Chapter II

Now the ocean's bitter cup
Meets your trembling lip;
Now on deathly woes you sup;
And your humbled pride looks up
From Disaster's grip.
Ruin's nets around you weave;
But I have no time to grieve;
I will promptly, I believe,
Build another ship.

TO THE CARLETON CIRCLE

(Of Hudson, Michigan: the Author's native town)

[In response to their Request for a Word of Greeting at their Annual Reunion, Monday Evening, July 26, 1886.]

Sometimes there comes to me a word of cheer,
From yonder region where the sun goes down;
Where I have often watched him disappear,
And leave awhile the jewels of his crown.
That voice glides over Erie's stormy edge--
It climbs the Alleghanies' rugged ledge,
And tarries not for dale or mountain crest,
Till it makes music in my own home-nest.

It says, "We would be better, wiser, truer,
Each day we live; the best that is in us,
We aim to nourish, that it may endure,
And pray that God will help our striving thus.
With reason-builded curiousness we yearn
The depths of history's changing tides to learn;
The weird discoveries that proud science made,
And the pen's song--we ask them all for aid."

The old town marches eastward to the sea;
Roofs, windows, belfries, door--stones all are here;
Again its busy streets encompass me--
Their outlines never looked so full and clear.
Shop, factory, office, church and clattering mill;
The trim red school-house smiling from the hill;
The mimic river with its placid tide,
The quaint old graveyard lingering by its side;

And all the home-made dramas of the past,
Are acted over with a mellower grace;
The wedding-bells that rang so loud and fast--
The sombre funeral, with its village pace;
The young full-blooded boys that roamed the street;
The old men Death was walking out to meet;
The good grandames whose gossip whipped the hours;
The girls with faces stolen from the flowers;

Those forms I knew, in reappearing hosts,
Crowd every corner, as on gala days;
They throng the mind--these silent memory-ghosts,
Then sadly smile, and vanish from the gaze.
And some I loved beyond all words' control,
And some I hated with an uncurbed soul
(For he who likes this world, and means to stay,
Must yearn, and toil, and love, and _fight_ his way).

All this was for the best; and now in love
We look at those who once awakened ire;
If we but lift our hearts and souls above,
The crushing waves will only lift us higher.
Ere you once more return to shadow-land,
Dead friend--dead foe--I clasp you by the hand!
It may be now that you on whom I call,
Look at the earth-feuds as exceeding small!

And now there float to me some words of cheer,
From yonder region where the sun goes down;
From kindred souls, whose presence would be dear--
From the _loved living_ of my native town!
To prove once more an old truth it may serve,
That God e'er gives men more than they deserve,
That 'mid the struggles of your lofty aim,
You look this way and call to me by name.

Ah, would that I were worthy of the task,
To see that all your diamonds were saved!
'Tis the best joy that any one can ask--
To give to others what himself has craved.
Whoe'er can teach you life's most brilliant art,
To make the most of body, mind, and heart--
Will feel that fact, his inmost being bless,
More than the costliest jewels of success!

Sometimes there comes a blessed word of cheer
From yonder region where the sun shines high;
It brings a joy, it casts out every fear;
It is the motto of th' eternal sky!
_Be true_, _be brave_, _be faithful_; let your heart
With worldly joys and sorrows take their part;
While brain and soul cling to the gleaming cars
Whose goal is Heaven--whose stations are the stars.

THE SANCTUM KING.

THE SANCTUM KING.

[READ AT THE TWENTY-SIXTH ANNUAL CONVENTION OF THE NEW YORK PRESS ASSOCIATION, AT JAMESTOWN, N.Y., JUNE 7, 1882.]

If one who, midst alternate joy and care,
Has occupied an editorial chair,
Has solved some mysteries that its methods take,
And learned how easy papers are to make,
Has undergone from friends much mental aid,
And wondered where on earth they learned his trade,
Has heard from them how papers should be run,
How things they never have to do, are done,
Has wrestled, in a match he could not shirk,
With the world, flesh, and--lad of general work--
But now, grown poor, has left for some time-space,
The hard, but weirdly fascinating place--
If such an one may use, not seeming free,
The editorial and fraternal "We,"
And, speaking to this band without offense,
May use his us-ship in the present tense,
Then, let us, with your kind permission, sing
A note or two about The Sanctum King.

But first the question, who this king of fame?
Whence comes his power, and what may be his name?
With modesty peculiar to the race,
No editor pretends to fill that place;
For editors, be rulers as they will,
Are greatly ruled by their surroundings still;
All men and things, to some extent, control
The journalist's intent and nervous soul.
Influences press round him, in a host;
So what we seek, is, That which rules him most;
What of all men and things that 'gainst him press,
Bears most upon his failure or success?
Upon this ground, what man, or beast, or thing,
Can claim the title of The Sanctum King?

