister and sent to southeastern Pennsylvania, where he continued to preach the gospel with much success until his death, which occurred when his daughter Emma was a child about eight years of age. Emma's education began on her father's knee, when she was little if any more than three years old. Before she was four years old she could repeat Anacreon's Ode to a Grasshopper, which her father had learned from a quaint old volume of heathen mythology, and taught his little daughter to repeat, by reciting it aloud to her, as she sat upon his knee. Subsequently, and before she had learned to read, he taught her in the same manner "Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean," Campbell's "Battle of Hohenlinden," and Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib," all of which seem to have made a deep impression upon her infantile mind, particularly the latter, in speaking of which she characterizes it as "a poem whose barbaric glitter and splendor captivated my imagination even at that early period, and fired my fancy with wild visions of Oriental magnificence and sublimity, so that I believe all my after life caught color and warmth and form from those early impressions of the gorgeous word-painting of the East." Emma's subsequent education was limited to a few weeks' attendance at a young ladies' seminary at West Chester, Pennsylvania, and a like experience of a few weeks in Wilmington, Delaware, when she was about sixteen years old. But her mind was so full of poesy that there was no room in it for ordinary matters and things, and the duties of a student soon became so irksome that she left both the institutions in disgust. Of her it may be truly said, "she lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," for she composed verses at four years of age, and published poems at ten. Her first effusions appeared in a local paper at Reading, Pa. Being a born poetess, her success as a writer was assured from the first, and her warmth of expression and richness of imagery, combined with a curious quaintness, the outgrowth of the deep vein of mysticism that pervades her nature, soon attracted the attention of the _literati_ of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America; "for," said he, "if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one." While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth of meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and freshness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them. In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the _Missouri Republican_, for which she wrote her only continued story, "Not Wanted." For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the _New York Ledger_. In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School Hospital at Annapolis. After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel. Her marriage was not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published. Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess. She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen. The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author. Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago. EARLIER POEMS. MY BROTHER. Oh, brier rose clamber; And cover the chamber-- The chamber, so dreary and lone-- Where with meekly-closed lips, And eyes in eclipse, My brother lies under the stone. Oh, violets, cover, The narrow roof over, Oh, cover the window and door! For never the lights, Through the long days and nights, Make shadows across the floor! The lilies are blooming, The lilies are white, Where his play haunts used to be; And the sweet cherry blossoms Blow over the bosoms Of birds in the old roof tree. When I hear on the hills The shout of the storm, In the valley the roar of the river; I shiver and shake, On the hearth stone warm, As I think of his cold "forever." His white hands are folded, And never again, With the song of the robin or plover, When the Summer has come, With her bees and her grain, Will he play in the meadow clover. Oh, dear little brother, My sweet little brother, In the palace above the sun, Oh, pray the good angels, The glorious evangels, To take me--when life is done. MY FATHER. IN MEMORIAM, 1857. The late George D. Prentice in speaking of this poem used the following language: "To our minds there is nothing in all the In Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove." The poem was first published in the "Louisville Journal" of which Mr. Prentice was the editor. [Transcriber's note: The original text referred to the "Louirville Journal" (clearly an erratum).] My Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed. Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw God's secret written in the dust-- My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres. What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan-- Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore! I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried-- I lose thee in the glorified-- The world is darkened with my loss! Oh, Angel! cried I--wrath complete! With awful brows and eyes intense! (For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife! I could have borne all mortal pain-- I could have lived my life in vain-- But this hath touched my inner life! And eighteen hundred fifty-seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven. This eve his grave is winter-white! And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night! Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high! Blow o'er the dismal space of woods-- Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by! Blow, wind, from out the shining West, And wrap the hazy world in glow-- Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer of his endless rest! For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan-- My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep! My _soul_ is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness-- Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of entity! Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flowers-- Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew-- Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place! In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills-- I cannot hide my soul in art-- I cannot mend my life's defect-- This thunderous space of intellect God gave me for a peaceful heart! Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill-- From out the awful sphere of God, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low! My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod! AT THE NIGHTFALL. I muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, Like the wail of a haunted river. Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted. The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded Than my wild prayer for peace unwon-- One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely. The low grassy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the buttercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom. Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset. The angel that won thee a long time ago To the shore of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pass through the beautiful portals. THE MIDNIGHT CHIME. Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856. The rain is the loudest and wildest Of rains that ever fell; And the winds like an army of chanters Through the desolate pine-woods swell, And hark! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell. Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan-- Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan-- Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone. Is it hung in an ancient turret? Is it swung by a mortal hand? Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand? Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land? Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme-- 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime. Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest-- E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast! MAY-THALIA. TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD. Thy lay--a sweet sung bridal hymn, Wedding the Old year to the New, 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim-- That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought. And straight, unclasping from my brow The thorny crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now. The budding of my days is past! And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast. Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie! The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart. What comfort is there in the Earth! What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth! But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour. Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings! I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length. From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate! Be brave! be noble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim-- Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time! Oh musty creeds in mouldy books! Blind teachers of the blind are ye-- A plainer wisdom talks with me In God's full psalmody of brooks. The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course. The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour. Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips-- God's all-sublime Apocalypse-- His awful poem writ in stars! Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light! To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming. And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay-- Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blushing face of May-- A passion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills! MEMORIES. While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, Shine the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart. And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words. Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul. Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest. All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro. Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave. Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears. Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms-- Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies-- Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blushing And my heavy heart to woe. Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith? Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path? No reply!--the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills. Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night. Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb. Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity-- In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me! THE OLD HOMESTEAD. I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow--smooth shorn,-- How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn. How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red-cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze. I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain. For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain. Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor. GURTHA. The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss Among the dwarfish bushes, And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm shineth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly. Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night-- The wind sang in the clover. The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wassail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses. My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory. The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wassail. My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate. Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden-- And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead-- The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid. IN MEMORIAM. JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS. He giveth His beloved sleep. --Psalms 127:2 From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night. Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise-- I see--with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-- The conquering constellation stand! And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon. Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away-- The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro! With mournful thought I sit alone-- My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan. I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest; While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave. The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars--and deep and strong The river moans an undersong. Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever! His lips, that done with pleadings vain-- And human sighing, born of pain-- Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain. The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange-- The tireless nations forward range-- Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth--being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast. Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint? His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit! 'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day! And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres Height over height the heavens expand-- I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand; O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned. Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow-- Found worthy unto death art thou! And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine; Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse! For very truly hath been said-- For the pale living--not the dead-- Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed! MISSIVE TO ----. Purple shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the passionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity. Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases of the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills. Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast. Dian--palaced in the blue-- O'er the eve-star, newly born, Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn. Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps-- Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows. Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper-- The last one of our last June. Oh the golden-tressed minutes! Oh the silver-footed hours! Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers! When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud. Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart. Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears. Broken vow and slighted trust-- Hope's white garments soiled and torn-- Passion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn. Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life! Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love! With my grief co-heir sublime! Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time. Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking--tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand. I will love thee tho' I die! Love thee, with my ancient faith! For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death! CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG. Sweet, sweet, sweet! High up in the budding vine I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat For this little brown darling of mine! Along the garden borders, Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits. Weet, weet, weet! Safe in the branching vine, Pillowed on woven grasses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing! Sweet, sweet, sweet! Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away! Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May. LATER POEMS. TO MY SISTER. M.A. KENNON. "God's dear love is over all." Dear, the random words you said Once, as we two walked apart, Still keep ringing in my head, Still keep singing in my heart: Like the lone pipe of a bird, Like a tuneful waterfall Far in desert places heard-- "God's dear love is over all!" Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife They have taught me to be strong! Fashioned all my narrow life To the measure of a song! They have kept me brave and true-- Saved my feet from many a fall, Since, what ever fate may do, God's dear love is over all! Lying in your chamber low, Neath the daisies and the dew, Can you hear me? Can you know All the good I owe to you? You, whose spirit dwells alway Free from earthly taint and thrall! You who taught me that sweet day God's dear love is over all! From your holy, far off Heaven, When the beams of twilight wane, Thro' the jasper gates of even Breathe those trustful words again; They shall aid and cheer me still, What-so-ever fate befall, Since thro' every good and ill God's dear love is over all! MEASURING THE BABY. We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall: A lily grew at the threshold, And the boy was just so tall; A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dews to hold. Without the blue birds whistled, High up in the old roof trees; And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow, That danced on the lattice sill! His eyes were wide as blue-bells, His mouth like a flower unblown, Two little barefeet, like funny white mice, Peept out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain-- When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again! Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the Boy to-day! And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose! Up from the dainty pillow, White as the rising dawn, The fair little face lay smiling With the light of Heaven thereon! And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropt from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine, That crept to the shrouded sill! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rose-wood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We crept with a childless moan: To the height of the sinless Angels Our little one had grown! THE LIGHT OF DREAMS. Last night I walked in happy dreams, The paths I used to know; I heard a sound of running streams, And saw the violets blow; I breathed a scent of daffodils; And faint and far withdrawn, A light upon the distant hills, Like morning, led me on. And childish hands clung fast to mine, And little pattering feet Trod with me thro' the still sunshine Of by-ways green and sweet; The flax-flower eyes of tender blue, The locks of palest gold, Were just the eyes and locks I knew And loved, and lost--of old! By many a green familiar lane Our pathway seemed to run Between long fields of waving grain, And slopes of dew and sun; And still we seemed to breathe alway A scent of daffodils, And that soft light of breaking day Shone on the distant hills. And out of slumber suddenly I seemed to wake, and know The little feet, that followed me, Were ashes long ago! And in a burst of rapturous tears I clung to her and said: "Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years They told me you were dead! "O, when the mother drew, of old, About her loving knee The little heads of dusk and gold, I know that we were three! And then there was an empty chair-- A stillness, strange and new: We could not find you anywhere-- And we were only two!" She pointed where serenely bright The hills yet glowed afar: "Sweet sister, yon ineffable light Is but the gates ajar! And evermore, by night and day, We children still are three, Tho' I have gone a little way To open the gates," said she. Then all in colors faint and fine The morning round me shone, The little hands slipt out of mine, And I was left alone; But still I smelled the daffodils, I heard the running streams; And that far glory on the hills-- Was it the light of dreams? BEN HAFED'S MEED. Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold, He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest--as of old. Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes. But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: "I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain?" His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: "Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil? Why spend thy zest on barren sands? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!" With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: "I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said--and plodded on, content. And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds-- Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: "Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!" One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold! And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth--whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet-- Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; "Blest be Ben Hafed's work--thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: "Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!" WINTER BOUND. If I could live to see beyond the night, The first spring morning break with fiery thrills, And tremble into rose and violet light Along the distant hills! If I could hear the first wild note that swells The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here, And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells Ring out the joyous matins of the year! Only to smell the budding lilac blooms The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold, Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold! If I could hear the rushing waters call In the wild exultation of release, Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall And fall asleep in peace! MISLED. Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, My love, I follow you everywhere! By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay. By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade. But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you. Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand, 'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned, The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn; And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim With the sapphire's splendor of heaven's own blue, In sylvan hollows and dingles dim, Still sweet with a hint of the morn--and you! For here is the print of your slender foot, And the rose that fell from your braided hair, In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root-- And the scent of lilacs is in the air! Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood? Do roses drop from the bilberry bough? Answer me, little Red Riding Hood! You are hiding there in the bracken, now! Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle-- I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue-- Your yellow locks--ah, you know full well Your scarlet mantle has told on you; Come out this minute, you laughing minx! --By all the dryads of wood and wold! 'Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold. AT MILKING-TIME. "Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown! Make haste; the milking-time is come! The bells are ringing in the town, Tho' all the green hillside is dumb, And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn, Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn." Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail! See the vapors, white as curd, By the waking winds are stirred, And the east is brightening slow Tom is long a-field, I know! "Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite, I see you hiding in the croft! By yon steep stair of ruddy light The sun is climbing fast aloft; What makes the stealthy, creeping chill That hangs about the morning still?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Some one saunters up the vale, Pauses at the brook awhile, Dawdles at the meadow stile-- Well! if loitering be a crime, Some one takes his own sweet time! "So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow, Keep your pink nose out of the pail! How dull the morning is--how low The churning vapors coil and trail! How dim the sky, and far away! What ails the sunshine and the day?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "But for that preposterous tale Nancy Mixer brought from town, 'Tom is courting Kitty Brown,' I'd not walked with Willie Snow, Just to tease my Tom, you know! "So! stand still, my thistledown! Tom is coming thro' the gate, But his forehead wears a frown, And he never was so late! Till that vexing demon, Doubt, Angered us, and we fell out!" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Tom roosts on the topmost rail, Chewing straws, and looking grim When I choose to peep at him; Wonder if he's sulking still, All about my walk with Will? "Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite, Hasten fieldward, every one; All the heavens are growing bright, And the milking time is done; I will speak to him, and see If his lordship answers me: 'Tom!' He tumbles off the rail, Stoops to lift the brimming pail; With a mutual pleading glance Lip meets lip--mayhap by chance-- And--but need I whisper why?-- Tom is happy--and so am I!" THE SINGER'S SONG O weary heart of mine, Keep still, and make no sign! The world hath learned a newer joy-- A sweeter song than thine! Tho' all the brooks of June Should lilt and pipe in tune. The music by and by would cloy-- The world forgets so soon! So thou mayest put away Thy little broken lay; Perhaps some wistful, loving soul May take it up some day-- Take up the broken thread, Dear heart, when thou art dead, And weave into diviner song The things thou wouldst have said! Rest thou, and make no sign, The world, O, heart of mine, Is listening for the hand that smites A grander chord than thine! The loftier strains that teach Great truths beyond thy reach; Whose far faint echo they have heard In thy poor stammering speech. Thy little broken bars, That wailing discord mars, To vast triumphal harmonies Shall swell beyond the stars. So rest thee, heart, and cease; Awhile, in glad release, Keep silence here, with God, amid The lilies of His peace. AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING. [Transcriber's note: The original text titled this poem here as "Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.] Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid! We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be-- But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me! But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine! He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again! Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies! And in youth--why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad! But the curse came upon him--the spell of unrest-- Like a voice calling out of the infinite West-- And Archibald Grace, he was going--and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go! There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait! Here's the firkin o' butter, as yellow as gold-- And the eggs, in this basket--ten dozen all told. Tell father be sure and remember the tea-- And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking:--and ask him to go To the office--there might be a letter, you know! May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown. He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way. I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace. And helped with the chores and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered--or missing, at best-- Surprised by that bloody, marauding "Red Wing," 'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring. No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray! I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you! And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!" So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane-- For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey? You're white as a ghost--Why, here's father from town! And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? Run! open the door! There's a whirr in my head, And the tune's getting louder--"The boys aren't dead!" Cleora! That voice--it is Robert!--O, Lord! I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word, And out of the midst of great darkness and night Thy mercy has led me again to the light! IN HOC SIGNO VINCES! (UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.) Beneath the solemn stars that light The dread infinitudes of night, Mid wintry solitudes that lie Where lonely Hecla's toweling pyre Reddens an awful space of sky With Thor's eternal altar fire! Worn with the fever of unrest, And spent with years of eager quest, Beneath the vaulted heaven they stood, Pale, haggard eyed, of garb uncouth, The seekers of the Hidden Good, The searchers for Eternal Truth! From fiery Afric's burning sands, From Asia's hoary templed lands, From the pale borders of the North, From the far South--the fruitful West, O, long ago each journeyed forth, Led hither by one glorious quest! And each, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Bore on his scrip a mystic rune, Some maxim of his chosen creed, By which, with swerveless rule and line, He shaped his life in word and deed To ends heroic and divine! Around their dreary winter world The great ice-kraken dimly curled The white seas of the frozen zone; And like a mighty lifted shield The hollow heavens forever shone On gleaming fiord and pathless field! Behind them, in the nether deep, The central fires, that never sleep, Grappled and rose, and fell again; And with colossal shock and throe The shuddering mountain rent in twain Her garments of perpetual snow! Then Aba Seyd, grave-eyed and grand, Stood forth with lifted brow and hand; Kingly of height, of mien sublime, Like glorious Saul among his peers, With matchless wisdom for all time Gleaned from the treasure house of years; His locks rose like an eagle's crest, His gray beard stormed on cheek and breast, His silvery voice sonorous rang, As when, exulting in the fray, Where lances hissed and trumpets sang, He held the Bedouin hordes at bay. "Lo! Here we part: henceforth alone We journey to the goal unknown; But whatsoever paths we find, The ties of fellowship shall bind Our constant souls; and soon or late-- We laboring still in harmony-- The grand results for which we wait Shall crown the mighty years to be! Now scoffed at, baffled, and beset, We grope in twilight darkness yet, We who would found the age of gold, Based on the universal good, And forge the links that yet shall hold The world in common Brotherhood! "O, comrades of the Mystic Quest! Who seek the Highest and the Best! Where'er the goal for which we strive-- Whate'er the knowledge we may win-- This truth supreme shall live and thrive, 'Tis love that makes the whole world kin! The love sublime and purified, That puts all dross of self aside To live for others--to uphold Before our own a brother's cause: This is the master power shall mould The nobler customs, higher laws! "Then shall all wars, all discords cease, And, rounded to perpetual peace, The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undefiled, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * * * Like some weird strain of music, spent In one full chord, the sweet voice ceased; A faint white glow smote up the east, Like wings uplifting--and a cry Of winds went forth, as if the night Beneath the brightening firmament Had voiced, in hollow prophecy, The affirmation: "By and by!" HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN. The floods were out. Far as the bound Of sight was one stupendous round Of flat and sluggish crawling water! As, from a slowly drowning rise, She looked abroad with startled eyes, The engineer's intrepid daughter. Far as her straining eyes could see, The seething, swoolen Tombigbee Outspread his turbulent yellow tide; His angry currents swirled and surged O'er leagues of fertile lands submerged, And ruined hamlets, far and wide. Along a swell of higher ground, Still, like a gleaming serpent, wound The heavy graded iron trail; But, inch by inch, the overflow Dragged down the road bed, till the slow Back-water crept across the rail. And where the ghostly trestle spanned A stretch of marshy bottom-land, The stealthy under current gnawed At sunken pile, and massive pier, And the stout bridge hung airily where She sullen dyke lay deep and broad. Above the hollow, droning sound Of waves that filled the watery round, She heard a distant shout and din-- The levees of the upper land Had crumbled like a wall of sand, And the wild floods were pouring in! She saw the straining dyke give way-- The quaking trestle reel and sway. Yet hold together, bravely, still! She saw the rushing waters drown The piers, while ever sucking down The undermined and treacherous "fill!" Her strong heart hammered in her breast, As o'er a distant woody crest A dim gray plume of vapor trailed; And nearer, clearer, by and by, Like the faint echo of a cry, A warning whistle shrilled and wailed! Her frightened gelding reared and plunged, As the doomed trestle rocked and lunged-- The keen lash scored his silken hide: "Come, Bayard! We must reach the bridge And cross to yonder higher ridge-- For thrice an hundred lives we ride!" She stooped and kissed his tawny mane, Sodden with flecks of froth and rain; Then put him at the surging flood! Girth deep the dauntless gelding sank, The tide hissed round his smoking flank, But straight for life or death she rode! The wide black heavens yawned again, Down came the torrent rushing rain-- The icy river clutched her! Shrill in her ears the waters sang, Strange fires from the abysses sprang, The sharp sleet stung like whip and spur! Her yellow hair, blown wild and wide, Streamed like a meteor o'er the tide; Her set white face yet whiter grew, As lashed by furious flood and rain, Still for the bridge, with might and main, Her gallant horse swam, straight and true! They gained the track, and slowly crept Timber by timber, torrents swept, Across the boiling hell of water-- Till past the torn and shuddering bridge He bore her to the safer ridge, The engineer's intrepid daughter! The night was falling wild and black, The waters blotted out the track; She gave her flying horse free rein, For full a dreadful mile away The lonely wayside station lay, And hoarse above his startled neigh She heard the thunder of the train! "What if they meet this side the goal?" She thought with sick and shuddering soul; For well she knew what doom awaited A fell mischance--a step belated-- The grinding wheels, the yawning dyke-- Sure death for her--for them--alike! Like danger-lamps her blue eyes glowed, As thro' the whirling gloom she rode, Her laboring breath drawn sharply in; Pitted against yon rushing wheels Were tireless grit and trusty heels, And with God's favor they might win! And soon along the perilous line Flamed out the lurid warning sign, While round her staggering horse the crowd Surged with wild cheers and plaudits loud.-- And this is how, thro' flood and rain, Brave Kate McCarthy saved the train! OFF THE SKIDLOE. With leagues of wasteful water ringed about, And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, In awful isolation, old as Time, The gray, forbidding Rock of Skidloe stands-- Breasting the wild incursions of the North-- The grim antagonist of a thousand waves! Far to the leeward, faintly drawn against A dim perspective of perpetual storms, A frowning line of black basaltic cliffs Baffles the savage onset of the surf. But, rolled in cloud and foam, old Skidloe lifts His dark, defiant head forever mid The shock and thunder of contending tides, And fixed, immovable as fate, hurls back The rude, eternal protest of the sea! Colossal waters coil about his feet, Deep rooted in the awful gulfs between The measureless walls of mountain chains submerged; An infinite hoarse murmur wells from all His dim mysterious crypts and corridors: The inarticulate mutterings that voice The ancient secret of the mighty main. In all the troubled round of sea and air, No glimpse of brightness lends the vivid zest Of life and light to the harsh monotone Of gray tumultuous flood and spectral sky; Far off the black basaltic crags are heaved Against the desolate emptiness of space; But no sweet beam of sunset ever falls Athwart old Skidloe's cloudy crest--no soft And wistful glory of awakened dawn Lays on his haggard brows a touch of grace. Sometimes a lonely curlew skims across The seething torment of the dread abyss, And, shrieking, dips into the mist beyond; But, solitary and unchanged for aye, He towers amid the rude revolt of waves, His stony face seamed by a thousand years, And wrinkled with a million furrows, worn By the slow drip of briny tears, that creep Along his hollow cheek. His hidden hands Drag down the drowned and tossing wrecks that drive Before the fury of the Northern gales, And mute, inscrutable as destiny, He keeps his sombre secrets as of yore. The slow years come and go; the seasons dawn And fade, and pass to swell the solemn ranks Of august ages in the march of Time. But changeless still, amid eternal change, Old Skidloe bears the furious brunt of all The warring elements that grapple mid The mighty insurrections of the sea! Gray desolation, ancient solitude, Brood o'er his wide, unrestful water world, While grim, unmoved, forbidding as of yore, He wraps his kingly altitudes about With the fierce blazon of the thunder cloud; And on his awful and uplifted brows The red phylactery of the lightning shines; And throned amid eternal wars, he dwells, His dread regality hedged round by all The weird magnificence of exultant storms! LIFE'S CROSSES. "O life! O, vailed destiny!" She cried--"within thy hidden hands What recompense is waiting me Beyond these naked wintry sands? For lo! The ancient legend saith: 'Take ye a rose at Christmas tide, And pin thereto your loving faith, And cast it to the waters wide; Whate'er the wished-for guerdon be, God's hand will guide it safe to thee!' "I pace the river's icy brink, This dreary Christmas Eve," she said, "And watch the dying sunset sink From pallid gold to ashen red. My eyes are hot with weary tears, I heed not how the winds may blow, While thinking of the vanished years Beyond the stormy heave and throe Of yon far sea-line, dimly curled Around my lonely island-world. "The winds make melancholy moan; I hear the river flowing by, As, heavy-hearted and alone, Beneath the wild December sky, I take the roses from my breast-- White roses of the Holy Rood-- And, filled with passionate unrest, I cast them to the darkening flood. O, roses, drifting out to sea, Bring my lost treasures back to me! "Bring back the joyous hopes of youth! The faith that knew no flaw of doubt! The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about! Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days! The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways-- The glory that will shine no more For me on earthly sea or shore! "Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide-- The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died! O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me. "Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain! O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died! Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on-- Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impassioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still." NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D. The following sketch is principally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans. "Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his classmates. While his principal delight was in the study of the Classics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.' Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amusement for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks. Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron." In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the _Minerva and Emerald_, and _Saturday Post_, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to _The Wreath_, _Monument_, _Athenæum_, and _Protestant_, of the same city. In 1830 he edited _The Amethyst_, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to _Atkinson's Casket_, and _The Lady's Book_, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for _Burton's Magazine_, and _Graham's_, _The New York Mirror_, _The Ladies' Companion_, and the _Home Journal_; and the following annuals, _The Gift_, _The Christian Keepsake_, and _The Religious Souvenir_. He contributed also prose and poetry to _The Southern Literary Messenger_, _The Southern Quarterly_ of New Orleans, _The London Literary Gazette_, and _The London Court Journal_. In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, entitled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin classics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc. In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, entitled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem entitled "The Fall of Superstition," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were competitors. Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected principal of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 principal of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as principal of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the institution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style. THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY. The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild? The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold? When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet? The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour? They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more! When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden shore, And the voice that's hushed, God's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim. TO A DOVE. MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH. The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves. But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed. Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? That the tall and waving grass defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles? That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes? Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard? That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay? That pastor and people have passed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew? Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode? That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest. FALL OF SUPERSTITION. A PRIZE POEM. The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile. No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head. Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea--and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field--a dryad every wood-- The myriad gods have fled, and God alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A] No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superstition in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian shore, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands. No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares shiver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone. Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might-- Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superstition's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's shore The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute--his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of shells. O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living God. Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as shines salvation's star-- Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves. Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant god-trees rear their temples dim. Still speed thy truth!--still wave thy spirit sword, Till every land acknowledge Thee the Lord, And the broad banner of the Cross, unfurled In triumph, wave above a subject world. And here O God! where feuds thy church divide-- The sectary's rancor, and the bigot's pride-- Melt every heart, till all our breasts enshrine One faith, one hope, one love, one zeal divine, And, with one voice, adoring nations call Upon the Father and the God of all. [Footnote A: The Pantheon that was built to all the gods was transformed into a Christian temple.] THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST. O sweeter than the breath of southern wind With all its perfumes is the whisper'd prayer From infant lips, and gentler than the hind, The feet that bear The heaven-directed youth in wisdom's pathway fair. And thou, the early consecrate, like flowers Didst shed thy incense breath to heaven abroad; And prayer and praise the measure of thy hours, The desert trod Companionless, alone, save of the mighty God. As Phosphor leads the kindling glory on, And fades, lost in the day-god's bright excess, So didst thou in Redemption's coming dawn, Grow lustreless, The fading herald of the Sun of Righteousness. But when the book of life shall be unsealed, And stars of glory round the throne divine In all their light and beauty be revealed, The brightest thine Of all the hosts of earth with heavenly light shall shine. SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici. --Horace. Percy Bysshe Shelley, an eminent English poet, while sailing in the Mediterranean sea, in 1822, was drowned off the coast of Tuscany in a squall which wrecked the boat in which he had embarked. Two weeks afterwards his body was washed ashore. The Tuscan quarantine regulations at that time required that whatever came ashore from the sea should be burned. Shelley's body was accordingly placed on a pyre and reduced to ashes, in the presence of Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt, who are the "brother bards" referred to in the last stanza of the poem. Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play, As bore the surge The poet's wasted form with slow and mournful dirge. On Via Reggio's surf-beaten strand The late-relenting sea, with hollow moan Gave back the storm-tossed body to the land, As if in tone Of sorrow it bewailed the deed itself had done. There laid upon his bed of shells--around The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept; While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound And night bewept The bard of nature as in death's cold arms he slept. The tuneful morn arose with locks of light-- The ear that drank her music's call was chill; The eye that shone was sealed in endless night, And cold and still The pulses stood that 'neath her gaze were wont to thrill. With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered And prows of galleys, like his bosom riven, The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven, And on its pillared height the corpse to torches given. From his meridian throne the eye of day Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay Upon his pyre The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre. On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed In dusky volumes upward, lit with flame All redly blushed Like Melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed. And brother bards upon that lonely shore Were standing by, and wept as brightly burned The pyre, till all the form they loved before, To ashes turned, With incense, wine, and tears was sprinkled and inurned. THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED. Let the classic pilgrim rove, By Egeria's fount to stand, Or sit in Vancluse's grot of love, Afar from his native land; Let him drink of the crystal tides Of the far-famed Hippocrene, Or list to the waves where Peneus glides His storied mounts between: But dearer than aught 'neath a foreign sky Is the fount of my native dell, It has fairer charms for my musing eye For my heart a deeper spell. Dear fount! what memories rush Through the heart and wildered brain, As beneath the old beech I list to the gush Of thy sparkling waves again; For here in a fairy dream With friends, my childhood's hours Glided on like the flow of thy beautiful stream, And like it were wreathed with flowers: Here we saw on thy waves, from the shade, The dance of the sunbeams at noon; Or heard, half-afraid, the deep murmurings made In thy cavernous depths, 'neath the moon. I have heard thy waves away From thy scenes, dear fount, apart; And have felt the play, in life's fevered day, Of thy waters through my heart; But oh! thou art not the same: Youth's friends are gone--I am lone-- Thy beeches are carved with many a name Now graved on the funeral stone. As I stand and muse, my tears Are troubling the stream whose waves The lullaby sang to their infantile years, And now murmur around their graves. DEATH OF SAMSON. Within Philistia's princely hall Is held a glorious festival, And on the fluctuant ether floats The music of the timbrel's notes, While living waves of voices gush, Echoing among the distant hills, Like an impetuous torrent's rush When swollen by a thousand rills. The stripling and the man of years, Warriors with twice ten thousand spears, Peasants and slaves and husbandmen,-- The shepherd from his mountain glen, Vassal, and chief arrayed in gold And purple robes--Philistines all Are drawn together to behold Their mighty foeman held in thrall. Loud pealed the accents of the horn Upon the air of the clear morn, And deafening rose the mingled shout, Cleaving the air from that wild rout, As, guarded by a cavalcade The illustrious prisoner appeared And, 'mid the grove the dense spears made, His forehead like a tall oak reared. He stood with brawny shoulders bare, And tossed his nervous arms in air-- Chains, leathern thongs, and brazen bands Parted like wool within his hands; And giant trunks of gnarled oak, Splintered and into ribbons rent, Or by his iron sinews broke, Increased the people's wonderment. The amphitheatre, where stood Spell-bound the mighty multitude, Rested its long and gilded walls Upon two pillars' capitals: His brawny arms, with labor spent, He threw around the pillars there, And to the deep blue firmament Lifted his sightless orbs in prayer. Anon the columns move--they shake, Totter, and vacillate, and shake, And wrenched by giant force, come down Like a disrupted mountain's crown, With cornice, frieze, and chapiter, Girder, and spangled dome, and wall, Ceiling of gold, and roof of fir, Crumbled in mighty ruin all. Down came the structure--on the air Uprose in wildest shrieks despair, Rolling in echoes loud and long Ascending from the myriad throng: And Samson, with the heaps of dead Priest, vassal, chief, in ruin blent, Piled over his victorious head His sepulchre and monument. AN INFANT'S PRAYER. The day is spent, on the calm evening hours, Like whispered prayer, come nature's sounds abroad, And with bowed heads the pure and gentle flowers Shake from their censers perfume to their God; Thus would I bow the head and bend the knee, And pour my soul's pure incense, Lord, to Thee. Creator of my body, I adore, Redeemer of my soul, I worship Thee, Preserver of my being, I implore Thy light and power to guide and shelter me; Be Thou my sun, as life's dark vale I tread, Be thou my shield to guard my infant head. And when these eyes in dewy sleep shall close, Uplifted now in love to Thy great throne, In the defenceless hours of my repose, Father and God, oh! leave me not alone, But send thy angel minister's to keep With hovering wings their vigils while I sleep. JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. John Marchborn Cooley, the eldest son of the late Corbin Cooley, was born at the Cooley homestead, on the Susquehanna river, in Cecil county, a short distance below the junction of that stream and the Octoraro creek, on the first of March, 1827; and died at Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, April 13th, 1878. In childhood he showed a taste for learning, and in early youth was sent to West Nottingham Academy, where he received his education. While at the Academy he is said to have been always willing to write the compositions of his fellow students, and to help them with any literary work in which they were engaged. Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County Commissioners, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to practice his profession for six years, after which he came to Harford county, where he resided until the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion, when he joined the Union army and continued to serve his country until the close of the war. In 1866, he married Miss Hattie Lord, of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled in Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, where he was engaged in teaching a classical school until the time of his death. Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book. Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit. Mr. Cooley's widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington. A STORY WITH A MORAL. One ev'ning, as some children play'd Beneath an oak tree's summer shade, A stranger, travel-stained and gray, Beside them halted on his way. As if a spell, upon them thrown, Had changed their agile limbs to stone, Each in the spot where it first view'd Th' approaching wand'rer mutely stood. Ere silence had oppressive grown The old man's voice thus found a tone; "I too was once as blithe and gay-- My days as lightly flew away As if I counted all their hours Upon a dial-plate of flowers; And gentle slumber oft renew'd The joyance of my waking mood, As if my soul in slumber caught The radiance of expiring thought; As if perception's farewell beam Could tinge my bosom with a dream-- That twilight of the mind which throws Such mystic splendor o'er repose. Contrasted with a youth so bright My manhood seems one dreary night, A chilling, cheerless night, like those Which over Arctic regions close. I married one, to my fond eyes An angel draped in human guise. Alas! she had one failing; No secret could she keep In spite of all my railing, And curses loud and deep. No matter what the danger Of gossiping might be, She'd gossip with a stranger As quickly as with me. One can't be always serious, And talking just for show, For that is deleterious To fellowship, and so I oft with her would chatter, Just as I felt inclined, Of any little matter I chanced to call to mind. Alas! on one ill-fated day, I heard an angry neighbor say, 'Don't tell John Jones of your affairs, Don't tell him for your life, Without you wish the world to know, For he will tell his wife.' 'For he will tell his wife' did ring All day through heart and brain; In sleep a nightmare stole his voice, And shouted it again. I spent whole days in meditating How I should break the spell, Which made my wife keep prating Of things she shouldn't tell. Some awful crime I'll improvise, Which I'll to her confide, Upon the instant home I rushed, My hands in blood were dyed. 'Now, Catharine, by your love for me, My secret closely hide.' Her quiet tongue, for full three days, The secret kept so well, I almost grew to hope that she This secret wouldn't tell. Alas! upon the following day She had revealed it, for I found Some surly men with warrants arm'd Were slyly lurking round. They took me to the county jail My tristful Kate pursuing, And all the way she sobb'd and cried 'Oh! what have I been doing?' Before the judge I was arraigned, Who sternly frowning gazed on me, And by his clerk straightway inquired, What was the felon's plea. May't please your honor, I exclaim'd This case you may dismiss-- Now hearken all assembled here, My whole defence is this: I killed a dog--a thievish wretch-- His body may be found, Beneath an apple tree of mine, A few feet under ground, This simple plot I laid in hope To cure my tattling wife; I find, alas! that she must talk, Though talking risk my life. So from her presence then I fled, In spite of all the tears she shed, And since, a wand'ring life I've led, And told the tale where'er I sped." FORTY YEARS AFTER. For twenty guests the feast is laid With luscious wines and viands rare, And perfumes such as might persuade The very gods to revel there. A youthful company gathered here, Just two score years ago to-day, Agreed to meet once ev'ry year Until the last one passed away. And when the group might fewer grow The vacant chairs should still be placed Around the board whereon should glow The glories of the earliest feast. One guest was there, with sunken eye And mem'ry busy with the past-- Could he have chosen the time to die, Some earlier feast had been his last. "But thrice we met" the old man said, But thrice in youthful joy and pride, When all for whom this board was spread Were seated gaily at my side. Then first we placed an empty chair And ev'ry breast was filled with gloom, For he we knew, who should be there, That hour was absent in the tomb. The jest and song were check'd awhile, But quickly we forgot the dead, And o'er each face th' arrested smile In all its former freedom spread. For still our circle seem'd intact. The lofty chorus rose as well As when our numbers had not lack'd That voice the more in mirth to swell. But we parted with a sadder mien And hands were clasped more kindly then, For each one knew where death had been We might expect him o'er again. Ah! wondrous soon our feast before A lessening group was yearly spread, And all our joys were ruffled o'er With somber mem'ries of the dead. The song and jest less rude became, Our voices low and looks more kind, Each toast recall'd some cherish'd name Or brought a buried friend to mind. At length, alas! we were but two With features shrivel'd, shrunk, and changed, Whose faded eyes could scarcely view The vacant seats around us ranged. But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. Inform'd the silent air with soul And shaped the shadowy void to men. The breezy air around us stirr'd With snatches of familiar song, Nor cared we then how fancy err'd Since her delusion made us strong. But now, I am the only guest, The grave--the grave now covers all Who joined me at the annual feast We kept in this deserted hall. He paused and then his goblet fill'd, But never touch'd his lips the brim, His arm was stay'd, his pulses still'd, And ah! his glazing eyes grew dim. The farther objects in the room Have vanish'd from his failing sight; One broad horizon spreads in gloom Around a lessening disc of light. And then he seem'd like one who kept A vigil with suspended breath-- So kindly to his breast had crept Some gentlest messenger of death. THE PAST. Still--still the Earth each primal grace renews, And blooms, or brightens with Creation's hues: Repeats the sun the glories of the sky, Which upward lured the earliest watcher's eye; Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set. LOVED AND LOST. Love cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb. A madd'ning mirage of the mind Still bids her image rise, That form my heart can never find Yet haunts my wearied eyes. Since Earth received its earliest dead, Man's sorrow has been vain; Though useless were the tears they shed, Still I will weep again. The breast, that may its pangs conceal, Is not from torture freed, For still the wound, that will not heal, Alas! must inly bleed. Vain Sophist! ask no reason why The love that cannot save, Will hover with despairing cry Around the dear ones grave. Mine is not frenzy's sudden gust, The passion of an hour, Which sprinkles o'er beloved dust Its brief though burning shower. Then bid not me my tears to check, The effort would but fail, The face, I hid at custom's beck, Would weep behind its veil. The tree its blighted trunk will rear, With sap and verdure gone, And hearts may break, yet many a year All brokenly live on. Earth has no terror like the tomb Which hides my darling's head, Yet seeking her amid its gloom, I grope among the dead. And oh! could love restore that form To its recovered grace, How soon would it again grow warm Within my wild embrace. DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR. KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR. Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade. The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows. The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling balls are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below. To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight. "A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain. Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best? My father--home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word-- Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me--father, I die thy son." Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear! The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal. "Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"--his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied. The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft. Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows-- The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death. The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath. Thou gallant Clay--thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes--yes, Columbia's noble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done. A VALENTINE. Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line-- A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine. Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two. But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute. My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem. LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND. Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most-- So, dearest, do I mourn for thee. For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain. True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers. And still doth hope shine bright and warm-- But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears. GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858. He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill. In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore _Day_, which he edited while that journal existed. Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children--three of whom survive. Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published. STONEWALL JACKSON. [1863.] AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH. Bury the mighty dead-- Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory. Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that adventitious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause. Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might! Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right? His was no base ambition;-- No angry thirst for blood. Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good. Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power? Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour? His life he held as nothing. His country claimed his all. Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall? His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to God. The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt. His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout. Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his God. And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:--Well done! And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:-- Glad summons!--Come up higher! And who would hence recall thee?-- Thy work so nobly done! Enough for mortal brow to wear The crown thy prowess won:-- Grim warrior, grand in battle! Rapt christian, meek in prayer!-- Vain age! that fain would reproduce A character as rare! The world has owned its heroes;-- Its martyrs, great and good, Who rode the storm of power, Or swam the sea of blood:-- Napoleons, Cæsars, Cromwells, Melancthons, Luthers brave! But, who than Jackson ever yet Has filled a prouder grave? The cause for which he struggled, May fall before the foe: Stout hearts, devoted to their trust, All moulder, cold and low. The land may prove a charnel-house For millions of the slain, And blood and carnage mark the track Where madmen march amain,-- Fanatic heels may scourge it, Black demons blight the sod; And hell's foul desolation Mock Liberty's fair God.-- The future leave no record, Of mighty struggle there, Save hollowness, and helplessness, And bitter, bald despair.-- Proud cities lose their names e'en; Tall towers fall to earth.-- Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland Forget illustrious birth;-- And yet, upon tradition, Will float the name of him Whose virtues time may tarnish not, Eternity not dim. Whose life on earth was only, So grand, so free, so pure, For brighter realms and sunnier skies, A preparation sure. And whose sweet faith, so child-like, Nor blast, nor surge nor rod, One moment could avert from The bosom of his God. Bury the mighty dead! Long, long to live in story! Bury the hero dead In his own shroud of glory! IN MEMORIAM. FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862. Frank is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage Has ended on the heavenly shore. In earthly agony he died To join his Saviour crucified. Frank is dead! Time's bitter trials Drove him a wanderer from home, To meet life's lot, share its denials, Or gain a rest where cares ne'er come. His frail form sinking, his grand spirit Careered to realms the blest inherit. Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, homeward turning, Forsook its tenement of clay. No more to battle here with sin; No more to suffer mid earth's din. Frank is dead! By fever stricken, How long he suffered, and how deep! With none to feel his hot blood quicken, No loved one near to calm his sleep. No mother's presence him to gladden: Naught, naught to cheer--all, all to sadden. Frank is dead! His pangs are over. His gentle spirit hence has flown. Strangers, with earth, his body cover, Strangers attend his dying moan. On stranger forms his eyes last close, To meet A FRIEND in their repose. Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner! The grand, the beautiful is lost. Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner, On passion's billows tempest-tossed, Has found a source of sweeter bliss In realms that sunder wide from this. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to sorrow, Dead to sadness, dead to pain. Dead! Dead to all save the tomorrow Whose light eternally shall reign. He's dead to young ambition's vow And the big thought that stamped his brow. Frank is dead! Dead to the labors He'd staked his life to triumph in:-- To win his friends, his dying neighbors, And fellows all from death and sin. With steady faith he toiled to fit Christ's armor on and honor it. Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals. No more we'll see his noble brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part. Frank is dead!! No, never, never! Not dead but only gone before. Back,--back! Thou tear-drop, rising ever; Nor Heaven's fiat now deplore. Wail not the sorrows earth can lend To banish spirits that ascend. And fare thee well, my noble brother! 'Tis hard to think that thou art not; To realize that never other Footstep like thine shall share my cot, And think of all thy heart endured, By sore besetments often tried. But,--Heaven be thanked,--all now is cured And thou, fair boy, art glorified. NEW-YEAR ODE. [1863.] Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes. As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close. Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear drop fall. The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall. Haste! Hasten the obsequies:--the natal hour is nigh. Waste not a moment weeping when expectation's high. * * * * * Draw back the veil; the curtain lift. Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice! The new-born is no puny gift:-- Time's latest, grandest choice. Nurseling and giant! Infant grown! Majestic even now! 'Tis well that such a restless throne Descends to such as thou. * * * * * Dame nature's travail bore thee; Her pangs a world upheaved. A world now bending o'er thee Awaits those pangs relieved. A world is waiting for thee: And shall it be deceived? Ah no! Such pangs were never To mother giv'n in vain. Rise, new-born! Rise and sever Tyranny's clanking chain. Rise, Virtue! Rise forever! The New-Year comes amain! O! Give him welcome ever! Can bleeding hearts refrain? * * * * * All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year! Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Hail! Great deliverer from wrath, Brave pioneer upon the path That leads to better fate! Joy be to thee thy natal day, As dawns Aurora's earliest ray, While youth is fresh and faith is clear And hope is bright with coming cheer! Thou promisest eventful life As, giant-like, thou leap'st to earth, Robed in full majesty at birth; With power to do and will to dare And arm to shield from threat'ning care, And eye to ken the dead past's strife. Thy young life's hand knows yet no stain Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. But, know, Oh Friend! thou'rt ushered in To feel the jar and note the din Of war-blast's rude alarms. Thy elder brother, gone before, Has left upon this nether shore A burden for thine arms. 'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:--the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash--the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:--chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's faith in heaven! All, all is wild! No sun! No moon! Earth, air and sky, in dire commune, Demand--what hand shall guide them now? New-Year, stand forth and bide the call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.-- Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;--drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause! What say'st thou? Giant, young and strong, What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? Wilt whisper peace? Or shout for war? Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar And urge the cannon's madd'ning roar? Or wing the note through vale and glen:-- Hail! Peace on earth! Good-will to men! Reason return:--let strife be o'er? Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'lt run:-- Thy crown not carved in brass or wood, To crumble or decay; But be in endless day, Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. And truth and peace will round thee weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust--believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat. All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Thy stainless youth supports our faith That thou wilt break the bonds of death And snap the web of hate. * * * * * And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! Who, who would call thee back! Thou cam'st with bloody footstep, bold; Thou leav'st a blood-stained track. Go! Find a grave in the billowy surge That ne'er can wash thee clean; The wail of millions be thy dirge-- Thy judge--the Great Unseen! And when the resurrection morn Shall seek thy name to blot, Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,-- Thou liv'dst and reign'dst for what? Passion unbridled, stubborn pride, Avengers, thine to rue, Of outraged virtue, truth defied, Shall 'balm in blood thy due, Lost eighteen sixty-two. MY BIRTHDAY. TO S---- 1864. The night is strangely, wildly dark; The thunders fiercely roll, And lightnings flash their angry spark; But thou absorb'st my soul. I have no care for storm-king's cloud, How black soe'er it be;-- No truant thought for earth's dark shroud: I'm thinking, love, of thee. To-night the God of battles views, With deprecating eye, A scene where demons wild infuse A thirst for victory. 'Tis His, not mine to guide the storm; 'Tis His to calm the sea: My spirit hovers 'round thy form. I'm thinking, love, of thee. Time's cycle once again has wrought Its round:--I'm twenty six. Another mile-stone's gained--sad thought-- Toward deep, silent Styx. I count no laurels I have won; Years bring no joy to me, While yet alone I wander on In timid thought of thee. Years six and twenty have been mine To journey on alone: Shall I as many more repine, Before I am undone? Or shall the journey henceforth take A brighter phaze for me? Shall I next six-and-twenty make My journey, love, with thee? If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear: Adieu to arid sand. All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear! All Hail, oasis grand! Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart, Come joy, come hope, come glee! United, ne'er on earth to part, I'll always think of thee. If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks; The fountain soon must dry. If not, good God! The temple shakes; It totters! What am I? A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing! A helmless ship at sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:--Alas!--for thee. MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme." A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW. [JULY 4TH, 1886.] I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day. I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name. But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one. And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum. At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four. But now those landmarks all are passed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day. Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy. And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might. I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day. Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men. And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man. Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If--Charlie says I may. MURMURINGS. Falling, falling--gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain. Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things. Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul. But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains. And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky. But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, "Peace, be still." THE OLD OAK TREE. Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I'd protect it now. --George P. Morris. 'Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone. It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade. The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now? The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian's tomb. Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there. Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree. The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood. * * * * * The conflict ended! but the bow Which twanged across the plain. Dealt its proud owner death's cold blow, And laid him with the slain. But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers--slaves. Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho' now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze. 'Tis left alone--the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past. SWEET FLORIDA. Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold. Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls, Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea; Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders, E'en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee. Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters, Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won, While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a glory That crowns the best flag that waves under the sun. Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle, The jessamine, too, comes in for a share, With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume, That can with the tube-rose's only compare. Tho' large be the family, there's room for the fairest; No house is too small for a family with love: So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest, The "Pet of the Household" forever shall prove. Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses, The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe, With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses, Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee. While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas, Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms, Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billows And find a safe home 'neath her sheltering arms. And so they are coming, the weak and the weary, From near and from far, the strong and the brave, All ready to drink of the life giving breezes, The only Elixir that truly can save. EVENING. 'Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour, And queenly silence reigns supreme; A shade is cast o'er lake and bower, All nature sinks beneath the power Of sweet oblivion's dream. The Sun--the hero-god of day, Has from this happier half of earth, Passed on with sweet life-giving ray, To smile on millions glad and gay, In sorrow or in mirth. While in his stead, the Heavens above Are shaded with a silver light, So soft, so pure--that angels rove, To guard from evil those who love The God, who made all bright. Then soon that planetary sea Is studded o'er with diadems, Shining alike on land and sea. High, high above the loftiest tree; Proud Nature's priceless gems. Who would not leave the crowded room, The grand, but cold musician's art; To wander 'neath the calm still moon. When nature speaks 'mid wild perfume, So sweetly to the heart. Who would not shun proud Fashion's hall, Escape her cold and torturings ways, To calmly rest where dew-drops fall; Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall, Beneath fair Luna's rays. Who would exchange a home of flowers, Down in a pure and modest dell, For palaces 'mid art-reared bowers, Washed o'er by artificial showers, Where naught but sorrows dwell. Blest hour of thought! to thy pure scene A mild and soothing charm is given, When hearts to hearts in love convene, And roses deck the silvered green Of mingled Earth and Heaven. The truth--that plainly proves a God, Not chance, performed the better part Which teaches us His Heavenly Word: Breathes magic for the singing bird, And links us heart to heart. REV. WILLIAM DUKE. The Rev. William Duke was born in the southern part of what is now Harford county, but was at the time of his birth included in Baltimore county, on the 15th of September, 1757, and died in Elkton on the 31st of May, 1840. He became enamoured of the doctrines of Methodism in early youth, and allied himself with that denomination before its separation from the Protestant Episcopal Church, and was licensed to preach by Rev. Francis Asbury when he was only seventeen years old. Mr. Duke's name appears upon the minutes of the first Conference, held in Philadelphia in 1774, as one of the seven ministers who were that year taken on trial. The next year he was admitted to full membership, and remained in connection with the Conference as a traveling preacher until 1779, when he ceased to travel, and subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church; being impelled to do so by his opposition to the erection of the Methodist Society into an independent Church. Mr. Duke became Rector of North Elk Parish in 1793, but resigned the charge three years later, and removed to Anne Arundel county, but returned to Elkton about a year afterwards; soon after he removed to Kent county, where he taught a parochial school for a short time, but returned to Elkton again in 1799 and opened a school, and preached during the three following years at North East, Elkton, and at the Episcopal Church near New London, Pa. In 1803 he was appointed Professor of Languages in St. John's College, Annapolis, and had charge of St. Ann's Church, in that city, until 1806, when he returned to Elkton, and the next year took charge of the Elkton Academy. Mr. Duke remained in Cecil county until 1812, when he took charge of Charlotte Hall, in St. Mary's county, and continued in charge of the school at that place until 1814, when he returned to Elkton, where he officiated as aforetime until the Spring of 1818, when he was appointed Principal of the Academy. He continued to reside in Elkton until the time of his death. In 1793 Mr. Duke married Hetty Coudon, the daughter of the Rev. Joseph Coudon, a former Rector of North Elk Parish, and the ancestor of the Coudon family of this county. Mr. and Mrs. Duke were the parents of Miss Hetty Duke, who was their only child, and who died in Elkton, February 19th, 1875. Mr. Duke was a very learned man, and is said by the Rev. Ethan Allan, the Historian of "The Old Parishes of Maryland," to have been more of the student than the preacher. He was the author of a pamphlet published in Elkton in 1795, entitled "Observations on the Present State of Religion in Maryland," which is now of great rarity and value. He also published a small volume entitled "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions," which was printed by Samuel and John Adams, of Baltimore, in 1790; and several other poems of considerable length, the most popular of which was entitled "A View of the Woods," which was descriptive of the adventures and experience of Western emigrants in the latter part of the last century. The following selections have been made from "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions." HYMN. And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly. --Hebrews 11:15,16. Abr'am, the father of the Jews, The servant, and the friend of God, When call'd from heaven, did not refuse To leave his Syrian abode. His father's house and kindred dear Plead, and dissuaded him in vain; Neither could earthly hope nor fear The noble enterprise restrain. Nor he alone; a host of saints Renounced the world, and nobly chose That heavenly inheritance Which neither death nor sorrow knows. No intervening dangers check Their ardent progress to the skies, Well may they venture, who expect An heavenly and immortal prize. When faith to their delighted view Their future blissful portion brings, They, firm and cheerful, bid adieu To sin, and self, and earthly things. Happy to leave the world behind, Their conduct speaks a noble aim; They seek a city, and shall find The promised new Jerusalem. Nor yet does impotence or fear Their sense of earthly bliss restrain, Did they not heaven to earth prefer, They soon might wed the world again. In heaven their treasure is laid up Beyond the reach of accident, There shall their lively glorious hope Receive its full accomplishment. HYMN. But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God. --Romans 6:13. My heart, the world forsake, And every earthly toy; The Lord of all thy portion make, And in Him all enjoy. May sensible delight, Corrected and refined, A thirst of nobler joys excite, And urge the lingering mind. Should ardent love impel And actuate my soul, Still may celestial fires prevail, And every thought control. Should glory stimulate, And daring deeds propose, That only fame I'd emulate, To triumph in the cross. Or should my yielding powers Acknowledge pleasure's sway, I'd think of sacred streams and bowers, And sweets that ne'er decay. Should soaring science me Her votary avow, My only excellence should be Christ crucified to know. Should wealth my mind impress, With the desire of more, In Christ the fullness I possess, Of Heaven's exhaustless store. With all that nature craves, Fully from thence supplied, No aching want my bosom heaves No wish unsatisfied. REJOICING IN HOPE. Tost on the troubled sea of life, On every side assailed, Involved in passion's stormy strife, In irksome suff'rance held. The faithful word of promise cheers And bears my spirits up, Dispels my dark desponding fears And stablishes my hope. Hope that shall every toil survive, That smoothes the rugged path, That mitigates the ills of life, And soothes the hour of death. And when the storms of life are o'er, And all our conflicts cease, When landed on the heavenly shore To enjoy eternal peace. Hope at the last, her charge resigned, Securely we dismiss, And an abundant entrance find, To the abodes of bliss. Till then our progress she attends To solace and relieve: And waits till every conflict ends To take her final leave. Possessed of all we hoped below, Our utmost wish attained, Our happiness complete, we know Our full perfection gained. Thus may I cheerfully endure, Till thus my warfare past;-- Suffice for me the promise sure, I shall be crowned at last. HYMN. There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. --Hebrews 4:9. Oh how I languish to possess, A safe and permanent abode! To rest in unmolested peace, And cast my care on thee, my God. In thee I joy, in thee I rest, Though all inferior comforts fail; No hopeless anguish heaves my breast, And no tormenting fears assail. To thee with confidence I look, And calmly wait thy promised aid; I rest securely on that Rock, On which Almighty help is laid. Oh may I on His firmness stand, The ground of my immortal hope; Or nobly rise, at his command, To Pisgah's heaven-aspiring top. That I may with ecstatic view, My future heritage descry, Where pleasures spring forever new, And perfect love shall never die. REMORSE. What racking fear, what painful grief Ensue a pleasant sin! In vain the world proffers relief For maladies within. Its blandishments and smooth deceit No real succor bring; Its remedies but irritate And pleasure leaves a sting. Confusion, shame, and slavish fear O'erwhelm a guilty mind; A burden more than I can bear, My sins upon me bind. Oh had I weighed the matter well Ere my consent was given! Avoided then the gates of hell And urged my way to heaven! Lord, give me strength now to resume My former confidence; Remove my terrors, bid me come With hopeful penitence. In mercy hear my humble cry, Redeem my soul from sin, My guilty conscience pacify And speak the peace serene. MORNING. But now the dawn of day appears, And now the dappled East declares Ambrosial morn again arrived, And nature's slumbering powers revived, And while they into action spring The infant breeze with odorous wing, Perfumes of sweetest scent exhales, And the enlivened sense regales, With sweets exempt from all alloy Which neither irritate nor cloy. Nor less the calmly gladdened sight Enjoys the milder forms of light, Reflected soft in twinkling beams, From numberless translucent gems. But now Aurora dries her tears, And with a gayer mien appears, With cheerful aspect smiles serene, And ushers in the splendid scene Of golden day: while feeble night Precipitates his dreary flight Dispelled by the all cheering sway Of the resplendent God of day, Who, mounted in his royal car, And all arrayed in golden glare With arduous career drives on Ascending his meridian throne: From thence a Sovereign of the day, His full-grown glories to display. EDWIN EVANS EWING. Edwin Evans Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing and brother of William Pinkney Ewing, was born on his father's farm on the Octoraro creek, not far from Rowlandville, in this county, on the 9th of January, 1824. His family is of Scotch-Irish extraction, and settled on the Octoraro more than a century ago. The family has long been distinguished for the intellectuality and literary ability of its members, among whom were the Rev. John Ewing, one of the most eminent scientists and Presbyterian divines of his time, and his daughter Sarah, who became the wife of John Hall, and whose biography is published in this volume. The subject of this sketch spent his youth and early manhood, on his father's farm. Recently when asked for a sketch of his life Mr. Ewing replied: "I didn't have any life. I just growed like Topsy. I didn't have any educating. I just picked it up; and as for poetry, I never wrote any, only rhyme." Notwithstanding this assertion, Mr. Ewing being unable to resist the prompting of the "divinity which stirred within him," when quite young, began to write poetry. There seems to be a subtle influence pervading the romantic Octoraro hills, which if not the direct cause of poetic inspiration seems to encourage its growth, Mr. Ewing being one of five poets who claim that region as their birthplace, or who have profited by a residence therein. When quite young Mr. Ewing wrote poetry which was published in the local journals of Cecil and Lancaster counties, and subsequently contributed poetry to the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, being a contemporary contributor to that journal with his brother, William P. Ewing, and the late David Scott (of James.) In 1856 Mr. Ewing made a trip to the Southwest, traveling extensively on horseback in Texas. He gave an account of his travels and a description of the country through which he passed in a series of letters published in the _Cecil Whig_, which were much admired. In 1861, Mr. Ewing became the proprietor and editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which was the Union organ of the county. Being a man of decided convictions, and unflinching courage, he never lost an opportunity to advocate the cause of the Union, to which he adhered with great devotion, through evil and through good report. In 1876 he disposed of the _Whig_ and the next year bought an interest in the _Kansas Farmer_ and the _Juvenile Magazine_, published in Topeka, Kansas. He subsequently became connected with the _Daily Capital_, and eventually became sole proprietor of the _Kansas Farmer_. The climate of Kansas not agreeing with him, he removed to Highlands, Macon county, N.C., where in 1882 he established the _Blue Ridge Enterprise_ which he soon afterwards disposed of, and in 1885 became the proprietor of the _Midland Journal_, published in the village of Rising Sun, in this county. Mr. Ewing is a brilliant and forcible writer. Like many others Mr. Ewing kept none of his poems except one which is too lengthy to be given a place in this volume. In consequence of this the compiler has only been able to obtain the following specimens of his poetry after great labor and trouble. THE CHERUBIM--A VISION. 'Twas at that season, when the gloom Of cheerless Winter's pass'd away, And flowers spring up, with sweet perfume, To scent the breeze and cheer our way, Where'er we saunter--o'er the hill, Or through the valley--warm and still, Or broken only by the sound Of tinkling rills, which softly flow, And busy bees, that hum around The flowers which on their borders grow, That I, from life's turmoil had strayed To spend an hour in solitude; And where a sparkling fountain played, I laid me down, in pensive mood, To ponder o'er the fleeting day Of youth, that hies so fast away In golden dreams which quickly fly, Like tints that deck a Summer sky. Soon Fancy, on her airy wing, Was sporting mid Elysian bowers, Where flowers of sweetest odor spring, And birds of golden plumage sing, And wanton thro' the sylvan bowers. There lakelets sparkled in the glow, Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue, And golden pebbles shone below The wave that bore the swan of snow, Reflecting, in its mirror true, The flowers which o'er its surface grew, The tints of earth--the hues of sky-- That in its limpid bosom lie. And groups of happy children played Around the verge of each cascade; Or gambol'd o'er the flowery lea In wanton mirth and joyous glee; Pursuing, o'er the sparkling lawn, The insect in its airy flight, Which still eludes, but tempting on From flower to flower, with plumage bright, The hand that woos to stay its flight-- Till soaring high, on pinions wild It leaves the charm'd and tearful child. One maid there was, divinely fair, Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes, Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare, That yield perfume to summer skies; Her shining locks of silky hair Hung round her neck like grapes of gold, And o'er her snowy bosom roll'd, Hiding the blush that mantled there. The brightest of the fairy throng, She led the dancing group along Through tangled brakes and fretted bowers, Where grew the richest, rarest flowers, That wooed the bee to banquet there, Or yielded sweets to Summer air. But she who moved with elfin pace, And taught the infant throng to play, Raised to heaven her cherub face, While that bright celestial ray, Which halos the throne of glory round, Illumed her azure, orient eye, That seemed to penetrate the sky. Bending her gaze upon the ground, Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh, And anxious faces press around, While pearls of pity dim each eye, As tho' they'd weep again to rest The troubled spirit of that breast. "Weep not for me!" the cherub said, While o'er her seraph beauty played A smile like evening's parting beam, That sparkles o'er the glassy stream, Or lingers on a lucid lake-- Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break. "Far thro' yon skies, where orient day Is shedding his last lingering ray, Bright angels beckon me away;-- I go--I go--a last farewell!" And as she spoke around her fell, From heaven, a bright celestial ray, Whose lustre dimm'd the light of day; And 'mid that heavenly blaze unfold Her glittering pinions tipp'd with gold. While strains of sweet unearthly sound Awoke their dulcet chime around, She soared away on wings of light, Like sparkling meteor of the night; Still lessening, as she further drew Amid the ether of heavenly blue, Till lost within a blazing star That above the horizon shown-- As if from Paradise a car 'Twere sent to bear the cherub home. No more that happy throng is rending, With gladsome shouts the summer air, Nor songs of love to heaven ascending, From hearts that know no guile nor care; But on each peerless infant brow The gloom of care is settling now; While passion madly fires each eye, And swells each bosom beating high; And tongues that lisped an infant name, Now speak in haughty tones of Fame! While some, in senatorial pride, With scorn their fellow-man deride; And others, more sanguinary still, From words of ire appeal to brands, Nor scruple a brother's blood to spill-- Cain-like!--with ensanguined hands Polluting the flowers which smile--in vain Wooing the heart to love again. Long o'er this painful scene I sighed, Where licentious passion, unrestrained, Was left to riot in her pride-- Spreading destruction where'er she reigned. "And was this bright--this fair domain-- With all its beauty, formed in vain? Where Nature, a paradise to grace, Hath loved her every charm to trace, That man, enamored of distress Should mar it into wilderness?" I raised my arm while thus I spoke, And o'er Beauty's broken bowers sighed; But with the effort I awoke, And found myself by Hela's side. DEATH AND BEAUTY. On a lone sequestered mead, Where silver-streamlets flow, I saw a rose and lily twine, And in love and beauty grow; Again to that lone, peaceful spot, From worldly cares I hied-- But the flowers that lately bloom'd so fair, Had wither'd, drooped, and died! Like love's young dream, they passed away, With all their vernal bloom, And they, who lately shone so fair, Now moulder in the tomb! But ere the minstrels left the bowers, And to summer climes had fled, They sang the dirge o'er fading flowers, That by their stems lay dead. Slumbering on its mother's breast A beauteous infant lay, The blush upon its dimpled cheek, Was like a rose in May: But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair, Was but the transient bloom, That brightens with the flitting breath-- A flow'ret of the tomb. The infant oped its azure eyes, And sweetly smiling, said, "Mamma," its gentle spirit ebbing, Was numbered with the dead; It laid its throbbing temples on The mother's heaving breast, And its gentle spirit pass'd to Heaven, With angels bright to rest! Lovely as the morning flowers, That bloom so fresh and gay, I saw a beauteous fair one decked In the bridal's bright array; But she, who had, at morning rise, Exulted in her bloom, Was doom'd ere evening's sun had set, To grace the silent tomb. Alas! that things so beautiful, So soon must pass away, And all of earth that's loveliest Must moulder in the clay; But well we know those charms so bright, Which Heaven hath form'd in love, Tho' ravaged by death's icy hand, Shall bloom again above! TAKE THE HARP. TO KATE. 'Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the "loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures," the beauty and grandeur of the place. Take the harp, nor longer leave it Sighing on the willow tree; Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it, And awake its melody; The streams tho' icy chains may bind them, Still will murmur back thy trill, And the roses wild, though blasted, On thy cheeks are blooming still. Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers The lone groves and valleys fill; And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them, Thou canst dream they're beauteous still-- Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure, And wild flowers above them rise; What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them, Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs! Take the harp, nor on it dirges Longer let Eolus play; Touch it, and those notes of sadness Change to joyous rhapsody! And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn, Has been prest to crown the bowl-- Still in thy tresses shine its clusters, While down thy snowy neck they roll. Take the harp, and wake its numbers To thy sister planet's praise, As up the eastern sky she blazes, Followed by the morning rays; Queen of starry heaven beaming, From her azure realm afar; So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters, Love's bright and glorious morning star. DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL. The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing. I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale Decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away. --Moore. And thou art dead, The gifted, the beautiful, Thy spirit's fled! Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more! Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb-- He hath touched thee--thou hast left us in thy bloom! How oft amid the virgin throng, I've seen thee, fairest, dance along; And thine eyes, so brightly dark, Gleaming like the diamond's spark; But now how dim Those orbs are left-- By Death bereft Of their brightness, And that neck of its whiteness, Where once the curling tress descended, Where once the rose and lily blended, As the warm blush came and flew; Now o'er all hath Death extended His pallid hue-- Sallow and blue; And sunken 'neath the purple lid, Those eyes are hid, Once so bright; And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white, All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds! In its snowy folds-- Then fare thee well, sweet one, Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run, And with the flowers thou art sleeping, And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping Of thine early day. Thou wert lovely--aye, as Spring, When birds and blossoms bloom and sing, The happy, happy hours welcoming Of gentle May. In the past I see thee shining, Like the star of tender morning, A day of love and peace divining, And the sky of Hope adorning. Smiles--that dimpled mouth are wreathing; Music--those rosy lips are breathing, Like morn glancing through the sky, Like the zephyr's softest sigh. Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair, Was fleeting as the Summer air? Yet in that hour Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee, As blight upon a flower; And thou art dead! And thy spirit's past away. Like a dew-drop from the spray, Like a sunbeam from the mountain, Like a bubble from the fountain; And thou art now at rest, In thy damp, narrow cell, With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast; Fare thee well! ASPHODEL. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When raging tempests wildly blow, Mid storm and darkness--wond'rous powers! Heaping the stainless, virgin snow Above thy fragile form, that bowed Beneath the blighting frost that fell, Scattering o'er earth those gorgeous hues, Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When dreary winter leaves the plain, And smiling spring leads forth in state, With vestal pride, her flow'ry train, And vernal songs of love and hope, In one harmonious concert swell-- Amid the floral throng I'll turn To thee, alone, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When morning dawns upon the world, And through the golden gates of Heaven, Like fiery cars his beams are hurled, Driving the shades of somber night, Back to their caverned haunts to dwell-- Thou'lt come to me with charms renewed, My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel. WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father's farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing's early life was spent on his father's farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the _Ladies' Garland_, the _Cecil Whig_ and _Cecil Democrat_. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the _Daily Atlas_ of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the _Atlas_ was merged into the _Gazette_. He then accepted a position on the _Southern Lady's Book_, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York _Tribune_, New York _Evening Post_ and _Chicago Tribune_. In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865. In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa. Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author. THE ANGEL VOICE. "Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover'd o'er me, and softly Said--'come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!'" "Then let me die, mother-- Tho' sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O'er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me." "For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home-- Its redeemer away." O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth's humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest; But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest! THEN AND NOW. [MIDNIGHT.] I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o'er Most willingly, each bitter hour I've known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe. [DAYDAWN.] "I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;" Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:--nor will soon resign The dream I've cherished long, that some day thou'lt be mine. THE NEGLECTED HARP. I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song. But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O'er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone. Then awake not a strain-- Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o'er my spirits A wildering blight. ALONE. Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore. And though thou wert to me Life's only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be. For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we'll meet again-- In yonder heaven. GONE ASTRAY. Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell-- Dark and lonely, narrow cell,-- And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,-- In the graveyard by thy side,-- She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,-- A blessing and a joy to me. Were she with thee, I could bear All life's agony and care,-- Bitter agony and care,-- But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,-- Virtue's straight and narrow way-- And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,-- A thing of infamy and shame. Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,-- Naught on earth to live for left;-- And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,-- A broken, desecrated home,-- Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,-- To its giver, ebb away. For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,-- Brighter, better land above,-- To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,-- Free from every earthly stain,-- Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore-- Passion-tempted nevermore. LAY OF THE LAST INDIAN. They are gone--They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart! In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they've won. For they've gone--they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors' graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves. CHARLES H. EVANS. Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him. Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of _Agricola_. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware. For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses. INFLUENCES. Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever. Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever. Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would shiver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever. The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever. MUSINGS. Few the joys--oh! few and scattered-- That from fleeting life we borrow; And we're paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow! If a bright emotion, passing, Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces, Plodding Time--the envious plowman-- Soon a shadowy furrow traces! If a hope--ambition-nurtured-- Gilds our future, ere we've won it, Vaunting Time--the hoary jailor-- Shuts his somber gates upon it! If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time--remorseless reaper-- Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it! Things of earth, all, all, are shadows! And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers-- And our wasted life slips through them. LINES. WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE. Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood? What howling gales have swept those shores along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song. And lightnings glared those towering trees among? And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night's proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o'er thy beetling brow. Soft lamp--that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o'er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale-- Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth-- Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately masses of thy crest? Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil. It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero's glory; But Nature's mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed. MRS. SARAH HALL. Mrs. Sarah Hall was born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia. Miss Ewing's early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner. It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem entitled "Sketch of a Landscape," which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the "Modest Octoraro," which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided. After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall's paternal estate for about six years. Mrs. Hall's literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in the _Port Folio_, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country. Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book entitled "Conversations on the Bible." It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale. SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806. What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet, That unexpected, strike my charmed ear! They are the Robin's song! This genial morn Deceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sun In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring Advanc'd one legal claim; but though oblique So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays, Impris'ning winter seems subdued. No dread Of change retards their wing; but off they soar Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring. Advent'rous birds, and rash! ye little think, Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst. How soon the blasts of March--the snowy sleets, May turn your hasty flight, to seek again Your wonted warm abodes. Thus prone is youth, Thus easily allured, to put his trust In fair appearance; and with hope elate, And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth, To earn experience in the storms of life! But why thus chide--why not with gratitude Receive and cherish ev'ry gleam of joy? For many an hour can witness, that not oft, My solitude is cheered by feelings such, So blithe--so pleasurable as thy song Sweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks, Majestic Susquehanna--joy might dwell! For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores, Or niggard Winter bind them--still the forms Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears Beneath Columbia's skies, are here combin'd. The wide extended landscape glows with more Than common beauty. Hills rise on hills-- An amphitheater, whose lofty top, The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns-- Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes Smooth or precipitous--harmonious still-- Mild or sublime,--as wake the poet's lay; Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense; The gifts of Ceres, or Diana's shades. The eye enraptur'd roves o'er woods and dells, Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs Of cultivated life. The laborer's decent cot, Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill. The lowlier hut hard by the river's edge, The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place Where in his season hardy fishers toil. More elevated on the grassy slope, The farmer's mansion rises mid his trees; Thence, o'er his fields the master's watchful eye Surveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herds Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else, While rigid winter reigns, their free domain! Range through the pastures, crop the tender root, Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out, The welcome herb,--now prematurely sprung Through half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms, His friendly barrier from th' invading north, Contrast their shields defensive with the willow Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn. Before him lie his vegetable stores, His garden, orchards, meadows--all his hopes-- Now bound in icy chains: but ripening suns Shall bring their treasures to his plenteous board. Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wake Th' adjacent shores. The baited hook, the net, Drawn skilful round the wat'ry cove, shall bring Their prize delicious to the rural feast. Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks, Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling year His bushy mantle scorning winds or snows-- While there--two ample streams confluent grace-- Complete the picture--animate the whole! Broad o'er the plain the Susquehanna rolls, His rapid waves far sounding as he comes. Through many a distant clime and verdant vale, A thousand springy caverns yield their rills, Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows, Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraint Ev'n mountain ridges feel the imperious press; Forced from their ancient rock-bound base--they leave Their monumental sides, erect, to guard The pass--and tell to future days, and years, The wond'rous tale! Meanwhile, The conqueror flood holds on his course, Resistless ever--sinuous, or direct. Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play, Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear; Now gliding swiftly by the threat'ning rocks, Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay. To meet and bring his liberal tribute too, The modest Octoraro winds his way-- Not ostentatious like a boasting world Their little charities proclaiming loud-- But silent through the glade retir'd and wild, Between the shaded banks on either hand, Till circling yonder meed--he yields his name. Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain, For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall give Thy congregated waters, title--all, To swell the nobler name of Chesapeake! And is not such a scene as this the spell, That lulls the restless passions into peace? Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov'd By Nature's bounties: but they cannot fill, That ardent craving in the mind of man, For social intercourse,--the healthful play-- The moral gem--the light of intellect-- Communion sweet with those we love! WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY. Will you accept this bud my dear, Fit emblem of the coming year: The bud expands, the flower blooms, And gives awhile its rich perfumes: Its strength decays, its leaf descends, Its sweets are gone--its beauty ends, Such is the year.--The morning brings The bud of pleasure in its wings: Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day, And charm each threat'ning cloud away: But gathering ills increase their force, And though concealed--make sure their course. They come--they press--they stand confest, And disappointment tells the rest. LIFE. SUGGESTED BY A SUMMER EVENING. 'Tis early eve--the sun's last trembling glance, Still hovers o'er and gilds the western wild, And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude. Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour, Above the horizon lifts her beck'ning torch; Stars, in their order, follow one by one The graceful movement of their brilliant queen, Obedient to the hand that fix'd them all, And said to each--Be this thy place. Refreshing airs revive man's sinking strength, And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart! Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon, Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield, And all creation wakes to life renewed! Not long she holds supreme her joyous course; Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise, And envious, hovering over her splendid path, Now thin--now dense, impede her kindly ray. In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade, She holds her purposed way.--Now darker clouds Collect, combine, advance--she falls--'twould seem To rise no more--sudden they break--they pass, Once more she shines--bright sovereign of the skies! Thus 'tis with life--it is not dubious hope In early youth--'tis joy--joy unalloy'd; Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint, And glowing colors paint the vista's length. Not long, life dances on the plastic scene, Care's haggard form invades each flow'ry path; Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train, And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers! But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing Care Awhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape; Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles-- And wealth and honors crown the distant day. How long? Envenom'd ills collect all 'round, And while short-sighted man his fragile schemes Pursues--not grasps--blow after blow fall swift, Fall reckless--and he sinks beneath their weight! To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon, That "walks in brightness" now, beyond the clouds, Through patient suffering, man shall surely rise To dwell above that orb, in light ineffable, Where pain--where sin--where sorrows, never come! MRS. SALLIE WILLIAMS HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hardcastle's maiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841. Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather--the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions. The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen. Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in the _Virginia Sentinel_. She was an occasional contributor to the _Literacy Companion_, _Magnolia Weekly_, and other Southern periodicals. Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son. Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings. ON RECEIPT OF A BOUQUET. I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift, These fair and beautiful flowers, They come to me now, like a boon from above, To gladden my pensive hours. All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days, These lovely flowers restore; And my childhood's home, with its fields and flowers, Comes back to me once more. How fragile and fair!--some pale, some blushing, All breathing rarest perfume-- But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend, Because from thee they come. I know that this beauty is frail and brief-- That their fragrance and bloom must depart, But like the mem'ry of thee, these flowers will live Forever enshrined in my heart. OCTOBER. Oh, days of the lovely October, How dear thou art to me; Words are weak, when my soul would speak, In language taught by thee. Not alone do thy glorious sunsets, Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes, But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell, Oh, earth, and air, and skies. In the gardens that shone with beauty, The flowers have faded, I know, And here, by my favorite pathway, The roses no longer may blow. But the leaves are burning with splendor, And I'll weave them in garlands bright, As I did in the sweet days of childhood, When my heart was aglow with delight. I've ruby and sapphire, blended with gold, And here's an emerald green, A parting gift, for my coronet, From summer's dying queen. Oh, loveliest month of the year, Too soon will thy glories depart, But not the sweet faith thou'st wakened, Within this worshiping heart. For though, like all beauty of earth, Thou'rt trammeled by earthly decay, Yet my soul is lifted by thine, To glories that fade not away. OLD LETTERS. TO MRS. ANNIE P----. "Burn my old letters"--ah! for you These words are easy to say, For you, who know not the light they brought To many a darksome day. And, then, old letters to me are links To those days forever gone; For we cling to the past as age would cling To youth, in its rosy dawn. But the wintry air is chill without, And the fire is faint and low, So I'll gather them up--the page of to-day With the date of long ago. Gather them up and cast them in Like trash, to the greedy flame; And I marvel not that the world hath said, "Friendship is only a name!" For the human heart's a changeful thing, And sometime we would borrow The light, that other days have given, To cheer us on the morrow. And so, as I sit in the merry light Of the blaze that upward flashes, I think, like these, our dearest hopes May come to dust and ashes. JUNE ROSES. What marvelous new-born glory Is flushing the garden and lawn! Hath the queen of all blossoming beauty Come forth with the early dawn? Like the first faint flush of morn, To the watchers, aweary with night,-- Like treasures long hidden away, Ye burst on my joyous sight. Not e'en the "first rose of Summer," Could yesterday be seen-- Only a tint like the sea-shell, Deep in a prison of green. Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind, While wand'ring o'er forest and lake, Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty, And crimson with blushes awake? 'Tis long since the fragrant lilac Flourished and drooped at thy side, While many a frail young flow'ret since Hath quietly blossomed and died. And for days the pale, proud lily In regal beauty hath shown, Catching the sun's warm glances Ere the young roses had blown. But perfumed breezes are whispering: "To-day the roses have come," And the cottage will rival the palace, Decked in thy radiant bloom. MUSIC. The spirit is often enraptured With sweet tokens of love divine, But seldom in language so plain As spoken through music, to mine. Then my soul flings wide her portals, And visions of Paradise throng, While I bow, in silent devotion, To the Author of genius and song. The pleasures of earth are but few, And scarce for our sorrows repay, But we catch, in sweet moments like this, A glimpse of the perfect day. When I reach the Celestial City And gaze from her golden tower, Methinks my freed spirit would turn Far back, to this rapturous hour. And as angels are harping their songs-- Sweet songs of a heavenly birth-- I'll listen to hear the same touch That played us this prelude on earth. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. We loved thee--yes, we loved thee, But the angels loved thee too; And so thou now art sleeping 'Neath the sky so bright and blue. Sleeping now thy last long slumber, In the low and quiet tomb, Where life's ills can ne'er disturb thee-- Where sorrow ne'er can come. What tho' our hearts are bleeding, And our lonely spirits mourn, That thou with Spring's sweet flow'rets Wilt never more return, We would not call thee back, dear friend, To life's dull path again; Where thorns amid the flowers, Would often give thee pain; But sweetly rest thee, dear one, In thy long and dreamless sleep, Nor heed the sighs above thee, And the blinding tears we weep. MRS. MARY ELIZA IRELAND. Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department. Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death. Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled "Ellen Linwood," and published in the _Cecil Whig_, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under the _nom de plume_ of "Marie Norman." For several years after the publication of "Ellen Linwood" Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to the _Cecil Whig_ and Oxford _Press_. Some years ago she wrote a story for _Arthur's Magazine_, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired. Her next story for _Arthur's_ was a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it. Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to _Cottage Hearth_, _Household_, and other domestic magazines, besides the _Literary World_, _Ladies' Cabinet_, _Woman's Journal_, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes. In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of "Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends." Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled "Ivandale," and was warmly commended by judges of literary work. Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments' attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in the _Oxford Press_, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled "Betty's Decision." Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen. Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home. Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose. AT THE PARTY. I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; She picked it to pieces while standing there. I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise. Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love; My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove. I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown; She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown. I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone. This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back. I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh, And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh. It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife. MOTHER AND SON. Postman, good postman, halt I pray, And leave a letter for me to-day; If it's only a line from over the sea To say that my Sandy remembers me. I have waited and hoped by day and by night; I'll watch--if spared--till my locks grow white; Have prayed--yet repent that my faith waxed dim, When passing, you left no message from him. My proud arms cradled his infant head, My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed; To better our fortunes, he traversed the main; God guard him, and bring him to me again. The postman has passed midst the beating rain, And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain; This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead. But hark! there's a step! my heart be still! A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill; Did the postman return? my letter forget? Oh 'tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet! THE MISSIONARY'S STORY. Hard were her hands, and brown; Coarsest of stuff her gown: Sod hut her home. Pale was her care-worn face, Beauty and youth and grace Long since have flown. Stern was her lot in life; She was a drunkard's wife; And forests drear Shut not temptation out; Strong drink was sold and bought; Poor pioneer! Slave he to demon rum; Houses and lands all gone; Want came by stealth. Yet her scant fare she shared With me, who worse have fared In homes of wealth. Stranger was I to her Save as Christ's messenger; And for His sake She, all her little store Wishing it were but more,-- Bade me to take. Oh like the widow's mite, Given for love of right, May it be blest. When her last hour has come, May angels bear her home, Ever to rest. TRANSITION. She is lying in state, this fair June day, While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips; Her heart thrills not at the lark's clear lay, Though a smile illumines her pallid lips. What glorified form did the Angel of Death Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face? Did angels with snow-white wings come down And hover about her dying bed? Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade's head? Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom? Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume? Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there? Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour's breast? On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest? All this we may humbly and truly believe, For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give The comforting promise, which all may receive: "He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live." DOROTHY MOORE. A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown; He lived in a mansion just out of the town, A mansion spacious and grand; He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome, Had money invested abroad and at home, And thousands of acres of land. A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray; And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play When she sets about trying to plan, She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold, And always left Archibald out of her fold, The harmless, and weak-minded man. So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne, Poor Archibald ne'er had a home of his own, Yet never was known to complain; Year in and year out, he wandered around, In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he found As long as he chose to remain. The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the door Of the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore, Were waking from out their long sleep; For the last month of winter was hastening by, The last hours of Valentine's day had drawn nigh, When Archibald's travel-worn feet Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled, Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child, Woke, and told them how long he would stay; Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore, The motherless daughter, who loved all God's poor, Made him welcome around the tea-tray. And archly she said as she gave him his tea, "Where's the valentine Archy, you promised to me? All maidens expect one to-day;" Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done, And her father had gone to his study alone, That Archie had stolen away. But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night! She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light, While before it, so cozy and warm, Slept the kitten,--a snowy white ball of content-- And her wheel, with its humming activity, lent To the hour, a picturesque charm. No scene more enchanting could artist dream know, Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glow Of the pine knots aflame on the hearth; But Dorothy thought, "Were he but there with me And loved me as I love, a desert would be The happiest place upon earth." "Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;" she sighed, "He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride, But his love will some great lady crown; Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love! And forget the proud Valentine Brown." In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown, The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down, Luxurious home of repose;-- Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed; He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest, For his love he should never disclose. He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire. Yet his heart had turned coldly away; "From her childhood, I've loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore," Just then the latch clicked--through the half opened door Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray. "I want you!" he whispered; "I promised her, come!" And Valentine followed, till reaching the home Where Dorothy spun by the hearth; And when he had entered with Archibald Gray And courteously waited, commands to obey, Knew no lovelier picture on earth. But the tact which had piloted Valentine there Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair, Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said: "Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray? You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay, And in less than an hour you had fled." The memory of Archibald took up the clew Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew; "Yes, yes; Archie promised he would; I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown," (Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down), "He's so good to poor Archie, so good!" The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt How this intricate problem would ever turn out, And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,-- Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best; And for Dorothy--flushing like clouds in the west And fearing he thought it designed. He looked at the maiden--modest and sweet; At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek And sighed for his youth which had fled; "She never could love me, good Archibald Gray, Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way, Just look at my frost-covered head." "Please tell him, good Archie," said Dorothy fair, "That I love nothing better than silvery hair When it crowns one so noble and true; His heart all men say is exalted and grand, He is known for his good deeds all over the land, Loved by every one, equalled by few." "That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feet To spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;" (And he reverently took her white hand,) "That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heart To have and to keep until death do us part To meet in the Heavenly land." Good friends new and old, should you journey that way And should anything happen, to cause a delay, And you call upon Valentine Brown: In the coziest nook, you'll see Archibald Gray, Awaiting with patience the dallying day, Till the sickle of Time mows him down. And Fortune still favors her Valentine dear, She winters and summers there year after year; To thank her he never forgets; With his rosy-cheeked children and beautiful wife The heart of his heart, and the life of his life, The sun of his peace never sets. HOMEWARD BOUND. We grow in grace if day by day We keep in mind to watch and pray, Thus walking in the Heavenward way. But, drifting from the guiding hand Of Him who rules the sea and land, We wreck ourselves on barren strand, In name of Him who for us died, We cry for help, when deeply tried, Receive it, whatso'er betide. Of good we sow some scattered seed, We help to shield the bruised reed, Supply to want, the urgent need. Then once more hope to reach the goal, For faith with works will save a soul, Though hostile billows round it roll. Thus tempest-tost, we struggle on; Now sad, now cheered, till life is gone, And trust to hear the bless'd, well done! GEORGE JOHNSTON. [The editor is indebted to his friend, George A. Blake, Esq., of the Elkton Bar, for the following sketch of his life.] George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon's line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708. Mr. Johnston's mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume. When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose. The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle's means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a "Subscription School," kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county. In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade. When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one. In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia. Mr. Johnston's health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected with _The Cecil Whig_, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine--a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns of _The Cecil Whig_ during a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the "History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County." This work, which embodied the results of the author's investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as "Gray's Elegy" alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin. On January 1, 1883, he became local editor of _The Cecil Democrat_, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half. Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott's death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work: HERE AND HEREAFTER. Sad echoes of unequal strife, Go sighing through the aftermath, That skirts the dark uncertain path, That leads me to the close of life;-- And years ago dark shadows fell Athwart the amber sky of youth, Blighting the bloom of hope and truth, That erst had blossom'd all too well. The world's great heart beats wild and high, With wealth of bliss and love untold-- While I with unblanch'd eye behold Its fading phantoms wane and die. Without a sigh I mark their flight; A stranger to the world unknown, Amid its mazes all alone, I wander in Egyptian night. I worship not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine. For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm'd in sorrow's bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom. Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life's dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life's dismal dream. I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix'd with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this. Life's problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh. Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried-- My own in sympathy I shed O'er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow's legions crucified. Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb'd before the crescent Tells us of their final setting. And soon our starry dreams are wreck'd, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the shores of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck'd, Yet I know 'tis vain repining;-- Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be shining, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth's dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit's sight, Life's glorious Apocalypse. To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;-- There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor's spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,-- Passion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress-- And faith with sin's deep with'ring blight. And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath'd in smiles, By whisp'ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou'lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime. THE TURTLE'S SERMON. An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach. And so he waddled to the shore, And thus address'd his friends-- The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends. And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year's hide is cast. And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate; And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam; And how the busy bumble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene'er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin' corn: And how the gentle butterfly Sings many a merry tune Because he's glad he has escaped From out the old cocoon; And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing; And many other curious things That did his hearers good,-- Of cats that did a swimmin' go And eels that chew'd the cud; And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin' go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show. His sermon, as you see, was queer, And muchly out of joint;-- And 'cause the preacher took no text, He failed to make his point. And soon his hearers all grew tired, And mortified and vex'd, Because he chose to play the fool, And preach without a text. And so they left him there alone-- And this is what befel-- He grew so mad it broke his heart, And almost burst his shell. MORAL. If you successfully would preach, Be sure a text to take, And stick unto it like a leech Until your point you make. SKYE. THE DOG WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYE. Someone has written a song about "Tray," But no one has courage to write about Skye; So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way, Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye. The land that he came from is said to be cold, And nature has dress'd him its storms to defy-- In the ugliest coat that ever was seen-- But giv'n him a charming and beautiful eye. His coat is so ugly it makes him look old And scrawny and poor and most ready to die; But you'd change your opinion, I think, if you saw The life and the beauty that beams from his eye. 'Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thing Than this queer little dog from the island of Skye-- Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin-- Yet bless'd with a mild and a beautiful eye. Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men, His civilization is not very high; But then his dark ways we can always excuse On account of his lovely and charming bright eye. He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind, You could not but love him I'm sure it you'd try-- This dog so demure and so kindly inclined-- This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye. Sometimes he will follow his master to church; Tho' his piety's weak, I must say with a sigh, Perhaps he's as good as some other ones there Whose piety seems to be all in their eye. He's full of strange antics--most little dogs are-- And tho' he's forlorn, he can mischief descry; Indeed--I'm strongly impress'd with the fact-- It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye. His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore; Tho' kind to his master, of strangers he's shy; He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore; Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye. He's patient and faithful, affectionate too; My love for his virtues time's lapse will defy; I'm sure, if you knew him, you'd love him, like me, This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT, TRY IT. 'Tis better far to wear away In honest strong endeavor, Than idly rust in slow decay And work and labor never; By honest toil to earn your bread, Or wherewithal to buy it; 'Tis very well, and truly said-- If you don't believe it, try it. Ye idle loafers in the streets, The honest workman spurning, Know this--a living to be sweet Is better for the earning. To loaf and lounge and lie about, On others' toil to riot, Is only practiced by a lout; No honest man will try it. Oh! him that earns his daily bread! Despise and spurn him never, A thousand blessings on his head 'Tis he that feeds you ever. Should others work no more than you Quite spare would be your diet, Your gills would turn a livid hue If they would stop and try it. Then go to work with hands or head, You'll surely profit by it; And strive to earn some honest bread-- You can, if you will try it. Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex, Who tread the pavement hourly, I do not wish your hearts to vex, Then pray don't take it sourly-- Methinks sometimes 'tis no disgrace Tho' seldom you are nigh it, To be at home, your proper place,-- If you don't believe it, try it. Are there no duties there to do? If so "be up and doing!" No clothes to mend, that you could sew, No beer that's worth the brewing? Then stay at home, sometimes, at least, My counsel, don't defy it, A little rest's as good's a feast, If you don't believe it, try it. 'Tis easy quite to do the right, And in it there is beauty, What e'er you do, do with your might, But always do your duty. Be true unto yourself, and then-- Wise counsel--don't decry it, You can't be false to other men-- If you don't believe it, try it. BYE AND BYE. Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising Up before wild Fancy's eyes, With their untold and beauteous splendor, Make us present things despise. And procrastination whispers softly, Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal, And be cause of deep regret. Wait with patience just a moment longer, Then with safety clutch them fast-- Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us, Till the lucky time is past. Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic All unheeded pass away; While we musing scan the misty future, Hoping they will ever stay. Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward, Unto scenes with joy o'ercast-- Only mirage of Life's barren desert, They are found to be at last. Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming, Though it may seem most sublime, Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her, Knowing only present time. Reason tells us now's the time for action, And this truth will ever last, Written as it is throughout all nature, On the pages of the Past. WILLIAM JAMES JONES. William James Jones was born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language. In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in the _Cecil Whig_ and became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing the _Daily News_, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of the _Whig_. In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855. In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State's Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States' District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference. Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_, of which the following poems are specimens. AUTUMN. The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying. The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted. Thus all our "fondest hopes decay" Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow. But there are flowers that bloom enshrin'd In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted. And there are hearts that ever thrill With friendship warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow's chill With hallowed truth o'erflowing. MARY'S GRAVE. In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould'ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument-- There grass and flowers wave 'Round a spot where mem'ry lingers-- My once-loved Mary's grave. They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o'er her As earth to earth they gave-- Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary's grave. She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death's cold hand, Her soul was snatched from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o'er Mary's grave. I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well. And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; 'Tis all the hope I dare indulge, 'Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o'er thy grave. TO ANSELMO. Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James. I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friendship, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend. I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that's free from guile. I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of "woe and wrong." 'Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient 'neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E'en though the load be great. And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again. I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of "disappointment, hate and scorn;" In hope 'twill ever live, And feel the barb'd and poison'd stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there. The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints. FLOWERS. Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow. Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair. Bring flowers to the man of grief-- They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart. Bring flowers for the sick girl's couch; 'Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die. Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho' ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest. LIFE. Life at best is but a dream, We're launched upon a rapid stream, Gushing from some unknown source, Rushing swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there. Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy'ge we start, The boat glides merrily o'er the wave. But ah! there's many a storm to brave, And many a dang'rous reef to clear, And rushing rapid o'er which to steer. Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O'er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there. Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood's years, 'Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with hellish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad'ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught. Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow'rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they're crush'd within our grasp, While forward th' rushing stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past. At last we view another sight, The shore with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o'er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity. When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves-- Ten thousand stars are shining bright Yet one reflects a purer light-- No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit's wand'ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see-- That star is Immortality. JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. John Henry Kimble was born in Buckingham township, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H. Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent. Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater. In 1870 his first verses were published in the _Morris Scholastic_ a newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for the _Cecil Whig_. In 1875 he wrote "The Patrons of Husbandry," a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by competent critics to be one of the "best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written." It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y. _World_ and other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, entitled "Two Granges." Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons. In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher, daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular contributor to the _Cecil Democrat_. HIS LAST TUNE. The shade of death had haunted him Through many a weary day; With dread disease his youthful frame Was wasting slow away. He took his violin and sighed,-- "I am too weak to play." But, rising in his cushioned chair, He grasps, with trembling hand, The neck and bow, and tunes the strings And thinks of concerts grand; And hears the crowd applauding loud As when he led the band. Inspired with supernatural power He plays a melody, Forgetting all the terrors of His mortal malady; And, as of yore, his soul once more Is with the gay and free. Something responsive in the soul Wakes with melodious sound A lively melody that makes The languid pulse rebound, While recollection takes the mind Through many a happy round. Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow To suit his changing will; A march, a waltz, a polka, and An intricate quadrille, Each in its turn is rendered with An artist's ready skill. With failing strength he strikes at length His favorite--"Home, Sweet Home;" His dreamy spirit ceases with The pleasing past to roam, And, through the future, seems to rise Up, up to Heaven's high dome. And mingling with his violin He hears the joyful strains That vibrate o'er angelic hosts, Where song supernal reigns! Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him Above all mortal pains. The last sweet note of that sweet tune Within the room has died-- And now he's playing on the harp Upon the other side Of death's dark river, safe and free, Among the glorified. ADVICE TO AN AMBITIOUS YOUTH. You look with joy to-day along life's vista clear, And great will be your deeds through many a happy year, And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame. Your life will be above the common herd, I trow, You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: Success attend your steps; a word I would not say To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way. Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight, The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great, You feel so strong; and wish life's battle would begin, You'll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win. But may be you will fail, 'tis ten to one you will, And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill, Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do; But many little things will prove if you are true. To carry brick and stone for someone else's wall, To do the hardest part and get no praise at all, To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance, And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance; Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see, How many men will scoff at your adversity, And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear, But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear. No darling mother then can sympathize with you,-- No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through; Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame, May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame. But you need not be lost, all people are not bad, The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had; They'll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand, And point the road that leads up to the "Better Land." Remember this, my child, wherever you may go, That God rules over all, though it may not seem so; And what you sow, you'll reap, with joy or misery, If not in time, O, surely in eternity. TOO LATE. A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear, I have not seen his face for many a weary year. Ah, many toilsome days we've spent with little train, And he was poor and weak, but never would complain. I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. We shared each other's joys and wept each other's tears! He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed; But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed. And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled; So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last, Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past. I've written him, and he has answered prompt and true; But we have never met as we had promised to. For he was busy there and I was busy here, And so our lots were cast apart from year to year. But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon That he was very sick and wished to see me soon, I left my home at once and on the earliest train I'm speeding to his home across the distant plain. He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait, O, for the lightning's speed! that I may not be late. The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past, The engine thunders on, the station's reached at last. And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore, Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed, Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me--just dead! I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears, And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. "He asked for you," they said, but could no longer wait; Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late. AFTER THE SHOWER. After the shower the fields are green, The winds are hushed, the air is cool, The merry children now are seen Barefoot wading the wayside pool, Loitering on their way to school, After the morning shower. After the shower the farmers walk Around their homes with thanks sincere. The shower is foremost in their talk, See! how it makes their crops appear, The finest seen for many a year. Thanks for the gentle shower. Westward the dark clouds roll away To vanish in the ether blue, Eastward the curtains light and gay Exclude the glorious sun from view Till, as they shift, he flashes through And lights the charming scene. Against the melting clouds, behold The lofty arch, the beauteous bow, The sacred sign to saints of old, As bright as when first seen below, How fair the matchless colors glow After the cooling shower. Washed by the countless, crystal drops, Awhile from swarming insects free, The cattle clip the clover tops Forth wandering o'er the fertile lea, The birds sing with unusual glee After the drenching shower. Over the hills and valleys green Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair, In cottage lawns and yards are seen The good results of woman's care, Tulips and pinks and lillies rare Fresh from the timely shower. A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) I weep for the loss of a leader in thought, Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught, Have bless'd and encouraged the humble and poor, Who always were welcomed with joy at his door. How happy the hours when we gathered around, To hear his solutions of problems profound; And bright through my mem'ry what pleasure returns When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns. The "Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven," With true Scottish accent were touchingly given, And reckless "Don Juan's" most comical plight,-- And pathos of "Harold" he gave with delight. The pages of Hebraic sages divine, Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine; His choice conversation with children and men, Was often enriched with a song from his pen. In public debate, whosoever arose, His well-grounded argument firm to oppose, Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare, That he was an honorable champion there. And, those he offended, as everyone must, Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just, With kindness he reasoned all errors to show, And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe. He owned like a hero the penalty dread-- "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread," And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows, Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose. The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared, On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared; And few things delighted him more than to send, A rare little treat to an invalid friend. He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride, The follies of fashion he loved to deride; But acknowledged true merit wherever 'twas shown, By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne. His faults be forgotten, we've all gone astray, Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way, Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest, With angels of light, in the home of the blest. SPRING. Rosy morn is brightly breaking, Cheerful birds melodious sing, Earth with thankful songs awaking Hails with joy the merry Spring, Silver clouds in sunlight glowing Slowly float the azure dome, Tender flowers are sweetly blowing Round each cozy cottage home. Dreary winter's icy fingers Have released the bending tree, Genial life reviving, lingers O'er the cold and sterile lea. From the rocky, snow-clad mountains, Where the breath of sunny Spring Has unfettered muffled fountains, Hear the songs of gladness ring. In the morn of playful childhood, With dear friends 'mid sylvan bowers, O'er the fields and through the wildwood, Culling all the choicest flow'rs; Twining wreaths, each other crowning, Dew-drops bright for royal gems, Ne'er a thought of worldly frowning On the precious diadems. Marched we on with true devotion, While the scenes of after years, Stirr'd the spirits deep emotion, With alternate hopes and fears. While before us lay life's prizes, Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,-- How we gazed with sad surprises, When they vanished like a dream. Many happy hearts grew weary, Rosy cheeks grew pale and white, Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary, Swept by storms of withering blight; How the changing years have fleeted, Strewing wrecks on either side, Cherished schemes have been defeated, And the cares of age abide. But when cheery Spring advances, Crowned with gems of beauty rare, Pleasure like a fairy, dances O'er the landscape everywhere, And the tide of life flows higher, Gloom's dark curtains are withdrawn, And again youth's hidden fire, Thrills me as in life's fresh dawn. JAMES McCAULEY. James McCauley was born August 23, 1809, near Mechanics Valley, in Cecil county, and received his education in the log schoolhouse in that neighborhood known as Maffit's schoolhouse. He learned the trade of a cooper with his father John McCauley. After coming of age he taught school for a few years, and then commenced making threshing machines and horse powers, doing the wood and iron work himself. In 1836 he removed to New Leeds, where he has since resided. In 1841, Mr. McCauley was appointed County Surveyor by Governor Pratt, and served in that capacity for several years and has ever since practiced land surveying with much success in all parts of Cecil county. In 1857 he was elected Register of Wills and served until the Fall of 1863. In 1864 he was elected a delegate to the General Assembly of the State, and served in the session of 1865, and the special session of 1866. Mr. McCauley has always been deeply interested in the cause of education and was chairman of the committee on that subject in the House of Delegates. While in the Legislature he was instrumental in securing the passage of the law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in Cecil county on election day. In the early part of 1868 Mr. McCauley was appointed School Commissioner, and soon afterwards Chief Judge of the Orphan's Court, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the late Levi H. Evans, which he did with so much acceptability that he has since been elected for four terms of four years each. In 1834, Mr. McCauley married Sarah, the youngest daughter of Hugh Beard, a well-known surveyor of this county. His first wife died in 1846, leaving five children. In 1849 he married Millicent, daughter of Jacob Price, of Sassafras Neck. Mr. McCauley commenced to write poetry when a young man and has contributed poetry, but much more prose, to the newspapers of this county during the last half century. HENRY CLAY. He needs no monument, no marble pile, 'Tis vain thus to commemorate a name That must endure in noble grandeur while His country lives,--the temple of his fame. VIRTUOUS AGE. As early youth in brightness vies, With advent of the day, When Sol first opes his golden eyes, And chases night away. So may the virtuous man compare, In his declining day, With setting sun, in ev'ning fair, Passing from earth away. And though his face no more we see, He still reflects his light, And shines with glorious majesty, In other realms more bright. And still his light doth ne'er decline, But gath'ring up fresh store, Through ages yet to come, shall shine, And shine, forever more. ACROSTIC. Enraptured thoughts intuitive, Make haste to greet thy page. Melodious with sweet accord, And classic too with age. And ever may the sacred nine, Lead thee to their embrace, Inspire thy song with themes divine, Choice gems select from nature's mine, Enriched with matchless grace. Be thine a life of social joy, Removed from care and pain, On earth thy early years employ, With prospect of that gain No mortal here can realize, Eternal bliss beyond the skies. WORK TO-DAY. Youth's the time; Youth's the season! Learn and labor while you may, Hear the voice of age and reason,-- Work to-day. Labor hard in morning's prime, Hasten on without delay, Make the most of early time-- Work to-day. Up betimes, nor let the sun Find you sleeping or at play, Sleep enough when life is done-- Work to-day. Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower, Seize the moments while you may, Nor idly pass one sunny hour-- Work to-day. ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. Dear sister, has thy little son, Been snatched from thy embrace, Thy fav'rite child, thy darling one, Has left a vacant place. His father oft with little John Beguil'd the hours away, To watch his little fav'rite son, Enjoy his childish play; For there was laughter in his eye, And health was on his cheek, I fancy that he's standing by, And almost hear him speak. The patt'ring of his little feet, In fancy's ear is heard, The music of his voice as sweet, As singing of a bird. The objects that we fondly prize, How soon they pass away, And we are left to realize, The emblems of decay. Dear sister, be resigned then, Nor let your faith grow dim, He cannot come to you again, But you can go to him. SPRING. Awake and sing, for early Spring Comes forth with beauty gay, With joy elate, both small and great Now bless the happy day. Through all the earth comes beauty forth, So sweet, so fresh and fair, And ev'ry sound that echoes round, Comes with a gladsome air. While from the hill the little rill, Comes trickling down so clear, Its bubbling voice made me rejoice, In many an early year. Along the mead where'er we tread, Will little flow'rets spring, And through the air in colors rare, Waves many a tiny wing. Back to their home, the songsters come, And gaily, blithely sing, The sun looks gay, I love the day, The sweet and early spring. HOPE. When storms arise, and tumults jar, And wreck this mortal form, There is a bright, a lovely star, That shines above the storm. 'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up, Along the chequer'd way, And when we drain the bitter cup It points a brighter day. Though all the ills of life stand by, It proffers still to save; And when the shades of death are nigh, It looks beyond the grave. AUTUMN. How sad the breath of autumn sighs, With mourning and decay; The woods are clothed in varying dyes, Of funeral array. Where beauty bloomed of late around, On mountain top and vale, Now wither'd foliage strews the ground, And tells a piteous tale. And summer birds are on the wing, Bound for a warmer sky, They greeted us in early spring-- They bid us now good bye. So pass away our early years, Youth sinks into decay, And age, like autumn soon appears, And quick we pass away. MRS. IDA McCORMICK. Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_. On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling. MY FANCY LAND. I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land Where the roses and violets grow, Where white waves break on a silvery strand, And are lost on the cliffs below. High up in a palace of sparkling gold Where voices are hushed and still, Where lips are silent and hearts are cold, And the days are rich with a glory untold, And no one disputes my will. The walls are rich with an amber light, And waters in fountains fall, There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright, And servants within my call; There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet, With tender, plaintive chords, Like the patter of tiny innocent feet, Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet And their hearts speak out, their words. All day from my turret I watch the sails That fleck the sweep of the tide,-- Whose passengers all are joyous and hale, As into the harbor they ride. They enter my golden castle gate,-- They roam thro' my stately halls,-- They rest in chambers furnished in state, Then close by my glory-throne they wait, Until I shall answer their call. There are faces bright with a merry light And the music of long ago; And others dark as Lethe's night And as cold as the winter's snow. Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp With blushes that come and go, Strangers to pain in this world so vast, With its pleasure now and sorrow at last, In the land we do not know. They are bound for this strangely mystical land So shadowy, lone and so dim, And my castle's a port on the ocean strand, Where they wait for the ferryman grim, To row them away from the silvery beach Beyond the foam of the tide, Where a palace looms far away from their reach, Whose gates are closed with a clang to each Who have chosen the pathway wide. They tell me I'm treading with careless feet This thorny, deceitful path, When the Master cometh my face to greet He will open his vials of wrath. But I turn again to the world so real, And my "Fancy Land" grows dim, Time's hand has taught me not to feel The wounds which sympathy cannot heal, And I anchor my faith in Him. WITH THE TIDE. Beneath the bright sun's dazzling ray, She watched his vessel sail away To distant, far-famed lands. Her heart was gone,--upon her hand Sparkled a diamond fair and grand, Telling in silent jubilee "His love is all the world to me." Time goes by wings,--the years flew on, The days had come,--the summers gone, And still no loved one came To feed the burning passion flame Still glowing in her heart. They told her "in another land He captive held a heart and hand And graced Dame Fashion's mart." She listened to love's second tale That came with Autumn's misty gale, And hid her heart within the fold Of satins rare, and lustrous gold, Sadness so deep, must live untold Shut in her marble palace high, Reared almost up to touch the sky. Haughty and cold her heart had grown, For wealth and glory she lived alone, Yet as oft she watched an out bound ship Its prow in foamy waters dip, The day came back when lip to lip Her heart met his in a sad farewell. Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain-- "He's falser than human tongue can tell." * * * * * September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the shore, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law. Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a noble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and passion warm. She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;-- "No welcome for the leal and true? Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!" "No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?" Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this? To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss? To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again? * * * * * A funeral train,--all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;-- A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,-- A ship at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday. THE OLD FASHION. "The old, old fashion,--Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!" --Dickens. Despite all human passion, And all that we can do,-- There is an old, old fashion That comes to me and you. It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell. When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best. And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead. It came in the wild March weather With bluster of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet. And then,--God pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child. "Give thanks for the old, old fashion," No, that can never be. Where is the Divine compassion That God has shown to me? Fling wide each shining portal,-- Let me--a sinner through,-- Thank God for the immortal Is all that I can do. No prayer of love or passion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fashion, Of immortality. MY BABY AND THE ROSE. A rose tree grew by the garden wall, And its highest blossom was just as tall As my baby's curly head; A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,-- But sweeter from head to dimpled toes, Was the baby I fondly led. Now summer is over and winter gone, And the winds of March are whistling on Where the rose its petals shed; No trace of rose perfumed and rare, No baby face as seraph fair, My baby sweet is dead. The summer sun will shine again, And 'neath the pattering, warm June rain, Again the rose will bloom, And so beyond these lowering skies My baby dear, with smiling eyes, Shall peer through earthly gloom, And guide me with her angel hand Through Heaven's gates,--and with me stand Away from worldly woes,-- Where Heaven's flowers, divinely sweet, Soften the path for weary feet With perfume of the rose. FOLGER McKINSEY. Folger McKinsey was born in Elkton, on the 29th of August, 1866, in the cottage on Bow street now occupied by Thomas W. Green. His early life was spent in Elkton, except a few years in childhood when his parents resided in the West and South, until 1879, when they removed to Philadelphia, taking their son with them. His paternal grandfather was a Scotchman, and his grand parents on his mother's side were Germans, from the country bordering on the Rhine. Through the marriage of his maternal great grandmother he is distantly related to Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe. Both his parents are persons of intellectual ability, and have written verse, his mother having been a contributor to the local newspapers of this county, and to several western journals. Mr. McKinsey received his education at the primary school of Miss Tabitha Jones, on Main street, in Elkton, where he was sent when seven years of age. Except an attendance of eight months at the public school of Elkton, he never attended any other schools. In early childhood he showed a great desire to read, and is indebted to his relative, William J. Jones, and to L. Marshall Haines and E.E. Ewing for the means of gratifying his early thirst for information. Shortly after removing to Philadelphia Mr. McKinsey entered a mercantile establishment as clerk, but soon afterwards accepted a position in the office of a publishing house, and subsequently entered the office of the Philadelphia and Reading railroad company as clerk in the record department. While in the office of the railroad company he wrote and published his first poem. It is called "Satana Victo" and is written in blank verse. Since that time he has been a prolific writer of both poetry and prose, much of which has been published. In October, 1884, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of editor of the _Shore Gazette_, a weekly journal published at Ocean Beach, N.J., which he continued to fill for some months, when he returned to Philadelphia and accepted a position as special writer on a prominent daily journal of that city. In October, 1885, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of associate editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which he continued to fill until the following March when he became editor of the _Daily_ and _Weekly News_, of Frederick City, Maryland. During the time he was connected with the _Whig_ he began the publication of a journal in Darby, called the _Delaware County Independent_. In January, 1886, Mr. McKinsey married Miss Fannie Holenrake Dungan, an estimable young English lady of Camden, N.J. Mr. McKinsey is a great admirer of Joaquin Miller and Walt Whitman, and a warm personal friend of the latter. Though young in years he writes with as much fluency and ease as if he had been writing poetry for half an ordinary lifetime, and gives promise of a brilliant career that will be creditable to his native town, and beneficial to the human race. WAITING THEIR CROWNS. They wait, the forest monarchs tall, In naked beauty on the hills, Until the snows of Winter fall, And icy arms embrace the rills. The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord's right hand. No matin call of tardy bird, Long stayed by sunshine in the north, Above the fluttering clouds is heard. A moment's pause, then bursting forth In all the glorious sweets of song That thrill from soul to soul aflame, And die the barren hills among From whence the summer carols came. All day the leafless monarchs wave Their hoary branches high in air, And white-winged spirits guard the grave Where late they laid the Autumn fair. A sterner nature marks the land, The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep, The Summer trips it, hand in hand, With Autumn o'er the distant deep. Where lift the dim, perpetual isles Their purple ensigns of the youth That ever dimples, romps and smiles Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth. And deep within the wooded lane The oak and pine, in plaintive call, Unto the wintry tide complain, As leaves and brown nuts constant fall. They wait their crowns, the naked kings! And down the avenues of night The frosty god, December, brings Them glistening diadems of white. White petals of the virgin snow, With sprigs of ivy here and there, They deck the forest monarch's brow, While breezes whistle through his hair. A sterner nature marks the soul, Men's lips draw near the cup of life, They wait to hear the centuries' roll That bring the kingly crowns of strife. The spring-time months and summer years Beside the Autumn days are laid, Beneath the grave of conquered fears, Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade. And deeper joy, serener faith, Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp, While death, the monarch, gently lay'th Upon their brows a kinglier clasp. They wait no more the golden crown; Men, trees, the careless days of strife, Drift onward to the far, sweet town,-- God's kingdom of eternal life. SEA ECHOES. I walk not by the sounding sea; I dwell full many leagues from shore And still an echo drifts to me Of the eternal, constant roar Of waves, that beetle past the crags And moan in weary flights of song Where wet sea moss and coral drags The shiny lengths of sand along. I see beyond the friendly vales, And grand old hills that guard my home, To where the seaward petrel sails And storm winds of the Northland moan. I live again in brighter days, New-born from dreams of the dead past, When she and I stood there to gaze At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain At will of wayward wind and fate, Deep plunging in the waves to gain Some northern isle, or rich estate Of palm and pine in southward clime, Where all day long the playful air Pranks with the grizzled beard of time And paints his hoary visage fair. Within the dim, old forests here, I wander now long leagues from shore, And still the old song haunts my ear, The century singing ocean's roar; And now I know, fond soul of love; Why still the murmurous echoes live, And sound for aye the hills above That back to earth the music give; She, too, walked there in dreams with me, In love's sweet unity we trod The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be Forever true before our God. I see it still, her pale, calm face, With angel love-light in her eyes, And ever there, beside such grace, A dim, sweet token of surprise. Oh, tender touch of one soft hand! I held it then in simple trust, Alas, ye waves that lick the sand! How long has that hand lain in dust? I see her soul in yonder star, I see the soft lines of her face, And could God so unkindly mar That angel beauty and its grace? Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea! Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan, Drift ever inland unto me Within my sunny Southern home; And it shall be a tender dream-- Thy plaintive music thrilling me, And her star face above--shall seem Like other days beside the sea When our lips touched eternally. WHERE FANCY DWELLS. The sea winds blow from western isles, From isles where fancy dwells and peace. Where summer sunshine softly smiles And perfumes of the far off east Float over waves white-capped with foam That glisten in the pale sweet light Shed from the far eternal dome Where fair star faces paint the night. Life must have rest sometime, somewhere, On land or wave its peace shall be, And I have found my life's fond share In yon fair isle of Hebride; In yon fair isle where all day long The sunlight shadows drift and float And all the world seems bathed in song Borne trembling from the skylark's throat. O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss Thy beaches all the centuries through, Flow from mysterious founts of bliss From founts o'er run with sunny dew, And o'er thy tree-tops lazily The perfumed breezes come and go With odors from that far countree Where eglantine and jessamine grow. Fair isle of summer, isle of love, Where souls forget their bitter strife And mingled sadnesses that move In tempests o'er the sea of life; I kiss thy fair shore with my knee, And lift a thankful heart to God, For perfect joy comes unto me Where thy trees' blossomed branches nod. Thy long sea waves float in beyond The dim blue lines of sunlit sky, Where films of cloudy lacework frond The billows tumbling mountain high; And shoreward in the still sweet eve The low songs of the mermaids drift, As in some coral grot they weave Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair Above the bosom of the wave, While 'mid its golden meshes fair The distant sunbeams stoop to lave. Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond The dark dim vales of human woe, My bark of love sails o'er the fond Blue waves that ever shoreward flow. My bark sails on the unknown sea Led by a large, pale star alone, That star wherein her face may be, Who to that better land hath gone. O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship, Again towards that barren shore But bear me on the waves that dip And kiss yon isle forevermore. Sweet day of rest when toil is past, When hearts can lay their burdens by And feel the peace God's angels cast In isleward flights from his fair sky! Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells, And nature knows no pang of care, I hear the music of its bells Far floating on the evening air. I hear the lonely shepherd's song Flow down the green and mossy vale, And westward all the calm night long The restless sea gulls sail. I sometimes turn towards the stars With sudden shock of glad surprise, And half believe these island bars Are but the gates to Paradise. AT KEY'S GRAVE. I stood one summer, friend, beside The foam waves of a distant sea That muttered all the summer through A low sweet threnody. A mournful song was ever on The lips that it were death to kiss, A song for those who died as died The brave at ancient Salamis. A thousand graves lay in the trough Of that great ocean of the East, A thousand souls fled through its foam Towards the starlit land of peace. And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept Beneath the dark inconstant waves The wind gave songs in memory Of men true-hearted, pure and brave. But I have stood, sweet-singer, by Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day, And all the songs thy memory got Came from the branches in their sway. Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true! No wreath rests here wove by your hands To mark the Poet's silent tomb. As tombs are marked in other lands. But in my noon-day dream there came From the fair bosom of the hills The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus-- "'Tis so God wills, 'tis so God wills." THE ETERNAL LIFE. I care not for the life that is, I think not of the things that are; I live, oh! soul of tenderness, Beneath an angel blessedness That draws its light from one small star. I know not if the world be ill, I care not for its throb of pain, I live, oh heart, in fellowship With other hearts that rise and dip In the great sea that floods the main From east to west with tides of love-- The ocean of Eternal Life, Whose waves flow ever free and warm From land of snow to land of palm And heal the naked wounds of strife. I only know God's law is just, And that is all we need to know, I live down creeds of hate and spite, I build the nobler creeds of right That beautify our beings so. The days are brief that come apace, When morn wakes up and night sinks down, But far beyond the hills of jet The glory of the sweet sunset Lights all the steeples of the town Within whose walls no sadness lives, No broken hearts, no simple strife, For that I live, oh soul of faith, For that whereof the Master saith "Here find eternal love and life." MRS. ROSALIENE ROMULA MURPHY. Mrs. Rosaliene Romula Murphy, daughter of John and Hannah Mooney, was born in Philadelphia, May, 1, 1838, and married Thomas H.P. Murphy, son of John C. and Ann Rothwell Murphy, and grandson of Hyland Price, of Cecil county, on the 18th of May, 1858. Her education was obtained at a school taught by the Sisters of Mercy, and at the public schools of her native city. Immediately after her marriage Mrs. Murphy came to Cecil county, and for ten years resided near the head of Bohemia river; subsequently she has resided in Middletown, Delaware, in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and for the last ten years in Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are the parents of eight children, four of whom are now living. From early childhood Mrs. Murphy has shown a remarkable aptitude for literary work, and when quite a little girl at school, frequently took the highest average for composition. She commenced to write for the press at an early age and while in this county contributed poetry to the columns of the local newspapers and some of the journals of Wilmington and Philadelphia. WOMAN'S RIGHTS. Woman has certain rights I own, That none will dare deny; No king nor senate can destroy Her claims,--nor will they try. 'Tis hers to smooth the homeward path Of age,--her strength their stay; To guide their feeble footsteps here,-- To brush life's thorns away. 'Tis hers to make a sunny home, To cherish and support With love, the one who claims her heart, Through good and bad report. To watch the tiny sleeping babe, Just nestling in her breast, To shield it with her mother-love, And guard it in its rest. To watch in vigils of the night, The fever-tossed frame; To cool the dry, and parched lips, And ease the racking pain. To close the eyes when all is o'er, To weep with those who weep; To help the weary in their task, Keep guard whilst others sleep. To love and cherish, guard, protect, Make home a sunny spot-- Keep ever pure her mother name, A name not soon forgot! To win and wear her husband's love, As an honored, cherished crest; To hold her children's hearts, so "they Will rise and call her bless'd." To nobly share the widow's woe, To dry the orphan's tears, To pray for strength for hearts oppress'd, And help allay their fears; To reach a helping, loving hand, To those who go astray, And woo them back again to God, As they faint along the way. She claims but loving trusting hearts!-- Let all their wealth be shown!-- No law can take, nor ballot give The jewels of her crown! These, these, are all a woman's rights-- Quite easy to attain-- For most she governs, it is said, "When least she seems to reign." ONLY A BABY. My way was stopped, as I hurried on, A carriage pass'd--and again 'twas clear, But my glance took in the tiny box, And the mourners bending near. "Only a baby"--was lightly said-- As I safely crossed the street, But my heart went with the little group, With their darling at their feet. "Only a baby,"--God but knows The mother's bleeding heart; And the father's white, sad face would tell, How hard it is to part. "Only a baby!" what a void, In a merry, cheery home; An empty cradle, a half worn shoe; And a mother's broken tone. "Only a baby!" the aching eyes Look out on the busy street, And fall on other laughing babes, And the silent form at her feet. "Only a baby!" a desolate home, Those stricken hearts will know, When they lay their darling down to rest, 'Neath the willows bending low. "Only a baby!" how cold it seemed To speak of the angel near,-- My heart went after the snowy form. For its parents I breathed a prayer: "Only a baby!" ah, the weary day And the sleepless night, The feverish longing--the aching heart-- For the baby gone from sight! "Only a baby!" the heart sobs out, What hopes lie shatter'd here, The broken bud--the tiny frame, An angel hovering near. "Only a baby!"--the years creep by-- 'Twill ever be, tho' locks be gray; Growing no older--only their babe; As years before it passed away. TO HELEN, ON WRITING A SECOND TIME IN HER ALBUM. You plucked a grey hair from my head, To-day, as you stood near me: There's plenty more, that are deftly hid By wavy crimps,--I fear me. 'Tis many years since last I wrote, With fun, and spirits plenty; But now my fourth son has a vote, And my babe's not far from twenty. Ah! so it goes; old time strides on, Nor cares for years, and worries, But knocks us here; and hits us there, As past us quick he hurries; We still are friends, and have our fun, In spite of years, and trouble; We've planted, reaped, and had our day. And now we're in the stubble. RACHEL ELIZABETH PATTERSON. Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820. She is also the granddaughter of an Englishman who settled on Taylor's Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost by his family. Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers. Elizabeth was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of Rising Sun. While in this family she was seized with a violent illness, which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a cripple and a sufferer for life. Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace and recreation by composing her "Songs in Affliction," which about thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she published in a small volume bearing that name. The first edition consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the publication of another one of five hundred copies. In 1872 she published another small volume, entitled "The Little Streamlet," which contained some poems written since the publication of the first volume. Miss Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore. "JUDGE NOT!" How, poor frail and erring mortal, Darest thou judge thy fellow-man And with bitter words and feelings, All his faults and frailties scan? Why rake out from time's dull ashes, And before the world display Deeds, it may be, long repented And forgiven, ere this day? Canst thou search his secret feelings? Canst thou read his inmost soul? Canst thou tell the hidden motives Which his actions here control? Is he erring? seek in kindness, Then, to win him back to peace; Is he weak? oh try to strengthen; Sad? then bid his sorrows cease! Lay thou not a heavier burden By an unkind look or word, On a heart which may by anguish To its inmost depths be stirred. O! forbear thy hasty judging! Should thy righteous God demand Half the justice which thy brother Is receiving from thy hand, What, oh what would be thy portion, Though more righteous thou than he, Would not the glad gates of mercy Soon their portals close on thee? THE WISH. I do not wish thee worldly wealth-- For it may flee away; I do not wish thee beauty's charms-- For they will soon decay. I do not wish for thee the joys Which from earth's pleasures spring; These give at best a fleeting bliss, And leave a lasting sting. I do not wish thee mortal fame-- This, like a meteor bright, Gleams but a moment on the sky, And leaves behind no light. I wish for thee that richer wealth, No earthly mines reveal, "Which moth and rust cannot corrupt, And thief can never steal." I wish for thee the sweeter joys, Which from religion flow; These have the power to soothe and bless, In hours of deepest woe. I wish for thee the honor pure, Descending from on high; To lift thy soul away from earth, And raise it to the sky. I wish that peace through all thy life, May on each step attend; May rapture crown its closing hour, And perfect bliss its end. THE CHRISTIAN'S ANCHOR. How oft when youthful skies are clear, And joy's sweet breezes round us play, We dream that as through life we steer, The morrow shall be like to-day. We paint each scene with rainbow hues, And gaily sail on stormless seas, While hope, through life's bright future, views The port she thinks to make with ease. But ah! how soon dark clouds of woe Spread o'er those skies a deepening shade, And waves of sorrow overflow, And all the rainbow glories fade. 'Tis thus earth's hopes, however bright, Expire and vanish, one by one, E'en as the shore recedes from sight, When glides the free bark swiftly on. Yet the redeemed, with anchor firm, Time's swelling billows shall outride, And far beyond the raging storm Shall make the port on Canaan's side. Oh, may this bright and blissful hope Fill my poor heart with joy and peace, Bid me 'mid all life's storms look up To yon blest land, where storms shall cease. And when with life's last gale I've striven, And all its raging waves have pass'd, Oh, may I, in the port of heaven, My anchor Hope securely cast. CALLANDER PATTERSON. Callander Patterson was born near Perryville, Cecil county, May 6, 1820. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood. Many years ago he went to Philadelphia, where he studied dentistry, which he has since practiced in that city. Mr. Patterson commenced writing poetry when quite young, but published nothing until upwards of forty years of age. His poetry--of which he has written much--seems to have been of a religious character. Owing to causes beyond our control, the following poem is the only one, adapted to this book, that we have been able to obtain. GOD IS GREAT. Our God is great! and to his arm I'll trust my destiny; For what in life or death can harm The soul that leans on thee? Thine arm supports the universe, For by thy might alone The blazing comets speed their course, Revolving round thy throne. They go and come at thy command To do thy sovereign will; Each one supported by thy hand, Its mission to fulfill. Through boundless space, 'mid shining spheres, Those wingless heralds fly; Proclaiming through the lapse of years That God still reigns on high. And all those burning suns of night That light the distant space, Declare thy power infinite, Thy wisdom and thy grace. We try to scan those regions far Till vision fades away, And yet beyond the utmost star Are plains of endless day. And when we earthward turn our gaze, With wonder and delight, We marvel at the lightning's blaze And tremble at its might. And yet, thy hand is in it all, For there thy love is seen: By it the rain is made to fall, And earth is robed in green. The cyclone on its path of death That rises in an hour, The fierce tornadoes' wildest breath, But faintly show thy power. And though the laws are yet unknown That guide them in their path, They are the agents of thy throne For mercy, or for wrath. Thus I behold thy wondrous arm And own thy works divine: Then what in life or death can harm So long as thou art mine? TOBIAS RUDULPH. Tobias Rudulph, the subject of this sketch, was the third person of that name and was the grandson of the Tobias Rudulph, who was one of four brothers who emigrated from Prussia and settled in Cecil county early in the eighteenth century. For many years the family took a conspicuous part in public affairs. Tobias Rudulph's uncle and his uncle's cousin Michael, the son of Jacob, and the uncle of Mrs. Lucretia Garfield, very early in the Revolutionary war joined a company of Light Horsemen, which was recruited in this county and served with great bravery and distinction in Light Horse Harry Lee's Legion in his Southern campaigns. They were called the Lions of the Legion. John Rudulph won the title of "Fighting Jack" by his courage and audacity, both of which essential requisites of a good soldier he seems to have possessed in a superabundant degree. Tobias, the subject of this sketch, was born in Elkton, in the old brick mansion two doors east of the court house, on December 8, 1787. He was the oldest of four children, namely: Zebulon, a sketch of whose life appears in this volume; Anna Maria, who married James Sewell; and Martha, who married the Reverend William Torbert. Anna Maria is said to have been a poetess of no mean ability, but owing to the state of literature in this county at the time she wrote, none of her poetry, so far as we have been able to learn was published, and after diligent search we have been unable to find any of her manuscript. Tobias studied law with his mother's brother, James Milner, who resided in Philadelphia, where he practiced law,--but who subsequently became a distinguished Presbyterian minister and Doctor of Divinity--and was admitted to the Elkton Bar and practiced his profession successfully until the time of his death which occurred in the Fall of 1828. He was a man of fine ability and amused himself when he had leisure in courting the Muses, but owing to his excessive modesty published nothing now extant except "Tancred, or The Siege of Antioch," a drama in three acts, which was printed in Philadelphia, in 1827. Owing to the fact that simultaneously with its publication, a drama of the same name by another author appeared as a candidate for literary favor, Mr. Rudulph--though his work was highly commended by Joseph Jefferson the elder, then in the height of his dramatic career, through the foolish fear that he might he accused of plagiarism--suppressed his drama and never allowed it to be introduced upon the stage. Mr. Rudulph married Maria Hayes. They were the parents of four children, Amelia, James, Anna Maria and Tobias. The two first mentioned are dead, the others reside in Elkton. Until a very recent period the family spelled the name Rudulph, which spelling has been followed in this work, though the name is now generally spelled Rudolph. SELECTION FROM TANCRED. Tancred was the son of the Marquis of Odo, surnamed the good, and Emma, the sister of Robert Guiscard who figured conspicuously in the wars which distracted Europe just previous to the first Crusade, which occurred under the leadership of Peter, the Hermit, and Walter, the Penniless, in A.D. 1096. The scene of the drama is laid at Antioch in 1097. A historian of the Crusades in speaking of the siege of Antioch, says that the wealth of the harvest and the vintage spread before them its irresistible temptations, and the herds feeding in the rich pastures seemed to promise an endless feast. The cattle, the corn and the wine were alike wasted with besotted folly, while the Turks within the walls received tidings of all that passed in the crusading camps from some Greek and Armenian christians to whom they allowed free egress and ingress. Of this knowledge they availed themselves in planing sallies by which they caused great distress to the Crusaders. The following extract comprises the third scene of the first act and is laid in the camp of the Crusaders--the chiefs being in council. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _Godfrey_ of Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine. _Alexius_, Emperor of Greece. _Bohemond_, Prince of Tarentum. _Tancred_. _Raymond_, Count of Thoulouse. Alex. The truce being ended, I propose, my friends, To-morrow we should storm the walls of Antioch-- What say my worthy allies?-- Boh. If any here so base and cowardly, As to give other counsel, let him speak.-- Ray. I have known those, who foremost to advise, Were yet the last to venture on the battle.-- Boh. What means the Count of Thoulouse?-- Ray. Simply this;-- That some men thoughtlessly sit down to eat, Without having first obtained an appetite.-- Boh. By the Holy Sepulchre I swear, That knight must have some stomach who maintains, What you have just now utter'd-- [Throws down his gauntlet.] There lays my guage-- If you will wear my glove, choose with what arms We shall decide this quarrel.-- [Raymond advances to take up the glove.] God. Hold, Thoulouse, let it lay.-- I do impeach Bohemond of Tarentum of base wiles, And treachery most foul, to knighthood's cause-- Boh. Why then take you the glove.-- God. In mine own cause I do accept the challenge.-- [Takes up the glove.] Alex. Is our league dissolv'd, and shall the holy cause For which embattled Europe is in arms, Be idly given to the scorn of men, To gratify our passions and vile feuds?-- But speak Lorraine, for you have heretofore Been held the mediator in these jars-- Upon what quarrel do you thus arraign Bohemond of Tarentum?-- God. A gorgeous canopy, a present from The gov'nor of Armenia I have lost-- By what base means, Bohemond best can tell.-- Boh. True he can tell--and briefly thus it is-- I won the silken bauble in a fight, And claim it as my spoil.-- God. You basely stole The treasure of a friend--Pancrates had The conduct of the present to my camp; You coward-like surprised him on the way, And robb'd him of my prize.-- Boh. (Contemptuously) Well be it so-- I stole it, and will keep it-- You may keep the glove.-- Alex. Christians, forbear, the Infidels will laugh, To know a silken toy has broke our league, And sav'd the Sepulchre--It must not be, My friends, that private discord shall cut short The work we have begun--Bohemond, no-- Restore the treasure to its rightful Lord, And my pavilion shall replace the spoil.-- Boh. I do consent--provided Godfrey will Return my glove to the brave Count of Thoulouse-- Alex. That's nobly done Bohemond--but the war 'Twixt you and Thoulouse, is a war of words-- Like two pert game cocks picking at a straw, You doubt each other's courage--then make proof Upon the Paynim forces if you please, Which is the braver man--To-morrow's field Will afford ample scope to try your blades Upon the common enemy of each, And leave unscathed his ally--I propose, That he who first shall scale the citadel, And plant the Red-Cross banner on the walls, Shall be rewarded with the victor's prize, And hold the government of Antioch-- What says the council?-- All the Chiefs. We are all agreed.-- (Bohemond and Raymond advance and shake hands in apparent token of agreement.) [Enter a Greek Messenger.] Mes. The Persian succors are but one day's march, Beyond the Orontes.-- God. Why let them come and help to bury then, Their Paynim brothers.--Friends, I give you joy-- Curse on my fortune, I do much regret The iv'ry tushes of that ruthless boar, Will keep me from the contest for fair fame.-- Bohemond, you shall lead my Frisons on-- And doubt not but you'll win the prize from Thoulouse.-- Boh. I thank your grace. ZEBULON RUDULPH. Zebulon Rudulph was the second son of Tobias Rudulph, an account of whose family is given elsewhere in this volume. He was born in Elkton, June 28, 1794. Though well remembered by some of the older residents of the place of his nativity who knew him when they were young, but little is known of his early life except that he was possessed of a kind heart and an affable disposition; and appears to have been more given to the cultivation of his literary tastes, than to the practice of those utilitarian traits which had they been more highly developed, would have enabled him to have reaped a richer pecuniary harvest than fell to his lot from the cultivation of the others. For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or '41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a small volume of 247 pages entitled "Every Man's Book; or, the Road to Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations." Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to inculcate the tenets of that denomination. Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer, and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit. Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except the one entitled "Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny," were published in _The Elkton Courier_ nearly half a century ago. THE SURPRISE. At twilight one ev'ning, a poor old man, Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days, (That now were dwindled to the shortest span:) Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys: Whose hoary locks should e'er protect from scorn, One who had ceased to court earth's fading joys,-- Knock'd at a door, thus lonely and forlorn. A pilgrim's staff supported his frail form, Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door; And feeble tho' he seemed, he feared not harm, For 'neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore. A menial came, and thus he spoke:--'Away! Old man, away! seek not to enter here: We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:-- Perhaps across the street you'll better fare.' In broken accents now the pilgrim plead-- 'Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad; And bear a message from the absent dead, To one who dwells in this august abode. Thy mistress,--fair Beatrice,--dwells she here? If so, quick, bring me to her instantly; For I have speech that fits her private ear Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.' Now, ushered thro' the spacious hall, he passed Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone, Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan. 'Be seated, aged father;' thus she said: 'And tell me whence you are, and why you seek A private conf'rence with a lonely maid Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek. 'If true it is, from distant lands you come, Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way; If so, be silent, be forever dumb, Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say, That all is well with one most dear to me, Who, two long years ago, forsook his home, And now forgets his vows of constancy, For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.' As if to dash a tear, he bends his head, And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks: 'Alas! my words are few,--thy friend is dead!'-- As monumental marble pale, she shrieks, And falls into the aged pilgrim's arms; Who, justly filled with terror and dismay, In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms, As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day. But, slowly she revives--when, quick as light, His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by-- And what is that that greets her 'wildered sight? Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?-- Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned, Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:-- And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned, He vow'd to her, he never more would rove. THOUGHTS, ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDCHILD FANNY. And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke 8:52. Oh true, "she is not dead, but sleepeth--" Her dust alone is here; The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth, Hath gone to bliss fore'er. 'Twas but a fragile flower that lent Its sweets to earth a day; From Heaven's parterre 'twas kindly sent, But 'twas not here to stay. Weep not, fond mother, that lost one; 'Tis clasped in angel's arms-- From earth's dread trials passed and gone, 'Tis decked in seraph's charms. See how it beckons thee to come, And taste its rapture there;-- No longer linger o'er that tomb-- To join it let's prepare. THE DECREE. And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and in no wise slay it. --I Kings 3:24-36. Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek? Ah! do you not see that wild eye? List--do you hear that mother speak For her son that is doom'd to die? Behold the eloquence of love! A mother for her child distress'd: A gush of feeling from above Invades and fills her yearning breast. That flood of tears,--those wringing hands, Mark her abandonment of soul, As, list'ning to the king's commands, Her grief refuses all control. My child! my child!--(tho' she betray it,) "The living child" give to my foe! 'Where is my child?--Oh! do not slay it! Let me my arms around it throw!' Thus nature's impulse bursting forth, Reveals the mother's kindred blood, And stamps upon her claim the truth: Whilst foil'd the guilty claimant stood. Such love breathes not in courts, where meet Soft, studied ease and pamper'd vice: As soon you'll find the genial heat Of nature's sun in fields of ice! And that fond soul was one like she Who bathed the Saviour's feet with tears: And hers, like Mary's ecstasy, Flows from the influence of prayers: For, Solomon had sought of God Not hoards of wealth, nor "length of days:" But holy unction from His rod, The bright indwelling of Truth's rays. A VIEW FROM MOUNT CARMEL. And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees. And said to his servant, 'Go up now, look towards the sea.' And he went up, and looked, and said, 'There is nothing.' And he said, Go again seven times. And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he said, behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand. --I Kings 18:42,41. Up Carmel's wood-clad height an aged prophet slowly creeps, And sadly drags his weary limbs o'er rocks and mossgrown steeps. He bows himself upon the earth, "his face between his knees," And thus he to his servant speaks, beneath the lofty trees. "Go further up this craggy steep, and seaward look, I pray--" His faithful servant goes, and strains his vision towards that way, But says "there's nothing."--"Go sev'n times," the prophet says "for me,--" And on the seventh time, behold! arising from the sea, A little cloud, as 'twere, no bigger than a human hand,-- But swiftly, darkly spreading o'er the parched, thirsty land, It widely displays its threatening armies thro' the sky, Its lurid lightnings flash in forked streaks upon the eye. Like countless fiery serpents thro' the troubled air, Whilst loud the roaring thunder bursts amid the flaming glare; And rage the winds, uprooting mountain oaks before the view,-- Refreshing show'rs descend, and quick the fainting earth renew. Scarcely could Israel's monarch in his chariot reach his court, Ere nature's pent up elements broke forth in airy sport, And to earth (which for three long years had known nor rain nor dew,) The long desired drops, their welcome downward course pursue. Once more Samaria's people gladly tune their harps and sing The praises of Jehovah, God, the everlasting King:-- Once more, the voice of gladness sounds where naught but anguish dwelt; There, once again, the gush of rapture, absent long, is felt! MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers was born in the old brick mansion known as "Traveler's Repose," a short distance south of Harrisville, in the Sixth district of Cecil county, on the first day of December, 1843. The Coale family of which Mrs. Simpers is a member, trace their descent from Sir Philip Blodgett, a distinguished Englishman, who settled in Baltimore shortly after its foundation, and are related to the Matthews, Worthingtons, Jewetts, and other leading families of Harford county. On her mother's side she is related to the Jacksons, Puseys, and other well-known Friends of Chester county, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington, Delaware. Mrs. Simpers' early education was received at Waring's Friends' School, near the village of Colora, which was kept up by a few families of Friends in the neighborhood. She also attended the State Normal School in Baltimore, and qualified herself for teaching in the public schools of the State, in which she taught for about ten years in Cecil county, and also in Dorchester county. She also taught school in the State of Illinois with great acceptability and success. When Mrs. Simpers was quite young her father removed his family to the banks of the romantic Octoraro, near Rowlandville, and within less than two miles of the birth-place of the two poetic Ewings and the late John Cooley, and the romantic spot where Mrs. Hall lived when she wrote the poems which are published in this volume. The soul-inspiring beauty of this romantic region seems to have had the same effect upon her mind as it had upon the other persons composing the illustrious quintette, of which she is a distinguished member, and when only seventeen years of age she began to write poetry. At the solicitation of her friend, E.E. Ewing, she sent the first poem she published to him, who gave it a place in _The Cecil Whig_, of which he was the editor and proprietor. In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New York _Mercury_, which then numbered among its contributors Ned Buntline, Harriet Prescott, George Marshall, George Arnold, Bayard Taylor, W. Scott Way, and many other distinguished writers with whom she ranked as an equal in many respects, and many of whom she excelled as a brilliant satirist and pathetic painter of the quaint and the beautiful. For ten years she continued to contribute letters, essays, stories and poems to the _Mercury_, and to advocate the claims of her sex to the right of suffrage, in which she still continues to be a firm believer. Mrs. Simpers has also contributed largely to the _Woman's Journal_ and other periodicals. Though possessed of a brilliant poetic genius, Mrs. Simpers is best known as a writer of prose; and, in addition to the large quantity of matter she has contributed to the newspaper press, is the author of a story of about two hundred pages illustrative of the principles and practices and exemplifying the social life of the Friends, for which she received a prize of two hundred dollars. This story was highly spoken of by Dr. Shelton McKenzie, with whom she was on terms of intimacy for some years immediately before his death, and also by many other distinguished writers. On the 22d of February, 1879, the subject of this sketch married Captain John G. Simpers, who served with distinction in the Second Regiment Delaware Volunteers in the war of the rebellion. They, at the time of writing this sketch, reside near the summit of Mount Pleasant, and within a short distance of the birth-place of Emma Alice Browne. THE MILLER'S ROMANCE. The miller leaned o'er the oaken door, Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor, The spider toiled in the dust o'erhead, With restless haste, and noiseless speed, Like one who toils for sorest need-- Like one who toils for bread. "Ha!" says the miller, "does he pause to hark-- Hark! Hark! Hark! To the voice of the waters, down in the dark-- Dark! Dark! Dark! Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel; Which moans and groans as tho't could feel?" "Ha!" laughed the miller, "he pauses not and why-- In the sunshine pausing and musing I? When the spiteful waves seem to repeat-- Repeat! Repeat! Repeat! The hateful word deceit-- Deceit! Deceit! Deceit" "Nay," mused the miller, "their musical drip-- Drip! Drip! Drip! Is like to naught but the trip-- Trip! Trip! Trip! In the dance of her fairy feet, Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!" * * * * * Once more, The miller leans o'er the oaken door. Still play the shadows upon the floor, Still toils the spider overhead; Like one who toils for daily bread-- "Since the red lips unto me have lied The spell hath lost its power, For never a false heart brings my bride Whatever else her dower!" And louder yet the waves repeat Their burthen old, deceit, deceit! * * * * * In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down, And floods, in the wild March weather; While the mill, the miller, and the miller's love dream, Have all grown old together! THE LAST TIME. We shall see the daylight breaking, Watch the rosy dawn awaking; We shall see the twilight fading-- Adown the path the elms are shading, For the last, last time. We shall see the blossoms swelling, Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling, See the dead leaves downward sailing, While the Autumn winds are wailing, For the last, last time. We shall hear the song of pleasure, Join the dance's merry measure; Shrink and dread the form of sorrow, Which may meet us on the morrow, For the last, last time. We shall feel hates' venomed dart Aimed to pierce the inmost heart; We shall know love's sweet caressing, Breathed from lips our own are pressing, For the last, last time. But in that land where we are going, Where the skies are ever glowing; In that fair and fadeless clime, Never comes the last, last time. ONLY A SIMPLE MAID! And this is the end of it all! It rounds the years completeness, Though only a walk to the stile Through fields a-foam with sweetness. Only the sunset light, Purple and red on the river, Only a calm "good night," That means good bye forever! I can only go back to my simple ways-- To my homely household cares; And yet,--and yet--in after days I shall think of you in my prayers. We can bear so much in youth; Who cares for a swift sharp pain? The two-edged sword of truth Cuts deep, but leaves no stain, And over the ways we have trod together, My foot shall fall as lightly, As though my heart were a feather. Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch--so happy to see you pass, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy grass. A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love's utmost faith and truth And love's unwavering tenderness. Only this walk to the stile-- This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come-- Memory shall hold forever! Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all--drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye! THE MYSTIC CLOCK. A NEW YEAR'S POEM. "Warden, wind the clock again! Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn." High within Time's temple hoar Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when'er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rushing Through the storied air o'erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish-- O'er our dead and wasted years. * * * * * "Warden, wind the clock again!" O'er the horologe's mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages. But lo! the warden winds again-- And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping! See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger! Lowliest born beneath the sun! Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish, And the sword and sceptre vanish, Ere His given work be done! * * * * * "Warden, wind the clock again!" But in vain the charge is given, For see the mighty Angel stand, One foot on sea, and one on land, Swearing with uplifted hand, Nevermore in earth or heaven Shall the mystic key be found Or the mighty clock be wound! "RUBE" AND "WILL." AN EPISODE RELATED BY AUNT SHEBA. He'ah dat ole gray sinna H's jes brimful o' gas, Singin' dat tomfool ditty As he goes hobblin' pas'! He betta be prayin' and mebbe H'll git in de fold at las'! Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder By de trees dar on de hill, Where all alone by hisself one day He buried po' massa Will! You see dey war boys togedder; To-day dey'd cuss an' fight; But dey'd make it up to-morrow And hunt fur coons at night. It wasn't much ob a massa, Ole missus made you see! Folks sed, "dem Walden niggas Mought about as well be free." Once dey went fur de turkeys, Dat's Rube and Massa Will, Wid roastin' ears fur stuffin', Made a barbecue behind de mill! But dey couln'd keep it secret, Ole missus found 'm out, An' she vow'd to sell dat nigga-- He was a thievin' lazy lout, He was a ruinin' Massa Willum; Dat fac', she said, was plain; She'd sell him! On her plantation He'd never set his foot again. An' suah befo' de sun next day went down. To take dat nigga Reuben A trader had cum from town. I guess she was glad to sell 'm Fur she needed de money bad, An' meant to spen' it mos'ly In de schoolin' ob her lad! But jes as dat ole trader Had slipt de han'cuffs on, We sees young massa cumin' Ridin' cross de lawn; He stopped right dar afore 'm, His face was pale as death, With all his might he shouted, Soon as he got his bref: "Take dem right off dat nigga! (and jerkin' his pistol out) Take 'em off I tell you! An' min' what you're about; Or I'll send you to de debil Faster dan you 'spec to go." Den massa trader dusted And he didn't trabbel slow. * * * * * Ah me! dem times seems like a dream, It was so long ago! Ole missus died next year, De war cum'd on at last And all de Souf lan' echoed With de joyful freedom blast. We lef' de ole plantation, We trabbled de Norf lan' thro; Chilled by de winds in Winter, In Summer drenched wid dew; But we neber cum to Canaan, Nor found de promised lan', And back to de ole plantation We cum a broken ban'. But Rube had stayed heah faithful, Stayed by his massa's side, And nussed him in de fever Till in his arms he died; But de freedum star in Hebben, It brightens year by year, An' our chillun has foun' de Canaan, Oh yes! des foun' it here; So I don't care what you call us, De tribes ob Sham or Hem, Dat blessed lan' o' promise, Has come right home to dem. THE LEGEND OF ST. BAVON! Shaded lights were burning low-- Muffled bells swung to and fro-- Solemn monks were chanting slow-- Chanting of the Crucified; When the good St. Bavon died. Oft had he trod the jeering street, With bare and bleeding feet; Leaving crimson-flecked the snow In memory of his Master's woe; With grief closed lips, sat he apart, The comrade of the dead man's heart; At last the chanting throng were gone And he was with th' dead alone; When the bare uncurtained room Grew still and ghastly like a tomb, On the icy neck he fell And begged the death-sealed lips to tell If one deed were left undone,-- That in that radiance like the sun Didst shade with grief the spirit flown, Or dim the brightness of his crown! Then heard his spirit's inmost ear A voice that he alone could hear, "A shadow walks with me akin to pain, I seek to shun it, but in vain, "For as I left the life of time, And journeyed toward th' blessed clime, I passed along that darkened shore. Where wail the lost forevermore. "As on that awful gulf I walked, A black-robed demon with me talked: 'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry, ''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I. "'I, with the tempter's gilded snare, Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer; Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun, My power had vanished; thou hadst won.' "Above the harps and angel's songs I hear, The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer; Oh, comrade! brother! saint! Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!" DAVID SCOTT (of James.) DAVID SCOTT (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)--to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family--was born on his father's farm, called "Scott's Adventure," on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879. His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood. In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death. In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability. In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death. In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him. In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of "Anselmo," and the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_ during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life. For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years. Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character. THE FORCED ALLIANCE. Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend? --Miss Whittlesey. Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle! We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity--'tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden. We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!--a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven. Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth's arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit's pinion, When high intents invite her. It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again. It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow-- That will not all go out. Yes! there are bosom-chords--thanks to the Giver! The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor. O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling! Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink; 'Tis past!--too late--too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling-- 'Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling-- O what a joy to think! MY COTTAGE HOME. A VESPER HYMN. Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; 'Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free-- Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers? For the day's well spent, And I'm content, Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary; 'Tis a heaven below, The joys to know-- The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery. The world's all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother's greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery. My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home! With its trellised vines around the casement clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day's well spent, And all content. What though the o'er-labored limbs are weary? Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery. With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We'll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile. The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low. Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest-- O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery. THE MIGHTY ONE. You have felt his power--you have felt his power-- For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see. He's a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He'll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head. Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze's back, unceasingly. In the sea's great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold-- Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O'er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told-- He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought. The maiden has murmured in 'plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till "no," Was the heart's quick response, "I would not have him go-- The 'Annoyer' may linger awhile." He shadows the pages of classic lore In the student's loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before-- An image is born that can die no more-- The student feels his power. A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf--it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words; 'Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one! THE SURVIVING THOUGHT. How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire! How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire? These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too prone to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a "thread of gossamer is cable--" They cannot--cannot last! Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing-- The settlement of proud Belshazzar's doom! These timely buds must early feel a blighting-- This earthly strife--ah, 'tis a sorry fighting! The victory--the Tomb! The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright-- Are they all gone--forever gone, and perished-- Ev'n the last bud my silent tears had nourished-- Have all been Death's delight? And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger? And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine--no other duty, Than for his mandate linger? Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, Assert thy heritage--exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong's envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night. There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart's sure fulcrum in the saddest strait-- An overture to this unequal striving-- A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving! Bear up, my heart, and wait. Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home "at last." Come trial, pain, and disappointment's shiver, Ye are my kindsmen--brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever-- Beyond the surges of that shoreless river Ye cannot "come away." THE WORKING MAN'S SONG. Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee. Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I'm strong and free, And the good alone are great. 'Tis nature's great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving God will bless The toiler abundantly. Toil, toil, toil-- Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard. On, Comrades! faint not now-- Ours is a manly part! Toil, for a glorious meed is ours-- The fulcrum of all earthly powers Is in our hands and heart. Toil, toil, toil-- Life is labor and love: Live, love and labor is then our song, Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng, With our Architect above. Then monuments will stand That need no polish'd rhyme-- Firm as the everlasting hills, High as the clarion note that swells The "praises of all time." ODE TO DEATH. I do not fear thee, Death! I have a bantering thought!--though I am told Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold; And that thy upas breath Rides on the vital air; Monarch and Prince of universal clime, Executor of the decrees of Time-- Sin's dark, eternal heir. Over the land and sea Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings, And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings, Over the feast the panting summer brings, "For me--'tis all for me!" All seasons and all climes-- In city crowded, and in solitude, Ye gather your unsatisfying food; Ev'n through the rosy gates of joy intrude Thy deep, sepulchral chimes. I know thee well, though young; Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke Hast thou. A brother, sister--then the Oak, (Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,) Round which our young hopes clung! Ye wantonly have crush'd, By your untimely and avenging frost, The buds of hope which bid to promise most; Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost, Could ye, O! Death have hush'd The music that endears, And makes this chill'd existence tolerable? Yet will I not such selfishness--'tis well; I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell From out the eternal spheres! I do defy thee, Death! Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears? To weary out the agony of years, With nothing but the bitter brine of tears, And scarcer existing breath. My soul is growing strong, And somewhat fretful with its house of clay, And waiting quite impatiently to lay It off, and soar in light away, To hymn th' "eternal song." This is a cowardice Perhaps--a deep, mean selfishness withal. That whets our longings in the spirit's thrall To lay aside these trials, and forestall The hours of Paradise. Thou wise, Eternal God! Oh, let me not offend Thy great design! Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign, Make me be patient, let me not repine Beneath this chast'ning rod; Though storm and tempest whelm, And beat upon this naked barque, 'tis well; And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell-- Hush, rebel thoughts!--my heart be calm and still, The Master's at the helm! HENRY VANDERFORD. Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough, Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the adjoining counties of Queen Anne's and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge of the art of printing in the office of the _Easton Star_, Thomas Perrin Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published the _Caroline Advocate_, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the election of the "Glorious Nineteen" and the Twenty-one Electors. The press and type of the _Advocate_ were transferred in 1837 to Centreville, Queen Anne's county, where he founded the _Sentinel_, the first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge of the Magistrate's Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne's, and took the census of that county in that year. In 1842 he sold the _Sentinel_ and removed to Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and founded _The Ray_, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the subsequent year published the _Baltimore Daily News_, and the _Weekly Statesman_, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of Adams, Vanderford & Brown. The _News_ and _Statesman_ were Democratic papers. In February, 1848, he bought _The Cecil Democrat_ of Thomas M. Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it with new material. In 1865 he sold out the _Democrat_ to Albert Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary's county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to Middletown, Del., where he founded the _Transcript_, and resumed the business of a printer and publisher. The _Transcript_ was the first paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From 1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H. Vanderford, in the publication of _The Democratic Advocate_, Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on Printing. On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry Vanderford, of Queen Anne's county, a distant relative of his father. Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced in the Eastern part of Maryland. Charles Vanderford, great grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was a vestryman of St. Paul's Parish, Centreville, Md., in 1719. Charles Wrench Vanderford was his grandfather, and a member of the Old Maryland Line, in the Revolutionary war. William Vanderford, his father, was a native of Queen Anne's county, where the family held a grant of land of one thousand acres from the crown, located between Wye Mills and Hall's Cross Roads, on which the old mansion was built of brick imported from England. Mr. Vanderford is now in retiracy, in the 76th year of his age, but still active, and in the possession of good health and as genial and cheerful as in the days of his prime. ON THE MOUNTAINS. Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia. On the mountains! Oh, how sweet! The busy world beneath my feet! Outspread before my raptur'd eyes The wide unbounded prospect lies; The panoramic vision glows In beauty, grandeur and repose. I gaze into the vaulted blue And on the em'rald fields below; The genial sunlight shimmers down Upon the mountain's rugged crown, The eye sweeps round the horizon Until its utmost verge is won. The hoary peaks, with forests crown'd, Spread their vast solitudes around, And intervening rocks and rills The eye with very transport fills. The bosom wells with joy serene While viewing all the lovely scene, The spirit soars on airy wings Above all sublunary things. I peer into the depths profound Of the cerulean around, And ether's far-off heights I scan, As if, to feeble finite man, The power of vision here were given To view the battlements of heaven. But, though I gaze and gaze intent, Close scanning all the firmament, No Mount of Vision unto me Does this bold summit prove to be. Though in elysian wrapt the while, Where sublimated thoughts beguile, Icarian pinions, all too frail, Were sure my fancy's flight to fail. Confined within this mortal clod, Vain man would yet ascend to God, Presumptuous, as of yore, to be The heir of immortality. But, from those fair, celestial heights Of fervid fancy's loftiest flights, My airy visions topple down To where cool reason's realm is found, And fancy folds her weary wings, Content, the while, with earthly things. PROGRESS. "Man hath sought out many inventions." The planets, forced by Nature's law, Within their orbits ceaseless roll, And man the lesson thence may draw-- By industry to reach his goal. Hail! industry's all-conquering might! Hail! engineering's giant skill! That clambers up the mountain height, And intervening valleys fill. The enterprise of man shall know No bounds upon this mundane sphere, Whate'er his hands may find to do He executes with skill and care. His genius Nature's self subdues, And all her powers subservient lie At his command, and pleas'd he views His great resources multiply. He mines the earth and skims the air, He plows the main, descends the deep, And through its silent chambers there, Electric forces flash and leap. He flies, upon the wings of steam, Mounts up with ærostatic pow'r, He paints with every solar beam-- Unfolds new wonders ev'ry hour! Not in material things alone Does Progress mark its high career, Fair science builds her regal throne, And morals her triumphal car. Man stands erect--his image fair In God's own likeness first was cast, His high prerogatives appear, He seeks his destiny at last. Upward and onward is his course, In mental and in moral life, With higher purpose, now, perforce, With loftier aspirations rife. In matters both of Church and State, A high ambition spurs him on, With buoyancy and hope elate, He plies his task till it be done. WINTER. Written in the month of January, the ground covered with snow. 'Tis winter, drear winter, and cold the winds blow, The ground is all cover'd with ice and with snow, The trees are all gemm'd with a crystalline sheen, No birdling or blossom are now to be seen. The landscape is wearing a mantle of white, Its verdure lies wither'd and hidden from sight, Rude Borean blasts bleakly blow o'er the hills, 'Till the life-current, coursing, his icy-breath chills. The rills in their ice-fetters firmly are bound As the frost-spirit breathes o'er the face of the ground The icicles pendant hang over the eaves, And the wind whirls in eddies the rustling leaves. It shrieks through the casement and in at the door-- All through the long night hear it fitfully roar, The mitre ethereal silently flies So keen and so cutting through storm-troubled skies. The dark leaden clouds dim the light of the sun, And the dull dreary hours drone slothfully on, Euroclydon forges the cold biting sleet, And the snow-drifts he piles at the traveler's feet. The wealthy, at ease in their mansions so warm, Heed not the rude blast of the pitiless storm-- The loud-roaring tempest, the elements din, Serve only to heighten their comforts within. The poor, in their hovels, feel keenly the blast, And shudder and shake as the storm-sprite goes past; Oh! pity the poor, in their lowly estate, And turn them not empty away from your gate. LINES ON WITNESSING THREE SISTERS DEPOSITING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND, IN ST. ANN'S CEMETERY, MIDDLETOWN, DELAWARE. At an early hour of the Sabbath morn, Beside the ancient, sacred pile, I stood Of old St. Ann's. The ivy careless clamber'd Along its moss-grown, antique walls; The sun-light bathed in golden glory The calm, sequester'd scene, and silence Reigned through all the leafy grove, Save where the warbling songster pour'd His wood-notes wild, or where "the gray old trunks That high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs," Murmur'd with sound of "the invisible breath That played among their giant branches," And "bowed the wrapt spirit with the thought Of boundless power and inaccessible majesty." Within the lone church no loitering footfall O'er threshold, aisle, or chancel echoed, No sound intruded on the hush profound Of that ancient temple. The pale sleepers In the weird city of the dead lay mute, Their mouldering ashes mingling with the dust, While sculptured tablets with memorial brief, Their memories from oblivion rescued. As thus upon the scene around I gazed, The fresh-turned earth upon a new-made grave, Within its marble confines neat enclosed, My vision steadfast fixed, and I beheld Three maidens, bearing each a rich bouquet, Approach the tomb, and softly by its side Stoop down and place thereon their floral gems In token of the love they bore the friend So late inurned, whom yet they fondly cherish'd. Full preparation one had duly made To stand beside her at the bridal altar; But now, beside her early grave she stood, With floral tokens of unfailing love For the fair young wither'd flower beneath. Touching and beautiful the lovely sight Of such devotion deep at friendship's shrine. My sterner heart, in welling sympathy, Throbb'd its response to this ennobling act Of these fair sisters, and did them homage Deep down within its silent recesses. Oh, when with them life's fitful fever ends May ne'er be wanted hand of sympathy To strew affection's token o'er their graves. MERRY MAY. Ethereal mildness, gentle showers. Springing verdure, opening flowers, Apple blossoms, bobolinks, Budding roses, blushing pinks, Cherries snowy, peach buds sleek, Rivaling a maiden's cheek, Balmy zephyrs, halcyon hours, Song of birds and scent of flowers, Vernal season, swelling spray, All belong to Merry May. 
35725	----	produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) [Illustration: Walt Whitman From a Photograph by Gardner, Washington THE HELIOTYPE PRINTING CO. BOSTON] THE WOUND DRESSER A Series of Letters Written from the Hospitals in Washington During the War of the Rebellion By WALT WHITMAN Edited by RICHARD MAURICE BUCKE, M.D. One of Whitman's Literary Executors Boston SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 1898 _Copyright, 1897, by Small, Maynard & Company_ _But in silence, in dreams' projections, While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand, With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)_ _I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, One turns to me his appealing eyes--poor boy! I never knew you, Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you._ _I am faithful, I do not give out, The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)_ _Thus in silence, in dreams' projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested, Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)_ _The Wound Dresser._ PREFACE As introduction to these letters from Walt Whitman to his mother, I have availed myself of three of Whitman's communications to the press covering the time during which the material which composes this volume was being written. These communications (parts of which, but in no case the whole, were used by Whitman in his "Memoranda of the Secession War") seem to me to form, in spite of certain duplications, which to my mind have the force, not the weakness, of repetition, quite an ideal background to the letters to Mrs. Whitman, since they give a full and free description of the circumstances and surroundings in the midst of which those were composed. Readers who desire a still more extended account of the man himself, his work and environment at that time, may consult with profit the Editor's "Walt Whitman" (pp. 34-44), O'Connor's "Good Gray Poet" (included in that volume, pp. 99-130), "Specimen Days" (pp. 26-63, included in Walt Whitman's "Complete Prose Works"), and above all the section of "Leaves of Grass" called "Drum-Taps." I do not believe that it is in the power of any man now living to make an important addition to the vivid picture of those days and nights in the hospitals drawn by Whitman himself and to be found in his published prose and verse, and, above all, in the living words of the present letters to his mother. These last were written on the spot, as the scenes and incidents, in all their living and sombre colors, passed before his eyes, while his mind and heart were full of the sights and sounds, the episodes and agonies, of those terrible hours. How could any one writing in cold blood, to-day, hope to add words of any value to those he wrote then? Perhaps, in conclusion, it may be as well to repeat what was said in the introduction to a former volume,--that these letters make no pretensions as literature. They are, as indeed is all that Whitman has written (as he himself has over and over again said), something quite different from that--something much less to the average cultured and learned man, something much more to the man or woman who comes within range of their attraction. But doubtless the critics will still insist that, if they are not literature, they ought to be, or otherwise should not be printed, failing (as is their wont) to comprehend that there are other qualities and characteristics than the literary, some of them as important and as valuable, which may be more or less adequately conveyed by print. R. M. B. CONTENTS Page THE GREAT ARMY OF THE WOUNDED 1 LIFE AMONG FIFTY THOUSAND SOLDIERS 11 HOSPITAL VISITS 21 LETTERS OF 1862-3 47 LETTERS OF 1864 143 THE GREAT ARMY OF THE WOUNDED The military hospitals, convalescent camps, etc., in Washington and its neighborhood, sometimes contain over fifty thousand sick and wounded men. Every form of wound (the mere sight of some of them having been known to make a tolerably hardy visitor faint away), every kind of malady, like a long procession, with typhoid fever and diarrhoea at the head as leaders, are here in steady motion. The soldier's hospital! how many sleepless nights, how many women's tears, how many long and waking hours and days of suspense, from every one of the Middle, Eastern, and Western States, have concentrated here! Our own New York, in the form of hundreds and thousands of her young men, may consider herself here--Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and all the West and Northwest the same--and all the New England States the same. Upon a few of these hospitals I have been almost daily calling as a missionary, on my own account, for the sustenance and consolation of some of the most needy cases of sick and dying men, for the last two months. One has much to learn to do good in these places. Great tact is required. These are not like other hospitals. By far the greatest proportion (I should say five sixths) of the patients are American young men, intelligent, of independent spirit, tender feelings, used to a hardy and healthy life; largely the farmers are represented by their sons--largely the mechanics and workingmen of the cities. Then they are soldiers. All these points must be borne in mind. People through our Northern cities have little or no idea of the great and prominent feature which these military hospitals and convalescent camps make in and around Washington. There are not merely two or three or a dozen, but some fifty of them, of different degrees of capacity. Some have a thousand and more patients. The newspapers here find it necessary to print every day a directory of the hospitals--a long list, something like what a directory of the churches would be in New York, Philadelphia, or Boston. The Government (which really tries, I think, to do the best and quickest it can for these sad necessities) is gradually settling down to adopt the plan of placing the hospitals in clusters of one-story wooden barracks, with their accompanying tents and sheds for cooking and all needed purposes. Taking all things into consideration, no doubt these are best adapted to the purpose; better than using churches and large public buildings like the Patent office. These sheds now adopted are long, one-story edifices, sometimes ranged along in a row, with their heads to the street, and numbered either alphabetically, Wards A or B, C, D, and so on; or Wards 1, 2, 3, etc. The middle one will be marked by a flagstaff, and is the office of the establishment, with rooms for the ward surgeons, etc. One of these sheds, or wards, will contain sixty cots; sometimes, on an emergency, they move them close together, and crowd in more. Some of the barracks are larger, with, of course, more inmates. Frequently there are tents, more comfortable here than one might think, whatever they may be down in the army. Each ward has a ward-master, and generally a nurse for every ten or twelve men. A ward surgeon has, generally, two wards--although this varies. Some of the wards have a woman nurse; the Armory-square wards have some very good ones. The one in Ward E is one of the best. A few weeks ago the vast area of the second story of that noblest of Washington buildings, the Patent office, was crowded close with rows of sick, badly wounded, and dying soldiers. They were placed in three very large apartments. I went there several times. It was a strange, solemn, and, with all its features of suffering and death, a sort of fascinating sight. I went sometimes at night to soothe and relieve particular cases; some, I found, needed a little cheering up and friendly consolation at that time, for they went to sleep better afterwards. Two of the immense apartments are filled with high and ponderous glass cases crowded with models in miniature of every kind of utensil, machine, or invention it ever entered into the mind of man to conceive, and with curiosities and foreign presents. Between these cases were lateral openings, perhaps eight feet wide, and quite deep, and in these were placed many of the sick; besides a great long double row of them up and down through the middle of the hall. Many of them were very bad cases, wounds and amputations. Then there was a gallery running above the hall, in which there were beds also. It was, indeed, a curious scene at night when lit up. The glass cases, the beds, the sick, the gallery above and the marble pavement under foot; the suffering, and the fortitude to bear it in the various degrees; occasionally, from some, the groan that could not be repressed; sometimes a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and glassy eyes, the nurse by his side, the doctor also there, but no friend, no relative--such were the sights but lately in the Patent office. The wounded have since been removed from there, and it is now vacant again. Of course there are among these thousands of prostrated soldiers in hospital here all sorts of individual cases. On recurring to my note-book, I am puzzled which cases to select to illustrate the average of these young men and their experiences. I may here say, too, in general terms, that I could not wish for more candor and manliness, among all their sufferings, than I find among them. Take this case in Ward 6, Campbell hospital: a young man from Plymouth county, Massachusetts; a farmer's son, aged about twenty or twenty-one; a soldierly, American young fellow, but with sensitive and tender feelings. Most of December and January last he lay very low, and for quite a while I never expected he would recover. He had become prostrated with an obstinate diarrhoea: his stomach would hardly keep the least thing down; he was vomiting half the time. But that was hardly the worst of it. Let me tell his story--it is but one of thousands. He had been some time sick with his regiment in the field, in front, but did his duty as long as he could; was in the battle of Fredericksburg; soon after was put in the regimental hospital. He kept getting worse--could not eat anything they had there; the doctor told him nothing could be done for him there. The poor fellow had fever also; received (perhaps it could not be helped) little or no attention; lay on the ground, getting worse. Toward the latter part of December, very much enfeebled, he was sent up from the front, from Falmouth station, in an open platform car (such as hogs are transported upon North), and dumped with a crowd of others on the boat at Aquia creek, falling down like a rag where they deposited him, too weak and sick to sit up or help himself at all. No one spoke to him or assisted him; he had nothing to eat or drink; was used (amid the great crowds of sick) either with perfect indifference, or, as in two or three instances, with heartless brutality. On the boat, when night came and when the air grew chilly, he tried a long time to undo the blankets he had in his knapsack, but was too feeble. He asked one of the employees, who was moving around deck, for a moment's assistance to get the blankets. The man asked him back if he could not get them himself. He answered, no, he had been trying for more than half an hour, and found himself too weak. The man rejoined, he might then go without them, and walked off. So H. lay chilled and damp on deck all night, without anything under or over him, while two good blankets were within reach. It caused him a great injury--nearly cost him his life. Arrived at Washington, he was brought ashore and again left on the wharf, or above it, amid the great crowds, as before, without any nourishment--not a drink for his parched mouth; no kind hand had offered to cover his face from the forenoon sun. Conveyed at last some two miles by the ambulance to the hospital, and assigned a bed (Bed 49, Ward 6, Campbell hospital, January and February, 1863), he fell down exhausted upon the bed. But the ward-master (he has since been changed) came to him with a growling order to get up: the rules, he said, permitted no man to lie down in that way with his own clothes on; he must sit up--must first go to the bath-room, be washed, and have his clothes completely changed. (A very good rule, properly applied.) He was taken to the bath-room and scrubbed well with cold water. The attendants, callous for a while, were soon alarmed, for suddenly the half-frozen and lifeless body fell limpsy in their hands, and they hurried it back to the cot, plainly insensible, perhaps dying. Poor boy! the long train of exhaustion, deprivation, rudeness, no food, no friendly word or deed, but all kinds of upstart airs and impudent, unfeeling speeches and deeds, from all kinds of small officials (and some big ones), cutting like razors into that sensitive heart, had at last done the job. He now lay, at times out of his head but quite silent, asking nothing of any one, for some days, with death getting a closer and a surer grip upon him; he cared not, or rather he welcomed death. His heart was broken. He felt the struggle to keep up any longer to be useless. God, the world, humanity--all had abandoned him. It would feel so good to shut his eyes forever on the cruel things around him and toward him. As luck would have it, at this time I found him. I was passing down Ward No. 6 one day about dusk (4th January, I think), and noticed his glassy eyes, with a look of despair and hopelessness, sunk low in his thin, pallid-brown young face. One learns to divine quickly in the hospital, and as I stopped by him and spoke some commonplace remark (to which he made no reply), I saw as I looked that it was a case for ministering to the affection first, and other nourishment and medicines afterward. I sat down by him without any fuss; talked a little; soon saw that it did him good; led him to talk a little himself; got him somewhat interested; wrote a letter for him to his folks in Massachusetts (to L. H. Campbell, Plymouth county); soothed him down as I saw he was getting a little too much agitated, and tears in his eyes; gave him some small gifts, and told him I should come again soon. (He has told me since that this little visit, at that hour, just saved him; a day more, and it would have been perhaps too late.) Of course I did not forget him, for he was a young fellow to interest any one. He remained very sick--vomiting much every day, frequent diarrhoea, and also something like bronchitis, the doctor said. For a while I visited him almost every day, cheered him up, took him some little gifts, and gave him small sums of money (he relished a drink of new milk, when it was brought through the ward for sale). For a couple of weeks his condition was uncertain--sometimes I thought there was no chance for him at all; but of late he is doing better--is up and dressed, and goes around more and more (February 21) every day. He will not die, but will recover. The other evening, passing through the ward, he called me--he wanted to say a few words, particular. I sat down by his side on the cot in the dimness of the long ward, with the wounded soldiers there in their beds, ranging up and down. H. told me I had saved his life. He was in the deepest earnest about it. It was one of those things that repay a soldiers' hospital missionary a thousandfold--one of the hours he never forgets. A benevolent person, with the right qualities and tact, cannot, perhaps, make a better investment of himself, at present, anywhere upon the varied surface of the whole of this big world, than in these military hospitals, among such thousands of most interesting young men. The army is very young--and so much more American than I supposed. Reader, how can I describe to you the mute appealing look that rolls and moves from many a manly eye, from many a sick cot, following you as you walk slowly down one of these wards? To see these, and to be incapable of responding to them, except in a few cases (so very few compared to the whole of the suffering men), is enough to make one's heart crack. I go through in some cases, cheering up the men, distributing now and then little sums of money--and, regularly, letter-paper and envelopes, oranges, tobacco, jellies, etc., etc. Many things invite comment, and some of them sharp criticism, in these hospitals. The Government, as I said, is anxious and liberal in its practice toward its sick; but the work has to be left, in its personal application to the men, to hundreds of officials of one grade or another about the hospitals, who are sometimes entirely lacking in the right qualities. There are tyrants and shysters in all positions, and especially those dressed in subordinate authority. Some of the ward doctors are careless, rude, capricious, needlessly strict. One I found who prohibited the men from all enlivening amusements; I found him sending men to the guard-house for the most trifling offence. In general, perhaps, the officials--especially the new ones, with their straps or badges--put on too many airs. Of all places in the world, the hospitals of American young men and soldiers, wounded in the volunteer service of their country, ought to be exempt from mere conventional military airs and etiquette of shoulder-straps. But they are not exempt. W. W. _From the New York_ Times, _February 26, 1863_. LIFE AMONG FIFTY THOUSAND SOLDIERS Our Brooklyn people, not only from having so many hundreds of their own kith and kin, and almost everybody some friend or acquaintance, here in the clustering military hospitals of Washington, would doubtless be glad to get some account of these establishments, but also to satisfy that compound of benevolence and generosity which marks Brooklyn, I have sometimes thought, more than any other city in the world. A military hospital here in Washington is a little city by itself, and contains a larger population than most of the well-known country towns down in the Queens and Suffolk county portions of Long Island. I say one of the Government hospitals here is a little city in itself, and there are some fifty of these hospitals in the District of Columbia alone. In them are collected the tens of thousands of sick and wounded soldiers, the legacies of many a bloody battle and of the exposure of two years of camp life. I find these places full of significance. They have taken up my principal time and labor for some months past. Imagine a long, one-story wooden shed, like a short, wide ropewalk, well whitewashed; then cluster ten or a dozen of these together, with several smaller sheds and tents, and you have the soldiers' hospital as generally adopted here. It will contain perhaps six or seven hundred men, or perhaps a thousand, and occasionally more still. There is a regular staff and a sub-staff of big and little officials. Military etiquette is observed, and it is getting to become very stiff. I shall take occasion, before long, to show up some of this ill-fitting nonsense. The harvest is large, the gleaners few. Beginning at first with casual visits to these establishments to see some of the Brooklyn men, wounded or sick, here, I became by degrees more and more drawn in, until I have now been for many weeks quite a devotee to the business--a regular self-appointed missionary to these thousands and tens of thousands of wounded and sick young men here, left upon Government hands, many of them languishing, many of them dying. I am not connected with any society, but go on my own individual account, and to the work that appears to be called for. Almost every day, and frequently in the evenings, I visit, in this informal way, one after another of the wards of a hospital, and always find cases enough where I can be of service. Cases enough, do I say? Alas! there is, perhaps, not one ward or tent, out of the seven or eight hundred now hereabout filled with sick, in which I am sure I might not profitably devote every hour of my life to the abstract work of consolation and sustenance for its suffering inmates. And indeed, beyond that, a person feels that in some one of these crowded wards he would like to pick out two or three cases and devote himself wholly to them. Meanwhile, however, to do the best that is permitted, I go around, distributing myself and the contents of my pockets and haversack in infinitesimal quantities, with faith that nearly all of it will, somehow or other, fall on good ground. In many cases, where I find a soldier "dead broke" and pretty sick, I give half a tumbler of good jelly. I carry a good-sized jar to a ward, have it opened, get a spoon, and taking the head nurse in tow, I go around and distribute it to the most appropriate cases. To others I give an orange or an apple; to others some spiced fruits; to others a small quantity of pickles. Many want tobacco: I do not encourage any of the boys in its use, but where I find they crave it I supply them. I always carry some, cut up in small plugs, in my pocket. Then I have commissions: some New York or Connecticut, or other soldier, will be going home on sick leave, or perhaps discharged, and I must fit him out with good new undershirt, drawers, stockings, etc. But perhaps the greatest welcome is for writing paper, envelopes, etc. I find these always a rare reliance. When I go into a new ward, I always carry two or three quires of paper and a good lot of envelopes, and walk up and down and circulate them around to those who desire them. Then some will want pens, pencils, etc. In some hospitals there is quite a plenty of reading matter; but others, where it is needed, I supply. By these and like means one comes to be better acquainted with individual cases, and so learns every day peculiar and interesting character, and gets on intimate and soon affectionate terms with noble American young men; and now is where the real good begins to be done, after all. Here, I will egotistically confess, I like to flourish. Even in a medical point of view it is one of the greatest things; and in a surgical point of view, the same. I can testify that friendship has literally cured a fever, and the medicine of daily affection, a bad wound. In these sayings are the final secret of carrying out well the rôle of a hospital missionary for our soldiers, which I tell for those who will understand them. As I write, I have lying before me a little discarded note-book, filled with memoranda of things wanted by the sick--special cases. I use up one of these little books in a week. See from this sample, for instance, after walking through a ward or two: Bed 53 wants some liquorice; Bed 6--erysipelas--bring some raspberry vinegar to make a cooling drink, with water; Bed 18 wants a good book--a romance; Bed 25--a manly, friendly young fellow, H. D. B., of the Twenty-seventh Connecticut, an independent young soul--refuses money and eatables, so I will bring him a pipe and tobacco, for I see he much enjoys a smoke; Bed 45--sore throat and cough--wants horehound candy; Bed 11, when I come again, don't forget to write a letter for him; etc. The wants are a long and varied list: some need to be humored and forgotten, others need to be especially remembered and obeyed. One poor German, dying--in the last stage of consumption--wished me to find him, in Washington, a German Lutheran clergyman, and send him to him; I did so. One patient will want nothing but a toothpick, another a comb, and so on. All whims are represented, and all the States. There are many New York State soldiers here; also Pennsylvanians. I find, of course, many from Massachusetts, Connecticut, and all the New England States, and from the Western and Northwestern States. Five sixths of the soldiers are young men. Among other cases of young men from our own city of Brooklyn I have encountered and have had much to do with in hospital here, is John Lowery, wounded, and arm amputated, at Fredericksburg. I saw this young fellow down there last December, immediately after the battle, lying on a blanket on the ground, the stump of his arm bandaged, but he not a bit disheartened. He was soon afterward sent up from the front by way of Aquia creek, and has for the past three months been in the Campbell hospital here, in Ward 6, on the gain slowly but steadily. He thinks a great deal of his physician here, Dr. Frank Hinkle, and as some fifty other soldiers in the ward do the same, and bear testimony in their hearty gratitude, and medical and surgical imprisonment, to the quality of Dr. H., I think he deserves honorable mention in this letter to the people of our city--especially as another Brooklyn soldier in Ward 6, Amos H. Vliet, expresses the same feeling of obligation to the doctor for his faithfulness and kindness. Vliet and Lowery both belong to that old war regiment whose flag has flaunted through more than a score of hot-contested battles, the Fifty-first New York, Colonel Potter; and it is to be remembered that no small portion of the fame of this old veteran regiment may be claimed near home, for many of her officers and men are from Brooklyn. The friends of these two young soldiers will have a chance to talk to them soon in Brooklyn. I have seen a good deal of Jack Lowery, and I find him, and heard of him on the field, as a brave, soldierly fellow. Amos Vliet, too, made a first-rate soldier. He has had frozen feet pretty bad, but now better. Occasionally I meet some of the Brooklyn Fourteenth. In Ward E of Armory hospital I found a member of Company C of that regiment, Isaac Snyder; he is now acting as nurse there, and makes a very good one. Charles Dean, of Co. H of the same regiment, is in Ward A of Armory, acting as ward-master. I also got very well acquainted with a young man of the Brooklyn Fourteenth who lay sick some time in Ward F; he has lately got his discharge and gone home. I have met with others in the H-street and Patent-office hospitals. Colonel Fowler, of the Fourteenth, is in charge, I believe, of the convalescent camp at Alexandria. Lieutenant-Colonel Debevoise is in Brooklyn, in poor health, I am sorry to say. Thus the Brooklyn invalids are scattered around. Off in the mud, a mile east of the Capitol, I found the other day, in Emory hospital there, in Ward C, three Brooklyn soldiers--Allen V. King, Michael Lally, and Patrick Hennessy; none of them, however, are very sick. At a rough guess, I should say I have met from one hundred and fifty to two hundred young and middle-aged men whom I specifically found to be Brooklyn persons. Many of them I recognized as having seen their faces before, and very many of them knew me. Some said they had known me from boyhood. Some would call to me as I passed down a ward, and tell me they had seen me in Brooklyn. I have had this happen at night, and have been entreated to stop and sit down and take the hand of a sick and restless boy, and talk to him and comfort him awhile, for old Brooklyn's sake. Some pompous and every way improper persons, of course, get in power in hospitals, and have full swing over the helpless soldiers. There is great state kept at Judiciary-square hospital, for instance. An individual who probably has been waiter somewhere for years past has got into the high and mighty position of sergeant-of-arms at this hospital; he is called "Red Stripe" (from his artillery trimmings) by the patients, of whom he is at the same time the tyrant and the laughing-stock. Going in to call on some sick New York soldiers here the other afternoon, I was stopped and treated to a specimen of the airs of this powerful officer. Surely the Government would do better to send such able-bodied loafers down into service in front, where they could earn their rations, than keep them here in the idle and shallow sinecures of military guard over a collection of sick soldiers to give insolence to their visitors and friends. I found a shallow old person also here named Dr. Hall, who told me he had been eighteen years in the service. I must give this Judiciary establishment the credit, from my visits to it, of saying that while in all the other hospitals I met with general cordiality and deference among the doctors, ward officers, nurses, etc., I have found more impudence and more dandy doctorism and more needless airs at this Judiciary, than in all the twoscore other establishments in and around Washington. But the corps of management at the Judiciary has a bad name anyhow, and I only specify it here to put on record the general opinion, and in hopes it may help in calling the attention of the Government to a remedy. For this hospital is half filled with New York soldiers, many noble fellows, and many sad and interesting cases. Of course there are exceptions of good officials here, and some of the women nurses are excellent, but the Empire State has no reason to be over-satisfied with this hospital. But I should say, in conclusion, that the earnest and continued desire of the Government, and much devoted labor, are given to make the military hospitals here as good as they can be, considering all things. I find no expense spared, and great anxiety manifested in the highest quarters, to do well by the national sick. I meet with first-class surgeons in charge of many of the hospitals, and often the ward surgeons, medical cadets, and head nurses, are fully faithful and competent. Dr. Bliss, head of Armory-square, and Dr. Baxter, head of Campbell, seem to me to try to do their best, and to be excellent in their posts. Dr. Bowen, one of the ward surgeons of Armory, I have known to fight as hard for many a poor fellow's life under his charge as a lioness would fight for her young. I mention such cases because I think they deserve it, on public grounds. I thought I would include in my letter a few cases of soldiers, especially interesting, out of my note-book, but I find that my story has already been spun out to sufficient length. I shall continue here in Washington for the present, and may-be for the summer, to work as a missionary, after my own style, among these hospitals, for I find it in some respects curiously fascinating, with all its sadness. Nor do I find it ended by my doing some good to the sick and dying soldiers. They do me good in return, more than I do them. W. W. _From the Brooklyn_ Eagle, _March 19, 1863_. HOSPITAL VISITS As this tremendous war goes on, the public interest becomes more general and gathers more and more closely about the wounded, the sick, and the Government hospitals, the surgeons, and all appertaining to the medical department of the army. Up to the date of this writing (December 9, 1864) there have been, as I estimate, near four hundred thousand cases under treatment, and there are to-day, probably, taking the whole service of the United States, two hundred thousand, or an approximation to that number, on the doctors' list. Half of these are comparatively slight ailments or hurts. Every family has directly or indirectly some representative among this vast army of the wounded and sick. The following sketch is made to gratify the general interest in this field of the war, and also for a few special persons through whose means alone I have aided the men. It extends over a period of two years, coming down to the present hour, and exhibits the army hospitals at Washington, the camp hospitals in the field, etc. A very few cases are given as specimens of thousands. The account may be relied upon as faithful, though rapidly thrown together. It will put the reader in as direct contact as may be with scenes, sights, and cases of these immense hospitals. As will be seen, it begins back two years since, at a very gloomy period of the contest. Began my visits (December 21, 1862) among the camp hospitals in the Army of the Potomac, under General Burnside. Spent a good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the Rappahannock, immediately opposite Fredericksburg. It is used as a hospital since the battle, and seems to have received only the worst cases. Outdoors, at the foot of a tree, within ten yards of the front of the house, I notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, etc.--about a load for a one-horse cart. Several dead bodies lie near, each covered with its brown woollen blanket. In the dooryard, toward the river, are fresh graves, mostly of officers, their names on pieces of barrel staves or broken board, stuck in the dirt. (Most of these bodies were subsequently taken up and transported North to their friends.) The house is quite crowded, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but I have no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds pretty bad, some frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and bloody. Some of the wounded are rebel officers, prisoners. One, a Mississippian--a captain--hit badly in the leg, I talked with some time; he asked me for papers, which I gave him. (I saw him three months afterward in Washington, with leg amputated, doing well.) I went through the rooms, down stairs and up. Some of the men were dying. I had nothing to give at that visit, but wrote a few letters to folks home, mothers, etc. Also talked to three or four who seemed most susceptible to it, and needing it. December 22 to 31.--Am among the regimental brigade and division hospitals somewhat. Few at home realize that these are merely tents, and sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their blanket is spread on a layer of pine or hemlock twigs, or some leaves. No cots; seldom even a mattress on the ground. It is pretty cold. I go around from one case to another. I do not see that I can do any good, but I cannot leave them. Once in a while some youngster holds on to me convulsively, and I do what I can for him; at any rate stop with him, and sit near him for hours, if he wishes it. Besides the hospitals, I also go occasionally on long tours through the camps, talking with the men, etc.; sometimes at night among the groups around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. I soon get acquainted anywhere in camp with officers or men, and am always well used. Sometimes I go down on picket with the regiments I know best. As to rations, the army here at present seems to be tolerably well supplied, and the men have enough, such as it is. Most of the regiments lodge in the flimsy little shelter tents. A few have built themselves huts of logs and mud, with fireplaces. I might give a long list of special cases, interesting items of the wounded men here, but have not space. Left Falmouth, January, 1863, by Aquia creek railroad, and so on Government steamer up the Potomac. Many wounded were with us on cars and boat. The cars were just common platform ones. The railroad journey of ten or twelve miles was made mostly before sunrise. The soldiers guarding the road came out from their tents or shebangs of bushes with rumpled hair and half-awake look. Those on duty were walking their posts, some on banks over us, others down far below the level of the track. I saw large cavalry camps off the road. At Aquia Creek Landing were numbers of wounded going North. While I waited some three hours, I went around among them. Several wanted word sent home to parents, brothers, wives, etc., which I did for them (by mail the next day from Washington). On the boat I had my hands full. One poor fellow died going up. Am now (January, February, etc., 1863) in and around Washington, daily visiting the hospitals. Am much in Campbell, Patent-office, Eighth-street, H-street, Armory-square, and others. Am now able to do a little good, having money (as almoner of others home), and getting experience. I would like to give lists of cases, for there is no end to the interesting ones; but it is impossible without making a large volume, or rather several volumes. I must, therefore, let one or two days' visits at this time suffice as specimens of scores and hundreds of subsequent ones, through the ensuing spring, summer, and fall, and, indeed, down to the present week. Sunday, January 25.--Afternoon and till 9 in the evening, visited Campbell hospital. Attended specially to one case in Ward I, very sick with pleurisy and typhoid fever, young man, farmer's son--D. F. Russell, Company E, Sixtieth New York--down-hearted and feeble; a long time before he would take any interest; soothed and cheered him gently; wrote a letter home to his mother, in Malone, Franklin county, N. Y., at his request; gave him some fruit and one or two other gifts; enveloped and directed his letter, etc. Then went thoroughly through Ward 6; observed every case in the ward (without, I think, missing one); found some cases I thought needed little sums of money; supplied them (sums of perhaps thirty, twenty-five, twenty, or fifteen cents); distributed a pretty bountiful supply of cheerful reading matter, and gave perhaps some twenty to thirty persons, each one some little gift, such as oranges, apples, sweet crackers, figs, etc., etc., etc. Thursday, January 29.--Devoted the main part of the day, from 11 to 3.30 o'clock, to Armory-square hospital; went pretty thoroughly through Wards F, G, H, and I--some fifty cases in each ward. In Ward H supplied the men throughout with writing paper and a stamped envelope each, also some cheerful reading matter; distributed in small portions, about half of it in this ward, to proper subjects, a large jar of first-rate preserved berries; also other small gifts. In Wards G, H, and I, found several cases I thought good subjects for small sums of money, which I furnished in each case. The poor wounded men often come up "dead broke," and it helps their spirits to have even the small sum I give them. My paper and envelopes all gone, but distributed a good lot of amusing reading matter; also, as I thought judicious, tobacco, oranges, apples, etc. Some very interesting cases in Ward I: Charles Miller, Bed No. 19, Company D, Fifty-third Pennsylvania, is only sixteen years of age, very bright, courageous boy, left leg amputated below the knee; next bed below him, young lad very sick--gave the two each appropriate gifts; in the bed above also amputation of the left leg--gave him a part of a jar of raspberries; Bed No. 1, this ward, gave a small sum also; also to a soldier on crutches, sitting on his bed near. Evening, same day.--Went to see D. F. R., Campbell hospital, before alluded to; found him remarkably changed for the better--up and dressed (quite a triumph; he afterwards got well and went back to his regiment). Distributed in the wards a quantity of note-paper and forty or fifty, mostly paid, envelopes, of which the men were much in need; also a four-pound bag of gingersnaps I bought at a baker's in Seventh street. Here is a case of a soldier I found among the crowded cots in the Patent hospital--(they have removed most of the men of late and broken up that hospital). He likes to have some one to talk to, and we will listen to him. He got badly wounded in the leg and side at Fredericksburg that eventful Saturday, 13th December. He lay the succeeding two days and nights helpless on the field, between the city and those grim batteries, for his company and his regiment had been compelled to leave him to his fate. To make matters worse, he lay with his head slightly down hill, and could not help himself. At the end of some fifty hours he was brought off, with other wounded, under a flag of truce. We ask him how the Rebels treated him during those two days and nights within reach of them--whether they came to him--whether they abused him? He answers that several of the Rebels, soldiers and others, came to him, at one time and another. A couple of them, who were together, spoke roughly and sarcastically, but did no act. One middle-aged man, however, who seemed to be moving around the field among the dead and wounded for benevolent purposes, came to him in a way he will never forget. This man treated our soldier kindly, bound up his wounds, cheered him, gave him a couple of biscuits gave him a drink of whiskey and water, asked him if he could eat some beef. This good Secesh, however, did not change our soldier's position, for it might have caused the blood to burst from the wounds where they were clotted and stagnated. Our soldier is from Pennsylvania; has had a pretty severe time; the wounds proved to be bad ones. But he retains a good heart, and is at present on the gain. It is not uncommon for the men to remain on the field this way, one, two, or even four or five days. I continue among the hospitals during March, April, etc., without intermission. My custom is to go through a ward, or a collection of wards, endeavoring to give some trifle to each, without missing any. Even a sweet biscuit, a sheet of paper, or a passing word of friendliness, or but a look or nod, if no more. In this way I go through large numbers without delaying, yet do not hurry. I find out the general mood of the ward at the time; sometimes see that there is a heavy weight of listlessness prevailing, and the whole ward wants cheering up. I perhaps read to the men, to break the spell, calling them around me, careful to sit away from the cot of any one who is very bad with sickness or wounds. Also I find out, by going through in this way, the cases that need special attention, and can then devote proper time to them. Of course I am very cautious, among the patients, in giving them food. I always confer with the doctor, or find out from the nurse or ward-master about a new case. But I soon get sufficiently familiar with what is to be avoided, and learn also to judge almost intuitively what is best. I do a good deal of writing letters by the bedside, of course--writing all kinds, including love letters. Many sick and wounded soldiers have not written home to parents, brothers, sisters, and even wives, for one reason or another, for a long, long time. Some are poor writers; some cannot get paper and envelopes; many have an aversion to writing, because they dread to worry the folks at home--the facts about them are so sad to tell. I always encourage the men to write, and promptly write for them. As I write this, in May, 1863, the wounded have begun to arrive from Hooker's command, from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the first arrivals. The men in charge of them told me the bad cases were yet to come. If that is so, I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here, foot of Sixth street, at night. Two boat-loads came about half-past seven last night. A little after eight it rained, a long and violent shower. The poor, pale, helpless soldiers had been debarked, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood, anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches light up the spectacle. All around on the wharf, on the ground, out on side places, etc., the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, etc., with the bloody rags bound around their heads, arms, legs, etc. The attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also--only a few hard-worked transportation men and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by the ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is called to back up and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings--a few groans that cannot be repressed, and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are expected; and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days. The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more Americans than is generally supposed--I should say nine tenths are native born. Among the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois men. As usual there are all sorts of wounds. Some of the men are fearfully burnt from the explosion of artillery caissons. One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was perhaps worse than usual: amputations are going on; the attendants are dressing wounds. As you pass by you must be on your guard where you look. I saw, the other day, a gentleman, a visitor, apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing, etc.; he turned pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen on the floor. I buy, during the hot weather, boxes of oranges from time to time, and distribute them among the men; also preserved peaches and other fruits; also lemons and sugar for lemonade. Tobacco is also much in demand. Large numbers of the men come up, as usual, without a cent of money. Through the assistance of friends in Brooklyn and Boston, I am again able to help many of those that fall in my way. It is only a small sum in each case, but it is much to them. As before, I go around daily and talk with the men, to cheer them up. My note-books are full of memoranda of the cases of this summer, and the wounded from Chancellorsville, but space forbids my transcribing them. As I sit writing this paragraph (sundown, Thursday, June 25) I see a train of about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, filled with wounded, passing up Fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to Columbian, Carver, and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these long, sad processions. Through the past winter, while our army lay opposite Fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence along Seventh street, passing slowly up from the steam-boat wharf, from Aquia creek. This afternoon, July 22, 1863, I spent a long time with a young man I have been with considerable, named Oscar F. Wilber, Company G, One Hundred Fifty-fourth New York, low with chronic diarrhoea and a bad wound also. He asked me to read him a chapter in the New Testament. I complied and asked him what I should read. He said, "Make your own choice." I opened at the close of one of the first books of the Evangelists, and read the chapters describing the latter hours of Christ and the scenes at the crucifixion. The poor wasted young man asked me to read the following chapter also, how Christ rose again. I read very slowly, for Oscar was feeble. It pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He asked me if I enjoyed religion. I said, "Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet may-be it is the same thing." He said, "It is my chief reliance." He talked of death, and said he did not fear it. I said, "Why, Oscar, don't you think you will get well?" He said, "I may, but it is not probable." He spoke calmly of his condition. The wound was very bad; it discharged much. Then the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and I felt that he was even then the same as dying. He behaved very manly and affectionate. The kiss I gave him as I was about leaving, he returned fourfold. He gave me his mother's address, Mrs. Sally D. Wilber, Alleghany post-office, Cattaraugus county, N. Y. I had several such interviews with him. He died a few days after the one just described. August, September, October, etc.--I continue among the hospitals in the same manner, getting still more experience, and daily and nightly meeting with most interesting cases. Through the winter of 1863-4, the same. The work of the army hospital visitor is indeed a trade, an art, requiring both experience and natural gifts, and the greatest judgment. A large number of the visitors to the hospitals do no good at all, while many do harm. The surgeons have great trouble from them. Some visitors go from curiosity--as to a show of animals. Others give the men improper things. Then there are always some poor fellows, in the crises of sickness or wounds, that imperatively need perfect quiet--not to be talked to by strangers. Few realize that it is not the mere giving of gifts that does good; it is the proper adaption. Nothing is of any avail among the soldiers except conscientious personal investigation of cases, each for itself; with sharp, critical faculties, but in the fullest spirit of human sympathy and boundless love. The men feel such love more than anything else. I have met very few persons who realize the importance of humoring the yearnings for love and friendship of these American young men, prostrated by sickness and wounds. February, 1864.--I am down at Culpepper and Brandy station, among the camp of First, Second, and Third Corps, and going through the division hospitals. The condition of the camps here this winter is immensely improved from last winter near Falmouth. All the army is now in huts of logs and mud, with fireplaces; and the food is plentiful and tolerably good. In the camp hospitals I find diarrhoea more and more prevalent, and in chronic form. It is at present the great disease of the army. I think the doctors generally give too much medicine, oftener making things worse. Then they hold on to the cases in camp too long. When the disease is almost fixed beyond remedy, they send it up to Washington. Alas! how many such wrecks have I seen landed from boat and railroad and deposited in the Washington hospitals, mostly but to linger awhile and die, after being kept at the front too long. The hospitals in front, this winter, are also much improved. The men have cots, and often wooden floors, and the tents are well warmed. March and April, 1864.--Back again in Washington. They are breaking up the camp hospitals in Meade's army, preparing for a move. As I write this, in March, there are all the signs. Yesterday and last night the sick were arriving here in long trains, all day and night. I was among the new-comers most of the night. One train of a thousand came into the depot, and others followed. The ambulances were going all night, distributing them to the various hospitals here. When they come in, some literally in a dying condition, you may well imagine it is a lamentable sight. I hardly know which is worse, to see the wounded after a battle, or these wasted wrecks. I remain in capital health and strength, and go every day, as before, among the men, in my own way, enjoying my life and occupation more than I can tell. Of the army hospitals now in and around Washington, there are thirty or forty. I am in the habit of going to all, and to Fairfax seminary, Alexandria, and over Long Bridge to the convalescent camp, etc. As a specimen of almost any one of these hospitals, fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of ground, on which are grouped ten or twelve very large wooden barracks, with, perhaps, a dozen or twenty, and sometimes more than that number, of small buildings, capable all together of accommodating from five hundred to a thousand or fifteen hundred persons. Sometimes these large wooden barracks, or wards, each of them, perhaps, from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet long, are arranged in a straight row, evenly fronting the street; others are planned so as to form an immense V; and others again arranged around a hollow square. They make all together a huge cluster, with the additional tents, extra wards for contagious diseases, guard-houses, sutler's stores, chaplain's house, etc. In the middle will probably be an edifice devoted to the offices of the surgeon in charge and the ward surgeons, principal attachés, clerks, etc. Then around this centre radiate or are gathered the wards for the wounded and sick. These wards are either lettered alphabetically, Ward G, Ward K, or else numerically, 1, 2, 3, etc. Each has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. Of course there is, in the aggregate, quite a muster of employees, and over all the surgeon in charge. Any one of these hospitals is a little city in itself. Take, for instance, the Carver hospital, out a couple of miles, on a hill, northern part of Fourteenth street. It has more inmates than an ordinary country town. The same with the Lincoln hospital, east of the Capitol, or the Finley hospital, on high grounds northeast of the city; both large establishments. Armory-square hospital, under Dr. Bliss, in Seventh street (one of the best anywhere), is also temporarily enlarged this summer, with additional tents, sheds, etc. It must have nearly a hundred tents, wards, sheds, and structures of one kind and another. The worst cases are always to be found here. A wanderer like me about Washington pauses on some high land which commands the sweep of the city (one never tires of the noble and ample views presented here, in the generally fine, soft, peculiar air and light), and has his eyes attracted by these white clusters of barracks in almost every direction. They make a great show in the landscape, and I often use them as landmarks. Some of these clusters are very full of inmates. Counting the whole, with the convalescent camps (whose inmates are often worse off than the sick in the hospitals), they have numbered, in this quarter and just down the Potomac, as high as fifty thousand invalid, disabled, or sick and dying men. My sketch has already filled up so much room that I shall have to omit any detailed account of the wounded of May and June, 1864, from the battles of the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, etc. That would be a long history in itself. The arrivals, the numbers, and the severity of the wounds, out-viewed anything that we have seen before. For days and weeks a melancholy tide set in upon us. The weather was very hot. The wounded had been delayed in coming, and much neglected. Very many of the wounds had worms in them. An unusual proportion mortified. It was among these that, for the first time in my life, I began to be prostrated with real sickness, and was, before the close of the summer, imperatively ordered North by the physician to recuperate and have an entire change of air. What I know of first Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Wilderness, etc., makes clear to me that there has been, and is yet, a total lack of science in elastic adaptation to the needs of the wounded after a battle. The hospitals are long afterward filled with proofs of this. I have seen many battles, their results, but never one where there was not, during the first few days, an unaccountable and almost total deficiency of everything for the wounded--appropriate sustenance, nursing, cleaning, medicines, stores, etc. (I do not say surgical attendance, because the surgeons cannot do more than human endurance permits.) Whatever pleasant accounts there may be in the papers of the North, this is the actual fact. No thorough previous preparation, no system, no foresight, no genius. Always plenty of stores, no doubt, but always miles away; never where they are needed, and never the proper application. Of all harrowing experiences, none is greater than that of the days following a heavy battle. Scores, hundreds, of the noblest young men on earth, uncomplaining, lie helpless, mangled, faint, alone, and so bleed to death, or die from exhaustion, either actually untouched at all, or with merely the laying of them down and leaving them, when there ought to be means provided to save them. The reader has doubtless inferred the fact that my visits among the wounded and sick have been as an independent missionary, in my own style, and not as an agent of any commission. Several noble women and men of Brooklyn, Boston, Salem, and Providence, have voluntarily supplied funds at times. I only wish they could see a tithe of the actual work performed by their generous and benevolent assistance among the suffering men. He who goes among the soldiers with gifts, etc., must beware how he proceeds. It is much more of an art than one would imagine. They are not charity-patients, but American young men, of pride and independence. The spirit in which you treat them, and bestow your donations, is just as important as the gifts themselves; sometimes more so. Then there is continual discrimination necessary. Each case requires some peculiar adaptation to itself. It is very important to slight nobody--not a single case. Some hospital visitors, especially the women, pick out the handsomest looking soldiers, or have a few for their pets. Of course some will attract you more than others, and some will need more attention than others; but be careful not to ignore any patient. A word, a friendly turn of the eye or touch of the hand in passing, if nothing more. One hot day toward the middle of June I gave the inmates of Carver hospital a general ice-cream treat, purchasing a large quantity, and going around personally through the wards to see to its distribution. Here is a characteristic scene in a ward: It is Sunday afternoon (middle of summer, 1864), hot and oppressive, and very silent through the ward. I am taking care of a critical case, now lying in a half lethargy. Near where I sit is a suffering Rebel from the Eighth Louisiana; his name is Irving. He has been here a long time, badly wounded, and lately had his leg amputated. It is not doing very well. Right opposite me is a sick soldier boy laid down with his clothes on, sleeping, looking much wasted, his pallid face on his arm. I see by the yellow trimming on his jacket that he is a cavalry boy. He looks so handsome as he sleeps, one must needs go nearer to him. I step softly over, and find by his card that he is named William Cone, of the First Maine Cavalry, and his folks live in Skowhegan. Well, poor John Mahay is dead. He died yesterday. His was a painful and lingering case. I have been with him at times for the past fifteen months. He belonged to Company A, One Hundred and First New York, and was shot through the lower region of the abdomen at second Bull Run, August, 1862. One scene at his bedside will suffice for the agonies of nearly two years. The bladder had been perforated by a bullet going entirely through him. Not long since I sat a good part of the morning by his bedside, Ward E, Armory-square; the water ran out of his eyes from the intense pain, and the muscles of his face were distorted, but he utters nothing except a low groan now and then. Hot moist cloths were applied, and relieved him somewhat. Poor Mahay, a mere boy in age, but old in misfortune, he never knew the love of parents, was placed in his infancy in one of the New York charitable institutions, and subsequently bound out to a tyrannical master in Sullivan county (the scars of whose cowhide and club remained yet on his back). His wound here was a most disagreeable one, for he was a gentle, cleanly, and affectionate boy. He found friends in his hospital life, and, indeed, was a universal favorite. He had quite a funeral ceremony. Through Fourteenth street to the river, and then over the long bridge and some three miles beyond, is the huge collection called the convalescent camp. It is a respectable sized army in itself, for these hospitals, tents, sheds, etc., at times contain from five to ten thousand men. Of course there are continual changes. Large squads are sent off to their regiments or elsewhere, and new men received. Sometimes I found large numbers of paroled returned prisoners here. During October, November, and December, 1864, I have visited the military hospitals about New York City, but have not room in this article to describe these visits. I have lately been (November 25) in the Central-park hospital, near One Hundred and Fourth street; it seems to be a well-managed institution. During September, and previously, went many times to the Brooklyn city hospital, in Raymond street, where I found (taken in by contract) a number of wounded and sick from the army. Most of the men were badly off, and without a cent of money, many wanting tobacco. I supplied them, and a few special cases with delicacies; also repeatedly with letter-paper, stamps, envelopes, etc., writing the addresses myself plainly--(a pleased crowd gathering around me as I directed for each one in turn.) This Brooklyn hospital is a bad place for soldiers, or anybody else. Cleanliness, proper nursing, watching, etc., are more deficient than in any hospital I know. For dinner on Sundays I invariably found nothing but rice and molasses. The men all speak well of Drs. Yale and Kissam for kindness, patience, etc., and I think, from what I saw, there are also young medical men. In its management otherwise, this is the poorest hospital I have been in, out of many hundreds. Among places, apart from soldiers', visited lately (December 7) I must specially mention the great Brooklyn general hospital and other public institutions at Flatbush, including the extensive lunatic asylum, under charge of Drs. Chapin and Reynolds. Of the latter (and I presume I might include these county establishments generally) I have deliberately to put on record about the profoundest satisfaction with professional capacity, completeness of house arrangements to ends required, and the right vital spirit animating all, that I have yet found in any public curative institution among civilians. In Washington, in camp and everywhere, I was in the habit of reading to the men. They were very fond of it, and liked declamatory, poetical pieces. Miles O'Reilly's pieces were also great favorites. I have had many happy evenings with the men. We would gather in a large group by ourselves, after supper, and spend the time in such readings, or in talking, and occasionally by an amusing game called the game of Twenty Questions. For nurses, middle-aged women and mothers of families are best. I am compelled to say young ladies, however refined, educated, and benevolent, do not succeed as army nurses, though their motives are noble; neither do the Catholic nuns, among these home-born American young men. Mothers full of motherly feeling, and however illiterate, but bringing reminiscences of home, and with the magnetic touch of hands, are the true women nurses. Many of the wounded are between fifteen and twenty years of age. I should say that the Government, from my observation, is always full of anxiety and liberality toward the sick and wounded. The system in operation in the permanent hospitals is good, and the money flows without stint. But the details have to be left to hundreds and thousands of subordinates and officials. Among these, laziness, heartlessness, gouging, and incompetency are more or less prevalent. Still, I consider the permanent hospitals, generally, well conducted. A very large proportion of the wounded come up from the front without a cent of money in their pockets. I soon discovered that it was about the best thing I could do to raise their spirits and show them that somebody cared for them, and practically felt a fatherly or brotherly interest in them, to give them small sums, in such cases, using tact and discretion about it. A large majority of the wounds are in the arms and legs. But there is every kind of wound in every part of the body. I should say of the sick, from my experience in the hospitals, that the prevailing maladies are typhoid fever and the camp fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal affections and bronchitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. These forms of sickness lead, all the rest follow. There are twice as many sick as there are wounded. The deaths range from six to ten per cent of those under treatment. I must bear my most emphatic testimony to the zeal, manliness, and professional spirit and capacity generally prevailing among the surgeons, many of them young men, in the hospitals and the army. I will not say much about the exceptions, for they are few (but I have met some of those few, and very foolish and airish they were). I never ceased to find the best young men, and the hardest and most disinterested workers, among these surgeons, in the hospitals. They are full of genius, too. I have seen many hundreds of them, and this is my testimony. During my two years in the hospitals and upon the field, I have made over six hundred visits, and have been, as I estimate, among from eighty thousand to one hundred thousand of the wounded and sick, as sustainer of spirit and body in some slight degree, in their time of need. These visits varied from an hour or two, to all day or night; for with dear or critical cases I watched all night. Sometimes I took up my quarters in the hospital, and slept or watched there several nights in succession. I may add that I am now just resuming my occupation in the hospitals and camps for the winter of 1864-5, and probably to continue the seasons ensuing. To many of the wounded and sick, especially the youngsters, there is something in personal love, caresses, and the magnetic flood of sympathy and friendship, that does, in its way, more good than all the medicine in the world. I have spoken of my regular gifts of delicacies, money, tobacco, special articles of food, knick-knacks, etc., etc. But I steadily found more and more that I could help, and turn the balance in favor of cure, by the means here alluded to, in a curiously large proportion of cases. The American soldier is full of affection and the yearning for affection. And it comes wonderfully grateful to him to have this yearning gratified when he is laid up with painful wounds or illness, far away from home, among strangers. Many will think this merely sentimentalism, but I know it is the most solid of facts. I believe that even the moving around among the men, or through the ward, of a hearty, healthy, clean, strong, generous-souled person, man or woman, full of humanity and love, sending out invisible, constant currents thereof, does immense good to the sick and wounded. To those who might be interested in knowing it, I must add, in conclusion, that I have tried to do justice to all the suffering that fell in my way. While I have been with wounded and sick in thousands of cases from the New England States, and from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, and from Michigan, Wisconsin, Indiana, Illinois, and the Western States, I have been with more or less from all the States North and South, without exception. I have been with many from the border States, especially from Maryland and Virginia, and found far more Union Southerners than is supposed. I have been with many Rebel officers and men among our wounded, and given them always what I had, and tried to cheer them the same as any. I have been among the army teamsters considerably, and indeed always find myself drawn to them. Among the black soldiers, wounded or sick, and in the contraband camps, I also took my way whenever in their neighborhood, and I did what I could for them. W. W. _From the New York_ Times, _December 11, 1864_. [Illustration: LOUISA (VAN VELSOR) WHITMAN From a Daguerreotype taken about 1855 THE HELIOTYPE PRINTING CO. BOSTON] LETTERS OF 1862-3 I _Washington, Monday forenoon, Dec. 29, 1862._ DEAR, DEAR MOTHER--Friday the 19th inst. I succeeded in reaching the camp of the 51st New York, and found George[1] alive and well. In order to make sure that you would get the good news, I sent back by messenger to Washington a telegraphic dispatch (I dare say you did not get it for some time) as well as a letter--and the same to Hannah[2] at Burlington. I have staid in camp with George ever since, till yesterday, when I came back to Washington, about the 24th. George got Jeff's[3] letter of the 20th. Mother, how much you must have suffered, all that week, till George's letter came--and all the rest must too. As to me, I know I put in about three days of the greatest suffering I ever experienced in my life. I wrote to Jeff how I had my pocket picked in a jam and hurry, changing cars, at Philadelphia--so that I landed here without a dime. The next two days I spent hunting through the hospitals, walking day and night, unable to ride, trying to get information--trying to get access to big people, etc.--I could not get the least clue to anything. Odell would not see me at all. But Thursday afternoon, I lit on a way to get down on the Government boat that runs to Aquia creek, and so by railroad to the neighborhood of Falmouth, opposite Fredericksburg--so by degrees I worked my way to Ferrero's[4] brigade, which I found Friday afternoon without much trouble after I got in camp. When I found dear brother George, and found that he was alive and well, O you may imagine how trifling all my little cares and difficulties seemed--they vanished into nothing. And now that I have lived for eight or nine days amid such scenes as the camps furnish, and had a practical part in it all, and realize the way that hundreds of thousands of good men are now living, and have had to live for a year or more, not only without any of the comforts, but with death and sickness and hard marching and hard fighting (and no success at that) for their continual experience--really nothing we call trouble seems worth talking about. One of the first things that met my eyes in camp was a heap of feet, arms, legs, etc., under a tree in front of a hospital, the Lacy house. George is very well in health, has a good appetite--I think he is at times more wearied out and homesick than he shows, but stands it upon the whole very well. Every one of the soldiers, to a man, wants to get home. I suppose Jeff got quite a long letter I wrote, from camp, about a week ago. I told you that George had been promoted to captain--his commission arrived while I was there. When you write, address, Capt. George W. Whitman, Co. K., 51st New York Volunteers, Ferrero's brigade, near Falmouth, Va. Jeff must write oftener, and put in a few lines from mother, even if it is only two lines--then in the next letter a few lines from Mat, and so on. You have no idea how letters from home cheer one up in camp, and dissipate homesickness. While I was there George still lived in Capt. Francis's tent--there were five of us altogether, to eat, sleep, write, etc., in a space twelve feet square, but we got along very well--the weather all along was very fine--and would have got along to perfection, but Capt. Francis is not a man I could like much--I had very little to say to him. George is about building a place, half hut and half tent, for himself, (he is probably about it this very day,) and then he will be better off, I think. Every captain has a tent, in which he lives, transacts company business, etc., has a cook, (or a man of all work,) and in the same tent mess and sleep his lieutenants, and perhaps the first sergeant. They have a kind of fire-place--and the cook's fire is outside on the open ground. George had very good times while Francis was away--the cook, a young disabled soldier, Tom, is an excellent fellow and a first-rate cook, and the second lieutenant, Pooley, is a tip-top young Pennsylvanian. Tom thinks all the world of George; when he heard he was wounded, on the day of the battle, he left everything, got across the river, and went hunting for George through the field, through thick and thin. I wrote to Jeff that George was wounded by a shell, a gash in the cheek--you could stick a splint through into the mouth, but it has healed up without difficulty already. Everything is uncertain about the army, whether it moves or stays where it is. There are no furloughs granted at present. I will stay here for the present, at any rate long enough to see if I can get any employment at anything, and shall write what luck I have. Of course I am unsettled at present. Dear mother; my love. WALT. If Jeff or any writes, address me, care of Major Hapgood, paymaster, U. S. A. Army, Washington, D. C. I send my love to dear sister Mat,[5] and little Sis[6]--and to Andrew[7] and all my brothers. O Mat, how lucky it was you did not come--together, we could never have got down to see George. II _Washington, Friday morning, Jan. 2, 1863._ DEAR SISTER[8]--You have heard of my fortunes and misfortunes of course, (through my letters to mother and Jeff,) since I left home that Tuesday afternoon. But I thought I would write a few lines to you, as it is a comfort to write home, even if I have nothing particular to say. Well, dear sister, I hope you are well and hearty, and that little Sis[9] keeps as well as she always had, when I left home so far. Dear little plague, how I would like to have her with me, for one day; I can fancy I see her, and hear her talk. Jeff must have got a note from me about a letter I have written to the _Eagle_--you may be sure you will get letters enough from me, for I have little else to do at present. Since I laid my eyes on dear brother George, and saw him alive and well--and since I have spent a week in camp, down there opposite Fredericksburg, and seen what well men, and sick men, and mangled men endure--it seems to me I can be satisfied and happy henceforward if I can get one meal a day, and know that mother and all are in good health, and especially be with you again, and have some little steady paying occupation in N. Y. or Brooklyn. I am writing this in the office of Major Hapgood, way up in the top of a big high house, corner of 15th and F street; there is a splendid view, away down south of the Potomac river, and across to the Georgetown side, and the grounds and houses of Washington spread out beneath my high point of view. The weather is perfect--I have had that in my favor ever since leaving home--yesterday and to-day it is bright, and plenty warm enough. The poor soldiers are continually coming in from the hospitals, etc., to get their pay--some of them waiting for it to go home. They climb up here, quite exhausted, and then find it is no good, for there is no money to pay them; there are two or three paymasters' desks in this room, and the scenes of disappointment are quite affecting. Here they wait in Washington, perhaps week after week, wretched and heart-sick--this is the greatest place of delays and puttings off, and no finding the clue to anything. This building is the paymaster-general's quarters, and the crowds on the walk and corner of poor, sick, pale, tattered soldiers are awful--many of them day after day disappointed and tired out. Well, Mat, I will suspend my letter for the present, and go through the city--I have a couple of poor fellows in the hospital to visit also. WALT. _Saturday evening, Jan. 3_ [1863.] I write this in the place where I have my lodging-room, 394 L street, 4th door above 14th street. A friend of mine, William D. O'Connor,[10] has two apartments on the 3rd floor, very ordinarily furnished, for which he pays the _extra_ordinary price of $25 a month. I have a werry little bedroom on the 2nd floor. Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor and their little girl have all gone out "down town" for an hour or two, to make some Saturday evening purchases, and I am left in possession of the premises--so I sit by the fire, and scribble more of my letter. I have not heard anything from dear brother George since I left the camp last Sunday morning, 28th Dec. I wrote to him on Tuesday last. I wish to get to him the two blue woolen shirts Jeff sent, as they would come very acceptable to him--and will try to do it yet. I think of sending them by mail, if the postage is not more than $1. Yesterday I went out to the Campbell hospital to see a couple of Brooklyn boys, of the 51st. They knew I was in Washington, and sent me a note, to come and see them. O my dear sister, how your heart would ache to go through the rows of wounded young men, as I did--and stopt to speak a comforting word to them. There were about 100 in one long room, just a long shed neatly whitewashed inside. One young man was very much prostrated, and groaning with pain. I stopt and tried to comfort him. He was very sick. I found he had not had any medical attention since he was brought there; among so many he had been overlooked; so I sent for the doctor, and he made an examination of him. The doctor behaved very well--seemed to be anxious to do right--said that the young man would recover; he had been brought pretty low with diarrhoea, and now had bronchitis, but not so serious as to be dangerous. I talked to him some time--he seemed to have entirely given up, and lost heart--he had not a cent of money--not a friend or acquaintance. I wrote a letter from him to his sister--his name is John A. Holmes, Campello, Plymouth county, Mass. I gave him a little change I had--he said he would like to buy a drink of milk when the woman came through with milk. Trifling as this was, he was overcome and began to cry. Then there were many, many others. I mention the one, as a specimen. My Brooklyn boys were John Lowery, shot at Fredericksburg, and lost his left forearm, and Amos H. Vliet--Jeff knows the latter--he has his feet frozen, and is doing well. The 100 are in a ward, (6), and there are, I should think, eight or ten or twelve such wards in the Campbell hospital--indeed a real village. Then there are 38 more hospitals here in Washington, some of them much larger. _Sunday forenoon, Jan. 4, 1863._ Mat, I hope and trust dear mother and all are well, and everything goes on good home. The envelope I send, Jeff or any of you can keep for direction, or use it when wanted to write to me. As near as I can tell, the army at Falmouth remains the same. Dear sister, good-bye. WALT. I send my love to Andrew and Jesse and Eddy and all. What distressing news this is of the loss of the Monitor.[11] III _Washington, Friday noon, February 6, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Jeff must have got a letter from me yesterday, containing George's last letter. The news of your sickness and the strange silence of Han made me feel somewhat gloomy. I wrote to George yesterday, conveying the news--and to-day I have sent him another letter, with much more comforting news, for I was so glad to hear from Han (her letter enclosed in Jeff's received this morning) that I wrote him right away, and sent Han's letter. Mother, I am quite in hopes George will get a furlough--may-be my expectations are unfounded, but I almost count on it. I am so glad this morning to hear you are no worse, but changed for the better--and dear sister Mat too, and Sissy, I am so glad to think they are recovering. Jeff's enclosure of $10 through Mr. Lane, from the young engineers for the soldiers in hospitals, the most needy cases, came safe of course--I shall acknowledge it to Mr. Lane to-morrow. Mother, I have written so much about hospitals that I will not write any in this letter. We have had bad weather enough here lately to most make up for the delightful weather we had for five weeks after I came from home. Mother, I do hope you will be careful, and not get any relapse--and hope you will go on improving. Do you then think of getting new apartments, after the 1st of May? I suppose Jeff has settled about the lot--it seems to me first rate as an investment--the kind of house to build is quite a consideration (if any house). I should build a _regular Irish shanty_ myself--two rooms, and an end shed. I think that's luxury enough, since I have been down in the army. Well, mother, I believe I will not fill out the sheet this time, as I want to go down without delay to the P. O. and send George's letter and this one. Good-bye, dear mother. WALT. IV _Washington, Monday morning, Feb. 9, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I write to enclose you a letter I have just received from George. His corps (Ninth Army) and perhaps one other are to move either to Fort Monroe, or somewhere down there--some say Suffolk. I am in hopes that when they get there, George will still have a sight for a furlough. I have written him I should think four letters since the 27th Jan. (and have sent him Han's letter to you in one). I hope he has got most of them before this. I am afraid the $3 change I sent him is gone. He will write to you as soon as he gets settled wherever they go to. I don't know as it makes any difference in respect to danger, or fighting, from this move. One reason they have to move from the Rappahannock, up there, is that wood is all gone for miles, forage is scarce to get, and I don't know as there is any need of their staying there, for any purpose. In some haste, dearest mother, as I am off to visit for an hour or so, one of my hospitals. Your affectionate son, WALT. V _Office Major Hapgood, cor. 15th & F sts, Washington, Feb. 13, 1863._ DEAR BROTHER[12]--Nothing new; still I thought I would write you a line this morning. The $4, namely $2 from Theo A. Drake and $2 from John D. Martin, enclosed in your letter of the 10th, came safe. They too will please accept the grateful thanks of several poor fellows, in hospital here. The letter of introduction to Mr. Webster, chief clerk, State department, will be very acceptable. If convenient, I should like Mr. Lane to send it on immediately. I do not so much look for an appointment from Mr. Seward as his backing me from the State of New York. I have seen Preston King this morning for the second time (it is very amusing to hunt for an office--so the thing seems to me just now, even if one don't get it). I have seen Charles Sumner three times--he says ev'ry thing here moves as part of a great machine, and that I must consign myself to the fate of the rest--still [in] an interview I had with him yesterday he talked and acted as though he had life in him, and would exert himself to any reasonable extent for me to get something. Meantime I make about enough to pay my expenses by hacking on the press here, and copying in the paymasters' offices, a couple of hours a day. One thing is favorable here, namely, pay for whatever one does is at a high rate. I have not yet presented my letters to either Seward or Chase--I thought I would get my forces all in a body, and make one concentrated dash, if possible with the personal introduction and presence of some big bug. I like fat old Preston King very much--he is fat as a hogshead, with great hanging chops. The first thing he said to me the other day in the parlor chambers of the Senate, when I sent in for him and he came out, was, "Why, how can I do this thing, or any thing for you--how do I know but you are a Secessionist? You look for all the world like an old Southern planter--a regular Carolina or Virginia planter." I treated him with just as much hauteur as he did me with bluntness--this was the first time--it afterward proved that Charles Sumner had not prepared the way for me, as I supposed, or rather not so strongly as I supposed, and Mr. King had even forgotten it--so I was an entire stranger. But the same day C. S. talked further with Mr. King in the Senate, and the second interview I had with the latter (this forenoon) he has given me a sort of general letter, endorsing me from New York--one envelope is addressed to Secretary Chase, and another to Gen. Meigs, head Quartermaster's dept. Meantime, I am getting better and better acquainted with office-hunting wisdom and Washington peculiarities generally. I spent several hours in the Capitol the other day. The incredible gorgeousness of some of the rooms, (interior decorations, etc.)--rooms used perhaps but for merely three or four committee meetings in the course of the whole year--is beyond one's flightiest dreams. Costly frescoes of the style of Taylor's saloon in Broadway, only really the best and choicest of their sort, done by imported French and Italian artists, are the prevailing sorts. (Imagine the work you see on the fine china vases in Tiffany's, the paintings of Cupids and goddesses, etc., spread recklessly over the arched ceiling and broad panels of a big room--the whole floor underneath paved with tesselated pavement, which is a sort of cross between marble and china, with little figures, drab, blue, cream color, etc.) These things, with heavy elaborately wrought balustrades, columns, and steps--all of the most beautiful marbles I ever saw, some white as milk, other of all colors, green, spotted, lined, or of our old chocolate color--all these marbles used as freely as if they were common blue flags--with rich door-frames and window-casings of bronze and gold--heavy chandeliers and mantles, and clocks in every room--and indeed by far the richest and gayest, and most un-American and inappropriate ornamenting and finest interior workmanship I ever conceived possible, spread in profusion through scores, hundreds, (and almost thousands) of rooms--such are what I find, or rather would find to interest me, if I devoted time to it. But a few of the rooms are enough for me--the style is without grandeur, and without simplicity. These days, the state our country is in, and especially filled as I am from top to toe of late with scenes and thoughts of the hospitals, (America seems to me now, though only in her youth, but brought already here, feeble, bandaged, and bloody in hospital)--these days I say, Jeff, all the poppy-show goddesses, and all the pretty blue and gold in which the interior Capitol is got up, seem to me out of place beyond anything I could tell--and I get away from it as quick as I can when that kind of thought comes over me. I suppose it is to be described throughout--those interiors--as all of them got up in the French style--well, enough for a New York. VI _Washington, March 31, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have not heard from George, except a note he wrote me a couple of days after he got back from his furlough. I think it likely the regiment has gone with its corps to the West, the Kentucky or Tennessee region--Burnside at last accounts was in Cincinnati. Well, it will be a change for George, if he is out there. I sent a long letter to Han last Saturday--enclosed George's note to me. Mother, when you or Jeff writes again, tell me if my papers and MSS. are all right; I should be very sorry indeed if they got scattered, or used up or anything--especially the copy of "Leaves of Grass" covered in blue paper,[13] and the little MS. book "Drum-Taps," and the MS. tied up in the square, spotted (stone-paper) loose covers--I want them all carefully kept. Mother, it is quite a snow-storm here this morning--the ground is an inch and a half deep with snow--and it is snowing and drizzling--but I feel very independent in my stout army-boots; I go anywhere. I _have_ felt quite well of my deafness and cold in my head for four days or so, but it is back again bad as ever this morning. Dear mother, I wrote the above in my room--I have now come down to Major Hapgood's office. I do not find anything from home, and no particular news in the paper this morning--no news about the Ninth Army Corps, or where they are. I find a good letter from one of my New York boys, (Fifth avenue) a young fellow named Hugo Fritsch, son of the Austrian Consul-General--he writes me a long, first-rate letter this morning. He too speaks about the Opera--like Jeff he goes there a good deal--says that Medori, the soprano, as Norma made the greatest success ever seen--says that the whole company there now, the singers, are very fine. All this I write for Jeff and Mat--I hope they will go once in a while when it is convenient. It is a most disagreeable day here, mother, walking poshy and a rain and drizzle. There is nothing new with me, no particular sight for an office that I can count on. But I can make enough with the papers, for the present necessities. I hear that the paymaster, Major Yard, that pays the 51st, has gone on West, I suppose to Cincinnati, or wherever the brigade has gone--of course to pay up--he pays up to 1st of March--all the Army is going to be paid up to 1st March everywhere. Mother, I hope you are well and hearty as usual. I am so glad you are none of you going to move. I would like to have the pleasure of Miss Mannahatta Whitman's company, the first fine forenoon, if it were possible; I think we might have first-rate times, for one day at any rate. I hope she will not forget her Uncle Walt. I received a note from Probasco, requesting me not to put his name in my next letter. I appreciate his motive, and wish to please him always--but in this matter I shall do what I think appropriate. Mother, I see some very interesting persons here--a young master's mate, who was on the Hatteras, when surprised and broadsided by the Alabama, Capt Semmes--he gave me a very good acc't of it all--then Capt. Mullen, U. S. Army, (engineer) who has been six years out in the Rocky mts. making a Gov't road 650 miles from Ft. Benton to Walla Walla--very, very interesting to know such men intimately, and talk freely with them. Dearest mother, I shall have great yarns to spin, when I come home. I am not a bit homesick, yet I should like to see you and Mat very, very much--one thinks of the women when he is away. WALT. Shall send the shirts in a day or two. VII _Washington, Wednesday forenoon, April 15, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Jeff's letter of the 11th, acknowledging the books, also the one about five days previous, containing the $10 from Van Anden, came safe. Jeff's letters are always first rate and welcome--the good long one with so much about home, and containing Han's and George's, was especially so. It is a great pleasure, though sometimes a melancholy one, to hear from Han, under her own hand. I have writ to George--I wrote last Friday. I directed the letter to "Lexington or elsewhere, Kentucky"--as I saw in a letter in a Cincinnati paper that Gen. Ferrero was appointed provost marshal at Lexington. The 51st is down there somewhere, and I guess it is about as well off there as anywhere. There is much said about their closing up the regimental companies--that is, where there are ten companies of 40 men each, closing them up to five companies, of 80 men each. It is said the Government purposes something of this kind. It will throw a good many captains and lieutenants out. I suppose you know that Le Gendre is now colonel of the 51st--it's a pity if we haven't Americans enough to put over our old war regiments. (I think less and less of foreigners, in this war. What I see, especially in the hospitals, convinces me that there is no other stock, for emergencies, but native American--no other name by which we can be saved.) Mother, I feel quite bad about Andrew--I am so in hopes to hear that he has recovered--I think about him every day. He must not get fretting and disheartened--that is really the worst feature of any sickness. Diseases of the throat and bronchia are the result always of bad state of the stomach, blood, etc. (they never come from the throat itself). The throat and the bronchia are lined, like the stomach and other interior organs, with a fine lining like silk or crape, and when all this gets ulcerated or inflamed or what-not (it is Dr. Sammis's _mucous membrane_, you know) it is bad, and most distressing. Medicine is really of no great account, except just to pacify a person. This lining I speak of is full of little blood vessels, and the way to make a _real cure_ is by gentle and steady means to recuperate the whole system; this will tell upon the blood, upon the blood vessels, and so finally and effectually upon all this coating I speak of that lines the throat, etc. But as it is a long time before this vital lining membrane (_very important_) is injured, so it is a long time before it can be made all healthy and right again; but Andrew is young and strong enough and [has a] good constitution for basis--and of course by regular diet, care, (and nary whiskey under any circumstances) I am sure he would not only get over that trouble, but be as well and strong as he ever was in his life. Mother, you tell him I sent him my love, and Nancy[14] the same, and the dear little boys the same--the next time you or Mat goes down there you take this and show him. Mat, I am quite glad to hear that you are not hurried and fretted with work from New York this spring--I am sure I should think Sis and housekeeping, etc., would be enough to attend to. I was real amused with Sis's remarks, and all that was in the letter about her. You must none of you notice her smartness, nor criticisms, before her, nor encourage her to spread herself nor be critical, as it is not good to encourage a child to be too sharp--and I hope Sissy is going to be a splendid specimen of good animal health. For the few years to come I should think more of that than anything--that is the foundation of all (righteousness included); as to her mental vivacity and growth, they are plenty enough of themselves, and will get along quite fast enough of themselves, plenty fast enough--don't stimulate them at all. Dear little creature, how I should like to see her this minute. Jeff must not make his lessons to her in music anyways strong or frequent on any account--two lessons a week, of ten minutes each, is enough--but then I dare say Jeff will think of all these things, just the same as I am saying. Jeff writes he wonders if I am as well and hearty, and I suppose he means as much of a beauty as ever, whether I look the same. Well, not only as much but more so--I believe I weigh about 200, and as to my face, (so scarlet,) and my beard and neck, they are terrible to behold. I fancy the reason I am able to do some good in the hospitals among the poor languishing and wounded boys, is, that I am so large and well--indeed like a great wild buffalo, with much hair. Many of the soldiers are from the West, and far North, and they take to a man that has not the bleached shiny and shaved cut of the cities and the East. I spent three to four hours yesterday in Armory hospital. One of my particular boys there was dying--pneumonia--he wanted me to stop with him awhile; he could not articulate--but the look of his eyes, and the holding on of his hand was deeply affecting. His case is a relapse--eight days ago he had recovered, was up, was perhaps a little careless--at any rate took cold, was taken down again and has sank rapidly. He has no friends or relatives here. Yesterday he labored and panted so for breath, it was terrible. He is a young man from New England, from the country. I expected to see his cot vacated this afternoon or evening, as I shall go down then. Mother, if you or Mat was here a couple of days, you would cry your eyes out. I find I have to restrain myself and keep my composure--I succeed pretty well. Good-bye, dearest mother. WALT. Jeff, Capt. Muller remains here yet for some time. He is bringing out his report. I shall try to send you a copy. Give my best respects to Dr. Ruggles. Mother, my last letter home was a week ago to-day--we are having a dark rainy day here--it is now half-past 3. I have been in my room all day so far--shall have dinner in half an hour, and then down to Armory. VIII _Washington, April 28, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--A letter from Jeff came this morning. Mother, I was sorry to hear you had a return of your rheumatism--I do hope you will favor yourself more, it depends so much on that--and rheumatism is so obstinate, when it gets hold of one. Mother, you received a letter from me sent last Wednesday, 22nd, of course, with a small quantity of shinplasters. Next time you or Jeff writes, I wish you would tell me whether the letters come pretty regularly, the next morning after I write them--this now ought to reach you Wednesday forenoon, April 29th. Mother, did a Mr. Howell call on you? He was here last week to see about his boy, died a long while ago in hospital in Yorktown. He works in the Navy Yard--knows Andrew. You will see about him (the boy) in a letter I sent yesterday to the _Eagle_--it ought to appear to-day or to-morrow. Jeff, I wish you would take 10¢ I send in this letter and get me ten copies of the _Eagle_ with it in--put in five more of my pictures (the big ones in last edition "Leaves"), and a couple of the photographs carte visites (the smaller ones), and send me to the same direction as before; it came very well. I will send an _Eagle_ to Han and George. The stamps and 10¢ are for Jeff for the papers and postage. I have written to Han, and sent her George's last two letters from Kentucky; one I got last week from Mount Sterling. I write to George and send him papers. Sam Beatty is here in Washington again. I saw him, and he said he would write to George. Mother, I have not got any new clothes yet, but shall very soon I hope. People are more rough and free and easy drest than your way. Then it is dusty or muddy most of the time here. Mother dear, I hope you have comfortable times--at least as comfortable as the law allows. I am so glad you are not going to have the trouble of moving this 1st of May. How are the Browns? Tell Will I should like to see him first rate--if he was here attached to the suite of some big officer, or something of that kind, he would have a good time and do well. I see lots of young fellows not half as capable and trustworthy as he, coming and going in Washington, in such positions. The big generals and head men all through the armies, and provosts etc., like to have a squad of such smart, nimble young men around them. Give my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Tell Jeff I am going to write to Mr. Lane either to-day or to-morrow. Jeff asks me if I go to hospitals as much as ever. If my letters home don't show it, you don't get 'em. I feel sorry sometimes after I have sent them, I have said so much about hospitals, and so mournful. O mother, the young man in Armory-square, Dennis Barrett, in the 169th N. Y., I mentioned before, is probably going to get up after all; he is like one saved from the grave. Saturday last I saw him and talked with him and gave him something to eat, and he was much better--it is the most unexpected recovery I have yet seen. Mother, I see Jeff says in the letter you don't hear from me very often--I will write oftener, especially to Jeff. Dear brother, I hope you are getting along good, and in good spirits; you must not mind the failure of the sewer bills, etc. It don't seem to me it makes so much difference about worldly successes (beyond just enough to eat and drink and shelter, in the moderatest limits) any more, since the last four months of my life especially, and that merely to live, and have one fair meal a day, is enough--but then you have a family, and that makes a difference. Matty, I send you my best love, dear sister--how I wish I could be with you one or two good days. Mat, do you remember the good time we had that awful stormy night we went to the Opera, New York, and had the front seat, and heard the handsome-mouthed Guerrabella? and had the good oyster supper at Fulton market--("pewter them ales.") O Mat, I hope and trust we shall have such times again. Tell Andrew he must remember what I wrote about the throat, etc. I am sure he will get all right before long, and recover his voice. Give him my love--and tell Mannahatta her Uncle Walt is living now among the sick soldiers. Jeff, look out for the _Eagles_, and send the portraits. Dearest mother, I must bid you and all for the present good-bye. WALT. IX _Washington, Tuesday, May 5, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Your letter came safe, and was very welcome, and always will be. Mother, I am sorry about your rheumatism--if it still continues I think it would be well for me to write a line to Mrs. Piercy, and get Jeff to stop with it, so that you could take the baths again, as I am sure they are very beneficial. Dear mother, you write me, or Jeff must in the next letter, how you are getting along, whether it is any better or worse--I want to know. Mother, about George's fund in the bank; I hope by all means you can scratch along so as to leave $250 there--I am so anxious that our family should have a little ranch, even if it is the meanest kind, off somewhere that you can call your own, and that would do for Ed etc.--it might be a real dependence, and comfort--and may-be for George as much as any one. I mean to come home one of these days, and get the acre or half acre somewhere out in some by-place on Long Island, and build it--you see if I don't. About Hannah, dear mother, I hardly know what advice to give you--from what I know at present I can't tell what course to pursue. I want Han to come home, from the bottom of my heart. Then there are other thoughts and considerations that come up. Dear mother, I cannot advise, but shall acquiesce in anything that is settled upon, and try to help. The condition of things here in the hospitals is getting pretty bad--the wounded from the battles around Fredericksburg are coming up in large numbers. It is very sad to see them. I have written to Mr. Lane, asking him to get his friends to forward me what they think proper--but somehow I feel delicate about sending such requests, after all. I have almost made up my mind to do what I can personally, and not seek assistance from others. Dear mother, I have not received any letter from George. I write to him and send papers to Winchester. Mother, while I have been writing this a very large number of Southern prisoners, I should think 1,000 at least, has past up Pennsylvania avenue, under a strong guard. I went out in the street, close to them. Poor fellows, many of them mere lads--it brought the tears; they seemed our flesh and blood too, some wounded, all miserable in clothing, all in dirt and tatters--many of them fine young men. Mother, I cannot tell you how I feel to see those prisoners marched. X _Washington, Wednesday forenoon, May 13, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I am late with my letter this week--my poor, poor boys occupy my time very much--I go every day, and sometimes nights. I believe I mentioned a young man in Ward F, Armory-square, with a bad wound in the leg, very agonizing--had to have it propt up, and an attendant all the while dripping water on night and day. I was in hopes at one time he would get through with it, but a few days ago he took a sudden bad turn and died about 3 o'clock the same afternoon--it was horrible. He was of good family--handsome, intelligent man, about 26, married; his name was John Elliot, of Cumberland Valley, Bedford co., Penn.--belonged to 2nd Pennsylvania Cavalry. I felt very bad about it. I have wrote to his father--have not received any answer yet; no friend nor any of his folks was here, and have not been here nor sent--probably don't know of it at all. The surgeons put off amputating the leg, he was so exhausted, but at last it was imperatively necessary to amputate. Mother, I am shocked to tell you that he never came alive off the amputating table--he died under the operation--it was what I had dreaded and anticipated. Poor young man, he suffered much, very, _very_ much, for many days, and bore it so patiently--so that it was a release to him. Mother, such things are awful--not a soul here he knew or cared about, except me--yet the surgeons and nurses were good to him. I think all was done for him that could be--there was no help but take off the leg; he was under chloroform--they tried their best to bring him to--three long hours were spent, a strong smelling bottle held under his nostrils, with other means, three hours. Mother, how contemptible all the usual little worldly prides and vanities, and striving after appearances, seems in the midst of such scenes as these--such tragedies of soul and body. To see such things and not be able to help them is awful--I feel almost ashamed of being so well and whole. Dear mother, I have not heard from George himself; but I got a letter from Fred McReady, a young Brooklyn man in 51st--he is intimate with George, said he was well and hearty. I got the letter about five days ago. I wrote to George four days since, directed to Winchester, Kentucky. I got a letter from a friend in Nashville, Tenn., yesterday--he told me the 9th Army Corps was ordered to move to Murfreesboro, Tenn. I don't know whether this is so or not. I send papers to George almost every day. So far I think it was fortunate the 51st was moved West, and I hope it will continue so. Mother, it is all a lottery, this war; no one knows what will come up next. Mother, I received Jeff's letter of May 9th--it was welcome, as all Jeff's letters are, and all others from home. Jeff says you do not hear from me at home but seldom. Mother, I write once a week to you regular; but I will write soon to Jeff a good long letter--I have wanted to for some time, but have been much occupied. Dear brother, I wish you to say to Probasco and all the other young men on the Works, I send them my love and best thanks--never anything came more acceptable than the little fund they forwarded me the last week through Mr. Lane. Our wounded from Hooker's battles are worse wounded and more of them than any battle of the war, and indeed any, I may say, of modern times--besides, the weather has been very hot here, very bad for new wounds. Yet as Jeff writes so downhearted I must tell him the Rebellion has lost worse and more than we have. The more I find out about it, the more I think they, the Confederates, have received an irreparable harm and loss in Virginia--I should not be surprised to see them (either voluntarily or by force) leaving Virginia before many weeks; I don't see how on earth they can stay there. I think Hooker is already reaching after them again--I myself do not give up Hooker yet. Dear mother, I should like to hear from Han, poor Han. I send my best love to sister Mat and all. Good-bye, dearest mother. WALT. XI _Washington, Tuesday forenoon, May 19, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--... I sent George a letter yesterday--have not got any letter myself from Georgy, but have sent him quite a good many and papers. Mother, what a tramp the 51st has had--they only need now to go to California, and they will finish the job complete. O mother, how welcome the shirts were--I was putting off and putting off, to get some new ones. I could not find any one to do them as I want them, and it would have cost such a price--and so my old ones had got to be. When they came back from the wash I had to laugh; they were a lot of rags, held together with starch. I have a very nice old black aunty for a washwoman, but she bears down pretty hard, I guess, when she irons them, and they showed something like the poor old city of Fredericksburg does, since Burnside bombarded it. Well, mother, when the bundle came, I was so glad--and the coats too, worn as they are, they come in very handy--and the cake, dear mother, I am almost like the boy that put it under his pillow and woke up in the night and eat some. I carried a good chunk to a young man wounded I think a good deal of, and it did him so much good--it is dry, but all the better, as he eat it with tea and it relished. I eat a piece with him, and drinked some tea out of his cup, as I sat by the side of his cot. Mother, I have neglected, I think, what I ought to have told you two or three weeks ago, that is that I have discarded my old clothes--somewhat because they were too thick, and more still because they were worse gone in than any I have ever yet wore, I think, in my life, especially the trowsers. Wearing my big boots had caused the inside of the legs just above the knee to wear two beautiful round holes right through cloth and partly through the lining, producing a novel effect, which was not necessary, as I produce a sufficient sensation without--then they were desperately faded. I have a nice plain suit of a dark wine color; looks very well, and feels good--single breasted sack coat with breast pockets, etc., and vest and pants same as what I always wear (pants pretty full), so upon the whole all looks unusually good for me. My hat is very good yet, boots ditto; have a new necktie, nice shirts--you can imagine I cut quite a swell. I have not trimmed my beard since I left home, but it is not grown much longer, only perhaps a little bushier. I keep about as stout as ever, and the past five or six days I have felt wonderful well, indeed never did I feel better. About ten or twelve days ago, we had a short spell of very warm weather here, but for about six days now it has been delightful, just warm enough. I generally go to the hospitals from 12 to 4--and then again from 6 to 9; some days I only go in the middle of the day or evening, not both--and then when I feel somewhat opprest, I skip over a day, or make perhaps a light call only, as I have several cautions from the doctors, who tell me that one must beware of continuing too steady and long in the air and influences of the hospitals. I find the caution a wise one. Mother, you or Jeff must write me what Andrew does about going to North Carolina. I should think it might have a beneficial effect upon his throat. I wrote Jeff quite a long letter Sunday. Jeff must write to me whenever he can, I like dearly to have them--and whenever you feel like it you too, dear mother. Tell Sis her uncle Walt will come back one of these days from the sick soldiers and take her out on Fort Greene again. Mother, I received a letter yesterday from John Elliot's father, in Bedford co., Pennsylvania (the young man I told you about, who died under the operation). It was very sad; it was the first he knew about it. I don't know whether I told you of Dennis Barrett, pneumonia three weeks since, had got well enough to be sent home. Dearest Mother, I hope you will take things as easy as possible and try to keep a good heart. Matty, my dear sister, I have to inform you that I was treated to a splendid dish of ice-cream Sunday night; I wished you was with me to have another. I send you my love, dear sister. Mother, I hope by all means it will be possible to keep the money whole to get some ranch next spring, if not before; I mean to come home and build it. Good-bye for the present, dear mother. WALT. XII _Washington, Tuesday forenoon, May 26, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got a long letter from George, dated near Lancaster, Kentucky, May 15th; he seems to be well and in good spirits--says he gets some letters from me and papers too. At the time he wrote the 51st was doing provost duty at Lancaster, but would not probably remain so very long--seem to be moving towards southeast Kentucky--had a good camp, and good times generally. Le Gendre is colonel--Gen. Ferrero has left the service--Col. Potter (now brig.-gen.) is in Cincinnati--Capt. Sims, etc., are all well. George describes Kentucky as a very fine country--says the people are about half and half, Secesh and Union. This is the longest letter I have yet received from George. Did he write you one about the same time? Mother, I have not rec'd any word from home in over a week--the last letter I had from Mr. Lane was about twelve days ago, sending me $10 for the soldiers (five from Mr. Kirkwood and five from Mr. Conklin Brush). Mother dear, I should like to hear from Martha; I wish Jeff would write me about it. Has Andrew gone? and how is your wrist and arm, mother? We had some very hot weather here--I don't know what I should have done without the thin grey coat you sent--you don't know how good it does, and looks too; I wore it three days, and carried a fan and an umbrella (quite a Japanee)--most everybody here carries an umbrella, on account of the sun. Yesterday and to-day however have been quite cool, east wind. Mother, the shirts were a real godsend, they do first rate; I like the fancy marseilles collar and wrist-bands. Mother, how are you getting along--I suppose just the same as ever. I suppose Jess and Ed are just the same as ever. When you write, you tell me all about everything, and the Browns, and the neighborhood generally. Mother, is George's trunk home and of no use there? I wish I had it here, as I must have a trunk--but do not wish you to send until I send you word. I suppose my letter never appeared in the _Eagle_; well, I shall send them no more, as I think likely they hate to put in anything which may celebrate me a little, even though it is just the thing they want for their paper and readers. They altered the other letter on that account, very meanly. I shall probably have letters in the N. Y. _Times_ and perhaps other papers in about a week. Mother, I have been pretty active in hospitals for the past two weeks, somewhere every day or night. I have written you so much about cases, etc., I will not write you any more on that subject this time. O the sad, sad things I see--the noble young men with legs and arms taken off--the deaths--the sick weakness, sicker than death, that some endure, after amputations (there is a great difference, some make little of it, others lie after it for days, just flickering alive, and O so deathly weak and sick). I go this afternoon to Campbell hospital, out a couple of miles. Mother, I should like to have Jeff send me 20 of the large-sized portraits and as many of the standing figure; do them up flat. I think every day about Martha. Mother, have you heard any further about Han? Good-bye for the present, dearest mother. WALT. XIII _Washington, Tuesday morning, June 9, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Jeff's letter came yesterday and was very welcome, as I wanted to hear about you all. I wrote to George yesterday and sent Jeff's letter enclosed. It looks from some accounts as though the 9th Army Corps might be going down into East Tennessee (Cumberland Gap, or perhaps bound for Knoxville). It is an important region, and has many Southern Unionists. The staunchest Union man I have ever met is a young Southerner in the 2nd Tennessee (Union reg't)--he was ten months in Southern prisons; came up from Richmond paroled about ten weeks ago, and has been in hospital here sick until lately. He suffered everything but death--he is [the] one they hung up by the heels, head downwards--and indeed worse than death, but stuck to his convictions like a hero--John Barker, a real manly fellow; I saw much of him and heard much of that country that can be relied on. He is now gone home to his reg't. Mother, I am feeling very well these days--my head that was stopt up so and hard of hearing seems to be all right; I only hope you have had similar good fortune with your rheumatism, and that it will continue so. I wish I could come in for a couple of days and see you; if I should succeed in getting a transportation ticket that would take me to New York and back I should be tempted to come home for two or three days, as I want some MSS. and books, and the trunk, etc.--but I will see. Mother, your letter week before last was very good--whenever you feel like it you write me, dear mother, and tell me everything about the neighborhood and all the items of our family. And sister Mat, how is she getting along--I believe I will have to write a letter especially to her and Sis one of these times. It is awful dry weather here, no rain of any consequence for five or six weeks. We have strawberries good and plenty, 15 cents a quart, with the hulls on--I go down to market sometimes of a morning and buy two or three quarts, for the folks I take my meals with. Mother, do you know I have not paid, as you may say, a cent of board since I have been in Washington, that is for meals--four or five times I have made a rush to leave the folks and find a moderate-priced boarding-house, but every time they have made such a time about it that I have kept on. It is Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor (he is the author of "Harrington"); he has a $1600 office in the Treasury, and she is a first-rate woman, a Massachusetts girl. They keep house in a moderate way; they have one little girl (lost a fine boy about a year ago); they have two rooms in the same house where I hire my rooms, and I take breakfast (half-past 8) and dinner (half-past 4) with them, as they will have it so. That's the way it has gone on now over five months, and as I say, they won't listen to my leaving--but I shall do so, I think. I can never forget the kindness and real friendship, and it appears as though they would continue just the same, if it were for all our lives. But I have insisted on going to market (it is pleasant in the cool of the morning) and getting the things at my own expense, two or three times a week lately. I pay for the room I occupy now $7 a month--the landlord is a mixture of booby, miser, and hog; his name is G----; the landlady is a good woman, Washington raised--they are quite rich; he is Irish of the worst kind--has had a good office for ten years until Lincoln came in. They have bought another house, smaller, to live in, and are going to move (were to have moved 1st of June). They had an auction of the house we live in yesterday, but nobody came to buy, so it was ridiculous--we had a red flag out, and a nigger walked up and down ringing a big bell, which is the fashion here for auctions. Well, mother, the war still goes on, and everything as much in a fog as ever--and the battles as bloody, and the wounded and sick getting worse and plentier all the time. I see a letter in the _Tribune_ from Lexington, Ky., June 5th, headed "The 9th Army Corps departing for Vicksburg"--but I cannot exactly make it out on reading the letter carefully--I don't see anything in the letter about the 9th Corps moving from Vicksburg; at any rate I think the 2nd division is more likely to be needed in Kentucky (or as I said, in Eastern Tennessee), as the Secesh are expected to make trouble there. But one can hardly tell--the only thing is to resign oneself to events as they occur; it is a sad and dreary time, for so many thousands of parents and relatives, not knowing what will occur next. Mother, I told you, I think last week, that I had wrote to Han, and enclosed George's last letter to me--I wrote a week ago last Sunday--I wonder if she got the letter. About the pictures, I should like Jeff to send them, as soon as convenient--might send 20 of the big head, 10 or 12 of the standing figure, and 3 of the carte visite. I am writing this in Major Hapgood's office--it is bright and pleasant, only the dust here in Washington is a great nuisance. Mother, your shirts do first rate--I am wearing them; the one I have on to-day suits me better than any I have ever yet had. I have not worn the thin coat the last week or so, as it has not been very hot lately. Mother, I think something of commencing a series of lectures and reading, etc., through different cities of the North, to supply myself with funds for my hospital and soldiers' visits, as I do not like to be beholden to the medium of others. I need a pretty large supply of money, etc., to do the good I would like to, and the work grows upon me, and fascinates me--it is the most affecting thing you ever see, the lots of poor sick and wounded young men that depend so much, in one word or another, upon my petting or soothing or feeding, sitting by them and feeding them their dinner or supper--some are quite helpless, some wounded in both arms--or giving some trifle (for a novelty or a change, it isn't for the value of it), or stopping a little while with them. Nobody will do but me--so, mother, I feel as though I would like to inaugurate a plan by which I could raise means on my own hook, and perhaps quite plenty too. Best love to you, dearest mother, and to sister Mat, and Jeff. WALT. XIV _Washington, Monday morning, June 22, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--Jeff's letter came informing me of the birth of the little girl,[15] and that Matty was feeling pretty well, so far. I hope it will continue. Dear sister, I should much like to come home and see you and the little one; I am sure from Jeff's description it is a noble babe--and as to its being a girl, it is all the better. (I am not sure but the Whitman breed gives better women than men.) Well, mother, we are generally anticipating a lively time here, or in the neighborhood, as it is probable Lee is feeling about to strike a blow on Washington, or perhaps right into it--and as Lee is no fool, it is perhaps possible he may give us a good shake. He is not very far off--yesterday was a fight to the southwest of here all day; we heard the cannons nearly all day. The wounded are arriving in small squads every day, mostly cavalry, a great many Ohio men; they send off to-day from the Washington hospitals a great many to New York, Philadelphia, etc., all who are able, to make room, which looks ominous--indeed, it is pretty certain that there is to be some severe fighting, may-be a great battle again, the pending week. I am getting so callous that it hardly arouses me at all. I fancy I should take it very quietly if I found myself in the midst of a desperate conflict here in Washington. Mother, I have nothing particular to write about--I see and hear nothing but new and old cases of my poor suffering boys in hospitals, and I dare say you have had enough of such things. I have not missed a day at hospital, I think, for more than three weeks--I get more and more wound round. Poor young men--there are some cases that would literally sink and give up if I did not pass a portion of the time with them. I have quite made up my mind about the lecturing, etc., project--I have no doubt it will succeed well enough the way I shall put it in operation. You know, mother, it is to raise funds to enable me to continue my hospital ministrations, on a more free-handed scale. As to the Sanitary commissions and the like, I am sick of them all, and would not accept any of their berths. You ought to see the way the men, as they lay helpless in bed, turn away their faces from the sight of those agents, chaplains, etc. (hirelings, as Elias Hicks would call them--they seem to me always a set of foxes and wolves). They get well paid, and are always incompetent and disagreeable; as I told you before, the only good fellows I have met are the Christian commissioners--they go everywhere and receive no pay. Dear, dear mother, I want much to see you, and dear Matty too; I send you both my best love, and Jeff too. The pictures came--I have not heard from George nor Han. I write a day earlier than usual. WALT. We here think Vicksburg is ours. The probability is that it has capitulated--and there has been no general assault--can't tell yet whether the 51st went there. We are having very fine weather here to-day--rained last night. XV _Washington, June 30th, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Your letter, with Han's, I have sent to George, though whether it will find him or not I cannot tell, as I think the 51st must be away down at Vicksburg. I have not had a word from George yet. Mother, I have had quite an attack of sore throat and distress in my head for some days past, up to last night, but to-day I feel nearly all right again. I have been about the city same as usual nearly--to the hospitals, etc., I mean. I am told that I hover too much over the beds of the hospitals, with fever and putrid wounds, etc. One soldier brought here about fifteen days ago, very low with typhoid fever, Livingston Brooks, Co. B., 17th Penn. Cavalry, I have particularly stuck to, as I found him to be in what appeared to be a dying condition, from negligence and a horrible journey of about forty miles, bad roads and fast driving; and then after he got here, as he is a simple country boy, very shy and silent, and made no complaint, they neglected him. I found him something like I found John Holmes last winter. I called the doctor's attention to him, shook up the nurses, had him bathed in spirits, gave him lumps of ice, and ice to his head; he had a fearful bursting pain in his head, and his body was like fire. He was very quiet, a very sensible boy, old fashioned; he did not want to die, and I had to lie to him without stint, for he thought I knew everything, and I always put in of course that what I told him was exactly the truth, and that if he got really dangerous I would tell him and not conceal it. The rule is to remove bad fever patients out from the main wards to a tent by themselves, and the doctor told me he would have to be removed. I broke it gently to him, but the poor boy got it immediately in his head that he was marked with death, and was to be removed on that account. It had a great effect upon him, and although I told the truth this time it did not have as good a result as my former fibs. I persuaded the doctor to let him remain. For three days he lay just about an even chance, go or stay, with a little leaning toward the first. But, mother, to make a long story short, he is now out of any immediate danger. He has been perfectly rational throughout--begins to taste a little food (for a week he ate nothing; I had to compel him to take a quarter of an orange now and then), and I will say, whether anyone calls it pride or not, that if he _does_ get up and around again it's me that saved his life. Mother, as I have said in former letters, you can have no idea how these sick and dying youngsters cling to a fellow, and how fascinating it is, with all its hospital surroundings of sadness and scenes of repulsion and death. In this same hospital, Armory-square, where this cavalry boy is, I have about fifteen or twenty particular cases I see much to--some of them as much as him. There are two from East Brooklyn; George Monk, Co. A, 78th N. Y., and Stephen Redgate (his mother is a widow in East Brooklyn--I have written to her). Both are pretty badly wounded--both are youngsters under 19. O mother, it seems to me as I go through these rows of cots as if it was too bad to accept these _children_, to subject them to such premature experiences. I devote myself much to Armory-square hospital because it contains by far the worst cases, most repulsive wounds, has the most suffering and most need of consolation. I go every day without fail, and often at night--sometimes stay very late. No one interferes with me, guards, nurses, doctors, nor anyone. I am let to take my own course. Well, mother, I suppose you folks think we are in a somewhat dubious position here in Washington, with Lee in strong force almost between us and you Northerners. Well, it does look ticklish; if the Rebs cut the connection then there will be fun. The Reb cavalry come quite near us, dash in and steal wagon trains, etc.; it would be funny if they should come some night to the President's country house (Soldiers' home), where he goes out to sleep every night; it is in the same direction as their saucy raid last Sunday. Mr. Lincoln passes here (14th st.) every evening on his way out. I noticed him last evening about half-past 6--he was in his barouche, two horses, guarded by about thirty cavalry. The barouche comes first under a slow trot, driven by one man in the box, no servant or footman beside; the cavalry all follow closely after with a lieutenant at their head. I had a good view of the President last evening. He looks more careworn even than usual, his face with deep cut lines, seams, and his _complexion gray_ through very dark skin--a curious looking man, very sad. I said to a lady who was looking with me, "Who can see that man without losing all wish to be sharp upon him personally?" The lady assented, although she is almost vindictive on the course of the administration (thinks it wants nerve, etc.--the usual complaint). The equipage is rather shabby, horses indeed almost what my friends the Broadway drivers would call _old plugs_. The President dresses in plain black clothes, cylinder hat--he was alone yesterday. As he came up, he first drove over to the house of the Sec. of War, on K st., about 300 feet from here; sat in his carriage while Stanton came out and had a 15 minutes interview with him (I can see from my window), and then wheeled around the corner and up Fourteenth st., the cavalry after him. I really think it would be safer for him just now to stop at the White House, but I expect he is too proud to abandon the former custom. Then about an hour after we had a large cavalry regiment pass, with blankets, arms, etc., on the war march over the same track. The regt. was very full, over a thousand--indeed thirteen or fourteen hundred. It was an old regt., veterans, _old fighters_, young as they were. They were preceded by a fine mounted band of sixteen (about ten bugles, the rest cymbals and drums). I tell you, mother, it made everything ring--made my heart leap. They played with a will. Then the accompaniment: the sabers rattled on a thousand men's sides--they had pistols, their heels were spurred--handsome American young men (I make no acc't of any other); rude uniforms, well worn, but good cattle, prancing--all good riders, full of the devil; nobody shaved, very sunburnt. The regimental officers (splendidly mounted, but just as roughly dressed as the men) came immediately after the band, then company after company, with each its officers at its head--the tramps of so many horses (there is a good hard turnpike)--then a long train of men with led horses, mounted negroes, and a long, long string of baggage wagons, each with four horses, and then a strong rear guard. I tell you it had the look of _real war_--noble looking fellows; a man feels so proud on a good horse, and armed. They are off toward the region of Lee's (supposed) rendezvous, toward Susquehannah, for the great anticipated battle. Alas! how many of these healthy, handsome, rollicking young men will lie cold in death before the apples ripen in the orchard. Mother, it is curious and stirring here in some respects. Smaller or larger bodies of troops are moving continually--many just-well men are turned out of the hospitals. I am where I see a good deal of them. There are getting to be _many black troops_. There is one very good regt. here black as tar; they go around, have the regular uniform--they submit to no nonsense. Others are constantly forming. It is getting to be a common sight. [_The rest of the letter is lost._--ED.] XVI _Washington, July 10, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--I suppose you rec'd a letter from me last Wednesday, as I sent you one Tuesday (7th). Dear mother, I was glad enough to hear from George, by that letter from Snyder's Bluffs, June 28th. I had felt a little fear on acc't of some of those storming parties Grant sent against Vicksburg the middle of June and up to the 20th--but this letter dispels all anxiety. I have written to George many times, but it seems he has not got them. Mother, I shall write immediately to him again. I think he will get the letter I sent last Sunday, as I directed it to Vicksburg--I told him all the news from home. Mother, I shall write to Han and enclose George's letter. I am real glad to hear from Mat and the little one, all so favorable. We are having pleasant weather here still. I go to Campbell hospital this afternoon--I still keep going, mother. The wounded are doing rather badly; I am sorry to say there are frequent deaths--the weather, I suppose, which has been peculiarly bad for wounds, so wet and warm (though not disagreeable outdoors). Mother, you must write as often as you can, and Jeff too--you must not get worried about the ups and downs of the war; I don't know any course but to resign oneself to events--if one can only bring one's mind to it. Good-bye once more, for the present, dearest mother, Mat, and the dear little ones. WALT. Mother, do you ever hear from Mary?[16] XVII _Washington, Wednesday forenoon, July 15, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--So the mob has risen at last in New York--I have been expecting it, but as the day for the draft had arrived and everything was so quiet, I supposed all might go on smoothly; but it seems the passions of the people were only sleeping, and have burst forth with terrible fury, and they have destroyed life and property, the enrolment buildings, etc., as we hear. The accounts we get are a good deal in a muddle, but it seems bad enough. The feeling here is savage and hot as fire against New York (the mob--"Copperhead mob" the papers here call it), and I hear nothing in all directions but threats of ordering up the gunboats, cannonading the city, shooting down the mob, hanging them in a body, etc., etc. Meantime I remain silent, partly amused, partly scornful, or occasionally put a dry remark, which only adds fuel to the flame. I do not feel it in my heart to abuse the poor people, or call for a rope or bullets for them, but, that is all the talk here, even in the hospitals. The acc'ts from N. Y. this morning are that the Gov't has ordered the draft to be suspended there--I hope it is true, for I find that the deeper they go in with the draft, the more trouble it is likely to make. I have changed my opinion and feelings on the subject--we are in the midst of strange and terrible times--one is pulled a dozen different ways in his mind, and hardly knows what to think or do. Mother, I have not much fear that the troubles in New York will affect any of our family, still I feel somewhat uneasy about Jeff, if any one, as he is more around. I have had it much on my mind what could be done, if it should so happen that Jeff should be drafted--of course he could not go without its being the downfall almost of our whole family, as you may say, Mat and his young ones, and sad blow to you too, mother, and to all. I didn't see any other way than to try to raise the $300, mostly by borrowing if possible of Mr. Lane. Mother, I have no doubt I shall make a few hundred dollars by the lectures I shall certainly commence soon (for my hospital missionary purposes and my own, for that purpose), and I could lend that am't to Jeff to pay it back. May-be the draft will not come off after all; I should say it was very doubtful if they can carry it out in N. Y. and Brooklyn--and besides, it is only one chance out of several, to be drawn if it does. I don't wonder dear brother Jeff feels the effect it would have on domestic affairs; I think it is right to feel so, full as strongly as a man can. I do hope all will go well and without such an additional trouble falling upon us, but as it can be met with money, I hope Jeff and Mat and all of you, dear mother, will not worry any more about it. I wrote to Jeff a few lines last Sunday, I suppose he got. Mother, I don't know whether you have had a kind of gloomy week the past week, but somehow I feel as if you all had; but I hope it has passed over. How is dear sister Mat, and how is Miss Mannahatta, and little Black Head? I sometimes feel as if I _must_ come home and see you all--I want to very much. My hospital life still continues the same--I was in Armory all day yesterday--and day and night before. They have the men wounded in the railroad accident at Laurel station (bet. here and Baltimore), about 30 soldiers, some of them horribly injured at 3 o'clock A. M. last Saturday by collision--poor, poor, poor men. I go again this afternoon and night--I see so much of butcher sights, so much sickness and suffering, I must get away a while, I believe, for self-preservation. I have felt quite well though the past week--we have had rain continually. Mother, I have not heard from George since, have you? I shall write Han to-day and send George's letter--if you or Jeff has not written this week, I hope Jeff will write on receiving this. Good-bye for present, dearest mother, and Jeff, and Mat. WALT. Mother, the army is to be paid off two months more, right away. Of course George will get two months more pay. Dear Mother, I hope you will keep untouched and put in bank every cent you can. I want us to have a ranch somewhere by or before next spring. XVIII _Washington, Aug. 11, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--I sent Jeff a letter on Sunday--I suppose he got it at the office. I feel so anxious to hear from George; one cannot help feeling uneasy, although these days sometimes it cannot help being long intervals without one's hearing from friends in the army. O I do hope we shall hear soon, and that it is all right with him. It seems as if the 9th Corps had returned to Vicksburg, and some acc'ts say that part of the Corps had started to come up the river again--toward Kentucky, I suppose. I have sent George two letters within a week past, hoping they might have the luck to get to him, but hardly expect it either. Mother, I feel very sorry to hear Andrew is so troubled in his throat yet. I know it must make you feel very unhappy. Jeff wrote me a good deal about it, and seems to feel very bad about Andrew's being unwell; but I hope it will go over, and that a little time will make him recover--I think about it every day. Mother, it has been the hottest weather here that I ever experienced, and still continues so. Yesterday and last night was the hottest. Still, I slept sound, have good ventilation through my room, little as it is (I still hire the same room in L street). I was quite wet with sweat this morning when I woke up, a thing I never remember to have happened to me before, for I was not disturbed in my sleep and did not wake up once all night. Mother, I believe I did not tell you that on the 1st of June (or a while before) the O'Connors, the friends I took my meals with so long, moved to other apartments for more room and pleasanter--not far off though, I am there every day almost, a little--so for nearly two months and a half I have been in the habit of getting my own breakfast in my room and my dinner at a restaurant. I have a little spirit lamp, and always have a capital cup of tea, and some bread, and perhaps some preserved fruit; for dinner I get a good plate of meat and plenty of potatoes, good and plenty for 25 or 30 cents. I hardly ever take any thing more than these two meals, both of them are pretty hearty--eat dinner about 3--my appetite is plenty good enough, and I am about as fleshy as I was in Brooklyn. Mother, I feel better the last ten days, and at present, than I did the preceding six or eight weeks. There was nothing particular the matter with me, but I suppose a different climate and being so continually in the hospitals--but as I say, I feel better, more strength, and better in my head, etc. About the wound in my hand and the inflammation, etc., it has thoroughly healed, and I have not worn anything on my hand, nor had any dressing for the last five days. Mother, I hope you get along with the heat, for I see it is as bad or worse in New York and Brooklyn--I am afraid you suffer from it; it must be distressing to you. Dear mother, do let things go, and just sit still and fan yourself. I think about you these hot days. I fancy I see you down there in the basement. I suppose you have your coffee for breakfast; I have not had three cups of coffee in six months--tea altogether (I must come home and have some coffee for breakfast with you). Mother, I wrote to you about Erastus Haskell, Co. K, 141st, N. Y.--his father, poor old man, come on here to see him and found him dead three days. He had the body embalmed and took home. They are poor folks but very respectable. I was at the hospital yesterday as usual--I never miss a day. I go by my feelings--if I should feel that it would be better for me to lay by for a while, I should do so, but not while I feel so well as I do the past week, for all the hot weather; and while the chance lasts I would improve it, for by and by the night cometh when no man can work (ain't I getting pious!). I got a letter from Probasco yesterday; he sent $4 for my sick and wounded--I wish Jeff to tell him that it came right, and give him the men's thanks and my love. Mother, have you heard anything from Han? And about Mary's Fanny--I hope you will write me soon and tell me everything, tell me exactly as things are, but I know you will--I want to hear family affairs before anything else. I am so glad to hear Mat is good and hearty--you must write me about Hat and little Black Head too. Mother, how is Eddy getting along? and Jess, is he about the same? I suppose Will Brown is home all right; tell him I spoke about him, and the Browns too. Dearest Mother, I send you my love, and to Jeff too--must write when you can. WALT. XIX _Washington, Aug. 18, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--I was mighty glad to get George's letter, I can tell you--you have not heard since, I suppose. They must be now back again in Kentucky, or that way, as I see [by] a letter from Cairo (up the Mississippi river) that boats had stopt there with the 9th Corps on from Vicksburg, going up towards Cincinnati--I think the letter was dated Aug. 10. I have no doubt they are back again up that way somewhere. I wrote to George four or five days ago--I directed it Ohio, Mississippi, or elsewhere. Mother, I was very glad indeed to get your letter--I am so sorry Andrew does not get any better; it is very distressing about losing the voice; he must not be so much alarmed, as that continues some times years and the health otherwise good. .......... Mother, I wrote to Han about five days ago; told her we had heard from George, and all the news--I must write to Mary too, without fail--I should like to hear from them all, and from Fanny. There has been a young man here in hospital, from Farmingdale; he was wounded; his name is Hendrickson; he has gone home on a furlough; he knows the Van Nostrands very well--I told him to go and see Aunt Fanny. I was glad you gave Emma Price my direction here; I should [like] to hear from Mrs. Price and her girls first rate, I think a great deal about them--and mother, I wish you to tell any of them so; they always used me first rate, and always stuck up for me--if I knew their street and number I should write. It has been awful hot here now for twenty-one days; ain't that a spell of weather? The first two weeks I got along better than I would have thought, but the last week I have felt it more, have felt it in my head a little--I no more stir without my umbrella, in the day time, than I would without my boots. I am afraid of the sun affecting my head and move pretty cautious. Mother, I think every day, I wonder if the hot weather is affecting mother much; I suppose it must a good deal, but I hope it cannot last much longer. Mother, I had a letter in the N. Y. _Times_ of last Sunday--did you see it? I wonder if George can't get a furlough and come home for a while; that furlough he had was only a flea-bite. If he could it would be no more than right, for no man in the country has done his duty more faithful, and without complaining of anything or asking for anything, than George. I suppose they will fill up the 51st with conscripts, as that seems the order of the day--a good many are arriving here, from the North, and passing through to join Meade's army. We are expecting to hear of more rows in New York about the draft; it commences there right away I see--this time it will be no such doings as a month or five weeks ago; the Gov't here is forwarding a large force of regulars to New York to be ready for anything that may happen--there will be no blank cartridges this time. Well, I thought when I first heard of the riot in N. Y. I had some feeling for them, but soon as I found what it really was, I felt it was the devil's own work all through. I guess the strong arm will be exhibited this time up to the shoulder. Mother, I want to see you and all very much. As I wish to be here at the opening of Congress, and during the winter, I have an idea I will try to come home for a month, but I don't know when--I want to see the young ones and Mat and Jeff and everybody. Well, mother, I should like to know all the domestic affairs at home; don't you have the usual things eating, etc.? Why, mother, I should think you would eat nearly all your meals with Mat--I know you must when they have anything good (and I know Mat will have good things if she has got a cent left). Mother, don't you miss _Walt_ loafing around, and carting himself off to New York toward the latter part of every afternoon? How do you and the Browns get along?--that hell hole over the way, what a nuisance it must be nights, and I generally have a very good sleep. Mother, I suppose you sleep in the back room yet--I suppose the new houses next door are occupied. How I should like to take a walk on old Fort Greene--tell Mannahatta her Uncle Walt will be home yet, from the sick soldiers, and have a good walk all around, if she behaves to her grandmother and don't cut up. Mother, I am scribbling this hastily in Major Hapgood's office; it is not so hot to-day, quite endurable. I send you my love, dear mother, and to all, and wish Jeff and you to write as often as you can. WALT. XX _Washington, Aug. 25, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--The letter from George, and your lines, and a few from Jeff came yesterday, and I was glad indeed to be certain that George had got back to Kentucky safe and well--while so many fall that we know, or, what is about as bad, get sick or hurt in the fight, and lay in hospital, it seems almost a miracle that George should have gone through so much, South and North and East and West, and been in so many hard-fought battles, and thousands of miles of weary and exhausting marches, and yet have stood it so, and be yet alive and in good health and spirits. O mother, what would we [have] done if it had been otherwise--if he had met the fate of so many we know--if he had been killed or badly hurt in some of those battles? I get thinking about it sometimes, and it works upon me so I have to stop and turn my mind on something else. Mother, I feel bad enough about Andrew, and I know it must be so with you too--one don't know what to do; if we had money he would be welcome to it, if it would do any good. If George's money comes from Kentucky this last time, and you think some of it would do Andrew any real good, I advise you to take some and give him--I think it would be proper and George would approve of it. I believe there is not much but trouble in this world, and if one hasn't any for himself he has it made up by having it brought close to him through others, and that is sometimes worse than to have it touch one's self. Mother, you must not let Andrew's case and the poor condition of his household comforts, etc., work upon you, for I fear you will--but, mother, it's no use to worry about such things. I have seen so much horrors that befall men (so bad and such suffering and mutilations, etc., that the poor men can defy their fate to do anything more or any harder misfortune or worse a-going) that I sometimes think I have grown callous--but no, I don't think it is that, but nothing of ordinary misfortune seems as it used to, and death itself has lost all its terrors--I have seen so many cases in which it was so welcome and such a relief. Mother, you must just resign yourself to things that occur--but I hardly think it is necessary to give you any charge about it, for I think you have done so for many years, and stood it all with good courage. We have a second attack of hot weather--Sunday was the most burning day I ever yet saw. It is very dry and dusty here, but to-day we are having a middling good breeze--I feel pretty well, and whenever the weather for a day or so is passably cool I feel really first rate, so I anticipate the cooler season with pleasure. Mother, I believe I wrote to you I had a letter in N. Y. _Times_, Sunday, 16th--I shall try to write others and more frequently. The three _Eagles_ came safe; I was glad to get them--I sent them and another paper to George. Mother, none of you ever mention whether you get my letters, but I suppose they come safe--it is not impossible I may miss some week, but I have not missed a single one for months past. I wish I could send you something worth while, and I wish I could send something for Andrew--mother, write me exactly how it is with him.... Mother, I have some idea Han is getting some better; it is only my idea somehow--I hope it is so from the bottom of my heart. Did you hear from Mary's Fanny since? And how are Mat's girls? So, Mannahatta, you tear Uncle George's letters, do you? You mustn't do so, little girl, nor Uncle Walt's either; but when you get to be a big girl you must have them all nice, and read them, for Grandmother will perhaps leave them to you in her will, if you behave like a lady. Matty, my dear sister, how are you getting along? I really want to see you bad, and the baby too--well, may-be we shall all come together and have some good times yet. Jeff, I hope by next week this time we shall be in possession of Charleston--some papers say Burnside is moving for Knoxville, but it is doubtful--I think the 9th Corps might take a rest awhile, anyhow. Good-bye, mother. WALT. XXI _Washington, Sept. 1, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--I have been thinking to-day and all yesterday about the draft in Brooklyn, and whether Jeff would be drafted; you must some of you write me just as soon as you get this--I want to know; I feel anxious enough I can tell you--and besides, it seems a good while since I have received any letters from home. Of course it is impossible for Jeff to go, in case it should turn out he was drafted--the way our family is all situated now, it would be madness. If the Common Council raise the money to exempt men with families dependent on them, I think Jeff ought to have no scruples in taking advantage of it, as I think he is in duty bound--but we will see what course to take, when we know the result, etc.; write about it right away. The _Eagles_ came; this is the second time; I am glad to get them--Jeff, wait till you get four or five, and then send them with a two-cent stamp. I have not had any letter from George. Mother, have you heard anything? did the money come? Dear mother, how are you nowadays? I do hope you feel well and in good spirits--I think about you every day of my life out here. Sometimes I see women in the hospitals, mothers come to see their sons, and occasionally one that makes me think of my dear mother--one did very much, a lady about 60, from Pennsylvania, come to see her son, a captain, very badly wounded and his wound gangrened, and they after a while removed him to a tent by himself. Another son of hers, a young man, came with her to see his brother. She was a pretty full-sized lady, with spectacles; she dressed in black--looked real Velsory.[17] I got very well acquainted with her; she had a real Long Island old-fashioned way--but I had to avoid the poor captain, as it was that time that my hand was cut in the artery, and I was liable to gangrene myself--but she and the two sons have gone home now, but I doubt whether the wounded one is alive, as he was very low. Mother, I want to hear about Andrew too, whether he went to Rockland lake. You have no idea how many soldiers there are who have lost their voices, and have to speak in whispers--there are a great many, I meet some almost every day; as far as that alone is concerned, Andrew must not be discouraged, as the general health may be good as common irrespective of that. I do hope Andrew will get along better than he thinks for--it is bad enough for a poor man to be out of health even partially, but he must try to look on the bright side. Mother, have you heard anything from Han since, or from Mary's folks? I got a letter from Mrs. Price last week; if you see Emma tell her I was pleased to get it, and shall answer it very soon. Mother, I have sent another letter to the N. Y. _Times_--it may appear, if not to-day, within a few days. I am feeling excellent well these days, it is so moderate and pleasant weather now; I was getting real exhausted with the heat. I thought of you too, how it must have exhausted you those hot days. I still occupy the same 3rd story room, 394 L st., and get my breakfast in my room in the morning myself, and dinner at a restaurant about 3 o'clock--I get along very well and very economical (which is a forced put, but just as well). But I must get another room or a boarding-house soon, as the folks are all going to move this month. My good and real friends the O'Connors live in the same block; I am in there every day. Dear mother, tell Mat and Miss Mannahatta I send them my love--I want to see them both. O how I want to see Jeff and you, mother; I sometimes feel as if I should just get in the cars and come home--and the baby too, you must always write about her. Dear mother, good-bye for present. WALT. XXII _Washington, Sept. 8, 1863, Tuesday morning._ DEAREST MOTHER--I wrote to Jeff Sunday last that his letter sent Sept. 3rd, containing your letter and $5 from Mr. Lane, had miscarried--this morning when I came down to Major Hapgood's office I found it on my table, so it is all right--singular where it has been all this while, as I see the postmark on it is Brooklyn, Sept. 3, as Jeff said. Mother, what to do about Andrew I hardly know--as it is I feel about as much pity for you as I do for my poor brother Andrew, for I know you will worry yourself about him all the time. I was in hopes it was only the trouble about the voice, etc., but I see I was mistaken, and it is probably worse. I know you and Jeff and Mat will do all you can--and will have patience with all (it is not only the sick who are poorly off, but their friends; but it is best to have the greatest forbearance, and do and give, etc., whatever one can--but you know that, and practice it too, dear mother). Mother, if I had the means, O how cheerfully I would give them, whether they availed anything for Andrew or not--yet I have long made up my mind that money does not amount to so much, at least not so very much, in serious cases of sickness; it is judgment both in the person himself, and in those he has to do with--and good heart in everything. (Mother, you remember Theodore Gould, how he stuck it out, though sickness and death has had hold of him, as you may say, for fifteen years.) But anyhow, I hope we will all do what we can for Andrew. Mother, I think I must try to come home for a month--I have not given up my project of lecturing I spoke about before, but shall put it in practice yet; I feel clear it will succeed enough. (I wish I had some of the money already; it would be satisfaction to me to contribute something to Andrew's necessities, for he must have bread.) I will write to you, of course, before I come. Mother, I hope you will live better--Jeff tells me you and Jess and Ed live on poor stuff, you are so economical. Mother, you mustn't do so as long as you have a cent--I hope you will, at least four or five times a week, have a steak of beef or mutton, or something substantial for dinner. I have one good meal of that kind every day, or at least five or six days out of the seven--but for breakfast I have nothing but a cup of tea and some bread or crackers (first-rate tea though, with milk and good white sugar). Well, I find it is hearty enough--more than half the time I never eat anything after dinner, and when I do it is only a cracker and cup of tea. Mother, I hope you will not stint yourselves--as to using George's money for your and Jess's and Ed's needful living expenses, I know George would be mad and hurt in his feelings if he thought you was afraid to. Mother, you have a comfortable time as much as you can, and get a steak occasionally, won't you? I suppose Mat got her letter last Saturday; I sent it Friday. O I was so pleased that Jeff was not drawn, and I know how Mat must have felt too; I have no idea the Government will try to draft again, whatever happens--they have carried their point, but have not made much out of it. O how the conscripts and substitutes are deserting down in front and on their way there--you don't hear anything about it, but it is incredible--they don't allow it to get in the papers. Mother, I was so glad to get your letter; you must write again--can't you write to-morrow, so I can get it Friday or Saturday?--you know though you wrote more than a week ago I did not get it till this morning. I wish Jeff to write too, as often as he can. Mother, I was gratified to hear you went up among the soldiers--they are rude in appearance, but they know what is decent, and it pleases them much to have folks, even old women, take an interest and come among them. Mother, you must go again, and take Mat. Well, dear mother, I must close. I am first rate in health, so much better than a month and two months ago--my hand has entirely healed. I go to hospital every day or night--I believe no men ever loved each other as I and some of these poor wounded sick and dying men love each other. Good-bye, dearest mother, for present. WALT. _Tuesday afternoon._ Mother, it seems to be certain that Meade has gained the day, and that the battles there in Pennsylvania have been about as terrible as any in the war--I think the killed and wounded there on both sides were as many as eighteen or twenty thousand--in one place, four or five acres, there were a thousand dead at daybreak on Saturday morning. Mother, one's heart grows sick of war, after all, when you see what it really is; every once in a while I feel so horrified and disgusted--it seems to me like a great slaughter-house and the men mutually butchering each other--then I feel how impossible it appears, again, to retire from this contest, until we have carried our points (it is cruel to be so tossed from pillar to post in one's judgment). Washington is a pleasant place in some respects--it has the finest trees, and plenty of them everywhere, on the streets and grounds. The Capitol grounds, though small, have the finest cultivated trees I ever see--there is a great variety, and not one but is in perfect condition. After I finish this letter I am going out there for an hour's recreation. The great sights of Washington are the public buildings, the wide streets, the public grounds, the trees, the Smithsonian institute and grounds. I go to the latter occasionally--the institute is an old fogy concern, but the grounds are fine. Sometimes I go up to Georgetown, about two and a half miles up the Potomac, an old town--just opposite it in the river is an island, where the niggers have their first Washington reg't encamped. They make a good show, are often seen in the streets of Washington in squads. Since they have begun to carry arms, the Secesh here and in Georgetown (about three fifths) are not insulting to them as formerly. One of the things here always on the go is long trains of army wagons--sometimes they will stream along all day; it almost seems as if there was nothing else but army wagons and ambulances. They have great camps here in every direction, of army wagons, teamsters, ambulance camps, etc.; some of them are permanent, and have small hospitals. I go to them (as no one else goes; ladies would not venture). I sometimes have the luck to give some of the drivers a great deal of comfort and help. Indeed, mother, there are camps here of everything--I went once or twice to the contraband camp, to the hospital, etc., but I could not bring myself to go again--when I meet black men or boys among my own hospitals, I use them kindly, give them something, etc.--I believe I told you that I do the same to the wounded Rebels, too--but as there is a limit to one's sinews and endurance and sympathies, etc., I have got in the way, after going lightly, as it were, all through the wards of a hospital, and trying to give a word of cheer, if nothing else, to every one, then confining my special attentions to the few where the investment seems to tell best, and who want it most. Mother, I have real pride in telling you that I have the consciousness of saving quite a number of lives by saving them from giving up--and being a good deal with them; the men say it is so, and the doctors say it is so--and I will candidly confess I can see it is true, though I say it of myself. I know you will like to hear it, mother, so I tell you. I am finishing this in Major Hapgood's office, about 1 o'clock--it is pretty warm, but has not cleared off yet. The trees look so well from where I am, and the Potomac--it is a noble river; I see it several miles, and the Arlington heights. Mother, I see some of the 47th Brooklyn every day or two; the reg't is on the heights back of Arlington house, a fine camp ground. O Matty, I have just thought of you--dear sister, how are you getting along? Jeff, I will write you truly. Good-bye for the present, dearest mother, and all. WALT. XXIII _Washington, Sept. 15, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--Your letters were very acceptable--one came just as I was putting my last in the post office--I guess they all come right. I have written to Han and George and sent George papers. Mother, have you heard anything whether the 51st went on with Burnside, or did they remain as a reserve in Kentucky? Burnside has managed splendidly so far, his taking Knoxville and all together--it is a first-class success. I have known Tennessee Union men here in hospital, and I understand it, therefore--the region where Knoxville is is mainly Union, but the Southerners could not exist without it, as it is in their midst, so they determined to pound and kill and crush out the Unionists--all the savage and monstrous things printed in the papers about their treatment are true, at least that kind of thing is, as bad as the Irish in the mob treated the poor niggers in New York. We North don't understand some things about Southerners; it is very strange, the contrast--if I should pick out the most genuine Union men and real patriots I have ever met in all my experience, I should pick out two or three Tennessee and Virginia Unionists I have met in the hospitals, wounded or sick. One young man I guess I have mentioned to you in my letters, John Barker, 2nd Tennessee Vol. (Union), was a long while a prisoner in Secesh prisons in Georgia, and in Richmond--three times the devils hung him up by the heels to make him promise to give up his Unionism; once he was cut down for dead. He is a young married man with one child. His little property destroyed, his wife and child turned out--he hunted and tormented--and any moment he could have had anything if he would join the Confederacy--but he was firm as a rock; he would not even take an oath to not fight for either side. They held him about eight months--then he was very sick, scurvy, and they exchanged him and he came up from Richmond here to hospital; here I got acquainted with him. He is a large, slow, good-natured man, somehow made me often think of father; shrewd, very little to say--wouldn't talk to anybody but me. His whole thought was to get back and fight; he was not fit to go, but he has gone back to Tennessee. He spent two days with his wife and young one there, and then to his regiment--he writes to me frequently and I to him; he is not fit to soldier, for the Rebels have destroyed his health and strength (though he is only 23 or 4), but nothing will keep him from his regiment, and fighting--he is uneducated, but as sensible a young man as I ever met, and understands the whole question. Well, mother, Jack Barker is the most genuine Union man I have ever yet met. I asked him once very gravely why he didn't take the Southern oath and get his liberty--if he didn't think he was foolish to be so stiff, etc. I never saw such a look as he gave me, he thought I was in earnest--the old devil himself couldn't have had put a worse look in his eyes. Mother, I have no doubt there are quite a good many just such men. He is down there with his regiment (one of his brothers was killed)--when he fails in strength he gets the colonel to detach him to do teamster's duty for a few days, on a march till he recruits his strength--but he always carries his gun with him--in a battle he is always in the ranks--then he is so sensible, such decent manly ways, nothing shallow or mean (he must have been a giant in health, but now he is weaker, has a cough too). Mother, can you wonder at my getting so attached to such men, with such love, especially when they show it to me--some of them on their dying beds, and in the very hour of death, or just the same when they recover, or partially recover? I never knew what American young men were till I have been in the hospitals. Well, mother, I have got writing on--there is nothing new with me, just the same old thing, as I suppose it is with you there. Mother, how is Andrew? I wish to hear all about him--I do hope he is better, and that it will not prove anything so bad. I will write to him soon myself, but in the meantime you must tell him to not put so much faith in medicine--drugs, I mean--as in the true curative things; namely, diet and careful habits, breathing good air, etc. You know I wrote in a former letter what is the cause and foundation of the diseases of the throat and what must be the remedy that goes to the bottom of the thing--sudden attacks are to be treated with applications and medicines, but diseases of a seated character are not to be cured by them, only perhaps a little relieved (and often aggravated, made firmer). Dearest mother, I hope you yourself are well, and getting along good. About the letter in the _Times_, I see ever since I sent they have been very crowded with news that must be printed--I think they will give it yet. I hear there is a new paper in Brooklyn, or to be one--I wish Jeff would send me some of the first numbers without fail, and a stray _Eagle_ in same parcel to make up the 4 ounces. I am glad to hear Mat was going to write me a good long letter--every letter from home is so good, when one is away (I often see the men crying in the hospital when they get a letter). Jeff too, I want him to write whenever he can, and not forget the new paper. We are having pleasant weather here; it is such a relief from that awful heat (I can't think of another such siege without feeling sick at the thought). Mother, I believe I told you I had written to Mrs. Price--do you see Emma? Are the soldiers still on Fort Greene? Well, mother, I have writ quite a letter--it is between 2 and 3 o'clock--I am in Major Hapgood's all alone--from my window I see all the Potomac, and all around Washington--Major and all gone down to the army to pay troops, and I keep house. I am invited to dinner to-day at 4 o'clock at a Mr. Boyle's--I am going (hope we shall have something good). Dear mother, I send you my love, and some to Jeff and Mat and all, not forgetting Mannahatta (who I hope is a help and comfort to her grandmother). Well, I must scratch off in a hurry, for it is nearly an hour [later] than I thought. Good-bye for the present, dear mother. WALT. XXIV _Washington, Sept. 29, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--Well, here I sit this forenoon in a corner by the window in Major Hapgood's office, all the Potomac, and Maryland, and Virginia hills in sight, writing my Tuesday letter to you, dearest mother. Major has gone home to Boston on sick leave, and only the clerk and me occupy the office, and he not much of the time. At the present moment there are two wounded officers come in to get their pay--one has crutches; the other is drest in the light-blue uniform of the invalid corps. Way up here on the 5th floor it is pretty hard scratching for cripples and very weak men to journey up here--often they come up here very weary and faint, and then find out they can't get their money, some red-tape hitch, and the poor soldiers look so disappointed--it always makes me feel bad. Mother, we are having perfect weather here nowadays, both night and day. The nights are wonderful; for the last three nights as I have walked home from the hospital pretty late, it has seemed to me like a dream, the moon and sky ahead of anything I ever see before. Mother, do you hear anything from George? I wrote to him yesterday and sent him your last letter, and Jeff's enclosed--I shall send him some papers to-day--I send him papers quite often. (Why hasn't Jeff sent me the _Union_ with my letter in? I want much to see it, and whether they have misprinted it.) Mother, I don't think the 51st has been in any of the fighting we know of down there yet--what is to come of course nobody can tell. As to Burnside, I suppose you know he is among his _friends_, and I think this quite important, for such the main body of East Tennesseans are, and are far truer Americans anyhow than the Copperheads of the North. The Tennesseans will fight for us too. Mother, you have no idea how the soldiers, sick, etc. (I mean the American ones, to a man) all feel about the Copperheads; they never speak of them without a curse, and I hear them say, with an air that shows they mean it, they would shoot them sooner than they would a Rebel. Mother, the troops from Meade's army are passing through here night and day, going West and so down to reinforce Rosecrans I suppose--the papers are not permitted to mention it, but it is so. Two Army Corps, I should think, have mostly passed--they go through night and day--I hear the whistle of the locomotive screaming away any time at night when I wake up, and the rumbling of the trains. Mother dear, you must write to me soon, and so must Jeff. I thought Mat was going to send me a great long letter--I am always looking for it; I hope it will be full of everything about family matters and doings, and how everybody really is. I go to Major's box three or four times a day. I want to hear also about Andrew, and indeed about every one of you and everything--nothing is too trifling, nothing uninteresting. O mother, who do you think I got a letter from, two or three days ago? Aunt Fanny, Ansel's mother--she sent it by a young man, a wounded soldier who has been home to Farmingdale on furlough, and lately returned. She writes a first-rate letter, Quaker all over--I shall answer it. She says Mary and Ansel and all are well. I have received another letter from Mrs. Price--she has not good health. I am sorry for her from my heart; she is a good, noble woman, no better kind. Mother, I am in the hospitals as usual--I stand it better the last three weeks than ever before--I go among the worst fevers and wounds with impunity. I go among the smallpox, etc., just the same--I feel to go without apprehension, and so I go. Nobody else goes; and as the darkey said there at Charleston when the boat run on a flat and the Reb sharpshooters were peppering them, "somebody must jump in de water and shove de boat off." WALT. XXV _Washington, Oct. 6, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Your letter and George's came safe--dear brother George, one don't more than get a letter from him before you want to hear again, especially as things are looking pretty stormy that way--but mother, I rather lean to the opinion that the 51st is still in Kentucky, at or near where George last wrote; but of course that is only my guess. I send George papers and occasionally letters. Mother, I sent him enclosed your letter before the last, though you said in it not to tell him how much money he had home, as you wanted to surprise him; but I sent it. Mother, I think Rosecrans and Burnside will be too much for the Rebels down there yet. I myself make a great acc't of Burnside being in the midst of _friends_, and such friends too--they will fight and fight up to the handle, and kill somebody (it seems as if it was coming to that pass where we will either have to destroy or be destroyed). Mother, I wish you would write soon after you get this, or Jeff or Mat must, and tell me about Andrew, if there is anything different with him--I think about him every day and night. I believe I must come home, even if it is only for a week--I want to see you all very much. Mother, I know you must have a great deal to harass and trouble you; I don't mean about Andrew personally, for I know you would feel to give your life to save his, and do anything to nourish him, but about the children and Nancy--but, mother, you must not let anything chafe you, and you must not be squeamish about saying firmly at times not to have little Georgy too much to trouble you (poor little fellow, I have no doubt he will be a pleasanter child when he grows older); and while you are pleasant with Nancy you must be sufficiently plain with her--only, mother, I know you will, and Jeff and Mat will too, be invariably good to Andrew, and not mind his being irritable at times; it is his disease, and then his temper is naturally fretful, but it is such a misfortune to have such sickness--and always do anything for him that you can in reason. Mat, my dear sister, I know you will, for I know your nature is to come out a first-class girl in times of trouble and sickness, and do anything. Mother, you don't know how pleased I was to read what you wrote about little Sis. I want to see her so bad I don't know what to do; I know she must be just the best young one on Long Island--but I hope it will not be understood as meaning any slight or disrespect to Miss Hat, nor to put her nose out of joint, because Uncle Walt, I hope, has heart and gizzard big enough for both his little nieces and as many more as the Lord may send. Mother, I am writing this in Major Hapgood's office, as usual. I am all alone to-day--Major is still absent, unwell, and the clerk is away somewhere. O how pleasant it is here--the weather I mean--and other things too, for that matter. I still occupy my little room, 394 L st.; get my own breakfast there; had good tea this morning, and some nice biscuit (yesterday morning and day before had peaches cut up). My friends the O'Connors that I wrote about recommenced cooking the 1st of this month (they have been, as usual in summer, taking their meals at a family hotel near by). Saturday they sent for me to breakfast, and Sunday I eat dinner with them--very good dinner, roast beef, lima beans, good potatoes, etc. They are truly friends to me. I still get my dinner at a restaurant usually. I have a very good plain dinner, which is the only meal of any account I make during the day; but it is just as well, for I would be in danger of getting fat on the least encouragement, and I have no ambition that way. Mother, it is lucky I like Washington in many respects, and that things are upon the whole pleasant personally, for every day of my life I see enough to make one's heart ache with sympathy and anguish here in the hospitals, and I do not know as I could stand it if it was not counterbalanced outside. It is curious, when I am present at the most appalling things--deaths, operations, sickening wounds (perhaps full of maggots)--I do not fail, although my sympathies are very much excited, but keep singularly cool; but often hours afterward, perhaps when I am home or out walking alone, I feel sick and actually tremble when I recall the thing and have it in my mind again before me. Mother, did you see my letter in the N. Y. _Times_ of Sunday, Oct. 4? That was the long-delayed letter. Mother, I am very sorry Jeff did not send me the _Union_ with my letter in--I wish very much he could do so yet; and always when I have a letter in a paper I would like to have one sent. If you take the _Union_, send me some once in a while. Mother, was it Will Brown sent me those? Tell him if so I was much obliged; and if he or Mr. and Mrs. Brown take any interest in hearing my scribblings, mother, you let them read the letters, of course. O, I must not close without telling you the highly important intelligence that I have cut my hair and beard--since the event Rosecrans, Charleston, etc., etc., have among my acquaintances been hardly mentioned, being insignificant themes in comparison. Jeff, my dearest brother, I have been going to write you a good gossipy letter for two or three weeks past; will try to yet, so it will reach you for Sunday reading--so good-bye, Jeff, and good-bye for present, mother dear, and all, and tell Andrew he must not be discouraged yet. WALT. XXVI _Washington, Oct. 11, 1863._ DEAR FRIEND[18]--Your letters were both received, and were indeed welcome. Don't mind my not answering them promptly, for you know what a wretch I am about such things. But you must write just as often as you conveniently can. Tell me all about your folks, especially the girls, and about Mr. A. Of course you won't forget Arthur,[19] and always when you write to him send my love. Tell me about Mrs. U. and the dear little rogues. Tell Mrs. B. she ought to be here, hospital matron, only it is a harder pull than folks anticipate. You wrote about Emma;[20] she thinks she might and ought to come as nurse for the soldiers. Dear girl, I know it would be a blessed thing for the men to have her loving spirit and hand, and whoever of the poor fellows had them would indeed think it so. But, my darling, it is a dreadful thing--you don't know these wounds, sickness, etc., the sad condition in which many of the men are brought here, and remain for days; sometimes the wounds full of crawling corruption, etc. Down in the field-hospitals in front they have no proper care (can't have), and after a battle go for many days unattended to. Abby, I think often about you and the pleasant days, the visits I used to pay you, and how good it was always to be made so welcome. O, I wish I could come in this afternoon and have a good tea with you, and have three or four hours of mutual comfort, and rest and talk, and be all of us together again. Is Helen home and well? and what is she doing now? And you, my dear friend, how sorry I am to hear that your health is not rugged--but, dear Abby, you must not dwell on anticipations of the worst (but I know that is not your nature, or did not use to be). I hope this will find you quite well and in good spirits. I feel so well myself--I will have to come and see you, I think--I am so fat, out considerable in the open air, and all red and tanned worse than ever. You see, therefore, that my life amid these sad and death-stricken hospitals has not told upon me, for I am this fall so running over with health, and I feel as if I ought to go on, on that account, working among all the sick and deficient; and O how gladly I would bestow upon you a liberal share of my health, dear Abby, if such a thing were possible. I am continually moving around among the hospitals. One I go to oftenest the last three months is "Armory-square," as it is large, generally full of the worst wounds and sickness, and is among the least visited. To this or some other I never miss a day or evening. I am enabled to give the men something, and perhaps some trifle to their supper all around. Then there are always special cases calling for something special. Above all the poor boys welcome magnetic friendship, personality (some are so fervent, so hungering for this)--poor fellows, how young they are, lying there with their pale faces, and that mute look in their eyes. O, how one gets to love them--often, particular cases, so suffering, so good, so manly and affectionate! Abby, you would all smile to see me among them--many of them like children. Ceremony is mostly discarded--they suffer and get exhausted and so weary--not a few are on their dying beds--lots of them have grown to expect, as I leave at night, that we should kiss each other, sometimes quite a number; I have to go round, poor boys. There is little petting in a soldier's life in the field, but, Abby, I know what is in their hearts, always waiting, though they may be unconscious of it themselves. I have a place where I buy very nice homemade biscuits, sweet crackers, etc. Among others, one of my ways is to get a good lot of these, and, for supper, go through a couple of wards and give a portion to each man--next day two wards more, and so on. Then each marked case needs something to itself. I spend my evenings altogether at the hospitals--my days often. I give little gifts of money in small sums, which I am enabled to do--all sorts of things indeed, food, clothing, letter-stamps (I write lots of letters), now and then a good pair of crutches, etc., etc. Then I read to the boys. The whole ward that can walk gathers around me and listens. All this I tell you, my dear, because I know it will interest you. I like Washington very well. (Did you see my last letter in the New York _Times_ of October 4th, Sunday?) I have three or four hours' work every day copying, and in writing letters for the press, etc.; make enough to pay my way--live in an inexpensive manner anyhow. I like the mission I am on here, and as it deeply holds me I shall continue. _October 15._ Well, Abby, I guess I send you letter enough. I ought to have finished and sent off the letter last Sunday, when it was written. I have been pretty busy. We are having new arrivals of wounded and sick now all the time--some very bad cases. Abby, should you come across any one who feels to help contribute to the men through me, write me. (I may then send word some purchases I should find acceptable for the men). But this only if it happens to come in that you know or meet any one, perfectly convenient. Abby, I have found some good friends here, a few, but true as steel--W. D. O'Connor and wife above all. He is a clerk in the Treasury--she is a Yankee girl. Then C. W. Eldridge[21] in Paymaster's Department. He is a Boston boy, too--their friendship has been unswerving. In the hospitals, among these American young men, I could not describe to you what mutual attachments, and how passing deep and tender these boys. Some have died, but the love for them lives as long as I draw breath. These soldiers know how to love too, when once they have the right person and the right love offered them. It is wonderful. You see I am running off into the clouds, but this is my element. Abby, I am writing this note this afternoon in Major H's office--he is away sick--I am here a good deal of the time alone. It is a dark rainy afternoon--we don't know what is going on down in front, whether Meade is getting the worst of it or not--(but the result of the big elections cheers us). I believe fully in Lincoln--few know the rocks and quicksands he has to steer through. I enclose you a note Mrs. O'C. handed me to send you--written, I suppose, upon impulse. She is a noble Massachusetts woman, is not very rugged in health--I am there very much--her husband and I are great friends too. Well, I will close--the rain is pouring, the sky leaden, it is between 2 and 3. I am going to get some dinner, and then to the hospital. Good-bye, dear friends, and I send my love to all. WALT. XXVII _Washington, Oct. 13, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--Nothing particular new with me. I am well and hearty--think a good deal about home. Mother, I so much want to see you, even if only for a couple of weeks, for I feel I must return here and continue my hospital operations. They are so much needed, although one can do only such a little in comparison, amid these thousands. Then I desire much to see Andrew. I wonder if I could cheer him up any. Does he get any good from that treatment with the baths, etc.? Mother, I suppose you have your hands full with Nancy's poor little children, and one worry and another (when one gets old little things bother a great deal). Mother, I go down every day looking for a letter from you or Jeff--I had two from Jeff latter part of the week. I want to see Jeff much. I wonder why he didn't send me the _Union_ with my letter in; I am disappointed at not getting it. I sent Han a N. Y. _Times_ with my last letter, and one to George too. Have you heard anything from George or Han? There is a new lot of wounded now again. They have been arriving sick and wounded for three days--first long strings of ambulances with the sick, but yesterday many with bad and bloody wounds, poor fellows. I thought I was cooler and more used to it, but the sight of some of them brought tears into my eyes. Mother, I had the good luck yesterday to do quite a great deal of good. I had provided a lot of nourishing things for the men, but for another quarter--but I had them where I could use them immediately for these new wounded as they came in faint and hungry, and fagged out with a long rough journey, all dirty and torn, and many pale as ashes and all bloody. I distributed all my stores, gave partly to the nurses I knew that were just taking charge of them--and as many as I could I fed myself. Then besides I found a lot of oyster soup handy, and I procured it all at once. Mother, it is the most pitiful sight, I think, when first the men are brought in. I have to bustle round, to keep from crying--they are such rugged young men--all these just arrived are cavalry men. Our troops got the worst of it, but fought like devils. Our men engaged were Kilpatrick's Cavalry. They were in the rear as part of Meade's retreat, and the Reb cavalry cut in between and cut them off and attacked them and shelled them terribly. But Kilpatrick brought them out mostly--this was last Sunday. Mother, I will try to come home before long, if only for six or eight days. I wish to see you, and Andrew--I wish to see the young ones; and Mat, you must write. I am about moving. I have been hunting for a room to-day--I shall [write] next [time] how I succeed. Good-bye for present, dear mother. WALT. XXVIII _Washington, Oct. 20, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got your last letter Sunday morning, though it was dated Thursday night. Mother, I suppose you got a letter from me Saturday last, as I sent one the day before, as I was concerned about Andrew. If I thought it would be any benefit to Andrew I should certainly leave everything else and come back to Brooklyn. Mother, do you recollect what I wrote last summer about throat diseases, when Andrew was first pretty bad? Well, that's the whole groundwork of the business; any true physician would confirm it. There is no great charm about such things; as to any costly and mysterious baths, there are no better baths than warm water, or vapor (and perhaps sulphur vapor). There is nothing costly or difficult about them; one can have a very good sweating bath, at a pinch, by having a pan of warm water under a chair with a couple of blankets around him to enclose the vapor, and heating a couple of bricks or stones or anything to put in one after another, and sitting on the chair--it is a very wholesome sweat, too, and not to be sneezed at if one wishes to do what is salutary, and thinks of the sense of a thing, and not what others do. Andrew mustn't be discouraged; those diseases are painful and tedious, but he can recover, and will yet. Dear mother, I sent your last letter to George, with a short one I wrote myself. I sent it yesterday. I sent a letter last Wednesday (14th) to him also, hoping that if one don't reach him another will. Hasn't Jeff seen Capt. Sims or Lieut. McReady yet, and don't they hear whether the 51st is near Nicholasville, Kentucky, yet? I send George papers now and then. Mother, one of your letters contains part of my letter to the _Union_ (I wish I could have got the whole of it). It seems to me mostly as I intended it, barring a few slight misprints. Was my last name signed at the bottom of it? Tell me when you write next. Dear mother, I am real sorry, and mad too, that the water works people have cut Jeff's wages down to $50; this is a pretty time to cut a man's wages down, the mean old punkin heads. Mother, I can't understand it at all; tell me more of the particulars. Jeff, I often wish you was on here; you would be better appreciated--there are big salaries paid here sometimes to civil engineers. Jeff, I know a fellow, E. C. Stedman; has been here till lately; is now in Wall street. He is poor, but he is in with the big bankers, Hallett & Co., who are in with Fremont in his line of Pacific railroad. I can get his (Stedman's) address, and should you wish it any time I will give you a letter to him. I shouldn't wonder if the big men, with Fremont at head, were going to push their route works, road, etc., etc., in earnest, and if a fellow could get a good managing place in it, why it might be worth while. I think after Jeff has been with the Brooklyn w[ater] w[orks] from the beginning, and so faithful and so really valuable, to put down to $50--the mean, low-lived old shoats! I have felt as indignant about it, the meanness of the thing, and mighty inconvenient, too--$40 a month makes a big difference. Mother, I hope Jeff won't get and keep himself in a perpetual fever, with all these things and others and botherations, both family and business ones. If he does, he will just wear himself down before his time comes. I do hope, Jeff, you will take things equally all round, and not brood or think too deeply. So I go on giving you all good advice. O mother, I must tell you how I get along in my new quarters. I have moved to a new room, 456 Sixth street, not far from Pennsylvania avenue (the big street here), and not far from the Capitol. It is in the 3d story, an addition back; seems to be going to prove a very good winter room, as it is right under the roof and looks south; has low windows, is plenty big enough; I have gas. I think the lady will prove a good woman. She is old and feeble. (There is a little girl of 4 or 5; I hear her sometimes calling _Grandma, Grandma_, just exactly like Hat; it made me think of you and Hat right away.) One thing is I am quite by myself; there is no passage up there except to my room, and right off against my side of the house is a great old yard with grass and some trees back, and the sun shines in all day, etc., and it smells sweet, and good air--good big bed; I sleep first rate. There is a young wench of 12 or 13, Lucy (the niggers here are the best and most amusing creatures you ever see)--she comes and goes, gets water, etc. She is pretty much the only one I see. Then I believe the front door is not locked at all at night. (In the other place the old thief, the landlord, had two front doors, with four locks and bolts on one and three on the other--and a big bulldog in the back yard. We were well fortified, I tell you. Sometimes I had an awful time at night getting in.) I pay $10 a month; this includes gas, but not fuel. Jeff, you can come on and see me easy now. Mother, to give you an idea of prices here, while I was looking for rooms, about like our two in Wheeler's houses (2nd story), nothing extra about them, either in location or anything, and the rent was $60 a month. Yet, quite curious, vacant houses here are not so very dear; very much the same as in Brooklyn. Dear mother, Jeff wrote in his letter latter part of last week, you was real unwell with a very bad cold (and that you didn't have enough good meals). Mother, I hope this will find you well and in good spirits. I think about you every day and night. Jeff thinks you show your age more, and failing like. O my dear mother, you must not think of failing yet. I hope we shall have some comfortable years yet. Mother, don't allow things, troubles, to take hold of you; write a few lines whenever you can; tell me exactly how things are. Mother, I am first rate and well--only a little of that deafness again. Good-bye for present. WALT. XXIX _Washington, Oct. 27, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER,--Yours and George's letter came, and a letter from Jeff too--all good. I had received a letter a day or so before from George too. I am very glad he is at Camp Nelson, Kentucky, and I hope and pray the reg't will be kept there--for God knows they have tramped enough for the last two years, and fought battles and been through enough. I have sent George papers to Camp Nelson, and will write to-morrow. I send him the _Unions_ and the late New York papers. Mother, you or Jeff write and tell me how Andrew is; I hope he will prove to be better. Such complaints are sometimes very alarming for awhile, and then take such a turn for the better. Common means and steadily pursuing them, about diet especially, are so much more reliable than any course of medicine whatever. Mother, I have written to Han; I sent her George's letter to me, and wrote her a short letter myself. I sent it four or five days ago. Mother, I am real pleased to hear Jeff's explanation how it is that his wages is cut down, and that it was not as I fancied from the meanness of the old coons in the board. I felt so indignant about it, as I took it into my head, (though I don't know why) that it was done out of meanness, and was a sort of insult. I was quite glad Jeff wrote a few lines about it--and glad they appreciate Jeff, too. Mother, if any of my soldier boys should ever call upon you (as they are often anxious to have my address in Brooklyn) you just use them as you know how to without ceremony, and if you happen to have pot luck and feel to ask them to take a bite, don't be afraid to do so. There is one very good boy, Thos. Neat, 2nd N. Y. Cavalry, wounded in leg. He is now home on furlough--his folks live, I think, in Jamaica. He is a noble boy. He may call upon you. (I gave him here $1 toward buying his crutches, etc.) I like him very much. Then possibly a Mr. Haskell, or some of his folks from Western New York, may call--he had a son died here, a very fine boy. I was with him a good deal, and the old man and his wife have written me, and asked me my address in Brooklyn. He said he had children in N. Y. city and was occasionally down there. Mother, when I come home I will show you some of the letters I get from mothers, sisters, fathers, etc.--they will make you cry. There is nothing new with my hospital doings--I was there yesterday afternoon and evening, and shall be there again to-day. Mother, I should like to hear how you are yourself--has your cold left you, and do you feel better? Do you feel quite well again? I suppose you have your good stove all fired up these days--we have had some real cool weather here. I must rake up a little cheap second-hand stove for my room, for it was in the bargain that I should get that myself. Mother, I like my place quite well, better on nearly every account than my old room, but I see it will only do for a winter room. They keep it clean, and the house smells clean, and the room too. My old room, they just let everything lay where it was, and you can fancy what a litter of dirt there was--still it was a splendid room for air, for summer, as good as there is in Washington. I got a letter from Mrs. Price this morning--does Emmy ever come to see you? Matty, my dear sister, and Miss Mannahatta, and the little one (whose name I don't know, and perhaps hasn't got any name yet), I hope you are all well and having good times. I often, often think about you all. Mat, do you go any to the Opera now? They say the new singers are so good--when I come home we'll try to go. Mother, I am very well--have some cold in my head and my ears stopt up yet, making me sometimes quite hard of hearing. I am writing this in Major Hapgood's office. Last Sunday I took dinner at my friends the O'Connors--had two roast chickens, stewed tomatoes, potatoes, etc. I took dinner there previous Sunday also. Well, dear mother, how the time passes away--to think it will soon be a year I have been away! It has passed away very swiftly, somehow, to me. O what things I have witnessed during that time--I shall never forget them. And the war is not settled yet, and one does not see anything at all certain about the settlement yet; but I have finally got for good, I think, into the feeling that our triumph is assured, whether it be sooner or whether it be later, or whatever roundabout way we are led there, and I find I don't change that conviction from any reverses we meet, or any delays or Government blunders. There are blunders enough, heaven knows, but I am thankful things have gone on as well for us as they have--thankful the ship rides safe and sound at all. Then I have finally made up my mind that Mr. Lincoln has done as good as a human man could do. I still think him a pretty big President. I realize here in Washington that it has been a big thing to have just kept the United States from being thrown down and having its throat cut; and now I have no doubt it will throw down Secession and cut its throat--and I have not had any doubt since Gettysburg. Well, dear, dear mother, I will draw to a close. Andrew and Jeff and all, I send you my love. Good-bye, dear mother and dear Matty and all hands. WALT. XXX _Washington, Dec. 15, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--The last word I got from home was your letter written the night before Andrew was buried--Friday night, nearly a fortnight ago. I have not heard anything since from you or Jeff. Mother, Major Hapgood has moved from his office, cor. 15th street, and I am not with him any more. He has moved his office to his private room. I am writing this in my room, 456 Sixth street, but my letters still come to Major's care; they are to be addrest same as ever, as I can easily go and get them out of his box (only nothing need be sent me any time to the old office, as I am not there, nor Major either). Anything like a telegraphic dispatch or express box or the like should be addrest 456 Sixth street, 3rd story, back room. Dear mother, I hope you are well and in good spirits. I wish you would try to write to me everything about home and the particulars of Andrew's funeral, and how you all are getting along. I have not received the _Eagle_ with the little piece in. I was in hopes Jeff would have sent it. I wish he would yet, or some of you would; I want to see it. I think it must have been put in by a young man named Howard; he is now editor of the _Eagle_, and is very friendly to me. Mother, I am quite well. I have been out this morning early, went down through the market; it is quite a curiosity--I bought some butter, tea, etc. I have had my breakfast here in my room, good tea, bread and butter, etc. Mother, I think about you all more than ever--and poor Andrew, I often think about him. Mother, write to me how Nancy and the little boys are getting along. I got thinking last night about little California.[22] O how I wished I had her here for an hour to take care of--dear little girl. I don't think I ever saw a young one I took to so much--but I mustn't slight Hattie; I like her too. Mother, I am still going among the hospitals; there is plenty of need, just the same as ever. I go every day or evening. I have not heard from George--I have no doubt the 51st is still at Crab Orchard. Mother, I hope you will try to write. I send you my love, and to Jeff and Mat and all--so good-bye, dear mother. WALT. LETTERS OF 1864 I _Washington, Friday afternoon, Jan. 29. '64._ DEAR MOTHER--Your letter of Tuesday night came this forenoon--the one of Sunday night I received yesterday. Mother, you don't say in either of them whether George has re-enlisted or not--or is that not yet decided positively one way or the other? O mother, how I should like to be home (I don't want more than two or three days). I want to see George (I have his photograph on the wall, right over my table all the time), and I want to see California--you must always write in your letters how she is. I shall write to Han this afternoon or to-morrow morning and tell her probably George will come out and see her, and that if he does you will send her word beforehand. Jeff, my dear brother, if there should be the change made in the works, and things all overturned, you mustn't mind--I dare say you will pitch into something better. I believe a real overturn in the dead old beaten track of a man's life, especially a young man's, is always likely to turn out best, though it worries one at first dreadfully. Mat, I want to see you most sincerely--they haven't put in anything in the last two or three letters about you, but I suppose you are well, my dear sister. Mother, the young man that I took care of, Lewis Brown, is pretty well, but very restless--he is doing well now, but there is a long road before him yet; it is torture for him to be tied so to his cot, this weather; he is a very noble young man and has suffered very much. He is a Maryland boy and (like the Southerners when they _are_ Union) I think he is as strong and resolute a Union boy as there is in the United States. He went out in a Maryland reg't, but transferred to a N. Y. battery. But I find so many noble men in the ranks I have ceased to wonder at it. I think the soldiers from the New England States and the Western States are splendid, and the country parts of N. Y. and Pennsylvania too. I think less of the great cities than I used to. I know there are black sheep enough even in the ranks, but the general rule is the soldiers are noble, very. Mother, I wonder if George thinks as I do about the best way to enjoy a visit home, after all. When I come home again, I shall not go off gallivanting with my companions half as much nor a quarter as much as I used to, but shall spend the time quietly home with you while I do stay; it is a great humbug spreeing around, and a few choice friends for a man, the real right kind in a quiet way, are enough. Mother, I hope you take things easy, don't you? Mother, you know I was always advising you to let things go and sit down and take what comfort you can while you do live. It is very warm here; this afternoon it is warm enough for July--the sun burns where it shines on your face; it is pretty dusty in the principal streets. Congress is in session; I see Odell, Kalbfleisch, etc., often. I have got acquainted with Mr. Garfield, an M. C. from Ohio, and like him very much indeed (he has been a soldier West, and I believe a good brave one--was a major general). I don't go much to the debates this session yet. Congress will probably keep in session till well into the summer. As to what course things will take, political or military, there's no telling. I think, though, the Secesh military power is getting more and more shaky. How they can make any headway against our new, large, and fresh armies next season passes my wit to see. Mother, I was talking with a pretty high officer here, who is behind the scenes--I was mentioning that I had a great desire to be present at a first-class battle; he told me if I would only stay around here three or four weeks longer my wish would probably be gratified. I asked him what he meant, what he alluded to specifically, but he would not say anything further--so I remain as much in the dark as before--only there seemed to be some meaning in his remark, and it was made to me only as there was no one else in hearing at the moment (he is quite an admirer of my poetry). The re-enlistment of the veterans is the greatest thing yet; it pleases everybody but the Rebels--and surprises everybody too. Mother, I am well and fat (I must weigh about 206), so Washington must agree with me. I work three or four hours a day copying. Dear mother, I send you and Hattie my love, as you say she is a dear little girl. Mother, try to write every week, even if only a few lines. Love to George and Jeff and Mat. WALT. II _Washington, Feb. 2, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I am writing this by the side of the young man you asked about, Lewis Brown in Armory-square hospital. He is getting along very well indeed--the amputation is healing up good, and he does not suffer anything like as much as he did. I see him every day. We have had real hot weather here, and for the last three days wet and rainy; it is more like June than February. Mother, I wrote to Han last Saturday--she must have got it yesterday. I have not heard anything from home since a week ago (your last letter). I suppose you got a letter from me Saturday last. I am well as usual. There has been several hundred sick soldiers brought in here yesterday. I have been around among them to-day all day--it is enough to make me heart-sick, the old times over again; they are many of them mere wrecks, though young men (sickness is worse in some respects than wounds). One boy about 16, from Portland, Maine, only came from home a month ago, a recruit; he is here now very sick and down-hearted, poor child. He is a real country boy; I think has consumption. He was only a week with his reg't. I sat with him a long time; I saw [it] did him great good. I have been feeding some their dinners. It makes me feel quite proud, I find so frequently I can do with the men what no one else at all can, getting them to eat (some that will not touch their food otherwise, nor for anybody else)--it is sometimes quite affecting, I can tell you. I found such a case to-day, a soldier with throat disease, very bad. I fed him quite a dinner; the men, his comrades around, just stared in wonder, and one of them told me afterwards that he (the sick man) had not eat so much at a meal in three months. Mother, I shall have my hands pretty full now for a while--write all about things home. WALT. Lewis Brown says I must give you his love--he says he knows he would like you if he should see you. III _Washington, Friday afternoon, Feb. 5, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I am going down in front, in the midst of the army, to-morrow morning, to be gone for about a week--so I thought I would write you a few lines now, to let you know. Mother, I suppose you got my letter written last Tuesday--I have not got any from home now for a number of days. I am well and hearty. The young man Lewis Brown is able to be up a little on crutches. There is quite a number of sick young men I have taken in hand, from the late arrivals, that I am sorry to leave. Sick and down-hearted and lonesome, they think so much of a friend, and I get so attached to them too--but I want to go down in camp once more very much; and I think I shall be back in a week. I shall spend most of my time among the sick and wounded in the camp hospitals. If I had means I should stop with them, poor boys, or go among them periodically, dispensing what I had, as long as the war lasts, down among the worst of it (although what are collected here in hospital seem to me about as severe and needy cases as any, after all). Mother, I want to hear about you all, and about George and how he is spending his time home. Mother, I do hope you are well and in good spirits, and Jeff and Mat and all, and dear little California and Hattie--I send them all my love. Mother, I may write to you from down in front--so good-bye, dear mother, for present. WALT. I hope I shall find several letters waiting for me when I get back here. IV _Culpepper, Virginia, Friday night, Feb. 12, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I am still stopping down in this region. I am a good deal of the time down within half a mile of our picket lines, so that you see I can indeed call myself in the front. I stopped yesterday with an artillery camp in the 1st Corps at the invitation of Capt. Crawford, who said that he knew me in Brooklyn. It is close to the lines--I asked him if he did not think it dangerous. He said, No, he could have a large force of infantry to help him there, in very short metre, if there was any sudden emergency. The troops here are scattered all around, much more apart than they seemed to me to be opposite Fredericksburg last winter. They mostly have good huts and fireplaces, etc. I have been to a great many of the camps, and I must say I am astonished [how] good the houses are almost everywhere. I have not seen one regiment, nor any part of one, in the poor uncomfortable little shelter tents that I saw so common last winter after Fredericksburg--but all the men have built huts of logs and mud. A good many of them would be comfortable enough to live in under any circumstances. I have been in the division hospitals around here. There are not many men sick here, and no wounded--they now send them on to Washington. I shall return there in a few days, as I am very clear that the real need of one's services is there after all--there the worst cases concentrate, and probably will, while the war lasts. I suppose you know that what we call hospital here in the field is nothing but a collection of tents on the bare ground for a floor--rather hard accommodation for a sick man. They heat them there by digging a long trough in the ground under them, covering it over with old railroad iron and earth, and then building a fire at one end and letting it draw through and go out at the other, as both ends are open. This heats the ground through the middle of the hospital quite hot. I find some poor creatures crawling about pretty weak with diarrhoea; there is a great deal of that; they keep them until they get very bad indeed, and then send them to Washington. This aggravates the complaint, and they come into Washington in a terrible condition. O mother, how often and how many I have seen come into Washington from this awful complaint after such an experience as I have described--with the look of death on their poor young faces; they keep them so long in the field hospitals with poor accommodations the disease gets too deeply seated. To-day I have been out among some of the camps of the 2nd division of the 1st Corps. I have been wandering around all day, and have had a very good time, over woods, hills, and gullies--indeed, a real soldier's march. The weather is good and the travelling quite tolerable. I have been in the camps of some Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and New York regiments. I have friends in them, and went out to see them, and see soldiering generally, as I can never cease to crave more and more knowledge of actual soldiers' life, and to be among them as much as possible. This evening I have also been in a large wagoners' camp. They had good fires and were very cheerful. I went to see a friend there, too, but did not find him in. It is curious how many I find that I know and that know me. Mother, I have no difficulty at all in making myself at home among the soldiers, teamsters, or any--I most always find they like to have me very much; it seems to do them good. No doubt they soon feel that my heart and sympathies are truly with them, and it is both a novelty and pleases them and touches their feelings, and so doubtless does them good--and I am sure it does that to me. There is more fun around here than you would think for. I told you about the theatre the 14th Brooklyn has got up--they have songs and burlesques, etc.; some of the performers real good. As I write this I have heard in one direction or another two or three good bands playing--and hear one tooting away some gay tunes now, though it is quite late at night. Mother, I don't know whether I mentioned in my last letter that I took dinner with Col. Fowler one day early part of the week. His wife is stopping here. I was down at the 14th as I came along this evening, too--one of the officers told me about a presentation to George of a sword, etc.--he said he see it in the papers. The 14th invited me to come and be their guest while I staid here, but I have not been able to accept. Col. Fowler uses me tip-top--he is provost marshal of this region; makes a good officer. Mother, I could get no pen and ink to-night. Well, dear mother, I send you my love, and to George and Jeff and Mat and little girls and all. WALT. Direct to care of Major Hapgood as before, and write soon. Mother, I suppose you got a letter I wrote from down here last Monday. V _Washington, March 2, 1864._ DEAR MOTHER--You or Jeff must try to write as soon as you receive this and let me know how little Sis is. Tell me if she got entirely over the croup and how she is--also about George's trunks. I do hope he received them; it was such a misfortune; I want to hear the end of it; I am in hopes I shall hear that he has got them. I have not seen in the papers whether the 51st has left New York yet. Mother, I want to hear all about home and all the occurrences, especially the two things I have just mentioned, and how you are, for somehow I was thinking from your letters lately whether you was as well as usual or not. Write how my dear sister Mat is too, and whether you are still going to stay there in Portland avenue the coming year. Well, dear mother, I am just the same here--nothing new. I am well and hearty, and constantly moving around among the wounded and sick. There are a great many of the latter coming up--the hospitals here are quite full--lately they have [been] picking out in the hospitals all that had pretty well recovered, and sending them back to their regiments. They seem to be determined to strengthen the army this spring to the utmost. They are sending down many to their reg'ts that are not fit to go in my opinion--then there are squads and companies, and reg'ts, too, passing through here in one steady stream, going down to the front, returning from furlough home; but then there are quite a number leaving the army on furlough, re-enlisting, and going North for a while. They pass through here quite largely. Mother, Lewis Brown is getting quite well; he will soon be able to have a wooden leg put on. He is very restless and active, and wants to go round all the time. Sam Beatty is here in Washington. We have had quite a snow storm, but [it] is clear and sunny to-day here, but sloshy. I am wearing my army boots--anything but the dust. Dear Mother, I want to see you and Sis and Mat and all very much. If I can get a chance I think I shall come home for a while. I want to try to bring out a book of poems, a new one, to be called "Drum-Taps," and I want to come to New York for that purpose, too. Mother, I haven't given up the project of lecturing, either, but whatever I do, I shall for the main thing devote myself for years to come to these wounded and sick, what little I can. Well, good-bye, dear mother, for present--write soon. WALT. VI _Washington, March 15, 1861._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got a letter from Jeff last Sunday--he says you have a very bad cold indeed. Dear Mother, I feel very much concerned about it; I do hope it has passed over before this. Jeff wrote me about the house. I hope it will be so you can both remain in the same house; it would be much more satisfaction.... The poor boy very sick of brain fever I was with, is dead; he was only 19 and a noble boy, so good though out of his senses some eight days, though still having a kind of idea of things. No relative or friend was with him. It was very sad. I was with him considerable, only just sitting by him soothing him. He was wandering all the time. His talk was so affecting it kept the tears in my eyes much of the time. The last twenty-four hours he sank very rapidly. He had been sick some months ago and was put in the 6th Invalid Corps--they ought to have sent him home instead. The next morning after his death his brother came, a very fine man, postmaster at Lyne Ridge, Pa.--he was much affected, and well he might be. Mother, I think it worse than ever here in the hospitals. We are getting the dregs as it were of the sickness and awful hardships of the past three years. There is the most horrible cases of diarrhoea you ever conceived of and by the hundreds and thousands; I suppose from such diet as they have in the army. Well, dear mother, I will not write any more on the sick, and yet I know you wish to hear about them. Every one is so unfeeling; it has got to be an old story. There is no good nursing. O I wish you were--or rather women of such qualities as you and Mat--were here in plenty, to be stationed as matrons among the poor sick and wounded men. Just to be present would be enough--O what good it would do them. Mother, I feel so sick when I see what kind of people there are among them, with charge over them--so cold and ceremonious, afraid to touch them. Well, mother, I fear I have written you a flighty kind of a letter--I write in haste. WALT. The papers came right, mother--love to Jeff, Mat, and all. VII _Washington, March 22, 1861._ DEAREST MOTHER--I feel quite bad to hear that you are not well--have a pain in your side, and a very bad cold. Dear Mother, I hope it is better. I wish you would write to me, or Jeff would, right away, as I shall not feel easy until I hear. I rec'd George's letter. Jeff wrote with it, about your feeling pretty sick, and the pain. Mother, I also rec'd your letter a few days before. You say the Browns acted very mean, and I should say they did indeed, but as it is going to remain the same about the house, I should let it all pass. I am very glad Mat and Jeff are going to remain; I should not have felt satisfied if they and you had been separated. I have written a letter to Han, with others enclosed, a good long letter (took two postage stamps). I have written to George too, directed it to Knoxville. Mother, everything is the same with me; I am feeling very well indeed, the old trouble of my head stopt and my ears affected, has not troubled me any since I came back here from Brooklyn. I am writing this in Major Hapgood's old office, cor. 15th and F streets, where I have my old table and window. It is dusty and chilly to-day, anything but agreeable. Gen. Grant is expected every moment now in the Army of the Potomac to take active command. I have just this moment heard from the front--there is nothing yet of a movement, but each side is continually on the alert, expecting something to happen. O mother, to think that we are to have here soon what I have seen so many times, the awful loads and trains and boat loads of poor bloody and pale and wounded young men again--for that is what we certainly will, and before very long. I see all the little signs, geting ready in the hospitals, etc.; it is dreadful when one thinks about it. I sometimes think over the sights I have myself seen, the arrival of the wounded after a battle, and the scenes on the field too, and I can hardly believe my own recollections. What an awful thing war is! Mother, it seems not men but a lot of devils and butchers butchering each other. Dear mother, I think twenty times a day about your sickness. O, I hope it is not so bad as Jeff wrote. He said you was worse than you had ever been before, and he would write me again. Well, he must, even if only a few lines. What have you heard from Mary and her family, anything? Well, dear mother, I hope this will find you quite well of the pain, and of the cold--write about the little girls and Mat and all. WALT. VIII _Washington, March 29, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have written to George again to Knoxville. Things seem to be quiet down there so far. We think here that our forces are going to be made strongest here in Virginia this spring, and every thing bent to take Richmond. Grant is here; he is now down at headquarters in the field, Brandy station. We expect fighting before long; there are many indications. I believe I told you they had sent up all the sick from front. [_The letter is here mutilated so as to be illegible; from the few remaining words, however, it is possible to gather that the writer is describing the arrival of a_ train of wounded, over 600, _in Washington during_ a terribly rainy afternoon. _The letter continues_:] I could not keep the tears out of my eyes. Many of the poor young men had to be moved on stretchers, with blankets over them, which soon soaked as wet as water in the rain. Most were sick cases, but some badly wounded. I came up to the nearest hospital and helped. Mother, it was a dreadful night (last Friday night)--pretty dark, the wind gusty, and the rain fell in torrents. One poor boy--this is a sample of one case out of the 600--he seemed to be quite young, he was quite small (I looked at his body afterwards), he groaned some as the stretcher bearers were carrying him along, and again as they carried him through the hospital gate. They set down the stretcher and examined him, and the poor boy was dead. They took him into the ward, and the doctor came immediately, but it was all of no use. The worst of it is, too, that he is entirely unknown--there was nothing on his clothes, or any one with him to identity him, and he is altogether unknown. Mother, it is enough to rack one's heart--such things. Very likely his folks will never know in the world what has become of him. Poor, poor child, for he appeared as though he could be but 18. I feel lately as though I must have some intermission. I feel well and hearty enough, and was never better, but my feelings are kept in a painful condition a great part of the time. Things get worse and worse, as to the amount and sufferings of the sick, and as I have said before, those who have to do with them are getting more and more callous and indifferent. Mother, when I see the common soldiers, what they go through, and how everybody seems to try to pick upon them, and what humbug there is over them every how, even the dying soldier's money stolen from his body by some scoundrel attendant, or from [the] sick one, even from under his head, which is a common thing, and then the agony I see every day, I get almost frightened at the world. Mother, I will try to write more cheerfully next time--but I see so much. Well, good-bye for present, dear mother. WALT. IX _Washington, Thursday afternoon, March 31, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have just this moment received your letter dated last Monday evening. Dear mother, I have not seen anything in any paper where the 51st is, nor heard anything, but I do not feel any ways uneasy about them. I presume they are at Knoxville, Tennessee. Mother, they are now paying off many of the regiments in this army--but about George, I suppose there will be delays in sending money, etc. Dear mother, I wish I had some money to send you, but I am living very close by the wind. Mother, I will try somehow to send you something worth while, and I do hope you will not worry and feel unhappy about money matters; I know things are very high. Mother, I suppose you got my letter written Tuesday last, 29th March, did you not? I have been going to write to Jeff for more than a month--I laid out to write a good long letter, but something has prevented me, one thing and another; but I will try to write to-morrow sure. Mother, I have been in the midst of suffering and death for two months worse than ever--the only comfort is that I have been the cause of some beams of sunshine upon their suffering and gloomy souls, and bodies too. Many of the dying I have been with, too. Well, mother, you must not worry about the grocery bill, etc., though I suppose you will say that it is easier said than followed (as to me, I believe I worry about worldly things less than ever, if that is possible). Tell Jeff and Mat I send them my love. Gen. Grant has just come in town from front. The country here is all mad again. I am going to a spiritualist medium this evening--I expect it will be a humbug, of course. I will tell you next letter. Dear mother, keep a good heart. WALT. How is California? Tell Hat her Uncle Walt will come home one of these days, and take her to New York to walk in Broadway. Poor little Jim, I should like to see him. There is a rich young friend of mine wants me to go to Idaho with him to make money. X _Washington, Tuesday afternoon, April 5, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got a letter from Jeff yesterday--he says you often work too hard, exposing yourself; I suppose, scrubbing, etc., and the worst of it is I am afraid it is true. Mother, I would take things easy, and let up on the scrubbing and such things; they may be needed perhaps, but they ain't half as much needed as that you should be as well as possible, and free from rheumatism and cold. Jeff says that ---- has had the chicken pox. Has she got all over it? I want to hear. So Nance has had another child, poor little one; there don't seem to be much show for it, poor little young one, these times. We are having awful rainy weather here. It is raining to-day steady and spiteful enough. The soldiers in camp are having the benefit of it, and the sick, many of them. There is a great deal of rheumatism and also throat disease, and they are affected by the weather. I have writ to George again, directed to Knoxville. Mother, I got a letter this morning from Lewis Brown, the young man that had his leg amputated two months or so ago (the one that I slept in the hospital by several nights for fear of hemorrhage from the amputation). He is home at Elkton, Maryland, on furlough. He wants me to come out there, but I believe I shall not go--he is doing very well. There are many very bad now in hospital, so many of the soldiers are getting broke down after two years, or two and a half, exposure and bad diet, pork, hard biscuit, bad water or none at all, etc., etc.--so we have them brought up here. Oh, it is terrible, and getting worse, worse, worse. I thought it was bad; to see these I sometimes think is more pitiful still. Well, mother, I went to see the great spirit medium, Foster. There were some little things some might call curious, perhaps, but it is a shallow thing and a humbug. A gentleman who was with me was somewhat impressed, but I could not see anything in it worth calling supernatural. I wouldn't turn on my heel to go again and see such things, or twice as much. We had table rappings and lots of nonsense. I will give you particulars when I come home one of these days. Jeff, I believe there is a fate on your long letter; I thought I would write it to-day, but as it happens I will hardly get this in the mail, I fear, in time for to-day. O how I want to see you all, and Sis and Hat. Well, I have scratched out a great letter just as fast as I could write. _Wednesday forenoon._ Mother, I didn't get the letter in the mail yesterday. I have just had my breakfast, some good tea and good toast and butter. I write this in my room, 456 Sixth st. The storm seems to be over. Dear mother, I hope you are well and in good spirits--write to me often as you can, and Jeff too. Any news from Han? WALT. XI _Washington, April 10, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I rec'd your letter and sent the one you sent for George immediately--he must have got it the next day. I had got one from him before yours arrived. I mean to go to Annapolis and see him. Mother, we expect a commencement of the fighting below very soon; there is every indication of it. We have had about as severe rain storms here lately as I ever see. It is middling pleasant now. There are exciting times in Congress--the Copperheads are getting furious and want to recognize the Southern Confederacy. This is a pretty time to talk of recognizing such villains after what they have done, and after what has transpired the last three years. After first Fredericksburg I felt discouraged myself, and doubted whether our rulers could carry on the war--but that has passed away. The war must be carried on, and I could willingly go myself in the ranks if I thought it would profit more than at present, and I don't know sometimes but I shall as it is. Mother, you don't know what a feeling a man gets after being in the active sights and influences of the camp, the army, the wounded, etc. He gets to have a deep feeling he never experienced before--the flag, the tune of Yankee Doodle and similar things, produce an effect on a fellow never such before. I have seen some bring tears on the men's cheeks, and others turn pale, under such circumstances. I have a little flag; it belonged to one of our cavalry reg'ts; presented to me by one of the wounded. It was taken by the Secesh in a cavalry fight, and rescued by our men in a bloody little skirmish. It cost three men's lives, just to get one little flag, four by three. Our men rescued it, and tore it from the breast of a dead Rebel--all that just for the name of getting their little banner back again. The man that got it was very badly wounded, and they let him keep it. I was with him a good deal; he wanted to give me something, he said, he didn't expect to live, so he gave me the little banner as a keepsake. I mention this, mother, to show you a specimen of the feeling. There isn't a reg't, cavalry or infantry, that wouldn't do the same on occasion. _Tuesday morning, April 12._ Mother, I will finish my letter this morning. It is a beautiful day to-day. I was up in Congress very late last night. The house had a very excited night session about expelling the men that want to recognize the Southern Confederacy. You ought to hear the soldiers talk. They are excited to madness. We shall probably have hot times here, not in the army alone. The soldiers are true as the North Star. I send you a couple of envelopes, and one to George. Write how you are, dear mother, and all the rest. I want to see you all. Jeff, my dear brother, I wish you was here, and Mat too. Write how Sis is. I am well, as usual; indeed first rate every way. I want to come on in a month and try to print my "Drum-Taps." I think it may be a success pecuniarily, too. Dearest mother, I hope this will find you entirely well, and dear sister Mat and all. WALT. XII _Washington, Tuesday noon, April 19, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I haven't heard any news from home now in more than a week. I hope you are well, dear mother, and all the rest too. There is nothing new with me. I can only write the same old story about going to the hospitals, etc., etc. I have not heard anything since from George--have you heard anything further? I have written to him to Annapolis. We are having it pretty warm here to-day, after a long spell of rain storms, but the last two or three days very fine. Mother, I suppose you got my letter of last Tuesday, 12th. I went down to the Capitol the nights of the debate on the expulsion of Mr. Long last week. They had night sessions, very late. I like to go to the House of Representatives at night; it is the most magnificent hall, so rich and large, and lighter at night than it is days, and still not a light visible--it comes through the glass roof--but the speaking and the ability of the members is nearly always on a low scale. It is very curious and melancholy to see such a rate of talent there, such tremendous times as these--I should say about the same range of genius as our old friend Dr. Swaim, just about. You may think I am joking, but I am not, mother--I am speaking in perfect earnest. The Capitol grows upon one in time, especially as they have got the great figure on top of it now, and you can see it very well. It is a great bronze figure, the Genius of Liberty I suppose. It looks wonderful towards sundown. I love to go and look at it. The sun when it is nearly down shines on the headpiece and it dazzles and glistens like a big star; it looks quite curious. Well, mother, we have commenced on another summer, and what it will bring forth who can tell? The campaign of this summer is expected here to be more active and severe than any yet. As I told you in a former letter, Grant is determined to bend everything to take Richmond and break up the banditti of scoundrels that have stuck themselves up there as a "government." He is in earnest about it; his whole soul and all his thoughts night and day are upon it. He is probably the most in earnest of any man in command or in the Government either--that's something, ain't it, mother?--and they are bending everything to fight for their last chance--calling in their forces from Southwest, etc. Dear mother, give my love to dear brother Jeff and Mat and all. I write this in my room, 6th st. WALT. XIII _Washington, April 26, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--Burnside's army passed through here yesterday. I saw George and walked with him in the regiment for some distance and had quite a talk. He is very well; he is very much tanned and looks hardy. I told him all the latest news from home. George stands it very well, and looks and behaves the same noble and good fellow he always was and always will be. It was on 14th st. I watched three hours before the 51st came along. I joined him just before they came to where the President and Gen. Burnside were standing with others on a balcony, and the interest of seeing me, etc., made George forget to notice the President and salute him. He was a little annoyed at forgetting it. I called his attention to it, but we had passed a little too far on, and George wouldn't turn round even ever so little. However, there was a great many more than half the army passed without noticing Mr. Lincoln and the others, for there was a great crowd all through the streets, especially here, and the place where the President stood was not conspicuous from the rest. The 9th Corps made a very fine show indeed. There were, I should think, five very full regiments of new black troops, under Gen. Ferrero. They looked and marched very well. It looked funny to see the President standing with his hat off to them just the same as the rest as they passed by. Then there [were the] Michigan regiments; one of them was a regiment of sharpshooters, partly composed of Indians. Then there was a pretty strong force of artillery and a middling force of cavalry--many New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, R. I., etc., reg'ts. All except the blacks were veterans [that had] seen plenty of fighting. Mother, it is very different to see a real army of fighting men, from one of those shows in Brooklyn, or New York, or on Fort Greene. Mother, it was a curious sight to see these ranks after rank of our own dearest blood of men, mostly young, march by, worn and sunburnt and sweaty, with well-worn clothes and thin bundles, and knapsacks, tin cups, and some with frying pans strapt over their backs, all dirty and sweaty, nothing real neat about them except their muskets; but they were all as clean and bright as silver. They were four or five hours passing along, marching with wide ranks pretty quickly, too. It is a great sight to see an army 25 or 30,000 on the march. They are all so gay, too. Poor fellows, nothing dampens their spirits. They all got soaked with rain the night before. I saw Fred McReady and Capt. Sims, and Col. Le Gendre, etc. I don't know exactly where Burnside's army is going. Among other rumors it is said they [are] to go [with] the Army of the Potomac to act as a reserve force, etc. Another is that they are to make a flank march, to go round and get Lee on the side, etc. I haven't been out this morning and don't know what news--we know nothing, only that there is without doubt to be a terrible campaign here in Virginia this summer, and that all who know deepest about it are very serious about it. Mother, it is serious times. I do not feel to fret or whimper, but in my heart and soul about our country, the forthcoming campaign with all its vicissitudes and the wounded and slain--I dare say, mother, I feel the reality more than some because I am in the midst of its saddest results so much. Others may say what they like, I believe in Grant and in Lincoln, too. I think Grant deserves to be trusted. He is working continually. No one knows his plans; we will only know them when he puts them in operation. Our army is very large here in Virginia this spring, and they are still pouring in from east and west. You don't see about it in the papers, but we have a very large army here. Mother, I am first rate in health, thank God; I never was better. Dear mother, have you got over all that distress and sickness in your head? You must write particular about it. Dear brother Jeff, how are you, and how is Matty, and how the dear little girls? Jeff, I believe the devil is in it about my writing you; I have laid out so many weeks to write you a good long letter, and something has shoved it off each time. Never mind, mother's letters keep you posted. You must write, and don't forget to tell me all about Sis. Is she as good and interesting as she was six months ago? Mother, have you heard anything from Han? Mother, I have just had my breakfast. I had it in my room--some hard biscuit warmed on the stove, and a bowl of strong tea with good milk and sugar. I have given a Michigan soldier his breakfast with me. He relished it, too; he has just gone. Mother, I have just heard again that Burnside's troops are to be a reserve to protect Washington, so there may be something in it. WALT. It is very fine weather here yesterday and to-day. The hospitals are very full; they are putting up hundreds of hospital tents. XIV _Washington, April 28, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I thought I would write you just a line, though I have nothing of importance--only the talk of the street here seems more and more to assert that Burnside's army is to remain near here to protect Washington and act as a reserve, so that Grant can move the Army of the Potomac upon Richmond, without being compelled to turn and be anxious about the Capital; also that Burnside can attend to Lee if the latter should send any force up west of here (what they call the valley of the Shenandoah), or invade Pennsylvania again. I thought you would like to hear this; it looks plausible, but there are lots of rumors of all kinds. I cannot hear where Burnside's army is, as they don't allow the papers to print army movements, but I fancy they are very near Washington, the other side of Arlington heights, this moment. Mother, I wrote yesterday to Han, and sent one of George's letters from Annapolis. Mother, I suppose you got my letter of Tuesday, 26th. I have not heard anything from you in quite a little while. I am still well. The weather is fine; quite hot yesterday. Mother, I am now going down to see a poor soldier who is very low with a long diarrhoea--he cannot recover. When I was with him last night, he asked me before I went away to ask God's blessing on him. He says, I am no scholar and you are--poor dying man, I told him I hoped from the bottom of my heart God would bless him, and bring him up yet. I soothed him as well as I could; it was affecting, I can tell you. Jeff, I wrote to Mr. Kirkwood yesterday to 44 Pierrepont st. He sent me some money last Monday. Is Probasco still in the store in N. Y.? Dear sister Mat, I quite want to see you and California, not forgetting my little Hattie, too. WALT. _2 o'clock, 28th April._ DEAREST MOTHER--Just as I was going to mail this I received authentic information [that] Burnside's army is now about 16 or 18 miles south of here, at a place called Fairfax Court House. They had last night no orders to move at present, and I rather think they will remain there, or near there. What I have written before as a rumor about their being to be held as a reserve, to act whenever occasion may need them, is now quite decided on. You may hear a rumor in New York that they have been shipped in transports from Alexandria--there is no truth in it at all. Grant's Army of the Potomac is probably to do the heavy work. His army is strong and full of fight. Mother, I think it is to-day the noblest army of soldiers that ever marched--nobody can know the men as well as I do, I sometimes think. Mother, I am writing this in Willard's hotel, on my way down to hospital after I leave this at post office. I shall come out to dinner at 4 o'clock and then go back to hospital again in evening. Good bye, dear mother and all. WALT. XV _Washington, May 3, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I received your letter dated last Friday afternoon, with one from Mr. Heyde. It seems by that Han is better, but, as you say, it would be much more satisfactory if Han would write to us herself. Mother, I believe I told you I sent a letter to Han last week, enclosing one of George's from Annapolis. I was glad to get Heyde's letter, though, as it was. Mother, I am sorry you still have returns of your cold. Does it affect your head like it did? Dear mother, I hope you will not expose yourself, nor work too much, but take things easier. I have nothing different to write about the war, or movements here. What I wrote last Thursday, about Burnside's Corps being probably used as a reserve, is still talked of here, and seems to be probable. A large force is necessary to guard the railroad between here and Culpepper, and also to keep from any emergency that might happen, and I shouldn't wonder if the 9th would be used for such purpose, at least for the present. I think the 51st must be down not very far from Fairfax Court House yet, but I haven't heard certain. Mother, I have seen a person up from front this morning. There is no movement yet and no fighting started. The men are in their camps yet. Gen. Grant is at Culpepper. You need not pay the slightest attention to such things as you mention in the _Eagle_, about the 9th Corps--the writer of it, and very many of the writers on war matters in those papers, don't know one bit more on what they are writing about than Ed does. Mother, you say in your letter you got my letter the previous afternoon. Why, mother, you ought to [have] got it Wednesday forenoon, or afternoon at furthest. This letter now will get in New York Wednesday morning, by daylight--you ought to get it before noon. The postmaster in Brooklyn must have a pretty set of carriers, to take twice as long to take a letter from New York to you as it does to go from Washington to N. Y. Mother, I suppose you got a letter from me Friday, also, as I wrote a second letter on Thursday last, telling you the 9th Corps was camped then about sixteen miles from here. About George's pictures, perhaps you better wait till I hear from him, before sending them. I remain well as usual. The poor fellow I mentioned in one of my letters last week, with diarrhoea, that wanted me to ask God's blessing on him, was still living yesterday afternoon, but just living. He is only partially conscious, is all wasted away to nothing, and lies most of the time in half stupor, as they give him brandy copiously. Yesterday I was there by him a few minutes. He is very much averse to taking brandy, and there was some trouble in getting him to take it. He is almost totally deaf the last five or six days. There is no chance for him at all. Quite a particular friend of mine, Oscar Cunningham, an Ohio boy, had his leg amputated yesterday close up by the thigh. It was a pretty tough operation. He was badly wounded just a year ago to-day at Chancellorsville and has suffered a great deal; lately got erysipelas in his leg and foot. I forget whether I have mentioned him before or not. He was a very large, noble-looking young man when I first see him. The doctor thinks he will live and get up, but I consider [it] by no means so certain. He is very much prostrated. Well, dear mother, you must write and Jeff too--I do want to see you all very much. How does Mat get along, and how little Sis and all? I send my love to you and Jeff and all. We are having a very pleasant, coolish day here. I am going down to post office to leave this, and then up to my old friends the O'Connors to dinner, and then down to hospital. Well, good-bye, dear mother, for present. WALT. _Tuesday afternoon, 3 o'clock._ Mother, just as I was going to seal my letter, Major Hapgood has come in from the P. O. and brings me a few lines from George, which I enclose--you will see they were written four days ago. XVI _Washington, May 6, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I write you a few lines, as I know you feel anxious these times. I suppose the New York papers must have it in this morning that the Army of the Potomac has made a move, and has crossed the Rapidan river. At any rate that is the case. As near as I can learn about Burnside's army, that lies in the rear of the Army of the Potomac (from Warrenton, Virginia and so to Rappahannock river and up toward Manassas). It still appears to be kept as a reserve and for emergencies, etc. I have not heard anything from the 51st. Mother, of course you got my letter of Tuesday, 3rd, with the letter from George dated Bristoe station. I have writ to George since, and addressed the letter Warrenton, Va., or elsewhere, thinking he might get it. Mother, the idea is entertained quite largely here that the Rebel army will retreat to Richmond, as it is well known that Grant is very strong (most folks say too strong for Lee). I suppose you know we menace them almost as much from up Fortress Monroe as we do from the Rapidan. Butler and W. F. Smith are down there with at least fifty or sixty thousand men, and will move up simultaneously with Grant. The occasion is very serious, and anxious, but somehow I am full of hope, and feel that we shall take Richmond--(I hope to go there yet before the hot weather is past). Dear mother, I hope you are well, and little California--love to Jeff and Mat and all. WALT. Mother, you ought to get this letter Saturday forenoon, as it will be in N. Y. by sunrise Saturday, 7th. Mother, the poor soldier with diarrhoea is still living, but, O, what a looking object; death would be a boon to him; he cannot last many hours. Cunningham, the Ohio boy with leg amputated at thigh, has picked up beyond expectation now!--looks altogether like getting well. The hospitals are very full. I am very well indeed--pretty warm here to-day. XVII _Washington, Monday, 2 o'clock--May 9, '64._ DEAREST MOTHER--There is nothing from the army more than you know in the N. Y. papers. The fighting has been hard enough, but the papers make lots of additional items, and a good deal that they just entirely make up. There are from 600 to 1000 wounded coming up here--not 6 to 8000 as the papers have it. I cannot hear what part the 9th Corps took in the fight of Friday and afterwards, nor whether they really took any at all--(they, the papers, are determined to make up just anything). Mother, I received your letter and Han's--and was glad indeed to get both. Mother, you must not be under such apprehension, as I think it is not warranted. So far as we get news here, we are gaining the day, so far _decidedly_. If the news we hear is true that Lee has been repulsed and driven back by Grant, and that we are masters of the field, and pursuing them--then I think Lee will retreat south, and Richmond will be abandoned by the Rebs. But of course time only can develope what will happen. Mother, I will write again Wednesday, or before, if I hear anything to write. Love to Jeff and Mat and all. WALT. XVIII _Washington, May 10, '64_ (_1/2 past 2 p.m._) DEAREST MOTHER--There is nothing perhaps more than you see in the N. Y. papers. The fighting down in the field on the 6th I think ended in our favor, though with pretty severe losses to some of our divisions. The fighting is about 70 miles from here, and 50 from Richmond--on the 7th and 8th followed up by the Rebel army hauling off, they say retreating, and Meade pursuing. It is quite mixed yet, but I guess we have the best of it. If we really have, Richmond is a goner, for they cannot do any better than they have done. The 9th Corps was in the fight, and where I cannot tell yet, but from the wounded I have seen I don't think that Corps was deeply in. I have seen 300 wounded. They came in last night. I asked for men of 9th Corps, but could not find any at all. These 300 men were not badly wounded, mostly in arms, hands, trunk of body, etc. They could all walk, though some had an awful time of it. They had to fight their way with the worst in the middle out of the region of Fredericksburg, and so on where they could get across the Rappahannock and get where they found transportation to Washington. The Gov't has decided, (or rather Gen. Meade has) to occupy Fredericksburg for depot and hospital--(I think that is a first rate decision)--so the wounded men will receive quick attention and surgery, instead of being racked through the long journey up here. Still, many come in here. Mother, my impression is that we have no great reason for alarm or sadness about George so far. Of course I _know_ nothing. Well, good-bye, dearest mother. WALT. Mother, I wrote you yesterday, too. Tell dear brother Jeff to write me. Love to Mat. The poor diarrhoea man died, and it was a boon. Oscar Cunningham, 82nd Ohio, has had a relapse. I fear it is going bad with him. Lung diseases are quite plenty--night before last I staid in hospital all night tending a poor fellow. It has been awful hot here--milder to-day. XIX [_Washington_] _May 12, 1/2 past 5 p.m._ DEAREST MOTHER--George is all right, unhurt, up to Tuesday morning, 10th inst. The 51st was in a bad battle last Friday; lost 20 killed, between 40 and 50 wounded. I have just seen some of the 51st wounded just arrived, one of them Fred Saunders, Corporal Co. K, George's company. He said when he left the 51st was in rear on guard duty. He left Tuesday morning last. The papers have it that Burnside's Corps was in a fight Tuesday, but I think it most probable the 51st was not in it. Fred McReady is wounded badly, but not seriously. Sims is safe. You see Le Gendre is wounded--he was shot through the bridge of nose. Mother, you ought to get this Friday forenoon, 13th. I will write again soon. Wrote once before to-day. WALT. XX _Washington, May 13, 1864, 2 o'clock p. m._ DEAREST MOTHER--I wrote you a hurried letter late yesterday afternoon but left it myself at the P. O. in time for the mail. You ought to have got it this forenoon, or afternoon at furthest. I sent you two letters yesterday. I hope the carrier brings you your letters the same day. I wrote to the Brooklyn postmaster about it. I have heard from George up to Tuesday morning last, 10th, till which time he was safe. The battle of Friday, 6th, was very severe. George's Co. K lost one acting sergeant, Sturgis, killed, 2 men killed, 4 wounded. As I wrote yesterday, I have seen here Corp. Fred Saunders of Co. K, who was wounded in side, nothing serious, in Friday's fight, and came up here. I also talked with Serg. Brown, Co. F, 51st, rather badly wounded in right shoulder. Saunders said, when he left Tuesday morning he heard (or saw them there, I forget which) the 51st and its whole division were on guard duty toward the rear. The 9th Corps, however, has had hard fighting since, but whether the division or brigade the 51st is in was in the fights of Tuesday, 10th, (a pretty severe one) or Wednesday, I cannot tell, and it is useless to make calculations--and the only way is to wait and hope for the best. As I wrote yesterday, there were some 30 of 51st reg't killed and 50 wounded in Friday's battle, 6th inst. I have seen Col. Le Gendre. He is here in Washington not far from where I am, 485 12th st. is his address. Poor man, I felt sorry indeed for him. He is badly wounded and disfigured. He is shot through the bridge of the nose, and left eye probably lost. I spent a little time with him this forenoon. He is suffering very much, spoke of George very kindly; said "Your brother is well." His orderly told me he saw him, George, Sunday night last, well. Fred McReady is wounded in hip, I believe bone fractured--bad enough, but not deeply serious. I cannot hear of his arrival here. If he comes I shall find him immediately and take care of him myself. He is probably yet at Fredericksburg, but will come up, I think. Yesterday and to-day the badly wounded are coming in. The long lists of _previous arrivals_, (I suppose they are all reprinted at great length in N. Y. papers) are of men three-fourths of them quite slightly wounded, and the rest hurt pretty bad. I was thinking, mother, if one could see the men who arrived in the first squads, of two or three hundred at a time, one wouldn't be alarmed at those terrible long lists. Still there is a sufficient sprinkling of deeply distressing cases. I find my hands full all the time, with new and old cases--poor suffering young men, I think of them, and do try, mother, to do what I can for them, (and not think of the vexatious skedaddlers and merely scratched ones, of whom there are too many lately come here). Dearest mother, hope you and all are well--you must keep a good heart. Still, the fighting is very mixed, but it _seems steadily turning into real successes_ for Grant. The news to-day here is very good--you will see it [in the] N. Y. papers. I steadily believe Grant is going to succeed, and that we shall have Richmond--but O what a price to pay for it. We have had a good rain here and it is pleasanter and cooler. I shall write very soon again. WALT. XXI _Washington, May 18, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I will only write you a hasty note this time, as I am pretty tired, and my head feels disagreeable from being in too much. I was up yesterday to Carver hospital and again saw the man of the 51st, Thos. McCowell, who told me of George, up to latter part of Thursday, 12th inst. I questioned him, and his story was very clear, so I felt perfectly satisfied. He is wounded in hand; will be transferred soon to New York and may call on you. He is a young Irishman, and seems to be a very good fellow indeed. I have written to George, day before yesterday. Did you send my last letter to Han? If not, send it yet. Mother, I see such awful things. I expect one of these days, if I live, I shall have awful thoughts and dreams--but it is such a great thing to be able to do some real good; assuage these horrible pains and wounds, and save life even--that's the only thing that keeps a fellow up. Well, dear mother, I make such reckoning of yet coming on and seeing you. How I want to see Jeff, too--O, it is too bad I have not written to him so long--and Mat, too, and little California and all. I am going out now a little while. I remain first rate, as well as ever. WALT. XXII _Washington, Monday forenoon, May 23, '64._ DEAR BROTHER JEFF--I received your letter yesterday. I too had got a few lines from George, dated on the field, 16th. He said he had also just written to mother. I cannot make out there has been any fighting since in which the 9th Corps has been engaged. I do hope mother will not get despondent and so unhappy. I suppose it is idle to say I think George's chances are very good for coming out of this campaign safe, yet at present it seems to me so--but it is indeed idle to say so, for no one can tell what a day may bring forth. Sometimes I think that should it come, when it _must_ be, to fall in battle, one's anguish over a son or brother killed would be tempered with much to take the edge off. I can honestly say it has no terrors for me, if I had to be hit in battle, as far as I myself am concerned. It would be a noble and manly death and in the best cause. Then one finds, as I have the past year, that our feelings and imaginations make a thousand times too much of the whole matter. Of the many I have seen die, or known of, the past year, I have not seen or heard of _one_ who met death with any terror. Yesterday afternoon I spent a good part of the afternoon with a young man of 17, named Charles Cutter, of Lawrence city, Mass., 1st Mass. heavy artillery, battery M. He was brought in to one of the hospitals mortally wounded in abdomen. Well, I thought to myself as I sat looking at him, it ought to be a relief to his folks after all, if they could see how little he suffered. He lay very placid in a half lethargy with his eyes closed. It was very warm, and I sat a long while fanning him and wiping the sweat. At length he opened his eyes quite wide and clear and looked inquiringly around. I said, "What is it, my dear? do you want anything?" He said quietly, with a good natured smile, "O nothing; I was only looking around to see who was with me." His mind was somewhat wandering, yet he lay so peaceful, in his dying condition. He seemed to be a real New England country boy, so good natured, with a pleasant homely way, and quite a fine looking boy. Without any doubt he died in course of night. There don't seem to be any war news of importance very late. We have been fearfully disappointed with Sigel not making his junction from the lower part of the valley, and perhaps harassing Lee's left or left rear, which the junction or equivalent to it was an indispensable part of Grant's plan, we think. This is one great reason why things have lagged so with the Army. Some here are furious with Sigel. You will see he has been superseded. His losses [in] his repulse are not so important, though annoying enough, but it was of the greatest consequence that he should have hastened through the gaps ten or twelve days ago at all hazards and come in from the west, keeping near enough to our right to have assistance if he needed it. Jeff, I suppose you know that there has been quite a large army lying idle, mostly of artillery reg'ts, manning the numerous forts around here. They have been the fattest and heartiest reg'ts anywhere to be seen, and full in numbers, some of them numbering 2000 men. Well, they have all, every one, been shoved down to the front. Lately we have had the militia reg'ts pouring in here, mostly from Ohio. They look first rate. I saw two or three come in yesterday, splendid American young men, from farms mostly. We are to have them for a hundred days and probably they will not refuse to stay another hundred. Jeff, tell mother I shall write Wednesday certain (or if I hear anything I will write to-morrow). I still think we shall get Richmond. WALT. Jeff, you must take this up to mother as soon as you go home. Jeff, I have changed my quarters. I moved Saturday last. I am now at 502 Pennsylvania av., near 3rd st. I still go a little almost daily to Major Hapgood's, cor. 15th and F sts., 5th floor. Am apt to be there about 12 or 1. See Fred McReady and others of 51st. George's letter to me of 16th I sent to Han. Should like to see Mr. Worther if he comes here--give my best remembrance to Mr. Lane. I may very likely go down for a few days to Ball Plain and Fredericksburg, but one is wanted here permanently more than any other place. I have written to George several times in hopes one at least may reach him. Matty, my dear sister, how are you getting along? O how I should like to see you this very day. XXIII _Washington, May 25, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have not heard anything of George or the reg't or Corps more than I have already written. I got Jeff's letter on Sunday and wrote to him next day, which you have seen, mother, of course. I have written to Han and sent her George's letter to me dated 16th. I have heard that the 9th Corps has been moved to the extreme left of the army. I should think by accounts this morning that the army must be nearly half way from Fredericksburg to Richmond. The advance can't be more than 30 to 35 miles from there. I see Fred McReady about every other day. I have to go down to Alexandria, about 6 miles from here. He is doing quite well, but very tired of the confinement. I still go around daily and nightly among wounded. Mother, it is just the same old story; poor suffering young men, great swarms of them, come up here now every day all battered and bloody--there have 4000 arrived here this morning, and 1500 yesterday. They appear to be bringing them all up here from Fredericksburg. The journey from the field till they get aboard the boats at Ball plain is horrible. I believe I wrote several times about Oscar Cunningham, 82nd Ohio, amputation of right leg, wounded over a year ago, a friend of mine here. He is rapidly sinking; said to me yesterday, O, if he could only die. The young lad Cutter, of 1st Massachusetts heavy artillery, I was with Sunday afternoon, (I wrote about in Jeff's letter) still holds out. Poor boy, there is no chance for him at all. But mother, I shall make you gloomy enough if I go on with these kind of particulars--only I know you like to hear about the poor young men, after I have once begun to mention them. Mother, I have changed my quarters--am at 502 Pennsylvania av., near 3d street, only a little way from the Capitol. Where I was, the house was sold and the old lady I hired the room from had to move out and give the owner possession. I like my new quarters pretty well--I have a room to myself, 3d story hall bedroom. I have my meals in the house. Mother, it must be sad enough about Nance and the young ones. Is the little baby still hearty? I believe you wrote a few weeks after it was born that it was quite a fine child. I see you had a draft in the 3d Congressional district. I was glad enough to see Jeff's name was not drawn. We have had it awful hot here, but there was a sharp storm of thunder and lightning last night, and to-day it is fine. Mother, do any of the soldiers I see here from Brooklyn or New York ever call upon you? They sometimes say they will here. Tell Jeff I got a letter yesterday from W. E. Worthen, in which he sent me some money for the men. I have acknowledged it to Mr. W. by letter. Well, dear mother, I must close. O, how I want to see you all--I will surely have to come home as soon as this Richmond campaign is decided--then I want to print my new book. Love to Mat--write to a fellow often as you can. WALT. XXIV _Washington, May 30, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have no news at all to write this time. I have not heard anything of the 51st since I last wrote you, and about the general war news only what you see in the papers. Grant is gradually getting nearer and nearer to Richmond. Many here anticipate that should Grant go into Richmond, Lee will make a side movement and march up west into the North, either to attempt to strike Washington, or to go again into Pennsylvania. I only say if that should happen, I for one shall not be dissatisfied so very much. Well, mother, how are you getting along home?--how do you feel in health these days, dear mother? I hope you are well and in good heart yet. I remain pretty well: my head begins to trouble me a little with a sort of fullness, as it often does in the hot weather. Singular to relate, the 1st Mass. artillery boy, Charles Cutter, is still living, and may get well. I saw him this morning. I am still around among wounded same, but will not make you feel blue by filling my letter with sad particulars. I am writing this in Willard's hotel, hurrying to catch this afternoon's mail. Mother, do you get your letters now next morning, as you ought? I got a letter from the postmaster of Brooklyn about it--said if the letters were neglected again, to send him word. I have not heard from home now in some days. I am going to put up a lot of my old things in a box and send them home by express. I will write when I send them. Have you heard anything from Mary or Han lately? I should like to hear. Tell Jeff he must write, and you must, too, mother. I have been in one of the worst hospitals all the forenoon, it containing about 1600. I have given the men pipes and tobacco. (I am the only one that gives them tobacco.) O how much good it does some of them--the chaplains and most of the doctors are down upon it--but I give them and let them smoke. To others I have given oranges, fed them, etc. Well, dear mother, good-bye--love to Matty and Sis. WALT. Fred McReady is coming home very soon on furlough--have any of the soldiers called on you? XXV _Washington, June 3, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--Your letter came yesterday. I have not heard the least thing from the 51st since--no doubt they are down there with the army near Richmond. I have not written to George lately. I think the news from the Army is very good. Mother, you know of course that it is now very near Richmond indeed, from five to ten miles. Mother, if this campaign was not in progress I should not stop here, as it is now beginning to tell a little upon me, so many bad wounds, many putrefied, and all kinds of dreadful ones, I have been rather too much with--but as it is, I certainly remain here while the thing remains undecided. It is impossible for me to abstain from going to see and minister to certain cases, and that draws me into others, and so on. I have just left Oscar Cunningham, the Ohio boy--he is in a dying condition--there is no hope for him--it would draw tears from the hardest heart to look at him--he is all wasted away to a skeleton, and looks like some one fifty years old. You remember I told you a year ago, when he was first brought in, I thought him the noblest specimen of a young Western man I had seen, a real giant in size, and always with a smile on his face. O what a change. He has long been very irritable to every one but me, and his frame is all wasted away. The young Massachusetts 1st artillery boy, Cutter, I wrote about is dead. He is the one that was brought in a week ago last Sunday badly wounded in breast. The deaths in the principal hospital I visit, Armory-square, average one an hour. I saw Capt. Baldwin of the 14th this morning; he has lost his left arm--is going home soon. Mr. Kalbfleisch and Anson Herrick, (M. C. from New York), came in one of the wards where I was sitting writing a letter this morning, in the midst of the wounded. Kalbfleisch was so much affected by the sight that he burst into tears. O, I must tell you, I [gave] in Carver hospital a great treat of ice cream, a couple of days ago--went round myself through about 15 large wards--(I bought some ten gallons, very nice). You would have cried and been amused too. Many of the men had to be fed; several of them I saw cannot probably live, yet they quite enjoyed it. I gave everybody some--quite a number [of] Western country boys had never tasted ice cream before. They relish such things [as] oranges, lemons, etc. Mother, I feel a little blue this morning, as two young men I knew very well have just died. One died last night, and the other about half an hour before I went to the hospital. I did not anticipate the death of either of them. Each was a very, very sad case, so young. Well mother, I see I have written you another gloomy sort of letter. I do not feel as first rate as usual. WALT. You don't know how I want to come home and see you all; you, dear mother, and Jeff and Mat and all. I believe I am homesick--something new for me--then I have seen all the horrors of soldiers' life and not been kept up by its excitement. It is awful to see so much, and not be able to relieve it. XXVI _Washington, June 7, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I cannot write you anything about the 51st, as I have not heard a word. I felt very much disturbed yesterday afternoon, as Major Hapgood came up from the paymaster general's office, and said that news had arrived that Burnside was killed, and that the 9th Corps had had a terrible slaughter. He said it was believed at the paymaster general's office. Well, I went out to see what reliance there was on it. The rumor soon spread over town, and was believed by many--but as near as I can make it out, it proves to be one of those unaccountable stories that get started these times. Saturday night we heard that Grant was routed completely, etc. etc.--so that's the way stories fly. I suppose you hear the same big lies there in Brooklyn. Well, the truth is sad enough, without adding anything to it--but Grant is not destroyed yet, but I think is going into Richmond yet, but the cost is terrible. Mother, I have not felt well at all the last week. I had spells of deathly faintness and bad trouble in my head too, and sore throat (quite a little budget, ain't they?) My head was the worst, though I don't know, the faint spells were not very pleasant--but I feel so much better this forenoon I believe it has passed over. There is a very horrible collection in Armory building, (in Armory-square hospital)--about 200 of the worst cases you ever see, and I had been probably too much with them. It is enough to melt the heart of a stone; over one third of them are amputation cases. Well, mother, poor Oscar Cunningham is gone at last. He is the 82d Ohio boy (wounded May 3d, '63). I have written so much of him I suppose you feel as if you almost knew him. I was with him Saturday forenoon and also evening. He was more composed than usual, could not articulate very well. He died about 2 o'clock Sunday morning--very easy they told me. I was not there. It was a blessed relief; his life has been misery for months. The cause of death at last was the system absorbing the pus, the bad matter, instead of discharging it from [the] wound. I believe I told you I was quite blue from the deaths of several of the poor young men I knew well, especially two I had strong hopes of their getting up. Things are going pretty badly with the wounded. They are crowded here in Washington in immense numbers, and all those that come up from the Wilderness and that region, arrived here so neglected, and in such plight, it was awful--(those that were at Fredericksburg and also from Ball Plain). The papers are full of puffs, etc., but the truth is, the largest proportion of worst cases got little or no attention. We receive them here with their wounds full of worms--some all swelled and inflamed. Many of the amputations have to be done over again. One new feature is that many of the poor afflicted young men are crazy. Every ward has some in it that are wandering. They have suffered too much, and it is perhaps a privilege that they are out of their senses. Mother, it is most too much for a fellow, and I sometimes wish I was out of it--but I suppose it is because I have not felt first rate myself. I am going to write to George to-day, as I see there is a daily mail to White House. O, I must tell you that we get the wounded from our present field near Richmond much better than we did from the Wilderness and Fredericksburg. We get them now from White House. They are put on boats there, and come all the way here, about 160 or 170 miles. White House is only twelve or fifteen miles from the field, and is our present depot and base of supplies. It is very pleasant here to-day, a little cooler than it has been--a good rain shower last evening. The Western reg'ts continue to pour in here, the 100 days men;--may go down to front to guard posts, trains, etc. Well, mother, how do things go on with you all? It seems to me if I could only be home two or three days, and have some good teas with you and Mat, and set in the old basement a while, and have a good time and talk with Jeff, and see the little girls, etc., I should be willing to keep on afterward among these sad scenes for the rest of the summer--but I shall remain here until this Richmond campaign is settled, anyhow, unless I get sick, and I don't anticipate that. Mother dear, I hope you are well and in fair spirits--you must try to. Have you heard from sister Han? WALT. You know I am living at 502 Pennsylvania av. (near 3d st.)--it is not a very good place. I don't like it so well as I did cooking my own grub--and the air is not good. Jeff, you must write. XXVII _Washington, June 10, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got your letter dated last Wednesday. I do not always depend on ----'s accounts. I think he is apt to make things full as bad as they are, if not worse. Mother, I was so glad to get a letter from Jeff this morning, enclosing one from George dated June 1st. It was so good to see his handwriting once more. I have not heard anything of the reg't--there are all sorts of rumors here, among others that Burnside does not give satisfaction to Grant and Meade, and that it is expected some one else will be placed in command of 9th Corps. Another rumor more likely is that our base of the army is to be changed to Harrison's Landing on James river instead of White House on Pamunkey. Mother, I have not felt well again the last two days as I was Tuesday, but I feel a good deal better this morning. I go round, but most of the time feel very little like it. The doctor tells me I have continued too long in the hospitals, especially in a bad place, Armory building, where the worst wounds were, and have absorbed too much of the virus in my system--but I know it is nothing but what a little relief and sustenance of [the] right sort will set right. I am writing this in Major Hapgood's office. He is very busy paying off some men whose time is out; they are going home to New York. I wrote to George yesterday. We are having very pleasant weather here just now. Mother, you didn't mention whether Mary had come, so I suppose she has not. I should like to see her and Ansel too. The wounded still come here in large numbers--day and night trains of ambulances. Tell Jeff the $10 from Mr. Lane for the soldiers came safe. I shall write to Jeff right away. I send my love to Mat and all. Mother, you must try to keep good heart. WALT. XXVIII _Washington, June 14, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER. I am not feeling very well these days--the doctors have told me not to come inside the hospitals for the present. I send there by a friend every day; I send things and aid to some cases I know, and hear from there also, but I do not go myself at present. It is probable that the hospital poison has affected my system, and I find it worse than I calculated. I have spells of faintness and very bad feeling in my head, fullness and pain--and besides sore throat. My boarding place, 502 Pennsylvania av., is a miserable place, very bad air. But I shall feel better soon, I know--the doctors say it will pass over--they have long told me I was going in too strong. Some days I think it has all gone and I feel well again, but in a few hours I have a spell again. Mother, I have not heard anything of the 51st. I sent George's letter to Han. I have written to George since. I shall write again to him in a day or two. If Mary comes home, tell her I sent her my love. If I don't feel better before the end of this week or beginning of next, I may come home for a week or fortnight for a change. The rumor is very strong here that Grant is over the James river on south side--but it is not in the papers. We are having quite cool weather here. Mother, I want to see you and Jeff so much. I have been working a little at copying, but have stopt it lately. WALT. XXIX _Washington, June 17, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER. I got your letter this morning. This place and the hospitals seem to have got the better of me. I do not feel so badly this forenoon--but I have bad nights and bad days too. Some of the spells are pretty bad--still I am up some and around every day. The doctors have told me for a fortnight I must leave; that I need an entire change of air, etc. I think I shall come home for a short time, and pretty soon. (I will try it two or three days yet though, and if I find my illness goes over I will stay here yet awhile. All I think about is to be here if any thing should happen to George). We don't hear anything more of the army than you do there in the papers. WALT. Mother, if I should come I will write a day or so before. _The letter of June 17, 1864, is the last of Whitman's, written from Washington at or about this time, that has been preserved and come down to us. Many, probably many more than have been kept, have been lost; indeed, it is a wonder that so many were saved, for they were sent about from one member of the family to another, and when once read seem to have been little valued. The reader will have noticed a certain change of tone in the later letters, showing that Whitman was beginning to feel the inroads which the fatigues, the unhealthy surroundings of the hospitals, and especially the mental anxiety and distress inseparable from his work there, were making upon even his superb health. Down to the time of his hospital work he had never known a day's sickness, but thereafter he never again knew, except at intervals which grew shorter and less frequent as time went on, the buoyant vigor and vitality of his first forty-four years. From 1864 to the end of 1872 the attacks described in his "Calamus" letters became from year to year more frequent and more severe, until, in January, 1873, they culminated in an attack of paralysis which never left him and from the indirect effects of which he died in 1892._ _But for years, though often warned and sent away by the doctors, during his better intervals and until his splendid health was quite broken by hospital malaria and the poison absorbed from gangrenous wounds, he continued his ministrations to the sick and the maimed of the war. Those who joined the ranks and fought the battles of the Republic did well; but when the world knows, as it is beginning to know, how this man, without any encouragement from without, under no compulsion, simply, without beat of drum or any cheers of approval, went down into those immense lazar houses and devoted his days and nights, his heart and soul, and at last his health and life, to America's sick and wounded sons, it will say that he did even better._ _R. M. B._ _As at thy portals also death, Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds, To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity, To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me, (I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still, I sit by the form in the coffin, I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the coffin;) To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the best, I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs, And set a tombstone here._ _Printed by John Wilson and Son, at the University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A., in December, 1897._ Footnotes: [1] His brother, Capt. (afterwards Col.) George W. Whitman, born 1829, now (1897) residing in Burlington, N. J. [2] His favorite sister, Hannah Louisa Whitman (Mrs. C. L. Heyde), born 1823, now (1897) residing in Burlington, Vt. [3] His brother, Thomas Jefferson Whitman, born 1833, died 1890. [4] Brig.-Gen. Edward Ferrero, commanding Second Brigade, Second Division, Army of the Potomac, under whose command the 51st Brooklyn Regiment fought at Fredericksburg. George Whitman was a captain in this regiment. [5] Martha, wife of "Jeff." She died in 1873. "1873.--This year lost, by death, my dear dear mother--and just before, my sister Martha--the two best and sweetest women I have ever seen or known, or ever expect to see" (WALT WHITMAN, "Some Personal and Old Age Jottings"). [6] "Jeff's" little daughter, Mannahatta. She died in 1888. [7] His brother, Andrew Jackson Whitman, born 1827, died 1863. His other brothers at this time, besides those previously mentioned, were Jesse Whitman, born 1818, died 1870, and Edward Whitman, born 1835, died 1892. [8] Martha. [9] Mannahatta. [10] William Douglas O'Connor, born Jan. 2, 1832. He was a journalist in Boston in early life, went to Washington about 1861, first as clerk in the Light House Bureau, and later became Assistant Superintendent of the United States Life-Saving Service; died in Washington, May 9, 1889. He was one of Whitman's warmest friends, and the author of "The Good Gray Poet." [11] The Monitor foundered off Cape Hatteras in a gale December 29, 1862. [12] "Jeff." [13] A copy of the 1860 (first Boston) edition of "Leaves of Grass," which Whitman used for preparing the next (1867) edition. From various evidence this is the same copy, with his MS. alterations, which Secretary Harlan found in Whitman's desk at the Interior Department in 1865, and which he read surreptitiously before discharging the poet from his position. It is now in the possession of Mr. Horace L. Traubel, of Camden, N. J. The reference to "Drum-Taps," published in 1865, shows that it had already taken shape in MS. [14] Andrew Whitman's wife. [15] Jessie Louisa Whitman. [16] His sister, Mary Elizabeth Whitman (Mrs. Van Nostrand) born 1821 now (1897) residing in Sag Harbor, L. I. [17] Mrs. Whitman's maiden name was Louisa Van Velsor. [18] Mrs. Abby Price, an intimate friend of Whitman, and a friend and neighbor of his mother. [19] Mrs. Price's son, a naval officer. [20] Mrs. Price's daughter, and sister of the Helen mentioned later. [21] Formerly of Thayer & Eldridge, the first Boston publishers of "Leaves of Grass" (1860 Edition). [22] Jeff's daughter Jessie was originally called California. 
