Chapter IX: Introduction (7)

WITH no commanding antecedents to support him, Richard Henry Stoddard has, step by step, fought his way to a position which is alike creditable to his indomitable energy and his genius. Stoddard was born July 2, 1825, at Hingham, Mass. His father was a sea-captain, who, while the poet was yet in his early youth, sailed for Sweden. Tidings of his vessel never came back,――this was in 1835. The mother removed, the same year, with her son to New York, where he attended the public schools of the city. Necessity compelled the widow, as soon as his age permitted, to put young Stoddard to work, and he was placed in an iron foundry to learn this trade. “Here he worked for some years,” says one of his biographers, “dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even then moulding his thoughts into the symmetry of verse while he moulded the moulten metal into shapes of grace.” At the same time he pursued a course of private reading and study, and began to write poems and sketches for his own pleasure.

It was in 1847 that the earliest blossoms of his genius appeared in the “Union Magazine,” which gave evidence that his mind as well as his body was toiling. In 1848 he issued a small volume of poems entitled, “Footprints,” which contained some pieces of merit; but he afterwards suppressed the entire edition. About this time his health failed and, to recuperate, he gave up, temporarily, his mechanical vocation; but literature took such possession of him that he never returned to the foundry.

In 1852 he issued his second volume entitled, “Poems,” and became a regular contributor to the magazines. In 1860 he was made literary editor of the “New York World,” which position he retained until 1870, and since 1880 he has held a similar position on the “New York Mail and Express.” He, also, from 1853 to 1873 held a government position in the Custom House of New York. During this time Mr. Stoddard also edited a number of works with prefaces and introductions by himself, among which may be mentioned the “Bric-a-Brac Series.” Prominent titles of the author’s own books are “Songs of Summer,” which appeared in 1856; “The King’s Bell,” a series of most delicate suggestive pictures, (1862); “Abraham Lincoln, A Horatian Ode,” (1865); “The Book of the East,” poems, (1871); a collective edition entitled, “Poems,” (1880), and “The Lion’s Cub,” poems, (1890).

One of our most eminent literary critics declares: “Mr. Stoddard’s mind is essentially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness. His style is characterized by purity and grace of expression. He is a master of rythmical melody and his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is no rude writing. All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol which strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, and the moon that silvers his roof are to him things that play an intimate part in his existence. Thus in all his poems will be found an echo from an internal to an external nature, the harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.”

Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, the wife of the author, has shared heartily in the literary labors of her husband, assisting him in his compilations, and is, herself, author of numerous contributions to the magazines and a number of pleasing poems. She has also written several novels.

A dinner was given to Mr. Stoddard by the Author’s Club at the Hotel Savoy on March 25th, 1897, at which more than one hundred and fifty persons gathered to do honor to the venerable poet. Mr. E. C. Stedman, the poet, presided, and good talk abounded. It is impossible in this space to give any extended note of the addresses. Letters of regret were received from many friends of Mr. Stoddard who were unable to be present, including Bishop Potter, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, Dr. Andrew D. White, William Allen Butler, Donald G. Mitchell, James Whitcomb Riley and others.

The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik Marvel), closed in these words:

“There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell him so, and that only the weakness of age――quickened by this wintry March――keeps me from putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the roll-call of your guests.”

The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him:

O princely poet! kingly heir
Of gifts divinely sent――
Your own――nor envy anywhere,
Nor voice of discontent.

Though, of ourselves, all poor are we,
And frail and weak of wing,
Your height is ours――your ecstasy,
Your glory, where you sing.

Most favored of the gods and great
In gifts beyond our store,
We covet not your rich estate,
But prize our own the more.

The gods give as but gods may do;
We count our riches thus――
They gave their richest gifts to you,
And then gave you to us.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

Mr. Stoddard responded to Mr. Riley and others in the poem quoted below, which shows the vigor of mind and spirit enjoyed by this venerable poet of three score years and ten and five, on whom the snows of three-quarters of a century have fallen so lightly that they seem but to have mellowed rather than weakened his powers.

* * * * *

A CURTAIN CALL.

