And my little Gabe come along――
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight――
And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart’s store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started――
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie;
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And searched for ’em far and near.
At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot――dead beat――but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me,
Of my fellow-critters’ aid,
I jest flopped down on my marrowbones,
Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
* * * * *
By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night,
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm;
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
An’ fotching him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.
* * * * *
JIM BLUDSO.¹
OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.”
WALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives,
Because he don’t live, you see;
Leastways, he’s got out of the habit
Of livin’ like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three year
That you haven’t heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren’t no saint――them engineers
Is all pretty much alike――
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never flunked, and he never lied――
I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had――
To treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot’s bell;
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire――
A thousand times he swore,
He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last――
The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,
And so she come tearin’ along that night――
The oldest craft on the line――
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,
Over all the infernal roar,
“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word,
And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell――
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren’t no saint; but at judgment
I’d run my chance with Jim,
’Longside some pious gentlemen
That wouldn’t shook hands with him.
He seen his duty――a dead-sure thing――
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
* * * * *
HOW IT HAPPENED.¹
I PRAY your pardon, Elsie,
And smile that frown away
That dims the light of your lovely face
As a thunder-cloud the day,
I really could not help it,――
Before I thought, it was done,――
And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,
Like an icicle in the sun.
I was thinking of the summers
When we were boys and girls,
And wandered in the blossoming woods,
And the gay wind romped with her curls.
And you seemed to me the same little girl
I kissed in the alder-path,
I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas!
I have roused a woman’s wrath.
There is not so much to pardon,――
For why were your lips so red?
The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold
From the proud, provoking head.
And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes
And played round the tender mouth,
Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind
That blows from the fragrant South.
And where after all is the harm done?
I believe we were made to be gay,
And all of youth not given to love
Is vainly squandered away,
And strewn through life’s low labors,
Like gold in the desert sands,
Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows
And the clasp of clinging hands.
And when you are old and lonely,
In memory’s magic shrine
You will see on your thin and wasting hands,
Like gems, these kisses of mine.
And when you muse at evening
At the sound of some vanished name,
The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips
And kindle your heart to flame.
¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS.
EUGENE FIELD • BRET HARTE
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
JOAQUIN MILLER • WILL CARLETON
(CINCINNATUS HEINE)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
“THE HOOSIER POET.”
NO poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with
the masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently
obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold upon
the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living verse
writer. The productions of this author have crystallized certain
features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. In reading
“The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water
touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,”
“Airly Days,” “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart
of Mine,” and others, go straight to the heart of the reader with a
mixture of pleasant recollections, tenderness, humor, and sincerity,
that is most delightful in its effect.
Mr. Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he
was not raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its
atmosphere that his readers would scarcely believe he was not the
veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the simple-hearted Boone County farmer,
whom he honored with the authorship of his early poems. To every man
who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on the school-master
to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons,
or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come
as an echo from his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly
melodious retrospect of the past.
Mr. Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless
catching sing-song in his verses, not unlike the jingle of the “Mother
Goose Melodies.” Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life,
and in easy ♦rhythm, are the pieces describing “Little Orphant Allie”
and “The Ragged Man.”
♦ ‘rythm’ replaced with ‘rhythm’
An’ Little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,――
You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear,
An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about,
Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you
Ef you――don’t――_watch_――out.
James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His
father was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired
to make a lawyer of his son; but Mr. Riley tells us, “Whenever I
picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Greenleaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering,
and my father was soon convinced that his hopes of my achieving
greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to his
education, the poet further says, “I never had much schooling, and
what I did get, I believe did me little good. I never could master
mathematics, and history was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I
always was fond of reading in a random way, and took naturally to the
theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a declaimer, and I began
to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.”
Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine
man, with whom he traveled for a year. On leaving this employment he
organized a company of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the
country giving musical entertainments and painting signs. In referring
to this he says, “All the members of the company were good musicians
as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade with our music. We
kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had lots of
fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during
this sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and
finally after the Graphic Company’s last trip I secured a position
on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For many years Riley endeavored to
have his verses published in various magazines, “sending them from
one to another,” he says, “to get them promptly back again.” Finally,
he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him
warmly, as did also Mr. Lowell, to whose “New England Dialectic
Poems” Mr. Riley’s “Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From
this time forward his success was assured, and, instead of hunting
publishers, he has been kept more than busy in supplying their eager
demands upon his pen.
Mr. Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are
composed as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are
thought out, he immediately stops and transfers them to paper. But he
must work as the mood or muse moves him. He cannot be driven. On this
point he says of himself, “It is almost impossible for me to do good
work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem at a certain time,
I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the
future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to
writing dialect, that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers
the recognized poetic form; “but,” he adds, “dialectic verse is
natural and gains added charm from its very commonplaceness. If truth
and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of nature,
then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can,
and try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and
such success as I have achieved is due to this.”
The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole”
and “’Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he
published a number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned,
“Armazindy,” which contains some of his best dialect and serious
verses, including the famous Poe Poem, “Leonainie,” written and
published in early life as one of the lost poems of Poe, and on which
he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in mimicking
the style of the author of the “Raven;” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches
in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories;”
“Afterwhiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious,
pathetic, humorous and dialectic; “Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five
sketches and fifty poems; “Rhymes of Childhood;” “Flying Islands of
the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in verse; “Green Fields and
Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two poems and sonnets,
dialectic, humorous and serious.
The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana,
with his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant
nature; and he is scarcely less a favorite with the children of the
neighborhood than was the renowned child poet, Eugene Field, at his
home. The devotion of Mr. Riley to his aged parents, whose last days
he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly
commented upon in the current notices of the poet. Mr. Riley has
personally met more of the American people, perhaps, than any other
living poet. He is constantly “on the wing.” For about eight months
out of every twelve for the past several years he has been on the
lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent class
of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed
themselves, at one time or another, to the treat of listening to
his inimitable recitation of his poems. His short vacation in the
summer――“his loafing days,” as he calls them――are spent with his
relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found
at his best.
* * * * *
A BOY’S MOTHER.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
MY mother she’s so good to me,
Ef I wuz good as I could be,
I couldn’t be as good――no, _sir_!――
Can’t _any_ boy be good as _her_!
She loves me when I’m glad er sad;
She loves me when I’m good er bad;
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.
I don’t like her to punish me.――
_That_ don’t hurt,――but it hurts to see
Her cryin’.――Nen I cry; an’ nen
We _both_ cry an’ be good again.
She loves me when she cuts an’ sews
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves him most as much as me.
She laughs an’ tells him all I said,
An’ grabs me an’ pats my head;
An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,
An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.
¹ By Permission of the Century Co.
* * * * *
THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
I WAS for Union――you, ag’in’ it.
’Pears like, to me, each side was winner,
Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it.
Le’ ’s go to dinner.
Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down together
And do some pardnership forgittin’――
Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather,
Or somepin’ fittin’.
The war, you know, ’s all done and ended,
And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass;
Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendid
As ’fore the rumpus.
The old farms and the old plantations
Still ockipies the’r old positions.
Le’ ’s git back to old situations
And old ambitions.
Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal
Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’
And git back home to the eternal
Ca’m we’re a-wantin’.
Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet――
When women does my cookin’ for me,
Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie et
Durin’ the army.
¹ By Permission of the Century Co.
* * * * *
OUR HIRED GIRL.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
OUR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;
An’ she can cook best things to eat!
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet;
An’ nen she salts it all on top
With cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stop
An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,
In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slop
An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
It’s custard-pie, first thing you know!
An’ nen she’ll say,
“Clear out o’ my way!
They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!
Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”
When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,
An’ says folks got to walk the chalk
When _she’s_ around, er wisht they had!
