LIBRARY 
 
 r 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA J 
 
V 
 
 7*2 
 
SOUTHERN WRITERS 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 CRITICAL STUDIES. 
 
 BY WILLIAM MALONp BASKERVIU. 
 
 Volume I. 
 
 NASHVILLE, TE.\N. 
 
 DALLAS, TEX.; RICHMOND, VA. 
 
 PUBLISHING HOUSE M. E. CHURCH, SOUTH 
 
 SMITH & LAMAH, AGENTS 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1897, 
 BY BARBEE & SMITH, AGENTS, , 
 
25 315 
 
 So 
 
 preface. 
 
 SINCE 1870 Southern writers have 
 been conspicuous contributors to the 
 nation s literature, rendering it both more 
 widely national and more representatively 
 American. The time has not yet arrived 
 for attempting to place a final estimate 
 upon any portion of this contribution; 
 but a presentation of the conditions un 
 der which these writers have labored 
 and a narrative of some of the personal 
 facts which have influenced their wri 
 tings will tend, it is hoped, to stimulate a 
 desire for a more intimate acquaintance 
 with this literature, which is so fresh, 
 original, and racy of the soil. The ear 
 lier writers of this period attracted unu 
 sual attention, and most readers beyond 
 forty may recall the rapture of glad sur 
 prise with which each new Southern 
 writer was hailed, as he or she revealed 
 negro, mountaineer, cracker, or creole 
 life and character to the %vorld. There 
 was joy in beholding the roses of ro 
 mance and poetry blossoming above the 
 ashes of defeat and humiliation, and that 
 too among a people hitherto more re- 
 iii 
 
 918 
 
preface. 
 
 markable for the masterful deeds of war 
 rior and statesmen than for the finer, 
 rarer, and more artistic creations of lit 
 erary genius. To this was added the ex 
 hilaration of fresh and novel discoveries, 
 of making the acquaintance of new re 
 gions and new peoples. Whether the 
 discoverers reported mere transcriptions 
 from contemporary life and manners or 
 threw over scenery, incident, situation, 
 and character the unfading light of ideal 
 izing and creative imagination all were 
 gladly welcomed. But that day quickly 
 passed, and there is nothing novel now 
 either in Southern authorship or South 
 ern topics and scenes. We have long 
 since grown familiar with both. Under 
 these more natural conditions we can 
 therefore the more easily take note of that 
 which has already been accomplished. 
 
 At first it was thought that a tolerably 
 complete survey of this literary movement 
 which so rapidly spread over the entire 
 South could be made in a series of twelve 
 short papers. But the increasing interest 
 in the study of Lariier s poetry, as well as 
 the intrinsic worth of the man and his 
 message, carried this paper far beyond 
 the limits originally intended. Furthei- 
 consideration of the subject has also 
 induced me to include among the num 
 iv 
 
preface. 
 
 her of typical writers "Sherwood Bon- 
 ner," the first Southern writer to use ne 
 gro character with artistic effect in liter 
 ature, and Madison Cawein and Mrs. 
 Burton Harrison, two of the most prom 
 ising of our more recent writers, so 
 that the revised list will embrace Irwin 
 Russell, Joel Chandler Harris, Maurice 
 Thompson, Sidney Lanier, George W. 
 Cable, "Charles Egbert Craddock," 
 James Lane Allen, Thomas Nelson Page, 
 Richard Malcolm Johnston, Mrs. Burton 
 Harrison, Miss Grace King, "Sherwood 
 Bonner," Mrs. Margaret J. Preston, Sam 
 uel Minturn Peck, and Madison Cawein. 
 In a closing chapter the works of various 
 other Southern writers of fiction at the 
 present time will be discussed. 
 
 This pioneer attempt to survey the en 
 tire field of this unique post-bellum litera 
 ture, to indicate its inherent unity, and to 
 work out some of the details character 
 istic of its production and of the product 
 itself is, I trust, the not too ambitious aim 
 of this series of papers which it is hoped 
 may tend to secure in the nation at large 
 a just estimate of the South s latest con 
 tribution to the common storehouse of 
 American literature. 
 
 W. M. BASKERVILL. 
 
 VANDEKBILT UNIVERSITY, August 26, 1897. 
 V 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. IRWIN RUSSELL i 
 
 II. JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 41 
 
 III. MAURICE THOMPSON 89 
 
 IV. SIDNEY LANIER 137 
 
 V. GEORGE W. CABLE 299 
 
 VI. CHARLES EGBERT CRAD- 
 
 DOCK 357 
 
 (vii) 
 
Irvpin IRuaselU 
 
 AY O U N G Marylander, a 
 stripling just from college, 
 was dreaming dreams from 
 which he was awakened by the guns 
 of Sumter. One sleepless night in 
 April, 1 86 1, he wrote the poem, 
 " My Maryland," which may not in 
 aptly be called the first note of the 
 new Southern literature " new in 
 strength, new in depth, new in the 
 largest elements of beauty and 
 truth." He that had ears to hear 
 might have heard in the booming of 
 those guns not only the signal for a 
 gigantic contest, but also the proc 
 lamation of the passing away of the 
 old order, and along with it the wax- 
 flowery, amateurish, and sentimental 
 race of Southern writers. 
 
 But first should come the terrible 
 experiences of a mighty conflict, in 
 which the soul of the people was to 
 be brought out through struggles, 
 
Irwtn IRuseelL 
 
 passions, partings, heroism, love, 
 death all effective in the production 
 of genuine feeling and the develop 
 ment of real character. While the 
 battles were being fought in the 
 homes of the Southerners, their 
 poets sent forth, now a stirring, 
 martial lyric, now a humorous song 
 or poem recounting the trials and 
 hardships of camp, hospital, and 
 prison life, these becoming ever 
 more and more intermingled w.ith 
 dirges for Jackson, for Albert Sid 
 ney Johnston, for Stuart, for Ashby, 
 and finally for the " Conquered Ban 
 ner." But in all of these there was 
 no trace of artificiality, no sign of 
 mawkish sentimentality. They were 
 surcharged with deep, genuine, sin 
 cere feeling ; they were instinct with 
 life. In this respect the war poetry 
 laid the foundation for the new liter 
 ature. 
 
 Accompanying the return to real 
 ity was a social earthquake which 
 laid bare the rich literary deposits in 
 2 
 
Irwtn IRusseiu 
 
 which the South abounded. As one 
 of the best of the new school has 
 said, "Never in the history of this 
 country has there been a generation 
 of writers who came into such an 
 inheritance of material as has fallen 
 to these younger writers of the 
 South." Under the new order 
 Southern life and manners were for 
 the first time open to a full and free 
 report and criticism. 
 
 It is noticeable that in the racy, 
 humorous writings of Longstreet, 
 Thompson, Meek, and others 
 sketches which contained the ele 
 ments of real life the negro is con 
 spicuous for his absence. At that 
 time there was enough and to spare 
 written about him by way of defense, 
 vindication, or apology, but to use 
 him as art material seemed to be far 
 from the thoughts of Squthern writ 
 ers. The only notable book in which 
 negro character was made use of 
 chanced to be a phenomenal success ; 
 but as it was written on the principle 
 3 
 
f twin IRussell. 
 
 of antagonism, and as it really served 
 as the signal for the deadly struggle 
 which followed, it was altogether 
 natural that Southern writers would 
 not imitate this example. After the 
 war, however, the one subject which 
 hitherto could have been treated with 
 least freedom became the most pro 
 lific theme of the new writers. Con 
 sciously or unconsciously, they one 
 and all, with one noteworthy excep 
 tion, adopted a method diametrically 
 opposed to that of the author of 
 " Uncle Tom s Cabin." They were 
 either those whose lives had been 
 purified in the fires of adversity and 
 defeat, or buoyant, ardent young 
 souls "with the freshness of early 
 dew upon their wings." 
 
 This literature of the new South 
 had for its cardinal principles good 
 will and sympathy. Its aims were 
 to cement bonds of good fellowship 
 between the sections, to depict the 
 negro according to his real character, 
 and to exhibit to the world the true 
 4 
 
f twin IRuseeU. 
 
 relations which existed between mas 
 ter and slave. 
 
 Irwin Russell was among the first, 
 if not the very first, of Southern 
 writers to appreciate the literary 
 possibilities of the negro character 
 and of the unique relations existing 
 between the two races before the 
 war, and was among the first to de 
 velop them, says Joel Chandler Har 
 ris. This skillful delineator of 
 unique and peculiar character was 
 naturally drawn to the sensitive, er 
 ratic, but exquisitely attuned young 
 poet, and he contributed the " Intro 
 duction " when his slender remnant 
 was published in 1888 by the Cen 
 tury Company under the title: 
 "Poems by Irwin Russell." The 
 whole story is told in a few simple 
 words by Mr. Harris, in which he 
 says of Russell: "He possessed in 
 a remarkable degree what has been 
 described as the poetical tempera 
 ment, and though he was little more 
 than twenty-six years old at the 
 
frwin IRussell. 
 
 time of his death, his sufferings and 
 his sorrows made his life a long one. 
 He had at his command everything 
 that affection could suggest ; he had 
 loyal friends wherever he went ; but 
 in spite of all this, the waywardness 
 of genius led continually in the di 
 rection of suffering and sorrow. In 
 the rush and hurly-burly of the 
 practical, everyday world he found 
 himself helpless; and so, after a 
 brief struggle, he died." 
 
 It is surprising how few in the 
 South know anything of this young 
 poet except his name, and many 
 have never heard that. Only one 
 sketch of him has found its way into 
 the literary journals, and that is a very 
 interesting and valuable paper in the 
 Critic^ written by Charles C. Mar 
 ble, who seems to have had a close 
 personal acquaintance with the " un 
 happy boy." Another paper of still 
 more vividly personal interest was 
 written by Catherine Cole and pub 
 lished in the Neiv Orleans Times* 
 6 
 
trwin IRussell, 
 
 Democrat. But for much of the 
 personal matter the writer is indebt 
 ed to the young poet s mother, who, 
 though an invalid, is still living. 
 
 In Irwin Russell s veins mingled 
 the blood of Virginia and of New 
 England. His paternal great-grand 
 father was a soldier of the Revolu 
 tion, and hailed from the Old Do 
 minion. His grandfather was born 
 and reared in this state, but after 
 reaching manhood he went thence 
 to Ohio, where he settled and mar 
 ried a woman of fine intellect, a na 
 tive of the Isle of Wight, Miss 
 Mary McNab. One of their sons is 
 still living, Mr. Addison P. Russell, 
 who was formerly Secretary of 
 State in Ohio, but is better known 
 now as the author of several books : 
 "Library Notes," "A Club of One," 
 and "In a Club Corner." Irwin s 
 father, Dr. William McNab Russell, 
 grew up in Ohio, studied medicine, 
 and was married to a young lady, a 
 native of New York, but of New 
 7 
 
Utwfn IRussell. 
 
 England ancestry. The newly mar 
 ried pair then sought a home in 
 Mississippi, settling at Port Gibson, 
 where the young doctor engaged in 
 the practice of medicine, becoming 
 in a short time very successful. 
 Here it was, June 3, 1853 the 
 year in which the author of "Marse 
 Chan" first saw the light in Vir 
 ginia that Irwin Russell was born. 
 Almost immediately, at three months 
 of age, he was subjected to an attack 
 of yellow fever, which terrible 
 scourge was then raging as an epi 
 demic. That same year the family 
 and home were transferred to St. 
 Louis, Mo., where they remained 
 until the breaking out of the Civil 
 War. Then Dr. Russell took his 
 family back to Port Gibson to cast 
 in his lot with the Confederacy ; for^ 
 like almost every Northerner that 
 had made his home in the South, he 
 was an ardent sympathizer with this 
 section. 
 
 \VhiIe at St. Louis Irwin was 
 8 
 
I twin 
 
 placed in school, for he was a re 
 markably precocious boy, having 
 learned to read well at four years of 
 age. lie was a diligent little stu 
 dent, and so general was his infor 
 mation that his young friends used 
 to call him the " walking cyclopedia." 
 Again, after the war, he was sent 
 back to this city to be placed in the 
 St. Louis University, which was 
 under the charge of the Jesuit fa 
 thers, and from which he was grad 
 uated in 1869 with high credit. At 
 college he kept up his studious hab 
 its and gave evidence of real ability, 
 his talents being more particularly 
 shown in the line of higher mathe 
 matics. Mr. Marble writes : " I re 
 member hearing him talk brilliant 
 ly of the science of navigation, of 
 which, theoretically, he was master. 
 He had discovered a method of ex 
 actly ascertaining the latitude from 
 observations of the sun s altitude 
 and deviation from the meridian ; 
 and when it was favorably reported 
 9 
 
f twin IRuseell. 
 
 upon by certain scientific persons he 
 immediately applied to the captain o* 
 a ship for the privilege of making a 
 voyage with him, that he might test 
 and increase his knowledge of navi 
 gation." 
 
 After graduation he returned to 
 Mississippi, read law, and by a spe 
 cial act of the Legislature he was 
 admitted to the bar at the age of 
 nineteen. He practiced for awhile, 
 and became specially proficient in 
 conveyancing, which is said to re 
 quire very exact technical knowl 
 edge. But one of his peculiar tastes 
 and disposition could hardly be ex 
 pected to confine himself to the 
 daily routine and drudgery of a law 
 office. He was inclined to diver 
 sions ; one, for example, was the 
 printer s trade, which he learned so 
 thoroughly as to become a dainty 
 compositor, and in time he grew to 
 be critically fond of old prints and 
 black-letter volumes a real con 
 noisseur, recognizing at a glance 
 10 
 
11 r win "Russell. 
 
 the various types used in book- 
 making. He delighted to pick up 
 odd volumes of the old dramatists T 
 and took special pride in possessing 
 one of the oldest copies of Wycher- 
 ly in existence. He was also given 
 to roving ; and, like Robert Louis 
 Stevenson, he might have been 
 known and pointed out for the pat 
 tern of an idler. Once, when under 
 the spell which Captain Marryatt 
 not infrequently has thrown over a 
 romantic and impulsive youth, he 
 left home, Mr. Marble tells us, 
 much to the discomfort of his par 
 ents, and lived in a sailors boarding 
 house in New Orleans. While 
 there he habitually dressed as a 
 sailor, and one clay he applied for 
 a position to a captain about to sail 
 to the Mediterranean. "Abandon 
 ing for the time being," continues 
 Mr. Marble, " his spectacles (which, 
 as he had when he was only two 
 years old lost the sight of one eye 
 by the stab of a penknife which 
 11 
 
fftwin IRusselU 
 
 he unfortunately found lying open, 
 and was nearsighted in the other, 
 was a serious matter), he rowed 
 out alongside the ship and with 
 the greatest difficulty got on board. 
 He was examined, of course, mi 
 nutely and critically by the first 
 mate, and told to come the next 
 day. But he saw the probability of 
 long and hard service, and aban 
 doned the notion of thus seeing life, 
 even if he could have succeeded in 
 concealing his blindness till the 
 ship sailed. But the sea never 
 ceased to have " a perpetual fascina 
 tion for him." 
 
 Fields for observation and for the 
 study of character were thus of 
 fered to his inner eye, however 
 much the outer ones were shut in 
 by blindness and nearsightedness. 
 The grotesque appealed to him 
 strongly, and as he had acquired fa 
 cility in drawing, he made numer 
 ous and fantastic sketches on scraps 
 of paper, old envelopes, or whatever 
 12 
 
I twin IRuseell. 
 
 was at hand, as material for future 
 use. His skill in caricature remind 
 ed his friends not a little of Thack 
 eray. Love of nature was in him a 
 passion ; and a splendid sunset, a 
 gorgeous Southern forest, or other 
 natural scenes, he keenly enjoyed 
 and beautifully described. Mr. Mar 
 ble says : " He saw every bird, took 
 note of every strange conformation 
 of nature, was familiar with the 
 names of trees and plants, had an 
 eye for prospects, an ear for sound, 
 an exquisite sensitiveness for na 
 ture s perfume, and a rollicking en 
 joyment of the country." He was 
 also very fond of music, played the 
 piano well, and was an expert on 
 the banjo. His talents were versa 
 tile, and in him was found the ex 
 quisite delicacy of organism so fre 
 quently seen in modern poets, which 
 vibrated to every appeal. He was 
 sensitive alike to internal and exter 
 nal impressions, changes of weather 
 or temperature, grotesque or humor- 
 
Irwtn IRusseu. 
 
 ous characters, different manners 
 and tongues, and particularly re 
 sponsive to the influences of the 
 great masters of fiction and poetry. 
 
 At some time or other Irwin 
 Russell must have had a rarely 
 sympathetic companion or guide in 
 literary study. Was it one of the 
 Jesuit fathers, or his own father, 
 " who was idolized by the son ? " 
 We know not. But his extreme 
 nicety in the use of language, his 
 quick and retentive ear for dialect, 
 his ability to imitate almost perfect 
 ly the poets, and his deep reading 
 in literature for one of his age were 
 all remarkable and gave evidence of 
 careful training and study. He was 
 another example of that rare union 
 of bright mind with frail body 
 through which the keenest appre 
 ciation and the most exquisite sen 
 sibility are developed. 
 
 At times, too, he was capable of 
 painstaking application and ardent 
 devotion to study. He made a 
 14 
 
f rwin "Kusscll. 
 
 close study of Chaucer and " Per. 
 cy s Reliques," and the old Eng 
 lish dramatists were his constant 
 companions, the sources of never- 
 failing enjoyment. He caught the 
 tones of Herrick or Thackeray s 
 ballads with equal ease ; greatly 
 admired Byron, and was powerfully 
 influenced by Shelley. In his cor 
 respondence there was here an echo 
 of Carlyle, there of Thackeray or 
 some other master. Though his 
 reading was confined mainly to 
 English literature, he knew Mo- 
 liere s dramas, even wishing to 
 translate " Tartufe " and " Le Mis 
 anthrope," and took the keenest de 
 light in Rabelais, whose wit, sar 
 casm, and satiric exaggeration he 
 longed to apply to the follies and 
 deformities of more modern life. 
 " The margins of his copy of this 
 author," says a friend, "and many 
 interleaved pages were filled with 
 notes and comments ; and William 
 Dove himself, whom Southey de- 
 15 
 
f twtn "Russell. 
 
 scribes as a practical Pantagruelist, 
 was not more influenced by his 
 pages. He literally, as he some 
 where says, had the best parts of 
 Rabelais by heart." 
 
 But his chief favorite was Burns, 
 whose influences are everywhere 
 visible. "Christmas Night in the 
 Quarters " reminds us strongly now 
 of the "Jolly Beggars," now of 
 Tarn O Shanter." His imitation 
 of Burns s " Epistles " is so perfec t 
 that we could easily believe that the 
 Scottish bard wrote the following 
 stanzas : 
 
 The warld, they say, is gettin auld ; 
 Yet in her bosom, I ve been tauld, 
 A burnin , youthfu heart s installed- - 
 
 I dinna ken 
 But sure her face seems freezin cauld 
 
 To some puir men. 
 
 In summer, though the sun may shine, 
 Aye still the winter s cauld is mine 
 But what o that? The manly pine 
 
 Endures the storm! 
 Ae spark o Poesy divine 
 
 Will keep me warm. 
 16 
 
f twin IRussell. 
 
 In almost boyish abandon he 
 says : " Burns is my idol. He 
 seems to me the greatest man that 
 ever God created, beside whom all 
 other poets are utterly insignificant. 
 In fact, my feelings in this regard 
 are precisely equivalent to those of 
 the old Scotchman mentioned in Li 
 brary Notes, who was consoled in 
 the hour of death by the thought 
 that he should see Burns." 
 
 For the writing of negro dialect 
 and the delineation of negro charac 
 ter Irwin Russell had the gift of 
 genius and all the advantages of 
 opportunity. As he himself said : 
 " I have lived long among the 
 negroes (as also long enough away 
 from them to appreciate their pecul 
 iarities) ; understand their charac 
 ter, disposition, language, customs, 
 and habits ; have studied them, and 
 have them continually before me." 
 But with him dialect was a second 
 consideration. He used it as 
 Shakespeare did in "King Lear," 
 2 17 
 
frwin IRusscll. 
 
 as Fielding did in "Joseph An 
 drews," as Scott, Thackeray, 
 George Eliot, and all the great 
 masters have used it as the only 
 natural medium for the presenta 
 tion of certain kinds of character. 
 In another garb they would be mas 
 querading. As the author of " Un 
 cle Remus " has aptly said, " The 
 dialect is not always the best it is 
 often carelessly written but the 
 negro is there, the old-fashioned, 
 unadulterated negro, who is still 
 dear to the Southern heart. There 
 is no straining after effect indeed, 
 the poems produce their result by 
 indirection ; but I do not know 
 where could be found to-day a hap 
 pier or a more perfect representa 
 tion of negro character." 
 
 Not the least important of the 
 shaping influences which contrib 
 uted to this result is sympathetically 
 suggested by " One Mourner," in 
 " Bef o de War," " Whar s sorry 
 Marse Irwin s dead : " 
 18 
 
Unvm TRuescll. 
 
 He couldn a talked so nachal 
 Bout niggers in sorrow and joy, 
 
 Widdouten he had a black mammy 
 To sing to him long ex a boy. 
 
 But his chief title to our consider 
 ation is originality. As Mr. Page 
 has said, " He laid bare a lead in 
 which others have since discovered 
 further treasures." Like many 
 another original discovery, this was 
 made in a very simple, natural way. 
 To a friend who asked him how he 
 came to write in negro dialect, he 
 answered : " It was almost an in 
 spiration. I did not reduce the tri 
 fle to writing until some time after 
 wards, and then, from want of 
 recollection, in a much condensed 
 and emasculated form. You know 
 that I am something of a banjoist. 
 Well, one evening I was sitting in 
 our back yard in old Mississippi, 
 4 twanging on the banjo, when I 
 heard the missis our colored do 
 mestic, an old darky of the Aunt 
 Dinah patternsinging one of the 
 19 
 
1 twin IRussell. 
 
 outlandish camp meeting hymns of 
 which the race is so fond. She was 
 an extremely ligious character and, 
 although seized with the impulse to 
 do so, I hesitated to take up the 
 tune and finish it. I did so, how 
 ever, and in the dialect that I have 
 adopted, and which I then thought, 
 and still think, is in strict conformity 
 to their use of it, I proceeded, as 
 one inspired, to compose verse after 
 verse of the most absurd, extrava 
 gant, and, to her, irreverent rhyme 
 ever before invented, all the while 
 accompanying it on the banjo, and 
 imitating the fashion of the planta 
 tion negro. The old missis was so 
 exasperated and indignant that she 
 predicted all sorts of dire calamities. 
 Meantime my enjoyment of it was 
 prodigious. I was then about six 
 teen, and as I had soon after a like 
 inclination to versify, was myself 
 pleased with the performance, and 
 it was accepted by the publisher, I 
 have continued to work the vein in- 
 20 
 
flrwin "Russell. 
 
 definitely. There is much in it, 
 such as it is." 
 
 Russell s appreciation of the dar 
 ky was wonderful. The negro s 
 humor and his wisdom were a con 
 stant marvel to him. What would 
 strike an ordinary observer as mere 
 ly ludicrous glistened by the reflect 
 ed light of his mind like a proverb. 
 The darky s insight into human na 
 ture and circumstances he believed 
 to be more than instinct : such in 
 fallible results could only come from 
 deduction. When asked whether 
 there was any real poetry in the ne 
 gro character, he replied : " Many- 
 think the vein a limited one, but I 
 tell you that it is inexhaustible. 
 The Southern negro has only just 
 so much civilization as his contact 
 with the white man has given him, 
 He has only been indirectly influ 
 enced by the discoveries of science, 
 the inventions of human ingenuity, 
 and the general progress of mankind. 
 Without education or social inter- 
 21 
 
Irwin IRussell. 
 
 course with intelligent and cultivated 
 people, his thought has necessarily 
 been original. . . . He has not 
 been controlled in his convictions by 
 historic precedent, and yet he has 
 often manifested a foresight and 
 wisdom in practical matters worthy 
 of the higher races. You may call 
 it instinct, imitation, what you will ; 
 it has, nevertheless, a foundation. I 
 am a Democrat, was a Rebel, but I 
 have long felt that the negro, even 
 in his submission and servitude, was 
 conscious of a higher nature, and 
 must some day assert it. . 
 I have felt that the soul could not be 
 bound, and must find a way for it 
 self to freedom. The negro race, 
 too, in spite of oppression, has re 
 tained qualities found in few others 
 under like circumstances. Grati 
 tude it has always been distin 
 guished for ; hospitality and help 
 fulness are its natural creed ; brutal 
 ity, considering the prodigious depth 
 of its degradation, is unusual. It 
 22 
 
Irwin IRueecll. 
 
 does not lack courage, industry, 
 self-denial, or virtue. ... So 
 the negro has done an immense 
 amount of quiet thinking ; and 
 with only such forms of expres 
 sion as his circumstances furnished 
 him he indulges in paradox, hyper 
 bole, aphorism, sententious compar 
 ison. He treasures his traditions ; 
 he is enthusiastic, patient, long-suf 
 fering, religious, reverent. Is there 
 not poetry in the character ? " 
 
 The "Poems" contain for the 
 most part a picture of the negro 
 himself. But only once is he in a 
 reminiscential vein, when we catch 
 a glimpse of the old-time prosper 
 ous planter, " Mahsr John," who 
 " shorely wuz the greates man de 
 country ebber growed : " 
 
 I only has to shet my eyes, an den it 
 
 seems to me 
 I sees him right afore me now, jes like 
 
 he use to be, 
 A settin on de gal ry, lookin awful big 
 
 an wise, 
 
 23 
 
f twin TRussell. 
 
 Wid little niggers fannin him to keep 
 
 away de flies. 
 He alluz wore de berry bes ob planter s 
 
 linen suits, 
 An kep a nigger busy jes a blackin ob 
 
 his boots, 
 De buckles on his galluses wuz made ob 
 
 solid gol , 
 An di mons! dey was in his shut as thick 
 
 as it would hoi . 
 
 There is a slight touch of pathos in 
 
 He had to pay his debts, an so his Ian is 
 
 mos ly gone, 
 An I declar I s sorry fur my pore ol 
 
 Mahsr John, 
 
 but it does not prevent him from 
 hiding " rocks " in the bale of cotton 
 which, in another poem, he endeav 
 ors to sell to " Mahsr Johnny." 
 
 In general the poems rather give 
 true presentments of the negro s 
 queer superstitions and still queerer 
 ignorances ; his fondness for a story, 
 especially an animal tale or a ghost 
 story ; his habit of talking to him 
 self or the animal that he is plowing 
 or driving; his gift in prayer and 
 24 
 
Urwin IRusseU. 
 
 shrewd preachments ; his love of 
 music, especially on the fiddle and 
 the banjo, and the happy abandon 
 ment of his revels ; his irresponsible 
 life, his slippery shifts, his injured 
 innocence when discovered over all 
 of which are thrown the mantle of 
 charity and the mellowing rays of 
 humor and wisdom. Occasionally 
 we chance upon a dainty bit of po 
 etry, as in the verse : 
 An folks don t spise de vi let flower be- 
 kase it ain t de rose. 
 
 But oftener it is practical, homespun 
 wit, in which u Christmas Night in 
 the Quarters," the best delineation 
 of some phases of negro life yet 
 written, specially abounds. Now it 
 is old Jim talking to a slow ox : 
 
 Mus be you think I s dead, 
 
 An dis de huss you s draggin ; 
 
 You s mos too lazy to draw yo bref, 
 Let lone drawin de \vaggin. 
 
 Then Brudder Brown, with na 
 tive simplicity, proceeds " to beg a 
 blessin on dis dance : " 
 25 
 
f twin TRusscll. 
 
 Oh Mahsr! let dis gath rin fin a blessin* 
 
 in yo sight! 
 Don t jedge us hard fur what we does- 
 
 you know it s Christmus night. 
 
 You bless us, please, Sah, eben ef we s 
 
 doin wrong to-night ; 
 Kase den we ll need de blessin more n 
 
 ef we s doin right. 
 
 The dance begins and a more nat 
 ural scene than the fiddler " calhV 
 de figgers " was never penned in 
 which " Georgy Sam " carries off 
 the palm. 
 
 De nigger mus be, fur a fac , 
 Own cousin to a jumpin jack! 
 
 "An tell you what, de supper wuz 
 a tic lar sarcumstance," the poet him 
 self not even attempting to describe 
 this scene. But the fun reaches its 
 height when the banjo is called for, 
 and the story of its origin is told : 
 how Ham invented it " fur to amuse 
 hese f " in the ark. Did Burns ever 
 sing a more rollicking strain than 
 
 this? 
 
 26 
 
luwin TCussell. 
 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig 
 
 twas Nebber Min de Wedder"-- 
 She soun like fortv-lebben bands u plav- 
 
 in all togedder ; 
 Some went to pattin , some to dancin ; 
 
 Noah called de figgers, 
 An Ham he sot an knocked de tune, de 
 
 happiest ob niggers ! 
 
 So wears the night, and wears so fast, 
 All Avonder when they find it past, 
 And hear the signal sound to go 
 From what few cocks are left to crow. 
 
 The picture of the frcedman is 
 strikingly characteristic and true to 
 life. The false sample of cotton 
 and the hidden stones in the bale 
 being detected, he is, as usual, ready 
 enough with an excuse : 
 
 Mahsr Johnny, dis is fine. 
 I s gone and hauled my brudder s cotton 
 in, instead ob mine. 
 
 He is a great flatterer and has a 
 " slick tongue," either in begging a 
 piece of tobacco or in wheedling 
 " young marster " out of a dollar 
 for a pup not " wuf de powder it d 
 27 
 
ffrwin IRussell. 
 
 take to blow him up." His pro 
 pensity for chickens is notorious ; 
 
 An ef a man cain t borry what s layin 
 
 out ob nights, 
 I d like you fur to tell me what s de good 
 
 of swivel rights f 
 
 He thinks you "turn State s eb- 
 bydence " with a crank, and " dem 
 folks in de Norf is de beatin est lot ! " 
 In spite of their blue coats and brass 
 buttons 
 
 I seed em de time at Grant s army come 
 froo 
 
 his opinion is : 
 
 Dey s ign ant as ign ant kin be. 
 Dey wudn t know gumbo, ef put in dey 
 
 mouf 
 Why don t dey all sell out an come to 
 
 de Souf ? 
 
 The negro s insight, observation, 
 and sententiousness are revealed 
 through many homely but inimita 
 ble aphorisms : 
 But ef you quits a workin ebbery time 
 
 de sun is hot, 
 De sheriff s goin to lebby upon ebbery- 
 
 t ing you s got. 
 
 28 
 
flrwfn IRusseU. 
 
 I nebber breaks a colt afore he s t,/d 
 
 enough to trabbel; 
 I nebber digs my taters tell dey s plenty 
 
 big to grabble. 
 I don t keer how my apple looks, but 
 
 on y how it tas es. 
 De man what keeps pullin de grapevine 
 
 shakes down a few bunches at leas . 
 A violeen is like an ooman, mighty hard 
 
 to guide. 
 
 Dere s alluz somefin bout it out ob kel- 
 
 ter, more or less, 
 An tain t de fancies -lookin ones dat 
 
 alluz does de best. 
 You nebber heerd a braggin fiddler 
 
 play a decent jig. 
 
 There is a touch of sentiment in 
 the father s parting precepts to his 
 son, about to seek his fortune as 
 waiter upon the " Robbut E. Lee : " 
 
 It s hard on your mudder, your leabin I 
 don know whatebber she ll do; 
 
 An shorely your fader ll miss you I ll 
 alluz be thinkin ob you. 
 
 But he quickly veils it under true 
 humor and homely wisdom : 
 Don t you nebber come back, sah, widout 
 you has money an clo es, 
 29 
 
f twin IRusseU. 
 
 Ps kep you as long as Fs gwine to, an 
 
 now you an me we is done, 
 An calves is too skace in dis country 
 
 to kill for a prodigal son. 
 
 All these pictures are perfectly 
 truthful, but as the lawyers sav, 
 they are not the whole truth. Per 
 haps Russell died too young to 
 sound the depths of the negro s 
 emotional nature. He caught no 
 tones like those echoing in Harris s 
 " Bless God, he died free ! " or James 
 Whitcomb Riley s wail of the old 
 mother over her dead " Gladness," 
 her only freeborn child. 
 
 The last two years of Russell s 
 life present the strange contrasts so 
 often met with in poetical temper 
 aments when the earthborn and the 
 celestial have not been brought into 
 perfect harmony. Acts of nobility 
 and self-sacrifice were quickly fol 
 lowed by thoughtless follies which 
 laid him low. During the whole of 
 the yellow fever epidemic in 1878 he 
 remained in Port Gibson and served 
 30 
 
frwin "Russell. 
 
 as a devoted nurse, though he never 
 escaped from the scenes through 
 which he passed. The ghastly 
 picture haunted his imagination. 
 Two letters written to a friend at 
 the time lift the curtain upon this 
 terrible tragedy of human suffering 
 and helplessness to which he was so 
 nobly ministering. 
 
 September i, 1878, he writes: 
 U A11 of us are well worn out, nurs 
 ing ; yet we cannot nurse the sick 
 properly, there are so many of 
 them, and many die for want of at 
 tention. It is horrible here, you 
 cannot conceive how horrible. Of 
 all who have died here, not one has 
 had any sort of funeral. Rich or 
 poor, there is no difference. As soon 
 as the breath leaves them they are 
 boxed up in pine coffins and buried 
 without the least ceremony of any 
 kind, and nobody to follow them to 
 the grave." 
 
 And again on the 3Oth : " I am 
 worn out from nursing night and 
 31 
 
f rwin IRussell. 
 
 day, and perfcrming such other duties 
 as were mine as a Howard, and 
 simply as a man. Four days ago I, 
 for the first time in a month, sat 
 down to a regularly cooked and 
 served meal. I have been living, 
 like Dr. Wango Tango of nursery 
 fame, c on a biscuit a day, when I 
 could get it. Happily the epidemic 
 is nearly over in town for want of 
 material. Between six hundred and 
 seven hundred people (out of six 
 teen hundred) remained in town to 
 face the fever. Out of these there 
 have been about five hundred and 
 seventy cases and one hundred and 
 eighteen deaths up to this date. 
 I will not attempt to give you an 
 idea of the awful horrors I have 
 seen, among which I have lived foi 
 the past five or six weeks, besides 
 which I have seen or heard noth 
 ing whatever. Hendrik Conscience 
 Boccaccio, and DeFoe tried to de 
 scribe similar scenes, and I now re 
 ilize how utterly they failed. Nif 
 32 
 
trwtn IRusseU. 
 
 Description can convey a tithe of the 
 reality." 
 
 To crown Irwin s misfortunes, his 
 father, whom he idolized and " who 
 had exhausted himself in philan 
 thropic efforts to arrest the scourge," 
 suddenly died. Finely endowed as 
 he was, and developing in very early 
 life a taste for nothing so much as 
 literature, he resisted the efforts of 
 his family to find for him a place in 
 a commercial or monotonous, com 
 monplace calling. Now thrown en 
 tirely upon himself, he endeavored 
 to take up life in a manly, coura 
 geous way, and set out with many 
 valuable pieces in his literary knap 
 sack for New York City, with the 
 purpose of devoting himself to let 
 ters. Here, as everywhere, he found 
 good friends and true, especially Mr. 
 H. C. Bunner, Mr. R.W. Gilder, and 
 Mr. R. U. Johnson, of Scribner*s 
 Monthly, and others ; and the love, 
 tenderness, and comprehending sym 
 pathy with which these men gath- 
 3 33 
 
11 r win IRussell. 
 
 ered about the boy, trying to shield 
 him from his own weakness, must 
 have been inexpressibly sweet to 
 him, as it is gratefully treasured by 
 his mother to this day, " although I 
 knew," as he said to a friend with 
 boyish sob, " that I would win, not 
 they." He had exhausted all his 
 funds, but shrank from the thought 
 of again calling upon those who had 
 so often befriended him, when he 
 was taken ill of a fever. Mr. Bun- 
 ner and Mr. Johnson cared for and 
 nursed him, and during the slow 
 days of his convalescence, his head 
 still seriously affected, he could re 
 member nothing of the time but 
 " the mad wish to run away " from 
 himself, which he had before at 
 tempted. So, dazed in mind, he 
 wandered down to the docks and 
 upon the decks of the " Knicker 
 bocker," where he begged to be al 
 lowed to work his way to New Or 
 leans. " Gaunt and weak and wretch 
 ed as I was, they took me," said he, 
 34 
 
Hrwtn 
 
 telling his sad story to " Catherine 
 Cole," " and I did a coal heaver and 
 fireman s duty almost all the way 
 down. Landed here, I had no mon 
 ey, no friends, no clothes. I was 
 as black as an imp of Satan, and had 
 a very devil of despair in my heart. 
 I wrote out some stuff an account 
 of the trip, I believe and signing 
 my own name to it, took it to the 
 office of the New Orleans Times. 
 The city editor, Maj. Robinson, 
 took my copy, looked me over as if 
 he wondered how such a dirty 
 wretch ever got hold of it, and 
 asked me how I came by it. I told 
 him that I had traveled south on the 
 ship with Mr. Russell, and that he 
 had sent me. c Go back and tell Mr. 
 Russell that I would be pleased to 
 see him, said the Major, and I did 
 so. I could not present myself 
 again at the Times office, so I left a 
 letter there, telling the whole truth, 
 and winding up thus : 4 What a time 
 I had in that den of a fireman s fore- 
 35 
 
flrwin IRussell. 
 
 castle, living on tainted meat and 
 genuine Mark Twain "slum-gul- 
 Hon," I won t try to tell you. I 
 only tell you all this to make you 
 understand why I did not let you 
 know I was my own messenger last 
 night. I never was in such a state 
 before in all my lif e,and was ashamed 
 to make myself known. However, 
 needs must when the devil drives. 
 I suppose I am not the only sufferer 
 from Panurge s disease, lack o 
 money, but it is hard to smoke the 
 pipe of contentment when you can t 
 get tobacco. " 
 
 From this time till he died Irwin 
 Russell was a semi-attache of the 
 Times staff, and Mrs. Fields ("Cath 
 erine Cole"), who was in charge of 
 the "All Sorts" column, tells how he 
 came daily into her den to scratch 
 off a rhyme or two in inimitable 
 style, adding: "He was gentle and 
 genial, a fellow of infinite jest, and 
 it was no wonder he made loyal 
 friends wherever he went." But he 
 36 
 
f twin IRuaselt. 
 
 was now absolutely without hope. 
 " I have always known it," he would 
 say to her, "with a sort of second 
 sight and a premonition of these 
 days, for I believe these are my 
 last days. I feel now, so old am I, 
 as if I could not remember the age 
 when occasionally the desire for 
 some unnatural stimulant did not 
 possess me with a fury of desire. 
 This has been stronger than ambi 
 tion, stronger than love. I have 
 stretched my moral nature like a 
 boy playing with a piece of elastic, 
 knowing I should snap it presently. 
 . . . It has been the romance of 
 a weak young man threaded in 
 with the pure love of a mother, a 
 beautiful girl who hoped to be my 
 wife, and friends who believed in 
 my future. I have watched them 
 lose heart, lose faith, and again and 
 again I have been so stung and 
 startled that I resolved to save my 
 self in spite of myself. ... I 
 never shall." 
 
 37 
 
"ffnvin IRussell. 
 
 Only a few clays after one of 
 these conversations this same friend 
 and others went with their little 
 wreaths of Christmas flowers clown 
 into the heart of Franklin Street, a 
 wretched, noisy, dirty neighbor 
 hood, and into a forlorn little house, 
 set right upon the street, on whose 
 small wooden shutters hung- a bow 
 with floating ends of white tarlatan 
 pinched out rudely at the edges. 
 Children, barefooted and ragged, 
 played in the dusty street ; curious, 
 careless passers-by, to whom the 
 youth was all unknown, stopped at 
 the sign of the white bow, and en 
 tered in to gaze with ghoulish cu 
 riosity upon the stilled form. A 
 policeman stood at the head of the 
 casket, and near by was a faded, 
 sad-eyed little woman, who held out 
 a bundle of letters, the last he had 
 received from his mother and sweet 
 heart. This poor Irish woman liv 
 ing here with her three children 
 rented him a room and cooked his 
 38 
 
f rwin IRussell. 
 
 simple meals. He was a veritable 
 stranger to her. His only claim 011 
 her was the pittance he paid for 
 food and lodging. But for divine 
 charity s sake she had watched 
 him through the last hours of his 
 sad life. Hers were the steady 
 arms that held him when delirium 
 seized him ; hers were the hands 
 that administered medicine and food ; 
 her time and her sympathy were 
 freely given ; and when at midnight 
 he died, on a poor cot, in a poor 
 room up under the roof, her prayers 
 were the white wings of the guard 
 ian angel that accompanied the de 
 parting soul through the valley of 
 the shadow of death. 
 
 "Ah! if we pity the good and 
 weak man who suffers undeserved 
 ly, let us deal very gently with him 
 from whom misery extorts not only 
 tears, but shame ; let us think hum 
 bly and charitably of the human na 
 ture that suffers so sadly and falls 
 so low. Whose turn may it be to- 
 39 
 
Urwfn IRusscll. 
 
 morrow? What weak heart, con 
 fident before trial, may not succumb 
 under temptation invincible ? Cove* 
 the good man who has been van 
 quished ; cover his face and pass on." 
 His remains were first laid away in 
 New Orleans, but subsequently re 
 moved to St. Louis, to be placed by 
 the side of his father s, so that even 
 the pious wish of " One Mourner " 
 was denied him. 
 
 An I hopes dey lay him to sleep, seh, 
 Somewhar whar de birds will sing 
 
 About him de livelong day, seh, 
 
 An de flowers will bloom in spring. 
 
 But he still lives as the " South 
 ern humorist," his pitiful story sof 
 tens our hearts and his blithe spirit 
 sweetens and refreshes our lives. 
 40 
 
3oel CbanMer Tbarrte. 
 
 MIDDLE GEORGIA is the 
 birthplace and home of the 
 raciest and most original 
 kind of Southern humor. In this 
 quarter native material was earliest 
 recognized and first made uss of. A 
 school of writers arose whc looked 
 out of their eyes and listened with 
 their ears, who took frank interest in 
 things for their own sake, and had 
 enduring astonishment at the most 
 common. They seized the warm 
 and palpitating facts of everyday 
 existence, and gave them to the 
 world with all the accompaniments 
 of quaint dialect, original humor, 
 and Southern plantation life. The 
 Middle Georgians are a simple, 
 healthy, homogeneous folk, resem 
 bling for the most part other South 
 erners of like rank and calling in 
 their manners, customs, and general 
 41 
 
$oel Cban&let f>attte. 
 
 way of living. But they have de 
 veloped a certain manly, vigorous, 
 fearless independence of thought 
 and action, and an ever increasing 
 propensity to take a humorous view 
 of life. In their earlier writings it 
 is a homely wit, in which broad hu 
 mor and loud laughter predominate ; 
 but tears are lurking in the corners 
 of the eyes, and genuine sentiment 
 nestles in the heart. In more re 
 cent times the horizon has widened, 
 and there has been a gain in both 
 breadth of view and depth of in 
 sight. Genius and art have com 
 bined to make this classic soil. 
 
 It is a small section of country, 
 comprising only a few counties, but 
 with them are indelibly associated 
 the names of A. B. Longstreet, W. 
 T, Thompson, J. J. Hooper, Francis 
 O. Ticknor, Richard Malcolm John 
 ston, Harry Stillwell Edwards, Sid 
 ney Lanier, Maurice Thompson, Joel 
 Chandler Harris, and many other less 
 known writers. If we turn to their 
 characters and scenes, the associa- 
 42 
 
3-oel CbanMcr t>arrte. 
 
 tion is still more intimate. Ransy 
 Sniffle and Ned Brace belong to 
 Baldwin, the scene of " The Fight," 
 " The Gander Pulling," and " The 
 Militia Drill." In the woods and 
 along the river banks of the same 
 county " The Two Runaways " 
 were wont at a later day to enjoy 
 their annual escapade. " Simon 
 Suggs " was a native of Jasper ; 
 " Major Jones s Courtship " took 
 place in Morgan ; " Mr. Absalom 
 Billingslea and Other Georgia 
 Folk" are at home in Hancock; 
 but to Putnam County was awarded 
 the honor of giving birth to " Uncle 
 Remus," a veritable Ethiopian 
 yEsop, philosopher, and gentleman, 
 and to the " Little Boy," whose 
 inexhaustible curiosity and eager 
 ness to hear a " story " have called 
 forth the most valuable and, in the 
 writer s opinion, the most perma 
 nent contribution to American lit 
 erature in the last quarter of this 
 century. 
 
 This school of humorists are not 
 43 
 
3-oel CbanMer "foarris. 
 
 realists at all in the modern sense; 
 for nothing is farther from their 
 writings than sadness, morbidness, 
 and pessimism. Naturalism is the 
 term by which their literary method 
 may best be characterized. They 
 look frankly and hearken attentive 
 ly, following, at a great distance it 
 may be, Fielding s and the great 
 master s plan of holding the mirror 
 up to nature. But coloring, tone, 
 and substance have been reproduced 
 with such absolute fidelity because 
 the heart is full of hope, the eye 
 bright, and a smile ever playing 
 around the mouth. It is also easy 
 to see that they are to the manner 
 born. "To be sure," says Judge 
 Longstreet, "in writing the 
 * Georgia Scenes I have not con 
 fined myself to strictly veracious 
 historic detail ; but there is scarcely 
 one word from the beginning to 
 the end of the book that is not 
 strictly Georgian. The scenes 
 which I describe as, for instance, 
 4 The Gander Pulling occurred at 
 44 
 
$oel Gbanoler Darrte. 
 
 the very place where I locate them." 
 Shortly after the appearance of 
 " The Adventures of Capt. Simon 
 Suggs," a friend met the original 
 on the streets of Monticello and 
 said : " Squire Suggs, do you re 
 member Jonce Hooper little 
 Jonce ? " " Seems to me I do," 
 replied Mr. Suggs. " Well, Squire, 
 little Jonce has gone and noveled 
 you." Mr. Suggs looked serious. 
 "Gone and noveled me?" he ex 
 claimed. "Well, I ll be danged! 
 Gone and noveled me? What 
 could a possessed him ? " Since 
 the Civil War the " noveling " 
 process has gone on with enlarged 
 sympathies and greater success. A 
 new figure has been added to the 
 picture, making it more complete 
 the negro. With the wider view 
 has also come greater freedom of 
 treatment, and no writers in the 
 South have appreciated this mental 
 and artistic liberty more than the 
 Georgians. Each of them has, by 
 means of the simplicity, humor, and 
 45 
 
Gban&ler Ibartis, 
 
 individuality which characterize the 
 school, made a distinct contribution 
 to the sum of human interest and 
 enjoyment. But the most sympa 
 thetic, the most original, the truest 
 delineator of this larger life its 
 manners, customs, amusements, 
 dialect, folklore, humor, pathos, and 
 character is Joel Chandler Harris. 
 His birthplace was Eatonton, the 
 capital of Putnam County, in Middle 
 Georgia, and the date of his birth 
 December 9, 1848. Slight bio- 
 grapical and personal sketches of 
 him have appeared in the Critic, 
 in Literature, and in the Book 
 Buyer, but the best account of his 
 early life is to be found in " On the 
 Plantation," one of the most inter 
 esting books that Mr. Harris has 
 written. In this delightful volume 
 it is not easy to tell " where confes 
 sion ends and how far fiction em 
 broiders truth." But the author has 
 kindly left it to the reader to "sift 
 the fact from the fiction, and label 
 it to suit himself." As has been 
 46 
 
3K>el GbanMet t>arrtg. 
 
 said of another romancer, it is not 
 through the accidental circumstan 
 ces of his life that he belongs to 
 history, but through his talent ; and 
 his talent is in his books. Our first 
 glimpse of Mr. Harris is in the lit 
 tle post office of Eatonton, which is 
 also a "country store," and much 
 frequented for both purposes. He 
 is sitting upon a rickety, old, faded 
 green sofa, in a corner of which he 
 used to curl up nearly every day, 
 reading such stray newspapers as 
 he could lay his hands on, and 
 watching the people come and go. 
 His look betrays shyness and sensi 
 tiveness, though it is full of obser 
 vation. He is reading in a Mil- 
 ledgeville paper the announcement 
 of a Mr. Turner, whose acquaint 
 ance he has recently made, that he 
 will begin the publication the fol 
 lowing Tuesday of a weekly news 
 paper, to be called the Country 
 man. It is to be modeled after Mr. 
 Addison s little paper, the Specta 
 tor, Mr. Goldsmith s little paper, 
 47 
 
3oel CbanDlet t>atris. 
 
 the Bee, and Mr. Johnson s little 
 paper, the Rambler. He has 
 heard of these, for he has had a 
 few terms in the Eatonton Acade 
 my, and read some of the best books 
 of the eighteenth century. When 
 the " Vicar of Wakefield " is men 
 tioned his eye sparkles, for since he 
 was six years of age that wonderful 
 story has been a stimulus to his 
 imagination, and made him eager to 
 read all books. He is proud of his 
 acquaintance with a real editor, and 
 waits with great impatience for the 
 first issue of the Countryman. In 
 the meanwhile we learn that he can 
 not be called a studious lad, or at 
 any rate that he is not at all fond of 
 the books in his desk at the Eaton- 
 ton Academy. On the contrary, he 
 is of an adventurous turn of mind, 
 full of all sorts of pranks and 
 capers ; and plenty of people in the 
 little town are ready to declare that 
 he will come to some bad end if he 
 is not more frequently dosed with 
 what the old folks call "hickory 
 48 
 
Gban&ler Darrte. 
 
 oil." But he has a strange sympa 
 thy with animals of all kinds, es 
 pecially horses and dogs, and a 
 deeper, tenderer sympathy with all 
 human beings. 
 
