Citation
The Literature of America and our favorite authors

Material Information

Title:
The Literature of America and our favorite authors containing the lives of our noted American and favorite English authors, together with choice selections from their writings ...
Creator:
Birdsall, William W ( William Wilfred ), 1854-1909 ( Compiler )
Jones, Rufus Matthew, 1863-1948 ( Compiler )
Gibson, Charles Dana, 1867-1944 ( Illustrator )
Linson, Corwin Knapp, b. 1864 ( Illustrator )
Irving ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
New York
Publisher:
Irving
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
672 p., 36 leaves of plates : ill., ports. ; 25 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
American literature ( lcsh )
English literature ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's poetry ( lcsh )
Authors, American -- Biography -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Authors, English -- Biography -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1898 ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1898 ( lcsh )
Biography -- 1898 ( rbgenr )
Genre:
Children's stories ( aat )
Children's poetry ( aat )
Biographies ( aat )
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Date of publication on t.p. verso and imprint from spine.
General Note:
Publisher's name from spine.
General Note:
Title page printed in red and black.
Statement of Responsibility:
The Literature of America and our favorite authors : containing the lives of our noted American and favorite English authors, together with choice selections from their writings embracing the great poets of England and America, famous novelists, distinguished essayists and historians, our humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, statesmen in literature, noted women in literature, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers, etc. compiled and edited by William Wilfred Birdsall, Rufus M. Jones, and others ; embellished with nearly one hundred and fifty half-tone portraits and about 200 text illustrations by Charles Dana Gibson, Corwin K. Linson and others.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
002224107 ( ALEPH )
45156662 ( OCLC )
ALG4368 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text








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THE NEW CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY, WASHINGTON, D. C.



The Literature of America

AND

OUR FAVORITE AUTHORS

CONTAINING

THE LIVES OF OUR NOTED AMERICAN AND
FAVORITE ENGLISH AUTHORS.

CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM. THEIR WRITINGS

EMBRACING
‘
THE GREAT POETS OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA, FAMOUS NOVELISTS, DISTINGUISHED ESSAYISTS AND
HISTORIANS, OUR HUMORISTS, NOTED JOURNALISTS AND MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORS, STATESMEN
IN LITERATURE, NOTED WOMEN IN LITERATURE, POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG
PEOPLE, GREAT ORATORS AND PUBLIC LECTURERS, ETC.

COMPILED AND EDITED. BY

WILLIAM WILFRED BIRDSALL, A. B., Principal of Central School, Philadelphia
RUFUS M. JONES, A. M., Professor of Philosophy, Haverford College, and others

EMBELLISHED WITH NEARLY

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY HALF-TONE PORTRAITS

AND ABOUT 200 TEXT ILLUSTRATIONS

By CHaRLES DANA GIBSON, CORWIN K. LINSON AND OTHERS



w

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1898, by
W. E. SCULL,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington

All rights reserved.

ALL PERSONS ARE WARNED NOT TO INFRINGE UPON OUR COPYRIGHT BY USING EITHRR HE
MATTER OR THE PICTURES IN THIS VOLUME,



PART 1.

ce

cc

(19

“

73

6s

6

10.

11.

12.

13.

GHNERAL DHPARTMENTS.



Great Ports oF AMERICA, . : ee 5 0
Our Most Notrep Novetists, . . . . : ; :

Famous Women Nove ists, é 6 : a A :

REPRESENTATIVE WomEN Ports OF AMERICA, . : ; :

WELL-KNOWN Essayists, Critics AND SKETCH WRITERS, .

GREAT AMERICAN HISTORIANS AND BIOGRAPHERS, : ‘i
Our National Humorists, . : : . : : 5
PopuLaR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE, . : : : .
Norep JOURNALISTS AND Magazine CoNTRIBUTORS, . .
GREAT ORATORS AND PopuLtar LECTURERS, : : : ;
Famous WomMEN ORATORS AND REFORMERS, . ; ;

MIscELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES AND CHOICE GEMS, . : .

SEVENTEEN OF OUR FavyorITE ENGLISH AUTHORS, . 6

(5)

33

165

218

252

271

311

345

380

401

499

549



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Our obligation to the following publishers is respectfully and gratefully acknowledged, since, without the
courtesies and assistance of these publishers and a number of the living authors, it would have been
impossible to issue this volume.

Copyright selections from the following authors are used by the permission of and special arrangement
with MESSRS. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., their authorized publishers:—Ralph Waldo
Emerson, Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Bayard Taylor, Maurice
Thompson, Colonel John Hay, Bret Harte, William Dean Howells, Edward Bellamy, Charles Egbert
Craddock (Miss Murfree), Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (Ward), Octave Thanet (Miss French), Alice Cary,
Phoebe Cary, Charles Dudley Warner, H. C. Stedman, James Parton, John Fiske and Sarah Jane Lippincott.

TO THE CENTURY CO., we are indebted for selections from Richard Watson Gilder, James
Whitcomb Riley and Francis Richard Stockton.

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, for extracts from Eugene Field.

TO HARPER & BROTHERS, for selections from Will Carleton, General Lew Wallace, W. D.
Howells, Thomas Nelson Page, John L. Motley, Charles Follen Adams and Lyman Abbott.

TO ROBERTS BROTHERS, for selections from Edward Everett Hale, Helen Hunt Jackson,
Louise Chandler Moulton and Louisa M. Alcott.

TO ORANGE, JUDD & CO., for extracts from Edward Eggleston.

TO DODD, MEAD & CO., for selections from E. P. Roe, Marion Harland (Mrs. Terhune), Amelia
E. Barr and Martha Finley.

TO D. APPLETON & CO., for Wm. Cullen Bryant and John Bach McMaster.

TO MACMILLAN & CO., for F. Marion Crawford.

10 HORACE L. TRAUBEL, Executor, for Walt Whitman.

TO ESTES & LAURIAT, for Gail Hamilton (Mary Abigail Dodge).

TO LITTLE, BROWN & CO., for Francis Parkman.

TO FUNK & WAGNALLS, for Josiah Allen’s Wife (Miss Holley).

TO LEE & SHEPARD, for Yaweob Strauss (Charles Follen Adams), Oliver Optic (William T.
Adams) and Mary A. Livermore. ;

TO J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., for Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye).

TO GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, for Uncle Remus (Joel C. Harris).

TO TICKNOR & CO., for Julian Hawthorne.

TO PORTER & COATES, for Edward Ellis and Horatio Alger.

TO WILLIAM F. GILL & CO., for Whitelaw Reid.

TO C. H. HUDGINS & CO., for Henry W. Grady.

TO THE “ COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE,” for Julian Hawthorne.

TO T. B. PETERSON & BROS., for Frances Hodgson Burnett.

TO JAS. R. OSGOOD & CO., for Jane Goodwin Austin.

TO GEO. R. SHEPARD, for Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

TO J. LEWIS STACKPOLE, for John L. Motley.

Besides the above, we are under special obligation to a number of authors whe kindly furnished, in
answer to our request, selections which they considered representative of their writings.

6





THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME.

=ilHIS work has been designed and prepared with a view to presenting an
outline of American literature in such a manner ai to stimulate a
love for good reading and especially to encourage the study of the
lives and writings of our American authors. The plan of this work
is unique and original, and possesses certain helpful and interesting
features, which—so far as we are aware—have been contemplated by
no.other single volume.

The first and main purpose of the work is to present to our American homes a
mass of wholesome, varied and well-selected reading matter. In this respect it is
substantially a volume for the family. America is pre-eminently a country of
homes. These homes are the schools of citizenship, and—next to the Bible, which
is the foundation of our morals and laws—we need those books which at once enter-
tain and instruct, and, at the same time, stimulate patriotism and pride for our
native land.

This book seeks to meet this demand. Four-fifths of our space is devoted ex-
clusively to American literature. Nearly all other volumes of selections are made
up chiefly from foreign authors. The reason for this is obvious. Foreign publications
until within the last few years have been free of copyright restrictions. Anything
might be chosen and copied from them while American authors were protected by
law from such outrages. Consequently, American material under forty-two years of
age could not be used without the consent of the owner of the copyright. The
expense and the difficulty of obtaining these permissions were too great to warrant
compilers and publishers in using American material. The constantly growing
demand, however, for a work of this class has encouraged the publishers of this
a





8 THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME.

volume to undertake the task. The publishers of the works from which these selec~
tions are made and many living authors represented have been corresponded with,
and it is only through the joint courtesy and co-operation of these many publishers
and authors that the production of this volume has been made possible. Due
acknowledgment will be found elsewhere. In a number of instances the selections
have been made by the authors themselves, who have also rendered other valu-
able assistance in supplying data and photographs.

The second distinctive point of merit in the plan of the work is the biographical
feature, which gives the story of each author’s life separately, treating them both
personally and as writers. Longfellow remarked in ‘‘ Hyperion ”’—“If you once
understand the character of an author the comprehension of his writings becomes
easy.” He might have gone further and stated that when we have once read the
life of an author his writings become the more interesting. Goethe assures us that
“ Every author portrays himself in his works even though it be against his will.”
The patriarch in the Scriptures had the same thought in his mind when he exclaimed
“Oh! that mine’ enemy had written a book.” Human nature remains the same.
“Any book takes on a new phase of value and interest to us the moment we know
the story of the writer, whether we agree with his statements and theories or not.
These biographical sketches, which in every case are placed immediately before the
selections from an author, give, in addition to the story of his life, a list of the
principal books he has written, and the dates of publication, together with com-
ments on his literary style and in many instances reviews of his best known works
This, with the selections which follow, established that necessary bond of sympathy
and relationship which should exist in the mind of the reader between every author
and his writings. Furthermore, under this arrangement the biography of each
author and the selections from his works compose a complete and independent
chapter in the volume, so that the writer may be taken up and studied or read alone,
or in connection with others in the particular class to which he belongs.

This brings us to the third point of classification. Other volumes of selections
—where they have been classified at all—have usually placed selections of similar
character together under the various heads of Narrative and Descriptive, Moral and
Religious, Historical, etc. On the contrary, it has appeared to us the better plan
in the construction of this volume to classify the authors, rather than, by dividing
their selections, scatter the children of one parent in many different quarters.
There has been no small difficulty in doing this in the cases of some of our versatile
writers. Emerson, for instance, with his poetry, philosophy and essays, and Holmes,
with his wit and humor, his essays, his novels and his poetry. Where should they
be placed? Summing them up, we find their writings—whether written in stanzas
of metred lines or all the way across the page, and whether they talked philosophy
or indulged in humor—were predominated by the spirit of poetry. Therefore,
with their varied brood, Emerson and Holmes were taken off to the “ Poet’s
Corner,” which is made all the richer and more enjoyable by the variety of their
gems of prose. Hence our classifications and groupings are as Poets, Novelists,
Lhstorians, Journalists, Humorists, Essayists, Critics, Orators, etc., placing each
author in the department to which he most belongs, enabling the reader to read and
compare him in his best element with others of the same class,



THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME. 9

Part I, “Great Poets of America,’ comprises twenty of our most famous and
popular writers of verse. The work necessarily begins with that immortal “Seven
Stars” of poesy in the galaxy of our literary heavens—Bryant, Poe, Longfel-
low, Emerson, Whittier, Holmes and Lowell. Succeeding these are those of
lesser magnitude, many of whom are still living and some who have won fame
in other fields of literature which divides honors with their poetry.

The remaining twelve parts of the book treat in similar manner about ninety-five
additional authors, embracing noted novelists, representative women poets of America;
essayists, critics and sketch writers; great American historians and biographers ;
our national humorists; popular writers for young people; noted journalists and
magazine contributors; great orators and popular lecturers; famous women orators
and reformers, and miscellaneous masterpieces from many American authors whose
fame rests largely upon one or two productions. The work appropriately closes with
a department of over one hundred and fifty pages of English literature, comprising
the lives and best writings of the most famous English, Scotch and Irish authors,
whose names and works are household words in America, and without which no
volume of literature in the language would be complete. Thus, it will be seen that
in this volume the whole field of American letters, with the best from the greatest
of British authors, has been gleaned to make the work the best and most represen-
tative of our literature possible within the scope of a single volume.

In making a list of authors in whom the ‘public were sufficiently interested to
entitle them to a place in a work like this, naturally they were found to be entirely
too numerous to be all included in one book. The absence of many good names
from the volume is, therefore, explained by the fact that the editor has been driven
to the necessity of selecting, first, those whom he deemed pre-eminently prominent,
and, after that, making room for those who best represent a certain class or par-—
ticular phase of our literature.

To those authors who have so kindly responded to our requests for courtesies.
and whose names do not appear, the above explanation is offered. The omission
was imperative in order that those treated might be allowed sufficient space to make
the work as complete and representative as might be reasonably expected.

Special attention has been given to 2llustrations. We have inserted portraits of
all the authors whose photographs we could obtain, and have, also, given views of the
homes and studies of many. A large number of special drawings have also been
made to illustrate the text of selections. The whole number of portraits and other
illustrations amount to over three hundred, all of which are strictly illustrative of
the authors or their writings. None are put in as mere ornaments. We have,
furthermore, taken particular care to arrange a number of special groups, placing
those authors which belong in one class or division of a class together on a page.
One group on a page represents our greatest poets; another, well-known western
poets; another, famous historians; another, writers for young people; another,
American humorists, ete. These groups are all arranged by artists in various
designs of ornamental setting. In: many cases we have also had special designs
made by artists for commemorative and historic pictures of famous authors. These
drawings set forth in a pictorial form leading scenes in the life and labors of the
author represented,



LIST OF PORTRAITS

MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME.

ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY.

Abbott, Lyman.

Adams, Charles Follen (Yaweob Strauss).
Adams, William T. (Oliver Optic).
Alcott, A. Bronson.

Alcott, Louisa M.

Alger, Horatio, Jr.

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey.

Anthony, Susan B.

Austin, Alfred.

Austin, Jane Goodwin.

Bancroft, George H.

Barr, Amelia E.

Beecher, Henry Ward.
Bellamy, Edward.

Bright, John.

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett.
Browning, Robert.
Bryant, William Cullen.
Bulwer-Lytton, Edward.
Burdette, Robert J.
Burnett, Frances Hodgson.
Burns, Robert.

Byron, George Gordon.

Cable, George W.

Carleton, Will

Oarlyle, Thomas,

Cary, Alice.

Cary, Pheebe.

Chaucer, Geoffrey.

Clay, Henry.

Clemens, Samuel L. (Mark Twain)
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor.

Cooper, James Fenimore.

Cowper, William.



Craddock, Charles Egbert (Mrs. Murfree}.
Crawford, F. Marion.

Dana, Charles A. _
Davis, Richard Harding.
Depew, Chauncey M.

‘| Dickens, Charles.

Dickinson, Anna.
Disraeli, Benjamin.
Drummond, Henry,

Eggleston, Edward.

Eliot, George (Marian Evans).
Ellis, Edward 8.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo.
Everett, Edward.

Farrar, Frederick W.

Field, Eugene.

Finley, Martha.

French, Alice (Octave Thanet).
Froude, James Anthony.
Fuller, Margaret.

Gibbon, Edward.
Gilder, Richard Watson.
Gladstone, William E.
Goldsmith, Oliver.
Gough, John B.

Grady, Henry W.

Greeley, Horace.

Hale, Edward Everett.
Halstead, Murat.
Harris, Joel Chandler.
Harte, Bret,

LQ



LIST OF PORTRAITS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME. 11

Hawthorne, Nathaniel.
Hawthorne, Julian.

Hay, Col. John.

Hemans, Felicia.

Henry, Patrick.

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell.
Howells, William Dean.

Howe, Julia Ward.

Urving, Washington.

Jackson, Helen Hunt.
Johnson, Ben.

Larcom, Lucy.

Lippincott, Sara Jane (Grace Greenwood),
Livermore, Mary A. :
Lockwood, Belva Ann.

Longfellow, Henry W.

Lowell, James Russell.

Mabie, Hamilton W.

Macaulay, Thomas Babington.
McMaster, John B.

Miller, Joaquin.

Milton, John.

Mitchell, Donald G. (Ik aan
Moore, Thomas.

Motley, John L.

Moulton, Louise Chandler.

Nye, Edgar Wilson (Bill Nye).
Oliphant, Mrs. Margaret.

Page, Thomas Nelson.
Parton, James.
Phillips, Wendell.
Pitt, William.

Poe, Edgar A.

Fope, Alexander.



Prescott, Willam H.

Reid, Whitelaw.

Riley, James Whitcomb.
Roe, Edward Payson.
Ruskin, John.

Scott, Sir Walter.
Shakespeare, William.
Shaw, Albert.

Shaw, Henry W. (Josh Billings).
Shelley, Percy Bysshe.
Southey, Robert.

Sigourney, Lydia H.

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes.
Spencer, Edmund.
Spurgeon, Charles Haddon.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence.
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady.
Stockton, Frank.

Stoddard, Richard Henry.
Stowe, Harriet Beecher.

Tennyson, Alfred.

Terhune, Mary Virginia (Marion Hariand).
Thackeray, William M.

Thoreau, Henry D.

Throllope, Anthony.

Wallace, General Lew.
Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Ward, Mrs. Humphrey.

‘| Warner, Chas. Dudley.

Watson, Rev. John (Ian McLaren).
Watterson, Henry W.

Webster, Daniel.

Whitman, Walt.

Whittier, John G.

Willard, Frances E.

Willis, Nathaniel P.

Wordsworth, William.



LIST OF ENGRAVINGS

MADE EXPRESSLY TO ILLUSTRATE THE TEXT IN THIS VOLUME.

AmericaneAUthors. tahiti seine aie aoe teareesls
The Poets of New England..............2+...
The Village: Smithy-c 2202. vss cence cusee sales

Mhes Ravens: ters hoe vee a en ee ee
MheuWraysid culinnspatesne seers ete ees meses
“ They Love to See the Flaming Forge’’.......
Home of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord, Mass.
Home of James R. Lowell, Cambridge, Mass.. .
Thomas B. Aldrich’s Study...................
Joaquin Miller’s Study, Oakland, Cal..........
sive OldsMansess eer race seen e oe eee
Uncle Tom and His Baby.................000.
A Scene in Uncle Tom’s Cabin................
Miss Ophelia and Topsy......-.........0.005
Sunnyside, the Home of Washington Irving....
‘“**Pshaw !’ said My Aunt Tabitha’’..........
“Tsaac, You are a Sad Fellow!’’..............
*“My Aunt was Dozing’’...........00.cseeeee
‘The Justice of the Peace" ..............02
‘A Perfect Field of Chivalry ’’................
ee Dricked(Outuve-mueit accra nie Sete ee ee
‘“‘There is After All But One Youth-time’’.....
‘‘Long, Weary Days of Confinement”’........
‘*Startling Another from a Doze’’...........-.
‘‘And Kat a Dinner in a Tavern”’.............
‘*‘ Away on a Visit ina Coach’’...............
“Tt is Rather a Pretty Name to Write’”’.......
“The Doctor Lifts You in His Arms’’........
‘“Who Sometimes Makes You Stand Up To-

BOL OIy Bieta eerie ste sree alse mare ara
‘* Listening Attentively to Some Grievous Com-

PLAIN Gast cchets ne aera ae neta ene eres et
‘*Some of Bidlow’s Boys’’...............--4.
pre VC] UTE eeootcretatere ois evereinine tees heresies
‘* Some Tidy Old Lady in Black”’.............
The Choir.......... Rene ien Ne Generate se eee ois





PAGE PAGH
11! ‘‘ Tat Old Ladies in Iron Spectacles’’........ << 294
14s thee Dcacon eee eer sorters ese eee 295
31|‘‘In Tones of Tender Admonition’’........... 295
44) ‘*The Old Men Gather on the Sunny Side of the
49 AB ulin giaesepseevers teense ee ean eet, seesaese 295
51|‘*The Firelight Glimmers Upon the Walls of
55 Voutstlomersa sane nee ee eae ee 296
591'On the Parm: mm Oanadaisn..ce. 1 seen eee 300
62: Ther @ldsWiellcurbzsses ces ee nr errs 301
73| Immigrant Women Hoeing Potatoes........... 301

101 Waiting for Milking-time...................4. 302
3118 | BALLER AWCORIS Asect raster 7 PN es, 302
161| A Winter Hvening on the Farm............... 303
174.) Sunday Afternoon... 6. cece scenes veins 303
219} Churning in the Barn.............. 20-2200 0 ee 304
DOV IEAS Sunny. Play-eround. a. cesarean eae ere 304
Dosh @ldaMal beensacr eerie ch eet esto as erm n ce aye 304
272} After a Wet Snow-storm............ -...++e0e 305

Rei Maple-sugar INimew. =: ko8 ce tennea asec 305

O86 he Blackss heepesa care ones seem yneseeeceere 306

287 Noon in the Sheep-lot............ 050200005 ee 306

D8 fas PRES Mae Onde eeret cote cyeota sr eaemreeenseericetssc serie oie 306

288 Feeding the Chickens.....................00. 307

ISS MPiCking AL) alslessastrs cists sti e seus eks orice estes 307

O88aiMakinoxlriendSancn dence coe toa racer 307

289 Mr. Prescott’s House at Pepperett, Mass....... 327

289 Henry Hudson Offering the Indians Liquor..... 370

290 A Cottonfield in Louisiana..................08- 422

290 Daniel Webster's Home, Marshfield, Mass..... 44]

290 ‘‘The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney

291 BWV G1 Olen nsec eee eS arlene SUN aca pein eine 503

‘A Miniature Sleigh and Hight Reindeer’’..... 504

291 | ‘‘ Down the Chimney came St. Nicholas’’...... 504

Mhexhouristsise cian cleo en ay meen eae 524

2921 At the Lunch Stand....... 2.2... cece cece ce ee 524

292 | The Street to the Sea.............- eee ce eens 524

293: her @ilerqentect ssi seis suet reyes rears eects 525

293: lelny Walt versnt tects secre Aceorersn ceric leet 525

294 | Mixpecting a Caller........... cece ee ce ecceeeee 525



ENGRAVINGS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME.

A Veteran of the Ranks..............e0000es
A Wide-reaching Affair..........0.2ccccceaes
‘“Who’s That Coming ?”............00.00008
[aCISULCAatee eres cere xt ete eee ose

On Wings of Hoofs.............. 00 cece ee eee
Miniature Men and Women................6+4
Wiaiting Ordersinenccne nt cosas asain vores
BONS ViOVAr esc yah een seta Nirse ane an ane
A Follower of the Hounds....................
@onfidencesscer ae sien cient eee

A World’s Fair Group...............000005 Be
“‘A Cosy Sit Down over Oysters and Champagne’’
‘*Madge,”’ she says, ‘‘is sitting by me with her

‘Digging Sturdily at his Tasks’ ..... Napa
‘“ Upon the Grassy Bank of a Stream’’........
‘He Wears his Honor at the Public Tables ”’
“The Moonlit Walks Upon the Hills’”’........
“We are Quite Alone, Now, My Boy”
““Death—It is a Terrible Word’’..............
“Plump and Thriving ”’
eoRead htwA Gaines trie cee erect pastas elec
‘““You Put Your Hands in Your Pockets and
Look Out Upon the Tossing Sea’’,........
‘* Blue-eyed Madge ”’
“The Old Clergyman Sleeps Beneath a Brown-
StLONGIO ADs eae cache eee reac ee eee
‘“You Love Those Flowers ’’
““ And You Have Worn This, Maggie?”’.......
poAss Mathers Ig Beat cts, aecrere yc rice ern ae ee cee ay
Your Country Home. ..+............2065 Fee
“The Time of Power is Past’”’...............
‘Madge, Madge, Must It Be?”..............
That is it, Maggie, the Old Home.............
ASNewebetrothali:asn.ce ne ansae nea noecia
“Tt is Getting Dark, Maggie”’
Celebrated English Poets.........-..s000s0005
Souvenir of Shakespeare............seeeseeee
Ann Hathaway's Cottage. .........2...00-006-

PAGE

526 |

526
526
527
527
527
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528
528
528
531
532
532
533
533
534
535
536
536
537

538
538
539
539
540
540
540
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54]
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542
543
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545
545
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546
546
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18

PAGE
Garrick and Shakespeare’s Bust............... 551
Fountain and Clock Tower Erected by George W.
Childs at Stratford-on-Avon.............. 552
Shakespeare’s House, Stratford-on-Avon.......... 554
‘In a Cowslip’s Bell I Lie”.................. 556
“Come Apace, Good Audrey; I will Fetch up
Your Goats, Audrey ’’.............00005. 558
‘There is a Willow Grows Aslant a Brook’’... 560
Othello’s Wooing...........200ccccceeecceees 564
‘From Betwixt Two Aged Oakes’’—IL’ Allegro. 569
Gray’s Monument in the Churchyard at Stoke
PO GS Per rhea tee SI eS 573
Souvenimol Burnss.csacueevee scence eoeune: 575
‘*The De’il Cam Fiddlin’ Thro’ the Town” 576
“Wilt Thou be My Dearie?’”’...............4. 577
Man was Made to Mourn.............-0....... 578
‘The Smith and Thee Got Roarin’ Fon’’...... 579
‘‘The Sire Turns O’er Wi’ Patriarchal Grace’’. 581
The Ancient Mariner..............000 0. eee eee 585
‘*He Cannot Chuse but Hear’’............... 586
“A Speck, A Mist, A Shape, I Wist!’’........ 588
The Mariner. .... eiGonensee sao ceo ee 590
‘*Oh, God! That Bread Should be so Dear’... 593
‘“Take Her Up Tenderly, Lift Her With Care’’ 595
The Tomb of Wordsworth..................-. 597
‘Out Flew the Web, and Floated Wide’’...... 604
“An Arm Rose Up from Out the Bosom of the
NGS cee een teecatens Coser petty tae Rye a 606
‘The Splendor Falls on Castle Walls’’........ 607
Souvenir of Scottn.<...c cece ccesceceesede cele 614
Scott’s Study at Abbottsford.................. 615
NelrosevAb beyicacaw tec cee eran atertie aren ee 617
Kenilworth Castle......0.cc.. cece sees es cee es 619
SotvenirofeDickensecseciesites cole cre greeters 625
Birthplace of Dickens, Portsmouth, England... 626
Gadshill, the Home of Charles Dickens........ 627
‘“Mr. Pickwick was the Personification of Kind-
ness and Humanity’’............0..02008. 629
Gaptam@uttlenten- cuss ace emer ee tere 631
Dicken’s ‘‘ Old Curiosity Shop’’.... ......... 633
Mir Mica wher. tesscs 3 cvsrctxe eae hon an ee wee oe 634
Samu Wrellerver: merce ieee eee are eae res ste 636
Major Pendénnis:3.dcctincos. ge Sons ceaiasers oe 639
Becky Shary: sosuevesseene co ncaeumatcnen e 644
Colonel Newcome........ ree et Se laa has 645
Gladstone's Study...........c0cccseeccescees 663
Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, their Ufildven and
Grandchildren.. 665



HULL-PAGEH GROUPS

AND SPECIAL DESIGNS.



Epe@ar ALLAN Por—His Homes, Monument, Ere.

Interior or Lonereittow’s Home, Campriper, Mass.

RatpH Watpo Emerson—His Brook Farm FRrienps, Ero.
Joun G. Wuirrrer—His Home anp BirrHPLace.

OLIVER WENDELL HoLMEs—His BirtTHPLACE AND STUuDY.
James RussELL LOWELL In His Srupy.

NaruanieL Hawrnorne—His Birtupiace, Waysipe Inn, Eve.
Tur New ConcressionaL Liprary.
Srx GREAT AMERICAN Poets.
WELL-KNOWN AMERICAN PoETs.
WELL-KNOWN WESTERN Poets.
Six TypricaLn AMERICAN NovELIsts.
Poputar AMERICAN NOVELISTS.
Notep Women NoveELiIsts.

Women Ports ofr AMERICA.
DISTINGUISHED EssayIsTs,AND LiTeRaRY CRITICS.

GREAT AMERICAN HISTORIANS AND BIOGRAPHERS.

Our NationaL Humorists.

PopuLtarR Writers For YounGa PEOPLE.

Notep AMERICAN JOURNALISTS AND Maaazine CONTRIBUTORS.
GREAT AMERICAN ORATORS AND PopuLaR LECTURERS.
Famous Women Orators AND REFORMERS.

Tur Great Ports or ENGLAND.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SPECIAL DEsIGN.

Rozsert Burns, Sprcrau Desten.

THE Great Ports or ENGLAND.

Tue Great Ports or ENGLAND.

Great Enauish Historians AND PRrosE WRITERS.

Famous Eneuisn Nove ists.

EnaiisH STATESMEN IN LITERATURE.

Writers oF Reiicious Cuassics.

Norep ENGLISH WOMEN IN LITERATURE.

\



TABLE OF CONTENTS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

An Author at Fourteen..........eseeeeeee

The Influence of his Father...............
Bryant’s Best Known Poems............--
Personal Appearance..........seeeee eens
A Long and Useful Life...........-......
‘Thanatopsis ’
“Waiting By the Gate’
‘Blessed are They That Mourn’
‘ Antiquity of Freedom’
“Tosa Wiater HOwltmrercce sccm araicte rs
‘Robert of Lincoln’
‘Drought’
‘The Past’
‘The Murdered Traveler’
SMHesBabtle-MielQvenacsecstetsciete ase tare store
‘The Crowded Street’
‘Fitz Greene Halleck (Notice of)’
‘A Corn-Shucking in South Carolina’

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

Comparison with Other American Poets...
Place of Birth and Ancestry.......+-sse.
Career as a Student.......-..seeceeeeeecs
The Sadness of his Life and Its Influence

Upon his Literature.. 3

Conflicting Statements of ine Hicdiaphems
Great as a Story Writer and as a Poet......
His Literary Labors and Productions.......
‘The City in the Sea’
* Annabel Lee’
sMOnElelanitinrsoneristcmiaceretessaraierire siete ereierets
sisrafelumeee weet cacao neers cre
~ “To One in Paradise’
wAlien Ores ea scrieereis ciate avelelerets EN saeinc tee
‘The Bells’....ceseeeeceeesseence essence
‘The Raven’....cceceesscecccoees Sele tate

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
His Place in Literature......+.+ Severe eels

eee weer err ere reccee

eee ec er er ree ese ere es

eee ere ewer creer reece weer cer ecee

sete re em meme ere re rere ereeesee

ee

Meee er ecer eee seer cce

concen

Beemer ner ecer cere ece

Pe cee ere racer orveseseensece

woe ecc eres ercrecncecs

PAGE



Comparison With American and English

His Education, Collegemates and Home....
The Wayside Inn (A view of )..........--
His Domestic Life. His Poems...........
His Critics, Poe, Margaret Fuller, Duyckink
Prose Works and Translations............-
Longfellow’s Genius........ ......05 eee
‘The Psalm of Life’
‘The Village Blacksmith ’
‘The Bridge ’
‘Resignation ’
“God’s Acre’
‘Excelsior ’
‘The Rainy Day’
‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’
‘The Old Clock On the Stairs’
‘The Skeleton in Armour’
‘King Witlaf’s Drinking Horn’
‘Evangeline On the Prairie’
‘ Literary Fame (Prose)’

re ry
teem eee rere rece reese neers
eee ete me eer reer rerrerecece
ee
ee ee
ate eee eee eee
ee eee een eee erence
eee cee eens
er er

eee cere rere esccce

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The Difficulty of Classifying Emerson......
The Liberator of American Letters........
A Master of Language..........eeeeeeeees
Emerson and Franklin.........+.e+eseeeee
Birth, Education, Harly Life.............-
Home at Concord, Brook-Farm Enterprise. .
Influence on Other Writers,.....----.+-+-

Modern Communism and the New Theology —

‘Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Con-

cord Monument (1886)’.....---+-+-
‘The Rhodora’
‘A True Hero’
‘Mountain and Squirrel’
‘The Snow-Storm’
‘The Problem’
‘Traveling ’

emcee ere r reer eran seeeescen

shee cee eer creer rec reecsece

wee eeececescccce

weer ceer eee escceroecce

eee cee rreneresee vere esecececes

PAGE



16 CONTENTS.





PAGE . PAH
‘The Compensation of Calamity’......... 78 “MPh er Rose. ecies sioaisece si sveistears Sisicaee LOL
‘Self Reliance’........ sees ccerceeeceees 78 ‘The Heritage’... 1.2... cece cece eee eees 105
SNe mead sects a tterernisheteceis; ciatatarsieie etevelerers 78 SSA Ch Honsebrith svete coteiecte secre ce crocker 106
‘The First Snow-Fall’....-.....2-eeeeeee 106
‘Fourth-of-July Ode’. ..........-e eee e eee 107
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. “he Dandelion? scsav ne ar ore ee 107
Whittier’s Humble Birth, Ancestry, Education. 80 ‘The Alpine Sheep’ (by Mrs. Lowell)....-. 108
Poet of the Abolitionists............0..06- 81
His Poems and His Prose. ..........06-.. 81
Our Most Distinctively American Poet..... g2| BAYARD TAYLOR.
New England’s History Embalmed in Verse 82 Life as a Farmer Boy.........seeceeeeees 109
oMay Playmate vcs: csc ccienare acess 83 FHGUGALION piste aoe Cen noel se actors onete eteierss 109
‘The Changeling’....... 0... .ece cece eens 83 HistHirst# Booker cscs cee araart 109
‘The Workskip of Nature’............-.- 85 Encouragement from Horace Greeley.....- 109
‘The Bare-foot Boy ’.....+++.eeeseeeeees 85 A Two Years’ Tramp Through Europe.... 109
‘Maud Muller’............. Mente aoa. 86 A Most Delightful Book of Travel........- 109
tMemoriestarcs secs actiesen calst eater sie teievere 87 An Inveterate Nomad...........2eeeeeeee 109
PInserisony Hor. Debby crass saneeiire onesies 88 Public Career of the Author............-- 110
‘The Storm’ (From ‘Snow Bound’)..... 89 ‘The Bison Track’..........eeeeeeeeeeee 110
HOT Ghia DO Uden cininterercaieteietectetcoeerec eteterelars etskote 90 ‘The Song of the Camp’.......-...eeeeee 111
“BedouiniSongncnse nian soci on vacitae nts 111
‘The Arab to the Palm’.........eeeeeees 111
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. TiferomiherNilern vate meee ene wea 112
Admired by the English-speaking World... 91
His Education and Popularity ............ 91) NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Marly Poems ccsctrertnivels otsls er detoieaceert vie 92
Autocrat and Professor at the Breakfast A Devotee of Fashion........+.sseeeeees 114
Mablemetecercen som een errs 92 Birth and Ancestors......sesee sees erence 114
Holmes’ Genial and Lovable Nature....... 92 Educational Facilities...,.......0.0eee0e- 114
SBilltand’s OGuinisecsce ares oe 94 His: Wirst®Poemsivnc conceit ee neers 114
‘Union and Liberty’ .........+.eeeeeeeee 94 A Four Years’ Tour in Europe..........-. 115
SQ ldtilronsides! nsetese ences nanncande ces 95 Marriage and Home..............seeeees 115
SMiy Aunt arcsec «live oaveleisversis sia sects 95 A Second Journey to England............ 115
‘The Height of the Ridiculous’.......... 95 An Untiring Worker. ......-..0eeeceeeeee 115
‘The Chambered Nautilus’............- 96 | Weather ce ccc acae are tsesterersuaresoreteterenes ties sy teverevens 115
‘Old Age and the Professor’ (Prose).....- 96 ‘David's Lament for Absalom’..........- 116
OpheyBralnive (PLOSse) ireeoea. derive ois 97 ‘The Dying Alchemist ’..........e0eeeee- 117
‘My Last Walk with the School Mistress’. 97 ‘The Belfry Pigeon’.........ceeeeseecees 118
‘A Random Conversation on Old Maxims,
Boston and other Towns’ .......... 98
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
His Humble Origin and Early Struggles... 119

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Introduction into Literature ........-.+4-. 119

Profoundest of American Poets........++- 100 Stoddard’s Style. ........ cee ceeeeeeeeees 120

Early Life and Beginning in Literature .--- 100 Literary Dinner in His Honor (1892) ..-.-- 120
Marriage, and the Influence of his Wife-.. 101 Ik. Marvel’s Letter and Whitcomb Riley’s

Home at Cambridge (view of)......-+---- 101 LOCI Sera ree cient eee eter tenes 120

Longfeflow’s Poem on Mrs. Lowell’s Death, 101 SM CurtainiGalltee acs ec teasers. 121

Humorous Poems and Prose Writings ....--. 102 ‘Hymn to the Beautiful’................ 121

Public Career of the Author ........-+-+- 103 SPASM iree ret rnc yee eevee cis nrc slere creme PN 122

. How Lowell is Regarded by Scholars ...... 103 ‘The Shadow of the Hand’.............. 123

‘The Gothic Genius’ (From ‘The Cathedral’) 104 OME Serenade cic ce co nee one saieaevauclontes 123



CONTENTS. i7

PAGE PAGE



WALTER WHITMAN (WALT. - JOHN HAY.
The Estimates of Critics..............0005 124 His Western Birth and Education ......... 139
Charms of Whitman’s Poetry.............. 125 Service to President Lincoln.............. 139
Life and Works of the Poet.............. 125 Military Careeriycns enn enure seaseee aes 139
Biographies of the Poet.................. 125 Appointed Ambassador to Great Britain .... 139
‘Darest Thou Now, O Soul’.............. 126 A List of His Books............0..00000 139
‘O Captain ! My Captain’..... Pore Snake 126 How He Came to Write‘ Little Breeches’’ 140
“Une All SMysélf nk. « cvsnie sessed estes 126 “Little Breeches’ ....... 0.2... cece ee eee 140
‘Old Ireland’.............. See tienes 127 cOMBB idsordsteen sajna coos ces ectssen 141
SPRAN Ol OV teas sien acreswelneaenae one ee 127 ‘How it Happened’...........-.... 00008 14]
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
eee oe THOMPSON. Great Popularity with the Masses......... 143
Birth and Harly Life. .............0.0 0005 128 A Poet of the Country People............ 143
A Thorough Southerner..............00. 128 RirtheandoHducationee sor Cee ee 144
Man of Letters and Scientist.............. 128 First Occupation ...........000ceeeeeeeee 144
Chief of the State Geological Survey...... 128 Congratulated by Longfellow............. 144
Works plithevAuthorsss ce asieet ey eee 128 Mr. Riley’s Methods of Work ..........-. 144
‘ Ceres ; alege ssi geiaiataliart Navas, nerd ehcyalevelebevaraveved one tevese 129 The Poet’s Home SNe Rte Vee ON ed sen IRE 145
Danaea ae arava ior ore ae 129 Constantly ‘on the Wing OR eh Magee a te Ne 145
YASBoy7s*Mother 02. o0 ocx casero. 145
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. “Thoughts on the Late War’.......-..--. 145
At the Head of Modern Lyrical Writers.... 130 Our Hired Girl’. wer hs oc neler nana 146
Birth and Barly Life.................0005 130 The Raggedy Man’ ....-.-...+-++...04. 146
Mercantile Career.............000. cseeee 130 BRET HARTE.
War Correspondent GAD s Reo ch areca alsticegeva ss * 130 The Poet of the Mining Camp............ 147
Life in Boston Biesete cece crate Srayeuereeveretorsecer nator 130 | Birth and Education..........cececeeceee 147
Works DRever asec ere nes Seer a eC eae 130 Emigrated to California.............. sane 2147
Visit to England... See ias Saaie eei oat a 131 Sihooltcacherkandulincrs wacom ene 14}
Alec Yeaton’s Son SPE cele Sse oy tates? 132 Position on a Frontier Paper.............. 147
On Lynn Terrace ' RD setae Meco sane 132 Editorial Position on the ‘‘Golden Era’? .. 147
Sargent e Portrait of Edwin Booth at Secretary of the U.S. Mint atSan Francisco. 148
The Players.” ?...- ++ sseeeseeeeeee 133 In Chicago and Boston. ..........2..2000. 148
U. 8. Consul to Crefield and Glasgow...... 148
RICHARD WATSON GILDER. AShist:of his Works: Purity of Sentiment and Delicacy of Ex- ‘The Society Upon the Stanislaus’........ 149
PECSSION Ase ss) Aes ees 134 ‘Dickens in Camp sees sce sc ce etiecn 150
Education and Early Life................. 134
JOURN ALISUA eee ee eee eens, 134| HUGENE FIELD.
Editor of ‘‘ Hours at Home’’............. 134 The ‘‘ Poet of Child Life ’”’............... 151
Politician and Reformer..............005- 135 Troups of Children for his Friends ........ 151
A Staunch Friend of our Colleges......... 135 Peace-maker Among the Small Ones...... 151
A Man of Exalted Ideals................. 135 A Feast with his Little Friends........... 151
‘Sonnet (After the Italian)’.............. 136 A Devoted Husband............-2-..0005 151
“The Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln’..... 136 |. Congenial Association withhisFellow-workers 152
sSHeridamattrar sn te ciateen ee ran a wears 136 Birth and Harly Life...........2.....0005 152
‘Sunset From the Train’. ............008. 187 IS DRIAN Any Sinmemdun cans acer na son sonsAnaae 152
‘O Silver River Flowing to the Sea’....... 137 “Our Two Opinions’............0eeeeeeee 153
‘There is Nothing New Under the Sun’... 137 Silillaby. cesses Me varteteresle ee sore cio ere 153
“Memorial Day’. .ac cess ee aneies occ secs 138 ‘A Dutch Lullaby’.............cee eee eee 153



“A Woman’s Thought’...........eceeee. 1388 | ‘A Norse Lullaby’.............2.20000e0 154
2



18

WILL, CARLETON.

His Poems Favorites for Recitation........
Birthvand: Marly Lite tsi n-ce'eacaslescostas see

Teacher, Farmhand and Oollege Graduate. .
Journalist and Lecturer...........eceeeee
AcTaistiof hiss Works: ccavs on cent nents
‘Betsy and I Are Out’.......... PO Ravire eis
‘Gone With a Handsomer Man’..........

CONTENTS.

PAGE

CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER (JOAQUIN).

Removal from Indiana to Oregon .........
Experiences in Mining and Filibustering ...
Marries and Becomes Kditor and Lawyer...
Visit to London to Seek a Publisher.......
‘Thoughts of My Western Home’........
aWounti Shasta, vac cssee sees aceon ee
Kat Carsomsehide asa mec ev veversceees
‘J. Miller’s Alaska Letter’..............5

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

First American Novelist.....-.......0000-
Birth and Childhood. ..........-......065
The Wilderness his Teacher. .......-----4.
Sailor ifes sak j.c.5 aes Ree errr
Marriage and Home..............0+-eee-
SoU TST GBS DY ganctaretcrererolereye ayere'stonsreye sep revere ssi
Plaudits From Both Sides of the Atlantic. . .
The First Genuine Salt-water Novel.......
Removal to New York...-.......2..00005
A Six Years’ Visit to Hurope.............
His Remaining Nineteen Years..........-
‘Encounter With a Panther’..........--.
‘The Capture of a Whale’...............

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

The Greatest of American Romancers .....
Birth, Ancestors, and Childhood..........
Twelve Years of Solitary Hxistence........
Plisebirst Book x a7 cetera ee ice sees
“Twice Told Tales’’............. BERN
A Staunch Democrat ........ 0.2. ee ee eens
Marriage and the.‘‘ Old Manse’’..........
The Masterpiece in American Fiction......
Books Written by Hawthorne.............
Death and Funeral .......... 0-00-00 eee
‘Hmerson and the Emersonites ’..........
SHPearlitierc sca tetecsiSereresecineinsiscs atsteas wives
‘Sights From a Steeple’... ......-..204-

‘A Reminiscence of Harly Life’...........



pAa®

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

Among the Best Known American Authors 181

A Noted: Liectutetisc4 a0 Birth and Education............ 0000 eeeee 181
Career as a Clergyman.........-+-++0005+ 181
Newspaper and Magazine Work.........-. 181
A Prominent Short-Story-teller........... 182
An Historical Writer of Great Prominence. 182
Patriotic Interest in Public Affairs ........ 182
LOTiGSt ree eater Pa Tee ren NO Taree 182

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

One of the Greatest of Modern American

Novelistsn- stun cen eee 184
Birth: and Barly Life. ........2.26..80.008 184
Editor of the ‘‘ Ohio State Journal’’...... 184
His First Volume of Verse..........-..+- 184
His ‘‘ Life of Abraham Lincoln’’.......... 184
Consul to Venice...... Soo eRe STs SRE RCTS 184
Mr. Howells’ Works.....-...----++-2 000 185
Editor of the ‘‘Atlantic Monthly’’......... 185
“The Hirstaboarden s.cst- ae cise emer e toe 186
‘Impressions on Visiting Pompeii’........ 187
‘Venetian Vagabonds’..........eeeeeeee 188

GENERAL LEW WALLACE.
Began His Literary Career Late in Life.... 189
Birth and Karly Life........ Narre nine 189
Lawyer and Soldier.........--..00+eeeeee 189
Governor of Utah..........200.:eeeceeee 189
Appointed Minister to Turkey............ 189
His Most Popular Book.............+..-. 190
Enormous Circulation. ........6..0.00eeee 190
‘Description of Christ ’...............008 190
‘The Prince of India Teaches Re-incarnation’ 190
‘The Prayer of the Wandering Jew’...... 191
‘Death of Montezuma’..............-0 191
‘Description of Virgin Mary’............. 192
EDWARD EGGLESTON.

Birth and Early Life....... SN Ie cine steal 193
A Man of Self-culture............0.-0000 193
HisWarly Training sac.0 sn eours see reat 193
Religious Devotion and Sacrifice ....... we. 194
Beginning of his Literary Career........... 194
What Distinguishes his Novels............ 194
List of his Chief Novels and Stories ...... 194
‘Spelling down the Master’............... 196



THOMAS NELSON PAGE.
_Birth and Earliest Recollections...........
Childhood, Ancestors, and Education......
His First Literary Success...........2.00.
‘In Ole Virginia’’ and other stories.......
Prominent Journalist and Lecturer........
ABT OUTSA DOA cere arucctoerota isis clei ottcke ates tees
S@ldiGiec-eeaceins sare one mc ercse re octets

EDWARD PAYSON ROE.

Great Popularity Among the Masses.......
The Character of his Novels...........+-.
Birth and Education...............20000.
Served as Chaplain During the Civil War .
Waist: f His’ Works, o0:sccnec sie ainees eevee

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.
‘*The Most Versatile of Modern Novelists’’.
Birth, Ancestors, and Early Life..........
Editor on the ‘‘ Allahabad Herald’’.......
Varied Experiences. ..........0-eeeeseeee
How he Came to Write ‘‘ Mr. Isaacs’’.....
His Most Popular Novels.............-.-.
A Novel Written in Twenty-four Hours....
His Other Chief Works. ..........-...-..
‘Horace Bellingham’..............---00-
‘In the Himalayas’.............eeee eens

FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.

A Prolific and Popular Author............
Birth and Educational Training...........
Engraver and Designer. ..............-205
One New Book Almost Every Yaar eae
Some of his Best Known Books...........
‘The End of a Career’ ...........-+.004.

EDWARD BELLAMY.

A Most Remarkable Sensation............
100,000 Copies Per Year..............06-
Mr. Belamy’s Ideal............2-2022 00%
Birth and Education.........ce.eeeeeeeee
ELIStBOOkS aster wicket ian ceraeh eects
An Tdeal Home sss.-.2 0:05 Siete a Sentcons
‘Music in the Year 2000’............-.-.

GEORGE W. ‘CABLE.
‘* Circumstances Make the Man’’.........
Birth and Karly Life..........-....00000%
Service in the Confederate Army..........
Errand Boy ina Store........-... 200200.

CONTENTS.

PAGE



19
Z PAGE
On the ‘‘ New Orleans Picayune’’ ........ 214
Dovsotes his Life to Literature............. 215
His Most Prominent Works.............- 215
“ThesDoctor vs; ete secste eleisne le cenet O15
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Ancestors, B° th, and Girlhood ........... 218
Removal to Cincinnati.............. 0000 ee 218
A Trip Across the River............-.+-. 218.
NP uP ean eamommaraeremanoaeGe score 218
SeverevErialssccitetyrc crosses creas 219
A Memorable Year...................--. 219
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin”... ..........00e0eee 220
Her Pen Never Idle ..............ece0ees 221
Removal to Hartford, Conn.......-.....+. 221
HeriDeathsavcsnrcvrcenet heros Freee 221
‘The Little Hvangelist’..............-.-5 222
“The Other World’ ...........020000 pies AOD
M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE (MARION
HARLAND).
Wide Variety of Talent............eeeeees 226
Birth and Education........ Renter tates 226
Marriage and Home............ Rt paeaceuniee 226
Her Most Prominent Works............. 226
SA u Manly: Heroist ailasiieisneeasseseten tere 227
MARY ABIGAIL DODGE (GAIL HAMILTON).
Essayist, Critic and Novelist.............. 228
Birth and Education. ...........2.0 e000 928
Career as a Writer... ...... cece cece eee es 228
Her Published Volumes...........--..... 228
The Only Authorized Life of J. G. Blaine.. 229
MMISHING Pasar ci lactic ae mel crnaei sees ee are 229
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Helen Hunt’s Cabin.............cceeeees 231
Birth and Education...........c0ee0ee0e. 231
Marriage and Removal to Newport, R. I... 231
Her WirstwPoems: sact os stos eh eevee avenn, 232
Great Distinction as a Writer.............. 232
Removal to Colorado. ..-....----- ee eeeee 232
At the Foot of Pike’s Peak............... 232
List of her Most Prominent Works........ 232
Death and Burial Place................06 232
‘Christmas Night at St. Peter’ Sire sisaterecuee 232
‘Choice of Colors’... ........ce cece ceeeee 233
FRANCES H. BURNETT.
Pluck, Energy and Perseverance.........- 235
Ber First Story. .003s0.c0sessisies ceecceess 235



20

Marriage and Tour in Europe.........--+-
Her Children Stories........... 0.000000
A Frequent Contributor to Periodicals. ....
SPrettye Olly besarctets aac Soiree Werarseete skein Solas

MARY N. MURFREE (CHAS. EGBERT
CRADDOCK).

An Amusing Story. .......2 eee cece ee eeee
Birth, Ancestry and Misfortunes. ...-.-+-+..
A Student of Humanity
Her Style Bold and Full of Humor......--
‘he Confession? 2 a.2 2 se.es sae eee ee wines

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD.
Favorable Reception of ‘‘ Gates Ajar!’’....
An Elarly Writer.....--..0-- ee ceee eee
A Long Series of Books......----+--+-+++
Marriage and Home.........+2++-e+ eee
Her Purpose Always High..........+.-.-
‘The Hands at Hayle and Kelso’s’

AMELIA E. BARR.