34752	----	POEMS: WITH A SKETCH OF THE Life and Experience OF ANNIE R. SMITH. BY MRS. REBEKAH SMITH. MANCHESTER, N. H. JOHN B. CLARKE, PRINTER. 1871. PREFACE. A small volume of poems entitled, "Home Here and Home in Heaven," by Annie R. Smith, appeared shortly after her death, in 1855. Her numerous friends wishing some account of her life and last sickness, have from time to time desired me to prepare such a sketch for publication. I have also been requested to publish in connection therewith, a collection of my own poetical efforts. This is the immediate occasion of the appearance of the present volume, the publication of which, circumstances have conspired to delay till the present time. It lays no claim to literary merit, but professes to be only a description in rhyme of some of the ordinary experiences of life, and the common feelings of the heart. I have appended some additional pieces written by Annie R. Smith, and some by Uriah Smith, which I have desired to see published in this form. It is commended to the charitable consideration of friends, with the hope that its appearance may prove a gratification and a benefit to some. Mrs. Rebekah Smith. West Wilton, N. H. POEMS. Life's Conflict. In the deep recess of the inmost heart, Where Satan tempts and angels come to shield, Are foes by which we would be overcome, Were Christ not with us on the battle-field. The tempter, seeking whom he may devour, Would sift as wheat, and finally prevail; But Jesus intercedes and prays for us, That faith in these dread conflicts may not fail. These calls unheeded, who the end can know? The Spirit grieved and angels forced to leave, The victims, though unconscious, hastening where No pardoning love is found, and no reprieve. If yet there's hope, one mighty effort make To conquer, and the enemy defeat; Watch unto prayer, in Jesus Christ abide, And hasten to be made in him complete. No true enjoyment here aside from this. No other name on earth e'er to be given, Through him we must be cleansed and purified, Or closed to us will be the gates of Heaven. Christian Love. Jesus sees, he feels, he pities; he for us keen anguish knew, He was numbered with transgressors; harmless, but his friends were few. Those immersed in love's deep ocean, nothing will or can offend; They will bow in sweet submission, knowing Heaven will them defend. Let us then our suffering brother seek where'er his lot is cast; Priests and Levites having seen him, on the other side have passed; But of God he's not forsaken; He has known each bitter pang; He has seen his tears and sorrows, and has known from whence they sprang. Jesus sees when best to succor, every wrong will bring to light; He will have obedient children who in doing good delight, Who will move in love and pity, bleeding wounds to soothe and bind, Good Samaritans, who ever seek some path of love to find. Courage new is then imparted, chilling words no more oppress; Oh! for more true kindred spirits, who would make our sufferings less. Lord forgive thine erring people; form them for thyself alone; Then they'll bear each other's burdens, calling nought they have their own. Then each suffering child of sorrow would be watched with tender care, Love and pity for the erring would be felt and witnessed there. Strife and jealousy would vanish; love be felt that works no ill; Peace, sweet peace, and joy and gladness, would each home and bosom fill. Love Not the World. Love not the world, trust not its joys; uncertain is their stay; Its treasures I've so highly prized, on wings have flown away. Its riches I would not recall, their loss would not deplore; Content I'll be if but my Lord salvation's joys restore. Nature inclines us all to seek, a rich and grand career; Undue attachment will but make our losses more severe. Hardly we know how much we love our friends and things below, Till called to see them one by one from our possession go. How often then the stricken heart deplores no comfort left, Forgetting we have blessings still, of which we're not bereft. Let houses, lands and splendor go, surroundings all upset, If home is where we've friends to love, and friends to love us yet. With such a home, no matter where, how unadorned the place, If but my Lord's, he'll visit there, and with his presence grace. Thus consecrated to the Lord, his glory will be there. How blest the place where oft is heard the voice of praise and prayer. Be I but meet for such a place, where angels camp around, Where truth and duty are proclaimed, and works of love abound. The poor and friendless there resort and find their wants supplied, No lack whose trust is in the Lord; for such he will provide. There all of every name and race, in need of friendly aid, Find equal welcome to the board where no distinction's made. Thus treasures are laid up above, where endless life is given; They who are rich in works of love, may hope for rest in Heaven. Preparation for Heaven. Our every sin must be confessed, All guile be taken from the breast; A holy life must we maintain, If with the Saviour we would reign. Be trimmed our lamps, our light appear, Proclaim we Jesus draweth near; That mercy's closing hour is nigh, Will be the angel's last loud cry. Now are we drawing near the port, Decisions soon all made in court, The scene will close, the Lord will come,-- And who with him will have a home? To self we must be crucified, Be purified, made white and tried, Without one spot, and guileless be, To stand before his Majesty. Oh! be our sleeping powers awake; Eternal bliss is now at stake; One wrong unrighted, spot or stain, Will bind in sin's destructive chain. Haste then, from every error flee; Strive till you gain the victory. Triumph in Jesus' name alone, And sit with him upon his throne. This right with his own blood he bought; Oh! bliss beyond all human thought, Where ransomed throngs the Lord adore, And sing free grace forevermore. Submission. The Saviour knows our every grief; He knows the time to give relief: When we are purified and tried, And our whole wills are sanctified. How to destroy our dross and tin, And cleanse us from each stain of sin, What to inflict, the Lord knows best; 'Tis only ours to stand the test. What though we suffer grief and pain, And earth's fair prospects strew the plain, Let us submit, whate'er befall, And make our God our all in all. What though we're wrongfully accused, Oft times e'en slanderously abused? Say not these ills we cannot bear, But in our Saviour's suffering share. What he endured no tongue can tell, When on Him our transgressions fell; Meekly he bore them on the tree, And paid the debt for you and me. He purchased holiness and Heaven, Or we could ne'er have been forgiven. The Saviour's blood redemption cost, Without which all our race was lost. Shall we then sink beneath the rod, Inflicted by a holy God To purify and make us white, That he may be our sole delight? No; though it sharply smites, resign, And pray for grace and love divine; For all this, Heaven will make amends, And ofttimes quick deliverance sends. The Lord in him would have us free; Through Him we gain the victory, All he will be to us we need, That we a holy life may lead. Be holy. Oh! how blest to know, Our Father helps to make us so; 'Tis but for us to yield our will, His word and promise he'll fulfill. No guilt or fear, no will, no choice; In God alone we now rejoice, And bless the hand that gave the blow, And laid our earthly comforts low. It Was True. I loved th' enchanting viol's sound, I loved the sprightly dance, And all the dear, delightful scenes Of nature's wild romance. I know the fascinating charms, In all their depth and hight, Presumed on days and months and years Of exquisite delight. Though seventy-six, I feel I still These halls of mirth could grace; I left them when in youth[1] and sought In Christ a hiding place. But oh! the bitter cup I drank That tamed my wild career; Death struck my parents from my side And drowned my joy in tears. My dear loved home of childhood's years, Where all was life and glee, Became a house of mourning, and Ere long no home for me. I've since formed nearer, dearer ties, And they too, have been riven. By these repeated strokes I've learned There's nothing true but Heaven. My treasure's there, my heart is there, The prize I mean to win; But know the victory must be gained O'er every darling sin. And may refiner's fire go through Till I am purified; Till patience is perfected here, And all my graces tried. I'd bear the fiery trial now, Till holy made and pure, That I Christ's image may reflect, And be in him secure. A home in Heaven will then be mine, A house not made with hands; Where Jesus will his saints receive, Who walk in his commands. Be it mine to walk the narrow way, Which my Redeemer trod, And in the City have a place Close by the throne of God. There friends will meet to part no more, Whose sins are here forgiven. I would not rest until I know, I have a home in Heaven. [1]At eighteen. No Resting Here. No resting place! oh! sad, oppressive thought! The overburdened heart opprest with grief, Must bear its weight o'er sad reflection's tide, Fearing at last the fate of unbelief. Is there one here, without one beam of hope? Oppressed, desponding, bordering on despair? Still sinking 'neath gloom's dark and heavy cloud, Not thinking e'er one cheering boon to share? Lie still, e'en here, and search the hidden cause; O'er every sin has victory been won? Then trust in God o'er this dark, dreary way, And say, Dear Lord, thy will, not mine, be done. The broken heart, the humble, contrite one, God will relieve from sin's dark, heavy load; He will reveal himself a present help, And make for us a sure and safe abode. For such as these a resting place remains, When earth's dark scenes and trials all are o'er; A home in Heaven where saints and angels are Chanting glad songs of glory evermore. Deny Thyself. The word we preach is nigh thee, Is in thy mouth and heart, To cease from every evil, From every idol part. The last decree, how solemn, Except we conquer now, No remedy can reach us, Nor pay our broken vow. While faithless, unrepentant, We cannot be forgiven, No mercy will be offered, No home for us in Heaven. As well give up to perish, If we cannot deny Our appetites and passions, While Heavenly aid is nigh. Soon there will be no promise Of pardoning grace, now free. Ere Jesus ceases pleading, We must get victory. Soon with no mediator To help our ruined case, The filthy must be filthy, Beyond the reach of grace. Baptism. We fail not, when watching, our duty to know, While Jesus makes out all our pathway below. When he bids be buried with him 'neath the wave, Let nought keep us back from the watery grave. Go forward; these waters are ever the place, Where Jesus is found with his presence to grace; While angels make each of its subjects their care, And the Spirit of God sheds its blessedness there. Oh, blest institution! the Lord owns it still, And moves on his people his word to fulfill; In newness of life will he help to arise, While they humbly press on toward the mark for the prize. How heavenly the sight of an ordinance like this; The pledge, it would seem, of perpetual bliss: God honored below, while his people rejoice, Making known to the world, they obey him from choice. We'll follow the footsteps of Jesus, our King, Till we the glad songs of deliverance sing. We'll exalt him while here, we will love and adore, And with the redeemed sound his praise evermore. Despair of the Lost. Of our strength we are shorn by indulgence in sin; Where Jesus has reigned, now there's no room within; A host of his murderers dwell in the heart; Rejected, though grieved, he's obliged to depart. As he goes who can know he will ever return? That the blessing is lost we may soon have to learn, With a wail of despair, a lamentable cry, We may soon see ourselves forever passed by. Too late! oh, too late! now my soul must be lost; Though redemption was offered at infinite cost; Though help has been laid on one mighty to save; To self and the world I the preference gave. Could the hope of salvation be given once more, Would we not turn our backs on our Lord, as before? Would not the same spirit still bear the same fruit? And the Lord still to us our transgressions impute? Oh! poor fallen man, rushing on to despair, With high hopes all anchored in earth's fatal snare, To be swept away soon, with the refuge of lies, While the soul in deep anguish the second death dies. Depart from Sin. Could the deluded votaries Of fashion and of song, But see their danger, they would cry, We've ventured here too long. Yes, ventured o'er a precipice, Held by a brittle thread, While "fiery billows roll beneath" The slippery paths we tread. We've ventured to reject the call, In love and pity given, To flee sin's awful destiny, And seek a home in Heaven. Could tears prevail, could pity move, You would not longer stand, Exposed by every dashing wave In yon broad gulf to land. But tears and pity cannot save, Nor for one sin atone, Redemption's purchased with the blood Of Jesus Christ alone. The debt is paid; salvation's free, Though Jesus' life it cost, And all who come to him he'll save; Then why should you be lost? Oh! be entreated to forsake The road that leads to hell, And thus be fitted for the place Where saints and angels dwell. Old, but Young. Infirmities of age have not As yet made me their prey; In social life I sometimes feel As one still young and gay. My spirits buoyant, hopeful, free, No cloud to intervene, Till I'm a wonder to myself, And ask what this can mean. Is there a dark and heavy cloud, Now gathering out of sight, To come o'er this my cheerful path, And turn it into night? Well, be it so; I'll now enjoy Life's blessings while I may, And meet its changes as they come, The footsteps of decay. At seventy-six we might expect Our life-lights to grow dim, The slow-paced step and wasted form, Though once erect and trim. 'Tis nature's course; time's withering blight Will come on all below. Be ready then for any change Time bids us undergo. Then when this earth is made anew All clothed in living green, Where blight, decay, and care-worn brows Are never to be seen, We all shall bloom immortal, fair, In Eden beauty dressed, To share all Heaven's eternal joys, And be forever blessed. Passing the Gate. Lines on leaving the house of a dear friend where I had pleasantly spent several weeks. Down deep in the heart is a fountain of tears, Though seldom it flows to the eye; 'Tis not that I have not true interest and love, That I say not the sad words, Good bye. The gate must be opened, and opened for me, For me to go out of the place, Where I have enjoyed the best bounties of earth, Where in love face has answered to face. As I passed through the gate, language fails to express My deep-felt emotions of heart; 'Twas leaving a home where was freedom and rest; And who else can such favors impart? Not that I was homeless; another dear place Was all ready and waiting me, where Again I should mingle with children and friends; But oh! there's life's burden and care. 'Tis not that I'd shun them, and useless remain, That I felt thus while passing the gate; But feelings which beckon to higher results, Thoughts I may not attempt to relate. When fortune's wheel turns, will the gate opened be, Be opened for me to come through? Shall I find the same friends and the dear quiet room, And my former engagements pursue? To Him who controls all the myriad worlds, With Him would I leave each event; I would move in his order, and walk in his light, And know that my time is well spent. Then whether I ever that gate pass, or not, Those loved ones again ever see, The gates of the City will open for all Who its glories and beauties would see. Trust all to God. We wait on God, our strength renewed, Our love of self and pride subdued, We then can cruel slander bear, Nor ask why we these sufferings share. We may exalted be by men, Be censured and condemned; what then? Our worth is in the Lord alone, To whom our thoughts and acts are known. That I am God, know and be still, Though wrongfully you're suffering ill. How many sins committed where No eye has seen, yet still I spare. Be humble, meek, and low of heart, Nor from my holy law depart. Thus will your strength be oft renewed, And you with holy zeal imbued. In that dread day you then can stand, Where rocks are rent, and solid land And mountains shake, and cities fall; I'll be your strength, your God, your all. From earth's dread ruins you'll be caught, To God's celestial city brought, Robed in a pure and spotless dress, The robe of Christ's own righteousness. Then every stain will be erased From reputations now defaced; And where was anguish, grief and tears, Now smiles and bliss and joy appears. To be forever with the Lord, To share the infinite reward, To sit with him upon his throne, To see and know as we are known. In everlasting songs divine, In sweetest union all will join. Who can describe the bliss there'll be, When blessed with immortality? The Vanity of Earth. Sickness prostrates; helpless sufferer, Who can stem the sorrowing tide? Oh! how vain, when death approacheth, Earthly pleasures, wealth and pride. Though your name may be illustrious, Handed down through ages yet, Worldly honor and distinction, We shall all ere long forget. Weeping friends may stand around you, Flattering prospects urge your stay; But compelled by the destroyer, To be launched from earth away. Past reflections, oh! how painful, If not answered life's great end; Time all spent in vain delusion, Now no hope, no God, no friend. Who can paint the bitter anguish, Felt at such a time as this; Soon to leave those cherished idols, Purchased with unending bliss. Though we gain the world, what profit, If we lose our souls at last? Buy the gold, the shining raiment, Ere the day of grace is past. Dying Words. There was one who to me was most lovely and dear; I looked, and that loved one I saw disappear; My dear, only daughter, who in life's early years, Has gone to the grave, and has left me in tears. The words of her parting, were, Jesus is mine; He'll save, and I shall in his own likeness shine. To God be all glory; Heaven's opened to me; I shall rise with the saints, and immortal shall be. My brothers, be wise and obey Heaven's laws; Seek the Saviour to please and to honor his cause; Rest not till you know all your sins are forgiven, Oh! fail not, my brothers, to meet me in Heaven. My mother, be ready to meet me that day, Nor mourn that here with you no longer I stay. Prepare for the trouble that soon is to come-- Who then will enjoy his own loved quiet home? I die in the Lord, from my labors to rest With the dead, of whom it is said, "They are blest." For me bid farewell to the loved and the true, May we meet where is heard no mournful adieu. My mother, I'm dying, but Jesus is here; With him I have nothing of evil to fear. Thus peaceful she died, but still lingered the trace Of the image divine on her cold pallid face. In the lone, quiet tomb where she's longed to repose, She rests from life's cares, from its "burden of woes," Beside her loved father, to memory dear-- O'er the graves of these loved, I withhold not the tear. The Slave of Appetite. What stings of conscience men will bear, Their tastes to gratify; Resolve and re-resolve, and still Themselves cannot deny. They say, "I'd give a thousand worlds Could I the victory gain." Your cause is just, to conquer here, And all your rights maintain. "What use," you ask, "to say I will, And almost know I shan't; I've tried, and tried, and tried again, To quit, but oh! I can't." Well, be it so; your course pursue, But what will be the end? Your conscience soon will be so seared, You'll want no other friend. Chief of the comforts you enjoy, What comfort now you take. When you're deprived of these, how sad, Gloomy and desolate. Why thus? Your nerves are all unstrung; You're almost ruined now. Does patience have her perfect work, While thus you break each vow? When worn with toil, how soon you seek Your coffee, rum, or tea; When trouble comes, these are your gods, To which for help you flee. Another, all his senses gone, When giving up his quid, In irritation mourns his lot, From him all good seems hid. The poisonous weed, the deadly drink Are eagerly pursued; So are they loved, men hardly wish Their appetites subdued. The exhilarating influence When loved, who will forego? The sad effects of these produce The sum of human woe. Not we alone the sufferers are; Our friends must bear a part; The animation felt by us With them is a broken heart. An oft untimely grave the lot, Of those thus overcome; What desolation then is felt, In their once peaceful home? Ere vigor, health, and life are gone, Rouse every latent power; The victory gained, again you're blest, Within your own loved bower. Heed not the tempter when he comes, And pleads once more to yield; Have you not fully yet resolved, To shun this battle-field? Why risk the victory you have gained? Your resolution lost This once might prove your ruin here, And life eternal cost. Try once again, while there is hope To conquer and to live; God will, if you will let him, help, And all the past forgive. He'll help to get the victory; And victory must be gained, Or no resolve to break the hold, Will ever be maintained. Not victory for a single day, A week, a month, a year; But victory that will stand the test While we continue here. A victory that will overcome Inordinate desire, To gratify perverted taste, By habit made entire. The conflict rages fiercely on; Here victory, then defeat; But faint not, you can overcome, And make your foes retreat. An armor for us is prepared, A helmet, sword and shield, And He who mighty is to save, Is with us on the field. Experience can alone impart The joy of sins forgiven, Freedom in God while here below, And soon a home in Heaven. All Trials Cease. [A young lady passing through great trials, accidentally met with a piece of poetry, and was greatly comforted and relieved from her sorrow by the last line, "All trials cease in Heaven, at home with God."] Are we assured our home's in Heaven? That all our sins are now forgiven? Do we with all the heart believe, And God's approving smile receive? Is every weight now laid aside? The last besetting sin denied? God then to us this knowledge gives: "I know that my Redeemer lives." This consciousness must purify, And bring eternal glories nigh. Though here we bear affliction's rod, No tears "in Heaven, at home with God." No suffering there; "all trials cease, In Heaven at home with God," is peace. Yea, more than this, all there unite, In sweetest anthems of delight. There will they hallelujahs sing, In honor of their Heavenly King; Forever there, their voices raise, In songs seraphic to his praise. This glory Jesus' word reveals; Each promise with his blood he seals. We're sure, if here to him we come, To be in Heaven with God at home. To Ellena Boutwell. And is there another dear loved one for me? May a strong cord of union now bind me to thee? Would you call me your mother? Permit in return, That I call thee my child, and your history learn. Pleased with your demeanor, and turn of your mind, With attractions I seem to see in thee combined; But few would take interest in one of my age, Though he might be an artist, a bard or a sage. Though past man's alloted threescore and ten years, Though I've passed through afflictions, in sorrow and tears, In feeling still young, and in sympathy true, I would have the world better for my passing through. I'm glad I have seen you; I've one more to love, On whom to ask blessings that come from above. This friendship new-formed--may it ever increase, And we find in Jesus true heavenly peace. To Aaron A. Smith, On his leaving to join the Army. For one who can fill such a place in the choir, Whose musical talents none can but admire, Who is loved and looked up to as teacher and guide, To leave for the war, will be felt far and wide. But it is not, dear nephew, for earth's vain delight, That you leave home and friends for your country to fight; It is for the Union--our rights to maintain-- That you go where the strife piles its thousands of slain. Good bye! God protect you; on his arm rely, There is safety for no one except from on high. We are safe only while we in Jesus abide; He's our rule, he's our pattern, our only sure guide. Be careful to follow where he leads the way; Let nothing entice from his footsteps to stray. May he keep you from falling and lead you safe through To the home and the friends you are bidding adieu. To Samuel. Good morning, you said, as you left for your bride, For the one in whom you so truly confide. Good morning, my son, Heaven's blessings attend, As you take a companion, a dear, chosen friend. I'm happy in thinking you'll bring home a wife To take the direction in things of this life, May her interest and aim be all one with us here, And she be to mother a daughter most dear. The sister, the daughter, and wife, all combine; The home of her childhood she too must resign. Though former companions may not be forgot, New duties, new trials will fall to her lot. Be true and affectionate, always the same; One in heart as you now are to be one in name, Wherever she is, be it your joy to come; While each can say truly, "There's no place like home." You've doubtless informed her you intended your mother Would have a home with you, and also your brother, That she unexpectedly might not find these, To add to her household, to care for and please. You've been an affectionate, dutiful son; Everything in your power, for my comfort you've done; You've said this attention you owed me through life-- Oh! I'd be a rich blessing to your and your wife. Should I be a burden still greater to bear, The daughter and wife in the trial must share. Think then of my age, over seventy years, And bear with me though I cause sorrow and tears. Though fretful, impatient, not suited at all, And you think it best not to mind every call, Remember past seasons, my kindness, and know I would have you as blest as one could be below. And in the new earth when all trials are o'er, I would be with you there to have life evermore. An unbroken band may we all there appear, The father, the mother, the children so dear. We should there know each other, and all we've been through, While Annie would greet her dear brothers anew And Harriet and Frances[2] would help swell the song, Of Heaven's free grace, with the numerous throng. My dearest Samuel, through life's scenes I'd thought to live with thee, But providentially a change, Has taken you from me; Dear child you need not fear for me. Those kind words, "Mother, live with me," As then are now the same; Unshaken is my confidence, That you are just the same, To-day, the very, very same. Oh! how my heart goes after thee, My dear, loved, cherished son, Your father's name and image bear, As does no other one; I see the once-loved in my son. I see thee oft in fancy's view, And love to see thee so; I'm happy that to your new home, I'm wholly free to go; My son to your home I can go. It is my choice; I would be here, I love to be alone, I love this quiet solitude, I love the wild wind's moan; My child, I would be here alone. Yet not alone, another son Is with me all the while. Though frail in health, he cares for me, And greets me with a smile; He does my lonely hours beguile. Another too, though far away, Away now at the West-- With three kind sons to care for me, Most signally I'm blest; Be Heaven our place of final rest. The husband and the daughter sleep; Thus friends are parted here, But they in joy will live again, When Jesus shall appear, To dry each Christian mourner's tear. _February, 1865._ [2]Daughters-in-law. Lines Written on the death of Annie R. Smith. Let Annie sleep; her rest is with the dead; All sorrow past, her last sad tear is shed; Why call to mind the sufferings here she bore, When now with her they are forever o'er? Why ope the wound--that wound so deeply given, When from the parent tree this branch was riven? Oh! spare thy tears, wake not the fount of grief; No human power can aid or give relief. She died in hope of living evermore With those she loved, when Time's last scene is o'er. When Jesus comes, we trust there'll be a place Prepared for her with all the ransomed race. Shall we then see her in immortal bloom, Risen triumphant from the silent tomb? Shall we there meet her all in bright array, And spend in Heaven with her an endless day? Shall we behold the glorious city fair, And by the King of kings be welcomed there? To eat with her the fruit of earth made new, And give to Jesus praise and glory due? Oh, 'tis enough! Let earthly sorrow cease, While Jesus says in him we shall have peace. That God in us may his designs fulfill, We'll meekly suffer all his holy will. To My Mother. BY ANNIE R. SMITH. My lot has been to roam Far from the cheering light of home, Mid scenes of commotion, turmoil and strife, Temptation and snares that beset this life. Oh! yonder I see a beacon light gleaming, O'er the dark wave its lustre is beaming, Dear mother! as the light to the mariner lost, So thou to the bark on the billow tossed. My lot has been to meet The bitter mixed with transient sweet; To struggle on, in toil and care, The tide of adverse fate to bear. Oh! yonder I see a tender vine, twining Around a tree, its tendrils are shining; Dear mother! as the vine twines around the tree, So from life's rude blasts I cling to thee. My lot has been to feel Dark shadows o'er my spirit steal; From slanderous tongues, and envy's wiles, Deceit that lurked 'neath wreathing smiles. Oh! yonder I see the floweret's hue; Reviving 'neath the pearly dew. Dear mother! as the dew to the drooping flower, So thou to me in sorrow's dark hour. My lot has been to learn Of friendship false, that bright will burn When fortune spreads her wing of light, But fades away when cometh night. Oh! yonder I see a bright star sparkling, While all around lies cold and darkling. Dear mother! as the star thou art in weal or wo, The darker the night, the brighter the glow. My lot has been to pore Learning's classic pages o'er; Seeking for hidden pearls to wear, Fame's golden wreath, the victors bear. Oh! yonder I see a lone bird flying, Seeking her nest with voice of sighing. Dear mother! as the wearied bird her downy nest, So seek I thee, for quiet rest. My lot is now to tread A troubled path whence light hath fled; But ne'er do I thy words forget, Or smiles of love from thee I've met. I think of thee in morning's beaming light, In burning noon and shadowy night. Dear mother! mid all my thoughtless wanderings wild, Still clings to thee thy devoted child. Whate'er my future lot may be, On life's tempestuous trackless sea, Oh, may I never, where'er I roam, Forget the cheering light of home, That blessed light to the wanderer given, To guide the way that leads to Heaven. Dear mother! to thee may I cling till life is o'er, And united above--we part nevermore. Response. Dear Annie: What though thy lot has been to bear Much adverse fate, 'mid toil and care, Raised expectations crushed and dead, And hope's triumphant visions fled? Dost thou not feel a mightier power, A hand divine in this dark hour? Does not thy heart begin to feel The claims of Him who wounds to heal? 'Tis true, my child, misfortune's blast But breaks the rock whence gems are cast; The polished steel and marble white, Was once as rough and dark as night. As purest gold and clearest glass Must through the hottest furnace pass, So oft repeated strokes are given, To form and fit a soul for Heaven. What though you've learned of envy's wiles, The slanderous tongue, which oft beguiles? The sweetest fruit on bush and trees, Is culled and plucked by birds and bees. Although you've traced the landscape fair, And sought for knowledge rich and rare, Gone to the depth of hidden ore, That richest mine you might explore, Lines "To my Mother," more I prize Than all the paintings 'neath the skies; And they will ever bring to me, Dear child, sweet memories of thee. Although I prize the painter's art, Yet more th' effusions of the heart; Kind feelings, sympathy and love, All arts and wealth I prize above. Since then these trials but refine, Bring out deep caverns' hidden mine, Resign all to that power on high, Till sufferings cease and sorrows die. Lines To a mother whose son enlisted in the army. For a mother to part, for the war, with a son, Whose kindness and love her affections have won, Cannot but excite deep emotions of grief, And in tears the torn bosom will seek for relief. Commend, in submission, this loved son to Heaven, And thank Him who gave, that to you he was given; That he leaves here a circle of associates dear, Who his memory and name will delight to revere. In the family circle his place will be missed, And some may regret that he felt to enlist, While others look forward, still hoping to see Him back in the choir, where his place used to be. If God has a work for him still here to do, His eye will be on him to bring him safe through. He will suffer no harm to befall him while there; As a man spares his own son, so God will him spare. But nought of the future to us is revealed; His destiny and ours is most wisely concealed; 'Tis for us to submit; be our lot what it may, And all the requirements of Heaven obey. Lines Read at a gathering of the oldest people of Wilton, at Miss Sarah Livermore's, November, 1870. Now far advanced in life we're here, To visit one long held most dear; Though we have all been young and gay, Time's rolling years have worked decay. Though lingering here on earth's broad shore, Life's journey must be nearly o'er; And may this friendly, gathering call, A blessing prove to one and all. Convened here, then, be this our aim, To make each other glad we came; In union these rich blessings share, And say, 'Twas good that we were there. Refreshed, we'd patiently pursue This last part of our journey through. On those who entertain these guests, Would ask that they be doubly blest. We would not fail while here to see All we're required to do and be. Would advocate and teach the right, Still hastening toward perfection's hight. Earth's pleasures then will be increased By this delightful, social feast, And we prepared to meet in Heaven, Where joys eternal will be given. Lines On the death of my husband, Samuel Smith. Gone is my husband, no more shall I see That kind look of love as he smiled upon me. I cherished and loved him; and who can tell My anguish while on his departure I dwell? Long I have been with him, in sickness and health, Shared in his losses, and enjoyed with him wealth; He lives in my memory, lives in my heart, His virtues are printed there, ne'er to depart. Fast were we joined by the tenderest ties, And lonely I mourn o'er the grave where he lies. I hear not his steps, but the lone place I see, Where oft his kind words have been spoken to me. I miss him while gather the shadows of night; I miss him when dawns the fair morning light. I miss him--but where are the words to express The depth of my grief in such loneliness. I smile when I'm sad, and seem joyful in grief; When alone bitter tears are my only relief; Bruised now is the heart by the blow that has come, Dark now the dear spot, once so bright as my home. Though wealth were my portion, and splendor surround, More empty 'twould seem while the loved was not found. With him I'd be blest, though earth's treasures were few, And trouble should prove my affection more true. Oft I imagine each member is here, Those pledges of love and affection so dear, I view the loved circle, but ah! there's a space-- 'Tis vacant, and nought can to me fill the place. But those left behind, his dear image reveal, Who only affection and sympathy feel; Their kindness I know, the returns of their love, And ask for them blessings that come from above. But he's gone to the grave, where, free from all care, He knows not the grief which for him I now bear. There rest till our Saviour shall bid thee arise; Then may we immortal ascend to the skies. With this hope I can triumph o'er earth's deepest gloom, The dearest and loveliest can yield to the tomb; When bowed in submission, my Saviour appears, Bids me trust in his word, and refrain from my tears. Look Up. Lone Pilgrim, cease that mournful sigh-- Look up! redemption draweth nigh. Have loved ones gone, does earth look drear? Look up! shed not that bitter tear. What though the heart is saddened now, And shadows gather on thy brow, And grief the bosom heaving still-- Look up! submit to Heaven's own will. Do trials, unexpected, rise? Look up! and view the glorious prize; Let not life's sorrows press you down-- Look up! prepare to take the crown. Lift up your head, rejoice and sing-- Look up! by faith behold your King. He soon is coming, heed his call-- Look up! and make your God your all. He'll come, all troubles here to end, He'll come, a never-failing friend, He'll come to take his children home-- Look up! and pray, Lord, quickly come. Overcoming Sin. How fiercely does the conflict rage within, While striving to subdue some cherished sin; What shall be done? The idol is most dear, And often is the victim vanquished here. Though trivial it may seem, sin's poisonous dart Will sting the conscience and will wound the heart, Destroy the peace and condemnation bring, And drive us from the shelter of His wing. In view of this, who dare a sin commit? Our cherished idols we must all submit; As one small leak the largest ship will sink, So one dear sin, will lead to ruin's brink. While love for sin in any form remains, Though not committed, we are still in chains; Sins must be broken off by righteousness, And then will God deliver, own and bless. No condemnation then--all peace within, Untrammeled freedom from the love of sin; Oh! blessed freedom! nought can then control The heavenward flight and rapture of the soul. Will You be a Pilgrim? Will you come in with the pilgrims, though a remnant they may be, And know the blessed privilege of gospel liberty? Will you take the name of Christ, and be redeemed by sovereign grace, And find in him from every storm a sure, safe hiding-place? Will you part with earth's delusive joys, with all its vain delights, And "bear the consecrated cross," to have the Christian's rights? They have a right to call on God; and he's vouchsafed his aid. The ancients said, We'll trust in thee, nor ever be dismayed. They said, 'Tis nothing, Lord, with thee, with many or with few, To put a mighty host to flight, and all our foes subdue. Will you go against the multitude, in his own strength and name? He fought their battles and he's still unchangeably the same. Their hope's an anchor to the soul, both sure and steadfast too, And buoys their spirits up in all the conflicts they go through. Will you have this hope to cheer you, to an unfading crown-- A crown that far outshines this world, with all its grand renown? They've no abiding city here, but look for one to come, A glorious city all illumed, to be their final home. Oh! will you suffer sorrow here, and have a home in Heaven, A kingdom that will shortly be, to all the faithful given? Home for the Weary. If there's rest for the weary, a home for the meek, Hope for the trembling and strength for the weak, Take courage, worn pilgrim, nor sink in despair, While braving the storms that but hasten us there. The waves and the billows will over us go, And waters most bitter will oft overflow. Our hearts with fierce conflicts and anguish be riven, But hope to the end; there's salvation in Heaven. Oh, who will endure the last searching test, With Abrah'm and Isaac and Jacob be blest In the kingdom of God? and who will be lost, To find when too late, what earth's pleasures have cost? Shall we cling, then, to what Christ would have us give up? Oh, no! grieve him not, and he with us will sup. He'll shelter us here in the last coming strife, And give us to drink of the water of life. How blest to be ready and waiting to hear The last trumpet sound, and see Jesus appear! Such then will rejoice that redemption has come, Be changed to his image, and received to their home. The Enemy's Power. Rev. xii, 12. As Satan has in wrath come down, To bring us 'neath our Maker's frown, We must resist his course. He'll bring beneath his dread control The doubting, disobedient soul, By his satanic force. Where least expected his attack, To lead us to perdition back, And claim us as his own. Alarming are his wily arts, Most fearful, too, his fiery darts, When undiscovered thrown. Armed and equipped we must be sure, His fierce temptations to endure, His fatal snares to meet. 'Tis easy going with the tide; In Jesus Christ we must abide, And be in him complete. There's no true consolation here, But to be holy in our sphere, From condemnation free. When all our foes within are slain, The tempter then comes but in vain, With Heaven he'll ne'er agree. The humble, merciful and just, In God who wholly put their trust, Shall find protection sure. Their fortress, shield and firm defense, Is naught less than Omnipotence, With strength given to endure. Those who in God securely stand, When thousands fall at their right hand, No plague will them come nigh; They're safe 'neath Heaven's sheltering wings, 'Mid crash of worlds, all earthly things, Which will in ruin lie. Thus guarded here, when all is o'er, They'll be with those who die no more, Forever safe in Heaven, Where all is union, peace and love, Made welcome to the courts above, Where life eternal's given. But we are here on dangerous ground; Some will be weighed and wanting found, Will from the truth depart, Will false, delusive spirits heed, And pride and arrogance will feed, And harden still the heart. When self, that mighty foe, prevails To conquer, every effort fails; Self will be gratified, E'en at the expense of present peace, Till conscience' warning voice will cease, And self feel justified. And some, in view of being lost, Will self indulge, whate'er the cost, Nor think to be forgiven. Their dearest idol bears such sway, So loved, their practice does but say, If one must go, 'tis Heaven. A course deliberate thus pursued, Instead of having self subdued, Eternal life they'll lose. They'll bear the burden of their guilt, For which the blood of Christ was spilt, And go the way they choose. Justice will utter, Let them go, They've proved their final overthrow-- Their day of grace is past. May those who're not yet given o'er, Repent, ere closed is mercy's door, And thus be saved at last. Sustaining Grace. Homeless was my blessed Saviour, Patient, too, mid all his grief; Why be downcast, sad, desponding, When he'll freely give relief? Oh, 'tis not that I am homeless, Nor that I am suffering pain; But my Saviour seems hid from me, And my hope does not sustain. I would daily have the witness, That my dear Redeemer lives; That he's interceding for me, And my every blessing gives. Live then for this blest approval, Not one sin allow a place; God commands us to be holy, While we run the Christian race. He is holy who hath called you; So be ye, in word and deed; To enjoy the Saviour's presence, We must to our ways take heed. None can have this full salvation, While to one known sin a slave; Jesus came to free and pardon, And from sin his people save. Fearless then go forth to battle, Conquering sin through Christ the Lord; He'll assist while we're obedient To the teachings of his word. Glorious conquests have been witnessed; God for ever is the same; We may all be strong and mighty, Through his great and holy name. Go Forward. Stay not halting, be decided! With God's people take your place, They who seek a home in Heaven All must run the Christian race. Though the Red Sea is before you, And the Egyptians in the rear, Venture forward, no retreating, Linger not a moment here. If you go, you can but perish; Onward move where God can save. Hasten ere you're with the wicked, Sinking 'neath the swelling wave. God here meets his trusting people, Makes a passage through the deep, He'll display his power in saving Those who his commandments keep. Why Art Thou Cast Down? Why this dark depth of grief and gloom, this anguish and despair? The unpardonable sin you mourn, is not yet yours to bear. Why thus disquieted, cast down? Hope thou in God; he'll give The very blessing you most need; look up to him and live. This crushing weight of heartfelt grief, this flow of sorrow's tide, Will ere long bring the sad report, Of broken heart he died. God knows what has befallen you, knows why the sore event; Wait until he shall show you why this bitter cup was sent. Be at your post, where'er it be; the claims of life fulfill. Be no one act or motive wrong; heed Heaven's own bidding still. Then let the hail sweep o'er your path, let storms in fury rise, God will in safety bring you through to mansions in the skies. He's at the helm, he'll guide the ship through every dangerous strait, And make you welcome when within the holy city's gate. No bitter scenes of heartfelt grief, though now with anguish riven, Will meet you in that world of bliss, the holy calm of Heaven. Trust. My cause is with my blessed Lord, he does my footsteps guide; He's led me in an unknown way, and laid my plans aside; He's hedged up all my well-laid schemes, or what seemed so to me, And oh! what wisdom I behold, now his designs I see. I'll glory in his holy name, and pray, Lord guide me still; In each event submission learn, and sink into his will. His will is welcome, tho' it lay each earthly prospect low; God is too wise to err, and will what's best for us bestow. The Psalmist made his boast in God, and we may do the same; The word exhorts to cry aloud, and praise his holy name. Should those here hold their peace, whom God has his own Spirit given, Where could he look for honor due, and whom make meet for Heaven? Regardless of the world's cold frown, we would march boldly on, Nor right nor left would turn, but go where our dear Saviour's gone, There's mansions there, and Jesus will prepare his saints a place, Where they will never cease to sing of his redeeming grace. Are we expecting to be there, and share each proffered bliss? The Father's love is not in those who love a world like this. Then tarry not in all the plain; seek high and holy ground, Lest in the balance when we're weighed, we should be wanting found. "Brother, Live!" When dark misfortune's tide is up, Its surges running high, If we have lost our hold on God, Where then for refuge fly? Oppressed, desponding, near despair, Health, strength and courage fled, These cheering words heed, "_Brother, live!_" And raise your sinking head. Though anguish deep, and bitter grief Be felt and long be borne, Abide the test; seek no relief That's not from Heaven alone. Deliverance must be found in God, A blessing to secure; There is encouragement for those Who trials well endure. In tribulation's beaten path, The ancient prophets trod; It is the only way that brings The wanderer home to God. Let patience have its perfect work, Be purified and tried; Be ready when the King shall come, To e'er with him abide. Condense. The article which now you think So perfect and complete, Would doubtless be, if half as long, For printing twice as meet. Once and again your thoughts condense, Then what remains improve; For matter must be weighty now, The minds of men to move. No preface does your piece demand, No introduction needs; Select the wheat, but cast aside The straw, and chaff, and weeds. How many worse than wasted hours Are spent foul works to read, Fictions which poison heart and mind, And basest passions feed. Search for some richer gems than these, Ideas new and rare; Soon will you learn the good to save, The valueless to spare. With heart and mind thus disciplined, And quickened every sense, Let these three rules your pen control-- Condense, condense, condense. "The Bond of Peace." When love unites the saints There'll be no sad complaints Against each other; No bitter root will spring, A wrong report to bring Against a brother. Each will delight to see Sweet peace and harmony, And long for more; God's love the heart will fill, And selfish motives kill, As ne'er before. In union there'll be strength, Through all the breadth and length Of this grand host; Armed for the battle-field, No point of truth they'll yield, Firm at their post. And when the battle's o'er, They're safe forevermore, With Christ their King; Through him they gain their crown, And lay their weapons down, And victory sing. Christian Submission. The Lord is mine, his will my choice; I'm his to suffer or rejoice, While here on earth I stay. I know in whom I have believed; He has my sacrifice received, And will direct my way. Whate'er he calls me here to do, He'll give me grace and help me through; He'll lead and guide me home. He's promised to be with me here, And said to me, "Be of good cheer, The world I've overcome." Let friends deride, let scoffers rage, Let hell against my soul engage; No one of them I fear. My Lord has conquered all my foes, In vain they rage, or me oppose, While my Deliverer's near. Myself, my all, to God I give, And to his glory would I live, From sin's dominion freed. I'll trust him though he hides his face. Sufficient for me is his grace, In every time of need. He's coming, whom we have desired, In all his saints to be admired; Even so, Lord Jesus, come. Come, in thine own appointed way; We'd wait in patience to that day, When thou shalt call us home. Who is Without Fault? Is there one here, who, e'er thus far, Has blameless been preserved? Who never strayed, made one mistake, Or e'er from duty swerved? There may have been no outward act To cause one pang of grief; But has there been no secret fault, No sin of unbelief? Then judge not harshly; who can tell Thy brother's suffering now, That he has failed in any point, To pay the Lord his vow? From secret faults, the Psalmist prayed, Dear Lord, oh! cleanse thou me, And from presumptuous sins keep back, Preserve and make me free. Left to himself, how great his fall! And he himself the guide. How humbled, mortified, subdued, His vanity and pride! We are left to sin, to punish sin, No consolation here; Reflection only swells the tide Of anguish sad and drear. Our falls oft cause a bitter grief, That no redemption knows; The deep, the painful, bleeding wound, Time here can never close. The die when cast, the ship when sunk, To light can never rise. Our good name lost--and all on board, Then goes in sad surprise. Oh! what a vacancy then made, An empty, aching void; Our peace of mind in silence crushed, And hope's bright boon destroyed. But there is pardon with our God, For crimes of deepest dye; Be self and pride then humbled low, In dust and ashes lie. It should be there, and God will see Those whom he loves refined. He'll keep them in the crucible Till they his statutes mind. He'll watch the furnace and will see The gold sustains no loss. Oh! be the faithful process borne, And all consumed the dross. God must in us his image see, And we reflect the same. Oh! may we honor and adore, And glorify his name. Overcome and Live. Confess your faults, and for each other pray; The slanderous tongue, oh! be it far away; That tameless thing which sets the world on fire, And rouses all the angry passion's ire. Where this is god, our God can ne'er abide, Nor where there's lightness, selfishness, or pride; His dwelling's with the meek and low of heart, And for himself he'll set all these apart. Who would not thus be honored of the Lord, And have from him a large and rich reward? Who would not be with saints and angels blest, And have in Heaven at last eternal rest? Live for it, then; all God's commandments keep, Although the way be through afflictions deep. Cast all your care on Him who cares for you, And he will lead and guide you safely through. And when you reach fair Canaan's blissful shore, When sin and suffering are forever o'er, You'll find the city glorious to behold, Christ is its light, its streets all paved with gold. You'll by the King of kings be welcomed there, Where tuned to praise is every sigh and prayer. No blight to mar, no tear to dim the sight; And to the tree of life you'll have a right. You'll meet dear loved ones long since fallen asleep, All deathless raised from their lone caverns deep; Together there you'll sing, We're saved by grace, And brought by Jesus to this glorious place. No farewell parting, no sad word adieu, Your home forever in the earth made new. Oh! bliss which mortal tongue can ne'er express, To be with Jesus, robed in righteousness. Glory and honor will to Him be given, Who's purchased for us peace and rest in Heaven, Who bore our sins, and by whose stripes we're healed. And to eternal life and glory sealed. With glory, hallelujah, Heaven will ring, In honor to the Lord our sovereign King. Each will his note the highest strive to raise, To give to Jesus, honor, glory, praise. The Last Message of Mercy. Angel of mercy art thou here And hovering o'er us now? Oh! may we all before our God, In adoration bow. To heed the message, or reject, The world will soon decide. While some in love receive the truth, More will its claims deride; Why will they slight the offered boon? Though we their lot deplore, They place themselves beyond the reach Of mercy's lingering store. Too late! their dreadful doom now sealed, Too late! will be their cry; We might have lived, but now, alas! The second death must die. The Spirit and the bride say come, Let naught obstruct the way; But hasten God's commands to keep, And all his will obey. Oh! be entreated while there's hope, To heed the message given; That with the ransomed you may find A place of rest in Heaven. We Love. We love; for Jesus loves, We love his image here. We love to meet, we love to pray, And hold each other dear. We know it's of the Lord, Or we could not unite With those ne'er seen before In bonds of sweet delight. By this shall all men know, One family we are. Oh! could they know our joys, And with us in them share! There's hope, we know there's hope, That mercy lingers yet, Or we should cease to feel, Their miseries forget. We'll feel as Jesus feels; We'll love and pity too; We'll weep, we'll pray, we'll plead, And tell them it's for you. This love we'll not give o'er Though we endure their hate. 'Twill urge, Oh! come to Christ Ere it shall be too late. 'Twill bring us at their feet In attitude of prayer, 'Twill cry, O Lord, forgive, And these yet longer spare. He says, I hear your prayer, I'll save if they will come, Oh! then to God return, And have in Heaven a home. Have Mercy on Yourselves. Have mercy, Lord, we often pray, And lead us in the narrow way, While we ourselves refuse to go Where God can lead or mercy show. Have mercy on yourselves. Beware Lest you are caught in Satan's snare, Or wandering far on worldly ground, Are in its deadening spirit drowned. Have mercy on yourselves. Take heed, That no perverted taste you feed; That neither word nor act degrade The vows and promises you've made. True, in ourselves we helpless are To help ourselves. Lord help, 's our prayer, Poor, wretched, miserable and blind, In thee all needed help we find. Be this our motto, then: We'll try To help ourselves; while God is nigh; And he in every trying hour Will aid us with his sovereign power. The Advent. Those who've heard the proclamation Of a coming Saviour near, Will behold him in great splendor, When in clouds he shall appear. He will come; this generation Will not pass till all is o'er. Signs foretell he's now approaching, And is even at the door. Oh! what scenes will burst upon us, When the heavens and earth shall shake, When the trump of God is sounding, And the dead in Christ awake! Saints now living, made immortal, With the risen from the dead, All arrayed in robes of honor, With their Saviour at their head. Freed from sin and every sorrow, Ever to be with their Lord, And for all they've suffered for him, Meet a rich and sure reward. But where will the thoughtless sinner Find a secret place to hide, From the wrath of him who loved us, And for us was crucified? Rocks and mountains cannot hide them, Caves and dens are sought in vain; Unlamented and unburied, Will be found the wicked slain. If there's yet one ray of mercy, Lingering for transgressors here, Let them haste to gain the treasure, Bought and paid for us so dear. The Coming Day. The great day is near, when probation no more, For the careless backslider will longer remain; And the sinner will find when all mercy is o'er, What a treasure he's lost which he might have attain'd. The saints will come forth in immortal array, Their triumph o'er death and the grave be complete, The living be changed, and together ascend, Their glorious Redeemer in Heaven to meet. With him forever, 'tis said they will be, And the song of their victory never shall end. Forever with Christ in his glorious home,-- Oh, who can such glory and bliss comprehend? And are we prepared for this glorious place? Are we able to stand when the Lord shall appear? Our victory o'er self must be full and entire, Or still for ourselves may we tremble and fear. God loves to redeem and to save us from sin; Let us haste to pursue the true path of reform; And the strength of Omnipotence then will be ours; We shall conquer the foe, we shall weather the storm. Domestic Afflictions. From the story "A Skeleton in every house." Domestic afflictions! Oh! how they divide; How sad when we can't in each other confide, This anguish, though deep, must in silence be borne, Abroad, home afflictions should not be made known. Beware when 'tis said, Oh! how happy you are, Not even to hint there's a skeleton there, The sight of which fills with deep anguish the heart, Oh! 'tis nought to see loved ones and kindred depart. When the grave has enclosed them, the grief wears away; But oh! living griefs on the stoutest hearts prey; Though you smile and seem joyful, 'tis but to conceal The depth of the misery you inwardly feel. How oft, where true peace undisturbed is enjoyed, By a member additional, all is destroyed; No congenial spirit, domestic joys o'er, And home, O sweet home, there is realized no more. When obliged to have inmates aside from our own, How oft seeds of discord and anguish are sown; The world thus is filled with confusion and strife, Embittering the peace and the quiet of life. Well, be this our portion; be broken each tie; On the arm of the Lord we alone must rely. With a meek, quiet spirit, resigning our all, Content in our Father's allotments to fall. The Christian's Desire. I long, O God! to call thee mine, And know that I am truly thine; That all I think, or say, or do, May meet thine approbation, too. In all, thy glory I would seek, And but for thee, Lord, would not speak; I'd raise my voice in grateful lays, Nor would I move but to thy praise. I'd part with joys of earthly mould, And pass through trials yet untold, Could I but know my Lord was there, And did each bitter cup prepare. I'd love to drink it, and rejoice To have thy will, dear Lord, my choice. If I might choose, I'd leave to thee The whole control of mine and me. God will protect and save his own, Though in the fiery furnace thrown; But did we know our case was sure, 'T might not effect sin's needed cure. To break our hold of every tie, That we to sin and self may die, God seems to quite forsake us here, Nor leave one ray of light to cheer. Though painful now, "the darkest day, To-morrow, will have passed away," Deliverance will be found ere long, And then will come the conquerer's song. If I am favored here to share An answer to my Saviour's prayer, We shall be one, his voice I'll hear, When in the clouds he shall appear. Oh! glorious day to those who're found In Him when the last trump shall sound; Their sorrows and their sufferings o'er, And prayer to praise turned evermore. The Warfare. Temptations are presented, and we yield e'er we're aware, And again become entangled in the tempter's subtle snare; Our warring passions raging, with the sound of battle din, Though outward foes in arms array, this warfare is within. There's hatred, pride and unbelief, and many evils there, And our besetting sins oft battle faith and humble prayer; Thus wasted are our energies, our strength and nobler powers, And we ourselves deprive of joys, which otherwise were ours. Poor, wretched, miserable and blind, how vain our boastings all; Our misspent moments, worse than lost, we never can recall. The good we might have done, had we obeyed each precept given, Will be a blank, and less will be our crowns of joy in Heaven. Why wound our souls? Why take the gall perverted tastes to please, When nought but Jesus' dying blood, God's anger can appease? Like Peter we deny our Lord, and spurn his tender care; Such base ingratitude as this, who but a God could bear? Most deeply must we feel and weep, ere Christ will on us look, And bless us with the assurance, that our names are in life's book; He knows our frailties and is touched with penitential tears; 'Tis just like Jesus to forgive, and banish all our fears. Such depths of love, such pity, too, should make us prostrate fall Before our King whom we should crown forever "Lord of all;" And when we're freely justified, continued help we crave, Our strength is weakness, and ourselves from sin we cannot save. Thy mission here was, Lord, to save thy people from their sins, And here if e'er we overcome, is where our hope begins. Through Christ alone the victory's gained, and nothing can we merit; If we are overcomers, we in him all things inherit. Not unto us, but Lord to thee, the glory shall be given; It is the noblest song on earth, 'twill noblest be in Heaven; No warring passions to unstring the holy, heavenly lyre, At the loss of all things here, would I be one in that blest choir. Always Rejoicing. If our heart do not condemn us, we have confidence in God, We can bear the world's reproaches, we can bear affliction's rod; If we suffer with the Saviour, we shall also with him reign, Here we cast our burden on him, with the promise, he'll sustain. What though false reports are started, and believed by those we love? We can love though they turn from us; we can plead for them above; Lord, impart the Holy Spirit; for the want of this they erred; Had they waited for thy teachings, they the Shepherd's voice had heard; Would have known thy stately steppings, when thy glory was displayed; Would have felt the holy influence, and thine urgent call obeyed. Oh! withhold no blessing from them, for the wrong dealt out to me, But for Jesus' sake have mercy; mercy, Lord, is all our plea. Jesus has pronounced a blessing on those falsely here accused, Who for his sake are derided, persecuted and abused; He has said, Rejoice, in that day ye may be exceeding glad, Greater still our joy in Heaven, when in robes of glory clad. He will hide in his pavilion; there we're safe from every foe, Under the Almighty's shadow we can through disasters go; Well can we bear wrongs and censure, while God knows our innocence, While he justifies us freely; is our shield and our defense. Glory to the Lord, my Saviour! glory to his holy name! Oh! for his sake I can suffer, bear reproach and grief and shame! Who, with such a friend as Jesus, can be troubled or dismayed? Who while on the waters walking, said, 'Tis I, be not afraid. He can still the raging tempest; him the winds and waves obey; While we sail these seas of trouble, he will smooth and calm the way. Soon the ship will be in harbor, storms and tempests all be o'er; Oh! how blest the glorious landing, tossed with sins and griefs no more! The Work of Reform. The dearest joys of earth can ne'er One solid pleasure give; We're only blest when we can know That 'tis for God we live. We love by nature what he hates; We shun ourselves to see; We love our appetites and pride, Ease and carnality. The strife must come, and self must die, Our idols all be slain; How sad should they o'er us at last Their cruel victory gain! Too soon we cannot overcome Our every sin and wrong. Through Jesus let us conquer self, And join the blood-washed throng. Our wings of strength and zeal we plume, And rouse the dormant will, To yield our hearts to Nature's laws, And all their claims fulfill. This move in heavenly wisdom made, To fit for trouble's hour, Has blessings for the willing heart, Of health and strength and power. That all around may see the light, Let's raise our banner high, And be epistles known and read By all who may come nigh. The platform for us now is laid; Reform is on the sign; We'll rally round, resolving each, It's blessings shall be mine. Live for God. The offering has been made, The ransom has been paid; On one full strong to save Has help for us been laid. Behold, O God, our shield, On thine Anointed look, And blot, for his dear sake, Our sins from out thy book. Sins now of deepest dye, Can all be washed away; God just, and justify Those who his laws obey. "Glory to God on high; Good will to men on earth:"-- Such was the rapturous cry, That told a Saviour's birth. The Saviour's life and death, "Has ruined Satan's throne;" His mighty arm, alone, Can crush his empire down. Though god now of this world, His triumph soon is o'er. We hail the dawning day When he shall reign no more. Salvation's wondrous plan, Has made all Heaven rejoice; 'Tis wisdom now in man To make this boon his choice. By this can he o'ercome, And when each sin's forgiven, Be found at last an heir Of glory and of Heaven. Ere long at home in Heaven, His place of final rest-- There's no oppressor there; And none will be oppressed. All harmony and love, All joy and glory there-- Say, would you not in these Eternal blessings share? Live then for joys like these; Hear Jesus' voice to-day, Who comes to me, I will In no wise cast away. Just as you are, then, come; Secure his pardoning love, And have, at last, the bliss, And joy of Heaven above. My Sheep Hear My Voice. The voice of a stranger my sheep will not hear; I know them, they follow, my words reach their ear. I'll lead them, direct them, they never need stray, I myself am the life, and the truth, and the way. Yea, Lord, this we know; but we lose sight of thee; Unguarded we're snared ere our danger we see; So hidden the net, 'tis in thy light alone That a spirit that's not of thee clearly is known. O Lord search us out; our impurities heal; Thou, tempted, though sinless, knowest all that we feel; A way of escape for the humble thou'lt find, And help them the pure testimony to bind. How sweet and consoling the true Shepherd's voice! His love I'll acknowledge and in him rejoice; O Lord I believe, help my unbelief now, To trust all to thee and perform every vow. My strength is but weakness; be thou, Lord, my strength; Thy love may I know in its hight, depth and length; Reflecting thine image, thy will being mine, My darkness enlightened, the true light must shine. We then can do all things through Jesus our Lord, With the sword of the Spirit, his own written word; The foes that lurk inward being all put to flight, God truly goes with us our battles to fight. Each keeping the ranks, all united in one, Saying, Lord, as thou hast commanded, we've done; No weapon will prosper formed here to divide, And victory will turn upon Israel's side. Where Is Thy God? "My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?" Ps. 42: 3. Through day and night my tears have been my meat, Anguish and grief there find a blest retreat; The spirit crushed, the heart with anguish riven, Almost forgets there will be rest in Heaven. Dear loved one sleeping--sympathy, oh, where? Is there no one who will our sorrows share? The flowing streamlet, and the murmuring rill, In ocean find a kindred spirit still. Do tears oft say, Oh! where is now thy God? Submit to this and every chastening rod. I'd calmly yield to every needed ill, And learn to bear God's visitation still. Not unaccustomed to the galling yoke, Though oft uncalled for, I would bear each stroke; Though wet with tears my pillow oft may be, Still to the Lord for succor will I flee. They who Love the Law. Great peace have they that love thy law, Them nothing will offend; They'll bear neglect, reproach and scorn, Though without cause contemned. Their innocence will bear them up, Though falsely they're accused; Their hearts will melt with love for those By whom they are abused. The court of Heaven their cause will plead, The innocent will clear; Though men may load their names with guilt, While they continue here. A consciousness of right within, Great peace and joy afford; How free, how happy, oh! how blest, Communing with the Lord. He says revile not, when reviled, Thy wrongs I will repay; Be every burden cast on me, I'll be thy strength and stay. God, the Comforter of Those Who Are Cast Down. In view of dear and loved ones gone, We oft feel desolate and lone. We seek man's sympathy in vain; A passing look we hardly gain. But few can feel another's woe; And fewer still will with us go To share the depth of heart-felt grief; And sacrifice to give relief. To bear affliction's chastening rod, Our confidence must be in God. With this above the cloud we soar, And soon we'll shout our suffering o'er. Disease and dark misfortune's frown, Then will not sink our spirits down. We'll shout, O death where is thy sting? O grave thou canst no victory bring! By Jesus, our Deliverer, freed, No light of sun or moon we need. His glory is the city's light, And with him there we've all a right. Each bitter pang which here we bear, Will be a gem of glory there. Th' eternal weight of glory, wrought By suffering is not dearly bought. Be cold indifference, grief or pain Mine to endure--the loss is gain. Through sorrow's depths I here would wade To be through sufferings perfect made. Worldly Sorrow. Worldly sorrow worketh death; Sink not beneath its power; 'Twill darken much that else were bright, In mercy's lingering hour. Forgotten be the trials past, The present meekly borne; Our burdens cast upon the Lord, Who comforts those that mourn. With heavenly wisdom we shall know What God would have us do; While moving in his order on, Our hope and strength renew. Revived and strengthened we're prepared To spread the truth abroad, Beseeching men in Jesus' stead, Be reconciled to God. Then jewels will be gathered in, The church built up again, And all prepared to meet the Lord, Who's coming soon to reign. The Race and Warfare. Are we loitering on the way To the realms of endless day? Sleep we on while danger's near? Have we nought to dread or fear? Let us heed the call, Awake! Our eternal all's at stake; One false step our fate may seal, Ruin, soon our souls may feel. Foes our every move to spy, All around in ambush lie; Watching, they will take the place Left unfortified by grace. Oh! what havoc then is made, Structures fair in ruin laid; Messengers driven from the field, Those who should be valiant, yield. Some who started to go through Now a wicked course pursue; What account must soon be given! Why thus sink in sight of Heaven? Flee, oh! flee the tempter's snare! There is power with God in prayer; He is ready to forgive, Saying, Look to me and live. The Darkness of Despair. The heart knows its bitterness, thought 't may be said, You are happy and blest all the while; The depth of your misery, your burden of sin May in anguish be hid 'neath a smile. Thy waves and thy billows are over me gone, With the Psalmist, I mournfully say, And ask, Why cast down? Why disquieted, opprest? 'Tis why I've no heart now to pray? Has the Spirit been grieved? Has it taken its flight? To this desolate self am I left? And merited sure, naught else is deserved, But to be thus of comfort bereft. I groan, being burdened, and cannot look up, By reason of sin's dread array, O keep back from sins, and from secret faults cleanse, Or despairing, I sink in dismay. Sin hardens, and blinds, and shuts up in despair; The way of transgressors is hard, Its end is destruction, its wages are death, Thus forever from Heaven debarred. This anguish of spirit, this sad state of the soul, I must bear though I may not submit. God is just though I perish, his throne remains pure, However many he may not acquit. Oh! for one gleam of hope, thus to break the dread spell, By which I in misery seem bound; Naught of earth, but the power of Heaven must heal Sin's painful, sin's deep, bleeding wound. Should I ever again meet the smiles of my God, Should I ever his praise again sing, In rapturous song I would swell the grand theme, And my tribute of thanksgiving bring. Oh! here is the mystery,--give glory to God; The blessing is coming e'en now. I'll sing hallelujah, I'll praise and adore, And low in humility bow. With the Psalmist, I cry, Come praise ye the Lord, Praise and glory to God now belong; My heart with my hands, lift to God in the Heavens, Giving praise with the angelic throng. This praise ne'er will end; the redeemed will unite, And with angels, God's glory repeat. To the pure tree of life all will there have a right, And the fruit of the vineyard will eat. How blest to know Jesus our Lord will be there, The glory and light of the place. And the song which forever will rise on its air, Will be sung to his sovereign grace. The Latter Rain. We may look for a Pentecost season to dawn When the saints through the purifying process have gone; When Jesus' loved image in them we can trace, Reflecting the glory of full sovereign grace. Who then will not wish when this glory they see To join in the song, Hallelujah, we're free! Yea, free in the Lord, while our voices we raise In victory's songs and hosannas of praise. The true melting Spirit is felt from the Lord, And light and instruction shine out from his word. God's power is made known and his glory displayed, While scoffers will feel that they need Heaven's aid. Who here long can stand with his sins unconfessed? May all be searched out, and God's people be blessed. Confess ye your faults, and thus honor your King, And into his store-house your offerings bring. 'Tis a cross-bearing way by which Heaven is obtained; In humility's vale is the victory gained. True love there prevails; and our sins are forgiven, While union and strength mark the pilgrims for Heaven. The Hour of Judgment. The time has come, that all-important day, When sins must be confessed and washed away! When hearts must feel, and conscience' voice be heard In swift obedience to God's holy word. "Be zealous and repent," is God's command. We must in humble ranks united stand. With us, 'tis said, the judgment first begins; And we must soon be cleansed from all our sins. We must let Jesus in. Our mighty foe Is ready to effect our overthrow. With Christ we're safe; in conflict he'll unite, Help on to victory, and maintain the right. The eye-salve, well applied, sheds light around, And all our secret faults and sins are found, To be confessed, while Jesus intercedes, And while for us his precious blood he pleads. Though scarlet be our sins--of crimson dye-- If penitent, he'll not our suit deny. He waits for full confession, which, when made, Whate'er our sin and guilt, he'll not upbraid. He's ready to acquit and set us free, And will proclaim our perfect liberty. He'll seal us his, and make us here his care; He'll fit us for his throne, and take us there. He's cutting short his work in righteousness, And coming soon his waiting saints to bless. When once he's left the mediatorial place, No ray of mercy lights our ruined race. 'Twill then be known, the offers we've refused, The blood-bought privileges that we've abused-- How must it sharpen every pang of guilt To think, for us the Saviour's blood was spilt; To know we might have had our sins forgiven, And lived forever with the loved in Heaven. In view of anguish deep we then must feel. No wounds of sin may we here slightly heal. Broad as th' offense, confession I will make, And all my dear, loved idol sins forsake. Yes, glory be to God! the victory's gained, And self-denial shall be hence maintained. 'Twill take our all to buy the pure tried gold; And naught of earth can we in heart withhold. A cheaper way I would not, could I, go; A dearer way no one can ever show. I love the blessed way; it buoys me up; My Saviour's here, and with him I may sup. I'll be content with nothing short of this; And this alone makes Heaven perpetual bliss. Then let us make our hope and calling sure; And all our trials patiently endure. They'll soon be o'er; our lives we'll not hold dear, And soon in glory with our Lord appear. The Remnant Church. There is a people coming up, with gifts and power divine, Whose holy influence will be felt, whose holy light will shine; It will be known who do in truth, the solemn message heed, Such will be zealous and repent, becoming saints indeed. Their love and union will increase, their interests will be one; They'll know that they are heirs of God, and joint heirs with his Son; They'll love God for his own dear sake, not that He's them forgiven; And truly "sin will be their hell, and holiness their Heaven." Their company will be the saints, and each will be so dear, They'll love to make a sacrifice to benefit them here. They'll love for their Redeemer's sake; as answers face to face, So will their hearts while they in each, his lovely image trace. This dread, dull sameness will not long among the saints bear sway, The glory in their midst will soon purge all the chaff away; Thus separated from the vile, the strong be stronger still; The great refreshing time is near, and all may come who will. But, oh! some will not be refined, nor give their idols up; Such never will let Jesus in, nor with him ever sup. They yet may linger round the shore, and think to get on board, But they must come to Heaven's terms; the standard can't be lowered. Thrice happy they who're in the ship, though tossed with angry waves! "Our Father's at the helm," and all who trust in him he saves; Those who in heart give up their all, lie passive in his hand, He'll bring with safety into port, to their own promised land. False Fame and True. While men, our faults perceiving not, would move our fame to raise, How oft our natures weakly yield to flattery and praise, Oh! what in us should e'er excite our vanity and pride! Or cause us not in lowliness, vain thoughts of self to hide? Let deeds of charity and love in all our life abound; Philanthrophy fails not to go, where'er a sufferer's found, To seek the poor, degraded, low, the wicked and debased, Though his own name by slander's tongue, be ever thus defaced. These are the jewels he would gain, this course would fain pursue; That he is not like them, he asks, to whom is glory due? Who made us thus to differ here? who gives the strength and power To hold the victory over self, in dark temptation's hour? Let him who thinks he stands take heed; this is the word to all; The strongest may be overcome, and through temptation fall. Do we in higher circles move? are higher placed by birth? No such distinction will be known, when moldering in the earth. But deeds of kind benevolence will live when we are dead; The poor will think how they were clothed, and shared our daily bread; The once abandoned who've reformed beneath our fostering care, Will bless the day they ever lived our sympathies to share. Such the remembrance I would have, alive or in my grave, To have been the humble instrument some sinking soul to save. For this I turn from pleasure's scenes, to weep with those that weep; To strive their sufferings to assuage, their confidence to keep. Though on them glows the copper tint, though African their race, What matters these distinctions of their nation, lot, or place? For oh! the highest joy of earth is comfort to impart To those who lie 'neath fortune's frowns, with sad and suffering heart. Though hidden from the public view, unseen your acts of love, If heart and hand be clean and pure, their record lives above. Let me thus seek my neighbor's good, thus helpless sufferers raise; Be this the glory of my fame; be deeds of love my praise. Return unto the Lord. Have you again become To appetite a slave? You've boasted victory here, Why sink beneath the wave? You say, I have no hope, No strength within me lies, And sinking still, I fear I ne'er again shall rise. My efforts all have failed, To keep the victory gained. Where look for refuge now? Or hope to be sustained? A helpless sufferer, true, On confines of despair, While knowing there's no hope, If you continue there. Debased and losing still Life's elevating powers, A worse than blank you feel In this grand world of ours. A world God loved so well, He sent his only Son, That we through him might find On earth a Heaven begun. A world to which he sends Rich blessings from above, And daily here renews His covenant of love. Be moved, despairing one; Be helped again to live; God pities, and will yet A greater victory give. He's waiting your return, With pardon in his hand; In his strength you can rise, And in him we can stand. Yes; stand amidst the scenes Of peril, war and strife, While Jesus is our guide To everlasting life. Come while he waits to save. Your case will hopeless be Except you come where God In Christ can make you free. Come and he'll save you here From sin's destructive power, And be your all, when comes The great decisive hour. Safety in the Lord. There's safety only in the Lord, whate'er our station be; We may be rich, we may be poor, may be on land or sea. Life's changing fortune will be ours where'er our lot is cast; Unchanged in mind be ours to meet each change while it shall last. Dear friends are with us here to day with prospects fair to live; To-morrow to the dust, in tears, their dear remains we give. Now pain and suffering is our lot; now dawns a brighter day; But soon a cloud o'ercasts the sky and shuts the light away. An under current often works to sweep away our peace, Our reputation is at stake, our trials fast increase. Dear reputation, dearest far, of all we've called our own, Must be defaced; then be it so; to God all things are known, Be every circumstance combined, the elements to raise; By these be every trace removed of all our evil ways. When Jesus speaks it will be calm, the storm and wind subside; Oh! may it last till all is gone of selfishness and pride. All else but this we could endure; this then is what we need; Our very idol must be slain, and we from self be freed. Then are we fit for Heaven's use, to help build up God's cause, To boldly speak in his defense, and vindicate his laws. Oh! be it ours to live for God, his glory all our aim; He'll work in power when we come to him in Jesus' name. All that is wrong will he remove, and bring the truth to light; Oh! we can trust our all with him; his ways are just and right. We'll go then where he leads the way, whatever man may say. The greatest saint is nought except the Lord direct his way. Angels can't help but through their Lord; to his arm all is due; We'll follow him, for surely he will lead us safely through. The Health Institute. God knows our needs, he overrules, and calls this work his own; We're agents to perform his will, as he shall make it known. Thus has an Institute been built; in this his hand we see; Where health reform is lived and taught, in strictest harmony. We look, admire, in joy exclaim, Come see what God hath wrought! Here invalids are raised to health, and truth and duty taught. Perverted tastes are overcome; the way to live we learn; And all who will its rules obey, a rich experience earn. The light and truth are carried forth by those who leave the place, Showing what ground may yet be gained by our degenerate race. How blest! for those who overcome their every sin and wrong, Can love the right, and walk in ways that life and health prolong. None can appreciate its worth, but those who test its powers; This grand reform! how great and good! Its blessings shall be ours. Pure nature's fruits no art require to gratify the taste, And those who stop at her demands, nor time nor substance waste. Who will escape the many ills increasing on the land? The cleansed and purified alone, diseases can withstand. Haste, then, the cleansing process here, God's precepts all obey, And be prepared to stand when comes the great and dreadful day. Divine Love. Though knowledge here is power, yet 'tis love subdues the heart, Subjects the will to Heaven, and will endless life impart. It conquers every passion; and the soul that feels its power Moves in a world of freedom, within its own loved bower. 'Tis shielded, safely shielded; the interior nought can reach; No outward condemnation can this inward love impeach. No weapon formed can prosper; and it fears no outward foe: While all within is conquered, 'tis a Heaven begun below. The world's applause, its censure too, are both alike received; If undeserved, 'tis heeded not, though all may be believed. It knows no good but that in God, it bears life's every ill, And moves undauntedly along, in Heaven's own blessed will. Though outwardly you see conveyed "a libel in a frown," You'll stand unmoved, though they may "wink your reputation down;" Your deeds of charity assailed, your motives questioned too-- Reviled, you'll not revile again, nor fear what man can do. Oh! for the gold tried in the fire--our eyes anointed here-- White raiment that we may be clothed, and not in shame appear. We then should move in harmony; our God would own and bless; We then should see his works abound in love and righteousness. The day is near, it hasteth on, when saints will all unite; When every sin will be confessed, and every wrong made right; When we shall see as we are seen, and know as we are known, And sit with Jesus, as he sits upon his Father's throne. Oh! glory, hallelujah to our high, exalted King; We'll praise him here, we'll praise him there, and make Heaven's arches ring. Who then can sacrifice too much, too much for him endure? So may we purify ourselves, as Christ our Lord is pure. Appeal to the Sinner. Though earth delights and charms us here, its treasures are but naught; In wisdom's light 'tis clearly seen how dear its love is bought, The price though now not realized, must soon be strictly paid. For this the soul must perish soon, in hopeless ruin laid. The second death must be endured in anguish and despair; While you will see the righteous saved, no friend can reach you there. Oh! loss beyond all losses! Then what profit here to gain This fleeting world, and call at last for endless life, in vain! The blood of Jesus set at naught--rejected every call-- The Spirit will be forced to yield, and let God's vengeance fall. The wrath of God e'en now impends; and soon you'll feel its weight. Oh! flee for refuge while there's hope; full soon 'twill be too late. A moment more the Saviour waits; for you his blood he pleads, My blood! my Father, oh, my blood! forgive the sinner's deeds! But if you still refuse to bow, and be by him forgiven, You must be banished from the Lord, and find no place in Heaven. To free from sin and second death, the Saviour's blood has cost-- What weeping and what wailing when you see what you have lost. God's justice will be manifest in your destruction sure; And hopeless agony will be your portion to endure. Once more in prayer I prostrate fall, once more I'll plead your case; Have mercy, Lord, and here bestow unmerited free grace. He's knocking now! he's wet with dew! Oh! let the Saviour in; He'll sup with you, and you with him; he'll cleanse you from all sin. He'll shelter from the coming storm; no plague shall e'er come nigh; He'll hide from God's avenging wrath, and you shall never die. Life's water pure is here: come, drink! 'tis freely offered still; The Spirit and the Bride say, Come! Come, whosoever will. The Love of Many is Waxed Cold. Are we suffering persecution, trying God's commands to keep? Are our spirits crushed within us? Do we oft in silence weep? From the world naught else we look for; we expect its coldest frown; But when those we love turn from us, how we sink in sorrow down! Where we've felt God's image planted, where in union we have prayed, Where our faith has gained the victory, and we knew from Heaven our aid, Oh! what change has cooled the fervor; what could mean this cold retreat? Lord, let thine in union ever, and in love, each other greet. God's own searching eye is on us! Jesus feels our every grief! He'll not leave his own thus wounded, but will bring them swift relief; Making known our every duty, teaching where he'd have us go, Saying, Fear not! I'll be with you, and all needed help bestow. Though you see your bread withholden, find no place to lay your head; Cast your all on Heaven's protection: God to life can raise the dead! Who the widow's oil replenished? Who kept good her needed store, When Elijah shared her morsel, having naught to purchase more? If we blindly hug earth's treasures, where shall we a shelter find? Soon the plagues will be upon us! all then on the altar bind. Do you say 'tis on the altar? By the fruit it will be known: God is searching out his people, and is sealing for his own. Let us fear lest we offend him, and he pass our dwelling by: He will have a holy people, whom no plague can e'er come nigh. Haste to get thee disentangled! Haste to get from bondage free! Lose not for this world's possessions, life and immortality! Early Recollections. I look back to the past, call to mind former days; When life was all life, all illumined its rays; When I entered the ball room in pleasing attire, Having all that my vain mind or wish could desire. I had naught here to check, all elated in mind, Both pastor and people the gay circle joined; When the priest craved a blessing on dainties most rare, Oh! why should I think any harm could be there? No cloud had come o'er me; all prospects were bright; This vain course I pursued with exquisite delight; I dreamed not that tears would these pleasures efface, That sickness and death would come in for a place. But my own dear loved father, in manhood and bloom, Was called from life's stage and consigned to the tomb; How great such a change, and how solemn the day, The same priest referred to was with us to pray. Being then in youth's bloom, in its glory and prime, My grief wore away with the swiftness of time. True, a loss I sustained in his death; but, all o'er, I again joined the song and the dance as before. The scene soon was changed, we could just number years, When my mother, my dear mother left me in tears; She died e're I'd come to the age of eighteen; How deep was my grief, how afflictive the scene. To cheer, friends and relatives strove but in vain; From weeping incessant I scarce could refrain; The wound seemed too deep for this world e'er to heal; That I'd no hope in God, I was then brought to feel. Repentance moved Jesus my sins to forgive; I could trust in his word, on his promises live; But I found no response, none to guide in the place; Those around had no faith in a change wrought by grace. 'Midst life's changing scenes, I most happily found A people who knew Heaven's own joyful sound; Our union and love then were truly divine, I'd the witness, and knew Heaven's blessings were mine. I could then bless the Lord for this chastening rod; How far above earth's this enjoyment in God; The hight of earth's pleasures all dwindled away, In the light and the glory of this blessed day. The Circle Broken. This dear, lone room, a sacred place-- Here friends have met in love's embrace; Here, too, have died the loved and dear, The circle first was broken here. The lonely hearth, the vacant chair, But tell the father is not there. The only daughter, loved and true, Here bid earth's scenes a last adieu. I love here to recall the past, And mourn o'er joys too bright to last. In fancy's vision here I see Those forms so loved, so dear to me. The Christian's Confidence. We know that help on one is laid Who has his life a ransom paid; We know his blood can cleanse from sin, And make us clean and pure within. We know the arm that's strong to save, The power that rescues from the grave. We know that ne'er Jehovah's ear Is deafened that he cannot hear. Taken in Satan's artful snare, Who once had power with God in prayer, Their minds and hearts by sin enslaved-- Can such go through? can such be saved? Though we may not their case decide, The faithful all will be supplied. They'll see "the cloud of radiant light," "The fount of glory" full and bright. They see the signs fulfilling fast; And soon earth's conflict will be past: Nor do they shrink from being there; For they presume not nor despair. They know in whom they have believed; Their Saviour victory has achieved. Though heaven and earth to ruin go, His promise will no failure know. No cause for doubts or darkness here, For troubled mind or slavish fear. Trials and crosses we'll receive, If some may turn to God and live. But those who will not heed the call, For God and Heaven to give up all, May well sink down in dark despair; For they will gain no entrance there. For a Gathering of the Aged. Out from life's hour glass we must see our sands have nearly run, And we with social scenes in life shall surely soon have done. Be this improved, then, for our good; our last days be our best, And in the final gathering we be found among the blest. On us is seen th' effect of age; we see the furrowed brow. Time's stern realities o'ertake, and we are forced to bow. Compared the once bright, sparkling eye, the rosy, blooming cheek, Our present looks, infirmities, and form, do volumes speak. Though some most helpless, others bowed, on all is seen decay, There're those o'er three-score years and ten who're youthful, blithe, and gay. Be such, then, hopeful, full of life, as may become us here. There's much at best t' embitter life, to make it sad and drear. We have unfading beauty here, if we have love divine, Howe'er defaced by time and age will nature's works outshine; Its rays of light reflecting o'er this moral atmosphere, Will still be seen and felt for good, though we may disappear. This present meeting then will seem a little Heaven below, Its influence, too, be spread abroad wherever we may go. Be this the pleasing, glad result; and then in fadeless bloom, We shall in beauty be arrayed beyond the silent tomb. Emptiness of Earth. What though while here we soar in fame, And gain earth's most illustrious name, Have heaps on heaps of sordid gold, No pleasures here desired, withhold. Be mayor, emperor and king; To light and use improvements bring; For having some great place explored, Be worshiped, honored and adored; Your influence o'er an empire spread, And you looked up to as the head; What then? the king and hero dies; And though 'tis said the great here lies, 'T might well be asked, "False marble, where? Nothing but sordid dust lies here." Thus earth's career, however grand, When called before their judge to stand, If not to God and Heaven resigned, Ere to the tomb they were consigned, Will prove no covering for the head, Though banners here were for them spread. What horror then must seize the heart, When God commands, from him depart; Though laws and statutes here they made, This sentence then must be obeyed. Sin's dread beginning here we know, Its issue none on earth can show; But oh! the "end, the dreadful end," Of those who have in God no friend. The Christian's Triumph. Ye idols all depart, The Lord shall have my heart; I'm his by right. On him my sins were laid; He has my ransom paid, In God's pure sight. Through him I'll conquer too, And all my sins subdue; In him be free. He died to have it so, And in his strength I'll go, Till him I see. Oh! shall I see his face, And rest in his embrace Forevermore? My soul is on the wing To glorify my King; Him I adore. All Heaven adore him now, In adoration bow; It is his due. For saints shall swell the song Of the angelic throng, In earth made new. They'll see him as he is, And know that they are his; Be like him made. In union, all the same, There'll be to his dear name, True homage paid. Hail, that all-glorious place, When all the ransomed race, Their voices raise; And all with sweet accord, Give glory to the Lord, In ceaseless praise. In Eden beauty dressed, Will be each heavenly guest, All blooming fair. This inward truth we know, And there we long to go; God will be there. A BRIEF SKETCH OF THE _Life, Last Sickness and Death_ OF ANNIE R. SMITH. Annie Rebekah Smith, only daughter of Samuel and Rebekah Smith, was born in West Wilton, N. H., March 16, 1828. When ten years of age, she was converted and joined the Baptist church, in which connection she remained till 1844, when she embraced the doctrine of the soon coming of Christ, and withdrew from the church that she might more freely engage in the work of preparation for that event. After the passing of the time in 1844, being thrown with others into doubt respecting our position in the prophetic calendar, she pursued her favorite occupations of studying and teaching. Commencing in 1844, as assistant in a select school kept by Miss Sarah Livermore, in Wilton, between that time and 1850 she taught, in different places, seven district schools, attending, meanwhile, a term each in Milford, Hancock and New Ipswich, N. H., and six terms at the Ladies' Female Seminary in Charlestown, Mass. At the latter place she fitted herself for a teacher in Oil Painting and French. In 1850 she took a sketch of Boston and Charlestown from Prospect Hill, Somerville, three miles distant. The effort was too much for her eyes, and, for about eight months she almost entirely lost the use of them. On account of this difficulty, she was obliged to decline a proposition to teach in the seminary at Hancock, which made her misfortune seem almost intolerable, so great was her disappointment. The only alleviation which she found for her affliction in this time, was in becoming an agent for, and contributor to, "The Ladies' Wreath," a monthly magazine published in New York. Her contributions to this periodical, with the exception of a few pieces published in the "Odd Fellow," and some other papers, were her first efforts at public writing. Her friends in Charlestown, thinking the salt water would prove a benefit to her eyes, invited her to spend a season with them. She went in 1851, not expecting to be gone many weeks, but did not return till November, 1852, when she was called home by the sickness and death of her father. During her stay in Boston and vicinity she went to Portland and Nova Scotia. I requested her to go once, to please me, to sister Temple's, in Boston, to a Seventh-day Adventist meeting. Some remarkable incidents in connection with her attendance at this meeting, together with the faithful efforts of the friends of the truth, arrested her attention; and in about three weeks she committed herself upon the Sabbath and its attendant truths. The next week she sent to the "Advent Review" the piece of poetry entitled "Fear not, Little Flock," which was her first contribution to that paper. The "Review" was then published in Saratoga, N. Y., and she was immediately requested to take a position in that office. She replied that she could not, on account of the trouble with her eyes, but was told to come as she was, or to that effect. Arriving there, the directions in James 5:14, 15, were followed, and her eyes were so far strengthened in answer to prayer, that she was soon enabled to engage without restraint in the work of the office. With strong faith and fervent zeal, she entered heartily into the work. She rejoiced in the new-found truth. The whole current of her mind was changed, and nobler aspirations took possession of her heart. From a position of exaltation and honor among men, she had now turned her eyes to an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, reserved in Heaven for the followers of Christ, and to a place at last with the redeemed before the throne. Her contributions to the "Review" while it was published in Saratoga and Rochester, N. Y., afterwards published in her volume of poems, entitled, "Home here, and Home in Heaven," show the themes upon which her mind delighted to dwell. In November, 1852, as already stated, she was called home by the sickness of her father, who died the first of December following. In January, 1853, before returning to N. Y., she was solicited, in connection with her brother Uriah, to take charge of the Academy in Mont Vernon, N. H., with a salary for the first year, of one thousand dollars, and a prospect of increase as they should bring the school up to a greater degree of prosperity. But she preferred to labor in some capacity where her efforts would tend more directly to spread a knowledge of the truth among the people, and lead them to seek salvation through Christ the Saviour of men. She therefore declined the offer, preferring, without any pecuniary consideration, to again connect herself with the office. Two years later, in November, 1854, she came home to West Wilton, suffering under the first stages of that disease which shortly brought her to the grave. The following from a letter to a friend, written soon after her death, sets forth the occasion of her last sickness, and the circumstances attending the closing hours of her life: On account of sickness in the family where she boarded, she assisted in the kitchen awhile, where was a warm stove, and in consequence of a letter being left, she hastened with it to the office unprepared for a cold, wet morning. Had she returned immediately, as she should have done, all might have been well. But she stayed through the day, as her work was there, and became very cold and chilly. That cold undoubtedly seated itself immediately upon her lungs, and threw her into night sweats and a hard cough, which ended but with her life. So rapid was the wasting process of her disease, that within six weeks from the time she took the cold, she rode up in the cars, on her way home, with an intimate acquaintance of hers who did not know her. He told me he thought of her, but thought it could not be Annie, she was so altered in her looks, being so poor and pale. Her brother Samuel said he did not think he should have known her had he met her unexpectedly, and said with a most dejected look, "_I don't think she will live._" She came home the 7th of November, kept about and worked some till about the 1st of December, when she had a very distressed day, and raised blood. Having confidence in water treatment, she went where she could receive such treatment, to see the effect it would have, and to get information. She continued this course till the following February. She felt better while under the exhilarating effect of the water, but became satisfied that she was no better. The 14th of February, most providentially, Bro. Joseph Bates called on us, and stopped till the 18th. This was the occasion of a great blessing to her. At the commencement of the Sabbath, the 16th, the spirit and power of God descended upon her, and she praised God with a loud voice. I felt at the same time the sweet influence of Heaven, and the presence of holy angels. I believed God was hearing prayer, and granting his blessing, and joined them in praising and giving glory to his name. Bro. B. then said to Annie, "You needed this blessing, and now if the Lord sees that it is best for you to be laid away in the grave, he will go with you." She appeared some stronger and better a few days in the day time, but I could not see that she rested, or was much different nights. Her cough remained obstinate, and I do not think the disease was ever stayed. She was greatly strengthened in a spiritual point of view, and engaged more earnestly in exhorting people to believe the Word, and be ready for the coming of the Lord. She would feel impressed to go out and talk with different individuals upon the truth, and was strengthened and blessed in so doing. Victory was generally gained, so that the truth was verified, that whom the Lord makes free is free indeed. We had from that time as long as she lived, some of the most sweet, melting seasons of prayer that I ever enjoyed, often accompanied with shouts of praise to the Lord. It was evident to all around that Annie was failing. Her symptoms became alarming. The 20th of March her brother Samuel was taken suddenly and very sick with influenza and fever, three miles and a half away at his boarding place, and unable to get home. Annie said I must go and attend upon him, even if she never saw me again. The 30th she went to Mason Village to stay with sister Gorham, while I was with her brother. While there, word came that Annie was much worse. The 12th of April I went to Mason Village, and found her very much worse than I expected. For twelve days her death was almost hourly expected by those around. She said to me, "Mother, that poem I've been writing since January, 1855, [since published under the title of "Home Here and Home in Heaven,"] I suppose must all be lost. It is unconnected, and nothing can be done with it to advantage, without me." I went to Wilton and got the papers containing what she had written, but she was not able to do anything with them. She then prayed that she might be enabled to finish the poem, and prepare the book she had in contemplation; that if she did not live, it might be that through it, she being dead would yet speak, and that good might be done. Sabbath April 21, the meeting was at sister Gorham's. We did not hold it in her room on account of her low state of health, but went in to close the exercises, when to our surprise she commenced praying with more than usual strength. The presence of God was manifested, and his power rested down upon her in a remarkable manner. She said she was raised up to go home, and to do the will of the Lord. She rested better that night than she had for a long while. The next day she rode to Wilton, seven miles, to the astonishment of all. Many from our village had been to see her, and taken their leave, never expecting to see her again; and when they saw the carriage drive up, they came in to inquire when she died. Great was their surprise to find her able to walk about the room. She was again in her own quiet home, and soon commenced on her work. She was not able to write much herself, and I kept paper and pencil to write what she dictated at her will. The 28th of May she had arranged and composed the last verse of her poem "Home Here and Home in Heaven." The 29th, her brother Uriah came home just in time to write it off for the press, and to assist her in arranging her other poetry for reprinting. She, however, made some alterations, and some little additions while he was copying it. She dreamed in February that she was with a people, seemingly spectators, and before her was the most beautiful road, which glistened like gold. There was a company arranged by the side, and some one came to her with a peony, and said to her, "You must go over upon that road and hold up this peony." She stood there dressed in white, holding up the peony, when she awoke with the most pleasing impression, that she had yet something more to do for the Lord. She fully believed after she came from Mason, that she should accomplish the work she had in view, and that this was what was represented by her dream. The peony was her favorite flower, and as soon as they were in blossom, Uriah sketched and engraved one for the book, as is seen on the title page. She often said in view of her dream, that when the book was done there would be a change in her. She should either be raised up to live, or she should die. Her prayer was answered. The book was all done on her part, and as she had a desire to see the proof-sheet of her poem, and heard that help was needed at the office, she said to Uriah, "I feel bad to have you staying on my account, when it seems you might be accomplishing more good." It was thought she might live till frosty nights, if no longer. Under these considerations, Uriah left for Rochester the 17th of July. He had not been gone with the manuscript; more than three hours, when she said, "I am ready now to die;" and she did not live quite ten days after. The 18th she wrote the piece "Our Duty." The 19th, at 3 o'clock, P. M., she said, "Mother, some change has taken place. I don't think I shall live through the day." I saw there was a change, and stayed by her. Night drew on. No one happened in. She said, "It seems to me I could not breathe to have many in the room." I told her I was not afraid to be alone with her if she did die. She seemed gratified, as she wanted everything as quiet as could be, and she was not able to talk much with people if they were in. Her brother John and myself stayed with her during the night, when it seemed that any moment might be her last. She delivered many messages for different individuals, especially for her brother Samuel, if she did not live to see him. She said, "My mind was never clearer; I could do a sum in arithmetic." About 2 o'clock she looked very happy. I said to John, "Annie is being blessed." She soon exclaimed, "Glory to God," a number of times, louder than she had spoken for a long while. She said, "Heaven is opened. I know Jesus is mine, and that he will save me. I shall come forth at the first resurrection;" and exhorted us to prepare for the time of trouble, and to be ready to meet her at that day, which she said she did not think was far distant. Friday morning, the 20th, I wanted to write to Uriah, but she said "It will make no difference, I think I am dying; don't leave me, mother, while I live." We sent for Samuel, and for sister Gorham. She remained about the same. Those who came in thought she must be just gone. They said it did not seem like a sick and dying room, she appeared so happy. She would look upon them and smile when she could not speak. Sabbath, July 21, she seemed better. Sunday, the 22d, more distressed, though she had some pleasing, and I trust profitable intercourse with her relatives and some of her particular friends. Monday morning, more comfortable. Some of us entertained hopes that she might, even then, revive and live. Monday night her distress returned. She said, "I think I cannot live." Thursday morning, the 24th, she composed her last two verses, "Oh! shed not a tear o'er the spot where I sleep," &c. In the afternoon she had a conflict with the enemy, and seemed to lose sight of Jesus. I told her it was no strange thing; it was only a sign the Lord was near and would deliver. She found it even so. Before night she was enabled to triumph over all the powers of darkness, and praised God aloud. She prayed for patience to suffer all her Father's will, saying, "I shall not suffer any too much. I can bear anything while Jesus sustains me;" and many like expressions. Tuesday night was a solemn and interesting night. I stayed with her alone through the night. Neither of us slept. She was very happy, and talked much with me. She said in her former familiar way, "My mother, I've been afraid I should wear you all out. I've called after you by night and by day." She felt bad to have me kept up as I was on her account. But she said, "I am here now, your dying girl. I think this is the last night, and you must be sure to rest when I am gone. O, my blessed mother, I shall bless you in Heaven for taking such care of me. No sorrow or suffering there. We shall all be free there. Yes, we shall all be free when we arrive at home, and we shall live forever. Yes, and I can smile upon you now through all my sufferings." It was her last suffering night. Wednesday, the 25th, a death coldness was upon her. In the afternoon she became more free from pain and distress. While speaking in the evening of taking care of her, she said, "I shall not want any one to sit up; you can lie on the lounge." At 1 o'clock I called Samuel. She talked with him, called for what she wanted as usual, and told him he might lie down. About three o'clock she called him to wet her head with water, and said she felt sleepy. She was indeed going into her last sleep. Samuel wet her head, and soon after spoke to me and said, "I don't know but Annie is dying." I spoke to her. She took no notice, breathed a few times, and died apparently as easy as any one going into a natural sleep. Her sufferings were over. She was gone. It was 4 o'clock in the morning, July 26, 1855. She gave many directions about her burial; wanted as little parade as possible. We were expecting Bro. and sister White. We had had a letter from Bro. H. O. Nichols, saying they were expected there, and would be likely to call on us about that time. Brn. Bates, Burr and Nichols were written to, but circumstances prevented any of them from attending her funeral. Bro. Hastings and others spoke, prayed, and sung, to the edification of all. The hymns selected were, "Unconscious now in peaceful sleep," and "She hath passed death's chilling billow." It has since been said by the friends that they never attended a more interesting funeral. Annie looked very natural; more so than at any time after she came home. It was remarked that a holy sweetness seemed to rest upon her countenance, while her remains were with us. Annie had many favors shown her. For the interest and friendship manifested, the friends have my sincere love and gratitude. Though I ever thought much of them, they seem doubly dear since her death, especially Bro. and sister White, with whom she was so long connected. Annie loved them, and manifested an interest for them, and the work there till the last. Bro. White made her the generous donation of seventy-five dollars and other valuable presents, during her sickness. It was a great satisfaction that I had Annie with me, and that I was enabled to take care of her while she lived. Her complaints required an uneven temperature of the room, which was unfavorable for me. I took one cold after another, and was very much worn down at the time of her death. I took an additional cold when she was buried, and have scarcely been able to do anything since. I have thought sometimes, that what I had the privilege of doing for Annie, was worth my life, if it must go; and if it were not that I was still needed as a mother, I would now myself willingly lay off the burden of life's duties and cares. _West Wilton, N. H., Sept. 16, 1855._ POEMS, BY ANNIE R. SMITH. The Friends of my Youth: Where are They? Oh, where are they who once did tread With me, in youth's sweet sunny morn, The winding labyrinths that led Where sweetest flowers the path adorn; And gladsome birds send forth their lay, And rivulets murmur on their way? Oh, where are all the glad and gay, That filled the brightly-lighted hall; With loving hearts to music's lay, Responded to the joyous call? With blooming cheeks and beaming eye, They dreamed of joy and heaved no sigh. Some swept adown life's rolling tide, By summer breezes borne along, With prosperous gale they gently glide, Like some sweet fairy boat of song; And bask in pleasure's sunny fold, And revel in their glittering gold. And some are rudely borne along, By dark misfortune's chilly blast; The storm and tempest coming on, The sky with clouds is overcast, Till weary of their toil and care, They sink in darkness and despair. And some, whose sunny hopes have fled, Like th' withered and deserted flower, On which no tenderness is shed,-- They sicken in a single hour; And e'en in youth and beauty's bloom, Are ushered to the silent tomb. And some in yonder graveyard sleep, Beneath the ever verdant soil; Where mortals ne'er are known to weep: They rest from all their pain and toil; Away from care, from sin set free, They peaceful rest, O God, in Thee. A few are left to struggle on, Through dangers that beset life's way; To mourn that all the loved are gone, To weep and struggle, and to pray, That all in Heaven at last may meet, And joy each other there to greet. Ode to the Winds. Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds, As though ye fain would seek Some quiet rest ye cannot find, In this cold world so bleak. Sound on, sound on; ye bring to mind The bright and joyful past; The golden hours of sunny yore, That were too bright to last. Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds, Like thee, 'mid bitter tears, In vain I sigh for brighter days, In other happier years. Sound on, sound on; ye seem to tell That all things here decay; The brightest flowers the soonest oft Will droop and pass away. Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds; Thy strange, mysterious voice Seems like some spirit hovering near, Bidding my heart rejoice. Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye tell Of a long, peaceful home, Beyond this dark and fleeting world, Where sorrows never come. Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds; Your moaning, solemn tone Does with this heart so well accord, So dreary, sad and lone. Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye've power To soothe each rising sigh, And waft my spirit far away, Where pleasures never die. Lines Suggested by the Wreck of the Minot Ledge Lighthouse. On the rock, a beacon lighted, Shone upon the stormy wave; There to guide the bark, benighted: Home of those, the true and brave. Clouds of wrath the skies are veiling, Danger, wreck, and death are nigh; Lone and wild, the sea-bird's wailing As the storm-wind whistles by. Tempests rave--fierce roars the ocean, Higher swells the angry foam; Winds and waves in wild commotion, Fearful rock their storm-tossed home. Night of anguish, wo and sorrow, Wrapt in midnight's pall of gloom, Gleams no light upon the morrow, Dark beneath a watery tomb. Hark! the bell is loudly ringing With a deep, and solemn wail. Death-like knells around are flinging, In the wild, terrific gale. Still, the beacon-light is flashing, None could reach them from the shore. Towering waves, in fury dashing, They must sink to rise no more. Wrecks along the shore are lying, On the heaving surges tossed; Mournful winds and waves are sighing, Ocean's requiem for the lost; Mighty dome, by tempest shattered, Billows o'er thee darkly sweep, Treasure far more precious, scattered In the bosom of the deep. Far beneath the rolling billow, Sleep the noble, young and brave; Ocean's coral bed their pillow, And their shroud, the foamy wave; Wreck or monument, may never Point the fatal rock, swept bare; But enshrined in memory, ever, Faithful hearts that perished there. Lines Addressed to a little Orphan Child. Poor little orphan child! I see thee happy now, With glossy ringlets waving O'er thy sunny brow; With tender heart as light and free As birds in summer air, With beauty, grace, that well might vie With rose and lily fair. Poor little orphan child! The tears steal down my cheek, For oh! how little dreamest thou The world is cold and bleak; How little knowest thou the toil, The turmoil, care, and strife, The tears, the sighs, that may beset The orphan's path in life. Poor little orphan child! 'Tis bitter hard to roam In this cold, dark, unfeeling world, Both friendless and alone, Where friendship ends in selfish aims, Lips smile but to deceive, Unkindness mars the spirit's peace, And leaves the heart to grieve. Poor little orphan child! For thee is pained my heart; Should sickness pale thy rosy cheek, And light and hope depart,-- Oh, who would then be near to bathe The weary, aching head, And twine around thee, arms of love, And joy and gladness shed. Poor little orphan child! Thou'lt miss a mother's care, To watch thy youthful steps, Thy little griefs to share; No voice is like a mother's voice, No look so sweet and mild, No smile is like her loving smile, Upon a darling child. Oh! ye who revel in your ease, The orphan's cry should heed, Nor with a cold indifference Treat them in hour of need. Ye know not of the anguish deep, That rends their aching heart, Or of the woe and misery Your cold words may impart. Poor little orphan child! May angels guide their way, For there are thousand treacherous paths, That lead the feet astray. Sin comes in many a dazzling form,-- Fearful the tempter's power, Oh, God of love forbid thy fall, In the dark, trying hour. Poor little orphan child! Should tears e'er dim the eye, And grief and sorrow fill the soul, And friends no one be nigh; There is a friend above, on whom Cast all thy earthly care, Who ne'er forsakes the fatherless, But hears the orphan's prayer. Poor little orphan child! I would not shade thy brow, By telling thee of after years, To make thee sorrow now. Oh, no! in childish innocence Play on with life and glee, With dimpled cheek and joyous laugh, So happy, pure and free. Poor little orphan child! Blest be thy passage o'er The ever changing sea of life, To Canaan's peaceful shore. There mayst thou safely land Where sorrow ne'er will come, To join thy loved--that happy band In one eternal home. Oh! Let me be on the Stormy Sea. Oh! let me be on the stormy sea, Where darksome clouds arise; When the waters dash and the lightnings flash, Along the dismal skies; There I should be so wild and free. Oh! let me roam, on the ocean wave Oh! give me a home. Oh! let me be on the stormy sea, When the tempests madly rave; Where no voice is heard, save the wild sea bird, As it skims o'er the foamy wave; No strife and care would reach me there. Then let me roam, on the ocean wave Oh! give me a home. Oh! let me be on the stormy sea, For there is the home of the brave; We never fear when danger's near, Tossed on the towering wave; Boldly they sail through wind and gale. There let me roam, on the ocean wave Oh! give me a home. Oh! let me be on the stormy sea, Where the raging billows bound; Where the roaring surge and mournful dirge Is ever heard around; Where the wild winds sigh, as they whistle by. Oh! there would I roam, on the ocean wave Oh! give me a home. Oh! let me be on the stormy sea, Far down in the briny deep; On corals gay, myriads lay, In their last silent sleep. Beneath the wave, a wat'ry grave They've found. No more they'll roam-- 'Neath ocean's wave they've found a home. The Exiled Prisoner. Lines occasioned by the Story of an Exile who died of grief on meeting a former friend. I met him in his gloomy cell, Where all alone and sad, He spent the darksome day and night In homely vesture clad. No golden sunlight ever threw Its lustre o'er his room; No gladsome voices ever cheered Its dreariness and gloom. Oh! he was fair and beautiful, With clustering auburn hair, That waved in many a ringlet o'er The brow of genius rare-- The loved in his sweet native land, The pride of his dear home, Once he, who sat within these walls, In iron fetters lone. I wept as I did on him look, For we were friends in youth; Together trod the selfsame path Of wisdom and of truth; Together roamed o'er hill and dale, As happy, light, and free As joyous birds in summer air, In boyish pride and glee. Ah! strangely altered now his face, Depicted with despair; Yet still methought that I could trace Some former beauty there. Yet something of the light had gone That flashed his raven eye, And pallid cheek, and thin, white lip, Told of full many a sigh. Oh! tell me, friend, in grief he cried, About my joyful home, And those bright, sunny fields o'er which We used to sport and roam. Oh! is the waterfall still there, Wherein I used to play, Without one thought of grief and care, Through all the livelong day. And is my father, mother, there, And brother, sister kind? And do they know my hopeless lot, In this dark cell confined? Oh! could I see them but once more, And press them to my breast, And meet their sweet, forgiving smile, My weary soul could rest. Ah! had I not too fondly loved, I had not seen this day, Apart from all that I hold dear, Alone to waste away. A rival came--with vilest art Allured her from my side, And triumphed in my loss, until She found him false, and died. Sick of the world, I left my home, Far from parental care; I roved, a wild and thoughtless thing, Exposed to every snare, Till tossed on fortune's faithless sea, I sought to drown my woe In revelry and crime, that's brought Me in this dungeon low. Oh! cruel Fate that bids me dwell In this cold, living tomb! Oh! mother, couldst thou see me here, And know my deepest gloom, Thou wouldst forgive thy erring son, And heal his broken heart; Repenting, thou wouldst soothe his grief, And words of love impart. Upon his knees, his hands he clasped, In agony he cried-- We part! the past comes o'er my brain Like an overwhelming tide; 'Tis like a dark and troubled dream, That fain I would forget-- But oh! through all the day and night Its horror haunts me yet. Ah! wildly now he gazed around The cell; no more he said, Save in some broken accents wild, For reason now had fled. I looked again--his noble form Lay stretched upon the floor; He gave one last, one bitter groan-- The prisoner was no more. The Clouds. How beautiful the clouds, The morning's purple clouds; How sweet they calm reposing lie In yonder deep blue azure sky, Streaked with crimson pale and red, Fair as violets in their bed; Gliding, floating, moving ever Onward, onward, stopping never. How beautiful the clouds, The noontide's burning clouds; Mountains of pure white driven snow, In upper regions on they go; Pillars of ever living light, Piles of crystal gems as bright, Gliding, moving, hurrying ever Onward, onward, stopping never. How beautiful the clouds, The dark and rolling clouds; With tempest, storm, and fury crowned, Where lightnings fiercely play around; Terrific, grand, sublime, they rise When pealing thunders rend the skies; Whirling, heaving, rolling ever Onward, onward, stopping never. How beautiful the clouds, The golden sunset clouds; Tinged with yellow, mellow light, Warm, rich hues that gladden sight; As sinks the wave in ocean's breast, So fades the many-colored west; Fading, passing, gliding ever Onward, onward, stopping never. How beautiful the clouds, The evening, moonlit clouds; On tireless wings of snowy hue They move through heaven's ethereal blue; Like fairy forms of crystal light, Arrayed in robes of silver white; Gliding, floating, moving ever Onward, onward, stopping never. And in our weary march, The whirling, passing clouds Are emblems of life's hurried way, Swift passing down its fleeting day; In smiles and tears the restless mind Is ever seeking--ne'er to find-- A resting place--but hurrying ever Onward, onward, stopping never. Youth's hopes, oh! what are they, But clouds of changing hue; Sometimes they're tinged with golden light, Beaming with softening beauty bright; Like clouds they fade, they pass, they die, And leave no trace upon the sky; Fleeting, fading, passing ever Onward, onward, stopping never. I'd be, when life shall wane, Like white-winged clouds of even; Through fields of endless day I'd roam, And find me there a starry home; Beyond this world, far, far, away, To Heaven's own light I'd wing my way; Through realms of bliss there roaming ever Onward, onward, stopping never. The Unchanged. I saw her 'mid the birds and blossoms when a rosy laughing child, Playing by the silver rivulet, joyous in its murmurings wild; Now wandering o'er the sunny green with buoyant step and free, In the mild and balmy breeze that fanned the flowery lee. In life's fair spring-time, when the heart is lightest, free from care, When fancy spreads her pinions wide and soars on wings of air, Earth's mantling robe, so brightly decked with rainbow-colored hue, Came o'er the soul in visions soft as falls the pearly dew. The morn of youth was on her cheek when love her bosom thrilled, With golden dreams of future bliss her gentle soul was filled-- Unsullied by the world's cold strife, its darkness and untruth, When in its tender infancy, the guileless love of youth. She thought the world could ne'er be lone while one might not depart, Who was the worshiped idol of her young and trusting heart; His dark eyes woke the flame within of soul-lit lustrous hue, To be unquenched--the holy light of pure devotion true. Genius marked his lofty brow for wreathing chaplets fair, And from the deeply-treasured fount of knowledge rich and rare, She quaffed the crystal streams that flowed, with kind and fervent heart, As flowers will gather sweetness that may never more depart. And oft she gazed with rapture on that bright angelic face, So radiant and beautiful with eloquence and grace; His voice, like tones of music sweet, bound with a magic spell, As gems of wisdom from his lips in heavenly accents fell. In fashion's brilliant halls, where gay alluring pleasures throng, No flattering smiles could win her from her childhood's happy song; When many a garland twined her brow and passion's voice soft fell, She was true to him who knew not how she had loved so well. Ah! cruel fate that bids the shades of change with fleeting years, Sad separation's bitter pang must dim with burning tears-- Like some lone beacon's glimmering ray the star of hope shall be, To guide the bark by tempest driven o'er life's dark, troubled sea. The cherished love of early years say not she can forget, That springs in youth's fresh vernal prime, and with its tears are wet; Its tender buddings crushed may be, and blighted its return, Its wasted fragrance lingers still around its broken urn. When time shall fade youth's glowing charms, its joy and romance fled, Love's purest flame is shining o'er the altar of the dead-- Through desert paths and weary of life's ever-changing day, With light and peace his memory shall pave her lonely way. I saw her in the moonlit vale, a lovely maiden's form, Her spirit in illusions wrapped, her cheek with vigor warm; Untouched by sorrow's withering hand, so pale, for hers were dreams Of other years--that for the night had cast their halo beams. And may the silken tie so fond, unbroken e'er remain, Bright angels hover round her way to shield till life shall wane; Unchanging be the heart's first love, till in immortal bloom, In yonder Paradise her home and rest beyond the tomb. Lines Written on the Death of Lorenzo D. Upham. Lamented youth, thy spirit now has fled, Thy youthful form in earth's cold bosom lies. Why art thou numbered with the early dead? Who would not weep when one so lovely dies? Why wert thou thus cut down in manhood's bloom, When life to thee was all a summer's day, Consigned unto the dark and silent tomb, Nought but a lump of cold and lifeless clay? And oft the mourner there doth go and weep, And youthful friends shed many a bitter tear For him who lies in his last, dreamless sleep, For him they loved and ever held most dear. We miss thee, brother, in our youthful band, Thy words of love, thy gentle accents sweet; But thou hast left us in this dreary land, No more shall we thy social presence greet. Thou wast a noble youth, the younger son, Thy father's hope and solace in his years; But short thy stay; ah! soon life's labor done, Soon thou hast left a weary vale of tears. Yes; thou hast left a world of care and toil, Where storms and tempests o'er our pathway rise, Calmly to sleep beneath the verdant soil, Till called triumphant to the upper skies. Then rest thee, brother, free from all thy pain, Above thee bloom the rose and violet fair. We would not wish thee back to earth again, But let thee calmly, sweetly, slumber there. To M. D. B. On the present of a pen. Dear sister, words cannot express To you my heartfelt thankfulness; Or with what pleasure I behold This precious gift--a pen of gold. I prize it more, while now I see In it remembrance kind of me; Which fills me with delight untold In viewing my new pen of gold. And thee, at morn and evening tide, As past the fleeting moments glide, Shall I remember, while I hold Within my grasp this pen of gold. With newer zeal I now would write, Dispensing nought but truth and light; And richer treasures fain unfold, The products of my pen of gold. And when our weary task is done, The conflict o'er, the victory won, May we be found of finest mold, As tried, refined, and pure as gold. Be Cheerful. Be cheerful! Be cheerful! At the breaking of morn, When the sun's gladd'ning rays The earth shall adorn; Be cheerful when noon Shall its brightness display. Be cheerful when eve Ends the toil of the day, For all nature is cheering With harmonious voice; All nature is bidding Be glad and rejoice. Be cheerful! Be cheerful! Whatever thy lot! If trouble awaits thee, Thy woes are forgot. Be cheerful, and light Thy path shall surround; With cheerfulness let Every moment be crowned, For all nature is cheering With harmonious voice, All nature is bidding Be glad and rejoice. Be cheerful! Be cheerful! Let not the few days That we spend on this earth Be void of its lays. Oft the ills we endure, From the future we borrow; Then be cheerful to-day-- Think not of the morrow; For all nature is cheering With harmonious voice, All nature is bidding Be glad and rejoice. Be cheerful! Be cheerful! In life's joyful spring, When summer its beauties And glories shall bring. Be cheerful when autumn Shall mantle in gloom, When the winter of age Brings near to the tomb; For all nature is cheering With harmonious voice, All nature is bidding Be glad and rejoice. The Sister's Devotion. There is no flower, brother, howe'er so sweetly blooming, But it will fade in night; No sunny sky with beams so bright illuming, But clouds may shade its light, But oh! there is a sister's love, In sorrow's night unfading, That clouds of earthborn care or woe Ne'er will its light be shading. Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize a sister's devotion, Ever pure, unchanging, sincere, Whose heart for thee beats with tender emotion, And shareth each smile and each tear. The beaming eye, brother, lit bright with smiles enwreathing, Tears may unbidden dim, The soul of music's melody, sweet breathing, Discordant strains may hymn. But oh! there is a sister's voice To cheer with kind words spoken; Her hand may wake sweet strains again From harp-strings that were broken. Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize-- Fame's starry hight, brother, howe'er its gems alluring, Cold storms and tempests crown; The form of genius fair may fall, enduring The world's dark chilling frown. But oh! there is a sister's heart, Forever true, unshaken, That ne'er grows cold, but closer clings, When all else has forsaken. Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize-- Our golden dreams, brother, we so fondly cherish, May change like morning's rays; Youth's fairest joys and pleasures all may perish, With years that pass away. But oh! there is a sister's prayer, That happy be our meeting, Safe wafted o'er life's sea in peace, Where time no more is fleeting. Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize-- Trust Not, Love Not. When the world is fair, entwining Many a garland for thy brow, When around thee wealth is shining, Friendship's hand is near thee now. But when clouds and storms shall gather Round thy pathway rough and drear, Few will cling as fond as ever, Few will prove to thee sincere. Oh! if thou canst find the treasure, Close the precious jewel bind; Choicest blessing without measure, Guardian angel--rare to find. Speak or act, oh! coldly never, Kindred spirits keenest feel; Silver links the blow may sever; Time the wound may never heal. Friendship's ties too oft are riven, By the slightest word or deed; Oh! trust not love's tokens given, Lest thy heart with anguish bleed. Trust not--hopes we fondly cherish, Crushed and wounded leave the heart. Love not--love's bright flowers perish, Bloom to wither, then depart. Love's sweet strains, like music flowing, Drink not deep their melting tone. Eyes that now so gently glowing, Beam so fondly in thine own-- Ah! their light--it may deceive thee; Flattering smiles, oh, heed them not, For their coldness soon may grieve thee, Soon thou mayest be forgot. Lavish not youth's tender feeling-- Warm, confiding--keep it true, Ere dark shadows o'er thee stealing, Bitter tears thy cheek bedew. Trust not--change may, ere the morrow, Rob thy cheek of beauty's bloom; Love not, it may bring the sorrow, Haste thee to an early tomb. Solemn vows are lightly spoken, Joys and pleasures fade and die; Fondest, truest hearts are broken, Golden dreams like phantoms fly. Trust not--vows are falsely plighted-- Lest thy rashness give thee pain; Love not--"for its flowers once blighted, They may never bloom again." Proof Reader's Lament. What news is this falls on my ear? What next will to my sight appear? My brain doth whirl, my heart doth quake-- Oh, that egregious mistake! "Too bad! too bad!!" I hear them cry, "You might have seen with half an eye! Strange! passing strange!! how could you make So plain, so blunderous a mistake!" Ah! where it happened, when and how, This way or that, no matter now; Myself from blame I cannot shake-- For there it is, that _sad mistake_. Guilty, condemned, I trembling stand, With pressing cares on every hand, Without one single plea to make, For leaving such a _bad mistake_. From morn till night, from night till morn, At every step, weary, forlorn, Whether I sleep, or whether wake, I'm haunted still with _a mistake_. If right, no meed of praise is won, No more than _duty_ then is done; If wrong, then censure I partake, Deserving such a gross mistake. How long shall I o'er this bewail? "The best," 'tis said, "will sometimes fail;" Must it then _peace_ forever break-- Summed up, 'tis only _a mistake_. A smile is my delight to share, A frown is more than I can bear; How great the sacrifice I'd make, If I could cease from a mistake. "I'll try," my motto yet shall be-- Whate'er I hear, whate'er I see, And for my own and others' sakes, Look out betimes _for all mistakes_. Lines to H. N. S. On the Reception of a Rose. O sweet, lovely flower, For me didst thou bloom In a far distant bower, My path to perfume? For me wast thou nourished, In that dear, quiet spot, To tell when thou flourished, I was not forgot? Thine image, loved sister, In fancy I trace, And joy in the vision, To greet thine embrace; But here I have never Thy hand clasped in mine; Yet round us forever, Affection shall twine. And oft this fond token Shall whisper to me, Of friendship unbroken, In remembrance of thee. Its freshness may perish; But ne'er can depart Its fragrance I cherish So deep in my heart. Lines Composed by Annie R. Smith, the day but one before her death. Oh! shed not a tear o'er the spot where I sleep; For the living and not for the dead ye may weep; Why mourn for the weary who sweetly repose, Free in the grave from life's burden of woes? I long now to rest in the lone, quiet tomb; For the footsteps of Jesus have lightened its gloom. I die in the hope of soon meeting again The friends that I love, with Him ever to reign. POEMS, BY URIAH SMITH. The Willing and Obedient. "If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land." Isa. 1:19. Whose is a willing heart, Whose is a ready hand; Joyful in Jesus' cause to start, Joyful for him to stand? Whose breast with ardor glows, The conflict to begin; Warring, but not with carnal foes, Wrestling with every sin? Who when the cross appears, Hasten its weight to bear; Glad, though it be through thorns and tears, The cross of Christ to share? Who at stern duty's call, Unbound by selfish will, Meekly resign their earthly all, Its bidding to fulfill? Who with unyielding feet, When storms around them roar, Shrink not the scorn and hate to meet Which Christ their Saviour bore: Deeming of higher worth, Their Lord's reproaches now, Than all the cankered gold of earth, To which the worldlings bow? Whose is a willing heart? And who obedient stand? To them shall Heaven its joys impart, To them the goodly land. For them the City waits, Unstained by woe or sin, And as they come, the pearly gates Shall ope to let them in. Be Not Cast Down. Tempted, tried, desponding one, Why does darkness shade thy brow? Is there no all-beaming sun In the heavens above thee now? Is the cloud of radiant light, Glowing round th' Eternal throne, Shrouded in a pall of night, Or in outer darkness gone? Is the fount of glory dried? Are the gates of mercy closed? Went there ever unsupplied, Any who in God reposed? Has his arm grown short to save? Heavy is his ear to hear? Bids he any be a slave To despair or doubt or fear? Then may we refuse to move, When his word and mighty arm, Weak and impotent shall prove, To deliver us from harm. Then may we despondent be, And in him refuse to trust, When his throne and majesty Both shall crumble to the dust. Has not help on One been laid Strong to save and set us free? And is there no promise made, In his name, of victory? Then in Jesus let us trust; On him stay our troubled mind: Not presume; for God is just: Nor despair; for he is kind. Be Faithful. Tune--"Be Kind to the Loved Ones at Home." O brother, be faithful! soon Jesus will come, For whom we have waited so long; Oh! soon we shall enter our glorious home, And join in the conqueror's song. O brother, be faithful! for why should we prove Unfaithful to him who has shown Such deep, such unbounded and infinite love-- Who died to redeem us his own. O brother, be faithful! the city of gold, Prepared for the good and the blest, Is waiting its portals of pearl to unfold, And welcome thee into thy rest; Then brother, prove faithful! not long shall we stay, In weariness here and forlorn; Time's dark night of sorrow is wearing away, We haste to the glorious morn. O brother, be faithful! He soon will descend, Creation's Omnipotent King, While legions of angels his chariot attend, And palm-wreaths of victory bring. O brother, be faithful! and soon thou shalt hear Thy Saviour pronounce the glad word, Well done, faithful servant, thy title is clear To enter the joy of thy Lord. O brother, be faithful! eternity's years Shall tell for thy faithfulness now, When bright smiles of gladness shall scatter thy tears, And a coronet gleam on thy brow. O brother, be faithful! the promise is sure, That waits for the faithful and tried; To reign with the ransomed, immortal and pure, And ever with Jesus abide. Lines To J. T. and M. T. Lane, on the death of their little Child, Francis M. Lane, July 25, 1858. Still reigns the tyrant Death in sable power; Sorrow and mourning wait at his command; For tender bud as well as blooming flower, Fades 'neath the touch of his relentless hand. And hath his summons to your hearts been spoken? Hath his dark shadow crossed your threshold o'er? Hath he links of fond affection broken, And borne a loved one from this mortal shore? So hath a floweret from your pathway faded; A bright star shining o'er you set in gloom; Bright rays of hope are from your vision shaded By the dark curtain of the silent tomb. 'Tis well to weep: stay not the bitter tears If thus the burdened heart may find relief; For this dark earth hath been six thousand years A vale of woe, a charnel-house of grief. Know then that here where dearest forms have perished, There's nothing true on which our love to shed; Not where death reigns can hopes of bliss be cherished, Which may not wither 'neath his icy tread. But ah! there is land whose shores are nearing; The ills of earth its soil shall never bear; Of that bright world there stands this promise cheering: Death finds no entrance--pain no victims there. To that fair land be now your footsteps tending; Fix heart and treasure on that blissful shore, Where friends shall re-unite in joy unending, Nor taste the pangs of separation more. Passed Away. Passed away from earth forever, Free from all its cares and fears, She again will join us never While we tread this vale of tears; For the turf is now her pillow, And she sleeps among the dead; While the cypress and the willow Wave above her lowly bed. There she slumbers, calmly slumbers, With the silent, peaceful dead. With what grief and anguish riven, Should we see the loved depart, If there were no promise given, Which could soothe the wounded heart! If the chains with which death binds them, Ne'er again should broken be; And his prison which confines them, Ne'er be burst to set them free; If forever there to leave them, Were our hopeless destiny. But a glorious day is nearing, Earth's long-wished-for jubilee; When creation's King appearing, Shall proclaim his people free; When upborne on Love's bright pinion, They shall shout from land and sea, Death! where is thy dark dominion! Grave! where is thy victory! Then we'll meet her, gladly meet her, Where we'll never parted be. Ode. Written for the anniversary exercises of the Golden Branch Society of Phillips' Exeter Academy, June, 1850. Borne on in the swift course of time, The hour again is here, Which calls from us a sad adieu, And swells the parting tear. We'd fain the golden hours prolong, Which have so quickly past; We'd fain delay the farewell song, And bid our union last. But tho' we grieve that some so soon Must leave our social band, We would not have you linger here, 'Gainst duty's high demand. But, rather, we would bid you forth Into the field of life, To battle for immortal names, Like heroes in the strife. Advance, then, in the grand career, So nobly here begun; Aim to accomplish life's great end, Until life's course is run. May fortune smile upon your path, And all your efforts bless; And may her arm be ever near To crown you with success. And, as you tread your onward course, May virtue guide your way; And wreath of fame adorn your brow, Which ne'er shall fade away, "Excelsior" will lead you on To posts of honor high. And call to mind our "holy bond," Of "Friendship's Sacred Tie." And may you prove, while on you press With banner wide unfurled, An honor to your native land, A blessing to the world. And when at last, life's work is done, This recompense you'll have, The true and lasting fame that waits The Great, the Good, the Brave. Ode. Written for the anniversary exercises of the Golden Branch Society of Phillips' Exeter Academy, June, 1851. We've met again within these halls-- These halls to mem'ry dear, Where scenes of harmony and peace Have filled the by-gone year. But e'en while recollections fond Still cling around the heart, One bitter thought disturbs our joy: For we have met to part. Full well we know, our path through life Can ne'er be always bright; The sweetest hours to mortals given Are swiftest in their flight. Then let us follow duty's call, With calm, undaunted brow, Nor weakly chide the stern behest, Which separates us now. Ye whom this consecrated spot Still sheds its blessings o'er, Use well the moments as they pass, For they return no more. Here you must gird your armor on, Survey the field of life, And then go forth to earn a name, Or perish in the strife. Great men have been before us here, Whose fame the wide world knows; _Excelsior_ still shines for us-- The star by which they rose. They're shedding now a mighty spell On all the paths we tread; On living brows bloom laurel wreaths, While cypress mourns the dead. Then let us form the high resolve To make our lives sublime, And mark a clear and noble track Upon the sands of time, And bring fresh honors to the list Of men and heroes all, Whose power is felt from pole to pole-- The sons of Phillips' Hall. I'm Coming Home Again. The wheels of time roll ceaseless on, The moments glide away; The hours but tell us they are gone, Nor lingers long the day. So that from friends, and home, away I shall not long remain, For soon the flying wings of time Will bear me home again. I have a home--oh! blessed thought!-- Which oft I call to mind; Which oft a healing balm has brought, And left dull care behind. From this dear home, though far away, I cannot long remain, The ties of friendship, sure and strong, Will bring me home again. In fancy's vision oft I see Friendship's extended hand, And for a moment seem to be, One in your happy band; But recollection suffers not These visions to remain, And so to see you face to face, I'm coming home again. The boisterous waves roll rough around My thin and slender bark; While clouds arise, and storms resound, And all is drear and dark. But out upon the swelling tide I shall not long remain, For I'm coming into harbor-- I'm coming home again. Charity. There is a way more excellent, so traced the sacred pen, Than e'en to share the precious gifts which God vouchsafes to men; It is to draw for every act our motive from above, And make our whole of mortal life a holocaust of love. For though the mind with all the wealth of human lore expand, Though e'en an angel's glowing words we hold at our command, If in each thought and word expressed, no charity abound, 'Twill but be like the tinkling brass, the cymbal's hollow sound. And though all knowledge we possessed, all mysteries could prove, Had faith to bid the rugged mount to yonder sea remove, If charity dwell not within, the all-inspiring power, We are but cyphers in the scale, the beings of an hour. And though our goods we freely give to meet the sufferer's need, And yield our bodies to the stake, the fiery flame to feed; If charity prompt not these acts, so fair to human sight, It profits nothing in His eyes who reads the heart aright. For charity is but the name for every heavenly grace; With human weakness long she bears, to anger ne'er gives place; Her features fair with kindness glow, no envy stirs her breast, Nor e'er by boastful acts or words is inward pride expressed. She ever seeketh others' good, regardless of her own; She thinks no evil, speaks no ill, by act, or look, or tone; Not in iniquity, but truth, doth she her comfort take, And bears, believes, endures, and hopes, all things, for Jesus' sake. Hail, holy Charity! bright daughter of the skies! An angel from the ruins of our once fair paradise, Still lingering with our fallen race to point our feet above, And show us what a Heaven will be, where all is wrought in love. In the dark places of the earth thy footsteps may we trace, By fruitful fields and verdant plains where once were desert wastes. The orphan rises up with joy thy coming steps to bless, And widows, smiling through their tears, their grateful thanks express. To clothe the naked, feed the poor, bestowing joy for pain; To bring relief to those who long in suffering have lain; To cause the sad, despondent heart to sing aloud for joy-- These are thy works, sweet Charity, thy holy, blest employ. We welcome thee, O Heavenly grace! be thou our constant guide; Let thy sweet spirit in our hearts forevermore abide. Help its to scatter deeds of love in all the paths we tread; For blessing thus our fellow-men, we honor Christ our head. Lines On the death of William M. Smith. Dark is the hour when Death prevails, And triumphs o'er the just-- A painful void within the breast, When dust goes back to dust; And solemn is the pall, the bier, That bears them from our presence here. But there's a bright, a glorious hope, That scatters death's dark gloom; It cheers the saddened spirits up, It gilds the Christian's tomb; It brings the resurrection near, When those we love shall re-appear. Then mourn we not as those whose hopes With fleeting life depart; For we have heard a voice from Heaven, To every stricken heart: Blest are the dead, forever blest, Who from henceforth in Jesus rest. With kind regard the Lord beholds His saints when called to die; And precious in his holy sight Their sacred dust shall lie, Till all these storms of life are o'er, And they shall rise to die no more. A few more days and we shall meet The loved, whose toil is o'er, And plant with joy our bounding feet On Canaan's radiant shore; Where, free from all earth's cares and fears, We'll part no more through endless years. The New Year, 1871. Why hail we thus each new-born year, With voice of joy and scenes of mirth? What room for gay and festive cheer, While woe and darkness span the earth? While sin and suffering, pain and death, still throw, Their baleful shadow over all below? Earth trembles at the cannon's roar, War's murderous visage scours the plain; Its fairest spots are drenched with gore, Its fruitful fields are piled with slain. And what are all these slow-revolving years, But funeral pageants of distress and tears? Contagions spread their wings of pall, Fierce tempests rage with blasting breath, And earthquake throes, engulfing all, Make short and sure the way to death. No peace, no safety, no enduring cheer, To him who builds his hopes and treasures here. Yet glad we hail each New Year's morn; For from the great high throne of Heaven A royal fiat forth has gone, A glorious word to earth is given: Behold, says He who looks creation through, Where sin has marred my works, I make anew. New earth to smile before his face, New heavens in crystal beauty dressed, New years to run a guiltless race, New joys for each immortal breast, New flowers upspringing from the sinless sod, New waters sparkling from the throne of God. New bodies for these feeble forms, New life from e'en the moldering tomb, New skies unrent by raging storms, New beauty, new unfading bloom, New scenes the eternal era to begin, Of peace for war, of righteousness for sin. Speed then away, O tardy years! Fly quickly, hours that intervene! Groaning we wait the time when tears Shall be but things that once have been. Dawn, thou blest morn, so long in promise given, The glorious glad New Year of God and Heaven. Almost to the Beautiful Land. Almost to the beautiful land! This be the watchword to cheer thee, When o'er thee dark tempests expand, And dangers and trials are near thee. Then from this perilous way, Look up to the glory before us, Which with unglimmering ray, Like a bright bow of promise bends o'er us. Only a few more seasons Of watching and weariness here, Ere the day-star arises, Ere the day-dawn appear. Almost to the beautiful land! Where the pilgrim may rest him forever, And bask on the golden strand Of the crystal and flowing river. Where the fadeless crown awaiteth, For the cross which here we bore; And the glory ne'er abateth, And sorrow is known no more. Only a few more efforts To toil up the rugged hight, Ere we reach the glorious summit, And faith is lost in sight. Almost to the beautiful land! Shall we grow weary then? Never! Lift up the faltering hand, Strengthen the feeble endeavor. Only a few more mornings Allotted to laboring here, Only a few more warnings To fall on the sinner's ear; Only a few more conflicts To wage in the struggle of life, Then the sweet victory cometh, That endeth the toilsome strife. Almost to the beautiful land! Shall we lose courage now? Never! Bold in the conflict stand, Faint not in spirit nor waver. Woe now to him who shall suffer Earth's tinsel to blind his eyes; Woe unto him who fainteth, In sight of the glorious prize. Up! for the moments hasten, And the King is himself at hand: Nerve thee with this glad watchword-- Almost to the beautiful land! "They Shall be Mine." Mal. 3:16, 17. They shall be mine in the coming day, When I shall gather my chosen ones; When the Lord shall rise to the spoil and prey, And the year of Zion's redemption comes. They shall be mine! the chosen few Who dare to honor my holy name, Who yield their hearts to their Maker, true, And bear his cross nor heed the shame, And turn not back for the scoffers' boasts-- They shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts. They shall be mine in the fearful hour When heaven shall part as a shattered scroll; And earth shall reel from Jehovah's power And death shall seize on the sinner's soul; Then will the Lord to his servants bring A crown for the cross which here they bore; And loud their shouts of joy will ring; And then shall be heard and feared no more The critic's sneer, and the scoffer's boasts, When saints shall be owned by the Lord of hosts. They shall be mine in whom alone Is power to save and to destroy; And as one spares his only son, So will I spare my people's joy. When the treach'rous hopes of the wicked flee, And pestilence wastes the sons of men, My servants true shall find, in me, A refuge and a shelter then; And skeptics all shall cease their boasts In terror for the Lord of hosts. Then who would shrink from the lowly band, Who make their peace with the King of kings? He holds the worlds in his mighty hand, He rules o'er all created things; His arm alone can bear us up When earth is drinking her dregs of woe; His mercy alone is ground for hope, His chosen only will safety know-- Ah! then who cares for the scoffer's boasts, If he may be owned by the Lord of hosts. In that dread day, when the proud and great For rocks and mountains shall vainly call, And kings and nobles, in high estate, Shall be robed alike in a funeral pall; When the Judge appears in the parting sky, And the angel-reapers from glory come To bear the good to their realms on high, And all thy saints are gathered home, From the isles afar, and the distant coasts-- Let me be thine, O Lord of hosts! The Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Tune--Tyrolese Evening Hymn. Come, come, come, Come to the marriage feast Prepared for saints above; The Lord now bids his guests To the banquet-room of love. Oh! why should the tinseled toys Of this earth allure us here, While pure, immortal joys, Wait us in a happier sphere. Chorus--Come, come, come, Come to the marriage feast, Prepared for saints above; The Lord now bids his guests To the banquet-room of love. Come, come, come, Soon will the day be o'er, And hope's last hour be gone; And mercy's voice no more The day of grace prolong. Life yet we may secure; And the warning note is given, Make now your title sure To a lasting home in Heaven. Come, come, come, The weary pilgrim there "Lays staff and sandals down" A conqueror's palm to bear, And an angel's glittering crown. Then all the scoffs we've borne, While this gloomy vale we've trod, "To lasting joys shall turn," In the city of our God. The Lord Will Come. Tell me the Lord will come, That he will soon appear; This world is not my home, I have no treasure here. The hope of joys that soon shall be Is what alone can comfort me. Tell me the Lord will come-- I love the cheering sound; There's hope and joy and peace In that sweet promise found; For then our ills, whate'er our lot, Will all be gone, and all forgot. Tell me the Lord will come, 'Tis music in my ears; I would not longer roam In this dark vale of tears, Where tempests gather o'er our way, And darkness hides the light of day. Tell me the Lord will come; In that victorious hour, The dark and silent tomb Must yield its gloomy power; For he shall call his slumbering dead, Forever from their dusty bed. Tell me the Lord will come, He whom our souls do love, To take his exiles home To their own land above: In those bright mansions of the blest, Is where alone our souls can rest. Ay, soon the Lord will come! We are not left forlorn, Without some cheering tone, Some promise of the morn; Some token from our absent Friend, That soon our pilgrimage will end. Ay, soon the Lord will come! He will not suffer long The triumph of our foes, The reign of sin and wrong. With courage then still breast the storm, For God has spoken and will perform. Yea, soon the Lord will come, And glad deliverance bring, And crown with lasting joy All who have honored him. When heaven and earth abashed shall flee The glories of his majesty. INDEX. POEMS BY REBEKAH SMITH. Page. All Trials Cease, 25 Always Rejoicing, 63 Appeal to the Sinner, 87 Baptism, 14 Brother, Live, 47 Christian Love, 6 Christian Submission, 50 Condense, 48 Deny Thyself, 13 Depart from Sin, 16 Despair of the Lost, 15 Divine Love, 85 Domestic Afflictions, 59 Dying Words, 21 Early Recollections, 90 Emptiness of Earth, 94 False Fame and True, 78 For a Gathering of the Aged, 93 God, the Comforter, 70 Go Forward, 44 Have Mercy on Yourselves, 56 Home for the Weary, 40 It was True, 11 Life's Conflict, 5 Lines on the Death of Annie R. Smith, 30 Lines on the Death of my Husband, 36 Lines Read at a Gathering of Old People, 35 Lines to a Mother, 34 Live for God, 66 Look up, 37 Love not the World, 7 My Sheep Hear my Voice, 68 No Resting Here, 12 Old, but Young, 17 Overcome and Live, 53 Overcoming Sin, 38 Passing the Gate, 18 Preparation for Heaven, 8 Return unto the Lord, 80 Safety in the Lord, 82 Submission, 9 Sustaining Grace, 43 The Advent, 57 The Bond of Peace, 49 The Christian's Confidence, 92 The Christian's Desire, 60 The Christian's Triumph, 95 The Circle Broken, 91 The Coming Day, 58 The Darkness of Despair, 73 The Enemy's Power, 41 The Health Institute, 84 The Hour of Judgment, 75 The Last Message of Mercy, 54 The Latter Rain, 74 The Love of Many is Waxed Cold, 88 The Race and Warfare, 72 The Remnant Church, 77 The Slave of Appetite, 22 The Warfare, 61 The Work of Reform, 65 The Vanity of Earth, 20 They who Love the Law, 69 To Aaron A. Smith, 27 To Ellena Boutwell, 26 To My Mother, 31 Response, 33 To Samuel, 27 Trust, 46 Trust all to God, 19 We Love, 55 Where is Thy God? 69 Who is without Fault, 51 Why Art Thou Cast Down, 45 Will You be a Pilgrim, 39 Worldly Sorrow, 71 Brief Sketch of the Life, Last Sickness and Death of Annie R. Smith, 97 POEMS BY ANNIE R. SMITH. Page. Be Cheerful, 124 Lines composed the day but one before her death, 130 Lines on the Death of Lorenzo D. Upham, 122 Lines on the Wreck of the Minot Ledge L'thouse, 109 Lines to an Orphan Child, 111 Lines to H. N. S., 129 Ode to the Winds, 108 Oh! Let me be on the Stormy Sea, 113 Proof Reader's Lament, 128 The Clouds, 117 The Exiled Prisoner, 114 The Friends of my Youth, 107 The Sister's Devotion, 125 The Unchanged, 119 To M. D. B., 123 Trust Not, Love Not, 127 POEMS BY URIAH SMITH. Page. Almost to the Beautiful Land, 145 Anniversary Ode, 1850, 136 Anniversary Ode, 1851, 138 Be Faithful, 133 Be not Cast Down, 132 Charity, 140 I'm Coming Home Again, 139 Lines on the Death of F. M. Lane, 134 Lines on the Death of Wm. M. Smith, 142 Passed Away, 135 The Lord Will Come, 149 The Marriage Supper of the Lamb, 148 The New Year, 1871 143 The Willing and Obedient, 131 They Shall be Mine, 146 Transcriber's Notes --Silently corrected a spelling and punctuation in several places, where it was inconsistent with usage, and where the intent was obvious. 
12985	----	[Illustration: ORIGINAL TEXT OF "LITTLE BOY BLUE" _With drawings in colors by Eugene Field._ The little toy dog is covered with dust But sturdy and stanch he stands, And the little toy soldier is red with rust And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys. And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- Oh! the years are many--the years are long-- But the little toy friends are true! Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand-- Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder--as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair-- What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.] EUGENE FIELD A STUDY IN HEREDITY AND CONTRADICTIONS By SLASON THOMPSON With Portraits, Views and Fac-Simile Illustrations VOLUME II Published, December, 1901 Charles Scribner's Sons New York 1901 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. OUR PERSONAL RELATIONS 1 II. INTRODUCTION TO COLORED INKS 15 III. SOME LETTERS 44 IV. MORE LETTERS 71 V. PUBLICATION OF HIS FIRST BOOKS 107 VI. HIS SECOND VISIT TO EUROPE 138 VII. IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER 169 VIII. POLITICAL RELATIONS 198 IX. HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS" 234 X. LAST YEARS 261 XI. LAST DAYS 297 APPENDIX 321 INDEX 341 ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWINGS IN COLORS AND IN FAC-SIMILE PAGE ORIGINAL TEXT OF "LITTLE BOY BLUE" _Frontispiece_ _With drawings in colors by Eugene Field._ THE LITTLE DRESS-MAKER 23 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ A PROPER SONET 26 _From a drawing in colors by Eugene Field._ FIELD AND BALLANTYNE AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A BISCUIT FROM NEW BRUNSWICK 27 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE 29 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 30, 31 _From drawings by Eugene Field._ HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE: _From drawings by Eugene Field._ THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY MATILDA 38 THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS--FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY MATILDA--THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE 40 BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND EN ROUTE TO THE WEDDING 42 A STAMP ACCOUNT 57 AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND 58 _With drawings by Eugene Field._ A BOWLING CHALLENGE FROM EUGENE FIELD 75 A LETTER FROM EUGENE FIELD CONTAINING THREE DRAWINGS 78 FIELD'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF 88 _"As I would have looked but for the refining influence of Old Nompy."_ A SCENE IN THE DAILY NEWS OFFICE 99 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ PAGE OF ADVERTISEMENTS FROM "CULTURE'S GARDEN" 111 "THE ALLIAUNCE" 124 SKETCH AND EPITAPH 168 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ OFF TO SPRINGFIELD 201 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ HALF-TONE PLATES FACING PAGE ROSWELL FIELD 142 FIELD THE COMEDIAN 254 EUGENE FIELD WITH HIS DUTCH RING 302 EUGENE FIELD CHAPTER I OUR PERSONAL RELATIONS In the loving "Memory" which his brother Roswell contributed to the "Sabine Edition" of Eugene Field's "Little Book of Western Verse," he says: "Comradeship was the indispensable factor in my brother's life. It was strong in his youth: it grew to be an imperative necessity in later life. In the theory that it is sometimes good to be alone he had little or no faith." From the time of Eugene's coming to Chicago until my marriage, in 1887, I was his closest comrade and almost constant companion. At the Daily News office, for a time, we shared the same room and then the adjoining rooms of which I have spoken. Field was known about the office as my "habit," a relationship which gave point to the touching appeal which served as introduction to the dearly cherished manuscript copy, in two volumes, of nearly one hundred of his poems, which was his wedding gift to Mrs. Thompson. It was entitled, in red ink, "Ye Piteous Complaynt of a Forsooken Habbit; a Proper Sonet," and reads: _Ye boone y aske is smalle indeede Compared with what y once did seeke-- Soe, ladye, from yr. bounteous meede Y pray you kyndly heere mee speke. Still is yr. Slosson my supporte, As once y was his soul's delite-- Holde hym not ever in yr. courte-- O lette me have hym pay-daye nite! One nite per weeke is soothly not Too oft to leese hym from yr. chaynes; Thinke of my lorne impoverisht lotte And eke my jelous panges and paynes; Thinke of ye chekes y stille do owe-- Thinke of my quenchlesse appetite-- Thinke of my griffes and, thinking so, Oh, lette me have hym pay-daye nite!_ Along the border of this soulful appeal was engrossed, in a woful mixture of blue and purple inks: "Ye habbit maketh mone over hys sore griffe and mightylie beseacheth the ladye yt she graunt hym ye lone of her hoosband on a pay-daye nite." Through those years of comradeship we were practically inseparable from the time he arrived at the office, an hour after me, until I bade him good-night at the street-car or at his own door, when, according to our pact, we walked and talked at his expense, instead of supping late at mine. The nature of this pact is related in the following verse, to which Field prefixed this note: "While this poem is printed in all the 'Reliques of Ye Good Knights' Poetrie,' and while the incident it narrates is thoroughly characteristic of that Knightly Sage, the versification is so different from that of the other ballads that there is little doubt that this fragment is spurious. Prof. Max Beeswanger (Book III., page 18, old English Poetry) says that these verses were written by Friar Terence, a learned monk of the Good Knight's time." _THE GOOD KNIGHT TO SIR SLOSSON The night was warm as summer And the wold was wet with dew, And the moon rose fair, And the autumn air From the flowery prairies blew; You took my arm, ol' Nompy, And measured the lonely street, And you said, "Let's walk In the gloom and talk-- 'Tis too pleasant to-night to eat!" And you quoth: "Old Field supposin' Hereafter we two agree; If it's fair when we're through I'm to walk with you-- If it's foul you're to eat with me!" Then I clasped your hand, ol' Nompy, And I said: "Well, be it so." The night was so fine I didn't opine It could ever rain or snow! But the change came on next morning When the fickle mercury fell, And since, that night That was warm and bright It's snowed or it's rained like--well. Have you drawn your wages, Nompy? Have you reckoned your pounds and pence? Harsh blows the wind, And I feel inclined To banquet at your expense!_ The "Friar Terence" of Field's note was the Edward J. McPhelim to whom reference has already been made, who often joined us in our after-theatre symposiums, but could not be induced to walk one block if there was a street-car going his way. As bearing on the nature of these "banquets," and the unending source of enjoyment they were to both of us, the following may throw a passing light: _Discussing great and sumptuous cheer At Boyle's one midnight dark and drear Two gentle warriors sate; Out spake old Field: "In sooth I reck We bide too long this night on deck-- What, ho there, varlet, bring the check! Egad, it groweth late!" Then out spake Thompson flaming hot: "Now, by my faith, I fancy not, Old Field, this ribald jest; Though you are wondrous fair and free With riches that accrue to thee, The check to-night shall come to me-- You are my honored guest!" But with a dark forbidding frown Field slowly pulled his visor down And rose to go his way-- "Since this sweet favor is denied, I'll feast no more with thee," he cried-- Then strode he through the portal wide While Thompson paused to pay._ Speaking of "the riches that accrued" to Field it may be well to explain that when he came to Chicago from Denver he was burdened with debts, and although subsequently he was in receipt of a fair salary, it barely sufficed to meet his domestic expenses and left little to abate the importunity of the claims that followed him remorselessly. He lived very simply in a flat on the North Side--first on Chicago Avenue, something over a mile from the office, later on in another flat further north, on La Salle Avenue, and still later, and until he went to Europe, in a small rented house on Crilly Place, which is a few blocks west of the south end of Lincoln Park. By arrangement with the business office, Field's salary was paid to Mrs. Field weekly, she having the management of the finances of the family. Field, Ballantyne, and I were the high-priced members of the News staff at that time, but our pay was not princely, and two of us were engaged in a constant conspiracy to jack it up to a level more nearly commensurate, as we "opined," with our respective needs and worth. The third member of the trio, who personally sympathized with our aspirations and acknowledged their justice, occupied an executive position, where he was expected to exercise the most rigorous economy. Moreover, he had a Scotsman's stern and brutal sense of his duty to get the best work for the least expenditure of his employer's money. It was not until Field and I learned that Messrs. Lawson & Stone were more appreciative of the value of our work that our salaries gradually rose above the level where Ballantyne would have condemned them to remain forever in the sacred name of economy. I have said that Field's weekly salary--"stipend," he called it--was paid regularly to Mrs. Field. I should have said that she received all of it that the ingenious and impecunious Eugene had not managed to forestall. Not a week went by that he did not tax the fertility of his active brain to wheedle Collins Shackelford, the cashier, into breaking into his envelope for five or ten dollars in advance. These appeals came in every form that Field's fecundity could invent. When all other methods failed the presence of "Pinny" or "Melvin" in the office would afford a messenger and plan of action that was always crowned with success. "Pinny" especially seemed to enter into his father's schemes to move Shackelford's sympathy with the greatest success. He was also very effective in moving Mr. Stone to a consideration of Field's requests for higher pay. In his "Eugene Field I Knew," Francis Wilson has preserved a number of these touching "notes" to Shackelford, in prose and verse, but none of them equals in the shrewd, seductive style, of which Field was master, the following, which was composed with becoming hilarity and presented with befitting solemnity: _A SONNET TO SHEKELSFORD Sweet Shekelsford, the week is near its end, And, as my custom is, I come to thee; There is no other who has pelf to lend, At least no pelf to lend to hapless me; Nay, gentle Shekelsford, turn not away-- I must have wealth, for this is Saturday. Ah, now thou smil'st a soft relenting smile-- Thy previous frown was but a passing joke, I knew thy heart would melt with pity while Thou heardst me pleading I was very broke. Nay, ask me not if I've a note from Stone, When I approach thee, O thou best of men! I bring no notes, but, boldly and alone, I woo sweet hope and strike thee for a ten. December 3d, 1884._ There is no mistaking the touch of the author of "Mr. Billings of Louisville" in these lines, in which humor and flattery robbed the injunction of Mr. Stone against advancing anything on Field's salary of its binding force. Having once learned the key that would unlock the cashier's box, he never let a week go by without turning it to some profitable account. But it is only fair to say that he never abused his influence over Mr. Shackelford to lighten the weekly envelope by more than the "necessary V" or the "sorely needed X." I have dwelt upon these conditions because they explain to some extent our relations, and why, after we had entered upon our study of early English ballads and the chronicles of knights and tourneys, Field always referred to himself as "the good but impecunious Knight, _sans peur et sans monnaie_," while I was "Sir Slosson," "Nompy," or "Grimesey," as the particular roguery he was up to suggested. It was while I was visiting my family in the province of New Brunswick, in the fall of 1884, that I received the initial evidence of a particular line of attack in which Field delighted to show his friendship and of which he never wearied. It came in shape of an office postal card addressed in extenso, "For Mr. Alexander Slason Thompson, Fredericton, New Brunswick"--the employment of the baptismal "Alexander" being intended to give zest to the joke with the postal officials in my native town. The communication to which the attention of the curious was invited by its form read: CHICAGO, October 6th, 1884. GRIMESEY: Come at once. We are starving! Come and bring your wallet with you. EUGENE F----D. JOHN F. B----E. Of course the postmaster at Fredericton read the message, and I was soon conscious that a large part of the community was consumed with curiosity as to my relations with my starving correspondents. But this served merely as a prelude to what was to follow. My visit was cut short by an assignment from the Daily News to visit various towns in Maine to interview the prominent men who had become interested, through James G. Blaine, in the Little Rock securities which played such a part in the presidential campaigns of 1876 and 1884. For ten days I roved all over the state, making my headquarters at the Hotel North, Augusta, where I was bombarded with postal cards from Field. They were all couched in ambiguous terms and were well calculated to impress the inquisitive hotel clerk with the impecuniosity of my friends and with the suspicion that I was in some way responsible for their desperate condition. Autograph hunters have long ago stripped me of most of these letters of discredit, but the following, which has escaped the importunity of collectors of Fieldiana, will indicate their general tenor: CHICAGO, October 10th, 1884. If you do not hasten back we shall starve. Harry Powers has come to our rescue several times, but is beginning to weaken, and the outlook is very dreary. If you cannot come yourself, please send certified check. Yours hungrily, E.F. J.F.B. The same postal importunities awaited me at the Parker House while in Boston, and came near spoiling the negotiations in which I was engaged, for the News, for the, till then, unpublished correspondence between Mr. Blaine and Mr. Fischer, of the Mulligan letters notoriety. My assignment as staff correspondent called for visits to New York, Albany, and Buffalo on my way home, and wherever I stopped I found proofs that Field was possessed of my itinerary and was bound that I should not escape his embarrassing attentions. There is no need to tell that of all anniversaries of the year Christmas was the one that appealed most strongly to Eugene Field's heart and ever-youthful fancy. It was in his mind peculiarly the children's festival, and his books bear all the testimony that is needed, from the first poem he acknowledged, "Christmas Treasures," to the last word he wrote, that it filled his heart with rejoicings and love and good will. But there is an incident in our friendship which shows how he managed to weave in with the blessed spirit of Christmas the elfish, cheery spirit of his own. We had spent Christmas Eve, 1884, together, and, as usual, had expended our last dime in providing small tokens of remembrance for everyone within the circle of our immediate friends. I parted from him at the midnight car, which he took for the North Side. Going to the Sherman House, I caught the last elevator for my room on the top floor, and it was not long ere I was oblivious to all sublunary things. Before it was fairly light the next morning I was disturbed and finally awakened by the sound of voices and subdued tittering in the corridor outside my door. Then there came a knock, and I was told that there was a message for me. Opening the door, my eyes were greeted with a huge home-knit stocking tacked to it with a two-pronged fork and filled with a collection of conventional presents for a boy--a fair idea of which the reader can glean from the following lines in Field's handwriting dangling from the toe: _I prithee, gentle traveller, pause And view the work of Santa Claus. Behold this sock that's brimming o'er With good things near our Slason's door; Before he went to bed last night He paddled out in robe of white, And hung this sock upon the wall Prepared for Santa Claus's call. And said, "Come, Santa Claus, and bring Some truck to fill this empty thing." Then back he went and locked the door, And soon was lost in dream and snore. The Saint arrived at half-past one-- Behold how well his work is done: See what a wealth of food and toy He brought unto the sleeping boy: An apple, fig, and orange, too, A jumping-jack of carmine hue, A book, some candy, and a cat, Two athletes in a wrestling spat, A nervous monkey on a stick, And honey cake that's hard and thick. Oh, what a wealth of joy is here To thrill the soul of Slason dear! Touch not a thing, but leave them all Within this sock upon the wall; So when he wakes and comes, he may Find all these toys and trinkets gay, And thank old Santa that he came Up all these stairs with all this game._ If I have succeeded in conveying any true impression of Eugene Field's nature, the reader can imagine the pleasure he derived from this game, in planning it, in providing the old-fashioned sock, toys, and eatables, and in toiling up six flights of stairs after he knew I was asleep, to see that everything was arranged so as to attract the attention of the passing traveller. The success of his game was fully reported to him by his friend, the night clerk--now one of the best known hotel managers in Chicago--and mightily he enjoyed the report that I had been routed out by the early wayfarer before the light of Christmas broke upon the slumbering city. CHAPTER II INTRODUCTION TO COLORED INKS My room in the Sherman House, then, as now, one of the most conveniently located hotels in the business district of Chicago, was the scene of Eugene Field's first introduction to the use of colored inks. His exquisitely neat, small, and beautifully legible handwriting has always been the subject of wondering comment and admiration. He adopted and perfected that style of chirography deliberately to reduce the labor of writing to a minimum. And he succeeded, for few pen-men could exceed him in the rapidity with which he produced "copy" for the printer and none excelled him in sending that copy to the compositor in a form so free from error as to leave no question where blame for typographical blunders lay. In over twenty years' experience in handling copy I have only known one regular writer for the press who wrote as many words to a sheet as Field. That was David H. Mason, the tariff expert, whose handwriting was habitually so infinitesimal that he put more than a column of brevier type matter on a single page, note-paper size. Strange to say, the compositors did not complain of this eye-straining copy, which attracted them by its compactness and stretched out to nearly half a column in the "strings" by which their pay was measured. From this it may be inferred that there was never any complaint of Field's manuscript from the most exacting and captious of all newspaper departments--the composing room. However, I set out to relate the genesis of Field's use of the colored inks, with which he not only embellished his correspondence and presentation copies of his verse, but with which he was wont to illuminate his copy for the printer. It came about in this way: In the winter of 1885 Walter Cranston Larned, author of the "Churches and Castles of Mediæval France," then the art critic for the News, contributed to it a series of papers on the Walters gallery in Baltimore. These attracted no small attention at the time, and were the subject of animated discussion in art circles in Chicago. They were twelve in number, and ran along on the editorial page of the News from February 23d till March 10th. At first we of the editorial staff took only a passing interest in Mr. Larned's contributions. But one day Field, Ballantyne, and I, from a discussion of the general value of art criticism in a daily newspaper, were led to question whether it conveyed an intelligible impression of the subject, and more particularly of the paintings commented on, to the ordinary reader. The point was raised as to the practicability of artists themselves reproducing any recognizable approach to the original paintings by following Mr. Larned's verbal descriptions. Thereupon we deliberately set about, in a spirit of frolic to be sure, to attempt what we each and all considered a highly improbable feat. Armed with the best water colors we could find in Abbott's art store, we converted my bachelor quarters in the Sherman House into an amateur studio, where we daily labored for an hour or so in producing most remarkable counterfeits of the masterpieces in Mr. Walters's gallery as seen through Mr. Larned's text. We were innocent of the first principles of drawing and knew absolutely nothing about the most rudimentary use of water colors. Somehow, Field made a worse botch in mixing and applying the colors than did either Ballantyne or I. They would never produce the effects intended. He made the most whimsical drawings, only to obliterate every semblance to his original conception in the coloring. To prevent his going on a strike, I ransacked Chicago for colored inks to match those required in the pictures that had been assigned to him. This inspired him with renewed enthusiasm, and he devoted himself to the task of realizing Mr. Larned's descriptions in colored inks with the zest that produces the masterpieces over which artists and critics rave. His first work in this line was a reproduction--or shall I call it a restoration--of Corot's "St. Sebastian." In speaking of this as one of the noteworthy paintings in the Walters gallery, Mr. Larned had said that it was a landscape in which the figures were quite subordinate and seemed merely intended to illustrate the deeper meaning of the painter in his rendition of nature. According to the critic's detailed description, it was a forest scene. "Great trees rise on the right to the top of the canvas. On the left are also some smaller trees, whose upper branches reach across and make, with the trees on the right, a sort of arch through which is seen a wonderful stretch of sky. A rocky path leads away from the foreground beneath the overhanging trees, sloping upward until it reaches the crest of a hill beneath the sky. Just at this point the figures of two retreating horsemen are seen. These are the men who have been trying to kill St. Sebastian, and have left him, as they thought, dead in the depth of the forest. In the immediate foreground lies the figure of the half dead saint, whose wounds are being dressed by two women. Hovering immediately above this group, far up among the tree branches, two lovely little angels are seen holding the palm and crown of the martyr. All the figures are better painted than is usual with Corot, and the angels are very light and delicate, both in color and form." Mr. Earned quoted from a celebrated French authority that this was "the most sincerely religious picture of the nineteenth century." I leave it to the reader if Mr. Larned's description conveys any such impression. To Field's mind, it only suggested the grotesque, and his reproduction was a _chef d'oeuvre_, as he was wont to say. He followed the general outline of the scene as described above, but made the landscape subordinate to the figures. The retreating ruffians bore an unmistakable resemblance to outlawed American cowboys. The saint showed carmine ink traces of having been most shamefully abused. But the chief interest in the picture was divided between a lunch-basket in the foreground, from which protruded a bottle of "St. Jacob's" oil, and a brace of vividly pink cupids hopping about in the tree-tops, rejoicing over the magical effect of the saintly patent medicine. His treatment of this picture proved, if it proved anything, that Corot had gone dangerously near the line where the sublime suggests the ridiculous. In Fortuny's "Don Quixote" Field found a subject that tickled his fancy and lent itself to his untrammelled sense of the absurd. According to Mr. Larned, Fortuny's picture--a water-color--in the Walters gallery was one which represents the immortal knight in the somewhat undignified occupation of searching for fleas in his clothing. He has thrown off his doublet and his under garment is rolled down to his waist, leaving the upper portion of his body nude, excepting the immense helmet which hides his bent-down head. Both hands grasp the under garment, and the eyes are evidently turned in eager expectancy upon the folds which the hands are clasping, in the hope that the roving tormentor has at last been captured. "What an astonishing freak of genius!" exclaimed Mr. Larned. "For genius it certainly is. The color and the drawing of the figure are simply masterly, and the entire tone of the picture is wonderfully rich; indeed, for a water-color, it is quite marvellous. This is one of Fortuny's celebrated pictures, but how the '�cole des Beaux Arts' would in the old days have held up its hands and closed its eyes in holy horror! Possibly an earnest disciple of Lessing, even, might have a rather dubious feeling about such a choice of subjects." But it suited Field's pen and colored inks to a T. He entered into Fortuny's spirit as far as he dared to go and helped it over the edge of the merely dubious to the unmistakably safe grotesque. His own Don Quixote was clad in modern costume, from the riding-boots and monster spurs up to the belt. From that point his emaciated body--a fearfully and wonderfully articulated semi-skeleton--was nude save for one or two sporadic hairs. In the place of the traditional helmet, the Don's head was encased in a garden watering-pot, on the spout of which, and dominating the entire canvas, as artists say, poised on one foot and evidently enjoying the sorrowful knight's discomfiture, was the pestiferous _pulex irritans_. In the Walters gallery were several pictures of child-life by Frère, in which, according to Mr. Lamed, "every little figure is full of character"--a fact about which there is no doubt in the accompanying reproduction of Frère's "The Little Dressmaker," which by some chance was preserved from those "artist days." The completed results of our many off-hours of artist life were bound in a volume which was presented to Mr. Larned at a formal lunch given in his honor at the Sherman House. The speech of presentation was made by our friend, "Colonel" James S. Norton, in what the rural paragrapher would have described as "the most felicitous effort of his life," and the wonderful collection was commended to Mr. Larned's grateful preservation by the judgment of Mr. Henry Field, whose own choice selection of paintings is the most valued possession of the Chicago Art Institute. Mr. Field testified that he recognized everyone of the amazing reproductions from their resemblance, grotesque in the main, to the originals in the Walters gallery, with which he was familiar. [Illustration: THE LITTLE DRESS-MAKER. (Hand-drawn "SINGER" sewing machine.) _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] It was for this occasion that Field composed and recited his remarkable German poem, entitled "Der Niebelrungen und der Schlabbergasterfeldt." From the manuscript copy in my scrap-book I give the original version of this extraordinary production, which was copied in the Illinois Staats Zeitung and went the rounds of the German press in all the dignity of German text and with a variety of serious criticisms truly comical: _DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT (Narratively) Ein Niebelrungen schlossen gold Gehabt gehaben Richter weiss Ein Schlabbergasterfeldt un Sold Gehaben Meister treulich heiss "Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein tzwei "Ich dich!" das Niebelrungen drei. (Tragically) Die Turnverein ist lieb und dicht Zum Fest und lieben kleiner Geld, Der Niebelrungen picht ein Bricht-- Und hitt das Schlabbergasterfeldt! "Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein schreit Und so das Schlabbergaster deit! (Plaintively) Ach! weh das Niebelrungen spott Ach! weh das Maedchein Turnverein Und unser Meister lieben Gott-- Ach! weh das Weinerwurst und Wein! Ach! weh das Bricht zum kleiner Geld-- Ach! weh das Schlabbergasterfeldt!_ Ever after this Walters gallery incident it was my duty, so he thought, to keep Field's desk supplied with inks, not only of every color of the rainbow, but with lake-white, gold, silver, and bronze, and any other kind which his whim deemed necessary to give eccentric emphasis to some line, word or letter in whatever he chanced to be composing. His peremptory requests were generally preferred in writing, addressed "For the Lusty Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, Office," and delivered by his grinning minion, the office factotum. Sometimes they were in verse, as in the following: _"Who spilt my bottle of ink?" said Field, "Who spilt my bottle of ink?" And then with a sigh, said Thompson, "'Twas I-- I broke that bottle of ink, I think, And wasted the beautiful ink." "Who'll buy a bottle of ink?" asked Field, "Who'll buy a bottle of ink?" With a still deeper sigh his friend replied, "I-- I'll buy a bottle of ink With chink, I'll buy a bottle of ink!" "Oh, isn't this beautiful ink!" cried Field, "Beautiful bilious ink!" He shook the hand of his old friend, and He tipped him a pleasant wink, And a blink, As he went to using that ink._ While Field insisted on a variegated assortment of inks he did not demand a separate pen for each color. In lieu of these he possessed himself of an old linen office coat, which he donned when it was cool enough for a coat and used for a pen-wiper. When the temperature rendered anything beyond shirt-sleeves superfluous, this linen affair was hung so conveniently that he could still use it for what he regarded as its primary use. In warm weather I wore a presentably clean counterpart of Field's Joseph's coat of many colors. As often as necessary this went to the laundry. One day when it had just returned from one of these periodical visits, I was startled, but not surprised, to find that Field had appropriated my spotless linen duster to his own inky uses and left his own impossible creation hanging on my hook in its stead. Field's version of what then occurred is beautifully, if not truthfully, portrayed in the accompanying "Proper Sonet" and life-like portraits. If the reader will imagine each mark on the coat, of which "Nompy" bootlessly complains, done in different colors, he will have some idea of the infinite pains Field bestowed on the details of his epistolary pranks. Out of the remarkable series of postal appeals which Field sent to me when I was visiting in New Brunswick grew an animated correspondence between Field and my youngest sister. She bore the good old-fashioned Christian names of Mary Matilda--a combination that struck a responsive chord in Field's taste in nomenclature, while his "come at once, we are starving" aroused her sense of humor to the point of forwarding an enormous raised biscuit two thousand miles for the relief of two Chicago sufferers. The result was an exchange of letters, one of which has a direct bearing on his whimsical adoption of many-colored inks in his writing. It read as follows: [Illustration: A PROPER SONET. _From a drawing in colors by Eugene Field._ Then Kriee 3 times his breast he smote, And gruesome oaths swore he; "Oh, bring back _mine_, and take _your_ coat-- Your painted coat, the which I note Full ill besemmeth me!" But swere and plede he as he mote, Old Field said "No, ol' Nompy, no! You'll get your coat not none no mo!"] [Illustration: FIELD AND BALLANTYNE AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A BISCUIT FROM NEW BRUNSWICK. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] [red ink] CHICAGO, May the 7th, 1885. [blue ink] Dear Miss: I make bold to send herewith a diagram of the new rooms in which your brother Slason is now [brown ink] ensconced. The drawing may be bad and the perspective may be out of plumb, but the motif is good, as you [green ink] will allow. All that Brother Slason needs now to symmetrize his new abode is a box from home--a box filled [purple ink] with those toothsome goodies which only a kind, loving, indulgent sister can make and donate to an absent [black ink] brother. Having completed my contribution to the Larned gallery, and having exhibited the pictures in the [red ink] recent salon, I have a large supply of colored inks on hand, which fact accounts for that appearance of an [blue ink] Easter necktie or a crazy quilt which this note has. In a few days I shall take the liberty of sending [brown ink] you the third volume of the "Aunt Mary Matilda" series--a tale of unusual power and interest. With [green ink] many reverential obeisances and respectful assurances of regard, I beg to remain, [lilac ink] Your obedient servant, [purple ink] EUGENE FIELD, [red ink] per [blue ink] William Smith, [brown ink] Secretary. This epistle did indeed look like a crazy quilt. There was a change of color at the beginning of each line, as I have endeavored to indicate. It is beautifully written and in many respects besides its variegated aspect is the most perfect specimen of Field's painstaking epistolary handiwork I know of. The "diagram of Mr. Slason Thompson's New Rooms" accompanying this letter was entirely worthy of it, and must have afforded him hours of boyish pleasure. No description can do it justice. He gave a ground plan of two square rooms with the windows marked in red ink, the doors in green, the bed, with a little figure on it, in blue, the fireplace in yellow, chairs and tables in purple, and the "buttery," as he insisted on calling the bathroom, in brown. As these apartments were in the Pullman Building, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street, and commanded a glimpse of the lake, Field's diagram included a representation of Lake Michigan by zigzag lines of blue ink, with a single fish as long as a street-car, according to his scale, leering at the spectator from the billowy depths of indigo blue. Everything in the diagram was carefully identified in the key which accompanied it. An idea of the infinite attention to detail Field bestowed on such frivoling as this may be gathered from the accompanying cut of the Pullman Building, from the seventh story of which I am shown waving a welcome to the good but "impecunious knight." The inscription, in Field's handwriting, tells the story. [Illustration: THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ The good knight Slosson from a watch tower of his castle desenith and salutith the good Knight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.] [Illustration: A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. _From drawings by Eugene Field._ No. 1 The fair Mary Matilda skimming over the hills and dales of New Brunswick. No. 2 Lovelorn Eddie Martin in hot pursuit of same. No. 3 Lone pine in the deserted vale where the musquash watches for his prey. No. 4 Horrible discovery made by the fair Mary Matilda upon her return to the lone pine in the secluded vale. No. 5 All that is left of poor Eddie.] Early in the spring of 1885 Field was inspired, by an account I gave him of a snow-shoeing party my sister had described in one of her letters, to compose the series of pen-and-ink tableaux reproduced on pages 30 and 31. An inkling as to the meaning of these weird pictures may be gleaned from the letter I sent along with them to my sister, in which I wrote: I was telling Field the story of your last snow-shoeing party when he was prompted to the enclosed tragedy in five acts. He hopes that you will not mistake the stars for mosquitoes, nor fail to comprehend the terrible fate that has overtaken Eddy Martin at the mouth of the voracious musquash, whose retreating tail speaks so eloquently of his toothsome repast. The lone pine tree is a thing that you will enjoy; also the expression of horror on your own face when you behold the empty boots of Eddy. There is a tragedy too deep for tears in the silent monuments of Field's ignorance of moccasins. In explanation of the final scene in this "sad, eventful history" it should be said that "poor Eddie" was a harmless, half-witted giant who sawed the cord wood and did odd chores about my father's place. This gives significance to the pendant buck-saw and the lonely wood-horse. His lance rusts upon the wall and his steed stands silent in the stall. The reader should not pass from these examples of Field's humor with pen and ink without marking the changes that come across the face of the moon as the tragedy unfolds. That Field found a congenial spirit and correspondent in my sister is further evidenced in the following letter written in gamboge brown: CHICAGO, July the 2d, 1885. DEAR MISS: In order that you may no longer groan under the erroneous impression which you appear to harbor, touching my physique, I remit to you a photograph of a majority of myself. The photograph was made last December, when I was, so to speak, at my perihelion in the matter of avoirdupois. You may be gratified to know that I have not shrunken much since that time. I have taken the timely precaution to label the picture in order that none of your Fredericton people thumbing over your domestic album shall mistake me for either a young Episcopal rector or a rising young negro minstrel. The several drawings and paintings I have sent you ever and anon at your brother's expense are really not the best samples of my art. Mr. Walter Cranston Larned, a wealthy young tennis player of this city, has most of my _chef d'oeuvres_ in his private gallery. I hope to be able to paint you a landscape in oil very soon. There is no sacrifice I would not be willing to make for one whom I esteem so highly as I do you. It might be just as well not to read this line to the old folks. Your brother Slosson has recently developed an insatiate passion for horse racing, and in consequence of his losses at pools I find him less prone to regale me with sumptuous cheer than he was before the racing season broke out. The prince, too, has blossomed out as a patron of the track, and I am slowly becoming more and more aware that this is a bitter world. I think I may safely say that I look wholly to such noble, generous young women as you and your sisters to preserve in me a consciousness that there is in life such a boon as generosity. You will observe (if you have any eye for color) that I pen you these lines in gamboge brown; this is because Fourth of July is so near at hand. This side of the line we are fairly reeking with patriotism just now; even that mugwump-alien--your brother--contemplates celebrating in a fitting manner the anniversary of our country's independence of _British Tyranny_! Will you please slap Bessie for me--the pert minx! I heard of her remarks about my story of Mary Matilda and the Prince. Believe me as ever, Sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. The story of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince" was the third in what Field called his "Aunt Mary Matilda Series." The first of these was "The Lonesome Little Shoe" (see "The Holy Cross and Other Tales" of his collected works), which, after it was printed in the Morning News, was cut out and pasted in a little brown manila pamphlet, with marginal illustrations of the most fantastic nature. The title page of this precious specimen of Fieldiana is characteristic: THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE: BEING A WONDERFUL NARRATIVE CULLED FROM THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF EUGENE FIELD 1885. PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED DEDICATED TO AUNT MARY MATILDA'S PRESENT AND FUTURE NEPHEWS AND NIECES, THEIR HEIRS, ASSIGNS AND ASSIGNEES FOREVER CANADIAN TRACT SOCIETY (COPYRIGHT) What became of the second of this wonderful series no one knows. The third, "How Mary Won a Prince," is the only instance that has come under my notice where Field put any of his compositions in typewriter. This was done to make the first edition consist of a single copy. The prince and hero of this romantic tale was our associate, John F. Ballantyne, and the story itself was "Inscribed to the beautiful, accomplished, amiable and ever-to-be-revered, Miss Mary Matilda Thompson, of Frederickton, York County, New Brunswick, Dominion of Canada, 1885." It was said to be "elegantly illustrated," of which the reader may judge from the accompanying reproductions. HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE. A gypsy had told Mary Matilda that she would marry a prince. This was when Mary Matilda was a little girl. She had given the gypsy a nice, fresh bun, and the gypsy was so grateful that she said she would tell the little girl's fortune, so Mary Matilda held out her hand and the old gypsy looked at it very closely. "You are very generous," said the gypsy, "and your generosity will cause a prince to fall in love with you; the prince will rescue you from a great danger and you will wed the prince." Having uttered these strange words, the gypsy went away and shortly after was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for having robbed a hen-roost. Mary Matilda grew from childhood to be the most beautiful maiden in all the province; none was so beautiful and so witty as she. Withal she was so amiable and benevolent that all loved her, even those who envied her the transcendent charms with which she was endowed. As the unfortunate gypsy had predicted, Mary Matilda was the most generous maiden on earth and the fame of her goodness was wide-spread. Now Mary Matilda had an older brother who had gone to a far-off country to become rich, and to accomplish those great political reforms to which his ambition inclined him. His name was Slosson, and in the far-off country he fell in with two young men of his own age who were of similar ambition. But they were even poorer than Slosson, and what particularly grieved them was the fact that their lineage was obscured by dark clouds of doubt. That is to say, they were unable to determine with any degree of positiveness whether they were of noble extraction; their parents refused to inform them, and consequently they were deeply distressed, as you can well imagine. Slosson was much charmed with their handsome bearing, chivalric ways, and honorable aspirations, and his pity was evoked by their poverty and their frequent sufferings for the very requirements of life. Freely he shared his little all with them, in return for which they gave him their gratitude and affection. One day Slosson wrote a letter to his sister Mary Matilda, saying: "A hard winter is coming on and our store of provisions is nearly exhausted. My two friends are in much distress and so am I. We have accomplished a political revolution, but under the civil service laws we can hardly expect an office." Mary Matilda was profoundly touched by this letter. Her tender heart bled whenever she thought of her absent brother, and instinctively her sympathies went out toward his two companions in distress. So in her own quiet, maidenly way she set about devising a means for the relief of the unfortunate young men. She made a cake, a beautiful cake stuffed with plums and ornamented with a lovely design representing the lost Pleiad, which you perhaps know was a young lady who lived long ago and acquired eternal fame by dropping out of the procession and never getting back again. Well, Mary Matilda put this delicious cake in a beautiful paper collar-box and sent it in all haste to her brother and his two friends in the far-off country. Great was Slosson's joy upon receiving this palatable boon, and great was the joy of his two friends, who it must be confessed were on the very brink of starvation. The messages Mary Matilda received from the grateful young men, who owed their rescue to her, must have pleased her, although the consciousness of a noble deed is better than words of praise. But one day Mary Matilda got another letter from her brother Slosson which plunged her into profound melancholy. "Weep with me, dear Sister," he wrote, "for one of my companions, Juan, has left me. He was the youngest, and I fear some great misfortune has befallen him, for he was ever brooding over the mystery of his lineage. Yesterday he left us and we have not seen him since. He took my lavender trousers with him." As you may easily suppose, Mary Matilda was much cast down by this fell intelligence. She drooped like a blighted lily and wept. "What can ail our Mary Matilda?" queried her mother. "The roses have vanished from her cheeks, the fire has gone out of her orbs, and her step has lost its old-time cunning. I am much worried about her." They all noticed her changed appearance. Even Eddie Martin, the herculean wood-sawyer, observed the dejection with which the sorrow-stricken maiden emerged from the house and handed him his noontide rations of nutcakes and buttermilk. But Mary Matilda spoke of the causes of her woe to none of them. In silence she brooded over the mystery of Juan's disappearance. [Illustration: THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY MATILD.] When the winter came and the soft, fair snow lay ten or twelve feet deep on the level on the forest and stream, on wold and woodland, little Bessie once asked Mary Matilda if she would not take her out for a walk. Now little Bessie was Mary Matilda's niece, and she was such a sweet little girl that Mary Matilda could never say "no" to anything she asked. "Yes, Bessie," said Mary Matilda, "if you will bundle up nice and warm I will take you out for a short walk of twenty or thirty miles." So Bessie bundled up nice and warm. Then Mary Matilda went out on the porch and launched her two snow-shoes and got into them and harnessed them to her tiny feet. "Where are you going?" asked Eddie Martin, pausing in his work and leaning his saw against a slab of green maple. "I am going to take Bessie out for a short walk," replied Mary Matilda. "Are you not afraid to go alone?" said Eddie Martin. "You know the musquashes are very thick, and this spell of winter weather has made them very hungry and ferocious." "No, I am not afraid of the musquashes," replied Mary Matilda. But she _was_ afraid of them: only she did not want to tell Eddie Martin so, for fear he would want to go with her. This was the first and only wrong story Mary Matilda ever told. Having grasped little Bessie by the hand, Mary Matilda stepped over the fence and was soon lost to view. Scarcely had she gone when a tall, thin, haggard looking young man came down the street and leaned over the back gate. "Can you tell me," he asked in weary tones, "whether the beautiful Mary Matilda abides hereabouts?" "She lives here," replied Eddie Martin, "but she has gone for a walk with little Bessie." "Whither did they drift?" queried the mysterious unknown. "They started toward the Nashwaaksis," said Eddie Martin. "And I sadly fear the deadly musquash will pursue them." The stranger turned pale and trembled at the suggestion. "Will you lend me your saw for a brief period?" he asked. "Why?" inquired Eddie Martin. "To rescue the fair Mary Matilda from the musquashes," replied the stranger. Then he seized the saw, and with pale face started in the direction Mary Matilda had gone. Meanwhile Mary Matilda had crossed the Nashwaaksis and was speeding in a southerly course toward the Nashwaak. The gentle breeze favored her progress, and as she sailed along, the snow danced like frozen feathers around her. "Oh, how nice!" cried little Bessie. "Yes, this clear, fresh, cold air gives one new life," said Mary Matilda. They now came to the Nashwaak, on the farther bank of which were crouched a pack of hungry musquashes eagerly awaiting the approach of Mary Matilda and little Bessie. "Hush," whispered the old big musquash. "Make no noise or they will hear us and make good their escape." But just then another musquash carelessly trod on the big musquash's tail and the old musquash roared with pain. "What was that?" cried little Bessie. Mary Matilda had heard the strange cry. She paused to listen. Then she saw the pack of musquashes in the snow on the farthest bank of the Nashwaak. Oh, how frightened she was! but with a shrill cry she seized Bessie in her arms, and, turning swiftly about, fled in the direction of McLeod hill. The musquashes saw her retreating, and with a howl of commingled rage and disappointment they started in hot pursuit. They ran like mad, as only starving musquashes can run. Every moment they gained on the maiden and her human charge until at last they were at her very heels. Mary Matilda remembered she had some beechnuts in her pocket. She reached down, grasped a handful of the succulent fruit and cast it to her insatiate pursuers. It stayed their pursuit for a moment, but in another moment they were on her track again, howling demoniacally. Another handful of the beechnuts went to the ravenous horde, and still another. By this time Mary Matilda had reached McLeod hill and was crossing the Nashwaaksis. Her imagination pictured a scuttled brigantine lying in the frozen stream. On its slippery deck stood a pirate, waving a gory cutlass. [Illustration: THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS--FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY MATILDA--THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE.] "Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate. "Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!" "Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!" Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed. "No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!" But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had whetted their appetite. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey. But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail, there a leg; here an ear, there a nose--oh, it was a rare potpourri, I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead. "To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda, blushing deeply. "Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan, but my lineage is enveloped in gloom." At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend, and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore. She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance to ask her to be his, indissolubly. "Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your destiny with one whose lineage is not known." By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely. "Do you know me?" she asked. "No," said Mary Matilda. "I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago." Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a fierce cry. "I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion. "When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the same!" [Illustration: BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND EN ROUTE TO THE WEDDING.] Juan also quivered with emotion. "Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy, fiercely. "Yes," he answered, hoarsely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm. "It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and titles of the Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie Martin's arms. When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the existing dynasty. Of course when she heard of his noble lineage, Mary Matilda could do naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention, since his lineage is still in doubt. CHAPTER III SOME LETTERS "There's no art," said the doomed Duncan, "to find the mind's construction in the face," nor after a somewhat extensive acquaintance with men and their letters am I inclined to think there is very much to be found of the true individuality of men in their letters. All men, and especially literary men, seem to consider themselves on dress parade in their correspondence, and pose accordingly. Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred are more self-conscious in writing than they are in talking. Even the least conscious seem to imagine that what they put down in black and white is to pass under some censorious eye. The professional writer, whether his reputation be international, like that of a Lowell or a Stevenson, or confined to the circle of his village associates, never appears to pen a line without some affectation. The literary artist does this with an ease and grace that provokes comment upon its charming naturalness, the journeyman only occasions some remark upon his effort to "show off." If language was given us to conceal thoughts, letter writing goes a step further and puts the black-and-white mask of deliberation on language. Eugene Field was no exception to the rule that literary men scarcely ever write letters for the mere perusal or information of the recipient. He almost always wrote for an ulterior effect or for an ulterior audience. But he seldom wrote letters deliberately for reproduction in his "Memoirs." If he had done so they would have been written so skilfully that he would have made himself out to be pretty much the particular kind of a character he pleased. For obvious reasons most of the communications that passed between Field and myself were verbal, across a partition in the office, or by notes that were destroyed as soon as they had served their purpose. That Field had other correspondents the following request for a postage stamp will testify: _THE GOOD KNIGHT'S DIPLOMACY.[1] One evening in his normal plight The good but impecunious knight Addressing Thompson said: "Methinks a great increasing fame Shall add new glory to thy name, And cluster round thy head. "There is no knight but he will yield Before thy valor in the Field Or in exploits of arms; And all admit the pleasing force Of thy most eloquent discourse-- Such are thy social charms. "Alike to lord and vassal dear Thou dost incline a pitying ear To fellow-men in pain; And be he wounded, sick, or broke, No brother knight doth e'er invoke Thy knightly aid in vain. "Such--such a gentle knight thou art, And it is solace to my heart To have so fair a friend. No better, sweeter boon I pray Than thy affection--by the way, Hast thou a stamp to lend?" "Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delight To succor such an honest knight!" Sir Thompson straight replied. Field caught the proffered treasure up, Then tossing off a stirrup-cup From out the castle hied. July 2d, 1885._ [1] In this specimen of Field's privately circulated verse, as in his letters, his own punctuation and capitalization are followed. He had a system of his own which, when complicated with the office style of the News, resulted in most admirable confusion and inconsistency. Was ever request for so small a "boon" couched in such lordly pomp of phrase and in such insinuating rhyme? It was shortly after Field secured this boon that he had his first opportunity to waste postage stamps on me. With a party of friends I went up to Mackinac Island to spend a few days. By the first mail that reached the island after I had registered at the old Island House, I received a letter bearing in no less than five different colored inks the following unique superscription: For that Most Illustrious and Puissant Knight Errant, _Sir Slosson Thompson_, Erstwhile of Chicago, but now illumining _Mackinac Island, Michigan,_ Where, under civic guise, he is accomplishing prodigious slaughter among the fish that do infest that coast. It may be taken for granted that the clerks and the hotel guests were consumed with curiosity as to the contents of an envelope over which they had a chance to speculate before it reached me. These were: CHICAGO, July 19th, 1885. SWEET KNIGHT: Heedful of the promise I made to thee prior to thy setting out for the far-distant province of Mackinac, I am minded to temporarily lay aside the accoutrements of war and the chase, and pen thee this missive wherein I do discourse of all that has happened since thy departure. Upon Saturday I did lunch with that ill-tempered knight, Sir P----, and in the evening did I discuss a goodly feast with Sir Cowan, than whom a more hospitable knight doth not exist--saving only and always thyself, which art the paragon of courtesy. This day did I lunch at my own expense, but in very sooth I had it charged, whereat did the damned Dutchman sorely lament. Would to God I were now assured at whose expense I shall lunch upon the morrow and the many days that must elapse ere thy coming hence. By this courier I send thee divers rhymes which may divert thee. Soothly they are most honest chronicles, albeit in all modesty I may say they do not o'erpraise me. The good Knight Melville crieth it from the battlements that he will go into a far country next week. Meanwhile the valorous Sir Ballantyne saweth wood but sayeth naught. That winsome handmaiden Birdie quitteth our service a week hence; marry, I shall miss the wench. The fair lady Julia doth commend thy prudence in getting out of the way ere she reproaches thee for seducing the good Knight into that Milwaukee journey, of the responsibility of which naughtiness I have in very sooth washed my hands as clean as a sheep's liver. By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of this irksome weather. By my halidom the valor trickleth down my knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my back like a porous plaster. The good knight of the Talking Cat speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August, whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet season myself. One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle's, as by the check thou shalt descry on thy return. Sir Harper did send me a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening. I have not beheld the Knight of the Lawn since thy departure. Make fair obeisance to the sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds. Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself Thy loyal and sweet servant, FIELD, The Good and Honest Knight. Under another cover addressed ostentatiously: "For the Good and Generous Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, now summering amid rejoicings and with triumphant cheer at Mackinac Island, Michigan," came the following poem, entitled: _THE GOOD SIR SLOSSON'S EPISODE WITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOUR Sir Slosson and companions three-- With hearts that reeked with careless glee-- Strode down the golden sand, And pausing on the pebbly shore, They heard the sullen, solemn roar Of surf on every hand. Then Lady Florence said "I ween"-- "Nay, 'tis not half so grand a scene," Sir Barbour quickly cried, "As you may see in my fair state, Where swings the well-greased golden gate Above the foamy tide." Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"-- "Nay, say not so, impetuous youth," Sir Barbour made his boast: "This northern breeze will not compare With that delicious perfumed air Which broods upon our coast." Then Lady Helen fain would say Her word, but in his restless way Sir Barbour nipped that word; The other three were dumb perforce-- Except Sir Barbour's glib discourse, No human sound was heard. And even that majestic roar Of breakers on the northern shore Sank to a murmur low; The winds recoiled and cried, "I' sooth, Until we heard this 'Frisco youth, We reckoned we could blow!" Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire-- His eyes emitted fitful fire-- With rage his blood congealed; Yet, exercising sweet restraint, He swore no vow and breathed no plaint-- But pined for Good Old Field. The ladies, too, we dare to say, (If they survived that fateful day), Eschew all 'Frisco men, Who, as perchance you have inferred, Won't let a person get a word In edgewise now and then._ The subject of the good-natured and clever satire was our mutual friend, Barbour Lathrop, with whom I had been associated in journalism in San Francisco and who is famous from the Bohemian Club literally around the globe and in many of its most out-of-the-way islands as a most entertaining, albeit incessant, story-teller and conversationalist. Pretty nearly all subjects that interest humanity have engaged his attention. He could no more rest from travel than Ulysses; and he brought to those he associated with all the fruits that faring forth in strange lands could give to a mind singularly alert for education and experience under any and all conditions. His fondness for monologue frequently exposed him to raillery, like the above, in the column where Field daily held a monopoly of table talk. But the episode with the "Garrulous Sir Barbour" was not the rhyme of chief interest (to Field and me) forwarded by "this courier." This was confided to a third envelope even more elaborately addressed and embellished than either of the others, as follows: For the valorous, joyous, Triumphant and Glorious Knight, The ever gentle and Courteous Flower of Chivalry, Cream of Knight Errantry and Pole Star of Manly virtues, _Sir Slosson Thompson_, who doth for the nonce sojourn at _Mackinac Island, Michigan_, Where under the guise of a lone Fisherman he is regaled with sumptuous cheer and divers rejoicings, wherein he doth right merrily disport. The rhyme under this cover in which the impecunious knight did not "overpraise" himself bore the title "How the Good Knight protected Sir Slosson's Credit," and was well calculated to fill me with forebodings. It ran in this wise: _One midnight hour, Sir Ballantyne Addressed Old Field: "Good comrade mine, The times i' faith are drear; Since you have not a son to spend I would to God our generous friend Sir Slosson now were here!" Then spake the Impecunious Knight, Regardful of his piteous plight: "Odds bobs, you say the truth; For since our friend has gone away, It doth devolve on thee to pay-- Else would I starve i' sooth." Emerging from their lofty lair This much bereaved but worthy pair Proceeded unto Boyle's, Agreed that buttered toast would do. Although they were accustomed to The choicest roasts and broils. "Heyday, sir knights," a varlet cried ('Twas Charlie, famous far and wide As Boyle's devoted squire); "Sir Slosson telegraphs me to Deliver straightway unto you Whatever you desire." The knights with radiant features saw The message dated Mackinaw-- Then ordered sumptuous cheer; Two dollars' worth, at least, they "cheered" While from his counter Charlie leered An instigating leer. I wot poor Charlie did not dream The telegram was but a scheme To mulct Sir Slosson's pelf; For in the absence of his friend The Honest Knight made bold to send That telegram himself. Oh, honest Field I to keep aright The credit of an absent Knight-- And undefiled his name! Upon such service for thy friends Such knightly courtesies depends Thy everlasting fame!_ Two days later I received a postal written in a disguised hand by Ballantyne, I think, and purporting to come from "Charlie," showing the progress of the conspiracy to mulct Sir Slosson's pelf. It read: FRIEND THOMPSON, Fields and Ballantyne gave me the telegram tonight ordering one supper. But they have been eating all the week at your expense. Is it all right? Yours, CHAS. BURKEY. And by the same mail came this comforting epistle from the arch conspirator: CHICAGO, July the 22d, 1885. DEAR SIR KNIGHT: I have been too busy to reply to your many kind letters before this. On receipt of your telegram last night, we went to Boyle's and had sumptuous cheer at your expense. Charlie has begun to demur, and intends to write you a letter. Browne wrote me a note the other day. I enclose it to you. Please keep it for me. I hope your work will pan out more successfully. I had a long talk with Stone to-night, and churned him up about the paper. He agreed with me in nearly all particulars. He is going to fire W---- when D---- goes (August 1). He said, "I am going to have a lively shaking up at that time." One important change I am not at liberty to specify, but you will approve it. By the way, Stone spoke very highly of you and your work. It would be safe for you to strike him on the salary question as soon as you please. The weather is oppressively warm. Things run along about so so in the office. Hawkins told me he woke up the other night, and could not go to sleep again till he had sung a song. The Dutch girls at Henrici's inquire tenderly for you.... Hastily yours, EUGENE FIELD. The note from Mr. Browne here mentioned related to the proposed publication of a collection of Field's verse and stories. The Browne was Francis F., for a long time editor of The Dial, and at that time holding the position of principal reader for A.C. McClurg & Co. As I remember, Mr. Browne was favorably disposed toward putting out a volume of Field's writings, but General McClurg was not enamoured of the breezy sort of personal persiflage with which Field's name was then chiefly associated. This was several years before Field made the Saints' and Sinners' Corner in McClurg's Chicago book-store famous throughout the bibliomaniac world by fictitious reports relating to it printed occasionally in his "Sharps and Flats" column. It was not until 1893 that McClurg & Co. published any of Field's writings. My work to which Field refers was the collection of newspaper and periodical verse entitled "The Humbler Poets," which McClurg & Co. subsequently published. Enclosed in the letter of July 22d was the following characteristic account, conveying the impression that while he was willing to waste all the resources of his colored inks and literary ingenuity on our friendship, I must pay the freight. I think he had a superstition that it would cause a flaw in his title of "The Good Knight, _sans peur et sans monnaie_" if he were to add the price of a two-cent postage stamp to that waste. [Illustration: A STAMP ACCOUNT. Mr. Slosson Thompson. to Eugene Field, Dr. To 4 stamps at 2 cts--July 20--.08 To 1 stamp --July 22--.02 Total .10 Please remit.] [Illustration: AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND. _With drawings by Eugene Field._] Shortly after my return from Mackinac, Field presented me with the following verses, enlivened with several drawings in colors, entitled "An Echo from Mackinac Island, August, 1885": I. _A Thompson went rowing out into the strait-- Out into the strait in the early morn; His step was light and his brow elate, And his shirt was as new as the day just born. His brow was cool and his breath was free, And his hands were soft as a lady's hands, And a song of the booming waves sang he As he launched his bark from the golden sands. The grayling chuckled a hoarse "ha-ha," And the Cisco tittered a rude "he-he"-- But the Thompson merrily sang "tra-la" As his bark bounced over the Northern Sea._ II. _A Thompson came bobbling back into the bay-- Back into the bay as the Sun sank low, And the people knew there was hell to pay, For HE wasn't the first who had come back so. His nose was skinned and his spine was sore, And the blisters speckled his hands so white-- He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar, And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight. And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha," And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"-- But the Thompson anchored furninst a bar And called for a schooner to drown his woe._ During the fall of 1885 I was again sent East on some political work that took me to Saratoga and New York. As usual, Field was unremitting in his epistolary attentions with which I will not weary the reader. But on the journey back from New York they afforded entertainment and almost excited the commiseration of a young lady travelling home under my escort. When we reached Chicago I casually remarked that if she was so moved by Field's financial straits I would take pleasure in conveying as much truage to the impecunious knight as would provide him with buttered toast, coffee, and pie at Henrici's. She accordingly entrusted me with a quarter of a dollar, which I was to deliver with every assurance of her esteem and sympathy. As I was pledged not to reveal the donor's name, this tribute of silver provided Field with another character, whom he named "The Fair Unknown," and to whom he indited several touching ballads, of which the first was: _THE GOOD KNIGHT AND THE FAIR UNKNOWN Now, once when this good knight was broke And all his chattels were in soak, The brave Sir Thompson came And saith: "I' faith accept this loan Of silver from a fair unknown-- But do not ask her name!" The Good Knight dropped his wassail cup And took the proffered bauble up, And cautiously he bit Its surface, but it would not yield, Which did convince the grand old Field It was not counterfeit. Then quoth the Good Knight, as he wept: "Soothly this boon I must accept, Else would I sore offend The doer of this timely deed, The nymph who would allay my need-- My fair but unknown friend. "But take to her, O gallant knight, This signet with my solemn plight To seek her presence straight, When varlets or a caitiff crew Resolved some evil deed to do-- Besiege her castle gate. "Then when her faithful squire shall bring To him who sent this signet ring Invoking aid of me-- Lo, by my faith, with this good sword Will I disperse the base-born horde And set the princess free! "And yet, Sir Thompson, if I send This signet to my unknown friend, I jeopardize my life; For this fair signet which you see, Odds bobs, doth not belong to me, But to my brawny wife! "I should not risk so sweet a thing As my salvation for a ring, And all through jealous spite! Haste to the fair unknown and say You lost the ring upon the way-- Come, there's a courteous Knight!" Eftsoons he spake, the Good Knight drew His visor down, and waving to Sir Thompson fond farewell, He leapt upon his courser fleet And crossed the drawbridge to the street Which was ycleped La Salle._ Another bit of verse was inspired by this incident which is worth preserving: One night I was dining at the house of a friend on the North Side where the "Fair Unknown" was one of the company--a fact of which Field only became possessed when I left the office late in the afternoon. The dinner had not progressed quite to the withdrawal of the ladies when, with some confusion, one of the waiting-men brought in and gave to me a large packet from the office marked "Personal; deliver at once." Thinking it had something to do with work for the Morning News, I asked to be excused and hastily tore the enclosure open. One glance was enough to disclose its nature. It was a poem from Field, neatly arranged in the form of a pamphlet, with an illustration by Sclanders. The outside, which was in the form of a title page, ran thus: HOW THE GOOD KNIGHT ATTENDED UPON SIR SLOSSON: BEING A WOEFUL TALE OF THE MOST JOYOUS AND DIVERTING DAYS WHEREIN KNIGHTS ERRANT DID COURTEOUSLY DISPORT THEMSELVES AND ACHIEVE PRODIGIES OF VALOR, AND MARVELS OF SWEET FRIENDSHIP. And inside the plaintive story was told in variegated ink in the following lines: _One chilly raw November night Beneath a dull electric light, At half-past ten o'clock, The Good Knight, wan and hungry, stood, And in a half-expectant mood Peered up and down the block. The smell of viands floated by The Good Knight from a basement nigh And tantalized his soul. Keenly his classic, knightly nose Envied the fragrance that arose From many a steaming bowl. Pining for stews not brewed for him, The Good Knight stood there gaunt and grim-- A paragon of woe; And muttered in a chiding tone, "Odds bobs! Sir Slosson must have known 'Twas going to rain or snow!" But while the Good and Honest Knight Flocked by himself in sorry plight, Sir Slosson did regale Himself within a castle grand-- of the Good Knight and His wonted stoup of ale. Mid joyous knights and ladies fair He little recked the evening air Blew bitterly without; Heedless of pelting storms that came To drench his friend's dyspeptic frame, He joined the merry rout. But underneath the corner light Lingered the impecunious Knight-- Wet, hungry and alone-- Hoping that from Sir Slosson some Encouragement mayhap would come, Or from the Fair Unknown._ The drawing in this verse marks the beginning of the transfer of our patronage from the steaks and gamblers' frowns of Billy Boyle's to the oysters and the cricket's friendly chirps of the Boston Oyster House. The reference to Field's "dyspeptic frame" is not without its significance, for it was about this time that he became increasingly conscious of that weakness of the stomach that grew upon him and began to give him serious concern. How Field seized upon my absence from the city for the briefest visit to bombard me with queer and fanciful letters, found another illustration during Christmas week, 1885, which I spent with a house party at Blair Lodge, the home of Walter Cranston Larned, whom I have already mentioned as the possessor of Field's two masterpieces in color. Each day of my stay was enlivened by a letter from Field. As they are admirable specimens of the wonderful pains he took with letters of this sort, and the expertness he attained in the command of the archaic form of English, I need no excuse for introducing them here. The first, which bears date "December 27th, 1385," was written on an imitation sheet of old letter paper, browned with dirt and ragged edged. In the order of receipt these letters were as follows: Soothly, sweet Sir, by thy hegira am I brought into sore distress and grievous discomfiture; for not only doth that austere man, Sir Melville, make me to perform prodigies of literary prowess, but all the other knights do laugh me to scorn and entreat me shamelessly when I be an hungered and do importune them for pelf whereby I may compass victual. Aye, marry, by my faith, I swear't, it hath gone ill with me since you strode from my castle in the direction of the province wherein doth dwell Sir Walter, the Knight of the Tennis and Toboggan. I beseech thee to hie presently unto me, or at least to send silver or gold wherewith I may procure cheer--else will it go hard with me, mayhap I shall die, in which event I do hereby name and constitute thee executor of my estates and I do call upon the saints in heaven to witness the solemn instrument. Verily, good Sir, I do grievously miss thee and I do pine for thy joyous discourse and triumphant cheer, nor, by my blade, shall I be content until once more thou art come to keep me company. Touching that varlet Knight, Sir Frank de Dock, I have naught to say, save and excepting only that he be a caitiff and base-born dotard that did deride me and steal away unto his castle this very night when I did supplicate him to regale me with goodly viands around the board of that noble host, the gracious Sir Wralsy of Murdough. I would to heaven a murrain would seize the hearts of all such craven caitiffs who hath not in them the sweet courtesy and generous hospitality that doth so well become thee, O glorious and ever-to-be-mulcted Sir Knight of the well-stored wallet. I do beseech thee to have a care to spread about in the province wherein thou dost sojourn a fair report of my gentleness and valor. Commend me to the glorious and triumphant ladies and privily advise them to send me hence guerdons of gold or silver if haply they are tormented by base enchanters, cruel dragons, vile hippogriffins, or other untoward monsters, and I do swear to redress their wrongs when those guerdons do come unto me. For it doth delight me beyond all else to avenge foul insults heaped upon princesses and lorn maidens. If so be thou dost behold that incomparable pearl of female beauty and virtue, the Fair Unknown, prithee kiss thou her bejewelled hand for me and by thy invincible blade renew my allegiance unto her sweet cause. Methinks her sunny locks and azure orbs do haunt my dreams, and anon I hear her silvery tones supplicating me to accept another arms. And I do lustily beshrew fate that these be but dreams. Now in very sooth do I pray ye may speedily come unto me. Or if you abide in that far-off province, heaven grant ye prosperity and happiness such as surely cannot befall the Good Knight till thou dost uplift his arms again. I do supplicate thee to make obeisance unto all in my name and to send hither tidings of thy well-being. How goeth the jousts and tourneys with the toboggan, and hath the cyclonic Sir Barbour wrought much havoc with his perennial rhetoric in the midst of thee? I do kiss thy hand and subscribe myself, Thy sweet and sorry slave, THE GOOD KNIGHT. All of this exercise in the phraseology of chivalry was written on a single sheet of note-paper with such generous margins that the text only covered a space of two and one-half by four inches on each page. Next day I received the second of this knightly series: While I addressed thee fair and subtile words on yester even, O sweet and incomparable knight! there did enter into my presence a base enchanter who did evilly enchant and bewitch me, making me to do dire offence unto the mother tongue. Soothly this base born enchanter did cause me to write "arms," when soothly I did mean an "alms," and sore grievousness be come upon me lest haply thou dost not understand this matter ere this missive reach thee. I do beseech thee have a care to tell the fair princesses and glorious ladies that I am in very truth a courteous knight and learned eke, and that I shall neither taste food nor wine until I have slain the evil enchanter that did so foully bewitch me. Odds bobs, I trow it was that varlet dotard, Sir Frank de Dock, who hath entreated me most naughtily since thou art departed unto that far-off province. By this courier do I dispatch certain papers of state unto thee, and faith would I have dispatched thy wages eke, but that caitiff in minion, Sir Shekelsford, did taunt and revile me when I did supplicate him to give up. The incomparable Sir Melville hath all the good knights writing editorials this eve, from the hoary and senile Dock down to the knavish squire that sweeps out the castle. May peace bide with thee in thy waking hours and brood o'er thy slumbers, good gentle sir, and may heaven speed the day when in fair health and well-walleted thou shalt return unto Thy pining and sweet slave, THE GOOD KNIGHT. December 28th, 1885. Before another day elapsed I received the third, and, in some respects, most interesting of this series, addressed to me by my knightly title at "Blair Lodge Castle, Lake Forest," which is less than thirty miles from Chicago: Joyous and merry knight:--Soothly I wot this be the last message you shall have from me ere you be come again hence, since else than the stamp hereupon attached have I none nor ween I whence another can be gotten. By the bright brow of Saint Aelfrida, this is a sorry world, and misery and vexation do hedge us round about! A letter did this day come unto the joyous and buxom wench, the lady Augusta, wherein did Sir Ballantyne write how that he did not believe that the poem "Thine Eyes" was printed in Sir Slosson's book. Now by St. Dunstan! right merrily will he rail when so he learneth the whole truth. Sir Melville hath not yet crossed the drawbridge of the castle, albeit it lacketh now but the length of a barleycorn till the tenth hour. Sir Frank de Dock hath hied him home for he is truly a senile varlet and when I did supplicate him to regale me with a pasty this night he quoth, "Out upon thee, thou scurvy leech!" "Beshrew thyself, thou hoary dotard!" quoth I, nor tarried I in his presence the saying of a pater noster, but departing hence did sup with that lusty blade, Sir Paul of Hull, and verily he did regale me as well beseemeth a good knight and a gentle eke. Now, by my sword I swear't, all this venal and base-born rabble shall rue their folly when thou art returned, O nonpareil of all the brave and hospitable! I pray thee bring rich booty from that province wherein thou dost now tarry--crowns, derniers, livres, ducats, golden angels, and farthings. Then soothly shall we make merry o'er butts of good October brewing. Commend me to the discreet and beauteous ladies after the manner of that country, for I have heard their virtues highly praised, it being said that they do sing well, play the lute and spinet and work fair marvels with the needle. I do beseech thee bespeak me fair unto the grand seneschal, Sir Barbour, and thy joyous and courteous host, Sir Walter. In sooth it is a devilry how I do miss you. Thy friend and slave in sweetness and humility, THE GOOD KNIGHT. December 29th, 1885. CHAPTER IV MORE LETTERS In the fall and winter of 1885-86 I succeeded in inducing Field to take the only form of exercise he was ever known voluntarily to indulge. While his column of "Sharps and Flats" to the end bore almost daily testimony to his enthusiastic devotion to the national game and of his critical familiarity with its fine points and leading exponents, he was never known to bat or throw a ball. He never wearied of singing the praises in prose and verse of Michael J. Kelly, who for many years was the star of the celebrated "White Stockings" of Chicago when it won the National League pennant year after year. Nor did he cease to revile the Chicago base-ball management when it transferred "King Kel" to the Boston club for the then unheard-of premium of $10,000. When the base-ball season was at its height his column would bristle with the proofs of his vivid interest in it. I have known it on one day to contain over a score of paragraphs relating to the national game, encouraging the home nine or lampooning the rival club with all the personal vivacity of a sporting reporter writing for a country weekly. Interspersed among these notes would be many an odorous comparison like this, printed June 28th, 1888: Benjamin Harrison is a good, honest, patriotic man, and we like him. But he never stole second base in all his life and he could not swat Mickey Welch's down curves over the left-field fence. Therefore we say again, as we have said many times before, that much as we revere Benjamin Harrison's purity and amiability, we cannot but accord the tribute of our sincerest admiration, to that paragon of American manhood, Michael J. Kelly. So when Kelly essayed to change the scene of his labors from the diamond to the melodramatic stage in 1893 it is not surprising to find that Field, in a semi-humorous and semi-serious vein, thus applauded and approved his choice: Surprise is expressed in certain quarters because Mike Kelly, the base-ball virtuoso, has made a hit upon the dramatic stage. The error into which many people have fallen is in supposing that Kelly was simply a clever base-ball machine. He is very much more than this: he is an unusually bright and intelligent man. As a class, base-ball professionals are either dull brutes or ribald brutes; ignorance as dense as Egyptian darkness has seemed to constitute one of the essentials to successful base-ball playing, and the average professional occupies an intellectual plane hardly above that of the average stall-fed ox or the fat pig at a country fair. Mike Kelly stands pre-eminent in his profession; no other base-ball player approaches him. He is in every way qualified for a better career than that which is bounded on one side by the bleaching boards, and on the other by the bar-room. Of course he is a good actor. He is too smart to attempt anything at which he does not excel. But I have been diverted from telling of the sport in which Field was an active participant by the recollection of his critical and literary expertness in the great game in which he never took an active part. Once when Melville Stone was asked what was his dearest wish at that instant, he replied, "to beat Field and Thompson bowling." This was in the days before bowling was the fashionable winter sport it has since become. The alleys in Chicago in 1885 were neither numerous nor in first-class condition; but after Field once discovered that he had a special knack with the finger-balls we hunted them up and tested most of them. After a while we settled down on the alleys under Slosson's billiard-room on Monroe Street for our afternoon games and on the Superior Alleys on North Clark Street on the evenings when it was my turn to walk home with "Gene." Rolling together we were scarcely ever overmatched, and he was the better man of the two. He rolled a slow, insinuating ball. It appeared to amble aimlessly down the alley, threatening to stop or to sidle off into the gutter for repose. But it generally had enough momentum and direction to reach the centre pin quartering, which thereupon, with its nine brothers, seemed suddenly smitten with the panic so dear to the bowler's heart. I never knew another bowler so quick to discover the tricks and peculiarities of an alley or so crafty to master and profit by them. Whenever the hour was ripe for a game Field would send the boy with some such taunt or challenge as is shown in the accompanying fac-simile. I shall never forget, nor would an elaborately colored score by Field permit me, if I would, his chagrin over the result of one of these matches. He and Willis Hawkins had challenged Cowen and me to a tourney, as he called it, of five strings. His record of this "great game of skittles," all figured out by frames, strikes and spares in red, blue, yellow, and green ink, shows the following result: Field 878 Thompson 866 Hawkins 697 Cowen 818 ---- ---- 1575 1684 Only one of the three alleys was fit to roll on, and Field scored 231 and 223 in his turns upon it. The modern experts may be interested in the following details of his high score: ___________________________________________________________ | | | | | | | | | | | | \ | \ | \ | X | X | X | X | \ | \ | X X | | 18 | 37 | 57 | 87 | 117 | 144 | 164 | 182 | 202 | 231 | ___________________________________________________________| It will be perceived that Field's score contained six strikes and five spares, which was good rolling on a long and not too carefully planed alley. His average was spoiled by the frames he was forced to roll on the poorer alleys, where all his cunning could not insure a safe passage of his slow delivery on their billowy surfaces. Field's disgust over the result of this game lasted all summer, and Hawkins was never permitted to forget the part he played in the defeat of "the only Bowling King." [Illustration: A BOWLING CHALLENGE FROM EUGENE FIELD. Who is this graceful, agile king In proud but modest garb revealed? He is the only Bowling King, And loud and long the people sing The prowess of Old Field. How slender yet how lithe is he And when unto the fray he glides So awful is his majesty That Nompy fears his wrath to be And straightway runs and hides. May 4th, 1886.] During the fall of 1886 I went to New Brunswick on my annual vacation, and Field fairly out-did himself in keeping me informed of how "matters and things" moved along at the office while I was gone. It pleased his sense of humor to dispatch a letter to me every evening invariably addressed "For Sir Slosson Thomson." As these letters ran the gamut of the subjects uppermost in Field's life at this time, I give them in the order of their receipt: I CHICAGO, September 10th (Friday night), 1886. Dear Nomp: Hawkins, Cowen and I went out to the base-ball game together to-day and saw the champions down the Detroits to the tune of 14 to 8. It was a great slugging match all around. Conway pitched for Detroit and McCormick for Chicago. As I say, there was terrific batting; on the part of Chicago, Gore made 1 base hit, Kelly 3, Anson 2, Pfeffer 3, Williamson 1, Burns 1 and Ryan 2; on the part of Detroit. Richardson made 2, Brouthers 4, Thompson 1 and Dunlap 1. The Chicagos played in excellent form, yet batting seemed to be _the_ feature of the game. McCormick struck out 6 men and gave 2 men bases on called balls; Conway struck out 4 men and gave 4 bases on balls. Brouthers made 3 home runs, but there happened to be no one on bases at the time. There was such a large crowd of spectators that Hawkins, Cowen and I had to sit on the roof of the grand-stand. The sun cast its rays on us, and it was hot! [Here followed a detailed pen-and-ink sketch of the scene.] Whilst I was drawing this _chef d'oeuvre_ (and, by the way, it took an hour to do it) Ballantyne came in. "That's mighty good," said he; "are you making it for the paper?" I understand that Stone has sailed out of town again, this time to Kansas City. Poor man! his slavish devotion to the details of his newspaper is simply grinding the life out of him. Mrs. Billings [Field's sister-in-law] has arrived from Washington and she will go down to St. Louis with Julia and Mrs. Ballantyne next Monday morning. Later in the fall she will make us a visit. Cowen pawned his watch to-day for $40 and bet $30 to $21 on the Chicagos. This is the result by innings: [Here followed another drawing as shown in the accompanying fac-simile.] The watch retained its normal size for two innings, but in the third it shrank so sadly as to become hardly visible to the mind's eye. In the fourth inning, however, it began to pick up, and in the seventh it had resumed its normal shape, and in the ninth it was as big as a dinner-plate and we could hear it tick, although hung in Moses Levy's secluded retreat on Dearborn Street, two and one-half miles distant. As we were riding over to the base-ball grounds Cowen's eyes rested on a vision of female loveliness--a girl he knew--standing on the corner of Madison and Aberdeen Streets. It was all Hawkins and I could do to hold him in the car. But I am determined to save this young and interesting soul if I can. Peattie and his wife start for Colorado next Monday. 'Tis now 11 o'clock. Where are you that you are not here to walk with me? Tossing in the "upper ten" [another drawing] and struggling for fresh air! Well, good-by and bless you, old boy. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. [Illustration: A LETTER FROM EUGENE FIELD CONTAINING THREE DRAWINGS.] If the reader is at all curious in such matters, a cursory inspection of the illustrations of this letter will assure him that its composition and embellishment must have cost its fanciful writer at least three hours' work. But this was the kind of work that lightened the toil of Field's daily grind. II (Written in gamboge ink) CHICAGO, Sunday night, September the 12th, 1886. Dear Nomp:--You have been gone but forty-eight hours--it seems an age. I have been thinking the matter over and I have come to the appalling conclusion that I shall starve before you get back, unless, perchance, in the meantime, Marie Matilda or some fair unknown sends me truage that can be realized upon. Dock has returned with an air of rusticity that makes me shiver when I think of all he has got to go through with before you come to the rescue. My wife goes to St. Louis to-morrow and I shall be on the turf for one long week. Ballantyne, Cowen, Dennis and I went to the base-ball game yesterday--10,000 people; enthusiasm; slugging game; Chicago fielded beautifully; Chicagos 14, Detroits 4--that's all I've got to say on that subject. I have sent a personal to each of the Denver papers announcing that Mr. and Mrs. Peattie are there on their bridal tour. I have given Peattie divers letters of introduction to Denver folks: to Dr. Lemen, introducing him as an invalid; to Judge Tall, as a client; to Fred Skiff, as a rich young man anxious to invest in Colorado mines--etc., etc. The dear boy will have a lovely time methinks. Hawkins has moved his desk up into Dennis's room, and Dock sits here at your table close to me while you are gone. If he can afford it I do not object. It is Ballantyne's plan to keep Hawkins doing paragraphs for the morning and evening papers, and to put Bates (who returned to-day) in the local department as chief copy-reader. At the theatres this week: "We, Us & Co." at Henderson's; "Alone in London" at Hooley's; Redmund & Barry at McVicker's; "Zitka" at the Columbia, and Mayo at the Grand. By the way, Dr. Reilly's wife's brother, Bruno Kennicoot, has taken the management of the new Windsor Theatre on the North Side; that makes another friend of mine among the managers of Chicago. It is frightfully cold here; real winter weather. Good-by, dear boy. Have a good time and make the home folks happy. Yours as ever, FIELD. Post Scriptum:--Give my love to Miss Mary Matilda and to your impetuous sister, Hel'n; also to the sceptical Bessie. E.F. The announcement which Field caused to be made in the Denver newspapers and the letters of introduction which he gave to Mr. Peattie resulted, as Field contemplated, in his having a lively time. As the conspirator also took the precaution to advise the addressees of these letters and the manager of the hotel of his fell purpose, Mr. and Mrs. Peattie found themselves the victims of insistent and deliberate misapprehensions from the moment they were shown to the bridal suite until they fled from the swarm of land speculators and mining promoters which Field's ingenuity brought about them wherever they moved in Colorado. That this was merely a sportive method of showing his real friendship for both Mr. and Mrs. Peattie may be judged from the following verses: _MR. PEATTIE'S CAPE Oh, pale is Mr. Peattie's face And lank is Mr. Peattie's shape, But with a dreamy, sensuous grace, Beseeming Peattie's swinging pace, Hangs Mr. Peattie's cape! 'Tis wrought of honest woollen stuff And bound about with cotton tape-- When winter winds are chill and rough There's one big heart that's warm enough In Mr. Peattie's cape! It fits him loose about the ribs, But hugs his neck from throat to nape, And, spite his envious neighbors' fibs, A happy fellow is his nibs In Mr. Peattie's cape. So here's defiance to the storm, And here's a pledge in amber grape To him whose heart is always warm, And who conceals a lissome form In Mr. Peattie's cape._ The following verses present an example of what Field could or could not do with the Scotch dialect, which he seldom attempted. It was inspired by the fact that Peattie had been named after Scotland's dearest poet and by his own fondness for Robert and Elia: _THE RETURN OF THE HIGHLANDER He touted low and veiled his bonnet When that he kenned his blushing Elia-- "Gude faith" he cried, "my bonny bride, I fashed mesell some wan wod steal ye!" "My bonny loon," the gude wife answered, "When nane anither wod befriend me, Gainst mickle woes and muckle foes, Braw Donald Field did aft farfend me!" "Of all the bonnie heelon chiels There's nane sae braw as this gude laddie-- Wi' sike an arm to shield fro' harm-- Wi' sike a heart beneath his plaidie!" "Gin Sandy Knox or Sawney Dennis Or Dougal Thompson take delight in A-fashing we wi' gholish glee-- Braw Donald Field wod do my fightin'!" Then Robert Peattie glowed wi' pleasure; "I wod na do the deed o' Sunday, But Donald Field shall be well mealed To-morrow, which I ken is Monday!" Then Robert took his gude wife hame And spread a feast o' Finnan Haddie; In language soft he praised her aft, And aft she kiss her bonnie laddie. October 23d, 1887._ Another bit of personal verse in my scrap-book is suggested by the reference to Morgan Bates in the letter of September 12th in the form of an acrostic to Clara Doty Bates, his wife. In the spring of 1886 Mr. and Mrs. Bates were occupying the home of Mrs. Coonley (now Mrs. Lydia Coonley Ward) on LaSalle Avenue, and one day Morgan was boasting in Field's presence of the palatial nature of their quarters. As the anniversary of Mrs. Bates's birthday was at hand, Field immediately proposed that the entire editorial staff of the News should invite itself and its family to her hospitable board. Bates was taken into the conspiracy of friendship, and on the evening of April 28th we descended on Mrs. Coonley's North Side mansion and ransacked it from cellar to garret. It was Field's humor that day to set every picture in the house just enough awry to disturb Mrs. Bates's sensitive vision. When she arrived on the scene she greeted us with the utmost cordiality, as we did her. But no matter where she stood, her eye would be annoyed by a picture-frame just out of plumb, and she would be excused while she straightened it. Nearly every picture and portrait on the lower floor had been adjusted before she understood the motive of Field's solicitude to see every painting and engraving in the house. Unlike the regulation surprise party of society, we had not provided the refreshments for our own entertainment, and we had Bates under bonds not to give Mrs. Bates an inkling of our visit. But she was enough of a Martha to rise to the occasion. Several members of the company were detailed on separate errands to Clark Street for various raw meats and non-alcoholic liquid supplies, and Mrs. Bates herself descended to the kitchen to oversee the preparation of the bounteous feast which presently emerged from chaos. By way of grace, Field read an impromptu poem written in dark blue ink on pale blue paper with each line beginning with a capital in red: _TO CLARA DOTY BATES Circled around this fair and sumptuous board (Like nymphs, dear ladies, you--like satyrs, we) All to one purpose cheerfully agree-- Ruthless assault on Bates's savory hoard. And since the skirmish duty falls on me-- Despite the wait, of hungry folk deplored-- One opening shot I claim, one modest toast To her who makes life easy for our host. You, madam, have achieved a noble fame, Better by far than selfishness could earn-- A million grateful children bless your name-- To you we drink--then to the viands turn; Easy, mayhap, it is to write a book-- Success to her whose muse will deign to cook! E.F. Chicago, April 28, 1886._ III CHICAGO, Tuesday night, September the 14th, 1886. My Dear Child:--This man Reilly, who has thrust himself upon me during your absence, is fast becoming a seven-year itch. He sprawls about over this room of mine as if it were his own, he strews his damned medical literature over my table, he has a constant stream of idiot callers, and he refuses to give up when I demand truage of him. I hope you will pack your gripsack and start home immediately upon receipt of this. Ballantyne left for St. Louis a few moments ago. In honor of the fact that he is supposed to be on deck to-night, Stone has taken his family and gone to the Casino Theatre for the evening. Cowen spent the night at my house last night and to-day Pinny caught twenty-five crickets for him to take to his room to make music for him. While Cowen was riding down in the car a pretty girl got aboard, and in trying to get a peep at her Cowen dropped the box containing the crickets. For some moments it rained crickets. The women climbed up on the seats of the car and there was general alarm. I believe that Cowen recovered three of the crickets, but two of these had but two legs between them. The Chicagos won the game at St. Louis yesterday (1 to 0), but lost to-day (4 to 5). Flynn pitched yesterday and your friend Clarkson pitched to-day. It wouldn't surprise me if Chicago and Detroit were to go East tied. Ballantyne has made Hawkins move his desk back to the library and Hawkins is passing wroth about it. Here is what I bought Gussie for a wedding present to-day: 2 quires of paper with envelopes, 1 curling iron, 2 papers of pins, 2 papers of hairpins, 1 darning ball, 2 combs, 1 bottle Calder's tooth powder, 1 bottle of vaseline, 1 bottle of shoe polish, 1 box of lip salve, 1 button hook and 1 bottle of listerine. It is quite wintry here. We are all well. Remember me to Marie Matilde and to la belle Helène. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. It must not be inferred from anything in these letters that Field's relations with Dr. Reilly were ever anything but the most friendly and grateful. It simply amused him to rail at and revile one of his best friends. IV CHICAGO, Wednesday night, September the 15th, 1886. My dear Nompy:--Presumably you are by this time sitting by the sad sea waves in that dreary Canuck watering place, drawing sight drafts on the banks of Newfoundland and letting the chill east wind blow through your whiskers. We, too, are demoralized. That senile old substitute of yours--the Dock--has been as growly-powly as a bear to-day. As for me, I am growing desperate. You can see by the enclosed picture how changed I am. [Illustration: FIELD'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF. "_As I would have looked but for the refining influence of Old Nompy._"] Well, Chicago beat St. Louis to-day and, the gods be glorified! Kansas City beat Detroit! as for New York, Boston whipped her day before yesterday and Washington shut her out to-day! now if Detroit will only lose a game or two to St. Louis! I more than half suspect that your home folk will think that you and I are base-ball mad. Stone has bought Gussie a salad set for a wedding gift. I suggested it in the hope that with two sets on hand Gussie might be disposed to give us the old one.... Remember me in respectful phraseology to the belligerent Marie Matilde. Yours as ever, FIELD. V CHICAGO, Thursday evening, September the 16th, 1886. My dear Fellow:--It is presumed that Ballantyne and his bride arrived in this city to-day at seven A.M., but up to this hour (eight P.M.) the bridegroom has not put in an appearance at the office. Cowen is threatening to write to you; it occurs to me that he ought to do something to atone for the vile slanders he has uttered about you since you went away. Stone kept Reilly busy at writing from two o'clock yesterday afternoon until twelve last night. Your friend Werner, advance agent of the McCaul Company, is in town. He inquired for you to-day. I have been reading the memoirs of Dolly Madison and am specially delighted with the letter written by the old Quakeress, Mrs. Hobbs. It is a beautiful letter, and you must read it at your first opportunity. Stone is very much pleased over the result of the County Democratic Convention, the defeat of Dunphy giving him particular gratification. Love to all. God bless you, dear boy. Yours as ever, FIELD. Detroit, 0; St. Louis, 0; game called at end of fifth inning. Chicago walloped Kansas City. VI CHICAGO, Saturday, September the 18th, 1886. This, sweet lad, is the dullest Saturday that has befallen me in many a year. John and his bride are over at Hooley's Theatre watching that lachrymose melodrama, "Alone in London." There is nothing worth seeing at any other house. There is nobody for me to visit with, so here I sit in this box trying to kill the time. I see very little of Cowen. A disreputable looking friend of his from the West is here dead-broke and hunting work; Cowen is feeding and sleeping him _ad interim_, and I think the fellow has an evil influence over our friend.... I am, as ever, your friend, FIELD. VII CHICAGO, Sunday, September 19th, 1886. My dear Old Boy:--This man Reilly whom you have put upon me has just played upon me the most shamefulest trick I ever heard tell of. He invited me out to supper and told me he had only eighty cents. He ordered twenty cents worth and made me scrimp along on sixty cents. When he came to pay the check he produced a five-dollar bill! I never felt so humiliated in all my life. I pine for the return of the sweet friend who seeks not by guile to set limit to my appetite. My children insisted upon going to bed last night with pieces of Gussie's wedding cake under their pillows. Dady had the presence of mind to wake up in the night and eat his piece. He told me this morning that he dreamed that he was married to Mr. Cowen. Last evening I wandered down town in a furious rainstorm and tried to find somebody I knew. Failing in this, I meandered home and went to bed without saying my prayers, conscious of having spent an ill day. At the theatre this week: Columbia, "Pepita"; McVicker's, Lotta; Grand, Kate Castleton; Hooley's, "Private Secretary." Dock is trying to get me to go to the Columbia to-night, but your pale face looms up in my mind's eye and warns me not to go, or, at least, not to sit in a box if I do go. The conclusion of this letter has been sacrificed to the importunity of some autograph fiend from whose tribe I have had the greatest difficulty in preserving its fellows. VIII CHICAGO, Monday, September the 20th, 1886. The envious old Dock, who has never had an emotion, an ambition or a hope beyond a quart bottle of Ike Cook's Imperial, said to me but just now: "Why do you waste your time writing to that man Thompson? He will never thank you for it; he will put up none the more liberally when he returns." Then he added, with a bitter look: "You never wrote to me while I was at Springfield!" Ah, how little he knows of you, this peevish old glutton who cares for naught above pandering to his dyspeptic maw! But my writing to you has caused a great deal of scandal here in the office, and I fear I am seriously compromised. Cowen has been threatening to denounce me to you, but I have no fear that he will be able to grant you any time from his numerous [_a_] hoydens, doxies, and beldames. He threatened me for the mountenance of an hour this afternoon, but I bade him write and it pleased him--passing well knew I that he could not missay me with you. I am delighted with the result of the game at Detroit to-day--7 to 3 in favor of Chicago! This, I think, insures us the championship. Miller, our circulator, is very much disturbed because our country circulation has dropped about 1,000 in less than a fortnight; he has been hobnobbing with Ballantyne about it to-day. Mr. Stone is still in Kansas City hunting wild geese. "Pepita" is billed as the joint production of Thompson and Solomon, and about twenty people have asked me if you were the Thompson referred to and I have indignantly repudiated the libel, for, maugre my head, "Pepita" is just a little the rottenest thing I ever saw or heard. I have not clapped my eyes on any of [_b_] your suburban friends since you departed. At McVicker's the other evening I found myself being scrutinized by a buxom country lass who looked as if she might be the fair unknown from Evanston. Her rueful visage and the sympathetic glance she bestowed on me seemed to assure me that she, too, was pining for the grandest of old grands. My wife has been away for a week, but not a line have I had from her. It has comforted me a good deal, however, to hear John say that she looked just about sixteen years of age at the wedding. I took the Dock out to supper to-night and heaped coals of fire upon his head. I let him have everything he wanted and I paid the bill with a flourish that would have reflected credit upon a Roman conqueror. I wish you were going to be here day after to-morrow [_c_] to go with us to the last base-ball game of the season--a postponed game between the Chicagos and the St. Louis Club. I am to have a private box on account of being a mascot. The Dock has just informed me that he has just rung into one of his editorials the expression "seismic phenomena," and he seems to be as tickled as Jack Homer was when he pulled an alleged plum out of that historic pie. I don't know what you think about it, but this business of writing with five different colors of ink is queering me at a terrible rate and I am sure that I would die of softening of the brain if I were to keep it up any length of time. But I presume to say that your sceptical little Bessie will think this the most beautiful page she ever saw. I am sorry, but not surprised, to hear that your passes failed you on the Canadian Pacific. You should have applied for them sooner. I have always [_d_] found railway officials the slowest people in the world, and they are particularly slow when it comes to the matter of passes. Of course you are having a charming time with your home folk; well, you deserve it, and I hope you will make the most of it. Give my love to them all. You see I regard myself as one of the family. Let me hear from you whenever you feel like writing, but don't bother about it. Ever your friend, EUGENE FIELD. Small wonder that even Field's patience revolted at the self-imposed "business" of writing this letter in five different colors of ink. The first page, which ran down to the letter "a" in the above, was written in pale green ink; the second, running to "b," was in black; the third, running to "c," was in red; and the fourth was a medley of these with purple, gamboge, and mauve to make the six colors. The fifth page from "d" was completed in plain black. IX CHICAGO, Tuesday, September the 21st, 1886. What you say in your letter, dear chuck, is quite true. The paper has become fairly disreputable of late. The issue of last Saturday was as base a specimen of daily journalism as ever was inflicted on a civilized community. Stone (who has returned from Kansas City) says he was disgusted with that Saturday issue, but I have heard him suggest no scheme whereby the dawdling condition of affairs is to be bettered. The whole staff is demoralized, and I believe that, so far from getting better, matters and things are steadily going to worse. The outlook is very discouraging. One sensible thing has been done in hiring Reilly to do regular work. Under the new arrangement he is to receive forty dollars a week, which Stone considers a big price for an editorial writer, but which _I_ regard as too measley for any use. Still Reilly is satisfied, for he will be able to do, under the new arrangement, as much work for Rauch (of the State Board of Health) as he has been doing in the past. Not a word have I heard from my spouse since she went to St. Louis--in fact, I have never been informed that she arrived in St. Louis. I thought she might arrive to-night, and so I went down to the station and sat around on the trucks and things like a colossal male statue of Patience. The train was late, and, when it came, it came without her, of course. Getting back to the office, I find that Dock has had a de'il of a time. He had to wait this evening to get some data from Yount for a political editorial. Yount did not show up until half-past eight; after he had disgorged the necessary information he left the Dock cocked and primed for quick work. But the Dock had no sooner got fairly started--in fact, had scarcely reached his first politico medical phrase--when in came Roche (fresh from his bridal tour through Colorado) with a thunder-gust of tedious experiences. The Dock bore the infliction with Christian fortitude and thanked God when Roche left. In a moment or two thereafter, however, a Kansas City friend of mine called--very drunk, and not finding me, insisted upon discussing me, my work, and my prospects, with the Dock. John Thatcher dropped in subsequently, and so the Dock had quite a matinée of it. By the time I got back to the office the old gentleman was as vaporish as a hysterical old woman and he vented his spleen on my unoffending head. God knows what a trial that man is to me! Yet I try to be respectful and kind to him, for age is entitled to that much tribute at least from youth. Since penning these lines I have read them to the Dock and it would do your soul good to see him squirm. We are all well. When are you coming home? Paying postage on daily letters to Canada is swiftly bankrupting me; then, too, it is a long time since I had a square meal. But, japes, bourds, and mockages aside, we miss you and will be glad to see you back. Salutations to the home folk. Yours in friendship, EUGENE FIELD. The pen-picture in this letter of the delays, intrusions, and interruptions that aroused Dr. Reilly's ire is a fair portrayal of the difficulties under which the editorial staff worked in those days. Field was the only one who could shut himself away from such annoyances to do his own wood-sawing. But when released from this, he delighted to add to the tribulations of his less erratic associates by his never-ending "japes, bourds, and mockages." X CHICAGO, Wednesday, September 22d, 1886. A second letter came from you to-day, dear boy, and I am glad to hear that you are enjoying yourself, although I made mone passing measure when I learned that the caitiff Brunswick knight had forejusted you at tennis. I don't know why the revered Miss Mollie Tillie deems me a capricious man and a fickle; nor can I imagine. You should not suffer her to missay me so grievously. Where could the skeptical damosell have found a person more faithful than I have been in writing each day to her big brother? But if Miss Mollie throws me overboard, so to speak, I shall look to her bustling sister, Miss Nellie, for less capricious friendship. "_Varium et mutabile semper foemina._" Poor old Dock! He comes into the room and leaves his key sticking in the door; to complicate matters still further, he leaves another key sticking in the book-case. When I reproach him with these evidences of a failing mind, he smiles and cries. I wish he were here that I might read these lines to him. Then there is Cowen--but I will not fill this letter with incoherent criminations. The enclosed sketch will explain all. It represents a scene in this office. I have stepped out to post a letter to you. Coming back I peep in at the window and behold baby Dock in his high-chair weeping lustily, whilst baby Cowen has crept out of his chair, toddled to the wall and is reaching for his _bottle_! Betwixt the hysterics of the one babe and the bottle of t'other I am well-nigh exhausted. Come back and take care of your babies yourself! [Illustration: A SCENE IN THE DAILY NEWS OFFICE. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] I do not see that any effort is being made to get out a better paper. The sheet has been simply rotten, and everybody says so--even the dogs are barking about it. Meanwhile I am sawing wood. I am reading a great deal. Read Mrs. Gordon's Life of Christopher North, parts of Burns's poems, life of Dr. Faustus, and Morte D'Arthur since you left, and hope to read Goethe's poems, Life of Bunyan, Homer's works, Sartor Resartus and Rasselas before you get back. I have about made up my mind to do little outside writing for four or five months and to do a prodigious amount of reading instead. My wife will be back to-morrow evening; as I am to meet her at the station, I may not have time to write you your daily note. She writes me that she has had a bad cold ever since she reached St. Louis and is heartily glad that she is coming home. Dunlap, of the McCaul Company, invites me to be his guest at the Southern Hotel while the company sings in St. Louis, but that sort of thing is out of the question. Do you intend to go to Indianapolis with me? E---- W---- has been very friendly of late. I suspect he is getting hard up. B----'s latest fad is to organize a Friday night club to discuss literature, art, science, etc. Hearing him talk about it to-day gave the old Dock a violent attack of nausea. Speaking of nausea reminds me that P---- has been seriously indisposed for two days as the consequence of eating nine peaches, two apples, and a pound of grapes! He is satisfied, however, that this variable fall weather is very trying. Shackelford is off on his vacation, but I do not complain, since I find Rogers, his substitute, a pleasant gentleman to do Saturday business with.... Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. An interesting point in this letter is its reference to his proposed first appearance as a reader after coming to Chicago before the convention of Western Association of Writers at Indianapolis. Previous to this, during our acquaintance he had repeatedly declined requests to appear upon the platform. But in this case he was persuaded by Richard Lew Dawson, the secretary of the association, to make an exception in its favor. In a letter to Mr. Dawson, under date of September 3d, 1886, Field gives the following interesting estimate of some of his own work: "Since reading your last letter, I have thought that it might be wise for me to contribute to your programme the following pieces, which exhibit pretty nearly all styles of my work: 1. Death and the Soldier Prose. 10 minutes. 2. The Humane Lad (new) Verse. 3 minutes 3. The Noontide Hymn (new) Verse. 3 minutes 4. The Merciful Lad (new) Verse. 2 minutes 5. The Divine Lullaby (new) Verse. 2 minutes. "The reading of these pieces will require not more than twenty minutes, and I would prefer to give them consecutively. Numbers 2 and 4 are humorous. I do not like 'Death and the Soldier' as much as 'The First Christmas Tree,' the 'Robin and the Violet,' or 'The Mountain and the Sea'--I mean I do not like it so much as a piece of fanciful literary work, but it may be more catchy. You know what your audience will like, and I leave the matter in your hands." Field closed his letter with a request that an invitation should be extended to me, which I duly received. This accounts for the reference to an approaching visit to Indianapolis in his letter of September 22d. By the way, Field got more pleasure out of the various pronunciations of Goethe's name than instruction from the perusal of his poems. He was always starting or fostering discussions over it, as in the following paragraph: The valued New York Life asserts that Chicago used to rhyme "Goethe" with "teeth" until the Renaissance set in, since which epoch it has rhymed it with "ity." This is hardly fair. In a poem read recently before the Hyde Park Toboggan Slide Lyceum the following couplet occurred: _"Until at last John Wolfgang Goethe Was gathered home, upward of eighty."_ To resume the Fredericton series of letters: XI CHICAGO, Sunday the 26th, 1886. Dear Boy:--Such a close, muggy night this is that I feel little like writing to you or to anybody else. Yet I am not one to neglect or shirk a duty. I have been with Kate Field all the evening, and we have discussed everything from literature down to Sir Charles Dilke and back again. A mighty smart woman is Kate! My wife returned from St. Louis last Thursday, bringing about fifty of my books with her. They were mostly of the Bohn's Library series, but among them was a set of Boswell's Johnson, Routledge edition of 1859. I want you to have an edition of this kind, and I have sent to New York to see if it can be had (cheap). I am reading like a race-horse. The famous history of Dr. Faustus has done me a power of good, and I have been highly amused with a volume of Bohn which contains the old Ray proverbs. Isn't it about time for you to be getting back home? You have been gone about sixteen days now, and we are growing more and more lonesome. Peattie is looked for next Tuesday. Mr. Stone goes out of town to-morrow--to Dakota, I believe--and is to be absent for a week also. Shackelford will be back at work to-morrow. You alone are delinquent. Not only am I lonesome--egad, I am starving! So if you don't come _in propria persona_, at least _send_ something. The old Dock has been as grumpy as a bear to-day and I have had a hard time bearing with him. He announced to me to-day that he thought that I was fickle--I tell you this so that you may repeat it to Miss Marie Mathilde, who, I believe, invented that opinion. _Entre nous_: Hawkins tells me that some of his friends are trying to buy the St. Paul Dispatch for him. There was a fire in the Chicago Opera House building to-night, but, unfortunately, no serious damage was done. Stone is thinking of having the three of us--Dock, you and your habit--write a department for the Saturday News after the fashion of the Noctes. Think it all over whilst you are away. What are you going to bring me for a present? Don't go to buying any foolish trumpery; you have no money to waste on follies. What I need is a "Noctes," and any other useful book you may get hold of in New York. Love to the folks. Ever yours, FIELD. The proposed "Noctes," except the set for Field, never materialized. XII CHICAGO, September 28th, 1886. Dear Nomp:--I am just cunning enough to send this to the care of our New York office, for I surmise that it will reach there in time to intercept you. I do not intend that you shall get out of New York without being reminded of that present you intend bringing me for being so good as to write to you regularly whilst you were away. I confidently expect to see you back here next Sunday. On Monday I go to Indianapolis for two or three days, and I heartily wish you were going with me to help bear the expense of the trip. In fact, I am so anxious to have you along that I would cheerfully consent to letting you pay everything. But at any rate I agree to take supper with you at Mr. Pullman's godless hotel the night you return. The Dock invited me out to supper to-night. We went to the Drum. Suspecting that I was going to exceed his capability of payment, he handed me over a dollar--all the money he had. I had the check charged to me and kept the dollar. Whereat the Dock grieves passing sore. I have begun to surmise that my remarks about Literary Life will lead to Miss Cleveland's retirement from the editorship of that delectable mush-bucket. The signs all point that way now. I enclose you a letter to my friend Mitchell of the Sun. Tell him about the Goethe poem. I promised to send him a copy of it when Literary Life printed it. Scrutinize young Kingsbury's daily life carefully. Heaven forefend all the temptations that compass him in the modern Babylon. Give my love to Mr. Scribner. Yours as ever, FIELD. Field's satirical comments on Literary Life, a weekly that sought to make capital by engaging President Cleveland's sister, Miss Rose Cleveland, as its editor, not only led to her early retirement from an impossible position, but to the early collapse of the publication itself. When Miss Cleveland first came to Chicago to assume the duties of editorship Field welcomed her in verse: _THE ROSE Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung With the praises of sweet-scented posies, And poets in rapturous phrases have sung The paramount beauty of roses. Wheresoever she 'bides, whether resting in lanes Or gracing the proud urban bowers, The red, royal rose her distinction maintains As the one regnant queen among flowers. How joyous are we of the West when we find That Fate, with her gifts ever chary, Has decreed that the rose who is queen of her kind Shall bloom on our wild Western prairie. Let us laugh at the East as an impotent thing With envy and jealousy crazy, While grateful Chicago is happy to sing In praise of the rose, she's a daisy._ CHAPTER V PUBLICATION OF HIS FIRST BOOKS Although the bibliomaniac and collector will claim that "The Tribune Primer," printed in Denver in 1882, was Eugene Field's first book, and cite the fact that a copy of this rare pamphlet recently sold for $125 as proof that it is still his most valuable contribution to literature, his first genuine entrance into the world of letters between covers came with the publication of "Culture's Garland," by Ticknor & Company, of Boston, in August, 1887. Whatever may be the truth as to the size of the first edition of the "Primer," so few copies were printed and its distribution was so limited that it scarcely amounted to a bona-fide publication. Neither did the form of the "Primer," a little 18mo pamphlet of forty-eight pages, bound in pink paper covers, nor its ephemeral newspaper persiflage, rise to the dignity of a book. "Culture's Garland," on the contrary, marks the first real essay of Field as a maker of books. Field himself is the authority for the statement that "Tom" Ticknor edited the book. "I simply sent on a lot of stuff," wrote he, "and the folks at the other end picked out what they wanted and ran it as they pleased." This is scarcely just to Mr. Ticknor. Field himself, to my knowledge, selected the matter for "Culture's Garland," and arranged it in the general form in which it appeared. He then delegated to Mr. Ticknor authority to reject any and all paragraphs in which the bite of satire or the broadness of the humor transgressed too far the bounds of a reasonable discretion. The true nature of this, to my mind the most entertaining of all Field's books, is reflected in its title page, frontispiece, emblem, tail-piece, and the advertisements with which it concludes. The full title reads: CULTURE'S GARLAND Being Memoranada of The Gradual Rise of Literature, Art, Music, And Society in Chicago, and Other Western Ganglia by EUGENE FIELD With an Introduction by Julian Hawthorne. The frontispiece is a pen-and-ink sketch of "the Author at the Age of 30 (A.D. 1880)," such as Field frequently drew of himself; the symbolic emblem, which takes the place of a dedication, was a string of link sausages "in the similitude of a laurel wreath," representing "A Chicago Literary Circle," and the tail-piece was a gallows, to mark "The End." Writing to a friend in Boston, in 1893, Field said that he thought "the alleged advertisements at the end of the volume are its best feature." These were introduced by a letter from one of Field's favorite fictitious creations, "Felix Bosbyshell," to Messrs. Ticknor & Co.: CHICAGO, June 26th, 1887. Dear Sirs:--I am informed that one of the leading _littérateurs_ of this city is about to produce a book under your auspices. Representing, as I do, the prominent advertising bureau of the West, I desire to contribute one page of advertisements to this work, and I am prepared to pay therefor cash rates. I enclose copy, and would like to have the advertisements printed on the fly-leaf which will face the _finis_ of the book in question. Yours in the cause of literature, FELIX J. BOSBYSHELL, For Bosbyshell & Co. This was accompanied by a Publisher's Note, which Field also supplied: It is entirely foreign to our custom to accept advertisements for our books; but we recognize the exceptional nature of the case and the fine literary character and high tone of the Messrs. Bosbyshells' offering, and we cheerfully give it place over leaf. In his discriminating and felicitous introduction to his friend's book, Julian Hawthorne said: "The present little volume comprises mainly a bubbling forth of delightful badinage and mischievous raillery, directed at some of the foibles and pretensions of his enterprising fellow-townsmen, who, however, can by no means be allowed to claim a monopoly of either the pretensions or the foibles herein exploited. Laugh, but look to yourself: _mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur_. It is a book which should, and doubtless will, attain a national popularity; but admirable, and, indeed, irresistible though it be in its way, it represents a very inconsiderable fraction of the author's real capacity. We shall hear of Eugene Field in regions of literature far above the aim and scope of these witty and waggish sketches. But as the wise orator wins his audience at the outset of his speech by the human sympathy of a smile, so does our author, in these smiling pages, establish genial relations with us before betaking himself to more ambitious flights." [Illustration: PAGE OF ADVERTISEMENTS FROM "CULTURE'S GARLAND." --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.H. DEVINE, | PROF. WM. GILMAN, (Indorsed by Theodore Thomas,) | | _Card and Letter_ _Wholesale Dealer in_ | _Writer,_ _Cream, Milk, etc._ | | Chicago, Ill. Chicago, Ill. | | THE BEST SOCIETY CIRCLES Parties, Clubs, Societies, and | PATRONIZE HIM! Festivals furnished with suppers | or lunches at living rates. Has | WILL COMPOSE provided Refreshments for the | _LETTERS, ESSAYS, SPEECHES,_ Thomas Concerts for three | _EPIC POEMS, ETC.,_ seasons. | | CHEAP FOR CASH. _DEVINE'S PINK LEMONADE._ | | N.B.--A fine line of _LETTERS A Noble Beverage, which cheers, | OF CONDOLENCE_ now in stock. but does not intoxicate. Whets | the appetite for classic music, | Send for Catalogue. and will remove grease-spots |---------------------------------- from the finest fabric. | TO EXCHANGE. ----------------------------------| VETERINARY HOSPITAL. | I have on hand a complete set of | British Half-calf Poets (120 _948 HEBERN AVE., CHICAGO._ | vols.), in prime condition, which | I will exchange for a St. Bernard POLYCARP SEARS, V.S. | Pup. Must be warranted to have | had the distemper also, 1 folio Summer Semester begins July 5. | Shakespeare. | _Spavin, Glanders, and all_ | Andrew J. Whistlewhite, | Chicago, Ill. _other Equine Ailments_ |---------------------------------- | ART SCHOOL. SUCCESSFULLY TREATED. | | Mme. CAMILLE BEAUCLERQ, _MAL DE MARE_ a specialty. | Principal. | We also learn coachmen and | Fall Term begins Sept. 19, 1887. | footmen the _ART OF_ | _Wax Flowers a Specialty_; | ALSO CRAYON DRAWING. _ETTIQWET_. | | We produce work that defies the | Old Masters. | | Leave orders at Livermann's | cigar-store. ---------------------------------------------------------------------] While Mr. Hawthorne's analysis of the book was correct, his prophecy as to its attaining a national popularity was never realized. The literary critics, East as well as West, whose views and pretensions Field had so often lampooned mercilessly, had their innings, and as Field had not then conquered the popular heart with his "Little Boy Blue," his matchless lullabies, and his fascinating fairy tales and other stories, "Culture's Garland" was left to cumber the shelves of the book-stores. Several of the articles and poems in this book have been included in the collected edition of Field's works. In it will be found Field's famous "Markessy di Pullman" papers, with these clever introductory imitations: _"Il bianco di cazerni della graze fio bella Di teruca si mazzoni quel' antisla Somno della." --Petrarch. "He who conduces to a fellow's sleep Should noble fame and goodly riches reap." --Tasso. "Sleep mocks at death: when weary of the earth We do not die--we take an upper berth." --Dante._ There, too, are reprinted the verses he composed and credited to Judge Cooley, to which allusion has already been made in these pages, and of which Field wrote to his friend Cowen the week they were published: "I think they will create somewhat of a sensation; I have put a good deal of work upon them." All the pieces of verse read by Field at the Indianapolis convention also appear in "Culture's Garland," three of them being included in the article on "Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor," of which "The Merciful Lad" was one of Field's favorites: _THE MERCIFUL LAD Through all my life the poor shall find In me a constant friend, And on the weak of every kind My mercy shall attend. The dumb shall never call on me In vain for kindly aid, And in my hands the blind shall see A bounteous alms display'd. In all their walks the lame shall know And feel my goodness near, And on the deaf will I bestow My gentlest words of cheer. 'Tis by such pious works as these-- Which I delight to do-- That men their fellow-creatures please, And please their Maker, too._ Field was immensely tickled with the British gravity of one of his critics, who ridiculed this imitation of Dr. Watts, because, forsooth, he could not comprehend how the dumb could call, the blind see, or the lame walk, while he wanted to know what gracious effect the gentlest words could produce on the ears of the deaf. Throughout "Culture's Garland" Field is the unsparing satirist of contemporary humbug and pretence--social, political, and literary--and that perhaps accounts for its failure to achieve an immediate popular success. I, for one, am glad that so late as December, 1893, and after he had tasted the sweets of popular applause, with its attendant royalties, he had the courage to write of it to a friend in Boston, "I am not ashamed of this little book, but, like the boy with the measles, I am sorry for it in spots." "Culture's Garland" really cleared the way for Field's subsequent literary success. It taught him the lesson that his average daily newspaper work had not body enough to fill out the covers of a book. With grim determination he set himself the task to master the art of telling stories in prose. He was absolutely confident of himself in verse, but to his dying day he was never quite satisfied with anything he wrote in prose. His poems went to the printer almost exactly as they were originally composed. Nearly all of his tales were written over and over again with fastidious pains before they were committed to type. Every word and sentence of such stories as "The Robin and the Violet," "The First Christmas Tree," "Margaret, a Pearl," and "The Mountain and the Sea" was scrutinized and weighed by his keen literary sense and discriminating ear before it was permitted to pass final muster. In only one instance do I remember that this extreme care failed to improve the original story. "The Werewolf" ("Second Book of Tales") was a more powerful and moving fancy as first written than as eventually printed. He consulted with me during four revisions of "The Werewolf," and told me that he had written the whole thing over seven times. I never knew him so finicky and beset with doubts as to the use of words and phrases as he was in this instance. The result is a marvellous piece of technicality perfect archaic old English mosaic, with the soul--the fascinating shudder--refined, out of a weird and fearful tale. But all the care, study, and exercise Field put upon his prose stories bore fruit in the gradual improvement in tone and style of his daily composition. His study of old English ballads started him about this time on the production of a truly remarkable series of lullabies, while his work began to show more and more the influence of Father Prout. But the old Field continued to show itself in such occasional quatrains as this: _For there was Egypt in her eye-- The languor of the South-- Persia was in her perfumed sigh, And Turkey in her mouth._ Along in January, 1889, began the frequent paraphrases from Horace. "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," over which Field expended more than the usual pains he bestowed on his verse, was printed in March of the same year. One day in April, in 1889, Field surprised and delighted the readers of the News with the publication of the following amazing array of verse in one issue: "Our Two Opinions," Horace I, 4; Heine's "Love Song," Horace I, 20; Hugo's "Pool in the Forest," Horace I, 5; Béranger's "Broken Fiddle," Horace I, 28; "Chloe"; Uhland's "Three Cavaliers," and Horace IV, 11. It must not be imagined that this was the result of one day's or one week's work. He had been preparing for it for months; and each piece of versification was as perfect as he could make it. The amazement and widely expressed admiration with which this broadside of verse was received encouraged Field to a still greater _tour de force_, upon the preparation of which he bent all his energies and spare time for more than three months. What Field described in a letter to Cowen as "The 'Golden Week' in my newspaper career," consisted in "the paper running a column of my (his) verse per diem--something never before attempted in American journalism." The titles of the verse printed during the "Golden Week" testify alike to his industry and versatility: THE GOLDEN WEEK, JULY 15TH-20TH, 1889. Monday, July 15, "Prof. Vere de Blaw." Tuesday, "Horace to His Patron," "Poet and King," "Alaskan Lullaby," "Lizzie," "Horace I, 30." Wednesday, "The Conversazzhyony." Thursday, "Egyptian Folk Song," Béranger's "To My Old Coat," "Horace's Sailor and Shade," "Uhland's Chapel," "Guess," "Alaskan Balladry." Friday, "Marthy's Younkit," "Fairy and Child," "A Heine Love Song," "Jennie," "Horace I, 27." Saturday, "The Happy Isles of Horace," Béranger's "Ma Vocation," "Child and Mother," "The Bibliomaniac's Bride," "Alaskan Balladry, No. 2," "Mediæval Eventide Song." Upon some of these now familiar poems Field had been at work for more than a month. He read to me portions of "Marthy's Younkit" as early as the spring of 1887. Among the letters which his guardian, Mr. Gray, kindly placed at my disposal, I find the following bearing on "The Golden Week." It is written from the Benedict Farm, Genoa Junction, Wis., some sixty miles from Chicago, to which Field had retired to recuperate after having provided enough poetry in advance to fill his column during the week of his absence: DEAR MR. GRAY: I send herewith copies of poems which have appeared in the Daily News this week. I am proud to have been the first newspaper man to have made the record of a column of original verse every day for a week; I am greatly mistaken if this feeling of pardonable pride is not shared by you. I regard some of the poems as my best work so far, but I shall do better yet if my life is spared. We are rusticating here by the side of a Wisconsin lake this summer. Farm board seems to agree with us and we shall in all likelihood remain here until September. I have been grievously afflicted with nervous dyspepsia for a month, but am much better just now. The paper gives me a three months' European vacation whensoever I wish to go. At present I intend to go in the winter and shall take Julia and Mary (Trotty) with me. I do wish that Mrs. Gray would write to me; I want to know all about her home affairs and especially about Mrs. Bacon--my grudge against her _in re_ mince pie has expired under the statute of limitations. God bless you, dear friend--you and yours, Affectionately, EUGENE FIELD. Although Field's body was rusticating on farm fare in Wisconsin, his pen was furnishing its two thousand three hundred words a day to the Daily News, as the "Sharps and Flats" column through the summer of 1889 shows. In a letter written from the Benedict Farm during the Golden Week to Cowen, who was at this time in London working on the English edition of the New York Herald, Field unfolds some of his doings and plans: The copies of the London Herald came to hand to-day; I am sure I am very much indebted to you for the boom you are giving me; it is of distinct value to me, and I appreciate it. I send you herewith a number of my verses that have appeared this week in my column. Having done my work ahead I am rusticating in great shape and have become a veritable terror to the small fry in which the lakes of this delectable locality abound. My books will be issued about the first of August; they will be very pretty pieces of work; I shall send you a set at once. My western verse seems to be catching on; I notice that a good many others of the boys are striking out in the same vein. Young McCarthy has made a translation from the Persian, and I have half a notion to paraphrase parts of it. I want to dip around in all sorts of versification, simply to show people that determination and perseverance can accomplish much in this direction. You know that I do not set much store by "genius." The books to which Field refers as likely to be issued about the first of August were his two "Little Books" of verse and tales, the copy for which had not, when he wrote the foregoing, all gone to the printer. His idea then was that a book could be got out with something like the same lightning dispatch as a daily newspaper. To tell the story of the publication of Field's two "Little Books," unique as it was in the making of books, requires that I say a few words of the change that had come over our personal relations, though not in our friendship. Two causes operated to make this change--my marriage in the spring of 1887, which drew from Field "Ye Piteous Appeal of a Forsooken Habbit" and the manuscript volumes of the best of his verse prior to that event, and my retirement from the staff of the Daily News, to assist in the foundation of the weekly political and literary journal called America. It was through my persuasion that we secured from Field his now famous "Little Boy Blue" for the initial number of the new periodical. Many stories are extant as to how this affecting bit of child verse was written, and many fac-similes of copies of it in Field's handwriting have been printed as originals. But the truth is, "Little Boy Blue" was written without any special suggestion or personal experience attending its conception and composition. It was an honest child, begotten of the freest and best genius of Field's fancy--the genius of a master craftsman who had the instinct to use only the simplest means to tell the significant story of the little toy dog that is covered with dust and the little toy soldier that is red with rust in so many a home. Field handed his original copy of "Little Boy Blue" to me in the Daily News office. We read it over carefully together, and there I, with his consent, made the change in the seventh line of the last verse, that may be noted in the fac-simile. With my interlineation the copy went to the printer, who had orders to return it to me, which was accordingly done, and it has been in my possession ever since. Field made several other noteworthy contributions to the pages of America, including such important verse or articles as "Apple Pie and Cheese," "To Robin Goodfellow," "A Proper Trewe Idyll of Camelot," "The Shadwell Folio," "Poe, Patterson, and Oquawka," "The Holy Cross," and "The Three Kings." The most remarkable of these was undoubtedly "The Shadwell Folio," which ran through two issues of America and afforded a prose setting for the following proofs of Field's versatility: "The Death of Robin Hood," "The Alliaunce," "Madge: Ye Hoyden," "The Lost Schooner," "Ye Crewel Sassinger Mill," "The Texas Steere," "A Vallentine," "Waly, Waly," "Ailsie, My Bairn," "Ye Morris Daunce," "Ye Battaile Aux Dames," "How Trewe Love Won Ye Battel," "Lollaby" (old English). The first section of the "Shadwell Folio" appeared in the issue of America of October 25th, 1888. It was one of those conceits in which Field took the greatest pleasure and in the preparation of which he grudged no labor. It purported to be a parchment folio discovered in an old hair trunk by Colonel John C. Shadwell, "a wealthy and aristocratic contractor," while laying certain main and sewer pipes in the cellar of a deserted frame house at 1423 Michigan Street, Chicago. This number would have located the cellar well out in Lake Michigan. Colonel Shadwell presented this incomparable folio to "The Ballad and Broadside Society of Cook County, Illinois, for the Discovery of Ancient Manuscripts and for the Dissemination of Culture (limited)." On receipt of the folio, this society immediately adopted the following resolutions: _Resolved_, That the ballads set forth in the parchment manuscript, known as the Shadwell folio, are genuine old English ballads, composed by English balladists, and illustrating most correctly life in Chicago in Ancient Times, which is to say, before the fire. _Resolved_, That the parchment cover of said folio is, in our opinion, neither pigskin nor sheep, but genuine calf, and undoubtedly the pelt of the original fatted calf celebrated in Shakespeare's play of the "Prodigal Son." _Resolved_, That we hail with pride these indisputable proofs that our refinement and culture had an ancestry, and that our present civilization did not spring, as ribald scoffers have alleged, mushroom-like from the sties and wallows of the prairies. _Resolved_, That we get these ballads printed in an edition of not to exceed 500 copies, and at a cost of $50 per copy, or, at least, at a price beyond the capability of the hoy polloi. Field then proceeded to review the contents of the fictitious folio, taking the precaution to premise his remarks and extracts with the statement that "it must not be surmised that all the poems in this Shadwell folio are purely local; quite a number treat of historical subjects." Of the poems in the first half of "The Shadwell Folio" I am able to give one of the most interesting in fac-simile, premising that, although this did not see the light of print until October, 1888, it was written in an early month of 1887. On pages 19 and 20 of the folio, according to Field, we get a "pleasant glimpse of the rare old time" in the ballad entitled: [Illustration: "THE ALLIAUNCE". Come hither, gossip, let us sit beneath this plaisaunt vine; I fain wolde counsel thee a bit whiles that we sip our wine. The air is cool and we can hear the voicing of the kine come from the pasture lot anear the styes where grunt the swine. See how that Tom, my sone, doth fare with posies in his hands-- Methinks he minds to mend him where thy dochter waiting stands. Boys will be boys and girls be girls for Godde hath willed it soe; Thy dochter Tib hath goodly curles-- my Toms none fole, I trom. His evening chores ben all to-done, and she hath fed the pigges, and now the village green upon they daunce and sing their jigges. His squeaking crowd the fiddler plies, And Tom and Tib can see The babies in echoders eyes-- saye, neighbour, shall it bee? Nould give Frank in goodly store-- that I; in sooth, ne can; but I have steers and hoggs gillore-- and thats what makes the man! Your family trees and blade be naught In these progressive years-- The only blode that counts (goes?) for aught Is blode of piggs and steeres! So, gossip, let us found a line On mouton, porke and beefe; The which in coming years shall shine In cultures world as chief. Sic stout and braw a sone as mine I lay youle never see, and theres nae huskier wench than thine-- Saye, neighbor, shall it bee?] On pages 123 and 124 of the folio Field discovered "this ballad of Chicago's patient Grissel (erroneously pronounced 'Gristle' in leading western circles), setting forth the miseries and the fate of a lass who loved a sailor ": _THE LOST SCHOONER Hard by ye lake, beneath ye shade, Upon a somer's daye, There ben a faire Chicago maid That greeting sore did saye: I wonder where can Willie bee-- O waly, waly! woe is mee! He fared him off on Aprille 4, And now 'tis August 2, I stood upon ye slimy shoore And swere me to be trewe; I sawe yt schippe bear out to sea-- O waly, waly! woe is mee! "Ye schippe she ben as braw an hulk As ever clave ye tides, And in her hold she bore a bulk Of new-mown pelts and hides-- Pelts ben they all of high degree-- O waly, waly! woe is mee! "Ye schippes yt saile untill ye towne Ffor mee no plaisaunce hath, Syn most of them ben loded down With schingle, slabs and lath; That ither schipp--say, where is shee? O waly, waly! woe is mee! "Ye Mary Jane ben lode with logs, Ye Fairy Belle with beer-- Ye Mackinack ben Ffull of hoggs And ither carnal cheer; But nony pelt nor hide I see-- O waly, waly! woe is mee! "And ither schippes bring salt and ore, And some bring hams and sides, And some bring garden truck gillore-- But none brings pelt and hides! Where can my Willie's schooner be-- O waly, waly! woe is mee!" So wailed ye faire Chicago maide Upon ye shady shore, And swounded oft whiles yt she prayed Her loon to come oncet more, And crying, "Waly, woe is mee," That maiden's harte did brast in three._ The second half of "The Shadwell Folio," printed November 1st, 1888, besides being memorable for the first publication of his well-known "Ailsie, My Bairn," and the exquisite "Old English Lullaby," contained "a homely little ballad," as Field described it, "which reminds one somewhat of 'Winfreda,' and which in the volume before us is entitled 'A Valentine.'" The "Winfreda" here referred to is one of the poems upon which Field exhausted his ingenuity in composing with the verbal phraseology of different periods of archaic English. The version which appears in his "Songs and Other Verse" is his first attempt at versification "in pure Anglo-Saxon," as he says in a note to one of the manuscript copies. Field intended to render this finally into "current English," but, so far as I know, he never got to it. The publication of numerous poems and tales in the Daily News during the years 1888 and 1889, together with those printed in America, culminating in "The Golden Week," in July of the latter year, was but the prelude to the issue of his two "Little Books," according to a unique plan over which we spent much thought and consumed endless luncheons of coffee and apple pie. As I have intimated, Field was quite piqued over the cavalier reception of "Culture's Garland," and was determined that his next venture in book form should be between boards, a perfect specimen of book-making, and restricted, as far as his judgment could decide, to the best in various styles which he had written prior to the date of publication. He did not wish to entrust this to any publisher, and finally hit upon the idea of publishing privately, by subscription, which was carried out. The circular, which was prepared and mailed to a selected list of my friends, as well as his, will best explain the rather unusual method of this venture: PRIVATE CIRCULAR CHICAGO, February 23d, 1889. Dear Sir:--It is proposed to issue privately, and as soon as possible, a limited edition of my work in verse and in prose. Negotiations for the publication of two volumes are now in progress with the University Press at Cambridge. 1. It is proposed to print one volume (200 pages) of my best verse, and one volume (300 pages) of tales and sketches. These books will be printed upon heavy uncut paper and in the best style known to the University printer. 2. The edition will be limited to 200 sets (each set of two volumes), and none will be put upon sale. 3. It is proposed to pay for the publication by subscriptions. One hundred (100) shares are offered to my personal friends at ten dollars a share, each subscriber to receive two (2) sets of the books. If you wish to subscribe to this enterprise, please fill out the accompanying blank (next page) and send it before March 25th, with money-order, draft, or check, to Mr. Slason Thompson, editor of "America," who has consented to act as custodian of the funds necessary to the accomplishment of the purpose specified. Very sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. The accompanying blank addressed to me read: Find enclosed ------ for ------ ($ ) representing my subscription for ------ share ------ in the two-volume publication of Eugene Field's original work. ------ ------ P.O. Address. If Field had any doubts as to the estimation in which he was held by his friends, they were dispelled by the ready response to this appeal, while the generous words accompanying many of the orders were well calculated to warm the cockles of a colder heart than beat within the breast of "The Good Knight _sans peur et sans monnaie_." Many persons to whom circulars had not been sent heard of the proposed publication and wrote asking to be allowed to subscribe. The largest single subscription was for five shares. There were three for two shares, and all the rest were for one share each, many echoed the "Certainly! and glad of the chance," which was Stuart Robson's response. F.J.V. Skiff, Field's old associate on the Denver Tribune, added a postscript to his order, saying, "And wish I could take it all," while Victor F. Lawson, in a personal note to me accompanying his order, wrote, "If you run short on this scheme I shall be glad to increase my subscription whenever advised that it is needed." This spirit pervaded the replies to our circular and gave Field keener pleasure than he ever experienced through the publication of any of his other books. Chicago, as was to be expected, took a majority of the shares; Denver came next, and then Kansas City. Comparatively few shares were taken in the East, for Field's fame had scarcely yet penetrated that region. But the names of Charles A. Dana, of Whitelaw Reid, and of Field's "Cousin Kate" were early among the subscribers. His friends among the stage folk responded numerously, and so did journalists and railway men. There were only some half dozen bibliomaniacs on the list, for Field had not then become the poet, torment, and idol of the devotees of rare and eccentric editions. To remind them of the unusual opportunity they missed, let me recall the negotiations for the making of this original _édition de luxe_, which was not published for profit, but as an example of the excellence of simplicity and clearness in printing. From the start Field insisted that everything about the "Little Books" should be American, and the best procurable of their kind. The letters from John Wilson & Son show the progress of the negotiations for the printing of the two books, which were carried on in full assurance that there would be no failure of funds to carry out the enterprise. I quote their first reply to my request for an estimate on the work: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., February 5, 1889. SLASON THOMPSON, ESQ., Dear Sir:--In your request for a rough estimate of two volumes of 200 pages each, on paper 5 x 8 and printed page 2-1/2 x 4-1/2 you forgot to state the number of copies desired and the size of the type. We enclose two samples of paper that we can find. We have doubts about finding enough of the 5 x 8, but think we can that of the 5 x 7-1/2. We prefer the former. If the edition is small--say 100 or 150--we can, we think, scrape up enough of the 5 x 8. The size of your page could not, we think, be improved on. We also enclose samples of long primer, bourgeois and brevier sizes of type. [Here followed a detailed estimate on 250 copies of bourgeois type of $668.70 for the two volumes.] We should be most happy to execute the work. Hoping to hear from you again, We are respectfully yours, JOHN WILSON & SON. As soon as we had arrived at a clearer idea of our desires, and also of our means, I again communicated with Messrs. Wilson & Son, and received the following reply: CAMBRIDGE, April 4th, 1889. Dear Sir:--After much delay we have succeeded in finding a paper manufacturer in Massachusetts (the only one in America) who has just commenced making a paper similar to that used in "Riley's Old-Fashioned Roses" (printed on English hand-made paper which I had sent them). To-morrow we shall send you a specimen (printed), also a specimen of another paper which we used some time ago on an _édition de luxe_ of "Memorials of Canterbury" and of Westminster Abbey for Randolph & Co., of New York. No. 1 is a hand-made paper 16 x 20/28, at 60c. a lb.; No. 2, a machine made 20 x 22/60 at 20c. a lb. ESTIMATE No. 1. For comp. and electro (say 500 pages in the two vols.) about $400.00 For 8 boxes for plates, 75 cts. 6.00 For 250 copies presswork (2 vols.), 66 forms, $1.50 99.00 For Paper, 16 x 20/28, 20 reams, $16.80 336.00 For Binding 250 copies, 500 (2 vols.) 25c. Parchment back and corners 125.00 For Dies, say 10.00 ______ $976.00 Alterations from copy, 50 cts. an hour. (The estimate on No. 2 paper was $727.00.) We return "Riley." Both of these papers have the rough, or deckle, edge. We are anxious to make this book in the _best style_, and of American materials if possible. Respectfully yours, JOHN WILSON & SON. Three things in estimate No. 1 caught Field's fancy--yea, four; the paper was to be hand made, deckle edge, of American manufacture, but, above all, sixty cents a pound. As a contrast to the stiff bleached Manila of "Culture's Garland," dear at a cent a pound, this sixty cents a pound decided Field in favor of No. 1, though we had to economize on everything else to get the job done within the $1,100 we had in bank before we gave the order. The No. 2, having a softer surface, would have given us a better printed page, and its cost would have enabled us to embellish the edition with a steel-plate engraving of Field, as had been our intention, but the thought of using the most expensive American paper procurable for his "Little Books" outweighed every other consideration, and we forwarded the copy of the two volumes to John Wilson & Son, with orders to go ahead and push publication. It was well into the middle of the fall when I received the following note from the printers, showing that the work had been completed: University Press, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., October 19th, 1889. SLASON THOMPSON, ESQ. DEAR SIR: Herewith please find our bill for printing and binding _Profitable Tales_ and _Western Verse_. We shall send the two copies of each volume (unnumbered) to secure the copyright, and when the certificate is received, will send it to you. These copies are over and above the 250 copies sent to you. Regretting the delay incident to the bringing out of two such volumes, and hoping that the author and his friends may be gratified and pleased with their mechanical execution, we are, Respectfully yours, JOHN WILSON & SON. It is needless to say that both the author and his friends were gratified and pleased with the mechanical execution of the "Little Books," while Field's admirers have never wearied in their admiration of their contents. Every cent of the fund subscribed for these books went to pay for their printing; and as Field started for Europe before they were received from Cambridge, the task of numbering them, as well as the cost of forwarding them to subscribers, fell to my lot. These two books contained not only the best of what Field had written up to that time, but their contents were selected with such care that they continue to represent the best he ever wrote. Much that he rejected at that time went to make up subsequent volumes of his works. The popular editions from the subscription plates of "A Little Book of Western Verse" and "A Little Book of Profitable Tales" had a phenomenal sale, and made a handsome return in royalties to him who sent them forth with the words: _"Go, little book; and if any one would speak thee ill, let him bethink him that thou art the child of one who loves thee well."_ CHAPTER VI HIS SECOND VISIT TO EUROPE From 1889 Field's life was one long struggle with dyspepsia, an inherited weakness which he persisted in aggravating by indulgence in those twin enemies of health--pastry and reading in bed. During our intimate association I had exercised a wholesome restraint on his pie habit and reduced his hours of reading in bed to a minimum. As the reader may remember, our pact concerned eating and walking. When we ate, we talked, and while we walked, Field could not lie in bed browsing amid his favorite books, burning illuminating gas and the candle of life at the same time. So long as his study of life was pursued among men he retained his health. As soon as he began to retire more and more to the companionship of books and from the daily activities and associations of the newspaper office his assimilation of food failed to nourish his body as it did his brain. The buoyancy went out of his step, but never out of his mind and heart. As intimated in his letter to Mr. Gray, the publisher of the Daily News grew so solicitous over Field's health that he proposed a three months' European vacation, with pay, whenever he chose to take it. At first it was not Field's intention to avail himself of this generous offer until winter. But when his "Little Books" were safely under way he changed his mind and decided to start as soon as he could arrange his household affairs. In a letter to his friend Cowen, then in London, under date of June 11th, 1889, Field wrote: Trotty is delighted with the illustrated paper, and she is going to write you a letter, I think. Melvin is on the Indiana farm again this summer, and Pinny is visiting his Aunt Etta [Mrs. Roswell Field] in Kansas City. The rest of us are boarding with Mr. and Mrs. Reed, and the house is full of friends. We like our quarters very much, but shall give them up on the first of November, as Julia, Trotty, and I will go to Europe in December. The present plan is to go first to London, where I wish to spend most of my time. We shall want to put Trotty in a school near Paris, and her mother will have to make the tour of Italy. Mary French (who reared me) will be with us, and she will go with Julia on the Italian circuit. As for me, I want to spend most of my time in England, with two weeks in Paris and a few days in Holland. Wouldn't it be wise for me to live in one of the suburbs of London? I want to get cheap but desirable quarters--a pleasant place, not fashionable, and _not too far from the old-book shops_. My intention is to be absent three months, but I may deem it wise to stay six. Julia and Trotty can stay as long as they please. I should like to have Trotty learn French. Matters and things here in the office peg along about as usual--yes, just the same. The new building in the alley will be ready for occupancy by the first of September, but I suspect it will not be much of an improvement upon the present quarters. Dr. Reilly is the same old 2 x 4. He got $250.00 for extra work the other day, and we have been tolerably prosperous ever since. [Here Field branched off into personal gossip about pretty nearly every one of their mutual friends in Denver and Chicago, having something to say about no less than nineteen persons in fourteen lines of his diamond chirography.] It is nearly time for Stone [who had sold out his interest in the Daily News to Mr. Lawson] to reach Paris. I wish you'd tell him that I propose to *%!&[see Note below] him at billiards under the shadow of St. Paul's in London next Christmas time. Dear boy, I am overjoyed at the prospect of seeing you so soon. We speak of you so often, and always affectionately. You may look for a package from me about the 1st of August; I shall send it to the care of the Herald office in Paris. I have dedicated to you what I regard as my tenderest bit of western dialect verse, and I will send you a copy of the paper when it appears. Meanwhile I enclose a little bit, which you may fancy. God bless you. [Transcriber's Note: The *%!& stands for "expletive deleted" and is intentional.] "Marthy's Younkit" is the bit of western dialect verse which was dedicated to Cowen, of which Field then and always thought so highly. It contained, in his estimation, more of imagination, as distinct from fancy, than any of his other verse. The poetic picture of the mountain-side is perfect: _Where the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutter'n shadders make, An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake: That the mountain brook sings lonesome-like an' loiters on its way. Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play._ In another letter to Cowen about this time I find the first intimation Field ever gave that he might have been tempted to leave his place on the Daily News. He wrote, "The San Francisco Examiner is making a hot play to get me out there. Why doesn't Mr. Bennett try to seduce me into coming to London? How I should like to stir up the dry bones!" Under date of Kansas City, June 28th, 1889, Field wrote with an illuminated initial "M": MY DEAR COWEN: Your cablegram reached me last night, having been forwarded to me here, where I have been for a week. I send you herewith "The Conversazzhyony," which is one of three mountain poems I have recently written: it has never been in print. The others, unpublished, are "Prof. Vere de Blaw" (the character who plays the piano in Casey's restaurant) and "Marthy's Younkit" (pathetic, recounting the death and burial of the first child born in the camp). The latter is the best piece of work, but inasmuch as you call for something humorous I send the enclosed. This letter went on to discuss the possibility of getting a position on the London Herald for his brother Roswell, who desired to get out of the rut of his general newspaper work on the Kansas City Times, and Field confided to Cowen that "there is no telling what might come of having my brother in London"--the intimation being that he might be induced to stay there. But nothing came of either suggestion. [Illustration: ROSWELL FIELD.] Field's health was so miserable during the summer of 1889 that it was decided best that he should begin his vacation in October instead of waiting for December. On the eve of his departure he wrote to his old friend Melvin L. Gray: DEAR MR. GRAY: Had I not been so grievously afflicted with dyspepsia, I should certainly have visited St. Louis before starting for Europe. The attack of indigestion with which I am suffering began last June, resulting from irregularity in hours of eating and sleeping and from too severe application to work. The contemplated voyage will do me good, I think, and I hope to gather much valuable material while I am abroad. I shall seek to acquaint myself with such local legends as may seem to be capable of treatment in verse. Most of my time will be spent in London, in Paris, and in Holland. I expect to find among the Dutch much to inspire me. I carry numerous letters of introduction--all kinds of letters, except letters of credit. I regret that the potent name of Rothschild will not figure in the list of my trans-Atlantic acquaintances. I am exceedingly sorry that Roswell is not to go with us: with me he would have had advantages at his command which he cannot have when he goes alone. I am looking daily for my books; I rather regret now that I did not print a larger edition, for a great many demands are coming in from outsiders. I should like to publish a volume of my paraphrases of Horace while I am in London, and maybe I shall do so. Do give my love to Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Bacon. I think of you all very often, and nothing would give me greater delight than to pop in upon you and have a two hours' chat in that old familiar second-story back room. It may be, Mr. Gray, that you and I shall never take one another by the hand again, but I wish you to know that I shall always think of you with feelings of gratitude, of affection, and of reverence. And I feel a particular pleasure in saying these words to you upon the eve of my departure upon a journey which is to separate me at least temporarily from the home, the people, and the associations which must always be foremost in my affections. God bless you. As ever, yours, EUGENE FIELD. Chicago, September the 30th, 1889. When Field arrived in London Cowen was away on the Continent, much to the disappointment of all concerned--especially the three boys, who at the last moment had been brought along. On October 24th Field wrote: MY DEAR COWEN: Knowing that you will be anxious to know how we are getting along. I drop you this line to tell you that we have taken lodgings at No. 20 Alfred Place, Bedford Square, and we are quite contented. I have written to Moffett asking him whether we ought to locate the children in Paris or in Germany. You know that my means are very limited, and my desire to do the right thing is necessarily hampered. I met Colonel John C. Reid for the first time to-night [Mr. Reid was Mr. Bennett's manager]. He is in favor of Paris, but of course he does not understand how really d----d poor I am. The children have done Tussaud's and the Zoo, and will next make a descent on the Crystal Palace. They sincerely lament your absence from the city. When we were in Liverpool, Pinny was joshing Daisy because he had no money, and Daisy said: "I'll be all right when I see Mr. Cowen." It has pained all three boys because you fled from their approach. Five days later, having secured a sheet of deckle-edged, water-marked Wilmot linen letter-paper and colored inks, Field proceeded to write an elaborately decorated note to his friend: 20 ALFRED PLACE, BEDFORD SQ., LONDON, W.C. MY DEAR COWEN: We have waited a week to hear from Moffett, whom I addressed in care of the Herald office in Paris, but in lieu of any answer we are going to start the children off for Hanover in a few days. Mrs. Field is going to take them over, and I am to remain in London, since travel disagrees with me so severely. I don't like the idea of separation, but this seems to be a sacrifice which I ought to make. I doubt very much whether I visit any other European city except Paris; I am greatly pleased with London, every sight awakening such a flood of reminiscence. If I were not so disgracefully poor. I could pick up a host of charming knick-knacks here; as it is, I have to shut my eyes and groan, and pass by on the other side. I have just finished "Yvytot," the first purely fanciful ballad I ever wrote. I have been at work on it for two months, and I think it is the best piece of literary work I have done, although it is somewhat above the class of work that is popular. You will like it for its rhythmical smoothness and for its weirdness. But Mrs. Field prefers "Krinken," "Marthy's Younkit," _et id omne genus_. My next verse will be "John Smith, U.S.A.," a poem suggested by seeing this autograph at Gilley's. In it I shall use the Yankee, the Hoosier, the southern and the western dialect, wondering whether this Smith is the Smith I knew in Massachusetts, or the Smith from Louisville, or the Smith from Terry Hut, or (last of all) the Smith from the Red Hoss Mountain district. I wish you were here to help me throw my ideas into shape. How do you like this handsome paper? Affectionately, EUGENE FIELD. Tuesday, October 29th, 1889. Field may have thought that he spent only two months on "Yvytot," but as a matter of fact he had been mulling it over for twice that many years; and he had hoped to finish it in time for his "Little Book of Western Verse." But it was one of those bits of verse upon which he loved to putter, and he was loath to put it into type beyond the reach of occasional revision. When the "Little Book of Western Verse" was issued in popular form "Yvytot" was included in it in the place of the list of subscribers and John Wilson & Son's colophon. Speaking of the Hoosier dialect, Field was fond of telling the following story on his friend James Whitcomb Riley: James Whitcomb Riley went to Europe last summer. On the return voyage an incident happened which is well worth telling of. To beguile the tediousness of the voyage it was proposed to give a concert in the saloon of the ship--an entertainment to which all capable of amusing their fellow-voyagers should contribute. Mr. Riley was asked to recite some of his original poems, and of course he cheerfully agreed to do so. Among the number present at this mid-ocean entertainment, over which the Rev. Myron Reed presided, were two Scotchmen, very worthy gentlemen, _en route_ from the land o' cakes to the land of biscuits upon a tour of investigation. These twain shared the enthusiasm with which the auditors applauded Mr. Riley's charming recitations. They marvelled that so versatile a genius could have lived in a land reputed for uncouthness and savagery. "Is it no wonderfu', Donal'," remarked one of these Scots, "that a tradesman suld be sic a bonnie poet?" "And is he indeed a tradesman?" asked the other. "Indeed he is," answered the other. "Did ye no hear the dominie intryjuce him as the hoosier poet? Just think of it, mon!--just think of sic a gude poet dividing his time at making hoosiery?" There is more of the old spirit of the genuine Eugene Field in the next letter, written from London, November 13th, 1889, than in any of his other correspondence after 1888: MY DEAR COWEN: I am now (so to speak) in God's hands. Getting the four children fitted out for school and paying a quarter's tuition in advance has reduced me to a condition of financial weakness which fills me with the gloomiest apprehension. You of fertile resource must tell me what I am to do. I will not steal; to beg I am ashamed. My bank account shows £15. Verily, I am in hell's hole. Had I received your letter in time I should have gone to Paris with the children. Not a word have I heard from Moffett, and your letter reached me after my return from Germany. Instinct all along has told me "Paris," but reason has counselled "Germany." I have yielded to reason, and the children are in Hanover--Trotty at the school of Fraulein Gensen, Allee Strasse, No. 1, and the three boys with Professor C. Rühle (prophetic name!), Heinrich Strasse, 26 A. Parting from them was like plucking my heart from me; but they are contented. The night before they went to live with the professor, Pinny and Daisy were plotting to "do" that worthy man, but I do not fear for him, as he is a very husky gentleman. It seems the smart thing now to keep the children at Hanover for six months; then, if a change be deemed advisable, I shall take them to Paris. My health appears to be better. I have written five poems, which are highly commended. My books are out, and, though I have not clapped eyes on them yet, they are being highly praised by the American press. I shall see that you get copies. So far, we have been about but very little. Our finances are too cramped to admit of our doing or seeing much. But we may be happy yet. Julia joins me in affectionate assurances. Ever sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. Of a different tone, and yet giving very much the same impression of how Field was spending his time in London, is the following letter to his quondam guardian, Mr. Gray, beginning with an illuminated initial V, of date London, January 9th, 1890: Very many times during the last three months, dear Mr. Gray, have I thought of you and yours, and upon several occasions have I been at the point of sitting down and writing to you. There is perhaps no one to whom letter-writing is as a practice--I had almost said habit--more of a horror than it is to me. The conventional letter seems to me to be a dreadful thing--twice dreadful (as Portia's quality of mercy was twice blessed)--an affliction to the sender and equally an affliction to the recipient. But you and I seldom write letters of this kind. I do not think I ever before received a letter that moved me so deeply as did the letter you sent me just before I left Chicago. I am not ashamed to admit that I like to know that I have your regard, but the whole tone of this letter was that of a kindly affection which was very comforting to me, and for which I shall always feel deeply grateful to you. My health has improved much since I last wrote to you. I am now feeling quite as I felt when I was in my original condition--perhaps I should say my normal condition of original sin. For a week past I have been confined to the house with a catarrhal cold, but aside from this temporary local ailment my health is vastly better. I should be in the mood to return home at once were it not for a sense that being here I should further improve the opportunity to gather material that may be of value to me in my work when I get back into the rut again. I have a very great desire to go to Norway and the Orkney Islands for a month in order to see those countries and their people, for I am much interested in North of Europe romance, and I am ambitious to write tales about the folk of those particular points. I think it possible that I shall find a way to gratify this urgent desire before returning to America, although with the children at school I am hardly prepared just now to say what further sacrifice I shall be able to make in order to achieve my project. The children are in school at Hanover. Trotty is at the girls' school of a Miss Julia Gensen, No. 1 Allee Strasse, and the three boys are with Prof. C. Rühle, No. 26 Heinrich Strasse. I give the exact localities, for the reason that Mrs. Gray may kindly take the notion one of these days to write to the little exiles. The children are healthy and happy; we have not seen them for nine weeks, but we hear from them every week, and we are assured that they are making desirable progress. In her last letter Trotty says, with a _naîveté_ that is simply electric: "Nobody would guess that the boys were your boys--they are so gentlemanly!" Prof. Rühle is an old instructor of boys, and for several years he was a professor at Woolwich Academy.... Pinny is acquiring the German so rapidly that he is accounted quite a marvel by his instructor and his associates. Melvin and Trotty are not so quick; they progress slowly, but Daisy seems to be doing admirably. Hanover is a lovely city; I enjoyed my week there, and upon our way back to London Julia and I sojourned four days in Holland, to our great delight. Here in London our life has been exceedingly quiet, but useful. I have met a number of excellent people, and have received some social attention. I have done considerable work, mostly in the way of verse. I wish you would write to John F. Ballantyne, asking him to send you copies of the paper containing my work since I came here. I am anxious to have you see it, particularly my poem in the Christmas Daily News, and my tale in the Christmas number of the Chicago America. I am just now at work on a Folklore tale of the Orkney Islands, and I am enjoying it very much. I hope to get it off to the paper this week. I am hoping that my two books pleased you; they are the beginning only, for if I live I shall publish many beautiful books. Yesterday I got a letter from a New York friend volunteering to put up the money for publishing a new volume of verse at $20 a copy, the number of copies to be limited to fifty. Of course I can't accede to the proposition. But I am thinking of publishing a volume of verse in some such elaborate style, for my verse accumulates fast, and I love to get out lovely books! The climate here in London is simply atrocious--either rain or fog all the time. Yet I should not complain, for it seems to do me good. Julia is well, and she joins me in wishing you and yours the best of God's blessings. May you and I meet again, dear venerated friend, this side of the happy Islands! Ever affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. London, January 9th, 1890. Do give my best love to Mrs. Bacon, and tell her that, being a confirmed dyspeptic now, I forgive her that mince-pie. My permanent address is care New York Herald Office, 110 Strand, W.C., London. Speaking of the number of excellent people met in London, Field on his return told with great gusto his experience at a dinner-party there at which he was seated between the wife of a member of Parliament and Mrs. Humphry Ward. The conversation turned upon P.T. Barnum, who was then in London with his "greatest show on earth." One of the ladies inquired of Field if he was acquainted with the famous showman, to which Field said he replied, with the utmost gravity and earnestness: "From my earliest infancy. Do you know, madame, that I owe everything I am and hope to be to that great, good man? When he first discovered me I was living in a tree in the wilds of Missouri, clothed in skins and feeding on nuts and wild berries. Yes, madam. Phineas T. Barnum took me from my mother, clothed me in the bifurcated raiment of civilization, sent me to school, where I began to lisp in numbers before I had mastered the multiplication table, and I have been lisping ever since." Field had a peculiar hesitation in his speech, almost amounting to the pause of an embarrassed stutterer; and if he related this experience to the British matrons as he rehearsed it to his friends afterward, it was small wonder that they swallowed it with many a "Really!" "How curious!" "Isn't it marvellous?" This dinner occurred at the time when the trial of several members of the Clan-na-gael for the murder of Dr. Cronin was in progress in Chicago. The case was followed with as much interest in England as in America. When Mrs. Ward learned that Field hailed from that city, she said to him, "I am so glad to meet somebody from Chicago, for I am greatly interested in the town. Do tell me, did you know Dr. Cronin or any of those horrid Clan-na-gaels?" "I had the satisfaction of telling her," said Field, "that Martin Bourke (one of the suspects) and I had been very intimate friends, and that Dan Coughlin (another) and I belonged to the same hunting club, and had often shot buffaloes and cougars on the prairie a few miles west of Chicago. As for Sullivan, the ice-man, I assured her that if that man was convicted it would be a severe blow to the best circles of the city." "Still more satisfaction had I," Field added, "in the conviction that my auditor believed every one of the preposterous yarns I told her." "The new volume" referred to in Field's letter to Mr. Gray was that which subsequently took the form of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," published by his friend and fellow-bibliomaniac, Francis Wilson. The story of how it came to be issued in that particular form is told by Mr. Wilson in his introduction to the subscription edition. It was originally Field's intention that I should take charge of this publication, although I had never been consulted about it. Therefore I was somewhat surprised on receiving the following note: PHILADELPHIA, December 20th, 1889. MR. SLASON THOMPSON-- DEAR SIR: Enclosed find my check for $20 (Twenty Dollars) for No. 1 copy Mr. Eugene Field's proposed book of "Horace"--printed on Japanese proof and pasted on Whatman's hand-made paper, with etched vignettes, initial and tail-pieces, rubricated throughout. Very truly, FRANCIS WILSON. In acknowledging the receipt of Mr. Wilson's check I ventured to question whether Field's paraphrases of Horace up to that time warranted the elaborate setting proposed, to which I received the following semi-indignant and semi-jocose rejoinder: PHILADELPHIA, December 27th, 1889. MR. SLASON THOMPSON-- REVEREND SIGNOR: It is Mr. Field's intention to produce a Horace at $20 a copy, the edition limited to fifty; printed on Japanese proof and pasted on Whatman hand-made paper; rubricated throughout, with etched vignettes and tail-pieces, and I want copy No. 1. Sometimes even the swift citizens of Chicago must get their information from slow-going Philadelphia. I do not know whether it is Mr. F.'s intention to have you get out his affectionate effort, but I should hope not--being guided, of course, by your expressed doubt and wonderment in the matter. However, I promise not to say anything about this to Mr. Field. I sent you the $20 so as to be in time for the copy I wish, and I know you'll not object to holding it until Mr. Field's return, which ought to be not later than May--as he writes. I shall also send you other subscriptions, which you may turn over to Mr. Hobart Taylor in the event of your discovering that gentleman has fewer qualms of conscience than yourself in the matter. If he has not, you _must_ keep the money as a punishment for the uncomplimentary allusion you have made to Field's Horace. Soit! Very sincerely, FRANCIS WILSON. With the suspicious fervor of your hopeless collector of first editions, Mr. Wilson finally decided to publish Field's renditions from Horace himself, so as to be sure of having copy No. 1. And yet he had the almost unheard-of magnanimity to send that cherished copy to Field, who returned it with a prettily worded note, in which he acknowledged his obligation to Mr. Wilson and expressed the hope that the latter would live forever, provided he, Field, could "live one day longer to write his epitaph." Not until I came across the foregoing letter have I understood why Wilson thwarted all Field's efforts to present me with a copy of the precious edition of "The Sabine Farm." They profited by my advice, however, and postponed publication for two years, Field and his brother Roswell in the meantime working assiduously in making new paraphrases of Horace and in polishing the old ones. The mutations of journalism which had sent Cowen scurrying over Europe when Field had counted on having his companionship in London carried the former back to Washington, where he joined with some other equally sanguine writers in the attempt to float a literary and political periodical named The Critic. On February 15th, 1890, Field wrote to his friend from No. 20 Alfred Square: MY DEAR COWEN: The improvement which you boys have made in the Critic is very marked. If you can hold out long enough, you will win--you are bound to. You have youth, experience, and ambition upon your side, and they are potent factors. Of course you know that my earnest sympathies are, and will be, with you. I am feeling quite well now. I have secured the Gladstone axe, with documents from the grand old man proving its identity. I also have Charles Kean's Hamlet chair, but I can't prove it. Meanwhile I bankrupt myself buying books, letters, and play-bills. Oh, for $200! How rich I should feel. Did you give Hawkins his two night-shirts and the tie? And did you send the sleeping-socks to Mrs. Ballantyne? I must send some little souvenir to Buskett. Do tell him to write to me and tell me how he happened to leave the mountains. By the way, I wish you would secure for me from the Postmaster-General or his assistant a set of proofs of government stamps. I have begun making a collection, and he will provide that much, if properly approached. The children are well. The boys dun me regularly. Pinny is more artful about it than the rest. He makes all sorts of promises, calls me "dearest papa," and sends me arithmetical problems he has solved and German stories he has pilfered from his reader. Still, I am very proud of those children; at any rate, I want to go first. Give my love to Hawkins and his wife and to Buskett; Julia joins me in affectionate remembrances to you all. God bless you, my beloved friend. EUGENE FIELD. There was no shadow in this letter of the sorrow which was then hovering over his home and family. Out of a cheerful heart he wrote, "I am feeling quite well now," although the mists and fogs of London were chilling him to the marrow, while the social attentions were tempting him to dietetic destruction. A few months after he wrote the words, "The children are well" and "At any rate, I want to go first," he was returning to America with the body of his eldest son, who died suddenly in Holland, and facing bravely the fact that his own vitality had been fatally impaired. "What exceeding folly," he wrote to a friend, "was it that tempted me to cross the sea in search of what I do not seem able to find here--a righteous stomach? I have been wallowing in the slough of despond for a week and my digestive apparatus has gone wrong again. I have suffered tortures that would have done credit to the inventive genius of a Dante, and the natural consequence is that I am as blue as a whetstone." The death of his son made a deep impression on Eugene Field. Melvin was the serious, unobtrusive member of the family circle. As Field has just intimated, Pinny was a shrewd and mischievous youngster, who attracted more attention and was permitted more license than his brothers. Daisy was his mother's special pet, and Trotty had many of the characteristics of her father. Besides, she was the only girl in the family of boys. Thus Melvin in temperament and disposition seemed always just outside the inner circle of the household. This came home to Field, and he regretted it deeply before he wrote the concluding lines of his dedication of "With Trumpet and Drum": _So come; though I see not his dear little face, And hear not his voice in this jubilant place, I know he were happy to bid me enshrine His memory deep in my heart with your play. Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day! And my heart it is lonely--so, little folk, come, March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!_ Upon his return, Field secured for his family a large and comfortable house on Fullerton Avenue, about four miles from the office, and, though he was encouraged to think that his health was improved, it was noticed by his friends that most of his work was done at home and they saw less of him down town. Naturally the death of Melvin brought him many letters of condolence, and, among others, one from his old friend William C. Buskett, to whom he made immediate reply: MY DEAR BUSKETT: I was delighted to get your letter. I had been at a loss to account for your long silence. I feared that you might think the rumors of your business reverses had abated my regard for you, and this suspicion made me miserable. I have for so long a time been the victim of poverty that I have come to regard poverty as a sort of trade-mark of virtue, and I hail to the ranks of the elect every friend whom misfortune has impoverished. I have a great deal to say to you; I cannot write it--much is of Melvin and his last moments, painful details, yet not without reconciling features, for he met death calmly and bravely. It will gratify you to know that my own health is steadily improving; the others are very hearty. The second edition of my books, issued by Scribner's Sons, is selling like hot-cakes. Four thousand sets have already been disposed of. I intend to publish a new volume of poems next spring. Ever sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. December 17th, 1890. With what diligence and enthusiasm Field threw himself into the work of preparing other books for publication may be gleaned from a letter to Mr. Gray, dated June 7th, 1891: DEAR MR. GRAY: Your kind and interesting letter should have been answered before this but for many professional duties which have led me to neglect very many of the civilities of life. I have been preparing my translations of the Odes of Horace for publication in book form, and this has required time and care. Roswell has joined me in the task, and will contribute about forty per cent. of the translations. The odes we have treated number about fifty, and they are to be published in fine style by the Cambridge printers. The first edition will be an exceedingly small one; the scheme at present is to print fifty copies only, but a cheap popular edition will soon follow. The expensive publication is undertaken by my friend Francis Wilson, the actor, and he is to give me the plates from which to print the popular edition. It will interest, and we are hoping that it will please, you to know that we shall dedicate this volume to you as a slight, though none the less sincere, token of our regard and affection to you as the friend of our father and as a friend to us. Were our father living, it would please him, we think, to see his sons collaborating as versifiers of the Pagan lyrist whose songs he admired; it would please him, too, we are equally certain, to see us dedicating the result of our enthusiastic toil to so good a man and to so good a friend as you. The lyrics which we have treated are in the majority of cases of a sportive character, those appealing most directly to us and, we think, to the hearts of people of these times. Yet the more serious songs are those which please me best, for in them I find a certain touch which softens my feelings, giving me gentler thoughts and a broader charity. It is my intention to pursue the versification of Horace still further, but whether my plan shall be fulfilled is so very dubious that I set no store by it. I am wanting to print a volume of my miscellaneous poems next fall, dedicating them to Julia, but I have not yet begun to collect the material. On Thursday, the 28th ultimo, we laid Melvin's remains to rest finally in Graceland Cemetery. The lot I selected and bought is in a pretty, accessible spot, sheltered by two oak trees, just such spot as the boy himself, with his love for nature, would have chosen. The interment was very private, none being present but the family. Others were in the cemetery making preparations for the observance of Decoration Day. Of this number were many Germans, and these, attracted by the appearance of the pretentious German casket in which our boy's body lay, gathered around wonderingly. They were curious to know the story of that casket, for they had not seen one like it for many years. But the ceremony, however painful, was beautiful--beautiful in the caressing glory of the sunlight that was all around, in the fragrant, velvety verdure that composed the bed to which we consigned the ashes of the beloved one, in the gentle music of the birds that nested hard by and knew no fear, and in the love which we bore him and always shall. You must tell Mrs. Gray that we shall not abandon our purpose to induce her to visit us. We have every facility for keeping warm, although if this atrocious weather continues we shall have to lay in more coal. She would find us comfortably located, and the warmth of our welcome and the cordiality of our attentions would perhaps compensate for the absence of many of her home luxuries, which we cannot of course supply. You should come, too. While I am too wise to undertake to outwalk, outfish, or outrun you, I will venture to contract to keep you entertained diligently and discreetly during your sojourn with us. I have had two very interesting letters from one Mrs. Temperance Moon, of Farmington, Utah, who was nurse-girl in our family in 1852-3. She inquired after the Pomeroy girls and Miss Arabella Reed! She was one of a family of English Mormons who were stranded in St. Louis. My mother taught her to read. She saw my name in a newspaper, and wrote me. We are now as thick as three in a bed. Her husband is a Mormon farmer. They have ten children, and are otherwise prosperous. We all unite in affectionate regards to Mrs. Gray and yourself, and we wish you the choicest of God's blessings. As ever, sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. 420 Fullerton Ave., Chicago. Writing on June 28th, Field enclosed the dedication of the "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" to Mr. Gray, asking him to make any alterations therein which his taste or judgment might suggest. "I have made this introductory poem rather playful," he wrote, "with but one touch of sentiment--the reference to your friend, our father." Field took more pride in the form in which the "Echoes" was got out than in the quality of its contents. He was gratified and flattered by the sumptuous manner in which it was being published by Mr. Wilson. "Of the edition of one hundred copies," he wrote to Mr. Gray, "thirty will be printed on Japanese vellum, each copy to contain an original drawing by Garrett and an autograph verse by Roswell and myself; the seventy others will be printed on white hand-made paper, and will have no unique feature. All the copies will be handsomely illustrated in vignette by Garrett; the sum of $2,500 has been expended for illustrations alone. The book will be, I think, the handsomest of the kind ever printed in America." After the special edition had been printed, the plates of this book were most generously transferred to Field by Mr. Wilson. The fact that Field was far from being a healthy man crops out in all his correspondence about this time. Writing to Mr. Gray under date of December 12th, 1891, I find him saying: Just at present I am quite overwhelmed with work in the throes of a Christmas story for the Daily News, my only story this year, although I have had many applications for verse and prose. I have promised a story to the Christian Union next Christmas. I have delayed answering the letter you wrote to me some time ago, in the hope that I should see my way clear to accepting your invitation. Alas! I think it will be some time yet before I can visit St. Louis. I am not well yet, and I actually dread going from home whilst feeling ill. I improve in health, but the improvement is slow. I am trying to abandon the tobacco habit. I find it a hard, hard struggle. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. By the time this letter was written, Field's Christmas stories commanded almost any price in reason he was inclined to ask for them--a condition far different from that which provoked his wrath and scorn in the winter of 1886. That year his Christmas contribution to the Morning News was "The Symbol and the Saint"--a story upon which he expended a good month's spare time. In the same issue were contributions from every member of the staff, excepting myself. In the course of time each story-writer received the munificent sum of $15, the author of the "Symbol and the Saint" the same as the reporter, who turned in the thinnest, flimsiest sort of a sketch. It was a case of levelling all down to a common standard, which Field did not relish. He felt keenly the injustice of estimating the carefully finished product of his month's labor at the same rate as the hurried and rough journeyman work of a local hand, which had not cost more than an hour, all told, in its conception and composition. "I think," he wrote privately to Cowen, under date of January the 9th, 1887, "that things have come to a sweet pass when my work, over which I have toiled for more than three weeks, is to be estimated at the same rate as the local hands." He registered no complaint to headquarters at the time, but consoled himself with executing the following touching sketeh and epitaph: [Illustration: SKETCH AND EPITAPH. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ Here lies a mass of mouldering clay Who sought in youth a path to glory, But dies of age--without his pay For writing of a Christmas story 1886.] CHAPTER VII IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER To those of us who were closely associated with Eugene Field personally or in his work, it was evident during the years from 1887 until after his return from Europe that a radical change was taking place in his methods of life and thought. His friend Cowen has ascribed this change to settling down "in the must and rust of bibliomania"; but I fancy that that settling down was more than half the result of the failing health which warned him that he must conserve his powers. He felt the shadows creeping up the mountain, and realized he had much to do while yet it was day. In Eugene Field's case it would be difficult to distinguish the line where his bibliomania, that was an inherited infatuation for collecting, ended, and the carefully cultivated affectation of the craze for literary uses began. He was unquestionably a victim of the disease about which he wrote so roguishly and withal so charmingly. But though it was in his blood, it never blinded his sense of literary values or restrained his sallies at the expense of his demented fellows. He had too keen a sense of the ridiculous to go clean daft on the subject. He yielded to the fascinating pursuit of rare and curious editions, of old prints of celebrities, and of personal belongings of distinguished individuals; but how far these impulses were irresistible and how much he was mad only in craft, like Hamlet, it is impossible to say. The bibliomaniacs claim him for their scribe and poet, the defender of their faith, the high-priest of their craft. The scoffers find a grimace in everything he ever wrote upon the subject, from "The Bibliomaniac's Prayer," with its palpable reflection of Watts and its ill-concealed raillery, down to the gentle, yet none the less discernible, mockery of the "Love Affairs." It would be a bootless task to follow the gradual evolution from the frequent authorship of such quatrains as-- _In Cupid's artful toils I roll And thrice ten thousand pangs I feel, For Susie's eyes have ground my soul Beneath their iron heel._ And: _O thou, who at the age of three Grew faint and weak and ill, O'ertaken by the bitter pill Of cold adversity!_ which frolic through his column as late as June, 1888; to such bits as this: _Oh, for a booke and a shady nooke Eyther in doore or out, With the greene leaves whispering overhead, Or the streete cryes all about; Where I maie read all at my ease Both of the newe and old, For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde!_ But about September, 1888, his column began to reflect the effects of his mania for and about collecting. For a short time he showed little preference between both "the newe and old" books; but ere 1889 was three months gone, "newe" books, however, "jollie goode" were almost banished from his vocabulary and column. "The Bibliomaniac's Prayer" (January, 1889) was one of the early symptoms of the transformation that was impending and the paraphrases from Horace which began to appear frequently in the same month indicated that he had entered upon another study that was to exert such a marked influence upon his later style and writings. As has been indicated in an earlier chapter, Field began to frequent the southwest corner of McClurg's book-store shortly after he came to Chicago. That section of this "emporium of literature" was presided over by George M. Millard, and contained as fine and, truth to tell, as expensive an assortment of rare and choice books as was to be found outside of the great collections of the land. Mr. Millard made annual or biennial pilgrimages to London in the interests of his house; and when he did not go, General McClurg, who was himself a book fancier of rare good taste and eke business judgment, devoted part of his European vacations to the bookshelves, book-shops, and binderies of Field's "dear old London." On the occasion of the former's return from one of his book-buying excursions, with the spoils of Europe for the spoliation of Chicago's book-maniacs, Field announced the fact in the following somewhat equivocal but wholly clever lines: _GEORGE MILLARD IS HOME! Come, ye maniacs, as of yore From your musty, dusty hidings, And in answer to the tidings Crowd the corner full once more, Lo, from distant England's shore, Laden down with spoil galore Such as bibliopoles adore-- Books and prints in endless store, Treasures singly or in set (Labelled "j.k.t." and "net"), All who have the means to buy Things that glad the heart and eye. Ye who seek some rare old tome-- Maniacs shrewd or imbecilic, Urban, pastoral, or idyllic, Richly clad or dishabillic, Heed the summons bibliophilic-- "George Millard is home!"_ Field was not first attracted to Millard's department by its treasures of rare books, sacred and profane, but by its comprehensive stock of early English balladry and a complete line of Bohn's Library. In these he revelled until he had pretty thoroughly comprehended, as he would say, their contents. But during our almost daily visit to McClurg's he formed the acquaintance of a number of such chronic book collectors as Ben. T. Cable, George A. Armour, Charles J. Barnes, James W. Ellsworth, Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus, the Rev. Frank M. Bristol, the Rev. M. Woolsey Stryker, and others, some with ample wealth to indulge their extravagant tastes, but the majority with lean purses coupled with bookish tastes beyond the resources of a Philadelphia mint. Out of these daily meetings and mousings among books and prints was evolved in Field's fancy what he dubbed the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner." The "Saints" may be easily identified by their titles, while the "Sinners" included all those who had neither title nor pretence to holiness, but were simply engaged in breaking the command against coveting their neighbors' possessions. There was no formal organization, no club, no stated meetings, no roll of members, and no gatherings such as after a time were constantly reported in the "Sharps and Flats" column. All the meetings and discussions in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner were held in Field's fertile brain, and only occasionally were the subjects of these meetings suggested by anything that happened at McClurg's. The earliest reference I have found to this figment of Field's fancy is a casual paragraph in April, 1889, where he speaks of a number of bibliomaniacs having congregated in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's. But the phrase was current among us long before that. It was not until nearly two years had elapsed that Field gravely announced "a sale of pews in the Saints' and Sinners' corner at McClurg's immediately after the regular noontime service next Wednesday" (December 31st, 1890). It is perhaps worthy of a remark that General McClurg for a long time regarded Field's frequent jests and squibs at the expense of the frequenters of his old-book department with anything but an approving eye. He looked upon Field for many years as a ribald mocker of the conventionalities not only of literature but of life. "Culture's Garland" was an offence to his social instincts and literary tastes. Among all the men with whom Field came in frequent converse, the late lamented General Alexander C. McClurg was the last to succumb to the engaging tormentor. Field's lack of reverence for all earthly things, except womankind, was the barrier between these two. Thus it came about that Field made the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's famous throughout the book world against its owner's will, but not against his fortune. For more than six years he advertised its wares and bargains as no book-store had ever been advertised before. All the general and his lieutenant had to do was to provide the books collectors were after, and Field did the rest. He played upon the strings of bibliomaniac acquisitiveness as a skilled musician upon the violin; and whether the music they gave forth was grave or gay, it gave a mocking pleasure to the man who rejoiced that there was so much power in the "subtile" scratching of his pen. Among the earliest friends Field made at McClurg's was the late William F. Poole, for many years in charge of the Chicago Public Library, and subsequently of the Newberry Library. Dr. Poole came from Salem, Mass., and his son at one time was catcher for the Yale base-ball nine. Field took advantage of these facts, which appealed to his enjoyment of contradictions to print all manner of odd conceits about Professor Poole's relations to witches, base-ball, and libraries. The doctor could not make a move in public that it did not inspire Field to some new quidity involving his alleged belief in witches, his envy and admiration of his son's prowess at base-ball, and his real and extensive familiarity with libraries and literature. Some idea of the good-natured liberties Field took with the name of Dr. Poole is given in this paragraph of October 8th, 1889: Dr. William F. Poole, the veteran bibliophile, is now in San Francisco attending the meeting of the National Librarians' Association. While the train bearing the excursionists was _en route_ through Arizona, a stop of twenty minutes was made one evening for supper at a rude eating-house, and here Dr. Poole had an exciting experience with a tarantula. The venomous reptile attacked the kindly old gentleman with singular voracity, and but for the high-topped boots which Mr. Poole wore, serious injuries would have been inflicted upon our friend's person. Mr. Fred Hild, our Public Librarian, hearing Dr. Poole's cries for help, ran to the rescue, and with his cane and umbrella succeeded in keeping the tarantula at bay until the keeper of the restaurant fetched his gun and dispatched the malignant monster. The tarantula weighed six pounds. Dr. Poole took the skin to San Francisco and will have it tanned so he can utilize it for the binding of one of his favorite books. I have introduced Dr. Poole into this narrative because he was really the dean of the interesting group of men who figured in Field's Saints' and Sinners' Corner. Both Field and the venerable doctor had a slight impediment in speech at the beginning of a sentence or in addressing anyone. When they met after such a paragraph as the above had been printed, Dr. Poole would blurt out in the most friendly way, "O-o-o-oh Field! w-w-where did you get that lie from?" To which Field would reply, "L-i-i-ie, d-doctor! W-w-why, F-f-fred Hild [Poole's successor in the public library] g-g-gave me that!" Then the doctor would ejaculate "Nonsense!" and the conversation would drift into some discussion about books, in which all impediments of speech disappeared. When McClurg's book-store was gutted by a fire some years ago, in which the precious contents of the Saints' and Sinners' Corner were ruined beyond restoration and the many associations that lingered around them went up in smoke or were drowned out by water, the newspapers were filled with all manner of stories about the Saints' and Sinners' Club that had held its meetings there. The Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus, one of the most widely known Saints, spoke of it as an association "without rules of order or times of meeting." "It consisted," said he, in a published interview, "of the most interesting group of liars ever assembled. For ten years that Saints' and Sinners' Corner was a place where congenial fellows met. We simply feasted our eyes on beautiful books or old manuscripts and chatted with each other after the usual fashion of book-lovers. The stories told were sometimes more amusing than profitable." He also told how Field, on one occasion, saved a book which he greatly coveted by writing on the fly-leaf: _Swete friend, for Jesus's sake forbeare To buy ye lake thou findest here, For that when I do get ye pelf, I meane to buy ye boke my selfe. Eugene Field._ But the clergymen, doctors and merchants, actors and newspaper-men who met by chance and the one common instinct of book-loving at McClurg's, albeit "the greatest aggregation of liars" one of them had ever "met up with," were a simple, ingenuous, and aimless lot compared to the group which Field assembled in his corner in the "Sharps and Flats" column. Only quotations from some of his reports of their imaginary meetings can do justice to these children of his brain. These I should preface with the explanation that Field always sought to preserve in his fiction some general and distinguishing characteristics of his Saints and Sinners, who were all real persons bearing their real names. His many inventions stopped at bestowing fictitious names upon either his Saints or his Sinners. I have selected "corners" which have not been published between boards. It is, perhaps, needless to say that I am always made to figure as a Philistine in these gatherings, as a penalty for my lack of sympathy with the whole theory of valuing books by their dates, editions, and bindings rather than their "eternal internals." SOUVENIRS FROM EGYPT At a meeting of the bibliomaniacs in the Saints and Sinners Corner yesterday, Mr. E.G. Mason announced that he was about to start for Africa. It was his intention to leave Chicago on the morrow, and sail from New York on Saturday. Mr. G.M. Millard: "Do you go in the interests of the Newberry Library, or as the agent of Mr. Charles F. Gunther?" Mr. Mason: "I go for pleasure, but during my absence I shall cast around now and then for relics which I know my good friend, Mr. Poole, desires to possess. For example, I am informed that the Newberry Library is in need of a stock of papyrus, and if I can secure a mummy or two I shall certainly do so. Indeed, I hope to bring back a valise full of relics." The Rev. Mr. Bristol: "Maybe the gentleman would like to borrow a trunk?" In the course of further parley it transpired that Mr. Mason contemplated extending his tour to Syria, and he answered in the affirmative Mr. Slason Thompson's inquiry whether he carried with him from his venerable friend from Evanston (Dr. Poole) a letter of introduction to the Pooles of Siloam and Bethesda. Mr. Mason only agreed to fill the commissions involving procurement of the following precious souvenirs: An autograph letter of Rameses I, for the Rev. Mr. Bristol. A quart of chestnuts from the groves of Lebanon, for Colonel J.S. Norton. One of Cleopatra's needles, for Mrs. F.S. Peabody. The original Pipe of Pan, for Mr. Cox's collection of Tobacco-ana. A genuine hieroglyphical epitaph, for Dr. Charles Gilman Smith. A live unicorn for Mr. W.F. Poole; also the favorite broom-stick of the witch of Endor. A letter was read from Mr. Francis Wilson, the comedian, announcing that the iniquitous operations of the McKinley act had practically paralyzed the trade in Napoleona. A similar condition obtained in the autograph market, the native mills engaged in manufacturing autographs having doubled their prices since the enforcement of the tariff discriminating against autographs made in foreign factories. A committee, consisting of Messrs. R.M. Dornan, F.H. Head, and R.M. Whipple, was authorized to investigate the alarming rumor that the Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus had publicly offered to donate to one Roberts a certain sum of money that clearly ought to be expended for first editions and Cromwelliana. Mr. Harry L. Hamlin announced that he had a daughter. (Applause.) Mr. W.H. Wells: "Give title and date, please." Mr. Hamlin: "She is entitled Dorothy (first edition), Chicago, 1890, 16mo, handsome frontispiece and beautiful type; I have had her handsomely bound, and I regard her as a priceless specimen of Americana." (Applause.) Various suggestions were offered as to the character of the gift which the Saints and Sinners should formally present to this first babe that had accrued to a member of the organization. Finally, it was determined to present a large silver spoon in behalf of the Saints and Sinners collectively, and Dr. Poole was requested to draft a presentation address. Mr. Hamlin feelingly thanked his friends; he should guard the token of their friendship jealously and affectionately. The Rev. Mr. Bristol: "It won't be safe unless you keep it in a trunk--better get a trunk, brother, ere it be too late--better get a trunk!" The meeting adjourned after singing the beautiful hymn, collected, adapted, and arranged by the Rev. Dr. Stryker, beginning: _"Though some, benight in sin, delight To glut their vandal cravings, These hands of mine shall not incline To tear out old engravings." January 22d, 1891._ PROPOSED CURE FOR BIBLIOMANIA A smile of exceeding satisfaction illuminated General McClurg's features as he walked into the corner yesterday noon and found that historic spot crowded with Saints and Sinners. Said he to Mr. Millard: "George, you are a famous angler!" Mr. Millard assumed a self-deprecatory expression. "I make no pretentions at all," answered he, modestly. "My only claim is that I am not upon earth for my health." "I see our handsome friend, Guy Magee, here to-day," observed General McClurg. "I thought he had opened out a book-shop of his own." "So he has," replied Mr. Millard, "at 24 North Clark Street, and a mighty good book-shop it is, too. I visited the place last week, and was surprised to see a number of beautiful books in stock." "Let's see," said General McClurg, "24 North Clark Street is the other side of the bridge, isn't it?" "Yes, just the other side--five minutes' walk from the Court House. Magee proposed to cater to the higher class of purchasers only, and with this end in view he has selected a choice line of books; in splendid bindings and in illustrated books he has a particularly large stock. Meanwhile he remains an active member of the noble fraternity that has made this corner famous. On Thanksgiving day we are going in a body to look at his fine things, and to hold what our Saints call a praise-service in the snug, warm, cozy shop." "That being the case, I will go, too," said General McClurg. The Saints and Sinners were full of the Christmas spirit yesterday, and they were telling one another what they meant to buy for Christmas gifts. Dr. W.F. Poole said he had designs upon a set of Grose's "Antiquities," bound in turkey-red morocco. In answer to Mr. F.M. Larned's inquiry as to whom he intended to give this splendid present, Dr. Poole said: "To myself, of course! Christmas comes but once a year, and at that time of all times are we justified in gratifying the lusts of the spirit. (Applause.) Nobody can scold us if we choose to be good to ourselves at Christmas." "I think we all have reason to felicitate Brother Poole," said Mr. Charles J. Barnes. "Happening to visit the nord seit the other day, I saw that work was progressing on the Newberry Library. I should like to know when the corner-stone of that splendid edifice is to be laid." "The date has not yet been fixed," answered Dr. Poole, "but when it is laid it will be with the most elaborate public ceremonies. The corner-stone will be hollowed out, and into this cavity will be placed a number of priceless and curious relics." Mr. Millard: "The Saints and Sinners should be represented at those ceremonies and in that hollow corner-stone." Mr. Poole: "Of course. As for myself, I shall contribute the stuffed tarantula which I brought back with me from Arizona." Dr. F.M. Bristol: "Another interesting relic that should go into that corner-stone is the stump of the cigar which the Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus smoked at camp-meeting." Dr. Gunsaulus: "I will cheerfully contribute that relic if upon his part Brother Bristol will contribute his portrait of Eliphalet W. Blatchford disguised as Falstaff." (Cheers.) The Rev. Dr. Stryker: "I have a completed uncut set of 'Monk and Knight,' which I will be happy to devote to the same cause." Dr. Gunsaulus: "The contributions will be hardly complete without a box of those matches with which Brother Stryker wanted to kindle a bonfire which was to consume the body of the heretical Briggs. But speaking of that novel of mine ('Monk and Knight') reminds me that I wrote a poem on the railway the other day, and I will read it now if there be no objection." (Cries of 'Read it,' 'Go ahead.') "The poem, humble as it is, was suggested by seeing a fellow-passenger fall asleep over his volume of Bion and Moschus. This is the way it goes: _Wake, wake him not; the book lies in his hands-- Bion and Moschus smile within his sleep; Tired of our world, he lives in other lands-- Wanders in Greece, where fauns and satyrs leap. Dull, even sweet, the rumble of the train-- 'Tis Circe singing near her golden loom; No garish lamps afflicted his charmed brain-- Demeter's poppies brighten o'er her tomb. But half-awake he looks on starlit trees-- Sees but the huntress in her eager chase; Wake, wake him not upon the fragrant breeze, Let horn and hound announce her rapid pace. Blithe shepherds pipe within the Dorian vales, Hellenic airs blow through their sun-bright hair, To him alone the wooers whisper tales-- Bloomed kind Calypso's islet ne'er so fair. Unbanished gods roam o'er the thymy hills, Calm shadows slumber on the purple grapes, Hid are the dryads near the star-gemmed rills, Far through the moonlight wander love-lorn shapes. Gray olives shade the dancing-naiads' smile, Flutes loose their raptures in the murmuring stream, These, these are visions modern cares beguil-- Echoes of the old Greek's dream._" Mr. Stryker: "That is good poetry, Brother Gunsaulus. If you would tone it down a little, and contrive to work in a touch of piety here and there, I would be glad to print it in my next volume of hymns." Mr. H.B. Smith: "I did not suppose that our reverend Brother Gunsaulus ever attempted poetry. His verses have that grace and lilt that are the prime essentials to successful comic-opera libretto writing. When I want a collaborateur, I shall know whom to apply to." Mr. Bristol: "The brother's poem indicates the influence of the Homer school. Can it be possible that our Plymouth Church friend has fallen into the snare spread for him by the designing members of the South Side Hellenic organization?" Dr. Gunsaulus: "Since Brother Bristol seems so anxious to know, I will admit that I have recently joined the Armour Commandery of the South Side Sons of Homer." Mr. Slason Thompson, heading off the discussion threatened by Mr. Gunsaulus's declaration, arose and informed the company that he was prepared to confer an inestimable boon upon his brother Saints and brother Sinners. "You are all," said he, "victims to an exacting and fierce mania--a madness that is unremitting in the despotism directing every thought and practice in your waking hours, and filling your brains with gilded fancies during your nocturnal periods of repose. (Applause.) Many of you are so advanced in this mania that the mania itself has become seemingly your very existence--(cheers)--and the feet of others are fast taking hold upon that path which leads down into the hopeless depths of this insanity. (Prolonged applause.) Hitherto bibliomania has been regarded as incurable; humanity has looked upon it as the one malady whose tortures neither salve, elixir, plaster, poultice, nor pill, can ever alleviate; it has been pronounced immedicable, immitigable, and irremediable. "For a long time," continued Mr. Thompson. "I have searched for an antidote against this subtle and terrific poison of bibliomania. At last, heaven be praised! I have found the cure! (Great sensation.) Yes, a certain remedy for this madness is had in Keeley's bichloride of gold bibliomania bolus, a packet of which I now hold in my hand! Through the purging and regenerating influences of this magic antidote, it is possible for every one of you to shake off the evil with which you are cursed, and to restore that manhood which you have lost in your insane pursuit of wretched book fancies. The treatment requires only three weeks' time. You take one of these boluses just before each meal and one before going to bed. In about three days you become aware that your olfactories are losing that keenness of function which has enabled you to nose out old books and to determine the age thereof merely by sniffing at the binding. In a week distaste for book-hunting is exhibited, and this increases until at the end of a fortnight you are ready to burn every volume you can lay hands on. No man can take this remedy for three weeks without being wholly and permanently cured of bibliomania. I have also another gold preparation warranted to cure the mania for old prints, old china, old silver, and old furniture." Mr. Thompson had no sooner ended his remarks when a score of Saints and Sinners sprang up to protest against this ribald quackery. The utmost confusion prevailed for several moments. Finally the venerable Dr. Poole was accorded the floor. "Far be it from me," said he, solemnly, "to lend my approval to any enterprise that contemplates bibliomania as a disease instead of a crime. (Applause.) I live in Evanston, the home of that saintly woman Miss Willard, and under her teachings I have become convinced that bibliomania is a sin which must be eradicated by piety and not by pills. Rather than be cured by heretical means, I prefer not to be cured at all." (Great cheering.) Remarks in a similar vein were made by Messrs. Ballantyne, Larned, Hamlin, Smith, Barnes, Cole, Magee, Taylor, and Carpenter. Dr. Gunsaulus seemed rather inclined to try the cure, but he doubted whether he could stick to it for three weeks. Finally, a compromise was effected by the adoption of the following resolutions submitted by the Rev. Dr. Bristol: "Resolved, that we, Saints and Sinners, individually and collectively, defer, postpone, suspend, and delay all experiment and essay with the bichloride bibliomania bolus until after the approaching holiday season, and furthermore, "Resolved, that at the expiration of this specified interdicted season we will see about it." Suspecting treachery, Dr. Gunsaulus secured the adoption of another resolution forbidding any member of the organization to secure or apply for an option on the said boluses before formal action with reference to the vaunted cure had been taken by the Saints and Sinners in regular meeting. November, 1891. However, Field did not confine all his attentions to what he called the "book-bandits" to his reports on the proceedings in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner. Scattered throughout his writings from 1887 onward were paragraphs, ballads, and jests, praising, berating, and "joshing" the maniac crew who held that "binding's the surest test," and who bought books, as some would-be connoisseurs do wine, by the label. With all his professions of sympathy with the maniacs, he never missed an opportunity to make merry over what he regarded as their rivalries and disappointments, and he never wearied of egging them on to imitate his own besetting disposition to buy the curio you covet and "settle when you can," as indicated in the beautiful hymn that concludes the following paragraph: Francis Wilson, the comedian, is the possessor of the chair which Sir Walter Scott used in his library at Abbotsford. A beautiful bit of furniture it is, and well worth, aside from all sentimental consideration, the large price paid by the enterprising and discriminating curio. As we understand it, Bouton, the New York dealer, had this chair on exhibition for several months. Mr. Wilson happened along one day, having just returned from a professional tour in the West. Mr. William Winter, dramatic critic of the Tribune, was looking at the chair; he had been after it for some time, but had been waiting for the price to abate somewhat. "The Players' Club should have that chair," said he to Bouton, "and if you'll give better terms I'll get a number of the members to chip in together and buy it." To this appeal Bouton sturdily remained deaf. After Mr. Winter had left the place, Wilson said to Bouton, "Send the chair up to my house; here is a check for the money." There are rumors to the effect that when Mr. Winter heard of this transaction he rent his garments and gnashed his teeth, and wildly implored somebody to hang a millstone about his neck and cast him into outer darkness. Horace Greeley used to say that the best way to resume was to resume; so, in the science of collecting, it behooves the collector never to put off till to-morrow what he can pick up to-day. This theory has been most succinctly and beautifully set forth in one of the hymns recently compiled by the Archbishop of the North Side (page 217): _How foolish of a man to wait When once his chance is nigh: To-morrow it may be too late-- Some other man may buy. Nay, brother, comprehend the boon That's offered in a trice, Or else some other all too soon Will pay the needful price. Should some fair book engage your eye, Or print invite your glance, Oh, trifle not with faith, but buy While yet you have the chance! Else, glad to do thee grievous wrong, Some wolf in human guise-- Some bibliophil shall snoop along And nip that lovely prize! No gem of purest ray serene Gleams in the depthless sea, There is no flower that blooms unseen Upon the distant lea, But the same snooping child of sin, With fad or mania curst, Will find it out and take it in Unless you get there first. Though undue haste may be a crime, Procrastination's worse; Now--now is the accepted time To eviscerate your purse! So buy what finds you find to-day-- That is the safest plan; And if you find you cannot pay, Why, settle when you can._ As I have said, there was no such organization as a Saints' and Sinners' Club, no roll of membership, and no such meetings as were exploited with such engaging verity by Field. The only formal gathering of any considerable number of the habitués of the Saints' and Sinners' Corner that ever took place was never reported by him. It occurred on New Year's Eve, 1890, and everything appertaining to it, down to the fragrant whiskey punch, was concocted by Field, who explained that his poverty, not his will, consented to the substitution of the wine of America for that of France in the huge iron-stone bowl that answered all the demands of the occasion. About a week before the date all the members whose names had been used without their consent in the Corner in "Sharps and Flats" received a card, on which was written: Saints' and Sinners' Corner, December 31, 1890. Be there 10.30 P.M. Sharp. The Sinners turned out in full force. The Saints, I suppose, had watch-night services of their own, for they were conspicuous by their absence. Lawyers, doctors, actors, newspaper men, and book-lovers of divers callings and degrees of iniquity were on hand at half-past ten o'clock, or continued to drop in toward midnight. But if there was a doctor of divinity in that hilarious gathering, I fail to recall his presence. If one was present, he failed to exercise a restraining influence on the gaiety of the Sinners. And yet without such presence there was a subtle influence pervading the strange scene, that forbade any approach to boisterousness. Out in the main body of the deserted store all was dark and still. The curtains of the show-windows were drawn down, shutting out the intrusive light of the street-lamps. Field's guests--for we all, even George Millard, acknowledged him as host and high priest of the evening--were assembled in the corner devoted to old books and prints. The congregation, as he styled the meeting, was seated on such chairs, stools, and boxes as the place could afford. The darkness was made visible by a few sickly gas-jets and some half dozen candles in appropriate black glass candlesticks that looked suspiciously like bottles. Field was as busy as a shuttle in a sewing-machine. He announced that Elder Melville E. Stone would "preside over the meetin' and line out the hymns," which Mr. Stone, though no singer, proceeded to do, calling on the mendacious Sinners for brief confessions of their manifold transgressions during the dying year. The tide of experiences was at its height when, on the first stroke of midnight, every light was doused. So suddenly and unexpectedly did darkness swallow us from each other's ken that there was a gasp, and then for a moment a hushed silence. Before this was broken by any other sound out from the impenetrable gloom came a deep sepulchral voice, chanting: _"From Canaan's beatific coast I've come to visit thee, For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost," Says Dibdin's ghost to me. I bade him welcome, and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts. "Since you are fresh from t'other side, Pray, tell me of that host That treasured books before they died," Says I to Dibdin's ghost. "They've entered into perfect rest: For in the life they've won, There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun. "Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea; It is a joy unknown to Lowndes," Says Dibdin's ghost to me._ You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as Field's organ-like voice, which all quickly recognized, rolled out the now familiar lines of "Dibdin's Ghost," then heard for the first time by everyone in that historic Corner. No point was missed in that weird recitation. I shall never forget the graveyard unction with which he propounded the question and answer of the poem: _"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead? And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast,-- Shall they profane that sacred spot?" Says I to Dibdin's ghost. "Oh, no! they tread that other path Which leads where torments roll, And worms--yes, bookworms--vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul, Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place," Says Dibdin's ghost to me._ Into these lines Field managed to throw all the exulting fanaticism of the hopeless bibliomaniac without suppressing one jot of the chuckle of the profane scoffer. And then the gas and candles were relit and the punch and sandwiches and apple pie and cheese were served, and with song and story we passed such a night as sinners mark with red letters for saints to envy. If the reader should ever come across Paul du Chaillu, who contributed to the varied pleasures of the occasion, let him inquire of the veracious Paul whether, in all his travels and experiences, he ever knew one man so capable of entertaining a host of wits as Eugene Field proved himself on the eve of New Year, 1891. CHAPTER VIII POLITICAL RELATIONS It is due to the numberless friends and acquaintances Field made among the politicians of three states particularly and of the nation generally that this study of his life should take some account of his political writings, if not of his political principles. Those not familiar with political events during the past twenty years may skip this chapter, as it pleases them. Field was a Republican by inheritance, and a Missouri Republican at that, which means a Republican who may die but never compromises. The Vermont views and prejudices which he inherited from his father were not weakened, we may be sure, under the tutelage of the women folks at Amherst, or of Dr. Tufts, at Monson. But rock-ribbed as he was in his adherence to the Republican party, he never took the trouble to make a study of its principles, nor did he care to discuss any of the political issues of his day. It was enough that the Democratic party embodied in his mind his twin aversions, slavery and rebellion, against the Union. He was a thorough-going believer in the doctrine, "To the victors belong the spoils," and as he credited the Republican party with the preservation of the Union, he saw no reason why its adherents should not use or abuse its government without let or hindrance from men who had sought to destroy it. This view he has set forth in a scornful bit of verse, which I copy from his rough draft: _REFORM What means this pewter teapot storm, This incoherent yell-- This boisterous blubber for "reform" When everything goes well? Why should the good old party cease To rule our prosperous land? Is not our country blessed with peace And wealth on every hand? The Democrats desired reform Two dozen years ago, But with our life-blood, red and warm, We gave the answer "No." We see the same old foe to-day We saw in Sixty-one-- "Deeds of reform," they whining say, Must for our land be done! "Deeds of reform?" And these the men Who, in the warful years, Starved soldiers in a prison-pen, And mocked their dying tears! By these our mother's heart was broke-- By these our father fell-- These bold "reformers" once awoke Our land with rebel yell! These quondam rebels come to-day In penitential form, And hypocritically say The country needs "reform!" Out on reformers such as these! By Freedom's sacred pow'rs We'll run the country as we please-- We saved it, and it's ours!_ From this as the rock of all his political prejudices, Field was immovable. But happily, for the pleasure of his friends and the entertainment of his readers, he took politics no more seriously than he did many of the other responsibilities of life. As early as 1873, in a letter already published, he announced that he had "given over all hope of rescuing my torn and bleeding country from Grant and his minions," and from that time on he devoted his study of politics to the development of satirical and humorous paragraphs at the expense of the two classes of prominent and practical politicians. [Illustration: OFF TO SPRINGFIELD. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] For more than a decade, and until he became enamoured of books and bibliomania, Field was the most widely quoted political paragrapher in America. It was not in vain that he mingled with the "statesmen" frequenting the capitals of Missouri, Colorado, and Illinois, attended state and national conventions, and spent many weeks in the lobby of the capitol, and of the lobbies of the hotels in Washington. It was the comprehension of men, and not of measures, he was after, and he got what he sought. In St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver his sketches, notes, and Primer stories attracted more attention and caused more talk among politicians than all the serious reports and discussions of the issues of the times. He had the gift of putting distorted statements in the form of innocent facts so artfully developed that his victims had difficulty in disputing the often compromising inferences of his paragraphs. Many a time and oft have I known every one of the paragraphs in Field's column in the News, sometimes numbering as high as sixty, to relate to something of a political nature, and most of them containing a personal pin-prick. With the assistance of the printer, let me reconstruct here in the type and narrow measure of the Morning News a column of specimens of Field's political paragraphs. The reader must allow for the lapse of time. Only those referring to persons or matters of national note are, for obvious reasons, preserved. The first one has the peculiar interest of being the initial paragraph in "Sharps and Flats." In point of time they ran all the way from 1883 to 1895, thus covering the entire period of Field's work on the News and Record: SHARPS AND FLATS Senator Dawes has been out among the Sioux Indians too. They call him Ne-Ha-Wo-Ne-To--which, according to our office dictionary, is the Indian for Go-To-Sleep-Standing-Up. Sol Smith Russell, the comedian, is reported to have contributed $5,000 to the National Prohibition campaign fund. The suspicion is still rife that when the Democratic party wakes up on Christmas morning it will find S.J. Tilden in its stocking. [Illustration: Drawing of a flower sitting on a barrel.] See the Flower. It is sitting on its Barrel derisively Mocking the Eager hands that strive to Pluck it. Oh, beautiful but cruel Flower. If the mild weather continues Secretary Chandler will be able to get the American Navy out of its winter quarters and on to roller skates by the first of April. Mr. Charles A. Dana has appeared as the third witch in "Macbeth." He says Roosevelt cannot be Mayor, but may go to Congress, to the Senate, or be elected President. It is believed that a horizontal reduction in the Democratic statesmen of the time would leave nothing of the Hon. William R. Morrison but a pair of spindle legs, three bunions, and seven corns. Russia, always a menace to civilization, is prepared to aid China in her resistance against modern progress, and will not hesitate to fly to the succor of the unspeakable Turk when the opportune moment comes. We do not entirely believe the story that El Mahdi is dead. On the contrary, we confidently expect that this enterprising false prophet will turn up in a reconstructed condition at Washington after the 4th of next March, howling for a post-office. BLUE CUT, TENN., May 2, 1885.--The second section of the train bearing the Illinois legislature to New Orleans was stopped near this station by bandits last night. After relieving the bandits of their watches and money, the excursionists proceeded on their journey with increased enthusiasm. Hamlin Garland has finally crawled out of the populist party and has reappeared in Chicago fiercer than ever for the predominance of realism in literature and art. He regrets to find that during his absence Franklin H. Head has relapsed into romanticism and that the verist's fences generally in these parts are in bad condition. The national Carl Schurz committee will meet in New York on the 1st of April to fix a date and place for the national Carl Schurz convention. As Chicago will make no attempt to secure this convention, we do not mind telling St. Louis, Philadelphia and Cincinnati that the biggeet inducement which can be held out to the Carl Schurz party is a diet of oatmeal and skim milk and piano--rent free. "You are looking tough, O Diogenes," quoth Socrates. "Now, by the dog, what have you been doing?" "I have been searching for an honest man in the Chicago City Council," replied the grim philosopher mournfully, "With what result?" inquired the other. "Well, you see," said Diogenes sarcastically, "my pockets are cleaned out and my lantern is gone! I praise Zeus that they left me my girdle!" Major McKinley is being highly commended because he would not allow the Ohio delegation to betray John Sherman in the Republican convention. Other men from other States were perhaps just as loyal, but it is so seldom that an Ohio politician does the decent thing that when one honorable Ohio politician is found he excites quite as much surprise and admiration as a double-headed calf or any other natural curiosity would. Oh, what a beautiful Hill. How it looms up in the Misty Horizon. See the Indians on the hill. They are Tammany braves. The Hill belongs to the Indians. Why are the Indians on the Hill? They are hunting for the flower which they Fondly hope Blooms on the Hill. Not this year--some other Year, but not this year. The Flower is Roosting high. It has resigned. Are the Indians resigned? They are not as Resigned as they Would be if they could Find the Flower. Alas that there should be More Sorrows than Flowers in this World. The Hon. Thomas B. Reed, of Maine, is to be the leader of the Republican minority in Congress this winter. He is a smart, fat, brilliant, lazy man, with a Shakespearian head and face and clean-cut record. He is a great improvement on the Hon. J. Warren Keifer, of Ohio, who was the Republican leader (so-called) last winter. It would be hard to imagine a more imbecile leader than Keifer was, and it would be hard to find an abler leader than Reed will be, provided his natural physical indolence does not get the better of his splendid intellectual vigor. Marcus A. Hanna has just been elected a delegate to the National Republican Convention in the Tenth Ohio district. He has also just been appointed to a government position by President Cleveland. The National Republican Convention ought to determine, immediately upon assembling, whether its platform and its nominations shall be dictated, even remotely, by a beneficiary of a Democratic administration. Hanna was in 1884 a loudmouthed Blaine follower. He has a happy faculty of always lighting on his feet--after the fashion of the singed cat. President Cleveland--Rose, are you sure the window-screens are in repair? Miss Cleveland--Quite sure. President Cleveland--And are you using that flypaper according to directions? Miss Cleveland--Yes. President Cleveland--And you sprinkle the furniture with insect powder every day? Miss Cleveland--Certainly; why do you ask? Are the mosquitoes troubling you? President Cleveland--No, not the mosquitoes; but that Second District Congressman from Illinois seems to be just as thick as ever. We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to git the nominashin shore; For Colonel New assured us (in that noospaper o' his) That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz. But here we've been slavin' more like hosees than like men To diskiver that the people do not hanker after Ben; It is for Jeemes G. Blaine an' not for Harrison they shout And the gobble-uns 'el git us Ef we Don't Watch Out! "As for me, Daniel, I declined the tickets on the ground that, as President of this great nation, it was beneath my dignity to accept free passes to a show." "You did quite right, Grover; I, too, declined the passes in my capacity as a cabinet officer." "Good, good!" "But I accepted them in my capacity as editor of the Albany Argus. I owe it to my profession, Grover, not to surrender any of its rights to a strained sense of the dignity of an employment which is only temporary." "Ah, yes; I see." "There must be a dividing line between the Honorable Daniel Manning, cabinet minister, and plain Dan Manning, editor. I draw that line at free show-tickets." Another instance of the liberality of the Hon. William H. English, of Indiana, has just come to light. It seems that that gentleman's venerable father, Deacon Elisha English, lives in Scott County, Ind., where he is a highly esteemed citizen and a bright light in the Methodist church. Not long ago the church people concluded they ought to have some improvements upon their modest temple of worship, and consequently a subscription paper was circulating among the members of the congregation. Deacon English readily signified his willingness to do his share toward the proposed improvements, and he led off the subscription list with the line: Elisha English $50.00 The congregation were so much pleased with this that they determined to apply to William H. English, the son, for a donation, and they believed that the liberality of the father would serve as an inducement to the son to display at least a moderate generosity. Accordingly the subscription list was forwarded to Indianapolis, and a prominent Methodist of that city took it around to Mr. English's office. The ex-vice-president hemmed and hawed and fumbled the paper over for quite a while, and finally, with a profound sigh, sat down at his desk and scribbled a few words on the subscription sheet. The triumphant smile on the visiting churchman's face relaxed into an expression of combined amazement and dismay when, upon regaining the paper, he learned that Mr. English had reconstructed the first line, so that it read: Elisha English and Son $50.00 This column will serve two purposes--to illustrate the truly American spirit of levity in which Eugene Field regarded politics and politicians, and also the extent and general character of his daily "wood sawing" for nearly twelve years. Although these selections cover a period of many years, they fairly represent the character of his political paragraphs on any one day except in the matter of subjects. These, of course, varied from day to day, from the President of the United States down to the Chicago bridge-tender. What delighted him most was some matter-of-fact announcement such as that which credited Herman H. Kohlsaat, then editor of the Chicago Inter-Ocean and a delegate to the Republican National Convention of 1892, with saying that he had no particular choice for Vice-President, but he favored the nomination of some colored Republican as a fitting recognition of the loyalty of the colored voters to the memory and party of Lincoln. The cunningly foreseen consequence was that what Mr. Kohlsaat gained in popularity with the colored brethren he lost in the estimation of those serious-minded souls who swallowed the hoax. Among the latter were many fire-eating editors in the South who seized upon Field's self-evident absurdity to denounce Mr. Kohlsaat as a violent demagogue who sought to curry favor with black Republicans at the expense of the South. It was also accepted as fairly representing the Northern disposition to flout and trample on the most sensitive sensibilities of the South. In the meantime Mr. Kohlsaat's office was besieged by the friends of colored aspirants to the vice-presidency, and Field chuckled in his chair and took every opportunity to add fuel to his confrère's embarrassment and to the flame of Southern indignation. All the while he would meet Mr. Kohlsaat, who was one of his intimate friends, and express to him astonishment that he should feel any annoyance over such a palpable, harmless pleasantry. Although there is one bit of verse in the foregoing sample column of Field's political paragraphs, it does scant justice to his most effective weapon. His political jingles were the delight or vexation of partisans as they happened to ridicule or scarify this side or that. He was on terms of personal friendship with General John A. Logan, whose admiration for General Grant he shared to the fullest degree. But this never restrained Field from taking all sorts of waggish liberties with General Logan's well-known fondness for mixed metaphors and other perversions of the Queen's English. The general, on one occasion, in a burst of eloquence, had spoken of "the day when the bloody hand of rebellion stalked through the land"; and for a year thereafter that "bloody hand" "stalked" through Field's column. He enjoyed attributing to General Logan all sorts of literary undertakings. Among others, was the writing of a play, to which reference is made in the following paragraph: Senator John A. Logan's play, "The Spy," is in great demand, a number of theatrical speculators having entered the lists for it, the managers for the Madison Square and Union Square theatres being specially eager to get hold of it. A gentleman who is in the author's confidence assures us he has read the play, and can testify to its high dramatic merits. "It will have to be rewritten," said he, "for Logan has thrown it together with characteristic looseness; but it is full of lively dialogue and exciting situations. In the hands of a thorough playwright it would become a splendid melodrama." The play treats upon certain incidents of the late Civil War, and the romantic experiences of a certain Major Algernon Bellville, U.S.A., who is beloved by Maud Glynne, daughter of a Confederate general. The plot turns upon the young lady's unsuccessful effort to convey intelligence of a proposed sortie to her lover in the Union ranks. She is slain while masking in male attire by Reginald De Courcey, a rejected lover, who is serving as her father's aide-de-camp. This melancholy tragedy is enacted at a spot appointed by the lovers as a rendezvous. Major Bellville rushes in to find his fair idol a corpse. He is wild with grief. The melodrama concludes thus: De Bell--Aha! Who done this deed? Lieutenant Smythe--Yonder Reginald De Courcey done it, for I seen him when he done it. Reginald--'Sdeath! 'Tis a lie upon my honor. I didn't do no such thing. De Bell--Thou must die. (Draws his sword.) Prepare to meet thy Maker. (Stabs him.) Reginald (falling)--I see angels. (Dies.) De Bell--Now, leave me, good Smythe; I fain would rest. (Exit Smythe.) O Maud, Maud, my spotless pearl, what craven hand has snatched thee from our midst? But I will follow thee. Aha, what have we here? A phial of poison secreted in the stump of this gnarled oak! I thank thee, auspicious heaven, for this sweet boon! (Drinks poison.) Farewell, my native land, I die for thee. (Falls and writhes.) Oh, horror! what if the poison be drugged--no, no--it must not be--I must die--O Maud--O flag--O my sweet country! I reel, I cannot see--my heart is bursting--Oh! (Dies.) (Enter troops.) General Glynne--Aha! My daughter! And Bellville, too! Both dead! How sad--how mortifying. Convey them to yonder cemetery, and bury them side by side under the weeping-willow. They were separated in life--in death let them be united. (Slow curtain.) During the preliminary campaign of 1884 Field had no end of fun with what he called the "Logan Lyrics," after this manner: _LOGAN'S LAMENT We never speak as we pass by-- Me to Jim Blaine nor him to I; 'Twixt us there floats a cloud of gloom Since I have found he's got a boom. We never speak as we pass by, We simply nod and drop our eye; Yet I can tell by his strange look The reason why he writ that book. We never speak as we pass by; No more we're bound by friendly tie. The cause of this is very plain-- He's not for me; he's for Jim Blaine._ As a sequel to the preceding verse, the following touching reminiscence may be read with interest by those familiar with what befell in the fall of 1884: _BAR HARBOR: A REMINISCENCE Upon the sandy, rock-ribb'd shore One year ago sat you and I, And heard the sullen breakers roar, And saw the stately ships go by; And wanton ocean breezes fanned Your cheeks into a ruddy glow, And I--I pressed your fevered hand-- One year ago. II The ocean rose, the mountains fell-- And those fair castles we had reared Were blighted by the breath of hell, And every prospect disappeared; Revenge incarnate overthrew And wrapped in eternal woe The mutual, pleasing hopes we knew One year ago! III I sit to-night in sorrow, and I watch the stately ships go by-- The hand I hold is not your hand-- Alas! 'tis but a ten-spot high! This is the hardest deal of all-- Oh! why should fate pursue me so, To mind me of that cruel fall-- One year ago!_ In the senatorial campaign at Springfield, in the winter of 1885, when General Logan's return to the Senate was threatened by a deadlock in the Legislature, in which the balance of power was held by three greenbackers, Field made ample amends for all his jibes and jeers over Logan's assaults on his mother-tongue. His "Sharps and Flats" column was a daily fusilade, or, rather, _feu de joie_, upon or at the expense of the Democrats and three legislators, by whose assistance they hoped to defeat and humiliate Logan. Congressman Morrison, he of horizontal fame, was the caucus choice of the Democrats. But as the struggle was prolonged from day to day, it was thought that someone with a barrel, or "soap," as it had been termed by General Arthur in a preceding campaign, was needed to bring the Greenbackers into camp. In the emergency, Judge Lambert Tree, since then our Minister to Belgium, was drafted into the service, and for several days it looked as if the Democrats had struck the hot trail to General Logan's seat. The situation fired Field's Republican soul with righteous indignation, and his column fairly blazed with sizzling paragraphs. He seized upon Judge Tree's name and made it the target of his shafts of wit and satire. One day it was: $ $-|-$ $--|--$ $---|---$ $----|----$ | | | | ||||||||||| Here we have a tree. How Green the Tree is! Can you See the Lightning? Oh, how red and Vivid the Lightning is! Will the Lightning Strike the Tree? Children, that is a Conundrum; we answer conundrums in our Weekly Edition, but not in our daily. The next day it was: The Lightning did not strike the Green Tree. But the Springfield Politicians did. This is Why the Tree is Green. And then there came what I regard as one of the most telling pieces of political satirical humor ever put into English verse, its literary merit alone justifying its preservation, Field himself considering it worth copying in the presentation volume of his verse written prior to 1887: _THE LAMBERT TREE Oh, tell me not of the budding bay, Nor the yew by the new-made grave, And waft me not in spirit away, Where the sorrowing willows wave; Let the shag-bark walnut blend its shade With the elm on the verdant lea-- But let us his to the distant glade, Where blossoms the Lambert tree. The maple reeks with a toothsome sap That flavors the brown buckwheat, And the oak drops down into earth's green lap, Her fruit for the swine to eat; But the Lambert tree has a grander scope In its home on the distant wold, For the sap of the Lambert tree is soap, And its beautiful fruit is gold. So sing no song of the futile fir-- No song of the tranquil teak, Nor the chestnut tree, with its bristling burr, Or the paw-paw of Posey creek; But fill my soul with a heavenly calm, And bring sweet dreams to me By singing a psalm of the itching palm And the blossoming Lambert tree._ Public sentiment within the Democratic party prevented the consummation of the deal to supplant Morrison with Tree, the death of a Democratic assemblyman enabled the Republicans to steal a march on their opponents in a by-election, and the deadlock was finally broken by Logan securing the bare 103 votes necessary to election. How Field rejoiced over this outcome, to which he contributed so powerfully, may be inferred from the pictorial and poetic outburst shown on the opposite page: $ $ $-|-$ $-|-$ $--|--$ $--|--$ $---|---$ $---|---$ $----|----$ $----|----$ $-----|-----$ $-----|-----$ $------|------$ $------|------ | | |-| | | |-| | | |-| | | |-| ------------------- ------------------- BEFORE. AFTER. _There came a burst of thunder sound, The jedge--oh, where was he? His twigs were strewn for miles around-- He was a blasted tree._ Field was never in sympathy with the independent lines upon which the Morning News was edited. As I have said, he was a thorough-going partisan Republican, and he preferred a straight-out Democrat to an independent--or Mugwump, as the independents have been styled since 1884, when they bolted Blaine. To his mind the entire Mugwump movement revolved around Grover Cleveland and opposition to the election of Mr. Blaine. The former was not only the idol, but the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the decalogue to many of Field's Mugwump friends whom he cherished personally, but detested and lampooned politically. It pleased him to represent the Mugwump party of Chicago as consisting of General McClurg, John W. Ela, now president of the Chicago Civil Service Commission; Melville E. Stone, Franklin MacVeagh, and myself; and as late as 1892 he took delight in reporting its meetings after this fashion: When the Mugump party of Chicago met in General McClurg's office yesterday, considerable agitation was caused by Mr. Slason Thompson's suggestion that a committee be appointed to investigate the report that John W. Ela was soliciting funds in the East for the purpose of electing the Democratic ticket in Illinois. General McClurg thought that a serious mistake had been made. As he understood, Colonel Ela was soliciting subscriptions, but not to promote Democratic success. What funds Colonel Ela secured would be used toward the election of the great white-souled Cleveland, and that would be all right. (Applause.) The use of money elsewise would be offensive partisanship; devoted to the holy cause of Cleveland and Reform, it would be simply a patriotic, not to say a religious, duty. Mr. Thompson said he was glad to hear this explanation. It was eminently satisfactory, and he hoped to have it disseminated through Illinois. On motion of Mr. M.E. Stone, Colonel Ela was instructed to deposit all campaign funds he might collect in the Globe National Bank. Mr. Thompson then introduced Mr. Franklin H. Head, who, he said, was a Mugwump. "Are you a Mugwump?" asked General McClurg. Mr. Head: "I am, and I wish to join the party in Chicago." General McClurg: "Do you declare your unalterable belief in the Mugwump doctrine of free-will and election?" Mr. Head: "As I understand it, I do." General McClurg: "The Mugwump doctrine of free-will argues that every voter may vote as he chooses, irrespective of party, so long as his vote involves the election of Grover Cleveland." Mr. Head: "I am a Mugwump to the extent of voting as I choose, and irrespective of party, but I draw the line at Grover Cleveland this time." (Great sensation.) Mr. Stone: "I guess you've got into the wrong 'bus, my friend, and I'm rather glad of it, for one vice-president of a bank is all the Mugwump party can stand." Mr. Thompson: "I supposed he was all right, or I wouldn't have brought him in." General McClurg: "No, he is far from the truth. Upon the vital, the essential point, he is fatally weak. Go back, erring brother--go back into the outer darkness; it is not for you to sit with the elect." Mr. Stone invited the party to a grand gala picnic which he proposed to give in August in Melville Park, Glencoe. He would order a basket of chicken sandwiches, a gallon of iced tea, and three pink umbrellas, and they would have a royal time of it. Mr. Thompson moved, out of respect to the Greatest of Modern Fishermen, to strike out "chicken" and insert "sardine." Mr. Stone accepted the suggestion, and thus amended, the invitation was hilariously accepted. After adopting a resolution instructing Mr. Stone to buy the sardines and tea at Brother Franklin MacVeagh's, the party adjourned for one week. Field was very fond of describing himself as a martyr to the Mugwump vapors and megrims that prevailed in the editorial rooms of the Daily News. He would say that the imperishable crowns won by the heroes of Fox's "Book of Martyrs" were nothing to what he, a stanch Republican partisan, earned by enduring and associating daily with the piping, puling independents who infested that "ranch." He said that he expected a place high up in the dictionary of latter-day saints and in the encyclopedia of nineteenth-century tribulations, because of the Christian fortitude with which he endured and forgave the stings and jibes of his puny tormentors. There was a great scene in the reporters' room of the Morning News the day after Cleveland's first election. The News had been one of the first of the independent newspapers of the country to bolt the nomination of Mr. Blaine. It had favored the renomination of President Arthur, and had convincing evidence of a shameful deal by which certain members of the Illinois delegation, elected as Arthur men, were seduced into the Blaine camp. But this alone would not have decided the course of the paper--that was dictated by the widespread mistrust felt throughout the country as to Mr. Blaine's entire impeccability in the matter of the Little Rock bonds. Field, throughout the campaign, stood by Blaine and Logan and defied the Mugwumps to do their worst. So on the morning after the election he was in a thoroughly disgusted mood. He scoffed at the idea of becoming a Mugwump, but declared himself ready to renounce his Republicanism and become a Democrat. To that end he prepared a formal renunciation. It consisted of a flamboyant denunciation of the past glories and present virtues of the Republican party and an enthusiastic eulogy of the crimes, blunders, and base methods of the Democratic party. Field announced that he preferred to be enrolled as a Democrat, and to accept his share in all the obloquy which he laid at the Democratic door rather than affiliate with the Mugwump bolters. He said that he would rather be classed as a thoroughbred donkey than be feared as a mule without pride of pedigree or hope of posterity, whose only virtue lay in its heels. Then he swathed himself in a shroud of newspapers and laid himself out in the centre of the floor in the rôle of a martyred Republican. He bade the rest of us form a procession and walk over him, taking care not to step on the corpse. After the ceremony was carried out he rose up, a Jacksonian Democrat in name, but a bluer Republican than ever. There was a sequel to this scene, for which it will serve as an introduction. In May, 1888, Mr. Stone sold out his interest in the Morning and Daily News and retired from the editorship of the former. Under Mr. Lawson, who succeeded him in sole control, both papers retained their independence, but became less aggressive in the maintenance of their views. Mr. Lawson sought to make them impartial purveyors of unbiased news to all parties. Hardly had the blue pencil of supervision dropped from Mr. Stone's fingers before Field made an opportunity to unburden his soul upon the subject of his martyrdom in the following extraordinary and highly entertaining screed: The second letter which Mr. Blaine has written saying that he will, under no circumstances, become a candidate for the presidency refreshes a sad, yet a glorious, memory. Just about five years ago five members of the editorial staff of this paper were gathered together in the library. Blaine had just been nominated for the presidency by the National Republican Convention. For months the Daily News had advocated the renomination of Arthur, but now within an hour it beheld its teachings go for naught, its ambitions swept ruthlessly away, and its hopes cruelly, irrevivably crushed; Mr. Stone was then editor of the paper; he was in the convention hall when Blaine's nomination was secured. His editorial associates waited with serious agitation his return, and his instructions as to the course which the paper would pursue in the emergency which had been presented. There were different opinions as to what Mr. Stone would be likely to do, but there was a general feeling that he would be likely to antagonize Blaine. One of the editorial writers, a Canadian, who had just taken out his last naturalization papers, expressed determination that the paper must fight Blaine. He hated Blaine, and he had reason to; for Blaine had, during his short career as prime minister, evinced a strong disposition to clutch all Canadians who were caught fishing for tomcod in American waters. Therefore, Carthage _delenda est_. The debate ran high, yet every word was spoken softly, for the most violent excitement always precipitates a hush. Even the newsboys in the alley caught the awful infection; they stole in and out noiselessly and with less violence than usual, as if, in sooth, the dumb wheels reverenced the dismal sanctity of the hour. The elevator crept silently down with the five o'clock forms, so decently and so composedly as scarcely to jar the bottle of green ink on the Austin landholder's table. All at once the door opened and in stalked M.E. Stone, silent, pallid, protentous. His wan eye comprehended the scene instantaneously, but no twitch or tremor in his lavender lips betrayed the emotions (whatever they might have been) that surged beneath the clothes he wore. Cervantes tells how that Don Quixote, in the course of one of his memorable adventures, was shown a talking head--a head set upon a table and capable of uttering human speech, but in so hollow and tube-like a tone as to give one the impression that the voice came from far away. A somewhat similar device is now exhibited in our museums, where, upon payment of a trifling fee, you may hear the head discourse in a voice which sounds as though it might emanate from the tomb and from the very time of the first Pharaoh. Mr. Stone looked and Mr. Stone spoke like a "talking head" when he came in upon us that awful day. His face had the inhuman pallor, his eyes the lack-lustre expression, and his tones the distant, hollow, metallic cadence of the inexplicable machine that astounds the patrons of dime-museums. He seemed to take in the situation at once; knew as surely as though he had been told what we were talking about and how terribly we were wrought up. His right arm moved mechanically through some such gesture as Canute is supposed to have made when he bade the ocean retire before him, and from his bloodless lips came the memorable words--hollow, metallic, but memorable words--"Gentlemen, be calm! be calm!" The calmness of this man in that supreme moment was simply awful. He had been betrayed by one who should have been bound to him by every tie of gratitude. He had seen his political idol overthrown. He had witnessed the defeat and humiliation of what he believed to be the pure and patriotic spirit of American manhood. His highest ambition had been foiled, his sweetest hopes frustrated. Yet he was calm. Ever and anon the sky that arches the Neapolitan landscape reaches down its lips, they say, and kisses the bald summit of Vesuvius; as if it recognized the grand impressiveness of this scene, the Mediterranean at such times hushes its voice and lies tranquil as a slumbering child; all nature stands silent before the communion of the clouds and the Titans. But this ineffable peace, this majestic repose, is protentous. To rest succeeds activity; after calm comes tempest; out of placid dream bursts reality. Mr. Stone's calmness, like the whittler's stick, tapered up instead down. He who had, at five o'clock on that never-to-be-forgotten day, come upon us with the insinuating placidity of hunyadi janos--he who had addressed us in the tone of prehistoric centuries--he who bade us be calm, and at the same time gave us the finest tableau of human calmness human eye ever contemplated--he it was whom we found at eleven o'clock that very night, frothing at the mouth, biting chunks out of the hard-wood furniture, and tearing the bowels out of everything that came his way. This singular madness has raged, unabated, for four years. It was so infectious that his associates caught it--all but three. The men about the Daily News office who clung to the Republican party through thick and thin, who endured, therefore, every scoff, jibe, and taunt which sin could devise, and who, preferring honorable death to the rewards of treachery, proudly cast their votes for the nominees of the grand old party,--these three men are entitled to places in the foremost rank of Christian martyrs. Two of them were Joe Bingham and Morgan Bates. Bingham is dead now; peace to his dust. He never was his old hearty self after the defeat of Blaine; and when, upon the heels of this calamity, he moved to Indianapolis, Ind., he could stand it no longer and yielded up his life. He was a stanch soldier in a holy cause; and there is consolation in the fact that he is now at last enjoying the eternal rewards that are prepared for all true Republicans. As for Morgan Bates, he got somewhat even with his malicious persecutors by writing and producing plays; but retaliation is never satisfactory to a man of noble impulses, and Bates would not pursue it long. He preferred to go into voluntary exile at Des Moines, Iowa; and in that glorious Republican harvest-field he accomplished a great and good work, which being done, symmetrized and concinnated, he returned to this Gomorrah of Mugwumpery and identified himself with that sterling trade journal, the Hide and Leather Criterion. Next November the two surviving members of the old guard of three will march, arm in arm, to the polls, and will then and there cast their individual votes for the nominees of the Republican party--it matters not whether they be statesmen or tobacco-signs, so long as they be nominees. As the blasts do but root a tree more firmly in mother earth, so have the trials to which we Republicans of the Daily News have been subjected for the four years riveted us all the more securely to the faith. We have been forced in the line of professional duty to turn humorous paragraphs upon the alleged insincerity of our beloved political leader, but every paragraph so turned shall eventually come home d.v. (and we hope d.q.) to roost, like an Ossa, upon the Pelion of Infamy, which shall surely mark the grave of Mugwumpery. Every poem which we persecuted defenders of the faith have been bulldozed into weaving for the regalement of our persecutors shall be sung again when the other shore is reached, and when the horse and the rider are thrown into the sea. Never for a moment during the trials of these four years have we doubted (and when we say "we," Bates is included)--never have we doubted that there was a promised land, and that we should get there in due time. What we have needed was a Moses; to be candid, we still need a Moses; and we need him badly. We care naught where he comes from--it matters not whither, from the New York Central or from the Western Reserve or from Dubuque, so long as he be a Moses, and that kind of an improved Moses, too, that will not fall just this side of the line. O brother Republican, what rewards, what joys, what delights are in store for us twain! Lift up your eyes and see in the East the dawn of the new day. Its warmth and its splendor will soon be over and about us. And, mindful of our martyrdom and contemplating its rewards, with great force comes to us just now the lines of the inspired Watts, wherein he portrays the eventual felicity of such as we: _What bliss will thrill the ransomed souls When they in glory dwell, To see the sinner as he rolls In quenchless flames of hell._ Never did a cheerful sinner extract such entertaining enjoyment for himself and his friends from a fictitious martyrdom as Field did from these political tribulations. That he never lost his waggish or satirical interest in politics is evidenced by the following parody on his own "Jest 'fore Christmas," written in December, 1894, being at the expense of the then mayor of Chicago: _JEST 'FORE ELECTION My henchmen say "Your Honor," as on their knees they drop; Some people call me Hopkins, but to most I'm known as Hop! For pretty nigh a year I've run the City Hall machine, Protecting my policemen and the gamblers on the green. Love to boss, an' fool the pious people with my tricks-- Hate to take the medicine I got November 6! Most all the time the whole year round there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be! Gran'ma Ela says she hopes to see me snug and warm In the bosom of Mugwumpery, whose motto is reform; But Gran'ma Ela he has never known the filling joys Of bossing "boodle" candidates and training with the boys; Of posing as a gentleman although at heart a tough; Of being sometimes out of scalps while some are out of stuff-- Or else he'd know that bossing things are good enough for me, Except jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be! When poor Rubens, wondering why I've left my gum-games drop, Inquires with rueful accent: "What's the matter with Hoppy Hop?" The Civic Federation comes from out its hiding-place And allows that Mayor Hopkins is chock-full of saving grace! And I appear so penitent and wear so long a phiz That some folks say: "Good gracious! how improved our mayor is!" But others tumble to my racket and suspicion me, When jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be! For candidates who hope to get there on election day Must mind their p's and q's right sharp in all they do and say, So clean the streets, assess the boys for everything they're worth, Jine all the federations, and promise them the earth! Say "yes 'um" to the ladies, and "yes sur" to the men, And when reform is mentioned, roll your eyes and yell "Amen!" No matter what the past has been--jest watch me now and see How jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!_ I will conclude this exposition of the attitude of Eugene Field to politics, public affairs, and public men with a whimsical bit of his verse, descriptive of how business and politics are mixed in a country store, premising it with the note that Colonel Bunn has since become a national character: _A STATESMAN'S SORROW 'Twas in a Springfield grocery store, Not many years ago, That Colonel Bunn patrolled the floor, The paragon of woe. Though all the people of the town Were gathered there to buy, Good Colonel Bunn walked up and down With many a doleful sigh. He vented off a dismal groan, And grunt of sorry kind, And murmured in a hollow tone The thoughts that vexed his mind. "Alas! how pitiful," he said, "And oh! how wondrous vain, To run a party at whose head Stands such a man as Blaine. "'Tis here, with eager hearts and legs, Folks come to buy their teas-- Their coffee, sugar, butter, eggs, Molasses, flour, and cheese-- And every article I keep, As all good grocers do, They purchase here amazing cheap-- The very finest, too. "Yet when a canvass must be won, He, who presides it o'er, Is sadly qualified to run A country grocery store; His soul, once mesmerized by Blaine, Is very ill at ease When lowered to the humble plane Of butter, eggs, and teas! "But what precipitates my woe, And fills my heart with fear, Is all this happy, human flow, With not a word of cheer; They purchase goods of various styles, Yet, as they swell my gain, They mention Cleveland's name with smiles, But never speak of Blaine!"_ Of serious views on political questions Field had none. The same may be truthfully said of his attitude on all social and economic problems. He eschewed controversy and controversial subjects. His study was literature and the domestic side and social amenities of life; and he left the salvation of the republic and the amelioration of the general condition of mankind to those who felt themselves "sealed" to such missions. CHAPTER IX HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS" In the introduction I have said that if Eugene Field had only written his autobiography, as was once his intention, it would probably have been one of the greatest works of fiction by an American. Early in his career he was the victim of that craze that covets the signatures and manuscript sentiments of persons who have achieved distinction, which later he did so much to foster by precept and practice. He was an inveterate autograph-hunter, and toward the close of his life he paid the penalty of harping on the joys of the collector by the receipt of a perfect avalanche of requests for autographs and extracts from his poems in his own handwriting. The nature of his most popular verses also excited widespread curiosity as to the life, habits, and views of the author of "Little Boy Blue" and "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod." The importunities of this last class of admirers became so numerous that during the winter of 1894 he wrote and had printed what he called his "Auto-Analysis." "I give these facts, confessions, and observations," wrote he, "for the information of those who, for one reason or another, are applying constantly to me for biographical data concerning myself." Such was its author's humor, that behind almost every fact in this "Auto-Analysis" lurks either an error or a hoax. Its confessions are half-truths, and its whimsical observations are purposely designed to lead the reader to false conclusions. And withal the whole document is written with the ingeniousness of a mind without guile, which was one of Field's most highly developed literary accomplishments. No study of Field's character and methods would be complete without giving this very "human document": AN AUTO-ANALYSIS I was born in St. Louis, Mo., September 3d, 1850, the second and oldest surviving son of Roswell Martin and Frances (Reed) Field, both natives of Windham County, Vt. Upon the death of my mother (1856), I was put in the care of my (paternal) cousin, Miss Mary Field French, at Amherst, Mass. In 1865 I entered the private school of Rev. James Tufts, Monson, Mass., and there fitted for Williams College, which institution I entered as a freshman in 1868. Upon my father's death, in 1869, I entered the sophomore class of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill., my guardian, John W. Burgess, now of Columbia College, being then a professor in that institution. But in 1870 I went to Columbia, Mo., and entered the State University there, and completed my junior year with my brother. In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and my patrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and England. In May, 1873, I became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal. In October of that year I married Miss Julia Sutherland Comstock (born in Chenango County, N.Y.), of St. Joseph, Mo., at that time a girl of sixteen. We have had eight children--three daughters and five sons. Ill-health compelled me to visit Europe in 1889; there I remained fourteen months, that time being divided between England, Germany, Holland, and Belgium. My residence at present is in Buena Park, a north-shore suburb of Chicago. My newspaper connections have been as follows: 1875-76, city editor of the St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; 1876-80, editorial writer on the St. Louis Journal and St. Louis Times-Journal; 1880-81, managing editor of the Kansas City Times; 1881-83, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. Since 1883 I have been a contributor to the Chicago Record (formerly Morning News). I wrote and published my first bit of verse in 1879; it was entitled "Christmas Treasures" (see "Little Book of Western Verse"). Just ten years later I began suddenly to write verse very frequently; meanwhile (1883-89) I had labored diligently at writing short stories and tales. Most of these I revised half a dozen times. One, "The Were-Wolf," as yet unpublished, I have rewritten eight times during the last eight years. My publications have been, chronologically, as follows: 1. "The Tribune Primer," Denver, 1882. (Out of print, very scarce.) ("The Model Primer," illustrated by Hoppin, Treadway, Brooklyn, 1882. A pirate edition.) 2. "Culture's Garland," Ticknor, Boston, 1887. (Out of print.) "A Little Book of Western Verse," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.) "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.) 3. "A Little Book of Western Verse," Scribners, New York, 1890. 4. "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Scribners, New York, 1890. 5. "With Trumpet and Drum," Scribners, New York, 1892. 6. "Second Book of Verse," Scribners, New York, 1893. 7. "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" (translations of Horace), McClurg, Chicago, 1893. (In collaboration with my brother, Roswell Martin Field.) 8. Introduction to Stone's "First Editions of American Authors," Cambridge, 1893. 9. "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," Stone & Kimball, Cambridge, 1893. I have a miscellaneous collection of books, numbering 3,500, and I am fond of the quaint and curious in every line. I am very fond of dogs, birds, and all small pets--a passion not approved by my wife. My favorite flower is the carnation, and I adore dolls. My favorite hymn is "Bounding Billows." My favorites in fiction are Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," "Don Quixote," and "Pilgrim's Progress." I greatly love Hans Andersen's "Tales," and I am deeply interested in folk-lore and fairy-tales. I believe in ghosts, in witches, and in fairies. I should like to own a big astronomical telescope and a twenty-four-tune music-box. My heroes in history are Martin Luther, Mademoiselle Lamballe, Abraham Lincoln; my favorite poems are Körner's "Battle Prayer," Wordsworth's "We are Seven," Newman's "Lead, Kindly Light," Luther's "Hymn," Schiller's "The Diver," Horace's "Fons Bandusiae," and Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night." I dislike Dante and Byron. I should like to have known Jeremiah, the prophet, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, Bonaparte, Hawthorne, Mademoiselle Sontag, Sir John Herschel, Hans Andersen. My favorite actor is Henry Irving; actress, Mademoiselle Modjeska. I dislike "politics," so called. I should like to have the privilege of voting extended to women. I favor a system of pensions for noble services in literature, art, science, etc. I approve of compulsory education. If I had my way, I should make the abuse of horses, dogs, and cattle, a penal offence; I should abolish all dog laws and dog catchers, and I would punish severely everybody who caught and caged birds. I dislike all exercise, and play all games indifferently. I love to read in bed. I believe in churches and schools; I hate wars, armies, soldiers, guns, and fireworks. I like music (limited). I have been a great theatre-goer. I enjoy the society of doctors and clergymen. My favorite color is red. I do not care particularly for sculpture or for paintings; I try not to become interested in them, for the reason that if I were to cultivate a taste for them I should presently become hopelessly bankrupt. I am extravagantly fond of perfumes. I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco. I dislike crowds, and I abominate functions. I am six feet in height, am of spare build, weigh 160 pounds, and have shocking taste in dress. But I like to have well-dressed people about me. My eyes are blue, my complexion pale, my face is shaven, and I incline to baldness. It is only when I look and see how young, and fair, and sweet my wife is that I have a good opinion of myself. I am fond of companionship of women, and I have no unconquerable prejudice against feminine beauty. I recall with pride that in twenty-two years of active journalism I have always written in reverential praise of womankind. I favor early marriage. I do not love all children. I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them, in so far as I can make pets of them. I believe that, if I live, I shall do my best literary work when I am a grandfather. So cleverly are truth and fiction dove-tailed together in this "Auto-Analysis" that it would puzzle a jury of his intimate friends to say where Field was attempting to state facts and where he was laughing in his sleeve. Even the enumeration of his publications is amazingly inaccurate for a bibliomaniac's reply to the inquiries of his own guild. Francis Wilson's sumptuous edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" preceded that of McClurg, Chicago, 1893, by more than two years, and a limited edition of the "Second Book of Verse" was published privately by Melville E. Stone, Chicago, 1892, more than a year before it was published by the Scribners, as stated in Field's chronological order. Under ordinary circumstances such lapses in a list of a writer's published works would be a venial fault, and not worth mentioning; but in the case of one who set such store on "special large paper limited editions," they would be inexplicable--if that writer had not been Eugene Field. With him they were simply a notification to his intimates that the whole thing was not to be taken as a serious bibliology of his works or index of his character. So far as the cyclopedic narrative of his life is concerned, it is intended to be fairly accurate; but Field's notion that he suddenly began to write verse very frequently in 1889 runs contrary to the record in Denver and Chicago from 1881 to 1888, inclusive. The intentional waggery of misinformation masquerading as truth begins where Field leaves the recital of his life to give what purports to be an analysis of his character and sentiments. Here he lets his "winged fancy loose." He mingles fact with his fiction even as _The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence._ Not that Field had any deep design to betray anyone lurking behind the fictitious and facetious candor of this apparent self-revelation. This "Auto-Analysis" was written in response to the almost innumerable questions which, about that time, were being propounded in the newspapers and on the leaves of sentiment autograph albums. Hence the forms of Field's replies. For instance, to "What is your favorite flower?" he answered, "My favorite flower is the carnation;"--and with utter irrelevancy, added--"and I adore dolls!" Now Field was not particularly fond of flowers, and if he had a favorite, it was the rose, the pansy, or the violet. Of his three favorites in fiction "Don Quixote" is the only one to which he gave a second thought, although early familiarity with "Pilgrim's Progress" undoubtedly left its impression on his retentive memory. A more truthful answer would have been "The New England Primer," "The Complete Angler," and Father Prout. To another inquirer he said, "My favorite authors of prose are Cervantes, Hawthorne, Andersen, Sir Thomas Mallory," a very much more accurate statement. His love for the fairy-tales of Andersen and Grimm survived from the knee of his little Mormon nurse to the last tale he wrote; but his belief in ghosts, witches, and fairies was all in his literary mind's eye. He took the same delight in employing them in his works as he did flim-flams, flub-dubs, and catamarans. They were a part of his stock in trade, just as wooden animals were of Caleb Plummer's toy-shop. I think Field cherished a genuine admiration for Abraham Lincoln, whose whole life, nature, personal appearance, unaffected greatness, manner of speech, and fate appealed to his idea of what "the first American" should be. But strike the names of Newman, Horace, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, and Hans Andersen from the list of his favorites that follow the name of Lincoln, and it gains in truth as it shrinks in length. Upon the question of extending the right to vote to women, Field wasted no more thought than he did on "Politics," whether so called or not. This was a springe to catch the "wimmen folks, God bless them." He seldom took the trouble to vote himself, and ridiculed the idea of women demeaning themselves to enter the dirty strife for public office--as he regarded the beginning, middle, and end of all politics. Field had the strongest possible aversion to violence or brutality of any kind. He considered capital punishment as barbarous. He was not opposed to it because he regarded it as inaffective as a punishment or a deterrent of crime, but simply because taking life, and especially human life, was abhorrent to him. Hence his "hatred" of wars, armies, soldiers, and guns. Something more than a paragraph is needed to explain that word "limited" after Field's declaration "I like music." "Like" is a feeble word in this connection, and "limited" by his sense of the absurdity of reducing its enjoyment to an intellectual pursuit. He loved the music that appealed to the heart, the mind, the emotions through the ear. But for years he scoffed at and ridiculed the attempt to convey by the "harmony of sweet sounds" or alternating discords impressions or sentiments of things than can only be comprehended through the eye. He loved both vocal and instrumental music, and was a constant attendant on opera and concert. I have a unique documentary proof of Eugene Field's taste in music. Written on the folded back of a sheet of foolscap, which, on its face, preserves his original manuscript of "A Noon Tide Hymn," are three suggestions for the "request programmes" with which Theodore Thomas used to vary his concerts in the old Exposition Building in Chicago. Field seldom missed these concerts, and he always made a point of forwarding his choice for the next "request night." This one was as follows: 1. Invitation to Dance Weber 2. Spring Song Mendelssohn 3. Largho Handel 4. Rhapsody Hongroise(2) Liszt 1. Vorspiel Lohengrin 2. Waltz movement Volkman 3. Serenade Schubert 4. Ride of Walkures 1. Sylvia 2. 3. Ave Maria Bach-Gounod Introd. } 4. Nap. } Wagner. March. } The only limitation to a liking for music such as is revealed here is that it be good music. Mr. Thomas in those days scarcely ever made up a programme without including in it one of Field's favorites. Referring to music recalls the fact that Field once seriously contemplated writing a comic opera; and he only failed to carry out his purpose because he could not get the dialogue to suit him; moreover, he realized that he had but a limited grasp of the dramatic action and situations necessary in such work. How completely he had this work mapped out may be judged from the following memoranda, the manuscript of which is before me: THE BUCCANEERS Fernando, the Begum--basso. Paquita, his daughter--soprano. Christopher, the buccaneer--baritone. Mercedes, his sister--contralto. Carlos, a Peruvian lieutenant--tenor. Gonzales, Begum of Ohnos. Buccaneers, maidens, ballet, servants, etc. Time of action--three days, 1860. Scenes: First and third acts, in garden adjoining Fernando's mansion, suburbs of Piura. Second act, on board the ship "Perdita," port of Payla. FIRST ACT Fernando, the Begum, is about to give a moonlight fête in honor of his daughter's betrothal to Carlos. The young people are not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of their union, Carlos having given his heart, some years previously, to Mercedes, who is now married to a captain in the Chilian army, and Paquita having fallen desperately in love with a handsome young stranger whom she has, upon several occasions, met upon the sea-shore. This stranger is Christopher, who, for his participation in a petty revolt, has been declared an outlaw, and has taken to the life of a buccaneer, joined by numerous lively companions. Overcome by love of Paquita, Christopher manages to get himself and his band introduced at the fête, and in the midst of the festivities the young women are seized and carried aboard the buccaneers' ship. SECOND ACT Carlos, who has been taken prisoner with the girls, discovers that Mercedes, the buccaneer captain's sister, is his old fiancee, and is now a widow; explanations ensue and a reconciliation takes place. While debating how they shall advise Paquita of the truth, they overhear a conversation between Christopher and Paquita. Paquita declares that if Christopher really _loves_ her, he will come and woo her as an honorable man should. Christopher is about to release the captives, when Mercedes suggests, that to ensure the safety of the buccaneers Carlos be detained as a hostage. Carlos indorses the suggestion. The young ladies are permitted to go ashore. THIRD ACT While Fernando storms over the retention of Carlos, Paquita sadly broods over her love for Christopher. As she soliloquizes at her window Christopher appears. He cannot remain away from the object of his love. A scene ensues between the two. In the meantime Carlos and Mercedes have secretly stolen from the ship and been married by the village priest. They appear while Paquita and Christopher are conversing. (Quartette.) Fernando hears the commotion. (Quintette.) Christopher is discovered and apprehended. The buccaneers appear to rescue their long-absent captain. Explanations. Fernando informs the buccaneers that under the amnesty act of the king they are no longer outlaws. Christopher's estates await him. Carlos and Mercedes appear. Fernando gives Paquita to Christopher. It will be perceived that the spirited action of this "argument," as Field styled it, practically ends with the first act, a fault which the veriest neophyte in the art of libretto writing knows is fatal. But the most interesting feature of this opera in embryo is the list of songs which Field had planned for it. They were: SONGS "Begum of Piura." "The Crazy Quilt." "My Life is One Continuous Lie." "By Day Upon the Billowy Sea." Lullaby--"Do Not Wake the Baby." "The Good Old Way." Barcarolle--"I've Come Across the Water." TRIO "He Really Does Not Seem to Know." DUETS "My Love Was Fair." "To the Sea, O Love!" "O Dearest Love, Through all the Years." "Into God's Hands." FEMALE CHORUS "Down the Forest Pathway." MALE CHORUS "From the Farms." "We are a Band of Gallant Tars." MIXED CHORUS "Hail, O Happy Nuptial Day!" "Ah!" "Where Turtle Doves are Cooing." "The Spanish Dance." "They're Delightful." "Oh, Can Such Wonders Be?" "How Sweet to Fly." "He Really Must Be Ailing." "Adieu, Sweet Love." QUARTETTE "The Old Love." "The Parent's Voice." QUINTETTE "Oh, What Were Life." Field always insisted that Messrs. Smith and DeKoven got the title, if not some of the inspiration, for their opera "The Begum" from the argument of his "Buccaneer," the scheme of which he showed to Harry B. Smith, then a member of the Morning News staff. But the reason for his failure to carry out his operatic venture is obvious in the argument itself. It is intrinsically deficient in the elements of surprise, novel situations, and dramatic action necessary for stage effect. Field would have made it rich in lyrics, but as has been often proved, lyrics alone cannot make a successful opera. He quickly appreciated this and abandoned the work with "Oh, What Were Life?" There never was any doubt of Field's "shocking taste in dress," and he never sought to cultivate or reform it. But what will those who knew him say of the statement, "I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco." Field was, by the common verdict of those who had the pleasure of meeting him at any dinner company, the best diner-out they ever knew. He had a keen enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, and but for that wretched stomach would have been as much of an authority on eating as he came to be on collecting. He loved to discuss the art of dining, although he was forbidden to practise it heartily. His favorite gift-books "appertained" to the art of cooking, in one of which (Hazlitt's "Old Cooking Books") I find inscribed to Mrs. Thompson: _Big bokes with nony love I send To those by whom I set no store-- But see, I give to you, sweete friend, A lyttel boke and love gallore! E.F._ Field gave up drinking wine and all kinds of alcoholic liquors, as has been related, before coming to Chicago. And yet I have seen him sniff the bouquet of some rare wine or liquor with the quivering nostril of a connoisseur, but--and this was the marvel to his associates--without "the ruby," as Dick Swiveller termed it, being the least temptation to his lips. Eugene Field "not smoke tobacco"! He was one of the most inveterate smokers in America. If he had been given his choice between giving up pie or tobacco, I verily believe he would have thrown away the pie and stuck to the soothing weed out of which he sucked daily and hourly comfort. He had acquired the Yankee habit of ruminating with a small quid of tobacco in his cheek when a good cigar was not between his teeth. He consumed not only all the cigars that fell to his share in a profession where cigars are the invariable concomitants of every chance meeting, every social gathering, and every public function, but also those that in the usual round of our life fell to me. And I was not his only abetter in despoiling the Egyptians who thought to work the freedom of the press with a few passes of the narcotic weed. It is a curious fact that Field's pretended aversion to tobacco persists through all his writings, from the Denver Primer sketches down. In those we find him attributing the authorship of this warning to children to S.J. Tilden: _Oh, children, you Must never chew Tobacco--it is Awful! The Juice will Quickly make you Sick If once you get your Maw Full._ He never ceased having discussions with himself over the wording or authorship of the famous lines attributed to "Little Robert Reed," as in the following: Lo and behold! This is the way the St. Louis Republican mangles an old, quaint, beautiful, and popular poem: _"I would not use tobacco," said Little Robert Reed. "I would not use tobacco, for 'Tis a nasty weed."_ We protest against this brutal mutilization of a grand old classic. The quatrain should read, as in the original, thus: _"I'll never chew tobacco--no, It is a filthy weed; I'll never put it in my mouth," Said little Robert Reed._ By the way, who was the author of the poem of which the foregoing is the first stanza? I need scarcely refer the reader to Field's confession in his letter of December 12th, 1891, to Mr. Gray of his struggle to give up the use of tobacco, and to the photograph of Field at work, to indicate that his "I do not smoke tobacco" was but one more of those harmless hoaxes he took such pains to carry through at the expense of an ever-credulous public. Only one more point in regard to the "Auto-Analysis," and I am through with that whimsical concoction; and that is in reference to his attitude toward children. Knowing full well that his inquiring admirers expected him to rhapsodize upon his love for children, he deliberately set about disappointing them with: I do not love all children. I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them in so far as I can make pets of them. Of course this was received with a chorus of incredulity--as it was intended it should be. The autograph hunters who had formed their conception of Field from his lullabies, his "Little Boy Blue," his "Krinken," his "Wynken," and his score of other poems, all proving his mastery over the strings that vibrate with the rocking of the cradle, at once pronounced this the most delicious hit of their author's humor. They knew that such songs could only emanate from a man whose heart overflowed with the warmest sentiment to all childhood. They were convinced that Field must love all children, and nothing he could say could change their conviction. [Illustration: FIELD THE COMEDIAN.] And yet those words, "I do not love all children," are the truest six words in his "Auto-Analysis." Field not only did not love all children, he truly loved very few children. His own children were very dear to him, both those that came in his early wedded life and the two who were born to him after his return from Europe. They were a never-failing source of interest and enjoyment to him. They were the human documents he loved best to study. They wore no masks to conceal their emotions, and he hated masks--on others. But above all, they were bone of his bone and flesh of his love, the pledges and hostages he had given to fortune, and they were the children of her to whom he had vowed eternal faith "when their two lives were young." But Field's fondness for other people's children was like that of an entomologist for bugs--for purposes of study, dissection, and classification. He delighted to see the varying shades of emotion chase each other across their little tell-tale faces. This man, who could not have set his foot on a worm, who shrank from the sight of pain inflicted on any dumb animal, took almost as much delight in making a child cry, that he might study its little face in dismay or fright, as in making it laugh, that he might observe its method of manifesting pleasure. He read the construction of child-nature in the unreserved expressions of childish emotions as he provoked or evoked them. Thus he grew to know children as few have known them, and his exceptional gift of writing for and about them was the result of deliberate study rather than of personal sympathy. That his own children were sometimes a trial to their "devoted mother" and "fond father," as he described their parents, may be inferred from the facts which were the basis of such bits of confidence between Field and the readers of his "Sharps and Flats" as this: An honest old gentleman living on the North Side has two young sons, who, like too many sons of honest gentlemen, are given much to boyish worldliness, such as playing "hookey" and manufacturing yarns to keep themselves from under the maternal slipper. The other day the two boys started out, ostensibly for school, but as they did not come home to dinner and were not seen by their little sister about the school-grounds, the awful suspicion entered the good mother's mind that they had again been truant. Along about dark one of them, the younger, came in blue with cold. "Why, Pinny," said the mother, "where have you been?" "Oh, down by the lake, getting warm," said the youngster. "Down by the lake?" "Yes; we were cold, and we saw the smoke coming up from the lake, so we went down there to get warm. And," he continued, in a propitiatory tone, "we thought we'd catch some fish for supper." "Fish?" exclaimed the mother. "Yes; Melvin's comin' with the fish." At this juncture the elder boy walked in triumphantly holding up a dried herring tied to the end of a yard or so of twine. That night, when the honest old gentleman reached home, the young men got a warming without having to go to the steaming lake. But all of Field's keen analytical comprehension of child-nature is purified and exalted in his writings by his unalloyed reverence for motherhood. The child is the theme, but it is almost always for the mother he sings. Even here, however, he could not always resist the temptation to relieve sentiment with a piece of humor, as in the following clever congratulations to a friend on the birth of a son: _A handsome and lively, though wee body Is the son of my friend, Mrs. Peabody-- It affords me great joy That her son is a boy, And not an absurd little she-body._ More than thirty years since the late Professor John Fiske, when asked to write out an account of his daily life for publication, did very much the same thing as Field palmed off on his correspondents in his "Auto-Analysis." He gave some "sure-enough" facts as to his birth, education, and manner of life, but mixed in with the truth such a medley of grotesque falsehoods about his habits of study, eating, and drinking, that he supposed the whole farrago would be thrown into the waste-paper basket. For thirty years he lived in the serene belief that such had been its fate. But one day he was unpleasantly reminded of his mistake. The old manuscript had been resurrected "from the worm-hole of forgotten years," and he was published widecast as a glutton, not only of work, but in eating, drinking, and sleeping. A man who defied all the laws of hygiene, of moderation, and of rest. And when he died, from heat prostration--an untimely death, that robbed his country of its greatest student mind, while yet his energies were boundless--that thoughtless story of thirty years ago was revived, to justify the "I told you sos" of the public press. His "Auto-Analysis" was not the only hoax of this description in which Eugene Field indulged. In 1893 Hamlin Garland contributed an article to McClure's Magazine, entitled, "A Dialogue Between Eugene Field and Hamlin Garland." It purported to be an interview which the latter had with the former in his "attic study" in Chicago. Field was represented surrounded by "a museum of old books, rare books, Indian relics, dramatic souvenirs, and bric-a-brac indescribable." The result is a most remarkable jumble of misinformation and fiction, with which Field plied Garland to the top of his bent. What Garland thought were bottom facts were really sky-scraping fiction. As if this were not enough, Garland made Field talk in an approach to an illiterate dialect, such as he never employed and cordially detested. Garland represented Field as discussing social and economic problems--why not the "musical glasses," deponent saith not. The really great and characteristic point in the dialogue was where something Field said caused "Garland to lay down his pad and lift his big fist in the air like a maul. His enthusiasm rose like a flood." The whole interview was a serious piece of business to the serious-minded realist. To Field, at the time, and for months after, it was a huge and memorable joke. But there are thousands who accept the Eugene Field of the "Auto-Analysis" and of the Garland dialogue as the true presentment of the man, when the real man is only laughing in his sleeve at the reader and the interviewer in both of them. CHAPTER X LAST YEARS If this were a record of a life, and not a study of character, with the side-lights bearing upon its development and idiosyncrasies, there would remain much to write of Eugene Field after his return from abroad. Much came to him in fame, in fortune, in his friendships, and in his home. Two more children were born to brighten his hearthstone and refresh his memories of childhood and the enchanting ways of children. The elder of these two, a son, was named Roswell Francis, a combination of the names of Field's father and mother, with the change of a vowel to suit his sex; the younger, his second daughter, was christened Ruth, after Mrs. Gray, in whose home Field had found, more than a score of years before, the disinterested affection of a mother, "a refuge from temptation, care, and vexation." Although immediately upon getting back Field resumed his daily grind of "Sharps and Flats" for the Chicago Record, his paragraphs showed more and more the effects of his reading and his withdrawal from the activities and associations of men. Mankind continued to interest him as much as ever, but books wearied him less, and in his home were more easily within reach. This home was now at 420 Fullerton Avenue, an old-fashioned house on the northern limit of old Chicago, rather off the beaten track. It was the fifth place the Field household had set up its lares and penates since coming to Chicago. In consequence of his collecting mania, his impedimenta had become a puzzle to house and a domestic cataclysm to move. By 1891 Field realized, as none of his family or friends did, that his health would never be better, and that it behooved him to put his house in order and make the most of the strength remaining. If he needed the words of a mentor to warn him, he could have found them in the brief memoir his uncle, Charles Kellogg, had written of his father. In that I find this remarkable anticipation of what befell his son, written of Roswell M. Field--who, be it remembered, started in life with a healthy and vigorous body, whereas uncertain health and a rebellious stomach were Eugene Field's portion all the days of his life. He [Field's father] made the perusal of the Greek and Latin classics his most delightful pastime. In fact, he resorted to this scientific research, particularly in the department of mathematics, for his chief mental recreation. It is greatly to be regretted that he neglected to combine, with his cessation from professional labor, some employment which would have revived and strengthened his physical frame. He was averse to active exercise, and for some years before his death he lived a life of studious seclusion which would have been philosophical had he not violated, in the little care he took of his health, one of the most important lessons which philosophy teaches. At a comparatively early age he died of physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity, on their part, to discharge the vital functions--a wearing out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was designed. He was eminently qualified to serve, as well as to adorn, society, and in all likelihood he would have found in a greater variety of occupation some relief from the monotonous strain under which his energies prematurely gave way. But the conditions that confronted Eugene Field at the age of forty-one were very different from those under which his father succumbed prematurely at sixty-one. He had made a name and fame for himself, but had not stored any of the harvest his writings were beginning to yield. He could write, as he did, that he expected to do his best literary work when a grandfather, but he had no belief that he would live to enjoy that happy Indian summer of paternity. He was tired of being moved from rented flat to rented house with his accumulated belongings, and he yearned with the "sot" New England yearning for a permanent home, a roof-tree that he could call his own, a patch of earth in which he could "slosh around," with no landlord to importune for grudging repairs. And so Field's life during his last years has to be considered as a struggle with physical exhaustion, fighting off the inevitable reckoning until he could provide himself and his family with a home and leave to his dear ones the means of retaining it, with the opportunities of education for the juniors. And bravely and cheerily he faced the situation. Neither in his social relations nor in his daily task was there observable any trace of the tax he was putting upon his over-strained energy. He could not afford to make the study of classics a delightful pastime, as his father did, but he made it contribute a constant and delightful fund of reference and allusion in his column. His first books were selling steadily, and he worked assiduously to make hay while the sun was still above the horizon. In quick succession, "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," "With Trumpet and Drum," the "Second Book of Verse," "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," and "Love Songs of Childhood," with few exceptions, collected from his daily contributions to the Chicago Record, were issued from the press in both limited and popular editions. On the top of his regular work, which in collected form began to be productive beyond his fondest expectations, Field allowed himself to be over-persuaded into entering the platform field. The managers of reading-bureaus had been after him for years; but he had resisted their alluring offers, because he would not make a show of himself, and the exertion fagged him. But in the later years of his life they came at him again, with the promise of more pay per night than he could get by writing in a week, and he reluctantly made occasional engagements, which were a drain on his vitality as well as an offence to his peculiar notions of personal dignity. After each of these excursions into the platform field, either in the triple alliance with "Bill" Nye and James Whitcomb Riley, or with George W. Cable, in a most effective combination, Field returned to his home in Chicago richer in pocket and interesting experiences, but distinctly poorer in the vital reserve necessary to prolong the battle with that rebellious stomach. The presidential campaign of 1892 quite revived his interest in politics and politicians, and drew him away from the association with books at home and with the Saints and Sinners at McClurg's. For a time it looked as if he had been weaned from the circle of collectors, and never had his column held up to ridicule so fiercely the humbug and hypocricy of political methods as during that summer. One day after the nomination of Harrison and Reid, at Minneapolis, his column contained no fewer than forty-one political paragraphs, each one "ringing the bell" of mirth or scorn, as the subject warranted. In the following winter there came the first hiatus in his regular contributions to the Record. But he resumed work in May, his return being heralded by a paragraph beginning, "This is a beautiful world, and life herein is very sweet," a note theretofore seldom heard in his paragraphs, though often struck in his "Profitable Tales"; and thenceforward in his daily work his thoughts recur to the beauty of the world and his gladness to be in it. Thus in the following July he wrote: What beautiful weather this is! How full of ozone the atmosphere is; how bright the sunshine is, and how blue this noble lake of ours lies under the cloudless sky! It is simply ideal weather. Who does not rejoice in the change from the oppressive heat of last week? Vigor is restored to all. Commerce revives, and humanity is hopeful and cheering again. And what lovely nights we are having! The moonlight was never more glorious. Unhappy is that man, old or young, who hath not a sweetheart to share with him the poetic grace of our satellite! And such nights for sleep! Morning comes before it is welcome. Yes, this world of ours is very beautiful, and we are glad that we are in and of it. The summer of 1893, with the crowds and various excitements of the World's Fair, was very exhausting to Field, albeit he enjoyed the wonder and beauty of the Columbian Exposition with all the intent eagerness of a twelve-year-old lad at a country circus. Everything that happened down at Jackson Park that memorable season, especially the social rivalries of the different managing bodies, was fair game for his roguish wit. The liberties which he took with the names and reputations of public men showed that the old spirit of waggery was not dead within him. This is illustrated in such verses as these: _The shades of night were falling fast As through the world's fair portal passed A certain Adlai Stevenson, Whose bead-like eyes were fixed upon The Midway. He was the very favorite son Of proud, immortal Bloomington: And, hankering for forbidden joys, He pined to whoop up with the boys The Midway "Try not those fakes," a stranger said, "Unless you're hankering to be bled!" Alas, these words were all for naught-- With still more fervor Adlai sought The Midway. "Beware the divers games of chance, Beware that Street in Cairo dance!" All, all in vain, the warning cry-- Adlai whooped, as he sailed by: "The Midway!" But why pursue this harrowing tale? Far better we should drop the veil Of secrecy before begin His exploits in that Vale of Sin, The Midway._ In the spring of 1892 Field was fortunate enough to find a house in Buena Park, a northern suburb of Chicago, which, besides having the convenience of a trolley connection with the centre of the city, had the incalculable advantage of overlooking the extensive and beautiful private grounds justly celebrated in "The Delectable Ballad of the Waller Lot": _Up yonder in Buena Park There is a famous spot, In legend and in history Yclept the Waller Lot. There children play in daytime And lovers stroll by dark, For 'tis the goodliest trysting place In all Buena Park._ Next to owning a homestead, with rolling lawns and groves of old trees and family associations, Field enjoyed having someone else bear the burden of their maintenance for his immediate personal delectation, and the Waller homestead, with its park effects, afforded him that inexpensive pleasure. His windows looked out upon a truly sylvan scene, the gates to which were always invitingly open, southern fashion, to congenial wayfarers. The more Field saw of the Waller lot, the more completely did the old New England hankering after a homestead, with acres instead of square feet of lawn and trees, take possession of him; and the spectre of ten years' rent for inconvenient flats and houses rose in his memory and urged him to buy land and build for himself. This finally resulted in the following letter to the old friend to whom he always went in any financial emergency, and from whom he never came empty handed away: DEAR MR. GRAY: An experience of a good many years has convinced me that the best way to deal with one's fellow-creatures, and particularly with one's friends, is directly and candidly. This is one of the several considerations which lead me to write to you now asking you whether it be within your power (and also whether it be your willingness) to help me buy a home in Chicago. Julia has been at me for a year to ask this of you. I have hesitated to do so in the fear that the application might seem to be an attempt to take advantage of your friendship for me--a friendship manifested in many ways and covering a period of many years. Perhaps, however, we can now look at the matter more as a business proposition than would have been possible a year or two ago, for I am at last in a position to pay interest promptly on a considerable amount of money. To be more explicit, the sum of One Hundred and Fifty Dollars ($150) is set aside monthly by the Record toward what Mr. Lawson calls my "building fund," which sum the Record is prepared to guarantee and pay to anybody making me the loan of money necessary to secure the home I want. I am very anxious for a habitation of my own. The desire is one that gives me no peace, and I see no other way to its fulfilment than through the liberality of any friend, or friends, with money to lend. Before setting my heart upon any locality, or upon any particular spot, it is wise that I should know whether and where the assistance I need can be had. My first application is to you, and I make it timidly, for, as I have said, it is very distasteful to me to do that which may look like imposing upon friendship. In case you found it possible and feasible to aid me, I should want you to come to Chicago and take a look over the field with Julia and me. We are fairly well. With every cordial regard, Yours affectionately, EUGENE FIELD. Buena Park, September 16th, 1893. There had ever been but one response from Mr. Gray to such an appeal as this from his quondam ward, and Field was not disappointed this time. But _l'homme propose et Dieu dispose_; and in this case there was no woman to intervene, as in the Spanish version of the proverb, to "discompose" the disposition of Deity. Before the project contemplated in Field's letter took tangible shape, however, he was laid on his back by a severe cold, which developed into pneumonia. On his recovery, the doctor advised that he should go to California; and on November 8th he wrote to Mr. Gray, asking him if he and his niece could not be ready to accompany him about the 1st of December. Concluding a very brief note, he said: "Writing makes me very tired, so pray pardon my brutal brevity. I send very much love to you and yours. Many, many times have I thought of you, dear friend, during the last three painful weeks, and I have wished that you were here, that I might speak with you." Mr. Gray arranged to join Field on the trip, which the latter outlined in a letter to him December 4th, 1893: I shall probably be ready to start for Los Angeles the latter part of this week. My plans at present are very limited, extending only to Los Angeles and San Diego. At the latter point it will be wise for me to remain three weeks. That will practically make me a well man. It is said to be a lovely spot. From there I shall want to go for a week or ten days to Madame Modjeska's ranch, located ten miles from the railway, half-way between San Diego and Los Angeles. It is a large ranch--1,000 acres. Madame Modjeska has put it at my disposal, and Lynch and you must help me bear the responsibility thereof. Later in the winter we will go up to San Francisco and visit Henry Field awhile. I will let you know when we start, and if you can't join us at Kansas City, suppose you come on as soon as you can and join me at San Diego. We go to Los Angeles by the Santa Fe. On receipt of this, telegraph me if you can leave Saturday or Sunday. If you are cramped for finances, what sort of a fix do you suppose I'm in? But we must all live; we cannot afford to die just yet. I went down to dinner for the first time on Thursday; I am feeling pretty brisk. Love to Miss Eva. Ever affectionately yours, with a sore finger, EUGENE FIELD. Field did not find in California the "glorious climate" which the well-meant advice of his physicians had led him to expect. His going up to San Francisco in winter to visit his cousin was a mistake, which he quickly regretted, as the following testifies: DEAR MR. GRAY: I am very tired of freezing to death, and I have made up my mind to get into a country where I can at least _keep warm_. Ever since I got to California I have shivered, and shivered, and shivered, and there seem to be no facilities for ameliorating this unpleasant condition here. I am told that in six months or a year the new-comer becomes acclimated; I do not regard that as encouraging. So I am heading for New Orleans. But we drop off at Los Angeles to admit of my being with you long enough to write the memoir of dear Mrs. Gray--a duty to which I shall apply myself with melancholy pleasure. I think we shall arrive Thursday morning. I hope you are all well, and that Miss Eva has not yet been carried off by any pirate or Philadelphia brewer. I continue to gain in weight. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. Alameda, Cal., January 6th, 1894, Saturday evening. Field kept the promise of this letter, and the memoir of Mrs. Gray then written is a genuine work of love, composed amid "environments," as he wrote, "conducive to the sincerity and the enthusiasm which should characterize such a noble task." Here is his picture of the surroundings, redolent of the incense of sunshine and flowers that fills that favored clime: A glorious panorama is spread before me--such a picture as the latitude of southern California presents at the time when elsewhere upon this continent of ours the resentment of winter is visited. All around me is the mellow grace of sunshine, roses, lilies, heliotropes, carnations, marigolds, nasturtiums, marguerites, and geraniums are a-bloom; and as far as the eye can reach, the green velvet of billowing acres is blended with the passion of wild poppies; the olive, the orange, and the lemon abound; yonder a vineyard lies fast asleep in the glorious noonday; the giant rubber trees in all this remarkable fairy-land are close at hand; and the pepper, the eucalyptus, the live oak, and the palm are here, and there, and everywhere. A city is in the distance; the smoke that curls up therefrom makes dim fantastic figures against the beautiful blue of the sky. There is toil in that place, and the din of busy humanity; but upon this faraway hillside, with the sweetest gifts of Nature about me, I care not for these things. I am soothed by the melodies of wild birds, and by the music of the gentle winds that come from the great white ocean beyond the valleys and the hills, away off there where the ships go sailing. Perhaps Ruskin, the great artist-master of word-painting, might have produced as perfect a gem of English description as this. But who besides of our contemporaries has? To my mind, it is the proof of the perfection of the technical skill in expression to which Field arrived through arduous years, softened and refined by the emotions of affection and gratitude which swept over him as he thought of her who had been a mother to him. It has its counterpart in the succeeding description of the Pelham hills, in which "the yonder glimpse of the Pacific becomes the silver thread of the Connecticut," which I have already quoted in a previous chapter. Evidently, too, the glorious climate of California was a blessing which brightened as Field took his flight toward the East. Early in February he was back in the harness in Chicago, celebrating his return with characteristic gayety in "Lyrics of a Convalescent." But his contributions to the paper through the winter and early spring of 1894 were confined to occasional verse. After a short trip to New Orleans, in April, he resumed active work the first week in May; and for the remainder of the year his column gave daily evidence of his mental activity and cheerfulness. It was while in New Orleans in the spring of 1894 that the following incident, illustrative of the boyish freaks that still engaged Field's ingenuity, occurred. I quote from a letter of one of the participants, Cyrus K. Drew, of Louisville: "I met Field on one of his pilgrimages for old bottles, pewter ware, and any old thing in the junk line. Some friends of mine introduced our party to Mr. Field and Wilson Barrett and members of his company then playing an engagement in New Orleans. Mr. Field's greatest delight was in teasing Miss Maude Jeffries, a Mississippi girl, then leading lady in Mr. Barrett's company. She was very sensitive and modest, and it delighted Field greatly when he could playfully embarrass her. One day I found him in his room busy on the floor pasting large sheets of brown paper together. He had written a poem to Miss Jeffries in the centre of a large sheet of this wrapping paper in his characteristic small hand--indeed, much smaller than usual. On the edges of this sheet I found him pasting others of equal size, so that the whole when complete made a single sheet about eight feet square. This he carefully folded up to fit an improvised envelope about the size of a Mardi Gras souvenir, then being distributed about the city. With the joyousness of a boy about to play a prank, he chased down-stairs at the noon hour when he knew Miss Jeffries was at lunch with Mr. Barrett in the cafe of the Grunewald. Calling a waiter, he sent the huge envelope in to her table. She glanced at it a moment and then gradually drew the package from its envelope, while Field and I stood watching behind the entrance. It spread all over the table as she continued to unfold the enormous sheet, and its rustle attracted the attention of nearly every one in the room. When it had spread itself all over Mr. Barrett, who meanwhile was laughing heartily, Miss Jeffries discovered the poem in Field's hand, and, although blushing crimson, joined in the laughter, for she knew he was somewhere about enjoying her discomfort." By August of this same year he had his "Love Songs of Childhood" in shape for the publishers, and had once more taken up the project of acquiring a home. What Field was doing, as well as thinking about, a little later is pretty accurately reflected in the following letter to Mr. Gray: DEAR MR. GRAY: Ever since your return from the East I have been intending to write to you. I have time and again reproached myself for my neglect to do so. I have not been very well. About the first of September I had one of my old dyspeptic attacks, and since then my stomach has troubled me more or less, reducing me in weight and making me despondent. I think, however, I am now on the upgrade once more. After you left here Julia was quite sick for a spell. She was on the verge of nervous prostration. I packed her off to Lynch's for a month, and she came back very much improved, and now she weighs more than ever before. The children are well. Trotty attends a day school near by. Pinny has gone back to his military school, and is doing _very well_. I would like to send Daisy to the same school, for he is not doing well at public school; but my expenses have been so large the last year that I cannot incur any further expense. The babies are doing finely. The boy is as fat as butter, and handsome as ever. Little Ruth cut her first tooth to-day. I never loved a baby as I love her. She is very well now; her flesh has become solid and she is gaining in weight. She is playful and good-natured, sure prognostics of good health. Roswell and Etta went East the 9th of September, and were gone fifteen days; they visited Amherst, Boston, New York, Greenfield, Brattleboro, and Newfane. Roswell regretted not knowing your whereabouts, for he wanted to have you along for a sentimental journey in Vermont. Etta is now with us. She returns to Kansas City next Sunday night. I am pained to hear of Dr. Johnson's illness; pray, give him my love and tell him that he ought to be less frisky if he hopes to keep his limbs sound. I am not surprised that you have got to go South. And I am glad of it. Yes, I am glad to know that you will get away from business and that implacable crowd who are constantly trying to bleed you of money. I want to see you enjoying life as far as you can, and I want to see _you_ getting actual benefit from the money which you have earned by your many years of conscientious industry. To me there is no other spectacle in the world so humiliating as that of people laying themselves out to extort money from others. Do tear yourself away from the sponges. You and Miss Eva ought to have a quiet winter in a congenial climate. I hope you will go to Florida, and, after doing Jacksonville and St. Augustine, why not rent a little furnished cottage and keep house for the winter? Along in February I will run down and make you a visit. Now, think this over, and let me know what you think of it. Mr. Gray, there is no need of there being any sentimentality between us; there never has been. Yet there is every reason why the bond of affection should be a very strong one. My father and you were associates many years, and at his death he very wisely constituted you the guardian (to a great extent) of his two boys. I feel that you have more than executed his wishes; I feel that you have fulfilled those hopes which he surely had that you would be a kind of second father to us, counselling us prudently and succoring us in a timely and generous manner, for which we--for I speak for us both--are deeply, affectionately grateful. It would please me so very much to have you promise me that if ever you are ill or if ever you feel that my presence would relieve your loneliness you will apprise me and let me come to you. If I could afford to do so, I would cheerfully abandon my daily work and go to live with you, doing such purely literary work as delights me; that would, indeed, be very pleasant to me. One of my great regrets is that circumstances compel me to grind away at ephemeral work which is wholly averse to my tastes. But enough of this. Within a month my new book, "Love Songs of Childhood," will be out. I regard it as my best work so far, and am hoping it will be profitable. I do occasional readings. This afternoon I appeared at the Art Institute with Joseph Jefferson, Sol Smith Russell, Octave Thanet, and Hamlin Garland. I recited "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," "Seein' Things at Night," and "Our Two Opinions," and was heartily encored, but declined to do anything further. Julia, Ida, Posie, and I may drop in on you Saturday morning to spend Sunday. Would you like it? Would the child be too much for the peace and dignity of the household? Dear Mr. Gray, do be good to _yourself_. Don't let the rest of creation worry you one bit. You are about the only man I have to depend upon, for you know the good that is in me, as well as the folly. Our love to the Butterflyish Miss Eva, and more love to you--God bless you! Ever affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. 1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago, October 25th, 1894. This is the most soberly, self-revealing letter written by Eugene Field that has come within my ken. Through it the reader is taken into the confidence which existed between the writer and his constant friend--a confidence further extended in the following letter which reports progress in the attainment of "the house": DEAR MR. GRAY: Our deal was closed last evening (Monday). It would have been closed Saturday but for a clerical error, which put the whole matter off over Sunday. I have told the cashier at the Record office to pay you One Hundred Dollars a month, beginning in May. She will communicate with you as to how you desire remittances made. Julia and I feel deeply obligated to you for your prompt and cordial action, without which we might have been seriously embarrassed. The plans we have at present are to introduce gas into the house, to add two rooms, and to have a bath-room and laundry tubs put in. We shall do nothing about a heating apparatus until late in the summer. This will enable us not to borrow any money until August; by that time we shall be able to see our way clearer than we do now. Mr. Stone wants to help us somewhat, and he has told us to send the bill for house-painting to him. We shall be compelled to go to the expense of a new cooking range, and I have enough balance at the Record office to pay for that. I am hoping that we shall be able to move into the new quarters by May 1. The children are well. Pinny comes home next Monday for a fortnight's vacation, and we shall be glad to see him. I had a letter from Carter, _alias_ Rolling-pin, the other day, and he renews his entreaty for me to join him in his publication venture in St. Louis--but that is wholly impossible. You have probably seen by the newspapers how savagely the Republicans swept the board in Chicago at the elections; the affair was practically unanimous. I can't see that there is much left of the party which Emory Storrs once designated "an organized appetite." We all unite in affectionate remembrances to you and Miss Eva. We shall be able and glad this summer to have you with us for a while. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. 1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago, April 9th, 1895. "The house" upon which Field devoted so much thought at this time, and every dollar he could raise by forestalling his income, was a commodious, old-fashioned building in Buena Park, which stood well back from Clarendon Avenue in a grove of native oaks within sight of Lake Michigan. Its yard was mostly a sand waste, which needed a liberal top dressing of black earth to produce the semblance to a lawn. The remodelling of the house and the process of converting sand into a green sward with flower-beds and a kitchen garden furnished light employment and a never-failing subject for quips and bucolic absurdities to its owner, to whom land ownership seemed to give a new grip on life. The story of the remaking of this building into a comfortable modern house and of converting the sandy soil surrounding it into a land of horticulture promise is told by Field in whimsical style in "The House," a work unfinished at the time of his death. The first instalment of this story appeared in "Sharps and Flats" on May 15th. Eighteen chapters followed on successive days without a break. By August 15th, when the last instalment was printed, a vexatious series of disappointments had robbed Field's humor of its natural buoyancy. He therefore dropped the story in about the same unfinished stage as he found his new home when his impatience finally took possession of it before the carpenters and painters were all out. On May 14th he wrote to his aged Mæcenas: DEAR MR. GRAY: I returned from my St. Joseph's trip last Saturday and found your draft awaiting me here. The men have begun to push work on the house, and it is expected that the plastering will be done this week. I have no doubt that we shall be able to move into our new home the first of June, although the place may not be in complete trim at that time. I cannot tell you how pleasurably I anticipate life in the house which I can call a permanent home. I expect to do better work now than ever before. And I want you to understand that Julia and I keenly appreciate that but for you the important move we have made could hardly have been undertaken. We are hoping that you will run up here for a day or two early in June. Our love to you and Miss Eva. Affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. The next and last letter which I shall quote from this interesting correspondence has the unique distinction of being the only one from him of all that passed between them that is not in Field's own chirography. In inditing this, he substituted the serviceable typewriter for the pen, that had been his companion for so many years, and that had served him "so diligently," as he so beautifully acknowledged in the apostrophe to it addressed to his brother Roswell. It bears date July 2d, and testifies to the writer's failure to realize the bright anticipation of getting into his new home during the early days of the leafy month of June: Chicago, July 3d, 1895. DEAR MR GRAY: For the last two weeks I have been deferring writing to you, hoping from day to day that I would be able to announce our removal into the new house, but it seems as though the Fates are conspired against us. First it was one thing to delay our removal, then it was another, and finally everything. Here it is the first of the month, and we are still in our rented quarters. We intended to begin moving yesterday, and up to the very last moment on Saturday hoped to be able to do so, but the painters, and carpenters, and the plumbers combined against us, and we are in the spot where you saw us when last in Chicago. From this beginning you will gather that the new house is in rather a sad plight. It is not altogether so. The paper-hangers and painters are nearly through with the second-story, and have done considerable work down-stairs. I suppose that if everything was ready for them they could get through in two days. The work that remains for the carpenters and for the plumbers to do is of a pottering character, just enough and of just such a character as to be slow, and, consequently, exasperating. I presume to say that we will be in the house at the end of this week, but another week must elapse before we are in anything like order. Meanwhile the painters have nearly completed painting the outside of the building, which, with its new fresh coat of white paint and its green blinds is going to look quite stunning, we think. The front lawn has engaged my attention pretty much all of the time since you were here, and I have brought it around into a state of subjection, although I am told--and I think--that it will not be at its best before another year. The neighbors have been very kind, and have provided me with plants and flowers, and other green growing things, and the consequence is that I have a fine lot of flowers, roses, nasturtiums, and poppies. I have devoted about five square feet of ground to pop-corn, and, not knowing anything about the habits of the creature, planted it in a bunch. I have now enough pop-corn to do the whole State of Illinois for the next two years. It grows so fast that I seem almost to hear it grow. I also have thirty hills of potatoes which I planted myself. I dug them up every day to see how they were getting along. The neighbors made all sorts of fun, and said the potatoes would not live. They are not only living, but flourishing. All that I fear now is that the potato-bug will put in an appearance, and thus blast my first and fondest agricultural hope. You see I am so devoted to the garden and to the lawn that I am likely to neglect telling you what you are probably most anxious to know about--the interior of the house. We have extended a porch from the front side around to the north side of the house, so that when you come here next (and I hope that will be soon), you will be able to step from your room out through a French window upon the north side to the porch. This change we did not have in view when you were here, but our friends tell us it is a vast improvement upon the original plan. The front door is a very imposing affair. It is of solid oak, very tasteful in design and very imposing in appearance. We are going to hang our best brass knocker upon it, and this ornamentation will enhance its beauty. The front hall is completed, and so is the parlor, through which you go to enter your room. The large front room on the ground floor, which we call the library, is now in the hands of the cabinetmaker. By this you are to understand that we are having the oak trimming stained very dark so as to match the permanent book-cases which the cabinetmaker has constructed for us, and which will be set up this week. These book-cases extend around three sides of the room, and will be capable of containing about twelve hundred books. They are very handsome pieces of furniture. We had them constructed in such a way as to be able to add glass doors when we think we can afford to do so. We shall not put any mantel either in the library or in Julia's room until the financial outlook clears, for, as you surmised when you were here, the funds with which you provided us are not sufficient to do all that we want to do. The roof to the old house will have to be patched up some. Then I think we ought to have a roadway constructed from the front gate to the house. The road at present is pretty nearly impassable. My idea is that we ought to have a road-bed of coal cinders rolled down and covered with fine gravel. This kind of road in private grounds is, I understand, practically everlasting. Then, we have got to have a front gate, the old affair having gone all to pieces. It is not at all necessary to have a new fence for some time to come. I am told that a roadway such as we want will cost $50. This means, I suppose, $75. Mr. Stone is going to pay for the exterior painting of the house. I suppose we ought to have the shingle roof painted. One coat would be sufficient, and would involve a cost of $35 at the outside. So far we have done pretty well, I think, with the means at our disposal. What we have put into the house is of a good and durable quality. Of course I understand, and so do you, that if we had the same work to do over again doubtless we could do it cheaper, if not better. There are also changes which have suggested themselves as we went along which we did not deem it wise to make, inasmuch as they were not absolutely necessary, and would have involved an expenditure which we did not feel justified in making. I am hoping that you will find it possible to spend your birthday with us. If you will send me the date of the auspicious anniversary I will gladly send passes for you and Miss Eva to come, and we shall try to make your stay pleasant. You asked me in your letter what plans I had for a summer trip. I have no plans at all. It is so cool here that I do not feel disposed to go away from home. Then, again, I am so much interested in the new premises that I find in that interest another reason for staying home. It has occurred to me that it might be both wise for you and Miss Eva to make this point a base for operations this summer. Why can't you both come here, and from here make such excursions into Wisconsin and Michigan as may suggest themselves to you from week to week as pleasant and profitable. It is possible that either Julia or I, or maybe both of us, may be able to join some of these little desultory trips with you. Roswell has been called to an editorial position on the Times-Herald, and he will begin work on the first of August, arriving here, however, about the middle of July, and devoting a fortnight to getting settled in quarters of some kind or another, and perhaps taking a few days' rest in Wisconsin. So you see, if you can arrange to be here on your birthday we shall all have a nice family visit together. Trotty has been in Kansas City nearly three months. She will be home in a day or two accompanied by her Aunt Etta, who comes ahead of Roswell to hunt up quarters. The children are well. Julia looks well, but I think she is pretty well fagged out, having worried a good deal about the house, and being unaccustomed to the contrary ways of workmen. I am feeling better now than I have felt for five years, which fact I impute very largely to the out-of-door exercise which I am taking in the garden and upon the bicycle. I am doing good work and am feeling generally encouraged. Give my love to Miss Eva, and as for yourself, be assured always that we appreciate your very great kindness, and that we are very grateful for it. Let us hear from you very soon, and be sure to get your affairs in such condition that you can be here upon your birthday. Always affectionately yours, EUGENE FIELD. A postscript by pen informed Mr. Gray that the Record office held $200 for him on account, for which a draft would be sent as soon as the cashier returned from a brief vacation. During the years here passing in review Field entered upon a new rôle--that of entertaining distinguished visitors for the Record. While Mr. Stone was editor of the Morning News this important incident of metropolitan journalism fell to his lot, and with Field as his first lieutenant, he enjoyed it. Mr. Lawson, when he assumed the duties of editorship in addition to the details of publishing, had no time to waste on such social amenities, and thereafter delegated to Field the task of representing the Record on all such occasions. As Field exercised his own choice of occasions, as well as guests, the task was entirely congenial to his nature, and as Mr. Lawson paid the bills, fully within the narrow limits of his purse. One of the most memorable of the entertainments that followed from this happy arrangement was a luncheon at the Union League Club, in honor of Edward Everett Hale. The company invited to meet the liberal divine consisted of a few Saints, more Sinners, and a fair proportion of the daughters of Eve. Field prepared the menu with infinite care, and to the carnal eye it read like a dinner fit for the gods. But in reality it consisted of typical New England dishes, in honor of our New England guest, masquerading in the gay and frivolous lingo of the French capital. Codfish-balls, with huge rashers of bacon, boiled corned beef and cabbage, pork and beans, with slices of soggy Boston brown-bread, corn-bread and doughnuts, the whole topped off with apple-pie and cheese, were served with difficult gravity by the waiters to an appreciative company. The bill promised some rare and appropriate wine for each course, and the table flashed with the club's full equipment of cut glass for each plate. But alas and alack-a-day! when the waiters came to serve the choicest vintages from the correctly labelled bottles, they gave forth nothing but Waukesha spring water. Not even "lemonade of a watery grade" did we have to wash down our luncheon, where every dish was seasoned to the taste of a salted codfish. But we had all the water we could drink, and before we were through we needed it. Sol Smith Russell was among the guests that day, and he and Field gave imitations of each other, which left the company in doubt as to which was the original. It was on an occasion somewhat similar to this, given in the early winter, that Field perpetrated one of his most characteristic jokes, with the assistance of Mr. Stone, by this time manager of the Associated Press. The latter, at no little trouble, had provided as luscious a dessert of strawberries as the tooth of epicure ever watered over. They were the first of the season, and fragrant with the fragrance that has given the berry premiership in the estimation of others besides Isaac Walton. While everybody was proving that the berries tasted even better than they looked, and exclaiming over the treat, Field was observed to push his saucer out of range of temptation. At last Stone remarked Field's action, and asked: "What's the matter, Gene, don't you like strawberries?" "Like them?" said Field; "I fairly adore strawberries! They are the only fruit I prefer to pie." "Then why don't you eat yours?" queried Stone. "B-because," answered Field, with a deep quaver in his voice, "b-because I'm afraid it would s-s-spoil my appetite for p-prunes." Through these years Field was also the central figure in the entertainments of the Fellowship Club, and contributed more to the reputation these attained for wit and mirth-provoking scenes than all other participators combined. But he had begun to weary of the somewhat forced play of such gatherings, and found more pleasure watching the children romping in the Waller lot, or pottering about and overseeing the planting in his own new front yard. He had arrived at the time when he wanted to get away from the city and into the country as far as the engagements of his profession would permit. This spirit is dominant in these lines to his friend Louis Auer: _The August days are very hot, the vengeance of the sky Has sapped the groves' vitality and browned the meadows dry; Creation droops, and languishes, one cannot sleep or eat-- Dead is the city market-place, and dead the city street! It is the noontime of the year, when men should seek repose Where rustic lakes go rippling and the water-lily grows; Come, let us swerve a season from the dusty urban track, And off with Louis Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack! Upon a slight declivity that quiet refuge lies, Where stately forest-trees observe the hot of cloudy skies! The shack is back a goodly distance from the mighty lake Whose waters on the pebbly beach with pretty music break; Boats go a-sailing to and fro, and fishermen are there With schemes to tempt the pike or bass or pickerel from their lair-- Oh with sailing, shooting, fishing, you can fancy there's no lack Of fun with Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack. The shack is wide and rangey, with bunks built up around, While on the walls the trophies of the flood and field abound; The horns of elk and moose, the skins of foxes, beavers, mink, Keep glossy guard above the horde that gaily eat and drink; It's oh, the famous yarns we tell and famous yarns we hear, And we taste the grateful viands or we quaff the foaming beer; And many a lively song we sing and many a joke we crack When we're guests of Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack. No wonder that too swiftly speed the happy hours away In the company of Silverman and Underwood and Shea; Of Yenowine, McNaughten, Kipp, Peck, Lush, and General Falk-- Eight noble men in action, but nobler yet in talk! These are the genial spirits to be met with in that spot. Where are winters never chilly and summers never hot! And a fellow having been there always hankers to get back With those friends of Louis Auer's in that Lake Pewaukee shack. To this o'ercrowded city for the nonce let's say goodby, And northward to the lake of Pewaukee let us hie! To-night we'll lay us down to dreams of calm and cool delight, Where owls and dogs and Kipp make solemn music all the night; But with our fill of satisfying, big voluptuous cakes, Such only as that prince of cooks friend Louis Auer makes, We'll sleep and dream sweet dreams despite that roaring pack, So come, let's off with Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack._ CHAPTER XI LAST DAYS At last (July, 1895) Field was in his own house, provided, as he said, with all the modern conveniences, including an ample veranda and a genial mortgage. About it were the oaks, in whose branches the birds had built their nests before Chicago was a frontier post. He could sit upon the "front stoop" and look across vacant lots to where Lake Michigan beat upon the sandy shore with ceaseless rhythm. Inside, the house was roomy and cheery with God's own sunlight pouring in through generous windows. Reversing the usual order of things in this climate of the southwest wind, the porch was on the northeast exposure of the house. The best room in it was the library, and here, for the first time in his career, Field had the opportunity to provide shelf-room for his books and cabinets for his curios. An artist would have said that their arrangement was crude and ineffective; but from the collector's point of view the arrangement could scarcely have been bettered. Everything seemed to have settled in its appropriate niche, according to its value in the collector's eye, irrespective of its value in the dealer's catalogue. Of his collection before it was moved from the house on Evanston Avenue, adjoining the Waller lot, his friend Julian Ralph wrote: "He had cabinets and closets filled with the wreckage of England, New England, Holland, and Louisiana; walls littered with mugs, and prints, and pictures, plates, and warming-pans; shelves crowded with such things, and mantel-pieces likewise loaded, through two stories of his house. All were curios of value, or else beauty, for he was no ignoramus in his madness. His den above stairs, where he sat surrounded by a great and valuable collection of first editions and other prized books, was part of the museum. There hung the axe Mr. Gladstone gave him at Hawarden, and the shears that Charles A. Dana used during a quarter of a century. These two prizes he cherished most. He had been to Mr. Dana and begged the shears, receiving the promise that he should have them left to him in Mr. Dana's will. He waited five years, grew impatient, past endurance, and then came on to New York and got the shears from Paul Dana." To his new home, which he christened "The Sabine Farm," were moved all the accumulated treasures of his mania for curiosities and antiques. "I do not think he thought much of art," wrote Edward Everett Hale in his introduction to "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"; and the motley, albeit fascinating, aggregation of rare and outlandish chattels in Eugene Field's house justified that conclusion. Of what the world calls art, whether the creation of the brush, the chisel, the loom, or the potter's oven, he had the most rudimentary conception. His eye was ever alert for things queer, rare, and "out of print." Of these he was a connoisseur beyond compare, a collector without a peer. He valued prints, not for their beauty or the art of the engraver, but for some peculiarity in the plate, or because of the difficulties overcome in their "comprehension." He knew all that was to be known of the delightful art of the binder, but his most cherished specimen would always be one where a master had made some slip in tooling. For oddities and rarities in all the range of the collector's fever, from books and prints to pewter mugs and rag dolls, his mania was omnivorous and catholic. And strange as it may seem, with his mania was mingled a shrewd appreciation of the commercial side of it all. This is what Mr. Ralph means when he says Field was no ignoramus in his madness. Therefore it is not to be wondered at that his collection of strange and fantastic, odd and curious, things filled his library and overflowed and clustered every nook and corner of the Sabine Farm. Here was a "thumb" Bible, there the smallest dictionary in the world. In one corner was stacked a freakish lot of canes--some bought because they were freaks, some with a story behind their acquisition, and more presented to him because Field let it be known that he had a penchant for canes--which, by the way, he never carried. In one room there was a shelf of empty bottles of every conceivable shape, size, and "previous condition of servitude"; in another was a perfect menagerie of mechanical toy animals. As he could not decide which he liked best, hideous pewter mugs or delicate china dishes, he "annexed" them indiscriminately, and stored them cheek by jowl, much to the annoyance of his more orderly wife. The old New England pie-plate was a dearer article of vertu to him than the most fragile vase, unless the latter was a rare specimen of a forgotten art. He had a genuine affection for clocks of high and low degree. He loved them for their friendly faces, and endowed them with personal idiosyncrasies, according to their tickings, by which he distinguished them. And so the Sabine Farm had old-fashioned clocks and new-fangled clocks in the halls and bedrooms, on the stairs and mantels, in the cellars beneath and in the garret above--all ticking merrily or sedately, as became their respective makes and natures. But keeping time? Never! Of books there was no end. Books he had inherited, books he had bought with money pinched from household expenses, and presentation books by the score. All were jumbled together in a confusion that delighted him, but which would have been the despair of an orderly mind. His rare and well-nigh complete collection of books on Horace and of editions of the poet had the place of honor in his library, with the rest nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Hundreds of his books bear the autographs of their respective authors, while the walls of the house were covered with autograph letters from many of the celebrities and not a few of the notorieties of the world. Even the nonentities found lodgement there. Such another collection as Field's is not to be met with under any roof in this country; nor could its like be duplicated anywhere, because it reflects the man in all his personal contradictions and predispositions. It is queer and _sui generis_--but mostly "queer"--which word to him always conveyed a sense of inimitable incongruity. When Field returned from Holland he wore on his third finger a hideous silver ring, that looked like pewter, in which shone, but did not sparkle, a huge green crystal. It was a gorgeous travesty on an emerald. Beauty it had none, nor even quaintness of design. It was just plain ugly; but he had become attached to it because it was conspicuous and had some association with Dutch life connected with it. From this it may be inferred that Field's taste in jewelry was barbaric; but, happily for Mrs. Field, it was a taste he seldom indulged. Besides the pleasure of sitting down amid the spoils of two continents and of two decades of collecting, Field fairly revelled in the, to him, novel sensation of land proprietorship. He did not miss or feel the drain of the weekly deductions from his salary that went to the reduction of his building debt. When that had been arranged for between the Record office and Mr. Gray, Field took no more account of it. It came out of Mrs. Field's allowance. What was that to him? He only recognized the fact that he was his own landlord, and paid taxes, and was exempt from the payment of rent. [Illustration: EUGENE FIELD WITH HIS DUTCH RING.] So enamoured was he of these novel sensations of the Sabine Farm that he found it hard to tear himself away from the communion with the trees, and birds, and bees, out of doors, and with books, and curios, and visitors indoors. Dearly did he love to show his treasures to his friends, who came, not single spies, but in troops, to warm his chairs and congratulate him upon the attainment of his heart's desire. Never did he appear to better advantage than here, except when outside under the trees, surrounded by groups of little children, to whom he discoursed on wonders in natural history more wonderful than all the amazing works of nature set down in their nature study-books. All the animals, and birds, and creeping things in his natural history could talk and sing, could romp and play, could eat and drink--not infrequently too much--and in every way were superior to their kind to be met with among the dry leaves of their school-books. He peopled the world with the trolls, elves, and nixies of fairy-land for his own and his neighbors' babes of all ages. Is it any wonder that his trips down town became less frequent, that he preferred to do his work at home, and subsidized one of his sons to be his regular messenger to bear his copy to the office? Is it surprising that, along in August, 1895, we find him writing: Yes, there is no doubt that these rains which we have had in such plenty for the last three days have interrupted and otherwise interfered with the sports of many people. Yet none of us should sulk or complain when he comes to consider how badly we needed the rain, and what a vast amount of good these refreshing down-pourings have done. Vegetation was in a bad, sad way; the trees had begun to have a withered look, and the grass was turning brown. What a change has been wrought by the grace of the rain! Nature smiles once more; the lawns are green, the trees are reviving; the roadsides are beautiful with the grasses, the ferns, and the wild flowers, among which insectivorous life makes cheery music. The rain has arrayed old Mother Earth in a bright new garb. The month of September is close at hand; the conditions of its coming are favorable. There is fun ahead for all us sentimental people. A beautiful moon is waiting rather impatiently for the clouds to roll by; the moon is always at her best in the full summer-time. How good it is to live in this beautiful world of ours; how varied and countless are the blessings bestowed upon us; how sweet is the beneficence of Nature; how dear is the companionship of humanity! "The companionship of humanity!" Nothing could make up to him any narrowing of that. His friends became dearer to him than ever. He could send his copy down to the printer, but when his friends did not come out in sufficient numbers to Buena Park he made the long trip to town to meet them at luncheon or in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's. Here he held almost daily court, and mulled over the materials for "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac"--the opening chapter of which appeared in his "Sharps and Flats" on August 30th. Here he confided to a few that the grasshopper had "become a burden," by reason of the weariness of his long convalescence. Here he had those meetings with the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus which resulted in the frequent transfer of poems from the latter's pocket to the "Sharps and Flats" column, without initial or sign to intimate that they were other than Field's own vintage, only from a new press. Here, too, his whole bearing and conversation were so uniformly hopeful, hearty, and light-hearted, that they deceived all his associates into confidence that the new home had instilled new life into our friend's gaunt frame. His column, too, reflected the genial, mellow spirit that played through all his speech and ways during the early autumn days of 1895. No other work that he had done so completely satisfied him as "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." He was steeped in the lore of the cult. He had yielded to its fascinations while preserving the keenest appreciation of its whims and weaknesses. And so the story meandered on through September and October with an ever-increasing charm of mingled sentiment and sweet satire; and so it seemed as if it might meander on forever. But he did not attempt to write a chapter of this exquisite reminiscing every day. It was sandwiched in between columns of paragraphs and verse such as had earned for him his great vogue with the readers of the Record. He could still surprise and pain the "first literary circles of Chicago" with such literary notes as: It is officially announced by the official board of managers of the National Federation of Realists that Hamlin Garland put on his light-weight flannels last week. In the north branch recently was found a turtle having upon its back the letters P.B.S.--the initials of the revered name of the immortal Percy Bysshe Shelley. And he did not fail to keep Chicago informed of the latest Buena Park news in such rural journal notes as these: Among the many improvements to be noticed in the Park this spring is the handsome new collar with which the ever-enterprising William Clow, Esq., has provided his St. Bernard dog. A dessert of sliced bananas and oranges is all the rage in the Park this season. Tapioca pudding is a thing of the past. How true it is that humanity is ever variable and fickle! But there was very much less of this sort of thing and of the daily badinage of the paragrapher than in the days of Field's primacy in that line. He was reserving all that was freshest, and sweetest, and most delicate in his fancy for the "Love Affairs." I spent the summer of 1895 in Evanston, and one night in October, just as the family was thinking of retiring, I was called to the telephone by Field, who asked if we had any pie in the house, for he was coming up to get a slice from the pantry of my Vermont mother-in-law. He was gladly bidden to come along. In a few minutes in he walked, and was made welcome to whatever the pantry afforded--whether it was pie, pickles, or plain cheese and crackers, I do not now recall. It appeared that he had been in Evanston that night, giving a reading for the benefit of a social and literary club such as were always drawing drafts upon his good-nature and powers of entertaining. I never knew Field in better spirits than he was that night. He told of several humorous incidents that happened at the reading, and then recited one or two of the things he had read there. He sat at the piano and crooned songs and caressed the ivory keys as he told stories and we talked of the "Love Affairs" and of his prospects, which were never brighter. None who were present that memorable night will forget his reading of "The Night Wind." We turned the lights down low and listened, while with that wonderful voice he brought "the night that broods outside" into the darkened room, with that weird and ghostly: Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Not until there was barely time to catch the last electric-car for Buena Park did Field tear himself away from that appreciative company; and then he insisted that I should go with him to the cars. And so we "walked and talked," as of old, until the last south-bound car came. And as he boarded it, it seemed as if ten years had been wiped off the record, and I should see him at the office next morning. And that was the last time I ever saw Eugene Field alive. For a few mornings after that I read his column in the Record. A few more chapters were added to the "Love Affairs," and then: On Saturday morning, November 2d, Field spoke to the readers of the Record, through his accustomed column and in his accustomed spirit of human sympathy and genial humor. It led off with the little shot at his native city: No matter what else it did, if the earthquake shock waked up St. Louis, there should be no complaint. And it concluded with a loyal defence of his old friend and associate, "Bill" Nye, who, having aroused the ire of an audience at Paterson, N.J., had been roughly set upon and egged by a turbulent crowd of men while on his way to the railroad station. Field indignantly repelled the suggestion that Nye's indiscretion was due to inebriety, but traced it to his bad health. "Only the utmost caution," he wrote, "and the most scrupulous observance of the rules laid down by his physician have enabled Nye to go ahead with his work. This work in itself has been arduous. If there is anything more vexatious or more wearing than travelling about the country in all kinds of weather and at the mercy of railroads, and lecture-bureaus, and hotel-keepers, we do not know it." And yet, at the very moment Field wrote this he, a more delicately organized invalid than "Bill" Nye, had his ticket bought, his state-room engaged, and his trunk packed to leave for Kansas City, where he was to give a reading on the evening of Monday, November 4th. He felt so indisposed on Saturday that he did not leave his bed. That, however, did not prevent his finishing Chapter XIX of the "Love Affairs." As it was no unusual thing for him to write, as well as read, in bed, this occasioned no alarm in the family circle. But that evening he decided to give up the Kansas City trip, and asked his brother Roswell to wire the management of the affair to that effect. On Sunday he was still indisposed, but received numerous visitors. To one of them, who remarked that it was a perfect November day, Field said: "Yes, it is a lovely day, but this is the season of the year when things die, and this fine weather may mean death to a thousand people. We may hear of many deaths to-morrow." In the evening he complained of a pain in his head; and as he was feeling a little feverish, Dr. Hedges, who lived near by, was called in. He came about half-past ten o'clock; and after taking Field's temperature, which was only slightly above normal, said it was due to weakness, and probably resulted from the excitement of seeing so many visitors. Field joked with the doctor, told him several stories, and was assured that he was getting on all right. Before leaving, the doctor said that if it was fine on Monday it would do Field good to get out and take some exercise. Shortly before midnight a message came from Kansas City, asking when he would be able to appear there. He dictated an answer, saying that he would come November 16th. Then wishing everybody goodnight, he turned over and went to sleep as peacefully as any little child in one of his stories. An hour before daylight the sleeper turned in his bed and groaned. His second son, "Daisy," who always slept with his father, spoke to him, but got no answer. Then he reached over and touched him; but there was not the usual response of a word or a caress. In terror-stricken recognition of the awful presence, Daisy alarmed the whole household with his cry, "Come quick! I believe papa is dead!" And so it was. Death had stolen upon Eugene Field as he slept. And so they found him, lying in a natural position, his hands clasped over his heart, his head turned to one side, and his lips half parted, as if about to speak. It was just such a death as he had often said would be his choice. Just a dropping to sleep here and an awakening yonder. The doctor said it was heart-failure, resulting from a sudden spasm of pain. But the face bore no trace of pain. The moan that wakened Daisy was probably that sigh with which mortal parts with mortality--the parting breath between life and death, which will scarcely stir a feather and yet will awaken the soundest sleeper. To my mind Eugene Field died as his father, "of physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity on their part to discharge the vital functions--a wearing out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was designed." And thus there passed from the midst of us as gentle and genial a spirit as ever walked the earth. I know not why his death should recall that memorable scene of Mallory's, the death of Launcelot, unless it be that Field considered it the most beautiful passage in English literature: So when sir Bors and his fellowes came to his bed, they found him starke dead, and hee lay as hee had smiled, and the sweetest savour about him that ever they smelled. Then was there weeping and wringing of hands, and the greatest dole they made that ever made men.... Then went sir Bors unto sir Ector, and told him how there lay his brother sir Launcelot dead. And then sir Ector threw his shield, his sword, and his helme from him; and when hee beheld sir Launcelot's visage hee fell down in a sowne, and when hee awaked it were hard for any tongue to tell the dolefull complaints that hee made for his brother. "Ah, sir Launcelot," said hee, "thou were head of all Christian knights! And now, I dare say," said sir Ector, "that, sir Launcelot there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly knights hands; and thou were the curtiest that ever beare shield; and thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse, and thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou were the kindest man that ever strooke with sword; and thou were the goodliest person that ever came among presse of knights; and thou were the meekest man and the gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest knight to thy mortall foe that ever put speare in the rest." Then there was weeping and dolour out of measure. If I have interpreted the story of "The Good Knight's" life aright, the reader will comprehend the relation there is in my mind between the scene at the death of the knightliest knight of romance and that of him who moved in our modern life, steeped and imbued with the thoughts, fancies, and speech of the age of chivalry. For the age of shield, and spear, and tourney, he would have been the unlikeliest man ever born of woman; but with his "sweet pen" he waged unceasing battle for all things beautiful, and true, and pure in this modern world. That is why his best songs sing of mother's love and childhood and of the eternal bond between them. He hated sham, and humbug, and false pretence, and that is why his daily paragraphs gleam and sparkle with the relentless satire and ridicule; he detested the solemn dulness of conventional life, and that is why he scourged society with the "knotted lash of sarcasm" and dissipated melancholy with the unchecked effrontery of his mirth. And so his songs were full of sweetness, and his words were words of strength; and his last message to the children of his pen was: Go forth, little lyrics, and sing to the hearts of men. This beautiful world is full of song, and thy voices may not be heard of all--but sing on, children of ours; sing to the hearts of men, and thy song shall at least swell the universal harmony that bespeaketh God's love and the sweetness of humanity. And so is it any wonder that when the tidings of his death was borne throughout the land "there was weeping and dolour out of measure," and that a wave of sympathy swept over the country for the bereft family of the silent singer? I have often been asked what was Eugene Field's religious belief--a question I cannot answer better than in the language of the Rev. Frank M. Bristol in his funeral address: I have said of my dear friend that he had a creed. His creed was love. He had a religion. His religion was kindness. He belonged to the church--the church of the common brotherhood of man. With all the changes that came to his definitions and formulas, he never lost from his heart of hearts the reverence for sacred things learned in childhood, and inherited from a sturdy Puritan ancestry. From that deep store of love and faith and reverence sprang the streams of his happy songs, and ever was he putting into his tender verses those ideas of the living God, the blessed Christ, the ministering angels of immortal love, the happiness of heaven, which were instilled into his-heart when but a boy. Those who gathered at his house on the day of the funeral and looked upon the form of the "Good Knight" in his last sleep saw a large white rose in one of his hands. There was a touching story connected with that rose: On the preceding afternoon a lady, who was a friend of Field's, went to a florist's to order some flowers for the grave. A poorly clad little girl was looking wistfully in at the window and followed the lady into the store. "Are those flowers for Mr. Field?" she asked. "Oh, I wish I could send him just one. Won't you, please, give me one flower?" The florist placed a beautiful white rose in her little hand. Then she turned and gave it to the lady, with the request: "Please put it near Mr. Field with your flowers." And the little girl's single rose--the gift of love without money and without price--was given the place of honor that day beyond the wealth of flowers that filled house and church with the incense of affection for the dead. The funeral was a memorable demonstration of the common regard in which Field was held by all classes of citizens. The services took place in the Fourth Presbyterian Church, from which hundreds turned sorrowfully away, because they could not gain admission. The Rev. Thomas C. Hall, who had recently succeeded Dr. Stryker, one of Field's intimate friends, who had been called to the presidency of Hamilton College, conducted the formal ceremonies, in which he was assisted by the Rev. Frank M. Bristol, who delivered the address, and the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus, who embodied his tribute to his friend in a poem remarkable for the felicity with which it passed in review many of the more noteworthy of Field's lyrics. Its opening stanzas read: _'Midst rustling of leaves in the rich autumn air, At eve when man's life is an unuttered prayer, There came through the dusk, each with torch shining bright, From far and from near, in his sorrow bedight, The old earth's lone pilgrim o'er land and o'er wave. Who gathered around their dear poet's loved grave. With trumpet and drum, but in silence, they came-- Their paths were illumed by their torches' mild flame, Whose soft lambent streams by love's glory were lit; And where fairy knights and bright elves used to flit Across the wan world when the lights quivered dim, These watched at the grave, and were mourning for him._ That the spirit of those funeral services was neither local nor ephemeral is proved by the following poem, which, by a strange coincidence, came in a round-about way to my desk in the Record-Herald office from their author in Texarkana, Texas, the very day I transcribed the above lines from Dr. Gunsaulus's "Songs of Night and Morning" into the manuscript of this book: _EUGENE FIELD 1. Sleep well, dear poet of the heart! In dreamless rest by cares unbroken; Thy mission filled, in peace depart. Thy message to the world is spoken. 2. Thy song the weary heart beguiles; Like generous wine it soothes and cheers, Yet oftentimes, amid our smiles, Thy pathos melts a soul to tears. 3. In "Casey's Tabble-Dote" no more Thy kindly humor will be heard; In silence now we must deplore The horrors of that "small hot bird." 4. The "Restauraw" is silent now, The "Conversazzhyony's" over; And "Red Hoss Mountain's" gloomy brow Looks down where lies "Three-fingered Hoover." 5. Our friend "Perfesser Vere de Blaw" No longer on the "Steenway" prances With "Mizzer-Reery" "Opry-Boof," And old familiar songs and dances. 6. Old "Red floss Mountain's" wrapped in gloom, And "Silas Pettibone's shef-doover" Has long since vanished from the room With "Casey" and "Three-fingered Hoover." 7. Yet will they live! Though Field depart; Thousands his memory will cherish; The gentle poet of the heart Shall live till life and language perish. C.S.T._ The initials are those of Mr. Charles S. Todd, of Texarkana, Texas; and the poem, besides testifying to the wide-spread sorrow over Field's death, bears witness to the fact that his western dialect verse had a hold on the popular heart only second to his lullabies and poems of childhood. From the Fourth Presbyterian Church Field's body was borne to its last resting-place, in Graceland cemetery. It is a quiet spot where the poet is interred, in a lovely little glade, away from the sorrowful processions of the main driveways. Leafy branches wave above his grave, shielding it from the glare of the sun in summer and the rude sweep of the winds in winter. The birds flit across it from tree to tree, casting "strange, flutterin' shadders" over the grave of him who loved them so well. And there, one day in the early summer, another bird-lover, Edward B. Clark, heard a wood-thrush, the sweetest of American songsters, singing its vesper hymn, and was moved out of his wont himself to sing: _THE TRIBUTE OF THE THRUSH A bird voice comes from the maple Across the green of the sod, Breaking the silence of evening That rests on this "acre of God." 'Tis the note of the bird of the woodland, Of thickets and sunless retreats; Yet the plashing of sunlit waters Is the sound of the song it repeats. Why sing you here in the open, O gold-tongued bird of the shade; What spirit moves you to echo This hymn from the angels strayed? And then as the shadows lengthened, The thrush made its answer clear: "There was void in the world of music, A singer lies voiceless here."_ Thus endeth this inadequate study of my gentle and joyous friend, "the good knight, _sans peur et sans monnaie_." APPENDIX The two articles by Eugene Field which follow here are not to be taken as particularly illuminating examples of his literary art or style. For those the reader is referred to his collected works; especially those tales and poems published during his lifetime and to "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." These are given to illustrate the liberties Field took with his living friends and with the verities of literary history. There was no such book as the "Ten Years of a Song Bird: Memoirs of a Busy Life," by Emma Abbott; and "The Discoverer of Shakespeare," by Franklin H. Head, was equally a creation of Field's lively fancy. I reproduce the latter review from the copy which Field cut from the Record and sent in pamphlet form to Mr. Head with the following note: DEAR MR. HEAD: The printers jumbled my review of your essay so fearfully to-day that I make bold to send you the review straightened out in seemly wise. Now, I shall expect you to send me a copy of the book when it is printed, and then I shall feel amply compensated for the worry which the hotch-potch in the Daily News of this morning has given me. Ever sincerely yours, EUGENE FIELD. May 21st, 1891. WHO DISCOVERED SHAKESPEARE? Mr. Franklin H. Head is about to publish his scholarly and ingenious essay upon "The Discoverer of Shakespeare." Mr. Head is as enthusiastic a Shakespeare student as we have in the West, and his enthusiasm is tempered by a certain reverence which has led him to view with dismay, if not with horror, the exploits of latter-day iconoclasts, who would fain convince the credulous that what has been was not and that he who once wrought never existed. It was Mr. Head who gave to the world several years ago the charming brochure wherein Shakespeare's relations and experience with insomnia were so pleasantly set forth, and now the public is to be favored with a second essay, one of greater value to the Shakespearian student, in that it deals directly and intimately and explicitly with the earlier years of the poet's life. This essay was read before the Chicago Literary Club several weeks ago, and would doubtless not have been published but for the earnest solicitations of General McClurg, the Rev. Dr. Herrick Johnson, Colonel J.S. Norton, and other local literary patrons, who recognized Mr. Head's work as a distinctly valuable contribution to Shakespeariana. Answering the importunities of these sagacious critics, the author will publish the essay, supplementing it with notes and appendices. Of the interesting narrative given by Mr. Head, it is our present purpose to make as complete a review as the limits afforded us this morning will allow, and we enter into the task with genuine timidity, for it is no easy thing to give in so small a compass a fair sketch of the tale and the argument which Mr. Head has presented so entertainingly, so elegantly, and so persuasively. Before his courtship of, and marriage with, Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare was comparatively unknown. By a few boon companions he was recognized as a gay and talented young fellow, not wholly averse to hazardous adventure, as his famous connection with a certain poaching affair demonstrated. Shakespeare's father was a pious man, who was properly revered by his neighbors. The son was not held in such high estimation by these simple folk. "Willie, thee beest a merry fellow," quoth the parson to the young player when he first came back from London, "but thee shall never be soche a man as thy father." Down in London his friends were of the rollicking, happy-go-lucky kind; they divided their time between the play-houses and the pot-houses; they lived by their wits, and they were not the first to demonstrate that he who would enjoy immortality must first have learned to live by his wits among mortals. It was while he led this irresponsible bachelor life in London that Shakespeare met one Elizabeth Frum, or Thrum, and with this young woman he appears to have fallen in love. The affair did not last very long, but it was fierce while it was on. Anne Hathaway was temporarily forgotten, and Mistress Frum (whose father kept the Bell and Canister) engaged--aye, absorbed--the attentions of the frisky young poet. At that time Shakespeare was spare of figure, melancholy of visage, but lively of demeanor; an inclination to baldness had already begun to exhibit itself, a predisposition hastened and encouraged doubtless by that disordered digestion to which the poet at an early age became a prey by reason of his excesses. Elizabeth Frum was deeply enamoured of Willie, but the young man soon wearied of the girl and returned to his first love. Curiously enough, Elizabeth subsequently was married to Andrew Wilwhite of Stratford-on-Avon, and lived up to the day of her death (1636) in the house next to the cottage occupied by Anne Hathaway Shakespeare and her children! Wilwhite was two years younger than Shakespeare; he was the son of a farmer, was fairly well-to-do, and had been properly educated. Perhaps more for the amusement than for the glory or for the financial remuneration there was in it, he printed a modest weekly paper which he named "The Tidings"--"an Instrument for the Spreading of Proper New Arts and Philosophies, and for the Indication and Diffusion of What Haps and Hearsays Soever Are Meet for Chronicling Withal." This journal was of unpretentious appearance, and its editorial tone was modest to a degree. The size of the paper was eight by twelve inches, four pages, with two columns to the page. The type used in the printing was large and coarse, but the paper and ink seem to have been of the best quality. A complete file of The Tidings does not survive. The British Museum has all but the third, eleventh, twelfth, and seventeenth volumes; the Newberry Library of Chicago has secured the first, seventh, sixteenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth volumes, and the Duke of Devonshire has half-a-dozen volumes. Aside from these copies none other is known to be in existence. Wilwhite was an ardent and life-long admirer of Shakespeare. It is not improbable that after her marriage Elizabeth Frum, proud of her former relations with the poet, encouraged her husband in those cordial offices which helped to promote Shakespeare's contemporaneous fame. At any rate, The Tidings was the first public print to recognize Shakespeare's genius, and Andrew Wilwhite was the first of Shakespeare's contemporaries to give public expression to his admiration and abiding faith in the talents of the poet. "We print in our supplement to-day a sonnet from the pen of Willie Shakespeare, son of our esteemed townsman, Squire John Shakespeare. Willie is now located in London, and is recognized as one of the brightest constellations in the literary galaxy of the metropolis."--The Tidings, May 18th, 1587. "Mistress Shakespeare laid an egg on our table yesterday measuring eleven inches in circumference. The amiable and accomplished wench informs us that her husband, whose poetic genius frequently illuminates these columns, will visit our midst next month. William, here is our [hand pointing to the right]."--The Tidings, June 13th, 1587. "The gifted W. Shaxpur honored this office with a call last Thursday. He was smiling all over. It is a boy, and weighs ten pounds. Thanks, Willie, for the cigar; it was a daisy."--The Tidings, July 9th, 1587. "The fireworks on Squire Shakespere's lawn last Fourth of July night were the finest ever witnessed in the county. They were brought up from London by the Squire's son William, the famous poet."--Ibid. "If you want to make Bill Shaxpeare hopping mad, just ask him how much venison is a pound. All joking aside, Willie is the leading poet of the age."--The Tidings, July 16th, 1587. Two years later the following references were made by Wilwhite to the dramatic prodigy: "We would acknowledge the receipt (from Isaac Jaggard and Edward Blount, the well-known publishers) of a volume entitled, 'The First Part of King Henry the Sixt,' the same being a dramatic poem by Willie Shaxper, formerly of this town. Critique of the work is deferred."--April 23d, 1589. "Our London exchanges agree that Willie Shaksper's new play is the greatest thing of the season. We knew that Willie would get there sooner or later. There are no flies on him."--April 23d, 1589. "The Thespian Amateur association of the Congregational church will give a performance of 'King Henry Sixt' in the town hall next Thursday evening. Reuben Bobbin, our talented tinsmith, enacting the rôle of his majesty. This play, being written by one of our townsmen and the greatest poet of the age; should be patronized by all. Ice-cream will be served inter actes."--November 6th, 1589. "We print elsewhere to-day an excerpt from the Sadler's Wells Daily Blowpipe, critically examining into the literary work of W. Shakspeyr, late of this village. The conclusion reached by our discriminating and able exchange is that Mr. Shackspeere is without question a mighty genius. We have said so all along, and we have known him ten years. Now that the Metropolitan press indorses us, we wonder what will the doddering dotard of the Avon Palladium have to say for his festering and flyblown self."--December 14th, 1589. In 1592 the Palladium reprinted an opinion given by Robert Greene: "Here is an upstart crow," said Greene of Shakespeare, "beautified with our feathers, that supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the rest of you, and, being an absolute Johannes factotum, is, in his own conceit, the only shake-scene in the country." Another contemporaneous critic said of the scene between Brutus and Cassius in "Julius Caesar": "They are put there to play the bully and the buffoon, to show their activity of face and muscles. They are to play a prize, a trial of skill and hugging and swaggering, like two drunken Hectors, for a two-penny reckoning." Shakespeare's contemporaries--or, at least, many of them--sought to belittle his work in this wise. Why, even in later years so acute a critic as John Dennis declared that "his lines are utterly void of celestial fire," and Shaftesbury spoke of his "rude, unpolished style and antiquated phrase and wit." In the year 1600, having written his _chef d'oeuvre_, the poet retired to Stratford for a brief period of rest. "Our distinguished poet-townsman, Shakespyr, accompanied us on an angling last Thursday, and ye editor returned well-laden with spoils. Two-score trouts and a multitude of dace and chubs were taken. Spending the night at the Rose and Crown, we were hospitably entertained by Jerry Sellars and his estimable lady, who have recently added a buttery to their hostelry, and otherwise adorned the premises. Over our brew in the evening the poet regaled us with reminiscences of life in London, and recited certain passages from his melancholy history of Hamlet, prince of Denmark, the same being a new and full mournful tragedic of mightie excellence."--The Tidings, May 13th, 1600. In the London News-Letter, September 6th, 1600, there occurred this personal notice: "At the Sweet Briar coffee-house Mr. A. Wilwhite, from Stratford-on-Avon, sojourneth as the guest of William Shack-speyr, player." About the same time Ben Jonson wrote to Dick Craven at Canterbury: "Andrew Wilwhite hath been with us amid great cheer and merriment, the same being that he saith he was the one that discovered our master, Will Shackpur, and that I do for a verity believe, for that Shakspur is vastly beholden unto him, and speaketh of him as he were a twin-brother or one by some great office bounden unto him." Wilwhite went on Shakespeare's bond in 1604, in certain property transfers involving what was then regarded as a considerable sum of money. The same year an infant Shakespeare was named after Wilwhite, the second daughter in the family having already been christened Elizabeth Wilwhite. From 1605 up to the time of the poet's death, eleven years later, nearly every issue of The Tidings bristled with friendly notices of "our eminent townsman," "our world-famed Shakespeare," and "our immortal poet." Shakespeare lived in Stratford those last years; he was well-to-do; he had prospered, and his last days were passed serenely. The musty files of that rurally candid little paper bear pleasing testimony to the Arcadian simplicity of the noble bard's declining years. They tell us with severe brevity of the trifling duties and recreations that engaged the poet. We learn that "a new and handsome front gate has been put up on the premises of our famous Shakspear"; that "our honored townsman-poet hath graciously contributed three-and-sixpence toward the mending of the town pump"; that "a gloom hath been cast over the entire community by the bone-felon upon Mr. Shaikspur's left thumb"; that "our immortal Shakespeere hath well discharged the onerous offices of road-overseer for the year past"; that "our sweete friend, Will Shakespear, will go fishing for trouts to-morrow with his good gossip, Ben Jonson, that hath come to be his guest a little season"; that "Master W. Shackspur hath a barrow that upon the slaughtering did weigh 400 weight"; that "the laylocks in the Shaxpur yard being now in bloom filleth the air with delectable smells, whereby the poet is mightily joyed in that he did plant and nurture the same," etc., etc. "Sweet were those declining years," writes the essayist; "sweet in their homely moderate delights, sweet in their wholesome employments, sweet in their peacefulness and repose. But sweeter and holier yet were they in the loyalty of a friendship that, covering a long period of endeavor, of struggle and adversity, survived to illumine and to glorify, as it has been a quenchless flame, the evening of the poet's life. An o'erturned stone, upon which the ivy seeks to hide the ravages which time has made, marks the spot where Wilwhite sleeps the last gracious sleep of humanity. Now and again wayfarers, straying thence, wonder whose dust it is that mingles with the warmth of Mother Earth beneath that broken tablet. And while they wonder there amid the hush, which only the music of the birds profanes, and with the fragrance of wild flowers all around, love is fulfilled and loyalty perfected; for beyond the compass of years they that wrought together and were true abide in sweet companionship eternally." EUGENE FIELD. May 20th, 1891. The review of Miss Abbott's fictitious autobiography needs no further introduction, save the statement that the only parts of it that are based on fact are those which refer to the high esteem in which its subject--or shall I say its victim?--was held by Field and the names and relations of the parties mentioned. If the reader cares to compare some of the phrases used in this autobiography with others quoted from the proceedings in the Vermont litigation in the early chapters of this book, he will find striking evidence of the persistence of literary expression in the Field family: REVIEW OF THE MEMOIRS OF MISS EMMA ABBOTT. The advance sheets of Miss Abbott's biography have been sent to us by the publishers. This volume, consisting of 868 pages, is entitled, "Ten Years a Song Bird: Memoirs of a Busy Life, by Emma Abbott." It will be put upon the market in time to catch what is called the holiday trade, and we hope it will have that enormous sale to which its merits entitle it. It is altogether a charming book--it reads like a woman's letters, so full is it of confidence couched in the artless, easy, unpretentious language of femininity. The style is so unconscious that at times it really seems as if, attired in wrapper and slippers, the fair narrator were lolling back in an easy-chair talking these interesting things into your friendly ear. Miss Abbott is a lady for whom we have had for a number of years--ever since her debut as a public singer--the highest esteem. She is one of the most conscientious of women in her private walk, conscientious in every relationship and duty and practice that go to make the sum of her daily life. This conscientiousness, involving patience, humility, perseverance, and integrity, has been, we think, the real secret of her success. And no one who has watched her steady rise from poverty to affluence, and from obscurity to fame, will deny the proposition that the woman is genuinely successful; and successful, too, in the best sense, and by hard American methods. However, it shall be our attempt not to suffer our warm personal regard for this admirable lady to color too highly our professional estimate of the literary work now before us. Although the "Memoirs of a Busy Life" purports to be a review merely of the period of Miss Abbott's career as a prima donna, there are three prefatory chapters wherein are detailed quite elaborately the incidents of her girl-life and of her early struggles. This we view with particular approval, the more in especial because, since Miss Abbott's achievement of fame, a number of hitherto obscure localities have claimed distinction as being the place of her birth. Miss Abbott records this historical fact: "It was on the first day of June, 1858, the month of flowers, of song and of bridals, in the then quiet hamlet of Peoria, whose shores are laved by the waters of the peaceful Illinois river and whose sun-kissed hills melt away into the clouds--it was then and there that I was ushered into life." The old family nurse, one Barbara Deacon (for whom the grateful cantatrice has abundantly provided), recalls that at the very moment of the infant's birth a strangely beautiful bird fluttered down from a pear-tree, alighting upon the window-sill, and caroled forth a wondrous song, hearing which the infant (_mirabile dictu!_) turned over in its crib and accompanied the winged songster's melody with an accurate second alto. This incident Miss Abbott repeats as one of the many legends bearing upon her infancy; but, with that admirable practical sense so truly characteristic of her, she adds: "Of course I repose no confidence in this story--I have always taken this bird's tale _cum grano salis_." In early childhood Emma exhibited a passion for music; at three years of age she discoursed upon the piano-forte in such a manner as to excite the marvel of all auditors. The teacher of the village school at that time was one Eugene F. Baldwin, who, being somewhat of a musician and an accomplished tenor singer of the old school, discovered the genius of this child, and did all he could to develop and encourage it. When she began to go to school Emma indicated that she had an apt, acquisitive, and retentive mind; she progressed rapidly in her studies, but her health was totally inadequate, so at the age of twelve years she was compelled to abandon her studies. Shortly thereafter she removed with her family to Chicago. In this city Emma lived for four years, during most of which time she received instruction in vocalism from the venerable Professor Perkins. On several occasions she sang in public, and the papers complimented her as the "Child Patti." When she was sixteen years old Emma went East with the determination to make her own living. All she had she carried in a homely carpet-bag--"nay, not all," she adds, "for I had a strong heart and a willing hand." Her mother had taught her to do well whatsoever she did." I could cook well, and scrub well, and sew well," she says, "and now I was resolved to learn to sing well. At any rate, I was going to make a living, for if I failed at all else I could cook or sew or scrub." That's pluck of the noblest kind! Emma was a devoutly religious girl; she joined the Rev. Dr. Bellow's church soon after her arrival in Brooklyn, and presently secured a position in the choir of the church. The members of the congregation soon began to take more than a passing interest in her, being attracted more and more by the sweetness of her singing and the saintliness of her beauty and by the circumspection and modesty of her demeanor. One member of the congregation (and we now come to an interesting period in our heroine's life) was a young druggist named Wetherell--Eugene Wetherell--who became deeply enamoured of the spirituelle choir-singer. He was handsome, talented, and pious, and to these charms Emma very properly was not wholly insensible. With commendable candor she told young Wetherell that she had certain high ambitions or duties which she was determined to follow at the sacrifice of every selfish consideration; if he were willing to wait for her until she saw her way clear to the accomplishment of those duties, she would then link her destiny indissolubly with his. To this the young druggist acceded. In 1877 Emma was enabled to go to Paris to perfect her music studies. Certain wealthy members of Dr. Bellow's church provided her with the financial means, which she accepted as a loan, to be paid in due season. In chapter four of the memoirs we are regaled with an instructive record of Emma's voyage across the Atlantic, her admiration of the magnitude of the ocean, her consciousness of man's utter helplessness should storms arise and drive the ship upon hidden rocks, etc., etc. In the next chapter she laments the exceeding depravity of Paris, and expresses wonderment that in so fair a city humanity should abandon itself to such godless and damnable practices. These things we refer to because they show the serious, not to say pious, trend of the young woman's mind. In one place she says: "I thank God that my Eugene is tending a drug-store in Brooklyn instead of being surrounded by the divers temptations of this modern Babylon; for, circumspect and pure though he may be by nature, hardly could he be environed by all this wretchedness without receiving some taint therein." While she was in Paris she became acquainted with the great Gounod and with the brilliant but erratic Offenbach. Gounod introduced her to many of the greatest composers and singers. Among her friendliest acquaintances she numbered Wagner and Liszt. The latter wrote her a sonata to sing, and Wagner tried to get her permission for him to introduce her into the trilogy he was then at work upon. Meissonier made an exquisite study of her, and the younger Dumas made her the heroine of one of his brightest comedies, "La Petite Americaine." There was one man, however, whom our heroine would not suffer to be introduced to her; that man was Zola. She would never recognize in her list of acquaintances, so she told Gounod with an angry stamp of her tiny foot, any man who debased his God-given talents to smut and lubricity. In 1879 Miss Abbott returned to her native land, fully prepared to engage in the profession of a public singer. Her first tour of the country was a continuous round of ovations. The public hailed her as the queen of American song; the press was generous in its appreciation. The next year she embarked in opera. This cost her a season of severe self-struggle. She dreaded to expose herself to the temptations of the stage. In her memoirs she assures us with all gravity that she prayed long and earnestly for courage to put on and wear the short dress required in the performance of the "Bohemian Girl." We may smile at this feminine squeamishness; yet, after all, we cannot help admiring the possessor of it wherever we find her. Miss Abbott says that she was particularly fortunate in having secured Mr. James W. Morrissey for her manager. This young man was full of energy and of device; moreover, he was personally acquainted with many of the journalists throughout the country. He was with Miss Abbott three years, and she acknowledges herself under great obligations to him. "It is pleasant," she writes, "to feel that our friendship still exists, as hearty and as generous as ever; and that it will abide to the end I doubt not, for, by naming his little son Abbott in honor of me, my dear, good, kind Jimmy Morrissey has simply welded more closely the bonds of friendship uniting us." These words are characteristic of honest Emma Abbott's candor. In these memoirs there is a chapter devoted to the newspaper critics, and it is interesting to note the good-nature with which the sprightly cantatrice handles these touchy gentlemen. Not an unkind word is said; occasionally a foible or a trait is hit off, but all is done cleverly and in the most genial temper. Considerable space is devoted to the Chicago critics--Messrs. Upton, Mathews, McConnell, and Gleason--who, Miss Abbott says, have helped her with what they have written about her. Messrs. Moore, Johns, and Jennings, of St. Louis; R.M. Field, of Kansas City; William Stapleton, of Denver; Alf Sorenson, of Cincinnati, are prominent among the western critics whom she specifies as her "dear, good friends." She calls upon heaven to bless them. There is a chapter (the thirteenth) which tells how a public singer should dress; we wish we had the space for liberal quotations from this interesting essay, because this is a subject which all the ladies are anxious to know all about. Miss Abbott ridicules the idea that the small-waisted dress is harmful to the wearer. Women breathe with their lungs, and do not enlist the co-operation of the diaphragm, as men do. So, therefore, it matters not how tight a woman laces her waist so long as she insists that her gown be made ample about the bust; nay, the fair author maintains that the singer has a better command of her powers, and is more capable of sustained exertion, when her waist is girt and cinched to the very limit. Of course, knowing nothing whatsoever of this thing, we are wholly incompetent to discuss the subject. It interests us to know that Miss Abbott's theory is indorsed by Worth, Madame Demorest, Dr. Hamilton, and other recognized authorities. Of her married life the famous prima donna speaks tenderly and at length; she is evidently of a domestic nature; she says she pines for the day when she can retire to a quiet little home, and devote herself to children and to household duties. An affectionate tribute is paid to her husband, Mr. Wetherell, to whom she was wedded just before her debut in opera; he has been a constant solace and help, she says, and no disagreement or harshness has ruffled the felicity of their holy relation. In the appendix to the memoirs are to be found letters addressed at different times to Miss Abbott by Patti, Gounod, Kellogg, Longfellow, Jenny Lind, Nilsson, Wagner, Dumas, Brignoli, Liszt, and other notables. Numerous fine steel portraits add value to the volume. In a word, this book serves as a delightful history of the time of which it treats. It gives us pictures of places, manners, and morals, and chats with distinguished men and women. Better than this, it is the reflex of an earnest life and of a stanch, pure heart, challenging our admiration, and worthy of our emulation. INDEX Abbott, Miss Emma, a friend of Field, i., 228, 346; Field's review of her imaginary autobiography, ii., 332-340 "Ailsie, My Bairn," ii., 129 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, i., 134 "Alliaunce, The," ii., 124-126 "An Appreciation" of Eugene Field, i., 201 "April Vespers," i., 129, 130 Archer, Belle, i., 249 Arion Quartette, formed by Field and others, i., 113 Armour, George A., ii., 173 Auer, Louis, ii., 294 "Aunt Mary Matilda Series," ii., 28, 35 "Auto-Analysis, An," i., 51, 99, 106; reference to Field's early verse, 135, 227; origin and publication of, ii., 234-240 "Awful Bugaboo, The," i., 152, 153 Baker, Thomas C., i., 113 Ballantyne, John F., i., 206; his relations with Field, 207, 208; his office, 215; hero of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," ii., 36; married, 89, 90 "Bar Harbor: A Reminiscence," ii., 212, 213 Barrett, Wilson, ii., 276, 277 Barnes, Charles A., ii., 173 Barnum, P.T., ii., 153 Barren, Elwin, i., 285 Bates, Mrs. Morgan, entertains Field, ii., 84-86 Bates, Morgan, i., 216, 282; suffers from his political attitude, ii., 223, 224 Below, Mrs., i., 101, 105 Bernhardt, Madame, i., 173, 243 "Bibliomaniac's Prayer, The," ii., 170, 171 Bikens, Judge, i., 27 Bingham, Joseph, ii., 226, 227 Blaine, James G., ii., 10, 11, 217; defeated in his campaign for the Presidency, 221 Blair, Montgomery, i., 44 Bristol, Rev. Frank M., ii., 173; delivers address at Field's funeral, 315 Broderick, Mr. and Mrs. George, i., 249 Browne, Francis, proposes to publish Field's writings, ii., 56 Burdette, Robert J., i., 134 Burgess, Professor John W., i., 78 Burke, Judge Henry W., association with Field, i., 115 Buskett, William C., hero of "Penn Yan Bill," i., 112; describes Field's life in St. Louis, 112-114; receives letter from Field, ii., 161, 162 Cable, Ben. T., ii., 173 Cable, George W., ii., 265 "Camille," i., 241-245 Capel, Monseigneur, his meeting with William J. Florence, i., 231 "Casey's Table d'Hote," i., 112 Charless, Joseph, i., 41 Chicago, Field comes to, i., 189; description of, 194-197 Chicago Daily News, description of editorial rooms of, i., 211-218 "Christmas Treasures," i., 135 Clark, Edward B., ii., 320 Claxton, Kate, her reputation as an actress, i., 260; biography of, 261, 262 Cleveland, Grover, ii., 217; elected President, 221 Cleveland, Miss Rose, retires from editorship of Literary Life, ii., 106 Comstock, Miss Carrie, i., 104, 113 Comstock, Edgar V., visits Europe with Field, i., 98-100, 104, 113 Comstock, Miss Georgia, i., 104, 113 Comstock, Miss Gussle, i., 104, 113 Comstock, Miss Ida, i., 104 Comstock, Miss Julia Sutherland, i., 104; married to Eugene Field, 109 Cooley, Judge, responsible for some of Field's poems, i., 331-337; ii., 112 Cowen, E.D., characterizes Field, i., 143; accounts for inspiration of Tribune Primer, 147; describes Field's bottomless chair, 159; tells of Wickersham's methods, 163; writes of Field's ill-health, 185; assaulted, 209, 210; analyzes Field's dramatic relations, 227; bowls against Field, ii., 74, 76; attends ball-game with Field, 77-79; an experience with crickets, 86, 87; receives letters from Field, 119, 120, 139-142, 144-146, 148, 149, 158, 159 Crane, Mr. and Mrs. William, acquaintance with Field, i., 235-241; "Mrs. Billy Crane," 237-239 Crawford, Thomas L., joins Arion Quartette, i., 113 "Culture's Garland," i., 338; description of, ii., 108-113; Gen. A.C. McClurg's objection to, 175 "Current Gossip" becomes "Sharps and Flats," i., 201 Curtis, George Ticknor, i., 44 Dana, Charles A., visits Denver, i., 179, 180; assists Field in a hoax, 337; subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132 "Danger that Threatens, A," i., 339, 340 Davis, Jessie Bartlett, i., 255 Davis, Mrs. Will J., i., 254 Davis, Will J., i., 61 Dawson, R. L., ii., 101 "Death and the Soldier," ii., 101 "Delectable Ballad of the Waller Lot, The," ii., 269 De Koven, Reginald, ii., 240 Denver, description of, i., 144, 145; centre of railway interests, 162 "Der Niebelrungen und Der Schlabbergasterfeldt," ii., 23, 24 "Dibdin's Ghost," ii., 195, 190 "Divine Lullaby," i., 337 Drew, Cyrus K., ii., 276 Du Chaillu, Paul, ii., 197 Earle, Alice Morse, i., 1; letter from Eugene Field, 56 "Echo from Mackinac Island, An," ii., 57, 58 "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," i., 2; dedication of, 93, 94; publication of, ii., 155-157, 165, 166 Ela, John W., a Mugwump, ii., 218-220 Ellsworth, James W., ii., 173 Emerson, Dr. John, owner of Dred Scott, i., 37 "Eugene Field," a tribute by a Texan, ii., 318, 319 "Eugene Field in His Home," i., 101 Evans, Governor, i., 147 "Fickle Woman, A," i., 332 Field, Charles Kellogg, uncle of Eugene Field, i., 2; education, 5, 9, 10; studies law, 10; capacity for mischief, 48; his memoir of Roswell M. Field, ii., 262, 263 Field, Miss Kate, her acquaintance with Eugene Field, i., 174, 175; subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132 Field, Eugene, ancestry, i., 2; birthplace, 50, 51; doubt as to date of birth, 51, 52; death of mother, 52, 53; cared for by Miss French, 53; early youth in Newfane and Amherst, 54-60; fondness for pets, 60-65; religious training, 66-69; sentiments toward Vermont and New England, 69-71; education under Mr. Tufts at Monson, 73-78; enters Williams College, 78; anecdotes of college life, 79-84; lack of interest in studies, 79-81; leaves Williams, 81; summoned to deathbed of father, 84; enters Knox College, 84; joins brother at University of Missouri, 85; severs connection with the University, 85; indication of literary genius, 86-90; life in St. Louis, 91-98; fascination for the stage, 95-97; inherits $8,000, makes a tour of Europe, and squanders his patrimony, 98-100; returns to St. Louis, 100; descriptions of his trip, 101, 102; affection for the fair sex, 103-106; courtship and marriage, 105-109; honeymoon, 109, 110; investment of $20,000 on experience, 111; goes to work as reporter on St. Louis Evening Journal, 112; description of early married life in St. Louis, 112, 113, 121; love of fun, 113-117, 118; members of household, 113; fondness for singing, 114; his children, 114, 121, 122, 191; ii., 255-258, 261, 278, 279; city editor of St. Joseph Gazette, i., 114; returns to St. Louis and continues writing for the Evening Journal, 115, 116; lack of business ability, 116; attack by the Spectator, 117-119; reply to the same, 120; becomes managing editor of Kansas City Times, 122, 136; his home relations, 122-125; method of reporting, 126, 127; whimsical verses and fancies, 128-131; misreports and plays practical jokes on Carl Schurz, 131-133; character of his early journalistic work, 133-135; revels in Kansas City, 130-138; writes "The Little Peach," 139; Greek translation and English equivalent of same, 140-142; moves to Denver and becomes managing editor of The Denver Tribune, 143-145; writes "Odds and Ends," 145-151; his "Tribune Primer," 146-152; his views on journalism, 149, 150; creates the "Bugaboo," 151-153; his friendship for Madame Modjeska, 154; writes "The Wanderer," 154, 155; credits "The Wanderer" to Madame Modjeska, 154-157; anecdotes of his life in Denver, 158-182; description of his office, 158, 159; his acquaintance with "Bill" Nye, 159-161; his inability to keep money, 162; the Wickersham episode, 163-171; impersonates Oscar Wilde, 171-172; his dramatic qualifications and acquaintances, 173; his relations and correspondence with Miss Kate Field, 174, 175; his disposition, 175, 176; plays pranks on Wolfe Londoner, 176-180; gives a single-handed entertainment at Manîtou, 181, 182; his hatred of hypocrisy, 182; ii., 314; failure of health, i., 183-185; accepts position on the Chicago Morning News and leaves Denver, 183-189; ambition to achieve literary fame, 190; his home and family in Chicago, 191; introduces himself to the public, 191, 192; his favorite child, 192; means of increasing salary, 192, 193; ii., 7; reasons for staying in Chicago, i., 193-195; his objections to Chicago, 196-201; begins "Sharps and Flats," 201-203; his scholarship, 204, 205; held in check by John F. Ballantyne, 207-209; writes on assault of Edward D. Cowen, 209, 210; description of the editorial rooms of the Chicago Daily News, 211- 217; his office described, 218-220; his personal appearance and characteristics, 220-223; meets Christine Nilsson, 224-227; his fondness for stage folk, 227; invents tales respecting Emma Abbott, 228; his friendship with Francis Wilson, 229, 230; his relations with William Florence, 230-235; his friendship with the Cranes, 235-241; mutual friendship between Madame Modjeska and himself, 241-249; enjoys "The Mikado," 240-251; his favorite prima donna, 251-254; dedicates three poems to the Davises, 254-261; satires Kate Claxton, 261-262; impersonates Sir Henry Irving, 263, 264; his association with Sol Smith Russell, 264-270; lack of literary education, 271-274; studies early English literature, 275-278; makes acquaintance of Dr. Reilly, 279-280; inspired by Dr. Reilly, 282-293; his debt to Father Prout and Béranger, 282-288; ii., 116; tributes to Dr. Reilly, i., 289-293; his method of work, 294-300; love of the theatre, 300, 301; describes Billy Boyle's Chop-house, 301-305; partakes of midnight suppers, 307, 308; ii., 5; exposes Rutherford B. Hayes, i., 309; while absent from Chicago, learns a lesson, 310-313; derives profit from his play, 314-317; his aim in life, 315; evolution of his life and writings, 317; his keen appreciation of humor, 317-319; an international hoax, 320-323; foisters the authorship of "The Lost Sheep" on Miss Sally McLean, 324, 325; involves Miss Wheeler in a controversy, 326-328; methods of calling public attention to own compositions, 329-331; makes Judge Cooley responsible for some of his poems, 331-337; hoaxes Chicago critics, 337, 338; prophecies a danger, 339, 340; characterized by E.C. Stedman, 340, 341; comments on Mr. Stedman's visit to Chicago, 341-345; his companionship with Slason Thompson, ii., 1-14; presents a cherished wedding gift to Mrs. Thompson, 1, 2; condition of his finances, 6, 7; obtains advances on his salary, 7-9; embarrasses Slason Thompson with postal-cards, 9-11; plays a Christmas prank. 12-14; character of handwriting, 15, 16; origin of use of colored inks, 16-18; reproduces Corot's "St. Sebastian" and other pictures from written descriptions, 18-22; composes a German poem, 23, 24; his means of obtaining, and using, colored inks, 24-32; corresponds with Miss Thompson, 27, 28, 33, 34; two artistic efforts, 28-33; writes "Aunt Mary Matilda" series, 35, 36; character of his letters, 45; sends letters and poems to Slason Thompson, 47-58, 65-70, 77-105; dines at Thompson's expense, 53-55; dedicates two ballads to "The Fair Unknown," 59-64; his interest in baseball, 71-73; participates in the game of bowling, 73-76; describes a ball game, 77, 78, 80; plays a practical joke, 80, 81; verses to two of his friends, 82-84; celebrates Mrs. Morgan Bates' birthday, 84-80; his first appearance as a reader, 101, 102; discusses pronunciation of Goethe's name, 102; induces Miss Cleveland to retire from an editorship, 105, 106; publishes his first book, 107; description of "Culture's Garland," 108-114; resolves to master prose writing, 114, 115; writes a column of verse a day, 116-120; origin of "Little Boy Blue," 121; contributions to America, 122; invents "The Shadwell Folio," 122-129; proposes to privately publish two books of his verses and tales, 130, 131; responses to his appeal, 131-133; publishes his "Little Books," 133-137; his struggle with dyspepsia, 138; writes to E.D. Cowen concerning his proposed visit to Europe, 139- 142; and to Melvin L. Gray, 143, 144; arrives in London, 144-146; tells a story on James Whitcomb Riley, 147, 148; places his children in school, 148, 149; writes to Mr. Gray of his life in London, 149-153; tells yarns to Mrs. Humphry Ward, 153-155; publication of the limited edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 155-157, 165, 166; collects rarities, 158; death of his eldest son, 159-161; his return to Chicago, 161; prepares other books for publication, 162, 163; describes burial of his son, 163, 164; ill-health, 166; writes Christmas stories, 166-168; becomes a bibliomaniac, 169-171; frequents McClurg's store, 171; originates the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 173-175; his relations with William F. Poole, 175-177; saves a coveted book, 178; reports two imaginary meetings in the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 179-190; his theory regarding the buying of curios, 190-192; entertains the Saints and Sinners, 193-197; his politics, 198-201; his skill in writing political paragraphs, 202, 266; specimens of his political writings, 203-207; embarrasses a politician, 208, 209; plays pranks on General Logan, 209-212; assists General Logan, 213, 214; lampoons Judge Tree, 214-217; ridicules the Mugwumps, 218-222; becomes a Democrat, 221, 222; unburdens his feelings upon the subject of his political martyrdom, 223-229; describes M.E. Stone before and after Blaine's defeat, 224-226; writes a parody on "Jest 'fore Christmas," 229, 231; his description of politics and business in a country store, 231-233; his whimsical attitude toward serious questions, 233; demands for biographical data concerning himself, 234, 235; the result, "An Auto-Analysis," 235-240; inaccuracy of his statements, 240-242; his favorite authors, 242, 243; his aversion to brutality, 244; his love of music, 244, 245; starts to write a comic opera, 246-251; his tobacco habit, 252-254; love of children, 254-258; interviewed by Hamlin Garland, 259, 260; becomes aware of his failing health, 262-264; his struggle to provide for his family, 264; reads in public, 265; affected by beautiful weather, 266, 277; enjoys the World's Fair, 267, 268; his desire to own a home, 269-271; recovers from pneumonia, 271; visits California, 272-276; and New Orleans, 276-278; embarrasses Miss Jeffries, 277, 278; letters to Mr. Gray, 278-290; buys and remodels a house, 281-283; delayed by repairs from taking possession of his new home, 284-286; experiments with gardening, 286, 287; describes his home, 287-289; entertains Edward Everett Hale, 291-293; his desire to lead a more quiet life, 293-296; his strange collection of curios, 297-301; his autographs and books, 301; his taste in jewelry, 301, 302; stays at home, 302-304; gathers material for "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," 305, 306; specimens of his later paragraphs, 306, 307; spends an evening with Slason Thompson, 307, 308; defends "Bill" Nye, 309; feels sick, 310, 311; his death, 311-313; a true knight, 314; his religion, 315; his funeral, 316, 317; tributes by his friends, 314-320; his resting-place, 319, 320; reviews of two imaginary books, 321-340 Field, Eugene, letters of, to William C. Buskett, ii., 161, 162; to E.D. Cowen, 119, 120, 130-142, 144-146, 148, 149, 158, 159; to R.L. Dawson, 101, 102; to Mrs. Earle, i., 56; to Melvin L. Gray, 120; ii., 118, 119, 143, 144, 149-153, 162-165, 166, 270, 274, 278-290; to Edith Long, i., 64, 65; to Collins Shackelford, 217; to Miss Thompson, ii., 27, 28, 33, 34; to Slason Thompson, 47-58, 63-70, 77-105 Field, Henry, appreciates Field's artistic efforts, ii., 22 Field, General Martin, grandfather of Eugene Field, i., 2; letter to daughter Mary, 8, 9; troubles with sons, 4-8 Field, Mary, aunt of Eugene Field, i., 5, 8, 9; assumes care of Eugene and Roswell Field, 53; description of, 54; lives with Eugene Field, 113 Field, Roswell Martin, father of Eugene Field, birth-place and parentage, i., 2; brother Charles, 4, 5, 9; education, 5, 9, 10; sister Mary, 8, 9; practices law, 10, 11; accomplishments, 11; first love-affair, 13-22; secretly married, 23-33; marriage annulled, 33, 34; emigrates to Missouri, 35; opinions on slavery, 37; defends Dred Scott, 37-44; tributes by his associates, 45-47; marries Miss Frances Reed, 49; children, 49, 50; death of, 84; memoir of, by his brother, ii., 262, 263 Field, Roswell Martin, Jr., brother of Eugene Field, birth, i., 50; early education, 54-60; student at University of Missouri, 85-86; advice from father concerning property, 111; his "Memory of Eugene Field," ii., 1; wishes to leave Kansas City, 142; contributes part of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 157, 162; becomes editorial writer on Times-Herald, 290 Fiske, John, his imaginary autobiography, ii., 238; his death, 238, 239 "First Christmas Tree, The," ii., 102 Florence, William, a friend of Eugene Field, i., 230; his meeting with Capel, 231; his love of good living, 232-235 "For the Little Folks," i., 147 Forrest, Edwin, i., 95, 96 French, Mary Field, i., 8, 9 "Funny Fancies," i., 130, 134 Garland, Hamlin, i., 155; reports an imaginary conversation with Field, ii., 259, 260 Gaston, George, i., 137, 138 "George Millard is Home!" ii., 172, 173 Gilbert, William S., receives credit for Field's "April Vespers," i., 129 "Golden Week, The," ii., 117, 129 "Good Knight and His Lady," i., 121-124 "Good Knight and the Fair Unknown, The," ii., 59 "Good Knight's Diplomacy," ii., 45, 46 "Good Knight to Sir Slosson, The," ii., 3, 4 "Good Sir Slosson's Episode with the Garrulous Sir Barbour, The," ii., 50, 51 Gray, Mrs. Melvin L., i., 71, 92, 03, 103; ii., 274 Gray, Melvin L., i., 92-94, 99; financial difficulties with Field, 116, 117; letters from Field, 120; ii., 118, 119, 143, 144, 149-153, 162-163, 166, 270, 274, 278-290; assists Field to buy a home, 281 _et seq._ Greene, Clay M., i., 203 Griffin, Solomon B., describes Field at Williams, i., 82, 83 Gunsaulus, Rev. Frank W., ii., 173; describes the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 178; writes for the "Sharps and Flats" column, 305; tribute to Eugene Field, 317 Hale, Edward Everett, entertained by Field, ii., 291, 292 Hall, Rev. Thomas C., ii., 316 Hamilton, Judge Alexander, i., 40, 41 Harrison, Alice, i., 249, 250 Hawkins, Willis, i., 282; bowls with Field, ii., 74, 76; attends ball game with Field, 77, 78 Hawthorne, Julian, writes introduction for "Culture's Garland," ii., 110, 112 Hayes, Mrs. Rutherford B., admired by Field, i., 310 Hayes, Rutherford B., exposed by Field, i., 309 Head, Franklin II., his imaginary book reviewed by Field, ii., 321-331 "Holy Cross and Other Tales, The," ii., 265 Hopkins, President Mark, i., 79 "House, The," ii., 281, 282 "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," ii., 35-43 "How the Good Knight Attended Upon Sir Slosson," ii., 62-64 "How the Good Knight Protected Sir Slosson's Credit," ii., 53, 54 Howells, William Dean, i., 134 Hull, Paul, i., 282 "Hushaby Song, A," 254, 255 Irving, Sir Henry, his tribute to Eugene Field, i., 263; mimicked by Field, 263, 264 James, Henry, i., 134 Jefferson, Joseph, i., 230; relates a story about William J. Florence, 234, 235 Jeffries, Miss Maude, embarrassed by one of Field's jokes, ii., 276-278 "Jest 'fore Election," a parody, ii., 229-231 Jewett, Miss Sara, i., 260 Joy, Major Moses, i., 24 Joyce, Colonel John A., i., 326-328 Kelley, Michael J., star of the Chicago Baseball Club, ii., 71-73 Kellog, Esther Smith, grandmother of Eugene Field, i., 2; character, 57; picture of, by Eugene Field, 57-59 Larned, Walter Cranston, describes the Walters gallery, ii., 16-21; Field reproduces his descriptions in colored inks, 18-21; presented with a work of art, 22 Lathrop, Barbour, ii., 51 Lawson, Victor F., i., 185, 186; ii., 132; acquires control of the Morning and Daily News, 222 "Little Book of Profitable Tales, A," i., 316; concerning publication of, ii., 130-137 "Little Book of Western Verse, A," i., 8, 93, 112, 157, 317, 337; ii., 1; concerning publication of, 130-137, 147 "Little Boy Blue," ii., 112; origin of, 121 "Little Peach, The," i., 139-141 Livingstone, John B., accounts for title of "Sharps and Flats," i., 201-203 Logan, General John A., victim of Field's pranks, ii., 209-212; "The Spy," 210, 211; "Logan's Lament," 212; aided by Field, 213-216; re-elected to the Senate, 216 Londoner, Wolfe, describes Field, i., 175, 176; victimized by Field, 176-179; story of his meeting with Charles A. Dana, 179, 180 "Lonesome Little Shoe, The," title-page of, ii., 35 Long, Edith, letter to Eugene Field, i., 63, 64; reply to same, 64, 65 "Lost Schooner, The," ii., 127, 128 "Lost Sheep, The," il., 324 "Love and Laughter," i., 326 "Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac, The," i., 317; ii., 305 "Love Plaint," i., 228, 220 "Love Songs of Childhood," ii., 265, 278, 280 "Lyrics of a Convalescent," ii., 276 McClurg, General A.C., ii., 56; knowledge of rare books, 172; disapproves of "Culture's Garland," 174, 175; as a Mugwump, 218-220 McClurg, A.C., & Co.'s bookstore, i., 275; ii., 56; gutted by fire, 177, 178 MacKenzie, Sir Morell, prescribes for William Florence, i., 233 McLean, Sally Pratt, alleged author of "The Lost Sheep," i., 324, 325 McPhelim, Edward J., ii., 4 MacVeagh, Franklin, ii., 218 "Mæcenas," i., 285, 286 "Margaret, a Pearl," ii., 115 "Markessy di Pullman," ii., 112 "Marthy's Younkit," ii., 117; dedicated to E. D. Cowen, 141 Mason, David H., his small handwriting, ii., 15, 16 "Merciful Lad, The," ii., 113, 114 "Mikado, The," i., 249, 250 Millard, George M., ii., 171, 172; "George Millard is Home!" 172, 173 Modjeska, Madame, i., 154; her attitude toward "The Wanderer." 156, 157; her friendship with Field, 242, 249; "To Helena Modjeska," 246, 247 Moon, Mrs. Temperance, i., 50 Morgan, Edward B., gives origin of "Odds and Ends," i., 146, 147 Morris, Clara, in "Camille," i., 243 "Mortality," i., 332 "Mountain and the Sea," ii., 115, 202 "Mr. Peattie's Cape," ii., 82 "New Baby, The," i., 128 Newfane, village of, i., 2-4 "Night Wind, The," ii., 308 Nilsson, Christine, meets Eugene Field, i., 224-227 "Noontide Hymn, A," ii., 245 Norton, Colonel J.S., a victim of Field, i., 320; "To Eugene Field," 323; makes a presentation speech, ii., 22 Nye, "Bill," meets Eugene Field, i., 159-161; ii., 265; defended by Field, 309 "Old English Lullaby," ii., 129 "Old Sexton," i., 113 "Ossian's Serenade," i., 114 "Our Two Opinions," i., 267 Peattie, Mr. and Mrs. Robert, objects of a practical joke, ii., 80, 81; verses to, 82, 83 "Penn Yan Bill," i., 112 "Piteous Appeal of a Forsooken Habbit, Ye," ii., 2, 121 Plumbe, George E., i., 212 Poole, William F., i., 212; his relations with Field, ii., 175-177 "'Possum Jim," i., 167, 169 "Proposed Cure for Bibliomania," ii., 182-190 Ralph, Julian, describes Field's curios, ii., 298 Ranney, Mrs. Deacon, i., 58 Reed, Miss Frances, i., 49 Reed, Roland, i., 240 "Reform," ii., 199, 200 Reid, Whitelaw, ii., 132 Reilly, Dr. Frank W., becomes a helpful friend to Field, i., 279, 280; benefits Illinois, 281; his accomplishments 283-285; "To Dr. Frank W. Riley," 289, 290; "To F.W.R. at 6 P.M.," 293; Field complains of, ii., 86, 88 "Return of the Highlander, The," ii., 83, 84 Rice, John A., i., 263 Riley, James Whitcomb, Field tells a story at his expense, ii., 147, 148; reads with Field, 265 "Robin and the Violet, The," i., 317; ii., 102 Robson, Stuart, ii., 132 "Rose, The," ii., 106 Rothacker, O.H., editor of Denver Tribune, i., 144, 189 Russell, Sol Smith, one of Field's best friends, i., 264; his mimicry, i., 265, 266, 292 St. Joseph Gazette, i., 114 St. Louis, Field's father dies in, i., 84; Field's home, 91-98, 112 "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," origin of, ii., 173-175; described, 178; description of entertainment given by Field, 193-197 Sandford, Alexander, i., 41 Schurz, Carl, misreported by Field, 131, 132 Sclanders, J.L., i., 218 Scott, Dred, statement of his case, i., 38; first petition to the Circuit Court, 39, 40; complaint against Alexander Sandford and others, 41, 42; Justice Taney's decision, 42, 43 "Second Book of Verse," i., 53; ii., 264 "Seein' Things," i., 153 Sembrich, Madame, a favorite of Field, i., 251; her genius and accomplishments, 252, 253 Shackelford, Collins, i., 217; wheedled into advancing money to Field, ii., 7-9 "Shadwell Folio, The," ii., 122-129 "Sharps and Flats," i., 53, 97, 114; beginning and origin of, 201-203; mention of William Crane, 235, 240; ii., 56, 119, 254 "Singer Mother, The," i., 255, 256 Skiff, Fred V., i., 144; advances money to Field, 162; subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132 Smith, Harry B, ii., 250 "Songs and Other Verse," ii., 129 "Sonnet to Shekelsford, A," ii., 8 "Souvenirs from Egypt," ii., 179-182 "Statesman's Sorrow, A," ii., 231-233 Stedman, Edmund Clarence, writes an appreciation of Eugene Field, i., 340, 341; visits Chicago, 341-345 Stevenson, Adlai, ii., 207, 288 Stone, Melvin B., establishes the Chicago Daily News, i., 185, 186; first meeting with Field, 187; offers Field a position, 188; accounts for "Sharps and Flats," 203; a Mugwump, ii., 218-220; retires from the Daily News, 222; described before and after Blaine's defeat, 224-226; bears expense of painting Field's house, 288 Stryker. Rev. M. Woolsey, ii., 173 "Symbol and the Salut, The," ii., 167 Taney, Chief Justice, decision in Dred Scott case, i., 37, 38, 42, 43 "Ten Years of a Song Bird: Memoirs of a Busy Life," ii., 321, 332-340 Terry, Ellen, i., 264 "The Eugene Field I Knew," i., 96 Thompson, Mary Matilda, receives illuminated letters from Field, ii., 27, 28, 33, 34; "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," dedicated to, 36 Thompson, Mrs., i., 156 Thompson, Slason, personal relations with Field, ii., 1-14; his marriage, 1, 2, 120; bombarded with postal-cards, 9-12; receives a Christmas stocking, 12-14; his rooms pictured by Field, 28-31; letters and poems from Field, 47-58, 65-70; publishes "The Humbler Poets," 56; receives twelve more letters from Field, 77-105; retires from The Daily News to join America, 121; letters from John Wilson & Son concerning publication of Field's "Little Books," 133-136; receives two letters from Francis Wilson about publication of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 153-157; a Mugwump, 218-220; his last evening with Field, 307, 308 Thorne, Charles H., Jr., i., 260 Ticknor & Co., ii., 107 Tilden, S.J., ii., 253 "To a Blue Jay," i., 334-336 "To Clara Doty Bates," ii., 85, 86 Todd, Charles S., ii., 319 Tree, Judge Lambert, lampooned by Field, ii., 214-217 "Tribune Primer," i., 146; not Field's first book, ii., 107 "Tribute of the Thrush, The," ii., 320 Tufts, Rev. James, i., 54; educates Eugene Field, i., 73-78 "Valentine, A," ii., 129 "Vision of the Holy Grail, The," i., 333 Walters Gallery, The, described, ii., 16-21 "Wanderer, The," i., 154-157 Ward, Mrs. Humphry, believes two of Field's yarns, ii., 153-155 Warner, Charles Dudley, i., 134 Waterloo, Stanley, i., 98 "Werewolf, The," ii., 115 Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, involved in a controversy over "Love and Laughter," i., 326-328 Wilde, Oscar, impersonated by Field, i., 171, 172 Wilson, Francis, i., 96, 148; made fun of, 229, 230; issues "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," ii., 155-157, 165, 166; buys Sir Walter Scott's chair, 190, 191 Wilson & Son, John, letters to Slason Thompson concerning Field's "Little Books," ii., 133-136 "Winfreda," ii., 129 "Wit of the Silurian Age," i., 291 "With Trumpet and Drum," ii., 264 Wood, Mrs. Hanna, i., 24, 25 "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," ii., 116 "Yvytot," ii., 146, 147 
37191	----	JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER His Life, Genius, and Writings BY W. SLOANE KENNEDY Author of a "Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," Etc. REVISED AND ENLARGED _INTRODUCTION BY REV. S. F. SMITH, D.D._ Author of Hymn "America" Such music as the woods and streams Sang in his ear, he sang aloud _The Tent on the Beach_ For all his quiet life flowed on, As meadow streamlets flow, Where fresher green reveals alo The noiseless ways they go _The Friend's Burial_ CHICAGO NEW YORK THE WERNER COMPANY COPYRIGHT 1892 BY D. LOTHROP COMPANY COPYRIGHT 1895 BY THE WERNER COMPANY John Greenleaf Whittier INTRODUCTION. Who does not admire and love John Greenleaf Whittier? And who does not delight to do him honor? He was a man raised up by Providence to meet an exigency in human history, and an exigency in the experiences of the United States. And he met the exigency with distinguished success. He was a true exponent of New England life and the New England spirit. He drew his inspiration from the soil where he was born, from the necessities of the times, from the demands of human rights, from the love of God and of man. He was a unique man. We knew not his like before him. We shall see no other like him after him. He was the product of his age; and the age in which he lived belonged to him, and he to and in it. He was a unique literary man. He was so meek and retiring; he was so keenly sensitive to the wrongs done by man to man; he was so devoid of self-seeking; so pure and exalted in motive, and so sturdy a defender of the rights of the oppressed; he was so full of trust in God that we seem never to have seen his equal among men. His beautiful gentleness of character and his inflexible and fearless advocacy of the cause of righteousness--even when such advocacy involved persecution and personal harm and loss, a rare combination of qualities--remind us of the sentiment of Oliver Wendell Holmes, "The gentle are the strong." If ever in modern days the character of the apostle John has been reproduced among men it was in John G. Whittier. See with what sweetness and meekness the shy and loving Quaker moved through the ranks of society in times of peace and prosperity, and with what an adamantine boldness and bravery he stood up before the mob in Philadelphia when his types and manuscripts were scattered, his printing office burned and himself threatened with personal violence by the foes of human equality and freedom. Did he quail before the storm? Not he. Did he abandon his principles and retire from the arena? Oh, no; no more than did the apostle John--the apostle of love--forsake his Christian faith when the persecutors immersed him in boiling oil and exiled him to a desert island in the Ægean Sea. The poetry of Mr. Whittier is a complete autobiography. It is a reflection, as in a polished mirror, of himself. We miss only the accidents of dates and places, which are of merely external importance; but we find in his works, amply displayed, the portraiture of the man; even as the architect records himself and his thoughts in his plans, and builds his own soul into his edifices. Read the poetry of Mr. Whittier, and you have no need to ask what kind of man produced it. Behold the portrait: a thorough New England man, a son of its soil and a legitimate product of its institutions; a fruit of the simple education which was open to the people in the times of his youth and manhood; a philanthropist, loving all righteousness and all men, and scorning all oppression, injustice and iniquity; a stern advocate of human freedom, prepared to fight for it even "to the bitter end;" a bachelor, but having always a sweet and tender side for women; petted by society, but never tempted to swerve from the straight line of his principles; holding the faith of his fathers as a birthright and the result of his honest convictions, but with sympathies as broad as the universe and an appreciation of the privilege of private judgment on religious matters as the right and duty of all men; animated by a patriotism which took in his whole country, but a yearning for his own New England, its people, its scenery, its institutions and its honor; warmly attached to the friends whom he met along the pilgrimage of this life, but preserving to the last the memory and the love of the survivors whom he knew in his school days in the Haverhill Academy; living very much apart from his fellow-men, as he did in his latter days, on account of the increasing infirmities of his age, and absorbed in the world of his own thoughts, yet ever most affable, and as accessible as a most warm-hearted and cordial associate; every inch a man, as in stature, so also in soul, but exhibiting also the simplicity and the loving and confiding spirit of a child ("of such is the kingdom of heaven"); conscious of his human weakness and dependence on a higher Power, as he approached the goal of life, but relying on that higher Power with a sublime courage and a firm faith. How the man stands forth, like an orator on the stage, in the presence of throngs of admiring and reverent spectators! Unconsciously he sets forth in his works, whether they be prose or poetry, an example of the beauty of righteousness, the charm of philanthropy, the power and attractiveness of the broadest charity, the fervor of patriotism and the controlling force of love. The century which is about to close has been honored and made better, as well as gladder, by his presence in it. He has enriched its literature. He has elevated its ethics. He has breathed a divine life into its inspirations. He has warmed its heart. Mr. Whittier, like another Wordsworth, glorifies the scenes of common life, and hallows the landscapes of his New England homes. His verses speak in the dialect of the people, and deal with themes with which they are familiar. He lifts toil above its drudgery, and sanctifies, as with a sacred glow, the things with which men in common spheres chiefly have to do. He admired nature as he saw in it the landscapes which surrounded his several homes, the rolling green hills of Haverhill and Bradford, the mighty trees of Oak Knoll, the flowing stream and graceful curves of the Merrimack; the sober and quiet graces of Amesbury; and with his pen he stamped upon them immortality. The sun has set, but no night follows. The singer is gone, but his songs remain, and will long be a power among men far beyond the places adorned and honored by his personal presence. We love his poems which on account of their helpfulness the grateful world will long continue to read. How little he wrote--did he ever write anything--"which, dying, he could wish to blot?" and his life was a poem. The seal of Death is on his virtues, and the seal of universal approval is on his works. S. F. SMITH. CONTENTS. Part I.--LIFE. I. ANCESTRY 9 The Poet's Titles. Heredity. Spelling of the Name Whittier. Whittier Ancestors. Greenleaf Ancestors. The Husseys and Batchelders. Portrait of Whittier's Mother. II. THE MERRIMACK VALLEY 24 Description of Essex County, Haverhill, Amesbury, Newburyport, Salisbury Beach, and the Isles of Shoals. Extracts from the "Supernaturalism of New England." The Spirit of the Age. III. BOYHOOD 36 Birthplace. Kenoza Lake. Whitman and Whittier. The Old Homestead. Members of the Household. Harriet Livermore and Lady Hester Stanhope. The Poet's School Days. "My Playmate." Ellwood and Burns. Old Stragglers. "Pilgrim's Progress." The Demon Fiddler. First Poem. William Lloyd Garrison and the _Free Press_. Haverhill Academy. Robert Dinsmore, the Quaint Farmer-Poet of Windham. IV. EDITOR AND AUTHOR: FIRST VENTURES 83 Whittier as Editor of the _Boston Manufacturer_, the _Essex Gazette_, and the _New England Review_. First Volume, "Legends of New England." The Poet, J. G. C. Brainard. Ballad of "The Black Fox." Whittier's Views on the Poetical Resources of the New World. "Moll Pitcher." V. WHITTIER THE REFORMER 97 Identifies Himself with the Anti-Slavery Movement. Publication of his _Brochure_, "Justice and Expediency." Social Martyrdom. Prudence Crandall and her Battle with the Philistinism of Canterbury, Conn. Tailor Woolman and Saddler Lundy. Account of the Philadelphia Convention for the Formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society. Whittier's Account of the Convention. William Lloyd Garrison draws up the Famous Declaration of Principles. Samuel J. May Mobbed at East Haverhill. Whittier and George Thompson Mobbed at Concord, N. H. Story of the Landlord and the Flight by Night. The Poet's Account of the Mobbing of William Lloyd Garrison. Letters of John Quincy Adams. Harriet Martineau on Slavery. Attitude of Whittier toward the Quakers on the Slavery Question. VI. AMESBURY 123 Removal to Amesbury. Description of the Town and of the Poet's Residence. The Study. Whittier Corresponding Editor of the _National Era_. Various Works Written, including "Stranger in Lowell," "Supernaturalism of New England," "Songs of Labor," "Child-Life," "Child-Life in Prose," "Introduction" to Woolman's Journal, and "Songs of Three Centuries" (Edited). Whittier College Established. VII. LATER DAYS 141 Danvers. Oak Knoll. Summerings of the Poet at the Isles of Shoals and the Bearcamp House. _The Literary World_ Tribute, and the Whittier Banquet at the Hotel Brunswick. The Whittier Club. Various Volumes of Poetry Published. VIII. PERSONAL 153 Whittier's Personal Appearance Described by Frederika Bremer, Geo. W. Bungay, David A. Wasson, and others. Incident of his Kind-heartedness to a Stranger. Dom Pedro II. and Whittier at Mrs. John T. Sargent's Reception. Letter to Mrs. Sargent. Humor. Love of Children. Offices of Dignity and Honor. Part II. ANALYSIS OF HIS GENIUS AND WRITINGS. I. THE MAN 169 The Moral in Whittier Predominates over the Æsthetic. Love of Freedom the Central Element of his Character. Freedom, Democracy, and Quakerism, links in one Chain. Quakerism Described; Freedom and the Inner Light; Quakerism is Pure Democracy or Christianity, and Pure Individualism, or Philosophical Idealism; it Resembles Transcendentalism; the Details of the Quaker Religion Considered; Quotations from William Penn, Mary Brook, and A. M. Powell; Objections to Quakerism; Beautiful Lives of the Quakers; Whittier's Attitude Toward the Religion of his Fathers. His Religious Development, Doubt, and Trust. Patriotism. Has Blood Militant in his Veins. A Representative American Poet. Summing Up. II. THE ARTIST 196 Little or no _Technique_. More Fancy than Imagination. The Artistic Quality of his Mind a Fusion of that of Wordsworth and Byron. His Bookish Lore. The Beauty and Melody of his Finest Ballads. His Strength and Nervous Energy. Culmination of his Genius. His Three Crazes. Letters to the _Nation_, and to the American Anti-Slavery Society. Illustrations of the Predominance of the Moral in his Nature. Taine Quoted. Pope-Night. His Over-religiousness. Love of Consecutive Rhymes. Minor Mannerisms. Originality. III. POEMS SERIATIM 217 Mr. David A. Wasson's Classification of Epochs in the Poet's Development. The Author's Classification. Four Periods: 1st, _Introductory_; 2d, _Storm and Stress_; 3d, _Transition_; 4th, _Religious and Artistic Repose_. General Review of Earlier Productions. The Indian Poems. "Songs of Labor." The Ballad Decade. "Prophecy of Samuel Sewall." John Chadwick on "Skipper Ireson's Ride." The "Barbara Frietchie" Controversy. The Romance of the "Countess." Winter in Poetry. "Snow-Bound." "The Tent on the Beach." Various Poems. IV. THE KING'S MISSIVE 254 Joseph Besse Quoted. Story of the Quaker and the King of England. The Debate of Whittier and Dr. Geo. E. Ellis of Boston. Humorous Specimen of Quaker Rant from Mather's _Magnalia_. Terrible Sufferings of the Quakers. V. POEMS BY GROUPS 272 The Anti-Slavery Poems Reviewed. Poems Inspired by the Civil War. Hymns. Children's Poems: "Red Riding-Hood," "The Robin," etc. Oriental Poems and Paraphrases. VI. PROSE WRITINGS 279 Much of his Prose of Historical or Sectarian Interest Only. Charming Nature- and Folk-Studies and Sketches. "Margaret Smith's Journal." "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches." "Literary Recreations and Miscellanies." Specimens of Whittier's Prose. Part III. TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL. I. TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL 301 Whittier's death at Hampton Falls, N. H. Celebration of his birthdays. Funeral and memorial services. Personal reminiscences. Fac-simile of letter to Oliver Wendell Holmes. APPENDIX. BIBLIOGRAPHY 375 * * * * * PART I. LIFE. CHAPTER I. ANCESTRY. The Hermit of Amesbury, the Wood-thrush of Essex, the Martial Quaker, the Poet of Freedom, the Poet of the Moral Sentiment,--such are some of the titles bestowed upon Whittier by his admirers. Let us call him the Preacher-Poet, for he has written scarcely a poem or an essay that does not breathe a moral sentiment or a religious aspiration. What effect this predetermination of character has had upon his artistic development shall be discussed in another place. The present chapter--which may be called the propylæum or vestibule of the biographical structure that follows--will deal with the poet's ancestry, and the information afforded by it, and the two chapters that succeed will afford unmistakable evidence of the truth that a poet, no less than a solar system or a loaf of bread, is the logical resultant of a line of antecedent forces and circumstances. The fine but infrangible threads of our destiny are spun and woven out of atom-fibres indelibly stamped with the previous owners' names. Their characters immingle in our own,--the affluence or the indigence of their intellects, the sugar or the nitre of their wit, the shifting sand or the unwedgeable iron of their moral natures. * * * * * The name Whittier is spelled in thirty-two different ways in the old records: a list of these different spellings is given in Daniel Bodwell Whittier's genealogy of the family. The common ancestor of the Whittiers is Thomas Whittier, who in the year 1638 came from Southampton, England, to New England, in the ship "Confidence," of London, John Dobson, master. It is recorded of Thomas Whittier, says his descendant, the poet, in a half facetious way, that the only noteworthy circumstance connected with his coming was that he brought with him a hive of bees. He was born in 1620. His mother was probably a sister of John and Henry Rolfe, with the former of whom he came to America. His name at that time was spelled "Whittle." He married Ruth Green, and lived at first in Salisbury, Mass. He seems afterward to have lived in Newbury. In 1650 he removed to Haverhill, where he was admitted freeman, May 23, 1666. It was customary in those days, says the historian of Haverhill, for the nearest neighbors to sleep in the garrisons at night, but Thomas Whittier refused to take shelter there with his family. "Relying upon the weapons of his faith, he left his own house unguarded, and unprotected with palisades, and carried with him no weapons of war. The Indians frequently visited him, and the family often heard them, in the stillness of the evening, whispering beneath the windows, and sometimes saw them peep in upon the little group of practical 'non-resistants.' Friend Whittier always treated them civilly and hospitably, and they ever retired without molesting him."[1] Thomas Whittier died in Haverhill, November 28, 1696. His autograph appears in the probate records of Salem, Mass., as witness to a will of Samuel Gild. His widow died in July, 1710, and her eldest son John was appointed administrator of her estate. Thomas had ten children, of whom John became the ancestor of the most numerous branch of the Whittiers. Joseph, the brother of John, became the head of another branch of the family, and is the great-grandfather of our poet. Joseph married Mary, daughter of Joseph Peasley, of Haverhill, by whom he had nine children, among them Joseph, 2d, the grandfather of the poet. Joseph, 2d, married Sarah Greenleaf of Newbury, by whom he had eleven children. The tenth child, John (the father of the poet), married Abigail Hussey, who was a daughter of Joseph Hussey, of Somersworth,--now Rollinsford,--N. H., a town on the Piscataqua River, which forms the southern part of the boundary line between New Hampshire and Maine. The mother of Abigail Hussey (the poet's mother) was Mercy Evans, of Berwick, Me. John Whittier, the father of the poet, died in Haverhill, June 30, 1830. His children were four in number: (1) Mary, born September 3, 1806, married Jacob Caldwell, of Haverhill, and died January 7, 1860; (2) John Greenleaf, the poet, born December 17, 1807, in Haverhill; (3) Matthew Franklin, born July 18, 1812, married Jane E. Vaughan; (4) Elizabeth Hussey, born December 7, 1815, died September 3, 1864. From this statement it will be seen that Matthew is the only surviving member of the family, besides the poet himself. Matthew resides in Boston, and has sons, daughters, and grandchildren.[2] [Footnote 1: "The History of Haverhill, Mass.; from its first settlement in 1640 to the year 1860. By George Wingate Chase, Haverhill. Published by the author, 1861."] [Footnote 2: The foregoing statements are taken from the Whittier genealogy. But the author finds that there are a few slight discrepancies of date between this book and the inscriptions on the family tombstones in Amesbury. The tombstones say that John Whittier died "11th of 6 mo., 1831," and that Mary died "1st mo. 7, 1861."] The name Whittier constantly appears in important documents signed by the chief citizens of Haverhill. The family was evidently respected and honored by the community. In 1669 a Whittier was chosen town-constable. It is recorded that in 1711 Thomas Whittier--probably a son of Thomas (1st)--was one of a militia company provided with snow-shoes in order the better to repel an anticipated attack of the Indians. But, in spite of civil honors, it is well known that, down to comparatively recent times, the family suffered considerable social persecution and slight on account of their religious belief. For example, when the citizens built a new meeting-house, in 1699, they peremptorily refused to allow the Quakers to worship in it, although petitioned to do so by Joseph Peasley and others, and although they were taxed for its support. It was not until 1774 that an act was passed by the State exempting dissenters from taxation for the support of what we may call the State religion. It is important to bear this in mind, if we would know all the influences that went to form the character of the poet. The poet's paternal grandmother was Sarah Greenleaf, of Newbury. The genealogist of the Greenleafs says: "From all that can be gathered it is believed that the ancestors of the Greenleaf family were Huguenots, who left France on account of their religious principles some time in the course of the sixteenth century, and settled in England. The name was probably translated from the French _Feuillevert_.[3] Edmund Greenleaf, the ancestor of the American Greenleafs, was born in the parish of Brixham, and county of Devonshire, near Torbay, in England, about the year 1600." He came to Newbury, Mass., in 1635. He was by trade a silk-dyer. Respecting the family coat-of-arms the genealogist gives, on page 116, the following interesting statement:-- "The Hon. William Greenleaf, once of Boston, and then of New Bedford, being in London about the year 1760, obtained from an office of heraldry a device, said to be the arms of the family, which he had painted, and the painting is now in the possession of his grand-daughter, Mrs. Ritchie, of Roxbury, Mass. The field is white (argent), bearing a chevron between three leaves (vert). The crest is a dove standing on a wreath of green and white, holding in its mouth three green leaves. The helmet is that of a warrior (visor down); a garter below, but no motto." [Footnote 3: Whittier has thus alluded to this surmise:-- "The name the Gallic exile bore, St. Malo! from thy ancient mart, Became upon our Western shore Greenleaf for Feuillevert."] What more appropriate emblazonment for the escutcheon of our Martial Quaker poet than a warrior's helmet, and a dove holding in its mouth the emblem of peace! Jonathan Greenleaf, born in Newbury, in 1723, is described as possessing a remarkably kind and conciliatory disposition. "Even the tones of his voice were gentle and persuasive, and he was very frequently resorted to as a peacemaker between contending parties. His dress was remarkably uniform, usually in his later years being deep blue or drab. He seldom walked fast, his gait being a measured and moderate step. His manners were plain, unassuming, but very polite. He was very religious, and a strict Calvinist. Nothing but absolute necessity kept him from public worship on the Sabbath, and he was scarce ever known to omit regular morning and evening worship." Of Professor Simon Greenleaf, the Harvard Law Professor (1833-1845), the family genealogist says: "For the last thirty years of his life he was one of the most spiritually-minded of men, evidently intent on walking humbly with God, and doing good to the bodies and souls of his fellow-men; scarce ever writing a letter of friendship even, without breathing in it a prayer, or delivering in it some good message." Professor Greenleaf published some dozen works, both legal and religious. It is a curious fact that his son James married Mary Longfellow, a sister of the Cambridge poet, thus making Whittier and Longfellow distant kinsmen.[4] [Footnote 4: It may be added that the ancestral home of the Longfellows is still standing in Byfield, about five miles distant from the Whittier homestead in Haverhill. (See the author's Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, p. 15.)] Another English Greenleaf--contemporary with Edmund, being a silk-dyer as well as he, and in all probability a near kinsman--was a lieutenant under Oliver Cromwell, and served also under Richard Cromwell, and was in the army of the Protector under General Monk, at the time of the restoration of Charles II. It is hardly necessary to call the reader's attention to the significant fact, elicited by the foregoing researches, that, in tracing down two hereditary lines of the poet's paternal ancestors, we discover that for many generations those ancestors suffered religious persecution for loyalty to their religious convictions, and that many of them were remarkable for their sensitive piety. * * * * * Turn we now to the maternal ancestry of Whittier. In 1873 the poet wrote to Mr. D. B. Whittier, of Boston, as follows:-- "My mother was a descendant of Christopher Hussey, of Hampton, N. H., who married a daughter of Rev. Stephen Bachelor, the first minister of that town. "Daniel Webster traces his ancestry to the same pair, so Joshua Coffin informed me. Colonel W. B. Greene, of Boston, is of the same family."[5] [Footnote 5: The name of Daniel Webster's paternal grandmother was Susannah Bachelor, or Batchelder.] In the light of the preceding note, the following letter of Col. W. B. Greene explains itself:-- "JAMAICA PLAIN, MASS., Sept. 24, 1873. "Mr. D. B. WHITTIER, Danville, Vt. "DEAR SIR,--Yours of September 20 is just received, and I reply to it at once. My grandfather, on my mother's side, was the Rev. William Batchelder, of Haverhill, Mass. In the year 1838 I had a conversation, on a matter of military business, with the Hon. Daniel Webster; and, to my astonishment, Mr. Webster treated me as a kinsman. My mother afterwards explained his conduct by telling me that one of Mr. W.'s female ancestors was a Batchelder. In 1838 or 1839, or thereabouts, I met schoolmaster [Joshua] Coffin on a Mississippi steamboat, near Baton Rouge. The captain of the boat told me, confidentially, that Coffin was engaged in a dangerous mission respecting some slaves, and inquired whether my aid and countenance could be counted on in favor of Coffin, in case violence should be offered him. This he did because I was on the boat as a military man, and in uniform. When Coffin found he could count on me, he came and talked with me, and finally told me he had [once] been hired by Daniel Webster _to go to Ipswich_, and there look up Mr. W.'s ancestry. He spoke of Rev. Stephen Batchelder, of New Hampshire, and said that Daniel Webster, John G. Whittier, and myself were related by Batchelder blood. I did not feel at all ashamed of my relatives. In 1841 or 1842 Mrs. Crosby, of Hallowell, Me., who had charge of my grandfather when he was a boy, and knew all about the family, told me that Daniel Webster was a Batchelder, that she had known his father intimately, and knew Daniel when he was a boy. At the time of my conversation with her, Aunt Crosby might have been anywhere from seventy-five to eighty-five years of age. When I was a boy, at (say) about the year 1827 or 1828, I used to go often to the house of J. G. Whittier's father, a little out of the village (now city) of Haverhill, Mass. There was a Mrs. Hussey in the family, who baked the best squash pies I ever ate, and knew how to make the pine floors shine like a looking-glass. "This is, I think, all the information, in answer to your request, that I am competent to give you. "Yours respectfully, "WILLIAM BATCHELDER GREENE." In a note addressed to the New England Historical and Genealogical Society, the poet says: "On my mother's side my grandfather was Joseph Hussey, of Somersworth, N. H.; married Mercy Evans, of Berwick, Me." Some of the genealogical links connecting the Husseys of Somersworth with those of Hampton have not yet been recovered. But this much is known of the family,[6] that in 1630 Christopher Hussey came from Dorking, Surrey, England, to Lynn, Mass. He had married, in Holland, Theodate, the daughter of the Rev. Stephen Bachiler, a Puritan minister, who had fled to that country to avoid persecution in England. The author was told by a local antiquary in Hampton, N. H., that there is a tradition in the town that Stephen Bachiler would not let his daughter marry young Hussey unless he embraced the Puritan faith. His love was so great that he consented, and came with his bride to America, where two years later his father-in-law followed him. Stephen Bachiler came to Lynn in 1632, with six persons, his relatives and friends, who had belonged to his church in Holland, and with them he established a little independent church in Lynn. The progenitive faculty of this worthy divine must have been highly developed: he was married four times, and was dismissed from his church at Lynn on account of charges twice preferred against him by women of his congregation. The recorded dates show that both he and his son-in-law, Hussey, came to Hampton in the year 1639. The Hampton authorities had the previous year made Mr. Bachiler and Mr. Hussey each a grant of three hundred acres of land, to induce them to settle there. When and how the Husseys became Quakers is not known to the author. But in Savage's Genealogical Dictionary, II. 507, it is recorded that as early as 1688 a certain John Hussey of Hampton was a preacher to the Quakers in Newcastle, Del. The mother of the poet was a devoted disciple of the Society of Friends. That she was a person of deep and tender religious nature is evident to one looking at the excellent oil-portrait of her which hangs in the little parlor at Amesbury. The head is inclined graciously to one side, and the face wears that expression of ineffable tranquillity which is always a witness to generations of Quaker ancestry. In the picture, her garments are of smooth and immaculate drab. The poet once remarked to the writer that one of the reasons why his mother removed to Amesbury, in 1840, was that she might be near the little Friends' "Meeting" in that town. [Footnote 6: See histories of Lynn and Newbury, _passim_.] Thus among the maternal as well as the paternal progenitors of our Quaker poet we find the religious nature predominant. CHAPTER II. THE VALLEY OF THE MERRIMACK. In the valley of the Merrimack John Greenleaf Whittier was born (December 17, 1807), and in the same region he has passed nearly his entire life, first in the town of Haverhill, and then in Amesbury, some nine miles distant. To strangers, the hilly old county of Essex wears a somewhat bleak and Scotian look; but it is fertile in poetical resources, and the tillers of its glebe are passionately attached to its blue hills and sunken dales, its silver rivers and winding roads, umbrageous towns and thrifty homes. Like Burns and Cowper, Whittier is distinctively a rustic poet, and he and Whitman are the most indigenous and patriotic of our singers. His idyllic poetry savors of the soil and is full of local allusions. It is, therefore, essential to the full enjoyment of his writings that one should get, at the outset, as vivid an idea as possible both of the Essex landscape and the Essex farmer. Whittier was born some three miles northeast of what is now the thriving little city of Haverhill. It was settled in 1640 by twelve men from Newbury and Ipswich. Its Indian name was Pentucket,--the appellation of a tribe once dwelling on its site, a tribe under the jurisdiction of Passaconaway, chief of the Pennacooks. The city is built partly on the river-terrace of the northern shore, and partly on the adjoining hills. It is celebrated in colonial history for the heroic exploit of Hannah Duston, who, when taken captive by a party of twenty savages at the time of the Haverhill massacre, killed and scalped them all, with the aid of her companion (also a woman), and returned in safety to the settlement. A handsome monument has recently been erected to her memory in the city square; it is a granite structure, with bronze bas-reliefs, and surmounted by a bronze statue of the heroine. In the public library of the city (founded in 1873) may be seen a fine bust of Whittier, by Powers. On February 17 and 18, 1882, almost the entire business portion of the city was destroyed by fire; eight acres were burned over, and $2,000,000 worth of property destroyed. Haverhill is eighteen miles east of Lowell, thirty-two miles northwest of Boston, and six miles northeast of Lawrence. The manufacture of boots and shoes gives employment to 6,000 men. The population in 1870 was 13,092. Down to the sea, some seventeen miles away, winds the beautiful Merrimack, with the deep-shaded old town of Newburyport seated at its mouth. A little more than half way down lies Amesbury, just where the winding Powwow joins the Merrimack, but not before its nixies and river-horses have been compelled to put their shoulders to the wheels of several huge cotton mills that lift their forbidding bulk out of the very centre of the village. A horse-railroad connects Amesbury with Newburyport, six miles distant. At about half that distance the road crosses the Merrimack by way of Deer Island and connecting bridges. The sole house on this wild, rough island is the home of the Spoffords. As you near Newburyport, coming down from Amesbury, you see the river widened into an estuary, and bordered by wide and intensely green salt-meadows. Numerous large vessels lie at the wharves, a "gundelow," with lateen sail, creeps slowly down the current; the draw of the railroad bridge is perhaps opening for the passage of a tug, and out at sea athwart the river's mouth-- "Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, A stone's toss over the narrow sound." _Prophecy of Samuel Sewall._ Far off to the left lie Salisbury and Hampton beaches, celebrated by Whittier in his poems "Hampton Beach," "Snow-Bound," and "The Tent on the Beach":-- "Where Salisbury's level marshes spread Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; Where merry mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along The low green prairies of the sea." _Snow-Bound._ Standing on the sand-ridge by the beach, you have before you the washing surf, and miles on miles of level sand, rimmed with creeping, silver water-lace, overhung here and there by thinnest powdery mist. Out at sea the waves are tossing their salt-threaded manes, or flinging the sunlight from their supple coats--(æonian roar; white-haired, demoniac shapes)--while at evening you see far away to the northeast the revolving light of the Isles of Shoals. "Quail and sandpiper and swallow and sparrow are here; Sweet sound their manifold notes, high and low, far and near; Chorus of musical waters, the rush of the breeze, Steady and strong from the south,--what glad voices are these!" So sings the poet of the Isles of Shoals, Celia Thaxter, who, it is said, was discovered and introduced to the world by Whittier,--her rocky home being still one of his favorite summer resorts. Landward, your gaze sweeps the beautiful salt-meadows and rests on the woods beyond, or reaches still farther to the steeples of Newburyport rising sculpturesquely in the pellucid atmosphere, and often at evening filling the air with faint silver hymns that chime with the liquid undertone of the pouring surf. The valley of the Merrimack with the surrounding region, is, or was until recently, full of legends of the marvellous and the supernatural, which, in this remote and isolated corner of the State, have come down in unbroken tradition from earlier times. One of the distinguishing peculiarities of Whittier's genius is his story-telling power, and since he has not only written many poems about the legends of his native province, but also published in his youth two small collections of those legends in prose form, it will be proper to give the reader a taste of them, both here and elsewhere in the volume, and thus assist him to an understanding of our poet's early environment. The following extracts from his "Supernaturalism of New England," published in the year 1847, are germane to the subject in hand:-- "One of my earliest recollections," he says, "is that of an old woman residing at Rocks Village, in Haverhill, about two miles from the place of my nativity, who for many years had borne the unenviable reputation of a witch. She certainly had the look of one,--a combination of form, voice, and features, which would have made the fortune of an English witch-finder in the days of Matthew Paris or the Sir John Podgers of Dickens, and insured her speedy conviction in King James' High Court of Justiciary. She was accused of divers ill-doings, such as preventing the cream in her neighbor's churn from becoming butter, and snuffing out candles at huskings and quilting parties. The poor old woman was at length so sadly annoyed by her unfortunate reputation, that she took the trouble to go before a Justice of the Peace, and made a solemn oath that she was a Christian woman and no witch." * * * * * "Some forty years ago, on the banks of the pleasant little creek separating Berwick, in Maine, from Somersworth, in New Hampshire, within sight of my mother's home, dwelt a plain, sedate member of the Society of Friends, named Bantum. He passed, throughout a circle of several miles, as a conjurer and skilful adept in the art of magic. To him resorted farmers who had lost their cattle, matrons whose household gear, silver spoons, and table-linen had been stolen, and young maidens whose lovers were absent; and the quiet, meek-spirited old man received them all kindly, put on his huge, iron-rimmed spectacles, opened his 'conjuring book,' which my mother describes as a large clasped volume, in strange language and black-letter type, and after due reflection and consideration gave the required answers without money and without price. The curious old volume is still in possession of the conjurer's family. Apparently inconsistent as was this practice of the Black Art with the simplicity and truthfulness of his religious profession, I have not been able to learn that he was ever subjected to censure on account of it." This incident reminds one of some verses in a poem of Whittier's entitled "Flowers in Winter":-- "A wizard of the Merrimack-- So old ancestral legends say-- Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray. The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves; The clay-bound swallow, at his call, Played round the icy eaves. The settler saw his oaken flail Take bud, and bloom before his eyes; From frozen pools he saw the pale, Sweet summer lilies rise. * * * * * The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green; The cradle o'er the sleeping child Became a leafy screen." In chapter second of the "Supernaturalism" we have a whimsical story about a certain "Aunt Morse," who lived in a town adjoining Amesbury:-- "After the death of Aunt Morse no will was found, though it was understood before her decease that such a document was in the hands of Squire S., one of her neighbors. One cold winter evening, some weeks after her departure, Squire S. sat in his parlor, looking over his papers, when, hearing some one cough in a familiar way, he looked up, and saw before him a little crooked old woman, in an oil-nut colored woollen frock, blue and white tow and linen apron, and striped blanket, leaning her sharp, pinched face on one hand, while the other supported a short black tobacco pipe, at which she was puffing in the most vehement and spiteful manner conceivable. "The squire was a man of some nerve; but his first thought was to attempt an escape, from which he was deterred only by the consideration that any effort to that effect would necessarily bring him nearer to his unwelcome visitor. "'Aunt Morse,' he said at length, 'for the Lord's sake, get right back to the burying-ground! What on earth are you here for?' "The apparition took her pipe deliberately from her mouth, and informed him that she came to see justice done with her will; and that nobody need think of cheating her, dead or alive. Concluding her remark with a shrill emphasis, she replaced her pipe, and puffed away with renewed vigor. Upon the squire's promising to obey her request, she refilled her pipe, which she asked him to light, and then took her departure." "Elderly people in this region," says our author, "yet tell marvellous stories of General M., of Hampton, N. H., especially of his league with the devil, who used to visit him occasionally in the shape of a small man in a leathern dress. The general's house was once burned, in revenge, as it is said, by the fiend, whom the former had outwitted. He had agreed, it seems, to furnish the general with a boot full of gold and silver poured annually down the chimney. The shrewd Yankee cut off, on one occasion, the foot of the boot, and the devil kept pouring down the coin from the chimney's top, in a vain attempt to fill it, until the room was literally packed with the precious metal. When the general died, he was laid out, and put in a coffin, as usual; but, on the day of the funeral, it was whispered about that his body was missing; and the neighbors came to the charitable conclusion that the enemy had got his own at last." It should be understood that the state of society which produced such superstitions and legends as the foregoing lingers now only in secluded corners of New England. The railroad, the newspaper, and the influx of foreign population, have combined to frighten away ghost, conjurer, and witch, or to drive them up into the mountainous districts. There are still plenty of quaint and picturesque old Puritan farmers; and their mythology is antique and rusty enough, to be sure. But the folk-lore of the early days,--where is it? Let the shriek of the steam-demon answer, or that powerful magician, the "Spirit of the Age," who, ten thousand times divided, and slyly hidden in plethoric leathern mail bags, daily rushes into the remotest nooks and corners of the land, there to enter into the nooks and corners of the mind of man. The "Spirit of the Age" has exorcised the spirits of the ingle and the forest. CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD. The birthplace and early home of Whittier is a lonely farm-house situated at a distance of three miles northeast of the city of Haverhill, Mass. The winding road leading to it is the one described in "Snow-Bound." A drive or a walk of one mile brings you to sweet Kenoza Lake, with the castellated stone residence of Dr. J. R. Nichols crowning the summit of the high hill that overlooks it. From the hill the eye sweeps the horizon in every direction to a distance of fifty or a hundred miles. Far to the northwest rise bluely the three peaks of Monadnock. Nearer at hand, in the same direction, the towns of Atkinson and Strafford whiten the hillsides, while southward, through a clove in the hills, one catches a glimpse of the smoky city of Lawrence. [Illustration: WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE, NEAR HAVERHILL, MASS.] Two other lakes besides Kenoza lie in the immediate vicinity: namely, Round Lake and Lake Saltonstall. Kenoza is the lake in which Whittier used to fish and boat. It was he who gave to it its present name (meaning pickerel): he wrote a very pretty poem for the day of the rechristening, in 1859. The lake lies in a bowl-shaped depression. The country thereabouts seems entirely made up of huge earth-bowls, here open to the sky, and there turned bottom-upwards to make hills. No prettier, quieter, lovelier lake than Kenoza exists,--a pure and spotless mirror, reflecting in its cool, translucent depths the rosy clouds of morning and of evening, the silver-azure tent of day, the gliding boat, the green meadow-grasses, and the massy foliage of the terraced pines and cedars that sweep upward from its waters in stately pomp, rank over rank, to meet the sky. Here, in one quarter of the lake, the surface is only wrinkled by the tiniest wavelets or crinkles; yonder, near another portion of its irregularly picturesque shore, a thousand white sun-butterflies seem dancing on the surface, and the loveliest wind-dapples curve and gleam. Along the shore are sweet wild roses interpleached, and flower-de-luce, and yellow water-lilies. In such a circular earth-bowl the faintest sounds are easily heard across the water. Far off you hear the cheery cackle of a hen; in the meadows the singing of insects, the chattering of blackbirds, and the cry of the peewee; and the ring of the woodman's axe floats in rippling echoes over the water. In one of his earlier essays Mr. Whittier tells the following romantic story: "Whoever has seen Great Pond, in the East Parish of Haverhill, has seen one of the very loveliest of the thousand little lakes or ponds of New England. With its soft slopes of greenest verdure--its white and sparkling sand-rim--its southern hem of pine and maple, mirrored with spray and leaf in the glassy water--its graceful hill-sentinels round about, white with the orchard-bloom of spring, or tasselled with the corn of autumn--its long sweep of blue waters, broken here and there by picturesque headlands,--it would seem a spot, of all others, where spirits of evil must shrink, rebuked and abashed, from the presence of the beautiful. Yet here, too, has the shadow of the supernatural fallen. A lady of my acquaintance, a staid, unimaginative church-member, states that a few years ago she was standing in the angle formed by two roads, one of which traverses the pond-shore, the other leading over the hill which rises abruptly from the water. It was a warm summer evening, just at sunset. She was startled by the appearance of a horse and cart of the kind used a century ago in New England, driving rapidly down the steep hillside, and crossing the wall a few yards before her, without noise or displacing of a stone. The driver sat sternly erect, with a fierce countenance; grasping the reins tightly, and looking neither to the right nor the left. Behind the cart, and apparently lashed to it, was a woman of gigantic size, her countenance convulsed with a blended expression of rage and agony, writhing and struggling, like Laocoön in the folds of the serpent." The mysterious cart moved across the street, and disappeared at the margin of the pond. The two miles of road that separate Kenoza from the old Whittier homestead form a lonely stretch, passing between high hills rolled back on either side in wolds that show against the sky. The homestead is situated at the junction of the main road to Amesbury and a cross-road to Plaistow. It is as wild and lonely a place as Craigen-puttock,--the hills shutting down all around, so that there is absolutely no prospect in any direction, and no other house visible. But so much the better for meditation. "The Children of the Light" need only their own souls to commune with. The expression that rose continually to the author's lips on visiting this place was a line from "Snow-Bound,"-- "A universe of sky and snow." Not that the time was winter, but that the locality explained the line so vividly,--better than any commentary could do. Locality exercises a great influence on a poet's genius. Whitman, for example, has always lived by the sea, and he is the poet of the infinite. Whittier was born, and passed his boyhood and youth, in a green, sunken pocket of the inland hills, and he became the poet of the heart and the home. The one poet wrestled with the waves of the sea and the waves of humanity in great cities; the other lived the simple, quiet life of a farmer, loving his mother, his sister, his Quaker sect, freedom, and his own hearth. Both are as lowly in origin as Carlyle or Burns. Between the front door of the old homestead and the road rises a grassy, wooded bank, at the foot of which flows a little amber-colored brook. The brook is mentioned in "Snow-Bound":-- "We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone." Across the road is the barn. The house is very plain, and not very large. Entering the front door you are in a small entry with a steep, quaint, little staircase. On the right is the parlor where Whittier wrote. In the tiny, low-studded room on the left, he was born, and in the same room his father and "Uncle Moses" died. The room is about fourteen by fourteen feet, is partly wainscoted, has a fireplace and three windows. All the windows in the house have small panes, nine in the upper and six in the lower sash. The building is supposed to be two hundred and twelve years old. The kitchen is, of course, the great attraction. Let us suppose that it is winter, and that we are all cosily seated around the blazing fireplace. Now, let us talk over together the old days and scenes. The best picture of the inner life of the Quaker farmer's family can of course be had in "Snow-Bound,"--a little idyl as delicate, spontaneous, and true to nature in its limnings as a minute frost-picture on a pane of glass, or the fairy landscape richly mirrored in the film of a water-bubble. After such a picture, painted by the poet himself, it only remains for the writer to give a few supplementary touches here and there. The old kitchen, although diminished in size by a dividing partition, is otherwise almost unchanged. It is a cosey old room, with its fireplace, and huge breadth of chimney with inset cupboards and oven and mantelpiece. Above the mantel is the nail where hung the old bull's-eye watch. Set into one side of the kitchen is the cupboard where the pewter plates and platters were ranged; and here upon the wall is the circle worn by the "old brass warming-pan, which formerly shone like a setting moon against the wall of the kitchen":-- "Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north-wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed, The house-dog on his paws outspread, Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood." _Snow-Bound._ John Whittier, the father of the poet, is described by citizens of Haverhill as being a rough but good, kind-hearted man. He went by the soubriquet of "Quaker Whycher." In "Snow-Bound," we learn something of his _Wanderjahre_,--how he ate moose and samp in trapper's hut and Indian camp on Memphremagog's wooded side, and danced beneath St. François' hemlock-trees, and ate chowder and hake-broil at the Isle of Shoals. He was a sturdy, decisive man, and deeply religious. Although there was no Friends' church in Haverhill, yet on "First-Days" Quaker Whycher's "one-hoss shay" could be seen wending toward the old brown meeting-house in Amesbury, six miles away. * * * * * [Illustration: KITCHEN IN THE WHITTIER HOMESTEAD, HAVERHILL. "_Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free._"--SNOW-BOUND.] The mother has been alluded to in Chapter I. p. 12. Hers was a deeply emotional and religious nature, pure, chastened, and sweet, lovable, and kind-hearted to a fault. In "Snow-Bound," she tells incidents of her girlhood in Somersworth on the Piscataqua, and retells stories from Quaker Sewell's "ancient tome," and old sea-saint Chalkley's Journal. An incident in Mr. Whittier's "Yankee Gypsies" (Prose Works, II. p. 326,) will afford an indication of her kind-heartedness:-- "On one occasion," says the poet, "a few years ago, on my return from the field at evening, I was told that a foreigner had asked for lodgings during the night, but that, influenced by his dark, repulsive appearance, my mother had very reluctantly refused his request. I found her by no means satisfied with her decision. 'What if a son of mine was in a strange land?' she inquired, self-reproachfully. Greatly to her relief, I volunteered to go in pursuit of the wanderer, and, taking a cross-path over the fields, soon overtook him. He had just been rejected at the house of our nearest neighbor, and was standing in a state of dubious perplexity in the street. His looks quite justified my mother's suspicions. He was an olive-complexioned, black-bearded Italian, with an eye like a live coal, such a face as perchance looks out on the traveller in the passes of the Abruzzi,--one of those bandit-visages which Salvator has painted. With some difficulty, I gave him to understand my errand, when he overwhelmed me with thanks, and joyfully followed me back. He took his seat with us at the supper-table; and when we were all gathered around the hearth that cold autumnal evening, he told us, partly by words, and partly by gestures, the story of his life and misfortunes, amused us with descriptions of the grape-gatherings and festivals of his sunny clime, edified my mother with a recipe for making bread of chestnuts; and in the morning when, after breakfast, his dark sullen face lighted up and his fierce eye moistened with grateful emotion as in his own silvery Tuscan accent he poured out his thanks, we marvelled at the fears which had so nearly closed our doors against him; and, as he departed, we all felt that he had left with us the blessing of the poor. "It was not often that, as in the above instance, my mother's prudence got the better of her charity. The regular 'old stragglers' regarded her as an unfailing friend; and the sight of her plain cap was to them an assurance of forthcoming creature comforts." In "Snow-Bound," too, we learn that the good mother often stayed her step to express a warm word of gratitude for their own comforts, and to hope that the unfortunate might be cared for also. It is a facetious saying in Philadelphia that beggars are shipped to that city from all parts of the country that they may share the never-failing bounty of the Quakers. However this may be, it is evident that benevolence was the predominant trait in the character of our poet's mother. * * * * * Other members of the household in Whittier's boyhood were his elder sister Mary, who died in 1861; Uncle Moses Whittier, who in 1824 received fatal injuries from the falling of a tree which he was cutting down; the poet's younger brother Matthew, who was born in 1812, and has been for many years a resident of Boston,--himself a versifier, and a contributor to the newspapers of humorous dialect articles, signed "Ethan Spike, from Hornby"; and finally the aunt, Mercy E. Hussey, the younger sister Elizabeth, and occasionally the "half-welcome" eccentric guest, Harriet Livermore. Elizabeth Hussey Whittier--the younger sister and intimate literary companion of her brother, the poet--was a person of rare and saintly nature. In the little parlor of the Amesbury home there hangs a crayon sketch of her. The face wears a smile of unfailing sweetness and patience. That her literary and poetical accomplishments were of an unusually high order is shown by the poems of hers appended to Mr. Whittier's "Hazel Blossoms," published after her death. Her poem, "Dr. Kane in Cuba," would do honor to any poet. In the piece entitled the "Wedding Veil," we have a hint of an early love transformed by the death of its object into a spiritual worship and hope, nourished in the still fane of the heart. In the prefatory note to "Hazel Blossoms," Mr. Whittier says: "I have ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved sister, Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few poetical pieces which she left behind her. As she was very distrustful of her own powers, and altogether without ambition for literary distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends than in the cultivation of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me that, had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme self-distrust permitted, she might have taken a high place among lyrical singers. These poems, with perhaps two or three exceptions, afford but slight indications of the inward life of the writer, who had an almost morbid dread of spiritual and intellectual egotism, or of her tenderness of sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and fancy, when her shy, beautiful soul opened like a flower in the warmth of social communion. In the lines on Dr. Kane, her friends will see something of her fine individuality,--the rare mingling of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them. This little poem reached Cuba while the great explorer lay on his death-bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while it was read to him by his mother. "I am tempted to say more, but I write as under the eye of her who, while with us, shrank with painful deprecation from the praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her ideal of excellence. To those who best knew her, the beloved circle of her intimate friends, I dedicate this slight memorial." Many readers of "Snow-Bound" have doubtless often wondered who the beautiful and mysterious young woman is who is sketched in such vigorous portraiture,--"the not unfeared, half-welcome guest," half saint and half shrew. She is no other than the religious enthusiast and fanatical "pilgrim preacher," Harriet Livermore,[7] the same who startled "On her desert throne The crazy Queen of Lebanon With claims fantastic as her own." [Footnote 7: For many items of information concerning this strange woman we are indebted to the sketch of her published by Miss Rebecca I. Davis, of East Haverhill.] By the "Queen of Lebanon" is meant Lady Hester Stanhope. Harriet Livermore was the grand-daughter of Hon. Samuel Livermore, of Portsmouth, N. H., and the daughter of Hon. Edward St. Loe Livermore, of Lowell. She was born April 14, 1788, at Concord, N. H. Her misfortune was her temper, inherited from her father. When Whittier was a little boy, she taught needlework, embroidery, and the common school branches, in the little old brown school-house in East Haverhill, and was a frequent guest at Farmer Whittier's. The poet thus characterizes her:-- "A certain pard-like, treacherous grace Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash, Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash; And under low brows, black with night, Rayed out at times a dangerous light; The sharp heat-lightnings of her face Presaging ill to him whom Fate Condemned to share her love or hate. A woman tropical, intense In thought and act, in soul and sense." When a mere girl, she fell in love with a young gentleman of East Haverhill, but the parents of both families opposed the match, and were not to be moved by her honeyed words of persuasion or by her little gifts. The poet says she often visited at his father's home, "and had at one time an idea of becoming a member of the Society of Friends; but an unlucky outburst of rage, resulting in a blow, at a Friend's house in Amesbury, did not encourage us to seek her membership." She embraced the Methodist Perfectionist doctrine, and one day strenuously maintained that she was incapable of sinning. But a few minutes afterward she burst out into a violent passion about something or other. Her opponent could only say to her, "Christian, thou hast lost thy roll." She became an itinerant preacher, and spoke in the meetings of various sects in different parts of the country. She made three voyages to Jerusalem. Says one: "At one time we find her in Egypt, giving our late consul, Mr. Thayer, a world of trouble from her peculiar notions. At another we see her amid the gray olive slopes of Jerusalem, demanding, not begging, money for the Great King [God]. And once when an American, fresh from home, during the late rebellion, offered her a handful of greenbacks, she threw them away with disdain, saying, 'The Great King will only have gold.' She once climbed the sides of Mt. Libanus, and visited Lady Stanhope,--that eccentric sister of the younger Pitt, who married a sheik of the mountains,--and thus had a fine opportunity of securing the finest steeds of the Orient. Going to the stable one day, Lady Hester pointed out to Harriet Livermore two very fine horses, with peculiar marks, but differing in color. 'That one,' said Lady Hester, 'the Great King when he comes will ride, and the other I will ride in company with him.' Thereupon Miss Livermore gave a most emphatic 'no!' declaring with foreknowledge and _aplomb_ that 'the Great King will ride this horse, and it is I, as his bride, who will ride upon the other at his second coming.' It is said she carried her point with Lady Hester, overpowering her with her fluency and assertion." * * * * * To pass now to the boy-poet himself. An old friend and schoolmate of his, in Haverhill, told the author that Whittier, instead of doing sums on his slate at school, was always writing verses, even when a little lad. His first schoolmaster was Joshua Coffin, afterward the historian of Newbury. Another master of his was named Emerson. To Coffin, Whittier has written a poetical epistle, in which he says:-- "I, the urchin unto whom, In that smoked and dingy room, Where the district gave thee rule O'er its ragged winter school, Thou didst teach the mysteries Of those weary A, B, C's, Where, to fill the every pause Of thy wise and learned saws, Through the cracked and crazy wall Came the cradle-rock and squall, And the goodman's voice, at strife With his shrill and tipsy wife,-- Luring us by stories old, With a comic unction told, More than by the eloquence Of terse birchen arguments (Doubtful gain, I fear), to look With complacence on a book!-- I,--the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appears Many a warning fleck of gray,-- Looking back to that far day, And thy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal," etc. [Illustration: THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE, HAVERHILL, MASS.] In "School Days" he gives us another and a pleasanter picture:-- "Still sits the school-house by the road,[8] A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial; The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school Went storming out to playing! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;-- As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. 'I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because,'--the brown eyes lower fell,-- 'Because, you see, I love you!'" [Footnote 8: The old brown school-house is now no more, having been removed to make room for a reservoir.] It is probable that "My Playmate" is in memory of this same sweet little lady:-- "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!" Elsewhere in the poem we are told that the little maiden went away forever to the South:-- "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 jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown,-- No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down." We also learn from the poem that he was the boy "who fed her father's kine." What a pretty little romance!--and, let us hope, not too sad a one. Shall we have one more stanza about this lovely little school-idyl? It is from "Memories":-- "I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy aim 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!" The reading material that found its way to Farmer Whittier's house consisted of the almanac, the weekly village paper, and "scarce a score" of books and pamphlets, among them Lindley Murray's "Reader":-- "One harmless novel, mostly hid From younger eyes, a book forbid, And poetry (or good or bad, A single book was all we had), Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, A stranger to the heathen Nine, Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, The wars of David and the Jews." Knowing, as we do, the great influence exerted upon our mental development by the books we read as children, and knowing that a rural life, such as Whittier's has been, is especially conducive to tenacity of early customs, it becomes important to know what the books were that first formed his style and colored his thought. It seems that Ellwood's "Davideis; or the Life of David, King of Israel," was one of these. The book was published in 1711, and had a sale of five or more editions. Ellwood, born in 1639, early adopted the then new doctrines of George Fox. He has written a quaint and pictorial autobiography, somewhat like that of Bunyan or that of Fox. In 1662 he was for six weeks reader to Milton, who was then blind, and living in London, in Jewin Street. It was he who first suggested to Milton that he should write "Paradise Regained."[9] [Footnote 9: This was in 1665, when Milton was living at Giles-Chalfont. Ellwood says: "After some common discourse had passed between us, he called for a manuscript of his, which he delivered to me, bidding me take it home with me and read it at my leisure; and, when I had done so, return it to him with my judgment thereon." It was "Paradise Lost." When Ellwood returned it, and was asked his opinion, he gave it, and added: "'Thou hast said much here of "Paradise Lost," but what hast thou to say of "Paradise Found"?' He made no answer, but sat some time in a muse."] An idea of the execrable nature of his versification may be obtained from a few specimens. Upon the passing of a severe law against Quakers, he relieves his mind in this wise:-- "Awake, awake, O arm o' th' Lord, awake! Thy sword up take; Cast what would thine forgetful of thee make, Into the lake. Awake, I pray, O mighty Jah! awake, Make all the world before thy presence quake, Not only earth, but heaven also shake." Another poem, entitled "A Song of the Mercies and Deliverances of the Lord," begins thus:-- "Had not the Lord been on our side, May Israel now say, We were not able to abide The trials of that day: When men did up against us rise, With fury, rage, and spite, Hoping to catch us by surprise, Or run us down by night." An opponent's poetry is lashed by Ellwood in such beautiful stanzas as the following:-- "So _flat_, so _dull_, so _rough_, so _void of grace_, Where _symphony_ and _cadence_ have no place; So full of _chasmes_ stuck with _prosie pegs_, Whereon his _tired_ Muse might rest her legs, (Not having wings) and take new breath, that then She might with much adoe hop on again." A striking peculiarity of Whittier's poetry is the exceedingly small range of his rhymes and metres. He is especially fond of the four-foot iambic line, and likes to rhyme successive or alternate lines in a wofully monotonous and see-saw manner. These are the characteristics of much of the lyric poetry of a hundred years ago, and especially distinguish the verses of Burns and Ellwood,--the first poets the boy Whittier read. Burns, especially, he learned by heart, and there can be no doubt that the Ayrshire ploughman gave to the mind of his brother-ploughman of Essex its life-direction and coloring,--as respects the swing of rhythm and rhyme at least. Indeed, we shall presently find him contributing to the _Haverhill Gazette_ verses in the Scotch dialect. His introduction to the poetry of Burns was in this wise: He was one afternoon gathering in hay on the farm, when by good hap a wandering peddler stopped and took from his pack a copy of Burns, which was eagerly purchased by the poetical Quaker boy. Alluding to the circumstance afterward in his poem, "Burns," he says:-- "How oft that day, with fond delay, I sought the maple's shadow, And sang with Burns the hours away, Forgetful of the meadow! Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead I heard the squirrels leaping, The good dog listened while I read, And wagged his tail in keeping." By the reading of Burns his eyes were opened, he says, to the beauty in homely things. In familiar and humble things he found the "tender idyls of the heart." But the wanton and the ribald lines of the Scotch poet found no entrance to his pure mind.[10] [Footnote 10: See Appendix II.] He had other relishing tastes of the rich dialect of heather poetry. In "Yankee Gypsies" he says: "One day we had a call from a 'pawky auld carle' of a wandering Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider, he gave us Bonny Doon, Highland Mary, and Auld Lang Syne. He had a rich full voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have since listened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster (than whom the Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter); but the skilful performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's singing in the old farm-house kitchen." * * * * * A page or two of these personal recollections of the poet will serve to fill out the picture of his boyhood life; and, at the same time, give the reader a taste of his often charming prose pieces:-- "The advent of wandering beggars, or 'old stragglers,' as we were wont to call them, was an event of no ordinary interest in the generally monotonous quietude of our farm life. Many of them were well known; they had their periodical revolutions and transits; we could calculate them like eclipses or new moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and saucy; and whenever they ascertained that the 'men-folks' were absent would order provisions and cider like men who expected to pay for them, seating themselves at the hearth or table with the air of Falstaff,--'Shall I not take mine ease in mine own inn?' Others poor, pale, patient, like Sterne's monk, came creeping up to the door, hat in hand, standing there in their gray wretchedness, with a look of heart-break and forlornness which was never without its effect on our juvenile sensibilities. At times, however, we experienced a slight revulsion of feeling when even these humblest children of sorrow somewhat petulantly rejected our proffered bread and cheese, and demanded instead a glass of cider. * * * * * "One--I think I see him now, grim, gaunt, and ghastly, working his way up to our door--used to gather herbs by the wayside, and call himself doctor. He was bearded like a he-goat, and used to counterfeit lameness, yet when he supposed himself alone would travel on lustily, as if walking for a wager. At length, as if in punishment for his deceit, he met with an accident in his rambles, and became lame in earnest, hobbling ever after with difficulty on his gnarled crutches. Another used to go stooping, like Bunyan's pilgrim, under a pack made of an old bed-sacking, stuffed out into most plethoric dimensions, tottering on a pair of small, meagre legs, and peering out with his wild, hairy face from under his burden, like a big-bodied spider. That 'man with the pack' always inspired me with awe and reverence. Huge, almost sublime in its tense rotundity, the father of all packs, never laid aside and never opened, what might there not be within it! With what flesh-creeping curiosity I used to walk round about it at a safe distance, half expecting to see its striped covering stirred by the motions of a mysterious life, or that some evil monster would leap out of it, like robbers from Ali Baba's jars, or armed men from the Trojan horse!" * * * * * "Twice a year, usually in the spring and autumn, we were honored with a call from Jonathan Plummer, maker of verses, peddler and poet, physician and parson,--a Yankee Troubadour,--first and last minstrel of the valley of the Merrimack, encircled to my wondering eyes with the very nimbus of immortality. He brought with him pins, needles, tape, and cotton thread for my mother; jack-knives, razors, and soap for my father; and verses of his own composing, coarsely printed and illustrated with rude woodcuts, for the delectation of the younger branches of the family. No love-sick youth could drown himself, no deserted maiden bewail the moon, no rogue mount the gallows, without fitting memorial in Plummer's verses. Earthquakes, fires, fevers and shipwrecks he regarded as personal favors from Providence, furnishing the raw material of song and ballad. Welcome to us in our country seclusion as Autolycus to the clown in Winter's Tale, we listened with infinite satisfaction to his readings of his own verses, or to his ready improvisation upon some domestic incident or topic suggested by his auditors. When once fairly over the difficulties at the outset of a new subject, his rhymes flowed freely, 'as if he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew to his tunes.' His productions answered, as nearly as I can remember, to Shakespeare's description of a proper ballad,--'doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant theme sung lamentably.' He was scrupulously conscientious, devout, inclined to theological disquisitions, and withal mighty in Scripture. He was thoroughly independent; flattered nobody, cared for nobody, trusted nobody. When invited to sit down at our dinner-table, he invariably took the precaution to place his basket of valuables between his legs for safe-keeping. 'Never mind thy basket, Jonathan,' said my father, 'we shan't steal thy verses.' 'I'm not sure of that,' returned the suspicious guest. 'It is written, Trust ye not in any brother.'" * * * * * "Thou, too, O Parson B.,--with thy pale student's brow and thy rubicund nose, with thy rusty and tattered black coat, overswept by white flowing locks, with thy professional white neckcloth scrupulously preserved, when even a shirt to thy back was problematical,--art by no means to be overlooked in the muster-roll of vagrant gentlemen possessing the _entrée_ of our farm-house. Well do we remember with what grave and dignified courtesy he used to step over its threshold, saluting its inmates with the same air of gracious condescension and patronage with which in better days he had delighted the hearts of his parishioners. Poor old man! He had once been the admired and almost worshipped minister of the largest church in the town, where he afterwards found support in the winter season as a pauper. He had early fallen into intemperate habits, and at the age of threescore and ten, when I remember him, he was only sober when he lacked the means of being otherwise." * * * * * Among the books read by Whittier when a boy we must number the "Pilgrim's Progress" of Bunyan. In his "Supernaturalism of New England" the poet says: "How hardly effaced are the impressions of childhood! Even at this day, at the mention of the Evil Angel, an image rises before me like that with which I used especially to horrify myself in an old copy of 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Horned, hoofed, scaly, and fire-breathing, his caudal extremity twisted tight with rage, I remember him illustrating the tremendous encounter of Christian in the valley where 'Apollyon straddled over the whole breadth of the way.' There was another print of the enemy which made no slight impression upon me; it was the frontispiece of an old, smoked, snuff-stained pamphlet (the property of an elderly lady, who had a fine collection of similar wonders, wherewith she was kind enough to edify her young visitors), containing a solemn account of the fate of a wicked dancing party in New Jersey, whose irreverent declaration that they would have a fiddler, if they had to send to the lower regions after him, called up the fiend himself, who forthwith commenced playing, while the company danced to the music incessantly, without the power to suspend their exercise until their feet and legs were worn off to the knees! The rude woodcut represented the Demon Fiddler and his agonized companions literally _stumping_ it up and down in 'cotillions, jigs, strathspeys, and reels.'" * * * * * So grew up the Quaker farmer's son, drinking eagerly in such knowledge as he could, and receiving those impressions of nature and home-life which he was afterward to embody in his popular lyrics and idyls. Above all, his home education saturated his mind with religious and moral earnestness. In the second part of this volume will be given some remarks on Quaker life in America, and an analysis of the blended influence of Quakerism and Puritanism upon the development of Whittier's genius. Enough has been said to show that the surroundings of his early life were of the plainest and simplest character, and not different from those of a thousand other secluded New England farms of the period. We are now to follow the shy young poet out into the world. He is nineteen years of age. The circle of his experiences begins to widen outward; manhood is dawning; the village paper has taught him that there are men beyond the mountains. He thirsts for individuality,--to know his powers, to cast the horoscope of his future, and see if the consciousness within him of unusual gifts be a trustworthy one. To begin with, he will write a poem for "our weekly paper." Accordingly one day in 1826 the following poem, written in blue ink on coarse paper, was slipped by the postman under the door of the office of the _Free Press_, in Newburyport,--a short-lived paper, then recently started by young William Lloyd Garrison, and subscribed for by Farmer Whittier. The poem is the first ever published by the poet, and is his earliest known production.[11] The manuscript of it is now in the possession of Whittier's kinsman, Mr. S. T. Pickard, associate editor of the _Portland Transcript_, in which journal it was republished November 27, 1880:-- THE DEITY. The Prophet stood On the high mount and saw the tempest-cloud Pour the fierce whirlwind from its reservoir Of congregated gloom. The mountain oak Torn from the earth heaved high its roots where once Its branches waved. The fir-tree's shapely form Smote by the tempest lashed the mountain side; Yet, calm in conscious purity, the seer Beheld the awful devastation, for The Eternal Spirit moved not in the storm. The tempest ceased. The caverned earthquake burst Forth from its prison, and the mountain rocked Even to its base: The topmost crags were thrown With fearful crashing down its shuddering slopes. Unawed the Prophet saw and heard: He felt Not in the earthquake moved the God of Heaven. The murmur died away, and from the height, Torn by the storm and shattered by the shock, Rose far and clear a pyramid of flame, Mighty and vast! The startled mountain deer Shrank from its glare and cowered beneath the shade: The wild fowl shrieked; yet even then the seer Untrembling stood and marked the fearful glow-- For Israel's God came not within the flame. The fiery beacon sank. A still small voice Now caught the Prophet's ear. Its awful tone, Unlike to human sound, at once conveyed Deep awe and reverence to his pious heart. Then bowed the holy man; his face he veiled Within his mantle, and in meekness owned The presence of his God, discovered not in The storm, the earthquake, or the mighty flame, But in the still small whisper to his soul. [Footnote 11: See note on p. 301.] It is characteristic of the man that his first poem should be of a religious nature. There is grandeur and majesty in the poem. The rhetoric is juvenile, but the diction is strong, nervous, and intense, and the general impression made upon the mind is one of harmony and solemn stateliness, not unlike that of "Thanatopsis," composed by Bryant when he was about the same age as was Whittier when he wrote "The Deity." It was probably owing to its anonymity that the first impulse of the editor was to throw it into the waste-basket. But as he glanced over the sheet his attention was caught: he read it, and some weeks afterward published it in the poet's corner. But in the interval of waiting the boy's heart sank within him. Every writer knows what he suffered. Did we not all expect that first precious production of ours to fairly set the editor wild with enthusiasm, so that nothing short of death or apoplexy could prevent him from assigning it the most conspicuous position in the _very next issue_ of his paper? But one day, as our boy-poet was mending a stone fence along the highway, in company with Uncle Moses, along came the postman on horseback, with his leathern bag of mail, like a magician with a Fortunatus' purse; and, to save the trouble of calling at the house, he tossed a paper to young Whittier. He opened it with eager fingers, and behold! his poem in the place of honor. He says that he was so dumfounded and dazed by the event that he could not read a word, but stood there staring at the paper until his uncle chided him for loitering, and so recalled him to his senses. Elated by his success, he of course sent other poems to the _Free Press_. They attracted the attention of Garrison so strongly that he inquired of the postman who it was that was sending him contributions from East Haverhill. The postman said that it was a "farmer's son named Whittier." Garrison decided to ride over on horseback, a distance of fifteen miles, and see his contributor. When he reached the farm, Whittier was at work in the field, and when told that there was a gentleman at the house who wanted to see him, he felt very much like "breaking for the brush," no one having ever called on him in that way before. However, he slipped in at the back door, made his toilet, and met his visitor, who told him that he had power as a writer, and urged him to improve his talents. The father came in during the conversation, and asked young Garrison not to put such ideas into the mind of his son, as they would only unfit him for his home duties. But, fortunately, it was too late: the spark of ambition had been fanned into a flame. Years afterward, in an introduction to Oliver Johnson's "William Lloyd Garrison and his Times," Mr. Whittier said: "My acquaintance with him [Garrison] commenced in boyhood. My father was a subscriber to his first paper, the _Free Press_, and the humanitarian tone of his editorials awakened a deep interest in our little household, which was increased by a visit he made us. When he afterwards edited the _Journal of the Times_, at Bennington, Vt., I ventured to write him a letter of encouragement and sympathy, urging him to continue his labors against slavery, and assuring him that he could do great things." Indeed, the acquaintance thus begun ripened into the most intimate friendship and mutual respect. Mr. Whittier told the writer that when he went to Boston, in the winter of 1828-29, he and Garrison roomed and boarded at the same house. Mr. Whittier frequently contributed to the _Liberator_, and was for a quarter of a century associated with Garrison in anti-slavery labors. * * * * * Before we pass with our young Quaker from the farm to the world at large, let us correct an erroneous statement that has been made about him. It has been said that he worked at the trade of shoemaking when a boy. The truth is that almost every farmer in those days was accustomed to do a little cobbling of his own, and what shoemaker's work Whittier performed was done by him solely as an amateur in his father's house. * * * * * In the year of his _début_ as a poet (1826), he being then nineteen years of age, Whittier began attending the Haverhill Academy, or Latin School. Whether his parents were influenced to take this step for his advantage by the visit of the editor Garrison, and by his evident taste for learning, is not positively known, but it is quite possible that such was the case. In 1827 he read an original ode at the dedication of the new Academy. The building is still standing on Winter Street. While at the Academy he read history very thoroughly, and his writings show that it has always been a favorite study with him. He also contributed poems at this time to the _Haverhill Gazette_. Many of them were in the Scotch dialect: it would be interesting to see a few of these; but unfortunately no file of the _Gazette_ for those years can be found. A friendly rival in the writing of Scotch poems was good Robert Dinsmore, the "Farmer Poet of Windham," as Whittier calls him. A few specimens of Farmer Dinsmore's verse have been preserved. Take this on "The Sparrow":-- "Poor innocent and hapless Sparrow! Why should my moul-board gie thee sorrow? This day thou'll chirp, and mourn the morrow Wi' anxious breast; The plough has turned the mould'ring furrow Deep o'er thy nest! Just i' the middle o' the hill Thy nest was placed wi' curious skill, There I espied thy little bill Beneath the shade. In that sweet bower, secure frae ill, Thine eggs were laid. Five corns o' maize had there been drappit, An' through the stalks thy head was pappit, The drawing nowt could na be stappit I quickly foun', Syne frae thy cozie nest thou happit, Wild fluttering roun'. The sklentin stane beguiled the sheer, In vain I tried the plough to steer, A wee bit stumpie i' the rear Cam 'tween my legs, An' to the jee-side gart me veer An' crush thine eggs." The following elegiac stanza, written by honest Robert on the occasion of the death of his wife, is irresistibly ludicrous:-- "No more may I the Spring Brook trace, No more with sorrow view the place Where Mary's wash-tub stood; No more may wander there alone, And lean upon the mossy stone, Where once she piled her wood. 'T was there she bleached her linen cloth, By yonder bass-wood tree; From that sweet stream she made her broth, Her pudding and her tea." Mr. Whittier says that the last time he saw Robert, "Threescore years and ten," to use his own words, 'Hung o'er his back, And bent him like a muckle pack,' yet he still stood stoutly and sturdily in his thick shoes of cowhide, like one accustomed to tread independently the soil of his own acres,--his broad, honest face seamed by care and darkened by exposure to all the 'airts that blow,' and his white hair flowing in patriarchal glory beneath his felt hat. A genial, jovial, large-hearted old man, simple as a child, and betraying neither in look nor manner that he was accustomed to 'Feed on thoughts which voluntary move Harmonious numbers.'" CHAPTER IV. EDITOR AND AUTHOR: FIRST VENTURES. The winter of 1828-29 was passed by Whittier in Boston. He once with characteristic modesty told the writer that he drifted into journalism that winter, as editor of the _American Manufacturer_, in the following way: He had gone to Boston to study and read. He undertook the writing for the _Manufacturer_ not because he had much liking for questions of tariff and finance, but because his own finances would thereby be improved. Mr. Whittier's chief personal trait is extreme shyness and distrust of himself, and he deprecated the idea that he had any special power as a writer at the time of which we are speaking, saying that he had to study up his subjects before writing. But undoubtedly he must have wielded a vigorous pen, and been known to possess a cool and careful head, or he would not have been invited to assume the editorship of such a paper. He himself admitted, in the course of the conversation, that at that time he had political ambitions, and made a study of political economy and civil politics. In 1830 we find Whittier at Haverhill again. In March of that year he was occupying the position of editor of the _Essex Gazette_, and "issued proposals to publish a 'History of Haverhill,' in one volume of two hundred pages, duodecimo, price eighty-seven and one-half cents per copy. 'If the material swelled the volume above two hundred pages, the price was to be one dollar per copy.'" But the limited encouragement offered, and the amount of work required to compile the volume, led the young editor to abandon the project. Whittier was editor of this _Gazette_ for six months,--from January 1 to July 10, 1830. On May 4, 1836, after he had returned from Philadelphia, he resumed the editorship of the journal, retaining the position until December 17 of the same year. He left the _Gazette_ at the time of his first connection with it, to go to Hartford for the purpose of editing the _New England Weekly Review_ of that city. His first acquaintance with this Connecticut periodical had been made while attending the Academy at Haverhill. While there he happened to see a copy of the _Review_, then edited by George D. Prentice. He was pleased with its sprightly and breezy tone, and sent it several articles. Great was his astonishment on finding that they were accepted and published with editorial commendation. He sent numerous other contributions during the same year. One day in 1830, he was at work in the field, when a letter was brought to him from the publishers of the Hartford paper, in which they said that they had been asked by Mr. Prentice to request him to edit the paper during the absence of Mr. Prentice in Kentucky, whither he had gone to write a campaign life of Henry Clay. "I could not have been more utterly astonished," said Mr. Whittier once, "if I had been told that I was appointed prime minister to the great Khan of Tartary." * * * * * Mr. Whittier was at this time a member of the National Republican party. He afterward belonged to the anti-slavery Liberty party, a faction of the Abolitionists which had separated from the Garrison band. In 1855 Mr. Whittier acted with the Free Democratic party. In the conversation alluded to a moment ago, the poet laughingly remarked that the proprietors of the paper had never seen him when he went to Hartford in 1830 to take charge of their periodical. They were much surprised at his youth. But at the first meeting he discreetly kept silence, letting them do most of the talking. Here most assuredly, if never again, his Quaker doctrine of silence stood him in good stead; since, if we may believe him, he was most wofully deficient in a knowledge of the intricacies of the political situation of the time. Whittier was twenty-four years old when he published his first volume. It is a thin little book entitled "Legends of New England" (Hartford: Hanmer and Phelps, 1831), and is a medley of prose and verse. The style is juvenile and extravagantly rhetorical, and the subject-matter is far from being massive with thought. The libretto has been suppressed by its author, and it would be ungracious as well as unjust to criticise it at any length, or quote more than a single morsel of its verses, which are inferior to the prose. But one may be pardoned for giving two or three specimens of the prose stories, for they are intrinsically interesting. In the preface we have a striking passage, which may be commended to those who accuse Whittier of hatred of the Puritan fathers, and undue partiality toward the Quakers. He says: "I have in many instances alluded to the superstition and bigotry of our ancestors, the rare and bold race who laid the foundation of this republic; but no one can accuse me of having done injustice to their memories. A son of New England, and proud of my birthplace, I would not willingly cast dishonor upon its founders. My feelings in this respect have already been expressed in language which I shall be pardoned, I trust, for introducing in this place:-- Oh!--never may a son of thine, Where'er his wandering steps incline, Forget the sky which bent above His childhood like a dream of love, The stream beneath the green hill flowing, The broad-armed tree above it growing, The clear breeze through the foliage blowing; Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn, Breathed o'er the brave New England born; Or mark the stranger's jaguar hand Disturb the ashes of thy dead-- The buried glory of a land Whose soil with noble blood is red, And sanctified in every part, Nor feel resentment, like a brand, Unsheathing from his fiery heart!" The flow of language in these prose pieces is smooth and easy, and the narratives are in the same vein and style as the "Twice Told Tales," or Irving's stories, only they are very much weaker than these, and more extravagant and melodramatic in tone. "The Midnight Attack" describes the adventure of Captain Harmon and thirty Eastern rangers on the banks of the Kennebec River in June, 1722. A party of sleeping Indians are surprised by them and all shot dead by one volley of balls. An idea of the style of the piece will be obtained from the following paragraphs. The men are waiting for the signal of Harmon:-- "'Fire!' he at length exclaimed, as the sight of his piece interposed full and distinct between his eye and the wild scalp-lock of the Indian. 'Fire, and rush on!' "The sharp voice of thirty rifles thrilled through the heart of the forest. There was a groan--a smothered cry--a wild and convulsive movement among the sleeping Indians; and all again was silent. "The rangers sprang forward with their clubbed muskets and hunting knives; but their work was done. The red men had gone to their audit before the Great Spirit; and no sound was heard among them save the gurgling of the hot blood from their lifeless bosoms." It was one of the superstitions of the New England colonists that the rattlesnake had the power of charming or fascinating human beings. Whittier's story, "The Rattlesnake Hunter," is based upon this fact. An old man with meagre and wasted form is represented as devoting his life to the extermination of the reptiles among the hills and mountains of Vermont, the inspiring motive of his action being the death of his young and beautiful wife, many years previously, from the bite of a rattlesnake. "The Human Sacrifice" relates the escape of a young white girl from the hands of the Matchit-Moodus, an Indian tribe formerly dwelling where East Haddam now stands. The Indians are frightened from their purpose of sacrificing the girl by a rumbling noise proceeding from a high hill near by. In his note on the story Mr. Whittier says: "There is a story prevalent in the neighborhood, that a man from England, a kind of astrologer or necromancer, undertook to rid the place of the troublesome noises. He told them that the sound proceeded from a carbuncle--a precious gem, _growing in the bowels of the rock_. He hired an old blacksmith shop, and worked for some time with closed doors, and at night. All at once the necromancer departed, and the strange noises ceased. It was supposed he had found the precious gem, and had fled with it to his native land." This story of the carbuncle reminds us of Hawthorne's story on the same subject. The following remarks are prefixed to the poem, "The Unquiet Sleeper": "Some fifty or sixty years since an inhabitant of ----, N. H., was found dead at a little distance from his dwelling, which he left in the morning in perfect health. There is a story prevalent among the people of the neighborhood that, on the evening of the day on which he was found dead, strange cries are annually heard to issue from his grave! I have conversed with some who really supposed they had heard them in the dead of the night, rising fearfully on the autumn wind. They represented the sounds to be of a most appalling and unearthly nature." "The Spectre Ship" is the versification of a legend related in Mather's "Magnalia Christi." A ship sailed from Salem, having on board "a young man of strange and wild appearance, and a girl still younger, and of surpassing beauty. She was deadly pale, and trembled even while she leaned on the arm of her companion." They were supposed by some to be demons. The vessel was lost, and of course soon reappeared as a spectre-ship. Mr. Whittier's next work was the editing, in 1832, of the "Remains" of his gifted friend, J. G. C. Brainard. Students of Whittier's poems know that for many years the genius and writings of Brainard exercised a potent influence on his mind. Brainard undoubtedly possessed genius. He was at one time editor of the _Connecticut Mirror_. He died young, and his work can be considered as hardly more than a promise of future excellence. Whittier, in his Introduction to the "Remains," shows a nice sense of justice, and a delicate reserve in his eulogistic estimate of his dead brother-poet and friend. That he did not falsely attribute to him a rare genius will be evident to those who read the following portion of Brainard's spirited ballad of "The Black Fox":-- "'How cold, how beautiful, how bright The cloudless heaven above us shines; But 'tis a howling winter's night,-- 'Twould freeze the very forest pines. 'The winds are up while mortals sleep; The stars look forth while eyes are shut; The bolted snow lies drifted deep Around our poor and lonely hut. 'With silent step and listening ear, With bow and arrow, dog and gun, We'll mark his track, for his prowl we hear, Now is our time--come on, come on.' O'er many a fence, through many a wood, Following the dog's bewildered scent, In anxious haste and earnest mood, The Indian and the white man went. The gun is cock'd, the bow is bent, The dog stands with uplifted paw; And ball and arrow swift are sent, Aim'd at the prowler's very jaw. --The ball, to kill that fox, is run Not in a mould by mortals made! The arrow which that fox should shun Was never shap'd from earthly reed! The Indian Druids of the wood Know where the fatal arrows grow-- They spring not by the summer flood, They pierce not through the winter snow!"[12] [Footnote 12: Mr. Whittier quotes this fine ballad in Vol. II. p. 243 of his prose works, but with numerous changes of punctuation and phrase. The differences between the poem as it there appears and as it is given in his own edition of Brainard, published in 1832, seem to show that he has amended the ballad and punctuated it to suit himself, or else has quoted it from memory, or at third or fourth remove. It must be admitted that the changes are all improvements, however they were made. The ballad is quoted above, however, as it appears in Brainard's Poems.] Whittier's Introduction to Brainard's poems reveals a mind matured by much reading and thought. We hardly recognize in the author and editor of Hartford the shy girlish boy we so recently left on the farm at Haverhill. There has evidently been a good deal of midnight oil burned since then. The following sentiments respecting the resources and the proper field of the American poet show that thus early had Whittier taken the manly and patriotic resolution to find in his native land the chief sources of poetic inspiration: "It has been often said that the New World is deficient in the elements of poetry and romance; that its bards must of necessity linger over the classic ruins of other lands; and draw their sketches of character from foreign sources, and paint Nature under the soft beauty of an Eastern sky. On the contrary, New England is full of romance; and her writers would do well to follow the example of Brainard. The great forest which our fathers penetrated, the red men, their struggle and their disappearance, the powwow and the war-dance, the savage inroad and the English sally, the tale of superstition and the scenes of witchcraft,--all these are rich materials of poetry. We have, indeed, no classic vale of Tempe, no haunted Parnassus, no temple gray with years, and hallowed by the gorgeous pageantry of idol worship, no towers and castles over whose moonlight ruins gathers the green pall of the ivy; but we have mountains pillaring a sky as blue as that which bends over classic Olympus, streams as bright and beautiful as those of Greece and Italy, and forests richer and nobler than those which of old were haunted by sylph and dryad." It is easy to see here a foreshadowing of "Mogg Megone," "The Bridal of Pennacook," the "Supernaturalism of New England," and a hundred poems and ballads of Whittier's founded on native themes. The sentiments in the quotation just made remind one of Emerson's "Nature," the preface of Whitman to his first portentous quarto, "Leaves of Grass," and Wordsworth's essay on the nature of the poetic art. But however laudable was the Quaker poet's resolve to choose indigenous subjects, it cannot be said that either he or Bryant attained to more than an indigeneity of theme. In form and style they are imitative. Emerson and Whitman are our only purely original poets. Whittier was editor of the _New England Weekly Review_ for about eighteen months, at the end of which time he returned to the farm at Haverhill, and engaged in agricultural pursuits for the next five or six years. In 1831 or 1832 he published "Moll Pitcher," a tale of the Witch of Nahant. This youthful poem seems to have completely disappeared, and Mr. Whittier will no doubt be devoutly thankful that the writer has been unable to procure a copy. CHAPTER V. WHITTIER THE REFORMER. _"God said: 'Break thou these yokes; undo These heavy burdens. I ordain A work to last thy whole life through, A ministry of strife and pain._ _'Forego thy dreams of lettered ease, Put thou the scholar's promise by, The rights of man are more than these.' He heard, and answered: 'Here am I!'"_ WHITTIER, _Sumner_. On New Year's day of 1831 William Lloyd Garrison issued the first number of the _Liberator_ from his little attic room, No. 6 Merchants' Hall, Boston. Its clear bugle-notes sounded the onset of reform and the death-knell of slavery. It called for the buckling on of moral armor. Its words were the touchstone of wills, the shibboleth of souls. Cowards and time-servers quickly ranged themselves on one side, and heroes on the other. Before young Whittier,--editor, _littérateur_, and poet,--a career full of brilliant promise had opened up at Hartford. But through the high chambers of his soul the voice of duty rang in solemn and imperative tones. He heard and obeyed. The cost was counted, and his resolution taken. Upon his brow he placed the lustrous fire-wreath of the martyr, well assured of his power to endure unflinchingly to the end its sharpest pains. It was the most momentous act of his life; it formed the keystone in the arch of his destinies. The first decided anti-slavery step taken by him was the publication of his fiery philippic, "Justice and Expediency." About this time also he began the writing of his stirring anti-slavery poems, many of them full of pathos, fierce invective, cutting irony and satire,--stirring the blood like a trumpet-call, giving impulse and enthusiasm to the despised and half-despairing Abolitionists of that day, and becoming a part of the very religion of thousands of households throughout the land. It is almost impossible for those who were not participants in the anti-slavery conflict, or who have not read histories and memoirs of the struggle, to realize the deep opprobrium that attached to the word "Abolitionist." To avow one's self such meant in many cases suspicion, ostracism, hunger, blows, and sometimes death. It meant, in short, self-renunciation and social martyrdom. All this Whittier gladly took upon himself; and he knew that it was a long struggle upon which he was entering. As he says in one of his poems, he was "Called from dream and song, Thank God! so early to a strife so long, That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hair Of boyhood rested silver-sown and spare On manhood's temples." That the martyrdom was a severe one to all who took up the cross goes without saying. Mr. Whittier remarked to the writer that it was at some sacrifice of his ambition and plans for the future that he decided to throw in his lot with the opponents of slavery. He knew that it meant the annihilation of his hopes of literary preferment, and the exclusion of his articles from the pages of magazines and newspapers. "For twenty years," said he, "my name would have injured the circulation of any of the literary or political journals of the country." When Whittier joined the ranks of the despised faction, Garrison had been imprisoned and fined in Baltimore for his arraignment of the slave traffic; Benjamin Lundy had been driven from the same city by threats of imprisonment and personal outrage; Prudence Crandall was waging her battle with the Philistinism of Canterbury, Conn.; and the Legislature of Georgia had offered a reward of five thousand dollars for "the arrest, prosecution, and trial to conviction under the laws of the State, of the editor or publisher of a certain paper called _The Liberator_, published in the town of Boston, and State of Massachusetts." But it is not within the province of this biography to give an exhaustive _résumé_ of the anti-slavery conflict, but only to speak of such of its episodes as were especially participated in by Mr. Whittier. How tailor John Woolman became a life-long itinerant preacher of his mild Quaker gospel of freedom; how honest saddler Lundy left his leather hammering, and walked his ten thousand miles, carrying his types and column-rules with him, and printing his "Genius of Universal Emancipation" as he went; in what way and to what extent the labors and writings of Lucretia Mott, Samuel J. May, Lydia Maria Child, George Thompson, James G. Birney, and Gerrit Smith helped on the noble cause,--to all these things only allusion can be made. For a full account of those perilous times one must go to the pages of Henry Wilson's "History of the Rise and Fall of the Slave Power," and to the fascinating "Recollections" of Samuel J. May. Let us now return to Whittier and consider his own writings, labors, and adventures in the service of the cause. It was in the spring of 1833 that he published at his own expense "Justice and Expediency; or, Slavery Considered with a view to its Rightful and Effectual Remedy, Abolition." [Haverhill: C. P. Thayer and Co.] It is a polemical paper, full of exclamation points and italicized and capitalized sentences. The hyperbole speaks well for the author's heart, but betrays his juvenility. He shrieks like a temperance lecturer or a stump politician. The pamphlet, however, shows diligent and systematic study of the entire literature of the subject. Every statement is fortified by quotation or reference. He enumerates six reasons why the African Colonization Society's schemes were unworthy of good men's support, and buttresses up his theses by citations from the official literature of his opponents. A thorough familiarity with slavery in other lands and times is also manifested. As a specimen of the style of the book the following will serve:-- "But, it may be said that the miserable victims of the System have our sympathies. "Sympathy!--the sympathy of the Priest and the Levite, looking on, and acknowledging, but holding itself aloof from mortal suffering. Can such hollow sympathy reach the broken of heart, and does the blessing of those who are ready to perish answer it? Does it hold back the lash from the slave, or sweeten his bitter bread? "Oh, my heart is sick--my very soul is weary of this sympathy--this heartless mockery of feeling.... "No--let the TRUTH on this subject--undisguised, naked, terrible as it is, stand out before us. Let us no longer seek to cover it--let us no longer strive to forget it--let us no more dare to palliate it." In his sketch of Nathaniel P. Rogers, the anti-slavery editor, Whittier remarks incidentally that the voice of Rogers was one of the few which greeted him with words of encouragement and sympathy at the time of the publication of his "Justice and Expediency."[13] [Footnote 13: "He gave us a kind word of approval," says Whittier, "and invited us to his mountain home, on the banks of the Pemigewasset, an invitation which, two years afterwards, we accepted."] * * * * * On the fourth day of December, 1833, the Philadelphia Convention for the formation of the American Anti-slavery Society held its first sitting; Beriah Green, President, Lewis Tappan and John G. Whittier, Secretaries. This assembly, if not so famous as that which framed the Declaration of Independence in the same city some two generations previously, was at any rate as worthy of fame and respect as its illustrious predecessor. A deep solemnity and high consecration filled the heart of every man and woman in that little band. Heart answered unto heart in glowing sympathy. They did their work like men inspired. Perfect unanimity prevailed. They were too eagerly engaged to adjourn for dinner, and "baskets of crackers and pitchers of cold water supplied all the bodily refreshment." Among those who were present and spoke was Lucretia Mott, "a beautiful and graceful woman," says Whittier, "in the prime of life, with a face beneath her plain cap as finely intellectual as that of Madame Roland." She "offered some wise and valuable suggestions, in a clear sweet voice, the charm of which I have never forgotten." * * * * * A committee, of which Whittier was a member, with William Lloyd Garrison as chairman, was appointed to draw up a Declaration of Principles. Garrison sat up all night, in the small attic of a colored man, to draft this Declaration. The two other members of the committee, calling in the gray dawn of a December day, found him putting the last touches to this famous paper, while his lamp burned on unheeded into the daylight. His draft was accepted almost without amendment by the Convention, and, after it had been engrossed on parchment, was signed by the sixty-two members present.[14] [Footnote 14: Twenty-one of these persons were Quakers, as Mr. Whittier and the writer proved by actual count of the names on Mr. Whittier's fac-simile copy of the Declaration.] [Illustration: JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AT MIDDLE LIFE.] In the _Atlantic Monthly_ for February, 1874, Mr. Whittier has given an interesting account of the Convention. Some of his pictures are so graphic that they shall here be given in his own words:-- "In the gray twilight of a chill day of late November, forty years ago, a dear friend of mine residing in Boston, made his appearance at the old farm-house in East Haverhill. He had been deputed by the Abolitionists of the city, William L. Garrison, Samuel E. Sewall, and others, to inform me of my appointment as a delegate to the Convention about to be held in Philadelphia for the formation of an American Anti-slavery Society; and to urge upon me the necessity of my attendance. "Few words of persuasion, however, were needed. I was unused to travelling; my life had been spent on a secluded farm; and the journey, mostly by stage-coach, at that time was really a formidable one. Moreover the few abolitionists were everywhere spoken against, their persons threatened, and, in some instances, a price set on their heads by Southern legislators. Pennsylvania was on the borders of slavery, and it needed small effort of imagination to picture to oneself the breaking up of the Convention and maltreatment of its members. This latter consideration I do not think weighed much with me, although I was better prepared for serious danger than for anything like personal indignity. I had read Governor Trumbull's description of the tarring and feathering of his hero MacFingal, when after the application of the melted tar, the feather-bed was ripped open and shaken over him, until Not Maia's son with wings for ears, Such plumes about his visage wears, Nor Milton's six-winged angel gathers Such superfluity of feathers, and I confess I was quite unwilling to undergo a martyrdom which my best friends could scarcely refrain from laughing at. But a summons like that of Garrison's bugle-blast could scarcely be unheeded by one who, from birth and education, held fast the traditions of that earlier abolitionism which, under the lead of Benezet and Woolman, had effaced from the Society of Friends every vestige of slaveholding. I had thrown myself, with a young man's fervid enthusiasm, into a movement which commended itself to my reason and conscience, to my love of country, and my sense of duty to God and my fellow-men. My first venture in authorship was the publication, at my own expense, in the spring of 1833, of a pamphlet entitled 'Justice and Expediency,'[15] on the moral and political evils of slavery, and the duty of emancipation. Under such circumstances, I could not hesitate, but prepared at once for my journey. It was necessary that I should start on the morrow, and the intervening time, with a small allowance for sleep, was spent in providing for the care of the farm and homestead during my absence." [Footnote 15: Mr. Whittier here made a slip of memory. His first work was "Legends of New England," as he himself testifies, in his own handwriting, in a memorandum sent to the New England Historic-Genealogical Society.] Mr. Whittier proceeds to tell of his journey to the Quaker City, and of the organization and work of the Convention. The following pen-portraits are too valuable to be omitted:-- "Looking over the assembly, I noticed that it was mainly composed of comparatively young men, some in middle age, and a few beyond that period. They were nearly all plainly dressed, with a view to comfort rather than elegance. Many of the faces turned toward me wore a look of expectancy and suppressed enthusiasm; all had the earnestness which might be expected of men engaged in an enterprise beset with difficulty, and perhaps with peril. The fine intellectual head of Garrison, prematurely bald, was conspicuous; the sunny-faced young man at his side, in whom all the beatitudes seemed to find expression, was Samuel J. May, mingling in his veins the best blood of the Sewalls and Quincys; a man so exceptionally pure and large-hearted, so genial, tender, and loving, that he could be faithful to truth and duty without making an enemy. The de'il wad look into his face, And swear he could na wrang him.' That tall, gaunt, swarthy man, erect, eagle-faced, upon whose somewhat martial figure the Quaker coat seemed a little out of place, was Lindley Coates, known in all Eastern Pennsylvania as a stern enemy of slavery; that slight, eager man, intensely alive in every feature and gesture, was Thomas Shipley, who for thirty years had been the protector of the free colored people of Philadelphia, and whose name was whispered reverently in the slave cabins of Maryland as the friend of the black man,--one of a class peculiar to old Quakerism, who, in doing what they felt to be duty, and walking as the Light within guided them, knew no fear and shrank from no sacrifice. Braver men the world has not known. Beside him, differing in creed but united with him in works of love and charity, sat Thomas Whitson, of the Hicksite school of Friends, fresh from his farm in Lancaster County, dressed in plainest homespun, his tall form surmounted by a shock of unkempt hair, the odd obliquity of his vision contrasting strongly with the clearness and directness of his spiritual insight. Elizur Wright, the young professor of a Western college, who had lost his place by his bold advocacy of freedom, with a look of sharp concentration, in keeping with an intellect keen as a Damascus blade, closely watched the proceedings through his spectacles, opening his mouth only to speak directly to the purpose.... In front of me, awakening pleasant associations of the old homestead in Merrimack valley, sat my first school-teacher, Joshua Coffin, the learned and worthy antiquarian and historian of Newbury. A few spectators, mostly of the Hicksite division of Friends, were present in broad-brims and plain bonnets, among them Esther Moore and Lucretia Mott." The year 1834 was passed by Whittier quietly on the farm at East Haverhill. In April of this year the first anti-slavery society was organized in Haverhill, with John G. Whittier as corresponding secretary. Not long after a female anti-slavery society was organized in the same town. The pro-slavery feeling in Haverhill was as bitter as in other places. One Sabbath afternoon in August, 1835, the Rev. Samuel J. May occupied the pulpit of the First Parish Society in Haverhill, and in the evening attempted to give an anti-slavery lecture in the Christian Union Chapel, having been invited to do so by Mr. Whittier. In his "Recollections of the Anti-Slavery Conflict" (p. 152), Mr. May says:-- "I had spoken about fifteen minutes when the most hideous outcries and yells, from a crowd of men who had surrounded the house, startled us, and then came heavy missiles against the doors and blinds of the windows. I persisted in speaking for a few minutes, hoping the blinds and doors were strong enough to stand the siege. But presently a heavy stone broke through one of the blinds, shattered a pane of glass, and fell upon the head of a lady sitting near the centre of the hall. She uttered a shriek, and fell bleeding into the arms of her sister. The panic-stricken audience rose _en masse_, and began a rush for the doors." Mr. May succeeded in quieting the fears of the audience, and himself escaped through the crowd of infuriated ruffians without by walking between two ladies, one of them the sister of Mr. Whittier and the other the daughter of a wealthy and determined citizen of the place, who, it was well known, would take summary vengeance for any disrespect shown to his daughter. It was well that the audience dispersed when it did, since a loaded cannon was being drawn to the spot by the furious mob. This year, 1835, was a year of mobs. On the very same evening that Mr. May was mobbed in Haverhill, Mr. Whittier and his English friend, the orator George Thompson, were treated in a similar manner in Concord, N. H. Whether an account of the Concord mob has been elsewhere published or not the author cannot say, but the story given here is as he had it from the lips of Mr. Whittier himself. "Oh! we had a dreadful night of it," he said. The inhabitants had heard that an Abolition meeting was to be held in the town, and that the arch anarchist, George Thompson, was to speak. So on that Sabbath evening they were on the alert, an angry mob some five hundred strong. Mr. Whittier, knowing nothing of their state of mind, started down the street with a friend: the mob surrounded them, thinking that he was Thompson. His friend explained to them that he was Mr. Whittier. "Oh!" they exclaimed, "so you are the one who is with Thompson, are you?" and forthwith they began to assail the two men with sticks and stones. Mr. Whittier said that both he and his friend were hurt, but escaped with their lives by taking refuge in the house of a friend named Kent, who was not an Abolitionist himself, but was a man of honor and bravery. He barred his door, and told the mob that they should have Whittier only over his dead body. In the course of the evening Mr. Whittier learned that the house in which Thompson was staying was surrounded by the mob. Becoming anxious, he borrowed a hat, sallied out among the crowd, and succeeded in reaching his friend. The noise and violence of the mob increased; a cannon was brought, and at one time the little band in the house feared they might suffer violence. "We did not much fear death," said Mr. Whittier, "but we did dread gross personal indignities." It was fortunately a bright moonlight night, suitable for travelling, and about one o'clock the two friends escaped by driving off rapidly in their horse and buggy. They did not know the road to Haverhill, but were directed by their friends with all possible minuteness. Three miles away, also, there was the house of an anti-slavery man, and they obtained further directions there. Some time after sunrise they stopped at a wayside inn to bait their horse, and get a bite of breakfast for themselves. While they were at table the landlord said,-- "They've been having a h--l of a time down at Haverhill." "How is that?" "Oh, one of them d--d Abolitionists was lecturin' there; he had been invited to the town by a young fellow named Whittier; but they made it pretty hot for him, and I guess neither he nor Whittier will be in a hurry to repeat the thing." "What kind of a fellow is this Whittier?" "Oh, he's an ignorant sort of fellow; he don't know much." "And who is this Thompson they're talking about?" "Why, he's a man sent over here by the British to make trouble in our government." As the two friends were stepping into the buggy, Mr. Whittier, with one foot on the step, turned and said to the host, who was standing by with several tavern loafers:-- "You've been talking about Thompson and Whittier. This is Mr. Thompson, and I am Whittier. Good morning." "And jumping into the buggy," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eye, "we whipped up, and stood not on the order of our going." As for the host he stood with open mouth, being absolutely tongue-tied with astonishment. "And for all I know," said the narrator, "he's standing there still with his mouth open." Mr. Thompson was secreted at the Whittier farm-house in Haverhill for two weeks after this affair. * * * * * Some two months after the disgraceful scenes just described occurred the mobbing of William Lloyd Garrison in Boston. He had gone in the evening to deliver a lecture before the Female Anti-Slavery Society. A furious mob of "gentlemen of property and standing" surrounded the building. Mr. Garrison took refuge in a carpenter's shop in the rear of the hall, but was violently seized, let down from a window by a rope, and dragged by the mob to the City Hall. Mr. Whittier was staying at the house of Rev. Samuel J. May. His sister had gone to the lecture, and Mr. Whittier, on hearing of the disturbance, had fears for her safety, and went out to seek her. He said to the writer that when he reached the City Hall he saw before him the best dressed mob imaginable. Presently he heard a cry, "They've got him!" After a short, sharp scuffle Garrison was got into a carriage by the police, and taken to the Leverett Street jail, as the only place where he could be safe that night in Boston. Mr. Whittier and Mr. May immediately went down to the jail to see him. Garrison said that he could not say, with Paul, that he was dwelling in his own hired house, and so he could not ask them to stay all night with him! His coat was not entirely gone, but was pretty badly torn. He was at first a good deal agitated by the affair, but when they left him he had become calm and assured. On the same evening, the mob threatened to make an attack upon Mr. May's house. Mr. Whittier got his sister Elizabeth safely bestowed for the night in the dwelling of another friend. He and Mr. May passed a sleepless night, and at one time half thought that, for safety's sake, they should have stayed in the jail with Garrison. However, they were not molested. It is a remarkable testimony to the esteem in which Mr. Whittier must have been held by the citizens of Haverhill that, notwithstanding their bitter hatred of Abolitionism, they elected him their representative to the State Legislature in 1835, and again in 1836. In 1837 he declined re-election. In the legislative documents for 1835 he figures as a member of the standing committee on engrossed bills. His name does not appear in the State records for 1836: it was undoubtedly owing to his secretarial duties, mentioned below, that he was unable to take his seat as a member of the Legislature in the second year of his election. In 1836 Whittier published "Mogg Megone," a poem on an episode in Indian life. It will be reviewed, with the rest of his poems, in the second part of this volume. In the same year he was appointed Secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and removed to Philadelphia. In 1838-39, while in that city, he edited a paper which he named the _Pennsylvania Freeman_. It had formerly been edited by Benjamin Lundy, under the title of the _National Enquirer_. The office of the _Pennsylvania Freeman_ was in 1838 sacked and burned by a mob. It was about the same time that Pennsylvania Hall in Philadelphia was burned to the ground by the citizens, on the very day after its dedication. Mr. Whittier had read an original poem on that occasion. The hall had been built at considerable sacrifice by the lovers of freedom, in order that one place at least might be open for free discussion. And it was just in order that it might not be used thus that it was burned by the guilty-thoughted mob. The keys had been given to the mayor, but neither he nor the police interfered to prevent the atrocious deed. In 1837 Mr. Whittier edited, and wrote a preface for, the "Letters of John Quincy Adams to his Constituents." These stirring letters of Mr. Adams were called forth by the attacks that had been made on him by members of Congress for defending the right of negroes to petition the Government. Mr. Whittier, in his introductory remarks, speaks of the "Letters" as follows:-- "Their sarcasm is Junius-like, cold, keen, unsparing. In boldness, directness, and eloquent appeal, they will bear comparison with O'Connell's celebrated letters to the Reformers of Great Britain.... It will be seen that, in the great struggle for and against the Right of Petition, an account of which is given in the following pages, their author stood in a great measure alone, and unsupported by his northern colleagues. On 'his gray, discrowned head' the entire fury of slaveholding arrogance and wrath was expended. He stood alone,--beating back, with his aged and single arm, the tide which would have borne down and overwhelmed a less sturdy and determined spirit." In the same year (1837) Mr. Whittier edited a pamphlet called "Views of Slavery and Emancipation," taken from Harriet Martineau's "Society in America." The whole subject of slavery is canvassed by Miss Martineau in the most searching and judicial manner. In closing this account of our author's anti-slavery labors, we may bestow a word on the attitude assumed toward the Abolition movement by the Quakers as a sect. Through the labors of John Woolman, Benjamin Lundy, Anthony Benezet, and others, they had early been brought to see the wickedness of slaveholding, and in 1780 had succeeded in entirely ridding their denomination of the wrong. They not only emancipated their slaves, but remunerated them for their past services. Indeed, their record in this respect is unique for its fine ideal devotion to exact justice. They were the first religious body in the world to remove the pollution of slavery from their midst. But the cautious, acquisitive, peace-loving Quakers seemed content to rest here, satisfied with having cleared their own skirts of wrong. They could not see the good side of the Abolition movement. They were scandalized by the violence and fanaticism of many Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier felt aggrieved by this attitude of the Friends, but did not on that account break with the denomination, or abandon the religion of his fathers. In 1868 he wrote as follows to the _New Bedford Standard_, which had spoken of him in an article on Thomas A. Greene: "My object in referring to the article in the paper was mainly to correct a statement regarding myself, viz.: That in consequence of the opposition of the Society of Friends to the anti-slavery movement, I did not for years attend their meetings. This is not true. From my youth up, whenever my health permitted, I have been a constant attendant of our meetings for religious worship. _This_ is true, however, that after our meeting-houses were denied by the yearly meeting for anti-slavery purposes, I did not feel it in my way, for some years, to attend the annual meeting at Newport. From a feeling of duty I protested against that decision when it was made, but was given to understand pretty distinctly that there was no 'weight' in my words. It was a hard day for reformers; some stifled their convictions; others, not adding patience to their faith, allowed themselves to be worried out of the Society. Abolitionists holding office were very generally 'dropped out,' and the ark of the church staggered on with no profane anti-slavery hands upon it." CHAPTER VI. AMESBURY. After the sacking and burning of the office of the _Pennsylvania Freeman_, Whittier returned to Haverhill, and soon after (in 1840) he sold the old farm and removed with his mother to Amesbury, a small town some nine miles nearer the sea than Haverhill. It is a rural town of over three thousand inhabitants, and contains nothing of note except the poet Whittier. The business of the place is the manufacture of woollen and cotton goods, and of carriages. The landscape is rugged and picturesque. The town covers a sloping hillside that stretches down to the Merrimack. Across this river rises a high hill, crowned with orchards and meadows. In summer time a sweet and quiet air reigns in the place. There are old vine-covered houses, grassy lawns, cool crofts, and sunken orchards; bees are humming, birds singing, and here and there through the trees slender columns of blue wood-smoke float upward in airy evanescence. Mr. Whittier's residence is on Friend Street, and not far beyond, on the same street, or rather in the delta formed by the meeting of two streets, stands the Friends' Meeting-House, where the poet has been an attendant nearly all his life:-- "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." This old meeting-house is alluded to by the poet in "Abram Morrison," a fine humorous poem published in "The King's Missive" (1881). We there read how-- "On calm and fair First Days Rattled down our one-horse chaise Through the blossomed apple-boughs To the old, brown meeting-house." Whittier's house is a plain, white-painted structure, standing at the corner of two streets, and having in front of it numerous forest trees, chiefly maple. Since 1876 the poet has passed only a part of each year at Amesbury, his other home being Oak Knoll in Danvers, where he resides with distant relatives. [Illustration: THE WHITTIER HOUSE, AMESBURY, MASS.] * * * * * The study at Amesbury of course possesses great interest for us as the place where most of the poet's finest lyrics have been written. It is a very cosey little study, and is entered by one door from within and another from without. The upper half of the outer door is of glass. This door is at the end of the left-hand porch shown in the view on page 125. The two windows in the study look out upon a long strip of yard in the rear of the house,--very pretty and quiet, and filled with pear-trees and other trees and vines. Upon one side of the room are shelves holding five or six hundred well-used volumes. Among them are to be noticed Charles Reade's novels and the poems of Robert Browning. A side-shelf is completely filled with a small blue and gold edition of the poets. On the walls hang oil paintings of views on the Merrimack River and other Essex County scenes, including Mr. Whittier's birthplace. In one corner is a handsome writing-desk, littered with papers and letters. Upon the hearth of the Franklin stove, high andirons smile a fireside welcome from their burnished brass knobs. Indeed, everything in the room is as neat and cosey as the wax cell of a honey-bee. And over all is shed the genial glow of the gentlest, tenderest nature in all the land. * * * * * In the autumn of 1844 was written "The Stranger in Lowell," a series of light sketches suggested by personal experiences. The style of these essays reminds one of that of "Twice Told Tales," but it is not so pure. The thought is developed too rhetorically, and the essays betray the limitations attending the life of a recluse. But these sketches are interesting as exhibitions of the growth of the author toward this peculiar form of essay-writing, and are valuable on that account. * * * * * In 1847 James G. Birney's anti-slavery paper, _The Philanthropist_, published in Cincinnati, was merged with the _National Era_, of Washington, D. C., with Dr. Gamaliel Bailey as managing editor, and John G. Whittier as associate or corresponding editor. Dr. Bailey had previously helped edit _The Philanthropist_. Both papers were treated to mobocratic attacks. The _Era_ became an important organ of the Abolition party in Washington. To it Mr. Whittier contributed his "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches" as well as other reform papers. * * * * * In the same year (1847) our author published his "Supernaturalism of New England." [New York and London: Wiley and Putnam.] This pleasant little volume shows a marked advance upon Whittier's previous prose work. In its nine chapters he has preserved a number of oral legends and interesting superstitions of the farmer-folk of the Merrimack region. Parts of the work have been quoted elsewhere in this volume. One of the chapters closes with the following fine passage:-- "The witches of Father Baxter and 'the Black Man' of Cotton Mather have vanished; belief in them is no longer possible on the part of sane men. But this mysterious universe, through which, half veiled in its own shadow, our dim little planet is wheeling, with its star-worlds and thought-wearying spaces, remains. Nature's mighty miracle is still over and around us; and hence awe, wonder, and reverence remain to be the inheritance of humanity: still are there beautiful repentances and holy death-beds, and still over the soul's darkness and confusion rises star-like the great idea of duty. By higher and better influences than the poor spectres of superstition man must henceforth be taught to reverence the Invisible, and, in the consciousness of his own weakness and sin and sorrow, to lean with childlike trust on the wisdom and mercy of an overruling Providence." In 1849 Mr. Whittier collected and published his anti-slavery poems, under the title "Voices of Freedom." The year 1850 marks a new era in his poetical career. He published at that time his "Songs of Labor,"--a volume which showed that his mind had become calmed by time, and was now capable of interesting itself in other than reform subjects. There is not much of outward incident and circumstance to record of the quiet poetical years passed since 1840 at Amesbury and Danvers. Almost every year or two a new volume of poems has been issued, each one establishing on a firmer foundation the Quaker Poet's reputation as a creator of sweet and melodious lyrical poetry. In 1868 an institution called "Whittier College" was opened at Salem, Henry County, Iowa. It was founded in honor of the poet, and is conducted in accordance with the principles of the Society of Friends. In 1871 Whittier edited "Child-Life: A Collection of Poems," by various home and foreign authors. In the same year he edited, with a long introduction, the "Journal of John Woolman." The name John Woolman is not widely known to persons of the present generation; and yet, as Whittier says, it was this humble Quaker reformer of New Jersey who did more than any one else to inspire all the great modern movements for the emancipation of slaves, first in the West Indies, then in the United States, and in Russia. Warner Mifflin, Jean Pierre Brissot, Thomas Clarkson, Stephen Grellet, William Allen, and Benjamin Lundy,--all these philanthropists owed much of their impulse to labor for the freedom of the slave to humble John Woolman. His journal or autobiography was highly praised by Charles Lamb, Edward Irving, Crabb Robinson, and others. "The style is that of a man unlettered, but with natural refinement and delicate sense of fitness, the purity of whose heart enters into his language." Woolman was born in Northampton, West Jersey, in 1720. One day, in the year 1742, while clerk in a store in the village of Mount Holly, township of Northampton, N. J., he was asked by his employer to make out the bill of sale of a negro. He drew up the instrument, but his conscience was awakened, and some years after he began his life-work as a pedestrian anti-slavery preacher. He refused to ride in, or have letters sent him by, the stage-coaches, because of the cruelty exercised toward the horses by the drivers. Neither would he accept hospitality from those who kept slaves, always paying either the owners or the slaves for his entertainment. Woolman was most gentle and kind in his appeals to slave-owners, and rarely met with any violent remonstrance. Much of his work was within the limits of his own sect, and Mr. Whittier's introduction gives a valuable and succinct historical _résumé_ of the steps taken by the Friends to rid their sect of the stigma of slaveholding. Mount Holly, in Woolman's day, says Whittier, "was almost entirely a settlement of Friends. A very few of the old houses with their quaint stoops or porches are left. That occupied by John Woolman was a small, plain, two-story structure, with two windows in each story in front, a four-barred fence enclosing the grounds, with the trees he planted and loved to cultivate. The house was not painted, but whitewashed. The name of the place is derived from the highest hill in the county, rising two hundred feet above the sea, and commanding a view of a rich and level country of cleared farms and woodlands." Very amusing is the picture given by Mr. Whittier of the eccentric Benjamin Lay, once a member of the Society of Friends in England, and afterward an inhabitant for some time of the West Indies, whence he was driven away on account of the violence and extravagance of his denunciations of slavery. He was a contemporary of Woolman. He lived in a cave near Philadelphia, as a sort of Jonah or Elijah, prophesying woe against the city on account of its participation in the crime of slavery. He wore clothes made of vegetable fibre, and ate only vegetable food. "Issuing from his cave, on his mission of preaching 'deliverance to the captive,' he was in the habit of visiting the various meetings for worship and bearing his testimony against slaveholders, greatly to their disgust and indignation. On one occasion he entered the Market Street Meeting, and a leading Friend requested some one to take him out. A burly blacksmith volunteered to do it, leading him to the gate and thrusting him out with such force that he fell into the gutter of the street. There he lay until the meeting closed, telling the bystanders that he did not feel free to rise himself. 'Let those who cast me here raise me up. It is their business, not mine.' "His personal appearance was in remarkable keeping with his eccentric life. A figure only four and a half feet high, hunch-backed, with projecting chest, legs small and uneven, arms longer than his legs; a huge head, showing only beneath the enormous white hat large, solemn eyes and a prominent nose; the rest of his face covered with a snowy semicircle of beard falling low on his breast,--a figure to recall the old legends of troll, brownie, and kobold. Such was the irrepressible prophet who troubled the Israel of slaveholding Quakerism, clinging like a rough chestnut-burr to the skirts of its respectability, and settling like a pertinacious gad-fly on the sore places of its conscience. "On one occasion, while the annual meeting was in session at Burlington, N. J., in the midst of the solemn silence of the great assembly, the unwelcome figure of Benjamin Lay, wrapped in his long white overcoat, was seen passing up the aisle. Stopping midway, he exclaimed, 'You slaveholders! Why don't you throw off your Quaker coats as I do mine, and show yourselves as you are?' Casting off as he spoke his outer garment, he disclosed to the astonished assembly a military coat underneath, and a sword dangling at his heels. Holding in one hand a large book, he drew his sword with the other. 'In the sight of God,' he cried, 'you are as guilty as if you stabbed your slaves to the heart, as I do this book!' suiting the action to the word, and piercing a small bladder filled with the juice of poke-weed (_phytolacca decandra_), which he had concealed between the covers, and sprinkling as with fresh blood those who sat near him." There is something overwhelmingly ludicrous about this bladder of poke-weed juice! And what a subject for a painter!--the portentous, white-bearded dwarf standing there in the midst of the church, in act to plunge his gigantic sword tragically into the innermost bowels of the crimson poke-juice bladder, and from all parts of the house the converging looks of the broad-brimmed and shovel-bonneted Quakers! Mr. Whittier further says that "Lay was well acquainted with Dr. Franklin, who sometimes visited him. Among other schemes of reform he entertained the idea of converting all mankind to Christianity. This was to be done by three witnesses,--himself, Michael Lovell, and Abel Noble, assisted by Dr. Franklin. But, on their first meeting at the doctor's house, the three 'chosen vessels' got into a violent controversy on points of doctrine, and separated in ill-humor. The philosopher, who had been an amused listener, advised the three sages to give up the project of converting the world until they had learned to tolerate each other." * * * * * In 1873 Mr. Whittier edited "Child-Life in Prose." It is a collection of pretty stories, chiefly about the childhood of various eminent persons. One of the stories is by the editor, and is about "A Fish that I Didn't Catch." In 1875 appeared "Songs of Three Centuries." The poet's design in this work was (to use his own words) "to gather up in a comparatively small volume, easily accessible to all classes of readers, the wisest thoughts, rarest fancies, and devoutest hymns of the metrical authors of the last three centuries." He says, "The selections I have made indicate, in a general way, my preferences." It is a choice collection, rich in lyrical masterpieces. CHAPTER VII. LATER DAYS. About a mile westward from the village of Danvers, Mass., a grassy road, named Summer Street, branches off to the right and north. It is a pleasant, winding road, bordered by picturesque old stone fences and lined with barberry and raspberry bushes and gnarled old apple-trees. On either side are cultivated fields. Oak Knoll, the winter residence of Whittier, is the second house on the left, some half a mile up the road. This fine old estate had been occupied for half a century by a man of wealth and taste. About the year 1875 it passed into the hands of Col. Edmund Johnson, of Boston, whose wife was Whittier's cousin. It was planned that the poet should be a member of the household; rooms were set apart and arranged for him, and he gave the estate its present name. It is a spot full of traditions, and well suited to any poet's residence, most of all for one so versed in New England legends. It is the very spot once occupied by the Rev. George Burroughs, a clergyman who was hung for witchcraft in 1692, on the charge, among other things, of "having performed feats of extraordinary physical strength." He could hold out a gun seven feet long, tradition says, by putting his finger in the muzzle, and could lift a barrel of molasses in the same way by the bung-hole. For acts like these--deemed unclerical, at least, if not unnatural--he was convicted and hanged; and a well on the premises of Oak Knoll is still known as the "witch well." Here, in the home of relatives, the poet has lived since 1876. A lovelier and more poetical place it would be difficult to imagine. The extensive, carefully kept grounds, and the antique elegance of the house, give to the estate the air of an old English manor, or gentleman's country hall. The house is approached by a long, upward-sweeping lawn, diversified with stately forest trees, clumps of evergreens and shrubs and flowers. Down across the road stands a large and handsome barn, which is as neat as paint and care can make it. In front of the house the eye ranges downward over an extensive landscape, as far as to the town of Peabody, in the direction of Salem. Indeed, on every side of the estate there are broad and distant views of the blue hills of Essex and Middlesex. [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE PORCH AT OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, MASS.] In the summer, as you ascend the carriage-road that winds through the grounds, your eye is captured by the rare beauty of the scene. Yonder is a tall living wall of verdure, with an archway cut through it. To the left the grounds sweep gently down to a deep ravine, where a little rivulet, named Beaver Brook, creeps leisurely out and winds seaward through green and marish meadows. It is in this portion of the grounds that the fine oak-trees grow which give to the place its name. Here, too, is a large grove of pines, with numerous seats within it. There are trees and trees at Oak Knoll,--smooth and shapely hickories, glistering chestnuts with cool foliage, maples, birches, and the purple beech. Add to the picture the rural accessories of bee-haunted clover-fields, apple and pear orchards, and beds of tempting strawberries. The house is of wood, salmon-colored, with tall porches on each side, up-propped by stately Doric columns. In front, with wide sweep of closely cropped grass intervening, is the magnificent Norway spruce that Oliver Wendell Holmes, a year or two before Mr. Whittier's death, on one of those periodical visits to his brother poet that so delighted their two souls, named "The Poets' Pagoda." A luxuriant vine clusters about the eaves of the house. On the long porch a mocking-bird and a canary-bird fill the green silence with gushes of melody, and near at hand, in his study in the wing of the building, sits one with a singing pen and listens to their song. To their song and to the murmur of the tall pines by his window he listens, then looks into his heart and writes,--this sweet-souled magician,--and craftily imprisons between the covers of his books, echoes of bird and tree music, bits of blue sky, glimpses of green landscape, winding rivers, and idyls of the snow,--all suffused and interfused with a glowing atmosphere of human and divine love, such as the poet found in this home of his choosing at Oak Knoll. It will not perhaps be intruding upon the privacies of home to say that the members of the cultured household at Oak Knoll ever, found in their happy circle, their highest pleasure in ministering to all needs, social or otherwise, of their loved cousin the poet. Three sisters dispense the hospitalities of the house, and a young daughter of Mrs. Woodman's adds the charm of girlhood to the family life. * * * * * Readers of Whittier, who know how deeply his writings are tinged with the scenery, legendary lore and folk-life of his native Merrimack Valley, will not wonder that a certain _Heimweh_, or home-sickness, draws him northward, when "Flows amain The surge of summer's beauty." and "Pours the deluge of the heat Broad northward o'er the land." It is but one hour's ride by cars from Danvers to Amesbury; and part of the time in the latter place, and part of the time at the Isles of Shoals, and in the beautiful lake and mountain region of New Hampshire, Mr. Whittier passes the warm season. For many years it was his custom to spend a portion of each summer at the Bearcamp River House, in West Ossipee, N. H., some thirty miles north of Lake Winnipiseogee. The hotel was situated on a slight eminence, commanding a view of towering "Mount Israel" and of "Whittier Mountain," named after the poet. It is a region full of noble prospects, being just in the out-skirts of the White Mountain group. Several of the poems of Whittier were inspired by this scenery, notably "Among the Hills," "Sunset on the Bearcamp," and "The Seeking of the Waterfall." In the first of these we read how-- "Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang," and-- "Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing, Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing." "Sunset on the Bearcamp" contains a stanza considered by some to be one of the poet's finest:-- "Touched by a light that hath no name, A glory never sung, Aloft on sky and mountain wall Are God's great pictures hung. How changed the summits vast and old! No longer granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist; the rock Is softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no leaf Of all its elms is twirled: The silence of eternity Seems falling on the world." The Bearcamp River House (now no more) was a hostelry whose site, antique hospitality, and eminent guests were every whit as worthy to be embalmed in lasting verse as were those of the Wayside Inn of Sudbury. Before the red, crackling flames of its huge fireplace such literary characters as Whittier, Gail Hamilton, Lucy Larcom, and Hiram Rich used to gather on chill summer evenings for the kind of talks that only a wood fire can inspire. The Quaker poet is a charming conversationalist, and can _tell_ a story as capitally as he can write one. He has a goodly _répertoire_ of ghost tales and legends of the marvellous. One of his best stories is about a scene that took place in Independence Hall in Philadelphia, when the court remanded a negro to slavery. The poet says that an old sailor who was present became so infuriated by the spectacle that he made the air blue with oaths uttered in seven different languages.[16] [Footnote 16: For these details about days on the Bearcamp, the writer is indebted to Dr. Robert R. Andrews, an acquaintance of the poet.] * * * * * December 17, 1877, was the poet's seventieth birthday, and the occasion was celebrated in a twofold manner, namely, by a Whittier Tribute in the _Literary World_, and by a Whittier Banquet given at the Hotel Brunswick, in Boston, by Messrs. H. O. Houghton and Co., the publishers of Whittier's works. The _Literary World_ tribute contained poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Bayard Taylor, E. C. Stedman, O. W. Holmes, William Lloyd Garrison, and others. Mr. Longfellow's poem, "The Three Silences," is one of unusual beauty. THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS. "Three Silences there are: the first of speech, The second of desire, the third of thought; This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. These Silences, commingling each with each Made up the perfect Silence, that he sought And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach. O thou, whose daily life anticipates The life to come, and in whose thought and word The spiritual world preponderates, Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, And speakest only when thy soul is stirred!" There were letters from the poet Bryant, the historian George Bancroft, Colonel T. W. Higginson, and Mrs. H. B. Stowe; and there was a pleasant description of the Danvers home by Charles B. Rice. Mr. Whittier's "Response" was published in the January number of the paper:-- "Beside that milestone where the level sun, Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays On word and work irrevocably done, Life's blending threads of good and ill outspun, I hear, O friends! your words of cheer and praise, Half doubtful if myself or otherwise. Like him who, in the old Arabian joke, A beggar slept and crowned Caliph woke." The anniversary of the founding of the _Atlantic Monthly_ happening to be synchronous with Whittier's birthday, the publishers determined to make a double festival of the occasion. The gathering at the Hotel Brunswick was a brilliant one, and the invitations were not limited by any clique or any sectional lines. In this same month the admirers of Mr. Whittier in Haverhill, Newburyport, and neighboring towns, formed a Whittier Club, its annual meetings to be held on December 17. The ladies of Amesbury presented to the poet on his birthday a richly finished Russia-leather portfolio, containing fourteen beautiful sketches in water-colors of scenes in and about Amesbury, by a talented Amesbury artist. The subjects of the sketches are those scenes which he has immortalized in his poems, and include his home, birthplace, the old school-house, old Quaker Meeting-House, Rivermouth Rocks, etc. The portfolio was presented to him at Oak Knoll, accompanied by a basket of exquisite flowers. Since taking up his residence in Danvers, the poet has published "The Vision of Echard, and Other Poems,"--including the beautiful ballad, "The Witch of Wenham,"--and "The King's Missive, and Other Poems." CHAPTER VIII. PERSONAL. As a boy, Whittier grew up slender, delicate, and shy, with dark hair and dark eyes; his nature silent and brooding, gentle, compassionate, religious, and sensitive to the beauty of the external world. He is of the nervous temperament, and his health has never been robust. Indeed, in later life the state of his health has often been precarious, and his plans for work have been at the mercy of his nerves. As a young man, and crowned Laureate of Freedom, Whittier must have presented a striking appearance, with his raven hair, and glittering black eyes flashing with the inspiration of a great cause. Mr. J. Miller McKim, a member with Whittier of the famous Anti-Slavery Convention held in Philadelphia in 1833, thus describes the poet:-- "He wore a dark frock-coat with standing collar, which, with his thin hair, dark and sometimes flashing eyes, and black whiskers,--not large, but noticeable in those unhirsute days,--gave him, to my then unpractised eye, quite as much of a military as a Quaker aspect. His broad, square forehead and well-cut features, aided by his incipient reputation as a poet, made him quite a noticeable feature in the convention." Frederika Bremer, in her "Sketches of American Homes," gives an outline portrait of Whittier as he appeared when forty years of age:-- "He has a good exterior, a figure slender and tall, a beautiful head with refined features, black eyes full of fire, dark complexion, a fine smile, and lively but very nervous manner. Both soul and spirit have overstrained the nervous cords and wasted the body. He belongs to those natures who would advance with firmness and joy to martyrdom in a good cause, and yet who are never comfortable in society, and who look as if they would run out of the door every moment. He lives with his mother and sister in a country-house to which I have promised to go. I feel that I should enjoy myself with Whittier, and could make him feel at ease with me. I know from my own experience what this nervous bashfulness, caused by the over-exertion of the brain, requires, and how persons who suffer therefrom ought to be met and treated." * * * * * George W. Bungay, in his "Crayon Sketches" of distinguished Americans, published in 1852, gives the following picture of Whittier: "His temperament is nervous-bilious; [he] is tall, slender and straight as an Indian; has a superb head; his brow looks like a white cloud under his raven hair; eyes large, black as sloes, and glowing with expression,-- ... those star-like eyes dashing under such a magnificent forehead." * * * * * A writer in the _Democratic Review_ for August, 1845, speaks of "the fine intellectual beauty of his expression, the blending brightness and softness of the clear dark eye, the union of manly firmness and courage with womanly sweetness and tenderness alike in countenance and character." * * * * * Mr. David A. Wasson says that Whittier is of the Saracenic or Hebrew prophet type: "The high cranium, so lofty, especially in the dome,--the slight and symmetrical backward slope of the _whole_ head,--the powerful level brows, and beneath these the dark, deep eyes, so full of shadowed fire,--the Arabian complexion,--the sharp-cut, intense lines of the face,--the light, tall, erect stature,--the quick, axial poise of the movement,"--all these traits reveal the fiery Semitic prophet. * * * * * The long backward and upward slope of the head, alluded to by Mr. Wasson, is very striking. It is the head of Walter Scott or of Emerson. Whittier is now an old man, somewhat hard of hearing, and with the fixed sadness of time upon his pleasant face. But ever and anon, as you converse with him, his countenance is irradiated by a sudden smile, sweet and strange and full of benignity,--like a waft of perfume from a bed of white violets, or a glint of rich sunlight on an April day. His is one of those Emersonian natures that everybody loves at first sight. The very mole under the right eye seems somehow the birth-mark or sign-manual of kindliness. The quaint grammatical solecisms of the Quaker and the New England farmer--the "thee's" and the omission of the _g_'s from present participles and other words ending in "ing"--give to the poet's conversation a certain slight piquancy and picturesqueness.[17] About half-past nine every morning, when at Amesbury, Mr. Whittier walks down for the mail and the news, and perhaps has a chat with some neighbor on the street, or with the country editor who is setting up in type his own editorials while he grimly rolls his quid of tobacco in his cheek. In the spring and early summer the poet's dress will be after this fashion: black coat and vest, gray pantaloons, cinnamon-colored overcoat, drab tile hat, and perhaps a small gray tippet around his neck. As he walks, he salutes those whom he meets with a little jerky bow. A forty years' residence in Amesbury has made him acquainted with almost everybody, and he might, therefore, very properly be somewhat economical of exertion in his salutations. But his abrupt bow is really the expression of that unbending rectitude and noble pride in individual freedom that made him the reformer and the poet of liberty. As a single instance of Whittier's kind-heartedness, take the following incident, narrated by an anonymous writer in the _Literary World_ for December, 1877: "When I was a young man trying to get an education, I went about the country peddling sewing-silk to help myself through college; and one Saturday night found me at Amesbury, a stranger and without a lodging-place. It happened that the first house at which I called was Whittier's, and he himself came to the door. On hearing my request he said he was very sorry that he could not keep me, but it was quarterly meeting and his house was full. He, however, took the trouble to show me to a neighbor's, where he left me; but that did not seem to wholly suit his idea of hospitality, for in the course of the evening he made his appearance, saying that it had occurred to him that he could sleep on a lounge, and give up his own bed to me,--which it is, perhaps, needless to say, was not allowed. But this was not all. The next morning he came again, with the suggestion that I might perhaps like to attend meeting, inviting me to go with him; and he gave me a seat next to himself. The meeting lasted an hour, during which there was not a word spoken by any one. We all sat in silence that length of time, then all arose, shook hands and dispersed; and I remember it as one of the best meetings I ever attended." [Footnote 17: The writer remembers once speaking with a laborer whom Mr. Whittier had employed. The good fellow could not conceal his admiration for the poet, "Why," he said, "you wouldn't think it, would you, but he talks just like common folks. We was talkin' about the apples one day, and he said, 'Some years they ain't wuth pickin','--just like anybody, you know; ain't stuck up at all, and yet he's a great man, you know. He likes to talk with farmers and common folks; he don't go much with the bigbugs;--one of the nicest men, and liberal with his money, too."] * * * * * Dom Pedro II., Emperor of Brazil, is a reader of Mr. Whittier's poems, and an ardent admirer of his genius. He has exchanged letters with him, both in regard to poetry and to the emancipation of slaves.[18] When his Majesty was in this country, in 1876, he expressed a wish to meet Mr. Whittier, and on Wednesday evening, June 14, a little reception was arranged by Mrs. John T. Sargent at her Chestnut Street home, a few prominent persons having been invited to be present. "When the Emperor arrived, the other guests had already assembled. Sending up his card, his Majesty followed it with the quickness of an enthusiastic school-boy; and his first question, after somewhat hastily paying his greetings, was for Mr. Whittier. The poet stepped forward to meet his imperial admirer, who would fain have caught him in his arms and embraced him warmly, with all the enthusiasm of the Latin race. The diffident Friend seemed somewhat abashed at so demonstrative a greeting, but with a cordial grasp of the hand drew Dom Pedro to the sofa, where the two chatted easily and with the familiarity of old friends. [Footnote 18: The Emperor has translated Whittier's "Cry of a Lost Soul" into Portuguese, and has sent to the poet several specimens of the Amazonian bird whose peculiar note suggested the poem.] "The rest of the company allowed them to enjoy their _tête-à-tête_ for some half hour, when they ventured to interrupt it, and the Emperor joined very heartily in a general conversation." As the Emperor was driving away, he was seen standing erect in his open barouche, and "waving his hat, with a seeming hurrah, at the house which held his venerable friend."[19] [Footnote 19: Mrs. Sargent's "Sketches and Reminiscences of the Radical Club," pp. 301, 302.] * * * * * As a specimen of Mr. Whittier's genial and winning epistolary style, it is permissible to quote here a letter of his, addressed to Mrs. John T. Sargent, and included by her in her sketches of the Radical Club:-- "AMESBURY, Wednesday Eve. "MY DEAR MRS. SARGENT,--Few stronger inducements could be held out to me than that in thy invitation to meet Lucretia Mott and Mary Carpenter. But I do not see that I can possibly go to Boston this week. None the less do I thank thee, my dear friend, in thinking of me in connection with their visit. "My love to Lucretia Mott, and tell her I have never forgotten the kind welcome and generous sympathy she gave the young abolitionist at a time when he found small favor with his 'orthodox' brethren. What a change she and I have lived to see! I hope to meet Miss Carpenter before she leaves us. For this, and for all thy kindness in times past, believe me gratefully thy friend, "JOHN G. WHITTIER." The modesty and shyness of the poet have already been more than once alluded to. They form his most distinctive personal or constitutional peculiarity. It is unnecessary to quote from his writings to illustrate what is patent to everybody who reads his books, or knows anything about him. The poet's personal friends know well that he has a good deal of genial, mellow humorousness in his nature. To get an idea of it, read his charming prose sketches of home and rural life, and such poems as the whimsical, enigmatical "Demon of the Study," as well as "The Pumpkin," "To My Old Schoolmaster," and the "Double-Headed Snake of Newbury." These poems almost equal Holmes's for rich and _riant_ humor. It is not so well known as it ought to be that the author of "Snow-Bound" has as deep a love of children as had Longfellow. Before the Bearcamp House was burned to the ground in 1880, Mr. Whittier used sometimes to come up from Amesbury with a whole bevy of little misses about him, and at the hotel the wee folk hailed him as one of those dear old fellows whom they always love at sight. It is said that Edward Lear--the friend of Tennyson, and author of "Nonsense Verses" for children--used to make a hobby-horse of himself in the castles of Europe, and treat his little friends to a gallop over the carpet on his back. If Mr. Whittier never got quite so far as this in juvenile equestrianism, he has at least equally endeared himself to the children who have had the good fortune to look into his loving eyes and enjoy the sunshine of his smile. When sitting by the fireside, or stretched at ease on the fragrant hay in the barn or field, or walking among the hills, nothing pleases him better than to have an audience of young folks eagerly listening to one of his stories. If they are engaged in a game of archery, he will take a hand in the sport, and no one is better pleased than he to hit the white. His unfailing kindness in answering the many letters addressed to him by young literary aspirants, or by others who desire his advice and help, is something admirable: no one knows how to win hearts better than he. * * * * * To these notes of personal traits it only remains to add a list of the offices of dignity and honor which have been held by Mr. Whittier. Besides his various editorial, secretarial, and legislative positions, he served as Overseer of Harvard College from 1858 to 1863. He was a member of the Electoral College in 1860 and in 1864. The degree of Master of Arts was bestowed upon him by Harvard College in 1860, and the same degree by Haverford College in the same year. He was elected a resident member of the American Philosophical Society in 1864, but never accepted the honor, notwithstanding the fact that his name appeared for two or three years on the Society's roll. In 1871 he was made a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. PART II. ANALYSIS OF HIS GENIUS AND WRITINGS. CHAPTER I. THE MAN. _"Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted: Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul."_ MY TRIUMPH. To analyze and describe the _poetry_ of Whittier is a comparatively easy task, for it is all essentially lyrical or descriptive, and is resolvable into a few simple elements. His poetry is not profound; but it is sweet and melodious,--now flashing with the fire of freedom and choked with passionate indignation, and now purling and rippling through the tranquil meadows of legend and song. Such a poem as Emerson's "Sphinx," groaning with its weight of mystical meaning, Whittier never wrote, nor could write. Neither is he dramatic, nor skilled in the subtile harmonies of rhythm and metre. As an artist he is easily comprehensible. But to fathom the _man_,--to drop one's plummet into the infinite depths of the human mind, to peer about with one's little candle among the dusty phantoms and spent forces of the past, and through the endlessly crossing and interblending meshes trace confidently up all the greater and the finer hereditary influences that have moulded a human character,--and then discover and weigh the post-natal forces that have acted upon that character through a long and varied life,--this is a very difficult task, and demands in him who would undertake it a union of historic imagination with caution and modesty. * * * * * The moral in Whittier predominates over the æsthetic, the reformer over the artist. "I am a man, and I feel that I am above all else a man." What is the great central element in our poet's character, if it is not that deep, never-smouldering moral fervor, that unquenchable love of freedom, that-- "Hate of tyranny intense, And hearty in its vehemence," which, mixed with the beauty and melody of his soul, gives to his pages a delicate glow as of gold-hot iron; which crowns him the Laureate of Freedom in his day, and imparts to his utterances the manly ring of the prose of Milton and Hugo and the poetry of Byron, Swinburne, and Whitman,--all poets of freedom like himself? [Illustration: Handwriting: John G. Whittier] And what is love of freedom but the mainspring of Democracy? And what is Democracy but the rallying-cry of the age, the one word of the present, the one word of the future, the word of all words, and the white, electric beacon-light of modern life? At the apex of modern Democracy stands Jesus of Nazareth; at its base stand the poets and heroes of freedom of the past hundred years. Christian Democracy has had its revolutions, its religious ferments and revolts, and its emancipations of slaves. Quakerism is one of its outcomes. Democracy produced George Fox; George Fox produced Quakerism; Quakerism produced Whittier; Whittier helped destroy slavery. He could not help doing so, for with slavery both Democracy and Quakerism are incompatible. Whittier fought slavery as a Quaker, he has lived as a Quaker, and written as a Quaker; he has never fully emancipated himself from the shackles of the sect. To understand him, therefore, we must understand his religion. * * * * * The principles of the sect are all summed up in the phrases _Freedom_ and the _Inner Light_. Historically considered, Quakerism is a product of the ferment that followed the civil war in England two centuries ago. Considered abstractly, or as a congeries of principles, it has a sociological and a philosophical root, both of these running back into the great tap-root, love of freedom, whose iron-tough, writhen fibres enwrap the dark foundation rocks of human nature itself. Sociologically speaking, Quakerism is pure democracy, an exaltation of the majesty of the individual and of the mass of the people. It is the pure precipitate of Christianity. It is a protest against the hypocrisy, formalism, tyranny, of priestcraft, king-craft, and aristocracy. Philosophically, its theory of the Inner Light is identical with the doctrine of idealism or innate ideas, held by Descartes, Fichte, Schelling, Cousin. It means individualism, a return to the primal sanities of the soul. "I think, therefore I am." My thinking soul is the ultimate source of ideas and truth. In that serene holy of holies full-grown ideas leap into being,--subjective, _a priori_, needing no sense-perception for their genesis. But Transcendentalism differed from Quakerism in this: the former held that the illumination of the mind was a natural process; but Quakerism maintains that it is a supernatural process, the work of the "Holy Ghost." And herein Quakerism is inferior to Transcendentalism. But it is superior to it in that it does not believe in the infallibility of individual intuitions, but considers the true criterion of truth to be the universal reason, the "consensus of the competent." Yet the great danger that pertains to all moonshiny, or subjective, systems of philosophy is that their individualism will spindle out into wild extravagances of theory, and foolish eccentricities of manner and dress; and we shall find that, practically, Quakerism has as Quixotic a record as Transcendentalism. To say that both systems have performed noble and indispensable service in the development of mind is but to utter a truism. * * * * * We may now consider a little more closely the peculiarities of doctrine and life which characterize the Friends. The doctrine of the Inner Light, or pure spirituality, resulted in such tenets as these: the freedom of conscience; the soul the fountain of all truth, worthlessness of tradition and unsanctified learning; the conscience or voice within the judge of the Bible or Written Word; disbelief in witchcraft, ghosts, and other superstitions; love of friends and enemies, the potency of moral suasion, moral ideas, and as a consequence the wickedness of war, and a belief in human progress as the result of peaceable industry; universal enfranchisement, every man and woman may be enlightened by the Inner Light,--hence equality of privilege, no distinction between clergy or laity or between sex and sex,--the right of woman to develop her entire nature as she sees fit. In the principles which define the attitude of the Quaker toward social conventions, we find a queer jumble of the doctrines of primitive Christianity with the ideas of individual independence innate in the Germanic mind, and especially in the popular mind.[20] The Christian gospel of love forbids the Quakers to countenance war, capital punishment, imprisonment for debt, slavery, suppressment of the right of free speech and the right of petition. Their doctrine of equality in virtue of spiritual illumination forbids them to remove their hats in presence of any human being, even a king; leads them to avoid the use of the plural "you," as savoring of man-worship, and to refuse to employ a hired priesthood. Their doctrine of pure spirituality is inconsistent with sacerdotal rites and mummeries, such as baptism, the eucharist, forms of common prayer, etc. Music, poetry, painting, and dancing also have a worldly savor and tend to distract the mind from its spiritual life. So do rich and gaudy robes: we must therefore have simplicity of dress. Hear William Penn on this subject:[21]-- "I say, if sin brought the first coat, poor Adam's offspring have little reason to be proud or curious in their clothes.... It is all one as if a man who had lost his nose by a scandalous distemper, should take pains to set out a false one, in such shape and splendor as should give the greater occasion for all to gaze upon him; as if he would tell them he had lost his nose, for fear they would think he had not. But would a wise man be in love with a false nose, though ever so rich, and however finely made?" [Footnote 20: The same sterling material that went to the making of the Quaker went also to the making of the Puritan farmer-and-artisan victors of Naseby, and Worcester, and Marston Moor. The same faults characterized each class. In stiff-backed independence and scorn of the gilt-edged poetry of conventional manners, and in the absurd extreme to which they carried that independence and scorn, the Quaker and the Puritan were alike. Only the Quaker out-puritaned the Puritan,--was much more consistent in his fanatical purism, scrawny asceticism, and contempt for distinguished manners and the noble imaginative arts.] [Footnote 21: In his work "No Cross, No Crown."] * * * * * A natural corollary of the Friends' doctrine of inward supernatural illumination is their habit of silent worship, or silent waiting.[22] It is probable that this feature of their religious gatherings has done much to cultivate that peculiar tranquillity of demeanor which distinguishes them.[23] They meet the burdens, bereavements, and disappointments of life with a placid equanimity in strong antithesis to the often passionate grief and rebellion of other classes of religious people. Finally, we may add to the list of their characteristics their great moral sincerity. "With calm resoluteness they tell you your faults face to face, and without exciting your ill-will." [Footnote 22: Their ideas on this subject are very well stated in the following words taken from a Quaker pamphlet by Mary Brook: "Solomon saith, 'The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, are from the Lord.' If the Lord alone can prepare the heart, stir it up, or incline it towards unfeigned holiness, how can any man approach him acceptably, till his heart be prepared by him?--and how can he know this preparation except he wait in silence to feel it?"] [Footnote 23: See Appendix I.] The objections to the Quakerism of our day are that it is retractile, stationary, negative; it is selfish, narrow, ascetic, tame; it has no iron in its blood; it rarely adds anything to the world's thought. The Quakers are a hopelessly antiquated sect, a dying branch almost wholly severed from connection with the living forces of the tree of modern society. There are, it is true, a goodly number of liberal Quakers, who, in discarding the peculiar costume of the time of Charles II., which many of them even yet wear, have also thrown off the intellectual mummy-robes of the sect. Many adopt the tenets of Unitarianism, or make that religious body the stepping-stone to complete emancipation from an obsolete system of thought. But the mass of them are immovable. They have been characterized substantially in the following words by Mr. A. M. Powell, himself a Quaker by birth, and an unwilling witness to the faults of a system of doctrines in which he sees much to admire:-- "In its merely sectarian aspect, Quakerism is as uninteresting, narrow, timid, selfish, and conservative as is mere sectarianism under any other name. The Quakers have little comprehension of the meaning of Quakerism beyond a blind observance of the peculiarities of dress and speech and the formality of the Meeting. They cling to the now meaningless protests of the past. They are inaccessible to new conceptions of truth. They have dishonored the important fundamental principle [of the Inner Light] and tarnished the Society's good name by subordinating it to narrow views of religion, to commercial selfishness, and to the prevalent palsying conservatism of the outside world."[24] [Footnote 24: Mrs. John T. Sargent's "Sketches and Reminiscences of the Radical Club."] * * * * * In all that is said in these pages by way of criticism of the Quakers, reference is had solely to their doctrines as a system of thought. Of their sweet and beautiful _lives_ it is hardly necessary to speak at length. Volumes might be filled with instances of their large-hearted benevolence and personal self-sacrifice in care for others. The loveliness of their lives is like a beautiful perfume in the society in which they move. As you see the Quaker women of Philadelphia, with their pure, tranquil faces, and plain, immaculate dress, moving about among the greedy and vile-mannered non-Quaker _canaille_ of that democratic city, they seem like Christian and Faithful amid the crowds of Vanity Fair. Their faces are like a benediction, and you thank heaven for them. The liberal Friends in America have many great and noble names on their roll of honor. And surely a sect that has produced such characters as Lucretia Mott, John Bright, and John G. Whittier, must win our intellectual respect. But it is only because these persons, like Milton, were in most respects above their sect that we admire them. There are proofs manifold, however, throughout the prose and poetry of Whittier that he has nominally remained within the pale of Quakerism all his days. Doubtless such a course was essential to the very existence in him of poetic inspiration. His genius is wholly lyrical. A song or lyric is the outgushing of pure emotion. Especially in the case of the religious and ethical lyrist is faith life, and doubt death. Doubt, in Whittier's case, would have meant the cessation of his songs. To break away entirely from the faith of his fathers would have chilled his inspiration. He has not, it is true, escaped the conflict with doubt. As we shall see, no man has had a severer struggle to reconcile his faith with the terror and mystery of life. But, although his religious views have been liberalized by science, yet he has never ceased to retain a hearty sympathy with, and belief in, the Quaker principles of the Inner Light, silent waiting, etc. That he has remained within the pale of Quakerism has been an injury to him as well as a help. It makes him obtrude his sectarianism too frequently, especially in his prose writings. By the very nature of the creed, he must either be blind to its faults, or constantly put on the defensive against the least assault, from whatever quarter it may come. When he dons the garb of the sectary, he naturally becomes weakened, and loses his chief charm. We see then that he is a man hampered by a creed which forbids a catholic sympathy with human nature. He is shut up in the narrow field of sectarian morals and religion. He cannot, for example, enter, by historical imagination, into poetical sympathy with the gorgeous ritual and dreamy beauty of a European cathedral service. And yet so pure, gentle, and sweet is his nature that it is hard to censure him for this peculiarity. It is regret rather than censure that we feel, regret that he has been so bound by circumstances that prevented his breaking wholly away from hampering limitations, and to be always, what he so often is, the strong and sweet-voiced spokesman of the heart of humanity. Let us hear his gentle confessions of faith. In the autobiographical poem, "My Namesake," we read:-- "He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish days, And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, He loved the good old ways. The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech, The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach." In "The Meeting" he has given us an "Apologia pro Vita Sua,"--a defence of his religious habits. He says he is accustomed to meet with the Friends twice a week in the little "Meeting" at Amesbury, chiefly for two reasons: first, because in the silent, unadorned house, with "pine-laid floor," his religious communings are not distracted by outward things as they would be if he worshipped always amid the solitudes of nature; and, secondly, he finds in "The Meeting" a heart-solace in the memories of dear ones passed away, who once sat by his side there. He says, in reference to the Quaker service:-- "I ask no organ's soulless breath To drone the themes of life and death, No altar candle-lit by day, No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play, No cool philosophy to teach Its bland audacities of speech, * * * * * No pulpit hammered by the fist Of loud-asserting dogmatist." In "Memories" he says:-- "Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 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." There are two epochs in the religious or philosophical development of Whittier. The first--that of simple piety unclouded by doubt, the epoch of unhesitating acceptance of the popular mythology--seems to have lasted until about 1850, or the period of early Darwinism and Spencerianism,--the most momentous epoch in the religious history of the world. This pivotal point is very well marked by the publication, in 1853, of "The Chapel of the Hermits" and "Questions of Life." It is now that harrowing doubt begins, and restless striving to retain the faith amid new conditions and a vastly widened mental horizon. Transcendentalism, too, had just passed the noon meridian of its splendor. Emerson had written many of his exquisite philosophical poems, and Parker had blown his clear bugle-call to a higher religious life. It is evident that Whittier was--as, indeed, he could not help being--profoundly moved by the new spirit of the times. With Transcendentalism he must have had large sympathy, owing to the similarity of its principles to those of Quakerism. And that he was profoundly agitated by the revelations of science his poetry shows. In "My Soul and I" (a poem remarkable for its searching subjective analysis), and in the poem "Follen," he had given expression to religious doubt, over which, as always in his case, faith was triumphant. But it is in "The Chapel of the Hermits" and succeeding poems that he first gave free and full utterance to the doubt and struggle of soul that was not his alone, but which was felt by all around him. In respect of doubt "My Soul and I" and "Questions of Life" resemble "Faust," as well as Tennyson's "Two Voices" and the "In Memoriam." "Life's mystery wrapped him like a cloud; He heard far voices mock his own, The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, Long roll of waves unknown. The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age. Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell." _My Namesake_ The "Questions of Life" are such as these:-- "I am: but little more I know! Whence came I? Whither do I go? A centred self, which feels and is; A cry between the silences." * * * * * "This conscious life,--is it the same Which thrills the universal frame?" * * * * * "Do bird and blossom feel, like me, Life's many-folded mystery,-- The wonder which it is _To Be_? Or stand I severed and distinct, From Nature's chain of life unlinked?" Such questions as these he confesses himself unable to answer. He shrinks back terrified from the task. He will not dare to trifle with their bitter logic. He will take refuge in faith; he will trust the Unseen; let us cease foolish questioning, and live wisely and well our present lives. He comes out of the struggle purified and chastened, still holding by his faith in God and virtue. A good deal of the old Quakerism is gone,--the belief in hell, in the Messianic and atonement machinery, in local and special avatars, etc. Again and again, in his later poems, he asserts the humanity of Christ and the co-equal divinity of all men: see "Miriam," for example. His opinion about hell he embodies in the sweet little poem, "The Minister's Daughter," published in "The King's Missive." In short, his religion is a simple and trustful theism. But there is no evidence that he has ever incorporated into his mind the principles of the development-science,--the evolution of man, the correlation of forces, the development of the universe through its own inner divine potency; or, in fine, any of the unteleological, unanthropomorphic explanations of things which are necessitated by science, and admitted by advanced thinkers, both in and out of the Churches. As witnesses to his trustful attitude, we may select such a cluster of stanzas as this:-- "Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man; That all of good the past hath had Remains to make our own time glad,-- Our common daily life divine, And every land a Palestine. * * * * * Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prelude finds its way; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, A light is breaking calm and clear." _Chapel of the Hermits_ "Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed stake my spirit clings; I know that God is good! * * * * * "I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care." _The Eternal Goodness._ "When on my day of life the night is falling, And in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown, Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant, Leave not its tenant when its walls decay; O love divine, O Helper ever present, Be Thou my strength and stay!" _At Last._ "Dear Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways! Reclothe us in our rightful mind, In purer lives thy service find, In deeper reverence, praise." _The Brewing of Soma._ But Whittier is as remarkable for his faith in man as for his faith in God. He is in the highest degree patriotic, American. He loves America because it is the land of freedom. It has been charged against him that he is no true American poet, but a Quaker poet. The American, it is said, is eager, aggressive, high-spirited, combative; the Quaker, subdued and phlegmatic. The American is loud and boastful and daring and reckless; the Quaker, cautious, timid, secretive, and frugal. This is undoubtedly true of the classes as types, but it is far from being true of Whittier personally. He has blood militant in him. He comes of Puritan as well as Quaker stock. The Greenleafs and the Batchelders were not Quakers. The reader will perhaps remember the Lieutenant Greenleaf, already mentioned, who fought through the entire Civil War in England.[25] But his writings alone furnish ample proof of his martial spirit. The man and the Quaker struggle within him for the mastery; and the man is, on the whole, triumphant. Whenever his Quakerism permits, he stands out a normal man and a genuine American. As Lowell says:-- "There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, And reveals the live Man still supreme and erect Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect." [Footnote 25: Hear Whittier himself on the subject:-- "Without intending any disparagement of my peaceable ancestry for many generations, I have still strong suspicions that somewhat of the old Norman blood, something of the grim Berserker spirit, has been bequeathed to me. How else can I account for the intense childish eagerness with which I listened to the stories of old campaigners who sometimes fought their battles over again in my hearing? Why did I, in my young fancy, go up with Jonathan, the son of Saul, to smite the garrisoned Philistines of Michmash, or with the fierce son of Nun against the cities of Canaan? Why was Mr. Greatheart, in Pilgrim's Progress, my favorite character? What gave such fascination to the grand Homeric encounter between Christian and Apollyon in the valley? Why did I follow Ossian over Morven's battle-fields, exulting in the vulture-screams of the blind scald over his fallen enemies? Still, later, why did the newspapers furnish me with subjects for hero-worship in the half-demented Sir Gregor McGregor, and Ypsilanti at the head of his knavish Greeks? I can account for it only on the supposition that the mischief was inherited,--an heirloom from the old sea-kings of the ninth century."--_Prose Works, II._, 390, 391.] If anybody will take the trouble to glance over the complete works of Whittier, he or she will find that one of the predominant characteristics of his writings is their indigenous quality, their national spirit. Indeed, this is almost too notorious to need mention. He, if any one, merits the proud title of "A Representative American Poet." His whole soul is on fire with love of country. As in the case of Whitman, his country is his bride, and upon it he has showered all the affectional wealth of his nature. The Quaker may be too obtrusive in his prose writings, but it is not so in the greater and better portion of his poetry. When the rush and glow of genuine poetical inspiration seize him, he invariably rises in spirit far above the weltering and eddying dust-clouds of faction and sect into the serene atmosphere of genuine patriotism. Read his "Last Walk in Autumn," where he says:-- "Home of my heart! to me more fair Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls, The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls!" Read his "Eve of Election":-- "Not lightly fall Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float; The crowning fact, The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote!" Or take "After Election," a poem that cannot be read without a thrill of the nerves and a leaping of the heart. You have concentrated in that wild lyric burst the purest essence of democratic patriotism,--the trembling anxiety and yearning of a mother-heart. It is a poem celebrating a victory of peace with all the fiery energy of a war-ode (a significant fact that the advocates of gory war, as a source of poetic inspiration, would do well to ponder):-- "The day's sharp strife is ended now, Our work is done, God knoweth how! As on the thronged, unrestful town The patience of the moon looks down, I wait to hear, beside the wire, The voices of its tongues of fire. Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first: Be strong, my heart, to know the worst! Hark!--there the Alleghanies spoke; That sound from lake and prairie broke, That sunset gun of triumph rent The silence of a continent! That signal from Nebraska sprung, This, from Nevada's mountain tongue! Is that thy answer, strong and free, O loyal heart of Tennessee? What strange, glad voice is that which calls From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls? From Mississippi's fountain-head A sound as of the bison's tread! There rustled freedom's Charter Oak! In that wild burst the Ozarks spoke! Cheer answers cheer from rise to set Of sun. We have a country yet!" To sum up now our analysis of the poet's character. We have seen that the central trait of his mind is love of freedom. (Even his religion, which is so profound an element in his nature, and so all-pervasive in his writings, will be found, on a deep analysis, to be a yearning for freedom from the trappings of sense and time, in order to attain to a spiritual union with the Infinite.) This love of freedom, this hatred of oppression, intensified by persecution, both ancestral and personal, stimulated by contact with Puritan democracy, as well as by the New England Transcendental movement, and flowering out luxuriantly in the long struggle against slavery,--this noble sentiment, and that long self-sacrificing personal warfare in behalf of the oppressed, form the true glory of Whittier's character. Shy, timid, almost an invalid, having a nervous horror of mobs and personal indignities, he yet forgot himself in his love of Man, overcame and underwent,--suffered social martyrdom for a quarter of a century, never flinching, never holding his peace for bread's sake or fame's sake, not stopping to count the cost, taking his life in his hand, and never ceasing to express his high-born soul in burning invective and scathing satire against the oppressor, or in words of lofty hope and cheer for the suffering idealist and lover of humanity, whoever and wherever he was. Whittier is a hero as well as a poet. He will be known to posterity by a few exquisite poems, but chiefly by his moral heroism and patriotism. As a thinker and a poet he belongs, with Bryant and Longfellow, to the pre-scientific age. The poetry of the future (of the new era of self-consciousness) will necessarily differ widely from that of the first half of this century. It will not be distinctively the poetry of Wordsworth, or Cowper, or Byron, or Longfellow, or Whittier. When the present materialistic and realistic temper of mind disappears from literature, and really noble ideal poetry returns, it will be vast in its scope and range, robust in its philosophy, unfettered by petty rhymes and classicisms, but powerfully rhythmic and harmonious. The writings of Shakspere, Goethe, Jean Paul, Hugo, Tennyson, Whitman, and Emerson are the magnificent proem to it. It will be built upon a scientific and religious cosmism. It will not discuss Apollo and Luna and Neptune, and the nymphs and muses, but will draw its imagery from the heaven-staining red-flames of the sun, the gulfs of space, the miracles of organic and inorganic life, and human society. It will draw its inspiration not more from the storied past than from the storied future foreseen by its prophetic eye. It will idealize human life and deify nature. It will fall in the era of imagination. (After it will come another age of criticism.) It will fall in the age of splendid democracies. And in that age men will look back with veneration, not so much, perhaps, to the scholar-poets as to the hero-poets, like Whittier, who put faith in the rights of man and woman, who did believe in divine democracy, and were not ashamed of it, but nursed it patiently through its puling infancy, well assured of its undying grandeur when it should come to man's estate. We subjoin fittingly to this chapter a characteristic letter of Mr. Whittier's, in which he speaks lovingly of Robert Burns, that other poet of freedom and independence of thought for all men. At the Burns festival in Washington, 1869, the following letter from John G. Whittier was read: "AMESBURY, 1st month, 18th day, 1869. "DEAR FRIEND,--I thank the club represented by thee for remembering me on the occasion of its annual festival. Though I have never been able to trace my ancestry to the Land o' Cakes, I have--and I know it is saying a great deal--a Scotchman's love for the poet whose fame deepens and broadens with years. The world has never known a truer singer. We may criticise his rustic verse and compare his brief and simple lyrics with the works of men of longer scrolls and loftier lyres; but after rendering to Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning the homage which the intellect owes to genius, we turn to Burns, if not with awe and reverence, [yet] with a feeling of personal interest and affection. We admire others; we love him. As the day of his birth comes round, I take down his well-worn volume in grateful commemoration, and feel that I am communing with one whom living I could have loved as much for his true manhood and native nobility of soul as for those wonderful songs of his which shall sing themselves forever. "They know little of Burns who regard him as an aimless versifier--'the idle singer of an idle lay.' Pharisees in the Church, and oppressors in the State, knew better than this. They felt those immortal sarcasms which did not die with the utterer, but lived on to work out the divine commission of Providence. In the shout of enfranchised millions, as they lift the untitled Quaker of Rochdale into the British Cabinet, I seem to hear the voice of the Ayrshire poet:-- "'For a' that and a' that, It's comin' yet for a' that; That man to man the world o'er Shall brothers be for a' that.' "With hearty sympathy and kind greetings for the Burns Club of Washington, "I am, very truly, thy friend, "JOHN G. WHITTIER." CHAPTER II. THE ARTIST. The title of this chapter is almost a misnomer; for the style, or technique, of the poet whose works we are considering is so very simple and unoriginal that he can hardly be said to have a distinctive style of his own,--unless a few persistent mannerisms establish a claim to it. His diction, however, is always pictorial, and glows with an intense Oriental fervor. Fused in this interior vital heat, his thoughts do not sink, like powerful Jinn, into the deep silence-sphere of the mind, to fetch thence sparkling treasures, rich and strange: rather, they run to and fro with lightning swiftness amid the million surface-pictures of the intellect; rearranging, recombining, and creatively blending its images, and finally pouring them out along the page to charm our fancy and feeling with old thoughts and scenes painted in fresh colors and from new points of view. There is more of fancy than of creative imagination in Whittier. * * * * * The artistic quality, or tone, of his mind is a fusion of that of Wordsworth and that of Byron. In his best ballads and other lyrics you have the moral sincerity of Wordsworth and the sweet Wordsworthian simplicity (with a difference); and in his reform poems you have the Byronic indignation, and scorn of Philistinism and its tyrannies. As a religious poet, he reveals the quiet piety and devoutness of Cowper; and his rural and folk poems show that he is a debtor to Burns. * * * * * He has been a diligent reader,--"a close-browed miser of the scholar's gains,"--and his writings are full of bookish allusions. But, if the truth must be told, his doctor's gown does not often sit gracefully upon his shoulders. His readers soon learn to know that his strength lies in his moral nature, and in his power to tell a story melodiously, simply, and sweetly. Hence it is, doubtless, that they care little for his literary allusions,--think, perhaps, that they are rather awkwardly dragged in by the ears, and at any rate hasten by them impatiently that they may inhale anew the violet-freshness of the poet's own soul. What has just been said about bookish allusions does not apply to the beautiful historical ballads produced by Whittier in the mellow maturity of his powers. These fresh improvisations are as perfect works of art as the finest Greek marbles. In them Whittier at length succeeds in freeing himself completely from the shackles of didacticism. Such ballads as "The Witch's Daughter" and "Telling the Bees" are as absolutely faultless productions as Wordsworth's "We are Seven" and his "Lucy Gray," or as Uhland's "Des Sänger's Fluch," or William Blake's "Mary." There is in them the confident and unconscious ease that marks the work of the highest genius. A shower of lucid water-drops falls in no truer obedience to the law of perfect sphericity than flowed from the pen of the poet these delicate creations in obedience to the law of perfect spontaneity. Almost all of Whittier's lyrics have evidently been rapidly written, poured forth in the first glow of feeling, and not carefully amended and polished as were Longfellow's works. And herein he is at fault, as was Byron. But the delicate health of Whittier, and his toilsome early days, form an excuse for his deficiency in this respect. His later creations, the product of his leisure years, are full of pure and flawless music. They have no harmony or rhythmic volume of sound, as in Tennyson, Swinburne, Milton, and Shakspere; but they set themselves to simple melodious airs spontaneously. As you read them, your feet begin to tap time,--only the music is that of a good rural choir rather than that of an orchestra. * * * * * The thought of each poem is generally conveyed to the reader's understanding with the utmost lucidity. There is no mysticism, no obscurity. The story or thought unfolds itself naturally, and without fatigue to our minds. A great many poems are indeed spun out at too great length; but the central idea to be conveyed is rarely lost sight of. * * * * * To the list of his virtues as an artist, it remains to add his frequent surprising strength. This is naturally most marked in the anti-slavery poems. When he wrote these, he was in the flush of manhood, his soul at a white heat of moral indignation. He is occasionally nerved to almost super-human effort: it is the battle-axe of Richard thundering at the gates of Front de Boeuf. For nervous energy, there is nothing in the Hebrew prophets finer than such passages as these:-- "Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel." _To Ronge._ "Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, 'Lord!' I cried in sudden ire, 'From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire!'" _What the Voice Said._ "Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play No trick of priestcraft here! Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay A hand on Elliott's bier? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, Beneath his feet he trod: He knew the locust-swarm that cursed The harvest-fields of God. "On these pale lips, the smothered thought Which England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught, As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor,--a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung; God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,-- He gave them all a tongue!" _Elliott._ "And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God The blasphemy of wrong." _The Rendition._ "All grim and soiled, and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path." _The Reformer._ As Whittier has grown older, and the battles of his life have become (as he expressed it to the writer) like "a remembered dream," his genius has grown mellow and full of graciousness. His art culminated in "Home Ballads," "Snow-Bound," and "The Tent on the Beach." He has kept longer than most poets the lyric glow; only in his later poems it is "emotion remembered in tranquillity." If asked to name the finest poems of Whittier, would not the following instinctively recur to the mind: "Snow-Bound," "Maud Muller," "Barbara Frietchie," "The Witch's Daughter," "Telling the Bees," "Skipper Ireson's Ride," "King Volmer and Elsie," and "The Tent on the Beach"? To these one would like to add several exquisite hymns and short secular lyrics. But the poems mentioned would probably be regarded by most critics as Whittier's finest works of art. They merit this distinction certainly; and they furnish remarkable instances for those who desire to study the poet's greater versatility in the ballad line, as they are all good representatives of his wonderfully long range. * * * * * The foregoing remark must be our cue for beginning to pass in review the artistic deficiencies of Whittier. He has three crazes that have nearly ruined the mass of his poetry. They are the reform craze, the religious craze, and the rhyme craze. Of course, as a man, he could not have a superfluity of the first of these; but, as a poet, they have been a great injury to him. We need not deny that he has taken the manlier course in subordinating the artist to the reformer and preacher; but in estimating his poetic merits we ought to regard his work from an absolute point of view. Let us not be misunderstood. It is gladly and freely conceded that the theory that great poetry is not necessarily moral, and that the aim of poetry is only to please the senses, is a petty and shallow one, and that the true function of the great poet is also to bear witness to the ideal and noble, to the moral and religious. Let us heartily agree with Principal Shairp when he says that the true end of the poet "is to awaken men to the divine side of things; to bear witness to the beauty that clothes the outer world, the nobility that lies hid, often obscured, in human souls; to call forth sympathy for neglected truths, for noble but oppressed persons, for downtrodden causes, and to make men feel that through all outward beauty and all pure inward affection God himself is addressing them." We may admit all this, and yet find fault with the moralizations and homilies of Whittier. The poetry of Dante and Milton is full of ethical passion, and occasionally a little sermon is wedged in; yet they do not treat us to endless broadsides of preaching, as Whittier does in his earlier poems, and in some of his later ones. But there is this distinction: the moral in Dante and Milton and Shakspere and Emerson is so garnitured with beauty that while our souls are ennobled our imaginations are gratified. But in many of Whittier's poems we have the bare skeleton of the moral, without the rounded contour and delicate tints of the living body of beauty. His reform poems have been called stump-speeches in verse. His anti-slavery poems are, with a few exceptions, devoid of beauty. They should have been written in the manner he himself commends in a review of Longfellow's "Evangeline": he should have depicted the truth strongly and attractively, and left to the reader the censure and the indignation. Mr. Whittier seems to know his peculiar limitations as well as his critics. He speaks of himself as one-- "Whose rhyme Beat often Labor's hurried time, Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife," and he has once or twice expressed himself in prose in a way that seems to show that he recognizes the artistic mistake in the construction of his earlier poems. The omission of the moral _envoi_ from so many of his maturer creations strengthens one in this surmise. In 1867 Whittier published the following letter in the New York _Nation_: "TO THE EDITOR OF THE NATION: "I am very well aware that merely personal explanations are not likely to be as interesting to the public as to the parties concerned; but I am induced to notice what is either a misconception on thy part, or, as is most probable, a failure on my own to make myself clearly understood. In the review of 'The Tent on the Beach' in thy paper of last week, I confess I was not a little surprised to find myself represented as regretting my life-long and active participation in the great conflict which has ended in the emancipation of the slave, and that I had not devoted myself to merely literary pursuits. In the half-playful lines upon which this statement is founded, if I did not feel at liberty to boast of my anti-slavery labors and magnify my editorial profession, I certainly did not mean to underrate them, or express the shadow of a regret that they had occupied so large a share of my time and thought. The simple fact is that I cannot be sufficiently thankful to the Divine Providence that so early called my attention to the great interests of humanity, saving me from the poor ambitions and miserable jealousies of a selfish pursuit of literary reputation. Up to a comparatively recent period my writings have been simply episodical, something apart from the real object and aim of my life; and whatever of favor they have found with the public has come to me as a grateful surprise rather than as an expected reward. As I have never staked all upon the chances of authorship, I have been spared the pain of disappointment and the temptation to envy those who, as men of letters, deservedly occupy a higher place in the popular estimation than I have ever aspired to. "Truly thy friend, "John G. Whittier. "AMESBURY, 9th, 3d mo., 1867." One is reminded by this letter that Wordsworth once said to Dr. Orville Dewey, of Boston, that, "although he was known to the world only as a poet, he had given twelve hours' thought to the condition and prospects of society for one to poetry." In a letter read at the third decade meeting of the American Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia, Mr. Whittier said: "I am not insensible to literary reputation; I love, perhaps too well, the praise and good-will of my fellow-men; but I set a higher value on my name as appended to the Anti-Slavery Declaration of 1833 than on the title-page of any book." In his earlier years our poet was wholly ignorant of the fact that an artist should love beauty for its own sake. The simple-hearted Quaker and Puritan farmer-youth thought it almost a sin to spend his time in the cultivation of the beautiful. In his dedication of the "Supernaturalism of New England" to his sister, he says:-- "And knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turning, To con, at times, an idle rhyme, To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noon-day chime, For the sweet bells of Morning!" "Poor fellow!" we say at first. And yet there is something refreshing and noble in such a spirit. It is with difficulty that the Germanic mind can bring itself to the study of the beautiful as something of co-equal worth with the moral. Let us leave that, says the Teuton, to the nation whose word for love of art is "virtue." How Whittier would have abhorred in his youth and early manhood the following sentiment by one of the Latin race:-- "The arts require idle, delicate minds, not stoics, especially not Puritans, easily shocked by dissonance, inclined to sensuous pleasure, employing their long periods of leisure, their free reveries, in harmoniously arranging, and with no other object but enjoyment, forms, colors, and sounds." (Taine's _English Literature_, II. 332.) Or the following from the same work:-- "The Puritan destroys the artist, stiffens the man, fetters the writer, and leaves of artist, man, writer, only a sort of abstract being, the slave of a watchword. If a Milton springs up among them, it is because, by his wide curiosity, his travels, his comprehensive education, and by his independence of spirit, loftily adhered to even against the sectarians, Milton passes beyond sectarianism." (I. 397, 398.) Here is another passage from Whittier on this same subject. It is almost a pity to give it, since the author has apparently repudiated the sentiment by omitting the lines from his complete works. In the introduction to "Supernaturalism of New England" he says:-- "If in some few instances, like Burns in view of his national thistle, I have-- 'Turned my weeding-hook aside, And spared the symbol dear,' I have been influenced by the comparatively innocent nature and simple poetic beauty of the traditions in question; yet not even for the sake of poetry and romance would I confirm in any mind a pernicious credulity, or seek to absolve myself from that stern duty which the true man owes to his generation, to expose error whenever and wherever he finds it." One more instance. In one of his sketches he is describing an old custom called "Pope Night," which has been kept up in the Merrimack Valley in unbroken sequence from the time of the Guy Fawkes plot. The plot is commemorated by bonfires and effigies of the Pope and others, and Whittier quotes these lines of a song which is sung on the occasion:-- "Look here! from Rome The Pope has come, That fiery serpent dire; Here's the Pope that we have got, The old promoter of the plot; We'll stick a pitchfork in his back, And throw him in the fire." Mr. Whittier was so broad-minded in regard to all matters pertaining to true growth, and withal so conscientious a student of the best versification, that is, the most natural, that we soon find him striving, at least, to free himself from all these minor faults. Consequently his mannerisms more and more drop away. He is a born preacher. And presently we see in him a decided advance toward the delineation of what is simply true and beautiful, without the appreciable pause by the way, "to point a moral and adorn a tale." For a preacher is not a poet; and true poetic fire must be dimmed at once, and the divine afflatus be a lack-lustre thing, when appeals by pious exhortation are brought in to fill out rhyme and metre. Many of Whittier's purely religious poems are the most exquisite and beautiful ever written. The tender feeling, the warm-hearted trustfulness, and the reverent touch of his hymns speak directly to our hearts. The prayer-hymn at the close of "The Brewing of Soma" ("Dear Lord and Father of mankind," etc.), and such poems as "At Last" and "The Wish of To-day," are unsurpassed in sacred song. Some one has said that in Whittier's books we rarely meet with ideas expressed in such perfection and idiosyncrasy of manner that ever afterward the same ideas must recur to our minds in the words of this author and no other; that is to say, there are few dicta, few portable and universally-quoted passages in his writings. But exception must be made in favor of his best hymns. Their stanzas haunt the mind with their beauty, and you are obliged to learn them by heart before you can have peace. These purely religious productions show Whittier's work at high-water mark, and as long as the English language is spoken, they will be employed by those who require a vehicle for thought, by which the true worship may be served. There is only one poet in the world whose works will not suffer by reading his entire poetical productions in consecutive perusal, and that is Shakspere. Poetry should be read solely for the refreshment and elevation of the mind, and only when one's mood requires it. Unquestionably, if so read, all mannerisms that Mr. Whittier might have been accused of at an early stage in his authorship would not appear so conspicuous. One of the mannerisms of our poet is his inclination toward the four-foot line with consecutive or alternate rhymes. Almost all of Burns's poetry is written as just described; and it is evident Mr. Whittier's ear was naturally inclined to it, from his early love for Burns, his patron saint, as it were, in those then untrodden fields. An ear educated by Tennyson, and the other Victorian poets, might be unable to grasp even the beauty of thought unless conveyed by their especial methods. One is pleased when rhymes are so masked, so subtly intertwined, and parted by intervening lines, that each shall seem like a delicate echo of that which preceded it,--the assonance just remembered, and no more. * * * * * A minor mannerism of Whittier is his frequent use of the present participle in ing, with the verb _to be_; "is flowing," "is shining," etc. The jingle of the _ing_ evidently caught the poet's rhyme-loving ear, and sometimes it really has a very pretty effect. Certain it is he has used it with great skill, and given his readers insight into another of his versatile gifts. As to the originality of our poet there is this to be said: He has a distinctively national spirit or vision; he is democratic in his feelings, and treats of indigenous subjects. His vehicle, his poetic forms and handling, he has treated as minor subjects for thought. He is democratic, not so powerfully and broadly as Whitman, but more unaffectedly and sincerely. He has not the magnificent prophetic vision, or Vorstellungskraft, of Whitman, any more than he has the crushing mastodon-steps of Whitman's ponderous rhythm. But he has thrown himself with trembling ardor and patriotism, into the life of his country. It is this fresh, New-World spirit that entitles him to be called original: he is non-European. He has not travelled much, nor mingled in the seething currents of Western and Southern life; but his strong sympathy has gone forth over the entire land. He also reflects faithfully the quiet scenes of his own Merrimack Valley. From his descriptions of these scenes we receive the impression of freshness and originality; and we recognize a master hand that can so portray them as to make us see the same places, though only on the printed page. * * * * * One regrets using a critical pen at all in discussing such a writer. It would be ungracious to call to a severe account one who places the most modest estimate upon his own work, and who has distinctly stated that, up to "about the year 1865, his writings were simply episodical, something apart from the real object and aim of [his] life." It is hard to criticise severely one who is unjust to himself through excess of diffident humility. In the exquisite Proem to his complete poems he would fain persuade us that he cannot breathe such notes as those of-- "The old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days, Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew." But not so, O gentle minstrel of Essex! There are poems of thine which thousands prefer to the best of Spenser's or Sidney's, and which will continue to exist as long as beauty is its own excuse for being. Thou too hast been in Paradise, to fetch thence armfuls of dewy roses for our delight; not mounting thither by the "stairway of surprise," but along the common highway of daily duty and noble endeavor, unmindful of the dust and heat and chafing burdens, but singing aloud thy songs of lofty cheer, all magically intertwined with pictures of wayside flowers, and the homely beauty of lowliest things. And thou hast imparted to us the "groping of the keys of the heavenly harmonies," that no one who loves thy songs, ever loses from his life. CHAPTER III. POEMS SERIATIM. Among the three or four critical papers on Whittier that have up to this time been published, there is one that is marked by exceptional vigor; namely, the admirable philosophical analysis by Mr. David A. Wasson, published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for March, 1864. The author gladly acknowledges his indebtedness to this paper for several things,--chiefly for its keen _aperçu_ into the nature of Whittier's genius, and the proper psychological grouping of his poems. Mr. Wasson's classification can hardly be improved upon in its general features. He divides the literary life of the poet into three epochs,--The Struggle for Life, The Culture Epoch, and The Epoch of Poetic Realism; and between each of these he places transitional periods. The lines of his classification, however, are too sharply drawn, and the epochs seem too minutely subdivided. Moreover, the present writer would add an introductory or preparatory period; in other respects it seems to him that the grouping is as correct as such mathematical measurements of a poet's development can be. Suppose we group and name the poet's mental epochs as follows:-- FIRST PERIOD.--INTRODUCTORY. 1830-1833. During this quiet, purely literary epoch, Whittier published "Legends of New England" and "Moll Pitcher," and edited the "Literary Remains of Brainard." SECOND PERIOD.--STORM AND STRESS. 1833-1853. The beginning of this period was marked by the publication of "Justice and Expediency," and during its continuance were written most of the anti-slavery productions, the Indian poems, many legendary lays and prose pieces, religious lyrics, and "Songs of Labor." The latter, being partially free from didacticism, leads naturally up to the third period. THIRD PERIOD.--TRANSITION. 1853-1860 This Mr. Wasson calls the epoch of culture and religious doubt, the central poems of which are "Chapel of the Hermits" and "Questions of Life." We now begin to see a love of art for art's sake, and there are fewer moral stump-speeches. The indignation of the reformer is giving place to the calm repose of the artist. And such ballads as "Mary Garvin" and "Maud Muller" form the introduction to the culminating (or fourth) epoch in the poet's creative life. FOURTH PERIOD.--RELIGIOUS AND ARTISTIC REPOSE. 1860- During this time have been written nearly all the author's great works, namely, his beautiful ballads, as well as "Snow-Bound" and "The Tent on the Beach." The literary style is now mature. The beautiful is sought for its own sake, both in nature and in lowly life. It is a season of trust and _naïve_ simplicity. The works produced during the Introductory period have already been discussed in the biographical portion of this volume. Before passing rapidly in review some of the more important detached poems of the three latter periods (reserving a number of poems for consideration by groups), we must be allowed to offer a few criticisms on the earlier poems in general, meaning by this the ones published previous to the "Songs of Labor" in 1850. These earlier productions are to be commended chiefly for two things: (1) the subjects are drawn from original and native sources, and (2) the slavery poems are full of moral stamina and fiery indignation at oppression. There are single poems of great merit and beauty. But the style of most of them is unoriginal, being merely an echo of that of the English Lake School. Whittier's poetical development has been a steady growth. His genius matured late, and in his early poems there is little promise of the exquisite work of his riper years, unless it is a distinct indication of his rare power of telling a story in verse. It must be remembered that when Whittier began to write, American literature had yet to be created. There was not a single great American poem, with the exception of Bryant's "Thanatopsis." The prominent poets of that time--Percival, Brainard, Trumbull, Joel Barlow, Hillhouse, Pierpont, Dana, Sprague--are all forgotten now. The breath of immortality was not upon anything they wrote. A national literature is a thing of slow growth. Every writer is insensibly influenced by the intellectual tone of his neighbors and contemporaries. Judged in the light of his early disadvantages, and estimated by the standard of that time, Whittier's first essays are deserving of much credit, and they have had a distinct æsthetic and moral value in the development of American literature and the American character. But their deficiencies are very grave. There is a good deal of commonplace, and much extravagance of rhetoric. There are a great many "Lines" called forth by circumstances not at all poetical in their suggestions. Emotion and rhyme and commonplace incident are not enough to make a poem. One cannot embalm the memory of all one's friends in verse. In casting about for an explanation of the circumstance that our poet has so often chosen tame and uninspiring themes for his poems, we reach the conclusion that it is due to his solitary and uneventful life, and to the subdued and art-chilling atmosphere of his Quaker religion. You get, at any rate, no true impression of the intellectual breadth of the poet's mind from many of the productions of the period we are considering: the theme is too weak to support the poetical structure reared upon it. The poems and essays are written by one untoughened and unvitalized by varied and cheerful intercourse with men and affairs, a state of mind that was changed considerably as Mr. Whittier emerged from his semi-obscurity into a larger comprehension of his own powers. A minor fault of this period is the too frequent interruption of explanatory notes, that break and mar the free-flowing melody of versified thought. We find the same blemish in Longfellow's early work. * * * * * At the opening of the complete poetical works of Whittier stand two long Indian poems, with their war-paint and blood--like scarlet maples at the entrance of an aboriginal forest. The first of these poems, "Mogg Megone," is every way inferior to the second, or "The Bridal of Pennacook." "Mogg Megone" was published in 1836, and "The Bridal of Pennacook" in 1848. Mr. Whittier half apologizes for retaining the former of these in his complete works. There is, amongst much that, eliminated, might not be missed, a certain fresh and realistic diction, or nomenclature. It is picturesque, in portions somewhat dramatic and thrilling, and now is valuable as a link between the early stage of his authorship and the advanced culture of later years. In style it is an echo of Scott's "Lady of the Lake" or "Marmion." In "The Bridal of Pennacook" we have an Indian idyl of unquestionable power and beauty, a descriptive poem full of the cool, mossy sweetness of mountain landscapes, and although too artificial and subjective for a poem of primitive life, yet saturated with the imagery of the wigwam and the forest. A favorite article of food with the Indians of Northern Ohio was dried bear's-meat dipped in maple syrup. There is a savor of the like ferity and sweetness in this poem. It is almost wholly free from the strongly-marked faults of "Mogg Megone," and (that test of all tests) it is pleasant reading. Its two cardinal defects are lack of simplicity of treatment, and tenuity or triviality of the subject, or plot. The story is sometimes lost sight of in a jungle of verbiage and description. In contrasting such a poem with "Hiawatha," we see the wisdom of Longfellow in choosing an antique vehicle, or rhythmic style. Aborigines have a dialect of their own; the sentences of an Indian brave being as abrupt and sharp as the wild screams of an eagle. The set speeches of the North American Indians are always full of divers stock metaphors about natural scenery, wild animals, totems, and spirits, and are so different from those of civilized life that an expert can instantly detect a forgery or an imitation, so that all incongruities that attribute the complex and refined emotions of civilized life to the savage, seriously mar the pleasure of the reader. The descriptions of natural scenery in these Indian legends of Mr. Whittier's are fine, as all such writing by his facile pen was ever felicitous. And by virtue of this descriptive power, these idyls will be held long in grateful remembrance. In plan the poem is like the "Decameron," the "Princess," the "Canterbury Tales," and "Tales of a Wayside Inn." The different portions are supposed to be related by five persons,--a lawyer, a clergyman, a merchant and his daughter, and the poet,--who are all sight-seeing in the White Mountains. The opening description, in blank verse, conveys a vague but not very powerful impression of sublimity. The musical nomenclature of the red aborigines is finely handled, and such words as Pennacook, Babboosuck, Contoocook, Bashaba, and Weetamoo chime out here and there along the pages with as silvery a sweetness as the Tuscan words in Macaulay's "Lays." At the wedding of Weetamoo we have-- "Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, Cranberries picked from the Squamscot bog, And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog: And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands In the river scooped by a spirit's hands, Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn." The following stanza on the heroine, Weetamoo, is a fine one:-- "Child of the forest!--strong and free, Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair, She swam the lake, or climbed the tree, Or struck the flying bird in air. O'er the heaped drifts of winter's moon Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way; And, dazzling in the summer noon, The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray!" The "Song of Indian Women," at the close of "The Bridal of Pennacook," is admirable for melody, weird and wild beauty, and naturalness. It is a lament for the lost Weetamoo, who, unfortunate in her married life, has committed suicide by sailing over the rapids in her canoe:-- "The Dark Eye has left us, The Spring-bird has flown; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore,-- _Mat wonck kunna-monee!_--We hear it no more! * * * * * O mighty Sowanna! Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwams of sunset Lift curtains of gold! Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er,-- _Mat wonck kunna-monee!_--We see her no more!" There are two minor Indian poems by Whittier that have the true ring; namely, the "Truce of Piscataqua" and "Funeral Tree of the Sokokis." The latter well-known poem is pitched in as high and solemn a key as Platen's "Grab im Busento," a poem similar in theme to Whittier's:-- "They heave the stubborn trunk aside, The firm roots from the earth divide,-- The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. And there the fallen chief is laid, In tasselled garbs of skins arrayed, And girded with his wampum-braid." _Whittier._ "In der wogenleeren Höhlung wühlten sie empor die Erde, Senkten tief hinein den Leichnam, mit der Rüstung auf dem Pferde. Deckten dann mit Erde wieder ihn und seine stolze Habe." _Platen._ In the empty river-bottom hurriedly they dug the death-pit, Deep therein they sank the hero with his armor and his war-steed, Covered then with earth and darkness him and all his splendid trappings. When the reader, who has worked gloomily along through Whittier's anti-slavery and miscellaneous poems, reaches the "Songs of Labor," he feels at once the breath of a fresher spirit,--as a traveller who has been toiling for weary leagues through sandy deserts bares his brow with delight to the coolness and shade of a green forest through whose thick roof of leaves the garish sunlight scarcely sifts. We feel that in these poems a new departure has been made. The wrath of the reformer has expended itself, and the poet now returns, with mind elevated and more tensely keyed by his moral warfare, to the study of the beautiful in native themes and in homely life. "The Shipbuilders," "The Shoemakers," "The Fishermen," and "The Huskers" are genuine songs; and more shame to the craftsmen celebrated if they do not get them set to music, and sing them while at their work. One cannot help feeling that Walt Whitman's call for some one to make songs for American laborers had already been met in a goodly degree by these spirited "Songs of Labor." What workman would not be glad to carol such stanzas as the following, if they were set to popular airs? "Hurrah! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed: The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed." _The Fishermen._ "Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild, Stand forth once more together! Call out again your long array, In the olden merry manner! Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, Fling out your blazoned banner! Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone How falls the polished hammer! Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown A quick and merry clamor. Now shape the sole! now deftly curl The glossy vamp around it, And bless the while the bright-eyed girl Whose gentle fingers bound it!" _The Shoemakers._ The publication of "The Chapel of the Hermits" and "Questions of Life," in 1853, marks (as has been said) the period of culture and of religious doubt,--doubt which ended in trust. In this period we have such genuine undidactic poems as "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." Also, such fine poems as "Flowers in Winter" and "To My Old Schoolmaster;" as well as the excellent ballads, "Maud Muller," "Kathleen," and "Mary Garvin." The period in Whittier's life from about 1858 to 1868 we may call the Ballad Decade,[26] for within this time were produced most of his immortal ballads. We say immortal, believing that if all else that he has written shall perish, his finest ballads will carry his name down to a remote posterity. "The Tent on the Beach" is mainly a series of ballads; and "Snow-Bound," although not a ballad, is still a narrative poem closely allied to that species of poetry, the difference between a ballad and an idyl being that one is made to be sung and the other to be read: both narrate events as they occur, and leave to the reader all sentiment and reflection. [Footnote 26: The beginning of this decade nearly coincides with the fourth or final period in our classification, upon the consideration of which we shall now enter.] * * * * * The finest ballads of Whittier have the power of keeping us in breathless suspense of interest until the _dénouement_ or the catastrophe, as the case may be. The popularity of "Maud Muller" is well deserved. What a rich and mellow translucence it has! How it appeals to the universal heart! And yet "The Witch's Daughter" and "Telling the Bees" are more exquisite creations than "Maud Muller": they have a spontaneity, a subtle pathos, a sublimated sweetness of despair that take hold of the very heart-strings, and thus deal with deeper emotions than such light, objective ballads as "Maud Muller" and "Skipper Ireson's Ride." But the surface grace of the two latter have of course made them the more popular, just as the "Scarlet Letter" finds greater favor with most people than does "The House of the Seven Gables," although Hawthorne rightly thought the "Seven Gables" to be his finest and subtlest work. * * * * * Mark the Chaucerian freshness of the opening stanzas of "The Witch's Daughter":-- "It was the pleasant harvest time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load, And the old swallow-haunted barns-- Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams. And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks-- Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, From their low scaffolds to their eaves." A companion ballad to "The Witch's Daughter" is "The Witch of Wenham," a poem almost equal to it in merit, and like it ending happily. These ballads do not quite attain the almost supernatural simplicity of Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray" and "We are Seven"; but they possess an equal interest, excited by the same poetical qualities. "Telling the Bees," however, seems to the writer as purely Wordsworthian as anything Wordsworth ever wrote:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" How the tears spring to the eyes in reading this immortal little poem! The bee-hives ranged in the garden, the sun "tangling his wings of fire in the trees," the dog whining low, the old man "with his cane to his chin,"--we all know the scene: its every feature appeals to our sympathies and associations. * * * * * "The Double-headed Snake of Newbury" is a whimsical story, in which the poet waxes right merry as he relates how-- "Far and wide the tale was told, Like a snowball growing while it rolled. The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, To paint the primitive serpent by. Cotton Mather came galloping down All the way to Newbury town, With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; Stirring the while in the shallow pool Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, To garnish the story, with here a streak Of Latin, and there another of Greek: And the tales he heard and the notes he took, Behold! are they not in his Wonder-Book?" A word about Whittier's "Prophecy of Samuel Sewall." It seems that old Judge Sewall made the prophecies of the Bible his favorite study. One of his ideas was that America was to be the site of the New Jerusalem. Toward the end of his book entitled "Phenomena Quædam Apocalyptica; ... or ... a Description of the New Heaven as it makes to those who stand upon the New Earth" (1697), he gives utterance to the triumphant prophecy that forms the subject of Whittier's poem. His language is so quaint that the reader will like to see the passage in Sewall's own words:-- "As long as Plum Island shall faithfully keep the commanded post, notwithstanding till the hectoring words and hard blows of the proud and boisterous ocean; as long as any salmon or sturgeon shall swim in the streams of Merrimac, or any perch or pickerel in Crane Pond; as long as the sea-fowl shall know the time of their coming, and not neglect seasonably to visit the places of their acquaintance; as long as any cattle shall be fed with the grass growing in the meadows, which do humbly bow down themselves before Turkey Hill; as long as any sheep shall walk upon Old-Town Hills, and shall from thence pleasantly look down upon the River Parker, and the fruitful marshes lying beneath; as long as any free and harmless doves shall find a white oak or other tree within the township, to perch, or feed, or build a careless nest upon, and shall voluntarily present themselves to perform the office of gleaners after barley-harvest; as long as Nature shall not grow old and dote, but shall constantly remember to give the rows of Indian corn their education by pairs; so long shall Christians be born there, and being first made meet, shall from thence be translated to be made partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light." Moses Coit Tyler, in his "History of American Literature," II., p. 102 (note), says: "Whittier speaks of Newbury as Sewall's 'native town,' but Sewall was born at Horton, England. He also describes Sewall as an 'old man,' propped on his staff of age when he made this prophecy; but Sewall was then forty-five years old." There are two or three other ballads in which Whittier is said to have made historical blunders. It really does not seem of much importance whether he did or did not get the precise facts in each case. The important point is that he made beautiful ballads. But it will be right to give, in brief, the objections that have been brought against "Skipper Ireson's Ride" and "Barbara Frietchie." "The King's Missive" will be discussed in another place. * * * * * Apropos of Skipper Ireson, Mr. John W. Chadwick has spoken as follows in _Harper's Monthly_ for July, 1874:-- "In one of the queerest corners of the town [Marblehead], there stands a house as modest as the Lee house was magnificent. So long as he lived it was the home of 'Old Flood Oirson,' whose name and fame have gone farther and fared worse than any other fact or fancy connected with his native town. Plain, honest folk don't know about poetic license, and I have often heard the poet's conduct in the matter of Skipper Ireson's ride characterized with profane severity. He unwittingly departed from the truth in various particulars. The wreck did not, as the ballad recites, contain any of 'his own town's-people.' Moreover, four of those it did contain _were_ saved by a whale-boat from Provincetown. It was off Cape Cod, and not in Chaleur Bay, that the wreck was deserted; and the desertion was in this wise: It was in the night that the wreck was discovered. In the darkness and the heavy sea it was impossible to give assistance. When the skipper went below, he ordered the watch to lie by the wreck till 'dorning'; but the watch wilfully disobeyed, and afterward, to shield themselves, laid all the blame upon the skipper. Then came the tarring and feathering. The women, whose _rôle_ in the ballad is so striking, had nothing to do with it. The vehicle was not a cart, but a dory; and the skipper, instead of being contrite, said, 'I thank you for your ride.' I asked one of the skipper's contemporaries what the effect was on the skipper. 'Cowed him to death,' said he, 'cowed him to death.' He went skipper again the next year, but never afterward. He had been dead only a year or two when Whittier's ballad appeared. His real name was not Floyd, as Whittier supposes, but Benjamin, 'Flood' being one of those nicknames that were not the exception, but the rule, in the old fishing-days. For many years before his death the old man earned a precarious living by dory-fishing in the bay, and selling his daily catch from a wheelbarrow. When old age and blindness overtook him, and his last trip was made, his dory was hauled up into the lane before his house, and there went to rot and ruin.... The hoarse refrain of Whittier's ballad is the best-known example of the once famous Marblehead dialect, and it is not a bad one. To what extent this dialect was peculiar to Marblehead it might be difficult to determine. Largely, no doubt, it was inherited from English ancestors. Its principal delight consisted in pronouncing _o_ for _a_, and _a_ for _o_. For example, if an old-fashioned Marbleheader wished to say he 'was born in a barn,' he would say, he 'was barn in a born.' The _e_ was also turned into _a_, and even into _o_, and the _v_ into _w_. 'That vessel's stern' became 'that 'wessel's starn,' or 'storn.' I remember a school-boy declaiming from Shakspere, 'Thou little walliant, great in willany.' There was a great deal of shortening. The fine name Crowninshield became Grounsel, and Florence became Flurry, and a Frenchman named Blancpied found himself changed into Blumpy. Endings in _une_ and _ing_ were alike changed into _in_. Misfortune was misfartin', and fishing was always fishin'. There were words peculiar to the place. One of these was planchment for ceiling. Crim was another, meaning to shudder with cold, and there was an adjective, crimmy. Still another was _clitch_, meaning to stick badly, surely an onomatopoetic word that should be naturalized before it is too late. Some of the swearing, too, was neither by the throne nor footstool, such as 'Dahst my eyes!' and 'Godfrey darmints.' The ancient dialect in all its purity is now seldom used. It crops out here and there sometimes where least expected, and occasionally one meets with some old veteran whose speech has lost none of the ancient savor." Now for "Barbara Frietchie." The incident of the poem was given to Whittier by the novelist, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, whose letter we append. The philanthropist, Dorothea Dix, investigated the case in Frederick, and she says that Barbara did wave the flag, etc. An army officer also made affidavit of the truth of the lines. A young Southern soldier has declared that he was present, and that his was one of the shots that hit the flagstaff! On the other side are Samuel Tyler and Jacob Engelbrecht, the latter an old and greatly respected citizen of Frederick, and living directly opposite Barbara's house. Jacob wrote to the Baltimore _Sun_, saying that Stonewall Jackson's corps marched through another street, and did not approach Dame Frietchie's house at all. Lee's column did pass it, he says; but he, who stood watching at his window, saw no flag whatever at _her_ window. He says that when ten days later General McClellan passed through the town she did exhibit a flag. Finally, General Jubal Early comes upon the witness stand, and testifies that as the Southern troops passed through Frederick, there were only two cases of waving of Union flags; one of these was by a little girl, about ten years old, who stood on the platform of a house and waved incessantly a little "candy flag," and cried in a dull, monotonous voice: "Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes! Down with the Stars and Bars!" No one molested her. The other case was that of a coarse, slovenly-looking woman, who rushed up to the entrance of an alley and waved a dirty United States flag. * * * * * "The Pipes at Lucknow" is a poem full of martial fire and lyric rush,--the subject a capital one for a poet. A little band of English, besieged in a town in the heart of India, and full of despair, hear in the distance the sweetest sound that ever fell upon their ears, namely, the shrill pibroch of the MacGregor Clan; and-- "When the far-off dust-cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew!" Another group of ballads comprises "Cobbler Keezar's Vision," "Amy Wentworth," and "The Countess." In the first of these, old Cobbler Keezar, of the early Puritan times, by virtue of a mystic lapstone, sees a vision of our age of religious tolerance, and wonders greatly thereat:-- "Keezar sat on the hillside Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either hand To keep his waxed-ends warm. And there, in the golden weather, He stitched and hammered and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue." The ballad of "Amy Wentworth" treats of the same subject as "Among The Hills," namely, a superior woman, of the white-handed caste, falling in love with and marrying a broad-shouldered, brown-handed hero, with a right manly heart and brain. Many and many a poem of Whittier's is spoiled by its too great length,--a thing that is fatal in a lyric. The long prelude to "Amy Wentworth" should have been omitted. * * * * * The scene of the lovely poem entitled "The Countess" is laid in Rocks Village, a part of East Haverhill, and lying on the Merrimack, where-- "The river's steel-blue crescent curves To meet, in ebb and flow, The single broken wharf that serves For sloop and gundelow. With salt sea-scents along its shores The heavy hay-boats crawl, The long antennæ of their oars In lazy rise and fall. Along the gray abutment's wall The idle shad-net dries; The toll-man in his cobbler's stall Sits smoking with closed eyes." Whittier dedicates his poem to his father's family physician, Elias Weld, of Rocks Village. The story which forms the subject of the poem is a romantic one, and exquisitely has our poet embalmed it in verse. From a sketch by Rebecca I. Davis, of East Haverhill, the following facts relating to the personages that figure in the poem have been culled:-- The Countess was Miss Mary Ingalls, daughter of Henry and Abigail Ingalls, of Rocks Village. She was born in 1786, and is still remembered by a few old inhabitants as a young girl of remarkable beauty. She was of medium height, had long golden curls, violet eyes, fair complexion, and rosy cheeks, and was exceedingly modest and lovable. It was in the year 1806 that a little company of French exiles fled from the Island of Guadaloupe on account of a bloody rebellion or uprising of the inhabitants. Among the fugitives were Count Francis de Vipart and Joseph Rochemont de Poyen. The company reached Newburyport. The two gentlemen just mentioned settled at Rocks Village, and both married there. Mary Ingalls was only a laborer's daughter, and of course her marriage with the count created a sensation in the simple, rustic community. The count was a pleasant, stately man, and a fine violinist. The bridal dress, says Miss Davis, was of a pink satin, with an overdress of white lace; her slippers also were of white satin. The count delighted to lavish upon her the richest apparel, yet nothing spoiled the sweet modesty of her disposition. After one short year of happy married life the lovely wife died. Assiduous attention to a sick mother had brought on consumption. In the village God's-acre her gray tombstone is already covered with moss. The count returned to his native island overwhelmed with grief. In after years, however, he married again. When he died he was interred in the family burial-place of the De Viparts at Bordeaux. He left several children. * * * * * Mr. Stedman, in his fine synthetic survey of American poetry, published in _The Century_, has remarked that most of our early poetry and painting is full of landscape. The loveliest season in America is the autumn, when, as Whittier beautifully says, the woods "wear their robes of praise, the south winds softly sigh,"-- "And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky." We have plenty of idyls of autumn color, like Buchanan Read's "Closing Scene," and portions of Longfellow's "Hiawatha." But American winter landscapes are as poetical as those of autumn.[27] It is probable that the scarcity of snow-idyls hitherto is due to the supposed cheerlessness of the snow. But with the rapid multiplication of winter comforts, our nature-worship is cautiously broadening so as to include even the stern beauty of winter. There are already a good many signs of this in literature. We have had, of late, lovely little snow-and-winter vignettes in prose by John Burroughs of New York, and Edith Thomas of Ohio; and there is plenty of room for further study of winter in other regions of the United States. The most delicate bit of realistic winter poetry in literature is Emerson's "Snow-Storm." Mr. Whittier is an ardent admirer of that writer--as what poet is not?--and his own productions show frequent traces of Emersonianisms. He has prefixed to "Snow-Bound" a quotation from the "Snow-Storm," and there can scarcely be a doubt that to the countless obligations we all owe Emerson must be added this: that he inspired the writing of Whittier's finest poem, and the best idyl of American rural life. It is too complex and diffusive fully to equal in artistic purity and plastic proportion the "Cotter's Saturday Night" of Burns; but it is much richer than that poem in felicitous single epithets, which, like little wicket doors, open up to the eye of memory many a long-forgotten picture of early life. [Footnote 27: What is the subtle fascination that lurks in such bits of winter poetry as the following, collected by the writer out of his reading? "Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly."--_Gray._ "All winter drives along the darkened air."--_Thomson._ "High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch; Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried."--_Grahame._ "Alas! alas! thou snow-smitten wood of Troy, and mountains of Ida."--_Sophocles._ "O hard, dull bitterness of cold."--_Whittier._ "And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave."--_Burns._ "The mesmerizer, Snow, With his hand's first sweep Put the earth to sleep."--_Robert Browning._ "And the cakèd snow is shuffled From the plough-boy's heavy shoon."--_Keats._] "Snow-Bound" was published in 1860, and was written, Mr. Whittier has said, "to beguile the weariness of a sick-chamber." The poet has obeyed the canon of Lessing, and instead of giving us dead description wholly, has shown us his characters in action, and extended his story over three days and the two intervening nights,--that is to say, the main action covers that time: the whole time mentioned in the poem is a week. It is unnecessary to give here any further account of the idyl than has already been furnished in the account of Whittier's boyhood. "The Tent on the Beach" is a cluster of ballads. In accordance with a familiar fiction, they are supposed to be sung, or told, by several persons, in this case three, namely, the poet himself, "a lettered magnate" (James T. Fields), and a traveller (Bayard Taylor). All of the poems are readable, and many of them are to be classed among Whittier's best lyrics. "The Wreck of Rivermouth," "The Changeling," and "Kallundborg Church" are masterpieces in the line of ballads. In "The Dead Ship of Harpswell" we have the fine phrase,-- "O hundred-harbored Maine!" Whittier has now become almost a perfect master of verbal melody. Hearken to this:-- "Oho!" she muttered, "ye're brave to-day! But I hear the little waves laugh and say, 'The broth will be cold that waits at home; For it's one to go, but another to come!'" There is a light and piquant humor about some of the interludes of the "Tent on the Beach." The song in the last of these contains a striking and original stanza concerning the ocean:-- "Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea!" "Among the Hills" is a little farm-idyl, or love-idyl, of the New Hampshire mountain land, and bearing some resemblance to Tennyson's "Gardener's Daughter." It is an excellent specimen of the poems of Whittier that reach the popular heart, and engage its sympathies. In the remotest farm-houses of the land you are almost sure to find among their few books a copy of Whittier's Poems, well-thumbed and soiled with use. The opening description of the prelude to "Among the Hills" could not be surpassed by Bion or Theocritus. In this poem a fresh interest is excited in the reader by the fact that the city woman falls in love with a manly farmer, thus happily reversing the old, old story of the city man wooing and winning the rustic beauty. The farmer accuses the fair city maid of coquetry. She replies: "'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waits Behind this silken armor? 'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming?' Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle,-- The giving that is gaining." In "Lines on a Fly-Leaf," the author of "Snow-Bound" gives in his hearty adherence to that movement for the elevation of woman, and the securing of her rights as a human being, which is perhaps the most significant and important of the many agitations of this agitated age. * * * * * The poem "Miriam," like "The Preacher," is one of those long sermons, or meditations in verse, which Whittier loves to spin out of his mind in solitude. It contains in "Shah Akbar" a fine Oriental ballad. * * * * * The narrative poem called "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim," published in 1872, has no striking poetical merit, but is valuable and readable for the pleasant light in which it sets forth the doings of the quaint people of Germantown and the Wissahickon, near Philadelphia, nearly two hundred years ago. It introduces us to the homes and hearts of the little settlements of German Quakers under Francis Daniel Pastorius, the Mystics under the leadership of Magister Johann Kelpius, and the Mennonites under their various leaders. "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim" is a poem for Quakers, for Philadelphians who love their great park and its Wissahickon drives, and for antiquarian historical students. We may regret, if we choose, that the poet has not succeeded in embalming the memory of the Germantown Quakers in such felicitous verse as other poets have sung the virtues and ways of the Puritans, but we cannot deny that he has garnished with the flowers of poetry a dry historical subject, and so earned the gratitude of a goodly number of students and scholars. In "The King's Missive, and Other Poems," published in 1881, the most notable piece is "The Lost Occasion," a poem on Daniel Webster, finer even than the much-admired "Ichabod," published many years previously. "The Lost Occasion" is pitched in a high, solemn, and majestic strain. It is a superb eulogy, full of magnanimity and generous forgiveness. Listen to a few stanzas:-- "Thou Whom the rich heavens did endow With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, With all the massive strength that fills Thy home-horizon's granite hills, * * * * * Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, The Saxon strength of Caedmon had, * * * * * Sweet with persuasion, eloquent In passion, cool in argument, Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes As fell the Norse god's hammer blows, * * * * * Too soon for us, too soon for thee, Beside thy lonely Northern sea, Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, Laid wearily down thy august head." The poem of "The King's Missive" calls for such extended discussion that a brief chapter shall be devoted to it. CHAPTER IV. THE KING'S MISSIVE. "_Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott._" So run the opening lines of the historical poem contributed by Whittier to the first volume of the Memorial History of Boston (1880). While the governor is thus sitting, in comes Clerk Rawson with the unwelcome news that banished Quaker Shattuck, of Salem, has returned from abroad. The choleric governor swears that he will now hew in pieces the pestilent, ranting Quakers. Presently Shattuck is ushered in: "Off with the knave's hat," says the governor. As they strike off his hat he smilingly holds out the Missive, or mandamus, of Charles II. The governor immediately asks him to cover, and humbly removes his own hat. The king's letter commands him to cease persecuting the Quakers. After consultation with the deputy governor, Bellingham, he obeys, and the then imprisoned Quakers file out of jail with words of praise on their lips. The poem fascinates us, for the incident is dramatic, and focusses in a single picturesque situation all the features of that little historical episode of two hundred years ago, _i. e._, the persecution of the Quakers by the Puritan Commonwealth of Massachusetts. A brief setting forth of the facts connected with this persecution will not only be full of intrinsic interest, but is indispensable to a right understanding of the Quaker poet's inherited character, as well as to a comprehension of his prose and poetry. One whose ancestors have been persecuted for generations will inherit a loathing of oppression, as Whittier has done. And this hatred of tyranny will be intensified in the case of one who is thoroughly read in the literature of that persecution, and is in quick and intimate sympathy with the victims, as Whittier is. But first a word more about the "King's Missive." Joseph Besse, in his "Collection of the Sufferings of the People called Quakers" (a sort of "Fox's Book of Martyrs," in two huge antique volumes), says [II., p. 226] that the principal instrument in procuring the royal mandamus (styled by Whittier the King's Missive) was Edward Burroughs,[28] who went to the king and told him that "There was a Vein of innocent Blood open'd in his Dominions, which if it were not stopt might over-run all. To which the king replied, 'But I will stop that Vein.'" Accordingly, in the autumn of 1661, Samuel Shattuck was selected to bear a letter to America. The London Friends hired Ralph Goldsmith, also a Friend, to convey Shattuck to his destination. They paid him £300 for the service. The ship entered Boston Harbor on a Sunday in the latter part of November, 1661. [Footnote 28: "There is a story," says Dr. George E. Ellis, "that Burroughs got access to the king out of doors, while his Majesty was playing tennis. As Burroughs kept on his hat while accosting the king, the latter gracefully removed his plumed cap and bowed. The Quaker, put to the blush, said, 'Thee need'st not remove thy hat.' 'Oh,' replied the king, 'it is of no consequence, only that when the king and another gentleman are talking together it is usual for one of them to take off his hat.'"] "The Townsmen," says Besse, "seeing a Ship with _English_ Colours, soon came on board, and asked for the Captain? _Ralph Goldsmith_ told them, _He was the Commander_. They asked, _Whether he had any Letters_? He answered, _Yes_. But withal told them, _He would not deliver them that Day_. So they returned on shore again, and reported, that _There were many_ Quakers _come, and that_ Samuel Shattock (who they knew had been banished on pain of Death) _was among them_. But they knew nothing of his Errand or Authority. Thus all was kept close, and none of the Ship's Company suffered to go on shore that Day. Next morning _Ralph Goldsmith_, the Commander, with _Samuel Shattock_, the King's Deputy, went on shore, and sending the Boat back to the Ship, they two went directly through the Town to the Governour's House, and knockt at the Door: He sending a Man to know their Business, they sent him Word, that _Their Message was from the King of_ England, _and that they would deliver it to none but himself_. Then they were admitted to go in, and the Governour came to them, and commanded _Samuel Shattock's_ Hat to be taken off, and having received the Deputation and the _Mandamus_, he laid off his own Hat; and ordering Shattock's Hat to be given him again, perused the Papers, and then went out to the Deputy-Governour's, bidding the King's Deputy and the Master of the Ship to follow him: Being come to the Deputy-Governour, and having consulted him, he returned to the aforesaid two Persons and said, _We shall obey his Majesty's Command_. After this, the Master of the Ship gave Liberty to his Passengers to come on shore, which they did, and had a religious Meeting with their Friends of the Town, where they returned Praises to God for his Mercy manifested in this wonderful Deliverance." The persecution, it is true, only ceased for about a year (the next recorded whipping-order bearing date of December 22, 1662). But the Quakers were greatly encouraged by the interposition in their favor. In an address before the Massachusetts Historical Society, Dr. George E. Ellis, of Boston, read a paper criticising Mr. Whittier's "King's Missive." This address was published in the Proceedings of the Society for March, 1881. In the "Memorial History of Boston" [I., p. 180] he asserts that the Quakers were all "of low rank, of mean breeding, and illiterate." He says that they courted persecution, and that they were a pestilent brood of ranters, disturbers of the public peace, and dreaded by the leaders of the infant Commonwealth as they would have dreaded the cholera. He quotes Roger Williams, who wrote of the Quakers that they were "insufferably proud and contentious," and advised a "due and moderate restraint of their incivilities." Dr. Ellis, it is true, takes the theoretical ground of "the equal folly and culpability of both parties in the tragedy," but seems entirely to nullify this statement by his apparently unbiassed, but really partisan treatment of the subject. When you have finished his paper you perceive that the impression left on your mind is that the really bitter and unrelenting Puritan persecutors were long-suffering, angelic natures, while their victims, the Quakers, were mere gallows' dogs. His theoretical position is summed up in the following words:-- "The crowning folly or iniquity in the course of the Puritans was in following up their penal inflictions, through banishments, imprisonments, fines, scourgings, and mutilations, to the execution on the gallows of four martyr victims. But what shall we say of the persistency, the exasperating contemptuousness and defiance, the goading, maddening obstinacy, and reproaching invectives of those who drove the magistrates, against their will, to vindicate their own insulted authority, and to stain our annals with innocent blood?"--Memorial History of Boston, I., 1882. Dr. Ellis is right in holding that some of the Quakers were gadflies of obstinacy, and full of self-righteous pride; but he fails to tell us of the patience, Christian sweetness, and meekness of character of the majority of them; and it is only when we turn to the pages of Fox and Besse that we see the inadequate character of such a picture as that drawn by Dr. Ellis. In the plain, _naïve_ annals of Besse, the hard-heartedness and haughty pride of the Puritan magistrates (traits still amply represented in their descendants) are thrown into the most striking relief. They glower over their victims like tigers; they are choked with their passions; they spurn excuses and palliatives; they demand blood. In the _Boston Daily Advertiser_ for March 29, 1881, Mr. Whittier published a long reply to Dr. Ellis, in which he fortified the positions taken by him in his ballad, showing that he did not mean to hold up Charles II. as a consistent friend of toleration, and that there must have been a general jail delivery in consequence of the receipt of the mandamus. He says:-- "The charge that the Quakers who suffered were 'vagabonds' and 'ignorant, low fanatics,' is unfounded in fact. Mary Dyer, who was executed, was a woman of marked respectability. She had been the friend and associate of Sir Henry Vane and the ministers Wheelwright and Cotton. The papers left behind by the three men who were hanged show that they were above the common class of their day in mental power and genuine piety. John Rous, who, in execution of his sentence, had his right ear cut off by the constable in the Boston jail, was of gentlemanly lineage, the son of Colonel Rous of the British army, and himself the betrothed of a high-born and cultivated young English lady. Nicholas Upsall was one of Boston's most worthy and substantial citizens, yet was driven in his age and infirmities, from his home and property, into the wilderness." Mr. Whittier further remarks:-- "Dr. Ellis has been a very generous, as well as ingenious defender of the Puritan clergy and government, and his labors in this respect have the merit of gratuitous disinterestedness. Had the very worthy and learned gentleman been a resident in the Massachusetts colony in 1660, one of his most guarded doctrinal sermons would have brought down upon him the wrath of clergy and magistracy. His Socinianism would have seemed more wicked than the 'inward light' of the Quakers; and, had he been as 'doggedly obstinate' as Servetus at Geneva (as I do him the justice to think he would have been), he might have hung on the same gallows with the Quakers, or the same shears which clipped the ears of Holder, Rous, and Copeland might have shorn off his own." Let us look a little more closely at the evidence on both sides. In the fourth chapter of the seventh book of Cotton Mather's "Magnalia" we have a specimen of Quaker rant. After stating that he is opposed to the capital punishment of Quakers, but advises shaving of the head, or blood-letting, the proud and scornful old doctor concludes as follows:-- "_Reader_, I can foretell what usage I shall find among the _Quakers_ for this chapter of our _church-history_; for a worthy man that writes of them has observed, _for pride and hypocrisie, and hellish reviling against the painful ministers of Christ, I know no people can match them_. Yea, prepare, friend _Mather_, to be assaulted with such language as _Fisher_ the Quaker, in his pamphlets, does bestow upon such men as _Dr. Owen; thou fiery fighter and green-headed trumpeter; thou hedgehog and grinning dog; thou bastard that tumbled out of the mouth of the Babilonish bawd; thou mole; thou tinker; thou lizzard; thou bell of no metal, but the tone of a kettle; thou wheelbarrow; thou whirlpool; thou whirlegig. O thou firebrand; thou adder and scorpion; thou louse; thou cow-dung; thou moon-calf; thou ragged tatterdemallion; thou Judas; thou livest in philosophy and logick which are of the devil_. And then let _Penn_ the Quaker add, Thou gormandizing Priest, one of the abominable tribe; _thou bane of reason, and beast of the earth; thou best to be spared of mankind; thou mountebank priest_. These are the very words, (I wrong them not!) which they vomit out against the best men in the _English_ nation, that have been so hardy as to touch their _light within_: but let the _quills_ of these _porcupines_ fly as fast as they will, I shall not feel them! Yea, every _stone_ that these _Kildebrands_ throw at me, I will wear as a _pearl_." As an offset to this quaint and amusing tirade, and to the charges of Dr. Ellis, one may read the following words of Whittier, and, by striking a general average between all the speakers, get a tolerable approximation to the exact truth. Mr. Whittier says:-- "Nor can it be said that the persecution grew out of the 'intrusion,' 'indecency,' and 'effrontery' of the persecuted. "It owed its origin to the settled purpose of the ministers and leading men of the colony to permit no difference of opinion on religious matters. They had banished the Baptists, and whipped at least one of them. They had hunted down Gorton and his adherents; they had imprisoned Dr. Child, an Episcopalian, for petitioning the General Court for toleration. They had driven some of their best citizens out of their jurisdiction, with Ann Hutchinson, and the gifted minister, Wheelwright. Any dissent on the part of their own fellow-citizens was punished as severely as the heresy of strangers. "The charge of 'indecency' comes with ill-grace from the authorities of the Massachusetts Colony. The first Quakers who arrived in Boston, Ann Austin and Mary Fisher, were arrested on board the ship before landing, their books taken from them and burned by the constable, and they themselves brought before Deputy Governor Bellingham, in the absence of Endicott. This astute magistrate ordered them to be _stripped naked and their bodies to be carefully examined, to see if there was not the Devil's mark on them as witches_. They were then sent to the jail, their cell window was boarded up, and they were left without food or light, until the master of the vessel that brought them was ordered to take them to Barbadoes. When Endicott returned, he thought they had been treated too leniently, and declared that he would have had them whipped. "After this, almost every town in the province was favored with the spectacle of aged and young women stripped to the middle, tied to a cart-tail and dragged through the streets and scourged without mercy by the constable's whip. It is not strange that these atrocious proceedings, in two or three instances, unsettled the minds of the victims. Lydia Wardwell of Hampton, who, with her husband, had been reduced to almost total destitution by persecution, was summoned by the church of which she had been a member to appear before it to answer to the charge of non-attendance. She obeyed the call by appearing in the unclothed condition of the sufferers whom she had seen under the constable's whip. For this she was taken to Ipswich and stripped to the waist, tied to a rough post, which tore her bosom as she writhed under the lash, and severely scourged to the satisfaction of a crowd of lookers-on at the tavern. One, and only one, other instance is adduced in the person of Deborah Wilson of Salem. She had seen her friends and neighbors scourged naked through the street, among them her brother, who was banished on pain of death. She, like all Puritans, had been educated in the belief of the plenary inspiration of Scripture, and had brooded over the strange 'signs' and testimonies of the Hebrew prophets. It seemed to her that the time had arrived for some similar demonstration, and that it was her duty to walk abroad in the disrobed condition to which her friends had been subjected, as a sign and warning to the persecutors. Whatever of 'indecency' there was in these cases was directly chargeable upon the atrocious persecution. At the door of the magistrates and ministers of Massachusetts must be laid the insanity of the conduct of these unfortunate women. "But Boston, at least, had no voluntary Godivas. The only disrobed women in its streets were made so by Puritan sheriffs and constables, who dragged them amidst jeering crowds at the cart-tail, stripped for the lash, which in one instance laid open with a ghastly gash the bosom of a young mother!"[29] [Footnote 29: Mr. Whittier stated to a member of the Massachusetts Historical Society that it was his intention "at some time to prepare a full and exhaustive history of the relations of Puritan and Quaker in the seventeenth century." It may be added that the newspaper articles quoted above, with the several replications of their authors, may all be found in the Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society for 1880-81 (see the index of that volume).] We may conclude this discussion by giving a few instances of Quaker persecutions, in addition to those mentioned by Mr. Whittier. In England the members of the sect suffered a whole Jeremiad of woes: they were dragged through the streets by the hair of the head, incarcerated in loathsome dungeons, beaten over the head with muskets, pilloried, whipped at the cart's-tail, branded, their tongues bored with red-hot irons, and their property confiscated to the State. One First Day, George Fox went into the "steeple-house" of Tickhill. "I found," he says in his Journal, "the priest and most of the chief of the parish together in the chancel. I went up to them and began to speak; but they immediately fell upon me; the clerk got up with his Bible, as I was speaking, and struck me in the face with it, so that my face gushed out with blood, and I bled exceedingly in the steeple-house. The people cried, 'Let us have him out of the church.' When they had got me out, they beat me exceedingly, threw me down, and threw me over a hedge. They afterwards dragged me through a house into the street, stoning and beating me as they dragged me along; so that I was all over besmeared with blood and dirt. They got my hat from me, which I never had again." Fox was at various times thrust into dungeons filled ankle-deep with ordure, and was shot at, beaten with stones and clubs, etc. One evening he passed through Cambridge: "When I came into the town, the scholars, hearing of me, were up and exceeding rude. I kept on my horse's back, and rode through them in the Lord's power; but they unhorsed Amor Stoddart before he could get to the inn. When we were in the inn, they were so rude in the courts and in the streets, that the miners, colliers, and carters could never be ruder. The people of the house asked us what we would have for supper. 'Supper!' said I, 'were it not that the Lord's power is over them, these rude scholars look as if they would pluck us in pieces and make a supper of us.' They knew I was so against the trade of preaching, which they were there as apprentices to learn, that they raged as bad as ever Diana's craftsmen did against Paul." In the declaration made by the Quakers to Charles II. it appears that in New England, up to that time, "thirty Quakers had been whipped; twenty-two had been banished on pain of death if they returned; twenty-five had been banished upon the penalty of being whipped, or having their ears cut, or being branded in the hand if they returned; three had their right ears shorn off by the hangman; one had been branded in the hand with the letter H; many had been imprisoned; many fined; and three had been put to death, and one (William Leddra) was soon after executed." Besse, in his "Sufferings of the Quakers," states that one William Brand, a man in years, was so brutally whipped by an infuriated jailer, in Salem, that "His Back and Arms were bruised and black, and the Blood hanging as it were in Bags under his Arms, and so into one was his Flesh beaten that the Sign of a particular Blow could not be seen." And the surgeon said that "His Flesh would rot from off his Bones e'er the bruized Parts would be brought to digest." To all this must be added the humiliating fact that four persons were hanged on Boston Common for the crime of being Quakers. Their names were Marmaduke Stephenson, William Robinson, William Leddra, and Mary Dyer. CHAPTER V. POEMS BY GROUPS. Besides "The King's Missive," Whittier has written numerous other Quaker poems, the finest of which are "Cassandra Southwick," "The Old South," and the spirited, ringing ballad of "The Exiles." In the first two of these the poet shows a delicate intuition into the feelings that might have prompted the Quaker women who witnessed for the truth in Boston two hundred years ago. * * * * * There is nothing in American literature, unless it be the anti-slavery papers of Thoreau, which equals the sevenfold-heated moral indignation of Whittier's poems on slavery,--a wild melody in them like that of Highland pibrochs; now plaintively and piteously pleading, and now burning with passion, irony, satire, scorn; here glowing with tropical imagery, as in "Toussaint L'Ouverture," and "The Slaves of Martinique," and there rising into lofty moral atmospheres of faith when all seemed dark and hopeless. Every one knows the power of a "cry" (a song like "John Brown's Body," or a pithy sentence or phrase) in any great popular movement. There can be no doubt that Whittier's poems did as much as Garrison's editorials to key up the minds of people to the point required for action against slavery. Some of these anti-slavery pieces still possess great intrinsic beauty and excellence, as, for example, "Toussaint L'Ouverture," "The Farewell," "The Slave Ships," and "The Slaves of Martinique." In these four productions there is little or none of the dreary didacticism of most of the anti-slavery poems, but a simple statement of pathetic, beautiful fact, which is left to make its own impression. Another powerful group of these slavery poems is constituted by the scornful, mock-congratulatory productions, such as "The Hunters of Men," "Clerical Oppressors," "The Yankee Girl," "A Sabbath Scene," "Lines suggested by Reading a State Paper wherein the Higher Law is Invoked to Sustain the Lower One," and "The Pastoral Letter."[30] The sentences in these stanzas cut like knives and sting like shot. The poltroon clergy, especially, looks pitiful, most pitiful, in the light of Whittier's noble scorn and contempt. [Footnote 30: "The Pastoral Letter" was an idiotic manifesto of the clergy of Massachusetts aimed at the Grimké sisters.] "Randolph of Roanoke" is a noble tribute to a political enemy by one who admired in him the man. The long poem, "The Panorama," must be considered a failure, poetically speaking. Its showman's pictures and preachings do not get hold of our sympathies very strongly. The Tyrtaean fire in Whittier was so thoroughly kindled by the anti-slavery conflict that it has never wholly gone out. All through his life his hand has instinctively sought the old war-lyre whenever a voice was to be raised in honor of Freedom. The formal close of the anti-slavery period with him may be said to be marked by "Laus Deo," a triumphant, almost ecstatic shout of joy uttered on hearing the bells ring when the Constitutional Amendment abolishing slavery was passed. Naturally, the war poems of a Quaker--and even of our martial Whittier--could not be equal to his peace poems. Still there are many strong passages in the lyrics written by Whittier during the civil war of 1861-65. At first he counsels that we allow disunion rather than kindle the lurid fires of fratricidal war:-- "Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain." _A Word for the Hour._ So he wrote in January, 1861. But afterward he becomes a pained but sadly approving spectator of the inevitable conflict:-- "Then Freedom sternly said: 'I shun No strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won. * * * * * The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped.'" _The Watchers._ As a Friend, he and his brethren could not personally engage in war. But they could minister to the sick and dying, and care for the slave. "THE SLAVE IS OURS!" he says,-- "And we may tread the sick-bed floors Where strong men pine, And, down the groaning corridors, Pour freely from our liberal stores The oil and wine." _Anniversary Poem._ "Barbara Frietchie" is, of course, the best of these war lyrics. The "Song of the Negro Boatmen" was set to music and sung from Maine to California during the war days:-- "De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!" After "Voices of Freedom," in the complete edition of Whittier's poems, come a cluster of Biblical, or Old Testament poems,--"Palestine," "Ezekiel," "The Wife of Manoah to her Husband," "The Cities of the Plain," "The Crucifixion," and "The Star of Bethlehem." The best of these, perhaps, are "Cities of the Plain," and "Crucifixion,"--the former intense and thrilling in style, and suggesting the "Sennacherib" and "Waterloo" of Byron; the latter a high, solemn chant, and well calculated to touch the religious heart. Whittier has drawn great refreshment and inspiration from the thrice-winnowed wheat and the living-water wells of Old Testament literature. Allusion has already been made to the hymns of our poet. Hymn-book makers have had in his poems a very quarry to work. The hymn tinkers, too, have not spared Whittier even while he was alive, and many of his sacred lyrics have been "adapted" after the manner of hymn-book makers. Dr. Martineau's "Hymns of Praise" (1874) contains seven of Whittier's religious songs; the "Unitarian Hymn and Tune Book" (1868) also has seven; the Plymouth Collection (1855) has eleven, and Longfellow and Johnson's "Hymns of the Spirit" (1864) has twenty-two. The Essex minstrel has written quite a number of children's poems, such as "The Robin," "Red Riding Hood," and "King Solomon and the Ants." He has also compiled two books of selections for children, as has already been mentioned. Like many authors, Whittier has been attracted, in the autumn of his life, to the rich fields of Oriental literature. His Oriental poems show careful and sympathetic study of eastern books. "The Two Rabbis" and "Shah Akbar" are especially fine. The little touch in the former of "the small weeds that the bees bow with their weight" is a very pretty one. In "The King's Missive" we have a few "Oriental Maxims," being paraphrases of translations from the Sanscrit. "The Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk," and "The Khan's Devil," are also included in the same volume. Mr. Whittier has also made successful studies in Norse literature, for which his beautiful ballads, the "Dole of Jarl Thorkell," "Kallundborg Church," and "King Volmer and Elsie" are vouchers. CHAPTER VI. PROSE WRITINGS. It is to be feared that the greater portion of the prose writings of Whittier will be _caviare_ to many readers of this day. He himself almost admits as much in the prefatory note to the second volume of the complete edition of his essays. That many of the papers are entertaining reading, and that they are written often in a light and genial and vivacious style, is true; and, as he himself hints, they will at least be welcomed and indulgently judged by his personal friends and admirers. His prose work was done in a time seething with moral ideas; the air was full of reforms; the voice of duty sounded loud in men's consciences, and the ancestral buckler called-- "Self-clanging, from the walls In the high temple of the soul!" _Lowell._ That particular era is now passed. The great secular heart is now in its diastole, or relaxation. Hence it is that the philanthropic themes discussed by Mr. Whittier thirty years ago (and most of his essays are of a philanthropic character) possess but a languid interest for the present reading public. The artistic essays, however, are charming, and possess permanent interest. Let us except from these the long productions, "Margaret Smith's Journal" and "My Summer with Dr. Singletary." Some have thought these to be the best papers in the collection. But to many they must appear frigid and old-fashioned in the extreme. They seem aimless and sprawling, mere _esquisses_, tentative work in a field in which the author was doubtful of his powers. They would ordinarily be classed under the head of Sunday-school literature. It has been suggested that the idea of "Margaret Smith's Journal" might have been derived from the "Diary of Lady Willoughby," which appeared about the same time. "The Journal" is a reproduction of the antique in style and atmosphere, and is said to be very successful as far as that goes. But certainly the iteration of the archaism, "did do," "did write," etc., gets to be very wearisome. The "Journal" purports to be written by a niece of Edward Rawson, Secretary of Massachusetts from 1650-1686. The scene is laid in Newbury, where Rawson settled about 1636. We have pleasant pictures of the colonial life of the day, of the Quakers and Indians and Puritans, and, on the whole, the sketch is well worth reading by historical students. "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches" consists chiefly of newspaper articles on modern reformers. They were originally contributed to the _National Era_. The portraits drawn are those of John Bunyan, Thomas Ellwood, James Nayler, Andrew Marvell, John Roberts, Samuel Hopkins, Richard Baxter,--and, among Americans, William Leggett and Nathaniel Peabody Rogers,--both anti-slavery reformers and journalists; and, lastly, Robert Dinsmore, the rustic Scotch-American poet of Haverhill. The last three papers mentioned are the best. The second volume of Mr. Whittier's prose writings bears the title "Literary Recreations and Miscellanies," and consists of various reviews, thumb-nail essays, and indigenous folk-and-nature studies, made in the region of the Merrimack. These last are of most interest, and indicate the field which Mr. Whittier would have cultivated with most success. In the reviews of the volume the newspapery tone and journalist diction are rather unpleasantly conspicuous. As a critic, our poet is not very successful, because he is too earnest a partisan, too merciless and undistinguishing in his invective or too generous in his praise. For example, what he says about Carlyle, in reviewing that author's infamous "Discourse on the Negro Question," is true as far as it goes. But of the elementary literary canon, that the prime function of the critic is to put himself in the place of the one he is criticising,--of this law Mr. Whittier has not, practically, the faintest notion. He considers everything from the point of view of the Quaker or of the reformer. Numerous specimens of Mr. Whittier's prose have already been given in various parts of this volume, but for the sake of illustration we may add two more. For an example of his serious style take the following from "Scottish Reformers": "He who undertakes to tread the pathway of reform--who, smitten with the love of truth and justice, or, indignant in view of wrong and insolent oppression, is rashly inclined to throw himself at once into that great conflict which the Persian seer not untruly represented as a war between light and darkness--would do well to count the cost in the outset. If he can live for Truth alone, and, cut off from the general sympathy, regard her service as its own 'exceeding great reward'; if he can bear to be counted a fanatic and crazy visionary; if, in all good nature, he is ready to receive from the very objects of his solicitude abuse and obloquy in return for disinterested and self-sacrificing efforts for their welfare; if, with his purest motives misunderstood and his best actions perverted and distorted into crimes, he can still hold on his way and patiently abide the hour when 'the whirligig of Time shall bring about its revenges'; if, on the whole, he is prepared to be looked upon as a sort of moral outlaw or social heretic under good society's interdict of food and fire; and if he is well assured that he can, through all this, preserve his cheerfulness and faith in man,--let him gird up his loins and go forward in God's name. He is fitted for his vocation; he has watched all night by his armor.... Great is the consciousness of right. Sweet is the answer of a good conscience. He who pays his whole-hearted homage to truth and duty,--who swears his life-long fealty on their altars, and rises up a Nazarite consecrated to their service,--is not without his solace and enjoyment when, to the eyes of others, he seems the most lonely and miserable. He breathes an atmosphere which the multitude know not of; 'a serene heaven which they cannot discern rests over him, glorious in its purity and stillness.'" For a specimen of our author's vein of pleasantry take the following bit of satire on "The Training": "What's now in the wind? Sounds of distant music float in at my window on this still October air. Hurrying drum-beat, shrill fife-tones, wailing bugle-notes, and, by way of accompaniment, hurrahs from the urchins on the crowded sidewalks. Here come the citizen-soldiers, each martial foot beating up the mud of yesterday's storm with the slow, regular, up-and-down movement of an old-fashioned churn-dasher. Keeping time with the feet below, some threescore of plumed heads bob solemnly beneath me. Slant sunshine glitters on polished gun-barrels and tinselled uniform. Gravely and soberly they pass on, as if duly impressed with a sense of the deep responsibility of their position as self-constituted defenders of the world's last hope,--the United States of America, and possibly Texas. They look out with honest, citizen faces under their leathern vizors (their ferocity being mostly the work of the tailor and tinker), and, I doubt not, are at this moment as innocent of bloodthirstiness as yonder worthy tiller of the Tewksbury Hills, who sits quietly in his wagon dispensing apples and turnips without so much as giving a glance at the procession. Probably there is not one of them who would hesitate to divide his last tobacco-quid with his worst enemy. Social, kind-hearted, psalm-singing, sermon-hearing, Sabbath-keeping Christians; and yet, if we look at the fact of the matter, these very men have been out the whole afternoon of this beautiful day, under God's holy sunshine, as busily at work as Satan himself could wish in learning how to butcher their fellow-creatures, and acquire the true scientific method of impaling a forlorn Mexican on a bayonet, or of sinking a leaden missile in the brain of some unfortunate Briton, urged within its range by the double incentive of sixpence per day in his pocket and the cat-o'-nine tails on his back!" PART III. TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL. CHAPTER I. TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL. The passing away from earth of John Greenleaf Whittier occurred on September 7, 1892, at four-thirty A. M., at Hampton Falls, N. H., in the very heart of the region he has immortalized by his ballads. The hour was just as the reddening east was mingling its light with that of the full harvest moon. Around his bedside were numerous relatives and friends. He fell asleep in an unconscious state, after an illness of a week. Let us now go back and, taking up the thread of the narrative where it was dropped on page 152, run over the incidents that have intervened in the decade since 1882 in the life of this pleasant singer--this plain Quaker farmer, who drew such soul-thrilling strains from his home-made rustic flute as to concentrate upon himself the attention of the whole world. In 1883 (January 7) died, in Boston, Whittier's brother, Matthew Franklin Whittier, whose daughter Elizabeth, before her marriage to Samuel T. Pickard, was house-keeper for a number of years for her uncle, the poet, at Amesbury. "Frank," as his associates called him, obtained, it is said, his position in the Boston Custom House through the influence of his brother. Says a friend (Mr. Charles O. Stickney):-- "Frank was not a poet, and being of a practical turn of mind, had the good sense not to attempt the impossible; but he was a man of intellect, an omnivorous reader, was well posted, and, though inclined to seclusion and taciturnity, was nevertheless genial and companionable; his conversation spiced with his quiet, quaint humor, which bubbled up in some happy _mot_, neat fun, or well-turned bit of satire which raised a laugh, but left no sting behind." His quaint, humorous dialect articles, over the signature "Ethan Spike," are said to have given Nasby and Artemus Ward their cue. They were chiefly contributed to the Portland _Transcript_, the Boston _Carpet Bag_, and New York _Vanity Fair_. They all purported to emanate from "Hornby," a "smart town" in Maine--"a veritable down-east wonderland, whose wide-awake citizens were up to the times and ready to settle any great question of the day at 'a special town meetin'.'" Mr. Spike was as intense in his anti-slavery views as his brother Greenleaf. Specimens of his work may be found in the Portland _Transcript_, January 10, 1846, the _Carpet Bag_, October 14, 1850, and November, 1851. In 1884 Whittier's seventy-seventh birthday was observed at Oak Knoll, when the genial old bachelor received with courtesy and hospitality all who called. Gifts of flowers poured in to serve as foil to the two huge birthday cakes from relatives. An editorial writer in one of Boston's chief dailies thus describes a visit to Mr. Whittier, made in 1884:-- "Mr. Whittier met us at the door of the pleasant house at Oak Knoll. He came out on the piazza, and shook us each by the hand, and said, 'I am glad to see thee.' He concerned himself about our rubbers and waterproofs in the hall-way, and said that we were kind to come. I had taken a great fit of shyness on seeing him, and was surprised to hear my friend speaking to him in the same quiet tone that she had used when alone with me. I listened, and reveled in silence as the old poet and the young artist spoke together. He led us into the parlor, and they talked of a landscape on the wall, of pictures, and of a portrait. "Presently he said: 'It is a little cold here. Shall we go into my room?' He led the way to the bright library where most of his days are now spent. Mr. Whittier happened to glance from the window as we stood for a moment speaking with him: he saw our cab waiting for us on the drive. The rain had begun again. Then a wonderful thing befell. "He forbade us to go away within the quarter hour; he forbade us to go for three hours. He went out and sent the cabman away, then he took us into the library. We sat down in front of the cheery open fire, and Mr. Whittier talked with us. He spoke of the claims of young people on life, it was different from any talk I had heard; in the face of my poets, I used to think that all good people believed that life is our creditor and hard taskmaster." On October 24, 1884, a portrait of Whittier was presented by Charles F. Coffin, of Lynn, Mass., a devoted friend and admirer of his, to the Friends' School of Providence, R.I. It was painted by Edgar Parker, of Boston, and represents Whittier sitting in an arm-chair in an attitude of peaceful thought. It is hung in Alumni Hall, between busts of Elizabeth Fry and John Bright, and is considered to be a worthy memorial of the poet. Letters on this occasion were read from James Russell Lowell, Dr. Holmes, E. P. Whipple, John Bright, George William Curtis, Boyle O'Reilly, Matthew Arnold, and others. From Mr. Whipple's letter the following is an extract:-- "I have had the privilege of knowing him intimately for many years, and of doing all I could through the press to point out his exceptional and original merits as a writer. My admiration of his genius and character has increased with every new volume he has published and every new manifestation of that essential gentleness which lies at the root of his nature, even when some of his poems suggest the warrior rather than the Quaker. One thing is certain: that the reader feels that the writer possesses that peculiar attribute of humanity which we instinctively call by the high name of soul; and, whether he storms into the souls of others or glides into them, his hot invectives equally with his soft persuasions mark him as a man; a man, too, of might; a man whose force is blended with his insight, and who can win or woo his way into hostile or recipient minds by innate strength or delicacy of nature." In 1885 the poet's birthday was again quietly celebrated at Oak Knoll, and in the afternoon Mr. Whittier's portrait was unveiled before a large audience in the Town Hall of Haverhill. In September, 1885, occurred a most interesting festival--the reunion of the graduates of the old Haverhill Academy, for whom the poet cherished to the end of his life an earnest and outspoken affection. It was here that Whittier got all the scholastic education he ever had outside of the district school; the reunion was thoroughly enjoyed therefore by him, although it was in his honor. For his health was pretty good, and he was in fine spirits. An interesting letter was received from the aged Miss Arethusa Hall, a preceptress in the Academy when Whittier attended it. Among others, Dr. Holmes wrote: "The class of 1829 [Harvard] has a bright record; but how much brighter it would have been if we could have read upon the triennial and quinquennial catalogues: Johannes Greenleaf Whittier, A. B., A. M., LL. D., etc! But what, after all, can all the degrees of all the colleges do for him whose soul has been kindled by that 'ae spark of Nature's fire,' which Burns caught from her torch on the banks of Ayr, and Whittier among the mists that rise from the Merrimack?" Mr. Whittier presented photographs of himself with his autograph to his school-mates, promised to think over the sitting for an oil portrait, and entered with zest into any bit of mirthfulness that sparkled out during the evening, although, as will be seen from the following description of a representative of the Boston _Advertiser_, he could scarcely understand the situation:-- "In the company was one man who seemed neither to accept nor to comprehend the situation. That man was John G. Whittier. His face and demeanor that day would have afforded study for a psychologist. That it was fifty-seven years since he entered Haverhill Academy he remembered with a certain sweet melancholy. That everybody was vying with everybody else in making love to him he could not help observing. But what it was all about, and why people should persist in talking of him when he wanted other, more congenial topics to be uppermost--these questions evidently puzzled him. A countenance on which was a look of shyness, of surprise, of perplexity; withal, a countenance irradiated by reciprocal affection and pleasure in seeing others pleased--if any one of the present artists could have caught and delineated those features, the painter would have been destined to share the immortality of the poet. On such a subject the temptation to indulge in reminiscence is strong. But space will permit me to mention only two or three characteristic incidents. A gifted vocalist had just sung a composition prepared for that day; and Mr. Whittier, turning to her, said, 'Friend, I wish that I could write a song for thee to sing.' An elocutionist of note read aloud one of the author's poems. He listened eagerly, as if it was wholly new to him; and a little mist gathered in those deep, dreamy eyes at the lines beginning, 'I mourn no more my vanished years,' but there was an answering gleam at the words, 'The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun.' "Two circumstances made that one of the few red-letter days in the memory of the present writer. I had known in Kansas a lady who belonged to that band of Haverhill Academy pupils whose boast and joy it was to have studied and played with the Quaker poet. On mentioning this lady's name, I found myself instantly accepted as her proxy. For some minutes Mr. Whittier seemed to have no other interest than to learn all possible particulars of her and send to her all possible expressions of regard. "The other circumstance was the result of my connection with the _Advertiser_. Taking me into one corner of the room, he asked me to sit beside him on the sofa. Then, drawing from his pocket the manuscript of the poem which he had written for that occasion and on portions of which the ink was not yet dry, the author, in a manner irresistibly winning, seemed to take his humble brother of the pen-craft into confidence, explaining the motive for various lines and passing on to speak of those boyhood days which the poem and the occasion recalled." December 17 again came round in 1886, and found Whittier receiving friends, presents, and congratulatory telegrams at Oak Knoll. Wendell Phillips, for example, sent him a handsome cane, and some one else sent a great frosted cake and a basket that strained its sides to hold the gift of fruit it contained. In December, 1887, it occurred to a young lady journalist on the staff of the Boston _Advertiser_ (Miss Minna C. Smith) that it would be a good idea to have a "Whittier number" of that journal. The thought was a fertile one and was put into execution in great haste, but with eminent success. Poems were contributed by Walt Whitman, Dr. Holmes, James Jeffrey Roche, Hezekiah Butterworth, Herbert D. Ward, Minot J. Savage, Margaret Sidney (Mrs. D. Lothrop), Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, and others, and there was a great array of letters from other writers and eminent persons. Edward Everett Hale told the story of Whittier's Kansas "Emigrants' Song," how it was sung _en route_ and in the West by brave pioneers of New England. James Parton, of Newburyport, Whittier's Amesbury neighbor, wrote that Whittier was carrying his burthen of eighty years "with considerable ease and constant cheerfulness." He continued:-- "I am sometimes asked, 'Is the poet Whittier really a Quaker or only one by inheritance?' He is really a Quaker. He wears, it is true, a silk hat of the kind familiarly called the stove-pipe, which gleams in the brilliant sun of winter, and seems to indicate at once the man of Boston and the man of the world. But it is not the broad-brimmed hat that makes the Quaker. The poet does actually keep a Quaker coat for Sundays and other dress occasions, which coat was made by a firm of Orthodox Friends in Philadelphia, the metropolitan city of the gentle sect. He also uses the _thee_ and _thou_ in conversation, although without attaching the least importance to these trifles. But he is also a Friend from heartfelt conviction. A few miles from his home is one of the smallest meeting-houses in New England, standing alone in a land of farms and fields. It is painted white, and looks a little like a small school-house. This edifice will seat perhaps forty persons, but the usual congregation numbers about fourteen, who on winter Sundays dwindle often to seven and sometimes to three. This is the meeting-house which the poet Whittier attends whenever he is at home, unless prevented by the weather. "What an extraordinary thing is this! The poet who has most deeply felt and most beautifully expressed the sentiment and soul of New England is a member of the sect to which New England was so intolerant and so cruel! When the essential New England has ceased to exist, it will live again, and live long, in Whittier's poems; and he a Quaker! Was there ever before a revenge so complete and so sublime?" Mr. Charles M. Thompson sent for this octogenarian birthday a fine poetical stanza:-- "A thousand stars swim on through time, Unknown and unregarded in the skies. But one, kings followed; one, thy rhyme, Led on a land of kings in liberty's emprise!" Mr. James H. Carleton knew Whittier in connection with a circle of intellectual and social people that centred around the family of Judge Pitman in the years just preceding the rise of the abolition movement. "The Pitmans were neighbors of mine," said Mr. Carleton, "and I (I hardly know why) was admitted to the meetings of the people who gathered there. They were the leaders in everything that was progressive. They have since become widely scattered. "I remember Mr. Whittier as a leader of these leaders. These people formed to a large extent his social world at that time. It was the one place at which Mr. Whittier threw off his natural reserve and took his proper place. He was a good conversationalist on occasion, and when he spoke he was worth listening to. I remember him as intensely interested in whatever subject occupied the attention of the circle. He was never the first to begin a discussion, but rather bided his time for an especial opportunity." Mr. George C. How wrote of Mr. Whittier's friendliness, his cordiality, and his unassuming manner: "In the few delightful days I spent in his company in the White Mountain region, I saw no signs of formality or reserve. He told me, under the trees, many stories of his life and of his earliest successes. He impresses you strongly as a true and generous friend to everything and every man he believes good and honest. He does not like to be lionized, and refused to be introduced to a man whose only claim to his friendship was that he had read all his works. When, however, Mr. Whittier learned that this same man was an ardent admirer of the poet Hayne, a chord of sympathy was struck that made them firm friends during this stranger's stay." At Oak Knoll the winter day was clear and sunshiny, if cold, and warm hearts within laughed the season to scorn. The ladies of Boston, at the suggestion of Mrs. D. Lothrop, sent up a most unique and exquisite gift; eighty beautiful roses edged a large basket fringed with fern-sprays, that held an open book of white roses, across whose face lay a pen of violets, and on the wide satin book-mark was inscribed the closing stanza of "My Triumph." The Essex Club of Boston presented a large album; fruit and flowers flanked a mighty birthday cake in the dining-room. Mr. Charles F. Coffin, of Lynn, sent a large overflowing basket of fruit, arranged under his personal supervision, "every fruit in its season," of exquisite colors and shapes, to express his affection for his life-long friend, the poet. The new town of Whittier, in California, sent an advance copy of the first issue of the town's newspaper; the Governor of the Commonwealth, as the winter afternoon quickly declined, cut and distributed to the guests slices of the birthday cake, while all through the day Whittier passed to and fro from room to room, conversing with young and old, and hospitable to all. Whittier himself is reported as saying on his eightieth birthday: "When a man is eighty years old, it is time to give up active mental work. Oh! I am able to go about these grounds pretty well. I have never attempted to imitate Gladstone and chop down trees, but I like to split wood." This was James Russell Lowell's verse for Mr. Whittier on his eightieth birthday:-- "How fair a pearl chain, eighty strong, Lustrous and hallowed every one With saintly thoughts and sacred song, As 'twere the rosary of a nun!" The excitement and nervous exhaustion attendant upon these birthday occasions, it always took Mr. Whittier three or four weeks fully to recover from. Hence in 1889 (and partly on account of the recent death of a beloved cousin), the poet announced, through the press, that he should have to ask his friends to spare him any public reception. However, December 17 was observed as "Whittier Day" very generally throughout the country, as it had been in 1887, in accordance with the custom that has grown up of celebrating the birthdays of eminent men in the schools, and introducing into their courses of supplementary reading selected portions of the writings of each. Among the gifts received at Oak Knoll was a painting of a golden vase by Mr. Herman Marcus, of New York City, to whom the poet had appeared in a dream, bearing in his hand an elegant portfolio of red morocco, containing a picture of a vase of Grecian design, richly ornamented, and inscribed with the legend, "May in the smallest part thy sorrows lie concealed and all the rest be filled with joy overflowing." The portfolio and the picture on its page are a close realization of what the donor saw in his dream. Speaking of visitors, Col. Higginson tells two incidents in point. He says two nice little boys called one day on Whittier, saying that they had recently called on Longfellow, and, as he had died soon after, they thought it best to call at once on Mr. Whittier. One of the poet's housekeepers once asked him in severe tones whether all "these people" came on business or whether they were relatives. When told that neither was the case, she said she did not see what they came for then. "Neither did I," said Whittier, with laughing eye. In December, 1890, Mr. Whittier, who had gone down to Amesbury to vote, had been taken ill there, and hardly expected to be able to get back to Oak Knoll by the seventeenth. He did arrive, however, on a sunny day. Many of his friends spared him visits, merely leaving their cards or sending remembrances. His mail was very large, as usual on this day. In the summer of 1891 Mr. Whittier's health was so feeble that he was obliged to abandon his daily walks, except about the grounds at Oak Knoll. Driving was too fatiguing for him, and his hearing had grown so bad that he could converse only with difficulty. In Whittier's poem, "The Red River Voyageur," there is a beautiful allusion to the "bells of the Roman mission," now the Archepiscopate of St. Boniface. Archbishop Tache was reminded by Lieut.-Gov. Schultz that December 17, 1891, was the eighty-fourth birthday of the poet, the suggestion being made that the anniversary should be greeted by a joy-peal from the tower of the Cathedral of St. Boniface, in Winnipeg, Manitoba. His Grace cordially concurred, and the graceful tribute was rendered at midnight with the last stroke of the clock ushering the natal day. Mr. Whittier, having been informed of the incident by United States Consul Taylor, wrote to the Archbishop: "I have reached an age when literary success and manifestations of popular favor have ceased to satisfy one upon whom the solemnity of life's sunset is resting; but such a delicate and beautiful tribute has deeply moved me. I shall never forget it. I shall hear the bells of St. Boniface sounding across the continent, and awakening a feeling of gratitude for thy generous act." Our poet's eighty-fourth birthday (1891), and alas! his last on earth, was delightfully observed at the home of the Cartlands, his cousins, in Newburyport, with whom he was spending the winter. Mr. Joseph Cartland is himself a Quaker, and his white hair and genial cheery temperament are quite of the old régime. He and his wife were teachers in the Friends' School at Providence, R. I. Their fine old mansion on High Street is the identical one built and lived in by Judge Livermore, father of the shrewish saint and devotee of "Snow-Bound." It may be stated, too, that it was to succeed one of the Cartlands in the editorial chair of the _Pennsylvania Freeman_ that Whittier went to Philadelphia in 1838. In this house is kept the old maple-wood desk, made by Joseph Whittier, grandfather of the poet, who, by the way, "wrote on it his first poem." The desk is about one hundred and eighty years old now. On the back are carved the initials "J. W., 1786," in large letters. The wood has been smoothed down a little and a coat of shellac applied. On the back of the drawers are memoranda in chalk and pencil made by Greenleaf's father. On December 17, 1891, the old piece of furniture was covered with hundreds of congratulatory letters which would have made the old farmer Quaker, its builder, rub his eyes in astonishment, could he have seen them. "As he walks slowly down the broad stairs of the Cartlands at Newburyport," says one who saw him on his birthday, "there is much to suggest his years, it is true, yet no signs of unusual feebleness. He is erect for a man of eighty-four; his early litheness has not degenerated into the hopeless leanness of an ill-nourished and uncared-for old age; his step does not drag after his body as if unwilling to carry the burden longer; his head is not lowered, awaiting the smite of Time." Another thus describes Whittier in 1891: "In personal appearance he is remarkable. Tall, and as straight as one of the young pines in his favorite grove, it seems impossible that he is at the end of fourscore years. The crown of his head is bald, and his hair is glossy silver; but his great black eyes are as clear, bright and piercing as if he were in the prime of life. He walks with the deliberation and dignity of age, but without a suggestion of physical feebleness, and while he remains standing his head is as finely poised as a soldier's. The straightness of his figure is the more noticeable on account of his Quaker dress, the coat of which fits him as neatly and closely as if it were the conventional 'swallow-tail.' When seated and listening, his head drops slightly forward and aside--a pose which seems peculiar to poetic natures the world over. He is a most appreciative reader of other men's books and poems, and talks admirably of all good writings except his own, of which he can scarcely be persuaded to speak, even to his dearest intimates." Mr. S. T. Pickard, and Mr. and Mrs. Cartland received the guests in the wide hall of the old-fashioned hospitable Quaker home; and the poet himself wandered here and there about the room, so said the Boston _Advertiser_, "greeting every guest informally and pleasantly, from the old and tried comrades of anti-slavery's earliest days to the little girl in cream-white dress and wide hat, his little friend Margaret Lothrop, who had to stand on tip-toe to greet the bowed head with her childish kiss; and whose small hand he held closely as he kept her by his side." A pleasant note was received from Phillips Brooks:-- "DEAR MR. WHITTIER: "I have no right save that which love and gratitude and reverence may give, to say how devoutly I thank God that you have lived, that you are living, and that you will always live. May his peace be with you more and more. "Affectionately your friend, "PHILLIPS BROOKS." The first guests to arrive were a deputation of fifty from Haverhill, members of the Whittier Club of that town. Whittier made them a little speech, saying it was evident that sometimes a prophet was honored in his own country. The house was filled with cut flowers--in the window-seats, on the tables, in the poet's bedroom, up-stairs--all gifts from friends. The Whittier Club of Haverhill brought eighty-four roses. There was a basket of English violets from Mr. and Mrs. D. Lothrop. Mr. C. F. Coffin, of Lynn, sent, as usual, his generous basket of fruit. From Mr. E. C. Stedman came a painting "High Tide, Hampton Meadows," by Carroll D. Brown. And some kindly old soul sent a half-dozen pairs of socks--the spirit that prompted the gift as deeply appreciated as that of others. Other gifts were: an oil painting of a scene at York Harbor, painted by J. L. Smith, of Boston, the frame carved by A. G. Smith; a ruler of various inlaid woods from California, the gift of pupils of the workshop at West Point, Calaveras County, who wrote a letter, saying that they would devote the birthday to reading and speaking selections from his works; a paper-cutter made from the wood of Fort Loudon, of Winchester, Penn., and sent by the ladies of that place; a hand-painted tray from artist Florence Cammett of Amesbury; a late photograph of Dr. Holmes, "with his hat in his hand, and his most man-of-the-world air;" a souvenir spoon of Independence Hall from W. H. and S. B. Swazey, of Newburyport; a picture of the old Mission at Santa Barbara, done on native olive-wood, from Professor John Murray, of California; a handsome footstool from Elizabeth Cavazza, of Portland, Me.; photogravures of scenes about the Whittier homestead in Haverhill; a transparency ("Snow-Bound") from Austin P. Nichols; eighty-four roses from the girls of Lasell Seminary near Boston, and a wreath of evergreens from Mrs. Annie Fields. Among the messages was one from a little Indian maiden whom Whittier had befriended: "Your young Mohawk friend asks for you to-day the Great Spirit's blessing"--signed, E. Pauline Johnson; a letter came from Abby Hutchinson, of the Hutchinson singers. Among those present were, Mrs. Alice Freeman Palmer, Sarah Orne Jewett, "Margaret Sidney," Mrs. James T. Fields, Mrs. William Claflin, Harriet McEwen Kimball, T. E. Burnham, Mayor of Haverhill, and others. Among the company, conspicuous by those natural gifts that make one a centre for intellectual and genial comradeship, was Mr. D. Lothrop--the eminent publisher--(since passed away, mourned by all) who probably has done more than any other man of present times to create a new literature for children and young people, all achieved when it cost to do it, and that consumed years of patient, persistent struggling, till his splendid success was won. Mr. Whittier writes to his widow, "Thy husband and Mr. Coffin" (the old-time friend referred to), "were the life of my birthday reception, and now both are gone before me." (Mr. Coffin died the week after the birthday.) Again, to quote one of the many extracts of Mr. Whittier's letters concerning Mr. Lothrop: "Let me sit in the circle of thy mourning, for I too have lost in him a friend." There was much to draw the two men together; both sprang from New England ancestry, sturdy as the granite hills of their native State; each possessed the same indomitable will, where a question of right was involved, and the same breadth of charity for all, of whatsoever creed or divergence of opinion. Mr. Whittier partook of but little food in the dining-room, nibbling a bit here and there, and refusing firmly all offers of tea or coffee. His eyes, every one noticed, flamed with old-time lustre, whenever he was interested. Letters of congratulation were received from Robert C. Winthrop, Celia Thaxter, Julia Ward Howe, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Andrew P. Peabody, Rose Terry Cooke (who has since died), George W. Cable, T. W. Higginson, Charles Eliot Norton, and others. Donald G. Mitchell wrote that above Whittier's literary art he admired the broad and cheery humanities of the man. For the eighty-fourth birthday the Boston _Advertiser_ printed a superb illustrated Whittier number, as did also the Boston _Journal_. For the latter Dr. Holmes contributed the following letter: MY DEAR WHITTIER:--I congratulate you on having climbed another glacier and crossed another crevasse in your ascent of the white summit which already begins to see the morning twilight of the coming century. A life so well filled as yours has been cannot be too long for your fellow-men and women. In their affections you are secure, whether you are with them here or near them in some higher life than theirs. I hope your years have not become a burden, so that you are tired of living. At our age we must live chiefly in the past. Happy is he who has a past like yours to look back upon. It is one of the felicitous incidents--I will not say accidents--of my life that the lapse of time has brought us very near together, so that I frequently find myself honored by seeing my name mentioned in near connection with your own. We are lonely, very lonely, in these last years. The image which I have used before this in writing to you recurs once more to my thought. We were on deck together as we began the voyage of life two generations ago. A whole generation passed, and the succeeding one found us in the cabin, with a goodly company of coevals. Then the craft which held us began going to pieces, until a few of us were left on the raft pieced together of its fragments. And now the raft has at last parted, and you and I are left clinging to the solitary spar, which is all that still remains afloat of the sunken vessel. I have just been looking over the headstones in Mr. Griswold's cemetery, entitled "The Poets and Poetry of America." In that venerable receptacle, just completing its half-century of existence--for the date of the edition before me is 1842--I find the names of John Greenleaf Whittier and Oliver Wendell Holmes next each other, in their due order, as they should be. All around are the names of the dead--too often of forgotten dead. Three which I see there are still among those of the living. Mr. John Osborne Sargent, who makes Horace his own by faithful study and ours by scholarly translation; Isaac McLellan, who was writing in 1830, and whose last work is dated 1886; and Christopher P. Cranch, whose poetical gift has too rarely found expression. Of these many dead you are the most venerated, revered and beloved survivor; of these few living the most honored representative. Long may it be before you leave a world where your influence has been so beneficent, where your example has been such inspiration, where you are so truly loved, and where your presence is a perpetual benediction. Always affectionately yours, Oliver Wendell Holmes. Following is one of two stanzas sent to the Poet of Freedom by his friend "Margaret Sidney," and which, says the _Advertiser_, with one other tribute, was the only one of the innumerable letters and poems sent him that he read in its entirety that day, owing to his failing eyesight: "To be near the heart of Christ Was his creed; White as truth the life That all men may read; Strengthful of soul, Yet lowly in meekness; Dreading no hate of men, Scorning all weakness, He sounded the warning note, When it cost to be brave and true; Sang freedom for the slave, Then almost death to do. 'Unbind every shackle, Loosen each chain, Bid every slave go free!'" Mr. F. B. Sanborn wrote some interesting autobiographical reminiscences for the _Advertiser_. He stated: "I can scarcely remember when I did not read Whittier and Holmes. Their verses were eagerly caught up and reprinted by all the newspapers, and I knew them by heart before I ever saw a volume of them. Whittier, indeed, was almost my neighbor, living only eight miles away across the Merrimack, and sometimes coming for silent worship or to hear Mrs. Edward Gove speak in the Quaker meeting-house at Seabrook, only three miles from the farm of my ancestors. But I did not know this then; I never went there to see him. He is a distant cousin of mine, both of us tracing descent, through his daughters, from that stout and ungovernable old Puritan minister, Stephen Bachiler, who planted the old town of Hampton, in whose wide limits I was born, and which extended almost to Amesbury." Another scholarly writer in the same paper wrote instructively of Whittier in the Massachusetts Legislature. The Legislature of 1835 he describes as a notable one in the quality of its members and in the work accomplished. An extra session was held in the autumn. The Speaker of the House was Judge Julius Rockwell of Pittsfield, with whom Whittier had already formed a personal acquaintance through Judge Rockwell's contributions to the _New England Review_. Among the Suffolk County representatives were such names as Frothingham, Brooks, Otis, Sturgis, Peabody, and Hon. Robert C. Winthrop, also Col. J. B. Fay, the first mayor of Chelsea. It is not remembered that Whittier made any set speech, but he nevertheless did so much and such arduous work as to make himself ill before the session was half over. Dr. Bowditch, he often recalled with amusement, told him that, if he followed implicitly the rules he laid down for him, he might live to see his fiftieth birthday; otherwise, not. Perhaps no one man has been more frequently interviewed concerning the policy of party politics than John G. Whittier. With gifted qualities of heart and mind, was added wisdom, prudence and sagacity, in all that related to governmental affairs. The late Henry Wilson once said of him, "I can rely more safely upon the advice of Whittier than upon any other man in America." In the early movements of the Republican party he was acknowledged to be the power behind the throne. Sumner, wise and learned, could trust to the advice of Whittier. His correspondence with such men as Giddings, Chase, Sumner, Wilson, John P. Hale, Upham and other celebrities, upon national topics, is known to a few of his friends. They contain sentiments which prove him as wise in statesmanship as he is eloquent in verse. How well and faithfully he labored is best expressed in his words: "I am not insensible to literary reputation; I love, perhaps too well, the love and praise of my fellow-men; but I set a higher value on my name as appended to the Anti-Slavery Declaration of 1833, than on the title page of any book." On the subject of the abolishment of capital punishment, Whittier's vote is found recorded in the affirmative, as might have been expected. He has said that one of the pleasantest years of his life was that passed during the session of the Legislature in 1835. One of the chief reasons why Whittier went seven miles from his Amesbury home last summer was to "escape pilgrims" (as he called them). One Sunday after meeting at Amesbury he said to his life-long friend, Miss Gove, "Abby, has thee a spare room up at thy house?" She responded in the affirmative, and he went to her home in Hampton Falls for the latter part of the summer. It was here he penned his last poem--the verses "To Oliver Wendell Holmes:" "The gift is thine the weary world to make More cheerful for thy sake, Soothing the ears its Miserere pains With the old Hellenic strains." In a letter to one of the editors of the _Critic_ (August 29, 1892), Dr. Holmes wrote, concerning his birthday: "I have received two poems in advance, and our dear friend Whittier, whose heart is a cornucopia of blessings for his fellow-creatures, has remembered me in the pages of the _Atlantic_, where we have found ourselves side by side for so many years. Long may the sands of his life keep running, for they come from the bed of Pactolus." The news of his friend's death was received by Dr. Holmes in Beverly, just as he was coming in from a drive along the shore. It was a heavy blow, coming as it did just upon the death of Lowell, Thomas Parsons, and George William Curtis. He remarked that his acquaintance with Whittier dated from the year of the founding of the _Atlantic Monthly_. He had frequently visited him at Oak Knoll. He was there last year, and the two old fellows walked and talked among the trees and had a good time together. When the Doctor was leaving, his friend loaded him down with fruit. It was on one of these recent visits that Dr. Holmes with characteristic keenness of perception, discovered the beautiful symmetry of the grand Norway spruce in front of the mansion on the wide sweep of lawn, and he laughingly named it "The Poet's Pagoda," and this name it has kept ever since. To return to "Elmfield," as the old Gove mansion is called. The old-fashioned house, with its upper balconies, heavy chimneys, and rich collection of historical relics, stands on a hill not far from the falls which gave the name to the village--Hampton Falls. The sight from Whittier's window commanded a little balcony, with a view of the distant blue sea. One day after another passed quietly away, he rising at seven, going across through a pine grove to the adjoining tavern for his breakfast, getting the mail at the little post-office, reading the papers, looking at the distant sails on the sea through a glass, conversing with friends or walking in the neighboring orchard, with its paths and rustic seats. The region is that where his Bachiler and Hussey ancestors both lived, as Mr. F. B. Sanborn tells us (Boston _Advertiser_, September 8, 1892). Daniel Webster's Bachiler ancestors also lived on a farm, a mile and a half from the Gove mansion; namely, where now stands the villa of Warren Brown. As Mr. Sanborn truthfully says, Whittier has been the local poet of this whole region of Essex and adjoining counties. "No poet of New England," he continues, "has lived so close to the actual habits of the people, in the present and the past centuries, as did Whittier; and his poems of locality will become as much a feature of New England literature as are those of Burns and Scott in their native country. This fidelity to homely fact and profound sentiment have made Whittier more than any other the patrial and religious poet of New Hampshire and Eastern Massachusetts. He has done in verse what Hawthorne did in prose. It was only the accident or accomplishment of verse which separated these two poets, and made one of them our most graceful and romantic prose-writer, while the other became our most spiritual and literal poet." The truth of these statements comes home to me with force since I made a week's itinerary through this Whittier ballad land a year ago, and saw how every mile of coast land was celebrated in storied verse by Whittier. On Wednesday, August 31, Mr. Whittier was taken ill. The malady was acute diarrhea, which by the Saturday following developed a new and alarming symptom, a remarkable irregularity of the heart's action, accompanied by partial paralysis of the left side, arms, and vocal organs. He remained conscious until Tuesday at three P. M., when the symptoms became markedly worse. He was surrounded by ministering relatives and friends, who gave him every loving attention, but all were powerless to stay the hand of death. When urged to take the nourishment prescribed by his physicians, he said: "I want water from Abby's (Miss Gove) nice well," and as it was given, remarked with a bright smile, "That's good--nothing better." Soon after, as his forehead was being bathed, he said, "That is all that can be done." To his attending physicians, Drs. Douglass and Howe, and nurse, he said: "I am worn out--thee have done what thee could--I thank thee." And as the end drew near the dying poet recognized his niece from Portland, and remarked in faltering words, "Love--to--the--world." These were his last words. He died at four-thirty on the morning of the seventh. At seven o'clock on Friday evening the silent form of the poet was brought to Amesbury, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. S. T. Pickard, and Mr. and Mrs. Cartland. On Saturday morning business was entirely suspended in Amesbury. The selectmen issued the following proclamation:-- "To the Citizens of Amesbury:--Our town has been saddened by the death of its great poet and one of its noblest and best-loved citizens. We feel that our country at large, and the civilized world, mourns with us the death of the poet and liberty-loving philanthropist, John G. Whittier. "Sharing the sadness which must come to the wise and good everywhere, we, the people of Amesbury, mourn the loss of a friend and neighbor endeared to us by his lovable qualities and the purity of his daily life in our midst. "We revered him for his greatness, and loved him for himself. Always identified with every good work in Amesbury, sustaining the right and defending the oppressed, his life for more than half a century has been to us a daily sermon. "If it be true that 'The heart speaketh most when the life move,' we can only add that such a life, with its fullness of years and its crown of blessings, is a rich legacy to the community." [Illustration: THE GOVE HOUSE, HAMPTON FALLS, N. H., IN WHICH WHITTIER DIED.] At ten o'clock the public was admitted to the house, passing in a continuous line (as at the funeral of dear old Walt Whitman, his brother poet of Democracy, a few months before in Camden) through the humble little parlor of the Amesbury home. It was originally intended to hold the services in the Friends' meeting-house near by; but the dense fog clearing up and the bright sun coming out--as one beautifully said, "the mystery of death typified by the shifting and elusive shadows of the fog, and the glory and hopefulness of the resurrection by the bright rays of the sun"--it was decided to let the body rest in the house, and hold memorial services in the quiet garden in the rear of the house. The funeral arrangements were in charge of William Lloyd Garrison, Jr., S. T. Pickard and Judge G. W. Cate, the tenant of the house. The atmosphere was one of peace and restfulness, and the simplicity of the life of the Friends was seen in all the arrangements. In the quaint parlor of the homestead lay all that was mortal of the poet, on whose face was an expression of supreme peace; his form was encircled by a delicate fringe of trailing fern. A most beautiful wreath from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--eighty-four white roses, fringed with carnations and maidenhair ferns, one for each year of the poet's life,--was laid around the name-plate on the coffin. It was a touching tribute by the last one of that remarkable galaxy of poets that marked such a distinguished era in our American literature. Two crossed palms, with the Japan lilies Whittier loved so well, encircled by a broad white satin ribbon, were from Mrs. Daniel Lothrop. The fronds of the long palms encircled the face of the dead poet as it looked out from the large engraving between the windows of the parlor. Upon the end of the ribbon was delicately painted six lines from Whittier's "Andrew Rykman's Prayer:" "Some sweet morning yet in God's Dim æonian periods, Joyful I shall wake to see Those I love who rest in Thee, And to them in Thee allied Shall my soul be satisfied." Upon the accompanying card was this: "In memory of my husband's dear friend. This verse of 'Andrew Rykman's Prayer' was consolation in the hour of death to both him who wrote it, and to him who loved it.--Mrs. Daniel Lothrop." Another exquisite floral offering came with these lines: "I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care." On the back of the card were the words "Oak Knoll." The alcove behind the casket was filled with floral tributes. Here was a large St. Andrew's cross of exquisite white roses upon a bed of ivy, from a very near and dear friend of Mr. Whittier's at Lexington, whose name is withheld. There was a ladder of hydrangeas, gladioli, carnations and snow-balls from Mrs. Albert Clarke of Amesbury, an ivy wreath from Sarah Orne Jewett, a sheaf of wheat from Mrs. Lizzie Cheney and the Misses Coffin of Lynn, a broken shaft of white carnations from Mr. and Mrs. J. Henry Hall of Amesbury. A massive wreath of Whittier's own much-loved pine tassels was hung above the portrait of his sister Elizabeth, the tribute of Mrs. Joseph A. Purington; the heavy green was relieved by a spray of bright, contrasting goldenrod. Mrs. Samuel Rowell, Jr., sent a basket of white roses and maidenhair. There was a beautiful spray of the passion flower from L. Kelcher, Hotel Winthrop, Boston, and an hour-glass of white carnations from Mr. J. R. Fogg. Many touching little clusters of flowers came from the children; and his neighbors sent a beautiful wreath of fringed gentian--Whittier's favorite flower. This came from the far Pacific Slope: "Lay one flower for me upon the bier of the beloved friend who rests. No purer soul ever passed from earth to Heaven, or bore with it greater love and blessing than does his.--Ina D. Coolbrith, Oakland, Cal." In the garden, and overlooked by the windows of the study where Mr. Whittier wrote and thought for so many years, was gathered to pay the last tributes of love and reverence to the dead poet, a large and notable assemblage: Gen. O. O. Howard, E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Alice Freeman Palmer, Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps-Ward, Gail Hamilton, Lucy Larcom, Edna Dean Proctor, Horace E. Scudder, T. W. Higginson, ex-Governor Claflin, Parker Pillsbury, Francis H. Underwood, Edward L. Pierce, Robert S. Rantoul, Mrs. C. A. Dall, "Margaret Sidney," Harriet Prescott Spofford, Mrs. Endicott, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, Jr., Frank J. Garrison, etc. And the sight was one never to be forgotten. Under the soft September sky, blue and cloudless, in the shade of pear and apple trees which Whittier himself had planted and tended and loved, were his relatives, friends, neighbors and men and women whose names are known wherever the English language is spoken. It scarcely seemed like a funeral, so unaffectedly natural and sincere was every spoken word and every act. And the entire absence of formality and stiffness deprived the occasion of that artificial gloom which is so often characteristic of funerals. Perhaps, too, the subtle influence of the balmy air and the beauties of the place helped to lift the pall that must have hung over many a heart. It was as if the friends of some dearly beloved man, who was going on a journey, had gathered to bid him God-speed--not as if they had come to bid him farewell. A hollow square was formed around a low platform, and near by was a table with a Bible upon it. Gentians, one of Whittier's favorite flowers, and goldenrod formed the only floral ornaments. Back of the seats stood a dense crowd that must have numbered thousands, almost filling the garden. Children climbed the trees and looked with open-eyed wonder on the scene. On an apple bough, his naked legs dangling in the air almost over the head of Edmund Clarence Stedman, was an urchin who might have inspired the "Barefoot Boy;" faces peered from many a tree, from the vine-clad arbor and from the window of a neighboring barn, down upon the crowd. The poet's relatives, and members of the Society of Friends from various places, occupied the seats forming the hollow square, an easy-chair being reserved for Oliver Wendell Holmes, but he was unable to be present. The Friends gave the exercises their peculiar complexion; first one and then another rising to eulogize their friend as the "Spirit moved them." Verses of Whittier were recited by "that lovely Quaker lady," Mrs. Gertrude Cartland, and by Mrs. James H. Chace. Mr. E. C. Stedman was the last speaker. He spoke of the personal loss he felt in the poet's death. "To know him was a consecration, to have his sympathy a benediction. His passing away was not so much a death as a translation. He is gone, and has not left his mantle! How could he? Why should he? No one can overestimate his artless art, his power, vigor and effect in his polemic efforts. No one put so much heart or so much religion into his writings. He was one of the great trio of New England poets, of whom there is only one now left. They are the vanishers of whom he spoke. He was a believer in the inward life, as a poet should be. He will be his own successor, and belongs to our time as well as to that earlier time to which he is linked by his work. We may say of him that the chariot swung low and he was translated, dividing the waters of truth, beauty, and religion, with his mantle. The last time I spoke at a memorial service was at Bayard Taylor's funeral. Taylor was Whittier's friend, and like Whittier he had a firm belief in immortality." It is to Mr. Stedman that Whittier dedicated in a few choice lines his latest volume of verse, "At Sundown," which the poet, as if prescient of his coming death, had had privately printed and circulated among a few friends a year before his fatal illness. The most picturesque and striking figure at Whittier's funeral was that of the venerable John W. Hutchinson, whose long gray hair fell over a broad white Rembrandt collar. He and his sister, Abby Hutchinson Patton, were life-long friends of Whittier, and their voices in the song they sang--"Close his eyes, his work is done"--were, "like the echoes of sweet bells from the far-away time of their youth, when they and Whittier were one in endeavor." And then the long procession was formed. In the family lot, in the Friends' section of the Union Cemetery, where are buried his father, mother, sisters and brother, John Greenleaf Whittier was laid to rest. The Boston _Journal_, in writing of Whittier's obsequies, gathered up this tender reminiscence:-- "We recall the incident of some ten years since, when Mr. Daniel Lothrop, the late publisher, while visiting in California, used Whittier's poem, 'Andrew Rykman's Prayer' to comfort the bereaved. Mr. Lothrop had, as it were, been brought up on Mr. Whittier's poems, there being in many ways a great similarity of tastes and characteristics between them. Of late years there was a strong friendship. The clergyman of a prominent Oakland church had died suddenly in the pulpit some few weeks before, and at the large memorial meeting Mr. Lothrop was asked without warning by the chairman to recite this poem, as he had heard him repeat a few lines from it during a consecration meeting. Mr. Lothrop ascended the platform and gave the poem entire. There was a profound hush throughout the vast assembly, like that following the instant when the beloved pastor had suddenly fallen before their eyes. Many were in tears, all agreeing that Whittier's strong, uplifting words comforted them more than anything else that had been said. Rev. Dr. Gordon, in the address at Mr. Lothrop's funeral in the Old South Church, appropriately recited this poem for the late publisher, who on his death-bed used this poem, as he had in health and strength." James G. Blaine telegraphed that he had "long regarded Whittier with affectionate veneration," and over the wire came from Frederick Douglas the words, "Emancipated millions will hold his memory sacred." Speaking of Mr. Blaine, a writer, "S. F. M.," in the Boston _Journal_, December 18, 1891, tells of Mr. Blaine's presenting his, "S. F. M.'s," brother with a morocco-bound copy of the beautiful Mussey edition, and of Mr. Blaine's reading and re-reading aloud, one Sunday at their house in Charlestown, Mass., the poem "Among the Hills," which had then just been issued. Memorial services on the afternoon of the funeral were held in Danvers, Haverhill, Salem, Mass., and Vassalboro, Maine. The old Whittier grange at the cross roads in Haverhill was draped in mourning. The present owner of the birthplace is Mr. George E. Elliott, a retired wealthy gentleman of Haverhill; and it is hoped that at no distant day he may be induced to sell it to the town of Haverhill, who would sacredly keep this cherished spot marking the nativity of her distinguished son, so that all lovers of John G. Whittier's poetry may have an opportunity to see his early home. The day after the funeral between seventeen and eighteen hundred people visited the grave. And, as in the case of Walt Whitman's grave, each one wanted a leaf or flower as a memento, so that it was necessary in both cases to have the place of sepulture guarded by special watchmen, in order that anything green be left. The funeral of the poet was conducted as he himself wished. For in his will he wrote, "It is my wish that my funeral may be conducted in the plain and quiet way of the Society of Friends, with which I am connected not only by birthright, but also by a settled conviction of the truth of its principles and the importance of its testimonies." Mr. Whittier, by the way, in his will requests all who have letters of his to refrain from publishing them unless with the consent of his literary executor, Mr. S. T. Pickard. So beautifully ended a most beautiful life--beautiful because just and heroic in the defense of justice. As says of him James Herbert Morse:-- "Such was the man--no more than simple man, Plain Quaker, with the Norman-Saxon glow; But seeing beauty so, and justice so, We love to think him the American." And as Lowell says:-- "Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake, The lily's anchorage, which no eyes behold Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's sake That lay in bonds thou blew'st a blast as bold As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake, Far heard through Pyrenean valleys cold!" The lines strong and resonant, of Stedman's "Ad Vatem," addressed to Whittier while living, might well have been uttered over his bier:-- "Whittier, the land that loves thee, she whose child Thou art, and whose uplifted hands thou long Hast staid with song availing like a prayer-- She feels a sudden pang who gave thee birth, And gave to thee the lineaments supreme Of her own freedom, that she could not make Thy tissues all immortal, or, if to change, To bloom through years coeval with her own; So that no touch of age nor frost of time Should wither thee, nor furrow thy dear face, Nor fleck thy hair with silver. Ay, she feels A double pang that thee, with each new year Glad youth may not revisit, like the spring That routs her northern winter and anew Melts off the hoar snow from her puissant hills." Many pleasant anecdotes of the Quaker poet appeared shortly after his death. Col. T. W. Higginson, writing of the Amesbury home, said of Whittier's mother:-- "On one point only this blameless soul seemed to have a shadow of solicitude, this being the new wonder of Spiritualism just dawning on the world. I never went to the house that there did not come from the gentle lady very soon a placid inquiry from behind her knitting needles, 'Has thee any further information to give in regard to the spiritual communications, as they call them?' But if I attempted to treat seriously a matter which then, as now, puzzled most inquirers by its perplexing details, there would come some keen thrust from Elizabeth Whittier which would throw all serious solution further off than ever. "She was indeed a brilliant person, unsurpassed in my memory for the light cavalry charges of wit; as unlike her mother and brother as if she had been born into a different race. Instead of his regular features, she had a wild, bird-like look, with prominent nose and large liquid dark eyes, whose expression vibrated every instant between melting softness and impetuous wit. There was nothing about her that was not sweet and kindly, but you were constantly taxed to keep up with her sallies and hold your own; while her graver brother listened with delighted admiration and rubbed his hands over bits of merry sarcasm which were utterly alien to his own vein. His manifold visitors were touched off in living colors; two plump and rosy Western girls among them, who had lately descended upon the household beaming with eagerness to see the poet. "They had announced themselves as the Cary sisters, who had lately sent him their joint poems--verses, it will be remembered, crowded with deaths and melodious dirges that seemed ludicrously inconsistent with the blooming faces at the door. Mrs. Whittier met them rather guardedly and explained that her son was out. 'But we will come in and wait for him,' they smilingly replied. 'But he is in Boston, and may not be home for a week,' said the prudent mother. 'No matter,' they said, in the true spirit of Western hospitality; 'we can stay till he returns.' There was no resource but to admit them; and happily the poet came back next day, and there ensued a life-long friendship, in which the mother fully shared." And another reminiscence appeared in the press, touching the poet's residence in Boston. When Mrs. Celia Thaxter was boarding at the little English-like inn on the sunny slope of Beacon Hill called Hotel Winthrop, Mr. Whittier went there one day to see her. Mrs. Thaxter liked the quiet place, with its ivied window and its glimpse of the strong, short, green-draped tower of St. John the Evangelist's, and she praised it to her old friend. That was some time in 1881, and in November of that year he joined his Oak Knoll cousins, Mrs. Woodman and her daughter and the Misses Johnson, at the Winthrop. The ladies of the family came in September, but Mr. Whittier did not join them until November. He said that he did not want to lose his vote in Amesbury. It was a winter full of pleasure to the poet. He was then not too feeble to go out evenings, and he spent many pleasant hours with friends like the Claflins and others. But the hours in the parlor of the hotel make the place historic, and give it a special interest and meaning for his future biographer. Mr. Whittier had room fourteen (the number of a sonnet's lines, twice seven, with luck for a poet), and the fire-escape made a little balcony for him on a corner toward St. John's. The landlord had a door cut through the thick old wall to the rooms adjoining, and these were the rooms of Mrs. Woodman and the rest. It is old Boston decidedly in that quarter. The brick of the houses is mellow old red, and there is nothing newfangled anywhere about. Mr. Whittier said he preferred coming here rather than to one of the big hotels, because there he was "overwhelmed with the service," and here it seemed "more like Amesbury," where people "are neighborly and drop in without knocking." He had "always been used to waiting upon himself," and he "liked being in a place where they would let him." It was his custom, mornings, to come down into the little reception-room on the street floor, and "sitting right in that chair where you're sitting," as the writer was told, he "used to read his letters and throw all the papers in a pile on the floor and go off and leave them." That little room was a great place of congregation for "the family," as the boarders who were there with Mr. Whittier liked to call themselves. The poet would sit on the sofa with a favored one on each side of him and the rest in a group about, "often on footstools or on the floor, as like as not," while he "told stories of war times." Gen. Stevens was there during one of the poet's long stays; he had been a classmate of Gen. Lee and of Jefferson Davis at West Point, and he and the abolition poet discussed these men and their times from the broader view of later days. "Once a friend, a lady who had some property in Virginia, wrote Mr. Whittier of having named a street in a new town for him, and of having set aside a portion of ground in his name. He replied with thanks, saying that he had that week received news of no less than three towns or streets being named for him with a gift of town lots, adding, 'If this sort of thing goes on much longer, I shall be land poor.' "During the winters he was at the Winthrop, Mr. Whittier's favorite way of getting about was in a herdic. They were 'not pretty,' but they 'knew the way to places.' Politicians used to go there to see him and try to get him to banquets. But his life-long avoidance of politics in the minor sense made him easily resist their wiles. 'I have seen Mr. ---- (a well-known name) come here and just about go down on his knees to get Mr. Whittier to speak or even to come to a banquet,' says the landlord (who is, by the way, an old-time character worthy of a novelist's pen), 'but Mr. Whittier would just sit here--right in that chair you're in--and kind of smile to himself as if to say, "Oh! your talk don't amount to anything." Well, once Mr. ---- came here and staid and staid a-talking and persuading, and gave Mr. Whittier an earache if ever a man had one. But he didn't make anything by it, although he finally had to take a bed and stay all night.'" Mr. Charles Brainard visited Whittier soon after the publication of "Snow-Bound." Finding his house painted and improved, he remarked to him, "It is evident that poetry has ceased to be a drug in the market." "The next morning Mr. Whittier's answer came. It was in the winter, and, as the poet went up to the fire to warm his boots preparatory to putting them on, he said, 'Thee will have to excuse me, for I must go down to the office of the Collector.' Then, with a humorous gleam in his eye, he added, 'Since "Snow-Bound" was published, I have risen to the dignity of an income tax.'" To an Englishman who visited him not long before his death, Mr. Whittier expressed his surprise that his guest should know so much of his poetry by heart. "I wonder," he said, "thou shouldst burden thy memory with all that rhyme. It is not well to have too much of it: better get rid of it as soon as possible. Why, I can't remember any of it. I once went to hear a wonderful orator, and he wound up his speech with a poetical quotation, and I clapped with all my might. Some one touched me on the shoulder, and said. 'Do you know who wrote that?' I said, 'No, I don't; but it's good.' It seems I had written it myself. The fault is I have written far too much." Here is a story illustrating Whittier's kind-heartedness: A young lady, a neighbor, was asked to take tea at his house. "He had no servant at the moment, and, with the assistance of his guest, prepared the simple meal with his own hand. She contributed to the press for her support, and prepared a minute account of the affair, of which Mr. Whittier chanced to be advised, and sent off a remonstrance post haste. But when the young author pleaded the real need of the money which the little story was to bring her, and the harmlessness to its subject of its effective details, the former reason (for the latter would never have overcome his abhorrence of what he must have felt a vivisection) actually prevailed, and he permitted the publication with a benignant forbearance." The Hon. Nathan Crosby, LL. D., writes in the Essex Institute Collections for 1880. "James F. Otis, nephew of the Hon. H. G. Otis, while reading law in my office, found in some newspaper a piece of poetry which he said he was told had been written by a shoemaker boy in Haverhill, and he wished to go and find him. Upon his return he told me he found the young man by the name of Whittier at work in his shoe shop, and, making himself known to him, they spent the day together in wandering over the hills on the shore of the Merrimack, and in conversation upon literary matters. The next year he became an editor. Mr. Whittier is not only a poet, but is himself a poem." Mr. Whittier, when interviewed some time ago as to his favorite works, replied: "Oh! really, I have none. Much that I have written I wish was as deep in the Red Sea as Pharaoh's chariot wheels. Much of the bread cast on the waters I wish had never returned. It is not fair to revive writings composed in the shadow of conditions that make every acceptable work impossible. In my early life I was not favored with good opportunities. Limited chances for education and a lack of books always stood in my way. When I began to write I had seen nothing, and virtually knew nothing of the world. Of course, things written then could not be worth much. In my father's house there were not a dozen books, and they were of a severe type. The only one that approached poetry was a rhymed history of King David, written by a contemporary of George Fox, the Quaker. There was one poor novel in the family. It belonged to an aunt. This I secured one day, but when I had read it about half through I was discovered and it was taken away from me." This was about the time when Judge Pickering, of Salem, and a party of ladies called at the farm-house to see him. "He was then an awkward boy of seventeen--as he used to tell the story--and was just then under the barn, looking for eggs. Hearing his name called, he came up with his hat full and found himself suddenly in the presence of people more elegant in appearance than any he had ever met. In telling the story, he added naïvely, 'They came to see the Quaker poet--and they saw him!' This must have been about the year 1824." Mr. T. W. Ball (in the Boston _Journal_, Dec. 18, 1891, weekly edition), the journalist, wrote of his sole interview in 1848 with Whittier, in a little editorial den at the junction of Spring Lane and Water Street with Devonshire Street (the building recently torn down), where Henry Wilson was then editing the Free-Soil paper (owned by him as well). "I was busy," says Mr. Ball, "getting up some local items one morning, when a gentleman of staid appearance, with a beaming countenance, a broad-brimmed fur hat--the old-fashioned fur hat, so different from the silk tile--and a brownish coat of formal cut, entered the room, and, after the usual courtesies of salutation, fell into a close chat with the 'Natick cobbler,' by which popular title the future Vice-President was then known. It was the summer season, and Wilson was resplendent in a brown linen coat and a flaming red-checked velvet waistcoat, which was much affected in those days. As the conversation between the two waxed interesting, I noticed that the visitor unbuttoned his vest for comfort, and possessed himself of an exchange paper which he converted into a fan. The interview closed, and the visitor, buttoning up his vest and donning his hat, turned to depart, when for the first time he appeared to take notice of my presence. With a rapid glance at Wilson, he said, 'Henry, who is thy young friend?' "'Oh, that's William, my local reporter,' was the reply. 'Here, William, this is Mr. Whittier, the Quaker poet, that you have heard about; shake hands with him.' I timidly extended my hand, and the great man not only grasped it with a cordial grasp, but, patting me on the head with his other hand, said, 'My young friend, thee has chosen a noble calling.'" Mr. Whittier, in speaking of Longfellow's works a few years ago, said, "'Evangeline' is a favorite with me. I think it is one of the most beautiful of poems. Longfellow had an easy life and superior advantages of association and education, and so did Emerson. It was widely different with me, and I am very thankful for the kind esteem that people have given my writings. Before 'Evangeline' was written I had hunted up the history of the banishment of the Acadians, and had intended to write upon it myself, but I put it off, and Hawthorne got hold of the story and gave it to Longfellow. I am very glad he did, for he was just the one to write it. If I had attempted it I should have spoiled the artistic effect of the poem by my indignation at the treatment of the exiles by the Colonial Government, who had a very hard lot after coming to this country. Families were separated and scattered about, only a few of them being permitted to remain in any given locality. The children were bound out to the families in the localities in which they resided, and I wrote a poem upon finding in the records of Haverhill the indenture that bound an Acadian girl as a servant in one of the families in that neighborhood. Gathering the story of her death, I wrote 'Marguerite.'" In addition to what has been stated in this volume and elsewhere by me on the Barbara Frietchie ballad, are to be finally appended a few words, suggested by the one who sent the raw material of the ballad to Whittier, namely, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, who, soon after the poet's death, at her pretty home in Georgetown, D. C., recalled the circumstances as they occurred back in 1863. It seems that the story was told her by a neighbor of hers who was also a relative of Barbara--Mr. C. S. Ramsburg. Mrs. Southworth's son, who was present, remarked, "What a grand subject for a poem by Whittier, mother!" She thereupon sat down, and with tears in her eyes, wrote the incident out and sent it to Amesbury. Mr. Whittier replied as follows:-- "AMESBURY, 9mo. 8, 1863. "MY DEAR MRS. SOUTHWORTH:--I heartily thank thee for thy very kind letter and its inclosed "message." It ought to have fallen into better hands, but I have just written out a little ballad of "Barbara Frietchie," which will appear in the next _Atlantic_. If it is good for anything thee deserves all the credit of it. "With best wishes for thy health and happiness, I am most truly thy friend, "JOHN G. WHITTIER." It is said that Mr. Whittier expressed regret for having made a bonfire of nearly all the letters he had received from his correspondents for over half a century. It is to be hoped that his literary executor will be liberal-minded in allowing the publication of the most interesting of Whittier's own letters, for he put a good bit of his sister Elizabeth's wit and vivacity into his letters; and scarcely a day passed that one or more of these was not written, overflowing with kindly words and good humor, though these, it is true, could give no hint of that lambent gleam of the marvelous eyes, nor of that sudden compression of the upper lip with which he repressed a smile when he had flashed out a bit of humor. Whittier was not only quick in repartee, but quick and lithe in all his movements, and quick in his mental processes. His friend, Judge G. W. Cate, says he latterly read books very rapidly by inspection, turning the leaves and seizing the contents by intuition. The poet's imagination, continues Judge Cate, was wonderful. Years ago he may have read an accurate description of some remote place--Malta, Jerusalem, or some smaller town in the far East. He would then converse at any time as readily about such a place as if he had been there. It was this vivid remembrance of places, Whittier himself said, which made him not care so much to visit them in person. He was never a traveler, not having been farther from home than Philadelphia (half a century ago), and Washington somewhat later. He said that he should like to be in California or Florida for a winter, but the getting there appalled him, and so he sat contentedly in his Northern study, with its bright open fire, finding in its crumbling embers a compensatory dream of the _Morgenland_ with its palms, mirages and luxuriant blossomry. He followed with deep interest the toils and adventures of his friend Greely in the arctic regions, and rejoiced with all his neighbors when word came of his rescue. And at another time he said he "would rather shake hands with Stanley than with any other man in the world just then." The sincerest mourners at Whittier's funeral were women. One of the peculiarities of his life was the devotion and loving care given to him by noble women--sisters, mother, nieces, cousins and such poet friends as Lucy Larcom, Mrs. Spofford, Rose Terry Cooke, Sarah Orne Jewett, Celia Thaxter, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps and Mrs. Annie Fields. He was always an ardent defender of woman suffrage, and such advocates of that noble cause as Adelaide A. Claflin publicly expressed their sorrow on the death of their coadjutor and friend. He was not only liberal in politics, but also in religion, and while remaining from choice in the creedless church of his fathers, yet he had sympathies that allied him with the broad humanitarian movements of the times in religion. There was no shred of bigotry in his nature. Who ever heard of a persecuting Quaker? It is they who have always patiently suffered persecution. Whittier, indeed, belonged with the advance guard of the Friends, in spirit at least, and he said in a letter written shortly before his death, "For years I have been desirous of a movement for uniting all Christians, with no other creed or pledge than a simple recognition of Christ as our leader." * * * * * The Whittier Club of Haverhill, an organization the poet had thoroughly enjoyed, not only because it represented the feeling of his native town toward him, but also from the constant attentions paid him by it, held a memorial service in Haverhill, October 7. It was a rare day of tribute and thanksgiving, and all who participated in it felt grateful for the honor allowed them. It was just a month from the day when the loved poet and former citizen passed from earth. Mr. George E. Elliott, the owner of Whittier's birthplace, very generously allowed the club to hold its meeting in the old homestead, and he furthered in every way their well-conceived plan by which the several rooms presented an appearance as near as possible to that of the poet's boyhood. The partition in the old kitchen, that had been put up of late years, was taken down, disclosing the array of ancient cupboards and queer little window; there was the kettle hanging on the crane in the wide fireplace, along whose hearth one almost expected to see "the apples sputtering in a row," as of yore. There were the iron fire-dogs and the antiquated chairs, the wainscoting untouched by the hand of Time, save to grow mellower of tint, and there was "the sagging beam," the uneven floor and the quaint staircase, all just as Whittier, the boy, saw and touched and lived amongst, all those impressible years of his life. It was a notable company gathered in that old homestead that beautiful October day--bidden there by the Whittier Club--not large in numbers, as the invitations were of necessity limited to the capacity of the old homestead. But they were mostly the poet's dear friends who came to do honor to his name. There was Lucy Larcom, William Lloyd Garrison, Jr., Mrs. Ednah D. Cheney and "Margaret Sidney" (Mrs. D. Lothrop); there was Charles Carleton Coffin and Mr. and Mrs. Frank Garrison and Miss Sparhawk, whose father, Dr. Thomas Sparhawk of Amesbury, was one of the poet's life-long friends. There was the dear Quaker presence of Mrs. Purington, Mr. Whittier's cousin, and the members of his family at Oak Knoll, Mrs. Woodman, her daughter, Miss Phebe, and the Misses Johnson; there was Mr. S. T. Pickard of Portland, Maine, who married the poet's niece Lizzie, and who is Mr. Whittier's literary executor. And there were other relatives and friends and Haverhill citizens thronging the house, and listening outside the little many-paned windows to catch the echoes of the words being uttered within. The day was all that one could desire who looked for sympathy in Nature toward this her favorite child who has so interpreted her woods and fields, her autumn skies and the trembling line of river and coast. The old kitchen was filled with chairs, and on them, and crowded in the doorways and peeping in the windows, were the interested and reverent listeners. Mr. Charles Howe, the president of the club, presided with great grace and dignity; with rare tact culling from the large amount of what waited to be read and said, just such choice extracts and bits of reminiscence as would best serve the purpose of the hour. Selections from "Snow-Bound" were read by a member of the club in that room where "Snow-Bound" was lived, if one may so express it. And to the listeners there came a vision of wintry fields and whirling storm; of the little knot of friends drawn close to the friendly comforting fire on the hearth; in the midst the thoughtful sensitive boy who was to awaken the love and veneration of future generations all over his country. There were reminiscences of a visit to his birthplace paid by the poet some ten years since with Mr. S. T. Pickard, who told to the assembled company many amusing stories related by Mr. Whittier on that occasion. There was the quaint staircase down which the poet, when a baby, wrapped in a blanket, was rolled by his sister only two years older, who probably thought it the greatest kindness in the world to thus project her infant brother into space. There was the queer old cupboard where Mr. Whittier when a boy was dragged by his jacket collar by a tramp who had forcibly entered the house; and there he was compelled to stand while the unwelcome visitor searched high and low for any chance jug or bottle that would yield another supply to his already over-weighted condition. Seizing a jug from a dark corner, he ejected the cork without a glance at the contents, and took a long deep draught of whale oil used for filling lamps. The embryo poet took advantage of the confused spluttering that ensued, to make good his escape. Mr. Will Carleton recited with dramatic vigor "Barbara Frietchie," till the walls and rafters rang. Lucy Larcom read from the poet's writings, and Mr. William Lloyd Garrison, Jr. recited an original poem. A young English lady, who was visiting friends of Mr. Whittier's, read by request Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar," the Poet Laureate's death having just occurred. There were reminiscences by Dr. Fiske of Newburyport, who told several characteristic stories connected with Joshua Coffin, the "Yankee Schoolmaster," and life-long friend of the poet; and Charles Carleton Coffin, the historian, gave the account of his capture of the big key of the last slave prison in Richmond, and of his giving it to Mr. Whittier who returned it to him a year or so ago. At the close of his remarks, Mr. Carleton hung the key on the nail above the fireplace where, in Whittier's boyhood, the big bull's-eye watch used to hang. Fitting place was it for the silent symbol of agony and shame to the slave brother; and all who witnessed it hanging there, felt the heart beat to a newer and a keener sense of the debt we owe to him whose songs (as one who gave a reminiscence that day told us) influenced Abraham Lincoln to project the Emancipation Proclamation upon the American people. The beautiful poem of Mr. Whittier's, "My Psalm," was rendered with deep feeling by Mrs. Julia Houston West for whom, several years ago, the verses had been set to music. And to bring to a fitting close these memorial exercises, the assembled company of relatives and friends rose and sang one stanza of of "Auld Lang Syne." [Illustration: Dr Holmes. Beloved physician of an age of ail When grave prescriptions fail Thy songs have cheer and healing for us all As David's had for Saul. John G Whittier Hampton Falls, NH Aug 26 1892 _The above fac-simile of the last verse written by Mr. Whittier, is kindly loaned us by the "Boston Journal." The following letter was sent with the verse_: HAMPTON FALLS, _August_. DEAR MR. WINGATE: I have only time and strength to write a single verse expressive of my love and admiration of my dear old friend, Dr. Holmes. JOHN G. WHITTIER.] * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Although the Contents lists an Appendix, there was no actual appendix or page 375 in the scanned copy. Other copies of this book were found to have the same problem. 
