excursions, are the subjects of some of his most entertaining chapters;
but a not impertinent curiosity may be gratified by some account of his
everyday life when at home and at work. His literary labors are at a
standstill throughout the summer. He does not take notes. Even when he
has returned from camping out, or canoeing, or from his summer vacation
of whatever form, he does not rush at once to pen and paper. He waits
till the spirit moves him, which it usually begins to do a little
after the first frosts. He rises early--between five and six o’clock;
breakfasts, reads the newspapers or employs himself about the house and
farm until nine or ten; then writes for three or four hours, seldom
more. He has always refused to do literary work to order, although he
has had some tempting offers. He will write only what he pleases, and
when he pleases, and so much as he pleases. And he observes no method
in preparing, any more than in doing, his work. He exacts from himself
no account of his time. He does not feel himself bound in conscience
to improve every incident that has occurred, every observation he has
made during the year. He simply lets the material which he has absorbed
distill over into essays long or short, few or many, as providence
directs. He does not belong to the class of methodical laborers who
make a business of writing, and who would feel conscience-stricken if,
at the close of their working-day, they had not blackened a certain
number of sheets of white paper. But he acknowledges that good work is
done in that way, and he thinks it is all a matter of habit.
His neighbors see to it that his leisure does not degenerate into
idleness. They have made a bank examiner of him, and a superintendent
of roads, and, latterly, a postmaster. The first-mentioned position is
the only one that has any emoluments attached to it; but, as he likes
to drive, he thinks it for his interest to see after the roads, and he
hopes, now that his post-office at West Farms is in working order, to
get his mails in good time.
Most of his books--“Wake Robin,” “Birds and Poets,” “Winter Sunshine,”
etc.--were written in the library of his house, a small room, fitted
with book-shelves both glazed and open, and enjoying a splendid view
of the Hudson to and beyond Poughkeepsie. But he has lately built
himself a study, several hundred yards from the house and more directly
overlooking the river. Here he has pretty complete immunity from noise
and from interruptions of all sorts. It is a little, square building,
the walls rough-cast within and faced with long strips of bark without.
Papers, magazines, books, photographs, lithographs lie scattered over
the table, the window-sills and the floor, and fill some shelves let
into a little recess in the wall. A student’s lamp on the table shows
that the owner sometimes reads here at night. His room-mates at present
are some wasps hatched out of a nest taken last winter and suspended to
the chimney. This primitive erection is further ornamented with a lot
of pictures of men and birds, the men mostly poets--Carlyle being the
only exception--and the birds all songsters. Two steps from the study
is a summer-house of hemlock branches, with gnarled vine-stocks twisted
in among them, where one may sit of an afternoon and read the New
York morning papers, or watch the boats or the trains on the opposite
bank, or the antics of a squirrel among the branches of the apple-tree
overhead, or the struggles of a honey-bee backing out of a flower of
yellow-rattle.
Mr. Burroughs has been his own architect; and I know many people who
might wish that he had been theirs too. He planned and superintended
the erection of his house, which is a four-gabled structure, with a
porch in front and a broad balcony in the rear. Most of the timber for
the upper story is oak from his old Delaware County farm. The stone of
which the two lower stories are built was obtained on the spot, and is
a dark slate plentifully veined with quartz. Great pains were taken
in the building to turn the handsomest samples of quartz to the fore,
and to put them where they would do the most good, artistically. Over
the lintel of the door, for example, is a row of three fine specimens;
and a big chunk, with mosses lying between its crystals, protrudes
from the wall near the porch. The variety of color so obtained, with
the drab woodwork of the upper story and the red Virginia vine, keeps
the house, at all seasons, in harmony with its surroundings. It is no
less so within; for doors, wainscots, window-frames, joists, sills,
skirting-boards, floor and rafters are all of native woods, left of
their natural colors, and skillfully contrasted with one another; one
door being of Georgia pine with oak panels, another of chestnut and
curled maple, a third of butternut and cherry, and so on. Grayish, or
brownish, or russet wall-papers, and carpets to match, give the house
very much of the appearance of a nest, into the composition of which
nothing enters that is not of soft textures and low and harmonious
color.
ROGER RIORDAN.
GEORGE W. CABLE
GEORGE W. CABLE
AT NEW ORLEANS AND NORTHAMPTON
Far up in the “garden district” of New Orleans stands a pretty cottage,
painted in soft tones of olive and red. A strip of lawn bordered with
flowers lies in front of it, and two immense orange trees, beautiful at
all seasons of the year, form an arch above the steps that lead up to
the piazza. Here Mr. Cable made his home for some years, and here were
written “The Grandissimes,” “Madame Delphine” and “Dr. Sevier.” Those
who were fortunate enough to pass beyond its portals found the interior
cosy and tasteful, without any attempt at display. The study was a room
of many doors and windows with low bookcases lining the walls, and
adorned with pictures in oil and water-colors by G. H. Clements, and in
black and white by Joseph Pennell. The desk, around which hovered so
many memories of Bras-Coupé and Madame Delphine, and gentle Mary, was
a square, old-fashioned piece of furniture, severely plain, but very
roomy.
