Dig the grave and let me lie;
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
XLV
KIPLING IN INDIA
In four lines of oft-quoted poetry Pope has declared that with words
the same rule holds that applies to fashion,--"Alike fantastic if too
new or old." Fashion changes, not only the fashions of millinery but
of literature also. When the world is tired of the brilliant wit of
Byron, it turns in relief to the contemplative verse of Wordsworth;
when Longfellow and Tennyson have had their artistic day and a
thousand imitators have produced romantic poetry, because
Most can raise the flowers now
For all have got the seed,--
then this same world turns with delight to the robust poetry of
Kipling. He has brought a new dish to the banquet of life, or at least
a new flavor has been given to the old.
Kipling is a man's poet, robust and virile. As a preface to one of his
stories he wrote:
Go stalk the red deer o'er the heather,
Ride, follow the fox, if you can!
But for pleasure and profit together
Allow me the hunting of man;--
and this joy in the hunting of man is what has made Kipling so
acceptable to men. Kipling has the defects of his virtues. There is a
certain brutality in his point of view. His beautiful _Recessional_ is
not the greater part of Kipling. His voice "is still for war." His
critics charge him with "Jingoism." One of the most brilliant parodies
of recent times is Watson's
Best by remembering God, say some,
We keep our high imperial lot--
Fortune, I think, has mainly come
When we forgot, when we forgot!
The greater influence of Kipling, both in his prose and poetry, is
contrary to the humanitarian spirit of the age. Le Gallienne has
said,--"As a writer Mr. Kipling is a delight; as an influence a
danger."
Mr. Kipling sprang into public notice because he had genius and
because he had a new world to reveal to a jaded public. Mr. E. Kay
Robinson was a friend and associate of Kipling when both were in the
land of mysteries, India. Mr. Robinson went to India in 1884 and soon
began to write verses over the signature of "K.R." Kipling was writing
ballads under the initials "R.K." The similarity of the signatures
attracted Kipling and he wrote to Robinson. They were afterwards
associated in newspaper work and became close friends. Robinson has
written about Kipling in India:
"My first sight of Kipling was at an uninteresting stage, when he was
a short, square, dark youth, who unfortunately wore spectacles instead
of eyeglasses and had an unlucky eye for color in the selection of his
clothes. He had a weakness apparently for brown cloth with just that
suggestion of ruddiness or purple in it which makes some browns so
curiously conspicuous. The charm of his manner, however, made you
forget what he looked like in half a minute....
"Among Kipling's early journalistic experiences was his involuntary
assumption 'for this occasion only' of the role of the fighting
editor. He was essentially a man of peace, and would always prefer
making an angry man laugh to fighting with him; but one day there
called at the office a very furious photographer. What the paper may
have said about him or his photographs has been forgotten, but never
will those who witnessed it forget the rough-and-tumble all over the
floor in which he and Kipling indulged. The libel, or whatever it was,
which had infuriated the photographer was not Kipling's work, but the
quarrel was forced upon him, and although he was handicapped by his
spectacles and smaller stature he made a very fine draw of it, and
then the photographer--who, it may be remarked, was very drunk--was
ejected. And Kipling wiped his glasses and buttoned his collar.
"That trick of wiping his spectacles is one which Kipling indulged
more frequently than any man I have ever met, for the simple reason
that he was always laughing; and when you laugh till you nearly cry
your spectacles get misty. Kipling, shaking all over with laughter,
and wiping his spectacles at the same time with his handkerchief, is
the picture which always comes to mind as most characteristic of him
in the old days."
With regard to Kipling's minute and exact knowledge of details Mr.
Robinson has this to say:
"To learn to write as soldiers think, he spent long hours loafing with
the genuine article. He watched them at work and at play and at prayer
from the points of view of all his confidants--the combatant officer,
the doctor, the chaplain, the drill sergeant, and the private himself.
With the navy, with every branch of sport, and with natural history,
he has never wearied in seeking to learn all that man may learn at
first-hand, or the very best second-hand, at any rate.... But most
wonderful was his insight into the strangely mixed manners of life and
thought of the natives of India. He knew them all through their
horizontal divisions of rank and their vertical sections of caste;
their ramifications of race and blood; their antagonisms and blendings
of creed; their hereditary strains of calling or handicraft. Show him
a native, and he would tell you his rank, caste, race, origin,
habitat, creed, and calling. He would speak to the man in his own
fashion, using familiar, homely figures, which brightened the other's
surprised eyes with recognition of brotherhood and opened a straight
way into his confidence. In two minutes the man--perhaps a wild hawk
from the Afghan hills--would be pouring out into the ear of this
sahib, with heaven-sent knowledge and sympathy, the weird tale of the
blood feud and litigation, the border fray, and the usurer's iniquity,
which had driven him so far afield as Lahore from Bajaur. To Kipling
even the most suspected and suspicious of classes, the religious
mendicants, would open their mouths freely.