36661	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) The Author's thanks are due to Mr. R. H. RUSSELL, of New York, for kind permission to reprint from _Shapes and Shadows_ four of the poems published in this volume. KENTUCKY POEMS BY MADISON CAWEIN WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDMUND GOSSE NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & CO. 1903 NOTE The poems included in this volume have been selected from the following volumes of the author: _Moods and Memories_, _Red Leaves and Roses_, _Poems of Nature and Love_, _Intimations of the Beautiful_, _Days and Dreams_, _Undertones_, _Idyllic Monologues_, _The Garden of Dreams_, _Shapes and Shadows_, _Myth and Romance_, and _Weeds by the Wall_. None of the longer poems have been included in this selection. CONTENTS PROLOGUE FOREST AND FIELD SUMMER TO SORROW NIGHT A FALLEN BEECH A TWILIGHT MOTH THE GRASSHOPPER BEFORE THE RAIN AFTER RAIN THE HAUNTED HOUSE OCTOBER INDIAN SUMMER ALONG THE OHIO A COIGN OF THE FOREST CREOLE SERENADE WILL O' THE WISPS THE TOLLMAN'S DAUGHTER THE BOY COLUMBUS SONG OF THE ELF THE OLD INN THE MILL-WATER THE DREAM SPRING TWILIGHT A SLEET-STORM IN MAY UNREQUITED THE HEART O' SPRING 'A BROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY' ORGIE REVERIE LETHE DIONYSIA THE NAIAD THE LIMNAD INTIMATIONS BEFORE THE TEMPLE ANTHEM OF DAWN AT THE LANE'S END THE FARMSTEAD A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS THE FEUD LYNCHERS DEAD MAN'S RUN AUGUST THE BUSH-SPARROW QUIET MUSIC THE PURPLE VALLEYS A DREAM SHAPE THE OLD BARN THE WOOD WITCH AT SUNSET MAY RAIN TO FALL SUNSET IN AUTUMN THE HILLS CONTENT HEART OF MY HEART OCTOBER MYTH AND ROMANCE GENIUS LOCI DISCOVERY THE OLD SPRING THE FOREST SPRING TRANSMUTATION DEAD CITIES FROST A NIGHT IN JUNE THE DREAMER WINTER MID-WINTER SPRING TRANSFORMATION RESPONSE THE SWASHBUCKLER SIMULACRA CAVERNS THE BLUE BIRD QUATRAINS ADVENTURERS EPILOGUE INTRODUCTION Since the disappearance of the latest survivors of that graceful and somewhat academic school of poets who ruled American literature so long from the shores of Massachusetts, serious poetry in the United States seems to have been passing through a crisis of languor. Perhaps there is no country on the civilised globe where, in theory, verse is treated with more respect and, in practice, with a greater lack of grave consideration than America. No conjecture as to the reason of this must be attempted here, further than to suggest that the extreme value set upon sharpness, ingenuity and rapid mobility is obviously calculated to depreciate and to condemn the quiet practice of the most meditative of the arts. Hence we find that it is what is called 'humorous' verse which is mainly in fashion on the western side of the Atlantic. Those rhymes are most warmly welcomed which play the most preposterous tricks with language, which dazzle by the most mountebank swiftness of turn, and which depend most for their effect upon paradox and the negation of sober thought. It is probable that the diseased craving for what is 'smart,' 'snappy' and wide-awake, and the impulse to see everything foreshortened and topsy-turvy, must wear themselves out before cooler and more graceful tastes again prevail in imaginative literature. Whatever be the cause, it is certain that this is not a moment when serious poetry, of any species, is flourishing in the United States. The absence of anything like a common impulse among young writers, of any definite and intelligible, if excessive, _parti pris_, is immediately observable if we contrast the American, for instance, with the French poets of the last fifteen years. Where there is no school and no clear trend of executive ambition, the solitary artist, whose talent forces itself up into the light and air, suffers unusual difficulties, and runs a constant danger of being choked in the aimless mediocrity that surrounds him. We occasionally meet with a poet in the history of literature, of whom we are inclined to say, Charming as he is, he would have developed his talent more evenly and conspicuously,--with greater decorum, perhaps,--if he had been accompanied from the first by other young men like-minded, who would have formed for him an atmosphere and cleared for him a space. This is the one regret I feel in contemplating, as I have done for years past, the ardent and beautiful talent of Mr. Cawein. I deplore the fact that he seems to stand alone in his generation; I think his poetry would have been even better than it is, and its qualities would certainly have been more clearly perceived, and more intelligently appreciated, if he were less isolated. In his own country, at this particular moment, in this matter of serious nature-painting in lyric verse, Mr. Cawein possesses what Cowley would have called 'a monopoly of wit,' In one of his lyrics Mr. Cawein asks-- 'The song-birds, are they flown away, The song-birds of the summer-time, That sang their souls into the day, And set the laughing hours to rhyme? No cat-bird scatters through the hush The sparkling crystals of her song; Within the woods no hermit-thrush Trails an enchanted flute along.' To this inquiry, the answer is: the only hermit-thrush now audible seems to sing from Louisville, Kentucky. America will, we may be perfectly sure, calm herself into harmony again, and possess once more her school of singers. In those coming days, history may perceive in Mr. Cawein the golden link that bound the music of the past to the music of the future through an interval of comparative tunelessness. The career of Mr. Madison Cawein is represented to me as being most uneventful. He seems to have enjoyed unusual advantages for the cultivation and protection of the poetical temperament. He was born on the 23rd of March 1865, in the metropolis of Kentucky, the vigorous city of Louisville, on the southern side of the Ohio, in the midst of a country celebrated for tobacco and whisky and Indian corn. These are commodities which may be consumed in excess, but in moderation they make glad the heart of man. They represent a certain glow of the earth, they indicate the action of a serene and gentle climate upon a rich soil. It was in this delicate and voluptuous state of Kentucky that Mr. Cawein was born, that he was educated, that he became a poet, and that he has lived ever since. His blood is full of the colour and odour of his native landscape. The solemn books of history tell us that Kentucky was discovered in 1769, by Daniel Boone, a hunter. But he first discovers a country who sees it first, and teaches the world to see it; no doubt some day the city of Louisville will erect, in one of its principal squares, a statue to 'Madison Cawein, who discovered the Beauty of Kentucky.' The genius of this poet is like one of those deep rivers of his native state, which cut paths through the forests of chestnut and hemlock as they hurry towards the south and west, brushing with the impulsive fringe of their currents the rhododendrons and calmias and azaleas that bend from the banks to be mirrored in their flushing waters. Mr. Cawein's vocation to poetry was irresistible. I do not know that he ever tried to resist it. I have even the idea that a little more resistance would have been salutary for a talent which nothing could have discouraged, and which opposition might have taught the arts of compression and selection. Mr. Cawein suffered at first, I think, from lack of criticism more than from lack of eulogy. From his early writings I seem to gather an impression of a Louisville more ready to praise what was second-rate than what was first-rate, and practically, indeed, without any scale of appreciation whatever. This may be a mistake of mine; at all events, Mr. Cawein has had more to gain from the passage of years in self-criticism than in inspiring enthusiasm. The fount was in him from the first; but it bubbled forth before he had digged a definite channel for it. Sometimes, to this very day, he sports with the principles of syntax as Nature played games so long ago with the fantastic caverns of the valley of the Green River or with the coral-reefs of his own Ohio. He has bad rhymes, amazing in so delicate an ear; he has awkwardness of phrase not expected in one so plunged in contemplation of the eternal harmony of Nature. But these grow fewer and less obtrusive as the years pass by. The virgin timber-forests of Kentucky, the woods of honey-locust and buck-eye, of white oak and yellow poplar, with their clearings full of flowers unknown to us by sight or name, from which in the distance are visible the domes of the far-away Cumberland Mountains, this seems to be the hunting-field of Mr. Cawein's imagination. Here all, it must be confessed, has hitherto been unfamiliar to the Muses. If Persephone 'of our Cumnor cowslips never heard,' how much less can her attention have been arrested by clusters of orchids from the Ocklawaha, or by the song of the Whippoorwill, rung out when 'the west was hot geranium-red' under the boughs of a black-jack on the slopes of Mount Kinnex. 'Not here,' one is inclined to exclaim, 'not here, O Apollo, are haunts meet for thee,' but the art of the poet is displayed by his skill in breaking down these prejudices of time and place. Mr. Cawein reconciles us to his strange landscape--the strangeness of which one has to admit is mainly one of nomenclature,--by the exercise of a delightful instinctive pantheism. He brings the ancient gods to Kentucky, and it is marvellous how quickly they learn to be at home there. Here is Bacchus, with a spicy fragment of calamus-root in his hand, trampling down the blue-eyed grass, and skipping, with the air of a hunter born, into the hickory thicket, to escape Artemis, whose robes, as she passes swiftly with her dogs through the woods, startle the humming-birds, silence the green tree-frogs, and fill the hot still air with the perfumes of peppermint and pennyroyal. It is a queer landscape, but one of new natural beauties frankly and sympathetically discovered, and it forms a _mise en scène_ which, I make bold to say, would have scandalised neither Keats nor Spenser. It was Mr. Howells,--ever as generous in discovering new native talent as he is unflinching in reproof of the effeteness of European taste,--who first drew attention to the originality and beauty of Mr. Cawein's poetry. The Kentucky poet had, at that time, published but one tentative volume, the _Blooms of the Berry_, of 1887. This was followed, in 1888, by _The Triumph of Music_, and since then hardly a year has passed without a slender sheaf of verse from Mr. Cawein's garden. Among these (if a single volume is to be indicated), the quality which distinguishes him from all other poets,--the Kentucky flavour, if we may call it so,--is perhaps to be most agreeably detected in _Intimations of the Beautiful_. But it is time that I should leave the American lyrist to make his own appeal to English ears, with but one additional word of explanation, namely, that in this selection Mr. Cawein's narrative poems on mediæval themes, and in general his cosmopolitan writings, have been neglected in favour of such lyrics as would present him most vividly in his own native landscape, no visitor in spirit to Europe, but at home in that bright and exuberant West-- Where, in the hazy morning, runs The stony branch that pools and drips, Where red-haws and the wild-rose hips Are strewn like pebbles; where the sun's Own gold seems captured by the weeds; To see, through scintillating seeds, The hunters steal with glimmering guns. To stand within the dewy ring Where pale death smites the bone-set blooms, And everlasting's flowers, and plumes Of mint, with aromatic wing! And hear the creek,--whose sobbing seems A wild man murmuring in his dreams,-- And insect violins that sing! So sweet a voice, so consonant with the music of the singers of past times, heard in a place so fresh and strange, will surely not pass without its welcome from the lovers of genuine poetry. EDMUND GOSSE. PROLOGUE _There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grasshopper, That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks, Says all of summer to my ear: And in the cricket's cry I hear The fireside speak, and feel the frost Work mysteries of silver near On country casements, while, deep lost In snow, the gatepost seems a sheeted ghost. And other things give rare delight: Those guttural harps the green-frogs tune, Those minstrels of the falling night, That hail the sickle of the moon From grassy pools that glass her lune: Or,--all of August in its loud Dry cry,--the locust's call at noon, That tells of heat and never a cloud To veil the pitiless sun as with a shroud. The rain,--whose cloud dark-lids the moon, The great white eyeball of the night,-- Makes music for me; to its tune I hear the flowers unfolding white, The mushroom growing, and the slight Green sound of grass that dances near; The melon ripening with delight; And in the orchard, soft and clear, The apple redly rounding out its sphere. The grigs make music as of old, To which the fairies whirl and shine Within the moonlight's prodigal gold, On woodways wild with many a vine: When all the wilderness with wine Of stars is drunk, I hear it say-- 'Is God restricted to confine His wonders only to the day, That yields the abstract tangible to clay?' And to my ear the wind of Morn,-- When on her rubric forehead far One star burns big,--lifts a vast horn Of wonder where all murmurs are: In which I hear the waters war, The torrent and the blue abyss, And pines,--that terrace bar on bar The mountain side,--like lovers' kiss, And whisper words where naught but grandeur is. The jutting crags,--all iron-veined With ore,--the peaks, where eagles scream, That pour their cataracts, rainbow-stained, Like hair, in many a mountain stream, Can lift my soul beyond the dream Of all religions; make me scan No mere external or extreme, But inward pierce the outward plan And learn that rocks have souls as well as man._ FOREST AND FIELD I Green, watery jets of light let through The rippling foliage drenched with dew; And golden glimmers, warm and dim, That in the vistaed distance swim; Where, 'round the wood-spring's oozy urn, The limp, loose fronds of forest fern Trail like the tresses, green and wet, A wood-nymph binds with violet. O'er rocks that bulge and roots that knot The emerald-amber mosses clot; From matted walls of brier and brush The elder nods its plumes of plush; And, Argus-eyed with many a bloom, The wild-rose breathes its wild perfume; May-apples, ripening yellow, lean With oblong fruit, a lemon-green, Near Indian-turnips, long of stem, That bear an acorn-oval gem, As if some woodland Bacchus there,-- While braiding locks of hyacinth hair With ivy-tod,--had idly tost His thyrsus down and so had lost: And blood-root, that from scarlet wombs Puts forth, in spring, its milk-white blooms, That then like starry footsteps shine Of April under beech and pine; At which the gnarled eyes of trees Stare, big as Fauns' at Dryades, That bend above a fountain's spar As white and naked as a star. The stagnant stream flows sleepily Thick with its lily-pads; the bee,-- All honey-drunk, a Bassarid,-- Booms past the mottled toad, that, hid In calamus-plants and blue-eyed grass, Beside the water's pooling glass, Silenus-like, eyes stolidly The Mænad-glittering dragonfly. And pennyroyal and peppermint Pour dry-hot odours without stint From fields and banks of many streams; And in their scent one almost seems To see Demeter pass, her breath Sweet with her triumph over death.-- A haze of floating saffron; sound Of shy, crisp creepings o'er the ground; The dip and stir of twig and leaf; Tempestuous gusts of spices brief Borne over bosks of sassafras By winds that foot it on the grass; Sharp, sudden songs and whisperings, That hint at untold hidden things-- Pan and Sylvanus who of old Kept sacred each wild wood and wold. A wily light beneath the trees Quivers and dusks with every breeze-- A Hamadryad, haply, who,-- Culling her morning meal of dew From frail, accustomed cups of flowers,-- Now sees some Satyr in the bowers, Or hears his goat-hoof snapping press Some brittle branch, and in distress Shrinks back; her dark, dishevelled hair Veiling her limbs one instant there. II Down precipices of the dawn The rivers of the day are drawn, The soundless torrents, free and far, Of gold that deluge every star. There is a sound of brooks and wings That fills the woods with carollings; And, dashed on moss and flow'r and fern, And leaves, that quiver, breathe and burn, Rose-radiance smites the solitudes, The dew-drenched hills, the dripping woods, That twitter as with canticles Of shade and light; and wind, that smells Of flowers, and buds, and boisterous bees, Delirious honey, and wet trees.-- Through briers that trip them, one by one, With swinging pails, that take the sun, A troop of girls comes--berriers, Whose bare feet glitter where they pass Through dewdrop-trembling tufts of grass. And, oh! their laughter and their cheers Wake Echo 'mid her shrubby rocks Who, answering, from her mountain mocks With rapid fairy horns; as if Each mossy vale and weedy cliff Had its imperial Oberon, Who, seeking his Titania, hid In coverts caverned from the sun, In kingly wrath had called and chid. Cloud-feathers, oozing orange light, Make rich the Indian locks of night; Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. One star. A sound of bleating flocks. Great shadows stretched along the rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion. Soft-swimming sorceries of mist That streak blue glens with amethyst. And, tinkling in the clover dells, The twilight sound of cattle-bells. And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns, angry as a shattered glass, The flies make golden blurs, that shine Like drops of amber-scattered wine Spun high by reeling Bacchanals, When Bacchus wreathes his curling hair With vine-leaves, and from every lair His worshippers around him calls. They come, they come, a happy throng, The berriers with gibe and song; Their pails brimmed black to tin-bright eaves With luscious fruit, kept cool with leaves Of aromatic sassafras; 'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips, Like laughter, from the purple mass, Wine-swollen as Silenus' lips. III The tanned and tired noon climbs high Up burning reaches of the sky; Below the drowsy belts of pines The rock-ledged river foams and shines; And over rainless hill and dell Is blown the harvest's sultry smell: While, in the fields, one sees and hears The brawny-throated harvesters,-- Their red brows beaded with the heat,-- By twos and threes among the wheat Flash their hot scythes; behind them press The binders--men and maids that sing Like some mad troop of piping Pan;-- While all the hillsides swoon and ring Such sounds of Ariel airiness As haunted freckled Caliban. 'O ho! O ho! 'tis noon I say. The roses blow. Away, away, above the hay, To the tune o' the bees the roses sway; The love-songs that they hum all day, So low! So low! The roses' Minnesingers they.' Up velvet lawns of lilac skies The tawny moon begins to rise Behind low, blue-black hills of trees,-- As rises up, in Siren seas, To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid, A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.-- Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur, Like shaggy Satyrs waiting for The moonbeam Nymphs, the Dryads white, That take with loveliness the night, And glorify it with their love. The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear, Beyond dim pines and mellow ways, The song of some fair harvester, The lovely Limnad of the grove, Whose singing charms me while it slays. 'O deep! O deep! the earth and air Are sunk in sleep. Adieu to care! Now everywhere Is rest; and by the old oak there The maiden with the nut-brown hair Doth keep, doth keep Tryst with her lover the young and fair.' IV Like Atalanta's spheres of gold, Within the orchard, apples rolled From sudden hands of boughs that lay Their leaves, like palms, against the day; And near them pears of rusty brown Lay bruised; and peaches, pink with down, And furry as the ears of Pan, Or, like Diana's cheeks, a tan Beneath which burnt a tender fire; Or wan as Psyche's with desire. And down the orchard vistas,--young, A hickory basket by him swung, A straw-hat, 'gainst the sloping sun Drawn brim-broad o'er his face,--he strode; As if he looked to find some one, His eyes far-fixed beyond the road. Before him, like a living burr, Rattled the noisy grasshopper. And where the cows' melodious bells Trailed music up and down the dells, Beside the spring, that o'er the ground Went whimpering like a fretful hound, He saw her waiting, fair and slim, Her pail forgotten there, for him. Yellow as sunset skies and pale As fairy clouds that stay or sail Through azure vaults of summer, blue As summer heavens, the wild-flowers grew; And blossoms on which spurts of light Fell laughing, like the lips one might Feign for a Hebe, or a girl Whose mouth is laughter-lit with pearl. Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped; And mosses moist, in beryl steeped And musk aromas of the wood And silence of the solitude: And everything that near her blew The spring had showered thick with dew.-- Across the rambling fence she leaned, Her fresh, round arms all white and bare; Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened, Rich-coloured with its auburn hair. A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine-- Ah! 'tis his step, 'tis he she hears; The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine-- He comes, ah, yes! 'tis he who nears. And her brown eyes and all her face Said welcome. And with rustic grace He leant beside her; and they had Some talk with youthful laughter glad: I know not what; I know but this Its final period was a kiss. SUMMER I Hang out your loveliest star, O Night! O Night! Your richest rose, O Dawn! To greet sweet Summer, her, who, clothed in light, Leads Earth's best hours on. Hark! how the wild birds of the woods Throat it within the dewy solitudes! The brook sings low and soft, The trees make song, As, from her heaven aloft Comes blue-eyed Summer like a girl along. II And as the Day, her lover, leads her in, How bright his beauty glows! How red his lips, that ever try to win Her mouth's delicious rose! And from the beating of his heart Warm winds arise and sighing thence depart; And from his eyes and hair The light and dew Fall round her everywhere, And Heaven above her is an arch of blue. III Come to the forest, or the treeless meadows Deep with their hay or grain; Come where the hills lift high their thrones of shadows, Where tawny orchards reign. Come where the reapers whet the scythe; Where golden sheaves are heaped; where berriers blythe, With willow-basket and with pail, Swarm knoll and plain; Where flowers freckle every vale, And beauty goes with hands of berry-stain. IV Come where the dragon-flies, a brassy blue, Flit round the wildwood streams, And, sucking at some horn of honey-dew, The wild-bee hums and dreams. Come where the butterfly waves wings of sleep, Gold-disked and mottled over blossoms deep; Come where beneath the rustic bridge The green frog cries; Or in the shade the rainbowed midge, Above the emerald pools, with murmurings flies. V Come where the cattle browse within the brake, As red as oak and strong; Where far-off bells the echoes faintly wake, And milkmaids sing their song. Come where the vine-trailed rocks, with waters hoary, Tell to the sun some legend or some story; Or, where the sunset to the land Speaks words of gold; Where ripeness walks, a wheaten band Around her hair and blossoms manifold. VI Come where the woods lift up their stalwart arms Unto the star-sown skies; Knotted and gnarled, that to the winds and storms Fling mighty rhapsodies: Or to the moon repeat what they have seen, When Night upon their shoulders vast doth lean. Come where the dew's clear syllable Drips from the rose; And where the fireflies fill The night with golden music of their glows. VII Now while the dingles and the vine-roofed glens Whisper their flowery tale Unto the silence; and the lakes and fens Unto the moonlight pale Murmur their rapture, let us seek her out, Her of the honey throat, and peachy pout, Summer! and at her feet, The love of old Lay like a sheaf of wheat, And of our hearts the purest gold of gold. TO SORROW I O dark-eyed goddess of the marble brow, Whose look is silence and whose touch is night, Who walkest lonely through the world, O thou, Who sittest lonely with Life's blown-out light; Who in the hollow hours of night's noon Criest like some lost child; Whose anguish-fevered eyeballs seek the moon To cool their pulses wild. Thou who dost bend to kiss Joy's sister cheek, Turning its rose to alabaster; yea, Thou who art terrible and mad and meek, Why in my heart art thou enshrined to-day? O Sorrow say, O say! II Now Spring is here and all the world is white, I will go forth, and where the forest robes Itself in green, and every hill and height Crowns its fair head with blossoms,--spirit globes Of hyacinth and crocus dashed with dew,-- I will forget my grief, And thee, O Sorrow, gazing on the blue, Beneath a last year's leaf, Of some brief violet the south wind woos, Or bluet, whence the west wind raked the snow; The baby eyes of love, the darling hues Of happiness, that thou canst never know, O child of pain and woe. III On some hoar upland, sweet with clustered thorns, Hard by a river's windy white of waves, I shall sit down with Spring,--whose eyes are morns Of light; whose cheeks the rose of health enslaves,-- And so forget thee braiding in her hair The snowdrop, tipped with green, The cool-eyed primrose and the trillium fair, And moony celandine. Contented so to lie within her arms, Forgetting all the sear and sad and wan, Remembering love alone, who o'er earth's storms, High on the mountains of perpetual dawn, Leads the glad hours on. IV Or in the peace that follows storm, when Even, Within the west, stands dreaming lone and far, Clad on with green and silver, and the Heaven Is brightly brooched with one gold-glittering star. I will lie down beside some mountain lake, 'Round which the tall pines sigh, And breathing musk of rain from boughs that shake Storm balsam from on high, Make friends of Dream and Contemplation high And Music, listening to the mocking-bird,-- Who through the hush sends its melodious cry,-- And so forget a while that other word, That all loved things must die. NIGHT Out of the East, as from an unknown shore, Thou comest with thy children in thine arms,-- Slumber and Dream,--whom mortals all adore, Their flowing raiment sculptured to their charms: Soft on thy breast thy lovely children rest, Laid like twin roses in one balmy nest. Silent thou comest, swiftly too and slow. There is no other presence like to thine, When thou approachest with thy babes divine, Thy shadowy face above them bending low, Blowing the ringlets from their brows of snow. Oft have I taken Sleep from thy dark arms, And fondled her fair head, with poppies wreathed, Within my bosom's depths, until its storms With her were hushed and I but faintly breathed. And then her sister, Dream, with frolic art Arose from rest, and on my sleeping heart Blew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost; Worlds where my stranger soul sang songs to me, And talked with spirits by a rainbowed sea, Or smiled, an unfamiliar shape of frost, Floating on gales of breathless melody. Day comes to us in garish glory garbed; But thou, thou bringest to the tired heart Rest and deep silence, in which are absorbed All the vain tumults of the mind and mart. Whether thou comest with hands full of stars, Or clothed in storm and clouds, the lightning bars, Rolling the thunder like some mighty dress, God moves with thee; we seem to hear His feet, Wind-like, along the floors of Heaven beat; To see His face, revealed in awfulness, Through thee, O Night, to ban us or to bless. A FALLEN BEECH Nevermore at doorways that are barken Shall the madcap wind knock and the moonlight; Nor the circle which thou once didst darken, Shine with footsteps of the neighbouring moonlight, Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken. Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces, Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter, Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places; Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor, Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces. And no more, between the savage wonder Of the sunset and the moon's up-coming, Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, under Thy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the humming Of the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder. Oft the Satyr-spirit, beauty-drunken, Of the Spring called; and the music measure Of thy sap made answer; and thy sunken Veins grew vehement with youth, whose pressure Swelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken. And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted, Bubbled green from all thy million oilets, Where the spirits, rain-and-sunbeam-suited, Of the April made their whispering toilets, Or within thy stately shadow footed. Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkled At the windows of thy twigs, and found thee Bird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkled Lissom feet of naked flowers around thee, Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled. And the Autumn with his gypsy-coated Troop of days beneath thy branches rested, Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throated Songs of roaming; or with red hand tested Every nut-bur that above him floated. Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich in Shaggy followers of frost and freezing, Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen, Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easing Limbs snow-furred and moccasined with lichen. Now, alas! no more do these invest thee With the dignity of whilom gladness! They--unto whose hearts thou once confessed thee Of thy dreams--now know thee not! and sadness Sits beside thee where, forgot, dost rest thee. A TWILIGHT MOTH All day the primroses have thought of thee, Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat; All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;-- Keeping Sultana-charms for thee, at last, Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays Nocturns of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith; O bearer of their order's shibboleth, Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,-- A syllabled silence that no man may hear,-- As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox? O voyager of that universe which lies Between the four walls of this garden fair,-- Whose constellations are the fireflies That wheel their instant courses everywhere,-- 'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one sees Mimic Boötes and the Pleiades, Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air. Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer, Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.-- Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! THE GRASSHOPPER What joy you take in making hotness hotter, In emphasising dulness with your buzz, Making monotony more monotonous! When Summer comes, and drouth hath dried the water In all the creeks, we hear your ragged rasp Filling the stillness. Or,--as urchins beat A stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp,-- Your switch-like music whips the midday heat. O bur of sound caught in the Summer's hair, We hear you everywhere! We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles, Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds, Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds, And by the wood 'round which the rail-fence rambles, Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw. Or,--like to tomboy truants, at their play With noisy mirth among the barn's deep straw,-- You sing away the careless summer-day. O brier-like voice that clings in idleness To Summer's drowsy dress! You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding, Improvident, who of the summer make One long green mealtime, and for winter take No care, aye singing or just merely feeding! Happy-go-lucky vagabond,--'though frost Shall pierce, ere long, your green coat or your brown, And pinch your body,--let no song be lost, But as you lived into your grave go down-- Like some small poet with his little rhyme, Forgotten of all time. BEFORE THE RAIN Before the rain, low in the obscure east, Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray; Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased, Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay Like some white spider hungry for its prey. Vindictive looked the scowling firmament, In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray, Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent. The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry. Within the world these sounds were heard alone, Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky, Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh; Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed, That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by, Sharded the silence with its feverish speed. Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passed Before was heard the thunder's sullen drum Rumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last, Restless with waiting,--like a woman, dumb With doubting of the love that should have clomb Her casement hours ago,--avowed again, 'Mid protestations, joy that he had come. And all night long I heard the Heavens explain. AFTER RAIN Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again, With all the star-white Hours in her train, Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray, That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blends A sprinkled amber with the showers that lay Their oblong emeralds on the leafy ends. Behold her bend with maiden-braided brows Above the wildflower, sidewise with its strain Of dewy happiness, to kiss again Each drop to death; or, under rainy boughs, With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain, Gather the sparkles from the sycamore, To set within each core Of crimson roses girdling her hips, Where each bud dreams and drips. Smoothing her blue-black hair,--where many a tusk Of iris flashes,--like the falchions' sheen Of Faery 'round blue banners of its Queen,-- Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk, That haunts the spring, where all the moss is musk With footsteps of the flowers on the banks? Or just a wild-bird voluble with thanks? Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepare A festival each weed's invited to. Each bee is drunken with the honied air: And all the air is eloquent with blue. The wet hay glitters, and the harvester Tinkles his scythe,--as twinkling as the dew,-- That shall not spare Blossom or brier in its sweeping path; And, ere it cut one swath, Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare. What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade? A Dryad's lips, who slumbers in the shade? A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreath Slip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pulls The chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls? A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breathe Her viewless presence near us, unafraid? Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wade The brook? whose wisdom knows no other song Than that the bird sings where it builds beneath The wild-rose and sits singing all day long. Oh, let me sit with silence for a space, A little while forgetting that fierce part Of man that struggles in the toiling mart; Where God can look into my heart's own heart From unsoiled heights made amiable with grace; And where the sermons that the old oaks keep Can steal into me.--And what better then Than, turning to the moss a quiet face, To fall asleep? a little while to sleep And dream of wiser worlds and wiser men. THE HAUNTED HOUSE I The shadows sit and stand about its door Like uninvited guests and poor; And all the long, hot summer day The grating locust dins its roundelay In one old sycamore. The squirrel leaves upon its rotting roof, In empty hulls, its tracks; And in its clapboard cracks The spider weaves a windy woof; Its cells the mud-wasp packs. The she-fox whelps upon its floor; The owlet roosts above its door; And where the musty mosses run, The freckled snake basks in the sun. II The children of what fathers sleep Beneath these melancholy pines? The slow slugs crawl among their graves where creep The doddered poison-vines. The orchard, near the meadow deep, Lifts up decrepit arms, Gray-lichened in a withering heap. No sap swells up to make it leap As once in calms and storms; No blossom lulls its age asleep; Each breeze brings sad alarms. Big, bell-round pears and apples, russet-red, No maiden gathers now; The worm-bored trunks weep gum, like tears, instead, From each decaying bough. III The woodlands around it are solitary And fold it like gaunt hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, And the hum of the country is weary, so weary! And the bees go by in bands To other lovelier lands. The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower; The lonesomeness,--dank and rank As a chamber where lies for a lonely hour An old-man's corpse with many a flower,-- Is hushed and blank. And even the birds have passed it by, To sing their songs to a happier sky, A happier sky and bank. IV In its desolate halls are lying, Gold, blood-red and browned, Drifted leaves of summer dying; And the winds, above them sighing, Turn them round and round, Make a ghostly sound As of footsteps falling, flying, Voices through the chambers crying, Of the haunted house. V Gazing down in her white shroud, Shroud of windy cloud, Comes at night the phantom moon; Comes and all the shadows soon, Crowding in the rooms, arouse; Shadows, ghosts, her rays lead on, Till beneath the cloud Like a ghost she's gone, In her gusty shroud, O'er the haunted house. OCTOBER I oft have met her slowly wandering Beside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild, Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring, As if on her the sumach copse had smiled. Or I have seen her sitting, tall and brown,-- Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,-- Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leaves She wound great drowsy wreaths and cast them down; The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim Far out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves. Or in the hill-lands I have often seen The marvel of her passage; glimpses faint Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between, Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint. Or I have met her 'twixt two beechen hills, Within a dingled valley near a fall, Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower; Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rills Went babbling through the wildwood's arrased hall, Where burned the beech and maples glared their power. Or I have met her by some ruined mill, Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine, On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled chill, And watched her swinging in the wild-grape vine. While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains, More sad than death, or all that death can teach, Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms, Where splashed the murmur of the forest's fountains; With all her loveliness did she beseech, And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms. Once only in a hollow, girt with trees, A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain, I glimpsed her cheeks red-berried by the breeze, In her dark eyes the night's sidereal stain. And once upon an orchard's tangled path, Where all the golden-rod had turned to brown, Where russets rolled and leaves were sweet of breath, I have beheld her 'mid her aftermath Of blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown, Within her gaze the deeps of life and death. INDIAN SUMMER The dawn is a warp of fever, The eve is a woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire. With stars Dawn dices with Even For the rosy gold they heap On the blue of the day's deep heaven, On the black of the night's far deep. It's--'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'-- The season's a prince who burns With the teasing lusts that harry His heart for a wench who spurns. It's--'Crown us a beaker with sherry, To drink to the doxy's heels; A tankard of wine o' the berry, To lips like a cloven peel's. ''S death! if a king be saddened, Right so let a fool laugh lies: But wine! when a king is gladdened, And a woman's waist and her eyes.' He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, And left but a leaf that flits, He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever Of mist and of frost is its. He hath tippled the buxom beauty, And gotten her hug and her kiss-- The wide world's royal booty To pile at her feet for this. ALONG THE OHIO Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold; A path of gold the wide Ohio lies; Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold, The dark-blue hill-tops rise. And westward dips the crescent of the moon Through great cloud-feathers, flushed with rosy ray, That close around the crystal of her lune The redbird wings of Day. A little skiff slips o'er the burnished stream; A fiery wake, that broadens far behind, Follows in ripples; and the paddles gleam Against the evening wind. Was it the boat, the solitude and hush, That with dead Indians peopled all the glooms? That made each bank, meseemed, and every bush Start into eagle-plumes? That made me seem to hear the breaking brush, And as the deer's great antlers swelled in view, To hear the arrow twang from cane and rush, That dipped to the canoe? To see the glimmering wigwams by the waves? And, wildly clad, around the camp-fires' glow, The Shawnee chieftains with their painted braves, Each grasping his war-bow? But now the vision like the sunset fades, The ribs of golden clouds have oozed their light; And from the west, like sombre sachem shades, Gallop the shades of night. The broad Ohio glitters to the stars; And many murmurs whisper in its woods-- Is it the sorrow of dead warriors For their lost solitudes? The moon goes down; and like another moon The crescent of the river twinkles there, Unchanged as when the eyes of Daniel Boone Beheld it flowing fair. A COIGN OF THE FOREST The hills hang woods around, where green, below Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss, Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts; The water hums one bar there; and a glow Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts; In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts. And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense, Among the rocks, great yellow violets, Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric In dampness crowds; a fungus, thick, intense With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets The May-apples along the terraced creek At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick. No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest, Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine; And there at noon the pewee sits and floats A woodland welcome; and his very best At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign The record of its loveliness with notes. At night the moon stoops over it to rest, And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats. CREOLE SERENADE Under mossy oak and pine Whispering falls the fountained stream; In its pool the lilies shine Silvery, each a moonlight gleam. Roses bloom and roses die In the warm rose-scented dark, Where the firefly, like an eye, Winks and glows, a golden spark. Amber-belted through the night Swings the alabaster moon, Like a big magnolia white On the fragrant heart of June. With a broken syrinx there, With bignonia overgrown, Is it Pan in hoof and hair, Or his image carved from stone? See! her casement's jessamines part, And, with starry blossoms blent, Like the moon she leans--O heart, 'Tis another firmament. SINGS The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon-heavy odours where The heliotropes breathe drowsy musk Into the jasmine-dreamy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk And spills its attar there. The orange at thy casement swings Star-censers oozing rich perfumes; The clematis, long-petalled, clings In clusters of dark purple blooms; With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings, Magnolias light the glooms. Awake, awake from sleep! Thy balmy hair, Down-fallen, deep on deep, Like blossoms there,-- That dew and fragrance weep,-- Will fill the night with prayer. Awake, awake from sleep! And dreaming here it seems to me A dryad's bosom grows confessed, Bright in the moss of yonder tree, That rustles with the murmurous West-- Or is it but a bloom I see, Round as thy virgin breast? Through fathomless deeps above are rolled A million feverish worlds, that burst, Like gems, from Heaven's caskets old Of darkness--fires that throb and thirst; An aloe, showering buds of gold, The night seems, star-immersed. Unseal, unseal thine eyes! O'er which her rod Sleep sways;--and like the skies, That dream and nod, Their starry majesties Will fill the night with God. Unseal, unseal thine eyes! WILL O' THE WISPS Beyond the barley meads and hay, What was the light that beckoned there? That made her sweet lips smile and say-- 'Oh, busk me in a gown of May, And knot red poppies in my hair.' Over the meadow and the wood What was the voice that filled her ears? That sent into pale cheeks the blood, Until each seemed a wild-brier bud Mown down by mowing harvesters?... Beyond the orchard, down the hill, The water flows, the water whirls; And there they found her past all ill, A plaintive face but smiling still, The cresses caught among her curls. At twilight in the willow glen What sound is that the silence hears, When all the dusk is hushed again And homeward from the fields strong men And women go, the harvesters? One seeks the place where she is laid, Where violets bloom from year to year-- 'O sunny head! O bird-like maid! The orchard blossoms fall and fade And I am lonely, lonely here.' Two stars burn bright above the vale; They seem to him the eyes of Ruth: The low moon rises very pale As if she, too, had heard the tale, All heartbreak, of a maid and youth. THE TOLLMAN'S DAUGHTER She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above in twisted lengths were rolled The sunset's tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west's cloud-pillared fires. And in the hush no sound did mar, You almost heard o'er hill and dell, Deep, bubbling over, star on star, The night's blue cisterns slowly well. A crane, like some dark crescent, crossed The sunset, winging towards the west; While up the east her silver breast Of light the moon brought, white as frost. So have I painted her, you see, The tollman's daughter.--What an arm And throat was hers! and what a form!-- Art dreams of such divinity. What braids of night to hold and kiss! There is no pigment anywhere A man might use to picture this-- The splendour of her raven hair. A face as beautiful and bright, As rosy fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes And eyebrowed black with pencilled night. For her, I know, where'er she trod Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass To flash her beauty from the grass; That wild-flowers bloomed along the sod, And whispered perfume when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hear her song, Or, all enamoured, tame, not wild, Before her feet flew fluttering long. The brook went mad with melody, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst-- And I--I fell in love; ah me! THE BOY COLUMBUS And he had mused on lands each bird,-- That winged from realms of Falerina, O'er seas of the Enchanted Sword,-- In romance sang him, till he heard Vague foam on Islands of Alcina. For rich Levant and old Castile Let other seamen freight their galleys; With Polo he and Mandeville Through stranger seas a dreamy keel Sailed into wonder-peopled valleys. Far continents of flow'r and fruit, Of everlasting spring; where fountains 'Mid flow'rs, with human faces, shoot; Where races dwell, both man and brute, In cities under golden mountains. Where cataracts their thunders hurl From heights the tempest has at mercy; Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirl Their torrents down of gold and pearl; And forests strange as those of Circe. Let rapiered Love lute, in the shade Of royal gardens, to the Palace And Court, that haunt the balustrade Of terraces and still parade Their vanity and guile and malice. Him something calls diviner yet Than Love, more mighty than a lover; Heroic Truth that will not let Deed lag; a purpose, westward set, In eyes far-seeing to discover. SONG OF THE ELF I When the poppies, with their shields, Sentinel Forest and the harvest fields, In the bell Of a blossom, fair to see, There I stall the bumble-bee, My good stud; There I stable him and hold, Harness him with hairy gold; There I ease his burly back Of the honey and its sack Gathered from each bud. II Where the glow-worm lights its lamp, There I lie; Where, above the grasses damp, Moths go by; Now within the fussy brook, Where the waters wind and crook Round the rocks, I go sailing down the gloom Straddling on a wisp of broom; Or, beneath the owlet moon, Trip it to the cricket's tune Tossing back my locks. III Ere the crowfoot on the lawn Lifts its head, Or the glow-worm's light be gone, Dim and dead, In a cobweb hammock deep, 'Twixt two ferns I swing and sleep, Hid away; Where the drowsy musk-rose blows And a dreamy runnel flows, In the land of Faëry, Where no mortal thing can see, All the elfin day. THE OLD INN Red-winding from the sleepy town, One takes the lone, forgotten lane Straight through the hills. A brush-bird brown Bubbles in thorn-flowers, sweet with rain, Where breezes bend the gleaming grain, And cautious drip of higher leaves The lower dips that drip again.-- Above the tangled trees it heaves Its gables and its haunted eaves. One creeper, gnarled and blossomless, O'erforests all its eastern wall; The sighing cedars rake and press Dark boughs along the panes they sprawl; While, where the sun beats, drone and drawl The mud-wasps; and one bushy bee, Gold-dusty, hurls along the hall To buzz into a crack.--To me The shadows seem too scared to flee. Of ragged chimneys martins make Huge pipes of music; twittering, here They build and roost.--My footfalls wake Strange stealing echoes, till I fear I'll see my pale self drawing near, My phantom face as in a glass; Or one, men murdered, buried--where?-- Dim in gray stealthy glimmer, pass With lips that seem to moan 'Alas.' THE MILL-WATER The water-flag and wild cane grow 'Round banks whereon the sunbeams sow Fantastic gold when, on its shores, The wind sighs through the sycamores. In one green angle, just in reach, Between a willow-tree and beech, Moss-grown and leaky lies a boat The thick-grown lilies keep afloat. And through its waters, half awake, Slow swims the spotted water-snake; And near its edge, like some gray streak, Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek. Between the lily-pads and blooms The water-spirits set their looms, That weave the lace-like light that dims The glimmering leaves of under limbs. Each lily is the hiding-place Of some dim wood-imp's elvish face, That watches you with gold-green eyes Where bubbles of its breathing rise. I fancy, when the waxing moon Leans through the trees and dreams of June, And when the black bat slants its wing, And lonelier the green-frogs sing; I fancy, when the whippoorwill In some old tree sings wild and shrill, With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,-- Each holding high a firefly spark To torch its way,--the wood-imps come: And some float rocking here; and some Unmoor the lily leaves and oar Around the old boat by the shore. They climb through oozy weeds and moss; They swarm its rotting sides and toss Their firefly torches o'er its edge Or hang them in the tangled sedge. The boat is loosed. The moon is pale. Around the dam they slowly sail. Upon the bow, to pilot it, A jack-o'-lantern gleam doth sit. Yes, I have seen it in my dreams!-- Naught is forgotten! naught, it seems!-- The strangled face, the tangled hair Of the drown'd woman trailing there. THE DREAM This was my dream: It seemed the afternoon Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon Stood round and bright with golden alchemy High in a heaven bluer than the sea. Long lawny lengths of perishable cloud Hung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed; Clouds raining colours, gold and violet, That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to let Hints down of Parian beauty and lost charms Of dim immortals, young, with floating forms. And all about me fruited orchards grew, Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue; Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire, Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desire And big with juice. And on far, fading hills, Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills Flashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vines Of purple vintage swollen with cool wines; Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June, Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon. And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there dripped An odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped, That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs; Investing at each throb the air with eyes, And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white, Clad on with raiment as of starry night; Fair, faint embodiments of melody, From out whose hearts of crystal one could see The music stream like light through delicate hands Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells, Within whose convolutions beauty dwells, My soul became a vibrant harp of love, Re-echoing all the harmony above. SPRING TWILIGHT The sun set late; and left along the west A belt of furious ruby, o'er which snows Of clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breast Blooming with almond-rose. The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down, And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince; Scattered the pollen from the lily's crown, And made the clover wince. By dusky forests, through whose fretful boughs In flying fragments shot the evening's flame, Adown the tangled lane the quiet cows With dreamy tinklings came. The sun set late; but hardly had he gone When o'er the moon's gold-litten crescent there, Clean Phosphor, polished as a precious stone, Burned in fair deeps of air. As from faint stars the glory waned and waned, The crickets made the oldtime garden shrill; And past the luminous pasture-lands complained The first far whippoorwill. A SLEET-STORM IN MAY On southern winds shot through with amber light, Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white, The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills, Waking the crocus and the daffodils. O'er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh-- The maples sang and flung their banners high, Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm. Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves, Under the forest's myriad naked eaves, Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue, Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew. With timid tread adown the barren wood Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood White-mantled Winter wagging his white head, Stormy his brow and stormily he said: 'The God of Terror, and the King of Storm, Must I remind thee how my iron arm Raised my red standards 'mid these conquered bowers, Turning their green to crimson?--Thou, with flowers, Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!-- Audacious one!'--And at her breast he tossed A bitter javelin of ice and frost; And left her lying on th' unfeeling mould. The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold Of her warm bosom, fell in desolate rows About her beauty, and, like fragrant snows, Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet, Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May, And bluer violets and snowdrops lay Entombed in crystal, icy dim and fair, Like teardrops scattered in her heavenly hair. Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain! Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.-- We should not question such; a higher power Knows best what bud is ripest or what flower, And silently plucks it at the fittest hour. UNREQUITED Passion? not hers, within whose virgin eyes All Eden lay.--And I remember how I drank the Heaven of her gaze with sighs-- She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sear Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music sweet; Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer. Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair? So have I seen a rose set round with thorn, Sung to and sung to by a bird of spring, And when, breast-pierced, the bird lay all forlorn, The rose bloomed on, fair and unnoticing. THE HEART O' SPRING Whiten, oh whiten, O clouds of lawn! Lily-like clouds that whiten above, Now like a dove, and now like a swan, But never, oh never--pass on! pass on! Never so white as the throat of my love. Blue-black night on the mountain peaks Is not so black as the locks o' my love! Stars that shine through the evening streaks Over the torrent that flashes and breaks, Are not so bright as the eyes o' my love! Moon in a cloud, a cloud of snow, Mist in the vale where the rivulet sounds, Dropping from ledge to ledge below, Turning to gold in the sunset's glow, Are not so soft as her footstep sounds. Sound o' May winds in the blossoming trees, Is not so sweet as her laugh that rings; Song o' wild birds on the morning breeze, Birds and brooks and murmur o' bees, Are harsh to her voice when she laughs or sings. The rose of my heart is she, my dawn! My star o' the east, my moon above! My soul takes ship for the Avalon Of her heart of hearts, and shall sail on Till it anchors safe in its haven of love. 'A BROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY' A broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost:-- So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost Of one great love, of iridescent ray, Spanning the roses dim of memory, Against the tumult of life's rushing crowds-- A broken rainbow on the skies of May. A flashing humming-bird among the flowers, Deep-coloured blooms; its slender tongue and bill Sucking the syrups and the calyxed myrrhs, Till, being full of sweets, away it whirrs:-- Such was his love that won her heart's rich bowers To give to him their all, their honied showers, The bloom from which he drank his body's fill-- A flashing humming-bird among the flowers. A moon, moth-white, that through long mists of fleece Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black, And, lost to vision, rims the black with froth:-- A love that swept its moon, like some great moth, Across the heaven of her soul's young peace; And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease Of time, through which its burning light comes back-- A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists of fleece. A bolt of living thunder downward hurled, Momental blazing from the piled-up storm, That instants out the mountains and the ocean, The towering crag, then blots the sight's commotion:-- Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world, The deeps of life, 'round which fate's clouds are curled, And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm-- A bolt of living thunder downward hurled. ORGIE On nights like this, when bayou and lagoon Dream in the moonlight's mystic radiance, I seem to walk like one deep in a trance With old-world myths born of the mist and moon. Lascivious eyes and mouths of sensual rose Smile into mine; and breasts of luring light, And tresses streaming golden to the night, Persuade me onward where the forest glows. And then it seems along the haunted hills There falls a flutter as of beautiful feet, As if tempestuous troops of Mænads meet To drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills. And then I feel her limbs will be revealed Like some great snow-white moth among the trees; Her vampire beauty, waiting there to seize And dance me downward where my doom is sealed. REVERIE What ogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought, What walls of Parian, whiter than a rose, What towers of crystal, for the eyes of thought, Hast builded on far Islands of Repose? Thy cloudy columns, vast, Corinthian, Or huge, Ionic, colonnade the heights Of dreamland, looming o'er the soul's deep seas; Built melodies of marble, that no man Has ever reached, except in fancy's flights, Templing the presence of perpetual ease. Oft, where o'er plastic frieze and plinths of spar,-- In glimmering solitudes of pillared stone,-- The twilight blossoms with one violet star, With thee, O Reverie, I have stood alone, And there beheld, from out the Mythic Age, The rosy breasts of Cytherea--fair, Full-cestused, and suggestive of what loves Immortal--rise; and heard the lyric rage Of sun-burnt Poesy, whose throat breathes bare O'er leopard skins, fluting among his groves. Oft, where thy castled peaks and templed vales Cloud--like convulsive sunsets--shores that dream, Myrrh-fragrant, over siren seas whose sails Gleam white as lilies on a lilied stream, My soul has dreamed. Or by thy sapphire sea, In thy arcaded gardens, in the shade Of breathing sculpture, oft has walked with thought, And bent, in shadowy attitude, its knee Before the shrine of Beauty that must fade And leave no memory of the mind that wrought. Who hath beheld thy caverns where, in heaps, The wines of Lethe and Love's witchery, In sealéd Amphoræ a sibyl keeps, World-old, for ever guarded secretly?-- No wine of Xeres or of Syracuse! No fine Falernian and no vile Sabine!-- The stolen fire of a demigod, Whose bubbled purple goddess feet did bruise In crusted vats of vintage, where the green Flames with wild poppies, on the Samian sod. Oh, for the deep enchantment of one draught! The reckless ecstasy of classic earth!-- With godlike eyes to laugh as gods have laughed In eyes of mortal brown, a mighty mirth. Of deity delirious with desire! To breathe the dropping roses of the shrines, The splashing wine-libation and the blood, And all the young priest's dreaming! To inspire My eager soul with beauty, 'til it shines An utt'rance of life's loftier brotherhood! So would I slumber in the old-world shades, And Poesy should touch me, as some bold Wild bee a pulpy lily of the glades, Barbaric-covered with the kernelled gold; And feel the glory of the Golden Age Less godly than my purpose, strong to dare Death with the pure immortal lips of love: Less lovely than my soul's ideal rage To mate itself with Music and declare Itself part meaning of the stars above. LETHE I There is a scent of roses and spilt wine Between the moonlight and the laurel coppice; The marble idol glimmers on its shrine, White as a star, among a heaven of poppies. Here all my life lies like a spilth of wine. There is a mouth of music like a lute, A nightingale that singeth to one flower; Between the falling flower and the fruit, Where love hath died, the music of an hour. II To sit alone with memory and a rose; To dwell with shadows of whilom romances; To make one hour of a year of woes And walk on starlight, in ethereal trances, With love's lost face fair as a moon-white rose. To shape from music and the scent of buds Love's spirit and its presence of sweet fire, Between the heart's wild burning and the blood's, Is part of life and of the soul's desire. III There is a song to silence and the stars, Between the forest and the temple's arches; And down the stream of night, like nenuphars, The tossing fires of the revellers' torches.-- Here all my life waits lonely as the stars.-- Shall not one hour of all those hours suffice For resignation God hath given as dower? Between the summons and the sacrifice One hour of love, th' eternity of an hour? IV The shrine is shattered and the bird is gone; Dark is the house of music and of bridal; The stars are stricken and the storm comes on; Lost in a wreck of roses lies the idol, Sad as the memory of a joy that's gone.-- To dream of perished gladness and a kiss, Waking the last chord of love's broken lyre, Between remembering and forgetting, this Is part of life and of the soul's desire. DIONYSIA The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon-- Diana's crystal-kindled crest-- Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell? The stealthy whisper and the drip? A Dryad with her leaf-light trip? A Naiad o'er her fountain well?-- Who with white fingers for her comb, Sleeks her blue hair, and from its curls Showers slim minnows and pale pearls, And hollow music of the foam. What is it in the vistaed ways That leans and springs, and stoops and sways?-- The naked limbs of one who flees? An Oread who hesitates Before the Satyr form that waits, Crouching to leap, that there she sees? Or under boughs, reclining cool, A Hamadryad, like a pool Of moonlight, palely beautiful? Or Limnad, with her lilied face, More lovely than the misty lace That haunts a star and gives it grace? Or is it some Leimoniad In wildwood flowers dimly clad? Oblong blossoms white as froth, Or mottled like the tiger-moth; Or brindled as the brows of death, Wild of hue and wild of breath: Here ethereal flame and milk Blent with velvet and with silk; Here an iridescent glow Mixed with satin and with snow: Pansy, poppy and the pale Serpolet and galingale; Mandrake and anemone, Honey-reservoirs o' the bee; Cistus and the cyclamen,-- Cheeked like blushing Hebe this, And the other white as is Bubbled milk of Venus when Cupid's baby mouth is pressed, Rosy to her rosy breast. And, besides, all flowers that mate With aroma, and in hue Stars and rainbows duplicate Here on earth for me and you. Yea! at last mine eyes can see! 'Tis no shadow of the tree Swaying softly there, but she!-- Mænad, Bassarid, Bacchant, What you will, who doth enchant Night with sensuous nudity. Lo! again I hear her pant Breasting through the dewy glooms-- Through the glow-worm gleams and glowers Of the starlight;--wood-perfumes Swoon around her and frail showers Of the leaflet-tilted rain. Lo! like love, she comes again Through the pale voluptuous dusk, Sweet of limb with breasts of musk. With her lips, like blossoms, breathing Honeyed pungence of her kiss, And her auburn tresses wreathing Like umbrageous helichrys, There she stands, like fire and snow, In the moon's ambrosial glow, Both her shapely loins low-looped With the balmy blossoms, drooped, Of the deep amaracus. Spiritual, yet sensual, Lo, she ever greets me thus In my vision; white and tall, Her delicious body there,-- Raimented with amorous air,-- To my mind expresses all The allurements of the world. And once more I seem to feel On my soul, like frenzy, hurled All the passionate past.--I reel, Greek again in ancient Greece, In the Pyrrhic revelries; In the mad and Mænad dance; Onward dragged with violence; Pan and old Silenus and Faunus and a Bacchant band Round me. Wild my wine-stained hand O'er tumultuous hair is lifted; While the flushed and Phallic orgies Whirl around me; and the marges Of the wood are torn and rifted With lascivious laugh and shout. And barbarian there again,-- Shameless with the shameless rout, Bacchus lusting in each vein,-- With her pagan lips on mine, Like a god made drunk with wine, On I reel; and in the revels Her loose hair, the dance dishevels, Blows, and 'thwart my vision swims All the splendour of her limbs.... So it seems. Yet woods are lonely. And when I again awake, I shall find their faces only Moonbeams in the boughs that shake; And their revels, but the rush Of night-winds through bough and brush. Yet my dreaming--is it more Than mere dreaming? Is a door Opened in my soul? a curtain Raised? to let me see for certain I have lived that life before? THE NAIAD She sits among the iris stalks Of babbling brooks; and leans for hours Among the river's lily flowers, Or on their whiteness walks: Above dark forest pools, gray rocks Wall in, she leans with dripping locks, And listening to the echo, talks With her own face--Iothera. There is no forest of the hills, No valley of the solitude, Nor fern nor moss, that may elude Her searching step that stills: She dreams among the wild-rose brakes Of fountains that the ripple shakes, And, dreaming of herself, she fills The silence with 'Iothera.' And every wind that haunts the ways Of leaf and bough, once having kissed Her virgin nudity, goes whist With wonder and amaze. There blows no breeze which hath not learned Her name's sweet melody, and yearned To kiss her mouth that laughs and says, 'Iothera, Iothera.' No wild thing of the wood, no bird, Or brown or blue, or gold or gray, Beneath the sun's or moonlight's ray, That hath not loved and heard; They are her pupils; she can say No new thing but, within a day, They have its music, word for word, Harmonious as Iothera. No man who lives and is not wise With love for common flowers and trees, Bee, bird, and beast, and brook, and breeze, And rocks and hills and skies,-- Search where he will,--shall ever see One flutter of her drapery, One glimpse of limbs, or hair, or eyes Of beautiful Iothera. THE LIMNAD I The lake she haunts gleams dreamily 'Twixt sleepy boughs of melody, Set 'mid the hills beside the sea, In tangled bush and brier; Where the ghostly sunsets write Wondrous things in golden light; And above the pine-crowned height, Clouds of twilight, rosy white, Build their towers of fire. II 'Mid the rushes there that swing, Flowering flags where voices sing When low winds are murmuring, Murmuring to stars that glitter; Blossom-white, with purple locks, Underneath the stars' still flocks, In the dusky waves she rocks, Rocks, and all the landscape mocks With a song most sweet and bitter. III Soft it sounds, at first, as dreams Filled with tears that fall in streams; Then it soars, until it seems Beauty's very self hath spoken; And the woods grow silent quite, Stars wax faint and flowers turn white; And the nightingales that light Near, or hear her through the night, Die, their hearts with longing broken. IV Dark, dim and sad o'er mournful lands, White-throated stars heaped in her hands, Like wildwood buds, the Twilight stands, The Twilight dreaming lingers; Listening where the Limnad sings Witcheries, whose beauty brings A great moon from hidden springs, Pale with amorous quiverings Feet of fire and silvery fingers. V In the vales Auloniads, On the mountains Oreads, On the leas Leimoniads, Naked as the stars that glisten, Pan, the Satyrs, Dryades, Fountain-lovely Naiades, Foam-lipped Oceanides, Breathless 'mid their seas and trees, Stay and stop and lean and listen. VI Large-eyed, Siren-like she stands, In the lake or on its sands, And with rapture from the hands Of the Night some stars are shaken; To her song the rushes swing, Lilies nod and ripples ring, Lost in helpless listening-- These will wake that hear her sing, But one mortal will not waken. INTIMATIONS I Is it uneasy moonlight On the restless field, that stirs? Or wild white meadow-blossoms The night-wind bends and blurs? Is it the dolorous water, That sobs in the woods and sighs? Or heart of an ancient oak-tree, That breaks and, sighing, dies? The wind is vague with the shadows That wander in No-Man's Land; The water is dark with the voices That weep on the Unknown strand. O ghosts of the winds that call me! O ghosts of the whispering waves! As sad as forgotten flowers That die upon nameless graves! What is this thing you tell me In tongues of a twilight race, Of death, with the vanished features, Mantled, of my own face? II The old enigmas of the deathless dawns And riddles of the all immortal eves,-- That still o'er Delphic lawns Speak as the gods spoke through oracular leaves-- I read with new-born eyes, Remembering how, a slave; They buried me, a living sacrifice, Once in a dead king's grave. Or crowned with hyacinth and helichrys, How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,-- Hearing the magadis Dirge through the pale amaracine perfume,-- 'Mid chanting priests I trod, With never a sigh or pause, To give my life to pacify a god, And save my country's cause. Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair, And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks, How, with mad torches there,-- Reddening the cedars of Cithæron's peaks,-- With gesture and fierce glance, Lascivious Mænad bands Once drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance, With Bacchanalian hands. III In eons of the senses, My spirit knew of yore, I found the Isle of Circe And felt her magic lore; And still the soul remembers What I was once before. She gave me flowers to smell of That wizard branches bore, Of weird and sorcerous beauty, Whose stems dripped human gore-- Their scent when I remember I know that world once more. She gave me fruits to eat of That grew upon the shore, Of necromantic ripeness, With human flesh at core-- Their taste when I remember I know that life once more. And then, behold! a serpent, That glides my face before, With eyes of tears and fire That glare me o'er and o'er-- I look into its eyeballs, And know myself once more. BEFORE THE TEMPLE I All desolate she sate her down Upon the marble of the temple's stair. You would have thought her, with her eyes of brown, Flushed cheeks and hazel hair, A dryad dreaming there. II A priest of Bacchus passed, nor stopped To chide her; deeming her--whose chiton hid But half her bosom, and whose girdle dropped-- Some grief-drowned Bassarid, The god of wine had chid. III With wreaths of woodland cyclamen For Dian's shrine, a shepherdess drew near, All her young thoughts on vestal beauty, when-- She dare not look for fear-- Behold the goddess here! IV Fierce lights on shields of bossy brass And helms of gold, next from the hills deploy Tall youths of Argos. And she sees _him_ pass, Flushed with heroic joy, On towards the siege of Troy. ANTHEM OF DAWN I Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,-- Up and far up and over,--the heaven grew erubescent, Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn, Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament's barbition; And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems, And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hems Of the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst, Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist. II Then out of the splendour and richness, that burned like a magic stone, The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone, The pomp and the pageant of colour, triumphal procession of glare, The sun, like a king in armour, breathing splendour from feet to hair, Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afar Where the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring war: And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin's fiery blade, The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade. III Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to even: And the stars, like rafts, went down: and the moon, like a ghost-ship driven, A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that dotted, With pearl and cameo, bays of the day, her canvas webbed and rooted, Lay lost in the gulf of heaven: while over her mixed and melted The beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted; The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and after The rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughter Of halcyon sapphire.--O Dawn! thou visible mirth, Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth! AT THE LANE'S END I No more to strip the roses from The rose-boughs of her porch's place!-- I dreamed last night that I was home Beside a rose--her face. I must have smiled in sleep--who knows?-- The rose aroma filled the lane; I saw her white hand's lifted rose That called me home again. And yet when I awoke--so wan, An old face wet with icy tears!-- Somehow, it seems, sleep had misdrawn A love gone thirty years. II The clouds roll up and the clouds roll down Over the roofs of the little town; Out in the hills where the pike winds by Fields of clover and bottoms of rye, You will hear no sound but the barking cough Of the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off; You will hear no bird but the sapsuckers Far off in the forest,--that seems to purr, As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot, Like the docile back of an ocelot: You will see no thing but the shine and shade Of briers that climb and of weeds that wade The glittering creeks of the light, that fills The dusty road and the red-keel hills-- And all day long in the pennyroy'l The grasshoppers at their anvils toil; Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum, And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum; Tinkers who solder the silence and heat To make the loneliness more complete. Around old rails where the blackberries Are reddening ripe, and the bumble-bees Are a drowsy rustle of Summer's skirts, And the bob-white's wing is the fan she flirts. Under the hill, through the iron weeds, And ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leads The path forgotten of all but one. Where elder bushes are sick with sun, And wild raspberries branch big blue veins O'er the face of the rock, where the old spring rains Its sparkling splinters of molten spar On the gravel bed where the tadpoles are,-- You will find the pales of the fallen fence, And the tangled orchard and vineyard, dense With the weedy neglect of thirty years. The garden there,--where the soft sky clears Like an old sweet face that has dried its tears;-- The garden plot where the cabbage grew And the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blew Balloons of white by the melon patch; Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catch Oblong amber and agate balls Thrown from the sun in the frosty falls: Long rows of currants and gooseberries, And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees. And here was a nook for the princess-plumes, The snap-dragons and the poppy-blooms, Mother's sweet-williams and pansy flowers, And the morning-glories' bewildered bowers, Tipping their cornucopias up For the humming-birds that came to sup. And over it all was the Sabbath peace Of the land whose lap was the love of these; And the old log-house where my innocence died, With my boyhood buried side by side. Shall a man with a face as withered and gray As the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away,-- Where the hornets haunt and the mortar drops From the loosened logs of the clapboard tops;-- Whom vice has aged as the rotting rooms The rain where memories haunt the glooms; A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnars In the rasping hinge of the door that jars; A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flue Where the swallows build the summer through; Shall a man, I say, with the spider sins That the long years spin in the outs and ins Of his soul, returning to see once more His boyhood's home, where his life was poor With toil and tears and their fretfulness, But rich with health and the hopes that bless The unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth; Shall he not take comfort and know the truth In its threadbare raiment of falsehood?--Yea! In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray, Like a pilgrim come to the shrine again Of the homely saints that shall soothe his pain, And arise and depart made clean from stain! III Years of care can not erase Visions of the hills and trees Closing in the dam and race; Not the mile-long memories Of the mill-stream's lovely place. How the sunsets used to stain Mirror of the water lying Under eaves made dark with rain! Where the red-bird, westward flying, Lit to try one song again. Dingles, hills, and woods, and springs, Where we came in calm and storm, Swinging in the grape-vine swings, Wading where the rocks were warm, With our fishing-nets and strings. Here the road plunged down the hill, Under ash and chinquapin,-- Where the grasshoppers would drill Ears of silence with their din,-- To the willow-girdled mill. There the path beyond the ford Takes the woodside, just below Shallows that the lilies sword, Where the scarlet blossoms blow Of the trumpet-vine and gourd. Summer winds, that sink with heat, On the pelted waters winnow Moony petals that repeat Crescents, where the startled minnow Beats a glittering retreat. Summer winds that bear the scent Of the iron-weed and mint, Weary with sweet freight and spent, On the deeper pools imprint Stumbling steps in many a dent. Summer winds, that split the husk Of the peach and nectarine, Trail along the amber dusk Hazy skirts of gray and green, Spilling balms of dew and musk. Where with balls of bursting juice Summer sees the red wild-plum Strew the gravel; ripened loose, Autumn hears the pawpaw drum Plumpness on the rocks that bruise: There we found the water-beech, One forgotten August noon, With a hornet-nest in reach,-- Like a fairyland balloon, Full of bustling fairy speech.-- Some invasion sure it was; For we heard the captains scold; Waspish cavalry a-buzz,-- Troopers uniformed in gold, Sable-slashed,--to charge on us. Could I find the sedgy angle, Where the dragon-flies would turn Slender flittings into spangle On the sunlight? or would burn-- Where the berries made a tangle-- Sparkling green and brassy blue; Rendezvousing, by the stream, Bands of elf-banditti, who, Brigands of the bloom and beam, Drunken were with honey-dew. Could I find the pond that lay Where vermilion blossoms showered Fragrance down the daisied way? That the sassafras embowered With the spice of early May? Could I find it--did I seek-- The old mill? Its weather-beaten Wheel and gable by the creek? With its warping roof; worm-eaten, Dusty rafters worn and weak. Where old shadows haunt old places, Loft and hopper, stair and bin; Ghostly with the dust that laces Webs that usher phantoms in, Wistful with remembered faces. While the frogs' grave litanies Drowse in far-off antiphone, Supplicating, till the eyes Of dead friendships, long alone In the dusky corners,--rise. Moonrays or the splintered slip Of a star? within the darkling Twilight, where the fireflies dip-- As if Night a myriad sparkling Jewels from her hands let slip: While again some farm-boy crosses,-- With a corn-sack for the meal,-- O'er the creek, through ferns and mosses Sprinkled by the old mill-wheel, Where the water drips and tosses. THE FARMSTEAD Yes, I love the homestead. There In the spring the lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere; There in summer gladioles grew Parallels of scarlet glare. And the moon-hued primrose cool, Satin-soft and redolent; Honeysuckles beautiful, Filling all the air with scent; Roses red or white as wool. Roses, glorious and lush, Rich in tender-tinted dyes, Like the gay tempestuous rush Of unnumbered butterflies, Clustering o'er each bending bush. Here japonica and box, And the wayward violets; Clumps of star-enamelled phlox, And the myriad flowery jets Of the twilight four-o'-clocks. Ah, the beauty of the place! When the June made one great rose, Full of musk and mellow grace, In the garden's humming close, Of her comely mother face! Bubble-like, the hollyhocks Budded, burst, and flaunted wide Gypsy beauty from their stocks; Morning glories, bubble-dyed, Swung in honey-hearted flocks. Tawny tiger-lilies flung Doublets slashed with crimson on; Graceful slave-girls, fair and young, Like Circassians, in the sun Alabaster lilies swung. Ah, the droning of the bee; In his dusty pantaloons Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis; In the drowsy afternoons Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea. Ah, the moaning wildwood-dove! With its throat of amethyst Rippled like a shining cove Which a wind to pearl hath kissed, Moaning, moaning of its love. And the insects' gossip thin-- From the summer hotness hid-- In lone, leafy deeps of green; Then at eve the katydid With its hard, unvaried din. Often from the whispering hills, Borne from out the golden dusk,-- Gold with gold of daffodils,-- Thrilled into the garden's musk The wild wail of whippoorwills. From the purple-tangled trees, Like the white, full heart of night, Solemn with majestic peace, Swam the big moon, veined with light; Like some gorgeous golden-fleece. She was there with me.--And who, In the magic of the hour, Had not sworn that they could view, Beading on each blade and flower Moony blisters of the dew? And each fairy of our home,-- Firefly,--its taper lit In the honey-scented gloam, Dashing down the dusk with it Like an instant-flaming foam. And we heard the calling, calling, Of the screech-owl in the brake; Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawling Down the ledge, into the lake Heard the sighing streamlet falling. Then we wandered to the creek Where the water-lilies, growing Thick as stars, lay white and weak; Or against the brooklet's flowing Bent and bathed a bashful cheek. And the moonlight, rippling golden, Fell in virgin aureoles On their bosoms, half unfolden, Where, it seemed, the fairies' souls Dwelt as perfume,--unbeholden;-- Or lay sleeping, pearly-tented, Baby-cribbed within each bud, While the night-wind, piney-scented, Swooning over field and flood, Rocked them on the waters dented. Then the low, melodious bell Of a sleeping heifer tinkled, In some berry-briered dell, As her satin dewlap wrinkled With the cud that made it swell. And, returning home, we heard, In a beech-tree at the gate, Some brown, dream-behaunted bird, Singing of its absent mate, Of the mate that never heard. And, you see, now I am gray, Why within the old, old place, With such memories, I stay; Fancy out her absent face Long since passed away. She was mine--yes! still is mine: And my frosty memory Reels about her, as with wine Warmed into young eyes that see All of her that was divine. Yes, I loved her, and have grown Melancholy in that love, And the memory alone Of perfection such whereof She could sanctify each stone. And where'er the poppies swing-- There we walk,--as if a bee Bent them with its airy wing,-- Down her garden shadowy In the hush the evenings bring. A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS Bee-bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds, Lay rotting, where still sucked and sung The gray bee, boring to its seed's Pink pulp and honey blackly stung. The orchard-path, which led around The garden,--with its heat one twinge Of dinning locusts,--picket-bound And ragged, brought me where one hinge Held up the gate that scraped the ground. All seemed the same: the martin-box-- Sun-warped with pigmy balconies-- Still stood, with all its twittering flocks, Perched on its pole above the peas And silvery-seeded onion-stocks. The clove-pink and the rose; the clump Of coppery sunflowers, with the heat Sick to the heart: the garden stump, Red with geranium-pots, and sweet With moss and ferns, this side the pump. I rested, with one hesitant hand Upon the gate. The lonesome day, Droning with insects, made the land One dry stagnation. Soaked with hay And scents of weeds the hot wind fanned. I breathed the sultry scents, my eyes Parched as my lips. And yet I felt My limbs were ice.--As one who flies To some wild woe.--How sleepy smelt The hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies! Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer For one long, plaintive, forest-side Bird-quaver.--And I knew me near Some heartbreak anguish.... She had died. I felt it, and no need to hear! I passed the quince and pear-tree; where, All up the porch, a grape-vine trails-- How strange that fruit, whatever air Or earth it grows in, never fails To find its native flavour there! And she was as a flower, too, That grows its proper bloom and scent No matter what the soil: she, who, Born better than her place, still lent Grace to the lowliness she knew.... They met me at the porch, and were Sad-eyed with weeping.--Then the room Shut out the country's heat and purr, And left light stricken into gloom-- So love and I might look on her. THE FEUD Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stone The murmuring ooze and trickle of a stream Through bushes, where the mountain spring lies lone,-- A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,-- And one wild road winds like a saffron seam. Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous note Dropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June; Here cat--and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wrote Their presence on the silence with a tune; And here the fox drank 'neath the mountain moon. Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,-- Impenetrable briers, deep and dense, And wiry bushes,--brush, that seemed to crush The struggling saplings with its tangle, whence Sprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence. A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterfly In orange and amber, like a floating flame; And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly, Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame, With an old rifle, down the mountain came. He listened, drinking from a flask he took Out of the ragged pocket of his coat; Then all around him cast a stealthy look; Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float, His fingers twitching at his hairy throat. The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland height Loomed, framed in splendours of the dolphin dusk. Around the road a horseman rode in sight; Young, tall, blonde-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque, He in the thicket aimed--The gun ran husk; And echoes barked among the hills and made Repeated instants of the shot's distress.-- Then silence--and the trampled bushes swayed;-- Then silence, packed with murder and the press Of distant hoofs that galloped riderless. LYNCHERS At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.... The red-rock road of the underbush, Where the woman came through the summer hush. The sumach high and the elder thick, Where we found the stone and the ragged stick The trampled road of the thicket, full Of footprints down to the quarry pool. The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, Where we found her lying stark and dead. The scraggy wood; the negro hut, With its doors and windows locked and shut. A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp; A knock at the door; a lifted lamp. An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; A voice that answers a voice that asks. A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck; A running noose and a man's bared neck. A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; The lonely night and a bat's black wings.... At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. DEAD MAN'S RUN He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood Clad in a homespun gown. 'To ride this road is death for you! My father waits you there; My father and my brother, too,-- You know the oath they swear.' He holds her by one berry-brown wrist, And by one berry-brown hand; And he hath laughed at her and kissed Her cheek the sun hath tanned. 'The feud is to the death, sweetheart; But forward will I ride.'-- 'And if you ride to death, sweetheart, My place is at your side.' Low hath he laughed again and kissed And helped her with his hand; And they have ridd'n into the mist That belts the autumn land. And they had passed by Devil's Den, And come to Dead Man's Run, When in the brush rose up two men, Each with a levelled gun. 'Down! down! my sister!' cries the one;-- She gives the reins a twirl.-- The other shouts, 'He shot my son! And now he steals my girl!' The rifles crack: she will not wail: He will not cease to ride: But, oh! her face is pale, is pale, And the red blood stains her side. 'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The road is rough to ride!'-- The road is rough by gulch and bluff, And her hair blows wild and wide. 'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The bank is steep to ride!'-- The bank is steep for a strong man's leap, And her eyes are staring wide. 'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The Run is swift to ride!'-- The Run is swift with mountain drift, And she sways from side to side. Is it a wash of the yellow moss, Or drift of the autumn's gold, The mountain torrent foams across For the dead pine's roots to hold? Is it the bark of the sycamore, Or peel of the white birch-tree, The mountaineer on the other shore Hath followed and still can see? No mountain moss or leaves, dear heart! No bark of birchen gray!-- Young hair of gold and a face death-cold The wild stream sweeps away. AUGUST I Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace, Benign, of calm maturity, she stands Among her meadows and her orchard-lands, And on her mellowing gardens and her trees, Out of the ripe abundance of her hands Bestows increase And fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease, Blue-eyed and blonde she goes Upon her bosom Summer's richest rose. II And he who follows where her footsteps lead, By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream, Shall glimpse the glory of her visible dream, In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed: She, in whose path the very shadows gleam; Whose humblest weed Seems lovelier than June's loveliest flower, indeed, And sweeter to the smell Than April's self within a rainy dell. III Hers is a sumptuous simplicity Within the fair Republic of her flowers, Where you may see her standing hours on hours, Breast-deep in gold, soft-holding up a bee To her hushed ear; or sitting under bowers Of greenery, A butterfly a-tilt upon her knee; Or lounging on her hip, Dancing a cricket on her finger-tip. IV Ay, let me breathe hot scents that tell of you; The hoary catnip and the meadow-mint, On which the honour of your touch doth print Itself as odour. Let me drink the hue Of iron-weed and mist-flow'r here that hint, With purple and blue, The rapture that your presence doth imbue Their inmost essence with, Immortal though as transient as a myth. V Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assure Me where you hide: the brooks', whose happy din Tells where, the deep retired woods within, Disrobed, you bathe; the birds', whose drowsy lure Tells where you slumber, your warm nestling chin Soft on the pure, Pink cushion of your palm.... What better cure For care and memory's ache Than to behold you so, and watch you wake! THE BUSH-SPARROW I Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms, Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms; And in the whistling hollow there The red-bud bends, as brown and bare As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm; From some gray hickory or larch, Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March, The sad heart thrills and reddens warm To hear you braving the rough storm, Frail courier of green-gathering powers; Rebelling sap in trees and flowers; Love's minister come heralding-- O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers! O brown-red pursuivant of Spring! II 'Moan' sob the woodland waters still Down bloomless ledges of the hill; And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang Sharp beaks and talons of the wind: Black scowl the forests, and unkind The far fields as the near: while song Seems murdered and all beauty wrong. One weak frog only in the thaw Of spawny pools wakes cold and raw, Expires a melancholy bass And stops as if bewildered: then Along the frowning wood again, Flung in the thin wind's vulture face, From woolly tassels of the proud, Red-bannered maples, long and loud, 'The Spring is come! is here! her Grace! her Grace!' III 'Her Grace, the Spring! her Grace! her Grace! Climbs, beautiful and sunny browed, Up, up the kindling hills and wakes Blue berries in the berry brakes: With fragrant flakes, that blow and bleach, Deep-powders smothered quince and peach: Eyes dogwoods with a thousand eyes: Teaches each sod how to be wise With twenty wild-flowers to one weed, And kisses germs that they may seed. In purest purple and sweet white Treads up the happier hills of light, Bloom, cloudy-borne, song in her hair And balm and beam of odorous air. Winds, her retainers; and the rains Her yeomen strong that sweep the plains: Her scarlet knights of dawn, and gold Of eve, her panoply unfold: Her herald tabarded behold! Awake to greet! prepare to sing! She comes, the darling Duchess, Spring!' QUIET A log-hut in the solitude, A clapboard roof to rest beneath! This side, the shadow-haunted wood; That side, the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn shall come to me In raiment of the white winds spun; Slim in her rosy hand the key That opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile shall help my heart enough With love to labour all the day, And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough, With her smooth footprints, each a ray. At dusk a voice shall call afar, A lone voice like the whippoorwill's; And, on her shimmering brow one star, Night shall descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn shall stand, With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, Are mirrors of a mystic land, Fantastic with the towns of sleep. MUSIC Thou, oh, thou! Thou of the chorded shell and golden plectrum, thou Of the dark eyes and pale pacific brow! Music, who by the plangent waves, Or in the echoing night of labyrinthine caves, Or on God's mountains, lonely as the stars, Touchest reverberant bars Of immemorial sorrow and amaze;-- Keeping regret and memory awake, And all the immortal ache Of love that leans upon the past's sweet days In retrospection!--now, oh, now, Interpreter and heart-physician, thou Who gazest on the heaven and the hell Of life, and singest each as well, Touch with thy all-mellifluous finger-tips, Or thy melodious lips, This sickness named my soul, Making it whole As is an echo of a chord, Or some symphonic word, Or sweet vibrating sigh, That deep, resurgent still doth rise and die On thy voluminous roll; Part of the beauty and the mystery That axles Earth with music; as a slave, Swinging it round and round on each sonorous pole, 'Mid spheric harmony, And choral majesty, And diapasoning of wind and wave; Speeding it on its far elliptic way 'Mid vasty anthemings of night and day.-- O cosmic cry Of two eternities, wherein we see The phantasms, Death and Life, At endless strife Above the silence of a monster grave. THE PURPLE VALLEYS Far in the purple valleys of illusion I see her waiting, like the soul of music, With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies, Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison; With red lips sweeter than Arabian storax, Yet bitterer than myrrh. O tears and kisses! O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul for ever! Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains: The woods are hushed: the vales are blue with shadows: Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendours, Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burning The sunset's wild sciography: and slowly The moon treads heaven's proscenium,--night's stately White queen of love and tragedy and madness. Again I know forgotten dreams and longings; Ideals lost; desires dead and buried Beside the altar sacrifice erected Within the heart's high sanctuary. Strangely Again I know the horror and the rapture, The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish, The terror and the worship of the spirit. Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me; Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies, Velvet and flame, through which her fierce will holds me, Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onward To sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings, Wild, unrestrained--the brute within the human-- To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom. Again I feel her lips like ice and fire, Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax, Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destruction Lies serpent-like. Intoxicating languors Resistlessly embrace me, soul and body; And we go drifting, drifting--she is laughing-- Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm. A DREAM SHAPE With moon-white hearts that held a gleam I gathered wild-flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood Was odour of the wildwood bud. From dew, the starlight arrowed through, I wrought a woman's eyes of blue; The lids that on her eyeballs lay, Were rose-pale petals of the May. Out of a rosebud's veins I drew The fragrant crimson beating through The languid lips of her, whose kiss Was as a poppy's drowsiness. Out of the moonlight and the air I wrought the glory of her hair, That o'er her eyes' blue heaven lay Like some gold cloud o'er dawn of day. I took the music of the breeze And water, whispering in the trees, And shaped the soul that breathed below A woman's blossom breasts of snow. A shadow's shadow in the glass Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass: And thinking of it now, meseems We only live within our dreams. For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I-- The unreal things that pass and die. THE OLD BARN Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day. Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides. Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy. A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day's, now tell:-- Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west's ribbéd stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cow-bells up the lane. Night and the moon and katydid, And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs; And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid; And sweet breath of the cows, And the lone owl here hid. THE WOOD WITCH There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags that rank The slow brook's heron-haunted bank. The dragon-flies, brass-bright and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells by under forest leaves,-- These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies, gleaming green. While o'er the wet sand,--left between The running water and the still,-- In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she doth devise Take on the forms of butterflies, Rich-coloured.--And 'tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr; Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And slumber is begot and born, A faery child beneath the thorn. There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her din demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme. And through her spells you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fireflies; and in the gloom Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom. But, in the night, at languid rest,-- When like a spirit's naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,-- With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist, If you should see her rise and wave You welcome--ah! what thing could save You then? for evermore her slave! AT SUNSET Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and away. Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; Her apron filled with stars she stands, And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away. Above the wood's black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away. Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low, Beyond the twilight and the night Into Love's kingdom of long light Over the hills and away. MAY The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance-- No gleam of gold that the twilights hold Is strong as their necromance: For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead, The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed Are the May's own utterance. The azure stars of the bluet bloom, That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- No blink of blue that a cloud lets through Is sweet as their countenance: For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, The azure stars of the bluet bloom Are the light of the May's own glance. With her wondering words and her looks she comes, In a sunbeam of a gown; She needs but think and the blossoms wink, But look, and they shower down. By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums, With her wondering words and her looks she comes Like a little maid to town. RAIN I Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black, Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back, That on the thunder leaned as on a cane; And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack, That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack: One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane, And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain. II At last, through clouds,--as from a cavern hewn Into night's heart,--the sun burst, angry roon; And every cedar, with its weight of wet, Against the sunset's fiery splendour set, Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn: Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met, Dim odours rose of pink and mignonette; And in the East a confidence, that soon Grew to the calm assurance of the moon. TO FALL Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes, Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods! Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom Of tawny twilights; burdened with perfume Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist; And all the beauty of the fire-kissed Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way, Odorous of death and drowsy with decay. I think of thee as seated 'mid the showers Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers,-- The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune A singer gives her soul's wild melody,-- Watching the squirrel store his granary. Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee: Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back; One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black; Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweet The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet. Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers? A heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours? A cricket dirging days that soon must die? Or did the ghost of Summer wander by? SUNSET IN AUTUMN Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass; Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras, And broom-sedge strips of smoky-pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain pools gleam like glass. From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side, The winds,--the sowers of the Lord,--with thunderous footsteps stride; Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed, Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide. The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell; And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell Glimmers; while, wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell. The oaks, against a copper sky--o'er which, like some black lake Of Dis, bronze clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break-- Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales that make A pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take. Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a limbo-litten pane, Within its walls of storm, the West opens to hill and plain, On which the wild-geese ink themselves, a far triangled train, And then the shuttering clouds close down--and night is here again. THE HILLS There is no joy of earth that thrills My bosom like the far-off hills! Th' unchanging hills, that, shadowy, Beckon our mutability To follow and to gaze upon Foundations of the dusk and dawn. Meseems the very heavens are massed Upon their shoulders, vague and vast With all the skyey burden of The winds and clouds and stars above. Lo, how they sit before us, seeing The laws that give all Beauty being! Behold! to them, when dawn is near, The nomads of the air appear, Unfolding crimson camps of day In brilliant bands; then march away; And under burning battlements Of twilight plant their tinted tents. The truth of olden myths, that brood By haunted stream and haunted wood, They see; and feel the happiness Of old at which we only guess: The dreams, the ancients loved and knew, Still as their rocks and trees are true: Not otherwise than presences The tempest and the calm to these: One, shouting on them all the night, Black-limbed and veined with lambent light; The other with the ministry Of all soft things that company With music--an embodied form, Giving to solitude the charm Of leaves and waters and the peace Of bird-begotten melodies-- And who at night doth still confer With the mild moon, that telleth her Pale tale of lonely love, until Wan images of passion fill The heights with shapes that glimmer by Clad on with sleep and memory. CONTENT When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is Care's embodiment Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- An humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you. An humble home, where pigeons coo, Whose path leads under breezy lines Of frosty-berried cedars to A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines, Is all I ask for me and you. A garden, which all summer through, The roses old make redolent, And morning-glories, gay of hue, And tansy, with its homely scent, Is all I ask for me and you. An orchard, that the pippins strew, From whose bruised gold the juices spring; A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, Is all I ask for me and you. A lane that leads to some far view Of forest or of fallow-land, Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, Each with a bee in its hot hand, Is all I ask for me and you. At morn, a pathway deep with dew, And birds to vary time and tune; At eve, a sunset avenue, And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, Is all I ask for me and you. Dear heart, with wants so small and few, And faith, that's better far than gold, A lowly friend, a child or two, To care for us when we are old, Is all I ask for me and you. HEART OF MY HEART Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- When we were children who would laugh and run, Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- Before came toil and care and years went ill, And one forgot and one remembered still; Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, Give me your hands and let me draw you near, Heart of my heart. Stars are not truer than your soul is true-- What need I more of heaven then than you? Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- What need I more to make my world complete? O woman nature, love that still endures, What strength has ours that is not born of yours? Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. Heart of my heart. OCTOBER Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blows A tourney-trumpet on the listed hill; Past is the splendour of the royal rose And duchess daffodil. Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space, Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold, A ragged beggar with a lovely face, Reigns the sad marigold. And I have sought June's butterfly for days, To find it--like a coreopsis bloom-- Amber and seal, rain-murdered 'neath the blaze Of this sunflower's plume. Here drones the bee; and there sky-daring wings Voyage blue gulfs of heaven; the last song The red-bird flings me as adieu, still rings Upon yon pear-tree's prong. No angry sunset brims with rubier red The bowl of heaven than the days, indeed, Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed, Where each leaf seems to bleed. And where the wood-gnats dance, like some slight mist, Above the efforts of the weedy stream, The girl, October, tired of the tryst, Dreams a diviner dream. One foot just dipping the caressing wave, One knee at languid angle; locks that drown Hands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave, Watching the leaves drift down. MYTH AND ROMANCE I When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple-buds, When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering, On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods, There is an unseen presence that eludes:-- Perhaps a dryad, in whose tresses cling The loamy odours of old solitudes, Who, from her beechen doorway, calls, and leads My soul to follow; now with dimpling words Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds; While here and there--is it her limbs that swing? Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds? II Or, haply, 'tis a Naiad now who slips, Like some white lily, from her fountain's glass, While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips The moisture rains cool music on the grass. Her have I heard and followed, yet, alas! Have seen no more than the wet ray that dips The shivered waters, wrinkling where I pass; But in the liquid light where she doth hide, I have beheld the azure of her gaze Smiling; and, where the orbing ripple plays, Among her minnows I have heard her lips, Bubbling, make merry by the waterside. III Or now it is an Oread--whose eyes Are constellated dusk--who stands confessed, As naked as a flow'r; her heart's surprise, Like morning's rose, mantling her brow and breast: She, shrinking from my presence, all distressed Stands for a startled moment ere she flies, Her deep hair blowing, up the mountain crest, Wild as a mist that trails along the dawn. And is't her footfalls lure me? or the sound Of airs that stir the crisp leaf on the ground? And is't her body glimmers on yon rise? Or dogwood blossoms snowing on the lawn? IV Now 'tis a satyr piping serenades On a slim reed. Now Pan and Faun advance Beneath green-hollowed roofs of forest glades, Their feet gone mad with music: now, perchance, Sylvanus sleeping, on whose leafy trance The nymphs stand gazing in dim ambuscades Of sun-embodied perfume.--Myth, Romance, Where'er I turn, reach out bewildering arms, Compelling me to follow. Day and night I hear their voices and behold the light Of their divinity that still evades, And still allures me in a thousand forms. GENIUS LOCI I What wood-god, on this water's mossy curb, Lost in reflections of earth's loveliness, Did I, just now, unconsciously disturb? I who haphazard, wandering at a guess, Came on this spot, wherein with gold and flame Of buds and blooms the season writes its name.-- Ah me! could I have seen him ere alarm Of my approach aroused him from his calm! As he, part Hamadryad and, mayhap, Part Faun, lay here; who left the shadow warm As a wood-rose, and filled the air with balm Of his wild breath as with ethereal sap. II Does not the moss retain some slight impress, Green-dented down, of where he lay or trod? Do not the flow'rs, so reticent, confess With conscious looks the contact of a god? Does not the very water garrulously Boast the indulgence of a deity? And, hark! in burly beech and sycamore How all the birds proclaim it! and the leaves Rejoice with clappings of their myriad hands! And shall not I believe, too, and adore, With such wide proof?--Yea, though my soul perceives No evident presence, still it understands. III And for a while it moves me to lie down Here on the spot his god-head sanctified: Mayhap some dream he dreamed may linger, brown And young as joy, around the forest side; Some dream within whose heart lives no disdain For such as I whose love is sweet and sane; That may repeat, so none but I may hear-- As one might tell a pearl-strung rosary-- Some epic that the leaves have learned to croon, Some lyric whispered in the wild-flow'r's ear, Whose murmurous lines are sung by bird and bee, And all the insects of the night and noon. IV For, all around me, upon field and hill, Enchantment lies as of mysterious flutes; As if the music of a god's goodwill Had taken on material attributes In blooms, like chords; and in the water-gleam, That runs its silvery scales on every stream; In sunbeam bars, up which the butterfly, A golden note, vibrates then flutters on-- Inaudible tunes, blown on the pipes of Pan, That have assumed a visible entity, And drugged the air with beauty so, a Faun, Behold, I seem, and am no more a man. DISCOVERY What is it now that I shall seek Where woods dip downward, in the hills; A mossy nook, a ferny creek, And May among the daffodils. Or in the valley's vistaed glow, Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines, Shall I behold her coming slow, Sweet May, among the columbines? With red-bud cheeks and bluet eyes, Big eyes, the homes of happiness, To meet me with the old surprise, Her hoiden hair all bonnetless. Who waits for me, where, note for note, The birds make glad the forest trees? A dogwood blossom at her throat, My May among th' anemones. As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms, And dewdrops drink the moonlight's gleam, My soul shall kiss her lips' perfumes, And drink the magic of her dreams. THE OLD SPRING I Under rocks whereon the rose Like a strip of morning glows; Where the azure-throated newt Drowses on the twisted root; And the brown bees, humming homeward, Stop to suck the honey-dew; Fern and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward, Drips the wildwood spring I knew, Drips the spring my boyhood knew. II Myrrh and music everywhere Haunt its cascades;--like the hair That a naiad tosses cool, Swimming strangely beautiful, With white fragrance for her bosom, For her mouth a breath of song:-- Under leaf and branch and blossom Flows the woodland spring along, Sparkling, singing flows along. III Still the wet wan mornings touch Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such Slender stars as dusk may have Pierce the rose that roofs its wave; Still the thrush may call at noontide And the whippoorwill at night; Nevermore, by sun or moontide, Shall I see it gliding white, Falling, flowing, wild and white. THE FOREST SPRING Push back the brambles, berry-blue: The hollowed spring is full in view: Deep-tangled with luxuriant fern Its rock-embedded, crystal urn. Not for the loneliness that keeps The coigne wherein its silence sleeps; Not for wild butterflies that sway Their pansy pinions all the day Above its mirror; nor the bee, Nor dragonfly, that passing see Themselves reflected in its spar; Not for the one white liquid star, That twinkles in its firmament; Nor moon-shot clouds, so slowly sent Athwart it when the kindly night Beads all its grasses with the light Small jewels of the dimpled dew; Not for the day's inverted blue Nor the quaint, dimly coloured stones That dance within it where it moans: Not for all these I love to sit In silence and to gaze in it. But, know, a nymph with merry eyes Looks at me from its laughing skies; A graceful glimmering nymph who plays All the long fragrant summer days With instant sights of bees and birds, And speaks with them in water words, And for whose nakedness the air Weaves moony mists, and on whose hair, Unfilleted, the night will set That lone star as a coronet. TRANSMUTATION To me all beauty that I see Is melody made visible: An earth-translated state, may be, Of music heard in Heaven or Hell. Out of some love-impassioned strain Of saints, the rose evolved its bloom; And, dreaming of it here again, Perhaps re-lives it as perfume. Out of some chant that demons sing Of hate and pain, the sunset grew; And, haply, still remembering, Re-lives it here as some wild hue. DEAD CITIES Out of it all but this remains:-- I was with one who crossed wide chains Of the Cordilleras, whose peaks Lock in the wilds of Yucatan, Chiapas and Honduras. Weeks-- And then a city that no man Had ever seen; so dim and old, No chronicle has ever told The history of men who piled Its temples and huge teocallis Among mimosa-blooming valleys; Or how its altars were defiled With human blood; whose idols there With eyes of stone still stand and stare. So old the moon can only know How old, since ancient forests grow On mighty wall and pyramid. Huge ceïbas, whose trunks were scarred With ages, and dense yuccas, hid Fanes 'mid the cacti, scarlet-starred. I looked upon its paven ways, And saw it in its kingliest days; When from the lordly palace one, A victim, walked with prince and priest, Who turned brown faces toward the east In worship of the rising sun: At night ten hundred temples' spires On gold burnt everlasting fires. Uxmal? Palenque? or Copan? I know not. Only how no man Had ever seen; and still my soul Believes it vaster than the three. Volcanic rock walled in the whole, Lost in the woods as in some sea. _I only_ read its hieroglyphs, Perused its monster monoliths Of death, gigantic heads; and read The pictured codex of its fate, The perished Toltec; while in hate Mad monkeys cursed me, as if dead Priests of its past had taken form To guard its ruined shrines from harm. FROST Magician he, who, autumn nights, Down from the starry heavens whirls; A harlequin in spangled tights, Whose wand's touch carpets earth with pearls. Through him each pane presents a scene, A Lilliputian landscape, where The world is white instead of green, And trees and houses hang in air. Where Elfins gambol and delight, And haunt the jewelled bells of flowers; Where upside-down we see the night With many moons and starry showers. And surely in his wand or hand Is Midas magic, for, behold, Some morn we wake and find the land, Both field and forest, turned to gold. A NIGHT IN JUNE I White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky; Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by, Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk: Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier; Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire, Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade. And when the western sky seemed some weird land, And night a witching spell at whose command One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep; Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his, And lifted up her lips for their first kiss. II There where they part, the porch's steps are strewn With wind-blown petals of the purple vine; Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon; And now a meteor draws a lilac line Across the welkin, as if God would sign The perfect poem of this night of June. The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree, Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass; And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame, The dewdrop trembles on the peony, As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name. THE DREAMER Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers, And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh; Or, on each season, spell the epitaph Of its dead months repeated in their flowers; Or list the music of the strolling showers, Whose vagabond notes strummed through a twinkling staff, Or read the day's delivered monograph Through all the chapters of its dædal hours. Still with the same child-faith and child regard He looks on Nature, hearing at her heart, The Beautiful beat out the time and place, Through which no lesson of this life is hard, No struggle vain of science or of art, That dies with failure written on its face. WINTER The flute, whence Summer's dreamy finger-tips Drew music,--ripening the pinched kernels in The burly chestnut and the chinquapin, Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips,-- Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips, And surly songs whistle around his chin; Now the wild days and wilder nights begin When, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips. Thy songs, O Summer, are not lost so soon! Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute, Which unto Winter's masculine airs doth give Thy own creative qualities of tune, Through which we see each bough bend white with fruit, Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative. MID-WINTER All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold; And through the snow the muffled waters fell; The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell, Like some old hermit whose last bead is told. At eve the wind woke, and the snow clouds rolled Aside to leave the fierce sky visible; Harsh as an iron landscape of wan hell The dark hills hung framed in with gloomy gold. And then, towards night, the wind seemed some one at My window wailing: now a little child Crying outside my door; and now the long Howl of some starved beast down the flue. I sat And knew 'twas Winter with his madman song Of miseries on which he stared and smiled. SPRING First came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips; A pursuivant who heralded a prince: And dawn put on her livery of tints, And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips: And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came, A knight, who bade the winter let him pass; And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame. And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness, Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless: Above her head the birds were as a lyre; And at her feet, like some strong worshipper, The shouting water pæan'd praise of her Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire. TRANSFORMATION It is the time when, by the forest falls, The touch-me-nots hang fairy folly-caps; When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps Of rocks with colour, rich as orient shawls: And in my heart I hear a voice that calls Me woodward, where the hamadryad wraps Her limbs in bark, and, bubbling in the saps, Sings the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals: There is a gleam that lures me up the stream-- A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light? Perfume that leads me on from dream to dream-- An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight? And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again, Part of the myths that I pursue in vain. RESPONSE There is a music of immaculate love, That beats within the virgin veins of Spring,-- And trillium blossoms, like the stars that cling To fairies' wands; and, strung on sprays above, White-hearts and mandrake blooms--that look enough Like the elves' washing--white with laundering Of May-moon dews; and all pale-opening Wild-flowers of the woods are born thereof. There is no sod Spring's white foot brushes but Must feel the music that vibrates within, And thrill to the communicated touch Responsive harmonies, that must unshut The heart of Beauty for Song's concrete kin, Emotions--that are flowers--born of such. THE SWASHBUCKLER Squat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port; A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed: the Falstaff-like resort Of fat debauchery, whose veined cheek flaunts A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he stands In rakehell boots and belt, and hanger that Claps when, with greasy gauntlets on his hands, He swaggers past in cloak and slouch-plumed hat. Aggression marches armies in his words; And in his oaths great deeds ride cap-à-pie; His looks, his gestures breathe the breath of swords; And in his carriage camp all wars to be:-- With him of battles there shall be no lack While buxom wenches are and stoops of sack. SIMULACRA Dark in the west the sunset's sombre wrack Unrolled vast walls the rams of war had split, Along whose battlements the battle lit Tempestuous beacons; and, with gates hurled back, A mighty city, red with ruin and sack, Through burning breaches, crumbling bit by bit, Showed where the God of Slaughter seemed to sit With Conflagration glaring at each crack.-- Who knows? perhaps as sleep unto us makes Our dreams as real as our waking seems With recollections time can not destroy, So in the mind of Nature now awakes, Haply, some wilder memory, and she dreams The stormy story of the fall of Troy. CAVERNS WRITTEN OF COLOSSAL CAVE, KENTUCKY Aisles and abysses; leagues no man explores, Of rock that labyrinths and night that drips; Where everlasting silence broods, with lips Of adamant, o'er earthquake-builded floors. Where forms, such as the Demon-World adores, Laborious water carves; whence echo slips Wild-tongued o'er pools where petrifaction strips Her breasts of crystal from which crystal pours.-- Here where primordial fear, the Gorgon, sits Staring all life to stone in ghastly mirth, I seem to tread, with awe no tongue can tell,-- Beneath vast domes, by torrent-tortured pits, 'Mid wrecks terrific of the ruined Earth,-- An ancient causeway of forgotten Hell. THE BLUE BIRD From morn till noon upon the window-pane The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails, And all the afternoon the blustering gales Beat at the door with furious feet of rain. The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain, Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails, On which the sullen slug left slimy trails-- Meseemed the sun would never shine again. Then in the drench, long, loud and full of cheer,-- A skyey herald tabarded in blue,-- A bluebird bugled ... and at once a bow Was bent in heaven, and I seemed to hear God's sapphire spaces crystallising through The strata'd clouds in azure tremolo. QUATRAINS POETRY Who hath beheld the goddess face to face, Blind with her beauty, all his days shall go Climbing lone mountains towards her temple's place, Weighed with song's sweet, inexorable woe. THE UNIMAGINATIVE Each form of beauty's but the new disguise Of thoughts more beautiful than forms can be; Sceptics, who search with unanointed eyes, Never the Earth's wild fairy-dance shall see. MUSIC God-born before the Sons of God, she hurled, With awful symphonies of flood and fire, God's name on rocking Chaos--world by world Flamed as the universe rolled from her lyre. THE THREE ELEMENTS They come as couriers of Heaven: their feet Sonorous-sandalled with majestic awe; In raiment of swift foam and wind and heat, Blowing the trumpets of God's wrath and law. ROME Above the circus of the world she sat, Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride: Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat, Shrieked at her feet and for her pastime died. ON READING THE LIFE OF HAROUN ER RESHID Down all the lanterned Bagdad of our youth He steals, with golden justice for the poor: Within his palace--you shall know the truth!-- A blood-smeared headsman hides behind each door. MNEMOSYNE In classic beauty, cold, immaculate, A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands, Upon her brow deep-chiselled love and hate, That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands. BEAUTY High as a star, yet lowly as a flower, Unknown she takes her unassuming place At Earth's proud masquerade--the appointed hour Strikes, and, behold! the marvel of her face. THE STARS These--the bright symbols of man's hope and fame, In which he reads his blessing or his curse-- Are syllables with which God speaks his name In the vast utterance of the universe. ECHO Dweller in hollow places, hills and rocks, Daughter of Silence and old Solitude, Tip-toe she stands within her cave or wood, Her only life the noises that she mocks. ADVENTURERS Seemingly over the hill-tops, Possibly under the hills, A tireless wing that never drops, And a song that never stills. Epics heard on the stars' lips? Lyrics read in the dew?-- To sing the song at our finger-tips, And live the world anew! Cavaliers of the Cortés kind, Bold and stern and strong,-- And, oh, for a fine and muscular mind To sing a new-world's song! Sailing seas of the silver morn, Winds of the balm and spice, To put the old-world art to scorn At the price of any price! Danger, death, but the hope high! God's, if the purpose fail! Into the deeds of a vaster sky Sailing a dauntless sail. EPILOGUE I O Life! O Death! O God! Have we not striven? Have we not known Thee, God As Thy stars know Heaven? Have we not held Thee true, True as thy deepest, Sweet and immaculate blue Heaven that feels Thy dew! Have we not _known_ Thee true, O God who keepest. II O God, our Father, God!-- Who gav'st us fire, To soar beyond the sod, To rise, aspire-- What though we strive and strive, And all our soul says 'live'? The empty scorn of men Will sneer it down again. And, O sun-centred high, Who, too, art Poet, Beneath Thy tender sky Each day new Keatses die, Calling all life a lie; Can this be so--and why?-- And canst Thou know it? III We know Thee beautiful, We know Thee bitter! Help Thou!--Men's eyes are dull, O God most beautiful! Make thou their souls less full Of things mere glitter. Dost Thou not see our tears? Dost Thou not hear the years Treading our hearts to shards, O Lord of all the Lords?-- Arouse Thee, God of Hosts, There 'mid Thy glorious ghosts, So high and holy! Have mercy on our tears! Have mercy on our years! Our strivings and our fears, O Lord of lordly peers, On us, so lowly! IV On us, so fondly fain To tell what mother-pain Of Nature makes the rain. On us, so glad to show The sorrow of her snow, And all her winds that blow. Us, who interpret right Her mystic rose of light, Her moony rune of night. Us, who have utterance for Each warm, flame-hearted star That stammers from afar. Who hear the tears and sighs Of every bud that dies While heav'n's dew on it lies. Who see the power that dowers The wildwood bosks and bowers With musk of sap and flowers. Who see what no man sees In water, earth, and breeze, And in the hearts of trees. Turn not away Thy light, O God!--Our strength is slight! Help us who breast the height! Have mercy, Infinite! Have mercy! Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press 
7274	----	Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team POETS OF THE SOUTH A SERIES OF BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL STUDIES WITH TYPICAL POEMS, ANNOTATED BY F.V.N. PAINTER, A.M., D.D. _Professor of Modern Languages in Roanoke College Author of "A History of Education" "History of English Literature," "Introduction to American Literature" etc._ PREFACE The poets of the South, who constitute a worthy galaxy of poetic talent and achievement, are not sufficiently known. Even in the South, which might naturally be expected to take pride in its gifted singers, most of them, it is to be feared, are but little read. This has been called an age of prose. Under the sway of what are regarded as "practical interests," there is a drifting away from poetic sentiment and poetic truth. This tendency is to be regretted, for material prosperity is never at its best without the grace and refinements of true culture. At the present time, as in former ages, the gifted poet is a seer, who reveals to us what is highest and best in life. There is at present a new interest in literature in the South. The people read more; and in recent years an encouraging number of Southern writers have achieved national distinction. With this literary renaissance, there has been a turning back to older authors. It is hoped that this little volume will supply a real need. It is intended to call fresh attention to the poetic achievement of the South. While minor poets are not forgotten, among whose writings is found many a gem of poetry, it is the leaders of the chorus--Poe, Hayne, Timrod, Lanier, and Ryan--who receive chief consideration. It may be doubted whether several of them have been given the place in American letters to which their gifts and achievements justly entitle them. It is hoped that the following biographical and critical sketches of these men, each highly gifted in his own way, will lead to a more careful reading of their works, in which, be it said to their honor, there is no thought or sentiment unworthy of a refined and chivalrous nature. F. V. N. PAINTER. SALEM, VIRGINIA. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. MINOR POETS OF THE SOUTH II. EDGAR ALLAN POE III. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE IV. HENRY TIMROD V. SIDNEY LANIER VI. ABRAM J. RYAN ILLUSTRATIVE SELECTIONS NOTES * * * * * CHAPTER I MINOR POETS OF THE SOUTH The first poetic writer of this country had his home at Jamestown. He was GEORGE SANDYS who came to Virginia in 1621, and succeeded his brother as treasurer of the newly established colony. Amid the hardships of pioneer colonial life, in which he proved himself a leading spirit, he had the literary zeal to complete his translation of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, which he had begun in England. After the toilsome day, spent in introducing iron works or in encouraging shipbuilding, he sat down at night, within the shadow of surrounding forests, to construct his careful, rhymed pentameters. The conditions under which he wrote were very far removed from the Golden Age which he described,-- "Which uncompelled And without rule, in faith and truth, excelled." The promise of this bright, heroic beginning in poetry was not realized; and scarcely another voice was heard in verse in the South before the Revolution. The type of civilization developed in the South prior to the Civil War, admirable as it was in many other particulars, was hardly favorable to literature. The energies of the most intelligent portion of the population were directed to agriculture or to politics; and many of the foremost statesmen of our country--men like Washington, Jefferson, Marshall, Calhoun, Benton--were from the Southern states. The system of slavery, while building up baronial homes of wealth, culture, and boundless hospitality, checked manufacture, retarded the growth of cities, and turned the tide of immigration westward. Without a vigorous public school system, a considerable part of the non-slaveholding class remained without literary taste or culture. The South has been chiefly an agricultural region, and has adhered to conservative habits of thought. While various movements in theology, philosophy, and literature were stirring New England, the South pursued the even tenor of its way. Of all parts of our country, it has been most tenacious of old customs and beliefs. Before the Civil War the cultivated classes of the Southern states found their intellectual nourishment in the older English classics, and Pope, Addison, and Shakespeare formed a part of every gentleman's library. There were no great publishing houses to stimulate literary production; and to this day Southern writers are dependent chiefly on Northern publishers to give their works to the public. Literature was hardly taken seriously; it was rather regarded, to use the words of Paul Hamilton Hayne, "as the choice recreation of gentlemen, as something fair and good, to be courted in a dainty, amateur fashion, and illustrated by _apropos_ quotations from Lucretius, Virgil, or Horace." Thus it happened that before the Civil War literature in the South, whether prose or poetry, had a less vigorous development than in the Middle States and New England. Yet it has been common to undervalue the literary work of the South. While literature was not generally encouraged there before the Civil War,--a fact lamented by gifted, representative writers,--there were at least two literary centers that exerted a notable influence. The first was Richmond, the home of Poe during his earlier years, and of the _Southern Literary Messenger_, in its day the most influential magazine south of the Potomac. It was founded, as set forth in its first issue, in 1834, to encourage literature in Virginia and the other states of the South; and during its career of twenty-eight years it stimulated literary activity in a remarkable degree. Among its contributors we find Poe, Simms, Hayne, Timrod, John Esten Cooke, John R. Thompson, and others--a galaxy of the best-known names in Southern literature. The other principal literary center of the South was Charleston. "Legaré's wit and scholarship," to adopt the words of Mrs. Margaret J. Preston, "brightened its social circle; Calhoun's deep shadow loomed over it from his plantation at Fort Hill; Gilmore Simms's genial culture broadened its sympathies. The latter was the Maecenas to a band of brilliant youths who used to meet for literary suppers at his beautiful home." Among these brilliant youths were Paul Hamilton Hayne and Henry Timrod, two of the best poets the South has produced. The _Southern Literary Gazette_, founded by Simms, and _Russell's Magazine_, edited by Hayne, were published at Charleston. Louisville and New Orleans were likewise literary centers of more or less influence. Yet it is a notable fact that none of these literary centers gave rise to a distinctive group or school of writers. The influence of these centers did not consist in one great dominating principle, but in a general stimulus to literary effort. In this respect it may be fairly claimed that the South was more cosmopolitan than the North. In New England, theology and transcendentalism in turn dominated literature; and not a few of the group of writers who contributed to the Atlantic Monthly were profoundly influenced by the anti-slavery agitation. They struggled up Parnassus, to use the words of Lowell,-- "With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rime." But the leading writers of the South, as will be seen later, have been exempt, in large measure, from the narrowing influence of one-sided theological or philosophical tenets. They have not aspired to the rôle of social reformers; and in their loyalty to art, they have abstained from fanatical energy and extravagance. The major poets of the South stand out in strong, isolated individuality. They were not bound together by any sympathy other than that of a common interest in art and in their Southern home. Their genius was nourished on the choicest literary productions of England and of classic antiquity; and looking, with this Old World culture, upon Southern landscape and Southern character, they pictured or interpreted them in the language of poetry. The three leading poets of the Civil War period--Hayne, Timrod, and Ryan --keenly felt the issues involved in that great struggle. All three of them were connected, for a time at least, with the Confederate army. In the earlier stages of the conflict, the intensity of their Southern feeling flamed out in thrilling lyrics. Timrod's martial songs throb with the energy of deep emotion. But all three poets lived to accept the results of the war, and to sing a new loyalty to our great Republic. The South has not been as unfruitful in literature as is often supposed. While there have been very few to make literature a vocation, a surprisingly large number have made it an avocation. Law and literature, as we shall have occasion to note, have frequently gone hand in hand. A recent work on Southern literature [*] enumerates more than twelve hundred writers, most of whom have published one or more volumes. There are more than two hundred poets who have been thought worthy of mention. More than fifty poets have been credited to Virginia alone; and an examination of their works reveals, among a good deal that is commonplace and imitative, many a little gem that ought to be preserved. Apart from the five major poets of the South--Poe, Hayne, Timrod, Lanier, and Ryan--who are reserved for special study, we shall now consider a few of the minor poets who have produced verse of excellent quality. [Footnote *: Manly's _Southern Literature._] FRANCIS SCOTT KEY (1780-1843) is known throughout the land as the author of _The Star-spangled Banner_, the noblest, perhaps, of our patriotic hymns. He was born in Frederick County, Maryland, and was educated at St. John's College, Annapolis. He studied law, and after practicing with success in Frederick City, he removed to Washington, where he became district attorney. During the bombardment of Fort McHenry in the War of 1812, he was detained on board a British vessel, whither he had gone to secure the release of a friend. All night long he watched the bombardment with the keenest anxiety. In the morning, when the dawn disclosed the star- spangled banner still proudly waving over the fort, he conceived the stirring song, which at once became popular and was sung all over the country. Though a volume of his poems, with a sketch by Chief-Justice Taney, was published in 1857, it is to _The Star-spangled Banner_ that he owes his literary fame. "O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? "And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" Few poems written in the South have been more popular than _My Life is like the Summer Rose_. It has the distinction of having been praised by Byron. Its author, RICHARD HENRY WILDE (1789-1847), was born in Dublin, Ireland, but brought up and educated in Augusta, Georgia. He studied law, became attorney general of his adopted state, and later entered Congress, where he served for several terms. He was a man of scholarly tastes and poetic gifts. He spent five years abroad, chiefly in Italy, where his studies in Italian literature afterwards led to a work on Torquato Tasso. It was on the occasion of this trip abroad that he wrote _A Farewell to America_, which breathes a noble spirit of patriotism:-- "Farewell, my more than fatherland! Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you! How often, o'er the waters blue, Send back a sigh to those I leave, The loving and beloved few, Who grieve for me,--for whom I grieve!" On his return to America, he settled in New Orleans, where he became a professor of law in the University of Louisiana. Though the author of a volume of poems of more than usual excellence, it is the melancholy lyric, _My Life is like the Summer Rose_, that, more than all the rest, has given him a niche in the temple of literary fame. Is it necessary to quote a stanza of a poem so well known? "My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground--to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see-- But none shall weep a tear for me!" GEORGE D. PRENTICE (1802-1870) was a native of Connecticut. He was educated at Brown University, and studied law; but he soon gave up his profession for the more congenial pursuit of literature. In 1828 he established at Hartford the _New England Weekly Review_, in which a number of his poems, serious and sentimental, appeared. Two years later, at the age of twenty-eight, he turned over his paper to Whittier and removed to Louisville, where he became editor of the _Journal_. He was a man of brilliant intellect, and soon made his paper a power in education, society, and politics. Apart from his own vigorous contributions, he made his paper useful to Southern letters by encouraging literary activity in others. It was chiefly through his influence that Louisville became one of the literary centers of the South. He was a stout opponent of secession; and when the Civil War came his paper, like his adopted state, suffered severely. Among his writings is a _Life of Henry Clay_. A collection of his witty and pungent paragraphs has also been published under the title of _Prenticeana_. His poems, by which he will be longest remembered, were collected after his death. His best-known poem is _The Closing Year_. Though its vividness and eloquence are quite remarkable, its style is, perhaps, too declamatory for the taste of the present generation. The following lines, which express the poet's bright hopes for the political future of the world, are taken from _The Flight of Years_:-- "Weep not, that Time Is passing on--it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, When the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing, Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds, And hurries onward with his night of clouds Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice Of infant _Freedom_--and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hilltop of her western home---- And lo--it breaks across old Ocean's flood---- And _Freedom, Freedom!_ is the answering shout Of nations starting from the spell of years. The dayspring!--see--'tis brightening in the heavens! The watchmen of the night have caught the sign---- From tower to tower the signal fires flash free---- And the deep watchword, like the rush of seas That heralds the volcano's bursting flame, Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of hope And life are on the wing.--Yon glorious bow Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God, Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high arch, A type of love and mercy on the cloud, Tells that the many storms of human life Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves, Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, Reflect the undimmed brightness of the Heaven." WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS (1806-1870), a native of Charleston, was a man of remarkable versatility. He made up for his lack of collegiate training by private study and wide experience. He early gave up law for literature, and during his long and tireless literary career was editor, poet, dramatist, historian, and novelist. He had something of the wideness of range of Sir Walter Scott; and one can not but think that, had he lived north of Mason and Dixon's line, he might occupy a more prominent place in the literary annals of our country. He has been styled the "Cooper of the South"; but it is hardly too much to say that in versatility, culture, and literary productiveness he surpassed his great Northern contemporary. Simms was a poet before he became a novelist. The poetic impulse manifested itself early; and before he was twenty-five he had published three or more volumes of verse. In 1832 his imaginative poem, _Atalantis, a Story of the Sea_, was brought out by the Harpers; and it introduced him at once to the favorable notice of what Poe called the "Literati" of New York. His subsequent volumes of poetry were devoted chiefly to a description of Southern scenes and incidents. As will be seen in our studies of Hayne and Timrod, Simms was an important figure in the literary circles of Charleston. His large, vigorous nature seemed incapable of jealousy, and he took delight in lending encouragement to young men of literary taste and aspiration. He was a laborious and prolific writer, the number of his various works-- poetry, drama, history, fiction--reaching nearly a hundred. Had he written less rapidly, his work might have gained, perhaps, in artistic quality. Among the best of Simms's novels is a series devoted to the Revolution. The characters and incidents of that conflict in South Carolina are graphically portrayed. _The Partisan_, the first of this historic series, was published in 1835. _The Yemassee_ is an Indian story, in which the character of the red man is less idealized than in Cooper's _Leather- stocking Tales_. In _The Damsel of Darien_, the hero is Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific. The verse of Simms is characterized by facile vigor rather than by fine poetic quality. The following lines, which represent his style at its best, bear a lesson for the American people to-day:-- "This the true sign of ruin to a race-- It undertakes no march, and day by day Drowses in camp, or, with the laggard's pace, Walks sentry o'er possessions that decay; Destined, with sensible waste, to fleet away;-- For the first secret of continued power Is the continued conquest;--all our sway Hath surety in the uses of the hour; If that we waste, in vain walled town and lofty tower!" EDWARD COATE PINKNEY (1802-1828) died before his poetic gifts had reached their full maturity. He was the son of the eminent lawyer and diplomatist, William Pinkney, and was born in London, while his father was American minister at the court of St. James. At the age of nine he was brought home to America, and educated at Baltimore. He spent eight years in the United States navy, during which period he visited the classic shores of the Mediterranean. He was impressed particularly with the beauty of Italy, and in one of his poems he says:-- "It looks a dimple on the face of earth, The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth; Nature is delicate and graceful there, The place's genius feminine and fair: The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled And solemn smokes, like altars of the world." In 1824 he resigned his place in the navy to take up the practice of law in Baltimore. His health was not good; and he seems to have occupied a part of his abundant leisure (for he was not successful in his profession) in writing poetry. A thin volume of poems was published in 1825, in which he displays, especially in his shorter pieces, an excellent lyrical gift. The following stanzas are from _A Health_:-- "I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. "Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose." PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE (1816-1850), like most Southern writers before the Civil War, mingled literature with the practice of law. He was born at Martinsburg, Virginia, and educated at Princeton. He early manifested a literary bent, and wrote for the _Knickerbocker Magazine_, the oldest of our literary monthlies, before he was out of his teens. He was noted for his love of outdoor life, and became a thorough sportsman. In 1847 he published a volume entitled _Froissart Ballads and Other Poems_. The origin of the ballad portion of the volume, as explained in the preface, is found in the lines of an old Roman poet:-- "A certain freak has got into my head, Which I can't conquer for the life of me, Of taking up some history, little read, Or known, and writing it in poetry." The best known of his lyrics is _Florence Vane_ which has the sincerity and pathos of a real experience:-- "I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream, and early, Hath come again; I renew, in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain, My hope, and thy derision, Florence Vane. "The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,-- That spot--the hues Elysian Of sky and plain-- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. "Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane!" THEODORE O'HARA (1820-1867) is chiefly remembered for a single poem that has touched the national heart. He was born in Danville, Kentucky. After taking a course in law, he accepted a clerkship in the Treasury Department at Washington. On the outbreak of the Mexican War he enlisted as a private soldier, and by his gallant service rose to the rank of captain and major. After the close of the war he returned to Washington and engaged for a time in the practice of his profession. Later he became editor of the _Mobile Register_, and _Frankfort Yeoman_ in Kentucky. In the Civil War he served as colonel in the Confederate army. The poem on which his fame largely rests is _The Bivouac of the Dead_. It was written to commemorate the Kentuckians who fell in the battle of Buena Vista. Its well-known lines have furnished an apt inscription for several military cemeteries:-- "The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. "On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead." O'Hara died in Alabama in 1867. The legislature of Kentucky paid him a fitting tribute in having his body removed to Frankfort and placed by the side of the heroes whom he so worthily commemorated in his famous poem. FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR (1822-1874) was a physician living near Columbus, Georgia. He led a busy, useful, humble life, and his merits as a poet have not been fully recognized. In the opinion of Paul Hamilton Hayne, who edited a volume of Ticknor's poems, he was "one of the truest and sweetest lyric poets this country has yet produced." _The Virginians of the Valley_ was written after the soldiers of the Old Dominion, many of whom bore the names of the knights of the "Golden Horseshoe," had obtained a temporary advantage over the invading forces of the North:-- "We thought they slept!--the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But aye the 'Golden Horseshoe' knights Their Old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep." But a martial lyric of greater force is _Little Giffen_, written in honor of a blue-eyed lad of East Tennessee. He was terribly wounded in some engagement, and after being taken to the hospital at Columbus, Georgia, was finally nursed back to life in the home of Dr. Ticknor. Beneath the thin, insignificant exterior of the lad, the poet discerned the incarnate courage of the hero:-- "Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle and _he_ sixteen!) Specter! such as you seldom see, Little Giffen of Tennessee! * * * * * "Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnson pressed at the front, they say. Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 'I'll write, if spared!' There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.--He did not write." But Ticknor did not confine himself to war themes. He was a lover of Nature; and its forms, and colors, and sounds--as seen in _April Morning_, _Twilight_, _The Hills_, _Among the Birds_--appealed to his sensitive nature. Shut out from literary centers and literary companionship, he sang, like Burns, from the strong impulse awakened by the presence of the heroic and the beautiful. JOHN R. THOMPSON (1823-1873) has deserved well of the South both as editor and author. He was born in Richmond, and educated at the University of Virginia, where he received the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1845. Two years later he became editor of the _Southern Literary Messenger_; and during the twelve years of his editorial management, he not only maintained a high degree of literary excellence, but took pains to lend encouragement to Southern letters. It is a misfortune to our literature that his writings, particularly his poetry, have never been collected. The incidents of the Civil War called forth many a stirring lyric, the best of which is his well-known _Music in Camp_:-- "Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters." The band had played "Dixie" and "Yankee Doodle," which in turn had been greeted with shouts by "Rebels" and "Yanks." "And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet. "The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels. "No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply 'Home, Sweet Home' had stirred The hidden founts of feeling. "Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie." On account of failing health, Thompson made a visit to Europe, where he spent several years, contributing from time to time to _Blackwood's Magazine_ and other English periodicals. On his return to America, he was engaged on the editorial staff of the _New York Evening Post_, with which he was connected till his death, in 1873. He is buried in Hollywood cemetery at Richmond. "The city's hum drifts o'er his grave, And green above the hollies wave Their jagged leaves, as when a boy, On blissful summer afternoons, He came to sing the birds his runes, And tell the river of his joy." The verse of Mrs. MARGARET J. PRESTON (1820-1897) rises above the commonplace both in sentiment and craftsmanship. She belongs, as some critic has said, to the school of Mrs. Browning; and in range of subject and purity of sentiment she is scarcely inferior to her great English contemporary. She was the daughter of the Rev. George Junkin, D.D., the founder of Lafayette College, Pennsylvania, and for many years president of Washington College at Lexington, Virginia. In 1857 she married Colonel J. T. L. Preston of the Virginia Military Institute. For many years she was a contributor to the _Southern Literary Messenger_, in which her earlier poems first made their appearance. Though a native of Philadelphia, she was loyal to the South during the Civil War, and found inspiration in its deeds of heroism. _Beechenbrook_ is a rhyme of the war; and though well-nigh forgotten now, it was read, on its publication in 1865, from the Potomac to the Gulf. Among her other writings are _Old Songs and New_ and _Cartoons_. Her poetry is pervaded by a deeply religious spirit, and she repeatedly urges the lesson of supreme resignation and trust, as in the following lines:-- "What will it matter by-and-by Whether my path below was bright, Whether it wound through dark or light, Under a gray or golden sky, When I look back on it, by-and-by? "What will it matter by-and-by Whether, unhelped, I toiled alone, Dashing my foot against a stone, Missing the charge of the angel nigh, Bidding me think of the by-and-by? * * * * * "What will it matter? Naught, if I Only am sure the way I've trod, Gloomy or gladdened, leads to God, Questioning not of the how, the why, If I but reach Him by-and-by. "What will I care for the unshared sigh, If in my fear of lapse or fall, Close I have clung to Christ through all, Mindless how rough the road might lie, Sure He will smoothen it by-and-by. "What will it matter by-and-by? _Nothing but this_: that Joy or Pain Lifted me skyward,--helped me to gain, Whether through rack, or smile, or sigh, Heaven, home, all in all, by-and-by." In this rapid sketch of the minor singers of the South, it has been necessary to omit many names worthy of mention. It is beyond our scope to speak of the newer race of poets. Here and there delicate notes are heard, but there is no evidence that a great singer is present among us. Yet there is no ground for discouragement; the changed conditions and the new spirit that has come upon our people may reasonably be expected to lead to higher poetic achievement. In some respects the South affords a more promising field for literature than any other part of our country. There is evident decadence in New England. But the climate and scenery, the history and traditions, and the chivalrous spirit and unexhausted intellectual energies of the South contain the promise of an Augustan age in literature. In no insignificant degree its rich-ored veins have been worked in prose. JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS has successfully wrought in the mine of negro folk-lore; GEORGE W. CABLE has portrayed the Creole life of Louisiana; CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK has pictured the types of character found among the Tennessee mountains; THOMAS NELSON PAGE has shown us the trials and triumphs of Reconstruction days; and Miss MARY JOHNSTON has revived the picturesque scenes of colonial times. There has been an obvious literary awakening in the South; and sooner or later it will find utterance, let us hope, in some strong-voiced, great-souled singer. It is true that there are obstacles to be overcome. There are no literary magazines in the South to encourage and develop our native talent as in the days of the _Southern Literary Messenger_. Southern writers are still dependent upon Northern periodicals, in which they can hardly be said to find a cordial welcome. It seems that the South in a measure suffers the obloquy that rested of old upon Nazareth, from which the Pharisees of the metropolis maintained that no good thing could come. But the most serious drawback of all is the disfavor into which poetry has fallen, or rather which it has brought upon itself. In the remoteness of its themes and sentiments, in its over-anxiety for a faultless or striking technique, it has erected a barrier between itself and the sanity of a practical, truth-loving people. Let us hope that this aberration is not permanent. When poetry returns to simplicity, sincerity, and truth; when it shall voice, as in the great English singers, Tennyson and Browning, the deepest thought and aspirations of our race; when once more, as in the prophetic days of old, it shall resume its lofty, seer-like office,--then will it be restored to its place of honor by a delighted and grateful people. CHAPTER II EDGAR ALLAN POE Poe occupies a peculiar place in American literature. He has been called our most interesting literary man. He stands alone for his intellectual brilliancy and his lamentable failure to use it wisely. No one can read his works intelligently without being impressed with his extraordinary ability. Whether poetry, criticism, or fiction, he shows extraordinary power in them all. But the moral element in life is the most important, and in this Poe was lacking. With him truth was not the first necessity. He allowed his judgment to be warped by friendship, and apparently sacrificed sincerity to the vulgar desire of gaining popular applause. Through intemperate habits, he was unable for any considerable length of time to maintain himself in a responsible or lucrative position. Fortune repeatedly opened to him an inviting door; but he constantly and ruthlessly abused her kindness. Edgar Allan Poe descended from an honorable ancestry. His grandfather, David Poe, was a Revolutionary hero, over whose grave, as he kissed the sod, Lafayette pronounced the words, "_Ici repose un coeur noble_." His father, an impulsive and wayward youth, fell in love with an English actress, and forsook the bar for the stage. The couple were duly married, and acted with moderate success in the principal towns and cities of the country. It was during an engagement at Boston that the future poet was born, January 19, 1809. Two years later the wandering pair were again in Richmond, where within a few weeks of each other they died in poverty. They left three children, the second of whom, Edgar, was kindly received into the home of Mr. John Allan, a wealthy merchant of the city. [Illustration: EDGAR ALLAN POE.] The early training of Poe was misguided and unfortunate. The boy was remarkably pretty and precocious, and his foster-parents allowed no opportunity to pass without showing him off. After dinner in this elegant and hospitable home, he was frequently placed upon the table to drink to the health of the guests, and to deliver short declamations, for which he had inherited a decided talent. He was flattered and fondled and indulged in every way. Is it strange that under this training he acquired a taste for strong drink, and became opinionated and perverse? In 1815 Mr. Allan went to England with his family to spend several years, and there placed the young Edgar at school in an ancient and historic town, which has since been swallowed up in the overflow of the great metropolis. The venerable appearance and associations of the town, as may be learned from the autobiographic tale of _William Wilson_, made a deep and lasting impression on the imaginative boy. After five years spent in this English school, where he learned to read Latin and to speak French, he was brought back to America, and placed in a Richmond academy. Without much diligence in study, his brilliancy enabled him to take high rank in his classes. His skill in verse-making and in debate made him prominent in the school. He excelled in athletic exercises, but was not generally popular among his fellow-students. Conscious of his superior intellectual endowments, he was disposed to live apart and indulge in moody reverie. According to the testimony of one who knew him well at this time, he was "self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious, and though of generous impulses, not steadily kind, or even amiable." In 1826, at the age of seventeen, Poe matriculated at the University of Virginia, and entered the schools of ancient and modern languages. Though he attended his classes with a fair degree of regularity, he was not slow in joining the fast set. Gambling seems to have become a passion with him, and he lost heavily. His reckless expenditures led Mr. Allan to visit Charlottesville for the purpose of inquiring into his habits. The result appears not to have been satisfactory; and though his adopted son won high honors in Latin and French, Mr. Allan refused to allow him to return to the university after the close of his first session, and placed him in his own counting-room. It is not difficult to foresee the next step in the drama before us. Many a genius of far greater self-restraint and moral earnestness has found the routine of business almost intolerably irksome. With high notions of his own ability, and with a temper rebellious to all restraint, Poe soon broke away from his new duties, and started out to seek his fortune. He went to Boston; and, in eager search for fame and money, he resorted to the rather unpromising expedient of publishing, in 1827, a small volume of poems. Viewed in the light of his subsequent career, the volume gives here and there an intimation of the author's genius; but, as was to be expected, it attracted but little attention. He was soon reduced to financial straits, and in his pressing need he enlisted, under an assumed name, in the United States army. He served at Fort Moultrie, and afterward at Fortress Monroe. He rose to the rank of sergeant major; and, according to the testimony of his superiors, he was "exemplary in his deportment, prompt and faithful in the discharge of his duties." In 1829, when his heart was softened by the death of his wife, Mr. Allan became reconciled to his adopted but wayward son. Through his influence, young Poe secured a discharge from the army, and obtained an appointment as cadet at West Point. He entered the military academy July 1, 1830, and, as usual, established a reputation for brilliancy and folly. He was reserved, exclusive, discontented, and censorious. As described by a classmate, "He was an accomplished French scholar, and had a wonderful aptitude for mathematics, so that he had no difficulty in preparing his recitations in his class, and in obtaining the highest marks in these departments. He was a devourer of books; but his great fault was his neglect of and apparent contempt for military duties. His wayward and capricious temper made him at times utterly oblivious or indifferent to the ordinary routine of roll call, drills, and guard duties. These habits subjected him often to arrest and punishment, and effectually prevented his learning or discharging the duties of a soldier." The final result may be easily anticipated: at the end of six months, he was summoned before a court-martial, tried, and expelled. Before leaving West Point, Poe arranged for the publication of a volume of poetry, which appeared in New York in 1831. This volume, to which the students of the academy subscribed liberally in advance, is noteworthy in several particulars. In a prefatory letter Poe lays down the poetic principle to which he endeavored to conform his productions. It throws much light on his poetry by exhibiting the ideal at which he aimed. "A poem, in my opinion," he says, "is opposed to a work of science by having for its _immediate_ object pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for its object an _indefinite_ instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_ definite sensations, to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definiteness." Music embodied in a golden mist of thought and sentiment-- this is Poe's poetic ideal. As illustrative of his musical rhythm, the following lines from _Al Aaraaf_ may be given:-- "Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there?" Or take the last stanza of _Israfel:_-- "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." The two principal poems in the volume under consideration--_Al Aaraaf_ and _Tamerlane_--are obvious imitations of Moore and Byron. The beginning of _Al Aaraaf_, for example, might easily be mistaken for an extract from _Lalla Rookh_, so similar are the rhythm and rhyme:-- "O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy-- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill-- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That, like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-- Oh, nothing of the dross of ours-- Yet all the beauty--all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers-- Adorn yon world afar, afar-- The wandering star." After his expulsion from West Point, Poe appears to have gone to Richmond; but the long-suffering of Mr. Allan, who had married again after the death of his first wife, was at length exhausted. He refused to extend any further recognition to one whom he had too much reason to regard as unappreciative and undeserving. Accordingly Poe was thrown upon his own resources for a livelihood. He settled in Baltimore, where he had a few acquaintances and friends, and entered upon that literary career which is without parallel in American literature for its achievements, its vicissitudes, and its sorrows. With no qualification for the struggle of life other than intellectual brilliancy, he bitterly atoned, through disappointment and suffering, for his defects of temper, lack of judgment, and habits of intemperance. In 1833 the Baltimore _Saturday Visitor_ offered a prize of one hundred dollars for the best prose story. This prize Poe won by his tale, _A Ms. Found in a Bottle_. This success may be regarded as the first step in his literary career. The ability displayed in this fantastic tale brought him to the notice of John P. Kennedy, Esq., who at once befriended him in his distress, and aided him in his literary projects. He gave Poe, whom he found in extreme poverty, free access to his home and, to use his own words, "brought him up from the very verge of despair." After a year or more of hack work in Baltimore, Poe, through the influence of his kindly patron, obtained employment on the _Southern Literary Messenger_, and removed to Richmond in 1835. Here he made a brilliant start; life seemed to open before him full of promise. In a short time he was promoted to the editorship of the _Messenger_, and by his tales, poems, and especially his reviews, he made that periodical very popular. In a twelve-month he increased its subscription list from seven hundred to nearly five thousand, and made the magazine a rival of the _Knickerbocker_ and the _New Englander_. He was loudly praised by the Southern press, and was generally regarded as one of the foremost writers of the day. In the _Messenger_ Poe began his work as a critic. It is hardly necessary to say that his criticism was of the slashing kind. He became little short of a terror. With a great deal of critical acumen and a fine artistic sense, he made relentless war on pretentious mediocrity, and rendered good service to American letters by enforcing higher literary standards. He was lavish in his charges of plagiarism; and he made use of cheap, second-hand learning in order to ridicule the pretended scholarship of others. He often affected an irritating and contemptuous superiority. But with all his humbug and superciliousness, his critical estimates, in the main, have been sustained. The bright prospects before Poe were in a few months ruthlessly blighted. Perhaps he relied too much on his genius and reputation. It is easy for men of ability to overrate their importance. Regarding himself, perhaps, as indispensable to the _Messenger_, he may have relaxed in vigilant self-restraint. It has been claimed that he resigned the editorship in order to accept a more lucrative offer in New York; but the sad truth seems to be that he was dismissed on account of his irregular habits. After eighteen months in Richmond, during which he had established a brilliant literary reputation, Poe was again turned adrift. He went to New York, where his story, _The Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym_, was published by the Harpers in 1838. It is a tale of the sea, written with the simplicity of style and circumstantiality of detail that give such charm to the works of Defoe. In spite of the fact that Cooper and Marryat had created a taste for sea-tales, this story never became popular. It is superabundant in horrors--a vein that had a fatal fascination for the morbid genius of Poe. The same year in which this story appeared, Poe removed to Philadelphia, where he soon found work on the _Gentleman's Magazine_, recently established by the comedian Burton. He soon rose to the position of editor-in-chief, and his talents proved of great value to the magazine. His tales and critiques rapidly increased its circulation. But the actor, whose love of justice does him great credit, could not approve of his editor's sensational criticism. In a letter written when their cordial relations were interrupted for a time, Burton speaks very plainly and positively: "I cannot permit the magazine to be made a vehicle for that sort of severity which you think is so 'successful with the mob. I am truly much less anxious about making a monthly 'sensation' than I am upon the point of fairness.... You say the people love havoc. I think they love justice." Poe did not profit by his experience at Richmond, and after a few months he was dismissed for neglect of duty. He was out of employment but a short time. In November, 1840, _Graham's Magazine_ was established, and Poe appointed editor. At no other period of his life did his genius appear to better advantage. Thrilling stories and trenchant criticisms followed one another in rapid succession. His articles on autography and cryptology attracted widespread attention. In the former he attempted to illustrate character by the handwriting; and in the latter he maintained that human ingenuity cannot invent a cipher that human ingenuity cannot resolve. In the course of a few months the circulation of the magazine (if its own statements may be trusted) increased from eight thousand to forty thousand--a remarkable circulation for that time. His criticism was based on the rather violent assumption "that, as a literary people, we are one vast perambulating humbug." In most cases, he asserted, literary prominence was achieved "by the sole means of a blustering arrogance, or of a busy wriggling conceit, or of the most bare-faced plagiarism, or even through the simple immensity of its assumptions." These fraudulent reputations he undertook, "with the help of a hearty good will" (which no one will doubt) "to tumble down." He admitted that there were a few who rose above absolute "idiocy." "Mr. Bryant is not _all_ a fool. Mr. Willis is not _quite_ an ass. Mr. Longfellow _will_ steal but, perhaps, he cannot help it (for we have heard of such things), and then it must not be denied that _nil tetigit quod non ornavit_." But, in spite of such reckless and extravagant assertion, there was still too much acumen and force in his reviews for them to be treated with indifference or contempt. In about eighteen months Poe's connection with Graham was dissolved. The reason has not been made perfectly clear; but from what we already know, it is safe to charge it to Poe's infirmity of temper or of habit. His protracted sojourn in Philadelphia was now drawing to a close. It had been the most richly productive, as well as the happiest, period of his life. For a time, sustained by appreciation and hope, he in a measure overcame his intemperate habits. Griswold, his much-abused biographer, has given us an interesting description of him and his home at this time: "His manner, except during his fits of intoxication, was very quiet and gentlemanly; he was usually dressed with simplicity and elegance; and when once he sent for me to visit him, during a period of illness caused by protracted and anxious watching at the side of his sick wife, I was impressed by the singular neatness and the air of refinement in his home. It was in a small house, in one of the pleasant and silent neighborhoods far from the center of the town; and, though slightly and cheaply furnished, everything in it was so tasteful and so fitly disposed that it seemed altogether suitable for a man of genius." It was during his residence in Philadelphia that Poe wrote his choicest stories. Among the masterpieces of this period are to be mentioned _The Fall of the House of Usher_, _Ligeia_, which he regarded as his best tale _The Descent into the Maelstrom_, _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_, and _The Mystery of Marie Roget_. The general character of his tales may be inferred from their titles. Poe delighted in the weird, fantastic, dismal, horrible. There is no warmth of human sympathy, no moral consciousness, no lessons of practical wisdom. His tales are the product of a morbid but powerful imagination. His style is in perfect keeping with his peculiar gifts. He had a highly developed artistic sense. By his air of perfect candor, his minuteness of detail, and his power of graphic description, he gains complete mastery over the soul, and leads us almost to believe the impossible. Within the limited range of his imagination (for he was by no means the universal genius he fancied himself to be) he is unsurpassed, perhaps, by any other American writer. Poe's career had now reached its climax, and after a time began its rapid descent. In 1844 he moved to New York, where for a year or two his life did not differ materially from what it had been in Philadelphia. He continued to write his fantastic tales, for which he was poorly paid, and to do editorial work, by which he eked out a scanty livelihood. He was employed by N. P. Willis for a few months on the _Evening Mirror_ as sub-editor and critic, and was regularly "at his desk from nine in the morning till the paper went to press." It was in this paper, January 29, 1845, that his greatest poem, _The Raven_, was published with a flattering commendation by Willis. It laid hold of the popular fancy; and, copied throughout the length and breadth of the land, it met a reception never before accorded to an American poem. Abroad its success was scarcely less remarkable and decisive. "This vivid writing," wrote Mrs. Browning, "this power _which is felt_, has produced a sensation here in England. Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by the music. I hear of persons who are haunted by the 'Nevermore'; and an acquaintance of mine, who has the misfortune of possessing a bust of Pallas, cannot bear to look at it in the twilight." In 1845 Poe was associated with the management of the _Broadway Journal_, which in a few months passed entirely into his hands. He had long desired to control a periodical of his own, and in Philadelphia had tried to establish a magazine. But, however brilliant as an editor, he was not a man of administrative ability; and in three months he was forced to suspend publication for want of means. Shortly afterward he published in Godey's _Lady's Book_ a series of critical papers entitled _Literati of New York_. The papers, usually brief, are gossipy, interesting, sensational, with an occasional lapse into contemptuous and exasperating severity. In the same year he published a tolerably complete edition of his poems in the revised form in which they now appear in his works. The volume contained nearly all the poems upon which his poetic fame justly rests. Among those that may be regarded as embodying his highest poetic achievement are _The Raven_, _Lenore_, _Ulalume_, _The Bells_, _Annabel Lee_, _The Haunted Palace_, _The Conqueror Worm_, _The City in the Sea_, _Eulalie_, and _Israfel_. Rarely has so large a fame rested on so small a number of poems, and rested so securely. His range of themes, it will be noticed, is very narrow. As in his tales, he dwells in a weird, fantastic, or desolate region--usually under the shadow of death. He conjures up unearthly landscapes as a setting for his gloomy and morbid fancies. In _The City in the Sea_, for example:-- "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." He conformed his poetic efforts to his theory that a poem should be short. He maintained that the phrase "'a long poem' is simply a flat contradiction in terms." His strong artistic sense gave him a firm mastery over form. He constantly uses alliteration, assonance, repetition, and refrain. These artifices form an essential part of _The Raven_, _Lenore_, and _The Bells_. In his poems, as in his tales, Poe was less anxious to set forth an experience or a truth than to make an impression. His poetry aims at beauty in a purely artistic sense, unassociated with truth or morals. It is, for the most part, singularly vague, unsubstantial, and melodious. Some of his poems--and precisely those in which his genius finds its highest expression--defy complete analysis. _Ulalume_, for instance, remains obscure after the twentieth perusal--its meaning lost in a haze of mist and music. Yet these poems, when read in a sympathetic mood, never fail of their effect. They are genuine creations; and, as a fitting expression of certain mental states, they possess an indescribable charm, something like the spell of the finest instrumental music. There is no mistaking Poe's poetic genius. Though not the greatest, he is still the most original, of our poets, and has fairly earned the high esteem in which his gifts are held in America and Europe. During his stay in New York, Poe was often present in the literary gatherings of the metropolis. He was sometimes accompanied by his sweet, affectionate, invalid wife, whom in her fourteenth year he had married in Richmond. According to Griswold, "His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill; and his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart." His writings are unstained by a single immoral sentiment. Toward the latter part of his sojourn in New York, the hand of poverty and want pressed upon him sorely. The failing health of his wife, to whom his tender devotion is beyond all praise, was a source of deep and constant anxiety. For a time he became an object of charity--a humiliation that was exceedingly galling to his delicately sensitive nature. To a sympathetic friend, who lent her kindly aid in this time of need, we owe a graphic but pathetic picture of Poe's home shortly before the death of his almost angelic wife: "There was no clothing on the bed, which was only straw, but a snow-white counterpane and sheets. The weather was cold, and the sick lady had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption. She lay on the straw bed, wrapped in her husband's great-coat, with a large tortoise-shell cat in her bosom. The wonderful cat seemed conscious of her great usefulness. The coat and the cat were the sufferer's only means of warmth, except as her husband held her hands, and her mother her feet." She died January 30, 1847. After this event Poe was never entirely himself again. The immediate effect of his bereavement was complete physical and mental prostration, from which he recovered only with difficulty. His subsequent literary work deserves scarcely more than mere mention. His _Eureka_, an ambitious treatise, the immortality of which he confidently predicted, was a disappointment and failure. He tried lecturing, but with only moderate success. His correspondence at this time reveals a broken, hysterical, hopeless man. In his weakness, loneliness, and sorrow, he resorted to stimulants with increasing frequency. Their terrible work was soon done. On his return from a visit to Richmond, he stopped in Baltimore, where he died from the effects of drinking, October 7, 1849. Thus ended the tragedy of his life. It is as depressing as one of his own morbid, fantastic tales. His career leaves a painful sense of incompleteness and loss. With greater self-discipline, how much more he might have accomplished for himself and for others! Gifted, self-willed, proud, passionate, with meager moral sense, he forfeited success by his perversity and his vices. From his own character and experience he drew the unhealthy and pessimistic views to which he has given expression in the maddening poem, _The Conqueror Worm_. And if there were not happier and nobler lives, we might well say with him, as we stand by his grave:-- "Out--out are the lights--out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy 'Man,' And its hero the Conqueror Worm." [Illustration: PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.] CHAPTER III PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE The poetry of Paul Hamilton Hayne is characterized by a singular delicacy of sentiment and expression. There is an utter absence of what is gross or commonplace. His poetry, as a whole, carries with it an atmosphere of high-bred refinement. We recognize at once fineness of fiber and of culture. It could not well be otherwise; for the poet traced the line of his ancestors to the cultured nobility of England, and, surrounded by wealth, was brought up in the home of Southern chivalry. The aristocratic lineage of the Hayne family was not reflected in its political feelings and affiliations in this country. They were not Tories; on the contrary, from the colonial days down to the Civil War they showed themselves stoutly democratic. The Haynes were, in a measure, to South Carolina what the Adamses and Quincys were to Massachusetts. A chivalrous uncle of the poet, Colonel Arthur P. Hayne, fought in three wars, and afterwards entered the United States Senate. Another uncle, Governor Robert Y. Hayne, was a distinguished statesman, who did not fear to cross swords with Webster in the most famous debate, perhaps, of our national history. The poet's father was a lieutenant in the United States navy, and died at sea when his gifted son was still an infant. These patriotic antecedents were not without influence on the life and writings of the poet. In the existing biographical sketches of Hayne we find little or no mention of his mother. This neglect is undeserved. She was a cultured woman of good English and Scotch ancestry. It was her hand that had the chief fashioning of the young poet's mind and heart. She transmitted to him his poetic temperament; and when his muse began its earliest flights, she encouraged him with appreciative words and ambitious hopes. Hayne's poems are full of autobiographic elements; and in one, entitled _To My Mother_, he says:-- "To thee my earliest verse I brought, All wreathed in loves and roses, Some glowing boyish fancy, fraught With tender May-wind closes; _Thou_ didst not taunt my fledgling song, Nor view its flight with scorning: 'The bird,' thou saidst, 'grown fleet and strong, Might yet outsoar the morning!'" Paul Hamilton Hayne was born in Charleston, South Carolina, January 1, 1830. At that time Charleston was the literary center of the South. Among its wealthy and aristocratic circles there, was a literary group of unusual gifts. Calhoun and Legaré were there; and William Gilmore Simms, a man of great versatility, gathered about him a congenial literary circle, in which we find Hayne and his scarcely less distinguished friend, Henry Timrod. Hayne was graduated with distinction from Charleston College in 1850, receiving a prize for superiority in English composition and elocution. He then studied law; but, like many other authors both North and South, the love of letters proved too strong for the practice of his profession. His literary bent, as with most of our gifted authors, manifested itself early, and even in his college days he became a devotee of the poetic muse. The ardor of his devotion found expression in one of his early poems, first called _Aspirations_, but in his later works appearing under the title of _The Will and the Wing_:-- "Yet would I rather in the outward state Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, A beggar basking by that radiant gate, Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown. "For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine." Hayne served his literary apprenticeship in connection with several periodicals. He was a favorite contributor to the _Southern Literary Messenger_, for many years published in Richmond, Virginia, and deservedly ranking as the best monthly issued in the South before the Civil War. He was one of the editors of the _Southern Literary Gazette_, a weekly published in his native city. Afterwards, as a result of a plan devised at one of Simms's literary dinners, _Russell's Magazine_, with Hayne as editor, was established, to use the language of the first number, as "another depository for Southern genius, and a new incentive, as we hope, for its active exercise." It was a monthly of high excellence for the time; but for lack of adequate support it suspended publication after an honorable career of two years. An article in _Russell's Magazine_ for August, 1857, elaborately discusses the ante-bellum discouragements to authorship in the South. Indifference, ignorance, and prejudice, the article asserted, were encountered on every hand. "It may happen to be only a volume of noble poetry, full of those universal thoughts and feelings which speak, not to a particular people, but to all mankind. It is censured, at the South, as not sufficiently Southern in spirit, while at the North it is pronounced a very fair specimen of Southern commonplace. Both North and South agree with one mind to condemn the author and forget his book." Hayne's critical work as editor of _Russell's Magazine_ is worthy of note. In manly independence of judgment, though not in ferocity of style, he resembled Poe. He prided himself on conscientious loyalty to literary art. He disclaimed all sympathy with that sectional spirit which has sometimes lauded a work merely for geographical reasons; and in the critical reviews of his magazine he did not hesitate to point out and censure crudeness in Southern writers. But, at the same time, it was a more pleasing task to his generous nature to recognize and praise artistic excellence wherever he found it. As a critic Hayne was, perhaps, severest to himself. His poetic standards were high. In his maturer years he blamed the precipitancy with which, as a youth, he had rushed into print. There is an interesting marginal note, as his son tells us, in a copy of his first volume of verse, in which _The Cataract_ is pronounced "the poorest piece in the volume. Boyish and bombastic! Should have been whipped for publishing it!" It is needless to say that the piece does not appear in his _Complete Poems_. This severity of self-criticism, which exacted sincerity of utterance, has imparted a rare average excellence to his work. In 1852 he married Miss Mary Middleton Michel, of Charleston, the daughter of a distinguished French physician. Rarely has a union been more happy. In the days of his prosperity she was an inspiration; and in the long years of poverty and sickness that came later she was his comfort and stay. In his poem, _The Bonny Brown Hand_, there is a reflection of the love that glorified the toil and ills of this later period:-- "Oh, drearily, how drearily, the sombre eve comes down! And wearily, how wearily, the seaboard breezes blow! But place your little hand in mine--so dainty, yet so brown! For household toil hath worn away its rosy-tinted snow; But I fold it, wife, the nearer, And I feel, my love, 'tis dearer Than all dear things of earth, As I watch the pensive gloaming, And my wild thoughts cease from roaming, And birdlike furl their pinions close beside our peaceful hearth; Then rest your little hand in mine, while twilight shimmers down, That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny brown-- The hand that holds an honest heart, and rules a happy hearth." Two small volumes of Hayne's poetry appeared before the Civil War from the press of Ticknor & Co., Boston. They were made up chiefly of pieces contributed to the _Southern Literary Messenger_, _Russsell's Magazine_, and other periodicals in the South. The first volume appeared in 1855, and the second in 1859. These volumes were well worthy of the favorable reception they met with, and encouraged the poet to dedicate himself more fully to his art. In the fullness of this dedication, he reminds us of Longfellow, Tennyson, and Wordsworth, all of whom he admired and loved. Few first volumes of greater excellence have ever appeared in this country. The judicious critic was at once able to recognize the presence of a genuine singer. The poet rises above the obvious imitation that was a common vice among Southern singers before the Civil War. We may indeed perceive the influence of Tennyson in the delicacy of the craftsmanship, and the influence of Wordsworth in the deep and sympathetic treatment of Nature; but Hayne's study of these great bards had been transmuted into poetic culture, and is reflected only in the superior quality of his work. There is no case of conscious or obvious imitation. The volume of 1859, which bears the title _Avolio and Other Poems_, exhibits the poet's fondness for the sonnet and his admirable skill in its use. Throughout his subsequent poetical career, he frequently chose the sonnet as the medium for expressing his choicest thought. It is hardly too much to claim that Hayne is the prince of American sonneteers. The late Maurice Thompson said that he could pick out twenty of Hayne's sonnets equal to almost any others in our language. In the following sonnet, which is quoted by way of illustration, the poet gives us the key to a large part of his work. He was a worshiper of beauty; and the singleness of this devotion gives him his distinctive place in our poetic annals. "Pent in this common sphere of sensual shows, I pine for beauty; beauty of fresh mien, And gentle utterance, and the charm serene, Wherewith the hue of mystic dreamland glows; I pine for lulling music, the repose Of low-voiced waters, in some realm between The perfect Adenne, and this clouded scene Of love's sad loss, and passion's mournful throes; A pleasant country, girt with twilight calm, In whose fair heaven a moon of shadowy round Wades through a fading fall of sunset rain; Where drooping lotos-flowers, distilling balm, Gleam by the drowsy streamlets sleep hath crown'd, While Care forgets to sigh, and Peace hath balsamed pain." The great civil conflict of '61-'65 naturally stirred the poet's heart. He was a patriotic son of the South. On the breaking out of hostilities, he became a member of Governor Pickens's staff, and was stationed for a time in Fort Sumter; but after a brief service he was forced to resign on account of failing health. His principal service to the Southern cause was rendered in his martial songs, which breathe a lofty, patriotic spirit. They are remarkable at once for their dignity of manner and refinement of utterance. There is an entire absence of the fierceness that is to be found in some of Whittier's and Timrod's sectional lyrics. Hayne lacked the fierce energy of a great reformer or partisan leader. But nowhere else do we find a heart more sensitive to grandeur of achievement or pathos of incident. He recognized the unsurpassed heroism of sentiment and achievement displayed in the war; and in an admirable sonnet, he exclaims:-- "Ah, foolish souls and false! who loudly cried 'True chivalry no longer breathes in time.' Look round us now; how wondrous, how sublime The heroic lives we witness; far and wide Stern vows by sterner deeds are justified; Self-abnegation, calmness, courage, power, Sway, with a rule august, our stormy hour, Wherein the loftiest hearts have wrought and died-- Wrought grandly, and died smiling. Thus, O God, From tears, and blood, and anguish, thou hast brought The ennobling act, the faith-sustaining thought-- Till, in the marvelous present, one may see A mighty stage, by knights and patriots trod, Who had not shunned earth's haughtiest chivalry." The war brought the poet disaster. His beautiful home and the library he has celebrated in a noble sonnet were destroyed in the bombardment of Charleston. The family silver, which had been stored in Columbia for safe-keeping, was lost in Sherman's famous "march to the sea." His native state was in desolation; his friends, warm and true with the fidelity which a common disaster brings, were generally as destitute and helpless as himself. Under these disheartening circumstances, rendered still more gloomy by the ruthless deeds of reconstruction, he withdrew to the pine barrens of Georgia, where, eighteen miles from Augusta, he built a very plain and humble cottage. He christened it Copse Hill; and it was here, on a desk fashioned out of a workbench left by the carpenters, that many of his choicest pieces, reflecting credit on American letters, and earning for him a high place among American poets, were written. This modest home, which from its steep hillside-- "Catches morn's earliest and eve's latest glow,"-- the poet has commemorated in a sonnet, which gives us a glimpse of the quiet, rural scenes that were dear to his heart:-- "Here, far from worldly strife, and pompous show, The peaceful seasons glide serenely by, Fulfill their missions, and as calmly die, As waves on quiet shores when winds are low. Fields, lonely paths, the one small glimmering rill That twinkles like a wood-fay's mirthful eye, Under moist bay leaves, clouds fantastical That float and change at the light breeze's will,-- To me, thus lapped in sylvan luxury, Are more than death of kings, or empires' fall." His son, Mr. W. H. Hayne, has thrown an interesting light upon the poet's methods of composition. Physical movement seemed favorable to his poetic faculty; and many of his pieces were composed as he paced to and fro in his study, or walked with stooping shoulders beneath the trees surrounding Copse Hill. He was not mechanical or systematic in his poetic work, but followed the impulse of inspiration. "The poetic impulse," his son tells us, "frequently came to him so spontaneously as to demand immediate utterance, and he would turn to the fly leaf of the book in hand or on a neighboring shelf, and his pencil would soon record the lines, or fragments of lines, that claimed release from his brain. The labor of revision usually followed,--sometimes promptly, but not infrequently after the fervor of conception had passed away." The painstaking care with which the revising was done is revealed in the artistic finish of almost every poem. Hayne's life at this time was truly heroic. With uncomplaining fortitude he met the hardships of poverty and bore the increasing ills of failing health. He never lost hope and courage. He lived the poetry that he sang:-- "Still smiles the brave soul, undivorced from hope; And, with unwavering eye and warrior mien, Walks in the shadow dauntless and serene, To test, through hostile years, the utmost scope Of man's endurance--constant, to essay All heights of patience free to feet of clay." And in the end he was not disappointed. Gradually his genius gained general recognition. The leading magazines of the country were opened to him; and, as Stedman remarks, "his people regarded him with a tenderness which, if a commensurate largess had been added, would have made him feel less solitary among his pines." In 1872 a volume of _Legends and Lyrics_ was issued by Lippincott & Co. It shows the poet's genius in the full power of maturity. His legends are admirably told, and _Aëthra_ is a gem of its kind. But the richness of Hayne's imagination was better suited to lyric than to narrative or dramatic poetry. The latter, indeed, abounds in rare beauty of thought and expression; but somehow this luxuriance seems to retard or obscure the movement. The lyric pieces of this volume are full of self- revelation, autobiography, and Southern landscape. Hayne was not an apostle of the strenuous life; he preferred to dream among the beauties or sublimities of Nature. Thus, in _Dolce far Niente_, he says:-- "Let the world roll blindly on! Give me shadow, give me sun, And a perfumed eve as this is: Let me lie Dreamfully, Where the last quick sunbeams shiver Spears of light athwart the river, And a breeze, which seems the sigh Of a fairy floating by, Coyly kisses Tender leaf and feathered grasses; Yet so soft its breathing passes, These tall ferns, just glimmering o'er me, Blending goldenly before me, Hardly quiver!" The well-known friendship existing between Hayne and his brother poet Timrod was a beautiful one. As schoolboys they had encouraged each other in poetic efforts. As editor of _Russell's Magazine_, Hayne had welcomed and praised Timrod's contributions. For the edition of Timrod's poems published in 1873, Hayne prepared a generous and beautiful memoir, in which he quoted the opinion of some Northern writers who assigned the highest place to his friend among the poets of the South. In the _Legends and Lyrics_ there is a fine poem, _Under the Pine_, commemorative of Timrod's visit to Copse Hill shortly before his death:-- "O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid His weary head; thy shade Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep: It brought a peace _so_ deep, The unquiet passion died from out his eyes, As lightnings from stilled skies. "And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear The soft wind-angels, clear And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing: Voices he heard replying (Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height, And pinions rustling light." As illustrating his rich fancy and graphic power of diction, a few stanzas are given from _Cloud Pictures_. They are not unworthy of Tennyson in his happiest moments. "At calm length I lie Fronting the broad blue spaces of the sky, Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by: "An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange, Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they range At the wind's will, from marvelous change to change: "Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall, Great sloping archway, and majestic wall, Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall! "Pagodas vague! above whose towers outstream Banners that wave with motions of a dream-- Rising or drooping in the noontide gleam; "Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt band On famished camels, o'er the desert sand Plodding towards their prophet's Holy Land; "Mid-ocean,--and a shoal of whales at play, Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day, Through rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray; "Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone, Set in swift currents of some arctic zone, Like fragments of a Titan world o'erthrown." In 1882 a complete edition of Hayne's poems was published by D. Lothrop & Co. Except a few poems written after that date and still uncollected, this edition contains his later productions, in which we discover an increasing seriousness, richness, and depth. The general range of subjects, as in his earlier volumes, is limited to his Southern environment and individual experience. This limitation is the severest charge that can be brought against his poetry, but, at the same time, it is an evidence of his sincerity and truth. He did not aspire, as did some of his great Northern contemporaries, to the office of moralist, philosopher, or reformer. He was content to dwell in the quiet realm of beauty as it appears, to use the words of Margaret J. Preston, in the "aromatic freshness of the woods, the swaying incense of the cathedral- like isles of pines, the sough of dying summer winds, the glint of lonely pools, and the brooding notes of leaf-hidden mocking-birds." But the beauty and pathos of human life were not forgotten; and now and then he touched upon the great spiritual truths on which the splendid heroism of his life was built. For delicacy of feeling and perfection of form, his meditative and religious poems deserve to rank among the best in our language. They contain what is so often lacking in poetry of this class, genuine poetic feeling and artistic expression. The steps of death approached gradually; for, like two other great poets of the South, Timrod and Lanier, he was not physically strong. Though sustained through his declining years by "the ultimate trust"-- "That love and mercy, Father, still are thine,"-- he felt a pathetic desire to linger awhile in the love of his tender, patient, helpful wife:-- "A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here." Paul Hamilton Hayne passed away July 6, 1886. As already brought out in the course of this sketch, he was not only a gifted singer, but also a noble man. His extraordinary poetic gifts have not yet been fully recognized. Less gifted singers have been placed above him. No biography has been written to record with fond minuteness the story of his admirable life and achievement. His writings in prose, and a few of his choicest lyrics, still remain unpublished. Let us hope that this reproach to Southern letters may soon be removed, and that this laureate of the South may yet come to the full inheritance of fame to which the children of genius are inalienably entitled. CHAPTER IV HENRY TIMROD In some respects there is a striking similarity in the lives of the three Southern poets, Hayne, Timrod, and Lanier. They were alike victims of misfortune, and in their greatest tribulations they exhibited the same heroic patience and fortitude. "They knew alike what suffering starts From fettering need and ceaseless pain; But still with brave and cheerful hearts, Whose message hope and joy imparts, They sang their deathless strain." The fate of Timrod was the saddest of them all. Gifted with uncommon genius, he never saw its full fruitage; and over and over again, when some precious hope seemed about to be realized, it was cruelly dashed to the ground. There is, perhaps, no sadder story in the annals of literature. Henry Timrod was born in Charleston, South Carolina, December 28, 1829. He was older than his friend Hayne by twenty-three days. The law of heredity seems to find exemplification in his genius. The Timrods, a family of German descent, were long identified with the history of South Carolina. The poet's grandfather belonged to the German Fusiliers of Charleston, a volunteer company organized in 1775, after the battle of Lexington, for the defense of the American colonies. In the Seminole War, the poet's father, Captain William Henry Timrod, commanded the German Fusiliers in Florida. He was a gifted man, whose talents attracted an admiring circle of friends. "By the simple mastery of genius," says Hayne, "he gained no trifling influence among the highest intellectual and social circles of a city noted at that period for aristocratic exclusiveness." [Illustration: HENRY TIMROD.] Timrod's father was not only an eloquent talker, but also a poet. A strong intellect was associated with delicate feelings. He had the gift of musical utterance; and the following verses from his poem, _To Time --the Old Traveler_, were pronounced by Washington Irving equal to any lyric written by Tom Moore:-- "They slander thee, Old Traveler, Who say that thy delight Is to scatter ruin far and wide, In thy wantonness of might: For not a leaf that falleth Before thy restless wings, But in thy flight, thou changest it To a thousand brighter things. * * * * * "'Tis true thy progress layeth Full many a loved one low, And for the brave and beautiful Thou hast caused our tears to flow; But always near the couch of death Nor thou, nor we can stay; And the breath of thy departing wings Dries all our tears away!" On his mother's side the poet was scarcely less fortunate in his parentage. She was as beautiful in form and face as in character. From her more than from his father the poet derived his love of Nature. She delighted in flowers and trees and stars; she caught the glintings of the sunshine through the leaves; she felt a thrill of joy at the music of singing birds and of murmuring waters. With admirable maternal tenderness she taught her children to discern and appreciate the lovely sights and sounds of nature. Timrod received his early education in a Charleston school, where he sat next to Hayne. He was an ambitious boy, insatiable in his desire for knowledge; at the same time, he was fond of outdoor sports, and enjoyed the respect and confidence of his companions. His poetic activity dates from this period. "I well remember," says Hayne, "the exultation with which he showed me one morning his earliest consecutive attempt at verse- making. Our down-East schoolmaster, however, could boast of no turn for sentiment, and having remarked us hobnobbing, meanly assaulted us in the rear, effectually quenching for the time all aesthetic enthusiasm." When sixteen or seventeen years of age he entered the University of Georgia. He was cramped for lack of means; sickness interfered with his studies, and at length he was forced to leave the university without his degree. But his interrupted course was not in vain. His fondness for literature led him, not only to an intelligent study of Virgil, Horace, and Catullus, but also to an unusual acquaintance with the leading poets of England. His pen was not inactive, and some of his college verse, published over a fictitious signature in a Charleston paper, attracted local attention. After leaving college Timrod returned to Charleston, and entered upon the study of law in the office of the Hon. J. L. Petigru. But the law was not adapted to his tastes and talents, and, like Hayne, he early abandoned it to devote himself to literature. He was timid and retiring in disposition. "His walk was quick and nervous," says Dr. J. Dickson Bruns, "with an energy in it that betokened decision of character, but ill sustained by the stammering speech; for in society he was the shyest and most undemonstrative of men. To a single friend whom he trusted, he would pour out his inmost heart; but let two or three be gathered together, above all, introduce a stranger, and he instantly became a quiet, unobtrusive listener, though never a moody or uncongenial one." He aspired to a college professorship, for which he made diligent preparation in the classics; but in spite of his native abilities and excellent attainments, he never secured this object of his ambition. Leaving Charleston, he became a tutor in private families; but on holiday occasions he was accustomed to return to the city, where he was cordially welcomed by his friends. Among these was William Gilmore Simms, a sort of Maecenas to aspiring genius, who gathered about him the younger literary men of his acquaintance. At the little dinners he was accustomed to give, no one manifested a keener enjoyment than Timrod, when, in the words of Hayne:-- "Around the social board The impetuous flood tide poured Of curbless mirth, and keen sparkling jest Vanished like wine-foam on its golden crest." During all these years of toil and waiting the poetic muse was not idle. Under the pseudonym "Aglaus," the name of a minor pastoral poet of Greece, he became a frequent and favorite contributor to the _Southern Literary Messenger_ of Richmond, Virginia. Later he became one of the principal contributors, both in prose and poetry, to _Russell's Magazine_ in Charleston. It was in these periodicals that the foundation of his fame was laid. Timrod's first volume of poetry, made up of pieces taken chiefly from these magazines, appeared in 1860, from the press of Ticknor & Fields, Boston. It was Hayne's judgment that "a better first volume of the kind has seldom appeared anywhere." It contains most of the pieces found in subsequent editions of his works. Here and there, both North and South, a discerning critic recognized in the poet "a lively, delicate fancy, and a graceful beauty of expression." But, upon the whole, the book attracted little attention--a fact that came to the poet as a deep disappointment. In the words of Dr. Bruns, who was familiar with the circumstances of the poet, "success was to him a bitter need, for not his _living_ merely, but his _life_ was staked upon it." When this volume appeared, Timrod was more than a poetic tyro. Apart from native inspiration, in which he was surpassed by few of his contemporaries, he had reflected profoundly on his art, and nursed his genius on the masterpieces of English song. In addition to Shakespeare he had carefully pondered Milton, Wordsworth, and Tennyson. From Wordsworth especially he learned to appreciate the poetry of common things, and to discern the mystic presence of that spirit,-- "Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man." Timrod, like Poe, formulated a theory of poetry which it is interesting to study, as it throws light on his own work. It reveals to us the ideal at which he aimed. In a famous essay Poe made beauty the sole realm and end of poetry. To Timrod belongs the credit of setting forth a larger and juster conception of the poetic art. To beauty he adds _power_ and _truth_ as legitimate sources of poetry. "I think," he says, "when we recall the many and varied sources of poetry, we must, perforce, confess that it is wholly impossible to reduce them all to the simple element of beauty. Two other elements, at least, must be added, and these are power, when it is developed in some noble shape, and truth, whether abstract or not, when it affects the common heart of mankind." Timrod regarded a poem as a work of art. He justly held that a poem should have "one purpose, and that the materials of which it is composed should be so selected and arranged as to help enforce it." He distinguished between the moment of inspiration, "when the great thought strikes for the first time along the brain and flushes the cheek with the sudden revelation of beauty or grandeur, and the hour of patient, elaborate execution." Accordingly he quoted with approval the lines of Matthew Arnold:-- "We cannot kindle when we will The fire that in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still; In mystery our soul abides; But tasks in hours of insight willed, May be through hours of gloom fulfilled." Timrod's poetry is characterized by clearness, simplicity, and force. He was not a mystic; his thoughts and emotions are not obscured in voluble melody. To him poetry is more than rhythmic harmony. Beneath his delicate imagery and rhythmical sweetness are poured treasures of thought and truth. In diction he belongs to the school of Wordsworth; his language is not strained or farfetched, but such as is natural to cultured men in a state of emotion. "Poetry," he says in an early volume of _Russell's Magazine_, "does not deal in abstractions. However abstract be his thought, the poet is compelled, by his passion-fused imagination, to give it life, form, or color. Hence the necessity of employing the _sensuous or concrete_ words of the language, and hence the exclusion of long words, which in English are nearly all purely and austerely _abstract_, from the poetic vocabulary." He defends the use of the sonnet, in which, like Hayne, he excelled. He admits that the sonnet is artificial in structure; but, as already pointed out, he distinguishes the moment of inspiration, from the subsequent labor of composition. In the act of writing, the poet passes into the artist. And "the very restriction so much complained of in the sonnet," he says, "the artist knows to be an advantage. It forces him to condensation." His sonnets are characterized by a rare lucidity of thought and expression. The principal piece in Timrod's first volume, to which we now return, and the longest poem he ever wrote, is entitled _A Vision of Poesy_. In the experience of the imaginative hero, who seems an idealized portrait of the poet himself, we find an almost unequaled presentation of the nature and uses of poetry. The spirit of Poesy, "the angel of the earth," thus explains her lofty mission:-- "And ever since that immemorial hour When the glad morning stars together sung, My task hath been, beneath a mightier Power, To keep the world forever fresh and young; I give it not its fruitage and its green, But clothe it with a glory all unseen." And what are the objects on which this angel of Poesy loves to dwell? Truth, freedom, passion, she answers, and-- "All lovely things, and gentle--the sweet laugh Of children, girlhood's kiss, and friendship's clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp-- All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless, "To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life's tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints. Wherever earth is fair, and heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown." Many of the poems in this first volume are worthy of note, as revealing some phase of the poet's versatile gifts--delicate fancy, simplicity and truth, lucid force, or finished art. _The Lily Confidante_, is a light, lilting fancy, the moral of which is:-- "Love's the lover's only magic, Truth the very subtlest art; Love that feigns, and lips that flatter, Win no modest heart." _The Past_ was first published in the _Southern Literary Messenger_, and afterwards went the rounds of the press. It teaches the important truth that we are the sum of all we have lived through. The past forms the atmosphere which we breathe today; it is-- "A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but grief. "Ah me!--not dies--no more than spirit dies; But in a change like death is clothed with wings; A serious angel, with entranced eyes, Looking to far-off and celestial things." Timrod possessed an ardent spirit that was stirred to its depths by the Civil War. His martial songs, with their fierce intensity, better voiced the feelings of the South at that time than those of Hayne or any other Southern singer. In his _Ethnogenesis_--the birth of a nation--he celebrates in a lofty strain the rise of the Confederacy, of which he cherished large and generous hopes:-- "The type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas." But his most stirring lyrics are _Carolina_ and _A Cry to Arms_, which in the exciting days of '61 deeply moved the Southern heart, but which today serve as melancholy mementos of a long-past sectional bitterness. Of the vigorous lines of the former, Hayne says in an interesting autobiographic touch, "I read them first, and was thrilled by their power and pathos, upon a stormy March evening in Fort Sumter! Walking along the battlements, under the red lights of a tempestuous sunset, the wind steadily and loudly blowing from off the bar across the tossing and moaning waste of waters, driven inland; with scores of gulls and white sea-birds flying and shrieking round me,--those wild voices of Nature mingled strangely with the rhythmic roll and beat of the poet's impassioned music. The very spirit, or dark genius, of the troubled scene appeared to take up, and to repeat such verses as:-- "'I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! "'And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon the strand, Carolina!'" These impassioned war lyrics brought the poet speedy popularity. For a time his hopes were lifted up to a roseate future. In 1862 some of his influential friends formed the project of bringing out a handsome edition of his poems in London. The war correspondent of the _London Illustrated News_, himself an artist, volunteered to furnish original illustrations. The scheme, at which the poet was elated, promised at once bread and fame. But, as in so many other instances, he was doomed to bitter disappointment. The increasing stress of the great conflict absorbed the energies of the South; and the promising plan, notwithstanding the poet's popularity, was buried beneath the noise and tumult of battle. Disqualified by feeble health from serving in the ranks, Timrod, shortly after the battle of Shiloh, went to Tennessee as the war correspondent of the _Charleston Mercury_. To his retiring and sympathetic nature the scenes of war were painful. "One can scarcely conceive," says Dr. Bruns, "of a situation more hopelessly wretched than that of a mere child in the world's ways suddenly flung down into the heart of that strong retreat, and tossed like a straw on the crest of those refluent waves, from which he escaped as by a miracle." In 1863 he went to Columbia as associate editor of the _South Carolinian_. He was scarcely less happy and vigorous in prose than in verse. A period of prosperity seemed at last to be dawning; and, in the cheerful prospect, he ventured to marry Miss Kate Goodwin of Charleston, "Katie, the fair Saxon," whom he had long loved and of whom he had sung in one of his longest and sweetest poems. But his happiness was of brief duration. In a twelvemonth the army of General Sherman entered Columbia, demolished his office, and sent him adrift as a helpless fugitive. The close of the war found him a ruined man; he was almost destitute of property and broken in health. He was obliged to sell some of his household furniture to keep his family in bread. "We have," he says, in a sadly playful letter to Hayne at this period, "we have--let me see!--yes, we have eaten two silver pitchers, one or two dozen silver forks, several sofas, innumerable chairs, and a huge--bedstead!" He could find no paying market for his poems in the impoverished South; and in the North political feeling was still too strong to give him access to the magazines there. The only employment he could find was some clerical work for a season in the governor's office, where he sometimes toiled far beyond his strength. In this time of discouragement and need, the gloom of which was never lifted, he pathetically wrote to Hayne: "I would consign every line of my verse to eternal oblivion for _one hundred dollars in hand_." In 1867 his physicians recommended a change of air; and accordingly he spent a month with his lifelong friend Hayne at Copse Hill. It was the one rift in the clouds before the fall of night. There is a pathetic beauty in the fellowship of the two poets during these brief weeks, when, with spirits often attuned to high thought and feeling, they roamed together among the pines or sat beneath the stars. "We would rest on the hillsides," says Hayne, "in the swaying golden shadows, watching together the Titanic masses of snow-white clouds which floated slowly and vaguely through the sky, suggesting by their form, whiteness, and serene motion, despite the season, flotillas of icebergs upon Arctic seas. Like lazzaroni we basked in the quiet noons, sunk in the depths of reverie, or perhaps of yet more 'charmed sleep.' Or we smoked, conversing lazily between the puffs,-- 'Next to some pine whose antique roots just peeped From out the crumbling bases of the sand.'" Timrod survived but a few weeks after his return to Columbia. The circumstances of his death were most pathetic. Though sustained by Christian hopes, he still longed to live a season with the dear ones about him. When, after a period of intense agony that preceded his dissolution, his sister murmured to him, "You will soon be at rest _now_," he replied, with touching pathos, "Yes, my sister, _but love is sweeter than rest_." He died October 7, 1867, and was laid to rest in Trinity churchyard, where his grave long remained unmarked. Two principal editions of his works have been published: the first in 1873, with an admirable memoir by Hayne; the second in 1899, under the auspices of the Timrod Memorial Association of South Carolina. A number of his poems and his prose writings still remain uncollected; and there is yet no biography that fully records the story of his life. This fact is not a credit to Southern letters, for, as we have seen, Timrod was a poet of more than commonplace ability and achievement. For the most part, his themes were drawn from the ordinary scenes and incidents of life. He was not ambitious of lofty subjects, remote from the hearts and homes of men. He placed sincerity above grandeur; he preferred love to admiration. He was always pure, brave, and true; and, as he sang:-- "The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower. Always, O bard, humility is power! And thou mayest draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love." CHAPTER V SIDNEY LANIER Lanier's genius was predominantly musical. He descended from a musical ancestry, which included in its line a "master of the king's music" at the court of James I. His musical gifts manifested themselves in early childhood. Without further instruction in music than a knowledge of the notes, which he learned from his mother, he was able to play, almost by intuition, the flute, guitar, violin, piano, and organ. He organized his boyish playmates into an amateur minstrel band; and when in early manhood he began to confide his most intimate thoughts to a notebook, he wrote, "The prime inclination--that is, natural bent (which I have checked, though)--of my nature is to music, and for that I have the greatest talent; indeed, not boasting, for God gave it me, I have an extraordinary musical talent, and feel it within me plainly that I could rise as high as any composer." This early bent and passion for music never left him. His thought continually turned to the subject of music, and in the silences of his soul he frequently heard wonderful melodies. In his novel, _Tiger Lilies_, he lauds music in a rapturous strain: "Since in all holy worship, in all conditions of life, in all domestic, social, religious, political, and lonely individual doings; in all passions, in all countries, earthly or heavenly; in all stages of civilization, of time, or of eternity; since, I say, in all these, music is always present to utter the shallowest or the deepest thoughts of man or spirit--let us cease to call music a fine art, to class it with delicate pastry cookery and confectionery, and to fear to make too much of it lest it should make us sick." At a later period, while seeking to regain his health by a sojourn in Texas, he wrote to his wife: "All day my soul hath been cutting swiftly into the great space of the subtle, unspeakable deep, driven by wind after wind of heavenly melody. The very inner spirit and essence of all wind-songs, bird-songs, passion-songs, folk-songs, country-songs, sex-songs, soul-songs, and body-songs, hath blown upon me in quick gusts like the breath of passion, and sailed me into a sea of vast dreams, whereof each wave is at once a vision and a melody." [Illustration: SIDNEY LANIER.] This predominance of music in the genius of Lanier is at once the source of his strength and of his weakness in poetry. In his poems, and in his work entitled _The Science of English Verse_, it is the musical element of poetry upon which the principal emphasis is laid. This fact makes him the successor of Poe in American letters. Both in theory and in practice Lanier has, as we shall see, achieved admirable results. But, after all, the musical element of poetry is of minor importance. It is a means, and not an end. No jingle of sound can replace the delicacy of fancy, nobleness of sentiment and energy of thought that constitute what we may call the soul of poetry. Rhapsody is not the highest form of poetic achievement. In its noblest forms poetry is the medium through which great souls, like Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, give to the world, with classic self-restraint, the fruitage of their highest thought and emotion. The life of Lanier was a tragedy. While lighted here and there with a fleeting joy, its prevailing tone was one of sadness. The heroic courage with which he met disease and poverty impart to his life an inspiring grandeur. He was born at Macon, Georgia, February 3, 1842. His sensitive spirit early responded to the beauties of Nature; and in his hunting and fishing trips, in which he was usually accompanied by his younger brother Clifford, he caught something of the varied beauties of marsh, wood, and sky, which were afterwards to be so admirably woven into his poems. He early showed a fondness for books, and in the well-stored shelves of his father's library he found ample opportunity to gratify his taste for reading. His literary tastes were doubtless formed on the old English classics--Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Addison--which formed a part of every Southern gentleman's library. At the age of fifteen he entered the Sophomore class of Oglethorpe College, near Milledgeville, an institution that did not have sufficient vitality to survive the Civil War. He did not think very highly of the course of instruction, and found his chief delight, as perhaps the best part of his culture, in the congenial circle of friends he gathered around him. The evenings he spent with them were frequently devoted to literature and music. A classmate, Mr. T. F. Newell, gives us a vivid picture of these social features of his college life. "I can recall," he says, "my association with him with sweetest pleasure, especially those Attic nights, for they are among the dearest and tenderest recollections of my life, when with a few chosen companions we would read from some treasured volume, it may have been Tennyson, or Carlyle, or Christopher North's _Noctes Ambrosianoe_, or we would make the hours vocal with music and song; those happy nights, which were veritable refections of the gods, and which will be remembered with no other regret than that they will nevermore return. On such occasions I have seen him walk up and down the room and with his flute extemporize the sweetest music ever vouchsafed to mortal ear. At such times it would seem as if his soul were in a trance, and could only find existence, expression, in the ecstasy of tone, that would catch our souls with his into the very seventh heaven of harmony." Lanier was a diligent student, and easily stood among the first of his classes, particularly in mathematics. His reading took a wide range. In addition to the leading authors of the nineteenth century, he showed a fondness for what was old and quaint in our literature. He delighted in Burton's _Anatomy of Melancholy_ and in the works of "the poet- preacher," Jeremy Taylor. At this time, too, his thoughtful nature turned to the serious problem of his life work. He eagerly questioned his capabilities as preliminary, to use his own words, "to ascertaining God's will with reference to himself." As already learned from his notebook, he early recognized his extraordinary gifts in music. But his ambition aimed at more than a musician's career, for it seemed to him, as he said, that there were greater things that he might do. His ability and scholarship made a favorable impression on the college authorities, and immediately after his graduation he was elected to a tutorship. From this position, so congenial to his scholarly tastes, he was called, after six months, by the outbreak of the Civil War. In his boyhood he had shown a martial spirit. With his younger brother he joined the Macon Volunteers, and soon saw heavy service in Virginia. He took part in the battles of Seven Pines, Drewry's Bluffs, and Malvern Hill, in all of which he displayed a chivalrous courage. Afterward he became a signal officer and scout. "Nearly two years," he says, in speaking of this part of his service, "were passed in skirmishes, racing to escape the enemy's gunboats, signaling dispatches, serenading country beauties, poring over chance books, and foraging for provender." In 1864 he became a blockade runner, and in his first run out from near Fort Fisher, he was captured and taken to Point Lookout prison. It is remarkable that, amid the distractions and hardships of active service, his love of music and letters triumphantly asserted itself. His flute was his constant companion. He utilized the brief intervals of repose that came to him in camp to set some of Tennyson's songs to music and to prosecute new lines of literary study. He took up the study of German, in which he became quite proficient, and by the light of the camp fire at night translated from Heine, Schiller, and Goethe. At the same time his sympathy with the varied aspects of Nature was deepened. Trees and flowers and ferns revealed to him their mystic beauty; and like Wordsworth, he found it easy, "in the lily, the sunset, the mountain, and rosy hues of all life, to trace God." It was during his campaigns in Virginia that he began the composition of his only novel, _Tiger Lilies_, which was not completed, however, till 1867. It is now out of print. Though immature and somewhat chaotic, it clearly reveals the imaginative temperament of the author. War is imaged to his mind as "a strange, enormous, terrible flower," which he wishes might be eradicated forever and ever. As might be expected, music finds an honored place in its pages. He regards music as essential to the home. "Given the raw materials," he says, "to wit, wife, children, a friend or two, and a house,--two other things are necessary. These are a good fire and good music. And inasmuch as we can do without the fire for half the year, I may say that music is the one essential. After the evening spent around the piano, or the flute, or the violin, how warm and how chastened is the kiss with which the family all say good night! Ah, the music has taken all the day cares and thrown them into its terrible alembic and boiled them and rocked them and cooled them, till they are crystallized into one care, which is a most sweet and rare desirable sorrow--the yearning for God." After the war came a rude struggle for existence--a struggle in which tuberculosis, contracted during his camp life, gradually sapped his strength. Hemorrhages became not infrequent, and he was driven from one locality to another in a vain search for health. But he never lost hope; and his sufferings served to bring out his indomitable, heroic spirit, and to stimulate him to the highest degree of intellectual activity. Few men have accomplished more when so heavily handicapped by disease and poverty. The record of his struggle is truly pathetic. In a letter to Paul Hamilton Hayne, written in 1880, he gives us a glimpse both of his physical suffering and his mental agony. "I could never tell you," he says, "the extremity of illness, of poverty, and of unceasing toil, in which I have spent the last three years, and you would need only once to see the weariness with which I crawl to bed after a long day's work, and after a long night's work at the heels of it--and Sundays just as well as other days--in order to find in your heart a full warrant for my silence. It seems incredible that I have printed such an unchristian quantity of matter--all, too, tolerably successful--and secured so little money; and the wife and the four boys, who are so lovely that I would not think a palace good enough for them if I had it, make one's earnings seem all the less." During all these years of toil he longed to be delivered from the hard struggle for bread that he might give himself more fully to music and poetry. In 1867, while in charge of a prosperous school at Prattville, Alabama, he married Miss Mary Day, of Macon, Georgia. It proved a union in which Lanier found perpetual inspiration and comfort. His new-found strength and happiness are reflected in more than one of his poems. In _Acknowledgment_ we read:-- "By the more height of thy sweet stature grown, Twice-eyed with thy gray vision set in mine, I ken far lands to wifeless men unknown, I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too fine." And in _My Springs_, he says again, with great beauty:-- "Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete-- Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet-- I marvel that God made you mine, For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine!" In 1873, after giving up the study of law in his father's office, he went to Baltimore, where he was engaged as first flute for the Peabody Symphony concerts. This engagement was a bold undertaking, which cannot be better presented than in his own words. In a letter to Hayne he says: "Aside from the complete _bouleversement_ of proceeding from the courthouse to the footlights, I was a raw player and a provincial withal, without practice, and guiltless of instruction--for I had never had a teacher. To go under these circumstances among old professional players, and assume a leading part in a large orchestra which was organized expressly to play the most difficult works of the great masters, was (now that it's all over) a piece of temerity that I don't remember ever to have equaled before. But I trusted in love, pure and simple, and was not disappointed; for, as if by miracle, difficulties and discouragements melted away before the fire of a passion for music which grows ever stronger within my heart; and I came out with results more gratifying than it is becoming in me to specify." His playing possessed an exquisite charm. "In his hands the flute," to quote from the tribute paid him by his director, "no longer remained a mere material instrument, but was transformed into a voice that set heavenly harmonies into vibration. Its tones developed colors, warmth, and a low sweetness of unspeakable poetry; they were not only true and pure, but poetic, allegoric as it were, suggestive of the depths and heights of being and of the delights which the earthly ear never hears and the earthly eye never sees." Henceforth Baltimore was to be Lanier's home. In addition to music, he gave himself seriously to literature. Before this period he had written a number of poems, limited in range and somewhat labored in manner. The current of his life still set to music, and his poetic efforts seem to have been less a matter of inspiration than of deliberate choice. In literary form the influence of Poe is discernible; but in subject-matter the sounds and colors of Nature, as in the poetry of his later years, occupy a prominent place. Of the poems of this early period the songs for _The Jacquerie_ are the best. Here is a stanza of _Betrayal_:-- "The sun has kissed the violet sea, And burned the violet to a rose. O sea! wouldst thou not better be More violet still? Who knows? Who knows? Well hides the violet in the wood: The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood, And winter's ill is violet's good; But the bold glory of the rose, It quickly comes and quickly goes-- Red petals whirling in white snows, Ah me!" After taking up his residence in Baltimore, Lanier entered upon a comprehensive course of reading and study, particularly in early English literature. He studied Anglo-Saxon, and familiarized himself with Langland and Chaucer. He understood that any great poetic achievement must be based on extensive knowledge. A sweet warbler may depend on momentary inspiration; but the great singer, who is to instruct and move his age, must possess the insight and breadth of vision that come alone from a profound acquaintance with Nature and human history. With keen critical discernment Lanier said that "the trouble with Poe was, he did not _know_ enough. He needed to know a good many more things in order to be a great poet." It was to prepare himself for the highest flights possible to him that he entered, with inextinguishable ardor, upon a wide course of reading. In 1874 he was commissioned by a railroad company to write up the scenery, climate, and history of Florida. While spending a month or two with his family in Georgia, he wrote _Corn_, which deservedly ranks as one of his noblest poems. The delicate forms and colors of Nature touched him to an ecstasy of delight; and at the same time they bodied forth to his imagination deep spiritual truths. As we read this poem, we feel that the poet has reached a height of which little promise is given in his earlier poems. Here are the opening lines:-- "To-day the woods are trembling through and through With shimmering forms, and flash before my view, Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue. The leaves that wave against my cheek caress Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express A subtlety of mighty tenderness; The copse-depths into little noises start, That sound anon like beatings of a heart, Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart. The beach dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song; Through that vague wafture, expirations strong Throb from young hickories breathing deep and long With stress and urgence bold of prisoned spring And ecstasy burgeoning." This poem is remarkable, too, for its presentation of Lanier's conception of the poetic office. The poet should be a prophet and leader, arousing mankind to all noble truth and action:-- "Look, out of line one tall corn-captain stands Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands, And waves his blades upon the very edge And hottest thicket of the battling hedge. Thou lustrous stalk, that ne'er mayst walk nor talk, Still shalt thou type the poet-soul sublime That leads the vanward of his timid time, And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme-- Soul calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow By double increment, above, below; Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like thee, Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry That moves in gentle curves of courtesy; Soul filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense. By every godlike sense Transmuted from the four wild elements." For a time Lanier had difficulty in finding a publisher. He made a visit to New York, but met only with rebuffs. But upheld, like Wordsworth, by a strong consciousness of the excellence of his work, he did not lose his cheerful hope and courage. "The more I am thrown against these people here, and the more reverses I suffer at their hands, the more confident I am of beating them finally. I do not mean by 'beating' that I am in opposition to them, or that I hate them or feel aggrieved with them; no, they know no better and they act up to their light with wonderful energy and consistency. I only mean that I am sure of being able, some day, to teach them better things and nobler modes of thought and conduct." _Corn_ finally appeared in _Lippincott's Magazine_ for February, 1875. From this time poetry became a larger part of Lanier's life. His poetic genius had attained to fullness of power. He gave freer rein to imagination and thought and expression. Speaking of _Special Pleading_, which was written in 1875, he says: "In this little song, I have begun to dare to give myself some freedom in my own peculiar style, and have allowed myself to treat words, similes, and meters with such freedom as I desired. The result convinces me that I can do so now safely." In the next two or three years he produced such notable poems as _The Song of the Chattahoochee_, _The Symphony_, _The Revenge of Hamish_, _Clover_, _The Bee_, and _The Waving of the Corn_. They slowly gained recognition, and brought him the fellowship and encouragement of not a few literary people of distinction, among whom Bayard Taylor and Edmund Clarence Stedman deserve especial mention. Perhaps none of Lanier's poems has been more popular than _The Song of the Chattahoochee_. It does not reach the poetic heights of a few of his other poems, but it is perfectly clear, and has a pleasant lilting movement. Moreover, it teaches the important truth that we are to be dumb to the siren voices of ease and pleasure when the stern voice of duty calls. The concluding stanza is as follows:-- "But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall, Shall hinder the rain from attaining the plain, For downward the voices of duty call-- Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn, And a thousand meadows mortally yearn, And the final main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, And calls through the valleys of Hall." In 1876, upon the recommendation of Bayard Taylor, Lanier was invited to write the centennial _Cantata_. As a poem, not much can be said in its favor. Its thought and form fall far below its ambitious conception, in which Columbia presents a meditation on the completed century of our country's history. On its publication it was subject to a good deal of unfavorable criticism; but through it all, though it must have been a bitter disappointment, the poet never lost his faith in his genius and destiny. "The artist shall put forth, humbly and lovingly," he wrote to his father, "and without bitterness against opposition, the very best and highest that is within him, utterly regardless of contemporary criticism. What possible claim can contemporary criticism set up to respect--that criticism which crucified Jesus Christ, stoned Stephen, hooted Paul for a madman, tried Luther for a criminal, tortured Galileo, bound Columbus in chains, and drove Dante into a hell of exile?" The need of a regular income became more and more a necessity. "My head and my heart," he wrote, "are both so full of poems, which the dreadful struggle for bread does not give me time to put on paper, that I am often driven to headache and heartache purely for want of an hour or two to hold a pen." He sought various positions--a clerkship in Washington, an assistant's place in the Peabody Library, a consulship in the south of France--all in vain. He lectured to parlor classes in literature--an enterprise from which he seems to have derived more fame than money. Finally, in 1879, he was appointed to a lectureship in English literature in Johns Hopkins University, from which dates the final period of his literary activity and of his life. The first fruits of this appointment were a series of lectures on metrical forms, which appeared, in 1880, in a volume entitled _The Science of English Verse_. It is an original and suggestive work, in which, however, the author's predilections for music carry him too far. He has done well to emphasize the time element in English versification; but his attempt to reduce all forms of verse to a musical notation can hardly be regarded as successful. His work, though comprehensive in scope, was not intended to impose a new set of laws upon the poet. "For the artist in verse," he says in his brief concluding chapter, "there is no law: the perception and love of beauty constitute the whole outfit; and what is herein set forth is to be taken merely as enlarging that perception and exalting that love. In all cases, the appeal is to the ear; but the ear should, for that purpose, be educated up to the highest possible plane of culture." A second series of lectures, composed and delivered when the anguish of mortal illness was upon him, was subsequently published under the title, _The English Novel_. Its aim was to trace the development of personality in literature. It contains much suggestive and sound criticism. He did not share the fear entertained by some of his contemporaries, that science would gradually abolish poetry. Many of the finest poems in our language, as he pointed out, have been written while the wonderful discoveries of recent science were being made. "Now," he continues, "if we examine the course and progress of this poetry, born thus within the very grasp and maw of this terrible science, it seems to me that we find--as to the _substance_ of poetry--a steadily increasing confidence and joy in the mission of the poet, in the sacredness of faith and love and duty and friendship and marriage, and the sovereign fact of man's personality, while as to the _form_ of the poetry, we find that just as science has pruned our faith (to make it more faithful), so it has pruned our poetic form and technic, cutting away much unproductive wood and effloresence, and creating finer reserves and richer yields." Among novelists he assigns the highest place to George Eliot, who "shows man what he maybe in terms of what he is." There are two poems of this closing period that exhibit Lanier's characteristic manner at its best. They are the high-water mark of his poetic achievement. They exemplify his musical theories of meter. They show the trend forced upon him by his innate love of music; and though he might have written much more, if his life had been prolonged, it is doubtful whether he would have produced anything finer. Any further effort at musical effects would probably have resulted in a kind of ecstatic rhapsody. The first of the poems in question is the _Marshes of Glynn_, descriptive of the sea marshes near the city of Brunswick, Georgia. "Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free-- Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge, and good out of infinite pain, And sight out of blindness, and purity out of a stain." The other poem of his closing period, _Sunrise_, his greatest production, was written during the high fever of his last illness. In the poet's collected works, it is placed first in the series called _Hymns of the Marshes_. At times it almost reaches the point of ecstasy. His love of Nature finds supreme utterance. "In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep; Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep, Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting, Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, Came to the gates of sleep. Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling: The gates of sleep fell a-trembling Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter _yes_, Shaken with happiness: The gates of sleep stood wide. * * * * * "Oh, what if a sound should be made! Oh, what if a bound should be laid To this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence a-spring,-- To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string! I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam Will break as a bubble o'erblown in a dream,-- Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night, Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light, Oversated with beauty and silence, will seem But a bubble that broke in a dream, If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, Or a sound or a motion made." Throughout his artistic life Lanier was true to the loftiest ideals. He did not separate artistic from moral beauty. To his sensitive spirit, the beauty of holiness and the holiness of beauty seemed interchangeable terms. He did not make the shallow cry of "art for art's sake" a pretext or excuse for moral taint. On the contrary, he maintained that all art should be the embodiment of truth, goodness, love. "Can not one say with authority," he inquires in one of his university lectures, "to the young artist, whether working in stone, in color, in tones, or in character- forms of the novel: so far from dreading that your moral purpose will interfere with your beautiful creation, go forward in the clear conviction that, unless you are suffused--soul and body, one might say-- with that moral purpose which finds its largest expression in love--that is, the love of all things in their proper relation--unless you are suffused with this love, do not dare to meddle with beauty; unless you are suffused with beauty, do not dare to meddle with truth; unless you are suffused with truth, do not dare to meddle with goodness. In a word, unless you are suffused with truth, wisdom, goodness, and love, abandon the hope that the ages will accept you as an artist." Through these years of high aspiration and manly endeavor, the poet and musician was waging a losing fight with consumption. He was finally driven to tent life in a high, pure atmosphere as his only hope. He first went to Asheville, North Carolina, and a little later to Lynn. But his efforts to regain his health proved in vain; and on the 7th of September, 1881, the tragic struggle was brought to a close. The time has hardly come to give a final judgment as to Lanier's place in American letters. He certainly deserves a place by the side of the very best poets of the South, and perhaps, as many believe, by the side of the greatest masters of American song. His genius had elements of originality equaled only by Poe. He had the high moral purpose of the artist- prophets; but his efforts after musical effects, as well as his untimely death, prevented the full fruitage of his admirable genius. Many of the poems that he has left us are lacking in spontaneity and artistic finish. Alliterative effects are sometimes obtrusive. His poetic theories, as presented in _The Science of English Verse_, often outstripped his execution. But, after all these abatements are made, it remains true that in a few pieces he has reached a trembling height of poetic and musical rapture that is unsurpassed in the whole range of American poetry. [Illustration: FATHER RYAN.] CHAPTER VI ABRAM J. RYAN The poems of Abram J. Ryan, better known as Father Ryan, are unambitious. The poet modestly wished to call them only verses; and, as he tells us, they "were written at random,--off and on, here, there, anywhere,--just as the mood came, with little of study and less of art, and always in a hurry." His poems do not exhibit a painstaking, polished art. They are largely emotional outpourings of a heart that readily found expression in fluent, melodious lays. The poet-priest understood their character too well to assign them a very high place in the realm of song; yet the wish he expressed, that they might echo from heart to heart, has been fulfilled in no small degree. In _Sentinel Songs_ he says:-- "I sing with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day, In minor keys of my people's woe, But my songs pass away. "To-morrow hears them not-- To-morrow belongs to fame-- My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name. "And yet who knows? Betimes The grandest songs depart, While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart." But few facts are recorded of Father Ryan's life. The memoir and the critique prefixed to the latest edition of his poems but poorly fulfill their design. Besides the absence of detail, there is an evident lack of taste and breadth of view. The poet's ecclesiastical relation is unduly magnified; and the invidious comparisons made and the immoderate laudation expressed are far from agreeable. But we are not left wholly at a loss. With the few recorded facts of his life as guide, the poems of Father Ryan become an interesting and instructive autobiography. He was a spontaneous singer whose inspiration came, not from distant fields of legend, history, science, but from his own experience; and it is not difficult to read there a romance, or rather a tragedy, which imparts a deep pathos to his life. His _interior_ life, as reflected in his poems, is all of good report, in no point clashing with the moral excellence befitting the priestly office. Abram J. Ryan was born in Norfolk, Virginia, August 15, 1839, whither his parents, natives of Ireland, had immigrated not long before. He possessed the quick sensibilities characteristic of the Celtic race; and his love for Ireland is reflected in a stout martial lyric entitled _Erin's Flag:_-- "Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green! The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; What though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown?" When he was seven or eight years old, his parents removed to St. Louis. He is said to have shown great aptitude in acquiring knowledge; and his superior intellectual gifts, associated with an unusual reverence for sacred things, early indicated the priesthood as his future vocation. In the autobiographic poem, _Their Story Runneth Thus_, we have a picture of his youthful character. With a warm heart, he had more than the changefulness of the Celtic temperament. In his boyhood, as throughout his maturity, he was strangely restless. As he says himself:-- "The boy was full of moods. Upon his soul and face the dark and bright Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass Rippling with his bright prattle--and then, hours Would come and go, and never hear a word Fall from his lips, and never see a smile Upon his face. He was so like a cloud With ever-changeful hues." When his preliminary training was ended, he entered the Roman Catholic seminary at Niagara, New York. He was moved to the priesthood by a spirit of deep consecration. The writer of his memoir dwells on the regret with which he severed the ties binding him to home. No doubt he loved and honored his parents. But there was a still stronger attachment, which, broken by his call to the priesthood, filled all his subsequent life with a consecrated sorrow. It was his love for Ethel:-- "A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes That seemed to listen just as if they held The gift of hearing with the power of sight." The two lovers, forgetting the sacredness of true human affection, had, with equal self-abnegation, resolved to give themselves to the church, she as a nun and he as a priest. He has given a touching picture of their last meeting:-- "One night in mid of May their faces met As pure as all the stars that gazed on them. They met to part from themselves and the world. Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed; Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears Fell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each: They were to meet no more. Their hands were clasped To tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars Looked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt, Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. And in the heart of that last parting hour Eternity was beating. And he said: 'We part to go to Calvary and to God-- This is our garden of Gethsemane; And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: Not my will, Father! but Thine be done!'" The Roman Catholic training and faith of Father Ryan exerted a deep influence upon his poetry. His ardent studies in the ancient languages and in scholastic theology naturally withdrew his mind, to a greater or less degree, from intimate communion with Nature. His poetry is principally subjective. Nature enters it only in a subordinate way; its forms and sounds and colors do not inspire in him the rapture found in Hayne and Lanier. He not only treats of Scripture themes, as in _St. Stephen_, _The Masters Voice_, and _A Christmas Chant_, but he also finds subjects, not always happily, in distinctive Roman Catholic dogma. _The Feast of the Assumption_ and _The Last of May_, both in honor of the Virgin Mary, are sufficiently poetic; but _The Feast of the Sacred Heart_ is, in parts, too prosaically literal in its treatment of transubstantiation for any but the most believing and devout of Roman Catholics. On the breaking out of the Civil War, Father Ryan entered the Confederate army as a chaplain, though he sometimes served in the ranks. In 1863 he ministered to the inmates of a prison in New Orleans during an epidemic of smallpox. His martial songs, _The Sword of Robert Lee_, _The Conquered Banner_, and _March of the Deathless Dead_, have been dear to many Southern hearts. He reverenced Lee as a peerless leader. "Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee. "Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully." After four years of brave, bitter sacrifice beneath the Confederate flag, words like the following appealed strongly to the men and women who loved _The Conquered Banner_:-- "Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. "Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must." Father Ryan's devotion to the South was intense. He long refused to accept the results of the war. The wrongs of the so-called Reconstruction period aroused his ardent indignation, and found expression in his song. In _The Land We Love_ he says, with evident reference to those days:-- "Land where the victor's flag waves, Where only the dead are the free! Each link of the chain that enslaves, But binds us to them and to thee." But during the epidemic of yellow fever in 1878, his heart was touched by the splendid generosity of the North; and, surrendering his sectional prejudice and animosity, he wrote _Reunited_:-- "Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountains' height; Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; O Northland! to thy sister land, Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand." After the close of the Civil War, the restless temperament of the poet- priest asserted itself in numerous changes of residence. He was successively in Biloxi, Mississippi, Knoxville, Tennessee, and Augusta, Georgia. In the latter place he published for some three years the _Banner of the South_, a periodical that exerted no small influence on the thought of the state. In 1870 he became pastor of St. Mary's church in Mobile. Two years later he made a trip to Europe, of which we find interesting reminiscences in his poems. His visit to Rome was the realization of a long-cherished desire. He was honored with an audience by Pope Pius IX, of whom he has given a graphic sketch:-- "I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief Who fears nor human rage, nor human guile; Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, But in that grief the starlight of a smile. Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell; A low voice--strangely sweet--whose very tone Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone." In Milan he was seriously ill. In his poem, _After Sickness_, we find an expression of his world-weariness and his longing for death:-- "I nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever and no more; I think I heard the awful hinges grate, Hour after hour, while I did weary wait Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain: The door half opened and then closed again." As a priest Father Ryan was faithful to his duties. But whether ministering at the altar or making the rounds of his parish, his spirit frequently found utterance in song. In 1880 he published a volume of poems, to which only a few additions were subsequently made. The keynote of his poetry is struck in the opening piece, _Song of the Mystic_. He dwelt much in the "Valley of Silence." "Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer." The prevailing tone of Father Ryan's poems is one of sadness. His harp rarely vibrated to cheerful strains. What was the cause of this sadness? It may have been his keen sense of the tragic side of human life; it may have been the enduring anguish that came from the crucified love of his youth. The poet himself refused to tell. In _Lines--1875_, he says:-- "Go list to the voices of air, earth, and sea, And the voices that sound in the sky; Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. They sigh--sigh forever--but never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I." Yet, in spite of the prevailing tone of sorrow and weariness, Father Ryan was no pessimist. He held that life has "more of sweet than gall"-- "For every one: no matter who-- Or what their lot--or high or low; All hearts have clouds--but heaven's blue Wraps robes of bright around each woe; And this is truest of the true: "That joy is stronger here than grief, Fills more of life, far more of years, And makes the reign of sorrow brief; Gives more of smiles for less of tears. Joy is life's tree--grief but its leaves." Father Ryan conceived of the poet's office as something seerlike or prophetic. With him, as with all great poets, the message counted for more than do rhythm and rhyme. Divorced from truth, art seemed to him but a skeleton masque. He preferred those melodies that rise on the wings of thought, and come to human hearts with an inspiration of faith and hope. He regarded genuine poets as the high priests of Nature. Their sensitive spirits, holding themselves aloof from common things, habitually dwell upon the deeper mysteries of life in something of a morbid loneliness. In _Poets_ he says:-- "They are all dreamers; in the day and night Ever across their souls The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright In mystic rhythm rolls. "They live within themselves--they may not tell What lieth deepest there; Within their breast a heaven or a hell, Joy or tormenting care. "They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, No matter what they seem; The stars and sunlight of their nights and days Move over them in dream." With Wordsworth, or rather with the great Apostle to the Gentiles, he held that Nature is but the vesture of God, beneath which may be discerned the divine glory and love. The visible seemed to him but an expression of the invisible. "For God is everywhere--and he doth find In every atom which His hand hath made A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal His name, love, power, to those who kneel In holy faith upon this bright below, And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, To catch the vision of the great beyond." With this view of Nature, it was but natural that its sounds and forms-- its birds and flowers--should inspire devotion. In _St. Mary's_, speaking of the songs and silences of Nature, he says:-- "God comes close to me here-- Back of ev'ry roseleaf there He is hiding--and the air Thrills with calls to holy prayer; Earth grows far, and heaven near. "Every single flower is fraught With the very sweetest dreams, Under clouds or under gleams Changeful ever--yet meseems On each leaf I read God's thought." It can hardly be said that Father Ryan ever reaches far poetic heights. Neither in thought nor expression does he often rise above cultured commonplace. Fine artistic quality is supplanted by a sort of melodious fluency. Yet the form and tone of his poetry, nearly always in one pensive key, make a distinct impression, unlike that of any other American singer. "Religious feeling," it has been well said, "is dominant. The reader seems to be moving about in cathedral glooms, by dimly lighted altars, with sad procession of ghostly penitents and mourners fading into the darkness to the sad music of lamenting choirs. But the light which falls upon the gloom is the light of heaven, and amid tears and sighs, over farewells and crushed happiness, hope sings a vigorous though subdued strain." Having once caught his distinctive note of weary melancholy, we can recognize it among a chorus of a thousand singers. It is to his honor that he has achieved a distinctive place in American poetry. His poetic craftsmanship is far from perfect. His artistic sense did not aspire to exquisite achievements. He delighted unduly in alliteration, assonance, and rhyming effects, all which he sometimes carried to excess. In the first stanza, for example, of _The Conquered Banner_, popular as it is, the rhyme effect seems somewhat overdone:-- "Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to _wave it_, And there's not a sword to _save it_, And there's not one left to _lave it_ In the blood which heroes _gave it_; And its foes now scorn and _brave it_; Furl it, hide it--let it rest." Here and there, too, are unmistakable echoes of Poe, as in the following stanza from _At Last:_-- "Into a temple vast and dim, _Solemn and vast and dim_, Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn Was floating far away, With eyes that tabernacled tears-- _Her heart the home of tears_-- And cheeks wan with the woes of years, A woman went one day." But in spite of these obvious defects, Father Ryan has been for years the most popular of Southern poets. His poems have passed through many editions, and there is still a large demand for them. They have something that outweighs their faults, and appeals strongly to the popular mind and heart. What is it? Perhaps it is impossible to answer this question fully. But in addition to the merits already pointed out, the work of Father Ryan is for the most part simple, spontaneous, and clear. It generally consists of brief lyrics devoted to the expression of a single mood or reflection. There is nothing in thought or style beyond the ready comprehension of the average reader. It does not require, as does the poetry of Browning, repeated and careful reading to render its meaning clear. It does not offend sensible people with its empty, overdone refinement. From beginning to end Father Ryan's poetry is a transparent casket, into which he has poured the richest treasures of a deeply sorrowing but noble Christian spirit. Again, the pensive, moral tone of his poetry renders it attractive to many persons. He gives expression to the sad, reflective moods that are apt, especially in time of suffering or disappointment, to come to most of us. The moral sense of the American people is strong; and sometimes a comforting though commonplace truth from Nature is more pleasing than the most exquisite but superficial description of her beauties. How many have found solace in poems like _A Thought:_-- "The waving rose, with every breath Scents carelessly the summer air; The wounded rose bleeds forth in death A sweetness far more rich and rare. "It is a truth beyond our ken-- And yet a truth that all may read-- It is with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. "The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase." Then again, the poet-priest, as was becoming his character, deals with the mysteries of life. Much of our recent poetry is as trifling in theme as it is polished in workmanship. But Father Ryan habitually brings before us the profounder and sadder aspects of life. The truths of religion, the vicissitudes of human destiny, the tragedy of death--these are the themes in which he finds his inspiration, and to which we all turn in our most serious moments. And though the strain in which he sings is attuned to tears, it is still illumined by a strength-giving faith and hope. When we feel weighed down with a sense of pitiless law, when fate seems to cross our holiest aspirations with a ruthless hand, he bids us be of good cheer. "There is no fate--God's love Is law beneath each law, And law all laws above Fore'er, without a flaw." In 1883 Father Ryan, whose reputation had been established by his volume of poems, undertook a lecturing tour through the North in the interest of some charitable enterprise. At his best he was an eloquent speaker. But during the later years of his life impaired health interfered with prolonged mental effort. His mission had only a moderate degree of success. His sense of weariness deepened, and his eyes turned longingly to the life to come. In one of his later productions he said:-- "My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed-- And I desire, what I have long desired-- Rest--only rest. * * * * * "And so I cry a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed; And so I sigh a weak and human sigh For rest--for rest." At length, April 22, 1886, in a Franciscan monastery at Louisville, came the rest for which he had prayed. And in that higher life to which he passed, we may believe that he was welcomed by her to whom in youth he had given the tender name of Ullainee, and for whom, through all the years of a great sacrifice, his faithful heart had yearned with an inextinguishable human longing. ILLUSTRATIVE SELECTIONS WITH NOTES SELECTION FROM FRANCIS SCOTT KEY THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER [1] O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts [2] we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, [3] What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? [4] Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--_"In God is our trust:"_ And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. [Footnote 1: For a brief statement of the circumstances that gave rise to the poem, see sketch of Key, page 12.] [Footnote 2: Fort McHenry, on the north bank of the Patapsco, below Baltimore, was attacked by the British fleet, September 13, 1814.] [Footnote 3: The attack being unsuccessful, the British became disheartened and withdrew.] [Footnote 4: Before the attack upon Baltimore, the British had taken Washington and burned the capitol and other public buildings. With this poem may be compared other martial lyrics, such as Hopkinson's _Hail Columbia_, Mrs. Howe's _Battle Hymn of the Republic_, Campbell's _Ye Mariners of England_ and _Battle of the Baltic_, Tennyson's _Charge of the Light Brigade_, etc.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM RICHARD HENRY WILDE STANZAS [1] My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground--to die![2] Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see-- But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray: Its hold is frail--its date is brief, Restless--and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree-- But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's [3] desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea-- But none, alas! shall mourn for me! A FAREWELL TO AMERICA [4] Farewell, my more than fatherland![5] Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you! How often, o'er the waters blue, Send back a sigh to those I leave, The loving and beloved few, Who grieve for me,--for whom I grieve! We part!--no matter how we part, There are some thoughts we utter not, Deep treasured in our inmost heart, Never revealed, and ne'er forgot! Why murmur at the common lot? We part!--I speak not of the pain,-- But when shall I each lovely spot, And each loved face behold again? It must be months,--it may be years,--[6] It may--but no!--I will not fill Fond hearts with gloom,--fond eyes with tears, "Curious to shape uncertain ill." Though humble,--few and far,--yet, still Those hearts and eyes are ever dear; Theirs is the love no time can chill, The truth no chance or change can sear! All I have seen, and all I see, Only endears them more and more; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er! Farewell, my more than native shore! I do not seek or hope to find, Roam where I will, what I deplore To leave with them and thee behind! [Footnote 1: See sketch of Wilde, page 13. This song was translated into Greek by Anthony Barclay and announced as a newly discovered ode by Alcaeus. The trick, however, was soon detected by scholars, and the author of the poem received a due meed of praise.] [Footnote 2: The brevity of life has been a favorite theme of poets ever since Job (vii. 6) declared, "Our days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle."] [Footnote 3: The reference seems to be to the shore about the Bay of Tampa on the west coast of Florida.] [Footnote 4: See page 13.] [Footnote 5: It will be remembered that the poet was a native of Ireland.] [Footnote 6: The years 1834-1840 were spent in Europe, chiefly in Italy. Compare with this Byron's farewell to England, in Canto I of _Childe Harold_.] * * * * * SELECTION FROM GEORGE D. PRENTICE THE CLOSING YEAR [1] 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling,--'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand-- Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks--and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,-- And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man,--and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield Flashed in the light of midday--and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!--what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag--but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,--cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,--fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,--mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,--new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations,--and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away [2] To darkle in the trackless void,--yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. [Footnote 1: See sketch of Prentice, page 14. The flight of time is another favorite theme with poets. _The Closing Year_ should be compared with Bryant's _The Flood of Years_; similar in theme, the two poems have much in common. The closing lines of Bryant's poem express a sweet faith that relieves the somber tone of the preceding reflections:-- "In the room Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change That waits on growth and action shall proceed With everlasting Concord hand in hand."] [Footnote 2. This is a reference to the belief that one of the seven stars originally supposed to form the Pleiades has disappeared. Such a phenomenon is not unknown; modern astronomers record several such disappearances. See Simms's _The Lost Pleiad_, following.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS THE LOST PLEIAD [1] Not in the sky, Where it was seen So long in eminence of light serene,-- Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery,-- Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep! Gone! gone! Oh! nevermore, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it again appear, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep! The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, He wonders why her beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze,-- And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways! How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful vault!--how lingers, in the hope that night May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight! [2] And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: How should they dream, until her fate was known, That they were ever confiscate to death? [3] That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, That they should fall from high; Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone![4] Ah! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; The sister stars, lamenting in their pain That one of the selected ones must die,-- Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny. Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. The hope most precious is the soonest lost, The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. Are not all short-lived things the loveliest? And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest, as they fly From the lone sphere they blest! THE SWAMP FOX [5] We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton [6] rides, We burrow in the cypress tree. The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer's den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men. We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe.[7] And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing saber blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies. Free bridle bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee [8] at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,-- The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,-- And we are Marion's men, you see. Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last, perhaps, that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste. He whistles to the scouts, and hark! You hear his order calm and low. Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go. We may not see their forms again, God help 'em, should they find the strife! For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. Now stir the fire and lie at ease,-- The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel [9] bend his knees, To take his slumbers too. But hush! He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray. Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that's there; I love not it should idly stand When Marion's men have need of cheer. 'Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught. Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed. The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter [10] crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank. What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep! But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight. We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we. The Tory camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men. [Footnote 1: See note above. There is a peculiar fitness in the reference to the sea in this poem; for the constellation of the Pleiades was named by the Greeks from their word _plein_, to sail, because the Mediterranean was navigable with safety during the months these stars were visible.] [Footnote 2: The poet seems to associate the Chaldean shepherd with the Magi, who, as astrologers, observed the stars with profound interest. The hope expressed for the return of the star cannot be regarded, in the light of modern astronomy, as entirely fanciful. Only recently a new star has flamed forth in the constellation Perseus.] [Footnote 3: The fixed stars, continually giving forth immeasurable quantities of heat, are in a process of cooling. Sooner or later they will become dark bodies. Astronomers tell us that there is reason to believe that the dark bodies or burned-out suns of the universe are more numerous than the bright ones, though the number of the latter exceeds 125 millions. The existence of such dark bodies has been established beyond a reasonable doubt.] [Footnote 4: A reference to the old belief that the stars make music in their courses. In Job (xxxviii. 7) we read: "When the morning stars sang together." According to the Platonic philosophy, this music of the spheres, too faint for mortal ears, was heard only by the gods. Shakespeare has given beautiful expression to this belief:-- "There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." --_Merchant of Venice_, Act V., Sc. 1.] [Footnote 5: See sketch of Simms, page 16. This poem is found in _The Partisan_, the first of three novels descriptive of the Revolution. Read a biographical sketch of General Francis Marion (1732-1795), whose shrewdness in attack and escape earned for him the _sobriquet_ "Swamp Fox."] [Footnote 6: Sir Banastre Tarleton (1754-1833) was a lieutenant colonel in the army of Cornwallis. He was a brilliant and successful officer, but was defeated by General Morgan in the battle of Cowpens in 1781.] [Footnote 7: "Sumter, Marion, and other South Carolina leaders found places of refuge in the great swamps which are found in parts of the state; and from these they kept up an active warfare with the British. Their desperate battles, night marches, surprises, and hairbreadth escapes make this the most exciting and interesting period of the Revolution."--Johnston's _History of the United States_.] [Footnote 8: Marion's principal field of operations lay between the Santee and Pedee rivers.] [Footnote 9: Marion held the rank of captain at the outbreak of the Revolution, and was made lieutenant colonel for gallant conduct in the defence of Fort Moultrie, June 28, 1776. Later he was made general.] [Footnote 10: A water tortoise or snapping turtle.] Compare Bryant's _Song of Marion's Men_. * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM EDWARD COATE PINKNEY A HEALTH [1] I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her,[2] The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. [3] SONG We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draught, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory. But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain; And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds,[4] Or that soft chain of spoken flowers and airy gems,--thy words. VOTIVE SONG I burn no incense, hang no wreath, On this thine early tomb: Such can not cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, When offered to the dead. And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense to feed On fragrance, near its urn,-- It is enough that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And fall these heavy tears. [Footnote 1: See sketch of Pinkney, page 18. The flowing or lilting melody of this and the following songs is quite remarkable. It is traceable to the skillful use of liquid consonants and short vowels, and the avoidance of harsh consonant combinations.] [Footnote 2: The irregularities of this stanza are remarkable. The middle rhyme used in the first and seventh lines of the other stanzas is here lacking. It seems to have been an oversight on the part of the poet.] [Footnote 3: With this drinking song we may compare the well-known one of Ben Jonson:-- "Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. "I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee."] [Footnote 4: This same simile occurs in a beautiful poem by Amelia C. Welby (1819-1852), a Southern poet of no mean gifts, entitled _Twilight at Sea_:-- "The twilight hours like birds flew by, As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there."] * * * * * SELECTION FROM PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE FLORENCE VANE [1] I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream, and early, Hath come again; I renew, in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain; My hope, and thy derision, Florence Vane. The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,-- That spot--the hues Elysian Of sky and plain-- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. [2] Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. But fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under-- Alas the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain-- To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane. The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane, Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane! [Footnote 1: See sketch of Cooke, page 19. In the preface to the volume from which this poem is taken, the author tells us that _Florence Vane and Rosalie Lee_, another brief lyric, had "met with more favor than I could ever perceive their just claim to." Hence he was kept from "venturing upon the correction of some faults." _Rosalie Lee_ is more than usually defective in meter and rhyme, but Florence Vane cannot easily be improved.] [Footnote 2: "My meaning, I suppose," the poet wrote an inquiring friend, "was that Florence did not want the capacity to love, but directed her love to no object. Her passions went flowing like a lost river. Byron has a kindred idea expressed by the same figure. Perhaps his verses were in my mind when I wrote my own:-- 'She was the ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.'--_The Dream_. But no verse ought to require to be interpreted, and if I were composing Florence Vane now, I would avoid the over concentrated expression in the two lines, and make the idea clearer."--_Southern Literary Messenger_, 1850, p. 370.] * * * * * SELECTION FROM THEODORE O'HARA THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD [1] The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo: No more op Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighboring troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. [2] Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; [3] And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. 'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, [4] And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, [5] And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; [6] The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. [Footnote 1: See sketch of O'Hara, page 21, for the occasion of this poem.] [Footnote 2: The American force numbered 4769 men; the Mexican force under Santa Anna, 21,000. The latter was confident of victory, and sent a flag of truce to demand surrender. "You are surrounded by 20,000 men," wrote the Mexican general, "and cannot, in any human probability, avoid suffering a rout, and being cut to pieces with your troops." Gen. Taylor replied, "I beg leave to say that I decline acceding to your request."] [Footnote 3: The battle raged for ten hours with varying success. There was great determination on both sides, as is shown by the heavy losses. The Americans lost 267 killed and 456 wounded; Santa Anna stated his loss at 1500, which was probably an underestimate. He left 500 dead on the field. The battle was a decisive one, and left northeastern Mexico in the hands of the Americans.] [Footnote 4: The reference is to Zachary Taylor, who was in command of the American forces. Though born in Virginia, he was brought up in Kentucky, and won his first laurels in command of Kentuckians in the War of 1812, during which he was engaged in fighting the Indian allies of Great Britain. His victory at Buena Vista aroused great enthusiasm in the United States, and more than any other event led to his election as President.] [Footnote 5: The plateau on which the battle was fought, so called from the mountain pass of Angostura (the narrows) leading to it from the South.] [Footnote 6: Kentucky is here beautifully likened to a Spartan mother who was accustomed to say, as she handed a shield to her son departing for war, "Come back with this or upon this."] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY [1] The knightliest of the knightly race That, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band That, rarely hating ease, Yet rode with Spotswood [2] round the land, With Raleigh round the seas; Who climbed the blue Virginian hills Against embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of happy homes With loveliness and worth. We thought they slept!--the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knights Their Old Dominion [3] keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground. But not a knight asleep. LITTLE GIFFEN [4] Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle [5] and _he_ sixteen!) Specter! such as you seldom see, Little Giffen, of Tennessee! "Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said; Little the doctor can help the dead! So we took him; and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed,-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head! And we watched the war with abated breath,-- Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such? Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die, And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite The crippled skeleton "learned to write." "Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then "Dear captain," inquiring about the men. Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive." Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnston pressed at the front, they say. Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.--He did not write. [6] I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, [7] With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee. [Footnote 1: See sketch of Ticknor, page 22, for the occasion of this poem. In this poem the exact meaning and sequence of thought do not appear till after repeated readings.] [Footnote 2: Alexander Spotswood (1676-1740) was governor of Virginia 1710-1723. He led an exploring expedition across the Blue Ridge and took possession of the Valley of Virginia "in the name of his Majesty King George of England." On his return to Williamsburg he presented to each of his companions a miniature golden horseshoe to be worn upon the breast. Those who took part in the expedition, which was then regarded as a formidable undertaking, were subsequently known as the "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe."] [Footnote 3: "The Old Dominion" is a popular name for Virginia. Its origin may be traced to acts of Parliament, in which it is designated as "the colony and dominion of Virginia." In his _History of Virginia_ (1629) Captain John Smith calls this colony and dominion _Old Virginia_ in contradistinction to _New England_.] [Footnote 4: See page 23. Of this poem Maurice Thompson said: "If there is a finer lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I should be glad to read it."] [Footnote 5: Probably the battle of Murfreesboro, which opened December 31, 1862, and lasted three days. Union loss 14,000; Confederate, 11,000.] [Footnote 6: He was killed in some battle near Atlanta early in 1864.] [Footnote 7: A reference to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.] With this poem should be compared Browning's _Incident of the French Camp_. * * * * * SELECTION FROM JOHN R. THOMPSON MUSIC IN CAMP [1] Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock's waters [2] Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters. The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure. The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river. And now, where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted. When on the fervid air there came A strain--now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor. A Federal band, which, eve and morn, Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up, with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal. Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," And one was gray with "Rebels." Then all was still, and then the band, With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with "Dixie." The conscious stream with burnished glow Went proudly o'er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels. Again a pause, and then again The trumpets pealed sonorous, And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain To which the shore gave chorus. The laughing ripple shoreward flew, To kiss the shining pebbles; Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels. And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet. The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels. No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling. Or Blue or Gray the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie. Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him. As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together. And memory, waked by music's art, Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, Made light the Rebel's slumbers. And fair the form of music shines, That bright celestial creature, Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, Gave this one touch of Nature. [Footnote 1: See sketch of John R. Thompson, page 23.] [Footnote 2: The incident on which the poem is based may have occurred in 1862 or 1863. In both years the Union and Confederate forces occupied opposite banks of the Rappahannock.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON Grateful acknowledgment is here made to Dr. George J. Preston of Baltimore, for permission to use the two following poems. A NOVEMBER NOCTURNE [1] The autumn air sweeps faint and chill Across the maple-crested hill; And on my ear Falls, tingling clear, A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill. From utmost twig, from scarlet crown Untouched with yet a tinct of brown, Reluctant, slow, As loath to go, The loosened leaves come wavering down; And not a hectic trembler there, In its decadence, doomed to share The fate of all,-- But in its fall Flings something sob-like on the air. No drift or dream of passing bell, Dying afar in twilight dell, Hath any heard, Whose chimes have stirred More yearning pathos of farewell. A silent shiver as of pain, Goes quivering through each sapless vein; And there are moans, Whose undertones Are sad as midnight autumn rain. Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh, No lightest, clinging leaf can die,-- Let him who saith Decay and death Should bring no heart-break, tell me why. Each graveyard gives the answer: there I read _Resurgam_[2] everywhere, So easy said Above the dead-- So weak to anodyne despair. CALLING THE ANGELS IN We mean to do it. Some day, some day, We mean to slacken this feverish rush That is wearing our very souls away, And grant to our hearts a hush That is only enough to let them hear The footsteps of angels drawing near. We mean to do it. Oh, never doubt, When the burden of daytime broil is o'er, We'll sit and muse while the stars come out, As the patriarchs sat in the door [3] Of their tents with a heavenward-gazing eye, To watch for angels passing by. We've seen them afar at high noontide, When fiercely the world's hot flashings beat; Yet never have bidden them turn aside, To tarry in converse sweet; Nor prayed them to hallow the cheer we spread, To drink of our wine and break our bread. We promise our hearts that when the stress Of the life work reaches the longed-for close, When the weight that we groan with hinders less, We'll welcome such calm repose As banishes care's disturbing din, And then--we'll call the angels in. The day that we dreamed of comes at length, When tired of every mocking guest, And broken in spirit and shorn of strength, We drop at the door of rest, And wait and watch as the day wanes on-- But the angels we meant to call are gone! [Footnote 1: See sketch of Mrs. Preston, page 25. This and the following poem are good examples of her poetic art, and exhibit, at the same time, her reflective religious temperament.] [Footnote 2: _Resurgam_ (Latin), I shall rise again.] [Footnote 3: "And Abraham sat in the tent door in the heat of the day; and he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground, and said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant."--_Genesis_ xviii. 1-3.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM EDGAR ALLAN POE TO HELEN [1] Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean [2] barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.[3] Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, [4] from the regions which Are Holy Land! [5] ANNABEL LEE [6] It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, [7] 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.[8] 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 kinsmen [9] came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher 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 [10] Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. THE HAUNTED PALACE [11] In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace-- Radiant palace--reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow (This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago), And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting, Porphyrogene, In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travelers now within that valley Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh--but smile no more. THE CONQUEROR WORM [12] Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theater to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly; Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their condor wings Invisible woe. That motley drama--oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot; And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude: A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes--it writhes!--with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out--out are the lights--out all! And over each quivering form The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. THE RAVEN [13] 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 muttered, "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 for evermore. 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: This 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 the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 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 somewhat 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 ebony 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 farther 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 Followed fast and followed 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 lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls 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 this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said 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!" said 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; [14] And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;[15] And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! For a general introduction to the selections from Poe, the biographical and critical sketch in Chap. II should be read. [Footnote 1: This was Mrs. Helen Stannard, the mother of one of Poe's schoolmates in Richmond. Her kind and gracious manner made a deep impression on his boyish heart, and soothed his passionate, turbulent nature. In after years this poem was inspired, as the poet tells us, by the memory of "the one idolatrous and purely ideal love" of his restless youth.] [Footnote 2: The reference seems to be to the ancient Ligurian town of Nicaea, now Nice, in France. The "perfumed sea" would then be the Ligurian sea. But one half suspects that it was the scholarly and musical sound of the word, rather than any aptness of classical reference, that led to the use of the word "Nicaean."] [Footnote 3: This appears to be Poe's indefinite and poetic way of saying that the lady's beauty and grace brought him an uplifting sense of happiness. After seeing her the first time, "He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life--to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with the oppression of a new joy."--Ingram's _Edgar Allan Poe_, Vol. I, p. 32.] [Footnote 4: Psyche was represented as so exquisitely beautiful that mortals did not dare to love, but only to worship her. The poet could pay no higher tribute to "Helen."] [Footnote 5: This little poem--very beautiful in itself--illustrates Poe's characteristics as a poet: it is indefinite, musical, and intense.] [Footnote 6: This poem is a tribute to his wife, to whom his beautiful devotion has already been spoken of. "I believe," says Mrs. Osgood, "she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is evidenced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called 'Annabel Lee,' of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural, simple, tender, and touchingly beautiful of all his songs."] [Footnote 7: This is Poe's poetic designation of America.] [Footnote 8: "Virginia Clemm, born on the 13th of August, 1822, was still a child when her handsome cousin Edgar revisited Baltimore after his escapade at West Point. A more than cousinly affection, which gradually grew in intensity, resulted from their frequent communion, and ultimately, whilst one, at least, of the two cousins was but a child, they were married."--Ingram's _Edgar Allan Poe_, Vol. I, p. 136.] [Footnote 9: These were the angels, to whom "Annabel Lee" was akin in sweet, gentle character. "A lady angelically beautiful in person, and not less beautiful in spirit."--Captain Mayne Reid.] [Footnote 10: This may be literally true. At all events, it is related that he visited the tomb of "Helen"; and "when the autumnal rains fell, and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully."] [Footnote 11: This admirable poem is an allegory. The "stately palace" is a man who after a time loses his reason. With this fact in mind, the poem becomes quite clear. The "banners yellow, glorious, golden" is the hair; the "luminous windows" are the eyes; the "ruler of the realm" is reason; "the fair palace door" is the mouth; and the "evil things" are the madman's fantasies. The poem is found in _The Fall of the House of Usher_. Poe claimed that Longfellow's _Beleaguered City_ was an imitation of _The Haunted Palace_. The former should be read in connection with the latter. Though some resemblance may be discerned, Longfellow must be acquitted of Poe's charge of plagiarism.] [Footnote 12: This terrible lyric is also an allegory. The "theater" is the world, and the "play" human life. The "mimes" are men, created in the image of God, and are represented as the "mere puppets" of circumstance. The "Phantom chased for evermore" is happiness; but for all, the end is death and the grave.] [Footnote 13: This poem was first published in the New York _Evening Mirror_, January 29, 1845. "In our opinion," wrote the editor, N. P. Willis, "it is the most effective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift." The story of _The Raven_ is given in prose by Poe in his _Philosophy of Composition_, which contains the best analysis of its structure: "A raven, having learned by rote the single word, 'Nevermore,' and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams,--the chamber window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed answers with its customary word, 'Nevermore'--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of 'Nevermore.' The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer, 'Nevermore.'"] [Footnote 14: As Poe explains, the raven is "emblematical of mournful and never-ending remembrance."] [Footnote 15: From the position of the bird it has been held that the shadow could not possibly fall upon the floor. But the author says: "_My_ conception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the English palaces, and even in some of the better houses in New York."] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE For their generous permission to use _Aëthra, Under the Pines, Cloud Pictures_, and _Lyric of Action_, the grateful acknowledgments of the editor are due to The Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston, who hold the copyright. THE WILL AND THE WING [1] To have the will to soar, but not the wings, Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings Flash down the splendors of imperial light; And yet to lack the charm [2] that makes them ours, The obedient vassals of that conquering spell, Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell; This is the doom of Tantalus [3]--the thirst For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst In hopeless promptings--unfulfilled desires. Yet would I rather in the outward state Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, A beggar basking by that radiant gate, [4] Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown! For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise Beyond the veil [5] that guards the inmost shrine. MY STUDY [6] This is my world! within these narrow walls, I own a princely service;[7] the hot care And tumult of our frenzied life are here But as a ghost and echo; what befalls In the far mart to me is less than naught; I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,[8] And wander by the brink of hoary seas, Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought; Or if a livelier humor should enhance The slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife, The sordid zeal with which our age is rife, Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance, But gleamings of the lost, heroic life, Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance. AËTHRA [9] It is a sweet tradition, with a soul Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!--for all The sacred undercurrents of the heart Thrill to its cordial music: Once a chief, Philantus, king of Sparta, left the stern And bleak defiles of his unfruitful land-- Girt by a band of eager colonists-- To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.[10] Apollo's [11] oracle had darkly spoken: _"Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous shower Outpours, the Fates decree that ye should pause And rear your household deities!"_ Racked by doubt Philantus traversed--with his faithful band Full many a bounteous realm; but still defeat Darkened his banners, and the strong-walled towns His desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn! Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eve The warrior--his rude helmet cast aside-- Rested his weary head upon the lap Of his fair wife, who loved him tenderly; And there he drank a generous draught of sleep. She, gazing on his brow, all worn with toil, And his dark locks, which pain had silvered over With glistening touches of a frosty rime, Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tears Fell on his face, and, wondering, he woke. "O blest art thou, my Aëthra, _my clear sky_." He cried exultant, "from whose pitying blue A heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate: Lo! the deep riddle's solved--the gods spake truth!" So the next night he stormed Tarentum,[12] took The enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrew His mightiest captains. Thence with kindly sway He ruled those pleasant regions he had won,-- But dearer even than his rich demesnes The love of her whose gentle tears unlocked The close-shut mystery of the Oracle! UNDER THE PINE [13] _To the memory of Henry Timrod_ The same majestic pine is lifted high Against the twilight sky, The same low, melancholy music grieves Amid the topmost leaves,[14] As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him, Beneath these shadows dim. O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core Of one who comes no more? No yearning memory of those scenes that were So richly calm and fair, When the last rays of sunset, shimmering down, Flashed like a royal crown? And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze, Looked forth with burning [15] gaze, And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine, Or, hushed in trance divine, Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from far Of evening's virgin star? O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid His weary head; thy shade Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep: It brought a peace _so_ deep The unquiet passion died from out his eyes, As lightning from stilled skies. And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear The soft wind-angels, clear And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing: Voices he heard replying (Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height, And pinions rustling light. O Tree! have not his poet-touch, his dreams So full of heavenly gleams, Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark, And all thy nature dark Stirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fire Of faint, unknown desire? At least to me there sweeps no rugged ring That girds the forest king, No immemorial stain, or awful rent (The mark of tempest spent), No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine-o'ergrown, No distant, flickering cone, But speaks of him, and seems to bring once more The joy, the love of yore; But most when breathed from out the sunset-land The sunset airs are bland, That blow between the twilight and the night, Ere yet the stars are bright; For then that quiet eve comes back to me, When deeply, thrillingly, He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death; And on his mortal breath A language of immortal meanings hung, That fired his heart and tongue. For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh, Murmuring, "Look up! 'tis I: Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!" And through the sacred tree Passes what seems a wild and sentient thrill-- Passes, and all is still!-- Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form, Hushed after many a storm,-- Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow, No pain can wrinkle now,-- Still as the peace--pathetic peace of God-- That wraps the holy sod, Where every flower from our dead minstrel's dust Should bloom, a type of trust,-- That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward might To bear his soul from night,-- That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meet His spirit at God's feet! CLOUD PICTURES [16] Here in these mellow grasses, the whole morn, I love to rest; yonder, the ripening corn Rustles its greenery; and his blithesome horn Windeth the frolic breeze o'er field and dell, Now pealing a bold stave with lusty swell, Now falling to low breaths ineffable Of whispered joyance. At calm length I lie, Fronting the broad blue spaces of the sky, Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by: An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange, Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they range At the wind's will, from marvelous change to change; Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall, Great sloping archway, and majestic wall, Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall! Pagodas vague! above whose towers outstream Banners that wave with motions of a dream-- Rising, or drooping in the noontide gleam; Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt band On famished camels, o'er the desert sand Plodding towards their prophet's Holy Land; Mid-ocean,--and a shoal of whales at play, Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day, Thro' rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray; Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone, Set in swift currents of some arctic zone, Like fragments of a Titan's world o'erthrown; Next, measureless breadths of barren, treeless moor, Whose vaporous verge fades down a glimmering shore, Round which the foam-capped billows toss and roar! Calms of bright water--like a fairy's wiles, Wooing with ripply cadence and soft smiles, The golden shore-slopes of Hesperian Isles; Their inland plains rife with a rare increase Of plumèd grain! and many a snowy fleece Shining athwart the dew-lit hills of peace; Wrecks of gigantic cities--to the tune Of some wise air-god built!--o'er which the noon Seems shuddering; caverns, such as the wan Moon Shows in her desolate bosom; then, a crowd Of awed and reverent faces, palely bowed O'er a dead queen, laid in her ashy shroud-- A queen of eld--her pallid brow impearled By gems barbaric! her strange beauty furled In mystic cerements of the antique world. Weird pictures, fancy-gendered!--one by one, 'Twixt blended beams and shadows, gold and dun, These transient visions vanish in the sun. LYRIC OF ACTION [17] 'Tis the part of a coward to brood O'er the past that is withered and dead: What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled? Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead, Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul, "Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!" If the faults or the crimes of thy youth Are a burden too heavy to bear, What hope can re-bloom on the desolate waste Of a jealous and craven despair? Down, down with the fetters of fear! In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise, With the faith that illumes and the will that defies. "_Too late!_" through God's infinite world, From his throne to life's nethermost fires, "_Too late!_" is a phantom that flies at the dawn Of the soul that repents and aspires. If pure thou hast made thy desires, There's no height the strong wings of immortals may gain Which in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in vain. Then, up to the contest with fate, Unbound by the past, which is dead! What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled? Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead; And sublime as the seraph [18] who rules in the sun Beams the promise of joy when the conflict is won! For a general introduction to the following poems, see Chapter III. The selections are intended to exhibit the poet's various moods and themes. [Footnote 1: This poem, which appeared in the volume of 1855 under the title _Aspirations_, gives expression to a strong literary impulse. It was genuine in sentiment, and its aspiring spirit and forceful utterance gave promise of no ordinary achievement.] [Footnote 2: An act or formula supposed to exert a magical influence or power. "Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands." --Tennyson's _Merlin and Vivien_. Compare the first scene in _Faust_ where the Earth-spirit comes in obedience to a "conquering spell."] [Footnote 3: Tantalus was a character of Greek mythology, who, for divulging the secret counsels of Zeus, was afflicted in the lower world with an insatiable thirst. He stood up to the chin in a lake, the waters of which receded whenever he tried to drink of them.] [Footnote 4: The poet evidently had in mind the lame man who was "laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful."--_Acts_ iii. 2.] [Footnote 5: A reference to the veil that hung before the Most Holy Place, or "inmost shrine," of the temple. Compare _Exodus_ xxvi. 33.] [Footnote 6: This sonnet, which appeared in the volume of 1859, reveals the retiring, meditative temper of the poet. To him quiet reflection was more than action. He loved to dwell in spirit with the good and great of the past. The rude struggles of the market-place for wealth and power were repugnant to his refined and sensitive nature.] [Footnote 7: Something served for the refreshment of a person; here an intellectual feast fit for a prince.] [Footnote 8: Arcady, or Arcadia, is a place of ideal simplicity and contentment; so called from a picturesque district in Greece, which was noted for the simplicity and happiness of its people.] [Footnote 9: This poem will serve to illustrate Hayne's skill in the use of blank verse. It is a piece of rare excellence and beauty. The name of the heroine is pronounced _Ee-thra_.] [Footnote 10: This migration occurred about 708 B.C.] [Footnote 11: Apollo was one of the major deities of Grecian mythology. He was regarded, among other things, as the god of song or minstrelsy, and also as the god of prophetic inspiration. The most celebrated oracle of Apollo was at Delphi.] [Footnote 12: A town in southern Italy, now Taranto. It was in ancient times a place of great commercial importance.] [Footnote 13: For the occasion of this poem, see page 61. The poet had a peculiar fondness for the pine, which in one of his poems he calls-- "My sylvan darling! set 'twixt shade and sheen, Soft as a maid, yet stately as a queen!" It is the subject of a half-dozen poems,--_The Voice of the Pines, Aspect of the Pines, In the Pine Barrens, The Dryad of the Pine, The Pine's Mystery_, and _The Axe and the Pine_,--all of them in his happiest vein.] [Footnote 14: In _The Pine's Mystery_ we read:-- "Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain, Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves For something lost that shall not live again."] [Footnote 15: Hayne's very careful workmanship is rarely at fault; but here there seems to be an infelicitous epithet that amounts to a sort of tautology. "Eyes ablaze" would necessarily "look forth with _burning gaze_."] [Footnote 16: This poem illustrates the poet's method of dealing with Nature. He depicts its beauty as discerned by the artistic imagination. He is less concerned with the messages of Nature than with its lovely forms. This poem, in its felicitous word-painting, reminds us of Tennyson, though it would be difficult to find in the English poet so brilliant a succession of masterly descriptions. With this poem may be compared Hayne's _Cloud Fantasies_, a sonnet that brings before us, with great vividness, the somber appearance of the clouds in autumn. See also _A Phantom in the Clouds_. No other of our poets has dwelt so frequently and so delightfully on the changing aspects of the sky. Compare Shelley's _The Cloud_.] [Footnote 17: It is not often that Hayne assumed the hortatory tone found in this poem. In artistic temperament he was akin to Keats rather than to Longfellow. Even in his didactic poems, he is meditative and descriptive rather than hortatory. The artist in him hardly ever gave place to the preacher.] [Footnote 18: The seraph's name was Uriel, that is, God's Light. In _Revelation_ (xix. 17) we read, "And I saw an angel standing in the sun." Milton calls him-- "The Archangel Uriel--one of the seven Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, Stand ready at command." --_Paradise Lost_, Book III, 648-650.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM HARRY TIMROD TOO LONG, O SPIRIT OF STORM [1] Too long, O Spirit of storm, Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath! I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky, And the moveless sea beneath. Come down in thy strength on the deep! Worse dangers there are in life, When the waves are still, and the skies look fair, Than in their wildest strife. A friend I knew, whose days Were as calm as this sky overhead; But one blue morn that was fairest of all, The heart in his bosom fell dead. And they thought him alive while he walked The streets that he walked in youth-- Ah! little they guessed the seeming man Was a soulless corpse in sooth. Come down in thy strength, O Storm! And lash the deep till it raves! I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves. A CRY TO ARMS [2] Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre,[3] leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade. The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain! Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch. What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm Tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack [4] that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain! Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake! ODE [5] I Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause. II In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone![6] III Meanwhile, behalf [7] the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. IV Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-molded pile [8] Shall overlook this bay. V Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned. FLOWER-LIFE [9] I think that, next to your sweet eyes, And pleasant books, and starry skies, I love the world of flowers; Less for their beauty of a day, Than for the tender things they say, And for a creed I've held alway, That they are sentient powers.[10] It may be matter for a smile-- And I laugh secretly the while I speak the fancy out-- But that they love, and that they woo, And that they often marry too, And do as noisier creatures do, I've not the faintest doubt. And so, I cannot deem it right To take them from the glad sunlight, As I have sometimes dared; Though not without an anxious sigh Lest this should break some gentle tie, Some covenant of friendship, I Had better far have spared. And when, in wild or thoughtless hours, My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers, I ne'er could shut from sight The corpses of the tender things, With other drear imaginings, And little angel-flowers with wings Would haunt me through the night. Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught With sad, and even with painful thought, Nor could you bear to know That such capacities belong To creatures helpless against wrong, At once too weak to fly the strong Or front the feeblest foe? So be it always, then, with you; So be it--whether false or true-- I press my faith on none; If other fancies please you more, The flowers shall blossom as before, Dear as the Sibyl-leaves [11] of yore, But senseless every one. Yet, though I give you no reply, It were not hard to justify My creed to partial ears; But, conscious of the cruel part, My rhymes would flow with faltering art, I could not plead against your heart, Nor reason with your tears. SONNET [12] Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent Thy unperturbing hopes, thou wilt not roam Too far from thine own happy heart and home; Cling to the lowly earth and be content! So shall thy name be dear to many a heart; So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught; The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art. The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower. Always, O bard, humility is power! And thou mayest draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love. SONNET [13] Most men know love but as a part of life;[14] They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife, Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. Ah me! why may not love and life be one?[15] Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible God, might be our guide? How would the marts grow noble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun! THE SUMMER BOWER [16] It is a place whither I have often gone For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool, A beautiful recess in neighboring woods. Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall. Arch it o'erhead and column it around, Framing a covert, natural and wild, Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here A transient and unfrequent visitor; Yet, if the day be calm, not often then, Whilst the high pines in one another's arms Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear Catch the far fall of voices, how remote You know not, and you do not care to know. The turf is soft and green, but not a flower Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright-- I do not know its name--which here and there Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald. A narrow opening in the branchèd roof, A single one, is large enough to show, With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much, The blue air and the blessing of the sky. Thither I always bent my idle steps, When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart, And found the calm I looked for, or returned Strong with the quiet rapture in my soul.[17] But one day, One of those July days when winds have fled One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt, Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end, I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day, Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once No medicinal virtue. Not a leaf Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought, But in a close and humid atmosphere, Every fair plant and implicated bough Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place, Its utter stillness, the unusual heat, And some more secret influence, I thought, Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw, Though not a cloud was visible in heaven, The pallid sky look through a glazèd mist Like a blue eye in death. The change, perhaps, Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight, The weather, and the time explain it all: Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot, And shrined it in these verses for my heart. Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought Not less, and in all shades of various moods; But always shun to desecrate the spot By vain repinings, sickly sentiments, Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though Pure as she was in Eden when her breath Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse, In her own way and with a just reserve, To sympathize with human suffering;[18] But for the pains, the fever, and the fret Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart, She hath no solace; and who seeks her when These be the troubles over which he moans, Reads in her unreplying lineaments Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness, Strike like contempt. For a general introduction to the following selections, see Chapter IV. The poet's verse is perfectly clear. He prefers to "Cling to the lowly and be content." [Footnote 1: This poem, which first appeared in _Russell's Magazine_, exhibits one of Timrod's characteristics: he does not describe Nature for its own sake, as Hayne often does, but for the sake of some truth or lesson in relation to man. The lesson of this poem is that a life of uninterrupted ease and comfort is not favorable to the development of noble character.] [Footnote 2: This selection illustrates the fierce energy of the poet's martial lyrics. Compare _Bannockburn_ by Burns, which Carlyle said "should be sung with the throat of the whirlwind."] [Footnote 3: _Byre_ is a cow-stable.] [Footnote 4: _Rack_, usually _wrack_, signifies ruin or destruction.] [Footnote 5: This lyric, which was sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, in 1867, has been much admired, especially the last stanza.] [Footnote 6: It is interesting to know that this prediction has been fulfilled. A monument of granite now stands above the dead.] [Footnote 7: _Behalf_, instead of _in behalf of_, is a rather hazardous construction.] [Footnote 8: A noble bronze figure of a color bearer on a granite pedestal now commemorates the fallen heroes.] [Footnote 9: This poem first appeared in the _Southern Literary Messenger_ in 1851. The first stanza of this half-playful, half-serious piece, mentions the objects in which the poet most delighted.] [Footnote 10: This belief has been frequently held, and has some support from recent scientific experiments. But that this sentiency goes as far as the poet describes, is of course pure fancy.] [Footnote 11: The sibyls (Sybil is an incorrect form) were, according to ancient mythology, prophetic women. The sibylline leaves or books contained their teachings, and were preserved with the utmost care in Rome. The sibyl of Cumae conducted Aeneas through the under world, as narrated in the sixth book of Virgil's _Aeneid_.] [Footnote 12: This sonnet expresses the poet's creed, to which his practice was confirmed. This fact imparts unusual simplicity to his verse--a simplicity that strikes us all the more at the present time, when an over-refinement of thought and expression is in vogue.] [Footnote 13: This sonnet, on the commonest of all poetic themes, treats of love in a deep, serious way. It is removed as far as possible from the sentimental.] [Footnote 14: This line reminds us of a well-known passage in Byron:-- "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart; 'Tis woman's whole existence. Man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange."] [Footnote 15: This is the divine ideal, the realization of which will bring the true "Golden Age." "God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."--I _John_ iv. 16.] [Footnote 16: This poem first appeared in the _Southern Literary Messenger_ in 1852. It will serve to show Timrod's manner of using blank verse. It will be observed that "a lesson" is again the principal thing.] [Footnote 17: This recalls the closing lines of Longfellow's _Sunrise on the Hills_:-- "If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears."] [Footnote 18: Compare the following lines from Bryant's _Thanatopsis_:-- "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."] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM SIDNEY LANIER SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE [1] Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall,[2] The hurrying rain,[3] to reach the plain, Has run the rapid and leapt the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accepted his bed, or narrow or wide, And fled from folly on every side, With a lover's pain to attain the plain, Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall. All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried, _Abide, abide_; The wilful water weeds held me thrall, The laurel, slow-laving,[4] turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said _stay_, The dewberry dipped for to win delay,[5] And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide_, _Here in the hills of Habersham,_ _Here in the valleys of Hall._ High over the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, _Pass not so cold these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall._ And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Barred[6] me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a metal lay sad, alone, And the diamond, the garnet, the amethyst, And the crystal that prisons a purple mist, Showed lights like my own from each cordial stone[7] In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall. But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall, Shall hinder the rain from attaining the plain,[8] For downward the voices of duty call-- Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn, And a thousand meadows [9] mortally yearn, And the final [10] main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, And calls through the valleys of Hall. THE CRYSTAL [11] At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time, When far within the spirit's hearing rolls The great soft rumble of the course of things-- A bulk of silence in a mask of sound-- When darkness clears our vision that by day Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl For truth, and flitteth here and there about Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft Is minded for to sit upon a bough, Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree And muse in that gaunt place,--'twas then my heart, Deep in the meditative dark, cried out: Ye companies of governor-spirits grave, Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news From steep-walled heavens, holy malcontents, Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all That brood about the skies of poesy, Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars; Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none With total luster blazeth, no, not one But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist Of defect; yea, you masters all must ask Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give, We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet Your largess so with love, and interplight Your geniuses with our mortalities. Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakspere sole,[12] A hundred hurts a day I do forgive ('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee): Small curious quibble; ... Henry's fustian roar Which frights away that sleep he invocates;[13] Wronged Valentine's [14] unnatural haste to yield; Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise-- Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind;[15] Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain. ... Father Homer, thee, Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes Of prose and catalogue,[16] thy drear harangues That tease the patience of the centuries, Thy sleazy scrap of story,--but a rogue's Rape of a light-o'-love,[17]--too soiled a patch To broider with the gods. Thee, Socrates,[18] Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies That were but dandy upside-down,[19] thy words Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had manlier wrought. So, Buddha,[20] beautiful! I pardon thee That all the All thou hadst for needy man Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was But not to be. Worn Dante,[21] I forgive The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed By death, nor time, nor love. And I forgive Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars [22] Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel, Immortals smite immortals mortalwise, And fill all heaven with folly. Also thee, Brave Aeschylus,[23] thee I forgive, for that Thine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked, Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love Stands shining. So, unto thee, Lucretius [24] mine, (For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this That's now complaining?) freely I forgive Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth Whose graves eat souls and all. Yea, all you hearts Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large: Aurelius [25] fine, oft superfine; mild Saint A Kempis,[26] overmild; Epictetus,[27] Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct; Rapt Behmen,[28] rapt too far; high Swedenborg,[29] O'ertoppling; Langley,[30] that with but a touch Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now, And most adorable; Caedmon,[31] in the morn A-calling angels with the cowherd's call That late brought up the cattle; Emerson, Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost Thy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nerves Where men's were better; Tennyson, largest voice Since Milton, yet some register of wit Wanting,--all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked, Your more or less, your little mole that marks Your brother and your kinship seals to man. But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love, O perfect life in perfect labor writ, O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest,-- What _if_ or _yet_, what mole, what flaw, what lapse, What least defect or shadow of defect, What rumor, tattled by an enemy, Of inference loose, what lack of grace Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's,-- Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?[32] SUNRISE [33] In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep; Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep, Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting, Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, Came to the gates of sleep. Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling: The gates of sleep fell a-trembling Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter _yes_, Shaken with happiness: The gates of sleep stood wide. I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide: I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide In your gospeling glooms,[34]--to be As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea. Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-bodied Tree That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. Reason's not one that weeps. What logic of greeting lies Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes? O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye gloss All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss. The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan, So, (But would I could know, but would I could know,) With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man,-- So, with your silences purfling this silence of man While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban, Under the ban,-- So, ye have wrought me Designs on the night of our knowledge,--yea, ye have taught me, So, That haply we know somewhat more than we know. Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,[35] Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me,-- Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet That advise me of more than they bring,--repeat Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath From the heaven-side bank of the river of death,-- Teach me the terms of silence,--preach me The passion of patience,--sift me,--impeach me,-- And there, oh there As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air, Pray me a myriad prayer.[36] My gossip, the owl,--is it thou That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough, As I pass to the beach, art stirred? Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird? Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea, Old chemist, rapt in alchemy, Distilling silence,--lo, That which our father-age had died to know-- The menstruum that dissolves all matter--thou Hast found it: for this silence, filling now The globed clarity of receiving space, This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, disgrace, Death, love, sin, sanity, Must in yon silence' clear solution lie. Too clear! That crystal nothing who'll peruse? The blackest night could bring us brighter news. Yet precious qualities of silence haunt Round these vast margins, ministrant. Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space, With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race Just to be fellowed, when that thou hast found No man with room, or grace enough of bound To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art,-- 'Tis here, 'tis here, thou canst unhand thy heart And breathe it free, and breathe it free, By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. The tide's at full: the marsh with flooded streams Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies Shine scant with one forked galaxy,-- The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast they lie. Oh, what if a sound should be made! Oh, what if a bound should be laid To this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence a-spring,-- To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string! I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam Will break as a bubble o'erblown in a dream,-- Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night, Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light, Oversated with beauty and silence, will seem But a bubble that broke in a dream, If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, Or a sound or a motion made. But no: it is made: list! somewhere,--mystery, where? In the leaves? in the air? In my heart? is a motion made: 'Tis a motion of dawn, like a nicker of shade on shade. In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudinous stirring Upwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly conferring, Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are still; But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill,-- And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river,-- And look where a passionate shiver Expectant is bending the blades Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades,-- And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting, Are beating The dark overhead as my heart beats,--and steady and free Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea-- (Run home, little streams, With your lapfuls of stars and dreams),-- And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak, For list, down the inshore curve of the creek How merrily flutters the sail,-- And lo, in the East! Will the East unveil? The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed A flush: 'tis dead; 'tis alive; 'tis dead, ere the West Was aware of it: nay, 'tis abiding, 'tis withdrawn: Have a care, sweet Heaven! 'Tis Dawn. Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is uprolled: To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling gold Is builded, in shape as a beehive, from out of the sea: The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea.[37] Yet now the dewdrop, now the morning gray, Shall live their little lucid sober day Ere with the sun their souls exhale away. Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew The summ'd morn shines complete as in the blue Big dewdrop of all heaven: with these lit shrines O'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines, The sacramental marsh one pious plain Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, Minded of nought but peace, and of a child. Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure Of motion,--not faster than dateless Olympian leisure [38] Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure,-- The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling, Forever revealing, revealing, revealing, Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise,--'tis done! Good-morrow, lord Sun! With several voice, with ascription one, The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll, Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord Sun. O Artisan born in the purple,--Workman Heat,-- Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meet And be mixed in the death-cold oneness,--innermost Guest At the marriage of elements,--fellow of publicans,--blest King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er The idle skies, yet laborest fast evermore,-- Thou in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat Of the heart of a man, thou Motive,--Laborer Heat: Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea's all news, With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues, Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues, Ever shaming the maidens,--lily and rose Confess thee, and each mild flame that glows In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine, It is thine, it is thine: Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds a-swirl Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl In the magnet earth,--yea, thou with a storm for a heart, Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light, Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright Than the eye of a man may avail of:--manifold One, I must pass from thy face, I must pass from the face of the Sun: Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a-frown; The worker must pass to his work in the terrible town: But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done; I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun: How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run, I am lit with the Sun. Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas Of traffic shall hide thee, Never the hell-colored smoke of the factories Hide thee, Never the reek of the time's fen-politics Hide thee, And ever my heart through the night shall with knowledge abide thee, And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath tried thee, Labor, at leisure, in art,--till yonder beside thee My soul shall float, friend Sun, The day being done. For a general introduction to Lanier's poetry, see Chapter V. [Footnote 1: This poem was first published in _Scott's Magazine_, Atlanta, Georgia, from which it is here taken. It at once became popular, and was copied in many newspapers throughout the South. It was subsequently revised, and the changes, which are pointed out below, are interesting as showing the development of the poet's artistic sense. The singularly rapid and musical lilt of this poem may be readily traced to its sources. It is due to the skillful use of short vowels, liquid consonants, internal rhyme, and constant alliteration. These are matters of technique which Lanier studiously employed throughout his poetry. This poem abounds in seeming irregularities of meter. The fundamental measure is iambic tetrameter, as in the line-- "The rushes cried, _Abide, abide_"; but trochees, dactyls, or anapests are introduced in almost every line, yet without interfering with the time element of the verse. These irregularities were no doubt introduced in order to increase the musical effects.] [Footnote 2: As may be seen by reference to a map, the Chattahoochee rises in Habersham County, in northeastern Georgia, and in its south- westerly course passes through the adjoining county of Hall. Its entire length is about five hundred miles.] [Footnote 3: Changed in the revision to "I hurry amain," with the present tense of the following verbs. The pronoun "his" in line 6 becomes "my."] [Footnote 4: This line was changed to-- "The laving laurel turned my tide."] [Footnote 5: In this line the use of a needless antiquated form may be fairly questioned. In the revised form "win" is changed to "work."] [Footnote 6: "Barred" is changed to "did bar" in the revision--a doubtful gain.] [Footnote 7: The preceding four lines show a decided poetic gain in the revised form:-- "And many a luminous jewel lone-- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet, and amethyst-- Made lures with the lightnings of streaming stone."] [Footnote 8: The revised form, with an awkward pause after the first foot, and also a useless antiquated phrase, reads-- "Avail! I am fain for to water the plain."] [Footnote 9: Changed to "myriad of flowers."] [Footnote 10: "Final" was changed to "lordly" with fine effect. This poem challenges comparison with other pieces of similar theme. It lacks the exquisite workmanship of Tennyson's _The Brook_, with its incomparable onomatopoeic effects:-- "I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles." It should be compared with Hayne's _The River_ and also with his _The Meadow Brook_:-- "Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, Hark! the tiny swell; Of wavelets softly, silverly Toned like a fairy bell, Whose every note, dropped sweetly In mellow glamour round, Echo hath caught and harvested In airy sheaves of sound!" But _The Song of the Chattahoochee_ has what the other poems lack, --a lofty moral purpose. The noble stream consciously resists the allurements of pleasure to heed "the voices of duty," and this spirit imparts to it a greater dignity and weight.] [Footnote 11: This poem appeared in The Independent, July 15, 1880, from which it is taken. It illustrates the intellectual rather than the musical side of Lanier's genius. It is purely didactic, and thought rather than melody guides the poet's pen. The meter is quite regular,--an unusual thing in our author's most characteristic work. It shows Lanier's use of pentameter blank verse,--a use that is somewhat lacking in ease and clearness. The first sentence is longer than that of Paradise Lost, without Milton's unity and force. Such ponderous sentences are all too frequent in Lanier, and as a result he is sometimes obscure. Repeated readings are necessary to take in the full meaning of his best work. This poem, though not bearing the distinctive marks of his genius, is peculiarly interesting for two reasons,--it gives us an insight into his wide range of reading and study, and it exhibits his penetration and sanity as a critic. In the long list of great names he never fails to put his finger on the vulnerable spot. Frequently he is exceedingly felicitous, as when he speaks of "rapt Behmen, rapt too far," or of "Emerson, Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost Thy Self sometimes."] [Footnote 12: It will be remembered that Lanier was a careful student of Shakespeare, on whom he lectured to private classes in Baltimore.] [Footnote 13: See second part of _King Henry IV_, iii. I. The passage which the poet had in mind begins:-- "How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep!"] [Footnote 14: See _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_.] [Footnote 15: These characters are found as follows: Viola in _Twelfth Night_; Julia in _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_; Portia in _The Merchant of Venice_; and Rosalind in _As You Like It_.] [Footnote 16: Referring to the well-known catalogue of ships in the Second Book of the Illiad:-- "My song to fame shall give The chieftains, and enumerate their ships." It is in this passage in particular that Homer is supposed to nod.] [Footnote 17: It will be recalled that Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy, persuaded Helen, the fairest of women and wife of King Menelaus of Greece, to elope with him to Troy. This incident gave rise to the famous Trojan War.] [Footnote 18: Socrates (469-399 B.C.) was an Athenian philosopher, of whom Cicero said that he "brought down philosophy from the heavens to the earth." His teachings are preserved in Xenophon's _Memorabilia_ and Plato's _Dialogues_.] [Footnote 19: That is to say, his needless austerity was as much affected as the dandy's excessive and ostentatious refinement.] [Footnote 20: Buddha, meaning _the enlightened one_, was Prince Siddhartha of Hindustan, who died about 477 B.C. He was the founder of the Buddhist religion, which teaches that the supreme attainment of mankind is Nirvana or extinction. This doctrine naturally follows from the Buddhist assumption that life is hopelessly evil. Many of the moral precepts of Buddhism are closely akin to those of Christianity.] [Footnote 21: Dante Alighieri (1265-1321), a native of Florence, is the greatest poet of Italy and one of the greatest poets of the world. His immortal poem, _The Divine Comedy_, is divided into three parts --"Hell," "Purgatory," and "Paradise."] [Footnote 22: This is a reference to the wars among the angels, which ended with the expulsion of Satan and his hosts from heaven, as related in the sixth book of Paradise Lost. This criticism of Milton is as just as it is felicitous.] [Footnote 23: Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.) was the father of Greek tragedy. He presents _destiny_ in its sternest aspects. His _Prometheus Bound_ has been translated by Mrs. Browning, and his _Agamemnon_ by Robert Browning--two dramas that exhibit his grandeur and power at their best.] [Footnote 24: Lucretius (about 95-51 B.C.) was the author of a didactic poem in six books entitled _De Rerum Natura_. It is Epicurean in morals and atheistic in philosophy. At the same time, as a work of art, it is one of the most perfect poems that have descended to us from antiquity.] [Footnote 25: Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121-180 A.D.), one of the best emperors of Rome, was a noble Stoic philosopher. His _Meditations_ is regarded by John Stuart Mill as almost equal to the Sermon on the Mount in moral elevation.] [Footnote 26: Thomas a Kempis (1379-1471) was the author of the famous _Imitation of Christ_ in which, as Dean Milman says, "is gathered and concentered all that is elevating, passionate, profoundly pious in all the older mystics." No other book, except the Bible, has been so often translated and printed.] [Footnote 27: Epictetus (born about 50 A.D.) was a Stoic philosopher, many of whose moral teachings resemble those of Christianity. But he unduly emphasized renunciation, and wished to restrict human aspiration to the narrow limits of the attainable.] [Footnote 28: Jacob Behmen, or Böhme (1575-1624), was a devout mystic philosopher, whose speculations, containing much that was beautiful and profound, sometimes passed the bounds of intelligibility.] [Footnote 29: Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) was a Swedish philosopher and theologian. His principal work, _Arcana Caelestia_, is made up of profound speculations and spiritualistic extravagance. He often oversteps the bounds of sanity.] [Footnote 30: William Langland, or Langley (about 1332-1400), a disciple of Wycliffe, was a poet, whose _Vision of Piers Plowman_, written in strong, alliterative verse, describes, in a series of nine visions, the manifold corruptions of society, church, and state in England.] [Footnote 31: Caedmon (lived about 670) was a cowherd attached to the monastery of Whitby in England. Later he became a poet, and wrote on Scripture themes in his native Anglo-Saxon. His _Paraphrase_, is, next to _Beowulf_, the oldest Anglo-Saxon poem in existence.] [Footnote 32: Lanier was deeply religious, but his beliefs were broader than any creed. In _Remonstrance_ he exclaims,-- "Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine. Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbear To feature me my Lord by rule and line." Yet, as shown in the conclusion of _The Crystal_ he had an exalted sense of the unapproachable beauty of the life and teachings of Christ. His tenderest poem is _A Ballad of Trees and the Master_:-- "Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him; The thorn-tree had a mind to Him, When into the woods He came. "Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'Twas on a tree they slew Him--last When out of the woods He came."] [Footnote 33: This poem was first published in _The Independent_, December 14, 1882, from which it is here taken. The editor said, "This poem, we do not hesitate to say, is one of the few great poems that have been written on this side of the ocean." With this judgment there will be general agreement on the part of appreciative readers. On the emotional side, it may be said to reach the high-water mark of poetic achievement in this country. Its emotion at times reaches the summits of poetic rapture; a little more, and it would have passed into the boundary of hysterical ecstasy. The circumstances of its composition possess a melancholy interest. It was Lanier's last and greatest poem. He penciled it a few months before his death when he was too feeble to raise his food to his mouth and when a burning fever was consuming him. Had he not made this supreme effort, American literature would be the poorer. This poem exhibits, in a high degree, the poet's love for Nature. Indeed, most of his great pieces-- _The Marshes of Glynn, Clover, Corn_, and others--are inspired by the sights and sounds of Nature. _Sunrise_, in general tone and style, closely resembles _The Marshes of Glynn_. The musical theories of Lanier in relation to poetry find their highest exemplification in _Sunrise_. It is made up of all the poetic feet --iambics, trochees, dactyls, anapests--so that it almost defies any attempt at scansion. But the melody of the verse never fails; equality of time is observed, along with a rich use of alliteration and assonance. The poem may be easily analyzed; and a distinct notation of its successive themes may be helpful to the young reader. Its divisions are marked by its irregular stanzas. It consists of fifteen parts as follows: 1. The call of the marshes to the poet in his slumbers, and his awaking. 2. He comes as a lover to the live-oaks and marshes. 3. His address to the "man-bodied tree," and the "cunning green leaves." 4. His petition for wisdom and for a prayer of intercession. 5. The stirring of the owl. 6. Address to the "reverend marsh, distilling silence." 7. Description of the full tide. 8. "The bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence." 9. The motion of dawn. 10. The golden flush of the eastern sky. 11. The sacramental marsh at worship. 12. The slow rising of the sun above the sea horizon. 13. Apostrophe to heat. 14. The worker must pass from the contemplation of this splendor to his toil. 15. The poet's inextinguishable adoration of the sun.] [Footnote 34: "Gospeling glooms" means glooms that convey to the sensitive spirit sweet messages of good news.] [Footnote 35: Lanier continually attributes personality to the objects of Nature, and places them in tender relations to man. Here the little leaves become-- "Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves," as a few lines before they were "little masters." In _Individuality_ we read,-- "Sail on, sail on, fair cousin Cloud." And in _Corn_ there is a passage of great tenderness:-- "The leaves that wave against my cheek caress Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express A subtlety of mighty tenderness; The copse-depths into little noises start, That sound anon like beatings of a heart, Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart."] [Footnote 36: This passage is Wordsworthian in spirit. Nature is regarded as a teacher who suggests or reveals ineffable things. Lanier might have said, as did Wordsworth,-- "To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."] [Footnote 37: Lanier had a lively and vigorous imagination, which is seen in his use of personification and metaphor. In this poem almost every object--trees, leaves, marsh, streams, sun, heat--is personified. This same fondness for personification may be observed in his other characteristic poems. In the use of metaphor it may be doubted whether the poet is always so happy. There is sometimes inaptness or remoteness in his resemblances. To liken the naming heavens to a beehive, and the rising sun to a bee issuing from the "hive-hole," can hardly be said to add dignity to the description. In _Clover_ men are clover heads, which the Course-of-things, as an ox, browses upon:-- "This cool, unasking Ox Comes browsing o'er my hills and vales of Time, And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls it, sharp, And sicklewise, about my poets' heads, And twists them in.... and champs and chews, With slantly-churning jaws and swallows down."] [Footnote 38: The deities of Olympus, being immortal, have no need of strenuous haste. They may well move from pleasure to pleasure with stately leisure.] * * * * * SELECTIONS FROM FATHER RYAN SONG OF THE MYSTIC [1] I walk down the Valley of Silence--[2] Down the dim, voiceless valley--alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown! Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human--and sin.[3] I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: "In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star on life's wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave." And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue; And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view. And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar, And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walked down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: "Be Mine." And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo--"My heart shall be thine." Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep--and I dream--and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer like a perfume from censers, Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing;[4] And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge A message of peace they may bring. But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen thoughts in the Valley-- Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: They pass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word![5] Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer. THE CONQUERED BANNER [6] Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it--let it rest![7] Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave! Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner--it is trailing! While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, they adore it! Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it![8] But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so. Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently--it is holy-- For it droops above the dead. Touch it not--unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead![9] THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE [10] Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to victory. Out of its scabbard, where full long It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee. Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky-- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow--and to die. Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free; Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee![11] Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee. Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. DEATH [12] Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the sunshine of gladness, Into the light of the blest; Out of a land very dreary, Out of the world very weary, Into the rapture of rest. Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, Into a blissful to-morrow, Into a day without gloom; Out of a land filled with sighing, Land of the dead and the dying, Into a land without tomb. Out of a life of commotion, Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er, Into a land calm and quiet; Never a storm cometh nigh it, Never a wreck on its shore. Out of a land in whose bowers Perish and fade all the flowers; Out of the land of decay, Into the Eden where fairest Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest, Never shall wither away. Out of the world of the wailing Thronged with the anguished and ailing; Out of the world of the sad, Into the world that rejoices-- World of bright visions and voices-- Into the world of the glad. Out of a life ever mournful, Out of a land very lornful, Where in bleak exile we roam,[13] Into a joy-land above us, Where there's a Father to love us-- Into our home--"Sweet Home." PRESENTIMENT [14] Cometh a voice from a far-land, Beautiful, sad, and low; Shineth a light from the star-land Down on the night of my woe; And a white hand, with a garland, Biddeth my spirit to go. Away and afar from the night-land, Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, To the splendors and skies of the light-land, Where reigneth eternity's day,-- To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, Whose sun never passeth away. And I knew the voice; not a sweeter On earth or in Heaven can be; And never did shadow pass fleeter Than it, and its strange melody; And I know I must hasten to meet her, "Yea, _Sister!_ Thou callest to me!" And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, It flashed from the crown that she wore, And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, My lips had kissed often of yore! And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, Had smiled on me sweetly before. And I saw the hand with the garland, Ethel's hand--holy and fair; Who went long ago to the far-land To weave me the wreath I shall wear; And to-night I look up to the star-land And pray that I soon may be there.[15] NIGHT THOUGHTS [16] Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art,-- But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their life, by the moans of their heart. The dials of earth may show The length--not the depth of years; Few or many they come, few or many they go, But our time is best measured by tears. Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps through the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by the furrows the fingers of care, On forehead and face, have made: Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. For the young are oft-times old, Though their brow be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm, their heart lies cold-- O'er them the springtime, but winter is there. And the old are oft-times young, When their hair is thin and white; And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light. But bead by bead I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead,--'tis well! And they're blest with a blessing of tears. Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a long stream of life, The tempests and tears of the deep. A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never the foam brings the brave [17] heart home-- It reaches the haven through tears. For a general introduction to Father Ryan's poetry, see Chapter VI. [Footnote 1: As stated in the sketch of Father Ryan, this poem strikes the keynote to his verse. It therefore properly opens his volume of poems. It became popular on its first publication, and was copied in various papers. It is here taken from the _Religious Herald_, Richmond, Virginia.] [Footnote 2: The location of _The Valley of Silence_ is given in the last stanza.] [Footnote 3: This poem may be taken, in a measure, as autobiographic. In this stanza, and the two following ones, the poet refers to that period of his life before he resolved to consecrate himself to the priesthood.] [Footnote 4: This indicates the general character of his poetry. Inspired in _The Valley of Silence_, it is sad, meditative, mystical, religious.] [Footnote 5: Perhaps every poet has this experience. There come to him elusive glimpses of truth and beauty which are beyond the grasp of speech. As some one has sung:-- "Sometimes there rise, from deeps unknown, Before my inmost gaze, Far brighter scenes than earth has shown In morning's orient blaze; I try to paint the visions bright, But, oh, their glories turn to night!"] [Footnote 6: This poem was first published in Father Ryan's paper, the _Banner of the South_, March 21, 1868, from which it is here taken. Coming so soon after the close of the Civil War, it touched the Southern heart.] [Footnote 7: For a criticism of the versification of this stanza, see the chapter on Father Ryan.] [Footnote 8: This note of pardon, in keeping with the poet's priestly character, is found in several of his lyrics referring to the war. In spite of his strong Southern feeling, there is no unrelenting bitterness. Thus, in _The Prayer of the South_, which appeared a week later, we read:-- "Father, I kneel 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave,-- A desert waste, where all was erst so fair,-- And for my children and my foes I crave Pity and pardon. Father, hear my prayer!"] [Footnote 9: This was the poet's feeling in 1868. In a similar strain we read in _The Prayer of the South_:-- "My heart is filled with anguish deep and vast! My hopes are buried with my children's dust! My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust?" Happily the poet lived to see a new order of things--an era in which vain regrets gave place to energetic courage, hope, and endeavor.] [Footnote 10: This poem first appeared in the _Banner of the South_, April 4, 1868, and, like the preceding one, has been very popular in the South.] [Footnote 11: Father Ryan felt great admiration for General Lee, who has remained in the South the popular hero of the war. In the last of his _Sentinel Songs_, the poet-priest pays a beautiful tribute to the stainless character of the Confederate leader:-- "Go, Glory, and forever guard Our chieftain's hallowed dust; And Honor, keep eternal ward, And Fame, be this thy trust! Go, with your bright emblazoned scroll And tell the years to be, The first of names to flash your roll Is ours--great Robert Lee."] [Footnote 12: This poem was first published in the _Banner of the South_, April 25, 1868. It illustrates the profounder themes on which the poet loved to dwell, and likewise the Christian faith by which they were illumined.] [Footnote 13: This mournful view of life appears frequently in Father Ryan's poems. In _De Profundis_, for example, we read:-- "All the hours are full of tears-- O my God! woe are we! Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes-- Every heart is strung with fears, Woe are we! woe are we! All the light hath left the skies, And the living, awe-struck crowds See above them only clouds, And around them only shrouds."] [Footnote 14: This poem, as the two preceding ones, is taken from the _Banner of the South_, where it appeared June 13, 1868. It affords a glimpse of the tragical romance of the poet's life. The voice that he hears is that of "Ethel," the lost love of his youth. Her memory never left him. In the poem entitled _What?_ it is again her spirit voice that conveys to his soul an ineffable word.] [Footnote 15: This desire for death occurs in several poems, as _When?_ and _Rest_. In the latter poem it is said:-- "'Twas always so; when but a child I laid On mother's breast My wearied little head--e'en then I prayed As now--for rest."] [Footnote 16: This poem is taken from the _Banner of the South_, where it appeared June 29, 1870. In the volume of collected poems the title is changed to _The Rosary of my Tears_.] [Footnote 17: "Brave" is changed to "lone" in the poet's revision.] 
