BORN FEB. 27, 1807. DIED MAR. 24, 188*.
 
 POETS' HO 
 
 PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES 
 
 AMERICAN POETS AND THEIR HOMES 
 
 a 7 ? 7 
 
 R. H. STODDARD AND OTHERS 
 
 Two Volumes in One 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 D LOTH R OP COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 D. LOTHROP Si CO. 
 1879.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW . 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER . . 
 
 MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY 
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE . . 
 
 MR. J. J. PIATT AND MRS. S. M. B. PIATT 
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT . . . 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL . . 
 
 BAVARD TAYLOR 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 19 
 
 28 
 
 45 
 
 56 
 
 75 
 
 84 
 
 101
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 W. D. HOWELLS 119 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA .... 139 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD .... 158 
 
 MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD AND! 
 
 I 196 
 Miss MARY N. PRESCOTT 
 
 MRS. CELIA THAXTER 230 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN . 253 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH . . . 366
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IF it may be said of any living man that he is known 
 all over the world, it may be said of Henry Wads- 
 worth Longfellow. His words seem to travel on the 
 swift rays of light that penetrate unto the uttermost 
 parts of the earth. James T. Fields, in his Longfellow 
 lecture, tells of the strange and far-away places in 
 which he has felt his heart warmed at sight of a well- 
 worn copy of Longfellow's poems. He has the touch 
 of nature that makes the whole world kin, for he is 
 not more warmly appreciated in his native land than 
 in the hearts and homes on the other side of the 
 world. 
 
 Everyone knows the brief outlines of the poet's life. 
 He was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. He en 
 tered Bowdoin College when he was fourteen years 
 old, and graduated there in 1825. He traveled in 
 Europe three or four years, preparing himself for the
 
 2 Poet 1 ; Ifomes, 
 
 professorship of modern languages in his own college. 
 In 1835 he was elected Professor of Modern Lan 
 guages and Belles-Lettres in Harvard College. He 
 held this position until 1854, when he resigned. He 
 has since lived in Cambridge, in the old Craigie 
 House on Brattle street. His literary life began very 
 early. While an undergraduate he published many 
 of his most beautiful poems in different newspapers. 
 It may cheer discouraged young writers to know that 
 for one of these, " Sandalphon," he received as pay 
 ment a year's subscription to the newspaper in which 
 it was published. In recalling this, he said laugh 
 ingly that it was not so bad as the fortune of a friend 
 of his, who, after having contributed largely to a cer 
 tain paper, was invited by the genial editor to take an 
 ice, by way of making things square between them. 
 Can it be that our magnificent editors of to-day have 
 descended from such untoward sires ? 
 
 Longfellow's first book was published by the Har 
 pers. He sold the copyright for five hundred dollars 
 and thought himself fortunate. Doubtless his pub 
 lishers were as well satisfied. From that time his lit 
 erary career has been one unvarying success. 
 
 As regards that other life, dearer than his public 
 labors, more sacred than his intellectual record, 
 here, too, Longfellow has been written Blessed
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 3 
 
 True, he has known poignant sorrow. Death has en 
 tered his home and taken from it his dearest. That 
 this is a sorrow ever-abiding, and one from which in 
 one sense he will never recover, the years have 
 proved. His melancholy is but dimly seen, like a 
 smoke curling upward from a blazing fire, yet it is 
 present always, veiling his cheerfulness and sadden 
 ing his smiles. " I never heard him make but one 
 allusion to the great grief of his life," said an intimate 
 friend. " We were speaking of Schiller's fine poem, 
 1 The Ring of Polycrates,' and he said, ' It was just so 
 with me, I was too happy. I might fancy the gods 
 envied me if I could fancy heathen gods.' " 
 
 As if striving to make amends, fate has given him 
 every other good gift ; fortune, fame, and the sweeter 
 gifts of love, gratitude and reverence from those he 
 has cheered, helped and elevated; a lovely family 
 whose youth and brightness shed , sunshine over his 
 evening days, and a home that must be a joy forever 
 to the poet's soul. 
 
 Perhaps I could not interest any readers better 
 than in telling them something about this beautiful 
 home. It was rich in associations when Longfellow 
 first came to it as a lodger. It was builded midway 
 in the last century, by a gentleman of family and dis
 
 Poets" 
 
 tinction, Col. John Vassol, whose gravestone in Cam 
 bridge bears upon it a sculptured goblet and a sun. 
 After the Revolutionary War the house was bought by 
 one Thomas Tracy, who appears to have been a sort 
 of American Vathek, emulating, as far as possible in 
 an uncongenial clime, the magnificent doings of the 
 Eastern prince. Traditions float down to us of the 
 lavish opulence of these, the golden days of Vassol 
 Hall ; how wine flowed like water, servants lived like 
 kings, a hundred guests sat down every day at the 
 banquet table, and from the far-off lands of the 
 Orient, treasures of silk and jewels and gold flowed 
 into the coffers of the lucky Thomas Tracy. But 
 debts grew many and friends grew few. The gener 
 ous host found himself one day bankrupt ; his career 
 cut short ; for, unlike our modern princes he did not 
 fail to get rich. 
 
 With the passing of his wealth, clouds gathered 
 about the old home. We hear of it no more until it 
 came into the hands of the last owner save one 
 Andrew Craigie. It proved a white elephant on his 
 hands, as it had on those of his predecessors. The 
 expenses it entailed ruined him ; necessity obliged 
 him to part with all save eight of the two hundred 
 acres originally included in the estate, and after his 
 death Mrs Craigie was forced to let lodgings to the
 
 Henry Wads worth Longfellow. 5 
 
 youth of Harvard pigmies all to her, though to us 
 such intellectual giants as Everett, Worcester, Sparks 
 and Longfellow were among them. 
 
 Of this old reduced gentlewoman some curious 
 stories are told. She was tall and stately, of a dignity 
 that commanded deference, and a sternness that for 
 bade love. Even her husband stood in awe of his 
 august spouse. We have more than one ghastly 
 picture of her as she appears in the reminiscences o 1 
 those who knew her in her age and loneliness and 
 pride. 
 
 On one occasion her young poet-lodger, entering 
 her parlor in the morning, found her sitting by the 
 open window, through which innumerable canker 
 worms had crawled from the trees that they were de 
 vouring outside. They had fastened themselves to 
 her dress, and hung in little writhing festoons from 
 the white turban on her head. Her visitor, surprised 
 and shocked, asked if she would do nothing to destroy 
 the worms. Raising her eyes from her book she 
 sat calmly reading, like indifference on a monument 
 she said, in tones of solemn rebuke : " Young 
 man, have not our fellow-worms as good a right to 
 live as we ? " aa answer which throws Uncle Tobey's 
 " Go, little fly ! " quite into the shade. 
 (As this grim old lady lay a-dying she sent for the
 
 5 Poets' Homes. 
 
 lodger to bid him farewell. He approached the bed 
 side and looked silently upon the spectral figure, the 
 withered face, the gray hair. Suddenly drawing the 
 bed-clothes close around her, she opened her keen 
 sunken eyes, bright one moment before dimming 
 with death, and uttered this strange greeting and 
 farewell : 
 
 " Young man, never marry, for see how ugly an old 
 woman looks in bed ! " 
 
 In 1843 tne house was bought by Mr. Longfellow, 
 and from that time, with tender love and reverent 
 care he has adorned, beautified and perfected it. He 
 has made it what it had not been in all its changing 
 fortunes a home. Taste has guided the hand of 
 wealth, and from year to year have been added beau 
 ties of art, curiosities from every land, and sacred 
 relics. 
 
 The very atmosphere is different from that of other 
 houses. It has a sacred hush, due in part, it may be, 
 to the all-subduirig power of association 
 
 " Once, ah, once within these walls 
 One whom memory oft recalls, 
 The Father of his Country dwelt " 
 
 yet none the less" a result of that nameless influence 
 intangible and fragrant as the odor of a flower
 
 ffenry Wadsworth Longfellow 7 
 
 that emanates from pure and beautiful minds, and 
 makes the spiritual life of a home. 
 
 The house is set back from the road, behind a lilac 
 hedge blossoming in spring with purple and white. 
 On either side are broad verandahs from which one 
 can look across to Charles River and the blue hills 
 of Milton. 
 
 The meadow between is always bathed in sun 
 shine, and on its green slope some new picture is ever 
 forming itself; children at play, mild-faced cows 
 cropping the grass, or the little woman in the red 
 cloak, whom artists delight in, as the needed bit of 
 color in a landscape. 
 
 October is the best month for seeing the place in 
 all its beauty. Then the clustering lilacs, still green 
 with summer freshness, are over-run with the wild, 
 red beauty of riotous woodbine, dying in a glow of 
 defiance. Then from the trees fluttering leaves 
 of welcome float into the outstretched hand, or 
 fall gently before the advancing feet. 
 
 The old elm at the door is stripped of its leaves, 
 and you wonder at the fine network of interlacing 
 boughs. Charles River, now clearly seen, winds 
 along like an S of running silver. October, too, is 
 the time to walk in the old-fashioned garden a 
 garden such as Andrew Marvell's must have been.
 
 8 Poets" Home*. 
 
 " I have a garden of my own, 
 But so with roses overgrown, 
 And lilies, that you would it guess 
 To be a little wilderness." 
 
 This "little wilderness" is shut out from inhar 
 monious sights and sounds. To come from the 
 noisy world into its cool retreat, is from Avernus to 
 the Happy Valley. 
 
 One can imagine fairies in the flower-cups, and 
 spirits gliding down the shaded walks. Spirits of 
 stately dames in embroidered petticoats and high 
 heeled slippers, and gallant courtiers with sheathed 
 swords and powdered queues ; and with these 
 majestic ghosts, the fair young muse of poetry, 
 gazing at them with clear eyes unabashed, know 
 ing that at her hands they lose not one grace or 
 remembered glory. 
 
 Sitting in the half-ruined summer-house, I almost 
 wished the doctrine of Pythagoras were reversed, 
 and that my soul might pass into the flower grow 
 ing beside me, or the bird singing overhead. I 
 envied the little golden lady-bugs that sunned 
 their magnificence in the poet's garden, and won 
 dered if the lazy caterpillars knew what good 
 fortune awaited them as butterflies in this e.'rrhly 
 paradise. 
 
 Perhaps the most interesting room in the house
 
 Henry Wadwuorth Longfellow. g 
 
 is Longfellow's study. Here most of the poet's 
 hours are spent, the quiet only broken by the 
 chimes of the old clock in the corner. It is one 
 of those antique time-pieces, higher than a man's 
 head, with a round moon face at the top, such 
 as are found in some old New England houses, 
 and are a sufficient guarantee for the respecta 
 bility of the family. An open fire burns cheerily 
 in the grate. 
 
 An orange-tree stands in the window, and near 
 it an Egyptian stork keeps watch. A table in 
 the centre of the room is heaped with books 
 and papers, and has a look of orderly disorder. 
 Its choicest treasure is Coleridge's inkstand. Here, 
 too, is an early volume of Coleridge's poems, 
 annotated in his own handwriting, which is as 
 scraggly as that of a genius ought to be. On 
 this table are piles of unanswered letters ; only 
 a sharp-toothed mouse could get through them 
 in a month's time. 
 
 That which future generations will regard with 
 most interest in this room, is a book-case filled 
 with Longfellow's own works in the original man 
 uscripts. They are handsomely bound, as befits 
 the clear, beautiful writing, and make a noble col 
 lection.
 
 to Poet? Homes. 
 
 It is a pity to divide them, yet what one 
 should monopolize such a heritage? Perhaps pub 
 lic gift will eventually be made of them. Some 
 baby now unborn may donate them where they 
 will be safe through the generations. 
 
 Among the pictures here are crayon likenesses 
 of Emerson, Sumner and Hawthorne, all taken 
 when these famous men were in the flush of 
 youth. 
 
 Passing through the hall we enter "Lady Wash 
 ington's Drawing Room." The furniture is white 
 satin covered with gay flowers in vines and clusters \ 
 arm-chairs and sofas are heaped with soft cushions 
 covered with the same material. The carpet is a 
 bed of flowers. 
 
 The effect is greatly heightened by a large mirror 
 opening another gay vista, and a picture in gor 
 geous colors extending from wall to ceiling. It 
 is one of Copley's, "The Grandchildren of Sir 
 William Pepprell." A quaint little maiden, in 
 a high cap and stiff bodice, a youth with flowing 
 curls, and a wooden-looking poodle compose the 
 group. The picture is set in a massive burnished 
 frame, and the effect would be oppressive in 
 another room, but is in admirable harmony with 
 this state apartment
 
 ffcnry Wadsworth Longfellow. \ \ 
 
 I On an etagcrt laden with treasures is an agate 
 cup from the hand of no less a master, Benvenuto 
 Cellini clear, exquisitely carved, graceful in shape, 
 and guarded by two tiny, open-mouthed dragons. 
 It was sent to him from the collection of the 
 poet Rogers, and has therefore a double value 
 in Longfellow's eyes. As he holds it in his hand 
 and points out its beauties, one can but think 
 what a crowd of associations are gathering in its 
 delicate cup. 
 
 In the dining-room we see rare old china, a 
 nodern picture of a cardinal in red, walking in 
 the Borghese gardens, and several family portraits 
 Among them is Buchanan Read's picture of " Long 
 fellow's daughters," that has been photographed 
 so often, the "blue-eyed banditti" that the poet 
 father has so charmingly apostrophized in " The 
 Children's Hour:" 
 
 " Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair." 
 
 From this room we pass into a long, narrow 
 hall, running the length of the house. At its 
 head great Jove looks before him with big, un 
 seeing eyes, while on either side are those lovely 
 marble women, who, in spite of Lord Byron'a 
 couplet,
 
 is Poets' Homfs. 
 
 u I've seen more beauty, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal," 
 
 still hold their own as embodied ideas in hu 
 man shape against their living sisters. 
 