 At last the first issue arrives, and 
 is read from beginning to end ad 
 vertisements and all. The most im 
 portant thing in it, as it turned out, 
 was the announcement that the edi 
 tor wanted a boy to learn the print 
 ing business. The friendly post 
 master furnished pen, ink, and 
 paper, and the lacl applied for the 
 place and got it. Mr. Turner lived 
 about nine miles from Eatonton, on 
 i plantation of some two thousand 
 icres, which was well supplied with 
 slaves, horses, dogs, and game of 
 different kinds. He was a lover of 
 books, and had a choice collection of 
 two or three thousand volumes. 
 His wealth also enabled him to con 
 duct the only country newspaper in 
 the world, which he did so success 
 fully that it reached a circulation of 
 nearly two thousand copies. On 
 4 49 
 
CbanDler Ibatris. 
 
 the plantation was a pack of well- 
 trained harriers, with which the lit 
 tle printer hunted rabbits, and a 
 fine hound or two of the Birdsong 
 breed, with which he chased the red 
 fox. With the negroes he learned 
 to hunt coons, and possums, and 
 from them he heard those stories 
 which have since placed their nar 
 rator in the list of the immortals. 
 The printing office sat deep in a 
 large grove of oaks, full of gray 
 squirrels which kept the solitary 
 typesetter company, running about 
 over the roofs and playing "hide 
 and seek " like children. From his 
 window he watched the partridge 
 and her mate build their artful nest, 
 observed their coquetries, and from 
 her mysteriously skillful manner of 
 drawing one away from her nest or 
 her young he learned one of his 
 earliest and most puzzling lessons 
 in bird craft. The noisy jay, the 
 hammering woodpecker, and the 
 vivacious and tuneful mocking bird 
 lent their accompaniment to the 
 50 
 
3oel Gban&ler Harris. 
 
 clicking of the types. At twelve 
 years of age, then, Mr. Harris 
 found himself in this ideal situation 
 for the richest and most healthful 
 development of his talents. Type 
 setting came easy, and the lad had 
 the dogs to himself in the late after 
 noon and the books at night, and he 
 made the most of both. The schol 
 arly planter turned him loose to 
 browse at will in his library, only 
 now and then giving a judicious 
 hint. The great Elizabethans first 
 caught his fancy, and quaint old 
 meditative and poetical Sir Thomas 
 Browne became one of his prime 
 favorites, a place he yet holds. He 
 made many friends among the 
 standard authors that only a boy of 
 a peculiar turn of mind would take 
 to his bosom. But no book at any 
 time has ever usurped the place of 
 the inimitable u Vicar of Wake- 
 field " in his affections Goethe s, 
 Scott s, Irving s, Thackeray s, all 
 numanity s adorable Vicar. Mr. 
 Harris, like Sir Walter, has read it 
 51 
 
Soel Gban&ler f>arti0. 
 
 in youth and in age, and the charm 
 endures. In a recent paper he 
 wrote : " The first book that ever 
 attracted my attention, and the one 
 that has held it longest, was and is 
 the Vicar of Wakefield. The 
 only way to describe my experience 
 with that book is to acknowledge 
 that I am a crank. It touches me 
 more deeply, it gives me the all- 
 overs more severely than all others. 
 Its simplicity, its air of extreme 
 wonderment, have touched and con 
 tinue to touch me deeply." These 
 two favorites have since that early 
 period found worthy rivals in the 
 Bible and Shakespeare, and he is 
 specially serious when he talks of 
 his heroes, Lee, Jackson, and Lin 
 coln. Job, Ecclesiastes, and Paul s 
 writings are his prime favorites; 
 but all good books interest him 
 more or less, though at the present 
 time an ardent young writer on a 
 pilgrimage to this shrine would per 
 haps find Mr. Harris s library as 
 scantly supplied as Mr. Howells 
 52 
 
GbanMer Darrte. 
 
 found Hawthorne s. There are 
 only a few books, but they are the 
 best, and they have been read and 
 reread. Emerson, however, is not 
 of this number ; his " queer self- 
 consciousness " and attitude of self- 
 sufficiency have never appealed to 
 him in any winning way. " You 
 cannot expect an uncultured Georgia 
 cracker to follow patiently the con 
 volute diagrams of the oversold," 
 he will say ; adding, with a quizzic 
 al smile : " You see I am perfectly 
 frank in this, presenting the appear 
 ance of feeling as proud of my lack 
 of taste and culture as a little girl is 
 of her rag doll." But when culture 
 and individuality are united, as he 
 found them in Lowell, they receive 
 his frankest admiration. " Culture 
 is a very fine thing, indeed," he 
 wrote of Mr. Lowell on his seven 
 tieth birthday, "but it is never of 
 much account, either in life or in 
 literature, unless it is used as a cat 
 uses a mouse, as a source of mirth 
 and luxury. It is at its finest in 
 53 
 
Cban&ler 1>arrte, 
 
 this country when it is grafted on 
 the sturdiness that has made the na 
 tion what it is, and when it is forti 
 fied by the strong common sense 
 that has developed and preserved 
 the republic. This is culture with 
 a definite aim and purpose, 
 and we feel the ardent spirit of it in 
 pretty much everything Mr. Lowell 
 has written." As for the realists, 
 he admires " immensely " what is 
 best in them, though he has no 
 fondness for minute psychological 
 analysis. He likes a story and 
 " human nature, humble, fascina 
 ting, plain, common human nature." 
 "A man is known by the company 
 he keeps," is a saying with a wider 
 application, I fancy, than is com- 
 ly given to it. I had a friend once 
 a strong, earnest, meditative, silent 
 man over the mantel in whose 
 study hung a portrait of William 
 Cullen Bryant. The kinship of na 
 ture could easily be traced between 
 these two and that great American 
 of whom Bryant wrote : 
 54 
 
3-oel Cban&ler Ibarcls, 
 
 The wildest storm that sweeps through 
 space, 
 
 And rends the oak with sudden force, 
 Can raise no ripple on his face, 
 
 Or slacken his majestic course. 
 
 I could easily imagine my friend 
 in the heart of some primeval forest 
 he had a deep and reverent love 
 of nature repeating his favorite 
 
 lines : 
 
 Be it ours to meditate, 
 
 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 And so, consciously or unconscious 
 ly, Mr. Harris has imbibed old- 
 fashioned ways of simplicity, nat 
 uralness, and truth from his Shakes 
 peare and Bible ; has had ingrained 
 in the fiber of his being the gentle 
 ness, delicacy, and purity of feeling 
 which distinguish the good Vicar s 
 author, and has conformed his life 
 to that sentiment of Sir Thomas 
 Browne s which " The Autocrat " 
 considered the most admirable in 
 any literature : " Every man truly 
 lives so long as he acts his nature 
 55 
 
5oel GbanMer Ibarrte. 
 
 or some way makes good the facul 
 ties of himself." 
 
 Among these books he lived for 
 several years, and almost before he 
 knew it he was acquainted with 
 those writers who lend wings to 
 the creative imagination, if its deli 
 cate body has found habitation in a 
 human soul. AVith the acquisition 
 of knowledge went also hand in 
 hand an observation of life and of 
 nature. As he left his native vil 
 lage in the buggy with Mr. Turner, 
 he had observed how quickly his 
 little companions returned to their 
 marbles after bidding him good-bye ; 
 and he had observed, too, how the 
 high sheriff was " always in town 
 talking politics," and talking "big 
 ger than anybody." When he came 
 to the plantation his observant eye 
 took in everything, and the observa 
 tions of the boy became the basis of 
 the lifelong convictions and princi 
 ples of the man. His greatest na 
 ture-gift, sympathy, put him in 
 touch with dog and horse, w th 
 56 
 
Gbanfcler Ibatrte. 
 
 black runaway and white deserter, 
 with the master and his slaves. 
 These, he observed, treated him 
 with more consideration than they 
 showed to other white people, with 
 the exception of their master. 
 There was nothing they were not 
 ready to do for him at any time of 
 day or night. Taking him into 
 their inner life, they poured a 
 wealth of legendary folklore and 
 story into his retentive ear, and to 
 him revealed their true nature ; for 
 it is not a race that plays its tricks, 
 as some one has said of nature, un 
 reservedly before the eyes of every 
 body. 
 
 Mr. Harris has never had the 
 slightest desire to become a man of 
 letters ; but the necessity of ex 
 pressing himself in writing came 
 upon him early in life. His first 
 efforts appeared in the Country 
 man, sent in anonymously. Kindly 
 notice and encouragement induced 
 the young writer to throw off dis 
 guise and to write regularly. His 
 57 
 
Cban&let Ibarrfs, 
 
 contributions soon took a wider 
 range, embracing local articles, es 
 says, and poetry. But this idyllic 
 existence was suddenly ended. 
 Sherman s " march through 
 Georgia" brought a corps of his 
 army to the Turner plantation, and 
 when the foragers departed they 
 left little behind them except a 
 changed order of things. The 
 editor-planter called up those of his 
 former slaves that remained, and 
 told them that they were free. The 
 Countryman passed away with the 
 old order, devising, however, a rich 
 legacy to the new. "A larger 
 world beckoned [to the young 
 writer] and he went out into it. 
 And it came about that on every 
 side he found loving hearts to com 
 fort and strong and friendly hands 
 to guide him. He found new asso 
 ciations, and formed new ties. In 
 a humble way he made a name for 
 himself, but the old plantation days 
 still live in his dreams." The 
 " Wanderjahre " were few and un- 
 58 
 
GbanMer "fcarrts. 
 
 eventful. Now we find him setting 
 his " string " on the Macon Daily 
 Telegraph, then in a few months 
 he is in New Orleans as a private 
 secretary of the editor of the Cres 
 cent ^Monthly, keeping his hand in, 
 however, by writing bright para 
 graphs for the city papers. In a 
 short while he returns to Georgia to 
 become the editor of the ForsytJi 
 Advertiser, one of the most influen 
 tial weekly papers in the State. In 
 addition to the editorial work, he 
 set the type, worked off the edition 
 on a hand press, and wrapped and 
 directed his papers for the mail. 
 His bubbling humor and pungent 
 criticism of certain abuses in the 
 State were widely copied, and spe 
 cially attracted the attention of Colo 
 nel W. T. Thompson, the author 
 of " Major Jones s Courtship " and 
 other humorous books, who at that 
 time was editor of the SavannaJi 
 Daily News. He offered Mr. Har 
 ris a place on his staff, which \vas 
 accepted ; and this pleasant associa- 
 59 
 
Joel Gbanfcler 1batri5. 
 
 tion lasted from 1871 to 1876. In 
 the latter year a yellow fever epi 
 demic drove him to Atlanta ; he 
 became at once a member of the 
 editorial staff of the Constitution, 
 and his literary activity began. 
 And it is altogether fitting, too, that 
 Mr. Harris s success should be iden 
 tified with this popular journal, for 
 no other newspaper published in the 
 South has given so much attention 
 to literary matters and encourage 
 ment to literary talent. Up to this 
 time Mr. Harris had written, so far 
 as I am aware, but one brief little 
 sketch, a mere incident, which gave 
 any promise of his future line of 
 development and peculiar powers. 
 It appeared in the Countryman at 
 the close of the war a little sequel 
 to the passing of the Twentieth 
 Army Corps, commanded by Gen 
 eral Slocum, along the road by the 
 Turner plantation. Thinking that 
 the army would take another route, 
 the lonely lad had seated himself on 
 the fence, and before he knew it the 
 60 
 
5oel Cbanfcler Darria. 
 
 troops were upon him. Their 
 good-natured chaff he endured with 
 a kind of stunned calmness till all 
 passed. He then jumped from the 
 fence and made his way home 
 through the fields. " In a corner of 
 the fence, not far from the road, 
 Joe found an old negro woman 
 shivering and moaning. Near her 
 lay an old negro man, his shoulders 
 covered with an old, ragged shawl. 
 4 Who is that lying there ? asked 
 Joe. It my ole man, suh. What 
 is the matter with him ? He dead T 
 suh ; but bless God, he died free ! " 
 Just before Mr. Harris went to 
 Atlanta Mr. S. W. Small had be 
 gun to give the Constitution a more 
 than local reputation by means of 
 humorous negro dialect sketches. 
 His resignation shortly afterwards 
 made the proprietors turn, for aid to 
 Mr. Harris, who, taking an old ne 
 gro whom he had known on the 
 Turner plantation and making him 
 chief spokesman, brought out in 
 several sketches the contrast be- 
 61 
 
3x>el CbanDler tmtrfs. 
 
 tween the old and the new condi 
 tion of things. But he soon tired of 
 these, and one night he wrote the 
 first sketch in " Legends of the Plan 
 tation," in which " Uncle Remus " 
 initiates the " Little Boy," just as it 
 now appears in his first published 
 volume, entitled, " Uncle Remus : 
 His Songs and Sayings." Fame 
 came at once, though the invincible 
 modesty of the author still refuses to 
 recognize it. A number of things 
 enhanced the value of this produc 
 tion the wealth of folklore, the ac 
 curate and entertaining dialect, the 
 delightful stories, the exquisite pic 
 ture of " the dear remembered days." 
 But the true secret of the power and 
 value of "Uncle Remus" and his 
 " Sayings " does not lie solely in the 
 artistic and masterly setting and 
 narration. The enduring quality 
 lies there, for he has made a past 
 civilization " remarkably striking to 
 the mind s eye," and shown that 
 rare ability "to seize the heart of 
 the suggestion, and make a country 
 62 
 
Cban&let tmrrte. 
 
 famous with a legend." But under 
 neath the art is the clear view of 
 life, as well as humor, wit, philoso 
 phy, and " unadulterated human na 
 ture." We can get little idea of the 
 revelation which Mr. Harris has 
 made of negro life and character 
 without comparing his conception 
 and delineation with the ideal negro 
 of " My Old Kentucky Home," 
 " Uncle Tom s Cabin," and " Mars 
 Chan" and " Meh Lady," and the 
 impossible negro of the minstrel 
 show. A few years ago the editor 
 of the Philadelphia Times remarked 
 that " it is doubtful whether the real 
 negro can be got very clearly into 
 literature except by way of minstrel 
 shows and the comic drama." In 
 answer to this Mr. Harris has truth 
 fully said that " a representation of 
 negro life and character -has never 
 been put upon the stage, nor any 
 thing remotely resembling it ; but to 
 all who have any knowledge of the 
 negro, the plantation darky, as he 
 was, is a very attractive figure. It 
 63 
 
CbanMer Ibarrte. 
 
 is a silly trick of the clowns to give 
 him over to burlesque, for his life, 
 though abounding in humor, was 
 concerned with all that the imagina 
 tion of man has made pathetic." 
 The negro of the minstrel show, 
 black with burnt cork, sleek and 
 saucy, white - eyed, red - lipped, 
 crowned with plug hat, wearing 
 enormous shoes, and carrying a 
 banjo, rises to the dignity of a cari 
 cature only in the external appear 
 ance. The wit reeks with stale 
 beer and the Bowery. Foster s 
 " My Old Kentucky Home " is sim 
 ply " Uncle Tom s Cabin " turned 
 into a song ; and the latter, says Ir- 
 win Russell, " powerfully written as 
 it is, gives no more true idea of ne 
 gro life and character than one could 
 get from the Nautical Almanac, and, 
 like most other political documents, 
 is quite the reverse of true in almost 
 every respect." These contain the 
 sentiments and the thoughts of artist- 
 philanthropists belonging to a race 
 41 three or four thousand years in ad- 
 64 
 
Gtmnoler Darris. 
 
 vance of them [the negroes] in men 
 
 tal capacity and moral force." They 
 
 do breathe with infinite pathos the 
 
 homely affection, the sorrows and 
 
 hopes of everyday life, as these have 
 
 been developed and conceived by the 
 
 white race ; but who ever heard that 
 
 this was a favorite song or that a 
 
 favorite book in any community of 
 
 negroes? And so Mr. Page s "Marse 
 
 Chan " and " Meh Lady," and Mr. 
 
 Allen s " Two Gentlemen of Ken 
 
 tucky," are the answers of genius 
 
 to genius and art pitted against art 
 
 in this great controversy. In them 
 
 the devotion, the doglike fidelity, 
 
 and the unselfishness of the negro 
 
 are used to intensify the pathos of 
 
 the white man s situation, just as in 
 
 ihe other case the pathos of the ne 
 
 gro s situation was utilized to excite 
 
 the philanthropy of the white man. 
 
 In both cases the negro is a mere 
 
 accessory, used to heighten the ef 
 
 fect. It seems to be almost an im 
 
 possibility for song writer, novelist, 
 
 or serious historian to appreciate the 
 
 5 65 
 
5ocl GbanMet Ibarrte. 
 
 nature or understand the condition 
 of the plantation negroes ; for oth 
 erwise, how can we account for so 
 glaring a misconception as Mr. 
 Bryce s, that they remained, up to 
 the eve of emancipation, u in their 
 notions and habits much what their 
 ancestors were in the forests of the 
 Niger or the Congo." 
 
 The Southern plantation negro 
 sprang from the child race of hu 
 manity, and possessed only so much 
 civilization as his contact w r ith the 
 white man gave him. Like children, 
 he used smiles, cunning, deceit, du 
 plicity, ingenuity, and all the other 
 wiles by which the weaker seek 
 to accommodate themselves to the 
 stronger. Brer Rabbit was his hero, 
 and " it is not virtue that triumphs, 
 but helplessness ; it is not malice, 
 but mischievousness." In the course 
 of time he became remarkable for 
 both inherent and grafted qualities. 
 Gratitude he was distinguished for ; 
 hospitality and helpfulness were his 
 natural creed ; brutality was con- 
 00 
 
Joel Gbanfcler Ibarrfs, 
 
 spicuously absent, considering the 
 prodigious depth of his previous 
 degradation. He did not lack cour 
 age, industry, self-denial, or virtue. 
 He did an immense amount of quiet 
 thinking, and, with only such forms 
 of expression as his circumstances 
 furnished, he indulged in paradox, 
 hyperbole, aphorism, sententious 
 comparison, and humor. He treas 
 ured his traditions, was enthusiastic, 
 patient, long-suffering, religious, rev 
 erent. " Is there not poetry in the 
 character?" asked Irwin Russell, 
 the first, perhaps, to conceive and to 
 delineate it with real fidelity to life. 
 Since his all too untimely taking off 
 many have attempted this subject ; 
 but no one has equaled the crea 
 tor of " Uncle Remus," one of the 
 very few creations of American 
 writers worthy of a place in the 
 gallery of the immortals ; and he 
 should be hung in the corner with 
 such gentlemen as Col. Newcome 
 and Sir Roger de Coverley, and 
 not very far from Rip Van Win- 
 07 
 
kle, my Uncle Toby, and Jack Fal- 
 staff. . 
 
 Before the war Uncle Remus had 
 always exercised authority over his 
 fellow-servants. He had been the 
 captain of the corn pile, the stoutest 
 at the log rolling, the swiftest with 
 the hoe, the neatest with the plow, 
 the leader of the plantation hands. 
 Now he is an old man whose tall 
 figure and venerable appearance are 
 picturesque in the extreme, but he 
 moves and speaks with the vigor of 
 perennial youth. He is the embod 
 iment of the quaint and homely hu 
 mor, the picturesque sensitiveness 
 a curious exaltation of mind and 
 temperament not to be defined by 
 words and the really poetic imagi 
 nation of the negro race ; and over 
 all is diffused the genuine flavor of 
 the old plantation. With the art to 
 conceal art, the anthor retires behind 
 the scenes and lets this patriarch re 
 veal negro life and character to the 
 world. Now it is under the guise 
 of Brer Rabbit, after his perilous 
 68 
 
3oel GbanMet l>atrte. 
 
 adventure with the tar baby and nar 
 row escape from Brer Fox as he is 
 seen " settin cross-legged on a chink 
 apin log koamin de pitch outen his 
 har wid a chip," and " flingin back 
 some er his sass, Bred and bawn in 
 a brier patch, Brer Fox ; bred and 
 bawn in a brier patch ! " Another 
 phase is seen in " Why Brer Possum 
 Loves Peace," a story of indolent 
 good nature, questionable valor, and 
 nonsensical wisdom : " I don min 
 fightin no mo dan you doz, sez ee, 
 but I declar to grashus ef I kin 
 stan ticklin. An down ter dis day," 
 continued Uncle Remus, " down ter 
 dis day, Brer Possum s boun ter 
 s render w en you tech him in de 
 short ribs, en he ll laff ef he knows 
 he s gwine ter be smashed for it." 
 This whimsical defense of inborn 
 cowardice has a touch of nature in 
 it which makes it marvelously akin 
 to Sir John s counterfeiting on 
 Shrewsbury plain. But the pre 
 vailing interest is centered in Brer 
 Rabbit s skill in outwitting Brer 
 
5oel CbanMer tfoarvte. 
 
 Fox and the other animals, which is 
 managed with such cleverness and 
 good nature that we cannot but sym 
 pathize with the hero, in spite of his 
 utter lack of conscience or convic 
 tion. But the chief merit of these 
 stories, as Mr. Page has remarked, 
 springs directly from the fact that 
 Uncle Remus knows them, is relat 
 ing them, and is vivifying them with 
 his own quaintness and humor, and 
 is impressing us in every phase with 
 his own delightful and lovable per 
 sonality. Mr. Harris s skill in nar 
 rative is well-nigh perfect, and the 
 conversation, in which his books 
 abound, is carried on with absolute 
 naturalness and fidelity to life. The 
 habit of thought as well as of speech 
 is strikingly reproduced. Not a 
 word strikes a false note, not a scene 
 or incident is out of keeping with the 
 spirit of the life presented. No one 
 has more perfectly preserved some 
 of the most important traits of South 
 ern character, nor more enchanting- 
 ly presented some of the most beau- 
 70 
 
GbanDler t>arris, 
 
 tiful phases of Southern civiliza 
 tion. 
 
 Other phases of negro character, 
 very different from those presented in 
 the "Legends," appeared in the "Say 
 ings" and in various "Sketches," 
 which reproduce "the shrewd ob- 
 ervations, the curious retorts, the 
 homely thrusts, the quaint com 
 ments, and the humorous philosophy 
 of the race of which Uncle Remus 
 is a type." But in " Nights with 
 Uncle Remus," " Daddy Jake the 
 Runaway," and " Uncle Remus and 
 His Friends" we returned again to 
 the old plantation home; "daddy," 
 "mammy," and the "field hands" 
 lived once more with their happy, 
 smiling faces ; songs floated out upon 
 the summer air, laden with the per 
 fume of rose and honeysuckle and 
 peach blossom, and mingled with 
 the rollicking medley of the mock 
 ing bird ; and we felt that somehow 
 over the whole life the spell of gen 
 ius had been thrown, rendering it 
 immortal. But it is with and through 
 71 
 
5oel CDanoicr Ibarrts. 
 
 the negro that Mr. Harris has 
 wrought this wonder, for aa Mr. 
 Page says : " No man who has ever 
 written has known one-tenth part 
 about the negro that Mr. Harris 
 knows, and for those who hereafter 
 shall wish to find not merely the 
 words, but the real language of the 
 negro of that section, and the habits 
 of mind of all American negroes of 
 the old time, his works will prove 
 the best thesaurus." 
 
 Again a larger world beckoned to 
 the writer, as to the boy, and he en 
 tered the field of original story-tell 
 ing and wider creative ability with 
 perfect poise and consummate liter 
 ary art in " Mingo," a " Cracker " 
 tragedy, disclosing the pent-up rage 
 of a century against aristocratic 
 neighbors, antipathy to the negro, 
 narrowness and pride, happily turned 
 by Mingo s gratitude and watchful 
 and protecting love for his young 
 " Mistiss s " fatherless and mother 
 less little girl into a smiling comedy, 
 closing with this pretty picture : 
 72 
 
Soel CbanOlet Darrts. 
 
 u The sunshine falling gently upon 
 his gray hairs, and the little girl 
 clinging to his hand and daintily 
 throwing kisses." Mingo, drawn 
 with genuine sympathy and true 
 skill, is one of the author s master 
 pieces ; but we are somehow spe 
 cially attracted to Mrs. Feratia Biv- 
 ins, w^hose " pa would V bin a rich 
 man, an a owned niggers, if it 
 hadn t but a bin bekase he sot his 
 head agin stintin of his stomach," 
 and whose sharp tongue, homely 
 wit, and indignant hate portray the 
 first of a group of the Mrs. Poyser- 
 like women who give spice as well 
 as life to the author s pages. An 
 other is Mrs. Kendrick in " Blue 
 D ave " of which, by the bye, the 
 author says, "I like Blue Dave 
 better than all the rest, which is an 
 other way of saying that it is far 
 from the best " whose humor con 
 ceals her own emotions, and flashes 
 a calcium light upon the weaknesses 
 of others. " Well, well, well ! " said 
 Mrs. Kendrick, speaking of the quiet, 
 73 
 
Gbanfcler Ibarrte. 
 
 self-contained, elegant, and rather 
 prim Mrs. Denham. " She always 
 put me in mind of a ghost that can t 
 be laid on account of its pride. But 
 we re what the Lord made us, I reck 
 on, and people deceive their looks. 
 My old turkey gobbler is harmless 
 as a hound puppy, but I reckon he d 
 bust if he didn t up and strut when 
 strangers are in the front porch." 
 "Uncle Remus," " Mingo," "Blue 
 Dave," and " Balaam " belong to the 
 class which " has nothing but pleas 
 ant memories of the discipline of 
 slavery, and which has all the preju 
 dices of caste and pride of family 
 that were the natural results of the 
 system." But " Free Joe " presents 
 another phase this heart tragedy 
 brought about by the inhumanity of 
 man and the pitiless force of circum 
 stances. Nowhere has the helpless 
 wretchedness of the dark side of 
 slavery been more clearly recognized 
 or more powerfully depicted. Truth 
 demand* that the complete picture 
 shall br- g*VT. though silly scrib- 
 74 
 
5ocl CbanOlcc 
 
 bier or narrow bigot may accuse the 
 author of trying to cater to North 
 ern sentiment. Every now and then 
 some Southern writer is subjected 
 to this unmanly and ignoble insult, 
 though much less frequently than 
 formerly. Mr. Maurice Thompson s 
 poem and Mr. Henry Watterson s 
 speech on " Lincoln," Mr. James 
 Lane Allen s lecture on " The South 
 in Fiction," and Mr. W. P. Trent s 
 " Life of William Gilmore Simms," 
 seem to produce a mild form of 
 rabies in certain quarters. " What 
 does it matter," asks Mr. Harris, 
 " whether I am Northern or South 
 ern, if I am true to truth, and true 
 to that larger truth, my own true 
 self ? My idea is that truth is more 
 important than sectionalism, and 
 that literature that can be labeled 
 Northern, Southern, Western, or 
 Eastern is not worth labeling at 
 all." Shutting one s eyes to facts 
 removes them neither from life nor 
 from history. And so we are spe 
 cially thankful to Mr. Harris for 
 75 
 
Joel Cbanfclet Darrts. 
 
 " Free Joe," " Little Compton," and 
 all those passages in " On the Plan 
 tation " and his other writings which 
 lead us to a truer and larger human 
 ity. His skillful manner of convey 
 ing a lesson is admirably done at the 
 close of "Free Joe." This "black 
 atom drifting hither and thither with 
 out an owner, blown about by all the 
 winds of circumstance, and given 
 over to shiftlessness," is the person 
 ification of helpless suffering, and 
 yet he chuckles as he slips away 
 from the cabin of the cracker broth 
 er and sister into the night. Micajah 
 Staley, however, the representative 
 of too large a number, says : " Look 
 at that nigger; look at im. He s 
 pine blank as happy now as a kildee 
 by a mill race. You can t faze em. 
 I d in about give up my t other hand 
 ef I could stan flat-footed an grin 
 at trouble like that there nigger." 
 " Niggers is niggers," said Miss 
 Becky, smiling grimly, " an you 
 can t rub it out ; yit I lay I ve seed 
 a heap of white folks lots meaner n 
 76 
 
CbanDlec t>arris. 
 
 Free Joe. He grins and that s nig 
 ger but I ve ketched his underjaw 
 a trimblin when Lucindy s name uz 
 brung up." He was found dead the 
 next morning,with a smile on his face. 
 " It was as if he had bowed and 
 smiled when death stood before him, 
 humble to the last." The world could 
 ill spare woman s or the artist s eye. 
 Other stories, as "At Teague Po- 
 teet s," " Trouble on Lost Moun 
 tain," and "Azalia," show a steady 
 gain in the range of Mr. Harris s 
 creative power. The keenest inter 
 est was awakened when the first 
 part of "At Teague Poteet s " came 
 out in the Century, May, 1883, and 
 the reader who happened to turn to 
 the Atlantic for the same month 
 and read The Harnt That Walks 
 Chilhowee" must have been sur 
 prised at the revelation which these 
 two admirable stories made of the 
 real and potent romance of the moun 
 tains and valleys of Tennessee and 
 Georgia. This was a longer and 
 more sustained effort than Uncle 
 77 
 
3oel CbanDlct Ibartis* 
 
 Remus had ever attempted. It 
 evinced an eye for local color, ap 
 preciation of individual characteris 
 tics, and the ability to catch the spirit 
 of a people that could be as open as 
 their valleys or as rugged, enigmat 
 ical, and silent as their mountains. 
 Scene and character were vividly 
 real, and the story was told with 
 consummate art and unflagging in 
 terest till the climax was reached. 
 " Trouble on Lost Mountain " sus 
 tained his reputation as a story-teller 
 and added the element of tragic 
 power. 
 
 At a first glance it would seem 
 that these, with his previous writ 
 ings, give promise of the fully 
 developed novel with the old plan 
 tation life for a background and the 
 nation for its scope. But it must 
 not be forgotten that Mr. Harris 
 is a hard-working journalist, sel 
 dom missing a day from his desk ; 
 and as Mr. Stedman has pointed out 
 in regard to Bayard Taylor, "this 
 task of daily writing for the press, 
 78 
 
CbanMer t>arrt6 
 
 while a good staff, is a poor crutch ; 
 it diffuses the heat of authorship, 
 checks idealism, retards the construc 
 tion of masterpieces." It is perhaps 
 due to this that the love element in 
 these stories lacks that romantic fer 
 vor and tenderness which make all 
 the world love a lover. They are 
 vivid and dramatic, sparkling with 
 humor and keen observations, and 
 revealing intimate knowledge of hu 
 man hearts. But in "Azalia," for 
 instance, the Southern general and 
 his mother are rather conventional, 
 and Miss Hallie is insipid, though 
 through them we do catch glimpses 
 of old Southern mansions, with their 
 stately yet simple architecture, ad 
 mirably illustrative of the lives and 
 characters of the owners, and of the 
 unaffected, warm, and gracious old- 
 time hospitality. The Northern la 
 dies, too, admirably described as 
 they are in a few words, are slight 
 sketches rather than true present 
 ments. This story is particularly 
 rich in types, but the real life in its 
 79 
 
CbanDlec Ibattis. 
 
 humor and its pathos is in the " char 
 acters." Mrs. Haley, a lineal de 
 scendant of Mrs. Poyser ; William, 
 a little imp of sable hue that might 
 serve as a weather-stained statue of 
 comedy, if he were not so instinct 
 with life ; and Emma Jane Stucky 
 the representative of that inde 
 scribable class of people known as 
 the piny woods " Tackies " whose 
 u pale, unhealthy-looking face, with 
 sunken eyes, high cheek-bones, and 
 thin lips that seemed never to have 
 troubled themselves to smile a 
 burnt-out face that had apparently 
 surrendered to the past and had no 
 hope for the future " remains in 
 delibly etched upon the memory ? 
 making its mute appeal for human 
 sympathy and helpful and generous 
 pity. Like all genuine humorists, 
 Mr. Harris has his wit always sea 
 soned with love, and a moral purpose 
 underlies all his writings. In the 
 twelve volumes or more which he 
 has published he has preserved tra 
 ditions and legends, photographed a 
 80 
 
Gbanfctet Darrts. 
 
 civilization, perpetuated types, cre 
 ated one character. Humor and sym 
 pathy are his chief qualities, and in 
 everything he is simple and natural. 
 Human character is stripped of tire 
 less details. The people speak their 
 natural language, and act out their 
 little tragedies and comedies accord 
 ing to their nature. " We see them, 
 share their joys and griefs, laugh at 
 their humor, and in the midst of all, 
 behold, we are taught the lesson of 
 honesty, justice, and mercy." 
 
 In person Joel Chandler Harris is 
 somewhat under the middle height, 
 compact, broad of shoulder, and rath 
 er rotund about the waist. But he 
 is supple, energetic, and his swing 
 ing stride still tells of the freedom 
 which the boy enjoyed on the Tur 
 ner plantation. He is the most pro 
 nounced of blondes, with chestnut 
 hair, a mustache of the same color, 
 and sympathetic, laughing blue eyes. 
 Sick or well, he is always in a good 
 humor, and enjoys his work, his 
 friends, and his family. Sprung 
 6 81 
 
3x>el GbanMer Ibarrfs. 
 
 from a simple, sincere race whose 
 wants were few and whose tastes 
 were easily satisfied, he is very hon 
 est and outspoken in his opinions 
 and convictions, and the whole na 
 ture of the man tends to earnestness, 
 simplicity, and truth. " I like peo 
 ple," he says, " who are what they 
 are, and are not all the time trying 
 to be what somebody else has been." 
 In spite of the fame which has come 
 unbidden, he still delights to luxu 
 riate in the quiet restfulness of his 
 semirural home in the little suburb 
 of West End, three miles from the 
 heart of Atlanta ; and we confess that 
 we like best to think of him, as Mr. 
 Brainerd once described him in the 
 Critic, in this typical Southern cot 
 tage nestling in a grove of sweet 
 gum and pine, enlivened by the sing 
 ing of a family of mocking birds that 
 wintered in his g arden and not a 
 bird among them, we imagined, with 
 whose peculiarities he was not fa 
 miliar. In a distant corner of his 
 inclosure a group of brown-eyed 
 82 
 
CbanMer 
 
 Jerseys grazed. Hives of bees were 
 placed near a flower garden that 
 sloped down to the bubbling spring 
 at the foot of the road, a few rods 
 distant. The casual visitor, we were 
 told, was apt to be eyed by the dig 
 nified glance of a superb English 
 mastiff, followed by the bark of 
 two of the finest dogs in the coun 
 try one a bull dog, the other a 
 white English bull terrier. But this 
 was published in 1885, and now Mr. 
 Garsney, in the Book Buyer for 
 March, 1896, tells us that the " grove 
 of sweet gums," the " babbling 
 brook," and the u droning bees are 
 all fictions of somebody else s poetic 
 fancy." Still Mr. Garsney, in his 
 setting for the author of " Uncle 
 Remus," has the eye of an artist 
 and is himself full of poetry, how 
 ever ruthless he may be with " po 
 etic fancies," for after placing him 
 u amid his roses," he adds : " The 
 roses are his one passion, and under 
 his tender care the garden the finest 
 rose garden in Atlanta outside of a 
 83 
 
$oet CbanMer f>atrte. 
 
 florist s domain blooms with prod 
 igal beauty from May until the mid 
 dle of December. In the early sum 
 mer mornings, when the mocking 
 birds are trying their notes in the 
 cedar, and the wrens are chirping 
 over their nest in the old mail box 
 at the gate, you can hear the snip 
 ping of the pruning shears, and you 
 know that Joel Chandler Harris is 
 caressing" his roses while the dew is 
 
 O 
 
 yet on their healthy leaves." 
 
 In this home, with its spacious ve 
 randas, generous hearths, and wide, 
 sunny windows, the right man is 
 sure to find a welcome. The house 
 is one in which bric-a-brac, trump 
 ery, and literary litter are conspic 
 uously absent, but evidently a home 
 where wife and children take the 
 place of these inanimate objects of 
 devotion. But here the man Joel 
 Chandler Harris, as Carlyle would 
 have said, is seen at his best. It 
 is here that the usually silent or 
 monosyllabic figure takes on life 
 and shares with another his inner 
 84 
 
3oel Gban&lec 
 
 wealth of thought and fancy. Mr. 
 Garsney, who had the good fortune 
 to be an inmate of this home for 
 some months, and to whose sketch 
 the writer is indebted for many of 
 these personal remarks and ob 
 servations, thus describes certain 
 rare moments : " It is in the dark 
 ness of a summer evening, on the 
 great front porch of his house, or 
 by his fireside, with no light save 
 that from the nickering coals which 
 he loves to punch and caress, that 
 the man breaks forth into conver 
 sation. I have had in these rare 
 twilight hours the plot of a whole 
 book unfolded to me a book that 
 is yet in the dim future, but which 
 will make a stir when it appears ; 
 I have heard stories innumerable of 
 old plantation life and of happen 
 ings in Georgia during the war ; 
 and I have heard through the mouth 
 of this taciturn and unliterary-look- 
 ing man more thrilling stories of 
 colonial life in the South than I 
 had believed the South held. At 
 85 
 
Cbanfcler fbarrte, 
 
 these times the slight hesitancy that 
 is usually apparent in his speech dis 
 appears ; his thoughts take words 
 and come forth, tinged by the quaint 
 Georgia dialect, in so original a 
 shape and so full of human nature 
 that one remembers these hours long 
 afterwards as times to be marked 
 with a white stone." 
 
 But it is only to the chosen com 
 panion that he thus unlocks his 
 treasures. He seldom has more 
 than a word for ordinary acquaint 
 ances, and the ubiquitous interview 
 er he avoids as a deadly plague. 
 From him the autograph fiends 
 get no response, and many amus 
 ing stories are told of his suc 
 cess in eluding sightseers and lion- 
 hunters. No inducement has yet 
 prevailed upon him to appear in 
 public, either as a reader or as a lec 
 turer. "I would not do it for $i,- 
 000,000," was once his response to 
 an invitation to lecture. Many po 
 sitions of great trust and prominence, 
 we are told, have been refused by 
 86 
 
 
Joel GbanOler Ibarris, 
 
 him, for he says : " If the greatest 
 position on the round earth were to 
 be offered me, I wouldn t take it. 
 The responsibility would kill me in 
 two weeks. Now I haven t any care 
 or any troubles, and I have resolved 
 never to worry any more. Life is 
 all a joke to me. Why make it a 
 care?" 
 
 To those who are engaged in the 
 pigmy contests for money and place 
 this philosophy will doubtless ap 
 pear tame and unheroic. But for a 
 man of Mr. Harris s peculiar gifts 
 and temperament it is the highest 
 wisdom. It means the saving for 
 mankind what a few would squan 
 der upon themselves. It means more 
 inimitable stories, and since his suc 
 cess in the past justifies. us in expect 
 ing it, and especially since he has 
 reached the age of ripest wisdom 
 and supremest effort on the part of 
 genius, it means, we may hope, 
 a work into which he will put 
 the wealth of his mind and heart, 
 and expand and compress into one 
 87 
 
5ocl Gban&ler ibatrfs. 
 
 novel the completest expression of 
 his whole being. But if he should 
 never give us a masterpiece of fiction 
 like his beloved " Vicar of Wake- 
 field," "Ivanhoe," "Vanity Fair," 
 or The Scarlet Letter," we shall 
 still be forever grateful for the fresh 
 and beautiful stories, the delightful 
 humor, the genial, manly philosophy, 
 .and the wise and witty sayings in 
 which his writings abound. His 
 characters have become world pos 
 sessions ; his words are in all our 
 mouths. By virtue of these gifts he 
 will be enrolled in that small but dis 
 tinguished company of humorists, 
 the immortals of the heart and home, 
 whose genius, wisdom, and charity 
 keep fresh and sweet the springs of 
 life, and Uncle Remus will live al 
 ways. 
 
 88 
 
flDaurice ftbompson* 
 
 THE greatest writers cannot 
 agree in defining genius. No 
 university has ever framed a 
 course of study adapted to its varied 
 and peculiar wants. For my part, 
 I am glad that scholars had no 
 chance to put Jonson s "learned 
 sock " on " sweetest Shakespeare, 
 fancy s child." Was it not fortu 
 nate that Burns s head was filled 
 with stories of warlocks and witch 
 es, with ballads and old wives fa 
 bles, instead of Latin nouns, Greek 
 verbs, and mathematical problems? 
 Suppose Scott s school reputation 
 was one of irregular ability, and 
 Wordsworth would read Richard 
 son s novels when he should have 
 been cramming for examination ; 
 granted that Thackeray s school 
 fellows, peering over his shoulder, 
 89 
 
jflfcaurice ^bompson. 
 
 did always find him making humor 
 ous and fantastic sketches from Ho 
 mer, from Horace, from Scott s po 
 ems, from Cooper s novels (he sel 
 dom had any other kind of books in 
 his hand then), and that Bunyan 
 had only two books in his library 
 did not each in the end get that ed 
 ucation which suited him best and 
 enriched the world most? Ever and 
 anon there comes a time when our 
 poets must touch mother earth and 
 grow strong again. In this way lit 
 erature becomes fresher and sweeter 
 and loses that bookishness which 
 handicaps Pegasus, though Milton 
 or George Eliot be the rider. Is it 
 an unhealthy sign that so many of 
 our younger writers are not college 
 bred ? Those of the Southern school 
 had small chance to get a collegiate 
 education. But they grew up at a 
 time and amid surroundings that fit 
 ted them far better to create a new, 
 fresh, and original literature. A 
 typical example is the subject of this 
 sketch. Although he has not com- 
 90 
 
.Maurice Gbompeon. 
 
 monly been classed with the South 
 ern school, there is not one of them 
 more distinctly Southern in his lin 
 eage, his life, and his writings. He 
 was reared in the South. His writ 
 ings have the freshness and fra 
 grance of the South. In conception 
 and coloring they are distinctly 
 Southern, and oftentimes there is 
 even a tropical glow in his creations. 
 Though his home is in Indiana, he 
 has spent almost every winter of his 
 life either in Florida or on the gulf 
 coast, nowadays usually at Bay St. 
 Louis. He has thus ever kept in 
 touch and sympathy with Southern 
 life and effort, and had close com 
 panionship with Southern sky and 
 sea and wood and bird. 
 
 Maurice Thompson was born at 
 F airfield, Ind., September 9, 1844, 
 where his father was temporarily 
 residing. His family on the father s 
 side comes of Scotch-Irish stock, and 
 on the mother s side it is Dutch, but 
 both paternal and maternal ancestors 
 fought in the patriot army during 
 91 
 
/Bbaurice ftbompson. 
 
 the Revolution, some under Lafay 
 ette, some under Francis Marion in 
 the Carolinas. Four generations 
 ago we find the great-great-grand 
 father of Maurice Thompson a com 
 panion of Daniel Boone in the In 
 dian wars of Kentucky, the family, 
 of Irish descent, having come to the 
 "bloody hunting grounds" from 
 Virginia. The son of this Thomp 
 son was a Baptist minister, well 
 known in the early days of Ohio and 
 Indiana. About seventy years ago 
 he sat in the Indiana Legislature, and 
 later was nominated by his party for 
 Congress, but defeated by a few 
 votes. The preacher - politician s 
 wife was a daughter of a Revolu 
 tionary soldier, of Scotch descent. 
 Their son, Maurice s father, was born 
 in Missouri, and in due time he too 
 became a Baptist minister. Though 
 not in the strictest sense an educated 
 man, he was an orator of real power, 
 and he wrote books of a doctrinal 
 sort that were long popular with 
 his denomination. He lived to a good 
 92 
 
Maurice 
 
 old age, dying in March, 1888, about 
 seventy-seven years old. 
 
 Mr. Thompson s mother was born 
 in New York, and her maiden name 
 was Jagger. Her father, of Dutch 
 origin, was a soldier in the war of 
 
 o 
 
 1812, and the family moved to In 
 diana in 1818. She is well educated, 
 and a great lover of the best books. 
 " To her," the son says, " I owe 
 everything. Her intimate knowl 
 edge of the best English literature, 
 especially that of Shakespeare, Scott, 
 Byron, Shelley, and Keats, was ear 
 ly impressed upon me. From child 
 hood to manhood she was my boon 
 companion, my playmate, my ad 
 viser, my teacher, my loving and 
 encouraging critic, my everything 
 my mother ! " She lives with him 
 now, in her eighty-third year, and 
 enjoys the rare fortune of still hav 
 ing not only a perfect mind, but an 
 unabated relish for all good reading. 
 Shortly after his birth his parents 
 removed to Missouri, and settled in 
 the woods of the Southeastern part 
 93 
 
flfcaurfce 
 
 of that State. Returning to Indiana, 
 they went thence to Kentucky, where 
 they remained until he was nine or 
 ten years of age, and then continued 
 their southward flight till they nes 
 tled in the beautiful valley of the 
 Coosawattee, a little stream of North 
 Georgia. Here his father bought a 
 plantation in a fertile but lonely 
 place, and for several years he lived, 
 to use his own words, " a sweet, 
 wild life, hard enough in many re 
 spects, almost savage in some a 
 sweet, wild life, as I remember it, 
 however, devoted to books, manual 
 labor, wildwood roaming, shooting, 
 and fishing." Later his life was the 
 " most picturesque, no doubt, that 
 has befallen any American youth." 
 This he has promised to give us 
 some time or other. He became 
 practically a denizen of the woods, 
 hearing about with him in his ram 
 bles books and shooting implements 
 sometimes a gun, sometimes a bow 
 and arrows. He made long voyages 
 in a canoe, journeys into Florida and 
 94 
 
dBaurtce Gbompscm. 
 
 along the gulf coast ; he climbed 
 mountains and explored swamps. 
 u At first," he says, " I was conscious 
 of no fixed aim had no definite 
 purpose. I was impelled to go into 
 the wilds of nature, and went. But 
 as my experience broadened I began 
 to feel all my myriad scraps of 
 knowledge, snatched here from 
 books and there from nature, fusing 
 in the heat of my imagination and 
 running together in a strong cur 
 rent toward the outlet of literary 
 expression." 
 