6854	----	ANNE BRADSTREET AND HER TIME BY HELEN CAMPBELL AUTHOR OF "PRISONERS OF POVERTY," "MRS. HERNDON'S INCOME," "MISS MELINDA'S OPPORTUNITY," ETC. A BOOK FOR "MISS ICY." INTRODUCTION. Grave doubts at times arise in the critical mind as to whether America has had any famous women. We are reproached with the fact, that in spite of some two hundred years of existence, we have, as yet, developed no genius in any degree comparable to that of George Eliot and George Sand in the present, or a dozen other as familiar names of the past. One at least of our prominent literary journals has formulated this reproach, and is even sceptical as to the probability of any future of this nature for American women. What the conditions have been which hindered and hampered such development, will find full place in the story of the one woman who, in the midst of obstacles that might easily have daunted a far stouter soul, spoke such words as her limitations allowed. Anne Bradstreet, as a name standing alone, and represented only by a volume of moral reflections and the often stilted and unnatural verse of the period, would perhaps, hardly claim a place in formal biography. But Anne Bradstreet, the first woman whose work has come down to us from that troublous Colonial time, and who, if not the mother, is at least the grandmother of American literature, in that her direct descendants number some of our most distinguished men of letters calls for some memorial more honorable than a page in an Encyclopedia, or even an octavo edition of her works for the benefit of stray antiquaries here and there. The direct ancestress of the Danas, of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips, the Channings, the Buckminsters and other lesser names, would naturally inspire some interest if only in an inquiry as to just what inheritance she handed down, and the story of what she failed to do because of the time into which she was born, holds equal meaning with that of what she did do. I am indebted to Mr. John Harvard Ellis's sumptuous edition of Anne Bradstreet's works, published in 1867, and containing all her extant works, for all extracts of either prose or verse, as well as for many of the facts incorporated in Mr. Ellis's careful introduction. Miss Bailey's "History of Andover," has proved a valuable aid, but not more so than "The History of New England," by Dr. John Gorham Palfrey, which affords in many points, the most careful and faithful picture on record of the time, personal facts, unfortunately, being of the most meager nature. They have been sought for chiefly, however, in the old records themselves; musty with age and appallingly diffuse as well as numerous, but the only source from which the true flavor of a forgotten time can be extracted. Barren of personal detail as they too often are, the writer of the present imperfect sketch has found Anne Bradstreet, in spite of all such deficiencies, a very real and vital person, and ends her task with the belief which it is hoped that the reader may share, that among the honorable women not a few whose lives are to-day our dearest possession, not one claims tenderer memory than she who died in New England two hundred years ago. NEW YORK, 1890. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOME CHAPTER II. UPHEAVALS CHAPTER III. THE VOYAGE CHAPTER IV. BEGINNINGS CHAPTER V. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW CHAPTER VI. A THEOLOGICAL TRAGEDY CHAPTER VII. COLONIAL LITERARY DEVELOPMENT IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY CHAPTER VIII. SOME PHASES OF EARLY COLONIAL LIFE CHAPTER IX. ANDOVER CHAPTER X. VILLAGE LIFE IN 1650 CHAPTER XI A FIRST EDITION CHAPTER XII. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS CHAPTER XIII. CHANCES AND CHANGES CHAPTER XIV. A LEGACY CHAPTER XV. THE PURITAN REIGN OF TERROR CHAPTER XVI. HOME AND ABROAD CHAPTER XVII. THE END ANNE BRADSTREET AND HER TIME. CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOME. The birthday of the baby, Anne Dudley, has no record; her birthplace even is not absolutely certain, although there is little doubt that it was at Northhampton in England, the home of her father's family. She opened her eyes upon a time so filled with crowding and conflicting interests that there need be no wonder that the individual was more or less ignored, and personal history lost in the general. To what branch of the Dudley family she belonged is also uncertain. Moore, in his "Lives of the Governors of New Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay," writes: "There is a tradition among the descendants of Governor Dudley in the eldest branch of the family, that he was descended from John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who was beheaded 22 February, 1553." Such belief was held for a time, but was afterward disallowed by Anne Bradstreet. In her "Elegy upon Sir Philip Sidney," whose mother, the Lady Mary, was the eldest daughter of that Duke of Northumberland, she wrote: "Let, then, none disallow of these my straines, Which have the self-same blood yet in my veines." With the second edition of her poems, however, her faith had changed. This may have been due to a growing indifference to worldly distinctions, or, perhaps, to some knowledge of the dispute as to the ancestry of Robert Dudley, son of the Duke, who was described by one side as a nobleman, by another as a carpenter, and by a third as "a noble timber merchant"; while a wicked wit wrote that "he was the son of a duke, the brother of a king, the grandson of an esquire, and the great-grandson of a carpenter; that the carpenter was the only honest man in the family and the only one who died in his bed." Whatever the cause may have been she renounced all claim to relationship, and the lines were made to read as they at present stand: "Then let none disallow of these my straines Whilst English blood yet runs within my veines." In any case, her father, Thomas Dudley, was of gentle blood and training, being the only son of Captain Roger Dudley, who was killed in battle about the year 1577, when the child was hardly nine years old. Of his mother there is little record, as also of the sister from whom he was soon separated, though we know that Mrs. Dudley died shortly after her husband. Her maiden name is unknown; she was a relative of Sir Augustine Nicolls, of Paxton, Kent, one of His Majesty's Justices of his Court of Common Pleas, and keeper of the Great Seal to Prince Charles. The special friend who took charge of Thomas Dudley through childhood is said to have been "a Miss Purefoy," and if so, she was the sister of Judge Nicolls, who married a Leicestershire squire, named William Purefoy. Five hundred pounds was left in trust for him, and delivered to him when he came of age; a sum equivalent to almost as many thousand to-day. At the school to which he was sent he gained a fair knowledge of Latin, but he was soon taken from it to become a page in the family of William Lord Compton, afterward the Earl of Northumberland. His studies were continued, and in time he became a clerk of his kinsman, "Judge Nicholls," whose name appears in letters, and who was a sergeant-at-law. Such legal knowledge as came to him here was of service through all his later life, but law gave place to arms, the natural bias of most Englishmen at that date, and he became captain of eighty volunteers "raised in and about Northhampton, and forming part of the force collected by order of Queen Elizabeth to assist Henry IV. of France, in the war against Philip II. of Spain," He was at the siege of Amiens in 1597, and returned home when it ended, having, though barely of age, already gained distinction as a soldier, and acquired the courtesy of manner which distinguished him till later life, and the blandness of which often blinded unfamiliar acquaintances to the penetration and acumen, the honesty and courage that were the foundations of his character. As his belief changed, and the necessity for free speech was laid upon him, he ceased to disguise his real feelings and became even too out-spoken, the tendency strengthening year by year, and doing much to diminish his popularity, though his qualities were too sterling to allow any lessening of real honor and respect. But he was still the courtier, and untitled as he was, prestige enough came with him to make his marriage to "a gentlewoman whose Extract and Estate were Considerable," a very easy matter, and though we know her only as Dorothy Dudley, no record of her maiden name having been preserved, the love borne her by both husband and daughter is sufficient evidence of her character and influence. Puritanism was not yet an established fact, but the seed had been sown which later became a tree so mighty that thousands gathered under its shadow. The reign of Elizabeth had brought not only power but peace to England, and national unity had no further peril of existence to dread. With peace, trade established itself on sure foundations and increased with every year. Wealth flowed into the country and the great merchants of London whose growth amazed and troubled the royal Council, founded hospitals, "brought the New River from its springs at Chadwell and Amwell to supply the city with pure water," and in many ways gave of their increase for the benefit of all who found it less easy to earn. The smaller land-owners came into a social power never owned before, and "boasted as long a rent-roll and wielded as great an influence as many of the older nobles.... In wealth as in political consequence the merchants and country gentlemen who formed the bulk of the House of Commons, stood far above the mass of the peers." Character had changed no less than outward circumstances. "The nation which gave itself to the rule of the Stewarts was another nation from the panic-struck people that gave itself in the crash of social and religious order to the guidance of the Tudors." English aims had passed beyond the bounds of England, and every English "squire who crossed the Channel to flesh his maiden sword at Ivry or Ostend, brought back to English soil, the daring temper, the sense of inexhaustable resources, which had bourn him on through storm and battle field." Such forces were not likely to settle into a passive existence at home. Action had become a necessity. Thoughts had been stirred and awakened once for all. Consciously for the few, unconsciously for the many, "for a hundred years past, men had been living in the midst of a spiritual revolution. Not only the world about them, but the world within every breast had been utterly transformed. The work of the sixteenth century had wrecked that tradition of religion, of knowledge, of political and social order, which had been accepted without question by the Middle Ages. The sudden freedom of the mind from these older bonds brought a consciousness of power such as had never been felt before; and the restless energy, the universal activity of the Renaissance were but outer expressions of the pride, the joy, the amazing self-confidence, with which man welcomed this revelation of the energies which had lain slumbering within him." This was the first stage, but another quickly and naturally followed, and dread took the place of confidence. With the deepening sense of human individuality, came a deepening conviction of the boundless capacities of the human soul. Not as a theological dogma, but as a human fact man knew himself to be an all but infinite power, whether for good or for ill. The drama towered into sublimity as it painted the strife of mighty forces within the breasts of Othello or Macbeth. Poets passed into metaphysicians as they strove to unravel the workings of conscience within the soul. From that hour one dominant influence told on human action; and all the various energies that had been called into life by the age that was passing away were seized, concentrated and steadied to a definite aim by the spirit of religion. Among the myriads upon whom this change had come, Thomas Dudley was naturally numbered, and the ardent preaching of the well-known Puritan ministers, Dodd and Hildersham, soon made him a Non-conformist and later an even more vigorous dissenter from ancient and established forms. As thinking England was of much the same mind, his new belief did not for a time interfere with his advancement, for, some years after his marriage he became steward of the estate of the Earl of Lincoln, and continued so for more than ten years. Plunged in debt as the estate had been by the excesses of Thomas, Earl of Lincoln, who left the property to his son Theophilus, so encumbered that it was well nigh worthless, a few years of Dudley's skillful management freed it entirely, and he became the dear and trusted friend of the entire family. His first child had been born in 1610, a son named Samuel, and in 1612 came the daughter whose delicate infancy and childhood gave small hint of the endurance shown in later years. Of much the same station and training as Mrs. Lucy Hutchinson, Anne Dudley could undoubtedly have written in the same words as that most delightful of chroniclers: "By the time I was four years old I read English perfectly, and having a great memory I was carried to sermons.... When I was about seven years of age, I remember I had at one time eight tutors in several qualities, languages, music, dancing, writing and needle work; but my genius was quite averse from all but my book, and that I was so eager of, that my mother thinking it prejudiced my health, would moderate me in it; yet this rather animated me than kept me back, and every moment I could steal from my play I would employ in any book I could find when my own were locked up from me." It is certain that the little Anne studied the Scriptures at six or seven, with as painful solicitude as her elders, for she writes in the fragmentary diary which gives almost the only clue to her real life: "In my young years, about 6 or 7, as I take it, I began to make conscience of my wayes, and what I knew was sinful, as lying, disobedience to Parents, etc., I avoided it. If at any time I was overtaken with the like evills, it was a great Trouble. I could not be at rest 'till by prayer I had confest it unto God. I was also troubled at the neglect of Private Duteys, tho' too often tardy that way. I also found much comfort in reading the Scriptures, especially those places I thought most concerned my Condition, and as I grew to have more understanding, so the more solace I took in them. "In a long fitt of sickness which I had on my bed, I often communed with my heart and made my supplication to the most High, who sett me free from that affliction." For a childhood which at six searches the Scriptures to find verses applicable to its condition, there cannot have been much if any natural child life, and Mrs. Hutchinson's experience again was probably duplicated for the delicate and serious little Anne. "Play among other children I despised, and when I was forced to entertain such as came to visit me, I tried them with more grave instruction than their mothers, and plucked all their babies to pieces, and kept the children in such awe, that they were glad when I entertained myself with elder company, to whom I was very acceptable, and living in the house with many persons that had a great deal of wit, and very profitable serious discourses being frequent at my father's table and in my mother's drawing room, I was very attentive to all, and gathered up things that I would utter again, to great admiration of many that took my memory and imitation for wit.... I used to exhort my mother's words much, and to turn their idle discourses to good subjects." Given to exhortation as some of the time may have been, and drab- colored as most of the days certainly were, there were, bright passages here and there, and one reminiscence was related in later years, in her poem "In Honour of Du Bartas," the delight of Puritan maids and mothers; "My muse unto a Child I may compare, Who sees the riches of some famous Fair, He feeds his eyes but understanding lacks, To comprehend the worth of all those knacks; The glittering plate and Jewels he admires, The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies' tires, And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish Some part, at least, of that brave wealth was his; But seeing empty wishes nought obtain, At night turns to his Mother's cot again, And tells her tales (his full heart over glad), Of all the glorious sights his eyes have had; But finds too soon his want of Eloquence, The silly prattler speaks no word of sense; But seeing utterance fail his great desires, Sits down in silence, deeply he admires." It is probably to one of the much exhorted maids that she owed this glimpse of what was then a rallying ground for the jesters and merry Andrews, and possibly even a troop of strolling players, frowned upon by the Puritan as children of Satan, but still secretly enjoyed by the lighter minded among them. But the burden of the time pressed more and more heavily. Freedom which had seemed for a time to have taken firm root, and to promise a better future for English thought and life, lessened day by day under the pressure of the Stuart dynasty, and every Nonconformist home was the center of anxieties that influenced every member of it from the baby to the grandsire, whose memory covered more astonishing changes than any later day has known. The year preceding Anne Dudley's birth, had seen the beginning of the most powerful influence ever produced upon a people, made ready for it, by long distrust of such teaching as had been allowed. With the translation of the Bible into common speech, and the setting up of the first six copies in St. Pauls, its popularity had grown from day to day. The small Geneva Bibles soon appeared and their substance had become part of the life of every English family within an incredibly short space of time. Not only thought and action but speech itself were colored and shaped by the new influence. We who hold to it as a well of English undefiled, and resent even the improvements of the new Version as an infringement on a precious possession, have small conception of what it meant to a century which had had no prose literature and no poetry save the almost unknown verse of Chaucer. "Sunday after Sunday, day after day, the crowds that gathered round the Bible in the nave of St. Pauls, or the family group that hung on its words in the devotional exercises at home, were leavened with a new literature. Legend and annal, war song and psalm, State-roll and biography, the mighty voices of prophets, the parables of Evangelists, stories of mission-journeys, of perils by the sea and among the heathens, philosophic arguments, apocalyptic visions, all were flung broadcast over minds unoccupied for the most part by any rival learning. The disclosure of the stores of Greek literature had wrought the revolution of Renaissance. The disclosure of the older mass of Hebrew literature, wrought the revolution of the Reformation. But the one revolution was far deeper and wider in its effects than the other. No version could transfer to another tongue the peculiar charm of language which gave their value to the authors of Greece and Rome. Classical letters, therefore, remained in the possession of the learned, that is, of the few, and among these, with the exception of Colet and More, or of the pedants who revived a Pagan worship in the gardens of the Florentine Academy, their direct influence was purely intellectual. But the language of the Hebrew, the idiom of the Hellenistic Greek, lent themselves with a curious felicity to the purposes of translation. As a mere literary monument the English version of the Bible remains the noblest example of the English tongue, while its perpetual use made it from the instant of its appearance, the standard of our language. "One must dwell upon this fact persistently, before it will become possible to understand aright either the people or the literature of the time. With generations the influence has weakened, though the best in English speech has its source in one fountain. But the Englishman of that day wove his Bible into daily speech, as we weave Shakespeare or Milton or our favorite author of a later day. It was neither affectation nor hypocrisy but an instinctive use that made the curious mosaic of Biblical words and phrases which colored English talk two hundred years ago. The mass of picturesque allusion and illustration which we borrow from a thousand books, our fathers were forced to borrow from one; and the borrowing was the easier and the more natural, that the range of the Hebrew literature fitted it for the expression of every phase of feeling. When Spencer poured forth his warmest love-notes in the 'Epithalamion,' he adopted the very words of the Psalmist, as he bade the gates open for the entrance of his bride. When Cromwell saw the mists break over the hills of Dunbar, he hailed the sun-burst with the cry of David: 'Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered. Like as the smoke vanisheth so shalt thou drive them away!' Even to common minds this familiarity with grand poetic imagery in prophet and apocalypse, gave a loftiness and ardor of expression that with all its tendency to exaggeration and bombast we may prefer to the slip-shod vulgarisms of today." Children caught the influence, and even baby talk was half scriptural, so that there need be no surprise in finding Anne Bradstreet's earliest recollections couched in the phrases of psalms learned by heart as soon as she could speak, and used, no doubt, half unconsciously. Translate her sentences into the thought of to-day, and it is evident, that aside from the morbid conscientiousness produced by her training, that she was the victim of moods arising from constant ill-health. Her constitution seems to have been fragile in the extreme, and there is no question but that in her case as in that of many another child born into the perplexed and troubled time, the constant anxiety of both parents, uncertain what a day might bring forth, impressed itself on the baby soul. There was English fortitude and courage, the endurance born of faith, and the higher evolution from English obstinacy, but there was for all of them, deep self-distrust and abasement; a sense of worthlessness that intensified with each generation; and a perpetual, unhealthy questioning of every thought and motive. The progress was slow but certain, rising first among the more sensitive natures of women, whose lives held too little action to drive away the mists, and whose motto was always, "look in and not out"--an utter reversal of the teaching of to-day. The children of that generation lost something that had been the portion of their fathers. The Elizabethan age had been one of immense animal life and vigor, and of intense capacity for enjoyment, and, deny it as one might, the effect lingered and had gone far toward forming character. The early Nonconformist still shared in many worldly pleasures, and had found no occasion to condense thought upon points in Calvinism, or to think of himself as a refugee from home and country. The cloud at first no bigger than a man's hand, was not dreaded, and life in Nonconformist homes went on with as much real enjoyment as if their ownership were never to be questioned. Serious and sad, as certain phases come to be, it is certain that home life developed as suddenly as general intelligence. The changes in belief in turn affected character. "There was a sudden loss of the passion, the caprice, the subtle and tender play of feeling, the breath of sympathy, the quick pulse of delight, which had marked the age of Elizabeth; but on the other hand life gained in moral grandeur, in a sense of the dignity of manhood, in orderliness and equable force. The larger geniality of the age that had passed away was replaced by an intense tenderness within the narrower circle of the home. Home, as we now conceive it, was the creation of the Puritan. Wife and child rose from mere dependants on the will of husband or father, as husband or father saw in them saints like himself, souls hallowed by the touch of a divine spirit and called with a divine calling like his own. The sense of spiritual fellowship gave a new tenderness and refinement to the common family affections." The same influence had touched Thomas Dudley, and Dorothy Dudley could have written of him as Lucy Hutchinson did of her husband: "He was as kind a father, as dear a brother, as good a master, as faithful a friend as the world had." In a time when, for the Cavalier element, license still ruled and lawless passion was glorified by every play writer, the Puritan demanded a different standard, and lived a life of manly purity in strange contrast to the grossness of the time. Of Hutchinson and Dudley and thousands of their contemporaries the same record held good: "Neither in youth nor riper years could the most fair or enticing woman draw him into unnecessary familiarity or dalliance. Wise and virtuous women he loved, and delighted in all pure and holy and unblameable conversation with them, but so as never to excite scandal or temptation. Scurrilous discourse even among men he abhorred; and though he sometimes took pleasure in wit and mirth, yet that which was mixed with impurity he never could endure." Naturally with such standards life grew orderly and methodical. "Plain living and high thinking," took the place of high living and next to no thinking. Heavy drinking was renounced. Sobriety and self-restraint ruled here as in every other act of life, and the division between Cavalier and Nonconformist became daily more and more marked. Persecution had not yet made the gloom and hardness which soon came to be inseparable from the word Puritan, and children were still allowed many enjoyments afterward totally renounced. Milton could write, even after his faith had settled and matured: "Haste then, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek And love to live in dimple sleek; Sports that wrinkled care derides And Laughter holding both his sides." Cromwell himself looked on at masques and revels, and Whitelock, a Puritan lawyer and his ambassador to Sweden, left behind him a reputation for stately and magnificent entertaining, which his admirers could never harmonize with his persistent refusal to conform to the custom of drinking healths. In the report of this embassy printed after Whitelock's return and republished some years ago, occurs one of the best illustrations of Puritan social life at that period. "How could you pass over their very long winter nights?" was one of the questions asked by the Protector at the first audience after his return from The embassy. "I kept my people together," was the reply, "and in action and recreation, by having music in my house, and encouraging that and the exercise of dancing, which held them by the eyes and ears, and gave them diversion without any offence. And I caused the gentlemen to have disputations in Latin, and declamations upon words which I gave them." Cromwell, "Those were very good diversions, and made your house a little academy." Whitelock, "I thought these recreations better than gaming for money, or going forth to places of debauchery." Cromwell, "It was much better." In the Earl of Lincoln's household such amusements would be common, and it was not till many years later, that a narrowing faith made Anne write them down as "the follyes of youth." Through that youth, she had part in every opportunity that the increased respect for women afforded. Many a Puritan matron shared her husband's studies, or followed her boys in their preparation for Oxford or Cambridge, and Anne Bradstreet's poems and the few prose memorials she left, give full evidence of an unusually broad training, her delicacy of health making her more ready for absorption in study. Shakespeare and Cervantes were still alive at her birth, and she was old enough, with the precocious development of the time, to have known the sense of loss and the general mourning at their death in 1616. It is doubtful if the plays of the elder dramatists were allowed her, though there are hints in her poems of some knowledge of Shakespeare, but by the time girlhood was reached, the feeling against them had increased to a degree hardly comprehensible save in the light of contemporaneous history. The worst spirit of the time was incorporated in the later plays, and the Puritans made no discrimination. The players in turn hated them, and Mrs. Hutchinson wrote: "Every stage and every table, and every puppet- play, belched forth profane scoffs upon them, the drunkards made them their songs, and all fiddlers and mimics learned to abuse them, as finding it the most gameful way of fooling." If, however, the dramatists were forbidden, there were new and inexhaustible sources of inspiration and enjoyment, in the throng of new books, which the quiet of the reign of James allowed to appear in quick succession. Chapman's magnificent version of Homer was delighting Cavalier and Puritan alike. "Plutarch's Lives," were translated by Sir Thomas North and his book was "a household book for the whole of the seventeenth century." Montaigne's Essays had been "done into English" by John Florio, and to some of them at least Thomas Dudley was not likely to take exception. Poets and players had, however, come to be classed together and with some reason, both alike antagonizing the Puritan, but the poets of the reign of James were far more simple and natural in style than those of the age of Elizabeth, and thus, more likely to be read in Puritan families. Their numbers may be gauged by their present classification into "pastoral, satirical, theological, metaphysical and humorous," but only two of them were in entire sympathy with the Puritan spirit, or could be read without serious shock to belief and scruples. For the sake of her own future work, deeper drinking at these springs was essential, and in rejecting them, Anne Dudley lost the influence that must have moulded her own verse into much more agreeable form for the reader of to-day, though it would probably have weakened her power in her own day. The poets she knew best hindered rather than helped development. Wither and Quarles, both deeply Calvinistic, the former becoming afterward one of Cromwell's major-generals, were popular not only then but long afterward, and Quarles' "Emblems", which appeared in 1635, found their way to New England and helped to make sad thought still more dreary. Historians and antiquaries were at work. Sir Walter Raleigh's "History of the World," must have given little Anne her first suggestion of life outside of England, while Buchanan, the tutor of King James, had made himself the historian and poet of Scotland. Bacon had just ended life and labor; Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity was before the world, though not completed until 1632, and the dissensions of the time had given birth to a "mass of sermons, books of devotion, religious tracts and controversial pamphlets." Sermons abounded, those of Archbishop Usher, Andrews and Donne being specially valued, while "The Saint's Cordial," of Dr. Richard Sibbs, and the pious meditations of Bishop Hall were on every Puritan bookshelf. But few strictly sectarian books appeared, "the censorship of the press, the right of licensing books being almost entirely arrogated to himself by the untiring enemy of the Nonconformists, Laud, Bishop of London, whose watchful eye few heretical writings could escape.. . . Many of the most ultra pamphlets and tracts were the prints of foreign presses secretly introduced into the country without the form of a legal entry at Stationers' Hall." The same activity which filled the religious world, was found also in scientific directions and Dr. Harvey's discovery of the circulation of the blood, and Napier's introduction of logarithms, made a new era for both medicine and mathematics. That every pulse of this new tide was felt in the castle at Lempingham is very evident, in all Anne Bradstreet's work. The busy steward found time for study and his daughter shared it, and when he revolted against the incessant round of cares and for a time resigned the position, the leisure gained was devoted to the same ends. The family removed to Boston in Lincolnshire, and there an acquaintance was formed which had permanent influence on the minds of all. Here dwelt the Rev. John Cotton, vicar of the parish and already obnoxious to the Bishops. No man among the Nonconformists had had more brilliant reputation before the necessity of differing came upon him, and his personal influence was something phenomenal. To the girl whose sensitive, eager mind reached out to every thing high and noble he must have seemed of even rarer stuff than to-day we know him to have been. At thirteen he had entered Emmanuel College at Cambridge, and adding distinction to distinction had come at last to be dean of the college to which he belonged. His knowledge of Greek was minute and thorough, and he conversed with ease in either Latin or Hebrew. As a pulpit orator he was famous, and crowds thronged the ancient church of St. Mary in Cambridge whenever he preached. Here he gave them "the sort of sermons then in fashion--learned, ornate, pompous, bristling with epigrams, stuffed with conceits, all set off dramatically by posture, gesture and voice." The year in which Anne Dudley was born, had completed the change which had been slowly working in him and which Tyler describes in his vivid pages on the theological writers of New England: "His religious character had been deepening into Puritanism. He had come to view his own preaching as frivolous, Sadducean, pagan." He decided to preach one sermon which would show what changes had come, and the announcement of his intention brought together the usual throng of under-graduates, fellows and professors who looked for the usual entertainment. Never was a crowd more deceived. "In preparing once more to preach to this congregation of worldly and witty folk, he had resolved to give them a sermon intended to exhibit Jesus Christ rather than John Cotton. This he did. His hearers were astonished, disgusted. Not a murmur of applause greeted the several stages of his discourse as before. They pulled their shovel caps down over their faces, folded their arms, and sat it out sullenly, amazed that the promising John Cotton had turned lunatic or Puritan." Nearly twenty years passed before his energies were transferred to New England, but the ending of his university career by no means hampered his work elsewhere. As vicar of St. Botolphs at Boston his influence deepened with every year, and he grew steadily in knowledge about the Bible, and in the science of God and man as seen through the dim goggles of John Calvin. His power as a preacher was something tremendous, but he remained undisturbed until the reign of James had ended and the "fatal eye of Bishop Laud" fell upon him. "It was in 1633 that Laud became primate of England; which meant, among other things, that nowhere within the rim of that imperial island was there to be peace or safety any longer for John Cotton. Some of his friends in high station tried to use persuasive words with the archbishop on his behalf, but the archbishop brushed aside their words with an insupportable scorn. The Earl of Dorset sent a message to Cotton, that if he had only been guilty of drunkenness or adultery, or any such minor ministerial offence, his pardon could have been had; but since his crime was Puritanism, he must flee for his life. So, for his life he fled, dodging his pursuers; and finally slipping out of England, after innumerable perils, like a hunted felon; landing in Boston in September, 1633." Long before this crisis had come, Thomas Dudley had been recalled by the Earl of Lincoln, who found it impossible to dispense with his services, and the busy life began again. Whether Anne missed the constant excitement the strenuous spiritual life enforced on all who made part of John Cotton's congregation, there is no record, but one may infer from a passage in her diary that a reaction had set in, and that youth asserted itself. "But as I grew up to bee about fourteen or fifteen I found my heart more carnall and sitting loose from God, vanity and the follys of youth take hold of me. "About sixteen, the Lord layd his hand sore upon me and smott mee with the small-pox. When I was in my affliction, I besought the Lord, and confessed my Pride and Vanity and he was entreated of me, and again restored me. But I rendered not to him according to ye benefit received." Here is the only hint as to personal appearance. "Pride and Vanity," are more or less associated with a fair countenance, and though no record gives slightest detail as to form or feature, there is every reason to suppose that the event, very near at hand, which altered every prospect in life, was influenced in degree, at least, by considerations slighted in later years, but having full weight with both. That Thomas Dudley was a "very personable man," we know, and there are hints that his daughter resembled him, though it was against the spirit of the time to record mere accidents of coloring or shape. But Anne's future husband was a strikingly handsome man, not likely to ignore such advantages in the wife he chose, and we may think of her as slender and dark, with heavy hair and the clear, thoughtful eyes, which may be seen in the potrait of Paul Dudley to-day. There were few of what we consider the typical Englishmen among these Puritan soldiers and gentry. Then, as now, the reformer and liberal was not likely to be of the warm, headlong Saxon type, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and open to every suggestion of pleasure loving temperament. It was the dark-haired men of the few districts who made up Cromwell's regiment of Ironsides, and who from what Galton calls, "their atrabilious and sour temperament," were likely to become extremists, and such Puritan portraits as remain to us, have most of them these characteristics. The English type of face altered steadily for many generations, and the Englishmen of the eighteenth century had little kinship with the race reproduced in Holbein's portraits, which show usually, "high cheek-bones, long upper lips, thin eyebrows, and lank, dark hair. It would be impossible ... for the majority of modern Englishmen so to dress themselves and clip and arrange their hair, as to look like the majority of these portraits." The type was perpetuated in New England, where for a hundred years, there was not the slightest admixture of foreign blood, increased delicacy with each generation setting it farther and farther apart from the always grosser and coarser type in Old England. Puritan abstinence had much to do with this, though even for them, heavy feeding, as compared with any modern standard was the rule, its results being found in the diaries of what they recorded and believed to be spiritual conflicts. Then, as now, dyspepsia often posed as a delicately susceptible temperament, and the "pasty" of venison or game, fulfilled the same office as the pie into which it degenerated, and which is one of the most firmly established of American institutions. Then, as occasionally even to day, indigestion counted as "a hiding of the Lord's face," and a bilious attack as "the hand of the Lord laid heavily on one for reproof and correction." Such "reproof and correction" would often follow if the breakfasts of the Earl of Lincoln and his household were of the same order as those of the Earl of Northumberland, in whose house "the family rose at six and took breakfast at seven. My Lord and Lady sat down to a repast of two pieces of salted fish, and half a dozen of red herrings, with four fresh ones, or a dish of sprats and a quart of beer and the same measure of wine ... At other seasons, half a chine of mutton or of boiled beef, graced the board. Capons at two-pence apiece and plovers (at Christmas), were deemed too good for any digestion that was not carried on in a noble stomach." With the dropping of fasts and meager days, fish was seldom used, and the Sunday morning breakfast of Queen Elizabeth and her retinue in one of her "progresses" through the country, for which three oxen and one hundred and forty geese were furnished, became the standard, which did not alter for many generations. A diet more utterly unsuited to the child who passed from one fit of illness to another, could hardly be imagined, and the gloom discoverable in portions of her work was as certainly dyspepsia as she imagined it to be "the motion and power of ye Adversary." Winthrop had encountered the same difficulty and with his usual insight and common sense, wrote in his private dairy fifteen years before he left England, "Sep: 8, 1612. ffinding that the variety of meates drawes me on to eate more than standeth with my healthe I have resolved not to eat of more than two dishes at any one meale, whither fish, fleshe, fowle or fruite or whitt-meats, etc; whither at home or abroade; the lord give me care and abilitie to perform it." Evidently the flesh rebelled, for later he writes: "Idlenesse and gluttonie are the two maine pillars of the flesh his kingdome," but he conquered finally, both he and Simon Bradstreet being singularly abstinent. Her first sixteen years of life were, for Anne Dudley, filled with the intensest mental and spiritual activity--hampered and always in leading strings, but even so, an incredible advance on anything that had been the portion of women for generations. Then came, for the young girl, a change not wholly unexpected, yet destined to alter every plan, and uproot every early association. But to the memories of that loved early life she held with an English tenacity, not altered by transplanting, that is seen to-day in countless New Englanders, whose English blood is of as pure a strain as any to be found in the old home across the sea. CHAPTER II. UPHEAVALS. Though the long engagement which Mr. Ruskin demands as a necessity in lessening some of the present complications of the marriage question may not have been the fortune of Simon and Anne Bradstreet, it is certain that few couples have ever had better opportunity for real knowledge of one another's peculiarities and habits of thought. Circumstances placed them under the same roof for years before marriage, and it would have been impossible to preserve any illusions, while every weakness as well as every virtue had fullest opportunity for disclosure. There is no hint of other suitors, nor detail of the wooing, but the portrait of Governor Bradstreet, still to be seen in the Senate Chamber of the Massachusetts State House, shows a face that even in middle life, the time at which the portrait was painted, held an ardor, that at twenty-five must have made him irresistible. It is the head of Cavalier rather than Roundhead--the full though delicately curved lips and every line in the noble face showing an eager, passionate, pleasure-loving temperament. But the broad, benignant forehead, the clear, dark eyes, the firm, well-cut nose, hold strength as well as sweetness, and prepare one for the reputation which the old Colonial records give him. The high breeding, the atmosphere of the whole figure, comes from a marvellously well- balanced nature, as well as from birth and training. There is a sense of the keenest life and vigor, both mental and physical, and despite the Puritan garb, does not hide the man of whom his wife might have written with Mrs. Hutchinson: "To sum up, therefore, all that can be said of his outward frame and disposition, we must truly conclude that it was a very handsome and well-furnished lodging prepared for the reception of that prince who, in the administration of all excellent virtues, reigned there a while, till he was called back to the palace of the universal emperor." Simon Bradstreet's father, "born of a wealthy family in Suffolk, was one of the first fellows of Emanuel College, and highly esteemed by persons distinguished for learning." In 1603 he was minister at Horbling in Lincolnshire, but was never anything but a nonconformist to the Church of England. Here in 1603 Simon Bradstreet was born, and until fourteen years old was educated in the grammar school of that place, till the death of his father made some change necessary. John Cotton was the mutual friend of both Dudley and the elder Bradstreet, and Dudley's interest in the son may have arisen from this fact. However this may be, he was taken at fifteen into the Earl of Lincoln's household, and trained to the duties of a steward by Dudley himself. Anne being then a child of nine years old, and probably looking up to him with the devotion that was shared by her older brother, then eleven and always the friend and ally of the future governor. His capacity was so marked that Dr. Preston, another family friend and a noted Nonconformist, interested himself in his further education, and succeeded in entering him at Emanuel College, Cambridge, in the position of governor to the young Lord Rich, son of the Earl of Warwick. For some reason the young nobleman failed to come to college and Bradstreet's time was devoted to a brother of the Earl of Lincoln, who evidently shared the love of idleness and dissipation that had marked his grandfather's career. It was all pleasant and all eminently unprofitable, Bradstreet wrote in later years, but he accomplished sufficient study to secure his bachelor's degree in 1620. Four years later, while holding the position of steward to the Earl of Lincoln, given him by Dudley on the temporary removal to Boston, that of Master of Arts was bestowed upon him, making it plain that his love of study had continued. With the recall of Dudley, he became steward to the countess of Warwick, which position he held at the time of his marriage in 1628. It was in this year that Anne, just before her marriage recorded, when the affliction had passed: "About 16, the Lord layde his hand sore upon me and smott me with the small-pox." It is curious that the woman whose life in many points most resembles her own--Mrs. Lucy Hutchinson--should have had precisely the same experience, writing of herself in the "Memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson": "That day that the friends on both sides met to conclude the marriage, she fell sick of the small-pox, which was in many ways a great trial upon him. First, her life was in almost desperate hazard, and then the disease, for the present, made her the most deformed person that could be seen, for a great while after she recovered; yet he was nothing troubled at it, but married her as soon as she was able to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw her were affrighted to look on her; but God recompensed his justice and constancy by restoring her, though she was longer than ordinary before she recovered to be as well as before." Whether disease or treatment held the greater terror, it would be hard to say. Modern medical science has devised many alleviations, and often restores a patient without spot or blemish. But to have lived at all in that day evidenced extraordinary vitality. Cleanliness was unknown, water being looked upon as deadly poison whether taken internally or applied externally. Covered with blankets, every window tightly sealed, and the moaning cry for water answered by a little hot ale or tincture of bitter herbs, nature often gave up the useless struggle and released the tortured and delirious wretch. The means of cure left the constitution irretrievably weakened if not hopelessly ruined, and the approach of the disease was looked upon with affright and regarded usually as a special visitation of the wrath of God. That Anne Dudley so viewed it is evident from the passage in her diary, already quoted; that the Lord "smott" her, was unquestioned, and she cast about in her girlish mind for the shadow of the sin that had brought such judgment, making solemn resolutions, not only against any further indulgence in "Pride and Vanity," but all other offences, deciding that self-abnegation was the only course, and possibly even beginning her convalescence with a feeling that love itself should be put aside, and all her heart be "sett upon God." But Simon Bradstreet waited, like Colonel Hutchinson, only till "she was fit to leave her chamber," and whether "affrighted" or not, the marriage was consummated early in 1628. Of heavier, stouter frame than Colonel Hutchinson, and of a far more vigorous constitution, the two men had much in common. The forces that moulded and influenced the one, were equally potent with the other. The best that the time had to give entered into both, and though Hutchinson's name and life are better known, it is rather because of the beauty and power with which his story was told, by a wife who worshipped him, than because of actually greater desert. But the first rush of free thought ennobled many men who in the old chains would have lived lives with nothing in them worth noting, and names full of meaning are on every page of the story of the time. We have seen how the whole ideal of daily life had altered, as the Puritan element gained ground, and the influence affected the thought and life--even the speech of their opponents. A writer on English literature remarks: "In one sense, the reign of James is the most religious part of our history; for religion was then fashionable. The forms of state, the king's speeches, the debates in parliament and the current literature, were filled with quotations from Scripture and quaint allusions to sacred things." Even the soldier studied divinity, and Colonel Hutchinson, after his "fourteen months various exercise of his mind, in the pursuit of his love, being now at rest in the enjoyment of his wife," thought it the most natural thing in the world to make "an entrance upon the study of school divinity, wherein his father was the most eminent scholar of any gentleman in England and had a most choice library.... Having therefore gotten into the house with him an excellent scholar in that kind of learning, he for two years made it the whole employment of his time." Much of such learning Simon Bradstreet had taken in unconsciously in the constant discussions about his father's table, as well as in the university alive to every slightest change in doctrine, where freer but fully as interested talk went on. Puritanism had as yet acquired little of the bitterness and rigor born of persecution, but meant simply emancipated thought, seeking something better than it had known, but still claiming all the good the world held for it. Milton is the ideal Puritan of the time, and something of the influences that surrounded his youth were in the home of every well-born Puritan. Even much farther down in the social scale, a portrait remains of a London house mother, which may stand as that of many, whose sons and daughters passed over at last to the new world, hopeless of any quiet or peace in the old. It is a turner in Eastcheap, Nehemiah Wallington, who writes of his mother: "She was very loving and obedient to her parents, loving and kind to her husband, very tender-hearted to her children, loving all that were godly, much misliking the wicked and profane. She was a pattern of sobriety unto many, very seldom was seen abroad except at church; when others recreated themselves at holidays and other times, she would take her needle-work and say--'here is my recreation'.... God had given her a very pregnant wit and an excellent memory. She was very ripe and perfect in all stories of the Bible, likewise in all the stories of the Martyrs, and could readily turn to them; she was also perfect and well seen in the English Chronicles, and in the descents of the Kings of England. She lived in holy wedlock with her husband twenty years, wanting but four days." If the influence of the new thought was so potent with a class who in the Tudor days had made up the London mob, and whose signature, on the rare occasions when anybody wanted it, had been a mark, the middle class, including professional men, felt it infinitely more. In the early training with many, as with Milton's father, music was a passion; there was nothing illiberal or narrow. In Milton's case he writes: "My father destined me while yet a little boy to the study of humane letters; which I seized with such eagerness that from the twelth year of my age I scarcely ever went from my lessons to my bed before midnight." "To the Greek, Latin and Hebrew learned at school the scrivener advised him to add Italian and French. Nor were English letters neglected. Spencer gave the earliest turn to the boy's poetic genius. In spite of the war between playwright and precisian, a Puritan youth could still in Milton's days avow his love of the stage, 'if Jonson's learned sock be on, or sweetest Shakspeare Fancy's child, warble his native wood-notes wild' and gather from the 'masques and antique pageantry,' of the court revels, hints for his own 'Comus' and 'Arcades'." Simon Bradstreet's year at Cambridge probably held much the same experience, and if a narrowing faith in time taught him to write it down as "all unprofitable," there is no doubt that it helped to broaden his nature and establish the Catholic-mindedness which in later years, in spite of every influence against it, was one of his distinguishing characteristics. In the meantime he was a delightful companion. Cut off by his principles from much that passed as enjoyment, hating the unbridled licentiousness, the "ornate beastliness," of the Stuart reign, he like others of the same faith took refuge in intellectual pleasures. Like Colonel Hutchinson--and this portrait, contrary in all points to the preconceived idea, is a typical one--he "could dance admirably well, but neither in youth nor riper years made any practice of it; he had skill in fencing such as became a gentleman; he had great love to music and often diverted himself with a viol, on which he played masterly; he had an exact ear and judgment in other music; he shot excellently in bows and guns, and much used them for his exercise; he had great judgment in paintings, graving, sculpture, and all liberal arts, and had many curiosities of value in all kinds; he took great delight in perspective glasses, and, for his other rarities was not so much affected with the antiquity as the merit of the work; he took much pleasure in improvement of grounds, in planting groves and walks and fruit trees, in opening springs, and making fish-ponds." All these tastes were almost indispensable to anyone filling the position which, alike, Dudley and Bradstreet held. "Steward" then, had a very different meaning from any associated with it now, and great estates were left practically in the hands of managers while the owners busied themselves in other directions, relying upon the good taste as well as the financial ability of the men who, as a rule, proved more than faithful to the trust. The first two years of marriage were passed in England, and held the last genuine social life and intellectual development that Anne Bradstreet was to enjoy. The love of learning was not lost in the transition from one country to another, but it took on more and more a theological bias, and embodied itself chiefly in sermons and interminable doctrinal discussions. Even before the marriage, Dudley had decided to join the New England colony, but Simon Bradstreet hesitated and lingered, till forced to a decision by the increasing shadow of persecution. Had they remained in England, there is little doubt that Anne Bradstreet's mind, sensitively alive as it was to every fine influence, would have developed in a far different direction to that which it finally took. The directness and joyous life of the Elizabethan literature had given place to the euphuistic school, and as the Puritans put aside one author after another as "not making for godliness," the strained style, the quirks and conceits of men like Quarles and Withers came to represent the highest type of literary effort. But no author had the influence of Du Bartas, whose poems had been translated by Joshua Sylvester in 1605, under the title of "Du Bartas. His Duuine Weekes and Workes, with a Complete Collection of all the other most delightfull Workes, Translated and Written by ye famous Philomusus, Josvah Sylvester, Gent." He in turn was an imitator; a French euphuist, whose work simply followed and patterned after that of Ronsard, whose popularity for a time had convinced France that no other poet had been before him, and that no successor could approach his power. He chose to study classical models rather than nature or life, and his most formidable poem, merely a beginning of some five or six thousand verses on "the race of French kings, descended from Francion, a child of Hector and a Trojan by birth," ended prematurely on the death of Charles IX, but served as a model for a generation of imitators. What spell lay in the involved and interminable pages the modern reader cannot decide, but Milton studied them, and affirmed that they had aided in forming his style, and Spenser wrote of him-- "And after thee, (du Bellay) 'gins Barras hie to raise His Heavenly muse, th' Almighty to adore. Live, happy spirits! th' honor of your name, And fill the world with never dying fame." Dryden, too, shared the infatuation, and in the Epistle Dedicatory to "The Spanish Friar," wrote: "I remember when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spenser a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester's 'Dubartas,' and was wrapt into an ecstasy when I read these lines: "'Now when the winter's keener breath began To crystallize the Baltic ocean; To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, And periwig with snow (wool) the bald-pate woods.' "I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian." Van Lann stigmatizes this poem, _Le Semaine ou Creation du Monde_, as "the marriage-register of science and verse, written by a Gascon Moses, who, to the minuteness of a Walt Whitman and the unction of a parish-clerk, added an occasional dignity superior to anything attained by the abortive epic of his master." But he had some subtle, and to the nineteenth century mind, inscrutable charm. Poets studied him and Anne Bradstreet did more than study; she absorbed them, till such originality as had been her portion perished under the weight. In later years she disclaimed the charge of having copied from him, but the infection was too thorough not to remain, and the assimilation had been so perfect that imitation was unconscious. There was everything in the life of Du Bartas to appeal to her imagination as well as her sympathy, and with her minute knowledge of history she relished his detail while reverencing his character. For Du Bartas was a French Puritan, holding the same religious views as Henry IV, before he became King of France, his strong religious nature appealing to every English reader. Born in 1544, of noble parents, and brought up, according to Michaud in the Biographic Universelle, to the profession of arms, he distinguished himself as a soldier and negotiater. Attached to the person of Prince Henry "in the capacity of gentleman in ordinary of his bedchamber, he was successfully employed by him on missions to Denmark, Scotland and England. He was at the battle of Ivry and celebrated in song the victory which he had helped to gain. He died four months after, in July, 1559, at the age of forty-six, in consequence of some wounds which had been badly healed. He passed all the leisure which his duties left him, at his chateau du Bartas. It was there that he composed his long and numerous poems.... His principal poem, _La Semaine,_ went through more than thirty editions in less than six years, and was translated into Latin, Italian, Spanish, English, German and Dutch." The influence was an unfortunate one. Nature had already been set aside so thoroughly that, as with Dryden, Spenser was regarded as common-place and even puerile, and the record of real life or thought as no part of a poet's office. Such power of observation as Anne Bradstreet had was discouraged in the beginning, and though later it asserted itself in slight degree, her early work shows no trace of originality, being, as we are soon to see, merely a rhymed paraphrase of her reading. That she wrote verse, not included in any edition of her poems, we know, the earliest date assigned there being 1632, but the time she had dreaded was at hand, and books and study went the way of many other pleasant things. With the dread must have mingled a certain thrill of hope and expectation common to every thinking man and woman who in that seventeenth century looked to the New World to redress every wrong of the Old, and who watched every movement of the little band that in Holland waited, for light on the doubtful and beclouded future. The story of the first settlement needs no repetition here. The years in Holland had knit the little band together more strongly and lastingly than proved to be the case with any future company, their minister, John Robinson, having infused his own intense and self-abnegating nature into every one. That the Virginian colonies had suffered incredibly they knew, but it had no power to dissuade them. "We are well weaned," John Robinson wrote, "from the delicate milk of the mother-country, and inured to the difficulties of a strange land; the people are industrious and frugal. We are knit together as a body in a most sacred covenant of the Lord, of the violation whereof we make great conscience, and by virtue whereof, we hold ourselves strictly tied to all care of each other's good and of the whole. It is not with us, as with men whom small things can discourage." By 1629, the worst difficulties had been overcome, and the struggle for mere existence had ended. The little colony, made up chiefly of hard working men, had passed through every phase of suffering. Sickness and famine had done their worst. The settlers were thoroughly acclimated, and as they prospered, more and more the eyes of Puritan England turned toward them, with a longing for the same freedom. Laud's hand was heavy and growing heavier, and as privileges lessened, and one after another found fine, or pillory, or banishment awaiting every expression of thought, the eagerness grew and intensified. As yet there had been no separation from the Mother Church. It had simply "divided into two great parties, the Prelatical or Hierarchical, headed by Laud, and the Nonconformist or Puritan." For the latter, Calvin had become the sole authority, and even as early as 1603, their preachers made up more than a ninth of the clergy. The points of disagreement increased steadily, each fresh severity from the Prelatical party being met by determined resistance, and a stubborn resolution never to yield an inch of the new convictions. No clearer presentation of the case is to be found anywhere than in Mason's life of Milton, the poet's life being absolutely contemporaneous with the cause, and his own experience came to be that of hundreds. From his childhood he had been set apart for the ministry, but he was as he wrote in later life, with a bitterness he never lost, "Church-outed by the prelates." "Coming to some maturity of years, and perceiving what tyranny had invaded in the Church, that he who would take orders, must subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which, unless he took with a conscience that would retch, he must either straight perjure or split his faith, I thought it better to prefer a blameless silence before the sacred office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswearing." Each year of the increasing complications found a larger body enrolled on his side, and with 1629, Simon Bradstreet resigned any hope of life in England, and cast in his fortunes once for all with the projected colony. In dissolving his third Parliament Charles had granted the charter for the Massachusetts Colony, and seizing upon this as a "Providential call," the Puritans at once circulated "conclusions" among gentry and traders, and full descriptions of Massachusetts. Already many capitalists deemed encouragement of the emigration an excellent speculation, but the prospective emigrants had no mind to be ruled by a commercial company at home, and at last, after many deliberations, the old company was dissolved; the officers resigned and their places were filled by persons who proposed to emigrate. Two days before this change twelve gentlemen met at Cambridge and "pledged themselves to each other to embark for New England with their families for a permanent residence." "Provided always, that, before the last of September next, the whole government, together with the patent for the said plantation, be first legally transferred." Dudley's name was one of the twelve, and at another meeting in October he was also present, with John Winthrop, who was shortly chosen governor. A day or two later, Dudley was made assistant governor, and in the early spring of 1630, but a few days before sailing Simon Bradstreet was elected to the same office in the place of Mr. Thomas Goffe. One place of trust after another was filled by the two men, whose history henceforward is that of New England. Dudley being very shortly made "undertaker," that is, to be one of those having "the sole managinge of the joynt stock, wth all things incydent theronto, for the space of 7 years." Even for the sternest enthusiasts, the departure seemed a banishment, though Winthrop spoke the mind of all when he wrote, "I shall call that my country where I may most glorify God and enjoy the presence of my dearest friends." For him the dearest were left behind for a time, and in all literature there is no tenderer letter than that in which his last words go to the wife whom he loved with all the strength of his nature, and the parting from whom, was the deepest proof that could have been of his loyalty to the cause he had made his own. As he wrote the Arbella was riding at anchor at Cowes, waiting for favorable winds. Some of the party had gone on shore, and all longed to end these last hours of waiting which simply prolonged a pain that even the most determined and resolute among them, felt to be almost intolerable. Many messages went back carried by friends who lingered at Cowes for the last look at the vanishing sails, but none better worth record than the words which hold the man's deep and tender soul. "And now, my sweet soul, I must once again take my last farewell of thee in old England. It goeth very near to my heart to leave thee, but I know to whom I have committed thee, even to Him, who loves thee much better than any husband can; who hath taken account of the hairs of thy head, and puts all thy tears in his bottle; who can, and (if it be for his glory) will, bring us together again with peace and comfort. Oh, how it refresheth my heart to think, that I shall yet again see thy sweet face in the land of the living; that lovely countenance that I have so much delighted in, and beheld with so great content! I have hitherto been so taken up with business, as I could seldom look back to my former happiness; but now when I shall be at some leisure, I shall not avoid the remembrance of thee, nor the grief for thy absence. Thou hast thy share with me, but I hope the course we have agreed upon will be some ease to us both. Mondays and Fridays at five o'clock at night we shall meet in spirit till we meet in person. Yet if all these hopes should fail, blessed be our God, that we are assured we shall meet one day, if not as husband and wife, yet in a better condition. Let that stay and comfort thine heart. Neither can the sea drown thy husband, nor enemies destroy, nor any adversity deprive thee of thy husband or children. Therefore I will only take thee now and my sweet children in mine arms, and kiss and embrace you all, and so leave you with God. Farewell, farewell. I bless you all in the name of the Lord Jesus." "Farewell, dear England!" burst from the little group on that 8th of April, 1630, when at last, a favorable wind bore them out to sea, and Anne Bradstreet's voice had part in that cry of pain and longing, as the shores grew dim and "home faded from their sight. But one comfort or healing remained for them, in the faith that had been with all from the beginning, one record being for them and the host who preceded and followed their flight. So they left that goodly and pleasant city which had been their resting place; ... but they knew they were pilgrims and looked not much on those things, but lift up their eyes to the heavens, their dearest country, and quieted their spirits." CHAPTER III. THE VOYAGE. It is perhaps the fault of the seventeenth century and its firm belief that a woman's office was simply to wait such action as man might choose to take, that no woman's record remains of the long voyage or the first impressions of the new country. For the most of them writing was by no means a familiar task, but this could not be said of the women on board the Arbella, who had known the highest cultivation that the time afforded. But poor Anne Bradstreet's young "heart rose," to such a height that utterance may have been quite stifled, and as her own family were all with her, there was less need of any chronicle. For all details, therefore, we are forced to depend on the journal kept by Governor Winthrop, who busied himself not only with this, making the first entry on that Easter Monday which found them riding at anchor at Cowes, but with another quite as characteristic piece of work. A crowded storm-tossed ship, is hardly a point to which one looks for any sustained or fine literary composition, but the little treatise, "A Model of Christian Charity," the fruit of long and silent musing on the new life awaiting them, holds the highest thought of the best among them, and was undoubtedly read with the profoundest feeling and admiration, as it took shape in the author's hands. There were indications even in the first fervor of the embarkation, that even here some among them thought "every man upon his own," while greater need of unselfishness and self-renunciation had never been before a people. "Only by mutual love and help," and "a grand, patient, self-denial," was there the slightest hope of meeting the demands bound up with the new conditions, and Winthrop wrote--"We must be knit together in this work as one man. We must entertain each other in brotherly affection. We must be willing to abridge ourselves of our superfluities for the supply of others' necessities. We must uphold a familiar commerce together, in all meekness, gentleness, patience and liberality. We must delight in each other; make others' conditions our own; rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes, our commission and community in the work as members of the same body." A portion of this body were as closely united as if forming but one family. The lady Arbella, in compliment to whom the ship, which had been first known as The Eagle, had been re-christened, had married Mr. Isaac Johnson, one of the wealthiest members of the party. She was a sister of the Earl of Lincoln who had come to the title in 1619, and whose family had a more intimate connection with the New England settlements than that of any other English nobleman. Her sister Susan had become the wife of John Humfrey, another member of the company, and the close friendship between them and the Dudleys made it practically a family party. Anne Bradstreet had grown up with both sisters, and all occupied themselves in such ways as their cramped quarters would allow. Space was of the narrowest, and if the Governor and his deputies indulged themselves in spreading out papers, there would be small room for less important members of the expedition. But each had the little Geneva Bible carried by every Puritan, and read it with a concentrated eagerness born of the sense that they had just escaped its entire loss, and there were perpetual religious exercises of all varieties, with other more secular ones recorded in the Journal. In the beginning there had been some expectation that several other ships would form part of the expedition, but they were still not in sailing order and thus the first entry records "It was agreed, (it being uncertain when the rest of the fleet would be ready) these four ships should consort together; the Arbella to be Admiral, the Talbot Vice-Admiral, the Ambrose Rear-Admiral, and the Jewel a Captain; and accordingly articles of consortship were drawn between the said captains and masters." The first week was one of small progress, for contrary winds drove them back persistently and they at last cast anchor before Yarmouth, and with the feeling that some Jonah might be in their midst ordered a fast for Friday, the 2d of April, at which time certain light-minded "landmen, pierced a runlet of strong water, and stole some of it, for which we laid them in bolts all the night, and the next morning the principal was openly whipped, and both kept with bread and water that day." Nothing further happened till Monday, when excitement was afforded for the younger members of the party at least, as "A maid of Sir Robert Saltonstall fell down at the grating by the cook-room, but the carpenter's man, who unwittingly, occasioned her fall caught hold of her with incredible nimbleness, and saved her; otherwise she had fallen into the hold." Tuesday, finding that the wind was still against them, the captain drilled the landmen with their muskets, "and such as were good shot among them were enrolled to serve in the ship if occasion should be"; while the smell of powder and the desire, perhaps, for one more hour on English soil, made the occasion for another item: "The lady Arbella and the gentlewomen, and Mr. Johnson and some others went on shore to refresh themselves." The refreshment was needed even then. Anne Bradstreet was still extremely delicate, never having fully recovered from the effects of the small-pox, and the Lady Arbella's health must have been so also, as it failed steadily through the voyage, giving the sorest anxiety to her husband and every friend on board. It is evident from an entry in Anne Bradstreet's diary after reaching New England that even the excitement of change and the hope common to all of a happy future, was not strong enough to keep down the despondency which came in part undoubtedly from her weak health. The diary is not her own thoughts or impressions of the new life, but simply bits of religious experience; an autobiography of the phase with which we could most easily dispense. "After a short time I changed my condition and was married, and came into this country, where I found a new world and new manners at which my heart rose. But after I was convinced it was the will of God I submitted to it and joined to the church at Boston." This rebellion must have been from the beginning, for every inch of English soil was dear to her, but she concealed it so thoroughly, that no one suspected the real grief which she looked upon as rebellion to the will of God. Conservative in thought and training, and with the sense of humor which might have lightened some phases of the new dispensation, almost destroyed by the Puritan faith, which more and more altered the proportions of things, making life only a grim battle with evil, and the days doings of absolute unimportance save as they advanced one toward heaven, she accepted discomfort or hardship with quiet patience. There must have been unfailing interest, too, in the perpetual chances and changes of the perilous voyage. They had weighed anchor finally on the 8th of April, and were well under way on the morning of the 9th, when their journey seemed suddenly likely to end then and there. The war between Spain and England was still going on, and privateers known as Dunkirkers, were lying in wait before every English harbor. Thus there was reason enough for apprehension, when, "In the morning we descried from the top, eight sail astern of us.... We supposing they might be Dunkirkers, our captain caused the gun room and gun deck to be cleared; all the hammocks were taken down, our ordnance loaded, and our powder chests and fireworks made ready, and our landmen quartered among the seamen, and twenty-five of them appointed for muskets, and every man written down for his quarter. "The wind continued N. with fair weather, and after noon it calmed, and we still saw those eight ships to stand towards us; having more wind than we, they came up apace, so as our captain and the masters of our consorts were more occasioned to think they might be Dunkirkers, (for we were told at Yarmouth, that there were ten sail of them waiting for us); whereupon we all prepared to fight with them, and took down some cabins which were in the way of our ordnance, and out of every ship were thrown such bed matters as were subject to take fire, and we heaved out our long boats and put up our waste cloths, and drew forth our men and armed them with muskets and other weapons, and instruments for fireworks; and for an experiment our captain shot a ball of wild fire fastened to an arrow out of a cross bow, which burnt in the water a good time. The lady Arbella and the other women and children, were removed into the lower deck, that they might be out of danger. All things being thus fitted, we went to prayer upon the upper deck. It was much to see how cheerful and comfortable all the company appeared; not a woman or child that shewed fear, though all did apprehend the danger to have been great, if things had proved as might well be expected, for there had been eight against four, and the least of the enemy's ships were reported to carry thirty brass pieces; but our trust was in the Lord of Hosts; and the courage of our captain, and his care and diligence did much to encourage us. "It was now about one of the clock, and the fleet seemed to be within a league of us; therefore our captain, because he would show he was not afraid of them, and that he might see the issue before night should overtake us, tacked about and stood to meet them, and when we came near we perceived them to be our friends-- the little Neptune, a ship of some twenty pieces of ordnance, and her two consorts, bound for the Straits, a ship of Flushing, and a Frenchman and three other English ships bound for Canada and Newfoundland. So when we drew near, every ship (as they met) saluted each other, and the musketeers discharged their small shot, and so (God be praised) our fear and danger was turned into mirth and friendly entertainment. Our danger being thus over, we espied two boats on fishing in the channel; so every one of our four ships manned out a skiff, and we bought of them great store of excellent fresh fish of divers sorts." It is an astonishing fact, that no line in Anne Bradstreet's poems has any reference to this experience which held every alternation of hope and fear, and which must have moved them beyond any other happening of the long voyage. But, inward states, then as afterward, were the only facts that seemed worthy of expression, so far as she personally was concerned, and they were all keyed to a pitch which made danger even welcome, as a test of endurance and genuine purpose. But we can fancy the dismay of every house-wife as the limited supply of "bed matters," went the way of many other things "subject to take fire." Necessarily the household goods of each had been reduced to the very lowest terms, and as the precious rugs and blankets sunk slowly, or for a time defied the waves and were tossed from crest to crest, we may be sure that the heart of every woman, in the end at least, desired sorely that rescue might be attempted. Sheets had been dispensed with, to avoid the accumulation of soiled linen, for the washing of which no facilities could be provided, and Winthrop wrote of his boys to his wife in one of his last letters, written as they rode at anchor before Cowes, "They lie both with me, and sleep as soundly in a rug (for we use no sheets here) as ever they did at Groton; and so I do myself, (I praise God)." Among minor trials this was not the least, for the comfort we associate with English homes, had developed, under the Puritan love of home, to a degree that even in the best days of the Elizabethan time was utterly unknown. The faith which demanded absolute purity of life, included the beginning of that cleanliness which is "next to godliness," if not an inherent part of godliness itself, and fine linen on bed and table had become more and more a necessity. The dainty, exquisite neatness that in the past has been inseparable from the idea of New England, began with these Puritan dames, who set their floating home in such order as they could, and who seized the last opportunity at Yarmouth of going on shore, not only for refreshment, but to wash neckbands and other small adornments, which waited two months for any further treatment of this nature. There were many resources, not only in needlework and the necessary routine of each day, but in each other. The two daughters of Sir Robert Saltonstall, Mrs. Phillips the minister's wife, the wives of Nowell, Coddington and others made up the group of gentlewomen who dined with Lady Arbella in "the great cabin," the greatness of which will be realized when the reader reflects that the ship was but three hundred and fifty tons burden and could carry aside from the fifty or so sailors, but thirty passengers, among whom were numbered various discreet and reputable "young gentlemen" who, as Winthrop wrote, "behave themselves well, and are conformable to all good orders," one or two of whom so utilized their leisure that the landing found them ready for the marriage bells that even Puritan asceticism still allowed to be rung. Disaster waited upon them, even when fairly under way. Winthrop, whose family affection was intense, and whose only solace in parting with his wife had been, that a greatly loved older son, as well as two younger ones were his companions, had a sore disappointment, entered in the journal, with little comment on its personal bearings. "The day we set sail from Cowes, my son Henry Winthrop went on shore with one of my servants, to fetch an ox and ten wethers, which he had provided for our ship, and there went on shore with him Mr. Pelham and one of his servants. They sent the cattle aboard, but returned not themselves. About three days after my servant and a servant of Mr. Pelham's came to us in Yarmouth, and told us they were all coming to us in a boat the day before, but the wind was so strong against them as they were forced on shore in the night, and the two servants came to Yarmouth by land, and so came on shipboard, but my son and Mr. Pelham (we heard) went back to the Cowes and so to Hampton. We expected them three or four days after, but they came not to us, so we have left them behind, and suppose they will come after in Mr. Goffe's ships. We were very sorry they had put themselves upon such inconvenience when they were so well accommodated in our ship." A fresh gale on the day of this entry encouraged them all; they passed the perils of Scilly and looked for no further delay when a fresh annoyance was encountered which, for the moment, held for the women at least, something of the terror of their meeting with supposed "Dunkirkers." "About eight in the morning, ... standing to the W. S. W. we met two small ships, which falling in among us, and the Admiral coming under our lee, we let him pass, but the Jewel and Ambrose, perceiving the other to be a Brazilman, and to take the wind of us, shot at them, and made them stop and fall after us, and sent a skiff aboard them to know what they were. Our captain, fearing lest some mistake might arise, and lest they should take them for enemies which were friends, and so, through the unruliness of the mariners some wrong might be done them, caused his skiff to be heaved out, and sent Mr. Graves, one of his mates and our pilot (a discreet man) to see how things were, who returned soon after, and brought with him the master of one of the ships, and Mr. Lowe and Mr. Hurlston. When they were come aboard to us, they agreed to send for the captain, who came and showed his commission from the Prince of Orange. In conclusion he proved to be a Dutchmen, and his a man of war from Flushing, and the other ship was a prize he had taken, laden with sugar and tobacco; so we sent them aboard their ships again, and held on our course. In this time (which hindered us five or six leagues) the Jewel and the Ambrose came foul of each other, so as we much feared the issue, but, through God's mercy, they came well off again, only the Jewel had her foresail torn, and one of her anchors broken. This occasion and the sickness of our minister and people, put us all out of order this day, so as we could have no sermons." No words hold greater force of discomfort and deprivation than that one line, "so as we could have no sermons," for the capacity for this form of "temperate entertainment," had increased in such ratio, that the people sat spell bound, four hours at a stretch, both hearers and speaker being equally absorbed. Winthrop had written of himself at eighteen, in his "Christain Experience": "I had an insatiable thirst after the word of God; and could not misse a good sermon, though many miles off, especially of such as did search deep into the conscience," and to miss this refreshment even for a day, seemed just so much loss of the needed spiritual food. But the wind, which blew "a stiffe gale," had no respect of persons, and all were groaning together till the afternoon of the next day, when a device occurred to some inventive mind, possibly that of Mistress Bradstreet herself, which was immediately carried out. "Our children and others that were sick and lay groaning in the cabins, we fetched out, and having stretched a rope from the steerage to the main mast, we made them stand, some of one side and some of the other, and sway it up and down till they were warm, and by this means they soon grew well and merry." The plan worked well, and three days later, when the wind which had quieted somewhat, again blew a "stiffe gale," he was able to write: "This day the ship heaved and set more than before, yet we had but few sick, and of these such as came up upon the deck and stirred themselves, were presently well again; therefore our captain set our children and young men, to some harmless exercises, which the seamen were very active in, and did our people much good, though they would sometimes play the wags with them." Wind and rain, rising often till the one was a gale and the other torrents, gave them small rest in that first week. The fish they had secured at Yarmouth returned to their own element, Winthrop mourning them as he wrote: "The storm was so great as it split our foresail and tore it in pieces, and a knot of the sea washed our tub overboard, wherein our fish was a-watering." The children had become good sailers, and only those were sick, who, like "the women kept under hatches." The suffering from cold was constant, and for a fortnight extreme, the Journal reading: "I wish, therefore, that all such as shall pass this way in the spring have care to provide warm clothing; for nothing breeds more trouble and danger of sickness, in this season, than cold." From day to day the little fleet exchanged signals, and now and then, when calm enough the masters of the various ships dined in the round-house of the Arbella, and exchanged news, as that, "all their people were in health, but one of their cows was dead." Two ships in the distance on the 24th of April, disturbed them for a time, but they proved to be friends, who saluted and "conferred together so long, till his Vice Admiral was becalmed by our sails, and we were foul one of another, but there being little wind and the sea calm, we kept them asunder with oars, etc., till they heaved out their boat, and so towed their ship away. They told us for certain, that the king of France had set out six of his own ships to recover the fort from them." Here was matter for talk among the travellers, whose interest in all that touched their future heightened day by day, and the item, with its troublous implications may have been the foundation of one of the numerous fasts recorded. May brought no suggestion of any quiet, though three weeks out, they had made but three hundred leagues, and the month opened with "a very great tempest all the night, with fierce showers of rain intermixed, and very cold.... Yet through God's mercy, we were very comfortable and few or none sick, but had opportunity to keep the Sabbath, and Mr. Phillips preached twice that day." Discipline was of the sharpest, the Puritan temper brooking no infractions of law and order. There were uneasy and turbulent spirits both among the crew and passengers, and in the beginning swift judgment fell upon two young men, who, "falling at odds and fighting, contrary to the orders which we had published and set up in the ship, were adjudged to walk upon the deck till night, with their hands bound behind them, which accordingly was executed; and another man for using contemptuous speeches in our presence, was laid in bolts till he submitted himself and promised open confession of his offence." Impressive as this undoubtedly proved to the "children and youth thereby admonished," a still greater sensation was felt among them on the discovery that "a servant of one of our company had bargained with a child to sell him a box worth three-pence for three biscuits a day all the voyage, and had received about forty and had sold them and many more to some other servants. We caused his hands to be tied up to a bar, and hanged a basket with stones about his neck, and so he stood two hours." Other fights are recorded, the cause a very evident one. "We observed it a common fault in our young people that they gave themselves to drink hot waters very immoderately." Brandy then as now was looked upon as a specific for sea-sickness, and "a maid servant in the ship, being stomach sick, drank so much strong water, that she was senseless, and had near killed herself." The constant cold and rain, the monotonous food, which before port was reached had occasioned many cases of scurvy and reduced the strength of all, was excuse enough for the occasional lapse into overindulgence which occurred, but the long penance was nearly ended. On the 8th of June Mount Mansell, now Mt. Desert, was passed, an enchanting sight for the sea-sad eyes of the travellers. A "handsome gale" drove them swiftly on, and we may know with what interest they crowded the decks and gazed upon these first glimpses of the new home. As they sailed, keeping well in to shore, and making the new features of hill and meadow and unfamiliar trees, Winthrop wrote: "We had now fair sunshine weather, and so pleasant a sweet air as did much refresh us, and there came a smell off the shore like the smell of a garden." Peril was past, and though fitful winds still tormented them, the 12th of May saw the long imprisonment ended, and they dropped anchor "a little within the islands," in the haven where they would be. CHAPTER IV. BEGINNINGS. There are travellers who insist that, as they near American shores in May or early June, the smell of corn-blossom is on the wind, miles out at sea, a delicate, distinct, penetrating odor, as thoroughly American as the clearness of the sky and the pure, fine quality in the air. The wild grape, growing as profusely to-day on the Cape as two hundred years ago, is even more powerful, the subtle, delicious fragrance making itself felt as soon as one approaches land. The "fine, fresh smell like a garden," which Winthrop notes more than once, came to them on every breeze from the blossoming land. Every charm of the short New England summer waited for them. They had not, like the first comers to that coast to disembark in the midst of ice and snow, but green hills sloped down to the sea, and wild strawberries were growing almost at high-tide mark. The profusion of flowers and berries had rejoiced Higginson in the previous year, their men rowing at once to "Ten Pound Island," and bringing back, he writes: "ripe strawberries and gooseberries and sweet single roses. Thus God was merciful to us in giving us a taste and smell of the sweet fruit, as an earnest of his bountiful goodness to welcome us at our first arrival." But no fairness of Nature could undo the sad impression of the first hour in the little colony at Salem, where the Arbella landed, three days before her companions reached there. Their own cares would have seemed heavy enough, but the winter had been a terrible one, and Dudley wrote later in his letter to the Countess of Lincoln: "We found the Colony in a sad and unexpected condition, above eighty of them being dead the winter before; and many of those alive, weak and sick; all the corn and bread amongst them all, hardly sufficient to feed them a fortnight, insomuch that the remainder of a hundred and eighty servants we had the two years before sent over, coming to us for victuals to sustain them, we found ourselves wholly unable to feed them, by reason that the provisions shipped for them were taken out of the ship they were put in, and they who were trusted to ship them in another, failed us and left them behind; whereupon necessity enforced us, to our extreme loss, to give them all liberty, who had cost us about L16 or L20 a person, furnishing and sending over." Salem holding only discouragement, they left it, exploring the Charles and the Mystic Rivers, and finally joining the settlement at Charlestown, to which Francis Higginson had gone the previous year, and which proved to be in nearly as desperate case as Salem. The Charlestown records as given in Young's "Chronicles of Massachusetts," tell the story of the first days of attempt at organization. The goods had all been unshipped at Salem and were not brought to Charlestown until July. In the meantime, "The Governor and several of the Patentees dwelt in the great house which was last year built in this town by Mr. Graves and the rest of their servants. The multitude set up cottages, booths and tents about the Town Hill. They had long passage; some of the ships were seventeen, some eighteen weeks a coming. Many people arrived sick of the scurvy, which also increased much after their arrival, for want of houses, and by reason of wet lodging in their cottages, etc. Other distempers also prevailed; and although [the] people were generally very loving and pitiful, yet the sickness did so prevail, that the whole were not able to tend the sick as they should be tended; upon which many perished and died, and were buried about the Town Hill." Saddest of all among these deaths must have been that of the Lady Arbella, of whom Mather in a later day, wrote: "She came from a paradise of plenty and pleasure, in the family of a noble earldom, into a wilderness of wants, and took New England in her way to heaven." There had been doubt as to the expediency of her coming, but with the wife of another explorer she had said: "Whithersoever your fatal destiny shall drive you, either by the waves of the great ocean, or by the manifold and horrible dangers of the land, I will surely bear you company. There can no peril chance to me so terrible, nor any kind of death so cruel, that shall not be much easier for me to abide, than to live so far separate from you." Weakened by the long voyage and its perpetual hardships, and dismayed, if may be at the sadness and privations of what they had hoped might hold immediate comfort, she could not rally, and Anne Bradstreet's first experience of New England was over the grave, in which they laid one of the closest links to childhood and that England both had loved alike. Within a month, Winthrop wrote in his journal: "September 30. About two in the morning, Mr. Isaac Johnson died; his wife, the lady Arbella, of the house of Lincoln, being dead about one month before. He was a holy man and wise, and died in sweet peace, leaving some part of his substance to the Colony." "He tried To live without her, liked it not and died." Still another tragedy had saddened them all, though in the press of overwhelming business, Winthrop wrote only: "Friday, July 2. My son Henry Winthrop drowned at Salem," and there is no other mention of himself till July 16, when he wrote the first letter to his wife from America. The loss was a heavy one to the colony as well as the father, for Henry Winthrop, though but twenty-two, had already had experience as a pioneer, having gone out to Barbadoes at eighteen, and became one of the earliest planters in that island. Ardent, energetic, and with his fathers deep tenderness for all who depended on him, he was one who could least be spared. "A sprightly and hopeful young gentleman he was," says Hubbard, and another chronicle gives more minute details. "The very day on which he went on shore in New England, he and the principal officers of the ship, walking out to a place now called by the Salemites, Northfield, to view the Indian wigwams, they saw on the other side of the river a small canoe. He would have had one of the company swim over and fetch it, rather than walk several miles on foot, it being very hot weather; but none of the party could swim but himself; and so he plunged in, and, as he was swimming over, was taken with the cramp a few roods from the shore and drowned." The father's letter is filled with an anguish of pity for the mother and the young wife, whose health, like that of the elder Mrs. Winthrop, had made the journey impossible for both. "I am so overpressed with business, as I have no time for these or other mine own private occasions. I only write now that thou mayest know, that yet I live and am mindful of thee in all my affairs. The larger discourse of all things thou shalt receive from my brother Downing, which I must send by some of the last ships. We have met with many sad and discomfortable things as thou shalt hear after; and the Lord's hand hath been heavy upon myself in some very near to me. My son Henry! My son Henry! Ah, poor child! Yet it grieves me much more for my dear daughter. The Lord strengthen and comfort her heart to bear this cross patiently. I know thou wilt not be wanting to her in this distress." Not one of the little colony was wanting in tender offices in these early days when a common suffering made them "very pitiful one to another," and as the absolutely essential business was disposed of they hastened to organize the church where free worship should make amends for all the long sorrow of its search. A portion of the people from the Arbella had remained in Salem, but on Friday, July 3Oth, 1630, Winthrop, Dudley, Johnson and Wilson entered into a church covenant, which was signed two days after by Increase Nowell and four others--Sharpe, Bradstreet, Gager and Colborne. It is most probable that Anne Bradstreet had been temporarily separated from her husband, as Johnson in his "Wonder-working Providence," writes, that after the arrival at Salem, "the lady Arrabella and some other godly women aboad at Salem, but their husbands continued at Charles Town, both for the settling the Civill Government and gathering another Church of Christ." The delay was a short one, for her name stands thirteenth on the list. Charlestown, however, held hardly more promise of quiet life than Salem. The water supply was, curiously enough, on a peninsula which later gave excellent water, only "a brackish spring in the sands by the water side ... which could not supply half the necessities of the multitude, at which time the death of so many was concluded to be much the more occasioned by this want of good water." Heat was another evil to the constitutions which knew only the equable English temperature, and could not face either the intense sun, or the sudden changes of the most erratic climate the earth knows. In the search for running-water, the colonists scattered, moving from point to point, "the Governor, the Deputy-Governor and all the assistants except Mr. Nowell going across the river to Boston at the invitation of Mr. Blaxton, who had until then been its only white inhabitant." Even the best supplied among them were but scantily provided with provisions. It was too late for planting, and the colony already established was too wasted and weakened by sickness to have cared for crops in the planting season. In the long voyage "there was miserable damage and spoil of provisions by sea, and divers came not so well provided as they would, upon a report, whilst they were in England, that now there was enough in New England." Even this small store was made smaller by the folly of several who exchanged food for beaver skins, and, the Council suddenly finding that famine was imminent "hired and despatched away Mr. William Pearce with his ship of about two hundred tons, for Ireland to buy more, and in the mean time went on with their work of settling." The last month of the year had come before they could decide where the fortified town, made necessary by Indian hostilities, should be located. The Governor's house had been partly framed at Charlestown, but with the removal to Boston it was taken down, and finally Cambridge was settled upon as the most desirable point, and their first winter was spent there. Here for the first time it was possible for Anne Bradstreet to unpack their household belongings, and seek to create some semblance of the forsaken home. But even for the Dudleys, among the richest members of the party there was a privation which shows how sharply it must have fared with the poorer portion, and Dudley wrote, nine months after their arrival, that he "thought fit to commit to memory our present condition, and what hath befallen us since our arrival here; which I will do shortly, after my usual manner, and must do rudely, having yet no table, nor other room to write in than by the fireside upon my knee, in this sharp winter; to which my family must have leave to resort, though they break good manners, and make me many times forget what I would say, and say what I would not." No word of Mistress Dudley's remains to tell the shifts and strivings for comfort in that miserable winter which, mild as it was, had a keenness they were ill prepared to face. Petty miseries and deprivations, the least endurable of all forms of suffering, surrounded them like a cloud of stinging insects, whose attacks, however intolerable at the moment, are forgotten with the passing, and either for this reason, or from deliberate purpose, there is not a line of reference to them in any of Anne Bradstreet's writings. Scarcity of food was the sorest trouble. The Charlestown records show that "people were necessitated to live upon clams and muscles and ground nuts and acorns, and these got with much difficulty in the winter-time. People were very much tried and discouraged, especially when they heard that the Governor himself had the last batch of bread in the oven." All fared alike so far as possible, the richer and more provident distributing to the poor, and all watching eagerly for the ship sent back in July in anticipation of precisely such a crisis. Six months had passed, when, on the fifth of February, 1631, Mather records that as Winthrop stood at his door giving "the last handful of meal in the barrel unto a poor man distressed by the wolf at the door, at that instant, they spied a ship arrived at the harbor's mouth with provisions for them all." The Fast day just appointed became one of rejoicing, the first formal proclamation for Thanksgiving Day being issued, "by order of the Governour and Council, directed to all the plantations, and though the stores held little reminder of holiday time in Old England, grateful hearts did not stop to weigh differences. In any case the worst was past and early spring brought the hope of substantial comfort, for the town was 'laid out in squares, the streets intersecting each other at right-angles,' and houses were built as rapidly as their small force of carpenters could work. Bradstreet's house was at the corner of 'Brayntree' and Wood Streets, the spot now occupied by the familiar University Book- store of Messrs. Sever and Francis on Harvard Square, his plot of ground being 'aboute one rood,' and Dudley's on a lot of half an acre was but a little distance from them at the corner of the present Dunster and South Streets." Governor Winthrop's decision not to remain here, brought about some sharp correspondence between Dudley and himself, but an amicable settlement followed after a time, and though the frame of his house was removed to Boston, the town grew in spite of its loss, so swiftly that in 1633, Wood wrote of it: "This is one of the neatest and best compacted Towns in New England, having many fair structures, with many handsome contrived streets. The inhabitants most of them are very rich and well stored with Cattell of all sorts." Rich as they may have appeared, however, in comparison with many of the settlements about them, sickness and want were still unwelcome guests among them, so that Dudley wrote: "there is not a house where there is not one dead and in some houses many. The natural causes seem to be in the want of warm lodging and good diet, to which Englishmen are habituated at home, and in the sudden increase of heat which they endure that are landed here in summer, the salt meats at sea having prepared their bodies thereto; for those only these two last years died of fevers who landed in June and July; as those of Plymouth, who landed in winter, died of the scurvey, as did our poorer sort, whose houses and bedding kept them not sufficiently warm, nor their diet sufficiently in heart." Thus far there were small inducements for further emigration. The tide poured in steadily, but only because worse evils were behind than semi-starvation in New England. The fairest and fullest warning was given by Dudley, whose letter holds every strait and struggle of the first year, and who wrote with the intention of counteracting the too rosy statements of Higginson and Graves: "If any come hither to plant for worldly ends that can live well at home, he commits an error, of which he will soon repent him; but if for spiritual, and that no particular obstacle hinder his removal, he may find here what may well content him, viz., materials to build, fuel to burn, ground to plant, seas and rivers to fish in, a pure air to breathe in, good water to drink till wine or beer can be made; which together with the cows, hogs and goats brought hither already, may suffice for food; for as for fowl and venison, they are dainties here as well as in England. For clothes and bedding, they must bring them with them, till time and industry produce them here. In a word, we yet enjoy little to be envied, but endure much to be pitied in the sickness and mortality of our people. And I do the more willingly use this open and plain dealing, lest other men should fall short of their expectations when they come hither, as we to our great prejudice did, by means of letters sent us from hence into England, wherein honest men, out of a desire to draw over others to them, wrote something hyperbolically of many things here. If any godly men, out of religious ends, will come over to help us in the good work we are about, I think they cannot dispose of themselves nor their estates more to God's glory and the furtherance of their own reckoning. But they must not be of the poorer sort yet, for divers years; for we have found by experience that they have hindered, not furthered the work. And for profane and debauched persons, their oversight in coming hither is wondered at, where they shall find nothing to content them." This long quotation is given in full to show the fair temper of the man, who as time went on was slightly less in favor than in the beginning. No one questioned his devotion to the cause, or the energy with which he worked for it, but as he grew older he lost some portion of the old urbanity, exchanging it disastrously for traits which would seem to have been the result of increasing narrowness of religious faith rather than part of his real self. Savage writes of him: "a hardness in publick and ridgidity in private life, are too observable in his character, and even an eagerness for pecuniary gain, which might not have been expected in a soldier and a statesman." That the impression was general is evident from an epitaph written upon him by Governor Belcher, who may, however, have had some personal encounter with this "rigidity," which was applied to all without fear or favor. "Here lies Thomas Dudley, that trusty old stud, A bargain's a bargain and must be made good." Whatever his tendencies may have been they did not weigh heavily on his family, who delighted in his learning and devoted spirit, and whose affection was strong enough to atone for any criticism from outsiders. Objectionable as his methods may sometimes have been--sour as his compatriots now and then are said to have found him, "the world it appears, is indebted for much of its progress, to uncomfortable and even grumpy people," and Tyler whose analysis of the Puritan character has never been surpassed, writes of them: "Even some of the best of them, perhaps, would have seemed to us rather pragmatical and disputatious persons, with all the edges and corners of their characters left sharp, with all their opinions very definitely formed, and with their habits of frank utterance quite thoroughly matured. Certainly ... they do not seem to have been a company of gentle, dreamy and euphemistical saints, with a particular aptitude for martyrdom and an inordinate development of affability." They argued incessantly, at home and abroad, and "this exacting and tenacious propensity of theirs, was not a little criticized by some who had business connections with them." Very probably Governor Belcher had been worsted in some wordy battle, always decorously conducted, but always persistent, but these minor infelicities did not affect the main purposes of life, and the settlement grew in spite of them; perhaps even, because of them, free speech being, as yet, the privilege of all, though as the answering became in time a little too free, means were taken to insure more discretion. In the meantime Cambridge grew, and suddenly arose a complaint, which to the modern mind is preposterous. "Want of room" was the cry of every citizen and possibly with justice, as the town had been set within fixed limits and had nearly doubled in size through the addition in August, 1632, of the congregation of the Rev. Thomas Hooker at Chelmsford in the county of Essex, England, who had fallen under Laud's displeasure, and escaped with difficulty, being pursued by the officers of the High Commission from one county to another, and barely eluding them when he took ship for New England. One would have thought the wilderness at their doors afforded sense of room enough, and that numbers would have been a welcome change, but the complaint was serious enough to warrant their sending out men to Ipswich with a view of settling there. Then for a time the question dropped, much to the satisfaction, no doubt, of Mistress Dudley and her daughter, to whom in 1633, or '34, the date being uncertain, came her first child, the son Samuel, who graduated at Harvard College in 1653, and of whom she wrote long after in the little diary of "Religious Experiences": "It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a great greif to me, and cost mee many prayers and tears before I obtained one, and after him gave mee many more of whom I now take the care." Cambridge still insisting that it had not room enough, the town was enlarged, but having accomplished this, both Dudley and Bradstreet left it for Ipswich, the first suggestion of which had been made in January, 1632, when news came to them that "the French had bought the Scottish plantation near Cape Sable, and that the fort and all the amunition were delivered to them, and that the cardinal, having the managing thereof, had sent many companies already, and preparation was made to send many more the next year, and divers priests and Jesuits among them---called the assistants to Boston, and the ministers and captains, and some other chief men, to advise what was fit to be done for our safety, in regard the French were like to prove ill neighbors, (being Papists)." Another change was in store for the patient women who followed the path laid open before them, with no thought of opposition, desiring only "room for such life as should in the ende return them heaven for an home that passeth not away," and with the record in Winthrop's journal, came the familiar discussion as to methods, and the decision which speedily followed. Dudley and Bradstreet as "assistants" both had voice in the conclusions of the meeting, the record of which has just been given, though with no idea, probably, at that time, that their own movements would be affected. It was settled at once that "a plantation and a fort should be begun at Natascott, partly to be some block in an enemy's way (though it could not bar his entrance), and especially to prevent an enemy from taking that passage from us.... Also, that a plantation be begun at Agawam (being the best place in the land for tillage and cattle), least an enemy, finding it void should possess and take it from us. The governor's son (being one of the assistants) was to undertake this, and to take no more out of the bay than twelve men; the rest to be supplied, at the coming of the next ships." That they were not essential to Cambridge, but absolutely so at this weak point was plain to both Dudley and Bradstreet, who forthwith made ready for the change accomplished in 1634, when at least one other child, Dorothy, had come to Anne Bradstreet. Health, always delicate and always fluctuating, was affected more seriously than usual at this time, no date being given, but the period extending over several years, "After some time, I fell into a lingering sickness like a consumption, together with a lameness, which correction I saw the Lord sent to humble and try me and do me Good: and it was not altogether ineffectual." Patient soul! There were better days coming, but, self-distrust was, after her affections, her strongest point, and there is small hint of inward poise or calmness till years had passed, though she faced each change with the quiet dauntlessness that was part of her birthright. But the tragedy of their early days in the colony still shadowed her. Evidently no natural voice was allowed to speak in her, and the first poem of which we have record is as destitude of any poetic flavor, as if designed for the Bay Psalm- book. As the first, however, it demands place, if only to show from what she afterward escaped. That she preserved it simply as a record of a mental state, is evident from the fact, that it was never included in any edition of her poems, it having been found among her papers after her death. UPON A FIT OF SICKNESS, _Anno_. 1632. _Aetatis suce_, 19. Twice ten years old not fully told since nature gave me breath, My race is run, my thread is spun, lo! here is fatal Death. All men must dye, and so must I, this cannot be revoked, For Adam's sake, this word God spake, when he so high provoke'd. Yet live I shall, this life's but small, in place of highest bliss, Where I shall have all I can crave, no life is like to this. For what's this life but care and strife? since first we came from womb, Our strength doth waste, our time doth hast and then we go to th' Tomb. O Bubble blast, how long can'st last? that always art a breaking, No sooner blown, but dead and gone ev'n as a word that's speaking, O whil'st I live this grace me give, I doing good may be, Then death's arrest I shall count best because it's thy degree. Bestow much cost, there's nothing lost to make Salvation sure, O great's the gain, though got with pain, comes by profession pure. The race is run, the field is won, the victory's mine, I see, For ever know thou envious foe the foyle belongs to thee. This is simply very pious and unexceptionable doggerel and no one would admit such fact more quickly than Mistress Anne herself, who laid it away in after days in her drawer, with a smile at the metre and a sigh for the miserable time it chronicled. There were many of them, for among the same papers is a shorter burst of trouble: UPON SOME DISTEMPER OF BODY. In anguish of my heart repleat with woes, And wasting pains, which best my body knows, In tossing slumbers on my wakeful bed, Bedrencht with tears that flow from mournful head, Till nature had exhausted all her store, Then eyes lay dry disabled to weep more; And looking up unto his Throne on high, Who sendeth help to those in misery; He chas'd away those clouds and let me see, My Anchor cast i' th' vale with safety, He eas'd my soul of woe, my flesh of pain, And brought me to the shore from troubled Main. The same brooding and saddened spirit is found in some verses of the same period and written probably just before the birth of her third child, the latter part containing a touch of jealous apprehension that has been the portion of many a young mother, and that indicates more of human passion than could be inferred from anything in her first attempt at verse. All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joys attend; No tyes so strong, no friends so dear and sweet But with death's parting blow is sure to meet. The sentence past is most irrevocable A common thing, yet oh, inevitable; How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend, How soon 't may be thy Lot to lose thy friend! We both are ignorant, yet love bids me These farewell lines to recommend to thee, That when that knot's untyed that made us one, I may seem thine, who in effect am none. And if I see not half my dayes that's due, What nature would, God grant to yours and you; The many faults that well you know I have, Let be interred in my oblivious grave; If any worth or virtue were in me, Let that live freshly in thy memory, And when thou feel'st no grief as I no harms, Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms: And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains Look to my little babes my dear remains, And if thou love thyself, or loved'st me, These O protect from step-Dames injury. And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse, With some sad sighs honor my absent Herse; And kiss this paper for thy love's dear sake Who with salt tears this last farewell did take. --_A. B._ CHAPTER V. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. In spite of the fits of depression evident in most of the quotations thus far given, there were many alleviations, as life settled into more tolerable conditions, and one chief one was now very near. Probably no event in the first years of Anne Bradstreet's life in the little colony had as much significance for her as the arrival at Boston in 1633, of the Rev. John Cotton, her father's friend, and one of the strongest influences in the lives of both English and American Puritans. She was still living in Cambridge and very probably made one of the party who went in from there to hear his first sermon before the Boston church. He had escaped from England with the utmost difficulty, the time of freedom allowed him by King James who admired his learning, having ended so thoroughly that he was hunted like an escaped convict. Fearless and almost reckless, the Colonial ministers wondered at his boldness, a brother of Nathaniel Ward saying as he and some friends "spake merrily" together: "Of all men in the world, I envy Mr. Cotton of Boston, most; for he doth nothing in way of conformity, and yet hath his liberty, and I do everything in that way and cannot enjoy mine." The child born on the stormy passage over, and who in good time became Anne Bradstreet's son-in-law, marrying her daughter Dorothy in 1654, appeared with the father and mother at the first public service after his arrival, and before it was positively decided that he should remain in Boston. The baptism, contrary to the usual custom of having it take place, not later than ten days after birth, had been delayed, and Winthrop gives a characteristic picture of the scene: "The Lord's day following, he (Mr. Cotton) exercised in the afternoon, and being to be admitted, he signified his desire and readiness to make his confession according to order, which he said might be sufficient in declaring his faith about baptism (which he then desired for their child, born in their passage, and therefore named Seaborn). He gave two reasons why he did not baptize it at sea (not for want of fresh water, for he held sea-water would have served): 1st, because they had no settled congregation there; 2d, because a minister hath no power to give the seals, but in his own congregation." Some slight question, as to whether Boston alone, or the colony at large should be taxed for his support was settled with little difficulty, and on Sept. 10, another gathering from all the neighboring towns, witnessed his induction into the new church a ceremony of peculiar solemnity, preceded by a fast, and followed by such feasting as the still narrow stores of the people admitted. No one can estimate the importance of this occasion, who does not realize what a minister meant in those first days, when the sermon held for the majority the sole opportunity of intellectual stimulus as well as spiritual growth. The coming of John Cotton to Boston, was much as if Phillips Brooks should bestow himself upon the remotest English settlement in Australia, or a missionary station in northern Minnesota, and a ripple of excitement ran through the whole community. It meant keener political as well as religious life, for the two went side by side. Mather wrote later of New England: "It is a country whose interests were most remarkably and generally enwrapped in its ecclesiastical circumstances," and he added: "The gospel has evidently been the making of our towns." It was the deacons and elders who ruled public affairs, always under direction of well-nigh supreme authority vested in the minister. There was reason for such faith in them. "The objects of much public deference were not unaware of their authority; they seldom abused it; they never forgot it. If ever men, for real worth and greatness, deserved such pre-eminence, they did; they had wisdom, great learning, great force of will, devout consecration, philanthropy, purity of life. For once in the history of the world, the sovereign places were filled by the sovereign men. They bore themselves with the air of leaderships; they had the port of philosophers, noblemen and kings. The writings of our earliest times are full of reference to the majesty of their looks, the awe inspired by their presence, the grandeur and power of their words." New England surely owes something of her gift of "ready and commanding speech," to these early talkers, who put their whole intellectual force into a sermon, and who thought nothing of a prayer lasting for two hours and a sermon for three or even four. Nathaniel Ward, whose caustic wit spared neither himself nor the most reverend among his brethren, wrote in his "Simple Cobbler": "We have a strong weakness in New England, that when we are speaking, we know not how to conclude. We make many ends, before we make an end.... We cannot help it, though we can; which is the arch infirmity in all morality. We are so near the west pole, that our longitudes are as long as any wise man would wish and somewhat longer. I scarce know any adage more grateful than '_Grata brevitas_'." Mr. Cotton was no exception to this rule, but his hearers would not have had him shorter. It was, however, the personality of the man that carried weight and nothing that he has left for a mocking generation to wonder over gives slightest hint of reason for the spell he cast over congregations, under the cathedral towers, or in the simple meeting house in the new Boston. The one man alive, who, perhaps, has gone through his works conscientiously and hopefully, Moses Coit Tyler, writes of John Cotton's works: "These are indeed clear and cogent in reasoning; the language is well enough, but that is all. There are almost no remarkable merits in thought or style. One wanders through these vast tracts and jungles of Puritanic discourse--exposition, exhortation, logic- chopping, theological hair-splitting--and is unrewarded by a single passage of eminent force or beauty, uncheered even by the felicity of a new epithet in the objurgation of sinners, or a new tint in the landscape-painting of hell." Hubbard wrote, while he still lived: "Mr. Cotton had such an insinuating and melting way in his preaching, that he would usually carry his very adversary captive, after the triumphant chariot of his rhetoric," but "the chariot of his rhetoric ceased to be triumphant when the master himself ceased to drive it," and we shall never know the spell of his genius. For one who had shown himself so uncompromising in action where his own beliefs were concerned, he was singularly gentle and humble. Followed from his church one day, by a specially sour and peevish fanatic, who announced to him with a frown that his ministry had become dark and flat, he replied: "Both, brother--it may be both; let me have your prayers that it may be otherwise." Such a nature would never revolt against the system of spiritual cross-questioning that belonged to every church, and it is easy to see how his hold on his congregation was never lost, even at the stormiest episode in his New England career. The people flocked to hear him, and until the removal to Ipswich, there is no doubt that Anne Bradstreet and her husband met him often, and that he had his share in confirming her faith and stimulating her thought. Dudley and he remained friends to the end, and conferred often on public as well as private matters, but there are no family details save the record of the marriage in later years, which united them all more closely, than even their common suffering had done. Health alone, or the want of it, gave sufficient reason for at least a shadow of gloom, and there were others as substantial, for fresh changes were at hand, and various circumstances had brought her family under a general criticism against which Anne Bradstreet always revolted. Minute personal criticism was the order of the day, considered an essential in holding one another in the straight path, and the New England relish for petty detail may have had its origin in this religious gossip. As usual the first trouble would seem to have arisen from envy, though undoubtedly its originator strenuously denied any such suspicion. The houses at Cambridge had gradually been made more and more comfortable, though even in the beginning, they were the rudest of structures, the roofs covered with thatch, the fire-places generally made of rough stones and the chimneys of boards plastered with clay. To shelter was the only requisite demanded, but Dudley, who desired something more, had already come under public censure, the governor and other assistants joining in the reproach that "he did not well to bestow such cost about wainscotting and adorning his house in the beginning of a plantation, both in regard to the expense, and the example." This may have been one of the "new customs" at which poor Anne's "heart rose, for none of the company, not even excepting the governor, had come from as stately and well-ordered a home as theirs, the old castle still testifying to the love of beauty in its ancient owners." Dudley's excuse was, however, accepted, "that it was for the warmth of his house, and the charge was but little, being but clapboards nailed to the wall in the form of wainscot." The disagreement on this question of adornment was not the only reason why a removal to Ipswich, then known as Agawam, may have seemed desirable. Dudley, who was some thirteen years older than the Governor, and whose capacity for free speech increased with every year, had criticised sharply the former's unexpected removal to Boston, and placable as Winthrop always was, a little feeling had arisen, which must have affected both families. The first open indication of Dudley's money-loving propensities had also been made a matter of discussion, and was given "in some bargains he had made with some poor members of the same congregation, to whom he had sold seven bushels and a half of corn, to receive ten for it after harvest, which the governor and some others held to be oppressing usury." Dudley contested the point hotly, the governor taking no "notice of these speeches, and bore them with more patience than he had done upon a like occasion at another time," but the breach had been made, and it was long before it ceased to trouble the friends of both. With all his self-sacrifice, Dudley desired leadership, and the removal to Ipswich gave him more fully the position he craved, as simply just acknowledgment of his services to the Colony, than permanent home at Cambridge could have done. Objections were urged against the removal, and after long discussion waxing hotter and hotter Dudley resigned, in a most Puritan fit of temper, leaving the council in a passion and "clapping the door behind him." Better thoughts came to all. The gentle temper of both wife and daughter quieted him, and disposed him to look favorably upon the letter in which the council refused to accept his resignation, and this was the last public occasion upon which such scandal arose. But Ipswich was a safe harbor, and life there would hold fewer thorns than seemed sown in the Cambridge surroundings, and we may feel sure, that in spite of hardships, the long-suffering Anne and her mother welcomed the change, when it had once been positively decided upon. The most serious objection arose from the more exposed situation of Ipswich and the fact that the Indians were becoming more and more troublesome. The first year, however, passed in comparative quiet. A church was organized, sermons being the first necessity thought of for every plantation, and "Mr. Wilson, by leave of the congregation of Boston whereof he was pastor, went to Agawam to teach the people of that plantation, because they had yet no minister," to be succeeded shortly by Nathaniel Ward, a man of most intense nature and personality, who must have had marked effect on every mind brought under his influence. A worker of prodigious energy, he soon broke down, and after two years of pastorship, left Ipswich to become a few years later, one of the commission appointed to frame laws for the Colony and to write gradually one of the most distinctive books in early American literature, "The Simple Cobbler of Agawam." That he became the strong personal friend of the Bradstreet family was natural, for not only were they of the same social status, but sympathetic in many points, though Simon Bradstreets' moderation and tolerant spirit undoubtedly fretted the uncompromising Puritan whose opinions were as stiff and incisive as his way of putting them. An extensive traveller, a man of ripe culture, having been a successful lawyer before the ministry attracted him, he was the friend of Francis Bacon, of Archbishop Usher and the famous Heidelberg theologian, David Pareus. He had travelled widely and knew men and manners, and into the exhortations and expoundings of his daily life, the unfoldings of the complicated religious experience demanded of every Puritan, must have crept many a reminiscence of old days, dear to the heart of Anne Bradstreet, who, no matter what theory she deemed it best to follow, was at heart, to the end of her life a monarchist. We may know with what interest she would listen, and may fancy the small Simon and Dorothy standing near as Puritan discipline allowed, to hear tales of Prince Rupert, whom Nathaniel Ward had held as a baby in his arms, and of whom he wrote what we may be sure he had often said: "I have had him in my arms; . . . I wish I had him there now. If I mistake not, he promised then to be a good prince; but I doubt he hath forgot it. If I thought he would not be angry with me, I would pray hard to his Maker to make him a right Roundhead, a wise-hearted Palatine, a thankful man to the English; to forgive all his sins, and at length to save his soul, notwithstanding all his God-damn-me's." Even in these early days, certain feminine pomps and vanities had emigrated with their owners, and much disconcerted the energetic preacher. Anne Bradstreet had no share in them, her gentle simplicity making her always choose the least obtrusive form of speech and action, as well as dress, but she must have smiled over the fierceness with which weaker sisters were attacked, and perhaps have sought to change the attitude of this chronic fault- finder; "a sincere, witty and valiant grumbler," but always a grumbler, to whom the fashions of the time seemed an outrage on common sense. He devotes a separate section of his book to them, and the delinquencies of women in general because they were "deficients or redundants not to be brought under any rule," and therefore not entitled to "pester better matter with such stuff," and then announces that he proposes, "for this once to borrow a little of their loose-tongued liberty, and mis-spend a word or two upon their long-waisted but short-skirted patience." "I honor the woman that can honor herself with her attire," he goes on, his wrath rising as he writes; "a good text always deserves a fair margent, but as for a woman who lives but to ape the newest court- fashions, I look at her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter of a cipher, the epitome of nothing; fitter to be kicked, if she were of a kickable substance, than either honored or humored. To speak moderately, I truly confess, it is beyond the ken of my understanding to conceive how those women should have any true grace or valuable virtue, that have so little wit as to disfigure themselves with such exotic garbs, as not only dismantles their native, lovely lustre, but transclouts them into gaunt bar-geese, ill-shapen, shotten shell-fish, Egyptian hieroglyphics, or at the best into French flirts of the pastry, which a proper English woman should scorn with her heels. It is no marvel they wear trails on the hinder part of their heads; having nothing it seems in the forepart but a few squirrels' brains to help them frisk from one ill-favored fashion to another.... We have about five or six of them in our colony; if I see any of them accidentally, I cannot cleanse my fancy for a month after.... If any man think I have spoken rather merrily than seriously, he is much mistaken; I have written what I write, with all the indignation I can, and no more than I ought." Let it be remembered, that these ladies with "squirrels brains," are the "grandmothers" whose degenerate descendants we are daily accused of being. It is an old tune, but the generations have danced to it since the world began, each with a profound conviction of its newness, and their own success in following its lead. Nor was he alone in his indignation, for even in the midst of discussions on ordnance, and deep perplexities over unruly settlers, the grave elders paused, and as Winthrop records: "At the lecture in Boston a question was propounded about veils. Mr. Cotton concluded, that where (by the custom of the place) they were not a sign of the woman's subjection, they were not commanded by the apostle. Mr. Endecott opposed, and did maintain it by the general arguments brought by the apostle. After some debate, the governor, perceiving it to grow to some earnestness, interposed, and so it brake off." Isaiah had protested, before Nathaniel Ward or the Council echoed him, but if this is the attitude the sturdy preacher held toward the women of his congregation, he must have found it well to resign his place to his successor, also a Nathaniel, Nathaniel Rogers, one of the row of "nine small children," still to be seen in the New England Primer, gazing upon the martyr, John Rogers, the famous preacher of Dedham, whose gifts of mind and soul made him a shining mark for persecution, and whose name is still honored in his descendants. Of less aggressive and incisive nature than Nathaniel Ward, he was a man of profound learning, his son and grandson succeeding him at Ipswich, and the son, who had accompanied him from England becoming the President of Harvard College. His sympathy with Simon Bradstreet's moderate and tolerant views, at once brought them together, and undoubtedly made him occasionally a thorn in the side of Governor Dudley, who felt then, precisely the same emotions as in later life were chronicled in his one attempt at verse: "Let men of God in Courts and Churches watch, O'er such as do a Toleration hatch, Lest that ill egg bring forth a cockatrice To poison all with Heresie and Vice." Nathaniel Rogers has left no written memorial save a tract in the interest of this most objectionable toleration, in which, while favoring liberty and reformation, he censured those who had brought false charges against the king, and as a result, was accused of being one of the king's agents in New England. Anne Bradstreet's sympathies were even more strongly with him than those of her husband, and in the quiet listening to the arguments which went on, she had rarest opportunity for that gradual accumulation of real worldly wisdom to be found in many of her "Reflections" in prose. At present there was more room for apprehension than reflection. Indian difficulties were more and more pressing, and in Sept., 1635, the General Court had included Ipswich in the order that no dwelling-house should be more than half a mile from the meeting- house, it being impossible to guard against the danger of coming and going over longer space. The spring of 1636-7 brought still more stringent care. Watches were kept and no one allowed to travel without arms. The Pequot war was the culmination for the time, the seed of other and more atrocious conflicts to come, and whatever the judgment of to-day may be on the causes which brought such results, the terror of the settlers was a very real and well- grounded fact. As with Deerfield at a later date, they were protected from Indian assaults, only by "a rude picketted fort. Sentinels kept guard every night; even in the day time, no one left his door-steps without a musket; and neighborly communication between the houses was kept up principally by underground passages from cellar to cellar." Mr. Daniel Dennison, who had married Anne Bradstreet's sister, was chosen captain for Ipswich and remained so for many years. As the Indians were driven out, they concentrated in and about New Hampshire, which, being a frontier colony, knew no rest from peril day and night, but it was many years before any Massachusetts settler dared move about with freedom, and the perpetual apprehension of every woman who dreaded the horrible possibilities of Indian outrage, must have gone far toward intensifying and grinding in the morbid sensitiveness which even to-day is part of the genuine New England woman's character. The grim details of expeditions against them were known to every child. The same impatience of any word in their favor was shown then, as we find it now in the far West, where their treachery and barbarity is still a part of the story of to-day, and Johnson, in his "Wonder- Working Providence," gives one or two almost incredible details of warfare against them with a Davidic exultation over the downfall of so pestilent an enemy, that is more Gothic than Christian. "The Lord in mercy toward his poor churches, having thus destroyed these bloody, barbarous Indians, he returns his people in safety to their vessels, where they take account of their prisoners. The squaws and some young youths they brought home with them; and finding the men to be deeply guilty of the crimes they undertook the war for, they brought away only their heads." Such retribution seemed just and right, but its effect on Puritan character was hardly softening, and was another unconscious factor in that increasing ratio of hatred against all who opposed them, whether in religious belief, or in the general administration of affairs. In these affairs every woman was interested to a degree that has had no parallel since, unless it may be, on the Southern side during our civil war. Politics and religion were one, and removal to Ipswich had not deadened the interest with which they watched and commented on every fluctuation in the stormy situation at "home," as they still called England, Cotton taking active part in all discussions as to Colonial action. It was at this period that she wrote the poem, "A Dialogue between Old England and New," which holds the political situation at that time. Many of the allusions in the first edition, were altered in the second, for as Charles II. had then begun his reign, loyalty was a necessity, and no strictures upon kings could be allowed. The poem, which is rather a summary of political difficulties, has its own interest, as showing how thoroughly she had caught the spirit of the time, as well as from the fact that it was quoted as authority by the wisest thinkers of the day, and regarded with an awe and admiration we are hardly likely to share, as the phenomenal work of a phenomenal woman. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW, CONCERNING THEIR PRESENT TROUBLES. _Anno_, 1642. _NEW ENGLAND_. Alas, dear Mother, fairest Queen and best, With honour, wealth and peace happy and blest; What ails thee hang thy head and cross thine arms? And sit i' th' dust, to sigh these sad alarms? What deluge of new woes thus overwhelme The glories of thy ever famous Realme? What means this wailing tone, this mournful guise? Ah, tell thy daughter, she may sympathize. _OLD ENGLAND._ Art ignorant indeed of these my woes? Or must my forced tongue my griefs disclose? And must myself dissect my tatter'd state, Which mazed Christendome stands wond'ring at? And thou a child, a Limbe, and dost not feel My fainting weakened body now to reel? This Physick purging portion I have taken, Will bring Consumption, or an Ague quaking, Unless some Cordial, thou fetch from high, Which present help may ease my malady. If I decease, dost think thou shalt survive? Or by my wasting state dost think to thrive? Then weigh our case, if't be not justly sad; Let me lament alone, while thou art glad. _NEW ENGLAND._ And thus (alas) your state you much deplore, In general terms, but will not say wherefore; What medicine shall I seek to cure this woe If th' wound so dangerous I may not know? But you, perhaps, would have me ghess it out, What hath some Hengist like that Saxon stout, By fraud or force usurp'd thy flow'ring crown, Or by tempestuous warrs thy fields trod down? Or hath Canutus, that brave valiant Dane, The Regal peacefull Scepter from the tane? Or is't a Norman, whose victorious hand With English blood bedews thy conquered land? Or is't Intestine warrs that thus offend? Do Maud and Stephen for the crown contend? Do Barons rise and side against their King, And call in foreign aid to help the thing? Must Edward be deposed? or is't the hour That second Richard must be clapt i' th' tower? Or is't the fatal jarre again begun That from the red white pricking roses sprung? Must Richmond's aid, the Nobles now implore, To come and break the Tushes of the Boar? If none of these, dear Mother, what's your woe? Pray do you fear Spain's bragging Armado? Doth your Allye, fair France, conspire your wrack, Or do the Scots play false behind your back? Doth Holland quit you ill for all your love? Whence is the storm from Earth or Heaven above? Is't drought, is't famine, or is't pestilence, Dost feel the smart or fear the Consequence? Your humble Child intreats you, shew your grief, Though Arms nor Purse she hath for your relief, Such is her poverty; yet shall be found A Suppliant for your help, as she is bound. _OLD ENGLAND._ I must confess, some of those sores you name, My beauteous body at this present maime; But forreign foe, nor feigned friend I fear, For they have work enough, (thou knowst) elsewhere. Nor is it Alce's Son nor Henrye's daughter, Whose proud contention cause this slaughter; Nor Nobles siding to make John no King, French Jews unjustly to the Crown to bring; No Edward, Richard, to lose rule and life, Nor no Lancastrians to renew old strife; No Duke of York nor Earl of March to soyle Their hands in kindred's blood whom they did foil. No crafty Tyrant now usurps the Seat, Who Nephews slew that so he might be great; No need of Tudor Roses to unite, None knows which is the Red or which the White; Spain's braving Fleet a second time is sunk, France knows how oft my fury she hath drunk; By Edward third, and Henry fifth of fame Her Lillies in mine Arms avouch the same, My sister Scotland hurts me now no more, Though she hath been injurious heretofore; What Holland is I am in some suspence, But trust not much unto his excellence. For wants, sure some I feel, but more I fear, And for the Pestilence, who knows how near Famine and Plague, two Sisters of the Sword, Destruction to a Land doth soon afford. They're for my punishment ordain'd on high, Unless our tears prevent it speedily. But yet I answer not what you demand To shew the grievance of my troubled Land? Before I tell the Effect I'le shew the Cause, Which are my sins, the breach of sacred Laws, Idolatry, supplanter of a nation, With foolish Superstitious Adoration, Are liked and countenanced by men of might The gospel trodden down and hath no right; Church offices were sold and bought for gain, That Pope had hoped to find Rome here again; For Oaths and Blasphemies did ever Ear From Belzebub himself such language hear? What scorning of the saints of the most high, What injuries did daily on them lye, What false reports, what nick-names did they take Not for their own but for their Master's sake? And thou, poor soul, wert jeer'd among the rest, Thy flying for the truth was made a jest For Sabbath-breaking, and for drunkenness, Did ever loud profaneness more express? From crying blood yet cleansed am not I, Martyrs and others, dying causelessly. How many princely heads on blocks laid down For nought but title to a fading crown! 'Mongst all the crueltyes by great ones done, Of Edward's youths, and Clarence hapless son, O Jane, why didst thou dye in flow'ring prime? Because of royal stem, that was thy crime. For bribery, Adultery and lyes, Where is the nation I can't parallize? With usury, extortion and oppression, These be the Hydraes of my stout transgression. These be the bitter fountains, heads and roots, Whence flowed the source, the sprigs, the boughs, and fruits, Of more than thou canst hear or I relate, That with high hand I still did perpetrate; For these were threatened the woful day I mockt the Preachers, put it far away; The Sermons yet upon Record do stand That cri'd destruction to my wicked land; I then believed not, now I feel and see, The plague of stubborn incredulity. Some lost their livings, some in prison pent, Some fin'd from house and friends to exile went. Their silent tongues to heaven did vengeance cry, Who saw their wrongs, and hath judg'd righteously, And will repay it seven fold in my lap; This is forerunner of my After clap. Nor took I warning by my neighbors' falls, I saw sad Germany's dismantled walls, I saw her people famish'd, nobles slain, The fruitful land a barren Heath remain. I saw immov'd her Armyes foil'd and fled, Wives forc'd, babes toss'd, her houses calimed. I saw strong Rochel yielded to her Foe, Thousands of starved Christians there also I saw poor Ireland bleeding out her last, Such crueltyes as all reports have passed; Mine heart obdurate stood not yet aghast. Now sip I of that cup, and just't may be The bottome dreggs reserved are for me. NEW ENGLAND. To all you've said, sad Mother, I assent, Your fearful sins great cause there's to lament, My guilty hands in part, hold up with you, A Sharer in your punishment's my due. But all you say amounts to this affect, Not what you feel but what you do expect, Pray in plain terms what is your present grief? Then let's joyn heads and hearts for your relief. OLD ENGLAND. Well to the matter then, there's grown of late 'Twixt King and Peers a Question of State, Which is the chief, the law or else the King. One said, it's he, the other no such thing. 'Tis said, my beter part in Parliament To ease my groaning land, shew'd their intent, To crush the proud, and right to each man deal, To help the Church, and stay the Common-weal So many obstacles came in their way, As puts me to a stand what I should say; Old customes, new prerogatives stood on, Had they not held Law fast, all had been gone; Which by their prudence stood them in such stead They took high Strafford lower by the head. And to their Land be't spoke, they held i' th' tower All England's Metropolitane that hour; This done, an act they would have passed fain No Prelate should his Bishoprick retain; Here tugged they hard (indeed), for all men saw This must be done by Gospel, not by law. Next the Militia they urged sore, This was deny'd (I need not say wherefore), The King displeas'd at York himself absents, They humbly beg return, shew their intents; The writing, printing, posting too and fro, Shews all was done, I'll therefore let it go; But now I come to speak of my disaster, Contention grown, 'twixt Subjects and their Master; They worded it so long, they fell to blows, That thousands lay on heaps, here bleeds my woes; I that no wars so many years have known, Am now destroy'd and slaughter'd by mine own; But could the Field alone this strife decide, One Battle two or three I might abide. But these may be beginnings of more woe Who knows but this may be my overthrow? Oh, pity me in this sad Perturbation, My plundered Towns, my houses devastation, My weeping Virgins and my young men slain; My wealthy trading fall'n, my dearth of grain, The seed times come, but ploughman hath no hope Because he knows not who shall inn his Crop! The poor they want their pay, their Children bread, Their woful--Mothers' tears unpittied. If any pity in thy heart remain, Or any child-like love thou dost retain, For my relief, do what there lyes in thee, And recompence that good I've done to thee. NEW ENGLAND. Dear Mother, cease complaints and wipe your eyes, Shake off your dust, chear up and now arise, You are my Mother Nurse, and I your flesh, Your sunken bowels gladly would refresh, Your griefs I pity, but soon hope to see, Out of your troubles much good fruit to be; To see those latter days of hop'd for good, Though now beclouded all with tears and blood; After dark Popery the day did clear, But now the Sun in's brightness shall appear; Blest be the Nobles of thy Noble Land, With ventur'd lives for Truth's defence that stand; Blest be thy Commons, who for common good, And thy infringed Laws have boldly stood; Blest be thy Counties, who did aid thee still, With hearts and States to testifie their will; Blest be thy Preachers, who did chear thee on, O cry the Sword of God and Gideon; And shall I not on them with Mero's curse, That help thee not with prayers, Arms and purse? And for myself let miseries abound, If mindless of thy State I ere be found. These are the dayes the Churches foes to crush, To root out Popelings, head, tail, branch and rush; Let's bring Baals' vestments forth to make a fire, Their Mytires, Surplices, and all their Tire, Copes, Rotchets, Crossiers, and such empty trash, And let their Names consume, but let the flash Light Christendome, and all the world to see, We hate Romes whore, with all her trumpery. Go on, brave Essex, with a Loyal heart, Not false to King, nor to the better part; But those that hurt his people and his Crown, As duty binds, expel and tread them down, And ye brave Nobles, chase away all fear, And to this hopeful Cause closely adhere; O Mother, can you weep and have such Peers, When they are gone, then drown yourself in tears, If now you weep so much, that then no more The briny Ocean will o'erflow your shore. These, these are they I trust, with Charles our King, Out of all mists, such glorious days shall bring; That dazzled eyes beholding much shall wonder, At that thy settled peace, thy wealth and splendor. Thy Church and weal establish'd in such manner, That all shall joy, that then display'st thy Banner; And discipline erected so I trust, That nursing Kings shall come and lick thy dust. Then justice shall in all thy courts take place, Without respect of person, or of case; Then Bribes shall cease, and Suits shall not stick long Patience and purse of Clients oft to wrong; Then high Commissions shall fall to decay, And Pursivants and Catchpoles want their pay. So shall thy happy nation ever flourish, When truth and righteousness they thus shall nourish, When thus in peace, thine Armies brave send out, To sack proud Rome, and all her Vassals rout; There let thy name, thy fame and glory shine, As did thine Ancestors in Palestine; And let her spoyls full pay with Interest be, Of what unjustly once she poll'd from thee, Of all the woes thou canst, let her be sped And on her pour the vengeance threatened; Bring forth the Beast that rul'd the World with 's beck, And tear his flesh, and set your feet on 's neck; And make his filthy Den so desolate, To th' astonishment of all that knew his state. This done, with brandish'd Swords to Turky goe, For then what is 't, but English blades dare do? And lay her waste for so 's the sacred Doom, And to Gog as thou hast done to Rome. Oh Abraham's seed lift up your heads on high, For sure the day of your Redemption 's nigh; The Scales shall fall from your long blinded eyes, And him you shall adore who now despise, Then fulness of the Nations in shall flow, And Jew and Gentile to one worship go; Then follows days of happiness and rest; Whose lot doth fall, to live therein is blest. No Canaanite shall then be found i' th' Land, And holiness on horses bell's shall stand; If this make way thereto, then sigh no more, But if it all, thou did'st not see 't before; Farewell, dear Mother, rightest cause prevail And in a while, you'll tell another tale. This, like all her earlier work, is heavy reading, the account given by "Old Age" in her "Four Ages of Man," of what he has seen and known of Puritan affairs, being in somewhat more lively strain. But lively was an adjective to which Mistress Anne had a rooted objection. Her contemporaries indulged in an occasional solemn pun, but the only one in her writings is found in the grim turn on Laud's name, in the "Dialogue" just quoted, in which is also a sombre jest on the beheading of Strafford. "Old Age" recalls the same period, opening with a faint--very faint--suggestion of Shakespeare's thought in his "Seven Ages." "What you have been, even such have I before And all you say, say I, and somewhat more, Babe's innocence, youth's wildness I have seen, And in perplexed middle Age have been; Sickness, dangers and anxieties have past, And on this stage am come to act my last, I have been young and strong and wise as you; But now _Bis pueri senes,_ is too true. In every age I've found much vanity An end of all perfection now I see. It's not my valour, honor, nor my gold, My ruined house now falling can uphold, It's not my learning Rhetorick wit so large, Hath now the power, death's warfare to discharge, It's not my goodly state, nor bed of downs That can refresh, or ease, if Conscience frown, Nor from Alliance can I now have hope, But what I have done well that is my prop; He that in youth is Godly, wise and sage, Provides a staff then to support his Age. Mutations great, some joyful and some sad, In this short pilgrimage I oft have had; Sometimes the Heavens with plenty smiled on me, Sometime again rain'd all Adversity, Sometimes in honor, sometimes in disgrace, Sometime an Abject, then again in place. Such private changes oft mine eyes have seen, In various times of state I've also been, I've seen a Kingdom nourish like a tree, When it was ruled by that Celestial she; And like a Cedar, others so surmount, That but for shrubs they did themselves account. Then saw I France and Holland say'd Cales won, And Philip and Albertus half undone, I saw all peace at home, terror to foes, But oh, I saw at last those eyes to close. And then methought the clay at noon grew dark, When it had lost that radiant Sunlike Spark; In midst of griefs I saw our hopes revive, (For 'twas our hopes then kept our hearts alive) We changed our queen for king under whose rayes We joy'd in many blest and prosperous dayes. I've seen a Prince, the glory of our land In prime of youth seiz'd by heaven's angry hand, Which fil'd our hearts with fears, with tears our eyes, Wailing his fate, and our own destinies. I've seen from Rome an execrable thing, A Plot to blow up nobles and their King, But saw their horrid fact soon disappointed, And Land Nobles say'd with their annointed. I've Princes seen to live on others' lands; A royal one by gifts from strangers' hands Admired for their magnanimity, Who lost a Prince-dome and a Monarchy. I've seen designs for Ree and Rochel crost, And poor Palatinate forever lost. I've seen unworthy men advanced high, And better ones suffer extremity; But neither favour, riches, title, State, Could length their days or once reverse their fate. I've seen one stab'd, and some to loose their heads, And others fly, struck both with gilt and dread; I've seen and so have you, for tis but late The desolation of a goodly state, Plotted and acted so that none can tell Who gave the counsel, but the Prince of hell. Three hundred thousand slaughtered innocents By bloody, Popish, hellish miscreants; Oh, may you live, and so you will I trust, To see them swill in blood until they burst. I've seen a King by force thrust from his thrones And an Usurper subt'ly mount thereon; I've seen a state unmoulded, rent in twain, But ye may live to see't made up again. I've seen it plunder'd, taxt and soaked in blood, But out of evill you may see much good. What are my thoughts, this is no time to say. Men may more freely speak another day; These are no old-wives tales, but this is truth, We old men love to tell what's done in youth." Though this is little more than rhymed chronology, there are curious reminders here and there of the spirit of the time. Gentle as was Anne Bradstreet's nature, it seemed to her quite natural to write of the "bloody, Popish, hellish miscreants"-- "Oh may you live, and so you will I trust, To see them swill in blood untill they burst." There was reason it was true; the same reason that brings the same thought to-day to women on the far Western frontiers, for the Irish butcheries had been as atrocious as any Indian massacre our own story holds. The numbers butchered were something appaling, and Hume writes: "By some computations, those who perished by all these cruelties are supposed to be a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand; by the most moderate, and probably the most reasonable account, they are made to amount to forty thousand---if this estimation itself be not, as is usual in such cases, somewhat exaggerated." Irish ferocity was more than matched by English brutality. Puritanism softened many features of the Saxon character, but even in the lives of the most devoted, there is a keen relish for battle whether spiritual or actual, and a stern rejoicing in any depth of evil that may have overtaken a foe. In spite of the tremendous value set upon souls, indifference to human life still ruled, and there was even a certain relish, if that life were an enemy's, in turning it over heartily and speedily to its proper owner, Satan. Anne Bradstreet is no exception to the rule, and her verses hold various fierce and unexpected outbursts against enemies of her faith or country. The constant discussion of mooted points by the ministers as well as people, made each man the judge of questions that agitated every mind, and problems of all natures from national down to town meeting debates, were pondered over in every Puritan home. Cotton's interest in detail never flagged, and his influence was felt at every point in the Colony, and though Ipswich, both in time and facilities for reaching it, was more widely separated from Boston than Boston now is from the remotest hamlet on Cape Cod, there is no doubt that Nathaniel Ward and Mr. Cotton occasionally met and exchanged views if not pulpits, and that the Bradstreet family were not entirely cut off from intercourse. When Nathaniel Ward became law-maker instead of settled minister, it was with John Cotton that he took counsel, and Anne undoubtedly thought of the latter what his grandson Cotton Mather at a later day wrote. "He was indeed a most universal scholar, and a living system of the liberal arts and a walking library." Walking libraries were needed, for stationary ones were very limited. Governer Dudley's, one of the largest in the Colony, contained between fifty and sixty books, chiefly on divinity and history, and from the latter source Anne obtained the minute historical knowledge shown in her rhymed account of "The Four Monarchies." It was to her father that she owed her love of books. She calls him in one poem, "a magazine of history," and at other points, her "guide," and "instructor," writing: "Most truly honored and as truly dear, If worth in me, or ought I do appear, Who can of right better demand the same? Then may your worthy self from whom it came?" As at Cambridge, and in far greater degree, she was cut off from much that had held resources there. At the worst, only a few miles had separated them from what was fast becoming the center and soul of the Colony. But Ipswich shut them in, and life for both Mistress Dudley and her daughter was an anxious one. The General Court called for the presence of both Dudley and Bradstreet, the latter spending much of his time away, and some of the tenderest and most natural of Anne Bradstreet's poems, was written at this time, though regarded as too purely personal to find place in any edition of her poems. The quiet but fervent love between them had deepened with every year, and though no letters remain, as with Winthrop, to evidence the steady and intense affection of both, the "Letter to her Husband, absent upon some Publick employment," holds all the proof one can desire. "My head, my heart, mine Eyes, my life, my more, My joy, my Magazine of earthly store. If two be one as surely thou and I, How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever, If but a neck, soon would we be together; I like the earth this season mourn in black My Sun is gone so far in 's Zodiack, Whom whilst I joyed, nor storms nor frosts I felt, His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now nummed lye forlorn, Return, return sweet Sol, from Capricorn; In this dead time, alas, what can I more Than view those fruits which through thy heat I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, True, living Pictures of their Father's face. O strange effect! now thou art Southward gone, I weary grow, the tedious day so long; But when thou Northward to me shalt return, I wish my Sun may never set but burn Within the Cancer of my glowing breast. The welcome house of him my dearest guest. Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence; Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I here, thou there, yet both are one." A second one is less natural in expression, but still holds the same longing. Phoebus, make haste, the day's too long, be gone, The silent nights, the fittest time for moan; But stay this once, unto my suit give ear, And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere. (And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd) The woeful accents of my doleful sound, If in thy swift Carrier thou canst make stay, I crave this boon, this Errand by the way, Commend me to the man more lov'd than life, Shew him the sorrows of his widowed wife; My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brakish tears, My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears, And if he love, how can he there abide? My Interest's more than all the world beside. He that can tell the Starrs or Ocean sand, Or all the grass that in the Meads do stand, The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops of rain, Or in a corn field number every grain, Or every mote that in the sunshine hops, May count my sighs, and number all my drops: Tell him, the countless steps that thou dost trace, That once a day, thy Spouse thou mayst embrace; And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth, Thy rays afar salute her from the south. But for one month I see no day (poor soul) Like those far scituate under the pole, Which day by day long wait for thy arise, O, how they joy, when thou dost light the skyes. O Phoebus, hadst thou but thus long from thine, Restrained the beams of thy beloved shine, At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst Behold a Chaos blacker than the first. Tell him here's worse than a confused matter, His little world's a fathom under water, Nought but the fervor of his ardent beams Hath power to dry the torrent of these streams Tell him I would say more but cannot well, Oppressed minds, abruptest tales do tell. Now post with double speed, mark what I says By all our loves, conjure him not to stay." In the third and last, there is simply an imitation of much of the work of the seventeenth century; with its conceits and twisted meanings, its mannerisms and baldness, but still the feeling is there, though Mistress Bradstreet has labored painfully to make it as unlike nature as possible. "As loving Hind that (Hartless) wants her Deer, Scuds through the woods and Fern with hearkening ear, Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry, Her dearest Deer might answer ear or eye; So doth my anxious soul, which now doth miss, A dearer Deer (far dearer Heart) than this. Still wait with doubts and hopes and failing eye; His voice to hear or person to descry. Or as the pensive Dove doth all alone (On withered bough) most uncouthly bemoan The absence of her Love and Loving Mate, Whose loss hath made her so unfortunate; Ev'n thus doe I, with many a deep sad groan, Bewail my turtle true, who now is gone, His presence and his safe return, still wooes With thousand doleful sighs and mournful Cooes. Or as the loving Mullet that true Fish, Her fellow lost, nor joy nor life do wish, But lanches on that shore there for to dye, Where she her captive husband doth espy, Mine being gone I lead a joyless life, I have a living sphere, yet seem no wife; But worst of all, to him can't steer my course, I here, he there, alas, both kept by force; Return, my Dear, my Joy, my only Love, Unto thy Hinde, thy Mullet and thy Dove, Who neither joys in pasture, house nor streams, The substance gone, O me, these are but dreams, Together at one Tree, O let us brouse, And like two Turtles roost within one house. And like the Mullets in one River glide, Let's still remain one till death divide. Thy loving Love and Dearest Dear, At home, abroad and everywhere. _A.B._" Of a far higher order are a few lines, written at the same time, and with no suspicion of straining or of imitation in the quiet fervor of the words, that must have carried a thrill of deep and exquisite happiness to the heart of the man, so loved and honored. _"To my dear and loving Husband:_ If ever two were one then surely we, If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me ye women if you can. I prize thy love more than whole Mines of Gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is such that Rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense. Thy love is such I can no way repay, The heavens reward thee, manifold I pray. Then while we live in love let's so persevere, That when we live no more, we may live ever." The woman who could feel such fervor as these lines express, owed the world something more than she ever gave, but every influence tended, as we have seen, to silence natural expression. One must seek, however, to discover why she failed even when admitting that failure was the only thing to be expected, and the causes are in the nature of the time itself, the story of literary development for that period being as complicated as politics, religion and every other force working on the minds of men. CHAPTER VI. A THEOLOGICAL TRAGEDY. It was perhaps Anne Bradstreet's youth, and a sense that she could hardly criticise a judgment which had required the united forces of every church in the Colony to pronounce, that made her ignore one of the most stormy experiences of those early days, the trial and banishment of Anne Hutchinson. Her silence is the more singular, because the conflict was a purely spiritual one, and thus in her eyes deserving of record. There can be no doubt that the effect on her own spiritual and mental life must have been intense and abiding. No children had as yet come to absorb her thoughts and energies, and the events which shook the Colony to the very center could not fail to leave an ineffaceable impression. No story of personal experience is more confounding to the modern reader, and none holds a truer picture of the time. Governor Dudley and Simon Bradstreet were both concerned in the whole course of the matter, which must have been discussed at home from day to day, and thus there is every reason for giving it full place in these pages as one of the formative forces in Anne Bradstreet's life; an inspiration and then a warning. There are hints that Anne resented the limitations that hedged her in, and had small love of the mutual criticism, which made the corner stone of Puritan life. That she cared to write had already excited the wonder of her neighbors and Anne stoutly asserted her right to speak freely whatever it seemed good to say, taking her stand afterwards given in the Prologue to the first edition of her poems, in which she wrote: "I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hand a needle better fits, A Poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong, For such despite they cast on Female wits; If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'l say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance. "But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild, Else of our Sexe, why feigned they those Nine And poesy made Callippi's own Child; So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts Divine, But this weak knot they will full soon untie, The Greeks did nought but play the fools and lye." This has a determined ring which she hastens to neutralize by a tribute and an appeal; the one to man's superior force, the other to his sense of justice. "Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are, Men have precedency and still excell, It is but vain unjustly to wage warrs; Men can do best and women know it well, Preheminence in all and each is yours; Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours." Plain speaking was a Dudley characteristic, but the fate of Anne Hutchinson silenced all save a few determined spirits, willing to face the same consequences. In the beginning, however, there could have been only welcome for a woman, whose spiritual gifts and unusual powers had made her the friend of John Cotton, and who fascinated men and woman alike. There was reason, for birth and training meant every gift a woman of that day was likely to possess. Her father, Thomas Marbury, was one of the Puritan ministers of Lincolnshire who afterward removed to London; her mother, a sister of Sir Erasmus Dryden. She was thus related in the collateral line to two of the greatest of English intellects. Free thinking and plain speaking were family characteristics, for John Dryden the poet, her second cousin, was reproached with having been an Anabaptist in his youth, and Johnathan Swift, a more distant connection, feared nothing in heaven or earth. It is no wonder, then, that even an enemy wrote of her as "the masterpiece of women's wit," or that her husband followed her lead with a devotion that never swerved. She had married him at Alford in Lincolnshire, and both were members of Mr. Cotton's congregation at Boston. Mr. Hutchinson's standing among his Puritan contemporaries was of the highest. He had considerable fortune, and the gentlest and most amiable of dispositions. The name seems to have meant all good gifts, for the same devoted and tender relation existed between this pair as between Colonel Hutchinson and his wife. From the quiet and happy beginning of their married life to its most tragic ending, they clung together, accepting all loss as part of the cross they had taken up, when they left the ease of Lincolnshire behind, and sought in exile the freedom which intolerance denied. It is very probable that Anne Hutchinson may have known the Dudley family after their return to Lincolnshire, and certainly in the first flush of her New England experiences was likely to have had intimate relations with them. Her opinions, so far as one can disentangle them from the mass of testimony and discussion, seem to have been in great degree, those held by the early Quakers, but they had either not fully developed in her own mind before she left England, or had not been pronounced enough to attract attention. In any case the weariness of the long voyage seems to have been in part responsible for much that followed. Endless discussions of religious subtleties were their chief occupation on board, and one of the company, the Rev. Mr. Symmes, a dogmatic and overbearing man, found himself often worsted by the quick wit of this woman, who silenced all objections, and who, with no conception of the rooted enmity she was exciting, told with the utmost freedom, past and present speculations and experiences. The long fasts, and continuous religious exercises, worked upon her enthusiast's temper, and excited by every circumstance of time and place, it is small wonder that she supposed a direct revelation had come to her, the nature of which Winthrop mentions in his History. "One Mrs. Hutchinson, a member of the church of Boston, a woman of a ready wit and bold spirit, brought over with her two dangerous errours: "1. That the person of the Holy Ghost dwells in a justified person. "2. That no sanctification can help to evidence to us our justification. From these two, grew many branches; as, 1st, Our union with the Holy Ghost, so as a Christian remains dead to every spiritual action, and hath no gifts nor graces, other than such as are in hypocrites, nor any other sanctification but the Holy Ghost himself. There joined with her in these opinions a brother of hers, one Mr. Wheelwright, a silenced minister sometime in England." Obnoxious as these doctrines came to be, she had been in New England two years before they excited special attention. Her husband served in the General Court several elections as representative for Boston, until he was excused at the desire of the church, and she herself found constant occupation in a round of kindly deeds. She denied the power of works as any help toward justification, but no woman in the Colony, gave more practical testimony of her faith or made herself more beloved. Though she had little children to care for, she found time to visit and nurse the sick, having special skill in all disorders of women. Her presence of mind, her warm sympathy and extraordinary patience made her longed for at every sick bed, and she very soon acquired the strongest influence. Dudley had made careful inquiries as to her religious standing, and must have been for the time at least, satisfied, and unusual attention was paid her by all the colonists; the most influential among them being her chief friends. Coddington, who had built the first brick house in Boston, received them warmly. Her public teaching began quietly, her ministrations by sick beds attracting many, and it is doubtful if she herself realized in the least the extent of her influence. Governor Vane, young and ardent, the temporary idol of the Colony, who had taken the place Governor Winthrop would have naturally filled, visited her and soon became one of her most enthusiastic supporters. Just and unprejudiced as Winthrop was, this summary setting aside by a people for whom he had sacrificed himself steadily, filled him with indignation, though the record in his Journal is quiet and dignified. But naturally, it made him a sterner judge, when the time for judgment came. In the beginning, however, her work seemed simply for good. It had been the custom for the men of the Boston church to meet together on Thursday afternoons, to go over the sermon of the preceding Sunday, of which notes had been taken by every member. No women were admitted, and believing that the same course was equally desirable for her own sex, Anne Hutchinson appointed two days in the week for this purpose, and at last drew about her nearly a hundred of the principal women of the Colony. Her lovely character and spotless life, gave immense power to her words, and her teaching at first was purely practical. We can imagine Anne Bradstreet's delight in the tender and searching power of this woman, who understood intuitively every womanly need, and whose sympathy was as unfailing as her knowledge. Even for that time her Scriptural knowledge was almost phenomenal, and it is probable that, added to this, there was an unacknowledged satisfaction in an assembly from which men were excluded, though many sought admission. Mrs. Hutchinson was obliged at last to admit the crowd who believed her gifts almost divine, but refused to teach, calling upon the ministers to do this, and confining herself simply to conversation. But Boston at last seemed to have gone over wholly to her views, while churches at other points opposed them fiercely. Up to this time there had been no attempt to define the character of the Holy Ghost, but now a powerful opposition to her theory arose, and furious discussions were held in meetings and out. The very children caught the current phrases, and jeered one another as believers in the "Covenant of Grace," or the "Covenant of Works," and the year 1636 came and passed with the Colony at swords points with one another. Every difficulty was aggravated by Vane, whose youth and inexperience made it impossible for him to understand the temper of the people he ruled. The rise of differences had been so gradual that no one suspected what mischief might come till the results suddenly disclosed themselves. That vagaries and eccentricities were to be expected, never entered the minds of this people, who accepted their own departure from authority and ancient ordinances as just and right, but could never conceive that others might be justified in acting on the same principle. To understand even in slight degree the conflict which followed, one must remember at every turn, that no interests save religious interests were of even momentary importance. Every member of the Colony had hard, laborious work to do, but it was hurried through with the utmost speed, in order to have time for the almost daily lectures and expoundings that made their delight. Certain more worldly minded among them had petitioned for a shortening of these services, but were solemnly reproved, and threatened with the "Judgment of God on their frowardness." With minds perpetually concentrated on subtle interpretations, agreement was impossible. Natural life, denied and set aside at every point, gave place to the unnatural, and every colonist was, quite unconsciously, in a state of constant nervous tension and irritability. The questions that to us seem of even startling triviality, were discussed with a fervor and earnestness it is well nigh impossible to comprehend. They were a slight advance on the scholastic disputations of the preceding century, but they meant disagreement and heart-burnings, and the more intolerant determined on stamping out all variations from their own convictions. Any capacity for seeking to carry out Robinson's injunction in his final sermon at Leyden seems to have died once for all, in the war of words. "I beseech you," he had said, "remember that it is an article of your church covenant, that you be ready to receive whatever truth shall be made known to you from the written word of God." There was small remnant of this spirit even among the most liberal. Dudley was one of the chief movers in the course resolved upon, and mourned over Cotton, who still held to Anne Hutchinson, and wrote and spoke of her as one who "was well beloved, and all the faithful embraced her conference, and blessed God for her fruitful discourses." Mr. Welde, on the contrary, one of her fiercest opponents, described her as "a woman of haughty and fierce carriage, of a nimble wit and active spirit, and a very voluble tongue, more bold than a man, though in understanding and judgment inferior to many women." How far the object of all this confusion realized the real state of things cannot be determined. But by January, 1637, dissension had reached such a height that a fast was appointed for the Pequot war and the religious difficulties. The clergy had become her bitterest enemies, and with some reason, for through her means many of their congregations had turned against them. Mr. Wilson, once the most popular minister in Boston, had been superseded by her brother,--Mr. Wheelwright, and Boston began the heretical career which has been her portion from that day to this. Active measures were necessary. The General Court was still governed by the clergy, and by March had settled upon its future course, and summoned Wheelwright, who was censured and found guilty of sedition. Governor Vane opposed the verdict bitterly. The chief citizens of Boston sent in a "Remonstrance," and actual anarchy seemed before them. The next Court was held at Newtown to avoid the danger of violence at Boston, and a disorderly election took place in which the Puritan Fathers came to blows, set down by Winthrop as "a laying on of hands." The grave and reverend Wilson, excited beyond all considerations of Puritanical propriety, climbed a tree, and made a vigorous speech to the throng of people, in which many malcontents were at work urging on an opposition that proved fruitless. Vane was defeated and Winthrop again made governor, his calm forbearance being the chief safety of the divided and unhappy colonists, who resented what they settled to be tyranny, and cast about for some means of redress. None was to be had. Exile, imprisonment and even death, awaited the most eminent citizens; Winthrop's entry into Boston was met by gloomy silence, and for it all, Welde and Symmes protested Anne Hutchinson to be responsible, and denounced her as a heretic and a witch. She in the meantime seems to have been in a state of religious exaltation which made her blind and deaf to all danger. Her meetings continued, and she in turn denounced her opponents and believed that some revelation would be given to show the justice of her claims. There was real danger at last. If the full story of these dissensions were told in England, possession of charter, which had already been threatened, might be lost entirely. Dudley was worked up to the highest pitch of apprehension, believing that if the dissension went on, there might even be a repetition of the horrors of Munster. Divided as they were, concerted action against enemies, whether Indian or foreign, could not be expected. There was danger of a general league of the New England Indians, and "when a force was ordered to take the field for the salvation of the settlements, the Boston men refused to be mustered because they suspected the chaplain, who had been designated by lot to accompany the expedition, of being under a covenant of works." Such a state of things, if known in full at home, would shut off all emigration. That men of character and means should join them was an essential to the continued life of the Colony. Setting aside any question of their own personal convictions, their leaders saw that the continuance among them of these disturbing elements meant destruction, and Winthrop, mild and reasonable as he sought to be, wrote: "He would give them one reason, which was a ground for his judgment, and that was, for that he saw that those brethren, etc., were so divided from the rest of the country in their judgment and practice, as it could not stand with the public peace, that they should continue amongst us. So by the example of Lot in Abraham's family, and after Hagar and Ishmael, he saw they must be sent away." With August came the famous Synod of Cambridge, the first ever held in New England, in which the Church set about defining its own position and denouncing the Hutchinsonians. Eighty-two heresies were decided to have arisen, all of which were condemned, and this being settled, Cotton was admonished, and escaped exile only by meekly explaining away his errors. Wheelwright, refusing to yield, was sentenced to imprisonment and exile; Mrs. Hutchinson's meetings were declared seditious and disorderly, and prohibited, and the Synod separated, triumphant. The field was their own. What they had really accomplished was simply to deepen the lines and make the walls of division still higher. In later years no one cared to make public the proceedings of the body, and there is still in existence a loose paper, described by the Rev. George E. Ellis in his "Life of Anne Hutchinson"; a petition from Mr. John Higginson, son of the Salem minister ... by which it appears that he was employed by the magistrates and ministers to take down in short hand, all the debates and proceedings of the Synod. He performed the work faithfully, and having written out the voluminous record, at "the expense of much time and pains," he presented it to the Court in May, 1639. The long time that elapsed may indicate the labor. The Court accepted it, and ordered that, if approved by the ministers, after they had viewed it, it should be printed, Mr. Higginson being entitled to the profits, which were estimated as promising a hundred pounds. The writer waited with patience while his brethren examined it, and freely took their advice. Some were in favor of printing it; but others advised to the contrary, "conceiving it might possibly be an occasion of further disputes and differences both in this country and other parts of the world." Naturally they failed to agree. The unfortunate writer, having scruples which prevented his accepting an offer of fifty pounds for the manuscript, made probably by some Hutchinsonian, waited the pleasure of the brethren, reminding them at intervals of his claim, but so far as can be discovered, failing always to make it good, and the manuscript itself disappeared, carrying with it the only tangible testimony to the bitterness and intolerance of which even the owners were in after years ashamed. In the meantime, Harry Vane, despairing of peaceful life among his enemies, had sailed for England early in August, to pass through every phase of political and spiritual experience, and to give up his life at last on the scaffold to which the treachery of the second Charles condemned him. With his departure, no powerful friend remained to Anne Hutchinson, whose ruin had been determined upon and whose family were seeking a new and safer home. Common prudence should have made her give up her public meetings and show some deference to the powers she had always defied. Even this, however, could not have saved her, and in November, 1637, the trial began which even to-day no New Englander can recall without shame; a trial in which civil, judicial, and ecclesiastical forces all united to crush a woman, whose deepest fault was a too enthusiastic belief in her own inspiration. Winthrop conducted the prosecution, mild and calm in manner, but resolutely bent upon punishment, and by him sat Dudley, Endicott, Bradstreet, Nowell and Stoughton; Bradstreet and Winthrop being the only ones who treated her with the faintest semblance of courtesy. Welde and Symmes, Wilson and Hugh Peters, faced her with a curious vindictiveness, and in the throng of excited listenders, hardly a friendly face met her eyes, even her old friend, John Cotton, having become simply a timid instrument of her persecutors. The building in which the trial took place was thronged. Hundreds who had been attracted by her power, looked on: magistrates and ministers, yeoman and military, the sad colored garments of the gentry in their broad ruffs and high crowned hats, bringing out the buff coats of the soldiers, and the bright bodices of the women, who clung to the vanities of color, and defied the tacit law that limited them to browns and drabs. Over all hung the gray November sky, and the chill of the dolorous month was in the air, and did its work toward intensifying the bitterness which ruled them all. It is doubtful if Anne Bradstreet made one of the spectators. Her instinct would have been to remain away, for the sympathy she could not help but feel, could not betray itself, without at once ranking her in opposition to the judgment of both husband and father. Anne Hutchinson's condition was one to excite the compassion and interest of every woman, but it had no such effect on her judges, who forced her to stand till she nearly fell from exhaustion. Food was denied her; no counsel was allowed, or the presence of any friend who could have helped by presence, if in no other way. Feeble in body, depressed and anxious in mind, one reacted on another, and the marvel is not that she here and there contradicted herself, or lost patience, but that any coherence or power of argument remained. The records of the trial show both. Winthrop opened it by making a general charge of heresy, and Anne demanded a specific one, and when the charge of holding unlawful meetings was brought, denied it so energetically and effectually, that Winthrop had no more words and turned the case over to the less considerate Dudley, whose wrath at her presumption knew no bounds. Both he and the ministers who swore against her, used against her statements which she had made in private interviews with them, which she had supposed to be confidential, but which were now reported in detail. Naturally she reproached the witnesses with being informers, and they justified their course hotly. Mr. Cotton's testimony, given most reluctantly, confirmed their statements. The chief grievance was not her meetings, so much as the fact that she had publicly criticized the teaching and religious character of the ministers, insisting that Mr. Cotton alone had the full "thorough-furnishing" for such work. Deep but smothered feeling was apparent in every word the initiated witnesses spoke, and the magistrate, Mr. Coddington, in vain assured them, that even if she had said all this and more, no real harm had been done. Cotton sided with him, and spoke so powerfully that there was a slight diversion in her favor, rendered quite null by her claim of immediate inspiration in what she had done. The records at this point, show none of the excitement, the hysterical ecstasy which marked the same declaration in the case of some among the Quakers who were afterward tried. Her calmness increased instead of lessening. On the score of contempt of the ministers it had become evident that she could not be convicted, but this claim to direct revelation, was an even more serious matter. Scripture might be twisted to the point of dismemberment, so long as one kept to the text, and made no pretence of knowledge beyond it; contention within these bounds was lawful and honorable, and the daily food of these argumentative Christians who gave themselves to the work of combining intellectual freedom and spiritual slavery, with perpetual surprise at any indication that the two were incompatible. The belief in personal revelation, actually no more than a deep impression produced by long pondering over some passage, was really part of the Puritan faith, but the united company had no thought of discovering points of harmony, or brushing aside mere phrases which simply concealed the essential truth held by both. Such belief could come only from the direct prompting of Satan, and when she firmly and solemnly declared that whatever way their judgment went, she should be saved from calamity, that she was and should remain, in direct communion with God, and that they were simply pitiless persecutors of the elect, the wrath was instant and boundless. A unanimous vote condemned her at once, and stands in the records of Massachusetts as follows: "Mrs. Hutchinson, the wife of Mr. William Hutchinson, being convicted for traducing the ministers and their ministry in the country, she declared voluntarily her revelations, and that she should be delivered, and the Court ruined with their posterity, and thereupon was banished, and in the meanwhile was committed to Mr. Joseph Welde (of Roxbury) until the Court shall dispose of her." Her keeper for the winter was the brother of her worst enemy. She was to be kept there at the expense of her husband, but forbidden to pursue any of her usual occupations. Naturally she sunk into a deep melancholy, in no wise lessened by constant visits from the ministers, who insisted upon discussing her opinions, and who wrought upon her till she was half distracted. They accused her of falsehoods, declaring that she held "gross errors, to the number of thirty or thereabouts," and badgering the unhappy creature till it is miraculous that any spirit remained. Then came the church trial, more legitimate, but conducted with fully as much virulence as the secular one, the day of the weekly lecture, Thursday, being chosen, as that which brought together the greatest number of people. The elders accused her of deliberate lying, and point by point, brought up the thirty errors. Of some she admitted her possible mistake; others she held to strenuously, but all were simply speculation, not one having any vital bearing on faith or life. Public admonition was ordered, but before this her two sons had been publicly censured for refusing to join in signing the paper which excommunicated her, Mr. Cotton addressing them "most pitifully and pathetically," as "giving way to natural affection and as tearing the very bowels of their souls by hardening their mother in sin." Until eight in the evening, an hour equivalent to eleven o'clock with our present habits, the congregation listened to question and answer and admonition, in which last, Mr. Cotton "spake to the sisters of the church, and advised them to take heed of her opinions, and to withhold all countenance and respect from her, lest they should harden her in her sin." Anne Bradstreet must have listened with a curious mixture of feelings, though any evidence of them would naturally be repressed. Once more all came together, and once more, Anne Hutchinson, who faced them in this last encounter with a quiet dignity, that moved the more sympathetic to pity, denied the charges they brought, and the three years controversy which, as Ellis writes, "had drawn nearly the whole of the believers in Boston---magistrates, ministers, women, soldiers, and the common multitude under the banners of a female leader, had changed the government of the Colony, and spread its strange reports over Protestant Europe, was thus brought to an issue, by imputing deception about one of the most unintelligible tenets of faith to her, who could not be circumvented in any other way." The closest examination of her statements shows no ground for this judgment. It was the inferences of her opponents, and no fact of her real belief that made against her, but inference, then as now, made the chief ground for her enemies. Excommunication followed at once, and now, the worst having come, her spirits rose, and she faced them with quiet dignity, but with all her old assurance, glorying in the whole experience so that one of the indignant ministers described her manner with deep disgust, and added: "God giving her up, since the sentence of excommunication, to that hardness of heart, as she is not affected with any remorse, but glories in it, and fears not the vengeance of God which she lies under, as if God did work contrary to his own word, and loosed from heaven, while his church had bound upon earth." Other ministers were as eager in denunciation, preaching against her as "the American Jezebel," and even the saintly Hooker wrote: "The expression of providence against this wretched woman hath proceeded from the Lord's miraculous mercy, and his bare arm hath been discovered therein from first to last, that all the churches may hear and fear. I do believe such a heap of hideous errors at once to be vented by such a self-deluding and deluded creature, no history can record; and yet, after recantation of all, to be cast out as unsavory salt, that she may not continue a pest to the place, that will be forever marvellous in the eyes of all the saints." Even the lapse of several generations left the animus unchanged, and Graham, usually so dispassionate and just in statement, wrote of her almost vindictively: "In the assemblies which were held by the followers of Mrs. Hutchinson, there was nourished and trained a keen, contentious spirit, and an unbridled license of tongue, of which the influence was speedily felt in the serious disturbance, first of domestic happiness, and then of the public peace. The matrons of Boston were transformed into a synod of slanderous praters, whose inquisitional deliberations and audacious decrees, instilled their venom into the innermost recesses of society; and the spirits of a great majority of the citizen being in that combustible state in which a feeble spark will suffice to kindle a formidable conflagration, the whole Colony was inflamed and distracted by the incontinence of female spleen and presumption." Amidst this rattle of theological guns there was danger that others might be heard. To subdue Boston was the first necessity, and an order for disarming the disaffected was issued. The most eminent citizens, if suspected of favoring her, had their firearms taken from them, and even Capt. John Underhill was forced to give up his sword. An account of the whole controversy was written by Mr. Welde and sent over to England for publication in order that the Colony might not suffer from slanderous reports, and that no "godly friends" might be prevented from coming over. For the winter of 1637, Boston was quiet, but it was an ominous quiet, in which destructive forces gathered, and though never visible on the surface, worked in evil ways for more than one of the generations that followed. Freedom had ended for any who differed from the faith as laid down by the Cambridge Synod, and but one result could follow. All the more liberal spirits saw that Massachusetts could henceforth be no home for them, and made haste to other points. Coddington led a colony to Rhode Island, made up chiefly of the fifty-eight who had been disarmed, and in process of time became a Quaker. This was the natural ending for many, the heart of Anne Hutchinson's doctrine being really a belief in the "Inward Light," a doctrine which seems to have outraged every Puritan susceptibility for fully a hundred years, and until the reaction began, which has made individual judgment the only creed common to the people of New England. It was reasonable enough, however, that Massachusetts should dread a colony of such uneasy spirits, planted at her very doors, enfranchised and heretical to an appalling degree and considered quite as dangerous as so many malefactors, and an uneasy and constant watch was kept. The Hutchinsons had sold their property in Boston and joined Coddington at Pocasset, of which Mr. Hutchinson soon became the chief magistrate. His wife, as before, was the master spirit. She even addressed an admonition to the church in Boston, turning the tables temporarily upon her enemies, though the end of her power was at hand. In 1642, her husband died, and various circumstances had before this made her influence feared and disliked. Freedom in any English settlement had ceased to be possible, and as Massachusetts grew more powerful, she resigned any hope of holding the place won by so many sacrifices and emigrated to the Dutch settlement, forming a small colony of sixteen persons at Pelham in Westchester County, New York, where a little river still bears her name. One son had remained in Boston, and was the ancestor of the Tory Governor of Massachusetts during the Revolution, and a daughter also married and settled there, so that her blood is still found in the veins of more than one New England family, some of whose ancestors were most directly concerned in casting her out. But her younger children and a son-in-law were still with her, with a few of her most devoted followers, and she still anticipated peace and a quiet future. Both came at last, but not in the looked-for guise. No date remains of the fate of the little colony and only the Indian custom of preserving the names of those they killed, has made us know that Wampago himself, the owner of the land about Pelham, was the murderer of the woman, whose troubled but not unhappy life went out in the fire and blood of an Indian massacre. To the Puritans in Boston, such fate seemed justice, and they rejoiced with a grim exultation. "The Lord," said Welde, "heard our groans to heaven, and freed us from our great and sore affliction." No tale was too gross and shameless to find acceptance, and popular feeling against her settled into such fixed enmity that even her descendant, the historian Hutchinson, dared not write anything that would seem to favor her cause. Yet, necessary as her persecution and banishment may have been to the safety of the Colony, the faith for which she gave her life has been stronger than her enemies. Mistaken as she often was, a truer Christianity dwelt with her than with them, and the toleration denied her has shown itself as the heart of all present life or future progress. CHAPTER VII. COLONIAL LITERARY DEVELOPMENT IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. It was before the final charge from Ipswich to Andover, that the chief part of Anne Bradstreet's literary work was done, the ten years after her arrival in New England being the only fruitful ones. As daughter and wife of two of the chief magistrates, she heard the constant discussion of questions of policy as well as questions of faith, both strongly agitated by the stormy years of Anne Hutchinson's stay in Boston, and it is very probable that she sought refuge from the anxiety of the troubled days, in poetical composition, and in poring over Ancient History found consolation in the fact that old times were by no means better than the new. The literary life of New England had already begun, and it is worth while to follow the lines of its growth and development, through the colonial days, if only to understand better the curious limitations for any one who sought to give tangible form to thought, whether in prose or poetry. For North and South, the story was the same. The points of divergence in the northern and southern colonies have been so emphasized, and the impression has become so fixed, that the divisions of country had as little in common as came later to be the fact, that any statement as to their essential agreement, is distrusted or denied. Yet even to-day, in a region where many causes have made against purity of blood, the traveller in the South is often startled, in some remote town of the Carolinas or of Virginia, at the sight of what can only be characterized as a Southern Yankee. At one's very side in the little church may sit a man who, if met in Boston, would be taken for a Brahmin of the Brahmins. His face is as distinctively a New England one as was Emerson's. High but narrow forehead, prominent nose, thin lips, and cheek bones a trifle high; clear, cold blue eyes and a slender upright figure Every line shows repressed force, the possibility of passionate energy, of fierce enmity and ruthless judgment on anything outside of personal experience. Culture is equally evident, but culture refusing to believe in anything modern, and resting its claims on little beyond the time of Queen Anne. It is the Puritan alive again, and why not? Descended directly from some stray member of the Cromwellian party who fled at the Restoration, he chose Virginia rather than New England, allured by the milder climate. But he is of the same class, the same prejudices and limitations as the New England Puritan, the sole difference being that he has stood still while the other passed on unrestingly. But in 1635, it was merely a difference of location, never of mental habit, that divided them. For both alike, the description given by one of our most brilliant writers, applied the English people of the seventeenth century being summed up in words quite as applicable to-day as then: "At that time, though they were apparently divided into many classes, they were really divided into only two---first, the disciples of things as they are; second, the disciples of things as they ought to be." It was chiefly "the disciples of things as they ought to be" that passed over from Old England to the New, and as such faith means usually supreme discomfort for its holder, and quite as much for the opposer, there was a constant and lively ebullition of forces on either side. Every Puritan who came over waged a triple war-- first, with himself as a creature of malignant and desperate tendencies, likely at any moment to commit some act born of hell; second, with the devil, at times regarded as practically synonymous with one's own nature, at others as a tangible and audacious adversary; and last and always, with all who differed from his own standard of right and wrong---chiefly wrong. The motto of that time was less "Dare to do right," than "Do not dare to do wrong." All mental and spiritual furnishings were shaken out of the windows daily, by way of dislodging any chance seeds of vice sown by the great adversary. One would have thought the conflict with natural forces quite enough to absorb all superfluous energy, every fact of climate, soil and natural features being against them, but neither scanty harvests, nor Indian wars, nor devastating disease, had the power to long suppress this perpetual and unflinching self-discipline. Unlike any other colony of the New World, the sole purpose and motive of action was an ideal one. The Dutch sought peltries and trade in general, and whereever they established themselves, at once gave tokens of material comfort and prosperity. The more Southern Colonies were this basis, adding to it the freedom of life--the large hospitality possible where miles of land formed the plantation, and service meant no direct outlay or expense. Here and there a Southern Puritan was found, as his type may be found to-day, resisting the charm of physical ease and comfort, and constituting himself a missionary to the Indians of South Carolina, or to settlements remote from all gospel privileges, but for the most part the habits of an English squire-ruled country prevailed, and were enlarged upon; each man in the centre of his great property being practically king. Dispersion of forces was the order, and thus many necessities of civilization were dispensed with. The man who had a river at his door had no occasion to worry over the making or improvement of roads, a boat carrying his supplies, and bridle-paths sufficing his horse and himself. With no need for strenuous conflict with nature or man, the power of resistance died naturally. Sharp lines softened; muscles weakened, and before many generations the type had so altered that the people who had left England as one, were two, once for all. The law of dispersion, practical and agreeable to the Southern landholder, would have been destruction to his New England brethren. For the latter, concentration was the only safety. They massed together in close communities, and necessarily were forced to plan for the general rather than for the individual good. In such close quarters, where every angle made itself felt, and constant contact developed and implied criticism, law must work far more minutely than in less exacting communities. Every tendency to introspection and self-judging was strengthened to the utmost, and merciless condemnation for one's self came to mean a still sharper one for others. With every power of brain and soul they fought against what, to them, seemed the one evil for that or any time--toleration. Each man had his own thought, and was able to put it into strong words. No colony has ever known so large a proportion of learned men, there being more graduates of Cambridge and Oxford between the years 1630 and 1690 than it was possible to find in a population of the same size in the mother country. "In its inception, New England was not an agricultural community, nor a manufacturing community, nor a trading community; it was a thinking community---an arena and mart for ideas--its characteristic organ being not the hand, nor the heart, nor the pocket, but the brain." The material for learning, we have seen, was of the scantiest, not only for Winthrop's Colony but for those that preceded it. The three little ships that, on a misty afternoon in December, 1606, dropped down the Thames with sails set for an unknown country, carried any freight but that of books. Book-makers were there in less proportion than on board the solitary vessel that, in 1620, took a more northerly course, and cast anchor at last off the bleak and sullen shore of Massachusetts; but for both alike the stress of those early years left small energy or time for any composition beyond the reports that, at stated intervals, went back to the mother country. The work of the pioneer is for muscles first, brain having small opportunity, save as director; and it required more than one generation before authorship could become the business of any, not even the clergy being excepted from the stress of hard manual labor. Yet, for the first departure, an enthusiasm of hope and faith filled many hearts. The England of that day had not been too kindly toward her men of letters, who were then, as now, also men of dreams, looking for something better than the best she had to offer, and who, in the early years of the seventeenth century, gathered in London as the centre least touched by the bigotry and narrowness of one party, the wild laxity and folly of the other. "The very air of London must have been electric with the daily words of those immortals whose casual talk upon the pavement by the street-side was a coinage of speech richer, more virile, more expressive than has been known on this planet since the great days of Atheman poetry, eloquence and mirth." There were "wits, dramatists, scholars, orators, singers, philosophers." For every one of them was the faith of something undefined, yet infinitely precious, to be born of all the mysterious influences in that new land to which all eyes turned, and old Michael Drayton's ringing ode on their departure held also a prophecy: "In kenning of the shore, Thanks to God first given, O you, the happiest men, Be frolic then; Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven. "And in regions far Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north. "And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere-- Apollo's sacred tree-- You, it may see, A poet's brows to crown That may sing there." The men who, in passing over to America could not cease to be Englishmen, were the friends and associates--the intellectual equals in many points of this extraordinary assemblage of brilliant and audacious intellects; and chief among them was the man at whose name we are all inclined to smile--Captain John Smith. So many myths have hid the real man from view--some of them, it must be admitted, of his own making--that we forget how vivid and resolute a personality he owned, and the pride we may well have in him as the writer of the first distinctively American book. His work was not only for Virginia, but for New England as well. His life was given to the interests of both. Defeated plans, baffled hopes, had no power to quench the absorbing love that filled him to the end, and, at the very last, he wrote of the American colonies: "By that acquaintance I have with them, I call them my children; for they have been my wife, my hawks, hounds, my cards, my dice, and, in total, my best content, as indifferent to my heart as my left hand to my right." Certain qualities, most prominent then, have, after a long disappearance, become once more, in degree at least, characteristic of the time. The book man of to-day is quite as likely to be also the man of affairs, and the pale and cloistered student of the past is rather a memory than a present fact. History thus repeats itself as usual, and the story of the literary men of the nineteenth century has many points in common with that of the seventeenth. Smith's description of New England had had active circulation in the Mother Country, and many a Puritan trusted it entirely, who would have frowned upon the writer had he appeared in person to testify of what he had seen. Certainly the Cavalier predominated in him, the type to which he belonged being of the noble one "of which the Elizabethan age produced so many examples--the man of action who was also the man of letters; the man of letters who was also a man of action; the wholesomest type of manhood anywhere to be found; body and brain both active, both cultivated; the mind not made fastidious and morbid by too much bookishness, nor coarse and dull by too little; not a doer who is dumb, not a speech-maker who cannot do; the knowledge that comes of books, widened and freshened by the knowledge that comes of experience; the literary sense fortified by common sense; the bashfulness and delicacy of the scholar hovering as a finer presence above the forceful audacity of the man of the world; at once bookman, penman, swordsman, diplomat, sailor, courtier, orator. Of this type of manhood, spacious, strong, refined and sane, were the best men of the Elizabethan time, George Gascoigne, Sir Philip Sidney, Sir Walter Raleigh, and, in a modified sense, Hakluyt, Bacon, Sackville, Shakespeare, Ben Johnson and nearly all the rest." It would have been impossible to make John Smith a Puritan, but an ameliorated Puritan might easily have become a John Smith. It is worth while to recall his work and that of his fellow colonists, if only to note the wide and immediate departure of thought in the northern and southern colonies, even where the Puritan element entered in, nor can we understand Anne Bradstreet, without a thought of the forces at work in the new country, unconscious but potent causes of all phases of literary life in that early time. The Virginia colonist had more knowledge of the world and less knowledge of himself, introspection, or any desire for it, being no part of his mental constitution or habit. Intellectually, he demanded a spherical excellence, easier then than now, and attained by many a student of that day, and to this Captain John aspired, one at least of his contemporaries giving proof of faith that he had attained it in lines written on him and his book on the history of Virginia and New England: "Like Caesar, now thou writ'st what them hast done. These acts, this book, will live while there's a sun." The history is picturesque, and often amusing. As a writer he was always "racy, terse, fearless," but, save to the special student, there is little value to the present student, unless he be a searcher after the spirit that moved not only the man, but, through him, the time he moulded. For such reader will still be felt "the impression of a certain personal largeness ... magnanimity, affluence, sense and executive force. Over all his personal associates in American adventure he seems to tower, by the natural loftiness and reach of the perception with which he grasped the significance of their vast enterprise and the means to its success.... He had the faults of an impulsive, irascible, egotistic and imaginative nature; he sometimes bought human praise at too high a price, but he had great abilities in word and deed; his nature was, upon the whole, generous and noble; and during the first two decades of the seventeenth century, he did more than any other Englishman to make an American nation and an American literature possible." Behind the stockade at Jamestown, only the most persistent bent toward letters had chance of surviving. Joyful as the landing had been, the Colony had no sturdy backbone of practical workers. Their first summer was unutterably forlorn, the beauty and fertility that had seemed to promise to the sea-sad eyes a life of instant ease, bringing with it only a "horrible trail of homesickness, discord, starvation, pestilence and Indian hostility." No common purpose united them, as in the Northern Colony. Save for the leaders, individual profit had been the only ambition or intention. Work had no place in the scheme of life, and even when ship after ship discharged its load of immigrants matters were hardly mended. Perpetual discord became the law. Smith fled from the tumults which he had no power to quiet, and a long succession of soon-discouraged officers waged a species of hand-to-hand conflict with the wild elements that made up the Colony. One poet, George Sandys, whose name and work are still of meaning and value to the student, found leisure, borrowed from the night, for a translation of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," commended by both Dryden and Pope, and which passed at once through eight editions, but there were no others. Twenty years of colonial life had ended when he returned to England, and the spirit of the early founders had well nigh disappeared. Literary work had died with it. A few had small libraries, chiefly Latin classics, but a curious torpor had settled down, the reasons for which are now evident. There was no constant intercourse, as in New England. The "policy of dispersion" was the law, for every man aspired to be a large land- owner, and, in the midst of his tract of half-cleared land, had small communication with any but his inferiors. Within fifty years any intellectual standard had practically ceased to exist. The Governor, Sir William Berkeley, whose long rule meant death to progress, thundered against the printing-press, and believed absolutely in the "fine old conservative policy of keeping subjects ignorant in order to keep them submissive." For thirty- six years his energies were bent in this direction. Protest of any sort simply intensified his purpose, and when 1670 dawned he had the happiness of making to the English Commissioners a reply that has become immortal, though hardly in the sense anticipated, when he wrote: "I thank God there are no free schools, nor printing; and I hope we shall not have these hundred years; for learning has brought disobedience and heresy and sects into the world, and printing has divulged them and libels against the best government. God keep us from both." A dark prayer, and answered as fully as men's own acts can fulfill their prayers. The brilliant men who had passed from the scene had no successors. The few malcontents were silenced by a law which made "even the first thrust of the pressman's lever a crime," and until 1729 there was neither printing nor desire for printing in any general sense. The point where our literature began had become apparently its burial-place; the historians and poets and students of an earlier generation were not only unheeded but forgotten, and a hundred years of intellectual barrenness, with another hundred, before even partial recovery could be apparent, were the portion of Virginia and all the states she influenced or controlled. No power could have made it otherwise. "Had much literature been produced there, would it not have been a miracle? The units of the community isolated; little chance for mind to kindle mind; no schools; no literary institutions, high or low; no public libraries; no printing-press; no intellectual freedom; no religious freedom; the forces of society tending to create two great classes--a class of vast land-owners, haughty, hospitable, indolent, passionate, given to field sports and politics; and a class of impoverished white plebeians and black serfs; these constitute a situation out of which may be evolved country gentlemen, loud-lunged and jolly fox-hunters, militia heroes, men of boundless domestic heartiness and social grace, astute and imperious politicians, fiery orators, and, by and by, here and there, perhaps after awhile, a few amateur literary men---but no literary class, and almost no literature." * * * * * The Northern Colony had known strange chances also, but every circumstance and accident of its life fostered the literary spirit and made the student the most honored member of the community. The Mayflower brought a larger proportion of men with literary antecedents and tendencies than had landed on the Virginia coast; and though every detail of life was fuller of hard work, privation and danger--climate being even more against them than Indians or any other misery of the early years--the proportion remained much the same. It is often claimed that this early environment was utterly opposed to any possibility of literary development. On the contrary, "those environments were, for a certain class of mind, extremely wholesome and stimulating." Hawthorne has written somewhere: "New England was then in a state incomparably more picturesque than at present, or than it has been within the memory of man." And Tyler, in his brilliant analysis of early colonial forces, takes much the same ground: "There were about them many of the tokens and forces of a picturesque, romantic and impressive life; the infinite solitudes of the wilderness, its mystery, its peace; the near presence of nature, vast, potent, unassailed; the strange problems presented to them by savage character and savage life; their own escape from great cities, from crowds, from mean competition; the luxury of having room enough; the delight of being free; the urgent interest of all the Protestant world in their undertaking; the hopes of humanity already looking thither; the coming to them of scholars, saints, statesmen, philosophers." Yet even for these men there were restraints that to-day seem shameful and degrading. Harvard College had been made responsible for the good behavior of the printing-press set up in 1639, and for twenty-three years this seemed sufficient. Finally two official licensers were appointed, whose business was to read and pronounce a verdict either for or against everything proposed for publication. Anyone might consider these hindrances sufficient, but intolerance gained with every year of restriction, and when finally the officers were induced by arguments which must have been singularly powerful, to allow the printing of an edition of "Invitation of Christ," a howl arose from every council and general assembly, whether of laws of divinity, and the unlucky book was characterized as one written "by a popish minister, wherein is contained some things that are less safe to be infused amongst the people of this place"; and the authorities ordered not only a revisal of its contents but a cessation of all work on the printing-press. Common sense at length came to the rescue, but legal restraints on printing were not abolished in Massachusetts until twenty-one years before the Declaration of Independence. As with Virginia the early years were most fertile in work of any interest to the present time, and naturally so. Fresh from the life not only of books but of knowledge of "the central currents of the world's best thinking," these influences could not die out in the generation nearest them. For every writer some history of the Colony was the first instinct, and William Bradford holds the same relation to New England as Captain John Smith to Virginia-- the racy, incisive, picturesque diction of the latter being a key- hole to their colonial life, as symbolical as the measured, restrained and solemn periods of the Puritan writer. Argument had become a necessity of life. It had been forced upon them in England in the endeavor to define their position not only to the Cavalier element but to themselves, and became finally so rooted a mental habit that "even on the brink of any momentous enterprise they would stop and argue the case if a suspicion occurred to them that things were not right." They were never meek and dreamy saints, but, on the contrary, "rather pragmatical and disputatious persons, with all the edges and corners of their characters left sharp, with all their opinions very definitely formed, and with their habits of frank utterance quite thoroughly matured." But for Bradford, and Morton, and Johnson, and other equally worthy and honored names, this disputatious tendency was a surface matter, and the deeper traits were of an order that make petty peculiarities forgotten. For Bradford especially, was "an untroubled command of strong and manly speech.... The daily food of his spirit was noble. He uttered himself without effort, like a free man, a sage and a Christian," and his voice was that of many who followed him. Loving the mother country with passion, the sense of exile long remained with them--a double exile, since they had first taken firm hold in Leyden, and parted from its ease and prosperity with words which hold the pathos and quiet endurance still the undertone of much New England life, and which, though already quoted, are the key note of the early days. "So they left that goodly and pleasant city which had been their resting-place near twelve years; but they knew they were pilgrims, and looked not much on these things, but lift up their eyes to the heavens, that dearest country, and quieted their spirits." What John Winthrop's work was like, whether in private diary or letter, or in more formal composition, we have already seen, but there is one speech of his in 1645, which was of profoundest interest to the whole Colony, and must have stirred Anne Bradstreet to the very depths. This speech was made before the general court after his acquittal of the charge of having exceeded his authority as deputy governor. And one passage, containing his statement of the nature of liberty, has been pronounced by both English and American thinkers far beyond the definition of Blackstone, and fully on a par with the noblest utterances of John Locke or Algernon Sidney. As time went on authorship passed naturally into the hands of the clergy, who came to be the only class with much leisure for study. The range of subjects treated dwindled more and more from year to year. The breadth and vigor of the early days were lost, the pragmatical and disputatious element gaining more and more ground. Unfortunately, "they stood aloof with a sort of horror from the richest and most exhilarating types of classic writing in their own tongue." The Hebrew Scriptures and many classics of Roman and Greek literature were still allowed; but no genuine literary development could take place where the sinewy and vital thought of their own nation was set aside as unworthy of consideration. The esthetic sense dwindled and pined. Standards of judgment altered. The capacity for discrimination lessened. Theological quibbling made much of the literature of the day, though there was much more than quibbling. But the keenest minds, no matter how vivid and beautiful their intelligence, were certain that neither man as a body, nor the world as a home, were anything but lack evils, ruined by the fall of Adam, and to be ignored and despised with every power and faculty. Faith in God came to be faith in "a microscopic and picayune Providence," governing the meanest detail of the elect's existence, and faith in man had no place in any scheme of life or thought. If a poem were written it came to be merely some transcription from the Bible, or an epitaph or elegy on some departed saint. In spite of themselves, however, humor, the Saxon birthright, refused to be suppressed, and asserted itself in unexpected ways, as in Nathaniel Ward's "Simple Cobbler of Agawam," already mentioned. What the cobbler saw was chiefly the theological difficulties of the time. Discord and confusion seemed to have settled upon the earth, and "looking out over English Christendom, he saw nothing but a chaos of jangling opinions, upstart novelties, lawless manners, illimitable changes in codes, institutions and creeds." He declaims ferociously against freedom of opinion, and "the fathers of the inquisition might have reveled over the first twenty-five pages of this Protestant book, that actually blaze with the eloquent savagery and rapture of religious intolerance." He laughed in the midst of this declamation, but it was rather a sardonic laugh, and soon checked by fresh consideration of man's vileness. Liberty had received many a blow from the hands of these men, who had fled from home and country to secure it, but it could not die while their own principles were remembered, and constantly at one point or another, irrepressible men and women rose up, bent upon free thought and free speech, and shaming even the most determined and intolerant spirit. One of such men, outspoken by nature, recorded his mind in some two thousand printed pages, and Roger Williams even to-day looms up with all the more power because we have become "rather fatigued by the monotony of so vast a throng of sages and saints, all quite immaculate, all equally prim and stiff in their Puritan starch and uniform, all equally automatic and freezing." It is most comfortable to find anyone defying the rigid and formal law of the time, whether spoken or implied, and we have positive "relief in the easy swing of this man's gait, the limberness of his personal movement, his escape from the pasteboard proprieties, his spontaneity, his impetuosity, his indiscretions, his frank acknowledgements that he really had a few things yet to learn." He demanded spiritual liberty, and though, as time went on, he learned to use gentler phrases, he was always a century or two ahead of his age. The mirthfulness of his early days passed, as well it might, but a better possession-- cheerfulness--remained to the end. Exile never embittered him, and the writings that are his legacy "show an habitual upwardness of mental movement; they grow rich in all gentle, gracious, and magnanimous qualities as the years increase upon him." His influence upon New England was a profound one, and the seed sown bore fruit long after his mortal body had crumbled into dust; but it was chiefly in theological lines, to which all thought now tended. Poetry, so far as drama or lyric verse was concerned, had been forsworn by the soul of every true Puritan, but "of course poetry was planted there too deep even for his theological grub- hooks to root out. If, however, his theology drove poetry out of many forms in which it has been used to reside, poetry itself practiced a noble revenge by taking up its abode in his theology." Stedman gives a masterly analysis of this time in the opening essay of his "Victorian Poets," showing the shackles all minds wore, and comparing the time when "even nature's laws were compelled to bow to church fanaticism," to the happier day in which "science, freedom of thought, refinement and material progress have moved along together." We have seen how the power of keen and delicate literary judgment or discrimination died insensibly. The first era of literary development passed with the first founders of the Republic, and original thought and expression lay dormant, save in theological directions. As with all new forms of life, the second stage was an imitative one, and the few outside the clergy who essayed writing at all copied the worst models of the Johnsonian period. Verse was still welcome, and the verse-makers of the colonial time were many. Even venerable clergymen like Peter Bulkley gave way to its influence. Ostensible poems were written by more than one governor; John Cotton yielded to the spell, though he hid the fact discreetly by writing his English verses in Greek characters, and confining them to the blank leaves of his almanac. Debarred from ordinary amusements or occupations, the irrepressible need of expression effervesced in rhymes as rugged and unlovely as the writers, and ream upon ream of verse accumulated. Had it found permanent form, our libraries would have been even more encumbered than at present, but fortunately most of it has perished. Elegies and epitaphs were its favorite method, and the "most elaborate and painful jests," every conceivable and some inconceivable quirks and solemn puns made up their substance. The obituary poet of the present is sufficiently conspicuous in the daily papers which are available for his flights, but the leading poets of to-day do not feel that it is incumbent upon them to evolve stanzas in a casual way on every mournful occasion. In that elder day allegories, anagrams, acrostics--all intended to have a consolatory effect on mourning friends--flowed from every clerical pen, adding a new terror to death and a new burden to life, but received by the readers with a species of solemn glee. Of one given to this habit Cotton Mather writes that he "had so nimble a faculty of putting his devout thoughts into verse that he signalized himself by ... sending poems to all persons, in all places, on all occasions ... wherein if the curious relished the piety sometimes rather than the poetry, the capacity of the most therein to be accommodated must be considered." Another poet had presently the opportunity to "embalm his memory in some congenial verses," and wrote an epitaph, and ended with a full description of-- "His care to guide his flock and feed his lambs, By words, works, prayers, psalms, alms and anagrams." To this period belongs a poetic phenomenon--a metrical horror known as "The Bay Psalm Book," being the first English book ever issued from an American printing-press. Tyler has given with his accustomed happy facility of phrase the most truthful description yet made of a production that formed for years the chief poetical reading of the average New Englander, and undoubtedly did more to lower taste and make inferior verse seem praiseworthy than any and all other causes. He writes: "In turning over these venerable pages, one suffers by sympathy something of the obvious toil of the undaunted men who, in the very teeth of nature, did all this; and whose appalling sincerity must, in our eyes, cover a multitude of such sins as sentences wrenched about end for end, clauses heaved up and abandoned in chaos, words disemboweled or split quite in two in the middle, and dissonant combinations of sound that are the despair of such poor vocal organs as are granted to human beings. The verses seem to have been hammered out on an anvil, by blows from a blacksmith's sledge. In all parts of the book is manifest the agony it cost the writers to find two words that would rhyme---more or less; and so often as this arduous feat is achieved, the poetic athlete appears to pause awhile from sheer exhaustion, panting heavily for breath. Let us now read, for our improvement, a part of the Fifty-eighth Psalm: "The wicked are estranged from the womb, they goe astray as soon as ever they are borne, uttering lyes are they. Their poyson's like serpents' poyson, they like deafe Aspe her eare that stops. Though Charmer wisely charm, his voice she will not heare. Within their mouth, doe thou their teeth, break out, O God most strong, doe thou Jehovah, the great teeth break of the lions young." It is small wonder that Anne Bradstreet's poems struck the unhappy New Englanders who had been limited to verse of this description as the work of one who could be nothing less than the "Tenth Muse." When the first edition of her poems appeared, really in 1650, though the date is usually given as 1642, a younger generation had come upon the scene. The worst hardships were over. Wealth had accumulated, and the comfort which is the distinguishing characteristic of New England homes to-day, was well established. Harvard College was filled with bright young scholars, in whom her work awakened the keenest enthusiasm; who had insight enough to recognize her as the one shining example of poetic power in that generation, and who wrote innumerable elegies and threnodies on her life and work. The elegy seems to have appealed more strongly to the Puritan mind than any other poetical form, and they exhausted every verbal device in perpetuating the memory of friends who scarcely needed this new terror added to a death already surrounded by a gloom that even their strongest faith hardly dispelled. "Let groans inspire my quill," one clerical twister of language began, and another wrote with the painful and elephantine lightness which was the Puritan idea of humor, an epitaph which may serve as sufficient illustration of the whole unutterably dreary mass of verse: "Gospel and law in's heart had each its column; His head an index to the sacred volume; His very name a title page and next His life a commentary on the text. Oh, what a monument of glorious worth, When in a new edition he comes forth Without _erratas_ may we think he'll be, In leaves and covers of eternity." Better examples were before them, for books were imported freely, but minds had settled into the mould which they kept for more than one generation, unaffected in slightest measure by the steady progress of thought in the old home. The younger writers were influenced to a certain degree by the new school, but lacked power to pass beyond it. Pope was now in full tide of success, and, with Thomson, Watts and Young, found hosts of sympathetic and admiring readers who would have turned in horror from the pages of Shakespeare or the early dramatists. The measure adopted by Pope charmed the popular mind, and while it helped to smooth the asperities of Puritan verse, became also the easy vehicle of the commonplace. There were hints here and there of something better to come, and in the many examples of verse remaining it is easy to discern a coming era of free thought and more musical expression. Peter Folger had sent out from the fogs of Nantucket a defiant and rollicking voice; John Rogers and Urian Oakes, both poets and both Harvard presidents, had done something better than mere rhyme, but it remained for another pastor, teacher and physician to sound a note that roused all New England. Michael Wigglesworth might have been immortal, could the genius born in him have been fed and trained by any of the "sane and mighty masters of English song"; but, born to the inheritance of a narrow and ferocious creed, with no power left to even admit the existence of the beautiful, he was "forever incapable of giving utterance to his genius--except in a dialect unworthy of it," and became simply "the explicit and unshrinking rhymer of the five points of Calvinism." Cotton Mather describes him as "a feeble little shadow of a man." He was "the embodiment of what was great, earnest and sad in colonial New England." He was tenderly sympathetic, and his own life, made up mostly of sorrow and pain, filled him with longing to help others. "A sensitive, firm, wide-ranging, unresting spirit, he looks out mournfully over the throngs of men that fill the world, all of them totally depraved, all of them caught, from farthest eternity, in the adamantine meshes of God's decrees; the most of them also being doomed in advance by those decrees to an endless existence of ineffable torment; and upon this situation of affairs the excellent Michael Wigglesworth proposes to make poetry." His "Day of Doom," a horribly realistic description of every terror of the expected judgment, was written in a swinging ballad measure that took instant hold of the popular mind. No book ever printed in America has met with a proportionate commercial success. "The eighteen hundred copies of the first edition were sold within a single year; which implies the purchase of a copy of 'The Day of Doom' by at least every thirty-fifth person in New England.... Since that time the book has been repeatedly published, at least once in England and at least eight times in America, the last time being in 1867." It penetrated finally all parts of the country where Puritan faith or manners prevailed. It was an intellectual influence far beyond anything we can now imagine. It was learned by heart along with the catechism, and for a hundred years was found on every book- shelf, no matter how sparsely furnished otherwise. Even after the Revolution, which produced the usual effect of all war in bringing in unrestrained thought, it was still a source of terror, and thrilled and prepared all readers for the equally fearful pictures drawn by Edwards and his successors. It is fortunate, perhaps, that Anne Bradstreet did not live to read and be influenced by this poem, as simply candid in its form and conception as the "Last Judgements" of the early masters, and like them, portraying devils with much more apparent satisfaction than saints. There is one passage that deserves record as evidence of what the Puritan faith had done toward paralyzing common sense, though there are still corners in the United States where it would be read without the least sense of its grotesque horror. The various classes of sinners have all been attended to, and now, awaiting the last relay of offenders-- "With dismal chains, and strongest reins Like prisoners of hell, They're held in place before Christ's face, Till he their doom shall tell. These void of tears, but filled with fears, And dreadful expectation Of endless pains and scalding flames, Stand waiting for damnation." The saints have received their place and look with an ineffable and satisfied smirk on the despair of the sinners, all turning at last to gaze upon the battalion of "reprobate infants," described in the same brisk measure: "Then to the bar all they drew near Who died in infancy, And never had, or good or bad, Effected personally. But from the womb unto the tomb Were straightway carried, Or, at the least, ere they transgressed-- Who thus began to plead." These infants, appalled at what lies before them, begin to first argue with true Puritanic subtlety, and finding this useless, resort to pitiful pleadings, which result in a slight concession, though the unflinching Michael gives no hint of what either the Judge or his victims would regard as "the easiest room." The infants receive their sentence with no further remark. "You sinners are; and such a share As sinners may expect; Such you shall have, for I do save None but mine own elect. Yet to compare your sin with their Who lived a longer time, I do confess yours is much less, Though every sin's a crime. A crime it is; therefore in bliss You may not hope to dwell; But unto you I shall allow The easiest room in hell." In such faith the little Bradstreets were brought up, and the oldest, who became a minister, undoubtedly preached it with the gusto of the time, and quoted the final description of the sufferings of the lost, as an efficient argument with sinners: "Then might you hear them rend and tear The air with their outcries; The hideous noise of their sad voice, Ascendeth to the skies. They wring their hands, their cartiff-hands, And gnash their teeth for terror; They cry, they roar, for anguish sore, And gnaw their tongue for horror. But get away without delay; Christ pities not your cry; Depart to hell, there may you yell And roar eternally. * * * * * "Die fain they would, if die they could, But death will not be had; God's direful wrath their bodies hath Forever immortal made. They live to lie in misery And bear eternal woe; And live they must whilst God is just That he may plague them so." Of the various literary children who may be said to have been nurtured on Anne Bradstreet's verses, three became leaders of New England thought, and all wrote elegies on her death, one of them of marked beauty and power. It remained for a son of the sulphurous Wigglesworth, to leave the purest fragment of poetry the epoch produced, the one flower of a life, which at once buried itself in the cares of a country pastorate and gave no further sign of gift or wish to speak in verse. The poem records the fate of a gifted classmate, who graduated with him at Harvard, sailed for England, and dying on the return voyage, was buried at sea. It is a passionate lamentation, an appeal to Death, and at last a quiet resignation to the inevitable, the final lines having a music and a pathos seldom found in the crabbed New England verse: "Add one kind drop unto his watery tomb; Weep, ye relenting eyes and ears; See, Death himself could not refrain, But buried him in tears." With him the eighteenth century opens, beyond which we have no present interest, such literary development as made part of Anne Bradstreet's knowledge ending with the seventeenth. CHAPTER VIII. SOME PHASES OF EARLY COLONIAL LIFE. Much of the depression evident in Anne Bradstreet's earlier verses came from the circumstances of her family life. No woman could have been less fitted to bear absence from those nearest to her, and though her adhesive nature had made her take as deep root in Ipswich, as if further change could not come, she welcomed anything that diminished the long separations, and made her husband's life center more at home. One solace seems to have been always open to her, her longest poem, the "Four Monarchies," showing her devotion to Ancient history and the thoroughness with which she had made it her own. Anatomy seems to have been studied also, the "Four Humours in Man's Constitution," showing an intimate acquaintance with the anatomical knowledge of the day; but in both cases it was not, as one might infer from her references to Greek and Latin authors, from original sources. Sir Walter Raleigh's "History of the World," Archbishop Usher's "Annals of the World," and Pemble's "Period of the Persian Monarchy," were all found in Puritan libraries, though she may have had access to others while still in England. Pemble was in high favor as an authority in Biblical exposition, the title of his book being a stimulant to every student of the prophecies: "The Period of the Persian Monarchy, wherein sundry places of Ezra, Nehemiah and Daniel are cleared, Extracted, contracted and Englished, (much of it out of Dr. Raynolds) by the late learned and godly man, Mr. William Pemble, of Magdalen Hall, in Oxford." This she read over and over again, and many passages in her poem on the "Four Monarchies" are merely paraphrases of this and Raleigh's work, though before a second edition was printed she had read Plutarch, and altered here and there as she saw fit to introduce his rendering. Galen and Hippocrates, whom she mentions familiarly, were known to her through the work of the "curious learned Crooke," his "Description of the Body of Man, Collected and Translated out of all the best Authors on Anatomy, especially out of Gasper, Banchinus, and A. Sourentius," being familiar to all students of the day. If her muse could but have roused to a sense of what was going on about her, and recorded some episodes which Winthrop dismisses with a few words, we should be under obligations that time could only deepen. Why, for instance, could she not have given her woman's view of that indomitable "virgin mother of Taunton," profanely described by Governor Winthrop as "an ancient maid, one Mrs. Poole. She went late thither, and endured much hardships, and lost much cattle. Called, after, Taunton." Precisely why Mrs. Poole chose Tecticutt, afterward Titicut, for her venture is not known, but the facts of her rash experiment must have been discussed at length, and moved less progressive maids and matrons to envy or pity as the chance might be. But not a hint of this surprising departure can be found in any of Mistress Bradstreet's remains, and it stands, with no comment save that of the diligent governor's faithful pen, as the first example of an action, to be repeated in these later days in prairie farms and Western ranches by women who share the same spirit, though more often young than "ancient" maids. But ancient, though in her case a just enough characterization, was a term of reproach for any who at sixteen or eighteen at the utmost, remained unmarried, and our present custom of calling every maiden under forty, "girl" would have struck the Puritan mothers with a sense of preposterousness fully equal to ours at some of their doings. A hundred years passed, and then an appreciative kinsman, who had long enjoyed the fruit of her labors, set up "a faire slab," still to be seen in the old burying ground. HERE RESTS THE REMAINS OF MRS. ELIZABETH POOL, A NATIVE OF OLD ENGLAND, Of good family, friends and prospects, all which she left in the prime of her life, to enjoy the religion of her conscience in this distant wilderness; A great proprietor of the township of Taunton, A chief promoter of its settlement and its incorporation 1639-40, about which time she settled near this spot; and, having employed the opportunity of her virgin state in piety, liberality and sanctity of manners, Died May 21st A.D. 1654, aged 65. to whose memory this monument is gratefully erected by her next of kin, JOHN BORLAND, ESQUIRE, A.D. 1771. Undoubtedly every detail of this eccentric settlement was talked over at length, as everything was talked over. Gossip never had more forcible reason for existence, for the church covenant compelled each member to a practical oversight of his neighbor's concerns, the special clause reading: "We agree to keep mutual watch and ward over one another." At first, united by a common peril, the dangers of this were less perceptible. The early years held their own necessities for discussion, and the records of the time are full of matter that Anne Bradstreet might have used had she known her opportunity. She was weighed down like every conscientious Puritan of the day not only by a sense of the infinitely great, but quite as strenuously by the infinitely little. It is plain that she saw more clearly than many of her time, and there are no indications in her works of the small superstitions held by all. Superstition had changed its name to Providence, and every item of daily action was believed to be under the constant supervision and interference of the Almighty. The common people had ceased to believe in fairies and brownies, but their places had been filled by Satan's imps and messengers, watchful for some chance to confound the elect. The faith in dreams and omens of every sort was not lessened by the transferrence of the responsibility for them to the Lord, and the superstition of the day, ended later in a credulity that accepted the Salem Witchcraft delusion with all its horrors, believing always, that diligent search would discover, if not the Lord's, then the devil's hand, working for the edification or confounding of the elect. Even Winthrop does not escape, and in the midst of wise suggestions for the management of affairs sandwiches such a record as the following: "At Watertown there was (in the view of divers witnesses) a great combat between a mouse and a snake; and after a long fight, the mouse prevailed and killed the snake. The pastor of Boston, Mr. Wilson, a very sincere, holy man, hearing of it, gave this interpretation: That the snake was the devil; the mouse was a poor, contemptible, people, which God had brought hither, which should overcome Satan here, and dispossess him of his kingdom. Upon the same occasion, he told the governor that, before he was resolved to come into this country, he dreamed he was here, and that he saw a church arise out of the earth, which grew up and became a marvelously goodly church." They had absolute faith that prayer would accomplish all things, even to strengthening a defective memory. Thomas Shepard, whose autobiography is given in Young's "Chronicles of Massachusetts Bay," gave this incident in his life when a student and "ambitious of learning and being a scholar; and hence, when I could not take notes of the sermon I remember I was troubled at it, and prayed the Lord earnestly that he would help me to note sermons; and I see some cause of wondering at the Lord's providence therein; for as soon as ever I had prayed (after my best fashion) Him for it, I presently, the next Sabbath, was able to take notes, who the precedent Sabbath, could do nothing at all that way." Anthony Thacher, whose story may have been told in person to Governor Dudley's family, and whose written description of his shipwreck, included in Young's "Chronicles," is one of the most picturesque pieces of writing the time affords, wrote, with a faith that knew no question: "As I was sliding off the rock into the sea the Lord directed my toes into a joint in the rock's side, as also the tops of some of my fingers, with my right hand, by means whereof, the wave leaving me, I remained so, hanging on the rock, only my head above water." When individual prayer failed to accomplish a desired end, a fast and the united storming of heaven, never failed to bring victory to the besiegers. Thus Winthrop writes: "Great harm was done in corn, (especially wheat and barley) in this month, by a caterpillar, like a black worm about an inch and a half long. They eat up first the blades of the stalk, then they eat up the tassels, whereupon the ear withered. It was believed by divers good observers, that they fell in a great thunder shower, for divers yards and other places, where not one of them was to be seen an hour before, were immediately after the shower almost covered with them, besides grass places where they were not so easily discerned. They did the most harm in the southern parts.... In divers places the churches kept a day of humiliation, and presently after, the caterpillars vanished away." Still another instance, the fame of which spread through the whole Colony and confounded any possible doubter, found record in the "Magnalia", that storehouse of fact so judiciously combined with fable that the author himself could probably never tell what he had himself seen, and what had been gleaned from others. Mr. John Wilson, the minister of the church at Boston until the arrival of Cotton, was journeying with a certain Mr. Adams, when tidings came to the latter of the probably fatal illness of his daughter. "Mr. Wilson, looking up to heaven, began mightily to wrestle with God for the life of the young woman ... then, turning himself about unto Mr. Adams, 'Brother,' said he, 'I trust your daughter shall live; I believe in God she shall recover of this sickness.' And so it marvelously came to pass, and she is now the fruitful mother of several desirable children." Among the books brought over by John Winthrop the younger, was a volume containing the Greek testament, the Psalms, and the English Common Prayer, bound together, to which happened an accident, which was gravely described by the Governor in his daily history of events: "Decem 15. About this time there fell out a thing worthy of observation. Mr. Winthrop the younger, one of the magistrates, having many books in a chamber where there was corn of divers sorts, had among them one, wherein the Greek testament, the psalms and the common prayer were bound together. He found the common prayer eaten with mice, every leaf of it, and not any of the two other touched, nor any other of his books, though there were above a thousand. Not a Puritan of them all, unless it may be the governor himself, but believed that the mice were agents of the Almighty sent to testify His dissatisfaction with the objectionable form of prayer, and not a fact in daily life but became more and more the working of Providence. Thus, as the good governor records later: "A godly woman of the church of Boston, dwelling sometimes in London, brought with her a parcel of very fine linen of great value, which she set her heart too much upon, and had been at charge to have it all newly washed, and curiously folded and pressed, and so left it in press in her parlor over night. She had a negro maid went into the room very late, and let fall some snuff of the candle upon the linen, so as by morning all the linen was burned to tinder, and the boards underneath, and some stools and a part of the wainscot burned and never perceived by any in the house, though some lodged in the chamber overhead, and no ceiling between. But it pleased God that the loss of this linen did her much good, both in taking off her heart from worldly comforts, and in preparing her for a far greater affliction by the untimely death of her husband, who was slain not long after at Isle of Providence." The thrifty housewife's heart goes out to this sister, whose "curiously folded and pressed linen," lavender-scented and fair, was the one reminder of the abounding and generous life from which she had come. It may have been a comfort to consider its loss a direct dispensation for her improvement, and by this time, natural causes were allowed to have no existence save as they became tools of this "Wonder-working Providence." It was the day of small things more literally than they knew, and in this perpetual consideration of small things, the largeness of their first purpose dwindled and contracted, and inconceivable pettiness came at last to be the seal upon much of their action. Mr. Johnson, a minister whose course is commented upon by Bradford, excommunicated his brother and own father, for disagreement from him in certain points of doctrine, though the same zeal weakened when called upon to act against his wife, who doubtless had means of influencing his judgment unknown to the grave elders who remonstrated. But the interest was as strong in the cut of a woman's sleeve as in the founding of a new Plantation. They mourned over their own degeneracy. "The former times were better than these," the croakers sighed, and Governor Bradford wrote of this special case; "In our time his wife was a grave matron, and very modest both in her apparel and all her demeanor, ready to any good works in her place, and helpful to many, especially the poor, and an ornament to his calling. She was a young widow when he married her, and had been a merchant's wife by whom he had a good estate, and was a godly woman; and because she wore such apparel as she had been formerly used to, which were neither excessive nor immodest, for their chiefest exception were against her wearing of some whalebone in the bodice and sleeves of her gown, corked shoes and other such like things as the citizens of her rank then used to wear. And although, for offence sake, she and he were willing to reform the fashions of them, so far as might be, without spoiling of their garments, yet it would not content them except they came full up to their size. Such was the strictness or rigidness (as now the term goes) of some in those times, as we can by experience and of our own knowledge, show in other instances." Governor Bradford, who evidently leans in his own mind toward the side of Mistress Johnson, proceeds to show the undue severity of some of the brethren in Holland. "We were in the company of a godly man that had been a long time prisoner at Norwich for this cause, and was by Judge Cooke set at liberty. After going into the country he visited his friends, and returning that way again to go into the Low Countries by ship at Yarmouth, and so desired some of us to turn in with him to the house of an ancient woman in the city, who had been very kind and helpful to him in his sufferings. She knowing his voice, made him very welcome, and those with him. But after some time of their entertainment, being ready to depart, she came up to him and felt of his hand (for her eyes were dim with age) and perceiving it was something stiffened with starch, she was much displeased and reproved him very sharply, fearing God would not prosper his journey. Yet the man was a plain country man, clad in gray russet, without either welt or guard (as the proverb is) and the band he wore, scarce worth three-pence, made of their own home-spinning; and he was godly and humble as he was plain. What would such professors, if they were now living, say to the excess of our times?" Women spoke their minds much more freely in the early days than later they were allowed to, this same "ancient woman" of Amsterdam, having a sister worker of equally uncompromising tongue and tendencies, who was, for her various virtues chosen as deaconess, "and did them service for many years, though she was sixty years of age when she was chosen. She honored her place and was an ornament to the congregation. She usually sat in a convenient place in the congregation, with a little birchen rod in her hand, and kept little children in great awe from disturbing the congregation. She did frequently visit the sick and weak, especially women, and, as there was need, called out maids and young women to watch and do them other helps as their necessity did require; and if they were poor, she would gather relief for them of those that were able, or acquaint the deacons; and she was obeyed as a mother in Israel and an officer of Christ." Whether this dame had the same objection to starch as the more "ancient" one, is not recorded, but in any case she was not alone. Men and women alike, forswore the desired stiffness, retaining it only in their opinions. By the time that Anne Bradstreet had settled in Andover, bodily indulgence so far as adornment or the gratification of appetite went, had become a matter for courts to decide upon. Whether Simon Bradstreet gave up the curling locks which, while not flowing to his shoulders as in Colonel Hutchinson's case, still fell in thick rings about his neck, we have no means of knowing. His wife would naturally protest against the cropping, brought about by the more extreme, "who put their own cropped heads together in order to devise some scheme for compelling all other heads to be as well shorn as theirs were." One of the first acts of John Endecott when again appointed governor of Massachusetts Bay, was "to institute a solemn association against long hair," but his success was indifferent, as evidenced in many a moan from reverend ministers and deacons. John Eliot, one of the sweetest and most saintly spirits among them, wrote that it was a "luxurious feminine prolixity for men to wear their hair long and to ... ruffle their heads in excesses of this kind," but in later years, with many another wearied antagonist of this abomination, added hopelessly--"the lust is insuperable." Tobacco was fulminated against with equal energy, but no decree of court could stamp out the beloved vice. Winthrop yielded to it, but afterward renounced it, and the ministers compared its smoke to the smoke ascending from the bottomless pit, but no denunciation could effectually bar it out, and tobacco and starch in the end asserted their right to existence and came into constant use. A miraculous amount of energy had been expended upon the heinousness of their use, and the very fury of protest brought a reaction equally strong. Radical even in her conservatism, New England sought to bind in one, two hopelessly incompatible conditions: intellectual freedom and spiritual slavery. Absolute obedience to an accepted formula of faith was hardly likely to remain a fact for a community where thought was stimulated not only by education and training but every circumstance of their daily lives. A people who had lived on intimate terms with the innermost counsels of the Almighty, and who listened for hours on Sunday to speculations on the component elements not only of the Almighty, but of all His works were, while apparently most reverential, losing all capacity for reverence in any ancient sense. Undoubtedly this very speculation did much to give breadth and largeness, too much belief preparing the way, first, for no belief, and, at last, for a return to the best in the old and a combination of certain features of the new, which seems destined to make something better for practical as well as spiritual life than the world has ever known. The misfortune of the early Puritan was in too rigid a creed, too settled an assurance that all the revelation needed had been given. Unlike the Dunkard elders, who refused to formulate a creed, lest it should put them in a mental attitude that would hinder further glimpses of truth, they hastened to bind themselves and all generations to come in chains, which began to rattle before the last link was forged. Not a Baptist, or Quaker, or Antinomian but gave himself to the work of protestation, and the determined effort to throw off the tyranny and presumption of men no wiser than he. Whippings, imprisonments and banishments silenced these spirits temporarily, but the vibration of particles never ceased, and we know the final result of such action. No wonder that the silent work of disintegration, when it showed itself in the final apparent collapse of all creeds, was looked upon with horrified amazement, and a hasty gathering up of all the old particles with a conviction that fusing and forging again was as easy of accomplishment now as in the beginning. The attempt has proved their error. Up to nearly the opening of the eighteenth century New England life kept pace with the advances in England. There was constant coming and going and a sense of common interests and common needs. But even before emigration practically ceased, the changes in modes of speech were less marked than in the old home. English speech altered in many points during the seventeenth century. Words dropped out of use, their places filled by a crowd of claimants, sometimes admitted after sharp scrutiny, as often denied, but ending in admitting themselves, as words have a trick of doing even when most thoroughly outlawed. But in New England the old methods saw no reason for change. Forms of speech current in the England of the seventeenth century crystallized here and are heard to-day. "Yankeeisms" is their popular title, but the student of old English knows them rather as "Anglicisms." "Since the year 1640 the New England race has not received any notable addition to its original stock, and to-day their Anglican blood is as genuine and unmixed as that of any county in England." Dr. Edward Freeman, in his "Impressions of America," says of New England particularly, the remark applying in part also to all the older states: "When anything that seems strange to a British visitor in American speech or American manners is not quite modern on the face of it, it is pretty certain to be something which was once common to the older and the newer England, but which the newer England has kept, while the older England has cast it aside." Such literature as had birth in New England adhered chiefly to the elder models, and has thus an archaic element that broader life and intercourse would have eliminated. The provincial stage, of feeble and uncertain, or stilled but equally uncertain expression was at hand, but for the first generation or so the colonists had small time to consider forms of speech. Their passion for knowledge, however, took on all the vitality that had forsaken English ground, and that from that day to this, has made the first thought of every New England community, East or West, a school. Their corner-stone "rested upon a book." It has been calculated that there was one Cambridge graduate for every two- hundred and fifty inhabitants, and within six years from the landing of John Winthrop and his party, Harvard College had begun its work of baffling "that old deluder, Sathan," whose business in part it was "to keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures." To secular learning they were indifferent, but every man must be able to give reason for the faith that was in him, and the more tongues in which such statement could be made the more confusion for this often embarrassed but still undismayed Sathan. Orders of nobility among them had passed. Very rarely were they joined by even a simple "Sir," and as years went on, nobility came to be synonymous with tyranny, and there was less and less love for every owner of a title. To them the highest earthly distinction came to be found in the highest learning. The earnest student deserved and obtained all the honors that man could give him, and his epitaph even recorded the same solemn and deep-seated admiration. "The ashes of an hard student, a good scholar, and a great Christian." Anne Bradstreet shared this feeling to the full, and might easily have been the mother of whom Mather writes as saying to her little boy: "Child, if God make thee a good Christian and a good scholar, thou hast all that thy mother ever asked for thee." Simon Bradstreet became both, and in due time pleased his mother by turning sundry of her "Meditations" into Latin prose, in which stately dress they are incorporated in her works. The New England woman kept up as far as possible the same pursuits in which she had been trained, and among others the concoction of innumerable tinctures and waters, learned in the 'still-room' of every substantial English home. Room might have given place to a mere corner, but the work went on with undiminished interest and enthusiasm. There were few doctors, and each family had its own special formulas--infallible remedies for all ordinary diseases and used indiscriminately and in combination where a case seemed to demand active treatment. They believed in their own medicines absolutely, and required equal faith in all upon whom they bestowed them. Sturdy English stock as were all these New England dames, and blessed with a power of endurance which it required more than one generation to lessen, they were as given to medicine-taking as their descendants of to-day, and fully as certain that their own particular prescription was more efficacious than all the rest put together. Anne Bradstreet had always been delicate, and as time went on grew more and more so. The long voyage and confinement to salt food had developed certain tendencies that never afterward left her, and there is more than a suspicion that scurvy had attacked her among the rest. Every precaution was taken by Governor Winthrop to prevent such danger for those who came later, and he writes to his wife, directing her preparations for the voyage: "Be sure to be warme clothed & to have store of fresh provisions, meale, eggs putt up in salt or ground mault, butter, ote meal, pease & fruits, & a large strong chest or 2, well locked, to keep these provisions in; & be sure they be bestowed in the shippe where they may be readyly come by.... Be sure to have ready at sea 2 or 3 skilletts of several syzes, a large fryinge panne, a small stewinge panne, & a case to boyle a pudding in; store of linnen for use at sea, & sacke to bestow among the saylors: some drinking vessells & peuter & other vessells." Dr. Nathaniel Wright, a famous physician of Hereford, and private physician to Oliver Cromwell for a time, had given Winthrop various useful prescriptions, and his medicines were in general use, Winthrop adding in this letter: "For physick you shall need no other but a pound of Doctor Wright's _Electuariu lenitivu_, & his direction to use it, a gallon of scirvy grasse, to drink a litle 5 or 6 morninges together, with some saltpeter dissolved in it, & a little grated or sliced nutmeg." Dr. Wright's prescriptions were supplemented by a collection prepared for him by Dr. Edward Stafford of London, all of which were used with great effect, the governor's enthusiasm for medical receipts and amateur practice, passing on through several generations. A letter to his son John at Ispwich contains some of his views and a prescription for pills which were undoubtedly taken faithfully by Mistress Anne and administered as faithfully to the unwilling Simon, who like herself suffered from one or two attacks of fever. The colonists were, like all breakers of new ground, especially susceptible to fevers of every variety, and Governor Winthrop writes anxiously: "You must be very careful of taking cold about the loins; & when the ground is open, I will send you some pepper-wort roots. For the flux, there is no better medicine than the cup used two or three times, &, in case of sudden torments, a clyster of a quart of water boiled to a pint, which, with the quantity of two or three nutmegs of saltpetre boiled in it, will give present ease. "For the pills, they are made of grated pepper, made up with turpentine, very stiff, and some flour withal; and four or five taken fasting, & fast two hours after. But if there be any fever with the flux, this must not be used till the fever is removed by the cup." Each remedy bears the internal warrant of an immediate need for a fresh one, and it is easy to see from what source the national love of patent medicines has been derived. Another prescription faithfully tried by both giver and receiver, and which Anne Bradstreet may have tested in her various fevers, was sent to John Winthrop, Jr., by Sir Kenelm Digby and may be found with various other singularities in the collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. "For all sorts of agues, I have of late tried the following magnetical experiment with infallible success. Pare the patient's nails when the fit is coming on, and put the parings into a little bag of fine linen or sarsenet, and tie that about a live eel's neck in a tub of water. The eel will die and the patient will recover. And if a dog or hog eat that eel, they will also die. I have known one that cured all deliriums and frenzies whatsoever, and at once taking, with an elixer made of dew, nothing but dew purified & nipped up in a glass & digested 15 months till all of it was become a gray powder, not one drop of humidity remaining. This I know to be true, & that first it was as black as ink, then green, then gray, & at 22 month's end it was as white & lustrous as any oriental pearl. But it cured manias at 15 months' end." The mania for taking it or anything else sufficiently mysterious and unpleasant to give a value to its possession remains to this day. But the prescriptions made up by the chief magistrate had a double efficacy for a time that believed a king's touch held instant cure for the king's evil, and that the ordinary marks known to every physician familiar with the many phases of hysteria, were the sign-manual of witches. The good governor's list of remedies had been made up from the Stafford prescriptions, the diseases he arranged to deal with being "plague, smallpox, fevers, king's evil, insanity, and falling sickness," besides broken bones and all ordinary injuries. Simples and mineral drugs are used indiscriminately, and there is one remedy on which Dr. Holmes comments, in an essay on "The Medical Profession in Massachusetts," "made by putting live toads into an earthern pot so as to half fill it, and baking and burning them 'in the open ayre, not in a house'--concerning which latter possibility I suspect Madam Winthrop would have had something to say--until they could be reduced by pounding, first into a brown and then into a black, powder." This powder was the infallible remedy "against the plague, small-pox; purples, all sorts of feavers; Poyson; either by way of Prevention or after Infection." Consumption found a cure in a squirrel, baked alive and also reduced to a Powder, and a horrible witches' broth of earth-worms and other abominations served the same purpose. The governor makes no mention of this, but he gives full details of an electuary of millipedes, otherwise sowbugs, which seems to have been used with distinguished success. Coral and amber were both powdered and used in special cases, and antimony and nitre were handled freely, with rhubarb and the whole series of ancient remedies. The Winthrop papers hold numberless letters from friends and patients testifying to the good he had done them or begging for further benefactions, one of these from the agitator, Samuel Gostun, who at eighty-two had ceased to trouble himself over anything but his own infirmities, holding a wonder how "a thing so little in quantity, so little in sent, so little in taste, and so little to sence in operation, should beget and bring forth such efects." These prescriptions were handed down through four generations of Winthrops, who seem to have united law and medicine, a union less common than that of divinity and medicine. Michael Wigglesworth, whom we know best through his "Day of Doom," visited and prescribed for the sick, "not only as a Pastor but as a Physician too, and this not only in his own town, but also in all those of the vicinity." But this was in later days, when John Eliot's desire had been accomplished, written to the Rev. Mr. Shepard in 1647: "I have thought in my heart that it were a very singular good work, if the Lord would stirre up the hearts of some or other of his people in England, to give some maintenance toward some Schoole or Collegiate exercise this way, wherein there should be Anatomies and other instructions that way, and where there might be some recompense given to any that should bring in any vegetable or other thing that is vertuous in the way of Physick. There is another reason which moves my thought and desires this way, namely, that our young students in Physick may be trained up better than they yet bee, who have onely theoreticall knowledge, and are forced to fall to practice before ever they saw an Anatomy made, or duely trained up in making experiments, for we never had but one Anatomy in the countrey." This anatomy had been made by Giles Firmin, who was the friend of Winthrop and of the Bradstreet's, and who found the practice of medicine so little profitable that he wrote to the former: "I am strongly set upon to studye divinity; my studyes else must be lost, for physick is but a meene helpe." A "meene helpe" it proved for many years, during which the Puritan dames steeped herbs and made ointments and lotions after formulas learned in the still- room at home. The little Bradstreet's doubtless swallowed their full share, though fortunately blessed for the most part with the sturdy constitution of their father, who, save for a fever or two, escaped most of the sicknesses common to the colonists and lived through many serene and untroubled years of physical and mental health, finding life enjoyable even at four-score and ten. CHAPTER IX. ANDOVER. What causes may have led to the final change of location we have no means of knowing definitely, save that every Puritan desired to increase the number of churches as much as possible; a tendency inherited to its fullest by their descendants. On the 4th of March, 1634-5, "It is ordered that the land aboute Cochichowicke, shall be reserved for an inland plantacon, & that whosoever will goe to inhabite there, shall have three yeares imunity from all taxes, levyes, publique charges & services whatsoever, (millitary dissipline onely excepted), etc." Here is the first suggestion of what was afterward to become Andover, but no action was taken by Bradstreet until 1638, when in late September, "Mr. Bradstreet, Mr. Dudley, Junior, Captain Dennison, Mr. Woodbridge and eight others, are allowed (upon their petition) to begin a plantation at Merrimack." This plantation grew slowly. The Bradstreets lingered at Ipswich, and the formal removal, the last of many changes, did not take place until September, 1644. Simon Bradstreet, the second son, afterward minister at New London, Conn., whose manuscript diary is a curious picture of the time, gives one or two details which aid in fixing the date. "1640. I was borne N. England, at Ipswitch, Septem. 28 being Munday 1640. "1651. I had my Education in the same Town at the free School, the master of w'ch was my ever respected ffreind Mr. Ezekiell Cheevers. My Father was removed from Ipsw. to Andover, before I was putt to school, so yt my schooling was more chargeable." The thrifty spirit of his grandfather Dudley is shown in the final line, but Simon Bradstreet the elder never grudged the cost of anything his family needed or could within reasonable bounds desire, and stands to-day as one of the most signal early examples of that New England woman's ideal, "a good provider." Other threads were weaving themselves into the "sad-colored" web of daily life, the pattern taking on new aspects as the days went on. Four years after the landing of the Arbella and her consorts, one of the many bands of Separatists, who followed their lead, came over, the celebrated Thomas Parker, one of the chief among them, and his nephew, John Woodbridge, an equally important though less distinguished member of the party. They took up land at Newbury, and settled to their work of building up a new home, as if no other occupation had ever been desired. The story of John Woodbridge is that of hundreds of young Puritans who swelled the tide of emigration that between 1630 and 1640 literally poured into the country, "thronging every ship that pointed its prow thitherward." Like the majority of them, he was of good family and of strong individuality, as must needs be where a perpetual defiance is waged against law and order as it showed itself to the Prelatical party. He had been at Oxford and would have graduated, but for his own and his father's unwillingness that he should take the oath of conformity required, and in the midst of his daily labor, he still hoped privately to become one of that ministry, who were to New England what the House of Lords represented to the old. Prepossessing in appearance, with a singularly mild and gentle manner, he made friends on all sides, and in a short time came to be in great favor with Governor Dudley, whose daughter Mercy was then nearly the marriagable age of the time, sixteen. The natural result followed, and Mercy Dudley, in 1641, became Mercy Woodbridge, owning that name for fifty years, and bearing, like most Puritan matrons, many children, with the well marked traits that were also part of the time. The young couple settled quietly at Newbury, but his aspiration was well known and often discussed by the many who desired to see the churches increased with greater speed. Dudley was one of the most earnest workers in this direction, but there is a suggestion that the new son-in-law's capacity for making a good bargain had influenced his feelings, and challenged the admiration all good New Englanders have felt from the beginning for any "fore handed" member of their community. This, however, was only a weakness among many substantial virtues which gave him a firm place in the memory of his parishioners. But the fact that after he resigned his ministry he was recorded as "remarkably blest in private estate," shows some slight foundation for the suggestion, and gives solid ground for Dudley's special interest in him. A letter is still in existence which shows this, as well as Dudley's entire willingness to take trouble where a benefit to anyone was involved. Its contents had evidently been the subject of very serious consideration, before he wrote: SON WOODBRIDGE: On your last going from Rocksbury, I thought you would have returned again before your departure hence, and therefore neither bade you farewell, nor sent any remembrance to your wife. Since which time I have often thought of you, and of the course of your life, doubting you are not in the way wherein you may do God best service. Every man ought (as I take it) to serve God in such a way whereto he had best filled him by nature, education or gifts, or graces acquired. Now in all these respects I concieve you to be better fitted for the ministry, or teaching a school, than for husbandry. And I have been lately stirred up the rather to think thereof by occasion of Mr. Carter's calling to be pastor at Woburn the last week, and Mr. Parker's calling to preach at Pascattaway, whose abilities and piety (for aught I know) surmount not yours. There is a want of school-masters hereabouts, and ministers are, or in likelihood will be, wanting ere long. I desire that you would seriously consider of what I say, and take advise of your uncle, Mr. Nayse, or whom you think meetest about it; withal considering that no man's opinion in a case wherein he is interested by reason of your departure from your present habitation is absolutely to be allowed without comparing his reason with others. And if you find encouragement, I think you were best redeem what time you may without hurt of your estate, in perfecting your former studies. Above all, commend the case in prayer to God, that you may look before you with a sincere eye upon his service, not upon filthy lucre, which I speak not so much for any doubt I have of you, but to clear myself from that suspicion in respect of the interest I have in you. I need say no more. The Lord direct and bless you, your wife and children, whom I would fain see, and have again some thoughts of it, if I live till next summer. Your very loving father, THOMAS DUDLEY. Rocksbury, November 28, 1642. To my very loving son, Mr. John Woodbridge, at his house in Newbury. As an illustration of Dudley's strong family affection the letter is worth attention, and its advice was carried out at once. The celebrated Thomas Parker, his uncle, became his instructor, and for a time the young man taught the school in Boston, until fixed upon as minister for the church in Andover, which in some senses owes its existence to his good offices. The thrifty habits which had made it evident in the beginning to the London Company that Separatists were the only colonists who could be trusted to manage finances properly, had not lessened with years, and had seldom had more thorough gratification than in the purchase of Andover, owned then by Cutshamache "Sagamore of ye Massachusetts." If he repented afterward of his bargain, as most of them did, there is no record, but for the time being he was satisfied with "ye sume of L6 & a coate," which the Rev. John Woodbridge duly paid over, the town being incorporated under the name of Andover in 1646, as may still be seen in the Massachusetts Colony Records, which read: "At a general Court at Boston 6th of 3d month, 1646, Cutshamache, Sagamore of Massachusetts, came into the court and acknowledged that, for the sum of L6 and a coat which he had already received, he had sold to Mr. John Woodbridge, in behalf of the inhabitants of Cochichewick, now called Andover, all the right, interest and privilege in the land six miles southward from the town, two miles eastward to Rowley bounds, be the same more or less; northward to Merrimack river, provided that the Indian called Roger, and his company, may have liberty to take alewives in Cochichewick river for their own eating; but if they either spoil or steal any corn or other fruit to any considerable value of the inhabitants, the liberty of taking fish shall forever cease, and the said Roger is still to enjoy four acres of ground where now he plants." Punctuation and other minor matters are defied here, as in many other records of the time, but it is plain that Cutshamache considered that he had made a good bargain, and that the Rev. John Woodbridge, on his side was equally satisfied. The first settlements were made about Cochichewick Brook, a "fair springe of sweet water." The delight in the cold, clear New England water comes up at every stage of exploration in the early records. In the first hours of landing, as Bradford afterward wrote, they "found springs of fresh water of which we were heartily glad, and sat us down and drunk our first New England water, with as much delight as ever we drunk drink in all our lives." "The waters are most pure, proceeding from the entrails of rocky mountains," wrote John Smith in his enthusiastic description, and Francis Higginson was no less moved. "The country is full of dainty springs," he wrote, "and a sup of New England's air is better than a whole draught of old England's ale." The "New English Canaan" recorded: "And for the water it excelleth Canaan by much; for the land is so apt for fountains, a man cannot dig amiss. Therefore if the Abrahams and Lots of our time come thither, there needs be no contention for wells. In the delicacy of waters, and the conveniency of them, Canaan came not near this country." Boston owed its first settlement to its "sweet and pleasant springs," and Wood made it a large inducement to emigration, in his "New England's Prospect." "The country is as well watered as any land under the sun; every family or every two families, having a spring of sweet water betwixt them. It is thought there can be no better water in the world." New Englanders still hold to this belief, and the soldier recalls yet the vision of the old well, or the bubbling spring in the meadow that tantalized and mocked his longing in the long marches, or in the hospital wards of war time. The settlement gathered naturally about the brook, and building began vigorously, the houses being less hastily constructed than in the first pressure of the early days, and the meeting-house taking precedence of all. Even, however, with the reverence inwrought in the very name of minister we must doubt if Anne Bradstreet found the Rev. John Woodbridge equal to the demand born in her, by intercourse with such men as Nathaniel Ward or Nathaniel Rogers, or that he could ever have become full equivalent for what she had lost. With her intense family affection, she had, however, adopted him at once, and we have very positive proof of his deep interest in her, which showed itself at a later date. This change from simple "husbandman" to minister had pleased her pride, and like all ministers he had shared the hardships of his congregation and known often sharp privation. It is said that he was the second one ordained in New England, and like most others his salary for years was paid half in wheat and half in coin, and his life divided itself between the study and the farm, which formed the chief support of all the colonists. His old record mentions how he endeared himself to all by his quiet composure and patience and his forgiving temper. He seems to have yearned for England, and this desire was probably increased by his connection with the Dudley family. Anne Bradstreet's sympathies, in spite of all her theories and her determined acceptance of the Puritan creed, were still monarchical, and Mercy would naturally share them. Dudley himself never looked back, but the "gentlewoman of fortune" whom he married, was less content, and her own hidden longing showed itself in her children. Friends urged the young preacher to return, which he did in 1647, leaving wife and children behind him, his pastorate having lasted but a year. There is a letter of Dudley's, written in 1648, addressed to him as "preacher of the word of God at Andover in Wiltshire," and advising him of what means should be followed to send his wife and children, but our chief interest in him lies in the fact, that he carried with him the manuscript of Anne Bradstreet's poems, which after great delay, were published at London in 1650. He left her a quiet, practically unknown woman, and returned in 1662, to find her as widely praised as she is now forgotton; the "Tenth Muse, Lately sprung up in America." What part of them were written in Andover there is no means of knowing, but probably only a few of the later ones, not included in the first edition. The loneliness and craving of her Ipswich life, had forced her to composition as a relief, and the major part of her poems were written before she was thirty years old, and while she was still hampered by the methods of the few she knew as masters. With the settling at Andover and the satisfying companionship of her husband, the need of expression gradually died out, and only occasional verses for special occasions, seem to have been written. The quiet, busy life, her own ill-health, and her absorption in her children, all silenced her, and thus, the work that her ripened thought and experience might have made of some value to the world, remained undone. The religious life became more and more the only one of any value to her, and she may have avoided indulgence in favorite pursuits, as a measure against the Adversary whose temptations she recorded. Our interest at present is in these first Andover years, and the course of life into which the little community settled, the routine holding its own interpretation of the silence that ensued. The first sharp bereavement had come, a year or so before the move was absolutely determined upon, Mrs. Dudley dying late in December of 1643, at Roxbury, to which they had moved in 1639, and her epitaph as written by her daughter Anne, shows what her simple virtues had meant for husband and children. AN EPITAPH ON MY DEAR AND EVER-HONORED MOTHER, MRS. DOROTHY DUDLEY, WHO DECEASED DECEMB 27 1643, AND OF HER AGE 61. Here lyes A worthy Matron of unspotted life, A loving Mother and obedient wife, A friendly Neighbor pitiful to poor, Whom oft she fed and clothed with her store, To Servants wisely aweful but yet kind, And as they did so they reward did find; A true Instructer of her Family, The which she ordered with dexterity. The publick meetings ever did frequent, And in her Closet constant hours she spent; Religious in all her words and wayes Preparing still for death till end of dayes; Of all her Children, Children lived to see, Then dying, left a blessed memory." There is a singular aptitude for marriage in these old Puritans. They "married early, and if opportunity presented, married often." Even Governor Winthrop, whose third marriage lasted for thirty years, and whose love was as deep and fervent at the end as in the beginning, made small tarrying, but as his biographer delicately puts it, "he could not live alone, and needed the support and comfort which another marriage could alone afford him." He did mourn the faithful Margaret a full year, but Governor Dudley had fewer scruples and tarried only until the following April, marrying then Catherine, widow of Samuel Hackburne, the first son of this marriage, Joseph Dudley, becoming even more distinguished than his father, being successively before his death, Governor of Massachusetts, Lieutenant Governor of the Isle of Wight, and first Chief Justice of New York, while thirteen children handed on the name. The first son, Samuel, who married a daughter of Governor Winthrop, and thus healed all the breaches that misunderstanding had made, was the father of eighteen children, and all through the old records are pictures of these exuberant Puritan families. Benjamin Franklin was one of seventeen. Sir William Phipps, the son of a poor gunsmith at Pemaquid, and one of the first and most notable instances of our rather tiresome "self-made men," was one of twenty-six, twenty-one being sons, while Roger Clapp of Dorchester, handed down names that are in themselves the story of Puritanism, his nine, being Experience, Waitstill, Preserved, Hopestill, Wait, Thanks, Desire, Unite and Supply. The last name typifies the New England need, and Tyler, whose witty yet sympathetic estimate of the early Puritans is yet to be surpassed, writes: "It hardly needs to be mentioned after this, that the conditions of life there were not at all those for which Malthus subsequently invented his theory of inhospitality to infants. Population was sparce; work was plentiful; food was plentiful; and the arrival in the household of a new child was not the arrival of a new appetite among a brood of children already half-fed--it was rather the arrival of a new helper where help was scarcer than food; it was, in fact, a fresh installment from heaven of what they called, on Biblical authority, the very 'heritage of the Lord.' The typical household of New England was one of patriarchal populousness. Of all the sayings of the Hebrew Psalmist--except, perhaps, the damnatory ones--it is likely that they rejoiced most in those which expressed the Davidic appreciation of multitudinous children: 'As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them; they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.' The New Englanders had for many years quite a number of enemies in the gate, whom they wished to be able to speak with, in the unabashed manner intimated by the devout warrior of Israel." Hardly a town in New England holds stronger reminders of the past, or has a more intensely New England atmosphere than Andover, wherein the same decorous and long-winded discussions of fate, fore-knowledge and all things past and to come, still goes on, as steadily as if the Puritan debaters had merely transmigrated, not passed over, to a land which even the most resigned and submissive soul would never have wished to think of as a "Silent Land." All that Cambridge has failed to preserve of the ancient spirit lives here in fullest force, and it stands to-day as one of the few representatives remaining of the original Puritan faith and purpose. Its foundation saw instant and vigorous protest, at a small encroachment, which shows strongly the spirit of the time. A temporary church at Rowley was suggested, while the future one was building, and Hubbard writes: "They had given notice thereof to the magistrates and ministers of the neighboring churches, as the manner is with them in New England. The meeting of the assembly was to be at that time at Rowley; the forementioned plantations being but newly erected, were not capable to entertain them that were likely to be gathered together on that occasion. But when they were assembled, most of those who were to join together in church fellowship, at that time, refused to make confession of their faith and repentance, because, as was said, they declared it openly before in other churches upon their admission into them. Whereupon the messengers of the churches not being satisfied, the assembly broke up, before they had accomplished what they intended." English reticence and English obstinacy were both at work, the one having no mind to make a private and purely personal experience too common; the other, resenting the least encroachment on the Christian liberty they had sought and proposed to hold. By October, the messengers had decided to compromise, some form of temporary church was decided upon, and the permanent one went up swiftly as hands could work. It had a bell, though nobody knows from whence obtained, and it owned two galleries, one above another, the whole standing till 1711, when a new and larger one became necessary, the town records describing, what must have been a building of some pretension, "50 feet long, 45 feet wide, and 24 feet between joints"; and undoubtedly a source of great pride to builders and congregation. No trace of it at present remains, save the old graveyard at the side, "an irregular lot, sparsely covered with ancient moss-grown stones, in all positions, straggling, broken and neglected, and overrun with tall grass and weeds." But in May, as the writer stood within the crumbling wall, the ground was thick with violets and "innocents," the grass sprung green and soft and thick, and the blue sky bent over it, as full of hope and promise as it seemed to the eyes that two hundred years before, had looked through tears, upon its beauty. From her window Mistress Bradstreet could count every slab, for the home she came to is directly opposite, and when detained there by the many illnesses she suffered in later days, she could, with opened windows, hear the psalm lined out, and even, perhaps, follow the argument of the preacher. But before this ample and generous home rose among the elms, there was the usual period of discomfort and even hardship. Simon Bradstreet was the only member of the little settlement who possessed any considerable property, but it is evident that he shared the same discomforts in the beginning. In 1658 there is record of a house which he had owned, being sold to another proprieter, Richard Sutton, and this was probably the log- house built before their coming, and lived in until the larger one had slowly been made ready. The town had been laid out on the principle followed in all the early settlements, and described in one of the early volumes of the Massachusetts Historical Society Collections. Four, or at the utmost, eight acres, constituted a homestead, but wood-lots and common grazing lands, brought the amount at the disposal of each settler to a sufficient degree for all practical needs. It is often a matter of surprise in studying New England methods to find estates which may have been owned by the same family from the beginning, divided in the most unaccountable fashion, a meadow from three to five miles from the house, and wood-lots and pasture at equally eccentric distances. But this arose from the necessities of the situation. Homes must be as nearly side by side as possible, that Indians and wild beasts might thus be less dangerous and that business be more easily transacted. Thus the arrangement of a town was made always to follow this general plan: "Suppose ye towne square 6 miles every waye. The houses orderly placed about ye midst especially ye meeting house, the which we will suppose to be ye center of ye wholl circumference. The greatest difficulty is for the employment of ye parts most remote, which (if better direction doe not arise) may be this: the whole being 6 miles, the extent from ye meeting-house in ye center, will be unto every side 3 miles; the one half whereof being 2500 paces round about & next unto ye said center, in what condition soever it lyeth, may well be distributed & employed unto ye house within ye compass of ye same orderly placed to enjoye comfortable conveniance. Then for that ground lying without, ye neerest circumference may be thought fittest to be imployed in farmes into which may be placed skillful bred husbandmen, many or fewe as they may be attayned unto to become farmers, unto such portions as each of them may well and in convenient time improve according to the portion of stocke each of them may be intrusted with." House-lots would thus be first assigned, and then in proportion to each of them, the farm lands, called variously, ox-ground, meadow- land, ploughing ground, or mowing land, double the amount being given to the owner of an eight-acre house-lot, and such lands being held an essential part of the property. A portion of each township was reserved as "common or undivided land," not in the sense in which "common" is used in the New England village of to- day, but simply for general pasturage. With Andover, as with many other of the first settlements, these lands were granted or sold from time to time up to the year 1800, when a final sale was made, and the money appropriated for the use of free schools. As the settlement became more secure, many built houses on the farm lands, and removed from the town, but this was at first peremptorily forbidden, and for many years after could not be done without express permission. Mr. Bradstreet, as magistrate, naturally remained in the town, and the new house, the admiration of all and the envy of a few discontented spirits, was watched as it grew, by its mistress, who must have rejoiced that at last some prospect of permanence lay before her. The log house in which she waited, probably had not more than four rooms, at most, and forced them to a crowding which her ample English life had made doubly distasteful. She had a terror of fire and with reason, for while still at Cambridge her father's family had had in 1632 the narrowest of escapes, recorded by Winthrop in his Journal: "About this time Mr. Dudley, his house, at Newtown, was preserved from burning down, and all his family from being destroyed by gunpowder, by a marvellous deliverance--the hearth of the hall chimney burning all night upon a principal beam, and store of powder being near, and not discovered till they arose in the morning, and then it began to flame out." The thatch of the early house, which were of logs rilled in with clay, was always liable to take fire, the chimneys being of logs and often not clayed at the top. Dudley had warned against this carelessness in the first year of their coming, writing: "In our new town, intended this summer to be builded, we have ordered, that no man there shall build his chimney with wood, nor cover his house with thatch, which was readily assented unto; for that divers houses since our arrival (the fire always beginning in the wooden chimneys), and some English wigwams, which have taken fire in the roofs covered with thatch or boughs." With every precaution, there was still constant dread of fire, and Anne must have rejoiced in the enormous chimney of the new house, heavily buttressed, running up through the centre and showing in the garret like a fortification. This may have been an enlargement on the plan of the first, for the house now standing, took the place of the one burned to the ground in July, 1666, but duplicated as exactly as possible, at a very short time thereafter. Doubts have been expressed as to whether she ever lived in it, but they have small ground for existence. It is certain that Dudley Bradstreet occupied it, and it has been known from the beginning as the "Governor's house." Its size fitted it for the large hospitality to which she had been brought up and which was one of the necessities of their position, and its location is a conspicuous and important one. Whatever temptation there may have been to set houses in the midst of grounds, and make their surroundings hold some reminder of the fair English homes they had left, was never yielded to. To be near the street, and within hailing distance of one another, was a necessity born of their circumstances. Dread of Indians, and need of mutual help, massed them closely together, and the town ordinances forbade scattering. So the great house, as it must have been for long, stood but a few feet from the old Haverhill and Boston road, surrounded by mighty elms, one of which measured, twenty-five years ago, "sixteen and a half feet in circumference, at one foot above the ground, well deserving of mention in the 'Autocrat's' list of famous trees." The house faces the south, and has a peculiar effect, from being two full stories high in front, and sloping to one, and that a very low one, at the back. The distance between caves and ground is here so slight, that one may fancy a venturous boy in some winter when the snow had drifted high, sliding from ridge pole to ground, and even tempting a small and ambitious sister to the same feat. Massive old timbers form the frame of the house, and the enormous chimney heavily buttressed on the four sides is exactly in the center, the fireplaces being rooms in themselves. The rooms at present are high studded, the floor having been sunk some time ago, but the doors are small and low, indicating the former proportions and making a tall man's progress a series of bows. Some of the walls are wainscotted and some papered, modern taste, the taste of twenty-five years ago, having probably chosen to remove wainscotting, as despised then as it is now desired. At the east is a deep hollow through which flows a little brook, skirted by alders, "green in summer, white in winter," where the Bradstreet children waded, and fished for shiners with a crooked pin, and made dams, and conducted themselves in all points like the children of to-day. Beyond the brook rises the hill, on the slope of which the meeting-house once stood, and where wild strawberries grew as they grow to-day. A dense and unbroken circle of woods must have surrounded the settlement, and cut off many glimpses of river and hill that to- day make the drives about Andover full of surprise and charm. Slight changes came in the first hundred years. The great mills at Lawrence were undreamed of and the Merrimack flowed silently to the sea, untroubled by any of mans' uses. Today the hillsides are green and smooth. Scattered farms are seen, and houses outside the town proper are few, and the quiet country gives small hint of the active, eager life so near it. In 1810, Dr. Timothy Dwight, whose travels in America were read with the same interest that we bestow now upon the "Merv Oasis," or the "Land of the White Elephant," wrote of North Andover, which then held many of its original features: "North Andover is a very beautiful piece of ground. Its surface is elegantly undulating, and its soil in an eminent degree, fertile. The meadows are numerous, large and of the first quality. The groves, charmingly interspersed, are tall and thrifty. The landscape, everywhere varied, neat and cheerful, is also everywhere rich. "The Parish is a mere collection of plantations, without anything like a village. The houses are generally good, some are large and elegant The barns are large and well-built and indicate a fertile and well-cultivated soil. "Upon the whole, Andover is one of the best farming towns in Eastern Massachusetts." Andover roads were of incredible crookedness, though the Rev. Timothy makes no mention of this fact: "They were at first designed to accommodate individuals, and laid out from house to house," and thus the traveller found himself quite as often landed in a farm-yard, as at the point aimed for. All about are traces of disused and forgotten path-ways-- "Old roads winding, as old roads will, Some to a river and some to a mill," and even now, though the inhabitant is sure of his ground, the stranger will swear that there is not a street, called, or deserving to be called, straight, in all its borders. But this was of even less consequence then than now. The New England woman has never walked when she could ride, and so long as the church stood within easy distance, demanded nothing more. One walk of Anne Bradstreets' is recorded in a poem, and it is perhaps because it was her first, that it made so profound an impression, calling out, as we shall presently see, some of the most natural and melodious verse which her serious and didactic Muse ever allowed her, and being still a faithful picture of the landscape it describes. But up to the beginning of the Andover life, Nature had had small chance of being either seen or heard, for an increasing family, the engrossing cares of a new settlement, and the Puritan belief that "women folk were best indoors," shut her off from influences that would have made her work mean something to the present day. She had her recreations as well as her cares, and we need now to discover just what sort of life she and the Puritan sisterhood in general led in the first years, whose "new manners and customs," so disturbed her conservative spirit. CHAPTER X. VILLAGE LIFE IN 1650. Of the eight children that came to Simon and Anne Bradstreet, but one was born in the "great house" at Andover, making his appearance in 1652, when life had settled into the routine that thereafter knew little change, save in the one disastrous experience of 1666. This son, John, who like all the rest, lived to marry and leave behind him a plenteous family of children, was a baby of one year old, when the first son, Samuel, "stayed for many years," was graduated at Harvard College, taking high honor in his class, and presently settling as a physician in Boston, sufficiently near to be called upon in any emergency in the Andover home, and visited often by the younger brothers, each of whom became a Harvard graduate. Samuel probably had no share in the removal, but Dorothy and Sarah, Simon and Hannah, were all old enough to rejoice in the upheaval, and regard the whole episode as a prolonged picnic made for their especial benefit. Simon was then six years old, quite ready for Latin grammar and other responsibilities of life, and according to the Puritan standard, an accountable being from whom too much trifling could by no means be allowed, and who undoubtedly had a careful eye to the small Hannah, aged four, also old enough to knit a stocking and sew a seam, and read her chapter in the Bible with the best. Dorothy and Sarah could take even more active part, yet even the mature ages of eight and ten did not hinder surreptitious tumbles into heaped up feather beds, and a scurry through many a once forbidden corner of the Ipswich home. For them there was small hardship in the log house that received them, and unending delight in watching the progress of the new. And one or another must often have ridden before the father, who loved them with more demonstration than the Puritan habit allowed, and who in his frequent rides to the new mill built on the Cochichewick in 1644, found a petitioner always urging to be taken, too. The building of the mill probably preceded that of the house, as Bradstreet thought always of public interests before his own, though in this case the two were nearly identical, a saw and grist-mill being one of the first necessities of any new settlement, and of equal profit to owner and users. Anne Bradstreet was now a little over thirty, five children absorbing much of her thought and time, three more being added during the first six years at Andover. When five had passed out into the world and homes of their own, she wrote, in 1656, half regretfully, yet triumphantly, too, a poem which is really a family biography, though the reference to her fifth child as a son, Mr. Ellis regards as a slip of the pen: "I had eight birds hatcht in one nest, Four Cocks there were, and Hens the rest; I nurst them up with pain and care, Nor cost, nor labour did I spare, Till at the last they felt their wing, Mounted the Trees, and learn'd to sing; Chief of the Brood then took his flight To Regions far, and left me quite; My mournful chirps I after send, Till he return, or I do end; Leave not thy nest, thy Dam and Sire, Fly back and sing amidst this Quire. My second bird did take her flight, And with her mate flew out of sight; Southward they both their course did bend, And Seasons twain they there did spend; Till after blown by Southern gales, They Norward steer'd with filled Sayles. A prettier bird was no where seen, Along the beach among the treen. I have a third of colour white On whom I plac'd no small delight; Coupled with mate loving and true, Hath also bid her Dam adieu; And where Aurora first appears, She now hath percht, to spend her years; One to the Academy flew To chat among that learned crew; Ambition moves still in his breast That he might chant above the rest, Striving for more than to do well, That nightingales he might excell. My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone Is 'mongst the shrubs and bushes flown, And as his wings increase in strength, On higher boughs he'l pearch at length. My other three, still with me nest, Untill they'r grown, then as the rest, Or here or there, they'l take their flight, As is ordain'd, so shall they light. If birds could weep, then would my tears Let others know what are my fears Lest this my brood some harm should catch, And be surpriz'd for want of watch, Whilst pecking corn, and void of care They fish un'wares in Fowler's snare; Or whilst on trees they sit and sing, Some untoward boy at them do fling; Or whilst allur'd with bell and glass, The net be spread, and caught, alas. Or least by Lime-twigs they be foyl'd, Or by some greedy hawks be spoyl'd. O, would my young, ye saw my breast, And knew what thoughts there sadly rest, Great was my pain when I you bred, Great was my care when I you fed, Long did I keep you soft and warm, And with my wings kept off all harm; My cares are more, and fears then ever, My throbs such now, as 'fore were never; Alas, my birds, you wisdome want, Of perils you are ignorant; Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight, Sore accidents on you may light. O, to your safety have an eye, So happy may you live and die; Mean while my dayes in tunes I'll spend, Till my weak layes with me shall end. In shady woods I'll sit and sing, And things that past, to mind I'll bring. Once young and pleasant, as are you, But former boyes (no joyes) adieu. My age I will not once lament, But sing, my time so near is spent. And from the top bough take my flight, Into a country beyond sight, Where old ones, instantly grow young, And there with Seraphims set song; No seasons cold, nor storms they see, But spring lasts to eternity; When each of you shall in your nest Among your young ones take your rest, In chirping language, oft them tell, You had a Dam that lov'd you well, That did what could be done for young, And nurst you up till you were strong, And 'fore she once would let you fly, She shew'd you joy and misery; Taught what was good, and what was ill, What would save life, and what would kill? Thus gone, amongst you I may live, And dead, yet speak, and counsel give; Farewel, my birds, farewel, adieu, I happy am, if well with you. A. B." The Bradstreets and Woodbridges carried with them to Andover, more valuable worldly possessions than all the rest put together, yet even for them the list was a very short one. An inventory of the estate of Joseph Osgood, the most influential citizen after Mr. Bradstreet, shows that only bare necessities had gone with him. His oxen and cattle and the grain stored in his barn are given first, with the value of the house and land and then follow the list of household belongings, interesting now as showing with how little a reputable and honored citizen had found it possible to bring up a family. A feather bed and furniture. A flock bed, (being half feathers) & furniture. A flock bed & furniture. Five payre of sheets & an odd one. Table linen. Fower payre of pillow-beeres. Twenty-two pieces of pewter. For Iron pott, tongs, cottrell & pot-hooks. Two muskets & a fowling-piece. Sword, cutlass & bandaleeres. Barrels, tubbs, trays, cheese-moates and pailes. A Stand. Bedsteads, cords & chayers. Chests and wheels. Various yards of stuffs and English cloth are also included, but nothing could well be more meager than this outfit, though doubtless it filled the narrow quarters of the early years. Whatever may have come over afterward, there were none of the heirlooms to be seen to-day, in the shape of family portraits, and plate, china or heavily carved mahogany or oak furniture. For the poorer houses, only panes of oiled paper admitted the light, and this want of sunshine was one cause of the terrible loss of life in fevers and various epidemics from which the first settlers suffered. Leaden sashes held the small panes of glass used by the better class, but for both the huge chimneys with their roaring fires did the chief work of ventilation and purification, while the family life centered about them in a fashion often described and long ago lost. There is a theory that our grandmothers in these first days of the settlement worked with their own hands, with an energy never since equalled, and more and more departed from as the years go on. But all investigation of early records shows that, as far as practicable, all English habits remained in full force, and among such habits was that of ample service. It is true that mistress and maid worked side by side, but the tasks performed now by any farmer's wife are as hard and more continuous than any labor of the early days, where many hands made light work. If spinning and weaving have passed out of the hands of women, the girls who once shared in the labor, and helped to make up the patriarchal households of early times, have followed, preferring the monotonous and wearing routine of mill-life, to the stigma resting upon all who consent to be classed as "help". If social divisions were actually sharper and more stringent in the beginning, there was a better relation between mistress and maid, for which we look in vain to-day. In many cases, men and women secured their passage to America by selling their time for a certain number of years, and others whose fortunes were slightly better, found it well, until some means of living was secured, to enter the families of the more wealthy colonists, many of whom had taken their English households with them. So long as families centered in one spot, there was little difficulty in securing servants, but as new settlements were formed servants held back, naturally preferring the towns to the chances of Indian raids and the dangers from wild beasts. Necessity brought about a plan which has lasted until within a generation or so, and must come again, as the best solution of the servant problem. Roger Williams writes of his daughter that "she desires to spend some time in service & liked much Mrs. Brenton who wanted help." This word "help" applied itself to such cases, distinguishing them from those of the ordinary servant, and girls of the good families put themselves under notable housekeepers to learn the secrets of the profession--a form of cooking and household economy school, that we sigh for vainly to-day. The Bradstreets took their servants from Ipswich, but others in the new town were reduced to sore straits, in some cases being forced to depend on the Indian woman, who, fresh from the wigwam, looked in amazement on the superfluities of civilized life. Hugh Peters, the dogmatic and most unpleasant minister of Salem, wrote to a Boston friend: "Sir, Mr Endecott & myself salute you in the Lord Jesus, &c. Wee have heard of a dividence of woman & children in the bay & would be glad of a share, viz: a young woman or girle & a boy if you thinke good." This was accomplished but failed to satisfy, for two years later Peters again writes: "My wife desires my daughter to send to Hanna that was her mayd, now at Charltowne, to know if shee would dwell with us, for truly wee are so destitute (having now but an Indian) that wee know not what to do." This was a desperate state of things, on which Lowell comments: "Let any housewife of our day, who does not find the Keltic element in domestic life so refreshing as to Mr. Arnold in literature, imagine a household with one wild Pequot woman, communicated with by signs, for its maid of all work, and take courage. Those were serious times indeed, when your cook might give warning by taking your scalp, or chignon, as the case might be, and making off with it, into the woods." Negro slavery was the first solution of these difficulties and one hard-headed member of the Colony, Emanual Downing, as early as 1645, saw in the Indian wars and the prisoners that were taken, a convenient means of securing the coveted negro, and wrote to Winthrop: "A war with the Narragansett is very considerable to this plantation, ffor I doubt whither it be not synne in us, having power in our hands, to suffer them to maynteyne the worship of the devill which their paw-wawes often doe; 2 lie, If upon a just warre the Lord should deliver them into our hands, wee might easily have men, woemen and children enough to exchange for Moores, which wilbe more gaynefull pillage for us than wee conceive, for I do not see how we can thrive untill wee gett into a stock of slaves, sufficient to doe all our buisenes, for our children's children will hardly see this great Continent filled with people, soe that our servants will still desire freedome to plant for themselves, and not stay but for verie great wages. And I suppose you know verie well how wee shall maynteyne 20 Moores cheaper than one English servant." The canny Puritan considered that Indian "devil-worship" fully balanced any slight wrong in exchanging them for, "Moores", and writes of it as calmly as he does of sundry other events, somewhat shocking to the modern mind. But, while slaves increased English servants became harder and harder to secure, and often revolted from the masters to whom their time had been sold. There is a certain relish in Winthrop's record of two disaffected ones, which is perhaps not unnatural even from him, and is in full harmony with the Puritan tendency to see a special Providence in any event according to their minds: "Two men servants to one Moodye, of Roxbury, returning in a boat from the windmill, struck upon the oyster bank. They went out to gather oysters, and not making fast their boat, when the float came, it floated away and they were both drowned, although they might have waded out on either side, but it was an evident judgement of God upon them, for they were wicked persons. One of them, a little before, being reproved for his lewdness, and put in mind of hell, answered that if hell were ten times hotter, he had rather be there than he would serve his master, &c. The occasion was because he had bound himself for divers years, and saw that, if he had been at liberty, he might have had greater wages, though otherwise his master used him very well." From whatever source the "Moores" were obtained, they were bought and sold during the first hundred years that Andover had existence. "Pomps' Pond" still preserves the memory of Pompey Lovejoy, servant to Captain William Lovejoy. Pompey's cabin stood there, and as election day approached, great store of election- cake and beer was manufactured for the hungry and thirsty voters, to whom it proved less demoralizing than the whiskey of to-day. There is a record of the death in 1683, of Jack, a negro servant of Captain Dudley Bradstreet's, who lost also, in 1693, by drowning, "Stacy, ye servant of Major Dudley Bradstreet, a mullatoe born in his house." Mistress Bradstreet had several, whose families grew up about her, their concerns being of quite as deep interest as those of her neighbors, and the Andover records hold many suggestions of the tragedies and comedies of slave life. Strong as attachments might sometimes be, the minister himself sold Candace, a negro girl who had grown up in his house, and five year old Dinah was sent from home and mother at Dunstable, to a new master in Andover, as witness the bill of sale, which has a curious flavor for a Massachusetts document: "Received of Mr. John Abbott of Andover Fourteen pounds, thirteen shillings and seven pence, it being the full value of a negrow garl named Dinah about five years of age of a Healthy sound Constution, free from any Disease of Body and do hereby Deliver the same Girl to the said Abbott and promise to Defend him in the Improvement of her as his servant forever. ROBERT BLOOD." Undoubtedly Dinah and all her contemporaries proved infinitely better servants than the second generation of those brought from England; who even as early as 1656, had learned to prefer independence, the Rev. Zechariah Symmes writing feelingly: "Much ado I have with my own family, hard to get a servant glad of catechising or family duties. I had a rare blessing of servants in Yorkshire and those I brought over were a blessing, but the young brood doth much afflict me." An enthusiastic cook, even of most deeply Puritanic spirit, had been known to steal out during some long drawn prayer, to rescue a favorite dish from impending ruin, and the offence had been condoned or allowed to pass unnoticed. But the "young brood" revolted altogether at times from the interminable catechisings and "family duties", or submitted in a sulky silence, at which the spirit of the master girded in vain. There seems to have been revolt of many sorts. Nature asserted itself, and boys and girls smiled furtively upon one another, and young men and maidens planned means of outwitting stern masters and mistresses, and securing a dance in some secluded barn, or the semblance of a merry making in picnic or ride. But stocks, pillory and whipping-post awaited all offenders, who still found that the secret pleasure outweighed the public pain, and were brought up again and again, till years subdued the fleshly instincts, and they in turn wondered at their children's pertinacity in the same evil ways. Holidays were no part of the Puritan system, and the little Bradstreets took theirs on the way to and from school, doing their wading and fishing and bird's-nesting in this stolen time. There was always Saturday afternoon, and Anne Bradstreet was also, so far as her painful conscientiousness allowed, an indulgent mother, and gave her children such pleasure as the rigid life allowed. Andover from the beginning had excellent schools, Mr. Dane and Mr. Woodbridge, the ministers, each keeping one, while "dame schools" also flourished, taking the place of the present Kindergarten, though the suppressed and dominated babies of three and four, who swung their unhappy feet far from the floor, and whose only reader was a catechism, could never in their wildest dreams have imagined anything so fascinating as the Kindergarten or primary school of to-day. Horn books were still in use and with reason, the often- flagellated little Puritans giving much time to tears, which would have utterly destroyed anything less enduring than horn. Until 1647, the teaching of all younger children had been done chiefly at home, and Anne Bradstreet's older children learned their letters at her knee, and probably, like all the children of the day, owned their little Bibles, and by the time they were three or four years of age, followed the expounding at family prayers with only a glance now and then toward the kitten, or the family dog, stretched out before the fire, and watching for any look of interest and recognition. After 1647, and the order of the General Court, "that every township in this jurisdiction, after the Lord hath increased them to fifty house-holders, shall then forthwith appoint one within their towns to teach all such children as shall resort to him, to read and write." The district school-house waited till Indian raids had ceased to be dreaded, but though the walk to the small, square building which in due time was set in some piece of woods or at a point where four roads meet, was denied them, it was something to come together at all, and the children found delight in berrying or nutting, or the crackle of the crisp snow-crust, over which they ran. They waked in those early days, often with the snow lying lightly on their beds under the roof, through the cracks of which it sifted, and through which they saw stars shine or the morning sunlight flicker. Even when this stage passed, and the "great house" received them, there was still the same need for rushing down to the fire in kitchen or living-room, before which they dressed, running out, perhaps, in the interludes of strings and buttons, to watch the incoming of the fresh logs which Caesar or Cato could never bear alone. In the Bradstreet mansion, with its many servants, there was less need of utilizing every child as far as possible, but that all should labor was part of the Puritan creed, and the boys shared the work of foddering the cattle, bringing in wood and water, and gaining the appetite which presently found satisfaction, usually in one of two forms of porridge, which for the first hundred and fifty years was the Puritan breakfast. Boiled milk, lightly thickened with Indian meal, and for the elders made more desirable by "a goode piece of butter," was the first, while for winter use, beans or peas were used, a small piece of pork or salted beef giving them flavor, and making the savory bean porridge still to be found here and there. Wheaten bread was then in general use; much more so than at a later date, when "rye and Indian" took its place, a fortunate choice for a people who, as time went on, ate more and more salt pork and fish. Game and fresh fish were plentiful in the beginning and poultry used with a freedom that would seem to the farmer of to-day, the maddest extravagance. The English love of good cheer was still strong, and Johnson wrote in his "Wonder-Working Providence": "Apples, pears and quince tarts, instead of their former pumpkin- pies. Poultry they have plenty and great rarity, and in their feasts have not forgotten the English fashion of stirring up their appetites with variety of cooking their food." Certain New England dishes borrowed from the natives, or invented to meet some emergency, had already become firmly established. Hasty-pudding, made chiefly then as now, from Indian meal, was a favorite supper dish, rye often being used instead, and both being eaten with molasses, and butter or milk. Samp and hominy, or the whole grain, as "hulled corn", had also been borrowed from the Indians, with "succotash", a fascinating combination of young beans and green corn. Codfish made Saturday as sacred as Friday had once been, and baked beans on Sunday morning became an equally inflexible law. Every family brewed its own beer, and when the orchards had grown, made its own cider. Wine and spirits were imported, but rum was made at home, and in the early records of Andover, the town distiller has honorable mention. Butcher's meat was altogether too precious to be often eaten, flocks and herds bearing the highest money value for many years, and game and poultry took the place of it. But it was generous living, far more so than at the present day, abundance being the first essential where all worked and all brought keen appetites to the board, and every householder counted hospitality one of the cardinal virtues. Pewter was the only family plate, save in rarest instances. Forks had not yet appeared, their use hardly beginning in England before 1650, save among a few who had travelled and adopted the custom. Winthrop owned one, sent him in 1633, and the Bradstreets may have had one or more, but rather as a curiosity than for daily use. Fingers still did much service, and this obliged the affluence of napkins, which appears in early inventories. The children ate from wooden bowls and trenchers, and their elders from pewter. Governor Bradford owned "fourteen dishes of that material, thirteen platters, three large and two small plates, a candlestick and a bottle," and many hours were spent in polishing the rather refractory metal. He also owned "four large silver spoons" and nine smaller ones. But spoons, too, were chiefly pewter, though often merely wood, and table service was thus reduced as nearly to first principles as possible. Very speedily, however, as the Colony prospered, store of silver and china was accumulated, used only on state occasions, and then carefully put away. The servant question had other phases than that of mere inadequacy, and there are countless small difficulties recorded; petty thefts, insolent speeches, and the whole familiar list which we are apt to consider the portion only of the nineteenth century. But there is nothing more certain than that, in spite of creeds, human nature remains much the same, and that the Puritan matron fretted as energetically against the pricks in her daily life, as any sinner of to-day. Mistress Bradstreet, at least, had one experience in which we hear of her as "very angry at the mayde", and which gave food for gossips for many a day. Probably one of the profoundest excitements that ever entered the children's lives, was in the discovery of certain iniquities perpetrated by a hired servant John--whose surname, if he ever had one, is lost to this generation, and who succeeded in hiding his evil doings so thoroughly, that there were suspicions of every one but himself. He was a hard worker, but afflicted with an inordinate appetite, the result of which is found in this order: "To the Constable of Andover. You are hereby required to attach the body of John----, to answer such compt as shall be brought against him, for stealing severall things, as pigges, capons, mault, bacon, butter, eggs &c, & for breaking open a seller-doore in the night several times &c. 7th 3d month 1661." John, suddenly brought to trial, first affirmed that his appetite was never over large, but that the food provided the Bradstreet servants "was not fit for any man to eate," the bread especially being "black & heavy & soure," and that he had only occasionally taken a mere bite here and there to allay the painful cravings such emptiness produced. But hereupon appeared Goodwife Russ, in terror lest she should be accused of sharing the spoils, and testifying that John had often brought chickens, butter, malt and other things to her house and shared them with Goodman Russ, who had no scruples. The "mayde had missed the things" and confided her trouble to Goodwife Russ, who had gone up to the great house, and who, pitying the girl, knowing that "her mistress would blame her and be very angry," brought them all back, and then told her husband and John what she had done. Another comrade made full confession, testifying in court that at one time they killed and roasted a "great fatt pigg" in the lot, giving what remained "to the dogges," John seasoning the repast with stories of former thefts. It was in court that Master Jackson learned what had been the fate of "a great fatt Turkey ... fatted against his daughter's marriage" and hung for keeping in a locked room, down the chimney of which, "2 or 3 fellowes" let the enterprising John by a rope who, being pulled up with his prize, "roasted it in the wood and ate it," every whit. Down the same chimney he went for "strong beare," and anyone who has once looked upon and into an ancient Andover chimney will know that not only John, but the "2 or 3 fellowes," as well, could have descended side by side. Then came a scene in which little John Bradstreet, aged nine, had part, seeing the end if not the beginning, of which Hannah Barnard "did testifye that being in my father's lott near Mr. Bradstreet's barn, did see John run after Mr. Bradstreet's fouls & throughing sticks and stones at them & into the Barne." Looking through a crack to find out the result she "saw him throw out a capon which he had killed, and heard him call to Sam Martin to come; but when he saw that John Bradstreet was with Martin, he ran and picked up the capon and hid it under a pear tree." This pear tree, climbed by every Bradstreet child, stood at the east of the old house, and held its own till well into the present century, and little John may have been on his way for a windfall, when the capon flew toward him. To stealing was added offences much more malicious, several discreet Puritan lads, sons of the foremost land holders having been induced by sudden temptation, to join him in running Mr. Bradstreet's wheels down hill into a swamp, while at a later date they watched him recreating himself in the same manner alone, testifying that he "took a wheele off Mr. Bradstreet's tumbril and ran it down hill, and got an old wheel from Goodman Barnard's land, & sett it on the tumbril." John received the usual punishment, but mended his ways only for a season, his appetite rather increasing with age, and his appearance before the Court being certain in any town to which he went. No other servant seems to have given special trouble, and probably all had laid to heart the "Twelve Good Rules," printed and hung in every colonial kitchen: Profane no Divine ordinance. Touch no state matters. Urge no healths. Pick no quarrels. Encourage no vice. Repeat no grievances. Reveal no secrets. Mantain no ill opinions. Make no comparisons. Keep no bad company. Make no long meals. Lay no wagers. The problem of work and wages weighed heavily on the young Colony. There were grasping men enough to take advantage of the straits into which many came through the scarcity of labor, and Winthrop, as early as 1633, had found it necessary to interfere. Wages had risen to an excessive rate, "so as a carpenter would have three shillings a day, a labourer two shillings and sixpence &c.; and accordingly those that had commodities to sell, advanced their prices sometime double to that they cost in England, so as it grew to a general complaint, which the court taking knowledge of, as also of some further evils, which were springing out of the excessive rates of wages, they made an order, that carpenters, masons, &c., should take but two shillings the day, and labourers but eighteen pence, and that no commodity should be sold at above fourpence in the shilling more than it cost for ready money in England; oil, wine, &c., and cheese, in regard of the hazard of bringing, &c., excepted. The evils which were springing, &c., were: 1. Many spent much time idly, &c., because they could get as much in four days as would keep them a week. 2. They spent much in tobacco and strong waters, &c., which was a great waste to the Commonwealth, which by reason of so many commodities expended, could not have subsisted to this time, but that it was supplied by the cattle and corn which were sold to new comers at very dear rates." This bit of extortion on the part of the Colony as a government, does not seem to weigh on Winthrop's mind with by any means as great force as that of the defeated workmen, and he gives the colonial tariff of prices with even a certain pride: "Corn at six shillings the bushel, a cow at L20--yea, some at L24, some L26--a mare at L35, an ewe goat at 3 or L4; and yet many cattle were every year brought out of England, and some from Virginia." At last the new arrivals revolted, and one order ruled for all, the rate of profit charged, being long fixed at four pence in the shilling. Andover adopted this scale, being from the beginning of a thrifty turn of mind, which is exemplified in one of the first ordinances passed. Many boys and girls had been employed by the owners of cattle to watch and keep them within bounds, countless troubles arising from their roaming over the unfenced lands. To prevent the forming of idle habits the Court at once, did "hereupon order and decree that in every towne the chosen men are to take care of such as are sett to keep cattle, that they be sett to some other employment withall, as spinning upon the rock, knitting & weaving tape, &c., that boyes and girls be not suffered to converse together." Such conversations as did take place had a double zest from the fact that the sharp-eyed herdsman was outwitted, but as a rule the small Puritans obeyed orders and the spinners and knitters in the sun, helped to fill the family chests which did duty as bureaus, and three varieties of which are still to be seen in old houses on the Cape, as well as in the Museum at Plymouth. The plain sea- chest, like the sailor's chest of to-day, was the property of all alike, and usually of solid oak. A grade above this, came another form, with turned and applied ornaments and two drawers at the bottom, a fine specimen of which is still in the old Phillips house at North Andover, opposite the Bradstreet house. The last variety had more drawers, but still retained the lid on top, which being finally permanently fastened down, made the modern bureau. High-backed wooden chairs and an immense oaken table with folding ladder legs, furnished the living-room, settles being on either side of the wide chimney, where, as the children roasted apples or chestnuts, they listened to stories of the wolves, whose howl even then might still be heard about the village. There are various references to "wolf-hooks" in Governor Bradstreet's accounts, these being described by Josselyn as follows: "Four mackerel hooks are bound with brown thread and wool wrapped around them, and they are dipped into melted tallow till they be as big and round as an egg. This thing thus prepared is laid by some dead carcase which toles the wolves. It is swallowed by them and is the means of their being taken." Every settler believed that "the fangs of a wolf hung about children's necks keep them from frightning, and are very good to rub their gums with when they are breeding of teeth." It was not at all out of character to look on complacently while dogs worried an unhappy wolf, the same Josselyn writing of one taken in a trap: "A great mastiff held the wolf . . . Tying him to a stake we bated him with smaller doggs and had excellent sport; but his hinder leg being broken, they knocked out his brains." To these hunts every man and boy turned out, welcoming the break in the monotonous life, and foxes and wolves were shot by the dozen, their method being to "lay a sledg-load of cods-heads on the other side of a paled fence when the moon shines, and about nine or ten of the clock, the foxes come to it; sometimes two or three or half a dozen and more; these they shoot, and by that time they have cased them there will be as many more; so they continue shooting and killing of foxes as long as the moon shineth." Road-making became another means of bringing them together for something besides religious services, and as baskets of provisions were taken with the workers, and the younger boys were allowed to share in the lighter part of the work, a suggestion of merry- making was there also. These roads were often changed, being at no time much more than paths marked by the blazing of trees and the clearing away of timber and undergrowth. There were no bridges save over the narrower streams, fording being the custom, till ferries were established at various points. Roads and town boundaries were alike undetermined and shifting. "Preambulators," otherwise surveyors, found their work more and more complicated. "Marked trees, stakes and stones," were not sufficient to prevent endless discussions between selectmen and surveyors, and there is a document still on file which shows the straits to which the unhappy "preambulators" were sometimes reduced. "To Ye Selectmen of Billerica: Loving friends and neighbors, we have bine of late under such surcomstances that wee could not tell whether wee had any bounds or no between our towne, but now we begine to think we have--this therefore are to desier you to send some men to meet with ours upon the third Munday of ye next month by nine a'clock in ye morning, if it be a faire day, if not the next drie day, and so to run one both side of the river and to meet at the vesil place and the west side of ye river." There were heart burnings from another source than this, and one which could never be altered by selectmen, whether at home or abroad. For generations, no person was allowed to choose a seat in church, a committee, usually the magistrates, settling the places of all. In the beginning, after the building of any meeting-house, the seats were all examined and ranked according to their desirability, this process being called, "dignifying the pews." All who held the highest social or ecclesiastical positions were then placed; and the rest as seemed good, the men on one side, the women on another, and the children, often on a low bench outside the pews, where they were kept in order by the tithing man, who, at the first symptom of wandering attention, rapped them over the head with his hare's foot mounted on a stick, and if necessary, withdrew them from the scene long enough for the administration of a more thorough discipline. There are perpetual complaints of partiality--even hints that bribery had been at work in this "seating the meeting-house," and the committee chosen found it so disagreeable a task that Dudley Bradstreet, when in due time his turn came to serve, protested against being compelled to it, and at last revolted altogether. At Boston a cage had been set up for Sabbath-breakers, but Andover found easier measures sufficient, though there are constant offences recorded. A smile in meeting brought admonishment, and a whisper, the stocks, and when the boys were massed in the galleries the tithing man had active occupation during the entire service, and could have had small benefit of the means of grace. Two were necessary at last, the records reading: "We have ordered Thomas Osgood and John Bridges to have inspection over the boys in the galleries on the Sabbath, that they might be contained in order in the time of publick exercise." Later, even worse trouble arose. The boys would not be "contained," and the anxious selectmen wrote: "And whereas there is grevious complaints of great prophaneness of ye Sabbath, both in y time of exercise, at noon time, to ye great dishonor of God, scandall of religion, & ye grief of many serious Christians, by young persons, we order & require ye tything-men & constables to tak care to p'vent such great and shamefull miscarriages, which are soe much observed and complained of." The little Bradstreets, chilled to the bone by sitting for hours in the fireless church, could rush home to the warm hearth and the generous buttery across the street, but many who had ridden miles, and who ate a frosty lunch between services may be pardoned for indulging in the "great and shameful miscarriages," which were, undoubtedly, a rush across the pews or a wrestle on the meeting- house steps. Even their lawlessness held more circumspectness than is known to the most decorous boy of to-day, and it gained with every generation, till neither tithing-men nor constables had further power to restrain it, the Puritans of the eighteenth century wailing over the godlessness and degeneracy of the age as strenuously as the pessimists of the nineteenth. Even for the seventeenth there are countless infractions of law, and a study of court records would leave the impression of a reckless and utterly defiant community, did not one recall the fact that life was so hedged about with minute detail, that the most orderly citizen of this day would have been the disorderly one of that. One resource, of entertainment, was always open to Puritan households. Hospitality was on a scale almost of magnificence, and every opportunity seized for making a great dinner or supper, the abundant good cheer of which was their strongest reminder of England. The early privations were ended, but to recall them gave an added zest, and we may fancy Roger Clap repeating the experience found in his memoir, with a devout thankfulness that such misery was far behind them. "Bread was so scarce, that frequently I thought the very crusts of my father's table would have been very sweet unto me. And when I could have meal and water and salt boiled together who could wish better. It was not accounted a strange thing in those days to drink water, and to eat samp or hominy without butter or milk. Indeed it would have been strange to see a piece of roast beef, mutton or veal, though it was not long before there was roast goat." Generous living had become the colonial characteristic. Even in the first years, while pressure was still upon them, and supplies chiefly from England, one of them wrote: "Sometimes we used bacon and buttered pease, sometimes buttered bag pudding, made with currants and raisins, sometimes drinked pottage of beer and oatmeal, and sometimes water pottage well buttered." Health had come to many who had been sickly from childhood. In fact, in spite of the theory we are all inclined to hold, that "the former days were better than these," and our ancestors men and women of a soundness and vigor long since lost, there is every proof that the standard of health has progressed with all other standards, and that the best blood of this generation is purer and less open to disorder than the best blood of that. Francis Higginson may stand as the representative of many who might have written with him: "Whereas I have for divers years past been very sickly and ready to cast up whatsoever I have eaten, . . . He hath made my coming to be a method to cure me of a wonderful weak stomach and continual pain of melancholy mind from the spleen." His children seem to have been in equally melancholy case, but he was able after a year or two of New England life to write: "Here is an extraordinary clear and dry air, that is of a most healing nature to all such as are of a cold, melancholy, phlegmatic, rheumatic temper of body." The Puritans, as life settled into a less rasping routine than that of the early years, grew rotund and comfortable in expression, and though the festivities of training days, and the more solemn one of ordination or Thanksgiving day, meant sermon and prayers of doubled length, found this only an added element of enjoyment. Judge Sewall's diary records many good dinners; sometimes as "a sumptuous feast," sometimes as merely "a fine dinner," but always with impressive unction. At one of these occasions he mentions Governor Bradstreet as being present and adds that he "drank a glass or two of wine, eat some fruit, took a pipe of tobacco in the New Hall, wished me joy of the house and desired our prayers." At Andover he was equally ready for any of these diversions, though never intemperate in either meat or drink, but, like every magistrate, he kept open house, and enjoyed it more than some whose austerity was greater, and there are many hints that Mistress Bradstreet provided good cheer with a freedom born of her early training, and made stronger by her husband's tastes and wishes. The Andover dames patterned after her, and spent many of the long hours, in as close following of honored formulas as the new conditions allowed, laying then the foundation for that reputation still held by Andover housewives, and derided by one of her best known daughters, as "the cup-cake tendencies of the town." CHAPTER XI. A FIRST EDITION. Though the manuscript of the first edition of Anne Bradstreet's poems was nearly if not entirely complete before the removal to Andover, some years were still to pass before it left her hands entirely, though her brother-in-law, knowing her self-distrustful nature, may have refused to give it up when possession had once been obtained. But no event in her life save her marriage, could have had quite the same significance to the shy and shrinking woman, who doubted herself and her work alike, considering any real satisfaction in it a temptation of the adversary. Authorship even to-day has its excitements and agitations, for the maker of the book if not for its readers. And it is hardly possible to measure the interest, the profound absorption in the book, which had been written chiefly in secret in hours stolen from sleep, to ensure no trenching on daylight duties. We are helpless to form just judgment of what the little volume meant to the generation in which it appeared, simply because the growth of the critical faculty has developed to an abnormal degree, and we demand in the lightest work, qualities that would have made an earlier poet immortal. This is an age of versification. The old times--when a successful couplet had the same prominence and discussion as a walking match to-day; when one poet thought his two lines a satisfactory morning's work, and another said of him that when such labor ended, straw was laid before the door and the knocker tied up--are over, once for all. Now and then a poet stops to polish, but for the most part spontaneity, fluency, gush, are the qualities demanded, and whatever finish may be given, must be dominated by these more apparent facts. Delicate fancies still abound, and are more and more the portion of the many; but Fancy fills the place once held for Imagination, a statelier and nobler dame, deaf to common voices and disdaining common paths. Every country paper, every petty periodical, holds verse that in the Queen Anne period in literature would have given the author permanent place and name. All can rhyme, and many can rhyme melodiously. The power of words fitly set has made itself known, and a word has come to be judged like a note in music--as a potential element of harmony--a sound that in its own place may mean any emotion of joy or sorrow, hate or love. Whether a thought is behind these alluring rhythms, with their sensuous swing or their rush of sound, is immaterial so long as the ear has satisfaction; thus Swinburne and his school fill the place of Spenser and the elder poets, and many an "idle singer of an empty day" jostles aside the masters, who can wait, knowing that sooner or later, return to them is certain. Schools have their power for a time, and expression held in their moulds forgets that any other form is possible. But the throng who copied Herrick are forgotten, their involved absurdities and conceits having died with the time that gave them birth. The romantic school had its day, and its power and charm are uncomprehended by the reader of this generation. And the Lake poets, firmly as they held the popular mind, have no place now, save in the pages where a school was forgotten and nature and stronger forces asserted their power. No poet has enduring place whose work has not been the voice of the national thought and life in which he has had part. Theology, politics, great questions of right, all the problems of human life in any age may have, in turn, moulded the epic of the period; but, from Homer down, the poet has spoken the deepest thought of the time, and where he failed in this has failed to be heard beyond his time. With American poets, it has taken long for anything distinctively American to be born. With the early singers, there was simply a reproduction of the mannerisms and limitations of the school for which Pope had set all the copies. Why not, when it was simply a case of unchangeable identity, the Englishman being no less an Englishman because he had suddenly been put down on the American side of the Atlantic? Then, for a generation or so, he was too busy contending with natural forces, and asserting his claims to life and place on the new continent, to have much leisure for verse-making, though here and there, in the stress of grinding days, a weak and uncertain voice sounded at times. Anne Bradstreet's, as we know, was the first, and half assured, half dismayed at her own presumption, she waited long, till convinced as other authors have since been, by the "urgency of friends," that her words must have wider spread than manuscript could give them. Now and again it is asserted that the manuscript for the first edition was taken to London without her knowledge and printed in the same way, but there is hardly the slightest ground for such conclusion, while the elaborate dedication and the many friendly tributes included, indicate the fullest knowledge and preparation. All those whose opinion she most valued are represented in the opening pages of the volume. Evidently they felt it necessary to justify this extraordinary departure from the proper sphere of woman, a sphere as sharply defined and limited by every father, husband and brother, as their own was left uncriticised and unrestrained. Nathaniel Ward forgot his phillipics against the "squirrel's brains" of women, and hastened to speak his delight in the little book, and Woodbridge and John Rogers and sundry others whose initials alone are affixed to their prose or poetical tributes and endorsements, all banded together to sustain this first venture. The title page follows the fashion of the time, and is practically an abstract of what follows. * * * * * THE TENTH MUSE, LATELY SPRUNG UP IN AMERICA, OR _Severall Poems, compiled with great variety of Wit and Learning, full of Delight, wherein especially is contained a Compleat discourse, and Description of_ ( ELEMENTS, ( CONSTITUTIONS, THE FOUR--( AGES OF MAN, ( SEASONS OF THE YEAR. _Together with an Exact Epitomie of the Four Monarchies, viz.:_ ( ASSYRIAN, THE ( PERSIAN, ( GRECIAN, ( ROMAN. _Also, a Dialogue between Old England and New, concerning the Late Troubles; with divers other pleasant and serious Poems._ BY A GENTLEWOMAN IN THOSE PARTS. Printed at London for Stephen Bowtell at the signe of the Bible in Popes Head-Alley, 1650. * * * * * Whether Anne herself wrote the preface is uncertain. It is apologetic enough for one of her supporters, but has some indications that she chose the first word should be her own. KIND READER: Had I opportunity but to borrow some of the Author's wit, 'tis possible I might so trim this curious work with such quaint expressions, as that the Preface might bespeak thy further Perusal; but I fear 'twill be a shame for a Man that can speak so little, to be seen in the title-page of this Woman's Book, lest by comparing the one with the other, the Reader should pass his sentence that it is the gift of women not only to speak most, but to speak best; I shall leave therefore to commend that, which with any ingenious Reader will too much commend the Author, unless men turn more peevish than women, to envy the excellency of the inferiour Sex. I doubt not but the Reader will quickly find more than I can say, and the worst effect of his reading will be unbelief, which will make him question whether it be a woman's work and aske, "Is it possible?" If any do, take this as an answer from him that dares avow it: It is the Work of a Woman, honoured, and esteemed where she lives, for her gracious demeanour, her eminent parts, her pious conversation, her courteous disposition, her exact diligence in her place, and discreet managing of her Family occasions, and more than so, these Poems are the fruit but of some few houres, curtailed from her sleep and other refreshments. I dare adde but little lest I keep thee too long; if thou wilt not believe the worth of these things (in their kind) when a man sayes it, yet believe it from a woman when thou seest it. This only I shall annex, I fear the displeasure of no person in the publishing of these Poems but the Author, without whose knowledg, and contrary to her expectation, I have presumed to bring to publick view, what she resolved in such a manner should never see the Sun; but I found that diverse had gotten some Scattered Papers, and affected them well, were likely to have sent forth broken pieces, to the Authors predjudice, which I thought to prevent, as well as to pleasure those that earnestly desired the view of the whole. Nathaniel Ward speaks next and with his usual conviction that his word is all that is necessary to stamp a thing as precisely what he considers it to be. Mercury shew'd Appollo, Bartas Book, Minerva this, and wish't him well to look, And tell uprightly which did which excell, He view'd and view'd, and vow'd he could not tel. They bid him Hemisphear his mouldy nose, With's crack't leering glasses, for it would pose The best brains he had in's old pudding-pan, Sex weigh'd, which best, the Woman or the Man? He peer'd and por'd & glar'd, & said for wore, I'me even as wise now, as I was before; They both 'gan laugh, and said it was no mar'l The Auth'ress was a right Du Bartas Girle, Good sooth quoth the old Don, tell ye me so, I muse whither at length these Girls will go; It half revives my chil frost-bitten blood, To see a Woman once, do aught that's good; And chode by Chaucer's Book, and Homer's Furrs, Let Men look to't, least Women wear the Spurrs. N. Ward. John Woodbridge takes up the strain in lines of much easier verse, in which he pays her brotherly tribute, and is followed by his brother, Benjamin, who had been her neighbor in Andover. UPON THE AUTHOR; BY A KNOWN FRIEND. Now I believe Tradition, which doth call The Muses, Virtues, Graces, Females all; Only they are not nine, eleven nor three; Our Auth'ress proves them but one unity. Mankind take up some blushes on the score; Monopolize perfection no more; In your own Arts confess yourself out-done, The Moon hath totally eclips'd the Sun, Not with her Sable Mantle muffling him; But her bright silver makes his gold look dim; Just as his beams force our pale lamps to wink, And earthly Fires, within their ashes shrink. _B. W._ IN PRAISE OF THE AUTHOR, MISTRESS ANNE BRADSTREET, Virtues true and lively Pattern, Wife of the Worshipfull Simon Bradstreet Esq: At present residing in the Occidental parts of the World in America, _Alias Nov-Anglia_. What golden splendent Star is this so bright, One thousand Miles twice told, both day and night, (From the Orient first sprung) now from the West That shines; swift-winged Phoebus, and the rest Of all Jove's fiery flames surmounting far As doth each Planet, every falling Star; By whose divine and lucid light most clear, Nature's dark secret mysteryes appear; Heavens, Earths, admired wonders, noble acts Of Kings and Princes most heroick facts, And what e're else in darkness seemed to dye, Revives all things so obvious now to th' eye, That he who these its glittering rayes views o're, Shall see what's done in all the world before. _N. H._ Three other friends add their testimony before we come to the dedication. UPON THE AUTHOR. 'Twere extream folly should I dare attempt, To praise this Author's worth with complement; None but herself must dare commend her parts, Whose sublime brain's the Synopsis of Arts. Nature and Skill, here both in one agree, To frame this Master-piece of Poetry: False Fame, belye their Sex no more, it can Surpass, or parrallel the best of Man. _C. B._ ANOTHER TO MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET, Author of this Poem. I've read your Poem (Lady) and admire, Your Sex to such a pitch should e're aspire; Go on to write, continue to relate, New Historyes, of Monarchy and State: And what the Romans to their Poets gave, Be sure such honour, and esteem you'l have. _H. S._ AN ANAGRAM. ANNA BRADSTREET. DEER NEAT AN BARTAS. So Bartas like thy fine spun Poems been, That Bartas name will prove an Epicene. ANOTHER. ANNA BRADSTREET. ARTES BRED NEAT AN. There follows, what can only be defined as a gushing tribute from John Rogers, also metrical, though this was not included until the second edition. "Twice I have drunk the nectar of your lines," he informs her, adding that, left "thus weltring in delight," he is scarcely capable of doing justice either to his own feelings, or the work which has excited them, and with this we come at last to the dedication in which Anne herself bears witness to her obligations to her father. _To her most Honoured Father, Thomas Dudley, Esq; these humbly presented,_ Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white. Of fairer Dames the Sun n'er Saw the face, Though made a pedestal for Adams Race; Their worth so shines in these rich lines you show Their paralels to finde I scarely know To climbe their Climes, I have nor strength nor skill To mount so high requires an Eagle's quill; Yet view thereof did cause my thoughts to soar, My lowly pen might wait upon these four I bring my four times four, now meanly clad To do their homage, unto yours, full glad; Who for their Age, their worth and quality Might seem of yours to claim precedency; But by my humble hand, thus rudely pen'd They are, your bounden handmaids to attend These same are they, from whom we being have These are of all, the Life, the Muse, the Grave; These are the hot, the cold, the moist, the dry, That sink, that swim, that fill, that upwards fly, Of these consists our bodies, Clothes and Food, The World, the useful, hurtful, and the good, Sweet harmony they keep, yet jar oft times Their discord doth appear, by these harsh rimes Yours did contest for wealth, for Arts, for Age, My first do shew their good, and then their rage. My other foures do intermixed tell Each others faults, and where themselves excel; How hot and dry contend with moist and cold, How Air and Earth no correspondence hold, And yet in equal tempers, how they 'gree How divers natures make one Unity Something of all (though mean) I did intend But fear'd you'ld judge Du Bartas was my friend. I honour him, but dare not wear his wealth My goods are true (though poor) I love no stealth But if I did I durst not send them you Who must reward a Thief, but with his due. I shall not need, mine innocence to clear These ragged lines will do 't when they appear; On what they are, your mild aspect I crave Accept my best, my worst vouchsafe a Grave. From her that to your self, more duty owes Then water in the boundess Ocean flows. _Anne Bradstreet_. March 20, 1642. The reference in the second line, to "your four Sisters, clothed in black and white," is to a poem which the good governor is said to have written in his later days, "on the Four Parts of the World," but which a happy fate has spared us, the manuscript having been lost or destroyed, after his death. His daughter's verse is often as dreary, but both dedication and prologue admit her obligations to du Bartas, and that her verse was modeled upon his was very plain to Nathaniel Ward, who called her a "right du Bartas girl," with the feeling that such imitation was infinitely more creditable to her than any originality which she herself carefully disclaims in the PROLOGUE. 1 To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, Of cities founded, Commonwealths begun, For my mean pen are too superior things: Or how they all, or each their dates have run Let Poets and Historians set these forth, My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth. 2 But when my wondring eyes and envious heart Great Bartas sugared lines, do but read o'er Fool I do grudg the Muses did not part 'Twixt him and me that overfluent store; A Bartas can do what a Bartas will But simple I according to my skill. 3 From school-boyes' tongues no rhet'rick we expect Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings, Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect; My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings And this to mend, alas, no Art is able, 'Cause nature, made it so irreparable. 4 Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek, Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain By Art he gladly found what he did seek A full requital of his, striving pain Art can do much, but this maxima's most sure A weak or wounded brain admits no cure. 5 I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hand a needle better fits, A Poet's pen all Scorn I should thus wrong, For such despite they cast on Female wits; If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'l say it's stolen, or else it was by chance. 6 But sure the Antique Greeks were far more mild Else of our Sexe, why feigned they those Nine And poesy made, Calliope's own child; So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts' Divine, But this weak knot, they will full soon untie, The Greeks did nought, but play the fools & lye. 7 Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are Men have precedency and still excel, It is but vain unjustly to wage warre: Men can do best, and women know it well Preheminence in all and each is yours; Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours. 8 And oh ye high flown quills that soar the Skies, And ever with your prey still catch your praise, If e're you daigne these lowly lines your eyes Give Thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no bayes, This mean and unrefined ure of mine Will make you glistening gold, but more to shine. With the most ambitious of the longer poems--"The Four Monarchies"-- and one from which her readers of that day probably derived the most satisfaction, we need not feel compelled to linger. To them its charm lay in its usefulness. There were on sinful fancies; no trifling waste of words, but a good, straightforward narrative of things it was well to know, and Tyler's comment upon it will be echoed by every one who turns the apallingly matter-of-fact pages: "Very likely, they gave to her their choicest praise, and called her, for this work, a painful poet; in which compliment every modern reader will most cordially join." Of much more attractive order is the comparatively short poem, one of the series of quaternions in which she seems to have delighted. "The Four Elements" is a wordy war, in which four personages, Fire, Earth, Air and Water, contend for the precedence, glorifying their own deeds and position and reproaching the others for their shortcomings and general worthlessness with the fluency and fury of seventeenth century theological debate. There are passages, however, of real poetic strength and vividness, and the poem is one of the most favorable specimens of her early work. The four have met and at once begin the controversy. The Fire, Air, Earth and Water did contest Which was the strongest, noblest and the best, Who was of greatest use and might'est force; In placide Terms they thought now to discourse, That in due order each her turn should speak; But enmity this amity did break All would be chief, and all scorn'd to be under Whence issued winds & rains, lightning & thunder. The quaking earth did groan, the Sky looked black, The Fire, the forced Air, in sunder crack; The sea did threat the heav'ns, the heavn's the earth, All looked like a Chaos or new birth; Fire broyled Earth, & scorched Earth it choaked Both by their darings, water so provoked That roaring in it came, and with its source Soon made the Combatants abate their force; The rumbling, hissing, puffing was so great The worlds confusion, it did seem to threat Till gentle Air, Contention so abated That betwixt hot and cold, she arbitrated The others difference, being less did cease All storms now laid, and they in perfect peace That Fire should first begin, the rest consent, The noblest and most active Element. Fire rises, with the warmth one would expect, and recounts her services to mankind, ending with the triumphant assurance, that, willing or not, all things must in the end be subject to her power. What is my worth (both ye) and all men know, In little time I can but little show, But what I am, let learned Grecians say What I can do well skil'd Mechanicks may; The benefit all living by me finde, All sorts of Artists, here declare your mind, What tool was ever fram'd, but by my might? Ye Martilisk, what weapons for your fight To try your valor by, but it must feel My force? Your Sword, & Gun, your Lance of steel Your Cannon's bootless and your powder too Without mine aid, (alas) what can they do; The adverse walls not shak'd, the Mines not blown And in despight the City keeps her own; But I with one Granado or Petard Set ope those gates, that 'fore so strong were bar'd Ye Husband-men, your Coulters made by me Your Hooes your Mattocks, & what ere you see Subdue the Earth, and fit it for your Grain That so it might in time requite your pain; Though strong-limb'd Vulcan forg'd it by his skill I made it flexible unto his will; Ye Cooks, your Kitchen implements I frame Your Spits, Pots, Jacks, what else I need not name Your dayly food I wholsome make, I warm Your shrinking Limbs, which winter's cold doth harm Ye Paracelsians too in vain's your skill In Chymistry, unless I help you Still. And you Philosophers, if e're you made A transmutation it was through mine aid, Ye silver Smiths, your Ure I do refine What mingled lay with Earth I cause to shine, But let me leave these things, my fame aspires To match on high with the Celestial fires; The Sun an Orb of fire was held of old, Our Sages new another tale have told; But be he what they will, yet his aspect A burning fiery heat we find reflect And of the self same nature is with mine Cold sister Earth, no witness needs but thine; How doth his warmth, refresh thy frozen back And trim thee brave, in green, after thy black. Both man and beast rejoyce at his approach, And birds do sing, to see his glittering Coach And though nought, but Salamanders live in fire And fly Pyrausta call'd, all else expire, Yet men and beasts Astronomers will tell Fixed in heavenly Constellations dwell, My Planets of both Sexes whose degree Poor Heathen judg'd worthy a Diety; There's Orion arm'd attended by his dog; The Theban stout Alcides with his Club; The valiant Persens, who Medusa slew, The horse that kil'd Beleuphon, then flew. My Crab, my Scorpion, fishes you may see The Maid with ballance, twain with horses three, The Ram, the Bull, the Lion, and the Beagle, The Bear, the Goat, the Raven, and the Eagle, The Crown, the Whale, the Archer, Bernice Hare The Hidra, Dolphin, Boys that water bear, Nay more, then these, Rivers 'mongst stars are found Eridanus, where Phaeton was drown'd. Their magnitude, and height, should I recount My Story to a volume would amount; Out of a multitude these few I touch, Your wisdome out of little gather much. I'le here let pass, my choler, cause of wars And influence of divers of those stars When in Conjunction with the Sun do more Augment his heat, which was too hot before. The Summer ripening season I do claim, And man from thirty unto fifty framed, Of old when Sacrifices were Divine, I of acceptance was the holy Signe, 'Mong all thy wonders which I might recount, There's none more strange then Aetna's Sulphry mount The choaking flames, that from Vesuvius flew The over curious second Pliny flew, And with the Ashes that it sometimes shed Apulia's 'jacent parts were covered. And though I be a servant to each man Yet by my force, master, my masters can. What famous Towns, to Cinders have I turned? What lasting forts my Kindled wrath hath burned? The Stately Seats of mighty Kings by me In confused heaps, of ashes may you see. Where's Ninus great wall'd Town, & Troy of old Carthage, and hundred more in stories told Which when they could not be o'ercome by foes The Army, thro'ugh my help victorious rose And Stately London, our great Britian's glory My raging flame did make a mournful story, But maugre all, that I, or foes could do That Phoenix from her Bed, is risen New. Old sacred Zion, I demolished thee Lo great Diana's Temple was by me, And more than bruitish London, for her lust With neighbouring Towns, I did consume to dust What shall I say of Lightning and of Thunder Which Kings & mighty ones amaze with wonder, Which make a Caesar, (Romes) the world's proud head, Foolish Caligula creep under 's bed. Of Meteors, Ignus fatuus and the rest, But to leave those to th' wise, I judge it best. The rich I oft made poor, the strong I maime, Not sparing Life when I can take the same; And in a word, the world I shall consume And all therein, at that great day of Doom; Not before then, shall cease, my raging ire And then because no matter more for fire Now Sisters pray proceed, each in your Course As I, impart your usefulness and force. Fully satisfied that nothing remains to be said, Fire takes her place among the sisterhood and waits scornfully for such poor plea as Earth may be able to make, surprised to find what power of braggadocio still remains and hastens to display itself. The next in place Earth judg'd to be her due, Sister (quoth shee) I come not short of you, In wealth and use I do surpass you all, And mother earth of old men did me call Such is my fruitfulness, an Epithite, Which none ere gave, or you could claim of sight Among my praises this I count not least, I am th' original of man and beast, To tell what Sundry fruits my fat soil yields In Vineyards, Gardens, Orchards & Corn-fields, Their kinds, their tasts, their Colors & their smells Would so pass time I could say nothing else. The rich, the poor, wise, fool, and every sort Of these so common things can make report. To tell you of my countryes and my Regions, Soon would they pass not hundreds but legions; My cities famous, rich and populous, Whose numbers now are grown innumerous, I have not time to think of every part, Yet let me name my Grecia, 'tis my heart. For learning arms and arts I love it well, But chiefly 'cause the Muses there did dwell. Ile here skip ore my mountains reaching skyes, Whether Pyrenean, or the Alpes, both lyes On either side the country of the Gaules Strong forts, from Spanish and Italian brawles, And huge great Taurus longer then the rest, Dividing great Armenia from the least; And Hemus, whose steep sides none foot upon, But farewell all for dear mount Helicon, And wondrous high Olimpus, of such fame, That heav'n itself was oft call'd by that name. Parnapus sweet, I dote too much on thee, Unless thou prove a better friend to me: But Ile leap ore these hills, not touch a dale, Nor will I stay, no not in Temple Vale, He here let go my Lions of Numedia, My Panthers and my Leopards of Libia, The Behemoth and rare found Unicorn, Poyson's sure antidote lyes in his horn, And my Hiaena (imitates man's voice) Out of great numbers I might pick my choice, Thousands in woods & plains, both wild & tame, But here or there, I list now none to name; No, though the fawning Dog did urge me sore, In his behalf to speak a word the more, Whose trust and valour I might here commend; But times too short and precious so to spend. But hark you wealthy merchants, who for prize Send forth your well man'd ships where sun doth rise, After three years when men and meat is spent, My rich Commodityes pay double rent. Ye Galenists, my Drugs that come from thence, Do cure your Patients, fill your purse with pence; Besides the use of roots, of hearbs, and plants, That with less cost near home supply your wants. But Mariners where got your ships and Sails, And Oars to row, when both my Sisters fails Your Tackling, Anchor, compass too is mine, Which guides when sun, nor moon, nor stars do shine. Ye mighty Kings, who for your lasting fames Built Cities, Monuments, call'd by your names, Were those compiled heaps of massy stones That your ambition laid, ought but my bones? Ye greedy misers, who do dig for gold For gemms, for silver, Treasures which I hold, Will not my goodly face your rage suffice But you will see, what in my bowels lyes? And ye Artificers, all Trades and forts My bounty calls you forth to make reports, If ought you have, to use, to wear, to eat, But what I freely yield, upon your sweat? And Cholerick Sister, thou for all thine ire Well knowst my fuel, must maintain thy fire. As I ingenuously with thanks confess, My cold thy fruitfull heat doth crave no less; But how my cold dry temper works upon The melancholy Constitution; How the Autumnal season I do sway, And how I force the gray-head to obey, I should here make a short, yet true narration. But that thy method is mine imitation Now must I shew mine adverse quality, And how I oft work man's mortality; He sometimes finds, maugre his toiling pain Thistles and thorns where he expected grain. My sap to plants and trees I must not grant, The vine, the olive, and the fig tree want: The Corn and Hay do fall before the're mown, And buds from fruitfull trees as soon as blown; Then dearth prevails, that nature to suffice The Mother on her tender infant flyes; The husband knows no wife, nor father sons. But to all outrages their hunger runs: Dreadful examples soon I might produce, But to such Auditors 'twere of no use, Again when Delvers dare in hope of gold To ope those veins of Mine, audacious bold; While they thus in mine entrails love to dive, Before they know, they are inter'd alive. Y' affrighted nights appal'd, how do ye shake, When once you feel me your foundation quake? Because in the Abysse of my dark womb Your cities and yourselves I oft intomb: O dreadful Sepulcher! that this is true Dathan and all his company well knew, So did that Roman far more stout than wise Bur'ing himself alive for honours prize. And since fair Italy full sadly knowes What she hath lost by these remed'less woes. Again what veins of poyson in me lye, Some kill outright, and some do stupifye: Nay into herbs and plants it sometimes creeps, In heats & colds & gripes & drowzy sleeps; Thus I occasion death to man and beast When food they seek, & harm mistrust the least, Much might I say of the hot Libian sand Which rise like tumbling Billows on the Land Wherein Cambyses Armie was o'rethrown (but winder Sister, 'twas when you have blown) I'le say no more, but this thing add I must Remember Sons, your mould is of my dust And after death whether interr'd or burn'd As Earth at first so into Earth returned. Water, in no whit dismayed by pretensions which have left no room for any future claimant, proceeds to prove her right to the championship, by a tirade which shows her powers quite equal to those of her sisters, considering that her work in the floods has evidenced itself quite as potent as anything Fire may claim in the future. Scarce Earth had done, but th' angry water moved. Sister (quoth she) it had full well behoved Among your boastings to have praised me Cause of your fruitfulness as you shall see: This your neglect shews your ingratitude And how your subtilty, would men delude Not one of us (all knows) that's like to thee Ever in craving from the other three; But thou art bound to me above the rest, Who am thy drink, thy blood, thy Sap, and best: If I withhold what art thou? dead dry lump Thou bearst nor grass or plant, nor tree nor stump, Thy extream thirst is moistn'ed by my love With springs below, and showres from above Or else thy Sun-burnt face and gaping chops Complain to th' heavens, if I withhold my drops Thy Bear, thy Tiger and thy Lion stout, When I am gone, their fierceness none needs doubt Thy Camel hath no strength, thy Bull no force Nor mettal's found in the courageous Horse Hinds leave their calves, the Elephant the fens The wolves and Savage beasts forsake their Dens The lofty Eagle, and the stork fly low, The Peacock and the Ostrich, share in woe, The Pine, the Cedar, yea, and Daphne's Tree Do cease to nourish in this misery, Man wants his bread and wine, & pleasant fruits He knows, such sweets, lies not in Earth's dry roots Then seeks me out, in river and in well His deadly malady I might expell: If I supply, his heart and veins rejoyce, If not, soon ends his life, as did his voyce; That this is true, Earth thou can'st not deny I call thine Egypt, this to verifie, Which by my falling Nile, doth yield such store That she can spare, when nations round are poor When I run low, and not o'reflow her brinks To meet with want, each woeful man bethinks; And such I am in Rivers, showrs and springs But what's the wealth, that my rich Ocean brings Fishes so numberless, I there do hold If thou should'st buy, it would exhaust thy gold: There lives the oyly Whale, whom all men know Such wealth but not such like, Earth thou maist show. The Dolphin loving musick, Arians friend The witty Barbel, whose craft doth her commend With thousands more, which now I list not name Thy silence of thy Beasts doth cause the same My pearles that dangle at thy Darling's ears, Not thou, but shel-fish yield, as Pliny clears, Was ever gem so rich found in thy trunk As Egypts wanton, Cleopatra drunk? Or hast thou any colour can come nigh The Roman purple, double Tirian dye? Which Caesar's Consuls, Tribunes all adorn, For it to search my waves they thought no Scorn, Thy gallant rich perfuming Amber greece I lightly cast ashore as frothy fleece: With rowling grains of purest massie gold, Which Spains Americans do gladly hold. Earth thou hast not moe countrys vales & mounds Then I have fountains, rivers lakes and ponds; My sundry seas, black, white and Adriatique, Ionian, Baltique, and the vast Atlantique, Aegean, Caspian, golden rivers fire, Asphaltis lake, where nought remains alive: But I should go beyond thee in my boasts, If I should name more seas than thou hast Coasts, And be thy mountains ne'er so high and steep, I soon can match them with my seas as deep. To speak of kinds of waters I neglect, My diverse fountains and their strange effect: My wholsome bathes, together with their cures; My water Syrens with their guilefull lures, The uncertain cause of certain ebbs and flows, Which wondring Aristotles wit n'er knows, Nor will I speak of waters made by art, Which can to life restore a fainting heart. Nor fruitfull dews, nor drops distil'd from eyes, Which pitty move, and oft deceive the wise: Nor yet of salt and sugar, sweet and smart, Both when we lift to water we convert. Alas thy ships and oars could do no good Did they but want my Ocean and my flood. The wary merchant on his weary beast Transfers his goods from south to north and east, Unless I ease his toil, and do transport The wealthy fraight unto his wished port, These be my benefits, which may suffice: I now must shew what ill there in me lies. The flegmy Constitution I uphold, All humours, tumours which are bred of cold: O're childhood and ore winter I bear sway, And Luna for my Regent I obey. As I with showers oft times refresh the earth, So oft in my excess I cause a dearth, And with abundant wet so cool the ground, By adding cold to cold no fruit proves found. The Farmer and the Grasier do complain Of rotten sheep, lean kine, and mildew'd grain. And with my wasting floods and roaring torrent, Their cattel hay and corn I sweep down current. Nay many times my Ocean breaks his bounds, And with astonishment the world confounds, And swallows Countryes up, ne'er seen again, And that an island makes which once was main: Thus Britian fair ('tis thought) was cut from France Scicily from Italy by the like chance, And but one land was Africa and Spain Untill proud Gibraltar did make them twain. Some say I swallow'd up (sure tis a notion) A mighty country in th' Atlantique Ocean. I need not say much of my hail and Snow, My ice and extream cold, which all men know, Whereof the first so ominous I rain'd, That Israel's enemies therewith were brain'd; And of my chilling snows such plenty be, That Caucasus high mounts are seldome free, Mine ice doth glaze Europes great rivers o're, Till sun release, their ships can sail no more, All know that inundations I have made, Wherein not men, but mountains seem'd to wade; As when Achaia all under water stood, That for two hundred years it n'er prov'd good. Deucalions great Deluge with many moe, But these are trifles to the flood of Noe, Then wholly perish'd Earths ignoble race, And to this day impairs her beauteous face, That after times shall never feel like woe, Her confirm'd sons behold my colour'd bow. Much might I say of wracks, but that He spare, And now give place unto our Sister Air. There is a mild self-complacency, a sunny and contented assertion about "sister Air," that must have proved singularly aggravating to the others, who, however, make no sign as to the final results, the implication being, that she is after all the one absolutely indispensable agent. But to end nowhere, each side fully convinced in its own mind that the point had been carried in its own favor, was so eminently in the spirit of the time, that there be no wonder at the silence as to the real victor, though it is surprising that Mistress Bradstreet let slip so excellent an opportunity for the moral so dear to the Puritan mind. Content (quoth Air) to speak the last of you, Yet am not ignorant first was my due: I do suppose you'l yield without controul I am the breath of every living soul. Mortals, what one of you that loves not me Abundantly more than my Sisters three? And though you love fire, Earth and Water well Yet Air beyond all these you know t' excell. I ask the man condemn'd that's neer his death, How gladly should his gold purchase his breath, And all the wealth that ever earth did give, How freely should it go so he might live: No earth, thy witching trash were all but vain, If my pure air thy sons did not sustain, The famish'd thirsty man that craves supply, His moving reason is, give least I dye, So both he is to go though nature's spent To bid adieu to his dear Element. Nay what are words which do reveal the mind, Speak who or what they will they are but wind. Your drums your trumpets & your organs found, What is't but forced air which doth rebound, And such are ecchoes and report of th' gun That tells afar th' exploit which it hath done, Your songs and pleasant tunes they are the same, And so's the notes which Nightingales do frame. Ye forging Smiths, if bellows once were gone Your red hot work more coldly would go on. Ye Mariners, tis I that fill your sails, And speed you to your port with wished gales. When burning heat doth cause you faint, I cool, And when I smile, your ocean's like a pool. I help to ripe the corn, I turn the mill, And with myself I every Vacuum fill. The ruddy sweet sanguine is like to air, And youth and spring, Sages to me compare, My moist hot nature is so purely thin, No place so subtilly made, but I get in. I grow more pure and pure as I mount higher, And when I'm thoroughly varifi'd turn fire: So when I am condens'd, I turn to water, Which may be done by holding down my vapour. Thus I another body can assume, And in a trice my own nature resume. Some for this cause of late have been so bold Me for no Element longer to hold, Let such suspend their thoughts, and silent be, For all Philosophers make one of me: And what those Sages either spake or writ Is more authentick then our modern wit. Next of my fowles such multitudes there are, Earths beasts and waters fish scarce can compare. Th' Ostrich with her plumes th' Eagle with her eyn The Phoenix too (if any be) are mine, The Stork, the crane, the partridg, and the phesant The Thrush, the wren, the lark a prey to th' pesant, With thousands more which now I may omit Without impeachment to my tale or wit. As my fresh air preserves all things in life, So when corrupt, mortality is rife; Then Fevers, Pmples, Pox and Pestilence, With divers more, work deadly consequence: Whereof such multitudes have di'd and fled, The living scarce had power to bury the dead; Yea so contagious countryes have we known That birds have not 'Scapt death as they have flown Of murrain, cattle numberless did fall, Men feared destruction epidemical. Then of my tempests felt at sea and land, Which neither ships nor houses could withstand, What wofull wracks I've made may well appear, If nought were known but that before Algere, Where famous Charles the fifth more loss sustained Then in his long hot war which Millain gain'd Again what furious storms and Hurricanoes Know western Isles, as Christophers Barbadoes; Where neither houses, trees nor plants I spare, But some fall down, and some fly up with air. Earthquakes so hurtfull, and so fear'd of all, Imprison'd I, am the original. Then what prodigious sights I sometimes show, As battles pitcht in th' air, as countryes know, Their joyning fighting, forcing and retreat, That earth appears in heaven, O wonder great! Sometimes red flaming swords and blazing stars, Portentous signs of famines, plagues and wars, Which make the Monarchs fear their fates By death or great mutation of their States. I have said less than did my Sisters three, But what's their wrath or force, the fame's in me. To adde to all I've said was my intent, But dare not go beyond my Element. Here the contest ends, and though the second edition held slight alterations here and there, no further attempt was made to add to or take away from the verses, which are as a whole the best examples of the early work, their composition doubtless beguiling many weary hours of the first years in New England. "The four Humours of Man" follows, but holds only a few passages of any distinctive character, the poem, like her "Four Monarchies," being only a paraphrase of her reading. In "The Four Seasons," there was room for picturesque treatment of the new conditions that surrounded her, but she seems to have been content, merely to touch the conventional side of nature, and to leave her own impressions and feelings quite out of the question. The verses should have held New England as it showed itself to the colonists, with all the capricious charges that moved their wonder in the early days. There was everything, it would have seemed, to excite such poetical power as she possessed, to the utmost, for even the prose of more than one of her contemporaries gives hints of the feeling that stirred within them as they faced the strange conditions of the new home. Even when they were closely massed together, the silent spaces of the great wilderness shut them in, its mystery beguiling yet bewildering them, and the deep woods with their unfamiliar trees, the dark pines on the hill-side, all held the sense of banishment and even terror. There is small token of her own thoughts or feelings, in any lines of hers, till late in life, when she dropped once for all the methods that pleased her early years, and in both prose and poetry spoke her real mind with a force that fills one with regret at the waste of power in the dreary pages of the "Four Monarchies." That she had keen susceptibility to natural beauty this later poem abundantly proves, but in most of them there is hardly a hint of what must have impressed itself upon her, though probably it was the more valued by her readers, for this very reason. CHAPTER XII. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Though the series of quaternions which form the major part of the poems, have separate titles and were written at various times, they are in fact a single poem, containing sixteen personified characters, all of them giving their views with dreary facility and all of them to the Puritan mind, eminently correct and respectable personalities. The "Four Seasons" won especial commendations from her most critical readers, but for all of them there seems to have been a delighted acceptance of every word this phenomenal woman had thought it good to pen. Even fifty years ago, a woman's work, whether prose or verse, which came before the public, was hailed with an enthusiastic appreciation, it is difficult to-day to comprehend, Mrs. S. C. Hall emphasizing this in a paragraph on Hannah More, who held much the relation to old England that Anne Bradstreet did to the New. "In this age, when female talent is so rife--when, indeed, it is not too much to say women have fully sustained their right to equality with men in reference to all the productions of the mind--it is difficult to comprehend the popularity, almost amounting to adoration, with which a woman writer was regarded little more than half a century ago. Mediocrity was magnified into genius, and to have printed a book, or to have written even a tolerable poem, was a passport into the very highest society." Even greater veneration was felt in days when many women, even of good birth, could barely write their own names, and if Anne Bradstreet had left behind her nothing but the quaternions, she would long have ranked as a poet deserving of all the elegies and anagrammatic tributes the Puritan divine loved to manufacture. The "Four Seasons," which might have been written in Lincolnshire and holds not one suggestion of the new life and methods the colonists were fast learning, may have been enjoyed because of its reminders of the old home. Certainly the "nightingale and thrush" did not sing under Cambridge windows, nor did the "primrose pale," fill the hands of the children who ran over the New England meadows. It seems to have been her theory that certain well established forms must be preserved, and so she wrote the conventional phrases of the poet of the seventeenth century, only a line or two indicating the real power of observation she failed to exercise. THE FOUR SEASONS OF THE YEAR. _SPRING._ Another four I've left yet to bring on, Of four times four the last Quarternion, The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring, In season all these Seasons I shall bring; Sweet Spring like man in his Minority, At present claim'd, and had priority. With Smiling face and garments somewhat green, She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been, Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath, Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death. Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share March, April, May of all the rest most fair. Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters, And bids defiance to all tedious winters, Crosseth the Line, and equals night and day, (Stil adds to th' last til after pleasant May) And now makes glad the darkned nothern nights Who for some months have seen but starry lights. Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyle, He might unloose his winter locked soyle; The Seeds-man too, doth lavish out his grain, In hope the more he casts, the more to gain; The Gardener now superfluous branches lops, And poles erect for his young clambring hops. Now digs then sowes his herbs, his flowers & roots And carefully manures his trees of fruits. The Pleiades their influence now give, And all that seemed as dead afresh doth live. The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter kil'd Like birds now chirp, and hop about the field, The Nightingale, the black-bird and the Thrush Now tune their layes, on sprayes of every bush. The wanton frisking Kid, and soft fleec'd Lambs Do jump and play before their feeding Dams, The tender tops of budding grass they crop, They joy in what they have, but more in hope: For though the frost hath lost his binding power, Yet many a fleece of snow and stormy shower Doth darken Sol's bright eye, makes us remember The pinching North-west wind of cold December. My Second month is April, green and fair, Of longer dayes, and a more temperate Air: The Sun in Taurus keeps his residence, And with his warmer beams glareeth from thence This is the month whose fruitful showers produces All set and sown for all delights and uses: The Pear, the Plum, and Apple-tree now flourish The grass grows long the hungry beast to nourish The Primrose pale, and azure violet Among the virduous grass hath nature set, That when the Sun on's Love (the earth) doth shine These might as lace set out her garments fine. The fearfull bird his little house now builds In trees and walls, in Cities and in fields. The outside strong, the inside warm and neat; A natural Artificer compleat. The clocking hen her chirping chickins leads With wings & beak defends them from the gleads My next and last is fruitfull pleasant May, Wherein the earth is clad in rich aray, The Sun now enters loving Gemini, And heats us with the glances of his eye, Our thicker rayment makes us lay aside Lest by his fervor we be torrified. All flowers the Sun now with his beams discloses, Except the double pinks and matchless Roses. Now swarms the busy, witty, honey-Bee, Whose praise deserves a page from more than me The cleanly Huswife's Dary's now in th' prime, Her shelves and firkins fill'd for winter time. The meads with Cowslips, Honey-suckles dight, One hangs his head, the other stands upright: But both rejoice at th' heaven's clear smiling face, More at her showers, which water them apace. For fruits my Season yields the early Cherry, The hasty Peas, and wholsome cool Strawberry. More solid fruits require a longer time, Each Season hath its fruit, so hath each Clime: Each man his own peculiar excellence, But none in all that hath preheminence. Sweet fragrant Spring, with thy short pittance fly Let some describe thee better than can I. Yet above all this priviledg is thine, Thy dayes still lengthen without least decline: _SUMMER._ When Spring had done, the Summer did begin, With melted tauny face, and garments thin, Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age, As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in 's equipage. Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran, With hair all wet she pussing thus began; Bright June, July and August hot are mine, In th' first Sol doth in crabbed Cancer shine. His progress to the North now's fully done, Then retrograde must be my burning Sun, Who to his Southward Tropick still is bent, Yet doth his parching heat but more augment Though he decline, because his flames so fair, Have throughly dry'd the earth, and heat the air. Like as an Oven that long time hath been heat, Whose vehemency at length doth grow so great, That if you do withdraw her burning store, 'Tis for a time as fervent as before. Now go those foolick Swains, the Shepherd Lads To wash the thick cloth'd flocks with pipes full glad In the cool streams they labour with delight Rubbing their dirty coats till they look white; Whose fleece when finely spun and deeply dy'd With Robes thereof Kings have been dignified, Blest rustick Swains, your pleasant quiet life, Hath envy bred in Kings that were at strife, Careless of worldly wealth you sing and pipe, Whilst they'r imbroyl'd in wars & troubles rife: Wich made great Bajazet cry out in 's woes, Oh happy shepherd which hath not to lose. Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great, But whist'leth to thy flock in cold and heat. Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night Endimions, Dianaes dear delight, Upon the grass resting your healthy limbs, By purling Brooks looking how fishes swims, If pride within your lowly Cells ere haunt, Of him that was Shepherd then King go vaunt. This moneth the Roses are distil'd in glasses, Whose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpasses The cherry, Gooseberry are now in th' prime, And for all sorts of Pease, this is the time. July my next, the hott'st in all the year, The sun through Leo now takes his Career, Whose flaming breath doth melt us from afar, Increased by the star Ganicular, This month from Julius Ceasar took its name, By Romans celebrated to his fame. Now go the Mowers to their flashing toyle, The Meadowes of their riches to dispoyle, With weary strokes, they take all in their way, Bearing the burning heat of the long day. The forks and Rakes do follow them amain, Wich makes the aged fields look young again, The groaning Carts do bear away their prize, To Stacks and Barns where it for Fodder lyes. My next and last is August fiery hot (For much, the Southward Sun abateth not) This Moneth he keeps with Vigor for a space, The dry'ed Earth is parched with his face. August of great Augustus took its name, Romes second Emperour of lasting fame, With sickles now the bending Reapers goe The rustling tress of terra down to mowe; And bundles up in sheaves, the weighty wheat, Which after Manchet makes for Kings to eat: The Barly, Rye and Pease should first had place, Although their bread have not so white a face. The Carter leads all home with whistling voyce. He plow'd with pain, but reaping doth rejoice, His sweat, his toyle, his careful wakeful nights, His fruitful Crop abundantly requites. Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumb and Apricock, The prince of plumbs, whose stone's as hard as Rock The Summer seems but short, the Autumn hasts To shake his fruits, of most delicious tasts Like good old Age, whose younger juicy Roots Hath still ascended, to bear goodly fruits. Until his head be gray, and strength be gone. Yet then appears the worthy deeds he'th done: To feed his boughs exhausted hath his Sap, Then drops his fruit into the eaters lap. _AUTUMN._ Of Autumn moneths September is the prime, Now day and night are equal in each Clime, The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line, And doth in poizing Libra this month shine. The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest, Whose lively liquor oft is curs'd and blest: For nought so good, but it may be abused, But its a precious juice when well its used. The raisins now in clusters dryed be, The Orange, Lemon dangle on the tree: The Pomegranate, the Fig are ripe also, And Apples now their yellow sides do show. Of Almonds, Quinces, Wardens, and of Peach, The season's now at hand of all and each, Sure at this time, time first of all began, And in this moneth was made apostate man: For then in Eden was not only seen, Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or green, Or withered stocks, which were all dry and dead, But trees with goodly fruits replenished; Which shows nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring Our Grand-Sire was of Paradice made King: Nor could that temp'rate Clime such difference make, If cited as the most Judicious take. October is my next, we hear in this The Northern winter-blasts begin to hip, In Scorpio resideth now the Sun, And his declining heat is almost done. The fruitless trees all withered now do stand, Whose sapless yellow leavs, by winds are fan'd Which notes when youth and strength have passed their prime Decrepit age must also have its time. The Sap doth slily creep toward the Earth There rests, until the Sun give it a birth. So doth old Age still tend until his grave, Where also he his winter time must have; But when the Sun of righteousness draws nigh, His dead old stock, shall mount again on high. November is my last, for Time doth haste, We now of winters sharpness 'gins to taste This moneth the Sun's in Sagitarius, So farre remote, his glances warm not us. Almost at shortest, is the shorten'd day, The Northern pole beholdeth not one ray, Nor Greenland, Groanland, Finland, Lapland, see No Sun, to lighten their obscurity; Poor wretches that in total darkness lye, With minds more dark then is the dark'ned Sky. Beaf, Brawn, and Pork are now in great request, And solid meats our stomacks can digest. This time warm cloaths, full diet, and good fires, Our pinched flesh, and hungry marres requires; Old cold, dry Age, and Earth Autumn resembles, And Melancholy which most of all dissembles. I must be short, and shorts the short'ned day, What winter hath to tell, now let him say. _WINTER._ Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye In swaddling Clouts, like new born Infancy Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows, And like an Infant, still it taller grows; December is my first, and now the Sun To th' Southward Tropick, his swift race doth run: This moneth he's hous'd in horned Capricorn, From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn, Through Christendome with great Feastivity, Now's held, (but ghest) for blest Nativity, Cold frozen January next comes in, Chilling the blood and shrinking up the skin; In Aquarius now keeps the long wisht Sun, And Northward his unwearied Course doth run: The day much longer then it was before, The cold not lessened, but augmented more. Now Toes and Ears, and Fingers often freeze, And Travellers their noses sometimes leese. Moist snowie Feburary is my last, I care not how the winter time doth haste, In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine, And Northward still approaches to the Line, The rivers 'gin to ope, the snows to melt, And some warm glances from his face are felt; Which is increased by the lengthen'd day, Until by's heat, he drives all cold away, And thus the year in Circle runneth round: Where first it did begin, in th' end its found. With the final lines a rush of dissatisfaction came over the writer, and she added certain couplets, addressed to her father, for whom the whole set seems to have been originally written, and who may be responsible in part for the bald and didactic quality of most of her work. My Subjects bare, my Brain is bad, Or better Lines you should have had; The first fell in so nat'rally, I knew not how to pass it by; The last, though bad I could not mend, Accept therefore of what is pen'd, And all the faults that you shall spy Shall at your feet for pardon cry. Mr. John Harvard Ellis has taken pains to compare various passages in her "Four Monarchies" with the sources from which her information was derived, showing a similarity as close as the difference between prose and verse would admit. One illustration of this will be sufficient. In the description of the murder of the philosopher Callisthenes by Alexander the Great, which occurs in her account of the Grecian Monarchy, she writes: The next of worth that suffered after these, Was learned, virtuous, wise Calisthenes, Who loved his Master more than did the rest, As did appear, in flattering him the least; In his esteem a God he could not be, Nor would adore him for a Deity. For this alone and for no other cause, Against his Sovereign, or against his Laws, He on the Rack his Limbs in pieces rent, Thus was he tortur'd till his life was spent Of this unkingly act doth Seneca This censure pass, and not unwisely say, Of Alexander this the eternal crime, Which shall not be obliterate by time. Which virtue's fame can ne're redeem by far, Nor all felicity of his in war. When e're 'tis said he thousand thousands slew, Yea, and Calisthenes to death he drew. The mighty Persian King he over came, Yea, and he killed Calisthenes of fame. All countreyes, Kingdomes, Provinces he won, From Hellespont, to the farthest Ocean. All this he did, who knows not to be true? But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew. From Nacedon, his English did extend, Unto the utmost bounds o' th' Orient, All this he did, yea, and much more 'tis true, But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew. The quotation from Raleigh's "History of the World," which follows, will be seen to hold in many lines the identical words. "Alexander stood behind a partition, and heard all that was spoken, waiting but an opportunity to be revenged on Callisthenes, who being a man of free speech, honest, learned, and a lover of the king's honour, was yet soon after tormented to death, not for that he had betrayed the king to others, but because he never would condescend to betray the king to himself, as all his detestable flatterers did. For in a conspiracy against the king, made by one Hermolaus and others, (which they confessed,) he caused Callisthenes, without confession, accusation or trial, to be torn assunder upon the rack. This deed, unworthy of a king, Seneca thus censureth. [He gives the Latin, and thus translates it.] 'This is the eternal crime of Alexander, which no virtue nor felicity of his in war shall ever be able to redeem. For as often as any man shall say, He slew many thousand Persians, it shall be replied, He did so, and he slew Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He slew Darius, it shall be replied, And Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He won all as far as to the very ocean, thereon also he adventured with unusual navies, and extended his empire from a corner of Thrace, to the utmost bounds of the orient; it shall be said withal, But he killed Callisthenes. Let him have outgone all the ancient examples of captains and kings, none of all his acts makes so much to his glory, as Callisthenes to his reproach'." The school girl of the present day could furnish such arrangements of her historical knowledge with almost as fluent a pen as that of Mistress Bradstreet, who is, however, altogether innocent of any intention to deceive any of her readers. The unlearned praised her depth of learning, but she knew well that every student into whose hands the book might fall, would recognize the source from which she had drawn, and approve the method of its use. Evidently there was nothing very vital to her in these records of dynasties and wars, for not a line indicates any thrill of feeling at the tales she chronicles. Yet the feeling was there, though reserved for a later day. It is with her own time, or with the "glorious reign of good Queen Bess," that she forgets to be didactic and allows herself here and there, a natural and vigorous expression of thought or feeling. There was capacity for hero-worship, in this woman, who repressed as far as she had power, the feeling and passion that sometimes had their way, though immediately subdued and chastened, and sent back to the durance in which all feeling was held. But her poem on Queen Elizabeth has here and there a quiet sarcasm, and at one point at least rises into a fine scorn of the normal attitude toward women: She hath wip'd off the aspersion of her Sex, That women wisdome lack to play the Rex. Through the whole poem runs an evident, almost joyous delight in what a woman has achieved, and as she passes from point to point, gathering force with every period, she turns suddenly upon all detractors with these ringing lines: Now say, have women worth or have they none? Or had they some, but with our Queen is't gone? Nay, masculines, you have thus taxed us long; But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong. Let such as say our sex is void of reason, Know 'tis a slander now, but once was treason. Sir Philip Sidney fills her with mixed feeling, her sense that his "Arcadia" was of far too fleshly and soul-beguiling an order of literature, battling with her admiration for his character as a man, and making a diverting conflict between reason and inclination. As with Queen Elizabeth, she compromised by merely hinting her opinion of certain irregularities, and hastened to cover any damaging admission with a mantle of high and even enthusiastic eulogy. AN ELEGIE upon that Honourable and renowned Knight _Sir Philip Sidney,_ who was untimely slain at the Siege of Zutphen, _Anno, 1586._ When England did enjoy her Halsion dayes, Her noble Sidney wore the Crown of Bayes; As well an honour to our British Land, As she that swayed the Scepter with her hand; Mars and Minerva did in one agree, Of Arms and Arts he should a pattern be, Calliope with Terpsichore did sing, Of poesie, and of musick, he was King; His Rhetorick struck Polimina dead, His Eloquence made Mercury wax red; His Logick from Euterpe won the Crown, More worth was his then Clio could set down. Thalia and Melpomene say truth, Witness Arcadia penned in his youth, Are not his tragick Comedies so acted, As if your ninefold wit had been compacted. To shew the world, they never saw before, That this one Volume should exhaust your store; His wiser dayes condemned his witty works, Who knows the spels that in his Rhetorick lurks, But some infatuate fools soon caught therein, Fond Cupids Dame had never such a gin, Which makes severer eyes but slight that story, And men of morose minds envy his glory: But he's a Beetle-head that can't descry A world of wealth within that rubbish lye, And doth his name, his work, his honour wrong, The brave refiner of our British tongue, That sees not learning, valour and morality, Justice, friendship, and kind hospitality, Yea and Divinity within his book, Such were prejudicate, and did not look. In all Records his name I ever see Put with an Epithite of dignity, Which shows his worth was great, his honour such, The love his Country ought him, was as much. Then let none disallow of these my straines Whilst English blood yet runs within my veins, O brave Achilles, I wish some Homer would Engrave in Marble, with Characters of gold The valiant feats thou didst on Flanders coast, Which at this day fair Belgia may boast. The more I say, the more thy worth I stain, Thy fame and praise is far beyond my strain, O Zutphen, Zutphen that most fatal City Made famous by thy death, much more the pity: Ah! in his blooming prime death pluckt this rose E're he was ripe, his thread cut Atropos. Thus man is born to dye, and dead is he, Brave Hector, by the walls of Troy we see. O who was near thee but did sore repine He rescued not with life that life of thine; But yet impartial Fates this boon did give, Though Sidney di'd his valiant name should live: And live it doth in spight of death through fame, Thus being overcome, he overcame. Where is that envious tongue, but can afford Of this our noble Scipio some good word. Great Bartas this unto thy praise adds more, In sad sweet verse, thou didst his death deplore. And Phoenix Spencer doth unto his life, His death present in sable to his wife. Stella the fair, whose streams from Conduits fell For the sad loss of her Astrophel. Fain would I show how he fame's paths did tread, But now into such Lab'rinths I am lead, With endless turnes, the way I find not out, How to persist my Muse is more in doubt; Wich makes me now with Silvester confess, But Sidney's Muse can sing his worthiness. The Muses aid I craved, they had no will To give to their Detractor any quill, With high disdain, they said they gave no more, Since Sidney had exhausted all their store. They took from me the Scribling pen I had, I to be eas'd of such a task was glad Then to reveng this wrong, themselves engage, And drove me from Parnassus in a rage. Then wonder not if I no better sped, Since I the Muses thus have injured. I pensive for my fault, sate down, and then Errata through their leave, threw me my pen, My Poem to conclude, two lines they deign Which writ, she bad return't to them again; So Sidneys fame I leave to Englands Rolls, His bones do lie interr'd in stately Pauls. _HIS EPITAPH._ Here lies in fame under this stone, Philip and Alexander both in one; Heir to the Muses, the Son of Mars in Truth, Learning, Valour, Wisdome, all in virtuous youth, His praise is much, this shall suffice my pen, That Sidney dy'd 'mong most renown'd of men. With Du Bartas, there is no hesitation or qualification. Steeped in the spirit of his verse, she was unconscious how far he had moulded both thought and expression, yet sufficiently aware of his influence to feel it necessary to assert at many points her freedom from it. But, as we have already seen, he was the Puritan poet, and affected every rhymester of the time, to a degree which it required generations to shake off. In New England, however, even he, in time came to rank as light-minded, and the last shadow of poetry fled before the metrical horrors of the Bay Psalm Book, which must have lent a terror to rhyme, that one could wish might be transferred to the present day. The elegy on Du Bartas is all the proof needed to establish Anne Bradstreet as one of his most loyal followers, and in spite of all protest to the contrary such she was and will remain. IN HONOUR OF DU BARTAS. Among the happy wits this age hath shown Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known; My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue, In humble wise have vowed their service long But knowing th' task so great & strength but small, Gave o're the work before begun withal, My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines, Where Art, and more than Art in nature shines, Reflection from their beaming altitude Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude Which rayes darting upon some richer ground Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound, But barren I, my Dasey here do bring, A homely flower in this my latter Spring, If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field, Volleyes of praises could I eccho then, Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen; But wishes can't accomplish my desire, Pardon if I adore, when I admire. O France thou did'st in him more glory gain Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great, Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and sweat, Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold, In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold, Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded slain, Shine the quintessence of an heroick brain. The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows, Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows, Who in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs, Lead'st millions chained by eyes, by ears, by tongues, Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven, In giving one what would have served seven, If e're this golden gift was show'd on any, They shall be consecrated in my Verse, And prostrate offered at great Bartas Herse; My muse unto a child I may compare Who sees the riches of some famous Fair, He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks To comprehend the worth of all those knacks The glittering plate and Jewels he admires, The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies tires, And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish, Some part (at least) of that great wealth was his, But feeling empty wishes nought obtain, At night turnes to his mothers cot again, And tells her tales, (his full heart over glad) Of all the glorious sights his Eyes have had; But finds too soon his want of Eloquence, The silly prattler speaks no word of sense; But feeling utterance fail his great desires Sits down in silence, deeply he admires, Thus weak brained I, reading thy lofty stile, Thy profound learning, viewing other while; Thy Art in natural Philosophy, Thy Saint like mind in grave Divinity; Thy piercing skill in high Astronomy, And curious insight in anatomy; Thy Physick, musick and state policy, Valour in warr, in peace good husbandry, Sure lib'ral Nature did with Art not small, In all the arts make thee most liberal, A thousand thousand times my senseless sences Moveless stand charmed by thy sweet influences; More senseless then the stones to Amphious Luto, Mine eyes are sightless, and my tongue is mute, My full astonish'd heart doth pant to break, Through grief it wants a faculty to speak; Thy double portion would have served many, Unto each man his riches is assign'd Of name, of State, of Body and of mind: Thou had'st thy part of all, but of the last, O pregnant brain, O comprehension vast; Thy haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wondring at, shall never climb, Thy sacred works are not for imitation, But monuments to future admiration, Thus Bartas fame shall last while starrs do satnd, And whilst there's Air or Fire, or Sea or Land. But least my ignorance shall do thee wrong, To celebrate thy merits in my Song. He leave thy praise to those shall do thee right, Good will, not skill, did cause me bring my mite. HIS EPITAPH. Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parnassus glory; The World rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death, was sorry, Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity! And Natures Law, had it been revocable To rescue him from death, Art had been able, But Nature vanquish'd Art, so Bartas dy'd; But Fame out-living both, he is reviv'd. Bare truth as every line surely appeared to the woman who wrote, let us give thanks devoutly that the modern mind holds no capacity for the reproduction of that "Haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wond'ring at shall never climb," and that more truly than she knew, his "Sacred works are not for imitation But Monuments to future Admiration." Not the "future Admiration" she believed his portion, but to the dead reputation which, fortunately for us, can have no resurrection. CHAPTER XIII. CHANCES AND CHANGES. With the appearance of the little volume and the passing of the flutter of interest and excitement it had aroused, the Andover life subsided into the channel through which, save for one or two breaks, it was destined to run for many years. Until 1653, nothing of note had taken place, but this year brought two events, one full of the proud but quiet satisfaction the Puritan mother felt in a son who had ended his college course with distinction, and come home to renew the associations somewhat broken in his four years absence; the other, a sorrow though hardly an unexpected one. Samuel Bradstreet, who became a physician, living for many years in Boston, which he finally left for the West Indies, was about twenty at the time of his graduation from Harvard, the success of which was very near Anne Bradstreet's heart and the pride of his grandfather, Governor Dudley, who barely lived to see the fruition of his wishes for this first child of his favorite daughter. His death in July, 1653, softened the feeling that seems slowly to have arisen against him in the minds of many who had been his friends, not without reason, though many of them had showed quite as thorough intolerance as he. With increasing years, Dudley's spirit had hardened and embittered against all who ventured to differ from the cast-iron theology his soul loved. Bradstreet and Winthrop had both been a cross to him with the toleration which seemed to him the child of Satan himself. His intense will had often drawn concessions from Winthrop at which his feelings revolted and he pursued every sort of sectary with a zeal that never flagged. Hutchinson wrote: "He was zealous beyond measure against all sorts of heretics," and Roger Williams said bitterly: "It is known who hindered but never promoted the liberty of other men's consciences." Between the "vagaries of many sectaries," the persistent and irrepressible outbreaks from Roger Williams, the bewildering and confounding presumption of Anne Hutchinson, who seems to have been the forerunner of other Boston agitations of like nature, Governor Dudley's last days were full of astonishments, not the least being the steady though mild opposition of his son-in-law Bradstreet to all harsh measures. Toleration came to seem to him at last the crowning sin of all the ages, and his last recorded written words are a valiant testimony against it. There was a curious tendency to rhyme in the gravest of these decorous Fathers; a tendency carefully concealed by some, as in John Winthrop's case, who confined his "dropping into poetry" to the margins of his almanacs. Others were less distrustful, and printed their "painful verses" on broad sheets, for general circulation and oppression. Governor Dudley rhymed but once, but in the bald and unequal lines, found in his pocket after death, condensed his views of all who had disagreed from him, as well as the honest, sturdy conviction in which he lived and died. They were written evidently but a short time before his death, and are in the beginning much after the order of his daughter's first poem. Dim Eyes, deaf Ears, cold Stomach, shew My dissolution is in view, Eleven times seven near liv'd have I. And now God calls I willing Die, My Shuttle's shot, my Race is run, My Sun is set, my Day is done. My span is measured, Tale is told, My Flower is faded and grown old. My Dream is vanish'd, Shadows fled, My Soul with Christ, my Body Dead, Farewel dear Wife, Children and Friends, Hate Heresie, make Blessed Ends, Bear Poverty, live with good Men; So shall we live with Joy agen. Let men of God in Courts and Churches watch, O're such as do a Toleration hatch, Lest that ill Egg bring forth a Cockatrice To poison all with Heresie and Vice. If Men be left and otherwise Combine, My epitaph's I DY'D NO LIBERTINE. To the old Puritan, scowling to the last at any shade of difference from the faith to which he would willingly have been a martyr, a "Libertine" included all blasphemous doubters and defiers of current beliefs--Quakers, Antinomians and other pestilent people who had already set the Colony by the ears and were soon to accomplish much more in this direction. The verses were at once creed and protest, and are a fair epitome of the Puritan mind in 1650. Other rhymes from other hands had expressed equally uncompromising opinions. He had survived the anagramatic warning sent to him by an unknown hand in 1645, which still stands on the files of the first Church in Roxbury, and which may have been written by one of his opponents in the General Court. THOMAS DUDLEY. Ah! old must dye, A death's head on your hand you need not weare; A dying head you on your shoulders bear; You need not one to mind you you must dye, You in your name may spell mortalitye. Young men may dye, but old men, these dye must, 'Twill not be long before you turn to dust. Before you turn to dust! ah! must! old! dye! What shall young men doe, when old in dust do lye? When old in dust lye, what New England doe? When old in dust do lye it's best dye too. Death condoned these offences, and left only the memory of his impartial justice and his deep and earnest piety, and Morton wrote of him, what expressed the feeling even of his enemies: "His love to justice appeared at all times, and in special upon the judgement seat, without respect of persons in judgement, and in his own particular transactions with all men, he was exact and exemplary. His zeal to order appeared in contriving good laws and faithfully executing them upon criminal offenders, heretics and underminers of true religion. He had a piercing judgement to discover the wolf, though clothed with a sheepskin. His love to the people was evident, in serving them in a public capacity many years at his own cost, and that as a nursing father to the churches of Christ. He loved the true Christian religion, and the pure worship of God, and cherished as in his bosom, all godly ministers and Christians. He was exact in the practice of piety, in his person and family, all his life. In a word he lived desired, and died lamented by all good men." This was stronger language than the majority of his fellow- colonists would have been inclined to use, his differences with Governor Winthrop having embittered many of the latter's friends. Winthrop's persistent gentleness went far toward quieting the feeling against him, which seems to have taken deep root in Dudley's breast, but the jealousy of his authority, and questioning of his judgement, though perhaps natural from the older man, brought about many uncomfortable complications. All the towns about Boston had been ordered to send their quota to aid in finishing the fort built in 1633, but Governor Dudley would not allow any party from Newtown to be made up, nor would he give the reason for such course to Governor Winthrop. There was cause, for Salem and Saugus had failed to pay their share of money, and Dudley's sense of justice would not allow his constituents to do their share till all had paid the amount levied. Remonstrated with, he wrote a most unpleasant letter, a habit of his when offended, refusing to act till the reluctant Salem had paid. This letter, brought to Winthrop by Mr. Hooker, he returned to him at once. The rest of the story may be given in his own words. The record stands in his journal given in the third person, and as impartially as if told of another: "The governour told them it should rest till the court, and withal gave the letter to Mr. Hooker with this speech: I am not willing to keep such an occasion of provocation by me. And soon after he wrote to the deputy (who had before desired to buy a fat hog or two of him, being somewhat short of provisions) to desire him to send for one, (which he would have sent him, if he had known when his occasion had been to have made use of it), and to accept it as a testimony of his good will; and lest he should make any scruple of it, he made Mr. Haynes and Mr. Hooker, (who both sojurned in his house) partakers with him. Upon this the deputy returned this answer: 'Your overcoming yourself hath overcome me. Mr. Haynes, Mr. Hooker, and myself, do most kindly accept your good will, but we desire, without offence, to refuse your offer, and that I may only trade with you for two hogs;' and so very lovingly concluded." There was no word, however, of yielding the disputed point, which was settled for him a few days later. "The court being two days after, ordered, that Newtown should do their work as others had done, and then Salem, &c., should pay for three days at eighteen pence a man." The records of that time hold instance after instance of the old man's obstinacy and Winthrop's gentle and most patient consideration. To Anne, however, who came in contact only with his milder side, it was an irreparable loss, and she never spoke of him save with grateful and tender remembrance, her elegy on his death, though conventional as the time made her, being full of the sorrow time soothed but never destroyed. _To the Memory of my dear and ever honoured Father,_ _Thomas Dudley Esq._ _Who deceased July 31, 1653, and of his Age, 77._ By duty bound, and not by custome led To celebrate the praises of the dead, My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse Presents my Lamentations at his Herse, Who was my Father, Guide, Instructor too, To whom I ought whatever I could doe: Nor is't Relation near my hand shall tye; For who more cause to boast his worth than I? Who heard or saw, observed or knew him better? Or who alive then I, a greater debtor? Let malice bite, and envy knaw its fill, He was my Father, and Ile praise him still. Nor was his name, or life lead so obscure That pitty might some Trumpeters procure. Who after death might make him falsly seen Such as in life, no man could justly deem. Well known and lov'd where ere he liv'd, by most Both in his native, and in foreign coast, These to the world his merits could make known, So needs no Testimonial from his own; But now or never I must pay my Sum; While others tell his worth, Ile not be dumb: One of thy Founders, him New England know, Who staid thy feeble sides when thou wast low, Who spent his state, his strength & years with care That After-comers in them might have a share, True Patriot of this little Commonweal, Who is't can tax thee ought, but for thy zeal? Truths friend thou wert, to errors still a foe, Which caus'd Apostates to maligne so. Thy love to true Religion e're shall shine, My Fathers God, be God of me and mine, Upon the earth he did not build his nest, But as a Pilgrim. what he had, possest, High thoughts he gave no harbour in his heart, Nor honours pufft him up, when he had part; Those titles loathed, which some do too much love For truly his ambition lay above. His humble mind so lov'd humility, He left it to his race for Legacy; And oft and oft, with speeches mild and wise, Gave his in charge, that Jewel rich to prize. No ostentation seen in all his wayes, As in the mean ones of our foolish dayes. Which all they have, and more still set to view, Their greatness may be judg'd by what they shew. His thoughts were more sublime, his actions wise, Such vanityes he justly did despise. Nor wonder 'twas, low things n'er much did move For he a Mansion had, prepar'd above, For which he sigh'd and pray'd & long'd full sore He might be cloath'd upon, for evermore. Oft spake of death, and with a smiling chear, He did exult his end was drawing near, Now fully ripe, as shock of wheat that's grown, Death as a Sickle hath him timely mown, And in celestial Barn hath hous'd him high, Where storms, nor showrs, nor ought can damnifie. His Generation serv'd, his labours cease; And to his Fathers gathered is in peace. Ah happy Soul, 'mongst Saints and Angels blest, Who after all his toyle, is now at rest: His hoary head in righteousness was found; As joy in heaven on earth let praise resound. Forgotten never be his memory, His blessing rest on his posterity: His pious Footsteps followed by his race, At last will bring us to that happy place Where we with joy each other's face shall see, And parted more by death shall never be. HIS EPITAPH. Within this Tomb a Patriot lyes That was both pious, just and wise, To Truth a shield, to right a Wall, To Sectaryes a whip and Maul, A Magazine of History, A Prizer of good Company In manners pleasant and severe The Good him lov'd, the bad did fear, And when his time with years was spent If some rejoyc'd, more did lament. Of the nine children, of whom Anne Bradstreet was the most distinguished, the oldest son of his second wife took most important part in the colonial life. Joseph Dudley, who was born in 1647, became "Governor of Massachusetts, Lieutenant-Governor of the Isle of Wight, and first Chief-Justice of New York. He had thirteen children, one of whom, Paul, was also a distinguished man; being Attorney-General and afterward Chief-Justice of Massachusetts, Fellow of the Royal Society, and founder of the Dudleian Lectures at Harvard College." His honors came to him after the sister who prized them most had passed on to the Heaven for which, even when happiest, she daily longed. None of the sons possessed the strong characteristics of the father, but sons and daughters alike seem to have inherited his love of books, as well as of hospitality, and the name for every descendant has always held honor, and often, more than fair ability. The preponderance of ministers in every generation may, also, still gladden the heart of the argumentative ancestor whose dearest pleasure was a protracted tussle with the five points, and their infinitely ramifying branches, aided and encouraged by the good wine and generous cheer he set, with special relish, before all who could meet him on his own ground. It was fortunate for the daughter that many fresh interests were springing up in her own family, which in 1654, received a new member. One had already been added, in the person of the youngest son John, who had been born in 1652, and was still a baby, and now marriage gave another son, who valued her almost as heartily as her own. Seaborn Cotton, whose name held always a reminder of the stormy days on which his eyes opened, had grown into a decorous youth, a course at Harvard, and an entering of his father's profession, and though the old record holds no details, it is easy to read between the lines, the story that told itself alike to Puritan and Cavalier, and to which Mistress Dorothy listened with a flutter beneath the gray gown that could not disguise the pretty girlish outlines of her dainty figure. Dorothy, as well as the other daughters, had been carefully trained in every housewifely art, and though part of her mother's store of linen bleached in Lincolnshire meadows, may have helped to swell her simple outfit, it is probable that she spun and wove much of it herself. A fulling mill, where the cloth made at home was finished and pressed, had been built very early in the history of the town, and while there were "spinsters" who went from house to house, much of the work was done by mother and daughters. Seaborn Cotton, who must often during his courtship have ridden over from Boston, found Dorothy like the Priscilla she may have known, busy in the graceful fashion of that older time, and-- ... As he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. Like Priscilla, too, she must have said-- ... I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage, For I was thinking of you as I sat there spinning and singing. Dorothy had in full her mother's power of quiet devotion, and became a model mother, as well as minister's wife, for the parish at Hampton, N. H., where the young pastor began work in 1659, and where after twenty-eight years of such labor as came to all pioneers, she passed on, leaving nine children, whose name is still a familiar one in New England. Though the date of the next daughter's marriage is not quite as certain, it is given by some authorities as having taken place in the previous year, and in any case was within a few months of the same time. Contrary to the usual Puritan rule, which gave to most men from two to four wives, Sarah outlived her first husband, and married again, when a middle-aged but still young-hearted woman. Marriage inevitably held some suggestion at least of merry-making, but the ceremony had been shorn of all possible resemblance to its English form. The Puritans were in terror lest any Prelatical superstitions or forms should cling to them in faintest degree, and Bradford wrote of the first marriage which took place in the Plymouth Colony: "The first marriage in this place, which, according to the laudable custom of the Low Countries, in which they had lived, was thought most requisite to be performed by the magistrate, as being a civil thing, ... and nowhere found in the Gospel to be laid on the ministers as a part of their office." Winthrop, three of whose marriages had been in the parish church of his English home, shared the same feeling, and when preparations were made for "a great marriage to be solemnized at Boston," wrote: "The bridegroom being of Hingham, Mr. Hubbard's church, he was procured to preach, and came to Boston to that end. But the magistrates hearing of it, sent to him to forbear. We were not willing to bring in the English custom of ministers performing the solemnity of marriage, which sermons at such times might induce; but if any minister were present, and would bestow a word of exhortation, &c., it was permitted." Fortunately for Dorothy and Sarah Bradstreet, their father was a magistrate, and his clear and gentle eyes the only ones they were obliged to face. Andover couples prefered him to any other and with reason, for while following the appointed method strictly, "giving the covenant unto the parties and also making the prayers proper for the occasion," he had no frowns for innocent enjoyment, and may even have allowed the dancing which was afterward forbidden. In the beginning, as the largest in the township, his house had probably served as stopping-place for all travellers, where they were entertained merely as a matter of courtesy, though an "inholder" or "taverner" had been appointed and liscenced for Andover in 1648. Only an honored citizen could hold this office, and marriages were often celebrated in their houses, which naturally were enlarged at last to meet all necessities. But the strong liquors of the inn often circulated too freely, and quarrels and the stocks were at times the end of a day which it had been planned should hold all the merriment the Puritan temper would allow. Such misfortunes waited only on the humbler members of the community, who appear to have been sufficiently quarrelsome and excitable to furnish more occupiers of both pillory and stocks, than the religious character of the settlement would seem to admit, and who came to blows on the least provocation, using their fists with genuine English ardor, and submitting to punishment with composure, if only the adversary showed bruises enough for compensation. Wine and beer flowed freely at both the marriages, as they did at every entertainment, but Governor Bradstreet, while having due liking for all good cheer, was personally so abstinent that none would be likely in his presence to forget proper bounds. Ministers and laymen alike drank an amount impossible to these later days, and that if taken now would set them down as hopeless reprobates; but custom sanctioned it, though many had already found that the different climate rendered such indulgence much more hazardous than the less exhilarating one of England. As the family lessened, the mother seems to have clung even more closely to those that remained, and to have lost herself in work for and with them. Whatever may have been written at this time, appears to have been destroyed, nothing remaining but the poem "Contemplations," which is more truly poetry than any of its more labored predecessors, its descriptive passages holding much of the charm of the lovely landscape through which she moved to the river, flowing still through the Andover meadows. CONTEMPLATIONS. Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride Where gilded o're by his rich golden head. Their leaves and fruits seemed painted but was true Of green, of red, of yellow mixed hew, Rapt were my sences at this delectable view. I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I, If so much excellence abide below; How excellent is he that dwells on high? Whose power and beauty by his works we know. Sure he is goodness, wisdome, glory, light, That hath this under world so richly dight; More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter & no night. Then on a stately oak I cast mine Eye, Whose ruffling top the Clouds seemed to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine Infancy? Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire. Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born? Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn, If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn. Then higher on the glistening Sun I gazed, Whose beams was shaded by the leavie Tree, The more I looked, the more I grew amazed, And softly said, what glory's like to thee? Soul of this world, this Universes Eye Had I not, better known, (alas) the same had I. Thou as a bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes And as a strong man, joyes to run a race, The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes The Earth reflects her glances in thy face. Birds, insects, Animals with Vegetive, Thy heart from death and dulness doth revive: And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive. Thy swift Annual and diurnal Course, Thy daily streight and yearly oblique path. Thy pleasing fervor and thy scorching force, All mortals here the feeling knowledg hath. Thy presence makes it day thy absence night, Quaternal Seasons caused by thy might; Hail Creature full of sweetness, beauty and delight. Art them so full of glory, that no Eye Hath strength, thy shining Rayes once to behold? And is thy splendid throne erect so high? As to approach it can no earthly mould. How full of glory then must thy Creator be? Who gave this bright light luster unto thee, Admir'd, ador'd for ever, be that Majesty. Silent alone, where none or saw or heard, In pathless paths I lead my wandering feet; My humble eyes to lofty Skyes I rear'd, To sing some song my mazed Muse thought meet. My great Creator I would magnifie, That nature had thus decked liberally; But Ah, and Ah, again my imbecility. The reader who may be disposed to echo this last line must bear in mind always, that stilted as much of this may seem, it was in the day in which it appeared a more purely natural voice than had been heard at all, and as the poem proceeds it gains both in force and beauty. As usual she reverts to the past for illustrations and falls into a meditation aroused by the sights and sounds about her. The path has led to the meadows not far from the river, where-- I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, The black-clad Cricket, bear a second part, They kept one tune and plaid on the same string, Seeming to glory in their little Art. Shall Creatures abject, thus their voices raise? And in their kind resound their makers praise, Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no higher layes. * * * * * When present times look back to Ages past, And men in being fancy those are dead, It makes things gone perpetually to last, And calls back moneths and years that long since fled. It makes a man more aged in conceit, Then was Methuselah, or's grandsire great; While of their persons & their acts his mind doth treat. * * * * * Sometimes in Eden fair, he seems to be, Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all, Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree, That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral, Who like a miscreant's driven from that place, To get his bread with pain and sweat of face A penalty impos'd on his backsliding Race. * * * * * Here sits our Grandame in retired place, And in her lap, her bloody Cain new-born, The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face, Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn; His Mother sighs to think of Paradise, And how she lost her bliss to be more wise, Beleiving him that was, and is Father of lyes. * * * * * Here Cain and Abel came to sacrifice, Fruits of the Earth and Fallings each do bring, On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies, But no such sign on false Cain's offering; With sullen, hateful looks he goes his wayes; Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes, Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise. * * * * * There Abel keeps his sheep no ill he thinks, His brother comes, then acts his fratracide The Virgin Earth, of blood her first draught drinks, But since that time she often hath been clay'd; The wretch with gastly face and dreadful mind, Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind, Though none on Earth but kindred near, then could he find. * * * * * Who fancyes not his looks now at the Barr, His face like death, his heart with horror fraught, Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr, When deep dispair with wish of life hath fought, Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes, A vagabond to Land of Nod he goes; A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes. * * * * * Who thinks not oft upon the Father's ages. Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw, The starry observations of those Sages, And how their precepts to their sons were law, How Adam sigh'd to see his Progeny, Cloath'd all in his black sinful Livery, Who neither guilt, nor yet the punishment could fly. * * * * * Our Life compare we with their length of dayes Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive? And though thus short, we shorten many wayes, Living so little while we are alive; In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight, So unawares comes on perpetual night, And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight. * * * * * When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth, (though old) stil clad in green The stones and trees insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come and greeness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made; But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid. * * * * * By birth more noble then those creatures all, Yet seems by nature and by custome curs'd, No sooner born, but grief and care makes fall, That state obliterate he had at first: Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again, Nor habitations long their names retain, But in oblivion to the final day remain. * * * * * Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth, Because their beauty and their strength last longer Shall I wish there, or never to have had birth, Because they're bigger & their bodyes stronger? Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye, And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, But man was made for endless immortality. Here at last she is released from the didactic. She can look at the sun without feeling it necessary to particularize her knowledge of its-- "... swift Annual and diurnal Course, Thy daily streight and yearly oblique path." Imagination has been weighted by the innumerable details, more and more essential to the Puritan mind, but now she draws one long free breath, and rises far beyond the petty limit of her usual thought, the italicised lines in what follows holding a music one may seek for in vain in any other verse of the period: Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm, Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side, Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place with pleasures dignifi'd, I once that lov'd the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, And if the sun would ever shine there would I dwell. * * * * * While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the longed-for Ocean held its course, I markt not crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought but still augment its force, _O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace_. * * * * * Nor is't enough that thou alone may'st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide To Thetis house, where all embrace and greet: Thou Emblem true of what I count the best, O could I lead my Rivolets to rest, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest. * * * * * Ye fish which in this liquid Region 'bide, That for each season have your habitation, Now salt, now fresh where you think best to glide, To unknown coasts to give a visitation, In Lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry, So nature taught, and yet you know not why, You watry folk that know not your felicity. * * * * * Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air, Then to the colder bottome streight they dive, Eftsoon to Neptun's glassie Hall repair, To see what trade they great ones there do drive Who forrage ore the spacious, sea-green field, And take the trembling prey before it yield, Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield. * * * * * While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain, Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg'd my hearing better then my sight, And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight. * * * * * O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, no cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm. Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is everywhere, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water deer, Reminds not what is past nor whats to come dost fear. * * * * * _The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent, Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew, So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old, begin anew, And thus they pass their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better Region, Where winter's never felt in that sweet airy legion_. * * * * * Up to this point natural delight in the sights and sounds of a summer's day has had its way, and undoubtedly struck her as far too much enjoyment for any sinful worm of the dust. She proceeds, therefore, to chasten her too exuberant muse, presenting for that sorely-tried damsel's inspection, the portrait of man, as Calvin had taught her to view him. * * * * * Man at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledg ignorant, in strength but weak, Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, Each storm his state, his mind, his body break, From some of these he never finds cessation But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest nears't Relation. * * * * * And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain, Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow; Nor all his losses crosses and vexations In weight and frequency and long duration, Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation. * * * * * The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide, And now become great Master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoiles all the sport, And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. * * * * * So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre, That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth even for heav'n's bower. But sad affliction comes & makes him see, Here's neither honour, wealth nor safety, Only above is found all with security. * * * * * O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things, That draws oblivion's curtain over Kings, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their names without a Record are forgot, Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust, Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust; But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone Shall last and shine when all of these are gone. With this poem, Anne Bradstreet seems to have bidden a final farewell to any attempt at sustained composition. A sense of disgust at the poor result of long thought and labor appears to have filled her, and this mood found expression in a deprecating little poem in which humor struggles with this oppressive sense of deficiency and incompleteness, the inclination on the whole, however, as with most authors, being toward a lenient judgment of her own inadequate accomplishment. THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK. Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise then true Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg) At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print,) should mother call, I cast thee by as one unfit for light, Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight; Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could: I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find In this array, mong'st Vulgars mayst thou roam In Critick's hands, beware thou dost not come; And take thy way where yet thou art not known, If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy Mother, she alas is poor. Which caused her thus to turn thee out of door. CHAPTER XIV. THE LEGACY. Though it was only as a poet that Anne Bradstreet was known to her own time, her real strength was in prose, and the "Meditations, Divine and Morall," written at the request of her second son, the Rev. Simon Bradstreet, to whom she dedicated them, March 20, 1664, show that life had taught her much, and in the ripened thought and shrewd observation of men and manners are the best testimony to her real ability. For the reader of to-day they are of incomparably more interest than anything to be found in the poems. There is often the most condensed and telling expression; a swift turn that shows what power of description lay under all the fantastic turns of the style Du Bartas had created for her. That he underrated them was natural. The poems had brought her honor in the old home and the new. The meditations involved no anxious laboring after a rhyme, no straining a metaphor till it cracked. They were natural thought naturally expressed and therefore worthless for any literary purpose, and as she wrote, the wail of the Preacher repeated itself, and she smiled faintly as the words grew under her pen: "There is no new thing under the sun, there is nothing that can be sayd or done, but either that or something like it hath been done and sayd before." Many of the paragraphs written in pain and weakness show how keenly she had watched the course of events, and what power of characterization she had to use, three of them especially holding the quiet sarcasm in which she occasionally indulged, though always with a tacit apology for the possession of such a quality. "Dimne eyes are the concomitants of old age; and short-sightednes in those that are eyes of a Republique, foretells a declineing state." "Authority without wisdome, is like a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish." "Ambitious men are like hops that never rest climbing so long as they have anything to stay upon; but take away their props, and they are of all, the most dejected." The perpetual dissensions, religious and political, which threatened at times the absolute destruction of the Colony, were all familiar to her, and she draws upon them for illustrations of many points, others being afforded by her own experience with the eight children to whom she proved so devoted and tender a mother. Like other mothers, before and since, their differences in temperament and conduct, seem to have been a perpetual surprise, but that she had tact enough to meet each on his or her own ground, or gently draw them toward hers, seems evident at every point. That they loved her tenderly is equally evident, the diary of her second son mentioning her always as "my dear and honored mother," and all of them, though separated by early marriages for most of them, returning as often as practicable to the old roof, under which Thanksgiving Day had taken on the character it has held from that clay to this. The small blank-book which held these "Meditations" was copied carefully by Simon Bradstreet, and there is little doubt that each of the children did the same, considering it as much theirs as the brother's for whom it was originally intended. Whatever Anne Bradstreet did, she had her children always in view, and still another blank-book partially filled with religious reflections, and found among her papers after death, was dedicated, "To my dear children." The father probably kept the originals, but her words were too highly valued, not to have been eagerly desired by all. A special word to her son opens the series of "Meditations." FOR MY DEARE SONNE SIMON BRADSTREET. Parents perpetuate their lines in their posterity, and their maners in their imitation. Children do naturally rather follow the failings than the virtues of their predecessors, but I am persuaded better things of you. You once desired me to leave something for you in writing that you might look upon when you should see me no more. I could think of nothing more fit for you, nor of more ease to my selfe, than these short meditations following. Such as they are I bequeath to you: small legacys are accepted by true friends, much more by dutiful children. I have avoyded incroaching upon others conceptions, because I would leave you nothing but myne owne, though in value they fall short of all in this kinde, yet I presume they will be better priz'd by you for the Author's sake. The Lord blesse you with grace heer, and crown you with glory heerafter, that I may meet you with rejoyceing at that great day of appearing, which is the continuall prayer of Your affectionate mother, A. B. March 20, 1664. MEDITATIONS, DIVINE AND MORALL. I. There is no object that we see; no action that we doe; no good that we injoy; no evill that we feele or feare, but we may make some spiritu(a)ll, advantage of all: and he that makes such improvement is wise as well as pious. II. Many can speak well, but few can do well. We are better Scholars in the Theory then the practique part, but he is a true Christian that is a proficient in both. III. Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending; a negligent youth is usually attended by an ignorant middle age, and both by an empty old age. He that hath nothing to feed on but vanity and lyes must needs lye down in the Bed of Sorrow. IV. A ship that beares much saile, and little or no ballast, is easily overset; and that man, whose head hath great abilities, and his heart little or no grace, is in danger of foundering. V. It is reported of the peakcock that, prideing himself in his gay feathers, he ruffles them up; but, spying his black feet, he soon lets fall his plumes, so he that glorys in his gifts and adornings should look upon his Corruptions, and that will damp his high thoughts. VI. The finest bread hath the least bran; the purest hony, the least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self love. VII. The hireling that labors all the day, comforts himself that when night comes he shall both take his rest and receive his reward; the painfull Christian that hath wrought hard in God's vineyard, and hath born the heat and drought of the day, when he perceives his sun apace to decline, and the shadows of his evening to be stretched out, lifts up his head with joy, knowing his refreshing is at hand. VIII. Downny beds make drosey persons, but hard lodging keeps the eyes open. A prosperous state makes a secure Christian, but adversity makes him Consider. IX. Sweet words are like hony, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach. X. Diverse children have their different natures; some are like flesh which nothing but salt will keep from putrefaction; some again like tender fruits that are best preserved with sugar: those parents are wise that can fit their nurture according to their Nature. XI. That town which thousands of enemys without hath not been able to take, hath been delivered up by one traytor within; and that man, which all the temptations of Sathan without could not hurt, hath been foild by one lust within. XII. Authority without wisdome is like a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish. XIII. The reason why Christians are so both to exchange this world for a better, is because they have more sence than faith: they se what they injoy, they do but hope for that which is to come. XIV. If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes tast of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. XV. A low man can goe upright under that door wher a taller is glad to stoop; so a man of weak faith, and mean abilities may undergo a crosse more patiently than he that excells him, both in gifts and graces. XVI. That house which is not often swept, makes the cleanly inhabitant soone loath it, and that heart which is not continually purifieing itself, is no fit temple for the spirit of God to dwell in. XVII. Few men are so humble as not to be proud of their abilitys; and nothing will abase them more than this--What hast thou, but what thou hast received? Come, give an account of thy stewardship. XVIII. He that will undertake to climb up a steep mountain with a great burden on his back, will finde it a wearysome, if not an impossible task; so he that thinks to mount to heaven clog'd with the Cares and riches of this Life, 'tis no wonder if he faint by the way. XIX. Corne, till it has passed through the Mill and been ground to powder, is not fit for bread. God so deales with his servants: he grindes them with grief and pain till they turn to dust, and then are they fit manchet for his Mansion. XX God hath sutable comforts and supports for his children according to their severall conditions if he will make his face to shine upon them: he then makes them lye down in green pastures, and leads them beside the still waters: if they stick in deepe mire and clay, and all his waves and billows goe over their heads, He then leads them to the Rock which is higher than they. XXI. He that walks among briars and thorns will be very carefull where he sets his foot. And he that passes through the wilderness of this world, had need ponder all his steps. XXII. Want of prudence, as well as piety, hath brought men into great inconveniencys; but he that is well stored with both, seldom is so insnared. XXIII. The skillfull fisher hath his severall baits for severall fish, but there is a hooke under all; Satan, that great Angler, hath his sundry bait for sundry tempers of men, which they all catch gredily at, but few perceives the hook till it be too late. XXIV. There is no new thing under the sun, there is nothing that can be sayd or done, but either that or something like it hath been both done and sayd before. XXV. An akeing head requires a soft pillow; and a drooping heart a strong support. XXVI. A sore finger may disquiet the whole body, but an ulcer within destroys it: so an enemy without may disturb a Commonwealth, but dissentions within overthrow it. XXVII. It is a pleasant thing to behold the light, but sore eyes are not able to look upon it; the pure in heart shall see God, but the defiled in conscience shall rather choose to be buried under rocks and mountains then to behold the presence of the Lamb. XXVIII. Wisedome with an inheritance is good, but wisedome without an inheritance is better then an inheritance without wisedome. XXIX. Lightening doth generally preceed thunder, and stormes, raine; and stroaks do not often fall till after threat'ning. XXX. Yellow leaves argue the want of Sap, and gray haires want of moisture; so dry and saplesse performances are symptoms of little spirituall vigor. XXXI. Iron till it be thoroughly heat is uncapable to be wrought; so God sees good to cast some men into the furnace of affliction, and then beats them on his anvile into what frame he pleases. XXXII. Ambitious men are like hops that never rest climbing soe long as they have anything to stay upon; but take away their props and they are, of all, the most dejected. XXXIII. Much Labour wearys the body, and many thoughts oppresse the minde: man aimes at profit by the one, and content in the other; but often misses of both, and findes nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit. XXXIV. Dimne eyes are the concomitants of old age; and short-sightednes, in those that are eyes of a Republique, foretells a declineing State. XXXV. We read in Scripture of three sorts of Arrows--the arrow of an enemy, the arrow of pestilence, and the arrow of a slanderous tongue; the two first kill the body, the last the good name; the two former leave a man when he is once dead, but the last mangles him in his grave. XXXVI. Sore labourers have hard hands, and old sinners have brawnie consciences. XXXVII. Wickednes comes to its height by degrees. He that dares say of a lesse sin, is it not a little one? will ere long say of a greater, Tush, God regards it not! XXXVIII. Some Children are hardly weaned, although the breast be rub'd with wormwood or mustard, they will either wipe it off, or else suck down sweet and bitter together; so is it with some Christians, let God embitter all the sweets of this life, that so they might feed upon more substantiall food, yet they are so childishly sottish that they are still huging and sucking these empty brests, that God is forced to hedg up their way with thornes, or lay affliction on their loynes, that so they might shake hands with the world before it bid them farewell XXXIX. A Prudent mother will not clothe her little childe with a long and cumbersome garment; she easily forsees what events it is like to produce, at the best but falls and bruises, or perhaps somewhat worse, much more will the alwise God proportion his dispensations according to the Stature and Strength of the person he bestows them on. Larg indowments of honor, wealth, or a helthfull body would quite overthrow some weak Christian, therefore God cuts their garments short, to keep them in such trim that they might run the wayes of his Commandment. XL. The spring is a lively emblem of the resurrection. After a long winter we se the leavlesse trees and dry stocks (at the approach of the sun) to resume their former vigor and beauty in a more ample manner then what they lost in the Autumn; so shall it be at that great day after a long vacation, when the Sun of righteousness shall appear, those dry bones shall arise in far more glory then that which they lost at their creation, and in this transcends the spring, that their leafe shall never faile, nor their sap decline. XLI. A Wise father will not lay a burden on a child of seven yeares old, which he knows is enough for one of twice his strength, much less will our heavenly father (who knows our mould) lay such afflictions upon his weak children as would crush them to the dust, but according to the strength he will proportion the load, as God hath his little children so he hath his strong men, such as are come to a full stature in Christ; and many times he imposes waighty burdens on their shoulders, and yet they go upright under them, but it matters not whether the load be more or less if God afford his help. XLII. I have seen an end of all perfection (sayd the royall prophet); but he never sayd, I have seen an end of all sinning: what he did say, may be easily sayd by many; but what he did not say, cannot truly be uttered by any. XLIII. Fire hath its force abated by water, not by wind; and anger must be alayed by cold words, and not by blustering threats. XLIV. A sharp appetite and a thorough concoction, is a signe of an healthfull body; so a quick reception, and a deliberate cogitation, argues a sound mind. XLV. We often se stones hang with drops, not from any innate moisture, but from a thick ayer about them; so may we sometime se marble- hearted sinners seem full of contrition; but it is not from any dew of grace within, but from some black Clouds that impends them, which produces these sweating effects. XLVI. The words of the wise, sath Solomon, are as nailes and as goads both used for contrary ends--the one holds fast, the other puts forward; such should be the precepts of the wise masters of assemblys to their hearers, not only to bid them hold fast the form of sound Doctrin, but also, so to run that they might obtain. XLVII. A shadow in the parching sun, and a shelter in the blustering storme, are of all seasons the most welcome; so a faithfull friend in time of adversity, is of all other most comfortable. XLVIII. There is nothing admits of more admiration, then God's various dispensation of his gifts among the sons of men, betwixt whom he hath put so vast a disproportion that they scarcely seem made of the same lump, or sprung out of the loynes of one Adam; some set in the highest dignity that mortality is capable of; and some again so base, that they are viler then the earth; some so wise and learned, that they seem like Angells among men; and some again so ignorant and Sotish, that they are more like beasts then men: some pious saints; some incarnate Devils; some exceeding beautyfull; and some extreamly deformed; some so strong and healthfull that their bones are full of marrow; and their breasts of milk; and some again so weak and feeble, that, while they live, they are accounted among the dead--and no other reason can be given of all this, but so it pleased him, whose will is the perfect rule of righteousness. XLIX. The treasures of this world may well be compared to huskes, for they have no kernell in them, and they that feed upon them, may soon stuffe their throats, but cannot fill their bellys; they may be choaked by them, but cannot be satisfied with them. L. Sometimes the sun is only shadowed by a cloud that wee cannot se his luster, although we may walk by his light, but when he is set we are in darkness till he arise again; so God doth sometime vaile his face but for a moment, that we cannot behold the light of his Countenance as at some other time, yet he affords so much light as may direct our way, that we may go forward to the Citty of habitation, but when he seems to set and be quite gone out of sight, then must we needs walk in darkness and se no light, yet then must we trust in the Lord, and stay upon our God, and when the morning (which is the appointed time) is come, the Sun of righteousness will arise with healing in his wings. LI. The eyes and the eares are the inlets or doores of the soule, through which innumerable objects enter, yet is not that spacious roome filled, neither doth it ever say it is enough, but like the daughters of the horsleach, crys, give, give! and which is most strang, the more it receives, the more empty it finds itself, and sees an impossibility, ever to be filled, but by Him in whom all fullness dwells. LII. Had not the wisest of men taught us this lesson, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit, yet our owne experience would soon have speld it out; for what do we obtain of all these things, but it is with labour and vexation? When we injoy them it is with vanity and vexation; and, if we loose them, then they are lesse then vanity and more then vexation.: so that we have good cause often to repeat that sentence, vanity of vanityes, vanity of vanityes, all is vanity. LIII. He that is to saile into a farre country, although the ship, cabbin and provision, be all convenient and comfortable for him, yet he hath no desire to make that his place of residence, but longs to put in at that port where his bussines lyes; a Christian is sailing through this world unto his heavenly country, and heere he hath many conveniences and comforts; but he must beware of desire(ing) to make this the place of his abode, lest he meet with such tossings that may cause him to long for shore before he sees land. We must, therefore, be beer as strangers and pilgrims, that we may plainly declare that we seek a citty above, and wait all the dayes of our appointed time till our chang shall come. LIV. He that never felt what it was to be sick or wounded, doth not much care for the company of the physitian or chirurgian; but if he perceive a malady that threatens him with death, he will gladly entertaine him, whom he slighted before: so he that never felt the sicknes of sin, nor the wounds of a guilty conscience, cares not how far he keeps from him that hath skill to cure it; but when he findes his diseases to disrest him, and that he must needs perish if he have no remedy, will unfeignedly bid him welcome that brings a plaister for his sore, or a cordiall for his fainting. LV. We read of ten lepers that were cleansed, but of one that returned thanks: we are more ready to receive mercys than we are to acknowledg them: men can use great importunity when they are in distresses, and show great ingratitude after their successes; but he that ordereth his conversation aright, will glorifie him that heard him in the day of his trouble. LVI. The remembrances of former deliverances is a great support in present distresses: he that delivered me, sath David, from the paw of the Lion and the paw of the Beare, will deliver mee from this uncircumcised Philistin; and he that hath delivered mee, saith Paul, will deliver mee: God is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever; we are the same that stand in need of him, to-day as well as yesterday, and so shall forever. LVII. Great receipts call for great returnes; the more that any man is intrusted withall, the larger his accounts stands upon God's score: it therefore behoves every man so to improve his talents, that when his great Master shall call him to reckoning he may receive his owne with advantage. LVIII. Sin and shame ever goe together. He that would be freed from the last, must be sure to shun the company of the first. LIX. God doth many times both reward and punish for the same action: as we see in Jehu, he is rewarded with a kingdome to the fourth generation, for takeing veangence on the house of Ahab; and yet a little while (saith God), and I will avenge the blood of Jezevel upon the house of Jehu: he was rewarded for the matter, and yet punished for the manner, which should warn him, that doth any speciall service for God, to fixe his eye on the command, and not on his own ends, lest he meet with Jehu's reward, which will end in punishment. LX. He that would be content with a mean condition, must not cast his eye upon one that is in a far better estate than himself, but let him look upon him that is lower than he is, and, if he see that such a one beares poverty comfortably, it will help to quiet him; but if that will not do, let him look on his owne unworthynes, and that will make him say with Jacob, I am lesse then the least of thy mercys. LXI. Corne is produced with much labour, (as the husbandman well knowes), and some land askes much more paines then some other doth to be brought into tilth, yet all must be ploughed and harrowed; some children (like sowre land) are of so tough and morose a dispo(si)tion, that the plough of correction must make long furrows on their back, and the Harrow of discipline goe often over them, before they bee fit soile to sow the seed of morality, much lesse of grace in them. But when by prudent nurture they are brought into a fit capacity, let the seed of good instruction and exhortation be sown in the spring of their youth, and a plentiful! crop may be expected in the harvest of their yeares. LXII. As man is called the little world, so his heart may be cal'd the little Commonwealth: his more fixed and resolved thoughts are like to inhabitants, his slight and flitting thoughts are like passengers that travell to and fro continually; here is also the great Court of justice erected, which is always kept by conscience who is both accuser, excuser, witness, and Judge, whom no bribes can pervert, nor flattery cause to favour, but as he finds the evidence, so he absolves or condemnes: yea, so Absolute is this Court of Judicature, that there is no appeale from it--no, not to the Court of heaven itself--for if our conscience condemn us, he, also, who is greater than our conscience, will do it much more; but he that would have boldness to go to the throne of grace to be accepted there, must be sure to carry a certificate from the Court of conscience, that he stands right there. LXIII. He that would keep a pure heart, and lead a blameless life, must set himself alway in the awefull presence of God, the consideration of his all-seeing eye will be a bridle to restrain from evill, and a spur to quicken on to good duties: we certainly dream of some remotenes betwixt God and us, or else we should not so often faile in our whole Course of life as we doe; but he that with David sets the Lord alway in his sight, will not sinne against him. LXIV. We see in orchards some trees so fruitful, that the waight of their Burden is the breaking of their limbs; some again are but meanly loaden; and some among them are dry stocks: so it is in the church, which is God's orchard, there are some eminent Christians that are soe frequent in good dutys, that many times the waight thereof impares both their bodys and estates; and there are some (and they sincere ones too) who have not attained to that fruitfullness, altho they aime at perfection: And again there are others that have nothing to commend them but only a gay profession, and these are but leavie Christians, which are in as much danger of being cut down as the dry stock, for both cumber the ground. LXV. We see in the firmament there is but one Sun among a multitude of starres, and those starres also to differ much one from the other in regard of bignes and brightnes, yet all receive their light from that one Sun: so is it in the church both militant and triumphant, there is but one Christ, who is the Sun of righteousnes, in the midst of an innumerable company of Saints and Angels; those Saints have their degrees even in this life, Some are Stars of the first magnitude, and some of a lesse degree; and others (and they indeed the most in number), but small and obscure, yet all receive their luster (be it more or less) from that glorious Sun that inlightenes all in all; and, if some of them shine so bright while they move on earth, how transcendently splendid shall they be when they are fixt in their heavenly spheres! LXVI. Men that have walked very extravagantly, and at last bethink themselves of turning to God, the first thing which they eye, is how to reform their ways rather than to beg forgivenes for their sinnes; nature lookes more at a Compensation than at a pardon; but he that will not come for mercy without mony and without price, but bring his filthy raggs to barter for it, shall meet with miserable disapointment, going away empty, beareing the reproach of his pride and folly. LXVII. All the works and doings of God are wonderfull, but none more awfull than his great worke of election and Reprobation; when we consider how many good parents have had bad children, and againe how many bad parents have had pious children, it should make us adore the Soverainty of God who will not be tyed to time nor place, nor yet to persons, but takes and chuses when and where and whom he pleases: it should alsoe teach the children of godly parents to walk with feare and trembling, lest they, through unbeleif, fall short of a promise: it may also be a support to such as have or had wicked parents, that, if they abide not in unbeleif, God is able to grasse them in: the upshot of all should make us, with the Apostle, to admire the justice and mercy of God, and say, how unsearchable are his wayes, and his footsteps past finding out. LXVIII. The gifts that God bestows on the sons of men, are not only abused, but most Commonly imployed for a Clean Contrary end, then that which might be so many steps to draw men to God in consideration of his bounty towards them, but have driven them the further from him, that they are ready to say, we are lords, we will come no more at thee. If outward blessings be not as wings to help us mount upwards, they will Certainly prove Clogs and waights that will pull us lower downward. LXIX. All the Comforts of this life may be compared to the gourd of Jonah, that notwithstanding we take great delight for a season in them, and find their Shadow very comfortable, yet their is some worm or other of discontent, of feare, or greife that lyes at root, which in great part withers the pleasure which else we should take in them; and well it is that we perceive a decay in their greennes, for were earthly comforts permanent, who would look for heavenly? LXX. All men are truly sayd to be tenants at will, and it may as truly be sayd, that all have a lease of their lives--some longer, some shorter--as it pleases our great landlord to let. All have their bounds set, over which they cannot passe, and till the expiration of that time, no dangers, no sicknes, no paines nor troubles, shall put a period to our dayes; the certainty that that time will come, together with the uncertainty how, where, and when, should make us so to number our days as to apply our hearts to wisedome, that when wee are put out of these houses of clay, we may be sure of an everlasting habitation that fades not away. LXXI. All weak and diseased bodys have hourly mementos of their mortality. But the soundest of men have likewise their nightly monitor by the embleam of death, which is their sleep (for so is death often called), and not only their death, but their grave is lively represented before their eyes, by beholding their bed; the morning may mind them of the resurrection; and the sun approaching, of the appearing of the sun of righteousnes, at whose comeing they shall all rise out of their beds, the long night shall fly away, and the day of eternity shall never end: seeing these things must be, what manner of persons ought we to be, in all good conversation? LXXII. As the brands of a fire, if once feverered, will of themselves goe out, altho you use no other meanes to extinguish them, so distance of place, together with length of time (if there be no intercourse) will cool the affectiones of intimate friends, though tjere should be no displeasance between them. LXXIII. A Good name is as a precious oyntment, and it is a great favor to have a good repute among good men; yet it is not that which Commends us to God, for by his ballance we must be weighed, and by his Judgment we must be tryed, and, as he passes the sentence, So shall we stand. LXXIV. Well doth the Apostle call riches deceitfull riches, and they may truely be compared to deceitfull friends who speake faire, and promise much, but perform nothing, and so leave those in the lurch that most relyed on them: so is it with the wealth, honours, and pleasures of this world, which miserably delude men, and make them put great confidence in them, but when death threatens, and distresse lays hold upon them, they prove like the reeds of Egipt that peirce instead of supporting, like empty wells in the time of drought, that those that go to finde water in them, return with their empty pitchers ashamed. LXXV. It is admirable to consider the power of faith, by which all things are (almost) possible to be done; it can remove mountaines (if need were) it hath stayd the course of the sun, raised the dead, cast out divels, reversed the order of nature, quenched the violence of the fire, made the water become firme footing for Peter to walk on; nay more than all these, it hath overcome the Omnipotent himself, as when Moses intercedes for the people, God sath to him, let me alone that I may destroy them, as if Moses had been able, by the hand of faith, to hold the everlasting arms of the mighty God of Jacob; yea, Jacob himself, when he wrestled with God face to face in Peniel: let me go! sath that Angell. I will not let thee go, replys Jacob, till thou blesse me, faith is not only thus potent, but it is so necessary that without faith there is no salvation, therefore, with all our seekings and gettings, let us above all seek to obtain this pearle of prise. LXXVI. Some Christians do by their lusts and Corruptions as the Isralits did by the Canaanites, not destroy them, but put them under tribute, for that they could do (as they thought) with lesse hazard, and more profit; but what was the Issue? They became a snare unto them, prickes in their eyes, and thornes in their sides, and at last overcame them, and kept them under slavery; so it is most certain that those that are disobedient to the Commandment of God, and endeavour not to the utmost to drive out all their accursed inmates, but make a league with them, they shall at last fall into perpetuall bondage under them, unlesse the great deliverer, Christ Jesus come to their rescue. LXXVII. God hath by his providence so ordered, that no one country hath all Commoditys within itself, but what it wants, another shall supply, that so there may be a mutuall Commerce through the world. As it is with countrys so it is with men, there was never yet any one man that had all excellences, let his parts, naturall and acquired, spirituall and morall, be never so large, yet he stands in need of something which another man hath, (perhaps meaner than himself,) which shows us perfection is not below, as also, that God will have us beholden one to another. CHAPTER XV. THE PURITAN REIGN OF TERROR. The ten years which followed the death of Governor Winthrop early in 1649, were years of steady outward prosperity, yet causes were at work, which gradually complicated the political situation and prepared the necessity for the explanation which the mother country at last peremptorily demanded, Simon Bradstreet being selected as one of the men most capable of suitable reply. So long as Winthrop lived, his even and sagacious course hindered many complications which every circumstance fostered. Even in the fierce dissensions over Anne Hutchinson and her theories, he had still been able to retain the personal friendship of those whom as a magistrate he had most severely judged. Wheelwright and Coddington, who had suffered many losses; Sir Harry Vane, who had returned to England sore and deeply indignant at the colonial action; Clark and Williams, bitter as they might be against Massachusetts principles, had only affection for the gracious and humane governor, who gave himself as freely as he gave his fortune, and whose theories, however impracticable they may at times have seemed, have all justified themselves in later years. Through the early privations and the attempts of some to escape the obligations laid upon them, by the mere fact of having come together to the unknown country, he set his face steadily against all division, and there is no more characteristic passage in his Journal than that in which he gives the reasons which should bind them to common and united action. Various disaffected and uneasy souls had wandered off to other points, and Winthrop gives the results, at first quietly and judicially, but rising at the close to a noble indignation. "Others who went to other places, upon like grounds, succeeded no better. They fled for fear of want, and many of them fell into it, even to extremity, as if they had hastened into the misery which they feared and fled from, besides the depriving themselves of the ordinances and church fellowship, and those civil liberties which they enjoyed here; whereas, such as staid in their places kept their peace and ease, and enjoyed still the blessing of the ordinances, and never tasted of those troubles and miseries, which they heard to have befallen those who departed. Much disputation there was about liberty of removing for outward advantages, and all ways were sought for an open door to get out at; but it is to be feared many crept out at a broken wall. For such as come together into a wilderness, where are nothing but wild beasts and beast-like men, and there confederate together in civil and church estate, whereby they do, implicitly at least, bind themselves to support each other, and all of them that society, whether civil or sacred, whereof they are members, how they can break from this without free consent, is hard to find, so as may satisfy a tender or good conscience in time of trial. Ask thy conscience, if thou wouldst have plucked up thy stakes, and brought thy family 3000 miles, if thou hadst expected that all, or most, would have forsaken thee there. Ask again, what liberty thou hast towards others, which thou likest not to allow others towards thyself; for if one may go, another may, and so the greater part, and so church and commonwealth may be left destitute in a wilderness, exposed to misery and reproach, and all for thy ease and pleasure, whereas these all, being now thy brethren, as near to thee as the Israelites were to Moses, it were much safer for thee after his example, to choose rather to suffer affliction with thy brethren than to enlarge thy ease and pleasure by furthering the occasion of their ruin." What he demanded of others he gave freely himself, and no long time was required to prove to all, that union was their only salvation. He had lived to see the spirit of co-operation active in many ways. Churches were quietly doing their work with as little wrangling over small doctrinal differences as could be expected from an age in which wrangling was the chief symptom of vitality. Education had settled upon a basis it has always retained, that of "universal knowledge at the public cost"; the College was doing its work so effectually that students came from England itself to share in her privileges, and justice gave as impartial and even- handed results as conscientious magistrates knew how to furnish. The strenuous needs and sacrifices of the early days were over. A generation had arisen, knowing them only by hearsay, and for even the humblest, substantial prosperity was the rule. Johnson, in his "Wonder-Working Providence," wrote words that held no exaggeration in their description of the comfort which has, from that day to this, been the characteristic of New England homes. "The Lord hath been pleased to turn all the wigwams, huts, and hovels the English dwelt in at their first coming, into orderly, fair, and well-built houses, well furnished many of them, together with orchards, filled with goodly fruit-trees, and gardens with variety of flowers.... There are many hundreds of laboring men, who had not enough to bring them over, yet now, worth scores, and some, hundreds of pounds. The Lord whose promises are large to His Sion, hath blessed his people's provision, and satisfied her poor with bread, in a very little space. Everything in the country proved a staple commodity. And those who were formerly forced to fetch most of the bread they eat, and the beer they drink, a thousand leagues by sea, are, through the blessing of the Lord, so increased, that they have not only fed their elder sisters, Virginia, Barbadoes and many of the Summer Islands, that were preferred before her for fruitfulness, but also the grandmother of us all, even the fertile isle of Great Britain." With such conditions the colonists were happy, and as the work of their hands prospered, one might have thought that gentler modes of judgment would have grown with it, and toleration if not welcome have been given to the few dissenting minds that appeared among them. Had Winthrop lived, this might have been possible, but the new generation, fast replacing the early rulers, had their prejudices but not their experience, and were as fierce opponents of any new _ism_ as their fathers had been before them, while their rash action often complicated the slower and more considerate movements of the elders that remained. For England the ten years in which the Colony had made itself a power, had been filled with more and more agitation and distress. There was little time for attention to anything but their own difficulties and perplexities, the only glances across seas being those of distrust and jealousy. Winthrop happily died before the news of the beheadal of Charles I. had reached New England, and for a time, Cromwell was too busy with the reduction of Ireland and the problem of government suddenly thrust upon him, to do anything but ignore the active life so much after his own heart, in the new venture of which he had once so nearly become a part. It is possible that the attitude of New England for a time based itself on the supposition, that life with them was so thoroughly in harmony with the Protector's own theories that interference was impossible. There were men among them, however, who watched his course warily, and who were not indisposed to follow the example he had set by revolt against hated institutions, but for the most part they went their way, quietly reticent and content to wait for time to demonstrate the truth or error of their convictions. But for the most there was entire content with the present. Evidently no hint of a possible and coming Restoration found slightest credence with them, and thus they laid up a store of offences for which they were suddenly to be called to account. When at last the Restoration had been accomplished and Charles II, whose laughing eyes had held less mockery for William Penn than any among the representatives of sects he so heartily despised, turned to question how Quakers had fared in this objectionable and presumptuous Colony of New England, the answer was not one to propitiate, or to incline to any favor. The story is not one that any New Englander will care to dwell upon, even to-day, when indifference is the rule toward all theological dissension, past or present. It is certain that had Winthrop lived, matters could never have reached the extremity they did. It is equally certain that the non-combatants conquered, though the victory was a bloody one. Two sides are still taken to-day, even among New England authorities. For Quakers, there is of course but one, yet in all their statements there seems to be infinitely less bitterness than they might reasonably have shown. That one or two wild fanatics committed actions, which could have no other foundation than unsettled minds, cannot be denied by even the most uncompromising advocate of the Quaker side. But they were so evidently the result of distempered and excited brains, that only a community who held every inexplicable action to result from the direct influence of Satan, could have done anything but pass them by in silent forbearance. Had John Cotton been alive in the year in which the Quakers chose Boston as their working ground, his gentle and conciliating nature, shown so fully in the trial of Anne Hutchinson, would have found some means of reconciling their theories with such phases of the Puritan creed as were in sympathy with them. But a far different mind held his place, and had become the leading minister in the Colony. John Norton, who had taken Nathaniel Ward's place at Ipswich, was called after twenty years of service, to the Boston church, and his melancholy temperament and argumentative, not to say pragmatical turn of mind, made him ready to seize upon the first cause of offence. News of the doings of the obnoxious sect in England had been fully discussed in the Colony, and the law passed as a means of protection against the heresies of Anne Hutchinson and her school, and which had simply waited new opportunity for its execution, came into exercise sooner than they had expected. It is difficult to re-create for our own minds, the state of outraged susceptibility--of conviction that Jehovah in person had received the extremity of insult from every one who dared to go outside the fine points for a system of belief, which filled the churches in 1656. The "Inward Light" struck every minister upon whose ears the horrid words fell, as only less shocking than witchcraft or any other light amusement of Satan, and a day of public humiliation had already been appointed by the General Court, "to seek the face of God in behalf of our native country, in reference to the abounding of errors, especially those of the Ranters and Quakers." The discussion of their offences was in full height, when in July, 1656, there sailed into Boston harbor a ship from the Barbadoes, in which were two Quaker women, Mary Fisher and Anne Austin. Never were unwelcome visitors met by a more formidable delegation. Down to the wharf posted Governor and Deputy-Governor, four principal Magistrates, with a train of yeoman supplemented by half the population of Boston, who faced the astonished master of the vessel with orders which forced him to give bonds to carry the women back to the point from whence they came. This might have seemed sufficient, but was by no means considered so. The unhappy women were ordered to goal till the return of the vessel; a few books brought with them were burned by the executioner, and from every pulpit in the Colony came fierce denunciations of the intruders. They left, and the excitement was subsiding a little when a stronger occasion for terror presented itself in another vessel, this time from England, bearing eight more of the firebrands, four men and four women, besides a zealous convert made on the way from Long Island, where the vessel had stopped for a short time. Eleven weeks of imprisonment did not silence the voices of these self- elected missionaries, and the uncompromising character of their utterances ought to have commended them to a people who had been driven out of England for the identical cause. A people who had fallen to such depths of frenzied fanaticism as to drive cattle and swine into churches and cathedrals and baptize them with mock solemnity, who had destroyed or mutilated beyond repair organs, fonts, stained glass and every article of priestly use or adornment, might naturally have looked with understanding and sympathetic eyes on the women who, made desperate by suffering, turned upon them and pronounced their own preachers, "hirelings, Baals, and seed of the serpent." The Quakers frowned upon Church music, but not before the Puritan Prynne had written of choirs: "Choirsters bellow the tenor as it were oxen; bark a counterpart, as it were a kennel of dogs; roar out a treble, as it were a sort of bulls; and grunt a bass, as it were a number of hogs." They arraigned bishops, but in words less full of bitterness, than those in which one of the noblest among Puritan leaders of thought, recorded his conviction. Milton, writing of all bishops: "They shall be thrown down eternally, into the darkest and deepest gulf of hell the trample and spurn of all the other damned ... and shall exercise a raving and bestial tyranny over them ... they shall remain in that plight forever, the basest, the lowermost, the most dejected and down-trodden vassels of perdition." No word from the most fanatical Quaker who ever appeared before tribunal of man, exceeded this, or thousands of similar declarations, from men as ready for martyrdom as those they judged, and as obstinately bent upon proving their creed the only one that reasonable human beings should hold. The wildest alarm seized upon not only Massachusetts but each one of the confederated colonies. The General Court passed a series of laws against them, by which ship-masters were fined a hundred pounds if a Quaker was brought over by them, as well as forced to give security for the return of all to the point from whence they came. They enacted, also, that all Quakers who entered the Colony from any point should "be forthwith committed to the House of Correction, and at their entrance to be severely whipped, and by the master thereof to be kept constantly to work, and none suffered to converse or speak with them during the time of their imprisonment." No Quaker book could be imported, circulated or concealed, save on penalty of a fine of five pounds, and whoever should venture to defend the new opinions, paid for the first offence a fine of two pounds; for the second, double that amount and for the third, imprisonment in the House of Correction till there should "be convenient passage for them to be sent out of the land." Through the streets of Boston went the crier with his drum, publishing the law which was instantly violated by an indignant citizen, one Nicholas Upsall, who, for "reproaching the honored Magistrates, and speaking against the law made and published against Quakers," not only once but with a continuous and confounding energy, was sentenced to pay a fine of twenty pounds, and "to depart the jurisdiction within one month, not to return, under the penalty of imprisonment." Then came a period in which fines, imprisonments, whippings and now and then a cropping of ears, failed to lessen the numbers who came, with full knowledge of what the consequences must be, and who behaved themselves with the aggressiveness of those bent upon martyrdom. More and more excited by daily defiance, penalties were doubled, the fine for harboring a Quaker being increased to forty shillings an hour, and the excitement rising to higher and higher point. Could they but have looked upon the insane freaks of some of their visitors with the same feeling which rose in the Mohammedan mind, there would have been a different story for both sides. Dr. Palfrey describes the Turk's method, which only a Turk, however, could have carried out: "Prompted by that superstitious reverence which he (the Turk) was educated to pay to lunatics, as persons inspired, he received these visitors with deferential and ceremonious observance, and with a prodigious activity of genuflections and salams, bowed them out of his country. They could make nothing of it, and in that quarter gave up their enterprise in despair." The General Court was the despairing body at this time. Months had passed, and severity had simply multiplied the numbers to be dealt with. But one remedy remained to be tried, a remedy against which Simon Bradstreet's voice is said to have been the only one raised, and the General Court, following the advice of Endicott and Norton, passed the vote which is still one of the darkest blots on the old records-- "Whereas, there is an accursed and pernicious sect of heretics lately risen up in the world who are commonly called Quakers, who take upon them to be immediately sent of God and infallibly assisted; who do speak and write blasphemous things, despising government and the order of God in church and commonwealth, speaking evil of dignities, reproaching and reviling magistrates and the ministers of the Gospel, seeking to turn the people from the faith, and to gain proselytes to their pernicious ways; and whereas the several jurisdictions have made divers laws to prohibit and restrain the aforesaid cursed heretics from coming amongst them, yet notwithstanding they are not deterred thereby, but arrogantly and presumptuously do press into several of the jurisdictions, and there vent their pernicious and devilish opinions, which being permitted, tends manifestly to the disturbance of our peace, the withdrawing of the hearts of the people from their subjection to government, and so in issue to cause division and ruin if not timely prevented; it is therefore propounded and seriously commended to the several General Courts, upon the considerations aforesaid, to make a law that all such Quakers formerly convicted and punished as such, shall (if they return again) be imprisoned, and forthwith banished or expelled out of the said jurisdiction, under pain of death; and if afterwards they presume to come again into that jurisdiction, then to be put to death as presumptuously incorrigible, unless they shall plainly and publicly renounce their cursed opinions; and for such Quakers as shall come into any jurisdiction from any foreign parts, or such as shall arise within the same, after due conviction that either he or she is of that cursed sect of heretics, they be banished under pain of severe corporal punishment; and if they return again, then to be punished accordingly, and banished under pain of death; and if afterwards they shall yet presume to come again, then to be put to death as aforesaid, except they do then and there plainly and publicly renounce their said cursed opinions and devilish tenets." This was not the first time that death had been named as the penalty against any who returned after banishment, and it had proved effectual in keeping away many malcontents. But the Quakers were of different stuff, the same determined temper which had made the Puritan submit to any penalty rather than give up his faith, being the common possession of both. In an address made to the King, partly aggressive partly apologetic in tone, the wretched story sums itself up in a single paragraph: "Twenty-two have been banished upon pain of death. Three have been martyred, and three have had their right ears cut. One hath been burned in the hand with the letter H. Thirty-one persons have received six hundred and fifty stripes. One was beat while his body was like a jelly. Several were beat with pitched ropes. Five appeals made to England were denied by the rulers of Boston. One thousand, forty-four pounds' worth of goods hath been taken from them (being poor men) for meeting together in the fear of the Lord, and for keeping the commands of Christ. One now lieth in iron fetters condemned to die." That Massachusetts felt herself responsible for not only her own safety but that of her allies, and that this safety appeared to be menaced by a people who recognized few outward laws, was the only palliation of a course which in time showed itself as folly, even to the most embittered. The political consequences were of a nature, of which in their first access of zeal, they had taken no account. The complaints and appeals of the Quakers had at last produced some effect, and there was well-grounded apprehension that the sense of power which had brought the Colony to act with the freedom of an independent state, might result in the loss of some of their most dearly-prized privileges. The Quakers had conquered, and the magistrates suddenly became conscious that such strength as theirs need never have dreaded the power of this feeble folk, and that their institutions could never fall before an attack from any hands save those of the King himself, toward whom they now turned with an alarmed deprecation. The Puritan reign of terror for New England was over, its story to this generation seeming as incredible as it is shameful. Brutality is not quite dead even to-day, but there is cause for rejoicing that, for America at least, freedom of conscience can never again mean whipping, branding and torturing of unnamable sorts for tender women and even children. Puritan and Quaker have sunk old differences, but it is the Quaker who, while ignoring some phases of a past in which neither present as calm an expression to the world as should be the portion of the infallibility claimed tacitly by both sides, is still able to write: "The mission of the Puritans was almost a complete failure. Their plan of government was repudiated, and was succeeded by more humane laws and wiser political arrangements. Their religion, though it long retained its hold in theory, was replaced by one less bigoted and superstitious. It is now a thing of the past, a mere tradition, an antiquated curiosity. The early Quakers, or some of them, in common with the Puritans, may illustrate some of the least attractive characteristics of their times; but they were abreast, if not in advance, of the foremost advocates of religious and civil freedom. They were more than advocates--they were the pioneers, who, by their heroic fortitude, patient suffering and persistent devotion, rescued the old Bay Colony from the jaws of the certain death to which the narrow and mistaken policy of the bigoted and sometimes insincere founders had doomed it. They forced them to abandon pretentious claims, to admit strangers without insulting them, to tolerate religious differences, and to incorporate into their legislation the spirit of liberty which is now the life-blood of our institutions. The religion of the Society of Friends is still an active force, having its full share of influence upon our civilization. The vital principle--'The Inward Light'--scoffed at and denounced by the Puritans as a delusion, is recognized as a profound spiritual truth by sages and philosophers." Through it all, though Simon Bradstreet's name occurs often in the records of the Court, it is usually as asking some question intended to divert attention if possible from the more aggressive phases of the examination, and sooth the excited feelings of either side. But naturally his sympathies were chiefly with his own party, and his wife would share his convictions. There is no surprise, therefore, in finding him numbered by the Quakers as among those most bitterly against them. It is certain that Simon Bradstreet plead for moderation, but some of the Quaker offences were such as would most deeply wound his sense of decorum, and from the Quaker standpoint he is numbered among the worst persecutors. In "New England Judged by the Spirit of the Lord," a prominent Quaker wrote: "Your high-priest, John Norton, and Simon Bradstreet, one of your magistrates, ... were deeply concerned in the Blood of the Innocents and their cruel sufferings, the one as advising, the other as acting," and he writes at another: point "Simon Bradstreet, a man hardened in Blood and a cruel persecutor." There is a curious suggestiveness in another count of the same indictment. "Simon Bradstreet and William Hathorn aforesaid were Assistant to Denison in these executions, whose Names I Record to Rot and Stink as of you all to all Generations, unto whom this shall be left as a perpetual Record of your Everlasting Shame." William Hathorn had an unwholesome interest in all sorrow and catastrophe, the shadow of these evil days descending to the representative Nathanael Hawthorne, whose pen has touched Puritan weaknesses and Puritan strength, with a power no other has ever held, but the association was hardly more happy for Bradstreet then, than at a later day when an economical Hathorn bundled him out of his tomb to make room for his own bones. CHAPTER XVI. HOME AND ABROAD. In the midst of all this agitation and confusion Anne Bradstreet pursued her quiet way, more disposed to comment on the misdoings of the Persians or Romans than on anything nearer home, though some lines in her "Dialogue between Old England and New," indicate that she followed the course of every event with an anxious and intelligent interest. In 1657, her oldest son had left for England, where he remained until 1661, and she wrote then some verses more to be commended for their motherly feeling than for any charm of expression: UPON MY SON SAMUEL HIS GOEING FOR ENGLAND, NOVEM. 