 The library is the most beautiful room in the 
 house ; dark and rich in tone, with a look of spa 
 cious elegance and home-like comfort. On three 
 sides the walls are lined with books. The bronzes 
 and Japanese screens are studies. 
 ^^Here hangs a portrait of Liszt. The back-ground 
 is dark, and he is dressed in the long black convent 
 robe. High above his head he holds a lighted 
 candle. The rays shape themselves like a halo 
 round his head, and throw into fine relief the thin, 
 spirited face. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow saw him thus for the first time 
 as he stood in the convent door, peering out into 
 the night. The vision impressed itself on the 
 poet, and he persuaded Liszt to have his picture 
 painted. 
 
 From the library a passage leads to the billiard- 
 room, now fallen into disuse, and converted into 
 an aesthetic lumber-room, where one would delight 
 to dream away a rainy day. 
 
 The rooms up-stairs are as full of interest as 
 those below.
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 13 
 
 One suite has been fitted up by Mr. Longfellow's 
 son in Japanese style. The wall-paper is of neu 
 tral tint, ornamented with Japanese fans in groups 
 of twos and threes. The heathen gods frown at 
 you, national arms are collected, tai>les are heaped 
 with Japanese books made on the principal of 
 cat stairs, and photographs of Japanese beauties, 
 with button-hole mouths, and long, bright eyes, 
 abound. 
 
 This article would become a catalogue of de 
 scription should I try to enumerate half the curi 
 osities to be seen in this grand old house. One 
 cabinet alone, with its medley of treasures, is 
 worth an afternoon's study. Here is a bit of 
 Dante's coffin ; there an agate cylinder, and some 
 brilliant African beetles. Two canes attract you ; 
 one is made from the spar of the ship on which 
 the Star Spangled Banner was written, the other 
 comes from Acadie, and is surmounted by a 
 hideous head, which, Mr. Longfellow says, with 
 a twinkle in his eye, was the poet's idea of 
 Evangeline. 
 
 Your readers are probably all familiar with 
 Saxe Holm's exquisite story, " Esther Wynn's Love 
 Letters," and will recall how Uncle Jo found these 
 letters on the cellar-stairs ; how mysterious terrors
 
 14 Poets' 1 Homes. 
 
 gathered round them until it was discovered that 
 they slipped through a crack in the upper stairs 
 where they had been nailed for safe keeping. 
 This is a true incident. It was Mr. Longfellow's 
 house that held the letters, and he who found 
 them on the cellar-stairs. 
 
 They were written to the husband of the old 
 lady who sat with her fellow-worms in the par 
 lor and were placed by him in their hiding-place 
 for what reason none will ever know. They 
 were not such love-letters as Esther Wynn's, but 
 an interest scarcely less tragic attached to them. 
 Mr. Longfellow had intended making them a subject 
 for a poem ; but Saxe Holm forestalled him in her 
 story. 
 
 ^ ........ 
 
 /A visitor in 1877 thus records his impressions : 
 He is of medium height, well made, with no sign 
 of age in figure or walk. His head and face are 
 eminently poetic. His forehead is broad, benig 
 nant, and full. The great charm of his face centres 
 in his eyes ; of an unclouded blue, deep-set, under 
 overhanging brows, they hold an indescribable expres 
 sion of thought and tenderness. Though seamed 
 with many wrinkles, his face is rarely without the 
 rosy hue of health, and would appear that of a
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 15 
 
 much younger man but for its frame of snow-white 
 hair. Hair and whiskers are long, abundant and 
 wavy, and give the poet the look of a patriarch. 
 
 His manner has a child's simplicity, yet is of an 
 impregnable dignity. Tolerant to all opinions, cour 
 teous to all men, he is approached nearly only by the, 
 few. When with friends there is a dash of gentle 
 humor in his talk, more mirth-provoking than livelier 
 sallies from wittier men. 
 
 In his home his hospitality is proverbial. Bret 
 Harte has called him the ideal poet, and he is ideal 
 host as well. His gentle tact and exquisite courtesy 
 remind one of that fine compliment paid to Ville- 
 mand which is a fine definition of politeness 
 " when he spoke to a lady one would think he had 
 offered her a boquet." 
 
 Nothing can ruffle his courtesy ; not even such 
 remarks as were once made to him by some English 
 visitors, neither nice nor wise that " there were no 
 ruins in this country, so they thought they would 
 call and see him." 
 
 He is emphatically the poet of the beautiful, and 
 his life is as rounded and complete as one of his 
 own sonnets or a Beethoven symphony. He is not 
 one of those great men who must be seen, like an 
 oil-painting, at a distance, but the nearer one ap-
 
 1 6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 preaches, the filler show the outlines and shadings 
 of his character. 
 
 On Friday, March 24th 1882, the beautiful earthly 
 life of Henry W. Longfellow came to a peaceful close. 
 From countless tributes paid to his memory the wide 
 world over, a few paragraphs are here selected from 
 a memorial address made by Hon. J. D. Long : 
 
 ' What a poor and meagre chain of little-meaning 
 links is this narrative of dates and events, which we 
 sometimes call a man's life! It is of little conse 
 quence, accept for the dear association's sake, what 
 was the name, or residence, or birthplace, or age of 
 the poet. Of what interest to us is even the great 
 globe of the sun in itself, compared with the radiance 
 which is its soul and which fills the universe with 
 light ? Do not tell me that Longfellow was born 
 and had honors and degrees and a professorship, 
 and crossed the seas ; for these things come and go, 
 and now flash, now faint. But tell me that his mind 
 was full of gentle and ennobling thoughts, for these 
 live forever. Tell me that he loved children, and wrote 
 songs of them and for them ; and let me hear my little 
 girl, as she comes down the stairs in the morning, repeat 
 untaught the verses which he made, and which are a 
 bridge from his soul to hers, and from all human 
 souls to one another, When some poor creature
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 17 
 
 with nothing but a throne and a crown is dead, his 
 subjects hail his successor, and shout, The king is 
 dead, long live the king ! When our king, the poet, 
 is laid to rest, we may well cry, The poet is dead, long 
 live the poet ! For he succeeds himself, and is dead 
 only to live, even on earth, a larger and more present 
 life in his verse, and in the songs and hearts of the 
 people. 
 
 " It is a poor commonplace to say that Longfellow is 
 the poet of the people, for no poet is a great or true 
 poet, who is not that. Lives of great men all remind 
 us not so much that we can make our lives sublime, 
 as that our lives are sublime, if only we will not cum 
 ber or debase them. Not by putting into melody 
 something that is beyond and above you and me, not 
 by breathing a music so exquisite that it never trem 
 bles in our fancies and prayers, does the poet rise to 
 excellence ; but by voicing the affections, the finer 
 purpose, the noblenesses, that are in the great com 
 mon nature, in the sailor up the shrouds, in the 
 maiden lashed to the floating mast, in the mother lay 
 ing away her child, in the schoolboy at his task or 
 play, or counting the sparks that fly from the black 
 smith's forge, in the man at his work or when he 
 rests from it, raided by blue-eyed banditti from the 
 stairway and the hall. So the poet teaches us not
 
 1 8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 our disparity from him, but our level with him ; not 
 our meanness, but our loftiness. 
 
 " Resignation, The Day is Done, The Children's 
 Hour, The Footsteps of Angels, seem like the spoken 
 language of our own souls. The music he wrote is 
 all lying unwritten in us. Let us sing it in our lives, 
 which we can as he sung it from his pen, which we 
 cannot. 
 
 "It was a beautiful life. It was felicitous beyond 
 ordinary lot, and yet not so far beyond. The birds 
 sung in its branches. The pleasant streams ran 
 through it. The sun shone and the April showers 
 fell softly down upon it. The winds hushed it 
 to sleep. And, while now he falls asleep, let us 
 read his verse anew, and draw into our lives some 
 thing of these serenities and upliftings. So for our 
 selves and one another, remembering the poet's life, 
 living hereafter with the poet's hymns in our ears, 
 may our sadness resemble sorrow only as the mist 
 resembles the rain ; may we know how sublime a 
 thing it is to suffer and be strong ; may we wake the. 
 better soul that slumbered to a holy, calm delight; 
 may we never mistake heaven's distant lamps for sa'd 
 funereal tapers ; and may we ever hear the voice from 
 the sky like a falling star Excelsior ! "
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 THE old county of Essex, Massachusetts, is fer 
 tile in suggestions of poetry. It is dotted with 
 sunny villages, shady farms, landscapes diversified 
 with pure, clear rivers, and land-slopes before which 
 rolls the broad, open sea. Every old farm-house has 
 a legend, and every town its quaint bit of colonial 
 history. 
 
 The Merrimac, that industrious river, goes dim 
 pling through it to the sea, shaded in summer by 
 wooded hills, and reflecting in autumn the leafy rubies 
 of newly-cut timber-lands, or the grand forms of old 
 trees. 
 
 " Beautiful ! beautiful ! " exclaimed President Wash 
 ington, in his journey to Haverhill in 1789, as his eye 
 fell on the sparkling waters of the Merrimac. " Ha 
 verhill is the pleasantest village I ever passed 
 through ! "
 
 ao Poets' Homes. 
 
 In this pleasant old New England town there was 
 born, in 1808, a poet, with whose ballads, we doubt 
 not, most of our readers are acquainted. He is i\ 
 descendant of an old Quaker family, which settled 
 along the banks of the Merrimac when Haverhill was 
 a frontier settlement, and the Indians burned its 
 houses, and carried unhappy Hannah Dunstan into a 
 long captivity. 
 
 The Colonial Whittiers, refusing the protection of 
 the garrison in these perilous times, relied upon 
 just and kind treatment of the Indians for defence. 
 They found their peace principles and their habit of 
 dealing justly with all men a more sure defence than 
 muskets or stockades. The family used to hear the 
 Indians at the windows on the still winter nights, and 
 occasionally would see a red face and fierce eyes at 
 the window-pane. But though their neighbors were 
 murdered and their property destroyed, the Quakers 
 were never molested. 
 
 The poet's early home was an ample old farm-house 
 in East Haverhill. As you may read about it in 
 " Snow Bound " it need not be described here. In 
 recent years it has fallen somewhat into decay, though 
 its grand old trees and primitive expression have 
 been partially preserved. 
 
 The poet, when quite young, was sent to school to
 
 G. Whittler. 
 
 a queer old pedagogue, who received pupils in a room 
 in his own house. The teacher did not succeed in 
 governing his wife, however well he may have gov- 
 
 J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 erned his scholars. Like Oliver Goldsmith, who gave 
 his pupils gingerbread and told them stories, this 
 easy-going man adopted the persuasive method of 
 preserving order and imparting instruction.
 
 21 Poets' Homes. 
 
 14 Through the cracked and crazy wall 
 Came the cradle-rock and squall, 
 And the goodman's voice at strife 
 With his shrill and tipsy wife, 
 Luring us by stories old, 
 With a comic unction told, 
 More than by the eloquence 
 Of terse birchen arguments." 
 
 The young scholar had few books of poetry in his 
 early years, but nature was to him a continual poem 
 The warm grasp of friendship, the blue sky of spring 
 and the changing splendors of fall, these were to 
 him sources of poetic inspiration. He was a mere 
 boy when he began to express the glowing feelings of 
 his soul in verse. 
 
 One day he ventured to send a poem, which he had 
 copied in blue ink on some coarse paper, to an anti- 
 slavery journal called the Free Press, published in 
 Newburyport. The editor of the paper, William 
 Lloyd Garrison, found the poem on the floor of his 
 office, it having been tucked under the door by the 
 postman. His first impulse was to throw the manu 
 script into the waste-basket ; but being a conscientious 
 man he gave it a reading. He had not read far before 
 he discovered in the lines evidence that they were 
 written by a true poet. 
 
 The poem appeared in the Free Press. Other poems
 
 y. G. Whittier. 23 
 
 i'rom the same writer came to the office, and they im 
 pressed Mr. Garrison so favorably that he made 
 inquiries of the postman whence they came. He was 
 told that they probably had been sent by a farmer's 
 son in East Haverhill. 
 
 Mr. Garrison thinking that he ought to encourage 
 so promising a writer, rode over to East Haverhill to 
 call on his new contributor. He found him at work 
 ivith his father on the farm. The young man acknowl 
 jdged the authorship of th poems. The visit of the 
 editor must have been a happy surprise to him, for 
 Appreciation is never more stimulating than in youth. 
 
 Mr. Whittier for such our readers will have rec 
 ognized to be the poet's name began life as a 
 teacher. He came to Boston when about twenty-one 
 ears of age, where he was employed editorially on 
 the New England Weekly. Returning to Haverhill 
 I & was elected to the Massachusetts Legislature, and 
 afterwards went to Philadelphia as editor of the 
 Freeman. But his love of a quiet life led him again 
 to the Merrimac, and he settled in the rural town of 
 Amesbury, where the moral, political and pastoral 
 poems, by which he is best known to the world, were 
 mostly written. 
 
 His home is a plain, neat house, in the most quiet 
 part of the town. At a little distance the open coun-
 
 24 Poets' Homes. 
 
 try stretches in front of its windows. Near it stands 
 a Quaker meeting-house, on the border of a grove of 
 birch and pine, around which a shady road goes wind- 
 
 HOME OF J. G. WHITTIBR. 
 
 ing through the light, sandy soil. Not far behind it 
 rolls the Merrimac through hill-slopes variegated with
 
 y. G. Whittier. 25 
 
 glossy birches, billowy oaks, and dark clusters of 
 laurels and pines. 
 
 The poet's home was, for many years, in charge of 
 his maiden sister, Elizabeth H. Whittier, a woman of 
 lovely character, who fully sympathized with her 
 brother in his literary work. It is said that he was 
 accustomed to submit to her criticism the first copies 
 of whatever he wrote. The old Quaker preachers, 
 anti-slavery reformers, and many eminent writers, used 
 to visit the Whittiers at this time, and enjoy the cosy 
 hospitality of the sonny rooms. A well-tilled garden 
 blossomed without, household pets added to the 
 charming simplicity within, and the wooded hills, which 
 enclosed the homestead like a park, rolled away in 
 the distance to the busy river that ran to the 
 sea. 
 
 The associations of Whittier's poetry ai# almost 
 everywhere to be found in the county in which he 
 lives. The Merrimac, which clasps many historic 
 towns in its arm, on its bending way to the sea, is 
 his river of song. 
 