Neither was comfort neglected; for a hammock swung in the study, in
which the author could rest, from time to time, from his labors. Mr.
Cable’s plan of work is unusually methodical, for his counting-room
training has stood him in good stead. All his notes and references are
carefully indexed and journaled, and so systematized that he can turn,
without a moment’s delay, to any authority he wishes to consult. In
this respect, as in many others, he has not, perhaps, his equal among
living authors. In making his notes, it is his usual custom to write
in pencil on scraps of paper. These notes are next put into shape,
still in pencil, and the third copy, intended for the press, is written
in ink on note-paper--the chirography exceedingly neat, delicate and
legible. He is always exact, and is untiring in his researches. The
charge of anachronism has several times been laid at his door; but this
is an accusation it would be difficult to prove. Before attempting to
write upon any historical point, he gathers together all available data
without reckoning time or trouble; and, under such conditions, nothing
is more unlikely than that he should be guilty of error. Mr. Cable has
a great capacity for work, and his earlier stories were written under
the stress of unremitting toil. Later, when he was able to emerge from
business life and follow the profession of literature exclusively, he
continued his labors in the church, and never allowed any engagement
to interfere with his Sunday-school and Bible-classes. In his books,
religion has the same place that it takes in a good man’s life. Nothing
is said or done for effect; neither is he ashamed to confess his faith
before the world.
It is perhaps strange that Mr. Cable should have the true artistic, as
well as the religious, temperament, since these two do not invariably
go hand in hand. Music, painting, and sculpture are full of charms for
him, and he is an intuitive judge of what is best in art. His knowledge
of music is far above the ordinary, and he has made a unique study of
the usually elusive and baffling strains of different song-birds. He
is such a many-sided man that he should never find a moment of the
day hanging heavily upon his hands. The study of botany was a source
of great pleasure to him, at one time; and he had, also, an aviary in
which he took a deep interest.
Seemingly sedate, Mr. Cable is full of fun; and charming as he is in
general society, a compliment may be paid him that cannot often be
spoken truthfully of men of genius--namely, that he appears to the best
advantage in his own home. His children are a merry little band of five
girls and one boy, each evincing, young as they are, some distinctive
talent. It is amusing to note their appreciation of ‘father’s fun,’ and
his playful speeches always give the signal for bursts of laughter.
This spirit of humor, so potent “to witch the heart out of things
evil,” is either hereditary or contagious, for all of these little
folks are ready of tongue. The friends whom Mr. Cable left behind him,
in New Orleans, remember with regretful pleasure the delightful little
receptions which have now become a thing of the past. Sometimes, at
these gatherings, he would sing an old Scotch ballad, in his clear,
sweet tenor voice, or one of those quaint Creole songs that he has
since made famous on the lecture platform; or, again, he would read
a selection from “Dukesborough Tales”--one of his favorite humorous
works. Nothing was stereotyped or conventional, for Mr. Cable is, in
every aspect of life, a dangerous enemy of the common-place. But the
pleasant dwelling-place has passed into other hands; other voices
echo through the rooms; and Mr. Cable has found a new home in a more
invigorating climate.
The highway leading from the town of Northampton, Mass., which one must
follow in order to find Mr. Cable’s house, has the aspect of a quiet
country road, but is, in reality, one of the streets of the city, with
underlying gas and water-pipes. It is studded with handsome dwellings,
some of brick and stone, others of simple frame-work--each with velvet
lawn shaded with spreading elms, and here and there a birch or pine.
The romancer’s house is the last at the edge of the town, on what
is fitly named the Paradise Road. It is a red brick building of two
stories and a half, with a vine-covered piazza; and the smooth-cut lawn
slopes gently down to the street, separated only from the sidewalk by
a stone coping. Above all things, one is conscious, on entering here,
of a sense of comfort and home happiness. The furniture is simple but
exceedingly tasteful, of light woods with little upholstery; and the
visitor finds an abundance of easy-chairs and settees of willow. The
study is a delightful nook, opening by sliding doors from the parlor on
one side and the hall on another. A handsome table of polished cherry,
usually strewn with books and papers, occupies the center of the room,
and, as in the old home, the walls are lined with book-shelves. A
large easy-chair, upon which the thoughtful wife insisted, when the
room was being fitted up, affords a welcome resting-place to the weary
author. Sometimes she lends her gentle presence to the spot, and sits
there, with her quiet needlework, while the story or lecture is in
the course of preparation. One of the charms of this sanctum is the
view from the two windows that extend nearly to the floor. From one
may be descried the blue and hazy line of the Hampshire hills, while
from the other one sees Mt. Holyoke and Mt. Tom uprearing their
stately heads to the sky. Sloping down from the carriage-drive which
passes it lies Paradise--a stretch of woods bordering Mill River. No
more appropriate name could be given it, for if magnificent trees,
beautiful flowers, green-clad hill and dell, and winding waters, and
above all, the perfect peace of nature, broken only by bird-notes, can
make a paradise, it is found in this corner of Northampton, itself
the loveliest of New England towns. Mr. Cable confesses that this
scene of enchantment is almost too distracting to the mind, and that,
when deeply engaged in composition, he finds it necessary to draw the
curtains.