GENTLEMEN: If I have any right
To come before you here to-night
It is conferred on me by you,
And more for what I tried to do
Than anything that I have done.
A start, perhaps, a race not won!
But ’tis not wholly lost, I see,
For you, at least, believe in me.
Comrades, nay, fellows, let me say,
Since life at most is but a play,
And we are players, one and all,
And this is but a curtain call,
If I were merely player here,
And this assumption of his part,
I might pretend to drop a tear,
And lay my hand upon my heart
And say I could not speak, because
I felt so deeply your applause!
I cannot do this, if I would;
I can but thank you, as I should,
And take the honors you bestow――
A largess, not a lawful claim;
My share thereof is small, I know,
But from your hands to-night is fame――
A precious crown in these pert days
Of purchased or of self-made bays;
You give it――I receive it, then,
Though rather for your sake than mine.
A long and honorable line
Is yours――the Peerage of the Pen,
Founded when this old world was young,
And need was to preserve for men
(Lost else) what had been said and sung,
Tales our forgotten fathers told,
Dimly remembered from of old,
Sonorous canticles and prayers,
Service of elder gods than theirs
Which they knew not; the epic strain
Wherein dead peoples lived again!
A long, unbroken line is ours;
It has outlived whole lines of kings,
Seen mighty empires rise and fall,
And nations pass away like flowers――
Ruin and darkness cover all!
Nothing withstands the stress and strain,
The endless ebb and flow of things,
The rush of Time’s resistless wings!
Nothing? One thing, and not in vain,
One thing remains: Letters remain!
Your art and mine, yours more than mine,
Good fellows of the lettered line,
To whom I owe this Curtain Call,
I thank you all, I greet you all.
Noblesse oblige! But while I may,
Another word, my last, maybe:
When this life-play of mine is ended,
And the black curtain has descended,
Think kindly as you can of me,
And say, for you may truly say,
“This dead player, living, loved his part,
And made it noble as he could,
Not for his own poor personal good,
But for the glory of his art!”

* * * * *

HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.

MY heart is full of tenderness and tears,
And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why;
With all my grief, content to live for years,
Or even this hour to die.
My youth is gone, but that I heed not now;
My love is dead, or worse than dead can be;
My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough,
But nothing troubles me,
Only the golden flush of sunset lies
Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!

Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe’er thou art,
I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charméd hour,
And fills my charmed heart;
Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow;
Thou canst not be forgot,
For all men worship thee, and know it not;
Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes,
New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!

We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,
The gift and heirloom of a former state,
And lie in infancy at Heaven’s gate,
Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands!
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,
And up and down the skies,
With winged sandals shod,
The angels come, and go, the messengers of God!
Nor do they, fading from us, e’er depart,――
It is the childish heart;
We walk as heretofore,
Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore!
Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears,
Groping our way along the downward slope of years!

From earliest infancy my heart was thine;
With childish feet I trod thy temple aisle;
Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles,
Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine!
By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,――
I saw thee everywhere!
A voice of greeting from the wind was sent;
The mists enfolded me with soft white arms;
The birds did sing to lap me in content,
The rivers wove their charms,
And every little daisy in the grass
Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass!

Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,
Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame;
We feel a growing want we cannot name,
And long for something sweet, but undefined;
The wants of Beauty other wants create,
Which overflow on others soon or late;
For all that worship thee must ease the heart,
By Love, or Song, or Art:
Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,
Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine;
And Music leads her sister Poesy,
In exultation shouting songs divine!
But on thy breast Love lies,――immortal child!――
Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild:
The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love!

Not from the things around us do we draw
Thy light within; within the light is born;
The growing rays of some forgotten morn,
And added canons of eternal law.
The painter’s picture, the rapt poet’s song,
The sculptor’s statue, never saw the Day;
Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay,
Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong;
Hue after hue divinest pictures grow,
Line after line immortal songs arise,
And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow,
The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes!
And in the master’s mind
Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind,
That echoes through a range of ocean caves,
And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves!
The mystery is thine,
For thine the more mysterious human heart,
The temple of all wisdom, Beauty’s shrine,
The oracle of Art!

Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath;
Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth?
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,――
But all the keys of Death;
And all the worlds, with all that they contain
Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone;
The universe is girdled with a chain,
And hung below the throne
Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,――
Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!

* * * * *

A DIRGE.

A FEW frail summers had touched thee,
As they touch the fruit;
Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine,
Not so sweet as thy voice the lute.
Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over:
An urn of white ashes remains;
Nothing else save the tears in our eyes,
And our bitterest, bitterest pains!