6, 1657. Thou mighty God of Sea and Land, I here resigne into thy hand The Son of prayers, of vowes, of teares, The child I stayed for many yeares. Thou heard'st me then and gave'st him me; Hear me again, I give him Thee. He's mine, but more, O Lord thine own, For sure thy Grace is on him shown. No friend I have like Thee to trust, For mortall helps are brittle Dust. Preserve O Lord, from stormes and wrack, Protect him there and bring him back; And if thou shall spare me a space, That I again may see his face, Then shall I celebrate thy Praise, And Blesse thee for't even all my Dayes. If otherwise I goe to Rest, Thy Will bee done, for that is best; Perswade my heart I shall him see Forever happefy'd with Thee. There were others of much the same order on his return, in 1661, but her feelings centered then on the anxieties and dangers of the course which had been resolved upon. The enemies of the Colony were busy in London, and the King was strongly inclined to take very decisive measures for its humiliation. Explanations must be made by some one who had had personal experience in every case now used against them, and after long and troubled consultation the Colonial Government reluctantly decided to send two Commissioners to England, selecting John Norton and Simon Bradstreet as best capable of meeting the emergency. There was personal peril as well as political anxiety. The King constitutionally listened to the first comer rather than the second, and had already sided with the Quakers. To Norton it seemed a willful putting of his head into the lion's jaws, and he hesitated, and debated, and at last, from pure nervousness fell violently ill. The ship which was to carry them waited, and finally as it seemed impossible for him to rally his forces, began unlading the provisions sent on board. The disgusted Government officers prepared explanatory letters, and were on the point of sending them when Mr. Norton came to his senses, and announced that the Lord had "encouraged and strengthened his heart," and he went decorously on board. The mission, though pronounced by some Quaker historians a failure, was in reality after many delays and more hard words a tolerable success. The King was still too uncertain of his own position to quarrel with as powerful a set of friends as the Massachusetts Colony were now disposed to prove themselves, and the Commissioners returned home, bearing a renewal of the charter, though the letters held other matters less satisfactory to the Puritan temper. The King required an oath of allegiance from all, and that "all laws and ordinances ... contrary or derogative to his authority and government should be annulled and repealed." Toleration was made obligatory, and one clause outraged every Puritan susceptibility; that in which it was ordered that, "in the election of the Governor or Assistants, there should be only consideration of the wisdom and integrity of the persons to be chosen, and not of any faction with reference to their opinion or profession." Governor Dudley's shade must have looked with amazed dismay and wrath upon this egg, which could hardly fail to "a Toleration hatch," filled with every evil his verses had prophesied, and there were many of the same mind. But popular dissatisfaction in time died away, as no ill results came from the new methods, which were ignored as often as possible, and the working of which could not be very effectually watched in England. Simon Bradstreet, though censured by many, pursued his quiet way, thankful to be safely at home again with his head in its proper place, and his wife rejoiced over him in various poems which celebrated the letters he wrote, and every detail of his coming and going. The summer of 1666 brought one of the sharpest trials her life had ever known, the destruction of her house by fire taking place in July. Each change of location to one of her tenacious affections and deep love of home, had been a sharp wrench, and she required long familiarity to reconcile her to new conditions. Though the first and greatest change from England to America would seem to have rendered all others trivial and not to be regarded, she had shrank from each as it came, submitting by force of will, but unreconciled till years had past. In Andover she had allowed herself to take firm root, certain that from this point she would never be dislodged, and the house had gradually become filled not only with treasured articles of furniture and adornments, but with the associations to which she always clung. There were family portraits and heirlooms brought from the old home in Lincolnshire; a library of nearly eight hundred volumes, many of them rare editions difficult to replace, as well as her own special books and papers. For these last there was no hope of renewal. Many of them were the work of her early womanhood; others held the continuation of her Roman Monarchy; small loss to the world at large, but the destruction of a work which had beguiled many hours of the bodily suffering from which she was seldom free. The second edition of her poems, published after her death, held an apology found among her papers, for the uncompleted state of this monarchy, in which she wrote: To finish what's begun was my intent, My thoughts and my endeavors thereto bent; Essays I many made but still gave out, The more I mus'd, the more I was in doubt: The subject large my mind and body weak, With many more discouragements did speak. All thoughts of further progress laid aside, Though oft persuaded, I as oft deny'd, At length resolv'd when many years had past, To prosecute my story to the last; And for the same, I, hours not few did spend, And weary lines (though lanke) I many pen'd: But 'fore I could accomplish my desire My papers fell a prey to th' raging fire. And thus my pains with better things I lost, Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast. No more I'le do, sith I have suffer'd wrack, Although my Monarchies their legs do lack: No matter is't this last, the world now sees Hath many Ages been upon his knees. The disaster finds record in the Rev. Simon Bradstreet's diary: "July 12, 1666. Whilst I was at N. London my father's house at Andover was burnt, where I lost my Books and many of my clothes, to the valieu of 50 or 60 pounds at least; The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken, blessed bee the name of the Lord. Tho: my own losse of books (and papers espec.) was great and my fathers far more being about 800, yet ye Lord was pleased gratiously many wayes to make up ye same to us. It is therefore good to trust in the Lord" The "newe house" built at once and furnished with the utmost elegance of the time, Simon Bradstreet's prosperity admitting the free expenditure he always loved, could by no means fill the place of the old. She looked about each room with a half-expectation that the familiar articles with which so much of her outward life had been associated, must be in the old places, and patiently as she bore the loss, their absence fretted and saddened her. One of her latest poems holds her sorrow and the resignation she came at last to feel: "In silent night when rest I took, For sorrow neer I did not look, I waken'd was with thundring nois And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice; That fearfull sound of fire and fire, Let no man know is my desire. I, starting up the light did spye, And to my God my heart did cry To strengthen me in my Distress And not to leave me succourlesse, When coming out, beheld a space, The flame consume my dwelling place. And, when I could no longer look, I blest his name that gave and took, That layd my goods now in the dust; Yea so it was, and so 'twas just. It was his own; it was not mine ffar be it that I should repine. He might of All justly bereft But yet sufficient for us left. When by the Ruines oft I past, My sorrowing eyes aside did cast, And here and there the places spye Where oft I sate, and long did lye. Here stood that Trunk and there that chest; There lay that store I counted best; My pleasant things in ashes lye, And them behold no more shall I. Vnder thy roof no guest shall sitt, Nor at thy Table eat a bitt. No pleasant tale shall 'ere be told, Nor things recounted done of old. No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee, Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee. In silence ever shalt thou lye; Adieu, Adieu; All's vanity. Then streight I 'gin my heart to chide, And did thy wealth on earth abide? Dids't fix thy hope on mouldering dust, The arm of flesh dids't make thy trust? Raise up thy thoughts above the skye That dunghill mists away may flie. Thou hast a house on high erect, Fram'd by that mighty Architect With glory richly furnished, Stands permanent tho: this be fled. 'Its purchased and paid for too By him who hath enough to doe. A prise so vast as is unknown Yet by his gift is made thine own. Ther's wealth enough, I need no more; Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store. The world no longer let me Love, My hope and Treasure lyes Above." The fortunes of the new house were hardly happy ones. With the death of his wife Governor Bradstreet left it in possession of a younger son, Captain Dudley Bradstreet, who was one of the most important citizens of Andover, having been "selectman, colonel of militia, and magistrate," while still a young man. His father's broad yet moderate views and his mother's gentle and devoted spirit seem to have united in him, for when the witchcraft delusion was at its height, and even the most honored men and women in the little community were in danger of their lives, he suddenly resolved to grant no more warrants for either apprehension or imprisonment. This was shocking enough to the excited popular mind, but when he added to such offence a plea, which he himself drew up for some of the victims, who, as they admitted, had made confession of witchcraft "by reason of sudden surprisal, when exceedingly astonished and amazed and consternated and affrighted even out of reason," there was no room left for any conviction save that he was under the same spell. Loved as he had been by all the people whom he had served unselfishly for twenty years, the craze which possessed them all, wiped out any memory of the past or any power of common sense in the present, and he fled in the night and for a long time remained in hiding. The delusion ended as suddenly as it had begun, a reaction setting in, and the people doing all in their power to atone for the suspicion and outrage that had caused his flight. Placable and friendly, the old relations were resumed as far as possible, though the shadow had been too heavy an one ever to pass entirely. Another terror even greater had come before the century ended: An act of treachery had been commited by a citizen of Andover, a Captain Chubb, who had in 1693 been in command of Fort Pemaquid, and having first plied a delegation of Penobscot Indians with liquor, gave orders for their massacre while still in their drunken sleep. In an after attack by French and Indians upon the fort, he surrendered on promise of personal safety, and in time, returned to Andover, disgraced, but abundantly satisfied to have saved his scalp. The rest of the story is given by Cotton Mather in the Magnalia: "The winter, (1693) was the severest that ever was in the memory of Man. And yet February must not pass without a stroke upon Pemquid Chub, whom the Government had mercifully permitted after his examination to retire unto his habitation in Andover. As much out of the way as to Andover there came above thirty Indians about the middle of February as if their errand had been for vengeance upon Chub, whom, with his wife they now massacred there." Hutchinson comments gravely: "It is not probable they had any knowledge of the place of his abode, but it caused them greater joy than the taking of many towns. Rapin would have pronounced such an event the immediate judgement of Heaven. Voltaire, that in the place of supposed safety, the man could not avoid his destiny." The towns mustered hastily, but not before the flames of the burning buildings had arisen at many points, and terrified women and children had been dragged from their beds and in one or two cases murdered at once, though most were reserved as captives. Dudley Bradstreet and his family were of this latter number. The house was broken into and plundered; his kinsman who attempted defence, cut down on the spot, and the same fate might have overtaken all, had not an Indian who had received some special kindness from the colonel, interfered and prevented the butchery. The family were carried some fifty rods from the house and then released and allowed to return, and by this time the soldiers were armed and the party routed. No sense of safety could be felt then, or for many years thereafter, and from terror and other causes, the house was in time forsaken by its natural owners and passed into other hands, though no tenant, even of sixty years standing has had power to secure to it any other title than that which it still holds--"the Bradstreet house." * * * * * For its first occupants possession was nearly over. The vitality which had carried Anne Bradstreet through longer life than could have been imagined possible, was nearly exhausted. Constant weakness and pain and occasional attacks of severe illness marked all the later years of her life, which for the last three, was a weariness to herself, and a source of suffering to all who saw her suffer. Certain that it could not last long, she began at one time the little autobiographical diary, found among her papers after death, and containing the only personal details that remained, even these being mere suggestions. All her life she had been subject to sudden attacks of faintness, and even as early as 1656, lay for hours unconscious, remaining in a state of pitiful weakness many days thereafter. One of these attacks found record on a loose paper, added by one of her sons to the manuscript book of "Religious Reflections," and showing with what patience she met the ills for the overcoming of which any physician of the time was powerless, and against which she made a life-long resistance. It was the beginning of a battle which has ever since held its ground in New England, to "enjoy poor health," yet be ready for every emergency, being a state of things on which the average woman rather prides herself, medicine, quack or home- brewed, ranking in importance with the "means of grace." SUBMISSION AND RELIANCE. "July 8th, 1656. I had a sore fitt of fainting, which lasted 2 or 3 days, but not in that extremity which at first it took me, and so moch the sorer it was to me, because my dear husband was from home (who is my chiefest comforter on Earth); but my God, who never failed me, was not absent, but helped me, and gratiously manifested his Love to me, which I dare not passe by without Remembrance, that it may bee a support to me when I shall have occasion to read this hereafter, and to others that shall read it when I shall possesse that I now hope for, that so they may bee encourage'd to trust in him who is the only Portion of his Servants. O Lord, let me never forgett thy Goodness, nor question thy faithfullness to me, for thou art my God: Thou hast said, and shall not I believe it? Thou hast given me a pledge of that Inheritance thou hast promised to bestow upon me. O, never let Satan prevail against me, but strengthen my faith in Thee, 'till I shall attain the end of my hopes, even the Salvation of my Soul. Come, Lord Jesus; come quickly." DELIVERANCE FROM A FITT OF FAINTING. Worthy art Thou O Lord of praise! But ah! it's not in me; My sinking heart I pray thee raise, So shall I give it Thee. My life as Spider's webb's cut off, Thos fainting have I said, And liveing man no more shall see, But bee in Silence layd. My feblee Spirit Thou didst revive, My Doubting Thou didst chide, And tho: as dead mad'st me alive, I here a while might 'bide. Why should I live but to thy Praise? My life is hid with Thee; O Lord no longer bee my Dayes, Then I may froitfull bee. "August 28, 1656. After much weaknes and sicknes when my spirits were worn out, and many times my faith weak likewise, the Lord was pleased to uphold my drooping heart, and to manifest his Love to me; and this is that which stayes my Soul that this condition that I am in is the best for me, for God doth not afflict willingly, nor take delight in grieving the children of men: he hath no benefitt by my adversity, nor is he the better for my prosperity; but he doth it for my Advantage, and that I may be a Gainer by it. And if he knowes that weaknes and a frail body is the best to make mee a vessell fitt for his use, why should I not bare it, not only willingly but joyfully? The Lord knowes I dare not desire that health that sometimes I have had, least my heart should bee drawn from him, and sett upon the world. "Now I can wait, looking every day when my Saviour shall call for me. Lord, grant that while I live I may doe that service I am able in this frail Body, and bee in continual expectation of my change, and let me never forget thy great Love to my soul so lately expressed, when I could lye down and bequeath my Soul to thee, and Death seem'd no terrible Thing. O, let mee ever see thee, that Art invisible, and I shall not bee unwilling to come, tho: by so rough a messenger." Through all the long sickness the family life went on unchanged, save in the contracting circle, from which one child and another passed. There was still strength to direct the daily round of household duties, and to listen with quick sympathy to the many who came to her trouble. There was not only the village life with its petty interests, but the larger official one of her husband, in which she shared so far as full knowledge of its details allowed, Simon Bradstreet, like Governor Winthrop, believing strongly in that "inward sight" which made women often clearer judges than men of perplexed and knotty points. Two bits of family life are given in a document still in existence and copied by the New England Historical and Genalogical Register for 1859. To it is appended the full signature of Anne Bradstreet, in a clear, upright hand, of singular distinctness and beauty when compared with much of the penmanship of that period. But one other autograph is in existence. It is evident from the nature of the document, that village life had its infelicities in 1670, quite as fully as to-day, and that a poem might have grown out of it, had daily life been thought worthy of a poem. "This witnesseth, that wee heard good(tm) Sutton say, there was noe horses in his yard that night in wch Mr Bradstreetes mare was killed, & afterwards that there was none that he knew of; but being told by Mr Bradstreete that hee thought hee could p've hee drave out some, then hee sd, yes, now I remembr there was 3 or 4. "Further, wee testifie the sd. Sutton sd. att yt tyme there was noe dogg there, but his wch was a puppy, & Mr Danes that would not byte. ANNE BRADSTREET MERCY BRADSTREET DUDLEY BRADSTREET JOHN BRADSTREET EDWARD WHITTINGTON ALEXANDER SESSIONS [his marke] ROBTE. RB BUSELY." Law was resorted to in even small disagreements with a haste and frequency excellent for the profession employed, but going far to intensify the litigious spirit of the day, and tolerant as Simon Bradstreet was in all large matters, his name occurs with unpleasant frequency in these petty village suits. This suit with goodman Sutton was but one of many, almost all of which arose from the trespasses of animals. Fences were few, and though they were viewed at intervals by the "perambulators," and decided to be "very sufficient against all orderly cattle," the swine declined to come under this head, and rooted their way into desirable garden patches to the wrath and confusion of their owners, all persons at last, save innholders, being forbidden to keep more than ten of the obnoxious animals. Horses, also, broke loose at times, and Mr. Bradstreet was not the only one who suffered loss, one of the first tragedies in the little town, being a hand to hand fight, ending in a stabbing of one of the parties, both of whom belonged to good families and were but lightly judged in the trial which followed. They were by no means a peaceful community, and if the full truth be told, a week of colonial life would prove to hold almost as large a proportion of squabbles as any town record of to-day. The second one gives some difficulties connected with the marriage of Governor Bradstreet's daughter Mercy, which took place Oct. 31, 1672, but not till various high words had passed, and sufficient hard feeling been engendered to compel the preparing of the affidavit, which probably, whatever its effect may have been on the parents, did not touch the happiness of the young pair for whose respective rights they had debated. "When Mr. Johnathan Wade of Ipswich came first to my house att Andover in the yeare 72, to make a motion of marriage betwixt his son Nathaniel and my daughter Mercy hee freely of himself told mee what he would give to his son vz. one halfe of his Farme att Mistick and one third p't of his land in England when hee dyed, and that hee should have liberty to make use of p't of the imp'ved and broken upp ground upon the sd Farme, till hee could gett some broken upp for himselfe upon his owne p't and likewis | that hee should live in and have the use of halfe the house, and untill he had one | of his owne built upon his p't of the farme. I was willing to accept of his | offer, or at least sd. nothing against it; but p'p'ounded that hee would make | his sd soil a deede of guift of that third p't of his land in England to enjoy to | him and his heires after his death. This hee was not free to doe, but sd. it was | as sure, for he had soe putt it into his will, that his 3 sons should have | that in England equally devyded betwixt them, vz. each a 3 p't. I objected | he marry | againe and have other children, wich hee thought a vaine obieccon. Much | othr discourse there was about the stocke on the Farme, &c., but remayneing unwilling | to give a deede for that in England, saying he might live to spend it, and often | repeating hee had soe ordered it in his will, as aforesd., wch hee should never altr without | great necessity, or words to that purpose. Soe wee p'ted for that tyme leaveing | that mattr to further consideracon. After hee came home hee told sev'all of my | Friends and others as they informed me, that hee had p'ffered to give his son Nathaniel bettr then 1000 lb | and I would not accept of it. The next tyme hee came to my house, after some | discourse about the premises and p'esining his resolucon as form'ly ingaged, and left it to him to add wt he pleased | towards the building of him a house &c., and soe agreed that the young p'sons might | p'ceede in marriage with both or Consents, wch accordingly they did. S. BRADSTREET." "The Honble Simon Bradstreet Esqr | made Oath to the truth of the above written Sept. 21th, 1683, before Samuell Nowell, Assistant. "The interlines [as aforesaid], line 19th, and [as they informed me] line 22th, were before the Oath was made." The brackets are in the original and were used as quotations marks. Governor Bradstreet's name and all above it are in his handwriting; all below it is in Mr. Nowell's. Another Mercy Bradstreet, niece of the Mercy whose name figures in the foregoing statement, and the daughter of the oldest son, married Dr. James Oliver, from whom are descended Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes and Wendell Phillips, while Lucy, the daughter of Simon, the second son, became the ancestress of Dr. Channing and of Richard N. Dana, the poet and his distinguished son. Many of the grandchildren died in infancy, and the pages of the second edition of their grandmother's poems are sprinkled with elegies long and short, upon the babies almost as well loved as her own, though none of them have any poetical merit. But her thoughts dwelt chiefly in the world for which she longed, and there are constant reminders of what careless hold she kept upon the life which had come to be simply a burden to be borne with such patience as might be given her. CHAPTER XVII. THE END. Through all these later years Anne Bradstreet had made occasional records, in which her many sicknesses find mention, though never in any complaining fashion. Now and then, as in the following meditation, she wrote a page full of gratitude at the peace which became more and more assured, her doubting and self-distrustful spirit retaining more and more the quietness often in early life denied her: MEDITATIONS WHEN MY SOUL HATH BEEN REFRESHED WITH THE CONSOLATIONS WHICH THE WORLD KNOWES NOT. Lord, why should I doubt any more when thou hast given me such assured Pledges of thy Love? First, thou art my Creator, I thy creature; thou my master, I thy servant. But hence arises not my comfort: Thou art my ffather, I thy child. Yee shall [be] my Sons and Daughters, saith the Lord Almighty. Christ is my brother; I ascend unto my ffather and your ffather, unto my God and your God. But least this should not be enough, thy maker is thy husband. Nay, more, I am a member of his Body; he, my head. Such Priviledges, had not the Word of Truth made them known, who or where is the man that durst in his heart have presumed to have thought it? So wonderfull are these thoughts that my spirit failes in me at the consideration thereof; and I am confounded to think that God, who hath done so much for me should have so little from me. But this is my comfort, when I come into Heaven, I shall understand perfectly what he hath done for me, and then shall I be able to praise him as I ought. Lord, haveing this hope, let me pruefie myself as thou art Pure, and let me bee no more affraid of Death, but even desire to be dissolved, and bee with thee, which is best of all. Of the same nature are the fragments of diary which follow: July 8th, 1656. I had a sore fitt of fainting which lasted 2 or 3 days, but not in that extremity which at first it took me, and so much the sorer it was to me because my dear husband was from home (who is my chiefest comforter on Earth); but my God, who never failed me, was not absent, but helped me, and gratiously manifested his Love to me, which I dare not passe by without Remembrance, that it may be a support to me when I shall have occasion to read this hereafter, and to others that shall read it when I shall posesse that I now hope for, that so they may bee encourag'd to trust in him who is the only Portion of his Servants. O Lord, let me never forget thy Goodness, nor question thy faithfulness to me, for thou art my God: Thou hast said and shall I not beleive it? Thou hast given me a pledge of that Inheritance thou hast promised to bestow upon me. O, never let Satan prevail against me, but strengthen my faith in Thee 'till I shall attain the end of my hopes, even the Salvation of my Soul. Come, Lord Jesus; come quickly. What God is like to him I serve, What Saviour like to mine? O, never let me from thee swerve, For truly I am thine. Sept. 30, 1657. It pleased God to viset me with my old Distemper of weakness and fainting, but not in that sore manner sometimes he hath. I desire not only willingly, but thankfully, to submitt to him, for I trust it is out of his abundant Love to my straying Soul which in prosperity is too much in love with the world. I have found by experience I can no more live without correction than without food. Lord, with thy correction give Instruction and amendment, and then thy strokes shall bee welcome. I have not been refined in the furnace of affliction as some have been, but have rather been preserved with sugar then brine, yet will He preserve me to His heavenly kingdom. Thus (dear children) have yee seen the many sicknesses and weaknesses that I have passed thro: to the end that, if you meet with the like, you may have recourse to the same God who hath heard and delivered me, and will doe the like for you if you trust in him: and, when he shall deliver you out of distresse, forget not to give him thankes, but to walk more closely with him then before. This is the desire of your Loving Mother, A. B. With this record came a time of comparative health, and it is not till some years later that she finds it necessary to again write of sharp physical suffering, this being the last reference made in her papers to her own condition: May 11, 1661. It hath pleased God to give me a long Time of respite for these 4 years that I have had no great fitt of sickness, but this year, from the middle of January 'till May, I have been by fitts very ill and weak. The first of this month I had a feaver seat'd upon me which, indeed, was the longest and sorest that ever I had, lasting 4 dayes, and the weather being very hott made it the more tedious, but it pleased the Lord to support my heart in his goodness, and to hear my Prayers, and to deliver me out of adversity. But alas! I cannot render unto the Lord according to all his loving kindnes, nor take the cup salvation with Thanksgiving as I ought to doe. Lord, Thou that knowest All things, know'st that I desire to testefye my thankfulnes, not only in word, but in Deed, that my Conversation may speak that thy vowes are upon me. The diary of "Religious Reflections" was written at this period and holds a portrait of the devout and tender mind, sensitive and morbidly conscientious, but full of an aspiration that never left her. The few hints as to her early life are all embodied here, though the biographer is forced to work chiefly by inference: TO MY DEAR CHILDREN: This Book by Any yet unread, I leave for you when I am dead, That, being gone, here you may find What was your living mother's mind. Make use of what I leave in Love And God shall blesse you from above. A. B. MY DEAR CHILDREN: Knowing by experience that the exhortations of parents take most effect when the speakers leave to speak, and those especially sink deepest which are spoke latest--and being ignorant whether on my death-bed I shall have opportunity to speak to any of you, much lesse to All--thought it the best, whilst I was able to compose some short matters, (for what else to call them I know not) and bequeath to you, that when I am no more with you, yet I may bee dayly in your remembrance, (Although that is the least in my aim in what I now doe) but that you may gain some spiritual Advantage by my experience. I have not studied in this you read to show my skill, but to declare the Truth---not to sett forth myself, but the Glory of God. If I had minded the former, it had been perhaps better pleasing to you,--but seing the last is the best, let it bee best pleasing to you. The method I will observe shall bee this--I will begin with God's dealing with me from my childhood to this Day. In my young years, about 6 or 7 as I take it, I began to make conscience of my wayes, and what I knew was sinful, as lying, disobedience to Parents, &c., I avoided it. If at any time I was overtaken with the like evills, it was a great Trouble. I could not be at rest 'till by prayer I had confest it unto God. I was also troubled at the neglect of Private Dutyes, tho: too often tardy that way. I also found much comfort in reading the Scriptures, especially those places I thought most concerned my Condition, and as I grew to have more understanding, so the more solace I took in them. In a long fitt of sicknes which I had on my bed I often communed with my heart, and made my supplication to the most High who sett me free from that affliction. But as I grew up to bee about 14 or 15 I found my heart more carnall, and sitting loose from God, vanity and the follyes of youth take hold of me. About 16, the Lord layed his hand sore upon me and Smott mee with the small pox. When I was in my affliction, I besought the Lord, and confessed my Pride and Vanity and he was entreated of me, and again restored me. But I rendered not to him according to the benefitt received. After a short time I changed my condition and was marryed, and came into this Contry, where I fond a new world and new manners, at which my heart rose. But after I was convinced it was the way of God, I submitted to it and joined to the church at Boston. After some time I fell into a lingering sicknes like a consumption, together with a lamenesse, which correction I saw the Lord sent to humble and try me and doe mee Good: and it was not altogether ineffectual. It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a great grief to me, and cost mee many prayers and tears before I obtained one, and after him gave mee many more, of whom I now take the care, that as I have broght you into the world, and with great paines, weaknes, cares, and feares, brought you to this, I now travail in birth again of you till Christ bee formed in you. Among all my experiences of God's gratious Dealings with me I have constantly observed this, that he hath never suffered me long to sitt loose from him, but by one affliction or other hath made me look home, and search what was amisse so usually thos it hath been with me that I have no sooner felt my heart out of order, but I have expected correction for it, which most commonly hath been upon my own person, in sicknesse, weaknes, paines, sometimes on my soul, in Doubts and feares of God's displeasure, and my sincerity towards him, sometimes he hath smott a child with sicknes, sometimes chastened by losses in estate,--and these Times (thro: his great mercy) have been the times of my greatest Getting and Advantage, yea I have found them the Times when the Lord hath manifested the most love to me. Then have I gone to searching, and have said with David, Lord search me and try me, see what wayes of wickednes are in me, and lead me in the way everlasting; and seldom or never, but I have found either some sin I lay under which God would have reformed, or some duty neglected which he would have performed. And by his help I have layed Vowes and Bonds upon my Soul to perform his righteous commands. If at any time you are chastened of God, take it as thankfully and Joyfully as in greatest mercyes, for if yee bee his yee shall reap the greatest benefit by it. It hath been no small support to me in times of Darkness when the Almighty hath hid his face from me, that yet I have had abundance of sweetness and refreshment after affliction, and more circumspection in my walking after I have been afflicted. I have been with God like an untoward child, that no longer than the rod has been on my back (or at least in sight) but I have been apt to forgett him and myself too. Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep thy statutes. I have had great experience of God's hearing my Prayers, and returning comfortable Answers to me, either in granting the thing I prayed for, or else in satisfying my mind without it; and I have been confident it hath been from him, because I have found my heart through his goodnes enlarged in thankfullnes to him. I have often been perplexed that I have not found that constant Joy in my Pilgrim age and refreshing which I supposed most of the servants of God have; although he hath not left me altogether without the wittnes of his holy spirit, who hath oft given mee his word and sett to his Seal that it shall bee well with me. I have sometimes tasted of that hidden manna that the world knowes not, and have sett up my Ebenezer, and have resolved with myself that against such a promise such taste of sweetnes, the Gates of Hell shall never prevail. Yet have I many times sinkings and droopings, and not enjoyed that felicity that sometimes I have done. But when I have been in darknes and seen no light, yet have I desired to stay myself upon the Lord. And, when I have been in sicknes and pain, I have thought if the Lord would but lift up the light of his Countenance upon me, altho he ground me to powder, it would bee but light to me; yea, oft have I thought were if hell itself, and could there find the Love of God toward me, it would bee a Heaven. And, could I have been in Heaven without the Love of God it would have been a Hell to me; for in Truth, it is the absence and presence of God that makes Heaven or Hell. Many times hath Satan troubled me concerning the verity of the Scriptures, many times by Atheisme how could I know whether there was a God; I never saw any miracles to confirm me, and those which I read of how did I know but they were feigned. That there is a God my Reason would soon tell me by the wondrous workes that I see, the vast frame of the Heaven and the Earth, the order of all things, night and day, Summer and Winter, Spring and Autumne, the dayly providing for this great houshold upon the Earth, the preserving and directing of All to its proper end. The consideration of these things would with amazement certainly resolve me that there is an Eternall Being. But how should I know he is such a God as I worship in Trinity, and such a Savior as I rely upon? tho: this hath thousands of times been suggested to mee, yet God hath helped me ever. I have argued this with myself. That there is a God I see. If ever this God hath revealed himself, it must bee in his word, and this must be it or none. Have I not found that operation by it that no humane Invention can work upon the Soul? Hath not Judgments befallen Diverse who have scorned and contemd it? Hath it not been preserved thro: all Ages mangre all the heathen Tyrants and all of the enemies who have opposed it? Is there any story but that which shows the beginnings of Times, and how the world came to bee as wee see? Doe wee not know the prophecyes in it fullfilled which could not have been so long foretold by any but God himself? When I have gott over this Block, then have I another pott in my way, That admitt this bee the true God whom we worship, and that be his word, yet why may not the Popish Religion bee the right? They have the same God, the same Christ, the same word; they only interprett it one way, wee another. This hath sometimes stuck with me, and more it would, but the vain fooleries that are in their Religion, together with their lying miracles and cruell persecutions of the Saints, which admitt were they as they terme them, yet not so to be dealt with all. The consideration of these things and many the like would soon turn me to my own Religion again. But some new Troubles I have had since the world has been filled with Blasphemy, and Sectaries, and some who have been accounted sincere Christians have been carryed away with them, that sometimes I have said, Is there ffaith upon the earth? and I have not known what to think. But then I have remembered the words of Christ that so it must bee, and that, if it were possible, the very elect should bee deceived. Behold, faith our Savior, I have told you before. That hath stayed my heart, and I can now say, Return, O my Soul, to thy Rest, upon this Rock Christ Jesus will I build my faith; and if I perish, I perish. But I know all the Powers of Hell shall never prevail against it. I know whom I have trusted, and whom I have believed, and that he is able to keep that I have committed to his charge. Now to the King, Immortall, Eternall, and invisible, the only wise God, bee Honor and Glory forever and ever! Amen. This was written in much sicknesse and weakness, and is very weakly and imperfectly done; but, if you can pick any Benefitt out of it, it is the marke which I aimed at. For a few of the years that remained there were the alternations to which she had long been accustomed, but with 1669 she had become a hopeless and almost helpless invalid, longing to die, yet still held by the intense vitality which must have been her characteristic, and which required three years more of wasting pain before the struggle could end. In August, of 1669, she had written one of the most pathetic of her poems: Aug: 31, 69. As weary pilgrim now at rest, Hugs with delight his silent nest His wasted limbes now lye full soft That myrie steps have trodden oft. Blesses himself to think upon his dangers past, and travails done. The burning sun no more shall heat Nor stormy raines on him shall beat. The bryars and thornes no more shall scratch, nor hungry wolves at him shall catch He erring pathes no more shall tread nor wilde fruits eate, instead of bread for waters cold he doth not long for thirst no more shall parch his tongue. No rugged stones his feet shall gaule, nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall. All cares and feares, he bids farewell and meanes in safity now to dwell. A pilgrim I, on earth, perplext, Wth sinns wth cares and sorrovys vext By age and paines brought to decay. And my Clay house mouldring away Oh how I long to be at rest and soare on high among the blesst. This body shall in silence sleep Mine eyes no more shall ever weep No fainting fits shall me assaile nor grinding paines my body fraile Wth cares and fears n'er cumbred be Nor losses know, nor sorrows see What tho my flesh shall there consume it is the bed Christ did perfume And when a few yeares shall be gone this mortall shall be cloth'd upon A corrupt Carcasse ddwne it lyes A glorious body it shall rise In weakness and dishonour sowne in power 'tis rais'd by Christ alone When soule and body shall unite and of their maker have the sight Such lasting joyes shall there behold as care ne'r heard nor tongue e'er told Lord make me ready for that day then Come dear bridegrome, Come away. The long waiting ended at last, and her son, Simon Bradstreet, wrote in his diary: "Sept. 16, 1672. My ever honoured & most clear Mother was translated to Heaven. Her death was occasioned by a consumption being wasted to skin & bone & she had an issue made in her arm bee: she was much troubled with rheum, & one of ye women yt tended herr dressing her arm, s'd shee never saw such an arm in her Life, I, s'd my most dear Mother but yt shall bee a Glorious Arm. "I being absent fro her lost the opportunity of committing to memory her pious & memorable xpressions uttered in her sicknesse. O yt the good Lord would give unto me and mine a heart to walk in her steps, considering what the end of her Conversation was, yt so wee might one day have a happy & glorious greeting." Dorothy, the wife of Seaborn Cotton and the namesake of her grandmother, had died in February of the same year, making the first break in the family circle, which had been a singularly united one, the remainder all living to advanced years. Grief at the loss had been softened by the certainty that separation could not last long, and in spite of the terror with which her creed filled even the thought of death, suffering had made at last a welcome one. No other touch could bring healing or rest to the racked and weary body, and deeply as Simon Bradstreet mourned her loss, a weight rolled away, when the long suffering had ended. That the country-side thronged to the funeral of the woman whose name was honored in every New England settlement, we may know, but no record remains of ceremony, or sermon, or even of burial place. The old graveyard at Andover holds no stone that may perhaps have been hers, and it is believed that her father's tomb at Roxbury may have received the remains, that possibly she herself desired should lie by those of her mother. Sermons were preached in all the principal churches, and funeral elegies, that dearest form of the Puritan muse, poured in, that by John Norton being the best illustration of manner and method. A FUNERAL ELOGY, _Upon that Pattern and Patron of Virtue, the truely pious, peerless matchless Gentlewoman_ MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET, _right Panaretes,_ _Mirror of her Age, Glory of her Sex, whose Heaven-born-Soul its earthly Shrine, chose its native home, and was taken to its Rest upon 16th Sept. 1672._ Ask not why hearts turn Magazines of passions, And why that grief is clad in several fashions; Why she on progress goes, and doth not borrow The small'st respite from the extreams of sorrow, Her misery is got to such an height, As makes the earth groan to support its weight, Such storms of woe, so strongly have beset her, She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better Her comfort is, if any for her be, That none can shew more cause of grief then she. Ask not why some in mournfull black are clad; The sun is set, there needs must be a shade. Ask not why every face a sadness shrowdes; The setting Sun ore-cast us hath with Clouds. Ask not why the great glory of the Skye That gilds the stars with heavenly Alchamy, Which all the world doth lighten with his Rayes, The _Persian_ God, the Monarch of the dayes; Ask not the reason of his extasie, Paleness of late, in midnoon Majesty, Why that the pale fac'd Empress of the night Disrob'd her brother of his glorious light. Did not the language of the stars foretel A mournfull Scoene when they with tears did Swell? Did not the glorious people of the Skye Seem sensible of future misery? Did not the low'ring heavens seem to express The worlds great lose and their unhappiness? Behold how tears flow from the learned hill, How the bereaved Nine do daily fill The bosom of the fleeting Air with groans, And wofull Accents, which witness their Moanes. How doe the Goddesses of verse, the learned quire Lament their rival Quill, which all admire? Could _Maro's_ Muse but hear her lively strain, He would condemn his works to fire again, Methinks I hear the Patron of the Spring, The unshorn Deity abruptly sing. Some doe for anguish weep, for anger I That Ignorance should live, and Art should die. Black, fatal, dismal, inauspicious day, Unblest forever by Sol's precious Ray, Be it the first of Miseries to all; Or last of Life, defam'd for Funeral. When this day yearly comes, let every one, Cast in their urne, the black and dismal stone, Succeeding years as they their circuit goe, Leap o'er this day, as a sad time of woe. Farewell my Muse, since thou hast left thy shrine, I am unblest in one, but blest in nine. Fair Thespian Ladyes, light your torches all, Attend your glory to its Funeral, To court her ashes with a learned tear, A briny sacrifice, let not a smile appear. Grave Matron, whoso seeks to blazon thee, Needs not make use of witts false Heraldry; Whoso should give thee all thy worth would swell So high, as'twould turn the world infidel. Had he great _Maro's_ Muse, or Tully's tongue, Or raping numbers like the _Thracian_ Song, In crowning of her merits he would be Sumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole. To write is easy; but to write on thee, Truth would be thought to forfeit modesty. He'l seem a Poet that shall speak but true; Hyperbole's in others, are thy due. Like a most servile flatterer he will show Though he write truth, and make the Subject, You. Virtue ne'er dies, time will a Poet raise Born under better Stars, shall sing thy praise. Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor For Art ne're feigned, nor Nature fram'd a better. Her virtues were so great, that they do raise A work to trouble fame, astonish praise. When as her Name doth but salute the ear, Men think that they perfections abstract hear. Her breast was a brave Pallace, a Broad-street, Where all heroick ample thoughts did meet, Where nature such a Tenement had tane, That others Souls, to hers, dwelt in a lane. Beneath her feet, pale envy bites her chain, And poison Malice, whetts her sting in vain. Let every Laurel, every Myrtel bough Be stript for leaves t'adorn and load her brow. Victorious wreaths, which 'cause they never fade Wise elder times for Kings and Poets made Let not her happy Memory e're lack Its worth in Fame's eternal Almanack, Which none shall read, but straight their lots deplore, And blame their Fates they were not born before. Do not old men rejoyce their Fates did last, And infants too, that theirs did make such hast, In such a welcome time to bring them forth, That they might be a witness to her worth. Who undertakes this subject to commend Shall nothing find so hard as how to end. _Finis & Non,_ JOHN NORTON. Forty years of wedded life, and a devotion that remained unaltered to the end, inclined Simon Bradstreet to a longer period of mourning than most Puritan husbands seemed to have submitted to, but four years after her death, the husband, at seventy-three, still as hale and well-preserved as many a man of fifty, took to himself another wife. She was the widow of Captain Joseph Gardner of Salem, killed in the attack on the Narragansett fort in December, 1675, and is described by her step-son Simon, in his diary as "a Gentl. of very good birth and education, and of great piety and prudence." Of her prudence there could hardly be a doubt, for as daughter and sister of Emanuel and George Downing, she had had before her through all her early years, examples of shrewdness and farsightedness for all personal ends, that made the names of both, an offence then and in later days. But no suspicion of the tendencies strong in both father and son, ever rested on Mistress Gardner, who was both proud and fond of her elderly husband, and who found him as tender and thoughtful a friend as he had always been to the wife of his youth. For twenty-one years he passed from honor to honor in the Colony, living in much state, though personally always abstemious and restrained, and growing continually in the mildness and toleration, from which his contemporaries more and more diverged. Clear-sighted, and far in advance of his time, his moderation hindered any chafing or discontent, and his days, even when most absorbed in public interests, held a rare severity and calm. No act of all Bradstreet's life brought him more public honors than his action against Andros, whose tyranny had roused every man in New England to protest and revolt. Almost ninety years old, he met the deputation who came to consult him, and set his hand to a letter, which held the same possibilities and was in many senses, the first Declaration of Independence. From the Town House in Boston went out the handbill, printed in black letter and signed by fifteen names, the old patriarch heading the list. Bancroft, who is seldom enthusiastic, tells the story of the demand upon Andros of immediate surrender of the government and fortifications, and the determination of the passionate and grasping soldier to resist. "Just then the Governor of the Colony, in office when the charter was abrogated, Simon Bradstreet, glorious with the dignity of four-score years and seven, one of the early emigrants, a magistrate in 1630, whose experience connected the oldest generation with the new, drew near the town-house, and was received with a great shout from the free men. The old magistrates were reinstated, as a council of safety; the whole town rose in arms, with the most unanimous resolution that ever inspired a people; and a declaration read from the balcony, defending the insurrection as a duty to God and the country. 'We commit our enterprise,' it is added, 'to Him who hears the cry of the oppressed, and advise all our neighbors, for whom we have thus ventured ourselves, to joyn with us in prayers and all just actions for the defence of the land.' On Charlestown side, a thousand soldiers crowded together; and the multitude would have been longer if needed. The governor vainly attempting to escape to the frigate was, with his creatures, compelled to seek protection by submission; through the streets where he had first displayed his scarlet coat and arbitrary commission, he and his fellows were marched to the town-house and thence to prison. All the cry was against Andros and Randolph. The castle was taken; the frigate was mastered; the fortifications occupied." Once more Massachusetts assembled in general court, and the old man, whose blood could still tingle at wrong, was called again to the chair of state, filling it till the end of all work came suddenly, and he passed on, leaving a memory almost as tenderly preserved as that of "the beloved governor," John Winthrop. In the ancient burial place at Salem may still be seen the tomb of the old man who had known over sixty years of public service. SIMON BRADSTREET. Armiger, exordine Senatoris, in colonia Massachusettensi ab anno 1630, usque ad anum 1673. Deinde ad anum 1679, Vice-Gubernator. Denique ad anum 1686, ejusdem coloniae, communi et constanti populi suffragio, Gubernator. Vis, judicio Lynceario preditus; guem nec numma, nec honos allexit. Regis authoritatem, et populi libertatem, aequa lance libravit. Religione cerdatus, vita innocuus, mundum et vicit, et deseriut, 27 die, Martii, A. D. 1697. Annog, Guliel, 3t ix, et Aet, 94. Few epitaphs hold as simple truth. "He was a man," says Felt, "of deep discernment, whom neither wealth nor honor could allure from duty. He poised with an equal balance the authority of the King, and the liberty of the people. Sincere in Religion and pure in his life, he overcame and left the world." The Assembly was in session on the day of his death and, "in consideration of the long and extraordinary service of Simon Bradstreet, late Governor, voted L100, toward defraying the charges of his interment." They buried him in Salem where his tomb may still be seen in the old Charter Street burying-ground, though there is grave doubt if even the dust of its occupant could be found therein. His memory had passed, and his services meant little to the generation which a hundred years later, saw one of the most curious transactions of the year 1794. That an ancestor of Nathanael Hawthorne should have been a party to it, holds a suggestion of the tendencies which in the novelist's case, gave him that interest in the sombre side of life, and the relish for the somewhat ghoul-like details, on which he lingered with a fascination his readers are compelled to share. On an old paper still owned by a gentleman of Salem, one may read this catastrophe which has, in spite of court orderings and stately municipal burial, forced Simon Bradstreet's remains into the same obscurity which hides those of his wife. "Ben, son of Col B. Pickman, sold ye tomb, being claimed by him for a small expence his father was at in repairing it aft ye yr 1793 Or 1794 to one Daniel Hathorne, who now holds it." Having taken possession, Daniel Hawthorne, with no further scruples cleaned out the tomb, throwing the remains of the old Governor and his family into a hole not far off. The New England of Simon Bradstreet's day is as utterly lost as his own dust. Yet many of the outward forms still remain, while its spirit is even more evident and powerful. Wherever the New England element is found--and where is it not found?--its presence means thrift, thoroughness, precision and prudence. Every circumstance of life from the beginning has taught the people how to extract the utmost value from every resource. Dollars have come slowly and painfully, and have thus, in one sense, a fictitious worth; but penuriousness is almost unknown, and the hardest working man or woman gives freely where a need is really felt. The ideal is still for the many, more powerful than the real. The conscientiousness and painful self-consciousness of the early days still represses the joyful or peaceful side of life, and makes angles more to be desired than curves. Reticence is the New England habit. Affection, intense as it may be, gives and demands small expression. Good-will must be taken for granted, and little courtesies and ameliorations in daily life are treated with disdain. "Duty" is the watchword for most, and no matter how strange the path, if this word be lined above it, it is trodden unquestioned. As in the beginning, the corner-stone still "rests upon a book." The eagerness for knowledge shown in every act of the early colonial years has intensified, till "to know" has become a demon driving one to destruction. Eternity would seem to have been abolished, so eager are the learners to use every second of time. Overwork, mental and physical, has been the portion of the New England woman from the beginning. Climate and all natural conditions fostered an alertness unknown to the moist and equable air of the old home. While for the South there was a long perpetuation of the ease of English life, and the adjective which a Southern woman most desires to hear before her name is "sweet"; the New England woman chooses "bright," and the highest mark of approval is found in that rather aggressive word. Tin pans, scoured to that point of polish which meets the New England necessity for thoroughness, are "bright," and the near observer blinks as he suddenly comes upon them in the sun. A bit of looking-glass handled judiciously by the small boy, has the same quality, and is warranted to disconcert the most placid temperament; and so the New England woman is apt to have jagged edges and a sense of too much light for the situation. "Sweetness and light" is the desirable combination, and may come in the new union of North and South. The wise woman is she who best unites the two. Yet, arraign New England as we may--and there are many unmentioned counts in the indictment--it is certain that to her we owe the best elements in our national life. "The Decadence of New England" is a popular topic at present. It is the fashion to sneer at her limitations. Our best novelists delight in giving her barrenness, her unloveliness in all individual life--her provincialism and conceit, and strenuous money-getting. "It is a good place to be born in," they say, "provided you emigrate early," and then they proceed to analyze her very prominent weaknesses, and to suppress as carefully as possible just judgment, either of past or present. Her scenery they cannot dispense with. Her very inadequacies and absurdities of climate involve a beauty which unites Northern sharpness of outline with Southern grace of form and color. The short and fervid summer owns charms denied a longer one. Spring comes uncertainly and lingeringly, but it holds in many of its days an exquisite and brooding tenderness no words can render, as elusive as that half- defined outline on budding twigs against the sky--not leaves, but the shadow and promise of leaves to be. The turf of the high pasture-lands springing under the foot; the smell of sweet fern and brake; the tinkle of cow-bells among the rocks, or the soft patter of feet as the sheep run toward the open bars--what New England boy or girl does not remember and love, till loving and remembering are over for the life we live here? Yet in all the ferment of old and new beliefs--the strange departures from a beaten track--the attitude always, not of those who have found, but of those who seek, there has ever been the promise of a better day. The pathos which underlies all record of human life is made plain, and a tender sadness is in the happiest lines. And this is the real story of New England. Her best has passed on. What the future holds for her it is impossible to say, or what strange development may come from this sudden and overmastering Celtic element, pervading even the remotest hill-towns. But one possession remains intact: the old graveyards where the worthies of an elder day sleep quietly under stones decaying and crumbling faster than their memories. It all comes to dust in the end, but even dust holds promise. Growth is in every particle, and whatever time may bring--for the past it is a flower that "smells sweet and blossoms in the dust"--for present and future, a steady march toward the better day, whose twilight is our sunshine. INDEX. Agawam Andover, Mass. Andros, Governor Arbella, the Bay Psalm Book Belcher, Governor Berkeley, Sir William Bibles, Geneva Blaxton, Rev. Mr. Bradford, William Bradstreet, Simon " Anne " Dorothy " Dudley " Hannah " John " Mercy " Sarah " Simon, Jr. Buchanan, Mr. Cage for Offenders Cambridge, Mass. " Synod of Cattle keeping Charlestown, Mass Chapman, Version of Homer Church Music Chests, Family Clapp, Roger Compton, William, Lord Coddington, Rev. Mr Cotton, John " Seaborn Contemplations, a Poem Cromwell, Oliver Criticism, Personal Dennison, Daniel Digby, Sir Kenelm Dodd, Puritan minister Downing, Emanual Drinking Customs Dryden, John " Erasmus Du Bartas Dunkirkers Dudley, Anne " Dorothy " John " Joseph " Paul " Robert " Roger " Thomas " Samuel Education in New England Eliot, Rev. John Elizabeth, Queen Endicott, Rev. John Fire, in Andover Firmin, Giles Folger, Peter Food in New England Four Ages of Man, (poem) Four Elements, The, (poem) Four Humours of Man, (poem) Four Monarchies, (poem) Four Seasons, (poem) Fulling Mill Furniture, Colonial Galton Gardener, Capt. Joseph Goffe, Thomas Grandmothers, Puritan Harvard College Hathorn, Daniel " William Hawthorne, Nathanael Harvey, Discovery of Circulation of the Blood Higginson, Rev. Francis Hospitality in New England Hooker, Rev. Thomas Holmes, Oliver Wendell House-lots Homes, Nonconformist Hutchinson, Anne " Colonel " Mrs. Lucy Hurlstone, Mr. Hubbard Hunting Indians Inns Ipswich, Mass Jamestown, Va. Johnson, Lady Arbella " Isaac " Rev. Mr. Labor, Scarcity of Lempingham, Castle of Laud, Bishop Law in the Colony Libertines Light, the Inward Lincoln, Earl of Lowe, Rev. Mr. Marbury, Thomas Marriage Masson's Life of Milton Mansell, Mt. Mather, Cotton Medical Profession in Mass. Meditations, Divine and Moral Michaud Milton, John Montaigne, Essays of New England Nonconformists Northumberland, Duke of Norton, John Nowell, Rev. Mr. Pareus, David Parker, Thomas Pemble, William Peters, Hugh Phipps, Sir William Pearce, William Pewter Plate Pelham Players Poems, Anne Bradstreet's Poets, American Poole, Mrs. Elizabeth Preston, Dr. Puritan Puritanism Quarles, the Emblems of Quakers in New England Renascence Revolution, a Spiritual Religious Reflections Road-making Robinson, Rev. John Rogers, John Rupert, Prince Ruskin, John Russ, Goodman and Goodwife Salem Saltonstall, Sir Robert Schools, Andover " New England Servants, English " Indian 
12984	----	[Illustration: Portrait of Eugene Field in 1885.] EUGENE FIELD A STUDY IN HEREDITY AND CONTRADICTIONS By SLASON THOMPSON With Portraits, Views and Fac-Simile Illustrations VOLUME I Published, December, 1901 Charles Scribner's Sons New York 1901 BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION Not as other memoirs are written would Eugene Field, were he alive, have this study of his life. He would think more of making it reflect the odd personality of the man than rehearse the birth, development, daily life, and works of the author. If he had undertaken to write his own life, as was once his intention, it would probably have been the most remarkable work of fiction by an American author that ever masqueraded in the quaker garments of fact. From title-page to colophon--on which he would have insisted--the book would have been one studied effort to quiz and queer (a favorite word of his) the innocent and willing-to-be-deluded reader. "Tell your sister for me," I recall his saying, "what a kind, good, and deserving man I am. How I love little children and [with a dry chuckle] elderly spinsters. Relate how I was born of rich yet honest parents, was reared in the 'nurture and admonition of the Lord,' and, according to the bent of a froward youth, have stumbled along to become the cynosure of a ribald age." Field's idea of a perfect memoir was that it should contain no facts that might interfere with its being novel and interesting reading both to the public and its subject. He set little store by genius, as he tells us in one of his letters, and less by "that nonsense called useful knowledge." His peculiar notions as to the field of biography were once illustrated in one he furnished to a New York firm, which proposed a series of biographies of well-known newspaper writers. It was arranged that Field and William E. Curtis, the noted Washington correspondent, should write each the other's biography for the series. Mr. Curtis executed his sketch of Field in good faith; Field's sketch of Mr. Curtis was a marvel of waggish invention. Through an actor of the same name who some years before made quite a reputation as Samuel of Posen, he traced Mr. Curtis's birth back to Bohemia, and carried him at an early age to Jerusalem, where Curtis was said to have laid the foundations of his fame and fortune peddling suspenders. Later he sold newspapers on the streets, and, by practicing the shrewd and self-denying habits of his race, quickly became the owner of the paper for which he worked, which was called the New Jerusalem Messenger, the recognized organ of the New Jerusalem Church. Mr. Curtis's progressive tendencies, according to Field, quickly involved him in trouble with the government; his paper was suppressed, and he was banished from Jerusalem. When the special firmin of the Sultan expelling Mr. Curtis from Turkish dominions was published, it caused a great sensation in Chicago, where the Church of the New Jerusalem was very strong, and created an immediate rivalry between William Penn Nixon, editor of the Inter Ocean, and Melville E. Stone, editor of the Morning News, to secure his services. Mr. Nixon sent him a cablegram in Hebrew which was written by a Hebrew gentleman to whom Nixon sold old clothes, while Mr. Stone's cablegram was prepared by his father, the Rev. Mr. Stone, and was expressed in scriptural phraseology which was not understood in Jerusalem as well as it was at Galesburg, where Mr. Stone was then professor of the Hebrew language and literature. Curtis accepted the offer couched in the language of the Hebrew vender of old clothes and became a member of the editorial staff of the Inter Ocean. His first effective work on that newspaper was to convert Jonathan Young Scammon, then its owner, to the New Jerusalem faith (Mr. Scammon, whose real name was John, was the most prominent Swedenborgian in Chicago). Mr. Scammon was so grateful for his conversion from infidelity that in a moment of religious exaltation he raised Mr. Curtis's salary from $18 to $20. And thus the biography of Mr. Curtis proceeded along lines that gave the truth a wide berth, for Field held, with the old English jurists, that the greater the truth the greater the libel. At one time in our association Field, as seriously as he could, entertained the thought of furnishing me with materials for an extended sketch of his life, and I still have several envelopes on which the inscription "For My Memoirs" bears witness to that purpose. But after serving as a source of eccentric and roguish humor for several months, the idea was suffered to lapse, only to be revived in suggestive references as he consigned some bit of manuscript to my care or criticism. Any study of Field's life and character based on such materials as he thus furnished would have been absolutely misleading. It would have eliminated fact entirely and substituted the most fantastic fiction in its stead. It would have built up a grotesque caricature of a staid, church-going, circumspect citizen and author instead of the ever-fascinating bundle of contradictions and irresponsibility Field was to his legion of associates and friends. There were two Fields--the author and the man--and it is the purpose of this study to reproduce the latter as he appeared to those who knew and loved him for what he was personally for the benefit of those who have only known him through the medium of his writings. In doing this it is far from my intention and farther from my friendship to disturb any of the preconceptions that have been formed from the perusal of his works. These are the creations of something entirely apart from the man whose genius produced them. His fame as an author rests on his printed books, and will endure as surely as the basis of his art was true, his methods severely simple, and his spirit gentle and pure. In his daily work the dominant note was that of fun and conviviality. It was free from the acrimony of controversy. He abominated speech-makers and lampooned political oracles. He was the unsparing satirist of contemporary pretense, which in itself was sufficient to account for the failure of the passing generation of literary critics to accord to him the recognition which he finally won in their despite from the reading public. Neither a sinner nor a saint was the man who went into an old book-store in Chicago and bewildered the matter-of-fact dealer in old editions with the inquiry, "Have you an unexpurgated copy of Hannah More's 'Letters to a Village Maiden'?" Everything Field wrote in prose or verse reflects his contempt for earth's mighty and his sympathy for earth's million mites. His art, like that of his favorite author and prototype, Father Prout, was "to magnify what is little and fling a dash of the sublime into a two-penny post communication." Sense of earthly grandeur he had little or none. Sense of the minor sympathies of life--those minor sympathies that are common to all and finally swell into the major song of life--of this sense he was compact. It was the meat and marrow of his life and mind, of his song and story. With unerring instinct Field, in his study of humanity, went to the one school where the emotions, wishes, and passions of mankind are to be seen unobscured by the veil of consciousness. He was forever scanning whatever lies hidden within the folds of the heart of childhood. He knew children through and through because he studied them from themselves and not from books. He associated with them on terms of the most intimate comradeship and wormed his way into their confidence with assiduous sympathy. Thus he became possessed of the inmost secrets of their childish joys and griefs and so became a literary philosopher of childhood. "In wit a man, in simplicity a child," nothing gloomy, narrow, or pharisaical entered into the composition of Eugene Field. Like Jack Montesquieu Bellew, the editor of the Cork Chronicle, "his finances, alas! were always miserably low." This followed from his learning how to spend money freely before he was forced to earn it laboriously. He scattered his patrimony gaily and then when the last inherited cent was gone, turned with, equal gayety to earning, not only enough to support himself, but the wife and family that, with the royal and reckless prodigality of genius, he provided himself with at the very outset of his career. If he set "no store by genius," he at least had that faith in his own ability which "compels the elements and wrings a human music from the indifferent air." From the time he applied himself to the ill-requited work of journalism he never wavered or turned aside in his purpose to make it the ladder to literary recognition. He was over thirty before he realized that in three universities he had slighted the opportunity to acquire a thorough equipment for literary work. But he was undismayed, for did he not read in his beloved "Reliques of Father Prout" how "Loyola, the founder of the most learned and by far the most distinguished literary corporation that ever arose in the world, was an old soldier who took up his 'Latin Grammar' when past the age of thirty"? It is the contrast and apparent contradiction between the individual and the author that makes the character of Eugene Field interesting to the student. If the man were simply any prosaic person possessed of the gift of telling tales, writing stories, and singing lullabies, this study of his life would have been left unwritten. Many authors have I known who put all there was of them into their work, who were personally a disappointment to the intellect and a trial to the flesh. With Eugene Field the man was always a bundle of delightful surprises, an ever unconventional personality of which only the merest suggestion is given in his works. In the study I have made of the life of Eugene Field in the following pages I have received assistance from many sources, but none has been of so great value as that from his father's friend, Melvin L. Gray, in whose home Field found the counsel of a father and the loving sympathy of a mother. The letters Mr. Gray placed at my disposal, whether quoted herein or not, have been invaluable in filling in the portrait of his beloved ward. To Edward D. Cowen, whose intimate friendship with Field covered a period of nearly fifteen years in three cities and under varying circumstances, these pages owe very much. From his brother, Roswell Field, I have had the best sort of sympathetic aid and counsel in filling out biographical detail without in any way committing himself to the views or statements of this study. Dr. Frank W. Reilly, to whom Field not only owed his vitalized familiarity with Horace, "Prout," and "Kit North," but that superficial knowledge of medical terms of which he made such constant and effective use throughout his writings, has also placed me under many obligations for data and advice. To these and the others whose names are freely sprinkled through this study I wish to make fitting acknowledgment of my many obligations, and I trust the reader will share my grateful sentiments wherever the faithful quotation marks remind him that such is their due. SLASON THOMPSON. CHICAGO, September 30th, 1901. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. PEDIGREE 1 II. HIS FATHER'S FIRST LOVE-AFFAIR 13 III. THE DRED SCOTT CASE 36 IV. BIRTH AND EARLY YOUTH 49 V. EDUCATION 73 VI. CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 91 VII. MARRIAGE AND EARLY DOMESTIC LIFE 103 VIII. EARLY EXPERIENCES IN JOURNALISM 126 IX. IN DENVER, 1881-1883 143 X. ANECDOTES OF LIFE IN DENVER 158 XI. COMING TO CHICAGO 183 XII. PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS 206 XIII. RELATIONS WITH STAGE FOLK 224 XIV. BEGINNING OF HIS LITERARY EDUCATION 271 XV. METHOD OF WORK 294 XVI. NATURE OF HIS DAILY WORK 314 ILLUSTRATIONS PORTRAIT OF EUGENE FIELD IN 1885 _Frontispiece_ _Photogravure._ DRAWINGS AND FAC-SIMILES PAGE "THE PEAR" IN FIELD'S GREEK TEXT 140 DAILY NEWS EDITORIAL COUNCIL OF WAR 213 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ COMMODORE CRANE 236 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ FIELD WITNESSING MODJESKA AS CAMILLE 244 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ TWO PROFILES OF EUGENE FIELD 247 _The upper one drawn in pencil by Field himself; the lower one drawn by Modjeska. Reproduced from a flyleaf of Mrs. Thompson's volume of autograph verse._ A BAR OF MUSIC 295 _Written by Eugene Field._ TWO GOOD KNIGHTS AT FEAST 297 _From a drawing by Eugene Field._ HALF-TONE PLATES FACING PAGE GENERAL MARTIN FIELD 6 _Eugene Field's Grandfather._ ESTHER S. FIELD 10 _Eugene Field's Grandmother._ ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD 18 _Eugene Field's Father._ CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD 46 EUGENE FIELD'S MOTHER 50 _From a Daguerreotype taken a year or two before his birth._ EUGENE FIELD'S COUSINS, MARY FIELD FRENCH AND HER YOUNGER HALF-SISTER, AUGUSTA JONES 54 _From a Daguerreotype taken before Eugene and Roswell became members of Miss French's family in Amherst, on the death of their mother._ THE FIELD HOMESTEAD AT NEWFANE, VT. 56 THE HOMESTEAD AT AMHERST, MASS. 60 _Now owned by Mr. Hiram Eaton, of New York._ A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF MONSON, MASS. 74 THE REV. JAMES TUFTS 78 WILLIAMS COLLEGE BUILDINGS, WILLIAMSTOWN, MASS. 82 THE OLD KNOX COLLEGE BUILDINGS, GALESBURG, ILL. 86 STATE UNIVERSITY BUILDINGS AT COLUMBIA, MO. 88 EARLY PORTRAITS OF EUGENE FIELD 92 MELVIN L. GRAY 96 MRS. MELVIN L. GRAY 100 MRS. EUGENE FIELD 110 ROBSON AND CRANE IN "SHARPS AND FLATS" 204 FIELD AT WORK 218 _The caricature from a drawing by Sclanders._ FRANCIS WILSON 228 WILLIAM J. FLORENCE 234 MODJESKA 242 JESSIE BARTLETT DAVIS 256 SOL SMITH RUSSELL 266 DR. FRANK W. REILLY 280 "FATHER PROUT" 288 _Francis Mahony._ EUGENE FIELD CHAPTER I PEDIGREE "Sir John Maundeville, Kt.," was his prototype, and Father Prout was his patron saint. The one introduced him to the study of British balladry, the other led him to the classic groves of Horace. "I am a Yankee by pedigree and education," wrote Eugene Field to Alice Morse Earle, the author of "The Sabbath in Puritan New England," and other books of the same flavor, "but I was born in that ineffably uninteresting city, St. Louis." How so devoted a child of all that is queer and contradictory in New England character came to be born in "Poor old Mizzoorah," as he so often wrote it, is in itself a rare romance, which I propose to tell as the key to the life and works of Eugene Field. Part of it is told in the reports of the Supreme Court of Vermont, part in the most remarkable special pleas ever permitted in a chancery suit in America, and the best part still lingers in the memory of the good people of Newfane and Brattleboro, Vt., where "them Field boys" are still referred to as unaccountable creatures, full of odd conceits, "an' dredful sot when once they took a notion." "Them Field boys" were not Eugene and his brother Roswell Martin Field, the joint authors of translations from Horace, known as "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," but their father, Roswell Martin, and their uncle, Charles Kellogg, Field of Newfane aforesaid. These two Fields were the sons of General Martin Field, who was born in Leverett, Mass., February 12th, 1773, and of his wife, Esther Smith Kellogg, who was the grandmother celebrated in more than one of Eugene Field's stories and poems. Through both sides of the houses of Field and Kellogg the pedigree of Eugene can be traced back to the first settlers of New England. But there is no need to go back of the second generation to find and identify the seed whence sprang the strangely interesting subject of this study. At the opening of the nineteenth century, as now, Newfane, then Fayetteville, was a typical county seat. This pretty New England village, which celebrated the centennial of its organization as a town in 1874, is situated on the West River, some twelve miles from Brattleboro, at which point that noisy stream joins the more sedate Connecticut River. It nestles under the hills upon which, at a distance of two miles, was the site of the original town of Newfane--not a vestige of which remains to remind the traveller that up to 1825 the shire town of Windham County overlooked as grand a panorama as ever opened up before the eye of man. The reason for abandoning the exposed location on the hills for the sheltered nook by the river may be inferred from the descriptive adjectives. The present town of Newfane clusters about a village square, that would have delighted the heart of Oliver Goldsmith. The county highway bisects it. The Windham County Hotel, with the windows of its northern end grated to prevent the escape of inmates--signifying that its keeper is half boniface and half county jailer--bounds it on the east, the Court House and Town Hall, separate buildings, flank it on the west. The Newfane Hotel rambles along half of its northern side, and the Field mansion, with its front garden stretching to the road, does the same for the southern half. In the rear, and facing the opening between the Court House and the Town Hall, stands the Congregational Church, where Eugene Field crunched caraway-seed biscuits when on a visit to his grandmother, and back of this stands another church, spotless in the white paint of Puritan New England meeting-houses, but deserted by its congregation of Baptists, which had dwindled to the vanishing point. In the centre of the village green is a grove of noble elms under whose grateful shade, on the day of my visit to Newfane, I saw a quartette of gray-headed attorneys, playing quoits with horse-shoes. They had come up from Brattleboro to try a case, which had suffered the usual "law's delay" of a continuance, and were whiling away the hours in the bucolic sport of their ancestors, while the idle villagers enjoyed their unpractised awkwardness. They all boasted how they could ring the peg when they were boys. Hither General Martin Field brought the young, and, as surviving portraits testify, beautiful Mistress Kellogg to be his wife. Here to them were born "them Field boys," Charles K. (April 24th, 1803) and Roswell M. (February 22d, 1807), destined to be thorns in their father's flesh throughout their school-days, his opponents in every justice's court where they could volunteer to match their wits against his, and, in the person of Roswell Martin, to be the distraction and despair of the courts of Windsor County and Vermont, until a decision of the Supreme Court so outraged that son's sense of the sacredness of the marriage vow, that he shook the granite dust of Vermont from his feet, and turned his face to the west, where he became the original counsel in the Dred Scott case, married and had sons of his own. [Illustration: GENERAL MARTIN FIELD. _Eugene Field's Grandfather._] But before taking up the thread of Roswell Martin Field's strange and unique story, let me give a letter written by his father to his sister, Miss Mary Field, then at the school of Miss Emma Willard in Troy, N.Y., as exhibit number one, that Eugene Field came by his peculiarities, literary and otherwise, by direct lineal descent. Roswell was a phenomenal scholar, as his own eldest son was not. At the age of eleven he was ready for college, and entered Middlebury with his brother Charles, his senior by four years. How they conducted themselves there may be judged from this letter to their sister: Newfane, March 31st, 1822. Dear Mary: I sit down to write you my last letter while you remain at Troy. Yours by Mr. Read was received, in which I find you allude to the "severe and satyrical language" of mine in a former letter. That letter was written upon the conduct of my children, which is an important subject to me. If children are disobedient, a parent has a right to be severe with them. If I recollect right I expressed to you that your two oldest brothers' conduct was very reprehensible, and I there predicted their ruin. But I then little thought that I should soon witness the sad consequences of their ill-conduct. I received a letter from President Bates about two weeks since and another from Charles the same day, that Charles had been turned away and forever dismissed from the college for his misconduct; Roswell must suffer a public admonition and perhaps more punishment for his evil deeds. Charles was turned out of college the 7th of March, and I wrote on the week after to have him come directly home, but we have heard nothing from him since. Where he is we can form no conjecture. But probably he is five hundred miles distant without money and without friends. I leave you to conjecture the rest. Roswell is left alone at the age of fifteen to get along, if he is permitted to stay through college. These, Mary, are the consequences of dissipation and bad conduct. And seeing as I do the temper and disposition of my children, that they "are inclined to evil and that continually," can you wonder that I write with severity to them? Our hopes are blasted as relates to Charles and Roswell, and you cannot conceive the trouble which they have given us. Your mother is almost crazy about them; nor are we without fears as to you. I say now, as I said in my former letter, that I wish my children were all at home at work. I am convinced that an education will only prove injurious to them. If I had as many sons as had the patriarch Jacob not one should ever again go nigh a college. It is not a good calculation to educate children for destruction. The boys' conduct has already brought a disgrace upon our family which we can never outgrow. They undoubtedly possess respectable talents and genius, but what are talents worth when wholly employed in mischief? I have expended almost two thousand dollars in educating the boys, and now just at the close they are sent off in disgrace and infamy. The money is nothing in comparison to the disgrace and ruin that must succeed. Mary, think of these things often, and especially when you feel inclined to be gay and airy. Let your brother's fate be a striking lesson to you. For you may well suppose that you possess something of the same disposition that he does, but I hope that you will exercise more prudence than he has. You must now return home with a fixed resolution to become a steady, sober, and industrious girl. Give up literary pursuits and quietly and patiently follow that calling which I am convinced is most proper for my children. It does appear to me that if children would consider how much anxiety their parents have for them they would conduct themselves properly, if it was only to gratify their parents. But it is not so. Many of them seem determined not only to wound the feelings of the parents in the most cruel manner but also to ruin themselves. Remember us respectfully to Dr. and Mrs. Willard, and I am your affectionate father MARTIN FIELD. That Mary did return home to be the mediator between her incensed and stern father and his wayward and mischievous, but not incorrigible sons, is part of the sequel to this letter. What her daughter, Mary Field French, afterwards became to the sons of the younger of the reprehensible pair of youthful collegians will appear later on in this narrative. It is beautifully acknowledged in the dedication of Eugene Field's "Little Book of Western Verse," which I had the honor of publishing for the subscribers in 1889, more than three score years after the date of the foregoing letter. In that dedication, with the characteristic license of a true artist, Field credited the choice of Miss French for the care of his youthful years to his mother: _A dying mother gave to you Her child a many years ago; How in your gracious love he grew, You know dear, patient heart, you know._ * * * * * _To you I dedicate this book, And, as you read it line by line. Upon its faults as kindly look As you have always looked on mine._ In truth, however, it was the living bereaved father who turned in the bewilderment of his grief to the "dear patient heart" of his sister, to find a second mother for his two motherless boys. To Martin Field, Mary was a guardian daughter, to Charles K. and Roswell M. 1st, she was a loyal and mediating sister, and to Eugene and Roswell M. 2d, she was a loving aunt, as her daughter Mary was an indulgent mother and unfailing friend. The last name survived "the love and gratitude" of Eugene's dedication ten years. As may have been surmised the parental forebodings of the grieved and satirical General Field were not realized in the eternal perdition of his two sons. Education did not prove their destruction. With more than respectable talents Charles was reinstated at Middlebury, and four months later graduated with high honors, while Roswell took his degree when only fifteen years old, the plague and admiration of his preceptors, and, we may well suppose, the pride and joy of the agonized parents, who welcomed the graduates to Newfane with all the profusion of a prodigal father and the love of a distracted but doting mother. They never had any reason to doubt the nature of sister Mary's reception. Charles and Roswell studied law with their father in the quaint little office detached from the Field homestead at Newfane. The word edifice might fittingly be applied to this building which, though only one room square and one story high, has a front on the public square, with miniature Greek columns to distinguish it from the ordinary outbuildings that are such characteristic appendages of New England houses. The troubles of General Field with his two sons were not to end when he got them away from the temptations of college life, for they were prone to mischief, "and that continually," even under his severe and watchful eye. This took one particular form which is the talk of Windham County even yet. By reason of their presence in General Field's office they were early apprised of actions at law which he was retained to institute; whereupon they sought out the defendant and offered their services to represent him gratis. Thus the elder counsellor frequently found himself pitted in the justice's courts against his keen-witted and graceless sons, who availed themselves of every obsolete technicality, quirk, and precedent of the law to obstruct justice and worry their dignified parent, whom they addressed as "our learned but erring brother in the law." Not infrequently these youthful practitioners triumphed in these legal tilts, to the mortification of their father, who, in his indignation, could not conceal his admiration for the ingenuity of their misdirected professional zeal. [Illustration: ESTHER S. FIELD. _Eugene Field's Grandmother._] Two years after his graduation, and when only seventeen years of age, Eugene Field's father was sufficiently learned in the law to be admitted to the bar of Vermont. They wasted no time in those good old days. Before he was thirty, Roswell M. Field had represented his native town in the General Assembly, had been elected several times State's Attorney, and in every way seemed destined to play a notable part in the affairs of Vermont, if not on a broader field. He was not only a lawyer of full and exact learning, an ingenious pleader, and a powerful advocate, but an exceptionally accomplished scholar. His knowledge of Greek, Latin, French, and German rendered their literature a perennial source upon which to draw for the illumination and embellishment of the pure and virile English of which he was master. It was from him that Eugene inherited his delight in queer and rare objects of vertu and that "rich, strong, musical and sympathetic voice" which would have been invaluable on the stage, and of which he made such captivating use among his friends. Would that he had also inherited that "strong and athletic" frame which, according to his aged preceptor, enabled Roswell M. Field to graduate at the age of fifteen. It is not, however, for his learning and accomplishments of mind and person that we are interested in Roswell Martin Field, but for the strange incident in his life that uprooted him from the congenial environments of New England and the career opening so temptingly before him, to transplant him to Missouri, there to become the father of a youth, who, by all laws of heredity and by the peculiar tang of his genius, should have been born and nurtured amid the stern scenes and fixed customs of Puritan New England. That story must be told in another chapter. CHAPTER II HIS FATHER'S FIRST LOVE-AFFAIR Many a time and oft in our walks and talks has Eugene Field told me the story I am about to relate, but never with the particularity of detail and the authority of absolute data with which I have "comprehended it," as he would say, in the following pages. It was his wish that it should be told, and I follow his injunction the more readily, as in its relation I am able to demonstrate how clearly the son inherited his peculiar literary mode from the father. It may be said further that, had the remarkable situation which grew out of Roswell M. Field's first marriage occurred one hundred years earlier, or had it occurred in our own day in a state like Kentucky, it would have provoked a feud that could only have been settled by blood, while it might readily have imbrued whole counties. Even in Vermont it stirred up animosities which occupied the attention of the courts for years, and which the lapse of nearly two generations has not wholly eradicated from the memory of old inhabitants. In the opening remarks of the opinion of the Supreme Court, in one of several cases growing out of it, I find the following statement: "It would be inexpedient to recapitulate the testimony in a transaction which was calculated to call up exasperated feelings, which has apparently taxed ingenuity and genius to criminate and recriminate, where a deep sense of injury is evidently felt and expressed by the parties to the controversy, and where this state of feeling has extended, as it was to be expected, to all the immediate friends of the parties, who from their situation were necessarily compelled to become witnesses and to testify in the case." In the relation of this story I shall substitute Christian names for the surnames of the parties outside of the Field family, although all have become public property and the principals are dead. The scene is laid in the adjoining counties of Windham and Windsor in the Green Mountain State, and this is how it happened: There lived at Windsor, in the county of the same name, a widow named Susanna, and she was well-to-do according to the modest standard of the times. She was blest with a goodly family of sons and daughters, among whom was Mary Almira, a maiden fair to look upon and impressionable withal. Now it befell that Mary Almira, while still very young, was sent to school at the Academy in Leicester, Mass., where she met, and, in the language of the law, formed "a natural and virtuous attachment" with a student named Jeremiah, sent thither by his guardian from Oxbridge in the state last before mentioned. They met, vowed eternal devotion and parted, as many school-children have done before and will do again. After her return to Windsor, Jeremiah seemingly faded from the thoughts of Mary Almira, so that when she subsequently accompanied her mother on a visit to Montreal, she felt free to experience "a sincere and lively affection" for a Canadian youth named Elder. So lively was this affection that when Jeremiah next saw Mary Almira it had completely effaced him from her memory. Nothing daunted, however, being then of the mature age of eighteen years and eight months, and two years Mary's senior, he resumed the siege of her heart, and in short order their engagement was duly "promulgated and even notorious." Before Mary succumbed to the second suit of Jeremiah, she waited for a pledge of affection from young Mister Elder in the shape of an album in which he was to have forwarded a communication, and it was "in the bitterness of her disappointment at not receiving a letter, message, or remembrance from Mister Elder that she formed the engagement with Jeremiah, in order that she might gratify her resentment by sending the news of the same to Mister Elder." This she did with a peremptory request for the return of her album without the leaves on which he had written. What was her chagrin and unavailing remorse on receiving the album to find that every leaf was cut out but one, a mute witness to her "infidelity to her early lover." Small wonder that "her tenderness revived," and "she cursed the hour in which she had formed the precipitate engagement with Jeremiah, and oftentimes she shed over that album tears of heartfelt sorrow and regret." At least so we are told in the pleadings, from which authentic source I draw my quotations. Now Mary was nothing if not precipitate, for all this came to pass in the spring or summer of 1831, when she was not quite sweet seventeen. It also happened without the knowledge or concern of Roswell Martin Field, who was a young and handsome bachelor of quick wit and engaging manners, living at Fayetteville in the neighboring county, "knowing nothing at that time of the said Mary Almira, her lovers, suitors, promises, engagements, intimacies, visits or movements whatsoever." He was soon to know. In the summer of 1832 it happened that Mary Almira was on a visit to Mrs. Jonathan, her cousin german, the wife of Justice Jonathan of Brattleboro, Vt. And now fate began to take a swift and inexplicable interest in the affairs of Mary and Roswell. On August 30th, 1832, in company with Mrs. Jonathan and Mrs. French (the Mary Field of the first chapter of this book), Miss Mary Almira visited Fayetteville, and, we are told, "when the chaise containing the said ladies arrived Roswell advanced to hand them out, and then for the first time saw and was introduced to said Mary Almira, who received him with a nod and a broad good-humored laugh." She remained over night, the guest of Mrs. French, and Roswell saw her only for a few moments in his sister's sitting-room. What occurred is naïvely told under oath in the following extract from the pleadings: "Some conversation of a general nature passed between them, and as the said Mary Almira was a young lady of very pleasing face and form and agreeable manners, it is by no means improbable that he (Roswell) manifested to said Mary Almira that in those matters he was not wholly devoid of sensibility and discernment." The next morning Mary returned to Brattleboro with Mrs. Jonathan, and Roswell "did not then expect ever to see her more." But it was otherwise decreed, for after the lapse of eleven days Justice Jonathan had professional business in Fayetteville, and, lo! Mary Almira attended him. It was Tuesday, September 11th, when for a second time she dawned on the discerning view of Roswell. For eight days she lingered as a guest of Mrs. French, whose brother began to show signs of awakening sensibility, although at this time informed of the unbroken pact between Mary Almira and Jeremiah. How young love took its natural course is told in the pleadings by Roswell with protests "against the manifest breach of delicacy and decorum of calling him into this Honorable Court to render an account of his attentions to a lady," and "more especially when that lady is his lawful wedded wife." When Mary had been in Fayetteville four days it happened that Justice Jonathan was called to Westminster. When asked if she was inclined to accompany him, Mary turned to Roswell and "inquired with a smile if it was not likely to rain?" and Roswell confesses "that he told her that it would be very imprudent for her to set out." [Illustration: ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD. _Eugene Field's Father._] Still protesting against the manifest indelicacy of the revelation, Roswell has told for us the story of his first advances upon the citadel of Mary's affections in words as cunningly chosen as were ever the best passages in the writings of his son Eugene. It was on the evening of September 13th that these advances first passed the outworks of formal civility. "When bidding the said Mary Almira good-night in the sitting-room of Mrs. French, as he was about to retire into his lodgings, Roswell plucked a leaf from the rosebush in the room, kissed it, and presented it to her; on the next day when he saw the said Mary Almira she took from her bosom a paper, unfolded it, and showed Roswell a leaf (the same, he supposes, that was presented the evening before), neatly stitched on the paper, and which she again carefully folded and replaced in her bosom." Another evening they played at chess, and with her permission Roswell named the queen Miss Almira, and he bent all his energies to the capture of that particular piece. He sacrificed every point of the game to that object, and when it was triumphantly achieved, "took note of the pleasure and delight manifested by said Mary Almira at the ardor with which he pursued his object and kissed his prize." On still another occasion "Jeremiah was introduced into the game as a black bishop, but very soon was exchanged for a pawn." On the day when Roswell advised Mary that it would be imprudent for her to accompany Justice Jonathan to Westminster, she was "graciously pleased to make, with her own fair hand, a pocket pin-cushion of blue silk and to put the same into Roswell's hands, at the same time remarking that blue was the emblem of love and constancy," and Roswell "confesses that he received the same with a profound bow." They were now in the rapids, with Jeremiah forgotten on the bank. Roswell complimented "the beauty of said Almira's hair, whereupon she graciously consented to present him with a lock of the same, and he humbly confesses that he accepted, kissed, and pressed it to his heart." Next morning, as they stood side by side, with Roswell holding her hand "and carelessly turning over the leaves of a Bible," his eye accidentally rested on this passage of the book of Jeremiah: "As for me, behold, I am in your hand: do with me as seemeth good and meet unto you." And "thereupon he pointed out such text to said Mary Almira, and she responded to the same with a blush and a smile." Roswell further confessed, "that with the kind permission of said Mary Almira he did at various times press the hand of said Mary Almira, and with her like gracious permission did kiss her hand, her cheek, and her lips." Who, with such kind and gracious permission, would have confined himself to remarks about the weather? Such were the only "artifices and persuasions, ways and means" by which Roswell came between Mary Almira and the promise she had made to the absent Jeremiah--the same ways and means that have been employed from the days of Adam, and which will be successful while woman is fair and man is bold. It was Roswell's belief that "his attentions and addresses were from the first agreeable to Mary's feelings and welcome to her heart," and he swore "that they were always permitted and received with great kindness and sweetness of manner." When Mary left Fayetteville, on Wednesday, September 19th, it was "appointed" that he should call on her at Brattleboro on the following Wednesday, and like a true knight he kept his tryst. That his reception was not frigid may be inferred from the record of the calls that followed in rapid succession, to-wit: Thursday afternoon; Monday, October 2d, evening; Tuesday afternoon and evening; Wednesday afternoon and evening; Wednesday (October 9th) afternoon and evening; Friday evening; Saturday evening, and Sunday forenoon and evening. No wonder the report of the bombardment reached the ears of widow Susanna at Windsor, fifty miles away, and Justice and Mrs. Jonathan "expostulated with Mary Almira upon the impropriety, as they called it, of her receiving the attentions of Roswell without informing her mother." Space forbids the recital of the uninterrupted, undisturbed, and agreeable conversations between the young twain that are to be found in the pleadings in this case. They were brought to a sharp conclusion by the receipt of a letter from Susanna ordering her daughter to return to Windsor forthwith. Justice Jonathan remarked that Mrs. Susanna was "undoubtedly right, for this young lady ought not to be receiving the gallantries from one young gentleman when she was under engagement to another." The mother's letter was received Saturday evening, October 12th, and produced consternation in the breasts of the young lovers, Mary clinging around Roswell's neck "with all the ardor of youthful, passionate love." They resolved to wed without the knowledge, consent, or blessing of Mrs. Susanna or Jeremiah, and on the morning of October 15th, 1832, Roswell went to the house of Justice Jonathan by appointment "to be joined in marriage unto said Mary Almira according to law." Justice and Mrs. Jonathan expostulated against such a marriage without Mrs. Susanna being first consulted, and after a long conference Justice Jonathan flatly declined to tie the civil knot. It was finally decided that the marriage should take place at Putney, a small town of Windham County, some twelve miles on the Post-road to Windsor. Justice Jonathan proceeded with the young lady in his carriage, and in due course arrived at Putney. There he was surprised to find the ardent and impatient Roswell, who, although behind at the start, had passed him on the way, and had already made the necessary preparations with Justice of the Peace Asa to perform the statutory ceremony. This followed "in a solemn, serious, and impressive manner in the front room of the public house, the said Jonathan alone being present besides the parties and the magistrate." The relations of Roswell and Mary Almira as man and wife began and ended before Justice Asa in that public house in Putney. In the language of the pleadings: "Immediately, within a few minutes after said marriage ceremony, said Mary Almira went with Justice Jonathan toward Windsor, and Roswell in a short time returned to his residence at Fayetteville." There were deeper consequences involved in that simple parting than could have been imagined by any of the parties or than are concealed in the musty and voluminous court records of Windsor County and the state of Vermont. Eugene Field had an entirely different conception of the nature of this marriage from that revealed by the record. According to his version, there was an old blue law in Vermont which rendered it necessary, in order to exonerate the groom in a runaway match from any other motive than love and affection, that the bride should be divested of all her earthly goods. So when Mary Almira arrived at Putney he thought that she retired to a closet, removed her clothing, and, thrusting her arm through a hole in the door, was joined in holy wedlock to Roswell, who, with the Justice and the witnesses, remained in the outer room. Eugene Field undoubtedly derived this version of his father's marriage from the tradition of one that actually took place in the Field mansion on Newfane Hill in 1789. That was the marriage of Major Moses Joy of Putney to Mrs. Hannah Wood of Newfane, and the unique nature of the proceedings followed legal advice in order to avoid any responsibility for the debts of Mrs. Ward's former husband, who had died insolvent. The story which I find in the Centennial history of Newfane is as follows: "Mrs. Ward placed herself in a closet with a tire-woman, who stripped her of all clothing, and while in a perfectly nude state she thrust her fair round arm through a diamond hole in the door of the closet, and the gallant Major clasped the hand of the nude and buxom widow, and was married in due form by the jolliest parson in Vermont. At the close of the ceremony the tire-woman dressed the bride in a complete wardrobe which the Major had provided and caused to be deposited in the closet at the commencement of the ceremony. She came out elegantly dressed in silk, satin, and lace, and there was kissing all around." To resume our story. On leaving Putney, accompanied by Justice Jonathan, Mary Almira returned to her mother's residence at Windsor. Nothing was communicated to Mrs. Susanna or to the relatives of the young bride in regard to the ceremony at Putney. But they, being aware of the engagement to Jeremiah, and having heard rumors of the attentions of Roswell, thought propriety demanded an early fulfilment of the prior engagement. On the day of her arrival home, and on October 21st and 31st, Mary wrote to Roswell letters, from which we have the assurance of the Supreme Court of Vermont: "It would appear that she entertained a strong affection for him and probably viewed him as the husband with whom she should thereafter live, although the last letter does not breathe the same affection as the former ones." But the plot was thickening. On the day after her return home Mary also wrote to Jeremiah in Boston, and a fortnight had not elapsed before she wrote again, "a very pressing letter, urging him to come immediately to Windsor." Roswell learned from Mary's letters that her friends were opposed to her forming any connection, except with Jeremiah, and he made the mistake of replying by letter instead of appearing in person, urging his claims and carrying off his bride. Some time before the 1st of November the family of Mary had heard of the ceremony at Putney, for on Jeremiah's arrival, in lover-like compliance with her urgent message, he was informed of the situation. After a hurried council of war, and under legal advice, the following letter was drafted and forwarded to Roswell by the hands of Judge Bikens, the family lawyer: To Mr. Roswell Field: _Sir_: Moments of deep consideration and much reflection have at length caused me to see in its proper light the whole of my late visit to Brattleboro. That I have been led by you and others to a course of conduct which my own feelings, reason, and sense entirely disapprove, is now very clear to me. I therefore write this to inform you that I am not willing on any account to see you again. Neither will I by any course you can adopt be prevailed upon to view the matter in a different light from what I now do. I leave you the alternative of forever preventing the public avowal of a disgraceful transaction, of which you yourself said you were ashamed. Mary A. This veiled repudiation of the marriage at Putney was placed in Roswell's hands by Judge Bikens and was instantly "pronounced an impudent forgery." Being in the dark as to how far Mary's family had been informed of their marriage, Roswell avoided any expression that might reveal it to Judge Bikens, and refused to accept the letter as a true expression of his wife's feelings and wishes. He at once wrote to her, urging that their marriage should be made public and that thus an end should be put to the suit of Jeremiah. To this Mary made reply that the above letter "contained her real sentiments." Before this note reached Fayetteville Roswell had started for Windsor. On the way he halted his horse at Putney, where he learned that Mary's family was fully informed of the marriage as performed by Justice Asa. A very embarrassing interview followed between Roswell and the family of his recalcitrant bride. On entering the room he advanced to Mary, and, extending his hand, "asked her how she did." But she looked at her mother and rejected his hand. A similar advance to Mrs. Susanna met with a like rebuff. Being considerately left alone in the room with Mary Almira by her mother and brother, who, with a sister, stood at the door listening, Roswell had what he was not disposed to regard as a private audience with his legal wife. In answer to his natural inquiry as to what it all meant, Mary said that since she had come home and thought it all over she found that she _did_ love Jeremiah; that Jeremiah had been very kind to her, and she thought she ought to marry Jeremiah. Roswell inquired how she could do that, as she was already married. "Why," said the fickle Mary, "you can give up the certificate; let it all go and nobody will know anything about it." After some natural remonstrances, Mary continued: "Come, now, you've got the certificate in your pocket, and you can give it up just as well as not and let me marry Jeremiah," at the same time holding out her hand as if for the document. The startling effrontery of the proposal provoked Roswell, and he told her that so far as a separation from himself was concerned she should be gratified to her heart's content, and that while she remained as she was he would not divulge the marriage, but he warned her that if she should attempt marriage with another he would publish the marriage at Putney in every parish church and newspaper in New England. At this point the private interview was interrupted by the hasty entrance of Mistress Susanna, who advanced in great agitation, as the pleadings inform us, and said to Roswell: "Mister Field, why can't you give up that stiffiket" (meaning, as he supposed, certificate) "and let things be as if they had never been?" Thereupon "Mister Field" proceeded to point out to the entire family of Mary Almira, which had assembled from the doors and keyholes where they had been eavesdropping, "the wickedness and folly of Mistress Susanna's request." One of Mary's brothers admitted that Roswell's refusal "to connive to the dishonor of his wife" was correct and honorable, and that he should not be asked to make any such arrangement. Roswell was greatly shocked and disgusted at the appearance, language, and manner of Mary Almira, and he was borne out in his impression of her character by the admission of one brother that she was "a giddy, inconsistent, unprincipled girl," and by that of another that "she was a volatile coquette, who did not know her own mind from day to day." Roswell remained in Windsor three days, but did not again see Mary Almira; whereupon, feeling that nothing was to be gained by exposing "himself to renewed insults, he returned home for a few days." It appears that all this time Jeremiah was lurking in the vicinity, holding secret interviews with Mary and her family, and "devising ways and means" for the bigamous marriage which, according to the belief of Roswell, was performed between Jeremiah and Mary Almira somewhere in New Hampshire between the 14th and 27th of November. Roswell M. Field never recognized the legality of any such ceremony or that Mary and Jeremiah had the lawful right to intermarry while the marriage at Putney remained in full force and effect. He had reason to be thankful for his escape from a union for life with a woman of such frivolous nature and easy indifference to the most sacred obligations of human and divine law. But he would not permit himself to become a silent copartner in what, to his strict notion of the inviolability of the marriage contract, was one of the most heinous crimes against society and morals. He, therefore, took every means in his power to bring obloquy and punishment upon the guilty parties. He instituted various proceedings at law to test the validity of the marriage at Putney. He, among other measures, filed a petition in the Probate Court to secure an accounting from Mistress Susanna as guardian of the estate of his wife Mary Almira. But Susanna avoided the issue by a technical plea. He brought an action of ejectment in the name of himself and Mary Almira to recover possession of a tenement in Windsor of which she was the owner, and secured judgment without any defence being offered. He secured the indictment of one of her brothers in the United States District Court for having opened one of his letters to his wife. He presented a statement of the facts of the abduction and bigamous marriage of Mary Almira to the Grand Jury of Windsor County, and procured an indictment against her two brothers and Mary Almira and Jeremiah "for conspiracy to carry her without the state of Vermont" to become the bigamous wife of Jeremiah. He followed Jeremiah and Mary to Boston in July, 1833, and laid the matter before the Grand Jury there, but before any action could be taken Jeremiah and Mary Almira "withdrew from the city of Boston, left New England, took passage at the city of New York in an outward bound vessel, and retired to the other side of the Atlantic." Out of one of the actions instituted in the name of Roswell Field and Mary Almira, his wife, grew a libel suit, brought by Mistress Susanna against him, in which the special pleas drawn and filed by Roswell Field were pronounced by Justice Story "to be masterpieces of special pleading." Through all these proceedings Mr. Field disclaimed all intention or wish "to visit legal pains and penalties" upon his wife, whom he regarded "as the victim and scapegoat of a wicked conspiracy." Finally, and after the birth of a child, Jeremiah and Mary Almira were forced to bring a suit for the nullification of the Putney marriage. Field met the complaint with a plea that set out all the facts. He contended that, as the Putney marriage was between persons of legal discretion and consent, there could be no condition that would render it voidable at the election of either. Every law and precedent was in favor of the inviolability of the Putney marriage, and yet so powerful were the family influences and so distressing would have been the results of a finding in his favor, that the lower court preferred to disregard precedents and law rather than illegitimatize the innocent children of Jeremiah and Mary. The same view was taken by the higher court, which absolved Mary of "being fully acquainted with the legal consequences of a solemnization of marriage." The court itself was forced to regard the ceremony as "a promise or engagement to marry," rather than a completed and sacred contract. The opinion as rendered is one long apology for declaring the Putney marriage invalid, in order to save Mary Almira from the crime of bigamy and her children from being the offspring of an illicit union. The conclusion of the opinion reflects the spirit in which it was rendered. "It may be proper to add," said the court, "that we are not disposed to animadvert on the conduct of the parties or of their respective friends and connections, nor to pronounce any opinion further than is required to show the grounds of our determination. The immediate parties may find some excuse or palliation in the thoughtlessness of youth, the strength of affection, the pangs of disappointment and blighted hopes, in versatility of feeling to which all are subject, and in constitutional temperament. The conduct of the friends of either is not to be judged of nor censured in consequence of the unfortunate results which have attended this truly unfortunate case. In judging of the past transactions of others, which have terminated either favorably or unfavorably, we are apt to say that a different course was required and would have produced a different effect. But who can say what would have been the inevitable consequences of a different line of conduct by the friends of either party? The infatuation and the determination of the parties to pursue that course which was most agreeable to their own feelings and views, placed their friends and acquaintances in a very unpleasant situation, and it would be wrong for us now to say that they were not actuated by good motives, and did not pursue that line of conduct which they thought at the time duty dictated. We inquire not as to the conduct of others, we censure them not, nor do we say anything as to the parties before us, except what has been thought necessary in deciding the case." The decree of nullification was affirmed in July, 1839, and before the close of the year Roswell M. Field had shaken the dust of Vermont from his feet and taken up his residence in St. Louis. Thus Vermont lost the most brilliant young advocate of his day, and Missouri gained the lawyer who was to adorn its bar and institute the proceedings for the manumission of Dred Scott, the slave, whose case defined the issues of our Civil War. CHAPTER III THE DRED SCOTT CASE Vermont's loss was Missouri's gain. The young lawyer, who had been admitted to the bar of his native state at the age of eighteen, was fully equipped to match his learning, wit, and persuasive manners against such men as Benton, Gamble, and Bates, who were the leaders of the Missouri bar when, in 1839, Roswell Field took up his residence in St. Louis. Now it was that his familiarity and facility with French, German, and Spanish stood him in good stead and, combined with his solid legal attainments, speedily won for him the rank of the ablest lawyer in his adopted state. But Roswell Field brought from Vermont something more than an exceptional legal equipment and the familiarity with the languages that is necessary to a mastery of the intricate old Spanish and French claims which were plastered over Missouri in those early days. He had inherited through his mother, from her grim old Puritan ancestors, the positive opinions and unquenchable sense of duty that constitute the far-famed New England conscience. He was born with a repugnance to slavery, whether of the will or of the body, and grew to manhood in the days when the question of the extension of negro slavery to the states and territories was the subject of fierce debate throughout the union. He had fixed convictions on the subject when he left Newfane, and he carried them with him to the farther bank of the Mississippi. It is to the uncompromising New England conscience of Roswell Field that his countrymen owe the institution of the proceedings that finally developed into the Dred Scott case, in which the question of the legal status of a negro was passed upon by the Supreme Court of the United States. This is very properly regarded as the most celebrated of the many important cases adjudicated by our highest tribunal, for not only did it settle the status of Dred Scott temporarily, but the decision handed down by Chief Justice Taney is the great classic of a great bench. It denied the legal existence of the African race as persons in American society and in constitutional law, and also denied the supremacy of Congress over the territories and the constitutionality of the "Missouri Compromise." Four years of civil war were necessary to overrule this sweeping opinion of Chief Justice Taney's, which is still referred to with awe and veneration by a large minority, if not by a majority, of the legal profession. To Roswell Field belongs the honor of instituting the original action for Dred Scott, without fee or expectation of compensation. The details of this celebrated case, after it got into the United States courts, are a part of the history of our country. What I am about to relate is scarcely known outside of the old Court House and Hall of Records in St. Louis. Dred Scott was a negro slave of Dr. Emerson, a surgeon in the United States Army, then stationed in Missouri. Dr. Emerson took Scott with him when, in 1834, he moved to Illinois, a free state, and subsequently to Fort Snelling, Wis. This territory, being north of 36 degrees and 30 minutes, was free soil under the Missouri Compromise of 1820. At Fort Snelling, Scott married a colored woman who had also been taken as a slave from Missouri. When Dr. Emerson returned to Missouri he brought Dred Scott, his wife, and child with him. The case came to the attention of Roswell Field, and at once enlisted all his human sympathy and great legal ability. His first petition to the Circuit Court for the County of St. Louis is too important and unique a human document not to be preserved in full. It reads: Your petitioner, a man of color, respectfully represents that sometime in the year 1835 your petitioner was purchased as a slave by one John Emerson, since deceased, who afterwards, to wit, about the year 1836 or 1839, conveyed your petitioner from the State of Missouri to Fort Snelling, a fort then occupied by the troops of the United States, and under the jurisdiction of the United States, situated in the territory ceded by France to the United States under the name of Louisiana, lying North of 36 degrees and 30 minutes North latitude, not included within the limits of the State of Missouri; and resided and continued to reside at said Fort Snelling for upwards of one year, and holding your petitioner in slavery at said Fort during all that time; in violation of the act of Congress of March 6th, 1820, entitled "An act to authorize the people of Missouri Territory to form a constitution and State government and for the admission of such state into the Union on an equal footing with the original states and to prohibit slavery in certain territories." Your petitioner avers that said Emerson has since departed this life, leaving a widow, Irene Emerson, and an infant child whose name is unknown to your petitioner, and that one Alexander Sandford has administered upon the estate of said Emerson and that your petitioner is now unlawfully held by said Sandford as said Administrator and said Irene Emerson who claims your petitioner as part of the estate of said Emerson and by one said Samuel Russell. Your petitioner therefore prays your Honorable Court to grant him leave to sue as a free person in order to establish his right to freedom and that the necessary orders may be made in the premises. (Signed) DRED SCOTT. his DRED X SCOTT mark Sworn to and subscribed before me this 1st day July, 1847, PETER W. JOHNSTONE, J.P. Upon reading the above petition this day, it being the opinion of the Judge of the Circuit Court that the said petition contains sufficient matter to authorize the commencement of a suit for his freedom, it is hereby ordered that the said petitioner, Dred Scott, be allowed to sue, on giving security satisfactory to the Clerk of the Circuit Court for all costs that may be adjudged against him, and that he have reasonable liberty to attend his counsel and the Court as occasion may require, and that he be not subjected to any severity on account of this application for his freedom and that he be not removed out of the jurisdiction of the Court. A. HAMILTON, _Judge of the St. Louis Circuit Court, 8th Judicial Circuit, Mo._ July 2d, 1847. Having obtained the desired leave to sue from Judge Alexander Hamilton, Roswell Field procured Joseph Charless, one of the leading citizens of St. Louis, to execute the necessary bond for costs. Then he lost no time in filing the following complaint, which I have no doubt Eugene Field would have mortgaged many weeks' salary to number among his most precious possessions. He would have cherished it above the Gladstone axe, for, while that felled mighty oaks, this brief document laid the axe at the root of a deadly upas-tree which threatened the destruction of a free republic. I offer no apology for its insertion here: STATE OF MISSOURI, ) COUNTY OF ST. LOUIS) ss. CIRCUIT COURT OF ST. LOUIS, ST. LOUIS COUNTY. November Term, 1847. Dred Scott, a man of color, by his attorneys, plaintiff in this suit, complains of Alexander Sandford as administrator of the estate of John Emerson deceased, Irene Emerson and Samuel Russell, defendants of a plea of trespass. For that the said defendants heretofore, to wit on the 1st day of July in the year 1846 at to wit the County of St. Louis aforesaid with force and arms assaulted the said plaintiff and then and there, beat, bruised, and ill-treated him and then and there imprisoned and kept and detained him in prison there without any reasonable or probable cause whatsoever, for a long time, to wit for the space of one year, then next following, contrary to law and against the will of the said plaintiff; and the said plaintiff avers that before and at the time of the committing of the grievances aforesaid, he the said plaintiff was then and there and still is a free person, and that the said defendants held and still hold him in slavery, and other wrongs to the said plaintiff then and there did against the peace of the State of Missouri to the damage of the said plaintiff in the sum of ($300) Three Hundred Dollars, and therefore he sues. FIELD & HALL, _Attys. for Plff._ With this brief and bald complaint for trespass to the person and false imprisonment was begun a long and stubbornly fought litigation, extending over ten years, and which was destined to end in Chief Justice Taney declaring: They [negroes] had for more than a century before [the Declaration of Independence] been regarded as beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the white race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior that they had no rights which the white man was bound to respect; and that the negro might justly and lawfully be reduced to slavery for his benefit. He was bought and sold and treated as an ordinary article of merchandise and traffic whenever a profit could be made by it. From the beginning of his connection with this case Roswell Field contended for the broad principle enunciated by Lord Mansfield that "Slavery is so odious that nothing can be suffered to support it but positive law." He consented to a discontinuance of the original action because of the variance of the complaint from the subsequently discovered facts. In the second suit Dred Scott and his family were declared free by the local court, but the judgment was reversed on appeal to the Supreme Court of the state. Judge Gamble, in dissenting from the opinion of the majority of the Court, held that "In Missouri it has been recognized from the beginning of the Government as a correct position in law that a master who takes his slave to reside in a state or territory where slavery is prohibited thereby emancipates his slave." The subsequent sale of Dred Scott to a citizen of New York named Sandford afforded Roswell Field the opportunity to renew the fight for Scott's freedom in the United States Circuit Court at St. Louis. The case was tried in May, 1854, and it was again declared that Scott and his family "were negro slaves, the lawful property of Sandford." Roswell Field immediately appealed by writ of error to the Supreme Court of the United States, where the appeal was first argued early in 1856, and a second time in December of the same year. Mr. Field's connection with the case ended when he prepared the papers on appeal and sent his brief to Montgomery Blair, with whom was associated for Scott on the second hearing George Ticknor Curtis. Both of these eminent lawyers emulated the example of Eugene Field's father, who for nearly nine years had devoted a large share of his time and energy to the fight of a penniless negro slave for liberty. Looking back now it is almost impossible to realize how the issue in this case stirred the nation to its depth. It was first argued while the country was in the throes of the fierce Fremont-Buchanan campaign, and it was believed that the second hearing was ordered by a pro-slavery court after Buchanan's election, to permit more time in which to formulate the extraordinary decision at which the majority of the court arrived. The decision was political rather than judicial, and challenged the attention of the people beyond any act of the Supreme Court before or since. The Civil War was virtually an appeal from the judgment of Chief Justice Taney and his associates to the God of Battles. It must not be thought that a single case, although the most celebrated in the annals of American jurisprudence, was Roswell Field's sole claim to the title of leader of the Missouri bar during his lifetime. The records of the Superior Court of that state bear interesting and convincing testimony to the exceptional brilliancy of Eugene Field's father, while the tributes to his memory, by his brothers at the bar and the judges before whom he appeared, prove that in all the relations of life he fulfilled the promise of ability and genius given in his graduation from college at an age when most boys are entering a preparatory school. Before dismissing Roswell Field to take up the story of his son's career, I wish to quote a few passages from a brief memoir which is preserved in the history of Newfane, as throwing direct hereditary light on the peculiar character, fascinating personality, and entertaining genius of his son. As I may hereafter have occasion to refer to Eugene Field's political convictions, let us begin these quotations with one as to his father's politics: "In the dark days of the Rebellion, during the years 1861 and 1862, when the friends of the Union in St. Louis and Missouri felt that they were in imminent danger of being drawn from their homes and of having their estates confiscated by rebels and traitors, General Lyon, General Blair, and R.M. Field were among the calm, loyal, and patriotic men who influenced public action and saved the city and state." Those of my readers who knew the son will recognize much that captivated them in this description of the father: "In his social relations he was a genial and entertaining companion, unsurpassed in conversational powers, delighting in witty and sarcastic observations and epigrammatic sentences. He was elegant in his manners and bland and refined in his deportment. He was a skilful musician and passionately fond of children, and it was his wont in early life to gather them in groups about him and beguile them by the hour with the music of the flute or violin. He was actually devoid of all ambition for power and place, and uniformly declined all offers of advancement to the highest judicial honors of the state." From the lips of Samuel Knox, of the St. Louis bar, we have this testimony as to the remarkable extent and versatility of Roswell M. Field's talents: "Uniting great industry and acquirements with the most brilliant wit and genius, well and accurately informed on all subjects, both in science and art; endowed with a memory that retained whatever it received, with quick and clear perceptions, the choicest, most felicitous, and forcible language in which to clothe his thoughts, no one could doubt his meaning or withhold the tribute of wonder at his power." [Illustration: CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.] To clinch the evidence as to the source from which Eugene Field derived pretty nearly everything that won for him such meed of fame as fell to his lot, let me quote from an interview with Melvin L. Gray, his guardian and foster-father, printed in the Helena Independent, September 6th, 1895, shortly before his idol's death: "If I had never believed in the influence of heredity before, I would now, after having known Eugene Field and his father before him. The father was a lawyer of wonderful ability, but he was particularly distinguished by his keen wit, his intense appreciation of the humorous side of life, and his fondness for rare first editions of literary works. He was a profound student, and found much time to cultivate the fairer qualities that some lawyers neglect in the busy round of their profession. Eugene is not a lawyer, but he has his father's tastes, his father's keen wit, and much of the same fineness of character and literary ability." "Another point of similarity is found in Eugene's neglect of financial matters. In his youth the father was equally negligent, although he did subsequently grow more thrifty, and when he died left the boys a little patrimony. As executor I apportioned the money as directed. Both the boys spent it freely while it lasted." I find no trace in the father of what, all through life, was the pre-eminent characteristic of Eugene, the inveterate painstaking, mirth-compelling practical-joker. But in Brattleboro, Newfane, and throughout Vermont everybody says, "That's jest like his uncle Charles Kellogg. There was never such another for jest foolin'. He'd rather play a hoax on the parson that would embarrass him in the face of his congregation than eat." When they were boys, it was Charles that led Roswell into all kinds of mischief. "Uncle Charles Kellogg"--they always give him the benefit of the second name in Brattleboro--had a reputation for wit and never-ending badinage throughout the neighborhood that still survives and leaves no room to question whence Eugene inherited his unquenchable passion "for jest foolin'." CHAPTER IV BIRTH AND EARLY YOUTH For nine years after moving to St. Louis his profession was the sole mistress of Roswell Field's "laborious days" and bachelor nights. Almost coincident with his becoming interested in the case of the slave, Dred Scott, he met, and more to the purpose of this narrative, became interested in Miss Frances Reed, then of St. Louis, but whose parents hailed from Windham County, Vermont. Whether their common nativity, or the fact that her father was a professional musician, first brought them together, the memory of St. Louis does not disclose. Miss Reed was a young woman of unusual personal charm. All accounts agree that she was quiet and refined in her ways and yet possessed that firmness of mind that is the salt of a quiet nature. They were married in May, 1848, and in the love and domestic happiness of his mature manhood, Roswell Field found the sweet balm for the bitterness that followed from his youthful romance and the nullification of the Putney marriage. Of this union six children were born in the eight years of Mrs. Field's wedded life, only two of whom, Eugene, the second, and Roswell, survived babyhood. There is some uncertainty as to the exact date and location of Eugene's birth. When his father was married he took his bride home to a house on Collins Street, which, under Time's transmuting and ironical fingers, has since become a noisy boiler-shop. There their first child was born. Subsequently they moved to the house, No. 634 South Fifth Street (now Broadway), which is one in the middle of a block of houses pointed out in St. Louis as the birthplace of Eugene Field. Although Eugene himself went with the photographer and pointed out the house, his brother Roswell strenuously maintains that Eugene was born before the family moved to the Walsh row, so-called, and that to the boiler-shop belongs the honor of having heard the first lullabies that greeted the ears of their greatest master. [Illustration: EUGENE FIELD'S MOTHER. _From a daguerreotype taken a year or two before his birth._] Roswell's view receives negative corroboration from the testimony of Mrs. Temperance Moon, of Farmington, Utah, who for a time lived in their father's family. Under date of February 25th, 1901, Mrs. Moon wrote to me: "I can give you very little information in regard to Mr. Field's place of birth. It was on Third Street. I do not remember the names of the cross streets, I think Cherry was one. Eugene was four months old when I went to live with them. I stayed until the family went east for the summer. Mrs. Field's sister was living with them. Her name was Miss Arabella Reed. When they came back Roswell was a few months old. They went to live on Fifth Street in a three-story house. Mrs. Field sent word for me to come and take care of Eugene. I was twelve years old. She gave me full charge of him. I was very proud of the charge. He was a noble child. I loved him as a dear brother. He took great delight in hearing me read any kind of children's stories and fairy tales. His mother was a lovely woman. I have a book and a picture Eugene sent to me. The picture is of him and his mother when he was only six months old." Equal and illusive doubt hangs over the date of Eugene Field's birth. Was it September 2d or 3d, 1850? In his "Auto-Analysis," of which we shall hear more further along, Field himself gives preference to the latter figure. But as his preference more than half the time went by the rule of contraries, that would be prima-facie evidence that he was born on the earlier date. There again the testimony of the younger brother is to the effect that in their youth the anniversary of Eugene's birth was held to be September 2d. Their father said he could not reconcile his mind to the thought that one of his children was born on so memorable an anniversary as September 3d, the day of Cromwell's death. I have little doubt that Field himself fostered the irrepressible conflict of dates, on the theory that two birthdays a year afforded a double opportunity to playfully remind his friends of the pleasing duty of an interchange of tokens on such anniversaries. If they forgot September 2d, he could jog their memories that Cromwell's death on September 3d, two centuries before, was no excuse for ignoring his birth on September 3d, 1850. Whether born on the anniversary of Cromwell's death or in the boiler-shop, no stories of the youthful precocity of Eugene Field survive to entertain us or to suggest that he gave early indication of the possession either of unusual talent or of that unique personality that were to distinguish him from the thousands born every day. But Eugene and Roswell, Jr., were not long to know the watchful tenderness and ambitious solicitude of that "mother love" of which the elder has so sweetly sung. In November, 1856, when Eugene was six years old, their mother died and their father's thoughts instinctively turned to his sister, hoping to find with her, amid scenes familiar to his own youth, a home and affectionate care for his motherless boys. How the early loss of his mother affected the life of Eugene Field it is impossible to tell. Not until the boy of six whom she left had become a man of forty did he attempt to pay a tribute of filial love to her memory. The following lines, under the simple title, "To My Mother," first appeared in his "Sharps and Flats" column, October 25th, 1890. It was reprinted in his "Second Book of Verse." The opening lines summon up a tender picture of a "grace that is dead": _How fair you are, my mother! Ah, though 'tis many a year Since you were here, Still do I see your beauteous face And with the glow Of your dark eyes cometh a grace Of long ago._ The Mistress French of our earlier acquaintance, who was a widow when we last knew her in Newfane, had married again and, as Mistress Thomas Jones, had moved with her daughter, Mary Field French, to Amherst, Mass. To the home of Mrs. Jones and the loving care of Miss French, Eugene and Roswell, Jr., were entrusted. Miss French was at this time a young woman, a spinster--Eugene delighted to call her--of about thirty years. His old Munson tutor thus describes her: "Mary Field French, a daughter of Mrs. Jones by her first husband, was a lady of strong mind, and much culture, with a sound judgment and decision of character and very gracious manners. She was always sociable and agreeable and so admirably adapted to the charge of the two brothers." They retained through manhood the warmest affection for this cousin-mother, and never wearied in showing toward her the grateful devotion of loyal sons. "Here," continues Dr. Tufts, "in this charming home, under the best of New England influences and religious instruction, with nothing harsh or repulsive, the boys could not have found a more congenial home. Indeed, few mothers are able or even capable of doing so much for their own children as Miss French did for these two brothers, watching over them incessantly, yet not spoiling them by weak indulgence or repelling them by harsh discipline." [Illustration: EUGENE FIELD'S COUSINS, MARY FIELD FRENCH AND HER YOUNGER HALF SISTER, AUGUSTA JONES. _From a daguerreotype taken before Eugene and Roswell became members of Miss French's family in Amherst, on the death of their mother._] Here it was that Eugene was brought up in the "nurture and admonition of the Lord," as he would often declare with a mock severity of tone, that left a mixed impression as to the beneficence of the nurture and the abiding quality of the admonition. Here he spent his school days, not in acquiring a broad or deep basis for future scholarship, but in studying the ways and whims of womankind, in practising the subtile arts whereby the boy of from six to fifteen attains a tyrannous mastery over the hearts of a feminine household, and in securing the leadership among the daring spirits of his own age and sex, for whom he was early able to furnish a continuous programme of entertainment, adventure, and mischief. Of this period of Eugene Field's life we get the truest glimpse through the eyes of his brother, who has written appreciatively of their boyhood spent in Amherst. "His boyhood," writes Roswell, "was similar to that of other boys brought up with the best surroundings in a Massachusetts village, where the college atmosphere prevailed. He had his boyish pleasures and his trials, his share of that queer mixture of nineteenth century worldliness and almost austere Puritanism, which is yet characteristic of many New England families." If the reader wishes to know more of the New England atmosphere, in which Eugene Field was permitted to have pretty much his own sweet way by his cousin and aunt, let him have recourse to Mrs. Earle's "The Sabbath in Puritan New England," which I find in my library commended to my perusal, "with Eugene Field's love, December 25th, 1891"--and to other books by the same author. In a letter to Mrs. Earle, from which I quoted in the opening paragraph of this narrative, I find the following reference to the period of his life which we are now considering: "Fourteen years of my life were spent in Newfane, Vt., and Amherst, Mass. My lovely old grandmother was one of the very elect. How many times have I carried her footstove for her and filled it in the vestry-room. I have frozen in the old pew while grandma kept nice and warm and nibbled lozenges and cassia cakes during meeting. I remember the old sounding-board. There was no melodeon in that meeting-house; and the leader of the choir pitched the tune with a tuning-fork. As a boy I used to play hi-spy in the horse-shed. But I am not so very old--no, a man is still a boy at forty, isn't he?" [Illustration: THE FIELD HOMESTEAD AT NEWFANE, VT.] Eugene Field would have been a boy at fifty and at eighty had he lived, and he was very much of a boy at the period of which he wrote to Mrs. Earle. I have no doubt that he was a very circumspect lad while under the loving yet stern glance of that dear old grandmother, in whose kindly yet dignified presence three generations of Fields moved with varying emotions of love and circumspection. "Her husband" (General Martin Field of our acquaintance), wrote "Uncle Charles Kellogg," "was genial and social, full of humor and mirth, oftentimes filling the house with his jocund laugh." She, however, "true to her refined womanly instinct, her sense of propriety, rarely disturbed by his merry and harmless jests, with great discretion pursued 'the even tenor of her way.' Patiently and with unfaltering devotion to the higher and nobler purposes of life, she always maintained her self-possession, strenuously avoided all levity and frivolity, rarely relaxed the gravity of her deportment, and never failed in the end of controlling both husband and household." Eugene's own picture of his grandmother is contained in the following passage in an article contributed by him to the Ladies' Home Journal: "Grandma was a pillar in the Congregational Church. At the decline and disintegration of the Universalist society, she rejoiced cordially as if a temple of Baal or an idol of Ashtaroth had been overturned. Yes, grandma was Puritanical--not to the extent of persecution, but a Puritan in the severity of her faith and in the exacting nicety of her interpretation of her duties to God and mankind. Grandma's Sunday began at six o'clock Saturday evening; by that hour her house was swept and garnished, and her lamps trimmed, every preparation made for a quiet, reverential observance of the Sabbath Day. There was no cooking on Sunday. At noon Mrs. Deacon Ranney and other old ladies used to come from church with grandma to eat luncheon and discuss the sermon and suggest deeds of piety for the ensuing week. I remember Mrs. Deacon Ranney and her frigid companions very distinctly. They never smiled and they wore austere bombazines that rustled and squeaked dolorously. Mrs. Deacon Ranney seldom noticed me further than to regard me with a look that seemed to stigmatize me as an incipient vessel of wrath that was not to be approved of, and I never liked Mrs. Deacon Ranney after I heard her reminding grandma one day that Solomon had truly said, 'spare the rod and spoil the child.' I still think ill of Mrs. Deacon Ranney for having sought to corrupt dear old grandma's gentle nature with any such incendiary suggestions. The meeting-house was cold and draughty, and the seats, with their straight backs, were oh, so hard. Grandma's pew was near the pulpit. I remember now how ashamed I used to be to carry her footstove all the way up that long aisle for her--I was such a foolish little boy then--and now, ah me, how ready and glad and proud I should be to do that service for dear old grandma! "When grandma went to meeting she carried a lovely big black velvet bag; it had a bouquet wrought in beads of subdued color upon it, and it hung by two sombre silk puckering ribbons over grandma's arm. In the bag grandma carried a supply of crackers and peppermint lozenges, and upon these she would nibble in meeting whenever she felt that feeling of goneness in the pit of her stomach, which I was told old ladies sometimes suffer with. It was proper enough, I was assured, for old ladies to nibble at crackers and peppermint lozenges in meeting, but that such a proceeding would be very wicked for a little boy." From which it might appear that the atmosphere of Newfane, under the grave and serious deportment of his grandmother, must have been a change from the freedom Eugene and his brother enjoyed under the fond rule of Miss French at Amherst. But when I was in Newfane in 1899 I was informed by a dear old lady in bombazine, who remembered their visits distinctly, that "Eugene and Roswell were wild boys. Not bad, but just tew full of old Nick for anything." [Illustration: THE HOMESTEAD AT AMHERST, MASS. _Now owned by Mr. Hiram Eaton of New York._] It was in Amherst, however, and not in Newfane, from Cousin Mary, and not from his dear Grandmother Esther, that Eugene got the New England "bent" in his Missouri mind. It is hard to separate the fact from the fancy in his story of "My Grandmother." His youth from 1856 to 1865 was lived in Amherst. His only visit to the Field homestead in Newfane was when he was nine years old. And of this he has written, "we stayed there seven months and the old lady got all the grandsons she wanted. She did not invite us to repeat the visit." He also confessed that all his love for nature dated from that visit. As a boy he would never have been permitted to indulge the fondness for animal pets under "the dark penetrating eyes" of his grandmother, that was tolerated and became a life-habit by the "gracious love" of Mary Field French. Of this fondness for pets, Roswell has written that it amounted to a passion. "But unlike other boys he seemed to carry his pets into a higher sphere and to give them personality. For each pet, whether dog, cat, bird, goat, or squirrel--he had the family distrust of a horse--he not only had a name, but it was his delight to fancy that each possessed a peculiar dialect of human speech, and each he addressed in the humorous manner conceived. When in childhood he was conducting a poultry annex to the homestead, each chicken was properly instructed to respond to a peculiar call, and Finniken, Minniken, Winniken, Dump, Poog, Boog seemed to recognize immediately the queer intonations of their master with an intelligence that is not usually accorded to chickens." I cannot forbear to introduce here a characteristic bit of evidence from Eugene Field's own pen of the survival of the passion for pets to which his brother testifies: "It is only under stress," said he in his allotted column in the Chicago Record of January 9th, 1892, "nay, under distress, that the mysterious veil of the editorial-room may properly be thrown aside and the secret thereof disclosed. It is under a certain grievous distress that we make this statement now: "For a number of months the silent partner in the construction of this sporadic column of 'Sharps and Flats' has been a little fox terrier given to the writer hereof by his friend, Mr. Will J. Davis. We named our little companion Jessie, and our attachment to her was wholly reciprocated by Jessie herself, although (and we make this confession very shamefacedly) our enthusiasm for Jessie was by no means shared by the prudent housewife in charge of the writer's domestic affairs. Jessie contributed to and participated in our work in this wise: She would sit and admiringly watch the writer at his work, wagging her abridged tail cordially whenever he bestowed a casual glance upon her, threatening violence to every intruder, warning her master of the approach of every garrulous visitor, and oftentimes, when she felt lonely, insisted on climbing up into her master's lap and slumbering there while he wrote and wrote away. We have tried our poems on Jessie, and she always liked them; leastwise she always wagged her tail approvingly and smiled her flatteries as only a very intelligent little dog can. Some folk think that our poetry drove Jessie away from home, but we know better; Jessie herself would deny that malicious imputation were she here now and could she speak. "To this little companion we became strongly, perhaps foolishly, attached. She walked with us by day, hunting rats and playing famously every variety of intelligent antics. Whither we went she went, and at night she shared our couch with us. Though only nine months old Jessie stole into this life of ours so very far that years seemed hardly to compass the period and honesty of our friendship. "Well, last Tuesday night Jessie disappeared--vanished as mysteriously as if the earth had opened up and swallowed her. She had been playing with a discreet dog friend in Fullerton Avenue, and that was the last seen of her! Where can she have gone? It is very lonesome without Jessie. Moreover there are poems to be read for her approval before they can be printed; the great cause of literature waits upon Jessie. She must be found and restored to her proper sphere. "Jessie perhaps was not beautiful, yet she was fair to her master's eyes. She was white with yellow ears and a brownish blaze over her left eye and warty cheek. She weighed perhaps twenty pounds (for Jessie never had dyspepsia), and one mark you surely could tell her by was the absence of a nail from her left forepaw, the honorable penalty of an encounter with an enraged setting hen in our barn last month. "Jessie's master is not rich, for the poetry that fox terriers approve is not remunerative; but that master has accumulated (by means of industrious application to his work and his friends) the sum of $20, which he will cheerfully pay to the man, woman, or child who will bring Jessie back again. For he is a weak human creature, is Jessie's master, in his loneliness, without his faithful, admiring little dumb friend." Two days later Field printed the following letter and his answer thereto, both written by the same hand in his column: CHICAGO, January 10th. _To the Editor_: I am very sorry for the gentleman who writes your Sharps and Flats, for I know what it is to lose a little dog. I had one once and some boy I guess took it off and never brought it back again. I have got a maltese cat and four beautiful kittens, and should like to send the gentleman one of the kittens if he wants one. Maybe he would get to like the kitten as much as he did the little dog. Respectfully, your little friend, EDITH LONG. "Many thanks to our charming little correspondent; she has a gentle heart, we know. What havoc one of those mischievous creatures would make! In the first place it would accomplish the destruction of these little canaries of ours which now flit about this lovely disordered room, perching confidently upon folios and bric-a-brac and hopping blithely over the manuscripts and papers on the table. In the basement against the furnace, three beautiful fleecy little chickens have just hatched out. How long do you suppose it would be before that wicked little kitten discovered and compassed the demolition of those innocent baby fowls? Then again there are rabbits in the stable and very tame pigeons and the tiniest of bantams. It would be very dreadful to introduce a truculent kitten (and all felines are naturally truculent) into such society. And our blood fairly congeals when we think that perhaps (oh, fearful possibility) that kitten might nose out and wantonly destroy the too lovely butterflies stored away in yonder closet, which we have appropriately named the cage of gloom. "Miss Edith must keep her kitten and may she have the pleasure of its pretty antics. However, she must bear this in mind, that sooner or later our pets come to grief. "Very, very many years ago, we read and cried over a little book written by Grace Greenwood and entitled 'The History of My Pets.' Even as a child we wondered why it was that evil invariably befell the pets of youth. "We all know that most little folks are tender-hearted, yet there are some who seem indifferent to pets, to have little sympathy with the pathos of dumb animals. And we have so often wondered whether after all these latter did not get more of pleasure or should we say less of pain out of life than the others. The tender heart seldom hardens; in maturer years its comprehensions and sympathies broaden, and this of course involves pain. Are the delights of sympathy a fair offset to the pains thereof?" The boy at Amherst was the father of the man at forty-two. It was to the prototype of "The Bench-Legged Fyce," known in Miss French's household as "Dooley," that the boy Eugene attributed his first verse, a parody on the well-known lines, "Oh, had I the wings of a dove!" Dooley's song ran: _Oh, had I wings like a dove I would fly Away from this world of fleas; I'd fly all round Miss Emerson's yard And light on Miss Emerson's trees._ It was rank disloyalty to the memory of "Dooley" to rename the bench-legged fyce "Sooner" and locate the scene of his "chronic repose" in St. Jo rather than under the flea-proof tree of Mrs. Emerson in Amherst. But who regrets the poetic license as he reads: _We all hev our choice, an' you like the rest, Allow that dorg which you've got is the best; I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows up With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him and a pup; When a fellow gits old--I tell you it's nice To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!_ Although Eugene Field never forgot or forgave the terrors of the New England Sabbath, its strict observance, its bad singing, doleful prayers and interminable sermons, the impress of those all-day sessions in church and Sunday-school was never eradicated from his life and writings. Nothing else influenced his work or affected his style as much as the morals and the literature of the Bible and the sacred songs that were lined out week after week from the pulpit under which he literally and figuratively sat when a youth. "If," he has said, "I could be grateful to New England for nothing else I should bless her forevermore for pounding me with the Bible and the Spelling-Book." There is in the possession of the family the "Notes of a Sermon by E.P. Field," said to have been written by Eugene at the age of nine, when he affected the middle initial of P in honor of Wendell Phillips. It was more probably written when he was twelve or fourteen, as he showed at nine none of the signs of precocity which such a composition indicates. The youthful Channing took for his text the fifteenth verse of the thirteenth chapter of Proverbs: "Good understanding giveth favor: but the way of transgressors is hard." Upon this he expounded as follows: "The life of a Christian is often compared to a race that is hard and to a battle in which a man must fight hard to win, these comparisons have prevented many from becoming Christians. "But the Bible does not compare the Christian's path as one of hard labor. But Solomon says wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness and her paths are peace. Under the word transgressor are included all those that disobey their maker, or, in shorter words, the ungodly. Every person looking around him will see many who are transgressors and whose lot is very hard. "I remark secondly that conscience makes the way of transgressors hard; for every act of pleasure, every act of guilt his conscience smites him. The last of his stay on earth will appear horrible to the beholder. Sometimes, however, he will be stayed in his guilt. A death in a family of some favorite object, or be attacked by some disease himself, is brought to the portals of the grave. Then for a little time, perhaps, he is stayed in his wickedness, but before long he returns to his worldly lusts. Oh, it is indeed hard for a sinner to go down into perhaps perdition over all the obstacles which God has placed in his path. But many, I am afraid, do go down into perdition, for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be that go in after it. "Suppose now there was a fearful precipice and to allure you there your enemies should scatter flowers on its dreadful edge, would you if you knew that while you were strolling about on that awful rock that night would settle down on you and that you would fall from that giddy, giddy height, would you, I say, go near that dreadful rock? Just so with the transgressor, he falls from that height just because he wishes to appear good in the sight of the world. But what will a man gain if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul." Whenever this was written it shows on its face that it is more an effort of memory or the effect of one of the fearful sermons of fifty years ago on the impressionable mind of youth, than the original production of a precocious boy struggling with the insoluble problem of life and judgment to come. Mark how the stock words of the pulpiteer, "transgressor," "worldly lusts," "dreadful," "awful," "perdition" stalk fiercely through the sermon of the youthful saint or sinner! Roswell Field says that his brother without instruction early acquired the habit of drawing amusing pictures of his playmates and his pets, and that later in life he gave it as his honest opinion that he would have been much more successful as a caricaturist than as a writer. But Eugene's drawings at all periods were never more than grotesque or fanciful illustrations of the whimsical ideas he harbored respecting everything that came to his attention. In after life Eugene Field gave frequent proof that he cherished contradictory sentiments toward Vermont and New England. One view was tinged, I think, with the recollection of the wrong his father suffered at the hands of the Green Mountain courts, and reflects the general tenor of his comment whenever Vermont men or affairs came under discussion in the public press. It is illustrated in the following paragraph: The Vermont papers agreed that Colonel Aldace Walker is the very best man in Vermont for the Inter-State Commerce Commission. This may be true. At the same time, however, we fail to see what interest Vermont can possibly take in inter-state commerce. She has no commerce of her own, and she probably never will have. There is a bobbin factory at Williamsville, and a melodeon factory at Brattleboro, but the commerce resulting from them is not worthy of mention. There is talk about the maple-sugar that Vermont exports, but we have noticed that all the "genuine Vermont maple-sugar" in the Western market comes from the South, and is about as succulent as the heel of a gum-boot. In all the State of Vermont there is but one railroad, the Vermont Central; it begins at Grout's Corner, Mass., and runs in a bee-line north until it reaches the southern end of the Montreal bridge. This remarkable road has a so-called branch operating once per week between White River Junction and Montpelier, and a triweekly branch extending to Burlington. Montpelier is the home of Hiram Atkins, the famous "Nestor uv Checkerberry Journalism," and White River Junction is the whistling station and water-tank from which our country gets its election returns every four years. Burlington is located on Lake Champlain, and contains the summer residence of that grand old survivor of the glacial period, George F. Edmunds. Thus in a brief paragraph have we compressed all that can be said of the commerce and the railways of Vermont. The other view is softened with the haze that hangs over the scenes of childhood in the minds of all men of feeling when interpreted by an artist in expressing the thought "that unbidden rises and passes in a tear." It is from Field's little-known memorial to Mrs. Melvin L. Gray, written while he was in Southern California: The quiet beauty of these scenes recalls a time which, in my life, is so long ago that I feel strangely reverential when I speak of it. I find myself thinking of my boyhood, and of the hills and valleys and trees and flowers and birds I knew when the morning of my life was fresh and full of exuberance. Those years were spent among the Pelham hills, very, very far from here; but memory o'erleaps the mountain ranges, the leagues upon leagues of prairie, the mighty rivers, the forest, the farming lands, o'erleaps them all; and to-day, by that same sweet magic that instantaneously undoes the years and space, I seem to be among the Pelham hills again. The yonder glimpse of the Pacific becomes the silver thread of the Connecticut, seen, not over miles of orange-groves, but over broad acres of Indian corn; and instead of the pepper and eucalyptus, the lemon and the palm, I see (or I seem to see) the maple once more, and the elm and the chestnut trees, the shagbark walnut, the hickory, and the birch. In those days, these rugged mountains of this south land were unknown to me; and the Pelham hills were full of marvel and delight, with their tangled pathways and hidden stores of wintergreen and wild strawberries. Furtive brooks led the little boy hither and thither in his quest for trout and dace, while to the gentler-minded the modest flowers of the wild-wood appealed with singular directness. A partridge rose now and then from the thicket and whirred away, and with startled eyes the brown thrush peered out from the bushes. I see these pleasant scenes again, and I hear again the beloved sounds of old; and so with reverence and with welcoming I take up my task, for it was among these same Pelham hills that the dear lady of whom I am to speak was born and spent her childhood. CHAPTER V EDUCATION There was more truth than epigrammatic novelty in Eugene Field's declaration that his education began when he fancied he had left it off for the serious business of life. Throughout his boyhood he was far from a hardy youth. He always gave the impression of having overgrown his strength, so that delicate health, and not indisposition to study, has been assigned as the excuse for his backwardness in "book larnin'" when it was decided to send him away from the congenial distractions of Amherst to the care of the Rev. James Tufts of Monson. Monson is a very prettily situated Massachusetts town, about fifteen miles, as the crow flies, east of Springfield, and not more than twenty-five miles south by east of Amherst. It boasted then and still boasts one of the best equipped boys' academies in New England. It was not to the tender mercies of this academy, however, that Eugene was entrusted, but to the private tutorship of Mr. Tufts, whose life and character justify the tribute of Roswell Field that he is "one of those noble instructors of the blessed old school who are passing away from the arena of education in America." He is now, in 1901, in his ninetieth year, and is always spoken of among his neighbors as the "grand old man of Monson." From his own lips, accompanied by the lively comments of Mrs. Tufts, and from a loving communication written by him to the Springfield Republican shortly after Eugene Field's death I have gleaned the general facts of Eugene Field's school-days at Monson. [Illustration: A BIRD'S EYE VIEW OF MONSON, MASS.] It was in the Fall of 1865 that Eugene became one of a class of six boys in the private school of Mr. Tufts. This school was chosen because Mr. Tufts had known the boy's parents and grandparents and felt a real interest in the lad. He would not have received the proper care at a large school, where "he would be likely to get into trouble with his love of fun and mischief." The house in which Eugene became as one of the family is situated about a mile from the village and faces the post road, on the farther side of which is a mill-pond, where both Eugene and Roswell came near making the writing of this memoir unnecessary by going over the dam in a rude boat of their own construction. Happily the experience resulted in nothing more serious than a thorough fright and a still more thorough ducking. Back of the Tufts homestead rise some beautifully wooded hills, where Field and his schoolmates sought refuge from the gentle wrath of Mr. Tufts over their not infrequent delinquencies. The story is told in Monson that the boys, under the leadership of Field, built a "moated castle" of tree-trunks and brushwood in a well-nigh inaccessible part of these woods. Thence they sallied forth on their imaginary forays and thither they retired when in disgrace with Mr. Tufts. Around this retreat they dug a deep trench, which they covered artfully with boughs and dead leaves. Then they beguiled their reverend preceptor into chasing them to their "mountain fastness." Lightly they skipped across the concealed moat on the only firm ground they had purposely left, leaving him in the moment of exultant success to plunge neck deep into a tangled mass of brushwood and mud. In such playful ways as these Field endeared himself to the frequent forgiveness of Mr. Tufts. "It was impossible," said Mr. Tufts to me, "to cherish anger against a pupil whose contrition was as profuse and whimsical as his transgressions were frequent. The boys were boys." Of Eugene's education when he came to Monson Mr. Tufts testifies: "In his studies he was about fitted for an ordinary high school, except in arithmetic. He had read a little Latin--enough to commence Cæsar. I found him about an average boy in his lessons, not dull, but not a quick and ready scholar like his father, who graduated from Middlebury College at the age of fifteen, strong and athletic. He did not seem to care much for his books or his lessons anyway, but was inclined to get along as easily as he could, partly on account of his delicate health, which made close study irksome, and partly because his mind was very juvenile and undeveloped. His health improved gradually, while his interest in his studies increased slowly but steadily. Judge Forbes, of Westboro, for a time his room-mate and a remarkable scholar, remarked on reading his journal that his chum occasionally took up his book for study when his teacher came around, though he was not always particular which side up his book was. And so it was through life." But Eugene did improve in his scholarship, and during the last six months before leaving to enter Williams College, in 1868, Mr. Tufts says he did seem "to catch something of the spirit of Cicero and Virgil and Homer [where was Horace?], and to catch a little ambition for an education." His gentle preceptor thus summed up the characteristics of the youth he was trying to fit for college: "Eugene gave little if any indications of becoming a poet, or such a poet as he was, or even a superior writer, in his youth. He was always, however bright and lively in conversation, abounding in wit, self-possessed, and never laughing at his own jokes, showing, too, some of that exhaustless fountain of humor in which he afterward excelled. But he did not like confinement or close application, nor did he have patience to correct and improve what he wrote, as he afterward did when his taste was more cultivated. In declamation Eugene always excelled, reciting with marked effect 'Spartacus,' 'The Soldier of the Legion,' and 'The Dream of Clarence' from Shakespeare. He inherited from his father a rich, strong, musical, and sympathetic voice, which made him a pleasant speaker and afterward a successful public reader. He very naturally excelled in conversation at table and in getting up little comic almanacs, satirizing the boys, but always in good-humor, never descending to anything bitter or vulgar. Indeed, in all his fun, he showed ever a certain purity and nobility of character." On one occasion, Eugene wearied of the persistent efforts of Mr. Tufts to place his feet on the first rung of the ladder to learning, and started off afoot for his home in Amherst. He followed the railway track, counting the ties for twenty-five miles, and arrived, thoroughly exhausted, full of contrition, and ready to take the first train back to school. This was probably the most severe physical effort of Eugene Field's life. Mr. Tufts says that Field was "by nature and by his training, too, respectful toward religion and religious people, being at one time here [Monson] considerably moved and interested personally in a religious awakening, and speaking earnestly in meeting and urging the young to a religious life. Great credit for the remarkable success of Eugene is due to his Aunt Jones, Miss Mary French, and his guardian, Professor John Burgess, who were a continual and living influence about him until he arrived at maturity." In 1868, at the age when his father was admitted to the bar of Vermont, Eugene Field, according to Mr. Tufts, was barely able to pass the examination for entrance at Williams "with some conditions." The only evidence preserved in the books of the college that he passed at all is the following entry: Eugene Field, aged 18, September 5, 1868, son of R.M. Field, St. Louis. [Illustration: THE REV. JAMES TUFTS.] Among the professors and residents of Williamstown there is scarcely a tradition or trace of his presence. He did not fit into the treadmill of daily lessons and lectures. He was impatient of routine and discipline. There is a story extant, which is a self-evident fabrication, that President Mark Hopkins, meeting him on the street one day, asked him how he was getting along with his studies. Field replied that he was doing very well. Thereupon President Hopkins, in kindly humor, remarked: "I am glad to hear it, for, remember, you have the reputation of three universities to maintain." This apocryphal story is greatly relished in Williamstown, where, among the professors, there seems to linger a strange feeling of resentment that Field was not recognized as possessing the budding promise that is better worth cultivating than the mediocrity of the ninety-and-nine orderly youths who pursue the uneventful tenor of college life to a diploma--and are never heard of afterward. There is a bare possibility, however, that President Hopkins might have referred to the fact that Eugene's grandfather held an A.B. from Williams and the honorary degree of A.M. from Dartmouth, while his father was an alumnus of Middlebury. It is more probably an after--and a merry--thought built upon Field's own unfinished career at Williams, Knox, and the University of Missouri. From personal inquiry at Williamstown I find that none of the professors at Williams saw an encouraging gleam of aptitude for anything in the big-eyed, shambling youth whom Mr. Tufts had assiduously coached to meet the requirements of matriculation. There is a shadowy tradition that he did fairly well in his Latin themes when the subject suited his fancy, but his fancy more often led him to a sporting resort, kept by an ex-pugilist named Pettit, where he took a hand in billiards and made awkward essays with the boxing-gloves. Of course there is the inevitable yarn of a college town that he became so conceited over his skill in the manly art that he ventured to "stand up" before Pettit, to the bloody disfigurement of his countenance and the humiliation of his pride. If this is true, the lesson lasted him all his life, for a less combative adult than Eugene Field never graduated from an American college. He had a physical as well as a moral antipathy to personal participation in anything involving bodily danger or violence. Even then Field possessed the wit and the plentiful lack of reverence for the conventionalities of life that must have rendered him both intolerable and incomprehensible to a body of serious-minded and necessarily conventional professors. The very traits that subsequently made him the most entertaining comrade in the world provoked only consternation and uneasiness at Williams. This eventually led President Hopkins to inform Mr. Tufts privately that it might be well for his pupil, as certainly it would conduce to the orderly life of Williamstown, if he would run up from Monson and persuade Eugene to return home with him. There was no dismissal, rustication, or official reprimand of Eugene Field by the ever-honored President Hopkins. Field simply faded out of the annals and class of 1872, as if he had never been entered at Williams. Memories of Eugene Field are not as thick at Williamstown as blackberries on the Pelham hills. President Carter does not cherish them kindly because, perhaps, on the occasion of his appointment, Field gravely discussed his qualifications for the chair once occupied by Mark Hopkins as resting upon his contribution of "a small but active pellet" to the pharmaceutical equipment of his countrymen, famed for its efficacy to cure all disorders of mind and body "while you sleep." "Hy." Walden, much in demand as an expressman, remembers Field as a somewhat reckless fellow and "dare-devil," and is authority for the story of Field's discomfiture in the boxing bout with the redoubtable Pettit. Old Tom McMahon, who has been a familiar character to the students of Williams for nearly two generations, has a hazy recollection of the eccentric Eugene who flitted across the college campus a third of a century ago. He says that, if he "remembers right, Mr. Field was not one of the gentlemen who cared much for his clothes," but he "guessed he was made careless like, and in some ways he was a fine young man." [Illustration: WILLIAMS COLLEGE BUILDINGS, WILLIAMSTOWN, MASS.] The most valuable glimpse of Field at Williams is contained in the following letter written by Solomon B. Griffin, the managing editor of the Springfield Republican for many years, with whom I have had some correspondence in respect to the matter referred to therein. He not only knew Field at Williamstown, but was one of his life-long friends and warmest admirers. After a few introductory words, under date of Springfield, February 4th, 1901, Mr. Griffin wrote: Yes, I was of the class of 1872, but Field flitted before I became connected with it. But Williamstown was my birthplace and home and I struck up an acquaintance with him at Smith's college bookstore and the post-office. Field was raw and not a bit deferential to established customs, and so the secret-society men were not attracted to him. The "trotting" or preliminary attentions to freshmen constitute a great and revered feature of college life. When I saw Field "trotting" a lank and gawky freshman for the "Mills Theological Society," the humor of it appealed to one soaked in the traditions of a college town, and we "became acquainted." Field left the class about as I came in. It is not remarkable that Tom McMahon has no clear recollection of Field, who was in college only about six months and was not a fraternity man. There are so many coming and going! Nor that the faculty should be mindful of the lawless, irresponsible boy, and not of the genius that developed on its own lines and was never conventionalized but always remained a sinner however brilliant, and a flayer of good men unblessed with a saving sense of humor. If there is any kind thought for me in my old home it is because I did what Field couldn't do, paid outward respect to the environment. It was possible for me to see his point of view and theirs--to them irreconcilable, and to him also. Sincerely yours, S.B. GRIFFIN. Mr. Tufts's memorandum-book shows that Eugene returned to Monson April 27th, 1889, so his experience, if not his education, at Williams covered almost eight months of an impressionable period of his life. It is interesting to record the comment of Mrs. Tufts on the return of the wanderer to her indulgent care. "He was too smart for the professors at Williams," said she; "because they did not understand him, they could not pardon his eccentricities." That she did understand her husband's favorite pupil is evidenced in the following brief description, given off-hand to the writer: "Eugene was not much of a student, but very much of an irrepressible boy. There was no malice in his pranks, only the inherited disposition to tease somebody and everybody." On July 5th, 1869, Eugene was summoned to St. Louis by the serious illness of his father, who died July 12th. Thus ended his education, so far as it was to be affected by the environments and instructors of New England. Thenceforth he was destined to be a western man, with an ineradicable tang of Puritan prejudices and convictions cropping out unexpectedly and incongruously in all he thought and wrote. In the autumn of 1869 Eugene entered the sophomore class at Knox College, Galesburg, Ill., where Professor John William Burgess, who had been chosen as his guardian, held the chair of logic, rhetoric, English literature, and political science. But his career at Knox was practically a repetition of that at Williams. He chafed under the restraint of set rules and the requirement of attention to studies in which he took no interest. If he had been allowed to choose, he would have devoted his time to reading the Latin classics and declaiming--that is, as much time as he could spare from plaguing the professors and interrupting the studies of his companions by every device of a festive and fertile imagination. One year of this was enough for the faculty of Knox and for the restless scholar, so in the autumn of 1870 Eugene joined his brother Roswell in the junior class at the University of Missouri. Here Eugene Field ended, without graduating, such education as the school and the university was ever to give him, for in the spring of 1871 he left Columbia for St. Louis, never to return--a student at three universities and a graduate from none. Of Eugene Field's life in Columbia many stories abound there and throughout Missouri. From the aged and honored historian of the university I have the following testimony as to the relations of the two brothers with that institution, premising it with the fact that all the official records of students were consumed in the fire that visited the university in 1892: Roswell M. Field attended the university as a freshman in 1868-69, as a sophomore in 1869-70, and as a junior in 1870-71. He was a student of the institution these three sessions only. His brother Eugene Field was a student of the junior class, session 1870-71, and never before or since. I knew both of them well. Eugene was an inattentive, indifferent student, making poor progress in the studies of the course--a genial, sportive, song-singing, fun-making companion. Nevertheless he was bright, sparkling, entertaining and a leader among "the boys." In truth he was in intellect above his fellows and a genius along his favorite lines. He was prolific of harmless pranks and his school life was a big joke. [Illustration: THE OLD KNOX COLLEGE BUILDINGS, GALESBURG. ILL.] There has been preserved the following specimen of the "rigs" Eugene was in the habit of grinding out at the expense of the faculty--this being aimed at President Daniel Reed (1868-77). The poem is entitled: _BUCEPHALUS: A TAIL. Twelve by the clock and all is well-- That is, I think so, but who can tell? So quiet and still the city seems That even old Luna's brightest beams Cannot a single soul discover Upon the streets the whole town over. The Marshal smiles a genial smile And retires to snooze for a little while, To dream of billies and dirks and slings, The calaboose and such pleasant things. The college dig now digs for bed With bunged-up eyes and aching head, Conning his lesson o'er and o'er, Till an audible melodious snore Tells that he's going the kingdom through Where Greek's at a discount and Latin, too. The Doctor, robed in his snowy white, Gazes out from his window height, And he bends to the breezes his noble form, Like a stately oak in a thunderstorm, And watches his sleek and well-fed cows At the expense of the college browse. His prayers are said; out goes the light; Good-night; O learned pres, good-night. Half-past five by Ficklin's time When I again renew my rhyme; Old Sol is up and the college dig Resumes his musty, classic gig, "Cæsar venit celere jam." With here and there an auxiliary-- The Marshal awakes and stalks around With an air importantly profound, And seizing on a luckless wight Who quietly stayed at home all night On a charge of not preserving order, Drags him before the just Recorder. In vain the hapless youth denies it; A barroom loafer testifies it. "Fine him," the court-house rabble shout (This is the latest jury out). So when his pocketbook is eased Most righteous justice is appeased. The Doctor lay in his little bed, His night-cap 'round his God-like head, With a blanket thick and snowy sheet Enveloped his l---- pshaw! and classical feet, And he cleared his throat and began: "My dear, As well in Indiana as here-- I always took a morning ride, With you, my helpmeet, by my side. "This morning is so clear and cool, We'll ride before it's time for school. Holloa, there John! you lazy cuss! Bring forth my horse, Bucephalus!" So spake the man of letters. Straight Black John went through the stable gate, But soon returned with hair on end, While terror wings his speed did lend, And out he sent his piteous wail: "O boss! Old Bucky's lost his tail!" Down went the night-cap on the ground, Hats, boots and clothing flying round; In vain his helpmeet cried "Hold on!" He went right through that sable John. Sing, sing, O Muse, what deeds were done This morn by God-like Peleus' son; Descend, O fickle Goddess, urge My lyre to his bombastic splurge. Boots and the man I sing, who first Those Argive machinations cursed; His swimming eyes did Daniel raise To that sad tail of other days, And cried "Alas! what ornery cuss Has shaved you, my Bucephalus?" Then turning round he gently sighed, "We will postpone our morning ride." In wrath I smite my quivering lyre, Come once again, fair Muse, inspire My song to more heroic acts Than these poor simple, truthful facts. Cursed be the man who hatched the plot! Let dire misfortune be his lot! Palsied the hand that struck the blow! Blind be the eyes that saw the show! Hated the wretch who ruthless bled This innocent old quadruped. Subpreps, a word of caution, please; Better prepare your A, B, C's Than prowl around at dead of night. Don't rouse the beast in Daniel's breast; Perhaps you'll come out second best. Dear, gentle reader, pardon, pray, I'm thinking now I hear you say, "Oh, nonsense! what a foolish fuss About a horse, Bucephalus."_ This is no better verse, and possibly no worse, than much of the adolescent doggerel that is so often preserved by fond parents to prove that their child early gave signs of poetic and literary genius. [Illustration: STATE UNIVERSITY BUILDINGS AT COLUMBIA, MO.] CHAPTER VI CHOICE OF A PROFESSION Eugene Field was in his twenty-first year when he turned his back upon the colleges and faced life. Roswell M. Field, Sr., had been dead two years, and the moderate fortune which he had left, consisting mostly of realty valued at about $60,000, had not yet been distributed among the legatees, Eugene and Roswell M. Field and Mary French Field. To the last named one-fifth had been willed in recognition of the loving care she had bestowed upon the testator's two motherless sons, each of whom was to receive two-fifths of the father's estate. Eugene therefore looked forward to the possession of property worth something like $25,000. In St. Louis, in 1871, this was regarded as quite a large fortune. It would have been ample to start any young man, with prudence, regular habits, and a small modicum of business sense, well along in any profession or occupation he might adopt. But it was and would have been a bagatelle to Eugene though ten times the amount, unless surrounded with conditions as impenetrable as chilled steel to a pewter chisel to resist the seductive ingenuity of his spendthrift nature. On first going to St. Louis to live, Eugene Field was peculiarly fortunate in being taken into the home and enduring friendship of Melvin L. Gray, the executor of his father's estate, and of Mrs. Gray. To the memory of the latter, on her death several years since, Eugene contributed a memorial from which I have already quoted and which in some respects is the most sincerely beautiful piece of prose he ever wrote. In that he refers to his first coming to St. Louis in the following terms: My acquaintance with Mrs. Gray began in 1871. I was at that time just coming of age, and there were many reasons why I was attracted to the home over which this admirable lady presided. In the first-place Mrs. Gray's household was a counterpart of the households to which my boyhood life in New England had attracted me. Again both Mr. and Mrs. Gray were old friends of my parents; and upon Mr. Gray's accepting the executorship of my father's estate, Mrs. Gray felt, I am pleased to believe, somewhat more than a friendly interest in the two boys, who, coming from rural New England life into the great, strange, fascinating city, stood in need of disinterested friendship and prudent counsel. I speak for my brother and myself when I say that for the period of twenty years we found in Mrs. Gray a friend as indulgent, as forbearing, as sympathetic, as kindly suggestive and as disinterested as a mother, and in her home a refuge from temptation, care and vexation. [Illustration: EARLY PORTRAITS OF EUGENE FIELD.] In the subscription edition of "A Little Book of Western Verse," of which I had all the labor and none of the fleeting fame of publisher, Field dedicated his paraphrase of the Twenty-third Psalm to Mr. Gray, and it was to this constant friend of his youth and manhood, who still survives (1901), that Field indited the beautiful dedication of "The Sabine Farm": _Come dear old friend! and with us twain To calm Digentian groves repair; The turtle coos his sweet refrain And posies are a-blooming there, And there the romping Sabine girls With myrtle braid their lustrous curls._ I have followed the original copy Field sent to Mr. Gray, which has several variations in punctuation from the version as printed in "The Sabine Farm," where the eighth line reads: _Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls,_ which the reader can compare with the original as printed above. In that same dedication Field referred to Mr. Gray as one _Who lov'st us for our father's sake._ In announcing to Mr. Gray by letter, June 28th, 1891, his intention to make this dedication, Field wrote: It will interest, and we [Roswell was a joint contributor to "The Sabine Farm"] are hoping that it will please you to know that we shall dedicate this volume to you, as a slight, though none the less sincere, token of our regard and affection to you, as the friend of our father and as the friend to us. Were our father living, it would please him, we think, to see his sons collaborating as versifiers of the pagan lyrist whose songs he admired; it would please him, too, we are equally certain, to see us dedicating a result of our enthusiastic toil to so good a man and to so good a friend as you. These quotations are interesting as indicating the character of the surroundings of Eugene Field's early life in St. Louis. It was the hope of their father that one, if not both, of his sons would adopt the profession of the law, in which he and his brother Charles and their father before them had attained both distinction and something more than a competence. But neither Eugene nor his brother Roswell had the slightest predilection for the law. By nature and by a certain inconsequence of fancy they were peculiarly unfitted for the practice of a profession which requires drudgery to attain a mastery of its subtle requirements and a preternatural gravity in the application of its stilted jargon to the simplest forms of justice. The stage, on the other hand, possessed a fascination for Eugene. He was a mimic by inheritance, a comedian by instinct and unrestrained habit. Everything appealed to his sense of the queer, the fanciful, and the utterly ridiculous. He was a student of the whimsicalities of character and nature, and delighted in their portrayal by voice or pen. Strange to relate, however, his first thought of adopting the histrionic profession contemplated tragedy as his forte. He had inherited a wondrous voice, deep, sweet, and resonant, from his father, and had a face so plastic that it could be moulded at will to all the expressions of terror, malignity, and devotion, or anon into the most grotesque and mirth-provoking lines of comedy. His early love for reciting passages from "Spartacus," referred to by the Rev. Mr. Tufts, showed the bent of his mind, and when he became master of his own affairs he sought out Edwin Forrest and confided to him his ambition to go on the boards. Would that I could reproduce Field's version of that interview! He approached the great tragedian with a sinking heart, for Forrest had a reputation for brusque roughness never exceeded on or off the stage. But Eugene managed to prefer his request for advice and an opening in Forrest's company. The dark-browed Othello looked his visitor over from head to foot, and, in a voice that rolled through the flies of the stage where this little scene was enacted, exclaimed: "Boy, return to your friends and bid them apprentice you to a wood-sawyer, rather than waste your life on a precarious profession whose successes are few and whose rewards are bankruptcy and ingratitude. Go! study and learn of Coriolanus." This I repeat from memory, preserving the sense and the three words "boy," "wood-sawyer," and "Coriolanus," which always recurred in Field's various versions of "Why I did not go on the stage." Eugene returned to St. Louis and quietly disposed of the costumes he had prepared for such characters as Hamlet, Lear, and Spartacus. [Illustration: MELVIN L. GRAY.] Francis Wilson, in his "The Eugene Field I Knew," preserves the following story of Eugene's further venture in search of a profession: He organized a company of his own in conjunction with his friend, Marvin Eddy, who tells of a comedy Field wrote in which the heroines were impersonated by Field himself to the heroes of the only other acting member of the cast--Mr. Eddy. A Madame Saunders was the orchestra, or rather the pianist, and Monsieur Saunders painted the posters which announced the coming of the "great and only" entertainment. Rehearsals were held in the hotel dining-rooms. While a darky carried a placard of announcement, the result of Saunders's artistic handiwork, the local band, specially engaged, played in front of the principal places in town. Mr. Eddy recalls that Field had a sweet bass voice which he used with much effect both in songs and recitations. The season, confined to such towns in Missouri as Carrollton, Richmond, etc., lasted about two weeks and was what the papers would call a _succès d'estime_. Which, being interpreted into the vernacular of the author of "Sharps and Flats," spelled a popular "frost" and a financial failure. And thus Missouri closed the door of comedy against Field, as Forrest had shut the gates of tragedy in his pale and intellectual face. There was still one profession open to him in which he had made a few halting and tentative steps--that of journalism, with its broad entrance and narrowing perspective into the fair field of letters. While a sophomore at Knox he had exercised his irrepressible inclination "to shoot folly as it flies" by contributions to the local paper of Galesburg, which had the piquant flavor of personal comment. His youthful dash at the door of the stage had brought him into the comradeship of Stanley Waterloo and several other young journalists in St. Louis, and he was easily persuaded to try his 'prentice hand as a reporter, under the tutelage of Stanley Huntley, of the "Spoopendyke Papers" fame. But Eugene Field was yet without the stern incentive of necessity that is the seed of journalism. Circumstances, however, were ripening that would soon leave him no excuse on that score for not buckling down to "sawing wood," as for twenty-three years he was wont to consider his daily work. When he reached his majority he was entitled to his share in the first distribution of his father's estate. Before this could be made, Mr. Gray had to dispose of a part of the land which he held as executor of Roswell M. Field. It was accordingly offered for sale at auction, and enough to realize $20,000 was sold. Under the will, Eugene's share of this was $8,000, and he immediately placed himself in the way of investing it where it would be the least incumbrance to him. While at Columbia he had met Edgar V. Comstock, the brother of his future wife, through whom it was that he made her acquaintance. Upon the first touch of the cash payment on his share of the executor's sale, Eugene at once proposed to young Comstock that they visit Europe in company, he bearing the expenses of the expedition. His friend did not need much persuasion to embark on what promised to be such a lark. And so, in the fall of 1872, the two, against the prudent counsels of Mr. Gray, set out to see the world, and they saw it just as far as Eugene's cash and the balance of that $8,000 would go. In his "Auto-Analysis," Field says: "In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and my patrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and England." This is as near the sober truth as anything Field ever wrote about himself. The youthful spendthrift and his companion landed in Ireland, and by slow, but extravagant, stages reached Italy, taking the principal cities and sights of England and France en route. About the only letters that reached America from Field during this European trip (always excepting those that went by every mail-steamer to a young lady in St. Jo) were those addressed with business-like brevity to Mr. Gray, calling for more and still more funds to carry the travellers onward. Before they had reached Italy the mails were too slow to convey Field's importunity, and he had recourse to the cable to impress Mr. Gray with the dire immediateness of his impecuniosity. In order to relieve this Mr. Gray was forced to discount the notes for the deferred payments on the sale of the Field land, and when Eugene and his brother-in-law-to-be reached Naples their soulful appeals for more currency with which to continue their golden girdle of the earth were met with the chilling notice "No funds available." Happily, in their meteoric transit across Europe, they had invested in many articles of vertu and convertible souvenirs of the places they had visited. By the sale, or sometimes by the pledge, of these accumulated impedimenta of travel, Eugene made good his retreat to America, where he landed with empty pockets and an inexhaustible fund of mirthful stories and invaluable experience. On arriving in New York, Field had to seek the Western Union Telegraph office to secure funds for the necessary transportation to St. Louis. These Mr. Gray furnished so liberally that Eugene promptly invested the surplus in a French poodle, which he carried in triumph back to Missouri as a memento of his sojourn in Paris. This costly pet, the sole exhibit of his foreign travel, he named McSweeny, in memory, I suppose, of the pleasant days he had spent in Ireland. [Illustration: MRS. MELVIN L. GRAY.] Years afterward I remember to have been with Field when he opened a package containing a watch, which for more than a decade had been an unredeemed witness to his triumphant entry into and impecunious exit from Naples or Florence--I forget which. Mrs. Below, Field's sister-in-law, in her little brochure, "Eugene Field in His Home," preserves a letter written by him from Rome to a friend in Ireland, in which may be traced the bent of his mind to take a whimsical view of all things coming within the range of his observation. In this he bids farewell to political discussion: For since the collapse of the Greeley and Brown movement I have given over all hope of rescuing my torn and bleeding country from Grant and his minions, and have resolved to have nothing more to do with politics. Methinks, my country will groan to hear this declaration! And there is the following description of how he was enjoying himself in Italy, with the last remittances of his patrimony growing fewer and painfully less: We have been two months in Nice and a month or so travelling in Italy. Two weeks we passed in Naples, and a most delightful place we found it. Its natural situation is simply charming, though the climate is said to be very unhealthy. I climbed Vesuvius and peered cautiously into the crater. It was a glorious sight--nothing else like it in the world! Such a glorious smell of brimstone! Such enlivening whiffs of hot steam and sulphuric fumes! Then too the grand veil of impenetrable white smoke that hung over the yawning abyss! No wonder people rave about this crater and no wonder poor Pliny lost his life coming too near the fascinating monster. The ascent of Vesuvius is no mean undertaking, and I advise all American parents to train their children especially for it by drilling them daily upon their backyard ash-heaps. His descent of Vesuvius was made "upon a dead run," and he "astonished the natives by my [his] celerity and recklessness." This letter was written on Washington's birthday, 1873, and in later years the omission of any reference to the anniversary would have thrown suspicion on its genuineness; but Field had not yet begun to reckon life by anniversaries. Neither is there in it a shadow of the impending crisis in his finances nor a suggestion of another reason that robbed his return voyage of all distressing thoughts of retreat. CHAPTER VII MARRIAGE AND EARLY DOMESTIC LIFE And now I come to that event in the life of Eugene Field which has naturally attracted the widest interest among all who have delighted in his written tributes to womankind and mother love. In his memorial to Mrs. Gray, Field has given expression to his special reverence for the love between parent and child. "For my dear mother," he wrote, "went from me so many years ago that when I come to speak of the blessedness of a mother's love, I hardly know whereof I speak, it is all so far, so very far away, and withal so precious, so sacred a thing." This note recurs constantly through his writings, and it is not to be wondered at that the love of a man for a woman should have come early to a youth whose heart had always felt the yearning for something more tender and personal than the utmost kindness of those upon whose affections others had equal or greater claims. Through his boyhood and school days, Field's affection for the petticoated sex had been tempered by an irresistible impulse to tease all the daughters of Eve. It is doubtful if his affections were ever more seriously engaged by the girls of Amherst or the young ladies of Williams and Knox than was his attention by the regular studies of school or college. He came to both in his own way and time; with the difference that when he once felt the touch of the inevitable maiden's hand in his, he responded with an immediate ardor far different from the slow and eccentric manner in which he wooed the love of scholarship and letters. It was while a junior at the University of Missouri that Eugene Field made the acquaintance of Edgar V. Comstock, the sharer of the European trip and experiences. Now Edgar's parents lived at St. Joseph, and with them five sisters, the Misses Ida, Carrie, Georgia, Julia Sutherland, and Gussie Comstock, and the fairest of them all was Julia, albeit, at the time her brother was in college, she was still in short dresses. What more natural than that Edgar's elder sisters should visit him during his college term and there meet and be attracted by the gaunt, yet already unique and striking, figure of Eugene Field, the most unscholarly student and most incorrigible wag in Columbia? Julia was too young at this time, in the estimation of her sisters, to travel so far from St. Jo. Besides, what interest would a little girl in short skirts take in the grave and intellectual life of the brother and his undergraduate friends? Out of the friendship of Eugene and Edgar and the visit of Edgar's sisters to Columbia, fate was weaving a web for the unsuspecting subject of this narrative which was not to be denied or altered by leaving little Julia to rusticate at home like another pretty little Cinderella. But this is not a fairy tale. It has no prince or glass slippers or pumpkin coaches, with which Field's fancy could have invested it. When the two friends separated on Commencement Day, after Field had delivered an oration that impressed Miss Ida (Mrs. Below), because of "his pale face and deep voice," a promise had been extorted that he would visit the Comstocks in their home in St. Joseph. In the usual course of human events nothing further of concern to us would have come from the exchange of these common civilities of student life. Edgar would have returned to his home and forgotten Eugene, and Eugene would have gone his way and never known that Edgar had a younger sister Julia sitting at the gate awaiting the coming of her prince. But shortly after returning to St. Louis, Field was inspired by his natural roving restlessness--the French call it Fate--to run clear across the state of Missouri, some three hundred miles, to see what kind of a town St. Joseph was and incidentally to visit his college friend. Nearly twenty years later, in the gathering gloom of a rented apartment in London, the still-constant lover wrote of what happened when he first saw "Saint Jo, Buchanan County," in the early seventies. There he first met "the brown-eyed maiden" of his song, the Julia of numberless valentines that ran the gamut of grave and gay through the intervening years, the heroine of frequent drives which they "snailed along," as their proper horse went slow, _In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo._ * * * * * _Ah! sweet the hours of springtime When the heart inclines to woo, And it's deemed all right for the callow wight To do what he wants to do._ In his "Auto-Analysis" Field says, "I favor early marriage." Even if Edgar Comstock's elder sisters had known this, it is doubtful whether the thought would have crossed their minds that their brother's chum of twenty-one would overlook their more mature charms (they were all fair to look upon), to be more than gracious to their fourteen-year-old sister. Time out of mind sophisticated sisters of sixteen and eighteen have regarded younger sisters as altogether out of the sphere of those attentions which find their echo in wedding bells, only to awake some bright morning to find the child a woman and the attentive friend an accepted lover. So it happened in this case. While her sisters were thinking how good it was of Field to take so much interest in a mere child, their long afternoon drives together down "Lovers' Lane, Saint Jo," had come to that happy turn that ignores all immaturities of age and lays the life of a man at the feet of the maid--albeit, the feet are still strangers to the French heels and have not yet known the witchery that goes with long dresses. Once sure of himself, Field lost no time in making his wishes known not only to Mistress Julia, but to her astonished family. She listened and was lost and won. Her parents expostulated that she was but a child. Field had no difficulty in convincing them that she would outgrow that. He pleaded for an immediate marriage, but her father firmly insisted that though Julia might not be too young to love and be loved, she was "o'er young to marry yet." Field was forced to accept the sensible decree against the early realization of his hopes and returned to St. Louis with the understanding that he should establish himself in business and wait until Miss Comstock was eighteen. Whether this had anything to do with Field's going to Europe or not I cannot say. It had nothing to do with his return, for his term of waiting for his modern Rachel had still two years to run when he got back from Europe. There is a pretty story told that after all arrangements were made for his European trip and he and Edgar Comstock, accompanied by Miss Ida, had reached New York, she and her brother were amazed to receive a note by mail saying, "Important business has called me back to St. Joseph; I hope you will pardon my sudden leave-taking." They knew the nature of his important business and had to wait with what patience they could command while he posted fifteen hundred miles and returned with barely time, if all connections served, to catch the steamer. Field never dreamed of fulfilling that condition of his probation which required him to become established in business. If he had done so the date of his marriage would have been indefinitely postponed. He returned from Europe, as we have seen, sans the better part of his patrimony, in the spring of 1873, and instead of attempting to establish himself in business, immediately set himself to secure an abridgment of his term of waiting. The years between fourteen and eighteen run slow. To every true lover Time moves with leaden feet. As Rosalind tells us, "Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year." What wonder then if the four years they were pledged to wait seemed an eternity, and that both set themselves to abridge it by all the arts and persuasion of young lovers. They pleaded and contrived so cunningly and successfully that the obdurate parents finally acceded to their wishes, and Eugene Field and Julia Sutherland Comstock were married at St. Joseph on October 16th, 1873. The bride "at that time was a girl of sixteen," is the laconic and only comment of the "Auto-Analysis." This he supplemented with the further information, "we have had eight children--three daughters and five sons." [Illustration: MRS. EUGENE FIELD.] But this is jumping from Saint Jo into the future more than a score of years in advance of our story. The young couple spent their honeymoon in the East. Field took especial delight in showing his bride of sixteen the wonders of New York and in playing practical jokes upon her unsophisticated nature, thereby keeping her in a perpetual state of amazement or of terror as to what he would do next. He sought to make her at home at Delmonico's by ordering "boiled pig's feet à la Saint Jo," with a gravity of countenance that tested the solemnity of the waiters and provoked the protest, "Oh, Eugene!" that was to be the feminine accompaniment to his boyish humor throughout their married life. No matter how often Field played his antics before or on his wife, they always seemed to take her by surprise and evoked a remonstrance in which pride over his mirthfulness mollified all displeasure. By the time Field returned to St. Louis his ready funds were exhausted and he had to appeal to Mr. Gray to raise more by mortgaging the balance of his interest in his father's property. This is as good a place as any to take leave of the patrimony that came to Field at the death of his father, for he was never to see any more dividends from that source. When the loans fell due there were no funds to pay them, nor equity in the land to justify their renewal. So the land was sold and bid in by Mr. Gray, who holds it yet and would gladly dispose of it for what he paid out of his pocket and the goodness of his heart. Roswell Field tells an interesting story of how their father's land speculation went out of sight in the queer mutations that befall real estate. In the year before Roswell the elder died, he took his younger son for a drive in the country south of St. Louis, where the property lies unimproved to this day. "Rosy," said the father, "hold on to your Carondelet property. In fifteen years it will be worth half a million dollars, and, very likely, a million and a half." That was thirty-three years ago when the Carondelet iron furnaces were in full blast and the city seemed stretching southward. In 1869 the property was appraised at $125,000. The panic came on and St. Louis changed its mind and headed toward the west, where the best part of the city now rears its mansions and wonders how it ever dreamed of going south. There Carondelet still bakes in the sun, on the far side of a slough which has diverted a fortune from the sons of the sanguine Roswell M. Field, the elder. More provident than his brother, Roswell lived comfortably on his share for nearly seven years, only in the end to envy the superior shrewdness of Eugene, who, putting his portion into cash, realized more from it, and spent it like a lord while it lasted. I must confess that I share Roswell's views, for the investment which Eugene Field made in the two years after coming of age in spending $20,000 on experience, returned to him many fold in the profession he was finally driven to adopt, not as a pastime, but to earn a livelihood for himself and his growing family. Having shot his bolt, Field went to work as a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal. He was not much of a success as a reporter for the simple reason that his fancy was more active than his legs and he was irresistibly disposed to save the latter at the expense of the former. The best pen picture I have been able to secure of Field at this period of his career is from his life-long friend, William C. Buskett, the hero of "Penn Yan Bill," to whom Field dedicated "Casey's Table d'Hôte," the first poem in "A Little Book of Western Verse." "My association with Eugene Field," says Mr. Buskett, "began in St. Louis, Mo., in 1872. We had a little circle of friends that was surely to be envied in that we were fond of each other and our enjoyment was pure and genuine. In 1875 we formed what was known as the 'Arion Quartette,' composed of Thomas L. Crawford, now clerk in the United States Circuit Court in St. Louis, Thomas C. Baker (deceased), Roswell Martin Field, a brother of Eugene, and myself. 'Gene (as he was always called by his intimates) did not sing in the quartette, though he had a good voice. We frequently gave entertainments, at which Eugene was always the centre of attraction. The 'Old Sexton' was his favorite song. He was a great mimic and tease, and was always bubbling over with fun. At that time he was living on Adams Street, and many of these entertainments were given at his house. His household then consisted of himself, wife, and baby 'Trotty,' the pet name given his eldest daughter, Mary French Field, and with them Mrs. Comstock, mother of Mrs. Field, Edgar V. and Misses Carrie, Georgia, and Gussie Comstock, a delightful family. "There was a genuine bond of friendship among us all then, for we were comparatively oblivious to care and trouble. We were all poor, you may say, earning reasonable salaries, but that never seemed to worry us much. If one had a dollar we would always divide and the crowd was never a cent ahead, but we defied misfortune. "Among the pranks that Eugene used to play upon his wife in those days was that of appearing at some of our rehearsals on a warm evening in a costume that never failed to tease her. He would walk into the parlor and say: 'Well, boys, let us take off our coats and take it easy; it's too hot.' We would all proceed to do so. When Eugene would remove his coat he would display a red flannel undershirt, having pinned his cuffs to his coat sleeves and his necktie and collar to his shirt. He placed no limit on his humor." Who of those at all intimate with Field will forget the enjoyment he took in trolling forth, in a quaint, quavering, cracked, but tuneful recitative, one stanza of "Ossian's Serenade": _I'll chase the antelope over the plain The tiger's cub I'll bind with a chain, The wild gazelle with its silvery feet I'll give to thee as a playmate sweet. Then come with me in my light canoe, While the sea is calm and the sky is blue, For I'll not linger another day For storms may rise and love decay._ Well, this was a snatch that lingered in his memory from the old days in Adams Street, St. Louis, where he first caught it from the lips of Mr. Buskett, in whose family it was an heirloom. Field finally traced it to its source through persistent letters written to himself in his "Sharps and Flats" column in the Chicago Record. The glad wild days of which Mr. Buskett testifies were passed in St. Louis after Field's return from a brief experience as city editor of the St. Joseph Gazette in 1875-76. The time is fixed by the presence of "Trotty" in the gypsy circle, who was the best bit of news he "managed to acquire" in the days whereof he wrote: _Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."_ Judge Henry W. Burke, of St. Joseph, is authority for this story of the time when he was associated with Field on the Gazette: Burke had been sent out to report a "swell society event" in the eastern part of the city. Nearly all the prominent people of St. Joseph were present and the names of all were published. Burke's story of the affair was a column long, and after it was written Field got hold of the copy and at the end of the list of those present added, "and last but not least the handsome and talented society editor of the Gazette, H.W. Burke." The feelings of the young reporter and embryo judge may be imagined. But a few months of "whooping up locals on the St. Jo Gazette" were enough for Eugene, who pined for the broader field and more congenial associations of St. Louis. Thither he returned in the spring of 1876, and the Evening Journal, being by this time consolidated with the Times, he became an editorial writer and paragrapher on the hyphenated publication. He also resumed the eccentric semi-bohemian life which Mr. Buskett has rather suggested than described. He had little or no business ability, had no use for money except to spend it, and therefore early adopted the plan of leaving to Mrs. Field the management of their household expenditures. To her, then, as throughout his life, was paid his weekly stipend--often depleted by the drafts for the "usual V" or the "necessary X" which he was wont to draw in advance from the cashier almost every week. Before the newspaper cashier had risen as a life-saving station on the horizon of Eugene Field's constant impecuniosity, his father's executor, Mr. Gray, had been the object of his intermittent appeals for funds to meet pressing needs. The means he invented to wheedle the generous, but methodical, executor out of these appropriations afforded Field more genuine pleasure than the success that attended them. The coin they yielded passed through his fingers like water through a sieve, but the enjoyment of his happy schemes abided in his memory and also in that of his constant friend always. One of Field's most effective methods of securing an advance from Mr. Gray was the threat of going on the stage under the assumed name of Melvin L. Gray. On one occasion Field approached him for money for living expenses, and being met with what appeared to be an unrelenting negative, coolly said: "Very well, if you cannot advance it to me out of the estate I shall be compelled to go on the stage. But as I cannot keep my own name I have decided to assume yours, and shall have lithographs struck off at once. They will read, 'To-night, M.L. Gray, Banjo and Specialty Artist.'" It is needless to say that the much-needed funds were found. But whether they went to the payment of living expenses, to the importunity of some threatening creditor, or were divided between the joys of the bibliomaniac and the bon vivant, Field in his most confiding humor never disclosed to me. But this I know, that one of these always respectful, if apparently threatening, appeals to Mr. Gray, was the basis for one of the few newspaper attacks on Eugene Field that he resented deeply. Some time after he had left St. Louis and was engaged on the Denver Tribune, the Spectator, a weekly paper of the former city, contained the following gossip regarding him which was written in a thoughtless rather than an intentionally inimical spirit: One of the cleverest young journalists of this city, a few years ago, was Mr. Eugene Field, whose charming short poems and witty paragraphs still occasionally find their way into our paper from Denver, where he is now located. Mr. Field was the happy possessor of one of those sunny dispositions which is thoroughly antagonistic to trouble of every description; he absolutely refused to entertain the black demon under any pretext whatever, and after spending a small fortune with the easy grace of a prince, he settled down to doing without one with equal grace and nonchalance, in a manner more creditable to himself than satisfying to his creditors. Did his hatter or tailor present an untimely bill, the gay debonnaire Eugene would scribble on the back thereof an impromptu rhyme expressive of his deep regret at not being able to offer the cash instead, and return the same with an airy grace that the renowned orator, J. Wilkins Micawber, himself might have envied. While the intellectual prominences upon the cranium of our friend and fellow-citizen had been well looked to, Dame Nature totally neglected to develop his bump of veneration; age possessed no qualities, wealth and position no prerogatives, which this singularly constituted young man felt bound to respect. When his father's executor, an able and exceedingly dignified member of the St. Louis bar, would refuse to respond to his frequent demands for moneyed advances, the young reprobate would coolly elevate his heels to a point in dangerous proximity to the old gentleman's nose, and threaten to go upon the stage, taking his guardian's honored name as a stage pseudonym and representing himself to be his son. This threat generally sufficed to bring the elder gentleman to terms, as he knew his charge's ability to execute as well as to threaten. He was an inveterate joker, and his tendency to break out without regard to fitness of time or place into some mad prank made him almost a terror to his friends. On one occasion he informed a young lady friend that he did not think he would be able to come to her wedding because he had such a terrible toothache. "Then why not have your tooth pulled out?" said the young lady. "I never thought of that," quoth Eugene gravely; "I guess I will." When the wedding day arrived, among the other bridal gifts came a small box bearing Mr. Field's card, and reposing on a velvet cushion inside was the identical tooth which the bride had advised him to have extracted, and in the cavity where had once throbbed the agonizing nerve was neatly stuffed a fifty-dollar bill. The recollection of the many amusing traits and freaks of this versatile genius affords amusement to the innumerable friends of his to this day. But time which sobers us all has doubtless taken some of the foam and sparkle from this rare spirit, although it would be hard to convince his friends that he will ever be anything but the gay and debonnaire Eugene. Mr. Gray, who vouches for the general accuracy of the story of the strange wedding present, with its costly filling, preserves among his most cherished mementoes of his foster son-in-law, if I may be allowed the expression, Field's prompt repudiation of that paragraph in the above which charged him with lack of respect for one from whom he had received every evidence of affection: DENVER, June 25, 1883. DEAR MR. GRAY, A copy of last Saturday's St. Louis Spectator has just arrived and I am equally surprised, pained and indignant to find in it a personal article about myself which represents me in the untruthful light of having been disrespectful and impudent to you. I believe you will bear me out when I say that my conduct towards you has upon all occasions been respectful and gentlemanly. I may not have been able to repay you the many obligations you have placed me under, but I have always regarded you with feelings of affectionate gratitude and I am deeply distressed lest the article referred to may create a widely different impression. Of course it makes no difference to you, but as gratitude is about all I have in this world to bestow on those who are good and kind to me, it is not right that I should be advertised--even in a joking way--as an ingrate. Yours sincerely, EUGENE FIELD. This letter is valuable in more ways than the one which it was so unnecessarily written to serve. It is a negative admission of the general faithfulness of the impression left by Field upon those familiar with his life in St. Louis, and the reference to gratitude as all he had to bestow upon his true friends will be recognized as genuine by all who ever came near enough to his inner life to appreciate its sweetness as well as its lightness. As for his airy method of disposing of insistent creditors I have no doubt that the rhymes on the backs of their bills more often than not were more to them than the dollars and cents on their faces. During the second period of his life in St. Louis two sons were born to Field and his wife, Melvin G., named after the "Dear Mr. Gray," of the foregoing letter, and Eugene, Jr., who, being born when the Pinafore craze was at its height, received the nickname of "Pinny," which has adhered to him to the present time. The fact that Melvin of all the children of Eugene Field was never called by any other name by a father prone to giving pet names, more or less fanciful, to every person and thing with which he came in contact, is, I take it, an even more sincere tribute to the high respect and love, if not reverence, in which he held Melvin's godfather. The third son and last child born to Field during the time of which I am now writing appeared upon the scene, with his two eyes of wondrous blue, very like his father's, at Kansas City, whither the family had moved in the year 1880. Although he was duly christened Frederick, this newcomer was promptly nicknamed "Daisy," because, forsooth, Field one day happened to fancy that his two eyes looked like daisies peeping up at him from the grass. The similitude was far fetched, but the name stuck. In Kansas City, where Field went from St. Louis to assume at thirty years of age the managing editorship of the Times of that town, the family lived in a rented house which was made the rendezvous for all the light-hearted members of the newspaper and theatrical professions. Perhaps I cannot give a more faithful picture of Field's life through all this period than is contained in the following unpublished lines, to the original manuscript of which I supplied the title, "The Good Knight and His Lady." Perhaps I should explain that it was written at a time when Field was infatuated with the stories and style of the early English narratives of knights and ladies: _THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LADY Soothly there was no lady faire In all the province could compare With Lady Julia Field, The noble knight's most beauteous wife For whom at any time his life He would righte gladly yield. 'Twas at a tourney in St. Joe The good knight met her first, I trow, And was enamoured, straight; And in less time than you could say A pater noster he did pray Her to become his mate. And from the time she won his heart, She sweetly played her wifely part-- Contented with her lot! And tho' the little knightly horde Came faster than they could afford The good wife grumbled not. But when arrived a prattling son, She simply said, "God's will be done-- This babe shall give us joy!" And when a little girl appeared, The good wife quoth: "'Tis well--I feared 'Twould be another boy!" She leased her castle by the year-- Her tables groaned with sumptuous cheer, As epicures all say; She paid her bills on Tuesdays, when On Monday nights that best of men-- Her husband--drew his pay. And often, when the good knight craved A dime wherewith he might get shaved, She doled him out the same; For these and other generous deeds The good and honest knight must needs Have loved the kindly dame. At all events, he never strayed From those hymeneal vows he made When their two loves combined; A matron more discreet than she Or husband more devote than he It would be hard to find. July 4th, 1885._ And so in very sooth it would have been. Under what circumstances and with what purpose Field wrote this I cannot now recall, if I ever knew. Nothing like it exists among my many manuscripts of his. It is written in pencil on what appears to be a sheet from a pad of ledger paper, watermarked "1879," a fact I mention for the benefit of his bibliomaniac admirers. And, what is most peculiar, it is written on both sides of the sheet--something most unusual with Field, except in correspondence--where the economy of the old half ounce three-cent postage and his New England training prevailed over his disposition to be lavish with paper if not with ink. Anyway, Field's "Good Knight and His Lady" gives a clearer insight into his home relations than any other thing that has been preserved respecting them. That it was prepared with care is witnessed by several interlineations in ink, sealed by a blot of his favorite red ink on the corner, which for a wonder does not bear the marks of the deliberate blemishes with which he frequently embellished his neatest manuscripts. CHAPTER VIII EARLY EXPERIENCES IN JOURNALISM Although Eugene Field made his first essay in journalism as a reporter, there is not the shadow of a tradition that he made any more progress along the line of news-gathering and descriptive writing than he did as a student at Williams. He had too many grotesque fancies dancing through his whimsical brain to make account or "copy" of the plain ordinary facts that for the most part make up the sum of the news of the average reporter's day. What he wrote for the St. Louis Journal or Times-Journal, therefore, had little relation to the happening he was sent out to report, but from the outset it possessed the quality that attracted readers. The peculiarities and not the conventions of life appealed to him and he devoted himself to them with an assiduity that lasted while he lived. Thus when he was sent by the Journal to Jefferson City to report the proceedings of the Missouri State Legislature, what his paper got was not an edifying summary of that unending grist of mostly irrelevant and immaterial legislation through the General Assembly hopper, but a running fire of pungent comment on the Idiosyncrasies of its officers and members. He would attach himself to the legislators whose personal qualities afforded most profitable ammunition for sport in print. He shunned the sessions of Senate and House and held all night sessions of story and song with the choice spirits to be found on the floors and in the lobbies of every western legislature. I wonder why I wrote "western" when the species is as ubiquitous in Maine as in Colorado? From such sources Field gleaned the infinite fund of anecdote and of character-study which eventually made him the most sought-for boon companion that ever crossed the lobby of a legislature or of a state capital hotel in Missouri, Colorado, or Illinois. He was a looker-on in the legislative halls, and right merrily he lampooned everything he saw. Nothing was too trivial for his notice, nothing so serious as to escape his ridicule or satire. There was little about his work at this time that gave promise of anything beyond the spicy facility of a quick-witted, light-hearted western paragrapher. Looking back it is possible, however, to discover something of the flavor of the inextinguishable drollery that persisted to his last printed work in such verses as these in the St. Louis Journal: _THE NEW BABY We welcome thee, eventful morn Since to the poet there is born A son and heir; A fuzzy babe of rosy hue, And staring eyes of misty blue Sans teeth, sans hair. Let those who know not wedded joy Revile this most illustrious boy-- This genial child! But let the brother poets raise Their songs and chant their sweetest lays To him reviled. Then strike, O bards, your tuneful lyres, 'Awake, O rhyming souls, your fires, And use no stint! Bring forth the festive syrup cup-- Fill every loyal beaker up With peppermint! March, 1878._ In the spring of 1879 the St. Louis Times-Journal printed the following April verses by Field, which were copied without the author's name by London Truth, and went the rounds of the papers in this country, credited to that misnamed paper, and attributed, much to Field's glee, to William S. Gilbert, then at the height of his Pinafore and Bab Ballad fame: _APRIL VESPERS The turtles drum in the pulseless bay, The crickets creak in the prickful hedge, The bull-frogs boom in the puddling sedge And the whoopoe whoops its vesper lay Away In the twilight soft and gray. Two lovers stroll in the glinting gloam-- His hand in her'n and her'n in his-- She blushes deep--he is talking biz-- They hug and hop as they listless roam-- They roam-- It's late when they get back home. Down by the little wicket-gate, Down where the creepful ivy grows, Down where the sweet nasturtium blows, A box-toed parent lies in wait-- In wait For the maiden and her mate. Let crickets creak and bull-frogs boom, The whoopoe wail in the distant dell-- Their tuneful throbs will ne'er dispel The planted pain and the rooted gloom-- The gloom Of the lover's dismal doom._ Just by the way of illustrating in fac-simile and preserving the character of the newspaper paragrapher's work in the last century, the following "Funny Fancies," by Field, from the St. Louis Journal of August 3d, 1878, may be of interest: A green Christmas--No, no, we mean a green peach makes a fat graveyard. A philanthropic citizen of Memphis has wedded a Miss Hoss. He doubtless took her for wheel or whoa. We have tried every expedient and we find that the simple legend: "Smallpox in this House" will preserve the most uninterrupted bliss in an editorial room. There is a moment when a man's soul revolts against the dispensations of Providence, and that is when he finds that his wife has been using his flannel trousers to wrap up the ice in. To the average Athenian the dearest spot on earth is the Greece spot. Mr. Deer was hung at Atlanta. Of course he died game. 'Tis pleasant at the close of day To play Croquet. And if your partner makes a miss Why kiss The siss. But if she gives your chin a thwack, Why whack Her back! A great many newspaper men lie awake night after night mentally debating whether they will leave their property to some charitable institution or spend it the next day for something with a little lemon in it. It was during his earlier connection with the St. Louis Journal that Field was assigned the duty of misreporting Carl Schurz, when that peripatetic statesman stumped Missouri in 1874 as a candidate for re-election to the United States Senate. Field in later years paid unstinted tribute to the logic, eloquence, and patriotic force of Mr. Schurz's futile appeals to the rural voters of Missouri. But during the trip his reports were in nowise conducive to the success of the Republican and Independent candidate. Mr. Schurz's only remonstrances were, "Field, why will you lie so outrageously?" It was only by the exercise of careful watchfulness that Mr. Schurz's party was saved from serious compromise through the practical jokes and snares which Field laid for the grave, but not revered Senator. On one occasion when a party of German serenaders appeared at the hotel where the party was stopping, before Mr. Schurz had completed a necessary change of toilet Field stepped out on the veranda, and, waving the vociferous cornet and trombone to silence, proceeded to address the crowd in broken English. As he went on the cheering soon subsided into amazed silence at the heterodox doctrines he uttered, until the bogus candidate was pushed unceremoniously aside by the real one. Mr. Schurz had great difficulty in saving Field from the just wrath of the crowd, which had resented his broken English more than his political heresies. On another occasion when there was a momentary delay on the part of the gentleman who was to introduce Mr. Schurz, Field stepped to the front and with a strong German accent addressed the gathering as follows: LADIES AND SHENTLEMEN: I haf such a pad colt dot et vas not bossible for me to make you a speedg to-night, but I haf die bleasure to introduce to you my prilliant chournatistic friend Euchene Fielt, who will spoke you in my blace. It was all done so quickly and so seriously that the joke was complete before Mr. Schurz could push himself into the centre of the stage. Annoyance and mirth mingled in the explanations that followed. A love of music common to both was the only thing that made Field tolerable to his serious-minded elder. Regarding Eugene Field's work upon the St. Jo Gazette, it was local in character and of the most ephemeral nature. There is preserved in the pocket-books of some old printers in the West the galley proof of a doggerel rhyme read by him at the printers' banquet, at St. Joseph, Mo., January 1st, 1876. It details the fate of a "Rat" printer, who, in addition to the mortal offence of "spacing out agate" type with brevier, sealed his doom by stepping on the tail of our old friend, the French poodle McSweeny. The execution of the victim's sentence was described as follows: _His body in the fatal cannon then they force Shouting erstwhile in accents madly hoarse, "Death to all Rats"--the fatal match is struck, The cannon pointed upwards--then kerchuck! Fiz! Snap! Ker--boom! Slug 14's grotesque form Sails out to ride a race upon the storm, Up through the roof, and up into the sky-- As if he sought for "cases" up on high, Till like a rocket, or like one who's trusted, He fell again to earth--completely busted._ There is not much suggestion, or even promise, in this doggerel, of the Eugene Field whose verses of occasion were destined within a dozen years to be sought for in every newspaper office in America. Long before Field learned the value of his time and writing, he began to appreciate the value of printer's ink and showed much shrewdness in courting its favor. He did not wait for chance to bring his wares into notice, but early joined the circle of busy paragraphers who formed a wider, if less distinguished, mutual admiration society than that free-masonry of authorship which at one time almost limited literary fame in the United States to Henry James, William Dean Howells, Charles Dudley Warner, and Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Robert J. Burdette is about the only survivor of the coterie of paragraphers, who, a quarter of a century ago, made such papers as the Burlington Hawkeye, the Detroit Free Press, the Oil City Derrick, the Danbury News, and the Cincinnati Saturday Night, widely quoted throughout the Union for their clever squibs and lively sallies. Field put himself in the way of the reciprocating round of mutual quotation and spicy comment, and before he left St. Louis his "Funny Fancies" in the Times-Journal had the approval of his fellow-jesters if they could not save that paper from its approaching doom. Before leaving St. Louis, however, Eugene Field was to strike one of the notes that was to vibrate so sweetly and surely to his touch unto the end. He had lost one baby son in St. Jo, and Melvin was a mere large-eyed infant when his father was moved at Christmas-time, 1878, to write his "Christmas Treasures," which he frequently, though incorrectly, declared to be "the first verse I ever wrote." He probably meant by this that it was the first verse he ever wrote "that he cared to preserve," those specimens I have introduced being only given as marking the steps crude and faltering by which he attained a facility and technique in the art of versification seldom surpassed. In Mr. Field's "Auto-Analysis" will be found the following reference to this early specimen of his verse: I wrote and published my first bit of verse in 1879: It was entitled "Christmas Treasures" [see "Little Book of Western Verse"]. Just ten years later I began suddenly to write verse very frequently. Which merely indicates what little track Field kept of how, when, or where he wrote the verse that attracted popular attention and by which he is best remembered. I need hardly say that with a few noteworthy exceptions his most highly-prized poems were written before 1888, as a reference to the "Little Book of Western Verse," above cited, and which was published in 1889, will clearly show. In the year 1880 Field received and accepted an offer of the managing editorship of the Kansas City Times, a position which he filled with singular ability and success, but which for a year put an almost absolute extinguisher on his growth as a writer. Under his management the Times became the most widely-quoted newspaper west of the Mississippi. He made it the vehicle for every sort of quaint and exaggerated story that the free and rollicking West could furnish or invent. He was not particular whether the Times printed the first, fullest, or most accurate news of the day so long as its pages were racy with the liveliest accounts and comments on the daily comedy, eccentricity, and pathos of life. Right merrily did he abandon himself to the buoyant spirits of an irrepressible nature. Never sparing himself in the duties of his exacting position on the Times, neither did he spare himself in extracting from life all the honey of comedy there was in it. His salary did not begin to keep pace with his tastes and his pleasures. But he faced debts with the calm superiority of a genius to whom the world owed and was willing to pay a living. There lived in Kansas City, when Field was at the height of his local fame there, one George Gaston, whose café and bar was the resort of all the choice spirits of the town. He fairly worshipped Field, who made his place famous by entertainments there, and by frequent squibs in the Times. Although George had a rule suspending credit when the checks given in advance of pay day amounted to more than a customer's weekly salary, he never thought of enforcing it in the case of 'Gene. More than once some particularly fine story or flattering notice of the good cheer at Gaston's sufficed to restore Field's credit on George's spindle. At Christmas-time that credit was under a cloud of checks for two bits (25 cents), four bits, and a dollar or more each to the total of $135.50, when, touched by some simple piece that Field wrote in the Times, Gaston presented his bill for the amount endorsed "paid in full." When the document was handed to Field he scanned it for a moment and then walked over to the bar, behind which George was standing smiling complacently and eke benevolently. "How's this, George?" said Field. "Oh, that's all right," returned George. "But this is receipted," continued the ex-debtor. "Sure," said the gracious creditor. "Do I understand," said Field, with a gravity that should have warned his friend, "that I have paid this bill?" "That's what," was George's laconic assurance. "In full?" "In full's what I said," murmured the unsuspecting philanthropist, enjoying to the full his own magnanimity. "Well, sir," said Field, raising his voice without relaxing a muscle, "Is it not customary in Missouri when one gentleman pays another gentleman in full to set up the wine?" George could scarcely respire for a moment, but gradually recovered sufficiently to mumble, "Gents, this is one on yours truly. What'll you have?" And with one voice Field's cronies, who were witnesses to the scene, ejaculated, "Make it a case." And they made a night of it, such as would have rejoiced the hearts of the joyous spirits of the "Noctes Ambrosianæ." From such revels and such fooling Field often went to work next day without an hour's sleep. While in Kansas City Field wrote that pathetic tale of misplaced confidence that records the fate of "Johnny Jones and his sister Sue." It was entitled "The Little Peach" and has had a vogue fully as wide, if not as sentimental, as "Little Boy Blue." Field's own estimate of this production is somewhat bluntly set out in the following note upon a script copy of it made in 1887: Originally printed in the Kansas City Times, recited publicly by Henry E. Dixey, John A. Mackey, Sol Smith Russell, and almost every comedian in America. Popular but rotten. The last word is not only harsh but unjust. The variation of the closing exclamation of each verse is as skilful as anything Field ever did. Different, indeed, from the refrain in "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," but touching the chords of mirth with certainty and irresistible effect. Field might have added, that none of the comedians he has named ever gave to the experience of "Johnny Jones and His Sister Sue" in public recitation the same melancholy humor and pathetic conclusion as did the author of their misfortunes and untimely end himself. As a penance, perhaps, for the injustice done to "The Little Peach" in the quoted comment, Field spent several days in 1887 in translating it, so to speak, into Greek characters, in which it appears in the volume given to Mrs. Thompson, which is herewith reproduced in facsimile as a specimen of one of the grotesque fancies Field indulged: [Illustration: "THE PEAR" IN FIELD'S "GREEK" TEXT.] For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the Greek characters, I have retranslated this poem into corresponding English, which the reader can compare with his version of "The Little Peach." _THE PEAR (In English Equivalent.) A little pear in a garden grue A little pear of emerald 'ue Kissed bi the sun and bathed bi the due, It grew. One da, going that garden thro' That little pear kame to the fue Of Thomas Smith and 'is sister Sue Those tou! Up at the pear a klub tha thrue Down from the stem on uikh it grue Fell the little pear of emerald 'ue Peek-a-boo! Tom took a bite and Sue took one too And then the trouble began to brue Trouble the doktors kouldn't subdue Too true (paragorik too?). Under the turf fare the daisies grue They planted Tom and 'is sister Sue And their little souls to the angels flue Boo 'oo! But as to the pear of emerald 'ue Kissed bi the sun and bathed bi the due I'll add that its mission on earth is thro' Adieu._ CHAPTER IX IN DENVER, 1881-1883 It was in Denver that Eugene Field entered upon and completed the final stage of what may be called the hobble-de-hoy period in his life and literary career. He went to the capital of Colorado the most indefatigable merry-maker that ever turned night into day, a past-master in the art of mimicry, the most inveterate practical joker that ever violated the proprieties of friendship, time, and occasion to raise a laugh or puncture a fraud. As his friend of those days, E.D. Cowen, has written, "as a farceur and entertainer no professional could surpass him." Field was tempted to go to Denver by the offer of the managing editorship of the Tribune, which was owned and controlled by the railroad and political coalition then dominant in Colorado. It was run on a scale of extravagance out of all proportion to its legitimate revenue, its newspaper functions being altogether subordinate to services as a railroad ally and political organ. The late O.H. Rothacker, one of the ablest and most versatile writers in the country, was at the head of its editorial staff, and Fred J.V. Skiff, now head of the Field Columbian Museum, was its business manager. These men, with Field, were given carte blanche to surround themselves with a staff and news-gathering equipment to make the Tribune "hum." And they did make it hum, so that the humming was heard far beyond the borders of the centennial state. In studying the character of Eugene Field and his doings in Denver, it must be borne in mind that we are considering a period in the life of that city years ago, when the conditions were very different from those prevailing there now or from those to be met with to-day in any other large city in the country. Denver in 1881 was very much what San Francisco was under the influence of the gold rush of the early fifties, only complicated with the struggles of rival railway companies. All the politics, railway, and mining interests of the newly created state centred in Denver. The city was alive with the throbbing energy of strife and speculation over mines, railway grants, and political power. Life was rapid, boisterous, and rough. Nothing had settled into the conventional grooves of habit. The whole community was fearless in its gayety. It had not learned to affect the sobriety and demureness of stupidity lest its frivolity should be likened to the crackling of thorns under a pot. Into this civilization of the mining camp and smelter, just emerging into that of the railway, political, and financial centre of a vast and wealthy territory, came Eugene Field at the age of thirty-one, as free from care, warm-hearted, and open-handed as the most reckless adventurer in Colorado. Although a husband and a father, devoted as ever to his family, he threw himself into the bohemian life of Denver with the abandon of a youth of twenty. It is almost inconceivable where Field found the time and strength for the whirl of work and play in which there was no let up during his two years' stay in Denver. His duties as managing editor of the Tribune would have taxed the energies and resources of the strongest man, for he did not spare himself to fulfil the purpose of his engagement--to make the paper "hum." He mapped out and directed the work of the staff with a comprehensive shrewdness and keen appreciation of what his public, as well as his employers, wanted that left no room for criticism. He kept the whole city guessing what sensation or reputation would be exploded next in the Tribune. But he did not confine himself to the duties of directing the work of others. He started a column headed "Odds and Ends," to which he was the principal and, by all odds, the most frequent contributor. He had not been in the city many months before he began the occasional publication of those skits which, under the title of "The Tribune Primer," were gathered into his first unpretentious book of forty-eight pages, and which in its original form is now one of the most sought after quarries of the American bibliomaniac. Writing of these sketches in 1894, he said: The little sketches appeared in the Denver Tribune in the Fall of 1881 and winter of 1882. The whole number did not exceed fifty. I quit writing them because all the other newspapers in the country began imitating the project. In fact the series began October 10th, 1881, and ended December 19th of the same year. Edward B. Morgan, of Denver, in an introductory note to a few of the sketches omitted from the original "Tribune Primer," printed in the Cornhill Booklet for January, 1901, gives the following version of how the skits began: Of the origin of these sketches a story is told--although the writer cannot vouch for it--that on the Sunday evening preceding their first publication the "printer's devil" was dispatched post-haste to Field's home for copy which his happy-go-lucky manner of working had not produced. We may perhaps picture him engaged in what was always nearest and dearest to his heart, the amusement of his children, and perhaps reading to them or more likely composing for them primer sketches which he on the spur of the moment parodied for older readers. He has probably expressed his own feelings in the third one of the skits which he then wrote: THE REPORTER ON SUNDAY Is this Sunday? Yes, it is a Sunday. How peaceful and quiet it is. But who is the man? He does not look peaceful. He is a reporter and he is swearing. What makes him swear? Because he has to work on Sunday? Oh no! he is swearing because he has to Break the Fourth Commandment. It is a sad thing to be a Reporter. According to Mr. Cowen, however, the inspiration of the primer compositions was a libel suit brought against the Tribune by Governor Evans. In ridiculing the governor and his action Field three times used the old primer method--with illustrations after the fashion of John Phoenix--and the success of these little sarcasms undoubtedly encouraged him to elaborate the idea. Field also had a column of unsigned verse and storyettes in the Tribune under the heading, "For the Little Folks." Mr. Morgan discredits Field's statement that the whole number of the Primers issued did not exceed fifty, because of the unlikelihood of printing such a small edition of a book to be sold for twenty-five cents and advertising it daily a month in advance, with a foot-note, "Trade supplied at Special Rates." Which merely shows that Mr. Morgan applied to Field's acts the same rule of thumb that would be applicable to ninety-nine out of a hundred reasonable publishers. But Field was a rule unto himself, and he could be counted on to be the one hundredth and unique individual where the other ninety-and-nine were orthodox and conventional. The fact that only seven or eight copies of the original Primer are known to book collectors tends to confirm Field's statement, which receives side light and support from his suggestion to Francis Wilson that the first edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," which Mr. Wilson issued in such sumptuous form nearly ten years later, should consist of only fifty copies, and that each of the two should reserve one and that they should "burn the other forty-eight." I have not the slightest doubt that the same disposition was made of all copies of "The Tribune Primer" over the first fifty, which were supplied to the favored few at "Special Rates." This was just such a freak as would have occurred to Field, and in Denver there was no restraint upon the act following upon any wild thought that flitted through his topsy-turvy brain. The jocose spirit in which Field at this time viewed the methods, duties, and responsibilities of journalism may be gleaned from the following specimens taken at random from his "Tribune Primer" sketches: THE REPORTER What is that I see? That, my Child, is the News Interviewer and he is now interviewing a Man. But where is the Man? I can see no Man. The Man, my Child, is in his Mind. A RECHERCH� AFFAIR This is a recherché Affair. Recherché Affairs are sometimes met with in Parlors and Ball Rooms. But more Generally in the Society Department of newspapers. A Recherché Affair is an Affair where the Society Editor is invited to the refreshment table. When the Society Editor is told his Room is Better than his Company, the Affair is not Recherché. THE STEAM PRESS Is this not a Beautiful Steam Press? The Steam is Lying Down on the Floor taking a Nap. He came from Africa and is Seventy Years Old. The Press prints Papers. It can Print Nine Hundred papera an Hour. It takes One Hour and Forty Minutes to Print the Edition of the Paper. The Paper has a circulation of Thirty-seven thousand. The business Manager says so. It was indeed a happy departure from the ruder fooling of the newspaper paragrapher of that day to clothe satire on current events and every-day affairs in the innocent simplicity of the nursery. But the vast majority of these Primer paragraphs were by no means as innocent as those quoted. Many of them had a sting more sharp than that of the wasp embalmed in one of them: See the Wasp. He has pretty yellow stripes around his Body, and a darning needle in his tail. If you will Pat the Wasp upon the Tail, we will Give you a nice Picture Book. Very many of them seemed inspired by an irrepressible desire to incite little children to deeds of mischief never dreamed of in Baxter's Saints' Rest. Here are a precious pair of paragraphs, each calculated to bring the joy that takes its meals standing into any home circle where youthful incorrigibles were in need of outside encouragement to their infant initiative: THE NASTY TOBACCO What is that Nasty looking object? It is a Chew of Tobacco. Oh, how naughty it is to use the Filthy weed. It makes the teeth black, and spoils the Parlor Carpet. Go Quick and Throw the Horrid Stuff Away. Put it in the Ice Cream Freezer or in the Coffee Pot where Nobody can see it. Little Girls you should never chew Tobacco. THE MUCILAGE The Bottle is full of Mucilage. Take it and Pour some Mucilage into Papa's Slippers. Then when Papa comes Home it will be a Question whether there will be more Stick in the Slippers than on your Pants. But whoever wishes to learn of the peculiar side of Child life that appealed most strongly to Eugene Field when his own earlier born children were still in the nursery age, should get a copy of "The Tribune Primer" and read, not only the sketches themselves, but between the lines, where he will find much of the teasing spirit that kept his whole household wondering what he would do next. In these sketches will be found frequent references to the Bugaboo, a creation of his fancy, "With a big Voice like a Bear, and Claws as long as a Knife." His warning to the little children then was, "If you are Good, Beware of the Bugaboo." In later life he reserved the terror of the Bugaboo for naughty little boys and girls. His first poem to his favorite hobgoblin, as it appeared in the Denver Tribune, was the following: _THE AWFUL BUGABOO There was an awful Bugaboo Whose Eyes were Red and Hair was Blue; His Teeth were Long and Sharp and White And he went prowling 'round at Night. A little Girl was Tucked in Bed, A pretty Night Cap on her Head; Her Mamma heard her Pleading Say, "Oh, do not Take the Lamp away!" But Mamma took away the lamp And oh, the Room was Dark and Damp; The Little Girl was Scared to Death-- She did not Dare to Draw her Breath. And all at once the Bugaboo Came Rattling down the Chimney Flue; He Perched upon the little Bed And scratched the Girl until she bled. He drank the Blood and Scratched again-- The little Girl cried out in vain-- He picked her up and Off he Flew-- This Naughty, Naughty Bugaboo! So, children when in Bed to-night, Don't let them Take away the Light, Or else the Awful Bugaboo May come and Fly away with You._ It is a far cry in time and a farther one in literary worth from "The Awful Bugaboo" of 1883 to "Seein' Things" of 1894. The sex of the victim is different, and the spirit of the incorrigible western tease gives way to the spirit of Puritanic superstition, but there can be no mistaking the persistence of the Bugaboo germ in the later verse: _An' yet I hate to go to bed, For when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me "Happy Dreams!" and takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!_ * * * * * _Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white-- But the color ain't no difference when you're seein' things at night._ In all that Field wrote, whether in prose or rhyme, for the Denver Tribune nothing contributed to his literary reputation or gave promise of the place in American letters he was to attain, save one little bit of fugitive verse, which was for years to justify its title of "The Wanderer." It contains one of the prettiest, tenderest, most vitally poetic ideas that ever occurred to Eugene Field. And yet he deliberately disclaimed it in the moment of its conception and laid it, like a little foundling, at the door of Madame Modjeska. The expatriation of the Polish actress, between whom and Field there existed a singularly warm and enduring friendship, formed the basis for the allegory of the shell on the mountain, and doubtless suggested to him the humor, if not the sentiment, of attributing the poem to her and writing it in the first person. The circumstances of its publication justify its reproduction here, although I suppose it is one of the most familiar of Field's poems. I copy it from his manuscript: _THE WANDERER Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear this lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seem'd to sing-- Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell. How came the shell upon the mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand-- Whether there cast when oceans swept the land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the day? Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang; Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the restless sea, profound and wide-- Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. And as the shell upon the mountain height Sang of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away-- So do I ever, wandering where I may, Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee!_ I have seen it stated that Madame Modjeska regarded the liberty taken with her name in this connection with feelings of displeasure, and Hamlin Garland has reported a conversation with Field, during the summer of 1893, when the latter, speaking of his work in Denver, and of "The Tribune Primer" as the most conspicuous thing he did there, said: "The other thing which rose above the level of my ordinary work was a bit of verse, 'The Wanderer,' which I credited to Modjeska, and which has given her no little annoyance." In his note to Mrs. Thompson's manuscript copy of "The Wanderer," Field says: These verses appeared in the Denver Tribune credited to Helena Modjeska. They were copied far and wide over Modjeska's name. Modjeska took the joke in pretty good part. The original publication was June, 1883. Madame Modjeska not only took the joke in "pretty good part," but esteemed its perpetrator all the more highly for the light in which it placed her before the public, which she was then delighting with her exquisite impersonations of Rosalind and Mary Stuart. For years after its publication Madame Modjeska, wherever she appeared throughout the country, was reminded of this joke by the scores of letters sent to her room, as soon as she registered, requesting autograph copies of "The Wanderer," or the honor of her signature to a clipping of it neatly pasted in the autograph hunter's album. Nor were autograph hunters the only ones imposed on by the signature to "The Wanderer." In August, 1883, Professor David Swing, writing in the Weekly Magazine, gave it as his opinion that the alleged Modjeska poem was indeed written by Modjeska, and concluded: "The conversation and tone of her thoughts as expressed among friends betrays a mind that at least loves the poetic, and is quite liable to attempt a verse. The child-like simplicity of this little song is so like Modjeska that no demand arises for any outside help in the matter." And Field, like the true fisherman he was, having secured a fine rise, proceeded to remark: "It will, perhaps, pain the Professor to learn that Madame Modjeska now denies ever having seen the verses until they appeared in print." But not until Field reclaimed his child and published "The Wanderer" as his own, in "A Little Book of Western Verse," was the verse-reading public satisfied to give the Polish comedienne a long rest from importunities concerning it. CHAPTER X ANECDOTES OF LIFE IN DENVER No story of Eugene Field's life would be true, no study of his personality complete, if it ignored or even glossed over "the mad wild ways of his youthful days" in Denver. He never wearied of telling of the constant succession of harum-scarum pranks that made the Tribune office the storm-centre for all the fun-loving characters in Colorado. Not that Field ever neglected his work or his domestic duties for play, but it was a dull day for Denver when his pen or his restless spirit for mischief did not provide some fresh cause for local amazement or merriment. His associates and abettors in all manner of frolics, where he was master of the revels, were kindred spirits among the railway managers, agents, politicians, mining speculators, lawyers, and doctors of the town. Into this company a fresh ingredient would be introduced every week from the theatrical troupes which made Denver the western limit of their circuits or a convenient break in the long overland jump. Field's office was a fitting retreat for the genius of disorder. It had none of the conveniences that are supposed to be necessary in the rooms of modern managing editors. It was open and accessible to the public without the intermediary of an office-boy or printer's devil. Field had his own way of making visitors welcome, whether they came in friendly guise or on hostile measures bent. Over his desk hung the inhospitable sign, "This is my busy day," which he is said to have invented, and on the neighboring wall the motto, "God bless our proof-reader, He can't call for him too soon." But his crudest device, "fatal," as his friend E.D. Cowen writes, "to the vengeance of every visitor who came with a threat of libel suit, and temporarily subversive of the good feeling of those friends he lured into its treacherous embrace, was a bottomless black-walnut chair." Its yawning seat was always concealed by a few exchanges carelessly thrown there--the floor being also liberally strewn with them. As it was the only chair in the room except the one Field occupied himself, his caller, though never asked to do so, would be sure to see in Field's suave smile an invitation to drop into the trap and thence ingloriously to the floor. Through this famous chair, on his first visit to the Tribune office, "Bill" Nye dropped into a lifelong friendship with Eugene Field. When the victim happened to be an angry sufferer from a too personal reference to his affairs in the paper, Field would make the most profuse apologies for the scant furnishings of the office, which he shrewdly ascribed to the poverty of the publishing company, and tender his own chair as some small compensation for the mishap. I have spoken of Edgar W.--more familiarly known as "Bill"--Nye's unceremonious introduction to Field's friendship. This followed upon what was virtually the discovery of Nye by Field. The former was what old-time printers described as "plugging along" without recognition on the Laramie Boomerang. His peculiar humor caught the attention of Field, who, with the intuition of a born journalist, wrote and got Nye to contribute a weekly letter to the Tribune. At first Nye was paid the princely stipend of $5 a week for these letters. This was raised to $10, and when Field informed Nye that he was to receive $15 per letter, the latter promptly packed his grip and took the first train for Denver, to see what sort of a newspaper Croesus presided over the order-blank of the Tribune. When he appeared before Field he was whiskered like a western farmer and his head had not pushed its way through a thick growth of hair. He was altogether a different looking personage from the bald-headed, clean-shaven humorist with whose features the world was destined to become so well acquainted. After the incident of the chair nothing would do Field but a dinner at the St. James Hotel, given in honor of Bill Nye. The affair started after the Tribune had gone to press and lasted all night. At five o'clock in the morning the company escorted their guest to his room and departed, with elaborate professions of good-will. They waited in the hotel office long enough for Nye to get to bed, and then sent up cards, requesting his presence down-stairs on immediate business. But Nye was equal to his tormentors, and the bell-boy returned, bearing a shot-gun, with the message that it would speak for him. When Nye first visited Field in Chicago, his presence in town was heralded with the following paragraph: The latest news from Bill Nye is to the effect that he has discovered a coal mine on his little farm near Hudson, Wis. Ten days ago he was spading over his garden--an exercise recommended by his physician--and he struck a very rich vein of what is called rock coal. Nye paid $2,000 for this farm, and since the development of this coal deposit on the premises he has been offered $10,000 for five acres. He believes that he has a great fortune within his grasp. As illustrative of how impossible it was for Field to keep money, it is related that on one occasion he coaxed F.J.V. Skiff, then business manager of the Tribune, to advance "just another" $10 to meet some urgent domestic demands. Scarcely had Mr. Skiff time to place the order in the cash drawer, ere Field stood before him once more, pleading _in forma pauperis_ for "another X." He was asked what had become of the ten he had just received. "Just my luck, Fred," Field replied. "As I was leaving the office whom should I meet but one of my old printer boys, dead broke. The X was all I had, and he told me he had to have it, and he had to." It is needless to say that Field got the second advance and succeeded in dodging all impecunious "old boys" on the way home. I have said that Denver at that time was the centre of all the railway interests of Colorado and the far West. Being also the capital, it was the place where legislators and railway agents wrestled with problems of regulating tariffs and granting privileges to what may be called their mutual benefit. It was from his experience in Denver that Field learned that two-thirds of the business of a western legislature consisted in causing legislative hold-ups, of which the transportation companies were the victims, and the most vociferously impeccable statesmen the chief beneficiaries. The secret service funds of the railway companies doing business in Colorado paid out a hundred dollars for protection from notorious sandbagging bills and resolutions to every dollar they spent for special favors in grants and franchises. This by way of preface to a story in which Eugene Field and a railway official, who, as I write, holds a high position in the transportation world, figure. This official was at that time the superintendent of the Southwestern Division of the Pullman system, with head-quarters at St. Louis. In those days every session of the Colorado legislature saw its anti-Pullman rate reduction bill, which Wickersham, as I shall call him, because that is not his name, was commissioned to checkmate, strangle, or make away with in committee by the aid of annual passes, champagne, and the mysterious potency of the national bank-note. As was remarked by E.D. Cowen, to whose notes I am indebted for refreshing my memory of Field's tales, Wickersham never failed in generalship, principally because he was bold in his methods and picturesquely lavish with his munitions of war. The Pullman Company did not then enjoy the royalty and defensive alliance which now protects it against rate legislation throughout the West, and so Wickersham was kept continually on the go, making alliances and friendships among legislators and journalists against the days of reckoning. Field, as the managing editor of the Tribune, was a special favorite with Wickersham, as he was of every professional and commercial visitor having an axe to grind at the capital of the state. Pullman's representative had the wit to appreciate Field, both for his personal qualities and the assistance he could render through the columns of the newspaper. Field reciprocated the personal friendship, but, so far as the Tribune was concerned, took a grim satisfaction in giving Wickersham to understand that though he could use its freedom he could not abuse it or count upon its aid beyond what was strictly legitimate. Field's stereotyped introduction of Wickersham--one calculated to put him on a pleasant business footing with every practical politician, was "He's a good fellow and a thoroughbred." So his coming was invariably celebrated by a general round-up of all the good fellows in Denver, and his departure left the aching heads and parched recollections that from the days of Noah have distinguished the morning after. After one of Wickersham's calls, Field determined that the sobriety and severe morality of Denver were being scandalized by these periodical visitations, and he issued orders to the Tribune staff that when next the "good fellow and thoroughbred" appeared on the scene he should be given a wide berth, or, as Field put it, should be left to "play a lone hand in his game." So when Wickersham next swung around the legislative circle to Denver, not a man about the editorial rooms would go out with him, listen to his stories, accept a cigar at his hands, or associate with him in any of the ways that had been their cheerful wont. The coldness and loneliness of the situation excited Wickersham's thirst for revenge and also for what is known as the wine of Kentucky. Having succeeded in getting up a full head of steam, he started out for an explanation or a counter demonstration. Arriving at the Tribune office, when the desks were vacated at the evening dinner-hour, he interpreted it as a further affront and challenge, which he proceeded to answer by destroying every last scrap of copy in sight for the morrow's paper. He then converted himself into a small cyclone, and went through every desk, strewed their litter on the floor, broke all the pens and pencils, and, in the language of an eye-witness, "ended by toning the picture of editorial desolation with the violet contents of all the ink bottles he could find." Then he retired in hilarious satisfaction from the scene of devastation he had made. Consternation reigned in that office until Field returned, when he quickly dispelled the gloom with a promise of revenge, and set the staff at work to patch up the ruin the envious Wickersham had made. But they were not permitted to do this in peace, for their enemy, returning in the dark of night, bombarded the windows of the editorial rooms with the staves of old ash-barrels he had found conveniently by. While Wickersham was engaged in this second assault, with windows smashing to right of them and to left of them, with glass falling all around them, and the staves of old ash-barrels playing a devil's tattoo about them, the devoted band of editors, reporters, and copy-readers worked nobly on. They had confidence in their leader that their hour would come. Their first duty was to get out the paper. After that they looked for the deluge. When Wickersham had expended his last stave and fiercest epithet on the shattered windows he retired in bad order to his apartments at the St. James Hotel. Now began Field's revenge, planned with due deliberation and executed with malicious thoroughness. He first sent for "'Possum Jim," an aged and very serious colored man, who worshipped "Mistah Fiel'" because of the sympathy Eugene never withheld from the dark-skinned children of the race. "'Possum Jim" spent most of his existence on the same street corner, waiting for a job, which invariably had to come to him. His outfit consisted of an express wagon strung together with telegraph wire, and a nondescript four-footed creature that once bore the similitude of a horse. Whenever Field had an odd job to be done about his household he would go out of his way to let "old 'Possum Jim" earn the quarter--partly to do an act of kindness to "Jim," but chiefly to tease Mrs. Field by the appearance of the broken-down equipage lingering in front of their dwelling. Just before the Tribune went to press, a sergeant of police called on Field in response to a summons by telephone. After a whispered conference he left, with a broad smile struggling under his curling mustache. In company with a number of his staff Field next made the round of the all-night haunts and gathered to his aid as fine a collection of bohemian "thoroughbreds" as ever made the revels of Mardi Gras look like a Sunday-school convention. He installed them at the resort of a Kentucky gentleman named Jones, opposite the St. James. As one who was there reports, "The amber milk of the Blue-grass cow flowed in plenty." Bidding his associates await his return, Field, armed with a single bottle, crossed the street to the hotel in search of the enemy. For half, an hour they waited, in growing fear that Wickersham had retired for the night, with orders the night clerk dared not disobey, that he was not to be disturbed, even if the hotel was on fire. Just as expectation had grown heavy-eyed, Field appeared crossing the street with Wickersham on his arm, very happy, more of a good fellow than ever and more than ever ready for red-eyed anarchy of any sort. "After a swift hour"--I quote from one who was there and whose account tallies with Field's own--"and as the morning opened out Field insisted on breaking for sunlight and fresh air. Wickersham was always a leader, even in the matter of making a noise. He sang; everyone else applauded. He shrieked and shouted; all approved. Windows went up across the way in the hotel, and night-capped heads protruded to investigate. The frantic din of the electric-bells could be heard. The clerk appeared to protest." What attention might have been paid to his protest will never be known, for just then "'Possum Jim's" gothic steed and rattletrap cart rounded the corner. "I say, old man," shouted Field, "we want your rig for an hour; what's it worth?" Jim played his part slyly, and the bargain was finally struck for $2.50, the owner to present no claim for possible damages. Wickersham was so delighted with the shrewdness of the deal that he insisted on paying the bill. The horse, which could scarcely stand on his four corners, was quickly unharnessed and hitched to a telegraph pole, and before he realized what the madcaps were about, Wickersham was himself harnessed into the shafts. The novelty of his position suited his mood. He pranced and snorted, and pawed the ground and whinnied, and played horse in fine fettle until the word go. Field, with a companion beside him, held the reins and cracked the whip. The others helped the thoroughbred in harness the best they could by pushing. In this manner, and all yelling like Comanche Indians, twice they made the circuit of the block. All the guests in front of the big hotel were leaning out of the windows, when the police sergeant popped in sight with a squad of four men. Field, who had been duly apprised of their approach, gave the signal, and the crowd, making good their retreat to Jones's, abandoned Wickersham to his fate. He was quickly, but roughly, disentangled from the intricacies of "'Possum Jim's" rope-yarn harness. The more he protested and expostulated, the more inexorable became the five big custodians of the outraged peace, until the last word of remonstrance and explanation died upon his well-nigh breathless lips. Then he tried cajoling and "connudling" and those silent, persuasive arts so often efficacious in legislative lobbies; but there were too many witnesses to his crime, and bribes were not in order. When at last Wickersham, from sheer despair and physical exhaustion, sank limp in the arms of his captors, the sergeant, on the pretext of seeking the aiders and abettors in the riot, half carried, half led the prisoner into Jones's resort. A quarter of an hour later the police squad made its exit by the back door, and less than an hour afterward Wickersham's special was bearing him southward toward Texas. But Field's revenge was not fully sated yet. He caused a $2 Pullman rate-bill, making a sixty per cent. reduction, to be prepared in the Tribune office, and secured its introduction in the legislature by the chairman of the House committee on railways. The news was immediately flashed East, and Wickersham came posting back to Denver with the worst case of monopoly fright he had ever experienced. The day after his arrival the Tribune had something to say in every department of his nefarious mission, and every reference to him bristled with biting irony and downright accusation. Never was a "good fellow and a thoroughbred" so mercilessly scarified. For the remaining six weeks of the session Wickersham did not leave Denver, nor did he dare look at the Tribune until after breakfast. Every member of the legislature received a Pullman annual. Champagne flowed, not by the bottle, but by the dray-load. Wickersham begged for quarter, but his appeals fell like music on ears that heard but heeded not. Nor did he find out that the whole affair was a put-up job until the bill was finally lost in the Senate committee. One of the familiar stories of Field's rollicking life in Denver was at the expense of Oscar Wilde, then on his widely advertised visit to America. As the reader may remember, this was when the aesthetic craze and the burlesques inseparable from it were at their height. Anticipating Wilde's appearance in Denver by one day, and making shrewdly worded announcements through the Tribune in keeping with his project, Field secured the finest landau in town and was driven through the streets in a caricature verisimilitude of the poet of the sunflower and the flowing hair. The impersonation of Wilde à la Bunthorne in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, "Patience," was well calculated to deceive all who were not in the secret. Field's talent as a farceur and a mimic enabled him to assume and carry out the expression of bored listlessness which was the popular idea of the leader of aesthetes. Nobody in the curious, whooping, yelling crowd assembled along the well-advertised route suspected the delusion, and after an hour's parade Field succeeded in making his exit from public gaze without betraying his identity. When Wilde turned up the next day he was not a little mystified to learn that he had created a sensation driving around Denver in the raiments of Bunthorne, while in reality travelling over the prairie in a palace-car. It was Field himself who relieved his curiosity with a highly amusing narrative of the experience of the joker lounging in the seat of honor in the landau. Wilde, it is related, saw nothing funny in the affair, nor was he provoked at it. His only comment was, "What a splendid advertisement for my lecture." It was while in Denver that Field had numerous and flattering offers to leave journalism for the stage, and more than once he was sorely tempted to make the experiment. In the natural qualifications for the theatrical profession he was most richly endowed. In the arts of mimicry he had no superior. He had the adaptable face of a comedian, was a matchless raconteur, and a fine vocalist. At a banquet or in a parlor he was an entertainer of truly fascinating parts. During his life in St. Louis and Kansas City his inclination had led him to seek the society of the green-room, and in Denver his position enlarged the circle of his acquaintance with the theatrical profession, until it embraced almost every prominent actor and actress in America, and was subsequently extended to include the more celebrated artists of England. Among his favorites was Madame Bernhardt, whose several visits to the United States afforded him an opportunity for some of the most entertaining sketches that ever delighted his Chicago readers. None of these contained more pith in little than that brief paragraph with which he opened his column one day, to the effect that "An empty cab drove up to the stage-door of the Columbia Theatre last night, from which Madame Bernhardt alighted." Among the celebrities who visited Denver while Field was in what he would have called his perihelion was Miss Kate Field, with whose name he took all the liberties of a brother, although there was no blood relationship between them thicker than the leaves of a genealogical compendium. He took especial pains to circulate the report through all the West that Miss Field had brought a sitz-bath with her to alleviate the dust and hardships of travel in the "Woolly West," where, as he represented, she thought running water was a luxury and stationary bath-tubs were unknown. But he atoned for this by one of the daintiest pleasantries that ever occurred to his playful mind. When Miss Field was preparing for her lecture tour in Mormon land she started an inquisitive correspondence with her namesake, whose Tribune Primer was then spreading his fame through the exchanges. The two soon discovered that they were cousins, no matter how many times removed, but near enough to inspire Field to entrust a letter to Uncle Sam's mail addressed thus: _A maiden fair of untold age Seeks to adorn our Western stage; How foolish of her, yet how nice To write me, asking my advice! New York's the city where you'll find This prodigy of female kind; Hotel Victoria's the place Where you'll see her smiling face. I pray thee, postman, bear away This missive to her, sans delay. These lines enclosed are writ by me-- A Field am I, a Field is she. Two very fertile fields I ween, In constant bloom, yet never green, She is my cousin; happy fate That gave me such a Cousin Kate._ From Denver to New York this pretty conceit carried the epistle just as safely and directly as if it had borne the most prosaic superscription the postal authorities could exact, and I venture to say that it was handled with a smiling solicitude never bestowed on the humdrum epistles that travel neither faster nor surer for being marked "important and immediate." This was before Field had formed the habit of illuminating everything he wrote with colored inks, or the missive to his Cousin Kate would have expressed his variegated fancies in all the colors of the rainbow, especially red. In a short sketch, entitled "Eugene Field in Denver," Wolfe Londoner speaks of his friend as a "bright ray of laughing sunshine across this shadowy vale, a mine of sentiment and charity, an avalanche of fun and happiness," but one who "never in all the run of his merry, joyous career was known to wake up with a cent." Why? Here is the explanation given by Mr. Londoner, who was familiar with every phase of Eugene Field's life in Denver: "The course of one short day was ever long enough to drain his open purse, and his boon companions were as welcome to its contents, while it could stand the strain, as its careless, happy owner. The bright side of life attracted his laughing fancy, and with stern and unalterable determination he studiously avoided all seriousness and shadow. There was no room in his happy composition for aught of sorrow or sadness, and a quick and merry wit always extricated him from every embarrassing position or perplexing dilemma." Mr. Londoner rightly says that an inert Eugene Field was an impossibility, and at that time he was only supremely happy when busily engaged in playing some practical joke on his ever-suspecting but never sufficiently wary friends. Of course Mr. Londoner himself was victimized, and more than once. During one campaign, as chairman of the Republican County Central Committee, Mr. Londoner was delegated to work up enthusiasm among the colored voters of Denver, and in an unguarded moment he took Field into his confidence and boasted of his flattering progress. The next morning the following advertisement, displayed with all the prominence of glaring scare-heads, appeared: WANTED!! EVERY COLORED MAN IN THE CITY. To call at Wolfe Londoner's Store. A Car load of Georgia Watermelons Just received For a special distribution Among his Colored Friends. _Call Early and get Your Melon!!!_ It is needless to say that when Mr. Londoner's store opened in the morning an ever-increasing cloud of dusky humanity, with teeth that glistened with the juice of anticipation, gathered about the entrance. Business in the store was at a standstill and travel on the street was blocked. No explanation could appease the rising anger of that dark multitude. It was melons, or a riot. Melons, or that unheard-of thing--a colored landslide to the democracy. Mr. Londoner was at his wits' ends. There were no melons in the market, and none expected. Just as Londoner was preparing to abandon his store to the wrath of the justly incensed melon-maniacs, a car-load of magnificent melons dropped into one of the freight sidings, and Londoner and the Republican party were saved. Nobody ever knew how or whence that pink-hearted manna came. The price was exorbitant, but that did not matter. Londoner paid it with the air of a man who had ordered melons and was indignant that the railway company had disappointed him in not delivering them the day before. There was not a crack in the solid black Republican column on election day. But Field was not through with Mr. Londoner yet. The colored brethren had to hold their ratification meeting to endorse the Republican nominations, and more especially to render thanks for the creation of watermelons, and to the man who paid for them, out of season. Of course Mr. Londoner was invited to attend, and when it came his turn to address the meeting the chairman, a colored deacon of the church where "'Possum Jim" worshipped, by the name of Williams, introduced him as follows: "I now take great pleasure in introducing to you our friend and brother, the Honorable Mistah Wolfe Londoner, who has always been our true friend and brother, who always advises us to do the right thing, and stands ready, at all times, to help us in the good fight. Although he has a white skin, his heart is as black as any of ours. Brothers, the Honorable Wolfe Londoner." There was no mistaking the authorship of this felicitous introduction. Field was never tired of repeating another story at the expense of Mr. Londoner, in connection with the visit of Charles A. Dana to Denver. The arrival of "Mr. Dana of the New York Sun" was made the occasion for one of those receptions by the Press Club which made up in heartiness what they lacked in conventional ceremony. Mr. Londoner was the president of the club, and it not only fell to his lot to deliver the address of welcome to guests of the club, but to look after their comfort and welfare while they remained in the city, and often to provide them with the wherewithal to leave it. On Mr. Dana's presentation he was called on for some remarks, to which Mr. Londoner listened with the air of a man who had heard the same tale from lips less entitled to deliver a message of counsel and warning to a group of newspaper writers. When his guest had finished his remarks, Mr. Londoner, according to Field's story, walked over to Mr. Dana and asked him how much he wanted. Mr. Dana looked at him with a puzzled air, and asked: "How much what? What do you mean?" "Why, money," Mr. Londoner is said to have replied. "Every newspaper man who ever came to this club was introduced the same as you were, made a speech the same as you did, and then came to me to borrow money to get out of town with. Now, how much do you want?" According to Field, he never saw a man so greatly relieved as Mr. Londoner was when Mr. Dana assured him that his hotel bill was paid and he had enough money sewed into his waistcoat to carry him back to New York, where he had a job waiting for him. On one occasion Field accompanied the Denver Press Club on a pleasure trip to Manitou, a summer resort that nestles in a cañon at the base of Mount Rosa. Before the party was comfortably settled in the hotel, Field was approached by a poor woman who had lost her husband, and who poured into his ear a sad tale of indigence and sorrow. He became immediately interested, and at once set about devising means for her relief. As his purse was as lean as her own and his companions were not overburdened with the means to get back to Denver, he announced a grand musical and dramatic entertainment, to be given in the parlors of the hotel that evening, for the benefit of a deserving charity. Every guest in the hotel was invited, and the members of the Press Club spread the notices among the citizens of the village. When asked who would be the performers, Field answered, with the utmost nonchalance, that the Lord would provide the entertainment if Manitou would furnish the audience. The evening came, and the parlors were crowded with guests and villagers, but no performers. After waiting until expectancy and curiosity had almost toppled over from tiptoe to disgust and indignation, Field stepped to the piano with preternatural gravity and attacked it with all the grand airs of a foreign virtuoso. Critics would have denied that Field was a pianist, and, technically considered, they would have been right. But his fingers had a fondness for the ivory keys, and they responded to his touch with the sweet melody of the forest to the wind. He carried all the favorite airs of all the operas he had ever heard in his fingers' ends. He knew the popular songs of the day by heart, and, where memory failed, could improvise. He had a voice for the soft and deep chords of negro melodies I have never heard surpassed, and with all, he had a command of comedy and pathos which, up to this time, was little known beyond the circle in Denver over which he reigned as the Lord of Misrule. That night in Manitou those who were present reported that, from the moment he sat down at the piano until the last note of the good-night song died away, he held that impromptu audience fascinated by his impromptu performance. By turns he sang, played, recited poetry, mimicked actors and well-known Colorado characters, told anecdotes, and altogether gave such a single-handed entertainment that the spectators did not know whether to be more astonished at its variety or delighted with its genius. The result was a generous collection, which went far to relieve the distress of the woman who had touched Field's sympathy. Let it not be understood that nothing more serious than some hilarious escapade or sardonic bit of humor ever crossed the life of Eugene Field in Denver. His innate hatred of humbug and sham made the Denver Tribune a terror to all public characters who considered that suddenly acquired wealth gave them a free hand to flaunt ostentatious vulgarity on all public occasions. CHAPTER XI COMING TO CHICAGO What I have written thus far of Eugene Field has been based upon what the lawyers call hearsay or documentary evidence. It has for the most part been directly heard or confirmed from his own lips. In the early days of our acquaintance the stories of his life in Denver were rife through every newspaper office and green-room in the United States. No one who had spent any time in Colorado came East without bringing a fresh budget of tales of the pranks and pasquinades of Eugene Field, of the Denver Tribune. The clipping vogue of his Primer series had given him a newspaper reputation wide as the continent. He was far more quoted, however, for what he said and did than for anything he wrote. Had his career ended in 1883, before he came to Chicago, there would have been little or nothing left of literary value to keep his memory alive, beyond the regretful mention in the obituary columns of the western press. And it came near ending, like the candle exposed to the gusts of March, or a bubble that has danced and glistened its brief moment in the sun. The boy who was too delicate for continued application to books in Amherst, who had outgrown his strength so that his entrance at Williams was postponed a year, whose backwardness at his books through three colleges had been excused on the plea of ill-health, had been living a pace too fast for a never strong and always rebellious stomach. He was not intemperate in eating or drinking. It was not excess in the first that ruined his digestion, nor intemperance in the other that caused him to become a total abstainer from all kinds of intoxicating beverages. He simply became a dyspeptic through a weird devotion to the pieces and pastries "like Mary French used to make," and he became a teetotaler because the doctors mistook the cause of his digestive distress. The one thing of which Eugene Field was intemperate in Denver was of himself. He gave to that delicate machinery we call the body no rest. It was winter when he did not see the sun rise several times a week, and the hours he stole from daylight for sleep were too few and infrequent to make up for the nights he turned into day for work and frolic. Thus it came about that in the summer of 1883 Eugene Field had reached the end of his physical tether, and some change of scene was necessary to save what was left of an impaired constitution. From what has been said, it is easy to understand how Field's abilities were diverted into a new and deeper channel in 1883. "Stricken by dyspepsia," writes Mr. Cowen, "so severely that he fell into a state of chronic depression and alarm, he eagerly accepted the timely offer of Melville E. Stone, then surrounding himself with the best talent he could procure in the West, of a virtually independent desk on the Chicago Morning News. There he quickly regained health, although he never recovered from his ailment." How Mr. Stone came to be the "Fairy Godmother" to Field at this turning-point in his life may be briefly related, and partly in Mr. Stone's own words. He and Victor F. Lawson had made a surprising success in establishing the Chicago Daily News, in December, 1875, the first one-cent evening paper in Chicago. It is related that in the early days of their enterprise they had to import the copper coins for the use of their patrons--the nickle being up to that time the smallest coin in use in the West, as the dime, or "short bit," was until a more recent date on the Pacific coast. The Daily News was more distinguished for its enterprise in gathering news and getting it out on the street before the comparative blanket sheets of the early eighties than for its editorial views or literary features. In January, 1881, Messrs. Lawson & Stone conceived the idea of printing a morning edition of their daily, to be called the Morning News. As it was to be sold for two cents, it was their purpose to make it better worth the price by a more exacting standard in the manner of presenting its news and by the employment of special writers for its editorial page. Just then, however, the crop of unemployed writers of demonstrated ability or reputation was unusually short, and the foundation of the Chicago Herald in May of the same year, by half a dozen energetic journalists of local note, did not tend to overstock the market with the talent sought for by Messrs. Lawson & Stone. It was the rivalry between the Morning News (afterwards the Record) and the Herald, that sent Mr. Stone so far afield as Denver for a man to assist him in realizing the idea cherished by him and his associate. An interesting story could be told of that rivalry, which has just ended by the consolidation of the two papers (March, 1901) into the Chicago Record-Herald, but only so much of it as affects the life and movements of Eugene Field concerns us here. In the early summer of 1883 Mr. Stone, who had been watching with appreciative newspaper sense the popularity of the Tribune Primer skits, cast an acquisitive net in the direction of Denver. He had known Field in St. Louis, and describes their first meeting thus: "I entered the office of the Dispatch to see Stillson Hutchins, the then proprietor of that paper. It was in the forenoon, the busy hour for an afternoon newspaper. A number of people were there, but as to the proprietor, clerks, and customers, none was engaged in any business, for, perched on the front counter, telling in a strangely resonant voice a very funny story, sat Eugene Field. He was a striking figure, tall, gaunt, almost bald (though little more than twenty years of age), smooth shaven, and with a remarkable face, which lent itself to every variety of emotion. In five minutes after our introduction I knew him. There was no reserve about him. He was of the free, whole-souled western type--that type which invites your confidence in return for absolute and unstinted frankness." Instead of broaching his purpose by letter, Mr. Stone slipped off to Denver for a personal interview with his intended victim, and, as I have already intimated, he arrived just in the nick of time to find Field ready for any move that would take him away from the killing kindness and exhilarating atmosphere of the Colorado capital. "The engagement," says Mr. Stone, "was in itself characteristic. Field wanted to join me. He was tired of Denver and mistrustful of the limitations upon him there. But if he was to make a change, he must be assured that it was to be for his permanent good. He was a newspaper man not from choice, but because in that field he could earn his daily bread. Behind all he was conscious of great capability--not vain or by any means self-sufficient, but certain that by study and endeavor he could take high rank in the literary world and could win a place of lasting distinction. So he stipulated that he should be given a column of his own, that he might stand or fall by the excellence of his own work. Salary was less an object than opportunity." Mr. Stone gave the necessary assurances, both as to salary--by no means princely--and opportunity as large as Field had the genius to fill. As quickly as he could, Field closed up his Denver connections and prepared for the last move in his newspaper life. How he survived the round of farewell luncheons, dinners, and midnight suppers given for and by him was a source of mingled pride and amusement to the chief sufferer. It was with feelings of genuine regret that he turned his back on Denver and gave up the jovial and congenial association with the Tribune and its staff. Although its chief editorial writer, O.H. Rothacker, had a national reputation, Field was the star of the company that gave to the Tribune its unique reputation among the journals of the West, and all classes of citizens felt that something picturesquely characteristic of the liberty and good-fellowship of their bustling town was being taken from them. Field's departure meant the closing of the hobble-de-hoy period in the life of Denver as well as in his own. His life there had been exactly suited to his temperament, to the times, and to the environment. It is doubtful if it would have been possible to repeat such an experience in Denver five years later, and it is certain that in five years Field had developed whole leagues of character beyond its repetition. It was in August, 1883, that Eugene Field, with his family and all his personal effects, except his father's library, moved to Chicago. That library was destined to remain safely stored in St. Louis for many years before he felt financially able to afford it shelter and quarters commensurate with its intrinsic value and wealth of associations. So far in his newspaper work Field had little time and less inclination to learn from books. All stories of his being a close and omnivorous student of books, previous to his coming to Chicago, are not consistent with the facts. He was learning all about humanity by constant attrition with mankind. He was taking in knowledge of the human passions and emotions at first hand and getting very little assistance through pouring over the printed observations of others. He was not a classical scholar in the sense of having acquired any mastery of or familiarity with the great Latin or Greek writers. Language, all languages, was a study that was easy to him, and he acquired facility in translating any foreign tongue, living or dead, with remarkable readiness by the aid of a dictionary and a nimble wit. Student in St. Louis, Kansas City, or Denver he was not, any more than at Williams, Galesburg, or Columbia. But I have no doubt that when Eugene Field left Denver he had a fixed intention, as suggested in the words of Mr. Stone, by study and endeavor to take high rank in the literary world and to "win a place of lasting distinction." When he came to Chicago his family consisted of Mrs. Field and their four children, all, happily for him, in vigorous health, and, so far as the children were concerned, endowed with appetites and a digestion the envy and despair of their father. "Trotty," the eldest, was by this time a girl of eight, Melvin a stout sober youth of six, "Pinny" (Eugene, Jr.) a shrewd little rascal of four, and "Daisy" (Fred), his mother's boy, a large-eyed, sturdy youngster of nearly three masterful summers. The family was quickly settled in a small but convenient flat on Chicago Avenue, three blocks from the Lake, and a little more than a mile's walk from the office, a distance that never tempted Field to exercise his legs except on one occasion, when it afforded him a chance to astonish the natives of North Chicago. It occurred to him one bleak day in December that it was time the people knew there was a stranger in town. So he arrayed himself in a long linen duster, buttoned up from knees to collar, put an old straw hat on his head, and taking a shabby book under one arm and a palm-leaf fan in his hand, he marched all the way down Clark Street, past the City Hall, to the office. Everywhere along the route he was greeted with jeers or pitying words, as his appearance excited the mirth or commiseration of the passers-by. When he reached the entrance to the Daily News office he was followed by a motley crowd of noisy urchins whom he dismissed with a grimace and the cabalistic gesture with which Nicholas Koorn perplexed and repulsed Antony Van Corlear from the battlement of the fortress of Rensellaerstein. Then closing the door in their astonished faces, he mounted the two flights of stairs to the editorial rooms, where he recounted, with the glee of the boy he was in such things, the success of his joke. Trotty was his favorite child, probably because she was the only girl, and he was very fond of little girls. Even then she favored her father in complexion and features more than any of the boys, having the same large innocent-looking blue eyes. But even she had to serve his disposition to extract humor from every situation. Before Field had been in Chicago two months he realized that he had made a serious miscalculation in impressing Mr. Stone with the thought that salary was less an object to him than opportunity. Opportunity had not sufficed to meet Field's bills in Denver, and the promised salary, that seemed temptingly sufficient at the distance of a thousand miles, proved distressingly inadequate to feed and clothe three lusty boys and one growing girl in the bracing atmosphere of Chicago. So it was not surprising that when Trotty asked her father to give her an appropriate text to recite in Sunday-school, he schooled her to rise and declaim with great effect: "The Lord will provide, my father can't!" The means Field took to bring the insufficiency of his salary to the attention of Mr. Stone were as ingenious as they were frequent. I don't think he would have appreciated an increase of salary that came without some exercise of his wayward fancy for making mirth out of any embarrassing financial condition. It is more than probable that Eugene Field chose Chicago for the place of his permanent abode after deliberately weighing the advantages and limitations of its situation with reference to his literary career. He felt that it was as far east as he could make his home without coming within the influence of those social and literary conventions that have squeezed so much of genuine American flavor out of our literature. He had received many tempting offers from New York newspapers before coming to Chicago, and after our acquaintance I do not believe a year went by that Field did not decline an engagement, personally tendered by Mr. Dana, to go to the New York Sun, at a salary nearly double that he was receiving here. But, as he told Julian Ralph on one occasion, he would not live in, or write for, the East. For, as he put it, there was more liberty and fewer literary "fellers" out West, and a man had more chance to be judged on his merits and "grow up with the country." The Chicago to which Eugene Field came in 1883 was a city of something over six hundred thousand inhabitants, and pulsing with active political and commercial life. It had been rebuilt, physically, after the fire with money borrowed from the East, and was almost too busy paying interest and principal to have much time to read books, much less make them, except in the wholly manufacturing sense. It had already become a great publishing centre, but not of the books that engage the critical intelligence of the public. The feverish devotion of its citizens to business during the day-time drove them to bed at an unseasonably early hour, or to places of amusement, from which they went so straight home after the performances that there was not a single fashionable restaurant in the city catering to supper parties after the play. Whether this condition, making theatre-going less expensive here than in other large cities, conduced to the result or not, it was a fact that in the early eighties Chicago was the best paying city on the continent for theatrical companies of all degrees of merit. The losses which the best artists and plays almost invariably reported of New York engagements were frequently recouped in Chicago. Chicago never took kindly to grand opera, and probably for the same reason that it patronized the drama. It sought entertainment and amusement, and grand opera is a serious business. As Field said of himself, Chicago liked music "limited"; and its liking was generally limited to light or comic opera and the entertainments of the Apollo Club, until Theodore Thomas, with admirable perseverance, aided by the pocket-books of public-spirited citizens rather than by enthusiastic music-lovers, succeeded in cultivating the study and love of music up to a standard above that of any other American city, with the possible exception of Boston. I have referred to the theatrical and musical conditions in Chicago in 1883, because it was in them that Eugene Field found his most congenial atmosphere and associations when he came hither that year. These were the chief reminders of the life he had left behind when he turned his back on Denver, and I need scarcely say that they continued to afford him the keenest pleasure and the most unalloyed recreation to the end. Architecturally, Chicago was no more beautiful and far less impressive than it is now. It could not boast half a dozen buildings, public or private, worthy of a second glance. Its tallest skyscraper stopped at nine stories, and that towered a good two stories over its nearest rival. The bridges across the river connecting the three divisions of the city were turned slowly and laboriously by hand, and the joke was current that a Chicagoan of those days could never hear a bell ring without starting on a run to avoid being bridged. The cable-car was an experiment on one line, and all the other street-cars were operated with horses and stopped operation at 12.20 A.M., as Field often learned to his infinite disgust, for he hated walking worse than he did horses or horse-cars. In many ways Chicago reminded Field of Denver, and in no respect more than in its primitive ways, its assumed airs of importance, and its township politics. Despite its forty odd years of incorporated life, Chicago, the third city of the United States, was still a village, and Field insisted on regarding it as such. Transplanted from the higher altitude at the foot of the Rockies to the level of Lake Michigan, I think nothing about Chicago struck him more forcibly than the harshness of its variable summer climate. Scarcely a week went by that his column did not contain some reference in paragraph or verse to its fickle alarming changes. He had not enough warm blood back of that large gray face to rejoice when the mercury dropped in an hour, as it often did, from 88 or 90 degrees to 56 or 60 degrees. Such changes, which came with the whirl of the weather vane, as the wind shifted from its long sweep over the prairies, all aquiver with the heat, to a strong blow over hundreds of miles of water whose temperature in dog days never rose above 60 degrees, provoked from him verses such as these, written in the respective months they celebrate in the year 1884: _CHICAGO IN JULY The white-capp'd waves of Michigan break On the beach where the jacksnipes croon-- The breeze sweeps in from the purple lake And tempers the heat of noon: In yonder bush, where the berries grow, The Peewee tunefully sings, While hither and thither the people go, Attending to matters and things. There is cool for all in the busy town-- For the girls in their sealskin sacques-- For the dainty dudes idling up and down, With overcoats on their backs; And the horse-cars lurch and the people run And the bell at the bridgeway rings-- But never perspires a single one, Attending to matters and things. What though the shivering mercury wanes-- What though the air be chill? The beauteous Chloe never complains As she roams by the purpling rill; And the torn-tit coos to its gentle mate, As Chloe industriously swings With Daphnis, her beau, on the old front gate, Attending to matters and things. When the moon comes up, and her cold, pale light Coquettes with the freezing streams, What care these twain for the wintry night, Since Chloe is wrapt in dreams, And Daphnis utters no plaint of woe O'er his fair jack full on kings, But smiles that fortune should bless him so, Attending to matters and things. CHICAGO IN AUGUST When Cynthia's father homeward brought An India mull for her to wear, How were her handsome features fraught With radiant smiles beyond compare! And to her bosom Cynthia strained Her pa with many a fond caress-- And ere another week had waned That mull was made into a dress. And Cynthia blooming like a rose Which any swain might joy to cull, Cried "How I'll paralyze the beaux When I put on my India mull!" Now let the heat of August day Be what it may--I'll not complain-- I'll wear the mull, and put away This old and faded-out delaine! Despite her prayers the heated spell Descended not on mead and wold-- Instead of turning hot as--well, The weather turned severely cold, The Lake dashed up its icy spray And breathed its chill o'er all the plain-- Cynthia stays at home all day And wears the faded-out delaine! So is Chicago at this time-- She stands where icy billows roll-- She wears her beauteous head sublime, While cooling zephyrs thrill her soul. But were she tempted to complain, Methinks she'd bid the zephyrs lull, That she might doff her old delaine And don her charming India mull!_ But there was another feature of Chicago that from the day of his arrival to the day of his departure to that land where dust troubleth not and soot and filth are unknown, filled his New England soul and nostrils with ineffable disgust. He never became reconciled to a condition in which the motto _in hoc signo vinces_ on a bar of soap had no power to inspire a ray of hope. He had not been here a month before his muse began to wield the "knotted lash of sarcasm" above the strenuous but dirty back of Chicago after this fashion: _Brown, a Chicago youth, did woo A beauteous Detroit belle, And for a month--or, maybe, two-- He wooed the lovely lady well. But, oh! one day--one fatal day-- As mused the belle with naught to do, A local paper came her way And, drat the luck! she read it through. She read of alleys black with mire-- A river with a putrid breath-- Streets reeking with malarial ire-- Inviting foul disease and death. Then, with a livid snort she called Her trembling lover to her side-- "How dare you, wretched youth," she bawled, "Ask me to be your blushing bride? Go back unto your filthy town, And never by my side be seen, Nor hope to make me Mrs. Brown, Until you've got your city clean!"_ Eugene Field made his first appearance in the column of the Morning News August 15th, 1883, in the most modest way, with a scant column of paragraphs such as he had contributed to the Denver Tribune, headed "Current Gossip" instead of "Odds and Ends." The heading was only a makeshift until a more distinctive one could be chosen in its stead. On August 31st, 1883, the title "Sharps and Flats" was hoisted to the top of Field's column, and there it remained over everything he wrote for more than a dozen years. There have been many versions of how Field came to hit upon this title, so appropriate to what appeared under it. The most ingenious of these was that evolved by John B. Livingstone in "An Appreciation" of Eugene Field, published in the Interior shortly after his death. In what, on the whole, is probably the best analysis of Field's genius and work extant, Mr. Livingstone goes on to say: "What Virgil was to Tennyson, Horace was to Field in one aspect at least of the Venusian's character. He could say of his affection for the protegé of Mæcenas, as the laureate said of his for the 'poet of the happy Tityrus,' 'I that loved thee since my day began.' It has been suggested that he owed to a clever farce-comedy of the early eighties the caption of the widely-read column of journalistic epigram and persiflage, which he filled with machine-like regularity and the versatility of the brightest French journalism for ten years. I prefer to think that he took it, or his cue for it, from a line of Dr. Phillips Francis's translation of the eighth of the first book of Horatian Satires: _Not to be tedious or repeat How Flats and Sharps in concert meet._ "Field's knowledge of Horace and of his translators was complete, probably not equalled by that of any other member of his craft. He made a specialty of the study, a hobby of it. And it is more likely, as it is more gratifying, to believe that he caught his famous caption (Sharps and Flats) from a paraphrase of his favorite classic poet than from the play bill of a modern and ephemeral farce." Unfortunately for this pretty bit of speculation, which Field would have enjoyed as another evidence of his skill in imposing upon the elect of criticism, it has no foundation in fact, and its premises of Field's intimate knowledge and devotion to Horace anticipates the period of his Horatian "hobby," as Mr. Livingstone so well styles it, by at least five years. It was not until the winter of 1888-89 that paraphrases of Horace began to stud his column with the first-fruits of his tardy wandering and philandering with Dr. Frank W. Reilly through the groves and meadows of the Sabine farm. But that is another story. According to M.E. Stone, the title of the column which Field established when he came to the Chicago Morning News was borrowed from the name of a play, "Sharps and Flats," written by Clay M. Greene and myself, and played with considerable success throughout the United States by Messrs. Robson and Crane. [Illustration: Robson. Crane.--Crane. Robson. ROBSON AND CRANE IN THE PLAY "SHARPS AND FLATS"] It may be set down here as well as elsewhere, and still quoting Mr. Stone, that not only did Field write nearly every line that ever appeared in the "Sharps and Flats" column, but that practically everything that he ever wrote, after 1883, appeared at one time or another in that column. To which it may be added that it has been the custom of those writing of Eugene Field to surround and endow him throughout his career with the acquirement of scholarship, and pecuniary independence, which he never possessed before the last six years of his life. Practically all Field's scholarship and mental equipment, so far as they were obtained from books, were acquired after he came to Chicago, and he was never lifted above the ragged edge of impecuniosity until he began to receive royalties from the popular edition of "A Little Book of Western Verse" and "A Little Book of Profitable Tales." His domestic life was spent in flats or rented houses until less than five months before his death. The photographs taken a few months before his death of Eugene Field's home and the beautiful library in which he wrote are ghastly travesties on the nomadic character of his domestic arrangements for many years before June, 1895--dreams for which he longed, but only lived to realize for four brief months. All the best Field wrote previous to 1890--and it includes the best he ever wrote, except "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac"--was written in a room to which many a box stall is palatial, and his sole library was a dilapidated edition of Bartlett's "Familiar Quotations," Cruden's "Concordance of the Bible," and a well-thumbed copy of the King James version of the Bible. He detested the revised version. The genius of this man at this time did not depend on scholarship or surroundings, but on the companionship of his fellows and the unconventionality of his home life. CHAPTER XII PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS It was in the month of September, after Field's coming to the Morning News, that a managerial convulsion in the office of the Chicago Herald threw the majority of its editorial corps and special writers across Fifth Avenue into the employ of Messrs. Lawson & Stone. They were at first distributed between the morning and evening editions of the News, my first work being for the latter, to which I contributed editorial paragraphs for one week, when Mr. Stone concluded to make me his chief editorial writer on the Morning News. This brought me into immediate personal and professional relations with Field. Our rooms adjoined, being separated by a board partition that did not reach to the ceiling and over which for four years I was constantly bombarded with missives and missiles from my ever-restless neighbor. Among the other recruits from the Herald at that time was John F. Ballantyne, who, from being the managing editor of that paper, was transferred to the position of chief executive of the Morning News under Mr. Stone. One of the first duties of his position was to read Field's copy very closely, to guard against the publication of such bitter innuendoes and scandalous personalities as had kept the Denver Tribune in constant hot water between warlike descents upon the editor and costly appeals to the courts. Mr. Stone wanted all the racy wit that had distinguished Field's contributions to the Tribune without the attendant crop of libel suits, and he relied on Ballantyne's Scotch caution to put a query mark against every paragraph that squinted at a breach of propriety or a breach of the peace, or that invited a libel suit. There was no power of final rejection in Ballantyne's blue pencil. That was left for Mr. Stone's own decision. It was well that it was so, for Mr. Ballantyne's appreciation of humor was so rigid that, had it been the arbiter as to which of Field's paragraphs should be printed, I greatly fear me there would often have been a dearth of gayety in the "Sharps and Flats." The relations in which Ballantyne and I found ourselves to Field can best be told in the language of Mr. Cowen, whose own intimate relations with Field antedated ours and continued to the end: "Coming immediately under the influence of John Ballantyne and Slason Thompson, respectively managing editor and chief editorial writer of the News--the one possessed of Scotch gravity and the other of fine literary taste and discrimination--the character of Field's work quickly modified, and his free and easy, irregular habits succumbed to studious application and methodical labors. Ballantyne used the blue pencil tenderly, first attacking Field's trick fabrications and suppressing the levity which found vent in preceding years in such pictures of domestic felicity as: _Baby and I the weary night Are taking a walk for his delight, I drowsily stumble o'er stool and chair And clasp the babe with grim despair, For he's got the colic And paregoric Don't seem to ease my squalling heir. Baby and I in the morning gray Are griping and squalling and walking away-- The fire's gone out and I nearly freeze-- There's a smell of peppermint on the breeze. Then Mamma wakes And the baby takes And says, "Now cook the breakfast please."_ "The every-day practical joker and entertaining mimic of Denver recoiled in Chicago from the reputation of a Merry Andrew, the prospect of gaining which he disrelished and feared. He preferred to invent paragraphic pleasantries for the world at large and indulge his personal humor in the office, at home, or with personal friends. Gayety was his element. He lived, loved, inspired, and translated it, in the doing which latter he wrote, without strain or embarrassment, reams of prose satire, _contes risqués_, and Hudibrastic verse." It is a singular illustration of the irony and mutations of life that one of the early paragraphs Field wrote for the "Sharps and Flats" column was inspired by what was supposed to be a fatal assault on his friend by a notorious political ruffian in Leadville. The paragraph, which appeared on September 12th, 1883, is interesting as a specimen of Field's style at that period, and as showing in what esteem he held Cowen, with whom he had been associated on the Denver Tribune and whose name recurs in these pages from time to time: Edward D. Cowen, the city editor of the Leadville Herald, who was murderously assaulted night before last by a desperado named Joy, was one of the brightest newspaper men in the West. He came originally from Massachusetts, and has relatives living in the southern part of Illinois. He was about thirty years of age. He went to Leadville about three months ago to work on ex-Senator Tabor's paper, the Herald, and was doing excellently well. He was a protegé, to a certain extent, of Mrs. Tabor No. 2. She admired his brilliancy, and volunteered to help him in any possible way. It was speaking of him that she said: "My life will henceforth be devoted to assisting worthy young men. In life we must prepare for death, and how can we better prepare for death than by helping our fellow-creatures? Alas!" she added with a sad, sad sigh, "alas! death is, after all, what we live for." Young Cowen had all the social graces men and women admire; he was bright in intellect, great in heart, and hearty of manner. The loss of no young man we know of would be more deplored than his demise. Cowen never wholly recovered from the effects of his encounter with Joy, but he survived to joke with Field over the past tense in which this paragraph is couched, and to afford me valuable assistance in completing this character-study of our friend. I have already referred to the "box stall" in which Field sawed his daily wood, as he was accustomed to call his work. As the day of thinking that any old pine table, with a candle box for a chair, crowded off in any sort of a dingy garret, was good enough for the writers who contributed "copy" for a newspaper, has been succeeded by an era of quarter-sawed oak desks, swivel chairs, electric light, and soap and water in editorial quarters throughout the country, let me attempt to describe the original editorial rooms of the Daily News less than twenty years ago. The various departments of the paper occupied what had been three four-story, twenty-five-foot buildings. The floors of no two of these buildings above the first story were on the same level. They had evidently been originally built for lodging houses. The presses and storerooms for the rolls of paper filled the cellars. The business office occupied one store, which was flanked on either side by stores that would have been more respectable had they been rented as saloons, which they were not, because of the conscientious scruples of Messrs. Lawson & Stone. Parts of two of the buildings were still rented as lodgings. Up one flight of stairs of the centre building, in the front, Mr. Stone had his office, which was approached through what had been a hall bedroom. His room was furnished with black walnut, and a gloomy and oppressive air of mystery. Mr. Stone had the genius and the appearance of a chief inquisitor. He was as alert, daring, and enterprising an editor as the West has ever produced. The rear of this twenty-five-foot building was given up to the library and to George E. Plumbe, the editor for many years of the Daily News Almanac and Political Register. The library consisted of files of nearly all the Chicago dailies, of Congressional Records and reports, the leading almanacs, the "Statesman's Year Book," several editions of "Men of the Times," half a dozen encyclopaedias, the Imperial and Webster's dictionaries, a few other text books, and about two inches of genuine Chicago soot which incrusted everything. The theory advanced by Field's friend, William F. Poole, then of the Public Library and later of the Newberry Library, that dust is the best preservative of books, rendered it necessary that the only washstand accessible to the Morning News should be located in the library. None of us ever came out of that library as we went in--the one clean roller a day forbade it. Nothing but the conscientious desire to embellish our "copy" with enough facts and references to make a showing of erudition ever induced Field or any of the active members of the editorial staff to borrow the library key from Ballantyne to break in upon the soporific labors of Mr. Plumbe. Here the editorial conferences, which Field has illustrated, were held. [Illustration: DAILY NEWS EDITORIAL COUNCIL OF WAR. "Now, boys, which point shall we move on?" _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] Before quitting the library, which has since grown, in new quarters, to be one of the most comprehensive newspaper libraries in the country, I cannot forbear printing one of Field's choice bits at the expense of the occupants of this floor of the Daily News office. It has no title, but is supposed to be a soliloquy of Mr. Stone's: _I wish my men were more like Plumbe And not so much like me-- I hate to see the paper hum When it should stupid be. For when a lot of wit and rhyme Appears upon our pages, I know too well my men in time Will ask a raise in wages. I love to sit around and chin With folk of doubtful fame, But oh, it seems a dreadful sin When others do the same; For others gad to get the news To use in their profession, But anything I get I use For purpose of suppression._ Field's poetical license here does injustice to Mr. Stone, whose inquisitions generally concerned matters of public or political concern and whose practice of the editorial art of suppression was never exercised with any other motive than the public good or the sound discretion of the editor, who knew that the libel suits most to be feared were those where the truth about some scalawag was printed without having the affidavits in the vault and a double hitch on the witnesses. Up another long, narrow, dark stairway was the office of Mr. Ballantyne, the managing editor. He occupied what had been a rear hall bedroom, 7 x 10 feet. He was six feet two tall, and if he had not been of an orderly nature, there would not have been room in that back closet, with its one window and flat-topped desk, for his feet and the retriever, Snip--the only dog Field ever thoroughly detested. Ballantyne's room was evidently arranged to prevent any private conferences with the managing editor. It boasted a second chair, but when the visitor accepted the rare invitation to be seated, his knees prevented the closing of the door. The remainder of this floor of the centre building and the whole of the same floor of the next building south were taken up by the composing room. A door had been cut in the wall of the building to the north, just by Mr. Ballantyne's room, through which, and down three steps, was the space devoted to the editorial and reportorial staff of the Morning News. The front end of this space was partitioned off into three rooms, 7 x 12 feet each. Field claimed one of these boxes, the dramatic critic and solitary artist of the establishment one, and Morgan Bates, the exchange editor, and I were sandwiched in between them. The rest of the floor was given up to the city staff. The telegraph editor had a space railed off for his accommodation in the composing room. If a fire had broken out in the central building in those days, along about ten P.M., the subsequent proceedings of Eugene Field and of others then employed on the Morning News would probably not have been of further interest, except to the coroner. Of the three rooms mentioned, Field's was the only one having any pretensions to decoration. Its floor and portions of the wall were stained and grained a rich brown with the juice of the tobacco plant. In one corner Field had a cupboard-shaped pigeon-file, alphabetically arranged, for the clippings he daily made--almost all relating some bit of personal gossip about people in the public eye. Scattered about the floor were dumb-bells, Indian clubs, and other gymnastic apparatus which Field never touched and which the janitor had orders not to disturb in their disorder. Above Field's desk for some time hung a sheet of tin, which he used as a call bell or to drown the noise of the office boy poking the big globe stove which was the primitive, but generally effective, way of heating the whole floor in winter. That it was not always effective, even after steam was introduced, may be inferred from the following importunate note written by Field to Collins Shackelford, the cashier, on one occasion when the former had been frozen almost numb: DEAR MR. SHACKELFORD: There has been no steam in the third-floor editorial rooms this afternoon. Somebody must be responsible for this brutal neglect, which is of so frequent occurrence that forbearance has ceased to be a virtue. I appeal to you in the hope that you will be able to correct the outrage. Does it not seem an injustice that the writers of this paper should be put at the mercy of sub-cellar hands, who are continually demonstrating their incompetency for the work which they are supposed to do and for which they are paid? Yours truly, EUGENE FIELD. January 11, 1887. To those familiar with the internal economy of newspaper offices it will be no news to learn that death by freezing in the editorial rooms would be regarded as a matter of small moment compared to a temperature in the press room that chilled the printing ink in the fountains to the slow consistency of molasses in January. To return to the furnishing of the room in which Field did the greater part of his work for the Morning News. Originally it did not boast a desk. A pine table with two drawers was considered good enough for the most brilliant paragrapher in the United States, and, for all he cared, so it was. He had no special use for a desk, for at that time he carried his library in his head and wrote on his lap. I am happy in being able to present in corroboration of this a study of Eugene Field at work, drawn from life by his friend, J.L. Sclanders, then artist for the News, and also the copy of a blue print photograph, on the back of which Field wrote, "And they call this art!" [Illustration: FIELD AT WORK. _The Caricature from a Drawing by Sclanders._] In explanation of these pictures, both true to life when made, it should be said that, except when there was no steam on, Field almost invariably wrote in his shirt-sleeves, generally with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his collar off, and always with his feet crossed across the corner of the desk or table. One of the first things he did on coming to the office was to take off his shoes and put on a pair of slippers with no counters around the heels, so that they slapped along the floor as he walked and hung from his toes as he wrote. Why Field always rolled up the bottoms of his trousers on coming into the office and turned them down when he went out, I do not remember to have known. Probably it was partly on account of his contradictory nature, and partly to save the trousers from dragging, for the unloosening of his "vest" was always attended by the unbuttoning of his suspenders to permit of his sitting with greater ease upon the curve of his spine. But why he should have rolled his trousers half way up to the knee passes my comprehension, as the reason has passed from my memory, if I ever knew it. For a long time a rusty old carpenter's saw hung on the wall of his "boudoir." Beside it were some burglars' implements, and subsequently a convict's suit hanging to a peg excited the wonder of the curious and the sarcasm of the ribald. The table in Field's room, besides serving as a resting place for his feet, was covered with the exchanges which were passed along to him after they had passed under the scrutiny and shears of the exchange editor. When Field had gone through them with his rusty scissors they were only fit for the floor, where he strewed them with a riotous hand. If the reader has followed thus far he has a tolerably fair notion of the unpropitious and eccentric surroundings amid which Field worked immediately after coming to Chicago. Out of this strange environment came as variegated a column of satire, wit, and personal persiflage as ever attracted and fascinated the readers of a daily newspaper. And now of the man himself as I first saw him. He was at that time in his thirty-third year, my junior by a year. If Eugene Field had ever stood up to his full height he would have measured slightly over six feet. But he never did and was content to shamble through life, appearing two inches shorter than he really was. Shamble is perhaps hardly the word to use. But neither glide nor shuffle fits his gait any more accurately. It was simply a walk with the least possible waste of energy. It fitted Dr. Holmes's definition of walking as forward motion to prevent falling. And yet Field never gave you the impression that he was about to topple over. His legs always acted as if they were weary and would like to lean their master up against something. As to what that something might be, he would probably have answered, "Pie." Field's arms were long, ending in well-shaped hands, which were remarkably deft and would have been attractive had he not at some time spoiled the fingers by the nail-biting habit. His shoulders were broad and square, and not nearly as much rounded as might have been expected from his position in writing. It was not the stoop of his shoulders that detracted from his height, but a certain settling together, if I may so say, of the couplings of his backbone. He was large-boned throughout, but without the muscles that should have gone with such a frame. He would probably have described himself as tall, big, gangling. He had no personal taste or pride in clothing, and never to my knowledge came across a tailor who took enough interest in his clothes to give him the benefit of a good fit or to persuade him to choose a becoming color. For this reason he looked best-dressed in a dress suit, which he never wore when there was any possibility of avoiding it. His favorite coat was a sack, cut straight, and made from some cloth in which the various shades of yellow, green, and brown struggled for mastery. But it was of little consequence how Field's body was clothed. He wore a 7 3-8 hat and there was a head and face under it that compelled a second glance and repaid scrutiny in any company. The photographs of Field are numerous, and some of them preserve a fair impression of his remarkable physiognomy. None of the paintings of him that I have seen do him justice, and the etchings are not much of an improvement on the paintings. The best photographs only fail because they cannot retain the peculiar deathlike pallor of the skin and the clear, innocent china blue of the large eyes. These eyes were deep set under two arching brows, and yet were so large that their deep setting was not at first apparent. Field's nose was a good size and well shaped, with an unusual curve of the nostrils strangely complementary to the curve of the arch above the eyes. There was a mole on one cheek, which Field always insisted on turning to the camera and which the photographer very generally insisted on retouching out in the finishing. Field was wont to say that no photograph of him was genuine unless that mole was "blown in on the negative." The photographs all give him a good chin, in which there was merely the suggestion of that cleft which he held marred the strength of George William Curtis's lower jaw. The feature of his face, if such it can be called, where all portraits failed, was the hair. It was so fine that there would not have been much of it had it been thick, and as it was quite thin there was only a shadow between it and baldness. Even its color was elusive--a cross between brown and dove color. Only those who knew Field before he came to Chicago have any impression as to the color of the thatch upon that head which never during our acquaintance stooped to a slouch hat. This typical head gear of the West had no attraction for him. The formal black or brown derby for winter and the seasonable straw hat for summer seemed necessary to tone down the frivolity of his neckties, which were chosen with a cowboy's gaudy taste. To the day of his death Field delighted to present neckties, generally of the made-up variety, to his friends, which, it is needless to say, they never failed to accept and seldom wore. Often in the afternoon as it neared two o'clock he would stick his head above the partition between our rooms and say, "Come along, Nompy" (his familiar address for the writer). "Come along and I'll buy you a new necktie." "The dickens take your neckties!" or something like it, would be my reply. Whereupon, with the philosophy of which he never wearied, Field would rejoin, "Very well, if you won't let me buy you a necktie, you must buy me a lunch," and off we would march to Henrici's coffee-house around the corner on Madison Street, generally gathering Ballantyne and Snip in our train as we passed the kennel of the managing editor of what was to be the newspaper with the largest morning circulation in Chicago. CHAPTER XIII RELATIONS WITH STAGE FOLK Reference has been made to Field's predilection for the theatrical profession and to his fondness for the companionship of those who had attained prominence in it. During his stay in Denver he had established friendly, and in some instances intimate, relations with the star actors who included that city in the circuit of their yearly pilgrimages. The story of how he ingratiated himself into the good graces of Christine Nilsson, at the expense of a rival newspaper, may be of interest before taking a final farewell of the episodes connected with his life in Colorado. When Madame Nilsson was journeying overland in her special drawing-room car with Henry Abbey, Marcus Meyer, and Charles Mathews, Field wrote to Omaha, anticipating their arrival there, to make inquiry as to how the party employed the dull hours of travel so as to interest the erratic prima donna. It was his intention to prepare a newspaper sketch of the trip. The reply was barren of incident, save a casual allusion to certain sittings at the American game of poker, in which the Swedish songstress had the advantage of the policy or the luck of her companions. Out of this inch of cloth Field manufactured something better than the proverbial ell of very interesting gossip. The reconstructed item reached San Francisco as soon as Madame Nilsson, and was copied from the Tribune into the coast papers on the eve of her opening concert. Now, the madame thought that the American world looked askance at a woman who gambled, and when the article was kindly brought to her attention she flew into one of those rages which, report has said, were the real tragedies of her life. When returning overland to Denver, Abbey telegraphed ahead to Field, and he, with Cowen, went up to Cheyenne to meet the party. On entering the drawing-room car the visitors were hurried into Abbey's compartment with an air of bewildering mystery, and were there informed in whispers that Madame Nilsson was furious against the Tribune and would never forgive anybody attached to it. "Oh, I'll arrange that," said Field. "Don't announce us, but let us call on the madame and be introduced." After some further parley this was done, and this is how he was greeted. "Meestair Field--zee--T-r-ee-bune," Madame Nilsson exclaimed hotly. "I prefair not zee acquaintance of your joor-nal." "Excuse me, madam," persisted Field, blandly and with grave earnestness, "I think from what Mr. Abbey has told us that you are bent on doing the Tribune and its staff a great injustice. It was not the Tribune that published the poker story that caused you so much just annoyance. It was our rival, the Republican, a very disreputable newspaper, which is edited by persons without the least instinct of gentlemen and with no consideration for the feelings of a lady of your refined sensibilities." At this Madame Nilsson thawed visibly, and promptly appealed to Abbey, Mathews, and Mayer to learn if she had been misinformed. They, of course, fell in with Field's story, and upon being assured that she was in error the madame's anger relaxed, and she was soon holding her sides from laughter at Field's drolleries. The result was that the innocent Republican staff could not get within speaking distance of Madame Nilsson during her stay in Denver. The second night of her visit being Christmas eve, the madame held her Christmas tree in the Windsor Hotel, with Field acting the rôle of Santa Claus and the Tribune staff playing the parts of good little boys, while their envious rivals of the Republican were not invited to share in the crumbs that fell from that Christmas supper-table. "I have been a great theatre-goer," says Field in his "Auto-Analysis." And it may be doubted if any writer of our time repaid the stage as generously for the pleasure he received from those who walked its boards before and behind the footlights. No better analysis of his relations to the profession has been made than that from the pen of his friend Cowen: "At the very outset of his newspaper career," says he, "Field's inclinations led him to the society of the green-room. Of western critics and reviewers he was the first favorite among dramatic people. Helpful, kind, and enthusiastic, he was rarely severe and never captious. Though in no sense an analyst, he was an amusing reviewer and a great advertiser. Once he conceived an attachment for an actor or actress, his generous mind set about bringing such fortunate person more conspicuously into public notice. Emma Abbott's baby, which she never had, and of whose invented existence he wrote at least a bookful of startling and funny adventures; Francis Wilson's legs; Sol Smith Russell's Yankee yarns; Billy Crane's droll stories; Modjeska's spicy witticisms--these and other jocular pufferies, quoted and read everywhere with relish for years--were among his hobby-horse performances begun at that time (1881) and continued long after he had settled down in the must and rust of bibliomania." For a long time not a week went by that Field did not invent some marvellous tale respecting Emma Abbott, once the most popular light-opera prima donna of the American stage--every yarn calculated to widen the circle of her popularity. Upon an absolutely fictitious autobiography of Miss Abbott he once exhausted the fertility of his fancy in the form of a review,[1] which went the rounds of the press and which, on her death, contributed many a sober paragraph to the newspaper reviews of her life. [1] Vide Appendix. To the fame of another opera singer of those days he contributed, by paragraphs of an entirely different flavor from those that extolled the Puritan virtues and domestic felicities of Miss Abbott (Mrs. Wetherell), as may be judged from the following "Love Plaint," written shortly after he came to Chicago: _The tiny birdlings in the tree Their tuneful tales of love relate-- Alas, no lover comes to me-- I flock alone, without a mate. Mine eyes are hot with bitter tears, My soul disconsolately yearns-- But, ah, no wooing knight appears-- In vain my quenchless passion burns. Unheeded are my glowing charms-- No heroes claim a moonlight tryst-- All empty are my hungry arms-- My virgin cheeks are all unkissed. Oh, would some cavalier might haste To crown me with his manly love, And, with his arm about my waist, Feed on my cherry lips above. Alas, my blush and bloom will fade, And I shall lose my dulcet notes-- Then I shall die an old, old maid, And none will mourn Miss Alice Oates._ [Illustration: FRANCIS WILSON.] Of his friendship with Francis Wilson there is no need to write here, for is it not fully set forth in that charming little brochure, in which Mr. Wilson gives to the world a characteristic sketch of the Eugene Field and bibliomaniac he knew, and in whose work he was so deeply interested? But Mr. Wilson does not tell how he was pursued and plagued with the following genial invention which Field printed in his column in 1884, and which still occasionally turns up in country exchanges: "Mr. Francis Wilson, the comedian, is a nephew of Père Hyacinthe, the ancient divine. During his recent sojourn in Paris he was the père's guest, and finally became deeply interested in the great work of reform in which the famous preacher is engaged. His intimate acquaintances say that Mr. Wilson is fully determined to retire from the stage at the expiration of five years and devote himself to theological pursuits. He gave Père Hyacinthe his promise to this effect, and his sincerity is undoubted." William Florence, the comedian, was an actor of whom, on and off the stage, Field never wearied. Night after night would we go to see "Billy," as he was familiarly and irreverently called, as Bardwell Slote in the "Mighty Dollar," or as Captain Cuttle in "Dombey and Son." Although originally an Irish comedian of rollicking and contagious humor, Florence had played "Bardwell Slote" so constantly and for so many years that his voice and manner in every-day life had the ingratiating tone of that typical Washington lobbyist. Before his death, while touring with Jefferson as Sir Lucius O'Trigger in "The Rivals," he renewed his earlier triumphs in Irish character, but, even here the accents of the oily Bardwell gave an additional touch of blarney to his brogue. One of the stories that Field delighted to tell of Florence dates back to 1884, when Monseigneur Capel was in the United States. It related with the circumspection of verity how Florence and the Monseigneur had been friends for a number of years. Meeting on the street in Chicago, the story ran, after a general conversation Florence asked Capel whether he ever spent an evening at the theatre, intending, in case of an affirmative reply, to invite him to one of his performances. Capel shook his head. "No," said he, "it has been twenty-four years since I attended a theatre, and I cannot conscientiously bring myself to patronize a place where the devil is preached." Florence protested that the monseigneur placed a false estimate on the theatrical profession. "Ah, no," replied Capel, with a sad smile; "you people are sincere enough; you don't know it, but you preach the devil all the same." "Well, your grace," inquired Florence, with great urbanity, "which is worse, preaching the devil from the stage without knowing it, or preaching Christ crucified from the pulpit without believing it?" "Both are reprehensible," replied Monseigneur Capel; and, bowing stiffly, he went his way, while Florence shrugged his shoulders à la his own fascinating creation of Jules Obenreizer in "No Thoroughfare," and walked off in the opposite direction, whistling to himself as he walked. Florence delighted in companionship and in the good things and good stories of the table, whether at a noon breakfast which lasted well through the afternoon or at the midnight supper which knew no hour for breaking up, and he never came to Chicago that we did not accommodate our convenience to his late hours for breakfast or supper. Nothing short of a concealed stenographer could have done these gatherings justice. Mr. Stone footed the bills, and Field, Florence, Edward J. McPhelim of the Chicago Tribune, poet and dramatic critic, and three or four others of the Daily News staff did the rest. The eating was good, although the dishes were sometimes weird, the company was better, the stories, anecdotes, reminiscences, songs, and flow of soul beyond compare. Field, who ate sparingly and touched liquor not at all, unless it was to pass a connoisseurs judgment upon some novel, strange, and rare brand, divided the honors of the hour with the entire company. In acknowledgment of such attentions, Florence always insisted that before the close of his engagements we should all be his guests at a regular Italian luncheon of spaghetti at Caproni's, down on Wabash Avenue. It is needless to say that the spaghetti was merely the central dish, around which revolved and was devoured every delicacy that Florence had ever heard of in his Italian itinerary, the whole washed down with strange wines from the same sunny land. Florence's fondness for this sort of thing gave zest to a story Field told of his friend's experience in London, in the summer of 1890. The epicurean actor had made an excursion up the Thames with a select party of English clubmen. Two days later Florence was still abed at Morley's, and, as he said, contemplated staying there forever. Sir Morell Mackenzie was called to see him. After sounding his lungs, listening to his heart, thumping his chest and back, looking at his tongue, and testing his breath with medicated paper, Sir Morell said: "As near as I can get at it, you are a victim of misplaced confidence. You have been training with the young bucks when you should have been ploughing around with the old stags. You must quit it. Otherwise it will do you up." "Well now," said Florence, as related by Field, "that was the saddest day of my life. Just think of shutting down on the boys, after being one of them for sixty years! But Sir Morell told the truth. The Garrick Club boys were terribly mad about it; they said Sir Morell was a quack, and they adopted resolutions declaring a lack of confidence in his medical skill. But my mind was made up. 'Billy,' says I to myself, 'you must let up, you've made a record; it's a long one and an honorable one. Now you must retire. Your life henceforth shall be reminiscent and its declining years shall be hallowed by the refulgent rays of retrospection.' To that resolution I have adhered steadily. People tell me that I am as young as ever; but no, they can't fool me, I know better." [Illustration: WILLIAM J. FLORENCE.] Whereupon, according to Field, "Joe" Jefferson broke in incredulously: "Just to illustrate the folly of all that talk, I'll tell you what I saw last night. When I returned to the hotel, after the play, I went up to Billy's room and found Billy and the President of the Philadelphia Catnip Club at supper. What do you suppose they had? Stewed terrapin and frappéd champagne!" "That's all right enough," exclaimed Mr. Florence. "Terrapin and champagne never hurt anybody; I have had 'em all my life. What I maintain is that people of my age should not and cannot indulge in extravagance of diet. The utmost simplicity must be the rule of their life. If Joe would only eat terrapin and drink champagne he wouldn't be grunting around with dyspepsia all the time. He lives on boiled mutton and graham bread, and the public call him 'the reverend veteran Joseph Jefferson.' I stick to terrapin, green turtle, canvasbacks, and the like, and every young chap in the land slaps me on the back, calls me Billy, and regards me as a contemporary. But I ain't; I'm getting old--not too old, but just old enough!" A dozen years with the boys had done for Field's digestion what the robust Florence was dreading after sixty, and to the day of his death, Field, from the rigid practice of his self-denial, pitied and sympathized with the unhappy wight who had received the warning given to Florence, "You must quit training with the boys, otherwise it will do you up." But he had no more obeyed the warning as to coffee and pie than Florence did as to the injunction of Sir Morell against terrapin and champagne. [Illustration: COMMODORE CRANE. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] Another "Billy," William H. Crane, was one of Field's favorites, and the one with whose name he took the greatest liberties in his column of "Sharps and Flats." His waggish mind found no end of humor in creating a son for Mr. Crane, who was christened after his father's stage partner, Stuart Robson Crane. This child of Field's sardonic fancy was gifted with all the roguish attributes that are the delight and despair of fond parents. Scarcely a month, sometimes hardly a week, went by that Field did not print some yarn about the sayings or doings of the obstreperous Stuart Robson Crane. Every anecdote that he heard he adapted to the years and supposed circumstances of "Master Crane." The close relations which existed between Field and the Cranes--for he included Mrs. Crane within the inner circle of his good-fellowship--may be judged from the following tribute: _MRS. BILLY CRANE A woman is a blessing, be she large or be she small, Be she wee as any midget, or as any cypress tall: And though I'm free to say I like all women folks the best, I think I like the little women better than the rest-- And of all the little women I'm in love with I am fain To sing the praises of the peerless Mrs. Billy Crane. I met this charming lady--never mind how long ago-- In that prehistoric period I was reckoned quite a beau: You'd never think it of me if you chanced to see me now, With my shrunken shanks and dreary eyes and deeply furrowed brow; But I was young and chipper when I joined that brisk campaign At Utica to storm the heart of Mrs. Billy Crane. We called her Ella in those days, as trim a little minx As ever fascinated man with coquetries, methinks! I saw her home from singing-school a million times I guess, And purred around her domicile three winters, more or less, And brought her lozenges and things--alas: 'twas all in vain-- She was predestined to become a Mrs. Billy Crane! That Mr. Billy came in smart and handsome, I'll aver, Yet, with all his brains and beauty, he's not good enough for her: Now, though I'm somewhat homely and in gumption quite a dolt, The quality of goodness is my best and strongest holt, And as goodness is the only human thing that doesn't wane, I wonder she preferred to wed with Mr. Billy Crane. Yet heaven has blessed her all these years--she's just as blithe and gay As when the belle of Utica, and she ain't grown old a day! Her face is just as pretty and her eyes as bright as then-- Egad! their gracious magic makes me feel a boy again, And still I court (as still I were a callow, York State swain) With hecatombs of lozenges that Mrs. Billy Crane! That she has heaps of faculty her husband can't deny-- Whenever he don't toe the mark she knows the reason why: She handles all the moneys and receipts, which as a rule She carries around upon her arm in a famous reticule, And Billy seldom gets a cent unless he can explain The wherefores and etceteras to Mrs. Billy Crane! Yet O ye gracious actors! with uppers on your feet, And O ye bankrupt critics! athirst for things to eat-- Did you ever leave her presence all unrequited when In an hour of inspiration you struck her for a ten? No! never yet an applicant there was did not obtain A solace for his misery from Mrs. Billy Crane. Dear little Lady-Ella! (let me call you that once more, In memory of the happy days in Utica of yore) If I could have the ordering of blessings here below, I might keep some small share myself, but most of 'em should go To you--yes, riches, happiness, and health should surely rain Upon the temporal estate of Mrs. Billy Crane! You're coming to Chicago in a week or two and then. In honor of that grand event, I shall blossom out again In a brand-new suit of checkered tweed and a low-cut satin vest I shall be the gaudiest spectacle in all the gorgeous West! And with a splendid coach and four I'll meet you at the train-- So don't forget the reticule, dear Mrs. Billy Crane!_ And he may doubt, who never knew this master torment, that Field carried out his threat to appear at Crane's "first night" with that low-cut satin vest and that speckled tweed suit, which did indeed make him a gaudy spectacle. But his solemn face gave no sign that his mixed apparel was making him the cynosure of all curious eyes. Mr. Crane suffered from the same digestive troubles that confined Florence to terrapin and champagne and Field to coffee and pies, and so the state of his health was a constant source of paragraphic sympathy in "Sharps and Flats." In such paragraphs the actor and President Cleveland were often represented as fellow-fishermen at Buzzard's Bay--Crane's summer home being at Cohasset. How they were associated is illustrated in the following casual item: Mr. William H. Crane, the actor, is looking unusually robust this autumn. He seems to have recovered entirely from the malady which made life a burden to him for several years. He thought there was something the matter with his liver. Last July he put in a good share of his time blue-fishing with Grover Cleveland. One day they ran out of bait. "Wonder if they'd bite at liver?" asked Crane. "They love it," answered Cleveland. So without further ado Crane out with his penknife, amputated his liver, and minced it up for bait. He hasn't had a sick day since. By way of introduction to a few words respecting the close, quizzical, and always sincere friendship that existed between Field and Helena Modjeska, the following invention of March 29th, 1884, may serve to indicate the blithesome spirit with which he tortured facts when racketting around for something to add to the bewilderment of his readers and his own relaxation: A letter from Mr. William H. Crane imparts some interesting gossip touching the Cincinnati dramatic festival. It says that an agreeable surprise awaits the patrons of the festival in an interchange of parts between Madame Modjeska and Mr. Stuart Robson, the comedian; that is to say, Modjeska will take Mr. Robson's place in the "Two Dromios," and Robson will take Madame Modjeska's place in the great emotional play of "Camille." It is well known that Modjeska has a penchant for masculine rôles, and her success as Rosalind and Viola leaves no room for doubt that she will give great satisfaction in the "Comedy of Errors." Mr. Robson has never liked female rôles, but his falsetto voice, his slender figure, his smooth, rosy face, and his graceful, effeminate manners qualify him to a remarkable degree for the impersonation of feminine characters. Moreover, his long residence in Paris has given him a thorough appreciation and elaborate knowledge of those characteristics, which must be understood ere one can delineate and portray the subtleties of Camille as they should be given. Those who anticipate a farcical treatment of Dumas's creation at Mr. Robson's hands will be most wofully surprised when they come to witness and hear his artistic presentation of the most remarkable of emotional rôles. [Illustration: MODJESKA.] Elsewhere I have referred to the roguish pleasure Field took in ascribing the authorship of "The Wanderer" to Helena Modjeska. That was before he came to Chicago, and seemed to be the overture to a friendship that continued to exchange its favors and tokens of affection to the close of his life. The doings of the Madame and Count Bozenta, her always vivacious and enjoyable husband, were perennial subjects for Field's kindliest paragraphs. As he says, he was a great theatre-goer, but Field became a constant one when "Modjesky" came to town. Her Camille--a character in which she was not excelled by the great Bernhardt herself--had a remarkable vogue in the early eighties. She imparted to its impersonation the subtle charm of her own sweet womanliness, which served to excuse Armand's infatuation and as far as possible lifted the play out of its unwholesome atmosphere of French immorality to the plane of romantic devotion and self-sacrifice. Her Camille seemed a victim of remorseless destiny, a pure soul struggling amid inexorable circumstances that racked and cajoled a diseased and suffering body into the maelstrom of sin. Field was so constituted that, without this saving grace of womanliness, the presentation of Camille, with all its hectic surroundings, would have repelled him. He did not care to see Mademoiselle Bernhardt a second time in the rôle, and he fled from the powerful and fascinating portrayal of pulmonary emotion which initiated the audiences of Clara Morris into the terrors of tubercular disease. Night after night, when Modjeska played Camille, Field would occupy a front seat or a box. When so seated that his presence could not be overlooked from the stage, he was wont to divert Camille from her woes with the by-play of his mobile features. Wherever he sat, his large, white, solemn visage had a fascination for Madame Modjeska, and from the time she caught sight of it until Camille settled back lifeless in the final scene, she played "at him." He repaid this tribute by distorting his face in agony when Camille was light-hearted, and by breaking into noiseless merriment as her woes were causing handkerchiefs to flutter throughout the audience. When we went to visit her next day, as we often did, she scarcely ever failed to reproach him in some such fashion as: "Ah, Meester Fielt, why will you seet in the box and talk with your overcoat on the chair to make Camille laugh who is dying on the stage? Ah, Meester Fielt, you are a very bad man, but I lof you, don't we, Charlie?" And the count always stopped rolling a cigarette long enough to acknowledge that Field was their dearest friend and that they both loved him, no matter what he did. Next to his wife, the count was devoted to politics, which he discusses with all the warmth and gesticulations of a Frenchman and the intelligence of a Polish-American patriot. [Illustration: FIELD WITNESSING MODJESKA AS CAMILLE. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] If there were any other visitors present, Modjeska always insisted on Field's giving his imitation of herself in Camille, in which he rendered her lines with exaggerated theatrical sentiment and with the broken-English accent, such as Modjeska permitted herself in the freedom of private life. She would give him Armand's cues for particular speeches and his impassioned "Armo, I lof, I lof you!" never failed to convulse her, while his pulmonary cough was so deep and sepulchral that it rang through the hotel corridors, making other guests think that Modjeska herself was in the last stages of a disease she simulated unto death nightly. After Field had added colored inks to his stock in trade, these fits of coughing were succeeded by a handkerchief act, in which the dying Camille appeared to spit blood in carmine splotches. No burlesque that I have seen of a play frequently burlesqued ever approached the side-splitting absurdity of these rehearsals for the benefit of the heroine of "Modjesky as Cameel." _An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, I half opined she liked it by the look upon her face, I rekollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long._ When Field went to California in search of health, in the winter of 1893-94, Madame Modjeska placed her ranch, located ten miles from the railway, half-way between San Diego and Los Angeles, at his disposal. The ranch contained about a thousand acres, and he was given carte blanche to treat it as his own during his stay--a privilege he would have hastened to invite all his friends to share had his health been equal to the opportunity to indulge in merry-making. [Illustration: TWO PROFILES OF EUGENE FIELD. _The upper one drawn in pencil by Field himself; the lower one by Modjeska. Reproduced from a fly-leaf of Mrs. Thompson's volume of autograph verse._] At a breakfast given to Modjeska at Kinsley's, April 22d, 1886, Field read the following poem in honor of the guest: _TO HELENA MODJESKA In thy sweet self, dear lady guest, we find Juliet's dark face, Viola's gentle mien, The dignity of Scotland's martyr'd queen-- The beauty and the wit of Rosalind. What wonder, then, that we who mop our eyes And sob and gush when we should criticise-- Charmed by the graces of your mien and mind-- What wonder we should hasten to proclaim The art that has secured thy deathless fame? And this we swear: We will endorse no name But thine alone to old Melpomene, Nor will revolve, since rising sons are we, Round any orb, save, dear Modjeska, thee Who art our Pole star, and will ever be._ As originally written by Field, the rhymes in the first four lines of this tribute fell alternately, the lines being transposed so that they ran in order first, third, fourth, and second of the poem as it appears above. For the fifth and sixth lines of his first version Field wrote: _What wonder, then, that we who mop our eyes When we are hired to rail and criticise?_ It is a question the reader can decide for himself whether his second thought was an improvement. His original intention contemplated a longer poem, but after he had written a fourteenth line that read: _The radiant Pole star of the mimic stage--_ Field concluded to wind it up with the fourteenth line, as in the finished version. Upon the back of the original manuscript of these lines to Madame Modjeska I find this Sapphic fragment under the line--suggestive of its subject, "The Things of Life": _A little sour, a little sweet, Fill out our brief and human hour, meet_ He never filled out the blank or gave a clue as to what further reflections on the springs of life were in his mind. I never knew Field to be as infatuated with any stage production as with the first performance of the pirated edition of "The Mikado" in Chicago, in the summer of 1885. The cast was indeed a memorable one, including Roland Reed as Koko, Alice Harrison as Yum-Yum, Belle Archer as Pitti-Sing, Frederick Archer as Pooh-Bah, George Broderick as the Mikado, and Mrs. Broderick as Katisha. The Brodericks had rich church-choir voices, Belle Archer was a beauty of that fresh, innocent type that did one's eyes good simply to look upon, and she was just emerging into a career that grew in popularity until her untimely death. Archer was a stilted English comedian who seemed built to be "insulted" as Pooh-Bah, while Roland Reed and Miss Harrison were two comedians of the first rank. As a singing soubrette, daring, versatile, and popular, Miss Harrison had no superiors in her day. The entire company was saturated with the spirit and "go" of Gilbert, and fairly tingled with the joyous music of Sullivan. The fact that the production was of a pirated version, untrammelled by the oversight of D'Oyley Carte, added zest to the performance and enlisted Field's partisan sympathy and co-operation from the start. He enjoyed each night's performance with all the relish of a boy eating the apples of pleasure from a forbidden orchard. When the season came to an end, as all good things must, Field, Ballantyne, and I went to Milwaukee to see that our friends had a fair start there. We got back to Chicago on the early morning milk train, and in "Sharps and Flats" the next day Field recorded the definitive judgment that "Miss Alice Harrison, in her performance of Yum-Yum in Gilbert and Sullivan's new opera of 'The Mikado,' has set the standard of that interesting rôle, and it is a high one. In fact, we doubt whether it will ever be approached by any other artist on the American stage." It never has been approached, nor has the opera, so far as my information goes, ever been given with the same Gilbertian verve and swing. The subsequent performance of "The Mikado" by the authorized company, seen throughout the United States, seemed by comparison "like water after wine." On the operatic stage Madame Sembrich was by all odds Field's favorite prima donna. He was one of the earliest writers on the press to recognize the wonderful beauty of the singer's voice and the perfection of her method. He easily distinguished between her trained faculty and the bird-like notes of Patti, but the personality of the former won him, where he remained unmoved when Patti's wonderful voice rippled through the most difficult, florid music like crystal running water over the smooth stones of a mountain brook. Field's admiration for Sembrich often found expression in more conventional phrases, but never in a form that better illustrated how she attracted him than in the following amusing comment on her appearance in Chicago, January 24th, 1884, in Lucia: It is not at all surprising that Madame Sembrich caught on so grandly night before last. She is the most comfortable-looking prima donna that has ever visited Chicago. She is one of your square-built, stout-rigged little ladies with a bright, honest face and bouncing manners. Her arms are long but shapely, and in the last act of Lucia her luxurious black hair tumbles down and envelopes her like a mosquito net. Her audience night before last was a coldly critical one, of course, and it sat like a bump on a log until Sembrich made her appearance in the mad scene, where Lucheer gives her vocal circus in the presence of twenty-five Scotch ladies in red, white, and green dresses, and twenty-five supposititious Scotch gentlemen in costumes of the Court of Louis XIV. Instead of sending for a doctor to assist Lucheer in her trouble, these fantastically attired ladies and gentlemen stand around and look dreary while Lucheer does ground and lofty tumbling, and executes pirouettes and trapeze performances in the vocal art. Then the audience began to wake up. The comfortable-looking little prima donna gathered herself together and let loose the cyclone of her genius and accomplishments. It was a whirlwind of appoggiaturas, semi-quavers, accenturas, rinforzandos, moderatos, prestos, trills, sforzandos, fortes, rallentandos, supertonics, salterellos, sonatas, ensembles, pianissimos, staccatos, accellerandos, quasi-innocents, cadenzas, symphones, cavatinas, arias, counter-points, fiorituras, tonics, sub-medicants, allegrissimos, chromatics, concertos, andantes, études, larghettos, adagios, and every variety of turilural and dingus known to the minstrel art. The audience was paralyzed. When she finally struck up high F sharp in the descending fourth of D in alt, one gentleman from the South Side who had hired a dress-coat for the occasion broke forth in a hearty "Brava!" This encouraged a resident of the North Side to shout "Bravissimo," and then several dudes from the Blue Island district raised the cry of "Bong," "Tray beang," and "Brava!" The applause became universal--it spread like wild-fire. The vast audience seemed crazed with delight and enthusiasm. And it argues volumes for the culture of our enterprising and fair city that not one word of English was heard among the encouraging and approving shouts that were hurled at the smiling prima donna. Even the pork merchants and the grain dealers in the family circle vied with each other in hoarsely wafting Italian words of cheer at the triumphant Sembrich. French was hardly good enough, although it was utilized by a few large manufacturers and butterine merchants who sat in the parquet, and one man was put out by the ushers because he so far forgot himself and the éclat of the occasion as to shout in vehement German: "Mein Gott in himmel--das ist ver tampt goot!" It was an ovation, but it was no more than Sembrich deserved--bless her fat little buttons! Remember, this was nearly twenty years ago. It argues much for the saneness of Field's enthusiasm, as well as for the perfection of Madame Sembrich's methods, that she is still able to arouse a like enthusiasm in audiences where true dramatic instinct and high vocal art are valued as the rarest combination on the operatic stage. Two manuscript poems in my scrap-book testify that another songster, early in Field's Chicago life, enjoyed his friendship and inspired his pen along a line it was to travel many a tuneful metre. The first, with frequent erasures and interlineations, bears date May 25th, 1894, and was inscribed, "To Mrs. Will J. Davis." It runs as follows: _A HUSHABY SONG The stars are twinkling in the skies, The earth is lost in slumber deep-- So hush, my sweet, and close your eyes And let me lull your soul to sleep; Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, And like a little birdling lie Secure within thy cosy nest Upon my mother breast And slumber to my lullaby; So hushaby, oh, hushaby. The moon is singing to the star The little song I sing to you, The father Sun has strayed afar-- As baby's sire is straying, too, And so the loving mother moon Sings to the little star on high, And as she sings, her gentle tune Is borne to me, and thus I croon To thee, my sweet, that lullaby Of hushaby, oh, hushaby. There is a little one asleep That does not hear his mother's song, But angel-watchers as I weep Surround his grave the night-tide long; And as I sing, my sweet, to you, Oh, would the lullaby I sing-- The same sweet lullaby he knew When slumbering on this bosom, too-- Were borne to him on angel wing! So hushaby, oh, hushaby._ The second of these songs bears the same title as one of Field's favorite tales, and is inscribed, "To Jessie Bartlett Davis on the first anniversary of her little boy's birth, October 6th, 1884": _THE SINGER MOTHER A Singer sang a glorious song So grandly clear and subtly sweet, That, with huzzas, the listening throng Cast down their tributes at her feet. The Singer heard their shouts the while, But her serene and haughty face Was lighted by no flattered smile Provoked by homage in that place. The Singer sang that night again In mother tones, tender and deep, Not to the public ear, but when She rocked her little one to sleep. The song we bless through all the years As memory's holiest, sweetest thing, Instinct with pathos and with tears-- The song that mothers always sing. So tuneful was the lullaby The mother sang, her little child Cooed, oh! so sweetly in reply, Stretched forth its dimpled hands and smiled. The Singer crooning there above The cradle where her darling lay Snatched to her breast her smiling love And sang his soul to dreams away. Oh, mother-love, that knows no guile, That's deaf to flatt'ry, blind to art, A dimpled hand hath wooed thy smile-- A baby's cooing touched thy heart._ [Illustration: JESSIE BARTLETT DAVIS.] Lest my readers should conclude from these early specimens of Field's fondness for lilting lullabies that the gentler sex and "mother love" blinded him to the manly attractions and true worth of his own sex, let the following never-to-be-forgotten ode to the waistcoat of the papa of the hero of the two preceding songs bear witness. Mr. Davis has been a manager of first-class theatres and theatrical companies for a score of years, and there are thousands to testify that in the rhymes that follow Field has done no more than justice to the amazing "confections" in wearing apparel he affected in the days when we were boys together: _Of waistcoats there are divers kinds, from those severely chaste To those with fiery colors dight or with fair figures traced: Those that high as liver-pads and chest-protectors serve, While others proudly sweep away in a substomachic curve, But the grandest thing in waistcoats in the streets in this great and wondrous west Is that which folks are wont to call the Will J. Davis vest! This paragon of comeliness is cut nor low nor high But just enough of both to show a bright imported tie: Bound neatly with the choicest silks its lappets wave-like roll, While a watch-chain dangles sprucely from the proper buttonhole And a certain sensuous languor is ineffably expressed In the contour and the mise en scene of the Will J. Davis vest. Its texture is of softest silk: Its colors, ah, how vain The task to name the splendid hues that in that vest obtain! Go, view the rainbow and recount the glories of the sight And number all the radiances that in its glow unite, And then, when they are counted, with pride be it confessed They're nil beside the splendor of the Will J. Davis vest. Sometimes the gorgeous pattern is a sportive pumpkin vine, At other times the lily and the ivy intertwine: And then again the ground is white with purple polka dots Or else a dainty lavender with red congestive spots-- In short, there is no color, hue, or shade you could suggest That doesn't in due time occur in a Will J. Davis vest. Now William is not handsome--he's told he's just like me. And in one respect I think he is, for he's as good as good can be! Yet, while I find my chances with the girls are precious slim, The women-folks go wildly galivanting after him: And after serious study of the problem I have guessed That the secret of this frenzy is the Will J. Davis vest. I've stood in Colorado and looked on peaks of snow While prisoned torrents made their moan two thousand feet below: The Simplon pass and prodigies Vesuvian have I done, And gazed in rock-bound Norway upon the midnight sun-- Yet at no time such wonderment, such transports filled my breast As when I fixed my orbs upon a Will J. Davis vest. All vainly have I hunted this worldly sphere around For a waistcoat like that waistcoat, but that waistcoat can't be found! The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and the German answers "nein," When I try the haberdasheries on the Seine and on the Rhine, And the truckling British tradesman having trotted out his best Is forced to own he can't compete with the Will J. Davis vest. But better yet, Dear William, than this garb of which I sing Is a gift which God has given you, and that's a priceless thing. What stuff we mortals spin and weave, though pleasing to the eye, Doth presently corrupt, to be forgotten by and by. One thing, and one alone, survives old time's remorseless test-- The valor of a heart like that which beats beneath that vest!_ Playgoers of these by-gone days will remember the name of Kate Claxton with varying degrees of pleasure. She was an actress of what was then known as the Union Square Theatre type--a type that preceded the Augustin Daly school and was strong in emotional rôles. With the late Charles H. Thorne, Jr., at its head, it gave such plays as "The Banker's Daughter," "The Two Orphans," "The Celebrated Case," and "The Danicheffs," their great popular vogue. Miss Claxton was what is known as the leading juvenile lady in the Union Square Company, and her Louise, the blind sister, to Miss Sara Jewett's Henrietta in "The Two Orphans," won for her a national reputation. She was endowed by nature with a superb shock of dark red hair, over which a Titian might have raved. This was very effective when flowing loose about the bare shoulders of the blind orphan, but afterward, when Miss Claxton went starring over the country and had the misfortune to have several narrow escapes from fire, the newspaper wits of the day could not resist the inclination to ascribe a certain incendiarism to her hair, and also to her art. And Field, who was on terms of personal friendship with Miss Claxton, led the cry with the following: BIOGRAPHY OF KATE CLAXTON This famous conflagration broke out on May 3d, 1846, and has been raging with more or less violence ever since. She comes of a famous family, being a lineal descendant of the furnace mentioned in scriptural history as having been heated seven times hotter than it could be heated, in honor of the tripartite alliance of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego. One of her most illustrious ancestors performed in Rome on the occasion of the Emperor Nero's famous violin obligato, and subsequently appeared in London when a large part of that large metropolis succumbed to the fiery element. This artist is known and respected in every community where there is a fire department, and the lurid flames of her genius, the burning eloquence of her elocution, and the calorific glow of her consummate art have acquired her fame, wherever the enterprising insurance agent has penetrated. Mrs. O'Leary's cow vainly sought to rob her of much of her glory, but through the fiery ordeal of jealousy, envy, and persecution, has our heroine passed, till, from an incipient blaze, she has swelled into the most magnificent holocaust the world has ever known. And it is not alone in her profession that this gifted adustion has amazed and benefited an incinerated public: to her the world is indebted for the many fire-escapes, life-preservers, salamander safes, improved pompier ladders, play-house exits, standpipes, and Babcock extinguishers of modern times. In paying ardent homage, therefore, to this incandescent crematory this week, let us recognize her not only as the reigning queen of ignition, diathermancy, and transcalency, but also as the promoter of many of the ingenious and philanthropic boons the public now enjoys. This was written in November, 1883, and is worthy of remark as an illustration of how in that day Field began deliberately to multiply words, each having a slight difference of meaning, as an exercise in the use of English--a practice that eventually gave him a vocabulary of almost unlimited range and marvellous accuracy. The patience of the reader forbids that I should attempt an enumeration of all Field's friendships with stage folk, or of the unending flow of good-natured raillery and sympathetic comment that kept his favorites among them ever before the public eye. When it came Field's time, all untimely, to pay the debt we all must pay, it was left for Sir Henry Irving, the dean of the English-speaking profession, to acknowledge in a brief telegram his own and its debt to the departed poet and paragrapher in these words: The death of Eugene Field is a loss not only to his many friends, but to the world at large. He was distinctly a man of genius, and he was dowered with a nature whose sweetness endeared him to all who knew him. To me he was a loved and honored friend, and the world seems vastly the poorer without him. Of what singular materials and contradictory natures was their friendship compact. From the day Henry Irving first landed in New York until Field's pen was laid aside forever the actor's physical peculiarities and vocal idiosyncrasies were the constant theme of diverting skits and life-like vocal mimicry. Field, however, always managed to mingle his references to Mr. Irving's unmatched legs and eccentric elocution with some genuine and unexpected tribute to his personal character and histrionic genius. Nat Goodwin and Henry Dixey were the two comedians whose imitations of Mr. Irving's peculiarities of voice and manner were most widely accepted as lifelike, while intensely amusing. But neither of them could approach Field in catching the subtile inflection of Henry Irving's "Naw! Naw!" and "Ah-h! Ah-h!" with which the great actor prefixed so many of his lines. With a daring that would have been impertinent in another, Field gave imitations of Mr. Irving in Louis XI and Hamlet in his presence and to his intense enjoyment. It is a pity, however, that Sir Henry could not have been behind the screen some night at Billy Boyle's to hear Field and Dixey in a rivalry of imitations of himself in his favorite rôles. Dixey was the more amusing, because he did and said things in the Irvingesque manner which the original would not have dreamed of doing, whereas Field contented himself with mimicking his voice and gesture to life. When Irving reached Chicago, Field and I, with the connivance of Mr. Stone, lured him into a newspaper controversy over his conception and impersonation of Hamlet, which ended in an exchange of midnight suppers and won for me the sobriquet of "Slaughter Thompson" from Mistress Ellen Terry, who enjoyed the splintering of lances where all acknowledged her the queen of the lists. I have reserved for latest mention the one actor who throughout Field's life was always dearest to his heart. Apart, they seemed singularly alike; together, the similarities of Eugene Field and Sol Smith Russell were overshadowed by their differences. There was a certain resemblance of outline in the general lines of their faces and figures. Both were clean-shaven men, with physiognomies that responded to the passing thought of each, with this difference--Field's facial muscles seemed to act in obedience to his will, while Russell's appeared to break into whimsical lines involuntarily. Russell has a smile that would win its way around the world. Field could contort his face into a thunder-cloud which could send children almost into convulsions of fear. There was one story which they both recited with invariable success, that gave their friends a great chance to compare their respective powers of facial expression. It was of a green New England farmer who visited Boston, and of course climbed up four flights of stairs to a skylight "studio" to have his "daguerotype took." After the artist had succeeded in getting his subject in as stiff and uncomfortable position as possible, after cautioning him not to move, he disappeared into his ill-smelling cabinet to prepare the plate. When this was ready he stepped airily out to the camera and bade his victim "look pleasant." Failing to get the impossible response the artist bade his sitter to smile. Then the old farmer with a wrathful and torture-riven contortion of his mouth ejaculated, "I am smiling!" In rendering this, "I am smiling!" there was the misery of pent-up mental woe and physical agony in Russell's voice and face. There was something ludicrously hopeless about the attempt, as Russell's face mingled the lines of mirth and despair in a querulous grin that seemed to say, "For heaven's sake, man, don't you see that I am laughing myself to death?" Field's "I am smiling!" was almost demoniacal in its mixture of wrath, vindictiveness, and impatience. There was the snarl of a big animal about the grin with which he exposed his teeth in the mockery of mirth. His whole countenance glowered at the invisible artist in lines of suppressed rage, that seemed to bid him cut short the exposure or forfeit his life. All Field's most successful bits of mimicry and stories were learned from Sol Smith Russell, and very many of the latter's most successful recitations were written for him by Field. They talked them over together, compared their versions and methods, and stimulated each other to fresh feats of mimicry and eccentric character delineation. Many a night, and oft after midnight, in the rotunda of the Tremont House, when John A. Rice of bibliomaniac fame, was its lessee, I was the sole paying auditor of these séances, the balance of the audience consisting of the head night clerk, night watchman, and "scrub ladies." [Illustration: SOL SMITH RUSSELL.] It may be recalled that Field's "Our Two Opinions" written in imitation of James Whitcomb Riley's most successful manner, was dedicated to Sol Smith Russell, and he for his part put into its recitation a subdued dramatic force and pathos that won from Henry Irving the comment that it was the greatest piece of American characterization he had ever witnessed. Whenever Russell came to town Field spent all the time he could spare, when Russell was not acting or asleep, in his company. They exchanged all sorts of stories, but delighted chiefly in relating anecdotes of New England life and character. As Russell had for years travelled the circuit of small eastern towns, he had an exhaustless repertory of these, that smacked of salt codfish and chewing-gum, checkerberry lozenges, and that shrewd, dry Yankee wit that is equal to any situation. Between the two of them they perfected two stories that have been heard in every town in the Union where Russell has played or Field read, "The Teacher of Ettyket" and "The Old Deacon and the New Skule House." These were originally Russell's property, and he was inimitable in telling them. But having once caught Field's fancy, he proceeded to elaborate them in a way to establish at least a joint ownership in them. I wish I could remember the speech against the new school-house. It may be in print for ought I know, but I have never run across it. He opened with the declaration, "Fellow Citizens, I'm agin this yer new skule house." Then he went on to say that "the little old red skule house was good enuff fur them as cum afore us, it was good enuff fur us, an' I reckon its good enuff fur them as cum arter us." Before proceeding he would take a generous mouthful of loose tobacco. Next he told how he had never been to school more than a few weeks "atween seasons, and yet I reckon I kin mow my swarth with the best of them that's full of book-larnin an' all them sort of jim-cracks." Then he proceeded to illustrate the uselessness of "book-larnin" by referring to "Dan'l Webster, good likely a boy ez wus raised in these parts, what's bekum ov him? Got his head full of redin, ritin, cifern, and book-larnin. What's bekum of him, I say? Went off to Boston and I never hearn tell of him arterwards." Russell's version of the story ended here with an emphatic declaration that the old deacon voted "No!" Field, on the contrary, when the laugh over Daniel Webster's disappearance subsided, and, seemingly as an after-thought, before taking his seat mumbled out, "By the way, I did hear somebody tell Dan'l had written a dictionary on a bridge, huh!" Field's attentions to Russell did not end with their personal association. Week after week and month after month he sent apocryphal stories flying through the newspapers about wonderful things that never happened to Sol and his family. At one time he had Russell on the high road to a Presidential nomination on the Prohibition ticket. He solemnly recorded generous donations that Russell was (not) constantly making to philanthropic objects, with the result that the gentle comedian was pestered with applications for money for all sorts of institutions. In order to provide Russell with the means to bestow unlimited largess, Field endowed him with the touch of Midas. He would report that the matchless exponent of "Shabby Genteel" bought lead mines, to be disappointed by finding tons of virgin gold in the quartz. Like Bret Harte's hero of Downs Flat, when Russell dug for water his luck was so contrary that he struck diamonds. When he ordered oysters each half shell had its bed of pearls. One specimen will do to illustrate the character of the gifts Field bestowed on Russell "as from an exhaustless urn": Sol Smith Russell's luck is almost as great as his art. Last week his little son Bob was digging in the back yard of the family residence in Minneapolis, and he developed a vein of coal big enough to supply the whole state of Minnesota with fuel for the next ten years. Mr. Russell was away from home at the time, but his wife (who has plenty of what the Yankees call faculty) had presence of mind not to say anything about the "Find" until, through her attorney, she had secured an option on all the real estate in the locality. They never had any differences of opinion like "me 'nd Jim." _So after all it's soothin' to know That here Sol stays 'nd yonder's Jim-- He havin' his opinyin uv Sol, 'Nd Sol havin' his opinyin uv him._ CHAPTER XIV BEGINNING OF HIS LITERARY EDUCATION Before he came to Chicago, pretty much all that Eugene Field knew of literature and books had been taken in at the pores, as Joey Laddle would say, through association with lawyers, doctors, and actors. His academic education, as we have seen, was of the most cursory and intermittent nature. When he left the University of Missouri it was without a diploma, without studious habits, and without pretensions to scholarship. His trip to Europe dissipated his fortune, and his early marriage rendered it imperative that he should stop study as well as play and go to work. His father's library was safely stored in St. Louis for the convenient season that was postponed from year to year, until a score were numbered ere the nails were drawn from the precious boxes. Every cent of the salary that might have been squandered(?) in books was needed to feed and clothe the ravenous little brood that came faster than their parents "could afford," as he has told us. What time was not devoted to them and to the daily round of newspaper writing was spent in conversing with his fellows, studying life first hand, visiting theatres and enjoying himself in his own way generally. All the advance that Field had made in journalism before the year 1883 was due to native aptitude, an unfailing fund of humor and an inherited turn for literary expression. Without ever having read that author, he followed Pope's axiom that "the proper study of mankind is man." This he construed to include women and children. The latter he had every opportunity to study early and often in his own household, and most thoroughly did he avail himself thereof. As for books, his acquaintance with them for literary pleasure and uses seemed to have begun and ended with the Bible and the New England Primer. They furnished the coach that enabled his fancy "to take the air." His knowledge of Shakespeare, so far as I could judge, had been acquired through the theatre. The unacted plays were not familiar to him. Few people realize what a person of alert intelligence and retentive memory can learn of the best English literature through the theatre-going habit. Measuring Field's opportunity by my own, during the decade from 1873 to 1883, here is a list of Shakespearian plays he could have taken in through eyes and ears without touching a book: "The Tempest," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "Measure for Measure," "The Comedy of Errors," "Much Ado About Nothing," "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "The Merchant of Venice," "As You Like It," "The Taming of the Shrew," "Twelfth Night," "Richard II," "Richard III," "Henry IV," "Henry V," "Coriolanus," "Romeo and Juliet," "Julius Cæsar," "Macbeth," "Hamlet," "King Lear," "Othello," "Antony and Cleopatra," and "Cymbeline." This list, embracing two-thirds of all the plays Shakespeare wrote, and practically all of his dramatic work worth knowing, covers what Field might have seen and, with a few possible exceptions, unquestionably did see, in the way calculated to give him the keenest pleasure and the most lasting impressions. These plays, during that decade, were presented by such famous actors and actresses as Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, John McCullough, Barry Sullivan, George Rignold, E.L. Davenport, Ristori, Adelaide Neilson, Modjeska, Mary Anderson, Mrs. D.P. Bowers, and Rose Eytinge in the leading rôles. It is impossible to overestimate the value of listening night after night to the great thoughts and subtle philosophy of the master dramatist from the lips of such interpreters, to say nothing of the daily association with the men and women who lived and moved in the atmosphere of the drama and its traditions. So, perhaps, it is only fair to include Shakespeare and the contemporaneous drama with the Bible and the New England Primer as the only staple foundations of Field's literary education when he came to Chicago. If this could have been analyzed more closely, it would have shown some traces of what was drilled into him by his old preceptor, Dr. Tufts, and many odds and ends of the recitations from the standard speaker of his elocutionary youth, but no solids either of Greek or Latin lore and not a trace of his beloved Horace. Now it so happened that all I had ever learned in school or college of Greek and Latin had slid from me as easily as running water over a smooth stone, leaving me as innocent of the classics in the original as Field. But, unlike Field, when our fortunes threw us together, I had kept up a close and continuous reading and study of English language and literature. The early English period had always interested me, and we had not been together for two months before Field was inoculated with a ravenous taste for the English literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Its quaintness and the unintentional humor of its simplicity cast a spell over him, which he neither sought nor wished to escape. He began with the cycle of romances that treat of King Arthur and his knights, and followed them through their prose and metrical versions of the almost undecipherable Saxon English to the polished and perfect measure of the late English laureate. For three years Mallory's "History of King Arthur and of the Knights of the Round Table" was the delight of his poetic soul and the text-book for his conversation and letters, and its effect was traceable in almost every line of his newspaper work. Knights, damosells, paynims, quests, jousts, and tourneys, went "rasing and trasing" through his manuscript, until some people thought he was possessed with an archaic humor from which he would never recover. But Sir Thomas Mallory was not his only diet at this time. He discovered that the old-book corner of A.C. McClurg & Co.'s book-store was a veritable mine of old British ballads, and he began sipping at that spring which in a few years was to exercise such a potent influence on his own verse. It was from this source that he learned the power of simple words and thoughts, when wedded to rhyme, to reach the human heart. His "Little Book of Western Verse" would never have possessed its popular charm had not its author taken his cue from the "Grand Old Masters." He caught his inspiration and faultless touch from studying the construction and the purpose of the early ballads and songs, illustrative of the history, traditions, and customs of the knights and peasantry of England. Where others were content to judge of these in such famous specimens as "Chevy Chase" and "The Nut Brown Maid," Field delved for the true gold in the neglected pages of Anglo-Saxon chronicle and song. He did not waste much time on the unhealthy productions of the courtiers of the time of Queen Elizabeth, but chose the ruder songs of the bards, whose hearts were pure even if their thoughts were sometimes crude, their speech blunt, and their metre queer. Who cannot find suggestions for a dozen of Field's poems in this single stanza from "Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament": _Balow, my babe, lye still and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe: If thoust be silent Ise be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe, It grieves me sair, to see thee weipe._ Or where could writer go to a better source for inspiration than to ballads preserving in homely setting such gems as this, from "Bartham's Dirge": _They buried him at mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin gray forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill._ When you have mingled the simple, bald, and often beautiful pathos of this old balladry with the fancies of fairy-land which Field invented, or borrowed from Hans Andersen's tales, you have the key to much of the best poetry and prose he ever wrote. The secret of his undying attachment to Bohn's Standard Library was that therein he found almost every book that introduced him to the masters of the kind of English literature that most appealed to him. Here he unearthed the best of the ancients in literal English garb, from �schylus to Xenophon, to say nothing of a dictionary of Latin and of Greek quotations done into English with an index verborum. More to the purpose still, Bohn put into his hands Smart's translation of Horace, "carefully revised by an Oxonian." In the cheap, uniform green cloth of Bohn, he fell in with Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English," Bell's "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England," Bede's "Ecclesiastical History," Marco Polo's "Travels," Keightly's "Fairy Mythology," and renewed his acquaintance with Andersen's "Danish Legends and Fairy Tales," and Grimm's "Fairy Tales," and last, but not least, with one of the best editions of Isaac Walton's "Complete Angler," wherein he did some of his best fishing. It has been a common impression that Field was attracted to the old-book corner of McClurg's store by the old and rare books displayed there. These were not for him, as he had not then learned that bibliomania could be made to put money in his purse or to wing his shafts of irony with feathers from its favorite nest. He went to browse among the dark green covers of Bohn and remained years after to prey upon the dry husks of the bibliomaniacs. Among the cherished relics of those days there lies before me as I write "The Book of British Ballads," edited by S.C. Hall, inscribed on the title page: "_Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit._" To Slason Thompson from Eugene Field. Christmas, 1885. This volume Field had picked up in some secondhand book-store for a quarter or a dime. He had erased the pencilled name of the original owner on the fly-leaf and had written mine and the date over it in ink. Then turning to the inside of the back cover he had rubbed out the price mark and ostentatiously scrawled "$2.50." This "doctoring" of price marks was a favorite practice of Field's, perfectly understood among his friends as a token of affectionate humor and never dreamed of as an attempt at deception. By such means he added zest to the exchange of those mementoes of friendship, which were never forgotten as Christmas-tide rolled round, to the end of the chapter. The day has indeed come when it is "a pleasure to remember these things." The Latin motto on this particular copy of ballads reminds me, among other pleasant memories, that during the year 1885 there came into Field's life and mine an intimate friendship that was to exercise a more potent influence on Field's literary bent than anything in his experience. I have before me the following description of "The Frocked Host of Watergrasshill": Prout had seen much of mankind, and, in his deportment through life, showed that he was well versed in all those varied arts of easy, but still gradual, acquirement which singularly embellished the intercourse of society: these were the results of his excellent continental education-- [Greek] Pollon d' anthropn idon astea, kai noon egno. But at the head of his own festive board he particularly shone; for, though in ministerial functions he was exemplary and admirable, ever meek and unaffected at the altar of his rustic chapel, where "_His looks adorned the venerable place,_" still, surrounded by a few choice friends, the calibre of whose genius was in unison with his own, with a bottle of his choice old claret before him, he was truly a paragon. Substitute a physician for the priest; change the scene from the neighborhood of the Blarney stone to a basement chop and oyster house in Chicago; instead of a continental education give him an American experience as a surgeon in the Civil War, in the hospitals of Cincinnati, and on the yellow fever commission that visited Memphis in 1867, and you have the Dr. Frank W. Reilly, to whom Field owed more than to all the schools, colleges, and educational agencies through which he had flitted from his youth up. When I first knew Dr. Reilly he was Secretary of the Illinois State Board of Health, located at Springfield, and an occasional correspondent of the Chicago Herald. The State of Illinois owes to him its gradual rescue from a dangerous laxity in the matter of granting medical licenses, until to-day the requirements necessary to practise his profession in this state compare favorably with those of any other state of the Union. Shortly after I went from the Herald to the News, as related in a previous chapter, Dr. Reilly changed his correspondence to the latter paper. In 1885 he resigned his position on the State Board of Health, and, coming to Chicago, formed an editorial connection with the News that continued until he was appointed Deputy Commissioner of Health for Chicago. In this last position, which he occupies to-day, I do not hesitate to say that he has done more to promote its health, cleanliness, and consequent happiness, than any other single citizen of Chicago. If the sanitary canal was not his child, it was pushed to completion through the fostering hand of his adoption. The Lincoln Park Sanitarium for poor children, and other similar agencies exploited by the Daily News, were born of his suggestions and were nurtured by his personal supervision. It is impossible, and would be out of place here, to specify what Dr. Reilly has done for the sanitation of Chicago as Chief Deputy in the Health Office. Administrations may come and go. Would that he could sip the elixir of life, that he might go on forever! [Illustration: DR. FRANK W. REILLY.] On his occasional visits to Chicago, before he came up here for good, Dr. Reilly had become a welcome guest and sometimes host in our midnight round-ups at the Boston Oyster House, and when he made his home here he was taken into regular fellowship. The regulars then were Field, Ballantyne, Reilly, and I--with Mr. Stone, Willis Hawkins, a special writer on the News, Morgan Bates, Paul Hull, a sketch writer who fancied he looked like Lincoln and told stories that would have made Lincoln blush to own a faint resemblance, and Cowen when in town, to say nothing of "visiting statesmen" and play-actors as occasional visitors and contributors to the score. Some insight into the characters of the four regulars may be gained from the statement that Field invariably ordered coffee and apple pie, Ballantyne tea and toast with oysters, Dr. Reilly oysters and claret, and I steak and Bass's ale. It was during these meetings that Field caught from Dr. Reilly's frequent unctuous quotations his first real taste for Horace. To two works the doctor was impartially devoted, the "Noetes Ambrosianæ" and "The Reliques of Father Prout." He never wearied of communion with the classical father or of literary companionship with Christopher North, Timothy Tickler, and the Ettrick Shepherd. We never sat down to pie or oysters that his imagination did not transform that Chicago oyster house into Ambrose's Tavern, the scene of the feasts and festivities of table and conversation of the immortal trio. But though the doctor enjoyed association with Kit North and the voluble Shepherd, it was for the garrulous Father Prout, steeped in the gossip and learning of the ancients, that he reserved his warmest love and veneration. So saturated and infatuated was the doctor with this fascinating creation of Francis Mahony's, that he inoculated Field with his devotion, and before we knew it the author of the Denver Tribune Primer stories was suffering from a literary disease, to the intoxicating pleasure of which he yielded himself without reservation. To those who wish to understand the effect of this inspiration upon the life and writings of Eugene Field, but who have not enjoyed familiar acquaintance with the celebrated Prout papers, some description of this work of Francis Mahony may not be amiss. He was a Roman Catholic priest, educated at a Jesuit college at Amiens, who had lived and held positions in France, Switzerland, and Ireland. It was while officiating at the chapel of the Bavarian Legation in London that he began contributing the Prout papers to Fraser's Magazine. These consisted of fanciful narratives, each serving as a vehicle for the display of his wonderful polyglot learning, and containing translations of well-known English songs into Latin, Greek, French, and Italian verse, which later he seriously represented as the true originals from which the English authors had boldly plagiarized. He also introduced into his stories the songs of France and Italy and felicitous translations, none of which were better than those from Horace. His command of the various languages into which he rendered English verse was extraordinary, and his translations were so free and spirited in thought and diction as to excite the admiration of the best scholars. When it is said that his translations of French and Latin odes preserved their poetical expression and sentiments with the freedom of original composition almost unequalled in English translations, the exceptional character of Father Prout's work will be appreciated. Accompanying these English versions there was a running commentary of semi-grave, but always humorous, criticism. Of Francis Mahony's acknowledged poems, the "Bells of Shandon" is the best known. In the Prout papers, while his genius finds its chief expression in fantastic invention and sarcastic and cynical wit, it is everywhere sweetened by gentle sentiments and an unfailing fund of human nature and kindly humor. "Prout's translations from Horace are too free and easy," solemnly said the London Athenæum, reviewing them as they came out more than sixty years ago. And no wonder, for Prout invented Horatian odes that he might translate them into such rollicking stanzas as Burns's "Green Grow the Rashes, O!" That Field, at the time of which I am writing (1885), had quite an idea of following in the wake of Father Prout may be indicated by the following Latin jingle written in honor of his friend, Morgan Bates, who, with Elwin Barren, had written a play of western life entitled "The Mountain Pink." It was described as a "moral crime," and had been successfully staged in Chicago. _M�CENAS Mons! aliusque cum nobis, Illicet tibi feratum, Quid, ejusmodi hoec vobis, Hunc aliquando erratum Esse futurus fuisse, Melior optimus vates? Quamquam amo amavisse-- Bonum ad Barron et Bates! Gloria, Mons! sempiturnus, Jupiter, Pluvius, Juno, Itur ad astra diurnus, Omnes et ceteras uno! Fratres! cum bibite vino, Moralis, criminis fates, Montem hic vita damfino-- Hic vita ad Barron et Bates._ A very slight knowledge of Latin verse is needed to detect that this has no pretence to Latin composition such as Father Mahony's scholarship caracoled in, but is merely English masquerading in classical garb. Father Prout also introduced Field to fellowship with Béranger, the national song writer of France, to whom, next to the early English balladists and Horace, he owes so much of that clear, simple, sparkling style that has given his writings enduring value. Béranger's description of himself might, with some modifications, be fitted to Field: "I am a good little bit of a poet, clever in the craft, and a conscientious worker, to whom old airs have brought some success." Béranger chose to sing for the people of France, Field for the children of the world. Field caught his fervor for Béranger from the enthusiasm of Prout. "I cannot for a moment longer," wrote he, "repress my enthusiastic admiration for one who has arisen in our days to strike in France with a master hand the lyre of the troubadour and to fling into the shade all the triumphs of bygone minstrelsy. Need I designate Béranger, who has created for himself a style of transcendent vigor and originality, and who has sung of _war, love, and wine_, in strains far excelling those of Blondel, Tyrtæus, Pindar, and the Teïan bard. He is now the genuine representative of Gallic poesy in her convivial, her amatory, her warlike and her philosophic mood; and the plenitude of the inspiration that dwelt successively in the souls of all the songsters of ancient France seems to have transmigrated into Béranger and found a fit recipient in his capacious and liberal mind." That Field caught the inspiration of Béranger more truly than Father Prout, those who question can judge for themselves by a comparison of their respective versions of "Le Violon Brise"--the broken fiddle. A stanza by each must suffice to show the difference: B�RANGER _Viens, mon chien! Viens, ma pauvre bête! Mange, malgré, mon désespoir. II me reste un gâteau de fête-- Demain nous aurons du pain noir!_ PROUT _My poor dog! here! of yesterday's festival-cake Eat the poor remains in sorrow; For when next a repast you and I shall make, It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's sake, Your master must beg or borrow._ FIELD _There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet we may,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!_ The credit for verbal literalness of translation is with Prout, but the spirit of the fiddler of Béranger glows through the free rendition of Field. [Illustration: "FATHER PROUT." _Francis Mahony._] The reader of Eugene Field's works will find scant acknowledgment of his indebtedness to Father Francis Mahony, but there are many expressions of his love and admiration for the friend who introduced him to the scholar, wit, and philosopher, by whose ways of life and work his own were to be so shaped and tinged. Among these my scrap-books afford three bits of verse which indicate in different degrees the esteem in which "the genial dock" of our comradeship was held by his associates as well as by Field. The first was written in honor of the doctor's silver wedding: _TO DR. FRANK W. REILLY If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it!) I'd send a case of extra dry, And willingly get trusted for it. But, lack a day! you know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey-- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift, though somewhat jerky. This is your silver-wedding day-- You didn't mean to let me know it! And yet your smiles and raiment gay Beyond all peradventure show it! By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your breast is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing. All, well, God grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far-distant callow times When you were bachelor and lonely-- And when an angel blessed your lot-- For angel is your helpmate, truly-- And when to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels duly. So here's a health to you and wife: Long may you mock the reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising Sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye; And when you've done with earth, above-- God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye!_ The second is of a very different flavor and shows Field indulging in that play of personal persiflage, in which he took a never-flagging pleasure. It has no title and was written in pencil on two sheets of rough brown paper: _The Dock he is a genial friend, He frequently has cash to lend; He writes for Rauch, and on the pay He sets 'em up three times a day. Oh, how serenely I would mock My creditors, if I were Dock. The Cowen is a lusty lad For whom the women-folks go mad; He has a girl in every block-- Herein, methinks, he beats the Dock-- Yes, if the choice were left to me A lusty Cowen I would be. Yet were I Cowen, where, oh, where Would be my Julia, plump and fair? And where would be those children four Which now I smilingly adore? The thought induces such a shock, I'd not be Cowen--I'd be Dock! But were I Dock, with stores of gold, How would I pine at being old-- How grieve to see in Cowen's eyes That amorous fire which age denies-- Oh, no, I'd not be Dock forsooth, I'd rather be the lusty youth. Nor Dock, nor Cowen would I be, But such as God hath fashioned me; For I may now with maidens fair Assume I'm Cowen debonnair, Or, splurging on a borrowed stock, I can imagine I'm the Dock._ The last tribute which I quote from Field to his school-master, literary guide, and friend is credited to the "Wit of the Silurian Age," and is accompanied by a drawing by the poet, who took a cut from some weekly of the day and touched it up with black, red, and green ink to represent the genial "Dock" seated in an arm-chair before a cheery fire, with the inevitable claret bottle on a stand within easy reach and a glass poised in his hand ready for the sip of a connoisseur, while the devotee of Kit North and Father Prout beamed graciously at you through his glasses: _Said Field to Dr. Reilly, "You Are like the moon, for you get brighter When you get full, and it is true Your heavy woes thereby grow lighter." "And you" the Doctor answer made, "Are like, the moon because you borrow The capital on which you trade-- As I'm acquainted, to my sorrow!" "'Tis true I'm like the moon, I know," Replied the poor but honest wight, "For, journeying through this vale of woe, I borrow oft, but always light!"_ But Field's acknowledgments of an ever-increasing debt of gratitude to Dr. Reilly were not confined to privately circulated tokens of affection and friendship, as the following stanzas, printed in his column in the News, in February, 1889, testify: _TO F.W.R. AT 6 P.M. My friend, Mæcenas and physician, Is in so grumpy a condition I really more than half suspicion He nears his end; Who then would lie on earth to shave me, To feed me, coach me, and to save me From tedious cares that would enslave me-- Without this friend? Nay, fate forfend such wild disaster! May I play Pollux to his Castor Thro' years that bind our hearts the faster With golden tether; And every morbid fear releasing, May our affection bide unceasing-- every salary raise increasing-- Then die together!_ Finally, Dr. Reilly is the Dr. O'Rell of "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," whom Field playfully credits with prescribing one or the other--the Noctes or the Reliques--to his patients, no matter what disease they might be afflicted with. He prescribed them to both of us, and Field took to his bed with the Reliques and did not get up until he had "comprehended" the greater part of its five hundred and odd pages of perennial literary stimulant. CHAPTER XV METHOD OF WORK Although Eugene Field was the most unconventional of writers, there was a method in all his ways that made play of much of his work. No greater mistake was ever made than in attributing his physical break-down to exhaustion from his daily grind in a newspaper office. No man ever made less of a grind than he in preparing copy for the printer. He seldom arrived at the office before eleven o'clock and never settled down to work before three o'clock. The interim was spent in puttering over the exchanges, gossiping with visitors, of whom he had a constant stream, quizzing every other member of the staff, meddling here, chaffing there, and playing hob generally with the orderly routine of affairs. He was a persistent, insistent, irrepressible disturber of everything but the good-fellowship of the office, to which he was the chief contributor. No interruption from Field ever came or was taken amiss. From the hour he ambled laboriously up the steep and narrow stairs, anathematizing them at every step, in every tone of mockery and indignation, to the moment he sat down to his daily column of "leaded agate, first line brevier," no man among us knew what piece of fooling he would be up to next. Something was wrong, Field was out of town, or some old crony from Kansas City, St. Louis, or Denver was in Chicago, if about one o'clock I was not interrupted by a summons from him that the hour for luncheon had arrived. Although I was at work within sound of his voice, these came nearly always in the form of a note, delivered with an unvarying grin by the office-boy, who would drop any other errand, however pressing, to do Field's antic bidding. These notes were generally flung into the waste-paper basket, much to my present regret, for of themselves they would have made a most remarkable exhibit. Sometimes the summons would be in the form of a bar of music like this which I preserved: [Illustration: A BAR OF MUSIC. _Written by Eugene Field._] But more often it was a note in the old English manner, which for years was affected between us, like this one: PUISSANT AND TRIUMPHANT LORD: By my halidom it doth mind me to hold discourse with thee. Come thou privily to my castle beyond the moat, an' thou wilt. In all fealty, my liege, Thy gentle vassal, [Illustration: The mark of The Good Knight.] Or, going down to the counting-room, he would summon a messenger to mount the stairs with a formal invitation like this: SIR SLOSSON: The Good but Impecunious Knight bides in the business office, and there soothly will he tarry till you come anon. So speed thee, bearing with thee ducats that in thy sweet company and by thy joyous courtesy the Good Knight may be regaled with great and sumptuous cheer withal. THE GOOD KNIGHT. Then out we would sally to the German restaurant around the corner, where the coffee was good, the sandwiches generous, and the pie execrable. If there was a German cook in Chicago who could make good pies we never had the good fortune to find him. [Illustration: TWO GOOD KNIGHTS AT FEAST drawing and legend: With great and sumptous cheer and with Joyous discourse, the good knight Slosson regaleth the good knight Eugene sans peur et sans monie. _From a drawing by Eugene Field._] Having regaled ourselves with this sumptuous cheer to "repletion," we would walk three blocks to McClurg's book-store and replenish our stock of English, sacred and profane, defiled and undefiled. I am writing now of the days before Field made the old-book department famous throughout the country as the browsing ground of the bibliomaniacs. After loitering there long enough to digest our lunches and to nibble a little literature, we would retrace our steps to the office, where Field resumed his predatory actions until he was ready to go to work. Then peace settled on the establishment for about three hours. If any noisy visitor or obstreperous reporter in the local room did anything to disturb the "literary atmosphere" that brooded around the office, Field would bang on the tin gong hanging over his desk until all other noises sank into dismayed silence. Then he would resume "sawing wood" for his "Sharps and Flats." If Field had not quite worked off his surplus stock of horse-play on his associates, he would vent it upon the compositor in some such apostrophe as the following: _By my troth, I'll now begin ter Cut a literary caper On this pretty tab of paper For the horney-handed printer; I expect to hear him swearing That these inks are very wearing On his oculary squinter._ Or this: We desire to announce that Mademoiselle Rhea, the gifted Flanders maid, who has the finest wardrobe on the stage, will play a season of bad brogue and flash dresses in this city very soon. This announcement, however, will never see the dawn of November 13th, and we kiss it a fond farewell as we cheerfully submit it as a sop to Cerberus. Field had a theory that Ballantyne, the managing editor, would not consider that he was earning his salary, and that Mr. Stone would not think that he was exercising the full authority of editorship, unless something in his column was sacrificed to the blue pencil of a watchful censorship. Coupled with this was the more or less cunning belief that it was good tactics to write one or two outrageously unprintable paragraphs to draw the fire, so to speak, of the blue pencil, and so to divert attention from something, about which there might be question, which he particularly wished to have printed. Ballantyne, as I have said, was a very much more exacting censor than Stone, for the reason that the humor of a story or paragraph often missed his Scotch literalness, while Stone never failed to let anything pass on that score. By six o'clock Field's writing for the day was done, and he generally went home for dinner. But that this was not always the case the following notes testify: GOOD AND GENTLE KNIGHT: If so be ye pine and so hanker after me this night I pray you come anon to the secret lair near the moat on the next floor, and there you will eke descry me. There we will discourse on love and other joyous matters, and until then I shall be, as I have ever been, Your most courteous friend, E. FIELD. * * * * * An' it please the good and gentle knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, his friend in very sooth, the honest knight will arrive at his castle this day at the 8th hour, being minded to partake of Sir Slosson's cheer and regale him with the wealth of his joyous discourse. THE GOOD KNIGHT. Five nights out of the week Field spent some part of the evening at one of the principal theatres of the town, of which at that time there were five. He was generally accompanied by Mrs. Field and her sister, Miss Comstock, who subsequently became Mrs. Ballantyne. When it was a family party, Ballantyne and I would join it about the last act, and there was invariably a late supper party, which broke up only in time for the last north-bound car. When Field was a self-invited guest with any of his intimates at dinner the party would adjourn for a round of the theatres, ending at that one where the star or leading actor was most likely to join in a symposium of steak and story at Billy Boyle's English chop-house. This resort, on Calhoun Place, between Dearborn and Clark Streets, was for many years the most famous all-night eating-house in Chicago. For chops and steaks it had not its equal in America, possibly not in the world. Long after we had ceased to frequent Boyle's, so long that our patronage could not have been charged with any share in the catastrophe, it went into the hands of the sheriff. This afforded Field an opportunity to write the following sympathetic and serio-whimsical reminiscence of a unique institution in Chicago life: It is unpleasant and it is hard to think of Billy Boyle's chop-house as a thing of the past, for that resort has become so closely identified with certain classes and with certain phases of life in Chicago that it seems it must necessarily keep right on forever in its delectable career. We much prefer to regard its troubles as temporary, and to believe that presently its hospitable doors will be thrown open again to the same hungry, appreciative patrons who for so many years have partaken of its cheer. When the sheriff asked Billy Boyle the other day where the key to the door was, Billy seemed to feel hurt. What did Billy know about a key, and what use had he ever found for one in that hospitable spot, whither famished folk of every class gravitated naturally for the flying succor of Billy's larder? "The door never had a key," said Billy. "Only once in all the time I have been here has the place been closed, and then it was but four hours." Down in New Orleans there is a famous old saloon called the Sazeraz. For fifty-four years it stood open to the thirsty public. Then the City Council passed a Sunday-closing ordinance, and with the enforcement of this law came the discovery that through innocuous desuetude the hinges of the doors to the Sazeraz had rusted off, while the doors themselves had become so worm-eaten that they had to be replaced by new ones. The sheriff who pounced down on Billy Boyle's in his official capacity must have fancied he had struck a second Sazeraz, for the lock upon the door was so rusty and rheumatic through disuse that it absolutely refused to respond to the persuasion of the keys produced for the performance of its functions. We cannot help applauding the steadfastness with which this lock resented the indignity which the official visit of the sheriff implied. If we were to attempt to make a roster of the names of those who have made the old chop-house their Mecca in seasons of hunger and thirst, we could easily fill a page. So, although you may have never visited the place yourself, it is easy for you to understand that many are the associations and reminiscences which attached to it. There was never any attempt at style there; the rooms were unattractive, save for the savory odors which hung about them; the floors were bare, and the furniture was severe to the degree of rudeness. There was no china in use upon the premises; crockery was good enough; men came there to feed their stomachs, not their eyes. Boyle's was a resort for politicians, journalists, artists, actors, musicians, merchants, gamblers, professional men generally, and sporting men specially. Boyle himself has always been a lover of the horse and a patron of the turf; naturally, therefore, his restaurant became the rendezvous of horsemen, so called. Upon the walls there were colored prints, which confirmed any suspicion which a stranger might have of the general character of the place, and the _mise en scène_ differed in no essential feature from that presented in the typical chop-house one meets in the narrow streets and by-ways of "dear ol' Lunnon!" It is likely that Boyle's has played in its quiet way a more important part in the history of the town than you might suppose. It was here that the lawyers consulted with their clients during the noon luncheon hour; politicians came thither to confer one another and to devise those schemes by which parties were to be humbugged. It was here that the painter and the actor discussed their respective arts; here, too, in the small hours of morning, the newspaper editor and reporters gathered together to dismiss professional cares and jealousies for the nonce, and to feed in the most amicable spirit from the same trough. Jobs were put up, _coups_ planned, reconciliations effected, schemes devised, combinations suggested, news exploited and scandals disseminated, friendships strengthened, acquaintances made--all this at Billy Boyle's--so you see it would have been hard to find a better field in which to study human nature, for hither came people of every class and kind with their ambitions, hopes, purposes, and eccentricities. The glory of the house of Boyle was the quality of viands served there, and nowhere else in the world was it possible to find finer steaks and chops. These substantials were served with a liberality that would surely have astounded those who did not understand that the patrons of Billy Boyle's were men blest with long appetites and robust digestions. Spanish stew was one of the specialties; so were baked potatoes, and so were Spanish roasted onions. It was the custom to sit and smoke after the meal had been disposed of, and the quality of the cigars sold in the place was the best; at night particularly--say after the newspaper clans began to gather--Boyle's wore the aspect of a smoke-talk in full blast. Harmony invariably prevailed. If, perchance, any discordant note was sounded it was speedily hushed. Charlie, the man behind the bar, had a way of his own of preserving the peace. He was a gentleman of a few words, slow to anger, but sure of wrath. Experience had taught him that the best persuasive to respectful and reverential order was a spoke of a wagon-wheel. One of these weapons lay within reach, and it never failed to restore tranquillity when produced and wielded at the proper moment by Charlie. The consequence was that Charlie inspired all good men with respect and all evil men with terror, and the result was harmony of the most enjoyable character. Perhaps if Charlie had been on watch when that horrid sheriff arrived on his meddlesome errand, Billy Boyle's might still be open to the rich and the poor who now meet together in that historic alley and bemoan the passing of their old point of rendezvous. Perhaps--but why indulge in surmises? It is pleasanter to regard this whole disagreeable sheriff business as an episode that is soon to pass away and to be forgotten, if not forgiven. Surely the clouds will roll by; surely you, Septimius, and you, Tuliarchus mine, will presently gather with others of the old cronies around the hospitable board of that genial host to renew once more the delights of days and nights endeared to us in memory! Billy Boyle's succumbed to his love for the race-track and the abuse of his credit-check system. Field has mentioned gamblers as among the patrons of the place. After midnight they were his most liberal customers. Winning or losing, their appetites were always on edge and their tastes epicurean. Nothing the house could afford was too good for them, and, while Charlie was on deck, what the house could afford was good enough for them, whether they thought so or not. During the '80s Chicago was a gamblers' paradise. Everything was run "wide open," as the saying is, under police regulation and protection, and Billy Boyle's was in the very centre of the gambling district. If Billy had been paid cash, and could have been kept away from the race-tracks, he would have grown rich beyond the terrors of the sheriff. While the gamblers were winning they supped like princes and paid like goldsmiths. When they were losing their losses whetted their appetites, they ate to keep their spirits up, and Billy's spindles were not long enough to hold their waiters' checks. In flush times a goodly percentage of these checks were redeemed, but the reckoning of the bad ones at the bottom grew longer and dirtier and more hopeless, until it brought the sheriff. We of the Morning News--Field, Stone, Ballantyne, Reilly, and I--frequented Boyle's until the war which the paper waged unceasingly upon the league between the city administration and the gamblers brought about a stricter surveillance of gaming, and we came to be regarded by our fellow-guests as interlopers, if not spies, upon their goings in and out. Neither Boyle nor the ever faithful Charlie ever by word or sign intimated that we were _personæ non gratæ_, but the atmosphere of the place became too chilly for the enjoyment of late suppers. I have devoted so much space to Billy Boyle's because for several years Field found there the best opportunity of his life "to study human nature" and observe the "ambitions, hopes, purposes, and eccentricities" of his fellow-man. After the "pernicious activity" of our newspaper work had "put the shutters up" against us in Calhoun Place, we transferred our midnight custom to the Boston Oyster House, on the corner of Clark and Madison streets, which Field selected because of the suggestion of baked beans, brown bread, and codfish in its name. Here we were assigned a special table in the corner near the grill range, and here we were welcomed along about twelve o'clock by the cheerful chirping of a cricket in the chimney, which Field had a superstition was intended solely for him. The Boston Oyster House had the advantage over Billy Boyle's that here we could bring "our women folks" after the theatre or concert. It was through a piece of doggerel, composed and recited by Field with great gusto on one of these occasions, that we first learned of the serious attentions of our managing editor to Mrs. Field's youngest sister. One of these stanzas ran thus: _A quart taken out of the ice-box, A dozen broiled over the fire, Then home from the show With her long-legged beau, What more can our sister desire?_ But the ladies were never invited to invade the cricket's corner, where we were permitted to beguile the hours in gossip, song, and story until the scrub-women had cleaned the rest of the big basement and "the first low swash" of the suds and brush threatened the legs of our chairs. Then, with a parting anathema on the business of slaves that toiled when honest folk should be abed, we would ascend the stairs and betake ourselves to our several homes. It was at the Boston that Field varied his diet of pie and coffee with what he was pleased to describe as "the staying qualities as well as the pleasing aspect of a Welsh rabbit." During the first years of his connection with the Morning News, Field worked without intermission six days of the week, without a vacation and, except when he transferred his scene of operations to the capitol at Springfield, without leaving Chicago--with two noteworthy exceptions. For some reason Field had taken what the Scotch call a scunner to ex-President Hayes, whom he regarded as a political Pecksniff. The refusal of Mr. Hayes while President to serve wine in the White House Field regarded as a cheap affectation, and so when, through his numerous sources of information, he learned that Mr. Hayes derived a part of his income from saloon property in Omaha, nothing would do Field but, accompanied by the staff artist, he must go to Omaha and investigate himself the story for the News. He went, found the facts were as represented, and returned with the proofs and a photograph of himself sitting on a beer-keg in a saloon owned by Rutherford B. Hayes. He also bought the keg, and out of its staves had a frame made for the picture, which he presented to Mr. Ballantyne. His other notable absence from Chicago in those days was also connected with ex-President Hayes. This time it involved a visit to the latter's home at Fremont, O. In all his frequent references to Mr. Hayes, Field had always spoken of Mrs. Hayes with sincere admiration for her womanly qualities and convictions. So long as these were confined to the ordering of her personal household he deemed them as sacred as they were admirable. Nor did he blame her for attempting to extend them to rule the actions of her husband in his public relations. But it was for permitting this that Mr. Hayes earned the scorn of Field. When President Hayes retired from the White House to Fremont, instead of becoming another Cincinnatus at the plough he was overshadowed by the stories of Mrs. Hayes's devotion to her chicken-farm, and the incongruity of the occupation appealed so strongly to Field's sense of the ridiculous that he prevailed on Mr. Stone to let him go down to Fremont to take in its full absurdity with his own eyes. Before going to Omaha, Field had taken the precaution to write enough "Sharps and Flats" to fill his column until he returned--a precaution he omitted when he started for Fremont, on the understanding that his associates on the editorial page would do his work for him. This was our opportunity, and gladly we availed ourselves of it. The habit had grown on Field of introducing his paragraphic skits with such "country journalisms" as: "We opine," "Anent the story," "We are free to admit," "We violate no confidence," "It is stated, though not authoritatively," "Our versatile friend," "We learn from a responsible source," and "Our distinguished fellow-townsman." This he accompanied with a lavish bestowal of titles that would have done credit to the most courtly days of southern chivalry. So when Field was safely off for Fremont we started to produce a column that would be a travesty on his favorite expressions at the expense of his titled friends. We opined and violated all the confidences of which we were possessed in regard to Colonel Phocion Howard, of the Batavia frog-farm, Major Moses P. Handy, the flaming sword of the Philadelphia Press, Senator G. Frisbie Hoar, Major Charles Hasbrook, Colonel William E. Curtis, Colonel John A. Joyce, Colonel Fred W. Nye, Major E. Clarence Stedman, and Colonels Dana, Watterson, and Halstead, and we exhausted the flowers of Field's vocabulary in daring encomiums on Madame Modjeska, Lotta, Minnie Maddern, and Marie Jansen. If any of Field's particular friends were omitted from "favorable mention" in that column, it was because we forgot or Mr. Stone's blue pencil came to the rescue of his absent friend. Ballantyne was party to the conspiracy, because he had often remonstrated against the rut of expression into which Field was in danger of falling. When Field returned that one column had driven all thoughts of Mrs. Hayes's hens from his thoughts. There was a cold glitter in his pale blue eyes and a hollow mock in the forced "ha, ha" with which he greeted some of our "alleged efforts at wit." He said little, but a few days later relieved his pent-up feelings by printing the following: _MAY THE 26th, 1885 As when the bright, the ever-glorious sun In eastern slopes lifts up his flaming head, And sees the harm the envious night has done While he, the solar orb, has been abed-- Sees here a yawl wrecked on the slushy sea, Or there a chestnut from its roost blown down, Or last year's birds' nests scattered on the lea, Or some stale scandal rampant in the town-- Sees everywhere the petty work of night, Of sneaking winds and cunning, coward rats, Of hooting owls, of bugaboo and sprite, Of roaches, wolves, and serenading cats-- Beholds and smiles that bagatelles so small Should seek to devastate the slumbering earth-- Then smiling still he pours on one and all The warmth and sunshine of his grateful mirth; So he who rules in humor's vast domain, Borne far away by some Ohio train, Returns again, like some recurring sun, And shining, God-like, on the furrowed plain Repairs the ills that envious hands have done._ But the daring violation of Field's confidence effected its purpose. Never again did he employ the type-worn expressions of country journalism, except with set prepense and self-evident satire. He shunned them as he did an English solecism, which he never committed, save as a decoy to draw the fire of the ever-watchful and hopeless grammatical purist. CHAPTER XVI NATURE OF HIS DAILY WORK In the last chapter I have told in general terms how Field employed himself day by day, from which the reader may form the impression that between eleven A.M. and midnight not over one-quarter of his time was actually employed in work, the balance being frittered away in seeming play. In one sense the reader would be right in such an inference. Field worked harder and longer at his play than at what the world has been pleased to accept as the work of a master workman, but out of that play was born the best of all that he has left. His daily column was a crystallization of the busy fancies that were running through his head during all his hours of fooling and nights of light-hearted pleasure. It reflected everything he read and heard and saw. It was a "barren sea from which he made a dry haul"--a dreary and colorless gathering that left him without material for his pen. He did not hunt for this material with a brass band, but went for it with studied persistence. Field never believed that he was sent into the world to reform it. His aim was to amuse himself, and if in so doing he entertained or gratified others, so much the better. "Reform away," he was once reported as saying, "reform away, but as for me, the world is good enough for me as it is. I am a thorough optimist. In temperament I'm a little like old Horace--I want to get all the happiness out of the world that's possible." And he got it, not intermittently and in chunks, but day by day and every hour of the day. His brother Roswell has said that the "curse of comedy was on Eugene," and "it was not until he threw off that yoke and gave expression to the better and sweeter thoughts within him that, as with Bion, the voice of song flowed freely from the heart." I do not think it is quite fair to regard comedy as a curse or a yoke. Certainly Eugene Field never suffered under the blight of the one nor staggered under the burden of the other. If there is any curse in comedy, unadulterated by lying, malice, or envy, he never knew it. He knew--none better--that the author who would command the tears that purify and sweeten life must move the laughter that lightens it. What says our Shakespeare?-- _Jog on, jog, on the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a, A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a._ Eugene Field trod the footpath way to popularity and fame with a buoyant and merry heart. If there was any abatement of his joyous spirits I never knew it, and I do not think that his writings disclose any sweeter strain, as his brother suggests, in the days when ill-health checked the ardor of his boyish exuberance, but could not dim the unextinguishable flame of his comedy. The two books that contain what to the last he considered his choicest work--a judgment confirmed by their continued popularity and sale, "A Little Book of Western Verse" and "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"--were compiled from the writings (1878-1887) that flowed from his pen when he worshipped most assiduously at the shrine of the goddess of comedy and social intercourse. I have been tempted into this digression in order that the reader may not be at a loss to reconcile the apparent frivolity of Field's life and the mass of his writings at this period with the winnowed product as it appeared in the two volumes just mentioned. Out of the comedy of his nature came the sweetness of his work, and out of his association with all conditions of his fellow-men came that insight into the springs of human passion and action that leavens all that he wrote, from "The Robin and the Violet" (1884) down to "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac" (1895). The general character of Eugene Field's life and writing went through a gradual process of evolution from the time of his arrival in Chicago to the final chapters of "The Love Affairs," which were his last work. But it can be safely divided into two periods of six years each, with the turning point at the publication of his little books of verse and tales in the year 1889. Nearly all that he wrote previous to that year was marked by his association with his kind; that which he wrote subsequently was saturated with his closer association with books. About all the preparation he needed for his daily "wood-sawing" was a hurried glance through the local papers and his favorite exchanges, among which the New York Sun held first place, with the others unplaced. He insisted that the exchange editor should send to his desk daily a dozen or more small country sheets from the most out of the way places--papers that recorded the painting of John Doe's front fence or that Seth Smith laid an egg on the editor's table with a breezy "come again, Seth, the Lord loveth a cheerful liar." When Field had accumulated enough of these items to suit his humor, he would paraphrase them, and, substituting the names of local or national celebrities, as the incongruity tickled his fancy, he would print them in his column under the heading of local, social, literary, or industrial notes, as the case might be. He seldom changed the form of these borrowed paragraphs materially, for he held most shrewdly that no humorist could improve upon the unconscious humor of the truly rural scribe. Field never outgrew the enjoyment and employment of this distinctively American appreciation of humor. As late as October 29th, 1895, "The Love Affairs" had to wait while he regaled the readers of the Chicago Record with his own brand of "Crop Reports from East Minonk," of which the following will serve as specimens: All are working to get in the corn crop as if they never expected to raise another crop. The schools are almost deserted, and even the schoolm'ams may yet be drafted in as huskers. As the season advances the farmers begin to realize the immensity of the crop, and the dangers and difficulties of handling it. Owing to its cumbersomeness the old-fashioned way of handling it becomes obsolete, and new methods will have to be adopted and hydraulic machinery procured. Many new uses can be made of the corn-stalks, such as flag-poles for school-houses, telegraph poles and sewer-pipes. By hollowing out a corn-stalk it will make the very best of windmill towers, as the plunger-rod can be placed inside, thus protecting it from the weather, and if desired, an excellent fountain can be obtained by perforating the joints with an awl. A freight train on the Santa Fé railroad was delayed four hours last Saturday by a corn-stalk in Jake Schlosser's field, which had been undermined by hogs, falling across the track. It was removed with a crane and considerable difficulty by the wrecking crew. The town of Hegler, on the Kankakee, Minonk and Western railroad, is invisible in a forest of corn. A search party under the direction of the road commissioners are looking for it. These solemnly exaggerated crop notes were strung out to the extent of over half a column. Some will question the wit of such fantastic extravagance, but Field had early learned the truth of Puck's exclamation: "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" He knew that there was absolutely no bounds to the gullibility of mankind, and he felt it a part of his mission to cater to it to the top of its bent. One of his most successful impositions was international in its scope. On September 13th, 1886, the following paragraph, based on the current European news of the day, appeared in his column: We do not see that Prince Alexander, the deposed Bulgarian monarch, is going to have very much difficulty in keeping the wolf away from the door. In addition to the income from a $2,000,000 legacy, he has a number of profitable investments in America which he can realize upon at any time. He owns considerable real estate in Chicago, Kansas City, Denver, and Omaha, and he is a part owner of one of the largest ranches in New Mexico. His American property is held in the name of Alexander Marie Wilhelm Ludwig Maraschkoff, and his interests in this country are looked after by Colonel J.S. Norton, the well-known attorney of this city. Colonel Norton tells us that he would not be surprised if Prince Alexander were to come to this country to live. In a letter to Colonel Norton last June the Prince said: "If ever it is in divine pleasure to release us from the harassing responsibilities which now rest upon us, it will be our choice to find a home in that great country beyond the Atlantic, where, removed from the intrigues of court and state, we may enjoy that quiet employment and peaceful meditation for which we have always yearned." Now it must be confessed that this bears a sufficient air of verisimilitude to deceive the casual reader. It is as perfect a specimen of the pure invention which Field delighted to deck out in the form of truth with facts and the names of real personages as he ever wrote. In that year not only Englishmen, but other foreigners, were investing in American real estate. James S. Norton was indeed a well-known attorney of Chicago, as he deserved to be for his wit and professional ability. He was on such friendly terms with Field that the latter thought nothing of taking any liberty he pleased with his name whenever it served to lend credibility to an otherwise unconvincing narrative. In subsequent paragraphs Field answered fictitious inquiries as to Mr. Norton's reality by giving his actual address, with the result that Mr. Norton was pestered with correspondence from all over the union offering opportunities to invest Prince Alexander's funds. But the success of this hoax was not confined to the American side of the Atlantic, as the following paragraph from London Truth shortly after proves: I gave some particulars a few weeks ago of the large amount of property which had been extracted from Bulgaria by Prince Alexander, who arrived at Sofia penniless, except for a sum of money which was advanced to him by the late Emperor of Russia. It is now asserted by the American papers that Prince Alexander has made considerable purchases under an assumed name (Alexander Marie Wilhelm Ludwig Maraschkoff) of real estate in Chicago, Denver, Kansas City, and Omaha, and that he is part owner of one of the largest sheep ranches in New Mexico. The Prince's property in America is under the charge of Colonel Norton, a well-known attorney of Chicago. Prince Alexander must be possessed of a true Yankee cuteness if he managed to squeeze the "pile" for these investments out of Bulgaria in addition to the £70,000 to which I referred recently. The Russian papers have accused him of dabbling in stock exchange speculations, and if disposed for such business, his position must have given him some excellent opportunities of making highly profitable bargains. Thus was Prince Alexander convicted of having burglarized Bulgaria upon an invention which should not have deceived Mr. Labouchere. How that ostentatiously manufactured alias ever imposed on Truth passes comprehension. Is it any wonder that at one of our numerous mid-day lunches "Colonel" Norton fired the following rhyming retort at Field?-- _TO EUGENE FIELD Forgive, dear youth, the forwardness Of her who blushing sends you this, Because she must her love confess, Alas! Alas! A lass she is. Long, long, so long, her timid heart Has held its joy in secrecy, Being by nature's cunning art So made, so made, so maidenly. She knew you once, but as a pen In humor dipt in wisdom's pool, And gladly gave her homage then To one, to one, too wonderful; But having seen your face, so mild, So pale, so full of animus, She can but cry in accents wild, Eugene! Eugene! You genius!_ The deep and abiding interest Field felt in the fortunes of Prince Alexander may be inferred from his exclamation, "When Stofsky meets Etrovitch, then comes the tug of Servo-Bulgarian war!" He took no end of pleasure in starting discussions over the authorship of verses and sayings by wilfully attributing them to persons whose mere name in such connection conveyed the sense of humorous impossibility, and he thoroughly enjoyed such suggestions being taken seriously. Once having started the ball of doubt rolling he never let it stop for want of some neat strokes of his cunning pen. Several noteworthy instances of this form of literary diversion or perversion occur to me. There never was any occasion to doubt the authorship of "The Lost Sheep," which won for Sally Pratt McLean wide popular recognition a decade and a half ago. Its first stanza will recall it to the memory of all: _De massa of de sheep fol' Dat guard de sheep fol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin-- So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, "Is my sheep, is dey all come in?" Oh, den says de hirelin' shepa'd, "Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po'ol' wedda's, But de res' dey's all brung in-- But de res' dey's all brung in."_ The very notoriety of the authorship of these lines merely served as an incentive for Field to print the following paragraph calling it in question: Miss Sally McLean, author of "Cape Cod Folks," claims to have written the dialect poem, "Massa of de Sheep Fold," which the New York Sun pronounces a poetic masterpiece. We dislike to contradict Miss McLean, but candor compels us to say that we have reason to believe that she is not the author of the stanzas in question. According to the best of our recollection, this poem was dashed off in the wine-room of the Gault House, at Louisville, Ky., by Colonel John A. Joyce, from ten to twenty years ago. Joyce was in the midst of a party of convivial friends. After several cases of champagne had been tossed down, a member of the party said to Colonel Joyce, "Come, old fellow, give us an extempore poem." As Colonel Joyce had not utilized his muse for at least twenty minutes, he cordially assented to the proposition, and while the waiter was bringing a fresh supply of wine Colonel Joyce dashed off the dialect poem so highly praised by the New York Sun. We are amazed that he has laid no claim to its authorship since its revival. Unfortunately, all the gentlemen who were present at the time he dashed off the poem are dead, or there would be no trouble in substantiating his claims to its authorship. We distinctly remember he wrote it the same evening he dashed off the pretty poem so violently claimed by, and so generally accredited to, Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. This was written in February, 1885, and though it failed of its ostensible aim of discrediting Miss McLean's authorship of "The Lost Sheep," it succeeded in rekindling throughout the exchanges the smouldering fires of the dispute Field had himself started over that of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's "Solitude," the relevant verse of which runs: _Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone, For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has troubles enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air, The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care._ From the day "Solitude" appeared in Miss Wheeler's "Poems of Passion" in 1883, and so long as Field lived, he never ceased to fan this controversy into renewed life, more often than not by assuming a tone of indignation that there should be any question over it, as in the following recurrence to the subject in July, 1885: It is reported that Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox is anxious to institute against Colonel John A. Joyce such legal proceedings as will determine beyond all doubt that she, and not Colonel Joyce, was the author of the poem entitled "Love and Laughter," and beginning: _"Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone."_ Mrs. Wilcox is perhaps the most touchy person in American literature at the present time. For a number of years she has been contributing to the newspaper press of the country, and her verses have been subjected to the harshest sort of criticism. The paragraphists of the press have bastinadoed and gibbeted her in the most cruel manner; her poems have been burlesqued, parodied, and travestied heartlessly--in short, every variety of criticism has been heaped upon her work, which, even the most prejudiced will admit, has evinced remarkable boldness and an amazing facility of expression. Now we would suppose that all this shower of criticism had tanned the fair author's hide--we speak metaphorically--until it was impervious to every unkindly influence. But so far from being bomb-proof, Mrs. Wilcox is even more sensitive than when she bestrode her Pegasus for the first time and soared into that dreamy realm where the lyric muse abides. There is not a quip nor a quillet from the slangy pen of the daily newspaper writers that she does not brood over and worry about as heartily as if it were an overdue mortgage on her pianoforte. We presume to say that the protests which she has made within the last two years against the utterances of the press would fill a tome. Now this Joyce affair is simply preposterous; we do not imagine that there is in America at the present time an ordinarily intelligent person who has ever believed for one moment that Colonel Joyce wrote the poem in question--the poem entitled "Love and Laughter." Colonel Joyce is an incorrigible practical joker, and his humor has been marvellously tickled by the prodigious worry his jest has cost the Wisconsin bard. The public understands the situation; there is no good reason why Mrs. Wilcox should fume and fret and scurry around, all on account of that poem, like a fidgety hen with one chicken. Her claim is universally conceded; there is no shadow of doubt that she wrote the poem in question, and by becoming involved in any further complication on this subject she will simply make a laughing-stock of herself; we would be sorry to see her do that. And yet whenever his stock of subjects for comment or raillery ran low he would write a letter to himself, asking the address of Colonel John A. Joyce, the author of "Love and Laughter," and manage in his answer to open up the whole controversy afresh. I suppose that to this day there are thousands of good people in the United States whose innocence has been abused by Field's superserviceable defence of Mrs. Wilcox's title to "Laugh and the World Laughs with You." It was delicious fooling to him and to those of us who were on the inside, but I question if Mrs. Wilcox ever appreciated its humorous aspect. Speaking of his practice of getting public attention for his own compositions through a letter of his own "To the Editor," the following affords a good example of his ingenious method, with his reply: EVANSTON, ILL., Aug. 15, 1888. _To the Editor_: Several of us are very anxious to learn the authorship of the following poem, which is to be found in so many scrap-books, and which ever and anon appears as a newspaper waif: _RESIGNATION I have a dear canary bird, That every morning sings The sweetest songs I ever heard, And flaps his yellow wings. I love to sit the whole day long Beside the window-sill, And listen to the joyous song That warbler loves to trill. My mother says that in a year The bird that I've adored Will maybe, lay some eggs and rear A callow, cooing horde. But father says it's quite absurd To think that bird can lay, For though it is a wondrous bird, It isn't built that way. Now whether mother tells me true Or father, bothers me; There's nothing else for me to do But just to wait and see. Whate'er befalls this bird of mine, I am resolved 'twill please-- Far be it from me to repine At what the Lord decrees._ Mr. Slason Thompson, compiler of "The Humbler Poets," could decide this matter for us if he were here now, but unhappily he is out of town just at present. We have a suspicion that the poem was originally written by Isaac Watts, but that suspicion is impaired somewhat by another suspicion that there were no such things as canary birds in Isaac Watts's time. Yours truly, MELISSA MAYFIELD. We have shown this letter to Evanston's most distinguished citizen, the Hon. Andrew Shuman, and that sapient poet-critic tells us that as nearly as he can recollect the poem was written, not by Dr. Watts, but by an American girl. But whether that girl was Lucretia Davidson or Miss Ada C. Sweet he cannot recall. Mr. Francis F. Browne, of The Dial, thinks it is one of Miss Wheeler's earlier poems, since it is imbued with that sweet innocence, that childish simplicity, and that meek piety which have ever characterized the work of the famous Wisconsin lyrist. But as we can learn nothing positive as to the authorship of the poem, we shall have to call upon the public at large to help us out. It is needless to say that the public at large could throw no light on the composition of this imitation of Dr. Watts with which Field was not already possessed, since both poem and "Melissa Mayfield" were creations of Field's fancy. One of the most characteristic examples of the pains he would take to palm off a composition of his own upon some innocent and unsuspecting public man appeared in the Morning News on January 22d, 1887. It was nothing short of an attempt to father upon the late Judge Thomas M. Cooley the authorship of half a dozen bits of verse of varying styles and degrees of excellence. He professed to have received from Jasper Eastman, a prominent citizen of Adrian, Mich., twenty-eight poems written by Judge Cooley, "the venerable and learned jurist, recently appointed receiver of the Wabash Railroad." These were said to have appeared in the Ann Arbor Daily News when it was conducted by the judge's most intimate friend, between the years 1853 and 1861. Field anticipated public incredulity by saying that "people who knew him to be a severe moralist and a profound scholar will laugh you to scorn if you try to make them believe Cooley ever condescended to express his fancies in verse." Then he went on to describe the judge, at the time of writing the verse, as "a long, awkward boy, with big features, moony eyes, a shock of coarse hair, and the merest shadow of a mustache," in proof of which description he presented a picture of the young man, declared to be from a daguerrotype in the possession of Mr. Eastman. The first "specimen gem" was said to be a paraphrase from Theocritus, entitled "Mortality": _O Nicias, not for us alone Was laughing Eros born, Nor shines for us alone the moon, Nor burns the ruddy morn. Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men._ Next followed a bit, "in lighter vein, from the Simonides of Amorgas," entitled "A Fickle Woman": _Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light; The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails, Forgetful of the fury of her gales; To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars, And o'er his hapless wreck her flood she pours._ Field then went on to describe Judge Cooley as equally felicitous in Latin verse, presenting in proof thereof the following, "sung at the junior class supper at Ann Arbor, May 14th, 1854": _Nicyllam bellis oculis-- (Videre est amare), Carminibus et poculis, Tra la la, tra la la, Me placet propinare: Tra la la, tra la la,-- Me placet propinare!_ Beside such grotesque literary horse-play as this, with a gravity startling in its unexpected daring, Field proceeded to attribute to the venerable jurist one of the simplest and purest lullabies that ever came from his own pen, opening with: _I hear Thy voice, dear Lord; I hear it by the stormy sea When winter nights are bleak and wild, And when, affright, I call to Thee; It calms my fears and whispers me, "Sleep well, my child."_ Then follows "The Vision of the Holy Grail," one of those exercises in archaic English in which Field took infinite pains as well as delight, and to which, as a production of Judge Cooley's, he paid the passing tribute of saying that it was "a graceful imitation of old English." As an example of the judge's humorous vein Field printed the conclusion of his lines "To a Blue Jay": _When I had shooed the bird away And plucked the plums--a quart or more-- I noted that the saucy jay, Albeit he had naught to say, Appeared much bluer than before._ After crediting the judge with a purposely awful parody on "Dixie," in which "banner" is made to rhyme with "Savannah," and "holy" with "Pensacola," Field concluded the whimsical fabrication with the serious comment: "It seems a pity that such poetic talent as Judge Cooley evinced was not suffered to develop. His increasing professional duties and his political employments put a quietus to those finer intellectual indulgences with which his earlier years were fruitful." Having launched this piece of literary drollery, over which he had studied and we had talked for a week or more, Field proceeded to clinch the verse-making on Judge Cooley by a series of letters to himself, one or two of which will indicate the fertile cleverness and humor he employed to cram his bald fabrication down the public gullet. The first appeared on January 24th, in the following letter "to the Editor": I have read Judge Cooley's poems with a good deal of interest. I am somewhat of a poet myself, having written sonnets and things now and then for the last twenty years. My opinion is that Judge Cooley's translations, paraphrases, and imitations, are much worthier than his original work. I hold that no poet can be a true poet unless he is at the same time somewhat of a naturalist. If Judge Cooley had been anything of a naturalist he would never have made such a serious blunder as he has made in his poem entitled "Lines to a Blue Jay." The idea of putting a blue jay into a plum-tree is simply shocking! I don't know when I've had anything grate so harshly upon my feelings as did this mistake when I discovered it this morning. It is as awful as the blunder made by one of the modern British poets (I forget his name) in referring to the alligators paddling about in Lake Erie. The blue jay _(Cyanurus cristatus)_ does not eat plums, and therefore does not infest plum-trees. Yours truly, CADMON E. BATES. Upon which Field, in his editorial plurality, commented: To Professor Bates's criticism we shall venture no reply. We think, however, that allowance should be made for the youth of the poet when he committed the offence which so grievously torments our correspondent. It might be argued, too, that the jay of which the poet treats is no ordinary bird, but is one of those omnivorous creatures which greedily pounce upon everything coming within their predatory reach. And two days later he made bold to crush the judge's critics with letters from the same versatile pen that never failed to aid in the furtherance of its master's hoaxes: To the Editor: Prof. Bates may be a good taxidermist, but he knows little of ornithology. Never before he spoke was it denied that the _Cyanurus cristatus_ (blue jay) fed upon plums. All the insect-eating birds also eat of the small fruits. It is plain that the poet knew this, even though the taxidermist didn't. Yours truly, L.R. COWPERTHWAITE. To the Editor: Isn't Prof. Bates too severe in his claim that genius like that of the poetic Judge Cooley should be bound down by the prosaic facts of ornithology? Milton scorned fidelity to nature, especially when it came to ornithological details, and poets, as a class, have been singularly wayward in this respect. My impression is that Judge Cooley has simply made use of a poetic license which any fair-minded person should be willing to concede the votaries of the muse. Yours truly, J.G.K. The echoes of Judge Cooley's youthful verse were never permitted to die wholly out of Field's column, but were frequently given renewed life by casual references. Even the publication of "The Divine Lullaby" in his "Little Book of Western Verse" did not prevent Field from speaking of Judge Cooley's poetical diversions. On another occasion he spent his odd time for weeks in preparing a humorous hoax upon the critics of Chicago. It consisted of a number of close imitations of the typical verses of Dr. Watts, in which he was a master. The fruits of his congenial labor on this occasion are preserved in his collected works. But the purpose for which they were prepared adds to their interest. They were incorporated in a prose article which gave a plausible account of how they had been exhumed from the correspondence of a sentimental friend of Watts. When the last strokes had been put upon the story, whose tone of genuineness was calculated to deceive the elect, it was mailed to Charles A. Dana, who was thoroughly in sympathy with Field in all such enterprises, and on the following Sunday it appeared in the New York Sun as an extract from a London paper. As soon as the publication reached Chicago a number of the cleverest reporters on the News staff were sent out to interview the local literary authorities. They were all carefully coached by Field what questions to ask and what points to avoid, and their reports were all turned over to him to prepare for publication. Next morning the better part of a page of the News was surrendered to quotations from the fictitious article, with learned dissertations on the value of the discovery, coupled with careful comparisons of the style and sentiments of the verse with the acknowledged work of Watts. In the whole city only one of those interviewed was saved, by a sceptical analysis, from falling into the pit so adroitly prepared by Field. Loyal to Chicago, to a degree incomprehensible by those who judged his sentiments by his unsparing comments on its crudities in social and literary ways, he never ceased to get pleasure out of serio-comic confounding of its business activities and artistic aspirations. Its business men and enterprises were constantly referred to in his column as equally strenuous in the pursuit of the almighty dollar and of the higher intellectual life. In his view "Culture's Garland," from the Chicago stand-point, was, indeed, a string of sausages. Of this spirit the following, printed in December, 1890, is a good example: A DANGER THAT THREATENS The rivalry between the trade and the literary interests in Chicago has been wondrously keen this year. Prof. Potwins, the most eminent of our statisticians, figures that we now have in the midst of us either a poet or an author to every square yard within the corporate limits, and he estimates that in ten years' time we shall have a literary output large enough to keep all the rest of the world reading all the time. Our trade has been increasing, too. Last September 382,098 cattle were received, against 330,994 in September of 1889. So far this year the increase over 1889 in the receipts of hogs is 2,000,000. Last year not more than 2,700 young authors contributed stories to the Christmas number of the Daily News: this year the number of contributors reached 6,125. Hitherto the rivalry between our trade and our literature has been friendly to a degree. The packer has patronized the poet; metaphorically speaking, the hog and the epic have lain down together and wallowed in the same Parnassan pool. The censers that have swung continually in the temple of the muses have been replenished with lard oil, and to our grateful olfactories has the joyous Lake breezes wafted the refreshing odors of sonnets and of slaughter pens commingled. But how long is this sort of thing going to last? It surely cannot be the millennium. These twin giants will some day--alas, too soon--learn their powers and be greedy to test them against one another. A fatal jealousy seems to be inevitable; it may be fended off, but how? The world's fair will be likely to precipitate a conflict between the interests of which we speak. Each interest is already claiming precedence, and we hear with alarm that less than a week ago one of our most respected packers threatened to withdraw his support of the international copyright bill unless the Chicago Literary Society united in an indorsement of his sugar-cured hams. When we think of the horrors that will attend and follow a set-to between Chicago trade and Chicago literature, we are prone to cry out, in the words of the immortal Moore--not Tom--but Mrs. Julia A., of Michigan: _An awful tremor quakes the soul! And makes the heart to quiver, While up and down the spine doth roll A melancholy shiver._ In December, 1895, Edmund Clarence Stedman contributed to the "Souvenir Book" of the New York Hebrew Fair a charmingly appreciative, yet justly critical, tribute to Eugene Field, whom he likened to Shakespeare's Yorick, whose "motley covered the sweetest nature and tenderest heart." Mr. Stedman there speaks of Field as a "complex American with the obstreperous _bizarrerie_ of the frontier and the artistic delicacy of our oldest culture always at odds within him--but he was above all a child of nature, a frolic incarnate, and just as he would have been in any time or country." He also tells how Field put their friendship to one of those tests which sooner or later he applied to all--the test of linking their names with something utterly ludicrous and impossible, but published with all the solemn earmarks of verity. It was on the occasion of Mr. Stedman's visit to Chicago on its invitation to lecture before the Twentieth Century Club. This gave Field the cue to announce the coming event in a way to fill the visitor with consternation. About two weeks before the poet-critic was expected, Field's column contained the following innocent paragraph: Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, the poet, and the foremost of American critics, is about to visit Chicago. He comes as the guest of the Twentieth Century Club, and on the evening of Tuesday, the 28th inst., he will deliver before that discriminating body an address upon the subject of "Poetry," this address being one of the notable series which Mr. Stedman prepared for and read before the undergraduates of Johns Hopkins University last winter. These discourses are, as we judge from epitomes published in the New York Tribune, marvels of scholarship and of criticism. Twenty years have elapsed, as we understand, since Mr. Stedman last visited Chicago. He will find amazing changes, all in the nature of improvements. He will be delighted with the beauty of our city and with the appreciation, the intelligence, and the culture of our society. But what should and will please him most will be the cordiality of that reception which Chicago will give him, and the enthusiasm with which she will entertain this charming prince of American letters, this eminent poet, this mighty good fellow! I doubt if Mr. Stedman ever saw this item, which Field merely inserted, as was his wont, as a prelude to the whimsical announcement which followed in two days, and which was eagerly copied in the New York papers in time to make Mr. Stedman cast about for some excuse for being somewhere else than in Chicago on the 29th of April, 1891. This second notice is too good an instance of the liberty Field took with the name of a friend in his delectable vocation of laying "the knotted lash of sarcasm" about the shoulders of wealth and fashion of Chicago, not to be quoted in full. It was given with all the precision of typographical arrangement that is considered proper in printing a veritable programme of some public procession, in the following terms: Chicago literary circles are all agog over the prospective visit of Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, the eminent poet-critic. At the regular monthly conclave of the Robert Browning Benevolent and Patriotical Association of Cook County, night before last, it was resolved to invite Mr. Stedman to a grand complimentary banquet at the Kinsley's on Wednesday evening, the 29th. Prof. William Morton Payne, grand marshal of the parade which is to conduct the famous guest from the railway station the morning he arrives, tells us that the procession will be in this order: Twenty police officers afoot. The grand marshal, horseback, accompanied by ten male members of the Twentieth Century Club, also horseback. Mr. Stedman in a landau drawn by four horses, two black and two white. The Twentieth Century Club in carriages. A brass band afoot. The Robert Browning Club in Frank Parmelee's 'buses. The Homer Clubs afoot, preceded by a fife-and-drum corps and a real Greek philosopher attired in a tunic. Another brass band. A beautiful young woman playing the guitar, symbolizing Apollo and his lute in a car drawn by nine milk-white stallions, impersonating the muses. Two Hundred Chicago poets afoot. The Chicago Literary Club in carriages. A splendid gilded chariot bearing Gunther's Shakespeare autograph and Mr. Ellsworth's first printed book. Another brass band. Magnificent advertising car of Armour and Co., illustrating the progress of civilization. The Fishbladder Brigade and the Blue Island Avenue Shelley Club. The fire department. Another brass band. Citizens in carriages, afoot and horseback. Advertising cars and wagons. The line of march will be an extensive one, taking in the packing-houses and other notable points. At Mr. Armour's interesting professional establishment the process of slaughtering will be illustrated for the delectation of the honored guest, after which an appropriate poem will be read by Decatur Jones, President of the Lake View Elite Club. Then Mr. Armour will entertain a select few at a champagne luncheon in the scalding-room. In high literary circles it is rumored that the Rev. F.M. Bristol has got an option on all autographs that Mr. Stedman may write during his stay in Chicago. Much excitement has been caused by this, and there is talk of an indignation meeting in Battery D, to be addressed by the Rev. Flavius Gunsaulus, the Rev. Frank W. Brobst, and other eminent speakers. Small wonder that Mr. Stedman's soul was filled with trepidation as his train approached Chicago, and that he was greatly relieved as it rolled into the station to find only a few friends awaiting him; and among them he quickly singled out Eugene Field, "his sardonic face agrin like a school-boy's." Enough has been written and quoted to give the reader a fair idea of the general character of Eugene Field's daily work and of the spirit that inspired it. As Mr. Stedman has said, the work of the journeyman and the real literary artist appeared cheek by jowl in his column. The best of it has been preserved in his collected works. That given in this chapter is merely intended to show how he illuminated the lightest and most ephemeral topics of the day with a literary touch at once acute and humorous, and certainly unconventional. In the Appendix to these volumes the reader will find a review of the fictitious biography of Miss Emma Abbott, the once noted opera singer. It is an ingenious piece of work and will repay reading as a satire on current reviewing, besides illustrating the daring liberty Field could take with anyone whom he reckoned a friend. The following paragraph, which will serve as a tail-piece to this chapter, printed May 31st, 1894, shows how the playful raillery which marked his earlier work in and about Chicago survived to the end: The oldest house in Chicago stands on the West Side, and was built in 1839 A.D. The oldest horse in Chicago works for the Lake View Street-Car Company, and was present at the battle of Marathon 490 B.C. END OF VOL. I. 