If the days in Mr. Cable’s home are delightful, the evenings are not
less charming. After the merry tea and the constitutional walk have
been taken, the family gather in the sitting-room. Usually, two or
three friends drop in; but if none come, the children are happy to
draw closely around their father, while he plays old-time songs or
Creole dances on his guitar. As he sings, one after another joins in,
and finally the day is ended with a hymn and the evening worship. The
hour is early, for the hard-working brain must have its full portion of
rest. It is one of Mr. Cable’s firm-rooted principles that the mind can
not do its best unless the body is well treated; and he gives careful
attention to all rules of health. Apart from the brilliant fact of his
genius, this is the secret of the evenness of his work. There is no
feverish energy weakening into feverish lassitude; it moves on without
haste, without rest. Mr. Cable well advised a young writer never to
publish anything but his best; and it is this principle, doubtless,
that has prevented him from thinking it necessary, as many English and
American authors seem to fancy, to turn out a certain amount of printed
matter every year. In addition to his literary labors, Mr. Cable is
frequently absent from home on reading and lecture engagements, and
great is the rejoicing of his family when they have him once more
among them. Mr. Cable’s place in literature is as unique as that of
Hawthorne. He is distinctively and above all things an American. He has
not found it necessary to cross the water in search of inspiration; and
he is the only American author of any prominence whose turn of mind has
never been influenced by the foreign classics.
What Bret Harte has done for the stern angularity of Western life,
Mr. Cable has wrought, in infinitely finer and subtler lines, for
his soft-featured and passionate native land. Those who come after
him in delineation of Creole character can only be followers in his
footsteps, for to him alone belongs the credit of striking this new
vein, so rich in promise and fulfillment. An alien coming among them
would be as one who speaks a different language. He would be impressed
only by superficial peculiarities, and would chronicle them from this
standpoint. But Mr. Cable knows these people to their heart’s core;
he is saturated with their individuality and traditions; to him their
very inflection of voice, turn of the head, motion of the hands, is
eloquent with meaning. His work will endure because it is entirely
wholesome, and full of that “sanity of mind” which speaks with such a
strenuous voice to the mass of mankind. The writer who appeals from a
diseased imagination to an audience full of diseased and morbid tastes,
must necessarily have a small _clientèle_; for there are comparatively
few people, as balanced against the vast hordes of workers, who are so
satiated with the good things of this life that they must always seek
for some new sensation strong enough to blister their jaded palates.
The men and women who labor and endure desire after their day of toil
something that will cheer and refresh; and this will remain so as long
as health predominates over disease.
The engraving in _The Century_ of February, 1882, has made the reading
public familiar with Mr. Cable’s features; but there is lacking the
lurking sparkle in the dark hazel eyes, and the curving of the lips
into a peculiarly winning smile. In person, Mr. Cable is small and
slight, with chestnut hair, beard and moustache; and there is a marked
development of the forehead above the eyebrows, supposed, by believers
in phrenology, to indicate unusual musical talent. On paper, it is hard
to express the charm of his individuality, or the pleasure of listening
to his sunny talk, with its quaint turns of thought and the felicitous
phrases that spring spontaneously to his lips. Those who have been
impressed by the deep humanity that made it possible for him to write
such a book as “Dr. Sevier,” will find the man and the author one and
indivisible. Nothing is forced, or uttered for the sake of making an
impression; and the listener may be sure that Mr. Cable is saying what
he thinks. The conscientiousness that enabled him to be a brave soldier
and an untiring business man, runs through his whole life; and he has
none of that moral cowardice which staves off an expression of opinion
with a falsely pleasant word.
J. K. WETHERILL.
[Eight years ago Mr. Cable left the house in Paradise Road for a
new Colonial house on “Dryad’s Green,” against a background of
pines,--“Tarryawhile,” with a cottage workshop of two rooms near
by.--EDITORS.]