Popularity of her Works. ...-...-.+.++4++
Her Sorrows and Hardships......-..+++--
Birth and Harly Education..........--..-
Marriage and Travels....----.--+-+++-00
Death of her Husband and Four Sons.....-.
An Instantly Successful Book.......--++--
‘Little Jan’s Triumph’.......-.--.e.ee e+
OTe OldcPianost eek ee ea ees cee eee

ALICE FRENCH (OCTAVE THANET).

A Genuine Yankee Woman...........-..
Her Puritan Ancestry.......00. se ceee tees
Education and First Manuscript........---
HierMirst: Booksceesitoc scans aisinsieceeis eispe ars
Her Most Prominent Publications.........
Her nom-de-plume ...... 0.0. cece eee eeee
Philosopher, Artist and Novelist...-...--.
An Assiduous Student of her Subjects.....
‘Two Lost and Found’........-.+++-eeees

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN.

A Famous Daughter of the ‘‘Pilgrims’’...
Birth and Parents......-. ce. ceeeeeceees
A List of her Best Books.........-2+-00
Her Personality........ 2s. cece cece eeeee
‘An Afternoon in Nantucket’............

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
The Most Prolific of American Women

PAGS

235

235
236

238
238
238
239
239

240
240
240
240
240
241

242

246

248
248

249
249

252

CONTENTS.

Critical Estimate of her Works........---+
Birth and Educational Advantages......--
Her First Book. ........ cece eee cece eeeee
Some of her Other Works... ...-..-++++
A Tour of EKurope.......--- Licked Re Stee
Gab: opens tee ee Sass te ere oes oe anole SrenaeTNG
‘Columbus’
‘The Alpine Flowers’..........-..+2+-0++
ONiagara. fiGexects mains ceive cucu eat
‘Death of an Infant’.............000006-
‘A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave’..........

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
Ancestors and Birth.......-0..e. sees eee
A Liberal Contributor to Periodicals.......
Her Published Works
‘The Step-mother’.......... 00s. cece eeee
‘Guardian Angels’.......... 00sec eeeee
‘The Brook’
“The. April: Rain’... scewsctamteaeeeccees
SHO WOLS Hae eo oiloce Sec ioe ree nets TO CREE
“Eros ‘and Anter08’......esseeecseeences

LUCY LARCOM.



Operative in a Cotton Factory........--.-
Birth and Harly Life.............-...0005
Her First Literary Production
Some of her Best Works..........-.00065
The Working Woman’s Friend...........
‘Hannah Binding Shoes’...........+..

ALICE AND PHBE CARY.

Their Birth and Harly Lot......-.........
Encouragement From Hditors.............
Their First Volume.............. cae we
Some of their Prominent Works..........
A Comparison Between the Two Sisters. ...
One in Spirit through Life...............
Wnited in Deaths. 25 ccmsoeceiien eaance
‘ Pictures of Memory’......-- 2. essere
SNobility has scones eee aio
‘The Gray Swan’ scses4 seo aa ever ete gees
‘To the Evening Zephyr’......--.----5+-
‘Death: Scene: Meese remaies ten ecs ee cess
‘Memories’

Equal to Hither Fortune’........-...--.
PILAIGHE Acar stic caves secsebaee Peas trees aay eree

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Birth and Education...........-eeeseeee
Her First Book at Nineteen Years.......--

PAGE

252

254
254
254
255
255

256 |
256
256
257

260
260
260
260
261
261



CONTENTS. 21



PAGE PACD
Her Following Publications. ........+..++- 268) HAMILTON W. MABIRE.
Residence in Boston and Trips Abroad..... 269 Birth, Family, and Education...........++ 299
A Systematic Worker.....---------.eeee- 269 Familiar with the Classics .............-+. 299
Personal Friendship .............-..00055 269 On the Staff of the ‘‘ Christian Union’’.... 299
‘If There Were Dreams to Sell’.......... 269 Profound Study of the Problems of Life... 299
‘Wife to Husband’. .... ce. cece ee eee ees 269 A Declaration Typical of all his Thought... 299
‘The Last Good-Bye’ ......ee cere eee eee 270 ‘Country Sights and Sounds’............- 300
NOx E VCAL sas gustae sick bee icect vee as ey ereanrn osrese 270
‘My Mother's Picture’. ....-+-+++e++++0+- 270| EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Two Sensational Poems ..............20.. 308
WASHINGTON IRVING. Birth, Ancestry, and Harly Life........... 308
The First Great Pioneer in American Letters 271 Journalist at Twenty-one........ settee ee 308
Birth and Ancestors......-..-+e+ eee eee eee 271 On the New York ‘‘Tribune”’............ 309
Named After George Washington......... 271 Editor of the ‘‘ World’”’...... 02... eee ee 309
Early Success as a Journalist.......-.-++-- 272 A Remarkable War Letter.........-...--. 309
A Two Years’ Trip in Hurope......-.----- 272 A List of his Prominent Works........... 309
A Shrewd Advertisement...............4. 272 Poet and Man of Business...........-..-- 309
Seventeen Years Abroad ............0000- 273 An Ideal Home Life..............-.0005. 309
’ The Winning Character of his Genius.....- = OT “Betrothed Anewrs cnseucaheeanecaeerass 310
‘The Organ of Westminster Abbey’...-... 275 “The Door Step vecs.csschen cee oe eee 310
‘Baltus Van Tassel’s Farm’............5- 275 .
“Columbus at Barcelona’........-+-+---. +: 276| GEORGE H. BANCROFT.
‘The Galloping Hessian’.........+.--600. 277 The First Among American Historians. .... 311
Birth and Edueation.............220.000% 311
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. Extensive Studies in Europe...........--- 311
The Meditative Schoolin American Literature 281 Appointed to the Chair of Greek in Harvard
Birth, Ancestry and Education. ........... 281 Colleges ceGeuie wes aacte co etaweees 311
Harly: Mite ten secretin: ac oweiatels mamareee ee 281 A School of High Classical Character...... 311
In ‘‘ The Brotherhood of Authors’’........ 281 Official (Service wwsenies aaccoeeareria 312
His First Literary Work...........2 020008 281 Removal to New York......-....2.0.006. 31g
A Few of his Other Publications........... 282 Minister to Russia and to Germany.....--- 312
“The Moral Quality of Vegetables ’........ 282 His ‘‘ History of the United States’’ and
Othe WiOEKS Aes ce nese leeeeeres 313
J A Long and Useful Life........-.-.-.---- 313
eae 2 eee ‘Character of Roger Williams’........... 314
Characteristics of the Author.......--.+-- 284 Tex : : Aon
Eee aE : estruction of the Teain Boston Harbor’. 314
A Disciple of Washington Irving....-...-. 284 Ch ivaleanad Puteniane ais
Birth, Education, and Harly Life.......... 284 Th es ee CE te a 4
: e Position of the Puritans’............ 316
Home and Marriage......-. eee cece eee 284
U.S. Consul to Venice. .... 6... seen eee eee 285
Semi-public Positions.......----.+.seeeee 935|JAMES PARTON.
His Most Prominent Books.............-. 285 Ancestry, Birth, and Edueation........... 317
‘Washington Irving’.........0--e eee eee 285 A Very Successful Teacher.....--..-+..-+ 317
‘Glimpses of ‘‘Dream Life’’’..........-- 286 His Career as a Literary Man............. 317
On the Staff of ‘‘ The New York Ledger’. 318
_ THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. His Most Prominent WorksSixcisesieas as tens 318
A Noble Part in the Battles for Freedom... 297 Old Nang inta Sooo ease Soto ees ze
Activity in the Anti-Slavery Agitation..... 297
His Contributions to Literature.........-. 297 FRANCIS PARKMAN.
A Popular Historian.........seeeeee eens 298 Birth, Education, and Visit Abroad ....... 321



‘A Puritan Sunday Morning’...--+.-+++++ 298 A Summer With the Dakotah Indians..... 321



/

Compelled to Suspend Intellectual Work...
An Interesting Example of his Persistency.
His Interest in Horticulture ..............
‘The New England Colonies’.............
‘The Heights of Abraham’...............

WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT.

A Popular Historian................2 000.
Birth, Parentage and Karly Life...........
A Thorough Preparation.............-.-.
Marriage and Happy Home...............
His Method of Composition..............
Successful as a Writer from the First......
A List of his Works...:.......seeeeseee
Many Engaging Qualities ................
‘The Golden Age of Tezcuco’............
‘The Banquet of the Dead’ ..............

JOHN L. MOTLEY.

Birth, Boyhood, and Early Associates .....
Intimate Friend of Prince Bismarck.......
Member of Massachusetts’ Legislature. ....
‘* History of Holland’’.............. eee ee
Minister to Austria, 1861; to England, 1869.
Patriot, Scholar, Historian ...............
SUBS MAT 23 e/nepasiert ents eitacet eo eaare testes eeey ea
‘The Siege of Leyden’...............60..
‘ Assassination of William of Orange’......

JQHN FISKE.

Precocious Ability........ 0... ceeceeeeeee
Birth, Education and Early Life...........
His Literary Work and Most Noted Books.
His Principal Historical Works............
His School-books......... retainer tye cys
‘Land Discovered’ ........ 2... cece eeeees
‘The Federal Convention’..............-.

JOHN B. McMASTER.

Excelling in Different Fields..............
Parentage, Birth and Harly Life...........
Professor of American History...........-
His View of History.......0......0.0.00-
Instructor of the Young...........----005
‘The American Workman in 1784’........
‘The Minister in New England’...........

FRANCES M. WHITCHER (THE WIDOW
BEDOTT).

Her nom-de-plume ..-ssesseeesseeeereree

CONTENTS.

PAGE
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323
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326
327
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329
329
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345



PAGE
Richness of Humor.........---..00 taree 345
Birth, Childhood and Education..........- 346
Marriage and Literary Fame...........--- 346
Removal from Elmira, N. Y.............. 346
‘Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles’......... 346
‘The Widow’s Poetry and her Comments on
the Same About Hezekiah’......... 347
CHARLES F. BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD).
Birth and E:ducation..............----.-- 349
On the ‘‘ Commercial,’’ Toledo, Ohio...... 349
Local Editor of the ‘‘ Plain Dealer’’....... 349
Successful Lecturer in England,........... 350
Death at Southampton,...............265. 350
HistWiorkSncnton scree ease cone eon das 350
‘Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers’....... 350
‘At the Tomb of Shakespeare’........... 351

HENRY W. SHAW (JOSH BILLINGS).

Birth and Education. ..........0.000e0005 352
His Early Life of Adventure.............. 352
Entered the Lecture Field...........-.... 352
Contributor to ‘‘ The New York Weekly’’.. 352
His Published Books.......-..--------+e: 352
‘Manifest Destiny’.......-.2-.-. ee eee eee 353
‘Letters to Farmers’...-...-----+-e-ee2ee0 354

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN).

A World-wide Reputation................ 355
Birth, Boyhood and Education............ 355
His®Pilotslitést sine tee carta se steee eae 355
Editor of the Virginia City ‘‘ Emterprise’’.. 355
Journalist and Gold Digger............... 355
A Trip to! Ha wall ..cecsc's csc dome eae es 355
Innocents Abroad...........ceeeceeeeceee 355
Some of his Other Works................ 356
A Lecturing Trip Around the World....... 356
‘Jim Smiley’s Frog’...........2..2.. 008. 356
‘Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer’.... 357
OM hesBabiesiy ceiclor scclerec lsc toes lees 359
MARIETTA HOLLEY (JOSIAH ALLEN’S
WIFE).
A Writer at an Harly Age................. 360
Birth and Ancestors........-.2-seeeeeees 360
Rise and Increase of Her Fame ........... 360
Some of her Prominent Works............ 360
A Quarter Million Copies Sold............ 360
Characteristics of her Books.............. 361

‘ Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President’ 361



CONTENTS.

PAGE

CHARLES F. ADAMS (YAWCOB STRAUSS).

A Not-Soon-to-be-Forgotten Author.......
Birth, Education and Harly Life...........
Service in Many Hard-fonght Battles......
Prominent Business Man............--+..
A Contributor to Prominent Journals......
A Genial and Companionable Man
“Pers Drummers o.s-0+:sereore cote w/e: orsfolaevoieraele
SSH an sands brite veces ocatencteeies eerewies
*Yawcob Strauss’
‘Mine Moder-in-Law’.........0sceeeeees
‘Yawcob’s Dribulations’
‘The Puzzled Dutchman’
‘Der Oak and Der Vine’

were rece ner eceoe

EDGAR WILSON NYE (BILL NYE).

A Man of Genuine Wit
Birth and Early Surroundings.............
Studied Law, Admitted to the Bar
Organized the Nye Trust............-00..
Famous Letters from Buck’s Shoals, N. C..
“History of the United States”
His Death
‘The Wild Cow’
‘Mr. Whisk’s True Love.’.........-. 000

The Discovery of New York’

Pere ere me emer err ee eresees

JOEL C. HARRIS (UNCLE REMUS).

*“An Accidental Author’”’
Birth and Humble Circumstances..........
In the Office of the ‘‘ Countryman”’
Beginning of his Literary Career..........
Studied and Practiced Law
Co-editor of the Atlanta ‘‘ Constitution ’’...
His Works
‘Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard’..

sccm e re eee cere ee
eee ee ee eer eee

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

A Prominent Place Among ‘‘ Funny Men’’.
Birth and Harly Education
Fought in the Civil War..........seeeeee
Journalist, Lecturer and Baptist Minister...
Contributor to ‘‘ Ladies’ Home Journal’’..

ee meee rr ccs ecce

‘The Movement Cure for Rheumatism’....

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

Architect of her Own Fortune
Ber Father's Misfortunes ..---eeersercees

377
377
377
377
377

378

380
380

Her Marly Writings...........seeeeseeeee
Her Letters in the Government Hospitais ..
Young People’s True Friend.......-......
er Booksectecnetersiats ere stole eee ccvecs has cases
An Admirer of Emerson
A Victim of Over-Work
‘How Jo Made Friends’

Pete wre cece erence

WILLIAM T. ADAMS (OLIVER OPTIC).

Writer for the Young..............000005
Birth and Harly Life...............-0005.
Teacher in Public Schools of Boston.......
His Editorials and Books.........-...0.08
His Style and Influence..........2.-----+
‘The Sloop That Went to the Bottom’....

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (GRACE
GREENWOOD).

Favorite Writer for Little Children
Birth and Childhood
Hers Marriages oes siiacie oe csotere carer nae a teas
Contributions to Journals and Magazines...
Her Numerous Books......---2eeeees eee
DafetAbroads .es0os0 a cites ee eae
‘The Baby in the Bath Tub’

HORATIO ALGER.
A Wholesome Author for Young People...
His First Book, Great Success...........
A New Field
Birth, Education and Harly Life...........
Residence in New York.........eeeeeeees
Some of his Most Prominent Books
‘How Dick Began the Day’

EDWARD ELLIS.
Birth and Early Life..........eeeeeeeeees
His Historical Text-Books........-+---+--
His Contributions to Children’s Papers ....
‘The Signal Fire’.......s0seseeeeeees eee



MARTHA FINLEY.
Birth, Ancestry and Harly Life.........-..
Beginning of her Literary Career..........
Struggle Against Adversity... ....-.-+-++-
Great Hxertions scsi saesstneece acces esses
‘ Elsie Series,’ Great Popularity
‘Hilsie’s Disappointment ’,.

sector eeceeere

384
384
384

384

386
386
386
386
386
386
386



24 CONTENTS. i



PAGE PAGE

MARY MAPES DODGE. HENRY W. WATTERSON.

Writer of Stories for Children.......... .. 898 Influential Modern Journalist............- 414
Birth and Parentage............e0e. eee 398 Birth and Edueation..............2000+8- 414
Married William Dodge...............24. 398 Hditor of the ‘‘ Republican Banner’’...... 414
Contributor to ‘‘ Hearth and Home”’.-.... 398 Service in the Confederate Army........-. 414
Success of her Works......c0eeee ayoneiees 398 The ** Courier-Journal,’’ Louisville, Ky.... 414
Editor of ‘‘St. Nicholas Magazine’’....... 398 Prominent. Part in Politics..............-. 414
Her Home in New-York ......... aycceio raise 398 “PhetNewsSOubhy se. 32 2. cesar eters 414
*Too Much of a Good Thing ’,...........- 399
MURAT HALSTEAD,

HORACE GREELEY. One of the Greatest Living Journalists..... 416
Birth and Early Taste for Literature....... 401 Nativity, Early Life and Education........ 416
On the ‘* Northern Spectator’’............ 461 Editor of ‘‘The Commercial,’’ Cincinnati,
Tries his Fortune in ee Viorketeccrn ene 401 OM OM rea sas oe ae eres 416
Part Owner of the ‘‘ New Yorker’’........ 401 A Continued Success...............00000. 417
The ‘‘ Log Cabin’ ad the N. Y. ‘‘ Tribune”? 401 Correspondent During the Franco-Prussian
Hlected to Congress...........e cece eee eee 402 iar BO terecertesteces cerca sean 417
Liss Wiotishsxec tcc. siadreeas eaeeeren cate 403 In Washington and New York............ 417
Nominated for Presidency.............06. 403 Home and Family hife.......... 2.2.5.2... 418
His Last Resting Place........ 0.2... 20005 403 ‘The Young Man at the Door’,........... 418
‘A Debtor’s Slavery’ 2... ..ceccceceeeeees 403
PG SRTeSS# ae-t ose ecate terete rere euete Sealers aie oese 405 WHITELAW REID.

‘Fortune Favors the Brave’’............. 420

CHARLES A. DANA. Birth and Karly Training................. 420
Oneol Our Roremost Men “va cceecek 406 War Correspondent to the ‘‘ Cincinnati Ga-
Birtlhiand@Harly Lites.cveaee ene wees sss 406 ANS a phan are a ALES Gl 420
A Remarkable Life........+0. mre ee 406| An Important Work... --. See core eee
His Education and College Career......... 406 Kditorial Writer Upon N. Y. “Tribune”... 420
Joining the ‘‘ Brook Farm’? Men......... 406 His Most Pr ominent W me pore ateeep coasts 421
His First Journalistic Experience......... - 407 His Palatial Home and Family Life. eas 421
On toner Wore Oberle ee ieagy, Pictures of a Louisiana Plantation’....... 42]
‘Busy: Vearsicc-any tae siecess Maree - 407
Difference Between Mr. Greeley and Mr. Dana 407| ALBERT SHAW.

Assistant Secretary of War.............6. 407 Birth, Education and Personal Character-
One Year in Chicago....... Sic larattskare Seer AO: SECS eee vie Mk ee Oe te Ben 494
Manager of the New York “ San siegeteretaie « 407 Residence in Baltimore............e0ee0ee 424
‘Roscoe Conkling’.....+. teeseseseeeseee 408) On the Minneapolis Daily “Tribune”... 425
Extensive Studies Abroad.............56- 425
LYMAN ABBOTT. Editor of the ‘‘Review of Reviews’’...... 425
: 2 Great: Success ascssess cece saci ne 425
Caren ee se ee et pany] hee terme

St ee a SULLAN AW AORNEE

Work as a Journalist... .....eeseeeeeeeeee All His Imaginative Power, Vivid Statement... 427
Successor of Henry Ward Becher rece 412 Parentage, Birth and Travels Abroad...... 427
Prolific Publisher.............e0000- ives 412 College Life and Karly Training........... 427
Successful Pulpit Speaker................ 412 Long Sojourn Abroad...............0000, 427
SEN Gre) CSUIES etre ceetnc seteerses ara tels oonieeestee 412 Some of his Most Prominent Works....... 427

‘The Destruction of the Cities of the Plain. 413 Expedition to India.............. Ree 427



CONTENTS.

PAGE
‘The Wayside and the War’..........-.- 428
‘First Months in England’............... 428
The Horrors of the Plague in India’...... 429
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS.
Marvelous Skill in Seeing the World....... 430
A Clever Newspaper Reporter............ 430
Birth and Hereditary Bent for Letters..... 430
Interesting Career as a Journalist......... 430
The Book that Made Him Famous......... 430
Some of His Other Works..............-- 431
‘The Greek Defence of Velestino’......... 431
PATRICK HENRY.
His Talents as a Popular Orator........... 433
Parentage and Education.......-......... 433
Marriage and Karly Life.................. 433
A Prominent Lawyer..............e0000 433
BoldsPrinciplessseacucaneecaste neice cee 8 433
The Leader of his Colony................ 433
The First Governor of Virginia........... 434
SET ShD eat hieecar costes se ie ee eek oe aes 434
‘Resistance to British Aggression......... 434
wT henWar Inevitable scenes caches ea 435
HENRY CLAY.
The ‘‘Great Pacificator’’............--665 436
Birth, Early Hardships, Toil and Poverty.. 436
Removal to Kentveky and Success.......-- 436
Marriage and Home ..-............. 000. 436
In the Senate of the United States........ 436
Member of the House of Representatives.. 436
MlectedssS peak er’ t\ecseguess. cot snetersrscieteas cxonsceos 436
SecretaryOl State ieaer ois ct csis erect eka 437
The Conflict of 1818.............eee eens 437
The Disappointment of His Life.......... 437
The ‘‘ Compromise ’’ of 1850 .........+.6 437
The Leading Object of His Life........... 438
‘Defence of Jefferson,’ 1813..... eer neh 438
‘Reply to John Randolph’..........-.... 438
On Recognizing the Independence of
(Greece atk Ghee eae eS 439
DANIEL WEBSTER,
First among the ‘‘ Makers of the Nation’’.. 440
Birth, Ancestors and Farly Life........... 440
The ** "Webster's: Boye eee uses die sarees sited 440
Extraordinary Memory... ..---+-.+0+0+e0+ - 440
Majestic Appearance...-..+..+--e esse ease 440
Lawyer, Orator and Statesman......-----. 440
A Famous Cases: ..ccece cece ceectceeeecs 441
His Most Famous Speeches, ......-++s+0+. 442



Secretary of State........ cece eee eeeeeees
Home. and Home Hife.................02.
Death and Wanerals 26.005 eee nee coe
‘South Carolina and Massachusetts,’......
‘ Liberty and Union’
‘The Eloquence of Action’............065
‘The Twenty-second of February’.........
‘ America’s Gift to Hurope’..............

EDWARD EVERETT.
The Great Charm of His Orations.........
Birth, Education and Marly Life...........
Prefessor of Greek at Harvard College.....
Editor of the ‘‘ North American Review.”’
Member of Congress
Minister to England
President of Harvard College.............
Secretary of State............-e eee ee eee
His Lectures and Orations.............56.
ID eGat liter cise secs ete tee tee aes ean eens
‘ Twenty-five Years of Peace’
‘The Father of the Republic’............
‘The Land of Our Forefathers’...........

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

‘The Silvery-tongued Orator”’
How He came into Prominence
A Memorable Speech................000.
Birth, Parents and Education.............
A Popular Lecturer....-.. 0... .000 e002 eee
His Most Celebrated Addresses ..........

‘Political Agitation’..... ics Dateide iste SOT
‘Toussaint L’Ouverture’..... miateystalate sree

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

No Superior as Pulpit Orator.....-.......
Parentage, Birth and Childhood...........
Education and Conversion........--.+..4.
His Marriage and First Pastorate
Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn,N. Y.
Ac Boldt Abolitionist:ias.soeer Sen carer cies
Ever the Champion of the Right.........
His Death and Funeral.......-.. 20000000.
“Public Dishonesty. ite. ceecieteeusteraue

Eulogy on General Grant’... 2... ee eee ee

From ‘The Sparks of Nature’’’.......-

JOHN B. GOUGH.

A Great National Orator..... Miele eesienies
Birth and Early Life............ slorveisrcieee
A Life of Hopeless Dissipation ....-.--..-



26

Publie Confession and Reformation
A Popular Lecturer........-.-+----+-. Pas
Called to England
“Ay Ha ppypilitetacstss side share taeevneten se
His Published Works.......--.....-0006-
‘Water and Rum’..........seeeecceeeees
‘The Power of Habit’
‘What is a Minority ?’........0.0eeeeeeee

CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW.
Great Versatility........2+-.5-- Eee elena
Birth, Ancestors and Boyhood..--........
A Close Student of Politics..............-
A Highly Successful Lawyer........---+--
A Giant in Politics
Member of Congress.......+.200eeeeeeeee
Secretary of State
Minister to Japan
His Career as a Railway Man..........---
‘The Pilgrims’

HENRY W. GRADY.
Devoid of Sectional Animosities........-..
Ihe Union His Pride
Eloquent, Logical and Aggressive
His Principal Speeches. ....---.----+- +++
Birth, Parentage and Education........---
Marriage and Struggle for Existence.......
‘tA Friend in Need”’
Success at Lastacs.ccscccrence terse stereos ais are
Premature Death....... 22-02 seee eee eens
‘The New South’
‘Regard for the Negro Race’......-------
‘ Appeal for Temperance’

JULIA WARD HOWE.
Her Home a Meeting Place for Great Men.
Birth, Parentage and Education. ...... elec
Marriage and Tour Abroad
Her First Book
Interest in the Anti-Slavery Question....--
Her Famous ‘‘ Battle Hymn”’
Visit to England
A New Journey Abroad.
‘The Battle Hymn of the Rebublic’
“Quri Country sess sssessewerecea cones
‘The Unspeakable Pang’

MARY A. LIVERMORE.
Her Early Experience........-+eeeeeeeees
Birth, Parentage and Education...........
Teacher of Latin and French
Tn the South..... PAI Seen clare ea wae

see cee rere cere reer eee

ee meer eee w ee



CONTENTS.
PAGE
4538 Marriage ..cs 458 An Active Temperance Worker.......-.--
458 Her Literary Work........-.0-.0- cee eee
459 Wars Services sccm ue cusieu ene sa inonres
459 An Ardent Woman-Suffragist .........---
459 Her Pen Never Idle ........ 22. .eeeeeees
460 Useful! Wiotlen: sa cvastuersisisieceseroiete erslemeraets
461
BELVA ANN LOCKWOOD.
462 One of the Greatest Benefactors of Her Sex
462 Birth, Education and Harly Life..........-
462 Professor at Lockport Academy......--+--
462 Admission to the Supreme Court of the U. S.
462 A Remarkable Nomination.........-.+++
463 Great Popularity: ..........ee eee eee eeee
463 Several Times Delegate to International Con-
463 gresses OP BedCe seein cap deerotneteve ss
463 Assistant liditor to the ‘‘ Peacemaker’’.. ..
464 ‘ Address before the Committee of the House
of Delegates, Washington, in Support
of Woman Suffrage’...-...-.++-+--
465
465|SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
465 Early Life and Education.........---.+++-
465 How She Became an Abolitionist, Woman-
466 Suffragist and Temperance Worker..
466 Arrested, Tried and Fined for Voting......
466 Speeches and Lectures...--.---+-+++2+05+
466 Celebration of Her Seventieth Birthday....
466 ‘Woman’s Right to Suffrage...........--.
467
467| ELIZABETH CADY STANTON.
468 Forceful, Logical and Eloquent Orator.....
Primarily a Woman-Suffragist ........+-+-
469 Birth, Childhood and Kiducation...........
469 How She Became a Woman’s Rights Believer
469 How She Became an Abolitionist. vteeeees
469 The First Woman’s Rights Convention ....
469 Her Addresses and Speeches......-...+40-
7 15
469 Her Literary Works. teeter este ee eens
470 A Thoroughly Domestic Woman.........-.
470 ‘A Plea for Equal Rights’.....-.....+...
470 ‘ Address to the Legislature of New York’.
471
471 | FRANCES E. WILLARD.
Birth, Childhood and Harly Life..........
Teacher and President of Evanston College.
473 TheW omen’s ‘Crusade against Rum Shops”’
473 Joining in the Crusade....-.---++- +e eee ee
473 The Result of Her Work.............-56-
473 ‘Home Protection’...+-+ssererecenteeees

477
477
ATT
477
478
478

478
478

479

481 ©

481
482
482
482.
483

485
485
485
485
485
485
486
486
486
486
487







CONTENTS. 27
PAGE PAGE
LYDIA MARIA CHILD. ANNA ELIZABETH DICKINSON.
Activity against the ‘‘ Fugitive Slave Law’. 492 ACHeatlessiGurltxrsase noe un eee eu or ae 496
Birth, Education and Early Life........... 492 Birth, Childhood and Education. .......... 496
Her First Book a Success..............4-- 492 Her Debut Before the Public............. 496
Marriage and Anti-Slavery Work.......... 493 Cast Upon the World.................04. 496
The First Anti-Slavery Book in America... 493 How She was Named ‘‘ The Girl Orator’’.. 496
mACTibtle Walt vec gue sn ieee sition as ans: 494 The Mistake of Her Life................. 497
‘To Whittier on His Seventieth Birthday.. 494 Misfortunes and Difficulties............... 497
PP Olteness 1.5 sacveistos merino we ees 494 Rare Eloquence and Dramatic Fervor...... 497
MIRTOWETS® fo cltetecaie sree cont Tees ree Mae 495 ‘Why Colored Men Should Enlist in the
Unselfishness ’ -s:.7 at. a1e ite aretuceasieetton, setae 495 SATIN Y eres ons): revs mtere en wie aoa stereos 497
MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECHS.
‘Home, Sweet Home’.................. ieee 4 90 Mem Onye ssiocccnctec anisole aes athereees = 511
‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.................. 499| ‘ All Quiet Along the Potomac’...........-.--- 512
‘The American Flag’................eeeeeees 500] ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’....-.-.--00eee00- 512
‘Blind Man and the Elephant’................ 501] ‘The Blue and the Gray’..........---+-eeeee 513
eEails Columbiasl:wasstivn vs. cnaeios aeeurenrees HOME ROECall Ye eycts soar sigs oe acct ee eee rue mene 513
‘Betty and the Bear’.............. 002s eeeees 502] ‘ Theology in the Quarters’.........+-.+...+-. 514
‘Visit of St. Nicholas’...............20.. ... 503] ‘Ruin Wrought by Rum’........----- Shera: 514
‘Woodman, Spare that Tree’................. BOS Pora Gk eletonseciac cctswisceteat renee ste see eres 515
‘Sanctity of Treaties, 1796’.......-.-..----6- 505 | ‘Pledge with Wine’.......... see ee cence eens 515
‘The Bloom was on the Alder and the Tassel on ‘Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua’........ 517
the (Comer csc pecoaecit se ese eeaiae 505|‘ The Crabbed Man’......... cece cece ee eeeees 518
‘The Declaration of Independence’........... 506 |‘ Putting up O’ the Stove’....-.-------.+ eee 519
‘Washington’s Address to His Soldiers, 1776’.. 507| ‘The Poor Indian !’........-.+- eee sees ee eee 521
‘The General Government and the States’..... 507 | ‘ Jenkins Goes to a Picnic’......-.essueeeeeee 521
‘What Saved the Union’................00065 508 | ‘Sewing on a Button’,.........e cee eee eee eee A22
‘The Birthday of Washington’...............- SOB UCasey-atithes Bats cas sressee hit vosk os aan: 522
“Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be ‘WheiMasicalidisleexnaccoscr, cemrectsre-icnelsoee Sees 523
Proudita tie can volsetomn asia gota ten aie 509| ‘Stray Bits of Character’..---.----+esseeeeees 524
*Columbus in Chains’............2.00 eee eeee 510| ‘Glimpses of Dream-life’........ 2... eee eens 529
‘The Bivouac of the Dead’..............20005 510|‘ The Origin of a Type of the American Girl’.. 541
* Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme-
LE Dyer orerars sreyesisca ciateteresasoteveete Cieraiecieierer arses 511



AMERICAN LITERATURE IN THE CLOSING YEARS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 5.7

Character of the Literature of the Day—Famous Novels and their Authors—Historical Fiction—

Poetry—Favorite Selections and Quotations.

THE TEN GREATEST BOOKS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.....--.--+sseeeeeseeees

Authors and Books Enumerated—Life Sketches and Reviews of Authors and Books, with Extracts

from their Writings.



OUR FAVORITE

ENGLISH AUTHORS.



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Little Known of His Life................5
Marries Anne Hatheway.......-..-...0055
Conducts Theatres and Writes Plays.......

‘The Abuse of Authority’.............68,
wbhenWatches:eivcrrtentventser het me cya tie
‘Death of Queen Katherine’..,...........
‘The Power of Imagination’..............
HithesWairy tos Puck weew acca -antas teens
sAriel StQONG totter rN aceite sere
“@beron’s: Vaslonic.c-2 center ness euide
‘Fall of Cardinal Wolsey’..............-.
‘Touchstone and Audrey’................

PHE* SEVEN ACES. wees wiki sae osama ;

“Opheliaweyssace sea a itceten sae rere
*Machbeth’s Irresolution’...............-6.
‘ Antony’s Oration at Ceesar’s Funeral’....
ae hylocksandwAN LOMO usr elstesee tase es. te
“Hamilet:s: Sollloquy. s.2-sevccnaccenesene

‘Hamlet and the Ghost’................4.
nOthellosssWiooiney savaceansen stone,

JOHN MILTON.
Karly Life and Education.................
ravelsxA broads 72sec, alesage cc eragc acs
Blindness and Personal Description........
Public: Servicessercnce esc. ee eee ee
‘Hive’s Account of Her Creation
elnvocationstosichts sis. octet eat
MromecbivAllepro. iis cence ccuctte mre ce
‘A Book Not a Dead Thing’..............
‘The Hymn to the Nativity’ .............
‘Departure from Hden’...............6..

THOMAS GRAY.
Fame Rests on the ‘ Hlegy’...............
Stotyeots Walpolemecswaecnc oe cece ene 6%
Declines the Laureateship...............4.
PersonaleItraitss:iacc.cn. coon eenees
Character of His Great Poem.............
‘Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard’.



PAGE PAGE
ROBERT BURNS.
549 His Life Not a Model...............--.-. 575
549 His Peasant Father........0.2ceceeeeeees 575
550 Rhyming and Making Love............... 575
552 Vasit:tomidinburshiesis seca sees 575
553 Farmer, Eixciseman and Poet.........-..-. 576
553 ‘The Deil Cam’ Fiddlin’ Through the Town’ 576
554 ‘My Heart’s in the Highlands’........... SDE
554 “The: Banksi@ sD oonies cacao oecateee eee 517
555 ‘Man was Made to Mourn’............--. 578
55D “Mam*@ Shanterce cece Sees eee 579
555 ‘Bruce to His Men’.......c20.20c0e0eees 580
556 ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’............ 580
556
557|GEORGE GORDON BYRON.
558 Controversy Over His Writings.........-. 582
559 TreiSensitive Boye. iceua sas eseaee 582
560 The Worthless Father and Indulgent Mother 582
560 Early Life and Education................. 582
561 ‘* Kinglish Bards and Scotch Reviewers’”’... 582
562 Marriage and After-life................... 582
563 Takes Part in the Greek Rebellion and Dies 583
563 ISH ROGINS Re ee ee Se ne 583
564 SThe:kiverofopattlesssnac esrb: eet xerns 583
‘The Land of the Hast’...............--. 583
“The Isles of Greece’...+-..sse2ceeceeese 584
566 d
566 :
567| SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
567 His Strange Character and Appearance..... 585
568 Reads the Bible when Three Years Old.... 585
568 Leaves Cambridgeand Enlistsinthe Dragoons 585
569 Plans the Pantisocracy......--....000e05 585
570 Writes the ‘‘Ancient Mariner’............ 585
570 Succumbs to the Use of Opium........... 585
571 A Delightful Talker.........2..002 0.0000 _ 587
‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’....... 587
-TheePhantom:Ship.-.ssweess uence ee 587
572 ‘ Adieu of the Ancient Mariner’.......... 589
572 ‘A Calm on the Equator’...............2- 591
572
572| THOMAS HOOD.
572 Apprenticed to an Engraver............... 592
BY} Assistant Editor of the London Magazine,. -592

28



OUR FAVORITE ENGLISH AUTHORS. 29

‘**Odes and Addresses"’......2.eeeeeeeeee
The ‘‘ Comic Annual’’.............22000-
Financial Embarrassment.........-.--++---
(aifesin Germany. sv02 ss orci waeeie noe.
Returns to London. ......0...00. 00 ee ee eee
‘The Song of the Shirt’.................
‘The Bridge of Sighs’.............0e0e

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
His*Mission‘as7a, Poet aes scncls eles cree: oecoielers
His Hostile Reception. .............0..08,
Parentage and Means of Livelihood........
MhechalteyPoetsh s acs.o sense eee eae
Becomes the Laureate...............22-4-
PrincipaleWiorks!2 scape cevcae Sonic tn ee
S@ur Immortality: sae-sases correct eee
Moravoleylarin caste cGecet eee saa
SO desto wD) ty. terrae cs bee on aac ee
S ROMELIS Witte eae one ee tedierc nals cave thee eho.

ALFRED TENNYSON.
The First of Modern Poets.............-4.
Hd UGAtIO Ne: Seer reek eae Ree es
Dislike of Publicity.........000se0c0ee00-
MherPension ssa -ine nee atresia
Miss Gireat Poemisa wa uectes tix ce ees eae

‘The Song of the Brook’...............5 ;

‘Prelude to In Memoriam’............-.-
Ring Outs Wilde Bells 3 oscc0-n08e, eee es
Pheladysotss hallott2s sravemeretaeseseaee
ES Weetran a wiO We eavcsiatie ct See ava
‘The Here and the Hereafter’.............
‘The Passing of Arthur’.................

DR. JOHN WATSON (TAN MACLAREN).

He Enters Literature in Middle Life.......
Vacations in Scotch Farm-houses........ 2
Studies in Edinburgh and Wiirtemberg.....
Accepts a Call to a Secluded Parish........
ASBornustory-tellenes cen cmearcie saree teks
Removes to Glasgow and to Liverpool......
Writes ‘‘ Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush’’..
His Visit to America..........00eeeee eee
“In Marget’s Garden’...........0...0000%

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
A Born Story-teller............eseeeeeeee
Wiamenesst cares ceccpce ose aie eee oe eae
Becomes Sheriff of Selkirkshire...........
Marriedtlifecsatocteec dee en ace minee

Abandons His Profession of Law........--

PAGE

592 |

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596 |
596 |
596 |
597 |
597 |
598 |
599 |
599

600
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601
601
602
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605
605
606

609
609
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609
610
610
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614



PAGE
is) Poeins 52/o-s.vecyssiierere sion ecatie siete eietesetae te 614
CaPLISMNOVELSHs. a versace ttesteelets Mertemiaeses sev 61
Water duitecand! Death twvek: setae esetne sic 616
‘Parting of Marmion and Douglas’........ 616
SMe] rosevA bey, cor eceress nora sers:eomerutracade toes 617
“The Fisherman’s Funeral’. .............. 618
‘The Necessity and Dignity of Labor’...... 620
‘Sir Walter Raleigh Spreads His Cloak for
Queen Elizabeth’...........-.-2-2005 621

‘The Storming of Front-de-Boeuf’s Castle’. 623

CHARLES DICKENS.
- He Has Awakened Pity in Sixty Million
RGATES vescenaer eens air a taney hake ee 625

His Shiftless Father.............0. 0020005 625
Work ina Blacking Factory.............- 625
Goes to School and Studies Shorthand..... 625
*ESketches by Bon? eciccucs coin enone 62°
The Story of His Novels...........-+---. 626
His Readings and American Journeys...... 627
The Children of His Genius............... 628
‘ Bardell versus Pickwick’............0000% 628
‘Rhroughwthe Storm. eee eae ae ce odes 630
‘The Death of little Nell’............... 633
‘Sam Weller’s Valentine’........-....... 635

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
His Standing as a Writer...............4. 638
iPersonalibistorys etectocen tecioe So mae tees 638
His Books and Lectures...........-..0005 639
Contributions to Punch... 1.0... eee ee eee 640
AS Social Titic:ne tresceredcesiane serene eee 640
‘The Fotheringay Off the Stage’......... 641
‘Miss Rebecca Sharp’.....-...seseeceeeee 643
‘Thomas Newcome Answers’......+...+-- 645
‘Old Fables with a New Purpose’......... 646

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Birthrandebarly Lites ccs ce-s eee aac 647
Mdicatione ofa soy: seats roe aie aise sas-< 647
Description by Miss Mitford............... 647
TvEvealthivsce te. wanna eessece eencamas arn: 647
Marriageln ness toevoter aime te erergre cet: 648
Her Principal Works.................0--- 648
Tribute to Her Genius by Her Husband.... 648
‘The Cry of the Human’...............6. 648
“The Sleeps. asides ve seca See 649

GEORGE ELIOT.
Her Position as a Novelist........-.-eee0- 650
Birth and Early Life...........eeeeeeeees 650



30

OUR FAVORITE ENGLISH AUTHORS.

PAGE
Her Great Novels.....-..e+seeeeeeeeeee ~. 650 ‘John Hampden’....-..-. Raleterepstetotetsie stele
Marriage and Closing Years. .....-+++-++++ 651 ‘The Puritans’. .... 2. cece cece serene eeees
CMiorencenneliQ4ces vaect securities ers es 651 ‘Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress’.....-...+.+
‘A Passage at Arms’... .-- eee essence e eee 652) -
‘The Poyser Family Go to Church......... 653| WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.

THOMAS BABINGTON

Biography by Trevelyan
Early Precocity.......-
Contributiens to Edinbu
Public Services........
Uistory of England....

*Fallacious Distrust of Liberty’........--- 658 | ‘An Estimate of Macaulay’





His Place as Statesman and Scholar........
Distinction at Oxford

MACAULAY. His Share in the Government...........--
[oe caa eva obel cys teeei 656 His Principal Books SoReal aera rne ste cdots
Oe siad ercer en utente 656 Oratory and Skill as a Financier..........-
rgh Review.....+..- 656 Retirement...........0-008 ROLLE ing seer
a a tistrate creer cs 656 ‘Anticipations for the Church of England’.
Ree ria wetter eters ears 657 ‘Some After-thoughts’.........eee eee eee



SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR RECITATION.

ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY.

IN GELORMEDUL are: vote vers iotareaiee dase brctetwne esse tenants

Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme-

LON Yissretstensucy are erersiasers.siayaretvolaiste sexe sieverc:ererecers
All Quiet Along the Potomac.................

Amnabelwlieets: we sayescncicescries saepien Reve ome
Appeal for Temperance. ..........-.202000 000s
EAD rilValn bh erro ae ame Cennard er ate
‘Arab:to:the=PalmesPhexw.ii 2 tone seas an nes
Artemus Ward at the Tomb of Shakespeare....
Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers.............

‘BablestDhesercsscgecr cen er
Banquet of the Dead, The....................
Bardell versus Pickwick. ........0.2:.0ceeeeeee
BaretooteBoysel here sc.t cue menracerennc
Battleticld es Rheme sec eam oe tence
Be lISS Wh Career ease etter an erence ete Nce tes
Betsy and I are Out............ Been See
Betty andithesBeancaea eee en eee ee
Billganded Cemeeecacnrtrcn dain a ene en eres
Birthday of Washington, The.................
Bison Track, The: s0..-.45 0c bec ne Ste atc
Bivouac of the Dead, The............-....00-
Blueiand.the Gray; The. 2242. oes ee eee
Bridgerote sighs lhesnnscssniescaeen meee a
BrucestowdlissMenie-c:o31 s.r ee noe nae
Butterfly on a Child’s Grave, A............05.

Chambered Nautilus, The.......--..... 2.0000
Character of Roger Williams................-.
Chivalry and Puritanism.............20eeee005
Christine, Awake for Your Life...............
Christmas Night at St. Peter’s................
Columbusteesme.cuae oe ee ee
Columbus at Barcelona.......+.+-.-2-++ ey
Cotter’s Saturday Night, The.................
Grabbeds Mans Uhewsccscce aie tence taen

Cry of the Human, The................005 oor

David’s Lament for Absalom.....-...se.e.e005

512
254



PAGE
Death of Little Nell, The :-.......-.--cee eee 633
Deathsot analnfintees sacs sien cae eeeis costes 255
DebtorseSlivenve Aw chasse seleediea ees 408
Declaration of Independence, The............. 500
Defence of Jefferson, 1813...-...--..eee ee eeee 438
Der Drunrme reeerccretc see eee aN eee ae 364
Description of Virgin Mary......--+-...+..00 192
DickensuniCam prec wack ae net gece nla 150
Discovery of New York, The.................. 370
Dutch diallaby Avs cn lve eies easier sateen oe 133
Dying Alchemist, The..........2-....0eeeeeee i
Eloquence of Action, The.......... 0. eeseeeeee 444
Emerson and the Emersonites..............005 17,
Encounter with a Panther.................... 169
Eulogy on General Grant..............0.00008 456
HivesoteBattle when ccc sue oes ea sens oe eee 583
AUX CEISTOR ere Ree Re Re ee 64
Father of the Republic, The.................. 448
HourthsoteilyiOderaracacccecas taser na een 109
General Government and the States, The....... 507
Gone With a Handsomer Man................ 147
Hannah Binding Shoes. .........-..0eee ee eeee 261
fansvandelnitacis sesoe Sorte ceveeeen coe eo ores 364
Here and the Hereafter, The...............24. 605
How Jo Made Friends .......-..-..+--s0e000- 382
Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Concord
Monument (1836)... ....0..e eee ee eee 15
Hymn to the Beautiful........ 0.0... ene e ee eee 121
If There were Dreams to Sell........-........ 269
AneiPrison tors Deb tere ce esters cveetrw econ ere 88
TslesrofaGreece, Chew. saacescics use manne nes 584
Syren fe lee craves seeieces taste esses eee Pace ceretas 52
A fihanggd 3p) olor arena teacemne nan rn acre accel coms ease 141
dame SmMiley:S HrOg assice-stsrskece oreo ejeveleeers ev amrees 356
Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President..-.. 361
Kats CarsoniscRidewa comet nessa yeeros 163
Land of Our Forefathers, The..... Ae eateteteletens 448

31



32 SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR

PAGE
Land of the Hast....... 0. ccc ceeceee ec censeees 583
PCMOVO Te cee ea eaes oat ata late tee ee acnokearete etepayete 53°
Letters to Farmers......00sceereeecee eee eeees 354
Liberty and Union........e.eee cece ee ene eee es 443
Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln, The........... 136
Little Breeches......cceececcccctcccesscecers 140
Manifest Destiny........- baci gute seelere 353
MMa te eVd till ersesestesere ete ses see eas ale ocenalatafevesereeunieterete 86
Mine Modéran-laws. csc. asiiies Site ct rere bi eee 365
Moral Qualities of Vegetables, The..........-. 282
Movement Cure for Rheumatism, The........- 378
Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard.......- 373
Music in the Year 2000. ...-.--+ sees ee once eens 212
My Mother’s Picture. .... 00.0. -seeeeeeeee eens 270
Necessity and Dignity of Labor........+...+++- 620
New South, The....... 0.2. ceeeeeee erence eens 414
New South, The.......... ..+-- peters erncctace 467
Niagara... 000s. cce eee e cece n eee c eee ee eee ences 254
Norse Lullaby, A.-.+... esse eeee cece eee eeee ee 154
O Captain! My Captain !.......-.- eee eee eee 126
@de:tosD utyss.- orc een ee eco 599
Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 509
Oldtlirelandiesetc ee cts cer reese ce erases tsterteree 127
Oldlronsidessscctnece yee eae arene cee 94
Old Virsimac tone cece sass ce eee ee 319
(MleeSvees tr are te ee or eeeanice ane ert: 199
On Recognizing the Independence of Greece.... 439
Organ of Westminster Abbey, The......-...-- 275
Other World, Theis: ...eccseve . basins feces 225
Our Hired Girligc.s5 eccceeieecn eee eee se 146
Our Immortality......0... cece eee eee eee eee 597
Our Two Opinions............+: eee e eee ee eee 153
Parting of Marmion and Douglas.....-.---++++ 616
SP eaant] sescscal crore seersoeye rene eee a area eek ree actetone Caters 177
Phantom Ship, The. .....-....0e eee e ee eee ees 587
Pictures of Memory...---------++eeeeereeeeee 264
Pilgrims, The... ... esse cece eee e eee eee ees 464
Political Agitation. .......+.0ee eee e eee eee 450
Power of Habit, The......-.- 0+ e eee e eee creeee 460
Prayer of the Wandering Jew....---+--++++++- 191
Prelude to In Memoriam.........+-+ ++ +2208 603
Public Dishonesty.... 2.2... 0ee eee sere eee renee 455
Puritan Sunday Morning, A..-------eee seer ee 298
Puzzled Dutchman, The.........e eee eee eeee 366





RECITATION OR READING.

PAGE
Raggedy Man, The....-.-+--+--+6- Saleisteetee 146
Raven, The.......ceceeeecee cere cence cenees 55
Regard for the Negro Race....--....-.ee eres 467
Resistance to British Aggression....--...---++++ 434
Ring Out, Wild Bells...-..---...2- eee eee ee 603
ReotsGallieiia acters tate aero rere seate, seesyernstamses 513
Ruin Wrought by Rum....------e. eee eee e ee 514
Sam Weller’s Valentine.......- Leet eae ope 635
Sanctity of Treaties... 2.6 .e.e cece cere eres 505
Sargent’s Portrait of Edwin Booth at “The
Players ack tee ome eee ceisieres 133
Shem olan terion neo olaesierorcewons cleperscen 136
Siege of Leyden, The......--.-+- see eens eeee 336
Sleep, The....-..cseeeceee cence ee eee ce eneees 649
Society upon the Stanislaus, The.....--...-.-+- 149
Song of the Brook, The.......+-.+-++seee eee 602
Song of the Shirt, The.....--.-...+es.eeeeeee 592
Song of the Camp, The..-...-..-.++--eeeeees lll
South Carolina and Massachusetts.........---- 442
Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua.......-... 517
Spelling Down the Master......-.-+++-++-000+ 195
Star-Spangled Banner, The....---.++-+++e+e+- 579
Mama) a Shan bere ck os cee iets cheectesereete skeen 579
Theology in the Quarters...-..-+.+++-+eeeee ee 514
Tova: Skeylarks.ccs cee os eiy ets erise eee cele 98
Mora sWeateveto Wlickecicr cues see acter essieeers eee eee 38
Toussaint I’ Ouverture. ....-...-ece cece e eee eee 451
Twenty-five Years of Peace....--.-+++-+eeeees 447
Twenty-second of February, The.......---++-+-+ F
Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer....-...-- 357
Venetian Vagabonds......ceeeececccreecereees 188
Visit from St. Nicholas ......--.0-eeeeee cree 503
Wiarslnevitables Thosaes conte ase ese ares 435
Washington’s Address to His Soldiers.......-.. 507
Weoatersand: Rumsscacencdeatines sacnoa cesses 459
What isa Minority ?........0... ce eee eee e eee 461
What Saved the Union.........-.eeecee eee eee 508
Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles........--+-.6+ 346
Woodman, Spare that Tree.......-..--+0+-0-- 505
Wreck of the Hesperus, The.......-..+-.+++- - 65
Yaweob Strauss.....ssscesececenscceenaees -. 364











WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE POET OF NATURE.