I play out on our porch an’ talk
To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;
An’ he says, “_Whew!_” an’ nen leans on
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,
An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!
Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,
It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”
An’ nen _he’ll_ say,
“Clear out o’ my way!
They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!
Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”
Wunst our hired girl, when she
Got the supper, an’ we all et,
An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me
An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,――
An’ nen when we come home, an’ see
A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we
Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’-
O’-Gracious! who can _her_ beau be?”
An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann
Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man!
_Better_ say,
“Clear out o’ the way!
They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!
Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!
Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”
¹ By permission of The Century Co.
* * * * *
THE RAGGEDY MAN.¹
FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”
O THE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;
An’ he opens the shed――an’ we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An’ nen――ef our hired girl says he can――
He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.――
Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W’y, the Raggedy Man――he ’s ist so good,
He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;
An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,
An’ does most things ’t _boys_ can’t do.――
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me――
An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann――
An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.――
Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,
An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therselves!
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,
’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can
Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!
Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man――one time, when he
Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me,
Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is,
Air _you_ go’ to keep a fine store like his――
An’ be a rich merchunt――an’ wear fine clothes?――
Er what _air_ you go’ to be, goodness knows?”
An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann,
An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!――
I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
¹ By permission of The Century Co.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS.
THE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious
hangers-on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring
genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor
in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the
mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His
writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of
readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and
even profanity which he employs in his descriptions. It should be
remembered, however, that a faithful portrait of the conditions and
people which he described could hardly have been presented in more
polite language than that employed.
Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a
scholar of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary.
He died poor when Bret was quite young, consequently the education
of his son was confined to the common schools of the city. When
only seventeen years of age, young Harte, with his widowed mother,
emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he walked to the
mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a short
time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished
the material for his early literature. After leaving his school he
became a miner, and at odd times learned to set type in the office
of one of the frontier papers. He wrote sketches of the strange life
around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the proofs to
the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain
of acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the
paper, and in the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal
and incurred popular wrath for censuring a little massacre of Indians
by the leading citizens of the locality, which came near bringing a
mob upon him.
The young adventurer,――for he was little else at this time,――also
served as mounted messenger of an express company and as express
agent in several mountain towns, which gave him a full knowledge of
the picturesque features of mining life. In 1857 he returned to San
Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly literary
journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and
submitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These
were accepted and soon earned him an editorial position on the “Golden
Era.” After this he made many contributions to the daily papers and
his tales of Western life began to attract attention in the East. In
1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings. He attempted to
publish a newspaper of his own, “The Californian,” which was bright
and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management.
In 1864 Mr. Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch
Mint at San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this
position found leisure to write some of his popular poems, such as
“John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “How Are You, Sanitary?” and others,
which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. He also became
editor of the “Overland Monthly” when it was founded in 1868, and
soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on
the Pacific Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series
of sketches of California life which have won a permanent place in
literature. Among these sketches are “The Luck of Roaring Camp,”
telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, dissolute
gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly
escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who,
without noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “The Outcast
of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Red
Gulch,” and many other stories which revealed the spark of humanity
remaining in brutalized men and women, followed in rapid succession.
Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply
with the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received
at the hands of the early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did
much to soften and mollify the actions of those who read them――and it
may be safely said that almost every one did, as he was about the only
author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His poem,
“The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful
James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese
were shiftless and weak-minded settlers. This poem appeared in 1870
and was wonderfully popular.
In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the
University of California was offered to Mr. Harte, on his resignation
of the editorship of the “Overland Monthly,” but he declined the
proffer to try his literary fortunes in the more cultured East. He
endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts failed,
and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “Atlantic Monthly,”
since which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing
demand from various magazines and literary journals. Mr. Harte has
issued many volumes of prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say
in which field he has won greater distinction. Both as a prose writer
and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal facility. His
reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive
insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his
sketches have been translated into French and German, and of late
years he has lived much abroad, where he is, if any difference, more
lionized than he was in his native country.
From 1878 to 1885 Mr. Harte was United States Consul successively
to Crefield and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German
translators, and himself a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar
excellence:
“Nevertheless he remains what he is――the Californian and the
gold-digger. But the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is
not the gold in the bed of rivers――not the gold in veins of mountains;
it is the gold of love, of goodness, of fidelity, of humanity, which
even in rude and wild hearts――even under the rubbish of vices and
sins――remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he
there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly
exhibited it to the world――that is his greatness and his merit.”
His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “Condensed Novels,”
“Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and
West Poems,” “Poetical Works,” “Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands,” “Echoes of
the Foothills,” “Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men
of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from
Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table Mountain and Other Stories,” “In
the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By Shore and Ledge,”
“Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the Excelsior,” “A Phyllis of
the Sierras.” One of Mr. Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled
“Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published
as a serial in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe,
the vividness of the description and the accurate delineations of the
miner character are as strikingly real as if it had been produced by
the author while residing in the mining country of his former Western
home.
* * * * *
SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.
Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost
mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was at fault,
It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,――at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the
floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more;
For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of the palæozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, was a
sin,
’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson
in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
* * * * *
DICKENS IN CAMP.
ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth
’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew.
And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,――for the reader
Was the youngest of them all,――
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall.
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadows
Wandered and lost their way.
And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken
As by some spell divine,
Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire,
And he who wrought that spell;
Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive glory
That thrills the Kentish hills;
And on that grave, where English oak and holly,
And laurel-wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine!
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
EUGENE FIELD.
THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET.
ON the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in
the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day that
Eugene Field, the most congenial friend young children ever had among
the literary men of America, died at the early age of forty-five.
The expressions of regard and regret called out on all sides by this
untimely death, made it clear that the character in which the public
at large knew and loved Mr. Field best was that of the “Poet of Child
Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled hold on the popular heart
is their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe
to the fact that Mr. Field almost lived in the closest and fondest
intimacy with children. He had troops of them for his friends and it
is said he wrote his child-poems directly under their suggestions and
inspiration.
We might fill far more space than is at our command in this volume
relating incidents which go to show his fondness for little ones. It
is said that on the day of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to
settle a quarrel between some urchins who were playing marbles in the
street. So long did he remain to argue the question with them that all
might be satisfied, the time for the wedding actually passed and when
sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker.
It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted
divine, Dr. Gunsaulus, to visit his home. The children of the family
had been reading Field’s poems and looked forward with eagerness to
his coming. When he arrived, the first question he asked the children,
after being introduced to them, was, “Where is the kitchen?” and
expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrassment
of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he seized
upon the remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal,
carried it into the dining-room, seated himself and made a feast with
his little friends, telling them quaint stories all the while. After
this impromptu supper, he spent the remainder of the evening singing
them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went away,
the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way
with all children with whom he came into contact.
The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally
show itself in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most
pronounced. In all the world she was the only woman he loved and he
never wished to be away from her. Often she accompanied him on his
reading tours, the last journey they made together being in the summer
of ’95 to the home of Mrs. Field’s girlhood. While his wife was in
the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they
expected, he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage
and visited all of the old scenes of their early associations during
the happy time of their love-making.
His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man
who had ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him.
He had the happy faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was
a common happening in the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of
a fellow, who had known him in the days gone by, to walk boldly in
and blurt out, as if confident in the power of the name he spoke――“Is
’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, or I worked with ’Gene
Field on the ‘Kansas City Times.’” These were sufficient passwords and
never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room――“That’s
all right, show him in here, he’s a friend of mine.”
One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname
them. When his first daughter was born he called her “Trotty,” and,
although she is a grown-up woman now, her friends still call her
“Trotty.” The second daughter is called “Pinny” after the child opera
“Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time she was born. Another, a
son, came into the world when everybody was singing “Oh My! Ain’t She
a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of “Daisy.”
