[Illustration]
AUTHORS AT HOME
_PERSONAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF
WELL-KNOWN AMERICAN WRITERS_
EDITED BY
J. L. & J. B. GILDER
NEW YORK
A. WESSELS COMPANY
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1889,
BY
O. M. DUNHAM.
COPYRIGHT, 1902,
BY
A. WESSELS COMPANY.
EDITOR’S NOTE
The sketches of authors at home in this book have as their special
value the fact that the writer of each article was selected for the
purpose by the author himself. The sketches appeared from time to time
in _The Critic_, where they attracted particular attention by virtue of
their authenticity, as well as for the names of the subjects and the
writers.
The Canadian border has been crossed in the article on Prof. Goldwin
Smith; but with this exception the series treats only of native
American writers who make their home on this side of the Atlantic.
Since these sketches were written, some of the most distinguished of
the authors in the list have died, all of them meeting natural deaths,
with one exception, Mr. Paul Leicester Ford.
J. L. G.
NEW YORK, _June, 1902_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. _By William H. Bishop._ 1
GEORGE BANCROFT. _B. G. Lovejoy._ 17
GEORGE H. BOKER. _George P. Lathrop._ 29
JOHN BURROUGHS. _Roger Riordan._ 39
GEORGE W. CABLE. _J. K. Wetherill._ 49
S. L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN). _Chas. Hopkins Clark._ 61
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. _George P. Lathrop._ 73
DR. EDWARD EGGLESTON. _O. C. Auringer._ 83
EDWARD EVERETT HALE. _William Sloane Kennedy._ 97
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. _Erastus Brainerd._ 111
PROF. J. A. HARRISON. _W. M. Baskervill._ 125
COL. JOHN HAY. _B. G. Lovejoy._ 135
COL. T. W. HIGGINSON. _George Willis Cooke._ 147
DR. O. W. HOLMES. _Alice Wellington Rollins._ 163
JULIA WARD HOWE. _Maude Howe._ 181
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. _William H. Bishop._ 193
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. _Elizabeth Robins Pennell._ 211
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. _George E. Woodberry._ 227
DONALD G. MITCHELL (IK MARVEL). _Henry H. Beers._ 237
FRANCIS PARKMAN. _Charles H. Farnham._ 253
PROF. GOLDWIN SMITH. _Charles G. D. Roberts._ 263
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. _Anna Bowman Dodd._ 273
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. _Joseph B. Gilder._ 291
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. _Rev. Joseph H. Twichell._ 313
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. _Rev. Joseph H. Twichell._ 323
WALT WHITMAN. _George Selwyn._ 333
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. _Harriet Prescott Spofford._ 343
MRS. MARGARET DELAND. _Lucia Purdy._ 355
F. MARION CRAWFORD. _William Bond._ 369
PAUL LEICESTER FORD. _Lindsay Swift._ 385
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
ON BEACON HILL, AND ROUND IT.
Beacon Hill is the great pyramid, or horn of dominion, as it were,
of Boston’s most solid respectability of the older sort. Half-way up
Beacon Hill, Aldrich is to be met with at the office of _The Atlantic
Monthly_, of which he has been the editor since 1881. The publishers of
this magazine have established its headquarters, together with their
general business, in the old Quincy mansion, at No. 4 Park Street,
which they have had pleasantly remodeled for their purposes. Close by,
on the steep slope, is the Union Club; across the street the long,
shaded stretch of Boston Common; and above it is the State House,
presiding over the quarter, with its imposing golden dome half hidden
amid the greenery. The editor’s office is secluded, small, neat, and
looks down into a quiet old graveyard, like those of St. Paul’s and
Trinity in New York. It seems a place strictly adapted to business,
and is cut off from the outer world even by so much of a means of
communication as a speaking-tube. There was formerly a speaking-tube,
but an importunate visitor had his ear to it, and received a somewhat
hasty message intended only in confidence for the call-boy, and it was
abolished. “Imagine the feelings of a sensitive man--_my_ feelings,
of course--on such an occasion,” says the editor with characteristic
drollery. “I flew at the tube, plugged it up with a cork, and drove
that in with a poker!” Among the few small objects that can be called
ornament scattered about is remarked a photograph of a severely
classic doorway, which might have belonged to some famous monument of
antiquity. It has a funereal look, to tell the truth, but it proves
to be nothing less than the doorway of the residence of Thomas Bailey
Aldrich himself, in Mt. Vernon Street. Like one of his own paradoxes,
it has a very different aspect when put amid its proper surroundings.