 How he obtained an education it 
 would be difficult even for him to 
 tell, the sources have been so mani 
 fold. A poet absorbs knowledge 
 through every spiritual pore, from 
 every influence of life, every vent 
 of nature. The beautiful valley 
 of the Saliquoy, nearly, midway 
 between Atlanta and Chattanooga, 
 where the family found a home, 
 was at that time so remote from the 
 world that no good school was with 
 in reach. His father was much 
 95 
 
/foaurice Gbompson. 
 
 away from home, and, though pri 
 vate tutors were employed from 
 time to time, the boy s education 
 was really directed by his mother. 
 But from mother and tutors he re 
 ceived good instruction in Greek, in 
 Latin, in French, in German, in 
 Hebrew, in mathematics his fa 
 vorite study, of which he has al 
 ways been passionately fond, and 
 for which he has such affinity that 
 he has never had any trouble in its 
 study at all and in the English 
 poets. He studied Kant, Leibnitz, 
 and Spinoza in a way, worshiped 
 Poe for awhile, then idolized Victor 
 Hugo in a boyish abandon, got the 
 " Somnium Scipionis " by heart, and 
 lost himself in the Greek lyrists. 
 Part of this was before and part 
 after the Civil War, but even during 
 his soldier life he was studying and 
 reading While stationed at Thun 
 derbolt, near Savannah, Ga., he en 
 joyed "La Nouvelle Heloise" for 
 the first time, and here and there in 
 camp he read Carlyle s essays, De 
 96 
 
Maurice abompson. 
 
 Quincey s works, and other fine 
 literature. While serving as a scout 
 in 1 864 he was chided by his supe 
 riors for carrying about with him 
 one of Hugh Miller s works. 
 
 In a " Boys Book of Sports " he 
 has told us how he prosecuted his 
 studies in boyhood. " I wished to 
 study all the branches of a liberal 
 education," says he, " while paying 
 special attention to zoology and 
 general natural history ; and I so 
 arranged my studies that by spend 
 ing more than the usual time with 
 my teachers Mondays, Tuesdays, 
 and Wednesdays, I had Thursdays, 
 Fridays, and Saturdays free for my 
 woodland ramblings and outdoor 
 studies. It was a very joyful school 
 life. While lying beside clear moun 
 tain springs in the cool shade of the 
 wild woods, with many rare song 
 sters warbling above me, I read 
 Wilson and Bonaparte and Audu- 
 bon s books on birds. At other 
 times I would sit on the cedar-cov 
 ered bluffs of the Coosawattee and 
 7 97 
 
/IBaurice {Tbompson. 
 
 pore over mathematical problems. 
 I read some choice novels, principal 
 ly French, in order to get a good 
 knowledge of that language. I re 
 member well how the Romance of 
 a Poor Young Man delighted me. 
 I translated and read, during one 
 bass-fishing season, the Essav on 
 Old Age and the Somnium Scipi- 
 onis of Cicero, and many of the 
 odes of Horace." 
 
 This school life in the woods was 
 made more delightful bv the com 
 panionship of u younger brother 
 who studied with him. This broth- 
 er was an enthusiastic egg hunter, 
 and collected for the cabinets of two 
 or three gentlemen a great number 
 of rare bird eggs. Both took great 
 delight in shooting with the bow 
 and arrow. "As I look back upon 
 this life now," he says, "it appears 
 curiously confuse.d a sort of -pot 
 pourri of study and play and 
 dreaming, content and discontent 
 an odd jumble indeed." But it was 
 this manner of life which diffcren- 
 98 
 
dfcaurice ^Thompson. 
 
 tiatccl him from other writers, and 
 which has made his writings so 
 characteristic. The origin of his 
 theory of criticism is not far to 
 seek. "Outdoor Influences in Lit 
 erature," " Tangle - leaf Papers," 
 every chapter in " By - ways and 
 Bird - notes " and in " Sylvan Se 
 crets " give evidence of the " richer 
 reward " obtainable from the " liv 
 ing, budding, redolent, resonant by 
 ways of our neighborhoods." In 
 such company " even Poe and Haw 
 thorne disclose too heavy a trace of 
 the must and mold of the closet." 
 There is " lacking that balmy, odor 
 ous freshness of the morning woods 
 and pastures, when the convolvulus 
 and the violets are in bloom. 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober, 
 The leaves they were crisp and sere, 
 
 in all their writings." 
 
 In another place he says : " To 
 study nature is the surest way to a 
 knowledge of w r hat art ought to be. 
 Nature is the standard. I have 
 little respect for the judgment of 
 99 
 
dfcaurlce ^bompson. 
 
 the critic who measures one man s 
 work by that of another. The 
 main question, when any art work 
 is critically considered, should be : 
 Has it the symmetry, force, and 
 vital beauty of nature ? " Again and 
 again he recurs to this thought, and 
 expresses it best perhaps in these 
 words : " The higher forms of art 
 which we have agreed to call cre 
 ative must get the germs of all new 
 combinations from the suggestions 
 of nature. I have often thought 
 that even criticism in our country 
 would have more virility in it if the 
 critics had more time and more in 
 clination to study nature outside of 
 cities and greenhouses. How can 
 Wordsworth be studied with true 
 critical insight by one who but 
 vaguely remembers the outlines of 
 the woods and the fields, the shady 
 lanes, and the fine aerial effects of 
 hilly landscape? When one with 
 open eyes and ears goes out into 
 the unshorn ways of nature in the 
 creative season spring the fine 
 100 
 
Maurice ftbompson. 
 
 fervor at work in birds and trees 
 and plants, in the air, the earth, and 
 the "water is so manifest that one 
 cannot doubt that some subtle ele 
 ment of originality is easily obtain 
 able therefrom by infection." 
 
 To return to his life : Mr. Thomp 
 son entered the Southern army in 
 1862, and was honorably surren 
 dered at Kingston, Ga., in May, 
 1865. As to his feelings regarding 
 the struggle between the North 
 and the South in the war he was 
 conscientiously on the side of the 
 South ; still, toward the close of the 
 fight, as he grew older and more 
 thoughtful, he began to see that 
 human slavery was an unmitigated 
 evil, and that the constitution of the 
 Confederate States was without in 
 herent value without power to hold 
 the States together, and without 
 any central idea upon which patriot 
 ism could focus itself. About the 
 same time Georgia was talking of 
 secession. But then, as now, he 
 was " passionately attached " to the 
 101 
 
/fcaurtce Gftompson. 
 
 South and he " stayed with her till 
 the fight closed." " But for the 
 last year of the struggle," Mr. 
 Thompson says, " the feeling was 
 growing in me that we were bat 
 tling against the nineteenth century, 
 and that even if we whipped the 
 North we could not drive back the 
 whole phalanx of progress." 
 
 In the closing lines of his poem, 
 " To the South," which he address 
 es as 
 
 Land where our Washington was born, 
 When truth in hearts of gold was worn ; 
 Mother of Marion, Moultrie, Lee, 
 Widow of fallen chivalry! 
 
 we have the expression of his ma 
 ture conviction in regard to the great 
 underlying cause of the strife : 
 
 I am a Southerner; 
 I love the South: I dared for her 
 To fight from Lookout to the sea, 
 With her proud banner over me: 
 But from my lips thanksgiving broke, 
 As God in battle thunder spoke, 
 And that Black Idol, breeding drouth 
 And dearth of human sympathy 
 Throughout the sweet and sensuous 
 South, 
 
 102 
 
Maurice ZTbompson. 
 
 Was, with its chains and human joke, 
 Blown hellward from the cannon s mouth, 
 While Freedom cheered behind the smoke. 
 
 But he entered the conflict and 
 fought to the finish with all of a 
 young man s ardor and impetuosity. 
 Wherever he served he was an en 
 thusiastic soldier, an excellent scout, 
 a reckless rider, a fine shot. One of 
 his daring feats has been described 
 by an eyewitness, as follows : 
 
 It was once my fortune to see a young 
 man take an ax in his hand and walk 
 alone across two hundred yards of open 
 ground, under the fire of four hundred 
 dismounted troopers, and deliberately cut 
 down a telegraph pole. While he was 
 chopping away at the tough cedar wood 
 I could plainly see the splinters whirling 
 away from the pole from top to bottom 
 as the whizzing bullets aimed at him 
 crashed through it or seamed its side with 
 rugged scars. Near by stood a brick 
 chimney, where a house had been burned 
 down. A twelve-pound shot struck the 
 pile, and it went tumbling to earth, scat 
 tering its bricks about, some of them 
 striking the young soldier s legs. lie did 
 not waver. As regular as the beat of a 
 pendulum was the swing of that ax, and 
 103 
 
Maurice tlbompson. 
 
 when the pole fell friends and foes vied 
 together in yelling their admiration of 
 the young man, as he deliberately shoul 
 dered his ax and returned to his place in 
 his command. 
 
 The motives and passions which 
 hurled him into the war, as well as 
 some of its experiences then and aft 
 er, have never been more strongly 
 presented than in his poem, "An 
 Address, by an Ex-Confederate Sol 
 dier to the Grand Army of the Re 
 public," specially in the following 
 lines : 
 
 And was it wrong 
 
 To wear the gray my father wore? 
 Could I shrink back, though young and 
 strong, 
 
 From foes before my mother s door? 
 
 My mother s kiss was hot with fight, 
 My father s frenzy filled his son, 
 
 Through reeking day and sodden night 
 My sister s courage urged me on. 
 
 And I, a missile steeped in hate, 
 Hurled forward like a cannon ball 
 
 By the resistless hand of fate, 
 
 Rushed wildly, madly through it all. 
 
 I stemmed the level flames of hell, 
 O er bayonet s bars of death I broke, 
 104 
 
/fcaurice bompson. 
 
 I was so near when Cleburne fell, 
 I heard the muffled bullet stroke! 
 
 And then his picture of the close, in 
 the same poem, is equally strong and 
 pathetic : 
 
 My mother, gray and bent with years, 
 Hoarding love s withered aftermath, 
 
 Her sweet eyes burnt too dry for tears, 
 Sat in the dust of Sherman s path. 
 
 My father, broken, helpless, poor, 
 A gloomy, nerveless giant stood 
 
 Too strong to cower and endure, 
 Too weak to light for masterhood. 
 
 My boyhood s home a blackened heap, 
 Where lizards crawled and briers grew 
 
 Had felt the fire of vengeance creep 
 The crashing round shot hurtle thro . 
 
 I had no country, all was lost, 
 
 I closed my eyes and longed to die, 
 
 While past me stalked the awful ghost 
 Of mangled, murdered Liberty. 
 
 In this condition the end of the 
 struggle found him. His father still 
 owned two plantations, on one of 
 which the family struggled along 
 till the spring of 1868. During these 
 three years manual labor alternated 
 with hard study. Needing a Greek 
 105 
 
Maurice Gbompscm. 
 
 lexicon and sonic engineering works, 
 he shot squirrels and sold them at 
 ten cents each for money to buy the 
 books with. In his library are other 
 books bought with money earned in 
 this way. A trough was dug in a 
 large log in which apples from the 
 old orchard \vere pounded, and in a 
 rude press of his own make he 
 squeezed out the cider and sold it. 
 " The books," he says tenderly, 
 " are sweeter and more fragrant to 
 me now than any cider." His study 
 ing was done mostly at night not 
 by lamp or candle, for he had nei 
 ther, but by the light of pine knots 
 burning in the fireplace. This was, 
 however, not such a hardship as it 
 may seem, for he had long before 
 learned to study by the " lightwood " 
 flame around the hunters and the 
 soldiers camp fires. 
 
 W^hile working: as a field laborer 
 
 O 
 
 by day and reviewing his engineer 
 ing studies by night he thought he 
 saw a prospect for success at law. 
 So with characteristic energy he 
 106 
 
^bompson. 
 
 dropped everything else and pre 
 pared himself for the practice. But 
 just when he was opening an office 
 at Calhoun, Ga., the reconstruction 
 trouhle upset all law. A friend 
 chanced to advise him to go North, 
 and in sheer desperation he went, 
 pulling up at Crawfordsville, Ind., 
 "absolutely penniless." Hearing of 
 a railway survey, he went to the 
 chief engineer and applied for a 
 place and received it, with pay at 
 seventy-five dollars a month. In a 
 short while he became chief en 
 gineer of a railroad, with a salary 
 of three hundred dollars a month. 
 He then served as chief engineer in 
 the construction of several railroads 
 and other public works. But after 
 he had saved several hundred dol 
 lars he began to practice law, and 
 was successful from the first. In 
 a few years he built up a large and 
 lucrative practice. In the meanwhile 
 he began to mingle with politicians, 
 served in the Indiana Legislature, 
 and became a prominent figure in 
 107 
 
/foaurtce Gbompson. 
 
 State Conventions, and in 1888 was 
 a delegate to the Democratic Na 
 tional Convention 
 
 During all this time, however, 
 nearly since childhood, he had at in 
 tervals spurted out this or that essay 
 or hasty puff of song. Horace Gree- 
 ley, whose acquaintance he had 
 made / published some of his poems 
 and stories in the Tribune. But his 
 literary life fairly began in 1873, 
 with contributions to the Atlantic. 
 These were some lyrics so Greek in 
 their unaffected simplicity and sin 
 cerity as to occasion some question 
 ings. But Lowell liked them, as 
 well as Mr. Howells, the editor, 
 and years afterwards he wrote Mr. 
 Thompson a characteristic letter, 
 saying " that one of those little po 
 ems had rung in his memory ever 
 since like tht humming of bees in 
 June." Longfellow welcomed him 
 as a " new and original singer, fresh, 
 joyous, and true," and both Bryant 
 and Emerson took pains to give him 
 strong encouragement. This en- 
 108 
 
 
Maurice ^bompson. 
 
 couragement strengthened his incli 
 nation, and in 1880 he set about a 
 literary career in earnest. Four 
 years later he gave up the practice 
 of law to devote himself wholly to 
 letters and science, for he still clung 
 to his scientific studies, and in 1885 
 he was made State Geologist of In 
 diana. Since 1889 he has been lit 
 erary editor of the New Tork Inde 
 pendent ; but the publisher of that 
 great journal has given him absolute 
 freedom to go where he pleases a 
 roving commission so that, in fact, 
 the heaviest drudgery of editorial 
 life does not fall upon him. Nearly 
 all of his literary essays now appear 
 in the Independent but he is still a 
 regular contributor to the Century^ 
 and writes occasionally for other 
 magazines. 
 
 Mr. Thompson s summer home, 
 " Sherwood Place," is a large and 
 substantial brick house, built some 
 what after the style of Southern co 
 lonial mansions. It stands in the 
 midst of some acres of old forest 
 109 
 
.flfcaurfce 
 
 trees and blue grass, and commands 
 a broad view of Crawfordsville, a 
 beautiful little town of about ten 
 thousand inhabitants, noted for its 
 excellent society, its fine schools, and 
 its charming homes. The drives and 
 the streets are superb. Here he be 
 gan to live in 1871, about the time 
 of his marriage to Miss Alice Lee, 
 who has since been all to him that 
 his mother was before his marriage. 
 
 O 
 
 A quiet, modest little woman, re 
 fined and cultured, every moment in 
 her presence increases one s esteem 
 and admiration for her and shows 
 that her husband s cheerfulness and 
 enthusiasm are influenced no less by 
 his home life than by his outdoor 
 studies and recreations. Their life 
 is simple. In summer hammocks 
 are swung in the trees shading a 
 lawn set with blue grass, and the 
 family live much in the open air. 
 Their children, one son and two 
 daughters, have grown up, the old 
 est daughter married and the son 
 graduated from college and entered 
 110 
 
Maurice 
 
 life. The chief room of the house 
 is the library a place for comfort 
 and study, plain in its appointments, 
 but large, airy, and with deep bay 
 windows in front. Shelves, tables, 
 corners, floor, and even chairs are 
 heaped with books and magazines, 
 not in confusion, but arranged for 
 use. French novels and scientific 
 tomes lie affectionately side by side. 
 Here Mr. Thompson and his wife 
 work together, she reading aloud or 
 writing from his dictation. Mrs. 
 Thompson draws and colors well, 
 and often when he is too busy for 
 this kind of work she sketches out 
 lines of such things as he wishes to 
 remember. Many a time have they 
 sketched together in the Southern 
 or Western woods, and these sketch 
 es he finds the best possible sugges 
 tions for essays, stories, and poems. 
 For at no time has he ceased to study 
 books and to run at large with na 
 ture. No pressing business has ever 
 prevented him from keeping abreast 
 of contemporary science and litera- 
 111 
 
dfcautice abompson. 
 
 ture ; and with Walt Whitman he 
 might say, 
 
 I think I have blown with you, O \vinds ; 
 O waters, I have fingered every shore 
 with you; 
 
 for, since he went to Indiana in 1868 
 he has spent some part of every year 
 in the wild woods or wilderness 
 swamps or along the Gulf coast, 
 "by grassy brinks and shady shores," 
 or neath "gloomy, moss-hung cy 
 press grove." Savage life has a fas 
 cination for him. He delights "to 
 meet Nature face to face, to put his 
 hand familiarly against her cheek, 
 and to talk to her as an equal." And 
 Nature has treated him kindly, for 
 she has given him his brightest, apt- 
 est metaphors, and his freshest, most 
 original thoughts. They glisten and 
 sparkle in his writings like dew- 
 drops. Scintillations of fancy and 
 of thought fly out from every page. 
 She has endowed him, moreover, 
 with never-failing cheerfulness and 
 irrepressible enthusiasm, which 
 112 
 
dfcaurfce Cbompson. 
 
 make him the most delightful of 
 
 companions. 
 
 He sings, and his is Nature s voice 
 
 A gush of melody sincere 
 From that great fount of harmony 
 
 Which thaws and runs when spring is 
 here. 
 
 Mr. Thompson happily exempli 
 fies Carlyle s saying about poetry, 
 for his eyes see it everywhere. A 
 poetic glamour is thrown over all 
 that he beholds. A poetic fervor 
 suffuses all his writings. Walking 
 through the woods, he sees that 
 where a tree has fallen and decayed 
 there the most beautiful wild flowers 
 grow. We have all noticed such 
 things ; but we have not all written 
 the closing lines of "A Prelude : " 
 And when I fall, like some old tree, 
 And subtle change makes mold of me, 
 There let earth show a fertile line 
 Whence perfect wild flowers leap and 
 shine. 
 
 Reminiscences and observations 
 
 are artistically woven into the woof 
 
 of his prose, and lend to it one of its 
 
 chiefest charms. Speaking of "some 
 
 8 113 
 
/Ifcaurfce ZTbompson. 
 
 sweet twitterings in the south of 
 France which told where the hu 
 man songsters were hidden," he il 
 lustrates the thought with this rem 
 iniscence : " Once in the course of 
 my outdoor life I was sleeping in a 
 hammock in the midst of a wild 
 Southern wood. It was late in April, 
 and the night, though dark, was 
 stormy, and the sky was like a vast 
 blessing flung from the hand of God. 
 I awoke. The stillness and the wood- 
 shadows were oppressive. Once in 
 awhile a bird twittered faintly and 
 dreamily in its sleep, but the pro 
 found solitude was not relieved. 
 Long I lay and felt the loneliness. 
 Slowly night drew on and on to 
 ward morning. Presently a mock 
 ing bird awoke and trilled four or 
 five strange, liquid notes as if half 
 in fear, half in awe of the wide si 
 lence and brooding gloom. Off in 
 the distance another bird answered. 
 Then a streak of dawn was flung up 
 in the east- and I knew day was at 
 hand." Agfain : " Greek culture and 
 
 o 
 
 114 
 
/fcaurice Gbompson. 
 
 imagination, stealing westward and 
 northward, was like the march of 
 springtime across the land. It set 
 men and women to singing like 
 birds, it sweetened their souls, fer 
 tilized their minds, and blew their 
 lives into passionate bloom." Nor 
 is he less happy in writing of men 
 and books and literary theories. 
 The same freshness and breath of 
 early morn is everywhere apparent. 
 "Vulgar stylists" and "smart ana 
 lysts " are his abomination. " It was 
 little Horace," he says, " not big 
 Homer, who set such value on the 
 details of verse making." In the 
 midst of his prose, always charming 
 and even exhilarating, he mounts up 
 and carols out some exquisite fancy 
 like this: "Indeed, even nature is 
 not a realist of the analytical, micro 
 scopic sort in her best work; for she 
 is not content with showing things 
 just as they are, but must hang a lu 
 minous atmosphere about them and 
 touch them with heavenly colors. 
 She knows the blue enchantment of 
 115 
 
/Maurice ^bompson. 
 
 distance, the value of romantic sug 
 gestions, the power of dim lines and 
 mysterious shadows. She sketches 
 here, she indicates an effect yonder, 
 at one moment finishing the minutest 
 details, at another dashing a form 
 less wonder on sky or sea or moun 
 tain side, but she never stops to 
 analyze motives or to call attention 
 to her methods." 
 
 His first volume, " Hoosier Mosa 
 ics," appeared in 1875 a slight ef 
 fort giving only here and there, in 
 the love of birds and of nature, in 
 close observation,or in some rippling, 
 sparkling sentence, a promise of the 
 charming essays, the delightful ro 
 mances, and the exquisite poems 
 that were to follow. His second 
 book, the " Witchery of Archery," 
 was more fortunate, and gave him 
 at least wide notoriety. Archery 
 clubs were formed almost every 
 where, and for awhile it seemed as 
 if the fashion of shooting with bow 
 and arrow would grow into a cus 
 tom. But the intrinsic merits of the 
 116 
 
/foaurice Gbompscm. 
 
 book were apart from the sport. 
 The sportsman showed that he was 
 also a keen-eyed observer and a lit 
 erary artist. The love of nature, the 
 infinite delight in the wild woods, 
 swamps, lakes, and mountains, the 
 personal affection for bird, beast, 
 and fish, and his genius for descrip 
 tionthese were for the first time 
 made known. With this publica 
 tion his literary fame began. 
 
 But his trips to the South brought 
 forth other fruit. His eyes began to 
 note the changes that were rapidly 
 taking place in social and political life. 
 He embodied his studies in several 
 romances: "A Tallahassee Girl," 
 His Second Campaign," and "At 
 Love s Extremes." The atmos 
 phere in these novels is purely 
 Southern air, sunshine, and land 
 scape, too. But in the subtler and 
 more difficult creations he has not 
 succeeded so well. Perhaps this 
 transition period was too evanes 
 cent, and he did not go far enough 
 back into the past. What a field 
 117 
 
dfcaurtce ftbompson. 
 
 for romance lies here ! The old 
 plantation home, the hospitable, mas 
 terful old Southerner, the Creole, the 
 cracker, the mountaineer, the ne 
 gro, the cotton, sugar, and rice fields, 
 the lagoons with long, funereal moss, 
 the noble pine and stately oak for 
 ests, orange groves, magnolia bow 
 ers ; add to these the sad, grand 
 story of the war, and what material 
 and what a setting do all these 
 
 O 
 
 things present ! Perhaps the real 
 future historian of the South is to 
 be a Scott, and the " Wizard of the 
 South " is destined to have a name 
 only second to the " Wizard of the 
 North." Mr. Thompson was one 
 of the first to recognize this rich 
 field for romance. He endeavored 
 to put the old Southerner with his 
 environment on canvas, to gave a 
 
 O 
 
 true picture of Southern men and 
 women and life before the condi 
 tions under which they existed 
 should have utterly passed away. 
 Here was " a class, to say truth, 
 with as few faults and as high qual- 
 118 
 
dbaurice 
 
 ities as are the birthright of any 
 other in the world." The men were 
 " true as steel to a friend and beau 
 tifully tender and courtly in their 
 intercourse with women." But this 
 life was presented not from its own 
 point of view and with its own ten 
 der and hallowed associations, but 
 from the point of view of an ag 
 gressive, vigorous, typical North 
 erner one who had served in Sher 
 man s army. Beautiful examples 
 of practical reconstruction were thus 
 afforded, and good results followed. 
 But Judge La Rue, Col. Vance, etc., 
 are somewhat conventional. They 
 are rather types of what the world 
 has been calling the Southern colo 
 nel and the Southern judge. With 
 " Lucie La Rue " and u Rosalie 
 Chenier" he has succeeded better. 
 Rosalie is a pure, sweet child of 
 Nature who, after the manner of 
 American women, buds and blos 
 soms quickly under suitable condi 
 tions into perfect womanhood. But 
 Lucie is the author s most perfect cre- 
 119 
 
Maurice ftbompson. 
 
 ation. With self-possession and self- 
 control, engendered by generations 
 of good breeding, she is artless, gen 
 uine, simple, refined. She is worthy 
 to hang in the same portrait gallery 
 with "Aurore" and "Clotilde" the 
 finest feminine creations the writer 
 has found in contemporary novels. 
 But these are charming stories, 
 among the very best of the many 
 novels of Southern life, and suf 
 fused with all the author s accus 
 tomed freshness and love of na 
 ture. A later and stronger novel 
 is "A Banker at Bankersville" a 
 vivid, wholesome picture of life in 
 Indiana. The study of the banker 
 was timely, and though this is not a 
 " novel of purpose," it has doubt 
 less served a good purpose. It 
 may have helped to mold the public 
 sentiment which sent a certain bank 
 er to the Ohio penitentiary. But 
 what is still better, the author is a 
 practical illustration of his own teach 
 ing. In a letter to the writer he 
 mentioned a fact worth knowing in 
 120 
 
jflfcauttce Gbompeon. 
 
 the life of a literary man. " I own 
 my own home," says he, " a good 
 and comfortable one, and a landed 
 estate of some value, a good scien 
 tific and literary library, a good law 
 library, and am reasonably provided 
 for in every way all of my own 
 earning, not a cent of it a gift from 
 any person or the result of chance 
 or accident." 
 
 "A Fortnight of Folly" (1888) 
 is one of those lapses which imagi-- 
 native writers are almost sure to 
 make at some time or other in their 
 creative efforts. But, in a series of 
 stories in the Century, beginning in 
 1889, he again becomes natural and 
 interesting. "Two Old Boys" is 
 sheer fun and delightful. Most of 
 these, however, are negro stories, in 
 which the author has attempted to 
 set great political and social truths 
 in a frame of romance with a con 
 siderable border of humor and sat 
 ire. Extremists will find small 
 delight in their teaching, for it is 
 too human and true ; but every one 
 121 
 
/ftaurice ZIbompscm. 
 
 may enjoy the genuine humor, 
 blended as it is with a singularly 
 poetic sense of pathos as grotesque 
 as tender. Mr. Thompson s love 
 of a good story doubtless induced 
 him to accept the invitation to write 
 the "Story of Louisiana" (1888), 
 The glamour of romance and the 
 legendary atmosphere belonging to 
 the history of this State must have 
 appealed strongly to "a poet by 
 nature delighting in his poetic 
 theme." There is evident delight 
 in his telling of the dramatic tale of 
 this land abounding in interest of 
 every sort : " landscape, hereditary 
 singularities, mixed nationality, leg 
 ends, and thrilling episodes." The 
 Creole, too, appeals to the author s 
 heart as well as to his imagination, 
 and he puts in an eloquent plea for 
 him. From beginning to end the 
 story is told with spirit, candor, and 
 impartiality, and with unflagging 
 interest to the reader. His latest 
 attempt at story telling, the " Ocala 
 Boy" (1895), is a slight tale for 
 122 
 
Gbompson. 
 
 boys, and while it is not one of the 
 best specimens either of the author s 
 skill in narration, or of his ability to 
 depict life and individual character 
 (Louis and Rhett are rather toe 
 bookish and "grown up"), it nev 
 ertheless has all of his exquisite 
 charm and freshness in description, 
 and has the power also of holding 
 the young- reader s delighted atten 
 tion from beginning to end. 
 
 But Mr. Thompson is still more 
 widely known for his love of nature 
 and the artistic interpretation of it. 
 Some of his papers have been col 
 lected into two volumes, whose very 
 titles are refreshing : " Byways and 
 Bird Notes" (1885), and "Sylvan 
 Secrets" (1887). Many more are 
 found in the columns of the Inde 
 pendent and other periodical publi 
 cations. Almost every article gives 
 evidence of the enthusiastic natural 
 ist and bird lover. He has tramped 
 all over the hill country of Florida, 
 wandering from Tallahassee to Pen- 
 sacola and Mobile, and on into 
 123 
 
jflfcaurtce 
 
 Louisiana, that he might watch and 
 study the mocking bird in its na 
 tive groves. Equally well known 
 to him are the catbird, thrush, 
 woodpecker, jay, bluebird, kingfish 
 er, heron, and many more of the 
 feathered denizens of wood and 
 stream. Especially in bird studies 
 has he excelled, some of them 
 being so accurate and original as to 
 overthrow the theories of so cele 
 brated a scientist as Mr. Huxley, 
 and to correct the mistakes of so 
 great a lover of birds as Alexander 
 Wilson. But he is an observer of 
 nature from the poetic and literary 
 side too, and this knowledge is 
 communicated to us in so delightful 
 a way that we are often unable to 
 determine which delights us the 
 more, the literary artist or the keen- 
 eyed observer. Thought seems to 
 come to him always under the laws 
 of form and glowing with color. 
 But there is much more in these es 
 says than love of nature and ex 
 quisite descriptions. Here we find 
 124 
 
Maurice Gbompson. 
 
 his methods of study, his theories of 
 criticism, and a warm human ele 
 ment, which, combined with fre 
 quent moralizings as racy and in 
 vigorating as his best outdoor stud 
 ies, show him as he really is, a vig 
 orous thinker and true philosopher, 
 and a breezy, inspiriting, suggestive 
 critic. His paper on " Shakes 
 peare" is in the opinion of many 
 the best essay he has written. Like 
 his poems on those well - worn 
 themes of classic allegory, it is in 
 stinct with life fresh, bold, origi 
 nal. His poem on " Diana " and 
 his paper on " Shakespeare " show 
 that the true poet and the real think 
 er can put life and beauty into sub 
 jects so old and trite that form and 
 motion seem no longer possible to 
 them. These papers take a wide 
 range. At one time we are in the 
 " haunts of the mocking bird ;" then 
 we find ourselves in a " Southern 
 swamp," " a genuine land of 
 dreams ; " anon we spend awhile 
 with Ruskin and Shakespeare by 
 125 
 
dfcaurtce ftbompson. 
 
 the gulf, with the sunshine and the 
 wind of the South flowing over us. 
 In more recent years the short 
 literary essay has claimed his chief 
 attention. It is easy to see that the 
 love of books has been growing 
 upon him. Indeed, he has been 
 seen to neglect grayling and trout for 
 Theocritus, and his " Pindaric Per 
 spective " is as exhilarating as the 
 " King of the Brambles." The "Art 
 of Suggestion " discloses his sym 
 pathetic study of the poets, as well 
 as the rich suggestiveness or won 
 derful under- meaning so apparent 
 in them. His treatment of every 
 subject reveals the fact that here is 
 one who delights in freshness and 
 originality, while frankness and 
 individuality are observable in every 
 line. He goes beyond aesthetics to 
 ethics in art, " for life and literature 
 cannot be separated so as to say 
 that what is vicious in life is harm 
 lessly delectable in literature." His 
 objection to the nude in art is pre 
 sented in this way : " Fitness is a 
 126 
 
/iBaurice dbompson. 
 
 Large element of ethics ; it is every 
 thing in aesthetics. Nude art was 
 fit in the days when religion was 
 lasciviousness and civilization s high 
 est aspiration a dream of unspeak 
 able debauchery ; man s duty was 
 not visible to him, and he groveled 
 after mere animal gratifications. 
 Nude art, as we see it in the old 
 sculptures, the old drawings, and 
 the old poems, expressed with all 
 the glory of benighted yet divine 
 genius the actualities of pagan life. 
 Nakedness was the heathen s spirit 
 ual and, in a large degree, physical 
 condition, while it is ours to be 
 clothed upon with the garments of 
 decency. Our ethics cannot escape 
 the fitness of the Christian fashion ; 
 much less can our aesthetics <ro back 
 
 o 
 
 to pagan modes." For this reason 
 he abominates realism, because it is 
 both false and unhealthy. " These 
 modern realists utter the cry of our 
 civilization s lowest and most be 
 lated element," while " the great 
 masters of art lift us above the mire 
 127 
 
/fcaurfce Gbompson. 
 
 of degrading things." Romance 
 and heroism he continues to recog 
 nize as the two greatest forces in 
 human life, nor has he got beyond 
 Homer and Shakespeare and Sir 
 Walter Scott and Thackeray. . He 
 is specially fond of the Greeks, The 
 ocritus above all, because "fresh 
 ness hung upon their thoughts like 
 a dew of morning." In them there 
 is nothing alien, nothing insincere, 
 unnatural, unhealthy. But one is 
 apt to misunderstand Mr. Thomp 
 son s writings about the Greeks, 
 and all poets, unless one remembers 
 that the poet s and the scholar s 
 points of view may be, and most 
 often are, far apart. His view of 
 criticism is best presented in that ex 
 cellent little volume, the " Ethics 
 of Literary Art" (1893), which is 
 not only healthy, stimulating, sug 
 gestive throughout, but is also the 
 timeliest antidote to the disease- 
 bearing fiction of the day that has 
 yet been offered. Of him as a 
 writer on nature and books we may 
 128 
 
/fcaurice Gbompson. 
 
 say in his own words : " One who 
 comes to us with the joy of health 
 in his nerves and the sweets of na 
 ture s wild breath upon his lips is an 
 incarnate blessing. The philosophy 
 in his soul is the same as that which 
 hangs a scarf of amethyst on the 
 mountain; his bodily health is like 
 the vigor of a plant in spring ; his 
 speech is fragrance." 
 
 But Mr. Thompson is above all the 
 poet. Even his prose is poetic and 
 imaginative. Though he studies 
 Nature with the calm dispassionate 
 ness of a scientist, he loves her with 
 the imaginative love of a poet. He 
 cannot, however, be likened to Spen 
 ser, 
 
 Who, like a copious river, poured his song 
 O er all the mazes of enchanted ground. 
 
 His earlier poems, " Songs of Fair 
 Weather " ( 1 883 ) , are rather rivulets, 
 clear, limpid, sparkling, and not sel 
 dom little wellsprings of freshness 
 and gladness bursting from the 
 depths of nature and the human 
 9 129 
 
/fcaurice Gbompson. 
 
 heart. They are all songs of fair 
 weather. Storms and clouds are 
 far away. The cool, fresh, sweet 
 air of early spring blows through 
 them, though now and then there is 
 a breeze wafted across fields of new- 
 mown hay. As Mr. W. D. Howells 
 beautifully said : " The odor of the 
 woods, pure and keen and clean, 
 seems to strike up from this verse 
 as directly as from the mold in the 
 heart of the primeval forest ; but it 
 is as exquisite as if thrice distilled 
 in some chemist s alembic, the last 
 effect of his cunning in perfumes." 
 To his own conception of a poet he 
 answers well : 
 
 He is a poet strong and true, 
 Who loves wild thyme and honeydew, 
 And like a brown bee works and sings; 
 With morning freshness on his wings, 
 And a gold burden on his thighs 
 The pollendust of centuries. 
 
 One of the greatest charms of his 
 poetry is the combination of perfect 
 simplicity of expression with exqui 
 site tenderness of feeling and beau- 
 130 
 
/fcaurice Gbompaon. 
 
 ty of thought. There is no straining 
 after effect; there are no archaic 
 words, no feeble imitations of the old 
 poets. His words are simple and 
 homely, yet they express perfectly 
 his ideas. They do more : they car 
 ry us into the higher realms of 
 thought, of feeling, and of the imag 
 ination. Take this little stanza 
 from one of his best poems, "At 
 My Window," as an example * 
 
 A breath from tropical borders, 
 
 Just a ripple flowed into my room, 
 
 And washed my face clean of its sadness, 
 Blew my heart into bloom. 
 
 What suggestiveness there is in the 
 closing stanzas of " November ! " 
 
 Calmly I wait the dreary change 
 The season cutting sharp and sheer 
 
 Through the wan bowers of death that 
 
 fringe 
 The border of the year. 
 
 And while I muse the fated earth 
 
 Into a colder current dips; 
 Feels winter s scourge with summer s 
 
 kiss 
 
 Still warm upon her lips. 
 131 
 
Maurice Gbompson. 
 
 What could be more delicate and 
 subtle than some of his lines : 
 
 The wind drew faintly from the South, 
 Like breath blown from a sleeper s mouth! 
 
 And 
 
 Bubble, bubble, flows the stream, 
 Like an old tune through a dream. 
 
 Indeed, in all these poems we feel 
 The influence, sweet and slight, 
 Of strange, elusive perfume, blown 
 Off dewy groves by night. 
 
 These songs rank with the very 
 best of their kind, and this rare little 
 first volume w r as welcomed as one 
 of the most genuinely poetic contri 
 butions to American literature. 
 
 In 1892 a new edition of these 
 songs, slightly enlarged, was pub 
 lished under the simple title of 
 " Poems." The newcomers neces 
 sitated the change in the title, for to 
 the dewy freshness, spontaneity, and 
 outdoor singing, as natural as a 
 bird s, of the young roamer at will 
 with gun, or bow and arrows, or 
 fishing rod, have been added the 
 more conscious efforts of the matur- 
 132 
 
flfcaurtce Gbompson. 
 
 er student of books and of men. 
 There is nothing, however, that 
 savors of the lamp and the close 
 room. But to some extent one feels 
 that the songs of a mocking bird 
 are " translated carefully," and that 
 i t is impossible to reproduce the 
 " golden note by golden word," even 
 though 
 
 Heard in dewy dawn-lit ways 
 
 Of Freedom s solitudes 
 Down by the sea in the springtime woods. 
 
 But in spite of this inability to at 
 tain the unattainable, there is many 
 a beautiful picture, as well as many 
 a noble thought, framed in the ex 
 quisite lines of " In Captivity," " To 
 an English Nightingale," "To an 
 English Skylark," and "Before 
 Sunrise " all songs of the mocking 
 bird. 
 
 Again and again in his poems, in 
 all of his writings, is revealed his 
 deep and tender love for the South. 
 His war poems are often resonant, 
 and long lingering in the mind of 
 133 
 
dfcaurice 
 
 reader or hearer. To the memory 
 of his comrades he sings : 
 
 Remembering the boys in gray, 
 
 With thoughts too deep and fine for 
 words, 
 
 I lift this cup of love to-day 
 
 To drink what only love affords. 
 
 But his choicest, heartiest lines are 
 for 
 
 The South whose gaze is cast 
 
 No more upon the past, 
 But whose bright eyes the skies of prom 
 
 ise sweep, 
 Whose feet in paths of progress swiftly 
 
 leap; 
 And whose fresh thoughts, like cheerful 
 
 rivers run, 
 Through odorous ways to meet the morn 
 
 ing sun! 
 
 Mr. Thompson s masterpiece, 
 though not his most perfect poem, is 
 " Lincoln s Grave" (1894), a P oem 
 read before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Brotherhood of Harvard College. 
 
 o 
 
 His ideal of Lincoln is high both in 
 the poetic sense and in the judicial 
 sense of the worth of the man, whose 
 wonderfully kind heart and tender 
 compassion have won for him the 
 134 
 
flfcautice Gbompson. 
 
 ever increasing affection of the 
 American people, just as his signal 
 ability in controlling the destinies of 
 his country in the hour of its most 
 agonizing struggle excited the ad 
 miration of the world. But it is as 
 the overlooking, all-pitying, tender 
 leader of the people that Mr. Thomp 
 son presents him most successfully. 
 He sees him feeling every pain of that 
 awful time. Possibly the thought is 
 most fully set out in this stanza : 
 
 He was the Southern mother leaning 
 
 forth, 
 At dead of night to hear the cannon 
 
 roar, 
 
 Beseeching God to turn the cruel North 
 And break it, that her son might come 
 
 once more; 
 He was New England s maiden, pale and 
 
 pure, 
 Whose gallant lover fell on Shiloh s 
 
 plain ; 
 He was the mangled body of the dead; 
 
 He writhing did endure 
 Wounds and disfigurement and racking 
 
 pain, 
 
 Gangrene and amputation, all things 
 dread. 
 
 135 
 
flfcaurtce Gbompson. 
 
 And the true spirit of the great man 
 is best conceived in these lines : 
 
 " No selfish aim 
 
 Guided one thought of all those trying 
 hours; 
 
 No breath of pride, 
 
 No pompous striving for the pose of fame, 
 Weakened one stroke of all his noble 
 powers. 
 
 In person Mr. Thompson is above 
 medium height, slender, almost 
 slight, but straight, lithe and com 
 pact ; a sinewy athlete, with a large 
 head, dark-brown eyes, black hair, 
 dark skin, a thin, strongly marked 
 face, semiaquiline nose, and a long, 
 very slight moustache. He is a hard 
 and rapid worker. In the morning, 
 from an early hour to the midday 
 lunch, he works steadily at his desk, 
 which is an old mahogany curiosity 
 mounted in ancient brass and cun 
 ningly constructed ; and in the after 
 noon he gives himself up to recrea 
 tion. He has risen fast, and his in^ 
 fluence is strongly marked, especial 
 ly in the criticism of poetry and fie 
 tion. 
 
 136 
 
Sttme$ Xanier. 
 
 O golden legend writ in the skies! 
 
 I turn toward you with longing soul, 
 And list to the awful harmonies 
 
 Of the spheres as on they roll. 
 
 THE bearer of an evangel of 
 truth and beauty to the world 
 may ever expect a tardy ac 
 ceptance of his mission. " For he 
 is an embodied ideal sent into the 
 world to rebuke its commonplace 
 aims, and to leaven its dull, brute 
 mass," and his rich and fragrant 
 influences are too often shed upon 
 " souls long coffined in indolent con 
 ventions." Not unfrequently he is 
 made to sigh with the German 
 poet : 
 
 O! for all I have suffered and striven, 
 Care has embittered my cup and my 
 
 feast; 
 But here is the night and the dark-blue 
 
 heaven, 
 
 And my soul shall be at rest. 
 137 
 
SLanier. 
 
 For the \vorld deals strangely with 
 its poets. They come so seldom 
 and in such ever new and changed 
 garb that oftentimes only the saving 
 remnant recognizes their existence. 
 Sometimes, too, the poet s life is 
 strangely at variance with his mes 
 sage, and the world satisfies its dull 
 self-complacency by simply telling 
 the " truth " about him. 
 
 But here is one whose beauty of 
 personality is no whit inferior to the 
 loftiness and worth of his message. 
 He was a spotless, sunny-souled, 
 hard-working, divinely gifted man, 
 who had exalted ideas both of art 
 and of life, and he 
 Lived and sang that life and song 
 
 Might each express the other s all, 
 Careless if life or art were long, 
 
 Since both were one, to stand or fall. 
 So that the wonder struck the crowd, 
 
 Who shouted it about the land ; 
 His song was only living aloud, 
 
 His work a singing with his hand. 
 
 But the shout was raised after he 
 
 was called away. During his life- 
 
 138 
 
Xanier. 
 
 time he was left to the accumulated 
 ills of poverty, neglect, disease, and 
 premature death. " Better late than 
 never " is a good old adage, and it is 
 well to consider that Sidney Lanier 
 is already generally recognized as 
 the most distinctive figure in our 
 literature since the famous group of 
 New England poets passed away, 
 and that many are already claiming 
 for him the right to rank among the 
 few genuine poets of America. 
 
 The story of his personality and 
 work, though pathetic, is one of the 
 most interesting and inspiring in 
 the biographical annals of men of 
 letters. Sidney Lanier sprang from 
 a Huguenot family, the founder of 
 which, on English soil, was Jerome 
 Lanier, w r ho emigrated with his 
 family to England in the latter part 
 of the reign of Queen Elizabeth 
 and obtained employment in her 
 household service. It is probable 
 that he was a musical composer and 
 shared in the production of those 
 139 
 
Stones Xanfer. 
 
 musical dramas and masques which 
 " so did take Eliza and our James." 
 Between the years 1568 and 1666 
 ten Laniers flourished in England, 
 enjoying the favor of four consecu 
 tive English monarchs. 
 
 Nicholas Lanier, son of Jerome, 
 received, as painter, engraver, "mas 
 ter of the king s music," and diplo 
 matist, the encouragement of James 
 I. and the friendship of Charles I. 
 During the reign of James I. he set 
 to music two of Ben Jonson s 
 masques, " The Vision of Delight," 
 and the " Masque of Lethe ; " and in 
 the time of Charles I. his name is 
 associated with that of Henry Lawes, 
 the composer of the songs for Mil 
 ton s " Comus." This Nicholas was 
 a friend of Van Dyck, who painted 
 his portrait. His son, also named 
 Nicholas, was much in favor with 
 Charles II. He too was a lover of 
 pictures, as was his father and an 
 Uncle Jerome, who had a fine col 
 lection at Greenwich, the home of 
 140 
 
Xanfer, 
 
 the Laniers for several generations. 
 But he was still more interested in 
 music, and, uniting with a number 
 of other persons, including four ad 
 ditional Laniers, he obtained the re 
 newal of a charter for the Society 
 of Musicians, in which he was ap 
 pointed First Marshal or President 
 for life, with the determination to 
 "exert their authority for the im 
 provement of the science and the in 
 terest of its professors." One of 
 the other four was John Lanier, 
 very likely father of the Sir John 
 Lanier who fought as major general 
 at the battle of the Boyne, and fell 
 gloriously at Steinkirk, along with 
 the brave Douglas. 
 
 The first Lanier to come to Amer 
 ica was Thomas, in 1716, who set 
 tled with other colonists on a grant 
 of land ten miles square, which in 
 cluded the site of the present city 
 of Richmond, Va. A descendant 
 of his by the same name married an 
 aunt of George Washington, and 
 141 
 
Xanfcc. 
 
 the family furnished many honored 
 citizens to the colony and the state. 
 "Again and again the strain of art 
 ist s blood has shown itself among 
 them." At present the name is 
 very common in the South. 
 
 It is not stated when Sidney s 
 grandfather moved to Georgia, but 
 his father, Mr. Robert S. Lanier, 
 was born there, and after receiving 
 a fair education at a manual labor 
 school, and later at Randolph-Macon 
 College, in Virginia, he became a 
 lawyer, married Miss Mary J. An 
 derson, of Virginia, whose family 
 supplied members of the House of 
 Burgesses in more than one genera 
 tion and was gifted in poetry, mu 
 sic, and oratory, and returned to his 
 native state to begin the practice of 
 his profession. He possessed a taste 
 for reading", and accumulated mis- 
 
 O 7 
 
 cellaneous books faster than clients. 
 But his wife s Scotch thrift and his 
 own industry enabled them to live 
 comfortably, if narrowly. 
 142 
 
SfOneg Xanier. 
 
 Their first child was born Febru 
 ary 3, 1842, on High Street, in 
 Macon, Ga., and named Sidney. 
 Another son, Clifford, and a daugh 
 ter completed the number. The 
 house stands now nearly as then, oh 
 a commanding ridge from which 
 the ground falls rapidly away in 
 three directions, affording many pic 
 turesque views from its windows. 
 Near by were happy hunting 
 grounds where the two brothers 
 loving and inseparable companions 
 from childhood sought hickory 
 nuts, scaly barks, and haw apples, 
 or hunted doves, blackbirds, robins, 
 plover, snipe, squirrels, and rabbits, 
 according to season and inclination. 
 In such excursions, though Sidney s 
 tastes often pronounced in favor of 
 quiet angling for fish in the placid 
 Ocmulgee, he doubtless imbibed the 
 Words worthian love of natural 
 things which has found intense ex 
 pression in many of his latest 
 poems. 
 