We garland the urn with white roses,
Burn incense and gums on the shrine,
Play old tunes with the saddest of closes,
Dear tunes that were thine!
But in vain, all in vain;
Thou art gone――we remain!

* * * * *

THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.

YOU were very charming, Madam,
In your silks and satins fine;
And you made your lovers drunken,
But it was not with your wine!
There were court gallants in dozens,
There were princes of the land,
And they would have perished for you
As they knelt and kissed your hand――
_For they saw no stain upon it,_
_It was such a snowy hand!_

But for me――I knew you better,
And, while you were flaunting there,
I remembered some one lying,
With the blood on his white hair!
He was pleading for you, Madam,
Where the shriven spirits stand;
But the Book of Life was darkened,
By the Shadow of a Hand!
_It was tracing your perdition,_
_For the blood upon your hand!_

* * * * *

A SERENADE.

THE moon is muffled in a cloud,
That folds the lover’s star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.

If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathed lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.

She hears me not; her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep;――
But Music turns the golden key
Within the gate of Sleep!

Then let her sleep, and if I fail
To set her spirit free!
My song shall mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me!

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

WALT WHITMAN.

AUTHOR OF “LEAVES OF GRASS.”

PERHAPS the estimates of critics differ more widely respecting the merits or demerits of Whitman’s verse than on that of any other American or English poet. Certain European critics regard him as the greatest of all modern poets. Others, both in this country and abroad, declare that his so called poems are not poems at all, but simply a bad variety of prose. One class characterizes him the “poet of democracy; the spokesman of the future; full of brotherliness and hope, loving the warm, gregarious pressure of the crowd and the touch of his comrade’s elbow in the ranks.” The other side, with equal assurance, assert that the Whitman _culte_ is the passing fad of a few literary men, and especially of a number of foreign critics like Rosetti, Swinburne and Buchanan, who were determined to find something unmistakably American――that is, different from anything else――and Whitman met this demand both in his personality and his verse. They further declared that his poetry was superlatively egotistical, his principal aim being always to laud himself. This criticism they prove by one of his own poems entitled “Walt Whitman,” in which he boldly preaches his claim to the love of the masses by declaring himself a “typical average man” and therefore “not individual” but “universal.”

Perhaps it is better in the scope of this article to leave Walt Whitman between the fires of his laudators on one side and of his decriers on the other. Certainly the canons of poetic art will never consent to the introduction of some things that he has written into the treasure-house of the muses. For instance,――

“And (I) remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck
and ankles;
He stayed with me a week before he was recuperated and passed
North.”

These worse than prosaic lines do not require a critic to declare them devoid of any element of poetry. But on the other hand, that Whitman had genius is undeniable. His stalwart verse was often beautifully rhythmic and the style which he employed was nobly grand. Time will sift the wheat from the chaff, consuming the latter and preserving the golden grains of true poetry to enrich the future garners of our great American literature. No one of the many tributes to Lincoln, not even Lowell’s noble eulogy, is more deeply charged with exalted feeling than is Whitman’s dirge for Abraham Lincoln written after the death of the President, in which the refrain “O Captain, my Captain,” is truly beautiful. Whitman was no mean master in ordinary blank verse, to which he often reverted in his most inspiring passages.

One of the chief charms of Whitman’s poetry consists in the fact that the author seems to feel, himself, always happy and cheerful, and he writes with an ease and abandon that is pleasant to follow. Like one strolling about aimlessly amid pleasing surroundings, he lets his fancy and his senses play and records just what they see or dictate. This characteristic, perhaps, accounts for the fact that his single expressions are often unsurpassed for descriptive beauty and truth, such as the reference to the prairies, “where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles.” Whoever used a more original and striking figure? Many of his poems strikingly remind one in their constructions (but not in religious fervor) to the Psalms of David. There is also often a depth of passion and an intoxication in his rhythmic chant that is found perhaps in no other writer, as this specimen, personifying night, will illustrate:

“Press close, bare-bosomed night! Press close, magnetic,
nourishing night!
Night of the South wind! Night of the few larger stars! still,
nodding night! Mad, naked, summer night!”