Mt. Vernon Street crosses the topmost height of Beacon Hill. Parallel
to the famed thoroughfare of Beacon Street, it is like a more retired
military line that has the compensation for its retirement of being
spared the active brunt of service. A very few minutes’ climb from the
office of _The Atlantic Monthly_ suffices to reach it. Precisely at
that portion of it where the pretty grass-plots begin, to the houses
on the upper side, is the attractive, stately mansion of an elder
generation, in which Aldrich has taken up his abode. He bought it,
some years ago, of Dr. Bigelow, a well-known name in Boston, and made
it his own. It is one of a block, and is of red brick, four windows
(and perhaps thirty feet) wide, and four tall stories in height, with
a story of dormers above that. The classic doorway of white marble,
solidly built, after the honest fashion of its time, is but a small
detail after all in such an amplitude of façade, and melts easily into
place as part of a genial whole. The quarter, its sidewalks and all,
is chiefly of old red brick, tempered with the green of grass-plots,
shrubs, and climbing vines. It has a pervading air of antiquity, and
it quaintly suggests a bit of Chester or Coventry. The neighbors are,
on the one hand, Charles Francis Adams; on the other, Bancroft, son
of the historian; while, diagonally across the way, is a lady who is,
by popular rumor, the richest woman in New England. The rooms of the
house take a pleasing irregularity from the partial curvature of the
walls, front and rear. They are all spacious, above-stairs as well as
below. The “hall bedroom,” of modern progress, was hardly invented in
its time. A platform and steps at one side of the hall, on entering
(they clear a small alley to the rear) have a sort of altar-like
aspect. The owner or his books might some time be apotheosized there,
at need, amid candles and flowers. Aldrich has been fortunate in his
marriage as in so many other ways. His family consists of a congenial
and accomplished wife, and “the twins,” not unknown to literature. The
most pervading trait of the interior is a sense of a discriminating
judgment and ardor in household decoration. Both husband and wife
share this taste, and together they have filled this abode and their
two country houses with ample evidence of it, and with rare and taking
objects brought from a wide circle of travel and research. Tribute
should be paid to the quietness of tone, the air of comfort, in the
whole. The collections are not made an end in themselves, but are
parts of a harmonious interior. Several stories are carpeted alike, in
a soft, low-toned hue. In days of professional decorators who throw
together all the hues of the kaleidoscope, and none in a patch larger
than your hand, and held upon these, brass, ebony, stamped leather,
marquetry, enamels and bottle-glass, in a kind of chaotic pudding--in
these days such an exceptional reserve as is here manifest seems little
less than a matter of notable personal daring. The furniture is of the
Colonial time, with a touch of the First Empire, and each piece has
its own history. There is a collection of curious old mirrors. In a
variety of old glazed closets and pantries in the dining-room (behind a
fine reception-room, on the entrance floor), Mrs. Aldrich shows a rare
collection of lovely china, both for use and ornament.
This is a dining-room that has entertained many a distinguished guest;
and the little dinners, to which invitations are rarely refused by the
favored ones, are said to be almost as easy to give as enjoyable to
take part in. The agreeable host, who has always allied himself much
with artists, has on occasion dined the New York Tile Club. Again,
his occupation as editor of _The Atlantic_ makes it often his duty
or privilege to bring home strangers of note who drop down upon him
from afar. The unexpected is, indeed, one of the things consistently
to be looked for in Aldrich. On the evenings of the week when he is
not entertaining, he is very apt to be dining out himself. He is a
social genius, and understands the arts of good fellowship. Good things
abound even more, if possible, in his talk than in his writings. Every
acquaintance of his will give you a list of happy scintillations of his
wit and humor. There is nothing of the recluse by nature in Aldrich;
nothing, either, of the conventional cut of poet or sage in his aspect.
His looks might somewhat astonish those--as the guileless are so often
astonished in this way--who had preconceived ideas of him from the
delicate refinement, the exquisite perfection of finish, of his verse.
As I saw him come in the other day from Lynn in a heavy, serviceable
reefing-jacket, adapted to the variable summer climate of that point,
he had much more the air of athlete than poet. I shall not enter upon
the abstruse calculation of what age a man may now have who was born in
1837, but in looks, manners, habits, Aldrich distinctly belongs to the
school of the younger men. He is now somewhat thickset; he is blond,
and of middle height. He has features that lend themselves easily to
the humorous play of his fancy. The ends of his mustache, pointed
somewhat in the French manner, seem to accentuate with a certain
fitness and _chic_ the quips and cranks which so often issue from
beneath it. Mentally, Aldrich seems Yankee, crossed with the Frenchman.
In the matter of literary finish, he is refined by fastidiousness of
taste to the last degree. He is a man of strong likes and dislikes; it
would sometimes seem fair almost to call them prejudices. In his work
he has scarcely any morbid side. He is the celebrator of every thing
bright and charming, of things opalescent and rainbow-hued, of pretty
women, roses, jewels, humming-bird and oriole, of the blue sky and sea
and the daintiest romance of the daintiest spots of foreign climes. If
man invented the arts to please,--as can hardly be denied,--few can be
called more truly in the vein of art than Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
From the rear window of the dining-room one looks out into a little
court-yard, more like a bit of Chester than ever. The building lot
runs quite through to Pinckney Street, and is closed in on the further
side by an odd little house of red brick, which is rented as a bachelor
apartment. It was formerly a petty shop, until Aldrich bethought him
both to transform it thus into a desirable adjunct, and to make it
pay a considerable part of the taxes. It is like a dwelling out of a
pantomime. One would hardly be surprised to see Humpty Dumpty dive
into or out of it at any moment. Pinckney Street might have a chapter
to itself. Narrower, modester, and at a further remove still from the
front than Mt. Vernon Street, it begins to be invaded now by quiet
lodging-houses, but still retains its quaintness and a high order of
respectability. A bright glimpse of the sea is had at the end of its
contracted down-hill perspective, over Charles Street. Aldrich formerly
lived in Pinckney Street, then in Charles Street, and thence removed
to his present abode. But, if it be a question of view, we must ascend
rather the high, winding staircase to the large cupola, with railed-in
platform, set upon the steep roof. The ground falls away hence on every
side and all of undulating, much-varied Boston is visible. Mark Twain
has pronounced the prospect from here at night, with the electric
lights glimmering in the leafy Common and the myriad of others round
about, as one of the most impressive within his wide experience. The
golden dome of the State House rears its bulk aloft, close at hand.