 143 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 His fondness for reading showed 
 itself early, and much of his play 
 time was spent in the office of his 
 father, adjoining the house, where 
 the family library was kept. But, 
 even at this early age, his passion 
 was music. When he was only a 
 few years old Santa Glaus brought 
 him a small, yellow, one-keyed, 
 flageoletlike flute, on which simple 
 instrument he would practice with 
 the passion of a virtuoso. Still 
 earlier he had displayed aptitude for 
 music by beating on the bones (such 
 as negro minstrels use) jigs, strath 
 speys, and dance tunes in accompani 
 ment to the piano playing of his 
 mother. He never received any 
 musical instruction beyond the teach 
 ing of the notes to him by his 
 mother, yet at an early age he could 
 play on almost any instrument 
 flute, piano, guitar, banjo, violin, 
 organ, etc. He says in a letter: 
 " I could play passably well on sev 
 eral instruments before I could write 
 144 
 
Stones Xanfet. 
 
 legibly, and since then the very 
 deepest of my life has been filled 
 with music." At this time his boy 
 ish delight found expression either 
 as leader of a children s amateur 
 minstrel band, or, a little later, as 
 captain of a boys military company, 
 armed with bows and arrows, a re 
 sult of " Froissart " and " Chronicles 
 of the English Bowmen." But his 
 first impulse was ever to form an 
 amateur orchestra of children, of 
 schoolboys, of fellow-soldiers in 
 camp, and he finally became first 
 flutist of the Peabody Orchestra in 
 Baltimore. 
 
 In disposition and character, as in 
 gifts and aptitudes, the child was 
 also father to the man. His high- 
 spirited fearlessness was admirably 
 tempered with amiability and a kind 
 of chivalry, even for one so young, 
 and his little friends (he always ex 
 hibited a special capacity for friend 
 ship) were somehow impressed with 
 his distinction, or, at any rate, with 
 10 145 
 
Xanier. 
 
 a feeling of his original personal- 
 
 itj \ 
 
 The year before he entered col 
 
 lege it was deemed best to give him 
 a " taste " of business, and for about 
 a year he was general delivery clerk 
 in the Macon post office. From a 
 boy he had a deep sense of humor 
 and a keen eye for character, and 
 this situation afforded a fine oppor 
 tunity for their natural growth and 
 enlargement. At the supper table 
 he would keep the family in a roar 
 by mimicry of the funny speech of 
 the Middle Georgia Crackers, the 
 country people applying for letters. 
 Later in his writings, " Tiger 
 Lilies," " Florida," and more partic 
 ularly in his dialect poems, "Jones 
 of Jones," Jones s Private Argy- 
 ment," Civil (or Oncivil) Rights," 
 etc., he gave abundant evidence that 
 he had utilized both observation and 
 experience sufficiently to take rank 
 with the best dialect writers and 
 "character" delineators, if his mind 
 146 
 
lanier. 
 
 had not been on higher thoughts 
 intent. A genuine humor crops out 
 here and there in his writings, 
 though they were seldom of a 
 humorous kind, and he was always 
 brimful of fun, even when the bat 
 tle was against him, as the following 
 little pleasantry, acknowledging del 
 icacies sent to his sickbed* will indi 
 cate : 
 
 How oft the answers to our passing 
 
 prayers 
 Drop down in forms our fancy ne er 
 
 foretold ! 
 Thus when, of late, consumed by wast 
 
 ing cares, 
 "Angels, preserve us!" from my lips 
 
 unrolled, 
 I m sure I pictured not, while thus I 
 
 prayed, 
 Angels ,. preserve me, would, with marma 
 
 lade. 
 
 No account of his school days, 
 except the Saturdays, has yet been 
 given ; but he must have had fair 
 ly good teachers and instruction, 
 for at a little less than fifteen 
 years of age he was admitted 
 147 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 to Oglethorpe College, a small in 
 stitution under Presbyterian con 
 trol at Midway, near Milledgeville, 
 which was then the capital of the 
 state. January 6, 1857, he writes 
 home : " We were admitted into 
 our classes, I into " Soph," Will 
 into Junior. I have just done study 
 ing to-night my first lesson to wit, 
 forty-five lines of Horace, which I 
 did in about fifteen minutes." Only 
 one of his teachers seems to have 
 left his impress upon him, Prof. 
 James Woodrow, since widely 
 known as a strong and stimulating 
 professor in the theological semi 
 nary at Columbia, S. C., and as 
 President of South Carolina College. 
 To him, as in the last weeks of his 
 life Mr. Lanier stated, he was in 
 debted for the strongest and most 
 valuable stimulus of his life. And 
 in more ways than one did this little 
 college prove to be congenial soil 
 for the development of this rich 
 and luxuriant nature, which, sending 
 148 
 
Xanter. 
 
 out its tendrils in every direction, 
 grew and thrived. He lived in an 
 atmosphere of ardent and loyal 
 friendship. His warm and enthu 
 siastic heart and his keenly alert and 
 capacious mind both demanded fel 
 lowship ; and already revelations 
 were gradually coming to him, in 
 timations of what he might learn 
 from study of books, from art, from 
 nature, from men. His classmate 
 and roommate in the Junior year, 
 Mr. T. F. Newell, vividly describes 
 this period : " I can recall my 
 association with him with sweet 
 est pleasure, especially those Attic 
 nights, for they are among the dear 
 est 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 Chris 
 topher North s "Noctes Ambro- 
 sianae," or we would make the hours 
 vocal with music and song ; those 
 happy nights, which were veritable 
 149 
 
Zanier. 
 
 refections of the gods, and which 
 will be remembered with no other 
 regret than that they will never 
 more return. On such occasions I 
 have seen him walk up and down 
 the room and with his flute extem 
 porize the sweetest music ever vouch 
 safed to mortal ear. At such times 
 it would seem as if his soul were in 
 a trance, and could only find exist 
 ence, expression, in the ecstacy of 
 tone, that would catch our souls with 
 his into the very seventh heaven of 
 harmony. Or in merry mood, I 
 have seen him take a banjo, for he 
 could play on any instrument, and 
 as with deft fingers he would strike 
 some strange new note or chord, you 
 would see his eyes brighten, he 
 would begin to smile and laugh as 
 if his very soul were tickled, while 
 his hearers would catch the inspira 
 tion, and an old-fashioned * walk- 
 round and negro breakdown, in 
 which all would participate, would 
 be the inevitable result. At other 
 150 
 
SiDneg Xaniec. 
 
 times, with our musical instru 
 ments, we would sally forth into 
 the night and neath moon and 
 stars and under 4 Bonny Bell window 
 panes ah, those serenades ! were 
 there ever or will there ever be any 
 thing like them again? when the 
 velvet flute notes of Lanier would 
 fall pleasantly upon the night, and 
 
 The bosom of tr*at harmony, 
 
 And sailed and sailed incessantly, 
 As if a petal from a wild rose blown 
 Had fluttered d^wn that pool of tone, 
 And floated dorn the glassy tide, 
 And clarified and glorified, 
 The solemn spaces where shadows bide. 
 And then on Saturdays we would 
 walk through the groves and the 
 * gospeling glooms of the woods, 
 where every sound was a joy and 
 inspiration. I have never seen one 
 who enjoyed nature more than he. 
 And his love for her was. so intense 
 that I have sometimes imagined he 
 could hear the murmur, the music, 
 that springs from the growing of 
 grass. 
 
 151 
 
OLanfer. 
 
 All tree-sounds, rustling of pine cones, 
 Wind sighings, doves melodious moans, 
 And night s unearthly undertones." 
 
 More than once at this period do 
 we hear of this trance state while he 
 was playing. Apparently uncon 
 scious, he would seem to hear the 
 richest music ; or again he would 
 awake from a deep trance, alone, 
 on the floor of his room, and the 
 nervous strain would leave him sad 
 ly shaken in nerves. For this rea 
 son his father prevailed upon him 
 to devote himself to the flute rather 
 than to the violin, for it was the 
 violin voice that above all others 
 commanded his soul. In after 
 years more than one listener re 
 marked the strange violin effects 
 which he conquered from the flute. 
 
 As a student at college he gave 
 his spare time chiefly to musical 
 practice and to reading. He had 
 earlier read Scott, Froissart, " Gil 
 Bias," Mayne Reid, " Don Quix 
 ote," " Reynard the Fox," and per- 
 152 
 
SiDneg Xanter. 
 
 haps some of the eighteenth cen 
 tury English writers. But now he 
 roamed at will in a wider field, and 
 took his delight in Shakespeare, 
 Landor, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge > 
 Schiller, Carlyle, Tennyson, etc. 
 " There was one thing remarkable 
 about Lanier as a student at col 
 lege," adds Mr. Newell : "Although 
 passionately fond of music, both in 
 theory and in practice, even at that 
 early age conceded by all who had 
 the pleasure of hearing him as the 
 finest of flute players ; although he 
 was ever ready to show his love for 
 nature and art in their various forms 
 and manifestations, yet he was a per 
 sistent student, an omnivorous read 
 er of books, and in his college classes 
 was easily first in mathematics as 
 well as in his other studies. He 
 loved all the sciences. The purest 
 fountains of Greek and Roman lit 
 erature had nourished and fed his 
 youthful mind. But even at that 
 early age I recall how he delight- 
 153 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 ed in the quaint and curious of our 
 old literature. I remember that 
 it was he who introduced me 
 to that rare old book, Burton s 
 Anatomy of Melancholy, whose 
 name and size had frightened me 
 as I first saw it on the shelves, but 
 which I found to be wholly differ 
 ent from what its title would indi 
 cate ; and old Jeremy Taylor, 4 the 
 poet - preacher ; and Keats s En- 
 dymion and Chatterton, the mar 
 velous boy who perished in his 
 pride. Yes, I first learned the 
 story of the Monk Rowley and 
 his wonderful poems with Lanier. 
 And Shelley and Coleridge and 
 Christopher North, and that strange, 
 weird poem of The Ettrick Shep 
 herd of How Kilmeny Came 
 Hame, and a whole sweet host 
 and noble company, rare and com 
 plete. Yes, Tennyson, with his 
 Locksley Hall and his In Me- 
 moriam and his Maud, which 
 last we almost knew by heart. And 
 then old Carlyle with his Sartor 
 154 
 
Si&neg Xaniec. 
 
 Resartus, c Hero Worship, Past 
 and Present, and his wonderful 
 book of essays, especially the ones 
 on Burns and Jean Paul, 4 The 
 Only. Without a doubt it was 
 Carlyle who first enkindled in La- 
 nier a love of German literature 
 and a desire to know more of the 
 language." 
 
 Thus the happy, golden time sped 
 till he reached graduation, a little 
 beyond eighteen. With a fellow- 
 senior he shared the honors of the 
 day and delivered his essay, en 
 titled "The Philosophy of History," 
 which began with a quotation from 
 Walter Savage Landor, whose writ 
 ings he admired. He was imme 
 diately elected tutor, and returned 
 in the fall to give only six months, 
 as it happened, to his new vocation. 
 But in that short time he did much 
 miscellaneous reading, and began to 
 jot down some hints and fragments 
 of a poetical, musical conception, 
 which seems to have haunted his 
 155 
 
Xanier. 
 
 short after life, clamoring for an 
 embodiment which was ever denied 
 it a sort of musical drama of the 
 peasant uprising in France, called 
 the "Jacquerie." That which did 
 take shape, a mere fragment, and 
 three songs written for it are in 
 cluded in his " Unrevised Early 
 Poems." " These very first poetical 
 efforts linger in my memory," says 
 his brother Clifford, " as being By- 
 ronesque, if not Wertheresque, at 
 least tinged with gloominess as of 
 Young s Night [or a young man s 
 nightlike] Thoughts. ... He 
 has not preserved any of these lu 
 cubrations, perhaps because they 
 were not hale, hearty, breathing of 
 sanity, hope, betterment, aspiration. 
 . . . I have his first attempt at 
 poetry. It is characteristic, it is not 
 suggestive of swallow flights of 
 song, but of an eaglet peering up 
 toward the empyrean." 
 
 At the early age of eighteen the 
 pure, high-souled youth confides his 
 thoughts to a notebook which now 
 156 
 
Stones 5Lanier, 
 
 affords many attractive glimpses of 
 his inner life, his aspirations, his 
 longings, and his keenly alive per 
 sonality, with its eager outlook upon 
 and vivid realization of life, its quick 
 apprehension, its intensity of spirit. 
 Goethe s wonderful saying, "im 
 Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu 
 leben," might have been adopted as 
 his motto. And his mind is already 
 aglow with the thought of writing 
 something which the world will not 
 willingly let die, while at the same 
 time he is more consciously aware 
 of the divine gift of music in his 
 soul. "Is it genius?" he asks, all 
 a-tremble, and begins a memorable 
 twenty-year struggle with earnest, 
 humble questionings as to God s will 
 concerning the use of it. In dis 
 cussing with himself how far in 
 clinations were to be regarded as in 
 dications of capacity and duty, he 
 says : " The point which I wish to 
 settle is merely by what method 
 shall I ascertain what I am fit for, 
 157 
 
Xanier. 
 
 as preliminary to ascertaining God s 
 will with reference to me ; or what 
 my inclinations are, as preliminary 
 to ascertaining what my capacities 
 are that is, what I am fit for. I 
 am more than all perplexed by this 
 fact : that the prime inclination that 
 is, natural bent (which I have 
 checked, though) of my nature is to 
 music, and for that I have the great 
 est talent ; indeed, not boasting, for 
 God gave it me, I have an extraor 
 dinary musical talent, and feel it 
 within me plainly that I could rise as 
 high as any composer. But I can 
 not bring myself to believe that I 
 was intended for a musician, because 
 it seems so small a business in com 
 parison with other things which, it 
 seems to me, I might do. Question 
 here : What is the province of mu 
 sic in the economy of the world ? " 
 
 There is a feeling of inexpressible 
 
 sadness on finding this young swan 
 
 among the ducklings, for music is no 
 
 part of their nature. Nay, more : the 
 
 158 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 people among whom he was born 
 and lived, including his own father, 
 held it unmanly to be a musician. 
 But young Lanier does not rest con 
 tent till he finds an answer, at least 
 for himself, to his own question, 
 which he gives only a very few 
 years later in " Tiger Lilies : " 
 
 " I wonder how it is that many 
 good American people even now 
 consider music a romantic amuse 
 ment rather than a common neces 
 sity of life ! when surely of all the 
 commonplaces none is more broadly 
 common or more inseparable from 
 daily life. Music ! It is as com 
 mon . . . as bricks, common as 
 anvils, common as water, common 
 as fireplaces ! For every brick 
 mason sings to his trowel strokes, 
 and blacksmiths strike true rhyth 
 mical time, even to triplets I ve 
 heard em and sailors whistle in 
 calm or windy weather, and house 
 holds jangle and thrum and strain on 
 all manner of stringed and wind in- 
 159 
 
3Laniet. 
 
 struments. Music is in common life 
 what heat is in chemistry, an all- 
 pervading, ever-present, mysterious 
 genius. The carpenter whistles to 
 cheer his work, the loafer whistles 
 to cheer his idleness. The church 
 for life, and the barroom for death ; 
 the theater for tears, and the circus 
 for smiles; the parlor for wealth, 
 and the street for poverty each of 
 these nowadays has its inevitable, 
 peculiar orchestra. And so every 
 emotion continually calls, like the 
 clown in the play : c Music without 
 there ! Victory chants, defeat 
 wails ; joy has galops, sorrow her 
 dirges ; patriotism shouts its Marseil 
 laise, and love lives on music for 
 food, says Old Will. Moreover, the 
 Chinese beats his gong, and the 
 African his jawbone ; the Greek 
 blew Dorian flutes; the Oriental 
 charms serpents with his flageolet; 
 German Mendelssohn sends up saint 
 ly thanks ; Polish Chopin pleads for 
 a man s broken heart, and American 
 160 
 
Xanier. 
 
 Gottschalk fills the room full of 
 great, sad-eyed ghosts all with the 
 piano ! Aye, 
 
 There s not a star that thou beholdest 
 
 there 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still choiring to the young-eyed cheru 
 
 bim! 
 
 And so from ; street mud up to 
 4 star fire," through all grades, runs 
 the multitudinous song of time. 
 From a christening to a funeral is 
 seventy years : one choir sings at 
 the christening, another choir sings 
 at the funeral. All the life between 
 the dead man sang, in some sort, 
 what tunes his heart could make. 
 Late explorers say that they have 
 found some nations that had no God, 
 but I have not read of any that had 
 no music ! Wherefore, since in all 
 holy worship, in all unholy sarcasm, 
 in all conditions of life, in all do 
 mestic, social, religious, political, and 
 lonely individual doings ; in all pas 
 sions, in all countries, earthly or 
 11 161 
 
ILanier. 
 
 heavenly ; in all stages of civiliza 
 tion, 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 take too much of it lest it 
 should make us sick ! " 
 
 Again he writes : " I wish that in 
 all the colleges [here in the South] 
 the professor of music were con 
 sidered, as he should be, one of the 
 professors of metaphysics, and that 
 he ranked of equal dignity with 
 them, and that he stood as much 
 chance of being elected President of 
 the college as the professor of chem 
 istry or the languages." These ex 
 tracts show how the artist in him 
 was cabined, cribbed, confined, and 
 bound in to a life which offered no 
 stimulus to the cultivation of his 
 gift, and but scanty appreciation of 
 or sympathy with it, and that, too, 
 162 
 
Xanier. 
 
 when he is conscious of the fact that, 
 as he wrote to a friend as late as 
 1873, "whatever turn I ma} 7 have 
 for art is purely musical, poetry be 
 ing with me a mere tangent into 
 which I shoot sometimes." 
 
 But only six months were given 
 to these questionings, when a more 
 practical struggle claimed his atten 
 tion. "The early spring of 1861 
 brought to bloom, besides innumer 
 able violets and jessamines, a strange, 
 enormous, and terrible flower. This 
 was the blood-red flower of war, 
 which grows amid thunders ; a 
 flower whose freshening dews are 
 blood and hot tears, whose shadow 
 chills a land, whose odors strangle a 
 people, whose giant petals droop 
 downward, and whose roots are in 
 hell. It is a species of the great 
 genus, sin flower, which is so con 
 spicuous in the flora of all ages and 
 all countries, and whose multifarious 
 leafage and fruitage so far overgrow 
 a land that the violet, or love genus, 
 163 
 
%anier. 
 
 has often small chance to show its 
 quiet blue." So experience taught 
 the man to think ; but a certain mili 
 tary taste, early shown in the boyish 
 ardor for bows and arrows, drills, 
 and military parades, and a well- 
 nigh universal war fever which at 
 tacked the Southern people, swept 
 the young tutor and his still younger 
 brother into the Macon Volunteers 
 and the Second Georgia Battalion 
 and on to the bloody battlefields of 
 Virginia. They entered as privates, 
 and both, though offered promotion 
 Sidney three times remained pri 
 vates, so singularly tender was their 
 devotion to each other. 
 
 During the first year, spent amid 
 the delights of Norfolk society and 
 the Norfolk market, his service was 
 light. But this Capua was soon ex 
 changed for the marches and hard 
 ships incident to the battles of Sev 
 en Pines, Drewry s Bluffs, and the 
 seven days fighting around Rich 
 mond, culminating in the terrible 
 164 
 
Stones Zanter. 
 
 struggle of Malvern Hill, in all of 
 which he took part. He was then 
 transferred to the signal service, and 
 for a short period his headquarters 
 were at Petersburg, where he had 
 the advantage of a small local li 
 brary. Later he was detached for 
 outpost duty as a mounted signal 
 scout. 
 
 After describing a skirmish at 
 Fort Boy kin in 1863 his brother 
 adds: "Nearly two years were 
 passed in such skirmishes, racing to 
 escape the enemy s gunboats, sig 
 naling dispatches, serenading coun 
 try beauties, poring over chance 
 books, and foraging for provender 
 along the Blackwater." His con 
 duct throughout was marked by a 
 strict adherence to discipline as well 
 as the bright insouciance of the 
 American citizen-soldier ; but neither 
 pleasure nor hardships could win 
 him from music and study, or veil 
 from his eyes the beauties of nature. 
 In camp he tries to set some of 
 165 
 
OLanier. 
 
 Tennyson s songs to music, espe 
 cially one in Elaine, "The Song of 
 Love and Death." He studies the 
 German language, and translates in 
 intervals of repose or at night, after 
 his horse is curried, Heine, Goethe, 
 and Schiller for self-instruction. 
 While he is serving with a detach 
 ment of scouts the enemy surprises 
 their little camp and carries off, be 
 sides their clothes, cooking utensils, 
 and cots, his treasures " Heine," 
 "Aurora Leigh," " Les Miserables," 
 " Macaria," and a German glossary. 
 But no one but a poet could capture 
 the glassy, cool, transculent wave of 
 Burwell s Bay, the white shell beach, 
 mile upon mile, the towering bluff 
 decked with a million green mosses 
 and trickling springs and crowned 
 with great oaks holding out their 
 arms from the top in a perpetual 
 attitude of blessing, and the vast ex 
 panse across Hampton Roads, out 
 between the capes, on to the broad 
 waters. No, nor that little garden 
 166 
 
of Eden there, now hid away in 
 "Tiger Lilies" "a small dell 
 which is round as a basin, two hun 
 dred yards in diameter, shut in on 
 all sides. Beeches, oaks, lithe hick 
 ories, straight pines, roof over this 
 dell with a magnificent boscage. In 
 the center of it bubbles a limpid 
 spring. Shy companies of flowers 
 stand between the long grasses; 
 some of them show wide, startled 
 eyes, many of them have hidden 
 away in cunning nooks. Over 
 them, regarding them in silent and 
 passionate tenderness, lean the eb- 
 ony-fibered ferns; and the busy 
 mosses do their very best to hide 
 all rudeness and all decay behind a 
 green velvet arras. The light does 
 not dare shine very brightly here; 
 it is soft and sacred, tempered with 
 green leaves, with silence, with 
 odors, with beauties. Wandering 
 perfumes, restless with happiness, 
 float about aimlessly ; they are the 
 only inhabitants here." Amid these 
 167 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 scenes there was a renewed " stirring 
 within his soul of that genius which 
 was to place him among that good 
 ly company whose fellowship he so 
 dearly loved." One who knew him 
 at this time describes him as a slen 
 der, gray-eyed youth, full of en 
 thusiasm, playful with a dainty 
 mirthfulness, a tender humor, most 
 like the great musician, Mendels 
 sohn. 
 
 In 1864 the brothers were sepa 
 rated, Sidney being assigned to 
 duty as signal officer to the block 
 ade runner "Annie." On the first 
 run out of East Inlet, near Fort 
 Fisher, she was captured, and Sid 
 ney, refusing to don the clothes of 
 his fellow-officers, Englishmen, and 
 declare himself a foreigner, was 
 taken to Point Lookout prison, 
 " where were sown the seeds of 
 fell disease, to retard whose growth 
 was the greatest part of his endeav 
 or for the following few years." 
 These days of confinement were 
 168 
 
TLanier. 
 
 cheered by fellowship with a kin 
 dred spirit, another prisoner since 
 widely known as the poet-priest, 
 Father Tabb, and solaced by his in 
 separable companion through life, 
 his flute, which he had carried hid 
 den in his sleeve into the prison 
 with him. After five months he 
 was released on an exchange oi 
 prisoners, but owing to his thin 
 clothing and the cold weather he, 
 came near dying on the water voy 
 age to City Point. The story of 
 his rescue from death is graph 
 ically told by the lady herself who 
 was the good Samaritan on this oc 
 casion. She was an old friend 
 from Montgomery, Ala., returning 
 from New York to Richmond ; and 
 her little daughter, who had learned 
 to call him " Brother Sid," chanced 
 to hear that he was down in the 
 hold of the vessel dying. On ap 
 plication to the colonel in command 
 permission was promptly given to 
 her to minister to his necessity, and 
 169 
 
OLanfer. 
 
 she made haste to go below. " Now 
 my friends in New York," contin 
 ued she, " had given me a supply of 
 medicines, for we had few such 
 things in Dixie, and among the rem 
 edies were quinine and brandy. I 
 hastily took a flask of brandy, and 
 we went below, where we were led 
 to the rude stalls provided for cattle, 
 but now crowded with poor human 
 wretches. There in that horrible 
 place clear Sidney Lanier lay 
 wrapped in an old quilt, his thin 
 hands tightly clinched, his face 
 drawn and pinched, his eyes fixed 
 and staring, his poor body shiver 
 ing now and then in a spasm of 
 pain. Lilla fell at his side, kissing 
 him and calling : 4 Brother Sid, 
 don t you know me? Don t you 
 know your little sister? But no 
 recognition or response came from 
 the sunken eyes. I poured some 
 brandy into a spoon and gave it to 
 him. It gurgled down his throat at 
 first with no effort from him to 
 170 
 
Xanier. 
 
 swallow it. I repeated the stimu 
 lant several times before he finally 
 revived. At last he turned his eyes 
 slowly about until he saw Lilla, and 
 murmured: Am I dead? Is this 
 Lilla ? Is this heaven ? 
 To make a long story short, the 
 colonel assisted us to get him above 
 to our cabin. I can see his fellow- 
 prisoners now as they crouched 
 and assisted to pass him along over 
 their heads, for they were so packed 
 that the} could not make room to 
 carry him through. Along over 
 their heads they tenderly passed the 
 poor, emaciated body, so shrunken 
 with prison life and benumbed with 
 cold. We got him into clean blan 
 kets, but at first he could not endure 
 the pain from the fire, he was so 
 nearly frozen. We gave him some 
 hot soup and more brandy^ and he 
 lay quiet till after midnight. Then 
 he asked for his flute and began 
 playing. As he played the first 
 few notes, you should have heard 
 171 
 
Stones %anter. 
 
 the yell of joy that came up from 
 the shivering wretches down below, 
 who knew that their comrade was 
 alive. And there we sat entranced 
 about him, the colonel and his wife, 
 Lilla and I, weeping at the tender 
 music, as the tones of new warmth 
 and color and hope came like liquid 
 melody from his magic flute." 
 
 In this enfeebled condition he was 
 landed in February, 1865, and as soon 
 as the exchange was effected he set 
 out on foot for his far-away Georgia 
 home. A twenty-dollar gold piece, 
 which he had in his pocket when 
 captured doubtless the small sum 
 kept by him when the English cap 
 tain of the "Annie," just before cap 
 ture, directed him to distribute the 
 ship s money among the crew, and 
 an old tar having been overlooked, 
 Lanier gave him all his share but 
 this and which was returned to him 
 when released and the friend-mak 
 ing, comfort-earning flute were his 
 sole possessions. Weary and foot- 
 \72 
 
OLanfer. 
 
 sore, he plodded along till March 15, 
 when he reached home utterly ex 
 hausted in strength. The hardships 
 of camp and prison life, the bitter 
 cold at sea, and the long, weary 
 journey had proved too much for his 
 constitution, and six weeks of des 
 perate illness was the result. The 
 first days of his recovery witnessed 
 the death of his mother from con 
 sumption, and he himself arose from 
 his sick bed with pronounced con 
 gestion of one lung. Such, how 
 ever was the elasticity of his nature 
 a quality for which he was ever 
 remarkable that two months with 
 an uncle at Point Clear, on Mobile 
 Bay, where he lived for the most 
 part out of doors and breathed the 
 invigorating, life-giving air of pines 
 and of sea, brought the necessary 
 relief. 
 
 Later in life Mr. Lanier wrote to 
 
 Bayard Taylor: "Perhaps you 
 
 know that with us of the younger 
 
 generation in the South, since the 
 
 173 
 
Xanier. 
 
 war, pretty much the whole of life 
 has been merely not dying." Doubt 
 less he had in mind the years of his 
 life between 1865 and 1873- In 
 September, 1865, he writes, amid 
 the uncongenial atmosphere of the 
 schoolroom in a private family : " I m 
 busy with brain since I wrote you. 
 
 . Have little leisure. . 
 Thirty classes a day . . . and 
 failing health prevents sitting up 
 late at night. It almost maddens 
 me to be confined to the horrible 
 monotony of tare and tret (it should 
 be swear and fret) when my brain 
 is fairly teeming with beautiful 
 things." 
 
 In December of the same year 
 this servitude was exchanged for a 
 clerkship in a hotel in Montgomery, 
 Ala., whose prosaic duties he dis 
 charged till April, 1 867, w r hen, having 
 brought to completion his first book, 
 a novel entitled " Tiger Lilies," he 
 made, the following month, his first 
 visit to New York City in search of 
 174 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 a publisher. In regard to the time 
 taken to write this volume various 
 incorrect statements have been pub 
 lished all doubtless due to incorrect 
 information. One says, " written in 
 April;" another states that "he 
 wrote in six weeks his only novel," 
 and still another speaks of it as " a 
 novel written within three weeks 
 and published immediately there 
 after." In a letter to the writer, 
 received October 9, 1896, Mrs. La- 
 nier writes : " Very recently I have 
 seen a letter of 1867, written to his 
 father while he was finishing- the 
 manuscript that had begun i t s 
 growth in 1862 or 1863 in the at 
 mosphere of camp life. lie says of 
 it that, having been written at inter 
 vals during several years, it reads 
 like a book that was begun by a boy 
 and was finished by a man, and that 
 he intended to leave it so, as an in 
 teresting study of literary growth." 
 In regard to the repeated inquiry 
 why she does not have " Tiger 
 175 
 
SiDneg Xanter. 
 
 Lilies " republished it is now out of 
 print, and rare copies bring a good 
 sum Mrs. Lanier says : " There 
 are portions of it that ought to be 
 preserved, I am sure ; but in addi 
 tion to feeling an inequality that is 
 much to the disadvantage of the 
 opening chapters chapters that are 
 largely discursive moods of a soldier 
 lad whose chaos has not yet taken 
 shape I am restrained by a passing 
 remark of the author s, made in 
 August, 1881, when words were 
 very few. The book must have 
 been alluded to, for I recall the 
 thoughtful, half-tender tone when 
 he said : Perhaps we will rewrite 
 u Tiger Lilies " some day. I have 
 always accepted this as a definite as 
 surance that he did not wish to re 
 print the book as it stood." The 
 letter of 1867, however, "seems to 
 make almost a reason for keeping 
 the work alive as it stands." 
 
 Mr. Clifford Lanier, in a private 
 jfetter of September 21, 1896, says : 
 176 
 
Xanier. 
 
 " Please remember that the artist in 
 Sidney Lanier would have sup 
 pressed so crude and boyish an es 
 say. It is merely a curiosity. It is 
 a welter of suggestions tossing in 
 the mind of a young man passing 
 through the < sturm und drang" 
 period. It is eccentric as a meteoric 
 sky in August. It is a mesh of 
 roots from which perfect flowers 
 grew. Some of it was conceived, if 
 not written, during military scout 
 duty in Virginia. It is not thought 
 out, but poured out, like the lead 
 fused in a ladle for bullets by a 
 hunter. It is a phantasmagoria of 
 one who wakes from the nightmare 
 of the Civil War." 
 
 Few first books could be resur 
 rected with so little drawback to the 
 author s reputation. Its chief value 
 is in the light thrown on the mind 
 and character of the author, and no 
 student of the life and writings of 
 Sidney Lanier can afford to neglect 
 this volume. His voice is just 
 12 177 
 
Xanier. 
 
 changing from boy s to man s, now 
 an airy treble ; anon, a gruff bass. 
 The tender strain of " Hyperion " 
 suddenly jars into the savage growl 
 of " Sartor Resartus." Here is a 
 touch of Vergil or Chopin ; there, of 
 Shakespeare or Beethoven. " He 
 scatters thoughts as a wind shakes 
 dewdrops from a bourgeoning 
 spray" a poet s thoughts and a 
 poet s fancies of God and earth and 
 nature and friends and home and 
 books and music and war, too, and 
 his experiences in prison. But the 
 ever recurring theme is music. 
 Now it is the flute, with which the 
 musicale should always begin. " It 
 is like walking in the woods, among 
 wild flowers, just before you go into 
 some vast cathedral. For the flute 
 seems to me to be peculiarly the 
 woods instrument; it speaks the 
 gloss of green leaves or the pathos 
 of bare branches ; it calls up the 
 strange mosses that are under dead 
 leaves; it breathes of wild plants 
 178 
 
Xanier. 
 
 that hide and oak fragrances that 
 vanish ; it expresses to me the nat 
 ural magic of music." Again it is 
 an accompaniment that " did not fol 
 low, but went with the voice, waving 
 and floating and wreathing around 
 the voice like an airy robe around a 
 sweet, flying form above us." 
 
 His idea of making a home out of 
 
 O 
 
 a household is : u Given the raw ma 
 terials- 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 
 179 
 
TLanier. 
 
 care, which is a most sweet and rare 
 desirable sorrow the yearning for 
 God. We all, from little toddler to 
 father, go to bed with so much of 
 heaven in our hearts, at least, as that 
 we long for it unutterably , and believe 
 it." And still again his description 
 of the violin one could quote in 
 definitely his imaginative and pic 
 turesque words descriptive of men 
 or moods or trees or scenes, very 
 fanciful at times, but always re 
 splendent with truth and beauty. 
 
 This is indeed a "luxuriant, un- 
 pruned, but promising" work, and 
 we cannot but regret the necessity 
 of his being compelled to return to 
 the old life again, with its teaching, 
 business, and law, its skirmishes of 
 bread winning against soul express 
 ing, its battles of disease against 
 health. But in September, 1867, he 
 was again in the schoolroom in 
 charge of an academy w T ith nearly a 
 hundred pupils at Prattville, Ala., 
 where he remained one year. 
 180 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 Jn the meantime a new inspiration 
 and vital force entered into his life, 
 bringing that abiding faith and 
 stimulating hope to the poet, and 
 congenial companionship and true 
 conjugal love to the man, which 
 only a rarely gifted, perfect help 
 meet can impart. He was married 
 December 19 to Miss Mary Day, 
 daughter of Charles Day, of Macon, 
 Ga. Now could he sing : 
 
 Twice-eyed, with thy gray vision set in 
 
 mine, 
 I ken far lands to wifeless men un 
 
 known; 
 I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too 
 
 fine. 
 
 For her part was to give not only 
 everyday helpfulness and sustaining 
 courage, but also suggestiveness and 
 inspiration all of which the poet 
 recognizes in " My Springs : " 
 
 In the heart of the hills of life I know 
 Two springs that with unbroken flow 
 Forever pour their lucent streams 
 Into my soul s fair Lake of Dreams. 
 
 181 
 
SLanier. 
 
 Always when faith with stifling stress 
 Of grief hath died in bitterness, 
 I gaze in mj two springs and see 
 A faith that smiles immortally. 
 
 Always, when art, on perverse wing, 
 Flies where I cannot hear him sing, 
 I gaze in my two springs and see 
 A charm that brings him back to me. 
 
 Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they, 
 My Springs, from out whose shining gray 
 Issue the sweet celestial streams 
 
 That feed my life s bright Lake of 
 Dreams. 
 
 Oval and large and passion pure 
 And gray and wise and honor sure, 
 Soft as a dying violet breath, 
 Yet calmly unafraid of death. 
 
 Dear eyes, dear eyes! and rare complete 
 iSeing heavenly sweet and earthly sweet 
 
 1 marvel that God made you mine, 
 For when he frowns, tis then ye shine! 
 
 In January, 1868, came the first 
 hemorrhage, and in May he re 
 turned to Macon low in health, but 
 determined to study and practice 
 law with his father as soon as he 
 should sufficiently recuperate. He 
 182 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 seemed to have a presentiment that 
 such would be his fate, for in 
 "Tiger Lilies" he says: "Of 
 course John Sterling studied law 
 what young man in our part of the 
 country did not?" And then he 
 adds, "John Sterling, Jr., went 
 forth and committed what may 
 most properly be called a chrono 
 logical error. He took a wife 
 before he took any fees surely a 
 grand mistake in point of time, 
 where the fees are essentially neces 
 sary to get bread for the wife! 
 Nor was it long before this mistake 
 made itself apparent. Two extra 
 mouths, of little Philip and Felix 
 Sterling, with that horrid propensity 
 to be filled which mouths will ex 
 hibit spite of education and the 
 spiritual in man, appeared in his 
 household ; outgo began to exceed 
 income ; clouds came to obscure the 
 financial sky. Even to those of us 
 who are born to labor, and know it, 
 it is yet a pathetic sight to see a 
 183 
 
Stones Xanfer. 
 
 man like John Sterling going to his 
 office every morning to sit there all 
 day face to face with the horny- 
 eyed phantom of unceasing drudg 
 ery that has no visible end ; to know 
 that every hour this man will have 
 some fine yearning beat back in his 
 face by the Heenan fists in this big 
 prize ring we call the world, where 
 in it would seem that toughness of 
 nose-muscle and active dodging do 
 most frequently come out with the 
 purse and the glory." 
 
 It is curious that this should have 
 been published before his marriage, 
 but he could not have more perfect 
 ly represented the situation in which 
 he now found himself. His health 
 too grew worse, though fitfully, and 
 in the summer and spring of 1870 
 there was a marked decline, with 
 settled cough. This took him to 
 New York for treatment, and after 
 two months he returned much im 
 proved as he thought, but in reality 
 there was the same steady decline. 
 184 
 
ILanfet. 
 
 By December, 1872, he had given 
 up hope of permanent relief in his 
 Georgia home and gone to San An 
 tonio, Tex., in search of a new 
 home, leaving wife and children be 
 hind. But the soft healing air of 
 this region could bring no relief to 
 one whose whole being was hunger 
 ing and thirsting to express itself in 
 music and poetry. To his wife he 
 writes : 
 
 Were it not for some circumstances 
 which make such a proposition seem ab 
 surd in the highest degree, I would think 
 that I am shortly to die, and that my 
 spirit hath been singing its swan song be 
 fore dissolution. 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 of 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 pas 
 sion, and sailed me into a sea of vast 
 dreams, whereof each wave is at once a 
 vision and a melody. 
 
 And so in April, 1873, he returned 
 185 
 
Xanter, 
 
 with the conviction ever becoming 
 deeper that he had but a short time 
 in which to do his life work, and 
 that life work was to be not in law, 
 but in music and letters. 
 
 We catch a glimpse of the inner 
 struggles, which went on during 
 these years, in his first letter to 
 Bayard Taylor, August 17, 1875: 
 " I could never describe to you what 
 a mere drought and famine my life 
 has been as regards that multitude 
 of matters which I fancy one ab 
 sorbs w r hen one is in an atmosphere 
 of art, or when one is in conversa 
 tional relation with men of letters, 
 with travelers, with persons who 
 have either seen, or written, or done 
 large things." Step by step he was 
 driven to follow his natural bent, to 
 seek a musical atmosphere and a 
 land of books and the companion 
 ship of those who could understand 
 his longings and appreciate his gifts- 
 
 From Baltimore, November 29, 
 1873, he writes to his father, who 
 186 
 
Xaniet. 
 
 generously offers him a share in his 
 business and income : 
 
 My dear father, think how, for twenty 
 years, through poverty, through pain, 
 through weariness, through sickness, 
 through the uncongenial atmosphere of 
 a farcical college, and a bare army, and 
 then of an exacting bvisiness life, through 
 all the discouragement of being wholly 
 unacquainted with literary people and lit 
 erary ways I say, think how, in spite of 
 all these depressing circumstances, and of 
 a thousand more which I could enumer 
 ate, these two figures of music and of 
 poetry have steadily kept in my heart so 
 that I could not banish them. Does it 
 not seem to you, as to me, that I begin to 
 have the right to enroll myself among 
 the devotees of these two sublime arts* 
 after having followed them so long and 
 so humbly, and through so much bitter 
 ness? 
 
 After another visit to New York he 
 made his home in Baltimore, begin 
 ning in December, 1873, an engage 
 ment as first flute for the Peabody 
 Symphony Concerts. In the spring 
 of 1874 he writes : " I ve shed all 
 the tears about it that I m going to, 
 187 
 
Xanier. 
 
 and am now pumping myself full of 
 music and poetry, with which I pro 
 pose to water the dry world. . . . 
 God has cut me off inexorably from 
 any other life than this (literary and 
 artistic). So, St. Cecilia to the res 
 cue ! and I hope God will like my 
 music." 
 
 To Paul H. Hayne, whom he had 
 never seen, but with whom he had 
 exchanged many a pleasant letter, 
 he writes in May : 
 
 I spent last winter in Baltimore, pur 
 suing music and meditating my "Jac 
 querie." I was flauto-primo of the Pea- 
 body Symphony Orchestra, and God only 
 could express the delight and exultation 
 with which I helped to perform the great 
 works brought out by that organization 
 during the season. Of course this was a 
 queer place for me. Aside from the com 
 plete bouleversement of proceeding from 
 the courthouse to the footlights, I was a 
 raw player and a provincial withal, with 
 out practice, and guiltless of instruction 
 for I had never had a teacher. To go 
 under these circumstances among old 
 professional players, and assume a lead- 
 188 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 ing part in a large orchestra which was 
 organized expressly to play the most diffi 
 cult 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 discourage 
 ments 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. Tis quite 
 settled that I cannot practice law. Either 
 writing or speaking appears to produce 
 small hemorrhages which completely sap 
 my strength; and I am going in a few 
 weeks to New York, without knowing 
 what on earth I am to do there, armed 
 only with a silver Bohm flute and some 
 dozen of steel pens. 
 
 But Baltimore was henceforth his 
 home, and for the remainder of his 
 short life he was " engaged always 
 in a threefold struggle, for health, 
 for bread, and for a literary career." 
 Often for months at a time he was 
 forced to give up regular duties and 
 to go away in search of recovery and 
 189 
 
SiDneg aLanier. 
 
 renewed vitality. Flute and pen 
 and lectures in schools enabled him 
 to eke out a bare subsistence, though 
 at the critical times of utter prostra 
 tion the generous help of father and 
 brother was necessary to prolong 
 the struggle. The following sketch 
 for a poem or possibly a passionate 
 cry for help, which was found 
 among his papers after his death, 
 doubtless belongs to this period : 
 
 Lord, if thou wert needy as I, 
 
 If thou should st come to my door us 1 to 
 
 thine, 
 
 If thou hungered so much as 1 
 For that which belongs to the spirit, 
 For that which is fine and good, 
 Ah, friend, for that -which is fine and 
 
 good, 
 
 1 would give it to thee if I had power. 
 For that which I want is, first, bread 
 Thy decree, not my choice, that bread 
 
 must be first; 
 
 Then music, then some time out of the 
 struggle for bread to write my poems; 
 
 Then to put out of care Henry and Rob 
 ert, whom I love. 
 
 O my God, how little would put them out 
 of care ! 
 
 190 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 And his last letter to Paul II. 
 Hayne, written in November, 1880, 
 reveals the fact that these struggles 
 continued to the last : 
 
 I have been wishing to write to you 
 for a long time, and have thought several 
 letters to you. But I could never tell you 
 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 Sunday s 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. 
 . . . For six months past a ghastly fever 
 has been taking possession of me, about 
 12 M., and holding my head under the sur 
 face of indescribable distress for the next 
 twenty hours, subsiding only enough each 
 morning to let me get on my working 
 harness, but never intermitting. A num- 
 191 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 ber of tests shows it to be not the hectic 
 so well known in consumption, and to 
 this day it has baffled all the skill I could 
 find in New York, Philadelphia, and here. 
 I have myself been disposed to think it 
 arose wholly from the bitterness of hav 
 ing to spend my time in making academic 
 lectures and boys books potboilers all 
 when a thousand songs are singing in 
 my heart, that will certainly kill me if I 
 do not utter them soon. But I don t 
 think this diagnosis has found favor with 
 my practical physicians; and meanwhile 
 I work on in such suffering as is piteous 
 to see. 
 
 But his courage never failed him, 
 and the amount of work he dis 
 patched in the intervals between his 
 hemorrhages is surprising. He be 
 gan by making a thorough and sys 
 tematic study of English literature, 
 giving special attention to the Old- 
 English period, and Langland, 
 Chaucer, and Shakespeare, and then, 
 " with a scholar s nice eagerness," 
 he extended his reading widely in 
 the natural sciences, philosophy, his 
 tory, art, and music. " The trouble 
 192 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 with Poe was," he observed -with 
 keen discrimination, " he did not 
 know enough. He needed to know 
 a good many more things in order 
 to be a great poet." Besides this, 
 he attended rehearsals and played 
 in the symphony concerts, edited 
 books, prepared lectures, and wrote 
 magazine articles and poems. This 
 kind of work opened a new era in 
 his artistic development ; for though 
 he could previously say, " So many 
 great ideas for art are born to me 
 each day, I am swept into the land 
 of All-delight by their strenuous 
 sweet whirlwind," he had rarely 
 given expression to them. In music 
 he needed neither art nor practice 
 to fit him for its expression. He 
 played as a mocking bird sings, with 
 skill and repertoire furnished by na 
 ture. In poetry, however, he must 
 first work out, adopt, and then en 
 deavor to master a theory of formal 
 verse, which was not popular ; and 
 as the conscientious artist in him re- 
 13 193 
 
Xanier. 
 
 fused permission to send forth any 
 work but the best, he made his way 
 slowly into the literary world. For 
 tunately combined with this tardiness 
 of artistic poetic utterance were the 
 consciousness of his powers and t lie- 
 patience to await the ripening time, 
 " not taking thought of being late, so 
 it give advantage to be more fit." 
 In the meanwhile he is not without 
 delightful experience and anticipa 
 tion. " Day by day," he writes to 
 his wife in February, 1870, "from 
 my snow and my sunshine, a thou 
 sand vital elements rill through my 
 soul. Day by day the secret deep 
 forces gather, which will presently 
 display themselves in bending leaf 
 and waxy petal, and in useful fruit 
 and grain." 
 
 In May, 1874, Lanier went again 
 to Florida, commissioned by a rail 
 road company to write an account 
 of its scenery, climate, and history, 
 and on his return lie spent two 
 months with his family at Sunny- 
 194 
 
Hauler. 
 
 side, Ga. With a poet s eye and kin 
 dled imagination he gazed upon the 
 ample fields and woods of his native 
 land, the old worn red hills, the zig 
 zag - cornered fence with sassafras 
 and brambles dense, the dew-flashed 
 road of early morn, the woods 
 trembling through and through with 
 shimmering forms, the mosses, 
 ferns, and flowers shy, the rustling 
 blades of corn whispering music to 
 his ear, caught their free, large spirit, 
 and sang with a new and fresh note 
 all his o\vn the first song of his to 
 which the w o r 1 d gave heed 
 " Corn." A personal visit to New 
 Vork in search of an editor who 
 would publish it for him only re 
 vealed the " wooden-headedness " of 
 some literary leaders, but this nei 
 ther soured nor discouraged his 
 kindly and hopeful nature. "I re 
 member," he writes, u that it has 
 always been so ; that the new man 
 has always to work his way over 
 these Alps of Stupidity, much as 
 196 
 
%anfer. 
 
 that ancient general crossed the ac 
 tual Alps splitting the rocks with 
 vinegar and fire that is, by bitter 
 ness and suffering. D. V., I will 
 split them. . . . 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 c beating that I am in op 
 position 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." After further effort, 
 however, " Corn " found a place in 
 Lij)j>intot?s Magazine for Febru 
 ary, 1875, but the theme was too 
 commonplace and the treatment too 
 original to expect immediate general 
 recognition of its merits. To a se 
 lect few it was evident that a new 
 196 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 singer had come. First of these 
 was Mr. Gibson Peacock, editor of 
 the Philadelphia Evening Bulle 
 tin, whose collegiate training and 
 broad and generous culture, derived 
 from wide reading in the best Eng 
 lish literature, home and foreign 
 travel, cultivation in music and dra 
 matic criticism, enabled him to con 
 duct a newspaper in which literary 
 and artistic matters received serious 
 treatment. Mr. Peacock s enthusi 
 astic notice of the poem had a benefi 
 cent and far-reaching effect upon the 
 young author s life a strong and 
 beautiful friendship between the 
 two families, a series of letters from 
 the poet, since published in the At 
 lantic^ which relate " so humanly 
 and beautifully the story of so pre- 
 c i o u s a life," and acquaintance 
 "with Charlotte Cushman, with 
 Bayard Taylor, and with many an 
 other of the appreciators of art and 
 literature who in those days fre 
 quented the little parlors in Walnut 
 197 
 
Stones Xanfet. 
 