Is it the Pen? O Pen! we hear thy praise,
Wherever Mind has walked its devious ways!
Thought has been born, in every land and age
Where thy thin lips have kissed the virgin page!
'Twas thee Dan Chaucer used, in time agone,
To goad the Canterbury pilgrims on;
From thee Ben Jonson filled with gold the air,
And made his name a jewel rich and "rare;"
Of thee The Shakespeare, in his soul sublime,
Forged for himself a sceptre, for all time;
With thee bold Milton groped, his eyes thick sealed,
And wrote his name on Heaven's own battle-field;
Thee, Robert Burns, voice of the heart's best song,
Fashioned into a bagpipe sweet and strong;
Thee, Thomas Moore--his soul to music set--
Made to an Irish harp that echoes yet;
With thee Longfellow struck a home-made lyre,
And wrote "America," in lines of fire!
Through thy sharp, quivering point, words have been given,
Out of the flaming lexicons of Heaven!
O Pen! When in the old-time school-house, we
Strove, 'neath our teacher's rod, to master thee,
And, twisting down upon some sad old desk,
With doleful air and attitude grotesque,
And with protruding tongue and beating heart,
Took our first lessons in the graphic art,
And that old copy on the paper poured,
Saying, "The Pen is mightier than the Sword,"
And then, from sudden and dynamic stroke,
The pen we leaned on, into fragments broke,
Some angel told our inexperienced youth,
That, after all, that copy told the truth!
O Pen! What if thy paper purses hold
Some coin that never came from wisdom's mould!

What if thou writest countless reams on reams
Of manuscript, to trouble printers' dreams!
What if thy cheap and easy-wielded prongs,
Indite each year a hundred thousand songs,
In ink of various copiousness and shade--
On every subject Earth and Heaven have made!
What if thou shovest 'neath the printer's nose,
Cords of mis-spelled, unpunctuated prose!
What if, picked from the wing of senseless goose,
Thou'rt still by that loud biped oft in use!
Thou'rt sometimes plucked from Wisdom's glittering wing;
And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King!

Is it The Pencil? Sad would be the lot
Of any sanctum where this help were not!
Turn, Faber, in thy half-forgotten grave,
And see the branches of thy bay-tree wave!
See Dickens, still by glory's wreaths untouched,
Pencil 'twixt first and second fingers clutched,
Transcribing, in his nervous, dashing way,
The parliamentary rubbish of the day!
Him on his rapid homeward journey see;
An omnibus for office, and his knee
Extemporized into a desk, whereon
He writes what lesser men have said and done!
See Thackeray, through English streets and vales,
Make notes and sketches for his wondrous tales,
See Bryant, sage apostle of the wood,
And quiet champion of the true and good,
Echo of every breeze's soft-blown breath,
Sweetest of all apologists of Death,
Leave the surroundings of the heath and field,
The pencil of the journalist to wield!
See Prentice, thorny genius, using it
For the electric charges of his wit;
See Saxe from mountain eyries take his flight,
His wings with editorial radiance bright;
See Whittier--angels spare him long to men!--
Whose pencil served apprentice to his pen;
See Taylor, travelling many a useful mile,
Grasp a reporter's pencil all the while;
See Holland--sweetly noble household name--
Lean on the pencil, on his way to fame;
See, bending the reporter's page above,
Artemus Ward--light laughter's dearest love!
See thousands of the loftiest of the land,
First learn to write an editorial hand!
And, Pencil, with such aids as thou canst find,
Thou'rt courted, feared, and watched, by all mankind;
They seek thy love; they wither 'neath thy hate;
With anxious hearts thy verdicts they await.
That statesman, who unflinching can withstand
His foeman's broadsides, with brave self-command,
That lawyer, who can bully at the bar
Judge, witness, jury--no odds who they are--
That doctor, who has sallied forth thro' storms,
To fight with Death, in all his moods and forms,
That general, who, when battle-banners wave,
Can spur his foaming charger toward the grave,
All these, when interviewers near them glide,
Sometimes, like startled children, run and hide.
Yes, Pencil, thou art potent in thy sting!
And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King.