56536	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 56536-h.htm or 56536-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/56536/56536-h/56536-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/56536/56536-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/lifeofwaltwhitma00binnuoft Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN BY THE SAME WRITER MOODS AND OUTDOOR VERSES ("RICHARD ASKHAM") FOR THE FELLOWSHIP [Illustration: _Walt Whitman at thirty-five_] A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN by HENRY BRYAN BINNS With Thirty-three Illustrations METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON First Published in 1905 TO MY MOTHER AND HER MOTHER THE REPUBLIC PREFACE To the reader, and especially to the critical reader, it would seem but courteous to give at the beginning of my book some indication of its purpose. It makes no attempt to fill the place either of a critical study or a definitive biography. Though Whitman died thirteen years ago, the time has not yet come for a final and complete life to be written; and when the hour shall arrive we must, I think, look to some American interpreter for the volume. For Whitman's life is of a strongly American flavour. Instead of such a book I offer a biographical study from the point of view of an Englishman, yet of an Englishman who loves the Republic. I have not attempted, except parenthetically here and there, to make literary decisions on the value of Whitman's work, partly because he still remains an innovator upon whose case the jury of the years must decide--a jury which is not yet complete; and partly because I am not myself a literary critic. It is as a man that I see and have sought to describe Whitman. But as a man of special and exceptional character, a new type of mystic or seer. And the conviction that he belongs to the order of initiates has dragged me on to confessedly difficult ground. Again, while seeking to avoid excursions into literary criticism, it has seemed to me to be impossible to draw a real portrait of the man without attempting some interpretation of his books and the quotation from them of characteristic passages, for they are the record of his personal attitude towards the problems most intimately affecting his life. I trust that this part of my work may at any rate offer some suggestions to the serious student of Whitman. Since he touched life at many points, it has been full of pitfalls; and if among them I should prove but a blind leader, I can only hope that those who follow will keep open eyes. Whitman has made his biography the more difficult to write by demanding that he should be studied in relation to his time; to fulfil this requirement was beyond my scope, but I have here and there suggested the more notable outlines, within which the reader will supply details from his own memory. As I have written especially for my own countrymen, I have ventured to remind the reader of some of those elementary facts of American history of which we English are too easily forgetful. The most important chapters of Whitman's life have been written by himself, and will be found scattered over his complete works. To these the following pages are intended as a modest supplement and commentary. Already the Whitman literature has become extensive, but, save in brief sketches, no picture of his whole life in which one may trace with any detail the process of its development seems as yet to exist. In this country the only competent studies which have appeared are that of the late Mr. Symonds, which devotes some twenty pages to biographical matters, and the admirable and suggestive little manual of the late Mr. William Clarke. Both books are some twelve years old, and in those years not a little new material has become available, notably that which is collected in the ten-volume edition of Whitman's works, and in the book known as _In re Walt Whitman_. On these and on essays printed in the _Conservator_ and in the _Whitman Fellowship Papers_ I have freely drawn for the following pages. Of American studies the late Dr. Bucke's still, after twenty years, easily holds the first place. Beside it stand those of Mr. John Burroughs, and Mr. W. S. Kennedy. To these, and to the kind offices of the authors of the two last named, my book owes much of any value it may possess. I have also been assisted by the published reminiscences of Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Mr. Moncure Conway, and Mr. Thomas Donaldson, and by the recently published _Diary in Canada_ (edited by Mr. Kennedy), and Dr. I. H. Platt's Beacon Biography of the poet. Since I never met Walt Whitman I am especially indebted to his friends for the personal details with which they have so generously furnished me: beside those already named, to Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Johnston, Mr. J. Hubley Ashton, Mrs. W. S. Kennedy, Mrs. E. M. Calder, Mr. and Mrs. (Stafford) Browning of Haddonfield (Glendale), Mr. John Fleet of Huntington, Captain Lindell of the Camden Ferry, and to Mr. Peter G. Doyle; but especially to Whitman's surviving executors and my kind friends, Mr. T. B. Harned and Mr. Horace Traubel. To these last, and to Mr. Laurens Maynard, of the firm of Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., the publishers of the final edition of Whitman's works, I am indebted for generous permission to use and reproduce photographs in their possession. I also beg to make my acknowledgments to Mr. David McKay and Mr. Gutekunst, both of Philadelphia. Helpful suggestions and information have been most kindly given by my American friends, Mr. Edwin Markham, Professor E. H. Griggs, Mr. Ernest Crosby, Dr. George Herron, Professor Rufus M. Jones of Haverford, Mr. C. F. Jenkins of Germantown, and Mr. and Mrs. David Thompson of Washington. Mr. Benjamin D. Hicks of Long Island has repeatedly replied to my various and troublesome inquiries as to the Quaker ancestry of Walt Whitman, and Dr. E. Pardee Bucke has furnished me with an admirable sketch of his father Dr. R. M. Bucke's life and the photograph which I have reproduced. In England also there are many to whom I would here offer my most grateful thanks. And first, to Mr. Edward Carpenter, whose own work has always been my best of guides in the study of Whitman's, and whose records of his interviews with the old poet in Camden have given me more insight into his character than any other words but Whitman's own. He has also read the MS., and aided me by numberless suggestions. Mrs. Bernard Berenson, who for some years enjoyed the old man's friendship, has supplied me with an invaluable picture of his relations with her father, the late Mr. Pearsall Smith, and his family, and has generously lent me various letters in her possession, and permitted me to make reproductions from them. Mr. J. W. Wallace, of the "Bolton group," has allowed me to read and use his manuscript description of a visit to Camden in 1891; and another of the same brotherhood, Dr. J. Johnston, whose admirable account of a similar series of interviews in the preceding year is well known by Whitman students, has supplied me with a photograph of the little Mickle Street house as it then was. To Mr. William M. Rossetti and to Mr. Ernest Rhys I am indebted for valuable suggestions; and for similar help to my friends, Professor W. H. Hudson and Messrs. Arthur Sherwell, B. Kirkman Gray and C. F. Mott. Finally, the book owes much more than I can say to my wife. While gratefully acknowledging the assistance of all these and others unnamed, I confess that I am alone responsible for the general accuracy of my statements, and the book's point of view, and I wish especially to relieve the personal friends of Whitman from any responsibility for the hypothesis relating to his sojourn in the South, beyond what is stated in the Appendix. To all actual sins of commission and omission I plead guilty, trusting that for the sympathetic reader they may eventually be blotted out in the light which, obscured though it be, still shines upon my pages from the personality of Walt Whitman. H. B. B. LONDON, _January, 1905_. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE vii TABLE OF CONTENTS xiii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xv ABBREVIATIONS EMPLOYED IN THE NOTES xvii INTRODUCTION: WHITMAN'S AMERICA xix CHAP. I. THE WHITMAN'S OF WEST HILLS 1 II. BOYHOOD IN BROOKLYN 10 III. TEACHER AND JOURNALIST 28 IV. ROMANCE (1848) 46 V. ILLUMINATION 56 VI. THE CARPENTER 79 VII. WHITMAN'S MANIFESTO 95 VIII. THE MYSTIC 110 IX. "YEAR OF METEORS" 134 X. THE TESTAMENT OF A COMRADE 148 XI. AMERICA AT WAR 171 XII. THE PROOF OF COMRADESHIP 190 XIII. A WASHINGTON CLERK 205 XIV. FRIENDS AND FAME 221 XV. ILLNESS 247 XVI. CONVALESCENCE 258 XVII. THE SECOND BOSTON EDITION 278 XVIII. AMONG THE PROPHETS 289 XIX. HE BECOMES A HOUSEHOLDER 301 XX. AT MICKLE STREET 314 XXI. "GOOD-BYE, MY FANCY" 325 APPENDIX A 347 APPENDIX B 349 INDEX 351 METHUEN'S CATALOGUE OF BOOKS TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE WALT WHITMAN AT 35, from a daguerrotype _Frontispiece_ in possession of Mr. J. H. Johnston HIS MOTHER, from a daguerrotype in possession of Mr. Traubel 6 WEST HILLS: THE WHITMAN HOUSE FROM THE LANE (1904) 8 W. W.'S FATHER 14 WEST HILLS: HOUSE FROM YARD 28 NEW ORLEANS ABOUT 1850 48 R. W. EMERSON 92 W. W. AT 40, from a photo, in the possession of Mr. D. McKay 140 W. W. AT 44, from photo, in possession of Mr. Traubel 179 WILLIAM DOUGLAS O'CONNOR 190 JOHN BURROUGHS IN 1900 201 ANNE GILCHRIST, from an amateur photograph 225 W. W. AT ABOUT 50 227 PETE DOYLE AND W. W., by permission of Messrs. Small, Maynard 231 & Co., from a photo, by Rice, Washington, 1869 PETER G. DOYLE AT 57, from a photo, by Kuebler, Philadelphia 233 NO. 431, STEVENS STREET, CAMDEN (1904) 240 FACSIMILE OF MS. OF PORTION OF PREFACE TO 1876 EDITION, 243 _L. of G._ TIMBER CREEK, THE POOL 259 TIMBER CREEK, BELOW CRYSTAL SPRING 261 EDWARD CARPENTER AT 43 267 DR. R. M. BUCKE 270 W. W. AT 61 276 MR. STAFFORD'S STORE, GLENDALE (1904) 286 MART WHITALL SMITH (MRS. BERENSON) IN 1884 302 W. W. AND THE BUTTERFLY; AGED 62; from photo, 304 by Phillips & Taylor, Philadelphia FACSIMILE OF AUTOGRAPH LETTER TO MR. R. P. SMITH, 315 in possession of Mrs. Berenson MICKLE STREET, CAMDEN, from a photo, by Dr. J. Johnston 317 FACSIMILE OF AUTOGRAPH POST CARDS (1887-88), 326 in possession of Mrs. Berenson W. W. AT 70, by permission of Mr. Gutekunst, Philadelphia 331 ROBERT G. INGERSOLL 334 W. W. AT 72, from a photo, of Mr. T. Eakins, 338 by permission of Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co. HORACE TRAUBEL 342 THE TOMB, HARLEIGH CEMETERY (1904) 346 ABBREVIATIONS _The following abbreviations are used in the Notes._ Bucke = R. M. Bucke's _Walt Whitman_, 1883. Burroughs = John Burroughs' _Note on Walt Whitman_, 1867. Burroughs (2) = John Burroughs' _Note on Walt Whitman_. Second Edition. Burroughs (_a_) = John Burroughs' _Whitman: A Study_, 1896. Carpenter = E. Carpenter's "Notes of Visits to W. W." in _Progressive Review_: (_a_) February, 1897; (_b_) April, 1897. _Camden's Compliment_ = _Camden's Compliment to W. W._, 1889. _Cam. Mod. Hist._ = _Cambridge Modern History: United States._ _Comp. Prose_ = _W. W.'s Complete Prose_, 1898. Calamus = _Calamus, Letters of W. W. to Pete Doyle_, 1897. Camden = _Camden Edition_ (10 vols.) _of W. W.'s Works_, 1902. Donaldson = T. Donaldson's _W. W.: The Man_, 1897. _En. Brit. Suppt._ = _Encyclopædia Britannica: Supplement, United States._ _Good-bye and Hail_ = _Good-bye and Hail, W. W._, 1892. _In re_ = _In re W. W._, 1893. Johnston = Dr. J. Johnston's _Notes of a Visit to W. W._, 1890. Kennedy = W. S. Kennedy's _Reminiscences of W. W._, 1896. _L. of G._ = _Leaves of Grass_, complete edition of 1897: followed by numerals in brackets, edition of that year. _Mem. Hist. N.Y._ = J. G. Wilson's _Memorial History of New York_. Roosevelt = T. Roosevelt's _New York_, 1891. Symonds = J. A. Symonds's _W. W.: A Study_, 1893. _Wound-Dresser_ = _The W. D., Letters of W. W. to his Mother_, 1898. _Whit. Fellowship_ = _Whitman Fellowship Papers_, Philadelphia, 1894. MANUSCRIPTS. MSS. Berenson = Letters in possession of Mrs. Bernard Berenson. MSS. Berenson (_a_) = Reminiscences contributed to this volume. MSS. Carpenter = Letters in possession of E. Carpenter. MSS. Diary = A Diary (1876-1887) in possession of H. Traubel. MSS. Harned = Papers in possession of T. B. Harned. MSS. Johnston = Papers in possession of J. H. Johnston, New York. MSS. Traubel = Papers in possession of H. Traubel. MSS. Wallace = J. W. Wallace's Diary of a Visit to W. W. in 1891. INTRODUCTION WHITMAN'S AMERICA The men of old declared that the lands of adventure lay in the West, for they were bold to follow the course of the sun; and to this day the bold do not look back to seek romance behind them in the East. Whether this be the whole truth or no, such is the notion that comes upon the wind when, journeying westward in mid-Atlantic, you begin to know the faces on ship-board, and to understand what it is that is in their eyes. Strange eyes and foreign faces have these voyagers--dwellers upon Mediterranean shores, peasants from the borders of the Baltic, or dumb inhabitants of the vast eastern plains, huddled now together in the ship. But in them is a hope which triumphs over the misery of the present as it has survived the misery of the past, and to-day that hope has a name, and is America. For America is indeed the hope of the forlorn and disinherited in every land to whom a hope remains. From the ends of the earth they set out, and separated from one another by every barrier of race and language, meet here upon the ocean, having nothing in common but this hope, this dream which will yet weld them together into a new people. For the comfortable dreamer there is Italy and the Past, but for many millions of the common people of Europe and of Italy herself--and the common people too have their dream--America, the land of the Future, is the Kingdom of Romance. Nor to these only, but, as I think, to every traveller not unresponsive to the genius of the land. For it is the genius of youth--youth with its awkward power, its incompleteness, its promise. And the home of this genius must be the land not only of progress and material achievement, but also of those visions which haunt the heart of youth. America is more than the golden-appled earthly paradise of the poor, it is a land of spiritual promise. And more perhaps than that of any nation the American flag is to-day the symbol of a Cause, and of a Cause which claims all hearts because ultimately it is that of all Peoples. And America has another claim to be regarded as truly romantic. Hers is the charm of novelty. It is not the glamour of the old but of the new, and the perennially new. Some four centuries have passed since the days of Columbus, centuries which have dimmed the lustre of many another adventurous voyage into dull antiquity, but America is still the New World, and the exhilarating air of discovery still breathes as fresh in the West as on the first morning. With that discovery there dawned a new historic day whose sun is not yet set. We instinctively put back the beginning of our own era to the time of Elizabeth, that Virgin Queen in whose colony of Virginia the American people was first born, to grow up into maturity under its statesmen. And if we see but vaguely in the greyest hours of our dawn the figure of the Discoverer, while beyond him all seem strange as the men of yesterday--if we behold our own sun rising on the broad Elizabethan hours--how fitting it is that the New World should be peopled by those who still retain most of the temper of that generous morning! The American of to-day with his thirst for knowledge, his versatility, his quick sense of the practicable, his delight in the doing of things, his directness and frankness of purpose, his comradeship and hospitality, his lack of self-consciousness--with all the naïve inconsistencies, the amiable braggings, the mouthings of phrases, and the love of praise which belong to such unconsciousness of self--with his glowing optimism, his belief in human nature, his faith and devotion to his ideals--the American of to-day is in all these things the Elizabethan of our story. America is the supreme creation of Elizabethan genius--its New World, to which even that world which we call "Shakespeare" must give place.[1] The Romance of America is not only new, it is like a tale that is being told for the first time into our own ears. And like some consummate story whose chapters, appearing month by month, hold us continually in expectant suspense, its plot is still evolving and its characters revealing themselves, so that as yet we can only guess at its _dénouement_. I call it a Romance, for it is indeed a tale of wonder; but unlike the old romances its bold realism is not always beautiful. The style of its telling is often loud, its words blunt, its rhythm strange and full of changes. But it has a large Elizabethan movement which cannot be denied. Denounce and deprecate as we will, all that is young in us responds to it. The story carries us along, at times by violence and in our own despite, but so a story should. It may be the end will justify and explain passages that to-day are but obscure: no story is complete until the end, and America has not yet been told. It is still morning there: and the heart of it is still the heart of youth. * * * * * The unprejudiced and candid visitor will be provoked to criticism by much that he sees in the United States; but even his criticism will be prompted by the possibilities of the country. It is this sense of its possibilities which captures the imagination, and fills the mind with the desire to do--to correct, it may be--but in any case to do. The incentive to action is felt by everyone, American or immigrant, and dominates all. Here for the first time one seems to be, as it were, in a live country, among a live people whose work is actually under its hand and must occupy it for years to come. In England things are different; the country does not so audibly challenge the labourer to till and tame it. It does not say so plainly to every man--_I want you: here is range and scope for all your manhood_. Only the seer can read that word written pathetically across all this English countryside whose smooth air of completion conceals so blank a poverty. In America the very stones cry out, and all who run must read. And thus the whole American atmosphere is that of action. * * * * * The Chinese, that most practical of peoples, have an old saying that the purpose of the true worship of heaven is to spiritualise the earth. It is a reminder that materialism and mysticism should go hand in hand. Now the American is often, and not unjustly, accused of sheer materialism. But by temper he is really an idealist. The very Constitution of the United States, not to mention the famous _Declaration_, is no less transcendental than the _Essays_ of Emerson, nor less weighty with deep purpose than the speeches of Lincoln. All these are characteristic utterances of the American genius; they have been attested by events, and sealed in the blood of a million citizen soldiers. And how, one may ask, could the citizens of a State which more than any other manifestly depends for its life upon communion in an ideal be other than idealists? Gathered from every section of the human race, this people has become a nation through its consciousness of a Cause; its members being possessed not of a common blood, tradition or literature, but of a purpose and idea sacred to all. If then the national life depends upon the living idealism of the people, the actual unquestionable vigour of this national life may be taken as evidence of the strength of that idealism. But, on the other hand, the nation's present pre-occupation with its merely material success conceals the gravest of all its perils, because it threatens the very principle of the national life. Thus held together by its future, and not as seem most others, by their past, the American nation has been slow in coming to self-consciousness, slow therefore in producing an original or national art. Hitherto it has been occupied with its own Becoming; and to-day, to virile Americans, America remains the most engrossing of occupations, the noblest of all practicable dreams. The spirit of the Renaissance has here attempted a task far graver than in Medician Florence or Elizabethan London: to create, namely, not so much a new art as a new race. It has here to achieve its incarnation not in line and colour, not in marble nor in imperishable verse, but in the flesh and blood of a nation gathered from every family of Man. And for that, it is forever assimilating into itself scions of every European people, and transforming them out of Europeans into Americans. Vast as such a process is, the assimilation of all their surging aspirations and ideals into one has been hardly less vast. It is little wonder then that America has been slow in coming to self-consciousness. What is wonderful is her organic power of assimilation. And now there begin to be evidences in American thought of a spiritual synthesis, the widest known. As yet they are but vague suggestions. But they seem to indicate that when an American philosophy takes the field it will be pragmatical in the best sense; too earnestly concerned with conduct and with life to be careful of symmetry or tradition; directed towards the future, not the past. It will be a philosophy of possibilities founded upon the study of an adolescent race. It seemed natural to preface this study of Whitman with a sketch of the American genius. Doubtless that genius has other aspects than those here presented, and to some of these, later pages will bear witness; but the impression I have attempted to reproduce is at least taken from life. It is, moreover, not unlike that of Whitman himself as presented in his first Preface, and is even more suggestive of the America of his youth than that of his old age. Every thinker owes much to his time and race, and Whitman more than most. He always averred that the story of his life was bound up with that of his country, and took significance from it. To be understood, the man must be seen as an American. As a Modern, we might add, for the story of his land is so brief. Dead now some thirteen years, and barely an old man when he died, his personal memory seemed to embrace nearly the whole romance. His grandfather was acquainted with old Tom Paine, whose _Common Sense_ had popularised the Republican idea in the very hour of American Independence: he himself had talked with the soldiers of Washington, and as a lad[2] he had met Aaron Burr who killed the glorious Hamilton, sponsor for that Constitution which when Whitman died was but a century old. In the seven decades of his life the American population had multiplied near seven-fold, and had been compacted together into an imperial nation. It seemed almost as though he could remember the thirteen poor and jealous States, with their conflicting interests and traditions, their widely differing climates, industries and inhabitants, separated from one another by vast distances--and how they yielded themselves reluctantly under the hand of Fate to grow together in Union into the greatest of civilised peoples; while central in the story of his life was that Titanic conflict whose solemn bass accompaniment toned and deepened loose phrases and popular enthusiasms into a national hymn. Himself something of a poet--how much we need not attempt to estimate--he did continual homage to that greater Poet, whose works were at once his education and his library--the genius of America. None other, ancient or mediæval, discoursed to his ear or penned in immortal characters for him to read, rhythms so large and pregnant. It was the prayer and purpose of his life that he might contribute his verse to that great poem; and his life is like a verse which it is impossible to separate from its context. That he understood, and even in a sense re-discovered America, can scarcely be denied by serious students of his work. I believe that the genius of America will in time discover some essential elements of herself in him, and will understand herself the better for his pages. * * * * * Belonging thus to America as a nation, the earlier scenes of Walt Whitman's story are fitly laid in and about metropolitan New York. It was not till middle life and after the completion and publication of what may be regarded as the first version of his _Leaves of Grass_--the edition that is to say of 1860--that he removed for a while to the Federal capital where, throughout the War, the interest of America was centred. Afterwards he withdrew to Camden, into a sort of hermitage, midway between New York and Washington. Though his heart belonged to the West, the Far West never knew him. Both north and south, he wandered near as widely as the limits of his States. He knew the Mississippi, the Great Lakes, and the Rocky Mountains; but all that vast and wonderful country which reaches west from Colorado towards Balboa's sea was untrodden by his feet. A circle broadly struck from the actual centre of population, and taking in Denver, New Orleans, Boston and Quebec, includes the whole field of his wanderings within a radius of a thousand miles. He was not a traveller according to our modern use of the word; he had never lost sight for many hours of the shores of America; even Cuba and Hawaii were beyond his range. But he had studied nearly all the phases of life included in the Republic. His birth and breeding in the "middle States" gave him a metropolitan quality which neither New England nor the South could have contributed. Of peasant stock, himself an artizan and always and properly a man of the people, he was of the average stuff of the American nation; and his everyday life--apart from the central and exceptional fact of his individuality--was that of millions of unremembered citizens. Whitman was not only an American type, he was also a type of America. The typical American is not city born. Rapidly as that sinister fate is overtaking the Englishman, the native American is still of rural birth.[3] And, as we have said, Whitman was of the average; he was born in Long Island of farming folk. But he was a modern, and the modern movement throughout the world is citywards. Everywhere the Industrial Revolution is destroying the economy of our ancestors and creating another; diverting all the scattered energy which springs out of the countryside into the great reservoirs of city life, there to be employed upon new tasks. Modern life is the life of the town, and for many years it was Whitman's life. But again every town depends for its vitality and wealth upon the countryside. The city is a mere centre, factory and exchange. It cannot live upon itself. It handles everything but produces none of all that raw material from which everything that it handles is made. Especially is this true of the human stuff of civilisation. Men are only shaped and employed in cities--they are not produced there. The city uses and consumes the humanity that is made in the fields. And Whitman, who was drawn into the outskirts of the metropolis as a child, and as a young man entered into its heart, was born among wide prospects and shared the sane life of things that root in the earth. He was the better fitted to bear and to correlate all the fierce stimuli of metropolitan life. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Cf._ _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 736; Burroughs (_a_), 240; Bryce's _American Commonwealth_, i., 10, 11, etc.; _L. of G._, 436 n. [2] MSS. Harned. [3] _Cf._ _En. Brit. Suppt._ WALT WHITMAN CHAPTER I THE WHITMANS OF WEST HILLS The old writers[4] tell how Long Island was once the happy hunting ground of wolves and Indians, the playing place of deer and wild turkeys; and how the seals, the turtles, grampuses and pelicans loved its long, quiet beaches. Seals and whales are still occasional visitors, and its coasts are rich in lore of wrecks, of pirates and of buried treasure. A hundred years ago it could boast of hamlets only less remote from civilisation than are to-day the villages of that other "Long Island"--the group of the Outer Hebrides--which, for an equal distance, extends along the Scottish coast from Butt of Lewis to Barra Head. The desultory stage then occupied a week on the double journey between Brooklyn and Sag Harbour. Beyond the latter, Montauk Point thrusts its lighthouse some fifteen miles out into the Atlantic breakers. Here the last Indians of the island lingered on their reservation, and here the whalers watched for the spouting of their prey in the offing. A ridge of hills runs along the island near the northern shore, rising here and there into heights of three or four hundred feet which command the long gradual slope of woods and meadows to the south, with the distant sea beyond them; to the north, across the narrow Sound, rises the blue coast line of Connecticut. * * * * * It is on the slopes below the highest of these points of wide vision that the Whitman homestead lies, one of the pleasant farms of a land which has always been mainly agricultural. Large areas of the island are poor and barren, covered still with scrub and "kill-calf" or picturesque pine forest, as in the Indian days. But the land here is productive. From the wooded head of Jayne's Hill behind the farm, the township of Huntington stretches to the coast where it possesses a harbour. It was all purchased from the Indians in 1653, for six coats, six bottles, six hatchets, six shovels, ten knives, six fathom of wampum, thirty muxes, and thirty needles.[5] The Indians themselves do not seem to have caused much anxiety to the settlers; but a generation later, it is recorded that in a single year no fewer than fifteen of the wolves, which they had formerly kept half-tamed, were killed by the citizens of Huntington. The next troublers of the peace were the British troops. For here, a century later, during the last years of the War of Independence, Colonel Thompson of His Majesty's forces pulled down the Presbyterian Church, and with its timbers erected a fortress in the public burying-ground, his soldiers employing the gravestones for fire-places and ovens.[6] They seem to have occupied another meeting-house as a stable. Such are the everyday incidents of a military occupation; arising out of them, claims to the amount of £7,000 were preferred against the colonel by the township; but he withdrew to England, where, as Count Rumford, he afterwards became famous upon more peaceful fields. In Whitman's childhood, Huntington was, as it still remains, a quiet country town of one long straggling street. It counted about 5,000 inhabitants, many of them substantial folk, and in this was not far behind Brooklyn. In those days the whole island could not boast 60,000 people. But if they were few, they were stalwart. The old sea-going Paumànackers were a rough and hardy folk, and travellers remarked the frank friendliness of the island youth.[7] Inter-racial relations seem upon the whole to have been good; the Indians being treated with comparative justice, and the negro slaves well cared for. Between the Dutch and the English there was friction in the early years. Long Island, or Paumanok--to give it the most familiar of its several Indian names[8]--had been settled by both races; the Dutch commencing on the west, opposite to their fortress and trading station of New Amsterdam (afterwards New York), and the English, at about the same time, upon the east. They met near West Hills, and Whitman had the full benefit of his birth upon this border-line, Dutch blood and English being almost equally mingled in his veins. As to the Dutch of Long Island, they were marked here as elsewhere by sterling and stubborn qualities. There is a reserve in the Dutch nature which, while it tends to arouse suspicion in others, makes it the best of stocks upon which to graft a more emotional people. Slow, cautious, conservative, domestic, practical, they have formed a bed-rock of sound sense and phlegmatic temper, not for Long Island only, but for the whole of New York State, where, till the middle of the eighteenth century,[9] they were predominant. Perhaps no other foundation could have adequately supported the superstructure of fluctuating and emotional elements which has since been raised upon it. The Dutch homesteads of the island were famous for their simple, severe but solid comfort, their clean white sanded floors, their pewter and their punches. From such a home came Whitman's mother. She was a van Velsor of Cold Spring, which lies only two or three miles west of the Whitman farm. Her father, Major Cornelius van Velsor, was a typical, burly, jovial, red-faced Hollander. But Louisa, his daughter, was not wholly Dutch, for the major's wife was Naomi Williams, of a line of sailors, one of that great Welsh clan which counted Roger Williams among its first American representatives. Naomi was of Quaker stock.[10] * * * * * The Quakers appear early in the story of the island, whose settlement was taking place during the first years of their world-wide activity. Within a quarter of a century of the first purchase of land from the Indians, an English Quaker, Robert Hodgson,[11] was arrested in a Long Island orchard for the holding of a conventicle. He was carried to New Amsterdam, cruelly handled, and imprisoned there. In 1663, John Bowne,[12] an islander of some standing who had joined the Friends, was arrested and transported to Holland, there to undergo his trial for heresy. This was in the period when the district was under Dutch control. A year later this came to an end, and when, in 1672, George Fox preached under the oaks which stood opposite to Bowne's house[13] at Flushing, and again from the granite rock in the Oyster Bay cemetery, he seems to have been met by no opposition more serious than that which was offered by certain members of his own Society. We read[14] of the settlement of a group of substantial Quaker families near the village of Jericho, where they built themselves a place of worship in 1689; and here, a century later, lived Elias Hicks, perhaps the ablest character, as he was the most tragic figure, in the story of American Quakerism. He was a friend of Whitman's paternal grandfather, and thus from both parents the boy inherited something either of the blood or the tradition of that Society which, directly or indirectly, gave some of the noblest of its leaders to the nation. Such men, for instance, as William Penn, Thomas Paine, and, indirectly, Abraham Lincoln. * * * * * The earliest of the Whitmans of whom there appears to be any record is Abijah, apparently an English yeoman farmer in the days of Elizabeth.[15] His two sons sailed west in 1640 on the _True-Love_. One of these, Zechariah, became a minister in the town of Milford, Connecticut, and sometime before Charles II. was crowned in the old country,[16] Joseph, Zechariah's son, had crossed the Sound and settled in the neighbourhood of Huntington. Either he or his successor seems to have purchased the farm at West Hills, where Walt Whitman was afterwards born; and in 1675 "Whitman's hollow" is mentioned as a boundary of the township. The garrulous histories of Long Island have little to tell us of the family. One of Joseph's great-grandsons was killed in the battle of Brooklyn,[17] that first great fight between the forces of England and her rebellious colonies, when in 1776 Howe and his Hessians drove Putnam's recruits back upon the little town. Lieutenant Whitman was one of those who fell on that day before Washington could carry the remnant of his troops across the East River under the friendly shelter of the fog. Another great-grandson, Jesse, married the orphan niece of Major Brush, also a "dangerous rebel" who suffered in the British prison of "the Provost".[18] Brushes, Williamses and Whitmans all seem to have served in the armies of Independence, and one at least of their women would have cut a figure in the field. For Jesse's mother was large-built, dark-complexioned, and of such masculine manners and speech that she seemed to have been born to horses, oaths and tobacco. As a widow she readily ruled her slaves, surviving to a great age. In contrast with her, Jesse's wife, who also displayed remarkable ability, was a natural lady.[19] She had been a teacher, and was a woman of judgment. Perhaps Jesse himself was of gentler character than his terrible old mother; he had leanings towards Quakerism, and was a friend and admirer of Elias Hicks.[20] So too was Walter, the father of Walt, and one of Jesse's many sons. Born in 1789--the year in which the amended Constitution of the United States actually came into force--Walter grew up into a silent giant,[21] a serious solid man, reserved and slow of speech, kindly but shrewd and obstinate; capable too, when he was roused, of passion. He was a wood-cutter and carpenter, a builder of frame-houses and barns, solid as himself. He learnt his trade in New York, and afterwards wandered from place to place in its pursuit. For a time after his marriage in 1816, he appears to have lived at West Hills, probably farming a part, at least, of the lands of his fathers. Their old house had recently been replaced by another at a little distance. This is still standing, and here, three years later, his second son was born. The child was called after his father, but the name was promptly clipped, and to this day he remains "Walt." * * * * * [Illustration: LOUISA (VAN VELSOR) WHITMAN AT SIXTY] His mother,[22] Louisa van Velsor, was a well-made, handsome young woman, now in her twenty-fourth year. Fearless, practical and affectionate, hers was a strong and happy presence, magnetic with the potency of a profound nature, as large and attractive as it was without taint of selfishness. She seemed to unite in herself the gentle sweetness and restraint of her Quaker[23] mother, with the more heroic, full-blooded qualities of the old jolly major. She had a natural gift of description and was a graphic story-teller, but of book-learning she had next to none, and letter-writing was always difficult to her. She lacked little, however, of that higher education which comes of life-long true and fine relations with persons and with things. She had been an excellent horsewoman, and in later years her visitors were impressed by her vitality and reserve power. Her words fell with weight; she had a grave dignity; but withal her oval face, framed in its dark hair and snowy cap, was full of kindness; and about the corners of her mouth, and under her high-set brows, there always lurked a quaint and quiet humour. Little as we know of Louisa Whitman, we know enough to regard her as in every respect the equal in character of her son, whom she endowed with a natural happiness of heart. She became the mother of eight children, and lived to be nearly eighty years old, somewhat crippled by rheumatism, but industrious, charming and beloved to the last. * * * * * The first four years of his life, little Walt spent at West Hills. He is not the only worthy of the place, for here, half a century earlier, was born the Honourable Silas Wood,[24] who now and for ten years to come, represented the district in Congress. Already, doubtless, he was collecting materials for his _Sketch of the First Settlement of Long Island_, soon to appear.[25] But neither he nor his history greatly concerns us. Some two or three miles of sandy lane separate the old Whitman farm from the present railway station. On an autumn day one finds the way bordered by huckleberries and tall evening primroses, yellow toad-flax, blue chickory and corn-flowers, and sturdy forests of golden-rod among the briars and bushes. In the rough hedgerows are red sumachs, oaks, chestnuts and tall cedars, locusts and hickories; the gateways open on to broad fields full of picturesque cabbages, or the plumed regiments of the tall green Indian corn. It is a farming country, and a country rich in game--foxes and quails and partridges--and populous now with all kinds of chirping insects, with frogs and with mosquitoes. The wooded hills themselves are full of birds; beyond them there are vineyards. The road winds to the hills which give the place its name. To be precise, the Whitman farm, as my driver assured me, belongs to the hamlet of Millwell, but the title of West Hills is better known. The other name may, however, serve to recall those cold sweet springs which rise along the foot of the hills and keep the country green, and whose waters are highly esteemed in New York. The lane passes by the end of an old grey shingled farmhouse, boasting a new brick chimney. A delicate, ash-like locust tree stands by the big gate. Here, if you turn into the farm road under the boughs of the orchard, and then, through the wicket in the palings, cross the weedy garden square, you may enter under the timber-propped porch into the low-ceiled house where Walt was born. It is small but comfortable, of two stories and a half. The morning sun streams through the open door, blinks in at the sun-shutters, and filters through the mosquito netting. On the left of the hall[26] are a bedroom and parlour, and the dining-room is on the right, where a wing of one story has been added. Beyond this there is a lower extension; and beyond again, extend the chocolate-coloured barns and sheds and byres and stables of the farm. At one corner of the garden palings stands the little well-house with its four neat pillars, and a big bell swings in its forked post by the side gate to summon the men from the fields into which one sees the farm road wandering. The fields run up to the wood. Across the road from the garden is an apple orchard, where the pigs root, and the hens scratch and cluck and scuffle. It was planted by Walt's uncle Jesse. [Illustration: WHITMAN'S BIRTHPLACE AT WEST HILLS, FROM THE LANE, 1904] This is not the first ancestral cabin of the Whitmans; that lies at a little distance, nearer to the woods. It belongs now to another farm--the former holding having been divided--and the old cabin has become a waggon-shed. Both farms have long since passed out of the family; but near the first house, on a little woody knoll,[27] you may still see the picturesque group of unlettered stones which cluster on the Whitman burying hill. Neither Walt himself nor his father and mother are buried here among their relatives and ancestors; but the boy, so early pre-occupied with the mysteries of life, must have often stolen to this strange solitude to commune with its silence and to hear the wind among the branches, whispering of death. There is a big old oak near by, old perhaps as the first Whitman settlement, and a grove of beautiful black walnuts, and this, too, was one of the children's haunts. * * * * * Such was the old Whitman home and country, to which the boy's earliest memories belonged, where he spent some of the years and nearly all the holidays of his youth and early manhood, and in which his later thoughts found their natural background, his deepest consciousness its native soil. It is, as we have seen, no tame or narrow country, but wide and generous, and it is within sound of the sea. In the still night that succeeds a storm, you may hear the strange low murmur of the Atlantic surf beating upon the coast.[28] The boy was born in the hills, with that sea-murmur about him. FOOTNOTES: [4] See _inter alia_ Furman's _Antiquities of Long Island_; and his _Notes Relating to the Town of Brooklyn_; Silas Wood's _Sketch of First Settlement of L. I._; B. F. Thompson's _History of L. I._; N. S. Prime's _History of L. I._; _A Brief Description of New York_, by Daniel Denton (1690), ed. by G. Furman. [5] Wood, 73 n. [6] See Wood's, Thomson's, and Prime's _History of L. I._ [7] _Comp. Prose_, 7; _cf._ Furman's _Antiquities_, 249; Denton, 14. [8] Wood, 65; _cf._ _Comp. Prose_. [9] _In re_, 197. [10] See Appendix A. [11] S. M. Janney's _History of Friends_, vol. i. [12] Furman's _Antiq._, 97; Janney, vol. ii. [13] Furman's _Antiq._, 229. [14] Thompson, _op. cit._ [15] Symonds, xii.; _Savage Genealog. Dict._ [16] _Comp. Prose_, 3; Bucke, 13. [17] Camden Introd. [18] _Ibid._ [19] _Comp. Prose_, 6; Camden, xix. [20] _In re_, 202. [21] Burroughs, 79; Bucke, 15; _Whit. Fellowship_, '94 (Brinton and Traubel); _Wound Dresser_, 115, etc. [22] Bucke, 16; _Comp. Prose_, 274; Camden, xvii.; _In re_, 195, etc. [23] See Appendix A. [24] Wood, 5 (ed. by A. J. Spooner). [25] 1828. [26] _Whit. Fellowship_, _op. cit._ [27] _Comp. Prose_, 4. [28] _Ibid._, 6. CHAPTER II BOYHOOD IN BROOKLYN The hill-range which forms the back-bone of Long Island, and upon whose slopes Walt Whitman was born, terminates on the west in Brooklyn Heights, which overlook the busy bay and crowded city of New York. The heights recall Washington's masterly retreat; and the hint is enough to remind the shame-faced English visitor that the American is not without cause for a certain coolness in the very genuine affection which he manifests for the mother country. 'Seventy-six and the six years that followed, with all their legacy of bitter thoughts, was succeeded by 1814 and the burning of the Capitol. In this later war it was Virginia, not New England, that took the initiative; Massachusetts and Connecticut even opposed it, and it may have been none too popular in adjacent Long Island. It is doubtful whether Major van Velsor or his sons actually took the field against the British. But this second and last of the Anglo-American wars was still a bitter and vivid memory when in May, 1823,[29] towards Walt's fourth birthday, his father, the old major's son-in-law, left the farm, removing with his family to Front Street, Brooklyn, near the wharves and water-side. Though but a country town with great elm-trees still shading its main thoroughfare,[30] Brooklyn was growing, and its trade was brisk. It is likely that the carpenter, Whitman, framed more than one of the hundred and fifty houses which were added to it during the year. In the meantime, Walt took advantage of his improved situation to study men and manners in a sea-port town. He watched the ferry-boats that for the last ninety years had plied to and fro, binding Brooklyn to its big neighbour opposite upon Manhattan Island. For another sixty years their decks provided the only roadway across the East River, and they still go back and forward loaded heavily, in spite of the two huge but graceful bridges which now span the grey waters. The boy gazed wondering at the patient horse in the round house on deck, which, turning like a mule at a wheel-pump, provided the propelling power for the ferry-boat till Fulton replaced him by steam. The boy in frocks must have wondered, too, at the great shows and pageants of 1824 and 1825 which filled New York with holiday-making crowds. For in August of the former year, came the old hero of two Republics, General Lafayette, to be received with every demonstration of admiring gratitude by the people of America. Some scintilla of the glory of those days--pale reflection, as it was, of the far-away tragic radiance that lighted up the world at the awakening of Justice and of Liberty on both sides of the sea--fell upon the child. For when the old soldier visited Brooklyn to lay the corner-stone of a library there, he found the youngster in harm's way and lifted him, with a hearty kiss, on to a coign of vantage.[31] Thus, at six years old, Walt felt himself already famous. Again, a few months later, the city was all ablaze with lights and colour and congratulations on the opening of the Erie Canal, which connected New York with Ohio and promised to break the monopoly of Western commerce held hitherto by the queen city of the Mississippi. * * * * * By this time, the family counted four children; two brothers, Jesse and Walt, and two little girls, Mary and Hannah, all born within six years. Of the children, Walt and Hannah appear to have been special friends, but we have little record of this period. As they grew old enough, they attended the Brooklyn public school and went duly to Sunday school as well.[32] In the summers they spent many a long holiday in the fields and lanes about West Hills. A reminiscence of those times is enshrined in one of the best known of the _Leaves of Grass_,[33] written more than a quarter of a century later, a memory of the May days when the boy discovered a mocking-birds' nest containing four pale green eggs, among the briars by the beach, and watched over them there from day to day till presently the mother-bird disappeared; and then of those September nights when, escaping from his bed, he ran barefoot down on to the shore through the windy moonlight, flung himself upon the sand, and listened to the desolate singing of the widowed he-bird close beside the surf. There, in the night, with the sea and the wind, he lay utterly absorbed in the sweet, sad singing of that passion, some mystic response awakening in his soul; till in an ecstasy of tears which flooded his young cheeks, he felt, rather than understood, the world-meaning hidden in the thought of death.[34] This self-revealing reminiscence, even if it should prove to diverge from historic incident and to take some colour from later thought, illumines the obscurity which covers the inner life of his childhood. Elsewhere we can dimly see him as his mother's favourite; towards her he was always affectionate. But with his father he showed himself wayward, idle, self-willed and independent, altogether a difficult lad for that kindly but taciturn and determined man to manage. Walt retained these qualities, and they caused endless trouble to every ill-advised person who afterwards attempted the task in which worthy Walter Whitman failed. Among his young companions, though he was not exactly imperious, Walt seems to have played the part of a born leader; he was a clever boy; he always had ideas, and he always had a following. And as a rule he was delightful to be with, for he had an unflagging capacity for enjoyment and adventure. But there must have been times when he was moody and reserved. The passionate element in his nature which the song of the mocking-bird aroused belongs rather to night solitudes than to perpetual society and sunshine. As he grew older, and, perhaps, somewhat overgrew his physical strength,[35] he was often unhappy in himself. There was something tempestuous in him which no one understood, he himself least of any. Probably his wise and very human mother came nearest to understanding; and her heart was with him as he fought out his lonely battles with that strange enemy of Youth's peace, the soul. * * * * * Little brothers were added from time to time to the family group; Andrew, George and Jeff, and last of all poor under-witted Ted, born when Walt was a lad of sixteen, to be the life-long object of his mother's affectionate care. The names of Andrew and Jeff reflect their father's political sentiments; the latter recalling the founder of the old Jeffersonian Republicanism; and the former being called after Andrew Jackson, the popular and successful candidate for the presidency, in the year of the boy's birth, who afterwards reorganised his party, creating the "Democratic" machine to take the place of what had hitherto been the "Republican" caucus. Thus Republicanism changed its name, and the title did not reappear in party politics for a generation. As Walter Whitman built, mortgaged and eventually sold his frame-houses, the family would often move from one into another: we can trace at least five migrations[36] during the ten years that they remained in Brooklyn. He was a busy, but never a prosperous man; with his large family, the fluctuations of trade must have affected him seriously; and scattered through his son's story, there are fast-days and seasons of privation. Walter Whitman was, in short, a working man upon the borders of the middle-class: thrifty, shrewd, industrious, but dependent upon his earnings; mixing at times with people of good education, but of little himself; a master-workman, the son of a well-read and thoughtful mother, living in the free and natural social order which at that time prevailed in Brooklyn and New York. He was not outwardly religious; he was never a church-goer; even his wife, who called herself a Baptist, only went irregularly,[37] and then, with an easy tolerance, to various places of worship--the working mother of eight children has her hands full on Sundays. In the household there was no form of family prayers. But when old Elias Hicks[38] preached in the neighbourhood, they went to hear him, tending more towards a sort of liberal Quakerism than to anything else. [Illustration: WALTER WHITMAN, SENIOR] The Whitmans were not an irreligious family--Walt was, for instance, fairly well-grounded in the Scriptures--but they thought for themselves, they disliked anything that savoured of exclusion, and their religion consisted principally in right living and in kindliness. Their devotion to the old Quaker minister is interesting. Hicks was a remarkable man and a most powerful and moving preacher. He was large and liberal-minded; too liberal, it would seem, for some of his hearers. His utterances had however passed unchallenged till an evangelical movement, fostered by some English Friends among their American brethren, made further acquiescence seem impossible. That which complacently calls itself orthodoxy is naturally intolerant, it can, indeed, hardly even admit tolerance to a place among the virtues; and the evangelical propaganda must be very pure if it is to be unaccompanied by the spirit of exclusion. It may seem strange that such a spirit should enter into a Society which gathers its members under the name of "Friends," a name which seems to indicate some basis broader than the creeds, some spiritual unity which could dare to welcome the greatest diversity of view because it would cultivate mutual understanding. But the broader the basis and the more spiritual the bond of fellowship, the more disastrous is the advent of the spirit of schism masking itself under some title of expediency, and here this spirit had forced an entrance. Between Hicks--who himself appears to have been somewhat intolerant of opposition, a strong-willed man, frankly hostile to the evangelical dogmatics--and the narrower sort of evangelicals, relations became more and more strained, until, in 1828, the octogenarian minister was disowned by the official body of Quakers, after some painful scenes. He was however followed into his exile by a multitude of his hearers and others who foresaw and dreaded the crystallisation of Quakerism under some creed. Soon after the crisis, and only three months before his death, Elias Hicks preached in the ball-room of Morrison's Hotel on Brooklyn Heights. Among the mixed company who listened on that November evening to the old man's mystical and prophetic utterance, was the ten-year old boy, accompanying his parents. Hicks sprang from the peasant-farming class to which the Whitmans belonged; and, as a lad, had been intimate with Walt's great-grandfather, and with his son after him. It was then, with a sort of hereditary reverence, that the boy beheld that intense face, with its high-seamed forehead, the smooth hair parted in the middle and curling quaintly over the collar behind; the hawk nose, the high cheek bones, the repression of the mouth, and the curiously Indian aspect of the tall commanding figure, clad in the high vest and coat of Quaker cut. The scene was one he never forgot. The finely-fitted and fashionable place of dancing, the officers and gay ladies in that mixed and crowded assembly, the lights, the colours and all the associations, both of the faces and of the place, presenting so singular a contrast with the plain, ancient Friends seated upon the platform, their broad-brims on their heads, their eyes closed; with the silence, long continued and becoming oppressive; and most of all, with the tall, prophetic figure that rose at length to break it. With grave emphasis he pronounced his text: "What is the chief end of man?" and with fiery and eloquent eyes, in a strong, vibrating, and still musical voice, he commenced to deliver his soul-awakening message. The fire of his fervour kindled as he spoke of the purpose of human life; his broad-brim was dashed from his forehead on to one of the seats behind him. With the power of intense conviction his whole presence became an overwhelming persuasion, melting those who sat before him into tears and into one heart of wonder and humility under his high and simple words. The sermon itself has not come down to us. In his _Journal_,[39] Hicks has described the meeting as a "large and very favoured season." It seems to have been devoid of those painful incidents of opposition which saddened so many similar occasions during these last years of his ministry. The old man had been accused of Deism, as though he were a second Tom Paine and devotee of "Reason": in reality his message was somewhat conservative and essentially mystical. A hostile writer[40] asserts truly that the root of his heresy--if heresy we should call it--lay in his setting up of the Light Within as the primary rule of faith and practice. He always viewed the Bible writings as a secondary standard of truth or guide to action; as a book, though the best among books. And as a book, it was the "letter" only: the "spirit that giveth life" even to the letter, was in the hearts of men. In his attitude toward the idea of Christ, he distinguished, like many other mystics, between the figure of the historic Jesus of Nazareth and that indwelling Christ of universal mystical experience, wherewith according to his teaching, Jesus identified himself through the deepening of his human consciousness into that of Deity. In the mystical view, this God-consciousness is in some measure the common inheritance of all the saints, and underlies the everyday life of men. And to it, as a submerged but present element in the life of their hearers, Fox and the characteristic Quaker preachers have always directed their appeal, seeking to bring it up into consciousness. Once evoked and recognised, this divine element must direct and control all the faculties of the individual. It is the new humanity coming into the world. Hicks recognised in Jesus the most perfect of initiates into this new life; and as such, he accorded a special authority to the Gospel teachings, but demanded that they should be construed by the reader according to the Christ-spirit in his own heart. Properly understood, the doctrine of the Inner Light is not, as many have supposed it to be, the _reductio ad absurdum_ of individual eccentricity. On the contrary it tends to a transcendental unity; for the spirit whose irruption into the individual consciousness it seeks and supposes, is that spirit and light wherein all things are united and in harmony. In this sense, the Quaker preacher was appealing to the essence of all social consciousness--that realisation of an organic fellowship-in-communion which the sacraments of the churches are designed to cultivate. However dark his great subject may appear to the trained gaze of philosophy, the old man's words brought illumination to the little boy. The sense of human dignity was deepened in him; he breathed an air of solemnity and inspiration. Hicks died early in the new year, and with him there probably fell away the last strong link which held the Whitmans to Quakerism. But the seed of the ultimate Quaker faith--that faith by which alone a quaint little society rises out of a merely historic and sectarian interest to become a symbol of the eternal truths which underlie Society as a whole, a faith which declares of its own experience that Deity is immanent in the heart of Man--this seed of faith was sown in the lad's mind to become the central principle around which all his after thought revolved. * * * * * Although, as these incidents make evident, Walt's nature was strongly emotional, he never went through the process known as conversion. Religion came to him naturally. Responsive from his childhood to the emotional influence of that ultimate reality which we call "God" or "the spiritual," he can never have had the overwhelming sense of inward disease and degradation which conversion seems to presuppose. Well-born and surrounded by wholesome influences, it is probable that the higher elements of his nature were always dominant. The idea of abject unworthiness would hardly be suggested to his young mind. He was not ignorant of evil, insensible to temptation, or innocent of those struggles for self-mastery which increase with the years of youth. We have reason to believe that he was wilful and passionate; though he was too affectionate and too well-balanced to be ill-natured. Harmonious natures are not insensitive to their own discordant notes, and the harmony of Whitman held many discords in solution. He had then in his own experience, even as a child, material sufficient for a genuine sense of sin. But this sense, never, so far as we know, became acute enough to cause a crisis in his life, never created in his mind any feeling of an irreparable disaster, or any discord which he despaired of ultimately resolving. He had not been taught to regard God as a severe judge, of incredible blindness to the complexity of human nature;[41] and perhaps partly in consequence of this, he was ever a rebel against the Divine Justice. There is, it may be said, another kind of conversion, a turning of the eyes of the soul to discover the actual presence and power of God at hand: the sequel may show whether Whitman felt himself to be ignorant of this change. * * * * * Honest, upright and self-respecting, his parents never took an ascetic view of morality. They did not share in that puritanical hostility to art and to amusements which too long distorted the image of truth in the mirror of Quakerism. Even as a lad, Walt discovered those provinces of the world of romance which lie across the footlights, and in the dazzling pages of the _Arabian Nights_;[42] and, as a youth, he followed the wizard of Waverley through all his stories and poems, becoming, soon after Sir Walter's death, the happy possessor of Lockhart's complete edition, in a solid octavo volume of 1,000 pages. From this time forward he was an insatiable novel-reader, especially devoted to Fenimore Cooper, who was then delighting the younger generation with stories of pioneer life. It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that the boy's life at this time was all amusement. At eleven years of age he was in a lawyer's office,[43] proud in the possession of a desk and window-corner of his own. The master found him a bright boy and was kind to him, forwarding his limited education a step further. He also subscribed on his behalf to a circulating library which supplied the lad with a continuous series of tales. But for whatever reason--one fears it was not unconnected with those stories--Walt soon found himself running errands for another master. In his thirteenth year he was put to the printing trade, and ceased, at least for a while, to live under his father's roof.[44] The mother was out of health for a long time, during the period of the youngest son's birth and infancy, and when in 1832 the town was visited by a severe epidemic of cholera, the Whitman family removed into the country. But Walt stayed behind, boarding with the other apprentices of the Brooklyn postmaster and printer. Mr. Clements and his family were good to the lad while he was with them, and some effusions of his--for like other clever boys he was writing verses--appear to have found their way into the _Long Island Patriot_. From the _Patriot_ he soon removed to the _Star_, another local weekly, whose proprietor, Mr. Alden J. Spooner, was a principal figure in the Brooklyn of those days, and who long retained a vivid memory of a certain idle lad who worked in his shop. If he had been stricken with fever and ague, he used to say laughing, the boy would have been too lazy to shake.[45] At thirteen, Walt was too much interested in watching things to take kindly to work; most of his time was spent in learning what the world had to teach him; but in the end he learnt his trade as well. No place could have been better chosen to awake his interest in the many-sided life around him than a printing office, the centre of all the local news. Here he developed fast in every way, shot up long and stalky, scribbled for the press as well as learning his proper business, and became a very young man about town. Already, he felt the attraction of the great island city of Mannahatta, where, according to its earliest name, for ever "gaily dash the coming, going, hurrying sea-waves."[46] * * * * * New York had for a time been crippled by the collapse of American trade which followed the close of the Napoleonic wars in Europe,[47] but had recovered again, and was now growing rapidly--a city of perhaps 200,000 inhabitants, the English element predominating in its curiously mixed population. Though it was prosperous, it had its share of misfortune. Serious riots--racial, religious and political--were not infrequent. Epidemics of cholera swept through it; and in December, 1835, thirteen acres of its buildings were burnt out in a three days' conflagration. In spite of these disasters the town grew and extended, and means of locomotion multiplied. The stages were running on Broadway from Bowling Green to Bleecker Street, that is about half-way to Central Park, and the great thoroughfare was crowded with traffic, presenting a scene busier even and certainly more picturesque than that of to-day. Fashionable folk still lived "down town" below the present City Hall, in a district now given up as exclusively to offices and warehouses as is the City of London. Ladies took their children down to play upon the open space of the Battery, looking down the beautiful bay; and did their shopping at the various Broadway stores. Upon their door-steps, on either side of the street, citizens still sat out with their families through the summer evenings; they condescended to drink at the city pumps, and to buy hot-corn and ices from the wayside vendors, while the height of diversion was to run with the engine to some fire. In a word, New York life was still natural and democratic; palaces and slums were as unknown to the democracy of the metropolis as the sky-scrapers which render the approach to-day, in spite of its wooded hills, its ships and islands, among the least beautiful of the great sea-ports of the world. Of diversions the citizens had no lack, for the population was now sufficient to support a good native stage and to attract foreign artists. The year 1825 saw the advent of Italian opera at the Old Park theatre, which stood not far from the present Post Office; and Garcia and Malibran appeared in the "Barber of Seville".[48] It was here that Edwin Forrest was first seen by a New York audience; while fashionable English actors like Macready and the Kembles were among its visitors. But even more interest centred in the Bowery, the great popular theatre built to seat 3,000, where the elder Booth and Forrest played night after night before enthusiastic houses of young and middle-aged artisans and mechanics capable of thunderstorms of applause. There were other theatres, too, such as Niblo's and Richmond Hill, and to all of these young Whitman presently found his way armed with a pressman's pass. He must have spent many an evening in the city while he was still working for Mr. Spooner, and one unforgettable night, when he was fifteen or so, he was present at a great benefit in the Bowery when Booth played "Richard III."[49] Fifty years later, the scene of that evening remained as clear before his eyes as when he sat in the front of the pit, hanging on every word and gesture of that consummate actor. Inflated and stagy his manner might be; but he revealed to the lad, watching his studied abandonment to passion, a new world of expression. For the first time, he understood how far gestures, and a presence more powerful than words, can express the heights and depths of emotion. On that night in the Bowery, as upon those memorable nights on the Long Island Beach, and in Morrison's Ballroom, Walt came face to face with one of the supreme mysteries. On these occasions it had been the mystery of Death, which alone brings peace to the heart of passionate love, and the mystery of the Immanent Deity; now it was that other equal mystery, the mystery of Expression, the utterance of the soul in living words and acts and vivid presence. Love and Religion were already significant to him; he had now been shown the meaning of Art. * * * * * In the meantime he had begun, as boys will, to take an interest in politics. And before going further, we must glance at the outstanding events and tendencies of the period. Those two famous documents, _The Declaration of Independence_ and the _Constitution of the United States_, are associated respectively with Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton,[50] and represent two currents of political theory which beat against one another through subsequent years. Jefferson was saturated with the political idealism of the school of Rousseau, which sums itself up in the demand for individual liberty and rights, the declaration of individual independence, and freedom from interference. Hamilton on the other hand--who was by temper an aristocrat, and once at a New York dinner described the people as "a great beast,"[51]--was possessed by the idea of the Nation; he dwelt upon the duty of each member to the whole, promulgating doctrines of solidarity and unity in the cause of a common freedom. The two views are, of course, complementary; their antagonism, if it gave the victory to either, would be fatal to both; and their reconciliation is essential to the life of the Republic. But between their supporters, antagonism has naturally existed. The ideal of the Jeffersonian Republicans became associated with popular or "Democratic" sentiment,[52] standing as it did in opposition to the more conservative and constitutional position of the Hamiltonian Federalists. For a time the two parties dwelt together in such amity that the Federalists were actually merged with the Republicans; but the uncontested election of Monroe was a signal for the outbreak of the old contest. At the next election,[53] an Adams of Massachusetts was returned to the White House; and Jackson of Tennessee, one of the defeated candidates, built up a Democratic party of opposition whose organising centre was New York. On the other side, the followers of Adams and his secretary, Henry Clay, came eventually to be known as Whigs, "Republican" ceasing for a quarter of a century to be a party label. The titles of the parties serve approximately to indicate their different tendencies; though it must be remembered that the Whiggery of Adams was coloured by New England idealism, while the material interests of the South turned their energies to capture the naturally idealistic Democracy of Jackson. Eventually the division became almost a geographical one; though certain of her interests and perhaps her jealous antipathy to New England, gave New York's sympathies to the South. In 1832, when Walt was studying the world through the keen eyes of thirteen, and the windows of a Brooklyn printing shop, Democratic South Carolina was offering a stubborn resistance to the Federal tariff. Theoretically, and one may add ethically, any tariff was contrary to the Jeffersonian doctrine of universal freedom; and practically, it was disastrous to the special interests of the South. Carolina, under the poetic fire and genius of Calhoun, was the Southern champion against Northern, or, let us say, Federal aggression. She stood out for the rights of a minority so far as to propose secession. The South was aggrieved by the tariff, for, roughly speaking, its States were cotton plantations, whose interests lay in easy foreign exchange; they grew no corn, they made no machinery, they neither fed nor clothed themselves. The North on the other hand was industrial, anxious to guard its infant manufactures against the competition of Great Britain. The West was agricultural, demanding roads and public works which required the funds provided by a tariff. Now even these public works, these high roads and canals, were calculated directly to benefit the Northern manufacturers rather than the planters of the South whose highway to the West was the great river which had formerly given them all the Western trade to handle, and whose cheapest market for machinery and manufactured goods lay over the high sea whither its own staple was continually going. The tariff imposed for the benefit of the Northern section was, then, opposed by the South on grounds of industrial necessity as well as of political theory. And it may be noted the argument of the Southerner was equally the argument of many an artisan in the metropolis, who saw in free trade the sole guarantee of cheap living. * * * * * Thus there was a certain antagonism between the interests of the two geographical sections of the American nation; and this was emphasised by another cause for hostility. Every statesman knew that, although unacknowledged, it was really the question of slavery which was already dividing America into "North" and "South". And recognising it as beyond his powers of solution, he sought by maintaining a compromise to conceal it from the public mind. The "Sovereign States," momentarily united for defence against a domineering king, had at the same hour been swept by Tom Paine's and Jefferson's versions of the French Republicanism, and North and South alike adhered to a doctrinaire equality. The negro, they were willing to agree, should be voluntarily and gradually emancipated. But the hold of this policy on the South was soon afterwards undermined by the economic development which followed the introduction of the cotton-gin. The new and rapidly growing prosperity of the planter depended on the permanence of the "institution". And from this time forward the Southern policy becomes hard to distinguish from the vested interests of the slave-owner. The prosperity of the South seemed to depend upon the extension of the cotton industry: the cotton industry, again, upon slave-labour; thus it was argued, the institution of slavery was necessary to the prosperity of the South. The North, so the Southerner supposed, had its own interests to serve, and only regarded the South as a market. It was, he felt, jealous of the dominance of Southern statesmanship in the Union; and its desire to destroy "the institution" was denounced as the sectional jealousy of small-minded, shop-keeping bigots, of inferior antecedents. By the brute force of increasing numbers, by a vulgar love of trade, and the accidents of climate and of mineral resources, the North was beginning to establish its hold upon Congress, and arrogating to itself the Federal power. Hitherto, with the exception of the Adamses and of Jackson, every President had been of Virginian birth, bred, the Southerner declared, in the broader views of statesmanship. But the North was now predominant in the House of Representatives, and a balance could only be preserved in the Senate, where each State appoints two members, by constant watchfulness. Thus the rapid settling of the middle West by Northerners must be balanced by the annexation of new cotton-growing regions in the South-west. The famous Missouri Compromise of 1821 fixed the frontier between future free-soil and slave States at the line of the southern boundary of Missouri, while admitting that State itself into the Union as a member of the latter class. Hence it was only in the South-west that slavery could develop, and extension by conquest of cotton territory became henceforward an object of Southern politicians. While, then, it was the aggression of the South which finally drove the nation into civil war, the South for many years had viewed itself as an aggrieved partner in the inter-State compact, victimised in the interests of the majority. It felt, perhaps not unjustly, that it was being overridden, and that the Federation was becoming what Jefferson described as "a foreign yoke".[54] It became excessively sensitive to hostility: every rumour of the spread of Abolition sentiment in the North--a sentiment which favoured a new attitude towards the Federal power, and would give control to it over the domestic affairs of what hitherto had literally been "Sovereign States"--raised a storm of indignation and evoked new threats of secession. * * * * * But while slavery was already playing its part in American politics it had not yet become the main line of party cleavage. Although the party of free trade and of State rights was the party of the South, it was not yet the party of slavery. It was still throughout America the "people's party," and the slave power was the last to desire that it should cease to hold that title, especially in the North. For many a year to come there would be stout Abolitionists who could call themselves Democrats; while "dough-faces," or politicians who served the party of slavery, were always to be found amongst the Whigs. Even while party feeling ran high, the increase of the means of communication and the introduction of steam transport, both on land and water, favoured the larger Federal sentiment and quickened the national consciousness. Talk of secession had been heard in New England as well as in South Carolina; but actual secession became more difficult as the manufacturers of the East, the cotton-growers of the South, and the farmers of the Mississippi basin had tangible evidence of the many interests and privileges which were common to them, and beheld more and more clearly the future upon which America was entering. Year by year the idea of the Union gained in vitality; and in spite of party feeling, President Jackson had a nation behind him when he refused to yield to South Carolina's threat of secession. A compromise was effected, and Carolina submitted to the collection of duties under a somewhat mitigated tariff: the relation of the constituent States to the Federal power remaining still undefined, waiting, for a generation to come, upon the growth of national sentiment on the one hand, and the accumulation of resentment upon the other. FOOTNOTES: [29] _Comp. Prose_; Bucke; MSS. Harned. [30] Descriptions of Brooklyn at this time in _Mem. Hist. N.Y._; Roosevelt; Thompson, 179 n.; Furman's _Brooklyn_; Furman's _Antiq._, 390-97; Burroughs; _Comp. Prose_, 10 n., 510, etc. [31] _Comp. Prose_, 9 n. [32] _W. W.'s Diary in Canada_, 5. [33] _L. of G._, 196. [34] _Cf._ especially:-- Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night, By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me. [35] _Comp. Prose_, 10; Grace Gilchrist in _Temple Bar_, cxiii., 200. [36] MSS. Harned; _Comp. Prose_, 9. [37] _In re_, 38. [38] _Comp. Prose_, 9, 457-474; E. Hicks' _Journal_, under 1829; _The Friend_ (Philadelphia), _or Advocate of Truth_, i., 216 (1828). [39] 3rd ed., 438. [40] _The Beacon_, 145. [41] Bucke, 61. [42] _Comp. Prose_, 9; _L. of G._, 440. [43] Bucke; MSS. Harned. [44] _Comp. Prose_, 9, 10; MSS. Harned. [45] MSS. Johnston, paper by Chandos Fulton. [46] _L. of G._, 385; Kennedy, 64. [47] For New York see esp. _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, and Roosevelt. [48] _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iv., 171, 477. [49] _Comp. Prose_, 13, 14, 426-431. [50] _Camb. Mod. Hist._; Bryce, i., 1-31. [51] Goldwin Smith, _The United States_ (1893), 132. [52] _En. Brit. Suppt._, and G. Smith. [53] 1824-25. [54] _Cf._ _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 375, 376. CHAPTER III TEACHER AND JOURNALIST The spring of 1836 found Whitman in New York.[55] He was in his seventeenth year, had now learnt his trade, and had begun to write for the weekly papers; among others, contributing occasionally to the handsome and aristocratic pages of the _Mirror_, perhaps the best of its class.[56] He lived in that journalistic atmosphere which encourages expression and turns many a clever lad into a prig. Walt was self-sufficient, but there was nothing of the prig[57] in him. Limited as his schooling had been, he was naturally receptive and thoughtful, and his education went steadily forward; he made friends with older men, and with men of education from whom he learnt much. And now he became a teacher. He was a healthy boy, but had somewhat overgrown his strength, and perhaps this was among the causes of his leaving the city in May, and going up Long Island into the country. He joined his family for awhile, who were living at Norwich;[58] and subsequently settled for the winter as a country teacher at Babylon, boarding round, as was the custom, in the homes of his various pupils. * * * * * [Illustration: WHITMAN'S BIRTHPLACE FROM THE FARM-YARD, 1904] The little town of Babylon stands on the swampy inner shores of the Great South Bay, which is a spacious lagoon separated from the Atlantic by a narrow beach or line of sand hills. This outer beach bears here and there a ridge of pine forest or a lighthouse; but for the rest, it is abandoned to sea-birds and grass, to the winds and a few sand-flowers scattered among the wind markings which are stencilled in purple upon the sand in some delicate aerial deposit. Outside, even upon quiet days, the surf beats ponderously with ominous sound, the will and weight of the ocean in its swing. Within, across the wide unruffled waters of the lagoon, populous with sails, is the far-away fringe of the Babylon woods, and over them, pale and blue, the hill-range above Huntington. The bay itself is a glorious mirror for the over-glow of the sky at sunset or sunrise. Standing upon its inner rim at Babylon, as the colour begins to die into the dusk, you may see mysterious sails moving by hidden waterways among fields still merry with the chirrup of innumerable crickets; while beyond the rattle of cords and pulleys and the liquid murmur of the moving boats, beyond their lights that pierce the darkening water like jewelled spears, glimmers a star on Fire Island beach to greet the great liners as they pass by. In summer it is a field of many harvests; famous for its blue-fish, its clams and oysters; and neither the lads of Babylon nor their young master were behind-hand in spearing eels, catching crabs and gathering birds' eggs.[59] In a hard winter it is frozen over for months together. * * * * * For the greater part of the next four or five years, Walt remained in the country, moving about from place to place, and paying occasional visits to New York. He is said to have been a good and popular teacher;[60] and if his equipment was not great, it was sufficient; he liked boys and had the gift of imparting knowledge. He took his work seriously, was always master in the schoolroom, and knew whatever passed there. He followed methods of his own; breaking loose from text-books, to expound his knowledge and impart his own interests to his scholars. The element of personality told throughout his teaching; already it was notable as the power behind all that he did. An impression of himself, of his universal kindliness, of the sympathetic quality of his whole person, his voice and look and manner, and of a certain distinction and dignity inseparable from him, was retained by his pupils in after years. His favourite method of punishment is worth recording, as characteristic of his power and of his theory of pedagogics. An admirable story-teller, he would chastise any scholar who had behaved dishonourably, by describing his conduct to the whole school, and without the mention of a name, the guilty boy or girl was sufficiently self-condemned and punished in his own shame. Graver offences were made more public. In recess and away from school, Walt was a sheer boy, heartily joining in the most boisterous games and sharing every kind of recreation consistent with his kindly spirit. "Gunning" was never included. Among the scholars there must often have been those of his own years, and the fact that he could preserve his status as a teacher while living on terms of frank comradeship with his scholars, declares him born to the office. They were mixed schools which he taught, and towards the girls his attitude was one of honest equanimity. He was the same with them as with the boys, betraying neither a sentimental preference nor a masculine disdain. Perhaps American girls with their friendly ways and comparative lack of self-consciousness, call for less fortitude on the young teacher's part than some others; but Walt's own temperament stood him in good stead. It seems improbable that he was ever subject either to green-sickness or calf-love, and he was no sentimentalist.[61] Perhaps the idleness of which Mr. Spooner retained so lively a recollection, might have hindered his becoming an ideal dominie. His thoughts must sometimes have been far afield, his pupils and their tasks forgotten. It was not, as I have already suggested, that he was lazy; he worked hard and fast when his mind was upon his work, and best of all perhaps as a teacher in contact with human beings; but he was never so busy that he could refuse to pursue an idea, never so occupied that he could miss a new fact or emotion. Like other young teachers, Walt probably learnt at least as much as he taught, if not from his pupils, then from their parents. Boarding with them, he came to know and to love his own people, the peasant-yeomanry of the island.[62] He was a favourite with the friendly Long Island youths and girls of his own years, but his closer friendships seem to have been with older people: the well-balanced, but strongly marked fathers and mothers of families. He loved the country too, and all the occupations and amusements of the open-air, into which he had been initiated as a child. Thus he learned his island by heart, wandering over it on foot, by day and night; sailing its coasts and out into the waters beyond, in pilot and fishing boats, to taste for himself the brave sea life of those old salts, Williamses and Kossabones, his mother's ancestors. * * * * * In the spring of 1838, we find him again at Huntington; and here, in June,[63] he founded a weekly journal, the _Long Islander_, which is still published. Full of interests, self-sufficient and ready with his pen, and in close touch with his readers, he conducted the paper for a while with success. He was nineteen and an enthusiast; and he was both printer, editor and publisher. Like others of the time, his paper was probably a humble sheet of four small pages, and his task was not so heavy as it may sound. He thoroughly enjoyed the work, as well he might: the new responsibility and independence were admirably suited to his years and temper. He purchased a press and type, and his printing house was in the upper story of what is now a stable, which stood on the main street of the town. There he did most of the work himself, but I have talked with an old man who shared his task at times. And not his task only; for the printing room was, we may be sure, the scene of much beside labour. Walt loved companionship, and was an excellent story-teller; he loved games, especially whist, which he would play--and generally win--for a pumpkin pie. But when he worked, he "worked like the mischief," as the saying is;[64] and when he said so his companions knew that they must go. They must have recognised, if they thought about him at all in that way, that while he made no display of his knowledge he knew far more than they, and while he was an excellent comrade, it would not do to treat Walt with too great familiarity. As to his talk, it was clean and wholesome and self-respecting. He was too much of a man already to resort to the mannish tricks of many youths. He had, moreover, at this time, a tinge of Puritanism, which did him no harm: he neither smoked nor drank nor swore. He contemned practical jokes. Maybe there was less of Puritanism about him than of personal pride. He was himself from the beginning, belonged to no set, and went his own ways. He seemed to be everywhere and to observe everything without obtruding himself anywhere. And having purchased a horse, he carried the papers round to the doors of his readers in the surrounding townships. Often, afterwards, he recalled those long romantic drives along the glimmering roads, through the still fields and the dark oak woods under the half-luminous starry sky, broken by friendly faces and kind greetings. But before the year was out the appearance of the _Long Islander_ became more and more irregular, till the patience of its owner and subscribers was exhausted. In the spring it ceased for a time, and when it reappeared it was numbered as a fresh venture under new management. Walt had gone back to school teaching at Babylon.[65] He continued this work for two years more, wandering from place to place, now at the Jamaica Academy, now at Woodbury, now at Whitestone. He was, at this time, a keen debater and politician, an Abolitionist, a Washingtonian teetotaler, and ardently opposed to capital punishment. He took an active share in the stump oratory of 1840, when Van Buren of New York was for the second time the Democratic nominee for President. The fact, with the knowledge he always showed of the art of oratory, and the plans for lecturing which he afterwards drafted, seems to testify to a native capacity for public speaking, as well as a genuine and serious interest in the affairs of the nation. * * * * * Walt Whitman was becoming recognised as a young man of ability: in spite of his nonchalant and friendly unassuming ways, he had pride and ambition. He felt in himself that he was capable of great things, and that it was time to begin them. Not very clear as to what his proper work might be, he took the turning of his inclination, and early in the summer of 1841 entered the office of the _New World_, as a compositor,[66] to become for the next twenty years one of the fraternity of New York pressmen. His first success was achieved in the August number of the _Democratic Review_, one of the first American periodicals of the day, which counted among its contributors such writers as Bryant, Whittier, Hawthorne and Longfellow. His "Death in the Schoolroom,"[67] appearing over the initials of "W. W.," caught the public fancy, and was widely copied by the provincial press. It is the study of a gruesome incident in Long Island country life; by turns sentimental and violent in its horror, and evidently intended as an argument against school flogging. It has a sort of crude power and its subject matter would have appealed to Hawthorne. It is by no means discreditable; but to us it seems verbose, and it is clumsy in its exaggerated style. Lugare is shown to us at one moment standing as though transfixed by a basilisk--and at another, "every limb quivers like the tongue of a snake". Whatever its faults, they did not offend the taste of the hour: the Review welcomed his contributions, and some study from his pen appeared in its pages each alternate month throughout the next year, some being signed "Walter Whitman" in full. To the _New World_ he had meanwhile been contributing conventional and very mediocre verses in praise of Death and of compassionate Pity.[68] The remorse of a young murderer; an angel's compassionate excuses for evil-doers; the headstrong revolt of youth against parental injustice, and the ensuing tragic fate; the half-insane repulsion of a father toward his son, prompting him to send the lad to a madhouse and thus wrecking his mind; the refusal of a young poet to sell his genius; the pining of a lover after the death of his beloved; the lonely misery of a deaf and dumb girl, who has been seduced and deserted; the reform of a profligate by a child; the sobering of a drunkard at his little sister's death-bed; and an old widow's strewing of flowers on every grave because her husband's remains unknown: such are the subjects with which he dealt.[69] His wanderings in Long Island had supplied him with incidents upon which to exercise his imagination. Those which he selected have always some pathetic interest, while several have an obviously didactic purpose. Whitman's moral consciousness was still predominant: he was an advocate of "causes". But his morality sprang out of a real passion for humanity, which took the form of sentiment; a sentiment which was thoroughly genuine at bottom, but which in its expression at this time, became false and stilted enough to bear the reproach of sentimentality. In view of their author's subsequent optimism, it is interesting to note that all these studies are of figures or incidents, more or less tragic. Whitman was puzzling over the ultimate questions: the problem of evil, as seen in the sufferings inflicted by tyrannical power, and by callous or lustful selfishness, upon innocent victims; on the inscrutable tragedies of disease and insanity; and again, upon the power of innocence, of sorrow and of love to evoke the good which he saw everywhere latent in human nature, and which a blind and heavy-handed legalitarian justice would destroy with the evil inseparable from it. The more he thought over these problems, the more he recognised the futility of condemnation, and the effectiveness of understanding love. * * * * * The _New World_, upon which he was working, published the first American versions of some of the principal novels of the day; it reprinted several of the new poems of Tennyson from English sources and contained long notices of such works as Carlyle's _Heroes and Hero-worship_. In November, 1842, it issued as an extra number Dickens's _American Notes_, the sensation of the hour--the author having been _fêted_ at the Park Theatre in February--and announced Lytton Bulwer's _Last of the Barons_ to follow. On the 23rd of the month, in the same fashion, appeared _Franklin Evans, or The Inebriate_, a tale of the times, by Walter Whitman. It was advertised as a thrilling romance by "one of the best novelists in this country"; and the proprietors of the magazine expressed their hope that the well-told incidents of the plot and the excellence of the moral would commend the book to general circulation. Nor were they disappointed. It is said that twenty thousand copies were sold. The book, then, achieved a tolerable success, and its author profited to the extent of some forty pounds. Copies of _Franklin Evans_ are now excessively rare, and one may say with confidence they will remain so. For the tale will never be reprinted. It claims to be written for the people and not for the critics, and even the people are unlikely to read it a second time. It is an ill-told rambling story of a Long Island lad who, going to the metropolis and taking to drink, falls through various stages of respectability till he becomes a bar-tender. He marries and reforms, but presently gives way again to his habit; his wife then dies, and he falls lower. Eventually he is rescued from gaol, and signs the "old" pledge against ardent spirits. Then he goes to Virginia, where he succeeds in fuddling his wits with wine, and marries a handsome Creole slave. Forthwith he becomes entangled with a white woman who drives his wife to the verge of madness, until a tragic fate releases him from them both, and the story concludes with his signature to the pledge of total abstinence. The author recommends it to his readers, and breaks out into praises of the Washingtonian crusade, foretelling its imminent and complete victory over the "armies of drink". The pages are diversified by Indian and other narratives impertinent to the plot, and by invectives against the scornful attitude of the pious and respectable toward those who are struggling in the nets of vice. The whole book is loosely graphic and frankly didactic, its author declaring his wish to be improving, though he will keep the amusement of his readers in view. He opines that in this temperance story he has found a novel and a noble use for fiction, and if his first venture be successful, be assured it will be followed by a second. It is difficult to treat _Franklin Evans_ seriously. That Whitman was at the time a sincere advocate of the more extreme doctrines of temperance reform can hardly be doubted. But in after years--the whole incident having become a matter of amusement to its author, not wholly unmingled with irritation when, as sometimes, it was thrust upon him anew by reformers as ardent as he had once been--he would laugh and say with a droll deliberation that the story was written against time one hot autumn in a Broadway beer-cellar, his dull thoughts encouraged by bubbling libations. One suspects a humorous malice in the anecdote, belonging rather to his later than his earlier years. It may be noted, however, that while Whitman commended the pledge, he also commended a positive policy of "counter attraction" to all the young men who scanned his pages, to wit, an early marriage and a home, though he himself remained a bachelor. _Franklin Evans_ was honest enough. Young Whitman was serving the adorable Lady Temperance with fervour, if not with absolute consistency. He knew her cause to be a good one; but he found that, in this form, it was not quite his own, and he was too natural not to be inconsistent. He had not yet come to his own cause, nor for that matter to himself. And thus his essay became a _tour de force_; as he did not repeat it, we may suppose he was as little satisfied as those who now waste an hour upon this "thrilling romance". He was now in the full stream of journalistic activity. He wrote for the _New York Sun_, and appears for a few months to have acted as editor in succession of the _Aurora_ and the _Tattler_.[70] In 1843 he filled the same post on the _Statesman_, and the year after upon the _Democrat_; while contributing also to the _Columbian Magazine_, the _American Review_, and Poe's _Broadway Journal_.[71] Probably none of these contributions are worthy of recollection. Anomalous as it may sound, from twenty-three to thirty-five Whitman was better fitted for an editor than for an essayist. He was clever without being brilliant; he had capacity but no special and definite line of his own. His strength lay in his judgment; and upon this both friends and family learnt to rely. Several of the papers for which he wrote were party organs; it may have been that his political services in 1840 won him an introduction to the editors of the _Democratic Review_, and helped him on his further way. In any case, it is certain that he frequented the party's headquarters in the city. Tammany Hall was named after an Indian brave,[72] presumably to indicate the wholly indigenous character of its interests. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, it seems to have become the seat of a society of old Knickerbockers, gathered partly for mutual protection against certain groups of foreign immigrants who had shown a hostile disposition, and partly in opposition to the aristocratic Cincinnati Society presided over by Washington. During Jefferson's Presidency it became a political centre, and was identified with the Democratic party from the time of its re-organisation under Jackson in New York State. The Democrats failed to elect Van Buren, and were in opposition from 1840 to 1844. During the electoral struggle, a Baltimore journal had spoken slightingly of the humble character of Harrison, the Whig candidate:[73] better fitted, it pronounced, for a Western log-cabin and a small pension than for the White House. Harrison, like Andrew Jackson, was an old soldier: he had beaten the Indians long ago in a fight at Tippecanoe; and that, together with the simplicity of this Cincinnatus--the imaginary log-cabin, the coon-skins and hard cider, which made him the impersonation of the frontiersman to whom America owed so much, being all artfully exaggerated by party managers--caught the fancy of the whole country, which rang for months together with the refrain of "Tippecanoe and Tyler too". Harrison died immediately after his inauguration and Vice-president Tyler took his place. In Tammany's back parlour, Walt made the acquaintance of many notables, and not least, of an old Colonel Fellowes,[74] who loved to discuss Tom Paine over a social glass, and to scatter to the four winds the legends of inebriety which had gathered about his later years of poverty and neglect. But that Whitman was a violent partisan even at this time, seems to be disproved by the fact that in 1843 or 1844 he contributed political verses to Horace Greeley's _Tribune_, a paper which had grown out of the Whig election sheet.[75] And though, like his father, he adhered now and always to the general political tradition of the Democrats, was a free trader, jealous of the central power, and voted with his party till it split in 1848, he was as good an Abolitionist as Greeley himself. Indeed, both the _Tribune_ poems are inspired by the theme of slavery, and as if in witness to the reality of their inspiration, he breaks for the first time into the irregular metres he was to make his own.[76] A religious ardour breathes from these singular Scriptural utterances. The first, "Blood-money," is a homily on the text, "Guilty of the body and the blood of Christ". In the slave, whom he describes as "hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest," he sees the new incarnation of that "divine youth" whose body Iscariot sold and is still a-selling. It is an admirable piece of pathos, fresh, direct and unmannered, and by far the most individual and striking thing Whitman had done. And it was the only one which could be regarded as prophetic of the work that was to follow. Especially is this felt in such lines as The cycles, with their long shadows, have stalked silently forward, Since those ancient days; many a pouch enwrapping meanwhile Its fee, like that paid for the son of Mary. The piece was signed "Paumanok," as also was "A Dough-face Song," which appeared in the _Evening Post_. The second of the _Tribune_ poems, "Wounded in the House of Friends,"[77] is inferior to the first in poetic merit, though adopting a somewhat similar medium. It is a rather violent denunciation of those intimates of freedom whose allegiance to her can be bought off--"a dollar dearer to them than Christ's blessing"--elderly "dough-faces" whose hearts are in their purses. It was upon Northern traitors to the cause rather than upon the people of the South, that Whitman poured out his indignation: and this position he always maintained. The _Tribune_ itself was at the time an ardent supporter of Clay's candidature for the Presidency; but Clay subsequently trimmed upon this very question, and this action, by alienating the anti-slavery party in New York, resulted in his defeat at the polls. Whitman's political poems suggest already that loosening of ties which separated him a few years later from the main body of his party; but in 1844, following the lead of advanced Democrats like W. C. Bryant, he worked actively for Polk, the party candidate, who became President.[78] We cannot too often remind ourselves that the later Republicanism of the 'sixties was supported by men who had been Free-soil Democrats as well as by certain of their Whig opponents. Meanwhile, it was to the Radical wing of his party that young Whitman belonged. * * * * * Though engaged in the political struggle, he was by no means absorbed in it. His profession encouraged his natural interest in the affairs of his country, but not in the political affairs alone. He shared in the social functions of the city and its district. He frequented lectures and races, churches and auction rooms, weddings and clam-bakes.[79] He spent Saturday afternoons on the bare and then unfrequented sand ridge of Coney Island, bathing, reading and declaiming aloud, uninterrupted by a single one of the hundreds of thousands who now fill the island with their more artificial holiday making and their noisier laughter. In those days one did not require a costume to bathe on Coney Island beach. Nearer than Coney Island, Brooklyn Ferry was always one of his favourite haunts.[80] Walt had always loved the boat as well as the river; as a child he had seen the horses in the round-house give place to the engine with its high "smoke-stack"; the captain and the hands were old friends, and he never tired of watching the passengers. Who does not feel the delight of such a ferry, the swing of the boat, the windy gleam in the sky, the lights by day or night upon the water, the sense of weariless and unceasing movement as of life itself? New York, on its island, is richer than most cities in these river crossings, which take you at once out of the closeness and cares of the streets into the free broad roadways of wind and water, roadways which you can scarcely traverse without some enlargement and liberation of the city-pent soul in your breast. And in the city itself he had a thousand interests;[81] he went wherever people met together for any purpose; he had a critic's free pass to the theatres and was often at the opera and circus, he frequented the public libraries too, and the collections of antiquities; but most of all he loved to read in the open book of Broadway. Up and down that amazing torrent of humanity he would ride, breasting its flood, upon the box-seat of one of the stages, beside the driver. From time to time he would make himself useful by giving change to the fares within, when he was not already too fully occupied declaiming the great passages from his favourite poets into the ears of his friend. The fulness of human life surging through the artery of that great city exhilarated him like the west wind or the sound and presence of the sea. The sheer contact with the crowd excited him. And though he came to know New York in all its dark and sordid corners--and even an American city before the war was not without its shame--he won an inspiration from its multitudinous humanity distinct from any that the country-side could afford. Every year he grew more conscious of his membership in the living whole of human life; and the consciousness which brought despair to Carlyle, brought faith and glory to Whitman. He did not blink the ugly and sinister aspects of things, as many an optimist has done; he saw clearly the brothel, the prison, and the mortuary; his writing at this time, as we have seen, deals largely with the tragedies of life; but humanity fascinated him--not an abstract or ideal humanity, but the concrete actual humanity of New York. For its own sake he loved it, body and soul, as a man should. It was not philanthropy, it was the wholesome, native love of a man for his own flesh and blood, for the incarnation of the Other in the same substance as the Self. Very little passed in the city without his knowledge. He was in the crowd that welcomed Dickens in 1842;[82] and was doubtless among the thousands who celebrated the introduction of the first water from the Croton supply into New York, and hailed the pioneer locomotive arriving over the new track from Buffalo. Among the public figures of the day, he became familiar with the faces of great politicians like Webster and Clay; among writers, he saw Fitz-Green Halleck and Fenimore Cooper,[83] and made the acquaintance of Poe who was struggling against poverty in New York, and who became at this time--1845--suddenly famous through the publication of "The Raven";[84] and won the more lasting friendship of Bryant, who was at that time the preeminent American poet, and held besides the editorship of the _Evening Post_, to which Walt had been a contributor.[85] * * * * * In February, 1846, Whitman was appointed editor of the _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_,[86] a democratic journal of a single sheet. The office was close to the Ferry, and he seems at this time to have lived with his family on Myrtle Avenue, near Fort Greene, rather more than a mile away. His editorials boasted no literary distinction, and were even at times of doubtful grammar; but they were direct and vigorous, and discussed all the topics of the hour.[87] When a New York Episcopal Church was consecrated with much ceremony and display, he would denounce the self-complacent attitude of the Churches; every instance of lynching or of capital punishment would call forth his protest; he was faithful in his support of the rights of domestic animals; he approved of dancing within reasonable hours, and he advocated art in the homes of the people. Largely owing to his persistent advocacy the old battle-ground of Fort Greene was secured to Brooklyn as a park. In dealing with the immediately critical question of relations with Mexico, while he anticipated extension of territory without dismay, he uttered his warning against the temper which prompts a nation to aggressive acts. "We fear", he said,[88] "our unmatched strength may make us insolent. We fear that we shall be too willing (holding the game in our own hands) to revenge our injuries by war--the greatest curse that can befall a people, and the bitterest obstacle to the progress of all those high and true reforms that make the glory of this age above the darkness of the ages past and gone." The admission of Texas into the Union, in 1845, was soon followed by a war with Mexico, which eventually completed the filibustering work of Houston by the annexation of New Mexico and California. This territorial expansion was pushed forward, as we noted before, by Polk and the Democrats in the interests of the South;[89] but the fact that it was Wilmot, a Free-soil Democrat, who introduced the celebrated proviso to an appropriation of money for the war, proposing to exclude slavery from all territory which might be acquired from Mexico, reminds us of the division within the party which resulted in a split two years later. The country at this time was in a condition of feverish irritation; and the war spirit was only too easily aroused. In 1847, it threatened to burst into flame over a territorial dispute with Great Britain. America claimed the latitude of 54.40 as the northern boundary of Oregon, and for awhile, under the jingo President, the country rang with the insane alliterative cry of "fifty-four forty or fight".[90] A spirited foreign policy is the universal panacea of the charlatan; it is his receipt for every internal disorder, and it was continually being prescribed to America during the next fifteen years. This was indeed the charlatan's hour, when the official policy of the dominant Democratic party oscillated between jingoism and what was afterwards known throughout America as "squatter sovereignty". It was the repudiation of the Wilmot proviso, and the adoption of the new doctrine which Douglas afterwards made his own, that drove Whitman into revolt. He was comfortably seated in his editorial chair, where he might have remained for years had his Radical convictions permitted. Though the owners of the _Eagle_ were orthodox party men, the editor's anti-slavery attitude was not concealed,[91] and indeed could not be. Their criticism of his editorials caused him immediately to throw up his post. He would not compromise on the question, and he would not brook interference. It was January, 1848, when he left the _Eagle_,[92] and a few weeks later he was making his way south to New Orleans. * * * * * Whitman had joined the "Barnburners" or Van Buren men of New York State, who now became Free-soil Democrats, making the Wilmot proviso their platform,[93] in opposition to the "Hunkers," who denounced it. As to the Whigs, they burked the whole matter, and contrived in their nominating convention to silence the question by shouting. The Democratic party found its real platform in the nostrum of "squatter sovereignty," the specious doctrine that in each new State the citizens should themselves decide upon their attitude towards slavery, deciding for or against it when drawing up a Constitution. To this, Lewis Cass, its candidate for the Presidency, subscribed. But the "Barnburners" put forward Van Buren, a former President, and a Democrat of the school of Jefferson and Jackson, who was also supported by the "anti-slavery" party. His policy was to confine slavery within its actual limits: "no more Slave states, no more slave territory". As a consequence of the Democratic split in the Empire State, the thirty-six electoral votes of New York were given to the Whig candidate, General Taylor, the Mexican conqueror, and he became the next President. A whole-hearted Free-soil Democrat, Whitman's position as editor of an orthodox party journal had naturally become untenable. FOOTNOTES: [55] MSS. Harned. [56] _Comp. Prose_, 187. [57] _Whit. Fellowship_, '94 (Traubel). [58] MSS. Harned. [59] _Comp. Prose_, 7-9. [60] _Whit. Fellowship_, '94 (C. A. Roe); Johnston, 114. [61] _Whit. Fellowship_ (Roe); _In re_, 34. [62] _Comp. Prose_, 10, 11, 521. [63] _Ib._, 10, 11, 188; Thomson, 476; Burroughs (_a_), 28. [64] _Whit. Fellowship_, '94 (Traubel). [65] MSS. Harned. [66] _Ibid._ [67] _Comp. Prose_, 336. [68] _New World_, Nov. 20, Dec. 18, 1841. [69] _Comp. Prose_, 340-370; _Democratic Review_, etc. [70] MSS. Harned; _Comp. Prose_, 188. [71] _Comp. Prose_, 12, 196. [72] _New York Mirror_ (1833), 87. _Cf._ Larned. [73] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 389. [74] _Comp. Prose_, 90. [75] _Mem. Hist._, iv., 157. [76] _Comp. Prose_, 372. [77] _Ib._, 273. [78] Bucke, 23. [79] _Ib._, 21. [80] _Comp. Prose_, 11. [81] _Comp. Prose_, 11-14, 426, 519. [82] _Comp. Prose_, 11. [83] _Ib._, 11, 12. [84] _Alibone's Dict._ [85] _Comp. Prose_, 196. [86] MSS. Harned. [87] _Atlantic Monthly_, xcii., 679. [88] _Atlantic Monthly_, xcii., 686. [89] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 397, 398. [90] _Ib._, 399. [91] _Atlantic Monthly_, xcii., 683, 684. [92] MSS. Harned. [93] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 399; _Comp. Prose_, 188. CHAPTER IV ROMANCE (1848) Whitman was nearly twenty-nine, and had not, so far as I can discover, wandered beyond the limits of his own State,[94] nor had he experienced, to our knowledge, any serious affair of the heart. The only trace of strong personal emotion in his writing hitherto is that which we found in the _Tribune_ poems, dictated by the passion of human solidarity. "Blood Money" is probably the only thing which he had yet produced from the deeper regions of consciousness; it is the only piece of real self-revelation which he had yet confided to the world. Now we come suddenly upon a time of wandering, over which he himself has drawn a veil--a veil which covers, we cannot for a moment doubt, one of the most important incidents of his life. But it is a veil which we are unable to raise.[95] * * * * * Walking in the lobby of the old Broadway Theatre, between the acts, one February night,[96] Whitman was introduced to a Southern gentleman. A quarter of an hour later he had engaged to go South, to assist in starting the _Crescent_, a daily paper in New Orleans. On the eleventh of the month he set out.[97] The South was as unknown to him as it still remains to the majority of Northerners; and the South must have been as strange and fascinating to the son of Mannahatta as are the shores of the Mediterranean to a Londoner. An air of romance seems to breathe from his every reference to this period, and it may well be that the passionate attraction which afterwards drew his memory to the "magnet-south" had some personal incarnation. Bidding a hasty good-bye to his family and friends, he left New York and made his way[98] through populous Pennsylvania, and over the Alleghanies to Wheeling on the Ohio river, where he found a small steamer, and in it descended leisurely, with many stops by the way, through the recently settled lands of Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, and Illinois, into the Mississippi, the Father of Waters, thenceforward pursuing his voyage for more than a thousand miles along that greatest of American highways, to the borders of the Mexican Gulf. For the first time his eyes saw how vast was his country: he realised the South, and he understood the significance of the political struggle for the control of the new West. He was almost afraid as he journeyed, not so much at the immensity of the prospect, as because he felt himself upon the verge of the Unknown and its mysteries: and his feelings found utterance in some verses written on the voyage and subsequently published--surely, with a smile at the critics--in his _Collected Prose_. As they illustrate his mood at the time, and afford the best example of his skill as a maker of conventional verses, I may quote from them here. After describing the fantastic forms which line the margins of the forest-bordered river, he proceeds:-- Tide of youth, thus thickly planted, While in the eddies onward you swim, Thus on the shore stands a phantom army, Lining for ever the channel's rim. Steady, helmsman! you guide the immortal; Many a wreck is beneath you piled, Many a brave yet unwary sailor Over these waters has been beguiled. Nor is it the storm or the scowling midnight, Gold, or sickness, or fire's dismay-- Nor is it the reef or treacherous quicksand Will peril you most on your twisted way. But when there comes a voluptuous languor, Soft the sunshine, silent the air, Bewitching your craft with safety and sweetness, Then, young pilot of life, beware.[99] The lines are not of the best, but they are suggestive. They seem to express the lurking fear of one hardily bred in the North, when first he feels upon his face the breath of the seductive South. His strenuous self-sufficiency is imperilled. A strange world of sensations surrounds him, awakening in himself a world of emotions as strange. It is suggested to him that he is not quite the man that he supposed, that there is another side to his character, and he resents the suggestion. For who will willingly begin over again the task of self-discovery? The conservative organising active Ego fears the awakening of the adventurous, receptive Ego. I think Whitman was startled as he realised how little as yet he understood himself, or was willing to accept his whole soul if it should rise up and face him. * * * * * [Illustration: NEW ORLEANS ABOUT THE TIME OF WHITMAN'S VISIT, FROM A PRINT] The New Orleans of '48 must have been the most romantic and perhaps the most prosperous city in the Union. It was the centre of Western commerce, as well as of Mexican filibustering: its great hotels, the St. Charles and the St. Louis, were the rendezvous of planters and merchants, politicians and adventurers, and of the proudest aristocracy in the States.[100] It was a gay city, with its Creole women and Spanish men, its dancing and its play, its masks and dominoes, its duels and carnivals; gay as only an old city can be gay, with the contrast between age and youth. About the Catholic cathedral was a mass of irregular red-tiled roofs and a net-work of shady alleys, on to which opened great galleries and courtyards full of vines. Scent of roses and the caressing sound of Creole singing stole upon the languorous breaths of the warm humid air, breaths which lazily stirred the golden-rod that overgrew the dormer windows, the old venetian blinds, the geraniums and the clothes hanging in the sun. Along the alleys went the priests in their black skirts. Through the doorways one saw red floors sanded and clean, and quaint carved furniture, heirlooms of generations; or caught a glimpse of some old garden with its fountains and lilies, its violets and jonquils, myrtle and jessamine. Everywhere flowers and singing birds, and the soft quaint Creole phrases falling with the charm that only Southern lips confer. Such was the old French quarter. Along the river-side was another; the lawless world of Mississippi flat-boatmen, a vagrant population drawn from many States, who with the soldiers discharged after the Mexican war frequented the low saloons and gaming-houses; passionate men, capable of any crime or adventure. Again, there were the Bohemians of the city, the artists, journalists and actors of a centre of fashion. Opera had found its first American home at New Orleans, and was presented at the famous Orleans Theatre four times a week. Whitman, the opera-goer, must often have been there. Perhaps he met among the Bohemians a juvenile member of their group, Dolores Adios Fuertes, a young dancer, to be known hereafter in London and in Paris as Adah Isaacs Menken, actress, and authoress of a pathetic volume of irregular metres, who now lies buried at Mont Parnasse. * * * * * During the three months of his stay, Whitman saw New Orleans thoroughly.[101] Often on Sunday mornings he would go to the cathedral; he idled much in the old French quarters, and sauntered and loafed along the levees, making acquaintances and friends among the boatmen and stevedores. He frequented the huge bar-rooms of the two hotels, where most of the business of the city seems at that time to have been transacted; but temperate and simple himself, he preferred to their liqueurs and dainties his morning coffee and biscuit at the stall of a stout mulatto woman, who stood with her shining copper kettle in the French market. There all the races of the world seemed to be gathered to idle or to bargain. He went also to the theatres, where he talked with the soldiers back from the Mexican war; among the rest, with General Taylor, soon to be President, a jovial, genial, laughter-loving old man, one of the plainest who ever went to the White House, where he died soon after his inauguration in 1849. Whitman appears to have been thoroughly enjoying himself, when suddenly about the end of May, he made up his mind to return to the North. His brother Jeff, a lad of fifteen, who had accompanied him and was working in the printing office, was homesick and out of health; the climate with its malarial tendencies did not suit him. Walt was always devoted to this young brother, who had been his companion on many a Long Island holiday, tramping or sailing,[102] and becoming alarmed at his condition, hurried him away. There were other reasons which, he says, made him wish to leave the city, but as he does not specify[103] them himself, we can only follow the indications in guessing at their nature. We know they were not connected with his work: it is probable that they were private and personal.[104] * * * * * When asked in later years why he had never married, he would say either that it was impossible to give a satisfactory explanation,[105] although such an explanation might perhaps exist, or he would declare that, with an instinct for self-preservation, he had always avoided or escaped from entanglements which threatened his freedom.[106] These replies he made with an obvious reticence and reservation. He who professed to make so clean a breast of his own shortcomings, and who in his last years required that records of himself should err in being somewhat over personal, deliberately concealed certain important incidents in his life. There can, I think, be only one interpretation of this singular state of affairs: that these incidents concerned others equally with himself, and that those others were unwilling to have them published. If they had been his, and his alone, he would have communicated them, but they were not. Whatever Whitman's duty in this matter, it behoves his biographer to present as full a picture as possible of his life, and to let no fact go by without notice; while the knowledge that Whitman himself could not disclose the whole truth, should only make us the more careful in our reading of the scanty facts which are known. It seems that about this time Walt formed an intimate relationship with some woman of higher social rank than his own--a lady of the South where social rank is of the first consideration--that she became the mother of his child, perhaps, in after years, of his children; and that he was prevented by some obstacle, presumably of family prejudice, from marriage or the acknowledgment of his paternity. The main facts can now hardly be disputed. Whitman put some of them on record in a letter to Addington Symonds during the last year of his life, designing to leave a fuller statement in the care of his executors. But this, through access of weakness, was never accomplished. Remarks which he let fall from time to time in private conversation seem to admit of no other interpretation than that I have put upon them. In one of his poems[107] he vividly describes how once in a populous city he chanced to meet with a woman who cast her love upon him, and how they remained together till at last he tore himself away, to remember nothing of that city save her and her love. In spite of Whitman's express desire that the poem should be regarded merely in its universal application--a desire which in itself seems to betoken a consciousness of self-betrayal--we cannot but recognise its autobiographical suggestion. And in the stress laid upon the part of the woman, we may see a cause for Whitman's reticence. If it was she who had pressed the relationship, it behoved him the more, for her sake, to keep silence, and to leave the determination of the relationship to her. But perhaps the most important evidence upon this obscure passage of his story is to be found in the psychological development which we can, as I believe, trace in his character. It was but a short time after his Southern visit,[108] perhaps in the same year, that he began to sketch out some of the poems which afterwards took the form familiar to us in _Leaves of Grass_. Now these differ from his earlier writings in many ways, but fundamentally in their subjectivity. In them he sets out to put himself on record in a way he heretofore had not attempted, and this enterprise must, I take it, have had its cause in some quickening of emotional self-consciousness. That process may well have culminated a few years later in what has been described as "cosmic consciousness"; but before that culmination, Whitman's experience must have contained elements which do not seem to have been present in the Whitman of _Franklin Evans_, or of the verses written upon the Mississippi. These elements, I believe, he acquired or began to acquire in the South. Hitherto we have seen him as a young man of vigorous independence, eagerly observant of life, and delighting in his contact with it. Henceforward he enters into it in a new sense; some barrier has been broken down; he begins to identify himself with it. Strong before in his self-control, he is stronger still now that he has won the power of self-abandonment. Unconsciously he had always been holding himself back; at last he has let himself go. And to let oneself go is to discover oneself. Some men can never face that discovery; they are not ready for emancipation. Whitman was. But who emancipated him? May we not suppose it was a passionate and noble woman who opened the gates for him and showed him himself in the divine mirror of her love? Had Whitman been an egoist such a vision would have enslaved and not liberated his soul. But if this woman loved him to the uttermost, why did he leave her? Why did he allow the foulest of reproaches to blacken that whitest of all reputations, a Southern lady's virtue? Nowhere in the world could such a reproach have seemed more vile, more cruel. The only answer we can make is that it was, in some almost inexplicable way, her choice. And that somehow, perhaps by a fictitious marriage, this reproach was doubtless avoided; the woman's family being readier to invent some subterfuge than to take a Northern journalist and artisan into their sacred circle. There is a poem which remained till recently in manuscript--a poem[109] of bitter sarcasm and marked power of expression--in which Whitman holds an aristocrat up to scorn. He never printed it himself, and this fact adds to the possibility that it may gain some of its force from personal suffering. Whether Whitman met his lady again we do not know. There is no record of a second visit to the South, though there is no evidence to disprove such a visit; rather indeed, to the contrary, for Whitman speaks in one of his letters[110] of "times South" as periods in which his life lay open to criticism; and refers, elsewhere,[111] to his having lived a good deal in the Southern States. As he was in no position to reply to criticism upon this matter, he was careful not to arouse it. * * * * * Whatever lay behind his departure, Whitman left New Orleans on the 25th of May, 1848,[112] ascending the Mississippi in a river steamer between the monotonous flat banks. Jeff picked up at once.[113] They spent a few hours in St. Louis where the westward flowing streams of northern and of southern pioneers met and mingled.[114] Changing boats, and passing the mouth of the great yellow Missouri, they made their way up the Illinois river for some two hundred miles, arriving after forty-eight hours at La Salle, whence a canal boat carried them to Chicago. Through the rich agricultural lands of Illinois they passed at a speed not exceeding three miles an hour. They spent a day in the still very young metropolis of the North-west, travelling thence by way of the Great Lakes to Buffalo. The voyage occupied five glorious summer days. Whitman went on shore at every stopping place intensely interested in everything. He was so delighted with the State of Wisconsin, which was about this time admitted to the Union, that he dreamed of settling in one of its new clean townships; and he carried away with him definite impressions of the towns of Milwaukee, Mackinaw, Detroit, Windsor, Cleveland, and Buffalo. A week from La Salle he passed under the Falls of Niagara and saw the whirlpool; but coming at the end of so much wonder, the stupendous spectacle does not seem to have greatly impressed him. Twenty-four hours of continuous travel through the thickly settled country districts of New York State brought him to the old Dutch capital of Albany, whence descending the beautiful Hudson with its wooded high-walled mountain banks, he reached New York on the evening of 15th June. He had been away from home four months, had travelled as many thousand miles, and had made acquaintance with seventeen of the States of the Union. In New Orleans he had learnt the meaning of the South, from St. Louis he had looked into the new West, while in Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, and the coasts of Ontario, he had seen the rich corn-lands of the North-west under their first tillage. And he had felt the meaning of the Mississippi, that great river whose tributaries, from the Alleghanies to the Rockies, drain and fertilise half the arable land of America. Besides the discovery in himself of a new world, a new hemisphere, Whitman came home filled with the sense of his American citizenship. A patriot from his childhood, from henceforward "these States," as he loved to call them, became the object of his passionate devotion. Not in their individuality alone--though this he recognised more than ever, regarding each in some degree as a nation--but above all in their Union. Thus he came back to Brooklyn to take up his old vocation and his old acquaintances with a sense of enlargement: latent powers had been awakened within him and a new ideal which may once have been a childish dream, began to dominate his manhood, hitherto lacking in a clear purpose. In the old days,[115] when his mother read the Bible to him and taught him something of its meaning, it had seemed to the child that the highest of all the achievements of manhood must be to make such another book as that. It had been written thousands of years ago by inspired men, to be completed some day by others as truly inspired as they. For he believed in the Quaker doctrine of the continuity of revelation, which is not strange to a child. Such fancies in a child's mind are apt to grow into a purpose: to dream, is to dream of something one will presently do. If the dream is wholly beyond the range of possible accomplishment, a cloud of disillusionment descending on the face of youth will blot it out; but if it is not, it may become an ideal which will shape the whole of manhood as sternly as any fate. To be an American prophet-poet, to make the American people a book which should be like the Bible in spiritual appeal and moral fervour, but a book of the New World and of the new spirit--such seems to have been the first and the last of Whitman's day-dreams. It must have come to him as a vague longing when he was still very young, and he was never so old as to lose it. Now on his return from this long journey, his mind full of America and full of profound and mystical thoughts concerning love and the soul and the soul's relation to the world, the dream began to struggle in him for utterance. It was seven years before it found itself a body of words, but henceforward it took possession of his life. FOOTNOTES: [94] Descriptions of Virginia in _Franklin Evans_ being probably derived from hearsay. [95] Camden, xxxv. [96] _Comp. Prose_, 14, 188, 522. [97] MSS. Harned. [98] Burroughs, 82. [99] _Comp. Prose_, 374; see also Rejected Passages in Camden. [100] _Historical Sketch Book and Guide to N. O._, 1885. [101] _Comp. Prose_, 251, 439-443; Bucke, 24. [102] _Comp. Prose_, 514. [103] _Ib._, 441. [104] See Appendix B. [105] _In re_, 323. [106] Bucke, 60. [107] _L. of G._, 94. [108] _In re_, 116; _L. of G._, 434; Bucke, 135; _cf. infra_, 89, 103. [109] Camden, iii., 261, 262. [110] Letter to A. J. Symonds, see _infra_, Appendix B. [111] _Comp. Prose_, 522. [112] Camden, xxxiv. [113] _Comp. Prose_, 441-43. [114] _Cf._ Winston Churchill, _The Crisis_. [115] _Cf._ _L. of G._, 434. CHAPTER V ILLUMINATION Whitman returned to Brooklyn about the time that Free-soil Democrats and Liberty men were uniting at Buffalo on the ticket and platform which I have already described. He established a small book-store and printing office on Myrtle Avenue,[116] and commenced the publication of the _Freeman_, a weekly first, but afterwards a daily paper. The venture continued for about a year but eventually proved unsuccessful. Its failure may have been due to the comparatively small circle of readers which the Free-soil party in Brooklyn could provide, or it may have resulted from the same lack of regularity which killed the _Long Islander_. It is not improbable that Whitman wearied of the continuous mechanical production demanded by the ownership and management of a daily paper. He was not methodical; and his mind was struggling with ideas which made him restless in harness, ideas so large and fundamental that much of the merely ephemeral detail of journalism must have become irritating and irksome. When the _Freeman_ collapsed it was a bondage broken, and its owner and editor became a freeman himself. His father was some sixty years of age and failing in health, and for lack of anything more suited to his state of mind, Walt joined him, taking up his business and becoming a master carpenter, building small frame-houses in Brooklyn and selling them upon completion as his father had been doing these thirty years. Brooklyn was growing fast, and the Whitmans prospered. Walt lived at home and spent little; he was soon on the way to become rich. What was more important, he was now the master of his own time; and carpentering left his mind free to work entirely in its own way. He was no longer being "pushed for copy". When the mood was urgent he could idle; that is to say, he could give himself up to his thoughts. He could dream, but the saw in his hand and the crisp timber kept him close to reality. He was out of doors, too, and among things rather than thoughts, so that his ideas were but rarely bookish. * * * * * Yet though he was the opposite of bookish he was not ill-read. He always carried a volume or part of a magazine in his knapsack with his mid-day dinner;[117] and every week for years he had visited Coney Island beach to bathe there and to read. He watched the English and American reviews, bought second-hand copies whenever they contained matter of interest to him, tore out his prize and devoured it with his sandwich. He loved especially to read a book in its native elements: the _Inferno_[118] in an ancient wood, Homer in a hollow of the rocks with the Atlantic surf on either hand, while he saw all the stage-plays of Shakespeare upon the boards. He had always remained faithful to Scott, and especially to the Border ballads of his collection, with their innumerable and repaying notes. He studied the Bible systematically and deliberately, weighing it well and measuring it by the standards of outdoor America in the nineteenth century. In the same way and spirit he had read and re-read Shakespeare's plays before seeing them, until he could recite extended passages; and he had come to very definite conclusions about their feudal and aristocratic atmosphere and influence. He read Æschylus and Sophocles in translations, and felt himself nearer to the Greeks than to Shakespeare or the Middle Ages. It is interesting to note that he barely mentions Euripides, most modern of the Hellenes, the poet of women, and was evidently little acquainted with Plato. Surely if he had read _The Republic_ or _The Symposium_ there could be no uncertainty upon the matter. But about another poet, as opposed to Plato as any in the category, there is no shade of doubt. Whitman, like Goethe and Napoleon, was a lover of that shadowy being whom Macpherson exploited with such success--Ossian the Celt.[119] Ossian is dead, and for good reasons--we can do much better than read Ossian to-day; but with all his mouthings and in spite of the pother of his smoke, he is not without a flavour of those Irish epics which are among the perfect things of pure imagination. And when one thinks of the eighteenth century with its town wit, one cannot wonder at the welcome Macpherson's Ossian won. Great billowy sea-mists engulf its reader; and through them he perceives phantom-forms, which, though they are but the shadows of men, are pointed out to him for gods. But at least the sea is there, and the wind and an outdoor world. Whitman was not blind to the indefinite and misty in Ossian.[120] He himself clung to the concrete, and though he could rant he preferred upon the whole to use familiar phrases. But he loved Ossian for better, for worse. And we may add as a corollary he disliked Milton.[121] In the case of the foreign classics I have mentioned, and of others like Don Quixote, Rousseau, and the stories of the Nibelungen,[122] he fell back upon translations, and in works of classical verse, often upon prose. He declaimed the _Iliad_ in Pope's heroics, but he studied it according to Buckley.[123] As a journalist and writer for the magazines, he had become more or less acquainted with contemporary literature, but, with few exceptions only, it seems to have affected him negatively. He knew something of Wordsworth, Byron and Keats;[124] the first he said was too much of a recluse and too little of a lover of his kind; Byron was a pessimist, and in the last of the three he seemed only to find one of the over-sensitive products of civilisation and gentility. Tennyson--whose "Ulysses" (1842) was a special favourite--interested him from the beginning, though Whitman always resented what he called his "feudal" atmosphere.[125] It is doubtful whether he had yet read anything of Carlyle's, though he would be acquainted with the ideas of _Heroes and Hero-Worship_. Among Americans, he was apparently most familiar with Bryant and with Fenimore Cooper. When he first studied Emerson is uncertain; he seems to have known him as a lecturer, and could not have been ignorant of the general tendencies of his teaching.[126] Longfellow's "Evangeline," Lowell's "Biglow Papers" and Whittier's "Voices of Freedom" were the talk of the time. He had met Poe; and his tragic death at Baltimore in 1849 may have set him to re-read the brilliant but disappointing verses, and profounder criticism, of that ill-starred genius.[127] But it was from the pages of the Bible, of Homer and of Shakespeare, of Ossian and of Scott that he derived most. Ballads he loved when they came from the folk; but Blake and Shelley, the purely lyrical writers of the new era, do not seem to have touched him; perhaps they were hardly virile enough, for when he came to know and appreciate Burns, it was as a lyrist who was at once the poet of the people and a full-blooded man. From all of which it may be deduced that it was the elemental and the virile, rather than the subtle qualities of imagination which appealed to him; he responded to breadth and strength of movement and of passion, rather than to any kind of formal or static beauty. For him, poetry was a passionate movement, the rhythm of progress, the march of humanity, the procession of Freedom. It was more; it was an abandonment to world-emotions. Where he felt this abandonment to inspiration, he recognised poetry, and only there. In American literature he did not feel it at all. When he read poetry, the sea was his favourite companion. The rhythm of the waves satisfied the rhythmical needs of his mind. Everything that belonged to the sea exercised a spell over him. The first vision that made him desire the gift of words was that of a full-rigged ship;[128] and the love of ships and shipping remained a passion with him to the end; so that when he sought to describe his own very soul it was as a ship he figured it. For the embrace of the sea itself, for the swimmer's joy,[129] he had the lover's passion of a Swinburne or a Meredith. His reading was not, of course, confined to pure literature, but we have no list of the books which he read in other departments. We know that he was deeply interested in the problems of philosophy and the discoveries of science. Though never what is called a serious student of their works, he had a good understanding of the attitude both of the metaphysicians and of the physicists of his time; and he had no quarrel with either. In his simple and direct way he came indeed very near to them both; for he loved and reverenced concrete fact as he reverenced the concept of the cosmos. Individual facts were significant to him because they were all details of a Whole, but he loved facts too for their own sake. And to the Whole, the cosmos, his soul responded as ardently as to the detailed parts. The deeper his knowledge of detail--the closer his grasp upon facts--the more intense must be his consciousness of the Whole. This consciousness of the Whole illuminated him more fully about this date, in a way I will soon recount; it must for some time previously have been exercising an influence upon his thought. Regarding poetry as the rhythmical utterance of emotions which are produced in the soul by its relation to the world, he doubtless regarded science as the means by which that world becomes concrete, diverse and real to the soul, as it becomes one and comprehensible to it through philosophy. Science and philosophy seemed alike essential, not hostile, to poetry. Poetry is the utterance of an inspired emotion; but an emotion inspired by what? By the discovery that the Other and the Self are so akin that joy and passion arise from their contact. In order to conceive of science or philosophy as hostile to poetry, we must think of them as building up some barrier between us and the world. But in this respect modern science does not threaten poetry, for it recognises the homogeneity of a material self with a material world; neither does idealism threaten the source of this emotion, regarding the self and the world as both essentially ideal. The aim of modern thought has been, not to isolate the soul, but rather to give it back to the world of relations. It seems to me that, in so far as Religion has attempted to separate between the Self and things, between God and Man, between the soul and the flesh, Religion has cut at the roots of poetry; but the Religion which attempted this is not, I believe, the religion of the modern world. Whitman then accepted modern science and philosophy with equanimity, in so far as he understood them, and in their own spheres. Apparent antagonisms between them did not trouble him. They were for him different functions of the one soul. He was too sensible of his own identity and unity in himself to share in the perplexity of those who lose this sense through the exclusive exercise of one or other of their functions. His joint exercise of these proved them to be harmonious. He was unconscious of any quarrel in himself between the scientific and the poetic, the religious and the philosophic faculties. Definitions in such large matters must generally seem absurd and almost useless, yet here they may be suggestive. If Whitman had formulated his thought he might, perhaps, have said: "Science is the Self probing into the details of the Not-self; Philosophy is the Self describing the Not-self as a Whole; Religion is the attitude of the Self toward the Not-self; and Poetry springs from the passionate realisation of the homogeneity of the Self with the Not-self". In such rough and confessedly crude definitions we may suggest, at any rate, a theory for his attitude toward the thought of his day. That thought, it seems unnecessary to add, was impregnated by the positive spirit of science. Names like those of Leibnitz, Lamarck, Goethe, Hegel and Comte remind us that the idea of evolution was becoming more and more suggestive in every field--soon to be enforced anew, and more definitely, by Darwin, Wallace and Spencer. The idea of an indwelling and unfolding principle or energy is the special characteristic of nineteenth century thought; and it has been accompanied by a new reverence for all that participates in the process of becoming. Every form of life has its secret, and is worthy of study, for that secret is a part of the World's Secret, the Eternal Purpose which affects every soul. We are each a part of that progressive purpose which we call the universe. But we are each absolutely and utterly distinct and individual. Every one has his own secret, his own purpose; in the old phrase, it is to his own master that each one standeth or falleth. Ideas such as these, the affirmations of a new age, were driving the remnants of the old faiths and the dogmas of the school of Paley into the limbo of the incredible; but they were also casting out the futile atheisms and scepticisms of the dead century. The era of Mazzini, Browning, Ruskin, Emerson, was an era of affirmations, not an era of doubt. And Whitman caught the spirit of his age: eagerly he accepted and assimilated it. His knowledge of modern thought came to him chiefly through the more popular channels of periodical literature, and through conversations with thoughtful men. Probably the largest and most important part of his reading, then and always, was the daily press. A journalist himself, he had besides an insatiable craving for living facts, and especially for American facts. He wanted to know everything about his country. America was his passion: he understood America. Sometimes he wondered if he was alone in that. * * * * * The papers were, indeed, crowded with news of enterprise and adventure. In California, the new territory which Frémont and Stockton had taken from Mexico, gold was discovered in 1848, and in eighteen months a torrent of 50,000 argonauts had poured across the isthmus and over the plains, leaving their trail of dead through the awful grey solitude of the waterless desert. In the summer of '49 there were five hundred vessels lying in San Francisco harbour,[130] where a few years earlier a single visitor had been comparatively rare. And at the same hour, on the eastern coast, every port was a-clamour with men frantically demanding a passage, and the refrain of the pilgrims' song was everywhere heard, Oh, California, that's the land for me. There is no indication in Whitman's writings that he was ever swept off his feet by this fierce tide of adventure. Anyone who has felt such a current setting in among the fluid populations of the West is not likely to underestimate its power. Even in the more staid and sober East the excitement must have been intense: and it is, at the first thought, surprising that Walt, who was still full of youth and strength and ambition, should have remained at home. On second thought, however, it is clear that gold-seeking was about the last enterprise to entice a man who was shortly to relinquish house-building because he was accumulating money. The attraction of the new lands may have been strong when the _Freeman_ released him, but he had had wandering enough for the present, and the attraction of New York itself was at least as strong. Unlike Joaquin Miller, who was among the first in each of the new mining camps which sprang up along the Pacific slopes during the next fifty years, Whitman remained within the circle of New York Bay. He was content to see the vessels being built for their long and hazardous voyage, strong to take all the buffeting of two oceans--those beautiful Yankee clipper ships which have never been rivalled for grace combined with speed. He was content to see all the possibilities of that bold frontier life in the friendly faces of young men leaning over the bench or driving their jolly teams. He was not one of those who need to go afield in order that their sluggish blood may be quickened into daring, or their dull mood be thrilled with admiring wonder. Nothing was commonplace to his eyes, and he found adventures enough to occupy him in any street. Thus while others were framing new governments for new communities, he stayed at home and framed new houses for new families of workmen; and perhaps after all, in his transcendental fashion, he found his own work the more romantic. He had a deeply-rooted prejudice against the exceptional; he planned for himself the life of an average American of the middle nineteenth century, no longer geographically a frontiersman, though more than ever a pioneer in other fields. He would have taken his pan and washed for gold in the Sacramento had he wanted; but the Brooklyn streets and ferry, Broadway and the faces of New York held him. He had not exhausted them yet. He had, moreover, a strongly conservative instinct, an inclination to "stay put," evident in his story from this time forth. He was not a nomad, forever striking his tent and moving on; he wanted a settled home, and attached himself more than most men to the familiar. He took root, like a tree. The secure immobility of his base allowed him to stretch his branches far in every direction. His mind, too, we may be sure, was occupied with its own problems. At first, perhaps, as an inner struggle with insurgent and rebel thoughts and desires, but now as an effort of the conscious self to include and harmonise new elements, and so to lie open to all experience with equanimity, refusing none. Such a process of integration in a mind like Whitman's requires years of slow growth and brooding consciousness, if it is to be fully and finally achieved. And as the integration of his character became more and more complete, he won another point of view upon all things, and, as it were, saw all things new. It is little wonder that we have but scanty record of the years from 1850 to 1855. In his home-life in Brooklyn he was happy and beloved and able to follow his own path without being questioned, or, for that matter, understood. He was probably not quite the easiest of men to live with.[131] He had his own notions, with which others were not allowed to interfere; he never took advice, and was not too considerate of domestic arrangements. As to money, which was never too plentiful in the household, he professed and felt a royal indifference, in which, one may suspect, the others did not share. The father was somewhat penurious on occasion and capable of sharp practice; he had worked hard and incessantly, and had known poverty; the youngest son, moreover, would always be dependent upon others, and Jesse, the oldest, seems to have displayed little ability. One can understand that the father and his second son--who, with the largest share of capacity, must have seemed to the old man the most given over to profitless whims and to idle pleasures--had not always found it easy to live together, and that in the past the mother, with her good sense and understanding of them both, had often had to mediate between them. In the later years, however, Walt understood his father thoroughly and himself better, so that their relationship became as happy as it was really affectionate. His knowledge of the world, his coolness in a crisis, his deliberate balancing of the facts, and yet more deliberate and confident pronouncing of judgment, made him an oracle to be consulted by his family and the neighbours on every occasion of difficulty. The sisters and younger brothers were all fond of him; he was more than good-natured and kind, and never presumed upon his older years to limit their freedom of action or thought. * * * * * The man's kindliness and benignity are admirably suggested in the portraits taken in his thirty-sixth year, the earliest that we have. One in particular--that chosen for the frontispiece of this book--is almost articulate with candour and goodwill. In many respects it is the most interesting of the hundred or more portraits extant. Whitman was an excellent sitter, especially to the camera. His photographs give you a glance of recognition, and rarely wear the abstracted look, the stolidity, which is noticeable in several easel pictures. The daguerrotype of 1854 is the most speaking of the whole series. It is an absolutely frank face, by no means the mask which, according to the sitter himself, one of the later portraits shows. It is frank, and it is kindly, but how much more! The longer one gazes at it the more complex its suggestions become. The eyes are not only kind, they are the eyes of a mystic, a seer; they are a thought wistful, but they are very clear. Like William Blake's, they are eyes that are good for the two visions; they see and they are seen through. If, as I suppose is probable, something of the expression is due to the fact that the photograph was taken on a brilliant summer's day, we can only congratulate ourselves that the elements co-operated with the sitter's soul. In striking contrast with the eyes is the good-natured but loose mouth, a faun-like expression upon its thick lips, which dismisses at once any fancy of the ascetic saint. The nose, too, is thick, strong and straight, with large nostrils. Even in the photograph you can feel that rich and open texture of the skin which radiates the joy of living from every pore. It is the face, above all, of a man, and the face of a man you would choose for a comrade; there would be no fear of his failing or misunderstanding you. But, withal, it is the face of a spirit wholly untamed, a wood-creature if you will, perhaps the face of Adam himself, looking out upon Eden with divine eyes of immortality. Remember, as you meet his gaze, that he knows the life of cities, and that the Fall lies behind him, not before. Perhaps that is why some who have looked at it describe it as the "Christ portrait"--for Jesus was the second Adam--but this is not the ascetic Christ of the Churches, the smile about the lips is too full for that. No, it is the face of a man responsive to all the appeals of the senses, a man who drives the full team of those wild horses of passion which tear in pieces less harmonious souls. This is a man who saw life whole, and had joy of it. He knew the life of the body on every side, save that of sickness, and of the mind on every side, save that of fear. His large, friendly, attractive personality was always feeding him with the materials of experience, and there was nothing in it all which he did not relish. The responses of his nature to each object and incident were joyous; for the responses of a harmonious nature are musical, whatever be the touch that rouses them. * * * * * A shrewd estimate of Whitman's character had been made five years before by a New York phrenologist, and its general accuracy seems to have vanquished the incredulity of its subject.[132] Mr. Fowler described him--I will translate the jargon of his pseudo-science into plain English--as capable of deep friendship and sympathy, with tendencies to stubbornness and self-esteem, and a strong feeling for the sublime. He thought that Whitman's danger lay in the direction of indolence and sensuality, "and a certain reckless swing of animal will". At the same time he recognised in him the quality of caution largely developed. As this estimate was subsequently quoted by Whitman with approval, and referred to as an authority, it evidently tallied with his reading of himself, and while it is by no means remarkable or particularly significant, it bears out other testimony. That "reckless swing of animal will" always distinguished him from the colourless peripatetic brains and cold-blooded collectors of copy so numerous in the hosts of journalism. Walt came of a race of slow but passionate men, and when he was deeply moved he could be terrible. At such times his wrath blazed up and overwhelmed him in its sudden access, but it was as short-lived as it was swift. It is related[133] that once in a Brooklyn church he failed to remove his soft broad-brimmed hat, and entered the building with his head thus covered, looking for all the world like some Quaker of the olden time. The offending article was roughly knocked off by the verger. Walt picked it up, twisted it into a sort of scourge, seized the astonished official by the collar--he always detested officials--trounced him with it, clapped it on his head again, and so, abruptly and coolly, left the church. He was a tall, muscular fellow, stood six feet two, and was broad in proportion, and could deal effectually with an offensive person when he felt that action was called for. Such actions naturally added to his popularity among the "boys"--the stage-drivers, firemen and others--with whom he was always a favourite. But, as a rule, he had no occasion to use his strength in this manner. He never gave, and rarely recognised, provocation. There are times, however, when persuasion has to give place to more summary demonstrations of purpose. Of his strength, but especially of his health, he was not a little proud. As a lad, the praise that delighted him most was that of his well-developed body as he bathed.[134] He did not care to be thought handsome; he knew that wholesomeness and health were really more attractive, and he was content with his own perfect soundness. He was never ailing, even when, in his 'teens, he outgrew for a time his natural vigour. In middle life it was his boast that he could not remember what it was to be sick. Vanity is so natural in the young that when properly based it is probably a virtue, and there can be no question that Walt's was well-founded. * * * * * There is something more, however, in the portrait I have been describing than the perfection of physical health. It is health raised to its highest possibility, which radiates outward from the innermost seat of life, potent with the magnetism of personality, through every pore and particle of flesh. His health, hitherto unbroken, had been deepened into that sense of spiritual well-being which, in its fulness, only accompanies the realisation of harmony or wholeness.[135] He had undergone some fusing process which ended in unity and illumination. It is difficult to say anything at all adequate about such an experience, because it appears to belong to the highest of the stages of consciousness which the race has yet attained; and because there are many men and women of the finest intellectual training and the widest culture to whom it remains foreign. The petals of consciousness unfold as it were from within, and every stage of unfolding, being symmetrical, appears to be perfect. A further evolution is almost inconceivable, but the flower still unfolds. The healthy and vigorous personality of the man whose story we are trying to read, continued its development a stage further than the general, and at an age of from thirty to thirty-five established an exceptional relation with the universe. That exceptional relation is best described as mystical, though the word has unhappy and unwholesome associations, which cannot attach to the character revealed in the portrait. Whitman was almost aggressively cheerful and rudely healthy. But he was not the less a mystic. One of the most essentially religious of men, his religion was based upon profound personal experience. The character of mystical experience seems to vary as widely as does that of individual mystics, but it has certain common features. It is essentially an irruption of some profounder self into the field of consciousness; an irruption which is accompanied by a mysterious but most authoritative sense of the fulness, power and permanence of this new life. Consequent upon this life-enhancement, come joy and ecstasy. The whole story of the development of consciousness is, as I have said, a process of unfoldings; but there is one critical moment of that process which occurs sometimes after the attainment of maturity, of such infinite significance to the individual that it seems like a revolution rather than a mere development in consciousness. It is often described as conversion. Whitman's experience was fully as significant and wonder-compelling as any; but momentous as it was, its nature compelled him to regard it as a further and crowning step in a long succession of stairs--a culmination, not a change of direction. With it he came to the top of the slope and looked over, on to the summit, and beheld the outstretched world. It was no turning round and going the other way; it was the rewarding achievement of a long and patient climb. But the simile of the mountain-side hardly suffices, for this was a bursting of constraint--a breaking, as well as a surmounting of barriers; as though the accumulating waters in some dark and hidden reservoir should so increase in volume that they burst at last through their confining walls of rubble and of rock, forcing their way upwards in a rush of ecstasy to the universal life and the outer sunshine. This outlet of the pent-up floods of emotional experience into another and a vaster sphere of consciousness--this outpouring of the soul from its confinement in the darkness to the freedom of the light--results from the slow accumulation of the stores of life, but it has at last its supreme hour, its divine instant of liberation. In this it has its parallel with the passion of Love. For the inner mysteries of religion and of sex are hardly to be separated. They are different phases of the one supreme passion of immanent, expanding and uniting life; mysterious breakings of barriers, and burstings forth; expressions of a power which seems to augment continually with the store of the soul's experience in this world of sense; experience received and hidden beneath the ground of our consciousness. To feel the passion of Love is to discover something of that mystery breaking, in its orgasm, through the narrow completeness and separate finality of that complacent commonplace, which in our ignorance we build so confidently over it, and creating a new life of communion. To feel the passion of religion is to discover more. The relation of the two passions was so evident to Whitman that we may believe it was suggested to his mind by his own experience. In some lives it would appear that the one passion takes the place of the other, so that the ascetics imagine them to be mutually exclusive; but this was certainly not Whitman's case. Whitman's mysticism was well-rooted in the life of the senses, and hence its indubitable reality. We have seen that he had had experience of sex-love, and we have found reasons to aver that it was of a noble and honourable order; we have seen this experience followed by an acute crisis and its determination, or at least its suspension, and change of character. But in the meantime, the sex-experience had revealed to Whitman the dominance in his nature of those profound emotional depths of which he had always been dimly conscious since the hours on Long Island beach. The whole crisis had made him realise more fully than ever the solemnity and mysterious purpose of life. It had not satisfied him: it had roused in him many perplexities, and had entailed what was probably the first great sacrifice of his life. In a word, this obscure and mysterious page in his story prepared him who read it for a further emotional revelation, such as I have been describing. This actually came to him one memorable midsummer morning[136] as he lay in the fields breathing the lucid air. For suddenly the meaning of his life and of his world shone clear within him, and arising, spread an ineffable peace, joy and knowledge all about him. The long process of integration was at last completed. He was at one with himself, and at peace. It was the new birth of his soul, and properly speaking, the commencement of his manhood. Co-incident with self-realisation came the realisation of the universe. He saw and felt that it was all of the same divine stuff as the new-born soul within him; that love ran through it purposefully from end to end; that thought could not fathom the suggestions which the least of things was capable of making to its brother the soul; that the very leaves of the grass were inspired with divine spirit as truly as the leaves of any Bible. It was as though something far larger than that which he had hitherto regarded as himself had now become self-conscious in him. He was an enthusiast in the literal sense of that mystic word, possessed by a god, filled with the divine consciousness. The Spirit is One, and he was in the Spirit. It identified him with the things and objects that hitherto had appeared external to him, and infinitely increased his sense of their mysterious beauty. George Fox's description of his own mystical experience is true, upon the whole, of Whitman's. He writes: "Now was I come up in spirit through the flaming sword into the Paradise of God. All things were new, and all the creation gave another smell unto me than before, beyond what words can utter."[137] When one considers the Quaker reputation for veracity and caution, one can hardly doubt that these wonderful words describe a condition of consciousness similar to that of Whitman on the June morning of which we speak. Fox continues that the nature of things lay so open to him that he was at a stand "whether he should practise physic for the good of mankind". It was by the subtle sympathy of the Spirit that the first Quaker supposed himself to be familiar with the medicinal virtues of herbs, and the same sympathy made Whitman feel that he understood the purpose of their myriad lives. The wonder of the universal life was revealed to them both. They partook of the consciousness which pervades all matter. To both men illumination brought a double gift of vision, vision into the nature of the universal purpose--of the spiritual or deeper side of life--and insight into the condition and needs of individuals. But in Fox and Whitman this insight, which seems to predominate rather in observant than in creative types of genius such as theirs, was less prominent than the other vision. They were more largely occupied with the universal than with the individual; and while their words carry the extraordinarily intimate message of an appeal to the profoundest element in each soul, their very universality may have rendered them often indifferent to the secondary consciousness or individual self of their hearers. And it is observable that neither of them evinced anything of that dramatic gift which seems to require the predominance of this insight into the secondary self-consciousness. The impersonality with which as preacher or poet they made their public appeal, must have made them at times somewhat inaccessible in their private lives. Consciousness, it would seem, is of a double nature, being, as it were, both personal and impersonal--if we may use these terms of something that seems after all to be so wholly personal. And hence it appears contradictory to itself, and we are forever trying to harmonise it by the sacrifice of one portion to the other. But in reality it is one consciousness with two functions: the first for fellowship and communion, the second for definition and for concrete achievement. Whitman developed these two functions harmoniously; he never sacrificed his individual self-consciousness to the cosmic. He was just as positively Walt Whitman the man, as he was Walt Whitman the organ of inspiration. I think we may say that in the midst of that mysterious wonder, that extension of himself which took place at the touch of God, Whitman's own identity, so far from being lost, was deepened and intensified, so that he knew instinctively and beyond a doubt that it was in some sense of the word absolute and imperishable. * * * * * Earlier in this chapter we viewed philosophy as the attempt of the Self to apprehend the Not-self as a Whole; Whitman's revelation was, it seems to me, the discovery in himself of the sense which does so apprehend the universe; not as a hypothetical Whole, but as an incarnate purpose, a life with which he was able to hold some kind of communion. It was a realisation, not a theory. Whatever this communion may have been, it related him to the universe on its spiritual side by a bond of actual experience. It related him to the ants and the weeds, and it related him more closely still to all men and women the world over. The warmth of family affection was extended to all things, as it had been in the experience of the Nazarene, and of the little poor man of Assisi. But while his sense of relationship to individuals was thus quickened, the quickening power lay in the realisation of God's life, and of his own share in it. His realisation of God had come to him through an ardent love of individual and concrete things; but now it was that realisation which so wonderfully deepened and impassioned his relation to individuals. What we mean when we use the word God in public, is necessarily somewhat ambiguous and obscure; but when Whitman used it, as he did but rarely and always with deliberation, he seems to have meant the immanent, conscious Spirit of the Whole. Theory came second to experience with him, and he was no adept at definition: the interest he grew to feel in the Hegelian philosophy and in metaphysics resulted from his longing, not to convince himself, but to explain himself intelligibly to his fellows, and, in so far as it was possible, make plainer to them the meaning of the world and of themselves. It seems desirable to define his position a little further, though we find ourselves at once in a dilemma; for at this point it is evident that he was both--or neither--a Christian nor a Pagan. He is difficult to place, as indeed we must often feel our own selves to be, for whom the idea of a suffering God is no more completely satisfying than that of Unconscious Impersonal Cosmic Force. Again, while worship was a purely personal matter for him, yet the need of fellowship was so profound that he strove to create something that may not improperly be described as a Church, a world-wide fellowship of comrades, through whose devotion the salvation of the world should be accomplished. In a profound sense, though emphatically not that of the creeds, Whitman was Christian, because he believed that the supreme Revelation of God is to be sought, not in the external world, but in the soul of man; because he held, though not in the orthodox form, the doctrine of Incarnation; because he saw in Love, the Divine Law and the Divine Liberty; and because it was his passionate desire to give his life to the world. In all these things he was Christian, though we can hardly call him "a Christian," for in respect of all of these he might also be claimed by other world-religions. As to the Churches, he was not only outside them, but he frankly disliked them all, with the exception of the Society of Friends; and even this he probably looked upon principally as a memory of his childhood, a tradition which conventionality and the action of schismatics had gone far to render inoperative in his Nineteenth Century America. We may say that he was Unitarian in his view of Jesus; but we must add that he regarded humanity as being fully as Divine as the orthodox consider Jesus to be; while his full-blooded religion was very far from the Unitarianism with which he was acquainted;[138] and his faith in humanity exalted the passions to a place from which this least emotional of religious bodies is usually the first to exclude them. In fact, he took neither an intellectual nor an ascetic view of religion. He had the supreme sanity of holiness in its best and most wholesome sense; but whenever it seemed to be applied to him in later years he properly disclaimed the cognomen of saint, less from humility, though he also was humble, than because he knew it to be inapplicable. In conventional humility and the other negative virtues, renunciation, remorse and self-denial, he saw more evil than good. His message was one rather of self-assertion, than of self-surrender. One regretfully recognises that, for many critics, this alone will be sufficient to place him outside the pale. Another test would be applied by some, and though it would exclude many besides Whitman, we may refer to it in passing. He was apparently without the sense of mystical relationship, save that of sympathy, with Jesus as a present Saviour-God.[139] But none the less he had communion with the Deity whose self-revealing nature is not merely Energy but Purpose. And his God was a God not only of perfect and ineffable purpose, but of all-permeating Love.[140] Whether his relation to God can be described as prayer, it is perhaps unprofitable to ask. It is better worth while to question whether he was conscious of feeding upon "the bread of life," for this consciousness is a test of communion. Undoubtedly he was; and the nourishment which fed his being came to him as it were through all media. The sacrament of wafer and cup is the symbol of that Immanent Real Presence which is also recognised in the grace before meat. Whitman partook of the sacrament continually, converting all sensation into spiritual substance. The final test of religions, however, is to be found in their fruits, and the boast of Christianity is its "passion for souls". Now Whitman is among the great examples of this passion, and his book is one long "personal appeal" addressed, sometimes almost painfully, "to You". But, it may be asked, did he aim at "saving souls for Christ"? If I understand this very mystical and obscure question, and its ordinary use, I must answer, No,--but I am not sure of its meaning. Whitman's own salvation urged him to save men and women by the Love of God for the glory of manhood and of womanhood and for the service of humanity. Far as this may be from an affirmative reply to the question, the seer who has glimpses of ultimate things will yet recognise Whitman as an evangelical. For he brought good tidings in his very face. He preached Yourself, as God purposed you, and will help and have you to be. Whether this is Paganism or Christianity let us leave the others to decide; sure for ourselves, at least, that it is no cold code of ethical precepts and impersonal injunctions, but the utterance of a personality become radiant, impassioned and procreative by the potency of the divine spirit within. * * * * * In stating thus the nature of Whitman's vision, I do not wish to place it too far out of the field of our common experience. His ordinary consciousness had been touched by it in earlier hours; and some gleam or glimmer of it enters every life as an element of romance. But for most of us, only as a light on the waters that passes and is gone, not as in Whitman's case, and in the case of many another mystic whether Pagan or Christian--for mysticism is far older and more original than the creeds--as the inward shining and immortal light which henceforward becomes for them synonymous with health and wholeness. For most men, the fairy light of childhood becomes a half-forgotten, wholly foolish memory; Romance also we outgrow, or cling only to its dead corpse as to a pretty sentiment. Thus the wonder of our childhood and our youth, so essentially real in itself, fades into the light of common day; it becomes for our unbelief a light that never was on sea or land. But in Whitman's story we find it living on, to become transformed in manhood into the soul of all reality. His wonder at the world grew more. And this wonder, always bringing with it, to the man as to the child, a sense of exhilaration and expansion, was at the heart of his religion, as it is doubtless at the heart of all. No one will ever understand Whitman or his influence upon those who come in contact with him, who does not grasp this fact of his unflagging and delighted wonder at life. It kept him young to the end. The high-arched brows over his eyes are its witness. FOOTNOTES: [116] Bucke, 25. [117] J. T. Trowbridge, _My Own Story_. _Cf._ list of articles, etc., in Camden, vol. x. [118] Later than this, spring, 1859; _cf._ Camden, ix., 92. [119] Camden, ix., 188; _Comp. Prose_, 184, 185. [120] Camden, ix., 95. [121] _Ib._, 98. [122] _Ib._, 80, 81. [123] _L. of G._, 441. [124] Camden, ix., 98, 120. [125] _Ib._, 123-128; _Comp. Prose_, 487. [126] Camden, ix., 160; _cf._ Trowbridge. [127] _L. of G._, 441. [128] Kennedy, 43. [129] _Fortnightly Review_, vi., 538. [130] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 400, 401; C. H. Shinn, _Mining Camps_ (1885), 132, 133. [131] _In re_, 33-40. [132] _In re_, 25 n. [133] Johnston, 102. [134] G. Gilchrist, _op. cit._ [135] _Comp. Prose_, 502. [136] _In re_, 342; Camden, iii., 276, 277, 287; Bucke's _Cosmic Consciousness_, 33-35; _L. of G._, 32, 33. _Cf._:-- ... "Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the Earth. And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the Spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke weed."--L. of G., ed. '92. [137] _Fox's Journal_ (ed. 1901), p. 28. [138] _Comp. Prose_, 322; Camden, v., 280, 281. [139] _Cf._ however, _infra_, 167. [140] _Cf. In re_, 368; Camden, ix., 166 (on Hegel). CHAPTER VI THE CARPENTER In the fifties a change came over America, a change preluding the great struggle which ensued. The population grew rapidly with its former mathematical regularity; but the settlement and development of the country went forward even more rapidly. During the decade, the area of improved land increased by one-half, and the value of farm property was doubled. The west bank of the Mississippi being already settled, the future of the lands still further west between the Missouri and the Rockies, became of paramount interest to the nation. It was this problem of the West which strained until it broke that policy of compromise which for a generation had bound American politics. The year 1850 itself is memorable for Clay's opportunist resolutions in Congress, which were intended to settle nothing; and for the fierce debates upon them and upon the Fugitive Slave Bill, in which Webster and Seward, Calhoun and Jefferson Davis participated.[141] Clay and Webster died soon after, and their party being utterly routed at the polls in 1852, finally went to pieces. The vote of the liberty party had declined, and compromise still held up its foolish head. But the victorious Democrats brought all hope of its continuance to an end by reviving the principle of "squatter sovereignty," and proceeding to apply it in the newly settled lands. It was their policy to snatch the question of slavery out of the hands of Congress; for which, as the organ of the Federal power, they nursed an increasing enmity. The bloody scenes which drew all eyes to Kansas made it plain that compromise was done; the South had thrown it over, and was now half-consciously driving the country into war. When the leaders of 1850 died there was no one to take their places, though the crisis called for men of counsel and of spirit. President Pierce, of New Hampshire, the tool of the party machine, merely represented the political weakness of the nation. It was not till after the next elections that their new leaders were discovered by the American people. Judge Douglas, the champion of "squatter sovereignty," rose indeed into prominence in 1854, but his greater antagonist still remained comparatively unknown in the country, though famous in his State and among his neighbours for keen logic and humorous common-sense. There was no leadership. Compromise was yielding not to principle but to the spirit of the mob. Immigration and the increase of the towns favoured organised political corruption; and the tyranny of interests and privileges was beginning to make itself felt on every hand. When parties are separated by motives of personal gain rather than by principle, party-feeling finds expression not in devotion and enthusiasm, but in violence. It was not only in such newly settled lands as Kansas, nor alone in such chaotic aggregations of humanity as were being piled together in New York, that constitutional methods were abandoned and private violence was condoned. The spirit of anarchy was abroad, and members of Congress went armed to the Capitol itself. The violence was a natural reaction from the compromise, and like the compromise was a birth of the materialistic spirit. America's idealism, so triumphant at the close of the eighteenth century, had fallen upon too confident a slumber, and heavily must the Republic pay for that sleep. A young nation of idealists is doubtless more subject than any other to these outbreaks of materialism and its offspring. It is optimistic, and when it sleeps it leaves no dogs on guard. The nation becomes engrossed in material tasks, and is presently surprised by the enemy. But being so surprised, and fighting thus at disadvantage, it accomplishes more than the wary old pessimists whose energy is absorbed in prudence. American idealism was asleep, but its slumbers were by no means sound. The voices of Garrison, Emerson and others mingled troublously with its dreams. And the pursuit and capture of fugitive slaves like Anthony Burns, in Boston itself; and the extraordinary sale, both in America and Europe, of _Uncle Tom's Cabin_,[142] did much to quicken that Abolitionist sentiment which in the end won the day. For the present, however, and until the third year of the war, abolition remained outside the region of practical politics. The question which was dividing the nation was whether slavery should become a national institution--whether it should take its place, as the South intended, as one of the essential postulates in the theory of American liberty--or should be restrained within its old limits as a State institution, an evil which the Federal Government would never recognise as necessary to the welfare of America, but which it was too proud and too generous to compel its constituent States to abolish. The situation was one of unstable equilibrium, and the illogical position could not much longer be maintained. It was the logic of ideas that first drove the South into secession, and afterwards the nation into abolition. * * * * * Immigration was now beginning to create a difficult problem in the metropolis,[143] and was in part accountable for the corruption which from this time forward disfigured its politics. By 1855 New York counted more than six hundred thousand inhabitants; a number which in itself must inevitably have created many a delicate situation in a new country, but which was rendered tenfold more difficult to manage by its rapid growth and heterogeneous character. It had doubled in fifteen years, and a continuously increasing stream of immigration had poured through it. The first great wave had brought nearly two millions of Europeans, principally Germans and Irish, across the Atlantic during the later forties. The failure of the Irish potato crop in 1846, the crisis of 1848, when Europe was swept by revolution and afterwards by reaction, sent hundreds of thousands of homeless men across the sea. Many of the Germans afterwards took their share in another struggle for freedom in their new home; but on the other hand, the more helpless of the immigrants, and a large proportion of the Irish, swelled the population of New York; and proved themselves quicker to learn the advantages of party subserviency than the ethics of citizenship. Many of them had been trained in the school of tyranny at home. Thus the city government became almost hopelessly corrupt, falling into the hands of the genteel and unprincipled Mayor Fernando Wood,[144] and Isaiah Rynders, captain of his bodyguard of blackguards. Men of this stamp began to control not only the government of New York city, but the national party which had its headquarters at Tammany Hall. Whitman was intimate with the condition of things there,[145] and knew the men who manipulated the machine, and pulled the strings at the nominating conventions. He has described those of this period in the most scathing words, and has made it clear that they were among the worst of a bad class. They did not favour slavery so much as inaction; they longed only for a continuance of their own good fortune, desiring to fatten peacefully at the troughs of corruption. To men like these, ideals seem to constitute a public danger. And the war which broke over America in 1861 was due as much to the northern menials of Mammon as to the real followers of Calhoun. It was not only against the South that America fought--or rather it was not against the South itself at all--but against the hosts of those who used her freedom for the accomplishment of an end antagonistic to hers. Evidences of the demoralising influence always present in the life of a great city were thus painfully patent in New York, especially in the lowest strata, becoming hourly more debased and numerous. The plutocracy also began to imitate the showy splendours of Paris under the second Empire.[146] But it would be wrong to assume that corruption and display characterised the metropolis of the fifties. For in spite of the foreign influx, and the venality of a considerable class both of native and of foreign birth, and in spite too of the snobs, in spite that is to say of the appearance of two dangerous elements, the very poor and the very rich, there was still predominant in New York a frank and hearty democratic feeling. The mass of the people still embodied much of the true American genius; they were marked by the friendly, independent and unconventional carriage which is still upon the whole typical of the West. New York was full of large democratic types of manhood. Notable, even among these, was Walt Whitman. Even here, he was unlike other men: the fulness of his spirits, his robust individuality, the generosity of his whole nature, was so exceptional as to make itself felt. His figure began to grow familiar to all kinds of New Yorkers during these years. He was frequently to be seen on Broadway,[147] in his favourite coign of vantage, on the stage-top by the driver's side, a great, red-faced fellow, in a soft beaver, with clothes of his own choosing, an open collar like that of Byron or Jean Paul, and a grey beard. The dress suited him, he was plainly at home in it, and in those days it was not specially remarkable or odd; it was the man himself who compelled attention. On many a holiday through 1853 he might also have been seen at the International Exhibition or World's Fair,[148] which was held in the Crystal Palace on Sixth Avenue and Fortieth Street, and offered a remarkable object lesson to the people of New York on the development of American resources and the value of that national unity which railroads and machinery were yearly making more actual. Here America was seen in all her own natural promise, and also in her relation to the Transatlantic world. It was one of those sights which Whitman dearly loved. The Exhibition taught him far more than books about the country in which he lived; for his mind was like a child's in its responsiveness to concrete illustrations--a quality which may explain the long strings of nouns which figure so oddly on many a page which he afterwards wrote. He loved a medley of things, each one significant and delightful in itself. A catalogue was for him a sort of elemental poem; and being elemental, he sought to introduce the catalogue into literature. We who live in another and more ordered world, rarely respond to this kind of emotional stimulus, which was doubtless very powerful for Whitman, and cannot but laugh at his attempts to move us by a chatter of names. It may be we are wrong, and that another age will smile at us in our turn, though at present we remain incredulous. Here, too, he studied such examples as he found of statuary and painting, arts of which he must hitherto have been largely ignorant. It is only very old or very wealthy cities that become treasuries of the plastic arts, and at this time New York was not yet sufficiently rich, or perhaps sufficiently travelled, to have accumulated this kind of wealth. Whitman was not blind to painting, like Carlyle, for in later years he so appreciated the genius of J. F. Millet that he used to say, "the man that knows his Millet needs no creed".[149] * * * * * After a varied experience as teacher, printer, journalist and editor, Whitman had settled into the life of an American artisan. He had inherited much of the Dutch realism, the love of things and of the making of things, from his mother's side; while on his father's, the associations with mallet and chisel had been strong from his childhood; and thus his trade helped him to gather together the fragments of his identity and weld them into one. As he was never in any sense its slave, it also provided him with the means for that constant leisurely study of life which was now his real occupation. When a house was off his hands and the money for it assured, he would take a holiday, extending sometimes over weeks together, in the remote parts of Long Island.[150] The open spaces helped his mood, and the quietness furthered the slow processes of self-realisation. While at Brooklyn, he was every day on the ferry, and almost every evening he was in New York. He read during his dinner hour, and thought and meditated while he worked. The physical exercise quieted his brain. Taken earlier, it might have deadened it; but he was now a mature man full of thoughts, and well furnished with experience. What he needed was to assimilate all this material and make it his own. And while he built houses, the co-ordinating principle of his personality was building up for him a harmonious self-consciousness, which gradually filled out the large and wholesome body of the man. This gestating process required precisely the deliberation and open-air accompaniments which were afforded by his present life--a life so different from the confinement and incessant strain and stress which check all processes of conscious development in most men and women before they reach maturity. His nature was emotional, and music played a considerable part in its development. Always an assiduous opera-goer, Whitman took full advantage of the musical opportunities which New York offered him at this time. In 1850, Barnum had brought Jenny Lind to the Castle Gardens--now the Aquarium--a fashionable resort on the Battery, and Maretzek of the Astor Opera House, had replied with Parodi, and Bettini the great tenor.[151] Best of all, in 1853, Marietta Alboni visited the city, and Whitman heard her every night of her engagement.[152] This great singer, whose voice was then in the plenitude of its power, had been some twelve years before the public and was already beginning to attain those physical proportions suggested in the cruel but witty saying that she resembled an elephant which had swallowed a nightingale. She was low-browed and of a somewhat heavy face, though Whitman thought her handsome; but it was by her voice, not her face, that she triumphed. Critics found her talent exceptionally impersonal and even cold, though they confessed that never voice was more enchanting.[153] This coldness is rather difficult to understand, for Whitman, who was a judge in such matters, felt it to be full of passion, and a passion which swept him away in the Titanic whirlwind of its power.[154] He had found Jenny Lind somewhat immature and her voice unrewarding, but Alboni awakened and illumined his very soul, and became, as it were, the incarnation of music. The same summer[155] Walt took his father, whose health was failing, on a visit to Huntington, to see the old home for a last time. Two years later, Walter Whitman died and was buried in Brooklyn. The family seems to have been living in Ryerton Street,[156] in a house which was the last building on that side of the town. Beside Walt, there were three unmarried brothers at home, George and Jeff as well as Edward; and Hannah, Walt's favourite sister. We hear little of Jesse, the oldest brother, who appears to have been a labourer, of Andrew, or of the remaining sister Mary. Probably they were all married by this time and living away. The three at home were the ablest of the brothers, and doubtless they shared the financial responsibility between them. The Portland Avenue house, into which they presently moved, bears witness to their comfortable circumstances. Walt contributed his share with his brothers; beyond that he seemed indifferent about money; he hardly ever spoke of it, and perhaps by way of contrast with the others, evidently regarded the subject as of minor importance. Indeed, just as his own work had really grown profitable and he was on the way to become rich, he gave up carpentering for good. This was early in 1855. Of late he had been more and more absorbed and pre-occupied; his days off had been more frequent and numerous, and whatever his immediate occupation he was continually stopping to write. He seemed to grow daily more indifferent to opinion, daily more markedly himself. The fragments which he wrote in out-of-the-way places or at work he would read aloud or recite when by himself, to the waves or to the trees; trying them over at the opera, on the ferry, or on Broadway, where in the midst of the city one can be so unobserved and so unheard in the heart of its hubbub. He must assure himself that they were without a hint of unreality or of books. For he was now deliberately at work upon his great task, his child's fancy. He was come up into his manhood. He had, it seemed to him, thoroughly perceived and absorbed the spirit of America and of his time. His message had come to him, and he was writing his prophetic book, his _Song of Walt Whitman_. At last, the manuscript was done, and in the early summer he went to work in a little printing shop on Cranberry Street, and set up much, perhaps the whole, of the type jealously with his own hands.[157] About the beginning of July, and a few days only before his father's death, it was completed. In the _New York Tribune_ for the sixth of the month, it was advertised as being on sale at Fowler & Wells's Phrenological Depôt and Bookstore on Broadway, and at Swayne's in Fulton Street, Brooklyn. The price was at first two dollars, which seems a little exorbitant for so slender and unpretending a volume, in shape and thickness a mere single copy of one of the smaller periodicals, bound in sea-green cloth, with the odd name, _Leaves of Grass_, in fanciful gilt lettering across its face. It was presently reduced to a dollar. The other members of the household took the new venture very quietly. They had never been consulted in the matter--it had been Walt's affair, and only his; and the father's death must speedily have obliterated the little mark it made upon their minds.[158] "Hiawatha" was published about the same time, and a copy found its way into the house. The mother, turning the pages of both, considered that if Longfellow's were acknowledged as poetry, Walt's queer lines might pass muster too. Brother George fingered the book a little, and concluded it was not worth reading--that it was not in his line anyhow. Doubtless they were relieved when the writing and printing were done, thinking that now surely Walt would return to the ways of mortals. For he had certainly fallen into the most irregular habits. He lay late abed, and came down still later to breakfast; wrote for a few hours, and when the table was being laid for dinner, took down his big hat and sauntered out, to return presently after the meal was over and the dishes cold.[159] He was not intentionally inconsiderate, but he was wholly engrossed in his work, and so pre-occupied that he must often have been tiresome enough. After dinner he disappeared altogether, spending the afternoon and evening in his own leisurely way; setting type, perhaps, on his book at Andrew Rome's little office, and then going off to the opera or to some friend's; and, as he came back, staying far into the night in talk with the young fellows on the ferry, or on one of the East River steamers. Sometimes Hannah or Jeff might accompany him, but as a rule he went alone. If his family anticipated any change in his ways when the book was out, they were doomed to disappointment. The new task was but begun; the methods approved themselves to his mind and were pursued. He had weighed everything over again that summer, as soon as the book was out, going away to the eastern shore of Long Island for months of thought and solitude.[160] * * * * * As one turns the ninety broad pages of the volume, with their large type, their long flowing lines, their odd punctuation and occasional slips in orthography, every detail telling of the individuality behind it, one feels a little of what it must have meant to its maker. Five times, they say,[161] he wrote and re-wrote, made and un-made it, and looking back it seemed as though for seven years it had been struggling with him for utterance. He had written tales and verses with the others, but this book he knew was different from them all. It was not so much his writing as himself. It was a man, and, withal, a new sort of man. For better or worse it was Walt Whitman, a figure familiar enough to the common people of Brooklyn and New York, familiar and beloved--he was not unconscious of his exceptional power of attraction[162]--but a Walt Whitman whom, as yet, they understood very little, who had, indeed, but recently come to an understanding of himself, and who was now approaching to speak with them. Here is the frank declaration of himself, which he proffers to all. Now, at last, we shall understand one another, he seems to say. It was the old, old need for expression, the ultimate and deepest necessity of man, which urged him to his task and made its publication possible. Self-revelation is, of course, continuous and inevitable upon its unconscious side. It is only when it becomes a deliberate act that it astonishes the beholder to outcries of admiration or indignant horror. Now the passion that overwhelms the poet is near akin to the lover's, for he is a lover whose heart is transfigured by the presence of Beauty, the Beloved, immanent in his world. And only by a naked avowal can such passion be satisfied. There are those, of course, who regard every self-revelation as an immodesty, and who will and do avert their eyes from all passion, crying shame. But some at least of the others, who are well aware of the weakness of words, and know how few can use them perfectly, will reverently approach such a confession as Whitman's; not, indeed, as if it were that of a young girl, but as that of a man, naïve, yet virile, and of heroic sanity. And if they feel any shame they will frankly acknowledge it to be their own. There is a kind of egoism which all self-revelation pre-supposes--the consciousness of possessing something supremely worthy of giving. This glorious pride is not incompatible with the profoundest humility, for it is divine, like the "I am" of Jehovah, the egoism of God. * * * * * If self-expression is the outcome of passion, its new incarnation has some of the wonder which attends a birth. The most virile of poets must here become as a woman; and the mystery which, for any mother, enwraps her first-born, clings for his Muse about her slender child by the great god of song. And when, as in the instance of this book of Whitman's, the children of the Muse betray in every feature the abandonment of the remote passion in which they were conceived, one cannot oneself handle them without emotion. Walt regarded the book with undisguised pride and satisfaction. Mother-like, he eyed it as the future saviour of men. He saw it prophetic and large with destiny for America. He was confident that the public would be quick to recognise that quality in it for which they had been so long half-consciously waiting. The people would read it with a new delight, for surely it must be dynamic with the joy in which it was written. He often said in later years that _Leaves of Grass_ was an attempt to put a happy man into literature.[163] Others may discuss the optimism and the egoism of his pages, for of both qualities there is plenty in them, but, after all, they are but secondary there. As to the qualities themselves, we may hold contrary and even disparaging opinions of their value, they will certainly at times repel us. But primarily these pages portray the happy man, and a strong and happy personality has the divine gift of attraction. Byron may dominate the whole of Europe for a generation by the dark Satanic splendour of his pride; Carlyle may hold us still by his fierce, lean passion for sincerity; but Whitman draws us by the outshining of his joy. Happiness is not less infectious than melancholy or zeal; and if it is genuine it is at least equally beyond price. As far as it goes, it seems to indicate that a man may be perfectly adjusted to this world of circumstances, which to us appears so often contrary. A happy and intelligent man of thirty-six, who has looked at life open-eyed, and is neither handsome, rich nor famous is worthy of attention. There is something half-divine about him; and we cannot but hope he may prove to be prophetic of the race. * * * * * Some such thought must have been in Emerson's mind, when a few days after the perusal of _Leaves of Grass_, he wrote his acknowledgment to its unknown author.[164] The letter has been often quoted, but it is so significant that I must quote it again. For no other literary acknowledgment ever accorded to Whitman possesses anything like equal interest or importance. Emerson was certainly the most notable force among American writers at that time; and one might add, the only figure of anything like the first magnitude. In Great Britain, the century had already produced the literature which we associate with the names of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Shelley, Keats and Carlyle, not to mention the earlier work of Tennyson, Browning and others. Emerson was the only American who could venture to claim rank with these, and then hardly equal literary rank. But in some respects his influence was greater, for his was certainly the clearest and fullest expression of the American spirit in letters. His words are therefore of importance to us:-- "CONCORD, MASS'TTS, _21st July, 1855_. "DEAR SIR,--I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of _Leaves of Grass_. I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seems the sterile and stingy nature, as if too much handiwork, or too much lymph in the temperament, were making our Western wits fat and mean. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment that so delights us and which large perception only can inspire. "I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits, namely, of fortifying and encouraging. "I did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name as real and available for a post office. I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you my respects. R. W. EMERSON. "Mr. WALTER WHITMAN." [Illustration: R. W. EMERSON] The epigrammatic style of the sentences, together with a strong flavour of sentiment, may set the reader in his turn rubbing his eyes, and wondering whether Emerson were consciously inditing a mere complimentary letter. But a second perusal renders such an idea untenable. The epigram and the sentiment were parts of the Emersonian mannerism. The letter was not penned in hot haste, after a first glance at the pages; a delay had taken place between reading and writing. Moreover, when about this time a visitor called at Concord, he was sent on his way to Brooklyn as upon a pilgrimage, with the significant words, "Americans abroad may now come home: unto us a man is born".[165] Another epigram, uttered perhaps with a gentle smile, but without a flavour of irony. Emerson was then a man of fifty-two. The first and second series of his lecture-essays had been published more than ten years, and the first volume of his poems in 1847; he was already famous in England as well as in America. But though he was in certain quarters the cynosure of admiration, in others he was the butt of ridicule. This same year the London _Athenæum_ praised Irving because, as it said, his fancies were ideal, and not like Emerson's merely typographical--because they did not consist, like the latter's, in the use of verbs for nouns, in erratic punctuation, tumid epithets, which were startling rather than apposite, or in foreign forms and idioms.[166] This though milder, is not unlike what many of the critics were soon to be saying with better reason of Whitman; and it is interesting to recall that in 1839, when he was Whitman's age, Emerson was struggling to escape from the limits of metre into a rhythm that should suggest the wildest freedom; that should be "firm as the tread of a horse,"[167] vindicate itself like the stroke of a bell, and knock at prose and dulness like a cannon ball; a rhythm which should be in itself a renewing of creation, because it was the form of a living spirit. In later years, Emerson seems to have harked back again to the more regular forms, believing them to correspond to essential pulse-beats, or organic rhythm. But his journal contains several little prose poems of the date of 1855 or 1856, notably the sketch of the "Two Rivers," outlined partly in loose irregular metres. This search of the Concord prophet after a new free rhythmical form, must have predisposed him to interest in such a book as _Leaves of Grass_, where the laws of metre are in force no longer. But beyond this, the older man felt a close kinship with the younger. Whitman had declared himself unequivocally for the faith in life which was Emerson's gospel; and he smacked of the soil and air of America in a way that Emerson could not but love. Here at last was an actual incarnation of the ideas he had so long been hurling at the heads of the American people. A beautiful and characteristic modesty is evident in the tone of the letter. Emerson might well have acknowledged the younger man as a pupil rather than as a benefactor; it was the same quality as had appeared in his reply to Frederika Bremer, when, five years earlier, she had been praising his own verses: "The Poet of America," he answered gravely, "is not yet come. When he comes he will sing quite differently." The idea of an American poet was "in the air". Intellectual America was in revolt; she would remain no longer a mere province of Britain; her writers should shape themselves no more upon merely English models. Lowell in his "Biglow Papers" and Longfellow in "Hiawatha" were among many who sought to exploit the literary soil of the New World. Whatever their success in this, they can hardly be said to have inaugurated a new literature. No American Muse had yet appeared upon the Heights of Helicon to spread a new hush over the world, and by her singing raise the place of song perilously near to the stars. But though she had not appeared she was eagerly expected; and Emerson's letter is like nothing so much as the heralding cry that he had at last caught a glimpse of her across Whitman's pages. It was but a glimpse, and he was yet in doubt; he must come to Brooklyn himself, must meet this fellow face to face, and see. FOOTNOTES: [141] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 417, 418. [142] _Comb. Mod. Hist._, 440. [143] _Ib._, 701. [144] Roosevelt, 195. [145] _Comp. Prose_, 217. [146] Roosevelt, 199. [147] Burroughs (_a_), 24, 25. [148] Bucke, 25. [149] MSS. Traubel. [150] Bucke, 24. [151] _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iv., 178. [152] _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iv., 179; _cf._ _Saturday Rev._, 30th June, 1894. [153] G. Bousquet, _Nouvelle Biog. Générale_. [154] MSS. Wallace. [155] Bucke, 157. [156] M. D. Conway, _Autobiography_, vol. i. [157] Bucke, 24; Johnston, 42, 43. [158] _In re_, 35, 36. [159] _In re_, 36. [160] Bucke, 26. [161] _Ib._, 137. [162] _L. of G._, 322. [163] _L. of G._, 443. [164] Kennedy, 74, 75 n.; Dr. Platt's _Walt Whitman_, 27, 28, etc. [165] Burroughs (_a_), 50. [166] 17th Feb., 1855, qu. in _Alibone_. [167] _Emerson in Concord_, 227-233. CHAPTER VII WHITMAN'S MANIFESTO It is time that we ourselves took a view of the book, for we must see what Whitman had actually done during these last months, and gather what further indications we may as to his general notions of himself and of the world. The volume consists of a long preface or manifesto[168] of the New Poetry, and of twelve poems by way of example. The preface commences with a description of America, the greatest of poems, the largest and most stirring of all the doings of men. "Here is action untied from strings, necessarily blind to particulars and details, magnificently moving in masses!" Here is a nation, hospitable, spacious, prolific; a nation whose common people is a larger race than hitherto, demanding a larger poetry. He describes the American poet, who is coming to awaken men from their nightmare of shame to his own faith and joy. That poet is the lover of the universe, who beholds with sure and mystic sight the perfection that underlies all imperfection, for he sees the Whole of things. Past and future are present to him; and with them is the eternal soul. "The greatest poet does not moralise or make applications of morals--he knows the soul." His readers become loving, generous, democratic, proud, sociable, healthy, by beholding in his poems the beauty of these qualities. "Seer as he is, the poet," continues Whitman, "is no dreamer. He sees and creates actual forms.... To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art. If you have looked on him who has achieved it, you have looked on one of the masters of the artists of all nations and times. You shall not contemplate the flight of the grey gull over the bay, or the mettlesome action of the blood horse, or the tall leaning of sunflowers on their stalk, or the appearance of the sun journeying through heaven, or the appearance of the moon afterward, with any more satisfaction than you shall contemplate him. The great poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts and things without increase or diminution, and is the free channel of himself. He swears to his art, I will not be meddlesome, I will not have in my writing any elegance or effect, or originality, to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains.... I will have purposes as health or heat or snow has, and be as regardless of observation.... You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me."[169] His words never pose before the reader for ornament, they are living things. And for this very reason, he follows no models; his thought is living and original; it must find a new form for its perfect expression, as a new seed would find new growth and leafage. The poet appeals to every reader as to an equal, because in every reader he appeals to the Supreme Soul. Many may not hear him, but he appeals to all, and not to a coterie. Whitman then proceeds to the praise of science. Knowledge, bringing back the mind from the supernatural to the actual, brings faith with it; and the soul is the divinest thing that science discovers in the universe. He turns to philosophy, and bids her deal candidly with whatsoever is real, recognise the eternal tendency of all things toward happiness, and cease to describe God as contending against some other principle. The poet deals with truth and with the actual. All else is but a sham and impotent. For everywhere and always, the soul which is the one permanent reality, loves truth and responds to it. The poet is by nature prudent, as one who knows the real purpose of the soul and of the universe, and would act in accordance with that knowledge. He accepts the impulses of the soul as the only final arguments; and only the deeds which it dictates appear to him to be profitable. Living in his age, and becoming its embodiment, he is therewithal a citizen of eternity. The future shall be his proof: will his song remain at her heart? Will it awaken, century after century, the divine unrest, and as it were, create new souls forever? As for the priests and their work, they are done. The American poets shall fill their place, and the whole world shall answer to their message. Their words shall be in the English tongue--the language of "all who aspire"--but they shall be the very words of the people of America; they shall be native to the soil, and redolent of the air of the Republic. Such poets shall be America's own, and in them she will welcome her most illustrious visitors. They are her equals; for the soul of a man is as supreme as the soul of a nation. And America shall absorb them as affectionately as they have absorbed her. Such is the gist of Whitman's manifesto. Nature the Soul and Freedom; Simplicity and Originality of Expression--these, its dominant notes, recall at once Rousseau, Wordsworth and Shelley, with many another; while certain passages remind the reader that _The Germ_ was but recently published across the sea, the manifesto of another movement associated with the names of the Rossetti family and with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. But whatever the reminiscences it awakens, Whitman's preface is his own. The thoughts were not all originally his. But they had shaped themselves newly in his brain and under his pen, and every line bears the stamp of originality. * * * * * Without staying to discuss the preface let us proceed to a rapid survey of the remaining pages. They are written, it would seem, for measured declamation, in a sort of free chant, which is neither prose nor verse, but whose lines coincide in length with natural pauses in the thought. Whitman himself spoke very deliberately, in a half drawl; he had a melodious baritone voice of considerable range and power, and one can well imagine how he would recite, when alone or with some intimate friend, the first lines, beginning:-- I celebrate myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.[170] The lines are quite simple and direct; they are intended to place the reader at once in relation with the actual idler who recites them in the summer fields. He is an out-of-doors fellow, who lives whole-heartedly in the present, rejoicing in the world and observing it. He and his soul--he distinguishes decisively between the temporal and the eternal elements in himself whose equal balance, neither abdicating its place nor contesting that of the other, makes the harmony of his life--he and his soul commune together, and discover that the world means Love, and that the very grass is full of suggestions of immortality. Everything indeed has its word for Walt Whitman; he understands what the streets are unconsciously saying; the animals of the country-side, the working men, the youths and the women, each and all are teaching him something of himself. All life appeals to him; he recognises himself in each of its myriad forms. And his thoughts are the half-conscious thoughts which lie in the minds of all. It is not only the happy and prosperous whom he represents, but the defeated also, and the outcast. All things have their mystical meanings; but especially are manhood and womanhood divine. There is nothing more divine than they. As for him, he is proud, satisfied, august. He has no sympathy with whimperings, or conformity to the ideas of others. Is not he himself the fellow and equal of the supreme Beings, of the Night, the Earth, and the Sea? He has faith in the issue of time; he fully accepts all reality as a part of the whole purpose. He at least will be fearless and frank, and conceal nothing; all desires shall be expressed by him. And to him all the bodily functions are wonderful. His whole life is a wonder and delight, beyond the power of words to utter. Sounds especially he enjoys; alluding to the passionate emotions aroused in him by the opera, and adding an obscure, erotic dithyramb on the ecstasy of touch, the proof of reality, for we understand everything through touch. Everything is seen by him to be full of meaning, because he himself is a microcosm and summary of the universe "stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over". He feels so vividly his personal kinship with the animals which are never pre-occupied about religion or property, that he thinks he must have passed through their present experience "huge times ago," to include it now in his own.[171] Forthwith, he strings together in a rapid succession of dazzling miniatures, some of the contents of his personal memory; pictures out of his experience or his imagination, that remain vivid and significant to him. His sympathy makes them actually real to him; the figures in them are each a part of himself. "I am the man," he cries, "I suffered, I was there."[172] But he has his own distinct personality. He is the friendly and flowing savage, full of magnetism, health and power-- Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, and touch them, and speak to them, and stay with them. Behaviour lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncombed head, and laughter, and naïveté, Slow-stepping feet, and the common features, and the common modes and emanations.... He sees the divine that is in men, and how all the gods are latent in the race, and with them ever more besides. Even in the midst of their absurd littleness, which he fully recognises, he calls men to the reality of themselves, away from the religions of the priests to their own souls. He understands doubt very well, but he has faith, faith in an ultimate happiness for each and all. * * * * * He endeavours to express his sense of eternity, and of the friendliness of the world to him:-- Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing--the vapour from the Nostrils of Death--I know I was even there, I waited unseen and always, and slept while God carried me through the lethargic mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. Long I was hugged close--long and long. Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. Before I was born out of my mother, generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid--nothing could overlay it. For it the nebula cohered to an orb, The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Vast vegetables gave it sustenance, Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, and deposited it with care. All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, Now I stand on this spot with my Soul.[173] Thus it seems to him that he has existed potentially from the beginning; that all the ages in succession have cared for him, and that now the whole world is full of his kin and lovers. He beholds the universe as gloriously infinite in its assured purpose: God has appointed a meeting-place where He waits for every soul. The way of the soul is eternal progress, and each one must follow that road. My pupils, he exclaims, shall become masters and excel me! They shall be wholesome, hearty, natural fellows, attracted to me because I neither write for money nor indoors.[174] My religion is the worship of the soul. I am calm and composed, and satisfied about God, whom I do not in the least understand. Death and decay seem wholesome to him; they are the way of life by which he himself came to the present hour, wherein he realises the mystic reality, the life eternal, and the ineffable idea of happiness as the central purpose of the Universe:-- Do you see, O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan--it is eternal life, it is happiness.[175] With an enigmatical farewell, he resumes his place in the life of the world, awaiting such of his readers as belong to him:-- You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you, nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged, Missing me one place, search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.[176] The other poems are pendants to the first, offering further exemplifications of the precepts of the preface. He appeals, for example,[177] to his fellow workmen and workwomen, that they realise their own greatness and immortality, their own individual destiny; for nothing can ever be so worthy of their reverence as their own soul. He bids them employ and enjoy this hour to the full,[178] for death comes, and it will not be the same as life. Yet death also will be good to the soul--all the signs assure the soul that it will be satisfied; and there is nothing which does not share in the soul-life. In dreams[179] he recognises some free utterances of the soul, and in sleep, the great equaliser of men. As he watches them asleep all become beautiful to him with the beauty of the soul, which men also call Heaven. Diseased or vile they may be, but their souls forever urge them along the appointed way towards the goal. He seems to see all souls meeting together in sleep, mysteriously to circle the earth, hand in hand. He entrusts himself to sleep with the same security as to Death and Birth. At the sight and touch of the human body,[180] he kindles with the delight of a Renaissance painter, a Botticelli or a Michael Angelo. The very soul loves the flesh, and the contact of flesh with flesh rejoices it. He writes of the magic force of attraction embodied in a woman; nor of attraction only, but of emancipation. He extols the strength and joy which is embodied in a man. The body of every man and woman, says he, should be as sacred to you as your own, for the body is almost the soul, and to desecrate the bodies of the dead is a little thing beside the shame that we put upon the bodies of the living. If life and the soul are sacred, the human body is sacred, And the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of manhood untainted, And in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, Is beautiful as the most beautiful face.[181] He fills a page[182] with quick Hogarthian sketches of the lower types of faces, and then, turning about, acclaims the souls behind them as his equals. They too will duly come to themselves, following towards the light, after the Lord. He loves thus to enlarge upon the poet's office as the Answerer[183] or sympathiser with all men, and how he should be welcome and familiar to each. In the poet's company, the soul of each one quickens. And yet the poet is no greater than the least; his verses are not nobler than the kindly deed of any poor old woman. He writes of 1848, the year of Revolutions,[184] somewhat in the style of "Blood Money," and probably this page is one of the earliest of the fragments, and may date back to the year which it celebrates. In spite of the successes of tyranny, and the failures of the young men of Europe, he sees that Liberty herself is never foiled. By way of sharp contrast[185] he directs a mocking and colloquial page of satire against the 'cute Bostonians of 1854. Whitman's dislike of Boston is never for a moment concealed; Jonathan the Yankee he detests. And now he brings home to him the profits of his bargaining; he has dethroned King George only to set up in his place this Republican President, Pierce of New Hampshire, who in these loud-echoing streets employs the strength of America upon the capture of a fugitive slave. Sometimes he is autobiographical.[186] "There was a child went forth,"--he recites--a country boy who, at West Hills and in Brooklyn, absorbed all the sights and sounds of his world into himself; till the early lilacs, the morning-glories, and the orchard blossom, the quarrelsome and the friendly boys and the bare-footed negro-children all became a part of him. His parents, too, in the daily life of the home as well as by heredity, entered into his make-up; the mother, wholesome, quiet and gentle, the father, virile and hot-tempered, with a streak of craft and astuteness running through him. And as they became a part of me, he says, so now they shall become a part of you that read this page. Or at his naïvest, we see him standing open-mouthed and amazed, like a very child, before the sheer naked facts of his own story from the date of his birth to the present hour;[187] and endeavouring to evoke a similar naïve attitude in the reader, not indeed towards the date of Whitman's birth, but towards that of his own. Upon a kindred note we turn the last page also[188]--for it is a proclamation of reverence, reverence for all the old myths; reverence for the high ideals; reverence too for Youth and for Age, for Speech and Silence, for true Wealth and true Poverty, always with stress upon the last member of each pair; for America, too, and for the Earth with its ineffable future; for Truth, for Justice, for Goodness--ay, and, he adds with conscious paradox, for Wickedness as well; above all for Life, but not less for Death. Great is Life, he concludes:-- Great is Life, real and mystical wherever and whoever: Great is Death:--sure as Life holds all parts together, Death holds all parts together: Sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, Death is great as Life. How are we to sum up these pages, and figure out what it is they come to? No summary is likely to do justice to a book of poetry, which demonstrates itself by wholly other methods than argument, and it would be foolish for me to attempt it. But there is one point with which I must make shift to deal. Beginning with a forecast of the New Poetry, as of something which should be in its essence indigenous to America, the natural expression of a new spirit and race and of its attitude towards the Self and the Universe, Whitman has boldly given examples to show what it was he meant. What are we to say of these? Do they give us a new art-form? or, if you will, a new kind of poetry? Do they bring us material for some new law of rhythm or metre? These are deep questions, and dangerous to answer. For myself, I can but give an affirmative to them, accepting the smiles of the incredulous. And I must do so without a discussion which would here be tedious, even if I were able to make it profitable. There is a simple test of the whole matter which one may oneself apply: Does Whitman's method of writing arouse, in those who can read it with enjoyment, an emotion distinct in character from that aroused by the methods of all other poets? Does _Leaves of Grass_ awake some quality of the Soul which answers neither to the words of Tennyson nor Browning, Emerson nor Carlyle? The proof by emotional reaction requires some skill in self-observation and more impartiality; but, on the whole, I think those who have tried it fairly seem to take my part, and to answer emphatically in the affirmative. What then is this emotion which Whitman alone, or in special measure, evokes? It is a further hard but fair question, for it involves Whitman's personality, and this book is an attempt to answer it. Briefly, it is the complex but harmonious emotion which possesses a sane full-blooded man of fully awakened soul, when he realises the presence of the Eternal and Universal incarnate in some "spear of summer grass". One may call it the religious emotion; but it is not the emotion of any other religious poetry, saving perhaps some of the Hebrew prophets: and every prophet has his own cry. It is the emotion of a religion which is as large as the largest conceptions which man has yet formed of life; for Whitman, apart from any limitations in his thought, appears to have lived more fully and with fuller conscious purpose than did other men. In order to make oneself understood at all one speaks in hyperbole, and doubtless I exaggerate. Whitman was, of course, no God among men, nor was he greater than other poets; in a sense he was even less than the least of them, so subjective was his genius; but since he consciously evokes a new emotion, he has his place among true artists, for Art is the power of evoking the emotion in others which one intends. And since the new emotion seems to be altogether ennobling when it is fully realised, being at once enlarging and integrating to the soul, we ought the more gladly to hail and acknowledge him. I say a new emotion, not meaning, of course, that he is alone in calling up the soul, for no great poetry can leave the soul unstirred; but that no poetry of modern times stirs the soul in the same manner as does that of this full-natured man. So far, I think, we may acknowledge Whitman's success as a poet, and I am not concerned to urge it further. There are many who do not respond to his writings in the way I have indicated, and they naturally refuse him the title. There are others who do, and who accord it to him; and I confess I am of the latter. * * * * * The only American poet who approaches him in sentiment is Emerson. Poems like "Each and All," with its motive of the cosmic unity, "The perfect Whole," or "Brahma," with its reconciling all-inclusiveness, are very near in thought to Whitman; so again is "Merlin" with its Great is the art, Great be the manners of the bard; He shall not his brain encumber With the coil of rhyme and number,-- or "Woodnotes"--"God hid the whole world in thy heart"--or the exclamation "When worlds of lovers hem thee in" of the "Threnody"; or his "Test," when he hangs his verses in the wind. The inspiration of the two men made them akin; but it was far from identical. There are sides of _Leaves of Grass_ which are absent from Emerson's writings, just as there are phases of Emerson's thought which are never really touched by Whitman. But above all, while the works of both are exhilarating to the soul, the emotional reactions from them are quite distinct. Considering Emerson's influence at the time upon all that was most virile in American thought, we might feel certain that some part at least of his teaching had illuminated Whitman's mind, and there is sufficient evidence in his own writings to prove it.[189] He said indeed, that it was Emerson who led him to a spiritual understanding of America, and who finally brought his simmering ideas to the boil.[190] But he also vehemently asserted the independence of _Leaves of Grass_ from any direct Emersonian or other literary influence; and in this the internal evidence of his book supports him. It is really impossible to confuse the flavours of Whitman and of Emerson. * * * * * One more comparison, and I will pursue the story. There is much which Whitman obviously shares with Shelley. Their kinship of inspiration is too significant for a passing note, and might well be followed over many pages. The writer of _Leaves of Grass_, and the youthful author of _Queen Mab_, had drunk at the same fountain of love and wonder.[191] Shelley's _Defence of Poetry_ should be read alongside of the Preface of 1855. In it also you will find it stated that the poet lives in the consciousness of the whole; that he is not to be bound by metrical custom, the distinction between poets and prose-writers being but a vulgar error; it is sufficient if his periods are harmonious and rhythmical. Poetry is therein discovered as the great instrument of morality, for it exercises and therefore strengthens the imagination, which is the organ of love--that going-out of a man from himself to others, in which morality finds the final expression. Here, as in Whitman's pages, the permanence of poetry is asserted; its significance is not to be exhausted by the generation in which it found expression. Poetry is the motive power of action and creates utilities. It is the root and blossom of science and philosophy. Poetry is the interpenetration of a diviner nature with our own; it turns all things to loveliness, and strips off that film of use and wont which holds our eyes from the vision of wonder. The great poets are men of supreme virtue and consummate prudence. They are the world's law-givers. It must be enough for us to have noted the parallel, which might easily be pressed too far. There are regions of thought and expression in which their opposition would, of course, appear even more striking; we need not pursue the subject, remembering that much of what they share derives from the influence which we associate with the works of Rousseau. * * * * * Whatever our opinion of Whitman's astonishing "piece of wit and wisdom," we cannot be surprised that in some quarters it was received with contemptuous silence, and in others with prompt and frank abuse. The _Boston Intelligencer_,[192] for instance, credited it to some escaped lunatic; the _Criterion_[193] to a man possessed of the soul of a sentimental donkey that had died of disappointed love; while the _London Critic_,[194] comparing him to Caliban, declared he should be whipped by the public executioner. It is, perhaps, more astonishing that some of the leading journals and reviews of America--the _North American Review_, _Putnam's Monthly_, and the _New York Tribune_[195]--for example, noticed the book at some length and with friendly forbearance, if not with actual acclamation. The first of these gave the book, in its January issue (1856), three pages of discriminating welcome from the pen of Edward E. Hale, a religious minister of liberal mind and warm heart, whose own inner experience was not without resemblance to Whitman's in its harmonious development and absence of spiritual conflict.[196] Whitman was probably prepared for the abuse; it was the indifference of the public which astonished him. At first, it would seem, there was no sale whatever for the book;[197] and Emerson was the only one of its readers who found it specially significant. Having spent the summer months in solitude in the country,[198] Whitman decided upon a somewhat questionable method of advertisement: he contributed unsigned notices of his book to the _Brooklyn Times_,[199] with which he appears to have been connected,[200] and to a phrenological sheet issued by Fowler and Wells, his agents on Broadway. He fortified himself[201] for his task by observing that Leigh Hunt had written for the Press upon his own work, and even claimed the high example of Dante. These articles, whose anonymity seems to infringe on the impartiality of the Press, and to be in some sense a breach of journalistic honour, are not a little astonishing. That in the phrenological journal may, perhaps, be dismissed as a mere publishers' circular or puff, contributed, as such things frequently are, by the writer. As to the other, Whitman was for a while the editor of the _Brooklyn Times_, and may have written on himself while serving in this capacity, or perhaps at the request of the actual editor, doubtless his personal friend. Or, again, if we would excuse, or rather explain, his action, we may regard the reviews as his own attempt to look impersonally at his work. Whatever we may think of the moral aspect of the notices, or however we may account for them, they have considerable interest as further expositions of his purpose, re-inforcing the Preface after an interval of meditation. As such, and as a corrective of popular misapprehensions, he doubtless intended them. In these pages he lays special emphasis on the American character of his work. He notes his studied avoidance of all foreign similes and classical allusions. He compares himself with Tennyson and other poets, only to declare that he is alone in understanding the new poetry, which will not aim at external completeness and finish, but at infinite suggestion; which will be an infallible and unforgettable hint--a living seed, not merely of thought, but of that emotional force which is of the Soul and alone can mould personality. FOOTNOTES: [168] This is given in full in O. L. Trigg's _Selections_; parts only, in _Comp. Prose_, 256. [169] _Comp. Prose_, 261. [170] _L. of G._, 29. [171] _L. of G._, 54. [172] _Ib._, 59. [173] _L. of G._, 55. [174] _L. of G._, 75. [175] _Ib._, 78. [176] _Ib._, 79. [177] _Ib._, 169. [178] _L. of G._, 333. [179] _Ib._, 325. [180] _Ib._, 81. [181] _Ib._ (1855). [182] _Ib._, 353. [183] _L. of G._, 134. [184] _Ib._, 211. [185] _Ib._, 209. [186] _Ib._, 282. [187] _L. of G._, 304. [188] _Ib._ (ed. 1855). [189] Camden, ix., 160; notes to mag. art. of May, 1847. [190] Letter in Appendix to _L. of G._ (1856) and Trowbridge, _op. cit._ [191] It is interesting to recall that _Prometheus Unbound_ was written in the year of Whitman's birth. [192] Bucke, 198. [193] _Ib._, 197. [194] _Ib._, 196; _In re_, 60. [195] _N. A. R._, January, 1856; _Trib._, 23rd July, 1855. [196] W. James, _Var. of Relig. Experience_, 82-83. [197] Bucke, 138; Burroughs, etc. [198] Bucke, 26. [199] _In re_, 13, 32; Bucke, 195. [200] _Atlantic Monthly_, xcii., 679. [201] Camden, ix., 119. CHAPTER VIII THE MYSTIC In September, 1855, Mr. Moncure Conway, having heard of Whitman during a visit to Concord, called upon him in Brooklyn, with an introduction from Emerson. Walt was then living with his family in one of a row of small artisans' houses, in Ryerton Street,[202] out of Myrtle Avenue. At the moment, however, he was correcting proofs in the little office where his book had been printed, and wore a workman's striped blue shirt, open at the throat. A few days later, he called upon Mr. Conway, his sister and another lady, at the Metropolitan Hotel, where his manners and conversation were enjoyed and approved. He was then garbed in "the baize coat and chequered shirt" in which he appears in the _Leaves of Grass_ portrait. Mr. Conway in his story has somewhat confused the details of these visits with those of another paid by him upon a Sunday morning some two years later, when the Whitmans seem to have moved to a more commodious house on North Portland Avenue. The matter is not important, and we may follow the main lines of the picturesque account which he contributed in October, 1866, to the _Fortnightly Review_.[203] According to this narrative, Whitman was discovered basking in the hot sunshine on some waste land outside Brooklyn. He was wearing the rough workman's clothes of his choice, was as brown as the soil and as grey as the grass bents. His visitor was at once impressed by the exceptional largeness and reality of the man, and by a subtle delicacy of feeling for which _Leaves of Grass_ does not appear to have prepared him. Whitman was slow, serene, gracious; in spite of the grey in his hair and beard, and the deep furrows across his brow, his full red face and quiet blue-grey eyes were almost those of a child. Returning to the house, the visitor noticed a quality about him which belonged by rights to the line-engraving of Bacchus which hung in the bare room he occupied. Like a Greek hero-god, he made one ask oneself whether he was merely human. And after crossing the bay with him, and bathing and sauntering along the beach of Staten Island, the visitor seems to have left in a condition of almost painful excitement, unable to give his thought to anything but Whitman. A few days later, according to this account, Conway found him setting type for the next edition of his book. Although he was still writing occasionally for the press, _Leaves of Grass_ continued to provide his principal occupation. They crossed the ferry together and rambled about New York. Nearly every artisan they met greeted Walt affectionately as an old friend, and not one of them knew him as a poet. Together they went to the Tombs prison, Whitman always having acquaintances among the outcasts of society, and often visiting them in detention, both here and at Sing-Sing. Here, Conway had an opportunity of estimating the power over others which was wielded by this personality, whose latent force had so much moved himself. The prisoners confided in him, and on behalf of one he interviewed the governor of the prison. The victim had been detained for trial on some petty charge in an unhealthy cell. Whitman repeated the man's story, and characterised it, with a sort of religious emphasis and deliberation, as a "damned shame". It was manifestly upon the tip of the official tongue to rebuke Walt for impertinence; but though he was dressed as an artisan, his quiet determined gaze was too much for the autocrat, who gave way before it and ordered the prisoner to be transferred to better quarters. * * * * * Other distinguished visitors called on him from time to time. Of Emerson's own visits we know next to nothing, but they were frequent and very welcome, sometimes ending with a dinner at Astor House. We have a glimpse of Lord Houghton, sharing a dish of roast apples with his friendly host.[204] Ward Beecher, the famous Brooklyn preacher, was among the callers; and it was on their way from his church that, on Sunday, 9th November, 1856, Mrs. Whitman, in her son's absence, received Bronson Alcott and Thoreau. Both men belonged to the circle of Emerson's Concord intimates, and both have left a record of the successful renewal of their visit upon the following day.[205] The lovable, mystical, oracular Alcott, the delight of his friends, seems to have been greatly attracted by Whitman, whom he knew already, and of whom he has spoken in terms of the highest praise. The mother, he found on that first visit, stately and sensible, full of faith in her son "Walter"; full, too, in his absence, of his praises, as being from his childhood up both good and wise, the faithful and beloved counsellor of brothers and sisters. They spent two delightful hours with Walt next day, a Philadelphia lady accompanying them and sharing their intercourse with "the very god Pan," as Alcott styles him. The conversation was to have been renewed on the morrow, but Walt failed to put in an appearance. He was apt to be vague about such appointments, and one could never be sure that he felt himself bound by them. Like a Quaker of the old school, he followed the direction of the hour, and his promises were tentative and well guarded. Thoreau, too, the naturalist philosopher of Walden, wrote down his impressions of the interview. He was puzzled by Whitman, finding him in many ways a strange and surprising being, outside the range of his experience. Rough, large and masculine but sweet--essentially a gentleman, he says; but the title is paradoxical and inappropriate, and he qualifies it immediately by adding that he was coarse not fine. As to the last point, after vigorously debating it, Whitman and he appear to have retained contrary convictions. But Whitman himself would have been the first to disclaim refinement, a quality which he associated with sterility. If Thoreau had said he was elemental, we would not now dissent. They were not likely to understand one another. The two men present a remarkable contrast, though on certain sides they have much in common. Thoreau was about two years the older; his principal book of essays, called _Walden_ after the site of his hermitage, had been published when he was about Whitman's age. Physically he was most unlike the genial red-faced giant opposite to him. Slight and rather short, with long arms and sloping shoulders; mouth, eyes and nose seemed to tell of solitary concentrated thought. There was something in his face of the frontiersman, that woodland look one sees also in Lincoln's portraits; something, too, of the shyness wood creatures have. He disliked and avoided the generality of men. In this he would compare himself with Emerson, who found society a refuge from the shabbiness of life's commonplace, while Thoreau's own resource was always solitude. He was continually being surprised by the vulgarity of himself and of his fellows, continually flushing with shame, personal or vicarious; and he sought and found a refuge in the pure and lonely spirit that haunted Walden Pool.[206] Whitman, on the other hand, though he loved solitude, seems, even in solitude, to have craved for movement. In this he was very far from the orientalism of Thoreau and its strenuous seeking after peace. He loved progress. His genius belonged not to the forest pool, whose reflections were unrippled by a breeze--the mirror of the abstract mind--but to the surging passion of the ocean beach. Similarly, in his attitude towards men, he was far removed from both Thoreau and Emerson. Emerson confessed he could not quite understand what Whitman so enjoyed in the society of the common people; and many a Democrat, if he were only as honest, would make the same confession. It was not that Emerson was in any sense of the word a snob; but the emotional side of his nature responded but feebly to certain of the elemental notes whose vibration is felt perhaps more frequently among the common people than elsewhere. Emerson's fellowship was largely upon intellectual fields: Whitman's almost wholly upon the more emotional. Thoreau found society in disembodied thought, and emotional fellowship in the woods. But to Whitman the sheer contact with people, and especially the unsophisticated natural folk of the class into which he was born and among whom he was bred, was not only a pleasure but a tonic which he could barely exist without. In solitude, he became after a time, heavy, inert, lethargic. His mind itself seemed to grow stale. He was a mere pool of water left upon the beach, which loses virtue in its stagnant isolation. Whitman seems to have been exceptionally conscious of the stream of electric life which is the great attractive power of a city, and which in itself tends to draw all young men and women into its current. It buoyed him up and carried him, giving him a sense of exaltation only to be compared with that which other poets have derived from the mountains, or the wind out of the West. His large body and intuitive mind craved for the magnetic stimulus and suggestion of people moving about him; he did not look to them to save him from the commonplace, nor did he shrink from them as bringing him new burdens of a common shame. Coarse, actual, living humanity was his supreme interest and passion. And the delicacy and refinement of the scholar was dreadful to him, because it separated him instantly from the vulgar and common folk. He was one of the roughs, he used to say; and so he was, but with a difference. It was this that puzzled his Concord friends who were quick to feel but slow to understand it. Their perplexity did not, however, turn into mistrust; for their appreciation of all that they understood was full and generous. Thoreau hardly knew whether he was more repelled or attracted by this "great fellow" who seemed to be the personification of Democracy.[207] Like Tennyson at a later date, he was unable to define him, but stood convinced that he was "a great big something".[208] A little more than human, Thoreau added; meaning a little larger than normal human development. In any case, the man was an enigma. He wrote of those relations between men and women for which the poets choose the subtlest and most delicate words in their treasury, in syllables which seemed to Thoreau like those of animals which had not attained to speech. Yet even so, he spoke more truth, beast-like as his voice sounded, than the others. And Thoreau frankly reminded himself, if Whitman made him blush the fault might not be Whitman's after all. They did not talk very much or very deeply, as there were four to share the conversation. Thoreau, too, was in a rather cynical mood, and spoke slightingly of Brooklyn and America and her politics, which in itself was enough to chill the stream of intercourse. But they found a common interest in the Oriental writers with whom Whitman was but vaguely acquainted, the scholar advising upon translations. Thoreau and Emerson had both noted the resemblance between _Leaves of Grass_ and some of the sacred writings of India; and the latter once humorously described the _Leaves_ as a mixture of the _Bhagavad-Gitá_[209] and the _New York Herald_.[210] Thoreau died in 1862, and this was probably their only meeting. * * * * * Thoreau carried off with him a copy of the new edition of Whitman's poems, fresh from the press, and some of the remarks I have alluded to refer especially to its contents, and to several of the new poems which we must now briefly consider, for it is obviously impossible to give any worthy account of Whitman without attempting at least to outline the successive expressions of his own views about himself, as they are set forth in his book. None of the twenty new _Leaves_ appears so important as the "Song of Myself," but among them are some of the finest and most suggestive pages he ever wrote, notably the "Poem of Salutation," and the "Poem of the Road".[211] The book is now shorn of its prose preface, which would be a serious loss if large portions of it were not to be found broken into lines, and otherwise slightly altered, upon the later pages. It had been used as a quarry for poems, and some of the blocks underwent but little trimming. In the "Salutation," he identifies himself elaborately and in much detail, with all peoples of the globe, finding equals and lovers in every land. The universal survey is faithfully made; the poem is like a rapid passage through a gallery of pictures, and regarded as a whole, suggests the outlines of the world-wide field which its author desires the reader to view. Whitman asserts his comprehensive sympathy; like America he includes all men. He is one with them in their common humanity, and sympathises with them individually in the main purposes and desires of their lives. The poem opens in the form of question and answer. Looking into Whitman's face, the questioner sees as it were a whole world lying latent within his gaze and becoming actual as he looks. Taking the poet's hand, he begs him to explain: Walt accedes with readiness, and immediately forgets the questioner. The subject of the poem--man as the microcosm not only of the universe but of the Race--is not perhaps novel; but its meaning is none the less difficult to expound. For it bears directly upon the cosmic consciousness, in which, as I have said, many of us are wanting. There are some, however, who are at times aware of moods in which they realise the symbolic character of all objects; they see them, that is to say, as forms through which vivid emotions are conveyed to the soul. At such moments, the whole world becomes for them a complex of these symbols, whose authenticity they can no more doubt than the meaning of daily speech, and whose ultimate significance is of an infinite content, which forever unfolds before them. Such moods were evidently frequent with Whitman, and perhaps became the norm of his consciousness. In them his eyes read the world, as though it were the writing of that infinite and supreme Soul which was himself, and yet not himself; that Soul of All, with which his consciousness was become mystically one. He felt the actual thrill and meaning of the World's Words; words which he more fully describes or rather tries to suggest, in another poem, afterwards known as the "Song of the Rolling Earth".[212] In order to explain Whitman's meaning one would need to make a study of the roots of this kind of symbolism, a task which is here impracticable. We must be content instead with a glance at the poem itself. "Earth, round, rolling, compact--suns, moons, animals--all these are words to be said,"[213] he asserts; vast words, not indeed of dots and strokes, nor of sounds, but of real things which exist and are uttered. I myself, and not my name, he says suggestively, is the real word which the Soul understands. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear, not my words but Me, The Word. The words of great poets are different from those of mere singers and minor poets, because they suggest these ultimate words, these presences and symbols. A symbol, be it remembered, always using the word in the sense indicated, is no arbitrary sign, it is a form or appearance, which seen _through_ the eye--to use Blake's happy formula--presents to the imagination an unimpeachable, distinct emotional concept. To Whitman, everything became thus symbolic. He saw the Earth itself--the whole world about him--as a symbol, infallibly presenting to him a distinguishable idea or meaning; not indeed a thought, for the word fails to express something which must clearly be supra-intellectual--the perception of a conscious state of emotion. Of what then was the Earth a symbol to Whitman's sight? He says, frankly enough,[214] that he cannot convey the idea in print; but that as far as he can suggest it, it is one of progress, or amelioration; it is generous, calm, subtle; it includes the idea of expression, or the bearing of fruit; it is the acceptance of all things, and it is the general purpose which underlies them all. I fear that those who seek for simple explanations in plain words will scarcely be satisfied with this. Perhaps Whitman is only reasserting in his own manner the familiar adage that God is the prince of poets, and that the universe is His Chapbook which He offers to all. If so, he either gives a new meaning to the words, or he has rediscovered their old vital sense and redeemed them from the stigma of rhetoric. I do not know whether after all the simple-sounding words are not the more elusive. The Words of the Earth-Mother spoken to her children are, he would have us believe, ultimate and infallible; all things may be tried by them. That is what he means when he says he has read his poems over in the open air. He has proved them thus to see if their suggestion is that of the Earth. She sits, as it were, with her back turned toward her children,[215] but in her hand she holds a mirror, the clear mirror of appearances which are true, and in that mirror we may see ourselves and her. With her ample back toward every beholder, With the fascinations of youth, and equal fascinations of age, Sits she whom I too love like the rest--sits undisturb'd, Holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her eyes glance back from it, Glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none, Holding a mirror day and night tirelessly before her own face. How much we can see, depends upon our own character. To the perfect man, the Face of the Mother is perfect: to the man ashamed, disfigured, broken, it appears to be such as he. Only the pure behold the Truth. There is no merely intellectual test of truth, for truth is known only by the Soul. As one looks into the mirror, and reads the thought behind appearances, not with the intellect but with the sight of the awakened soul, one grows to understand what Progress means, one sees a little further into the secrets of Love; one learns that the divine Love neither invites nor refuses. The Sayers of Words are those who with pure insight--or as Coleridge would say, Imagination--behold things as they are apprehended by the cosmic consciousness; and thus beholding them as they truly are, find words which hint to the soul of that Reality which speaks through all appearance. After the sayers come the singers, the Poets who, building words together, create new worlds. In another poem, the Open Road[216] becomes the symbol of Freedom, Acceptance, Sanity, Comradeship, Immortality and Eternal Battles. Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Strong and content, I travel the open road. (1860.) Among the best known and most popular of the _Leaves of Grass_, it is also among those which are most filled with recondite and mystic meanings. Over these we must not linger, save to note the indication of the mystic sense by phrases like "the float of the sight of things" and "the efflux of the Soul". The poem as a whole is marked by musical cadences, and is vivid from end to end with courage and the open air. After the "Song of Myself," Thoreau preferred the "Sun-down Poem," which describes the crossing of Brooklyn Ferry.[217] It is filled with the thought that, even after half a century and in our own day, when others than he will be crossing, still he will be with them there unseen. The thoughts that come to him show him the Soul wrapt around in unconsciousness, and the things which, by contact with the clean senses, are presently realised as meanings by the Soul. The poem is a fine example of Whitman's delight in movement, in masses of people, and in the surroundings of his city. In the "Clef-poem,"[218] intended to strike the key-note, not only for his poems, but as it were for the universe itself with its innumerable meanings, he tells how, standing on the beach at night alone, he realised that all things--soul and body, past and future, here and there--are interlocked and spanned by a vast homogeneity of essence. The knowledge sweeps away all possibilities of anxiety about the future after death; experience can never fail to feed the soul. It contents him also with the present: no experience can ever be more wonderful to him than this of to-night, when he lies upon the breast of the Mother of his being. The future can be nothing but an eternal unfolding of this that he beholds already present in his body and Soul. * * * * * While dwelling upon the symbolical mysticism which cannot be ignored in Whitman's whole habit of thought, I may add a further word upon its character.[219] Mysticism appears under several forms. The Indian guru, winning the eternal consciousness by long practices in the gymnasium of the mind; the lover discovering it through the fiery gateways, and tear-washed windows of passion; the poet seeking it in the eyes of the Beauty that was before the beginning of the world; the Quaker awaiting its coming in silence and simplicity; the Catholic preparing for it by prayer and fasting, by ritual and ceremony; the lover of nature discovering it among her solitudes; the lover of man entering into it only by faith, in the strenuous service of his kind: all these bear witness to the many ways of experience along which the deep waters flow. Belonging to no school, Whitman had relations with several of the mystical groups; he had least, I suppose, with that which seeks the occult by traditional crystal-gazing and the media of hypnotic trances or the dreams produced by anæsthetic drugs. He was a mystic because wonders beset him all about on the open road of his soul. In him mysticism was never associated with pathological symptoms; it was, as he himself suggests, the flower and proof of his sanity, soundness and health. He had not learnt his lore from books. Plato and Plotinus, Buddha and Boehme, were alike but half-familiar to him; he never studied them closely as a disciple should. His thought may have been quickened by old Elias Hicks, and strengthened occasionally by contact with the Friends. It often recalls the more leonine, less catholic spirit of George Fox; and the vision of the Soul, standing like an unseen companion by the side of every man, woman, and child, ready to appear at the first clear call of deep to human deep, was ever present to them both, and in itself explains much that must otherwise remain incomprehensible in their attitude. But the world of Whitman was that of the nineteenth century, not of the seventeenth: Carlyle, Goethe and Lincoln, had taken the places of Calvin, Milton and Cromwell. In many aspects the mysticism of _Leaves of Grass_ is nearer to that of _The Republic_ and _The Symposium_, than to that of Fox's _Epistles_ and _Journal_; nearer, that is, to the Greek synthesis, than to the evangelical ardour of the Puritan. Temperance he loved, but he hated the narrowness of negations. * * * * * To return to the book: the thought of the sanity of the Earth is brought to bear upon the problem of evil in a poem[220] which describes how, in spite of the mass of corruption returned to it by disease and death, the earth neutralises all by the chemistry of its laws and life. With calm and patient acceptance of evil, nature refuses nothing, but ever provides man anew with innocent and divine materials. And such, it would seem, is the inherent character of the Universe, and therefore of the Soul. A poem,[221] whose opening cadences were suggested by the drip, drip, drip, of the rain from the eaves, presents the Broad-axe as the true emblem of America, Whitman's substitute for the Eagle whose wings are always spread. Broad-axe, shapely, naked, wan! Head from the mother's bowels drawn! Wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one and lip only one! Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown! helve produced from a little seed sown! Resting the grass amid and upon, To be leaned, and to lean on. Here we enter the picturesque, muscular world of wood-cutters and carpenters so familiar to the author, and we are reminded of the older and more sinister uses and products of the axe. Seen by Whitman, the Broad-axe itself is a poem that tells of strenuous America, with her free heroic life and the comradeship of her Western cities, great with the greatness of their common folk. It tells him of the woman of America, self-possessed and strong; and of large, natural, naïve types of manhood. It even prophecies to him of Walt Whitman, and sings the "Song of Myself," the message of the noble fierce undying Self. As a Cuvier can reconstruct an undiscovered creature from a single fossil bone, so might the poet seer have foretold America by this symbol of an axe. The idea of America is further expounded in several other poems, especially in the longest of the additions, which was afterwards expanded into "By Blue Ontario's Shore".[222] Much of its essential thought, however, and some of its actual phrasing belongs to the old Preface, and has therefore been already noted. It dwells on the potential equality of every citizen in the sight of America herself, an equality based upon the divine Soul which is in each; and also, upon Liberty, which is the ultimate and essential element of all individual life. The thought of America calls up in Whitman's mind the picture of that poet, that "Soul of Love and tongue of fire," who will utter the idea which is America, and which alone can integrate her diverse peoples into one. And here Whitman flings off his cloak which concealed him in the Preface, and openly announces that it is he himself who incarnates the spirit of the land. Fall behind me, States! A man, before all--myself, typical, before all. Give me the pay I have served for! Give me to speak beautiful words! take all the rest; I have loved the earth, sun, animals--I have despised riches, I have given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my income and labour to others, I have hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, I have gone freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with the mothers of families, I have read these leaves to myself in the open air--I have tried them by trees, stars, rivers, I have dismissed whatever insulted my own Soul or defiled my body, I have claimed nothing to myself which I have not carefully claimed for others on the same terms, I have studied my land, its idioms and men, I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself, I reject none, I permit all, Whom I have staid with once I have found longing for me ever afterward.[223] The poet is that equable sane man, in whose vision alone all things find and are seen in their proper place, for he sees each _sub specie æternitatis_--in its eternal aspect. But while thus boldly declaring himself as the man that should come, he has of course no desire to stand alone, and attempts to outline the equipment necessary for future American poets. They must not only identify themselves in every possible way with America, they must be themselves creative and virile. Those who criticise, explain and adjudge, can only create a literary soil; they cannot produce the flower and fruit of poetry. Returning to his favourite adage that a man is as great as a nation, he asserts that the true poet is America; frankly reading himself as a whole, he will see the meanings of America. Is then America also a symbol? Assuredly. She is the Republic; she is the Kingdom of God; she is Blake's Jerusalem; but behold, she is already founded and four-square upon the solid earth. That he was open-eyed to the materialistic spirit rampant throughout the continent while he was writing, is clearly shown in the bitter mockery of "Respondez,"[224] a poem afterwards suppressed. It is a challenge to thought; an ironic assertion of things that are false and futile, and which yet parade as realities. Though suggestive it is obscure, and its subsequent omission was wise. Thoughts of the destiny of America,[225] and of the evil and imperfection which he saw about him, hindering, as it seemed, the realisation of that destiny, and of the destiny of individual souls, must often have moved him to passionate longing. He was not one of those who confuse good with evil; he always recognised the difference between right and wrong as among the eternal distinctions which could never cease to hold true. He hated sin as he hated disease, and recognised both as threatening and actual. If he rarely denounces, it is because he has seen that the way of the soul is along the path of love and not of fear or of hate; and because he recognises the office of sin in the story of the soul. He is not anxious about vice or virtue, but only about life and love. Love, at its fullest, is something different from virtue; it contains elements which virtue can never possess, and which most ethical codes consign to the category of vice. Such love alone is the expression of the soul; and every student of love discovers sooner or later that the soul has its own intimate standard for judging what is wrong and what is right, and when that which was wrong has now become right for it to do. Love, then, is Whitman's code. And when he seeks to call the youth of America away from selfishness and sin, he issues no new table of Thou-Shalt-Nots, but fills their ears with the words of their destiny, and of the meaning of America. For he knows that to sin is to choose a narrow and despicable delight, and that one must needs choose the nobler, larger joy when it becomes present and real. Hence he recalls all the aspirations that went to the birth of America, and describes the parts that women and men must fill if they are to be realised. He reminds his young readers of all the divine possibilities of manhood and of womanhood, and of how those possibilities are for them; and warns them that the body must necessarily affect the soul, for it is the medium through which the soul comes into consciousness. Anticipate your own life--retract with merciless power, Shirk nothing--retract in time--Do you see those errors, diseases, weaknesses, lies, thefts? Do you see that lost character?--Do you see decay, consumption, rum-drinking, dropsy, fever, mortal cancer or inflammation? Do you see death, and the approach of death? Think of the Soul; I swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your Soul somehow to live in other spheres, I do not know how, but I know it is so.[226] Finally, in the new poems, Whitman makes more plain his attitude toward the woman question, as it is called. An American National Women's Rights Association had been founded in 1850, and although its agitation for the suffrage proved unsuccessful, the more general movement which it represented, especially the higher education of women, was gaining ground throughout America. The movement may be said to have been born in New York State, where Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Miss Susan B. Anthony were its most active leaders; but it owed much to Boston also, and notably to Margaret Fuller (Ossoli), whose tragic death had been an irreparable loss to the cause.[227] Whitman was in cordial sympathy with everything that could forward the independence of women. But he disliked some outstanding characteristics of the movement. It was in part a violent reaction against the unwholesome sentimentalism of the past; a reaction which took the form of sexless intellectualism with a strong bent towards argumentation, perhaps the most abhorrent of all qualities to Whitman. This movement for women's rights seemed to him too academic and too superficial; college education and the suffrage did not appeal to him. But he was not the less an enthusiast for the cause itself, as he understood it. His views are simple and clear. A soul is a soul, whether it be man's or woman's; and as such, it is of necessity free, and the equal of others. A woman is every way as good as a man. This truth must be made effective in all departments of life. Then, taking up the thought which underlies the teaching of Plato, a woman is a citizen; and an American woman must be as independent, as dauntless, as greatly daring as a man. Such as the woman essentially is, such will be the man, her son, and her mate. But--and it is here he differs from the leaders of the movement--sex is basic not only in society but in personal life; and the woman unsexed is but half a woman. Two poems in the new edition, the nucleus of the subsequent _Children of Adam_, are devoted to these ideas. In the first,[228] he describes the women of his ideal:-- They are not one jot less than I am, They are tanned in the face by shining suns and blowing winds, Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength, They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves, They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-possessed of themselves. In the second,[229] he declares that life is only life after love--he means the passionate fulness of love--and indicates that womanhood is to be glorified not through a sexless revolt, but through the redemption of paternity. When the begetting of children is recognised to be as holy and as noble as the bearing of them, then the rights of women will be on the way to recognition. If motherhood is the glory of the race, then a movement towards perpetual virginity brings no solution of our problem. The only solution lies in the independence of women, and in the evolution of a higher masculine ideal of the sex relation. The whole thing must be naturally and honestly faced. Until we so face it, we cannot understand a world in which it is so implicated, that sex is, as it were, a summing up of all things. This last thought grew upon him, becoming more prominent in the next edition. In the present one it recurs in the open letter to Emerson printed in its appendix,[230] and gave a peculiar colour to the volume in the public eye. So much was this the case, that a prosecution seemed at one time imminent, many persons regarding the book as obscene. Among timid and conventional people, it seems to be established as a canon of criticism that it is always immoral to discuss immorality. They go but little farther who denounce the purity which is not defiled by pitch; or tear out by the roots all flowers that grow upon dung-heaps. * * * * * Such then, added to the old, formed the contents of the new edition of 1856. The appendix included Emerson's letter, which Whitman had been urged to publish, by Mr. C. A. Dana, editor of the _New York Sun_, and a personal friend of Emerson.[231] He succeeded in convincing Whitman, who appears at first to have doubted the propriety of such an action. There is no evidence that Emerson resented the use thus made of his glowing testimony, although he would probably have modified his words had he written in acknowledgment of the enlarged volume. A sentence from the letter appeared also upon the back of the book: "I greet you at the commencement of a great career.--R. W. Emerson." This, together with the storm of indignation aroused by the absolutely frank language of the poems dealing with sex, gave the book notoriety and a rapid sale. It is the least pleasing of the editions of _Leaves of Grass_, insignificant in appearance, and yet aggressive, by reason of that Emersonian testimonial. The open letter at the end, of which I have already spoken, is far from agreeable to read. It is careless, egotistical, naïve to a degree, and crowded with exaggerations. Addressing Emerson as master, it proceeds to denounce the churches as one vast lie, and the actual president as a rascal and a thief. It is so egregiously self-conscious that it makes the reader question for a moment whether all the egoism and naïveté of the preceding pages may not have been worn as a pose; but a moment's further consideration gives the question a final negative. Few men are without their hours of weakness; and that Whitman was not among those few, the letter is proof if such were needed. The letter is not void of interest, since it records the rapid sale of the previous edition of a thousand copies, and anticipates that in a few more years the annual issue will be counted by thousands. This sanguine forecast explains the permanent and otherwise unreasonable disappointment of Whitman at the reception of his book. It still made its appearance devoid of the usual adornment of a publisher's name upon the title-page. Messrs. Fowler & Wells were again the principal agents, others being arranged with in the chief American cities, in London also, and Paris and Brussels. Plates were cast from the type, and a large sale was prepared for. But the New York agents soon withdrew, unwilling to face the storm of public opinion,[232] and perhaps the dangers of prosecution, and the book fell out of print when only a thousand copies had been issued. * * * * * The two ventures of 1855 and 1856 had brought Whitman little money, a mere handful of serious readers, and some notoriety. Though he did not give in, he began to look about him for some supplementary means of delivering his soul of its burden. His youthful success on the political platform, his love of crowds and of personal contact, his extraordinary popularity among the younger people, and his own keen sense of the power of oratory, turned his thoughts to lecturing.[233] He would follow the road which Emerson and Thoreau had taken. He would evangelise America with his gospel. Henceforward, as his mother said, he wrote barrels of lectures,[234] and at the same time he studied his new art more or less systematically. After his death a package of notes on Oratory, and the rough draft of a prospectus were found among his papers; the latter was headed, "15 cents. Walt Whitman's Lectures." It belongs to the year 1858. By this time he had planned to write, print, distribute and recite throughout the United States and Canada a number of lectures--partly philosophical, partly socio-political, partly religious--with the object of creating what he conceived to be a new, and for the first time truly American attitude of mind. The lectures were ultimately to form a second volume of explanation and argument which would sustain the _Leaves_. He had now omitted any preface to the poems, the creative work standing alone. But having printed the second edition and thus relieved his mind of its most pressing burden, he recognised that the work of explanation and of criticism remained. Moreover, he conceived that his lectures would quicken public interest in his book; while, by showing himself, he hoped to dispel some of the misapprehensions which concealed his real meaning from the popular mind. He alludes whimsically in this memorandum to the offensive practice of self-advertisement, of which he was not unconscious, remarking that "it cannot be helped," for it is the only way by which he can gain the ear of America, and bid her "Know thyself". Finally, he proposed to earn his living in this manner. He would have preferred to give his services without fee, in the Quaker fashion; but for the time being at least, he must make a charge of ten dollars (two guineas) a lecture, and expenses, or an admission fee of one dime (about sixpence) a head. The idea of lecturing was probably as old as the idea of the _Leaves of Grass_; he seems to have been considering it ever since he returned from the South. But now he formulated his ideas, which were of course those underlying the _Leaves_, and thought much and cogently on the style and manner of public speaking. His conclusions betray an ideal for oratory as individual and as mystical as that for the poet's art. Whitman, the lecturer, is conceived as a prophet possessed by the tempestuous passion of inspiration. The orator is to combine the gifts of the great actor with the inspiration of the Pythoness and the spontaneity of the Quaker prophet. His gestures should be large, but reserved; the delivery deliberate, thought-awakening, elliptical, prophetic, wholly unlike that of the glib platform speakers of his day and our own. At first, erect and motionless, the speaker would impress his mere personality upon the assembly; then his eyes would kindle, like the eyes in that strange marble Balzac of Rodin's, and from the eyes outward the whole body would take fire and speak. He conceived of oratory not as the delivery of some well-prepared address, but as the focussing of all the powers of thought and experience in an hour of inspiration and supreme mastery. He saw how much it entailed--what breadth of knowledge, what depth of thought, what perfect flexibility of voice and gesture trained to clear suggestion, what absolute purity of body, what perfect self-control. For, he would say to himself, the great orator is an artist as supreme as Alboni herself; his voice is to be as potent as hers, and his life must show an equal devotion to its purpose. In this conception of the orator we have then a most interesting parallel with that of the poet. And just as Whitman the poet stands part way between the writer of prose and the singer in verse, including in himself some of the qualities of each, and adding an inspiration wholly his own, so Whitman the orator appears in this vision standing between the actor-singer and the lecturer or preacher, improvising great words. The political aspect of his enterprise is suggested by a brief memorandum, dated in April, 1857,[235] wherein he notes that the "Champion of America" must keep himself clear of all official entanglements, devoting himself solely to the maintenance of a living interest in public questions throughout the length and breadth of the land. Standing aside from the parties with their clamorous cries, he must hold the public ear by nobler tones. In another place[236] he writes that as Washington had freed the body politic of America from its dependence upon the English crown, so Whitman will free the American people from their dependence upon European ideals. The mere publication of such frank, but private assertions of Whitman's own faith in himself, will doubtless arouse a ready incredulity in the reader's mind. It might, perhaps, seem kinder to his memory to suppress them altogether; but upon second thought it will, I think, appear possible that he was a better judge than others of his own ability. His personality was one of extraordinary power, and his outlook of a breadth which was almost unique. And, as I have said, he felt himself to be an incarnation of the American spirit. At the time, America was without leadership. Lincoln was still unseen; and Whitman was fully as capable of filling the highest office in the United States as several who have held it; while nothing in the circumstances or traditions of the White House made it absurd for any able citizen, of whatever rank, to entertain the thought of its tenancy. This would be especially true of a popular New Yorker, who made perhaps the best of all candidates for a Presidential campaign. The Republican party had but just been formed, and for the first time had fought an election. Thunderclouds of war were in the air, urged on by the ominous forces of slavery, and America was without a champion. I think the idea of political leadership crossed Whitman's mind at this time, and that he put it definitely aside. The hour cried out for the man, and the cry was not to go unanswered; but with all his power and all his goodwill and fervour, Whitman became slowly convinced that it was not to be he. He had seen too much of party manoeuvres, and had too vigorous a love of personal liberty, to contend for office. But he did covet the power of a prophet to stir the heart of America, and appeal to her people everywhere in her name. He never gave up the idea of lecturing or lost his interest in oratory; but the lectures he planned, the course on Democracy and the rest, remained undelivered. It is as though he had prepared himself and stood awaiting a call which never came. Instead, he turned once more to add new poems to his collection. A hint in explanation is to be found in a poem written about this time,[237] in which he tells how, having first sought knowledge, he then determined to live for America and become her orator; he was afterwards possessed by the desire for a heroic life of action, but was given the commission of song. Finally, another change came over his spirit; the claims of his own life seized him; he could not escape from the passion of comradeship which overwhelmed him and wholly absorbed his thought.[238] We shall consider this phase in the next chapter, but before doing so, it will be well to recall the political events of the hour and the circumstances surrounding the advent of a new power and personality into American life. FOOTNOTES: [202] M. D. Conway, _Autobiography_. [203] _Fort. Rev._, vi., 538; Kennedy, 51. [204] _In re_, 36. [205] See _Familiar Letters of H. D. Thoreau_, 339-349. [206] F. B. Sanborn's _Thoreau_, 307; _cf._ H. S. Salt's _Thoreau_, 293. [207] _Fam. Letters_, 347. [208] Camden, lxxii.; _cf._ _Life of A. Tennyson_, ii., 424. [209] A new translation of the great Indian classic had just appeared. [210] Kennedy, 78. [211] _L. of G._, 112, 120. [212] _L. of G._, 176. [213] _L. of G._ (1860), 329; _cf._ _An American Primer_, by W. W. (1904). [214] _L. of G._, 179. [215] _L. of G._, 177. [216] _Ib._, 120. [217] _L. of G._, 129. [218] _Ib._, 207; ('60), 229-31. [219] See also p. 166. [220] _L. of G._, 285. [221] _Ib._, 148. [222] _L. of G._, 264. [223] _Ib._ (1860), 121. [224] _L. of G._ (1860), 166. [225] _Ib._, 171-74; _cf._ _L. of G._, 213. [226] _L. of G._ (1860), 172. [227] See esp. the _Life of Susan B. Anthony_. [228] _L. of G._, 88. [229] _L. of G._, 90. [230] _Ib._ (1856). [231] Bucke, 139. [232] Burroughs, 19. [233] Camden, vii.; viii., 244-260; ix., 200; x., 32. [234] _In re_, 35. [235] Camden, ix., 7, 8. [236] _Ib._, viii., 245. [237] _L. of G._ (1860), 354. [238] As the poem is not given in the complete _L. of G._ I reprint it here:-- Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice me--O if I could but obtain knowledge! Then my lands engrossed me--Lands of the prairies, Ohio's land, the southern savannas, engrossed me--For them I would live--I would be their orator; Then I met the examples of old and new heroes--I heard of warriors, sailors, and all dauntless persons--And it seemed to me that I too had it in me to be as dauntless as any--and would be so; And then, to enclose all, it came to me to strike up the songs of the New World--And then I believed my life must be spent in singing; But now take notice, land of the prairies, land of the south savannas, Ohio's land, Take notice, you Kanuck woods--and you Lake Huron--and all that with you roll toward Niagara--and you Niagara also, And you, Californian mountains--That you each and all find somebody else to be your singer of songs, For I can be your singer of songs no longer--One who loves me is jealous of me, and withdraws me from all but love, With the rest I dispense--I sever from what I thought would suffice me, for it does not--it is now empty and tasteless to me, I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the example of heroes, no more, I am indifferent to my own songs--I will go with him I love, It is to be enough for us that we are together--We never separate again. CHAPTER IX "YEAR OF METEORS" Abraham Lincoln, the man for whom the hour cried out, was not quite unknown to fame.[239] Ten years older than Whitman, and like Whitman owning to a strain of Quaker blood in his veins, he belonged by origin to the South and by adoption to the West. After six years' service in the Illinois Legislature, and a term in the Lower House at Washington, he settled down at the age of forty to his profession as a country lawyer. In 1854 the repeal of the Missouri compromise in favour of "squatter sovereignty" recalled him to political life, and he became the champion of Free-soil principles in his State, against the chief sponsor of the opposing doctrine, the "little giant of Illinois," Judge Stephen Douglas. His reply to Douglas in October of that year was read and applauded by his party throughout America. Hitherto he had been a Whig, and during Clay's lifetime, his devoted follower, but the repeal of the compromise was followed in 1856 by the formation of a new party, and Lincoln and Whitman both became "black republicans". "Barnburners," Abolitionists and "Anti-Nebraska" men--those that is to say who opposed the application of the doctrine of "squatter sovereignty" to Nebraska and Kansas--had united to form a new Free-soil party. They nominated J. C. Frémont, the gallant Californian "Path-finder" for the Presidency; but, owing to the presence of a third candidate put forward by the Know-nothing Whigs--whose only policy seems to have been a "patriotic" hatred of all Catholics and foreigners--the Democratic nominee was elected for the last time in a generation. After his four years were out, a succession of Republican Presidents occupied the White House for twenty-four years. James Buchanan, who defeated Frémont--becoming like Lincoln, his successor, a minority President--seems to have been an honourable and well-intentioned Pennsylvanian, but he was a man whose character was quite insufficient for his new office. As an injudicious, short-sighted diplomatist, he had already, when minister at St. James's in the days of President Pierce, commended his intrigues for the annexation of Cuba. Earlier in 1856 Chief Justice Taney, of the Supreme Court, had delivered his notorious decision in the Dred Scott case; laying it down that Congress could not forbid a citizen to carry his property into the public domain--that is to say, it could not prohibit slavery in the territories--and that, in the political sense of the word, a negro was not a "man," but only property. This decision and the bloody scenes enacted in Kansas, where settlers from the North and South were met to struggle for the constitution which should make the new State either slave or free, greatly exasperated public opinion, and called forth, among others, the protests of Abraham Lincoln. In 1858, while Whitman was studying oratory, Lincoln was stumping Illinois, in those ever-memorable debates which laid bare all the plots and purposes of the Southern politicians. When the votes in that contest were counted, Lincoln held an actual majority; but Douglas was returned as Senator by a majority of the electoral votes. Though thus defeated, Lincoln was no longer hidden in a Western obscurity. He was a man with a future; and America had half-unconsciously recognised him. * * * * * Towards the close of 1859, the fire which had been kindled in Kansas flashed out suddenly in Virginia. America was startled by the news of John Brown's raid, and the capture of the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. Brown was among the most remarkable personalities of the time; and while some saw in him a religious fanatic of the Roundhead type, who compelled his enemies to pray at the muzzle of his musket, and who for the Abolition cause would shatter the Union; others counted him a martyr for the cause of freedom. Emerson had been one of his most earnest backers when first he went to Kansas; and now his deed fired the enthusiasm of New England. Thoreau wrote: "No man in America has ever stood up so persistently and effectively for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for a man, and the equal of any Government"; and when he was hung, it was Thoreau who vehemently declared that John Brown seemed to him to be the only man in America who had not died.[240] His high spirit quickened the conscience of the North, and two years later its sons marched into Virginia singing the song of his apotheosis. Whitman was present at the trial of certain of Brown's abettors in the State House at Boston;[241] one of a group prepared to effect their rescue in the event of a miscarriage of justice. Lincoln, on the other hand, was of those who, in spite of their intense hatred of slavery, wholly disapproved the Raid. For him, John Brown was a maddened enthusiast, a mere assassin like Orsini.[242] His attempt to raise the slaves of Virginia in revolt against the whites was abhorrent to the Republican statesman whose knowledge of the South showed him the horrors of a negro rising. Regarding slavery as the irreconcilable and only dangerous foe of the Republic, Lincoln held that the Federal Government must restrain it within its actual bounds; and that the sentiment in favour of gradual emancipation advocated by Jefferson, the father of the Democratic party, should be encouraged in the States of the South. But it was the States themselves that held and must hold the fatal right of choice; it was for them, not for America, to liberate their slaves. * * * * * While the figure of Lincoln was thus becoming more and more visible to the nation, Whitman was fulfilling his own destiny in New York. He was born to be a leader of men; but a poet, a path-finder, a pioneer, not a politician or president. Whatever his noble ambition might urge, or his quick imagination prompt, he kept his feet to the path of his proper destiny. He had a prodigiously wide circle of friends, gathered from every walk of life: journalists and literary men of all kinds; actors and actresses; doctors and an occasional minister of religion; political and public characters; the stage-drivers and the hands on the river-boats; farmers from the country; pilots and captains of the port; labourers, mechanics and artisans of every trade; loungers too, and many a member of that class which society has failed to assimilate and which it hunts from prison to asylum and poor-house; and he had acquaintances among another class of outcasts whose numbers were already an open menace to the life of the Western metropolis, the girls who sell themselves upon the streets.[243] Many anecdotes are told of him during these years: how for instance he would steer the ferry-boats, till once he brought his vessel into imminent peril, and never thereafter would consent to handle the wheel; or how, during the illness of a comrade, he held his post, driving his stage in the winter weather while he lay in the wards of the hospital; or again, how he took Emerson to a favourite rendezvous of firemen and teamsters, his good friends, and to the astonishment of the kindly sage, proved himself manifestly one of them. A doctor at the old New York Hospital,[244] a dark stone building surmounted by a cupola, and looking out over a grassy square through iron gates upon Pearl Street, often met him in the wards, where he came to visit one or other of his driver friends, and enjoyed the restful influence of his presence there or in the little house-doctor's room. In those days, when Broadway was crammed with vehicles and with stages of all colours, much as is the Strand to-day, the proverbial American daring and recklessness gave ample opportunity for accidents. As to the drivers, they were generally country-bred farmers' sons, fine fellows, wide-awake and thoroughly conversant with all that passed in the city from the earliest grey of dawn till midnight: and Whitman found some of his closest comrades in their ranks. Sometimes a member of the hospital staff would go over with him to Pfaff's German restaurant or Rathskeller on Broadway; a large dingy basement to which one descended from the street. Here, half under the pavement, were the tables, bar and oyster stall, whereat the Bohemians of New York were wont to gather, and in a yellow fog of tobacco-smoke denounce all things Bostonian. John Swinton, a friend of Alcott and of Whitman, belonged to the group,[245] and among those who drank Herr Pfaff's lager-beer, and demolished his schwartz brod, Swiss cheese, and Frankfurter wurst, were many of the brilliant little band which at this time was making the _New York Saturday Press_ a challenge to everything academic and respectable. It was here that a young Bostonian, paying his first visit to the city in 1860,[246] found Whitman installed at the head of a long table, already a hero in that revolutionary young world. The _Press_ was his champion, and his voice was not to be silenced. Mr. Howells, for it was he, had been amused and amazed at the ferociously profane Bohemianism of the worthy editor, who had lived in Paris, and now worshipped it in the person of Victor Hugo as much as he detested Longfellow and Boston. Mr. Howells was astonished and deeply impressed by the extraordinary charm, gentleness and benignity of the man whom the _Press_ was extolling as arch-anarch and rebel. Whitman's eyes and voice made a frank and irresistible proffer of friendship, and he gave you his hand as though it were yours to keep. An atmosphere of unmistakable purity emanated from him in the midst of that thickness of smoke, that reek of beer and oysters and German cooking. He was clean as the sea is clean. He passed along the ordinary levels of life as one who lives among the mountains, and finds his home on Helicon or Olympus. Ada Clare[247] (Mrs. Julia Macelhinney), by all accounts a charming and brilliant woman, was queen of this rebel circle, and especially a friend of Whitman's. News of her tragic death from hydrophobia, caused by the bite of her pet dog, came as a terrible shock to all who had known her. He had other women friends, notably Mrs. "Abby" Price, of Brooklyn, and her two daughters.[248] The mother was an incurable lover of her kind, whose hospitality to the outcast survived all the frauds practised upon it. The haunted faces of the needy were becoming only too familiar both in New York and Brooklyn. The winter of 1857-58 had been a black one:[249] banks had broken, and work had come to a standstill; and there had been in consequence the direst need among the ever-increasing class of men who were wholly dependent upon their weekly earnings. The rise of this class in a new country marks the advent of the social problem in its more acute form: and from this date on there was a rapid development of the usual palliative agencies, missions, rescue-homes and what-not. The permanent problem of poverty had made its appearance in America. It need hardly be added that at the same time there were many evidences of the growing wealth of another class of the citizens, those whose profits were derived from land-values and the employment of wage-labour. The brown-stone characteristic of the modern city was now replacing the wood and brick which had hitherto lined Broadway,[250] as private houses gave way to shops and offices, hotels and theatres. Residences were built farther and farther up-town; and the Quarantine Station on Staten Island, which stood in the way of a similar expansion in that desirable quarter, was burnt out by aspiring citizens. And meanwhile the pressure of life in the East-side rookeries was growing more and more tyrannous. The foundering of a slave-ship off Montauk Point was one of the more striking reminders of the menace of vested interests to all that the fathers of the Republic had held dear.[251] For even the slave trade was now being revived, and the hands of Northern merchants were anything but clean from the gold of conspiracy. Sympathy for the "institution" and its corollaries was strong in New York, and was not unrepresented at Pfaff's. It must have been about the close of 1861,[252] or a little later, that one of the Bohemians proposed a toast to the success of the Southern arms. Whitman retorted with indignant and passionate words: an altercation ensued across the table, with some show of ill-mannered violence by the Southern enthusiast; and Whitman left his old haunt, never to return till the great storm of the war had become a far-away echo. * * * * * [Illustration: WHITMAN AT FORTY] There are two portraits which belong to the Pfaffian days. In either he might be the stage-driver of Broadway, and his dress presents a striking contrast with the stiff gentility of the orthodox costume, the silk hat and broadcloth, of the correct citizen. He is a great nonchalant fellow, with rough clothes fit for manual toil; a coat whose collar, by the way, has a rebellious upward turn; a waistcoat, all unbuttoned save at a point about half-way down, exposing the loose-collared shirt surrounded by a big knotted tie. The trousers are of the same striped stuff as the vest; one hand is thrust into a pocket, the other holds his broad brim. In the photograph, which alone is of full length, the face is strong and kindly, as Mr. Howells saw it; but in the painting, which dates from 1859,[253] and is valuable as showing the florid colouring of the man at this time--the growth of hair and beard, though touched with grey, very vigorous and still dark, the eyebrows almost black, the face handsome, red and full as of an old-time sea-captain--the aspect is heavy and even a little sinister. Probably this is a clumsy rendering of that lethargic and brooding condition which the occupation of sitting for a portrait would be likely to induce; and in this it is curiously unlike that of the photograph. The pose in the latter is unstudied and a little awkward; one cannot help feeling that the man ought to loaf a little less. The head is magnificent, but the knees are loose. There was something in Whitman's character which this full-length portrait indicates better than any other; something indefinite and complacent, which matched with his deliberate and swaggery gait. It is a quality which exasperates the formalists, and all the people who feel positively indecent in anything but a starched shirt. Whitman wore the garb and fell naturally into the attitudes of the manual worker. When he was not at work he was relaxed, and stood at ease in a way that no one could mistake. And when he went out to enjoy himself he never donned a tail-coat and patent shoes. Something in this very capacity for relaxation and looseness at the knees made him more companionable to the average man, as it made him more exasperating to the superior person. The gentility of the clerical mannikin of the office was utterly abominable to him; so much one can read in the portrait, and in the fact that he persisted in calling himself Walt, the name which was familiar to the men on the ferry and the road.[254] * * * * * Early in 1860 Whitman made arrangements with a firm of young and enterprising Boston publishers for the issue of a third edition of his book. It had now been out of print for nearly three years, and new material had all that time been accumulating, amounting to about two-thirds of what had already been published. He went over to Boston and installed himself in a little room at the printing office, where he spent his days carefully correcting and revising the proofs. A friend who found him there speaks of his very quiet manners.[255] He rarely laughed, and never loudly. He seemed to be provokingly indifferent to the impression he was creating, and made no effort to talk brilliantly. He was indeed quite bare of the small change of conversation, and gave no impression of self-consciousness. At the time of this interview he was accompanied by a sickly listless lad whom he had found at the boarding-house where he stayed. Whitman had compassion on him and carried him along, in order that he might communicate something of his own superabundant vitality to him. During his stay in Boston, Walt frequently attended the services then conducted at the Seamen's Bethel by Father Taylor.[256] As a rule, he avoided churches of every sort, feeling acutely the ineffectiveness of what is grimly called "Divine Service," feeling also that worship was for the soul in its solitude.[257] Not that he was ignorant of that social passion which finds its altar in communion of spirit, or was blind to the deepest mysteries of fellowship. To these, as we shall see, he was particularly sensitive. But the formalities of a church must have seemed foolish and irksome to one for whom all fellowship was a kind of worship, and all desire was a prayer. In the preaching of Father Taylor there was nothing formal or ineffective. In it Walt felt anew the passionate sense of reality which had thrilled him as a child in the preaching of old Elias Hicks. Father Taylor was now nearly seventy;[258] a southerner by birth, he had been a sailor, and became upon conversion a "shouting Methodist". The earnestness of his first devotion remained with him to the last; and his prayers were especially marked by the power which flowed from him continually. Behind the high pulpit in the quaint heavily-timbered, wood-scented chapel was painted a ship in distress, in vivid illustration of his words which were ever returning to the sea. All his ways were eloquent, unconventional, picturesque and homely like his face, so that he won the hearts of all conditions of men, and became one of the idols of Boston. The old man's power of fascination seemed almost terrible to his hearers; one young sailor opined that he must be the actual Holy Ghost. Walt himself was always moved to tears by the marvellous intimacy of his passionate pleading in prayer.[259] He spoke straight to the Soul, and not at all, as do common preachers, to the intelligence or the superficial emotions; and the Soul of his hearers answered, with the awful promptitude of an unknown living presence within. His passion of love was at once tender and remorseless; Whitman compares him with a surgeon operating upon a beloved patient. In this man, before whom all the elocution of the platform was mere trickery, Walt recognised the one "essentially perfect orator" whom he had ever heard, the only one who fulfilled the demands of his own ideal. And be it remembered, Theodore Parker was in his power in those days, while Father Taylor was an evangelical of the old school. It is, after all, not mysticism but orthodoxy which is exclusive; and though he was wholly a heretic, Whitman was able fully to love and appreciate those who were farthest removed from his own point of view. * * * * * Upon this visit Emerson and Whitman saw much of one another. They were both men in middle life--Emerson had passed his fiftieth year--and each entertained for the other a feeling of warm and affectionate regard. Whitman felt toward the older man almost as to an elder brother,[260] and the sweet and wise and kindly spirit of Emerson frequently sought out the younger in brotherly solicitude for his welfare. Their intimacy had sprung from Emerson's letter, and it was always Emerson who pressed it. Something in the mental atmosphere in which the Concord philosopher moved was very repellant to Whitman: he positively disliked "a literary circle," and blamed it for all the real or imagined shortcomings of his friend. He himself would not go to Concord from his horror of any sort of lionizing. So when Emerson wanted to talk, they would walk together on the Common;[261] as on one memorable, bright, keen February day, when under the bare branches of the American elms, they paced to and fro discoursing earnestly. Emerson's name had been somewhat too conspicuously displayed on the back of the second edition, of which he had been caused to appear almost as a sponsor; and some of the lines thus introduced had put his Puritan friends completely out of countenance, while giving his many enemies an admirable opportunity to blaspheme. The frank celebration of acts to which modern society only alludes by indirection, revealed to the observant eye of orthodoxy that cloven hoof of immorality which it always suspects concealed about the person of the philosophic heretic. And we can well imagine the consternation of the blameless householder of Boston as, in the bosom of his astonished family, he read aloud the pages commended to him by the words of the master. It was thus upon Emerson, who did not quite approve the offending poems, that much of the storm of indignation wreaked itself; and whatever Emerson himself might think of the situation, his family was indignant. One can almost hear them arguing that a man has heresies enough of his own to close the ears of men to his message, without gratuitous implication in heresies which are not his; if he value his charge, let him keep clear of other men's eccentricities; he really has no right to allow himself to be represented as the sponsor for such sentiments as Whitman printed in the _Body Electric_.[262] But whatever his friends might counsel, Emerson spoke from his own heart and wisdom that February day. He was pleading not for himself, but for the truth as he saw it, and for his offending friend. It was not because the book was being published as it were in his own diocese, his own beloved Boston; but because the new edition would be the first to be issued by a responsible house, and destined, probably, to enjoy a wide and permanent circulation, remaining for years the final utterance of Whitman upon these matters, that Emerson was so urgent and so eloquent. His position was a strong one; his arguments, and the spirit which prompted them, were, as Whitman admitted, overwhelming, and his companion was in a sense convinced. It is much to be regretted that neither of the friends kept any detailed record of this discussion, but I think we can guess what the older man's position would be. Your message of the soul, we can imagine Emerson saying, is of the utmost importance to America: it is what America needs, and it is what you, and you alone, can make her hear. But you can only make her hear it, if you state it in the most convincing and simple way. Now these poems of yours upon sex complicate and confuse the real message, not because they are necessarily wrong in themselves--I do not say they are--but because they do and must give rise to misunderstanding, and in consequence, obscure or even cancel the rest. They give the book an evil notoriety, and will create for it a _succès de scandale_. It will be bought and read by the prurient, to whom its worth will be wholly sealed. And not only do you destroy the value of the book by printing such poems as these, you render it actually dangerous. Personally you and I are agreed--he would say--with Boehme where he writes that "the new spirit cometh to Divine vision in himself, and heareth God's word, and hath Divine understanding and inclination ... and ... _the earthly flesh_ ... _hurteth him not at all_".[263] We know the flesh to be beautiful and sacred; we turn with loathing from the blasphemies of Saint Bernard and of Luther, who saw in it nothing but a maggot-sack, a sack of dung. On these things we are at one; but how are we most wisely and surely to direct others on the road to self-realisation? To feed the monster of a crude passion is surely not the way to bring the individual toward the Divine vision. To be frank about these matters is necessary; but in order to be honest is it necessary to fling abroad this wildfire, against which we are all contending, lest it destroy the labours of ages? Must we nourish this giant, whose unruly strength is for ever threatening to tear in pieces the unity of the self? By these poems you are deliberately consigning your book to the class which every wise parent must label "dangerous to young people," and which the very spirits you most desire to kindle for America will be compelled, by the law of their being, to handle at their peril, and to turn from with distress. * * * * * Arguments not unlike these were doubtless used by Emerson, for we know that he discussed this problem; and Whitman listened attentively to them, explaining himself at times, but generally weighing them in silence. Perhaps they were not new to him, but they were rendered the more powerful and well-nigh irresistible by the persuasive and beautiful spirit, the whole magnetic personality of his friend. Walt was deeply moved, and when, after a couple of hours, Emerson concluded the statement of his case with the challenge, "What have you to say to such things?" could but reply, "Only that while I can't answer them at all, I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my own theory and exemplify it". "Very well," responded Emerson cheerfully, "then let us go to dinner."[264] They had been pacing up and down the Long Walk by Beacon Street, from which one looks across the broad, park-like stretch of the Common--that Common whose grey, bright-eyed squirrels are so confiding, and whose air is so good from the sea. To-day the oldest of the elms, that kept record of the past as wisely as any archives, have yielded to the winds and to the tooth of time. The growth of these trees is very different from that of our English species, and their long, curving branches rib the vault of sky overhead. The two men went over the historic hill--where now the gilded dome of the State House glows richly against the sky--descending through picturesquely narrow streets, full of memories and echoes of old days, to their destination at the American House. FOOTNOTES: [239] _Cf._ useful ed. of his speeches recently added to "Unit Library". [240] Thoreau's _A Plea for Captain J. B._, and _The Last Days of J. B._ [241] Kennedy, 49. [242] Address at Cooper Inst., 27th February, 1860. [243] Among the MSS. Traubel is a first draft for a novel (?) dealing with a woman of this class. [244] Dr. D. B. St. J. Roosa in _N.Y. Mail and Express_. [245] Donaldson, 208. [246] W. D. Howells, _Lity. Friends and Acq._, 74. [247] Kennedy, 70. [248] Bucke, 26, 38. [249] _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iii., 458-60. [250] _Cf._ _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iii., 464, etc. [251] _Ib._, iii., 468. [252] Kennedy, 69. [253] In possession of Mr. J. H. Johnston, of New York. Reproduced as frontispiece to _Comp. Prose_. [254] Kennedy, 44; Bucke, 33; Burroughs, 20, 21. [255] Mr. Trowbridge. [256] _Comp. Prose_, 385-87. [257] _Ib._, 226, 227. [258] _Father Taylor, the Sailor Preacher_, by G. Haven and T. Russell, 1877. [259] _Comp. Prose_, 386. [260] Kennedy, 76, 77; _cf._ _Comp. Prose_, 315-17; Burroughs (_a_), 67, etc. [261] Burroughs, 144. [262] _L. of G._, 81. [263] _Two Theosophical Letters_, ii., 11. [264] Bucke, 144, 145; _Comp. Prose_, 184. CHAPTER X THE TESTAMENT OF A COMRADE What the theory was from which even Emerson's eloquence could not persuade Whitman, we may understand better if we take up the new volume, turning the pages which were now being added to it, till toward the end we come upon the matter of debate. Though handsomer and pleasanter to handle than its predecessor, this Boston edition still wears a countryman's dress; a heavily stamped orange cover which threatens the symmetry of any library shelf. Evidently, Whitman did not intend it to lie there in peace. It was to be different from the rest, and bad company for them. It opens on a reproduction of the 1859 painting, which faces an odd-looking lithographed and beflourished title-page. The old Preface has gone for good, and now its place is taken by a _Proto-Leaf_ or Summary, by way of introduction.[265] The first edition had been a manifesto of the American idea in literature and ethics, and a declaration of the gospel of Self-realisation. The second expanded the mystical meanings involved in this; "think of the soul" running through all, and breaking out continually as a refrain, and it made clearer the message to women already more than hinted in the first. Now in the third edition, emphasis falls upon the personal note, which becomes strangely haunting. The book is not only for the first time a complete and living whole; it is a presence, a lover, a comrade, and its close is like a death. * * * * * Solitary, singing in the West, says the introductory Leaf,[266] the poet is striking up for a New World; and lo, he beholds all the peoples of all time as his interminable audience. For through him, Nature herself speaks without restraint; and through him, the Soul, the ultimate Reality. He sings for America; for there at last the Soul is acknowledged; and his song will bind her together. The Body, Sex, Comradeship, these he sings: but above all, Faith, for he is proclaiming a new religion which includes all others and is worthy of America.[267] Of whatever he may seem to write, he is always writing of Religion; for indeed she is supreme. Love, Democracy, Religion--these three--and the greatest of these is Religion. The world is unseen as much as seen. The air is full of invisible presences as real as the seen. And his songs also are for those as yet unseen, his children by Democracy, the woman of his love. For them he will reveal the soul, glorious in the body. Ah, what a glory is this our life, and this our country! Death itself will not carry him away from it. In these fields, men and women in the years to come will ever be discovering him, and he will render them worthy of America as none other can. For he has "arrived," he is no longer mortal. If you would behold America, seek her in these pages. And if you would triumph and make her triumphant, you must become his comrade. The final note is one of passionate love-longing for comradeship.[268] Such is the summary of the book; but it cannot be so briefly dismissed by us, for it is full of suggestions of the inner workings of Whitman's mind at this period, for us, in some respects, the most characteristic and important of all. For after it there comes the war, the watershed of his life; there he employed and in a sense expended all the resources of his manhood, to issue from it upon the slopes of ill-health which lead down into the valley of the shadow. But here he is in his prime, and on the heights. Here also, his individuality shows most definitely, even in its secondary qualities. The association with men of a somewhat less Bohemian type than were many of his literary friends in New York, and the more cosmopolitan atmosphere of the national capital, together with the close intimacy with death which the war-hospitals afforded, somewhat quieted the tone of later editions. Here there is more of the naïve colloquialism and mannerism, the slang and the ejaculations of "the arrogant Mannhattanese" which he loves to proclaim himself.[269] It is the edition which is most dear to many an enthusiast, and most exasperating to many a critic. After the first-written and longest of all the poems, "The Song of Myself," here called "Walt Whitman," there follow two large bundles, tied together and labelled respectively "Chants Democratic" and "Leaves of Grass". The bulk of these consists of material already familiar. But number four of the Chants,[270] celebrating the organic unity of America, is new, and may be quoted as a curious example of Whitman's style. Here are seven pages of soliloquy practically innocent of a period, flowing along together in a hardly vertebrate sentence, which enumerates the different elements included in the Union. Strange as it certainly looks, this creation must have been so constructed of set purpose, for Whitman could not be ignorant of the oddity of its appearance, when viewed by the ever-alert humour of the already hostile American critic. Can there possibly be any connection between this style of composition and the larger consciousness of which he had experience? The question may appear absurd, but I ask it in all seriousness, and would propose an affirmative answer. Whitman regarded his whole book as a unit, not as a collection. Like the composer who elaborates a single theme into a long-sustained symphony, or the psychological novelist who requires three volumes for the portrayal of a personality, he held his meaning suspended in order that it might be more fully grasped; and this is true also of his individual poems. The thought he had to convey was not epigrammatic, but a complex of suggestions which merge into one as they are read together. I would even venture to suggest that some of these exercises in sustained meaning were also designed to train the faculty of apprehending the Many-in-One, the Unity, which, as he believed, lies behind all variety. In considering this suggestion one may contrast the emotional results produced by epigrams and long sentences. May not the former be the natural rhythm for wit and the latter for imagination? The contrast between the essayist on "Man" and the singer of "Myself" is obvious;[271] but the optimism of the eighteenth century epigrammatist seems to be echoed in Whitman's pages.[272] On the verge of war, and in the midst of all the corruption of American politics, he has the audacity to declare and reiterate, "Whatever is, is best". Are we to dismiss it as the shallow utterance of a callous-hearted, healthy-bodied, complacent American, deliberately blind to the world's tragedy? A thousand times, no. The pages before and after such declarations are filled with knowledge of suffering and death, of the bereavement of love, of the shame that follows sin, and of the desire for a better day. But here and elsewhere, he sees the perfect plan of the ages being fulfilled. From his Pisgah-height, he beholds the stretch of time; and looking out over creation as did the Divine Eye, he, Walt Whitman, beholds that it is all good. Emerson has written of "the Perfect Whole"; but in the pages before us Whitman specifies the parts, seeing them all illumined by the mystic light of the soul. This lays him open to attack; it is even dangerous from the point of view of morality. Whitman acknowledges as much, but he still has faith in his vision; he is still obedient to the inner impulse which for him at least, is indubitably divine. There must always be a point at which the moralist would fain part company from the mystic: one is occupied in the fields of eternity, while the other is pre-occupied upon the battlefield of time. There is room for both in a world where time and eternity alike are real, but the toil of the seer must not be made subservient to that of the warrior. Some of the lines of Whitman's "Hymn to the Setting Sun" recall the canticle which Brother Francis used to sing among the olives: Open mouth of my Soul, uttering gladness, Eyes of my Soul, seeing perfection, Natural life of me, faithfully praising things, Corroborating for ever the triumph of things--[273] and it is all pregnant with the wonder of being. In this it is like his earlier work, but it has added deeper notes to its melody, and has won therewith a finer rhythm. A mellow glory of the setting sun irradiates it. All space, the poet reminds us, is filled with soul-life, and the strong chords of that life awake the rhythms of his praise for the joy of the Universal Being. He greets death with equanimity, and it is this bell-note of welcome to death which gives the full bass to the first Boston edition. America, these poems and their writer, and all the struggling creatures of life, are to find their meaning in death, in transition; they are to slough off what is no longer theirs and pass forward into life. Are they then to lose individual identity? No, the soul is identity, and they are of the soul; but that in them which is not the soul will find its meaning in death. There is a spiritual body, which the soul has gathered about itself through the agency of the senses, and that body the soul retains; but the body of the senses dissolves and finds new uses and new meanings, through death. We may illustrate this thought from the life of the whole tree, which is enriched by the life of every leaf. When the sap withdraws from the leaf, and the leaf shrivels and dies, and the frost and wind carry its corpse away and mix it with the mire, the soul of the leaf still lives in the tree. But the mere outer body, which did but temporarily belong to the life of the leaf, finds new value by its destruction and death. Who has not felt the liberating joy of the autumn gales? Who has not rejoiced among the trees, feeling with them the sense of rest and quiescence in which the force of life accumulates anew for expression and growth? But for the fallen leaves also we may rejoice, since their atoms have won something by contact with the life of the tree which now they can communicate to the humble mire. In another of these poems,[274] Whitman compares himself with the historian. The latter studies the surface of humanity, while in the former the inner self of the race finds expression. Such is the difference between an historian and a prophet. In another,[275] carrying forward a kindred thought, he declares that he has discovered the story of the past, not in books but in the actual present. To the seer, as to God, the past is not gone by, but is clearly legible in the pages of our current life, if only we would learn to read them. It is hidden from our normal consciousness; but in certain phases of consciousness to which, it would appear, Whitman attained, it is revealed. To this deeper consciousness Whitman looked for the fulfilling of his own work and the integration of all knowledge in the future. As men shall enter into it, he believed, their work will show the clear evidence of an underlying unity;[276] it will cease to be fragmentary, and our libraries, instead of being mere museums filled with specimens, will become organic like a tree. Then the sense of the cosmos will superintend all things that man makes, as it superintends all the works of nature. A unity already exists, but an unconscious unity, like that of chaos.[277] His own work is, of course, only a part; a prelude to the universal hymn which later poets will raise together. But it is a prelude, and this distinguishes it from other contemporary verse. America, the land of the Many-in-One, he had discovered as the field for the new poetry.[278] For the divine unity is a living complex of variety. Every heart has its own song, and yet the heart of all song is one. Henceforward, he will go up and down America like the sun, awakening the new seasons of the soul. Some of his songs are especially for New York, others for the West, the Centre or the South. But everywhere and to all alike, they cry the messages of Reality, Equality, Immortality. Neither do they cry only, but they actually create. For song, he says, is no mere sound upon the wind, born but to die; these songs of his are the most real of realities; they will outlast centuries, supporting the Democracy of the world.[279] * * * * * The section which is specifically entitled _Leaves of Grass_ opens upon a note of that humility in which Whitman is supposed to have failed. Throwing wholly aside his egoism and pride, he identifies himself with tiny and ephemeral things--the scum and weed which the sea flings upon Paumanok's coast. "As I Ebbed with the Ocean of Life"[280] is a most significant poem, which it is impossible to summarise briefly. It appears to have been suggested by the experiences of an autumn evening on the Long Island beach, perhaps upon the then lonely sands of Coney Island; an evening in which the divine pride of conscious power and manhood, from which as a rule he wrote in the exaltation of inspiration, ebbed away, and left him struggling with the power of what he calls the electric or eternal self, striving as it were against it to retain his own individual consciousness. Although it is not easy to explain what he means, the passage admirably suggests the complex inner experience of his life at this period. It was filled with battles and adventures of the spirit, and it kept his mind always supplied with ample material for thought. It is no wonder that the endeavour to explain himself, and to keep some kind of record of these explorations and discoveries in the Unknown occupied much of his time, and that these years are somewhat barren of outward incident. The inner experiences of so sane and stalwart a man are of the utmost psychological interest, and we cannot lay too much stress upon their importance in Whitman's story, proving as they do the delicate nervous organisation of the man. As the struggle proceeds, Walt seems to be seized by a strange new feeling. He is fascinated by the tiny wind-rows left by the tide upon the sand, and the sense of a likeness between himself and them arises in him, taking the form not so much of a thought as of a consciousness of kinship. The ocean scum and débris reminds him how near to him is the infinite ocean of life and death, and how he himself is but a little washed-up drift, soon to be swallowed in the approaching waters. Doubt overwhelms him; he seems to know nothing of all that he thought he knew; his Soul and Nature make mock at him. He admits that he is but as this tiny nothing. This mood is a real one in Whitman. It is wrong to think of him as a man who was always complacent and cock-sure; all heroic faith must have its moments of doubt, its crisis of despair, its cry of abandonment upon the cross. But they are moments only. If he is but this sea-drift, yet he claims the shore as his father: "I take what is underfoot: what is yours, is mine, my father". So he takes hold upon the Eternal Reality and communes with it, praying that his lips may be touched and utter the great mysteries; for otherwise, these will overwhelm his being.[281] Pride, the full tide of life, will soon flow again in our veins; but after all, what are we but a strange complex of sea-drift and changing moods strewed here at your feet? It is not pessimism but humility which asks that question, the humility which is part of a divine pride. That pride refuses to blink anything; let us face it all, even to the utmost, he keeps saying. He feels that the soul can and must face all.[282] He has not to make a theory or to justify himself, to uphold institutions, or inculcate moralities; he has to open the doors of life in faith. He has to let light in at all the windows. And if it illumines ugliness as well as beauty, sin and shame as well as virtue and pride--still it is his part to let in the ever-glorious light. The more the light shines in, the more the Soul is satisfied. In himself he recognises sin and baseness and gives it expression, bringing it to the light. (O admirers! praise not me! compliment not me! you make me wince, I see what you do not--I know what you do not;) Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch'd and choked, Beneath this face that appears so impassive, hell's tides continually run, Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me, I walk with delinquents with passionate love, I feel I am of them--I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself, And henceforth I will not deny them--for how can I deny myself?[283] But it is a mistake to think of the mystic, and especially of Whitman, as the mere onlooker at life, and the moralist as the practical person. There is ultimately of course no distinction between mystic and moralist, the mystic is the moralist become seer. And he is, perhaps, even more strenuous in his life than is the moralist; but life has now assumed for him a different aspect. He is no longer pre-occupied by the hunger and thirst after righteousness--for he feeds satisfied upon the divine bread. He is not worried about sin, because he is conscious of the antiseptic power of the Soul-life which heals the sores of sin, and sloughs off the body of corruption. What is evil passes away when life is earnestly pursued. He sees that everything which exists at all, however evil it may be, exists by reason of some virtue or excellence which it possesses, and which fits it to its environment. The wise soul uses the excellence of things, and so things hurt it not at all. The things that are not for it are evil to it; but in the sight of God they are not evil, for all things have their value to Him. Live your life, then, in faith, not in fear; such is the word of the mystic. Condemn nothing; but learn what is proper for your own need; and by sympathy, learn to read the hearts about you, and help them also to live according to the wisdom of the soul. Feed the soul, think of the soul, exercise the soul--and the things, the instincts, the thoughts that are evil to you now, will presently cease to trouble you. For in Whitman's universe the devil is dead. It is this point of view, reached in his illumination, which enabled him to look out upon all the shame and evil of the world, and yet to rejoice. I doubt if he had as yet justified this attitude to himself by any process of reasoning; and it would be presumptuous in me to attempt the task; he simply accepted it as the only possible, or rather the ultimate and highest attitude of the enlightened soul. When one discovers the soul, that is the attitude in which she stands. The joy of the soul fills the universe. Nothing any longer seems unworthy of song. Not for its own sake, perhaps, but for that which it reveals to the soul. And in the exaltation of this soul-sight he sings. Towards the end of this section, there is a little group of poems which deal with the voice.[284] Whitman recognised that the human voice is capable of expressing more than mere thoughts. For the whole man speaks in the voice; and as the soul becomes conscious, the voice gains in actual timbre, and wins besides a mystical authority over the heart of the hearer. Each word spoken by the awakened soul is freighted with fuller meaning than it carried before, and every word so spoken has a beauty which the soul gives it. He illustrates a kindred thought by dwelling upon the different meanings which his own name assumes in different mouths.[285] It would seem as though he realised that power of the name which is familiar to some uncivilised peoples and has been largely forgotten by us. The section closes with a poignant little verse[286] which declares with all the passion of conviction, that this paper is not paper, nor these words mere words; but that this is the Man Walt Whitman, who hails you here and cries farewell. The book is a sacrament; it is the wafer and wine of a Real Presence; it is a symbol pregnant with personality; it is no book, it is a man. Lift me close to your face till I whisper, What you are holding is in reality no book, nor part of a book, It is a man, flushed and full-blooded--it is I--_So long!_ We must separate--Here! take from my lips this kiss, Whoever you are, I give it especially to you; _So long_--and I hope we shall meet again. The _Salut au Monde_ carries this _Ave atque Vale_ to each and all. I have already spoken of "A Word out of The Sea"[287] in which Whitman relates an incident of his childhood on the Long Island coast. This is among the most melodious of his chants; and though Death and Love are the themes of all great poets it would be difficult to quote any passage more suggestive of the pathetic mystery of bereavement, than the song which he puts to the notes of the widowed mocking-bird. The bird's song has purposes unknown to its singer, meanings which are caught by the boy's heart, and awaken there a strange passion and wild chaos, that Death, whose voice is as the accompaniment of the sea to the cry of the bird, can alone soothe and order. It is impossible to read this poem and think of its author as ignorant of personal love and personal loss. The notes of despair and triumph blend together here and elsewhere in this edition. We turn now to the _Enfans d'Adam_, poems of sex, whose name is suggested by Whitman's outlook on life as on a garden of Eden, and by his conception of himself as it were a reincarnate Adam, begetter of a new race of happier men.[288] These are the poems which formed the storm-centre of Emerson's discussion. They celebrate the love of the body for its correlative body, the bridegroom's for the bride's; and they celebrate the concern of the soul in reproduction. The proof and law of all life is that it go forth from itself in fertilising power, that it beget or conceive; and without this, life and love would be bereft of glory. And more: for Whitman broke wholly with that mysticism which once saw in the organs of sex a deformity consequent upon man's fall; he beheld them rather as the vessels of a divine communion. From this mystical view of Whitman's, Emerson would conceivably have found no reason for dissent, but the new mysticism was full-blooded and masculine. It sprang out of experience, and was in no respect a substitute for it. When he wrote of the body, Walt used the word mystically it is true, but he meant the body nevertheless, using the word to the full of its meaning. He was very far from the abstract philosophic idealism which we usually and often unfairly associate with the transcendentalism of Concord. Thoreau, for example, the Oriental dreamer, had been thrilled through by the bloody and even brutal fanaticism of John Brown. Yet Whitman's virility was different from theirs. His celebration of passion was as honest and frank as Omar's praise of the vine. To him, the begetting of children seemed in itself more satisfying to the soul than any words could express. It needed no apologist; but rose out of the region of cold ethics in the divine glow of its ecstatic reality. Such an attitude, it seems to me, is only possible to a man who has known true love, and has lived a chaste and temperate life. And these poems, far from representing Whitman as a man of dissolute habits, indubitably afford the clearest proof, if it were needed, of his temperance and self-control; but that is, happily, a matter which is beyond dispute. He was not a man to seek unlawful pleasures, or to approach life's mysteries irreverently, neither was he a man to treat womanhood, even when it had covered itself with shame, with anything but the utmost gentleness and chivalry. It was in the cause of womanhood, if we can say that it was in any cause, that he wrote his poems of sex, seeking, for woman's sake, to wipe away the shame that still clings about paternity.[289] The physical rites of love were beautiful to his sight; and he sought to tear away the obscene draperies and skulking thoughts by which they have been hidden. With this in view, he added an inventory of all the items of the flesh to his poem of "The Body Electric,"[290] intended as are all his lists to make the subsequent generalisation more actual. These, he said, are the parts of the soul. For matter and mind are twin aspects of the one reality, which is the soul. All knowledge comes to the soul through the senses, and if we put shame upon any function of the body we cripple something in the soul. In a singular phrase,[291] he declares that he will be the robust husband of the true women of America, the women who await him; meaning, I suppose, that through the medium of his book, he will quicken in those who are fearless and receptive, the conception of the new Humanity. He is Adam, destined to be the father of a new race, by the women who are able to receive him. Sexual imagery is rightly used in this connection, not only because it is according to mystical precedent, but because sex is the profoundest of the passions, as much spiritual as physical, and all reproductive energy is sexual. Whitman believed that until this was recognised, religion and art must remain comparatively sterile. The question which these poems raise is far too large and too delicate for full discussion in this place. And its discussion is rendered more difficult because, present as it is in most of our minds, it is in many still unripe for words. The soul knows its own needs and its own hours, and pages like these of Whitman's are not for every reader. Whitman knew it, and many a time in this volume he asks whether it were not better for you to put the book aside. As for himself, the time had come when these things must be uttered. The soul must take experience in its own time; but Whitman was convinced that without initiation into the mysteries of love, much of life must remain an enigma to the individual. It was, it would appear, after initiation that he himself had realised his identity with all things. We speak sometimes of the bestial side of our nature, forgetting that when love illuminates it, it is this side in particular which redeems all that before seemed gross among the creatures. True to his determination to include all, even the outcast, in his synthesis, Whitman, in another poem,[292] companions publicly with sinners and with harlots. He shares their nature also; they, too, have their place. But if he says they are just as good as the best, it is only when seen by the eyes of a Divine Love. He, as much as any man, realises the handicap of sin; in the end the soul must conquer; but think how sin--the sin of the Pharisee and of the callous heart as much as that of the prostitute--disfigures the temple of the soul, and mars the spiritual with the outward body. Temperate himself, Whitman's sympathy for those who sin in the flesh was very real. And indeed for all sins of passion he felt, perhaps, a special understanding. The story runs that while he was still in Boston,[293] he met a lad he had known in New York, who was now, after a drunken brawl, in which he believed he had killed a companion, escaping from the American police to Canada. The young fellow told Walt his story, and was sent upon his way with that comrade's kiss of affection which meant so much more than good advice or charity. Before closing this section, Whitman returns[294] to the Adamic idea, as though to make his meaning unmistakable. In him, Adam has nearly circled the world, and now looks out across the Pacific to his first birth-place in the East; and still his work is unaccomplished. Still must he go on seeking for his bride, the Future. The passion of creation is upon him, he is strained with yearning for that towards which his soul gravitates. As we finish these poems, we remember how at this time their author impressed those who approached him with two equal qualities, his force and his purity: for great passion is a clear wine in a chaste vessel. He had a right to say as his last word on this subject, "be not afraid of my body"; for, indeed, it was his soul, enamoured of all things, wholesome and pure. * * * * * After these poems, comes the "Song of the Road," and other familiar pieces, and then another group wholly new. These appear to have been written in the autumn of 1859,[295] and are called _Calamus_; a name either for a reed or for the sweet-flag,[296] which occurs in the Bible and in the pages of Greek and Latin writers, but is here used of a common American pond-reed, a sort of tall sedge or great spear of grass, a yard or so in height, emitting a pungent watery smell, whose root is used for chewing. In these poems he asserts the soul's need of society, for life and growth. The gospel of self-realisation thus becomes a social gospel, and the thought gives a political significance to these, the most esoteric of all Whitman's poems. He seems more than usually sensitive about them, and dreads to have them misunderstood. Proud and jealous, he would drive all but a few away from his confidences. They are only intended, he says,[297] for his comrades; for it is only they who will understand them. But in the more obvious sense the poems are for all. It is to comradeship and not to institutions that Whitman looks for a political redemption. He will bind America indissolubly together into the fellowship of his friends.[298] Their friendship shall be called after him,[299] and in his name they shall solve all the problems of Freedom, and bring America to victory. Lovers are the strength of Liberty, comrades perpetuate Equality; America will be established above disaster by the love of her poet's lovers. Then he turns to himself and his own friends, or rather, perhaps, to his own conscious need for friends. It is curious when one thinks of it, that we have no record of any close friendship, save that of Emerson, dating from these days. And he who knew and loved so many men and women, seems to have carried forward with him no equal friendship from the years of his youth. In this respect, he was solitary as a pioneer. He longed for Great Companions, but he did not meet them at this time upon the open road of daily intercourse. Yet was he not alone. Some say he wrote of comradeship because he never found such a comrade as him of whom he wrote;[300] but in one at least of these poems he declares that his life, or at the least his singing, depends upon such comradeship. And the absence of any record merely reminds us that Whitman was chary of committing such personal matters to the keeping of a note-book. What record has he left of those women and their children, whose relation to himself must have bulked so largely in the world of his soul? The poems seem to indicate at least one very intimate friendship, more passionately given than returned. Sometimes, as on the beach of Paumanok, doubt oversets him. Perhaps after all,[301] appearances do not mean what he sees in them. Perhaps the reality, the purpose, lies still undiscovered in them. Perhaps the identity of the human self after death is but a beautiful fable. There is a perfect answer--shall we say an evasion?--of these questionings and of all doubts, which fellowship provides. To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answered by my lovers, my dear friends; When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand, When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us, Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--I am silent--I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave, But I walk or sit indifferent--I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me. Then he praises Love; all other joys and enterprises of the heroic soul become but little things when weighed against the life of fellowship, the joy of the presence of the beloved.[302] Is this another of those places where the moralist begs to take his leave of the mystic? Let us beseech him to stay, for it is out of the strenuous passions of the soul that all good and lasting works for humanity have sprung. It was the face of Beatrice--and for the Italian, it could only have been her face--which drew Dante down through the circles of horror and up the steep slopes of Purgatory to Paradise. It was the beauty of the lady Poverty, that enabled her lover to kiss the sores of the lepers in the lazar house below Assisi. What would the Apostles have done in the name of their Lord had they not, like Mary the mystic, chosen the better part of communion with Him instead of fidgetting forever, with Martha, upon the errands of duty? He writes of Love's tragedy, and refusal; of the measured love returned for the infinite love accorded.[303] But oftener he dwells upon its joy. The air becomes alive with music he had never heard before.[304] The passion in his heart responds to a passion of which hitherto he had not dreamed, hidden in the heart of the world, awaiting its hour to break forth. And as these poems have come slowly up from out of the inner purpose of things, to find utterance upon Whitman's pages, so slowly will their meaning arise in the hearts of those that read them.[305] It is not to be guessed in a moment. For they are freighted with the mystery which unfolds in the patience of the soul. Although he warns his reader from time to time to beware of him, for he is not at all the man he seems, a note of yearning for confidence cannot be suppressed. He confesses that his very life-blood speaks in these pages,[306] and that his soul is heavy with infinite passion for the love of its Comrades that shall be. Sometimes, as he passes a stranger in the streets, he knows in himself that once they were each other's; some deep chord of life thrilling, as though with memory, to promise that they will yet come together again.[307] Ah, how many and many an one of these his mystic kin must the lands of the earth contain! It is not America only, but the whole human race that he will bind at last into his fellowship, laughing at institutions and at laws, persuading all men by the power of the Soul which is in all.[308] One institution there is which he confesses[309] that he would inaugurate. Let men who love one another kiss when they meet, and walk hand in hand. It is no mere sentiment; he sees that love must have its witness. In warm manly love is the mightiest power in the universe, a power that laughs at oppressors and at death.[310] I dreamed in a dream, I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth, I dreamed that was the new City of Friends, Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love--it led the rest, It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city, And in all their looks and words. _Calamus_, like the bundle labelled _Leaves of Grass_, closes on the note of personal presence.[311] * * * * * I trust it has already been sufficiently suggested that Whitman's mysticism is not to be confused with much that hitherto has passed under that name. Mysticism it is, for it is the expression of mystical experience; but it is clearly not the mysticism which is completed in a circle of devotion, religious exercises, meditation and ecstasy. It is the mysticism which recreates the world in a new image. Professor Royce, in his most interesting lectures on "The World and the Individual," has described it, or something very similar to it, under the title of Idealism; and his careful and suggestive elaboration of his theme is the best indirect commentary upon what I have called the mysticism of Whitman with which I am acquainted. It includes an admirable exposition of the meaning of the Soul or Self. Your whole world, he declares, is your whole Self--Whitman would perhaps have said, it is the mirror which reveals yourself. The Infinite Universe, whereof yours is but a part, is the Self of God. We live, but are not lost in Him, for we are as it were His members. There are two aspects of the human self: the temporal, in which it appears as a mere momentary consciousness, and the eternal, which reveals it as an indestructible purpose, the essence of reality. For reality, the professor argues, is the visible expression of purpose or meaning. To proceed to the social aspect of this teaching: the individual, when he becomes conscious of his world--his Self--becomes conscious, too, that his world is only one aspect of the Universe, that there are a myriad others, and that the Universal Life consists of a Fellowship of such Selves as his. Thus, God is the Many-in-One; in Him the Many are one Self and complete. And the Many do not only seek completion in the Divine Unity; they also seek fellowship with one another. The Divine life, which is the basis of Human life, is thus a life of Fellowship--as the Apostle says, it is Love. It is not merely a trinity, it is a City of Friends; or rather of Lovers, as Edward Carpenter suggested in his recent essays.[312] Now I am convinced that this thought underlies _Calamus_; not, indeed, as a metaphysical theory, but as one of those overwhelming realisations of the ultimate significance of things which I have described inadequately as Whitman's symbolism. Seeking to plumb the depths of passion, he found God. Sex became for him, in its essence, the potency of that Life wherein we are One. And comradeship, a passion as intense as that of sex, he beheld as the same relation between spiritual or ætherial bodies.[313] He was aware that the noblest of passions is the most liable to base misunderstandings. But in it alone the soul finds full freedom. Sex passion finds its proper expression in physical rites, it is the passion of the life in Time; on the contrary, the passion of comrades is of eternity and only finds expression in Death.[314] This appears to have been Whitman's conviction. * * * * * Yet another bundle follows _Calamus_; a packet of more or less personal letters or messages called _Messenger Leaves_. In subsequent editions they were sorted out into other sections. They are not all new; but among those that now appear for the first time are the daring and noble lines to Jesus. My spirit to yours, dear brother, Do not mind because many, sounding your name, do not understand you, I do not sound your name, but I understand you, (there are others also;) I specify you with joy, O my comrade, to salute you, and to salute those who are with you, before and since--and those to come also, That we all labour together, transmitting the same charge and succession; We few, equals, indifferent of lands, indifferent of times, We, enclosers of all continents, all castes--allowers of all theologies, Compassionaters, perceivers, rapport of men, We walk silent among disputes and assertions, but reject not the disputers, nor anything that is asserted, ... Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages to come, may prove brethren and lovers, as we are.[315] Scattered through the generations--so we may read his thought--are those who have come into the cosmic consciousness or larger life, who have passed beyond the reach of time and of mere argument, and who therefore understand one another as others cannot understand them. The love and communion which exists between such Great Companions, is a pledge and earnest of the Society of the Future, when all men shall be one, even as these are one. The thought may shock those to whom it comes suddenly, if they see in Whitman the "mere man" of their own narrow conception of humanity. But in judging him we must remember that he openly claims for himself and for other men all the Divine attributes which Christians are in the habit of ascribing to their Lord. Whitman believed that Jesus identified himself with Humanity; and that all who enter, as he entered, into the cosmic life share in the fellowship of God, even as did he. More fully than many Christians, Whitman recognised Jesus as literally his elder brother; he joined with him in the words "Our Father," feeling them to be true. And as one reads the gospel narratives one ventures to believe that the Master who called the disciples his friends, would himself have been eager to welcome the assertion of such a relationship. Another letter[316] is to one about to die; it is filled not with melancholy but with congratulation. The body that dies is but an excrement, the Self is eternal and goes on into ever fuller sunlight. Another,[317] which has aroused perhaps more misunderstanding than anything which Whitman wrote, is addressed to a prostitute. It hardly seems to call for explanation; for it is like the simple offering of the hand of friendship to an outcast; the assertion that for her, too, Whitman's living eternal comradeship is real and close, accompanied by the injunction that she be worthy of such friendship. He writes to rich givers[318] in the Franciscan spirit; for he that is willing to give all, is able to accept. To a pupil[319] he suggests that personality is the tool of all good work and usefulness. To be magnetic is to be great. Come then and first become yourself. But it is impossible even to refer in passing to all the separate poems, each one with its living suggestion. Some of the briefest are not the least pregnant. * * * * * The book closes with poems of departure. A dread falls upon him;[320] perhaps after all he may not linger, to go to and fro through the lands he loves, awakening comrades; presently his voice also will cease. But here and now at least his soul has appeared and been realised; and that in itself should be enough. Then he says his farewell. His words have been for his own era; and in every age, the race must find anew its own poets for its own words. But till America shall have absorbed his message, he must stand, and his influence, his spirit, must endure.[321] After all, he does but seek, with passionate longing, one worthier than himself, who yet shall take his place. For him, he has prepared. Now is he come to die. Without comprehending or questioning, he has obeyed his mystical commission; he has sown the Divine seed with which he was entrusted; he has given the message with which he was burdened, to women and to young men; now he passes on into the state for which all experience and service has been preparing him. He ceases to sing. His work is accomplished. Now disembodied and free, he can respond to all that love him, and enter upon the intenser Reality of the Unknown. Dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss, I give it especially to you--Do not forget me, I feel like one who has done his work--I progress on, The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct, darts awakening rays about me--_So long!_ Remember my words--I love you--I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.[322] FOOTNOTES: [265] _L. of G._, 18. [266] _L. of G._, 19. [267] _Ib._, 23. [268] _Ib._, 29; (1860), 22. [269] In this edition the old-fashioned, colloquial "you was" is retained. [270] _L. of G._, 138. [271] See _infra_, 289. [272] _L. of G._, 191. [273] _L. of G._, 374. [274] _L. of G._, 11; (1860), 181. [275] _Ib._, 300. [276] _Ib._, 299. [277] _L. of G._, 18. [278] _Ib._ (1860), 190. [279] _Ib._ (1860), 193. [280] _Ib._, 202. [281] _L. of G._ (1860), 198. [282] _L. of G._ (1860), 236. [283] _L. of G._, 298; (1860), 231. [284] _L. of G._, 297. [285] _L. of G._, 303. [286] _Ib._ (1860), 242. [287] _L. of G._, 196; see _supra_, 12. [288] _L. of G._, 79. [289] _Cf._ Mrs. Gilchrist in _In re_, 50. [290] _L. of G._, 87, 88. [291] _Ib._, 88. [292] _L. of G._, 94; (1860), 311. [293] Bucke, 102, 103. [294] _L. of G._, 95. [295] _Ib._ (1860), 378. Several of the poems are fuller in this edition, some being omitted in the complete _L. of G._ [296] Rossetti, _Selections_, 390 n.; Kennedy, 134. [297] _L. of G._, 97, 98, 100, 103. [298] _Ib._, 99. [299] _Ib._ (1860), 349. [300] Donaldson, 7. [301] _L. of G._, 101. [302] _Ib._ (1860), 354. [303] _Ib._ (1860), 355; _L. of G._, 110. [304] _L. of G._, 343. [305] _Ib._, 103, 104. [306] _Ib._, 104, etc. [307] _Ib._, 106. [308] _Ib._, 107. [309] _Ib._ (1860), 350. [310] _L. of G._, 109. [311] _L. of G._, 112. [312] _The Art of Creation._ [313] _L. of G._, 96. [314] _Ib._, 96. [315] _L. of G._, 298; _cf._ _An American Primer_, 18, 19. [316] _Ib._, 344. [317] _Ib._, 299. [318] _L. of G._, 216. [319] _Ib._, 302. [320] _Ib._, 370; (1860), 449. [321] _Ib._, 380. [322] _L. of G._, 382. CHAPTER XI AMERICA AT WAR The new edition of _Leaves of Grass_ pleased the critics as little as its predecessors, but had a wider circulation. Some four or five thousand copies had been sold before the house of Thayer and Eldridge went down in the financial crash which followed on the outbreak of the war.[323] Emerson came in again for some share of the critical assault, though his name was in no way connected with the new issue. Of Whitman himself a London journalist declared[324] that he was the most silly, the most blasphemous, and the most disgusting writer that he had ever perused. But if it found fresh enemies, the new edition found also new friends; and notably in England, whither a few adventurous copies of the earlier versions had already penetrated. Both Emerson and Thoreau had sent them to their English friends--among whom was Carlyle--but apparently with scant acknowledgment. Ruskin's correspondent, Mr. Thomas Dixon of Sunderland, had purchased a few examples of the first edition at Dutch auction; and some of these he forwarded to Mr. William Bell Scott, who again handed on one of them to Mr. W. M. Rossetti; an act which, as the story will show, proved to be of great importance to Walt Whitman.[325] It was the book of 1860, however, which first aroused the younger generation of Englishmen, among whom was the late Mr. Addington Symonds. "Within the space of a few years," says he, "we were all reading and discussing Walt." * * * * * The book appeared under the shadow of impending war. With the Presidential election of 1860, America came to the edge of the abyss; and the return of Abraham Lincoln was promptly followed by the organisation of secession. Whitman was still in Boston when, early in the spring, Lincoln first made his appearance in New York, W. C. Bryant introducing him to a great meeting at the Cooper Institute. The famous speech which he then delivered lived long in its hearers' memory; but even the personal impression which he made, remarkable as it was, hardly prepared New York to learn in the following May that it was Abraham Lincoln, and not W. H. Seward, the nominal leader of the Republican party, who had received the Presidential nomination at the great Chicago Convention. Had the Democratic party been able to hold together, Lincoln could not have carried the election; but it was now split, and further weakened by the appearance of a Constitutional Union Party.[326] The most dangerous of the opposing candidates seemed to be Lincoln's old antagonist and subsequent loyal supporter, Judge Douglas, who represented his well-worn policy of local option, or "squatter sovereignty". Breckinridge of Kentucky openly advocated the extension of slave territory; while Bell, the Unionist, kept his own counsel. Early in the summer of that great struggle, Whitman returned to New York. In June[327] he was among the immense crowd of interested spectators who filled Broadway from side to side, on the arrival of the first Japanese embassy to America; and he was of the thousands who welcomed the succession of distinguished visitors who came, that ominous summer, to the capital of the West. There was the _Great Eastern_, that leviathan of the modern world, whose advent was so long and so eagerly anticipated; there was Garibaldi, fresh from the fields whereon Italy had become a kingdom--not indeed the sister republic of Mazzini's ardent dream, who should have given the new law of Liberty to Europe, but at least something more than a memory and a geographical term. Another, in whom Whitman felt an even warmer interest, was "Baron Renfrew," otherwise the Prince of Wales. The fair royal stripling of those days attracted the stalwart Democrat, who like old George Fox, could recognise a man under a crown as readily as a man in rags. Whitman's eyes were keen to read personality; perhaps we should rather say that the sense by which personality is distinguished was highly developed in him. And he to whom the attributes of rank were non-existent, fell in love with this young man[328] whose warm heart was to make him perhaps the best beloved of monarchs, as he afterwards fell in love with many a private soldier carried in wounded from the field. Albert Edward was one of those strangers in whom Whitman recognised a born comrade; and this fact at once raises his democratic sentiment out of the region of class feeling. He was a witness, too, of the advent of other visitors even more brilliant, and burdened even more to the popular fancy, and perhaps to his own, with significance. He saw the extraordinary display of the heavens--the huge meteor, luminous almost as the moon, which fell in Long Island Sound, and the unannounced comet flaring in the north. The autumn was loud with the electoral struggle. The presence of three opposing candidates was not enough to assure Lincoln's success. The general expectation seems to have leaned towards an electoral tie, none of the candidates polling a majority of the votes; and this would have resulted, as on the similar occasion of 1824, in the choice between them being left to the House of Representatives. Upon the result of such choice the slave party was willing to stake its hopes of success; anticipating that even though he were the popular candidate, Congress would not select Lincoln, but would put him aside, as it had passed by Jackson in its previous opportunity. But to the consternation of the South, the "black Republican" rail-splitter polled a clear majority over all three antagonists combined. A majority, that is to say, of electoral votes, for the American President is not chosen directly by the people, but by the people's delegates.[329] Each State elects its quota of Presidential electors, chosen not in proportion to the strength of parties in the State, but all of them representing the dominant party.[330] Thus it may happen that a candidate, like Judge Douglas, who polls a large minority of the total popular vote, will receive a mere handful of electoral suffrages, having failed to carry more than one or two States. Lincoln was chosen by 180 votes to 123; and though Douglas's popular poll was two-thirds of Lincoln's, and nearly as large as that of the two other candidates combined, his electoral support was only one-tenth of the voices against Lincoln. The Republican vote in the country fell short of the combined opposition poll by a million out of a total of less than five million votes. From the popular point of view, Lincoln was, therefore, in the difficult position of a minority President. The result of the November elections was scarcely made public before a committee of Southern Congressmen issued a manifesto,[331] proclaiming the immediate need for a separate Confederacy of slave-holding States, if the institution upon which their prosperity depended was to be saved from the machinations of Northern politicians. They audaciously identified both Lincoln and the Republican party with the policy of Abolition; whereas the choice of Lincoln instead of Seward, the Abolitionist, might in itself have been accepted as sufficient evidence that the North, while determined to preserve the Union, was resolute against interference with the internal policy of the South. The Manifesto was followed, on the 20th of December, by the secession of South Carolina, ever since Calhoun's day the leader of revolt against Federal power. Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Florida and Louisiana promptly joined her. Although Lincoln's election was assured in November, the executive power remained till the beginning of March in the feeble hands of Buchanan, who was the creature of advisers themselves divided in counsel, to the signal advantage of that section which supported the revolt. When, at last, the outgoing President made up his mind to dismiss his secessionist secretary of war, the Cotton-State Caucus called a Convention at Montgomery, the picturesque and sleepy old capital of Alabama; and this finally formulated a permanent constitution for the Confederacy precisely a week after the inauguration of the new President.[332] In the meantime Lincoln could only stand a spectator of the wholly ineffective measures which were being taken to frustrate the active aggression of the slave power. But towards the end of February he set out for Washington. Passing on his way through Indiana and Ohio, he was received by an enormous crowd in New York; and here Whitman first saw him, not from his favourite seat upon a stage-coach, for the streets were too densely packed for traffic, but as one of the thirty or forty thousand silent pedestrian onlookers collected in the city's heart, where now the post-office stands. Whitman well knew what the ominous silence, which greeted that loosely-made gaunt figure, concealed;[333] and how different was the mood of New York that day from the holiday-making good-humour with which it was wont to greet the arrival of other illustrious guests. Under the speechlessness lurked a black moody wrath ready to break forth. It was a pleasant afternoon, just twelve months after that other February day when Whitman and Emerson had paced up and down the slope of Boston Common in earnest colloquy. Lincoln went silently into the Astor House without any demonstration either of welcome or of open hostility; thereafter proceeding to his inauguration. He was compelled to pass secretly through Baltimore, where violence was only too ready to manifest itself on the slightest encouragement. The fact that the President-elect, in order to reach the capital, had thus to travel through a State which was only with difficulty retained for the Union cause, shows how close that cause was to disaster. And though, as Lincoln stated in his inaugural address, the bulk of the American people opposed secession, and the party which favoured it was but a comparatively small minority; yet it could only be either an ignorant optimism, or on the contrary a firmly founded and earnest faith in the devotion of the great mass of the citizens to the ideals of their fathers, which could face such a situation without dismay. The weight of numbers, however, favoured the North. A review of the census returns show that at their first compilation in 1790 the population of the Southern and the Northern divisions of the country was almost absolutely equal; but that from the beginning of the century the increase in the latter was the more rapid; so that in 1860 the free population of the North was more than double that of the South. But in spite of this great numerical preponderance, the North itself was not united on the question at issue, as is clearly shown by the returns of the Presidential election, when Douglas polled a million Free-state votes. For though Douglas opposed secession, he did not oppose the extension of slavery. It is shown clearly, too, in the attitude of New York; of which more, later. And beyond this the Southerner was in some respects better fitted, as well by his virtues as by his faults, for a military life. The qualities of leadership and of obedience are cultivated under an aristocratic ideal, as they are not under a democratic. And the South, which had practically controlled the executive under Buchanan, and especially the department of war, was better prepared to take the field than was the North. On the other hand, the strength of the Union lay in its cause, and in the latent idealism of the American people, which woke into activity at the first menace to the Stars and Stripes. Whether the war really settled anything, whether it might possibly have been avoided, whether secession left to itself would not literally have cut its own throat, these are interesting philosophic speculations into which we need not enter. For already the spectre of war had long been abroad, stalking through the unharvested fields of Kansas and Nebraska, and gesticulating with horrid signs and mocking whispers in every corner of America. When the slave party had first raised its fatal cry of "our institution in danger," it had raised the cry of war. And when at last men like Lincoln retorted with the declaration that the Union was irrefragable--that secession could only be justified after some criminal use of the Federal power to override the rights of the minority--the battle was manifestly joined. It is but fair to add that although the party of Lincoln had now truly become the party of the Union, the first line of cleavage between North and South was marked out by a schismatic spirit in the North itself, by its support of its own sectional interests, when enforcing a policy of protection upon the whole country.[334] There can be little doubt that the mistrust felt in the South, while largely due to anterior causes, was born under this evil star. So true does it seem that when a nation's policy is being shaped according to merely material interests, the seeds are being sown of future revolution. * * * * * The fatal movement of American destiny towards its crisis must have dominated much of Whitman's thought at this time. Secession was in the very air he breathed; for at its first proclamation an echoing voice was heard in New York itself. Here Mayor Wood, after a short period of deserved seclusion, had returned to power. Unsatisfied with his patronage he dreamed of wider fields. Was it not the splendid vision of a Presidency which encouraged this fatuous person to declare for a second secession, the creation of a new island republic of New York? "Tri-Insula" was to have been its title,[335] and its territories would have comprised Mannahatta, Staten, and Long Islands. The proposal was enthusiastically received by the absurd creatures of Tammany, who then sat upon the City Council. But their complacent folly was of brief duration. It was dispersed by the first rebel gun-shot. * * * * * Whitman had been at the opera on Fourteenth Street,[336] and was strolling homeward down Broadway about midnight, on the 13th of April, when he was met by the newspaper boys crying the last extras with more than ordinary vehemence. Buying a copy and stopping to read it under the lamps of the Metropolitan Hotel, he was startled by the news that war had actually broken out. The day before, Confederate troops had fired upon the flag at Charleston Harbour and Fort Sumter. South Carolina had flung her challenge down. The President immediately called for troops, and the response of the North was instantaneous. New York herself did not hesitate, but voted at once a million dollars and sent forward her quota of men.[337] Mayor Wood was among the many thousands of Democrats who became patriots that day--in so far as one can suddenly become patriotic. Whitman was not among the volunteers, but his brother George, who was ten years his junior, was one of the first to offer.[338] He had been following the family trade as a Brooklyn carpenter, and henceforward proved himself a brave and able soldier. He was neither braver nor abler than Walt, but the latter stayed at home, and there are those who have blamed him for it. [Illustration: WHITMAN AT FORTY-FOUR] Putting on one side, as they have done, his subsequent service to the army, such blame springs from a misunderstanding of the man's nature. There are some men wholly above the reproach of cowardice or indifference, whom it is impossible for us to conceive as shouldering a gun. And for those who knew him most intimately, Whitman was such a man. Many men who loved peace heard the call to arms and obeyed. Abraham Lincoln[339] himself--to whom America was entrusting the conduct of the war--had but now proclaimed its futility, while his whole nature revolted from its cruel folly. And had his destiny bidden him to join the colours one cannot doubt that Walt Whitman would have done so.[340] But that inner voice, which he obeyed, rather forbade than encouraged him. And even in years of war there is service one can do for one's country out of the ranks. No war can wholly absorb the energies of a civilised people, for the daily life of the nation must be continued. There are, besides, tasks that have a prior claim upon the loyalty of the individual, even to the defence of the flag. And Whitman had such a task, for he bore, as it were, within his soul the infant of an ideal America, like a young mother whose life is the consecrated guardian of her unborn babe. His book was now, in a sense, complete; but none could feel more strongly than he that even his book was only an inadequate expression of his purpose; while life lasted his days were to be devoted to the creation of an immortal comradeship, and a spiritual atmosphere in which the seeds concealed in his writings might germinate. It must also be noted that, though in his open letter to Emerson[341] he had written of war almost as a soldier whose blood kindles at the sound of the trumpets, and though the spirit of his book is one which "blows battles into men," yet the last edition had been marked by a curious and significant approximation to Quakerism. It was in 1860, when war was so near at hand, that he substituted the Friendly numeral equivalents for the usual names of the months and days of the week; not, assuredly, because he objected to the recognition of heathen deities, like the early Friends, but in order to avow some relationship between himself and Quakerism. The increase of mystical consciousness may have made him more aware at this time of his real identity with this society of mystics to which he never nominally belonged. We have had repeated occasion to note the Quaker traits in Whitman's character, and here, at the opening of the war, it is well to emphasise them anew.[342] His love of silence, his spiritual caution, his veracity and simplicity of speech, his soul-sight, and the practical balance of his mysticism--that temperance of character upon which his inspirational faculties were founded--and, finally, the equal democratic goodwill he showed to all men; these qualities speak the original Quaker type. And the world may well extend to Whitman the respect it acknowledges for the Quaker's refusal to bear arms. It was, indeed, because he loved America so well that he did not fight with the common weapons. We have seen that he associated himself intimately with the American genius, a genius which necessarily includes the qualities of the South at least equally with those of the North; he himself[343] inclining to lay the emphasis upon the Southern attributes, as though their wealth in the emotional and passionate elements were more essential than any other. America robbed of the South would, indeed, have been America divided against herself. Hence he shared to the full in the desire and struggle for unity against the sordid party which instigated secession. But he knew that a victory of arms was not necessarily a victory of principles, and it was for the principle that he strove. May we not assert the possibility of a highly developed and powerful personality exerting itself upon the side of Justice and Liberty in moments of national crisis, in some manner more potent than that of merely physical service? Would not Whitman have been wasting his forces if he had surrendered himself to the spirit of the hour, and gone forth with the volunteers to stop or to forward a bullet or a bayonet? These are questions we well may ponder, and without attempting to give reasons for so doing, we may answer in the affirmative. Certain it is that two or three days after he first read the news of South Carolina's challenge, and the day following the President's appeal, he recorded this singular vow in one of his notebooks as though it were the seal upon a struggle of his spirit: "April 16th, 1861. I have this day, this hour, resolved to inaugurate for myself a pure, perfect, sweet, clean-blooded, robust body, by ignoring all drinks but water and pure milk, and all fat meats, late suppers--a great body, a purged, cleansed, spiritualised, invigorated body."[344] Read with its context of the events which were occupying his mind, may we not surmise that this was a new girding of the loins for some service of the great cause, more strenuous than ever, though perhaps yet undefined; that this vow of abstinence for the establishment of a spiritualised body, made thus at the opening of the war, and at the time of George's enrolment, when Lincoln's call for volunteers was ringing in the heart of every loyal citizen[345]--that this vow was that of an athlete going into training for a supreme effort; and an athlete whose labours are upon that unseen field, whereon it may be the battles of the visible world are really won. It was thus that Whitman obeyed the calls of duty both within him and without. * * * * * Lincoln's first tasks were to create an army and to confine the area of insurrection. He proclaimed the blockade of the Southern ports; called out more regulars and volunteers, and succeeded in preventing West Virginia and Missouri from joining the Confederacy. Had he been able to retain for the service of the Union a certain brilliant young officer, the war might have opened and closed upon a very different story; but Robert Lee had already joined the Southern army, though not without an inward conflict. No leader of equal genius appeared upon the other side until Grant came out of the West. The weakness of Northern generalship was only too clearly evidenced in the defeat at Bull Run, midway between the two capitals, which were now little more than a hundred miles apart, the Confederate Government having removed to Richmond. As a result of the defeat Washington itself lay in imminent peril; and if General Johnston had followed up his advantage, it would have fallen into his hands. But he missed his hour, and the consternation of the North was followed by a mood of stubborn resolution. Slowly but surely Lincoln built up his military organisation. In the whirlpool of currents he remained steadfast to his single policy of maintaining the Union. He succeeded in evading the occasions of war which threatened abroad; he conciliated all in the South which was at that time amenable to conciliation; and, eager as he was for emancipation, he refused to be driven before the storm of Abolitionist sentiment which had risen in the North. During 1862, while Grant and Farragut were gradually clearing the Mississippi, the great natural thoroughfare of America, Lee was more than holding his own among the hills and rivers of Virginia. The opposing army of the Potomac remained ineffective under the brilliant but dilatory McClellan, and his more active successors, Burnside and Hooker. Lee assumed the aggressive, and invaded Maryland; but was turned back from a projected raid into Pennsylvania by the drawn battle of Antietam; in which, as in many of the previous engagements of this army, George Whitman fought. Antietam was immediately followed by the preliminary proclamation of emancipation, to take effect in all States which should still continue in rebellion at the commencement of the new year. Lincoln's mind had long been exercised upon the best means of compassing the liberation of the slaves; and until the close of the war, he himself looked for the ultimate solution of the problem to the method of compensation adopted by Great Britain in the West Indies. This was successfully applied to the district of Columbia, but the offer of it received no response either from the other States to which it was magnanimously made, or from Lincoln's own Cabinet. The present proclamation was intended as a blow at the industrial resources of the rebellion. * * * * * In mid-December General Burnside lost nearly 13,000 men at Fredericksburg, Virginia, and reading the long lists of wounded, the Whitmans came upon George's name among the more serious casualties.[346] Great was the distress in the home on Portland Avenue, and Walt set off at once to seek him at the front. His pocket was picked in a crush at Philadelphia Station, and he arrived penniless in Washington.[347] There, searching the hospitals for three days and nights, he could get no news of his brother's whereabouts, but managed somehow to make his way to the army's headquarters at Falmouth. It had been a long, melancholy journey; but arrived at the camp, he found his brother already well again, his wound having healed rapidly. This sudden journey had momentous consequences for Whitman. His stay in New York was, perhaps naturally, drawing to a close. There are indications in the last poems that he was contemplating a westward journey, and possibly a settlement beyond the Rockies.[348] Although he paid it frequent visits, he never lived again in Brooklyn. At Falmouth he found among the wounded a number of young fellows whom he had known in New York.[349] He took a natural interest in their welfare, and even though he felt he could do little for them, lingered till a party going up to Washington offered him an opportunity for usefulness in their escort. Arriving at the capital, he found innumerable similar occasions in the many hospitals which had been established in and about the city. These he began to visit daily, supporting himself by writing letters to the New York and Brooklyn press--to the _New York Times_ in particular--and by copying work in the paymaster's office.[350] It was not till two years later that he obtained regular employment in the Civil Service; but during the whole of that time he was paying almost daily visits to the wards, in his honorary and voluntary capacity, as friend of the wounded. The number of these was periodically swollen by great battles. On the 4th of May, 1863, General Hooker lost the day at Chancellorsville, and was replaced by Meade. Early in July, Lee made a second alarming dash into the North, but was turned back by General Meade from the bloody field of Gettysburg, where the total losses reached the appalling figure of 60,000. By this time, more than two years after the fall of Fort Sumter, the first easy boasting of a short campaign and an overwhelming triumph, indulged by both sides, had long died; and the solemn sense of the great tragedy being enacted before its eyes possessed the nation. This sentiment could not have been more nobly expressed than in the words used by the President, when, speaking at the dedication of a portion of the Gettysburg battlefield as a national cemetery,[351] he said: "We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom: and that government of the people by the people for the people shall not perish from the earth". Meade's victory, and the news following fast upon it of Grant's capture of Vicksburg, with the consequent reopening of the Mississippi, reassured the wavering faith of many patriots. But the situation was still full of peril. In this same month--July, 1863--there were serious riots in New York,[352] instigated by the "Copperheads," as the Northern sympathisers with the Confederacy were dubbed, in opposition to the first draft for the army under the general conscription law of March. In these, more than a thousand persons were killed or wounded. The riots were the more difficult to quell because all available troops and volunteers had been sent to the front; and these of course included a great proportion of the stabler citizens. At the same time the disaffected elements remained in their full strength. The political character of the disturbance was plain enough; for the rioters set upon any negroes they met, slinging them to the lamp-posts, and would have burned down the hospital, full of wounded Union soldiers, had they not been prevented. It is some satisfaction to know that we cannot couple the name of Fernando Wood with these outrages. There was something genuine in his patriotism. He was now in Congress, and had recently been vainly attempting, in his usual futile fashion, to negotiate a peace. * * * * * Both the draft and the riots caused the Whitman family no little anxiety. George, who had entered the army as a private and was promoted stage by stage till he became a lieutenant-colonel, was of course already at the front;[353] and Jeff, who had married four years earlier, was keeping the home together for the old mother and helpless youngest son, as well as for his own wife and their young children. Anything that happened to him would involve the happiness of the whole family. They feared especially that he might be drawn for service; and Walt wrote from Washington that in that event, he would do all in his power to raise the necessary money to provide a substitute.[354] Walt himself never closed his ears against the call to serve in the ranks, if it should come to him. Had he himself been drawn, he might have regarded the circumstance as the intimation of duty; but he was not. Instead he took the risks of small-pox in the infectious wards, as well as that which is incurred by the frequent dressing of gangrened wounds; and he bore the spiritual burden of all the pathetic war-wreckage which drifted into Washington month after weary month. The tension of those days was terrible to him. Devoted to the "Mother of All," the American nation, he loved her sons both North and South with an equal affection, their suffering and destruction wringing his heart. For, mystic as he was, he had all the strong passions of humanity, and felt to the full the agonies of the flesh. On the one side also, his own brother was in the hottest of the fighting throughout these years; while on the other, it is just possible that some young son of his own, known or unknown to him, may have served among the boys in the opposite ranks before the war was over. His Abolitionist friends would sigh, and say the struggle must go on till every slave should be free; but he who valued freedom not less than they, and understood perhaps better what it really means, dissented from them. The first sight of a battlefield made him cry out for peace; and if in the following months he felt the exhilaration which breathed from the simple heroism displayed by the soldiers, he still saw that war is not all heroic, but in time must darken the fairest cause. The terrible burden of its inconceivable extravagance began to weigh upon him like a nightmare. Each new season, with its prospective train of ambulances, its legion of tragedies, bewildered him with its horror; till he angrily denied that the whole population of negroes could be worth so terrific a purchase.[355] It may have been the exaggerated retort to an extremist argument; but indeed it was not for the negroes that the war was being fought; it was not for the powerful but highly coloured manifesto of _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, but for the "Declaration of Independence," and for the Constitution of America. And this both Whitman and Lincoln realised: they knew the negro of the South as the New Englander never knew him, and were firm in demanding for him the rights of a human being; but they knew also that mere abolition would not give him these, nor could it render him capable of the right exercise of American citizenship. * * * * * Though Lee had been thrown back from Gettysburg, his army had never recognised a defeat; and the chief danger to the cause of American unity lay in the conviction of the South that its general and his men were really invincible. For two more years they kept the field, with a heroic determination that appears at the same time little short of criminal when we consider the conditions involved upon all the parties to resistance. And when we add to these the story of the Southern military prisons, even the chivalrous fame of Lee becomes stained with an ineffaceable shame. Better a thousand times to have acknowledged defeat than to have been guilty of enforcing such things. But the pride of the South had become rigid, and would only admit defeat after it was broken. Its political leaders had staked everything upon victory; and it would seem that they preferred to sacrifice a whole generation of their supporters and victims rather than bear the penalty of their failure. When Grant, or rather the reckless courage of his American volunteers,[356] had crushed General Bragg at Chattanooga, and his friend Sherman had completed the work of clearing Tennessee, Lee's army remained the sole hope of the desperately impoverished South. But still in itself and in its leader it was absolutely confident. A similar confidence inspired the hearts of the Union soldiers, when in March, 1864, the downright laconic general from the West was given supreme command, and went into Virginia to crush his antagonist by mere force of numbers and determination. In Grant at last both Lincoln and the army had found the man they were waiting for. But still a year went by before the task was accomplished--a year whose memory is the most terrible of the war--upon whose page are inscribed such names as, The Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Bloody Angle, North Anna, Cold Harbour, recalling those awful fields whereon more than a hundred thousand soldiers fell. While Grant was stubbornly pushing Lee back upon Richmond, and finally holding him there, Sherman was cutting him off from further support by that extraordinary march south-eastwards from Chattanooga through Atlanta to the sea. He captured Savannah just before Christmas; and afterwards turning north, and wading through all the morasses and crossing all the innumerable streams and rivers of the Carolinas, he completed his errand a few days before his chief entered the Southern capital. Several futile attempts had been made to bring about a reconciliation between North and South before the bitter end;[357] but Lincoln, eager as he was for peace, stood out irrevocably for the acknowledgment of the Union, and now added to it the emancipation of the slaves. It was clear that nothing short of Lee's capitulation could satisfy the country or end the war. On the 3rd April, Richmond surrendered to Grant; and on the day after, the President, who was then with the army, entered the city which the evacuating forces had fired. Five more days and Lee gave himself up: by the end of the month the surrender of the Confederate troops had been effected, while Jefferson Davis was captured in Georgia on the 10th of May. A fortnight later the combined hosts of Grant and Sherman passed before the President in a last grand review along Pennsylvania Avenue and before the White House, to be thereafter disbanded. But the President was no longer Abraham Lincoln. Re-elected in the preceding autumn, in spite of Republican intrigues and the dangerous opposition of General McClellan, who was put forward by the Democrats, Lincoln had been assassinated during a performance at Ford's Theatre, on the evening of the 14th of April, the fourth anniversary of the fall of Fort Sumter. The loss to his country was irreparable. More than any other of its Presidents, either before or since, Abraham Lincoln embodied the real genius of the American nation, and in the hour of their agony he was the father of his people. Slowly they had learnt his strength and his wisdom; but they had hardly begun to understand the greatness of a heart which was able to love the South with a mother's tenderness even while it was in arms against him. The Vice-President, who stepped into his place, was a Union Democrat; he also loved the South, but less wisely than well. His rash haste in the reconstruction of the governments of the defeated States threw the nation into the hands of the group of narrowly partisan Republicans which continued to rule America with unscrupulous ability and ill-concealed self-interest[358] for sixteen years, threatening by its attitude towards the Southern people to alienate their sympathies forever from the Union. FOOTNOTES: [323] Burroughs, 20, 21. [324] _Literary Gazette_, 7th July, 1860; _qu._ Bucke, 202. [325] W. M. Rossetti, _Selections from W. W._, introd., and E. Rhys, _Selections from W. W._, introd.; W. B. Scott, _Autobiog._, ii., 32, 33, 268, 269. [326] There is no fact more important to be remembered for a right understanding of the events that follow than this, that the Slave party only controlled a portion, perhaps a minority, of the Democrats. [327] _L. of G._, 190; _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iii., 472. [328] _L. of G._, 1876. [329] Bryce, _op. cit._, i., 46, 47. [330] But see _ib._, i., 44. [331] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 445. [332] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 449. [333] _Comp. Prose_, 302. [334] See _supra_, p. 24. [335] Roosevelt, 202-04. [336] _Comp. Prose_, 15, 16. [337] Roosevelt, 203; _Mem. Hist. N.Y._, iii., 485. [338] _W.'s Memoranda during the War_, 59. [339] Inaugural, 1861. [340] Bucke, 104. [341] _L. of G._ (1856), Appendix. [342] _Cf. In re_, 213. [343] _Cf._ _Comp. Prose_, 255, etc. [344] MSS. Harned. [345] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 451. [346] _Comp. Prose_, 15. [347] _Wound-Dresser_, 23, 47, 48. [348] _L. of G._ (1860), 371. [349] _Comp. Prose_, 21; _Wound-Dresser_, 24. [350] Burroughs, 29; _Wound-Dresser_, 10, etc. [351] 19th Nov., 1863. [352] Roosevelt, 203-206. [353] _Wound-Dresser_, 94. [354] _Wound-Dresser_, 95. [355] _Cf._ Kennedy. [356] Owen Wister's _Grant_ (Beacon Biogs.), 95, 96. [357] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 579. [358] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 638. CHAPTER XII THE PROOF OF COMRADESHIP Whitman's residence in Washington and the nature of his occupation in the hospitals, through the years of the war, have rendered an outline of their history almost necessary. Of his manner of life during this period we have many notes and records, both in his own letters and memoranda and in the biographical accounts afterwards printed by his friends. During the first five or six months after his arrival he took his meals and spent much of his spare time with Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor, who had recently settled in the city.