T is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor
reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in
that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to
the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him.
He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little
poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a

newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form

by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled

“The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the

Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it

is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics

of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occa-
sion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the

Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut

River” and also the lines entitled ‘ Drought” which show the characteristic ob-

servation as well as the style in which his youthful muse foand expression. It

was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found
among the succeeding selections.

“Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it
low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This
production is called the beginning of American poetry.

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Hampshire Co., Mass.,
November 8rd, 1794. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture
who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and
compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the
bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with
waich Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was



“ Marked with some act of goodness every day,”

is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic
eloquence in the “ Hymn to Death” written in 1825:

Alas! I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus



34 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Before the strain was ended. It must cease—

For he is in his grave who taught my youth

The art of verse, and in the bud of life

Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off

Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,

Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught

Thy hand to practise best the lenient art

To which thou gavest thy laborious days,

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
, Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes,

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have

To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope

To copy thy example.

Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge
before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plain-
field and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for litera-
ture, and removed to New York wherein 1826 he began to edit the “ Evening
Post,” which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his
death. William Cullen Bryant and the “ Evening Post” were almost as conspicuous
and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church.

In 1821 Mr. Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose charac-
ter is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. ‘The one beginning

“O fairest of the rural maids,”

was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the
noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her :—

“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

“ Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,—
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ?

Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the
Flowers,” “ Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One
of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation
of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age.

Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets was



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 35

such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile
the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the
voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “1 once proposed,” says a friend, “to
send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear.
‘You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a copy
with you? said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded
immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful
memory. ‘If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘I could recall every line of poetry
I have ever written.’ ”

Hiz tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the
giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the
duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr. Bryant, who was reading a
review of # little book cf wretchedly halting verse, said to me: ‘I wish you would
deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’ ”

Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “It isa fine
sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judg-
ment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.... . I remember once to have
been at a lecture where Mr. Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely-
sized head was especially noticeable .... The observer of Bryant’s capacious
skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of
a noble manhood.” p

The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty-
four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George
Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had
seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor
for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had
kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades,
eontinuaily before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “ ‘Thanatopsis”
wriiten by himself seventy years before,



.



36

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THANATOPSIS.*

-The following production is called the beginning of American poetry.

That a young man not yet 19 should
guage and delicate and striking imagery,

have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste lan-
and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious

philosopny, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary
history.

O him who, in the love of Nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she
speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;—

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—

Earth and her waters, and’ the depths of air—

Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more i

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness hetween ;

The venerable woods,—rivers that move






In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green ; and, pour’d round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Ayre shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings—yet—the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain’d and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

ie

WAITING BY THE GATE.

years gone by,



shadow lie,

WIESIDES the massive. gateway built up in| While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet

wood and lea,

zi Upon whose top the clouds in eternal|/I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for

me.

The following copyrighted selections from Wm, Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton & Co., the pub-

Nishers of his works.



WILLIAM

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight,
A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant
more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of
day is o’er.

Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now,

There steps a wearied one with ‘pale and furrowed
brow ;

His count of " years is full, his alloted task is wrought ;

He passes to his rest froma place that needs him not.

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the

hour

Of human strength and action, man’s courage and
his power.

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the
golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ;

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and
fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we
gaze |

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not
where.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and
then withdrawn ;

CULLEN BRYANT.



37

But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds
sing on ;
And IJ again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and
wait.

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go
out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the
sprightly shout.

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that
strews

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that
blows !

upon the greensward

So from every region, so enter side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of
pride,

Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those
pilars gray,

And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are
blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy are draw-
ing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious
eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my
heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to
depart ;

And, ir. the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.” -

| DEEM not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ;
{| The Power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.



The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears ;

And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night ;
.And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man’s trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every secret tear,

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.



38

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

ERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled
j pines, ;

That stream with gray-green mosses ; here

the ground
Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers
spring up

Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet

To linger here, among the flitting birds
_ And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass

A fragrance from the cedars thickly set

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of Liberty.

O FreEpom ! thou art not, as poets dream,

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crown’d his slave,
When he took off the gyves. A’‘bearded man,
Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs ,
Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has

launch’d

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Haye forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee

bound

The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth,

As springs the flame above a burning pile,

And shoutest to the nations, who return

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:





Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes: and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,
The enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obey’d,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;
Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His wither’d hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on

thread,

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by
Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids ,
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.
And thou must watch and combat. till the day
Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.





HITHER, ’midst ‘falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps
j of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost
pursue
Thy solitary way ?



Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

“TO A WATERFOWL.

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care

hon Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—

The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann’d,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest,



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 39

Thow’rt gone; the abyss of heaven -
Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

—

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

A|ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
‘ Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.




Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat ;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,

Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Look what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings,
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers, while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and sliy asa nun is she,
One weak chirp is her only note,
Brageart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Never was I afraid of man ;
Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.



Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work and silent with care ;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half-forgotten that merry air,
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln’s a: humdrum crone ;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
When you can pipe that merry old:strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

DROUGHT.

JUNGED amid the limpid waters,
Or the cooling shade beneath,

Let me fly the scorching sunbeams,
And the southwind’s sickly breath !




Sirius burns the parching meadows,
Flames upon the embrowning hill,
Dries the foliage of the forest,
And evaporates the rill.



40

Searce is seen the lonely floweret,
Save amid the embowering wood ;
O’er the prospect dim and dreary,
Drought presides in sullen mood !

Murky vapours hung in ether,
Wrap in gloom, the sky serene;

WILLIAM CULLEN

BRYANT.

Nature pants distressful—silence
Reigns o’er all .ne sultry scene.

Then amid the limpid waters,

Or beneath the cooling shade,

Let me shun the scorching sunbeams
And the sickly breeze evade.



THE PAST.

No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so

appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.
He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors.
Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of

of his,deep vein in his chosen serious themes.
melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.

HOU unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark
domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.



Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,
And, last, Man’s Life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears,—

The venerable form—the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back ;—yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain :—thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart ;
Nor to the streaming eye
Thou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown :—to thee
Earth’s wonder and her pride

Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea;

The following poem is a fair specimen

Labors of good to man,
Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith—
Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.

Full many a mighty name

Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered ;
With thee are silent fame,

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.

Thine for a space are they :—

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last,
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past !

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth, to wear

|The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish’d—no!
Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back; each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young.





THE MURDERED TRAVELER.

ALLEN spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again ;

The murdered traveler’s bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.




The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky ;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 41

The red bird warbied, as he. wrought
His hanging nest o’ernndG ;

And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o’er the desert snow,
Unarmed and hard beset ;

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,



The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home ;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked—but never spied
His welcome step again.

‘Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrew glen.

THE BATTLEFIELD.

Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza begining—‘‘ Truth
crushed to earth shall rise again,’’—said : ‘“Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza
which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest inthe English language. The thought
is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each

beyond a king’s ransom.”’

VN CH this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
(63) Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
l | And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter’d in the battle-cloud.



(a oe 74)

Ah! never shall the land forget
How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,—
Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain ;
Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year ;

A wild and many-weapon’d throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again ;
The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help’d thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d

The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.



42

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE CROWDED STREETS.

Ay ET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.



How fast the flitting figures come ;
The mild, the fierce, the stony face—

Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—
Yo halls in which the feast is spread—
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the bed.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare

The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye,

Go’st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow,
Who is now fluttering in thy snare,

Thy golden fortunes tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleams again?

To sorrow o’er the untimely dead? —
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;

And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to night.

Each where his tasks or pleasure call,
They pass and heed each other not;
There is one who heeds, who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought

These struggling tides of life that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

+2 —

NOTICE OF FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

As a specimen of Mr. Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we
reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York His-

torical Society in February 1869.
estimate of Mr. Halleck.

A|HEN TI look back upon Halleck’s literary life,




happened forty years earlier, his life

would have been regarded as a bright morning!

prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career
may be said to have ended then.
down his name to future years had already been
produced. Who shall say to what cause his subse-
quent literary inaction was owing? It was not the
decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation
showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to
fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate
on what he had written, and therefore resolved to
write no more? Was it because he feared lest what
he might write would be unworthy of the reputation
he had been so fortunate as to acquire?

“T have my own way of accounting for his literary

I cannot help thinking that if his death had.

All that will hand |



This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a-literary

silence in the latter half of his life. One of the
resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in
the length of time for which he kept his poems by
him, that he might give them the last and happiest
touches. Having composed his poems without com-
mitting them to paper, and retaining them in his
faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner,
murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments,
recovering the enthusiasm with which they were
first conceived, and in this state of mind heighten-
ing the beauty of the thought or of the expres-

“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained
the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody
of his numbers. In this way I believe that he
wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness
of expression which causes the thought to be seen



WILLIAM

CULLEN BRYANT. 43

through them without any interposing dimness, so | tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the
that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the|habit of composing in this manner, and that he
thought enters the mind like a beam of light. Ij|found it so necessary to the perfection of what he
suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the! wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”



A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.
From “The Letters of a Traveler.”

In 1843, during Mr. Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those ante-
bellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking—one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s
life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs
and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and
the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which

finished shucking the allotted pile of corn.
occasions: -

BaRNWELL DIstTRICT,
South Carolina, March 29, 1943.{

SUT you must hear of the corn-shucking.
“J, The one at which I was present was given
on purpose that I might witness the hu-
mors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire of light-
wood was made near the corn-house. Light-wood
is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called,
not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest
wood in the world, but because it gives more light
than any other fuel.

The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes



dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing
as they came ‘The driver of the plantation, a col-
ored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk,
and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began ‘to
strip the husks from the ears, singing with great
glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and
now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant
burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a
comic character; but one of them was set toa sin-
guiarly wild and plaintive air, which some of our
musicians would do well to reduce to notation.
TRbese are the words:

Johnny come down de hollow.
Oh hollow !
Johnny come down de hollow.
Oh hollow !
De nigger-trader got me.
Oh hollow!
De speculator bought me.
Oh hollow!
I'm sold “or silver dollars.
Oh hollow!



Mr. Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel

Boys, go catch the pony.
Oh hollow!
Bring him round the corner.
Oh hollow!
I’m goin’ away to Georgia.
Oh hollow!
Boys, good-by forever !
Oh hollow !

The song of “ Jenny gone away,” was also given,
and another, called the monkey-song, probably of
African origin, in which the principal. singer person-
ated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations,
and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “ Dan,
dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs com-
monly sung on these occasions, represents the various
animals of the woods as belonging to some profession
or trade. For example—

De cooter is de boatman—

The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boat-
man he is.

De cooter is de boatman.
John John Crow.

De red-bird de soger.
John John Crow.

De mocking-bird de lawyer.
John John Crow.

De alligator sawyer
John John Crow.

The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed

ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the
last line.



44

When the work of the evening was over the
negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of
them took his place as musician, whistling, and beat-
ing time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of
the men came forward and executed various dances,
capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe
upon the floor, with astonishing agility and persever-
ance, though all of them had performed their daily
tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had
walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-
shucking. From the dances a transition was made
to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our
militia trainings, in which the words of command
and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It be-
came necessary for the commander to make a speech,
and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he
called upon a huge black man named Toby to ad-





Sa



CORN-SHUCKING IN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

dress the company in his stead. Toby, a man of
powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented
with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood
leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with
an air of superiority. He consented, came forward,
demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and
harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby
had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke
of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of
de state,” ‘“‘de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and
these phrases he connected by various expletives, and
sounds of which we could make nothing. At length
he began to falter, when the captain with admirable
presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted
and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the
company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators,
black and white, to have made an excellent speech.





BE =

SOUTH CAROLINA.





HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE POET OF THE PEOPLE.

“He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.”

an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most
famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in
Portland, Maine, February 7th, 1807.

In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learuing and his
wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all
other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not
rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for
the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful
and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately
sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant,
Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument
upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities.
Critics also say that “he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of
Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world
at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to
him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the
sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life: It is on these themes
that he tuned his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh
perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song
has found a lodgement in every household in America, “ swaying the hearts of men
and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle
verse.”



“ Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.”

Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and
William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has
made famous in “'The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a
iamily in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back.

58





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HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 59

The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early
age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bow-
doin College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John 8. C. Abbott, and others
who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he was
requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in his alma mater,
which he accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Ger-
many, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and
literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor
of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar posi-
tion in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when he



THE WAYSIDE INN.
Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”

resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment
of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the
romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother
poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s
resignation.

The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of
the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic asso-
ciations as well; for it was none other than the old “‘ Cragie House” which had
been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition
and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “ Homes
of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with a



60 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

magnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous produc-
tions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy-
five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His
first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Long-
fellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bow-
doin College. In 1848 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in
Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met
a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing
injuries from which she died. She was buried on the 19th anniversary of their mar-
riage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange
blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for
a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation
nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event.

Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge
of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in
his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned
a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or
read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate
that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of
others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard
of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into
a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne
as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as
it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the
woof of the story in the threads of his song.

“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847),
and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The
Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are
brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia
or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pré and the real Louisiana, not
a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that
artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in paint-
ing the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking
a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others.
The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich
knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless be-
cause he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest
reader could understand.

In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but
real perscns. The musician was none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull;
Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was
the Sicilian; Dr. Henry Wales was the youth; the poet was Thomas W. Parsons,
and the theologian was his brother, Rev. 8. W. Longfellow. This poem shows
Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the
mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other liv-
ing man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was
$0 familiar.





HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 61

Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline” —as many other of
Longfellow’s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than
creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret
Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the
imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not
deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing
it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted
that he would not live in literature.

It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years
he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry
should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that
poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimu-
lating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths,
and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three direc-
tions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people
than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of his
distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (which
Chas. Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The
Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the
multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read.

— —

THE PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO HE PSALMIST.

This poem has gained wide celebrity as one of Mr. Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the
poem ‘‘Excelsior,’’ (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it
is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from
a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life.



LL me not, in mournful numbers, Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Life is but an empty dream! Be a hero in the strife |!

For the soul is dead that slumbers, rT Tatas : ;
And things are not what they seem. Tust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,—act in the living Present !

Life is real! Life is earnest ! Heart within, and Gop o’erhead!

And the grave is not its goal ;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Lives of great men all remind us

Was not spoken of the soul. We can make our lives sublime,
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, And, departing, leave behind us

Ts our destined end or way; Footprints on the sands of time;
But to act, that each to-morrow ,

Find us farther than to-day. Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, Seeing, shall take heart again.

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating Let us, then, be up and doing,
_ Funeral marches to the grave. With a heart for any fate ;
In the world’s broad field of battle, Still achieving, still pursuing,

In the bivouac of Life, { Learn to labor and to wait,



62 > HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.



NDER a spreading chestnut tree He earns whate’er he can,
The village smithy stands ; And looks the whole world in the face,
The smith, a mighty man is he, For he owes not any man. .
‘ith large and si hands ; : ake
‘And x aa of Hearne Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

Are strong as iron bands. ; ; :
7 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; With measured beat and slow,
His face is like the tan ; Like a sexton ringing the village bell
His brow is wet with honest sweat ; When the evening sun is low.

































THEY LOVE TO SEE THE FLAMING FORGE,
AND HEAR THE BELLOWS ROAR,

AND CATCH THE BURNING SPARKS THAT FLY
LIKE CHAFF FROM THE THRESHING FLOOR.

And children coming home from school It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Look in at the open door ; ms Singing in Paradise !

They love to see the flaming forge, He needs must think of her once more,
And hear the bellows roar, How in the grave she lies;

And catch the burning sparks that fly And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. A tear out of his eyes.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys; Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing—

He hears the parson pray and preach, Onward through life he goes:
He hears his daughter’s voice, Each morning sees some task begin,

Singing in the village choir, Each evening sees it close ;

And it makes his heart rejoice.





HENRY WADSWORTH

Something attempted—something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
for the lesson thou hast taught!

LONGFELLOW. 63

Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.



THE BRIDGE.

A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to
pass, almost daily. ‘‘I always stop on the bridge,”’ he writes inhisjournal. ‘‘Tide waters are beautiful,” and

again, ‘‘We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making

sundry comparisons.”

Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that ‘‘The old sea was flash.

ing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track ; the dark waves are dark provinces of

God ; illuminous though not te us.”

The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at

midnight.
g Al stoop on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church tower ;



And like the waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thought came o’er me,
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,
In the days that had gone by,

T had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O how often,
T had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me,
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,

Each having his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,
And the old, subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,
. As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes ;

The moon and its broken reflection -
And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.



RESIGNATION.

SALHERE is no flock, however watched and

tended,
But one dead lamb is there!



There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended,

But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying
And mournings for the dead ;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.



64 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken
May reach her where she lives.

There is no Death! What.seems so is transition :
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death. Not as a child shall we again behold her ;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
She will not be a child:

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

‘And Christ himself doth rule. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion

In that great cloister’s stillnes and seclusion,
Shall we behold her face.

By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives whom we call dead. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean

Day after day we think what she is doing
Tha:, cannot be at rest,—

In those bright realms of air ;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, |
Behold her grown more fair. |



We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay ;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbye
The grief that must have way.

The bend which nature gives,



GoD's

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground God’s acre! It is just ;

Tt consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping
dust.

ACRE.

At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.



Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

d's Acre! s i
alla Bere even ie eed nanos With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ;
This is the field and Acre of our God!

This is the place where human harvests grow!

Tnto its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again





EXCELSIOR.

43, HH shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed

A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior !




His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
‘lashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
i Excelsior !

Tn happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior !

“Try not to Pass!” the old man said ;

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide !”

And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior !

“OQ, stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast !”

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior !





HENRY WADSWORTH

“ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch !

Beware the awful avalanche!”

This was the peasant’s last Good-night ;

A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior !

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior !

LONGFELLOW. 65
A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior !

There, in the twilight cold and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior !



THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.




My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark dreary.



THE WRECK OF

THE HESPERUS.

The writing of the following poem, ‘‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,”’ was occasioned by the news of a
ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef~‘‘Norman’s Woe’’—where many

disasters occurred.
said, hardly an effort.

T was the schooner Hesperus
That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper had taken his little
daughter,
To bear him company.



Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,

And watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish main:
“T pray thee put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

5

It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is

Colder and colder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east ;

The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm and smote amain
The vessel in its strength ;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.

“ Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so,

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat,
Against the stinging blast ,

He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say what may it be?”

“Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ;”
And he steered for the open sea.



66

“ Oh father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh, say, what may it be?”

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea.”

“Oh, father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh, say, what may it be?

But the father answered never a word—
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face to the skies,

The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow,
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed
That saved she might be,

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves
On the lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept,
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between,
A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;

Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank—-
Ho! ho! the breakers roared.

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow;

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe.

—++

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

OMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat ;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient timepiece says to all,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever”’




Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

By day its voice is low and light;

But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall,

It echoes along the vacant hall,

Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stooa,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,
“ Forever—never |
Never—forever !”

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality ;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

There groups of merry children played ;

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime

And affluence of love and time !

Even as a miser counts ‘his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
“ Forever—never |
Never—forever |”



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 67

From that chamber, clothed in white, As in the days long since gone by,
The bride came forth on her wedding night; The ancient timepiece makes reply,
There, in that silent room below, “ Forever—never !
The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; Never—forever |”
And, in the hush that followed the prayer, ;
Was heard the old clock on the stair,— Never here, forever there,
“ Horever—never ! Where all parting, pain, and care
Never—forever !” And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here !
All are scattered now, and fled,— The horologe of Eternity
Some are married, some are dead : Sayeth this incessantly,
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “¢ Forever—never !
« Ah!” when shall they all meet again? Never—forever !”



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.

The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to Mr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad
skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the
Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is
written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his ‘“‘Ode to the Cambro Britons on their
Harp.”’




i) PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest ! “ Oft to his frozen lair
Who, with thy hollow breast Track’d I the grizzly bear,
Still in rude armor drest, . While from my path the hare
Comest to daunt me! Filed like a shadow ;
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, Oft through the forest dark
But with thy fleshless palms Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Stretch’d, as if asking alms, Until the soaring lark
Why dost thou haunt me?” Sang from the meadow.
Then, from those cavernous eyes “ But when I older grew,
Pale flashes seemed to rise, Joining a corsair’s crew,
As when the Northern skies O’er the dark sea I flew
Gleam in December ; With the marauders.
And, like the water's flow Wild was the life we led;
Under December’s snow, Many the souls that sped,
Came a dull voice of woe Many the hearts that bled,
From the heart’s chamber. By our stern orders.

“T was a Viking old!

: “ Many a wassail-bout
My deeds, though manifold,

Wore the long winter out ;

No Skald in song has told, . Often our midnight shout
No Saga taught thee ! Set the cocks crowing,
Take heed, that in thy verse As we the Berserk’s tale

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

; Measured in cups of ale,
Else dread a dead man’s curse !

Draining the oaken pail,

For this I sought thee. Fill'd to o’erflowing.
“ Far in the Northern Land, “ Once as I told in glee
By the wild Baltic’s strand, Tales of the stormy sea,
I, with my childish hand, ~ Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Tamed the ger-falcon ; Burning out tender ;
And, with my skates fast-bound, And as the white stars shine
Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, On the dark Norway pine,
That the poor whimpering hound On that dark heart of mine

Trembled to walk on. Fell their soft splendor,





68

HENRY WADSWORTH

“TJ woo'd the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade

Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosen’d vest
Flutter’d her little breast,
Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

“ Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleam’d upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory ;
When of old Hildebrand

~ T ask’d his daughter’s hand,

Mute did the minstrel stand
To hear my story.

While the brown ale he quaff’d
Loud then the champion laugh’d,
And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

“ She was a Prince’s child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blush’d and smiled,
I was discarded !

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew’s flight,

Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded ?

“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen !—
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.

“Then launch’d they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind fail’d us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hail’d us.

LONGFELLOW.

“ And as to catch the gale

Round veer'd the flapping sail,

Death ! was the helmsman’s hail,
Death without quarter !

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel ;

Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water.

“ As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to lee-ward ;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour, -

Stands looking sea-ward.

‘There lived we many years ;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies:
Ne’er shall the sun arise

On such another!

“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,

The sun-light hateful !
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

O, death was grateful !

“Thus, seam’d with many scars
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended !

There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Sk@l! to the Northland! skal!” *
—Thus the tale ended.

*Skal! is the Swedish expression for “ Your Health.”



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

KING WITLAF’S

HITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,—




That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass ;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.

i aa al









WEAUTIFUL was the night.
black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the
moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremu-
lous gleam of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and
devious spirit.

Behind the

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of
the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their
prayers and confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent
Carthusian,

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with
shadows and night dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden.
magical moonlight

Seemed to ‘inundate her soul with indefinable longings,

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade
of the oak- trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the mea-
sureless prairie.

The calm and the



Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies |

69

DRINKING -—HORN.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlae
And Saint Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomeeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney
And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, “ Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more !””



EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite
numbers.

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the
heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel
and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of
that temple,

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them,
“ Upharsin.”

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and
the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my
beloved !

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold
thee?

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not
reach me ?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the
prairie !

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood-
lands around me !

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in
thy slumbers.



cu

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded| Farther and farther away it floated and dropped inte

about thee ?”’

silence.

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor- |“ Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular cay-

will sounded

erns of darkness ;

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the| And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded,

neighboring thickets,

“ To-morrow !”



LITERARY FAME.

As a specimen of Mr. Longfellow’s prose style we present the following extract from his ‘‘ Hyperion,”
written when the poet was comparatively a young man.

SIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose
pages he is continually recording illus-
trious names. But, as often as a new
name is written there, an old one disappears. Only
a few stand in illuminated characters never to be
effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,—




Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Pos-
terity shall never question their titles. But

those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion
of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if
they had never been. To this great oblivion must
most men come. It is better, therefore, that they
should soon make up their minds to this: well know-
ing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved
into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them,
so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and
their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions
have no longer an individual being among men; but
be resolved and incorporated into the universe of
thought.

Yes, it is better that men should soon make up
their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or
within them, for some higher motive, in what they
do, than the approbation of men, which is. Fame ;
namely, their duty; that they should be ‘constantly
and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of
effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.
Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection;
impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the
resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve
much,—at times even this victory over himself; being
persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and
then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

It has become a common saying, that men of genius
are always in advance of their age; which is true.
There is something equally true, yet not so common ;
namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and
bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but
of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every



possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose
that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world,
or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up
abreast with these great minds, so as fully to compre-
hend them.

And, oh! how majestically they walk in history!
some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories
round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious
as a night with stars. Through the else silent dark-
ness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn
footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders
seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise,
attendant angels bearing golden lights before them,
and, above and behind, the whole air painted with
seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—
not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their
lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar
with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of
dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon
those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily dis-
comfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death,
have worked right on to the accomplishment of their
great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, ful-
filling much ;—and then, with shattered nerves, and
sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the
grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world
talks o€ them, while they sleep !

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had
but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in pass-
ing, had touched them with the hem of his garment,
and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had
been stretched out over them only to make the sign
of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun's
eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the
heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld
the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and
forever !



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EDGAR ALLEN POE.
THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS.

=| DGAR ALLEN POE, the author of “The Raven,” “ Annabel Lee,”

eu “The Haunted Palace,’ “To One in Paradise,” “Israfel” and
“Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, per-
haps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different
world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson,
Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the’realm of
nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke
from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His
whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet
from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness

is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett
says of him :—



“ He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear ;
All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim ;
Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim,

At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.

By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl
Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air,

Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl
And met delirium in her awful lair.”

Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Mary-
lander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier
and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured
the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in
Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland.

When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in
Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one
younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family.
Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar
(who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first
in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia,

45



46 EDGAR ALLEN POE.

and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies,
but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to
submit to the discipline of the institution.

In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe
acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he
contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the
beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and per-
manent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympa-
thetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing
not how to make money—yvet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have
the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—strugegling for nearly
twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and
closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849, at forty years of age.

To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder
that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the
nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous
temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which
would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “ Annabel Lee;” or that
he should wail over the “ Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should ‘“‘nevermore”
be lifted from the shadow of the “ Raven” upon the floor. These poems and others
are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from
happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should
remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced.
They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of
broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature
are often grown.

To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the
scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which
belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been
represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great
admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”
from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Flayne nas also
written a poem entitled, “ Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and
demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote :—

“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him:
One, a wild demon, weird and dim,
The darkness of whose ebon wings
Did shroud unutterable things :
One, a fair angel, in the skies

Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes
Were seen the lights of Paradise.

To these, in turn, he gave the whole
Vast empire of: his brooding soul;
Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell
Now thrilled with awful tones of hell :
Wide were his being’s strange extremes,
"Twixt nether glooms, and Hden gleams
Of tender, or majestic dreams.”

?





250 EEGAR ALLEN POE. 47

Tt must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his
being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography pub-
lished of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on
the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had
passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies,
notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as pub-
lished statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s
damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favor-
able light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite
for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from
his father who, before him, was a drunkard.

It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sor-
row those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet
the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to
the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw
the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his
personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid
genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to
stand with uncovered heads.

As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have
been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which’
he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative
particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His
skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom
and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost
actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing.

As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently
a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or
preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and
facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds
a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was
music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has
had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems
are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of
beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious
fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a near-
by, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As
one of his biographers has written, “He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls
of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious
effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest.
“Tn that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “in knowledge of
the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.”

Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by
him in Richmond says: “I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of
- the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the “ Raven” will ever
forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered, “he



48 EDGAR ALLEN POE.

audience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect
was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive
“nevermore.”

Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to
miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848
as critic and editor on the “Literary Messenger” of Richmond, Virginia, the
“‘Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “ Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia,
the “ Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “ Broadway Journal” of New York,
which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of
starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account
of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was pub-
lished in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic com-
position, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “ Manuscript Found in
a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for
poetry. The latter, however, he did not recieve because the judges found the same
author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious
fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “ Tales
of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took
up his residence at Fordham, NewYork, where his wife died in 1847, and where he
continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “ Raven” was

‘published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “ Eureka” and
“Ulalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to
which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect.
To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors
we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “ Memoir” and Mrs. Sarah
Ellen Whitman’s “ Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863.












EDGAR ALLEN POE,





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































O! Death has rear’d himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim west,
Where the good and the bad and the

worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines, and palaces, and towers,

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not !)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

- The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea

4





THE CITY IN THE SEA.

THE CITY IN THE SHA.

Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks giganticaily down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;

49



5e EDGAR ALLEN POR,

But not the riches there that lie The wave—there is a movement there !

In each idol’s diamond eye— As if the towers had thrust aside,

Not the gayly-jewell’d dead In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

Tempt the waters from their bed ; As if their tops had feebly given

For no ripples curl, alas! A void within the filmy heaven.

Along that wilderness of glass— The waves have now a redder glow—

No swellings tell that winds may be The hours are breathing faint and low—

Upon some far-off happier sea— And when, amid no earthly moans,

No heayings hint that winds have been Down, down that town shall settle hence,

On seas less hideously serene. Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
But lo, a stir is in the air! Shall do it reverence.



ANNABEL LEE.




T was many and many a year ago, The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
In a kingdom by the sea, Went envying her and me—
6} ‘That a maiden there lived whom you may | Yes !—that was the reason (as all men know,
know : In this kingdom by the sea),
By the name of ANNABEL LEE; That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
And this maiden she lived with no other thought Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

Thansto love-and beloved by.me. But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea ;

But we loved with a love that was more than love—
Tand my AnnaBeL Lez—

.With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me





And this was the reason that, long ago, dreams
In this kingdom by the sea, | Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
My beautiful AnNaBEL LEE; Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
So that her highborn kinsman came And s0, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
And bore her away from me, , Of my,darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
To shut her up in a sepulchre, In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In this kingdom by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea.
TO HELEN.
The following poem was published first ‘‘To — — —,” afterwards the title was changed, ‘‘To Helen.”’ It

seems to have been written by Poe to Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was
engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his
acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps
when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured
his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes.



SAW thee once—once only—years ago: Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
I must not say how many—but not many. | Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
_ It was a July midnight; and from out Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, ' That gave out, in return for the love-liht,
soaring, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand





EDGAR ALLEN POE.



CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK
I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOON
FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,



AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—ALAS! IN SORROW.

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight—
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering ruses ?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—
And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !)
The pearly iustre of the moon went out:

The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy tiowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All, all expired save thee—save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes—

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them—they were the world to me.

I saw but them—saw only them for hours—
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten



Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres !
How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!

How daring an ambition! yet how deep—
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud,
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go—tney never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me, they lead me through the years;
They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire—
And sanctified in their elysian fire.

| They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope),

‘

ox



52 EDGAR ALLEN POR.

And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night ;
While even in the meridian glare of day



I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

ISRAFEL*

heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute ;’
None sing so wildly well
As the angel IsRaFEL,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

?



Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamour’d moon

Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That IsraFreLi’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love’s a grown-up god—







Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,
IsRAFELI, who despisest
An unimpassion’d song ;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute—
‘Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours ;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where IsraFEL
Hath dwelt, and he where J,

He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky. °

TO ONE IN PARADISE.

[HOU wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,



All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last !

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast !

A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!’’—but o’er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast !

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar !

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances, :
By what eternal streams.

*“ And the angel IsrareL, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”

Koran.





EDGAR ALLEN POE, 53

LENORE.

Mrs. Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing
~ of*these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about
sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly
beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she
greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son, The boy was so over-
come that it is said he stood for a miuute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never
before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently
a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s
return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before
his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and
rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodi-
ment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death
he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem.

H, broken is the golden bowl,
The spirit flown forever !
Let the bell toll!
A saintly soul
Floats on the Stygian river ;
And, Guy DE VERE,
Hast thou no tear?
Weep now or never more!
See, on yon drear
And rigid bier
Low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come, let the burial-rite be read—
The funeral-song be sung !—
An anthem for the queenliest dead
That ever died so young— ‘
A dirge for her the doubly dead,
In that she died so young!



“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth,
And hated her for her pride ;
And when she fell in feeble health,
Ye bless’d her—that she died !
How shall the ritual, then, be read?
The requiem how be sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye—
By yours the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence
That died, and died so young?”

Peccavimus ;
But rave not thus!
And let a sabbath song

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no

wrong !

This selection is a favorite with reciters.



The sweet LENORE
Hath “ gone before,”
With Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild
For the dear child
That should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair
And debonair,
That now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair
But not within her eyes—
The life still there,
Upon her hair—
The death upon her eyes.

“ Avaunt! to-night
My heart is light.
No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight
With a peean of old days!
Let ne bell toll !—
Lest her sweet soul,
Amid its hallow’d mirth,
Should catch the note,
As it doth float—
Up from the damned earth.
To friends above, from fiends below,
The indignant ghost is riven—
From hell unto a high estate
Far up within the heaven—
From grief and groan,
To a golden throne,
Beside the King of Heaven.”



THE BELLS.

It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of

the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the

sounds of the ringing bells.

Pal KAR the sledges with the bells—
A Silver bells!



foretells !



What a world of merriment their melody

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle



54

With a crystalline delight ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells—
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells !
How it dwells.

On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells; bells, bells,—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their afright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
2na mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;



EDGAR ALLEN POE.

Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the
bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells—
Tron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody
compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright,
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells __
With the pzean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pzean of the bells—
Of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the sobbing of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the tolling of the bells,—
Of the bells, bells, bells,—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, —
Bells, bells, bells,—
To the moaning and the groaning of the belis.



ge Si

EDGAR

ALLEN

POE. 55

THE RAVEN.

This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment

with rhythmical expression to be found in any language.
for the lost Lenore,’’ a raven—the symbol of despair—enters

A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen

ing to win from books ‘‘surcease of sorrow
the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas.
with its haunting croak of ‘‘ Nevermore.’’

While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavor-







































THE RAVEN.

NYNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pon-

: dered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotton lore, —

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at
my chamber-door.

“Tig some visitor,’ I mutter’d, “tapping
at my chamber-door—

Only this and nothing more.”



Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De-
cember,





And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost
upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought
to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the
lost Lenore,—

For the rare and raidant maiden whom the angels
name Lenore,—

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain,

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic terrors never
felt before,



56

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating,
« Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-
door,—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-
door ;
That it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no
longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore ;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you
came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
chamber-door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you’’—here I opened
wide the door:

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there,
wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to
dream before ;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered
word, ‘* Lenore!”

This J whispered, and an echo murmured back the
word, * Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within
me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than
before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my
window-lattice ;

Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery
explore,—

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery
explore ;—

‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a
flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days
of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute
stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my
chamber-door,—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my cham-
ber-door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into
smiling,



1

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance
it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I
said, “art sure no craven ;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the
nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plu-
tonian shore?”

Quoth the raven, ‘“ Nevermore!”

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse
so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy
bore ;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human
being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his

Chamber-door,

Bird or beast upor. the sculptured bust above his

chamber-door
With such name as “ Nevermore!”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke
only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour,

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then
he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “ Other friends
have flown before,

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have
flown before.

Then the bird said, “ Nevermore!”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly

spoken,

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is its only stock
and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful
disaster

Follow’d fast and follow’d faster, till his songs one
burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden
bore,
Of— Never—nevermore!’”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into
smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird
and bust and door,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to
linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird
of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi
nous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “ Nevermore!”





EDGAR ALLEN

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syliable ex-
pressing k

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my
bosom’s core ;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light
gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light
gloating o’er

She shall press—ah! nevermore !

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from
an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the
tufted floor,

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee,—by
these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the
lost Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “‘ Nevermore!”

Prophet!” cried I, “thing of evil !—prophet still, if
bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en-
chanted—

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I
implore,—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead ?—tell me—tell
me, I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore!”



POE. 57

“ Prophet !” eried I, “ thing of evil |—prophet still, if
bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we
both adore,

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant
Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels
name Lenore ;

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels
name Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, ‘‘ Nevermore!”

“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I
shrieked, upstarting,—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the night's
Plutonian shore.

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul
hath spoken !

Leave my loneliness unbroken !—quit the bust above
my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
from off my door!”

Quoth the raven, ‘‘ Nevermore!”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still iv
sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-
door ;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that
is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his
shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating
on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore t







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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
THE LIBERATOR OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

WO classify Emerson is a matter of no small difficulty. He was a
philosopher, he was an essayist, he was a poet—all three so eminently
that scarcely two of his friends would agree to which class he most
belonged. Oliver Wendell Holmes asks:



Where in the realm of thought whose air is song
Does he the Buddha of the west belong ?

He seems a winged Franklin sweetly wise,

Born to unlock the secret of the skies.”

But whatever he did was done with a poetic touch. Philosophy, essay or song, it
was all pregnant with the spirit of poetry. Whatever else he was Emerson was
pre-eminently a poet. It was with this golden key that he unlocked the chambers of
original thought, that liberated American letters.

Until Emerson came, American authors had little independence. James Russell
Lowell declares, “ We were socially and intellectually bound to English thought,
until Emerson cut the cable and gave us a chance at the dangers and glories of blue
waters. He was our first optimistic writer. Before his day, Puritan theology had
seen in man only a vile nature and considered his instincts for beauty and pleasure,
proofs of his total depravity.” Under such conditions as these, the imagination was
fettered and wholesome literature was impossible. Asa reaction against this Puri-
tan austerity came Unitarianism, which aimed to establish the dignity of man, and
out of this came the further growth of the idealism or transcendentalism of Emer-
son. It was this idea and these aspirations of the new theology that Emerson con-
verted into literature. The indirect influence of his example on the writings of|
Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier and Lowell, and its direct influence on Thoreau,.
Hawthorne, Chas. A. Dana, Margaret Fuller, G. W. Curtis and others, formed the

very foundation for the beautiful structure of our representative American literature.
_ Emerson was profoundly a thinker who pondered the relation of man to God
and to the universe. He conceived and taught the noblest ideals of virtue and a
spiritual life. The profound study which Emerson devoted to his themes and his
philosophic cast of mind made him a writer for scholars. He was a prophet who,
without argument, announced truths which, by intuition, he seems to have perceived ;
but the thought is often so shadowy that the ordinary reader fails to catch it. For

71



72 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

this reason he will never be like Longfellow or Whittier, a favorite with the masses.
Let it not be understood, however, that all of Emerson’s writings are heavy or
shadowy or difficult to understand. On the contrary, some of his poems are of a
popular character and are easy of comprehension. For instance, “The Hymn,”
sung at the completion of the Concord Monument in 1886, was on every one’s lips
at the time of the Centennial celebration, in 1876. Fis optimistic spirit is also beau-
tifully and clearly expressed in the following stanza of his “ Voluntaries :”

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When duty whispers low, “Thou must,”
The youth replies, “I can.”

These are but two instances of many that may be cited. No author is, perhaps,
more enjoyed by those who understand him. He was a master of language. He
never used the wrong word. His sentences are models. But he was not a logical
or methodical writer. Every sentence stands by itself. His paragraphs might be
arranged almost at random without essential loss to the essays. His philosophy con-
sists largely in an array of golden sayings full of vital suggestions to help men
make the best and most of themselves. He had no compact system of philosophy.

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston, May 25, 1803, within “ A kite-string
of the birth place of Benjamin Franklin” with whom he is frequently compared.
The likeness, however, consists only in the fact that they were both decidedly repre-
sentative Americans of a decidedly different type. Franklin was prose, Emerson
poetry; Franklin common sense, real; Emerson imaginative, ideal. In these oppo-
site respects they both were equally representative of the highest type. Both were
hopeful, kindly and shrewd. Both equally powerful in making, training and guid-
ing the American people.

In his eighth year young Emerson was sent to a grammar school, where he
made such rapid progress, that he was soon abie to enter a higher department
known asa Latin school. His first attempts at writing were not the dull efforts
of a school boy; but original poems which he read with real taste and feeling.
He completed his course and graduated from Harvard College at eighteen. It is
said that he was dull in mathematics and not above the average in his class in
general standing; but he was widely read in literature, which put him far in
advance, perhaps, of any young man of hisage. After graduating, he taught school
for five years in connection with his brother; but in 1825, gave it up for the minis-
try. For a time he was pastor of a Unitarian Congregation in Boston; but his inde-
pendent views were not in accordance with the doctrine of his church, therefore, he
resigned in 1835, and retired to Concord, where he purchased a home near the

spot on which the first battle of the Revolution was fought in 1775, which he
commemorated in his own verse :—

“There first the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.”

In this city, Emerson resided until the day of his death, which occurred in Con-
cord, April 27, 1882, in the seventy-eighth year of his age.





RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 73

It was in Concord that the poet and essayist, as the prophet of the advanced
thought of his age, gathered around him those leading spirits who were dissatisfied
with the selfishness and shallowness of existing society, and, who had been led by
him to dream of an ideal condition in which all should live as one family. Out of
this grew the famous “ Brook Farm Community.” This was not an original idea
of Emerson’s, however. Coleridge and Southey, of England, had thought of found-
ing such a society in Pennsylvania, on the Susquehanna River. Emerson regarded
this community of interests as the clear teachings of Jesus Christ; and, to put into
practical operation this idea, a farm of about two hundred acres was bought at
Roxbury, Mass., and a stock company was formed under the title of “The Brook
Farm Institution of Agriculture and Education.” About seventy members joined

Se a





HOME OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON, CONCORD, MASS. :

in the enterprise. The principle of the organization was codperative, the members
sharing the profits. Nathaniel Hawthorne, the greatest of romancers, Chas. A.
Dana, of the New York Sun, George W. Curtis, of Harper’s Monthly, Henry D.
Thoreau, the poet naturalist, Amos Bronson Alcott, the transcendental dreamer and
writer of strange shadowy sayings, and Margaret Fuller, the most learned woman of
her age, were prominent members who removed to live on the farm. It is said that
Kmerson, himself, never really lived there; but was a member and frequent visitor,
as were other prominent scholars of the same school. The project was a failure.
After five years of experience, some of the houses were destroyed by fire, the enter-
prise given up, and the membership scattered.



74 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

But the Brook Farm served its purpose in literature by bringing together some
of the best intellects in America, engaging them for five years in a common course
of study, and stimulating a commerce of ideas. The breaking up of the community
was better, perhaps, than its success would have been. It dispersed and scattered
abroad the advanced thoughts of Emerson, and the doctrine of the society into every
profession. Instead of being confined to the little paper, “The Dial,” (which was
the organ of the society) its literature was transferred into a number of widely cir-
culated national mediums.

Thus, it will be seen how Emerson, the “Sage of Concord,” gathered around him
ind dominated, by his charming personality, his powerful mind, and his wholesome
influence, some of the brightest minds that have figured in ‘American literature;
and how, through them, as well as his own writings, he has done so much, not only
to lay the foundation of a new literature, but to mould and shape leading minds for
generations to come. The Brook Farm idea was the uppermost thought in Edward
Bellamy’s famous novel, “Looking Backward,” which created such a sensation in
the reading world a few years since. The progressive thought of Emerson was
father to the so-called “ New Theology,” or “Higher Criticism,” of modern scholars
and theologians. It is, perhaps, for the influence which Emerson has exerted, rather
than his own works, that the literature of America is mostly indebted to him. It
was through his efforts that the village of Concord has been made more famous in
American letters than the city of New York.

The charm of Emerson’s personality has already been referred to,—and it is not
strange that it should have been so great. His manhood, no less than his genius
was worthy of admiration and of reverence. His life corresponded with his brave,
cheerful and steadfast teachings. He “practiced what he preached.” His manners
were so gentle, his nature so transparent, and his life so singularly pure and happy,
that he was called, while he lived, “the good and great Emerson ;” and, since his
death, the memory of his life and manly example are among the cherished posses-
sions of our literature.

The reverence of his literary associates was little less than worship. Amos Bron-
son Alcott,—father of the authoress, Louisa M. Alcott,—one of the Brook Farm
members, though himself a profound scholar and several years Emerson’s senior,
declared that it would have been his great misfortune to have lived without knowing
Emerson, whom he styled, “The magic minstrel and speaker! whose rhetoric, voiced
as by organ stops, delivers the sentiment from his breast in cadences peculiar to
himself; now hurling it forth on the ear, echoing them; then,—as his mood and
matter invite it—dying like

Music of mild lutes
Or silver coated flutes.

such is the rhapsodist’s cunning in its structure and delivery.”
Referring to his association with Emerson, the same writer acknowledges In a
poem, written after the sage’s death:

Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend: ,
By the hand thou took’st me, and did’st condescend
To bring me straightway into thy fair guild; ~
And life-long hath it been high compliment



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 75

By that to have been known, and thy friend styled,
Given to rare thought and to good learning bent;
Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled.
Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be

’ A scholar in thy university.



HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, 1836.




WAY the rude bridge that arched the flood, On this green bank, by this soft stream,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, We set to day a votive stone,
Here once the embattled farmers stood, That memory may their deed redeem
And fired the shot heard round the world. When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
The foe long since in silence slept ; Spirit that made those heroes dare
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; To die or leave their children free,
And Time the ruined bridge has swept Bid Time and Nature gently spare
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. The shaft we raise to them and thee.



THE RHODORA.

i|N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, | This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, | Dear tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Spreading its leafless bloomsin adamp nook, | Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

To please the desert and the sluggish brook ;]__ Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose!




The purple petals fallen in the pool I never thought to ask, I never knew,
Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; But in my simple ignorance suppose

Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school ; The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought
The lively show beguiled me from my way. you.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why



THE TRUE HERO.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘“ VOLUNTARIES.”

The following story is told of the manner in which the poem, “Voluntaries,”’ obtained its title. In 1863,
Mr. Emerson came to Boston and took a room in the Parker House, bringing with him the unfinished sketch
of a few verses which he wished Mr. Fields, his publisher, to hear. He drew a small table to the centre
of the room and read aloud the lines he proposed giving to the press. They were written on separate slips
of paper which were flying loosely about the room. (Mr. Emerson frequently wrote in such independent
paragraphs, that many of his poems and essays might be rearranged without doing them serious violence.)
The question arose as to title of the verses read, when Mr. Fields suggested ‘‘ Voluntaires,’? which was cor-
dially accepted by Mr. Emerson.



WELL for the fortunate soul Heeds not the darkness and the dread,

f} «Which Music’s wings unfold, Biding by his rule and choice,

Stealing away the memory Telling only the fiery thread,

Of sorrows new and old! Leading over heroic ground
Yet happier he whose inward sight, Walled with immortal terror round,
Stayed on his subtle thought, To the aim which him allures,
Shuts his sense on toys of time, And the sweet heaven his deed secures.
To vacant bosoms brought ; Peril around all else appalling,
But best befriended of the God Cannon in front and leaden rain,
He who, in evil times, Him duty through the clarion calling

Warned by an inward voice, To the van called notin vain.



76

Stainless soldier on the walls,

Knowing this,—and knows no more,—
Whoever fights, whoever falls,

Justice conquers evermore,

Justice after as before ;—

And he who battles on her side,

God, though he were ten times slain,
Crowns him victor glorified,

Victor over death and pain

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Forever: but his erring foe,
Self-assured that he prevails,

Looks from his victim lying low,
And sees aloft the red right arm
Redress the eternal seales.

He, the poor for whom angels foil,
Blind with pride and fooled by hate,
Writhes within the dragon coil,
Reserved to a speechless fate.



MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL.

HE mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel ;
And the former called the latter “ Little
Prig.”
Bun replied :
“ You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.



And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

Tl not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track ;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”

—— oO

THE SNOW STORM.



Bayh \es3]| NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky
yw} Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the
fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.

The sled and traveler stopp’d, the courier’s feet

Delay’d, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north-wind’s masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnish’d with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.



Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he

For number or proportion. Mockingly

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are number’d, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish’d Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

—+e -———

THE PROBLEM.

| LIKE a church, I like a cowl,

I love a prophet of the soul,
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles,
Yet not for all his faith can see

Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought

His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of sunning fell



The thrilling Delphic oracle ;

Out from the heart of nature roll’d
The burdens of the Bible old;

The litanies of nations came,

Like the volcano’s tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below,—
The canticles of love and wo.

The hand that rounded Peter’s dome,
And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrought in a sad sincerity.

Himself from God he could not free ;





RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

He builded better than he knew, 1
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell?
Or how the sacred pine tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads ?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone;
And morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids ;
O’er England’s Abbeys bends the sky
As on its friends with kindred eye;
For, out of Thought’s interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air,
And nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass,
Art might obey but not surpass.
The passive Master ‘lent his hand

77

To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d,

And the same power that rear’d the shrine,

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.

Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host,

Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken,

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ;

The word by seers or sybils told

In groves of oak or fanes of gold,

Still floats upon the morning wind,

Still whispers to the willing mind.

One accent*of the Holy Ghost

The heedless world hath never lost.

I know what say the Fathers wise,—

The book itself before me lies,—

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,

And he who blent both in his line,

The younger Gr'olden Lips or mines,

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ;

His words are music in my ear,

I see his cowled portrait dear,

And yet, for all his faith could see,

I would not the good bishop be.



TRAVE
4]| HAVE no churlish objection to the cir- |
M4] cumnavigation of the globe, for the pur-

> poses of art, of study, and benevolence,
so that the man is first domesticated, or does not
go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater
than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or
to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels
away from himself, and grows old even in youth
among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will
and mind have become old and dilapidated as they.
He carries ruins to ruins.

Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our
first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At
kome I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be in-
toxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack
my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the
sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside
me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identi-
cal that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the
palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and
suggestions; but I am not intoxicated. My giant
goes with me wherever I go.

But the rage of traveling is itself only a symptom
of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intel-





LING. .

lectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the
universal system of education fosters restlessness.
Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay
at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but
the traveling of the mind? Our houses are built
with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with
foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our
whole minds, lean to and follow the past and the dis-
tant as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The
soul created the arts wherever they have flourished.
It was in his own mind that the artist sought his
model. It was an application of his own thought to
the thing to be done and the conditions to be ob-
served. And why need we copy the Doric or the
Gothie model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of
thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to
any, and if the American artist will study with hope
and love the precise thing to be done by him, con-
sidering the climate, the soil, the length of the day,
the wants of the people, the habit and form of
the government, he will create a house in which all
these will find themselves fitted, and taste and senti-
ment will be satisfied also.



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. .

THE COMPENSATION OF CALAMITY.