Two other of Mr. Field’s children are known as “Googhy” and “Posy.”
Eugene Field was born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850.
Part of his early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He
was educated in a university in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was
connected with various newspapers in Missouri and Colorado. He joined
the staff of the Chicago “Daily News” in 1883 and removed to Chicago,
where he continued to reside until his death, twelve years later. Of
Mr. Field’s books, “The Denver Tribune Primer” was issued in 1882;
“Culture Garden” (1887); “Little Book of Western Friends” (1889);
and “Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889).
Mr. Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some
first-class Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an
excellent newspaper correspondent, and a critic of no mean ability;
but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to chastise a brother severely
who did not come up to the highest literary standard. He was a hard
worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to
three columns to the “Chicago News,” besides writing more or less
for the “Syndicate Press” and various periodicals. In addition to
this, he was frequently traveling, and lectured or read from his own
writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter, Miss Mary French Field
(“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the country,
delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her
appearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father
is always liberally responded to by an appreciative public.
* * * * *
OUR TWO OPINIONS.¹
US two wuz boys when we fell out――
Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;
Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about,
Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow,
Lived next neighbors twenty years,
A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim――
He havin’ his opinyin uv me
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak,
Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too
’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week,
A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through.
But when Abe Linkern asked the West
F’r soldiers, we answered――me ’nd Jim――
He havin’ his opinyin uv me
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Down in Tennessee one night,
Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away,
’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight
With the Johnnie Rebs some time next day;
’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home,
Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim――
He havin’ his opinyin uv me
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be
Serious trouble f’r me ’nd him――
Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,
But never a word from me or Jim!
He went his way, and I went mine,
’Nd into the battle’s roar went we――
I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim
’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!
Jim never come back from the war again,
But I haint forgot that last, last night
When waitin’ f’r orders, us two men
Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight;
’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know
That here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim――
He havin’ his opinyin uv me
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted
by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
LULLABY.¹
FAIR is the castle up on the hill――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and me
In this lowly home beside the sea――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
On yonder hill is store of wealth――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revellers drink to a little one’s health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;
Oh, see them not and make no cry,
’Till the angels of death have passed us by――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
Ah, little they reck of you and me――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
In our lonely home beside the sea;
They seek the castle up on the hill,
And there they will do their ghostly will――
Hushaby, O my own!
Here by the sea, a mother croons
“Hushaby, sweet my own;”
In yonder castle a mother swoons
While the angels go down to the misty deep,
Bearing a little one fast asleep――
Hushaby, sweet my own!
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted
by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
A DUTCH LULLABY.¹
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe――
Sailed on a river of misty light
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have to come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea:
Nets of silver and gold have we,”
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sung a song,
And they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea;
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
But never afeared are we”――
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
For the fish in the twinkling foam,
Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home.
’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea.
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three――
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
¹ From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted
by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
* * * * *
THE NORSE LULLABY.¹
FROM “A LITTLE BOOK OF WESTERN VERSE” (1889).
THE sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep!”
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
“Sleep, little one, sleep!”
On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing
And only the vine can hear her sing:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep――
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep.”
The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart,
Sleep, little one, sleep.”
¹ Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
WILL CARLETON.
AUTHOR OF “BETSY AND I ARE OUT.”
FEW writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will Carleton.
His poems are to be found in almost every book of selections for
popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and are favorites
with general audiences. With few exceptions they are portraitures
of the humorous side of rural life and frontier scenes; but they are
executed with a vividness and truth to nature that does credit to the
author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of social
conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of
education is fast relegating to the past.
Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His
father was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young
Carleton remained at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of
age, attending the district school in the winters and working on the
farm during the summers. At the age of sixteen he became a teacher in
a country school and for the next four years divided his time between
teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which
time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local
papers. In 1865 he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which
he graduated in 1869. Since 1870 he has been engaged in journalistic
and literary work and has also lectured frequently in the West. It was
during his early experiences as a teacher in “boarding round” that he
doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically detailed in
his poems.
There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy
and I Are Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them
a permanent place in the affections of the reading public. In other
of his poems, like “Makin’ an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod
Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,” etc., there is a rich vein of humor
that has given them an enduring popularity. “The First Settler’s
Story” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the
hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the
depressing homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood
and the far-away East is pathetically told.
Mr. Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was
printed for private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared
in 1872 in the “Toledo Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,”
and illustrated. This was really the author’s first recognition in
literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of his poems entitled
“Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the
Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With
a Handsomer Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known
volumes by the same author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s
Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm Festivals,” and “City Ballads.”
In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly
apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner
which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “These poems,”
he writes, “have been written under various, and in some cases
difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team afield; in the
student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily
about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of
thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where
the dainty feet of the muses do not often deign to tread.”
But Mr. Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic
instinct. His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he
has been excelled by few, if indeed any depicter of Western farm life.
Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been
collected and published in book form, but it is his poetical works
which have entitled him to public esteem, and it is for these that he
will be longest remembered in literature.
* * * * *
BETSY AND I ARE OUT.¹
DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout,
For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,――
We who have worked together so long as man and wife
Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.
“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell!
Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well;
I have no other woman――she has no other man;
Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.
So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree;
Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime;
We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had for a start;
Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,
Was somethin’ concerning heaven――a difference in our creed;
We arg’ed the thing at breakfast――we arg’ed the thing at tea――
And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t
agree.
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;
She had kicked the bucket, for certain――the question was
only――How?
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;
And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;
And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.
And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;
Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,――
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.
And there have been days together――and many a weary week――
When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to
speak;
And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer
and fall,
If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.
And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we have agreed together that we can never agree;
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;
And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.
Write on the paper, lawyer――the very first paragraph――
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;
For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,
And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,
But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.
And I have always determined, and never failed to say,
That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.
There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable
pay,
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,――
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.
I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;
True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,
And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.
When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;
And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once when I had a fever――I won’t forget it soon――
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon――
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,
And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,
Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,
And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;
And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know――
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world
I’ll go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;
That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.
And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;
And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queer
If we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.
¹ From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper &
Brothers.
* * * * *
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.¹
(FROM “FARM BALLADS.”)
JOHN.
I’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;”
I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my
legs are weak;
I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)
When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my
ribs.
I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,
And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.
Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;
But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!
The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;
I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been
true;
But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”
A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;
There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.
There’s han’somer men than me――I ain’t of the han’some kind;
But a _loven’er_ man than I was, I guess she’ll never find.
Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!
May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion
stings!
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of
doubt,
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood
out!
Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;
She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;
And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,
And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.
As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;
And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,
She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the
cost;
And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;
And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me――for me――but no!
I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.
And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she
had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;
But I mustn’t think of these things――I’ve buried ’em in the
past.
I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;
She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;
But I’ll live a life so square――and I well know that I can,――
That she always will sorry be that she went with that
han’somer man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;
It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.
’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest
dear,”
And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;
O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,
Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!
Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.
You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.
I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,
And kneel as _you_ used to kneel, before you run away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some little influence there,
I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,
As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.
JANE (_entering_).
Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!
Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found?
And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;
I’ve been a riding with him――he’s that “handsomer man than
you.”
Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.
Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your
track?
I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.
JOHN (_aside_).
Well, now, if this _ain’t_ a joke, with rather a bitter cream!
It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;
And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,
I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!
’Twas one of her practical drives――she thought I’d understand!
But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing’s settled with me――to appreciate heaven well,
’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
¹ Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JOAQUIN MILLER.
“THE POET OF THE SIERRAS.”
IN the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash district in Indiana
to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught
boy of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincinnatus
Hiner Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm until he was
about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the family log-cabin in
the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to try ♦his fortune as a gold
miner.