 Street." Lanier received now that 
 broader association, friendship, and 
 appreciation for which he had long 
 been pining, and also " a little of the 
 wine of success and of praise, with 
 out which no man ever does the very 
 best he might," as he himself said, in 
 speaking of what would have been 
 of inestimable service to poor Hen 
 ry Timrod s poetic faculty. These 
 letters, edited w r ith genuine appreci 
 ation and real skill by Mr. W. R. 
 Thayer so as to let Lanier s person 
 ality, unconsciously drawn by him 
 self, be as complete as possible, not 
 only admit us into the fellowship of 
 a poet, but they also disclose to us a 
 man whose life was, in Milton s 
 phrase, "a true poem." One de 
 lights to linger over them, to breathe 
 their atmosphere, to catch their 
 spirit. 
 
 The " Symphony " called forth an 
 other appreciative notice from Mr. 
 Peacock, which was extensively 
 copied in the Southern newspapers. 
 198 
 
Xanier. 
 
 and this time Bayard Taylor s gen- 
 erous voice swelled the chorus. 
 
 July 31, 1875, Lanier writes to 
 Mr. Peacock : " Many thanks for 
 Mr. Taylor s letter. I do hope I 
 may be able to see him during the 
 next month. Do you think a letter 
 from me would reach him at Matta- 
 poisett? For his estimate of my 
 Symphony seems to me so full 
 and generous that I think I will not 
 resist the temptation to anticipate his 
 letter to me. I will write also to 
 Mr. Calvert to-morrow. His insight 
 into a poet s internal working, as 
 developed in his kind notice of me 
 in the Golden Age, is at once won 
 derful and delightful." Mr. Taylor 
 now became one of Lanier s most 
 valued friends. He gave him freely 
 counsel, sympathy, introductions to 
 other writers, and it was at his sug 
 gestion that Lanier was selected to 
 write the cantata for the opening of 
 the Centennial Exposition in Phila 
 delphia, which first brought his 
 199 
 
Stones fcanfer. 
 
 name into general notice. From 
 Baltimore, January 8, 1876, he 
 writes to his wife : 
 
 Well then: God be praised thatgiveth 
 us the victory. I have late this afternoon 
 finished my third India paper, which was 
 a great labor and strain ; and to-night we 
 have played a divine concert of Scandi 
 navian music, whereof I inclose thee the 
 programme; and my heart is so full of 
 this heavenly melody that I cannot find 
 me any rest till I have in some wise en 
 larged me. 
 
 Moreover I have a charming piece of 
 news which although thou art not yet 
 to communicate it to any one except Clif 
 ford I cannot keep from thee. The 
 opening ceremonies of the Centennial 
 Exhibition will be very grand ; and among 
 other things there are to be sung by a full 
 chorus (and played by the orchestra, un 
 der Thomas s direction) a hymn and a 
 cantata. Gen. Hawley, President of the 
 Centennial Commission, has written in 
 viting me to write the latter (I mean the 
 foem; Dudley Buck, of New York, is to 
 write the music). Bayard Taylor is to 
 write the hymn. This is very pleasing to 
 me; for I am chosen as representative of 
 our dear South; and the matter puts my 
 200 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 name by the side of very delightful and 
 honorable ones, besides bringing me in 
 contact \vith many people I Avould desire 
 to know. 
 
 Mr. Buck has written me that he wants 
 the poem by January 15, which as I have 
 not yet had the least time for it, gives me 
 just seven days to write it in. I would 
 much rather have had seven months; but 
 God is great. Remember, thou and Cliff , 
 that this is not yet to be spoken of at all. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Peacock, written 
 the 1 8th, he inclosed the first draft 
 of the cantata, saying : " Necessa 
 rily I had to think out the musical 
 conception as well as the poem, and 
 I have briefly indicated these along 
 the margin of each movement. I 
 have tried to make the whole as 
 simple and as candid as a melody of 
 Beethoven s ; at the same time ex 
 pressing the largest ideas possible, 
 and expressing them in such a way 
 as could not be offensive to any 
 modern soul. I particularly hope 
 you will like the Angel s song, 
 where I have endeavored to convey, 
 201 
 
3Lanfer. 
 
 in one line each, the philosophies of 
 Art, of Science, of Power, of Gov 
 ernment, of Faith, and of Social 
 ^Life. Of course I shall not expect 
 that this will instantly appeal to 
 tastes peppered and salted by Swin 
 burne and that ilk ; but one cannot 
 forget Beethoven, and somehow all 
 my inspirations come in these large 
 and artless forms, in simple Saxon 
 words, in unpretentious and purely 
 intellectual conceptions ; while nev 
 ertheless I felt, all through, the ne 
 cessity of making a genuine song, 
 and not a rhymed set of good adages, 
 out of it. I adopted the trochees of 
 the first movement because thev 
 compel a measured, sober, and med 
 itative movement of the mind ; and 
 because, too, they are not the genius 
 of our language. When the trochees 
 cease and the land emerges as a dis 
 tinct unity, then I fall into our na 
 tive iambics." Of Mr. Buck he 
 writes : " We have gotten on to 
 gether with perfect harmony during 
 202 
 
Stones Xanter. 
 
 the process of fitting together the 
 words and the music, which has 
 been wholly accomplished by let 
 ter." 
 
 The sky became somewhat bright 
 er now ; he was better paid for his 
 work, receiving three hundred dol 
 lars for the "Psalm of the West," 
 and his heart was gladdened by to 
 kens of love and sympathy at home. 
 From Macon he writes, April 27. 
 1876 : " The Southern people make 
 a great deal more of my appointment 
 to write the cantata poem than I 
 had ever expected, and it really 
 seems to be regarded by them as 
 one of the most substantial tokens 
 of reconciliation yet evinced by that 
 vague tertium quid which they are 
 accustomed to represent to them 
 selves under the general term of 
 the North. I am astonished, too, 
 to find what a hold Corn has taken 
 upon all classes. Expressions come 
 to me in great number from men 
 whom I never supposed accessible 
 203 
 
Stones Xanfcr. 
 
 by any poetry whatever ; and these 
 recognitions arrive hand in hand 
 with those from persons of the 
 nighest culture. The Tribune no 
 tice of the cantata has been copied 
 by a great many Southern papers, 
 and I think it materially assisted in 
 starting the poem off properly ; 
 though the people here are so enthu 
 siastic in my favor at present that 
 they are quite prepared to accept 
 blindly anything that comes from 
 me. Of course I understand all this ; 
 and any success seems cheap which 
 depends so thoroughly on local pride 
 as does my present position with the 
 South ; yet in view of the long and 
 bitter struggle which I must make 
 up my mind to wage in carrying out 
 these extensions of poetic forms 
 about which all my thoughts now 
 begin to converge, it is pleasant to 
 find that I have at least the nucleus 
 of an audience which will be willing 
 to receive me upon the plane of mere 
 blind faith until time shall have giv- 
 204 
 
Stones OLanfer. 
 
 en a more scientific basis to their 
 understandings." 
 
 The publication of the cantata 
 without the orchestral accompani 
 ment, which the poet intended 
 should be its chief distinction, occa 
 sioned an immense amount of ridi 
 cule, some good-natured, some spite 
 ful. This criticism pained h i m 
 deeply, though he quickly regained 
 the serene heights on which he- 
 strove habitually to live. Not even 
 to his friend Mr. Peacock did he 
 show how sharp a sting it was, 
 merely writing in a letter of April 
 27, in reference to one of the most 
 vicious of these attacks : " Nothing 
 rejoices me more than the inward 
 perception how utterly the time and 
 the frame of mind are passed by in 
 which anything of this sort gives me 
 the least disturbance. Six months 
 ago this would have hurt me, even 
 against my will. Now it seems 
 only a little grotesque episode just 
 as when a few minutes ago I sat in 
 205 
 
Stones Xanict, 
 
 my father s garden here and heard 
 a catbird pause in the midst of the 
 most exquisite roulades and melo 
 dies, to mew, and then take up his 
 song again." But to his father he 
 wrote from New York, May 8, 
 more seriously : " My experience in 
 the varying judgments given about 
 poetry . . . has all converged upon 
 one solitary principle, and the expe 
 rience of the artist in all ages is re 
 ported by history to be of precisely 
 the same direction. That principle 
 is that the artist shall put forth 
 humbly and lovingly, and without 
 bitterness against opposition, the 
 very best and highest that is within 
 him, utterly regardless of contem 
 porary criticism. \Vhat possible 
 claim can contemporary criticism set 
 up to respect that criticism which 
 crucified Jesus Christ, stoned Ste 
 phen, hooted Paul for a madman, 
 tried Luther for a criminal, tortured 
 Galileo, bound Columbus in chains, 
 drove Dante into a hell of exile, 
 206 
 
!fcanfer. 
 
 made Shakespeare write the sonnet 
 When in disgrace with fortune 
 and men s eyes, gave Milton five 
 pounds for Paradise Lost, kept 
 Samuel Johnson cooling his heels on 
 Lord Chesterfield s doorstep, reviled 
 Shelley as an unclean dog, killed 
 Keats, cracked jokes on Gliick, 
 Schubert, Beethoven, Berlioz, and 
 Wagner, and committed so many 
 other impious follies and stupidities 
 that a thousand letters like this could 
 not suffice even to catalogue them ? " 
 The reception given his poem con 
 tinued to interest him deeply, and a 
 few weeks later, May 27, he wrote 
 to his wife, from Philadelphia, the 
 following characteristic letter : 
 
 The papers are \\ondrously more re 
 spectful in their tone toward me, and it 
 really seems as if my end of the seesaw 
 was now rising steadily. I think the busi 
 ness has been of great value to all my ar 
 tistic purpose, just at this stage of it; I 
 have been compelled to throw aside ev 
 ery adventitious thing in the way of in 
 spiration. God has been good to show 
 207 
 
3Lanier. 
 
 me at the outset in its most repulsive 
 form the fatal figure of contemporary 
 popularity, and to remind me how far 
 apart from it were Shakespeare, Beetho 
 ven, and Bach. Hereupon I feel already 
 resulting an immortal and unconquerable 
 toughness of fiber in the strings of my 
 harp, insomuch that if the world shall 
 attempt to play me as it does play all the 
 popular men it will only get its awkward 
 fingers sore. . . . 
 
 I inclose a slip or two for thy perusal. 
 The - is marvelously another - 
 than the contemptuous thing which a few 
 weeks ago dismissed my poem in three 
 lines. Of course all it says in this note is 
 simply that sort of nonsense which Stod- 
 dard affectionately calls "rot;" the - 
 neither knows nor cares anything with 
 regard to music., 
 
 But this criticism had no tendency 
 to weaken the confidence which La- 
 nier had acquired in his view of the 
 principles of art. In his period of 
 greatest uncertainty he had written 
 
 fe> J 
 
 to his wife : " It is of little conse 
 quence whether I fail ; the / in the 
 matter is a small business. <%ue 
 mon nom soit fletri, que la France 
 208 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 soit libre ! quoth Danton ; which is 
 to say, interpreted by my environ 
 ment : Let my name perish the 
 poetry is good poetry and the music 
 is good music, and beauty dieth not, 
 and the heart that needs it will find 
 it. " But a little remark in 1875 
 anent " Special Pleading " reveals 
 the fact that he is no longer agitated 
 over the matter. " 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 re 
 sult convinces me that I can do so 
 now safely." And as a natural result 
 he entered upon a period of greater 
 productivity "Clover," "The 
 Waving of the Corn," " The Bee," 
 " The Song of the Chattahoochee," 
 " The Revenge of Hamish," " The 
 Marshes of Glynn," and many more 
 following in rapid succussion those 
 already mentioned. Ten of these 
 poems were collected into a thin vol- 
 14 209 
 
Xanier. 
 
 ume, covering only ninety-four 
 pages, and published by the Lippin- 
 cotts in 1877, "but they strike the 
 whole range of his ambition." 
 Other writings during this period 
 were a series of papers on India f or 
 Lippincotf s Magazine, in which 
 to avoid arid encyclopedic treatment 
 and give naturalness to the adven 
 tures and descriptions, he called to 
 his aid a delightful imaginary Hindoo 
 friend and his book on " Florida," 
 published in 1876 by the Lippin- 
 cott s, which cost him much travel, 
 fatigue, and labor. In a letter to 
 Paul II. Hay no he writes: "After 
 working day and night for the last 
 three months on the materials I had 
 previously collected, I have just fin 
 ished the book. . . . This produc 
 tion is a sort of spiritualized guide 
 book. ... I have had to labor from 
 ten to fourteen hours a day, and the 
 confinement to the desk brought on 
 my old hemorrhages a month ago, 
 which quite threatened for a time to 
 210 
 
Hauler. 
 
 suspend my work forever on this 
 side the river." And yet this " pot 
 boiler," written under such condi 
 tions, is thoroughly characteristic of 
 the author cheerful, scientific, im 
 aginative, full of delightful informa 
 tion, going out of the way to say a 
 kind thing or quote a charming 
 poem of a brother Southern poet, 
 though it is melancholy reading 
 when we call to mind a sentence in 
 a letter written a little earlier to an 
 other friend : " My head and my 
 heart are both so full of poems 
 which the dreadful stru^firle for 
 
 o o 
 
 bread does not give me time to put on 
 paper that I am often driven to head 
 ache and heartache purely for want 
 of an hour or two to hold a pen." 
 
 His personal appearance at this 
 time was striking, and fixed it 
 self in the memory. " The name 
 of Sidney Lanier," says Mr. E. C. 
 Stedman, " brings him clearly to 
 recollection as I saw him more than 
 once in the study of our lamented 
 211 
 
Xanfct. 
 
 Deucalion the host so buoyant and 
 sympathetic the Southerner, nerv 
 ous and eager, with dark hair and 
 silken beard, features delicately 
 molded, pallid complexion, and 
 hands of the slender, white, artistic 
 type." In a letter to the writer 
 October 9, 1896, Mrs. Lanier says: 
 " The profile portrait in the volume 
 of Complete Poems taken from 
 photograph of January, 1874 quite 
 misrepresents his physique; for it 
 suggests a man heavy built about the 
 shoulders the effect of a double- 
 breasted coat of extraordinary thick 
 ness and other heaviest clothing all 
 worn to guard him from the rigor 
 of the first Northern winter ; while 
 the attitude (inclining backward), 
 in combination with this bulk of 
 clothing, results in the wider discrep 
 ancy of an impression of portliness 
 _ the very opposite of his build and 
 movement. A bow that is a-spring, 
 a flying Mercury, more ethereal 
 than John of Bologna s, with slen- 
 212 
 
Stones Xanfer. 
 
 der, yet uplifted chest these rath 
 er convey the spirit of his earthly 
 tenement. This profile, though it 
 withholds the eye brilliant and pen 
 etrating, yet tender gives finely 
 the expressive nostril, the brow, the 
 ear, the fall of the silken-textured 
 hair. More than any other it dis 
 closes to me the spiritual man, as the 
 likeness taken at fifteen speaks the 
 very spirit of the boy that is, the 
 original ambrotype and the direct 
 photographic copies. No engraving 
 of this face has approached suc 
 cess." 
 
 During the next two or three 
 years Lanier was disappointed in 
 various efforts to get permanent em 
 ployment. In the summer and fall 
 of 1876 he entertained the hope of 
 filling " a sort of nondescript chair 
 of Poetry and Music " in Johns Hop 
 kins University, which was all the 
 more tantalizing because of the 
 President s evident inclination to 
 make the offer. Next we hear of a 
 213 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 faint wish that Mr. Hayes would 
 appoint him to a consulship in the 
 south of France. Then his kinsmen 
 and friends made a determined effort 
 to secure him a place in one of the 
 departments in Washington ; but 
 September 27, 1877, he writes to 
 Mr. Peacock : " There does not ap 
 pear the least hope of success here. 
 Three months ago the order was 
 given by Secretary Sherman that I 
 should have the first vacancy ; but 
 the appointment clerk, who received 
 the order, is a singular person, and I 
 am told that there are rings within 
 rings in the department to such an 
 extent that vacancies are filled by 
 petty chiefs of division without ever 
 being reported at all to the proper 
 officers." November 3 he writes 
 again : " I have set on foot another 
 attempt to get a place in the Johns 
 Hopkins University ; I also have a 
 prospect of employment as an assist 
 ant at the Peabody Library here ; 
 and there is still a possibility of a 
 214 
 
3Lanier. 
 
 committee clerkship in Washington. 
 Meantime, however, I am just re 
 suming work for the editors" after 
 nearly a year in search of health at 
 Tampa, Fla., and in Georgia. He 
 also now utilized his studies of En 
 glish literature in a course of lectures 
 on Elizabethan verse, which was 
 delivered to a parlor class of thirty 
 ladies. The enthusiastic reception 
 accorded them induced him the fol 
 lowing winter (1878-79) to give a 
 Shakespeare course, concerning 
 which he wrote to Mr. Peacock 
 November 5, 1878 : " I wished to 
 show, to such a class as I could as 
 semble, how much more genuine 
 profit there would be in studying at 
 first hand, under the guidance of 
 an enthusiastic interpreter, the writ 
 ers and conditions of a particular 
 epoch (for instance), than in reading 
 any amount of commentary or in 
 hearing any number of miscellaneous 
 lectures on subjects which range 
 from Palestine to pottery in the 
 215 
 
Stones fcanfet. 
 
 course of a week." Financially, 
 both courses were a failure, but be 
 sides the great praise which they 
 called forth there came at last, and 
 almost too late, the long-desired ap 
 pointment to a position in the uni 
 versity. It took the shape of a lec 
 tureship on English literature the 
 duties of which he was to assume 
 the following scholastic year and 
 President Oilman s official notifica 
 tion reached the poet on his birth 
 day, February 3, 1879, bringing 
 with it the assurance, for the first 
 time since his marriage twelve years 
 before, of a fixed income. The 
 summer of 1879 was spent at Rock- 
 bridge Alum Springs, in Virginia ; 
 and such was the rapidity with 
 which he was now working that in 
 six weeks he put into permanent 
 form the results of his studies and 
 investigations of the subject of ver 
 sification. Used first as lectures, the 
 work appeared in 1880 as "The 
 Science of English Verse," and con- 
 216 
 
SUnfer. 
 
 tamed the theories which at times 
 seemed to be dearer to the author 
 than the success of his own poetry. 
 Like other original treatises, it has 
 called forth curiously opposite state 
 ments, ranging all the way from Mr. 
 Stedm an s, " That remarkable piece 
 of analysis, The Science of En 
 glish Verse, serves little purpose 
 except, like Coleridge s metaphysics, 
 to give us further respect for its 
 author s intellectual powers," to 
 Prof. Sill s " The work of Sidney 
 Lanier on English verse may be 
 recommended as the only one that 
 has ever made any approach to a 
 rational view of the subject. Nor 
 are the standard ones overlooked in 
 making this assertion." A modifi 
 cation of the latter view seems more 
 likely to prevail, as not a few are 
 inclined to accept it as the best 
 working theory for English verse 
 from Casdmon. to Tennyson that 
 has yet been produced. This is 
 specially true of those who stan* 7 
 217 
 
SiDneg OLanfec. 
 
 " on that middle ground where La- 
 nier dwelt, halfway between verse 
 and music." Fortunately, however, 
 Lanier was able to throw off the 
 shackles of his Science, as Poe was 
 of his Rationale, though not so uni 
 formly nor so completely as Poe. It 
 would have been better, however, if 
 Lanier had ever kept in mind some 
 of the closing words of this treatise, 
 " that the matters herein treated are 
 only in the nature of hints, . . . and 
 by no means laws. For the artist 
 in verse there is no law : the per 
 ception and love of beauty constitute 
 the whole outfit ; and what is herein 
 set forth is to be taken merely as 
 enlarging that perception and exalt 
 ing that love. In all cases the ap 
 peal is to the ear ; but the ear should, 
 for that purpose, be educated up to 
 the highest possible plane of cul 
 ture." 
 
 With great rapidity and evenness 
 of work Lanier edited also between 
 1878 and 1881 a series of books for 
 218 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 boys, which appeared as follows : 
 " Froissart," 1879 ; " King Arthur," 
 1880; " Mabinogion," 1881 ; and 
 " Percy," 1882. The editing shows 
 not only knowledge, taste, and con 
 scientious labor; but also reveals 
 that genuine love for the old, the 
 chivalrous, and the romantic which 
 springs from a natural affinity. He 
 dearly loved old English worthies, 
 chroniclers, and poets, while knights 
 and knightly deeds captivated his 
 imagination and influenced his con 
 duct. The " Introductions," writ 
 ten in admirably pure English, are 
 fine specimens of a didactic narrative 
 style, and, like everything the author 
 wrote, almost every sentence dis 
 closes some feature of his mind or 
 character. It will doubtless interest 
 many to read again his last words 
 to American boys, written at 
 " Camp Robin," near Asheville, N. 
 C., a few weeks before his depart 
 ure : "He who walks in the way 
 these following ballads point will 
 219 
 
Xanter. 
 
 be manful in necessary fight, fair in 
 trade, loyal in love, generous to the 
 poor, tender in the household, pru 
 dent in living, plain in speech, mer 
 ry upon occasion, simple in behav 
 ior, and honest in all things. In 
 this trust and this knowledge I now 
 commend my young countrymen to 
 < The Boy s Percy. " 
 
 Many other things, too, engaged 
 his attention at this time. Decem 
 ber 21, 1878, he writes, "I am in 
 the midst of two essays on Anglo- 
 Saxon poetry ; " and then in a letter 
 to a friend a few months before he 
 died we see how he was employing 
 his many-sided genius and manifold 
 activities : 
 
 My lectures take all my time, and I 
 cannot write you. I had not thought 
 they would be so laborious, but I find the 
 numerous illustrations of antique thought 
 and habit require a great deal of re 
 search, and each lecture is a good week s 
 work for a well man. And when I con 
 template the other things I am waiting to 
 do, many of them half done, to-wit: (i) 
 220 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 my "Hymns of the Marshes," nearly 
 complete, whereof you have the "Marsh 
 es of Glynn " and the little song of 
 " Trees and the Master ; " (2) my " Clover 
 and Other Poems," now quite ready for 
 the press; (3) my "Credo and Other 
 Poems," a thick volume, all in memoran 
 da, ready to be written out in a few 
 weeks ; (4) my " Choral Symphony," for 
 chorus and orchestra, being my "Psalm 
 of the West," with music; (5) my "Sym 
 phony Life," in four movements first, 
 childhood; second, youth; third, man 
 hood; fourth, old age; (6) my "Svmpho- 
 ny of the Plantation," being the old and 
 the new life of the negro, in music; (8) 
 my " Girl s Paston Letters," now in my 
 desk, half prepared; (9) my " Boy s Mon- 
 strelet," also in desk ready to arrange; 
 (10) my "Boy s Gesta Romanorum " 
 when I contemplate these, now Iving 
 upon my hands in actual forms of one 
 sort or another, without daring to think 
 of books merely projected, I fall to won 
 dering whether I have any business or 
 right to wait, whether I had not better 
 go and borrow five thousand, ten thou 
 sand dollars which could be so easily 
 repaid in five years (the copyrights of. 
 the "Boy s Froissart" and "King Ar 
 thur" would have done it if I had not 
 
 221 
 
Stones Xanfer. 
 
 been obliged to sell them), and put my 
 self in heaven at once, with nothing but 
 poetry to write and two years of freedom 
 from slavery to butcher and baker. 
 
 But at the time he was preparing 
 these lectures and penning this let 
 ter he was heing quickly consumed 
 hy the final fever, which, Dr. Ward 
 informs us, set in in May, 1880. 
 The following winter brought a hand 
 to hand battle for life, and in Decem 
 ber it was thought that he was at 
 death s door. Nevertheless before 
 April i, 1 88 1, he had delivered the 
 twelve lectures there were to have 
 been twenty -which were later pub 
 lished under the title of " The En 
 glish Novel." "A few of the earlier 
 lectures," continues Dr. Ward, " he 
 penned himself; the rest he w r as 
 obliged to dictate to his wdfe. With 
 the utmost care of himself, going in 
 a closed carriage and sitting during 
 his lecture, his strength w r as so ex 
 hausted that the struggle for breath 
 in the carriage on his return seemed 
 
each time to threaten the end. 
 Those who heard him listened with 
 a sort of fascinated terror, as in 
 doubt whether the hoarded breath 
 would suffice to the end of the hour. 
 It was in December of this winter, 
 when too feeble to raise the food to 
 his mouth, with a fever temperature 
 of 104 degrees, that he penciled his 
 last and greatest poem, Sunrise, 
 one of his projected series of the 
 4 Hymns of the Marshes. It seemed 
 as if he were in fear that he would 
 die with it unuttered." 
 
 Perhaps a little note on "Ham 
 let " which he left in his desk will 
 throw some light on the cheerfulness 
 and serenity w T ith which he contin 
 ued his work to the very last: 
 
 The grave scene is the most immense 
 conception of all tragedy to me; it is the 
 apparition of death upon a world which 
 has not yet learned the meaning of life: 
 how bleak it is, it is only skulls and regret ; 
 there is no comfort in it. But death, my 
 God! it is the sweetest and dearest of all 
 the angels to him who understands. 
 223 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 After giving this course of lec 
 tures he rallied enough to go to New 
 York to complete arrangements 
 with his publisher for bringing out 
 the remaining volumes of the Boy s 
 series. But while there his illness 
 became so aggravated that "his 
 medical adviser pronounced tent life 
 in a pure, high climate to be the last 
 hope." His brother Clifford took 
 him to Richmond Hill, three miles 
 from Asheville, N. C., where his 
 father and wife joined them, his 
 own devoted wife having already 
 taken her place as nurse by his bed 
 side. No one can record the end in 
 simpler or better-chosen words than 
 Dr. Ward has done : "As the pass 
 ing weeks brought no improvement 
 to the sufferer, he started August 4 
 on a carriage journey across the 
 mountains with his wife to test the 
 climate of Lynn, Polk County, N. C. 
 There deadly illness attacked him. 
 No return was possible, and Clifford 
 was summoned by telegraph, and 
 224 
 
ILanier. 
 
 assisted his father in removing the 
 encampment to Lynn. Deceived by 
 hope, and pressed by business cares, 
 Clifford went home August 24, and 
 the father and his wife five days 
 later, expecting to return soon. Mrs. 
 Lanier s own words, as written in 
 the brief annals of his life fur 
 nished me, will tell the end: We 
 are left alone (August 29) with one 
 another. On the last night of the 
 summer comes a change. His love 
 and immortal will hold off the de 
 stroyer of our summer yet one more 
 week, until the forenoon of Septem 
 ber 7, and then falls the frost, and 
 that unfaltering will renders its su 
 preme submission to the adored will 
 of God. " This was a life ideal in 
 its simplicity, serenity, and purity, 
 and inspiring in its heroic endeavor, 
 lofty aspiration, and Christian faith. 
 No mantle of charity had to be 
 thrown over anything that Sidney 
 Lanier ever said or did. And it is 
 pleasing to know that as he lay 
 15 225 
 
Xaniet. 
 
 awake in the weary watches of the 
 night beautiful thoughts and poetic 
 fancies were his blessed companions. 
 By the kind permission of Mrs. La- 
 nier I am permitted to give just here 
 one of these a little poem that has 
 never been published before " writ 
 ten in Camp Robin, on the moun 
 tain side near Asheville, summer of 
 1881 :" 
 
 I was the earliest bird awake, 
 It was awhile before dawn, I believe, 
 But somehow I saw round the world, 
 And the eastern mountain top did not 
 
 hinder me. 
 And I knew of the dawn by my heart, not 
 
 by mine eyes. 
 
 After his heart was forever glad 
 dened by a more glorious dawn the 
 body was taken back to Baltimore 
 and laid aw^ay in the Greenmount 
 cemetery. In October the Faculty 
 and students of Johns Hopkins Uni 
 versity held a memorial service, but 
 it would seem that only a few at 
 that time were more than dimly 
 226 
 
SiDneg fcanier. 
 
 conscious of their great loss. At 
 any rate within a very few years, on 
 February 3, 1888, a much larger and 
 more appreciative gathering, drawn 
 from many places, assembled in the 
 same university to witness the un 
 veiling and presentation of his bust, 
 and to pay distinguished honor to his 
 memory in addresses, in papers of 
 critical appreciation, in readings from 
 his poems, in poetical tributes and let 
 ters from leading American writers 
 all of which President Oilman 
 published as a " Memorial of Sidney 
 Lanier." For in this short time his 
 two chief productions had appeared 
 - "The English Novel," in 1883, 
 and the " Poems," edited by his wife, 
 in 1884. The latter was also accom 
 panied by a " Memorial," written by 
 Dr. William Hayes Ward, which 
 has been of no little service in call 
 ing attention to the poet s manly 
 struggle, beautiful life, and high 
 achievement. And now that his life 
 and his life work had been present- 
 227 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 ed with at least partial completeness 
 not a few finer minds and nobler 
 natures were instinctively attracted 
 to both, and many other articles, re 
 views and studies, have followed in 
 quick succession. Of those in En 
 gland one in the Spectator is deserv 
 ing of special mention. A replica 
 of the bust presented to the Johns 
 Hopkins University, both gifts of 
 his kinsman, Mr. Charles Lanier, 
 was unveiled at the poet s birthplace- 
 October 17, 1890, and since 1895 
 " Select Poems of Sidney Lanier," 
 a neat little volume carefully edited 
 with introduction, notes, and bibli 
 ography, by Prof. Morgan Calla- 
 way, Jr., PhD., of the University of 
 Texas, has greatly facilitated ac 
 quaintance with some of his firLsr 
 poems. The Chautauquans, too, of 
 the class of 1898 have called them 
 selves " The Laniers," in honor of 
 the poet and his brother, and there 
 are many other indications of an in 
 creasing interest in his life and in his 
 228 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 writings. This interest will doubt 
 less be still more widely extended 
 when the complete story is given 
 to the world ; for we have here the 
 promise of a rich and interesting bi 
 ography, and it is gratifying to learn 
 that there is ample material for it 
 in the way of letters to and from 
 friends, those to his wife being con 
 sidered by some who have seen or 
 heard them " superior to Shelley s," 
 pencil jottings in notebooks, on bill 
 heads, on envelopes, on any bit of 
 paper at hand, copious memoranda 
 for poems, notes for lectures, besides 
 the abundant revelations of himself 
 in his writings. And no one is so 
 worthily fitted or properly prepared 
 for this undertaking as the poet s 
 wife, for, as Miss Mary E. Burt has 
 aptly said, 
 
 Mrs. Lanier carries the poetic atmos 
 phere, the ideal way of looking at things, 
 the uplift of great association and rare 
 good breeding not " teased by small mixt 
 social claims," wherever she goes. No 
 229 
 
SUniet. 
 
 poet s wife ever nursed his Muse so jeal 
 ously, or after his death went on living 
 his life out for him so faithfully. The 
 genius of Sidney Lanier finds a secure, a 
 charming, an intelligent continuance in 
 his wife s interpretation of him. 
 
 i 
 The foundation of Lanier s superb 
 
 equipment, it would seem, was mu* 
 sic. This was his supreme nature- 
 gift, his earliest passion, his abiding- 
 love. Music echoes through his 
 books ; music dominates his theories 
 of poetry. " The imagery of mu 
 sic notes and * tones and ( melo 
 dies and * harmonies and tone- 
 colors is his natural language." 
 Nor does he in the least misread 
 himself when in 1873 he writes to a 
 friend : " Whatever turn I may have 
 for art is purely musical, poetry be 
 ing with me a mere tangent into 
 which I shoot sometimes" He 
 lived in a concord of sweet sounds. 
 A little fragment headed "The 
 beauty of holiness : the holiness of 
 beauty," left among h i s papers, 
 230 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 gives a unique revelation of how 
 essentially musical was his nature : 
 "A holy tune was in my soul when 
 I fell asleep ; it was going when I 
 awoke. This melody is always 
 moving along the background of 
 my spirit. If I wish to compose, 
 I abstract my attention from the 
 thoughts which occupy the front of 
 the stage, the dramatis persona: of 
 the moment, and fix myself upon 
 the deeper scene in the rear." The 
 following letter, written to his wife 
 from New York August 15, 1870, 
 will perhaps give a faint conception 
 of the joy of his soul while listening 
 to the finest music : 
 
 Flutes and horns and violins, celestial 
 sighs and breaths slow-drawn, penetrated 
 with that heavenly woe which the deep 
 heart knoweth when it findeth not room 
 in the world for its too great love, and is 
 worn with fasting for the beloved; fine 
 purity fiercely attacked by palpitating 
 fascinations, and bracing herself and 
 struggling and fighting therewith, till 
 what is maidenly in a man is become all 
 231 
 
Xanfer, 
 
 grimy and sweat-beaded like a warrior. 
 Dear Love, shot by some small arrow 
 and in pain with the wound thereof; di 
 vine lamentations, far-off blowings of 
 great winds, flutterings of tree and flower 
 leaves, and air troubled with wing beats 
 of birds or spirits; floatings hither and 
 thither of strange incenses and odors and 
 essences; warm floods of sunlight, cool 
 gleams of moonlight, faint enchantments 
 of twilight, delirious dances, noble 
 marches, processional chants, hymns of 
 joy and of grief ah [all these came to 
 me] last night, in the first chair next to 
 Thomas s Orchestra. 
 
 All this is clearly recognized in 
 the beautiful tribute to his musical 
 genius given by Asger Hamerik, 
 his director for six years in the Pea- 
 body Symphony Orchestra in Balti 
 more : 
 
 To him as a child in his cradle music 
 was given, the heavenly gift to feel and 
 to express himself in tones. His human 
 nature was like an enchanted instrument, 
 a magic flute or the lyre of Apollo, 
 needing but a breath or a touch to send 
 its beauty out into the world. It was in 
 deed irresistible that he should turn with 
 232 
 
Xanier. 
 
 those poetical feelings which transcend 
 language to the penetrating gentleness 
 of the flute, or the infinite passion of the 
 violin; for there was an agreement, a 
 spiritual correspondence between his na 
 ture and theirs, so that they mutually 
 absorbed and expressed each other. In 
 his hands the flute no longer remained a 
 mere material instrument, but war; trans 
 formed into a voice that set heavenly 
 harmonies into vibration. Its tones de 
 veloped colors, warmth, and a low sweet 
 ness of unspeakable poetry, they were 
 not only true and pure, but poetic, alle 
 goric 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. No doubt his 
 firm faith in these lofty idealities gave 
 him the power to present them to our 
 imaginations, and thus by the aid of the 
 higher language of music to inspire oth 
 ers with that sense of beauty in which he 
 constantly dwelt. His conception of 
 music was not reached by an analytic 
 study of note by note, but was intuitive 
 and spontaneous; like a woman s reason 
 he felt it so because he felt it so, and his 
 delicate perception required no more 
 logical form of reasoning. His playing 
 apoealed alike to the musically learned 
 233 
 
Xanier. 
 
 and to the unlearned, for he would mag 
 netize the listener; but the artist felt in 
 his performance the superiority of the 
 momentary living inspiration to all the 
 rules and shifts of mere technical schol 
 arship. His art was not only the art of 
 art, but an art above art. I will never 
 forget the impression he made on me 
 when he played the flute concerta of Emil 
 Hartmann at a Peabody Symphony con 
 cert in 1878 his tall, handsome, manly 
 presence, his flute breathing noble sor 
 rows, noble joys, the orchestra softly re 
 sponding. The audience was spellbound. 
 Such distinction, such refinement! He 
 stood, the master, the genius! 
 
 In rare conjunction with this ex 
 quisite musical nature was the phil 
 osophic and scientific mind. Lanier, 
 too, followed Solomon s direction, 
 " Get learning, get understanding," 
 recognizing that the road lay 
 " through application, study, and 
 thought." And he also belonged, 
 as we have seen, to the modern 
 world of scholarly research and sci 
 entific inquiry. He was, moreover, 
 an inventor, a lover of the natural 
 234 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 sciences, and his instincts and amLi- 
 tions were of this nineteenth century. 
 " Science," he observes, " instead of 
 being the enemy of poetry, is its 
 quartermaster and commissary." 
 And to young poets he says : " You 
 need not dream of winning the at 
 tention of sober people with your 
 poetry unless that poetry and your 
 soul behind it are informed and sat 
 urated with at least the largest final 
 conceptions of current science." To 
 comfort his wife in the period of his 
 greatest uncertainty he had written : 
 " Know, then, disappointments were 
 inevitable, and will still come until I 
 have fought the battle which every 
 great artist has had to fight since 
 time began. This dimly felt while 
 I was doubtful of my vocation and 
 powers is clear as the sun to me 
 now that I knoiv^ through the fierc 
 est tests of life, that I am in soul, 
 and shall be in life and utterance, a 
 great poet." "But," says Dante, 
 "the best conceptions cannot be, 
 235 
 
SiDneg Xanfer, 
 
 save where science and genius are ; " 
 and Lanier, believing this implicitly, 
 held in reserve his powers of ex 
 pression till he could formulate a 
 scientific theory of the art of versifi 
 cation. He was confident of his 
 own genius, but at the same time 
 " possessed by the deepest conviction 
 that the beauty of the art of poetry, 
 like all other beauty, had its founda 
 tion in law." He therefore pro 
 ceeded to construct a comprehensive 
 philosophy of formal and substantial 
 beauty in literature two parts of 
 which appear in " The Science of 
 English Verse " and " The English 
 Novel," the former dealing with the 
 forms of poetic execution, the latter 
 with the development of person 
 ality. 
 
 "The Science of English Verse" 
 owes its origin to the conviction, ex 
 pressed in a letter to Mr. Stedman, 
 that " in all directions the poetic art 
 was suffering from the shameful 
 circumstance that criticism was with- 
 236 
 
Stones Xanict. 
 
 out a scientific basis for even the 
 most elementary of its judgments." 
 Lanier s reasoning then seems to 
 have been, as I gather more partic 
 ularly from " The English Novel," 
 thus all accounts, scientific, reli 
 gious, and historical, agree that the 
 progress of things is from chaos or 
 formlessness to form, then from one 
 form to many, verse and prose for 
 instance developing from the one- 
 formed to the many-formed, that as 
 all art is a congeries of forms each 
 art must have its peculiar science, 
 and always we have in a true sense 
 the art of an art and the science of 
 that art, hence the science of verse 
 is no collection of rules for making 
 verse, no more than Prof. Huxley s 
 work on the crayfish is a cookery 
 book. If one is disposed to say "As 
 for me, I would rather Continue to 
 -write -verse from pure instinct" as 
 a valued friend who had won a con 
 siderable place in contemporary au 
 thorship expressed himself to La- 
 237 
 
Stones Zaniet, 
 
 wier, his answer was : " This fallacy 
 ~--of supposing we do a thing by 
 Instinct simply because we learned 
 to do it unsystematically and with 
 out formal teaching seems a curi 
 ous enough climax to the miscon 
 ceptions of literary science." 
 
 In the preface to this work we get 
 Lanier s other point of view : u If 
 Puttenham in the sixteenth century 
 could wish to make the art of poetry 
 4 vulgar for all Englishmen s use, 
 such a desire in the nineteenth must 
 needs become a religious aspiration. 
 For under our new dispensation the 
 preacher must soon be a poet, as 
 were the preachers before him under 
 the old. To reach an audience of a 
 variety so prodigious as to range 
 from the agnostic to the devotee no 
 forms of less subtlety than those of 
 tone can be effective. A certain 
 wholly unconscious step already 
 made in this direction by society 
 gives a confirmation of fact to this 
 view which perhaps no argument 
 238 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 can strengthen : I mean the now 
 common use of music as a religious 
 art. Music already occupies one end 
 of the Church ; the same inward 
 need will call poetry to the other." 
 For in this poet s estimation poetry 
 is not to be classified with placid in 
 difference as polite literature, nor 
 does the poet write to amuse. 
 " That all worthy poets," he contin 
 ues, "belong substantially to the 
 school of David, that it is the poet s 
 business to keep the line of men 
 touching shoulders with each other, 
 that the poet is in charge of all 
 learning to convert it into wisdom, 
 and that therefore a treatise on the 
 poet s method is in its last result a 
 sort of disciplinary preparation and 
 magister choralis for the congrega 
 tion as well as for the preacher of 
 the future these will not be regard 
 ed as merely visionary propositions, 
 and perhaps will be here accepted 
 at least as giving a final unity to the 
 principles now to be set forth." 
 239 
 
Sfoneg Xanier. 
 
 The following short abstract tak 
 en from Prof. Charles W. Kent s 
 excellent " Study of Lanier s 
 Poems " will give a fair conception 
 of his method : 
 
 Lanier in the " Science of English 
 Versification," after discussing the four 
 possible sound-relations, duration, inten 
 sity, pitch, and tone-color, shows that only 
 three exact coordinations are possible 
 namely, duration, pitch, and tone-color, 
 or their effects, rhythm, time, and color. 
 He then points out that music and verse 
 differ only in the means by which the co 
 ordination of rhythm, time, and tone- 
 color are made namely, in the case of 
 music by musical sounds, and in the case of 
 verse by spoken -words. Rhythm is then 
 discussed, the principle of accent as the 
 basis of rhythm is discarded, and time is 
 postulated and defended as the essential 
 basis. This established, the quantity of a 
 syllable, the grouping of sounds into bars 
 as units of measure, and the broader 
 grouping by phrases, by lines or meters, 
 by stanzas and by poems, are treated 
 fully. The phrase grouping may be ef* 
 fected in various ways for instance, by 
 logical pause, by alliteration, by logical 
 accent, etc. 
 
 240 
 
Stones Xanier. 
 
 The essential difference of Lanier a 
 theory from that generally received is 
 this: that rhythm in verse is precisely 
 the same as rhythm in music, and that 
 rhythm in music consists of exact time 
 relations among sounds and silences. 
 Hence the office of accent cannot begin 
 until rhythm is established, and then its 
 office is limited simply to grouping into 
 bars. But both bars and accent are unes 
 sential to verse. Rhythmic pronuncia 
 tion and logical accents must not be con 
 founded. Using the musical notation, 
 the author shows that bars contain a giv 
 en number of notes of a fixed length. In 
 making out the proper number of units 
 of time, absence of time must be supplied 
 by pauses of definite length. The bar 
 may contain any number of units of time 
 in theory, but practically, rhythm con 
 taining three units or three rhythm, and 
 rhythm containing four units or four 
 rhythm, are the ones occurring, and of 
 these the three rhythm is by far the most 
 popular in English. 
 
 Greater freedom, it is intended, 
 should hereby be given to poetry, 
 so that there may be no other lim 
 itations than the capacity of the 
 human ear to comprehend or coor- 
 16 241 
 
Xanier. 
 
 clinate the grouping of the sounds, 
 "There is certainly nothing more 
 interesting in Lanier s book," savs 
 Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 
 " than when he shows that just as a 
 Southern negro will improvise on 
 the banjo daring variations, such as 
 would, if Haydn employed them, be 
 called high art ; so Shakespeare of 
 ten employed the simplest devices 
 of sound, such as are familiar in 
 nursery songs, and produced effects 
 which are lyrically indistinguishable 
 from those of Mother Goose." 
 After calling attention, then, to the 
 prevalence and universal tacit recog 
 nition of tune in ordinary speech, 
 Lanier acids : 
 
 Once \ve get a fair command of all 
 these subtle resources of speech-tunes, 
 once \ve have trained our ears to recog 
 nize and appreciate them properly, once 
 we have learned to use them in combina 
 tion with the larger rhythm, which are 
 easily within the compass of our English 
 tongue, what strides may we not take 
 toward that goal, of the complete expres- 
 242 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 sion of all the complex needs or hopes 
 or despairs of modern life, which ever 
 glitters through the clouds of common 
 place before the eyes of the fervent artist! 
 
 But with Lanier there was no in 
 tention of allowing this liberty to 
 go back into formlessness again. 
 One of his latest utterances on this 
 subject emphasizes h i s position. 
 " Once for all remembering the dig 
 nity of form as we have traced it, 
 remembering the relations of science 
 as the knowledge of forms, of art 
 as the creator of beautiful forms, of 
 religion as the aspiration toward 
 unknown forms and the unknown 
 form-giver, let us abandon this un 
 worthy attitude toward form, toward 
 science, toward technic, in literary 
 art, which has so long sapped our 
 literary endeavor." Lanier died too 
 young to give perfect expression to 
 his scientific theories in beautiful 
 poetic creations, though it must he 
 granted that he was making marvel 
 ous progress toward the last. This 
 is all the more necessary to keep in 
 243 
 
Xanfec. 
 
 mind since Mr. Stedman has said 
 that " Lanier s difficulties were ex 
 plained by the very traits which 
 made his genius unique. His mu 
 sical faculty was compulsive. It in 
 clined him to override Lessing s law 
 of the distinctions of art and to essay 
 in language feats that only the gam 
 ut can render possible." 
 
 In a recent letter, October 9, 1896, 
 Mrs. Lanier says : "As Mr. Lanier s 
 very first book has long been out of 
 print, so for three years has been 
 his latest one, 4 The English Novel, 
 but under more hopeful conditions 
 of recovery. Under that title were 
 published the 1 twelve lectures deliv 
 ered in iSSi at Johns Hopkins Uni 
 versity, a course named by the lec 
 turer, ; From yEschylus to George 
 Eliot, the Development of Person 
 ality. The book-title has not con 
 veyed the purpose of the lectures, 
 for the novel was chosen only as the 
 literary form in which the develop 
 ment of personality could best be 
 244 
 
QLanier, 
 
 studied in contrast to its crude and 
 faint expression in the ^Eschylean 
 drama. In a forthcoming revised 
 edition the new sub-title will clearly 
 indicate this purpose, while a great 
 number of errors will be corrected. 
 The publication of these lectures 
 was urged in 1882 by friends who 
 had listened to them. At the time, 
 and for long afterwards, I was quite 
 disabled and could exercise no dis 
 cretion, and I followed the counsel 
 of one who, after a too cursory ex 
 amination, believed that they would 
 need only careful proof reading. 
 My inexperience kept me from see 
 ing that some editing was indispen 
 sable with an unrevised first draught 
 of a work that had been shaped and 
 penned in the feebleness of mortal 
 illness ; so it was committed to the 
 generous care of a friend, without 
 giving him liberty to lay any doubt 
 ful question before me during a long 
 seclusion under rest treatment. A 
 multitude of mistakes ensued ; some 
 245 
 
Xaniet. 
 
 from the copyist s unfamiliarity with 
 the handwriting and misunderstand 
 ing of the imperfect manuscript ; 
 others from the editor s uncertainties 
 as to Mr. Lanier s final -wish at va 
 rious points. When these came to 
 my notice the book was in circula 
 tion, with plates stereotyped, and the 
 only complete remedy lay in new 
 plates. After thirteen years this 
 remedy is about to be applied, and 
 the coming December, it is hoped, 
 will see The English Novel again 
 in circulation. It will have new and 
 better type, a full index, and para 
 graphs that were omitted in the ear- 
 lier edition." "The Science of 
 English Verse " may prove to be of 
 more permanent value ; but at pres 
 ent " The English Novel " is a far 
 more interesting work not only to 
 the general reader, but also to the 
 student of literature. It has the 
 rare value of being stimulating, 
 suggestive, and helpful at the same 
 time, though its higher worth is in 
 246 
 
Xanter. 
 
 the author s historical treatment of 
 the development of personality, in 
 his eloquent presentation of his the 
 ories of art and in much incidental 
 interpretative and illuminating crit 
 icism. Prof. Morgan Callaway s 
 synopsis, though brief, adequately 
 presents the author s purpose. He 
 says : "According to the author s 
 statement the purpose of the hook is, 
 first, to inquire what is the special 
 relation of the novel to the modern 
 man, by virtue of which it has be 
 come a paramount literary form: 
 and secondly, to illustrate this ab 
 stract inquiry, when completed, by 
 some concrete readings in the great 
 est of modern English novelists." 
 Addressing himself to the former, 
 Lanier attempts to prove (i) that 
 our time, when compared with that 
 of yEschylus, shows an " enormous 
 growth in the personality of man ; " 
 ( 2 ) that what we moderns call phys 
 ical science, music, and the novel all 
 had their origin at practically the 
 247 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 same time, about the middle of the 
 seventeenth century; and (3) "that 
 the increase of personalities thus go 
 ing on has brought about such com 
 plexities of relation that the older 
 forms of expression were inadequate 
 to them ; and that the resulting ne 
 cessity has developed the wonder 
 fully free and elastic form of the 
 modern novel out of the more rigid 
 Greek drama, through the transition 
 form of the Elizabethan drama." 
 Then by way of illustration follows 
 a detailed study of several of the 
 novels of George Eliot, whom La 
 mer considered the greatest of Eng 
 lish novelists. 
 