 Marblehead, -perhaps the quaintest town in Amer 
 ica, with its sea-worn rocks, and its light-houses flam 
 ing at evening above the silvery lagoons of the ocean, 
 is the scene of Skipper Ireson's punishment. New
 
 26 Poets' Homes. 
 
 buryport, where Whitefield's coffin may si ill be 
 seen, 
 
 " Under the church on Federal Street," 
 :s the scene of " The Preacher." 
 
 The curving beaches that sweep away from the old 
 coast towns of Gloucester, Ipswich and Marblehead, 
 are accurately described in "The Tent on the Beach," 
 and in other poems. "The Shoemakers," "The 
 Huskers," "The Drovers," and "The Fishermen," 
 are subjects of poems that but picture familiar scenes 
 ; .n Amesbury and in the neighboring towns. 
 
 Most of his historical ballads are associated with 
 places which the old inhabitants point out to the 
 stranger who visits Essex County, and the incidents 
 of many of them were told at the farmer's firesides 
 a hundred years ago. Like the brothers Grimm in 
 Germany, the poet has collected these old tales, and 
 ?;iven them enduring fame by clothing them in the 
 choicest language. 
 
 Mr. Whittier wears the silver crown of seventy 
 years. His poems are among the aesthetic treasures 
 of every intelligent family, as far as the English lan 
 guage is spoken. They are recited in every school 
 and quoted from many a platform and pulpit. Theii 
 influences range widely, and always for good.
 
 . G. Whittier. 
 
 27 
 
 It is indeed a blessed life that multiplies such influ 
 ences among mankind ! " His poetry," says one of 
 his old friends, " bursts from the heart with the fire 
 and energy of the ancient prophet, but his noble sim 
 plicity of character is the delight of us all ! "
 
 MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 ALSTEAD, N. H., Sept., 1875. 
 
 MY DEAR EDITH : I cannot let the pleasant 
 summer pass quite away with St. Michael, 
 who " keeps the gate ablaze with autumn's heraldry," 
 without giving you a sketch of our life " among the 
 hills," here at Mrs. Whitney's summer home, in the old 
 farm-house on Alstead heights. You, and the " other 
 girls," will like to hear something about our fashion 
 of living in this primitive part of the .world, I'm sure; 
 but you would enjoy the being here a great deal 
 more ; for, to my mind, it is about the perfection of a 
 simple, unfettered, charming country life ; and Alstead 
 belongs to one of the loveliest regions of picturesque 
 New England. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney's very own home is in Milton, near 
 Boston, you remember ; but she has not lived there 
 for several years, not since before she went abroad, 
 while Alstead has been her abiding-place during three 
 
 28
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 29 
 
 or four summers, and was last winter as well. This 
 season she has filled the house with a " picked " party 
 of her friends, nearly all Boston people Hubites, all 
 of whom, in their own manner of speech, I " admire " 
 to know. As our landlady says, we are eight " per- 
 manents ; " but there are several " temperies," in the 
 language of " Emery Ann," who have made the agree 
 able variety in our household. This doesn't include 
 the farmer's family of four, the smart Yankee help, 
 and the great brindle cat, the handsomest and most 
 dignified of his race, whom his mistress endearingly 
 addresses as "Tommy" and "my child," but who is 
 known to the rest of us as " Lord Bacon." I wish 
 you could appreciate the tonsorial twang with which 
 the name is enunciated. Mr. Whitney, who has a 
 tender heart for " Our Dumb Animals," is addicted 
 to feeding him surreptitiously at table; but "Lord 
 Bacon's " mother doesn't approve, and orders him 
 peremptorily into the kitchen when she sees him 
 yielding to the temptation of proffered cheese and 
 tidbits. 
 
 We have delightful times in one way and another 
 Mrs. Whitney is, in a manner, the center around which 
 all revolve. Her room is the nucleus of the house ; 
 she presides at the table, and she is deferred to natu 
 rally by each one of us. We depend entirely upon our
 
 30 Poets' Homes. 
 
 own resources for amusement, since we are in true 
 seclusion, in the "deep, green country," Alstead being 
 off the line of ordinary summer travel. 
 
 It is seventeen miles from Keene, and six or eight 
 from Bellows Falls ; and a lumbering, big, antique 
 stage travels every afternoon from ''The Falls" to 
 Alstead, carrying mail and passengers, with a curiosity 
 in the shape of an octogenarian driver, as hale and 
 active as another man of fifty. 
 
 We leave the pretty white village, with its roofs and 
 spires nestling amid the trees and embosomed among 
 the hills, and " wind about, and in, and out " at the 
 base of them until we begin an ascent two miles up 
 a three-mile hill that rises steeply to the table-land 
 where the Town Center is built ; and we reach our 
 old-fashioned farm-house, which has stood here over 
 a hundred years, with its barns opposite, screened by 
 two stately, wide-spreading elms, and the huge old 
 poplar on the piazza side. I have often wondered 
 what old Puritan with an artist's eye it could have 
 been who selected a building site of such unrivaled 
 beauty, commanding so glorious a sweep of country^ 
 bounded by those mountain ranges, in "purple dis 
 tance fair." 
 
 One croquet ground is in the green door yard at 
 the front, and this is Mrs. Whitney's special domain,
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 31 
 
 for she is an enthusiastic and skillful player. There 
 is another on the slope to the left below the piazza, 
 frequented by the less aspiring croqueters, who say, 
 jocosely, that they haven't graduated into the scien 
 tific ring yet. You need not ask me where I belong ! 
 Well, the view is much finer from our ground, at any 
 rate ; and I solace myself with the beauty of the hills 
 and the splendor of the sunsets, when I make partic 
 ularly unlucky hits. You would enjoy a game with 
 Mrs. Whitney. She would be an opponent worthy of 
 your mallet, for she handles hers like the mistress of 
 the situation, even when she plays with Ben and 
 Doris, who are renowned champions. 
 
 This is the pleasantest spot in all Alstead the 
 " Place of Beautiful Streams." (One of us discovered 
 the Saxon meaning of the name in some old book, 
 the other day.) I wish I could send you a pencil- 
 sketch which would do justice to the place. 
 
 The beautiful fields fall and swell away from us in 
 lovely curve and undulation, rich with many shades 
 of green and gold. The near hills darkly wooded with 
 birch and pine, the distant mountains, in all their 
 varying, exquisite tints of blues and grays and purples, 
 make the gift of sight a perpetual joy. 
 
 Over the little latticed entrance porch, where we 
 often gather after breakfast to enjoy the sparkling
 
 32 Poets' Homes. 
 
 freshness of the morning and chat for a few minutes 
 on the sunny stoop, a luxuriant vine is trained, spread 
 ing and climbing up the sides of the house. Our 
 hostess calls the flowers " Morning Beauties ; " and 
 the vine curtains greenly one window of Mrs. Whit 
 ney's room. She is very fond of the delicate bell-like 
 flowers, with their green heart-shaped leaves, and 
 gathers some every morning to fill her little vases 
 and dishes, for the decoration of her tables and man 
 tel-shelf. 
 
 Beside the bower-window stands her desk, near the 
 well-filled bookcase. Don't you think you would like 
 to sit down at Mrs. Whitney's own desk and write 
 your letters, as I have done ? There's quite an inspi 
 ration in it. There are pictures on the walls, but the 
 one you would like best is an exquisite, full-sized en 
 graving of a painting which Mrs. Whitney loves very 
 much, and which a dear friend sent her last Christ 
 mas, the " Mother and Child " of the Holbein in 
 the Dresden Gallery. Then, there are some bright 
 autumn leaves painted by her " own girl," which an 
 old countryman who came up here to do some work 
 the other day took for real, saying "he'd some to 
 home could beat them for color." Mrs. Whitney her 
 self paints, and is filling a large book with lovely 
 vines and wild flowers and colored branches from the
 
 Afrs. A. D, T. Whitney. 33 
 
 woods, done in water colors ; and she brought home 
 some exquisite little copies in water-color of pictures 
 abroad. I should like to show you a tender Madonna 
 face, from Raphael, which I covet, and one of Fra 
 Angelico's rainbow-winged angels. 
 
 Sometimes several of us sit and sew and talk in 
 this pleasant, shaded room, or " spill over," as she 
 would say, into the hall and porch, or on the stairway. 
 This is a very sociable fashion we have ; and we keep 
 all our daors open, except when we are busy working 
 or studying. But we oftenest congregate on the cool 
 piazza, where Mrs. Whitney has her reclining chair 
 and camp chairs carried out for our greater comfort, 
 and where she sometimes reads to us while we work. 
 
 We have particularly jolly times at dinner, when we 
 have been apart during the morning, some of us wan 
 dering in the woods, others busy in our own rooms. 
 By way of variety we often make French our table- 
 talk, and we find French jokes infinitely amusing. 
 Mrs. Whitney is especially charming at table with her 
 air gracieux, in her dainty bit of a white lace cap, 
 and the white crocheted shawl thrown over her light 
 cambric dress. None of us profess to make grand 
 toilets at Alstead ; but some people have the knack 
 of making themselves bewitching under whatever cir 
 cumstances. 
 
 3
 
 34 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Opposite Mrs. Whitney sits her husband, a fine- 
 looking, gray-haired gentleman, with a delightfully 
 benevolent face. Besides being a friend of cats, he 
 is a great walker, the chief of our pedestrian excur 
 sions, and indefatigable in all he undertakes. 
 
 We have done a good deal of driving about the 
 country this summer. Fancy a wagon load of us 
 starting out for a long morning's ride, or a day's ex 
 cursion. You know how merry such parties are. We 
 have adorned our new whip with red, white, and blue 
 streamers, and trot gayly up and down hill and through 
 the village streets, with our patriotic ensign flying on 
 the breeze. 
 
 We are generally drawn by two remarkable -steeds, 
 which some wicked wags among us have christened 
 " Hydrophobia " and " The Caterpillar," because one 
 of them seems to abhor water, as Nature was once 
 said to abhor a vacuum, and the other drags his lei 
 surely length along, up hill and down, with a sublime 
 scorn of whip or cheering word. 
 
 One charming excursion we made was to Keene, 
 and we were gone the livelong day, driving up hill 
 and down dale, with constant shifting mountain views, 
 grand old Monadnock and Ascutney ever and anon 
 looming up our horizon like some rugged monarch 
 with his royal consort. On our return from the pleas-
 
 Afrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 35 
 
 ant New England town, through the pretty valley of 
 the Ashuelot, we were caught in a heavy rain storm, 
 but defied the elements with umbrellas and water 
 proofs in spite of our open wagon, and when the sun 
 shone out presently through the still falling shower, 
 a perfect and exquisite rainbow was flung against the 
 green mountain slope to our right, each soft and bril 
 liant hue in the arch of color defined against the vivid 
 emerald. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney says such rainbows cast on the earth, 
 as it were, are not unusual in mountain regions ; but 
 I had never seen one before. 
 
 I wish I could take you into Alstead woods with 
 us, my dear. I'm inclined to believe there are few 
 more fascinating pursuits than the following up of the 
 beds of the mountain brooks, which abound here. 
 The ferns and mosses are beyond anything I ever 
 dreamed of. There are endless delicate varieties in 
 the damp, shady places ; and graceful great clumps 
 and clusters of ferns spring up everywhere. Of course 
 we have pressed ferns by the hundreds, and made 
 ferneries, and gone into birch-bark work. 
 
 There is a grove about three miles from here, where 
 one actually wades in an acre of maidenhair, not to 
 mentiori other places where it abounds. I never be- 
 Lore found it excepting in rare nooks and small quan-
 
 36 Poets' Homes. 
 
 titles ; but then I never before was in New Hamp 
 shire. 
 
 There are three cascades within the circuit of a 
 mile, all formed by the same winding, rocky-bedded 
 brook, each one more bewildering than the last, each 
 one with its ardent, special admirers. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney describes the lowest and greatest of 
 these, in one of the last chapters of "Other Girls," 
 better than I could. 
 
 Some days we bring our books to some lovely spot 
 in the woods, and read French and German, while 
 the thrushes and robins sing overhead. One of the 
 young men has made us a bower fit for an Oread or 
 Dryad, in the pine woods below the house, across the 
 mowing, and past the field of yellow oats. The only 
 drawback in these haunts is the presence of mosqui 
 toes, but we brave them, not seldom, and after our 
 reading strap up our books with our shawls, take up 
 our birchen staves, and explore the woody depths, 
 coming home laden with vines, gaylium or crow 
 foot, and lately, as the autumn comes on apace, 
 with gay bunches of purple Michaelmas daisies and 
 yellow golden-rod. 
 
 I must not forget to tell you of our " barn-talks " 
 before I make an end of this ; symposiums, I would 
 call them, if we ever indulged in such long words on
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 37 
 
 Alstead heights. Mrs. Whitney sometimes takes her 
 writing into one of the barns, and makes a nest for 
 herself in the soft, fragrant hay-heap. She used to 
 keep a dictionary and some books of reference on a 
 little shelf, which one of the boys fixed up for her in 
 the mow, and come out here regularly. We are spe 
 cially fond of the place on Sunday, when we spend 
 the greater part of the morning here, since there is no 
 church-going until afternoon. We fling the great doors 
 wide, and pile the sweet, fresh hay on the floor, and 
 sit where we can look out upon the picture of waving 
 trees and distant slopes, which the lintels enframe ; 
 and where 
 
 " Far off, leaning on each other, 
 
 Shining hills on hills arise, 
 Close as brother leans to brother 
 
 When they press beneath the eyes 
 Of some father praying blessing 
 From the gifts of Paradise." 
 