♦ ‘this’ replaced with ‘his’
A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year
old youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history,
just after the report of the discovery of gold had caused the greatest
rush to the Pacific slope. A miscellaneous and turbulent population
swarmed over the country; and, “armed to the teeth” prospected
upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life of these
gold-hunters――millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow――deeming it
a virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl――was, at
once, novel, picturesque and dramatic.――Such conditions furnished
great possibilities for a poet or novelist.――It was an era as replete
with a reality of thrilling excitement as that furnished by the
history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier ♦Greek poets.
♦ ‘Greeks’ replaced with ‘Greek’
It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught――but observant
and daring――farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not
giddy and fast enough for him, or palled upon his more exacting taste
for excitement and daring adventure, he left it after a few months,
and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With Walker he became a
filibuster and went into Nicaragua.――He became in turn an astrologer;
a Spanish _vaquero_, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem.
For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as
suddenly as he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the
prodigal returned home to his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right
arm he carried a bullet, in his right thigh another, and on many
parts of his body were the scars left by Indian arrows. Shortly after
returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted to practice
within a few months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or
spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 1861 we find
him in the gold mines of Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into
his “Pan” sufficiently fast and he gave it up to become an express
messenger in the mining district. A few months later he was back in
Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaper at Eugene City which
he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contributor, Miss
Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in 1862――in his usual short-order way
of doing things――after an acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin”
Miller――for he was now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom
he had defended――got his education is a mystery; but through the years
of wandering, even in boyhood, he was a rhymester and his verses now
began to come fast in the columns of his paper.
Illustration: JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA.
In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in
1866, at the age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County.
This position he held for four years during which time he wrote much
poetry. One day with his usual “suddenness” he abandoned his wife
and his country and sailed for London to seek a publisher. At first
he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. This
introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “Songs of
the Sierras” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in
style and called forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they
told were glowing and passionate, and the wild and adventurous life
they described was a new revelation in the world of song, and, verily,
whatever the austere critic said, “The common people heard him gladly”
and his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to
California, visited the tropics and collected material for another
work which he published in London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.”
Succeeding, the “Songs of the Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of
Italy” 1878; “Songs of the Mexican Seas” 1887. Later he has published
“With Walker in Nicaragua” and he is also author of a play called
“The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the West
among which are “The Danites in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and
’49, or “The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.”
The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures
of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is
a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer
poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power
nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the
native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the
vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings.
After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is
about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same
time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,”
was not so pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He
never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem.
All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line
of truth in his delineations after all.
Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay
in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers
in the Klondike regions of Alaska.
* * * * *
THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.
WRITTEN IN ATHENS.
SIERRAS, and eternal tents
Of snow that flashed o’er battlements
Of mountains! My land of the sun,
Am I not true? have I not done
All things for thine, for thee alone,
O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own?
From other loves and other lands,
As true, perhaps, as strong of hands,
Have I not turned to thee and thine,
O sun-land of the palm and pine,
And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies,
Till Europe lifted up her face
And marveled at thy matchless grace,
With eager and inquiring eyes?
Be my reward some little place
To pitch my tent, some tree and vine
Where I may sit above the sea,
And drink the sun as drinking wine,
And dream, or sing some songs of thee;
Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome
Again, and be with gods at home,
Salute my mountains――clouded Hood,
Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood――
Where sweeps the Oregon, and where
White storms are in the feathered fir.
* * * * *
MOUNT SHASTA.
TO lord all Godland! lift the brow
Familiar to the noon,――to top
The universal world,――to prop
The hollow heavens up,――to vow
Stern constancy with stars,――to keep
Eternal ward while ♦eons sleep;
To tower calmly up and touch
God’s purple garment――hems that sweep
The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!
Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt
I knew thee in my glorious youth,
I loved thy vast face, white as truth,
I stood where thunderbolts were wont
To smite thy Titan-fashioned front,
And heard rent mountains rock and roll.
I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod
Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll
The awful autograph of God!
♦ ‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’
* * * * *
KIT CARSON’S RIDE.
RUN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so.
But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa!
No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes,
But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;――
We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.
“Forty full miles if a foot to ride,
Forty full miles if a foot and the devils
Of red Camanches are hot on the track
When once they strike it. Let the sun go down
Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,
Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed,
And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,――
Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride,
While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,
And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,――
“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,
And speed, if ever for life you would speed;
And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride,
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,
And feet of wild horses, hard flying before
I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore;
While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea,
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”
We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,
Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,
And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer,
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,
Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold,
And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years,
Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.
Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call
Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain
So steady and still, leaning low to the mane,
With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,
Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,
Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,
There was work to be done, there was death in the air,
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.
Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang
And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.
Twenty miles! thirty miles――a dim distant speck――
Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight.
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.
I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right,
But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping
Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping
Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.
To right and to left the black buffalo came,
In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair,
With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.
As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher,
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud
And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud
Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,
While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane
Like black lances lifted and lifted again;
And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.
I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;
And up through the black blowing veil of her hair
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes
With a longing and love, yet look of despair,
And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.
Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head
With a look of delight, for this Paché, you see,
Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee
Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down
In a race where the world came to run for the crown;
And so when I won the true heart of my bride,――
My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child,
And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,――
She brought me this steed to the border the night
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight,
From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride
The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue
I should surely escape without other ado
Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side,
And await her,――and wait till the next hollow moon
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon
And swift she would join me, and all would be well
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,
The last that I saw was a look of delight
That I should escape,――a love,――a desire,――
Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.――
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel
One instant for her in my terrible flight.
Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,
And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,――
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,
As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,――
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,
And into the Brazos I rode all alone――
All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,
And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.
Then just as the terrible sea came in
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,
Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.
“Sell Paché――blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,”
For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near;
“But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too small
For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,
Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all?
Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold!
You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!
Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!
... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin
To them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”
* * * * *
JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER.
As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we
present the following extract from a syndicate letter clipped
from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.”
_Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska_, August 2, 1897.
I WRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at the
fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if not the first of
American rivers. We have crossed the summit, passed the terrible
Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now
I sit down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take
me up the river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow,
full of cattle, brought from Seattle.
* * * * *
THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.
All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even
in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but
childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass.
Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long,
steep and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over
and up till it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the
clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave conquerers
came back, and only died away when the distance made it possible to
be heard no longer. And now we began to ascend.
It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain,
the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away
before us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we
stood against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that
marked the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable
as it looked, and it is not half so formidable as represented, but
mark you, it is no boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big
strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.
Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not
perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry,
and as I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly
blue lake that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little
sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.
OUR MOST NOTED NOVELISTS.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
THE WALTER SCOTT OF AMERICA.
OUR first American novelist, and to the present time perhaps the
only American novelist whose fame is permanently established among
foreigners, is James Fenimore Cooper. While Washington Irving, our
first writer of short stories, several years Cooper’s senior, was
so strikingly popular in England and America, Cooper’s “Spy” and
“Pilot” and the “Last of the Mohicans” went beyond the bounds of the
English language, and the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the German, the
Italian and others had placed him beside their own classics and were
dividing honors between him and Sir Walter Scott; and it was they who
first called him the Walter Scott of America. Nor was this judgment
altogether wrong. For six or seven years Scott’s Waverly Novels
had been appearing, and his “Ivanhoe,” which was first published in
1820――the first historical novel of the world――had given the clue to
Cooper for “The Spy,” which appeared in 1821, the first historical
novel of America. Both books were translated into foreign languages by
the same translators, and made for their respective authors quick and
lasting fame.