AE cannot part with our friends. We can-
not let our angels go. We do not see
that they only go out that archangels
may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We
do not bélieve in the riches of. the soul, in its proper
eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe
there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that
beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of
the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter
and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover
and nerve us again. We cannot find aught so dear,
so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain.
The voice of the Almighty saith, “Up and onward
for evermore!” We cannot stay amid the ruins,
neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever
with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look
backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made
apparent to the understanding also, after long inter-
vals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disap-





pointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at
the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the
gure years reveal the deep remedial force that under-
lies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife,
brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation,
somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or
genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our
way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of
youth which was waiting to be closed; breaks up a
wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living,
and allows the formation of new ones more friendly
to the growth of character. It permits or constrains
the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception
of new influences that prove of the first importance
to the next years; and the man or woman who would
have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room
for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by
the falling of the walls and the neglect of the
gardener, is made the banian of the forest, yielding
shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men.



SELF-RELIANCE.

NSIST on yourself; never imitate. Your
own gift you can present every moment

2=t#) with the cumulative force of a whole
lite’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of
another you have only an extemporaneous, half
possession. That which each can do best, none but
his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows
what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it.
Where is the master who could have taught Shaks-




structed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon or
Newton? Every great man is a unique. The
Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could
not borrow. If anybody will tell me whom the
great man imitates in the original crisis when he per-
forms a great act, I will tell him who-else than him-
self can teach him. Shakspeare will never be made
by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is as-
signed thee, and thou canst not hope too much or

peare? Where is the master who could have in-| dare too much.



FROM




much from his chamber as from society.
I am not solitary whilst I read and write,
though nobody is with me. But if a man would be
alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come
from those heavenly worlds will separate between
him and vulgar things. One might think the atmos-
phere was made transparent with this design, to
give man,'in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual pres-

“NATURE.”

O go into solitude a man needs to retire as|ence of the sublime.

Seen in the streets of cities,
how great they are!

If the stars should appear one night in a thousand
years, how would men believe and adore and preserve
for many generations the remembrance of the city of
God which had been shown! But every night come
out these preachers of beauty and light the universe
with their admonishing smile.

The stars awaken a certain reverence, because,







RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

79

though always present, they are always inaccessible ; | setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning

but all natural objects make kindred impression when
the mind is open to their influence. Nature never
wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest
' man extort all her secrets and lose his curiosity by
finding out all her perfection. Nature never became
a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the
' mountains reflected all the wisdom of his best hour
as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his
| childhood.
| When we speak of Nature in this manner, we have
a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We
mean the integrity of impression made by manifold
| Nature objects. It is this which distinguishes the
stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of
| the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this
morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or
thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and
Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them
owns the landscape. There is a property in the hori-
zon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate
all the parts—that is, the poet. This is the best
part of these men’s farms, yet to this their land-deeds
| give them no title.
To speak truly, few adult persons can see Nature.
_ Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have
_ a very superficial seeing. . The sun illuminates only
the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the
heart of the child. The lover of Nature is he whose
' inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to
each other—who has retained the spirit of infancy
even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with
_ heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In
the presence of Nature a wild delight runs through
the man in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, He
) is my creature, and, maugre all his impertinent griefs,
7 he shall be glad with me. Not the sun nor the sum-
' mer alone, but every hour and season, yields its tribute
| of delight; for every hour and change corresponds
to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from
breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a



piece. In good health the air is a cordial of incredi-
ble virtue. Crossing a bare common in snow-puddles
at twilight under a clouded sky, without having in
my thoughts any occurrence of special good-fortune,
I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear
to think how glad Iam.. In the woods, too, a man
casts off his years as the snake his slough, and at
what period soever of his life is always a child. In
the woods is perpetual youth. Within these planta-
tions of God a decorum and sanctity reign, a peren-
nial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he
should tire of them in a thousand years. In the
woods we return to reason and faith. There I feel
that nothing can befall me in life—no disgrace, no
calamity (leaving me my eyes)—-which Nature can-
not repair. * * * * ** * OK

The greatest delight which the fields and woods
minister is the suggestion of an occult relation be-
tween man and the vegetable. I am not alone and
unacknowledged. They nod to me and I to them.
The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me
and old.

It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown.
Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better
emotion coming over me when I deemed I was think-
ing justly or doing right.

Yet it is certain that the power to produce this de-
light does not reside in Nature, but in man or in ¢
harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleas-
ures with great temperance. For Nature is not. al-
ways tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene
which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as
for the frolic of the nymphs is overspread with mel-
ancholy to-day. Nature always wears the colors of
the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the
heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there
is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him
who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky
is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the
population.





JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

“mE POET OF FREEDOM.”

N A solitary farm house near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the valley



SY leaf Whittier was born. Within the same town, and Amesbury,

chusetts, September 7th, 1892. The only distinguishing features about his ancestors
were that Thos. Whittier settled at Haverhill in 1647, and brought with him from

honor for his simple and beautiful heart-songs, spent most of his life,

of the Merrimac, on the 17th day of December, 1807, John Green- |

nearby, this kind and gentle man, whom all the world delights to |



dying at the ripe old age of nearly eighty-five, in Danvers, Massa-

Newberry the first hive of bees in the settlement, that they were all sturdy Quakers, _
lived simply, were friendly and freedom loving. The early surroundings of the |

farmer boy were simple and frugal. He has pictured them for us in his masterpiece,
“Snowbound.” Poverty, the necessity of laboring upon the farm, the influence of
Quaker traditions, his busy life, all conspired against his liberal education and literary
culture. This limitation of knowledge is, however, at once to the masses his charm,
and, to scholars, his one -defect. It has led him to write, as no other poet could,
upon the dear simplicity of New England farm life. He has written from the heart
and not from the head; he has composed popular pastorals, not hymns of culture.
Only such training as the district schools afforded, with a couple of years at Haver-
hill Academy comprised his advantages in education.

In referring to this alma mater in after years, under the spell of his muse, the
poet thus writes :— ,
. “ Still sits the school house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning ;
Around it still the sumachs grow
And black-berry vines are running.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official ;

The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife carved initial.”

It was natural for Whittier to become the poet of that combination of which
Garrison was the apostle, and Phillips and Sumner the orators. His early poems were
published by Garrison in his paper, “The Free Press,” the first one when Whittier

~ 80 —

Se



|











Hil

| UU iin It





JOHN G. WHITTIER, HIS HOME AND BIRTHPLACE.



JOHN GREENLEAF WHIITIER. 81

was nineteen years of age and Garrison himself little more thana boy. The farmer
lad was elated when he found the verses which he had so timidly submitted in print
with a friendly comment from the editor and a request for more. Garrison even
visited Whittier’s parents and urged the importance of giving him a finished educa-
tion. Thus he fell early under the spell of the great abolitionist and threw himself
with all the ardor of his nature into the movement. His poems against slavery and
disunion have a ringing zeal worthy of a Cromwell. “They are,” declares one
writer, “like the sound of the trumpets blown before the walls of Jericho.”

As a Quaker Whittier could not have been otherwise than an abolitionist, for that
denomination had long since abolished slavery within its own communion. Most

rominent among his poems of freedom are “The Voice of Freedom,” published in
1849, “The Panorama and Other Poems,” in 1856, “In War Times,” in 1863, and
“Jchabod,” a pathetically kind yet severely stinging rebuke to Daniel Webster for
his support of the Fugitive Slave Law. Webster was right from the standpoint of
law and the Constitution, but Whittier argued from the standpoint of human right
and liberty. “ Barbara Frietchie,’—while it is pronounced purely a fiction, as
is also his poem about John Brown kissing the Negro baby on his way to the gal-
lows,—is perhaps the most widely quoted of his famous war poems.

Whittier also wrote extensively on subjects relating to New England history,
witchcraft and colonial traditions. This group includes many of his best ballads,
which have done in verse for colonial romance what Hawthorne did in prose in his
“Twice-Told Tales” and “Scarlet Letter.” It is these poems that have entitled
Whittier to be called “the greatest of American ballad writers.” Among them are
to be found ‘Mabel Martin,’ “The Witch of Wenham,” “Marguerite” and
“Skipper Ireson’s Ride.” But it is perhaps in the third department of his writings,
namely, rural tales and idyls, that the poet is most widely known. These pastoral
poems contain the very heart and soul of New England. They are faithful and
loving pictures of humble life, simple and peaceful in their subject and in their
style. The masterpieces of this class are “Snowbound,” “Maud Muller,” “The
Barefoot Boy,” “Among the Hills,” “ Telling the Bees,” etc. The relation of these
simple experiences of homely character has carried him to the hearts of the people
and made him, next to Longfellow, the most popular of American poets. There is
a pleasure and a satisfaction in the freshness of Whittier’s homely words and home-
spun phrases, which we seek in vain in the polished art of cultivated masters. As
a poet of nature he has painted the landscapes of New England as Bryant has the
larger features of the continent.

Whittier was never married and aside from a few exquisite verses he has given
the public no clew to the romance of his youth. His home was presided over for
many years by his sister Elizabeth, a most lovely and talented woman, for whom he
cherished the deepest affection, and he has written nothing more touching than his

tribute to her memory in “Snowbound.” The poet was shy and diffident among

strangers and in formal society, but among his friends genial and delightful, with a

fund of gentle and delicate humor which gave his conversation a great charm.

Aside from his work as a poet Whittier wrote considerable prose. His first volume
was “Legends of New England,” published in 1831, consisting of prose and verse.
Subsequent prose publications consisted of contributions to the slave controversy,

a



82 JOHN ,GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

biographical sketches of English and American reformers, studies of scenery and
folk-lore of the Merrimac valley. Those of greatest literary interest were the
“Supernaturalisms of New England,” (1847,) and “Literary Recreations and
Miscellanies,” (1852.)

In 1836 Whittier became secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and
he was all his life interested in public affairs, and wrote much for newspapers and
periodicals. In 1838 he began to edit the “ Pennsylvania Freeman” in Philadel-
phia, but in the following year his press was destroyed and his office burned by a
pro-slavery mob, and he returned to New England, devoting the larger part of his
life, aside from his anti-slavery political writings, to embalming its history and
legends in his literature, and so completely has it been done by him it has been
declared: “If every other record of the early history and life of New England
were lost the story could be constructed again from the pages of Whittier. Traits,
habits, facts, traditions, incidents—he holds a torch to the dark places and illumines
them every one.”

Mr. Whittier, perhaps, is the most peculiarly American poet of any that our country
has produced. The woods and waterfowl of Bryant belong as much to one land
as another ; and all the rest of our singers—Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and their
brethren—with the single exception of Joaquin Miller, might as well have been born
in the land of Shakespeare, Milton and Byron as their own. But Whittier is
entirely a poet of his own soil. All through his verse we see the elements that
created it, and it is interesting to trace his simple life, throughout, in his verses from
the time, when like that urchin with whom he asserts brotherhood, and who has won
all affections, he ate his

* OK * “milk and bread,

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the door-stone gray and rude.
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple curtains fringed with gold
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ;”

and, when a little older his fancy dwelt upon the adventures of Chalkley—as

“ Following my plough by Merrimac’s green shore
His simple record I have pondered o’er
With deep and quiet joy.”

In these reveries, “The Barefoot Boy” and others, thousands of his countrymen |
have lived over their lives again. Every thing he wrote, to the New Englander has |
a sweet, warm familiar life about it. To them his writings are familiar photo- |
graphs, but they are also treasury houses of facts over which the future antiquarian |
will pour and gather all the close details of the phase of civilization that they give |

The old Whittier homestead at Amesbury is now in charge of Mrs. Pickard, a
neice of the poet. She has recently made certain changes in the house; but this |
has been done so wisely and cautiously that if the place some day becomes a shrine |
—as it doubtless will—the restoration of the old estate will beasimple matter. The |
library is left quite undisturbed, just as it was when Whittier died.







JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 83

MY PLAYMATE.

HE pines were dark on Ramoth Hill,.
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.



The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear ;
The sweetest and the saddest day

It seemed of all the year,

For more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,

And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine:

What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father’s kine ?

She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o’er

The seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.

I walk with noiseless feet the round
Of uneventful years ;

Still o’er and o’er I sow the Spring
And reap the Autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow ;

The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.

There haply with her jeweled hands
She smooths her silken gown,—

No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.



The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,

And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,
The birds build in the tree,

The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill
The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,—

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.

T see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father’s kine?

What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,—

That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,

Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o’er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow ;

And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,—

The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee !

THE CHANGELING.

Tad OR the fairest maid in Hampton
They needed not to search,
Who saw young Anna Favor
Come walking into church,—




Or bringing from the meadows,
At set of harvest-day,

The frolic of the blackbirds,
The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers,
The saddest two-years bride,

She scowls in the face of her husband,
And spurns her child aside.

“ Rake out the red coals, goodman,
For there the child shall lie,

Till the black witch comes to fetch her,
And both up chimney fly.



84

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

“Tt’s never my own little daughter,
It’s never my own,” she said ;

“The witches have sto.en my «nna,
And left me an imp instead. -

“ O, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold;

But this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.

“T hate the touch of her fingers,
T hate the feel of her skin ;

It’s not the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.

“ My face grows sharp with the torment ;
Look ! my arms are skin and bone !—
Rake open the red coals, goodman,
And the witch shall have her own.

“She'll come when she hears it crying,
In the shape of an owl or bat,

And she'll bring us our darling Anna
In place of her screeching brat.”

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
Laid his hand upon her head:

“Thy sorrow is great, O woman !
I sorrow with thee,” he said.

“The paths to trouble are many,
And never but one sure way
Leads out to the light beyond it:
My poor wife, let us pray.”

Then he said to the great All-Father,
“Thy daughter is weak and blind ;
Let her sight come back, and clothe her

Once more in her right mind.

“Lead her out of this evil shadow,
Out of these fancies wild ;

Let the holy love of the mother,
Turn again to her child.

“Make her lips like the lips of Mary,
Kissing her blessed Son ;

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
Rest on her little one.

“ Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
Open her prison door,

And thine shall be all the glory
And praise forevermore.”

Then into the face of its mother,
The baby looked up and smiled ;
And the cloud of her soul was lifted,

And she knew: her little child.

A beam of slant west sunshine
Made the wan face almost fair,

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder
And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehaad,
She kissed it on cheek and cnin;
And she bared her snow-white bosom

To the lips so pale and thin.

O, fair on her bridal morning

Was the maid who blushed and smiled
But fairer to Ezra Dalton

Looked the mother of his child.

“With more than a lover’s fondness

He stooped to her worn young face
And the nursing child and the mother
He folded in one embrace.

‘Now mount and ride, my goodman
As lovest thine own soul ! j
Woe's me if my wicked fancies
Be the death of Goody Cole!”

His horse he saddled and bridled,
And into the night rode he,—

Now through the great black woodland ;
Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings,
He came to the ferry wide,

And thrice he called to the boatman
Asleep on the other side.

He set his horse to the river,
He swam to Newburg town,
And he called up Justice Sewall

In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice,
Upon whose soul be peace ! ;

Set his name to the jailer’s warrant
For Goody Cole’s release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats
Went sounding like a flail :

And Goody Cole at cock crow
Came forth from Ipswich jail.





JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. : 85

THE WORSHIP. OF NATURE.

>a]|HE ocean looketh up to heaven,
As ’twere a living thing ;

The homage of its waves is given
In ceaseless worshiping.



They kneel upon the sloping sand,
As bends the human knee,

A beautiful and tireless band,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour the glittering treasures out
Which in the deep have birth,

And chant their awful hymns about
The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up
From every mountain-shrine,

From every flower and dewy cup
That greeteth the sunshine.

The mists are lifted from the rills,
Like the white wing of prayer ;

— +o—.

They lean above the ancient hills,
As doing homage there.

The forest-tops are lowly cast
O’er breezy hill and glen,
As if a prayerful spirit pass’d

On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world,
E’en as repentant love ;

Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl’d,
They fade in light above.

The sky is as a temple’s arch,
The blue and wavy air

Is glorious with the spirit-march
Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun,
The many stars are given,

As shrines to burn earth’s incense on
The altar-fires of Heaven !

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes ;
With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace!
From my heart I give thee joy;

I was once a barefoot boy.

Prince thou art—the grown-up man,
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride !

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy,

In the reach of ear and eye:

Outward sunshine, inward joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy.



O! for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools:
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,

Of the wild flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood ;

How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well ;
How the robin feeds her young,

How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,

' Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine ,

Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

Of gray hornet artisans !

For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Part and parcel of her joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy.

O for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for !

I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone ;
Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day, and through the nig* :
Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall ;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, «|



86 ' JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Mine; on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides !

Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too,

All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy !

O, for festal dainties spread,

Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon and bow] of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me like a regal tent,

Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play

Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ;

And, to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch ; pomp and joy

Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man!

Live and laugh as boyhood can ;
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew ;

Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,

Lose the freedom of the sod,

Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil,
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground ;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!



MAUD MULLER.

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.



Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid.

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of: the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and browa;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!

“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

“Td dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

“ And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door.”

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,

And saw Maud Muller standing still.

“ A form. more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it heen my lot: to meet,





JOIIN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 87

« And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

« Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:

“ No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

“ But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was Jeft in the field alone.

°

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, |
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead ;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
“ Ah, that I were free again!

“Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new mown hay in the meadow lot,.

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, ~
The tallow candle an astral burned ;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, “ It might have been.”

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes ;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!



MEMORIES.

BEAUTIFUL and happy girl

With step as soft as summer air,

Shadow’d by many a careless’ curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair:

And fresh young lip and brow of pearl

A seeming child in every thing
Save thoughtful brow, and ripening
charms, :
As nature wears the smile of spring
When sinking into summer’s arms.



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

88

A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful bower,

Leaf after leaf serenely bright

And stainless in its holy white
Unfolding like a morning flower:

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute
With every breath of feeling woke,

And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.

Yow thrills once more the lengthening chain
Of memory at the thought of thee !—
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its elow upon my cheek,
Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I lean’d to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

T hear again thy low replies,
I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes
With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves, .
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,
And folly’s self seem’d wise in thee.
I too can smile, when o’er that hour
The lights of memory backward stream,
Yet feel the while that manhood’s power
Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream

Years have pass’d‘on, and left their trace
Of graver care and deeper thought ;
And unto me the calm, cold face
Of manhood, and to thee the grace
Of woman’s pensive beauty brought,
On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise
The schoolboy’s name has widely flown;
Thine in the green and quiet ways
Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed
Our still diverging thoughts incline,
Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed,
While answers to my spirit’s need
The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line.
For thee the priestly rite and prayer,
And holy day and solemn psalm,
For me the silent reverence where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me
An impress time has not worn out,
And something of myself in thee,
A shadow from the past, I see
Lingering even yet thy way about;
Not wholly can the heart unlearn
That lesson of its better hours,
Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn
_ To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eye
The clouds about the present part,
And, smiling through them, round us lie
Soft hues of memory’s morning sky—
The Indian summer of the heart,
In secret sympathies of mind,
In founts of feeling which retain
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find
Our early dreams not wholly vain}



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.




Feebly and cold, the morning light

As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head—
His bloodless cheek is seam’d and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ;
And o’er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevell’d locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows,—
And yet the winter’s breath is chil:

31OOK on him—through his dungeon-grate,

Comes stealing round him, dim and late,

And o’er his haif-clad person goes
The frequent ague-thrill !

Silent—save ever and anon,

A sound, half-murmur and half-groan,

Forces apart the painful grip

Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip:

O, sad and crushing is the fate

Of old age chain’d and desolate !

Just Gop! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison-bed,

Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,

And, or in wakefulness or sleep

Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb,
Crimson’d with murder, touches him !

What has the gray-hair’d prisoner done?
Has murder stain’d his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime’s a fouler one:
God made the old man poor !
For this he shares a felon’s cell—
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this—the boon for which he pour’d
His young blood on the invader’s sword,
And counted light the fearful cost—
His blood-gain’d liberty is lost !

And so, for such a place of rest,
Old prisoner, pour’d thy blood as rain
On Concord’s field, and Bunker's crest,
And Saratoga’s plain ?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars !
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument uprear’d to thee—
Piled granite and a prison cell—
The land repays thy service well!

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;

89

Shout “ Freedom !” till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:

Let boasted eloquence declaim

Of honor, liberty, and fame ;

Still let the poet’s strain be heard,

With “ glory” for each second word,

And everything with breath agree

To praise, “ our glorious liberty !”

And when the patriot cannon jars
That prison’s cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind, and fall—
Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer !
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry ?
Sorrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb,
What is your carnival to him ?

Down with the law that binds him thus!
Unworthy freemen, let it find

No refuge from the withering curse
Of Gop and human kind!

Open the prisoner's living tomb,

“And usher from its brooding gloom

The victims of your savage code,

To the free sun and air of Gop!

No longer dare as crime to brand,

The chastening of the Almighty’s hand!

THE STORM.

FROM “SNOW-BOUND.”

_Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. Itisa New
England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, ‘‘The Winter Evening,’’ of Cowper, and Burns’

“Cotter’s Saturday Night”

; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these.

Snow-bound

is a faithful description of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s home in Connect-

icut.
misssion this extract is here inserted.

Baa NWARNED by any sunset light

4) The gray day darkened into night,

AS25| A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow ;
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.



So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines

The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Heughton, Mifflin & Co., by whose per.

Of Nature's geometric signs,

In starry flake, and pellicle,

All day the hoary meteor fell ;

And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,

No cloud above, no earth below,—

A universe of sky and snow!

The old familiar sight of ours

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;



gO ' JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road ;

The bridle-post an old man sat

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof’;

And even the long sweep, high aloof,

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell

Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.

Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew ;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through,
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid

With dazzling crystal: we had read

Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,

And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: “ Boys, a path!”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy



ICHABOD.
The following poem was written on hearing of Daniel Webster’s course in supporting the ‘* Compromise
Measure,” including the ‘Fugitive Slave Law’’. This speech was delivered in the United States Senate

on the 7th of March, 1850, and greatly incensed the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many
New Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster. The lines are full of tender regret,
deep grief and touching pathos.

Sag|0 fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore! * But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim
Dishonor’d brow.




Revile him not,—the Tempter hath
A snare for all!

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall.

Oh! dumb be passion’s stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age
Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark
A bright soul driven,

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven?

-Let not the land, once proud ot nim,
Insult him now,

A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honor’d, nought
Save power remains,—

A fallen angel’s pride of thought
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:

When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;

Walk backward with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!



a Rae 5

OWE

MBRIDGE, MASS. +.

CA
52

BAR THPLACE











OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.

HIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the Eng-
lish speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship
and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born
in Cambridge, Massachussetts, August 29th, 1809, and died in Bos-
ton, October 27th 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five—the “last
leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell,
Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Mar-

aret Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with
all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another.

Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him
a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated.
‘One of his classmates said of him :—‘‘He made you feel like you were the best fel-
low in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, and
Rey. Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and
have been wittily described in his poem “ The Boys.” Dr. Holmes once humorously
said that he supposed “the three people whose poems were best known were himself,
one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was; the one
Brown was author of ‘I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was
author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”

After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned
to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Profes-
sor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a
similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors
were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume
of medical essays, issued in 1883.

Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including
three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “ My Aunt,” “The height of the
Ridiculous” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were
issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880.

Dr. Holmes is popularly known as the ‘poet of society, this title attaching because
most of his productions were called forth by special occasions.. About one hundred
of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta
Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve
his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,”

9 \ ¥





92 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,”
“The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment of a lofty
theme; “The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos
and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to
what extent he can play in real fun. In fact, Dr. Holmes was a many-sided man,
and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “ No other
American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully. We might further add,
no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those
who knew him.

As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “ Autocrat at the Breakfast
Table,” “Professor at the Breakfast Table” and “ Poet at the Breakfast Table,”
published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to
have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The
“ Autocrat” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its
typical characters forms the scene. ‘The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of
the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire
and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this
work will also be found “The Wonderful One Horse Shay” and “The Chambered
Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems.

Holmes wrote two novels, “ Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which
in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in
this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a
scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographer Dr. Holmes has also
given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph
Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “ A Mortal Anti-
pathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887).

Holmes was one of the projectors of ‘‘ The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started
in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its
editor. It was to this periodical that the “ Autocrat” and “The Professor at the
Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the perman-
ent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and
he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “ Hub
of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared
was “located exactly at the Boston State House.”

Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all
times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physio-
logy, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul.
His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good
cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—‘ The last Leaf on
the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age
of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many
generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race.

Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly
lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor,
among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome
of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readiness



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Famous WomMEN ORATORS AND REFORMERS, . ; ;

MIscELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES AND CHOICE GEMS, . : .

SEVENTEEN OF OUR FavyorITE ENGLISH AUTHORS, . 6

(5)

33

165

218

252

271

311

345

380

401

499

549
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Our obligation to the following publishers is respectfully and gratefully acknowledged, since, without the
courtesies and assistance of these publishers and a number of the living authors, it would have been
impossible to issue this volume.

Copyright selections from the following authors are used by the permission of and special arrangement
with MESSRS. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., their authorized publishers:—Ralph Waldo
Emerson, Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Bayard Taylor, Maurice
Thompson, Colonel John Hay, Bret Harte, William Dean Howells, Edward Bellamy, Charles Egbert
Craddock (Miss Murfree), Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (Ward), Octave Thanet (Miss French), Alice Cary,
Phoebe Cary, Charles Dudley Warner, H. C. Stedman, James Parton, John Fiske and Sarah Jane Lippincott.

TO THE CENTURY CO., we are indebted for selections from Richard Watson Gilder, James
Whitcomb Riley and Francis Richard Stockton.

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, for extracts from Eugene Field.

TO HARPER & BROTHERS, for selections from Will Carleton, General Lew Wallace, W. D.
Howells, Thomas Nelson Page, John L. Motley, Charles Follen Adams and Lyman Abbott.

TO ROBERTS BROTHERS, for selections from Edward Everett Hale, Helen Hunt Jackson,
Louise Chandler Moulton and Louisa M. Alcott.

TO ORANGE, JUDD & CO., for extracts from Edward Eggleston.

TO DODD, MEAD & CO., for selections from E. P. Roe, Marion Harland (Mrs. Terhune), Amelia
E. Barr and Martha Finley.

TO D. APPLETON & CO., for Wm. Cullen Bryant and John Bach McMaster.

TO MACMILLAN & CO., for F. Marion Crawford.

10 HORACE L. TRAUBEL, Executor, for Walt Whitman.

TO ESTES & LAURIAT, for Gail Hamilton (Mary Abigail Dodge).

TO LITTLE, BROWN & CO., for Francis Parkman.

TO FUNK & WAGNALLS, for Josiah Allen’s Wife (Miss Holley).

TO LEE & SHEPARD, for Yaweob Strauss (Charles Follen Adams), Oliver Optic (William T.
Adams) and Mary A. Livermore. ;

TO J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., for Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye).

TO GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, for Uncle Remus (Joel C. Harris).

TO TICKNOR & CO., for Julian Hawthorne.

TO PORTER & COATES, for Edward Ellis and Horatio Alger.

TO WILLIAM F. GILL & CO., for Whitelaw Reid.

TO C. H. HUDGINS & CO., for Henry W. Grady.

TO THE “ COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE,” for Julian Hawthorne.

TO T. B. PETERSON & BROS., for Frances Hodgson Burnett.

TO JAS. R. OSGOOD & CO., for Jane Goodwin Austin.

TO GEO. R. SHEPARD, for Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

TO J. LEWIS STACKPOLE, for John L. Motley.

Besides the above, we are under special obligation to a number of authors whe kindly furnished, in
answer to our request, selections which they considered representative of their writings.

6


THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME.

=ilHIS work has been designed and prepared with a view to presenting an
outline of American literature in such a manner ai to stimulate a
love for good reading and especially to encourage the study of the
lives and writings of our American authors. The plan of this work
is unique and original, and possesses certain helpful and interesting
features, which—so far as we are aware—have been contemplated by
no.other single volume.

The first and main purpose of the work is to present to our American homes a
mass of wholesome, varied and well-selected reading matter. In this respect it is
substantially a volume for the family. America is pre-eminently a country of
homes. These homes are the schools of citizenship, and—next to the Bible, which
is the foundation of our morals and laws—we need those books which at once enter-
tain and instruct, and, at the same time, stimulate patriotism and pride for our
native land.

This book seeks to meet this demand. Four-fifths of our space is devoted ex-
clusively to American literature. Nearly all other volumes of selections are made
up chiefly from foreign authors. The reason for this is obvious. Foreign publications
until within the last few years have been free of copyright restrictions. Anything
might be chosen and copied from them while American authors were protected by
law from such outrages. Consequently, American material under forty-two years of
age could not be used without the consent of the owner of the copyright. The
expense and the difficulty of obtaining these permissions were too great to warrant
compilers and publishers in using American material. The constantly growing
demand, however, for a work of this class has encouraged the publishers of this
a


8 THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME.

volume to undertake the task. The publishers of the works from which these selec~
tions are made and many living authors represented have been corresponded with,
and it is only through the joint courtesy and co-operation of these many publishers
and authors that the production of this volume has been made possible. Due
acknowledgment will be found elsewhere. In a number of instances the selections
have been made by the authors themselves, who have also rendered other valu-
able assistance in supplying data and photographs.

The second distinctive point of merit in the plan of the work is the biographical
feature, which gives the story of each author’s life separately, treating them both
personally and as writers. Longfellow remarked in ‘‘ Hyperion ”’—“If you once
understand the character of an author the comprehension of his writings becomes
easy.” He might have gone further and stated that when we have once read the
life of an author his writings become the more interesting. Goethe assures us that
“ Every author portrays himself in his works even though it be against his will.”
The patriarch in the Scriptures had the same thought in his mind when he exclaimed
“Oh! that mine’ enemy had written a book.” Human nature remains the same.
“Any book takes on a new phase of value and interest to us the moment we know
the story of the writer, whether we agree with his statements and theories or not.
These biographical sketches, which in every case are placed immediately before the
selections from an author, give, in addition to the story of his life, a list of the
principal books he has written, and the dates of publication, together with com-
ments on his literary style and in many instances reviews of his best known works
This, with the selections which follow, established that necessary bond of sympathy
and relationship which should exist in the mind of the reader between every author
and his writings. Furthermore, under this arrangement the biography of each
author and the selections from his works compose a complete and independent
chapter in the volume, so that the writer may be taken up and studied or read alone,
or in connection with others in the particular class to which he belongs.

This brings us to the third point of classification. Other volumes of selections
—where they have been classified at all—have usually placed selections of similar
character together under the various heads of Narrative and Descriptive, Moral and
Religious, Historical, etc. On the contrary, it has appeared to us the better plan
in the construction of this volume to classify the authors, rather than, by dividing
their selections, scatter the children of one parent in many different quarters.
There has been no small difficulty in doing this in the cases of some of our versatile
writers. Emerson, for instance, with his poetry, philosophy and essays, and Holmes,
with his wit and humor, his essays, his novels and his poetry. Where should they
be placed? Summing them up, we find their writings—whether written in stanzas
of metred lines or all the way across the page, and whether they talked philosophy
or indulged in humor—were predominated by the spirit of poetry. Therefore,
with their varied brood, Emerson and Holmes were taken off to the “ Poet’s
Corner,” which is made all the richer and more enjoyable by the variety of their
gems of prose. Hence our classifications and groupings are as Poets, Novelists,
Lhstorians, Journalists, Humorists, Essayists, Critics, Orators, etc., placing each
author in the department to which he most belongs, enabling the reader to read and
compare him in his best element with others of the same class,
THE DISTINCTIVE PURPOSE AND PLAN OF THIS VOLUME. 9

Part I, “Great Poets of America,’ comprises twenty of our most famous and
popular writers of verse. The work necessarily begins with that immortal “Seven
Stars” of poesy in the galaxy of our literary heavens—Bryant, Poe, Longfel-
low, Emerson, Whittier, Holmes and Lowell. Succeeding these are those of
lesser magnitude, many of whom are still living and some who have won fame
in other fields of literature which divides honors with their poetry.

The remaining twelve parts of the book treat in similar manner about ninety-five
additional authors, embracing noted novelists, representative women poets of America;
essayists, critics and sketch writers; great American historians and biographers ;
our national humorists; popular writers for young people; noted journalists and
magazine contributors; great orators and popular lecturers; famous women orators
and reformers, and miscellaneous masterpieces from many American authors whose
fame rests largely upon one or two productions. The work appropriately closes with
a department of over one hundred and fifty pages of English literature, comprising
the lives and best writings of the most famous English, Scotch and Irish authors,
whose names and works are household words in America, and without which no
volume of literature in the language would be complete. Thus, it will be seen that
in this volume the whole field of American letters, with the best from the greatest
of British authors, has been gleaned to make the work the best and most represen-
tative of our literature possible within the scope of a single volume.

In making a list of authors in whom the ‘public were sufficiently interested to
entitle them to a place in a work like this, naturally they were found to be entirely
too numerous to be all included in one book. The absence of many good names
from the volume is, therefore, explained by the fact that the editor has been driven
to the necessity of selecting, first, those whom he deemed pre-eminently prominent,
and, after that, making room for those who best represent a certain class or par-—
ticular phase of our literature.

To those authors who have so kindly responded to our requests for courtesies.
and whose names do not appear, the above explanation is offered. The omission
was imperative in order that those treated might be allowed sufficient space to make
the work as complete and representative as might be reasonably expected.

Special attention has been given to 2llustrations. We have inserted portraits of
all the authors whose photographs we could obtain, and have, also, given views of the
homes and studies of many. A large number of special drawings have also been
made to illustrate the text of selections. The whole number of portraits and other
illustrations amount to over three hundred, all of which are strictly illustrative of
the authors or their writings. None are put in as mere ornaments. We have,
furthermore, taken particular care to arrange a number of special groups, placing
those authors which belong in one class or division of a class together on a page.
One group on a page represents our greatest poets; another, well-known western
poets; another, famous historians; another, writers for young people; another,
American humorists, ete. These groups are all arranged by artists in various
designs of ornamental setting. In: many cases we have also had special designs
made by artists for commemorative and historic pictures of famous authors. These
drawings set forth in a pictorial form leading scenes in the life and labors of the
author represented,
LIST OF PORTRAITS

MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME.

ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY.

Abbott, Lyman.

Adams, Charles Follen (Yaweob Strauss).
Adams, William T. (Oliver Optic).
Alcott, A. Bronson.

Alcott, Louisa M.

Alger, Horatio, Jr.

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey.

Anthony, Susan B.

Austin, Alfred.

Austin, Jane Goodwin.

Bancroft, George H.

Barr, Amelia E.

Beecher, Henry Ward.
Bellamy, Edward.

Bright, John.

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett.
Browning, Robert.
Bryant, William Cullen.
Bulwer-Lytton, Edward.
Burdette, Robert J.
Burnett, Frances Hodgson.
Burns, Robert.

Byron, George Gordon.

Cable, George W.

Carleton, Will

Oarlyle, Thomas,

Cary, Alice.

Cary, Pheebe.

Chaucer, Geoffrey.

Clay, Henry.

Clemens, Samuel L. (Mark Twain)
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor.

Cooper, James Fenimore.

Cowper, William.



Craddock, Charles Egbert (Mrs. Murfree}.
Crawford, F. Marion.

Dana, Charles A. _
Davis, Richard Harding.
Depew, Chauncey M.

‘| Dickens, Charles.

Dickinson, Anna.
Disraeli, Benjamin.
Drummond, Henry,

Eggleston, Edward.

Eliot, George (Marian Evans).
Ellis, Edward 8.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo.
Everett, Edward.

Farrar, Frederick W.

Field, Eugene.

Finley, Martha.

French, Alice (Octave Thanet).
Froude, James Anthony.
Fuller, Margaret.

Gibbon, Edward.
Gilder, Richard Watson.
Gladstone, William E.
Goldsmith, Oliver.
Gough, John B.

Grady, Henry W.

Greeley, Horace.

Hale, Edward Everett.
Halstead, Murat.
Harris, Joel Chandler.
Harte, Bret,

LQ
LIST OF PORTRAITS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME. 11

Hawthorne, Nathaniel.
Hawthorne, Julian.

Hay, Col. John.

Hemans, Felicia.

Henry, Patrick.

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell.
Howells, William Dean.

Howe, Julia Ward.

Urving, Washington.

Jackson, Helen Hunt.
Johnson, Ben.

Larcom, Lucy.

Lippincott, Sara Jane (Grace Greenwood),
Livermore, Mary A. :
Lockwood, Belva Ann.

Longfellow, Henry W.

Lowell, James Russell.

Mabie, Hamilton W.

Macaulay, Thomas Babington.
McMaster, John B.

Miller, Joaquin.

Milton, John.

Mitchell, Donald G. (Ik aan
Moore, Thomas.

Motley, John L.

Moulton, Louise Chandler.

Nye, Edgar Wilson (Bill Nye).
Oliphant, Mrs. Margaret.

Page, Thomas Nelson.
Parton, James.
Phillips, Wendell.
Pitt, William.

Poe, Edgar A.

Fope, Alexander.



Prescott, Willam H.

Reid, Whitelaw.

Riley, James Whitcomb.
Roe, Edward Payson.
Ruskin, John.

Scott, Sir Walter.
Shakespeare, William.
Shaw, Albert.

Shaw, Henry W. (Josh Billings).
Shelley, Percy Bysshe.
Southey, Robert.

Sigourney, Lydia H.

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes.
Spencer, Edmund.
Spurgeon, Charles Haddon.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence.
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady.
Stockton, Frank.

Stoddard, Richard Henry.
Stowe, Harriet Beecher.

Tennyson, Alfred.

Terhune, Mary Virginia (Marion Hariand).
Thackeray, William M.

Thoreau, Henry D.

Throllope, Anthony.

Wallace, General Lew.
Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Ward, Mrs. Humphrey.

‘| Warner, Chas. Dudley.

Watson, Rev. John (Ian McLaren).
Watterson, Henry W.

Webster, Daniel.

Whitman, Walt.

Whittier, John G.

Willard, Frances E.

Willis, Nathaniel P.

Wordsworth, William.
LIST OF ENGRAVINGS

MADE EXPRESSLY TO ILLUSTRATE THE TEXT IN THIS VOLUME.

AmericaneAUthors. tahiti seine aie aoe teareesls
The Poets of New England..............2+...
The Village: Smithy-c 2202. vss cence cusee sales

Mhes Ravens: ters hoe vee a en ee ee
MheuWraysid culinnspatesne seers ete ees meses
“ They Love to See the Flaming Forge’’.......
Home of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord, Mass.
Home of James R. Lowell, Cambridge, Mass.. .
Thomas B. Aldrich’s Study...................
Joaquin Miller’s Study, Oakland, Cal..........
sive OldsMansess eer race seen e oe eee
Uncle Tom and His Baby.................000.
A Scene in Uncle Tom’s Cabin................
Miss Ophelia and Topsy......-.........0.005
Sunnyside, the Home of Washington Irving....
‘“**Pshaw !’ said My Aunt Tabitha’’..........
“Tsaac, You are a Sad Fellow!’’..............
*“My Aunt was Dozing’’...........00.cseeeee
‘The Justice of the Peace" ..............02
‘A Perfect Field of Chivalry ’’................
ee Dricked(Outuve-mueit accra nie Sete ee ee
‘“‘There is After All But One Youth-time’’.....
‘‘Long, Weary Days of Confinement”’........
‘*Startling Another from a Doze’’...........-.
‘‘And Kat a Dinner in a Tavern”’.............
‘*‘ Away on a Visit ina Coach’’...............
“Tt is Rather a Pretty Name to Write’”’.......
“The Doctor Lifts You in His Arms’’........
‘“Who Sometimes Makes You Stand Up To-

BOL OIy Bieta eerie ste sree alse mare ara
‘* Listening Attentively to Some Grievous Com-

PLAIN Gast cchets ne aera ae neta ene eres et
‘*Some of Bidlow’s Boys’’...............--4.
pre VC] UTE eeootcretatere ois evereinine tees heresies
‘* Some Tidy Old Lady in Black”’.............
The Choir.......... Rene ien Ne Generate se eee ois





PAGE PAGH
11! ‘‘ Tat Old Ladies in Iron Spectacles’’........ << 294
14s thee Dcacon eee eer sorters ese eee 295
31|‘‘In Tones of Tender Admonition’’........... 295
44) ‘*The Old Men Gather on the Sunny Side of the
49 AB ulin giaesepseevers teense ee ean eet, seesaese 295
51|‘*The Firelight Glimmers Upon the Walls of
55 Voutstlomersa sane nee ee eae ee 296
591'On the Parm: mm Oanadaisn..ce. 1 seen eee 300
62: Ther @ldsWiellcurbzsses ces ee nr errs 301
73| Immigrant Women Hoeing Potatoes........... 301

101 Waiting for Milking-time...................4. 302
3118 | BALLER AWCORIS Asect raster 7 PN es, 302
161| A Winter Hvening on the Farm............... 303
174.) Sunday Afternoon... 6. cece scenes veins 303
219} Churning in the Barn.............. 20-2200 0 ee 304
DOV IEAS Sunny. Play-eround. a. cesarean eae ere 304
Dosh @ldaMal beensacr eerie ch eet esto as erm n ce aye 304
272} After a Wet Snow-storm............ -...++e0e 305

Rei Maple-sugar INimew. =: ko8 ce tennea asec 305

O86 he Blackss heepesa care ones seem yneseeeceere 306

287 Noon in the Sheep-lot............ 050200005 ee 306

D8 fas PRES Mae Onde eeret cote cyeota sr eaemreeenseericetssc serie oie 306

288 Feeding the Chickens.....................00. 307

ISS MPiCking AL) alslessastrs cists sti e seus eks orice estes 307

O88aiMakinoxlriendSancn dence coe toa racer 307

289 Mr. Prescott’s House at Pepperett, Mass....... 327

289 Henry Hudson Offering the Indians Liquor..... 370

290 A Cottonfield in Louisiana..................08- 422

290 Daniel Webster's Home, Marshfield, Mass..... 44]

290 ‘‘The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney

291 BWV G1 Olen nsec eee eS arlene SUN aca pein eine 503

‘A Miniature Sleigh and Hight Reindeer’’..... 504

291 | ‘‘ Down the Chimney came St. Nicholas’’...... 504

Mhexhouristsise cian cleo en ay meen eae 524

2921 At the Lunch Stand....... 2.2... cece cece ce ee 524

292 | The Street to the Sea.............- eee ce eens 524

293: her @ilerqentect ssi seis suet reyes rears eects 525

293: lelny Walt versnt tects secre Aceorersn ceric leet 525

294 | Mixpecting a Caller........... cece ee ce ecceeeee 525
ENGRAVINGS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME.

A Veteran of the Ranks..............e0000es
A Wide-reaching Affair..........0.2ccccceaes
‘“Who’s That Coming ?”............00.00008
[aCISULCAatee eres cere xt ete eee ose

On Wings of Hoofs.............. 00 cece ee eee
Miniature Men and Women................6+4
Wiaiting Ordersinenccne nt cosas asain vores
BONS ViOVAr esc yah een seta Nirse ane an ane
A Follower of the Hounds....................
@onfidencesscer ae sien cient eee

A World’s Fair Group...............000005 Be
“‘A Cosy Sit Down over Oysters and Champagne’’
‘*Madge,”’ she says, ‘‘is sitting by me with her

‘Digging Sturdily at his Tasks’ ..... Napa
‘“ Upon the Grassy Bank of a Stream’’........
‘He Wears his Honor at the Public Tables ”’
“The Moonlit Walks Upon the Hills’”’........
“We are Quite Alone, Now, My Boy”
““Death—It is a Terrible Word’’..............
“Plump and Thriving ”’
eoRead htwA Gaines trie cee erect pastas elec
‘““You Put Your Hands in Your Pockets and
Look Out Upon the Tossing Sea’’,........
‘* Blue-eyed Madge ”’
“The Old Clergyman Sleeps Beneath a Brown-
StLONGIO ADs eae cache eee reac ee eee
‘“You Love Those Flowers ’’
““ And You Have Worn This, Maggie?”’.......
poAss Mathers Ig Beat cts, aecrere yc rice ern ae ee cee ay
Your Country Home. ..+............2065 Fee
“The Time of Power is Past’”’...............
‘Madge, Madge, Must It Be?”..............
That is it, Maggie, the Old Home.............
ASNewebetrothali:asn.ce ne ansae nea noecia
“Tt is Getting Dark, Maggie”’
Celebrated English Poets.........-..s000s0005
Souvenir of Shakespeare............seeeseeee
Ann Hathaway's Cottage. .........2...00-006-

PAGE

526 |

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527
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527
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528
528
528
531
532
532
533
533
534
535
536
536
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538
538
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539
540
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540
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54]
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547



18

PAGE
Garrick and Shakespeare’s Bust............... 551
Fountain and Clock Tower Erected by George W.
Childs at Stratford-on-Avon.............. 552
Shakespeare’s House, Stratford-on-Avon.......... 554
‘In a Cowslip’s Bell I Lie”.................. 556
“Come Apace, Good Audrey; I will Fetch up
Your Goats, Audrey ’’.............00005. 558
‘There is a Willow Grows Aslant a Brook’’... 560
Othello’s Wooing...........200ccccceeecceees 564
‘From Betwixt Two Aged Oakes’’—IL’ Allegro. 569
Gray’s Monument in the Churchyard at Stoke
PO GS Per rhea tee SI eS 573
Souvenimol Burnss.csacueevee scence eoeune: 575
‘*The De’il Cam Fiddlin’ Thro’ the Town” 576
“Wilt Thou be My Dearie?’”’...............4. 577
Man was Made to Mourn.............-0....... 578
‘The Smith and Thee Got Roarin’ Fon’’...... 579
‘‘The Sire Turns O’er Wi’ Patriarchal Grace’’. 581
The Ancient Mariner..............000 0. eee eee 585
‘*He Cannot Chuse but Hear’’............... 586
“A Speck, A Mist, A Shape, I Wist!’’........ 588
The Mariner. .... eiGonensee sao ceo ee 590
‘*Oh, God! That Bread Should be so Dear’... 593
‘“Take Her Up Tenderly, Lift Her With Care’’ 595
The Tomb of Wordsworth..................-. 597
‘Out Flew the Web, and Floated Wide’’...... 604
“An Arm Rose Up from Out the Bosom of the
NGS cee een teecatens Coser petty tae Rye a 606
‘The Splendor Falls on Castle Walls’’........ 607
Souvenir of Scottn.<...c cece ccesceceesede cele 614
Scott’s Study at Abbottsford.................. 615
NelrosevAb beyicacaw tec cee eran atertie aren ee 617
Kenilworth Castle......0.cc.. cece sees es cee es 619
SotvenirofeDickensecseciesites cole cre greeters 625
Birthplace of Dickens, Portsmouth, England... 626
Gadshill, the Home of Charles Dickens........ 627
‘“Mr. Pickwick was the Personification of Kind-
ness and Humanity’’............0..02008. 629
Gaptam@uttlenten- cuss ace emer ee tere 631
Dicken’s ‘‘ Old Curiosity Shop’’.... ......... 633
Mir Mica wher. tesscs 3 cvsrctxe eae hon an ee wee oe 634
Samu Wrellerver: merce ieee eee are eae res ste 636
Major Pendénnis:3.dcctincos. ge Sons ceaiasers oe 639
Becky Shary: sosuevesseene co ncaeumatcnen e 644
Colonel Newcome........ ree et Se laa has 645
Gladstone's Study...........c0cccseeccescees 663
Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, their Ufildven and
Grandchildren.. 665
HULL-PAGEH GROUPS

AND SPECIAL DESIGNS.



Epe@ar ALLAN Por—His Homes, Monument, Ere.

Interior or Lonereittow’s Home, Campriper, Mass.

RatpH Watpo Emerson—His Brook Farm FRrienps, Ero.
Joun G. Wuirrrer—His Home anp BirrHPLace.

OLIVER WENDELL HoLMEs—His BirtTHPLACE AND STUuDY.
James RussELL LOWELL In His Srupy.

NaruanieL Hawrnorne—His Birtupiace, Waysipe Inn, Eve.
Tur New ConcressionaL Liprary.
Srx GREAT AMERICAN Poets.
WELL-KNOWN AMERICAN PoETs.
WELL-KNOWN WESTERN Poets.
Six TypricaLn AMERICAN NovELIsts.
Poputar AMERICAN NOVELISTS.
Notep Women NoveELiIsts.

Women Ports ofr AMERICA.
DISTINGUISHED EssayIsTs,AND LiTeRaRY CRITICS.

GREAT AMERICAN HISTORIANS AND BIOGRAPHERS.

Our NationaL Humorists.

PopuLtarR Writers For YounGa PEOPLE.

Notep AMERICAN JOURNALISTS AND Maaazine CONTRIBUTORS.
GREAT AMERICAN ORATORS AND PopuLaR LECTURERS.
Famous Women Orators AND REFORMERS.

Tur Great Ports or ENGLAND.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SPECIAL DEsIGN.

Rozsert Burns, Sprcrau Desten.

THE Great Ports or ENGLAND.

Tue Great Ports or ENGLAND.

Great Enauish Historians AND PRrosE WRITERS.

Famous Eneuisn Nove ists.

EnaiisH STATESMEN IN LITERATURE.

Writers oF Reiicious Cuassics.

Norep ENGLISH WOMEN IN LITERATURE.