 And we have our best talks here, in the quiet and 
 restfulness which seem peculiarly the atmosphere of 
 this day even in this peaceful land, whither the cares 
 and turmoil of life do not often penetrate as in the 
 busy places of the world. I think the talks are better 
 even than her writings, Edith ; I often wish that some 
 of the girls, who have been influenced to higher 
 things by her books, could come to herself with their
 
 38 Poets' Homes. 
 
 questionings and wonderings. Her faith is so high, 
 and clear, and sweet. The blessed words come tc 
 you with a new power in them as she points out theii 
 spiritual meanings. The girls who love her would be 
 helped to find out things for themselves, which is the 
 best kind of helping, after all. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney is a beautiful needlewoman, and does 
 all kinds of work accurately and exquisitely. To watch 
 her sew, whether in dress-making or fancy-work, you 
 would imagine that was the only thing she had e,ver 
 tried to do. You may tell the girls, Edith, that she 
 never has taught or suggested any occupation, house 
 wifely or otherwise, to them, that she is not an adept 
 in herself. Her skillful fingers have a wonderful 
 knack in them, and she isn't apt to undertake any 
 thing which she doesn't carry out thoroughly. This 
 summer she is crocheting two charming afghans, 
 taking up now one, then another. One is all scarlet 
 and white, the other a "pansy blanket," which is 
 quite a new idea to me. The stripes are in the pansy 
 colors, purple, white, and gold, with a lovely cluster 
 border in shaded purples. 
 
 Now that the evenings are growing longer, and we 
 cannot play croquet after tea, and it is often too chilly 
 to sit in the soft, gradual gloaming, so lovely in these 
 northern latitudes, on the piazza, playing verbal
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 39 
 
 games, as we used to last month, proverbs, compara 
 tive and superlative, buried cities, and the like, we 
 gather round the long table in the dining-room and 
 its two bright lamps, with our work, some one giving 
 us scraps of news, and funny bits from the news 
 papers, freshly arrived by the evening mail. The 
 advent of the mail at sunset is the great event of the 
 
 day. Mrs. says we ought to have an artist here 
 
 to make a sketch, " Waiting for the Mail." When 
 nobody happens to drive down to the village, it is 
 brought up by the postmaster of the Center, who is 
 likewise the butcher, and rejoices in the inappropriate 
 name of Shepherd. This double functionary is apt 
 to linger by the way, Mr. Whitney says, until he has 
 sold his last shin ; so he is often anxiously watched 
 for ever so long before one or two pairs of sharp and 
 eager eyes have spied out his slow-paced horse cross 
 ing the bridge a mile below us. 
 
 We play " crambo " occasionally in the evening, 
 after the mail excitement is over; and I have a 
 mind to send you some specimens of our perform 
 ance in, that line, though I acknowledge that half 
 the spice is lost, apart from the inspiration and 
 excitement of the moment which suggests them, and 
 the fun of the reading aloud to a not over-critical 
 audience.
 
 40 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Question. Hadn't the kittens better be drowned ? 
 Word: Gay. 
 
 That was what Sarah said in the play 
 
 As she came to her master, blithe and gay ; 
 
 But her master was in a gruesome mood ; 
 
 Dark, and jealous, and frowning he stood, 
 
 And ordered her off. Poor Pillicoddy ! 
 
 He was so afraid that his marriage was shoddy ! 
 
 For his wife's first husband was drowned in the 
 
 sea ; 
 
 Drowned as dead as a man could be ; 
 But the one dark drop in poor Filly's cup 
 Was the fear lest he might some day turn up. 
 So fancy his feelings when Sarah would say, 
 With that air so jaunty, and blithe, and gay, 
 Ever returning upon her round, 
 " Hadn't the kittens better be drowned ? " 
 I am something like poor Pillicoddy, 
 For I'm very sure my verse is shoddy; 
 And, with Somebody pocketing all the scraps, 
 I've a haunting fear that some day, perhaps, 
 Among wise women and wonderful men, 
 My wretched rhymes may turn up again. 
 They signify nothing but fury and sound, 
 And / think the kittens had better be drowned I
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 4\ 
 
 Question. Where does the light of a candle go to 
 when it is blown out ? 
 Word : Fly away. 
 
 Where does the perfume go when roses fade ? 
 
 Where do the songs go when birds fly away ? 
 Where does the day go when earth is in shade ? 
 
 Where does the night go when back comes the day ? 
 Where do our thoughts go when we are asleep ? 
 
 Where does the sleep go when we are awake ? 
 Where does the ripple go when brooks grow deep ? 
 
 Where does the music go when harp-strings break ? 
 I suppose when the birds go, they take their songs too, 
 
 And roses, perhaps, pack up all their perfume. 
 I can't tell about them ; but I'm certain ain't you? 
 
 That candle-light goes out in grease-spots and 
 gloom. 
 
 Last year Mrs. Whitney's birthday was celebrated 
 in grand style here on the fifteenth of September. 
 The night before, all the young people went out into 
 the woods, coming in laden with vines and golden-rod 
 and autumn leaves, glorious branches of them, and 
 turned the house, down stairs, parlor, dining-room, and 
 hall, into a perfect bower, so that when the Lady of 
 the Day stepped from her room in the morning, it
 
 42 Poets' Homes. 
 
 seemed like walking in forest glades, she told me, 
 laughing. The day was one long festivity. Every 
 one appeared in the fullest dress they could muster 
 at dinner ladies in long-trained silks, gentlemen in 
 dress coats, with button-hole bouquets. There was a 
 stunning chicken-pie by way of center-piece, decorated 
 with a gorgeous silken banner, both pie and banner 
 the work of her "own girl's" clever fingers. There 
 were speeches made and healths drunk, and when the 
 elaborate dessert was served, somebody mounted a 
 chair, and read a flaming ode written for the occasion, 
 on what seemed miles of legal cap, tied up with end 
 less streamers of green and yellow why green and 
 yellow, is not evident. A full-dress croquet party 
 finished up the grand event of the season. 
 
 I have a sketch to send you of the dear old house 
 at Milton where Mrs. Whitney lived for many years, 
 and where her children all grew up. It is a sweet, 
 sunny place, midway between the Mill village and 
 the Center; and the pleasant south windows look 
 away to Blue Hills, which bound the horizon. It is 
 a brown, double house, with an L and veranda at 
 the back, a broad piazza in front, with woodbine 
 climbing luxuriantly around its pillars and up the 
 side of the house, a root of woodbine which her 
 little children brought from Milton woods years ago
 
 Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 43 
 
 and planted here. Roses grow about the place in 
 summer, and the turf is very green. 
 
 Gnarled old apple trees and dwarf pears abound at 
 the back, and plenty of singing-birds have their habi 
 tation among the branches, and in the bird houses, 
 which are perched high up above the tree-tops for 
 their accommodation. Lovely old elms give the place 
 a name "Elm Corner;" and I will just whisper a 
 secret to you, Edith : that quaint old house, across 
 the road, is where " Faith Gartney " used to live. 
 
 " Faith Gartney " was her first story, you remember, 
 although " Mother Goose for Grown P'olks " was the 
 first published book ; and " Elm Corner " is really the 
 home of "We Girls." If you go through the wide 
 hall with its brown furnishings, into the brown and 
 green sitting-room to the right, the ivy and vines in 
 the windows, with their deep cushioned seats, you 
 will surely expect to see " Barbara," and " Rosamond," 
 and " Ruth " come in from the kitchen way, or seated 
 at the round table, or tending their plants. You will 
 look aVound at the doorway almost sure that " Leslie 
 Goldthwaite " may come in presently for a visit, or 
 that " Stephen Holabird " will be heard halloing, boy- 
 fashion, outside. You see I recall the house as I 
 used to know it. When Mrs. Whitney goes back there 
 to live next winter, it will assume its old familiar
 
 44 Poets' Homes. 
 
 aspect again; and \ve shall all be glad to think of 
 her in the dear old place, where she seems to belong, 
 and where she makes the home brightness. 
 
 Doris puts her head in at my door. Her shaker 
 bonnet, trimmed with gray, covers up her golden hair, 
 and makes her look like a bewitching Quakeress. 
 She has a basket on her arm, and a formidable-look 
 ing knife in her hand. "Come," she says; "we are 
 all ready to go to the woods and dig ferns. Haven't 
 you finished your letter ? " It ought to be finished, 
 by the length of it : so good by, dear Edith. I'll pro 
 ceed to " back it " now, as the country people up here 
 say. I wonder if you know what that means. 
 
 Always affectionately yours, GARRY.
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 THE home of J. T. Trowbridge, the poet and the 
 story-teller, is a neat brown wooden house, two 
 and a half stories high, situated in a garden of fruit 
 and flowers, on Pleasant Street, in Arlington, Mass. 
 
 Close be-hind it, Arlington Lake, the Spy Pond of 
 historic fame, winds like a broad river for a distance of 
 a mile or more. 
 
 A drawing-room, furnished with elegance and taste, 
 occupies the front half of the house, behind which a 
 large dining-room overlooks the pond. From the east 
 window* in the upper hall, Bunker Hill monument and 
 the city of Charlestown can be seen, with a glimpse of 
 old Boston itself. From the south-east window of the 
 study, Mount Auburn, the city of the dead, Cambridge 
 observatory, surmounted by the hills of Brighton and 
 Brookline, form an interesting prospect. Arlington 
 Lake, which can be seen from all the windows on the 
 
 45
 
 46 Poetf Homes, 
 
 sides and rear of the house, affords a scene of ever- 
 changing variety. A large boat-house belonging to 
 the yacht-club adjoins the grounds of Mr. Trowbridge, 
 who is a prominent member of the association. Many 
 regattas and rowing races start from this house, the 
 upper half of which is fitted with balconies where la 
 dies can sit under shady awnings to encourage the 
 gentlemen contestants with their presence. 
 
 In the winter the scene is also busy and animated, 
 for the lake at the time of the ice-harvest is covered 
 with the workmen of Gage & Co., who employ hun 
 dreds of men to fill the enormous store-houses on 
 the eastern bank with the ice that supplies distant 
 southern countries as well as the neighboring cities 
 with its cool comfort. 
 
 Around this pond, close to the shore, is a narrow 
 path, a fayorite walk of Mr. Trowbridge ; a shady 
 lane which bounds his garden on the east leads 
 directly to this path. At the highest point of the 
 lane three chesnuts and an oak-tree stand close to 
 gether, in which pleasant nook he has built a rustic 
 seat where one may sit for meditation, screened from 
 observation by the thick foliage. 
 
 His in-door study has many memorials of literary 
 friends, many books presented by the authors with 
 pleasant complimentary sentiments written within,
 
 jf. T. Trowbridge. 47 
 
 "his room is situated on the second floor in the west- 
 rn side of the house, with windows overlooking Pleas- 
 nt Street and the views already described. 
 
 One side of the room is lined with books ; on the 
 pposite is a comfortable sofa. In the corner stands 
 .is desk ; from its top books also occupy the space 
 D the ceiling. 
 
 It was in this delightful room that all his well-known 
 cries of juvenile books were written, which have be- 
 ome as "familiar as household words" from Maine 
 o California, as well as in England, where they have 
 >een widely circulated. They were begun in Out 
 Young Folks' Magazine, and concluded in the St. 
 Nicholas, in the following order : " Jack Hazard and 
 us Fortunes," " A Chance for Himself," " Doing his 
 iest," "The Young Surveyor." "Laurence's Ad- 
 'entures Among the Ice-Cutters, Iron-Workers, Glass- 
 vlakers and Ship-Builders," was also written here, to 
 gether with his irresistible story of " Coupon Bonds," 
 me of the best specimens of Yankee dialect ever 
 vritten. The story appeared in the Atlantic Monthly 
 or 1865, and has rare dramatic merit, as a version 
 )f it, arranged by the writer of this article for the 
 nimic stage, has earned many hundred dollars for 
 charitable purposes, and has been received with shouts 
 if laughter. The stories which are now collected i.i
 
 4o Poets' Homes. 
 
 a volume with " Coupon Bonds " were also written 
 at this desk. 
 
 His " Father Brighthopes " was the earliest of his 
 works, and is still a favorite with young and old. 
 " Neighbor Jackwood " is a novel partly in the Yan 
 kee dialect also, and has had a very successful ca 
 reer, being prepared by its author for the stage, 
 where it is still very successful. This novel was 
 written in Paris, where the author experienced the 
 curious sensation of spending his evenings among the 
 fascinations of the gay capital, and his mornings with 
 the New England family of the Jackwoods, which 
 seemed as real as the former to his vivid imagination. 
 
 His war-novels were " Cudjo's Cave," " The Three 
 Scouts," and the "Drummer Boy." He also pre 
 pared an illustrated work on the South, through which 
 he traveled immediately after the close of the war. 
 He is now preparing a series of illustrated poems for 
 a famous New York publisher. He has already is 
 sued two volumes of verse. His poem of "The 
 Vagabonds " has enjoyed great popularity, and is, per 
 haps, oftener read by elocutionists than any Ameri 
 can production; his "Charcoal Man" and "Darius 
 Green and his Flying Machine " are also 'favorites 
 These poems, with others, have been read by himself 
 several times in lecture courses.
 
 y. T. Trowbridge. 49 
 
 Our Young Folks Magazine was started in 1865 by 
 Ticknor and Fields, under the editorial charge of 
 loward M. Ticknor, with Mr. Trowbridge as corre- 
 .ponding editor. In 1870 he became managing editor, 
 ind gathered about him a staff of gifted writers which, 
 nade the magazine popular with young and old, his 
 >wn serial stories being eagerly read by the parents 
 is well as their children. His sanctum was then in 
 Fremont Street, over Fields & Osgoods' store, a 
 .mall front room with handsome furniture and carpet, 
 tfith a bright coal fire in winter, where many a writer 
 )f note could be met any fine morning, enjoying the 
 :ourteous hospitality and wise counsel of the editor. 
 
 When engaged upon a prose work, Mr. Trowbridge 
 jpends every morning at his desk ; but his poems are 
 written whenever the inspiration comes. Many ideas 
 occur to him in the long walks to which he devotes 
 many of his afternoons. 
 
 A few winters ago he was passing the head of Mys 
 tic Pond, and saw a group of men gathered on the 
 shore, watching a boy whose head was just visible as 
 he struggled in the icy water. He seized a board 
 from the .fence, which he broke into two pieces, each 
 about seven feet long. With one foot upon each he 
 pushed out over the cracking ice, against the warnings 
 of the men until he reached the boy, who was just
 
 50 Poets' Homes. 
 
 sinking. The ice gave way with the added weight, but 
 he succeeded with great difficulty in pushing the half- 
 frozen boy on one of the boards, and then scrambled 
 out himself, wet and chilled to the bone. For this he 
 roic act he received the medal of the Humane Society 
 for having saved a life. . This incident is here cited, 
 against his wish, to show that a poetic talent and taste 
 is not incompatible with energy, courage, and practical 
 use of them. 
 