James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, September 15,
1789――the same year that George Washington was inaugurated President
of the United States. His father owned many thousand acres of wild
land on the head waters of the Susquehanna River in New York, and
while James was an infant removed thither and built a stately mansion
on Otsego Lake, near the point where the little river issues forth
on its journey to the sea. Around Otsego Hall, as it was called,
the village of Cooperstown grew up. In this wilderness young Cooper
passed his childhood, a hundred miles beyond the advancing lines
of civilization. Along the shores of the beautiful lake, shut in by
untouched forests, or in the woods themselves, which rose and fell
unbroken――except here and there by a pioneer’s hut or a trapper’s
camp――he passed his boyhood days and slept at night among the solemn
silence of nature’s primeval grandeur. All the delicate arts of the
forest, the craft of the woodsman, the trick of the trapper, the
stratagem of the Indian fighter, the wiley shrewdness of the tawny
savage, the hardships and dangers of pioneer life were as familiar to
Cooper as were the legends of North Britain and the stirring ballads
of the highlands and the lowlands to Walter Scott. But for this
experience we should never have had the famous Leather Stocking Tales.
From this wilderness the boy was sent at the age of thirteen to Yale
College, where he remained three years, but was too restless and
adventurous to devote himself diligently to study and was dismissed
in disgrace at sixteen. For one year he shipped before the mast as
a common sailor and for the next five years served as a midshipman
in the United States Navy, making himself master of that knowledge
and detail of nautical life which he afterwards employed to so much
advantage in his romances of the sea.
In 1811 Cooper resigned his post as midshipman, and married Miss
Delancey, with whom he lived happily for forty years. The first
few years of his married life were spent in quiet retirement. For
some months he resided in Westchester County, the scene of his book
“The Spy.” Then he removed to his old home at Cooperstown and took
possession of the family mansion, to which he had fallen heir through
the death of his father. Here he prepared to spend his life as a
quiet country gentleman, and did so until a mere accident called him
into authorship. Up to that date he seems never to have touched a
pen or even thought of one except to write an ordinary letter. He
was, however, fond of reading, and often read aloud to his wife. One
day while reading a British novel he looked up and playfully said:
“I could write a better book than that myself.” “Suppose you try,”
replied his wife, and retiring to his library he wrote a chapter which
he read to Mrs. Cooper. She was pleased with it and suggested that he
continue, which he did, and published the book, under the title of
“Precaution,” in 1820.
No one at that time had thought of writing a novel with the scene laid
in America, and “Precaution,” which had an English setting, was so
thoroughly English that it was reviewed in London with no suspicion
of its American authorship. The success which it met, while not great,
impressed Cooper that as he had not failed with a novel describing
British life, of which he knew little, he might succeed with one on
American life, of which he knew much. It was a happy thought. Scott’s
“Ivanhoe” had just been read by him and it suggested an American
historical theme, and he wrote the story of “The Spy,” which he
published in 1821. It was a tale of the Revolution, in which the
central figure, Harvey Birch, the spy, is one of the most interesting
and effective characters in the realm of romantic literature. It
quickly followed Scott’s “Ivanhoe” into many languages.
Encouraged by the plaudits from both sides of the Atlantic Cooper
wrote another story, “The Pioneers” (1823), which was the first
attempt to put into fiction the life of the frontier and the character
of the backwoodsman. Here Cooper was in his element, on firm ground,
familiar to him from his infancy, but the book was a revelation
to the outside world. It is in this work that one of the greatest
characters in fiction, the old backwoodsman Natty Bumpo――the famous
Leather-Stocking――appeared and gave his name to a series of tales,
comprised, in five volumes, which was not finally completed for twenty
years. Strange to say, this famous series of books was not written in
regular order. To follow the story logically the reader is recommended
to read first the “Deerslayer,” next the “Last of the Mohicans,”
followed by “The Pathfinder,” then “The Pioneers,” and last “The
Prairie,” which ends with the death of Leather-Stocking.
The sea tales of Cooper were also suggested by Walter Scott, who
published the “Pirate” in 1821. This book was being discussed by
Cooper and some friends. The latter took the position that Scott could
not have been its author since he was a lawyer and therefore could
not have the knowledge of sea life which the book displayed. Cooper,
being himself a mariner, declared that it could not have been written
by a man familiar with the sea. He argued that it lacked that detail
of information which no mariner would have failed to exhibit. To prove
this point he determined to write a sea tale, and in 1823 his book
“The Pilot” appeared, which was the first genuine salt-water novel
ever written and to this day is one of the best. Tom Coffin, the hero
of this novel, is the only one of all Cooper’s characters worthy to
take a place beside Leather-Stocking, and the two books were published
within two years of each other. In 1829 appeared “The Red Rover,”
which is wholly a tale of the ocean, as “The Last of the Mohicans” is
wholly a tale of the forest. In all, Cooper wrote ten sea tales, which
with his land stories established the fact that he was equally at home
whether on the green billows or under the green trees.
In 1839 Cooper published his “History of the United States Navy,”
which is to this day the only authority on the subject for the period
of which it treats. He also wrote many other novels on American
subjects and some eight or ten like “Bravo,” “The Headsman” and others
on European themes; but it is by “The Spy,” the five Leather-Stocking
tales, and four or five of his sea tales that his fame has been
secured and will be maintained.
In 1822, after “The Spy” had made Cooper famous, he removed to New
York, where he lived for a period of four years, one of the most
popular men in the metropolis. His force of character, big-heartedness,
and genial, companionable nature――notwithstanding the fact that he was
contentious and frequently got into the most heated discussions――made
him unusually popular with those who knew him. He had many friends,
and his friends were the best citizens of New York. He founded the
“Bread and Cheese Lunch,” to which belonged Chancellor Kent, the
poets Fitz-Green Halleck and Wm. Cullen Bryant, Samuel Morse, the
inventor of the telegraph, and many other representatives of science,
literature, and the learned professions. In 1826 he sailed for Europe,
in various parts of which he resided for a period of six years. Before
his departure he was tendered a dinner in New York, which was attended
by many of the most prominent men of the nation. Washington Irving
had gone to the Old World eleven years before and traveled throughout
Great Britain and over the Continent, but Cooper’s works, though
it was but six years since his first volume was published, were at
this time more widely known than those of Irving; and with the author
of the “Sketchbook” he divided the honors which the Old World so
generously showered upon those two brilliant representatives of the
New.
Many pleasant pages might be filled with the records of Cooper’s six
years in Europe, during which time he enjoyed the association and
respect of the greatest literary personages of the Old World. It
would be interesting to tell how Sir Walter Scott sought him out in
Paris and renewed the acquaintance again in London; how he lived in
friendship and intimacy with General Lafayette at the French capital;
to tell of his associations with Wordsworth and Rogers in London; his
intimate friendship with the great Italian Greenough, and his fondness
for Italy, which country he preferred above all others outside of
America; of the delightful little villa where he lived in Florence,
where he said he could look out upon green leaves and write to the
music of the birds; to picture him settled for a summer in Naples;
living in Tasso’s villa at Sarento, writing his stories in the
same house in which the great Latin author had lived, with the same
glorious view of the sea and the bay, and the surf dashing almost
against its walls. But space forbids that we should indulge in
recounting these pleasant reminiscences. Let it be said that wherever
he was he was thoroughly and pronouncedly an American. He was much
annoyed by the ignorance and prejudice of the English in all that
related to his country. In France he vigorously defended the system
of American government in a public pamphlet which he issued in favor
of General Lafayette, upon whom the public press was making an attack.
He was equally in earnest in bringing forward the claims of our poets,
and was accustomed at literary meetings and dinner parties to carry
volumes of Bryant, Halleck, Drake and others, from which he read
quotations to prove his assertions of their merits. Almost every
prominent American who visited Europe during his seven years’ sojourn
abroad brought back pleasant recollections of his intercourse with the
great and patriotic novelist.