\
TABLE OF CONTENTS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

An Author at Fourteen..........eseeeeeee

The Influence of his Father...............
Bryant’s Best Known Poems............--
Personal Appearance..........seeeee eens
A Long and Useful Life...........-......
‘Thanatopsis ’
“Waiting By the Gate’
‘Blessed are They That Mourn’
‘ Antiquity of Freedom’
“Tosa Wiater HOwltmrercce sccm araicte rs
‘Robert of Lincoln’
‘Drought’
‘The Past’
‘The Murdered Traveler’
SMHesBabtle-MielQvenacsecstetsciete ase tare store
‘The Crowded Street’
‘Fitz Greene Halleck (Notice of)’
‘A Corn-Shucking in South Carolina’

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

Comparison with Other American Poets...
Place of Birth and Ancestry.......+-sse.
Career as a Student.......-..seeceeeeeecs
The Sadness of his Life and Its Influence

Upon his Literature.. 3

Conflicting Statements of ine Hicdiaphems
Great as a Story Writer and as a Poet......
His Literary Labors and Productions.......
‘The City in the Sea’
* Annabel Lee’
sMOnElelanitinrsoneristcmiaceretessaraierire siete ereierets
sisrafelumeee weet cacao neers cre
~ “To One in Paradise’
wAlien Ores ea scrieereis ciate avelelerets EN saeinc tee
‘The Bells’....ceseeeeceeesseence essence
‘The Raven’....cceceesscecccoees Sele tate

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
His Place in Literature......+.+ Severe eels

eee weer err ere reccee

eee ec er er ree ese ere es

eee ere ewer creer reece weer cer ecee

sete re em meme ere re rere ereeesee

ee

Meee er ecer eee seer cce

concen

Beemer ner ecer cere ece

Pe cee ere racer orveseseensece

woe ecc eres ercrecncecs

PAGE



Comparison With American and English

His Education, Collegemates and Home....
The Wayside Inn (A view of )..........--
His Domestic Life. His Poems...........
His Critics, Poe, Margaret Fuller, Duyckink
Prose Works and Translations............-
Longfellow’s Genius........ ......05 eee
‘The Psalm of Life’
‘The Village Blacksmith ’
‘The Bridge ’
‘Resignation ’
“God’s Acre’
‘Excelsior ’
‘The Rainy Day’
‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’
‘The Old Clock On the Stairs’
‘The Skeleton in Armour’
‘King Witlaf’s Drinking Horn’
‘Evangeline On the Prairie’
‘ Literary Fame (Prose)’

re ry
teem eee rere rece reese neers
eee ete me eer reer rerrerecece
ee
ee ee
ate eee eee eee
ee eee een eee erence
eee cee eens
er er

eee cere rere esccce

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The Difficulty of Classifying Emerson......
The Liberator of American Letters........
A Master of Language..........eeeeeeeees
Emerson and Franklin.........+.e+eseeeee
Birth, Education, Harly Life.............-
Home at Concord, Brook-Farm Enterprise. .
Influence on Other Writers,.....----.+-+-

Modern Communism and the New Theology —

‘Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Con-

cord Monument (1886)’.....---+-+-
‘The Rhodora’
‘A True Hero’
‘Mountain and Squirrel’
‘The Snow-Storm’
‘The Problem’
‘Traveling ’

emcee ere r reer eran seeeescen

shee cee eer creer rec reecsece

wee eeececescccce

weer ceer eee escceroecce

eee cee rreneresee vere esecececes

PAGE
16 CONTENTS.





PAGE . PAH
‘The Compensation of Calamity’......... 78 “MPh er Rose. ecies sioaisece si sveistears Sisicaee LOL
‘Self Reliance’........ sees ccerceeeceees 78 ‘The Heritage’... 1.2... cece cece eee eees 105
SNe mead sects a tterernisheteceis; ciatatarsieie etevelerers 78 SSA Ch Honsebrith svete coteiecte secre ce crocker 106
‘The First Snow-Fall’....-.....2-eeeeeee 106
‘Fourth-of-July Ode’. ..........-e eee e eee 107
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. “he Dandelion? scsav ne ar ore ee 107
Whittier’s Humble Birth, Ancestry, Education. 80 ‘The Alpine Sheep’ (by Mrs. Lowell)....-. 108
Poet of the Abolitionists............0..06- 81
His Poems and His Prose. ..........06-.. 81
Our Most Distinctively American Poet..... g2| BAYARD TAYLOR.
New England’s History Embalmed in Verse 82 Life as a Farmer Boy.........seeceeeeees 109
oMay Playmate vcs: csc ccienare acess 83 FHGUGALION piste aoe Cen noel se actors onete eteierss 109
‘The Changeling’....... 0... .ece cece eens 83 HistHirst# Booker cscs cee araart 109
‘The Workskip of Nature’............-.- 85 Encouragement from Horace Greeley.....- 109
‘The Bare-foot Boy ’.....+++.eeeseeeeees 85 A Two Years’ Tramp Through Europe.... 109
‘Maud Muller’............. Mente aoa. 86 A Most Delightful Book of Travel........- 109
tMemoriestarcs secs actiesen calst eater sie teievere 87 An Inveterate Nomad...........2eeeeeeee 109
PInserisony Hor. Debby crass saneeiire onesies 88 Public Career of the Author............-- 110
‘The Storm’ (From ‘Snow Bound’)..... 89 ‘The Bison Track’..........eeeeeeeeeeee 110
HOT Ghia DO Uden cininterercaieteietectetcoeerec eteterelars etskote 90 ‘The Song of the Camp’.......-...eeeeee 111
“BedouiniSongncnse nian soci on vacitae nts 111
‘The Arab to the Palm’.........eeeeeees 111
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. TiferomiherNilern vate meee ene wea 112
Admired by the English-speaking World... 91
His Education and Popularity ............ 91) NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Marly Poems ccsctrertnivels otsls er detoieaceert vie 92
Autocrat and Professor at the Breakfast A Devotee of Fashion........+.sseeeeees 114
Mablemetecercen som een errs 92 Birth and Ancestors......sesee sees erence 114
Holmes’ Genial and Lovable Nature....... 92 Educational Facilities...,.......0.0eee0e- 114
SBilltand’s OGuinisecsce ares oe 94 His: Wirst®Poemsivnc conceit ee neers 114
‘Union and Liberty’ .........+.eeeeeeeee 94 A Four Years’ Tour in Europe..........-. 115
SQ ldtilronsides! nsetese ences nanncande ces 95 Marriage and Home..............seeeees 115
SMiy Aunt arcsec «live oaveleisversis sia sects 95 A Second Journey to England............ 115
‘The Height of the Ridiculous’.......... 95 An Untiring Worker. ......-..0eeeceeeeee 115
‘The Chambered Nautilus’............- 96 | Weather ce ccc acae are tsesterersuaresoreteterenes ties sy teverevens 115
‘Old Age and the Professor’ (Prose).....- 96 ‘David's Lament for Absalom’..........- 116
OpheyBralnive (PLOSse) ireeoea. derive ois 97 ‘The Dying Alchemist ’..........e0eeeee- 117
‘My Last Walk with the School Mistress’. 97 ‘The Belfry Pigeon’.........ceeeeseecees 118
‘A Random Conversation on Old Maxims,
Boston and other Towns’ .......... 98
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
His Humble Origin and Early Struggles... 119

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Introduction into Literature ........-.+4-. 119

Profoundest of American Poets........++- 100 Stoddard’s Style. ........ cee ceeeeeeeeees 120

Early Life and Beginning in Literature .--- 100 Literary Dinner in His Honor (1892) ..-.-- 120
Marriage, and the Influence of his Wife-.. 101 Ik. Marvel’s Letter and Whitcomb Riley’s

Home at Cambridge (view of)......-+---- 101 LOCI Sera ree cient eee eter tenes 120

Longfeflow’s Poem on Mrs. Lowell’s Death, 101 SM CurtainiGalltee acs ec teasers. 121

Humorous Poems and Prose Writings ....--. 102 ‘Hymn to the Beautiful’................ 121

Public Career of the Author ........-+-+- 103 SPASM iree ret rnc yee eevee cis nrc slere creme PN 122

. How Lowell is Regarded by Scholars ...... 103 ‘The Shadow of the Hand’.............. 123

‘The Gothic Genius’ (From ‘The Cathedral’) 104 OME Serenade cic ce co nee one saieaevauclontes 123
CONTENTS. i7

PAGE PAGE



WALTER WHITMAN (WALT. - JOHN HAY.
The Estimates of Critics..............0005 124 His Western Birth and Education ......... 139
Charms of Whitman’s Poetry.............. 125 Service to President Lincoln.............. 139
Life and Works of the Poet.............. 125 Military Careeriycns enn enure seaseee aes 139
Biographies of the Poet.................. 125 Appointed Ambassador to Great Britain .... 139
‘Darest Thou Now, O Soul’.............. 126 A List of His Books............0..00000 139
‘O Captain ! My Captain’..... Pore Snake 126 How He Came to Write‘ Little Breeches’’ 140
“Une All SMysélf nk. « cvsnie sessed estes 126 “Little Breeches’ ....... 0.2... cece ee eee 140
‘Old Ireland’.............. See tienes 127 cOMBB idsordsteen sajna coos ces ectssen 141
SPRAN Ol OV teas sien acreswelneaenae one ee 127 ‘How it Happened’...........-.... 00008 14]
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
eee oe THOMPSON. Great Popularity with the Masses......... 143
Birth and Harly Life. .............0.0 0005 128 A Poet of the Country People............ 143
A Thorough Southerner..............00. 128 RirtheandoHducationee sor Cee ee 144
Man of Letters and Scientist.............. 128 First Occupation ...........000ceeeeeeeee 144
Chief of the State Geological Survey...... 128 Congratulated by Longfellow............. 144
Works plithevAuthorsss ce asieet ey eee 128 Mr. Riley’s Methods of Work ..........-. 144
‘ Ceres ; alege ssi geiaiataliart Navas, nerd ehcyalevelebevaraveved one tevese 129 The Poet’s Home SNe Rte Vee ON ed sen IRE 145
Danaea ae arava ior ore ae 129 Constantly ‘on the Wing OR eh Magee a te Ne 145
YASBoy7s*Mother 02. o0 ocx casero. 145
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. “Thoughts on the Late War’.......-..--. 145
At the Head of Modern Lyrical Writers.... 130 Our Hired Girl’. wer hs oc neler nana 146
Birth and Barly Life.................0005 130 The Raggedy Man’ ....-.-...+-++...04. 146
Mercantile Career.............000. cseeee 130 BRET HARTE.
War Correspondent GAD s Reo ch areca alsticegeva ss * 130 The Poet of the Mining Camp............ 147
Life in Boston Biesete cece crate Srayeuereeveretorsecer nator 130 | Birth and Education..........cececeeceee 147
Works DRever asec ere nes Seer a eC eae 130 Emigrated to California.............. sane 2147
Visit to England... See ias Saaie eei oat a 131 Sihooltcacherkandulincrs wacom ene 14}
Alec Yeaton’s Son SPE cele Sse oy tates? 132 Position on a Frontier Paper.............. 147
On Lynn Terrace ' RD setae Meco sane 132 Editorial Position on the ‘‘Golden Era’? .. 147
Sargent e Portrait of Edwin Booth at Secretary of the U.S. Mint atSan Francisco. 148
The Players.” ?...- ++ sseeeseeeeeee 133 In Chicago and Boston. ..........2..2000. 148
U. 8. Consul to Crefield and Glasgow...... 148
RICHARD WATSON GILDER. AShist:of his Works: Purity of Sentiment and Delicacy of Ex- ‘The Society Upon the Stanislaus’........ 149
PECSSION Ase ss) Aes ees 134 ‘Dickens in Camp sees sce sc ce etiecn 150
Education and Early Life................. 134
JOURN ALISUA eee ee eee eens, 134| HUGENE FIELD.
Editor of ‘‘ Hours at Home’’............. 134 The ‘‘ Poet of Child Life ’”’............... 151
Politician and Reformer..............005- 135 Troups of Children for his Friends ........ 151
A Staunch Friend of our Colleges......... 135 Peace-maker Among the Small Ones...... 151
A Man of Exalted Ideals................. 135 A Feast with his Little Friends........... 151
‘Sonnet (After the Italian)’.............. 136 A Devoted Husband............-2-..0005 151
“The Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln’..... 136 |. Congenial Association withhisFellow-workers 152
sSHeridamattrar sn te ciateen ee ran a wears 136 Birth and Harly Life...........2.....0005 152
‘Sunset From the Train’. ............008. 187 IS DRIAN Any Sinmemdun cans acer na son sonsAnaae 152
‘O Silver River Flowing to the Sea’....... 137 “Our Two Opinions’............0eeeeeeee 153
‘There is Nothing New Under the Sun’... 137 Silillaby. cesses Me varteteresle ee sore cio ere 153
“Memorial Day’. .ac cess ee aneies occ secs 138 ‘A Dutch Lullaby’.............cee eee eee 153



“A Woman’s Thought’...........eceeee. 1388 | ‘A Norse Lullaby’.............2.20000e0 154
2
18

WILL, CARLETON.

His Poems Favorites for Recitation........
Birthvand: Marly Lite tsi n-ce'eacaslescostas see

Teacher, Farmhand and Oollege Graduate. .
Journalist and Lecturer...........eceeeee
AcTaistiof hiss Works: ccavs on cent nents
‘Betsy and I Are Out’.......... PO Ravire eis
‘Gone With a Handsomer Man’..........

CONTENTS.

PAGE

CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER (JOAQUIN).

Removal from Indiana to Oregon .........
Experiences in Mining and Filibustering ...
Marries and Becomes Kditor and Lawyer...
Visit to London to Seek a Publisher.......
‘Thoughts of My Western Home’........
aWounti Shasta, vac cssee sees aceon ee
Kat Carsomsehide asa mec ev veversceees
‘J. Miller’s Alaska Letter’..............5

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

First American Novelist.....-.......0000-
Birth and Childhood. ..........-......065
The Wilderness his Teacher. .......-----4.
Sailor ifes sak j.c.5 aes Ree errr
Marriage and Home..............0+-eee-
SoU TST GBS DY ganctaretcrererolereye ayere'stonsreye sep revere ssi
Plaudits From Both Sides of the Atlantic. . .
The First Genuine Salt-water Novel.......
Removal to New York...-.......2..00005
A Six Years’ Visit to Hurope.............
His Remaining Nineteen Years..........-
‘Encounter With a Panther’..........--.
‘The Capture of a Whale’...............

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

The Greatest of American Romancers .....
Birth, Ancestors, and Childhood..........
Twelve Years of Solitary Hxistence........
Plisebirst Book x a7 cetera ee ice sees
“Twice Told Tales’’............. BERN
A Staunch Democrat ........ 0.2. ee ee eens
Marriage and the.‘‘ Old Manse’’..........
The Masterpiece in American Fiction......
Books Written by Hawthorne.............
Death and Funeral .......... 0-00-00 eee
‘Hmerson and the Emersonites ’..........
SHPearlitierc sca tetecsiSereresecineinsiscs atsteas wives
‘Sights From a Steeple’... ......-..204-

‘A Reminiscence of Harly Life’...........



pAa®

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

Among the Best Known American Authors 181

A Noted: Liectutetisc4 a0 Birth and Education............ 0000 eeeee 181
Career as a Clergyman.........-+-++0005+ 181
Newspaper and Magazine Work.........-. 181
A Prominent Short-Story-teller........... 182
An Historical Writer of Great Prominence. 182
Patriotic Interest in Public Affairs ........ 182
LOTiGSt ree eater Pa Tee ren NO Taree 182

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

One of the Greatest of Modern American

Novelistsn- stun cen eee 184
Birth: and Barly Life. ........2.26..80.008 184
Editor of the ‘‘ Ohio State Journal’’...... 184
His First Volume of Verse..........-..+- 184
His ‘‘ Life of Abraham Lincoln’’.......... 184
Consul to Venice...... Soo eRe STs SRE RCTS 184
Mr. Howells’ Works.....-...----++-2 000 185
Editor of the ‘‘Atlantic Monthly’’......... 185
“The Hirstaboarden s.cst- ae cise emer e toe 186
‘Impressions on Visiting Pompeii’........ 187
‘Venetian Vagabonds’..........eeeeeeee 188

GENERAL LEW WALLACE.
Began His Literary Career Late in Life.... 189
Birth and Karly Life........ Narre nine 189
Lawyer and Soldier.........--..00+eeeeee 189
Governor of Utah..........200.:eeeceeee 189
Appointed Minister to Turkey............ 189
His Most Popular Book.............+..-. 190
Enormous Circulation. ........6..0.00eeee 190
‘Description of Christ ’...............008 190
‘The Prince of India Teaches Re-incarnation’ 190
‘The Prayer of the Wandering Jew’...... 191
‘Death of Montezuma’..............-0 191
‘Description of Virgin Mary’............. 192
EDWARD EGGLESTON.

Birth and Early Life....... SN Ie cine steal 193
A Man of Self-culture............0.-0000 193
HisWarly Training sac.0 sn eours see reat 193
Religious Devotion and Sacrifice ....... we. 194
Beginning of his Literary Career........... 194
What Distinguishes his Novels............ 194
List of his Chief Novels and Stories ...... 194
‘Spelling down the Master’............... 196
THOMAS NELSON PAGE.
_Birth and Earliest Recollections...........
Childhood, Ancestors, and Education......
His First Literary Success...........2.00.
‘In Ole Virginia’’ and other stories.......
Prominent Journalist and Lecturer........
ABT OUTSA DOA cere arucctoerota isis clei ottcke ates tees
S@ldiGiec-eeaceins sare one mc ercse re octets

EDWARD PAYSON ROE.

Great Popularity Among the Masses.......
The Character of his Novels...........+-.
Birth and Education...............20000.
Served as Chaplain During the Civil War .
Waist: f His’ Works, o0:sccnec sie ainees eevee

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.
‘*The Most Versatile of Modern Novelists’’.
Birth, Ancestors, and Early Life..........
Editor on the ‘‘ Allahabad Herald’’.......
Varied Experiences. ..........0-eeeeseeee
How he Came to Write ‘‘ Mr. Isaacs’’.....
His Most Popular Novels.............-.-.
A Novel Written in Twenty-four Hours....
His Other Chief Works. ..........-...-..
‘Horace Bellingham’..............---00-
‘In the Himalayas’.............eeee eens

FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.

A Prolific and Popular Author............
Birth and Educational Training...........
Engraver and Designer. ..............-205
One New Book Almost Every Yaar eae
Some of his Best Known Books...........
‘The End of a Career’ ...........-+.004.

EDWARD BELLAMY.

A Most Remarkable Sensation............
100,000 Copies Per Year..............06-
Mr. Belamy’s Ideal............2-2022 00%
Birth and Education.........ce.eeeeeeeee
ELIStBOOkS aster wicket ian ceraeh eects
An Tdeal Home sss.-.2 0:05 Siete a Sentcons
‘Music in the Year 2000’............-.-.

GEORGE W. ‘CABLE.
‘* Circumstances Make the Man’’.........
Birth and Karly Life..........-....00000%
Service in the Confederate Army..........
Errand Boy ina Store........-... 200200.

CONTENTS.

PAGE



19
Z PAGE
On the ‘‘ New Orleans Picayune’’ ........ 214
Dovsotes his Life to Literature............. 215
His Most Prominent Works.............- 215
“ThesDoctor vs; ete secste eleisne le cenet O15
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Ancestors, B° th, and Girlhood ........... 218
Removal to Cincinnati.............. 0000 ee 218
A Trip Across the River............-.+-. 218.
NP uP ean eamommaraeremanoaeGe score 218
SeverevErialssccitetyrc crosses creas 219
A Memorable Year...................--. 219
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin”... ..........00e0eee 220
Her Pen Never Idle ..............ece0ees 221
Removal to Hartford, Conn.......-.....+. 221
HeriDeathsavcsnrcvrcenet heros Freee 221
‘The Little Hvangelist’..............-.-5 222
“The Other World’ ...........020000 pies AOD
M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE (MARION
HARLAND).
Wide Variety of Talent............eeeeees 226
Birth and Education........ Renter tates 226
Marriage and Home............ Rt paeaceuniee 226
Her Most Prominent Works............. 226
SA u Manly: Heroist ailasiieisneeasseseten tere 227
MARY ABIGAIL DODGE (GAIL HAMILTON).
Essayist, Critic and Novelist.............. 228
Birth and Education. ...........2.0 e000 928
Career as a Writer... ...... cece cece eee es 228
Her Published Volumes...........--..... 228
The Only Authorized Life of J. G. Blaine.. 229
MMISHING Pasar ci lactic ae mel crnaei sees ee are 229
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Helen Hunt’s Cabin.............cceeeees 231
Birth and Education...........c0ee0ee0e. 231
Marriage and Removal to Newport, R. I... 231
Her WirstwPoems: sact os stos eh eevee avenn, 232
Great Distinction as a Writer.............. 232
Removal to Colorado. ..-....----- ee eeeee 232
At the Foot of Pike’s Peak............... 232
List of her Most Prominent Works........ 232
Death and Burial Place................06 232
‘Christmas Night at St. Peter’ Sire sisaterecuee 232
‘Choice of Colors’... ........ce cece ceeeee 233
FRANCES H. BURNETT.
Pluck, Energy and Perseverance.........- 235
Ber First Story. .003s0.c0sessisies ceecceess 235
20

Marriage and Tour in Europe.........--+-
Her Children Stories........... 0.000000
A Frequent Contributor to Periodicals. ....
SPrettye Olly besarctets aac Soiree Werarseete skein Solas

MARY N. MURFREE (CHAS. EGBERT
CRADDOCK).

An Amusing Story. .......2 eee cece ee eeee
Birth, Ancestry and Misfortunes. ...-.-+-+..
A Student of Humanity
Her Style Bold and Full of Humor......--
‘he Confession? 2 a.2 2 se.es sae eee ee wines

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD.
Favorable Reception of ‘‘ Gates Ajar!’’....
An Elarly Writer.....--..0-- ee ceee eee
A Long Series of Books......----+--+-+++
Marriage and Home.........+2++-e+ eee
Her Purpose Always High..........+.-.-
‘The Hands at Hayle and Kelso’s’

AMELIA E. BARR.

Popularity of her Works. ...-...-.+.++4++
Her Sorrows and Hardships......-..+++--
Birth and Harly Education..........--..-
Marriage and Travels....----.--+-+++-00
Death of her Husband and Four Sons.....-.
An Instantly Successful Book.......--++--
‘Little Jan’s Triumph’.......-.--.e.ee e+
OTe OldcPianost eek ee ea ees cee eee

ALICE FRENCH (OCTAVE THANET).

A Genuine Yankee Woman...........-..
Her Puritan Ancestry.......00. se ceee tees
Education and First Manuscript........---
HierMirst: Booksceesitoc scans aisinsieceeis eispe ars
Her Most Prominent Publications.........
Her nom-de-plume ...... 0.0. cece eee eeee
Philosopher, Artist and Novelist...-...--.
An Assiduous Student of her Subjects.....
‘Two Lost and Found’........-.+++-eeees

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN.

A Famous Daughter of the ‘‘Pilgrims’’...
Birth and Parents......-. ce. ceeeeeceees
A List of her Best Books.........-2+-00
Her Personality........ 2s. cece cece eeeee
‘An Afternoon in Nantucket’............

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
The Most Prolific of American Women

PAGS

235

235
236

238
238
238
239
239

240
240
240
240
240
241

242

246

248
248

249
249

252

CONTENTS.

Critical Estimate of her Works........---+
Birth and Educational Advantages......--
Her First Book. ........ cece eee cece eeeee
Some of her Other Works... ...-..-++++
A Tour of EKurope.......--- Licked Re Stee
Gab: opens tee ee Sass te ere oes oe anole SrenaeTNG
‘Columbus’
‘The Alpine Flowers’..........-..+2+-0++
ONiagara. fiGexects mains ceive cucu eat
‘Death of an Infant’.............000006-
‘A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave’..........

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
Ancestors and Birth.......-0..e. sees eee
A Liberal Contributor to Periodicals.......
Her Published Works
‘The Step-mother’.......... 00s. cece eeee
‘Guardian Angels’.......... 00sec eeeee
‘The Brook’
“The. April: Rain’... scewsctamteaeeeccees
SHO WOLS Hae eo oiloce Sec ioe ree nets TO CREE
“Eros ‘and Anter08’......esseeecseeences

LUCY LARCOM.



Operative in a Cotton Factory........--.-
Birth and Harly Life.............-...0005
Her First Literary Production
Some of her Best Works..........-.00065
The Working Woman’s Friend...........
‘Hannah Binding Shoes’...........+..

ALICE AND PHBE CARY.

Their Birth and Harly Lot......-.........
Encouragement From Hditors.............
Their First Volume.............. cae we
Some of their Prominent Works..........
A Comparison Between the Two Sisters. ...
One in Spirit through Life...............
Wnited in Deaths. 25 ccmsoeceiien eaance
‘ Pictures of Memory’......-- 2. essere
SNobility has scones eee aio
‘The Gray Swan’ scses4 seo aa ever ete gees
‘To the Evening Zephyr’......--.----5+-
‘Death: Scene: Meese remaies ten ecs ee cess
‘Memories’

Equal to Hither Fortune’........-...--.
PILAIGHE Acar stic caves secsebaee Peas trees aay eree

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Birth and Education...........-eeeseeee
Her First Book at Nineteen Years.......--

PAGE

252

254
254
254
255
255

256 |
256
256
257

260
260
260
260
261
261
CONTENTS. 21



PAGE PACD
Her Following Publications. ........+..++- 268) HAMILTON W. MABIRE.
Residence in Boston and Trips Abroad..... 269 Birth, Family, and Education...........++ 299
A Systematic Worker.....---------.eeee- 269 Familiar with the Classics .............-+. 299
Personal Friendship .............-..00055 269 On the Staff of the ‘‘ Christian Union’’.... 299
‘If There Were Dreams to Sell’.......... 269 Profound Study of the Problems of Life... 299
‘Wife to Husband’. .... ce. cece ee eee ees 269 A Declaration Typical of all his Thought... 299
‘The Last Good-Bye’ ......ee cere eee eee 270 ‘Country Sights and Sounds’............- 300
NOx E VCAL sas gustae sick bee icect vee as ey ereanrn osrese 270
‘My Mother's Picture’. ....-+-+++e++++0+- 270| EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Two Sensational Poems ..............20.. 308
WASHINGTON IRVING. Birth, Ancestry, and Harly Life........... 308
The First Great Pioneer in American Letters 271 Journalist at Twenty-one........ settee ee 308
Birth and Ancestors......-..-+e+ eee eee eee 271 On the New York ‘‘Tribune”’............ 309
Named After George Washington......... 271 Editor of the ‘‘ World’”’...... 02... eee ee 309
Early Success as a Journalist.......-.-++-- 272 A Remarkable War Letter.........-...--. 309
A Two Years’ Trip in Hurope......-.----- 272 A List of his Prominent Works........... 309
A Shrewd Advertisement...............4. 272 Poet and Man of Business...........-..-- 309
Seventeen Years Abroad ............0000- 273 An Ideal Home Life..............-.0005. 309
’ The Winning Character of his Genius.....- = OT “Betrothed Anewrs cnseucaheeanecaeerass 310
‘The Organ of Westminster Abbey’...-... 275 “The Door Step vecs.csschen cee oe eee 310
‘Baltus Van Tassel’s Farm’............5- 275 .
“Columbus at Barcelona’........-+-+---. +: 276| GEORGE H. BANCROFT.
‘The Galloping Hessian’.........+.--600. 277 The First Among American Historians. .... 311
Birth and Edueation.............220.000% 311
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. Extensive Studies in Europe...........--- 311
The Meditative Schoolin American Literature 281 Appointed to the Chair of Greek in Harvard
Birth, Ancestry and Education. ........... 281 Colleges ceGeuie wes aacte co etaweees 311
Harly: Mite ten secretin: ac oweiatels mamareee ee 281 A School of High Classical Character...... 311
In ‘‘ The Brotherhood of Authors’’........ 281 Official (Service wwsenies aaccoeeareria 312
His First Literary Work...........2 020008 281 Removal to New York......-....2.0.006. 31g
A Few of his Other Publications........... 282 Minister to Russia and to Germany.....--- 312
“The Moral Quality of Vegetables ’........ 282 His ‘‘ History of the United States’’ and
Othe WiOEKS Aes ce nese leeeeeres 313
J A Long and Useful Life........-.-.-.---- 313
eae 2 eee ‘Character of Roger Williams’........... 314
Characteristics of the Author.......--.+-- 284 Tex : : Aon
Eee aE : estruction of the Teain Boston Harbor’. 314
A Disciple of Washington Irving....-...-. 284 Ch ivaleanad Puteniane ais
Birth, Education, and Harly Life.......... 284 Th es ee CE te a 4
: e Position of the Puritans’............ 316
Home and Marriage......-. eee cece eee 284
U.S. Consul to Venice. .... 6... seen eee eee 285
Semi-public Positions.......----.+.seeeee 935|JAMES PARTON.
His Most Prominent Books.............-. 285 Ancestry, Birth, and Edueation........... 317
‘Washington Irving’.........0--e eee eee 285 A Very Successful Teacher.....--..-+..-+ 317
‘Glimpses of ‘‘Dream Life’’’..........-- 286 His Career as a Literary Man............. 317
On the Staff of ‘‘ The New York Ledger’. 318
_ THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. His Most Prominent WorksSixcisesieas as tens 318
A Noble Part in the Battles for Freedom... 297 Old Nang inta Sooo ease Soto ees ze
Activity in the Anti-Slavery Agitation..... 297
His Contributions to Literature.........-. 297 FRANCIS PARKMAN.
A Popular Historian.........seeeeee eens 298 Birth, Education, and Visit Abroad ....... 321



‘A Puritan Sunday Morning’...--+.-+++++ 298 A Summer With the Dakotah Indians..... 321
/

Compelled to Suspend Intellectual Work...
An Interesting Example of his Persistency.
His Interest in Horticulture ..............
‘The New England Colonies’.............
‘The Heights of Abraham’...............

WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT.

A Popular Historian................2 000.
Birth, Parentage and Karly Life...........
A Thorough Preparation.............-.-.
Marriage and Happy Home...............
His Method of Composition..............
Successful as a Writer from the First......
A List of his Works...:.......seeeeseee
Many Engaging Qualities ................
‘The Golden Age of Tezcuco’............
‘The Banquet of the Dead’ ..............

JOHN L. MOTLEY.

Birth, Boyhood, and Early Associates .....
Intimate Friend of Prince Bismarck.......
Member of Massachusetts’ Legislature. ....
‘* History of Holland’’.............. eee ee
Minister to Austria, 1861; to England, 1869.
Patriot, Scholar, Historian ...............
SUBS MAT 23 e/nepasiert ents eitacet eo eaare testes eeey ea
‘The Siege of Leyden’...............60..
‘ Assassination of William of Orange’......

JQHN FISKE.

Precocious Ability........ 0... ceeceeeeeee
Birth, Education and Early Life...........
His Literary Work and Most Noted Books.
His Principal Historical Works............
His School-books......... retainer tye cys
‘Land Discovered’ ........ 2... cece eeeees
‘The Federal Convention’..............-.

JOHN B. McMASTER.

Excelling in Different Fields..............
Parentage, Birth and Harly Life...........
Professor of American History...........-
His View of History.......0......0.0.00-
Instructor of the Young...........----005
‘The American Workman in 1784’........
‘The Minister in New England’...........

FRANCES M. WHITCHER (THE WIDOW
BEDOTT).

Her nom-de-plume ..-ssesseeesseeeereree

CONTENTS.

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329
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PAGE
Richness of Humor.........---..00 taree 345
Birth, Childhood and Education..........- 346
Marriage and Literary Fame...........--- 346
Removal from Elmira, N. Y.............. 346
‘Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles’......... 346
‘The Widow’s Poetry and her Comments on
the Same About Hezekiah’......... 347
CHARLES F. BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD).
Birth and E:ducation..............----.-- 349
On the ‘‘ Commercial,’’ Toledo, Ohio...... 349
Local Editor of the ‘‘ Plain Dealer’’....... 349
Successful Lecturer in England,........... 350
Death at Southampton,...............265. 350
HistWiorkSncnton scree ease cone eon das 350
‘Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers’....... 350
‘At the Tomb of Shakespeare’........... 351

HENRY W. SHAW (JOSH BILLINGS).

Birth and Education. ..........0.000e0005 352
His Early Life of Adventure.............. 352
Entered the Lecture Field...........-.... 352
Contributor to ‘‘ The New York Weekly’’.. 352
His Published Books.......-..--------+e: 352
‘Manifest Destiny’.......-.2-.-. ee eee eee 353
‘Letters to Farmers’...-...-----+-e-ee2ee0 354

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN).

A World-wide Reputation................ 355
Birth, Boyhood and Education............ 355
His®Pilotslitést sine tee carta se steee eae 355
Editor of the Virginia City ‘‘ Emterprise’’.. 355
Journalist and Gold Digger............... 355
A Trip to! Ha wall ..cecsc's csc dome eae es 355
Innocents Abroad...........ceeeceeeeceee 355
Some of his Other Works................ 356
A Lecturing Trip Around the World....... 356
‘Jim Smiley’s Frog’...........2..2.. 008. 356
‘Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer’.... 357
OM hesBabiesiy ceiclor scclerec lsc toes lees 359
MARIETTA HOLLEY (JOSIAH ALLEN’S
WIFE).
A Writer at an Harly Age................. 360
Birth and Ancestors........-.2-seeeeeees 360
Rise and Increase of Her Fame ........... 360
Some of her Prominent Works............ 360
A Quarter Million Copies Sold............ 360
Characteristics of her Books.............. 361

‘ Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President’ 361
CONTENTS.

PAGE

CHARLES F. ADAMS (YAWCOB STRAUSS).

A Not-Soon-to-be-Forgotten Author.......
Birth, Education and Harly Life...........
Service in Many Hard-fonght Battles......
Prominent Business Man............--+..
A Contributor to Prominent Journals......
A Genial and Companionable Man
“Pers Drummers o.s-0+:sereore cote w/e: orsfolaevoieraele
SSH an sands brite veces ocatencteeies eerewies
*Yawcob Strauss’
‘Mine Moder-in-Law’.........0sceeeeees
‘Yawcob’s Dribulations’
‘The Puzzled Dutchman’
‘Der Oak and Der Vine’

were rece ner eceoe

EDGAR WILSON NYE (BILL NYE).

A Man of Genuine Wit
Birth and Early Surroundings.............
Studied Law, Admitted to the Bar
Organized the Nye Trust............-00..
Famous Letters from Buck’s Shoals, N. C..
“History of the United States”
His Death
‘The Wild Cow’
‘Mr. Whisk’s True Love.’.........-. 000

The Discovery of New York’

Pere ere me emer err ee eresees

JOEL C. HARRIS (UNCLE REMUS).

*“An Accidental Author’”’
Birth and Humble Circumstances..........
In the Office of the ‘‘ Countryman”’
Beginning of his Literary Career..........
Studied and Practiced Law
Co-editor of the Atlanta ‘‘ Constitution ’’...
His Works
‘Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard’..

sccm e re eee cere ee
eee ee ee eer eee

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

A Prominent Place Among ‘‘ Funny Men’’.
Birth and Harly Education
Fought in the Civil War..........seeeeee
Journalist, Lecturer and Baptist Minister...
Contributor to ‘‘ Ladies’ Home Journal’’..

ee meee rr ccs ecce

‘The Movement Cure for Rheumatism’....

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

Architect of her Own Fortune
Ber Father's Misfortunes ..---eeersercees

377
377
377
377
377

378

380
380

Her Marly Writings...........seeeeseeeee
Her Letters in the Government Hospitais ..
Young People’s True Friend.......-......
er Booksectecnetersiats ere stole eee ccvecs has cases
An Admirer of Emerson
A Victim of Over-Work
‘How Jo Made Friends’

Pete wre cece erence

WILLIAM T. ADAMS (OLIVER OPTIC).

Writer for the Young..............000005
Birth and Harly Life...............-0005.
Teacher in Public Schools of Boston.......
His Editorials and Books.........-...0.08
His Style and Influence..........2.-----+
‘The Sloop That Went to the Bottom’....

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (GRACE
GREENWOOD).

Favorite Writer for Little Children
Birth and Childhood
Hers Marriages oes siiacie oe csotere carer nae a teas
Contributions to Journals and Magazines...
Her Numerous Books......---2eeeees eee
DafetAbroads .es0os0 a cites ee eae
‘The Baby in the Bath Tub’

HORATIO ALGER.
A Wholesome Author for Young People...
His First Book, Great Success...........
A New Field
Birth, Education and Harly Life...........
Residence in New York.........eeeeeeees
Some of his Most Prominent Books
‘How Dick Began the Day’

EDWARD ELLIS.
Birth and Early Life..........eeeeeeeeees
His Historical Text-Books........-+---+--
His Contributions to Children’s Papers ....
‘The Signal Fire’.......s0seseeeeeees eee



MARTHA FINLEY.
Birth, Ancestry and Harly Life.........-..
Beginning of her Literary Career..........
Struggle Against Adversity... ....-.-+-++-
Great Hxertions scsi saesstneece acces esses
‘ Elsie Series,’ Great Popularity
‘Hilsie’s Disappointment ’,.

sector eeceeere

384
384
384

384

386
386
386
386
386
386
386
24 CONTENTS. i



PAGE PAGE

MARY MAPES DODGE. HENRY W. WATTERSON.

Writer of Stories for Children.......... .. 898 Influential Modern Journalist............- 414
Birth and Parentage............e0e. eee 398 Birth and Edueation..............2000+8- 414
Married William Dodge...............24. 398 Hditor of the ‘‘ Republican Banner’’...... 414
Contributor to ‘‘ Hearth and Home”’.-.... 398 Service in the Confederate Army........-. 414
Success of her Works......c0eeee ayoneiees 398 The ** Courier-Journal,’’ Louisville, Ky.... 414
Editor of ‘‘St. Nicholas Magazine’’....... 398 Prominent. Part in Politics..............-. 414
Her Home in New-York ......... aycceio raise 398 “PhetNewsSOubhy se. 32 2. cesar eters 414
*Too Much of a Good Thing ’,...........- 399
MURAT HALSTEAD,

HORACE GREELEY. One of the Greatest Living Journalists..... 416
Birth and Early Taste for Literature....... 401 Nativity, Early Life and Education........ 416
On the ‘* Northern Spectator’’............ 461 Editor of ‘‘The Commercial,’’ Cincinnati,
Tries his Fortune in ee Viorketeccrn ene 401 OM OM rea sas oe ae eres 416
Part Owner of the ‘‘ New Yorker’’........ 401 A Continued Success...............00000. 417
The ‘‘ Log Cabin’ ad the N. Y. ‘‘ Tribune”? 401 Correspondent During the Franco-Prussian
Hlected to Congress...........e cece eee eee 402 iar BO terecertesteces cerca sean 417
Liss Wiotishsxec tcc. siadreeas eaeeeren cate 403 In Washington and New York............ 417
Nominated for Presidency.............06. 403 Home and Family hife.......... 2.2.5.2... 418
His Last Resting Place........ 0.2... 20005 403 ‘The Young Man at the Door’,........... 418
‘A Debtor’s Slavery’ 2... ..ceccceceeeeees 403
PG SRTeSS# ae-t ose ecate terete rere euete Sealers aie oese 405 WHITELAW REID.

‘Fortune Favors the Brave’’............. 420

CHARLES A. DANA. Birth and Karly Training................. 420
Oneol Our Roremost Men “va cceecek 406 War Correspondent to the ‘‘ Cincinnati Ga-
Birtlhiand@Harly Lites.cveaee ene wees sss 406 ANS a phan are a ALES Gl 420
A Remarkable Life........+0. mre ee 406| An Important Work... --. See core eee
His Education and College Career......... 406 Kditorial Writer Upon N. Y. “Tribune”... 420
Joining the ‘‘ Brook Farm’? Men......... 406 His Most Pr ominent W me pore ateeep coasts 421
His First Journalistic Experience......... - 407 His Palatial Home and Family Life. eas 421
On toner Wore Oberle ee ieagy, Pictures of a Louisiana Plantation’....... 42]
‘Busy: Vearsicc-any tae siecess Maree - 407
Difference Between Mr. Greeley and Mr. Dana 407| ALBERT SHAW.

Assistant Secretary of War.............6. 407 Birth, Education and Personal Character-
One Year in Chicago....... Sic larattskare Seer AO: SECS eee vie Mk ee Oe te Ben 494
Manager of the New York “ San siegeteretaie « 407 Residence in Baltimore............e0ee0ee 424
‘Roscoe Conkling’.....+. teeseseseeeseee 408) On the Minneapolis Daily “Tribune”... 425
Extensive Studies Abroad.............56- 425
LYMAN ABBOTT. Editor of the ‘‘Review of Reviews’’...... 425
: 2 Great: Success ascssess cece saci ne 425
Caren ee se ee et pany] hee terme

St ee a SULLAN AW AORNEE

Work as a Journalist... .....eeseeeeeeeeee All His Imaginative Power, Vivid Statement... 427
Successor of Henry Ward Becher rece 412 Parentage, Birth and Travels Abroad...... 427
Prolific Publisher.............e0000- ives 412 College Life and Karly Training........... 427
Successful Pulpit Speaker................ 412 Long Sojourn Abroad...............0000, 427
SEN Gre) CSUIES etre ceetnc seteerses ara tels oonieeestee 412 Some of his Most Prominent Works....... 427

‘The Destruction of the Cities of the Plain. 413 Expedition to India.............. Ree 427
CONTENTS.

PAGE
‘The Wayside and the War’..........-.- 428
‘First Months in England’............... 428
The Horrors of the Plague in India’...... 429
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS.
Marvelous Skill in Seeing the World....... 430
A Clever Newspaper Reporter............ 430
Birth and Hereditary Bent for Letters..... 430
Interesting Career as a Journalist......... 430
The Book that Made Him Famous......... 430
Some of His Other Works..............-- 431
‘The Greek Defence of Velestino’......... 431
PATRICK HENRY.
His Talents as a Popular Orator........... 433
Parentage and Education.......-......... 433
Marriage and Karly Life.................. 433
A Prominent Lawyer..............e0000 433
BoldsPrinciplessseacucaneecaste neice cee 8 433
The Leader of his Colony................ 433
The First Governor of Virginia........... 434
SET ShD eat hieecar costes se ie ee eek oe aes 434
‘Resistance to British Aggression......... 434
wT henWar Inevitable scenes caches ea 435
HENRY CLAY.
The ‘‘Great Pacificator’’............--665 436
Birth, Early Hardships, Toil and Poverty.. 436
Removal to Kentveky and Success.......-- 436
Marriage and Home ..-............. 000. 436
In the Senate of the United States........ 436
Member of the House of Representatives.. 436
MlectedssS peak er’ t\ecseguess. cot snetersrscieteas cxonsceos 436
SecretaryOl State ieaer ois ct csis erect eka 437
The Conflict of 1818.............eee eens 437
The Disappointment of His Life.......... 437
The ‘‘ Compromise ’’ of 1850 .........+.6 437
The Leading Object of His Life........... 438
‘Defence of Jefferson,’ 1813..... eer neh 438
‘Reply to John Randolph’..........-.... 438
On Recognizing the Independence of
(Greece atk Ghee eae eS 439
DANIEL WEBSTER,
First among the ‘‘ Makers of the Nation’’.. 440
Birth, Ancestors and Farly Life........... 440
The ** "Webster's: Boye eee uses die sarees sited 440
Extraordinary Memory... ..---+-.+0+0+e0+ - 440
Majestic Appearance...-..+..+--e esse ease 440
Lawyer, Orator and Statesman......-----. 440
A Famous Cases: ..ccece cece ceectceeeecs 441
His Most Famous Speeches, ......-++s+0+. 442



Secretary of State........ cece eee eeeeeees
Home. and Home Hife.................02.
Death and Wanerals 26.005 eee nee coe
‘South Carolina and Massachusetts,’......
‘ Liberty and Union’
‘The Eloquence of Action’............065
‘The Twenty-second of February’.........
‘ America’s Gift to Hurope’..............

EDWARD EVERETT.
The Great Charm of His Orations.........
Birth, Education and Marly Life...........
Prefessor of Greek at Harvard College.....
Editor of the ‘‘ North American Review.”’
Member of Congress
Minister to England
President of Harvard College.............
Secretary of State............-e eee ee eee
His Lectures and Orations.............56.
ID eGat liter cise secs ete tee tee aes ean eens
‘ Twenty-five Years of Peace’
‘The Father of the Republic’............
‘The Land of Our Forefathers’...........

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

‘The Silvery-tongued Orator”’
How He came into Prominence
A Memorable Speech................000.
Birth, Parents and Education.............
A Popular Lecturer....-.. 0... .000 e002 eee
His Most Celebrated Addresses ..........

‘Political Agitation’..... ics Dateide iste SOT
‘Toussaint L’Ouverture’..... miateystalate sree

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

No Superior as Pulpit Orator.....-.......
Parentage, Birth and Childhood...........
Education and Conversion........--.+..4.
His Marriage and First Pastorate
Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn,N. Y.
Ac Boldt Abolitionist:ias.soeer Sen carer cies
Ever the Champion of the Right.........
His Death and Funeral.......-.. 20000000.
“Public Dishonesty. ite. ceecieteeusteraue

Eulogy on General Grant’... 2... ee eee ee

From ‘The Sparks of Nature’’’.......-

JOHN B. GOUGH.

A Great National Orator..... Miele eesienies
Birth and Early Life............ slorveisrcieee
A Life of Hopeless Dissipation ....-.--..-
26

Publie Confession and Reformation
A Popular Lecturer........-.-+----+-. Pas
Called to England
“Ay Ha ppypilitetacstss side share taeevneten se
His Published Works.......--.....-0006-
‘Water and Rum’..........seeeecceeeees
‘The Power of Habit’
‘What is a Minority ?’........0.0eeeeeeee

CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW.
Great Versatility........2+-.5-- Eee elena
Birth, Ancestors and Boyhood..--........
A Close Student of Politics..............-
A Highly Successful Lawyer........---+--
A Giant in Politics
Member of Congress.......+.200eeeeeeeee
Secretary of State
Minister to Japan
His Career as a Railway Man..........---
‘The Pilgrims’

HENRY W. GRADY.
Devoid of Sectional Animosities........-..
Ihe Union His Pride
Eloquent, Logical and Aggressive
His Principal Speeches. ....---.----+- +++
Birth, Parentage and Education........---
Marriage and Struggle for Existence.......
‘tA Friend in Need”’
Success at Lastacs.ccscccrence terse stereos ais are
Premature Death....... 22-02 seee eee eens
‘The New South’
‘Regard for the Negro Race’......-------
‘ Appeal for Temperance’

JULIA WARD HOWE.
Her Home a Meeting Place for Great Men.
Birth, Parentage and Education. ...... elec
Marriage and Tour Abroad
Her First Book
Interest in the Anti-Slavery Question....--
Her Famous ‘‘ Battle Hymn”’
Visit to England
A New Journey Abroad.
‘The Battle Hymn of the Rebublic’
“Quri Country sess sssessewerecea cones
‘The Unspeakable Pang’

MARY A. LIVERMORE.
Her Early Experience........-+eeeeeeeees
Birth, Parentage and Education...........
Teacher of Latin and French
Tn the South..... PAI Seen clare ea wae

see cee rere cere reer eee

ee meer eee w ee



CONTENTS.
PAGE
4538 Marriage ..cs 458 An Active Temperance Worker.......-.--
458 Her Literary Work........-.0-.0- cee eee
459 Wars Services sccm ue cusieu ene sa inonres
459 An Ardent Woman-Suffragist .........---
459 Her Pen Never Idle ........ 22. .eeeeeees
460 Useful! Wiotlen: sa cvastuersisisieceseroiete erslemeraets
461
BELVA ANN LOCKWOOD.
462 One of the Greatest Benefactors of Her Sex
462 Birth, Education and Harly Life..........-
462 Professor at Lockport Academy......--+--
462 Admission to the Supreme Court of the U. S.
462 A Remarkable Nomination.........-.+++
463 Great Popularity: ..........ee eee eee eeee
463 Several Times Delegate to International Con-
463 gresses OP BedCe seein cap deerotneteve ss
463 Assistant liditor to the ‘‘ Peacemaker’’.. ..
464 ‘ Address before the Committee of the House
of Delegates, Washington, in Support
of Woman Suffrage’...-...-.++-+--
465
465|SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
465 Early Life and Education.........---.+++-
465 How She Became an Abolitionist, Woman-
466 Suffragist and Temperance Worker..
466 Arrested, Tried and Fined for Voting......
466 Speeches and Lectures...--.---+-+++2+05+
466 Celebration of Her Seventieth Birthday....
466 ‘Woman’s Right to Suffrage...........--.
467
467| ELIZABETH CADY STANTON.
468 Forceful, Logical and Eloquent Orator.....
Primarily a Woman-Suffragist ........+-+-
469 Birth, Childhood and Kiducation...........
469 How She Became a Woman’s Rights Believer
469 How She Became an Abolitionist. vteeeees
469 The First Woman’s Rights Convention ....
469 Her Addresses and Speeches......-...+40-
7 15
469 Her Literary Works. teeter este ee eens
470 A Thoroughly Domestic Woman.........-.
470 ‘A Plea for Equal Rights’.....-.....+...
470 ‘ Address to the Legislature of New York’.
471
471 | FRANCES E. WILLARD.
Birth, Childhood and Harly Life..........
Teacher and President of Evanston College.
473 TheW omen’s ‘Crusade against Rum Shops”’
473 Joining in the Crusade....-.---++- +e eee ee
473 The Result of Her Work.............-56-
473 ‘Home Protection’...+-+ssererecenteeees

477
477
ATT
477
478
478

478
478

479

481 ©

481
482
482
482.
483

485
485
485
485
485
485
486
486
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CONTENTS. 27
PAGE PAGE
LYDIA MARIA CHILD. ANNA ELIZABETH DICKINSON.
Activity against the ‘‘ Fugitive Slave Law’. 492 ACHeatlessiGurltxrsase noe un eee eu or ae 496
Birth, Education and Early Life........... 492 Birth, Childhood and Education. .......... 496
Her First Book a Success..............4-- 492 Her Debut Before the Public............. 496
Marriage and Anti-Slavery Work.......... 493 Cast Upon the World.................04. 496
The First Anti-Slavery Book in America... 493 How She was Named ‘‘ The Girl Orator’’.. 496
mACTibtle Walt vec gue sn ieee sition as ans: 494 The Mistake of Her Life................. 497
‘To Whittier on His Seventieth Birthday.. 494 Misfortunes and Difficulties............... 497
PP Olteness 1.5 sacveistos merino we ees 494 Rare Eloquence and Dramatic Fervor...... 497
MIRTOWETS® fo cltetecaie sree cont Tees ree Mae 495 ‘Why Colored Men Should Enlist in the
Unselfishness ’ -s:.7 at. a1e ite aretuceasieetton, setae 495 SATIN Y eres ons): revs mtere en wie aoa stereos 497
MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECHS.
‘Home, Sweet Home’.................. ieee 4 90 Mem Onye ssiocccnctec anisole aes athereees = 511
‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.................. 499| ‘ All Quiet Along the Potomac’...........-.--- 512
‘The American Flag’................eeeeeees 500] ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’....-.-.--00eee00- 512
‘Blind Man and the Elephant’................ 501] ‘The Blue and the Gray’..........---+-eeeee 513
eEails Columbiasl:wasstivn vs. cnaeios aeeurenrees HOME ROECall Ye eycts soar sigs oe acct ee eee rue mene 513
‘Betty and the Bear’.............. 002s eeeees 502] ‘ Theology in the Quarters’.........+-.+...+-. 514
‘Visit of St. Nicholas’...............20.. ... 503] ‘Ruin Wrought by Rum’........----- Shera: 514
‘Woodman, Spare that Tree’................. BOS Pora Gk eletonseciac cctswisceteat renee ste see eres 515
‘Sanctity of Treaties, 1796’.......-.-..----6- 505 | ‘Pledge with Wine’.......... see ee cence eens 515
‘The Bloom was on the Alder and the Tassel on ‘Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua’........ 517
the (Comer csc pecoaecit se ese eeaiae 505|‘ The Crabbed Man’......... cece cece ee eeeees 518
‘The Declaration of Independence’........... 506 |‘ Putting up O’ the Stove’....-.-------.+ eee 519
‘Washington’s Address to His Soldiers, 1776’.. 507| ‘The Poor Indian !’........-.+- eee sees ee eee 521
‘The General Government and the States’..... 507 | ‘ Jenkins Goes to a Picnic’......-.essueeeeeee 521
‘What Saved the Union’................00065 508 | ‘Sewing on a Button’,.........e cee eee eee eee A22
‘The Birthday of Washington’...............- SOB UCasey-atithes Bats cas sressee hit vosk os aan: 522
“Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be ‘WheiMasicalidisleexnaccoscr, cemrectsre-icnelsoee Sees 523
Proudita tie can volsetomn asia gota ten aie 509| ‘Stray Bits of Character’..---.----+esseeeeees 524
*Columbus in Chains’............2.00 eee eeee 510| ‘Glimpses of Dream-life’........ 2... eee eens 529
‘The Bivouac of the Dead’..............20005 510|‘ The Origin of a Type of the American Girl’.. 541
* Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme-
LE Dyer orerars sreyesisca ciateteresasoteveete Cieraiecieierer arses 511



AMERICAN LITERATURE IN THE CLOSING YEARS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 5.7

Character of the Literature of the Day—Famous Novels and their Authors—Historical Fiction—

Poetry—Favorite Selections and Quotations.