 His son, twelve years old, is taught to row and 
 swim, and seems a model of health and activity ; and 
 his daughter, a little, golden-haired fairy about two 
 years old, is a little gleam of sunlight in the home. 
 
 In his best stories the author delights in country 
 scenes, and his best interiors are those of rural farm 
 houses. This taste he seems to have come by natu 
 rally, foi his father was brought up on a farm in West 
 moreland, N. Y., by John Townsend, for whom his son 
 was named. In 1811 the father set out with his 
 household goods in an ox-sled ; he crossed the Gen- 
 essee River, where Rochester now stands, where there 
 was then but one house, and settled at Ogden, eight 
 miles farther west, building a log house, in which the 
 hero of this sketch was born, on the i7th of Septem 
 ber, 1827, the youngest but one of a family of nine 
 children.
 
 y. T. Trowbridge. 51 
 
 His father was a fine singer, and a capital story- 
 eller, with a faculty for rhyming his narratives as fast 
 .s composed. He died when John was sixteen years 
 )ld. The son had led the usual life of a farmer's boy, 
 ;oing to school about one half of the year and work- 
 ng hard the rest of the time ; but his heart was not 
 n his work ; his longing for an education was among 
 lis earliest recollections, and he used to compose long 
 Doems while following the plough, which he would 
 vrite down by candle-light, in the chimney-corner. 
 At the age of fourteen he studied French and Ger 
 man from books alone, without the assistance of any 
 one who understood the written language. His favor 
 ite authors at that time were Byron and Scott. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, having had one term in a 
 classical school at Lockport, he went to Illinois, 
 where he read Virgil, and attempted the cultivation of 
 wheat. In this venture he was not successful, partly 
 because he devoted more time to hunting and study 
 than to agriculture. At any rate, he became con 
 vinced that his genius did not run in that direction, 
 and therefore gave up all idea of becoming a farmer, 
 and determined upon a literary career in spite of all 
 discouragem ents. 
 
 . Returning to Lockport he taught school one winter, 
 and perhaps at this place acquired his knowledge of
 
 52 Poets' Homes, 
 
 the workings of the canal-system, which he has since 
 made such an interesting feature of two of his books. 
 The next May he set out for New York, alone and 
 friendless, without a letter of introduction or recom 
 mendation of any sort, and with a scanty sum of 
 money, determined to earn his living by his pen, the 
 hardest way of earning money in the world, even to 
 those who have both money and influence. 
 
 How his sensitive nature must have been shocked, 
 and even his brave heart have sunk, before the treat 
 ment of many of the self-styled literary men of the 
 time ! While in his country home he had won some 
 local fame, and his poems and stories had been pub 
 lished in the local papers, but had brought him no 
 pecuniary reward excepting in one case. He suc 
 ceeded in winning the prize offered for the best New 
 Year's Address, by the carriers of the Lockport 
 paper; but on calling for the promised reward, abook 
 worth about three dollars, he was told that they could 
 not afford to give so much, and so they compromised 
 the matter by paying him $1.50 ! 
 
 After many weary journeys to the upper stories, 
 where the paper autocrats ruled, he at last found a 
 friend in Major Noah, of whose kindness and encour 
 agement he speaks in the highest terms. He also 
 discovered the opposite in another well-known editor
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 53 
 
 /ho published a story which the struggling author 
 entured to send him. As this article was widely 
 opied, he modestly asked for his payment, but was 
 iformed that unknown authors were never paid for 
 heir work. This treatment did not discourage him, 
 1 though his scanty stock of money was exhausted, 
 nd he was obliged to take refuge in an attic. 
 
 At last he found a poor market for his literary 
 /ares in the Dollar Magazine, so called from the 
 irice of its subscription, and because it paid its au- 
 hors at the same rate per page. Even this munificent 
 iayment would not suffice for his maintenance in New 
 ,'ork, and for a short time he laid down the pen to 
 ndertake the engraving of gold pencil-cases at Jersey 
 Aty. Not succeeding very well at this business, he 
 btained board with a French family, partly for econ- 
 my and more for the sake of learning to speak the 
 inguage. 
 
 About the year 1849 ne P a ^ a visit to Boston, where 
 ie decided to remain, as he found the atmosphere 
 iiore congenial to his literary taste. Under the nom 
 'e plume of " Paul Creyton " he published many arti- 
 les and one novel. He also was editor in charge of 
 he Sentinel, while its chief was in Washington, in 
 vhich he published an article on the Fugitive Slave 
 ^aw, which offended many subscribers in the South, 
 joon after he published "Father Brighthopes," the
 
 ,4 Poets' Homes. 
 
 great success of which warranted the publication of 
 the " Brighthope Series," in four volumes. 
 
 In the month of April, 1855, he went to Europe, 
 where he spent a year, chiefly in England,. France and 
 Italy. He was one of the original contributors to the 
 Atlantic Monthly, furnishing for its pages poems, sto 
 ries, and essays of political and public interest, which 
 have been very popular, arid many of which have 
 been collected into volumes. 
 
 The young people who read this sketch must judge 
 for themselves from what portion of his varied expe 
 rience Mr. Trowbridge has gathered the natural inci 
 dents which make his stories seem so real. While 
 hunting deer in the wilds of Illinois he may have 
 found a study of " Lord Betterson " in his shingle 
 palace. In his hard farm-work he may have met 
 "Jack Hazard," and "Squire Peternot," and the 
 inimitable " Ducklow " family. " George Green 
 wood's " struggles in New York, among the editors, 
 may have recalled the days of his own poverty and of 
 the time when, penniless and friendless, he never lost 
 hope, and was too proud to send home for help. 
 
 They can learn a lesson of cheerfulness under pri 
 vation from his career, and of steady devotion to one 
 idea which will sooner or later bear the brave worker 
 to certain success. 
 
 One peculiarity of Mr. Trowbridge is his close and
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 55 
 
 linute observation of even the smallest details of out- 
 oor scenery in his long rambles. Every stone has 
 >r him its sermon, and every brook its open book, 
 .s an elocutionist he avoids the extravagant changes 
 f tone with which so many readers mar their selec- 
 ons, and he reads with quiet simplicity of manner 
 hich lends earnestness and force to every expression, 
 .s an editor Mr. Trowbridge was always courteous, 
 nd skillful to detect a pearl even in its rough shell, 
 lis kind advice and assistance have helped many a 
 ashful genius up the slippery path of fame, and his 
 enial hospitality and cordial welcome make all 
 appy who are fortunate enough to visit him in his 
 ome. 

 
 MR. J. J. PI ATT. 
 MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 
 
 THE home of these wedded poets is not in the 
 East, where our singers have congregated, but 
 in a romantic and historic section of that region 
 which our parents used to call " out West : " at the 
 present time, to the larger number of Americans, Ohio 
 is in " the East." 
 
 North Bend, the town of the poets' residence, is 
 one of the chief historic points in the West. One 
 instantly remembers that it was the home of President 
 Harrison, and that it is his burial-place. His tomb 
 lies only about four hundred yards to the eastward of 
 the Piatt house. To this tomb, a low, whited, brick 
 structure among the cedars, Mrs. Piatt refers in that 
 exquisite child-poem, 
 
 56
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 57 
 
 A PRESIDENT AT HOME. 
 
 I pass'd a President's house to-day 
 " A President, mamma, and what is that ? * 
 
 Oh, it is a man who has to stay 
 
 Where bowing beggars hold out the hat 
 
 For something a man who has to be 
 
 The Captain of every ship that we 
 
 Send with our darling flag to the sea 
 
 The Colonel at home who has to command 
 
 Each marching regiment in the land. 
 
 This President now has a single room, 
 That is low, and not much lighted, I fear ; 
 
 Yet the butterflies play in the sun and gloom 
 Of his evergreen avenue, year by year ; 
 
 And the child-like violets up the hill 
 
 Climb, faintly wayward, about him still ; 
 
 And the bees blow by at the wind's wide will ; 
 
 And the cruel river, that drowns men so, 
 . Looks pretty enough in the shadows below. 
 
 Just one little fellow (named Robin) was there, 
 In a red spring vest ; and he let me pass 
 
 With that charming, careless, high-bred air 
 Which comes of serving the great In the grass 
 
 He sat, half-singing, with nothing to do 
 
 No, I did not see the President too : 
 
 His door was lock'd (what I say is true). 
 
 And he was asleep, and has been, it appears, 
 
 Like Rip Van Winkle, asleep for years ! 
 
 It occupies the top of a lonely ridge which has 
 been before this, in some dim, pre-historic age, a 
 place of burial, being what is called an " Indian 
 mound." Not a few of the neighboring hills are
 
 eg Poets' Homes. 
 
 crowned with these " old pathetic additions." Indeed, 
 a few miles westward from the Piatt cottage, near the 
 mouth of the Great Miami, is one of the most exten 
 sive works of the mound-builders in the wide West. 
 They are known as the Fort Hill Embankments. 
 
 PRESIDENT HARRISON'S TOMB. 
 
 Gen. Harrison believed them to have been used for 
 military purposes, and he thought that they indicated 
 superior engineering skill and knowledge. They en 
 close eight or ten acres, and are not yet obliterated. 
 The pioneers of south-eastern Ohio found these em 
 bankments overgrown with old forests. 
 
 Nearly half a mile farther from the cottage than 
 the Harrison tomb, and beyond it, stand some old,
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 59 
 
 tomantic ruins of the stone mill which Gen. Harrison 
 built nearly sixty years ago, before he went as Minis 
 ter to Columbia, South America. It is situated in a 
 deep, lonely hollow among the hills, upon a little 
 stream known as Indian Creek. 
 
 A few hundred yards eastward from the tomb, be 
 tween the hills and the Ohio River, is the site of the 
 North Bend mansion, so famous thirty-five years ago 
 as the " Log Cabin " celebrated in the grand Whig 
 campaign which resulted in the election of Gen. Har 
 rison to the Presidency. The house was, perhaps, 
 partly built of logs ; they were weather-boarded over, 
 however. This historic building was destroyed by 
 fire about twenty years ago. Only a few old orchard 
 trees, including some venerable pear-trees, all of them 
 beautiful in blossom but poor in fruit, together with a 
 small brick office-building, remain to indicate the 
 famous old homestead which, not many years since, 
 was cut up into small lots and sold at public auction. 
 
 The Piatt house itself is built at the centre of many 
 beautiful landscapes, the Ohio River being the com 
 manding feature. The cottage stands on the river- 
 line of hills, on the northern (Ohio) side, nearly three 
 hundred feet above the river-level. Every window of 
 the house gives charming river-views the Ohio 
 southeast and southwest, the Great Miami to the
 
 60 Poets' Homes. 
 
 northward, while from the heights above the house 
 there is a lovely glimpse of the meeting of the White 
 water with the Miami, reminding one of Tom Moore's 
 song of " the Vale of Avoca where the bright waters 
 meet." These gay, sunny waters encircle in their 
 gleaming arms the most green and fertile of valleys. 
 In summer the whole country below the dark wooded 
 heights seems one vast, unbroken, level corn-field. 
 Across the Ohio to the southward there are also some 
 delightful Kentucky views rich and extensive bot 
 tom lands, with farm-houses, orchards, pastures, wheat- 
 fields and corn-fields, bounded by a line of wooded 
 hills, so that the scene from the upper windows is a 
 delightful mingling of the idyllic and the romantic. 
 Evening adds still another fascinating feature to the 
 landscape. The Ohio & Mississippi R. R. passes 
 along the foot of the hill in front, while the Indianap 
 olis Road winds around the curved river-bank from 
 above; and at night the head-lights of the locomo 
 tives come flaming toward the house, three or four 
 miles away, in each direction ; and the whole rocky 
 hill on which the cottage is built is often jarred with 
 the long freight-trains. 
 
 The Piatt place has been largely left to be the wild 
 and romantic pleasure-ground which Nature long and 
 lovingly kept in waiting for the present master and
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 61 
 
 mistress. The frontage of their little pleasure-ground 
 (two acres in extent) is covered with forest-trees, and 
 slopes down a steep hill to the river. Sitting on the 
 porch you look down through the trees, almost at an 
 angle of forty-five degrees, into the river. Four strik 
 ing poplar trees, interposing their glimmering, shim 
 mering leaves between one of the windows and a fine 
 water-view, seem to name the place, " The Four Pop 
 lars ; " but there are those who insist upon calling it 
 "The Thrushes' Nest," which, as Mr. Piatt says, "is 
 very pretty, of course, but hardly modest enough for 
 any of the tenants of the Nest." Since the porch is 
 but twenty feet back from the steep hillside, " River- 
 brow " seems the happiest of all the suggested names, 
 though, perhaps, as Mr. Piatt has further remarked, 
 "the designation of a new series of anonymous 
 novels, " No Name," might be a happier one." 
 
 The cottage is of wood, a story and a half in height, 
 with French windows in the ends, and in front above. 
 It has a broad porch along the front. The interior is 
 furnished largely, as one would expect, with books. 
 Either on table or shelf, no room misses its share. 
 They take no particular direction ; there is poem, 
 novel, essay, history. 
 
 Should you chance to stroll into the parlor, you 
 will find a neat and pleasant room, with " Marian's "
 
 6a Poets' Homes. 
 
 piano against the wall "Marian" is the heroine of 
 "The Sad Story of a Little Girl," in WIDE AWAKE. 
 who 
 
 " Beats the piano out of tune, 
 And wants to sleep till noon." 
 
 There is, on the wall over the mantel, a portrait in 
 oil of Mrs. Piatt, painted by Theodore Kaufmarm, an 
 old German historical painter who lives in Washing 
 ton. This is fine, as a work of art, but hardly a good 
 or pleasant portrait, being ten years older in looks 
 than its original, and having very little of the tender 
 ness, playfulness and sweetness of her expression, 
 although it has her delicate features, her brow, her 
 dark eyes. A little bust of Longfellow stands on a 
 bracket between the long front windows ; and over 
 this hangs an engraving of Ary Schaeffer's " Hebe." 
 