S. L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN)
S. L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN)
AT HARTFORD AND ELMIRA
The story of Mark Twain’s life has been told so often that it has
lost its novelty to many readers, though its romance has the quality
of permanence. But people to-day are more interested in the author
than they are in the printer, the pilot, the miner, or the reporter,
of twenty or thirty years ago. The editor of one of the most popular
American magazines once alluded to him as “the most widely read
person who writes in the English language.” More than half a million
copies of his books have been sold in this country. England and the
English colonies all over the world have taken at least half as many
in addition. His sketches and shorter articles have been published
in every language which is printed, and the larger books have been
translated into German, French, Italian, Norwegian, Danish, etc. He
is one of the few living men with a truly world-wide reputation.
Unless the excellent gentlemen who have been engaged in revising the
Scriptures should claim the authorship of their work, there is no other
living writer whose books are now so widely read as Mark Twain’s;
and it may not be out of the way to add that in more than one pious
household the “Innocents Abroad” is laid beside the family Bible, and
referred to as a hand-book of Holy Land description and narrative.
Off the platform and out of his books, Mark Twain is Samuel L.
Clemens--a man who was born November 30, 1835. He is of a very
noticeable personal appearance, with his slender figure, his finely
shaped head, his thick, curling, very gray hair, his heavy arched
eyebrows, over dark gray eyes, and his sharply, but delicately, cut
features. Nobody is going to mistake him for any one else, and his
attempts to conceal his identity at various times have been comical
failures. In 1871 Mr. Clemens made his home in Hartford, and in some
parts of the world Hartford to-day is best known because it is his
home. He built a large and unique house in Nook Farm, on Farmington
Avenue, about a mile and a quarter from the old centre of the city. It
was the fancy of its designer to show what could be done with bricks
in building, and what effect of variety could be got by changing their
color, or the color of the mortar, or the angle at which they were
set. The result has been that a good many of the later houses built in
Hartford reflect in one way or another the influence of this one. In
their travels in Europe, Mr. and Mrs. Clemens have found various rich
antique pieces of household furniture, including a great wooden mantel
and chimney-piece, now in their library, taken from an English baronial
hall, and carved Venetian tables, bedsteads, and other pieces. These
add their peculiar charm to the interior of the house. The situation of
the building makes it very bright and cheerful. On the top floor is Mr.
Clemens’s own working-room. In one corner is his writing-table, covered
usually with books, manuscripts, letters, and other literary litter;
and in the middle of the room stands the billiard-table, upon which a
large part of the work of the place is expended. By strict attention to
this business, Mr. Clemens has become an expert in the game; and it is
part of his life in Hartford to get a number of friends together every
Friday for an evening of billiards. He even plans his necessary trips
away from home so as to get back in time to observe this established
custom.
Mr. Clemens divides his year into two parts, which are not exactly for
work and play respectively, but which differ very much in the nature of
their occupations. From the first of June to the middle of September,
the whole family, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Clemens and their three
little girls, are at Elmira, N. Y. They live there with Mr. T. W.
Crane, whose wife is a sister of Mrs. Clemens. A summer-house has been
built for Mr. Clemens within the Crane grounds, on a high peak, which
stands six hundred feet above the valley that lies spread out before
it. The house is built almost entirely of glass, and is modeled exactly
on the plan of a Mississippi steamboat’s pilot-house. Here, shut off
from all outside communication, Mr. Clemens does the hard work of the
year, or rather the confining and engrossing work of writing, which
demands continuous application, day after day. The lofty work-room
is some distance from the house. He goes to it every morning about
half-past eight and stays there until called to dinner by the blowing
of a horn about five o’clock. He takes no lunch or noon meal of any
sort, and works without eating, while the rules are imperative not to
disturb him during this working period. His only recreation is his
cigar. He is an inveterate smoker, and smokes constantly while at his
work, and, indeed, all the time, from half-past eight in the morning to
half-past ten at night, stopping only when at his meals. A cigar lasts
him about forty minutes, now that he has reduced to an exact science
the art of reducing the weed to ashes. So he smokes from fifteen to
twenty cigars every day. Some time ago he was persuaded to stop the
practice, and actually went a year and more without tobacco; but he
found himself unable to carry along important work which he undertook,
and it was not until he resumed smoking that he could do it. Since then
his faith in his cigar has not wavered. Like other American smokers,
Mr. Clemens is unceasing in his search for the really satisfactory
cigar at a really satisfactory price, and, first and last, has gathered
a good deal of experience in the pursuit. It is related that, having
entertained a party of gentlemen one winter evening in Hartford, he
gave to each, just before they left the house, one of a new sort of
cigar that he was trying to believe was the object of his search. He
made each guest light it before starting. The next morning he found all
that he had given away lying on the snow beside the pathway across his
lawn. Each smoker had been polite enough to smoke until he got out of
the house, but every one, on gaining his liberty, had yielded to the
instinct of self-preservation and tossed the cigar away, forgetting
that it would be found there by daylight. The testimony of the next
morning was overwhelming, and the verdict against the new brand was
accepted.