"By the road thick with the dust of camels and thousands of cattle and
goats, which winds from Lahore Fort to the River Ravi, there are
walled caravanserais the distant smell of which more than suffices for
most of the Europeans who pass, but sitting with the travelers in the
reeking inside Kipling heard weird tales and gathered much knowledge.
Under a spreading peepul tree overhanging a well by the same road
squatted daily a ring of almost naked fakirs, smeared with ashes, who
scowled at the European driving by; but for Kipling there was, when he
wished it, an opening in the squatting circle and much to be learned
from the unsavory talkers. That is how Kipling's finished
word-pictures take the lifelike aspect of instantaneous photographs."
XLVI
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN RUNS AWAY
Benjamin Franklin had so many strong qualities, was eminent in so many
lines of endeavor, that we do not always include him among the
literary men of America. However, his _Autobiography_ is a
masterpiece. In sincerity and simplicity it is unsurpassed. This is
all the more remarkable because it was written at a time when ornate
writing was the fashion. A man's style is the outgrowth of his nature,
and it is a striking comment upon the robust quality of Franklin's
mind that his style has the simplicity of the Bible, or _Pilgrim's
Progress_.
The following account, taken from his _Autobiography_, begins just
after he has landed in New York, a boy of seventeen who has run away
from home because he felt that his brother was not treating him
fairly:
My inclinations for the sea were by this time worn out, or I might now
have gratified them. But, having a trade, and supposing myself a
pretty good workman, I offered my service to the printer in the place,
old Mr. William Bradford, who had been the first printer in
Pennsylvania, but removed from thence upon the quarrel of George
Keith. He could give me no employment, having little to do and help
enough already; but, says he, "My son at Philadelphia has lately lost
his principal hand, Aquilla Rose, by death; if you go thither I
believe he may employ you." Philadelphia was a hundred miles farther;
I set out, however, in a boat for Amboy, leaving my chest and things
to follow me round by sea.
[Illustration: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
From a portrait by Duplessis]
In crossing the bay we met with a squall that tore our rotten sails to
pieces, prevented our getting into the Kill, and drove us upon Long
Island. In our way, a drunken Dutchman, who was a passenger too, fell
overboard. When he was sinking, I reached through the water to his
shock pate, and drew him up so that we got him in again. His ducking
sobered him a little, and he went to sleep, taking first out of his
pocket a book, which he desired I would dry for him. It proved to be
my old favorite author, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, in Dutch,
finely printed on good paper, with copper cuts, a dress better than I
had ever seen it wear in its own language. I have since found that it
has been translated into most of the languages of Europe, and suppose
it has been more generally than any other book, except, perhaps, the
Bible. Honest John was the first that I know of who mixed narration
and dialogue; a method of writing very engaging to the reader, who in
the most interesting parts finds himself, as it were, brought into the
company and present at the discourse. Defoe in his _Crusoe_, his _Moll
Flanders_, _Religious Courtship_, _Family Instructor_, and other
pieces, has imitated it with success, and Richardson has done the same
in his _Pamela_, etc.
When we drew near the island we found it was at a place where there
could be no landing, there being a great surf on the stony beach. So
we dropped anchor, and swung round toward the shore. Some people came
down to the water edge and hallooed to us, as we did to them; but the
wind was so high and the surf so loud that we could not hear so as to
understand each other. There were canoes on the shore, and we made
signs, and hallooed that they should fetch us, but they either did not
understand us or thought it impracticable, so they went away, and
night coming on, we had no remedy but to wait till the wind should
abate. In the meantime, the boatman and I concluded to sleep if we
could, and so crowded into the scuttle with the Dutchman, who was
still wet, and the spray beating over the head of our boat leaked
through to us, so that we were almost as wet as he. In this manner we
lay all night, with very little rest; but the wind abating the next
day, we made a shift to reach Amboy before night, having been thirty
hours on the water, without victuals, or any drink but a bottle of
filthy rum, the water we sailed on being salt.
In the evening I found myself very feverish, and went in to bed; but,
having read somewhere that cold water, drunk plentifully, was good for
a fever, I followed the prescription, sweat plentifully most of the
night, my fever left me, and in the morning, crossing the ferry, I
proceeded on my journey on foot, having fifty miles to Burlington,
where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest of
the way to Philadelphia.