 Hanging among the engravings and photographs, 
 is a framed autograph letter from Charles Dickens 
 to Mr. Piatt, written a few days before the death of 
 the English novelist ; there is, too, a framed portrait- 
 engraving of, and autograph inscription by, Fitz 
 Greene Halleck (the inscription written originally to 
 be placed in a copy of his poems sent to Mrs. Piatt 
 some years before her marriage) ; and near them is 
 a portrait of Christina Rossetti (whose poems Mr. 
 Piatt admires very much), with an autograph of that
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 63 
 
 remarkable English poetess. Upon the tables are 
 the handsome holiday books of the time ; and doubt 
 less, if you would care to explore one or two scrap- 
 books, you would find an accumulation of autograph 
 letters from many interesting people, which are, of 
 course, chiefly for private reading. 
 
 In the little hall, I may mention, this being Cen 
 tennial year, that there is a certificate of membership 
 in the " Society of the Cincinnati," signed by George 
 Washington, issued to Mr. Piatt's great-grandfather, 
 who was an original member of that Order, of which 
 Mr. Piatt's father, yet Hving, is an hereditary member. 
 
 What more ? There is a noisy company of little 
 people about the house in all directions Marian, a 
 tall, dark-eyed little maid of fourteen, is the eldest 
 of the flock. There is Bonn, Fred, Guy, and there is 
 the baby, one year old, a bright-faced, bright-haired, 
 blue-eyed, gay, mischievous anonymous, for he has 
 no assured name, although it is presumed to be Louis, 
 with Charles before it. 
 
 The mistress of the cottage is a native of Ken 
 tucky, born near Lexington. Her maiden name was 
 Sallie M. Bryan (Sarah Morgan Bryan). Her grand 
 father, Morgan Bryan, was one of several brothers 
 who came into Kentucky with Daniel Boone (Boone's 
 wife was named Rebecca Bryan) from North Carolina,
 
 64 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Mrs. Piatt's early childhood was passed near Ver 
 sailles, Kentucky, where her mother, a lovely and beau 
 tiful woman, died in her own youth, leaving her eldest 
 child, Sarah, only eight years old. The loss of her 
 mother, with various consequent influences, lent to a 
 very delicate and sensitive nature a hue of sadness 
 not easy to outgrow. " The Black Princess," in " A 
 Voyage to the Fortunate Isles," quoted by Mr. 
 Whittier in his " Songs of Three Centuries," was a 
 slave-woman belonging to her grandmother, and was 
 not only her own nurse, but her mother's also, 
 the feeling in the poem is real and genuine. 
 
 Later, she and a younger sister were placed by their 
 father with an aunt, a good and venerable lady still 
 living, Mrs. Boone, a niece by marriage of Daniel 
 Boone, at New Castle, Henry Co., Kentucky. Here 
 she went to school, and was graduated at the Henry 
 Female College, an institution then in charge of a 
 cousin of Charles Sumner. It was here her poetic 
 temperament first manifested itself. She had been 
 always an eager reader, and had especial fondness 
 for Shelley, Coleridge and Byron, though she read 
 Moore and Scott and others of their period. 
 
 Some of her early poems were shown by friends to 
 Mr. George D. Prentice, the editor of the Louisville 
 Journal, and he praised them, at once recognizing
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 65 
 
 extraordinary genius. Her early published poems, 
 appearing in the Louisville Journal and New York 
 Ledger, were widely read, widely praised, and were, 
 perhaps, quite as popular as her later and far superior 
 work. 
 
 It is since her marriage, in June, 1861, that her 
 more individual characteristics of style have mani 
 fested themselves, especially that dramatic element, 
 so delicate, subtle and strong, which asserts Mrs. 
 Piatt's intellectual kinship with Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett 
 Browning, and with her Only they stand togethei 
 in a splendid solitude, the royal sisters. 
 
 Mrs. Piatt is slightly above the medium height for 
 a woman, with a delicate and rather fragile appear 
 ance, very graceful in carriage and figure. Her head 
 is singularly fine in shape and outline. She has 
 dark, tender, hazel eyes, under finely-arched brows, 
 a small, sensitive and proud mouth, a straight, well- 
 shaped nose. Her hair, silk-like in fineness, is of the 
 real auburn hue, brown in the shadow, golden in the 
 sunlight. 
 
 Although many things have touched her life with 
 sadness, and she is too often melancholy, she is, after 
 all, in her own house, full of girlish lightness and 
 playfulness. Not disliking, but enjoying, society, she 
 :an live without it with perfect cheerfulness. For
 
 66 
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 weeks at a time, in bad weather, " Riverbrow " is al 
 most inaccessible ; but Mrs. Piatt finds ample enter 
 tainment in her household, her household duties, and 
 herself. 
 
 MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 
 
 At home she is apparently as little of the literary 
 woman as it is possible to be, and one might dine at 
 the cottage from one New Year until the next without 
 suspecting his hostess of active authorship. She has 
 no regular hours for writing, and cannot be persuaded
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 67 
 
 to make it the aim and business of her life. Her 
 poems are written out-of-doors if possible. Her 
 composition is rapid, some of her most finished 
 poems have been written at one sitting. 
 
 It is striking evidence of her lack of personal 
 literary ambition, that every poem of hers that has 
 been published since her marriage has been copied 
 and given to the public by the hands of her husband, 
 who, most happily for us, has had a good deal of 
 ambition for her. To Mr. Piatt we owe the pleasure 
 of her books. Her own hand would never have 
 collected her poems. Her first book was " The Nests 
 at Washington," published in New York, in 1864, the 
 larger part being Mr. Piatt's poems. Her next volume 
 was "A Woman's Poems " (Boston, 1871). Her last 
 book was " A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles " (Boston, 
 1874). A new volume is in preparation. 
 
 Her daily life is devoted, patiently and happily, to 
 her household cares, and to her children. As a 
 Southerner, before her marriage, her people having 
 been slave-holders, she had slight experience in do 
 mestic matters, and none of the training which falls to 
 the lot of Northern women. But with all her cares 
 she has taught her children to read and write, and 
 has instructed them largely in all their early lessons. 
 Her many poems referring to children have been
 
 68 Poets' Homes. 
 
 nearly always suggested by real children, their 
 genuine questions and remarks are often given nearly 
 word for word. 
 
 Happy with her " foolish yellow-heads " the five, 
 Marian, Donn, Fred, Guy and baby there is still a 
 sob, suddenly, in nearly all the poems. I think the 
 Rachel-sorrow never found such powerful expression 
 elsewhere. There are graves of her own on " the 
 beautiful burial hill," two. Here the mother count : 
 
 " I low many graves are in this world ? " " Oh, child," 
 His mother answered, "surely there are two." 
 
 Archly he shook his pretty head and smiled : 
 " I mean in this whole world, you know I do." 
 
 " Well, then, in this whole world : in east and west, 
 In north and south, in dew and sand and snow, 
 
 In all sad places where the dead may rest : 
 There are two graves yes, there are two, I know." 
 
 " But graves have been here for a thousand years, 
 Or, for ten thousand ? Soldiers die, and kings ; 
 
 And Christians die sometimes." "My own poor tears 
 Have never yet been troubled by these things. 
 
 . . . " Moie graves within the hollow ground, in sooth, 
 Than there are stars in all the pleasant sky ? 
 
 Where did you ever learn such dreary truth, 
 Oh, wiser and less selfish far than I ? 
 
 " I did not know, I who had light and breath : 
 
 Something to touch, to look at, if no more. 
 Fair earth to live in, who believe in death, 
 
 Till, dumb and blind, he lies at their own door ?
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 69 
 
 . . . " I did not know I may have heard or read 
 Of more ; but should I search the wide grass through. 
 
 Lift every flower and every thorn," she said, 
 "From every grave oh, I should see but two ! " 
 
 Two years ago the family came home from a long 
 stay in Washington, one evening in summer, July 3d, 
 glad, father and mother and children, to reach the 
 fresh, green, fragrant spot, after a tedious and dusty 
 journey. Gayest of all was the little eldest son, Victor, 
 a gentle, lovely boy, especially attached to his mother. 
 He had a merry day on the morrow, " the Fourth." 
 Just at dusk, as his father came home from the city, 
 he was playing with some powder which he had stored 
 in a bottle, when it exploded and the same in 
 stant the little fellow ran toward them crying assur- 
 ingly, " Mamma, I am not hurt much ! I am not hurt, 
 mamma ! " But the next moment he was no longer 
 with them. 
 
 The master of the cottage was born in Dearborn 
 County, Indiana, hardly thirty-five miles away from 
 his present home. At fourteen years of age he was 
 placed by his father in charge of an uncle, who was 
 then publisher of the Ohio State Journal, at Columbus, 
 to learn the printer's trade. At this time another and 
 smaller boy was there exercising himself in the art 
 and mystery of types ; this smaller lad was William 
 D. Howells. Some years later they fell together
 
 70 Poets' Homes. 
 
 again. One evening Mr. Piatt, who had in the interim 
 been in Louisville, Kentucky, some months, and had 
 tried his wings in various flights of verse through the 
 Louisville Journal, came into the editorial rooms of 
 the Ohio State Journal, which had by this time 
 passed into the hands of new publishers,Vor the pur 
 pose of looking for a copy of Mr. Prentice's paper. 
 
 The " smaller boy" of yore was there, now one of 
 the editors. He at once recognized his boyish 
 friend, and renewed the acquaintance. Mr. Howells, 
 too, published verses, in the National Era, and else 
 where. The mutual tastes and aspirations drew them 
 together; and, as a consequence, at Christmas, 1859, 
 there appeared a modest little volume, " Poems of 
 Two Friends." 
 
 Mr. Piatt has spent a goodly share of his time in 
 Washington, having been appointed to a place in the 
 Treasury Department by Mr. Salmon P. Chase, the 
 late Chief Justice, a few days after the latter became 
 Secretary of the Treasury. While in Louisville, he 
 had met the young Kentucky poetess, and now they 
 were married, during Mr. Piatt's first year in Wash 
 ington. In that city, and in Georgetown, they lived 
 for some years during the war. 
 
 In 1868 these mated singing-birds fixed their nest 
 in the rocky eyrie at North Bend, Mr. Piatt having
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 71 
 
 become an editor of one of the Cincinnati papers. 
 In 1870, however, he was recalled to Washington, 
 where, as Librarian of the House of Representatives, 
 
 MR. JOHN J. PIATT. 
 
 he has remained during sessions of Congress, his 
 family being with him several winters. Recently, 
 owing to the political change in the personale of the 
 House, a new Librarian being appointed, Mr. Piatt is
 
 yz Poets' Homes. 
 
 again at North Bend, and has resumed journalistic 
 labor. 
 
 Personally, Mr. Piatt is one of the young modern 
 men, keen and clear-cut, both in appearance and 
 action. 
 
 His poems have appeared in three volumes, besides 
 " Poems of Two Friends." " Nests at Washington " 
 (New York, 1864) was named from some great bomb 
 shells before the White House, into whose 
 
 . . __x'~" hollow horror 
 Flew tenderest summer wings ! 
 
 " Deep in the awful chambers 
 
 Of the gigantic Death, 
 The wrens their nests had builded, 
 And dwelt with loving breath." 
 
 "Western Windows" was published in New York in 
 1869, and " Landmarks " in 1872. 
 
 The life of the early West, of the pioneers, and the 
 experiences of the rude farmer, have taken a strong 
 hold on the sympathies and the imagination of Mr. 
 Piatt ; his poems are set, as with pictures, with Ohio 
 valley landscapes ; and 
 
 . . . " through the dust of long ago, 
 
 Creep the Pennsylvania wagons up the twilight white and 
 slow." 
 
 Many of them are finished idyls, and far more dis-
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. 73 
 
 tinctively American than the " dialect-poems " of Hay 
 and Bret Harte. For instance, there is the poem, 
 " Riding to Vote." Translated into any language, its 
 American flavor would still be pungent and unmistak 
 able : 
 
 " In Jackson's days a gay young man, with spirit hale and blithe 
 And form like the young hickory, so tough and tall and lithe, 
 I first remember coming up we came a wagon-load, 
 A dozen for Old Hickory this rough November road." 
 
 A man's thought, expressed with a woman's grace 
 and sweetness, is embodied in 
 
 ROSE AND ROOT. 
 A FABLE OF Two LIVES. 
 
 The Rose aloft in sunny air, 
 
 Beloved alike by bird and bee 
 Takes for the dark Root little care 
 
 That toils below it ceaselessly. 
 
 I put my question to the flower : 
 Pride of the summer, garden queen, 
 
 Why livest thou thy little hour? 
 
 And the Rose answered, " I am seen." 
 
 I put my question to the Root 
 " I mine the earth content," it said, 
 
 "A hidden miner underfoot ; 
 I know a Rose is overhead." 
 
 Life passes very pleasantly at " Riverbrow," as in 
 Arcadia, when the family are all at home j there are
 
 74 
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 excursions on the wooded hill-slopes, readings and 
 picnicings in the green shade ; there are strolls by the 
 river, drives through the valleys of the Miami and 
 Whitewater; in good weather refined and genial 
 society is within reach in short, quite their share 
 of earthly happiness has been vouchsafed to the in 
 mates of " Riverbrow."
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 THOSE who know Edgar Fawcett as a writer for 
 children are few compared with the larger 
 .udience that he addresses through his novels, tales 
 aid poems. His first book, however, published in 
 
 871, under the title of "Short Poems for Short 
 'eople," was essentially a work of juvenile character. 
 
 ts fate was like that of most " first books," and the 
 )bscurity of the publishers who brought it out 
 possibly contributed towards its non-success. But 
 since then Mr. Fawcett has written many delightful 
 poems for young people, and these he purposes 
 adding, at some future time, to the " Short Poems " 
 already mentioned. There is little doubt that this 
 second and greatly revised edition will some day be 
 very popular ; for, during the past three years or so, 
 Mr. Fawcett's graceful naturalness, and fragrant 
 
 75
 
 76 Poets' Homes. 
 
 humor, have won him scores of little friends through 
 out the country. 
 