Again, Whitman was always hopeful. Like Emerson, he renounced all allegiance to the past, and looked confidently to the future. And this reminds us that Emerson wrote the introductory to the first edition of “Leaves of Grass,” which suggests that that writer may have exerted no small influence in forming Whitman’s style, for the vagueness of his figures, his disconnected sentences, and occasionally his verbiage, are not unlike those of the “Concord Prophet.” Again, the question arises, did he not seek, like Emerson, to be the founder of a school of authorship? His friendliness toward young authors and his treatment of them indicate this, and the following he has raised up attests the success he attained, whether sought or unsought. But the old adage, “like king like people,” has a deal of truth in it; and as Whitman was inferior to Emerson in the exaltation of his ideals, and the unselfishness and sincerity of his nature, so his followers must fall short of the accomplishments of those who sat at the feet of “the good and great Emerson.”

Walt Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819, and was educated at the public schools of Brooklyn and New York. Subsequently he followed various occupations, among which were those of printer, teacher, carpenter, journalist, making in the meantime extended tours in Canada and the United States. During the Civil War he served as a volunteer nurse in the army hospitals, and at the close was appointed as government clerk at Washington. In 1873 he had a severe paralytic attack, which was followed by others, and he took up his residence in Camden, New Jersey, where he died in 1892. He was never married.

Mr. Whitman’s principal publications are “Leaves of Grass,” issued first in 1855, but he continued to add to and revise it, the “finished edition,” as he called it, appearing in 1881. Succeeding this came “Drum Taps,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,” “Sands at Seventy.” “Democratic Vista” was a prose work appearing in 1870. “Good-Bye, My Fancy,” was his last book, prepared between 1890 and his death. His complete poems and prose have also been collected in one volume.

Two recent biographies of the poet have been published: one by John Burroughs, entitled “Walt Whitman, a Study;” the other, “Walt Whitman, the Man,” by Thomas Donaldson. The titles indicate the difference in the two treatments. Both biographers are great admirers of Whitman.

* * * * *

DAREST THOU NOW, O SOUL.

The following poems are from “Leaves of Grass” and are
published by special permission of Mr. Horace L. Trauble,
Mr. Whitman’s literary executor.

DAREST thou now, O soul,
Walk out with me toward the unknown region,
Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that
land.

I know it not, O soul,
Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,
All waits undream’d of in that region, that inaccessible land.

Till when the ties loosen,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,
In Time and Space, O soul, prepared for them,
Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil,
O soul.

* * * * *

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up――for you the flag is flung――for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths――for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

* * * * *

IN ALL, MYSELF.

FROM “SONG OF MYSELF.”

The following lines have been commented upon as presenting a
strange and erratic combination of the most commonplace prose
with passionate and sublime poetic sentiment.

I AM the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me;
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecation about enough,
I show that size is only development.

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there everyone, and
still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night.

Press close bare-blossom’d night――press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of the South winds――night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night――mad naked summer night.
Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of the departed sunset――earth of the mountain misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with
blue!
Earth of the shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my
sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth――rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love――therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable, passionate love.

* * * * *

OLD IRELAND.

FAR hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother,
Once a queen, now lean and tatter’d seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel’d round her shoulders,
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope
and heir,
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most
full of love.

Yet a word, ancient mother,
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with
forehead between your knees;
O you need not sit there veil’d in your old white hair so
dishevel’d,
For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead, he is risen again, young and strong,
in another country,
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave,
What you wept for was translated, pass’d from the grave;
The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it;
And now, with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.

* * * * *

PÆAN OF JOY.

FROM “THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER.”

Reference has been made to the similarity in style manifested
in some of Whitman’s poems to the style of the Psalmist.
Certain parts of the two selections following justify the
criticism.

NOW trumpeter for thy close,
Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet,
Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope,
Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future,
Give me for once its prophecy and joy.

O glad, exulting, culminating song!
A vigor more than earth’s is in thy notes,
Marches of victory――man disenthral’d――the conqueror at last,
Hymns to the universal God from universal man――all joy!
A reborn race appears――a perfect world, all joy!
Women and men in wisdom, innocence and health――all joy!
Riotous, laughing bacchanals fill’d with joy!
War, sorrow, suffering gone――the rank earth purged――nothing
but joy left!
The ocean fill’d with joy――the atmosphere all joy!
Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of
life!
Enough to merely be! enough to breathe!
Joy! joy! all over joy!

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.

POET AND SCIENTIST.

DURING the past forty years Indiana has been prolific in producing prominent men. General Lew Wallace, James Whitcomb Riley, Joaquin Miller and Maurice Thompson are among the prominent men of letters who are natives of the “Hoosier State.”