It rained very hard all the day. I was thoroughly soaked, and by noon
a good deal tired, so I stopped at a poor inn, where I stayed all
night, beginning now to wish that I had never left home. I cut so
miserable a figure, too, that I found, by the questions asked me, I
was suspected to be some runaway servant and in danger of being taken
up on that suspicion. However, I proceeded the next day, and got in
the evening to an inn, within eight or ten miles of Burlington, kept
by one Dr. Brown. He entered into conversation with me while I took
some refreshment, and finding I had read a little, became very
sociable and friendly. Our acquaintance continued as long as he lived.
He had been, I imagine, an itinerant doctor, for there was no town in
England, or country in Europe, of which he could not give a very
particular account. He had some letters, and was ingenious, but much
of an unbeliever, and wickedly undertook, some years after, to
travesty the Bible in doggerel verse, as Cotton had done Virgil. By
this means he set many of the facts in a very ridiculous light, and
might have hurt weak minds if his work had been published; but it
never was.
At his house I lay that night, and the next morning reached
Burlington, but had the mortification to find that the regular boats
were gone a little before my coming, and no other expected to go
before Tuesday, this being Saturday; wherefore I returned to an old
woman in the town of whom I had bought gingerbread to eat on the
water, and asked her advice. She invited me to lodge at her house till
a passage by water should offer; and, being tired with my foot
traveling, I accepted the invitation. She, understanding I was a
printer, would have had me stay at that town and follow my business,
being ignorant of the stock necessary to begin with. She was very
hospitable, gave me a dinner of ox cheek with great good will,
accepting only of a pot of ale in return; and I thought myself fixed
till Tuesday should come. However, walking in the evening by the side
of the river, a boat came by, which I found was going toward
Philadelphia, with several people in her. They took me in, and, as
there was no wind, we rowed all the way, and about midnight, not
having yet seen the city, some of the company were confident we must
have passed it, and would row no farther. The others knew not where we
were, so we put toward the shore, got into a creek, and landed near an
old fence, with the rails of which we made a fire, the night being
cold, in October, and there we remained till daylight. Then one of the
company knew the place to be Cooper's Creek, a little above
Philadelphia, which we saw as soon as we got out of the creek, and
arrived there about eight or nine o'clock on the Sunday morning, and
landed at the Market Street wharf.
I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, and
shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your
mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since
made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come
round by sea. I was dirty from my journey; my pockets were stuffed out
with shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul, nor where to look for
lodging. I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest; I
was very hungry, and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch
dollar and about a shilling in copper. The latter I gave the people
of the boat for my passage, who at first refused it, on account of my
rowing; but I insisted on their taking it, a man being sometimes more
generous when he has but a little money than when he has plenty,
perhaps through fear of being thought to have but little.
Then I walked up the street, gazing about, till near the market house
I met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and,
inquiring where he got it, I went immediately to the baker's he
directed me to, in Second Street, and asked for biscuit, intending
such as we had in Boston; but they, it seems, were not made in
Philadelphia. Then I asked for a threepenny loaf, and was told they
had none such. So not considering or knowing the difference of money
and the greater cheapness, nor the names of his bread, I bade him give
me threepenny worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great
puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it, and, having
no room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, and
eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth
Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father; when
she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly
did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went
down Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the
way, and, coming round, found myself again on Market Street wharf,
near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of the river
water; and, being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a
woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, and
were waiting to go farther.
Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time had
many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I
joined them, and was thereby led into the great meetinghouse of the
Quakers near the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking
round awhile and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through labor
and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and
continued so till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough to
rouse me. This was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in,
in Philadelphia.
Walking down again toward the river, and looking in the faces of
people, I met a young Quaker man, whose countenance I liked, and,
accosting him, requested he would tell me where a stranger could get
lodging. We were then near the sign of the Three Mariners. "Here,"
says he, "is one place that entertains strangers, but it is not a
reputable house; if thee wilt walk with me I'll show thee a better."
He brought me to the Crooked Billet, in Water Street. Here I got a
dinner, and while I was eating it several sly questions were asked me,
as it seemed to be suspected from my youth and appearance that I might
be some runaway.
After dinner my sleepiness returned, and, being shown to a bed, I lay
down without undressing and slept till six in the evening, was called
to supper, went to bed again very early, and slept soundly till next
morning. Then I made myself as tidy as I could, and went to Andrew
Bradford the printer's. I found in the shop the old man, his father,
whom I had seen in New York, and who, traveling on horseback, had got
to Philadelphia before me. He introduced me to his son, who received
me civilly, and gave me a breakfast, but told me he did not at present
want a hand, being lately supplied with one; but there was another
printer in town, lately set up, one Keimer, who, perhaps, might employ
me; if not, I should be welcome to lodge at his house, and he would
give me a little work to do now and then till fuller business should
offer.