 Edgar Fawcett was born in New York city, and is 
 now in his thirtieth year. In 1867 he graduated from 
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 Columbia College, and has since then not only made 
 literature his profession, but has shown himself one 
 of the most industrious magazine-writers of the day. 
 Tales and poems have flowed from his pen with great 
 rapidity. It may almost be said that scarcely a week 
 passes without his name appearing in some periodical
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 77 
 
 fore the public. He is also the author of two 
 ivels, " Purple and Fine Linen," published by Carle- 
 n & Co. in 1873, and " Ellen Story," published last 
 ar by E. J. Hale & Son, of New York. The last 
 >ok has won for him high praise, as a work of rare 
 larm and undoubted power. 
 
 But industry and versatility, only too often, as we 
 low, accompany feebleness, or at least carelessness 
 : composition. It is but justice to Mr. Fawcett to 
 ty that everything which he writes bears in a most 
 riking degree the marks of thorough artistic care. 
 . slip-shod rhyme, or an ill-constructed sentence, are 
 nknown amid his work. Not long ago he showed 
 ic writer a letter addressed to him by an eminent 
 American poet, in which the following words occurred : 
 Whence come such intellectual power and constancy 
 D your work, that you are enabled to compose novels, 
 rose sketches, long poems and short, in so limited a 
 >eriod of time ? And then the art of these pieces is 
 Iways so admirable ! " 
 
 Surely this is rare praise ; but those most familiar 
 vith Mr. Fawcett's writings must admit it to be well- 
 leserved. 
 
 In stature Mr. Fawcett is of medium height, and 
 lis figure inclines a trifle toward stoutness. His face 
 .s mobile, and of an ever-varying expressive power.
 
 78 Poets' Homes. 
 
 In conversation he is remarkable for a polished ease, 
 a readiness of phrase, and the occasional play of a 
 delicate, fanciful humor. All acknowledge his great 
 attractiveness of manner, and to spend an hour in 
 his society is to deal afterward in some very pleasant 
 intellectual memories. 
 
 Mr. Fawcett has lived the life of cities. He is a 
 man of the world, in the fullest, broadest sense. 
 Unlike most poets, he is full of self-possession, and 
 trained to the utmost in all social niceties. The close 
 observation of nature constantly shown in his poems 
 would suggest one who has lived a rural life j but 
 with the exception of passing his summers at a 
 country-place, Mr. Fawcett is as entirely metropolitan 
 in his general mode of living as anyone to be found 
 in the great, populous city where he resides. 
 
 He is still unmarried. His love for children is 
 sincere and profound, and he possesses a power of 
 amusing them that his many young admirers will 
 readily understand. Especially does he excel in the 
 weaving of those long, delightful fairy "rigmaroles" 
 in which, as the children would say, " he makes it up 
 as he goes along." Many of his best juvenile poems 
 have been published anonymously. We are tempted 
 to quote the following, because it shows the author's 
 exquisite power of pleasing his little readers by the
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 79 
 
 most simple, natural, and truthful means. A little 
 jirl, we should imagine, is supposed to be addressing 
 some farm-servant : 
 
 THE MURDERED KITTENS. 
 
 I won't believe it of you, John ; 
 
 You never, never could be 
 Such an awfully heartless kind of wretch 
 
 It is very clear to me I * 
 
 I saw you ugly to Bruno once, 
 
 And whip old lame Bobbin, too ; 
 But drown four poor little kittens ? No, 
 
 I will not believe it of you ! 
 
 Why, John, could you go and stand there now, 
 
 And hear the old cat's wild cries, 
 And let her rub herself on your leg, 
 
 And lift up her great, sad eyes ? 
 
 Could you do all this, I ask of you, John 
 (And I ask without one bit of mirtl,), 
 
 If you'd just been sweeping her family 
 From off the face of the earth ? 
 
 And haven't you too much sense to believe 
 (Why, the mere thought makes me frown ! ) 
 
 That kittens were ever created, John, 
 Just for cruel people to drown ? 
 
 You and I were born that we might grow up 
 
 Live our lives and be this or that ; 
 And in the same way is each kitten meant 
 
 To become a developed cat I
 
 8o Poets' Homes. 
 
 And to kill one is simply a horrid sin 1 
 
 A deed most awful to do 1 
 So, if anyone has drowned the kittens, John, 
 
 I cannot believe 'twas you 1 
 
 Different in its way, yet possessing much of the 
 author's peculiarly quaint charm, is the following : 
 
 GETTING PHOTOGRAPHED. 
 
 And so I must sit in this chair and keep still ? 
 
 I'll try, though I'm only real still when asleep. 
 (What's mamma gone away for ? I've got quite a chill ; 
 
 Yes, truly ; my flesh is beginning to creep I 
 
 gracious 1 he's hiding behind that queer thing I 
 
 I don't know what name it has, though mamma said 
 Suppose it should all of a sudden go ping ! 
 And leave me to sit here without any head I 
 
 Dear me, here he comes again I ) Place my arm so ? 
 
 Stop creasing my forehead ? and fix my eyes there ? 
 ( He treats me as if I were made out of dough ! 
 
 And what is he putting against my back hair ? 
 
 Now he's hiding behind that queer thing once again.) 
 Your behavior is certainly puzzling, dear sir. 
 
 1 declare, I consider it positive pain 
 Sitting here like a poker, forbidden to stir. 
 
 It will not be long, did you say ? Can I wink ? 
 
 Very well; I'm quite ready, and won't move at all. 
 (This man has the Grossest expression, I think, 
 
 And then, am I sure that mamma's within call?)
 
 Jidgar Fawcett. 81 
 
 (J my 1 Has he done ? Is it time now to go ? 
 
 Getting photographed doesn't take long, I admit. 
 Mamma, please don't call me the worst goose you know, 
 
 But I thought it would hurt, just a wee little bit I 
 
 Irresistibly funny, too, are these lines. How man) 
 a child can recall just such an experience : 
 
 LEARNING TO MILK. 
 
 Timothy, let me milk the cow. 
 
 Now, Timothy, please do ! 
 Of course you're in a hurry, sir, 
 
 Because I'm asking you. 
 
 1 haven't tried in such an age 
 
 To milk her that you know ! 
 Ah, nice old Tim ! I thought you would ! 
 
 How do you do it ? So ? 
 
 It really is the queerest thing I 
 
 My hands feel firm and strong, 
 But though I pull the same as you, 
 
 I always do it wrong. 
 
 I might explain it, Tim, you know, 
 
 Were all my fingers thumbs. 
 How is it that I strain and strain, 
 
 And no milk ever comes ? 
 
 Ah I here's a drop 1 Hurrah ! hurrah I 
 
 I'm milking ! Don't you see ? 
 But then, why does she gush for you, 
 
 And trickle, Tim, for me ?
 
 82 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Just watch this little dribbling stream, 
 
 So miserably thin ! 
 I wonder if she's obstinate, 
 
 And likes to hold it in ? 
 
 Perhaps she won't be milked by me, 
 
 A mere child, not thirteen. 
 And yet I somehow can't believe 
 
 A cow could act so mean 1 
 
 In marked contrast to the preceding verses, arc 
 these deliriously tender ones : 
 
 TWO KINDS OF LOVE. 
 
 Yes, mamma loves me with all her heart, 
 
 And the same way I love mamma. 
 But gracious I how very different, 
 
 Each from each, those two loves are 1 
 
 Shall I tell you what her love is like ? 
 
 I think it's as if God chose 
 To have made her a rose-bush, large and green 
 
 With only me for a rose. 
 
 Or as if she'd been a robin, with just 
 
 One birdling to keep from cold ; 
 Or a space of sweet, fresh grass, with one 
 
 Little dandelion of gold. 
 
 Or as if she'd been a dull, wild land, 
 
 With a single frail young tree ; 
 Or a sky with a single star to hold, 
 
 That's about how mamma loves me.
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 83 
 
 Fancy now, that I were the rose, you know, 
 
 The dandelion, the star, 
 Or the nestling bird that I told you of, 
 
 And that's how I love mamma. 
 
 The above poems are only taken at random from 
 over a hundred such that Mr. Fawcett has written 
 during the past few years. There can be no doubt of 
 their merit. Mr. Fawcett has encountered, among 
 critical friends, not a little opposition to the idea of 
 his writing these dainty juvenile scraps. " They will 
 spoil your reputation as a poet and novelist," has 
 been more than once said to him. " I hope not," he 
 once smilingly answered ; " but even if such awful 
 consequences follow I shall continue my bad habit." 
 
 We hope that all the young Wide Awakes agree 
 with us in hoping sincerely that Mr. Fawcett wil- 
 abide by his excellent resolution.
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 ABOUT half a mile west from Harvard Square in 
 Cambridge, and adjoining on one side the 
 beautiful cemetery of Mount Auburn, is Elmwood, the 
 home of one of the best-known of American poets. 
 
 The approach to the grounds is through a narrow 
 lane which branches off on the left from the main 
 street, Brattle Street, as it is called, on which, as 
 you may chance to remember, the poet Longfellow 
 resides. The stately mansion stands on high ground, 
 and on every side it is hemmed in by tall elms, so 
 that, in the summer-time especially, it is almost impos 
 sible for one to catch a full glimpse of it until he has 
 arrived very near. 
 
 The house, though a century old, shows no signs of 
 decay. It was built by master-builders, and by a 
 84
 
 jFames Russell Lowell. 85 
 
 famous generation whose good nature still lingers in 
 the fine large rooms, and the capacious chimneys. 
 
 If you should seek to know something of its history 
 you would be told that the mansion was first occupied 
 by Thomas Oliver by whom also it was erected 
 the last royal lieutenant-governor of the Province of 
 Massachusetts. At the outbreak of the revolutionary 
 war the owner returned to England, and the house 
 then became the property of Elbridge Gerry, one of 
 the signers of the Declaration of Independence, 
 governor of Massachusetts, and Vice-President of the 
 United States. 
 
 After the death of Mr. Gerry the estate was pur 
 chased by the Rev. Charles Lowell, father of the poet, 
 by whom it was greatly improved, and most .of the 
 trees now towering around it were planted by him, also 
 the name of " Elm wood " was bestowed on the estate. 
 
 In this house, on the 2zd of February, 1819, James 
 Russell Lowell was born. In 1838 he was graduated 
 at Harvard College where his father and grandfather 
 had graduated before him. In his " Indian Summer 
 Reverie " he thus pleasantly alludes to his academic 
 career : 
 
 " Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments there, 
 Yet, collegisse juvat,\ am glad
 
 86 Poets' Homes. 
 
 That here what colleging was mine I had, 
 
 It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee." 
 
 ' 
 
 At the time of his graduation Mr. Lowell was a 
 young man of nineteen years, full of life and promise, 
 and as yet undecided as to his future course. It was 
 supposed by some of his friends that he might follow 
 the example of his father and become a minister. 
 On the contrary he chose law, was in due time admitted 
 to the bar, and, finally, opened an office in Boston. 
 
 A great lawyer has recently remarked that whoever 
 seeks to render himself famous in the profession of 
 the bench and bar, must first learn to " eat sawdust 
 without butter." This is a somewhat inelegant but 
 forcible way of expressing the fact that a young law 
 yer has a hard road to travel, and that, at first, he 
 must neither expect much patronage nor grumble be 
 cause his outgoes exceed his income. 
 
 Mr. Lowell had the advantage of very many other 
 men of his age, in that his pecuniary circumstances 
 were sufficiently easy to enable him to live without 
 much worry or fret. Nevertheless, he ere long ar 
 rived at the conviction that he and the law had but 
 little in common, and that the sooner he abandoned 
 it the better off he would be in ihe end. 
 
 On a lucky day, therefore, he forsook his sheepskin
 
 y antes Russell Lowell. 87 
 
 volumes, and the few clients he had managed to 
 attract, and went back to his other books, and the 
 green trees of Elmwood, with the new resolve of lead 
 ing henceforth a purely literary life. 
 
 He had already tried his skill in the art of versifi 
 cation, and had written several poems of more than 
 common interest. In 1841, as a first venture, he 
 published a small volume of poems, entitled "A 
 Years' Life," which, three years later, was followed 
 by another volume, with the title of " The Legend of 
 Brittany, Miscellaneous Poems and Sonnets." 
 
 Meanwhile he had fallen in love, and in 1844 was 
 married to Miss Maria White, of Watertown, a most 
 excellent and highly esteemed lady, and a poetess 
 also, whose early death, in 1853, was the occasion of 
 that beautiful and familiar poem of Mr. Longfellow's, 
 beginning : 
 
 " Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
 Passed o'er the village as the morning broke; 
 
 The dawn was on their faces, and beneath 
 
 The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke," 
 
 and thus continues : 
 
 " 'Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
 
 Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like Death."
 
 38 Poet? Homes. 
 
 This poem of the " Two Angels " has long been a 
 favorite, though by many misinterpreted. In order to 
 correct an error it may be said here that the coming 
 of the Angel of Life is an allusion to the birth of one 
 of Mr. Longfellow's children, which was coincident 
 with the death of his friend's genial wife. 
 
 In 1845 Mr. Lowell published a volume of prose 
 essays entitled " Conversations on some of the Old 
 Poets," which have always been regarded as among 
 the very best of his writings, and as one of the best 
 of helps to the student of English poetry. Three 
 years later came another volume of poems, then 
 another, and finally, in 1848, the pleasant and spark 
 ling poem called " A Fable for Critics." 
 
 This " Fable," I fancy you already know, is a sort of 
 review in verse of American poets. Very many of 
 the writers of his day are summoned before him to 
 have their portraits taken, and then dismissed, usually 
 with a sharp rap or two on the knuckles. The pro 
 duction is very witty and humorous, and for the most 
 part is written in a spirit of genial appreciation. 
 
 In the same appeared also " The Biglow Papers," 
 a poetical satire upon the invasion of Mexico by the 
 United States, the state of the slavery question, etc. 
 These verses first appeared in the newspapers, and it 
 is safe to say that no productions of a similar char-
 
 y antes Russell Lowell. 89 
 
 acter in this country were ever half so popular. 
 Everybody read them, and laughed over their Yankee 
 wit and humor. One of the learned critics of the day 
 was so attracted by them that he advised their author 
 to renounce imaginative poety and henceforth confine 
 himself to making fun of the follies and foibles of his 
 r'ellow men. 
 