Up one flight from the entrance are the two principal drawing-rooms
of the house, large and handsome. The most conspicuous objects on the
walls of these are a few unknown old masters after the style of Fra
Angelico--trophies of travel. There are also a remarkable pair of
figures in Venetian wood-carving, nearly life-size. The pictures are,
for the rest, chiefly original sketches done for illustration of the
author’s books by the talented younger American artists.
On the same floor is the library, a modest-sized room, made to seem
smaller than it is through being compactly filled from floor to ceiling
with a collection of three thousand books. The specialties chiefly
observed in its composition are Americana and first editions. Aldrich
would disclaim any very ambitious design, but there are volumes here
which might tempt the cupidity of the most finished book-fancier, and
of a kind that bring liberal sums in market. Something artistic in
the form has generally guided the choice, as for instance Voltaire’s
“La Pucelle,” and the “Contes Moraux” of Marmontel, containing all
the quaint early plates. You take down from the shelves examples of
Aldrich’s own works done into several languages. Here is his “Queen
of Sheba” in Spanish, Valencia, 1879. Here is the treasure which
perhaps he would hardly exchange against any other--the autograph
letter of Hawthorne warmly praising his early poems,--saying, among
other things, that some of them seem almost too delicate even to be
breathed upon. Never did a young writer receive more intelligent and
sympathetic recognition from a greater source. Among the curiosities
of the shelves in yet another way is a gift copy of the early poems of
Fitz-Greene Halleck to Catherine Sedgwick. On the title-page is found
a patronizing line of memorandum from that minor celebrity in American
letters, reading “Mr. Halleck, the author of this book, is a resident
of New York.” Aldrich has never been subjected to the severe pecuniary
straits which befall so many literary men. He has undergone in his
time, however, sufficient pressure to acquaint him with that side of
life at least as an experience, to give him a proper appreciation no
doubt of his ample worldly comfort, and also to furnish the stimulus
for the development of his early powers. He had prepared, in his native
town of Portsmouth, to enter Harvard College, but, his father dying,
he became a clerk instead in the commission house of a rich uncle in
New York. He had his own way to make in the literary world; he began
at the very foot of the ladder, with fugitive contributions, and by
degrees identified himself with the newspapers and magazines of the
day. He even saw something of Bohemian life, a knowledge of which is no
undesirable element in one who is to be a man of the world. He dined at
Pfaff’s, and was one of a coterie which circled around _The Saturday
Press_ and the brilliant, erratic Henry D. Clapp. I recollect passing
with him the office of this defunct journal in Frankfort Street, on
the occasion when he had come to New York to be the recipient of a
complimentary breakfast at Delmonico’s in honor of his induction into
the editorship of _The Atlantic Monthly_. He looked with interest at
the dingy quarters commemorating so very different a phase of his life,
and repeated to me the valedictory address of the paper: “This paper is
discontinued for want of funds, which, by a coincidence, is precisely
the reason for which it was started.”
I have described Aldrich’s town house. He passes much of his time at
Ponkapog, twelve miles away behind the Blue Hills, and at Lynn, on the
sea-coast. “After its black bass and wild duck and teal,” says our
author in one of his charming essays, “solitude is the chief staple
of Ponkapog.... The nearest railway station (Heaven be praised!) is
two miles distant, and the seclusion is without a flaw. Ponkapog has
one mail a day; two mails a day would render the place uninhabitable.”
He took a large old farmhouse in the secluded place, remodeled it,
arranged for himself an attractive working study, and, used to men
and cities though he was, for a period made this exclusively his
home. His leading motive was the health of his boys, who needed an
out-of-door life. Ponkapog owes him a debt of gratitude for spreading
its name abroad. Until the publication of his entertaining book of
travel sketches, “From Ponkapog to Pesth,” it must have been wholly
unheard of, and even then I, for one, can recollect feeling that the
appellation was so ingenious as to be probably fictitious. With a
continuity that speaks strongly in its favor, Aldrich has passed the
summers at Lynn for seventeen years. From these must be excepted,
however, the summers of his jaunts to Europe, which are rather
frequent. The latest of these took him to the Russian fair at Nijni
Novgorod. In another, perhaps unlike any other traveler, he passed a
“day [and a day only] in Africa.” At Lynn, he has lived, in different
villas, all along the breezy Ocean Road. This is a street worthy of its
name, and it has a certain flavor of Newport, being a little remote
from the central bustle of the great shoe-manufacturing mart to which
it belongs. Others will quote a list of varied advantages for the
site; Aldrich will be apt to tell you he likes it for its nearness to
the railway station. The present house, of which he has taken a long
lease, is a large square wooden villa, painted red. It stands just
in the edge of a little indentation known as Deer Cove. “After me,
probably--who knows?” says the humorous host, who is not at all afraid
of a bit of the common vernacular. Nahant, Little Nahant and minor
resorts are in the view in front; Swampscott is three-quarters of a
mile away, at the left, and Marblehead at no great distance beyond
that. The feature of the water view is the bold little reef of Egg
Rock, with three white dots of habitations on its back. “Egg Rock is
exactly opposite everywhere. I recollect once trying to find some place
to which it was not opposite, just as in childhood I tried once to walk
around to the other side of the moon. In this latter case I suppose I
must have walked fully two miles.” So my host describes his peculiar
experience with it.