Cooper returned to America in 1833, the same year that Washington
Irving came back to his native land. He retired to his home at
Cooperstown, where he spent the remaining nineteen years of his
life, dying on the 14th day of September, 1852, one day before
the sixty-second anniversary of his birth. His palatial home at
Cooperstown, as were also his various places of residence in New
York and foreign lands, were always open to his deserving countrymen,
and many are the ambitious young aspirants in art, literature and
politics who have left his hospitable roof with higher ideals, loftier
ambitions and also with a more exalted patriotism.
A few days after his death a meeting of prominent men was held in New
York in honor of their distinguished countryman. ♦Washington Irving
presided and William Cullen Bryant delivered an oration paying fitting
tribute to the genius of the first great American novelist, who was
first to show how fit for fiction were the scenes, the characters, and
the history of his native land. Nearly fifty years have passed since
that day, but Cooper’s men of the sea and his men of the forest and
the plain still survive, because they deserve to live, because they
were true when they were written, and remain to-day the best of their
kind. Though other fashions in fiction have come and gone and other
novelists have a more finished art nowadays, no one of them all has
succeeded more completely in doing what he tried to do than did James
Fenimore Cooper.
♦ ‘Washingion’ replaced with ‘Washington’
If we should visit Cooperstown, New York, the most interesting spot
we should see would be the grave of America’s first great novelist;
and the one striking feature about it would be the marble statue of
Leather Stocking, with dog and gun, overlooking the last resting-place
of his great creator. Then we should visit the house and go into the
library and sit in the chair and lean over the table where he was
created. Then down to the beautiful Otsego Lake, and as the little
pleasure steamer comes into view we peer to catch the gilded name
painted on its side. Nearer it comes, and we read with delight “Natty
Bumpo,” the real name of Leather Stocking. Otsego Hall, the cemetery
and the lake alike, are a shrine to the memory of Cooper and this
greatest hero of American fiction. And we turn away determined to read
again the whole of the _Leather Stocking Tales._
* * * * *
ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER.
(FROM “THE PIONEERS.”)
BY this time they had gained the summit of the mountain, where they
left the highway, and pursued their course under the shade of the
stately trees that crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm,
and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found
its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat
they had experienced in the ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual
consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of
their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower called
forth some simple expression of admiration. In this manner they
proceeded along the margin of the precipice, catching occasional
glimpses of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of
wheels and the sounds of hammers that rose from the valley, to mingle
the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly
started and exclaimed:
“Listen! There are the cries of a child on this mountain! Is there
a clearing near us, or can some little one have strayed from its
parents?”
“Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. “Let us follow the
sounds; it may be a wanderer starving on the hill.”
Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful
sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick impatient steps.
More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing
that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and
pointing behind them, cried, “Look at the dog!”
Brave had been their companion from the time the voice of his
young mistress lured him from his kennel, to the present moment.
His advanced age had long before deprived him of his activity; and
when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their
bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground and await
their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air
that ill accorded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused
by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his
eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground,
and his hair actually rising on his body, through fright or anger. It
was most probably the latter, for he was growling in a low key, and
occasionally showing his teeth in a manner that would have terrified
his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities.
“Brave!” she said, “be quiet, Brave! what do you see, fellow?”
At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead of being
at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. He stalked in front of
the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling
louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his ire by a short,
surly barking.
“What does he see?” said Elizabeth; “there must be some animal in
sight.”
Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned her head, and
beheld Louisa, standing with her face whitened to the color of death,
and her finger pointing upward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed
motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated
by her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a
female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, and threatening to
leap.
“Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of Louisa, whose
form yielded like melting snow.
There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth Temple
that could prompt her to desert a companion in such an extremity. She
fell on her knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from
the person of her friend, with instinctive readiness, such parts of
her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging their
only safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sounds of her voice.
“Courage, Brave!” she cried, her own tones beginning to tremble,
“courage, courage, good Brave!”
A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now appeared,
dropping from the branches of a sapling that grew under the shade of
the beech which held its dam. This ignorant, but vicious creature,
approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds of its parent,
but exhibiting a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with
the ferocity of its race. Standing on its hind-legs, it would rend
the bark of a tree with its forepaws, and play the antics of a cat;
and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling and scratching
the earth, it would attempt the manifestations of anger that rendered
its parent so terrific. All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted,
his short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and
his eyes following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gambol
played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling of
the three becoming more horrid at each moment, until the younger beast,
overleaping its intended bound, fell directly before the mastiff.
There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended
almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled
from the jaws of Brave, with a violence that sent it against a tree so
forcibly as to render it completely senseless.
Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was warming
with the triumph of the dog when she saw the form of the old panther
in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech to the
back of the mastiff. No words of ours can describe the fury of the
conflict that followed. It was a confused struggle on the dry leaves,
accompanied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple continued on her
knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals,
with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot
her own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of
the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly
in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap.
When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which was
its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained
with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would
shake off his furious foe like a feather, and rearing on his hind-legs,
rush to the fray again, with jaws distended and a dauntless eye. But
age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mastiff
for such a struggle. In everything but courage he was only the vestige
of what he had once been. A higher bound than ever raised the wary
and furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who was making
a desperate but fruitless dash at her, from which she alighted in a
favorable position, on the back of her aged foe. For a single moment
only could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog
returning with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave
fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of brass
around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, was
of the color of blood, and directly, that his frame was sinking to
the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several mighty
efforts of the wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of the
dog followed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on
his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, when the short
convulsions and stillness that succeeded announced the death of poor
Brave.
Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is said to
be something in the front of the image of the Maker that daunts the
hearts of the inferior beings of his creation; and it would seem that
some such power in the present instance suspended the threatened blow.
The eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant,
when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe; next to scent her
luckless cub. From the latter examination it turned, however, with its
eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides
furiously, and its claws projecting inches from her broad feet.
Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her hands were clasped in the
attitude of prayer, but her eyes were still drawn to her terrible
enemy――her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her
lips were slightly separated with horror. The moment seemed now to
have arrived for the fatal termination, and the beautiful figure of
Elizabeth was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves
behind seemed rather to mock the organs than to meet her ears.
“Hist! hist!” said a low voice, “stoop lower, gal! your bonnet hides
the creature’s head.”
It was rather the yielding of nature than a compliance with this
unexpected order, that caused the head of our heroine to sink on her
bosom; when she heard the report of the rifle, the whiz of the bullet,
and the enraged cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth,
biting its own flesh, and tearing the twigs and branches within its
reach. At the next instant the form of Leather-Stocking rushed by her,
and he called aloud:
“Come in, Hector, come in old fool; ’tis a hard-lived animal, and may
jump agin.”
Natty fearlessly maintained his position in front of the females,
notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening aspect of the
wounded panther, which gave several indications of returning strength
and ferocity until his rifle was again loaded, when he stepped up to
the enraged animal, and, placing the muzzle close to its head, every
spark of life was extinguished by the discharge.
* * * * *
THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE.
“TOM,” cried Barnstable, starting, “there is the blow of a whale.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain, with undisturbed composure;
“here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward; the easterly gale
has driven the creater to leeward, and he begins to find himself in
shoal water. He’s been sleeping, while he should have been working to
windward!”
“The fellow takes it coolly, too! he’s in no hurry to get an offing.”
“I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco
in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began
to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, “the gentleman has lost his
reckoning, and don’t know which way to head, to take himself back into
blue water.”
“’Tis a fin back!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “he will soon make
headway, and be off.”
“No, sir; ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his spout; he
threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to
look at. He’s a raal oil-butt, that fellow!”
Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed, in joyous tones――
“Give strong way, my hearties! There seems nothing better to be done;
let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent rascal.”