 Of vital interest, too, is Lanier s 
 attitude to the effect of science upon 
 the art of poetry and " art for art s 
 sake." During his lifetime poetry 
 was threatened with defeat by be 
 trayal within her own household 
 and with destruction from the 
 strongly intrenched camp of mod 
 ern science. It was more than in- 
 248 
 
OLanicr. 
 
 timated in certain quarters that the 
 poet, the novelist, and all imagina 
 tive literature, along with faith and 
 a few other superfluous winged and 
 mist-clad idealities, were to be abol 
 ished. How a mind " as truly phil 
 osophically and scientifically accu 
 rate as it was poetically sensuous 
 and imaginative " would regard such 
 an intimation is to be seen in this 
 volume. After pointing out that 
 while gravitation, oxygen, electro- 
 magnetism, the atomic theory, the 
 spectroscope, the siren, are being 
 evolved, the "Ode to St. Cecilia," 
 the " Essay on Man," " Manfred," 
 "A Man s a Man, for A That," 
 the " Ode on Immortality," " In 
 Memoriam," the " Ode to a Night 
 ingale," "The Psalm of Life" are 
 being written, and after calling at 
 tention to Goethe, at once pursu 
 ing science and poetry," he adds: 
 "Now, if we examine the course 
 and progress of this poetry, born 
 thus within the very grasp and maw 
 249 
 
Stones Xanter, 
 
 of this terrible science, it seems to 
 me that we find as to the substance 
 of poetry a steadily increasing con 
 fidence 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 unpro 
 ductive wood and efflorescence and 
 creating finer reserves and richer 
 yields." There was no fear in his 
 mind that science would ever find 
 out the Almighty unto perfection or 
 uncloak the mysteries of the uni 
 verse. Yet, as with all serious, re 
 flecting souls, when some of the 
 latter obtruded their ghastly pres 
 ence into the forefront of his obser 
 vation, the former at times seemed 
 to be far away, as the following un 
 published fragment discloses : " In 
 250 
 
Xanfer. 
 
 the lily, the sunset, the mountain, 
 and the rosy hues of all life it is easy 
 to trace God. But it is in the dust 
 that goes up from the unending bat 
 tle of things that we lose him. For- 
 
 O 
 
 ever through the ferocities of storms, 
 the malice of the never - glutted 
 oceans, the savagery of human wars, 
 the inexorable barbarities of acci 
 dent, of earthquake, and mysterious 
 disease one hears the voice of man 
 crying : Where art thou, my dear 
 Lord a nd Master ? " 
 
 In the quiet hours of meditation 
 and of love the answer came to 
 Lanier, as it comes to all those 
 Godly hearts, that, grails of gold, 
 Still the blood of faith do hold. 
 " I have a boy whose eyes are as 
 blue as your Aethra s," he writes to 
 Paul H. Hayne. " Every day when 
 my work is done I take him in my 
 strong arms and lift him up and 
 pore in his face. The intense re 
 pose, penetrated somehow with a 
 thrilling mystery of potential activ 
 251 
 
Xanier. 
 
 ity which dwells in his large, open 
 eye, teaches me new things. I say 
 to myself : Where are the strong 
 arms in which I, too, might lay nie 
 and repose, and yet be full of the 
 fire of life? And always through 
 the twilight come answers from the 
 other \vorld : c Master ! Master ! 
 there is one Christ ; in his arms 
 we rest ! " 
 
 But his highest joy and deepest 
 satisfaction in contemplating the 
 " Crystal Christ " were attained 
 through art. He was neither the 
 agnostic nor the religionist. " The 
 Church is too hot," he says in an 
 unpublished fragment " The Beau 
 ty of Holiness : the Holiness of 
 Beauty " " and Nothing is too cold. 
 I find my proper temperature in art. 
 Art offers to me a method of ador 
 ing the sweet Master, Jesus Christ, 
 without the straitness of a creed 
 which confines my genuflections 
 and without the vacuity of doubt 
 which numbs them. An unspeak- 
 252 
 
ILanicr. 
 
 able gain has come to me in simply 
 turning a certain phrase the other 
 way. The beauty of holiness be 
 comes a new and wonderful saying 
 to me when I figure it to myself in 
 reverse as the holiness of beauty. 
 This is like opening a window of 
 dark-stained glass and letting in a 
 flood of white light. I thus keep 
 upon the walls of my soul a church 
 wall rubric which has been some 
 what clouded by the expiring 
 breaths of creeds dying their natural 
 deaths. For in art there is no doubt. 
 My heart beat all last night without 
 my- supervision, for I was asleep. 
 My heart did not doubt a throb. I 
 left it beating when I slept ; I found 
 it beating when I awoke. It is thus 
 with art : it beats in my sleep. A 
 holy tune was in my soul when I 
 fell asleep ; it was going when I 
 awoke. This melody is always 
 moving along in the background of 
 my spirit." 
 
 In his soul, however, artistic beau- 
 253 
 
SiDneg 3Lanier. 
 
 ty and moral beauty are twin stars 
 that give a single light. " Let any 
 sculptor," he says in this book, " hew 
 out the most ravishing combination 
 of tender curves and spheric soft 
 ness that ever stood for woman ; 
 yet if the lip have a certain fullness 
 that hints of the flesh, if the brow 
 be insincere, if in the minutest par 
 ticular the physical beauty suggests 
 a moral ugliness, that sculptor -un 
 less he be portraying a moral ugli 
 ness for a moral purpose may as 
 well give over his marble for paving 
 stones. Time, whose judgments 
 are inexorably moral, will not accept 
 his w r ork. For, indeed, we may say 
 that he who has not yet perceived 
 how artistic beauty and moral beau 
 ty are convergent lines which run 
 back into a common ideal origin, 
 and who is therefore not afire with 
 moral beauty just as with artistic 
 beauty ; that he, in short, who has 
 not come to that stage of quiet and 
 eternal frenzy in which the beauty 
 254 
 
Hanier, 
 
 of holiness and the holiness of beau 
 ty mean one thing, burn as one fire, 
 shine as one light within him, he is 
 not yet the great artist." 
 
 N"ay, he does not hesitate to incul 
 cate a moral purpose nor lose sight 
 of the higher fact that a man s 
 words and deeds should be in har 
 mony a " perfect life in perfect 
 labor writ," was his own ideal. 
 " Cannot one say with author 
 ity to the young artist, wheth 
 er 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 for 
 ward 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 
 255 
 
Stoneg Xanier. 
 
 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, wis 
 dom, goodness, and love, abandon 
 the hope that the ages will accept 
 you as an artist." 
 
 This little "note" for a Johns 
 Hopkins lecture may be taken as 
 his final word on this subject : "A 
 man of mere cleverness can reach a 
 certain point of progressive technic, 
 but after that it is only moral nature 
 which can carry him farther for 
 ward, which can teach him any 
 thing." 
 
 As a critic Lanier was more re 
 markable for penetration and apt 
 characterization of particular authors 
 than for range of sympathy and un 
 erring judgment. He was often 
 illuminative and interpretative, as 
 when he says of William Morris: 
 " He caught a crystal cupful of yel 
 low light of sunset, and, persuading 
 256 
 
Xanier, 
 
 himself to deem it wine, drank it 
 with a sort of smile." And when 
 he comes to speak of Shelley he is 
 even more felicitous : " In truth, 
 Shelley appears always to have la 
 bored under an essential immaturi 
 ty ; it is very possible that if he 
 had lived a hundred years he would 
 never have become a man j he was 
 penetrated with modern ideas, but 
 penetrated as ahoy would be crude 
 ly, overmuch, and with a constant 
 tendency to the extravagant and il 
 logical, so that I call him the modern 
 boy." He indicated with aptest 
 words the weak places in Milton and 
 Tennyson and Emerson. 13ut his 
 observation on Swinburne, " He in 
 vited me to eat ; the service was 
 silver and gold, but no food therein 
 save pepper and salt," is not so hap 
 py ; for, as the Spectator has pointed 
 out, no one can sav of "Atalanta in 
 Calydon," or even of " Bothwell," 
 that there is nothing in it but condi 
 ment. And, on the other hand, the 
 17 257 
 
Xanicr, 
 
 service is by no means always of 
 silver and gold, for the Swinburne 
 verbiage is often so oppressive that 
 the alloy presses itself on the atten 
 tion a great deal more than the 
 precious metal. The criticism on 
 Thackeray is still wider of the 
 mark. To speak of "the sub-acid 
 satiric mood of Thackeray" to 
 stress it as a " mood of hate " and 
 to say that " Thackeray and his 
 school, when they speak of drawing 
 a man as he is of the natural, etc., 
 in art would mean drawing a man 
 as he appears in such a history as the 
 daily newspaper gives " is to mis 
 read the tendercst heart and to mis 
 judge the finest art of all the great 
 English novelists. The reason why 
 Lanier could not see that 
 
 If he smiled, 
 His smile had more of sadness than of 
 
 mirth, 
 But more of love than either, 
 
 was rather a matter of temperament 
 
 than of heart. Nor was there be- 
 
 258 
 
Xanier, 
 
 tween them that mental affinity 
 which drew Lanier so strongly to 
 George Eliot. Not only her philo 
 sophic and scientific mind appealed 
 to him, but also her attitude toward 
 life Weltanschauung was con 
 genial to his manner of thinking. 
 This, it would seem, accounts for 
 the position he has assigned her, as 
 attaining the height thus far reached 
 in fiction of subtle portrayal of hu 
 man personality in the following 
 paragraph : " You will observe that 
 of the two commandments in which 
 the Master summed up all duty and 
 happiness namely, to love the Lord 
 with all our heart and to love our 
 neighbor as ourself George Eliot s 
 whole life and work were devoted 
 to the exposition of the latter. She 
 lias been blamed for devoting so lit 
 tle attention to the former. As for 
 me, I am too heartily grateful for the 
 stimulus of human love which radi 
 ates from all her works to feel any 
 sense of lack or regret. This, after 
 250 
 
Stones 3Lanter. 
 
 all the general stimulus along the 
 line of one s whole nature is the 
 only true benefit of contact with the 
 great ; more than this is hurtful. 
 Nowadays you do not want an au 
 thor to tell you how many times a 
 day to pray, to prescribe how many 
 inches wide shall be the hem of 
 your garment. This the Master 
 never did ; too well he knew the 
 growth of personality which would 
 settle these matters, each for itself : 
 too well he knew the subtle hurt of 
 all such violations of modern indi 
 vidualism ; and after our many 
 glimpses of the heartiness with 
 which George Eliot recognized the 
 fact and function of human person 
 ality one may easily expect that she 
 never attempted to teach the world 
 with a rule and square, but desired 
 only to embody in living form those 
 prodigious generalizations in which 
 the Master s philosophy, considered 
 purely as philosophy, surely ex 
 celled all other systems. In fine, if 
 260 
 
Xanier. 
 
 I try to sum up the whole work of 
 this great and beautiful spirit, which 
 has just left us, in the light of all the 
 various views I have presented in 
 these lectures, where we have been 
 tracing the growth of human person 
 ality from yEschylus, through Plato, 
 Socrates, the contemporary Greek 
 mind, through t h e Renaissance, 
 Shakespeare, Richardson, Fielding, 
 down to Dickens and our author. I 
 find all the numerous threads of 
 thought which have been put before 
 you gathered into one if I say that 
 Georsre Eliot shows man what he 
 
 O 
 
 may be in terms of what he is." 
 
 But the best and most trenchant 
 of Lanier s criticisms is that on Walt 
 Whitman, though his condemnation 
 of the author of " Leaves of Grass " 
 was not so sweeping as it appears 
 in the first edition of " The English 
 Novel." The following paragraph 
 from his original manuscript, occur 
 ring between u democratic and form 
 less " and " I need quote but a few 
 261 
 
SiCmeg Hanier, 
 
 scraps" (page 44, 1. 6.) was omitted, 
 but will find its proper place in the 
 forthcoming edition : 
 
 But let me first carefully disclaim and 
 condemn all that flippant and sneering 
 tone which dominates so many discussions 
 of Whitman. While I differ from him 
 utterly as to every principle of artistic 
 procedure; while he seems to me the 
 most stupendously mistaken man in all 
 history as to what constitutes true democ 
 racy and the true advance of art and man. 
 while I am immeasurably shocked at the 
 sweeping invasions of those reserves 
 which depend on the very personality I 
 have so much insisted upon, and which 
 the whole consensus of the ages has con 
 sidered more and more sacred with everv 
 year of growth in delicacy; yet, after all 
 these prodigious allowances, I owe some 
 keen delight to a certain combination of 
 bigness and naivete which make some of 
 Whitman s passages so strong and taking; 
 and indeed, on the one occasion when 
 Whitman has abandoned his theory of 
 formlessness and written in form, he has 
 made " My Captain, O My Captain " 
 suiely one of the most tender and beauti 
 ful poems in any language. 
 
 But though Lanier elsewhere 
 262 
 
Xanier. 
 
 speaks of something" in \Vhitmar,. 
 which refreshed him like harsh 
 salt spray, he was not at all disposed 
 to accept " a great new revolution 
 ized democratic literature, which will 
 wear a slouch hat and have its shirt 
 open at the bosom, and generally 
 riot in a complete independence of 
 form." Our civilization has never 
 presented a more striking contrast 
 than in these two men. In dress, in 
 physicjue, in choice of service during 
 the war, in purity as expressed in 
 their writings, in ideals of art, of 
 manf ulness, of " democracy " they 
 were essentially unlike. Perhaps it 
 required the instinct of a soldier, as 
 well as the taste of a man of letters, 
 to perceive this contrast as clearly 
 and to present it as trenchantly as 
 Col. T. W. Higginson has done. 
 " There could be little in common," 
 says he, " between the fleshliness of 
 c Leaves of Grass and the refined 
 chivalry that could write, in The 
 Symphony, lines like these : 
 263 
 
Xanicr. 
 
 Shall ne er prevail the woman s plea, 
 We maids would far, far whiter be 
 If that our eyes might sometimes see 
 Men maids in purity? 
 
 A man who, with pulmonary dis 
 ease upon him, could still keep in his 
 saddle as a soldier could feel but 
 little sympathy with one who, with 
 a superb physique prepared to serve 
 in the hospital honorable though 
 that service might be for the feeble- 
 bodied. One who viewed poetic struc 
 ture as a matter of art could hardly 
 sympathize with what he would re 
 gard as mere recitative ; and one 
 who chose his material and treat 
 ment with touch and discrimination 
 could make no terms with one who 
 was, as he said, poetry s butcher, 
 and offered as food only huge raw 
 collops cut from the rump of poet 
 ry, and never mind gristle. 
 
 In regard to Whitman s declara 
 
 tion that " meanwhile democracy 
 
 waits the coming of its bards in si 
 
 lence and in twilight but tis the 
 
 264 
 
Xanler. 
 
 twilight of dawn "evidently hav 
 ing himself in mind Lanier an 
 swers : " Professing to be a mudsill 
 and glorying in it, chanting democ 
 racy and the shirt sleeves and equal 
 rights, declaring that he is nothing 
 if not one of the people ; neverthe 
 less the people, the democracy, will 
 yet have nothing to do with him, 
 and it is safe to say that his sole au 
 dience has lain among such repre 
 sentatives of the highest culture as 
 Emerson and the English illumina 
 ted. The truth is, that if closely ex 
 amined, Whitman, instead of being 
 a true democrat, is simply the most 
 incorrigible of aristocrats masking 
 in a peasant s costume; and his 
 poetry, instead of being the natu 
 ral outcome of a fresh young de 
 mocracy, is a product which would 
 be impossible except in a highly civ 
 ilized society." Lanier has no pa 
 tience with Whitman s standard of 
 "democracy." "As near as I can 
 make it out," he writes, " Whitman s 
 265 
 
Xanier, 
 
 argument seems to be that, because 
 a prairie is wide, therefore debauch 
 ery is admirable, and because the 
 Mississippi is long, therefore every 
 American is God." Over against 
 Whitman s "roughs" he sets 
 " George Washington, that beauti 
 ful, broad, tranquil spirit," " our 
 courtly and philosophic Thomas Jef 
 ferson," "the Adamses and Benja 
 min Franklin," "William Cullen 
 Bryant (that surely unrugged and 
 graceful figure who was so often 
 called the finest American gentle 
 man) and Lowell and Longfellow ; " 
 and in contrast with Whitman s 
 " rude muscle," " brawn " and " sin 
 ew of the Western backwoodsman " 
 as the ideal of strength, he presents 
 this exquisite picture : " I know 
 and count it among the privileges 
 of my life that I do a woman who 
 has spent her whole life in bed for 
 twenty years past, confined by a cu 
 rious form of spinal disease, which 
 prevents locomotion, and which, in 
 266 
 
SiDneg Xamer. 
 
 spite of constant pain and disturb 
 ance, leaves the system long un 
 worn. Day by day she lies helpless, 
 at the mercy of all those tyrannical 
 small needs which become so large 
 under such circumstances ; every 
 meal must be brought to her, a 
 drink of water must be handed ; 
 and she is not rich to command 
 service. Withal her nature is of the 
 brightest and most energetic sort. 
 Yet surrounded by these unspeaka 
 ble pettinesses, inclosed in this cage 
 of contradictions, the woman has 
 made herself the center of an ador 
 ing circle of the brightest people ; 
 her room is called 4 Sunny side ; * 
 when brawny men are tired they go 
 to her for rest, when people in the 
 rudest physical health are sick of 
 life they go to her for the curative 
 virtue of her smiles. Now this 
 woman has not so much rude mus 
 cle in her whole body as Whitman s 
 man has in his little finger; she is 
 so fragile that long ago some one 
 267 
 
Stones Xanfet. 
 
 called her White Flower, and by 
 this name she is much known ; it 
 costs her as much labor to press a 
 friend s hand as it costs Whitman s 
 rough to fell a tree ; regarded from 
 the point of view of brawn and 
 sinew, she is simply absurd ; yet to 
 the eye of my spirit there is more 
 manfulness in one moment of her 
 loving and self-sacrificing existence 
 than in an eon of muscle-growth 
 and sinew-breeding ; and hers is the 
 manfulness which is the only solu 
 tion of a true democrat, hers is the 
 manfulness of which only can a re 
 public be built. A republic is the 
 government of the spirit ; a republic 
 depends upon the self-control of 
 each member; you cannot make a 
 republic out of muscles and prairies 
 and Rocky Mountains ; republics 
 are made of the spirit." 
 
 A mere glance at Sidney Lanier s 
 
 prose serves to show that he was " a 
 
 man of genius \vith a rare gift 
 
 for the happy word." But our 
 
 268 
 
Xanicr. 
 
 chief interest in him arises from his 
 determination to " be in life and ut 
 terance a great poet." His life was 
 a beautiful and inspiring poem. Was 
 he also as a worker in the sphere 
 of imagination and in the realm of 
 beauty the artist in conception and 
 in expression the poet? Were his 
 scientific attainments and philosophic 
 power used to enhance and ennoble 
 his poetic gifts, or to mar and em 
 barrass them? Did he possess the 
 supreme gift? For the genuine 
 lover of poetry is firmly persuaded 
 that no profundity, no learning can 
 o-ive beauty to verses that lack the 
 divine fire. No poet in the last 
 forty years has so puzzled the crit 
 ics. Superficial as well as essential 
 resemblances have been abundantly 
 suggested. Lanicr has been likened 
 in moral earnestness and loftiness of 
 purpose to Milton, in intellectuality 
 to Emerson, in spirituality to Rus- 
 kin, in love of nature to Words 
 worth, in taste, sensibility, and ex- 
 269 
 
SiDncg Xanier. 
 
 quisite sense of beauty to Shelley 
 and Keats, in technique to Tenny 
 son, in the astonishing manipula 
 tion of his meter and cadence and 
 involution to Swinburne. But these 
 comparisons, especially in their cu 
 mulative effect, are deceptive and mis 
 leading, though they serve to show, 
 coming as they do from so many 
 sources, that he is an original and 
 individual singer w T ith many rare 
 and attractive qualities. 
 
 In his "Poems" three stages of 
 development are discernible. In 
 the earlier portion of his life, before 
 1874, music seems to have satisfied 
 his deepest longings and highest as 
 pirations, and in music his genius 
 found easiest and most natural ex 
 pression. As poetry was only a 
 tangent into which he shot some 
 times, there is a perceptible intel 
 lectual effort, as of one singing 
 from the head and not out of the 
 heart, which resulted in rigid, if 
 not labored, movement and over- 
 270 
 
Xanter. 
 
 wrought fancy. There is, at any 
 rate, a lack of that ease and sponta 
 neity which was his musical birth 
 right, and which belongs to the 
 poets who lisp in numbers. Of this 
 earlier period three poems rise dis 
 tinctly above all his other efforts _ 
 two songs for " The Jacquerie," that 
 of the hound and the " Betrayal," 
 and " The Ship of Earth," though 
 there are beautiful stanzas here and 
 there in others, two in " Life and 
 Song" being specially fine. In the 
 first song, an allegory intended to 
 represent the essence of the French 
 revolutionary spirit growing out of 
 the desperate misery and the brute 
 force of mediaeval times, though the 
 art is more plastic than in most of 
 his earlier verse, the fancy is plainly 
 constrained : 
 
 The hound was cuffed, the hound was 
 
 kicked, 
 
 O the ears was cropped, o the tail was 
 nicked, 
 
 Oo-hoo-o, howled the hound. 
 The hound into his kennel crept; 
 271 
 
Xanier. 
 
 He rarely wept, he never slept. 
 His mouth he always open kept, 
 Licking his bitter wound, 
 The hound, 
 
 U-lu-lo, howled the hound. 
 A star upon his kennel shone 
 That showed the hound a meat-bare bone. 
 
 O hungry was the hound! 
 The hound had but a churlish wit. 
 He seized the bone, he crunched, he bit. 
 "An thou wert Master, I had slit 
 
 Thy throat with a huge wound." 
 Quo hound, 
 O, angry was the hound. 
 
 The star in castle-window shone, 
 The Master lay abed, alone. 
 
 O ho, why not? quo hound. 
 He leapt, he seized the throat, he tore 
 The Master, head from neck, to floor, 
 And rolled the head i the kennel door, 
 And fled and salved his wound. 
 Good hound! 
 U-lu-lo, howled the hound. 
 
 In the "Betrayal" he is freer, 
 more natural, and his fancy is less 
 violent more chastened, as befits 
 the theme. In simplicity, direct 
 ness, reserved force it is strong, 
 though somehow it lacks the melody 
 272 
 
SiDneg SLanfer. 
 
 and pathos, as well as that human 
 touch which goes straight to the 
 heart in " The Bridge of Sighs." 
 
 The sun has kissed the violet sea, 
 
 And burned the violet to a rose. 
 O sea! would thou not better be 
 
 Mere 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! 
 
 The sun has burnt the rose-red sea: 
 The rose is turned to ashes gray. 
 O sea, O sea, mightst thou but be 
 
 The violet thou hast been to-day! 
 The sun is brave, the sun is bright, 
 The sun is lord of love and light; 
 But after him it cometh night. 
 Dim anguish of the lonesome dark! 
 Once a girl s body, stiff and stark, 
 Was laid in a tomb without a mark, 
 Ah me! 
 
 " The Ship of Earth" is perhaps 
 not so perfect as either of the songs ; 
 it may give evidence of the straining 
 18 273 
 
Stones Xanter. 
 
 ambition of youth ; and yet it is the 
 most powerful description of a young 
 man s terror of life, in the " storm 
 and stress " period, I remember to 
 have seen. It suggests two strong 
 and rugged poets, Whitman and 
 Browning, though Lanier s was a 
 masterful nature, too, for all its pu 
 rity and love of beauty : 
 
 Thou Ship of Earth, with Death, and 
 
 Birth, and Life, and Sex aboard, 
 And fires of Desires burning hotly in 
 
 the hold, 
 I fear thee, O! I fear thee, for I hear the 
 
 tongue and sword 
 
 At battle on the deck, and the wild 
 mutineers are bold! 
 
 The dewdrop morn may fall from off the 
 
 petal of the sky, 
 But all the deck is wet with blood and 
 
 stains the crystal red. 
 A pilot, God, a pilot! for the helm is left 
 
 awry, 
 
 And the best sailors in the Ship lie 
 there among the dead! 
 
 But Lanier s was a strong and 
 affluent nature, only less richly en- 
 274 
 
fcanier. 
 
 dowed with poetic than with mu 
 sical gifts, and shortly after his re 
 moval to Baltimore he began to 
 evince a greater mastery of the po 
 etic art. There was observable a 
 quick and positive gain both in po 
 etic conception and expression. " In 
 dustrious and select reading, steady 
 observation and insight into all seem 
 ly and generous acts and affairs," 
 strengthened doubtless "by devout 
 prayer to that Eternal Spirit who 
 can enrich with all utterance and 
 knowledge," greatly enlarged the 
 man and fortified his resolution. 
 Using yet the methods of the older 
 poets, he enriched our literature 
 with such genuine, original, and in 
 dividual poems as " My Springs," 
 " The Song of the Chattahoochee," 
 " The Revenge of Ilamish," "A 
 Ballad of the Trees and the Mas 
 ter," " The Stirrup Cup," " Tampa 
 Robins," etc., and the delightful 
 sonnets, "The Mocking Bird," 
 " Laus Mariai," "A Harlequin of 
 275 
 
TLanter. 
 
 Dreams," etc. Seldom did he pro 
 duce so perfect a piece of work as 
 " The Song of the Chattahoochee." 
 In " My Springs," which is alto 
 gether a finer poem, " there is here 
 and there a hint of the desire to sa} 
 in a striking way what would best 
 have been said in a subdued way," 
 as the Spectator has said ; " and 
 again we cannot say that we like at 
 all the 
 
 high glory-loves 
 And science-loves and story-loves. 
 
 But nothing could be more perfect 
 than 
 
 the whole sweet round 
 Of littles that large life compound; 
 
 and the touch of wonder in the 
 last two lines of the poem is as sim 
 ple and exquisite as any touch of 
 tenderness in our literature." 
 
 But simpler and more sponta 
 neous is the " Song of the Chatta 
 hoochee," with its descriptive beauty 
 and on-swaying rush, and highly 
 270 
 
StDneg Xanier. 
 
 musical withal not with the baby- 
 bustle of the eager little brook 
 which chatters, chatters as it flows 
 to join the brimming river, but with 
 the more stately harmony of the 
 manly river which is fain for to 
 water the plain, to toil and to be 
 mixed with main. Popular ballads, 
 it is true, rarely touch the highest 
 point of poetic achievement, but 
 their very freedom and directness, 
 the way in which they can be called 
 up at will by the lively imagination 
 of people not given to meditation 
 and introspection, compensate for 
 all a more elaborate art can supply, 
 though no one can complain of a 
 lack of art in this bewitching 
 stream-song : 
 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 
 Down the valleys of Hall, 
 I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
 Run the rapid and reach the fall, 
 Split at the rock and together again, 
 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
 And flee from folly on every side 
 277 
 
Xanier. 
 
 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 willful water weeds held me thrall, 
 The loving laurel turned my tide, 
 The ferns and the fondling grass said 
 
 Stay, 
 
 The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
 And the little reeds cried Abide, abide, 
 
 Here in the hills of Habershain, 
 
 Here in the -valleys of Hall. 
 
 But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
 And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
 Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. 
 Downward the voices of duty call 
 Downward to toil and be mixed with the 
 
 main, 
 The drv fields burn, and the mills are to 
 
 turn, 
 
 And a mvriad flowers mortally yearn, 
 And the lordly main from beyond the 
 
 plain 
 
 Calls o er the hills of Habersham, 
 Calls through the valleys of Hall. 
 
 The mystical yearning 1 and sense 
 
 278 
 
Xanicr. 
 
 of duty in this poetic interpretation 
 of the voices of nature are inten 
 sified to a mystic exaltation of the 
 power of poetic sympathy in " The 
 Ballad of the Trees and the Mas- 
 
 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. 
 
 Lanier is a versatile poet in both 
 manner and thought, and likes to 
 
 270 
 
Stones Xaniec. 
 
 give variety to his song. His 
 originality does not bind him to one 
 idea or to one form. Now he uses 
 nice observation, curious question 
 ing, and quaint comparison in the 
 neat sonnet on "The Mocking 
 Bird : " 
 
 Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 
 That o er the general leafage boldly 
 
 grew, 
 He summed the woods in song; or typic 
 
 drew 
 The watch of hungry hawks, the lone 
 
 dismay 
 Of languid doves when long their lovers 
 
 stray, 
 And all birds passion-plays that sprinkle 
 
 dew 
 
 At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 
 Whate er birds did or dreamed, this bird 
 
 could say. 
 
 Then down he shot, bounced airily along 
 The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, 
 
 made song 
 Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his 
 
 art again. 
 Sweet Science, this large riddle read me 
 
 plain: 
 
 How may the death of that dull insect be 
 280 
 
SiDneg Xanfet. 
 
 The life of yon trim Shakspere on the 
 tree? 
 
 Then again in the same verse form 
 he gives his luxuriant fancy freer 
 play and takes us into the higher re 
 gion of the imagination in " The 
 Harlequin of Dreams : " 
 
 Swift, through some trap mine eyes 
 
 have never found, 
 Dim-paneled in the painted scene of 
 
 Sleep, 
 Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost 
 
 leap 
 Upon my spirit s stage. Then Sight and 
 
 Sound, 
 Then Space and Tim*, 4.nen Language, 
 
 Mete and Bound, 
 
 And all familiar Forms -mat firmly keep 
 Man s reason in the road, change faces, 
 
 peep 
 Betwixt the legs and mock the daily 
 
 round. 
 
 Yet thou canst more than mock: some 
 times my tears 
 At midnight break through bounden 
 
 lids a sign 
 Thou hast a heart: and oft thy little 
 
 leaven 
 
 281 
 
Sttmeg Xanicr. 
 
 Of dream-taught wisdom works me bet 
 tered years. ; 
 
 In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool 
 divine, 
 
 1 think thou rt jester at the Court of 
 Heaven. 
 
 In the third stage of Lanier s po 
 etical development, however, the 
 most distinctive features of his art 
 and gifts are presented. According 
 to his own theories were written 
 those poems in which he gave the 
 best exhibition of his m e 1 o d y , 
 strength, and personal flavor, and 
 the highest manifestation of his pas 
 sion, power, and originality. In 
 these his luxuriant fancy has freest 
 range ; his love of nature is most 
 poetically displayed. In these later 
 poems we may, it is true, still chance 
 upon a line fashioned after Poe and 
 observe a manner imitated from 
 Browning, for not even "dearest 
 Keats," it would seem, exercised 
 such an influence upon him as these j 
 yet no other poet ever wrote a series 
 282 
 
Xanier. 
 
 of poems like "Corn," "Clover, * 
 " The Bee," " Remonstrance," " The 
 Crystal," " The Symphony," " Incli- 
 viduality," " Sunset," " The Marsh 
 es of Glynn," and " Sunrise." In 
 merit most unequal, in peculiarities 
 most marked, they are nevertheless 
 distinctive, and they are poetry, 
 surely the rarest product of English 
 or American literature during the 
 last quarter of a century. After all 
 it is to this hody of verse we must 
 turn for the completest interpreta 
 tion of Lanier s ideas of the poet, 
 of personality, of life, nature, love, 
 God. If it be asked, " What profit 
 e er a poet brings ? " he answers in 
 The Bee : " 
 
 He beareth starry stuff about his wings 
 To pollen thee and sting thee fertile: 
 
 for oft these pollens be 
 Fine dust from wars that poets wage for 
 thee. 
 
 Or, if the question be, "A poet, 
 thou what worth, what worth, the 
 
 283 
 
Xanier. 
 
 whole of all thine art?" we learn 
 from " Clover : " 
 
 The artist s market is the heart of man, 
 The artist s price, some little good of man. 
 
 In " Corn," one tall corn-captain 
 types 
 
 The poet-soul sublime 
 That leads the vanward of his timid time 
 And sings up cowards with commanding 
 rhyme; 
 
 addressing- whom he sings : 
 
 Thou lift st more stature than a mortal 
 
 man s 
 Yet ever piercest downward in the mold 
 
 And keepest hold 
 Upon the reverend and steadfast earth 
 
 That gave thee birth ; 
 Yea, standest smiling in thy future grave, 
 
 Serene and brave, 
 With unremitting breath 
 Inhaling life from death, 
 Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage elo 
 quent, 
 Thyself thy monument. 
 
 As poets should 
 
 Thou hast built up thy hardihood 
 With universal food, 
 284 
 
%anier. 
 
 Drawn in select proportion fair 
 From honest mold and vaga 
 
 bond air; 
 From darkness of the dreadful night, 
 
 And joyful light; 
 From antique ashes, whose departed 
 
 flame 
 
 In thee has finer life and longer fame; 
 From wounds and balms, 
 From storms and calms, 
 From potsherds and dry bones 
 
 And ruin-stones. 
 Into thy vigorous substance thou hast 
 
 wrought 
 Whate er the hand of Circumstance hath 
 
 brought; 
 Yea, into cool solacing green hast 
 
 spun 
 
 White radiance hot from out the sun. 
 So thou dost mutually leaven 
 Strength of earth with grace of heaven; 
 So thou dost marry new and old 
 Into a one of higher mold; 
 So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold, 
 
 The dark and bright, 
 And many a perplexing opposite, 
 
 And so, 
 
 Akin by blood to high and low, 
 Fitly thou playest out thy pdet s part, 
 Richly expending thy much -bruised 
 heart 
 
 285 
 
Si&neg lanfer. 
 
 In equal care to nourish lord in hall 
 Or beast in stall : 
 
 Thou took st from all that thou mightest 
 give to all. 
 
 The author of this conception of 
 a poet therefore very naturally con 
 siders all the questions of the hour 
 and ponders the problems of the day. 
 To the old hill of his native state, 
 worn out, abandoned, he exclaims 
 with prophetic voice in " Corn : " 
 
 Thou gashed and hairy Lear 
 Whom the divine Cordelia of the year, 
 E en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to 
 cheer 
 
 Yet shall the great God turn thy fate, 
 And bring thee back into thy monarch 
 
 state 
 And majesty immaculate. 
 
 Against unbelief and all half-be 
 liefs he protests in " Acknowledg 
 ment," and " Remonstrance " con 
 tains his fierce denunciation against 
 bigotry and intolerance, concluding 
 with : 
 
 286 
 
Xanier. 
 
 Opinion, damned intriguer, gray 
 . guile, 
 Let me alone! 
 
 The cold, metallic spirit of money- 
 getting with its paralyzing effect 
 upon all the finer instincts and no 
 bler passions of the soul, with its 
 destructive consequences to the 
 saint s faith, the artist s love of 
 beauty, and the poet s high imagin 
 ings, and its accompanying degra 
 dation of the poor afflicted him 
 still more deeply. In the " Sym 
 phony " he cries out : 
 
 O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert 
 
 dead! 
 The time needs heart tis tired of head: 
 
 and the song of the poor, 
 
 Wedged by the pressing of Trade s hand, 
 
 is eloquent with melodious heart 
 throbs : 
 
 We weave in the mills and heave in the 
 
 kilns, 
 
 We sieve mine-meshes under the hills, 
 And thieve much gold from the devil s 
 
 bank tills 
 
 287 
 
&an!er. 
 
 To relieve, O God, what manner of ills? 
 The beasts, thej hunger, and eat, and die; 
 And so do we, and the world s a sty ; 
 Hush, fellow-swine: why nuzzle and 
 
 cry? 
 
 S-winehood hath no remedy, 
 Say many men, and hasten by, 
 Clamping the nose and blinking the eye. 
 But who said once, in the lordly tone, 
 Man shall not live by bread alone, 
 But all that comethfrom the Throne? 
 
 Hath God said so ? 
 
 But Trade saith, No: 
 And the kilns and the curt-tongued mills 
 
 say, Go: 
 There s plenty that can, if you can t, -we 
 
 know. 
 
 Move out, if you think you" 1 re Tinderpaid. 
 The poor are prolific, -ve re not afraid: 
 
 Trade is trade. 
 
 Alas, for the poor to have some part 
 In yon sweet living lands of art, 
 Makes problems not for head, but heart. 
 Vainly might Plato s head revolve it: 
 Plainly the heart of a child could solve it. 
 
 Love alone, then, can cure the 
 
 ills that flesh is heir to, can solve 
 
 the difficulties arising from so many 
 
 sources, and Lanier uses every note 
 
 288 
 
Xanier. 
 
 in his gamut in sounding love s^ 
 praises : 
 
 Music is love in search of a word. 
 
 And in an ecstasy of love he ex 
 claims : 
 
 O, sweet my pretty sum of history, 
 I leapt the breadth of time in loving 
 thee! 
 
 For " music means harmony, har 
 mony means love, and love means 
 God." 
 
 I would thou left st me free to live with 
 
 love 
 And faith, that through the love of 
 
 love doth find 
 My Lord s dear presence in the stars 
 
 above, 
 The clods below, the flesh without, the 
 
 mind 
 Within, the bread, the tear, the smile. 
 
 His view of life may then be given 
 in one line : 
 
 When life s all love, tis life : aught else, 
 tis naught. 
 
 To the lover of nature Lanier 
 gives the keenest delight and suh- 
 19 289 
 
SfDneg Xaniet. 
 
 tlest pleasure. The poet has achieved 
 the triumph of sharing with others 
 that " inward thrill in the air, or in 
 the sunshine, one knows not which, 
 half like the thrill of the passion of 
 love, half like the thrill of the pas 
 sion of friendship " which he expe 
 rienced on a " divine day." " Do 
 you like, as I do," he asks Paul H. 
 Hayne, "on such a day to go out 
 into the sunlight and stop thinking ? 
 lie fallow, like a field, and absorb 
 those certain liberal potentialities 
 which will in after days reappear, 
 duly formulated, duly grown, duly 
 perfected, as poems ? " Knowledge 
 of facts and sensibility to charms, 
 we have been told, are the two ele 
 ments in a perfectly poetical appre 
 ciation of nature, and Lanier pos 
 sessed both to an eminent degree. 
 In his communion with nature mind 
 and soul seemed to be divested of 
 their outer garment, so delicate was 
 his organism, so observant was he 
 of minutest particulars, so exqui- 
 290 
 
Xanier, 
 
 sitely attuned was his ear. His 
 knowledge of nature was that of a 
 friend and lover, who was at the 
 same time a naturalist. But unlike 
 Wordsworth, from whose " noblest 
 utterances man is absent," says 
 Lowell, "except as the antithesis 
 that gives a sharper emphasis to 
 nature," man is everywhere the 
 central figure or controlling influ 
 ence in Lanier s most beautiful na 
 ture poems. His personifications, 
 always bold, are often powerful, 
 though the affectations, " cousin 
 Clover," "cousin Cloud," "sweet 
 heart leaves," have been greatly 
 overpraised. The tense imagina 
 tion observable here and there also 
 mars their beauty and power. But 
 his infinite tenderness, pliancy of 
 fancy, and susceptibility to nature s 
 charms were happily combined with 
 the power of transporting us into the 
 midst of the " gospeling- glooms," 
 into the very presence of the marsh 
 and the sea. With him we can catch 
 291 
 
Xanfer, 
 
 The wood smells that swiftly but now 
 
 brought breath 
 From the heaven-side bank of the river 
 
 of death; 
 
 and we can feel that 
 
 The slant yellow beam down the wood 
 
 aisle doth seem 
 Like a lane into heaven that leads from 
 
 a dream. 
 
 He teaches us " to company with 
 large, amiable trees," and 
 
 To loiter down lone alleys of delight, 
 And hear the beating of the hearts of 
 
 trees, 
 And think the thoughts that lilies speak 
 
 in white 
 
 By greenwood pools and pleasant pas 
 sages. 
 
 And in his company, too, we may 
 experience the various ministrations 
 of nature, 
 
 For love, the dear wood s sympathies, 
 For grief, the wise wood s peace. 
 
 Nature affects him like music : 
 
 Shaken with happiness: 
 The gates of sleep stood wide. 
 292 
 
Xanict. 
 
 For, as the opening lines of " Sun 
 rise " inform us, 
 
 In my sleep I was fain of their fellow 
 ship, fain 
 
 Of the live oaks, the marsh, and the main. 
 
 The little green leaves would not let me 
 alone in my sleep. 
 
 An oft-quoted touch of tenderness 
 and fancy is taken from Corn : " 
 
 The leaves that wave against my cheek 
 
 caress 
 Like women s hands ; the embracing 
 
 bows 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 " Hymns of the Marshes " af 
 ford abundant examples of his lar 
 ger, more thoughtful manner. Pe 
 culiarly characteristic of his toler 
 ant, worshipful nature is this : 
 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the 
 
 terminal sea? 
 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad 
 
 discussion of sin, 
 
 293 
 
Xanier, 
 
 By the length and the breadth and thw 
 8>weep of the marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and 
 
 nothing-withholding and free 
 Ye publish yourselves to the sky am 
 
 offer yourselves to the sea! 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the se* am 
 
 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 stain. 
 
 As the marsh hen secretly builds on the 
 
 watery sod, 
 Behold, I will build me a nest on the 
 
 greatness of God : 
 I will fly in the greatness of God as the 
 
 marsh hen flies 
 In the freedom that tills all the space 
 
 twixt the marsh and the skies : 
 By so many roots as the marsh grass 
 
 sends in the sod, 
 I will heartily lay me a-hold on the 
 
 greatness of God : 
 O, like to the greatness of God is the 
 
 greatness within 
 The range of the marshes, the liberal 
 
 marshes of Glynn. 
 294 
 
Xaniet, 
 
 Larder s poetry appeals rather to 
 meditative minds than to those de 
 lighting in pictorial effects. " The 
 Song of the Chattahoochee " is 
 characteristically less picturesque 
 than The Brook." But in " Sun 
 rise " Lanier presents a picture of 
 remarkable brilliance and fascina 
 tion, though it does seem " to stand 
 on tiptoe here and there with the 
 desire to express the inexpressible." 
 
 Oh, what if a sound should be made! 
 
 Oh, \vhat if a bound should be laid 
 
 To this bow-and-spring tension of beauty 
 
 and silence a-spring 
 To the bend of beauty the bo\v, or the 
 
 hold of silence the string! 
 I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaph 
 
 anous 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, 
 295 
 
Xanier. 
 
 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 flicker of 
 
 shade on shade. 
 
 In the leaves tis palpable: low multitu 
 dinous 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 i-ound 
 
 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, 
 296 
 
Xanier. 
 
 With jour 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 un 
 
 veil? 
 The East is unveiled, the East hath con 
 
 fessed 
 A flush: tis dead; tis alive; tis dead ere 
 
 the West 
 Was aware of it: nay, tis abiding, tis 
 
 unwithdrawn : 
 Have a care, sweet Heaven! Tis Dawn! 
 
 Lanier felt in his innermost heart 
 that 
 
 How dark, how dark soever the race that 
 
 must needs be run, 
 I am lit with the sun. 
 
 With enkindled gaze and calmly 
 unafraid he therefore sings his life 
 song on the very brink of the grave : 
 
 Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 
 
 Of traffic shall hide thee, 
 Never the hell-covered smoke of the fac 
 tories 
 
 Hide thee, 
 
 297 
 
SiDneg %anfer. 
 
 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 be 
 side thee 
 
 My soul shall float, friend Sun, 
 
 The day being done. 
 298 
 
(Beorge M, Cable. 
 
 IN the far South lies a region 
 unique in its climate, its scenery, 
 and its civilization. It com 
 prises about one-half (the Southern 
 portion) of the state of Louisiana, 
 and is known as the land of the 
 Creoles. The soft, luxurious cli 
 mate is said to be enervating, but 
 though its languid airs have in 
 duced a certain softness of utter 
 ance in the speech of the inhab 
 itants, they have lost little of the 
 old Gallic alertness, intrepidity, and 
 strength of body and mind ; for 
 this civilization was born of purely 
 French enterprise, modified some 
 what by Spanish association and 
 control, but steadily impervious to 
 English influences. The American 
 brought this region into the family 
 of states, but he himself was 
 stopped upon the threshold of its 
 299 
 
<3eor0e TKDL Cable. 
 
 inner life and admitted to the 
 charmed circle only upon the ac 
 ceptance of the manners and ideas 
 of the Creoles ; for your Creole is 
 the lineal descendant of the French 
 man that gave one of those quick 
 answers for which his countrymen 
 have long been proverbial. " If I 
 were not an Englishman," said the 
 gracious islander, " I would choose 
 next to be a Frenchman." "Yes, 
 sir, and if I were not a Frenchman, 
 I would choose next to be a French 
 man." 
 
 Their country is a land of bay 
 ous, lakes, swamps, and rich, large 
 plantations. On the banks of these 
 natural dikes and sluices are to be 
 seen the dense, weirdly beautiful, 
 semitropical forests skirting the 
 broad fields of cotton, of corn, of 
 rice, and of cane, which open out 
 into an almost illimitable expanse 
 and lie basking and ripening in the 
 sun of a long and dazzlingly beau 
 tiful summer. An evening scene in 
 300 
 
<3eor0e TKH. Cable. 
 
 this land which Mr. Cable has so 
 vividly painted suggests an ideal 
 background for romance and poetry. 
 "In the last hours of the day those 
 scenes are often illuminated with an 
 extraordinary splendor. From the 
 boughs of the dark, broad-spreading 
 live-oak, and the phantom-like arms 
 of the lofty cypresses, the long, 
 motionless pendants of pale gray 
 moss point down to their inverted 
 images in the unruffled waters be 
 neath them. Nothing breaks the 
 wide-spread silence. The light of 
 the declining sun at one moment 
 brightens the tops of the cypresses, 
 at another glows like a furnace be 
 hind their black branches, or, as the 
 voyager reaches a western turn of 
 the bayou, swings slowly round, 
 and broadens down in dazzling 
 crimson and purple upon the mir 
 ror of the stream. Now and then, 
 from out some hazy shadow, a 
 heron, white or blue, takes silent 
 flight ; an alligator crossing the 
 301 
 
<Seor0e HCl. Cable. 
 
 stream sends out long, tinted bars 
 of widening ripple ; or on some 
 high, fire-blackened tree a flock of 
 roosting vultures, silhouetted on the 
 sky, linger with half-opened, un 
 willing wing, and flap away by 
 ones and twos until the tree is bare. 
 Should the traveler descry, first 
 as a mote intensely black in the 
 midst of the brilliancy that over 
 spreads the water, and by and by 
 revealing itself in true outline and 
 proportion as a small canoe con 
 taining two men, whose weight 
 seems about to engulf it, and by 
 whose paddle-strokes it is impelled 
 with such evenness and speed that 
 a long, glassy wave gleams contin 
 ually at either side a full inch high 
 er than the edge of the boat, he 
 will have before him a picture of 
 nature and human life that might 
 have been seen at any time since 
 the French fathers of the Louisiana 
 Creoles colonized the Delta." 
 
 But the Creoles, like all of the 
 302 
 
George "U3. cable, 
 
 French race, are seen to best advan 
 tage in the city. By nature or long 
 habit they have become adapted to 
 society, and in their city of New 
 Orleans built up a lesser Paris, which 
 the latest and most delightful his 
 torian of the Creole capital says 
 should be personified as the most 
 feminine of women. Her good 
 qualities and her defects, her tem 
 pers and furies, her gaiety and her 
 pleasure-loving disposition, her pe 
 culiar delicacy and refinement, her 
 strength and nobility in sorrow and 
 misfortune her whole character 
 was brought entire from France. 
 Charming she is, of course, and 
 also individual and interesting, " an 
 enigma to prudes and a paradox to 
 Puritans." Nature, too, is feminine, 
 and it would seem that she was in 
 one of her most paradoxical moods 
 when George W. Cable was born 
 in the Creoles city, October 12, 
 
 ,8 44 . 
 