[359] He boarded in the same house as they, about six blocks from the Treasury building, where O'Connor worked, and a mile from the Armory Square Hospital, where lay many of his own wounded friends. William Douglas O'Connor was a strikingly handsome man of thirty years, full of spirit and eloquence.[360] He had previously been a Boston journalist, had married in that city a charming wife, and was the father of two children. He had lost his post there through his outspoken support of John Brown and the attack on Harper's Ferry. While out of employment he had written his novel, _Harrington_, an eloquent story of the Abolitionist cause, which was published by Thayer & Eldridge. In 1861 he had obtained a comfortable clerkship in the Lighthouse Bureau under the new Lincoln administration. [Illustration: WILLIAM DOUGLAS O'CONNOR] Whitman had already made his acquaintance in Boston, and their friendship now became most cordial and intimate. Generous and romantic in his view of life, O'Connor's whole personality was very attractive to Whitman from the day of their first encounter. He had the warm Irish temperament which Walt loved; he was a natural actor, and Walt was always at home with actors.[361] Moreover, he was an eager and intelligent admirer of _Leaves of Grass_; and his keen insight, wide reading and remarkable powers of elocution sometimes revealed to their author meanings and suggestions in his own familiar words of which he himself had been unconscious. O'Connor's personal attachment to and reverence for the older man is evident upon every page of _The Carpenter_, a tale which he afterwards contributed to _Putnam's Magazine_;[362] while in the impassioned eulogium of _The Good Gray Poet_ he has expressed his admiration for the _Leaves_. Upon politics however the two friends never agreed, and, unfortunately, O'Connor was always eager for political argument. He was a friend of Wendell Phillips, that anti-slavery orator who once described Lincoln as "the slave-hound of Illinois," because the latter approved the enforcement of the Fugitive Slave Law while it remained on the statute-book: and to O'Connor, compulsory emancipation always came before the preservation of the Union. This of course was not Whitman's view, and it was upon the negro question that their friendship finally suffered shipwreck.[363] O'Connor's rooms soon became the centre of an interesting group of literary friends. Mr. Eldridge, the publisher,[364] came to Washington after the wreck of his Boston business, and a little later Mr. John Burroughs,[365] a student of Wordsworth, Emerson and the _Leaves_, being attracted to the capital, whither all eyes were turning, gave up teaching in New England, and obtained a Government clerkship. Mr. E. C. Steadman,[366] a poet and journalist in those days, and a clerk in the Attorney-General's department, was of the O'Connor group; and Mr. Hubley Ashton[367] also, then a rising young lawyer, who afterwards intervened successfully on Whitman's behalf at a critical moment. The last-named of these gentlemen tells me that he first saw Whitman late one evening at the rooms of their mutual friend. It was indeed past midnight when Walt appeared asking for supper. He was wearing army boots, his sleeves were rolled up, and his coat was slung across his arm. He had just come in with a train-load of wounded from the front, and had been disposing of his charges in the Washington hospitals. Very picturesque he looked, as he stood there, stalwart, unconventional, majestic, an heroic American figure. * * * * * That figure rapidly became as familiar in Washington as it had been in New York.[368] No one could miss or mistake this great jolly-looking man, with his deliberate but swinging gait, his red face with its grey beard over the open collar, and crowned by the big slouch hat; and every one wondered who and what he might be. Some Western general, or sea-captain, or perhaps a Catholic Father, they would guess;[369] for he seemed a leader of men, and there was a freshness about his presence that surely must have come either from the prairies, the great deep, or the very heart of humanity. He had the bearing, too, of a man of action; he looked as though he could handle the ribbons, or swing an axe with the best, as indeed he could. Whitman was more puzzled than any of the onlookers about his occupation, or rather his business. Occupation he never lacked while the hospitals were full; but for years he was very poor, and once, at least, seriously in debt.[370] The need for money, to supply the little extras which might save the life of many a poor fellow in the wards, was constant; and now, probably for the first time, he found it difficult to earn his own livelihood. He had failed in his application for a Government clerkship. Living in Washington was in itself costly, and the paragraphs and letters which he contributed to the local and metropolitan press, with his two or three hours a day of copying in the paymaster's office--a pleasant top-room overlooking the city and the river--brought him but a meagre income. Moreover the need for money began to press in a new direction; for first, the family breadwinner at Brooklyn was threatened, and then, though he was not drawn for the army, his salary was cut in two.[371] Whereupon brother Andrew, always one suspects rather a poor tool, fell ill; and died after a lingering malady,[372] leaving a widow and several little children in poverty. Walt himself lived in the strictest simplicity. For awhile, as we have seen, he boarded with the O'Connors; then he took a little room on a top-floor;[373] breakfasted on tea and bread, toasted before an oil-stove, and had for his one solid meal a shilling dinner at a cheap restaurant. To all appearance he was in magnificent health. At the beginning of the first summer he is so large and well, as he playfully tells his mother, that he looks "like a great wild buffalo, with much hair".[374] Simplicity of life was never a hardship to him. There was something wild and elemental in his nature that chose a den rather than a parlour or a club-room for its shelter. The money difficulty renewed his thoughts of lecturing, and after the first summer in Washington his home--letters often refer to it.[375] But the plan now appears less as an apostolate than as a means of raising funds for his hospital service. The change may, of course, be due in part to the fact that he was writing of his plans to his old mother, who would be most likely to appreciate this motive; but it was chiefly the result of his present complete absorption in those immediate tasks of comradeship for which he seemed to be born. He was, however, well advised not to actually attempt the enterprise. Even a famous orator could hardly have found a hearing during the crisis of the war, when the newspaper with its casualty lists was almost the sole centre of interest. And even had he been sure of success, his hospital service would not have let him go. * * * * * During this first summer Whitman hurt his hand, and had to avoid some of the worst cases in order to escape blood-poisoning;[376] but in September he wrote home: "I am first-rate in health, so much better than a month or two ago: my hand has entirely healed. I go to hospital every day or night. I believe no men ever loved each other as I and some of these poor wounded sick and dying men love each other."[377] Such words are a fitting commentary upon the pages of Calamus. Here, among the perishing, the genius of this great comrade of young men found its proper work of redemption. Great, indeed, was his opportunity. The federal city was full of troops and of wounded soldiers. The whole of the district a few blocks north of Pennsylvania Avenue, and of that lying east of the Capitol, were alike occupied by parade grounds, camps and hospitals. The latter even invaded the Capitol itself; and for a time the present Hall of Statuary was used as a ward.[378] Midway between the Capitol and the present Washington Monument, and close to the Baltimore and Potomac railway station, is the site of the Armory Square Hospital; four blocks to the north again is the Patent Office, for a long time filled with beds. And hard by, in Judiciary Square, where the hideous Pension Office now stands, was another great camp of the "boys in white". Whitman was a frequent visitor at all of these. There were fourteen large hospitals in the city by the summer of 1863; and the total number in and about it rose to fifty. They spread away over the surrounding fields and hill-sides, as far as the Fairfax Seminary[379] on the ridge above the quaint Washingtonian town of Alexandria. This was almost in the enemy's country. And even the melancholy strains of the Dead March were welcomed with covert rejoicings by its citizens when the funeral of some Union soldier passed their doors.[380] All through the war Washington itself was full of disaffected persons; and for a while, looking out from the height of the Capitol, one could see the Confederate flag flying on the Virginian hills opposite. The greater part of the hospital nursing was done, of course, by orderlies; and a more or less severe and mechanical officialism prevailed in most of the wards. But this frigid atmosphere was warmed by the presence of a number of women; emissaries of Relief Associations supported by individual States, or of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions. It is difficult to overestimate the good that was done by Dorothea Dix and her helpers, among whom were not a few Quakeresses; and by all the devoted Sisters of Mercy and Sisters of Charity whose goodwill never failed. But even then the field for service was so vast that much remained undone. Many of the doctors and surgeons were able and kindly, some of them were absolutely devoted to their painful labours; and many of the nurses were more than patient and faithful; but the lads who were carried in wounded and sick from the cold and ghastly fields, wanted the strong support of manly understanding and prodigal affection in fuller measure than mere humanity seemed able to give.[381] Human as he was, Walt came to hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, like a Saviour. In after years they remembered "a man with the face of an angel" who had devoted himself to their individual needs.[382] The mere presence of a perfectly sane and radiant personality raised the tone of a whole ward.[383] The dead-weight of cloudy depression brooding upon it would melt in the ineffable sunshine that streamed from him. And then he always seemed to know exactly what was wanted, and he was never in a hurry. When anything was to be done or altered, he spoke with the authority of the man who alone, among overpressed and busy people, has the leisure for personal investigation; and therefore in most cases he had his way. Absolutely unsparing of himself, he knew too well wherein his strength lay to be careless of his health. If his food was sometimes insufficient, he would yet take his one square meal,[384] after refreshing himself with a bath, before starting upon his rounds. And when they were over, he cleared his brain under the stars before he turned in to sleep. Thus he kept his power at the full, and his presence was like that of the open air. He would often come into the wards carrying wild flowers newly picked, and strewing them over the beds, like a herald of the summer. Well did he know that they were messengers of life to the sick, words to them from the Earth-mother of men. Whatever he might be in the literary world of Washington or New York, here Whitman was nothing but Walt the comrade of soldiers. And for himself, he said in later years, that the supreme loves of his life had been for his mother and for the wounded.[385] It is a saying worthy of remembrance, for it indicates the man. Of the efficiency of his service there can be no question.[386] He worked his own miracles. He knew it positively himself, and besides, both the lads and the doctors assured him, time and again, that he was saving lives by refusing to give them over to despair. "I can testify," he writes to _The Brooklyn Eagle_, his old paper, "that friendship has literally cured a fever, and the medicine of daily affection a bad wound."[387] In his own words, he distributed himself,[388] as well as the contents of his pockets and haversack, in infinitesimal quantities, certain that but little of his giving would be wasted. And yet he never gave indiscriminately;[389] he knew always what he was doing, and did it with deliberation. The feeling that the lads wanted him had detained him at the first; the superabundance of his life, and the fulness of his health and spirits, carrying with them a conviction of duty when he entered these vestibules of death.[390] Here was something that he, and he only, could adequately accomplish; here was a cry he was bound by the law of his being to answer; and the cry of the hospitals continued to hold him till the war was done. As he left of a night, after going his last round and kissing many a young, pale, bearded face, in fulfilment of his own written injunctions, he would hear the boys calling, "Walt, Walt, Walt! come again, come again!" And it would have required a harder heart than his to refuse them, even had the answer within been less loud and insistent. They kept him busy, too. He provided them with pens, stamps, envelopes and paper, and wrote their letters for them;[391] letters to mothers, wives and sweethearts; and the last news of all, when the sad procession had carried son, husband or lover to his soldier's grave, and had fired over him the last salute. He would enter, armed with newspapers and magazines which he distributed; and often he would read to the men, or recite some suitable verses, never, I think, his own.[392] He played games with them, too; and though he was one of the few men in Washington who never smoked,[393] he was the only one of all the visitors who brought them tobacco; and the ward-surgeons, though at first they protested, could not refuse him; it really seemed as though Walt knew best. On the glorious Fourth, he would provide a feast of ice-cream for some ward;[394] and on other hot days--and there were too many in the capital--would distribute the contents of crates full of oranges,[395] or lemons and sugar for the making of lemonade. It was for such gifts as these, and many others of a similar kind, that he needed money; and through the influence of Emerson, James Redpath and other friends in New York and Boston, he was able to distribute perhaps £1,200 among the soldiers in these infinitesimal quantities.[396] Thus he became the almoner of many in the North. Much of the service, however, was entirely his own--if one can ever call love one's own, which all things seem to offer to the soul that has learnt to receive from all. In cases of heart sickness, and the despondency and despair that come to the lonely man lying helpless among callous or unimaginative and therefore indifferent persons, Walt's quick divination of the real trouble made him the best of nurses; and he took care to remember all the cases that came under his notice, innumerable as they must have seemed. He kept a strict record of his patients and their individual needs in little blood and tear-stained notebooks, many of which are still extant.[397] This is an additional proof of that concrete definiteness of observation which distinguishes his habit of mind from the love of merely nebulous generalisation of which he is sometimes accused. One is bound to respect the intuitions of a mind which has so large a grasp of detail. Beginning characteristically with the Brooklyn lads whom he found scattered about the several hospitals, and who claimed his attention by the natural right of old acquaintanceship, his work grew like a rolling snowball, as he made his way from bed to bed; for he was always quick to feel the needs of a stranger. Before long he realised that there was not one among the thousand tents and wards in which he might not profitably have expended his whole vital energy. As it was, however, he tramped from hospital to hospital, faithfully going his rounds as far afield as the Fairfax Seminary. And in those days the Washington streets were heavy walking in the wet weather; for Pennsylvania Avenue was the only one that was yet paved,[398] and then boasted nothing but the cobble-stones, which still serve in the quaint streets across the Potomac. He walked a great deal. The open air relieved the tension of the wards, which at times was almost unbearable. Though his presence and affection saved many a lad's life, there must have been many more that died; and the tragedy of these deaths, and the terrible suffering that often preceded them, bit into his soul. Fascinated though he was by his employment, and delighting in it while he was strong and well,[399] the strength of his great heart was often as helpless as a little child's; and his whole nature staggered under the blows, which he felt even in his physical frame. He was literally an "amateur"; he could never take a detached or "professional" attitude towards his patients, for he knew that what they needed from him was love; their suffering became his suffering, and something died in him when they died. The following passage, written when the war itself was drawing to a close, indicates the character of much of his work, and the spirit in which it was done:-- "The large ward I am in is used for secession soldiers exclusively. One man, about forty years of age, emaciated with diarrhoea, I was attracted to, as he lay with his eyes turned up, looking like death. His weakness was so extreme that it took a minute or so every time for him to talk with anything like consecutive meaning; yet he was evidently a man of good intelligence and education. As I said anything, he would lie a moment perfectly still, then, with closed eyes, answer in a low, very slow voice, quite correct and sensible, but in a way and tone that wrung my heart. He had a mother, wife and child, living (or probably living) in his home in Mississippi. It was long, long since he had seen them. Had he caused a letter to be sent them since he got here in Washington? No answer. I repeated the question very slowly and soothingly. He could not tell whether he had or not--things of late seemed to him like a dream. After waiting a moment, I said: 'Well, I am going to walk down the ward a moment, and when I come back you can tell me. If you have not written, I will sit down and write.' A few minutes after I returned; he said he remembered now that some one had written for him two or three days before. The presence of this man impressed me profoundly. The flesh was all sunken on face and arms; the eyes low in their sockets and glassy, and with purple rings around them. Two or three great tears silently flowed out from the eyes, and rolled down his temples (he was doubtless unused to be spoken to as I was speaking to him). Sickness, imprisonment, exhaustion, etc., had conquered the body, yet the mind held mastery still, and called even wandering remembrance back."[400] At times the tragedy unnerved him, so that even his native optimism was clouded. "I believe there is not much but trouble in this world," we find him writing to his mother, and the page hardly reads like one of his; "if one hasn't any for himself, he has it made up by having it brought close to him through others, and that is sometimes worse than to have it touch oneself."[401] He had already learnt the primer of sorrow; now he was studying the lore in which he was to become so deeply read. * * * * * Even that first summer the malarial climate and excessive heat of Washington, with the close watching in the wards, and the continual draught upon his vital forces, affected him perceptibly. In his letters home he mentions heavy colds, with deafness and trouble in his head caused by the awful heat,[402] as giving him some anxiety. He seems to have had a slight sun-stroke in earlier years, which made him more susceptible to this kind of weakness; and on hot days he went armed with a big umbrella and a fan.[403] But through all this time he seemed to his friends the very incarnation of his "robust soul". [Illustration: JOHN BURROUGHS AT SIXTY-THREE] Though he shuddered sometimes as he recalled the sights of the wards, the life outside was a pleasant one.[404] He loved to take long midnight rambles about the city and over the surrounding hills, with his friends. In spring, he delighted in the bird-song, the colour and fragrance of the flowers which lined the banks of Rock Creek,[405] a stream which, entering the broad Potomac a mile above the Treasury building, separated Washington from the narrow ivy-clad streets of suburban Georgetown. And the stir and life of the capital always interested him. He loved to watch the marching of the troops; and the martial music and flying colours always delighted him as though he were a boy. He frequently met the President,[406] blanched and worn with anxiety and sorrow, riding in from his breezier lodging at the Soldiers' Home on the north side of the city, to his official residence. They would exchange the salutations of street acquaintances, each man admiring the patent manliness of the other. In Washington, as in New York, Whitman was speedily making himself at home with everybody; eating melons in the street with a countryman,[407] or chatting at the Capitol with a member of Congress; for men or women, black or white, he always had his own friendly word. He had besides, as we have seen, his inner circle at O'Connor's. He was often at the Capitol, that noble, but somewhat uninteresting building which overlooks the city; and if he deplored the low level of the Congressional debates, he found some compensation among the trees without; for fine trees were already a feature of Washington,[408] which now appears, as one looks down upon it, like a city builded in a wood. About sundown, too, he liked to stand where he could see the level light blazing like a star upon the bronze figure of Liberty, newly mounted above the dome. It was in the summer of 1864, when Whitman was forty-five years of age, that he had his first serious illness. He had never been really out of health before. The preceding autumn he had paid a short visit to his home, and in February had gone down to the front at Culpepper, thinking that his services might be needed nearer to the actual scene of battle. But he found that he could do better work in Washington. The cases there seemed to grow more desperate as the long strain of the war made itself felt upon the men in the ranks. It was immediately after this that Grant was given the supreme command; and at the close of March, Whitman, who foresaw the real meaning of the task of crushing Lee, wrote of it thus: "O mother, to think that we are to have here soon what I have seen so many times; the awful loads and trains and boat-loads of poor, bloody and pale, and wounded young men again.... I see all the little signs--getting ready in the hospitals, etc. It is dreadful when one thinks about it. I sometimes think over the sights I have myself seen: the arrival of the wounded after a battle; and the scenes on the field too; and I can hardly believe my own recollections. What an awful thing war is! Mother, it seems not men, but a lot of devils and butchers, butchering one another."[409] A week later, describing the frightful sufferings of the soldiers, and the callous selfishness of their attendants, he says: "I get almost frightened at the world".[410] Again, two days after: "I have been in the midst of suffering and death for two months, worse than ever. The only comfort is that I have been the cause of some beams of sunshine upon their suffering and gloomy souls and bodies too."[411] And he adds: "Oh, it is terrible, and getting worse, worse, worse".[412] Rumours spread in the city of the probable character of Grant's campaign; and as he realised more and more fully what would be its inevitable cost, a sort of terror took hold of him. Yet he believed in Grant, as well as in Lincoln.[413] And hating war as he did, he could not see any other course possible now than to complete its work. He was solemnly ready to take his part in those ranks of men converted, as it were, into "devils and butchers," if need be, if he could feel assured that he was more use to America upon the field than in the wards among the sick and dying. Meanwhile, he shared the old mother's anxiety about George, who was always in the thick of the fighting. News, both true and false, was arriving; and his letters are always seeking to support the old woman's faith, and to give her the plain truth with all the hope that might be. He was kept very closely occupied now in the hospitals; and especially at Armory Square, where some 200 desperate cases were collected;[414] men who had lain on the field, or otherwise unattended, until their wounds and amputations had mortified. He had always made a rule of going where he was most needed. But now he began to suffer severely from what he describes as fulness in the head, to have fits of faintness, and to be troubled with sore throat. To add to the horrors of those days, a number of the wounded lads went crazy; and at last the strain became so manifestly too much for his failing vitality, that his friends and the doctors bade him go North for a time. But he hung on still; hoping, like Grant, for the war to end with the summer, and writing to his mother that he cannot bear to leave and be absent if George should be hit and brought into Washington.[415] However, with midsummer upon him and its deadly heat, he became really ill, and had to relinquish his post. For nearly six months he remained restlessly at home. Whitman never fully recovered. We may perhaps be surprised at this, and wonder that he should have broken down, even under the circumstances. Was he not in such relations with the Universal Life that he should daily have been able to replenish the storehouse of his physical and emotional forces? He was no spendthrift, and husbanded them as well as he might, knowing their value; and doubtless he asked himself this very question many a time. Doubtless, too, he was confident, at least during the earlier months, that after the strain was over his resilient nature would regain its normal tone. But on the other hand, he had volunteered for a service to whose claims he was ready to respond to the uttermost farthing.[416] Where others gave their lives, who was he to hold back anything of his? The soul, one may say, never gives more than it can afford; for the soul is divinely prudent, and knows the worthlessness of such a gift. And giving with that prudence, it never seeks repayment; what it gives, it gives. But the body, even at its best, is not as the soul. And when the soul gives the vital and emotional forces of its body to invigorate other bodies, it may give more of these, and more continuously, than the body can replace. And so it was with Whitman. He gave, and I think he gave deliberately, for he was an extraordinarily deliberate man, that for which he cared far more than life; he gave his health to the friends, the strangers, whom he loved; and thus his "spiritualised body"[417] found its use. FOOTNOTES: [359] _Wound-Dresser_, 53. [360] _Comp. Prose_, 511, 512; Howells, _op. cit._ [361] _Comp. Prose_, 518, 519; MSS. Traubel. [362] See _infra_, 227. [363] See _infra_, 236. [364] _Wound-Dresser_, 128; Bucke, 39, 40. [365] Bucke, 12. [366] _Wound-Dresser_, 133. [367] Calamus, 23, 24, etc. [368] Bucke, 99. [369] _Ib._, 37. [370] _Wound-Dresser_, 52. [371] _Wound-Dresser_, 133. [372] _Ib._, 64, etc. [373] Trowbridge, _op. cit._ [374] _Wound-Dresser_, 66. [375] _Ib._, 84. [376] _Wound-Dresser_, 98. [377] _Ib._, iii. [378] S. D. Wyeth's _The Federal City_, 1868. [379] _Comp. Prose_, 40, 41. [380] J. S. Wheelock's _The Boys in White_, 1870. [381] _Wound-Dresser_, 7. [382] Bucke, 37. [383] _Wound-Dresser_, 28. [384] _Comp. Prose_, 32. [385] _In re_, 391. [386] _Wound-Dresser_, 8, 89, 113; Bucke, 36. [387] _Wound-Dresser_, 14. [388] _Ib._, 12. [389] _Wound-Dresser_, 32, 33. [390] Camden, ix., 200. [391] _Wound-Dresser_, 13. [392] _Ib._, 42. [393] _Ib._, 13; Calamus, 24. [394] _Wound-Dresser_, 39. [395] _Ib._, 30, 31. [396] Donaldson, 153; _Comp. Prose_, 51. [397] _Mem. During the War_, 3. [398] _Recollections of Washn. in War Time_, A. G. Riddle, 1895. _See Transcriber's Note._ [399] _Wound-Dresser_, 74, 84. [400] _Comp. Prose_, 453, 454. [401] _Ib._, 104. [402] _Wound-Dresser_, 62, etc. [403] _Wound-Dresser_, 79. [404] _Ib._, 123; _Comp. Prose_, 70. [405] Dr. T. Proctor in _Journal of Hygiene_, Feb., 1898. [406] _Comp. Prose_, 38. [407] Calamus, 31. [408] _Wound-Dresser_, 112. [409] _Wound-Dresser_, 156, 157. [410] _Ib._, 159. [411] _Ib._, 160. [412] _Ib._, 161. [413] _Wound-Dresser_, 139, etc. [414] _Ib._, 37, etc. [415] _Ib._, 198. [416] Bucke, 38, 39. [417] _Supra_, 181. CHAPTER XIII A WASHINGTON CLERK While Whitman was at home, during the latter part of 1864, he doubtless put the finishing touches to _Drum-taps_, which was printed at New York early in the following summer. Several of the poems in this collection had been written in that city during the two years which had elapsed since the last publication of _Leaves of Grass_, before he set out for Washington. The manuscript had remained at home, tied up in its square, spotted, stone-colour covers,[418] but was sent on to him, to be discussed in the Washington circle. Early in 1864 a friend seems to have taken it the round of the Boston publishers, but without success.[419] If we are to understand Whitman's attitude towards the war, we must glance at the little brown volume of seventy-two pages, _Walt Whitman's Drum-taps_. Among the poems which preceded his visit to the capital were probably the song of "Pioneers,"[420] with its cry of the West, and the poem of the "Broadway Pageant,"[421] of 1860, celebrating the Japanese Embassy, and forming a complementary tribute to the maternal East. To these one may add the lines to "Old Ireland"[422] and the noble "Years of the Modern".[423] In this last he proclaims the growing consciousness of solidarity among the peoples of the world. Artificial boundaries seem to be breaking down in Europe, and the people are making their own landmarks--witness the rise of a new Italy. Everywhere men among the people are awaking to ask pregnant questions, and to link all lands together with steam and electricity. Are all nations communing? Is there going to be but one heart to the globe? Is humanity forming en-masse? for lo, tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim, The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war, No one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days and nights; Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms, Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me, This incredible rush and heat, this strange ecstatic fever of dreams, O years! Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake); The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.[424] The war poems follow. * * * * * Whitman's attitude towards war is not obvious, but it is, I believe, logical and consistent. On one side it approximated to the Quaker position, but only on one side. Or rather, perhaps, the Quaker position approximates to one side of Whitman's. He was devoted to a social order, or republic, which could not be realised by deeds of arms. He had no hatred for any of his fellows, and recognised in his political enemy a man divine as himself--one cannot say that he had any personal enemies, though there were men who would like to have been accounted such. The fat years of peace had, however, awakened doubts in him of the average American's capacity for great passions.[425] These seemed to be rare among them, and Whitman had been driven to seek them in nature and her storms. It was with exultation, then, that he felt the response of New York and of the whole of America to the call of the trumpet.[426] Men of peace are accustomed to lament the contagion of the war-fever, and with a large measure of justice. But so long as civilisation tends to render the common lives of men cheap or calculating, there will remain a divine necessity for those hours of fierce enthusiasm which, like a forest fire or religious revival, sweep irresistibly over a nation. Whitman shared the rhythmic answer of the blood, and of the soul which is involved therewith, to the imperious throbbing of the drums.[427] He knew that it represented in some, perhaps barbaric, way the throbbing of the nation's heart, and that the cry "To Arms!" called forth much that was best in men. The call to arms is one thing; the actual fighting, which converts men, to use his own phrase, into "devils and butchers," is another. The call to arms awakes something in a man more heroic than the life he ordinarily lives; he seems to hear in it the voice of the Nation calling him by name, and when he answers he feels the joy of the Nation in his heart. He becomes consciously one with a great host in the hour of peril. He hears the voice of a Cause in the bugles and the drums. He shares in a new emotion, which is his glory because it is not his alone. He finds a fuller liberty than he has ever known in the discipline of the ranks; he accepts the petty tyrannies to which he is subjected, feeling that behind the officers is the will of the Nation to which he has yielded his own. This, for better and worse, we may call the mysticism of war, and it appealed forcibly to Whitman. For him, war was illuminated by the idea of solidarity; an idea which was constantly present to him from this time forward. He no longer saw the great personalities only, nor only their divine comradeship in the life of God; all that remained as vivid as of old; but now he was being constantly reminded of the way in which individuals share consciously in the life of the nation; and this suggested to him how, presently, they will come to be conscious of their part in the life of the Race. He recognised how essential was the sense of citizenship to fuller soul-life. The barriers in which our individual lives are isolated must be broken, if liberty is to be brought to the soul. If we are to live fully, we must feel the tides of being sweep through our emotional natures. Hence his welcome to war, which, in spite of all the fiendish spirits which follow in its wake, does thrill a chord of national consciousness in the individual heart. We may well ask whether there is no errand worthier of this sense of solidarity than that of slaughter. Surely the affirmation of such an errand underlies the whole thought of _Drum-taps_, with its call to a "divine war".[428] The hour has come when the Social Passion is about to rouse the peoples to a nobler crusade against oppression than any yet; when the nations shall be purged by revolutions wholesomer than those of 1789 or 1861. Whitman's whole life, throbbing in every page he wrote, proclaims it. He regarded the Civil War as a sort of fever in the body politic, caused by anterior conditions of congestion. War had become necessary for the life of that body, and only after a war could health re-assert itself. To compromise continually, as we boast in England that we do, may sustain a sort of social peace, but it is almost certain to drive the disease deeper into the very heart of our national life, and there to sap the sheer ability for any kind of noble enthusiasm. You may purchase a sort of peace with the price of a life more sacred than even that of individual citizens. Whitman demanded national health, without which he could see no real peace. He did not suppose, indeed, that war could of itself effect a cure. Health could only return in so far as the aroused conscience of the nation--which had lived in its soldiers and in the wives and families who had shared in their devotion--was carried forward into the civil life. Peace itself must be rendered sentient of that heroic national purpose which had for a moment flashed across the fields of battle.[429] Peace, indeed, is only priceless when it has become more truly and wisely heroical than war; when it has become affirmative where war is cruelly negative; when it creates where war destroys, quickening the heart of each citizen to fulfil a sacred duty. Whitman well knew that in order to have such a peace we must set before the peoples a mission, a sublime national task. What party is there to-day, either in England or America, which dares to hold up for achievement any programme of heroism? Read in this light, and only so, I believe, will _Drum-taps_ yield up its essential meaning. It is a Song of the Broad-axe, not a scream of the war-eagle.[430] * * * * * In alluding to _Drum-taps_, I have somewhat anticipated the natural course of the story, to which we must now return. Even at home on furlough, Whitman could not wholly relinquish the occupation which he had assumed, and became a frequent visitor at the hospitals of Brooklyn and New York. Early in December, 1864, he was back again at his post, suffering from the added anxiety for his brother's welfare; for George was a prisoner in the hands of the Confederates, enduring the almost inconceivable horrors of a winter imprisonment at Dannville. At the beginning of February Walt made an application to General Grant, through a friend in the office of the _New York Times_,[431] for the release of his brother, together with another officer of the 51st New York Volunteers; alleging, as an urgent reason, the deep distress of his aged mother whose health was breaking. The application appears to have been successful, and George, who had been captured early in the preceding summer, and upon whom fever, starvation, exposure and cold had wreaked their worst for many months, returned alive to Brooklyn, his excellent constitution triumphant over all hardships. In the same month Whitman obtained a clerkship in the Indian Bureau of the Department of the Interior, and thoroughly enjoyed the contact into which he was thus brought with the aboriginal Americans. They on their side appear to have distinguished him as a real man among the host of colourless officials, and to have responded to his advances.[432] This was the early spring of Lincoln's death; and Walt was at the President's last levee.[433] He looked in also at the Inauguration Ball held in the Patent Office--strangely converted from its recent uses as a hospital. There he remarked the worn and weary expression of the beloved brown face; for still the great tragedy dragged on. Five or six weeks later, a young Irish-Virginian, one of Walt's Washington friends,[434] was up in the second gallery of the crowded theatre upon the tragic night of the assassination, and saw the whole action passing before his bewildered eyes. Whitman was at home again in Brooklyn: seeing George, we may presume, and making final arrangements for his _Drum-taps_; on his return he seems to have heard the whole graphic story from his friend. It is doubtful whether Whitman and the dead President had ever spoken to one another, beyond the ordinary greeting of street acquaintances. They had met perhaps a score of times, and it is recorded that once, when Walt passed the President's window, Lincoln had remarked significantly--"Well, _he_ looks like a man".[435] It seems possible that at first Whitman may have felt something of the public uncertainty about the character of the new President.[436] How deep-rooted in the average American mind was the distrust or dislike of his policy is seen in the fact that, only six months before the death that was mourned by the whole nation, the opposition to his re-election was represented by a formidable popular vote. The South was in revolt, and therefore of course disfranchised; but even so, McClellan polled as large a total as had the President at the previous election; though Lincoln himself increased his former vote by a little more than one-fifth. So strong ran popular feeling against the whole policy of interference with the seceding States even in the fourth year of the war. But Lincoln's death revealed his true worth to America. And the sense of the almost sacramental nature of that death, as sealing for ever the million others of the war, and finally consecrating the re-established union of North and South, grew upon Whitman, who long before had realised that Lincoln was the father of his country and the captain of her course. A sense of some impending tragedy seems to have accompanied Whitman upon his walks at the time of the assassination. It was early spring and the lilac was in blossom; a strange association, deeper than mere fancy,[437] seemed to the poet to establish itself between the scent of the lilac, the solitary night-song of the hermit-thrush, the fulness of the evening star at this time, and the passing of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands". It was out of this deeply realised association that he built up the mystical symphony which he afterwards called "President Lincoln's Burial Hymn," a poem in many respects similar to his other great chant of death, "Out of the Cradle". Mystical and symbolic, it is charged with a vast national emotion; and this gives a certain vagueness to its solemnity, better befitting its theme than a more concrete treatment. The poet was not writing of "him I love," but rather attempting to express the feeling of lonely loss which thousands experienced on that dark April day. Hence his poem is the hymn of a nation's bereavement rather than the elegy of a great man dead. Whitman, in his attitude toward Lincoln, had come to regard him as an incarnation of America. He thought of him as he thought of the Flag; and his personal reverence for the man took almost the form of devotion to an ideal. * * * * * The President's death had been already noted in _Drum-taps_, but when he conceived the longer poem, Whitman seems to have recalled the edition,[438] in order to add this and certain other verses as a sequel, thus delaying its publication till about the end of the year. Another of the new poems calls for a word in passing. "Chanting the Square Deific"[439] is an attempt to express his theory of ultimate reality, that is to say, of the soul. Four elements go to the making of this, and these he calls respectively, Jehovah, Christ, Satan and Santa Spirita--adopting, as he sometimes would, a formula of his own inventing, that was of no known language. In other words, he conceived of the soul's reality,[440] as characterised by four essential qualities; first, its obedience to the remorseless general laws of being; second, its capacity for attraction to and absorption into others--its love-quality; third, its lawless defiance of everything but its own will; fourth, its sense of identity with the whole. Condemnation, compassion, defiance, harmony, these he says are final and essential qualities of the Divine; only as they are united can our idea of God or of the Soul, which is the Son of God, be complete. In the traditional Satan of revolt and pride, he saw an element without which the harmony was immaterial and unreal. Evil and perilous in itself, in its relation to the rest it is the solid ballast of the soaring soul. In this, he suggests much of the attitude which Nietzsche was afterwards to make his own. * * * * * During the composition of some of these poems a crisis occurred in his new official career. The war was over, but the hospitals still were full, and Walt was busy there as usual in his leisure hours; and at his desk in the Indian Bureau, whenever his duties were not pressing, he was at work upon his manuscripts,[441] when some hostile fellow-clerk seems to have called the attention of the newly appointed chief of the department to the character of these private documents. Whitman had been a favourite with the chief clerk in the bureau, and had been given a good deal of latitude; perhaps the hostile person had observed this with a jealous eye. The manuscript proved to be not the innocuous _Drum-taps_, but an annotated copy of _Leaves of Grass_ preparing for a new edition. A reading of the volume decided the chief upon a prompt dismissal of its author, and this is not surprising when we remember that Mr. Harlan had been appointed through the pressure of the powerful Methodist interest which he commanded. The Methodist eye in him must have regarded many of these pages with suspicion and not a few with disgust. The dismissal itself was perfectly colourless; it ran:-- "DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR, "WASHINGTON, D.C., _June 30th, 1865_. "The services of Walter Whitman, of New York, as a clerk in the Indian Office, will be dispensed with from and after this date. "JAS. HARLAN, "_Secretary of the Interior_."[442] It is obvious that the chief had no right to open his clerk's desk and examine what he knew to be private papers; but having done so, and being presumably of an unimaginative, narrowly pious and over-conscientious character, we cannot wonder at his action. From Whitman's point of view the matter was serious; he could ill-afford a peremptory dismissal from the public service. And to his friends the dismissal appeared not so much unjust as enormous. O'Connor, hearing the news, went straight to Hubley Ashton, in the fiery heat of that generous and righteous wrath which scintillates and flashes with perfervid splendour through the pages of his _Good Grey Poet_.[443] Mr. Ashton was not so fierce, but he was indignant. He was a member of the Administration, and used his power to Whitman's advantage. Finding all remonstrance with Mr. Harlan to be vain, he yet induced him to make some sort of exchange by which Whitman was not actually dismissed from the service, but only transferred to his own department--the Attorney-General's. Painful at the time, the affair did Whitman little injury. When Harlan's action became known it was far from popular in Washington, where every one knew Walt, and where next to nobody had read his _Leaves_. A section at least of the local press supported the claims of a fellow-pressman;[444] while in the Civil Service he was a favourite with the clerks. In literary circles, also, O'Connor's slashing attack upon the Secretary for the Interior turned the tables in Walt's favour. In later years assaults of the same character were not infrequent, both upon _Leaves of Grass_ and its author; but, however annoying, they always resulted in arousing curiosity, and thus in extending the circle of readers. Probably the fear of this consequence prevented their further multiplication, for average American opinion was then undisguisedly hostile, as, of course, it still remains. * * * * * On the whole, Whitman seems to have been happy in his new office. He never tired of the view from his window[445] in the second storey of the Treasury Building, overlooking miles of river reaches with white sails upon them, and the range of wooded Virginian hills. He liked his companions, and he relished the green tea which came in every afternoon from a girl in an adjacent office;[446] not, indeed, intended for him, but resigned to him by its recipient, who was scornful of the cup. He went on great walks, especially by night, and enjoyed his jaunts on the cars. One Thanksgiving Day we find him picnicing by the falls of the Potomac, and on another occasion he is visiting Washington's old mansion at Mount Vernon.[447] Every Sunday till the close of 1866 he was in the hospitals, and frequently called at one or other during the week. He was a regular visitor at the homes of several friends, and his acquaintance with Mr. Peter Doyle, which seems to have begun during the last winter of the war, had ripened into a close comradeship. Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs had always to keep Sunday breakfast waiting for him; there was a regularity in his lateness.[448] After a chat with them, and a glance through the Sunday papers, he would stroll over to the office for his letters on his way to some hospital, and during the course of the afternoon he dropped in at the O'Connors' for tea. In the winter he spent much of his leisure by the fire in the comfortable Library of the Treasury Building reading novels, philosophy and what he would. He boarded at a pleasant house on M Street, near Twelfth.[449] It stood back from the road, with a long sweep of sward in front of it, and an arbour under a great cherry tree, which became in spring a hill of snowy blossom. As the evenings grew warmer, Whitman and his fellow-boarders would draw their chairs out on to the grass and sit under the trees talking or silently watching the passers-by, or listening to occasional strolling players. To his companions and to casual visitors he seemed as strong as ever. He ate well, avoiding excess, and, still adhering to his resolution, partaking but sparingly of meat. He went to bed and rose early. Always affable and courteous, he contrived to take his part in the general conversation without saying much. Such a life was easy, and passably comfortable; he was earning a fair salary, and making new friends constantly. But he was without a home; and Washington, after all, as the seat of officialism, shows the seamy side of democracy. The cynic declares that its population consists exclusively of negroes, mean whites and officials; thus presenting a melancholy contrast to the metropolis of the fifties with its large class of vigorous-minded, independent artisans, the backbone of a city democracy as the yeoman-farmers are of a nation. The routine also of the work he was doing must often have been irksome to him.[450] It is one of the enigmas of Whitman's life that he should have been content to continue in Washington six years at least after the hospitals had ceased to claim him; sitting before a Government desk as third clerk and earning his regular pay of rather more than three hundred pounds a year.[451] How great the change from his old Bohemian days! The question obtrudes, was Walt becoming "respectable"? Whether he were or no, at least he had become noticeably better clad and less aggressive, a gentler seeming man than of old.[452] And yet there was always something illusive about this apparent change. He could still turn the face of a rock to impertinent intruders;[453] he could still blaze out in sudden anger upon a rare occasion. But he was near fifty now, and for several years the strong sympathies of his nature had been fully and continually exercised in the wards. His individuality was as marked as ever; but with the war he had experienced a deeper sense of his membership in the life of the Race. The word "_en-masse_," now so often on his lips, expresses this constant consciousness. It was not new to him, but its dominance was new. Again, while he had seen before that, in general, every soul is divine, it was the days and nights which he spent in the wards which made him understand how divine it actually is. The meaning of love grows richer in its exercise, and this was doubtless true in the case of Walt Whitman. The experience of recent years had cleansed his self-assertion of qualities which were merely fortuitous. Never intentionally eccentric, he had previously perhaps exaggerated the traits which were peculiar to a stage in the development of his own personality. But the crucible heat of the wards rid him of that, while integrating his nature more perfectly. Living more intensely than ever, he was living more than ever in the lives of others; and this inevitably made him more catholic. Other circumstances aided in the same direction. His manner of daily life had altered. He lived no longer among his own folk at home, but instead among professional men and clerks, at a middle-class Washington boarding-house. He worked now with a pen, not a hammer; and his book, written for the young American artisan, was being read and appreciated, not at all by him, but instead by students in Old and New England. He lost nothing of himself by becoming one of this other class in which for the time he lived with his book. A smaller man might have been seriously affected by such a change in environment; but while it could not be without effect upon Whitman, it never made him less true to his essential self. In considering this period, I think we may say that the Whitman of the later sixties was still the large masculine man who wrote the first _Leaves of Grass_; but having in 1860 completed the first plan of the book, his task of self-assertion now became as it were a secondary matter. The suffering and sympathy of the war had developed the saviour in him; so that some of his portraits, taken at the time, have almost the air of a "gentle shepherd". His message became increasingly one of helpful love, newly adjusted to the individuals among whom he was thrown. And with the rise of a group of able young champions and admirers, it became more necessary that he should guard his message and himself from anything that could encourage that habit of personal imitation which would have created a group of little Whitmanites, whose very ability must have limited the original inspiration which had bound them to him. Thus it was in a sense true that, after the publication of the volume of 1860, the first Whitman was, as he prophesied he would be, "disembodied, triumphant, dead". * * * * * So much on the matter of Whitman's increased respectability: as to his prolonged stay in Washington, something further must be said. It is evident that he was no longer the Titan of old days. In the spring of 1867 he writes home that he is well, but "getting old";[454] and every year he seemed to feel the extremes of the Washington climate more and more. This is further evidence of decreasing vitality. Had he returned to New York, it must probably have been to write for the press; and however physically robust he might suppose himself to be, something at least of the old force of initiative had left him. There was no longer any immediate need for his presence at home; for when Jeff went West to St. Louis, as engineer to the city waterworks, his brother George was there to take his place as the mother's main support. Walt was, moreover, earning a sufficient income in an easy fashion. The work itself was light; he was trusted, and little supervised. His chief seems to have recognised that he had spent himself unsparingly for America in the hospitals, without immediate reward; and now, in consequence, allowed him to arrange his duties as suited him best. He spent but little of his income upon himself; though the penurious simplicity and discomfort of the early days was no longer desirable. He always sent something to his mother, and seems to have divided the remainder between any of his hospital boys who still lingered; the beggars whom he never refused; his friends, and the Savings Bank. But one suspects that Whitman really stayed on in Washington for the same reason that he had previously remained in New York. He took root wherever he stood; and it required the tug of duty to remove him. Wherever he was, his life was full of incident and material for thought. Outward occupation or adventure counted for comparatively little in his experience. His present circumstances favoured the steady progress of his own writing and the prosecution of his friendships. Not that he ever forgot his friends in the metropolis, or grew indifferent to the claims of his family. He contrived to spend at least a month every summer in his old haunts, living at home and making daily expeditions on the bay, bathing from the Coney Island beach, and sauntering along Broadway.[455] He often had business at the printers', for he was now again his own publisher. The _Leaves_ had been out of print since the failure of his Boston friends, and in 1867 he was working on a new edition, completing the very copy which had roused the wrath of Mr. Harlan. He seems to have spent a few days with his friend Mrs. Price;[456] and coming down late to tea one evening, after working on his manuscripts, one of the daughters has recorded the extraordinary brightness and elation of his mien. "An almost irrepressible joyousness," she says, "shone from his face and seemed to pervade his whole body. It was the more noticeable as his ordinary mood was one of quiet yet cheerful serenity. I knew he had been working at a new edition of his book, and I hoped if he had an opportunity he would say something to let us into the secret of his mysterious joy. Unfortunately, most of those at the table were occupied with some subject of conversation; at every pause I waited eagerly for him to speak; but no, some one else would begin again, until I grew almost wild with impatience and vexation. He appeared to listen, and would even laugh at some of the remarks that were made, yet he did not utter a single word during the meal; and his face still wore that singular brightness and delight, as though he had partaken of some divine elixir." But it was not always in joy that he wrote. Other friends have told how they have noted him turning aside from the street into some door or alleyway to take out a slip of paper and write, with the tears running fast across his face.[457] Whether in tears or in ecstasy, it is certain that he composed his poems under the stress of actual feeling; and of emotions which shook his whole being and thrilled its heavy, slow-vibrating chords to music. FOOTNOTES: [418] _Wound-Dresser_, 61. [419] Trowbridge, _op. cit._ [420] _L. of G._, 183. [421] _Ib._, 193. [422] _Ib._, 284. [423] _Ib._, 370. [424] _L. of G._, 371. [425] _Ib._, 228. [426] _Ib._, 220. [427] _L. of G._, 222. [428] _Cf._ "I, too ... also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering, (Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last), the field the world, For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul, Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles, I above all promote brave soldiers."--_L. of G._, 9, 10. [429] _L. of G._, 276, 278. [430] Camden, iii., 160, 161. [431] Facsimile in Williamson's _Catalogue_. [432] _In re_, 383; _Comp. Prose_, 411-13. [433] _Comp. Prose_, 59. [434] Calamus, 25. [435] Bucke, 42. [436] _Wound-Dresser_, 139. [437] _L. of G._, 255; _Comp. Prose_, 305. [438] _L. of G._, 263; _cf._ (1865); _cf._ Calamus, 35 n. [439] _L. of G._, 339. [440] _Cf._ W. N. Guthrie's _W. W. as Religious and Moral Teacher_ (1897), 80 n.; Symonds, 26. [441] Bucke, 40-42, 73. [442] MSS. Traubel; for a further attack see Burroughs (2), 123. [443] Included in Bucke. [444] Potter, _op. cit._; Bucke, 19. [445] Camden, viii., 188-91, etc. [446] _Ib._ [447] _Ib._ [448] Johnston, 130-40; _cf._ Camden, viii., 220. [449] Potter. [450] Camden, viii., 175. [451] _Ib._, 184. [452] Potter; _Rossetti Papers_, 492. [453] Calamus, 22. [454] Camden, viii. [455] See Calamus. [456] Bucke, 32; Miss Price gives date as 1866; the new ed. appeared late in 1867. [457] Bucke, 171. CHAPTER XIV FRIENDS AND FAME In October, 1867, the new volume appeared; it was intended to replace the former final edition of 1860, and in itself was now regarded as final. Whitman wrote home to his mother that at last he had finished his re-arrangings and corrections, for good.[458] But he was mistaken; for because the book was a whole, every page which he added to it in succeeding years entailed a new revision of the rest. Each new note affects the old sequence, which thus requires to be ordered anew. The book might be handsomer, he says; but he notes that he has omitted some excessive phrases, and even dropped a passage or two which had not stood the test of time; and now he feels that the volume proves itself to any fair-minded person. Beyond these alterations, the book contains little that is new. That public interest in Whitman was increasing is shown by the appearance this year of the first of those brief biographical studies which have since become so numerous. It was from the pen of his intimate friend, Mr. John Burroughs, than whom none knew him better during the Washington days; and having besides the full advantage of Whitman's supervision, remains a principal authority to this day.[459] Equally important was the preparation in England this autumn of a volume of selections by Mr. W. M. Rossetti.[460] The editor of the _Germ_, that most interesting expression of a new and pregnant spirit in art whose brief but brilliant course had ended a few years before the first appearance of the _Leaves_, was the right man to introduce Walt Whitman to the English reader. Both he and his brother, the poet, had for several years been admirers of Whitman's work; and before the publication of the new edition he had written an able notice of the book in _The Chronicle_, a short-lived organ of advanced Catholic views.[461] This was widely copied by the American press. It preserves a judicial tone, which while fully appreciating the literary value of the new work, is far from indiscriminate praise. Mr. Rossetti frankly protested against what he regarded as the gross treatment of gross things, not so much on ethical as on æsthetic grounds; against jarring words and faulty constructions. He noted the obscurity and fragmentary character of many passages, commented on the agglomerative or cataloguial habit, and upon the author's justifiable, but at first sight exasperating, self-assertion. Much of this was, at least from its writer's literary point of view, just and valuable criticism. Mr. Rossetti was less fortunate when he asserted that if only he were brought down by sickness many things would appear very different to Whitman; for while the remark contains an incontestable element of axiomatic truth, its particular application was based upon a misapprehension of the poet's character. He conceived that Whitman's faith depended upon physical well-being--just as Walt once declared that Goethe's religion was founded simply upon good digestion and appetite--thus missing the spiritual basis of his personality. But if Rossetti's literary criticisms are searching and upon the whole just, his praises are not less notable. _Leaves of Grass_ he describes as by far the largest poetical performance of our period; and while acclaiming him the founder of American poetry, he foresees that its author's voice will one day be potential and magisterial wherever the English language is spoken. The criticism was followed by the compilation of a volume of selections containing nearly one half of the current _Leaves of Grass_, and a large part of the original Preface of 1855. The enterprise brought the compiler into cordial personal relations with the poet.[462] There had at first been a slight misunderstanding as to the scope of the English version, and an expurgated but otherwise complete edition had been suggested. Whitman could not be a party to such a volume, and would naturally have preferred his own complete book to any selections. But in Mr. Rossetti he recognised an understanding friend. While frankly expressing his own views, he was most cordial and generous in the declaration of his faith in his correspondent's wisdom, and of his desire to leave him unshackled. The selections contained none of the poems which had aroused the indignation of Mr. Harlan and his friends, and would probably have more than satisfied the very different criticisms of Emerson. Their publication established the foundation of Whitman's English fame, which now rapidly outstripped his American. Already known to the few--to such men for instance as Tennyson, Dante G. Rossetti, Swinburne, W. Bell Scott, J. A. Symonds and Thomas Dixon--_Leaves of Grass_ was from this time eagerly sought after by a considerable number of the younger and more vigorous thinkers. * * * * * Although they never met, Whitman's friendship with Symonds is so important that I cannot pass it by without some reference to the younger man's character.[463] He had been, as is well known, an exceptionally brilliant Oxford scholar; who had shown so little trace of the disqualifying elements of genius that his painfully accurate poetic form carried off the Newdigate prize. After his studies at Balliol, he entered early manhood with impaired sight, an irritable brain and incipient consumption. His temper was naturally strenuous, but this quality was accompanied by introspective morbidity. In the autumn of 1865, at the age of five and twenty,[464] the late Mr. Frederick Myers introduced him to _Leaves of Grass_; his reading of one of the Calamus poems--"Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice me"[465]--from the edition of 1860, sending, as Symonds says, electric thrills through the very marrow of his bones. Whitman of course rode rough-shod over all the scholar's academic and aristocratic prejudices, and required slow assimilation. This process continued during the next four years; but he says that the book became eventually a more powerful formative influence in his life than Plato's works,[466] or indeed any other volume, save the Bible. Married already, and already largely an invalid, life was full of difficulties for so keen and eager a mind; and the _Leaves_ became his anchor, especially the poems of Calamus.[467] It was in 1869 and 1870[468] that he realised their full value. Already his mind had responded to the idea of the cosmos and of cosmic enthusiasm,[469] suggested to it in the Hymn of Cleanthes, in certain pages of Marcus Aurelius, Giordano Bruno, Goethe, and the Evolutionists of his own time. To these ideas Whitman brought conviction and reality. It was through his study of the _Leaves_ that Symonds came to understand for himself the infinite value and possibility of human comradeship, and became a glad participant in the Universal Life. For twenty years the two men corresponded as close friends; and there were few in whose admiration for his work Whitman found such keen satisfaction. But Addington Symonds was always a conscientious as well as an affectionate and reverent friend; and while at a later date he publicly protested against Mr. Swinburne's assault,[470] and in his posthumous study of Whitman, proved himself second to none in his admiration of him whom he called Master, yet he himself made some of the frankest and most trenchant criticisms of his friend's work. He thus preserved his independence, and, unlike that of the mere disciple, his praise of Whitman is rendered really valuable by this quality. * * * * * [Illustration: ANNE GILCHRIST] In the summer of 1869, Mr. Madox Brown lent a copy of the _Selections_ to his friend Mrs. Alexander Gilchrist, the widow of Blake's biographer. She responded to the book's appeal, and immediately borrowed Mr. Rossetti's copy of the complete volume.[471] While wholly approving the omission from his _Selections_ of such poems as the "Children of Adam," and herself making some partial reservation with regard to these as perhaps infringing in certain passages the natural law of concealment and modesty, she expressed to Mr. Rossetti, in fervid and impassioned phrases, the joy that came to her in this new gospel, worthy at last as she thought of America. Her friend obtained her permission to allow her letters to him to be published; and they appeared in the Boston _Radical_ for May, 1870. Her words of womanly understanding stirred Whitman too deeply for much outward expression.[472] He hardly regarded them as a declaration of individual friendship, showing himself at the time even a little indifferent[473] to the personality of their writer. They were, he knew, a testimony not so much to him as to his _Leaves of Grass_, which were a half-impersonal utterance, and as such he received them with gratitude.[474] Nothing, not even O'Connor's brilliant vindication, had so justified the poems to their maker. Whitman has been roundly abused by Mr. Swinburne[475] and others, because, as they say, he lacks the romantic attitude toward woman. Mr. Meredith has shown in his own inimitable way the fiends that mask themselves too often under this romantic mien; and one is not always sure whether Whitman's honesty is not in itself a little distasteful to some of his critics. It is true that he has addressed woman as the mother or the equal mate of man, rather than as the maid unwed, as though his thought of sex transcended the limits usually assigned to it. I am persuaded that the explanation of this is to be found in the fact that Whitman's mystic consciousness had broken many of the barriers which have constricted the passion of sex too narrowly during past centuries. He heard all the deeps of life calling to one another and responding with passionate avowals of life's unity. The soul of the lover--as all the poets have been telling us since Dante's day--discovers its true self in the beloved person: but the soul of Whitman discovered itself as surely and as passionately in the Beloved World. The expression is so novel that it sounds well-nigh absurd to ears that do not "hear". But for those who can hear, Whitman's voice is all surcharged with the lover's passion; not less intense but larger in its sanity than the voices of other poets. Again we may justly urge that, in general, it was Woman as Madonna, rather than as Venus, whom he contemplated. Or shall we say he saw the Madonna in Venus, as Botticelli did? His love, when he wrote, was that of a man of middle life, in whom the yearning tenderness of fatherhood mingled with the other currents of passion. His vision beheld the Divine Child, without whom love itself is incomplete. For fatherhood and motherhood are seen by the insight of the poet to be implicit in the passion of sex, and it was impossible for Whitman, the seer, to think of one apart from the other. As a wife and a mother, Anne Gilchrist recognised the beauty and purity of Whitman's conception of love; and his book was to her like the presence of a great and wise comrade.[476] She was the first woman who had publicly recognised his purpose in these poems, and it was an act of no small heroism.[477] Whitman might well be moved by it. * * * * * [Illustration: WHITMAN AT ABOUT FIFTY] The _Selections_ had appeared in 1868, a year which also saw the publication[478] of O'Connor's tale, _The Carpenter_, in whose pages commences that legendary element in Whitman's story, which follows the advent of the more striking personalities. Here Whitman is confused with Christ, somewhat as was Francis by his followers, more than six centuries before. That such a thing should have been possible in the Whitman circle requires a few words of explanation. I have already described the poem in which he himself claims comradeship with "the Crucified".[479] The further assertion of such a claim inevitably fell to O'Connor, whose work was always marked by an element of vehemence and even of excess. Brilliant, generous, eloquent, he was oftener a fervid partisan than a safe critic. Having already coupled Whitman's name with the greatest in literature[480]--an act of audacity, even if we accept the conjunction--it was but natural that, finding the man himself nobler even than his works, he should compare him with the greatest masters of human life. He was not satisfied even with the praises he had piled upon his hero in his indignant rejoinder to the Hon. James Harlan. O'Connor's tale is of no great value; but it reminds us that there was in Walt something which bewildered those who knew him best: something Jove-like says one;[481] something that, judged by ordinary standards, was superhuman, alike in its calm breadth of view and its capacity for love. They observed that what others might do under the constraint of exceptional influences, of intellectual conviction, moral ideal or religious enthusiasm, he did naturally. He did not rise to an occasion, but always embraced opportunity as though from a higher level. He was not shocked or alienated by things which shocked other men; and personal slights and injuries hardly touched him, dropping from him at once. He was the best of comrades, and yet he was a man of deep reserve. And he was so many-sided that his friends were hardly aware that he concealed something of himself from them. Always when you met him again you found him bigger than you had remembered him; and the better you knew him, the less certain you would be of accurately forecasting his actions or understanding his thoughts. If, however, we call him superhuman, it must be by an unusual manner of speech; for he was, as we know, the most human of men, seeming to be personally familiar and at home with every fragment of humanity. He comprehended the springs of action in individuals, as the soul comprehends the purpose of each limb and article of the body. He had the understanding which comes through a subtle sympathy with the whole of things. Explain or ignore it as we will, there is in every man that which is Divine; but usually this side of his nature is, as it were, turned away from view. Our personality has deeps which even our own consciousness has not plumbed, though at times it catches a glimpse of them. And we know that there are men whose consciousness is as much deeper than ours as ours is deeper than that of a babe. Whitman was one of these; and the fact that he was such a one must always render the writing of his biography a tentative task. It seems as though O'Connor, feeling this, had thrown his own attempt at portraiture into the form of a sort of parable. For his friends, while they saw possibilities in him which they also recognised in themselves, saw also others which bewildered them by their suggestions of the old hero-stories; and it cannot therefore be wondered, if sometimes they found in his life a similitude to that of the Nazarene. The world is ever telling over the old legends, and wondering in spite of itself if, after all, they might be true. In our nobler moments we find ourselves rebelling against the traditional limitations of our manhood; something within our own hearts assures us that humanity is destined to attain a nobler stature. Every new revelation of the possibilities of life, every new incarnation of humanity in some great soul, brings to our lips the name of Jesus. For in it the aspirations of the world's childhood have been made our own. We can never believe that the story of the Christ closed with the earthly career of Jesus. We know that He will come again; that humanity will renew its promise; that the old stock will break once more into prophetic blossom. And waiting and watching, at the advent of every great one, our hearts cry out the ineffable name of our hope, at whose very hearing the soul of faith is refreshed. Every great soul assures us that the old, old stories are more than true; they are prophetic for our very selves; speaking to us of a Divine destiny and purpose to which we, too, may--nay, must--eventually arise. To Whitman's closest friends such was his gospel. * * * * * But it was not every one who could read him so significantly. Merely intellectual people, trying him by their own standards, often found him stupid. A young doctor, for instance, who had known him in New York, and was now a fellow-boarder with him upon M Street, records his own impression formed at this time, that Walt was physically lazy and intellectually hazy;[482] that his conversation was disappointingly enigmatic and obscure, and his words were misty, shadowy, elusive adumbrations. His vocabulary, says this gentleman, even when he was deeply affected by natural scenes, was almost grotesquely inadequate; they were "tip-top," he would declare; and you could only gather from his manner and the tone of his voice that he meant more than a shabby commonplace. The doctor, who was doubtless an encyclopædia of accurate knowledge, found his companion sadly ignorant of the common names of the trees and birds they noticed on their rambles. A few years later, however, Whitman displayed so considerable a knowledge in these directions that one may at least suppose he profited considerably from his companion's information.[483] And even if he did not know their names, he came near to knowing their actual personality; which is probably more than even the worthy doctor attempted. It is very certain that Whitman was no dreamer of vague dreams. His face at this time was equally expressive of alertness and of calm. His small eyes, grey-blue under their heavy-drooping passionate lids, were of an extraordinarily penetrating vision. They were the eyes of a spirit which looked out through them ceaselessly as from behind a shelter. Circled by a definite line, they had the perceptive draining quality of a child's when it is first awake to all the world's storehouse of strange things.[484] Never a merely passive onlooker, he was always a dynamic force, challenging and evoking the manhood of his friends. * * * * * This is notably the case in his relations with Peter Doyle, of whom I have already spoken as one of Walt's closest companions during the greater part of the Washington period. Doyle was a young Catholic, born in Ireland but raised in the Virginian Alexandria.[485] His father, a blacksmith and machinist, eventually went to work in a Richmond foundry; and when the war broke out, Pete, who was a mere lad, entered the Confederate army. Soon after, he was wounded and made a prisoner, and being carried to Washington, he obtained during his convalescence[486] the post of conductor on one of the tram-cars running upon Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a course of some four miles, from Georgetown, by the White House and Treasury and near to Armory Square, up the hill by the Capitol and down again to near the Navy Yard on the Anacostia River. And in such a course he was bound sooner or later to make the acquaintance of Whitman. [Illustration: DOYLE AT TWENTY-TWO AND WHITMAN AT FIFTY] Their meeting occurred one wild stormy night, perhaps in the winter of 1864-65,[487] when Pete was about eighteen. Walt had been out to see John Burroughs, and was returning wrapt around in his great blanket-rug, the only passenger in the car. Pete was cold and lonely: something about the big red-faced man within promised fellowship and warmth. So he entered the car and put his hand impulsively on Walt's knee. Walt was pleased; they seemed to understand one another at once; and instead of descending at his destination, the older man rode an extra four miles that night for friendship's sake.[488] Pete was a fair well-built lad, with a warm Irish heart; and in Walt, who was old enough to have been his father, the fraternal and paternal qualities alike were very strong. Separated from his own children, and his own younger brothers whom he had dearly loved, his heart's tenderness expended itself upon other lads, and upon none more than upon Pete. There are few ties stronger than those which bind together the man or woman of middle life whose sympathies are still natural and warm, and the adolescent lad or maiden upon life's threshold. Whitman did not appear merely as a good fellow to his young comrade: his affection ran too deep for that. This is well illustrated by an incident in their relationship.[489] In a passing fit of despondency Pete declared that life was no longer worth living, and that he had more than half a mind to end it. Walt answered him sharply; he was very angry and not a little shocked. This occurred upon the evening of his departure for Brooklyn for one of his visits home, and the two separated somewhat coldly. Walt arrived really ill, suffering from a sort of partial and temporary paralysis, which seems to have attacked him at times during the latter part of his residence in Washington. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he wrote his friend a letter full of loving reproaches, of affectionate calls to duty, and promises of assistance. The unmanly folly of Pete's words had, he says, repelled him; but afterwards the sense of his indestructible love for the lad had returned again in fuller measure than ever, and he became certain that it was not the real Pete, "my darling boy, my young and loving brother," who had spoken those wicked words. He adjures him, by his love for his widowed mother and for Walt his comrade, to be a man. Many of the letters to Pete, during the vacations in Brooklyn from 1868 to 1872, are marked by a sort of paternal anxiety for the young man's welfare. Pete was impulsive and emotional; he was not one to whom study or thrift was naturally easy. Walt aided him all he could in both directions. He was always encouraging his "boys" to read good books, combining still, as in earlier years, the rôles of teacher and comrade; but he never checked in any degree his friend's boyish, generous and pleasure-loving nature. And his love was returned with the whole-hearted loyal devotion of the true Celt. * * * * * [Illustration: PETER G. DOYLE AT FIFTY-SEVEN] This friendship with Doyle was only one among many,[490] and the fact that Pete was a Catholic and had been a Confederate soldier, shows how far such relations transcended any mere similarity of opinion. Indeed, there is nothing more notable in the circle of Whitman's friends than their extraordinary dissimilarity one from another. Day after day, Pete would come to the Treasury building after his work was done, and wait sleepily there till Walt was free; when they would start off upon a stroll, which often extended itself for many miles into the country. Walt frequently had other companions upon these rambles. Sometimes it would be John Burroughs, and sometimes quite a party of men, laughing, singing and talking gaily together as they went. Whitman was the heart of good-fellowship; he was the oldest of them in years, but in years only. One wonders sometimes whether he himself realised that all these men were so much his juniors. There was no comrade, either man or woman, who had grown up beside him, learning with him the lessons of life. His mother was the great link with his own boyhood, and the letters which he wrote to her from Washington[491] show how strong was his attachment to her, and how great his capacity for home-love. It is, then, not a little tragic that he had no home to call his own. In a sense he was a solitary man; in the midst of his all-embracing love and his self-revealing poems, Walt Whitman lived his life apart and kept many secrets. In spirit he was as solitary as Thoreau, nay, even more than he, for, though his fellowship was with the life Universal, his consciousness of it seemed unique. His self-reliant, masculine nature was attractive to women, with whom he had, as one of his friends phrased it, "a good way". With them and with children he was natural and happy. Vague and anonymous figures of women move from time to time across his story. In 1863 it is with "a lady" that he first remarks the President's sadness.[492] In 1868 he has great talks and jolly times with the girls he meets on a trip in New England,[493] and he writes of his "particular women friends in New York". In 1869 he declares laughingly, he is quite a lady's man again as in the old days.[494] Women trusted him instinctively, and he repayed their trust by a remarkable silence as to his relations with them. He understood the hearts of women, for there was in him much of the maternal. This quality often finds quaint expression in his letters to Pete, who is "dear baby"[495] sometimes, and who found more than one kiss sent him upon the paper. As he became famous, Whitman had his queue of visitors. Now it is a spiritualistic woman, who breaks off her interview in order to converse with the spirit of Abraham Lincoln; and now a Mrs. McKnight,[496] who would paint his portrait. Later, when he fell ill, "Mary Cole" came and ministered to him.[497] Mrs. O'Connor, with Mrs. Burroughs and Mrs. Ashton, belonged to the circle of his friends. With women, as with men, he had his own frank way of expressing affection, and many a time he greeted them with a kiss, knowing it would not be misinterpreted. * * * * * From 1868 to 1870 he was engaged upon a brief political treatise, apparently suggested to him by Carlyle's vehement assault upon Democracy and all its ways, in _Shooting Niagara_.[498] Life in Washington during and after the war had made the short-comings of Democracy very evident to Whitman. The failure of President Johnson and his attempted impeachment, had been followed by drastic measures for enforcing Republican ideas in the South by all the abominable methods known to corruption and carpet-bag politicians. The year 1868 saw the election of Grant to the Presidency, and under him corruption extended in every direction. Grant's real work was finished at Appomattox,[499] and his eight years of official life added nothing to his fame. But Whitman, sharing the national regard for a simple-minded, downright soldier, heartily approved his nomination, and urged his brothers to support him. For the carpet-bag reconstruction of the South he had, of course, no sympathy. He longed for a union of hearts, and looked ardently forward to the day when the South, whom he loved so passionately, would realise again her inalienable part in the Union. Without her America was incomplete. And in the "magnet South"[500] was much that was personally dearest to Whitman's heart. The more extreme Abolitionist sentiment had combined with the exigency of party to create a position in the Southern States which was intolerable to all right feeling. The suffrage had been taken away from the rebellious whites and given instead to the negroes. It was as though the management of the household affairs should be entrusted to wholly irresponsible children. One need hardly add that it was not the negro who ruled, but the political agent who bought his vote and made a tool of him. Such a policy only exasperated the antagonism between North and South. And Whitman, though he hated slavery, saw that the negro was not ready to exercise the full rights of citizenship. When the negro vote in the capital became dominant in political elections, and the black population paraded the city in their thousands, armed and insolent, they seemed to him "like so many wild brutes let loose".[501] It was upon this question of negro-citizenship that he quarrelled with O'Connor. They had been arguing the subject, as O'Connor would insist on doing, and Walt, for the nonce, had the better of the bout. Thoughtlessly, and in the heat of the moment, he pressed his advantage too far; O'Connor lost his temper--perhaps Walt did the same--but when a moment later the older man returned to his usual good humour and held out his hand warmly to his friend, O'Connor's wrath was still hot; he was offended and refused the reconciliation. In spite of their friends the sad estrangement continued for years. * * * * * The political treatise appeared at last under the title of _Democratic Vistas_.[502] It is the outcome of Whitman's experiences and meditations upon the purpose of social and national life, especially during the last decade in Washington. In many respects it is an enlargement of portions of the first Preface. In these fragmentary political memoranda Whitman is seen as the antagonist of what is often supposed to be the American character. The book is a scathing attack upon American complacency, which is even more detestable to Whitman than it was to Carlyle. He recognises the vulgarity and corruption that everywhere abound; the superficial smartness and alert commercial cunning which have taken the place of virtues in the current code of transatlantic morals. Flippant, infidel, unwholesome, mean-mannered; so he characterises New York, his beloved city. As fiercely as Carlyle he detests all the shams and hypocrises of democratic government, and he is as keen to discover the perils of universal suffrage. But withal he holds fast to faith, and offers a constructive ideal. The jottings are threaded together by the reiterated declaration that national life will never become illustrious without a national literature. It is precisely here, says he, that America is fatally deficient. Except upon the field of politics, what single thing of moral value has she originated? And what possible value has all her material development unless it be accompanied by a corresponding development of soul? There is something like an inconsistency of attitude in this book; for here, on the one hand, we have Whitman assuming the rôle of the moralist, denouncing, menacing, upbraiding, and generally allowing himself to employ the moralist's exaggerated, because partial, manner of speech. On the other hand, we find, interspersed among these passages of condemnation, others which assert his unwavering faith in the issue, his constant sense of the heroic character of the people. Whitman never professed consistency, but his inconsistency is generally explicable enough. In this case he is of course denouncing the America of his day, only because he is regarding her from the popular point of view as something perfect and complete. He has faith in America when he views her as a promise of what she shall be; but even then only because he sees far into her essential character. The shallow, popular optimism is, he knows, wholly false; for if America is to triumph, as he believes she will, it can only be by the profound moral forces which are silently at work beneath the trivial shows of her prosperity. The last enemy of the Republic was not slain when the slave party of secession, with its feudal spirit, was overcome. The victory of the North has for the present secured American unity, and with it the broad types both of Northern and of Southern character essential to the creation of a generous and profound national spirit. But America has set forth upon the most tremendous task ever conceived by man; a task indeed beyond the scope of any man's thought. Urged on by the inner destiny-forces of the race, she is attempting to realise the race-ideal of a true democracy. To accomplish her errand she must be nerved and vitalised by the highest and deepest of ideals; for hers is a world-battle with all the relentless foes of progress. Whitman, seeing clearly the dark aspect of the future, the wars and revolutions yet in store, and having counted the cost of them, though he had faith that America would eventually achieve her purpose, yet might well be foremost in scourging her light moods of optimism with bitter words. And though he had not despaired of America--and even if he had, would have been the last man to suggest despair to others--though, also, he knew and loved the real soul of the nation; he was not so blind to possibilities of disaster, possibilities which he had faced more than once in recent years, as to suppose that she was of necessity chosen to be the elder sister of the Republics of the coming centuries.[503] On the contrary, while he had no doubt of the growth and progress of humanity, he knew that a branch of the race might wither away prematurely; and he saw in the current culture and social beliefs of the city populations a wholly false and mischievous conception of American destiny. If the people of America were to perceive nothing but a field for money-making wherever the Stars and Stripes might float, then their patriotism would be worthless, and the Republic must fall. He loved America too passionately to be cynically indifferent as to her fate. In spite of unworthy qualities, she yet might realise the world's hope. But seeking ardently for a way, there was only one that Whitman could see; it was the way of religion. The old priestcraft was effete, but religion had not died with it.[504] In a new fellowship of prophet-poets, who should awaken the Soul of the Nation in the hearts of their hearers, as did the prophet-poets of Israel, in these and in these alone he had assurance--for already he seemed to behold them afar off--assurance of the future of his land.[505] Whitman agreed with Carlyle as to the infinite value to the race of great men. He continually asserts their necessity to Democracy; not, indeed, as masters and captains so much as interpreters and as prophets. The truly great man includes more of the meaning of Democracy than the little man, and is therefore the better fitted to explain the purpose of the whole. Moreover, according to Whitman, it is for the creation of great personalities that Democracy exists; for he differs widely from the Platonic mysticism with its Ideal State as the goal of personal achievement. He includes in his philosophy of society what is best both in the individualistic and the socialistic theories. He sees progress depending upon the interplay of two forces, which he calls the two sexes of Democracy[506]--Solidarity and Personality. It is for great souls to declare in the name of Personality the fundamental truth of Democracy, that every man is destined to become a god. They must realise for themselves, and assert for the world, that a man well-born, well-bred and well-trained, may and must become a law unto himself. According to Whitman, the one purpose of all government in a democracy is to encourage by all possible means the development of Soul-consciousness in every man and woman without any exception.[507] For, speaking generally, one may affirm that every fragment of humanity is ultimately capable of the heroism which is the force at humanity's heart; but each fragment can only realise its possibilities as a part of the whole, and as sharing in the life of Solidarity. To accomplish this destiny, and not for reasons of merit, Democracy encourages and requires of every one a participation in the duties and privileges of citizenship. And similarly, it requires that every one should be an owner of property in order that each may have his own material cell in the body politic.[508] All persons are not yet prepared for citizenship; but such as are minors must be wisely and strenuously prepared, for Democracy suffers until all become true citizens. The idle and the very poor are always a menace to Democracy.[509] Even a greater menace, if that be possible, is to be found in the low standard of womanhood which still prevails in America. Woman, if only she would leave her silliness and her millinery,[510] and enter the life of reality and enterprise, would, by the majesty of maternity, be more than the equal of man. I think, though approving of women's suffrage, he doubted whether it could effect the change he desired to see. It cannot be doubted that, like Plato, he saw in the triviality of the women of the upper classes especially, one of the gravest dangers which beset the Republic. For the aim of Democracy is great free personalities, and these can only be produced from a noble maternity. Unless motherhood and fatherhood in all their aspects become a living science,[511] and the practice of personal health is recognised as the finest of the arts, any achievement of the purpose of Democracy must be slow indeed. Of other and very secondary kinds of culture, desirable enough in their place, America, he continues, has no lack. In some respects she is more European than Europe. But to personality, and the moral force which is personality, she is alarmingly indifferent. We have fussed about the world, cries this stern speaker of truth to his age and nation; we have gathered together its art and its sciences, but we have not grown great in our own souls. Our mean manners result precisely from that. Thus he returns to reiterate the cry that can always be heard whenever we open any book of his, the cry of the quintessential importance of religion in every field of human life.[512] For religion is the life of the soul; that is to say, it is the heart of life. Whitman's religion, however, is not that which is taught by churches and churchmen. It is a religion extricated from the churches. In a notable passage[513] he declares: "Bibles may convey, and priests expound, but it is exclusively for the noiseless operation of one's isolated self to enter the pure ether of veneration, reach the Divine levels, and commune with the unutterable". In short, religion is moral or spiritual force: it is that which forms and maintains existence: without it, the continued life of nation or individual is inconceivable. For a nation, too, has its soul-identity; and must become conscious of that if it is to live, much more if it is to lead. The awakening of America to this consciousness of its spiritual purpose Whitman awaits, as the prophets of Israel awaited the Messiah.[514] And we may add that with its realisation of nationhood, there comes to a people the sense of its membership in the solidarity of the race. Now this soul-consciousness, he proceeds, comes to a nation through its literature. In its songs and in its great epics, a people tells and reads the secrets of its life; it sees there, as in a glass, the Divine purpose which tabernacles in its own heart. A literature which can do this for America will not be made by merely correct and clever college men, or by fanciful adepts in the arts of verse. Those who make it must breathe the open air of Nature; they must, in the largest sense, be men of science. But in Whitman's language nature and science include more than the material and the seen. They are the world of reality and its knowledge; and the soul is the essence of reality: wherefore its experience is the sum of knowledge. Thus made, literature will for the first time be worthy to quicken and immortalise the life of America.[515] It will feed the infant life of the real nation. Reading it, Americans will become aware at last of their world-destiny; and they will face the whole of life and death with a new faith and joy. America will become not merely a new world, but the mother of new worlds:[516] and lowering as the skies must often be, and tragic though the day's end, she will behold the stars beyond. * * * * * Such, in crudest outline, is the gist of Whitman's tractate; which, with the fifth edition of the _Leaves_, appeared early in 1871. _Leaves of Grass_ now included _Drum-taps_; but the poems of President Lincoln's death, with other matter suggested by the close of the war, were separately published in a little volume of 120 pages, which, while containing poems upon the lines suggested in _Democratic Vistas_, and reverting again to old themes, was more especially marked by those in which the idea of death as a voyage upon an unknown sea is dominant. [Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF MS. BY WHITMAN, BELONGING PROBABLY TO 1875] The little book was called _Passage to India_, after the opening poem; and it has a completeness of its own, closing with a "Now Finalé to the Shore". In its preface, he alludes to a plan which he had entertained--his active imagination entertained so many plans which he never realised![517]--the scheme of a new volume to companion and complement the _Leaves_, suggestive of death and the disembodied soul, as the _Leaves_ were of the life in the body. He found, however, that the body was not so soon to be put aside; to the end, its hold upon him was extraordinarily tenacious. Doubting his ability for the task, he became content to offer a fragment and hint of what he had intended. _Passage to India_ is among his finest efforts.[518] Some of its single lines ring like clear bells, while the movement of the whole is varied, solemn and majestic. He shows his reader how the enterprise and invention of the world is binding all lands together to complete the "rondure" of the earth. The opening of the Suez Canal and of the Pacific Railroad are fulfilling the dream of the Genoese, who sought a passage to India in the circumnavigation of the world. But, says Whitman, with that characteristic mystical touch which is never absent in his poems, it is only the poet who conceives of the world as really one and round. For none but he understands that the universe is essentially one, Soul and Matter, Nature and Man. To the mystic sense, India becomes symbolic of all the first elemental intuitions of the human race. Thither now again the poet leads his nation, back to its first visions and back to God. Returning almost to the phrases of his first great poem,[519] Whitman declares his sureness of God, and his resolve not to dally with the Divine mystery. For him, God is the heart of all life, but especially the heart of all life that is true, good and loving: He is the reservoir of the spiritual, and He is the soul's perfect and immortal comrade. Thus Whitman's idea of God embraces the "personal" element, so-called, which has been predicated by Christian experience and dogma. When the soul has accomplished its "Passage to India"--has realised the unity of all[520]--then, says he, it will melt into the arms of its Elder Brother, the Divine Love. He does not mean that it will lose its slowly gained consciousness of selfhood; but that, to employ a formula of the Christian faith, it will enter the Godhead as a distinct Person. For the Godhead of Whitman's theology is the ultimate unity of ultimate personalities--Many-in-one, the God of Love, the Heart of Communion or Fellowship. It is with a splendid cry of adventurous delight and heroic ardour that Whitman sets out upon his perilous voyage, seeking the meaning of everything and of the whole, all hazards and dangers before him, upon all the seas of the Unknown: but not foolhardily--"Are they not all the seas of God?" * * * * * In passing, we may note that in these Washington poems the feeling for formal perfection is often clearly manifested. Many of the shorter lyrics repeat the opening line at their close. And careful reading, or better, recitation, will show that some at least of the longer poems are constructed with a broad, architectonic plan. It is indeed a great mistake to suppose that Whitman was careless of form. Paradoxical though it sound, it was nothing but his overwhelming sense of the necessity for a living incarnation of his motive-emotions which led him to abandon the accepted media of written expression. He probably laboured as closely, deliberately and long upon his loose-rhythmed verses as a more precious stylist upon his. Whether successful or no, he was most conscientious and self-exacting in his obedience to the creative impulse, and in his selection of such cadences and words as seemed to his ear the best to render its precise import. Probably the quiet life at Washington, and the intercourse there with studious and thoughtful men and women, helped his artistic sense. With a few exceptions, however, the Washington poems are somewhat less inevitable and procreative in their quality than those of an earlier period. They are not less interesting, but they are less elemental. * * * * * "The older he gets," wrote a correspondent of the _New York Evening Mail_, "the more cheerful and gay-hearted he grows."[521] Though he was now beginning to wear glasses, his jolly voice as he sang blithely over his bath, and his thrush-like whistle,[522] his hearty appetite and love of exercise, bore witness to vigour and good spirits. The circle of his friends grew daily wider, and a measure of international fame began to come to him. Both in Germany and in France his book was being read, criticised and admired.[523] Rossetti's selections had given him an English public, which was eager now for new editions of his complete poems; he had cordial letters from Tennyson and Addington Symonds; Swinburne addressed him in one of his "Songs before Sunrise," and there were many others.[524] From time to time he would receive an invitation from some academic or other body to recite a poem at a public function. Thus, in the autumn of 1871, he gave his "Song of the Exposition" at the opening of the annual exhibition of the American Institute;[525] it is a half-humorous poem, which follows some of the political themes suggested in _Democratic Vistas_. Again, at midsummer, 1872, he recited "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free"[526] on the invitation of the United Literary Societies of Dartmouth College, in New Hampshire; making at this time a further tour as far as Lake Champlain, to visit his sister Hannah, who was married unhappily and far from all her people.[527] Later the same autumn, old Mrs. Whitman left Brooklyn to live with her son, the colonel, in Camden; a quiet unattractive artisan suburb of Philadelphia. The old lady, now nearly eighty, partially crippled by rheumatism, and a widow for some eighteen years, did not long survive this transplanting. But sorrows came thick upon the Whitmans at this time. And first of all, it was Walt himself who broke down and was house-tied. FOOTNOTES: [458] Camden, viii., 218. [459] _Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person_, 1867. [460] _Poems of W. W._, 1868. [461] See also Preface to _Poems of W. W._, and _Rossetti Papers_, 240. [462] _Rossetti Papers_, 270, 287, etc. [463] Symonds, 4; _J. A. Symonds, a Biography_, by H. R. F. Brown. [464] Symonds, 158. [465] _Supra_, 133 n. [466] _J. A. Symonds_, ii., 70; _Camden's Compliment_, 73. [467] _J. A. Symonds_, ii., 15. [468] _Ib._, ii., 82. [469] _Ib._, ii., 130, 131. [470] Symonds in _Fortnightly Rev._, xlii., 459; A. C. S. in _ib._, 170. [471] _Anne Gilchrist, Her Life and Writings_, by H. H. G., 1887; and _In re_, 41, 42. [472] _Rossetti Papers_, 459, 460. [473] Bucke, 31. [474] _In re_, 72. [475] _Fort. Rev._, _loc. cit._ [476] _In re_, 42. [477] See _infra_, 264. [478] In _Putnam's Magazine_, Jan., 1868. [479] See _supra_, 167. [480] In the _Good Gray Poet_. [481] Burroughs, 85. [482] Potter, _op. cit._ [483] See _infra_, 262. [484] O'Connor, qu. in Bucke, 62. [485] Calamus, 21. [486] MSS. Wallace. [487] Calamus, 23, gives 1866; but _Comp. Prose_, 70, throws date back: see also _supra_, 210. [488] Although it has been previously quoted, the following passage from Mr. Burroughs' _Birds and Poets_ gives so graphic a description of Whitman at this time, that I cannot forbear to quote it:-- "I give here a glimpse of him in Washington, on a Pennsylvania Avenue and Navy Yard horse-car, toward the close of the war, one summer day at sundown. The car is crowded and suffocatingly hot, with many passengers on the rear platform, and among them a bearded, florid-faced man, elderly but agile, resting against the dash, by the side of the young conductor, and evidently his intimate friend. The man wears a broad-brim white hat. Among the jam inside near the door, a young Englishwoman, of the working class, with two children, has had trouble all the way with the youngest, a strong, fat, fretful, bright babe of fourteen or fifteen months, who bids fair to worry the mother completely out, besides becoming a howling nuisance to everybody. As the car tugs around Capitol Hill, the young one is more demoniac than ever, and the flushed and perspiring mother is just ready to burst into tears with weariness and vexation. The car stops at the top of the hill to let off most of the rear platform passengers, and the white-hatted man reaches inside, and gently but firmly disengaging the babe from its stifling place in the mother's arms, takes it in his own, and out in the air. The astonished and excited child, partly in fear, partly in satisfaction at the change, stops its screaming, and as the man adjusts it more securely to his breast, plants its chubby hands against him, and pushing off as far as it can, gives a good look squarely in his face; then, as if satisfied, snuggles down with its head on his neck, and in less than a minute, is sound and peacefully asleep without another whimper, utterly fagged out." [489] Calamus, 53-55. [490] Calamus, 18. [491] Camden, viii., 169-243. [492] _Wound-Dresser_, 90. [493] Calamus, 48. [494] _Ib._, 62. [495] Calamus. [496] Camden, viii., 235. [497] _In re_, 74. [498] _Comp. Prose_, 208, 209 n. [499] Wister's _Grant_, 130. [500] _L. of G._, 359. [501] Camden, viii., 226 (May, 1868). [502] _Comp. Prose_, 197-251 [503] _Comp. Prose_, 246, 247. [504] _Ib._, 200. [505] In a most characteristic passage, which may be quoted as a specimen of the style of this book, he writes of "the need of powerful native philosophers and orators and bards ... as rallying-points to come in times of danger.... For history is long, long, long. Shift and turn the combinations of the statement as we may, the problem of the future of America is in certain respects as dark as it is vast. Pride, competition, segregation, vicious wilfulness, and license beyond example, brood already upon us.... Flaunt it as we choose, athwart and over the roads of our progress, loom huge uncertainty, and dreadful, threatening gloom. It is useless to deny it. Democracy grows rankly up the thickest, noxious, deadliest plants and fruits of all--brings worse and worse invaders--needs newer, larger, stronger, keener compensations and compellers. Our lands embracing so much (embracing indeed the whole, rejecting none), hold in their breast that flame also [which is] capable of consuming themselves, consuming us all.... We sail a dangerous sea of seething currents, cross and under-currents, vortices--all so dark, untried--and whither shall we turn? It seems as though the Almighty had spread before this nation charts of imperial destinies, dazzling as the sun, yet with many a deep intestine difficulty and human aggregate of cankerous imperfection--saying, lo! the roads, the only plans of development, long and varied with all terrible balks and ebullitions.... Behold the cost, and already specimens of the cost. Thought you, greatness was to ripen for you like a pear? If you would have greatness, know that you must conquer it through ages, centuries--must pay for it with a proportionate price. Yet I have dreamed, merged in that hidden-tangled problem of our fate, whose long unravelling stretches mysteriously through time ... a little or a larger band--a band of brave and true, unprecedented yet--armed and equipped at every point--the members separated, it may be, by different dates and States ... but always one, compact in soul, conscience-serving, God-inculcating, inspired achievers, not only in literature the greatest art, but in all art--a new, undying order, dynasty, from age to age transmitted--a band, a class, at least as fit to cope with current years, our dangers, needs, as those who, for their times, so long, so well, in armour or in cowl, upheld and made illustrious that far back, feudal, priestly world."--_Comp. Prose_, 246-48; _cf._ also 202. [506] _Comp. Prose_, 221; 207 n. [507] _Comp. Prose_, 212. [508] _Ib._, 215. [509] _Ib._, 211. [510] _Ib._, 206. [511] _Comp. Prose_, 225. [512] _Ib._, 226. [513] _Ib._, 227. [514] _Ib._, 240, 241. [515] _Comp. Prose_, 244. [516] _Ib._, 250. [517] _Comp. Prose_, 273 n. [518] _L. of G._, 315. [519] _Ib._, 321, 76. [520] _L. of G._, 322. [521] Bucke, 44. [522] Burroughs, 126. [523] Bucke, 202, 203, 207-9. [524] _In re_, 72. [525] _L. of G._, 157; _cf._ "Two Rivulets," Song of Expos. [526] _L. of G._, 346. [527] Calamus, 98. CHAPTER XV ILLNESS At the opening of 1873 Whitman had been just ten years in Washington, and was in the fifty-fourth of his age. Recent letters to his friends had told of more frequent spells of partially disabling sickness and lassitude.[528] On the evening of Thursday, January 23rd, he sat late over the fire in the Library of the Treasury Building, reading Lord Lytton's _What will he do with it?_[529] As he left, the guard at the door remarked him looking ill. His room was close by, just across the street; and he went to bed as usual. Between three and four in the morning, he awoke to find that he could move neither arm nor leg on the left side. Presently he fell asleep again; and later, as he could not rise, lay on quietly, till some friends coming in raised the alarm and fetched a doctor. After some six or seven years of preliminary symptoms,[530] Walt had now had a slight stroke of paralysis. His first thought was of his mother, to whom he wrote as soon as he was able, reassuring her; for the newspapers had exaggerated his condition. Once before, he reminds her with grim humour, they had killed him off; but he is on the road to recovery; in a few days he will be back at his desk on the other side of the street. Pete Doyle, Charles Eldridge and John Burroughs came in to nurse and companion him: Mrs. Ashton would have carried him to her house; Mrs. O'Connor, who did not share in the estrangement of her husband, was often at his bedside. And at the bed-foot, his mother's picture was always before him. He had scarcely begun to move about a little in his room before a letter from St. Louis told of the death of Martha, Jefferson Whitman's wife, to whom the whole family was much attached, and Walt especially. The blow fell heavily on him. On the last day of March,[531] he crossed the street again to his work; and by the end of April he was having regular electrical treatment, and working for a couple of hours daily, with an occasional lapse. His leg was very clumsy, and he complained of frequent sensations of distress and weakness in his head, but he seemed to be progressing as well as was possible. Early in May, however, the old mother in Camden fell ill. Walt was very anxious about her;[532] at her age she could hardly recover from a serious illness, and his letters to her are pathetically full of loving solicitude. She grew rapidly worse, and although he was still but feeble, he could not remain away from her. On the 20th he hurried home, and on the 23rd, while he was with her, she died.[533] The shock to Walt was terrible; and when, dreading the heat, he attempted to reach the coast, he had a serious relapse at the outset, and was brought back to Colonel Whitman's, to the melancholy little house. And here he too, so it would seem, was to end his life. * * * * * Only a year before, in the preface to the reprint of his Dartmouth College poem,[534] he had declared that now--the Four Years' War being over, and he himself having rounded out the poem of the "Democratic Man or Woman"--he was prepared for a new enterprise. He would now set to work upon fulfilling the programme of his _Democratic Vistas_; and put the States of America hand-in-hand "in one unbroken circle in a chant". He would sing the song for which America waited, the song of the Republic that is yet to be. Again, a year earlier, he had told in his _Passage to India_ how he was ready to set forth upon the Unknown Sea. And now, with his labours unaccomplished, his heart stricken and heavy with bereavement, joylessly he seemed to hear the weighing of the anchor and to feel his ship already setting forth. Where now was the old exaltation of spirit; where the eager longing for Divine adventure with which hitherto he had always contemplated death? Now sorrow claimed him, and for a season he lost hold of joy and faith. He was as one abandoned by the Giver of Life, and isolated from Love. Thus deserted, he became utterly exhausted of vitality. It is as though for a time his soul had parted from his bodily life, and yet the life in the body must go on. If death had come now he would not have refused it; but his hour was not yet. Neither living nor dying, through the sad, dark days of long protracted illness and solitude, of physical debility and mental bewilderment--as it were, through year-long dream-gropings--he waited. The light of his life seemed suddenly to have gone out.[535] Near as he had dwelt to death, in the tragedy of the war-hospitals and in the habit of his thought, he was wholly unprepared for the death of his mother. He was a man upon whose large harmonious and resonant nature every tragic experience struck out its fullest note. Philosophy and religion were his, if they were any man's; but he was not one of those who escape experience in the byways of abstraction. He took each blow full in his breast. His mother was dead; that was the physical wrench which crippled him body and soul. He could not accustom himself to her death and departure.[536] He could not understand it, nor why he was so stricken by it. It seemed as though in her life his mother had given to her son something that was essential to that soul-consciousness in which he had lived, and that her death had broken his own life asunder, so that it was no longer harmonious and triumphant. His mother was dead, and he was alone in Camden. Not perhaps actually alone, for his new sister, George's wife, was always kindly; and so, indeed, was George himself. But spiritually he was alone. He had lost something, it seems, of the spiritual companionship which had made the world a home to him wherever he went. And now the human comrades who had come so close were far away. Washington and New York were equally out of reach; and he had lost O'Connor. Letters, indeed, he had; but they did not make up to him for the daily magnetic contact with the men and women whom he loved. Touch and presence meant more to him than to others, and these he had lost. He was, then, very much alone; bereft at once, so it would seem, of the material and the spiritual consciousness of fellowship; standing wholly by himself, in the attitude of that live-oak he had once wondered at in Louisiana, because it uttered joyous leaves of dark green though it stood solitary.[537] He was like a tree blasted by lightning; yet he too continued to put forth his leaves one and one, letters of cheery brief words to his old comrades, and especially to Pete.[538] He was an old campaigner worsted at last, standing silently at bay; only determined, come what might, that he would not grumble or complain. * * * * * His circumstances were not all gloomy. Through the summer of 1873, Whitman remained with his brother, at number 322, Stevens Street, in the pleasant room his mother had occupied upon the first floor. Around him were the old familiar objects dear to him from childhood. He was not wholly house-tied: two lines of street-cars ran near by,[539] and by means of one or other he contrived to reach the ferry, which he loved to cross and cross again, revelling in the swing of the tawny Delaware, and all the comings and goings of the river and ocean craft. Hale old captains still remember him well as he was in those days. Sometimes also he would extend his jaunt, taking the Market Street cars on the Philadelphia side of the river, and going as far as the reading-room of the Mercantile Library upon Tenth Street.[540] But often he was too weak to go abroad for days together. His brain refused to undertake the task of leadership or co-ordination, and there was no friend to assist him. With his lame leg and his giddiness, he had at the best of times hard work to move about; but as he wrote to Pete, "I put a bold face on, and _my best foot foremost_".[541] During bad days he sat solitary at home, trying to maintain a good heart, his whole vitality too depressed to do more. "If I only felt just a little better," he would say, "I should get acquainted with many of the [railroad] men,"[542] a class who affected this particular locality. But feeble as he was, it was long before he made any friends to replace the lost circle at Washington. Now and again some kindly soul, hearing that he was ill, would call upon him:[543] or Jeff would look in on his way to New York, or Eldridge or Burroughs, coming and going between Washington and New England. Walt could not readily adjust himself to his new circumstances. His was not an elastic, pliable temper; but on the contrary, very stubborn, and apt to become set in ways; the qualities of adhesion and inertia increasing in prominence as his strong will and initiative ebbed. He kept telling himself between the blurs that disabled his brain, that he might be in a much more deplorable fix; that his folks were good to him; that his post was kept open for his return, and that his friends were only waiting to welcome him back to Washington. But he could not pass by or elude the ever-present consciousness and problem of his mother's death. At the end of August he wrote to Pete: "I have the feeling of getting more strength and easier in the head--something like what I was before mother's death. (I cannot be reconciled to that yet: it is the great cloud of my life--nothing that ever happened before has had such an effect on me.)"[544] When we remember his separation from the woman and the children of his love, and all the experiences of the war, we may a little understand the meaning of these soberly written words, and the strength of the tie which bound together mother and son. Who knows or can estimate the full meaning of that relationship which begins before birth, and which all the changes and separations of life and death only deepen? * * * * * It is difficult to look calmly at this period of Whitman's life. One resents, perhaps childishly, the fate which overtook this sane and noble soul. Surely he, of all men, had been faithful to the inner vision, and generous to all. He had fulfilled the Divine precept; he had loved the Lord his God with all the might of soul and body, and his neighbour as himself. From childhood up he had been clean and affectionate, independent and loyal, whole-heartedly obedient to the law as it was written in his heart, undaunted by any fear or convention. He had prized health, and held it sacred, as the essential basis of freedom and sanity of spirit. And he had hazarded it without reserve and without fear, in the infectious and malarial wards of the hospitals. He had opened his heart to learn the full chords and meanings of all the emotions that came to him; and when he had become a scholar in these, he became an interpreter of the soul unto itself, both in the printed page and in the relations of his life. In _Leaves of Grass_ he gave, to whosoever would accept the gift, his own attitude towards life, and the results of his study of living. In the wards he gave himself in whatever ways he could contrive to the needy. And he gave all. Twenty years at least of his own health he sacrificed, and gave freely, out of the overflow of his love, to the wounded in their cots. As I have before suggested,[545] he gave more than, physically speaking, he could afford. But he gave with joy, knowing that he was born to give, and that in giving himself irretrievably, he was fulfilling the highest law of his being, and fully and finally realising himself. It was the crowning proof not only of "Calamus," but of his gospel of self-realisation. Deliberate though his service was, not even Whitman himself could fully estimate the cost of his charity. But he accepted the consequences of all his acts as proper and due, being, indeed, implicit in the acts themselves. And now, when his very joy in life was called in to meet the mortgage he had given; when he was, as it were, stripped naked and left in the dark; he accepted his condition without declaiming against the Divine justice, or calling insanely upon God. Year after year, he was patient, expecting the light to break again, the daylight beyond death. He had never professed to understand the ways of God, but he had always trusted Him. And when faith itself seemed for awhile to forsake him, his blind soul did but sit silently awaiting its return. * * * * * It was out of such a mood, lighted at times by moments of vision, that during 1874 and 1875 he wrote some of the noblest of his verses, notably the "Prayer of Columbus," the "Song of the Universal," and the "Song of the Redwood Tree". There are those who have suggested that Whitman's illness was brought on by a life of dissipation; one supposes that such persons find in these poems the death-bed repentance of a maudlin old _roué_. But to the unprejudiced reader such a view must appear worse than absurd. Whitman never claimed to have lived a blameless life, but he did claim to have lived a sane and loving one; the evidence of all his writings, and of these poems especially, supports that claim. Simple and direct, the "Prayer of Columbus" breathes the religious spirit in which it was conceived. Lonely, poor and paralysed, battered and old, upon the margin of the great ocean of Death, he pours out his heart and tells the secret of his life; for, as Whitman himself confessed, it is he who speaks under a thin historical disguise.[546] I am too full of woe! Haply I may not live another day; I cannot rest, O God, I cannot eat or drink or sleep, Till I put forth myself, my prayer, once more to Thee, Breathe, bathe myself once more in Thee, commune with Thee, Report myself once more to Thee. Thou knowest my years entire, my life, My long and crowded life of active work, not adoration merely; Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth, Thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations, Thou knowest how before I commenced I devoted all to come to Thee, Thou knowest I have in age ratified all those vows and strictly kept them, Thou knowest I have not once lost nor faith nor ecstasy in Thee.... All my emprises have been fill'd with Thee, My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of Thee, Sailing the deep or journeying the land for Thee; Intentions, purports, aspirations mine, leaving results to Thee. O I am sure they really came from Thee, The urge, the ardour, the unconquerable will, The potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words, A message from the Heavens whispering to me even in sleep, These sped me on.... What the end and result of all, he cannot tell--that is God's business; but he has felt the promise of freedom, religious joy and peace. The way itself has always been plain to him, lit by an ineffable, steady illumination, "lighting the very light". And now, lost in the unknown seas, he will again set forth, relinquishing the helm of choice; and though the vessel break asunder and his mind itself should fail, yet will his soul cling fast to the one sure thing; for though the waves of the unknown buffet his soul, "Thee, Thee, at least I know". * * * * * In the "Song of the Universal"--apparently delivered by proxy at the Commencement Exercises of Tuft's College, Massachusetts, midsummer, 1874[547]--Whitman reiterates his conviction that the Divine is at the heart of all and every life. The soul will at last emerge from evil and disease to justify its own history, to bring health out of disease, and joy out of sorrow and sin. Blessed are they who perceive and pursue this truth! It is to forward this wondrous discovery of the soul that America has, in the ripeness of time, arrived. The measured faiths of other lands, the grandeurs of the past, Are not for thee, but grandeurs of thine own, Deific faiths and amplitudes, absorbing, comprehending all, All eligible to all. All, all for immortality, Love like the light silently wrapping all, Nature's amelioration blessing all, The blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine and certain, Forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images ripening. Give me, O God, to sing that thought, Give me, give him or her I love this quenchless faith, In Thy ensemble, whatever else withheld withhold not from us, Belief in plan of Thee enclosed in Time and Space, Health, peace, salvation universal. Without this faith the world and life are but a dream. * * * * * The "Song of the Californian Redwood"[548] still harps upon American destiny and upon the mystery of death. The giant of the dense forest, falling before the axes of the pioneers, declares the conscious soul that lives in all natural things. He complains not at death, but rejoices that his huge, calm joy will hereafter be incarnate in more kingly beings--the men that are yet to dwell in this new land of the West--and, above all, in the Godlike genius of America. The "Song of the Redwood Tree" is the voice of a great past, prophetic of a greater, all-continuing, all-embracing future, and, therefore, undismayed at its own passing. Such were the weapons with which Whitman fought against despair; such the heroic heart which, amid confusion, restlessness and perplexity, still held its own. * * * * * [Illustration: COL. WHITMAN'S CORNER HOUSE, No. 431, STEVENS STREET, CAMDEN, 1904] At the end of September, 1873, the Whitmans had moved into a fine new brick house[549] which George, who was now a prosperous inspector of pipes, had built upon a corner lot on Stevens Street. It faced south and west, and Walt chose a sunny room on the second floor, as we should say, or, according to the American and more accurate enumeration, on the third. Here he remained for ten years. The house still stands, well-built and comfortable; and though the neighbourhood is shabby and the district does not improve with time, the trees that stand before it give it a pleasant air upon a summer's day. Walt was to have had a commodious room upon the floor below, specially designed for his comfort and convenience, but he preferred the other as sunnier and more quiet. The family now consisted of three only, for Edward, the imbecile brother, was boarding somewhere near by in the country. Jeff was in St. Louis, the two sisters were married, Andrew had died. About Jesse we have no information; he may still have been living in Long Island or New York. More than once Whitman wrote very seriously to Pete, gently preparing him for the worst;[550] but though confinement, loneliness and debility of brain and body made the days and nights dreary, there continued to be gleams of comfort. John Burroughs had begun to build his delightful home upon the Hudson, and called at Camden on his way north, after winding up his affairs in the capital. Among occasional callers was Mr. W. J. Linton, who afterwards drew the portrait for the Centennial edition of the _Leaves_. And Walt made the acquaintance of a jovial Colonel Johnston, at whose house he would often drink a cup of tea on Sunday afternoons.[551] Then, too, the young men at the ferry, and the drivers and conductors on the cars, came to know and like him, helping him as he hobbled to and fro.[552] He was often refreshed by the sunsets on the river, and by the winter crossings through the floating ice;[553] while the sound and sight of the railroad cars crossing West Street, less than a quarter of a mile away, reminded him constantly of Pete Doyle, now a baggage-master on the "Baltimore and Potomac". He had a companion, too, in his little dog,[554] which came and went with him, and all these pleasant, homely little matters go to make his letters as cheerful as may be. If only he could be in his own quarters, and among his friends, he would be comparatively happy. It is the home-feeling and affection that he craves all the time; even a wood-fire would help towards that, but alas, brother George has installed an improved heater! About midsummer, 1874, a new Solicitor-General discharged Whitman from his post at Washington.[555] Hitherto Walt had employed a substitute to carry on his work. But he had now been ill some eighteen months, and the prospect of his return was becoming so remote that he could not feel he had been treated unjustly. From this time forward his financial position became precarious. The amount of his savings grew less and less, and his earnings were not large. Besides beginning to edit his hospital memoranda for publication, he wrote for the papers and magazines whenever his head allowed him to do so; and in England, as well as at home, there was still some demand for his book. But even the scanty sales-money did not always reach him, being retained by more than one agent who regarded the author's life as practically at an end.[556] FOOTNOTES: [528] Camden, viii., 238-40; Calamus, 86. [529] Bucke, 46; _In re_, 73. [530] Camden, ix., 200. [531] _In re_, 79. [532] _In re_, 89. [533] Calamus, 99; Bucke, 46. [534] _Comp. Prose_, 272. [535] _Comp. Prose_, 274 n. [536] Calamus, 104, 109. [537] _L. of G._, 105. [538] See Calamus. [539] See Calamus, 106. [540] _Ib._, 111. [541] _Ib._, 106. [542] _Ib._ [543] _E.g._, the late Mr. Wm. Ingram. [544] Calamus, 109. [545] see _supra_, 204. [546] Calamus, 145; _L. of G._, 323. [547] _L. of G._, 181. [548] _Ib._, 165. [549] Number 431; Calamus, 118. [550] Calamus, 119, etc. [551] Calamus, 126, 127. [552] _Ib._, 133. [553] _Ib._, 143. [554] _Ib._, 137. [555] _Ib._, 155. [556] Bucke, 46. CHAPTER XVI CONVALESCENCE All through 1875 the weakness continued; but in November he was well enough to pay a visit to Washington, accompanied by John Burroughs; and, the public re-burial of Poe taking place about that time in Baltimore, Doyle appears to have convoyed him thither.[557] There, sitting silently on the platform at the public function, he seems once again to have been cordially greeted by Emerson, but O'Connor, who was also present, made no sign.[558] * * * * * It was not till the following summer that Whitman's old spirits began to return. Since his mother died he had passed three years in the valley of the shadow, and he was still lonely, sick and poor when his English friends came to his rescue. He and his writings had been pulverised between the heavy millstones of Mr. Peter Bayne's adjectives in the _Contemporary Review_ for the month of December. In England, as well as in America, he had literary enemies in high places. But on the 13th of March the _Daily News_[559] published a long and characteristically fervid letter, full of generous feeling, from Mr. Robert Buchanan, who dilated upon the old poet's isolation, neglect and poverty. It aroused wide comment, and some indignation on both sides of the Atlantic, among Whitman's friends as well as among his enemies. That he was never deserted by his faithful American friends a series of articles upon his condition, published in the Springfield (Mass.) _Republican_, bears witness.[560] But Buchanan's letter evoked new and widespread sympathy, which was the means of saving Whitman from his melancholy plight. A fortnight later the _Athenæum_ printed his short sonnet-like poem, "The Man-o'-War Bird". In the meantime, Mr. Rossetti, always faithful to his friend, had learned of his condition, and had written asking how best his English admirers might offer him assistance. Walt wrote in reply, stating that his savings were exhausted, that he had been cheated by his New York agents, and that in consequence he was now, for the new Centennial edition, which had just appeared, his own sole publisher.[561] If any of his English friends desired to help him, they could best do so by the purchase of the book. He wrote with affectionate gratitude, and quiet dignity. He was poor, but he was not in want. There came, through Mr. Rossetti, an immediate, generous and most cordial response, and in the list of English and Irish subscribers appear many illustrious names. The invalid revived; "both the cash and the emotional cheer," he wrote at a later time, "were deep medicine".[562] He could now afford to overlook the bitter and contemptuous attacks which were being made upon him by an old acquaintance in the editorials of the _New York Tribune_.[563] And, which was at least equally important, he could contrive to take a country holiday. [Illustration: TIMBER CREEK: THE POOL, 1904] * * * * * About the end of April, or early in May, he drove out through the gently undulating dairy lands and the fields of young corn to the New Jersey hamlet of Whitehorse, some ten miles down the turnpike which leads to Atlantic City and Cape May.[564] A little beyond the village, and close to the Reading Railroad, there still stands an old farmhouse, then tenanted by Mr. George Stafford, and to-day the centre of a group of pleasant villas known as Laurel Springs. It was here that Whitman lodged, establishing cordial relations with the whole Stafford family, relations which added greatly to the happiness of his remaining years. He became especially attached to Mrs. Stafford, who intuitively read his moods,[565] and to her son Harry. * * * * * A short stroll down the green lane, which is now being rapidly civilised out of that delightful category, brings one to a wide woody hollow, where amid the trees a long creek or stream winds down to a large mill-pool with boats and lily leaves floating upon it. Save for the boats and the people from the villas, the place has been but little changed by the quarter of a century which has elapsed since Whitman first visited it.[566] The walnut and the oak under which he used to sit among the meadow-grass are older trees, of course, and the former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the kecks and crickets, the shady nooks by the pool, the jewel-weed and the great-winged tawny butterflies are there as of old. And with them much of the old, sweet, communicative quiet. At the creek-head, among the willows, is a swampy tangle of mint and calamus, reeds and cresses, white boneset and orange fragile jewel-weed, and above, from its mouth in the steep bank, gushes the "crystal spring" whose soft, clinking murmur soothed the old man many a summer's day. Here, early and late, he would sit or saunter through the glinting glimmering lights, and here Mother-Nature took him, an orphan, to her breast. The baby and boyhood days in the lanes and fields at West Hills, and among the woods and orchards came back to him and blessed him with significant memories. To outward seeming an old man, and near sixty as years go, in heart he was still and always a child. And for the last three years a broken-hearted, motherless child. He had been starving to death for lack of the daily ministry of Love. [Illustration: TIMBER CREEK: "CRYSTAL SPRING" AND THE OLD MARL-PIT, 1904] At Timber Creek, by the pool and in the lanes, the touch of that all-embracing Love which pervades the universe was upon him. Without any effort on his part the caressing air and sunshine re-established the ancient relationship of love, in which of old he had been united to Nature. He would sit silent for hours, wrapt in a sort of trance, realising the mystery of the Whole, through which, as through a body, the currents of life flow and pulse. Woe to any one, however dear, who broke suddenly in upon his solitude![567] His heart went out to the tall poplars and the upright cedars with their tasselled fruit, and he felt virtue flow from them to him in return. He believed the old dryad stories, and became himself truly nympholeptic, and aware of presences in the woods. In August, 1877, he writes: "I have been almost two years, off and on, without drugs and medicines, and daily in the open air. Last summer I found a particularly secluded little dell off one side by my creek, originally a large dug-out marl-pit, now abandoned, filled with bushes, trees, grass, a group of willows, a straggling bank and a spring of delicious water running right through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades. Here I retreated every hot day, and follow it up this summer. Here I realise the meaning of that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone. Never before did I come so close to Nature, never before did she come so close to me. By old habit I pencilled down from time to time almost automatically, moods, sights, hours, tints and outlines on the spot."[568] Unlike the ordinary naturalist he regarded the birds and trees, the dragon-flies and grey squirrels, the oak-trees and the breeze that sang among their leaves, as spirits; strange, but kindred with his own, members together with his of a transcendental life; and he communed with them. Something, he felt sure, they interchanged; something passed between them. Their mystical fellowship had its ritual, as have all religions. The place was sacred, and he did off, not only his shoes, but all his raiment, giving back himself to naked Mother-Nature, naked as he was born of her. In the solitude, among the bare-limbed gracious trees and the clear-flowing water, he enjoyed many a sun-bath, and on hot summer days, in his bird-haunted nook, many a bathing in the spring; many a wrestle, too, with strong young hickory sapling or beech bough, conscious, as they wrestled together, of new life flowing into his veins.[569] Whatever ignorance of names his Washington acquaintance may have discovered,[570] his diary at this time is full of nature-lore. It enumerates some forty kinds of birds, and he was evidently familiar with nearly as many sorts of trees and shrubs; while differentiating accurately enough between the sundry trilling insects, locusts, grasshoppers, crickets and katydids which populate the district, vibrant by day and night. Doubtless he had learnt much from the companionship of John Burroughs, but he was himself an accurate observer. The story of his visits to Timber Creek and its vicinity from 1876 to 1882 is told in _Specimen Days_, with much else beside--a book to carry with one on any holiday, or to make a holiday in the midst of city work. It is, for the rest, an admirable illustration of the saying of the philosopher-emperor, that virtue is a living and enthusiastic sympathy with Nature.[571] * * * * * Three years of gradual convalescence were divided not only between the Stafford's farm and the house on Stevens Street, but also with the homes of other friends whose love now began to enrich his life.[572] Of three of the most notable among his new comrades we must speak in passing. In the autumn of 1876 Anne Gilchrist took a house in Philadelphia, while in the following summer Dr. Bucke and Mr. Edward Carpenter came to Camden on pilgrimage. Whitman often said in his later years that his best friends had been women, and that of his women friends Mrs. Gilchrist was the nearest. She was an Essex girl of good family, nine years younger than Whitman.[573] At school she had loved Emerson, Rousseau, Comte and Ruskin, and a little later she added to them the writings of Carlyle, Guyot and Herbert Spencer. Music and science, with the philosophical suggestions which spring from the discoveries of science, were her chief interests. At twenty-three she married Alexander Gilchrist, an art-critic and interpreter. It was a wholly happy marriage; Anne became the mother of four children, and, beside being deeply interested in her husband's work, contrived to contribute scientific articles to the magazines. While compiling his well-known _Life of Blake_, Mr. Gilchrist fell a victim to scarlet fever. His widow, with her four young children and the uncompleted book, removed to a cottage in the country, and there, with the encouragement and help of the Rossetti brothers, she finished her husband's task. Her life was now, as she said, "up hill all the way," but the book helped her. And her close study of Blake, added to her scientific interests and her love of music, formed the finest possible introduction to her subsequent reading of Whitman. Her task was concluded in 1863; it had tided her over the first two years of her bereavement; but her letters of sympathy to Dante Rossetti, heart-broken at the loss of his young wife, discover her gnawing sorrow yet undulled by time. Like Whitman, she had the capacity for great suffering. And like Whitman, too, she was helped in her sorrow by the companionship of Nature. And, again, she was a good comrade. Unlike her grandmother, who was one of Romney's beauties, Anne Gilchrist was not a handsome woman; but her personality was both vivid and profound, and increasingly attractive as the years passed. She was so serious and eager in temperament that, even in London, she lived in comparative retirement. The letters which she exchanged with the Rossettis during a long period are evidence both of her common-sense and her capacity for passionate sympathy. They are often as frank as they are noble; revealing a nature too profound to be continually considerate of criticism. This gives to some of her utterances a half naïve and wholly charming quality, which cannot have been absent from her personality, and must have endeared her to the comrades whom she honoured with her confidence. This high seriousness of hers made her the readier to appreciate a poet who, almost alone among Americans, has bared his man's heart to his readers, careless of the cheap ridicule of those smart-witted cynics whom modern education and modern morality have multiplied till they are almost as numerous as the sands of the sea. She was a little more than forty when she first read _Leaves of Grass_ and wrote those letters to W. M. Rossetti in which she attested her appreciation of their purpose and power.[574] It was no light thing for a woman to publish such a declaration of faith; and in her own phrase,[575] she felt herself a second Lady Godiva, going in the daylight down the public way, naked, not in body but in soul, for the good cause. She was convinced that her ride was necessary; for men would remain blind to the glory of Whitman's message until a woman dared the shame and held its glory up to them. And what she did, she did less for men than for their wives and mothers, upon whom the shadow of their shame-in-themselves had fallen. Mr. Rossetti has described[576] her as a woman of good port, in fullest possession of herself, never fidgetty, and never taken unawares; warm-hearted and courageous, with full, dark, liquid eyes, which were at the same time alive with humour and vivacity, quick to detect every kind of humbug, but wholly free from cynicism. Her face was not only expressive of her character, but "full charged with some message" which her lips seemed ever about to utter. Her considerable intellectual force was in happy harmony with her domestic qualities, and filled her home-life with interest. Such was the woman who, in November, 1876, at the age of forty-eight, brought her family to Philadelphia, in order that one of the daughters might study medicine at Girard College; and in whose home, near the college grounds, Whitman henceforward, for two or three years,[577] spent a considerable part of his time. The relationship of these two noble souls seems to have been comparable with that which united Michael Angelo and Vittoria Colonna, and they were at a similar time of life. * * * * * This, the Centennial year, was filled with thoughts and celebrations of American independence; among which we may recall the Exposition in Philadelphia--where throughout the summer, Whitman had been a frequent visitor--and the Centennial edition of his works. He had also celebrated the occasion by sitting for his bust to a young sculptor, in an improvised studio on Chestnut Street. The weather was too hot for a coat; and in his white shirt sleeves he would, at the artist's request, read his poems aloud with naïve delight, which rose to a climax when the sound of applause from a group of young fellows on the stairs without, crowned his efforts. "So you like it, do you?" he cried to them; "well, I rather enjoyed that myself."[578] The old sad and solitary inertia was broken. Ill though he often was, the lonely little upper room held him no longer; nor was he any more shut up within the sense of bereavement. Jeff had come over from St. Louis, and his two daughters spent the autumn with their aunt and uncles in Stevens Street. All through the winter Walt was moving back and forward between George's house, the Staffords farm, and Mrs. Gilchrist's. He was cheerfully busy with the orders for his pair of handsome books, which were selling briskly at a guinea a volume. _Leaves of Grass_ had been reprinted from the plates of the fifth edition. Its companion, _Two Rivulets_, was a "mélange" compounded of additional poems, including "Passage to India," and the prose writings of which we have already spoken, printed at various times during the last five years. "Specimen Days" was not among them, and did not appear till 1882. The title _Two Rivulets_ suggests the double thread of its theme, the destiny of the nation and of the individual, American politics and that mystery of immortal life which we call death. They were not far asunder in Whitman's thought.[579] At the end of February, Mr. Burroughs met Walt at Mrs. Gilchrist's, and thence they set out together for New York. Here, Whitman stayed with his new and dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Johnston;[580] and presented himself in his own becoming garb at the grand full-dress receptions which were held in his honour; the applause which greeted him, and the atmosphere of real affection by which he was surrounded, compensating him for the always distasteful attentions of a lionising public, eager for any sensation. He renewed also, and with perhaps more unmitigated satisfaction, his acquaintance with the men on the East River ferries, and the Broadway stages; and, finally, he ascended the Hudson to stay awhile with John Burroughs. This pleasant holiday jaunt was not without its tragic element; his friend, Mrs. Johnston, dying suddenly on his last evening in New York. * * * * * It was in May that Mr. Edward Carpenter visited him in Camden. After a brilliant Cambridge career, he was now a pioneer University Extension lecturer in natural sciences. But besides, or rather beyond this, a poet, in whom the sense of fellowship and unity was already becoming dominant. [Illustration: EDWARD CARPENTER AT FORTY-THREE] In a note to his just-published preface, Whitman had spoken of the "terrible, irrepressible yearning"[581] for sympathy which underlay his work, and by which he claimed the personal affection of such readers as he could truly call his own. This also was the aim which underlay Mr. Carpenter's first book of verses, _Narcissus and Other Poems_, published in 1873.[582] Their author was already familiar with _Leaves of Grass_, which he had first read at about the age of twenty-five, and which he had since been absorbing, much as he absorbed the sonatas of Beethoven. They fed within him the life of something which was still but dimly conscious; something dumb, blind and irrational, but of titanic power to disturb the even tenor of an academic life. One remarks that both Mrs. Gilchrist and he shared to the full the modern feeling for science and its philosophy, and for music. When he visited Whitman, Edward Carpenter was thirty-three; it was not till four years after this that he gave himself up to the writing of his own "Leaves," coming into his spiritual kingdom a little later in life than did Walt. In many respects his nature, and consequently his work which is the outcome and true expression of his personality, was in striking contrast with that of his great old friend. Lithe and slender in figure, he was subtle also and fine in the whole temper of his mind; sharing with Addington Symonds that tendency to over-fineness, that touch of morbid subtilty which demands for its balance a very sweet and strenuous soul, such indeed, as is revealed in the pages of _Towards Democracy_. He found Whitman's mind clear and unclouded after the suffering of the last four years, his perception keen as ever.[583] Courteous, and possessed of great personal charm, he was yet elemental and "Adamic" in character. He impressed his visitor with a threefold personality: first, the magnetic, effluent, radiant spirit of the man going out to greet and embrace all; then, the spacious breadth of his soul, and the remoteness of those further portions in which his consciousness seemed often to be dwelling; and afterwards, the terrible majesty, as of judgment unveiled in him, a Jove-like presence full of thunder. This last element in his nature was naked, ominous, immovable as a granite rock. When once you perceived it, there was, as Miss Gilchrist has remarked,[584] no shelter from the terrible blaze of his personality. But this rocky masculine Ego was wedded in him with a gentle almost motherly affection, which found expression in certain caressing tones of his widely modulated voice. While, to complete alike the masculine and feminine, was the child--the attitude of reverent wonder toward the world. By turns then, a wistful child, a charming loving woman, an untamed terrible truth-compelling man, Whitman seems to have both bewitched and baffled his young English visitor. Mr. Carpenter saw him at Stevens Street and Timber Creek, and again under Mrs. Gilchrist's hospitable roof. They sat out together in the pleasant Philadelphia fashion through the warm June evenings upon the porch steps; and Walt would talk in his deliberate way of Japan and China, or of the Eastern literatures. He liked to join hands while he talked, communicating more, perhaps, of himself, and understanding his companion better, by touch than by words. His mere presence was sufficient to redeem the commonplace. His visitor had also an opportunity of noting the efficiency of Whitman's defences against the globe-trotting interview-hunting type of American woman. His silence became aggressive, and her words rebounded from it; he had disappeared into his rock-faced solitude where nothing could reach him. And a very few moments of this treatment sufficed, even for the brazen-armoured amazon. * * * * * During Mr. Carpenter's visit, Mrs. George Whitman, whom Dr. Bucke has described as an attractive, sweet woman, was out of health, and her brother-in-law made a daily excursion down town and across the ferry to see her, and to transact his own affairs. In the heat of the following July she first opened the door to Dr. Bucke.[585] He, too, had long been a student of _Leaves of Grass_, a student at first against his own judgment, and with little result beyond an annoying bewilderment to his sense of fitness, and of exasperation to his intelligence. But from the first, he felt a singular interior compulsion to read the book, which he could not at all understand. Its lack of all definite statement was the head and front of its offending to a keen scientific mind. But now after many years, he had come to recognise the extraordinary power of suggestion which was embodied in every page. Dr. R. Maurice Bucke's personality was strongly marked and striking; he had as much determination as had Whitman himself, and his whole face is full of resolute purpose. Born in Norfolk, in 1837, but immediately transplanted to Canada, he was thoroughly educated by his father, who was a man of considerable scholarship and a minister in the Church of England. In 1857, he crowned an adventurous youth passed in the mining regions of the Western States, by a daring winter expedition over the Sierras, in which he was so badly frozen that he afterwards lost both feet, but his tall and vigorous figure showed hardly a trace of this misfortune. Returning to Canada, he studied medicine; and eventually, in 1877, became the head of a large insane asylum at London, Ontario. Here he introduced several notable reforms in the treatment of the patients, which were widely imitated throughout America. He was a keen student of mental pathology, and for some time before his death was reckoned among the leading alienists of the continent. Certain interesting and suggestive studies of the relation which appears to exist between the so-called sympathetic nervous system and the moral and emotional nature, but especially his _magnum opus_, _Cosmic Consciousness_, published the year before his death (1901), reveal the direction of his dominant interest. From 1877, he was one of Whitman's closest friends, and became subsequently his principal biographer.[586] In the printed recollections of his first interview with Whitman,[587] Dr. Bucke recalls the exaltation of his mind produced by it; describing it as a "sort of spiritual intoxication," which remained with him for months, transfiguring his new friend into more than mortal stature. It is another instance of the almost incredible power of the invalid's personality. [Illustration: RICHARD MAURICE BUCKE] * * * * * Whitman's own jottings and records of the period testify to his increasing physical vigour. He goes, for instance, to the Walnut Street Theatre, to a performance of Joaquin Miller's _The Danites_, accompanied by his friend the author.[588] In the summer of 1878, and in the succeeding year, he is again a guest both of John Burroughs and of J. H. Johnston.[589] On the second occasion, he had delivered his lecture on the "Death of Lincoln" in the Steck Hall, New York; promising himself anew, that if health permitted, he would even now set forth on the lecture tour which he had so long contemplated.[590] But though, in the autumn, he made, with several friends, an extended tour of some sixteen weeks beyond the Mississippi, he did not accomplish this cherished scheme. * * * * * At night on the 10th of September, Whitman and his party left Philadelphia, westward bound. Walt delighted in the magic speed and comfort of the Pullman;[591] in which, lying awake among the sleepers, he was whirled all through the first night up the broad pastoral valley of the Susquehanna, curving with its thousand reedy aits about thick-wooded steeps; and on, over ridge and ridge of the Alleghanies, till morning found them at smoking Pittsburg. Crossing the Ohio, almost at the point whence he had descended it thirty years before on that fateful southern journey, the good engine, the Baldwin, hurried them all that day through rich and populous Ohio and Indiana. Whitman was not disinclined to acknowledge a personality in the fierce and beautiful locomotive which he had already celebrated in a poem full of fire and of the modern spirit.[592] They were due next morning at St. Louis, but about nightfall their headlong flight through the broad lands was arrested. The Baldwin ran foul of some obstacle, and suffered serious damage and consequent delay. Spending the third night in the city, they continued through a beautiful autumn day, across the rolling prairies of Missouri, feasting their eyes upon the wide farmlands full of the promise of bread for millions of men. Nor material bread only. There is something in the vast aerial spaces of these prairie states, their great skies and lonely stretches, which exalts and feeds the soul; something oceanic, Whitman thought, "and beautiful as dreams".[593] Central in the continent, this country had always seemed to him to correspond with certain central qualities in his ideal America, and to supply the background for the two men whose figures stood out supremely above the struggle for the union, Lincoln and Grant--men of unplumbed and inarticulate depths of character, and of native freedom of spirit and elemental originality of thought. Whitman stayed for a while with friends upon the road, at Lawrence and Topeka. Many of the boys he had tended in the wards were now hale men out West, and they were always eager for sight of him; so that there were few places in America where he would not have found a hearty welcome. He proceeded along the yellow Kansas River, through the Golden Belt, and over the Colorado table-lands, bare and vast as some immense Salisbury Plain, to Denver. In that young city he spent several days, dreaming his great dreams of a Western town that should be full of friends and strong for and against the whole world, breathing her fine air, sparkling as champagne and clear as cold spring water; falling in love with her people and her horses, and the little mountain streams which ran along the channel ways of her broad streets. Thence, he made short trips into the Rockies; where the railroad winds among fantastic yellow buttes with steep sloping screes, and towering battlements; and the trains swing eagerly round a thousand curves to follow the bronze and amber path-finder, brawling in its sinuous ravine between the pinnacled, red, cloud-topped crags which it has carved and sundered. Every break in the walls disclosed Olympian companies of august peaks against the high blue. Gradually the way would climb to the summit, its straightness widening, here and there, into sedgy mountain meadows closed about by keen-cut granite heights, the perfect record of laborious ages; and as the day advanced, the broad and restful light broadened and grew more serene as it shone afar on chains of snowy peaks. Here in this tremendous mountain fellowship, with its shapes at once fantastic and sublime, its solemn joy and wild imagination, its infinite complex of form and colour suggesting vast emotions to the soul, Walt breathed his proper air and recognised the landscape of his deepest life. "I have found the law of my own poems," he kept saying to himself with increasing conviction, hour after hour.[594] Like the lonely mountain eagle which he watched wheeling leisurely among the peaks, he was at home in this sternly beautiful, untamed, unmeasured land. Towards the end of September, he turned East again from the mining town of Pueblo; leaving the Far West unseen[595]--Utah with its Canaanitish glories of intense lake and naked, ruddy, wrinkled mountains; the great grey desert of Nevada; and the forest-clad Sierras looking out across their Californian garden towards the Pacific. Stopping here and there with his former friends, he found his way to Jefferson Whitman's home in St. Louis, and there remained over the year's end. This cosmopolitan Western city,[596] planted in the centre of that vast valley which the Mississippi drains and waters, and at the heart of the American continent, was intensely interesting to Whitman. He had an almost superstitious love for "the Father of Waters"; and many a moonlit autumn night he haunted its banks, its wharves and bridges, fascinated by the sound of the moving water as the river flowed through the luminous silence under the eternal stars. Physically, St. Louis did not suit him: he was ill there for weeks together; but even so, he was happy in his own simple, human way. He went twice a week to the kindergartens, and there, for an hour together, he entertained the younger pupils with his funny children's tales.[597] After the first moments of strangeness, and alarm at his size and the whiteness of his hair, nearly all the children quickly came to love old "Kris Kringle" or "Father Christmas" as they would call him;[598] and for his part, he was as happy among little children as a young mother. Early in January, 1880, he returned home. All his delight in the West, gathered on his first journey up the Mississippi thirty years before, and since accumulating from many sources, notably from the young Western soldiers he had nursed, had been confirmed by this visit. In only one thing was he disappointed. The men had seemed, to his searching gaze, fit sons of that new land of possibility; but in the women he had failed to find the qualifications he was seeking.[599] Physically and mentally, he saw them still in bondage to old-world traditions; instead of originating nobler and more generous manners, they were imitating the foolish gentility of the East. Whitman was very exacting in his ideal of womanhood; and perhaps it was mainly upon the ladies of the shops and streets that his strictures were passed; for there are others in that Western world, who are not far from her whom he has described in the "Song of the Broad-axe"--the best-beloved, possessed of herself, who is strong in her beauty as are the laws of nature.[600] * * * * * After six months at home among his books and his friends--to whom at this time he added, at least by correspondence, Colonel Robert Ingersoll, afterwards a member of the inner circle--Whitman set out upon another journey, in length almost equal to that of the preceding autumn. Early in June,[601] he crossed the bridge over Niagara on his way to London, Ontario; and now at his second sight, the significance of that majestic scene, which thirty years before he would seem to have missed, was discovered to him. Staying with Dr. Bucke, he made frequent visits to the great asylum, with its thousand patients, under the wise doctor's care. Walt's own family life, with the tragedy of his youngest brother's incapacity, had made the melancholy brotherhood of those whom he has beautifully described as the "sacred idiots"[602] especially interesting to him. He attended the religious services held in the asylum; joining with those wrecked minds in a common worship, and seeing the storms of their lives strangely quieted, as though a Divine love, brooding over all, had hushed them.[603] With many of the patients he became personally acquainted, and years afterwards recalled them by name, inquiring affectionately after their welfare. Whitman was in better health than usual, and in excellent spirits. He loved the doctor, was happy and at home in his household, and on the best of terms with its younger members. Among the latter, his presence never checked the natural flow of high spirits, as does the presence of most grown-up persons: he was always one of themselves. This, indeed, was a characteristic of Whitman in whatever company he was found, from a kindergarten to a company of "publicans and sinners". The spirit of comradeship identified him with the others, and he was so profoundly himself that such identification took nothing away from his own identity. Among the young people of Dr. Bucke's household his fun and humour had free and natural expression; as when, for example, one moonlit evening, he undertook the burial of an empty wine-bottle, addressing a magniloquent oration over its last resting-place to the goddess Semele. He loved to linger at the table, telling stories after tea; and to recite or read aloud, when the family sat together in the dusk on the verandah; and sometimes, too, he would take his turn in singing some well-known song. For reading aloud, he would often choose some poem of Tennyson's--"Ulysses" seems to have been his favourite. At this time also, in a secluded nook in the grounds, he read leisurely over to himself, with the satisfaction which Tennyson's work nearly always gave him, the newly published _De Profundis_.[604] His diary of these pleasant, refreshing weeks contains many notes of the thick-starred heavens and the merry birds, and the multitudinous swallows, which would recall to his well-stored mind the story of Athene and Ulysses' return.[605] * * * * * His vital force seemed to be almost unimpaired. The noble calm of his presence, indeed, made him appear even older than he was; his fine hair was snowy white, and the high-domed crown which rose through it and grew higher and nobler with every year, gave him all claims to reverence.[606] But, though at first sight he seemed to be nearer eighty than sixty years old, and though he was lame from paralysis, a second glance showed him erect and without a line of care or of senility upon his face. His complexion was rosy as a winter pippin, and his cheeks were full and smooth, for his heart was always young. His host wished to show him Canada; in which country he was the more deeply interested through his settled conviction that it would presently become a part of the United States. The St. Lawrence and the Lakes, he always said, cannot remain a frontier-line; they are and should be recognised as a magnificent inland water-way, comparable with the Mississippi. Towards the end of July[607] he set out upon this great road with his friend. Taking boat at Toronto, they descended by easy stages, stopping a night or two at Kingston, Montreal and Quebec, Whitman thoroughly enjoying all the new scenes and making friends everywhere on the way. He sat on the fore-deck in the August sunshine, wrapped in his grey overcoat, wondering at the grim pagan wildness of the lower St. Lawrence, nightly watching the Northern Lights, and appearing on deck before sunrise. [Illustration: WHITMAN AT SIXTY-ONE, JULY, 1880] As they turned up the deep dark Saguenay and reached the mountain pillars of Eternity and Trinity, the mystery of northern river and height, with all they hold of stillness and of storm, communed with him. He saw infinite power wedded with an ageless peace; and all, however awful in its sublimity, yet far from inhospitable to an heroic race of men; nay, by its very awfulness, inviting and proclaiming the men who shall dare to dwell therein. With the people of Canada, as a whole, he was well pleased. He liked their benevolent care for the weak and infirm in body and mind; and thought them in every respect worthy of the destiny which he believed that he foresaw--the destiny of citizenship in the Republic. FOOTNOTES: [557] _Comp. Prose_, 150. [558] The incidents may not all belong to this visit. [559] Bucke, 213. [560] _W. W. Autobiographia_, 205 n. [561] _Comp. Prose_, 311, 312; Donaldson, 29-31. [562] _Comp. Prose_, 519. [563] Bucke, 215, 216, etc. [564] _Cf._ _Comp. Prose_, 75. [565] MSS. Wallace. [566] _Comp. Prose_, 75. [567] MSS. Wallace. [568] _Comp. Prose_, 96-98. [569] _Comp. Prose_, 91, 92, 98. [570] _Ib._, 84, 94, 116; _cf. supra_, 230. [571] _Ib._, 193. [572] MSS. Diary; Calamus, 170. [573] _Anne Gilchrist_, by H. H. G. [574] See _supra_, 225-7. [575] Gilchrist, 190. [576] _Ib._, Preface. [577] MSS. Diary. [578] _In re_, 370. [579] _Comp. Prose_, 270. [580] Bucke, 216, 217. [581] _Comp. Prose_, 277 n. [582] Tom Swan's _Edward Carpenter_, 1902, and article by E. C. in _Labour Prophet_, May, 1894. [583] Carpenter (_a_). [584] G. Gilchrist, _op. cit._; _cf._ Carpenter (_b_). [585] Calamus, 10 n. [586] MS. of Dr. E. P. Bucke, and _W. W.'s Diary in Canada_, v. [587] Bucke, 50; _Whit. Fellowship, Memories of W. W._, by R. M. B. [588] MSS. Diary. [589] _Comp. Prose_, 106, 122. [590] _Ib._, 506. [591] _Comp. Prose_, 132, 149. [592] _L. of G._, 358. [593] _Comp. Prose_, 134. [594] _Comp. Prose_, 136. [595] _Ib._, 140. [596] Calamus, 170-72. [597] Bucke, 63. [598] MSS. Berenson (_a_). [599] _Comp. Prose_, 146. [600] _L. of G._, 157. [601] _Comp. Prose_, 153-58, and _Whit. Fellowship Memo. of W. W._ (Bucke); Bucke, 48. [602] _L. of G._, 325. [603] _Comp. Prose_, 154. [604] _Diary in Canada_, 10, 11. [605] _Comp. Prose_, 132. [606] Bucke, 49. [607] _Diary in Canada_, 41. CHAPTER XVII THE SECOND BOSTON EDITION After a winter in Camden, Philadelphia and the country, among friends old and new, Whitman paid his second visit to Boston. The house-tied stationary years of 1873 to 1876 had been succeeded by a period of considerable activity, both mental and physical. On the 14th of April, he gave his lecture on the "Death of Abraham Lincoln," at the Hawthorn Rooms.[608] It was the third year of its delivery; on the two previous occasions it had been read in New York and Philadelphia; and he purposed thus annually to commemorate an event which appeared to him as perhaps the most significant of his time, an event which the American people could ill afford to forget. In Whitman's view, as we have noted, the assassination of the great President had sealed the million deaths of the war, and cemented, as could nothing else, the Union for whose sake they had been given. He believed that future ages would see in it the most dramatic moment of the victorious struggle of the nation against slavery. Rarely hereafter, in spite of increasing feebleness, did he miss the occasion as the season came round; though it was often with difficulty that even a small audience could be gathered for the anniversary. Among the friends and notables whom he met in Boston was Longfellow, who had already called on him in Camden; and Whitman was warm in eulogies of the old poet's courteous manner and personality.[609] Something of the burden of his first prophetic message had lifted from Walt's shoulders, and with it some of his wrath against the popular poets of America. He had consequently become better able to express his sense of the real value of work like theirs when its secondary place was recognised. There were others in Boston whom he also now discovered for the first time; notably the women of middle and later life, among whom he rejoiced to find some of those large, vigorous personalities whose absence he had lamented in the West. In earlier days he had been alienated by the academic and Puritan qualities which still gave its principal colour, especially when seen from New York, to intellectual Boston. But both Boston and Whitman had changed--alike with the war and with the advance of time; the provincialism of the former had given place to broader views, and the nobler identification of New England with the whole interests of the nation; while the latter was now able more generously to estimate even New England's shortcomings, and to recognise among its people that ardour and yearning for the ideal which had always been theirs, but warmed now and humanised, as he thought, by a new joyousness and breadth of tolerance.[610] He felt a sunshine in the streets, which radiated from the men and women who traversed them. This effusive ardour of public spirit set him thinking of Athens in her golden days; and for the first time he, who had so much of the Greek in his nature, felt himself at home in Boston. The visit was also memorable to him because it introduced him to the works of Millet, and, one may add, to the emotional significance of painting as an art.[611] As I have before noted, New York only became a centre of art collections in comparatively recent years; and it was probably not till Whitman had sat for two hours before some of the Breton artist's finest studies in the house of a Bostonian, that he recognised Painting as the true sister of music and of poetry. It was fitting that this revelation should have come to the poet of Democracy from such canvasses as that of the first "Sower" and the "Watering the Cow". Surcharged as they are with a primitive emotion new to modern art, the works of Millet reveal the inner nature of that great Republican peasant people whom Whitman always loved. * * * * * Much of the early summer, after his return, was spent at Glendale, whither the family from Whitehorse had now removed, Mr. Stafford having taken the store on the cross-roads, some three or four miles from his old home. Directly opposite to it there stands a Methodist chapel, and often on a Sunday morning the young people would laugh as they heard Walt, in the room above, angrily banging down his window sash at the first clanging of the bell. But behind the chapel is a dense wood, and here he spent many a long, happy day. The heat of July was, as usual, very trying to him; and at the end of the month he accompanied Dr. Bucke on a visit to his old breezy haunts in Long Island. The farm at West Hills had passed out of the family; Iredwell Whitman, the last of Walt's uncles to hold it, seems to have sold out about 1835. In the little burying ground there is a stone erected to his daughter Mahala, who died eight years later.[612] While in Boston he seems to have received propositions from the firm of Osgood and Company for the publication of a definitive edition of the _Leaves_, and about the beginning of September, after completing his manuscript at the home of his friends, Mr. and (the second) Mrs. Johnston, at Mott Haven, New York,[613] he settled down in the New England capital to read proofs and to enjoy himself. He stayed at the Bullfinch, close to Bowdoin Square, and frequented the water-side.[614] Often he would take the cars which run through South Boston to City Point, whose pebbly, crescent beach is lapped forever by the Atlantic ripple. And to this place the lover of Whitman may well follow, for it holds memories of him. On a summer's evening, after dark, thousands of young Bostonians gather under the lamps, laughing and talking and listening to the band; but, beyond the zone of lights and mirth and music, one finds oneself at once in a mystical solitude. A long bridge or pier stretches out into the bay, terminating in Castle Island and grim Fort Independence; and wandering out along it, surrounded in every direction by distant lights, the illuminated dome of the State House rising afar in the west, and lights moving to and fro mysteriously upon the water, you feel the night wind blowing cool across the black gulf of sea as it carries to you distant sounds of merry-making. Very far away they seem, thus encircled in mysterious spaces which are peopled by sea voices and the stars. The light surf makes upon the shore its constant and delicious murmur--"death, death, death, death, death"[615]--and the lights and the noises of life, with all its passing show, are mysteriously related in that murmur to the sane, star-lighted silence of eternity. Whitman walked daily on the Common, watching the friendly grey squirrels, and becoming acquainted with each one in turn of the American elms under which he sat.[616] Timber Creek had deepened his knowledge of the life of trees and little creatures since last he walked here with Emerson. Emerson, too, he saw once again. Mr. Sanborn, the friend at whose trial he had been present on that former visit,[617] took him out through the suburbs and the wooded country to Concord. It was Indian-summer weather, and the meadows, that late Saturday afternoon, were busy and odorous with haymaking; all things spoke of peace. Emerson came over for the evening to Mr. Sanborn's house, and the two old friends sat silent in the midst of the talk. Bronson Alcott, who had brought Thoreau to Brooklyn and had once compared Whitman with Plato,[618] was of the company of illustrious and charming neighbours. The others talked, but Emerson leaned back in his chair under the light, a good colour in his old face, and the familiar keenness; and near by sat Walt, satisfied to watch him without words. On Sunday the Sanborns and he went over to dinner. His place was by Mrs. Emerson, who entertained him with talk of Thoreau, but though he listened with interest, most of his attention belonged to his beloved host. More than ever, if that were possible, did Whitman lovingly recognise the character of his friend. He had not always been just to Emerson,[619] nor had Emerson always maintained his first generosity;[620] each had said of the other words one cannot but regret, but deeper than such words of partial criticism was the comrade-love which united them. In a letter, written immediately after this visit to his friend Alma Calder, who had recently become the second Mrs. J. H. Johnston, Whitman wrote: "I think Emerson more significant and _glorified_ in his present condition than in any of his former days".[621] The whole family was present, and sitting quietly among them Whitman could understand the natural limitations which his household entailed upon the philosopher, and acknowledging these, felt the personal bond stronger than ever. The relation of the two men had been singular as well as noble, for it was the elder who had sought the younger out and affectionately acknowledged him, and through the years that followed the advances had been made by him. Whitman's attachment to Emerson had been one of love and reverence for his person, much more than of intellectual affinity. "I think," he wrote a few years later to his Boston friend, Mr. W. S. Kennedy, "I think I know B. W. E[merson] better than anybody else knows him--and love him in proportion."[622] The evidence does not indicate a similar understanding on Emerson's part, though the love between them was not unequal. To Emerson, as to Tennyson, Whitman remained "a great big something" of undetermined character. Whitman met many friends, new and old, upon this visit, but of the old, Thoreau had long been dead; and the strong, homely sailor's face of Father Taylor drew Boston no longer to the Seamen's Bethel. Whitman himself attracted much attention as he sauntered along among the fashionable shoppers on Washington Street; tall, erect and noble, one could not pass him without notice. I have heard a lady tell how, being familiar with his portraits, she recognised him at once. Seeing him mount a car she followed, taking a seat where for several miles she could, without rudeness, study and enjoy that splendid ruddy face, through which, lamp-like, there shone and glowed an inner light of spiritual ecstasy. And for Whitman himself, those were happy days.[623] The paralysis and the other ailments, more or less serious and painful, by which it had been enforced, troubled him less than usual. In his little room at Messrs. Rand & Avery's printing house, or out-of-doors in the woods with a fallen tree for his table,[624] he was revising the proofs of his _Leaves_ with a deliberation and particularity worthy of their final form. For now this singular book, slowly built up through the continual inspiration, thought and labour of a quarter of a century, had come to its completion, and the final plates were to be cast. Or better, we may say that for the first time it was to be really published, all other efforts in that direction having been but tentative, and more or less unsuccessful. Hitherto, despised and rejected of publishers, it had issued with an innocent air from strange places, unvouched by any name which was recognised by the bookselling world. The edition of 1860 is the only exception; and almost immediately after its publication, the enterprising house which guaranteed it sank into ruins.[625] Now at last, the plan of the book had been, as far as health and strength permitted, brought to completion[626]--a plan amended since the previous Boston visit, and qualified to admit those poems which had since been written, and at first designed for a supplementary book. The cargo was filled, and the good ship ready to sail. * * * * * After a visit to the Globe Theatre to see Rossi in "Romeo and Juliet,"[627] and a supper with his co-operators, the printers and proof-readers, whose aid he was always eager to acknowledge, Whitman set out again for New York, returning home about the beginning of November. Late in the same month, the book, his vessel as he loved to think of it, set out upon its voyage; but in spite of favourable presages and a happy commencement, it was soon shrouded about in fog, which only yielded to a storm. Some 2,000 copies were sold during the winter, but early in the New Year (1882)[628] the trouble, which seemed to have passed over when the Postmaster-General decided that the book was not so obscene as to be "unmailable," began to threaten anew. The Boston District Attorney,[629] urged by certain agents of the Society for the Suppression of Vice--as though, forsooth, vice could be "suppressed"!--objected to the publication, and demanded the withdrawal of certain passages. Whitman was hardly surprised. He had discussed these passages, or a certain number of them, with his own judgment; and it is possible that Mrs. Gilchrist's view of them had also appealed to him. In his own judgment they were right, but he seems to have been willing to omit five brief items, amounting in all to nearly a page, from the incriminated "Children of Adam" section, if it would save the edition from further molestation.[630] These he suggested might be cut out of the plates, and replaced by other cancelling lines which he would substitute. This was early in March. But the Attorney was not to be so easily satisfied. He demanded the omission of lines in all parts of the volume, amounting to a total of eight or ten pages.[631] This, Whitman emphatically refused; and as neither party would give way, Messrs. Osgood, without testing the case further, threw up their publication on the 9th of April. Their action was scathingly contrasted with that of Woodfall, the publisher of the letters of Junius, and of Mr. Murray, Lord Byron's publisher, by W. D. O'Connor, in a letter to the _New York Tribune_. His indignant sense of literary justice had brought him once more to the side of his old friend, and although the former cordial relations seem hardly to have been re-established, the phantasmal but rigid barrier between them was crumbling away. * * * * * That Whitman was sorely disappointed by the issue of the affair, goes without saying, for he had counted much upon this edition. But District Attorneys and Societies for the Suppression of Vice were not likely to daunt him. Binding a number of copies in green cloth, he issued them himself; for Messrs. Osgood had made over to him the printed sheets and plates. At midsummer, he transferred the latter to a Philadelphia firm--afterwards Mr. David McKay--who immediately brought out an edition which sold in a single day.[632] Persecution had, as usual, assisted the cause, and for some months the sale continued brisk, bringing Whitman at the year's end royalties to the amount of nearly £300.[633] * * * * * The Osgood disaster was not the only menace to Whitman's slender income during these years. The plates of the original Boston edition of 1860 were still extant, having been bought at auction by a somewhat unscrupulous person, who, in spite of Whitman's protest, succeeded in putting a number of copies upon the market. This affair was already worrying Whitman when he lay ill at St. Louis, and it was not till just before the publication of Messrs. Osgood's edition that some sort of settlement with this Mr. Worthington was effected. The author seems to have accepted a nominal sum by way of royalty,[634] and was dissuaded from seeking the legal redress for which at first he had hoped. The surreptitious sale of this spurious edition was, however, continued till his death. * * * * * [Illustration: GLENDALE STORE, 1904: WHITMAN OCCUPIED ONE OF THE ROOMS LOOKING OUT OVER THE VERANDAH] Much of the winter of 1881 to 1882 had been spent at Glendale; and during the following autumn he was busy with the proofs of _Specimen Days and Collect_, a volume of about the same size as the _Leaves_, and similar in appearance, which embraced the bulk of his prose writings up to that time, including a selection from the early tales and sketches. The plan of separation adopted in the Centennial edition, in which the supplementary volume consisted of both prose and verse, was now abandoned, and the whole of Whitman's verse--with the exception of rejected passages which are numerous--was re-arranged and fitted together into the enlarged scheme of the _Leaves_. This new arrangement is not without interest. First comes the prefatory section intended to prepare the reader, and to indicate the character of the book--it belongs largely, in order of time, to the later, more explanatory period. There follows the original poem, now known as "The Song of Myself," with its assertion of the Divine and final Me--the inherent purpose and personality of the All--and its gospel of Self-Realisation. After this we have the poems of Sex--life's reproductive energy--by which self-assertion is carried out towards society; and then of comradeship and the social passion. These complete the first section of the book, and, as it were, bring the individual to his or her majority. Henceforward he is a man and citizen. There ensues a group of a dozen powerful poems--"The Open Road," "The Broad-axe" and others--in which the life of ideal American manhood is celebrated, and the conception of America and her needs becomes more and more complete. In "Birds of Passage," the loins are girded for noble perils, and here the middle of the volume is reached. There follows, "Sea-Drift" and "By the Road-side"; the former, a group of poems contemplative, in middle life, of the mysteries of bereavement and of death; the latter, full of questions, doubts and warnings, leading up to the "Drum-taps," poems of war, of national consciousness and of political destiny. "Autumn Rivulets" are discursive and peaceful after the storm; they introduce a group, including "The Passage to India," in which the unity of the world is emphasised, a unity which is declared simultaneously by Whitman with the utterance of his thoughts of death. In "Whispers of Heavenly Death," he gives expression to many moods, to insurgent doubts and to triumphant faith. They are followed by an Indian-summer of miscellaneous poems, "From Noon to Starry Night," and the volume closes with the "Songs of Parting," and the identical words which in 1860 he had set at the end. There is little new in the book beyond the arrangement, and careful and final revision and readjustment of all the items to the unity of the whole. The main lines of the edition of 1860 are still followed; but since that version, most of the political poems have been added, and many of those which sing of battle and of death, with a considerable mass of the explanatory and philosophical material natural to later life. All this has necessarily qualified the earlier work, and has made the task of revision and adjustment necessary. For Whitman had a profound sense of congruity and character, and his alterations were dictated by his original purpose of creating a book which his own soul might forever joyfully acknowledge and attest, and even perhaps in future ages continue.[635] The book was his body, projected, out of his deepest realisation of himself, into type and paper, and it changed somewhat in all its parts as it grew to completion and became more perfect. FOOTNOTES: [608] _Comp. Prose_, 171-74, 433; Kennedy, 3 n.; Bucke, 223-26. [609] _Comp. Prose_, 173. [610] _Ib._, 172. [611] _Ib._, 174. [612] MSS. Wallace. [613] _Comp. Prose_, 176-80. [614] Kennedy, 3 n. [615] _L. of G._, 201. [616] _Comp. Prose_, 183. [617] _Ib._, 181; _supra_, 136. [618] Bucke, 100. [619] Williamson's _Catalogue_, facsimile mem. of 187; _Comp. Prose_, 315-17. [620] Kennedy, 74-79. [621] MSS. Johnston. [622] Kennedy, 77. [623] _Comp. Prose_, 180-85; Bucke, 147; MSS. Traubel. [624] Camden, x., 113. [625] See _supra_, 171. [626] Bucke, 147. [627] MSS. Diary. [628] MSS. Carpenter. [629] Bucke, 58, 148-53; Kennedy, 118, 119; Camden, viii., 288. [630] MSS. Johnston. [631] Bucke, 151. [632] _Ib._, 153. [633] MSS. Diary; _cf._ Donaldson. [634] MSS. Diary. [635] _L. of G._, fly-leaf. CHAPTER XVIII AMONG THE PROPHETS With the completion of the main body of his work, and before we pass to the details of his last years in Camden, a brief digression into wider fields may perhaps be permissible. For Whitman's thought, though it is very consciously his, is interestingly related to that of the preceding century and of his own, and no study of him would be at all complete which left this fact out of consideration. Readers who prefer to follow the path of events will find it again in the next chapter. * * * * * While it is difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that between the Essayist on Man and the Singer of Myself, they were at least agreed as to the proper subject for human study. Physically they were most dissimilar--Pope, a little, deformed, ivory-faced wit, all nerves and eyes; Whitman, a huge, high-complexioned, phlegmatic peasant-artisan. Between their thought lay the century of Rousseau, Goethe and Hegel, of Washington, Robespierre and Napoleon. And their mental contrast was as marked as their physical. It is clearly indicated in the formal character of their work: Pope's, a mosaic of brilliant couplets; Whitman's, a choral or symphonic movement.[636] Wholly lacking in the intellectual dazzle of the Augustan wits, Whitman's strength lay rather in those naturalistically romantic regions of the imaginative world which in the eighteenth century were being rediscovered by certain provincial singers, the forerunners of the Lake-poets. In the verses of Scottish poets from Ramsay to Burns; in Macpherson's "Ossian," and, finally, in the work of two men who were Londoners but "with a difference"--the soul-revealing cries of Cowper and the lyric abandonment of Blake--there was restored to English poetry that emotional quality which had been banned and ousted by the self-conscious club-men of the eighteenth century.[637] Just as the passion of high conviction returns to English politics with Burke, and to English religion with Wesley, so it finds expression once again in the rhythmical impulse of _Lyrical Ballads_ and the _Songs of Innocence_. There is here a new feeling for beauty, a new sense of the emotional significance of Nature. With the return of that enthusiasm based upon conviction, which the sceptical Deism of Pope abhorred, there came a more elastic use of metre. For the movement of poetry should vary as the pulse varies under emotion. Passion now took the place of logic in the guidance of the rhythm of thought. And as the spirit of the poet lay open to the stars, his ear caught new and ever subtler rhythms, and became aware that every impelling motive for song has its own perfect and inalienable movement. His attention passed from current standards and patterns to those windy stellar melodies unheard by the town-bred Augustan ear. All this, with much more, is revealed in the work of the new poets, from Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley to Tennyson. When Whitman came, his spirit was aware of this newly apprehended canon of poetic form. At first, he tried the medium of rhymed verses; but his were without inspiration. When self-expression became imperative he abandoned them. For the poet, nothing can be more important than the emotional atmosphere which his verses create, for he is conveying rather moods than fancies, inspirations of the soul rather than thoughts of the intelligence. Eventually, it is the poet's own personality or attitude of mind that most affects the world; and it seemed to Whitman that this must communicate itself through the medium of his thoughts by their rhythm or pulse of speech and phrasing. The manner of speaking means more almost than the matter spoken, because it is by the manner, and not by the thought, that the speaker's attitude toward life is most intimately conveyed. It need hardly be said that there are rhythms which suggest and evoke gladness and exaltation; others which call forth melancholy; others which predispose to lascivious passions, and so forth: the thought is older than Plato. Whitman wished to convey to his readers all that I have attempted to describe in the foregoing pages; his own attitude towards life, that of a fearless, proud, abysmal, sympathetic, wholesome man. And he found no medium among those in current use which seemed to him effective for his purpose. He had to go back to the prophets of Israel, and the rhythm into which their message was put anew by the seventeenth century translators, to find a model. It was from them, and from a study of the movements of prose, but especially of speech, that he came to his own singular, and not inappropriate style. At the last definition, the appeal of _Leaves of Grass_ is intended to be that of an intimate kind of speech. It would be interesting, in this connection, to compare Whitman's manner with that of the other writers of his period who have most distressed the purists--Browning, Carlyle, Emerson and Meredith--but that field is too large for us to enter now. * * * * * Addington Symonds once said[638] that Whitman had influenced him even more deeply than Plato; and the juxtaposition of the two names is as singular as it is suggestive. For while the "arrogant Mannhattanese" is far indeed from the founder of the Academy, there is something essentially Platonic in Whitman's attitude toward poetry. For Whitman was a moralist in the highest sense. With Plato, he dreamed always of the Republic, and that dream was the moving passion of his life. He would--at least in his earlier years--have said with Plato, in his _Laws_, "The legislator and the poet are rivals, and the latter can only be tolerated if his words are in harmony with the laws of the State". But over the last phrase he would have laughed, adding, In my Republic the citizens think lightly of the laws! Like Plato, he accused all the poets whom he loved best of an essential hostility to the Republic. Their whole attitude implied an aristocratic spirit, which discovered itself in their rhythms, and struck at the life of America. He would only admit such poets as are in harmony with the spirit of the Republic, and interpret the genius of America. It was for America, then, that he made his chants; chanting them, as he hoped, in such fashion that they might forever nerve new soldiers for the battle which he saw her destined to maintain through all the ages against the ancient tyrannies of the past. * * * * * If one were to seek among modern writers for those whose genius is related to Whitman's, one would, I suppose, name first Rousseau, with his moody self-consciousness, his great social enthusiasm, his religious fervour, and his passionate perception of beauty in Nature.[639] And then, after Goethe, to whom I have several times referred in passing, one would add Byron, that audacious egoist, who, threatening the Almighty like some Miltonic Lucifer, fascinated the gaze of Europe.[640] But Whitman had almost nothing either of the morbid sentiment or dramatic skill of the French reformer, nor had he Byron's theatrical and somewhat futile rhetoric of rebellion. He was indeed very much at peace with the cosmos; his confessions are frank, but impersonal; his egoism may be Satanic in its pride, but then for him, Satan, though he remains in opposition, is really an essential factor in the government of the worlds. Temperamentally he was nearer to George Sand;[641] and, on at least one side of his nature, to Victor Hugo.[642] * * * * * It is rather as a prophet than as a literary figure that we must compare him with his great contemporaries. On this side, he was obviously related to Millet, to Beethoven and to Wagner--but it seems simpler roughly to set him over against several men of his own craft who hold a European reputation--to Carlyle, Mazzini, Emerson, Morris, Browning, Tolstoi and Nietzsche. With Whitman, Carlyle[643] recognised the underlying moral purpose of the universe, and the organic unity or solidarity of mankind; but being himself a Calvinistic Jacobin of irritable nerves, these convictions filled him, not with a joyful wonder and faith, but with contempt and despair. He never saw humanity as the body of a Divine and Godlike soul; and though he was continually calling men to duty and repentance, he did so from inward necessity rather than with any anticipation of success. For he felt himself to be a Voice crying in the wilderness. Whitman worshipped the hero as truly as did Carlyle; but then he saw the heroic in the heart of our common humanity, where Carlyle missed it; hence his appeal was one of confidence, not despair. For Mazzini, the word "duty" was not a scourge but a magician's wand, because he believed.[644] The Italian was not, like Carlyle, an iconoclast, but a messenger of good tidings; and if he carried a sword, it was in the name of the Prince of Peace. Like Whitman, he was conscious of the world-life pulsing through him; in himself he found the peremptory spirit of the Republic demanding from him both blood and brain. Like Whitman also, he looked to a comradeship of young men for the regeneration of his nation; and to a poet to come for the great words which alone can unite men and nations, creating the world anew in the image of Humanity. For them both, religion was the ultimate word--a religion free from the shackles of dogma, free in the spirit of the Whole--and it was a word which the world could only receive from the poets that are to be. But while thus similar in their aspirations, they were very different in temper and circumstances. For Mazzini was a fiery, nervous martyr to his cause, a Dantesque exile from the land of his love. And yet his appeal, at least in his writings, is not so intimate as is that of the less vehement apostle of liberty. With Emerson,[645] whose relationship to Whitman I have already discussed, there is the great contrast of temperament. For in him, passion seems to have played but little part. He is one of the noblest of those constitutional Protestants and individualists who are incapable of feeling the fuller tides of the catholic passion of social sympathy. His earnest and profound spirit seems to dwell forever in the sunny cloisters of a thoughtful solitude, far distant from life's rough and tumble. Browning's belief that the immanent Divinity finds expression through passion, and is lost in all suppression of life;[646] and his faith in the universal plan, which includes the worst with the best, relate his thought to Whitman's. For them both, each individual life contains a part of the divine secret. It is the concrete personality of things which they seek to express, though in very different ways. Browning astonished Carlyle by his confident cheerfulness. And his optimism was founded upon knowledge, or at least did not depend upon ignorance. Though he believed in the triumph of the divine element in every soul--the element of love--he recognised the reality of evil, and saw life as a battle. But not as a battle between the body and the soul, or between vice and virtue: the conflict, for Browning as for Whitman, is ultimately between love as the inmost spirit of life, and all other virtues and vices whatsoever. Love alone "leaves completion in the soul," and solves the enigmas of doubt. Browning's conception of a Democracy, in which all men should "be equal in full-blown powers," and God should cease to make great men, because the average man would have become great, was set forth in some of the earliest work of a genius as precocious in its development as that of his master Shelley. But it would be easy to exaggerate the relationship which I have indicated. For Browning was a cosmopolitan and delightful gentleman, who in his later years cultivated music and studied yellow parchments and the freaks of human nature, in a Venetian palace; while Whitman was sauntering through old age in the suburb of an American city, appearing by comparison uneducated, uncouth and provincial. Appearance is, however, deceptive, for the earth Walt smacks of is the autochthonous red soil of the creation of all things. * * * * * Tolstoi, aristocrat as he is by birth and education, is yet a peasant in his physical and spiritual character; a Russian peasant, with the moujik's almost Oriental stubbornness of resignation and passivity. Like Whitman, he is one of the people, and in some respects he is an incarnation of Russia, as Whitman was of America. But while there are many obvious relations between the two men, their contrast is the more striking. Tolstoi has the Oriental tendency towards pessimism and asceticism. He sees the body and spirit in irreconcilable conflict. And similarly he opposes forever pleasure and duty; so that his is a message of the endless sacrifice of self. An abyss of terror surrounds him, from which he can only escape by a life of resolute and loving self-devotion.[647] His gospel is one of escape, and is in many respects nearer in spirit to Carlyle's than to Whitman's. Tolstoi's detestation of the State is, doubtless, largely traceable to the military despotism under which he has lived. There is a certain element of pessimism also, in the attitude of William Morris, as of Ruskin his master. But though he flings back the Golden Age into the thirteenth century, his gospel is really one of actual joy. When the citizen finds pleasure in his daily work, the State will prosper; such is his promise for the future, and his condemnation of the present. Carlyle urged men to work, in order to kill doubt, and silence the terrible questions; but Morris finds that the questions are really answered by work, if only it is done in the spirit of the artist, and in fellowship with others.[648] Like Whitman, Morris was one who seemed to his friends almost terribly self-sufficing; he could stand alone, they thought. But strong as he seemed in his solitude, he was the poet of fellowship, of a fellowship which is man's fulfilment and immortal life. Though Whitman's view of that life was more philosophical, and his personality had a more mystical depth, the two men had much in common, especially in the aggressive and elemental masculinity of their character, and their superb joy and pride in themselves. * * * * * It would be interesting to compare Whitman's general position with that of Nietzsche; that most perplexing figure of young Germany in revolt from Hegel and all the past, from the restraint, system and conventions which threaten the liberty of the individual spirit. But Nietzsche is difficult to summarise; and time has not yet given us the perspective in which alone the general forms of his thought will become evident. It is clear, however, that he expresses that spirit of rebellion which was so marked a feature of the first _Leaves of Grass_; a rebellion against all bondage, even though it call itself virtue and morality. And this, be it remembered, was always a part of the real Whitman; it was the side of the _Square Deific_ which he has aptly named "Satan". Between Nietzsche's "overman," jealous of every tittle of his identity, and always a law unto himself, refusing to bow his neck to the virtues and vices of the "weaker brother"; and Whitman's self-asserting Ego, there is the same striking resemblance. One can never omit the dogma of the sacredness of self-assertion, with the criticism of Christianity which it involves, from any statement of Whitman's position. He evidently detested that plausible levelling argument, so potent for mischief to the race-life which it professes to guard--that one must be always considering the effects of example upon the foolish and perverse, and endeavouring to live down to their folly and perversity, instead of up to the level of true comradeship. Be yourself, say Whitman and Nietzsche, and do not waste your life trying to be what you fancy for the sake of other people you ought to be. Whitman's doctrine of equality is again really not unlike Nietzsche's doctrine of inequality; for it only asserts the equality of individuals because of the overman latent in each one; and is different enough from the undistinguishing equalitarianism of popular philosophy. But Whitman had the balancing qualities which Nietzsche lacked. As he said once to Mr. Pearsall Smith: "I am physically ballasted so strong with weightiest animality and appetites, or I should go off in a balloon". In his case, self-assertion was not associated with mania; for it never snapped those ties of comradeship and love which keep men human, but became instead a bond for fuller and nobler relations with men and women. The comparison with Nietzsche suggests the limits of Whitman's Hegelianism. For though he once declared that he "rated Hegel as Humanity's chiefest teacher and the choicest loved physician of my mind and soul"; and again, that his teaching was the undercurrent which fructified his views of life,[649] yet it may well be doubted whether he ever really mastered the full Hegelian theory, or realised the futility of many of those generalisations in which German idealism has been so prolific. It was because Hegel saw life, both the Me and the Not Me, as a single Whole, and found a place for evil in his world-purpose, that Whitman hailed him as the one truly "American" thinker of the age. But in the individualism of Nietzsche is the partial corrective of Hegel's position; and as I have suggested, Whitman would have accepted it as such. * * * * * Perhaps the foregoing very rough and ready comparisons may have thrown some light on the outstanding features of Whitman's personal message and influence. But there remains another, which I have already suggested, and to which for a moment we must return. Whitman was essentially a prophet-mystic, and while he derived nothing from most of the men with whom his thought is related, the indirect influence upon him of George Fox the Quaker is certain.[650] Fox's distinguishing quality was his intense personal reality; there are few more vivid figures on any page of history. This seems to be due to the fulness of life which he realised, and could focus in his actual consciousness. From this he did not derive "advanced views" but vital power. And vital power is equally, and perhaps in fuller measure, characteristic of Whitman, manifesting itself by various signs in his daily life, and in the phrases of his book. In Whitman, as in Fox, this was an attractive power of extraordinary force. Around Fox it created a Society of Friends; and one cannot doubt that sooner or later a world-wide Fellowship of Comrades will result from the life-work of Whitman. Fox's "Friends"--though the meaning of the title may originally have been "Friends of the Truth"--were real friends; united in a new ideal of communion. They shared the highest experience in common; meeting for the purpose of entering together into "the power of the life". And Whitman also realised that life at its highest is only revealed to comrades. His view of religion was even less formal than that of the early Quakers; but he, too, preferred to sit in silence with those he loved, realising that Divine power and purpose which was one in them. Quakerism has not unfairly been spoken of as a spiritual aristocracy; there seems to be something essentially exclusive about it. On the other hand, it is essentially democratic and would exclude none; but the methods necessary to its conception of truth do not appeal to the many. Similarly, the Fellowship of Whitman's Comrades must be an aristocracy of overmen--if the words can be divested of all sinister association and read in their most literal sense. Whitman recognised that his inner teachings could only be accepted by the few, and for them he set them forth. But for the many also, he had a message. And though the actual comrades of Whitman must be able to rise to his breadth of view and depth of purpose, that purpose embraces the whole world. For the possibility of Comradeship is implicit in every soul; and there is none--no, not the most foolish or perverted or conventionally good--who is ultimately incapable of entering into it. The fellowship must be as essentially attractive as was the personality of Whitman himself; and if few should be chosen to be its members, yet all would be called. Once realised as the one end of all individual and social life, such a Comradeship would transform our institutions and theories whether of ethics, politics, education or religion. In a word, it would change life into a fine art. For it could be no Utopian theory, but the most practicable of gospels. The seed has been already sown, and we may now await with confidence the growth of a tree through whose branches all the stars of faith will yet shine, and in whose embracing roots all the rocks of science will be held together.[651] FOOTNOTES: [636] W. M. Rossetti in _Anne Gilchrist_. [637] _Cf._ Saintsbury's _Nineteenth Century Lit._, and Stephen's _English Thought in Eighteenth Century_, ch. xii. [638] _Camden's Compliment_, 73. [639] _Cf._ W. H. Hudson's _Rousseau_, 245, 246. [640] _Comp. Prose_, 287; Guthrie, _op. cit._, 100, 101. [641] G. Gilchrist, _op. cit._ [642] Kennedy, 106, 178. [643] _Cf._ Triggs' _Browning and Whitman_. [644] Mazzini's _Duties of Man_, etc.; _cf._ Bolton King's _Mazzini_. [645] See _supra_, 113-6, etc. [646] Triggs, _op. cit._; Prof. Jones's _Browning_. [647] Note added to _My Confession_ in 1882. [648] _A Dream of John Ball_, and _Life of William Morris_, by J. W. Mackail. [649] _In re_, 244; _Comp. Prose_, 168, 169, 245; Camden, ix., 172. [650] See _supra_, ch. i., ii. [651] Horace Traubel, of Camden, New Jersey, editor of _The Conservator_, is the secretary of the Walt Whitman Fellowship (International), which meets annually in New York and issues papers. A file of these may now be consulted in the British Museum Library. CHAPTER XIX HE BECOMES A HOUSEHOLDER Emerson and Longfellow died within six months of Whitman's Boston visit; the former being buried in that graveyard at Sleepy Hollow where Walt had so recently stood by the green mounds that mark the resting-places of Hawthorne and of Thoreau.[652] Carlyle had died a year earlier; Carlyle who so deeply impressed his impetuous pathetic personality upon all that he handled, and who was one of the principal literary influences upon Whitman during his later years, as Emerson had doubtless been an inspiration in the earlier. And while Walt had been working on the Osgood proof-sheets, James Garfield, the friend who used to hail him as he passed on Pennsylvania Avenue riding with Pete Doyle, shouting out some tag from the _Leaves_, and who had now become President of the United States, died amid the mourning of the nation. Whitman's daily life had been poorer these last two or three years, since Mrs. Gilchrist's return to England, but new friends were continually added to his circle. Among these was Mr. W. S. Kennedy, who was working for awhile on one of the Philadelphia papers, and has since published a notable collection of reminiscences and memoranda of his relations with the Camden poet. The Christmas of 1882[653] brought him a delightful gift in the friendship of a Quaker family. Mr. Pearsall Smith was a wealthy Philadelphia glass merchant, who with his wife had, till recently, been a member of the Society of Friends. He had had a remarkable career as an evangelist, both in his own country and in Europe; his eloquence and magnetic personality having been instrumental in changing the course of many lives. His wife also was an active worker in the fields of religion and philanthropy; and their home in Germantown--one of the suburbs of Philadelphia most remote in every sense from plebeian Camden--became a meeting-place for men and women interested and engaged in the work of reform. By this time, however, Mr. Pearsall Smith himself, finding in human nature more forces than were accounted for in the evangelical philosophy, had withdrawn from active participation in its labours. The elder of his daughters, Miss Mary Whitall Smith, a thoughtful and enthusiastic college girl, came back from New England, where she was studying, fired by a determination to meet Walt Whitman. Her parents discovered with dismay that she had read the _Leaves_, at first with the consternation proper to her Quaker training, but later with ardour. Respectable Philadelphians, and especially members of the Society of Friends, were disposed to regard the poet as an outrageous, dangerous person, who lived in a low place, among disreputable and vulgar associates. His works were classed by them with the wares of obscene book-vendors, as absolutely impossible. The parents' consternation at their daughter's resolve may well be imagined. But being wise parents, they were prepared to learn; and Mr. Smith eventually drove her over in a stylish carriage behind a pair of excellent horses. [Illustration: MARY WHITALL SMITH (MRS. BERENSON) IN 1884] They found Whitman at home. He descended slowly, leaning on his stick, to the little stuffy parlour where they were waiting; and with a kindly, affectionate amusement received the girl's homage. Her father immediately and impulsively asked the old man to drive back and spend the night with them. This was the spontaneous kind of hospitality which most delighted Walt, and after a moment's hesitation, in which he weighed the matter, he decided in favour of his new friends and their excellent equipage. His sister-in-law quickly produced the boots and other necessaries, and they set forth. Whitman loved to drive and to be driven, and as he sat on the back seat by his adoring young friend, he heartily enjoyed the whole situation. It was indeed enough to warm an old man's heart. After listening to her avowals, he recommended Miss Smith to study Emerson and Thoreau, but was evidently well pleased with her praise. Genuine devotion he always accepted. He stayed a couple of days on this occasion; delighting in long drives along the Wissahickon Creek, and showing himself very much at home among the young people of the household. From this time on, and until the family left for England in 1886, he was their frequent visitor; and in later years--while reverently remembering Mrs. Gilchrist, who died in 1885--he came to speak of Mary Whitall Smith as his "staunchest living woman friend". His letters to her father also are evidences of a close intimacy between the two men. Thus it seems permissible to speak here at greater length than usual of their relations, which serve besides to illustrate others not less affectionate. Often during the college vacations, when the house was filled with merry young folk, Whitman would sit in the hall to catch the sounds of their laughter, enhanced by a little distance; or from his corner, leaning upon his stick, he would look on for hours together while they danced. Spirits ran high on these occasions, and all the higher for his smiling presence. He enjoyed everything, and not least the wholesome incipient love-making which he was quick to notice, and encourage. Often he was full of fun; and still, as in the old days, he sang gaily as he splashed about in his bath, a delighted group of young people listening on the landing without to the strains of "Old Jim Crow," some Methodist hymn, or negro melody. At night, before retiring, he would take a walk under the stars, sometimes alone, sometimes with his girl friend, who could appreciate the companionableness of silence. He was always perfectly frank, as well as perfectly courteous; if he preferred solitude he said so; and if, when at table, his hostess proposed to read aloud some long family letter, and asked him in an aside whether he would like to hear it, he would smile and answer, No. He came to see them usually in his familiar grey suit; but in winter he wore one of heavier make, which was, however, provided with an overcoat only; indoors, he then put on the knitted cardigan jacket seen in some of his portraits. On one occasion, when some local literary people were invited to meet him, he appeared unaccustomedly conscious of his clothes. Uncomfortable at the absence of a coat, he tried the overcoat for awhile; but becoming very hot before the dinner was done, he beat a retreat into the hall; and there divesting himself of the burden, returned in his ordinary comfortable dress. Such incidents admirably illustrate his simple and homely ways.[654] * * * * * Henceforward, though records are multiplied, the movement of Whitman's life is less and less affected by outer events, and becomes yearly more private and elusive. [Illustration: WHITMAN AT SIXTY-TWO] There is little to record of 1883, save that shortly after his sixty-fourth birthday there appeared the biographical study of Whitman by his Canadian friend. Like the earlier and smaller sketch by John Burroughs, Dr. Bucke's volume was revised and authenticated by the poet, and is an invaluable record. Though fragmentary and far from exhaustive, it is written by one of the very few who can be said to have caught the real significance of the life and personality of the author of _Leaves of Grass_. That he fully understood Whitman, neither he nor his poet friend ever suggested; but then one must add that Whitman always laughingly asserted he did not by any means understand himself.[655] As a result of the sales of the Philadelphia edition and the royalties which they brought him, the old man was now enabled to carry a long-cherished plan into execution. On March the 26th, 1884,[656] he left his brother's house, and removed to a little two-story cottage on Mickle Street, near by. Here he installed himself, at first with an elderly workman and his wife, and afterwards under the more efficient _régime_ of Mrs. Mary Davis, a buxom New Jersey widow of comfortable presence, who brought into the house that homely atmosphere which Whitman had so long been seeking.[657] Downstairs, in the little front parlour, he carried on what remained to him of his own publishing--the old autograph editions which he had not entrusted to Mr. McKay; and over it, upstairs, was his bedroom, which he liked to compare with a big ship's cabin. In the backyard were lilacs, which he loved; and a shady tree stood in the side-walk in front. He found his little "shack," as he called it, pleasant and restful, and his own. He was not much worried by the rasping church choir and the bells, which jangled cruelly loud for such sensitive hearing every Sunday; nor by the neighbourhood of a guano factory, which was noticeable enough to the most ordinary nose.[658] Here his friends from far and near were frequent visitors, Dr. Bucke, John Burroughs and Peter Doyle among them; and in June came Edward Carpenter from England on his second visit.[659] * * * * * Carpenter had now issued his slender green _Towards Democracy_, that strange, prophetic, intimate book, so unlike all others, even the _Leaves_ which it most resembles. It was seven years since the two men had met, and the older had grown thinner and more weary-looking. He had not been worsted in the long struggle with time and illness, but they had left their mark upon his body. The visitor renewed his first impressions of that complex personality; felt again the wistful affection mingled with the contradictiousobstinacy; recognised the same watchful caution and keen perception, "a certain artfulness," and the old "wild hawk look" of his untameable spirit; but, beneath all, the wonderful unfathomed tenderness. Whitman manifestly had his moods, "lumpishly immovable" at times, at times deliberately inaccessible. He took a certain wilful pleasure in denial, for the quality of "cussedness" was strong in him. And his friends admired his magnificent "No," issuing from him naked and unashamed, just as mere acquaintances dreaded it. But in other moods he was all generosity, and you knew in him a man who had given himself body, mind and spirit to Love, never contented to give less than all. Among the topics of their conversations was the Labour Movement, in which Carpenter was actively interested. Whitman professed his belief in co-operation, at the same time reiterating his deeply-rooted distrust of elected persons, of officials and committees. He had lived in Washington; and besides, his feeling for personal initiative, his wholesome and passionate love of individuality, and its expression in every field, set him always and everywhere against mere delegates and agents. Above all things, he abhorred regimentation, officialism and interference. "I believe, like Carlyle, in _men_," he said with emphasis. He hoped for more generous, and, as he would say, more prudent, captains of industry; but he looked for America's realisation to an ever-increasing class of independent yeomanry, who should constitute the solid and permanent bulk of the Republic. Regarding America from the universal point of view, as the standard-bearer of Liberty among the nations, he thought of Free-trade as a moral rather than a merely economic question. Free-trade and a welcome to all foreigners were for Whitman integral parts of the American ideal. "The future of the world," he would say, "is one of open communication and solidarity of all races"; and he added, with a dogmatism characteristic of his people, "if that problem [of free interchange] cannot be solved in America, it cannot be solved anywhere". * * * * * In considering Whitman's attitude towards the Social Problem, and especially the Labour Problem, whose development in America he had been watching since the close of the war, one must consider the conditions of his time and country.[660] The Industrial Revolution, which is still in progress--and which in its progress is changing the face of the globe, disintegrating the old society down to its very basis in family life--has revealed itself to us in the last generation, much more clearly than to Whitman, who grew up seventy years ago in a new land. We can see now that, though it may prelude a reconstruction of human society and relations in all their different phases, it is itself destructive rather than constructive. We recognise that it does not bring equality of opportunity to all, as its earlier observers had predicted;[661] but that, on the contrary, it destroys much of the meaning of opportunity; the control of capital which is the motive power of modern industrial life, falling more and more into the hands of a small group of legatees, on whose pleasure the rest of the community tends to become dependent for its livelihood. And we see the results of this new economic condition in the character of the populations of those vast cities into which the Industrial Revolution is still gathering the peoples of Europe and America. Among these, the spirit of individual enterprise and initiative is continually choked by the narrow range of their opportunity. Their lives become the melancholy exponents of that theory of the specialisation of industry against which the humanitarians of the age have all inveighed. Serious as it was becoming in the New World, the Labour Question had not yet, in Whitman's time, assumed an aspect so menacing as in the Old. Even to-day the proportion of Americans engaged in agriculture is four times as large as that which rules in Great Britain; and except in the North Atlantic States, the rural population does not seem to be actually losing ground;[662] though its increase is much less rapid than that of the urban districts, into which more than a third of the population is now gathered, as against a fifth at the close of the war, or an eighth in the middle of the century. At the time of Whitman's death nearly three-quarters of the total number of American farmers were the owners of their farms; and it was in these working proprietors, with the similar body of half-independent artisans who were owners of their houses, that he placed his social faith. These were, as we have seen, the men whom he regarded as citizens in the fullest sense.[663] In this view he was doubtless influenced by Mill, whose _Principles of Political Economy_ he seems to have studied soon after its appearance in 1848. Roughly speaking, Mill had supplemented the teaching of Adam Smith, that individual liberty is the one sure foundation for the wealth of nations, by describing the proper sphere of social intervention in industrial matters. His picture of the future industry--the association of the labourers themselves on terms of equality, collectively owning the capital with which they carry on their operations, and working under managers selected and removable by themselves--has been quoted as the socialist ideal.[664] And Mill was deeply influenced by the early Socialists.[665] Their activity in Europe during the first half of the nineteenth century was so remarkable that it must have come under the notice of Whitman. Robert Owen, intoxicated with what was perhaps a rather shallow conception of the great truth of human perfectibility, had spent his life and wealth in unsuccessful but most suggestive social experiments. No less optimistic were his French contemporaries, St. Simon and Fourier. In striking contrast with them and their doctrinaire systems, Proudhon, the peasant, who presents not a few points of agreement with Whitman, looked forward to voluntarism as the final form of society, and detested alike the theoretic elaboration and the sexual lubricity of his amiable but, on the whole, unpractical compatriots. The failure of the risings of 1848, and the succeeding period of reaction, checked the socialist movement,[666] and social reform was left for awhile to middle-class Liberalism, with its philanthropic ignorance of the real needs of the workers; until, in the last generation, the demands of labour, the pressure of poverty and the aspirations of social enthusiasts, have together furnished the motive power for a further struggle for the collectivist ideal of "intelligent happiness and pleasurable energy" for all.[667] This recent movement was at first most unequally yoked with an unbeliever in the brilliant, fatalistic theory of Karl Marx. Marx was a year older than Whitman; his acute Hebrew intellect was trained under the Hegelian system of thought, but he was apparently destitute of the finer historic sense, as well as of Hegel's idealism.[668] The humanitarian character of the social movement is now once more sweeping it far beyond his formulas; but in Whitman's time the Marxian theory dominated Socialism. In Long Island and New York, during the period of Whitman's youth, the social condition was, on the whole, free from serious disorders, save those incident upon growth and rapid development. The spirit of Elizabethan enterprise, the practical achievement of brave and ardently conceived ideas, ruled in that democratic society wherein his habit of mind was shaped, and of which it was in large degree a natural product. Whitman's youth and early manhood were little touched by evidences of any social disease so deep-seated as to encourage ideas of revolution. It is true that the vested interests of the slave party made themselves felt in New York; but neither to him nor to the "Free-soil" party did the anti-slavery movement suggest that other change which the political title they adopted brings so vividly before the mind to-day. "Free-soil" had for him no definitely Socialistic significance. And it was only, as we have seen, after the war that the accentuation of the labour problem brought it into prominence in the American cities. Whenever, thereafter, Whitman, leaving the comparative quiet of his own surroundings, revisited the metropolis, or wandered to some great western centre of industry, he realised dimly the progressive approach of the crisis. The increase in the accumulation of wealth was far outrunning even the rapid increase in population; but a large proportion of this wealth was being concentrated in a few hands which threatened to control the national policy. Manufacture was facilitated by the immense influx of immigrants who swelled the dependent city populations, and these immigrants coming more and more from the south-east of Europe, that is to say, from the most backward, ignorant and turbulent nations, promised by their presence to create a social problem in the North and Middle West not less acute if less extensive than that of the negro in the South. * * * * * Democracy looks with suspicion on the very poor,[669] quoth Whitman, meaning that the poverty of the poor incapacitates them for citizenship. That, I think, is one of the great and final arguments against the policy of _laissez faire_ under existing circumstances. Things would go very well if left to themselves, says the philosophic theorist, and so even Whitman is often inclined to declare.[670] But just as the organised party of slavery, in the fifty years before the war, refused to leave things to right themselves, so the party of property to-day interferes, more or less unconsciously, with the principle which it so loudly proclaims. It is because of the existence of innumerable sacrosanct parchments, customs and traditions, and all the subtly clinging fingers of mortmain, that _laissez faire_ remains an empty phrase. If we could burn the parchments and loose the fingers, men might go free. But still for the sake of the nation's health the poor would need to be assisted to rise out of the helpless condition into which society has allowed them to be thrust and held. We have noted Whitman's hearty approval of Canada's benevolent institutions for the incapable; he fully recognised the duty of society toward such as these.[671] And however hesitating his declarations on a subject which he was willing to leave to younger men, the main principle of his social economy, the right of each individual to be well born, carries us far from the policy of any party dominant to-day in our political life. He recognised this right as far more fundamental than any secondary privilege which has been accorded to property for social convenience. And it is because this right continues to be denied to millions of future citizens, to the most serious peril of the whole Republic, and apparently for no better reason than that its recognition must impede the present rate of increase in material development, that the Socialist party has arisen in America. It is safe to say that it is the only party which deliberately aims at social amelioration and the equal opportunity of all citizens; and in this respect it seeks to realise Whitman's ideal. In so far, however, as it clings to European theories, and identifies itself solely with a section of the nation, proclaiming a class-war in the interests, not of America or of Humanity, but of Labour--large, and inclusive as the term may be--it seems directly to antagonise that ideal. Whitman would certainly be belied by the label of "Socialist"; but "Individualist" would as little describe him. He was, and must always remain, outside of parties, and to some extent in actual antagonism to them; for while recognising its purpose and necessity, he was essentially jealous of government and control. He wanted to see the Americans managing their own affairs as little as possible by deputy, and, as far as possible, in their own persons. That, I take it, is the only form of collectivism or social life which is ultimately desirable; and all political reform will aim at its practical realisation. It depends most of all upon the simultaneous deepening of social consciousness and sympathy and increase of the means and spirit of individual independence. Only by these simultaneous developments can we hope to see established that Society of Comrades which was the America of Whitman's vision. * * * * * On the practical side of the Labour Question the old man occasionally expressed his emphatic dislike of certain sides of Trade Unionism, and probably misunderstood, as he clearly mistrusted the movement. "When the Labour agitation," he would say, "is other than a kicking of somebody else out to let myself in, I shall warm up to it, maybe."[672] And of the workman he added: "He should make his cause the cause of the manliness of all men; that assured, every effort he may make is all right". But he was a poor man himself, judged by modern standards, and he had a profoundly human and practical sympathy with the lives of the poor. He knew exactly where their shoe pinched. And thus, whatever his dislike of Unionism, he was an admirable administrator of charity. His delight in giving made him the willing almoner of at least one wealthy Philadelphia magnate,[673] and during severe winters he was enabled to supply his friends, the drivers of the street cars, with warm overcoats. In his diary, alongside of the addresses of those who purchased his books, are long lists of these driver friends, dimly reminiscent of the hospital lists which he used to keep in Washington. Walt was always an incurable giver of gifts, and these, one may be sure, never weakened the manly independence of their recipients. His admiration for generous men of wealth, like George Peabody, has found a place in _Leaves of Grass_.[674] For he saw that to love is both to give and to receive, and in that holy commerce both actions alike are blessed. His interest in social work is shown in a hitherto unpublished letter written about this time to Mary Whitall Smith, who had married and gone to England, and who sent him accounts of the work being done among the poor of the East End through the agency of Toynbee Hall. Of this he writes at noon on the 20th of July, 1885: "The account of the Toynbee Hall doings and chat [is] deeply interesting to me. I think much of all genuine efforts of the human emotions, the soul and bodily and intellectual powers, to exploit themselves for humanity's good: the _efforts_ in themselves I mean (sometimes I am not sure but _they_ are the main matter)--without stopping to calculate whether the investment is tip-top in a business or statistical point of view. "These libations, ecstatic life-pourings as it were of precious wine or _rose-water_ on vast desert-sands or great polluted river--taking chances for returns _or no returns_--what were they (or are they) but the theory and practice of the beautiful God Christ? or of all Divine personality?"[675] FOOTNOTES: [652] _Comp. Prose_, 183, 186. [653] MSS. Diary; MSS. Berenson (_a_). [654] MSS. Berenson (_a_). [655] _Cf. In re_, 315. [656] Kennedy, 11; MSS. Diary. [657] _In re_, 45, 141, 382; and Johnston. [658] Donaldson, 69. [659] Carpenter (_a_), (_b_). [660] _Comp. Prose_, 247, 325; _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 707. [661] W. Cunningham, _Western Civilisation_ (ii.), 258-60. [662] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 712; _En. Brit. Suppt._ [663] _Comp. Prose_, 215. [664] Kirkup, _Hist. of Socialism_, 286. [665] Marshall, _Principles of Economics_, 64. [666] Kirkup. [667] Morris and Bax, _Socialism_, 321. [668] Kirkup, 162. [669] See _supra_, 240. [670] _In re_, 379, 380; Carpenter (_b_), etc. [671] See _supra_, 277. [672] _In re_, 379. [673] MSS. Diary and Donaldson. [674] _L. of G._, 294; fuller in 1876 ed. [675] MSS. Berenson. CHAPTER XX AT MICKLE STREET The presidential election of the autumn of 1884 brought the long Republican _régime_ to an end. During the twenty-four years of its continuance the old party cries had become almost meaningless, and the parties themselves ineffective, while political life had grown increasingly corrupt from top to bottom.[676] The only practical demand of the hour was for a good government, and this required a change of party. Whitman, with a number of independent Republicans known as "Mugwumps," supported the Democrat, Mr. Grover Cleveland. With his return to the White House the South may be said to have returned to the Union, after a generation of bitter estrangement. In the following summer Whitman had a slight sun-stroke, which rendered walking much more difficult.[677] For several months he was a good deal confined to his little house, but his friends promptly came to the rescue with a horse and light American waggon.[678] He was overcome with gratitude for the gift--driving, as we have seen, was one of his delights--and he promptly began to make full use of his new toy. He soon disposed of the quiet steed, thoughtfully provided, and substituted one of quicker paces, which he drove furiously along the country roads at any pace up to eighteen miles an hour.[679] Rapid movement brought him exhilaration, and he displayed admirable nerve upon emergency. [Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF PORTION OF LETTER FROM WHITMAN TO THE LATE MR. R. PEARSALL SMITH, MAR. 4, 1884] Though he was getting old, his capacity for enjoyment was as great as ever. He enjoyed everything, especially now that at sixty-five he was, for the first time in his life, a householder; he enjoyed his quarters, his friends, his food, and in a grim way his very suffering. "Astonishing what one can stand when put to one's trumps,"[680] he wrote on a black day. While he could rattle along the roads in his waggon, he was naturally happy enough, and he encouraged all opportunities for pleasure. He enjoyed his food, and he now relaxed some of the stricter rules of temperance which hitherto he had followed. During periods of his life, as a young man and through the years at Washington, he was practically a total abstainer, and till he was sixty he only drank an occasional toddy, punch, or glass of beer. After that he followed the doctor's advice and his own taste, enjoying the native American wines, and at a later period, champagne. Stories of heavy drinking were circulated by the gossips, and were tracked at last to the habits of a local artist, who imitated Whitman in his garb, and somewhat resembled him.[681] Walt's head was remarkably steady, and it need hardly be said that he was always most jealous of anything which could dispute with him his self-control. In 1885 and several subsequent years[682] a popular caterer on the river-side, a mile or two below Camden, opened the summer season, about the end of April, with a dinner to some of his patrons, and Whitman was one of those who did fullest justice to his planked shad and champagne. For the latter he would smilingly admit an "incidental weakness".[683] His temperance had given him a keen relish for fine flavours, and he enjoyed all the pleasures of the senses without disguise, and with a frank, childlike response to them. This responsiveness, more almost than any other thing, kept his physical nature supple and young. His consciousness was never imprisoned in his brain, among stale memories and thoughts whose freshness had faded; it was still clean and sensitive to its surroundings, and found expression in the noticeably fresh, rich texture of his skin. * * * * * It was well that he should practise these simple pleasures, for apart from his own ailments, which increased with time, he was still troubled with financial difficulties. The purchase of the house had not been exactly prudent, as it added considerably to his expenses, and the success of the Philadelphia edition was not long continued. The royalty receipts soon dwindled to a very little stream, and his other earnings--though he was well paid for such contributions as the magazines accepted, and was retained on the regular staff of the _New York Herald_--were not large.[684] Word went round among his friends, both in America and in England, that the old man was hard up again, and a second time there was a hearty response. A fund, promoted by the _Pall Mall Gazette_ at the end of 1886, brought him a New Year's present of £80,[685] and individual friends on both sides of the sea frequently sent thank-offerings to him. Some Boston admirers attempted at this time to secure for him a Government pension of £60 a year,[686] in recognition of his hospital work. But Whitman disliked the plan, and though it was favourably reported upon by the Pensions Committee of the House of Representatives, he wrote gratefully but peremptorily refusing to become an applicant for such a reward, saying quite simply, "I do not deserve it".[687] His services in the Attorney-General's Department seem to have been adequately paid, and one is glad the matter was not pressed. The hospital ministry could not have been remunerated by an "invalid pension"; it was given as a free gift, and now it will always remain so. [Illustration: MICKLE STREET, CAMDEN IN 1890: THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE RIGHT IS WHITMAN'S] From time to time special efforts were made by his friends to remove any immediate pressure of financial anxiety. Whitman, who was on the one hand generous to a fault, and on the other not without a pride which consented with humiliation to receive some of the gifts bestowed, manifested a boyish delight in money of his own earning, and it did his friends good to see his merriment over the dollars taken--six hundred of them[688]--at his Lincoln lecture of 1886 in the Chestnut Street Opera House. By way of profit-sharing he insisted on presenting each of the theatre attendants with two dollars. The repetition of the lecture in New York the following spring, at the Madison Square Theatre, before a brilliant company of distinguished people, including Mr. James Russell Lowell, "Mark Twain," Mr. Stedman, and Whitman's staunch admirer, Mr. Andrew Carnegie, brought him a similar sum;[689] while Colonel Ingersoll's lecture for his benefit in 1890 was yet more productive, and the birthday dinners also contributed something to his funds. But the mention of these financial matters must not be construed into a pre-occupation with the subject in the old man's later years; it troubled his friends far more than it troubled him. After the gift of the horse and waggon, Mr. W. S. Kennedy and others planned to provide Whitman with a cottage at Timber Creek.[690] The idea delighted him; he craved for the pure air and the living solitude of the woods. But his health became too uncertain for the realisation of the scheme, and the remainder of his days was spent in Camden. * * * * * The little house in quiet, grassy Mickle Street,[691] standing modestly between its taller neighbours, with the brass plate, "W. Whitman," on the door, and the mounting-stone opposite, was becoming a place of frequent pilgrimage, and it has often been lovingly described. During the earlier years, Walt's favourite seat was at the left-hand lower window, and there the children would call out to him, and he would answer brightly as they went by to school. The walls and mantel-shelf were covered with portraits, and as to the books and papers, so long as he used the room, it was beyond the wit of any woman to keep them within bounds. But it was afterwards, when he was more confined to his bedroom, that they fairly broke loose. He seems to have enjoyed this native disorder, for in the big, square, three-windowed upper room they occupied not only the shelves and chairs and table but the floor itself. "His boots," says a friend--who, when Mrs. Davis was out, used to effect an entrance at the window to save her host descending the stairs--"his boots would be standing on piles of manuscript on a chair, a half-empty glass of lemonade or whiskey toddy on another, his ink-bottle on still another, his hat on the floor, and the whole room filled with an indescribable confusion of scraps of paper scrawled over with his big writing, with newspapers, letters and books. He was not at all eager to have order restored, and used to grumble in a good-natured way when I insisted upon clearing things up a bit for him."[692] He liked to think and speak of the room as his den or cabin; it was his own place, and bustling with his own affairs.[693] Here were his old-time companionable books: the complete Scott of his youth, and a volume of poets which he used in the hospitals; his friend Mr. E. C. Stedman's _Library of American Literature_; studies of Spanish and German poets, and Felton's _Greece_; translations of Homer, Dante, Omar Khayyam, Hafiz, Saadi; Mr. Rolleston's _Epictetus_--a constant friend--Marcus Aurelius and Virgil; with Ossian, Emerson, Tennyson and Carlyle, and some novels, especially a translation of George Sand's _Consuelo_; and last, and best read of all, Shakespeare and the Bible. The book of Job was one of his prime favourites in the beloved volume which was always by him in later years. Perilously mingled with the papers was wood for his stove, over whose crackling warmth he would sit in the cold weather, ensconced in his great rattan-seated, broad-armed rocker, with the wolf-skin over it; his keen scent relishing the odour of oak-wood and of the printer's ink on the wet proofs which surrounded him. Visitors usually waited in the room below for his slow and heavy step upon the stairs. There the canary sang its best, as though to be caged in Whitman's house was not confinement after all; and a bunch of fragrant flowers stood on the window-sill. A kitten romped about the premises, which were inhabited besides by a parrot, a robin, and a spotted "plum-pudding" dog; not to mention Mrs. Davis, and eventually her two stepsons. One of these, Warren Fritzinger, who had been a sailor and three times round the world, afterwards became Walt's nurse, while his brother Harry called his first child Walt Whitman, to the old man's delight. Among the visitors was a young Japanese journalist, who afterwards published an amusing but ill-advised record of their conversations,[694] a document which seems to the English mind somewhat more injudicious than other Whitmanite publications, which certainly do not err on the side of reticence. After his first visit, Mr. Hartmann maintains that Walt shouted after him, "come again," and this injunction from time to time he fulfilled, naïvely recording his own desperate attempts to cope with the long silences which threatened to overwhelm his forlorn sallies into all conceivable regions of conversation. The older man would sit absent-mindedly, replying with an ejaculation or abruptly clipped phrase, or impossible sentence; but chiefly with his monosyllabic "Oy! oy?" which served, with a slight inflection, for almost any purpose of response. They say that Whitman grew garrulous, or at least less laconic, in his old age;[695] but Mr. Hartmann hardly found him so. One day, when Mrs. Davis was absent, they lunched together on "canned lobster" and Californian claret in the kitchen. The sun shone on the grass in the little back garden, on the pear-tree half-smothered in its creeper, and the high boarded fence; and on the hens, poking in and out through the open door, and recalling the old farm life at West Hills. Whitman talked of the West, and of Denver, his queen-city of the West. Over another similar meal, he declared his love for the _Heart of Midlothian_, and his distaste for the gloomy poets from Byron to Poe. They discussed music among their many topics. Mr. Hartmann declared himself a Wagnerian, but Whitman confessed his ignorance of the "music of the future"; Mendelssohn, of course, he knew; and in later life he had discovered Beethoven as a new meaning in music, and had been carried out of himself, as he says, seeing, absorbing many wonders.[696] But he was brought up on the Italians; it was from Verdi and his predecessors, interpreted by Alboni, Bettini and others, that he had learnt the primal meanings of music, and they always retained his affection. * * * * * About the middle of May,[697] 1887, a sculptor, who had already studied Whitman in the Centennial year, came on from Washington to Mickle Street. Mrs. Davis sided some of the litter in the parlour; and the old man sat for him there as amiably as ten years before in the improvised studio on Chestnut Street. They talked much of the President, on a portrait of whom Mr. Morse had been working. Whitman had a high opinion of Mr. Cleveland, and displayed a lively interest in all the personal details his friend could supply. During the sittings Herbert Gilchrist arrived from England, where his mother had died of a painful disease some eighteen months earlier; and he set up his easel also. Callers came from far and near; while dozens of children entered with a word or message from the street, and older folk looked in at the window. Whitman was not very well even for him, and he missed his solitude. But he was a delightful and courteous host. The three men often lunched together, while several English visitors--taking Whitman on their tour even though they missed Niagara[698]--sat down to a bite of beef, a piece of apple-pie, and a cup of tea poured out by the reverend host in the hot little kitchen. Good Mrs. Davis watched her old charge and friend with some anxiety, as this constant stream of visitors flowed in and out; but she herself rose more than equal to every emergency. She had for lieutenant a coloured char-woman, born the same day as Whitman, who felt herself for that reason responsible in no ordinary degree for the general appearance of the premises. The sculptor and she often found themselves in conflict. As for his clay, she disdained it along with the whole genus of "dirt". She succeeded in white-washing the delightful moss-covered fence, and would, he felt sure, have liked to treat both him and his work in the same summary fashion. They debated theological problems together, to Whitman's amusement, and he would have it that Aunt Mary came out of these encounters better than the artist. "How does your Satan get work to do," the latter would ask, "if God doeth all?" "Never you fear for _him_," she retorted. "He's allers a-prowlin' around lookin' fer a chance when God's back is turned. There ain't a lazy hair on _his_ head. I wish," she added significantly, "I could say as much for some others."[699] Beside Aunt Mary other characters appear upon the pages of his friends' journals; notably a garrulous, broad-brimmed Georgian farmer, who had served in the Confederate army. He was the father of a large family, which he had brought up on the _Leaves_. As for himself, he had the book by heart, and was never so happy as when reciting his favourite passages at Sunday School treat or Church meeting. He knew Emerson's writings with almost equal intimacy, but complained that these set his soul nagging after him, while Whitman's were soothing to it. With Walt he declared that he loafed and invited his soul; with Waldo, his soul became importunate and invited him.[700] Meanwhile, he admitted, his farm ran more to weeds than it should. Doubtless, during his pilgrimage the weeds prospered exceedingly; for he stayed long, and sad to say, in the end he went away a "leetle disappointed". "I have to sit and admire him at a distance," he complained, "about as I did at home before I came." Walt liked him, and was amused by his talk, but his advice, his criticism and his interpretations to boot, were overmuch for a weary man. There came one day a "labour agitator," who required an introduction or testimonial of some sort from Whitman; and he also went away disappointed. In answer to all his loud-flowing, self-satisfied declarations, Whitman merely ejaculated his occasional colourless monosyllable; and when at last the discomfited man took his leave, the poet's absent-minded "Thanks!" was more ludicrously and baldly opportune than intentional.[701] Humorous as they appeared at the time, there was another side to interviews of this character; for it began to be noised about that Whitman was quite spoilt by his rich friends, and had lost his interest in and sympathy with the American working-man. This was due, of course, to a complete misunderstanding. The old fellow who lived in his "little shack" on Mickle Street, and dined in Germantown in his cardigan jacket, might have a world-reputation, but he was not forgetful of the people from among whom he sprang and to whom he always belonged. At the same time it is true, as we saw, that he did not himself profess to understand or to approve the party organisation of labour. He was rather inclined to sit in his corner and have faith, and to listen to what the younger men had to say. In any case, he saw no remedy for present troubles in the exploitation of class feeling; he could see no help in urging the battle between two forms of selfishness. Generosity and manhood were his constant watchwords, whether for labour or for the nation. No circumstances, he would say, sitting in his room broken by the suffering of years, can deprive a hero of his manhood. But he would add his conviction that the Republic must be in peril as long as any of her sons were being forced to the wall, and his wish that each "should have all that is just and best for him". * * * * * The sculptor and his sitter had many a long evening chat together, the shadows of the passers-by cast by the street light and moving across the blind. The old man's mellow and musical, but somewhat uncertain, voice filled at these times with a confidential charm. One night he wrote out a tentative statement of his general views, declaring for Free-trade, and for the acknowledgment of the full human and political equality of women with men. He regarded the world as being too much governed, but he was not against institutions in the present stage of evolution, for he said that he looked on the family and upon marriage as the basis of all permanent social order. He seems to have disliked and even condemned the practices of the American Fourierist "Free-lovers,"[702] though Love's real freedom is always cardinal in his teachings. Anything like a laxity in fulfilling obligations, but especially the ultimate obligations of the soul, was abhorrent to him. He was not a critic of institutions; and he accepted the work of the churches and of rationalism as alike valuable to humanity. He added to his statement various personal details; saying, half-interrogatively, that he thought if he was to be reported at all, it was right that he should be reported truthfully. This feeling was undoubtedly very strong with him from the day when he wrote anonymous appreciations of the _Leaves_ in the New York press.[703] Talk turned sometimes to the Washington days, to Lincoln's yearning passion for the South, to the affectionate admiration felt by the Union veterans for the men and boys who fought under Lee, and to the terrible rigidity of the Southern pride. Such talk would often end in reminiscences of the hospitals; and Whitman told his friend that he would like him to cut a bas-relief showing Walt seated by a soldier's cot in the wards. It had been his most characteristic pose, if one may use the word; and such a study would have shown him at his own work, the work in which he was most at home, surrounded by the boys who were his flesh and blood.[704] FOOTNOTES: [676] _Camb. Mod. Hist._, 651. [677] Kennedy, 17. [678] Donaldson, Kennedy, and MSS. Diary. [679] MSS. Diary. [680] Kennedy, 64. [681] Donaldson, 61. [682] Kennedy, 15, 53; MSS. Diary. [683] _In re_, 129. [684] Donaldson, MSS. Diary. [685] Kennedy, 24. [686] Donaldson, 170; Kennedy, 23, 24. [687] MSS. Kennedy. [688] Donaldson, 109; Kennedy, 6. [689] Kennedy, 29. [690] _Ib._, 54. [691] Johnson, 18; Kennedy; Donaldson; _Comp. Prose_, 520. [692] MSS. Berenson (_a_). [693] _In re_, 137, etc. [694] _Conversations with W. W._, by "Sadakichi," 1895. [695] Johnston, 92, 93. [696] _Comp. Prose_, 151; _cf._ Camden, xxxiii. [697] _In re_, 367. [698] _In re_, 374. [699] _Ib._, 375, 376. [700] _In re_, 376, 377. [701] _Ib._, 379. [702] MSS. Johnston. [703] See _supra_, 109. [704] _In re_, 390. CHAPTER XXI "GOOD-BYE, MY FANCY" During the first years of his sojourn among them, some of the young men of Camden had founded a Walt Whitman Club;[705] and year by year a group of intimate friends was springing up about his own door. Chief of these was Mr. Horace Traubel, whose life became so inextricably interwoven with Whitman's last years that he has rightly been called the old poet's spiritual son. He was one of the first of Walt's Camden acquaintances. How or when they met, neither could remember; looking back to the summer evenings when the lame, white-haired man and the fair lad sat together on the steps of the Stevens Street house, it seemed as though they had always been friends.[706] Another of the group was Mr. T. B. Harned,[707] Traubel's brother-in-law, an able lawyer and lover of books, whose house became a second home for Whitman after the removal from Philadelphia of his friends the Pearsall Smiths. These two gentlemen, with Dr. Bucke, eventually became Whitman's executors; better than anything else, this shows the confidence which their old friend reposed in them. On his sixty-ninth birthday--Friday, 31st May, 1888--his Camden friends and others met him at dinner at Mr. Harned's.[708] Two days later he was there again, and Dr. Bucke, arriving unexpectedly, was of the party. Walt had come in his carriage, and afterwards drove the doctor to the ferry. Thence he made his way to a point where, urging his horse into the river, he had nothing but water and sky before him, all filled with the sunset glory. He sat for an hour absorbing it in a sort of ecstasy.[709] Returning home, he felt that he had been chilled, and recognised intimations of a paralytic attack--the seventh--[710] as he went to bed. He quietly resisted this alone. In the morning he had two more slight strokes, and for the first time temporarily lost the power of speech. This was Monday, and all through the week he lay close to death. Dr. Bucke had returned, his friends entertaining no hopes of his recovery. But the end was not yet. Even in the midst of the uncertainty he was determined to complete the work he had in hand. Every day he contrived to get downstairs, and every evening he turned over the proof-sheets of a new volume, which Horace Traubel brought with him from the printer's on his way back from the city. From this time on, Traubel was his daily visitor, his faithful and assiduous aid.[711] Slowly the old man began again to improve, but he never regained the lost ground. His friends found him paler than of old, with new lines on his face, and a heavier expression of weariness.[712] The horse and carriage were no longer of service, and had to be sold; in the autumn a nurse and wheel-chair took their place. The increased confinement troubled him most of all, so that he became jealous of the tramp with his outdoor life. [Illustration: FAC-SIMILES OF POST-CARDS FROM WHITMAN TO MRS. BERENSON, 1887-8] Altogether, as he wrote to his friends, though holding the fort--"sort o'"--he was "a pretty complete physical wreck".[713] O'Connor, too, was now paralysed and near his end; the two old friends, similarly stricken, were once again exchanging greetings, though separated now by a whole continent. In O'Connor's case, however, the brain itself was also giving way. Walt followed all the illness of him who had been in some respects his best comrade with pathetic interest, until, returning from California to Washington, the broken flesh gave freedom at last to the man's fiery spirit.[714] * * * * * Whitman grew somewhat more querulous in these later days, with the increase of pain and discomfort;[715] for from this time on one may almost say that he was slowly dying. Not that he complained or was inconsiderate, but little things caused him greater irritation, though only for a moment. Nothing is more notable in Whitman's nature than the short duration of his fits of quick-flaming wrath.[716] They flashed out from him in a sudden word, and passed, leaving no trace of bitterness or resentment behind. An example of this is afforded by his behaviour toward the unexpected and vehement assault upon him by a former admirer, Mr. Swinburne. Having once acclaimed Whitman as the _cor cordium_ of the singers of freedom,[717] he now consigned him to the category of the Tuppers; opining that, with a better education, he might perhaps have attained to a rank above Elliott the Corn-Law rhymer, but below the laureate Southey. According to Mr. Swinburne's revised estimate, Whitman was in short no true poet; and as for his ideal of beauty, it was not only vulgar but immoral. The attack roused Whitman to snap out, "Isn't he the damnedest simulacrum?" but that was all.[718] The affair was dismissed, and he only regretted that, for his own sake, Swinburne had not risen higher. The rather contemptuous reference to Whitman's deficient education recalls the first criticism passed upon the _Leaves_. Their author was gravely commended to the study of Addison,[719] and to tell the truth, this has been about the last word of a large number of academic persons from that day to this. Their advice, when acted upon, nearly ruined Robert Burns; it had little effect upon Whitman, though it was not neglected. But Mr. Swinburne's attack reminds one also of something more important even than "Addison"; the antithesis and opposition which exists between two great orders of poets, of which his friend Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Whitman himself may be taken as the types. The _Blessed Damozel_ is in another world from any page of the _Leaves_; and there is almost nothing which the two poets seem to share. Mr. Swinburne did good service, in so far as he pointed the contrast; but he confused it by declaiming against the prophet, and extolling the sonneteer. The field may not so be limited; the exile of Byron, Emerson and Carlyle from the brotherhood of poets, though proclaimed by Mr. Swinburne, can hardly be enforced. For as Whitman has suggested,[720] there are, inevitably, two kinds of great poetry: one corresponding, as it were, to the song of the Nightingale, and another to the flight of the Eagle. He himself has nothing of the infinitely allusive grace of the former, the sonnet-twining interpreters of the romantic past, the painters of subtle dream-beauties and fair women whose faces are the faces of unearthly flowers wrought purely of the passions of dead men. But they again have nothing of his appeal to the heroic and kingly spirit that confronts the equally romantic future, grappling with world-tragedies and creating the new beauty of passions hitherto unborn. Doubtless the greatest poets unite these two orders, reconciling them in their own persons; but such are the very greatest of all time. I do not think that Whitman himself would have admitted a claim on his behalf to be counted among them.[721] * * * * * The sheets he had been correcting with Traubel's aid, in the crisis of his illness, were those of _November Boughs_, a volume composed, like _Two Rivulets_, of prose and verse. It appeared in November, 1888. Among its prose papers are sympathetic studies of Burns and of Elias Hicks, with an appreciation of George Fox.[722] There are also many reminiscences, notably of the Old Bowery Theatre, and of New Orleans; and most interesting of all, a biographical study of the origins and purpose of the _Leaves_ themselves. This _Backward Glance o'er Travel'd Roads_[723] has far more of modesty in it than his earlier writings, which were necessarily occupied with self-assertion. In his old age he shows himself a little alarmed at his more youthful readiness to take up the challenge which he had seen Democracy and Science throwing down to Poetry. He recognises with clearer vision than many of his friends, his own weakness in poetic technique, and the experimental nature of his work in poetry. But he does not pretend to doubt its importance; for, as he avers, it is the projection of a new and American attitude of mind. He is not without confidence also, that his book will prove a comfort to others, since it has been the main comfort of his own solitary life--and he believes it will be found a stimulus to the American nation of his love. The poems of the new collection are all brief and many of them are descriptive. For the rest, they are mainly the assertions of a jocund heart defying the ice-cold, frost-bound winter of old-age, and waiting for the sure-following spring. Meanwhile, he enjoys the inner mysteries, and the enforced quiet of these later days, these starry nights; living, as he quaintly says, in "the early candlelight of old-age".[724] To him they sometimes seem to be the best, the halcyon days of all. Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like freshier, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all! The brooding and blissful halcyon days![725] He often reviews his past, so seemingly purposeless and incoherent, and yet so profoundly urged from its source within toward the unseen goal. Still before him, he sees endless vistas of the eternal purpose. The secret souls of things speak to him; the restless sea betrays the unsatisfied passion of the Earth's great heart;[726] the rain bears love back with it to the mountains whence it came.[727] Everything instructs him, for he remains eager to learn--criticism and rejection at least as much as acceptance. * * * * * Sometimes the long process of dying--the painfully prolonged separating of a Body and Soul which were more intimately wedded than are others--leaves its mark upon the page; as in a brief note where he states simply that his solemn experiences at this period are unlikely to occur in any other human life.[728] He felt himself solitary even in his pain. But this was a solitude hallowed and supported by the Everlasting Arms. * * * * * Though often sleepless and suffering, he kept, upon the whole, a cheery business about him, working to the end. But silence now predominated in his days, and his craving for it increased. In the evening, Traubel would come in and sit beside him, watching his face profiled against the evening light. He had grown to feel the old man's mood, and had learnt to say nothing. After an hour or two he had his reward; Walt would bid him good-bye with a smile, saying, "What a good talk we've had". For neither of them wanted words. Through the winter and spring of 1888 to 1889 he remained house-tied, anchored in his big chair by the fire; "every month letting the pegs lower," he wrote to his friends.[729] But in June he got out and about in his wheel-chair, and in August crossed the ferry to be photographed, immensely delighted at the evidences of gaiety and prosperity which met him everywhere. America, he would say, is laying great material foundations; the sky-climbing towers will arise in good time. [Illustration: WHITMAN AT SEVENTY] The birthday dinner, which he did not altogether approve,[730] became this year a public function, and was held in the largest of the Camden halls.[731] He was seventy, and the day was but doubtfully propitious. However, he would not disappoint his friends, and arrived when the meal was over. He looked weary, as well he might, but the human contact and the atmosphere of love and fellowship warmed and refreshed him. The messages of congratulation came from far and from many, from William Morris among the rest. Walt wore a black coat, which was almost unprecedented, and hid himself behind a great bowl of flowers, enjoying their colour and scent, sipping at his champagne, and tapping applause with the bottle whenever he approved a sentiment. One remembers how he used to detest and escape from all lionising, and to-night, after the praises and the enthusiasm were concluded, he said laughingly to his nurse that it was very well, but there was too much "gush and taffy".[732] That spring he had been too ill to celebrate the Lincoln anniversary, but in the following, after a struggle with influenza, he delivered it for the last--the thirteenth--time. Hoarse and half-blind, he crossed the river,[733] assisted everywhere by willing hands, and with great difficulty climbed the long stairs to the room on South Broad Street, where Horace Traubel's Contemporary Club held its meetings. Refusing introduction, he took his seat on the platform, put on his glasses, and got immediately to business, reading with a melodious voice and easy manner. He was over in the city again for his next birthday celebration, and after the dinner, Colonel Ingersoll made a long, impassioned tribute to his friend.[734] The comradeship between them was strong and satisfying to both; Whitman was always in better spirits after a call from the colonel. "He is full of faults and mistakes," he said once to an English friend, "but he is an example in literature of natural growth as a tree"; adding, "he gives out always from himself."[735] Their attitude toward questions of religion was often antagonistic, and on this occasion, after the speech, Whitman made a sort of rejoinder. While gratefully acknowledging his friend's appreciation of _Leaves of Grass_, he pointed out that Ingersoll had stopped short of the main matter, for the book was crammed with allusions to immortality, and was bound together by the idea of purpose, resident in the heart of all and realising itself in the material universe. He turned to Ingersoll, demanding, "Unless there is a definite object for it all, what, in God's name, is it all for?" And Ingersoll, shaking his head, replied, "I can't tell. And if there is a purpose, and if there is a God, what is it all for? I can't tell. It looks like nonsense to me, either way." From this intellectual agnosticism no argument could dislodge a mind like Ingersoll's, for noble as it was, it was limited by its own logic, and to logic alone, working with the material of merely intellectual knowledge, the universe must inevitably remain a riddle. Whitman, recognising a more perfect faculty of reason, and cognisant of a field of transcendent knowledge which Ingersoll had never known, was able to realise a purpose in this, which to Ingersoll seemed only nonsense. For the divinely creative imagination, when it is awakened, discovers in all things the meanings of creative thought. And personality, when in its supreme hours it transcends the limitations of human knowledge, and enters the consciousness of the Whole, discovers the meaning of immortality, and the indestructibility of the soul. Such flights are naturally impossible to the pedestrian faculties of the mind. Ingersoll spoke again in Philadelphia, in the same vein and on the same subject, in October.[736] He had a large audience of perhaps two thousand persons in the Horticultural Hall, and Whitman was present on the platform. Taking up his subject somewhat in the manner of O'Connor in the _Good Gray Poet_, the orator denounced the hypocrisy and parochialism of American opinion, and proclaimed the Divine right of the liberator, genius. He justified "Children of Adam," and gave in his adherence to the theory of free rhythm which is exemplified in the _Leaves_. Alluding to the subject of their discussion after the recent dinner at Reisser's, he declared it impossible for him to make any assertion of immortality; but admitted that Hope, replying to the question of Love over the grave, might proclaim that "before all life is death, and after death is life". After the fine, but, in cold type at least, the over-florid peroration descriptive of the atmosphere of Whitman's work, the applause was dying away, and the people rising to go, when the old poet signalled for them to be detained, and saying that he was there himself to offer the final testimony to and explanation of his writings, if they would look at him and understand, he gave thanks to them and to the orator, and bade them all farewell. [Illustration: ROBERT G. INGERSOLL, FROM A PRINT] The whole scene presents a curiously suggestive picture. And Whitman's situation was a most singular one. His friends had arranged a benefit lecture on the _Leaves_ by the most eloquent eulogist in America. It is true the book is not identical with Whitman, but it would be difficult to separate the _Leaves_ from the man. And here was the man, apparently of his own free will, receiving the eulogy and applause in person and the gate-money by deputy. The pious Philadelphians had expressed their disapproval of the lecturer,[737] his iconoclastic fervour and agnosticism, by refusing him the use of the most commodious hall, and their opposition had encouraged Walt to stand at his friend's side. But apart from this, his presence illustrates some of the characteristics of his nature, his child-like and sometimes terrible love of directness in the relations of life, and his frank eagerness for appreciation. We have seen already that he could learn from criticism, and there is a story of Dr. Bucke's which is too good to omit, though it entails a slight digression. It was against the awkwardness, not the severity, of his literary surgeons that he would protest with a quiet humour. After one of their operations, more painful than usual, in his slow, slightly nasal drawl, he related how a Quaker was once set on by a robber in a wood. The fellow knocked his passive victim to the ground, rifled him thoroughly, and "pulling out a long knife proceeded to cut his throat. The knife was dull, the patience of the poor Quaker almost exhausted. 'Friend,' said he to the robber, 'I do not object to thee cutting my throat, but thee haggles.'"[738] But while accepting blame with serenity, he yet preferred praise; understanding praise above all, though even ignorant praise was hardly unwelcome. Praise not directly of himself, be it understood--that often made him uncomfortable;[739] but of the book, his _alter ego_, his child. For the book was, besides, a Cause, and that the noblest; and even vain applauding of it sounded, in the old man's ears, like the tramp of the hosts of progress; in whose ranks there must needs follow, let us admit, a number of enthusiastic fools. Of such, certainly, Ingersoll was not one. He saw in the book much of what Whitman had put there; and especially he understood how it had been written under the stress of an emotion which finds its symbol in that banner of the blue and stars, which he so happily described as "the flag of Nature".[740] Other men have given themselves out to be a Christ, or a John the Baptist, or an Elijah; Whitman, without their fanaticism, but with a profound knowledge of himself, recognised in a peasant-born son of Mannahatta, an average American artisan, the incarnation of America herself. "He is Democracy," quoth Thoreau;[741] and when he sat with a pleased indifference under the eloquent stream of Ingersoll's panegyric, he was only testifying anew to his whole-hearted, glad willingness to give himself, body and mind, for the interpretation of America to her children. But none the less, it was a singular situation; and, doubtless, Whitman, who was not by any means obtuse, felt it to be such. * * * * * His last birthday dinner was held in the lower room at Mickle Street after a winter of illness--"the main abutments and dykes shattered and threatening to give out"[742]--broken by an occasional saunter in his wheelchair with the welcome sight of some four-masted schooner on the river, and by the visits of his friends. He was still himself, however. An English admirer had recently been astounded to find the irrepressible attractive power of the old man.[743] He was brought downstairs, weak, after a bad day, to meet some thirty of his friends. Walt himself started the proceedings with a toast to the memory of Bryant, Emerson and Longfellow, and to Tennyson and Whittier, living yet;[744] for the fact that Whittier strongly disapproved of the _Leaves_ in no way separated him from Whitman's affectionate esteem. Rejoicing over his big family gathering, he wistfully remembered the absent. Doyle had not been to the house for many months.[745] Perhaps he was a little jealous of new friends, and resented even being thought of as a stranger by Mrs. Davis. O'Connor was dead, and so was Mrs. Gilchrist, and there were many others not less dear. Some who were far away sent their greetings, Tennyson and Symonds among the rest; and there were the usual warm congratulatory speeches. The host was sometimes absent-minded, and sometimes, according to the record, oddly garrulous. But the talk about the table was often of the deepest interest. Dr. Bucke was present, and Whitman and he had a friendly bout over _Leaves of Grass_. The poet would not accept the doctor's interpretation, or indeed, any other's, saying that the book must have its own way with its readers. It was simply the revelation of the man himself, "the personal critter," as he would phrase it. Dr. Bucke made some interesting reference to the elements of evil passion which he detected in his old friend's make-up; "the elements of a Cenci or an Attila". And Whitman quite simply admitted that he was not sure that he understood himself. A touch of humour was never long absent where Whitman was found. Some audacious devotee asked him why he had never married; and Walt rambled off into an explanation, which, after alluding to the "Nibelungen--or somebody--'s cat with an immensely long, long, long tail to it," and again to the obscurities that confront the biographer of Burns, concluded that the matter in question was probably by no means discreditable, though inexplicable enough, except in the light of his whole life. The questioner remained standing--he was very enthusiastic--and had more to follow. But as he began to recite "Captain! my Captain!" a stray dog which had entered at the open door provided a melancholy and irresistible accompaniment, convulsing those present in their own despite until the tears ran down their cheeks.[746] Finally, Whitman made an interesting political statement. He condemned as false the protectionist idea of "America for the Americans"; and asserted as the basic political principle, the interdependence of all peoples, and their openness to one another for purposes of exchange. The common people of all races are embarked together like fellows on a ship, he said; what wrecks one, wrecks all. The ultimate truth about the human race is its solidarity of interest. Then he was tired, and calling for his stick and his nurse, he blessed them all and went slowly upstairs. * * * * * It was the last of his birthday dinners. He was seventy-two, very old in body, and very weary. But he was still bright and affectionate toward the friends who continued to come great distances to greet him. A group at Bolton sent two representatives in the years 1890 and 1891, whose records of their visits are suffused with wonder at the old poet's courtesy and loving consideration and comradely demonstrations of personal feeling.[747] He was a little anxious lest his English friends should misapprehend his character: "Don't let them think of me as a saint or a finished anything," was the burden of his messages to them, always accompanied by his love. He spoke warmly of the English, comparing them favourably at times with their cousins across the sea, and saying that they represented the deeper and more lasting qualities of the Anglo-Saxon race; they were like the artillery of its army.[748] The welcome from English readers had astonished and delighted him. In 1887 he contemplated a visit to Great Britain;[749] and he sometimes seems even to have toyed with the idea of an English home. One can be more Democratic there than in America, he had once declared.[750] Of his own later years, he said to Mr. J. W. Wallace, who called frequently during the late autumn of 1891, "I used to feel ... that I was to irradiate or emanate buoyancy and health. But it came to me in time, that I was not to attempt to live to the reputation I had, or to my own idea of what my programme should be; but to give out and express what I really was; and, if I felt like the devil, to say so; and I have become more and more confirmed in this."[751] Whitman has so often been accused of a self-conscious pose, that this partial acknowledgment that such a pose had existed is full of interest; an interest accentuated by the statement that he deliberately abandoned it in his later years. Talking was at this time often an effort; the heavy feeling in his head, which had become more and more frequent since his first illness, increased till he compared his brain to "sad dough," or "an apple dumpling". At times, when he was really prostrated, his head was "like ten devils".[752] The portrait prefixed to his last little book, is that of some patriarch, bent under a world-weight of experience. The volume, _Good-bye, my Fancy_, appeared in the winter--sixty pages of fragmentary notes and rhythms of pathetic interest. He called them his "last chirps".[753] It opens on a rather deprecatory note, but is touched here and there with wistful humour. [Illustration: WHITMAN AT SEVENTY-TWO] The preface,[754] written two summers before, describes him as moved by the sunshine to the playfulness of a kid, a kitten or a frolicsome wave. He finds a grim satisfaction even in his present state, counting it as a part of his offering to the cause of the Union and America, for he has no doubt of its origin in the strain of the war-years. Of the war, and of his part in it, he now sees all his _Leaves_ as reminiscent. The prose memoranda are principally memorial of old friends, and familiar books and places, and are full of those generous appreciations which were a delightful feature of his later life. Among others, are tributes to Queen Victoria, to his friend Tennyson, and to the great American poets.[755] He returns again to his gospel of health,[756] as the message most needed in the world to-day; a message which would contrast with the cry of Carlyle or of Heine, or of almost any of the dwellers in that Europe which he sees afar off, as a sort of vast hospital or asylum ward. It has been his own single purpose to arouse the soul, the essential giver of Divine health, in his readers. His aim has always been religious; he foresees the coming of a new religion which shall embrace both the feminine beauty of Christianity and the masculine splendour of Paganism.[757] The poems are still in the vein of _November Boughs_. They are the utterance of certain belated elements in his life-experience, without which his book would be incomplete. Some review his past; others anticipate his future. The most important is the poem "To the Sunset Breeze,"[758] which is perhaps the highest expression of his mystical attitude toward nature. The breeze brings to this lonely, sick man, incapable of movement, the infinite message of God and of the world; it comes to him as a loving and holy companion, the distillation and essence of all material things, the most godly of spirits:-- Thou, messenger-magical strange bringer to body and spirit of me, (Distances balk'd--occult medicines penetrating me from head to foot), I feel the sky, the prairies vast--I feel the mighty northern lakes, I feel the ocean and the forest--somehow I feel the globe itself swift-swimming in space; Thou blown from lips so loved, now gone--haply from endless store, God-sent, (For thou art spiritual, Godly, most of all known to my sense), Minister to speak to me, here and now, what word has never told, and cannot tell, Art thou not universal concrete's distillation? Law's, all Astronomy's last refinement? Hast thou no soul? Can I not know, identify thee? One cannot doubt the feeling behind these passionate lines, or question the soul-contact which the old poet felt with the things we are complacently and ignorantly contented to regard as mere automata, moved by mechanical force. For Whitman, Nature was a soul; a soul, though strange and often seeming-hostile, yet beloved and really loving; a soul, whose infinite life is, without exception, seeking and groping after its divine source. He deliberately enumerates a catalogue of things evil to make the significance of his meaning clear. The title of the book is related, on the last page, to a curious thought which occupied his mind at this period. While the imagination which has prompted all his poems has not been exactly himself, it has become so intimately related to him that he cannot now conceive of himself existing after death unaccompanied by it; hence his _Good-bye, my Fancy_ is but a new welcome, a _vale atque ave_.[759] There are two more poems, not included in this volume, which seem to close his work. One, the last thing that he composed, was a final greeting to Columbus, who had become in his mind a type of the poet of the future.[760] The other, the last that I can note of these "concluding chirps,"[761] as he would call them, is a beautiful correction of the popular picture of death's valley. Before Whitman--and he of all men had a right to speak upon the subject, because he knew Death, as it were, personally--there spread out a very different landscape:-- Of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees and flowers and grass, And the low hum of living breeze--and in the midst God's beautiful eternal right hand, Thee, holiest minister of Heaven--thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all, Rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call'd life, Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death. As his book-making thus drew to a finish, he occupied himself with his own tomb. This was being erected through the autumn of 1891 among the young beeches and hickories of a new cemetery, a few miles out of Camden. It was built of grey granite into the bank, and framed after a well-known design of Blake's.[762] At once plain but impressive, it is strikingly different from the poor little cottage in which he died. And the fact illustrates again Whitman's simple acceptance of realities. He knew that his grave must be a place of pilgrimage; and having brought the bones of his father and mother to lie beside his own, he gave all possible dignity, for the sake of the book and the cause, to this his last resting-place. While he was thus spending a considerable sum upon his tomb, the extra expenses entailed by his prolonged illness were being met, unknown to him, by the generosity of his Camden friends. After his death, his executors were surprised to find that there was in the bank a considerable reserve,[763] amounting to several hundred pounds, available for distribution between his sisters and his brother Edward, according to the terms of his will. * * * * * In mid-December, 1891, Whitman's right lung became congested, and when Dr. Bucke arrived on the 22nd the death-rattle had already been heard, and his immediate passing was anticipated.[764] At Christmas, John Burroughs came over, and found such an unconquered look upon the sufferer's face that the thought of death's nearness seemed impossible.[765] From St. Louis came Jessie Whitman, her father, Jefferson, having died a year earlier; and the colonel brother, who seems now to have removed from Camden, spent at least one anxious night in the little house. Mr. Johnston also came over from New York for a last sight of his old friend. But even with those nearest to him, interviews became more and more difficult. He longed for the solitude and silence which their love found it hardest to give. The wintry days at the junction of the years went by in suffering and patience. Walt was affectionately grateful for the intimate services of his nurse and of Horace Traubel; writing of the latter as "unspeakably faithful".[766] Though he was generally calm he was longing for death. He had dreadful hiccoughs, and grew colder and more emaciated. The suffering had become terrible, and the anticipation of its long continuance brought fear for the first time to his strong heart. [Illustration: HORACE TRAUBEL AT FORTY-FIVE] In mid-January, however, he rallied. The Fritzinger baby was born and called after him, and Walt had it brought in to be fondled upon his breast.[767] Colonel Ingersoll called, and his magnetic spontaneous presence and words of profound affection comforted and sustained his friend. Then, to his great satisfaction, the tenth edition of his works appeared,[768] and special copies were forwarded to his friends. He contrived to write brief notes to Dr. Bucke and to his favourite sister, telling them of the publication and of his condition. On the 6th and 7th of February he wrote a last pathetic letter, which was lithographed and sent out to many correspondents. The "little spark of soul" which, according to his own quaint version of a favourite saying of Epictetus, had during all these months been "dragging a great lummux of corpse-body clumsily to and fro around," was still glimmering. His friends were ever faithful, he says, and for his bodily state, "it is not so bad as you might suppose, only my sufferings much of the time are fearful". And he added, as a last dictum, the substance of his latest public thoughts--for he read the newspapers constantly to the last--"more and more it comes to the fore, that the only theory worthy our modern times, for great literature, politics and sociology, must combine all the best people of all lands, the women not forgetting".[769] His friend over-sea, Addington Symonds, was ill and depressed,[770] and George Stafford passed away at Glendale. He became yet more silent; looked over his letters and the journals; took and relished his brandy-punch and slept. Almost daily his pain increased, and the choking mucus. He was often in terrible exhaustion, and the long nights were almost unbearable. "Dear Walt," said his faithful friend, as he bent down and kissed him, "you do not realise what you have been to us"; and Walt rejoined feebly, "nor you, what you have been to me".[771] All through March the restlessness and agony increased. There seemed to be no parcel of his emaciated body which was not the lurking place of pain. The stubborn determination of his nature suffered the last throes of human agony before it would surrender. Thus he learnt the lesson of death as few have ever learnt it. Those who watched could do little but love him, and for that his dim eyes repaid them a thousandfold to the end. Without, the days were dismally bleak; snow lay heavily upon the earth, but in the big three-windowed room winter seemed still more fierce and dread. On the night of the 24th he was moved on to a water bed, which eased him. He tried to laugh when, as he turned him upon it and the water splashed around, Warry, the sailor-nurse, said it sounded like the waves upon a ship's flanks. The thought was full of suggestions and chimed with his own; but the mucus choked him into silence. Next day he was terribly weak, but restful, and that night he slept and seemed easier. On the following afternoon they saw that at last he was surrendering. He smiled and felt no longer any pain.[772] Warry moved him for the last time about six o'clock, and Walt acknowledged the change with gratitude. Half an hour later, holding Traubel's hand in his, he lapsed silently into the Unknown. It was growing dark, and the rain fell softly bearing its burden of love to the earth, and dripping from the eaves upon the side-walk. The noble ship had slipt its cable and gone forth upon "the never-returning tide". * * * * * Whitman died on a Saturday night. On the Wednesday following, from eleven to two, the Mickle Street house was invaded by thousands of people of every age and class, who had come to take a last look at the familiar face. "It was the face of an aged, loving child," said one of them.[773] Among the rest came an old Washington comrade,[774] who was unrecognised by the policeman keeping order at the little door. No, said he, it is late, and the house is full already. With a bitter and broken heart, he was turning away bewildered from the place, when one of the others saw him and, heartily calling his name, led him in. How many, many thoughts surged through his brain, as he looked on that dear face, and poignantly remembered again the old days! How he reproached himself for the long lapses that had crept of late, half-observed, into their intimacy! Why had he not been here these months past, nursing and caring for one who had been dearer to him than his father? Why had he left him in his last agonies to hired helpers, however kind, and to new friends. Surely, he thought, the old are dearer--if they be true. He went out with the crowd to Harleigh, saw the strange ceremony, and heard, without understanding them, the fine words spoken. And then, refusing to be comforted, he escaped, walking home alone along the dusty roads--alone forever now--the tears coursing down his cheeks. But come! he would no longer waste the hours in vain reproaches. Walt, after all, understood. He had always understood, and felt the depth of love that sometimes seeks so false an expression in jealousy. Come now, he will live henceforward by the thought and in the unclouded love of his old Walt, once his and his now forever. Of course, he had not understood Walt, not as these scholars, these writers and poets understood him. But he had been "awful near to him, nights and days". And those letters of his! Sometimes he thought that in the passion of his young plain manhood, he had come nearer, yes, nearer than any other, to that great loving soul. And for my part, I am not sure that he was mistaken. * * * * * Meanwhile, in the new cemetery, out along Haddon Avenue beyond the Dominican Convent where dwell the Sisters of the Perpetual Rosary, they had buried the remains of Walt Whitman's body. The hillside above the pool had been covered with folk; and up on the beech-spray over the tomb, the first blue-bird had sung its plaintive-sweet promise of the breaking spring.[775] In the palm-decked white pavilion, with its open sides, the words of the old poet's Chant of Death had mingled with those of the Christ and of the Buddha, and with the half-choked sentences of living lovers and friends. "I felt as if I had been at the entombment of Christ," writes one; and another murmured, "We are at the summit". But the last words had been spoken by Ingersoll--"I loved him living, and I love him still".[776] [Illustration: THE TOMB AT HARLEIGH CEMETERY, 1904] * * * * * "To tell you the truth," writes one who knew him intimately, "I have never had the feeling that Walt Whitman was dead. I think of him as still there, capable of writing to me at any time, and my thoughts often turn to him for his friendly sympathy."[777] It is incredible that any being who has consciously entered upon that life of love which approves itself to the soul as God's own life, can be fundamentally affected by death. What our life is we know not, nor may we speak with any confidence of the nature of the change which we call death; but love we know, and in it, as Ingersoll rightly guessed, is the key to the riddle of mortality. THE END FOOTNOTES: [705] Bucke, 53 n. [706] _In re_, 111. [707] _Ib._, 387. [708] _Ib._, 119; Kennedy, 31. [709] _In re_, 120; Kennedy, 32. [710] Undated news-cutting. [711] _In re_, 119; Kennedy, 58. [712] Kennedy, 32. [713] MSS. Carpenter. [714] Kennedy, 63; _Comp. Prose_, 511 n. [715] Johnston, 88. [716] _Cf._ Calamus, 29. [717] _Songs before Sunrise_, and _Blake, a Critical Essay_; _cf._ _Fortnightly_, xlii., 170. [718] Kennedy, 29; Burroughs (_a_), 54. [719] MSS. Wallace. [720] _L. of G._, 425. [721] I cannot omit some reference to the brilliant and interesting criticism of Whitman by Mr. George Santayana, especially that contained in his _Poetry and Religion_, pp. 175-87, etc., though it is somewhat outside my proper field. Mr. Santayana, if I understand him aright, regards all mysticism as a form of spiritual loafing; he heartily discounts the more primal emotions as being "low" in the scale of evolution, and sets a correspondingly high premium upon all that is subtle and complex. Though he seeks to be just to his victim, his lack of sympathy is clearly evidenced in the cleverly rhetorical but quite unworthy passage (p. 180) wherein Whitman is described as having "wallowed in the stream of his own sensibility, as later, at Camden, in the shallows of his favourite brook". Such phrases may be funny, but I trust the preceding pages have shown that they are not true to the facts of Whitman's life. To reply to Mr. Santayana is obviously beyond my scope; and, even if I could undertake the task, it would entail upon the reader many laborious pages devoted to the study of æsthetic values. For I suspect, that, whichever of us may be right, our difference goes back to the beginning. [722] _Comp. Prose_, 426, 439, 457, 474. [723] _L. of G._, 488. [724] _L. of G._, 433. [725] _Ib._, 388. [726] _Ib._, 392. [727] _Ib._, 399. [728] _Ib._, 403 n. [729] Kennedy, 62; MSS. Berenson, etc. [730] MSS. Carpenter. [731] _Camden's Compliment._ [732] Donaldson, 101. [733] _Comp. Prose_, 508; Kennedy, 35. [734] _In re_, 349-51; _Comp. Prose_, 509. [735] MSS. Wallace. [736] "Liberty in Literature," by R. G. I., 1891; Kennedy, 66; _In re_, 252. [737] Kennedy, 38, 66. [738] _Whit. Fellowship_ (Bucke), _Memories of W. W._ [739] _Cf._ Symonds, 3. [740] "Liberty in Literature." [741] Bucke, 188. [742] Kennedy, 67. [743] Johnston, 27. [744] _In re_, 297, 327. [745] MSS. Wallace. [746] Donaldson, 91. [747] Johnston and MSS. Wallace. [748] MSS. Wallace; Johnston, 85; _In re_, 425. [749] News-cutting, 1887. [750] G. Gilchrist, _op. cit._ [751] MSS. Wallace. [752] _Ib._ [753] MSS. Carpenter. [754] _L. of G._, 408. [755] _Comp. Prose_, 488; _cf._ _L. of G._, 402 (to Emp. William I.). [756] _Comp. Prose_, 493, 502. [757] _Ib._, 524, 525. [758] _L. of G._, 414. [759] _L. of G._, 422. [760] _Ib._, 429. [761] _Ib._, 428. [762] G. Gilchrist, _op. cit._ [763] Donaldson, 28; Kennedy, 48. [764] _In re_, 413. [765] Burroughs (_a_), 53. [766] Kennedy, 56. [767] _In re_, 417. [768] _Ib._, 422. [769] _In re_, 422 n. [770] He died soon after Whitman. [771] _In re_, 429. [772] _In re_, 433, 434. [773] M. D. Conway; Burroughs (_a_), 55. [774] See _supra_, 230. [775] Dr. Bucke in _Whit. Fellowship_. [776] _In re_, 437. [777] MSS. Berenson. APPENDIX A NOTE ON THE WILLIAMSES[778] Whitman himself has described his grandmother, Naomi Williams, as belonging to the Quaker Society, but upon inquiry it does not appear that she was ever a member. She was one of seven sisters; her father, Captain John Williams, and his only son, died at sea. He had been part-owner of his vessel, a schooner in the East Indian trade, plying between New York and Florida, and in 1767 he was married at Cold Spring, where his father, Thomas Williams, also a seaman, was living at the same time. The name of Thomas Williams occurs elsewhere in the old records of this district. In 1759 one of this name, who had a son John, was at Cove Neck, having removed there from Cold Spring. This Thomas one inclines to identify with the sea-going grandfather of Naomi, and he was the son of John Williams and Tamosin Carpenter, of Musketa Cove, whose name occurs in a document of 1727. I understand that this John and his son Thomas were Quakers. Another Captain Thomas Williams, described as "of Oyster Bay," was in 1758 first captain of the Queen's County recruits. Twenty-one years later, a John Williams and a Daniel van Velsor were serving as privates in a Long Island troop of horse, but they do not concern us. In the absence of any definite information, and in view of the frequency of the name of Williams throughout this district--owing to the fact that Robert and Richard Williams (Welshmen) settled hereabouts in the middle of the seventeenth century--one can only surmise the cause which severed the family of Naomi Williams from the Society. It is possible that her father married out, thus forfeiting his membership, according to the old laws of the Society concerning marriage with a non-member. Or the War of Independence may have claimed his active participation and thus snapped the bond. Or, again, circumstances connected with his profession, or difficulties in attending the meetings for worship, may have caused his name to be dropped from the lists of membership. There would seem to be no doubt, however, that his daughter's sympathies remained with the Friends. FOOTNOTES: [778] Material supplied by Benj. D. Hicks; _cf._ Onderdonck's _Queen's County_; Thompson's History, 486 n., etc., etc. APPENDIX B WHITMAN IN NEW ORLEANS Edward Carpenter wrote in the _Reformer_, February, 1902, p. 89: "In a letter to J. Addington Symonds (19th August, 1890),[779] he [Whitman] mentioned that he had six children. Symonds, writing to me in 1893, quoted the passage in question from this letter of Whitman's, and it runs as follows: 'My life, young manhood, mid-age, times South, etc., have been jolly bodily, and doubtless open to criticism. Tho' unmarried I have had six children--two are dead--one living, Southern grandchild, fine boy, writes to me occasionally--circumstances (connected with their fortune and benefit) have separated me from intimate relations.'" In a letter to Carpenter, further attested in conversation with myself, Horace Traubel says: "Walt frequently in his later years made allusions to the fact of his fatherhood. That is, to me. One night, just previous to his death, I went with Harned to Walt's room, at Walt's request, to get a sort of deposition in the matter, its detail, etc., etc.... But he was taken sick in our presence and was unable to proceed. There the thing rested ... he ... could never resume the subject. He wished to have the recital 'put away in Harned's safe,' as he said, 'in order that some one should authoritatively have all the facts at command if by some misfortune a public discussion of the incident were ever provoked'.... He did not wish the matter broached. He felt that it would indisputably do a great injury to some one, God knows who (I do not). During Walt's last sickness his grandson came to the house. I was not there at the time. When W. mentioned the occurrence to me I expressed my regret that I had missed him. 'I wish I might see him.' 'God forbid!' [said Whitman]...." I was informed in Camden that there were _two_ Southern (?) ladies, one of whom had died. There was an impression among my informants that Whitman was explicitly pledged, by the family of one if not both of these ladies, never to hint at his relationship to the children. He told Traubel that this enforced separation was the tragedy of his life. There is a love-letter extant, signed with a pseudonym, dated from New York in 1862, evidently written by a cultivated woman. If the grandchild who called at Mickle Street in 1891 was from the South--the correspondent of Symond's letter, as one may suspect--it is difficult to put the birth of his father or mother much later, I think, than 1850. It is noticeable that Whitman destroyed the references among his papers to the New Orleans visit, beyond those already printed in his prose works. In a book of memoranda referring to his early years, now in the possession of Mr. Harned, I have noted the tearing out of several leaves after the entry of his starting for New Orleans. The specification of "one living Southern grandchild," and of four children still living in 1890, suggests the probability that the second lady was not living in the South. FOOTNOTES: [779] Of which I have seen the original draft. INDEX. Abandonment, capacity for self-, 52. Abolition sentiment, Lincoln and, 182. See Slavery. Abolitionism, 81; and the South, 235. Abolitionist, W. an, 39. Abolitionists, 134; in Democratic party, 27. Actors, W. at home with, 191. Adam, W. as, 160-2. Adams, President John, 23, 24. Addison, W. advised to study, 328. Æschylus, W. reads, 57. Affirmations of modern thought, 62. Agnosticism and reason, 333. Agricultural interest in America, 308. Alboni, Marietta, her influence on W., 86, 131, 320. Alcott, A. Bronson, his relations with W., 112, 138, 282. Alexandria, Va., 195, 199. Ambition, W. a youth of, 33. America, romance of, xix-xxiii; Elizabethan character of, xxi; its development, xxvi; changes in, 79. America, and W., 87, 149, 180; W. an incarnation of, xxviii, 132, 335; an average American, 64; his passion for, 63; describes, 95; his symbol for, 122; symbolic character of, 124; call to citizenship, 125; need for comradeship in, 163; Emerson's view of W.'s message to, 145-6; W.'s criticism of, 124, 236-42; W. the poet of, 249, 292 (see American poet); her need for the war, 206-8; A. and the soul, 255; and death, 266; and free-interchange, 306-7; and labour-problem, 307-13; W.'s ideal for, 312; "material foundations," 331; A. and solidarity, 337. American art, xxiv. American Bible, W. wishes to write an, 55. American character, the, xxi; its idealism, xxi, xxiii, 80-1, 177; its power of assimilation, xxiv. American character of _L. of G._, 109. American cynicism, 264. American literature, W. and, 60. American opinion hostile to _L. of G._, 214, 333. American poet, the, Emerson's dictum, 94; general expectancy of an, 94; W.'s prophecy of an, 95-6; W. as the, 133 _n._ American poets, W. and the, 104, 279; need for, 97. _American Review_, W. writes for, 37. Anger of W., sudden, 216, 236, 327. Animals, W.'s feeling of kinship with, 99. "Answerer, Song of the," 103. Anthony, Susan B., 126. Antietam, battle of, 182-3. Anti-Nebraska men, 134. Anti-slavery party, 45. Appearance, W.'s, 276, 283, 289, 326. See Portraits. "Appearances, Of the terrible doubt of," 164. _Arabian Nights_, W. reads, 19. Aristocrat, poem on an, 53. Armory Square Hospital, W. at the, 190, 194, 203. Arrangement of _L. of G._, 286-7. Art, its meaning first shown to W., 22; popular, 43; in N.Y., 84. "As a strong bird on pinions free". See "Thou Mother," etc. "As I ebb'd with the ocean of life," 154-6. "As I ponder'd in silence," 208. "As the time draws nigh," 169. Asceticism, 71. Ashton, J. Hubley, describes a visit of W.'s, 192; and Harlan incident, 214. Ashton, Mrs., 234, 248. _Athenæum, The_, and W., 259. Attila, 336. Attorney-General's Office, W. in the, 214. Aurelius, Marcus, 224, 262, 318. _Aurora, The_, W. edits, 37. Average American, W.'s life to be that of an, 64. Babylon, L. I., W. at, 28, 33; described, 28-9. Bacchus, W.'s engraving of, 111. "Backward Glance o'er travel'd roads, A," 329-30. Baldwin, the engine, 271. "Barnburners," Van Buren men, become Free-soil Democrats, 44, 134. Barnum, P. T., 85. Bathing, W.'s love of, 40. Bayne, Peter, 258. "Beat! Beat! Drums!" 207. Beauty, W. indifferent to formal and static, 59. Beecher, Ward, 112. Beethoven, 267, 293, 320. Beggars, W. and, 219. Bell, Governor, 172. Berenson, Mrs., her friendship with W., 302-4, 313, 318, 346. Bernard, St., 146. Bettini, 85, 320. _Bhagavad-Gitá_, _L. of G._ compared with, 115. Bible, W.'s wish to write an American, 55; W. studies the, 57, 224, 318. Biographies of W. See J. Burroughs, Dr. Bucke, and Preface. Birthday dinners, 317, 325, 331-2; last, 335-7. Blake, 124, 225, 263, 290, 341; his mystic sight, 66, 118; W. and, 59. "Blood-money," 39, 46, 103. Body, W. and the, 99, 102, 159-62; "a spiritual body," 152-3; "enamoured" body, 162; and soul, 125. "Body Electric, I sing the," 102, 145, 160. Boehme, 121, 146. Bohemians of New York, W. and the, 138. Bolton group of Whitmanites, 337. Books, W.'s method of reading, 57; his favourite books, 58-9, 318. Booth, the elder, effect of his acting on W., 22. Boston, 81, 138; W.'s dislike of, 103, 279; W. at, 136, 142-7; second visit, 278-83. "Boston Ballad, A," 103. Boston Common, 144, 147, 281. _Boston Intelligencer_, criticism of W., 108. Botticelli, 102, 226. Bowery Theatre, the (now the Thalia), 22, 329. Bowne, John, a L. I. Quaker, 4. Bragg, General, 187. Breckinridge, J. C., 172. Bremer, Frederika, and Emerson, 94. "Broad-axe, Song of the," 122, 274. Broadway, W. and, 41, 83, 87, 138, 219, 266. _Broadway Journal_, W. writes for, 37. "Broadway Pageant, A," 205. Brooklyn, 1-3, 10-11; W. in, 56-7, 86, 110, 203-4, 210, 219, 232; leaves, 183; secures Fort Greene to town, 43. Brooklyn, battle of, 5. _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_, W. edits, 42-4; a correspondent of, 196. Brooklyn Ferry, 11, 40, 85. "Brooklyn Ferry, Crossing," 120. _Brooklyn Times_, W. and the, 109. Brown, John, different views of, and influence on America, 136, 159; O'Connor and, 190. Brown, Madox, 225. Browning, R., 62, 92, 291; and W., 293-5. Bruno, Giordano, 224. Brush, Major, 5; his niece, 5-6. Bryant, W. C., 40, 59, 172, 336; friendship for W., 42. Buchanan, President, 135, 175. Buchanan, Robert, his letter on W., 258-9. Bucke, Dr. R. M., 263, 305, 325-6, 334, 336, 341, 342; visits W., 269; account of, 269-70; his _Cosmic Consciousness_, 270; visited by W., 274-7; goes with W. to L. I., 280; his life of W., 304. Buddha, the, 121, 345. Bull Run, battle of, 182. Buonarotti, Michael Angelo, 102, 265. Burke, E., 290. Burns, Anthony, 81, 103. Burns, R., 289, 328, 337; W. and, 59; W. on, 329. Burnside, General, 182, 183. Burr, Aaron, W. and, xxv. Burroughs, J., in Washington, 191, 215; notes on W., 221, 304; walks with W., 233, 262; nurses W., 247-8; visits W., 251, 256, 258, 305, 342; W. visits, 231, 266, 270. Burroughs, Mrs., 234. "By Blue Ontario's Shore," 123, 209. Byron, 91, 320, 328; W. and, 59, 292-3. Calamus, meaning of the word, 162. _Calamus_ (poems), 162-7, 253; most esoteric of W.'s poems, 162; political significance, 163; personal revelation in, 165; underlying philosophy of, 166-7; vindicated, 194; J. A. Symonds and, 224. Calhoun, J. C., 24, 79, 175. California, 43, 63-4. Californian redwood tree, 255. Calvin, 121. Camden described, 246; W. in, xxvii, 248, 278, 315; loneliness there, 250; at 322, Stevens St., his life there, 250-1; removes to 431, Stevens St., 256; friends there, 257, 325; literary work, 257. See Mickle St. Canada, 311; W. plans to lecture in, 129; goes to, 274-7; interest in, 276-7. Canary, W.'s, 319. Capital punishment, W. opposes, 33, 42. Capitol, W. often at the, 201-2. "Captain! my Captain!" 337. Carlyle, Thos., 35, 84, 91, 92, 121, 263, 291, 294, 296, 306, 318, 328, 339; death of, 301; and _L. of G._, 171; his _Shooting Niagara_, 234, 236; W. and, 41, 59, 293. Carnegie, Andrew, 317. _Carpenter, The_, by O'Connor, 191, 227-9. Carpenter, Edward, 263; visits W., 266-9; account of, 266-7; his _Towards Democracy_, 267; his account of W., 267-9; second visit to W., 305-7; his _Art of Creation_, qu., 167; on W.'s children, 349-50. Carpenter, Tamosin, 347. Carpentering, W. takes up, 57; helpful to him, 85; gives up, 87. Carpenters, 122. Cass, Lewis, 44. Catalogues in _L. of G._, 84, 160, 222. Caution, highly developed in W., 68, 163. Cenci, 336. Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia, 265. Champagne, W.'s taste for, 315. "Champion of America," 131-2. Chancellorsville, battle of, 184. "Chanting the Square Deific," 212. See Satan. "Chants Democratic," 150. Charity, W. and, 312-3. Chattanooga, battle of, 187. Chestnut St. Opera House, Philadelphia, 317. Chicago, W. visits, 54. Child, in W.'s nature, the, 78, 344; dreams of a, 55. _Children of Adam_, 126, 144-7, 159-62, 284-6; difficulty of discussing, 160-1; Mrs. Gilchrist and, 225, 264. Children, W.'s, 51, 186, 230-1, 252, 349-50; W. and, 234, 273, 318, 320. China, W. talks of, 265. Chinese proverb, xxiii. Christ, 313, 345. See Jesus. "Christ-portrait" of W., 67. Christianity, W. and, 75-7, 168, 297, 339. _Chronicle, The_, W. M. Rossetti writes on W. in, 222. Church, W. in a Brooklyn, 68. Churches, W. and the, 42, 75-6, 142, 241, 280, 323. Cincinnati Society, 38. Citizenship and the soul, 208; for all, 240. City-life, attraction for W., 114; modern, xxviii. City-populations, 307. Clare, Ada, 139. Class-feeling, W.'s dislike of, 323. Classical allusions avoided in _L. of G._, 109. Clay, Henry, 23, 40, 42, 79, 134. Cleanthes, Hymn of, 224. Clements, Mr., W. apprenticed to, 19-20. Cleveland, President, 314, 320. Clothes, W.'s, 83, 110, 140, 304, 331. Cole, Mary, 234. Coleridge, S. T., 91, 119, 290. Colonna, Vittoria, 265. _Columbian Magazine_, W. writes for, 37. Columbus, xx-xxi, 243. See _Prayer of C._ "Columbus, A thought of," 340. Common people, W.'s love of the, 114. Companions, the Great, 168. _Complete Prose_, qu., 47-8. See Footnotes. "Compost, This," 122. Comrade, W. as a, 67; God the perfect, 244. Comrades, a society of, 312. Comradeship, _Calamus_ poems of, 162; political significance of, 163; W. institutes a rite of, 165; philosophy of, 167; W. creates a, 179; _L. of G._ brings to Symonds, 224; universal possibility of, 299-300; W.'s, 133, 149, 168, 196, 228, 232-3, 253, 275, 297. Comte, A., 62, 263. Concord, W. at, 281-2. Concrete, W.'s love for the, 60; quality, W.'s, 198. Coney Island Beach, W. goes to, 40, 57, 154. Confederacy of Southern States adopts a constitution, 175. Consciousness, the unfolding of, 69; the double nature of, 73-4; superhuman elements in, 228; W.'s, 316. See also "Cosmic consciousness". _Conservator_ (Philadelphia), _The_, 300 _n._ Conservative quality of W., 64. Constitution of U.S., xxiii, xxv, 23. Contemporary Club, the, 332. _Contemporary Review_ and W., 258. Conversion, W.'s experience compared with, 70, 72. Conway, Moncure, 93, 110-2, 344. Coolness, W.'s, 66. Cooper, Fenimore, 42, 59; W.'s love for the novels of, 19. "Copperheads," 185. "Cosmic consciousness," W.'s, 52, 117, 119, 168, 224, 333; W.'s experience of, 72-3; influence on style, 150-1, 153-4; Dr. Bucke on, 270. Cotton in the South, 24, 25. Cowper, W., 290. _Crescent, The_, New Orleans, 46. _Criterion, The_, criticism of W., 108. _Critic, The_, criticism of W., 108. Criticisms of Whitman, 171, 222, 224-5, 327-8, 329 _n._, 334-5; by W. 109, 329. Cromwell, O., 121. Croton Water-works, N.Y., 42. "Crucified, To him that was," 167-8, 227. Culpepper, Va., W. visits, 202. Cuba annexation desired, 135. Cuvier, 122. _Daily News_ and W., 258. Dana, C. A., 127. Dancing, W. approves, 43. Dannville, 209. Dante, 57, 109, 164, 226, 318. Dartmouth College, N.H., W. visits, 245. Darwin, C., 62. Davis, Jefferson, 79, 188. Davis, Mary, 305, 318-21, 336. Death, W. and the idea of, 9, 12, 101, 102, 158, 168-9, 242-3, 249, 266, 281, 287, 340-1; immortality and, 152-3, 155; welcome to, 152; W. learns lesson of, 249, 343; in shadow of, 253-4; W.'s, 344; reported, 247. "Death's Valley," 340-1. Declamation, _L. of G._ written for, 98. Declaration of Independence, xxiii, 23. Deliberate way of W. in hospitals, 196; character of W., 204. Democracy in New York, 83. Democracy, W. as, 335. Democracy, dangers of. See _Dem. Vistas_. _Democrat_, W. edits, 37. Democratic party, 13, 23, 40, 79, 82, 136, 172. _Democratic Review_, W. writes for, 33. _Democratic Vistas_, W. at work on, 234; America's need for national literature, 236; reasons for his criticism, 237; vast task of America, _ib._; fears for her, 238, 238-9 _n._; her need for religion, 238, and for great men, 239; too much "culture," 241; need of personality, of religion and of literature, 242, 245, 248. Denver, 272, 320. Depression, W.'s, during illness, 249. "Devil, If I felt like the," 338. See Satan. Dickens in America, 35, 42. Dix, Dorothea, 195. Dixon, Thomas, and _L. of G._, 171, 223. Dog, W.'s, 257. Don Quixote, W. reads, 58. Doubt, W. and, 100, 155, 164. "Dough-faces," 27, 39. "Dough-face Song, A," 39. Douglas, S. A., 44, 80, 134, 135, 172, 174, 176. Dramatic gift, W. has not the, 73. Dreams, W. on, 102. Doyle, Peter G., 210, 215, 258, 301, 305, 336, 344-5; account of, 230; and W., 231-4; nurses W., 247-8; letters to, 250, etc.; baggage-master, 257. Dred Scott decision, 135. Dress. See Clothes. Driving, W.'s love of, 303, 314. _Drum-taps_, published, 205; recalled, 212. See _L. of G._ Dutch, on Long Island, 3; realism, W.'s, 85. Dying, W.'s long, 330. Early tales, W.'s, 33-5, 286; early verses, W.'s, 39, 47-8, 290. Earth, W.'s conception of the, 117-9, 330; and evil, 122. Editor, W. as an, 37. Education, W.'s, 28. Edward VII. See Prince of Wales. Egoism, a divine, 90; of _L. of G._, 91. Egoist, W. not an, 53. Eldridge, C. (see also Thayer and Eldridge), 191, 247-8, 251. Election, methods of presidential, 174. Elizabeth, Queen, xx-xxi. Elliott, E., W. and, 327. Emancipation, Proclamation of, 183. Emerson, R. W., xxiii, 59, 62, 81, 108, 110, 129, 136, 151, 176, 258, 263, 291, 293, 303, 318, 328, 336; position in American letters, 91-3; and free rhythm, 92-3; Emerson and Whitman, 59, 91-4, 106-7, 112, 114-5, 137, 143-7, 148, 159, 163, 171, 322; his letter to W., 92-3, 127-8; W.'s letter to E., 127, 179; discussion between, 145-7, 159, 223; helps W. to get funds for hospitals, 198; W. revisits, 281-2; their friendship, 146, 163, 282-3; contrast of his and W.'s temperaments, 294; death of, 301. Emotional, atmosphere of poetry, 290-1; character of W.'s mysticism, 70-1. _Enfans d'Adam._ See _Children of Adam_. English, demand for _L. of G._, 257; fame of W., 223, 245; friends help W., 258-9, see Friends; habit of compromise, 208; language, W. and the, 97; readers of _L. of G._, 171; Reviews, W. reads, 57; W.'s appreciation of the, 338. England and America compared, xxii; dispute between, 43; W.'s idea of a home in, 338. Enjoyment, W.'s power of, 314-5. _En-masse_, frequent use by W. of, 216-7. "Ensemble," W.'s use of, 255. Epictetus, 318, 342-3. Equality, doctrine of, accepted in the South, 25; W.'s doctrine of, 102, 297. Erie Canal opened, 11. Euripides, 58. "Europe, the 72nd and 73rd year of these States," 103. Europe, its lack of sanity, 339. Evangelical, W. an, 77. _Evening Mail_ (_New York_), 245. Evil, W. and the problem of, 122, 124, 157, 212, 294-5, 340; evil in W.'s nature, 336. Evolution, W.'s doctrine of, 99, 100. Evolutionists, the, 224. Exhibition, International, 1853, 83-4. "Exposition, Song of the," 245, 248. Expression, need for, 89-90. Expurgation, W. agrees to, 285. "Faces," 102. "Facing West from California's shores," 162. Facts, W.'s love for, 60, 63. Fairfax Seminary Hospital, 194, 198. Faith, W.'s, 99, 100, 155, 244, 254-5. Falmouth, Va., 183-4. Farragut, Admiral, 182. Federal sentiment aided by steam-transit, 27. Federalists, 23. Fellowes, Col., 38. Fellowship, as an answer to doubt, 164; Morris's gospel of, 296; philosophy of, 166-7. Fellowship, W.'s, its character, 114, 299-300; with nature, 261-2; W.'s ideal of, 142. Fellowship, the Walt Whitman, 300 _n._ "Felons on trial in courts, You," 156. Ferries, W. and, 250-1, 266. See Brooklyn Ferry. Ferry-boat, W. steers a N.Y., 137. Fire-Island Beach, L. I., 29. "First, O songs, for a prelude," 206. "For you, O Democracy," 163. Forrest, Edwin, 21. _Fortnightly Review_, M. Conway's article on W. in, 110. Fourier, 309. Fourierists, W. and the, 323. Fowler, Mr., 67. Fowler & Wells, 87, 109, 129. Fox, George, 121, 173; his mystical experience, 72-3; in L. I., 4; and W., 298-300; W.'s essay on, 329. France, _L. of G._ in, 245; W. and the people of, 280. Francis of Assisi, 74, 152, 164, 169, 227. _Franklin Evans_, 46 _n._, 52; described, 35-7. Fredericksburg, battle of, 183. _Freeman, The_, W. founds, 56, 63. Frémont, J. C., 63, 134. Free-soil Democrats, 40, 44-5, 56, 134; W. and the, 40, 310. Free-trade, 177; W. and, 306-7, 323, 337. See also Tariffs. Friends, W.'s older men, 28; and women, 31; in N.Y., 137-9; in Washington, 190-2; circle of, 245; in Camden, 256-7, 325, 341, 342; English, assist W., 258-9, 316-7; dissimilarity among, 233; his need of, 165, 250-1; a city of, 165. Friends, Society of. See Quakers. Friends, Fox's, 298-9. Fritzinger, Harry, 319. Fritzinger, Warren, 319, 342, 343, 344. Fritzinger, W. W., 342. Fugitive Slave Bill, 79. "Full of life now," 166. Fuller (Ossoli), Margaret, 126. Funeral, W.'s, 344-6. Future, poet justified by, 97. Future, W.'s attitude towards the, 206. Games, W.'s love of, 30, 32. Garfield, President, 301. Garibaldi visits America, 173. Garrison, W. L., 81. Gentleman, Thoreau thinks W. a, 113. Georgian farmer, a, 321-2. German immigrants, 82. Germany, _L. of G._ in, 245. _Germ, The_, 97, 221-2. Gettysburg, battle of, 184, 187; Lincoln's speech at, 184. Gilchrist, Anne (Mrs. Alexander), 265, 267, 268, 301, 336; reads _L. of G._, 225; views of _C. of Adam_, 225-7, 284; letters published, 225; goes to Philadelphia, 263; account of, 263-6; W. visits, 266; death of, 303, 320. Gilchrist, Grace, quoted, 268, etc. Gilchrist, Herbert H., 320. Girls, attitude toward, 30. Glendale, W. at, 280, 286. Godiva, Lady, 264. God, W.'s idea of, 75, 76, 101, 243-4, 253-4. God latent in humanity, 100. Goethe, 58, 62, 121, 222, 224, 289, 292. _Good-bye, my Fancy_, described, 338-40; title explained, 340. _Good Gray Poet, The_, by O'Connor, 191, 214, 227, 333. Government, purpose of all, 240. Grant, Gen., 182; takes Vicksburg, 185; at Chattanooga, 187; faith of North in Grant, 188; ends war, _ib._; President, 235; and the West, 272; W.'s belief in, 203; W. appeals to, 209. "Great are the Myths," 104. Great Eastern Steamship, 173. Great men, W. values, 239. Greek, W. a, 279. Greeley, Horace, 39. Guyot, 263. Hafiz, 318. "Halcyon Days," 330. Hale, E. E., 108. Halleck, Fitz-Green, 42. Hamilton, Alex., xxv, 23. "Hand-Mirror, A," 124. Happiness, the purpose of things, 101; of old age, 330. Harlan, James, 219, 223, 227; dismisses W., 213-4. Harleigh Cemetery, 345. Harned, T. B., relations with W., 325, 349. Harper's Ferry, 136. _Harrington_, by W. D. O'Connor, 190. Harrison, President, 38. Hartmann, S., 319-20. Hawthorne, N., 34, 301. Health, a fine art, 241; spiritual basis of, 204, 339; open-air and, 340. Health, W. proud of his, 68-9; W. to irradiate, 101, 338; W.'s, 28; and mystical experience, 69; W.'s in Washington, 193; hurts his hand, 194; careful of his, 196; effect of heat upon, 200; first illness, 202-4; h. seems to be good again, 216; feels extremes of climate, 218; Rossetti thinks health affects W.'s philosophy, 222; partial paralysis, 232; illness, 246; details recounted, 247; relapse, 248; depression accompanies illness, 249; consideration of causes, 252-3; illness, poems in, 253-4; convalescence, 258; help derived from Nature, 260-2; h. improved, 270; ill in St. Louis, 273; in Canada, 275-6; better in Boston, 283; has a sunstroke, 314; increasing uncertainty, 317; paralysis, 326. Hegel, 62, 289, 309; limit of W.'s agreement with, 296-8. Heine, 339. Heretic, W. a, 143. Hero-worship, W.'s, 293. Heyde, Hannah (Whitman), 12, 86, 88, 342; W. visits, 246. Hicks, Elias, 4, 5, 6, 121, 142; account of, 14-5; preaches at Brooklyn, 15-7; his death, 17; effect on W., 16-9; W.'s essay on, 329. "Historian, To a," 153. Hodgson, Robert, an English Quaker, 4. Home-life, W.'s happy, 65-6. Homer, 57, 318. Hooker, General, 182, 184. Hospitals, W. at the old New York H., 137-8; W. commences to visit Washington, 184; service in them, 186; W. at the Armory Square H., 190; W. at the Washington, 192, 198, 318, 324; he needs money for work there, 192; there daily, 194; extent of hospitals, _ib._; nursing in, 195; need for affection in, _ib._; W.'s efficient service in, 196-8; effect on W., 199-200; conditions grow worse, 202-3; visits hospitals at Brooklyn and N.Y., 209; Sundays at Washington hospitals, 215; influence on W., 217; causes illness, 252-3, 339; pension proposed for service in, 316. Houghton, Lord, 112. House-building, 85. Householder, W. a, 315. See Mickle St. Houston, the filibuster, 43. Howells, W., and W., 138-9. Hugo, Victor, 138, 293. Humanity, W.'s love for, well founded, 41-2. Humility, W. and, 76, 154. Humour, W.'s, 303, 336-9. "Hunkers," 44. Hunt, Leigh, 109. Huntington, L. I., described, 2-3; W. at, 31; W. visits, 86. See West Hills. "Hush'd be the Camps to-day," 212. "Husky-haughty lips, With," 330. Idealism. See Mysticism. Idealism of America. See "American character". Identity, W.'s sense of, 74. Idiots, W. and, 274. "I dream'd in a dream," 165. _Iliad_, Pope's translation, 58. Illness, W.'s, see Health; originates in hospital-work, 339; features of last, 338, 341-4. Illumination, W.'s mystical, 69-78. Immanence, idea of, central in modern thought, 62. Immigration and N.Y., 81-2. Immigration and the labour problem, 310. Immortality, 152-3, 255, 332-3. See Death. Impersonal quality in W., 73, 293. Inconsistency, W.'s, 237. India used symbolically, 243-4. See "Passage to I." Indian Bureau, W. a clerk in, 210; Indians on L. I., 1-2; W.'s relations with Indians, 210. Industrial revolution, the, 307. Ingersoll, R. G., and W., 274; lectures on Whitman, 317; tribute to W., 332; W.'s view of I., _ib._; his agnosticism, 333; lecture on W., 333-5; visits W., 342; at the funeral, 346. "Inner Light," doctrine of, 16, 17. Institutions, W. and, 165, 323. "Ireland, Old," 205. Irish immigration, 82. Irving, Washington, 93. Israel, prophets of, 238, 241, 291. Italy and America, xx; rise of a new, 205-6. "I was looking a long while," 153. Jackson, President, 13, 23, 27, 38, 174. Jamaica Academy, L. I., W. at, 33. Japan, W. talks of, 268. Japanese Embassy, first, 172, 205. Jayne's Hill, 2. Jefferson, President, 13, 23, 25, 26, 38, 136. Jesus, 74; W.'s relation to, 76, 227-9; W.'s poem to, 167-8; and Humanity, 229. See Christ. Jingoism in America, 43-4. Job, 318. Johnson, President, 189, 235. Johnston, Col., 257. Johnston, Gen., 182. Johnston, Mrs. Alma C., 280, 282. Johnston, J., 336. Johnston, J. H., 342; W. visits, 266, 270, 280. Journalist, W. as a, 33-45. Journeys, W.'s, extent of, xxvii. See South, West, Canada. Joy, the note of _L. of G._, 90-1. Judiciary Square Hospital, 194. Kansas, 80, 134-5. Keats, J., 59, 91. Kennedy, W. S., 317; W.'s letter to, 282; his reminiscences, 301. "Knowledge alone, Long I thought that," 132-3. "Know-nothing" party, 134-5. Kossabones, W.'s ancestors, 31. Labour agitator's disappointment with W., a, 322. Labour problem, W. and the, 306-13, 322-3; in America, 308; in Europe, 308-9; in Long Island and N.Y., 309; in America after the war, 310; problem of immigration, _ib._; _laissez-faire_, 310-1; the socialists, 311; W. and Trade-Unionism, 312; W. and Toynbee Hall, 313. Lafayette, Gen., revisits America, 11. _Laissez-faire_, 310-1. Laurel Springs, 260. Lamarck, 62. Laws, W. and the, 292. "Laws for Creations," 153. Laziness, W.'s, 30-1. _Leaves of Grass_, title explained, 72; character of various sections, 286-7; unity as a whole, 287-8; style of, 84, 92, 98, 104-7, 150-1, 244, 273, 289-91, 328; genesis and evolution, 329; W. and, 330, 335; O'Connor and, 191; Ingersoll and, 332-5; Bucke and, 336; the war and, 339; conception, 55; gestation, 85-7. First edition, 87-8; attitude of family to, 88; own view, an expression of himself, 89-90; the keynote, joy, 90-1; Emerson's appreciation, 91-2; book described, 95-104; religious emotion in, 105-6; compared with Emerson's writings, 106-7; reception of, in America and England, 108-9; writes notices of, 109; its American character emphasised, _ib._; occupies W.'s time, 111; Emerson's dictum on, 115; spirit of revolt in this edition, 296-7; see also 148, 217. Second edition (1856), 116-129, 148; open letter to Emerson in appendix, 127-8; rapid sale, 128-9. Third edition, xxvi-xxvii, 132-3, 141-2, 218, 284-6; described, 148-170; personal note dominant in, 148-9; importance of this edition, 149-50; unity of volume, its optimism and mysticism, 151-2; welcome to death characteristic of, 152-3; his work a beginning, 154; _Children of Adam_, 159-62; _Calamus_ group, 162-7; poem to Jesus, 167-8; poems of death, 169-70; its circulation, 171; in England, 172; and the war, 180. _Drum-taps_, 205-9; "When lilacs last," 211; is read by students, 217; written under strong emotion, 220. Fourth edition (1867), 219, 221; W.'s views of, _ib._; Rossetti's selections, 221-2; the book in England, 223; Mrs. Gilchrist and, 225-7, 264. Fifth edition (1871), 242; _Passage to India_, 243; style of, 244; read in Europe, 245; poems of illness and death, 253-5. Centennial edition (1876), 259, 265, 286; sells well, 266; preface to, 267; and the Rocky Mountains, 273. Second Boston edition, 283-4, 286-8, 301; attacked by District Attorney, 284-5; sales, 305; diminution of, 316; re-published by McKay, 285; Worthington and, 286. _Sands at Seventy_, 329-30; latest poems, 338-41. Tenth edition, 342. _Leaves of Grass_, a section of third edition, 150. Lectures, W.'s, 129, 193, 270; to supplement _L. of G._, 129-30; a course on Democracy undelivered, 132. See Lincoln lecture, and Oratory. Lee, General, 182, 184, 187, 188, 324. Leibnitz, 62. Liberty, immortal, 103. Liberty party, 79. Libraries, 153. Life and Death, 104. Lilacs, 305. "Lilacs last in the Door-yard bloom'd, When," 211-2. Lincoln, President, xxiii, 5, 80, 121, 132; described, 134; protests against Dred Scott decision, 135; senatorial contest with Douglas, _ib._; attitude toward slavery, 136-7, 181-2; in N.Y., 172; election of (1860), 172, 174; interregnum before inauguration, 175; passes through N.Y., 175-6; his inaugural address, 176; and the war, 177, 179; call for troops, 178; his first tasks, 181-2; proclamation of emancipation, 183; speech at Gettysburg, 184; and abolition, 181-2, 187; enters Richmond, 188; re-election and assassination, 189, 210, 264-5; nature of his relation to America, 189; is denounced by W. Phillips, 191; American suspicion of his policy, 211; effect of his death, 211-2; and the South, 189, 324; and the West, 271; W. and, 234, 278; W. often meets, 201; W.'s faith in, 203; at last levee, 210; L.'s dictum on W., _ib._; W. and L.'s death, 278. "Lincoln's burial hymn, President." See Lilacs last. Lincoln lecture, W.'s, 270, 278, 317, 332. Lind, Jenny, 85, 86. Linton, W. J., 257. Lionising, W. and, 332. Literary circle, W.'s dislike of, 144. Literature necessary for national life, 236-242. "Live-oak growing, I saw in Louisiana a," 163, 250. Loafing of W., 141. Locomotive first enters N.Y., 42. "Locomotive in Winter, To a," 271. London, Ont., W. at, 270. Longfellow, H. W., 59, 88, 94, 138, 301, 336; and W., 278-9. "Long I thought that Knowledge alone," 132-3; Symonds and, 224. Long Island described, 1-3, 28-9; W. and, 31, 85, 89, 280. _Long Island Patriot_, W. and the, 20. _Long Island Star_, W. and the, 20. _Long Islander, The_, 56; W. founds the, 31-2. Love, the divine, 119; "the kelson" of the Universe, 72, 98; the one essential, 125; the passion of, 127; W. recognises power of, 35; W.'s religion one of, 77; love of Nature, W.'s, 260-1. Lowell, J. R., 59, 94, 317. Luther, 146. Lynching, W. denounces, 42. Lyrical ballads, 290. Lytton, Lord, 35, 247. Madison Sq. Theatre, N.Y., W. at, 317. "Magnet South," 235. Man, _L. of G._, not a book but a, 158. "Man-o'-War Bird, The," 259. Mannahatta, early name for N.Y., 20. See N.Y. Manual work, its value to W., 85. Maretzek, 85. Marriage, W. and, 50-3, 323, 336-7. "Mary, Aunt," 321. Mary and Martha, 164. Marx, Karl, 309. Mazzini, 62, 173; and W., 293-4. McClellan, Gen., 182, 189, 211. McKay, David, 285, 305. McKnight, Mrs., 234. Meade, Gen., 184-5. Mendelssohn, 320. Menken, Adah Isaacs, 49. Meredith, G., 60, 225, 291. _Messenger Leaves_ (section of _L. of G._), 167-9. Meteors in 1860, 173. Methodist vote, Mr. Harlan and the, 213. Mexican War, W.'s attitude towards, 43. Mickle Street, house in, described, 305, 317-9, 320. Mill, J. S., W. and, 308. Miller, "Joaquin," 64, 270. Millet, J. F., W. and, 84, 279-80, 293. Milton, 58, 121. Millwell. See West Hills. Mississippi, W. descends the, 47; ascends, 53; W. and the, 54, 270-1, 273. Missouri Compromise, 26, 134; River, 54; State, 271. Modesty, W.'s, 329. Money, W.'s indifference to, 65, 87; need for, 193, 198; income, 218-9; difficulties, 257-9, 316-7; see also 285, 341. Montauk Point, 1. Montgomery, Ala., 175. Moralist _versus_ mystic, 152; W. as a, 237, 292. Morris, W., 293, 331; W. compared with, 296. Morse, Sidney, makes a bust of W., 265, 320; discussions with "Aunt Mary," 321; with W., 322-3. Mount Vernon, W. visits, 215. "Mugwumps," 314. Murray and Byron, Mr., 285. "Music always round me, That," 164-5. Music, Mrs. Gilchrist and Carpenter's attitude towards, 267; W. and, 85-6, 320. Myers, F. W., 224. Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn, W. at, 56. Mysticism and materialism, xxiii; various forms of, 70, 121; Whitman's, 69-78, 117-121, 149, 152-67, 254, 298-300; and nature, 261-2, 339-40; and oratory, 130-1; and Quakerism, 180; and sex, 226; and war, 180-1, 207-8; philosophy of, 166-7. Myths, reverence for, 104. See Great are the M. Name, the power of the, 158. Napoleon, 289. "Native Moments," 161. Natural history, W.'s ignorance of, 230, 260-2. Nature and soul-life, 340; W.'s love of, 260-2. Negroes, W. doubts if they are worth cost of war, 186-7; W. and negro citizenship, 187; O'Connor and W. disagree about, 191; W. and negro problem, 235-6. New Amsterdam. See New York. New England, W. visits, in 1868, 234. New Orleans of '48 described, 48-50; W. goes to, 44, 46-53, 349-50; reminiscences of, 329. _New World, The_ (N.Y.), W. and, 33-7. New York described, 11, 20-22, 80-86, 139-40; art collections of, 279; sympathy with South, 24, 178; attitude towards Lincoln, 175-6; during war, 185, 206; W. and, xxvi-viii, 41-2, 64, 111, 245, 266, 270, 280; W. criticises, 236; he leaves, 183. _New York Evening Post_, W. writes for, 42. _New York Herald, The_, 115, 316. _New York Saturday Press_, W. and the, 138-9. _New York Sun_, W. writes for, 37, 127. _New York Times_, 184, 209. _New York Tribune_, the, 39, 40, 87, 108, 259, 285; W.'s poems in, 46. Newspapers, W. and, 62-3. Niagara, W. at, 54, 274. Nibelungenlied, 58, 337. Nietzsche and Whitman, 213, 293, 296-8. Nonconformity, W.'s, 99. North, its interests antagonistic to the South, 24-5; becomes identified with Federalism, 26; not united, 176; idealism of, 177; and protection, _ib._ _North American Review_, 108. _November Boughs_, 329-30, 339. "Now Finalé to the Shore," 243. Nurse, W.'s, 326. "Occupations, Song for," 101. O'Connor, W. D., W. visits and boards with, 190, 201, 215, 225; described, 190-1; and Harlan, 214; his _The Carpenter_, 227-9; W.'s quarrel with, 236, 248, 250, 258; and Messrs. Osgood, 285; dies, 326-7, 336. See also _Good Gray Poet_. O'Connor, Mrs., 234, 248. See also W. D. O'C. Officials, W.'s dislike of, 306. Old-age, W.'s view of, 330. "Old Jim Crow," W. fond of, 303. Omar Khayyam, 159, 318. "On the Beach at Night alone," 120. "Once I passed through a populous City," 51. Open-air, cure, W. tries, 260; W.'s love for, 199; W. writes in the, 101. See Nature. "Open Road, Song of the," 116, 119-20. Opera, W. at, 88, 178. Optimism, W.'s, 41-2, 91, 151, 200; false popular, 237-8. Oratory, W.'s love for, 33; his conception of, 129-31, 135, 143. See also Lectures. Oregon, dispute over boundary of, 43. Oriental writers, W.'s interest in, 115. Orsini, 136. Osgood & Co., 280, 285, 301. Ossian, 58, 289, 318. "Our old Feuillage," 150. "Out of the Cradle," 12, 158, 211, 281. "Outlines for a Tomb," 313. "Overmen," doctrine of, 297, 299. Owen, Robert, 308-9. Paine, Thomas, xxv, 5, 16, 25, 38. Painting, W.'s appreciation of, 84, 279-80. Paley, 62. _Pall Mall Gazette_ fund, 316. Pan, W. compared with, 112. Paralysis, W. begins to suffer from, 232. See Health. Parker, T., 143. Parodi, 85. Parties, W. outside political, 312. _Passage to India_ (booklet), 242-244; poem, 243-4, 249, 266, 287. Passion, W. and, 161-2, 206. Passionate element in W., 13, 68. Past, the, still present, 153, 256. Patent Office, Washington, used as hospital, 194; ball, 210. Paternity, redemption of, 127, 241. Patriotism, W.'s, aroused, 54-5. Paumànackers, 3. "Paumanok," nom-de-plume of W., 39. Peabody, George, 313. Peace, efforts towards, 185, 188; need for heroic idea of, 206-9. Penn, William, 5. Pension, proposed, 316. Personal note in _L. of G._, 158. Personality, Carpenter's account of W.'s, 268, 306; the source of power, 169; W.'s doctrine of, 239-40; W. retains sense of own, 74; W.'s, influence of, 30. Pessimism, Tolstoi's, 295-6; Morris and Ruskin's, 296. Pfaff's Restaurant, N.Y., 138-40. Philadelphia, W. in, 251, 331-5. See Camden. Phillips, Wendell, on Lincoln, 191. Philosophy, W.'s interest in, 60-62. Phrenological estimate of W.'s character, 67-8. Pierce, President, 80, 103, 135. "Pioneers! O Pioneers!" 205. Pittsburg, W. at, 271. Plato, 58, 121, 126, 239, 240, 282; and W., 224, 291-2. Plotinus, 121. Poe, E. A., 37, 59, 258, 320; W. meets, 42. Poet, W. describes his ideal, 95-7, 103, 117-8, 123-4; need of the poet for expression, 89-90; alone realises unity of all, 243; W. as a, 328-9. Poets, two orders of, 328-9. "Poets to Come," 154. Poetry, W.'s view of, 59-61, 109; W. reads by the sea, 60; changes in modern English, 289-290. Polk, President, 40, 43. Poor, a menace to Democracy, the very, 240, 310-1. Pope, A., W. compared with, 151, 289. Population of America, xxv, 176, 308. Portraits of W. in 36th year, 66-7; _L. of G._ portrait, 110; "gentle shepherd," 218; others, 140-1, 148, 230, 257, 331, 338. See list of illustrations. Pose, W.'s, 338. Potter, Dr. J., on W., 229-30. Prairies, W. and the, 271. Praise, W.'s love of, 303, 335. Prayer, W. and, 76. "Prayer of Columbus," 253; described, 254-5. Pre-existence, W.'s doctrine of, 101. _Preface_ of 1855 used for poems, 116; omitted, 129; in selections, 223. _Preface_ to 1871 ed., 243. _Preface_ to 2nd Annex, 339. Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 97. Price, Mrs. Abby, 139, 219-20. Price, Miss, qu., 219-20. Pride, W.'s, 156, 317. Printer, W. as a, 19-20, 56. Prisons of the South, 187; W. visits prisons, 111-2. Property, W. and private, 240; rights of, 311. Prosecution of W. proposed in 1856, 127; in 1882, 284-5. "Prostitute, To a Common," 168. Proudhon, 309. Publisher, W. as his own, 219, 258, 259, 285, 305. Punishment, method of, 30. "Pupil, To a," 169. Puritanism, W. free from, 19. _Putnam's Monthly_, 108. Quaker traits in W., 112; W.'s story of a, 334-5. Quakeresses in hospitals, 195. Quakers, 121; on L. I., 4-5; a crisis among American, 14, 15; attitude to war, W. and the, 206; doctrine of Inner Light, 16, 17; doctrine of revelation, 55; essential character of their faith, 18; W.'s relation to, 75-6, 180, 206, 298-9, 301-2; Williams family and the, 347-8. Quebec, W. at, 276. _Radical, The_ (Boston), publishes Mrs. Gilchrist's letters, 225. "Rain, The voice of the," 330. Ramsay, A., 290. Rand and Avery, 283. Realisation, W.'s power of, 99. Reality, evil necessary to, 212. Recitations, W.'s in hospitals, 197. Redpath, James, 198. "Redwood Tree, Song of the," 253; described, 255-6. Refinement, W. disclaims, 113. _Reformer, The_, 349. Rejected passages, 286. Religion, W.'s, 18-19, 70-8, 149, 241-4, 254, 299; and poetry, 61; new, 339; importance of, for America, 238, 241. See Mysticism. Religious emotion in _L. of G._, 105-6. Renaissance in America, xxiv. "Renfrew, Baron," 173. Republic, W.'s idea of, 292. See America. Republican becomes Democratic party, 13; new party formed, 132, 134; and the South, 189, 235; and corruption, 314. Respectable, W. seems to be growing, 216, 218. "Respondez," 124. "Return of the Heroes, The," 209. Reviews himself, W., 109, 323-4. Revolt, W.'s, against bondage, 296-7. Rhythm, changes in rhythm of poetry, 290-1; various emotional values of, 291; W.'s feeling for sea, 60; free, Emerson studies, 93; W.'s view of, 96-8. Rich, W. in danger of becoming, 57. "Rich Givers, To," 169. Richmond, the Confederate capital, 182; surrenders, 188. "Rise, O Days, from your fathomless Deeps," 206. Robespierre, 289. Rock Creek, W. at, 201. Rocky Mountains, W. in the, 272-3. Rodin, A., 130. Rolleston, T. W., his _Epictetus_, 318. "Rolling Earth, Song of the," 117-9. Romance of America, the, xix-xxiii. Rome, Andrew, printer, 88. Romney, 264. Roosa, D. B. St. J., qu., 137-8. "Roots and leaves themselves alone," 165. Rossetti, W. M., 97, 171, 259, 263-4; his selections from _L. of G._, 221-3, 227, 245; criticism of _L. of G._, 222; relations with W., 223, 259; and Mrs. Gilchrist's letters, 225. Rossetti, D. G., 222, 223, 263-4, 328. Rossi, 284. "Roughs," W. "one of the," 114. "Rounded Catalogue, The," 340. Rousseau, J. J., 23, 58, 97, 108, 263, 289, 292. Royce, Josiah, his _World and the Individual_, 166. Rumford, Count (Colonel Thompson), 2. Ruskin, J., 62, 171, 263, 296. Rynders, Isaiah, 82. Saadi, 318. Saint, W. no, 76, 337. St. Lawrence River, W.'s view of the, 276. St. Louis, W. visits, 53, 271, 273, 286. St. Simon, 309. Saguenay, W. on the, 276. "Salut au Monde," 116, 158. Sanborn, F. B., W. visits, 281-2. San Francisco, 63. Sand, George, 293, 318. Sanity, W.'s, 297. Santayana, George, his criticism of W., 329 _n._ Satan, 212, 298, 297, 321. "Scented herbage of my breast," 167. Science, W. and, 60-2, 96, 242; Mrs. Gilchrist and Carpenter's attitude toward, 267. Scott, Sir Walter, 57, 91, 318, 320; W. reads, 19. Scott, W. Bell, 171, 223. Sea, W. and the, 9, 31, 58, 60, 154-5. Secession, South Carolina proposes, 24; proclaims, 175; not desired by America, 176; soldiers, W. nurses, 199; talk in New England, 27. Self, the, 74, 166; and the Other, 61; the electric, 154. Self-assertion, W.'s doctrine of, 76, 297. Self-consciousness of W., 128. Self-realisation, gospel of, 148, 253. Self-revelation of W., 264. Semele, 275. Seward, W. H., 79, 172, 175. Sex, W. and, 144-7, 159-62, 167; W.'s expanded conception of, 226; Thoreau puzzled by W.'s view, 115; W.'s experience of, 71; and religion, 70-1; basic in life, 126-7. Shakespeare, xxi, 57, 318. Shelley, P. B., W. indifferent to, 59; compared with, 107-8; also 91, 97, 290, 295. Sherman, Gen., 187; his march to the sea, 188. Ships, W.'s love of, 60, 335-6, 343-4; Yankee clipper, 64. Sin, W.'s attitude toward, 18, 124-5, 151, 156, 161, 255. Skin, rich texture of W.'s, 316. Slavery, 79-81, 135-7; divides North from South, 25; W. and, 103; and Democratic party, 82, see Abolitionism, etc.; S. party and election of 1860, 173-4; and the war, 177; in N.Y., 310-1. Slave-trade, 140. Sleep, W. on, 102. "Sleepers, The," 102, 274. Sleepy Hollow, 301. Smith, Adam, 308. Smith, Mary Whitall. See Mrs. Berenson. Smith, R. Pearsall, 297; relations with W., 301-4; leaves Philadelphia, 325. Smoking, 32. See Tobacco. Social functions, W.'s interest in, 40. Social problem in N.Y., 139-40. Socialism, W. and, 239, 312. Socialist, ideal, the, 308-9, 312; party in America, 311; Socialists, early, 308. Solidarity, of the nation, felt in war-time, 207; of the peoples, 205-6; W.'s feeling for, 239-40, 242-3, 306-7, 337, 343. Solitude, W.'s, 233, 331, 342; compared with Thoreau and Emerson's, 113-4. "So Long," 169. "Sometimes with one I love," 164. "Song of Myself," 122, 243, 286; analysed, 98-101; qu., 72 _n._; called "Walt Whitman," 150. Sophocles, 57. Soul, the flesh and the, in modern religion, 61; and Science, 96, 242; in Nature, 102, 340; W.'s view of the, 98, 120, 149. South, its interests antagonistic to those of the North and West, 24-5; similarity of interest with N.Y., 25; policy, 26, 43; and the war, 82-3, 176-7, 187, 235; slavery and the, 25, 80-1; pride of the, 187, 324; Lincoln and, 189; and the Union, 180, 314; W. and the, 46-55, 180, 235, 237, 349-50. South Carolina, and Federal tariff, 24, 27. Southey, R., 327. "Sovereign States," doctrine of, 26. _Specimen Days_, 262, 266. _Specimen Days and Collect_, 286. Spectacles, W. begins to wear, 245. Speech, W.'s manner of, 98; W.'s style and, 291. Spencer, Herbert, 62, 263. Spirits, W. and, 149. Spiritualistic woman and W., 234. "Spontaneous Me," 127. Spooner, Alden J., 20, 22, 30-1. _Springfield (Mass.) Republican_, 259. Square Deific. See "Chanting the S. D." "Squatter Sovereignty," 44, 79, 80, 134. Stafford family, 260; George, 260-2, 266, 280, 343. Stage-driver, W. as a, 137; stage-drivers of N.Y., 138. See Broadway. Stanton, Mrs. E. C., 126. Stars and Stripes, the, xx, 335. "Starting from Paumanok," 148. Staten Island, N.Y., 140. _Statesman, The_, W. edits, 37. Stay-at-home, W. a, 64. Steam-transit and Federal sentiment, 27. Stedman, E. C., 191, 317-8. Stockton, Commodore, 63. "Stranger, To a," 165. Strength, W.'s great physical, 68. Stubborn quality in W., 251. Style of _L. of G._, 84, 92, 104-5, 150-1, 244, 289-91. See under _L. of G._ Subjective character of W.'s genius, 105. Suggestiveness of _L. of G._, 269. Sumter, Fort, 178. "Sunset Breeze, To the," 339, 340. "Sunset, Song at," 152. Sunstroke, an early, 200-1; another, 314. Superhuman quality in W., 228; noted by M. Conway, 111; by Thoreau, 115. Swayne, bookseller, 87. Swinburne, A. C., 60, 223-5, 245, 327-9. Swinton, John, 138. Symbolism, W.'s, 117-8, 120; example of the broad-axe, 122. See Mysticism. Symonds, J. A., W.'s letter to, 51, 349-50; and _L. of G._, 172, 224-5; account of, 223-4, 245, 267, 291, 336, 343. Sympathy, W.'s yearning for, 267. Tammany Hall, 38, 82, 178. Taney, R. B., 135. Tariffs, 24. See Free-trade. _Tattler_, W. edits, 37. Taylor, Father, as described by W., 142-3; death, 283. Taylor, President, 45, 50. Teacher, W. as a, 28-33, 233; method of punishment, 30. Teetotalism, W.'s support of, 33, 35-7. See Temperance. Temperance, W.'s, 122, 159-60, 315. Tennyson, A., Lord, 35, 92, 109, 223, 245, 283, 290, 318, 336; W. enjoys, 59; W. reads aloud, 275; regards W. as "a great big something," 115; and W., 339. Texas admitted to Union, 43. Thayer & Eldridge, publishers, 141-2, 171, 190. Theatres of N.Y., W. goes to, 85-6, 19, 41, 270, 284. Theory, W. no adept in, 75. "There was a child went forth," 103. "These I singing in spring," 163. "Think of the soul," 125. Thoreau, H. D., 129, 171, 282-3, 301, 303, 335; visits W., 112-6; and J. Brown, 136,159; W. solitary as, 233. "Thou Mother with thy equal brood," 245. Timber Creek, W. visits, 259-61, 268, 281; descriptions of, 260-1; W. to have a cottage at, 317. Tippecanoe, fight at, 38. Tobacco, W. distributes in hospitals, 197. Tolstoi, L., 293; W. compared with, 295-6. Tomb, W.'s, 341. "To one shortly to die," 168. "To soar in Freedom," 328. "To think of Time," 102. _Towards Democracy_, E. Carpenter's, 267, 305. Toynbee Hall, W. and, 313. Trade-Unionism, W. and, 312. Tragedy, W.'s predilection for, in earlier writings, 34-5. Tramp, W. envies the, 326. Traubel, Horace, relations with W., 325, 326, 329, 331, 332, 342, 343, 344; quoted, 349-50; sec. of W. Fellowship, 300 _n._ Treasury Building, W. at, 190, 215, 233, 247. _Tribune, New York._ See _N. Y. T._ "Trickle Drops," 165. Tri-Insula, a republic, 178. Trowbridge, J. T., 142. Tuft's College, Mass., 255. Tupper, M. F., W. compared with, 327. "Twain, Mark," 317. "Two Rivulets" described, 266. Tyler, President, 38. Ulysses' return, 276. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, 81, 187. Unitarianism, W.'s relation to, 76. Union, W. and the idea of the American, 55. Unity, W.'s doctrine of the universal, 120; of _L. of G._, 221. "Universal, Song of the," 253; described, 255. Untidiness, W.'s, 318. Van Buren, 44; W. supports, 33, 38. Van Velsor, Major C., 4, 10; family, 347. -- Louisa. See L. Whitman. -- Naomi. See Williams. Verdi, 320. Verse, W. writes, 47. Vice, Society for the Suppression of, 284, 285. Victoria, Queen, W. and, 339. Vicksburg taken by Grant, 185. Virgil, 318. Virginia, xx, 26, 188. "Vocalism," 157. Voice, W.'s, described, 98; W. and the, 154, 157. Vow, Whitman's (1861), 181, 204, 216. Wagner, R., 293, 320. Wales, Prince of, and W., 173. Walks at Washington, W.'s, 215, 233. Wallace, A. R., 62. Wallace, J. W., visits W., 338. "Walt," W. calls himself, 141. Walt Whitman Club, 325; fellowship, 300 _n._ War, W.'s attitude towards, 43, 202-3, 205-9; and "a divine war," 206; his mysticism of, 207-8; must be followed by nobler peace, 208-9. War of 1812, 10. War of 1861-65, 182-203; causes of, 82, 208; inevitableness, 177; not for abolition, 187; W. and the, xxvi, 178-209; ready to share in, 202. Washington, President, xxv, 5, 10, 38, 289; W. compares himself with, 131. Washington, condition of, during war, 194-8, 216. Washington, W. in, xxvii, 184-248, 301, 306; its influence on W., 150, 245; W. visits hospitals, see H.; W.'s manner of life in, 190, 193, 215; W. fond of, 201-2; why he remains, 218-9; walks at, 233; W. and negro problem in, 235; hopes to return, 252; discharged from post, 257; visit to, 258. Wealth of America becoming concentrated, 310. Webster, Daniel, 42, 79. Wesley, J., 290. West, the, its interests, 24; its settlement threatens the South, 26; problem of, 79; W. and the, xxvii; first sees, 54; contemplates settlement in, 183; journey, 271-4. West Hills, the Whitman homestead, 5, 103, 260, 320; described, 7-9; holidays at, 12; W. visits, 280. "What am I after all," 158. Whigs, the American, 23, 24, 44. Whitehorse, the hamlet of, W. stays at, 259-60. See Timber Creek. Whitman, Abijah, 5. -- Andrew, 13, 86, 193, 256. -- Edward, 86, 256, 341. -- George, 13, 86, 182, 185, 246, 248, 250, 256, 257, 266, 342; view of _L. of G._, 88; volunteers, 178-9; wounded, 183; anxiety about, 203; a prisoner, 209-10; in Brooklyn, 218; in Camden, 246; W. leaves his house, 305. Whitman, Hannah. See Heyde. -- Iredwell, 280. -- Jefferson, 13, 50, 53, 86, 88, 185, 193, 251, 256, 273; goes to St. Louis, 218; W. visits there, 265-5; death of, 342. -- Jesse (W.'s grandfather), xxv, 5, 6, 8. -- Jesse (W.'s brother), 11, 65, 86, 256. -- Jessie, 342. -- Joseph, 5. -- Lieutenant, 5. -- Louisa (van Velsor), 4, 65, 103, 112; described, 6-7; and W., 12-3; illness, 19-20; and _L. of G._, 88; letters of W. to, 202, 233, 247, etc.; age and failing health, 210; a link with W.'s youth, 233; goes to Camden, 246; death, 248; effect on W., 249, 250, 252, 258; her tomb, 341. -- Louisa (Mrs. George W.), 250, 269. -- Mahala, 280. -- Martha, 248. -- Mary, 11, 86. -- Walt, Dutch element in, 3; born, 6; at West Hills, 7-9; at Brooklyn, 10-3; hears Hicks, 15-8; amusements and education, 19; as a lad, 19-20; sees Booth, 22; and politics, 22, 33; at seventeen, 28; as a teacher, 28-33; games, 30; his idleness, 20, 30-1; and _Long Islander_, 31-2; wholesomeness, 32; a journalist, 33-7; _Franklin Evans_, 35; an editor, 37; political views, 39, 40, 44; love of society, 40; and of New York, 20, 41-2; the _Eagle_, 42-4; public work, 43; goes to New Orleans, 46, 49-53; returns _via_ St. Louis, 54; his idea of America, 55; becomes a carpenter, 56; his reading, 57-61; attitude to American writers, 59-60; and to science, etc., 60-2; passion for America, 63; inner development, 65, 69-78; W. at 35, 66-8, 83; in N.Y., 82-6; hears Alboni, 86; indifference to money, 87; begins _L. of G._, 87; publishes it, 88; daily habits, 65, 88; holidays, 86, 89; power of joy, 91; compared with Emerson, 94; view of the poet, 95-7; describes his childhood, 103-4; religious quality of W., 105-6; relation to Emerson, Rousseau, Shelley, 106-8; reviews _L. of G._, 109; visit from Conway, 110-2; appearance in '55, 111; visit from Alcott and Thoreau, 112-5; love of city-life, 114; publishes second edition _L. of G._, 116; symbolism of W., 117-22; W. as the American poet, 123; W. and evil, 124-5; and women, 126-7; in danger of prosecution, 127; publishes Emerson's letter, 127-8; his letter to E., 128; idea of lecturing, 129-31; and of political life, 131-2; need for comrades, 132-3; becomes a Republican, 134; W. and J. Brown, 136; W.'s N.Y. friends, 137; in N.Y., 138-40; appearance in 1860, 140; rarely laughs, 142; at Boston, 142-3; with Emerson, 143-7; his optimism, 151; humility, 154; mystic experience, 155; pride, 156; evil qualities, 156; attitude toward sex, 159-62; his temperance, 160; as Adam, 162; on comradeship, 163; W. and Jesus, 167-8; and death, 169; W. in N.Y., 172; and P. of Wales, 173; sees Lincoln, 175-6; W. and the outbreak of war, 178-81; goes to front, 183-4; home-troubles, 185-6, 193; life in Washington, 190, 193, 201; friends there, 190-2; appearance, 192; occupation, 192-3; health, 193; thinks of lecturing, 193-4; in hospitals, 194-200; meets Lincoln, 201; first illness, 202, 203-4; willing to share in war, 203; in Brooklyn, 203-5, 209; prepares _Drum-taps_, 205; attitude to war, 205-9; seeks release of George W., 209-10; clerk in Indian Bureau, 210 W. and Lincoln's death, 211-2; Harlan incident, 213-4; as a clerk, 216; gentler, 217; decreasing vitality, 218; visits Mrs. Price, 219-20; relations with W. M. Rossetti, 223; with Symonds, 223-5; Mrs. Gilchrist's letters, 225; W. and sex, 226; legendary element in story of W., 227; outcome of his personality, 228-9; W. and P. Doyle, 231-3; W.'s solitude, 233; W. and women, 234; supports Grant, 235; quarrel with O'Connor, 236; his _Democratic Vistas_, 236-42; publishes fifth edition of _L. of G._, 242; W. a careful writer, 244; public recitation of poems, 245; illness, 247-57; goes to Camden, 248; effect of mother's death, 249; loneliness in Camden, 250; poems at this juncture, 253-5; his residence, 256; discharged from post, 257; poverty and help from England, 258-9; visits Timber Creek, 260-2; Mrs. Gilchrist comes to Phila., 263-5; W. sits for bust, 265; Carpenter's visit and account of W., 267-9; Dr. Bucke's do., 270; W.'s journey West, 271-4; and to Canada, 274-7; goes to Boston, 278-82; sees Emerson, 282; _L. of G._ troubles, 284-6; W. and other prophetic writers, 289-300; puts himself into his rhythm, 291; universality of W., 295; and vital power, 298; his friendship with Pearsall Smith, 301-4; W. takes the Mickle St. house, 305; second visit of Carpenter, 305-7; W. and labour problems, 306-13; was he a Socialist? 311-2; W. a "mugwump," 314; his household, 317-9; visitors, 319-24; his politico-social views, 323-4; serious illness, 326; more querulous, 327; Swinburne's attack, 327; increased need for silence, 331; birthday dinners, 331-2; Ingersoll's lecture, 333-5; W. and _L. of G._, 335-6; his views of health, 338-40; his tomb, 341; last illness, 341-4; last letter, 342; death, 344; funeral, 344-6; note on visit to New Orleans, etc., 349-50. Whitman, his characteristics, described by phrenologist, 67-8. See also 303-4, 334, and under Anger, Coolness, Elemental quality, Evil in, Humility, Humour, Mysticism, Pride, Sanity, Wonder, etc. -- Walter (father of W.), 56, 103; described, 6, 13-4; moves to Brooklyn, 10; relations with W., 12, 65; death, 86, 88; tomb, 341. -- Zechariah, 5. Whitman, burying ground, West Hills, 9; family, and Hicks, 14; and _L. of G._, 88; homestead at West Hills, 2. See W. H. Whitmanites, 218. Whitman's America, Introd.; W. owes much to A., xxv; its development, xxvi; extent of W.'s journeys, xxvii; W. a metropolitan American, and a type of America, xxvii-viii. "Whitman's hollow," 5. Whittier, J. G., 59, 336. "Whoever you are holding me now in hand," 163. Whole, the idea of the, W.'s love for, 60-1. "Who learns my lesson complete?" 104. Wholesomeness, W.'s, 32. Wickedness, W.'s attitude to, 104. Williams, family of, 31, 347-8. -- Naomi, 4, 347-8. -- Roger, 4. Wilmot proviso, the, 43, 44. Wisconsin, State of, W. in, 54. Wisdom found in fellowship, 164. "Woman waits for Me, A," 126. Woman, W. and, 102, 125-7, 148, 225-6, 240, 274. Women, W.'s relations with, 51-3, 71, 139, 160, 234, 263, 303, 323, 349-50. Women of America, 122; of Boston, 279. Women's suffrage, 240; W. and, 125-6. Wonder, W.'s capacity for, 78. Wood, Fernando, 82, 178, 185. Wood, Silas, 7. Woodfall and Junius, 285. "Word out of the Sea, A." See "Out of the Cradle". Words, W.'s idea of, 96, 117-9; W. invents, 212. Wordsworth, W., 91, 97, 290; W. and, 59. Work, W.'s power of, 32. Working-man, American, W. and the, 312, 322. Worship, W. feels this is for solitude, 142. Worthington, Mr., 285-6. Yankee, W. dislikes the, 103. "Years of the Modern," 205-6. Yeomen as citizens, 306, 308. Young people, W. and, 275, 303. Youth, America the land of, xx-xxii. THE ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS LIMITED A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY METHUEN AND COMPANY: LONDON 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. 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THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. By John Bunyan. THE NOVELS OF JANE AUSTEN. In 5 volumes. VOL. I.--Sense and Sensibility. THE ENGLISH WORKS OF FRANCIS BACON, LORD VERULAM. Vol. I.--Essays and Counsels and the New Atlantis. THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ON THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. By Thomas à Kempis. THE WORKS OF BEN JONSON. In about 12 volumes. *VOL. I.--The Case is Altered; Every Man in His Humour; Every Man out of His Humour. *Vol. II.--Cynthia's Revels; The Poetaster. THE PROSE WORKS OF JOHN MILTON. *VOL. I.--Eikonoklastes and The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates. SELECT WORKS OF EDMUND BURKE. Vol. I.--Reflections on the French Revolution. THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING. Vol. I.--Tom Jones. (Treble Volume.) THE POEMS OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. In 2 volumes. *Vol. I.--Miscellaneous Poems. *THE LIFE OF NELSON. By Robert Southey. THE MEDITATIONS OF MARCUS AURELIUS. Translated by R. Graves. THE HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. By Edward Gibbon. In 7 volumes. The Notes have been revised by J. B. Bury, Litt.D. THE PLAYS OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. *Vol. I.--Tamburlane the Great; The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus. *THE NATURAL HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF SELBORNE. By Gilbert White. THE POEMS OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. In 4 volumes. *Vol. I.--Alastor; The Daemon of the World; The Revolt of Islam, etc. *Vol. II.--Prometheus Unbound; The Cenci; The Masque of Anarchy; Peter Bell the Third; Ode to Liberty; The Witch of Atlas; Ode to Naples; Oedipus Tyrannus. The text has been revised by C. D. Locock. *THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS. Translated by W. Heywood. THE WORKS OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE. In 6 volumes. *Vol. I.--Religio Medici and Urn Burial. THE POEMS OF JOHN MILTON. In 2 volumes. *Vol. I.--Paradise Lost. *Vol. II.--Miscellaneous Poems and Paradise Regained. SELECT WORKS OF SIR THOMAS MORE. *Vol. I.--Utopia and Poems. *THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION, NATURAL AND REVEALED. By Joseph Butler, D.D. *THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER. 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Illustrated. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Fitzstephen (Gerald).= MORE KIN THAN KIND. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Fletcher (J. S.).= LUCIAN THE DREAMER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Fraser (Mrs. Hugh)=, Author of 'The Stolen Emperor.' THE SLAKING OF THE SWORD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ *THE SHADOW OF THE LORD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Gerard (Dorothea)=, Author of 'Lady Baby.' THE CONQUEST OF LONDON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ HOLY MATRIMONY. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ MADE OF MONEY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ *THE IMPROBABLE IDYLL. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Gerard (Emily).= the HERONS' TOWER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Gissing (George)=, Author of 'Demos,' 'In the Year of Jubilee,' etc. THE TOWN TRAVELLER. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Gleig (Charles).= BUNTER'S CRUISE. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =Harrod (F.) (Frances Forbes Robertson).= THE TAMING OF THE BRUTE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Herbertson (Agnes G.).= PATIENCE DEAN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hichens (Robert).= THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ FELIX. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ BYEWAYS. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. _Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE BLACK SPANIEL. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hobbes (John Oliver)=, Author of 'Robert Orange.' THE SERIOUS WOOING. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hope (Anthony).= THE GOD IN THE CAR. _Tenth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure.'--_The World._ A CHANGE OF AIR. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. The characters are traced with a masterly hand.'--_Times._ A MAN OF MARK. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Of all Mr. Hope's books, "A Man of Mark" is the one which best compares with "The Prisoner of Zenda."'--_National Observer._ THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. _Seventh Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'It is a perfectly enchanting story of love and chivalry, and pure romance. The Count is the most constant, desperate, and modest and tender of lovers, a peerless gentleman, an intrepid fighter, a faithful friend, and a magnanimous foe.'--_Guardian._ PHROSO. Illustrated by H. R. MILLAR. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'The tale is thoroughly fresh, quick with vitality, stirring the blood.'--_St. James's Gazette._ SIMON DALE. Illustrated. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'There is searching analysis of human nature, with a most ingeniously constructed plot. Mr. Hope has drawn the contrasts of his women with marvellous subtlety and delicacy.'--_Times._ THE KING'S MIRROR. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'In elegance, delicacy, and tact it ranks with the best of his novels, while in the wide range of its portraiture and the subtilty of its analysis it surpasses all his earlier ventures.'--_Spectator._ QUISANTE. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'The book is notable for a very high literary quality, and an impress of power and mastery on every page.'--_Daily Chronicle._ THE DOLLY DIALOGUES. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hope (Graham)=, Author of 'A Cardinal and his Conscience,' etc., etc. THE LADY OF LYTE. _Second Ed. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hough (Emerson).= THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Housman (Clemence).= AGLOVALE DE GALIS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Hyne (C. J. Cutcliffe)=, Author of 'Captain Kettle.' MR. HORROCKS, PURSER. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Jacobs (W. 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Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE DRYAD. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Macnaughtan (S.).= THE FORTUNE OF CHRISTINA MACNAB. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Malet (Lucas).= COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION. _New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ LITTLE PETER. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ THE WAGES OF SIN. _Fourteenth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE CARISSIMA. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE GATELESS BARRIER. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'In "The Gateless Barrier" it is at once evident that, whilst Lucas Malet has preserved her birthright of originality, the artistry, the actual writing, is above even the high level of the books that were born before.'--_Westminster Gazette._ THE HISTORY OF SIR RICHARD CALMADY. _Seventh Edition._ 'A picture finely and amply conceived. In the strength and insight in which the story has been conceived, in the wealth of fancy and reflection bestowed upon its execution, and in the moving sincerity of its pathos throughout, "Sir Richard Calmady" must rank as the great novel of a great writer.'--_Literature._ 'The ripest fruit of Lucas Malet's genius. A picture of maternal love by turns tender and terrible.'--_Spectator._ 'A remarkably fine book, with a noble motive and a sound conclusion.'--_Pilot._ =Mann (Mrs. M. E.).= OLIVIA'S SUMMER. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ A LOST ESTATE. _A New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE PARISH OF HILBY. _A New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE PARISH NURSE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ GRAN'MA'S JANE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ MRS. PETER HOWARD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ A WINTER'S TALE. _A New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS. _A New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Books for Boys and Girls. =Marriott (Charles)=, Author of 'The Column.' GENEVRA. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._ =Marsh (Richard).= THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ A DUEL. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE MARQUIS OF PUTNEY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Mason (A. E. W.)=, Author of 'The Courtship of Morrice Buckler,' 'Miranda of the Balcony,' etc. CLEMENTINA. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. Second Edition. 6s._ =Mathers (Helen)=, Author of 'Comin' thro' the Rye.' HONEY. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ GRIFF OF GRIFFITHSCOURT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE FERRYMAN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Maxwell (W. B.)=, Author of 'The Ragged Messenger.' VIVIEN. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Meade (L. T.).= DRIFT. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ RESURGAM. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Meredith (Ellis).= HEART OF MY HEART. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ '=Miss Molly=' (The Author of). THE GREAT RECONCILER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Mitford (Bertram).= THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER. Illustrated. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ IN THE WHIRL OF THE RISING. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE RED DERELICT. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Montrésor (F. F.)=, Author of 'Into the Highways and Hedges.' THE ALIEN. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Morrison (Arthur).= TALES OF MEAN STREETS. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A great book. The author's method is amazingly effective, and produces a thrilling sense of reality. The writer lays upon us a master hand. The book is simply appalling and irresistible in its interest. It is humorous also; without humour it would not make the mark it is certain to make.'--_World._ A CHILD OF THE JAGO. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'The book is a masterpiece.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ TO LONDON TOWN. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'This is the new Mr. Arthur Morrison, gracious and tender, sympathetic and human.'--_Daily Telegraph._ CUNNING MURRELL. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Admirable.... Delightful humorous relief ... a most artistic and satisfactory achievement.'--_Spectator._ THE HOLE IN THE WALL. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A masterpiece of artistic realism. It has a finality of touch that only a master may command.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'An absolute masterpiece, which any novelist might be proud to claim.'--_Graphic._ '"The Hole in the Wall" is a masterly piece of work. His characters are drawn with amazing skill. Extraordinary power.'--_Daily Telegraph._ DIVERS VANITIES. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Nesbit (E.).= (Mrs. E. Bland). THE RED HOUSE. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Norris (W. E.).= THE CREDIT OF THE COUNTY. Illustrated. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE EMBARRASSING ORPHAN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ NIGEL'S VOCATION. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ BARHAM OF BELTANA. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Ollivant (Alfred).= OWD BOB, THE GREY DOG OF KENMUIR. _Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Oppenheim (E. Phillips).= MASTER OF MEN. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Oxenham (John)=, Author of 'Barbe of Grand Bayou.' A WEAVER OF WEBS. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE GATE OF THE DESERT. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Pain (Barry).= THREE FANTASIES. _Crown 8vo. 1s._ LINDLEY KAYS. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Parker (Gilbert).= PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. _Sixth Edition._ 'Stories happily conceived and finely executed. There is strength and genius in Mr. Parker's style.'--_Daily Telegraph._ MRS. FALCHION. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A splendid study of character.'--_Athenæum._ THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. Illustrated. _Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A rousing and dramatic tale. A book like this is a joy inexpressible.'--_Daily Chronicle._ WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC: The Story of a Lost Napoleon. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Here we find romance--real, breathing, living romance. The character of Valmond is drawn unerringly.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH: The Last Adventures of 'Pretty Pierre.' _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'The present book is full of fine and moving stories of the great North.'--_Glasgow Herald._ THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Illustrated. _Thirteenth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Mr. Parker has produced a really fine historical novel.'--_Athenæum._ 'A great book.'--_Black and White._ THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. A Romance of Two Kingdoms. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Nothing more vigorous or more human has come from Mr. Gilbert Parker than this novel.'--_Literature._ THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ 'Unforced pathos, and a deeper knowledge of human nature than he has displayed before.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ =Pemberton (Max).= THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ I CROWN THEE KING. With Illustrations by Frank Dadd and A. Forrestier. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Phillpotts (Eden).= LYING PROPHETS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ CHILDREN OF THE MIST. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE HUMAN BOY. With a Frontispiece. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'Mr. Phillpotts knows exactly what school-boys do, and can lay bare their inmost thoughts; likewise he shows an all-pervading sense of humour.'--_Academy._ SONS OF THE MORNING. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ 'A book of strange power and fascination.'--_Morning Post._ THE RIVER. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._ '"The River" places Mr. Phillpotts in the front rank of living novelists.'--_Punch._ 'Since "Lorna Doone" we have had nothing so picturesque as this new romance.'--_Birmingham Gazette._ 'Mr. Phillpotts's new book is a masterpiece which brings him indisputably into the front rank of English novelists.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'This great romance of the River Dart. The finest book Mr. Eden Phillpotts has written.'--_Morning Post._ THE AMERICAN PRISONER. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE SECRET WOMAN. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ KNOCK AT A VENTURE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels. =Pickthall (Marmaduke).= SAID THE FISHERMAN. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ BRENDLE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ ='Q,'= Author of 'Dead Man's Rock.' THE WHITE WOLF. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Rhys (Grace).= THE WOOING OF SHEILA. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE PRINCE OF LISNOVER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Rhys (Grace) and Another.= THE DIVERTED VILLAGE. With Illustrations by DOROTHY GWYN JEFFREYS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Ridge (W. Pett).= LOST PROPERTY. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ ERB. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ A SON OF THE STATE. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ A BREAKER OF LAWS. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ MRS. GALER'S BUSINESS. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._ SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.P. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =Ritchie (Mrs. David G.).= THE TRUTHFUL LIAR. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ =Roberts (C. G. D.).= THE HEART OF THE ANCIENT WOOD. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =Russell (W. 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With 16 Illustrations. _Second Ed. Crown 8vo. 6s._ *=Wyllarde (Dolf)=, Author of 'Uriah the Hittite.' THE FORERUNNERS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ Methuen's Strand Library _Crown 8vo. Cloth, 1s. net._ Encouraged by the great and steady sale of their Sixpenny Novels, Messrs. Methuen have determined to issue a new series of fiction at a low price under the title of 'METHUEN'S STRAND LIBRARY.' These books are well printed and well bound in _cloth_, and the excellence of their quality may be gauged from the names of those authors who contribute the early volumes of the series. Messrs. Methuen would point out that the books are as good and as long as a six shilling novel, that they are bound in cloth and not in paper, and that their price is One Shilling _net_. They feel sure that the public will appreciate such good and cheap literature, and the books can be seen at all good booksellers. The first volumes are-- =Balfour (Andrew).= VENGEANCE IS MINE. TO ARMS. =Baring-Gould (S.).= MRS. CURGENVEN OF CURGENVEN. DOMITIA. THE FROBISHERS. =Barlow (Jane).= Author of 'Irish Idylls.' FROM THE EAST UNTO THE WEST. A CREEL OF IRISH STORIES. THE FOUNDING OF FORTUNES. =Barr (Robert).= THE VICTORS. =Bartram (George).= THIRTEEN EVENINGS. =Benson (E. F.)=, Author of 'Dodo.' THE CAPSINA. =Besant (Sir Walter).= A FIVE-YEARS' TRYST. =Bowles (G. Stewart).= A STRETCH OFF THE LAND. =Brooke (Emma).= THE POET'S CHILD. =Bullock (Shan F.).= THE BARRYS. THE CHARMER. THE SQUIREEN. THE RED LEAGUERS. =Burton (J. Bloundelle)=. ACROSS THE SALT SEAS. THE CLASH OF ARMS. DENOUNCED. =Chesney (Weatherby).= THE BAPTIST RING. THE BRANDED PRINCE. THE FOUNDERED GALLEON. JOHN TOPP. =Clifford (Mrs. W. K.).= A FLASH OF SUMMER. =Collingwood (Harry).= THE DOCTOR OF THE 'JULIET.' =Cornfield (L. Cope).= SONS OF ADVERSITY. =Crane (Stephen).= WOUNDS IN THE RAIN. =Denny (C. E.).= THE ROMANCE OF UPFOLD MANOR. =Dickson (Harris).= THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED. =Embree (E. C. F.).= THE HEART OF FLAME. =Fenn (G. Manville).= AN ELECTRIC SPARK. =Findlater (Mary).= OVER THE HILLS. =Forrest (R. E.).= THE SWORD OF AZRAEL. =Francis (M. E.).= MISS ERIN. =Gallon (Tom).= RICKERBY'S FOLLY. =Gerard (Dorothea).= THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED. =Glanville (Ernest).= THE DESPATCH RIDER. THE LOST REGIMENT. THE INCA'S TREASURE. =Gordon (Julien).= MRS. CLYDE. WORLDS PEOPLE. =Goss (C. F.).= THE REDEMPTION OF DAVID CORSON. =Hales (A. G.).= JAIR THE APOSTATE. =Hamilton (Lord Ernest).= MARY HAMILTON. =Harrison (Mrs. Burton).= A PRINCESS OF THE HILLS. Illustrated. =Hooper (I.).= THE SINGER OF MARLY. =Hough (Emerson).= THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. ='Iota' (Mrs. Caffyn).= ANNE MAULEVERER. =Kelly (Florence Finch).= WITH HOOPS OF STEEL. =Lawless (Hon. Emily).= MAELCHO. =Linden (Annie).= A WOMAN OF SENTIMENT. =Lorimer (Norma).= JOSIAH'S WIFE. =Lush (Charles K.).= THE AUTOCRATS. =Macdonnell (A.).= THE STORY OF TERESA. =Macgrath (Harold).= THE PUPPET CROWN. =Mackie (Pauline Bradford).= THE VOICE IN THE DESERT. =M'Queen Gray (E.).= MY STEWARDSHIP. =Marsh (Richard).= THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. GARNERED. A METAMORPHOSIS. MARVELS AND MYSTERIES. BOTH SIDES OF THE VEIL. =Mayall (J. W.).= THE CYNIC AND THE SYREN. =Meade (L. T.).= OUT OF THE FASHION. =Monkhouse (Allan).= LOVE IN A LIFE. =Moore (Arthur).= THE KNIGHT PUNCTILIOUS. =Nesbit (Mrs. Bland).= THE LITERARY SENSE. =Norris (W. E.).= AN OCTAVE. =Oliphant (Mrs.).= THE PRODIGALS. THE LADY'S WALK. SIR ROBERT'S FORTUNE. THE TWO MARY'S. =Penny (Mrs. F. A.).= A MIXED MARRIAGE. =Phillpotts (Eden).= THE STRIKING HOURS. FANCY FREE. =Randal (J.).= AUNT BETHIA'S BUTTON. =Raymond (Walter).= FORTUNE'S DARLING. =Rhys (Grace).= THE DIVERTED VILLAGE. =Rickert (Edith).= OUT OF THE CYPRESS SWAMP. =Roberton (M. H.).= A GALLANT QUAKER. =Saunders (Marshall).= ROSE A CHARLITTE. =Sergeant (Adeline).= ACCUSED AND ACCUSER. BARBARA'S MONEY. THE ENTHUSIAST. A GREAT LADY. THE LOVE THAT OVERCAME. THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD. UNDER SUSPICION. THE YELLOW DIAMOND. =Shannon (W. F.).= JIM TWELVES. =Strain (E. H.).= ELMSLIE'S DRAG NET. =Stringer (Arthur).= THE SILVER POPPY. =Stuart (Esmé).= CHRISTALLA. =Sutherland (Duchess of).= ONE HOUR AND THE NEXT. =Swan (Annie).= LOVE GROWN COLD. =Swift (Benjamin).= SORDON. =Tanqueray (Mrs. B. M.).= THE ROYAL QUAKER. =Trafford-Tannton (Mrs. E. W.).= SILENT DOMINION. =Waineman (Paul).= A HEROINE FROM FINLAND. =Watson (H. B. Marriott-).= THE SKIRTS OF HAPPY CHANCE. Books for Boys and Girls _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ THE GETTING WELL OF DOROTHY. By Mrs. W. K. Clifford. 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THE SNOWBALL, and SULTANETTA. CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN. ACTÉ. THE BLACK TULIP. THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. Part I. Louis de la Vallière. Double Volume. Part II. The Man in the Iron Mask. Double Volume. THE CONVICT'S SON. THE WOLF-LEADER. NANON; OR, THE WOMEN'S WAR. Double volume. PAULINE; MURAT; AND PASCAL BRUNO. THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE. FERNANDE. GABRIEL LAMBERT. CATHERINE BLUM. THE CHEVALIER D'HARMENTAL. Double volume. SYLVANDIRE. THE FENCING MASTER. THE REMINISCENCES OF ANTONY. CONSCIENCE. *THE REGENT'S DAUGHTER. A Sequel to Chevalier d'Harmental. Illustrated Edition. THE THREE MUSKETEERS. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s. 6d._ THE PRINCE OF THIEVES. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._ ROBIN HOOD THE OUTLAW. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._ THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. Illustrated in Colour by A. M. M'Lellan. _1s. 6d._ THE WOLF-LEADER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _1s. 6d._ GEORGES. Illustrated in Colour by Munro Orr. _2s._ TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _3s._ AMAURY. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _2s._ THE SNOWBALL, and SULTANETTA. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._ THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _3s. 6d._ *CROP-EARED JACQUOT; JANE; Etc. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _1s. 6d._ THE CASTLE OF EPPSTEIN. Illustrated in Colour by Stewart Orr. _1s. 6d._ ACTÉ. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _1s. 6d._ *CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN. Illustrated in Colour by D. Murray Smith. _1s. 6d._ *THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _1s. 6d._ *FERNANDE. Illustrated in Colour by Munro Orr. _2s._ *THE BLACK TULIP. Illustrated in Colour by A. Orr. _1s. 6d._ Methuen's Sixpenny Books =Austen (Jane).= PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. =Baden-Powell (Major-General R. S. S.).= THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH. =Bagot (Richard).= A ROMAN MYSTERY. =Balfour (Andrew).= BY STROKE OF SWORD. =Baring-Gould (S.).= FURZE BLOOM. CHEAP JACK ZITA. KITTY ALONE. URITH. THE BROOM SQUIRE. IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. NOÉMI. A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. LITTLE TU'PENNY. THE FROBISHERS. *WINEFRED. =Barr (Robert).= JENNIE BAXTER, JOURNALIST. IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS. THE COUNTESS TEKLA. THE MUTABLE MANY. =Benson (E. F.).= DODO. =Bloundelle-Burton (J.).= ACROSS THE SALT SEAS. =Brontë (Charlotte).= SHIRLEY. =Brownell (C. L.).= THE HEART OF JAPAN. =Caffyn (Mrs.), 'Iota.'= ANNE MAULEVERER. =Clifford (Mrs. W. N.).= A FLASH OF SUMMER. MRS. KEITH'S CRIME. =Connell (F. Norreys).= THE NIGGER KNIGHTS. *=Cooper (E. H.).= A FOOL'S YEAR. =Corbett (Julian).= A BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS. =Croker (Mrs. B. M.).= PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. A STATE SECRET. ANGEL. JOHANNA. =Dante (Alighieri).= THE VISION OF DANTE (CARY). =Doyle (A. Conan).= ROUND THE RED LAMP. =Duncan (Sarah Jeannette).= A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION. THOSE DELIGHTFUL AMERICANS. =Eliot (George).= THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. =Findlater (Jane H.).= THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE. =Gallon (Tom).= RICKERBY'S FOLLY. =Gaskell (Mrs.).= CRANFORD. MARY BARTON. NORTH AND SOUTH. =Gerard (Dorothea).= HOLY MATRIMONY. THE CONQUEST OF LONDON. =Gissing (George).= THE TOWN TRAVELLER. THE CROWN OF LIFE. =Glanville (Ernest).= THE INCA'S TREASURE. THE KLOOF BRIDE. =Gleig (Charles).= BUNTER'S CRUISE. =Grimm (The Brothers).= GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. =Hope (Anthony).= A MAN OF MARK. A CHANGE OF AIR. THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. PHROSO. THE DOLLY DIALOGUES. =Hornung (E. W.).= DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. =Ingraham (J. H.).= THE THRONE OF DAVID. =Le Queux (W.).= THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER. =Linton (E. Lynn).= THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON. =Lyall (Edna).= DERRICK VAUGHAN. =Malet (Lucas).= THE CARISSIMA. A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION. =Mann (Mrs. M. E.).= MRS. PETER HOWARD. A LOST ESTATE. THE CEDAR STAR. =Marchmont (A. W.).= MISER HOADLEY'S SECRET. A MOMENT'S ERROR. =Marryat (Captain).= PETER SIMPLE. JACOB FAITHFUL. =Marsh (Richard).= THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE. THE GODDESS. THE JOSS. =Mason (A. E. W.).= CLEMENTINA. =Mathers (Helen).= HONEY. GRIFF OF GRIFFITHSCOURT. SAM'S SWEETHEART. =Meade (Mrs. L. T.).= DRIFT. =Mitford (Bertram).= THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER. =Montrésor (F. F.).= THE ALIEN. =Moore (Arthur).= THE GAY DECEIVERS. =Morrison (Arthur).= THE HOLE IN THE WALL. =Nesbit (E.).= THE RED HOUSE. =Norris (W. E.).= HIS GRACE. GILES INGILBY. THE CREDIT OF THE COUNTY. LORD LEONARD. MATTHEW AUSTIN. CLARISSA FURIOSA. =Oliphant (Mrs.).= THE LADY'S WALK. SIR ROBERT'S FORTUNE. =Oppenheim (E. Phillips).= MASTER OF MEN. =Parker (Gilbert).= THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. =Pemberton (Max).= THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE. I CROWN THEE KING. =Phillpotts (Eden).= THE HUMAN BOY. CHILDREN OF THE MIST. =Ridge (W. Pett).= A SON OF THE STATE. LOST PROPERTY. GEORGE AND THE GENERAL. =Russell (W. Clark).= A MARRIAGE AT SEA. ABANDONED. MY DANISH SWEETHEART. =Sergeant (Adeline).= THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD. BARBARA'S MONEY. THE YELLOW DIAMOND. =Surtees (R. S.).= HANDLEY CROSS. Illustrated. MR. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. Illustrated. ASK MAMMA. Illustrated. =Valentine (Major E. S.).= VELDT AND LAAGER. =Walford (Mrs. L. B.).= MR. SMITH. THE BABY'S GRANDMOTHER. =Wallace (General Lew).= BEN-HUR. THE FAIR GOD. =Watson (H. B. Marriot).= THE ADVENTURERS. =Weekes (A. B.).= PRISONERS OF WAR. =Wells (H. G.).= THE STOLEN BACILLUS. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: In order to preserve the experience of the book, some obcure, inconsistent and archaic words and spellings were maintained, especially in the catalog. The entries in the List of Illustrations does not match the wording of the captions, however if the reader compares them, it will be apparent that the meanings correspond. Throughout the book, some obvious errors were corrected. These and other notes are listed below. Page xvii In this book: _Good-bye and Hail_ = _Good-bye and Hail, W. W._, 1892. Originally: _Goodbye and Hail_ = _Goodbye and Hail, W. W._, 1892. Page 23 In this book: election,[53] an Adams of Massachusetts was returned Originally: election,[53] Adams of Massachussetts was returned Page 46 In this book: as strange and fascinating to the son of Mannahatta as Originally: as strange and fascinating to the son of Mannhatta as Page 55 In the original book, the only footnote on the page was numbered "4" but the anchor was numbered "1". Page 62 In this book: suggest, at any rate, a theory for his attitude toward Originally: suggest, at anyrate, a theory for his attitude toward Page 122 In this book: the Broad-axe as the true emblem of America, Whitman's Originally: the Broadaxe as the true emblem of America, Whitman's Page 178 In this book: of a new island republic of New York? "Tri-Insula" Originally: of a new island republic of New York? "Tri-insula" Page 188 In this book: from Chattanooga through Atlanta to the Originally: from Chattanooga through Atalanta to the Footnote 398 In this book: _Recollections of Washn. in War Time_ Because of the odd abbreviation of Washington, I looked for this book. The only book I found with a similar title by A. G. Riddle was _Recollections of War Times--Reminiscences of Men and Events in Washington, 1860-1865_. Footnote: 436 In this book: _Wound-Dresser_, 139. Originally: _Wound-Dresser_, 189. Page 215 In this book: He went on great walks, especially by night, Originally: He went great walks, especially by night, Page 260 In this book: former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the kecks Originally: former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the keks Page 274 In this book: the "Song of the Broad-axe"--the best-beloved, Originally: the "Song of the Broadaxe"--the best-beloved, Page 338 In this book: The volume, _Good-bye, my Fancy_, appeared in the Originally: The volume, _Goodbye, my Fancy_, appeared in the Page 340 In this book: his _Good-bye, my Fancy_ is but a new welcome, Originally: his _Goodbye, my Fancy_ is but a new welcome, Page 352 In this book: Barnum, P. T., 85. Originally: Barnum, T. P., 85. Page 352 In this book: "Broad-axe, Song of the," 122, 274. Originally: "Broadaxe, Song of the," 122, 274. Page 359 In this book: Lafayette, Gen., revisits America, 11. Originally: Lafayette, Gen., re-visits America, 11. Page 362 Entries starting with "Op" followed entries starting with "Or". They have been alphabetized. Page 365 In this book: example of the broad-axe, 122. Originally: example of the broadaxe, 122. Page 6 In this book: AND ANGEVINS: 1066-1272. With Originally: AND ANGEVINS: 1066-1072. With Page 27 In this book: =Crashaw (Richard).= THE ENGLISH Originally: =Crawshaw (Richard).= THE ENGLISH Page 27 In this book: POEMS OF RICHARD CRASHAW. Originally: POEMS OF RICHARD CRAWSHAW.