The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain suffered his
solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whaleboat sprang
forward like a courser for the goal. During the few minutes they were
pulling towards their game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude
in the stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of
the boat, where he made such preparation to strike the whale as the
occasion required.
The tub, containing about half of a whale line, was placed at the feet
of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place
of the rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if necessary, the
boat might be whirled around when not advancing.
Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who
continued to amuse himself with throwing the water in two circular
spouts high into the air, occasionally flourishing the broad flukes
of his tail with graceful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen
were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head
downwards, and, without apparent effort, reared his immense body for
many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a
whizzing noise, that sounded like the rushing of winds. The cockswain
stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he
beheld the creature assuming his formidable attitude, he waved his
hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing.
In this situation the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale
struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of
which re-echoed along the cliffs like the hollow reports of so many
cannon. After the wanton exhibition of his terrible strength, the
monster sunk again into his native element, and slowly disappeared
from the eyes of his pursuers.
“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barnstable, the moment the whale
was out of sight.
“Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the cockswain, whose eye was
gradually brightening with the excitement of the sport; “he’ll soon
run his nose against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and
will be glad enough to get another snuff of pure air; send her a few
fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of his
track.”
The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true, for in a
few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into
the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same
direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to
that which is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first
time, into its proper element. After the evolution, the whale rolled
heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts.
His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable and his
cockswain, and, when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former
gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and
vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the
whale, with its bows pointing toward one of the fins, which was, at
times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves,
exposed to view.
The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision and then darted
it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their
foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted, with singular
earnestness,――
“Starn all!”
“Stern all!”, echoed Barnstable; when the obedient seamen, by united
efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond the reach of
any blow from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however,
meditated no such resistance; ignorant of his own power, and of the
insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment
of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron, when he cast
his huge tail into the air with a violence that threw the sea around
him into increased commotion, and then disappeared, with the quickness
of lightning, amid a cloud of foam.
“Snub him!” shouted Barnstable; “hold on, Tom; he rises already.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line,
which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such
a manœuvre rather hazardous.
The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the
billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury the
slight fabric in the ocean. When long Tom beheld his victim throwing
his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting
fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried,――
“Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life! It must be more than two foot of
blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that
ever sculled the ocean.”
“I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the bayonet
you have rigged for a lance,” said his commander, who entered into the
sport with all the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed in
such pursuits; “feel your line, Master Coffin; can we haul alongside
of our enemy? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from
the schooner.”
“’Tis the creater’s way, sir,” said the cockswain; “you know they need
the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man; but lay
hold, boys, and let us haul up to him.”
The seaman now seized their whale-line, and slowly drew their boat
to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became
sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few
minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water,
as if suffering the agony of death.
“Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried Barnstable; “a few sets
from your bayonet would do it.”
The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, and
replied to this interrogatory,――
“No, sir, no; he’s going into his flurry; there’s no occasion for
disgracing ourselves by using a soldier’s weapon in taking a whale.
Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater’s in his flurry.”
The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed, and the
boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to the animal a clear
space while under its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest,
the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport, but
its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid
from view by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The
roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and,
to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would have appeared as if a
thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist
that obstructed the view. Gradually these efforts subsided, and, when
the discolored water again settled down to the long and regular swell
of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to
its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side;
and when the white and glistening skin of the belly became apparent,
the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved.
Illustration: (‡ decoration)
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
“THE GREATEST OF AMERICAN ROMANCERS.”
NO black knight in Sir Walter Scott’s novels, nor the red Indians of
Cooper, nor his famous pioneer, Leather Stocking of the forest, nor
his long Tom of the ocean, ever seemed more truly romantic than do
Hawthorne’s stern and gloomy Calvinists of “The Scarlet Letter,” and
“The House of Seven Gables,” or his Italian hero of “The Marble Faun.”
We have characterized Hawthorne as the greatest of American romancers.
We might have omitted the word _American_, for he has no equal in
romance perhaps in the world of letters. An eminent critic declares:
“His genius was greater than that of the idealist, Emerson. In all
his mysticism his style was always clear and exceedingly graceful,
while in those delicate, varied and permanent effects which are gained
by a happy arrangement of words in their sentences, together with
that unerring directness and unswerving force which characterize
his writings, no author in modern times has equalled him. To the
rhetorician, his style is a study; to the lay reader, a delight that
eludes analysis. He is the most eminent representative of the American
spirit in literature.”
It was in the old town of Salem, Massachusetts――where his Puritan
ancestors had lived for nearly two hundred years――with its haunted
memories of witches and strange sea tales; its stories of Endicott
and the Indians, and the sombre traditions of witchcraft and Puritan
persecution that Nathaniel Hawthorne was born July 4, 1804. And it was
in this grim, ancient city by the sea that the life of the renowned
romancer was greatly bound up. In his childhood the town was already
falling to decay, and his lonely surroundings filled his young
imagination with a ♦weirdness that found expression in the books
of his later life, and impressed upon his character a seriousness
that clung to him ever after. His father was a sea-captain,――but a
most melancholy and silent man,――who died when Nathaniel was four
years old. His mother lived a sad and secluded life, and the boy
thus early learned to exist in a strange and imaginative world of his
own creation. So fond of seclusion did he become that even after his
graduation from college in 1825, he returned to his old haunt at Salem
and resumed his solitary, dreamy existence. For twelve years, from
1825 to 1837, he went nowhere, he saw no one; he worked in his room
by day, reading and writing; at twilight he wandered out along the
shore, or through the darkened streets of the town. Certainly this
was no attractive life to most young men; but for Hawthorne it had
its fascination and during this time he was storing his mind, forming
his style, training his imagination and preparing for the splendid
literary fame of his later years.
♦ ‘wierdness’ replaced with ‘weirdness’
Illustration: “THE OLD MANSE,” CONCORD, MASS.
Built for Emerson’s grandfather. In this house Ralph Waldo
Emerson dwelt for ten years, and, here, in the same room
where Emerson wrote “Nature” and other philosophic essays,
Hawthorne prepared his “Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from
an Old Manse.” He declares the four years (1842–1846) spent
in this house were the happiest of his life.
Hawthorne received his early education in Salem, partly at the school
of Joseph E. Worcester, the author of “Worcester’s Dictionary.” He
entered Bowdoin College in 1821. The poet, Longfellow, and John S. C.
Abbott were his classmates; and Franklin Pierce――one class in advance
of him――was his close friend. He graduated in 1825 without any special
distinction. His first book, “Fanshawe,” a novel, was issued in 1826,
but so poor was its success that he suppressed its further publication.
Subsequently he placed the manuscript of a collection of stories in
the hands of his publisher, but timidly withdrew and destroyed them.
His first practical encouragement was received from Samuel G. Goodrich,
who published four stories in the “Token,” one of the annuals of
that time, in 1831. Mr. Goodrich also engaged Hawthorne as editor
of the “American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,”
which position he occupied from 1836 to 1838. About this time he also
contributed some of his best stories to the “New England Magazine,”
“The Knickerbocker,” and the “Democratic Review.” It was a part of
these magazine stories which he collected and published in 1837 in
the volume entitled, “Twice Told Tales,” embodying the fruits of his
twelve years’ labor.
This book stamped the author as a man of stronger imagination and
deeper insight into human nature than Washington Irving evinced in
his famous sketches of the Hudson or Cooper in his frontier stories,
for delightful as was Irving’s writings and vivid as were Cooper’s
pictures, it was plain to be seen that Hawthorne had a richer
style and a firmer grasp of the art of fiction than either of them.