Rise up, John Guttenberg, from lands remote,
And let us hear thy guttural German throat;
Now that the harvest that thou sowedst is ripe,
Make prominent the royal claims of Type!
Those type that rose, like treasures from the main,
Out of the deep abysses of thy brain!
Old jeweller, Heaven grant thou knowest yet,
What diamonds thine aching fingers set!
Wherever Mind once groped in halls of night,
They flashed and flared their weird electric light;
Wherever Thought has lit its streaming flame,
They spell the letters of thy awkward name!
When first the office boy assails the "case,"
With "stick" and "rule" held awkwardly in place,
When through his "copy" timidly he spells,
Thrusting his fingers knee-deep in the cells,
And draws the type forth, looking, when 'tis done,
In each one's face, to see if that's the one;
When, raising them and holding them aloof,
Ere putting them to most outrageous proof,
He drops the whole into a shapeless "pi,"
And looks at them forlornly, as they lie,
Little he knows, amid his small turmoils,
The nature of those things, 'mid which he toils!
Little he knows, as gazing still he stands,
He may have dropped an empire from his hands!
Yes, Type, thy voice is loud, for war or peace;
Its mighty influence nevermore may cease;
Unnumbered happenings from thy efforts spring;
And yet, we cannot hail thee Sanctum King!

What then strikes most our failure or success?
Is it the strong and swiftly whirling Press?
Improved by rare Ben Franklin's earliest art
(God bless his dear old sweet progressive heart!
The patron saint of printers let him stand,
Ever--in every English-speaking land!).
Is it the Press, made multiform by Hoe,
Who lives, the triumph of his brain to know,
And views his monster proudly, as it drips
Fresh news from off its tapering finger-tips?
Far can the Press its many mandates fling;
And yet we cannot hail it Sanctum King!

Who then this Sanctum King, of mighty fame?
Is it that lad of uncelestial name,
Who, like the wretch whose title he has found,
Takes all the maledictions floating round?
Who quaffs, with surly, mock-respectful stare,
The surplus blueness of the office air?
Who all our secrets in a week doth know;
Whose brain is active as his feet are slow?
Who pleads from every negligence or trick,
With tongue as agile as his hands are thick?
Who creeps the editor's seclusion near,
And yells for "copy!" in his weakest ear?
Who when on errands swiftly sent, would spurn
To embarrass you by an o'er-quick return;
And creeps along his course, when under sail,
Like an old fish-boat, beating 'gainst a gale?
Who some day, if his brilliant hopes be sound,
May mount The Great Profession's topmost round,
But who, by undue energy uncursed,
Is climbing very moderately at first?
Pity the devil! for he much endures!
He has his griefs, as well as you have yours.
If "Uncle Toby," for his good heart famed,
Pitied the one for whom the boy was named,
Then may we make allowance for the elf,
And pity this poor blundering boy himself.
The day may not be very far ahead,
When he his genius on our craft will shed;
Will all at once develop hidden worth,
And as a full-fledged editor come forth.
Let us then justice to this poor boy bring,
Call him--say--Sanctum Prince--not quite a King.

Paste-pot and scissors! raise thy sticky hands,
And make on us imperial demands!
Not over-often comes the day or hour
We're not indebted to thy magic power;
To all of us the obligation clings;
Thou art our foragers--but not our kings!

Is it that "friend," whom editors adore,
Who calls "a minute" of three hours or more,
Who occupies the easiest vacant chair,
With large amounts of time and tongue to spare?
Who opens our exchanges, one by one,
And reads our editorials ere they're done?
Who gives us items, sparkling, fresh, and new,
But ne'er, by any turn of fortune, true?
Who comments on our mode of writing makes,
And tenderly announces our mistakes?
Who occupies, with sweet, unconscious air,
Three-fourths of all the room we have to spare,
And with a cheerful, love-begetting smile,
Kills his own time, and murders us meanwhile?
Who shows us, with unnecessary pains,
The sharp things that some other sheet contains?
Who hands us every word, from far and near,
That he against our enterprise can hear?
Sweet are the consolations he can bring;
And yet we cannot call him Sanctum King!

Who then, or what, this king of mighty fame?
Whence comes his power, and what may be his name?
May we not, with some show of truthful grace,
Put The Waste Basket in that honored place?
The question 'mongst good talkers, day by day,
Should be, what is it wisest _not_ to say?
The question with good workers who'd be true,
Should be, what is it wisest _not_ to do?
The minister his judgment should beseech,
To know what sermons wisely _not_ to preach;
The editor should study, without stint,
What articles 'tis wisest _not_ to print;
And so I ask, the question home to bring--
Is The Waste Basket not The Sanctum King?
Great treasurer of literary gems!
Casket of unsuspected diadems!
Sad cemetery, where in dreamless sleep,
Some millions of bright hopes lie buried deep!
Joy to the editor, who, keen of sight,
Knows his Waste Basket how to use aright;
Who marks its prudent counsels, day by day,
And rules himself its mandates to obey!
Prints no cheap advertisement for a song,
But straight inserts them--where the things belong;
Kills those communications whose sour fruit
Would probably have been--a libel suit;
Rejects that trash his desk so often finds,
Unfit to set before his readers' minds;
And sends the scum of malice, filth and spite,
To be made into paper, pure and white!
Let The Waste Basket's countless merits ring;
But still it is not quite The Sanctum King!