The main tide of fashion sets rather towards Beverly Farms and
Manchester than in this direction. The family lead, gladly, a quiet
life, little disturbed by a bustle of visits. They depend chiefly for
society upon the guests they bring down with them. They find plenty
of occupation and interest, too, in caring for their boys. These are
twins, as I have said, and so much twins as to be with difficulty
distinguished apart. I was interested to know if they began to develop
the literary faculty. ‘Heaven forbid!’ said their father in comic
horror. Aldrich’s study at Lynn is a modest upper room, in a wing, with
a plain gray cartridge-paper on the walls, no pictures, and nothing
to conspire with a flagging attention in its wanderings. One’s first
impulse, on looking up from the little writing-table in the center of
the floor, would be to cast his eyes out of the single window, where
Egg Rock, in a bit of blue sea, is again visible. This window should be
an inspiring influence, letting in its illumination upon the fabrics
of the heated brain; and not in the gentler mood alone, for tragedy
is often abroad there. The fog shrouds Egg Rock, then rolls in and
envelopes the universe under its stealthy domination; again, the gale
spatters the brine upon the window-panes, and beats and roars about the
house as it might on the light at Montauk.
As an editor, Aldrich is methodical. He goes early in the day to
the office of _The Atlantic Monthly_, and there writes his letters,
examines his manuscripts, and sees (or does not see) his visitors upon
a regular system. As to his personal habit of writing his literature,
he has none--at least no times and seasons. He waits for the mood, and
defends this practice as the best, or, at least for him, almost the
only one possible. This has to do, no doubt, with the small volume
of his writings, smaller comparatively than that of most of his
contemporaries. This result is perhaps contributed to also by the easy
circumstances of his life, and yet more by his devotion to extreme
literary finish. Experienced though he is, and successful though he is,
no manuscript leaves his hands to be printed till he has made at least
three distinct and amended drafts of it. He could never have been a
newspaper man; the merest paragraph would have received the same care,
and in the newspaper such painstaking is ruinous. His was a talent that
had to succeed in the front rank or not at all. He has produced little
of late, far too little to meet the demands of the audience of eager
admirers he has created. So delightful a pen, so droll and original
a fancy, so charming a muse, we can ill afford to spare. Yet that
mysterious genius that goes about collecting material for the archives
of permanent fame can have but little to dismiss from a total so small
and a performance so choice.
WILLIAM HENRY BISHOP.
[After ten years as editor of _The Atlantic Monthly_, Mr. Aldrich
resigned his position, and has since that time been living in Boston.
In 1893 he published “An Old Town by the Sea,” and two years later
“Unguarded Gates, and Other Poems.”--EDITORS.]
GEORGE BANCROFT
GEORGE BANCROFT
AT WASHINGTON
Mr. Bancroft, the historian, was “at home” beneath every roof-tree,
beside every fireside, where books are household gods. Mr. Bancroft,
the octogenarian, who came into the world hand in hand with the
Nineteenth Century, was especially at home at the capital of the
country whose history was to him a labor of love and the absorbing
occupation of a lifetime. For although his career was one of active
participation in public affairs, his pursuits ran parallel with his
literary work. He was contributing to the making of one period of a
United States history while his pen was engaged in writing of other
periods. If self-gratulation is ever permitted to authors, Mr. Bancroft
must have more than once exclaimed, “The lines have fallen to me in
pleasant places!” as he availed himself of opportunities which only an
ambassador could secure and a scholar improve.