THE TEN GREATEST BOOKS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.....--.--+sseeeeeseeees

Authors and Books Enumerated—Life Sketches and Reviews of Authors and Books, with Extracts

from their Writings.
OUR FAVORITE

ENGLISH AUTHORS.



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Little Known of His Life................5
Marries Anne Hatheway.......-..-...0055
Conducts Theatres and Writes Plays.......

‘The Abuse of Authority’.............68,
wbhenWatches:eivcrrtentventser het me cya tie
‘Death of Queen Katherine’..,...........
‘The Power of Imagination’..............
HithesWairy tos Puck weew acca -antas teens
sAriel StQONG totter rN aceite sere
“@beron’s: Vaslonic.c-2 center ness euide
‘Fall of Cardinal Wolsey’..............-.
‘Touchstone and Audrey’................

PHE* SEVEN ACES. wees wiki sae osama ;

“Opheliaweyssace sea a itceten sae rere
*Machbeth’s Irresolution’...............-6.
‘ Antony’s Oration at Ceesar’s Funeral’....
ae hylocksandwAN LOMO usr elstesee tase es. te
“Hamilet:s: Sollloquy. s.2-sevccnaccenesene

‘Hamlet and the Ghost’................4.
nOthellosssWiooiney savaceansen stone,

JOHN MILTON.
Karly Life and Education.................
ravelsxA broads 72sec, alesage cc eragc acs
Blindness and Personal Description........
Public: Servicessercnce esc. ee eee ee
‘Hive’s Account of Her Creation
elnvocationstosichts sis. octet eat
MromecbivAllepro. iis cence ccuctte mre ce
‘A Book Not a Dead Thing’..............
‘The Hymn to the Nativity’ .............
‘Departure from Hden’...............6..

THOMAS GRAY.
Fame Rests on the ‘ Hlegy’...............
Stotyeots Walpolemecswaecnc oe cece ene 6%
Declines the Laureateship...............4.
PersonaleItraitss:iacc.cn. coon eenees
Character of His Great Poem.............
‘Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard’.



PAGE PAGE
ROBERT BURNS.
549 His Life Not a Model...............--.-. 575
549 His Peasant Father........0.2ceceeeeeees 575
550 Rhyming and Making Love............... 575
552 Vasit:tomidinburshiesis seca sees 575
553 Farmer, Eixciseman and Poet.........-..-. 576
553 ‘The Deil Cam’ Fiddlin’ Through the Town’ 576
554 ‘My Heart’s in the Highlands’........... SDE
554 “The: Banksi@ sD oonies cacao oecateee eee 517
555 ‘Man was Made to Mourn’............--. 578
55D “Mam*@ Shanterce cece Sees eee 579
555 ‘Bruce to His Men’.......c20.20c0e0eees 580
556 ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’............ 580
556
557|GEORGE GORDON BYRON.
558 Controversy Over His Writings.........-. 582
559 TreiSensitive Boye. iceua sas eseaee 582
560 The Worthless Father and Indulgent Mother 582
560 Early Life and Education................. 582
561 ‘* Kinglish Bards and Scotch Reviewers’”’... 582
562 Marriage and After-life................... 582
563 Takes Part in the Greek Rebellion and Dies 583
563 ISH ROGINS Re ee ee Se ne 583
564 SThe:kiverofopattlesssnac esrb: eet xerns 583
‘The Land of the Hast’...............--. 583
“The Isles of Greece’...+-..sse2ceeceeese 584
566 d
566 :
567| SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
567 His Strange Character and Appearance..... 585
568 Reads the Bible when Three Years Old.... 585
568 Leaves Cambridgeand Enlistsinthe Dragoons 585
569 Plans the Pantisocracy......--....000e05 585
570 Writes the ‘‘Ancient Mariner’............ 585
570 Succumbs to the Use of Opium........... 585
571 A Delightful Talker.........2..002 0.0000 _ 587
‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’....... 587
-TheePhantom:Ship.-.ssweess uence ee 587
572 ‘ Adieu of the Ancient Mariner’.......... 589
572 ‘A Calm on the Equator’...............2- 591
572
572| THOMAS HOOD.
572 Apprenticed to an Engraver............... 592
BY} Assistant Editor of the London Magazine,. -592

28
OUR FAVORITE ENGLISH AUTHORS. 29

‘**Odes and Addresses"’......2.eeeeeeeeee
The ‘‘ Comic Annual’’.............22000-
Financial Embarrassment.........-.--++---
(aifesin Germany. sv02 ss orci waeeie noe.
Returns to London. ......0...00. 00 ee ee eee
‘The Song of the Shirt’.................
‘The Bridge of Sighs’.............0e0e

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
His*Mission‘as7a, Poet aes scncls eles cree: oecoielers
His Hostile Reception. .............0..08,
Parentage and Means of Livelihood........
MhechalteyPoetsh s acs.o sense eee eae
Becomes the Laureate...............22-4-
PrincipaleWiorks!2 scape cevcae Sonic tn ee
S@ur Immortality: sae-sases correct eee
Moravoleylarin caste cGecet eee saa
SO desto wD) ty. terrae cs bee on aac ee
S ROMELIS Witte eae one ee tedierc nals cave thee eho.

ALFRED TENNYSON.
The First of Modern Poets.............-4.
Hd UGAtIO Ne: Seer reek eae Ree es
Dislike of Publicity.........000se0c0ee00-
MherPension ssa -ine nee atresia
Miss Gireat Poemisa wa uectes tix ce ees eae

‘The Song of the Brook’...............5 ;

‘Prelude to In Memoriam’............-.-
Ring Outs Wilde Bells 3 oscc0-n08e, eee es
Pheladysotss hallott2s sravemeretaeseseaee
ES Weetran a wiO We eavcsiatie ct See ava
‘The Here and the Hereafter’.............
‘The Passing of Arthur’.................

DR. JOHN WATSON (TAN MACLAREN).

He Enters Literature in Middle Life.......
Vacations in Scotch Farm-houses........ 2
Studies in Edinburgh and Wiirtemberg.....
Accepts a Call to a Secluded Parish........
ASBornustory-tellenes cen cmearcie saree teks
Removes to Glasgow and to Liverpool......
Writes ‘‘ Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush’’..
His Visit to America..........00eeeee eee
“In Marget’s Garden’...........0...0000%

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
A Born Story-teller............eseeeeeeee
Wiamenesst cares ceccpce ose aie eee oe eae
Becomes Sheriff of Selkirkshire...........
Marriedtlifecsatocteec dee en ace minee

Abandons His Profession of Law........--

PAGE

592 |

96
596 |
596 |
596 |
597 |
597 |
598 |
599 |
599

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601
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603
603
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609
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610
610
610

614



PAGE
is) Poeins 52/o-s.vecyssiierere sion ecatie siete eietesetae te 614
CaPLISMNOVELSHs. a versace ttesteelets Mertemiaeses sev 61
Water duitecand! Death twvek: setae esetne sic 616
‘Parting of Marmion and Douglas’........ 616
SMe] rosevA bey, cor eceress nora sers:eomerutracade toes 617
“The Fisherman’s Funeral’. .............. 618
‘The Necessity and Dignity of Labor’...... 620
‘Sir Walter Raleigh Spreads His Cloak for
Queen Elizabeth’...........-.-2-2005 621

‘The Storming of Front-de-Boeuf’s Castle’. 623

CHARLES DICKENS.
- He Has Awakened Pity in Sixty Million
RGATES vescenaer eens air a taney hake ee 625

His Shiftless Father.............0. 0020005 625
Work ina Blacking Factory.............- 625
Goes to School and Studies Shorthand..... 625
*ESketches by Bon? eciccucs coin enone 62°
The Story of His Novels...........-+---. 626
His Readings and American Journeys...... 627
The Children of His Genius............... 628
‘ Bardell versus Pickwick’............0000% 628
‘Rhroughwthe Storm. eee eae ae ce odes 630
‘The Death of little Nell’............... 633
‘Sam Weller’s Valentine’........-....... 635

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
His Standing as a Writer...............4. 638
iPersonalibistorys etectocen tecioe So mae tees 638
His Books and Lectures...........-..0005 639
Contributions to Punch... 1.0... eee ee eee 640
AS Social Titic:ne tresceredcesiane serene eee 640
‘The Fotheringay Off the Stage’......... 641
‘Miss Rebecca Sharp’.....-...seseeceeeee 643
‘Thomas Newcome Answers’......+...+-- 645
‘Old Fables with a New Purpose’......... 646

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Birthrandebarly Lites ccs ce-s eee aac 647
Mdicatione ofa soy: seats roe aie aise sas-< 647
Description by Miss Mitford............... 647
TvEvealthivsce te. wanna eessece eencamas arn: 647
Marriageln ness toevoter aime te erergre cet: 648
Her Principal Works.................0--- 648
Tribute to Her Genius by Her Husband.... 648
‘The Cry of the Human’...............6. 648
“The Sleeps. asides ve seca See 649

GEORGE ELIOT.
Her Position as a Novelist........-.-eee0- 650
Birth and Early Life...........eeeeeeeees 650
30

OUR FAVORITE ENGLISH AUTHORS.

PAGE
Her Great Novels.....-..e+seeeeeeeeeee ~. 650 ‘John Hampden’....-..-. Raleterepstetotetsie stele
Marriage and Closing Years. .....-+++-++++ 651 ‘The Puritans’. .... 2. cece cece serene eeees
CMiorencenneliQ4ces vaect securities ers es 651 ‘Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress’.....-...+.+
‘A Passage at Arms’... .-- eee essence e eee 652) -
‘The Poyser Family Go to Church......... 653| WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.

THOMAS BABINGTON

Biography by Trevelyan
Early Precocity.......-
Contributiens to Edinbu
Public Services........
Uistory of England....

*Fallacious Distrust of Liberty’........--- 658 | ‘An Estimate of Macaulay’





His Place as Statesman and Scholar........
Distinction at Oxford

MACAULAY. His Share in the Government...........--
[oe caa eva obel cys teeei 656 His Principal Books SoReal aera rne ste cdots
Oe siad ercer en utente 656 Oratory and Skill as a Financier..........-
rgh Review.....+..- 656 Retirement...........0-008 ROLLE ing seer
a a tistrate creer cs 656 ‘Anticipations for the Church of England’.
Ree ria wetter eters ears 657 ‘Some After-thoughts’.........eee eee eee
SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR RECITATION.

ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY.

IN GELORMEDUL are: vote vers iotareaiee dase brctetwne esse tenants

Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme-

LON Yissretstensucy are erersiasers.siayaretvolaiste sexe sieverc:ererecers
All Quiet Along the Potomac.................

Amnabelwlieets: we sayescncicescries saepien Reve ome
Appeal for Temperance. ..........-.202000 000s
EAD rilValn bh erro ae ame Cennard er ate
‘Arab:to:the=PalmesPhexw.ii 2 tone seas an nes
Artemus Ward at the Tomb of Shakespeare....
Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers.............

‘BablestDhesercsscgecr cen er
Banquet of the Dead, The....................
Bardell versus Pickwick. ........0.2:.0ceeeeeee
BaretooteBoysel here sc.t cue menracerennc
Battleticld es Rheme sec eam oe tence
Be lISS Wh Career ease etter an erence ete Nce tes
Betsy and I are Out............ Been See
Betty andithesBeancaea eee en eee ee
Billganded Cemeeecacnrtrcn dain a ene en eres
Birthday of Washington, The.................
Bison Track, The: s0..-.45 0c bec ne Ste atc
Bivouac of the Dead, The............-....00-
Blueiand.the Gray; The. 2242. oes ee eee
Bridgerote sighs lhesnnscssniescaeen meee a
BrucestowdlissMenie-c:o31 s.r ee noe nae
Butterfly on a Child’s Grave, A............05.

Chambered Nautilus, The.......--..... 2.0000
Character of Roger Williams................-.
Chivalry and Puritanism.............20eeee005
Christine, Awake for Your Life...............
Christmas Night at St. Peter’s................
Columbusteesme.cuae oe ee ee
Columbus at Barcelona.......+.+-.-2-++ ey
Cotter’s Saturday Night, The.................
Grabbeds Mans Uhewsccscce aie tence taen

Cry of the Human, The................005 oor

David’s Lament for Absalom.....-...se.e.e005

512
254



PAGE
Death of Little Nell, The :-.......-.--cee eee 633
Deathsot analnfintees sacs sien cae eeeis costes 255
DebtorseSlivenve Aw chasse seleediea ees 408
Declaration of Independence, The............. 500
Defence of Jefferson, 1813...-...--..eee ee eeee 438
Der Drunrme reeerccretc see eee aN eee ae 364
Description of Virgin Mary......--+-...+..00 192
DickensuniCam prec wack ae net gece nla 150
Discovery of New York, The.................. 370
Dutch diallaby Avs cn lve eies easier sateen oe 133
Dying Alchemist, The..........2-....0eeeeeee i
Eloquence of Action, The.......... 0. eeseeeeee 444
Emerson and the Emersonites..............005 17,
Encounter with a Panther.................... 169
Eulogy on General Grant..............0.00008 456
HivesoteBattle when ccc sue oes ea sens oe eee 583
AUX CEISTOR ere Ree Re Re ee 64
Father of the Republic, The.................. 448
HourthsoteilyiOderaracacccecas taser na een 109
General Government and the States, The....... 507
Gone With a Handsomer Man................ 147
Hannah Binding Shoes. .........-..0eee ee eeee 261
fansvandelnitacis sesoe Sorte ceveeeen coe eo ores 364
Here and the Hereafter, The...............24. 605
How Jo Made Friends .......-..-..+--s0e000- 382
Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Concord
Monument (1836)... ....0..e eee ee eee 15
Hymn to the Beautiful........ 0.0... ene e ee eee 121
If There were Dreams to Sell........-........ 269
AneiPrison tors Deb tere ce esters cveetrw econ ere 88
TslesrofaGreece, Chew. saacescics use manne nes 584
Syren fe lee craves seeieces taste esses eee Pace ceretas 52
A fihanggd 3p) olor arena teacemne nan rn acre accel coms ease 141
dame SmMiley:S HrOg assice-stsrskece oreo ejeveleeers ev amrees 356
Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President..-.. 361
Kats CarsoniscRidewa comet nessa yeeros 163
Land of Our Forefathers, The..... Ae eateteteletens 448

31
32 SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR

PAGE
Land of the Hast....... 0. ccc ceeceee ec censeees 583
PCMOVO Te cee ea eaes oat ata late tee ee acnokearete etepayete 53°
Letters to Farmers......00sceereeecee eee eeees 354
Liberty and Union........e.eee cece ee ene eee es 443
Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln, The........... 136
Little Breeches......cceececcccctcccesscecers 140
Manifest Destiny........- baci gute seelere 353
MMa te eVd till ersesestesere ete ses see eas ale ocenalatafevesereeunieterete 86
Mine Modéran-laws. csc. asiiies Site ct rere bi eee 365
Moral Qualities of Vegetables, The..........-. 282
Movement Cure for Rheumatism, The........- 378
Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard.......- 373
Music in the Year 2000. ...-.--+ sees ee once eens 212
My Mother’s Picture. .... 00.0. -seeeeeeeee eens 270
Necessity and Dignity of Labor........+...+++- 620
New South, The....... 0.2. ceeeeeee erence eens 414
New South, The.......... ..+-- peters erncctace 467
Niagara... 000s. cce eee e cece n eee c eee ee eee ences 254
Norse Lullaby, A.-.+... esse eeee cece eee eeee ee 154
O Captain! My Captain !.......-.- eee eee eee 126
@de:tosD utyss.- orc een ee eco 599
Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 509
Oldtlirelandiesetc ee cts cer reese ce erases tsterteree 127
Oldlronsidessscctnece yee eae arene cee 94
Old Virsimac tone cece sass ce eee ee 319
(MleeSvees tr are te ee or eeeanice ane ert: 199
On Recognizing the Independence of Greece.... 439
Organ of Westminster Abbey, The......-...-- 275
Other World, Theis: ...eccseve . basins feces 225
Our Hired Girligc.s5 eccceeieecn eee eee se 146
Our Immortality......0... cece eee eee eee eee 597
Our Two Opinions............+: eee e eee ee eee 153
Parting of Marmion and Douglas.....-.---++++ 616
SP eaant] sescscal crore seersoeye rene eee a area eek ree actetone Caters 177
Phantom Ship, The. .....-....0e eee e ee eee ees 587
Pictures of Memory...---------++eeeeereeeeee 264
Pilgrims, The... ... esse cece eee e eee eee ees 464
Political Agitation. .......+.0ee eee e eee eee 450
Power of Habit, The......-.- 0+ e eee e eee creeee 460
Prayer of the Wandering Jew....---+--++++++- 191
Prelude to In Memoriam.........+-+ ++ +2208 603
Public Dishonesty.... 2.2... 0ee eee sere eee renee 455
Puritan Sunday Morning, A..-------eee seer ee 298
Puzzled Dutchman, The.........e eee eee eeee 366





RECITATION OR READING.

PAGE
Raggedy Man, The....-.-+--+--+6- Saleisteetee 146
Raven, The.......ceceeeecee cere cence cenees 55
Regard for the Negro Race....--....-.ee eres 467
Resistance to British Aggression....--...---++++ 434
Ring Out, Wild Bells...-..---...2- eee eee ee 603
ReotsGallieiia acters tate aero rere seate, seesyernstamses 513
Ruin Wrought by Rum....------e. eee eee e ee 514
Sam Weller’s Valentine.......- Leet eae ope 635
Sanctity of Treaties... 2.6 .e.e cece cere eres 505
Sargent’s Portrait of Edwin Booth at “The
Players ack tee ome eee ceisieres 133
Shem olan terion neo olaesierorcewons cleperscen 136
Siege of Leyden, The......--.-+- see eens eeee 336
Sleep, The....-..cseeeceee cence ee eee ce eneees 649
Society upon the Stanislaus, The.....--...-.-+- 149
Song of the Brook, The.......+-.+-++seee eee 602
Song of the Shirt, The.....--.-...+es.eeeeeee 592
Song of the Camp, The..-...-..-.++--eeeeees lll
South Carolina and Massachusetts.........---- 442
Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua.......-... 517
Spelling Down the Master......-.-+++-++-000+ 195
Star-Spangled Banner, The....---.++-+++e+e+- 579
Mama) a Shan bere ck os cee iets cheectesereete skeen 579
Theology in the Quarters...-..-+.+++-+eeeee ee 514
Tova: Skeylarks.ccs cee os eiy ets erise eee cele 98
Mora sWeateveto Wlickecicr cues see acter essieeers eee eee 38
Toussaint I’ Ouverture. ....-...-ece cece e eee eee 451
Twenty-five Years of Peace....--.-+++-+eeeees 447
Twenty-second of February, The.......---++-+-+ F
Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer....-...-- 357
Venetian Vagabonds......ceeeececccreecereees 188
Visit from St. Nicholas ......--.0-eeeeee cree 503
Wiarslnevitables Thosaes conte ase ese ares 435
Washington’s Address to His Soldiers.......-.. 507
Weoatersand: Rumsscacencdeatines sacnoa cesses 459
What isa Minority ?........0... ce eee eee e eee 461
What Saved the Union.........-.eeecee eee eee 508
Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles........--+-.6+ 346
Woodman, Spare that Tree.......-..--+0+-0-- 505
Wreck of the Hesperus, The.......-..+-.+++- - 65
Yaweob Strauss.....ssscesececenscceenaees -. 364





WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE POET OF NATURE.

T is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor
reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in
that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to
the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him.
He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little
poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a

newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form

by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled

“The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the

Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it

is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics

of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occa-
sion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the

Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut

River” and also the lines entitled ‘ Drought” which show the characteristic ob-

servation as well as the style in which his youthful muse foand expression. It

was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found
among the succeeding selections.

“Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it
low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This
production is called the beginning of American poetry.

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Hampshire Co., Mass.,
November 8rd, 1794. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture
who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and
compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the
bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with
waich Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was



“ Marked with some act of goodness every day,”

is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic
eloquence in the “ Hymn to Death” written in 1825:

Alas! I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus
34 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Before the strain was ended. It must cease—

For he is in his grave who taught my youth

The art of verse, and in the bud of life

Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off

Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,

Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught

Thy hand to practise best the lenient art

To which thou gavest thy laborious days,

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
, Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes,

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have

To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope

To copy thy example.

Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge
before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plain-
field and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for litera-
ture, and removed to New York wherein 1826 he began to edit the “ Evening
Post,” which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his
death. William Cullen Bryant and the “ Evening Post” were almost as conspicuous
and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church.

In 1821 Mr. Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose charac-
ter is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. ‘The one beginning

“O fairest of the rural maids,”

was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the
noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her :—

“In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

“ Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,—
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ?

Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the
Flowers,” “ Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One
of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation
of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age.

Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets was
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 35

such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile
the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the
voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “1 once proposed,” says a friend, “to
send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear.
‘You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a copy
with you? said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded
immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful
memory. ‘If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘I could recall every line of poetry
I have ever written.’ ”

Hiz tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the
giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the
duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr. Bryant, who was reading a
review of # little book cf wretchedly halting verse, said to me: ‘I wish you would
deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’ ”

Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “It isa fine
sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judg-
ment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.... . I remember once to have
been at a lecture where Mr. Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely-
sized head was especially noticeable .... The observer of Bryant’s capacious
skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of
a noble manhood.” p

The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty-
four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George
Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had
seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor
for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had
kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades,
eontinuaily before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “ ‘Thanatopsis”
wriiten by himself seventy years before,



.
36

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THANATOPSIS.*

-The following production is called the beginning of American poetry.

That a young man not yet 19 should
guage and delicate and striking imagery,

have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste lan-
and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious

philosopny, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary
history.

O him who, in the love of Nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she
speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;—

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—

Earth and her waters, and’ the depths of air—

Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more i

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness hetween ;

The venerable woods,—rivers that move






In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green ; and, pour’d round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Ayre shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings—yet—the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain’d and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

ie

WAITING BY THE GATE.

years gone by,



shadow lie,

WIESIDES the massive. gateway built up in| While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet

wood and lea,

zi Upon whose top the clouds in eternal|/I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for

me.

The following copyrighted selections from Wm, Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton & Co., the pub-

Nishers of his works.
WILLIAM

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight,
A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant
more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of
day is o’er.

Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now,

There steps a wearied one with ‘pale and furrowed
brow ;

His count of " years is full, his alloted task is wrought ;

He passes to his rest froma place that needs him not.

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the

hour

Of human strength and action, man’s courage and
his power.

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the
golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ;

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and
fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we
gaze |

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not
where.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and
then withdrawn ;

CULLEN BRYANT.



37

But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds
sing on ;
And IJ again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and
wait.

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go
out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the
sprightly shout.

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that
strews

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that
blows !

upon the greensward

So from every region, so enter side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of
pride,

Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those
pilars gray,

And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are
blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy are draw-
ing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious
eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my
heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to
depart ;

And, ir. the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.” -

| DEEM not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ;
{| The Power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.



The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears ;

And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night ;
.And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man’s trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every secret tear,

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.
38

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

ERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled
j pines, ;

That stream with gray-green mosses ; here

the ground
Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers
spring up

Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet

To linger here, among the flitting birds
_ And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass

A fragrance from the cedars thickly set

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of Liberty.

O FreEpom ! thou art not, as poets dream,

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crown’d his slave,
When he took off the gyves. A’‘bearded man,
Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs ,
Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has

launch’d

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Haye forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee

bound

The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth,

As springs the flame above a burning pile,

And shoutest to the nations, who return

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:





Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes: and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,
The enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obey’d,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;
Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His wither’d hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on

thread,

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by
Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids ,
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.
And thou must watch and combat. till the day
Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.





HITHER, ’midst ‘falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps
j of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost
pursue
Thy solitary way ?



Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

“TO A WATERFOWL.

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care

hon Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—

The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann’d,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest,
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 39

Thow’rt gone; the abyss of heaven -
Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

—

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

A|ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
‘ Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.




Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat ;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,

Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Look what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings,
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers, while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and sliy asa nun is she,
One weak chirp is her only note,
Brageart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Never was I afraid of man ;
Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.



Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work and silent with care ;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half-forgotten that merry air,
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln’s a: humdrum crone ;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
When you can pipe that merry old:strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

DROUGHT.

JUNGED amid the limpid waters,
Or the cooling shade beneath,

Let me fly the scorching sunbeams,
And the southwind’s sickly breath !




Sirius burns the parching meadows,
Flames upon the embrowning hill,
Dries the foliage of the forest,
And evaporates the rill.
40

Searce is seen the lonely floweret,
Save amid the embowering wood ;
O’er the prospect dim and dreary,
Drought presides in sullen mood !

Murky vapours hung in ether,
Wrap in gloom, the sky serene;

WILLIAM CULLEN

BRYANT.

Nature pants distressful—silence
Reigns o’er all .ne sultry scene.

Then amid the limpid waters,

Or beneath the cooling shade,

Let me shun the scorching sunbeams
And the sickly breeze evade.



THE PAST.

No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so

appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.
He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors.
Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of

of his,deep vein in his chosen serious themes.
melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.

HOU unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark
domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.



Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,
And, last, Man’s Life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears,—

The venerable form—the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back ;—yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain :—thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart ;
Nor to the streaming eye
Thou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown :—to thee
Earth’s wonder and her pride

Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea;

The following poem is a fair specimen

Labors of good to man,
Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith—
Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and falter’d not in death.

Full many a mighty name

Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered ;
With thee are silent fame,

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d.

Thine for a space are they :—

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last,
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past !

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth, to wear

|The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish’d—no!
Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back; each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young.





THE MURDERED TRAVELER.

ALLEN spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again ;

The murdered traveler’s bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.




The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky ;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 41

The red bird warbied, as he. wrought
His hanging nest o’ernndG ;

And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o’er the desert snow,
Unarmed and hard beset ;

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,



The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home ;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked—but never spied
His welcome step again.

‘Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrew glen.

THE BATTLEFIELD.

Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza begining—‘‘ Truth
crushed to earth shall rise again,’’—said : ‘“Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza
which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest inthe English language. The thought
is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each

beyond a king’s ransom.”’

VN CH this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
(63) Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
l | And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter’d in the battle-cloud.



(a oe 74)

Ah! never shall the land forget
How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,—
Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain ;
Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year ;

A wild and many-weapon’d throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again ;
The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help’d thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d

The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.
42

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE CROWDED STREETS.

Ay ET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.



How fast the flitting figures come ;
The mild, the fierce, the stony face—

Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—
Yo halls in which the feast is spread—
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the bed.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare

The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye,

Go’st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow,
Who is now fluttering in thy snare,

Thy golden fortunes tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleams again?

To sorrow o’er the untimely dead? —
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;

And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to night.

Each where his tasks or pleasure call,
They pass and heed each other not;
There is one who heeds, who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought

These struggling tides of life that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

+2 —

NOTICE OF FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

As a specimen of Mr. Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we
reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York His-

torical Society in February 1869.
estimate of Mr. Halleck.

A|HEN TI look back upon Halleck’s literary life,




happened forty years earlier, his life

would have been regarded as a bright morning!

prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career
may be said to have ended then.
down his name to future years had already been
produced. Who shall say to what cause his subse-
quent literary inaction was owing? It was not the
decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation
showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to
fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate
on what he had written, and therefore resolved to
write no more? Was it because he feared lest what
he might write would be unworthy of the reputation
he had been so fortunate as to acquire?

“T have my own way of accounting for his literary

I cannot help thinking that if his death had.

All that will hand |



This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a-literary

silence in the latter half of his life. One of the
resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in
the length of time for which he kept his poems by
him, that he might give them the last and happiest
touches. Having composed his poems without com-
mitting them to paper, and retaining them in his
faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner,
murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments,
recovering the enthusiasm with which they were
first conceived, and in this state of mind heighten-
ing the beauty of the thought or of the expres-

“In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained
the gracefulness of his diction, and the airy melody
of his numbers. In this way I believe that he
wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness
of expression which causes the thought to be seen
WILLIAM

CULLEN BRYANT. 43

through them without any interposing dimness, so | tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the
that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the|habit of composing in this manner, and that he
thought enters the mind like a beam of light. Ij|found it so necessary to the perfection of what he
suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the! wrote that he adopted no other in its place.”



A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.
From “The Letters of a Traveler.”

In 1843, during Mr. Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those ante-
bellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking—one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s
life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs
and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and
the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which

finished shucking the allotted pile of corn.
occasions: -

BaRNWELL DIstTRICT,
South Carolina, March 29, 1943.{

SUT you must hear of the corn-shucking.
“J, The one at which I was present was given
on purpose that I might witness the hu-
mors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire of light-
wood was made near the corn-house. Light-wood
is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called,
not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest
wood in the world, but because it gives more light
than any other fuel.

The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes



dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing
as they came ‘The driver of the plantation, a col-
ored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk,
and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began ‘to
strip the husks from the ears, singing with great
glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and
now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant
burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a
comic character; but one of them was set toa sin-
guiarly wild and plaintive air, which some of our
musicians would do well to reduce to notation.
TRbese are the words:

Johnny come down de hollow.
Oh hollow !
Johnny come down de hollow.
Oh hollow !
De nigger-trader got me.
Oh hollow!
De speculator bought me.
Oh hollow!
I'm sold “or silver dollars.
Oh hollow!



Mr. Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel

Boys, go catch the pony.
Oh hollow!
Bring him round the corner.
Oh hollow!
I’m goin’ away to Georgia.
Oh hollow!
Boys, good-by forever !
Oh hollow !

The song of “ Jenny gone away,” was also given,
and another, called the monkey-song, probably of
African origin, in which the principal. singer person-
ated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations,
and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “ Dan,
dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs com-
monly sung on these occasions, represents the various
animals of the woods as belonging to some profession
or trade. For example—

De cooter is de boatman—

The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boat-
man he is.

De cooter is de boatman.
John John Crow.

De red-bird de soger.
John John Crow.

De mocking-bird de lawyer.
John John Crow.

De alligator sawyer
John John Crow.

The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed

ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the
last line.
44

When the work of the evening was over the
negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of
them took his place as musician, whistling, and beat-
ing time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of
the men came forward and executed various dances,
capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe
upon the floor, with astonishing agility and persever-
ance, though all of them had performed their daily
tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had
walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-
shucking. From the dances a transition was made
to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our
militia trainings, in which the words of command
and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It be-
came necessary for the commander to make a speech,
and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he
called upon a huge black man named Toby to ad-





Sa



CORN-SHUCKING IN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

dress the company in his stead. Toby, a man of
powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented
with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood
leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with
an air of superiority. He consented, came forward,
demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and
harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby
had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke
of “de majority of Sous Carolina,” “de interests of
de state,” ‘“‘de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and
these phrases he connected by various expletives, and
sounds of which we could make nothing. At length
he began to falter, when the captain with admirable
presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted
and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the
company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators,
black and white, to have made an excellent speech.





BE =

SOUTH CAROLINA.


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE POET OF THE PEOPLE.

“He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.”

an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most
famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in
Portland, Maine, February 7th, 1807.

In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learuing and his
wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all
other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not
rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for
the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful
and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately
sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant,
Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument
upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities.
Critics also say that “he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of
Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world
at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to
him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the
sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life: It is on these themes
that he tuned his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh
perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song
has found a lodgement in every household in America, “ swaying the hearts of men
and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle
verse.”



“ Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.”

Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and
William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has
made famous in “'The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a
iamily in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back.

58


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HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 59

The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early
age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bow-
doin College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John 8. C. Abbott, and others
who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he was
requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in his alma mater,
which he accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Ger-
many, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and
literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor
of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar posi-
tion in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when he



THE WAYSIDE INN.
Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn.”

resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment
of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the
romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother
poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s
resignation.

The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of
the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic asso-
ciations as well; for it was none other than the old “‘ Cragie House” which had
been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition
and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “ Homes
of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with a
60 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

magnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous produc-
tions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy-
five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His
first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Long-
fellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bow-
doin College. In 1848 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in
Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met
a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing
injuries from which she died. She was buried on the 19th anniversary of their mar-
riage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange
blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for
a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation
nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event.

Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge
of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in
his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned
a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or
read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate
that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of
others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard
of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into
a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne
as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as
it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the
woof of the story in the threads of his song.

“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847),
and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The
Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are
brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia
or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pré and the real Louisiana, not
a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that
artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in paint-
ing the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking
a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others.
The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich
knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless be-
cause he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest
reader could understand.

In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but
real perscns. The musician was none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull;
Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was
the Sicilian; Dr. Henry Wales was the youth; the poet was Thomas W. Parsons,
and the theologian was his brother, Rev. 8. W. Longfellow. This poem shows
Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the
mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other liv-
ing man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was
$0 familiar.


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 61

Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline” —as many other of
Longfellow’s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than
creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret
Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the
imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not
deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing
it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted
that he would not live in literature.

It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years
he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry
should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that
poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimu-
lating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths,
and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three direc-
tions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people
than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of his
distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (which
Chas. Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The
Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the
multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read.

— —

THE PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO HE PSALMIST.

This poem has gained wide celebrity as one of Mr. Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the
poem ‘‘Excelsior,’’ (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it
is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from
a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life.



LL me not, in mournful numbers, Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Life is but an empty dream! Be a hero in the strife |!

For the soul is dead that slumbers, rT Tatas : ;
And things are not what they seem. Tust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,—act in the living Present !

Life is real! Life is earnest ! Heart within, and Gop o’erhead!

And the grave is not its goal ;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Lives of great men all remind us

Was not spoken of the soul. We can make our lives sublime,
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, And, departing, leave behind us

Ts our destined end or way; Footprints on the sands of time;
But to act, that each to-morrow ,

Find us farther than to-day. Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, Seeing, shall take heart again.

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating Let us, then, be up and doing,
_ Funeral marches to the grave. With a heart for any fate ;
In the world’s broad field of battle, Still achieving, still pursuing,

In the bivouac of Life, { Learn to labor and to wait,
62 > HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.



NDER a spreading chestnut tree He earns whate’er he can,
The village smithy stands ; And looks the whole world in the face,
The smith, a mighty man is he, For he owes not any man. .
‘ith large and si hands ; : ake
‘And x aa of Hearne Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

Are strong as iron bands. ; ; :
7 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; With measured beat and slow,
His face is like the tan ; Like a sexton ringing the village bell
His brow is wet with honest sweat ; When the evening sun is low.

































THEY LOVE TO SEE THE FLAMING FORGE,
AND HEAR THE BELLOWS ROAR,

AND CATCH THE BURNING SPARKS THAT FLY
LIKE CHAFF FROM THE THRESHING FLOOR.

And children coming home from school It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Look in at the open door ; ms Singing in Paradise !

They love to see the flaming forge, He needs must think of her once more,
And hear the bellows roar, How in the grave she lies;

And catch the burning sparks that fly And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. A tear out of his eyes.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys; Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing—

He hears the parson pray and preach, Onward through life he goes:
He hears his daughter’s voice, Each morning sees some task begin,

Singing in the village choir, Each evening sees it close ;

And it makes his heart rejoice.


HENRY WADSWORTH

Something attempted—something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
for the lesson thou hast taught!

LONGFELLOW. 63

Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.



THE BRIDGE.

A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to
pass, almost daily. ‘‘I always stop on the bridge,”’ he writes inhisjournal. ‘‘Tide waters are beautiful,” and

again, ‘‘We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making

sundry comparisons.”

Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that ‘‘The old sea was flash.

ing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track ; the dark waves are dark provinces of

God ; illuminous though not te us.”

The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at

midnight.
g Al stoop on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church tower ;



And like the waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thought came o’er me,
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,
In the days that had gone by,

T had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O how often,
T had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me,
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,

Each having his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,
And the old, subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,
. As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes ;

The moon and its broken reflection -
And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.



RESIGNATION.

SALHERE is no flock, however watched and

tended,
But one dead lamb is there!



There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended,

But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying
And mournings for the dead ;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.
64 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken
May reach her where she lives.

There is no Death! What.seems so is transition :
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death. Not as a child shall we again behold her ;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
She will not be a child:

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

‘And Christ himself doth rule. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion

In that great cloister’s stillnes and seclusion,
Shall we behold her face.

By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives whom we call dead. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean

Day after day we think what she is doing
Tha:, cannot be at rest,—

In those bright realms of air ;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, |
Behold her grown more fair. |



We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay ;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbye
The grief that must have way.

The bend which nature gives,



GoD's

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground God’s acre! It is just ;

Tt consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping
dust.

ACRE.

At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain.



Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

d's Acre! s i
alla Bere even ie eed nanos With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ;
This is the field and Acre of our God!

This is the place where human harvests grow!

Tnto its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again





EXCELSIOR.

43, HH shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed

A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior !




His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
‘lashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
i Excelsior !

Tn happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior !

“Try not to Pass!” the old man said ;

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide !”

And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior !

“OQ, stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast !”

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior !


HENRY WADSWORTH

“ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch !

Beware the awful avalanche!”

This was the peasant’s last Good-night ;

A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior !

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior !

LONGFELLOW. 65
A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior !

There, in the twilight cold and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior !



THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.




My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark dreary.



THE WRECK OF

THE HESPERUS.

The writing of the following poem, ‘‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,”’ was occasioned by the news of a
ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef~‘‘Norman’s Woe’’—where many

disasters occurred.
said, hardly an effort.

T was the schooner Hesperus
That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper had taken his little
daughter,
To bear him company.



Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,

And watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish main:
“T pray thee put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

5

It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is

Colder and colder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east ;

The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm and smote amain
The vessel in its strength ;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.

“ Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so,

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat,
Against the stinging blast ,

He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

“Oh father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say what may it be?”

“Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ;”
And he steered for the open sea.
66

“ Oh father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh, say, what may it be?”

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea.”

“Oh, father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh, say, what may it be?

But the father answered never a word—
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face to the skies,

The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow,
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed
That saved she might be,

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves
On the lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept,
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between,
A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;

Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank—-
Ho! ho! the breakers roared.

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow;

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe.

—++

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

OMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat ;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient timepiece says to all,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever”’




Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

By day its voice is low and light;

But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall,

It echoes along the vacant hall,

Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stooa,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,
“ Forever—never |
Never—forever !”

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality ;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased
“ Forever—never !
Never—forever !”

There groups of merry children played ;

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime

And affluence of love and time !

Even as a miser counts ‘his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
“ Forever—never |
Never—forever |”
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 67

From that chamber, clothed in white, As in the days long since gone by,
The bride came forth on her wedding night; The ancient timepiece makes reply,
There, in that silent room below, “ Forever—never !
The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; Never—forever |”
And, in the hush that followed the prayer, ;
Was heard the old clock on the stair,— Never here, forever there,
“ Horever—never ! Where all parting, pain, and care
Never—forever !” And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here !
All are scattered now, and fled,— The horologe of Eternity
Some are married, some are dead : Sayeth this incessantly,
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “¢ Forever—never !
« Ah!” when shall they all meet again? Never—forever !”



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.

The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to Mr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad
skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the
Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is
written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his ‘“‘Ode to the Cambro Britons on their
Harp.”’




i) PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest ! “ Oft to his frozen lair
Who, with thy hollow breast Track’d I the grizzly bear,
Still in rude armor drest, . While from my path the hare
Comest to daunt me! Filed like a shadow ;
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, Oft through the forest dark
But with thy fleshless palms Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Stretch’d, as if asking alms, Until the soaring lark
Why dost thou haunt me?” Sang from the meadow.
Then, from those cavernous eyes “ But when I older grew,
Pale flashes seemed to rise, Joining a corsair’s crew,
As when the Northern skies O’er the dark sea I flew
Gleam in December ; With the marauders.
And, like the water's flow Wild was the life we led;
Under December’s snow, Many the souls that sped,
Came a dull voice of woe Many the hearts that bled,
From the heart’s chamber. By our stern orders.

“T was a Viking old!

: “ Many a wassail-bout
My deeds, though manifold,

Wore the long winter out ;

No Skald in song has told, . Often our midnight shout
No Saga taught thee ! Set the cocks crowing,
Take heed, that in thy verse As we the Berserk’s tale

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

; Measured in cups of ale,
Else dread a dead man’s curse !

Draining the oaken pail,

For this I sought thee. Fill'd to o’erflowing.
“ Far in the Northern Land, “ Once as I told in glee
By the wild Baltic’s strand, Tales of the stormy sea,
I, with my childish hand, ~ Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Tamed the ger-falcon ; Burning out tender ;
And, with my skates fast-bound, And as the white stars shine
Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, On the dark Norway pine,
That the poor whimpering hound On that dark heart of mine

Trembled to walk on. Fell their soft splendor,


68

HENRY WADSWORTH

“TJ woo'd the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade

Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosen’d vest
Flutter’d her little breast,
Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

“ Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleam’d upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory ;
When of old Hildebrand

~ T ask’d his daughter’s hand,

Mute did the minstrel stand
To hear my story.

While the brown ale he quaff’d
Loud then the champion laugh’d,
And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

“ She was a Prince’s child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blush’d and smiled,
I was discarded !

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew’s flight,

Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded ?

“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen !—
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.

“Then launch’d they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind fail’d us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hail’d us.

LONGFELLOW.

“ And as to catch the gale

Round veer'd the flapping sail,

Death ! was the helmsman’s hail,
Death without quarter !

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel ;

Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water.

“ As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to lee-ward ;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour, -

Stands looking sea-ward.

‘There lived we many years ;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies:
Ne’er shall the sun arise

On such another!

“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,

The sun-light hateful !
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

O, death was grateful !

“Thus, seam’d with many scars
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended !

There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Sk@l! to the Northland! skal!” *
—Thus the tale ended.

*Skal! is the Swedish expression for “ Your Health.”
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

KING WITLAF’S

HITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,—




That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass ;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.

i aa al









WEAUTIFUL was the night.
black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the
moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremu-
lous gleam of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and
devious spirit.

Behind the

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of
the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their
prayers and confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent
Carthusian,

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with
shadows and night dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden.
magical moonlight

Seemed to ‘inundate her soul with indefinable longings,

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade
of the oak- trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the mea-
sureless prairie.

The calm and the



Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies |

69

DRINKING -—HORN.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlae
And Saint Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomeeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney
And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, “ Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more !””



EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite
numbers.

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the
heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel
and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of
that temple,

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them,
“ Upharsin.”

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and
the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my
beloved !

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold
thee?

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not
reach me ?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the
prairie !

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood-
lands around me !

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in
thy slumbers.
cu

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded| Farther and farther away it floated and dropped inte

about thee ?”’

silence.

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor- |“ Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular cay-

will sounded

erns of darkness ;

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the| And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded,

neighboring thickets,

“ To-morrow !”



LITERARY FAME.

As a specimen of Mr. Longfellow’s prose style we present the following extract from his ‘‘ Hyperion,”
written when the poet was comparatively a young man.

SIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose
pages he is continually recording illus-
trious names. But, as often as a new
name is written there, an old one disappears. Only
a few stand in illuminated characters never to be
effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,—




Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Pos-
terity shall never question their titles. But

those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion
of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if
they had never been. To this great oblivion must
most men come. It is better, therefore, that they
should soon make up their minds to this: well know-
ing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved
into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them,
so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and
their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions
have no longer an individual being among men; but
be resolved and incorporated into the universe of
thought.

Yes, it is better that men should soon make up
their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or
within them, for some higher motive, in what they
do, than the approbation of men, which is. Fame ;
namely, their duty; that they should be ‘constantly
and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of
effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.
Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection;
impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the
resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve
much,—at times even this victory over himself; being
persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and
then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

It has become a common saying, that men of genius
are always in advance of their age; which is true.
There is something equally true, yet not so common ;
namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and
bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but
of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every



possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose
that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world,
or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up
abreast with these great minds, so as fully to compre-
hend them.

And, oh! how majestically they walk in history!
some like the sun, “with all his traveling glories
round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious
as a night with stars. Through the else silent dark-
ness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn
footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders
seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise,
attendant angels bearing golden lights before them,
and, above and behind, the whole air painted with
seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—
not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their
lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar
with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of
dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon
those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily dis-
comfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death,
have worked right on to the accomplishment of their
great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, ful-
filling much ;—and then, with shattered nerves, and
sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the
grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world
talks o€ them, while they sleep !

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had
but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in pass-
ing, had touched them with the hem of his garment,
and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had
been stretched out over them only to make the sign
of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun's
eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the
heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld
the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and
forever !
Oo}

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EDGAR ALLEN POE.
THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS.

=| DGAR ALLEN POE, the author of “The Raven,” “ Annabel Lee,”

eu “The Haunted Palace,’ “To One in Paradise,” “Israfel” and
“Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, per-
haps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different
world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson,
Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the’realm of
nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke
from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His
whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet
from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness

is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett
says of him :—



“ He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear ;
All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim ;
Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim,

At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.

By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl
Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air,

Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl
And met delirium in her awful lair.”

Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Mary-
lander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier
and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured
the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in
Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland.

When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in
Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one
younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family.
Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar
(who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first
in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia,

45
46 EDGAR ALLEN POE.

and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies,
but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to
submit to the discipline of the institution.

In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe
acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he
contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the
beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and per-
manent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympa-
thetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing
not how to make money—yvet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have
the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—strugegling for nearly
twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and
closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849, at forty years of age.

To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder
that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the
nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous
temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which
would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “ Annabel Lee;” or that
he should wail over the “ Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should ‘“‘nevermore”
be lifted from the shadow of the “ Raven” upon the floor. These poems and others
are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from
happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should
remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced.
They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of
broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature
are often grown.

To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the
scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which
belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been
represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great
admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”
from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Flayne nas also
written a poem entitled, “ Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and
demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote :—

“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him:
One, a wild demon, weird and dim,
The darkness of whose ebon wings
Did shroud unutterable things :
One, a fair angel, in the skies

Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes
Were seen the lights of Paradise.

To these, in turn, he gave the whole
Vast empire of: his brooding soul;
Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell
Now thrilled with awful tones of hell :
Wide were his being’s strange extremes,
"Twixt nether glooms, and Hden gleams
Of tender, or majestic dreams.”

?


250 EEGAR ALLEN POE. 47

Tt must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his
being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography pub-
lished of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on
the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had
passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies,
notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as pub-
lished statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s
damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favor-
able light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite
for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from
his father who, before him, was a drunkard.

It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sor-
row those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet
the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to
the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw
the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his
personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid
genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to
stand with uncovered heads.

As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have
been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which’
he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative
particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His
skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom
and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost
actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing.

As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently
a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or
preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and
facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds
a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was
music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has
had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems
are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of
beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious
fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a near-
by, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As
one of his biographers has written, “He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls
of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious
effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest.
“Tn that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “in knowledge of
the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.”

Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by
him in Richmond says: “I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of
- the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the “ Raven” will ever
forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered, “he
48 EDGAR ALLEN POE.

audience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect
was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive
“nevermore.”

Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to
miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848
as critic and editor on the “Literary Messenger” of Richmond, Virginia, the
“‘Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “ Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia,
the “ Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “ Broadway Journal” of New York,
which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of
starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account
of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was pub-
lished in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic com-
position, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “ Manuscript Found in
a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for
poetry. The latter, however, he did not recieve because the judges found the same
author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious
fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “ Tales
of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took
up his residence at Fordham, NewYork, where his wife died in 1847, and where he
continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “ Raven” was

‘published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “ Eureka” and
“Ulalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to
which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect.
To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors
we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “ Memoir” and Mrs. Sarah
Ellen Whitman’s “ Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863.









EDGAR ALLEN POE,





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































O! Death has rear’d himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim west,
Where the good and the bad and the

worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines, and palaces, and towers,

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not !)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

- The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea

4





THE CITY IN THE SEA.

THE CITY IN THE SHA.

Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks giganticaily down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;

49
5e EDGAR ALLEN POR,

But not the riches there that lie The wave—there is a movement there !

In each idol’s diamond eye— As if the towers had thrust aside,

Not the gayly-jewell’d dead In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

Tempt the waters from their bed ; As if their tops had feebly given

For no ripples curl, alas! A void within the filmy heaven.

Along that wilderness of glass— The waves have now a redder glow—

No swellings tell that winds may be The hours are breathing faint and low—

Upon some far-off happier sea— And when, amid no earthly moans,

No heayings hint that winds have been Down, down that town shall settle hence,

On seas less hideously serene. Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
But lo, a stir is in the air! Shall do it reverence.



ANNABEL LEE.




T was many and many a year ago, The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
In a kingdom by the sea, Went envying her and me—
6} ‘That a maiden there lived whom you may | Yes !—that was the reason (as all men know,
know : In this kingdom by the sea),
By the name of ANNABEL LEE; That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
And this maiden she lived with no other thought Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

Thansto love-and beloved by.me. But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea ;

But we loved with a love that was more than love—
Tand my AnnaBeL Lez—

.With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me





And this was the reason that, long ago, dreams
In this kingdom by the sea, | Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
My beautiful AnNaBEL LEE; Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
So that her highborn kinsman came And s0, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
And bore her away from me, , Of my,darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
To shut her up in a sepulchre, In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In this kingdom by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea.
TO HELEN.
The following poem was published first ‘‘To — — —,” afterwards the title was changed, ‘‘To Helen.”’ It

seems to have been written by Poe to Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was
engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his
acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps
when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured
his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes.