Maurice Thompson is claimed as belonging to both the North and South, and his record, perhaps, justifies this double claim. He was born at Fairfield, Indiana, September 9th, 1844, but his parents removed to Kentucky during his childhood and subsequently to Northern Georgia. He grew up in the latter state, and was so thoroughly Southern in sentiment that he enlisted and fought in the Confederate Army. At the end of the war, however, he returned to Indiana, where he engaged with a Railway Surveying Party in which he proved himself so efficient that he was raised from a subordinate to the head position in that work, which he followed for some years. After a course of study in law, he began his practice in Crawfordsville, Indiana, the same town in which General Lew Wallace lived. It was from this section that he was elected to the legislature in 1879.

Maurice Thompson is not only a man of letters, but is a scientist of considerable ability. In 1885, he was appointed chief of the State Geological Survey. He was also a Naturalist devoting much attention to ornithology. Many of his poems and most delightful prose sketches are descriptive of bird life.

Mr. Thompson has traveled much in the United States, and his writings in various periodicals as well as his books have attracted wide attention for their original observation and extensive information while they are excelled by few modern writers for poetic richness and diction.

The first book published by this author was entitled “Hoosier Mosaics” which appeared in 1875. Since then he has issued quite a number of volumes among which are “The Witchery of Archey;” “The Tallahassee Girl;” “His Second Campaign;” “Songs of Fair Weather;” “At Loves Extremes;” “By Ways and Bird Notes;” “The Boy’s Book of Sports;” “A Banker of Bankersville;” “Sylvan Secrets;” “The Story of Louisiana;” “A Fortnight of Folly.”

In 1890 Mr. Thompson published “Bankers of Boonville” and the same year became a staff writer for the New York Independent.

* * * * *

CERES.¹

(THE GODDESS OF GRAIN.)

THE wheat was flowing ankle-deep
Across the field from side to side;
And dipping in the emerald waves,
The swallows flew in circles wide.

The sun, a moment flaring red,
Shot level rays athwart the world,
Then quenched his fire behind the hills,
With rosy vapors o’er him curled.

A sweet, insinuating calm,――
A calm just one remove from sleep,
Such as a tranquil watcher feels,
Seeing mild stars at midnight sweep

Through splendid purple deeps, and swing
Their old, ripe clusters down the west
To where, on undiscovered hills,
The gods have gathered them to rest,――

A calm like that hung over all
The dusky groves, and, filtered through
The thorny hedges, touched the wheat
Till every blade was bright with dew.

Was it a dream? We call things dreams
When we must needs do so, or own
Belief in old, exploded myths,
Whose very smoke has long since flown.

Was it a dream? Mine own eyes saw,
And Ceres came across the wheat
That, like bright water, dimpled round
The golden sandals of her feet.

¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”

* * * * *

DIANA.¹

(THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.)

SHE had a bow of yellow horn
Like the old moon at early morn.

She had three arrows strong and good,
Steel set in feathered cornel wood.

Like purest pearl her left breast shone
Above her kirtle’s emerald zone;

Her right was bound in silk well-knit,
Lest her bow-string should sever it.

Ripe lips she had, and clear gray eyes,
And hair pure gold blown hoyden-wise.

Across her face like shining mist
That with dawn’s flush is faintly kissed.

Her limbs! how matched and round and fine!
How free like song! how strong like wine!

And, timed to music wild and sweet,
How swift her silver-sandalled feet!

Single of heart and strong of hand,
Wind-like she wandered through the land.

No man (or king or lord or churl)
Dared whisper love to that fair girl.

And woe to him who came upon
Her nude, at bath, like Acteon!

So dire his fate, that one who heard
The flutter of a bathing bird,

What time he crossed a breezy wood,
Felt sudden quickening of his blood;

Cast one swift look, then ran away
Far through the green, thick groves of May;

Afeard, lest down the wind of spring
He’d hear an arrow whispering!

¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

WITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Stedman, Mr. Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remuneration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards became attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil War he was for a time with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The Weekly Journal” every Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The degree of A. M. was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard University.

Mr. Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collection of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” appeared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), “Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wyndham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896).

Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Romance” (1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),――which became at once a favorite by its naturalness and purity of spirit,――“♦Marjorie Daw and Other People” (1873), “Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883), “The Sisters Tragedy” (1890), “An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” (1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were published in 1897. Mr. Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine:

♦ ‘Majorie’ replaced with ‘Marjorie’

During a visit to England, upon one occasion, Mr. Aldrich was the guest of William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journalist of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of poets, met Mr. Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. The last night of their stay came, and after dinner Mr. Black made a little speech, in which he spoke of Mr. Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London journalist gave a gasp, and looked at Mr. Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and said:――

“Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books?”

“Yes,” Mr. Aldrich said. “I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked me for myself.”

Illustration: THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.

* * * * *

ALEC YEATON’S SON.¹

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.

THE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,
And the white caps flecked the sea;
“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,
“I had not my boy with me!”

Snug in the stern-sheets, little John
Laughed as the scud swept by;
But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan
As he watched the wicked sky.

“Would he were at his mother’s side!”
And the skipper’s eyes were dim.
“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
What would become of him!

“For me――my muscles are as steel,
For me let hap what may:
I might make shift upon the keel
Until the break o’ day.

“But he, he is so weak and small,
So young, scarce learned to stand――
O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in thy hand!

“For Thou, who markest from on high
A sparrow’s fall――each one!――
Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye
On Alec Yeaton’s son!”

Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailed
Towards the headland light:
The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,
And black, black fell the night.

Then burst a storm to make one quail
Though housed from winds and waves――
They who could tell about that gale
Must rise from watery graves!

Sudden it came, as sudden went;
Ere half the night was sped,
The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,
And the stars shone overhead.

Now, as the morning mist grew thin,
The folk on Gloucester shore
Saw a little figure floating in
Secure, on a broken oar!

Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck!
Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”――
They knew it, though ’t was but a speck
Upon the edge of death!

Long did they marvel in the town
At God His strange decree,
That let the stalwart skipper drown
And the little child go free!

¹ By special permission of the Author.

* * * * *

ON LYNN TERRACE.¹

ALL day to watch the blue wave curl and break,
All night to hear it plunging on the shore――
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,
I cannot ask for more.

Behind me lie the idle life and vain,
The task unfinished, and the weary hours;
That long wave softly bears me back to Spain
And the Alhambra’s towers!

Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,
To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;
Below, against the dull esparto grass,
The almonds glimmer white.

Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,
Invite my fancy, and I wander through
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns
The world’s first sailors knew.

Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;
Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,
Venice salutes my eyes.

Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;
I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,
And catch, through slits of windows here and there,
Blue glimpses of the Rhine.

Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld,
And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s fires
Light up the white-walled Russian citadel,
The Kremlin’s domes and spires.

And now I linger in green English lanes,
By garden plots of rose and heliotrope;
And now I face the sudden pelting rains
On some lone Alpine slope.

Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,
I saunter, and the merchants at the doors
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,
And curved knives of the Moors;

Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;
What would Howadji――silver, gold, or stone?
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates
The camels make their moan.

All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,
High on the windy terrace, day by day;
And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear,
Ringing across the bay.

For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;
For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;
And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,
And hollow caves of night.

¹ By special permission of the Author.

* * * * *

SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”

By Permission of the Author.

WHAT face which no man ever saw
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet’s awe
And Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle light
Looks from this frame. A master’s hand
Has set the master-player here,
In the fair temple¹ that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! “It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us――
Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!”
Sad words that shall be said some day――
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
Spare long this image of his prime,
That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!

¹ The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift
of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him and named
“The Players.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”

AMONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary preliminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the world of letters――having not this passport through the gateway――it is the more indicative of the “real genius” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an applauding public.

Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father, Rev. Wm. H. Gilder. Mr. Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to study for that profession in Philadelphia; but the death of his father, in 1864, made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, New Jersey, “Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he resigned and founded the “Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as joint editor. The next year, Mr. Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called to New York as editor of “Hours at Home,” a monthly journal.

His editorials in “Hours at Home” attracted public attention, and some of his poems were recognized as possessing superior merit. Dr. G. Holland, editor of “Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, in 1870, it became the “Century Magazine,” Dr. Holland chose Mr. Gilder as his associate editor. On the death of Dr. Holland, in 1881, Mr. Gilder became editor-in-chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes of poems, among which are “The New Day;” “The Poet and His Master’; “Lyrics;” and “The Celestial Passion.”