Longfellow, the poet, reviewed the book with hearty commendation, and
Poe predicted a brilliant future for the writer if he would abandon
allegory. Thus encouraged, Hawthorne came out from his seclusion into
the world again, and mixed once more with his fellow-men. His friend,
the historian, Bancroft, secured him a position in the Custom House
at Salem, in 1839, which he held for two years. This position he
lost through political jobbery on a trumped-up charge. For a few
months he then joined in the Brook Farm settlement, though he was
never in sympathy with the movement; nor was he a believer in the
transcendental notions of Emerson and his school. He remained a
staunch Democrat in the midst of the Abolitionists. His note-books
were full of his discontent with the life at the Brook Farm. His
observations of this enterprise took shape in the “Blythedale Romance”
which is the only literary memorial of the association. The heroine of
this novel was Margaret Fuller, under the name of “Zenobia,” and the
description of the drowning of Zenobia――a fate which Margaret Fuller
had met――is the most tragic passage in all the writings of the author.
In 1842 Hawthorne married Miss Sophia Peabody――a most fortunate and
happy marriage――and the young couple moved to Concord where they
lived in the house known as the “Old Manse,” which had been built for
Emerson’s grandfather, and in which Emerson himself dwelt ten years.
He chose for his study the same room in which the philosopher had
written his famous book “Nature.” Hawthorne declares that the happiest
period of his life were the four years spent in the “Old Manse.”
While living there he collected another lot of miscellaneous stories
and published them in 1845 as a second volume of “Twice-Told Tales,”
and the next year came his “Mosses from an Old Manse,” being also a
collection from his published writings. In 1846 a depleted income and
larger demands of a growing family made it necessary for him to seek
a business engagement. Through a friend he received an appointment as
Surveyor of Customs at Salem, and again removed to the old town where
he was born forty-two years before. It was during his engagement here,
from 1846 to 1849, that he planned and wrote his famous book “The
Scarlet Letter,” which was published in 1850.
A broader experience is needed to compose a full-grown novel than to
sketch a short tale. Scott was more than fifty when he published
“Waverly.” Cooper wrote the “Spy” when thirty-three. Thackeray, the
author of “Vanity Fair,” was almost forty when he finished that work.
“Adam Bede” appeared when George Elliot was in her fortieth year;
and the “Scarlet Letter,” greater than them all, did not appear until
1850, when its author was in his forty-seventh year. All critics
readily agree that this romance is the masterpiece in American fiction.
The only novel in the United States that can be compared with it
is Mrs. Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and, as a study of a type of
life――Puritan life in New England――“The Scarlet Letter” is superior to
Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work. One-half a century has passed since “The
Scarlet Letter” was written; but it stands to-day more popular than
ever before.
Enumerated briefly, the books written by Hawthorne in the order
of their publication are as follows: “Fanshawe,” a novel (1826),
suppressed by the author; “Twice-Told Tales” (1837), a collection of
magazine stories; “Twice-Told Tales” (second volume, 1845) “Mosses
from an Old Manse” (1846), written while he lived at the “Old Manse”;
“The Scarlet Letter” (1850), his greatest book; “The House of Seven
Gables” (1851), written while he lived at Lenox, Massachusetts; “The
Wonder Book” (1851), a volume of classic stories for children; “The
Blythedale Romance” (1852); “Life of Franklin Pierce” (1852), which
was written to assist his friend Pierce, who was running for President
of the United States; “Tanglewood Tales” (1853), another work for
children, continuing the classic legends of his “Wonder Book,”
reciting the adventures of those who went forth to seek the “Golden
Fleece,” to explore the labyrinth of the “Minotaur” and sow the
“Dragon’s Teeth.” Pierce was elected President in 1853 and rewarded
Hawthorne by appointing him Consul to Liverpool. This position he
filled for four years and afterwards spent three years in traveling on
the Continent, during which time he gathered material for the greatest
of his books――next to “The Scarlet Letter”――entitled “The Marble
Faun,” which was brought out in England in 1860, and the same year
Mr. Hawthorne returned to America and spent the remainder of his life
at “The Wayside” in Concord. During his residence here he wrote for
the “Atlantic Monthly” the papers which were collected and published
in 1863 under the title of “Our Old Home.” After Mr. Hawthorne’s
death, his unpublished manuscripts, “The Dolliver Romance,” “Septimius
Felton” and “Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret,” were published. Mrs. Hawthorne,
also, edited and published her husband’s “American and English
Note-Books” and his “French and Italian Note-Books” in 1869. The
best life of the author is perhaps that written by his son, Julian
Hawthorne, which appeared in 1885, entitled “Nathaniel Hawthorne and
His Wife; a Biography.”
A new and complete edition of Hawthorne’s works has been lately issued
in twenty volumes; also a compact and illustrated library edition in
seven volumes.
Nathaniel Hawthorne died May 18, 1864, while traveling with his friend
and college-mate, Ex-President Pierce, in the White Mountains, and was
buried near where Emerson and Thoreau were later placed in Concord
Cemetery. Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier were at the funeral.
His publisher, Mr. Field, was also there and wrote: “We carried him
through the blossoming orchards of Concord and laid him down in a
group of pines on the hillside, the unfinished romance which had
cost him such anxiety laid upon his coffin.” Mr. Longfellow, in an
exquisite poem describes the scene, and referring to the uncompleted
romance in the closing lines says:
“Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clue regain?
The unfinished window in Alladin’s tower
Unfinished must remain.”
The noble wife, who had been the inspiration and practical stimulus
of the great romancer, survived her distinguished husband nearly
seven years. She died in London, aged sixty, February 26, 1871, and
was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, near the grave of Leigh Hunt.
* * * * *
EMERSON AND THE EMERSONITES.
(FROM “MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.”)
THERE were circumstances around me which made it difficult to view
the world precisely as it exists; for severe and sober as was the Old
Manse, it was necessary to go but a little way beyond its threshold
before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have
been encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles. These
hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the wide
spreading influence of a great original thinker who had his earthly
abode at the opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted upon
other minds of a certain constitution with wonderful magnetism, and
drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face.
Young visionaries, to whom just so much of insight had been imparted
as to make life all a labyrinth around them, came to seek the clew
which should guide them out of their self-involved bewilderment.
Gray-headed theorists, whose systems――at first air――had finally
imprisoned them in a fiery framework, traveled painfully to his door,
not to ask deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their own
thralldom. People that had lighted upon a new thought――or thought
they had fancied new――came to Emerson as a finder of a glittering gem
hastens to a lapidary to ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain,
troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world
beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon burning upon a hill-top,
and climbing the difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding
obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects
unseen before:――mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of creation
among the chaos: but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and
owls and the whole host of night-birds, which flapped their dusty
wings against the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for
fowls of angelic feather. Such delusions always hover nigh whenever
a beacon-fire of truth is kindled.
For myself there had been epochs of my life when I too might have
asked of this prophet the master-word that should solve me the riddle
of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no
question to be put; and therefore admired Emerson as a poet of deep
beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a
philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood-paths,
or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure intellectual gleam diffused
about his presence, like the garment of a shining one; and he so quiet,
so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if
expecting to receive more than he could impart. And in truth, the
heart of many a man had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not
read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without inhaling
more or less the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which in
the brains of some people wrought a singular giddiness――new truth
being as heady as new wine.
Never was a poor country village infected with such a variety of queer,
strangely-dressed, oddly-behaved mortals, most of whom took upon
themselves to be important agents of this world’s destiny, yet were
simply bores of the first water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable
character of persons who crowd so closely about an original thinker as
to draw in his unuttered breath, and thus become imbued with a false
originality. This triteness of noveltry is enough to make any man of
common sense blaspheme at all ideas of less than a century’s standing,
and pray that the world may be petrified and rendered immovable in
precisely the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet arrived
at, rather than be benefitted by such schemes of such philosophers.
* * * * *
PEARL.
(THE SCARLET LETTER. A ROMANCE. 1850.)