SAW thee once—once only—years ago: Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
I must not say how many—but not many. | Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
_ It was a July midnight; and from out Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, ' That gave out, in return for the love-liht,
soaring, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand


EDGAR ALLEN POE.



CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK
I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOON
FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,



AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—ALAS! IN SORROW.

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight—
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering ruses ?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—
And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !)
The pearly iustre of the moon went out:

The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy tiowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All, all expired save thee—save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes—

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them—they were the world to me.

I saw but them—saw only them for hours—
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten



Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres !
How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!

How daring an ambition! yet how deep—
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud,
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go—tney never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me, they lead me through the years;
They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire—
And sanctified in their elysian fire.

| They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope),

‘

ox
52 EDGAR ALLEN POR.

And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night ;
While even in the meridian glare of day



I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

ISRAFEL*

heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute ;’
None sing so wildly well
As the angel IsRaFEL,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

?



Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamour’d moon

Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That IsraFreLi’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love’s a grown-up god—







Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,
IsRAFELI, who despisest
An unimpassion’d song ;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute—
‘Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours ;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where IsraFEL
Hath dwelt, and he where J,

He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky. °

TO ONE IN PARADISE.

[HOU wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,



All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last !

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast !

A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!’’—but o’er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast !

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar !

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances, :
By what eternal streams.

*“ And the angel IsrareL, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”

Koran.


EDGAR ALLEN POE, 53

LENORE.

Mrs. Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing
~ of*these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about
sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly
beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she
greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son, The boy was so over-
come that it is said he stood for a miuute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never
before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently
a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s
return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before
his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and
rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodi-
ment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death
he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem.

H, broken is the golden bowl,
The spirit flown forever !
Let the bell toll!
A saintly soul
Floats on the Stygian river ;
And, Guy DE VERE,
Hast thou no tear?
Weep now or never more!
See, on yon drear
And rigid bier
Low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come, let the burial-rite be read—
The funeral-song be sung !—
An anthem for the queenliest dead
That ever died so young— ‘
A dirge for her the doubly dead,
In that she died so young!



“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth,
And hated her for her pride ;
And when she fell in feeble health,
Ye bless’d her—that she died !
How shall the ritual, then, be read?
The requiem how be sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye—
By yours the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence
That died, and died so young?”

Peccavimus ;
But rave not thus!
And let a sabbath song

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no

wrong !

This selection is a favorite with reciters.



The sweet LENORE
Hath “ gone before,”
With Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild
For the dear child
That should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair
And debonair,
That now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair
But not within her eyes—
The life still there,
Upon her hair—
The death upon her eyes.

“ Avaunt! to-night
My heart is light.
No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight
With a peean of old days!
Let ne bell toll !—
Lest her sweet soul,
Amid its hallow’d mirth,
Should catch the note,
As it doth float—
Up from the damned earth.
To friends above, from fiends below,
The indignant ghost is riven—
From hell unto a high estate
Far up within the heaven—
From grief and groan,
To a golden throne,
Beside the King of Heaven.”



THE BELLS.

It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of

the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the

sounds of the ringing bells.

Pal KAR the sledges with the bells—
A Silver bells!



foretells !



What a world of merriment their melody

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle
54

With a crystalline delight ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells—
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells !
How it dwells.

On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells; bells, bells,—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their afright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
2na mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;



EDGAR ALLEN POE.

Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the
bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells—
Tron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody
compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright,
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells __
With the pzean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pzean of the bells—
Of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the sobbing of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the tolling of the bells,—
Of the bells, bells, bells,—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, —
Bells, bells, bells,—
To the moaning and the groaning of the belis.
ge Si

EDGAR

ALLEN

POE. 55

THE RAVEN.

This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment

with rhythmical expression to be found in any language.
for the lost Lenore,’’ a raven—the symbol of despair—enters

A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen

ing to win from books ‘‘surcease of sorrow
the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas.
with its haunting croak of ‘‘ Nevermore.’’

While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavor-







































THE RAVEN.

NYNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pon-

: dered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotton lore, —

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at
my chamber-door.

“Tig some visitor,’ I mutter’d, “tapping
at my chamber-door—

Only this and nothing more.”



Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De-
cember,





And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost
upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought
to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the
lost Lenore,—

For the rare and raidant maiden whom the angels
name Lenore,—

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain,

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic terrors never
felt before,
56

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating,
« Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-
door,—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-
door ;
That it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no
longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore ;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you
came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
chamber-door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you’’—here I opened
wide the door:

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there,
wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to
dream before ;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered
word, ‘* Lenore!”

This J whispered, and an echo murmured back the
word, * Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within
me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than
before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my
window-lattice ;

Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery
explore,—

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery
explore ;—

‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a
flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days
of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute
stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my
chamber-door,—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my cham-
ber-door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into
smiling,



1

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance
it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I
said, “art sure no craven ;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the
nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plu-
tonian shore?”

Quoth the raven, ‘“ Nevermore!”

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse
so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy
bore ;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human
being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his

Chamber-door,

Bird or beast upor. the sculptured bust above his

chamber-door
With such name as “ Nevermore!”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke
only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour,

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then
he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “ Other friends
have flown before,

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have
flown before.

Then the bird said, “ Nevermore!”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly

spoken,

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is its only stock
and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful
disaster

Follow’d fast and follow’d faster, till his songs one
burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden
bore,
Of— Never—nevermore!’”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into
smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird
and bust and door,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to
linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird
of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi
nous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “ Nevermore!”


EDGAR ALLEN

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syliable ex-
pressing k

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my
bosom’s core ;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light
gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light
gloating o’er

She shall press—ah! nevermore !

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from
an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the
tufted floor,

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee,—by
these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the
lost Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “‘ Nevermore!”

Prophet!” cried I, “thing of evil !—prophet still, if
bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en-
chanted—

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I
implore,—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead ?—tell me—tell
me, I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore!”



POE. 57

“ Prophet !” eried I, “ thing of evil |—prophet still, if
bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we
both adore,

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant
Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels
name Lenore ;

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels
name Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, ‘‘ Nevermore!”

“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I
shrieked, upstarting,—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the night's
Plutonian shore.

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul
hath spoken !

Leave my loneliness unbroken !—quit the bust above
my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
from off my door!”

Quoth the raven, ‘‘ Nevermore!”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still iv
sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-
door ;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that
is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his
shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating
on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore t




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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
THE LIBERATOR OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

WO classify Emerson is a matter of no small difficulty. He was a
philosopher, he was an essayist, he was a poet—all three so eminently
that scarcely two of his friends would agree to which class he most
belonged. Oliver Wendell Holmes asks:



Where in the realm of thought whose air is song
Does he the Buddha of the west belong ?

He seems a winged Franklin sweetly wise,

Born to unlock the secret of the skies.”

But whatever he did was done with a poetic touch. Philosophy, essay or song, it
was all pregnant with the spirit of poetry. Whatever else he was Emerson was
pre-eminently a poet. It was with this golden key that he unlocked the chambers of
original thought, that liberated American letters.

Until Emerson came, American authors had little independence. James Russell
Lowell declares, “ We were socially and intellectually bound to English thought,
until Emerson cut the cable and gave us a chance at the dangers and glories of blue
waters. He was our first optimistic writer. Before his day, Puritan theology had
seen in man only a vile nature and considered his instincts for beauty and pleasure,
proofs of his total depravity.” Under such conditions as these, the imagination was
fettered and wholesome literature was impossible. Asa reaction against this Puri-
tan austerity came Unitarianism, which aimed to establish the dignity of man, and
out of this came the further growth of the idealism or transcendentalism of Emer-
son. It was this idea and these aspirations of the new theology that Emerson con-
verted into literature. The indirect influence of his example on the writings of|
Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier and Lowell, and its direct influence on Thoreau,.
Hawthorne, Chas. A. Dana, Margaret Fuller, G. W. Curtis and others, formed the

very foundation for the beautiful structure of our representative American literature.
_ Emerson was profoundly a thinker who pondered the relation of man to God
and to the universe. He conceived and taught the noblest ideals of virtue and a
spiritual life. The profound study which Emerson devoted to his themes and his
philosophic cast of mind made him a writer for scholars. He was a prophet who,
without argument, announced truths which, by intuition, he seems to have perceived ;
but the thought is often so shadowy that the ordinary reader fails to catch it. For

71
72 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

this reason he will never be like Longfellow or Whittier, a favorite with the masses.
Let it not be understood, however, that all of Emerson’s writings are heavy or
shadowy or difficult to understand. On the contrary, some of his poems are of a
popular character and are easy of comprehension. For instance, “The Hymn,”
sung at the completion of the Concord Monument in 1886, was on every one’s lips
at the time of the Centennial celebration, in 1876. Fis optimistic spirit is also beau-
tifully and clearly expressed in the following stanza of his “ Voluntaries :”

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When duty whispers low, “Thou must,”
The youth replies, “I can.”

These are but two instances of many that may be cited. No author is, perhaps,
more enjoyed by those who understand him. He was a master of language. He
never used the wrong word. His sentences are models. But he was not a logical
or methodical writer. Every sentence stands by itself. His paragraphs might be
arranged almost at random without essential loss to the essays. His philosophy con-
sists largely in an array of golden sayings full of vital suggestions to help men
make the best and most of themselves. He had no compact system of philosophy.

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston, May 25, 1803, within “ A kite-string
of the birth place of Benjamin Franklin” with whom he is frequently compared.
The likeness, however, consists only in the fact that they were both decidedly repre-
sentative Americans of a decidedly different type. Franklin was prose, Emerson
poetry; Franklin common sense, real; Emerson imaginative, ideal. In these oppo-
site respects they both were equally representative of the highest type. Both were
hopeful, kindly and shrewd. Both equally powerful in making, training and guid-
ing the American people.

In his eighth year young Emerson was sent to a grammar school, where he
made such rapid progress, that he was soon abie to enter a higher department
known asa Latin school. His first attempts at writing were not the dull efforts
of a school boy; but original poems which he read with real taste and feeling.
He completed his course and graduated from Harvard College at eighteen. It is
said that he was dull in mathematics and not above the average in his class in
general standing; but he was widely read in literature, which put him far in
advance, perhaps, of any young man of hisage. After graduating, he taught school
for five years in connection with his brother; but in 1825, gave it up for the minis-
try. For a time he was pastor of a Unitarian Congregation in Boston; but his inde-
pendent views were not in accordance with the doctrine of his church, therefore, he
resigned in 1835, and retired to Concord, where he purchased a home near the

spot on which the first battle of the Revolution was fought in 1775, which he
commemorated in his own verse :—

“There first the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.”

In this city, Emerson resided until the day of his death, which occurred in Con-
cord, April 27, 1882, in the seventy-eighth year of his age.


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 73

It was in Concord that the poet and essayist, as the prophet of the advanced
thought of his age, gathered around him those leading spirits who were dissatisfied
with the selfishness and shallowness of existing society, and, who had been led by
him to dream of an ideal condition in which all should live as one family. Out of
this grew the famous “ Brook Farm Community.” This was not an original idea
of Emerson’s, however. Coleridge and Southey, of England, had thought of found-
ing such a society in Pennsylvania, on the Susquehanna River. Emerson regarded
this community of interests as the clear teachings of Jesus Christ; and, to put into
practical operation this idea, a farm of about two hundred acres was bought at
Roxbury, Mass., and a stock company was formed under the title of “The Brook
Farm Institution of Agriculture and Education.” About seventy members joined

Se a





HOME OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON, CONCORD, MASS. :

in the enterprise. The principle of the organization was codperative, the members
sharing the profits. Nathaniel Hawthorne, the greatest of romancers, Chas. A.
Dana, of the New York Sun, George W. Curtis, of Harper’s Monthly, Henry D.
Thoreau, the poet naturalist, Amos Bronson Alcott, the transcendental dreamer and
writer of strange shadowy sayings, and Margaret Fuller, the most learned woman of
her age, were prominent members who removed to live on the farm. It is said that
Kmerson, himself, never really lived there; but was a member and frequent visitor,
as were other prominent scholars of the same school. The project was a failure.
After five years of experience, some of the houses were destroyed by fire, the enter-
prise given up, and the membership scattered.
74 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

But the Brook Farm served its purpose in literature by bringing together some
of the best intellects in America, engaging them for five years in a common course
of study, and stimulating a commerce of ideas. The breaking up of the community
was better, perhaps, than its success would have been. It dispersed and scattered
abroad the advanced thoughts of Emerson, and the doctrine of the society into every
profession. Instead of being confined to the little paper, “The Dial,” (which was
the organ of the society) its literature was transferred into a number of widely cir-
culated national mediums.

Thus, it will be seen how Emerson, the “Sage of Concord,” gathered around him
ind dominated, by his charming personality, his powerful mind, and his wholesome
influence, some of the brightest minds that have figured in ‘American literature;
and how, through them, as well as his own writings, he has done so much, not only
to lay the foundation of a new literature, but to mould and shape leading minds for
generations to come. The Brook Farm idea was the uppermost thought in Edward
Bellamy’s famous novel, “Looking Backward,” which created such a sensation in
the reading world a few years since. The progressive thought of Emerson was
father to the so-called “ New Theology,” or “Higher Criticism,” of modern scholars
and theologians. It is, perhaps, for the influence which Emerson has exerted, rather
than his own works, that the literature of America is mostly indebted to him. It
was through his efforts that the village of Concord has been made more famous in
American letters than the city of New York.

The charm of Emerson’s personality has already been referred to,—and it is not
strange that it should have been so great. His manhood, no less than his genius
was worthy of admiration and of reverence. His life corresponded with his brave,
cheerful and steadfast teachings. He “practiced what he preached.” His manners
were so gentle, his nature so transparent, and his life so singularly pure and happy,
that he was called, while he lived, “the good and great Emerson ;” and, since his
death, the memory of his life and manly example are among the cherished posses-
sions of our literature.

The reverence of his literary associates was little less than worship. Amos Bron-
son Alcott,—father of the authoress, Louisa M. Alcott,—one of the Brook Farm
members, though himself a profound scholar and several years Emerson’s senior,
declared that it would have been his great misfortune to have lived without knowing
Emerson, whom he styled, “The magic minstrel and speaker! whose rhetoric, voiced
as by organ stops, delivers the sentiment from his breast in cadences peculiar to
himself; now hurling it forth on the ear, echoing them; then,—as his mood and
matter invite it—dying like

Music of mild lutes
Or silver coated flutes.

such is the rhapsodist’s cunning in its structure and delivery.”
Referring to his association with Emerson, the same writer acknowledges In a
poem, written after the sage’s death:

Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend: ,
By the hand thou took’st me, and did’st condescend
To bring me straightway into thy fair guild; ~
And life-long hath it been high compliment
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 75

By that to have been known, and thy friend styled,
Given to rare thought and to good learning bent;
Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled.
Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be

’ A scholar in thy university.



HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, 1836.




WAY the rude bridge that arched the flood, On this green bank, by this soft stream,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, We set to day a votive stone,
Here once the embattled farmers stood, That memory may their deed redeem
And fired the shot heard round the world. When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
The foe long since in silence slept ; Spirit that made those heroes dare
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; To die or leave their children free,
And Time the ruined bridge has swept Bid Time and Nature gently spare
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. The shaft we raise to them and thee.



THE RHODORA.

i|N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, | This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, | Dear tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Spreading its leafless bloomsin adamp nook, | Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

To please the desert and the sluggish brook ;]__ Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose!




The purple petals fallen in the pool I never thought to ask, I never knew,
Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; But in my simple ignorance suppose

Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school ; The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought
The lively show beguiled me from my way. you.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why



THE TRUE HERO.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘“ VOLUNTARIES.”

The following story is told of the manner in which the poem, “Voluntaries,”’ obtained its title. In 1863,
Mr. Emerson came to Boston and took a room in the Parker House, bringing with him the unfinished sketch
of a few verses which he wished Mr. Fields, his publisher, to hear. He drew a small table to the centre
of the room and read aloud the lines he proposed giving to the press. They were written on separate slips
of paper which were flying loosely about the room. (Mr. Emerson frequently wrote in such independent
paragraphs, that many of his poems and essays might be rearranged without doing them serious violence.)
The question arose as to title of the verses read, when Mr. Fields suggested ‘‘ Voluntaires,’? which was cor-
dially accepted by Mr. Emerson.



WELL for the fortunate soul Heeds not the darkness and the dread,

f} «Which Music’s wings unfold, Biding by his rule and choice,

Stealing away the memory Telling only the fiery thread,

Of sorrows new and old! Leading over heroic ground
Yet happier he whose inward sight, Walled with immortal terror round,
Stayed on his subtle thought, To the aim which him allures,
Shuts his sense on toys of time, And the sweet heaven his deed secures.
To vacant bosoms brought ; Peril around all else appalling,
But best befriended of the God Cannon in front and leaden rain,
He who, in evil times, Him duty through the clarion calling

Warned by an inward voice, To the van called notin vain.
76

Stainless soldier on the walls,

Knowing this,—and knows no more,—
Whoever fights, whoever falls,

Justice conquers evermore,

Justice after as before ;—

And he who battles on her side,

God, though he were ten times slain,
Crowns him victor glorified,

Victor over death and pain

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Forever: but his erring foe,
Self-assured that he prevails,

Looks from his victim lying low,
And sees aloft the red right arm
Redress the eternal seales.

He, the poor for whom angels foil,
Blind with pride and fooled by hate,
Writhes within the dragon coil,
Reserved to a speechless fate.



MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL.

HE mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel ;
And the former called the latter “ Little
Prig.”
Bun replied :
“ You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.



And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

Tl not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track ;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”

—— oO

THE SNOW STORM.



Bayh \es3]| NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky
yw} Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the
fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.

The sled and traveler stopp’d, the courier’s feet

Delay’d, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north-wind’s masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnish’d with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.



Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he

For number or proportion. Mockingly

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are number’d, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish’d Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

—+e -———

THE PROBLEM.

| LIKE a church, I like a cowl,

I love a prophet of the soul,
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles,
Yet not for all his faith can see

Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought

His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of sunning fell



The thrilling Delphic oracle ;

Out from the heart of nature roll’d
The burdens of the Bible old;

The litanies of nations came,

Like the volcano’s tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below,—
The canticles of love and wo.

The hand that rounded Peter’s dome,
And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrought in a sad sincerity.

Himself from God he could not free ;


RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

He builded better than he knew, 1
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell?
Or how the sacred pine tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads ?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone;
And morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids ;
O’er England’s Abbeys bends the sky
As on its friends with kindred eye;
For, out of Thought’s interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air,
And nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass,
Art might obey but not surpass.
The passive Master ‘lent his hand

77

To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d,

And the same power that rear’d the shrine,

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.

Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host,

Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken,

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ;

The word by seers or sybils told

In groves of oak or fanes of gold,

Still floats upon the morning wind,

Still whispers to the willing mind.

One accent*of the Holy Ghost

The heedless world hath never lost.

I know what say the Fathers wise,—

The book itself before me lies,—

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,

And he who blent both in his line,

The younger Gr'olden Lips or mines,

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ;

His words are music in my ear,

I see his cowled portrait dear,

And yet, for all his faith could see,

I would not the good bishop be.



TRAVE
4]| HAVE no churlish objection to the cir- |
M4] cumnavigation of the globe, for the pur-

> poses of art, of study, and benevolence,
so that the man is first domesticated, or does not
go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater
than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or
to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels
away from himself, and grows old even in youth
among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will
and mind have become old and dilapidated as they.
He carries ruins to ruins.

Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our
first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At
kome I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be in-
toxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack
my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the
sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside
me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identi-
cal that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the
palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and
suggestions; but I am not intoxicated. My giant
goes with me wherever I go.

But the rage of traveling is itself only a symptom
of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intel-





LING. .

lectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the
universal system of education fosters restlessness.
Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay
at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but
the traveling of the mind? Our houses are built
with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with
foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our
whole minds, lean to and follow the past and the dis-
tant as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The
soul created the arts wherever they have flourished.
It was in his own mind that the artist sought his
model. It was an application of his own thought to
the thing to be done and the conditions to be ob-
served. And why need we copy the Doric or the
Gothie model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of
thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to
any, and if the American artist will study with hope
and love the precise thing to be done by him, con-
sidering the climate, the soil, the length of the day,
the wants of the people, the habit and form of
the government, he will create a house in which all
these will find themselves fitted, and taste and senti-
ment will be satisfied also.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. .

THE COMPENSATION OF CALAMITY.

AE cannot part with our friends. We can-
not let our angels go. We do not see
that they only go out that archangels
may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We
do not bélieve in the riches of. the soul, in its proper
eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe
there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that
beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of
the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter
and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover
and nerve us again. We cannot find aught so dear,
so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain.
The voice of the Almighty saith, “Up and onward
for evermore!” We cannot stay amid the ruins,
neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever
with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look
backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made
apparent to the understanding also, after long inter-
vals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disap-





pointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at
the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the
gure years reveal the deep remedial force that under-
lies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife,
brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation,
somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or
genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our
way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of
youth which was waiting to be closed; breaks up a
wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living,
and allows the formation of new ones more friendly
to the growth of character. It permits or constrains
the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception
of new influences that prove of the first importance
to the next years; and the man or woman who would
have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room
for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by
the falling of the walls and the neglect of the
gardener, is made the banian of the forest, yielding
shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men.



SELF-RELIANCE.

NSIST on yourself; never imitate. Your
own gift you can present every moment

2=t#) with the cumulative force of a whole
lite’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of
another you have only an extemporaneous, half
possession. That which each can do best, none but
his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows
what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it.
Where is the master who could have taught Shaks-




structed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon or
Newton? Every great man is a unique. The
Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could
not borrow. If anybody will tell me whom the
great man imitates in the original crisis when he per-
forms a great act, I will tell him who-else than him-
self can teach him. Shakspeare will never be made
by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is as-
signed thee, and thou canst not hope too much or

peare? Where is the master who could have in-| dare too much.



FROM




much from his chamber as from society.
I am not solitary whilst I read and write,
though nobody is with me. But if a man would be
alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come
from those heavenly worlds will separate between
him and vulgar things. One might think the atmos-
phere was made transparent with this design, to
give man,'in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual pres-

“NATURE.”

O go into solitude a man needs to retire as|ence of the sublime.

Seen in the streets of cities,
how great they are!

If the stars should appear one night in a thousand
years, how would men believe and adore and preserve
for many generations the remembrance of the city of
God which had been shown! But every night come
out these preachers of beauty and light the universe
with their admonishing smile.

The stars awaken a certain reverence, because,




RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

79

though always present, they are always inaccessible ; | setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning

but all natural objects make kindred impression when
the mind is open to their influence. Nature never
wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest
' man extort all her secrets and lose his curiosity by
finding out all her perfection. Nature never became
a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the
' mountains reflected all the wisdom of his best hour
as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his
| childhood.
| When we speak of Nature in this manner, we have
a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We
mean the integrity of impression made by manifold
| Nature objects. It is this which distinguishes the
stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of
| the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this
morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or
thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and
Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them
owns the landscape. There is a property in the hori-
zon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate
all the parts—that is, the poet. This is the best
part of these men’s farms, yet to this their land-deeds
| give them no title.
To speak truly, few adult persons can see Nature.
_ Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have
_ a very superficial seeing. . The sun illuminates only
the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the
heart of the child. The lover of Nature is he whose
' inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to
each other—who has retained the spirit of infancy
even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with
_ heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In
the presence of Nature a wild delight runs through
the man in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, He
) is my creature, and, maugre all his impertinent griefs,
7 he shall be glad with me. Not the sun nor the sum-
' mer alone, but every hour and season, yields its tribute
| of delight; for every hour and change corresponds
to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from
breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a



piece. In good health the air is a cordial of incredi-
ble virtue. Crossing a bare common in snow-puddles
at twilight under a clouded sky, without having in
my thoughts any occurrence of special good-fortune,
I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear
to think how glad Iam.. In the woods, too, a man
casts off his years as the snake his slough, and at
what period soever of his life is always a child. In
the woods is perpetual youth. Within these planta-
tions of God a decorum and sanctity reign, a peren-
nial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he
should tire of them in a thousand years. In the
woods we return to reason and faith. There I feel
that nothing can befall me in life—no disgrace, no
calamity (leaving me my eyes)—-which Nature can-
not repair. * * * * ** * OK

The greatest delight which the fields and woods
minister is the suggestion of an occult relation be-
tween man and the vegetable. I am not alone and
unacknowledged. They nod to me and I to them.
The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me
and old.

It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown.
Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better
emotion coming over me when I deemed I was think-
ing justly or doing right.

Yet it is certain that the power to produce this de-
light does not reside in Nature, but in man or in ¢
harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleas-
ures with great temperance. For Nature is not. al-
ways tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene
which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as
for the frolic of the nymphs is overspread with mel-
ancholy to-day. Nature always wears the colors of
the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the
heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there
is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him
who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky
is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the
population.


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

“mE POET OF FREEDOM.”

N A solitary farm house near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the valley



SY leaf Whittier was born. Within the same town, and Amesbury,

chusetts, September 7th, 1892. The only distinguishing features about his ancestors
were that Thos. Whittier settled at Haverhill in 1647, and brought with him from

honor for his simple and beautiful heart-songs, spent most of his life,

of the Merrimac, on the 17th day of December, 1807, John Green- |

nearby, this kind and gentle man, whom all the world delights to |



dying at the ripe old age of nearly eighty-five, in Danvers, Massa-

Newberry the first hive of bees in the settlement, that they were all sturdy Quakers, _
lived simply, were friendly and freedom loving. The early surroundings of the |

farmer boy were simple and frugal. He has pictured them for us in his masterpiece,
“Snowbound.” Poverty, the necessity of laboring upon the farm, the influence of
Quaker traditions, his busy life, all conspired against his liberal education and literary
culture. This limitation of knowledge is, however, at once to the masses his charm,
and, to scholars, his one -defect. It has led him to write, as no other poet could,
upon the dear simplicity of New England farm life. He has written from the heart
and not from the head; he has composed popular pastorals, not hymns of culture.
Only such training as the district schools afforded, with a couple of years at Haver-
hill Academy comprised his advantages in education.

In referring to this alma mater in after years, under the spell of his muse, the
poet thus writes :— ,
. “ Still sits the school house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning ;
Around it still the sumachs grow
And black-berry vines are running.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official ;

The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife carved initial.”

It was natural for Whittier to become the poet of that combination of which
Garrison was the apostle, and Phillips and Sumner the orators. His early poems were
published by Garrison in his paper, “The Free Press,” the first one when Whittier

~ 80 —

Se



|








Hil

| UU iin It





JOHN G. WHITTIER, HIS HOME AND BIRTHPLACE.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHIITIER. 81

was nineteen years of age and Garrison himself little more thana boy. The farmer
lad was elated when he found the verses which he had so timidly submitted in print
with a friendly comment from the editor and a request for more. Garrison even
visited Whittier’s parents and urged the importance of giving him a finished educa-
tion. Thus he fell early under the spell of the great abolitionist and threw himself
with all the ardor of his nature into the movement. His poems against slavery and
disunion have a ringing zeal worthy of a Cromwell. “They are,” declares one
writer, “like the sound of the trumpets blown before the walls of Jericho.”

As a Quaker Whittier could not have been otherwise than an abolitionist, for that
denomination had long since abolished slavery within its own communion. Most

rominent among his poems of freedom are “The Voice of Freedom,” published in
1849, “The Panorama and Other Poems,” in 1856, “In War Times,” in 1863, and
“Jchabod,” a pathetically kind yet severely stinging rebuke to Daniel Webster for
his support of the Fugitive Slave Law. Webster was right from the standpoint of
law and the Constitution, but Whittier argued from the standpoint of human right
and liberty. “ Barbara Frietchie,’—while it is pronounced purely a fiction, as
is also his poem about John Brown kissing the Negro baby on his way to the gal-
lows,—is perhaps the most widely quoted of his famous war poems.

Whittier also wrote extensively on subjects relating to New England history,
witchcraft and colonial traditions. This group includes many of his best ballads,
which have done in verse for colonial romance what Hawthorne did in prose in his
“Twice-Told Tales” and “Scarlet Letter.” It is these poems that have entitled
Whittier to be called “the greatest of American ballad writers.” Among them are
to be found ‘Mabel Martin,’ “The Witch of Wenham,” “Marguerite” and
“Skipper Ireson’s Ride.” But it is perhaps in the third department of his writings,
namely, rural tales and idyls, that the poet is most widely known. These pastoral
poems contain the very heart and soul of New England. They are faithful and
loving pictures of humble life, simple and peaceful in their subject and in their
style. The masterpieces of this class are “Snowbound,” “Maud Muller,” “The
Barefoot Boy,” “Among the Hills,” “ Telling the Bees,” etc. The relation of these
simple experiences of homely character has carried him to the hearts of the people
and made him, next to Longfellow, the most popular of American poets. There is
a pleasure and a satisfaction in the freshness of Whittier’s homely words and home-
spun phrases, which we seek in vain in the polished art of cultivated masters. As
a poet of nature he has painted the landscapes of New England as Bryant has the
larger features of the continent.

Whittier was never married and aside from a few exquisite verses he has given
the public no clew to the romance of his youth. His home was presided over for
many years by his sister Elizabeth, a most lovely and talented woman, for whom he
cherished the deepest affection, and he has written nothing more touching than his

tribute to her memory in “Snowbound.” The poet was shy and diffident among

strangers and in formal society, but among his friends genial and delightful, with a

fund of gentle and delicate humor which gave his conversation a great charm.

Aside from his work as a poet Whittier wrote considerable prose. His first volume
was “Legends of New England,” published in 1831, consisting of prose and verse.
Subsequent prose publications consisted of contributions to the slave controversy,

a
82 JOHN ,GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

biographical sketches of English and American reformers, studies of scenery and
folk-lore of the Merrimac valley. Those of greatest literary interest were the
“Supernaturalisms of New England,” (1847,) and “Literary Recreations and
Miscellanies,” (1852.)

In 1836 Whittier became secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and
he was all his life interested in public affairs, and wrote much for newspapers and
periodicals. In 1838 he began to edit the “ Pennsylvania Freeman” in Philadel-
phia, but in the following year his press was destroyed and his office burned by a
pro-slavery mob, and he returned to New England, devoting the larger part of his
life, aside from his anti-slavery political writings, to embalming its history and
legends in his literature, and so completely has it been done by him it has been
declared: “If every other record of the early history and life of New England
were lost the story could be constructed again from the pages of Whittier. Traits,
habits, facts, traditions, incidents—he holds a torch to the dark places and illumines
them every one.”

Mr. Whittier, perhaps, is the most peculiarly American poet of any that our country
has produced. The woods and waterfowl of Bryant belong as much to one land
as another ; and all the rest of our singers—Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and their
brethren—with the single exception of Joaquin Miller, might as well have been born
in the land of Shakespeare, Milton and Byron as their own. But Whittier is
entirely a poet of his own soil. All through his verse we see the elements that
created it, and it is interesting to trace his simple life, throughout, in his verses from
the time, when like that urchin with whom he asserts brotherhood, and who has won
all affections, he ate his

* OK * “milk and bread,

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the door-stone gray and rude.
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple curtains fringed with gold
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ;”

and, when a little older his fancy dwelt upon the adventures of Chalkley—as

“ Following my plough by Merrimac’s green shore
His simple record I have pondered o’er
With deep and quiet joy.”

In these reveries, “The Barefoot Boy” and others, thousands of his countrymen |
have lived over their lives again. Every thing he wrote, to the New Englander has |
a sweet, warm familiar life about it. To them his writings are familiar photo- |
graphs, but they are also treasury houses of facts over which the future antiquarian |
will pour and gather all the close details of the phase of civilization that they give |

The old Whittier homestead at Amesbury is now in charge of Mrs. Pickard, a
neice of the poet. She has recently made certain changes in the house; but this |
has been done so wisely and cautiously that if the place some day becomes a shrine |
—as it doubtless will—the restoration of the old estate will beasimple matter. The |
library is left quite undisturbed, just as it was when Whittier died.




JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 83

MY PLAYMATE.

HE pines were dark on Ramoth Hill,.
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.



The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear ;
The sweetest and the saddest day

It seemed of all the year,

For more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,

And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine:

What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father’s kine ?

She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o’er

The seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.

I walk with noiseless feet the round
Of uneventful years ;

Still o’er and o’er I sow the Spring
And reap the Autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow ;

The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.

There haply with her jeweled hands
She smooths her silken gown,—

No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.



The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,

And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,
The birds build in the tree,

The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill
The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,—

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.

T see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father’s kine?

What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,—

That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,

Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o’er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow ;

And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,—

The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee !

THE CHANGELING.

Tad OR the fairest maid in Hampton
They needed not to search,
Who saw young Anna Favor
Come walking into church,—




Or bringing from the meadows,
At set of harvest-day,

The frolic of the blackbirds,
The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers,
The saddest two-years bride,

She scowls in the face of her husband,
And spurns her child aside.

“ Rake out the red coals, goodman,
For there the child shall lie,

Till the black witch comes to fetch her,
And both up chimney fly.
84

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

“Tt’s never my own little daughter,
It’s never my own,” she said ;

“The witches have sto.en my «nna,
And left me an imp instead. -

“ O, fair and sweet was my baby,
Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold;

But this is ugly and wrinkled,
Cross, and cunning, and old.

“T hate the touch of her fingers,
T hate the feel of her skin ;

It’s not the milk from my bosom,
But my blood, that she sucks in.

“ My face grows sharp with the torment ;
Look ! my arms are skin and bone !—
Rake open the red coals, goodman,
And the witch shall have her own.

“She'll come when she hears it crying,
In the shape of an owl or bat,

And she'll bring us our darling Anna
In place of her screeching brat.”

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
Laid his hand upon her head:

“Thy sorrow is great, O woman !
I sorrow with thee,” he said.

“The paths to trouble are many,
And never but one sure way
Leads out to the light beyond it:
My poor wife, let us pray.”

Then he said to the great All-Father,
“Thy daughter is weak and blind ;
Let her sight come back, and clothe her

Once more in her right mind.

“Lead her out of this evil shadow,
Out of these fancies wild ;

Let the holy love of the mother,
Turn again to her child.

“Make her lips like the lips of Mary,
Kissing her blessed Son ;

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
Rest on her little one.

“ Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
Open her prison door,

And thine shall be all the glory
And praise forevermore.”

Then into the face of its mother,
The baby looked up and smiled ;
And the cloud of her soul was lifted,

And she knew: her little child.

A beam of slant west sunshine
Made the wan face almost fair,

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder
And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehaad,
She kissed it on cheek and cnin;
And she bared her snow-white bosom

To the lips so pale and thin.

O, fair on her bridal morning

Was the maid who blushed and smiled
But fairer to Ezra Dalton

Looked the mother of his child.

“With more than a lover’s fondness

He stooped to her worn young face
And the nursing child and the mother
He folded in one embrace.

‘Now mount and ride, my goodman
As lovest thine own soul ! j
Woe's me if my wicked fancies
Be the death of Goody Cole!”

His horse he saddled and bridled,
And into the night rode he,—

Now through the great black woodland ;
Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings,
He came to the ferry wide,

And thrice he called to the boatman
Asleep on the other side.

He set his horse to the river,
He swam to Newburg town,
And he called up Justice Sewall

In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice,
Upon whose soul be peace ! ;

Set his name to the jailer’s warrant
For Goody Cole’s release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats
Went sounding like a flail :

And Goody Cole at cock crow
Came forth from Ipswich jail.


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. : 85

THE WORSHIP. OF NATURE.

>a]|HE ocean looketh up to heaven,
As ’twere a living thing ;

The homage of its waves is given
In ceaseless worshiping.



They kneel upon the sloping sand,
As bends the human knee,

A beautiful and tireless band,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour the glittering treasures out
Which in the deep have birth,

And chant their awful hymns about
The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up
From every mountain-shrine,

From every flower and dewy cup
That greeteth the sunshine.

The mists are lifted from the rills,
Like the white wing of prayer ;

— +o—.

They lean above the ancient hills,
As doing homage there.

The forest-tops are lowly cast
O’er breezy hill and glen,
As if a prayerful spirit pass’d

On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world,
E’en as repentant love ;

Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl’d,
They fade in light above.

The sky is as a temple’s arch,
The blue and wavy air

Is glorious with the spirit-march
Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun,
The many stars are given,

As shrines to burn earth’s incense on
The altar-fires of Heaven !

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes ;
With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace!
From my heart I give thee joy;

I was once a barefoot boy.

Prince thou art—the grown-up man,
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride !

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy,

In the reach of ear and eye:

Outward sunshine, inward joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy.



O! for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools:
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,

Of the wild flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood ;

How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well ;
How the robin feeds her young,

How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,

' Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine ,

Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

Of gray hornet artisans !

For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Part and parcel of her joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy.

O for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for !

I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone ;
Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day, and through the nig* :
Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall ;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, «|
86 ' JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Mine; on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides !

Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too,

All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy !

O, for festal dainties spread,

Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon and bow] of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me like a regal tent,

Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play

Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ;

And, to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch ; pomp and joy

Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man!

Live and laugh as boyhood can ;
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew ;

Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,

Lose the freedom of the sod,

Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil,
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground ;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!



MAUD MULLER.

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.



Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid.

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of: the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and browa;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!

“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

“Td dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

“ And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door.”

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,

And saw Maud Muller standing still.

“ A form. more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it heen my lot: to meet,


JOIIN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 87

« And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

« Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:

“ No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

“ But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was Jeft in the field alone.

°

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, |
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead ;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
“ Ah, that I were free again!

“Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new mown hay in the meadow lot,.

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, ~
The tallow candle an astral burned ;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, “ It might have been.”

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes ;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!



MEMORIES.

BEAUTIFUL and happy girl

With step as soft as summer air,

Shadow’d by many a careless’ curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair:

And fresh young lip and brow of pearl

A seeming child in every thing
Save thoughtful brow, and ripening
charms, :
As nature wears the smile of spring
When sinking into summer’s arms.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

88

A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful bower,

Leaf after leaf serenely bright

And stainless in its holy white
Unfolding like a morning flower:

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute
With every breath of feeling woke,

And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.

Yow thrills once more the lengthening chain
Of memory at the thought of thee !—
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its elow upon my cheek,
Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I lean’d to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

T hear again thy low replies,
I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes
With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves, .
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,
And folly’s self seem’d wise in thee.
I too can smile, when o’er that hour
The lights of memory backward stream,
Yet feel the while that manhood’s power
Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream

Years have pass’d‘on, and left their trace
Of graver care and deeper thought ;
And unto me the calm, cold face
Of manhood, and to thee the grace
Of woman’s pensive beauty brought,
On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise
The schoolboy’s name has widely flown;
Thine in the green and quiet ways
Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed
Our still diverging thoughts incline,
Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed,
While answers to my spirit’s need
The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line.
For thee the priestly rite and prayer,
And holy day and solemn psalm,
For me the silent reverence where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me
An impress time has not worn out,
And something of myself in thee,
A shadow from the past, I see
Lingering even yet thy way about;
Not wholly can the heart unlearn
That lesson of its better hours,
Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn
_ To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eye
The clouds about the present part,
And, smiling through them, round us lie
Soft hues of memory’s morning sky—
The Indian summer of the heart,
In secret sympathies of mind,
In founts of feeling which retain
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find
Our early dreams not wholly vain}



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.




Feebly and cold, the morning light

As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head—
His bloodless cheek is seam’d and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ;
And o’er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevell’d locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows,—
And yet the winter’s breath is chil:

31OOK on him—through his dungeon-grate,

Comes stealing round him, dim and late,

And o’er his haif-clad person goes
The frequent ague-thrill !

Silent—save ever and anon,

A sound, half-murmur and half-groan,

Forces apart the painful grip

Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip:

O, sad and crushing is the fate

Of old age chain’d and desolate !

Just Gop! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison-bed,

Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,

And, or in wakefulness or sleep

Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb,
Crimson’d with murder, touches him !

What has the gray-hair’d prisoner done?
Has murder stain’d his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime’s a fouler one:
God made the old man poor !
For this he shares a felon’s cell—
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this—the boon for which he pour’d
His young blood on the invader’s sword,
And counted light the fearful cost—
His blood-gain’d liberty is lost !

And so, for such a place of rest,
Old prisoner, pour’d thy blood as rain
On Concord’s field, and Bunker's crest,
And Saratoga’s plain ?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars !
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument uprear’d to thee—
Piled granite and a prison cell—
The land repays thy service well!

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;

89

Shout “ Freedom !” till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:

Let boasted eloquence declaim

Of honor, liberty, and fame ;

Still let the poet’s strain be heard,

With “ glory” for each second word,

And everything with breath agree

To praise, “ our glorious liberty !”

And when the patriot cannon jars
That prison’s cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind, and fall—
Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer !
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry ?
Sorrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb,
What is your carnival to him ?

Down with the law that binds him thus!
Unworthy freemen, let it find

No refuge from the withering curse
Of Gop and human kind!

Open the prisoner's living tomb,

“And usher from its brooding gloom

The victims of your savage code,

To the free sun and air of Gop!

No longer dare as crime to brand,

The chastening of the Almighty’s hand!

THE STORM.

FROM “SNOW-BOUND.”

_Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. Itisa New
England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, ‘‘The Winter Evening,’’ of Cowper, and Burns’

“Cotter’s Saturday Night”

; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these.

Snow-bound

is a faithful description of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s home in Connect-

icut.
misssion this extract is here inserted.

Baa NWARNED by any sunset light

4) The gray day darkened into night,

AS25| A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow ;
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.



So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines

The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Heughton, Mifflin & Co., by whose per.

Of Nature's geometric signs,

In starry flake, and pellicle,

All day the hoary meteor fell ;

And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,

No cloud above, no earth below,—

A universe of sky and snow!

The old familiar sight of ours

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;
gO ' JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road ;

The bridle-post an old man sat

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof’;

And even the long sweep, high aloof,

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell

Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.

Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew ;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through,
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid

With dazzling crystal: we had read

Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,

And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: “ Boys, a path!”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy



ICHABOD.
The following poem was written on hearing of Daniel Webster’s course in supporting the ‘* Compromise
Measure,” including the ‘Fugitive Slave Law’’. This speech was delivered in the United States Senate

on the 7th of March, 1850, and greatly incensed the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many
New Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster. The lines are full of tender regret,
deep grief and touching pathos.

Sag|0 fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore! * But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim
Dishonor’d brow.




Revile him not,—the Tempter hath
A snare for all!

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall.

Oh! dumb be passion’s stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age
Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark
A bright soul driven,

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven?

-Let not the land, once proud ot nim,
Insult him now,

A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honor’d, nought
Save power remains,—

A fallen angel’s pride of thought
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:

When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;

Walk backward with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!
a Rae 5

OWE

MBRIDGE, MASS. +.

CA
52

BAR THPLACE








OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.

HIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the Eng-
lish speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship
and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born
in Cambridge, Massachussetts, August 29th, 1809, and died in Bos-
ton, October 27th 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five—the “last
leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell,
Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Mar-

aret Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with
all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another.

Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him
a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated.
‘One of his classmates said of him :—‘‘He made you feel like you were the best fel-
low in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, and
Rey. Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and
have been wittily described in his poem “ The Boys.” Dr. Holmes once humorously
said that he supposed “the three people whose poems were best known were himself,
one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was; the one
Brown was author of ‘I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was
author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”

After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned
to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Profes-
sor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a
similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors
were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume
of medical essays, issued in 1883.

Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including
three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “ My Aunt,” “The height of the
Ridiculous” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were
issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880.

Dr. Holmes is popularly known as the ‘poet of society, this title attaching because
most of his productions were called forth by special occasions.. About one hundred
of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta
Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve
his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,”

9 \ ¥


92 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,”
“The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment of a lofty
theme; “The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos
and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to
what extent he can play in real fun. In fact, Dr. Holmes was a many-sided man,
and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “ No other
American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully. We might further add,
no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those
who knew him.

As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “ Autocrat at the Breakfast
Table,” “Professor at the Breakfast Table” and “ Poet at the Breakfast Table,”
published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to
have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The
“ Autocrat” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its
typical characters forms the scene. ‘The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of
the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire
and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this
work will also be found “The Wonderful One Horse Shay” and “The Chambered
Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems.

Holmes wrote two novels, “ Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which
in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in
this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a
scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographer Dr. Holmes has also
given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph
Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “ A Mortal Anti-
pathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887).

Holmes was one of the projectors of ‘‘ The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started
in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its
editor. It was to this periodical that the “ Autocrat” and “The Professor at the
Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the perman-
ent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and
he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “ Hub
of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared
was “located exactly at the Boston State House.”

Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all
times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physio-
logy, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul.
His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good
cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—‘ The last Leaf on
the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age
of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many
generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race.

Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly
lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor,
among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome
of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readiness
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 93

‘to amuse and be amused, together with an endless store of anecdotes, bis tact and
union of sympathy and originality, make him the best of companions for an hour
or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities
of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writ-
ings. We feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely
for this reason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood
more courageously through the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is
easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we
had been wont to regard it. ,

The following paragraph published in a current periodical shortly after the death
of Mr. Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished
author :

“ Holmes timself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness.
His father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that
he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was
bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that ‘he
made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.’”

Dr. Holmes was first and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper.
There was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose
or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech.

One of his most quoted poems “ Dorothy Q,” is full of this sparkle, and. carries
a suggestion of his favorite theme:

Grandmother’s mother: her age I guess
Thirteen summers, or something less ;
Gilish bust, but womanly air ;
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;
Lips that lover has never kissed ;
‘Taper fingers and slender wrist ;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;
So they painted the little maid.

*k * * * *
What if a hundred years ago
Those close shut lips had answered No,
When forth the tremulous question came
That cost the maiden her Norman name,
And under the folds that looked so still
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill?
Should I be I, or would it be
One tenth another to nine tenths me?
94

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

BILL AND JOE.

Will steal an hour from days gone by—
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,

When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Eyeae|OME, dear old comrade, you and I
be



Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail :
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare ;
To-day, old friend,.remember still
That Tam Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world’s envied prize,
And grand you look in people’s eyes,

With HON. and LL.D.,

In big brave letters, fair to see—

Your fist, old fellow! off they go |—

How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe ;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless str: ain ;
You've made the dead past live again ;

The world may call you what it will,

But youand I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,

“See those old buffers, bent and gray ;

They talk like fellows in their teens!

Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means”—
And shake their heads; they little know

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side ;

How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes—
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fili
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame ?

A fitful tongue of leaping flame;

A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ;

A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe {

The weary idol takes his stand,

Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go—
How vain it seems, this empty show —
Till all at once his pulses thrill :

"Tis poor old Joe’s “ God bless you, Bill!”

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,-—
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For-earth-born spirits none too long,

Just whispering of the world below,
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here

No sounding name is half so dear ;

When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say ?
Read on the hearts that love us still

Hic jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill.



UNION AND LIBERTY.

LAG of the heroes who left us their glory,
Borne through their battle-fields’ thun-
der and flame,
Blazoned in song and illuminated in story,
Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame.
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,
~ While through the sounding sky
Loud rings the Nation’s ery—
Unton AnD Lizerty! One Evermore!



Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation,
Pride of her children, and honored afar,

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star !
Empire unsceptred! What foe shall assail thee

Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van ?

Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,
Striving with men for the birthright of man!
Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted,
Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou mvst
draw,
Then with the arms to thy million united,
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!

Lord of -the universe! shield us and guide us,
Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sur !
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?
Keep us, O keep us the Many 1n Ont!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,
While through the sounding sky
Loud rings the Nation’s cry—
Union anp Liserty! OnE Evermore!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 95

OLD IRON SIDES.

The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the ‘‘Boston Daily Advertiser,”
when the Frigate ‘‘Constitution’’ lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown. The department had resolved
upon breaking her up; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the
newspapers with universal applause; and, according to ‘‘Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of
January, 1837, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington.

KY, tear her tatter’d ensign down !
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky ;
Beneath it rung the battle-shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar :
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!



Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquish’d foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
And waves were white below,

Ge] Y aunt! my dear unmarried aunt !

iA Long years have o’er her flown ;

Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone ;

I know it hurts her,—though she looks
As cheerful as she can:

Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.



My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray ;

Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way ?

How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,

When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?

Her father—grandpapa! forgive
This erring lip its smiles—

Vow'd she would make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles.

He sent her to a stylish school ;
‘Twas in her thirteenth June;

And with her, as the rules required,
“Two towels and a spoon.”



No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquer’d knee ;

The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shatter’d hulk
Should sink beneath the wave ;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave ;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,—
The kghtning and the gale!

MY AUNT.

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall ;

They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small ;

They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair
They screw’d-it up with pins,—

Oh, never mortal suffer'd more
In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back

(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track);

“Ah!” said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,

“What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!”

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade
Tore from the trembling father’s arms
His all-accomplish’d maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And Heaven had spared to me’
To see one sad, ungather’d rose
On my ancestral tree.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.



Avy ers| WROTE some lines once on a time
KA fs

Gs ope In wondrous merry mood,
dn} A

They were exceeding good.

nd thought, as usual, men would say

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laugh’d as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.
96

I call’d my servant, and he came:
How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

“ These to the printer,” I exclaim’d,
And, in my humorous way,

T added (as a trifling jest),
“There'll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watch’d,
And saw him peep within ;

At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth ; he broke into a roar;
The fifth, his waistband split ;
The sixth, he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watch’d that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

SIHIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadow’d main,—
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled
wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming
hair.



Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ;
Wreck’d is the ship of pearl!
And every chamber’d cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies reveal’d,—

Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d !

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil ;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,





Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretch’d in his last-found home, and. knew the old
no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn !

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voiee

that sings :—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll !
Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

. | Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!



OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR.

Mr. Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. The following sketches are characteristic of his

happy and varied style.



YeSLD AGE, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Pro-
A fessor, this is Old Age.

NSA Old Age.—Mr. Professor, I hope to see
you well. I have known you for some time, though

I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down
the street together ?

Professor (drawing back a little).—We can talk

me how it is you seem to be acquainted with every-

body you are introduced to, though he evidently con-

siders you an entire stranger ?
Old Age—I make it a rule never to force myself

upon a person’s recognition until I have known him

at least five years.
Professor—Do you mean to say that you have

more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell| known me so long as that?