It is the prose-Homer of our Republic whom it is my privilege to
present to the readers of this sketch. Picture to yourself a venerable
man, of medium height, slender figure, erect bearing; with lofty
brow thinned, but not stripped, of its silvery locks; a full, snowy
beard adding to his patriarchal appearance; bluish gray eyes, which
neither use nor time has deprived of brightness; a large nose of
Roman type, such as I have somewhere read or heard that the first
Napoleon regarded as the sign of latent force; “small white hands,”
which Ali Pasha assured Byron were the marks by which he recognized
the poet to be “a man of birth”;--let your imagination combine these
details, and you have a sketch for the historian’s portrait. The
frame is a medium-sized room of good, high pitch. In the center is a
rectangular table covered with books, pamphlets and other indications
of a literary life. Shelving reaches to the ceiling, and every
fraction of space is occupied by volumes of all sizes, from folio to
duodecimo; a door on the left opens into a room which is also full to
overflowing with the valuable collections of a lifetime; and further
on is yet another apartment equally crowded with the historian’s dumb
servants, companions, and friends; while rooms and nooks elsewhere
have yielded to Literature’s rights of squatter sovereignty. In the
Republic of Letters, all books are citizens, and one is as good as
another in the eyes of the maid-servant who kindles the breakfast-room
fire, save perhaps the vellum Plautus or illuminated missal. But men
are known not only by the society they keep, but by the books which
surround them. Just as there are “books which are no books,” so are
there libraries which are no libraries. But a library selected by a
scholar who was a book-hunter in European fields, who spared neither
time, money, labor, nor any available agency in his collection, must
be rich in literary treasures, particularly those bearing upon his
specialty; and such was Mr. Bancroft’s library. The facilities which
personal popularity, the fraternal spirit of literary men, and the
courtesy of official relations afford, were employed by Mr. Bancroft
when ambassador in procuring authentic copies of invaluable writings
and state-papers bearing immediately or remotely on the history of
the American Colonies and Republic. To these facilities, and his
own indefatigable industry and perseverance, is due the priceless
collection of manuscripts which, copied in a large and legible
handwriting, well-bound and systematically classified, adorned his
shelves. Of the printed volumes, not the least precious was a copy of
“Don Juan,” presented to him with the author’s compliments, sixty-six
years ago.
Mr. Bancroft’s home was a commodious double house, with brown-stone
front, plain and solid-looking, which was, before the War, the winter
residence of a wealthy Maryland family. Diagonally opposite, at the
corner of the intersecting streets, is the “Decatur House,” whither
the gallant sailor was borne after his duel with Commodore Barron, and
where he died after lingering in agony. Within a stone’s throw is the
White House; and I would say that the historian lived in the centre
of Washington’s Belgravia, had not the British Minister’s residence,
with an attraction stronger than centripetal, drawn around it a
social colony whose claims must be at least debated before judgment
is pronounced. In front of Mr. Bancroft’s house is a small courtyard
in which, in spring-time, beds of hyacinths blooming in sweet and
close communion show his love of flowers. When conversing with the
historian, it was impossible to ignore the retrospect of a life so
full of interest, for imagination persists in picturing the boyish
graduate of Harvard; the ambitious student at Gottingen and Berlin;
the inquisitive and ever-acquiring traveler; the pupil returned to
the bosom of his Alma Mater and promoted to a Fellowship with her
Faculty--preacher, teacher, poet and translator, before his calling
and election as his country’s historian was sure; his entrance into
the arena of politics and rapid advance to the line of leadership; his
membership in Mr. Polk’s Cabinet; his subsequent Mission to England;
his much later Mission to Berlin, where he succeeded in obtaining from
Bismarck a recognition of the “American doctrine” that naturalization
is expatriation, and negotiated a treaty which endeared him to the
German-American heart, since the Fatherland may now be visited without
the risk of compulsory service in the army.
When he first went abroad, an American was an object of curiosity to
Europeans, and we may compare his reception among German scholars to
that of Burns by the metaphysicians, philosophers and social leaders
of Edinburgh--first surprise, and then fraternal welcome. Two years
were spent at Gottingen, and half a year at Berlin. During this
period he was the pupil and companion of the great philologist Wolf,
of whom Ticknor’s delightful Memoirs contain such an entertaining
account; he studied under Schlosser, who so frequently appears in the
pages of Crabb Robinson’s Memoirs; he was a favorite with Heeren,
whose endorsement of his history was the _imprimatur_ of a literary
Pope. In his subsequent wanderings through France, Switzerland, and
over the Alps into Italy, he experienced the friendly offices of
men distinguished in literature, famous in history, and foremost
in politics. Some time was spent in Paris. With Lafayette intimate
relations were established; so much so, that the champion of republican
principles enlisted the young and sympathetic American in his too
sanguine schemes. Manuscript addresses were entrusted to Mr. Bancroft
to be published and disseminated at certain places along his Italian
journey. But the youthful lieutenant saw soon the impracticability of
the veteran’s hopes and plans.
It was a novel sensation to converse with one who survived so many
famous men of many lands with whom he came in contact; one who
discussed Byron with Goethe at Weimar, and Goethe with Byron at
Monte Nero; who, seventy years ago, went to Washington and dined at
the White House with the younger Adams; who since mingled with the
successive generations of American statesmen; witnessed the death of
one great political party, and the birth of another, but himself clung
with conservative consistency to the principles he espoused in early
manhood. Yet neither his years nor his tastes exiled him from the
enjoyment of a congenial element of society at the capital. But his
circle rarely touched the circumference which surrounds the gay and
ultra-fashionable coteries of a Washington season.
Mr. Bancroft had a warm sympathy for youth and childhood, and took
pleasure in the occasions that brought them around him. His habits
were those of one who early appreciated the fact that time is the most
reliable and available tool of the worker. It was for years his custom
to rise to his labors at five o’clock. After a noon-luncheon, he took
the exercise which contributed so much to his physical and intellectual
activity. He covered considerable distances daily on foot or horseback,
for he was both pedestrian and rider of the English type; or, if the
weather did not favor these methods of laying in a supply of oxygen, he
might have been seen reclining in a roomy two-horse phaeton.