 On his father s side he was de- 
 303 
 
<5eor0e TO. Cable. 
 
 scended from an old colonial family 
 of Virginia, the Cabells, whose 
 name was originally spelled Cable, 
 their ancient coat of arms introduc 
 ing the cable as an accessory ; but 
 either owing to the early death of 
 his father or for some other cause 
 Mr. Cable has not exhibited any of 
 the special traits of his Virginian 
 ancestry. The old New England 
 stock represented in his mother 
 has seemed to constitute the warp 
 and woof of his nature, though it 
 has been not a little influenced by 
 association with his Gallic neigh 
 bors. His father and mother met 
 in Indiana, where they were mar 
 ried in 1834, and after the financial 
 crash of 1837 they sought their 
 fortune in New Orleans. For a 
 time the father prospered in busi 
 ness ; then came misfortune, and 
 after a second disastrous failure, in 
 1859, he died, leaving the family 
 in straitened circumstances. The 
 fourteen-year-old boy was taken 
 304 
 
<$eor0e TICI. Cable. 
 
 from his studies, just as he was 
 about to graduate from the high 
 school, and put to clerking, that he 
 might help in the support of the 
 household. At this occupation he 
 remained till 1863, when his sisters 
 were sent beyond the Federal lines 
 for refusing to take the oath of al 
 legiance : and such was his youth 
 ful appearance and diminutive stat 
 ure that they had no trouble in tak 
 ing their " little brother" with 
 them. He entered the Confederate 
 army at once, and served to the 
 close of the war in Gen. Wirt 
 Adams s brigade of Mississippians. 
 One incident of his campaigning 
 has furnished material for an amu 
 sing story, which the delightful ra 
 conteur tells with much humor. 
 The company to which he be 
 longed had for hours been on an 
 exciting chase after a band of Fed 
 eral raiders, who were laying waste 
 the plantations south of the Red 
 River. "At one time the hot pur- 
 20 305 
 
<5eor0e TKH. Cable. 
 
 suit promised immediate success. 
 
 The Yankees were at Mr. s 
 
 plantation. Over the ditches, 
 through the cane fields the Confed 
 erate cavalry spurred their panting 
 horses to fresh effort. Again too 
 late ! The planter stood under a 
 live-oak on his trampled lawn, ga 
 zing with an air of bewilderment at 
 a raw-boned, blind, broken-winded 
 horse, upon which was seated an 
 old gray-headed negro, who blankly 
 returned his master s expressionless 
 stare. This equestrian statue of 
 ruin was quickly surrounded by 
 eager avengers. The officer in 
 command questioned the planter as 
 to the number and probable route 
 
 of the enemy. Mr. n ty 
 
 shook his head mournfully, repeat 
 ing in a mechanical manner ail enu 
 meration of his losses, ending with, 
 Not a horse or a hoof left, except 
 that broken-winded old racer, and 
 the index-finger pointed fixedly at 
 the blindly blinking eyes of the mo- 
 306 
 
<5eor0e TKtt. Cable. 
 
 ,kmless animal. Fresh questioning 
 Drought the same answer, with its 
 pitiful refrain, Only that broken- 
 winded old racer, until the planter 
 caught sight of Cable. His eyes 
 seemed magnetically fastened, and 
 his voice fell to an abysmal depth, 
 as he asked : My son, do you be 
 long to the army ? 4 Come on, 
 
 called the captain, c Mr. s 
 
 losses have upset his mind. Down 
 the avenue of live-oak, over the 
 broken fences, filed the cavalry, 
 closing the ranks as they crossed 
 the ditch and got up in the dirt 
 road, urging on their tired horses 
 with hand and spur, till a lagging 
 soldier called : Here comes Mr. 
 - after us, on the old racer. 
 He s waked the old boss up, and 
 they re a booming along like a 
 steam-injine. Maybe he s come to 
 himself and is going to tell us whar 
 we can ketch the Yankees. Gal 
 lantly came the racer, breaking into 
 the ranks like a thunderbolt, and 
 307 
 
George Wi. Cable. 
 
 scattering the cavalry to right and 
 left, until, tugging at the reins, the 
 rider succeeded in stopping him be 
 side Cable. There was a husky, 
 grieved tone in his voice as he re 
 peated his former question : c My 
 little son, do you belong to the 
 army? Proudly the youth raised 
 himself in his stirrups, straighten 
 ing out the last quarter of an inch 
 of his height ; then bowed assent. 
 The planter dropped his reins, 
 threw up his arms and with a de 
 spairing look exclaimed : Great 
 heavens ! Abe Lincoln told the 
 truth. We are robbing the cradle 
 and the grave ! : 
 
 From early childhood Mr. Cable 
 had been studious, and his studious 
 habits he took with him into the 
 army. His leisure hours were given 
 to the study of the Bible, to keeping 
 up his knowledge of Latin gram 
 mar, and working out problems of 
 higher mathematics. The hard 
 ships and stirring scenes of camp 
 308 
 
<3eor0e m. Cable. 
 
 and army life quickly changed the 
 raw recruit into a thoughtful young 
 man ; and he is described as having 
 been a good soldier, scrupulously 
 observant of discipline, always at 
 his post and always courageous and 
 daring. From a dangerous wound 
 in the left armpit he barely escaped 
 with his life. 
 
 At the close of the war Mr. 
 Cable, like most of his comrades, 
 was without a dollar. Returning 
 to New Orleans, he became errand 
 boy, then clerked for six months in 
 Kosciusko, Miss., after which he 
 returned again to New Orleans, 
 studied civil engineering, and joined 
 a surveying company sent by the 
 state into the Teche country to es 
 tablish the lines and levels along the 
 banks of the Achafalaya River. An 
 attack of malarial fever followed, 
 from which he did not fully recover 
 for two years. Going back to the 
 bookkeeper s desk again, he short 
 ly began to rise, becoming first sec- 
 309 
 
<3eor0e W. Cable, 
 
 retary to a company for the manu 
 facture of cottonseed oil, and then 
 accountant and cashier of William 
 C. Black & Co., cotton factors. 
 While holding the latter position he 
 acted also as secretary to the treas 
 urer of the New Orleans Cotton 
 Exchange and to its Finance Com 
 mittee. But though engaged in 
 business, Mr. Cable was assiduous 
 ly acquiring a liberal education, and 
 developing more and more an eager 
 interest in general culture and pub 
 lic matters. In this w T ay he be 
 came a contributor to a special col 
 umn in the Picayune, over the sig 
 nature of "Drop-Shot," and had 
 his first experience in writing. The 
 contributions were critical and hu 
 morous papers, with an occasional 
 bit of verse, and appeared only once 
 a week ; but in a little while he was 
 attached to the staff, and they be 
 came a daily feature of the paper. 
 In a chatty manner Mr. Cable has 
 told of the natural way in which he 
 310 
 
$eorge 1ft. Cable. 
 
 drifted into literature in an interview 
 published in the Picayune: 
 
 What kind of work did I do? That s 
 a question, and there s where the trouble 
 comes in. There was no such a thing as 
 a division of labor in those days, and 
 each man had to do anything and every 
 thing that might turn up. I had stipu 
 lated at first not to do certain kinds of 
 reporting, and this didn t please the old 
 man very well. It was one of his rules 
 that each man should do whatever was 
 required of him, and I became rather in 
 the way. Then I wanted to be always 
 writing, and they wanted me to be al 
 ways reporting. This didn t work well, 
 and so when the summer came on, and 
 they began to reduce expenses, it was in 
 timated to me that my resignation would 
 be accepted. I vowed that I would never 
 have anything to do with a newspaper 
 again, and I went back to bookkeeping. 
 I was in a large cotton house, and I kept 
 their accounts for a while, until I finally 
 offered to take entire charge of the 
 counting-room at so much salary per 
 year, and hire what assistance I wanted. 
 This suited the firm as well as it did me, 
 and I began to do more and more literary 
 work. Finally I employed a cashier, and 
 311 
 
TKH. Cable. 
 
 all day I would write at my desk, only 
 being consulted by him ou important 
 matters. I was making a beginning 
 then. I first carried on a weekly column 
 in the Picayune; but it wasn t very pleas 
 ant to work for a paper managed by a 
 board of directors, and at last I quit it. 
 This writing of trifles after a while grew 
 wearisome, and I resolved to put it into 
 stories. 
 
 The stipulation was in regard to 
 the theater, we have been told ; and 
 when it was considered necessary 
 to give him charge of the theatrical 
 column he positively refused to do 
 the work. 
 
 It was the fascinating episodes of 
 early New Orleans life which again 
 tempted him to use his pen, and 
 which now in their artistic setting 
 of short stories turned all eyes upon 
 the writer and his native city. Three 
 of these had been written at odd mo 
 ments in the midst of clerical du 
 ties, when the old Scribner*s Month 
 ly, now the Century Magazine, 
 sent a commission to New Orleans 
 312 
 
<$eor0e TO. Cable* 
 
 to write and illustrate the " Great 
 South Papers." At Mr. Cable s re 
 quest a member of this commission, 
 Mr. Edward King, sent one of the 
 stories to the magazine, and though 
 it was returned, a second venture 
 " was not only successful, but called 
 forth a sympathetic and inspiring 
 letter from Richard Watson Gilder, 
 the young associate editor to Dr. 
 Holland." " Sieur George " it was 
 called, and the very first words 
 were significant : " In the heart of 
 New Orleans." " Belles Demoi 
 selles Plantation," " Tite Poulette," 
 "Jean-ah Poquelin," " Madame D6- 
 licieuse," and " Cafe des Exiles," 
 now appeared at intervals covering 
 about two years in all, and then 
 with the inimitable " Posson Jone," 
 which appeared in Appletorfs Jour 
 nal, were issued in a single volume 
 under the title of " Old Creole 
 Days"(i879). These stories made a 
 twofold revelation : a new field of 
 romance, rich in the contrasts and 
 313 
 
(Beorge TKR. Cable. 
 
 colors of an old, unique, and varied 
 civilization, steeped in sentiment and 
 passion, and enveloped in the poetic, 
 many-tinted haze of a semitropical 
 clime ; and also the master hand of 
 a literary artist, who, to the moral 
 energy and sinewy fiber of English 
 character, added the grace, delicacy, 
 airy lightness, and excitability of 
 the Latin race. They also showed 
 that the author was a born story 
 teller. 
 
 In this first volume there are no 
 suggestions of the amateur, nothing 
 crude, unfinished. The pictures of 
 life are as exquisitely clear as they 
 are delicately tender or tragically 
 sorrowful. Arch humor and play 
 ful fancy throw a bright ray into 
 scenes of pure pathos, or give a 
 joyous note to the tender tones of 
 happy loves, which would otherwise 
 grow monotonous ; but in the tragic 
 story of " Jean-ah Poquelin" the slow 
 martyrdom is painted in gloomy 
 shadows, and the pathos, imagery, 
 314 
 
. Cable. 
 
 and dramatic force of this sketch 
 first suggested comparison with 
 Hawthorne. These stories are all 
 good, but " Posson Jone " is the 
 masterpiece of the collection. In 
 Jules St. Ange, a perfect creation 
 in miniature, Mr. Cable has so thor 
 oughly caught the very spirit of the 
 French race that it would seem 
 downright rude and coarse to ap 
 ply matter - of - fact English words 
 and standards of morals and conduct 
 to the gay, pleasure loving, kind- 
 hearted, volatile little Creole. With 
 rare skill, too, does the author cast 
 the idealizing light of genius upon 
 the awkward backwoods preacher, 
 the street, the drinking-place, the 
 vulgar confidence game, the gam 
 bling-saloon, the bull-ring and mot 
 ley crew of spectators, the calaboose, 
 the departing boat, the returning 
 prodigal, which lifts them forever 
 out of the realm of the sordid and 
 the commonplace into that of pure 
 art and abiding beauty. This ele- 
 315 
 
George "OBI. Cable. 
 
 gant little heathen is as much a 
 monument to the author s heart as 
 it is to his dramatic skill. 
 
 At the accountant s desk two 
 more years were spent without fur 
 ther literary activity. But even 
 during the period of convalescence 
 from malarial fever the young man 
 had eagerly applied himself to the 
 study of natural history, and laid 
 the foundation for those beautiful 
 pictures of swamp, bayou, prairie, 
 and still life, which are such marked 
 features of his writings, in exact 
 scientific knowledge as well as in 
 close observation. So at this time > 
 and later, Mr. Cable extended his 
 studies and researches into the 
 speech, songs, manners, customs, 
 personal traits, and characteristics of 
 the Creoles, covering their entire 
 history from the earliest settlements 
 in Louisiana to the present time. 
 Thus equipped, he was ready to 
 give immediate attention to the re 
 quest of the Century Magazine 
 316 
 
(Seorge m Cable. 
 
 for a twelve months serial. The 
 result was " The Grandissimes." 
 Before him lay the story of " Bras 
 Coupe," which had been offered for 
 publication as a short story and re 
 jected, and this now became the cen 
 tral idea of a genuine romance of 
 Louisiana at the beginning of this 
 century. Over the differences of 
 race, the bitterness of caste prejudice, 
 restiveness under imposed rule, jeal 
 ousy of the alien ruler, and suspicion 
 of the newcomer, which largely 
 constituted the situation at that time, 
 was cast the warm coloring of a 
 poetic imagination. But a note 
 struck only here and there in the 
 short stories now becomes the theme 
 of all Mr. Cable s writings. It did 
 not occur to him, it would seem, 
 that an artist out of his domain is 
 not infrequently the least clear 
 sighted of mortals ; that the poet, if 
 he is to be our only truth-teller, must 
 let politics alone. But to this Mr. 
 Cable has answered, " For all he 
 317 
 
George "OH, Cable. 
 
 was the farthest remove from a 
 mere party contestant or spoils 
 man, neither his righteous pugnac 
 ity nor his human sympathy would 
 allow him to let politics alone ; " for 
 he doubtless had himself in mind 
 when he wrote these words in re 
 gard to Dr. Sevier. Indeed, he be 
 longs to the class of thoroughgoing 
 men, actuated by thoroughgoing 
 logic, lovers of abstract truth and 
 perfect ideals, and it was his lot to 
 be born among a people who by the 
 necessities of their situation were 
 controlled by practical expediency. 
 They were compelled to adopt an 
 illogical but practical compromise 
 between two extremes which were 
 logical but not practical. This con 
 flict between theory and actuality, 
 of abstract truth with practical ex 
 pedience, has so affected the sen 
 sitive nature of an extremely artis 
 tic temperament as to make this 
 writer give a prejudiced, incorrect, 
 unjust picture of Southern life, char- 
 318 
 
eorge TUSH. Cable. 
 
 acter, and situation. This domina 
 tion of one idea has vitiated the 
 most exquisite literary and artistic 
 gifts that any American writer of 
 fiction, with possibly one exception, 
 has been endowed with since Haw 
 thorne, though in respect to intel 
 lectuality, to imagination, to pro 
 found insight into life, to a full, 
 rich, large, and true humanity, one 
 would be overbold to institute com 
 parison between him and America s 
 greatest writer. 
 
 Both the time and Mr. Cable s 
 methods, now that of the ardent 
 controversialist espousing the ex- 
 tremest measures of partisan pol 
 itics, and again that of the consum 
 mate artist holding up a people to 
 the scorn and detestation of the 
 world, were unsuited either to a phil- 
 anthrophic and benevolent, or to a 
 true artistic handling of this theme. 
 The Southerners were suffering 
 from the desolations of a devasta 
 ting war and the humiliating expe- 
 819 
 
<5eorge W. Cable. 
 
 riences of " reconstruction." Under 
 these adverse and almost blinding 
 conditions many of them felt the 
 call of duty to deal righteously with 
 the most difficult problem any peo 
 ple has ever been called upon to 
 work out. But time and the practi 
 cal common sense of the American 
 people have made it possible to give 
 to this question the solution of a slow, 
 patient, and orderly growth. We 
 are now concerned only with tracing 
 the effect produced upon the writer 
 by this protracted struggle between 
 the artist and the man with a mission, 
 which began in " The Grandissimes" 
 and was completed in "John March 
 Southerner." 
 
 In "The Grandissimes" (1880) 
 Mr. Cable has forsaken the beaten 
 track of character study with its 
 brilliant, indefinite conversations and 
 subtle moral and intellectual prob 
 lems, and returned to the old ro 
 mance. Yet he is modern, and has 
 taken with him into the older field 
 320 
 
<3eorge W. Cable. 
 
 an artist s nice eye for color and 
 the picturesque, an artist s fine sense 
 of workmanship, and an artist s aim 
 of producing effect in a natural way 
 and by dramatic skill. The story 
 itself is interesting. The Grandis- 
 simes and the De Grapions emerge 
 from the haze of a romantic past 
 into the actual present with the 
 reader s keenest interest aroused in 
 their fortunes, their feud, the an 
 cient and honorable character of 
 their ancestry, and their pride and 
 family feeling. With the first 
 Grandissime came a Fusilier, who 
 married an Indian princess; and 
 when the Grandissimes became so 
 many as the sands of the Missis 
 sippi innumerable, "in every flock 
 might always be seen a Fusilier or 
 two, fierce - eyed, strong - beaked, 
 dark, heavy-taloned birds, who, if 
 they could not sing, were of rich 
 plumage, and could talk and bite 
 and strike." To this wide connec 
 tion and powerful family influence 
 21 321 
 
(Beorge W. Cable. 
 
 the De Grapions offer a pathetic 
 contrast. " Though they were bril 
 liant, gallant, much loved, early 
 epauleted fellows," they had a sad 
 aptness for dying young. "A lone 
 son following a lone son, and he 
 another," the family dwindles till 
 only two women are left. One of 
 these marries the head of the 
 Grandissimes, and the other, her 
 daughter, a German, and the De 
 Grapion name passes away. The 
 hero and heroine, Honore Grandis- 
 sime and Aurora De Grapion, who 
 unite at last the fortunes of the two 
 families, are the author s best por 
 traits of higher Creole life. Auro 
 ra, in naturalness and finish, is as 
 much a creation of genius as Jules 
 St. Ange, Raoul, Narcissc a kind 
 of characterization in which he ex 
 cels. In the delineation of a gentle 
 man, Honore" and Dr. Sevier for ex 
 amples, this author succeeds about 
 as well as most writers of fiction 
 that is, very poorly. A few realistic 
 
<3eor0e W. Cable. 
 
 touches, at best a type, is as a rule the 
 most that we may expect. Palmyre 
 and Agricola, however, each in a 
 very different way, offered a rare 
 opportunity for individual, powerful 
 characterization, but the dominant 
 theme would only admit of their 
 use to point a moral and adorn a 
 tale. Clotilde and Frowenfeld are 
 lay figures, for, with the exception 
 of Aurora and Raoul, u it may be 
 said of the story, as the author re 
 marks of a narrative of one of his 
 characters : There shone a light of 
 romance upon it that filled it with 
 color and populated it with phan 
 toms. " 
 
 The theme of " The Grandis- 
 simes " is the effect produced upon 
 a tropical society by an institution 
 which deprives a human being of 
 his liberty, gives rise to a feeling of 
 caste, and the maintenance of which 
 involves a separation in thought and 
 feeling from the rest of the civilized 
 world. In the portion of the South 
 
TK&. Cable. 
 
 in which Mr. Cable was reared 
 slavery had fewer mitigating circum 
 stances than in any other ; and he 
 seems to have approached the study 
 of the question from the point of view 
 of the French Revolution and with 
 the philosophy of Rousseau. The 
 latter is the basis of the Bras Coupe 
 story. Over the entire romance, over 
 action and incident and scene and 
 character, hangs the pall of slavery, 
 with just enough light and color in 
 troduced to deepen the shadows. 
 The effect upon the individual and 
 society is brought out admirably, 
 now by skilful word-painting and 
 again by still more skilful dramatic 
 action. But too frequently the au 
 thor throws his puppets aside and 
 appears in person upon the scene. 
 The man with a mission throttles 
 the artist. At such times he makes 
 sententious comments or utters com 
 monplaces now universally accept 
 ed, and still more frequently he in 
 dulges in sharp thrusts and biting 
 324 
 
<3eor0e TKft. Cable. 
 
 sarcasms all from the point of 
 view of art not only blemishes, but 
 " palpable intrusions." A few out 
 of some thirty, forty, fifty, a hun 
 dred, in " The Grandissimes " will il 
 lustrate this point : " Those Creoles 
 have such a shocking way of filing 
 their family relics and records in rat- 
 holes." " One American trait which 
 the Creole is never entirely ready to 
 encounter is this gratuitous Yankee 
 way of going straight to the root of 
 things." " For, blow the wind east 
 or blow the wind west, the affinity 
 of the average Grandissime for a 
 salary abideth forever." " The 
 playful, mock-martial tread of the 
 delicate Creole feet is all at once 
 swallowed by the sound of many 
 heavier steps in the hall, and the fa 
 thers, grandfathers, sons, brothers, 
 uncles, and nephews of the great 
 family come out, not a man of them 
 that cannot, with a little care, keep 
 on his feet." " No power or cir- 
 cimstance has ever been found that 
 325 
 
<5eor0c Wi. Cable. 
 
 will keep a. Creole from talking." 
 " You may see their grandchildren 
 to-day, anywhere within the angle 
 of the rues Esplanade and Rampart, 
 holding up their heads in unspeak 
 able poverty, their nobility kept 
 green by unflinching self-respect, 
 and their poetic and pathetic pride- 
 re veling in ancestral, perennial re 
 bellion against common sense." 
 The abundance of such remarks in 
 Mr. Cable s writings may perhaps 
 account for the Creoles peculiar af 
 fection for him. " Like all other 
 luxuries, the perpetration of an epi 
 gram has to be paid for." 
 
 Mr. Brander Matthews has drawn 
 a nice distinction between humor 
 and the sense of humor, observing 
 that the ownership of one does not 
 insure possession of the other. 
 " Probably," he adds, " if the sense 
 of humor had been more acutely de 
 veloped in Dickens, he might even 
 have refrained from out-heroding 
 Herod in his massacre of the inno- 
 326 
 
<5eor0e TO. Cable. 
 
 But in some authors the 
 love of melodrama is too deeply 
 planted to be uprooted. A sense of 
 humor equal to this author s rich 
 gift of humor would have been re 
 quired to save our nerves from the 
 tragico-sentimental story of Bras 
 Coupe, the wanton murder of 
 Clemence and the revolting death 
 of the pot-hunter in the beautiful 
 idyl of " Bonaventure." In at least 
 two of these instances his nice ar 
 tistic sensibility has been dulled by 
 partisan feeling. Partisanship of 
 any kind implies a more or less one 
 sided view. Was Shakespeare s 
 impartiality in regard to religion 
 and government attributable to in 
 difference or to the artist s affinities 
 for the essential rather than the 
 phenomenal, for the permanent 
 rather than the conventional? " The 
 old play," a scholar tells us in wri 
 ting of King John, " was written in 
 the service of the Reformation, the 
 reign of King John affording abun- 
 327 
 
<3eorge 7101. Cable. 
 
 dance of material when molded by 
 a strong partisan spirit (which the 
 author, whoever he was, certainly 
 had) for emphasizing what he re 
 garded as the evils of papal rule, 
 and its antagonism to a vital nation 
 ality. Its violent partisan spirit, 
 though entirely inconsistent with a 
 true artistic spirit, and its appeals 
 to the vulgar antagonisms of the 
 groundlings, must have secured for 
 it a great popularity at the time 
 when it first appeared. Of this 
 violent partisan spirit there s not a 
 trace in Shakespeare s play." 
 
 In "Madame Delphine " (1881) 
 we see the most perfect specimen of 
 the author s literary art and con 
 structive ability. The story is so 
 quickly told and so skilfully handled 
 as almost to leave us unaware of 
 the utter improbability of the plot. 
 The narrative glides as smoothly as 
 a brook " purling down with silver 
 waves." While the compass does not 
 admit of the exhibition of strength 
 328 
 
TO. Cable. 
 
 shown in "The Grandissimes," it 
 also prevents the digressions and 
 extravagances which mar that ro 
 mance. The setting of this exqui 
 site gem is perfect. U A beautiful 
 summer night, when all nature 
 seemed hushed in ecstacy, one of 
 those Southern nights under whose 
 spell all the sterner energies of the. 
 mind cloak themselves and lie down 
 in bivouac, and the fancy and the 
 imagination, that cannot sleep, slip 
 *:heir fetters and escape, beckoned 
 away from behind every flowering 
 bush and sweet-smelling tree, and 
 every stretch of lonely, half-lighted 
 walk, by the genius of poetry. The 
 air stirred softly now and then, and 
 was still again, as if the breezes 
 lifted their expectant pinions and 
 lowered them once more, awaiting 
 the rising of the moon in a silence 
 which fell upon the field, the roads, 
 the gardens, the walls, and the sub 
 urban and half-suburban streets, 
 like a pause in worship." The 
 329 
 
Wi. CabJe. 
 
 dark boughs of the orange tree, the 
 first low flute notes of the mocking 
 bird s all-night song, the overpow 
 ering sweetness of the night jas 
 mine, the old gate with the grass 
 growing about it in a thick turf, as 
 though the entrance had not been 
 used for years ; the dilapidated gar 
 den fence and house, as significant of 
 the fortunes of its inmates ; the wider 
 view of the city and its atmosphere 
 form an ideal frame-work for the 
 lifelike portrait of Madame Del- 
 phine. And the little priest with 
 his big heart and rare sermon is also 
 a living character exactly adapted to 
 his surroundings. But the other 
 characters are merely introduced for 
 the sake of the theme. If the au 
 thor had been content to leave this 
 charming story as a fairy tale for 
 quadroons, we might have given to 
 it that unalloyed enjoyment which 
 is so easily accorded to those de 
 lightful creations of the fancy. But 
 instead it has rather suited his pur- 
 330 
 
<3eorge W. Cable. 
 
 pose to burden his art with an eth 
 ical teaching which does not bear 
 close scrutiny. When the pirate 
 Lemaitre opens a bank, presumably 
 with his ill-gotten gains, makes pro 
 vision to elude the officers of the 
 law, and is nevertheless called by 
 God s priest " God s own banker," 
 we turn with infinite relief to an 
 artist who had no sentimentality, and 
 whose sentiment never obscured 
 either his artistic or moral vision : 
 In the corrupted currents of this world 
 Offense s gilded hand may shove by jus 
 tice, 
 
 And oft tis seen the wicked prize itself 
 Buys out the law : but tis not so above ; 
 There is no shuffling, etc. 
 
 Again, we know that it is consid 
 ered by many a beautiful, even a 
 heroic, thing to tell a lie under stress 
 of sentimental circumstances. Vic 
 tor Hugo s Sister Simplice lied to 
 save the fugitive, and has been 
 blessed and applauded for the deed, 
 just as Mr. Cable would have us 
 bless and applaud Madame Del- 
 331 
 
<3eor0e TKtt. Cable* 
 
 phine, who dies at the confessional 
 with the confession of a lie on her 
 lips. To Scott a higher grace was 
 revealed. As we stand by, in the 
 breathless court, listening with in 
 tent ears to catch the faintest whis 
 per of a falsehood which the crowd, 
 the lawyers, the stern old father, 
 even the judge on the bench, and, 
 above all, the trembling sister at the 
 bar, are so eagerly expecting, but 
 which never passes the lips of 
 Jeanie Deans, we are thrilled with 
 the sublimity of true moral heroism. 
 Before the eyes of this honest Sir 
 Bors of fiction "the sweet Grail 
 glided and past," while others were 
 following " a mocking fire." 
 
 "Dr. Sevier" (1883), a beautiful 
 story told with the same exquisite 
 literary art and with even an add 
 ed grace of simplicity, presents 
 the author with eyes toward the 
 setting sun ; for his lack of ability 
 to construct a plot, and of power to 
 grasp the situation, is all too evident. 
 332 
 
(Beorge Tim. Cable. 
 
 His canvas is so crowded with a 
 multiplicity of details that it is im 
 possible to obtain the right perspec 
 tive, to give a true artistic grouping. 
 The scene is laid in New Orleans, 
 just prior to and including the Civil 
 War. We catch a very imperfect 
 glimpse of the more highly cultured 
 society, and have an abundance of 
 middle and low life ; are taken 
 into hospitals, foul jails with brutal 
 keepers, along overflowed streets, 
 through an epidemic of yellow fe 
 ver ; are made to witness the depart 
 ure of troops from New Orleans 
 and from New York, and carried 
 through a series of most romantic and 
 improbable adventures on the part 
 of the heroine in passing through 
 the lines of both armies ; have to lis 
 ten to a half-dozen dialects besides a 
 lisping clergyman, witness the sur 
 render of New Orleans, etc. In ad 
 dition to the impossibility of hand 
 ling so many details, the author s 
 skill in narration at times deserts 
 333 
 
0eorge TTCl. Cable. 
 
 him. He " can devote ten pages to 
 an unsuccessful hunt for lodgings, 
 and a whole paragraph to a gesture." 
 The artist cannot be a suppresser of 
 truth, or an ignorer of facts, and the 
 omission of the negro, so curious 
 and marked that it must have been 
 of deliberate purpose, leaves a no 
 ticeable blank in the picture. Was 
 it due to a slavery too dark and op 
 pressive to be painted, or to the fear 
 of portraying the gentler aspects 
 and kindlier relations of master and 
 slave in a way which would seen? 
 to soften and condone, that kept this 
 picturesque element out of the story 
 and prevented the author from giv 
 ing the entire household of Dr. Sc- 
 vier? But the chief defect of the 
 book is the author s treatment of the 
 hero. His trials and his difficulties 
 are real, true to life, though an in 
 sufficient reason is assigned for them ; 
 for they were in a large measure the 
 author s own experiences. Mr. Ca 
 ble, however, did surmount his dif- 
 334 
 
. Cable. 
 
 ficulties, because he had to contend 
 only with the fickle goddess, Fortune. 
 J ohn Richling is at the mercy of the 
 caprice of the author. It is easy to 
 see that the poor fellow has 110 chance, 
 that the author intends first to make 
 him a failure, and then to kill him, 
 Why these useless efforts, this 
 hopeless suffering? Was it merely 
 that at the close of the story these 
 words might be put into the mouth 
 of the dying man ? " * You know that 
 I am a native of Kentucky. My name 
 is not Richling. I belong to one of 
 the proudest, most distinguished fam 
 ilies in that state or in all the land. 
 Until I married I never knew an 
 ungratified wish. 1 think my bring 
 ing up, not to be wicked, was as bad 
 as could be. It was based upon the 
 idea that I was always to be master, 
 and never servant. I was to go 
 through life with soft hands. I was 
 educated to know, but not to do. 
 When I left school my parents let 
 me travel. They would have let 
 335 
 
<3eor0e TRft. Cable. 
 
 me do anything except work. In 
 the West in Milwaukee I met 
 Mary. It was by mere chance. She 
 was poor, but cultivated and refined ; 
 trained you know for knowing, 
 not doing. I loved her and courted 
 her, and she encouraged my suit, 
 under the idea, you know, again, 
 he smiled fondly and softly that 
 it was nobody s business but ours. 
 I offered my hand and was accepted. 
 But when I came to announce our en 
 gagement to my family, they warned 
 me that if I married her they would 
 disinherit and disown me. 
 
 " c What was their reason, Rich- 
 ling? 
 
 " Nothing. 
 
 " But, Richling, they had a rea 
 son of some sort. 
 
 " Nothing in the world but that 
 Mary was a Northern girl. Simple 
 sectional prejudice. I didn t tell 
 Mary. I didn t think they would 
 do it ; but I knew that Mary would 
 refuse to put me to the risk. We 
 336 
 
(Beorge THE. Cable. 
 
 married, and they carried out their 
 threat. 
 
 " The Doctor uttered a low excla 
 mation, and both were silent." 
 
 As Richling seems to "be one part 
 of Mr. Cable, Dr. Sevier is another, 
 now hard and repellant in his theories 
 and then tenderly beautiful and poetic 
 and loving in his life. If Richling 
 had been developed into Dr. Sevier, 
 a purpose would have been given 
 to his life and a unity to the novel 
 which would have insured to both 
 the highest success. And the hand 
 that drew Ristofalo with his quiet 
 manner, happy disregard o-f fortune s 
 caprices and real force of character, 
 Narcisse "dear, delicious, abomi 
 nable Narcissc, more effective as u 
 bit of coloring than all the Grandis- 
 simes put together" and crowned 
 him with the death of a hero, and 
 gentle Mary bright, cheerful, brave, 
 an ideal lover of her husband as he 
 was of her, is certainly that of a 
 master, as the imagination that con- 
 22 337 
 
George m. Cable. 
 
 ceived them was that of a post. 
 There are innumerable touches in 
 the story equal to anything- that the 
 author has ever done that is, as 
 beautiful as anything 1 in contempo 
 rary fiction. 
 
 In 1879, upon the death of the 
 head of the commercial house in 
 which he was employed, Mr. Cable 
 formally entered upon a literary life. 
 He made his home far up in the 
 " garden district " of New Orleans 
 in a pretty cottage, painted in soft 
 tones of olive and red. A strip of 
 lawn bordered with flowers lay in 
 front of it, and two immense orange 
 trees, beautiful at all seasons of the 
 year, formed an arch above the steps 
 that led up to the piazza. The study, 
 where " The Grandissimes," " Mad 
 ame Delphine," and " Dr. Sevier " 
 were written, was a room of many 
 doors and windows, with low book 
 cases lining the walls, and adorned 
 with pictures in oil and water colors 
 by G. H. Clements, and in 
 338 
 
<$eorge lid. Gable- 
 white by Joseph Pennell. Mr. Ca 
 ble has always carried his counting- 
 room methods into his work, index 
 ing" and journaliiig his notes and ref 
 erences and so systematizing every 
 thing as to be able to turn to it 
 without a moment s delay. lie is 
 untiring, and strives to be exact in 
 his researches. "In making his 
 notes," says Miss J. K. Wetherill, 
 in "Authors at Home," " it is his 
 usual custom to write in pencil on 
 scraps of paper. These notes are 
 next put into shape, still in pencil, 
 and the third copy, intended for the 
 press, is written in ink on note- 
 paper the chirography exceedingly 
 neat, delicate, and legible." 
 
 Every one acquainted with old 
 New Orleans has admired the accura 
 cy, as well as the beauty, of his de 
 scriptions of houses, buildings, and 
 places. As Mr. Lafcadio I learn has 
 remarked in the " Scenes of Cable s 
 Romances " a delightful article in 
 the Century for November, 1883: 
 339 
 
George "flU. Cable. 
 
 "The sharp originality of Mr. Ca 
 ble s descriptions should have con 
 vinced the readers of Old Creole 
 Days that the scenes of his stories 
 are in no sense fanciful ; and the 
 strict perfection of his Creole archi 
 tecture is readily recognized by all 
 who have resided in New Orleans. 
 Each one of those charming pictures 
 of places veritable pastels was 
 painted after some carefully selected 
 model of French or Franco-Spanish 
 origin typifying fashions of build 
 ing which prevailed in colonial days. * 
 He is a rapid sketcher, taking in at 
 a glance almost every wrinkle on 
 the front of those old, quaint, pic 
 turesque buildings. His artistic tem 
 perament is most marked. " Music, 
 painting, and sculpture are full of 
 charms for him, and he is an intui 
 tive judge of what is best in art. 
 His knowledge of music is far above 
 the ordinary, and he has made a 
 unique study of the usually elusive 
 and baffling strains of different song- 
 S40 
 
$eorgc W. Cable. 
 
 birds." After many efforts he suc 
 ceeded in recording the roulade of 
 an oriole that used to sing in those 
 orange trees in front of his former 
 home. Of his family life in this 
 cottage Miss Wetherill has sketched 
 this beautiful picture: "Seemingly 
 sedate, Mr. Cable is full of fun ; and 
 charming as he is in general society, 
 a compliment may be paid him that 
 cannot often be spoken truthfully of 
 men of genius namely, that he ap 
 pears to the best advantage in hvs 
 own home. His children are a mei 
 ry little band of five girls [now six] 
 and one boy, each evincing, young as 
 they are, some distinctive talent. It 
 is amusing to note their appreciation 
 of father s fun, and his playful 
 speeches always give the signal for 
 bursts of laughter. This spirit of 
 humor, so potent to witch the heart 
 out of things evil, is either heredi 
 tary or contagious, for all of these 
 little folks are ready of tongue. The 
 friends whom Mr. Cable left be- 
 341 
 
(Seorge TO. Cable. 
 
 hind him, in New Orleans, remem 
 ber with regretful pleasure the de 
 lightful little receptions which have 
 now become a. thing of the past. 
 Sometimes, at these gatherings, he 
 would sing an old Scotch ballad, in 
 his clear, sweet tenor voice, or one 
 of those quaint Creole songs that he 
 has since made famous on the lec 
 ture platform ; or, again, he would 
 read a selection from Dukesbor- 
 ou gh Tales, one of his favorite hu 
 morous works. Nothing was ster 
 eotyped or conventional, for Mr. Ca 
 ble is, in every aspect of life, a dan 
 gerous enemy to the commonplace." 
 His reading throughout life, it would 
 seem, has been thorough rather than 
 general. For a long while he enter 
 tained scruples against novel - read 
 ing, but George MacDonalcl s "Aii- 
 nals of a Quiet Neighborhood" 
 overcame his prejudice, and since 
 then Victor Hugo,Thackeray, Tour- 
 gueneff, and Hawthorne have be 
 come his special favorites. 
 342 
 
<3eorge TRU. Cable. 
 
 Mr. Cable s historical writings, 
 "New Orleans before the Capture," 
 " The Dance in Place Congo," two 
 sketches, "New Orleans" in the 
 census of 1880 and again in the 
 Encyclopedia Britannica, and "The 
 Creoles of Louisiana" (1884), are 
 marked by the same clear, pictur 
 esque style and exquisite finish ob 
 servable in his romances. The facts 
 have been collected with the most 
 diligent research and painstaking 
 labor, for the author was an earnest 
 student of the French occupation of 
 the Mississippi Valley before he 
 was a writer of fiction. But though 
 the memory is full, the horizon is 
 not wide, and there need be no fear 
 of canonization of either Creole or 
 "American" so long as this skilful 
 writer is both advocate and judge. 
 A marvelous story, however cov 
 ering nearly two hundred years, 
 and telling of the origin of the peo 
 ple, the black code, the changes in 
 ownership, the pirates at Barataria^ 
 343 
 
<3eor0e m. Cable. 
 
 the battle of New Orleans, the 
 manners and characteristics of dif 
 ferent generations of Creoles, epi 
 demics, floods, and the wonderful 
 growth of the Creole capital in spite 
 of mishaps and disasters is re 
 counted with the simple directness 
 and onward flow of an almost per 
 fect narrative style. Dull or heavy 
 topics are made inviting, and the 
 picture of the commercial prosper 
 ity and importance of the Great 
 South Gate "vies with fiction it 
 self." When, however, the author 
 essays to give "the derivation and 
 final effect of influences," we be 
 come aware of the same spirit, too, 
 which characterizes his imaginative 
 productions. In truth this volume 
 should be studied rather as the 
 frame-work of the author s ro 
 mances than as history ; for it is 
 to a large extent beautiful, pictur 
 esque, poetic - fiction. " Poetry," 
 says the Autocrat in one of his in 
 spired moments, "uses the rainbow 
 344 
 
<3eor0e W. Cable. 
 
 tints for special effects, but always 
 keeps its essential object in the pur 
 est white light of truth." For the 
 prejudiced observer this is an im 
 possibility, since the real truth, the 
 secrets of life and of nature, are re 
 vealed only to loving, sympathetic 
 hearts. Now and then the author 
 does overcome his partisan feeling 
 not against Creole or Southerner per 
 se, but always in relation to slavery - 
 sufficiently to write about the Creole 
 with real sympathy and genuine ad 
 miration : " By and by a cloud dark 
 ened the sky. Civil war came on. 
 The Creole in that struggle was lit 
 tle different from the Southerner at 
 large. A little more impetuous, it 
 may be ; a little more gaily reckless, 
 a little more prone to reason from 
 desire ; gallant, brave, enduring, 
 faithful ; son, grandson, great-grand 
 son, of good soldiers, and a better 
 soldier every way and truer to him 
 self than his courageous forefathers. 
 He was early at Pensacola. He 
 345 
 
(5eor0eTlGl. Cable. 
 
 was at Charleston when the first 
 gun was fired. The first hero that 
 came back from the Virginia Penin 
 sula on his shield was a Creole. It 
 was often he who broke the quiet 
 along the Potomac, now with song 
 and now with rifle-shot. He was 
 at Bull Run, at Shiloh, on all those 
 blood-steeped fields around Rich 
 mond. He marched and fought 
 with Stonewall Jackson. At Mo 
 bile, at the end, he was there. No 
 others were quite so good for siege- 
 guns and water -batteries. What 
 fields are not on his folded banners ? 
 He went through it all. But we 
 will not follow him. Neither will 
 we write the history of his town in 
 those dread days. Arming, march 
 ing, blockade, siege, surrender, mil 
 itary occupation, grass-grown streets^, 
 hungry women, darkened homes, 
 broken hearts let us not write the 
 chapter ; at least, not yet." 
 
 In the summer of 1884 Mr. Ca 
 ble left New Orleans, taking his 
 346 
 
<3eot0e W. Cable. 
 
 family first to Simsbury, Conn., 
 and the following year establishing 
 his home permanently at North 
 ampton, Mass. Since that time his 
 remarkable energy and force of 
 character have found vent in va 
 rious channels. He has become one 
 of the most popular readers in 
 America, and the discovery of the 
 unusual faculty of interpretation 
 which he possesses was one of 
 those happy accidents in the lives of 
 "if ted men. It was while he was 
 
 ^5 
 
 lecturing at Johns Hopkins Univer 
 sity on the literary art, that he 
 first read, upon the suggestion of 
 President Oilman, some selections 
 from his own writings. Receiving 
 cordial appreciation, and realizing 
 the possession of a rare gift, he at 
 once and in his usual thorough 
 manner set about disciplining it and 
 making it most effective. It is an 
 nounced that he will shortly repay 
 some of the indebtedness of the 
 New World to the Old, and give a 
 347 
 
<3eor0e "QCl. Cable. 
 
 course of readings in Great Britain 
 next fall. Shortly after settling in 
 Northampton he resumed with new 
 zeal the Bible studies which so 
 greatly interested the boy-soldier by 
 the camp-fire, and with a class of 
 twelve he began a series of talks on 
 the Sunday - school lessons, which 
 very quickly yielded an enrollment 
 of seven hundred. Later this work 
 was transferred to Tremont Tem 
 ple, Boston, where every Saturday 
 afternoon for fifteen months he ad 
 dressed twice that number. Contri 
 butions to the critical columns of 
 the Sunday- School Times, under 
 the title "A Layman s Hints" and 
 "The Busy Man s Bible" (1891) 
 grew out of these studies. 
 
 A still greater part of Mr. Cable s 
 activity has been in connection with 
 an investigation into the political and 
 social status of the negro in the 
 South. From many essays and ad 
 dresses he has collected two small 
 volumes, "The Silent South" 
 348 
 
<5eor0e W. Cable, 
 
 (1885), which also contains "The 
 Freedman s Case in Equity," and 
 " The Convict Lease System in the 
 Southern States," and " The Negro 
 Question" (1890). In connection 
 with this work he organized the 
 " Open Letter Club," which was an 
 attempt to secure cooperation among 
 representative citizens of the South 
 for the scientific discussion of South 
 ern problems ; but quickly realizing 
 how far apart he and they were, 
 he dropped it. " Strange True 
 Stories of Louisiana" (1888), a vol 
 ume of romance from real life, be 
 longs strictly to this period of con 
 troversy and is specially interesting 
 for the light that it throws on the 
 controversialist s methods. The two 
 most telling stories in the collection 
 are, " let it be plainly understood," 
 not typical, but simply intended to 
 teach that " a public practice is an 
 swerable for whatever can happen 
 easier with it than without it, no 
 matter whether it must, or only may, 
 349 
 
0eorge TWl. Cable. 
 
 -Happen." He has also edited " Cre 
 ole Slave Songs " and a " West In 
 dian Slave Insurrection." 
 
 It j "o little relief to turn from this 
 perfervid political rhetoric to he 
 prose pastoral of "Bonaventure" 
 (1888), which, though not a great 
 novel, bids fair to outlive anything 
 that the author has yet written. It 
 consists of three stories, " Caraiicro," 
 "Grand Pointc," and "Au Large," 
 which appeared separately in the 
 Century. The opening scene takes 
 us at once 
 
 among the few-acred farmers 
 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of 
 fair Opelousas; 
 
 and the prospect which stretches 
 away, " fair and distant, in broad 
 level or gently undulating expanses 
 of crisp, compact turf, dotted at re 
 mote intervals by farms, each with 
 its low - roofed house, nestled in a 
 planted grove of oaks or, oftener, 
 pride of China trees," is typical of 
 the simple lives in the charming idyl. 
 350 
 
<5eoi0e TRfl. Cable. 
 
 The artist has hung a luminous at 
 mosphere about them and touched 
 them with heavenly colors of ten- 
 derest idealism, letting their lives, 
 however, unfold themselves after a 
 most realistic fashion. Bonaven- 
 ture, with his noble simplicity, man 
 ly gentleness, and ardent enthusiasm, 
 is perhaps the author s finest concep 
 tion of character, though the char 
 acterization throughout is true to 
 life. Bonaventure, Sidonie, Mar 
 guerite, Claude, St. Pierre, Mr. Tar- 
 box, Madame Zosephine, are not de 
 lineations of character development, 
 but actual lives lived before us ; and 
 the atmosphere in which they live is 
 as fresh and balmy and healthful as 
 nature herself could produce in her 
 rarest climes. It is a book to read 
 not so much for the story as for the 
 bewitching charm that comes from 
 " some grace of expression, or cute 
 touch of character, or exquisite de 
 scription," to be found on every 
 page. 
 
 351 
 
<3eot0e W. Gable. 
 
 in striking contrast with this 
 charming volume is "John March 
 Southerner" (1894) one of the 
 most dismal failures ever made by a 
 man of genius. There is hardly a 
 true note in it. An old Confederate 
 soldier, plucky enough to fight to 
 the end and brave enough to save 
 the life of a comrade at the risk of 
 his own, is chosen for the villain. 
 He is called Rev. John Wes ey Gar- 
 nett, A.M., and made President of a 
 college. He beats a negro unmer 
 cifully, slaps his grown daughter in 
 the face, kills his wife with cruelty, 
 swindles John March out of his es 
 tate, seduces his friend s wife, and 
 hen shoots the friend down on the 
 street. The hero is " converted in 
 a revival," but continues to carry 
 his pistol and is ever ready to shoot. 
 Jeff Jack, a secondary hero, is sent 
 off on his " bridal tour " drunk ; 
 John March s mother is a silly, nerv 
 ous, ridiculous Southern authoress. 
 With the hero is contrasted a New 
 352 
 
<3eor0e W. Gable. 
 
 Englander, whose family is a model 
 of domestic happiness, refinement, 
 and culture, while he himself is en 
 dowed with gentleness, generosity, 
 and almost every other grace and 
 virtue. Legislative trickery, 
 "booms," revengeful mountaineers, 
 a negro politician, much incorrect 
 dialect, and many other ingredients, 
 are poured into this witch s caldron, 
 
 where 
 
 Fair is foul and foul is fair. 
 
 The South can forgive Mr. Cable 
 anything but literary failure. The 
 " Taxidermist" and one or two oth 
 er gems of recent years serve to 
 s.iow that the divine fire still burns. 
 Would that it could be religiously 
 consecrated to pure art ! 
 