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Old Age—I do. I left my card on you longer
ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it;
yet I see you have it with you.

Professor.—W here ?

Old Age.—There, between your eyebrows,—three
straight lines running up and down ; all the probate
courts know that token,—* Old Age, his mark.” Put
your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and
your middle finger on the inner end of the other eye-
brow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth
out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look
before I left my card on you.

Professor —W hat message do people generally send
back when you first call on them?



97

Old Age.—Not at home. Then I leave a card
and go. Next year I call; get the same answer;
leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes
ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in,
I break in through the front door or the windows.

We talked together in this way some time. Then
Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the
street together,—and offered me a cane,—an eye-glass,
a tippet, and a pair of overshoes—No, much obliged
to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had
alittle rather talk with you here, privately,in my study.
So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked
out alone ;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a
lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter,



THE

S/UR brains are seventy-year clocks. The
Angel of Life winds them up once for all,
gz} then closes the case, and gives the key into
the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection.

Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our
will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves ;




BRAIN.

sleep cannot still them ; madness only makes them go
faster; death alone can break into the case, and,
seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call
the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible
escapement we have carried so long beneath our
wrinkled foreheads.



MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

I had taken before this one. I found



dimples, the places for which were just marked when
she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks
when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me
from the schoolhouse steps. * * *

The schoolmistress had tried life. Once ina while
one meets with a single soul ereater than all the
living pageant that passes before it. As the pale
astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and
thin fingers, and weighs Uranus-or Neptune as in a
balance, so there are meek, slight women who have
weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and
hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender
hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left
her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor
and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were
before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face,
pradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often

7

CAN’T say just how many walks she and |

the effect of going out every morning
was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing |



sprightly, as she became interested in the various
matters we talked about and places we visited, I
saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament
were made for love,—unconscious of their sweet office
as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the
natural graces which were meant for the reward of
nothing less than the Great Passion.

It was on the Common that we were walking.
The mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know,
has various branches leading from it in different
directions. One of these runs downward from oppo-
site Joy Street southward across the whole length of
the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the
long path, and were fond of it.

I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably
robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this
path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice
without making myself distinctly audible. At last I
got out the question—Will you take the long path
with me? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress,—with
much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer:
98 : OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

if you take the long path with me now, I shall in-| Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—she
terpret it that we are to part no more! The school- | answered softly,—I will walk the long path with you!
mistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if} The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walk-
an arrow had struck her. ing, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path,

One of the long granite blocks used as seats was and said, very charmingly —“ Good-morning, my
hard by,—the one you may still see close by the| dears!”



A RANDOM CONVERSATION
ON OLD MAXIMS, BOSTON AND OTHER TOWNS.

(From “ The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.’’)

SIN has many tools, but a lie is the handle} A jaunty looking person, who had come in with
which fits them all. the young fellow they call John,—evidently a
Ser I think Sir,—said the divinity student, | stranger——said there was one more wise man’s say-
—you must intend that for one of the sayings of the ing that he had heard; it was about our place, but
Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the he didn’t know who said it—A civil curiosity was
other day. manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise
I thank you, my young friend—was the reply — saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the
but I must say something better than that, before I young fellow who brought him to dinner, Shall J tell
could pretend to fill out the number. it? To which the answer was, Go ahead!—Well,—
The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of | he said —this was what I heard :—
these sayings there were on record, and what, and by| ‘ Boston State-House is the hub of the solar
whom said. system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man,
Why, let us see,—there is that one of Benjamin! if you had the tire of all creation straightened out
Franklin, “the great Bostonian,” after whom this | for a crow-bar.”
land was named. To be sure, he said a great many| Sir,—said I—I am gratified with your remark.
wise things,—and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow | It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have





this——he speaks asif it were old. But then he ap-|sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness.
plied it so neatly !— The satire of the remark is essentially true of Bos-

“He that has onee done you a kindness will be | ton,—and of all other considerable—and inconsider-
more ready to do you another than he whom you) able—places with which I have had the privilege of
yourself have obliged.” being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the

Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, | only place in the world. Frenchmen—you remember
uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his|the line about Paris, the Court, the World, ete—I



flashing moments :— recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which
“ Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense | ran thus: “ Hotel de l’Univers et des Etats Unis ;”
with its necessaries.” and as Paris 7s the universe to a Frenchman, of course
To these must certainly be added that other saying | the United States are outside of it. ‘See Naples
of one of the wittiest of men :-— and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places.
“ Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.” |I have ‘been about lecturing, you know, and have
The divinity student looked grave at her, but|found the following propositions to hold true of all
said nothing. of them.

The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t} 1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through
think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only | the center of each and every town or city.
another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after} 2. If more than fifty years have passed since its
New York or Boston. foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabi-


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

tants the “ good old town of
ever its name may happen to be).

3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes
together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared
to be a “ remarkably intelligent audience.”

4, The climate of the place is particularly favorable
to longevity.

5. It contains several persons of vast talent little
known to the world. (One or two of them, you may
perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the
“ Pactolian’? some time since, which were “ respect-
fully. declined.’”)

Boston is just like other places of its size—only,
perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid

” Cwhat-

fire department, superior monthly publications, and
correct habit of spelling the English language, it has
some right to look down on the mob of cities. I'll
tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the
real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed
of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it
would only send away its first-rate men instead of its
second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known excep-
tions, of which we are always proud), we should be
spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the
gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real
metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can
drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I
have observed, by the way, that the people who really
live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of
each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within
the intellectual basin, or suction range, of one large
Don’t you see
Because their promising young author and
rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained

one, of the pretensions of any other.
why?

off to the neighboring big city,—their prettiest girls |

have exported to the same market; all their ambition
points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes
from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities.



99

Would I be so good as to specify any particular
example ?—Oh,—an example? Did you ever see a
bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see
me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the
highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused.

Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming.
If they have an old church or two, a few stately
mansions of former grandees, here and there an old
dwelling with the second story projecting (for the
convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the
front-door with their tomahawks)—if they have,
scattered about, those mighty square houses built
something more than half a century ago, and stand-
ing like architectural boulders dropped by the former
diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left
them as its monument,—if they have gardens with
elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the
high board-fence and drop their fruit on the side-
walk,—if they have a little grass in their side-streets,
enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,—
I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil
places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man
may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always
with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that
rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the
imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live
in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine
of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the
rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up,
you may see the sun through it by day and the stars
by night.

Do I think that the little villages have the conceit
of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much
difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in
the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts?
Well, they read it,—

«All are but parts of one stupendous Hull/”’




OES SS sr

WS NOS, ON,
{ a
SK EMESES eee

IOOOG O GO 6)
RE Be ceraceras



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST.

HILE the popularity of Lowell has not been so great as that of Whit-
tier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought
and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any -
other American poet, unless the exception be the “transcendental
philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second
only to Whittier.

James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22, 1819, and
died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He
was the youngest son of the ‘Rev. Charles ‘Lowell, an eminent Congregational “clere ey-
man, and was descended from the English settlers of 1639. He entered Harvard
in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. He began
to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote the anniversary poem,
and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he
studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered
upon the practice of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even
that first chent whom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch.

His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem
which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary
suspension from College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he
had a distaste. In this poem ‘he satirized the Abolitionists, and the transcendental
school of writers, of which Emerson was the prophet and leader. This poem, while
faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which por-
tended future prominence for its author.

Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeared, entitled
“A Yeai’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that
critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not
the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings,
thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in
his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the
tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which his first publication had
ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Nature the representative and minister
of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capri-
cious a young author’s character may be. A notable parallel is found in the great
10




JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IN HIS STUDY
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. IOl

Englishman, Carlyle whose “Life of Schiller” and his “Sator Resartus,” are
equally as unlike himself as were Lowell’s first two publications. In 1844, came
another volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The
longest in this collection—“ The Legend of Brittany ”—is, in imagination and artis-
tic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s
admission into the company of men of genius.

During this same year (1844) Mr. Lowell married the poetess, Maria White, an
ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. ‘T'wo
of Mrs. Lowell’s poems, “The Alpine Sheep” and the “Morning Glory” are
especially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and



HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS.

sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. |
They were both contributors to the “ Liberty Bell” and “ Anti-slavery Standard,
thus enjoying companionship in their labors.

In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “ Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consisting of a
series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This
was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so famous, that
he was styled “The First Critic of America.”

Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comi-
cal and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and prose. His
102 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

“Fable for Critics” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a
good-natured manner. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass
in procession for their share of criticism—which is as excellent as amusing—and
Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in
execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous.
“ Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by
the Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil War between the states. Hosea Biglow,
‘he country Yankee philosopher and supposed author of the papers, and the Rev.
Momer Wilber, his learned commentator and pastor of the first church at Jaalem,
reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee character as faithfully as
they are amusing and funny to the reader.

In 1853, Mrs. Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the
poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell. The coincident
inspired Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent
to Mr. Lowell with his expression of sympathy :

“Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine
The angel with the amaranthine wreath,

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine
Uttered a word that had a sound like death.

“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
A shaddow on those features fair and thin,
And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.

“ Angels of life and death alike are His;
Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er:

Who then would wish, or dare, believing this,
Against His messengers to shut the door ?”

Quite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified
author. His patriotic poems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the
right and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descriptions of nature
that his imagination’ manifests its greatest range of subtilty and power. “The
Vision of Sir Launfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the
months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for
the “Holy Grail” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles
drank at the last supper.

Lowell’s prose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were
afterwards gathered in book form, and his public addresses and his political essays.
He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily
labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Har-
vard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow) ; as editor of the
“ Atlantic Monthly,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine,
in 1857, his editorial work on the “ North American Review” from 1863 to 1872,
together with his political ministry in Spain and England, gave him, he says, “ quite
enough prosaic work to do.”
‘JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 103

It was to magazines that he first contributed “ Fireside Travels,” “ Among My
Books,” and “ My Study Window,” which have been since published in book form.
These publications cover a wide field of literature and impress the reader with a
spirit of inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was
an optimist of the most pronounced type. In none of his writings does he express
a syllable of discontent or despair. His “ Pictures from Appledore”’ and “ Under
the Willows” are not more sympathetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind
his healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future.

In 1877, Mr. Lowell was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes, and,
in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This position he
resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard Uni-
versity. While in England, Mr. Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that
time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturer and speaker. Oliver
Wendell Holmes thus writes of his popularity with the “ British Cousins:”

2

By what enchantment, what alluring arts,

Our truthful James led captive British hearts,—
Like honest Yankees we can simply guess ;

But that he did it, all must needs confess.”

He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge
in Westminster Abbey. On his return to America, this oration was included with
others in his volume entitled “ Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887).

Asa public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign
ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the purest lessons of
patriotism—ever preferring his country to his party—-and has criticised, with
energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding
these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American
citizenship.

Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American
poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will
grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man,
noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once,
a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a
masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes.

Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel ; but his insight into -
character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to
assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his
“Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of
Lowell’s works published was “ Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in
1892, after his death.
104 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE GOTHIC GENIUS.
FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.”

SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk,
Who drench you with esthetics till you feel
As if all beauty were a ghastly bore,

The faucet to let loose a wash of words,

That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse ;

But, being convinced by much experiment

How little inventiveness there is in man,

Grave copier of copies, I give thanks

For a new relish, careless to inquire

My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please—

Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art.

The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,

Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,

The one thing finished in this hasty world—

For ever finished, though the barbarous pit,

Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout

As if a miracle could be encored.



But ah! this other, this that never ends,
Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb,
As full of morals half divined as life,
Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise
Of hazardous caprices sure to please ;
Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,
Jmagination’s very self in stone!

With one long sigh of infinite release
From pedantries past, present, or to come,

’ T looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.

Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,
Builders of aspiration incomplete,

So more consummate, souls self-confident,

Who felt your own thought worthy of record

In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop
Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,
After long exile, to the mother tongue.



THE ROSE.

I.

YIN his tower sat the poet
{ Gazing on the roaring sea,
HS Take this rose,” he siched, cs ‘and throw it
Where there’s none Phat loveth me.
On the rock the billow bursteth,
And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.



Take, O sea! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast ;
On thy black and angry bosom
It will find a surer rest,
Life is vain, and love is hollow,
Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind.”

Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark

How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.

Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,

Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breaking, all alone.

IL.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand,

Half in hope, and half in sorrow
Tracing words upon the sand: >
“ Shall I ever then behold him
Who hath been my life so long, —
Ever to this sick heart fold him,—
Be the spirit of his song?

“ Touch not, sea, the blessed letters
J have traced upon thy shore,
Spare his name whose spirit fetters
Mine with love forever more!”
Swells the tide and overflows it,
But with omen pure and meet,
Brings a little rose and throws it
Humbly at the maiden’s feet.

Full of bliss she takes the token,
And, upon her snowy breast,
Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean’s fierce unrest.
“Love is thine, O heart! and surely
Peace shall also be thine own,
For the heart that trusteth purely
Never long can pine alone.”

III.

In his tower sits the poet,
Blisses new, and strange to him
Fill his heart and overflow it
With a wonder sweet and dim.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 105

Up the beach the ocean slideth
With a whisper of delight,

And the moon in silence glideth
Through the peaceful blue of night.

Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder
Flows a maiden’s golden hair,
Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,
Kiss his moonlit forehead bare.
“ Life is joy, and love is power,
Death all fetters doth unbind,



Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kind.

Hope is truth, the future giveth
More than present takes away,
And the soul forever liveth
Nearer God from day to day.”
Not a word the maiden muttered,
Fullest hearts are slow to speak,
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered
Down upon the poet’s cheek.

THE HERITAGE.

1

73) HE rich man’s son inherits lands,
i And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.



The rich man’s son inherits cares ;
The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft, white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare ;
With sated heart he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.



What doth the poor man’s son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold im fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ?
Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,

Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ?
A patience learn’d of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man’s son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whiten, soft, white hands,—
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state ;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great ;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last ;

Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill’é past ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.
106

HE busy world shoves angrily aside

The man who stands with arms akimbo set,

Until occasion tells him what to do ;

And he who waits to have his task mark’d
out

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d.

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds ;

Reason and Government, like two broad seas,

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms

Across this narrow isthmus of the throne,

And roll their white surf higher every day.

One age moves onward, and the next builds up

Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood

The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,

Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d

The goodly framework of a fairer state ;

The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe

Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;

Ours is the harder task, yet not the less

Shall we receive the blessing for our toil

From the choice spirits of the after-time.

The field lies wide before us, where to reap

The easy harvest of a deathless name,

Though with no better sickles than our swords.

My soul is not a palace of the past,

Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate,

quake,

Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,

That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ;

Then let it come: I have no dread of what






JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
ACT FOR TRUTH.

| Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind ;

Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart
Because we tear a parchment more or less.
Truth is eternal, but her eftluence,

With endless change, is fitted to the hour:
Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect

The promise of the future, not the past.

He who would win the name of truly great
Must understand his own age and the next,
And make the present ready to fulfil

Its prophecy, and with the future merge
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.
The future works out great men’s destinies ;
The present is enough for common souls,
Who, never looking forward, are indeed

Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age
Are petrified forever : better those

Who lead the blind old giant by the hand
From out the pathless desert where he gropes,
And set him onward in his darksome way.

J do not fear to follow out the truth,

Albeit along the precipice’s edge.

Let us speak plain: there is more force in name:
Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep
Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk
Behind the-shield of some fair-seeming name.
Let us all call tyrants tyrants, and maintain
That only freedom comes by grace of God,
And all that comes not by His grace must fall;
For men in earnest have no time to waste

In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

HE snow bad begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.




Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

T stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,

’ And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

J thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood ;

How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, “ Father, who makes it snow?”
And [I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall
And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

And again to the child I whispered,
“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!”

107

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given tu her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.



FOURTH OF JULY ODE.

I.
UR fathers fought for liberty,
; They struge led long and well,
History of their deeds can tell—
But did they leave us free?



II.
Are we free from vanity,
Free from pride, and free from self,
Free from love of power and pelf,
From everything that’s beggarly ?
III.
Are we free from stubborn will,

From low hate and malice small,
From opinion’s tyrant thrall ?

IV.
Are we free to speak our thought,
To be happy, and be poor,
Free to enter Heaven's door,
To live and labor as we ought?

Vv.

Are we then made free at last
From the fear of what men say,
Free to reverence To-day,

Free from the slavery of the Past?

We
Our fathers fought for liberty,
They struggled long and well,

History of “there deeds can tell—
But ourselves must set us free.



THE DANDELION.

Are none of us our own slaves still ?
KAB common flower, that grow’st beside the
way,,
fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth’s ample round
May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;
‘Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at Gop’s value, but pass by
The offer'd wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy ;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest me .
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;
Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment
In the white lily’s breezy tint,
His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—
Of leaves ‘that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap—and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with
thee ;
The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,
Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing
With news from heaven, which he did bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers:



How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art !
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look
| On all these living pages of Gop’s book.
108. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

It is proper, in connection with the writings of
White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and be
Lowell in 1844, died on the 22d of October, 1853.

Lowell, to insert the following poem by his wife, Maria
autiful woman, born July 8, 1821, married to the poet
In 1855 her husband had a volume of her poetry

privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following touching lines addressea to

friend after the loss of a child.

Gieete]|HEN on my ear your loss was knell’d,
\ And tender sympathy upburst,
A little spring from memory well’d,




thirst,

And I was fain to bear to you
A portion of its mild relief,
That it might be a healing dew,
To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child’s untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,

And on our home the shade of Death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit’s swift remove,

The story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.

. They, in the valley’s sheltering care,
Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,
That hang along the mountain’s side,
Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams slide.

Which once had quench’d my bitter



But naught can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings,
And sear’d below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms his lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go:

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o’er rock and snow.

And in these pastures, lifted fair,
More dewy-soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind free
O’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathed

From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,

Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lamb asleep,
While, like the murmur of the sea,

Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, “ Arise and follow me.”

atx,

FOO# OOF





BAYARD TAYLOR.

RENOWNED POET, TRAVELER AND JOURNALIST.

“JHE subject of this sketch begun life as a farmer boy. He was born
in Chester county, Pennsylvania, January 11th, 1825. After a few
years study in country schools he was apprenticed to a West Chester
printer, with whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his
boyhood he wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age
published his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.”
Through this book he formed the acquaintance of Dr. Griswold, editor of “Graham’s
Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of recommendation to New York,
where he received encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter
agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his making a journey,
contemplated, to the old world.

Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having less than one hun-
dred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He was absent two years, during which
time he traveled over Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now
and then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary correspon-
dence, for which he réceived only $500.00. He was fully repaid for this hardship,
however, by the proceeds of his book (which he published on his return in 1846),
“Views Atoot, or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded
as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared up to that time, and
six editions of it were sold within one year. It is still one of the most popular of
the series of eleven books of travel written during the course of his life. In 1848
he further immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing “Rhymes
of Travel,” a volume of verse.

Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the remotest regions. “His
wandering feet pressed the soil of all the continents, and his observing eyes saw the
strange and beautiful things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and
South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes and heard through
his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe, India, J apan, Central Africa, the
Soudan, Egypt, Palestine, Iceland and California contributed their quota to the
ready pen of this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of buoyant
nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a remarkable memory, and a
talent for learning languages. His poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in
style suggestive of both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song” is
strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was an admirable
109


110 . BAYARD TAYLOR.
parodist and translator. His translation of “Faust” so closely adheres to Goethe’s
original metre that it is considered one of the proudest accomplishments in Ameri-
can letters. Taylor is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the
generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell.

The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the scenes being laid in
Pennsylvania and New York, possess the same eloquent profusion manifest in his
verse, and give the reader the impression of having been written with the ease and
dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life was too much
hurried to allow the spending of much time on anything. His literary life occupied
only thirty-four years and in that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered
almost every department of literature and always displayed high literary ability.
Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels referred to he was a constant
newspaper correspondent, and then came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he

regarded as his realm, and it was his hope of fame.

Wolammisoue as were the works

of travel and fiction ‘and herculean the efforts necessary to do the prose writing he

turned off, it was, after all, but the antechamber to his real labors.

It was to poetry

that he devoted most thought and most time.
In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by President Hayes,
and died December 19th, 1878, while serving his country in that capacity.



THE BISON-TRACK.

TRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a
cloud has ribb’d the dawn,
And the frosted prairie brightens to the
westward, far and wan;
Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunt-
ing-spear
For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs
I hear!






Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the
morning's fire,

And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of
keen desire ;

Strike the tent—the saddles wait us! let the bridle- |

reins be slack,
For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the
bison’s track !

See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-
surging roar,

Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall
of shore !

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the fore-
most of the van, :

And the stubborn horns are stril king, through the
crowded caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d
horses ge!

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred
leagues it blow !



Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red
eyes’ angry glare

Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and
rushing air !

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resist-
less race,

And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the
desert space :

Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider's eye
look back—

Death to him whose speed should slacken on the
madden’d bison’s track !

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase
is close and warm

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the
storm :

Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles
as we run !

Ha! the dust is red behind him ;

shout, my brothers,
heis won!

Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he
will need ;

More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold
stampede—

Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, .
a hungry pack,

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody
bison-track !
BAYARD TAYLOR. 11}

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

AILV i; us a song!” the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,




Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under ;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,
“ We storm the forts to-morrow,

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow.”

There lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon,

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain’s glory ;

Each heart recalled a different name
But all sang “ Annie Lawrie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion



When the heated guns of the camps allied



Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,

Something on the soldier’s cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset’s embers,

While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory ;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of “ Annie Lawrie.”

Sleep, soldier! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing ;

The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.

BEDOUIN SONG.

rae ROM the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire ;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!



Look from thy window and see
My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,
And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,





And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment -
Book unfold! ;

My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest,
Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

THE ARAB TO THE PALM.

EXT to thee, O fair gazelle,
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;




yi

Next to the fearless Nedjidee,

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee,

Next to ye both I love the Palm,
With his leaves ot beauty, his fruit of balm ;
112

Next to ye both I love the Tree
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three
With love, and silence, and mystery !

Our tribe is many, our poets vie
With any under the Arab sky ;
Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.

The marble minarets that begem
Cairo's citadel-diadem
Are not so light as his slender stem.

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glance
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance—

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,
That works in the cells ot the blood like wine.

Full of passion and sorrow is he,
Dreaming where the beloved may be.

And when the warm south-winds arise,
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs—

Quickening odors, kisses of balm,
That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.

BAYARD

TAYLOR.

The sun may flame and the sands may stix,
But the breath of his passion reaches her.

O Tree of Love, by that love of thine,
Teach me how I shall soften mine !

Give me the secret of the sun,
Whereby the wooed is ever won !

If I were a King, O stately Tree,
A likeness, glorious as might be,
In the court of my palace I'd build for thee !

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright
And leaves of beryl and malachite.

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase :

And there the poets, in thy praise, |
Should night and mornitig frame new lays—

New measures sung to tunes divine ;
But none, O Palm, should equal mine !



LIFE ON THE NILE.

«The life thou seek’st
Thou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”
—Moore’s Alciphron.

HE Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought
T had already fathomed all the depths of
= enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life
could reach—enjoyment more varied and: exciting,
but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet
home ; but here J have reached a fountain too pure
and powerful to be exhausted. I never before ex-
perienced such a thorough deliverance from all the
petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such per-
fect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment
to the best influences of nature. Every day opens
with a jubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If
such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me,
thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there
must be another Nile somewhere in the world.





Other travelers undoubtedly make other experi-

ences and take away other impressions. I can even

sonceive circumstances which would almost destroy.

the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely
sensitive temperament, which in our case has net



been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might
easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by
an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman,
or a fractious crew. There are also many trifling
desagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which
some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as
we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are
not troubled thereby. as

Our manner of life is simple, and might even be
zalled monotonous; but we have never found the
greatest variety of landscape and incident so thor-
oughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far,
searcely changes from day to day, in its forms and
colors, but only in their disposition with regard to
each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields
of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare
sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all
the same agelomerations of mud walls, the tombs of

*K

the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every
individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in
picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan
Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foreground
BAYARD

that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now reced-
ing into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little
difference of height, hue, or geological formation.
Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in
which the same objects are grouped in other relations,
yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony.
These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a
source of endless delight. Hither from the pure
atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant
tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensi-
tive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays,

of that grace and harmony which bathes every land- |

scape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings
of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows
on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the
wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great
river, the alternations of wind and calm,—each of
these is enough to content us, and to give every day
a different charm from that which went before. We
meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without
Josing our patience ; and even our excitement in the
awiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds_ be-
fore the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our
8



@AYLOR. 118
journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its
close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems
to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I
saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its
features something of the patience and resignation of
the sphinx. * * *

My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes”
the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced,
says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If
by this he means that artificial quality which bigots
and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him,
and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers.
But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men,
which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads
our passions and desires into right paths without
seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this
quiet and healthy life. There isa cathedral-like so-
lemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence
of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To
those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition,
mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by un-
assuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto whick
heads this chapter.

==

— lh


_ NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY.

T is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of
fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “foppishness.” Al-
most all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which
renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even
odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England,
had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest

their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems.

The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal

life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius.

A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from

men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the

reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived
closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals,

flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a

purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an

insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject.

Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “fop-
pishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more
general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many
of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical
and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and
prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty.

Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th 1806. The family
traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two
hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived
in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor
of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803.
He founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted
for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the
world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “ Youth’s Companion.”
Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best edu-
cational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at
Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several
religious poems unter the signature of “ Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize of
lls


NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 115

fifty dollars for the best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of a
series of volumes published by 8. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.” He next
established the “American Monthly Magazine” which he merged after two years into
the New York “ Mirror,” to which paper his “ Pencilings by the Way ” were contri-
buted during a four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to
the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various
capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss
Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer. |
After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with his wife and estab-
lished a home on the Susquehanna River, which he called Glenmary, the latter
part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder
of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from
which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to
return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and
in connection with Dr. Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the
interest of this publication Mr. Willis made a second journey to England, engaging
Mr. Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he pub-
lished ‘a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel”
and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found that Dr. Porter
had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new con-
nection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred,
his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in
Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went
away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the
meantime his health grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed
for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various
magazines. He established a home, “Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson
beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.
Throughout his life Mr. Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no
doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “The poetry of Mr.
Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a
class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to
be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these
poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputa-
tion where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand
his novel in rhyme, ‘ Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous
poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of
sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a
traveler Mr. Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of
the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive.
That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence
is another claim to consideration which. the public should be prompt to acknowledge.
116

NATHANIEL PA

RKER WILLIs.

DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

HE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung
low

On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,

Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse

Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,

And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.

How strikingly the course of nature tells

By its light heed of human suffering,

That it was fashioned for a happier world.



King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem: and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn
The mourner’s covering, and had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank
And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full—_when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,
Are such a very mockery—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,
Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—
For his estranged, misguided Absalom,—
The proud bright being who had burst away
Tn all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him—for him he poured
In agony that would not be controlled
Strong supplication, and forgave him thera,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

K *

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled



With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,

Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,

And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,

As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form

Of David entered, and he gave command

In a low tone to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off

The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,

He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

“ Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die—
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair !
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ;
My proud boy, Absalom !

“ Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee—
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—
And hear thy sweet ‘ My father, from these dumb

And cold lips, Absalom !

“ The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young:

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—

But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come
To meet me, Absalom !

“ And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom !

“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;
And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cup
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom !”
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer:

117

And as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly and composed the pall
Firmly and decently,—and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.



THE DYING

4|HE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,

And the old shutters of the turret swung

Ji} Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,

Strugeled aslant the stained and broken panes

So dimly, that the watchful eye of death

Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low,

Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts

Grew insupportable, he raised himself

Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals

With difficult energy; and when the rod

Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye

Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back

Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,

Muttered « curse on death !



The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself’:

“T did not think to die
Till I had finished what I had to do;
I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;
I felt—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;
Grant me another year,
God of my spirit !—but a day,—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within !
I would know something here !
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken !
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken !



“ Vain,—vain,—my brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,
And I am freezing,—burning,—
Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!
My phial Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.





ALCHEMIST.

“ Aye,—were not man to die,
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere !
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here——
Could he but train his eye,—
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—
Only his Maker would transcend his power !

“This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—
To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream !

And death Aha! I reel,—
Dim,—dim,—TI faint, darkness comes o’er my eye.--
Cover me! save me! God of heaven! I die!





‘Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and -his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore

Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.

The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,

And all without went on,—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart

Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.

The fire beneath the crucible was out.

The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and the small rod, ~
Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master’s will.

And thus had passed from its unequal frame

A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken,

From his high soaring, down,—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

@|N the eross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well,

In summer and winter that bird is there,
Ont and in with the morning air.

T love to see him track the street,

With his wary eye and active feet ;

And I often watch him as he springs,

Circling the steeple with easy wings,

Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last.

‘Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ;
There's a human look in its swelling breast.

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ;

And I often stop with the fear I feel,

He runs so close to the rapid wheel.



Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,

Chime of the hour or funeral knell,

The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with “nine at night,”
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,

Seeeeereterete rsa
é



Or, rising half in his rounded nest,

_| He takes the time to smooth his breast;

Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be

A hermit in the crowd like thee!

With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street ;
But, unlike me, when day is o’er,

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that in such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart up-fold ;

T would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)

And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others’ sadness,

And never glad with others’ gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

L® See Reveneeeien











rl A
Cems eae |
! A
ee

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
POET AND JOURNALIST.

ITH no commanding antecedents to support him, Richard Henry Stod-
dard 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 introduc-
tions 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 essen-
119


120 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

tially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness. His style is character-
ized ‘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 ad-
dresses. 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 Whit-
comb 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

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

© 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 Wuitcomp Rivey.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 121

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.



ZO, WENTLEMEN: 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, pérhaps, 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 om,
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.



ayy heart is full of tenderness and tears, My friends drop off like blossoms from a
4; And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; bough,
I With all my grief, content to live for years, But nothing troubles me,
Or even this hour to die. Only the golden flush of sunset lies
My youth is gone, but that I heed not now ; Within my ‘heart like fire, like dew within
My love is dead, or worse than dead my eyes |
can be;
122

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, [ 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 ;



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

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
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.

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 !
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

THE SHADOW OF

g/OU 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 tt,

It was such a snowy hand!





THE 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.

HE 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!


WALT WHITMAN.

AUTHOR OF “LEAVES OF GRASS.”

ERHAPS 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
wae 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
cuite 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 some-
thing 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 him-
self. 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 him-
self 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.

124
WALT WHITMAN. 125

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 expres-
sions 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,” “ Speci-
men 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.
126 WALT 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.



“4/ A REST thou now, O soul, All waits undream’d of in that region, that inacces-
Walk out with me toward the unknown sible land.
region,
Where neither ground is for the feet nor} Till when the ties loosen,
any path to follow? All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds
No map there, nor guide, bounding us.

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are | Then we burst forth, we float,

in that land. In Time and Space, O soul, prepared for them,
Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them
T know it not, O soul, to fulfil, O soul.

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip | For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces



is done, ~ turning ;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the Here Captain! dear father!
prize we sought is won, This arm beneath your head !
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all It is some dream that on the deck,
exulting, You've fallen cold and dead.
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim
and daring ; My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and
But O heart! heart! heart ! still, .
O the bleeding drops of red, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor
Where on the deck my Captain lies, will,
Fallen cold and dead. The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage

_ closed and done,
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; | From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object



Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle won ;
trills, Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the But I with mournful tread,
shores a-crowding, 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.

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


WALT WHITMAN.

[ 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 every-
one, and still pass on.

Iam 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 moun.
tain 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.




F FTN AR hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
es

. Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrow-

Na ful mother

Pa )

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 be-

‘cause 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’din your old white hair
so dishevel’d,

For know you the one you mourn is notin 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 translzted, pass’d from the
erave ;

The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it;

And now, with rosy and new-blood,

Moves to-day in a new country.



PAAN 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.

(" OW trumpeter for thy close,
3) 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,

Certain parts of ‘In all, myself,”’ and the following justify the criticism.

Hymns to the universal God from universal man—all
joy!

A fences 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!


JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.

POET AND SCIENTIST.

a1URING 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 have hailed from the “ Hoosier State.”

Maurice Thompson was 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 Ken-
tucky 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 was not only a man of letters, but 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 traveled much in the United States. His chief pleasure was in
exploring with bow and arrow, not with gun, the lakes and swamps of Florida and
Louisiana, or the hills of Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia, making lists of birds
and animals and studying their habits. He was the apostle of archery, and one of
his books was devoted to the witchery of the bow, while a multitude of his books
and descriptive articles made use of the same experience. His writings in various
periodicals as well as his books have attracted wide attention for their original obser-
vation 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 there have appeared quite a number of volumes,
among which are “The Witchery of Archery;” “The Tallahassee Girl;” “His
Second Campaign ;” “Songs of Fair Weather;” “At Love’s 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.” His last
and most popular novel, “ Alice of Old Vincennes,” appeared just before his death,
which occurred in February, 1901.



128
JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 129

(THE GODDESS OF GRAIN.)

JHE wheat was flowing ankle-deep
Across the fiela 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.

(THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.)

a| HE 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!

9 : * By permission of “ Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”


THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

a\(THOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Sted-
man, 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 remun-
eration, 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 be-
came attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity.
Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Tllustrated 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 Wil-
liam 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 de-
gree 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 collec-
‘tion of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” ap-
peared 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” (1888), “Wynd-
ham 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,—“Majorie Daw and Other People” (1873),
“Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater
Tragedy” (1880), “rom Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883), “The Sisters Tragedy” (1890),

130 '


‘ THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 131

“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 :

“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 journa-
list of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of





THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.

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. “Iam glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked
me for myself.”
132 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

ALEC YEATON’S SONS

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.

S\HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,



“JT 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!

“Hor 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, thow'lt have an eye

On Alec Yeaton’s son!”

And the white caps flecked the sea ;
i] “An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,



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 ery, “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!

ON LYNN TERRACE



Â¥ LL day to watch the blue wave curl and| Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and horns

break,



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

Invite my fancy, and I wander through
All night to hear it plunging on the] The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns

The eorldia 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 tires

* By special permission of the Author,
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 1383

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 ;

Cioths 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 hallo gaves of night.



SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”
By Permission of the Author.

HAT 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 temple * that he planned

Not for himself. To us most dear

This image of him! “Tt 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!

*The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him ana

named “The Players.”

oR
Na





RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”

MONG 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 pre-
liminaries 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
134


RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 185

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 J ersey,
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 unsen-
sational 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!”
156 RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

SONNET.
(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)
From the ‘‘ Five Books of Song.’’? (1894.) The Century Co.
KNOW not if I love her overmuch ; Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch

But this I know, that when unto her face |I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still,| I know not why, for that is a strange art—



a space, As if myself should from myself depart.
Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch. I know not if I love her more than those
And when she sudden shakes her head, with such Who long her light have known; but for the rose
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace. She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.

So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.



THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
From ‘‘ For the Country.’’ (1897.) The Century Co.

H\HIS bronze doth keep the very form and] For storms to beat on; the lone agony






mold Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
i] Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this
is he: Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
That brow all wisdom, all benignity ; As might some prophet of the elder day—
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that Brooding above the tempest and the fray
hold With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.

Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold ; A power was his beyond the touch of art

That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea | Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.
SHERIDAN.

From ‘‘ For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co.



1} ULETLY, like a child He was our modern Mars;
That sinks in slumber mild, Yet firm his faith that wars
3) No pain or troubled thought his well-earned | Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,
peace to mar, And peace forever reign, as at Christ's holy birth.

Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.
Blest land, in whose dark hour

Though his the power to smite Arise to loftiest. power
Quick as the lightning’s light,— No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,
His single arm an army, and ‘his name a host,— But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!

Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.
Of such’ our chief of all;

But in the battle’s flame And he who broke the wall
How glorious he came !— Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;
Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and) And he who hath this day made Death his faithful
tears the shore, friend. ¢

While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before
And now above his tomb

"Twas he,—his voice, his might,— From out the eternal gloom
Could stay the panic flight, “Welcome!” his chiftain’s voice sounds o’er the
Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat, cannon’s knell ;

1

And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat. | And of the three one only stays to say “ Farewell !
RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

137

SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

Â¥4q|UT then the sunset smiled,

4 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.



“QO SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THE SEA.” *
From “ Five Books of Song” (1894).

SILVER river flowing to the sea,

Strong, calm, and solemn as thy moun-

tains 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 trav eled 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.

—+9e—_

“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.” *
From “ Five Books of Song” (1894).

HERE 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,
J 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 JI said: “ Was ever a mortal
Thus crowned and crucified !

* Copyright, The Century Co,
138 RICHARD

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 vrayer was said
Ere from that place I turned ;

WATSON GILDER.

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.



MEMORIAL DAY.*
From “ Five Books of Song” (1894).

HE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,

The flags that proudly waved; she heard
the bugles calling ;

She saw the tattered banners falling

About the broken staffs, as one by one

The remnant of the mighty army passed ;

And at the last

Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.




She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet
As the long line swept round the crowded square ;
She heard the incessant hum

That filled the warm and blossom-scented air—

The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,

The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meet

To honor thus the dead,

Who chose the better part,

Who for their country bled!

—The dead! Great God!
street,

Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart—

While far away

His grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands

to-day.

she stood there in the



A WOMAN'S THOUGHT.*
From “ Five Books of Song” (1894).




3} AM «x woman—therefore I may not
% © Cak: him, cry to him,

Fly io him,

Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet ;
Still as a stone—

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot—

Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold,

Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him—

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning —
That he were lost to me.



Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure—

Calm and demure

Then must I hold me,

In myself fold me,

Lest he discover ;

Showing no sign to him

By look of mine to him
What he has been to me—
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,
Thou God above me!

*@opyright, The Century Co.
NAINA NEN NAT SALE RE NAP BENET NAL NAS Naan
3 e

Ps 3ec4
COP

ar IOI OED EINE REN FRONT



JOHN HAY.
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE BREECHES.”

Z}SIDE from General Lew Wallace and Edmund Clarence Stedman few
business men or politicians have made a brighter mark in literature
than the subjcet of this sketch.

John Hay was born at Salem, Indiana, October 8th, 1838. He
was graduated at Brown’s University at the age of twenty, studied
law and began to practice at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. Soon
after this he was made private secretary of President Lincoln, which position he
filled throughout the latter’s administration. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant
and aid-de-camp, and it was in consequence of this that he was brevetted colonel.
He also saw service under Generals Hunter and Gilmore as major and assistant
adjutant general. After the close of the war Mr. Hay was appointed United
States Secrectary of Legation at Paris, serving in this capacity from 1865 to 1867,
when he was appointed charge d affaires, where he served for two years, being
removed to take a position as Secretary of Legation at Madrid, where he remained
until 1870, at which time he returned to the United States and accepted an editorial
position on the “New York Tribune.” This he resigned and removed to Cleveland,
Ohio, in 1875, where he entered politics, taking an active part in the presidential
campaigns of 1876, 1880 and 1884. Under President Hayes he was appointed as
first assistant Secretary of State, which position he filled for nearly three years, and
has made his home at Washington since that date. On March 17th, Mr. Hay was
appointed by President McKinley as ambassador to Great Britian, where he was
accorded the usual hearty welcome tendered by the British to American ambassa-
dors, many of whom during the past fifty years having been men of high literary
attainment. Shortly after Mr. Hay’s arrival he was called upon to deliver an
address at the unveiling of the Walter Scott monument, in which he did his country
credit and maintained his own reputation as an orator and a man of letters.

As an author Mr. Hay’s first published works were the “Pike County Ballads
and Other Pieces” (1871), “Castilian Days” (1871), “Poems” (1890), and, (in
conjunction with Mr. Nicolay), “Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which is regarded
as the authoritative biography of Mr. Lincoln. This was first published in serial
form in the “Century Magazine” from 1887 to 1889. Colonel Hay has also been
a frequent contributor to high class periodicals, and to him has been ascribed the
authorship of the anonymous novel “The Bread Winners,” which caused such
agitation in labor circles a few years ago.

139


140 JOHN HAY.

Like many authors, Mr. Hay came into popularity almost by accident. Cer-
tainly he had no expectation of becoming prominent when he wrote his poem
“Little Breeches;” yet that poem caused him to be remembered by a wider class of
readers, perhaps, than anything else he has contributed to literature. ‘The follow-
ing account of how this poem came to be written was published after Mr. Hay’s
appointment to the Court of St. James in 1897. The statement is given as made by
Mr. A. L. Williams, an acquaintance of Mr. Hay, who lives in Topeka, Kansas,
and knows the circumstances. “The fact is,” says Mr. Williams, “the poem ‘Little
Breeches’ and its reception by the American people make it one of the most
humorous features of this day. It was written as a burlesque, and for no other
purpose. Bret Harte had inaugurated a maudlin literature at a time when the
‘litery’ people of the United States were affected with hysteria. Under the inspira-
tion of his genius, to be good was commonplace, to be virtuous was stupid—only
gamblers, murderers and women of ill fame were heroic. Crime had reached its
apotheosis. John Hay believed that ridicule would help cure this hysteria, and
thus believing, wrote the burlesque, ‘ Little Breeches.’ Wanting to make the burles-
que so broad that the commonest intellect could grasp it, he took for his hero an
unspeakably wretched brat whom no angel would touch unless to drop over the
walls into Tophet, and made him the object of a special angelic miracle.

“Well, John sprung his ‘Little Breeches’ and then sat back with his mouth wide
open to join in the laugh which he thought it would evoke from his readers. ‘To his
intense astonishment, people took it seriously, and instead of laughing Bret Harte
out of the field; immediately made John Hay a formidable rival to that gentleman.”

Next to “Little Breeches ” the poem “Jim Bludso,” perhaps, contributed most to
Mr. Hay’s reputation. Both of these selections will be found in the succeeding pages.

+12

LITTLE BREECHES.

They scared at something and started—
I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

¥]| DON’T go much on religion,
T never ain’t had no show,
But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,





On the handful o’ things I know. Went team, Little Breeches and all.
I don’t pan out on the prophets regs; aco
And free-will, and that sort of thing— He ge ae
But I b’hieve in God and the angels, But we rousted up some torches,
Ever sence one night last spring. And searched for ’em far and near.
I : th ; At last we struck hosses and wagon,
ania a na Ge BOme ees Snowed under a soft white mound,
No fare a oo Upsot—dead beat—but of little Gabe
Could beat him for pretty and strong, Noridemon bait waaspant:
Peart and chipper and sassy, And here all hope soured on me,
Always ready to swear and fight— Of my fellow-critters’ aid,
And I'd learnt him to chaw terbacker I jest flopped down on my marrowbones,
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
The snow come down like a blanket . By this, the torches was played out,
As I passed by Taggart’s store ; And me and Isrul Parr
J went in for ajug of molasses Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

And left the team at the door. That he said was somewhar thar,
JOHN HAY. 145

We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night,

We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white ;

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,

“T want achaw of terbacker,
An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm ;
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
An’ fotching him to his own,
Isa derned sight better business.
Than loafing around the Throne.



JIM BLUDSO.*

OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.”

aIALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives,
Because he don’t live, you see ;

Leastways, he’s got out of the habit
Of livin’ like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three yeaa
That you haven’t heard folks tell

How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?




He weren’t no saint—them engineers
Ts all pretty much alike—
One wife in Natchez-under-the- Hill,
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never flunked, and he never lied—
I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had—
To treat his engine well ;

Never be passed on the river ;
To mind the pilot’s bell ;

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire—
A thousand times he swore,

He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last—

The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,

And so she come tearin’ along that night—
The oldest craft on the line—

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,
Over all the infernal roar,
“T’]l hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot’s ashore.”

Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word,
And, sure’s you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell—
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren’t no saint; but at judgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,
"Longside some pious gentlemen
That wouldn’t shook hands with him.
He seen his duty—a dead-sure thing—
And went for it thar and then ;
And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.



HOW IT HAPPENED

PRAY your pardon, Hlsie,

And smile that frown away

That dims the light of your lovely face
As a thunder-cloud the day,




I really could not help it,—
Before I thought, it was done——

And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,
Like an icicle in the sun.

* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
142

I was thinking of the summers
When we were boys and girls,
And wandered in the blossoming woods,
And the gay wind romped with her curls.
And you seemed to me the same little girl
I kissed in the alder-path,
I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas!
I have roused a woman's wrath.

There is not so much to pardon,—
For why were your lips so red ?
The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold
From the proud, provoking head.
And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes
And played round the tender mouth,
Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind
That blows from the fragrant South.

JOHN HAY.

And where after all is the harm done?
I believe we were made to be gay,

And all of youth not given to love
Is vainly squandered away,

And strewn through life’s low labors,
Like gold in the desert sands,

Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows
And the clasp of clinging hands.

And when you are old and lonely,
In memory’s magic shrine
You will see on your thin and wasting hands,
Like gems, these kisses of mine.
And when you muse at evening
At the sound of some vanished name,
The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips
And kindle your heart to flame.






THE BEST KNOWN WESTERN POETS.


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

“THE HOOSIER POET.”

@|O poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with the
masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently
§ obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold
upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living
| verse writer. ‘The productions of this author have crystallized
~ certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by.
In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water
touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,”
“When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart of Mine,” and others,
go straight to the heart of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, ten-
derness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its effect. '

Mr. Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not
raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed. its atmosphere that his
readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the
simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorship of his
early poems. ‘To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on
the school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons,
or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from
his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past.

Mr. Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching
sing-song in his verses,.not unlike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.”
Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy rythm, are the pieces
describing “Little Orphant Annie” and “The Raggedy Man.”



An’ Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-00!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,—
You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear,
An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear,
' An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about,
Er the gobble-uns ‘ll git you
Ef you—don’t—watch—out.

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father
was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyer
143
144 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

of his son; but Mr. Riley tells us, “Whenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Green-
leaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes
of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to
his education, the poet further says, “I never had much schooling, and what I did
get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history
was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I always was fond of reading in a random
way, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a
declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.”

Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine man, with
whom he traveled fora year. On leaving this employment he organized a company
of sign'painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertain-
ments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, “All the members of the
company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade
with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had
lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this
sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Graphic
Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For
many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in various magazines,
“sending them from one to another,” he says, “to get them promptly back again.”
Finally, he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly,
as did: also Mr. Lowell, to whose “‘ New England: Dialectic Poems” Mr. Riley’s
“Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his
success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than
busy in supplying their eager demands upon his pen.

Mr. Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are composed
as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately
stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves
him. He cannot be driven. On this point he says of himself, “ It is almost impos-
sible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem ata
certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the
future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect,
that it is not his preference to doso. He prefers the recognized poetic form ; “but,”
he adds, “ dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very common-
placeness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of
nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and
try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as
I have achieved is due to this.”

The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and
“Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a
number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “ Armazindy,”
which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe
Poem, ‘“ Leonainie,” written and published in early life as one of the lost poems of
Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in
mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven;” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches
in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories ;” “ After-
whiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, pathetic, humorous and
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 145

dialectic ; “Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “ Rhymes
of Childhood ;” “Flying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in.
verse; “Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two
poenis and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious.

The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with
his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant nature ; and he is scarcely
less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renowned child
poet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion of Mr. Riley to his aged parents,
whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly
commented upon in the current notices of the poet. Mr. Riley has personally met
more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly
“on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the past several
years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent
class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves,
at one time or another, to the treat of listening to his inimitable recitation of his
poems. His short vacation in the summer—“ his loafing days,” as he calls them—
are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found
at his best.

—*oor—

A BOY'S MOTHER*

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”



A‘Y mother she’s so good to me, Her cryin’.—Nen I ery; an’ nen
Ef I wuz good as I could be, We both cry an’ be good again.
I couldn’t be as good—no, sir /—
Can’t any boy be good as her! She loves me when she cuts an’ sews
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes ;
She loves me when I’m glad er sad; An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,
She joves me when I’m good er bad ; She loves him most as much as me.
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says :
She loves me when she punishes. She laughs an’ tells him all I said,
An’ grabs me an’ pats my head;
I don’t like her to punish me.— An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,
That don't hurt,—but it hurts to see An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.
Sse o gas

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR#*
FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

WAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it. The war, you know, ’s all done and ended,
"Pears like, to me, each side was winner, | And ain’t changed no p’ints 0’ the compass;




Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it. Both North and South the health ’s jes’ splendid
Le’’s go to dinner. As ’fore the rumpus.
Le’ ’s kind 0’ jes’ set down together The old farms and the old plantations
And do some pardnership forgittin’— Still ockipies the’r old positions.
Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather, Le’ ’s git back to old situations
Or somepin’ fittin’. And old ambitions.

* By Permission of the Century Co.
10
146

Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal

Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’

And git back home to the eternal
Ca’m we're a-wantin’.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

Peace kind 0’ sort 0’ suits my diet—-

When women does my cookin’ for me,

Ther’ was n’t overly much pie et
Durin’ the army.



OUR HIRED GIRL*
FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

4 UR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;
An’ she can cook best things to eat!
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’
sweet ;
An’ nen she salts it all on top
With cinnamon ; an’ nen she ‘Il stop
An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,
In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slop
An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
It ’s custard-pie, first thing you know!
An’ nen she'll say,
“Clear out o’ my way!
They ’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!
Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”



When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,
An’ says folks got to walk the chalk
When she’s around, er wisht they had!
I play out on our porch an’ talk
To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;
An’ he says, “ Whew!” an’ nen leans on
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,



An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!
Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,
It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”
An’ nen he Ul say,
“ Clear out o’ my way !
They ’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!
Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”

Wunst our hired girl, when she
Got the supper, an’ we all et,
An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me
An’ Pa went wher’ the “ Social’”’ met,—
An’ nen when we come home, an’ see
A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we
Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “ Lan’-
O’-Gracious! who can her beau be?”
An’ [ marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann
Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man}
Betier say,
“Clear out o’ the way!
They ’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!
Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”



THE RAGGEDY MAN

| THE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;

| An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay ;
An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf ;
An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can—
He milks the cow fer Lizabuth Ann.— ,
Ain't he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!



1

W’y, the Raggedy Man—he ’s ist so good,

He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood ;

An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,

An’ does most things ’t boys can’t do.—

He clumbed clean up in our big tree

An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me—

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer "Lizabuth Ann—

An’ nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.—
Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

* By permission of The Century Co.

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,

An’ tells ‘em, ef I be good, sometimes :

Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,

An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therseives !

An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,

He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,

*At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can

Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!

Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man? *

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man—one time, when he

Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me,

Says, “ When you ’re big like your Pa is,

Air you go’ to keep a fine’ store like his—

An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes ?—

Er what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?”

An’ nen he laughed at'’Lizabuth Ann,

An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!—

I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!


FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS.

WHE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers-
on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring
genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor
in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the
mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His
writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of
readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity
which he employs in his descriptions. It should be remembered, however, that a
faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have
been presented in more polite language than that employed.

Bret Harte was