Aside from his literary works, Mr. Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “spoils-hunting partisan class,” but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. Thus “he was born,” as the saying goes, “with printer’s ink in his veins.” When sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made――running over a period of eight months――vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done much good also in other cities.

Mr. Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no stauncher friend than he. His address on “Public Opinion” has been delivered by invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty as it should be taught by our institutions of learning:――

“Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are scattered throughout our country? They are the responsible press, and the unsensational but fearless pulpit――it is these that must discriminate; that must set the standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes leadership effectual and saving.”

As appears from the above Mr. Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises sham, hypocrisy and all “wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers and enemies of the public. In his own words,――

“He, only, is the despicable one
Who lightly sells his honor as a shield
For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun.
Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yield
For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise
The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”

* * * * *

SONNET.

(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)

_From the “Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The Century Co._

I KNOW not if I love her overmuch;
But this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls――’tis I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her head, with such
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why, for that is a strange art――
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Who long her light have known; but for the rose
She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.

* * * * *

THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

_From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co._

THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.

Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day――
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armed strength――his pure and mighty heart.

* * * * *

SHERIDAN.

_From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co._

QUIETLY, like a child
That sinks in slumber mild,
No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,
Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.

Though his the power to smite
Quick as the lightning’s light,――
His single arm an army, and his name a host,――
Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.

But in the battle’s flame
How glorious he came!――
Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,
While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.

’Twas he,――his voice, his might,――
Could stay the panic flight,
Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,
And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.

He was our modern Mars;
Yet firm his faith that wars
Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,
And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.

Blest land, in whose dark hour
Arise to loftiest power
No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!

Of such our chief of all;
And he who broke the wall
Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.

And now above his tomb
From out the eternal gloom
“Welcome!” his ♦chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s
knell;
And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”

♦ “chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”

* * * * *

SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN.¹

_From “Five Books of Song” (1894)._

BUT then the sunset smiled,
Smiled once and turned toward dark,
Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed
Along the horizon’s edge;
Like hooded monks that hark
Through evening air
The call to prayer;――
Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;
When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,
Brown-gray,
Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,
The interspace, green-blue――
The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,
The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.

Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,
Wondering if thy deep brow
In dreams of me were lifted to the skies,
Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;
If thou didst stand alone,
Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,
But closer and more dear,
Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line
Of blackening pine;
When lo! that second smile;――dear heart, it was thine own.

¹ Copyright, The Century Co.

* * * * *

“O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THE SEA.”¹

_From “Five Books of Song” (1894)._

O SILVER river flowing to the sea,
Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!
Poets have sung thy ever-living power,
Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;
Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,
What commerce thine, how many myriads reap
The harvest of thy waters. They have sung
Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung
From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts
Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts
Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves――
Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;
The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,
Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains
On either side, far to the salty main,
Like golden coins alternate on a chain.
Thou pathway of the empire of the North,
Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!
I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout
That follows when a hero from the rout
Of battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he,
How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But she
Who knows him best――“How tender!” So thou art
The river of love to me!
――Heart of my heart,
Dear love and bride――is it not so indeed?――
Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.

¹ Copyright, The Century Co.

* * * * *

“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.”¹

_From “Five Books of Song” (1894)._

THERE is nothing new under the sun;
There is no new hope or despair;
The agony just begun
Is as old as the earth and the air.
My secret soul of bliss
Is one with the singing stars,
And the ancient mountains miss
No hurt that my being mars.

I know as I know my life,
I know as I know my pain,
That there is no lonely strife,
That he is mad who would gain
A separate balm for his woe,
A single pity and cover;
The one great God I know
Hears the same prayer over and over.

I know it because at the portal
Of Heaven I bowed and cried,
And I said: “Was ever a mortal
Thus crowned and crucified!
My praise thou hast made my blame;
My best thou hast made my worst;
My good thou hast turned to shame;
My drink is a flaming thirst.”

But scarce my prayer was said
Ere from that place I turned;
I trembled, I hung my head,
My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;
For there where I bowed down
In my boastful agony,
I thought of thy cross and crown――
O Christ! I remembered thee.

¹ Copyright, The Century Co.

* * * * *

MEMORIAL DAY.¹

_From “Five Books of Song” (1894)._

SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,
The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling;
She saw the tattered banners falling
About the broken staffs, as one by one
The remnant of the mighty army passed;
And at the last
Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.