Two generations intervened between the youthful visitor at the capital
and the venerable statesman and historian, who in his last days,
beneath his own vine and fig-tree, “crowned a youth of labor with an
age of ease.” Yet the preacher, teacher, poet, essayist, translator,
philologist, linguist, statesman, diplomat, historian, pursued with
tempered ardor his literary avocations. Readers of _The North American
Review_ had the pleasure of perusing, some years ago, his valuable
paper on Holmes’s “Emerson.” He published more recently (in 1886) a
brochure on the Legal Tender Acts and Decisions; but nothing was ever
allowed to interfere with the revision of his _opus major_, the History
of the United States, the sixth and last volume of the new edition of
which was issued by the Appletons in February, 1885.
As an octogenarian is not, strictly speaking, a contemporary, I
venture to enter the realm of biography, and refer to what renders
Mr. Bancroft the most interesting of American authors. His translation
from the path of pedagogy, from the dream-land of poetry, from the
atmosphere of theology, and the arena of party strife and the novelty
of official life, was a transition from extreme to extreme. Yet he
brought with him into his new fields the best fruits of his experience
in the old. He did not inflame the passions of the masses at the
hustings, but instructed their judgment. When he assumed the office of
Collector of the Port of Boston, he exhibited a capacity for business
which would have silenced the modern Senator who not only characterized
scholars as “them literary fellers,” but prefixed an adjective which
may not be repeated to ears polite. How many Cabinet officers are
remembered for any permanent reform or progressive movement they have
accomplished or initiated? But to Mr. Bancroft the country owes the
establishment of the Naval School at Annapolis; and science is indebted
to his fostering care for the contributory usefulness of the National
Observatory, which languished until he took the Naval portfolio. When
at the Court of St. James he negotiated America’s first postal treaty
with Great Britain; while allusion has been made to the important
service rendered at the German capital. In politics Mr. Bancroft was
always a Democrat. He was one of those who angered fanatics by their
love for the Constitution, and enraged secessionists by their devotion
to the Union,--who labored to avert the War, but whom the first gun
fired at Fort Sumter rallied to the support of Mr. Lincoln. And when
the last great eulogy of the martyred President was to be pronounced,
Mr. Bancroft was chosen to deliver it.
On the approach of summer, Mr. Bancroft led the exodus which leaves the
capital a deserted village. July found him domiciled at Newport, in
an old, roomy house, which faces Bellevue Avenue and is surrounded by
venerable trees, beneath whose wide-spreading shade the visitor drives
to the historian’s summer home. The view of the ocean is one of the
accidental charms of the spot, but the historian’s own hand dedicated
an extensive plot to a garden of roses--the flower which was nearest to
his heart. At Newport he led a life similar to that in Washington. He
rose early and saw the sun rise above the sea; he devoted a portion of
his time to literary pursuits, and entered into the social life of the
place, without taking part in its gayeties. In October he struck his
tent, and returned to his other home in time to enjoy the beauties of
our Indian summer.
B. G. LOVEJOY.
GEORGE H. BOKER
GEORGE H. BOKER
IN PHILADELPHIA
Like Washington Irving, Bancroft, Hawthorne, Lowell, Motley, Bayard
Taylor, and Bret Harte, George H. Boker may be counted among those
American authors who have been called upon to serve their country in
an official capacity abroad. But the greater part of his life was
spent in Philadelphia, where he was born in 1823. The house stands in
Walnut Street; a building of good height, with a facing of conventional
brown-stone, and set in the heart of the distinctively aristocratic
quarter. For Mr. Boker was born to the inheritance of wealth and a
strong social position, and it is natural that the place and the
face of his house should testify to this circumstance. In fact, he
was so closely connected with the society which enjoys a reputed
leisure, that when as a young man he declared his purpose of making
authorship and literature his life-work, his circle regarded him as
hopelessly erratic. Philadelphians, in those days, could respect
imported poets, and no doubt partially appreciated poetry in books,
as an ornamental adjunct of life. But poetry in an actual, breathing,
male American creature of their own “set,” was a different matter. The
infant industry of the native Muse was one that they never thought of
fostering.
It was soon after graduating at Nassau Hall, Princeton, that Boker made
known his intention of becoming an author. From what I have heard,
I infer that his resolve caused his neighbors to look upon him with
somewhat the same feeling as if he had suddenly been deposited on their
decorous doorsteps in the character of a foundling. Nevertheless, he
persisted quietly; and he succeeded in maintaining his position as
a poet of high rank and an accomplished man of the world, who also
took an active part in public affairs. He takes place with Motley on
our roll of well-known authors, as a rich young man giving himself to
letters; and it is even more remarkable that he should have cultivated
poetry in Philadelphia, where the conditions were unfavorable,
than that Motley should have taken up history in Boston, where the
conditions were wholly propitious. Boker’s house bears the impress
of his various and comprehensive tastes. To this extent it becomes
an illustration of his character, and the illustration is worth
considering.
The first floor, as one enters from the hallway, contains the
dining-room at the back, and a long, stately drawing-room fitted
up with old-time richness and imbued with an atmosphere of courtly
reception. But the library or study is above, on the second floor.