So, then, if none of those of which I speak,
Is vested with the qualities we seek,
Let us once more inquire, untouched by blame,
Who is this wondrous king, of mighty fame?
List then, while plain his name to you I bring,
THE PUBLIC HEART! That is The Sanctum King!

Yes, 'mid unceasing worry and turmoil,
To serve that Heart, the Editor must toil;
Under Its bidding must his efforts be;
It forms part of "the editorial We."
Why do the papers gossip, would you know?
Because--the public ear would have it so.
Our journal's not a favorite breakfast-dish,
Unless it gossips to the public wish;
And even they who call "the stuff absurd,"
Will sit and groan, and--read it every word.
Why do we thread men's motives thro' and thro'?
Because our king, The Public, tells us to!
Why do we quote the wedding chimes and hues?
Because our Queen is waiting for the news.
Why do we type on useless stories waste?
To please some portions of the public taste!
Why do we into secret haunts repair?
Because a curious public sends us there!
Why do we tell the crimes of all the lands?
Because The Public Heart their tale demands!
Why are we deep in politics immersed?
Because The Public fought and quarreled first!

Why do we toil with all that we possess?
Because The Public Brain will take no less!
Acknowledged let our proud position be:
The Public Heart's prime-ministers are we!

Men of the Press! to us is given, indeed,
To shape the growing appetites we feed!
We must from day to day and week to week,
To elevate our Monarch's motives seek,
That he may, with an open, liberal hand,
Higher and higher things of us demand!
So let us cut our own progressive way--
So onward toil, through darkness and through day;
So let us in our labor persevere,
Unspoiled by praise--untouched by blame or fear;
Learn to distinguish, with true, patient art,
The private pocket from The Public Heart;
Learn how to guide that Heart, in every choice,
And give its noblest thoughts its purest voice!
Till so The Press The Public Heart may move,
That day by day they mutually improve:
That high and higher each the other bring,
Till God Himself shall be The Sanctum King!

STRAY STANZAS.

LINES TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[IN BOSTON LITERARY WORLD'S "WELCOME" NUMBER, JUNE 27, 1885.]

With love not even he could wake,
Save in his fatherland,
We reach a Yankee grasp, and take
Hosea by the hand.
With smiles of praise, that need must throng
With sympathizing tears,
We greet our prince of prose and song,
In his maturer years;
For words that made a shining track,
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
We lift our hearts, and welcome back
Our statesman to his home.

TO MONSIEUR PASTEUR.

[UPON HIS DISCOVERY OF INOCULATION FOR HYDROPHOBIA.]

O good Monsieur Pasteur! your humanized art
Has thrilled every brain, and has touched every heart;
Man's friendliest beast--by disease tortured sore,
Henceforth is a poisonous reptile no more;
Now please find a cure to our maladies when
This poor world is bitten by mad-minded men!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

[FOR WHOM TWO HARVARD STUDENTS ENGAGED IN A GAME OF FISTICUFFS.]

'Tis something to be sought for, O maiden archly fair--
And to be bravely fought for; but, sweet one, have a care!
The "slugger" tribe (the fact is) when business with them thrives,
Are sometimes prone to practice their art upon their wives!

DEATH OF THE RICHEST MAN.

He owned, to-day, a large and gleaming share
Of this earth's narrow rim;
A sigh--a groan--a gesture of despair--
The earth owned him.
The richest one of any clime or land,
The old-time lesson taught;
A human mine of gold!--God raised His hand,
And he had nought.

TO THE SMOTHERED MINERS.

Oh men who died in tombs,
Away from the life of the sun,
Down in the griefs and glooms
Of a day forever done:
The life of that senseless coal
Will some day seek the air;
And Heaven will claim each soul
Of your bodies buried there.

THE DEATHLESS SONG.

[TELEGRAPHED TO THE JOHN HOWARD PAYNE OBSEQUIES AT WASHINGTON, 1883.]

Although to-day with reverent tread
I may not join your throng,
My heart is with the living dead
Who wrote the deathless song.

ON A "POET"-CRITIC.

Disgruntled ----, by failure spoiled
Into a living frown,
With pens by his own "poems" spoiled,
Writes younger authors down:
Sick serpent of the growler tribes,
Your victims might do worse;
They'd rather bear your shallow gibes,
Than write your dawdling verse.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes.

1. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by
=equal signs=.

2. Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently
corrected.