 Mr. Cable s New England home 
 is a spacious house, with colonial 
 buff walls and gambrel roofs, stand 
 ing fair against the pines and chest 
 nuts of Paradise Woods, on the edge 
 of Northampton. It is situated on 
 Dryad s Green, a short street, leatl- 
 23 353 
 
George TKH* Cable, 
 
 ing toward Mill River, made attract 
 ive by a line of narrow flower-beds 
 in the center, with the drives on 
 either side. The house is surround 
 ed with spacious lawns and is only a 
 short distance from the woods, about 
 four acres of which Mr. Cable owns, 
 stretching from his home to the riv 
 er. Woods is not the right word, 
 for it is rather a shad}^ dell or woody 
 ravine, replete with bits of artistic 
 and rustic scenes, and little vistas, 
 simple yet full of beauty, kindle the 
 eye and gladden the heart. The dell 
 is completely shaded with a great 
 variety of noble trees, under which 
 small plants and trailing vines and 
 shrubbery are permitted to flourish. 
 From the terrace on which the house 
 stands a narrow ravine leads to the 
 river, and looking down this from 
 the terrace, through an opening 
 where the trees arch overhead, a view 
 of the river bend below can be ob 
 tained. The path into the woods is 
 fringed on either side with ferns, 
 354 
 
. Gable. 
 
 wild rose and hazel wood. In these 
 " woods" Mr. Cable delights to 
 spend his moments of recreation, 
 with his intimate friends and com 
 panions the birds, the wild flowers, 
 and the trees. Tree culture is his 
 hobby, and one of his fancies is to 
 adorn his grounds with trees trans 
 planted by well- known men who 
 have from time to time been his 
 guests. The " Beecher elm," the 
 u Max O Rell ash," the " Sol Smith 
 Russell linden tree," the "Felix 
 Adler hemlock," and the U A Co- 
 nan Doyle maple," all find hospita 
 ble entertainment on the lawn in 
 front of his house. 
 
 To the reading and lecture-going 
 public Mr. Cable s features are well 
 known ; but no engraving or plat 
 form appearance gives the lurking 
 sparkle in the dark hazel eyes and 
 the peculiarly winning smile which 
 lights up the unusually bright and 
 intelligent face. In person Mr. Ca 
 ble is small and slight, with chest- 
 355 
 
<3eor0e m. Cable, 
 
 nut hair, beard, and moustache, now 
 somewhat silvered over; and there 
 is a marked development of the 
 forehead above the eyebrows. The 
 full charm of an indescribable per 
 sonality comes out in conversation, 
 wtien a look, a s hrug, or a bit of 
 facial change gives a special sea 
 soning to quaint turns of thought 
 and felicitous phrases of expres 
 sion. Since 1886 Mr. Cable has 
 given much time to the Home Cul 
 ture Clubs, which he organized on 
 an original plan to carry light and 
 health into individual lives and to 
 bring different social elements to 
 gether under the sympathetic influ 
 ences of home life. Within the last 
 month he has assumed the editor 
 ship of Current Literature, in 
 which new field he will doubtless 
 exercise a most helpful and stimu 
 lating influence upon the growth of 
 literary taste and effort in America. 
 356 
 
dbarles JEabert Gra&&ocfc. 
 
 THE appearance of Miss Mary 
 Noailles Murfree as a writer em 
 phasized the fact that the old or 
 der of the South had utterly passed 
 away. For more than one hundred 
 years the different generations of 
 her family had been commonwealth- 
 builders, not writers. Her great- 
 great-grandfather,William Murfree, 
 was a member of the North Caro 
 lina Congress which met at Hali 
 fax, November 12, 1776, for the pur 
 pose of framing a constitution for 
 the new state. A year before, his 
 son Hardy, just twenty-three years 
 old, had been made a captain in the 
 Continental line of his native state, 
 and at the capture of Stony Point 
 he had risen to the rank of major 
 and was in command of a body of 
 picked men. His descendants still 
 treasure the sash that he used in 
 357 
 
Cbartes JEgDect GraD&ocft. 
 
 helping to bear the mortally wound 
 ed Gen. Francis Nash from the bat 
 tle-field of Germantown. Before 
 independence was won, he was pro 
 moted again, and after peace reigned 
 once more Col. Murf ree " was f ouno 
 busy with his plantation" on tht 
 banks of Meherrin River, near Mur- 
 freesboro, N. C., till 1807, when he 
 removed to Middle Tennessee, set 
 tling in Williamson County, on 
 Murfree s fork of West Harpeth 
 River. Those early settlers had an 
 eye for rich lands and pleasant 
 places. The town of Murfreesboro, 
 not far off, was named in his honor, 
 and his family throve and married 
 well. 
 
 Just prior to the Civil War Hardy 
 Murfree s grandson, William R. 
 Murfree, was a successful lawyer in 
 Nashville and the owner of a larsfe 
 
 o 
 
 amount of property in and about the 
 city. His wife was Priscilla, the 
 daughter of Mr. David Dickinson, 
 whose residence, " Grantlands," near 
 358 
 
Cbarles 0bert GraDDocfc. 
 
 Murf reesboro, was in its day the most 
 magnificent in that region. In this 
 home was born, about 1850, a little 
 girl to whom her parents gave the 
 name Mary Noailles, but whom most 
 people will prefer to remember as 
 Charles Egbert Craddock. 
 
 In childhood a paralysis, which 
 caused lameness for life, deprived 
 her of all participation in the sports 
 of children and set her bright and 
 active mind to work to devise its 
 own amusement and entertainment. 
 Early sickness has more than once 
 proved a blessing in disguise to the 
 future writer of fiction by teaching 
 him to train the observation, to live 
 in good books, and to company with 
 his fancies. It sent Scott to the 
 country and to the fountains of leg 
 end and story, strongly inclined 
 Dickens to reading, and laid Haw 
 thorne upon the carpet to study the 
 long day through. In the same way 
 the Tennessee girl early developed 
 a marked fondness for works of fic- 
 359 
 
Cbarles Bgbert Gra&Docft. 
 
 tion. It is easy to see that Scott and 
 George Eliot were her favorites, and 
 after reading with great earnestness 
 one of their stirring and enlarging 
 romances she would in her imagina 
 tion body forth the entire story, in 
 vesting mother, father, and other 
 members of the large household 
 with the characteristics of the per 
 sons of the powerful drama. 
 
 While an imagination originally 
 vivid was thus strengthened, her life 
 and surroundings encouraged a nat 
 ural tendency to acute observation. 
 After the cordial Southern manner, 
 hospitality reigned in her home, and 
 the wide family connection and many 
 friends were equally hospitable. At 
 the academy in Nashville, where 
 she was put to school, she was asso 
 ciated with the daughters of the best 
 families in her own and neighboring 
 states. She must also have been 
 thrown much with her brother and 
 other boys, for few masculine wri 
 ters show so thorough an under- 
 
 *s 
 
 360 
 
Gbarles Babert 
 
 standing and appreciation of boy 
 nature. And then there were the 
 family servants, to whom every 
 Southern child of the old regime 
 was indebted for unique cultivation 
 of the fancy and many lasting im 
 pressions. To this day, it is said, 
 Charles Egbert Cr ad dock finds 
 more enjoyment in a boy or darky 
 than in anything else. 
 
 This condition of society, along 
 with her father s and mother s large 
 estates, was swept away by the war. 
 The old Dickinson mansion was still 
 standing, and to this the family now 
 \vent, expecting to stay only a short 
 time, but remaining for years. This 
 is the house of " Where the Battle 
 Was Fought," and though the vivid 
 description of it and the battle-field 
 in the opening chapter of this novel 
 is somewhat fanciful, enough of the 
 reality remains to give us an accu 
 rate impression of the scenes amid 
 which she now lived. 
 
 u By wintry daylight the battle- 
 361 
 
Cbarles Egbert CraDDocft. 
 
 field is still more ghastly. Gray 
 with the pallid crab-grass which so 
 eagerly usurps the place of last sum 
 mer s crops, it stretches out on every 
 side to meet the bending sky. The 
 armies that successively encamped 
 upon it did not leave a tree for miles, 
 but here and there thickets have 
 sprung up since the war, and bare 
 and black they intensify the gloom 
 of the landscape. The turf in these 
 segregated spots is never turned. 
 Beneath the branches are rows of 
 empty, yawning graves, where the 
 bodies of soldiers were temporarily 
 buried. Here, most often, their 
 spirits walk, and no hire can induce 
 the hardiest plowman to break the 
 ground. Thus the owner of the land 
 is fain to concede these acres to his 
 ghostly tenants, who pay no rent. 
 A great brick house, dismantled and 
 desolate, rises starkly above the dis 
 mantled desolation of the plain. De 
 spite the tragic aspect of this build 
 ing, it offers a certain grotesque sug- 
 362 
 
Cbarles Bsbert CraDSocfc. 
 
 gestion it might seem in the mac! 
 ostentation of its proportions a vast 
 caricature of succumbed prosperi 
 ties. There is no embowering shrub 
 bery about it, no enclosing fence. It 
 is an integrant part of the surround 
 ing ruin. Its cupola was riddled by 
 a cannonade, and the remnants shake 
 ominously with every gust of wind ; 
 there are black fissures in the stone 
 steps and pavements where shells 
 exploded ; many of the windows are 
 shattered and boarded up. ... The 
 whole place was grimly incongruous 
 with the idea of a home, and as he 
 [the hero of the story] was ushered 
 into a wide, bare hall, with glimpses 
 of uninhabited, unfurnished rooms 
 on either hand, there was intimated 
 something of those potent terrors 
 with which it was instinct the pur 
 suing influences of certain grisly 
 deeds of trust, for the battle-field, 
 the gruesome thickets, the house it 
 self, all were mortgaged." 
 
 As a recompense for this monoto- 
 363 
 
Cbarles Egbert Craooocfc. 
 
 nous and disheartening existence 
 amid scenes of former happiness 
 and splendor came the annual so 
 journ of the family during the sum 
 mer months in the mountains of 
 Eastern Tennessee, which was re 
 peated for fifteen successive years. 
 Breathing this invigorating air, the 
 thoughtful girl also enjoyed the wild 
 birds and wilder flowers, the sylvan 
 glades and foaming cataracts, and 
 companioned daily with the Blue 
 Ridge, the Bald, the Chilhowee, and 
 the Great Smoky Mountains, whose 
 tops pierced the blue sky and whose 
 steep and savage slopes were covered 
 with vast ranges of primeval forest. 
 These scenes were so indelibly 
 etched upon her memory that in 
 after-years a rare profusion of 
 perfect pictures was easily obtain 
 able. The very atmosphere itself 
 of her life at this period seems to 
 be preserved in the opening para 
 graph of "The Despot of Broom- 
 Sedge Cove : " " On a certain steep 
 364 
 
Cbarles Babert CraDDocfc. 
 
 and savage slope of the Great 
 Smoky Mountains the primeval 
 wilderness for many miles is un 
 broken save by one meager clear 
 ing. The presence of humanity 
 upon the earth is further attested 
 only by a log cabin, high on the 
 rugged slant. At night the stars 
 seem hardly more aloof than the val 
 ley below. By day the mountains 
 assert their solemn vicinage, an aus 
 tere company. The clouds that si 
 lently commune with the great peaks, 
 the sinister and scathing deeds of the 
 lightnings, the passionate rhetoric of 
 the thunders, the triumphal pageant 
 ry of the sunset tides, and the wist 
 ful yearnings of the dawn aspiring 
 to day these might seem the only 
 incidents of this lonely and exalted 
 life. So august is this mountain 
 scheme that it fills all the visible 
 world with its massive, multitudi 
 nous presence ; still stretching into 
 the dim blue distances an infinite 
 perspective of peak and range and 
 365 
 
Cbarles J60bcrt Craooocfc. 
 
 lateral spur, till one may hardly be 
 lieve that fancy does not juggle with 
 fact." 
 
 But the deepest interest of a na 
 ture rich in thought, imagination, 
 and wide human sympathy centered 
 in the dwellers among those wild and 
 rugged fastnesses. They were for 
 the most part descendants of the 
 earliest settlers in the Old North 
 State, and more than three-quarters 
 of a century before had climbed 
 over the high ranges which form a 
 natural boundary between Tennes 
 see and her parent state and perched 
 on the mountain sides or nestled in 
 the coves of their new home. To 
 chem the great world outside and 
 beyond the hazy boundaries of their 
 mountain ranges remained an un 
 known land ; and the tide of mod 
 ern progress dashed idly at the foot 
 of their primitive ideas and conserv 
 ative barriers. There was no room 
 for progress, for the mountaineers 
 were not only satisfied with things 
 366 
 
C bar ice jdbert Cradftocft. 
 
 as they existed, but were unaware 
 that there could be a different exist 
 ence. For centuries no enlargement 
 had come into their narrow individ 
 ual lives and scant civilization, which 
 to the casual observer seemed as 
 bare and blasted as the " balds " 
 upon the Great Smokies. 
 
 But to this acute and sympathetic 
 observer were revealed not only the 
 elemental qualities of our common 
 humanity, but also the sturdy inde 
 pendence, integrity, strength of char 
 acter, and finer feelings always found 
 in the English race, however dis 
 guised by rugged exterior or hin 
 dered by harsh environment. Their 
 honesty, their patriotism, their re 
 spect for law, their gloomy Calvin- 
 istic religion, their hospitality were 
 in spite of the most curious modifi 
 cations the salient points of a stri 
 king individuality and unique char 
 acter. The mountains seemed to im 
 part to them something of their own 
 dignity, solemnity and silence. 
 367 
 
Cbarles Egbert CraODocft. 
 
 Their archaic dialect and slow, drawL 
 ing speech could flash with dry hu 
 mor and homely mother -wit and 
 glow with the w r hite heat of biting 
 sarcasm or lofty emotion. Their 
 deliberate movements and impassive 
 faces veiled deep feelings and pent- 
 up passions, and they could be as sud 
 den and destructive as Nature her 
 self in her fiercer moods, or as ten 
 der and self-forgetful as Mary of 
 Magdala. Fearless of man and open 
 foes, the bravest of them shuddered 
 at the mention of the " harnt of 
 Thunderhead " and shrank from 
 opening the graves of the " little 
 people." Every stream and cave 
 had its legend or spirit, and tower 
 ing crag and blue dome were chron 
 icled in tradition and story. No 
 phase of this unique life escaped the 
 keen eye and powerful imagination 
 of the most robust of Southern wri- 
 isrs in this most impressible period 
 of her life. 
 
 The growth of Craddock s art 
 368 
 
dbarles JSebert GraoDocfc. 
 
 can not now be traced with certain 
 ty, though it is known that she 
 served an apprenticeship of nearly 
 ten years before her stories began 
 to make any stir in the world. The 
 general belief, therefore, that her lit 
 erary career began with the " Dan 
 cm Party at Harrison s Cove," which 
 appeared in the Atlantic for May, 
 1878, is incorrect. She used to con 
 tribute to the weekly edition of Ap- 
 pletorfs Journal, which ceased pub 
 lication in that form in 1876, and it 
 is a little remarkable that her con 
 tributions were even then signed 
 Charles E. Craddock. Two of her 
 stories were left over, and one of 
 them, published in <f Appleton s Sum 
 mer Book," in 1880, "Taking the 
 Blue Ribbon at the Fair," rather in 
 dicates that she had not yet discov 
 ered wherein her true power lay. 
 Although it is a pleasing little story, 
 it is not specially remarkable for any 
 of the finer qualities of her latcr 
 Writings ; and it appears out of place 
 24 369 
 
Cbarles Bsbert Ctafc&ocfc. 
 
 in a collection of stories published in 
 1895, as if it were a new production. 
 The assumed name which her wri 
 tings bore was finally determined 
 upon by accident, though the matter 
 had been much discussed in her fam 
 ily. It was adopted for the double 
 purpose of cloaking failure and of 
 securing the advantage which a man 
 is supposed to have over a woman 
 in literature. It veiled one of the 
 best-concealed identities in literary 
 history. More than one person di- 
 vined George Eliot s secret, and the 
 penetrating Dickens observed that 
 she knew what was in the heart of 
 woman. But neither internal nor 
 external evidence offered any clue to 
 Craddock s personality. The start- 
 lingly vigorous and robust style and 
 the intimate knowledge of the moun 
 tain folk in their almost inaccessible 
 homes, suggestive of the sturdy 
 climber and bold adventurer, gave 
 no hint of femininity, while certain 
 portions of her writings, both in 
 370 
 
Cbarlcs Bgbert Gra&fcocft. 
 
 thought and treatment, were pecul 
 iarly masculine. 
 
 In no way did Craddock betray 
 "his" identity. Mr. Howells, who 
 was the first to perceive the striking 
 qualities of the stories, never sus 
 pected that the new writer was a 
 woman ; and Mr. Aldrich,who short 
 ly succeeded him, and one of whose 
 first acts as editor was to write to 
 " My Dear Craddock " for further 
 contributions, was equally wide of 
 the mark, though he mused consid 
 erably over the personality of the 
 remarkably original contributor. 
 Once, indeed, he wrote asking how 
 the latter could have become so inti 
 mate with the strange, quaint life of 
 the mountaineers, but the pleasant re 
 ply threw no light upon the author s 
 personality. Gradually, however, 
 the mystery cleared away, though 
 the final revelation was reserved for 
 a particularly dramatic situation. 
 
 In the course of a yeajr or two the 
 editor and publishers learned that 
 371 
 
Cbarles 
 
 M. N. Murfree was the author s real 
 name, and Mr. Aldrich rather prided 
 himself, we are told, upon directing 
 his communications thereafter to M. 
 N. Murfree, Esq., feeling very con 
 fident that one who evinced such 
 knowledge of the law as appeared 
 in her writings and wrote with such 
 a pen could be no other than a law 
 yer. The manuscript of " Mr." 
 Craddock certainly had nothing fem 
 inine about it, with its large, bold 
 characters, every letter as plain as 
 print, and strikingly thick, black 
 lines. So liberal indeed was the au 
 thor in the use of ink that the editor 
 had his little joke, as he was writing 
 to ask for what proved to be the 
 powerful novel of the " Prophet of 
 the Great Smoky Mountains," re 
 marking, " I wonder if Craddock 
 has laid in his winter s ink yet, so 
 that I can get a serial out of him." 
 What was his surprise, therefore, as 
 one Monday morning in March, 
 1885, he was called from the edito- 
 372 
 
Cbarles 
 
 rial room, to find awaiting him be 
 low a young lady of slight form, 
 about five feet four inches in height, 
 with blond complexion and light- 
 brown, almost golden hair, bright, 
 rather sharp face, with all the lea- 
 tures quite prominent forehead 
 square and projecting, eyes gray, 
 deep-set, and keen, nose Grecian, 
 chin projecting, and mouth large - 
 who quietly remarked that she was 
 Charles Egbert Craddock ! 
 
 Miss Murfree s literary success 
 really began with the publication of 
 her collection of short stories, " In 
 the Tennessee Mountains," in May, 
 1884. It was at once recognized 
 that another Southern writer of un 
 common art, originality, and power 
 had entered into a field altogether 
 new and perfectly fresh. Only here 
 and there was discernible the slight 
 est trace of imitation in conception 
 or manner, while the atmosphere 
 was entirely her own; and to the 
 rare qualities of sincerity, simplicity, 
 373 
 
Cbarles Egbert Craooocft. 
 
 and closeness of observation were 
 added the more striking ones of 
 vivid realization and picturing of 
 scene and incident and character. 
 Her magic wand revealed the poetry 
 as well as the pathos in the hard, 
 narrow, and monotonous life of the 
 mountaineers, and touched crag and 
 stream and wood and mountain 
 range with an enduring splendor. 
 All the admirable qualities of her 
 art are present in this volume. The 
 spontaneous, instinctive power of 
 telling a story for its own sake pro 
 claimed close kinship with Scott, 
 while the exquisite word-painting 
 and beautiful descriptions of moun 
 tain scenery, with all the shifting 
 phases of spring and autumn, of 
 sunset, mist, storm, and forest fire, 
 could have been learned only in the 
 school of Ruskin and of nature. In 
 the profound and tragically serious 
 view and contemplation of life she 
 is the child of George Eliot and of 
 the battle-scarred South. But her 
 374 
 
Cbarles J60bert CraDOocfc. 
 
 real power, as is true of every wri 
 ter that has been either an enriching 
 or an uplifting force in human lives, 
 rests upon a sympathetic under 
 standing of human life. Her insight 
 into the ordinary, commonplace, 
 seemingly unpoetic lives of the 
 mountaineers, her tenderness for 
 them, her perception of the beauty 
 and the wonder of their narrow ex 
 istence is one of the finest traits in 
 her character and her art. Through 
 this wonderful power of human 
 sympathy the delicately nurtured 
 and highly cultured lady entered 
 Into the life of the common folk 
 and heard their heart-throbs under 
 neath jeans and homespun. She 
 realized anew for her fellow men 
 that untutored souls are perplexed 
 with the same questions and shaken 
 by the same doubts that baffle the 
 learned, and that it is inherent in hu 
 manity to rise to the heroic heights 
 of self-forgetfulness and devotion to 
 duty in any environment. Indeed, 
 375 
 
Gbarles Egbert Cra&Docfc; 
 
 the key-note of her studies is found 
 in the last sentence of this volume : 
 " The grace of culture is, in its way, 
 a fine thing, but the best that art can 
 do the polish of a gentleman is 
 hardly equal to the best that nature 
 can do in her higher moods." 
 
 Each of these stories embodies a 
 "higher mood " of some uncultiva 
 ted, simple soul influenced by a 
 noble motive, and the good lesson 
 taught with equal art and modesty 
 stirs the heart with refining pity and 
 admiration. Cynthia Ware s long 
 journeys on foot and heroic exer 
 tions are rewarded with the pardon 
 of the unjustly imprisoned man 
 whom she loves, only to find that he 
 has never taken the trouble to ask 
 who secured his release, that his love 
 was but a little thing which he had 
 left in the mountains, and that while 
 she was waiting for him he was 
 married to some one else. Through 
 Craddock s skill we become witness 
 es of this heart -tragedy and enter 
 376 
 
Cbarles J60bett 
 
 into the inner experience of a human 
 soul which through suffering learns 
 to adjust itself anew, " ceases to ques 
 tion and regret, and bravely does the 
 work nearest her hand." Again it 
 is the weak and slender Celia Shaw 
 who painfully toils at night through 
 the bleak, snow-covered woods to 
 save the lives of the men whom her 
 father and his friends had deter 
 mined to kt wipe out." Again and 
 again in Craddock s writings the 
 strange miracle of this sweet, trust 
 ful, loving, yet heroic girlhood ap 
 pears amid the lonely, half- mourn 
 ful life of the mountain folk, inten 
 sified by the attitude of the faded, 
 gaunt, melancholy older women, 
 " holding out wasted hands to the 
 years as they pass holding them 
 out always and always empty "- 
 with the grace, the beauty, and the 
 pervasive fragrance of a wild rose 
 in the wilderness. Our author seems 
 to agree with George Eliot in think 
 ing that "in these delicate vessels is 
 377 
 
Cbarles JEgbect Cra&Docfc. 
 
 borne on through the ages the treas 
 ure of human affections." 
 
 Craddock s heroes blacksmiths, 
 constables, herders, illiterate preach 
 ers, and other rude mountaineers 
 are equally attractive in their way, 
 and are drawn with an even tenderer 
 and more skilful hand. She is a 
 master in depicting those situations 
 which touch the springs of pathos 
 or thrill the heart with a generous 
 elation. It does not matter whether 
 it is merely the noble impulse which 
 leads a Bud Wray, or in a later story 
 a Mink Lorey " Mink by name 
 and Mink by nature" to enthrone 
 in one supreme moment the better 
 part of his nature, or the settled pur 
 pose and lofty determination of a 
 Simon Burney, who gallantly de 
 fends at the risk of his own life and 
 gives a permanent home to the ill- 
 tempered, worthless little "harnt" 
 that walks Chilhowee, saying with 
 noble simplicity : * c I ll take keer of 
 ye agin them Grims ez long ez I kin 
 378 
 
Cbatles jesbert Crafc&ocfc. 
 
 fire a rifle. An arter the jury hev 
 done let ye off, ye air welcome ter 
 live along o me at my house till ye 
 die." The central idea or the strong 
 situation, however, is not unduly 
 stressed. The touches of incident 
 and of humor and the exquisite land 
 scapes leave unfading impressions. 
 After thirteen years the ring of the 
 metaled hoof upon the flinty path 
 echoes in the memory, and the broad 
 antlers of the noble stag garlanded 
 with blossoming laurels stand out in 
 bold relief on the edge of the moun 
 tain road. One can still see the 
 highly imaginative picture of the 
 gamblers throwing their cards upon 
 the inverted basket, first by the light 
 of tallow dip and then by the blaze 
 of pine knots, while the moon shines 
 without and the hidden mimic of the 
 woods uncannily repeats their agi 
 tated tones. Nor is the reader likely 
 to forget the touch of grim humor 
 in the speech of the young moun 
 taineer, glad that the "fightin preach- 
 379 
 
Cbarles Egbert Cra&fcocfc, 
 
 er " had prevented him from killing 
 the outlaw and horse thief, yet naive 
 ly remarking : "An* the bay filly 
 ain t sech a killin matter, nohow ; 
 ef it war the roan three-year-old, 
 now, twould be different." 
 
 The large and solemn presence of 
 Nature is never lost sight of, her va 
 rious moods and manifestations be 
 ing used, as a kind of chorus co in 
 terpret the melancholy or the emo 
 tion of the human actors. The nar 
 rative is inlaid with exquisite bits of 
 landscape, serving not so much to 
 disclose the range and minuteness 
 of the author s observation at least 
 in her earlier works as to give ex 
 pression to the fitting sentiment or 
 development to the appropriate pas 
 sion. When the great beauty of the 
 style with which these fresh and ro 
 bust stories were clothed is taken 
 into consideration, something of the 
 present pleasure and the richer an 
 ticipation of the readers of 1884 may 
 be imagined. 
 
 380 
 
Cbarles Bgbert CraODocfc. 
 
 In September, of the same yeai, 
 "Where the Battle Was Fought" 
 appeared, a story in which Craddock 
 gives an effective picture of the dev 
 astation caused by the Civil War. 
 The plot and the .villains intriguing 
 for a young girl s property are pure 
 ly conventional, but so far from be 
 ing a misstep this is a story of rich 
 est promise. The unmistakable bent 
 of the author s genius is, it is true, 
 shown in such creations as Toole, 
 Graff y Beale, and Pickic Tait, while 
 her superb landscape-painting has 
 never been used more suggestively 
 and impressively. " There is some 
 thing Hawthornesque in the part 
 which inanimate nature is made to 
 play in this novel a gigantic per 
 sonification that wails and loves and 
 hates speechless, yet full of speech 
 tearless, yet fraught with innumera, 
 ble tears ; voiceless, yet full of tongues 
 and languages." But the hand that 
 sketched Marcia and General Vayne 
 gave tokens of possibilities far great- 
 381 
 
Cbarles Bgbert Crafcfcocfc. 
 
 or than could be attained through 
 Mafcellys, Dorindas, Letitias, and 
 Alctheas, or through prophets of the 
 Great Smoky Mountains and despots 
 of Broom-Sedge Cove, for Nature 
 in her higher moods has never pro 
 duced a Romola, a Portia, a Colonel 
 Esmond, or a Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 As the penetrating Sartor, in speak 
 ing of clothes, observes : " Nature 
 is good, but she is not the best ; 
 here truly was the victory of Art 
 over Nature." No one had a better 
 chance to know the old Southern 
 gentleman than Craddock, and that 
 she had made use of her opportunity 
 is more than suggested in her real 
 istic description of General Vayne s 
 moral magnifying-glass : " Through 
 this unique lens life loomed up as 
 rather a large affair. In the rickety 
 <:ourt-house in the village of Chat- 
 talla, five miles out there to the south, 
 General Vayne beheld a temple of 
 justice. He translated an office 
 holder as the sworn servant of the 
 382 
 
Cbarles Bgbert CraDDocfe. 
 
 people. The State was this great 
 commonwealth, and its seal a proud 
 escutcheon. A fall in cotton struck 
 him as a blow to the commerce of 
 the world. From an adverse polit 
 ical fortune he augured the swift 
 ruin of the country. Abstract ideas 
 were to him as potent dements in 
 human affairs as acts of the Legis 
 lature, and in the midst of the gen 
 eral collapse his large ideals still re 
 tained their pristine proportions." 
 
 Such is the lifelike presentation of 
 the sentiments of a certain type of 
 old Southerner, and in the further 
 portrayal of the one-armed ex- Con 
 federate general the graphic touches 
 of speech, manner, noble impulses, 
 and actions are so true to nature that 
 one readily recognizes the picture as 
 a study from life. Though the 
 story itself, however, does not pre 
 sent the orderly and artistic devel 
 opment and unfolding of a well-con 
 structed plot, failing chiefly in co 
 herence and a natural transition of 
 383 
 
Cbarles Ssbert CtaDDodfu 
 
 scene and incident, and though it 
 contains much that is undeniably 
 conventional, yet its many strong 
 and original features and powerful 
 close leave the impression that this 
 new departure contains the promise 
 of richest possibilities which, it may 
 be hoped, Craddock will some day 
 realize for the world. 
 
 In her next volume, " Down the 
 Ravine," our author takes us back 
 to the mountains, and gives us a 
 book for boys not easily matched in 
 juvenile literature. Avoiding all sen 
 timental weakness and set preach 
 ments, and conveying its fine and 
 healthy moral in the whole spirit 
 and atmosphere of the story, she un 
 folds plot and underplot simply, 
 naturally, and with fine artistic ef 
 fect. Scene, incident, and character 
 are fused in the glow of a well-or 
 dered imagination. The ubiquitous 
 imp of a small boy is there, of course, 
 but can the world do without him 
 any better than the story-books? 
 384 
 
Gbarles Egbert CraDDocfc. 
 
 and also the saving grace of a sis 
 ter s quiet love and shaping influ 
 ence, suggested with rare art and 
 delicacy in little Tennessee s con 
 stant presence. But the crowning 
 merit of the tale is the fresh and 
 original presentation of the old story 
 of a mother s love and the beauty of 
 confidence between mother and son 
 in a rude mountain home. " Don t 
 everybody know a boy s mother 
 air bound ter take his part agin all 
 the worP ? " she asks with simple 
 candor, and when misfortune touch 
 es him every trace of her caustic 
 moods disappears and she becomes 
 as gentle and tender and wise as if 
 she had been nurtured in a lady s 
 bower. Years afterward the son 
 had not forgotten how stanchly she 
 upheld him in every thought when 
 all the circumstances belied him. 
 Taint no differ ez long ez tain t 
 the truth," said his mother, philo 
 sophically. " We-uns will jes abide 
 by the truth." "And day by day as 
 25 385 
 
(Jbarles ^Egbert CraDDocfc. 
 
 he went to his work, meeting every 
 where a short word or a slighting 
 look, he felt that he could not have 
 borne up, save for the knowledge of 
 that loyal heart at home." This haa 
 all been told a thousand times, but 
 never in a simpler, healthier, more 
 natural way than in this delightful 
 little volume. In unity of effect this 
 is perhaps Craddock s most perfect 
 story. 
 
 In the following October appeared 
 " The Prophet of the Great Smoky 
 Mountains," and almost every year 
 since that time has witnessed the 
 appearance of some new volume 
 "In the Clouds," 1886; "The 
 Story of Kcedon Bluffs," 1887; 
 " The Despot of Broomsedge 
 Cove," 1888; "In the Stranger 
 Peoples Country," 1891; "His 
 Vanished Star," 1894 ; * The Phan 
 toms of the Footbridge " and " The 
 Mystery of the Witch-Face Moun 
 tain," 1895; while "The Jugglers," 
 which has been running as a serial 
 886 
 
Gbarles S^bert GraSOocfc. 
 
 in the Atlantic, has just appeared, 
 and " The Mountain Boys " is an- 
 nounced for immediate publication. 
 Though the result is on the whole 
 disappointing the rare promise of 
 the author s earlier work not being 
 fulfilled in her later more labored 
 efforts Miss Murfree has taken a 
 place among the very best writers of 
 purely American fiction. The too 
 great regularity of production in 
 which she has indulged has led her 
 into dreary wastes of repetitious shal 
 lows, and still more frequently has 
 weighted her stories with manner 
 isms which mar the beauty and per 
 fection of their art. The reader 
 soon begins to scent favorite epi 
 thets and grandiloquent phrases, to 
 be on the lookout for the " gibbous" 
 moon, the " mellow " moon, the 
 " lucent, yellow " moon, and every 
 kind of moon that ever was and 
 never was, and to divine when the 
 katydid is to " twang a vibrant 
 note," or the night is to " sigh au- 
 387 
 
Cbarles Bgbert Grafcfcocfe. 
 
 dibly in sheer pensiveness," or the 
 song of the cicada is to be "charged 
 with somnolently melodious post 
 meridian sentiment." 
 
 A still more serious complaint 
 may be urged against the author s 
 tendency to overdo landscape pic 
 tures, and to make needless digres 
 sions. Miss Murfree is, above all 
 things, a painter, and particularly in 
 her earlier works has given abun 
 dant evidence that she is a real artist 
 in adapting story and landscape to 
 each other. Her description, too, 
 serves a literary purpose, now ex 
 pressing the fitting sentiment, anon 
 developing the appropriate passion. 
 She seizes and interprets physical 
 features and natural phenomena in 
 their relation to various aspects of 
 human life with at times unerring 
 precision, vigor, and dramatic force. 
 Indeed, the scenery of the moun 
 tains is essential to the comprehen 
 sion of the gloom of the religion, 
 the sternness of the life, the un- 
 388 
 
Cbatles jSabert Crafcfcocfc. 
 
 couthness of the dialect, and the 
 harshness of the characters pre 
 sented in her stories. 
 
 All her digressions are not irrele 
 vant. Oftentimes what seems to be 
 a mere digression is according to 
 nature, and used with significant 
 effect in the presentation of moun 
 tain scene, life, and character. The 
 result is a complete and perfect 
 picture. The mountaineers are pro 
 verbially slow of speech and of 
 thought, and during their long re 
 flective pauses in conversation the 
 skilful narrator must interest the 
 mind of the reader just as in real 
 life the listener would seek some 
 thing for his mind to dwell upoiv. 
 This gives lifelikeness to the pic- 
 ture, and, like a sweet interlude in 
 music, a charming bit of description 
 serves to fill in delightfully the in 
 tervening moments which would 
 otherwise seem unreasonably long 
 and tedious. The opening pages of 
 u The Despot of Broomsedge Cove" 
 389 
 
Cbarles 
 
 reveal the author at work in her 
 happiest vein and making the best 
 use of this extraordinary gift. With 
 a few skilful touches the corn-field, 
 the winding road, the three moun 
 taineers, each with his salient fea 
 tures of look, gait, and character, 
 made known in the fewest possible 
 words, and the glorious mountain 
 view, are made to stand out before 
 us as in real life, so that the reader 
 becomes identified with the story 
 and naturally shares in the conversa 
 tion. 
 
 " * The Sperit has been with me 
 strong, mighty strong, ter-day, said 
 Teck Jepson suddenly. I hev 
 been studyin on Moses, from the 
 time he lef the saidges by the ruver- 
 bank, he added, bridling with a sen 
 timent that was strikingly like the 
 pride of earth. Then as he gazed 
 down at the landscape his face sof 
 tened and grew pensive." "The 
 great ranges were slowly empur 
 pled against the pale eastern horizon, 
 390 
 
Obarles Bgbert CraDOocfc. 
 
 delicately blue, for the sun was in 
 the western skies. How splendidly 
 saffron those vast spaces glowed! 
 What purity and richness of tint! 
 Here and there were pearly wing- 
 like sweeps of an incomparable 
 glister; and the clouds, ambitious, 
 must needs climb the zenith, with 
 piled and stately mountainous effects, 
 gleaming white, opaque, dazzling. 
 The focal fires of the great orb 
 were unquenched, and still the yel 
 low, divergent rays streamed forth ; 
 yet in its heart was suggested that 
 vermilion smoldering of the sunset, 
 and the western hills were wait 
 ing." 
 
 " Twas tur ble hard on Moses, 
 said Teck Jepson, c when the Lord 
 shut him out n Canaan, arter travel- 
 in through the wilderness. Tur 
 ble hard, tur ble hard! " During 
 another pause the reader learns that 
 this slow talker has an imagination 
 aflame with the trials of Moses, the 
 glories of Solomon, the atrocities of 
 391 
 
Cbarles Egbert CraOfcocfc. 
 
 Ahab and Jezebel ; and in his igno 
 rance it had never occurred to him 
 that his Biblical heroes had lived 
 elsewhere than in the Great Smokes 
 Mountains. " Their history had to 
 him an intimate personal relation, as 
 of the story of an ancestor in the 
 homestead ways and closely familiar. 
 He brooded upon these narrations, 
 instinct with dramatic movement, 
 enriched with poetic color, and lo 
 calized in his robust imagination, 
 till he could trace Hagar s wild 
 wanderings in the fastnesses ; could 
 show where Jacob slept and piled 
 his altar of stones ; could distinguish 
 the bush, of all others on the c bald, 
 that blazed with fire from heaven, 
 when the angel of the Lord stood 
 within it." In every way this is a 
 model introductory chapter, and 
 every incident, bit of description, 
 explanatory digression, and situa 
 tion serves as an admirable back 
 ground for the heroic picture of 
 the Despot, whose impressive per- 
 392 
 
Cbarlcs Robert GraDDocfc, 
 
 sonality, in spite of qualities thai 
 would naturally inspire aversion^ 
 compels our admiration. 
 
 But far too often in her later sto 
 ries the author s descriptions of nat 
 ural scenery and observations of nat 
 ural phenomena are excessive. In 
 this paticular novel they reach the 
 point of downright padding. The 
 pictures are exceedingly well done, 
 and the observations are sometimes 
 very acute and perfectly true; but 
 they are altogether out of place, and 
 serve only to interrupt the action 
 and to make the reader chafe, till he 
 learns to skip. As a specimen of 
 this provoking method we may take 
 the account of Parson Donnard s 
 endeavor to find out whether it is a 
 " human critter " or the devil him 
 self that lights the nightly fires of 
 the lonely forge. He and his hypo 
 critical scamp of a son are sitting on 
 a rock in the dead of the night with 
 every nerve a-quiver ; momently 
 we are expecting a solution of the 
 393 
 
Cbarles BQbect Cra&Oocft. 
 
 mystery, but instead of this we are 
 kept waiting- with remarks about 
 the stars, the darkness, the ston} 
 passes, the briers. Then we have 
 shooting-stars and the clarion cock, 
 and then again while the ignorant 
 and superstitious old mountain 
 preacher is intent upon his hand-to- 
 hand grapple with the archfiend the 
 author credits him with this series of 
 sophisticated observations : " lie no 
 ted how he seemed to face the great 
 concave of the sky, how definite the 
 western mountains stood against 
 the starry expanse, how distinct cer 
 tain objects had become even in the 
 pitchy blackness, now that his eyes 
 were in some sort accustomed to it." 
 It may readily be acknowledged 
 that Miss Murfree s people are the 
 people of the district she describes. 
 Folk and mountains belong togeth 
 er. But she deals with life rather 
 as a whole, as a community, a 
 class, at best as a type. She has 
 not succeeded in creating any indi- 
 394 
 
Cbarles JEsocvr ctaDDocfo. 
 
 vidual or distinct character. Even 
 Cynthia Ware, Dorinda Cayce, Al- 
 ethea Sayles, Letitia Pettingill, and 
 Marcelly Strobe, the heroines in as 
 many different stories, are but va 
 riants of one and the same type. 
 Slight changes are introduced in 
 adapting them to different situations, 
 but the characters all seem to be 
 drawn from the same model. A 
 graver defect is noticeable in the 
 author s treatment of her he 
 roes, wherein she shows a fatal 
 inability to sustain character. When 
 the Prophet is introduced, revealing 
 in the quick glance of his eye 
 "fire, inspiration, frenzy who can 
 say ? " the reader is thrilled at the 
 prospect of a masterly delineation. 
 He expects to travel along the 
 narrow border-land between spir 
 itual exaltation and insanity. But 
 in only one of Miss Murfree s 
 stories, The Dancin Party at 
 Harrison s Cove," does she reveal 
 a sympathetic understanding and 
 395 
 
Cbartes Egbert Cra&fcocfc. 
 
 appreciation of the character of the 
 minister. With the circuit-riders 
 and pa sons she seems to have had 
 no personal acquaintance. They 
 are drawn just as we would expect 
 them to be depicted by one whose 
 sole information was based on tra 
 dition, hearsay, and imagination. 
 Nor does Craddock at any time 
 exhibit that profound knowledge 
 of the human heart and sympa 
 thetic insight into spiritual mat 
 ters revealed by George Eliot in the 
 character of Dinah Morris. Pa son 
 Kelsey remains hazy and indistinct 
 throughout the story, the reader is 
 left in doubt as to his sanity, and the 
 catastrophe throws little light upon 
 his character. 
 
 The Despot offered even a greater 
 opportunity for masterly portraiture, 
 tn conception this is one of the most 
 original and striking figures to be 
 found in contemporary literature. 
 This dauntless rider, singing his ec 
 static psalms, this arrogant inter- 
 396 
 
Cbarles Bsbert Cra&Docfc. 
 
 preter of "the Lord s will," this 
 linn believer in his own might and 
 goodness, captivates the imagina 
 tion of the reader from the first mo 
 ment of his dramatic introduction : 
 U A moment more and the young 
 psalmist came around a curve, gal 
 loping recklessly along beneath the 
 fringed boughs of the firs and the 
 pines, still singing aloud ; the reins 
 upon his horse s neck, his rifle held 
 across the pommel of the saddle ; 
 his broad hat thrust upon the back 
 of his head, his eyes scarcely turn 
 ing toward the men who stood by 
 the wayside. . . . The rider 
 drew rein. The rapt expression of 
 his countenance abruptly changed. 
 He fixed imperative, worldly eyes 
 upon the speaker. They were deep 
 ly set, of a dark blue color, full of 
 a play of expression, and, despite 
 the mundane intimations of the mo 
 ment, they held the only sugges 
 tions in his face of a spiritual pos 
 sibility. He had a heavy lower 
 397 
 
dbartes Bgbert CtaD&ocfe. 
 
 jaw, stern and insistent. A firm, 
 immobile mouth disclosed strong, 
 even teeth. His nose was slightly 
 aquiline, and he had definitely 
 marked black eyebrows. . . 
 There was a strong individuality, 
 magnetism, about him, and before 
 his glance the peremptory spirit of 
 his interlocutor was slightly abated." 
 After a few chapters, however, 
 the author seems to lose interest in 
 the working out of her original con 
 ception. The hero is discarded for 
 other matters, while at the same 
 time the author s grip of the narra 
 tive suffers loss, and the way is 
 paved for irrelevant landscapes and 
 digressions. Even the hero s con 
 nection with the tragedy of the 
 story is accidental, and the heroine 
 gradually absorbs the interest and 
 the attention of the reader. The 
 author almost invariably leaves her 
 chief characters looking sadly, if 
 not hopelessly, into the future. 
 
 Perhaps Miss Murfree has at- 
 398 
 
Cbarlce jegbert CraDfcocfc. 
 
 tempted an impossible task in seek 
 ing to invest the meager life and 
 primitive character of the mountain 
 eers with an annual interest. \Vhen 
 the author of "Jane Eyre" a novel 
 whose phenomenal success would 
 have greatly enhanced the value of 
 any work from her pen was im 
 portuned to write a new story, she 
 quietly answered : " I have told all 
 I knew in the last one, and I must 
 wait two or three years, till I learn 
 something more, before I can write 
 again." 
 
 But the sweep and power of Miss 
 Murfree s narrative in all her finer 
 stories is sufficient to carry the read 
 er over greater difficulties than these. 
 Story-telling is her true vocation. 
 She is no essayist or historian drawn 
 by the fashion of the time into the 
 facile fields of fiction. Fresh ma 
 terial and picturesque character lend, 
 it is true, their unique charms ; but, 
 after all, we are interested in this 
 writer chiefly on account of the 
 399 
 
Cbarles Bgbert Crafcfcocft. 
 
 stories she has to tell of the lives of 
 men and women whose traits are in 
 common with those of all times and 
 all places. While, however, the 
 reader s desire is to reach the end of 
 any of her stories and " see how it 
 comes out," still there are many 
 places where he delights to linger. 
 There are whole chapters in which 
 scene, situation, and incident are 
 handled without a flaw. The 
 situations are admirably planned, 
 the incidents inimitably related. 
 The author can be descriptive or 
 dramatic at will, and shows the 
 command of a humor which has the 
 tang but not the deep thought and 
 mellow wisdom of George Eliot s. 
 
 In the meeting between Teck 
 Jepson and Marcelly we lose sight 
 of the author, so completely does 
 she identify herself with the char 
 acters. We feel the fascination of 
 this girl as she sits upon the ledge 
 of a rock, and delight in the picture 
 of the old dog lying wheezingly 
 400 
 
Cbarles Egbert GraODocfc. 
 
 down in the folds of her blue 
 dress, " closing his eyes in a sort of 
 blinking resignation " at the rain 
 storm, or rising to yawn, " stretch 
 ing himself to his extreme length, 
 rasping his long claws on the 
 stones," and so rousing the Des 
 pot s impatience that he bids the 
 hound " hush up ! " Her stories 
 abound in these graphic scenes. 
 Nor would it be true to life if the 
 humor were left out. Chaucer, 
 Shakespeare, Scott, George Eliot, 
 Lowell, Joel Chandler Harris, Ian 
 Maclaren all English writers who 
 excel in depicting the life and char 
 acter of the common people make 
 prominent their wit and humor. It 
 is a characteristic of the race. The 
 Tennessee mountaineer is noted for 
 his dry, caustic speech, and under 
 his slow drawl and rustic manners 
 are concealed no little practical wis 
 dom and shrewd observation. Of 
 course geniality and playful fancy 
 do not flourish in so harsh a region, 
 26 401 
 
Gbarles j$bert Grafcfcocfe. 
 
 but there is no lack of pungent, 
 pithy sayings. This humor per 
 vades the mountains. " Wall, pears 
 like to me," says the filly-like Mi- 
 randy Jane, " ez Brother Jake To- 
 bin sets mo store on chicken fixin s 
 than on grace, an he fattens ev y 
 year." Old Mis Cayce quaintly 
 remarks : " I member when I war 
 a gal whisky war so cheap that up 
 to the store at the settlemint they d 
 hev a bucket set full o whisky an 
 a gourd, free fur all comers, an 
 another bucket alongside with wa 
 ter ter season it. An the way 
 that thar water lasted war surpri- 
 sin ; that it war ! " The dull old 
 constable declares that " sech spell- 
 in as Clem Sanders kin do oughter 
 be agin the law ! It air agin every 
 law o spellin . Clem ought to be 
 hung a leetle fur each offense. It 
 jes fixes him in his criminal conduct 
 agin the alphabet." Dorinda Cayce, 
 when the sheriff, who has just en 
 joyed her mother s good dinner, ac- 
 402 
 
Gbarles JE0bcrt Gra&fcocfc. 
 
 cuses her of harboring a fugitive, 
 quietly remarks: " Pears like ter 
 me ez we gin aid an comfort ter 
 the officer o" the law ez well ez we 
 could." Letitia Pettingill s bright 
 sayings lighten up many a page 
 of " In the Stranger Peoples Coun 
 try," as well as the lot of the seem 
 ingly deserted wife ; and Marcelly s 
 imperative old grandmother makes 
 the doctor, and many another, writhe 
 under the hail of her stinging sar 
 casm. Without this pungent hu 
 mor the distinct flavor of the inner 
 life of the strange, unique inhabit 
 ants of the -mountains would be 
 lost. 
 
 Here, then, we have originality, 
 robust vigor, womanly insight, and 
 the charm of a born story-teller 
 brought to bear with genuine art 
 upon a fresh field and a unique civ 
 ilization. Much of her later work 
 may have suffered from an attach 
 ment to the narrow sphere of the 
 mountain folk ; but such are her 
 403 
 
Cbarles Egbert Gra&fcocfc. 
 
 strength of purpose and great capa 
 bility that it is not unreasonable yet 
 to expect the complete fulfilment of 
 the promise of her earlier work, if 
 the larger world may demand 
 share of her attention and energies 
 404 
 
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