It has two windows looking out southward over the garden in the rear
of the house, and the whole effect of the room is that of luxurious
comfort mingled with an opulence of books. The walls are hung with
brown and gilded paper, and the visitor’s feet press upon a heavy
Turkish carpet, brought by the poet himself from Constantinople,
suggesting the quietude of Tennyson’s “hushed seraglios.” The chairs
and the lounges are covered with yellow morocco. On the wall between
the two windows hangs a copy of the Chandos portrait of Shakspeare; and
below this there is a large writing-table, provided with drawers and
cupboards, where Mr. Boker kept his manuscripts. His work, however, was
not done at this desk, for in the centre of the room there was a round
table under the chandelier, with a large arm-chair drawn up beside it.
In this chair, and at this round table, Mr. Boker wrote nearly all
his works; but, unlike most authors, he did not do his writing on the
table. A portfolio held in front of him, while he sat in the chair,
served his purpose; and it may also be worth while to note the fact
that his plays and his poems, composed in this spot, were first set
down in pencil.
The surroundings are delightful. On all sides the walls are filled with
book-cases reaching almost to the ceiling; the windows are hung with
heavy curtains decorated with Arabic designs; and in winter a fire of
soft coal burns in the large grate at one side of the apartment. The
books that glisten from the shelves are cased in bindings and covers of
the finest sort, made by the best artists of England and France. As to
their contents, the strength lies in a collection of old English drama
and poetry and a complete set of the Latin classics. It must be said
here, however, that Mr. Boker’s books are by no means confined to the
library. The presence of books is visible all through the house, and
one can trace at various points the fact that the owner of these books
has always aimed to collect the best editions. In later days Mr. Boker
has, in a measure, been exiled from the companionship of the choicest
books in his study; because, in order to obtain uninterrupted quiet,
he has been obliged to retire to a small room on the floor above his
library, where he is more secure from disturbance.
The dining-room is a noteworthy apartment, not only because many
distinguished persons have been entertained in it, but also because it
is beautifully finished with a ceiling and walls of black oak, framing
scarlet panels, that set off the buffets and side-cases full of silver
services. If any one fancies, however, that the appointments of the
dining-room and the library indicate a too Sybaritic taste, he should
ascend to the top floor of the house, where Mr. Boker had a workshop
containing a complete outfit for a turner in metals. Mr. Boker always
had a taste for working at what he called his “trade” of producing
various articles in metal, on his turning-lathe. In younger days it
used to be his boast that he could go into the shop of any machinist,
take off his coat, and earn his living as a skilled workman. He still
practiced at the bench in his own workshop, at the age of sixty-five.
It seems to me that he was unique among American authors, in uniting
with the grace and fire of a genuine poet the diversions of a rich
society man, the functions of a public official, and a capacity for
practical work as a mechanic.
We must bear in mind, also, that this skilled laborer, this man of
social leisure and amusement, and this poet, was also a man of intense
action in the time of the Civil War, when he organized the Union League
of Philadelphia, which consolidated loyal sentiment in the chief city
of Pennsylvania, at the time when that city was wavering. All the
Union Leagues of the country were patterned after this organization
in Philadelphia. Moreover, when Mr. Boker undertook and carried on
this work, his whole fortune was in danger of loss, from a maliciously
inspired law-suit. With the risk of complete financial ruin impending,
he devoted himself wholly to the cause of patriotism, and poured out
poem after poem that became the battle-cry of loyalists throughout the
North. His character and services won the friendship of General Grant;
and after the War, he was appointed United States Minister to Turkey;
from which post he was promoted to St. Petersburg. The impression
he made at that capital was so deep that, when he was recalled,
Gortschakoff received his successor with these words: “I cannot say I
am glad to see you. In fact, I’m not sure that I see you at all, for
the tears that are in my eyes on account of the departure of our friend
Boker.” In both of these places he rendered important services. Among
the dramas which were the fruit of his youth, “Calaynos” and “Francesca
da Rimini” achieved a great success, both in England and in this
country. The revival of “Francesca da Rimini” at the hands of Lawrence
Barrett, and its run of two or three seasons, thirty years after its
production, is one of the most remarkable events in the history of the
American stage. Nor should it be forgotten that Daniel Webster valued
one of Boker’s sonnets so much, that he kept it in memory to recite;
and that Leigh Hunt selected Boker as one of the best exponents of
mastery in the perfect sonnet.
An early portrait of Mr. Boker bears strong resemblance to Nathaniel
Hawthorne in his manly prime. But passing decades, while they did not
bend the tall, erect figure, whitened the thick, military-looking
moustache and short curling hair that contrasted strikingly with a
firm, ruddy complexion. His commanding presence and distinguished
appearance were as well known in Philadelphia as his sturdy personality
and polished manners were. For many years he continued to act as
President both of the Union League and of the old, aristocratic, yet
hospitable, Philadelphia Club. These two clubs, his home occupations
and his numerous social engagements occupied much of his leisure during
the winter; and his summers were usually spent at some fashionable
resort of the quieter order. How he contrived to find time for reading
and composition it is hard to guess; but his pencil was not altogether
idle even in his last years. When a man had so consistently held his
course and fixed his place as a poet, a dramatist, a brilliant member
of society, an active patriot and a diplomatist, it seems to me quite
worth our while to recognize that he did this under circumstances of
inherited wealth which usually lead to inertness. It is worth our
while to observe that a rich American devoted his life to literature,
and did so much to make us feel that he deserved to be one of the few
American authors who enjoyed a luxurious home.