XLVII
WASHINGTON IRVING
Washington Irving may be called the father of American literature. It
is true he is not the first writer who flourished on American soil,
but in point of accomplishment he is the first literary man to impress
himself upon the readers of the two continents. And what a sweet,
beautiful soul he is! The only rival he has is Franklin, and Franklin
is not a literary man, though he produced a literary masterpiece in
his _Autobiography_. The test of a great piece of literature is, In a
hundred years can it be bought in a new edition for ten cents? The New
Testament can be bought for ten cents, so can the _Autobiography_, and
the _Sketch Book_. These emerge from the sea of mediocrity of early
American life. They abide while the works of the Michael Wigglesworths
and Anne Bradstreets can be found only in the collections of the
fortunate book-lover.
The early settlers believed in the virtue of large families. It is
well, for otherwise Franklin and Irving would have been lost to
American life. Franklin was the youngest son in a family of seventeen
children, there were two girls younger (Benjamin was the eighth child
of the second wife), and Irving was the eighth son and last child in
a family of eleven children. It is not hard to account for Irving's
first name. Nowadays when you meet a boy named Dewey or Garfield it is
not difficult to guess the boy's age. Irving was born in 1783; the air
was laden with the praises of the great American leader. "Washington's
work is ended," said the mother, "and the child shall be named after
him." Several years after this when Washington, as President, was in
New York, Lizzie, the Scotch servant of the Irving family, followed
the great man into a shop and said, "Please, your honor, here's a
bairn was named after you." Washington placed his hand on the lad's
head and gave him a fatherly blessing.
Like Lowell and Bryant, Irving was first devoted to the law, but his
devotion was not of the quality that consumes. He soon strayed into
pleasanter paths. In January, 1807, appeared the first number of
_Salmagundi_, a humorous periodical which caused a great deal of
curiosity as to the authors, whose witty articles appeared
anonymously. Two years later came the droll _History of New York by
Diedrich Knickerbocker_, a book in which according to Scott were to be
seen traces of the wit of Swift. Scott said that he used to read it
aloud to his wife and guests until "our sides were absolutely sore
with laughing."
Before this work had appeared, Irving lost in three consecutive years
three persons who would have rejoiced the most in his success,--his
father, "the tenderest and best of sisters, a woman of whom a brother
might be proud," and his sweetheart, Matilda Hoffman. She was a rare
and beautiful maiden who had kindled in the heart of Irving a passion
which survived her death until he himself passed away an old man. When
he died his friends found her miniature and a lock of fair hair,
together with the part of a manuscript written for a lady who had
asked Irving why he had never married. Describing Miss Hoffman he
says:
"The more I saw her, the more I had reason to admire her. Her mind
seemed to unfold itself leaf by leaf, and every time to discover new
sweetness. Nobody knew her so well as I, for she was generally
silent.... Never did I meet with more intuitive rectitude of mind,
more delicacy, more exquisite propriety in word, thought, and action
than in this young creature. Her brilliant little sister used to say
that 'people began by admiring her, but ended by loving Matilda.' For
my part I idolized her." Irving then continues by giving a long
account of his efforts to succeed in his literary and legal work with
a view of earning a place in life so as to enable him to marry. "In
the midst of this struggle and anxiety she fell into a consumption. I
cannot tell you what I suffered.... I saw her fade rapidly away,
beautiful, and more beautiful, and more angelic to the very last. I
was often by her bedside, and when her mind wandered she would talk to
me with a sweet, natural, and affecting eloquence that was
overpowering. I saw more of the beauty of her mind in that delirious
state than I ever had before.... I was by her when she died, and was
the last she ever looked upon.... She was but seventeen."
So poignant was the grief of Irving that for thirty years after her
death he did not like any one to mention her name to him. One day he
was visiting her father when one of her nieces, taking some music from
a drawer, brought with it a piece of embroidery. "Washington," said
Mr. Hoffman, "this was poor Matilda's work." The effect was
instantaneous. The light-hearted conversationalist of a moment before
became silent and soon left the house. When in _Bracebridge Hall_ he
writes,--"I have loved as I never again shall love in this world--I
have been loved as I shall never again be loved,"--is he not thinking
of the fair Matilda? And in a note-book we find,--"She died in the
beauty of her youth, and in my memory she will ever be young and
beautiful."