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
JOHN BURROUGHS
JOHN BURROUGHS
AT ESOPUS ON THE HUDSON
When the author of “Winter Sunshine” comes to town, it is over the
most perfectly graded track and through the finest scenery about New
York. Returning he is carried past Weehawken and the Palisades, through
the Jersey Meadows, in and out among the West Shore Highlands, under
West Point, and past Newburg factories and Marlborough berry farms. He
leaves the train at West Park, mounts a hill through a peach-orchard,
crosses a grassy field, and the high-road when he reaches the top,
opens a rustic gate, and is at home. From the road, you look down upon
the roofs and dormers and chimneys of the house, about half covered
with the red and purple foliage of the Virginia creeper. The ground
slopes quite steeply, so that the house is two stories high on the
side next the road and three on the side toward the river, which winds
away between high, wooded banks to the Catskills, twenty miles to the
north, and to the Highlands, thirty miles to the south. The slope, in
the rear of the house, to the river, is laid out in a grapery and an
orchard of apple and peach trees. Between the house and the road the
steep hillside is tufted with evergreens and other ornamental trees.
At the foot of the hill, the gray roofs of a big ice-house are seen.
Squirrels, that have their nests in the sawdust packing, clamber
around the walls. Near the house, to the left, there is a substantial
store-house, and a carriage-shed and stable. There are two other
dwellings on the farm. The country immediately about is all very much
alike, nearly half of it in ornamental plantations surrounding neat
country houses; the other half, where it is not occupied by rocks,
being covered with fruit, or corn, or grass. The opposite shore of the
Hudson is of the same character, varied with clumps of timber, villas
and farm-houses of the style that was in vogue before the introduction
of the so-called Queen Anne mode of building; a few cultivated
fields and many wild meadows and out-cropping ridges of slate rock
intervening. But the interior country, on the hither-side, back of
the railroad which cuts through the slate hills like a hay-knife,
is a perfect wilderness--rugged, barren, and uninhabited. A number
of little lakes lie behind the first range of hills, the highest of
which has been named by Mr. Burroughs Mount Hymettus, because it is a
famous place for wild bees and sumac honey. From one of these ponds, an
exemplary mountain stream--model of all that a mountain stream should
be--makes its way by a series of cascades into the valley, where it
forms deep pools, peopled by silvery chub and black bass, brawls over
ledges, sparkles in the sun, and sleeps in the shadow, and performs
all the recognized and traditional brook “business” to perfection. Its
specialty is its bed of black stones and dark green moss, which has
gained it its name of Black Creek. At one spot, where it passes under a
high bank overhung by hemlocks, it has communicated its dark color to
the very frogs that jump into it, and to the dragonflies that rid it of
mosquitoes.
The road between West Park and Esopus crosses this brook near a ruined
mill, whose charred rafters lie in the cellar, and whose wheel-buckets
are filled with corn-shucks. The ruby berries of the nightshade hang
in over its window-sills. This is the most varied two miles of road
that I can bring to mind. Starting with a fine view up and down the
river, it soon dips into the valley, between walls of slate and rows
of tall locusts. The locusts are succeeded by the firs and pines of
a carefully kept estate. Then comes the stream, spanned by a rustic
bridge; the ruined mill, and the new rise of ground which, beyond the
railroad, reaches up into summits covered with red oaks and flaming
orange maples. A tree by the roadside, now torn in two by a storm, is
pointed out by Mr. Burroughs as the former home of an old friend of
his--a brown owl who, in the course of a ten years’ acquaintanceship,
as if dreading the contempt that familiarity breeds, never showed an
entire and unhesitating confidence in him. The bird would slink out of
sight as he approached--slowly and by imperceptible degrees; wisely
effacing himself rather than that it should be said he was too intimate
with a mere human. Esopus contains a tavern, a post-office, a bank,
a blacksmith-shop, and one or two houses; and yet--like an awkward
contingency--one never suspects its existence until he has got fairly
into it. From the railroad station it is invisible; it cannot be seen
from the river; and the road, which runs through it, knows nothing of
it before or after.
Mr. Burroughs’s portrait must be drawn out of doors. He is of a medium
height, but being well-built and having a fine head, he gives the
impression of being by no means a middling sort of a man, physically.
His skin is well tanned by exposure to all sorts of weather. He has
grisly hair and beard. The eyes and mouth have a somewhat feminine
character; the eyes are humid, rather large, and they are half closed
when he is pleased; the lips are full, the line between them never
hard, and the corners of the mouth are blunt. The nose would be Roman,
if it were a trifle longer. I make no apology for giving so short a
description of a man whom it would be well worth while to paint. It is
unnecessary to sketch his mental features, for he has unconsciously
placed them on record, himself, in the delightful series of essays
which he has added to the treasures of the English language.