 In 1851-2 the poet made a first visit to Europe; 
 and, on returning home delivered a course of lectures 
 Dn English poetry before the Lowell Institute, in 
 Boston. 
 
 In the spring of 1855 Mr. Longfellow resigned his 
 professorship of Belles Lettres in Harvard College 
 and Mr. Lowell was appointed as his successor. 
 From this time onward he has held this position, has 
 written new books of prose and poetry, and been 
 editor of the Atlantic Monthly and the North Amer 
 ican Review. 
 
 Whoever wishes to become somewhat familiar with 
 the poet's home must first look through the collected 
 edition of his poetry, for it is a memorable fact that 
 very many of his best pieces have been suggested by 
 the scenery surrounding his abode, and particularly 
 the leafy patriarchs which swing and cast shadows 
 before his study windows. 
 
 As you near the house there is one tree which
 
 go Poets' Jfomes. 
 
 always arrests the attention of a stranger. A very 
 tall elm it is, though in recent years its towering 
 height has been noticeably diminished by the worms, 
 which have little sympathy with things beautiful. It 
 is of this giant object that the poet writes in " A Day 
 in June : " 
 
 "And one tall elm, this hundreth year 
 Doge of our leafy Venice here, 
 Who, with an annual ring cloth wed 
 The blue Adriatic overhead, 
 Shadows with his palatial mass 
 The deep canals of flowing grass, 
 Where glow the dandelions sparse, 
 For shadows of Italian stars." 
 
 Other poems there are which assist the reader in 
 forming a clear idea of Elmwood and its surround 
 ings. Looking out through his study windows the 
 poet may discern the " silver Charles " winding slug 
 gishly through slopes and meadows, distant farms, the 
 blue hills of Milton, and what he himself calls the 
 " Coptic Tombs : " 
 
 "Below, the Charles, a stripe of nether sky, 
 Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, 
 
 Whose gaps the missplaced sail sweeps bellying by, 
 Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, 
 
 Then spreading out, at his next turn beyond, 
 
 A silver circle, like an inland pond 
 Steps seaward silently through marshes purple and greer.
 
 James Russell Lowell. 91 
 
 " Dear marshes 1 vain to him the gift of sight 
 Who cannot in their various incomes share, 
 
 From every season drawn, of shade and light, 
 Who sees in them but levels brown and bare ; 
 
 Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free 
 
 On them its largess of variety, 
 For Nature, with cheap means, still works her wonders rare. 
 
 "In spring they lie one broad expanse of green, 
 
 O'er which the .light winds run with glimmering feet ; 
 
 Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, 
 There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet, 
 
 And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, 
 
 As if the silent shadows of a cloud 
 Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet." 
 
 Adjoining the grounds of Elmwood, as I have said, 
 the beautiful city of the dead, Mount Auburn, 
 creened by its loveliness and its silent watch are 
 vo of the poet's children and his first wife. On the 
 rave of his first-born he wrote that sweet, tender 
 Dem called "The First Snow," of which a few 
 anzas must be given here : 
 
 " The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily, all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 \Vith a silence deep and white. 
 
 " I stood and watched by the window 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 Like brown leaves whirling by.
 
 92 Poets' Homes. 
 
 " I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 
 Where a little headstone stood, 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 " Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 Saying, ' Father, who makes it snow ? ' 
 
 And I told of the good All- Father, 
 Who cares for us all below. 
 
 " Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 " I remember the gradual patience 
 That fell from the cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of that deep-stabbed woe. 
 
 " And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 1 The snow that husheth all, 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall 1 " 
 
 " Then with eyes that saw not I kissed her, 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 
 That my kiss was given to her sister, 
 Folded close under deepening snow." 
 
 One of the most popular of Mr. Lowell's poetic 
 productions is, perhaps, the brightest thing in the 
 " Biglow Papers," a poem which, if you remember, 
 Parson Wilbur calls a "pastoral," but which the 
 poet himself calls "The Courtin'." 
 
 Just after the election of General Taylor to the
 
 James Russell Lowell. 93 
 
 residency of the United States, a certain room in 
 >ne of the hotels at Washington was crowded with 
 ude men who had assembled there to discuss politics 
 n general and the prospects of sundry office-seekers 
 n particular. While the jargon was at its height a 
 oughly-clad son of New England came into the 
 oom, and, addressing the company, exclaimed : 
 
 "Who says there are no American poets ? " 
 
 It was a strange question, strangely put before such 
 i gathering. The rude men pondered, but nobody 
 'entured either to dispute or to assent to the interro 
 gation. 
 
 The New Englander went on to say : 
 
 "Well, if anybody says there ain't I'm prepared 
 o dispute him. /have found an American poet. 1 
 lon't know who he is, nor where he lives ; but he is 
 he author of these lines, and he is a poet." 
 
 He then took a newspaper from his coat-pocket, 
 md, with proper emphasis and gesture, proceeded to 
 ead: 
 
 ' Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, 
 An' peeked in thru the winder ; 
 
 An' there set Huldy all alone, 
 'Ith no one nigh to hinder. 
 
 " Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted
 
 94 Poets' Homes. 
 
 The queen's arm that gran'ther Young 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 " The wannut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her I 
 
 An' leetle fires danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 " The very room, coz she was in, 
 looked warm frum floor to ceilin', 
 
 And she looked full as rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 " She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, 
 All ways to once her feelins' flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt up paper. 
 
 " He kin' o' litered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle of the seekle ; 
 His heart kep goin' pity pat, 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle." 
 
 Doubtless, many another anecdote of a similar .sort 
 might be related, as showing how speedily Mr. 
 Lowell's verse, especially when it is brimming over 
 with cheerful humor, finds its way into a crowd and 
 takes full possession of the popular heart. Safely, 
 indeed, may he be called a "poet of the people," 
 since few other American writers have had the fortune 
 to see so many of their productions leading a sort of 
 Bohemian life in the newspapers, devoid of the trace 
 of their authorship !
 
 James Russell Lowell. 95 
 
 Of late years the poet has been something of a pol 
 itician, not unmindful, perhaps, that one of the 
 greatest of English bards, the renowned author of 
 " Paradise Lost," did not think himself justified in 
 keeping aloof from the political circles of his day. 
 
 Before the beginning of the civil war he was thor 
 oughly an abolitionist, and labored with other of his 
 friends to bring about the emancipation of the slave. 
 This fact did not, as many might have fancied, make 
 him any enemies in the South. Hence one would say 
 that he is "just such a politician as Milton was, and 
 will never narrow himself down to any other party 
 than one which includes all mankind within its 
 lines." 
 
 We will now, if you please, go into the native home 
 of the poet. Until within a few years his study was 
 on the third floor, in that corner of the mansion on 
 which, in the engraving, the light falls so pleasantly. 
 
 Leaving the gateway behind we first ascend the 
 walk, which, at a distance of about one hundred 
 yards, leads up to the broad stone steps before the 
 entrance. You perceive at once that the poet is a 
 "lover of the light," for the first object that you 
 encounter on your visit is a huge glass door or 
 rather a huge glass window which serves as a door, 
 through which you may gaze into the hall, through
 
 96 Poets' Homes. 
 
 and out again by another glass door into the leafy 
 perspective beyond. 
 
 On the right of the hall, as you have entered, is a 
 drawing-room furnished in the rich and solid old- 
 fashioned style. We will not linger here, but at once 
 pay our respects to the poet in the room on the left 
 of the hall. 
 
 This is the " study," a grand room in every re 
 spect, and as cozy and comfort-giving as it is grand. 
 It is not just like going into an ancient interior, 
 to be sure ; but you feel, as soon as the door rolls 
 back upon its hinges, that you are treading a floor into 
 which nothing of the new style can ever find en 
 trance. 
 
 A bright fire is burning on the hearth and such a 
 hearth ! A great square hole in the chimney, polished 
 dog-irons, on which are piled the crackling logs, 
 bright beneath and black overhead, just such a 
 place as the Christmas saint would wish to lurk in if 
 benumbed on a frosty morning. Well, I dare say 
 you may have seen such a hearth, away back in the 
 country, but rarely in the crowded houses of our cities. 
 
 On the mantel-shelf is a bronze clock, which would 
 fain conceal its richness under a crystal globe. On 
 either side are vases, Gettysburg relics, and other 
 curiosities. On the right of the shelf, and where the
 
 James Russell Lowell. 97 
 
 room projects back, forming a sort of alcove, stands a 
 card-table of solid mahogany and old-fashioned origin, 
 about which, it is averred, some of the renowned Cam 
 bridge worthies, of several generations gone by, used 
 to smile and gossip over a game of whist. It came 
 into the poet's possession by a mere accident ; and 
 where you see it now you will probably see it a good 
 many years hence, for it is rarely used now-a-days. 
 
 Near the table, and on the north side of the room 
 are book-shelves, laden \/ith treasures which years 
 have brought together. On the south side are other 
 shelves, in like manner, displaying a wealth of fine 
 bindings, mostly of foreign workmanship. In the 
 south-east corner of the room is an old-fashioned 
 secretary-desk, which the poet resorts to only on rare 
 occasions. 
 
 In the centre of the room is the study-table, strewn 
 with books, manuscripts, letters, and almost every 
 thing else that falls within a poet's fancy, Near the 
 inkstand, and with its mouth-piece well nigh concealed 
 beneath a cluster of quills, is a huge meerschaum 
 pipe, whose sombre hue bespeaks many a " well 
 spent hour among the clouds." 
 
 Whether at work or at leisure, Mr. Lowell occupies 
 the broad easy-chair which, as you perceive, stands 
 midway between the table and the fire-placo. In thjs
 
 98 Poets' Homes, 
 
 chair he has done most of his writing, his only desk 
 being a stiff piece of paste-board, conveniently resting 
 on his knee. 
 
 One would fancy that he must oftentimes suffer 
 from an aching back, or feel at times as if his neck 
 were going to break asunder. He is never troubled 
 either way ; and if you were to ask him how he came 
 to invent so singular a substitute for a desk he would 
 answer that he has always made use of such a con 
 trivance, and cannot accustom himself to any other. 
 
 So there he sits and dreams, and when the Muse 
 inspires him plans and writes out good thoughts for 
 his fellow men, glancing up across at the few pictures 
 which hang upon the walls, or perhaps turning half 
 around, to scan the silver Charles as on he winds by 
 marsh and meadow. 
 
 Such is the poet's " study " as it is to-day. Through 
 the door which opens on the left of the fire-place you 
 may enter another study which, in other years, was 
 occupied by the poet. Books crowd the walls on all 
 sides, a few portraits hang here and there, and in the 
 centre of the room is a square desk, which, like the 
 more old-fashioned desk in the adjoining room, is 
 rarely used. The only " curiosity " in the room which 
 rivets your attention is a pair of silver sleeve-buttons, 
 now tarnished almost into blackness, which were once 
 worn by Robert Burns.
 
 James Russell Lowell. 99 
 
 Mr. Lowell is thoroughly a lover of his home. 
 Here he was born, and here he will remain, probably 
 until the end of life. On a spring or summer day you 
 may often see him out in his garden as n. practical 
 lover of nature, and proving to all his neighbors that 
 a poet may also be something of a horticulturist. 
 
 He is fond of trees and flowers, and spends much 
 of his time associated with them. He is fond, also, of 
 the rifle and rod, and not unfrequently has he been 
 discovered lurking in wilder regions than his own 
 peaceful Elmwood, equipped with the sportman's 
 ardor and arms. As a pedestrian, too, he is not less 
 noted among those who have an opportunity of seeing 
 him in his daily life. 
 
 He never rides when he can walk, and he always 
 walks be the weather what it may, when time and 
 circumstances permit. Few men of his age enjoy 
 better health, are more erect in their bearing, or more 
 robust and manly in their appearance than Mr. 
 Lowell. I have often seen him in the bleakest of 
 wintry weather walking leisurely through Cambridge 
 thoroughfares with not even the ghost of an overcoat 
 upon his back, and as often have I said to myself, 
 " Surely, you will be a sufferer from this." But no, in 
 winter or summer, spring or autumn, he is always the 
 same, and goes back and forth as if wearing the 
 armor of Achilles.
 
 roo Poets' Homes. 
 
 Socially, the poet is one of the most affable and 
 genial men that have ever lived. Always agreeable 
 and pleasant as a conversationalist ; always polite ; 
 always honest and honorable in his intercourse with 
 his fellow-men, he charms most those who know him 
 best, while those who know him least never deny him 
 that respect which is born of true friendship. 
 
 One always leaves Elmwood with a feeling of regret ; 
 for to pass from its cozy and quiet interior, its green 
 trees, its flowers and song of birds, out into the broad 
 highway, noisy with the tread of many feet, and the 
 tinkling of horse-car bells, is just like going from a 
 realm of imagination into a world of reality. A hun 
 dred rods leads you from the country, as it were, into 
 the city. Your poet's dream vanishes. You almost 
 forget where you have been in the last hour ; ana 
 thus you slip back into your old ways, and the duties 
 of life again crowd upon you.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 PENNSYLVANIA is far more famous for coal 
 and iron than for poetry, for out of the hun 
 dred and sixty or seventy poets who figure in the last 
 edition of Dr. Griswold's "Poets and Poetry of Amer 
 ica " only twelve were born in that State. But among 
 these was Joseph Hopkinson, who wrote our national 
 anthem, " Hail Columbia." Then came George P. 
 Morris, who wrote "Woodman, spare that tree," 
 and other songs which Dr. Griswold thought nearly 
 faultless. Then came Robert T. Conrad, commonly 
 called Judge Conrad, who wrote a play about Jack 
 Cade, for Edwin Forrest. Then Henry B. Hirst, 
 who wrote a poem about Endymion, and Mr. Thomas 
 Dunn English, who wrote the pretty song of " Ben 
 Bolt." These, and three lesser writers whom I need 
 not name, bring us down to about fifty-five years ago, 
 when real poets began to appear in Pennsylvania, 
 
 101
 
 io2 Poets' Homes. 
 
 for Hopkinson and Morris and Conrad were not 
 poets, but clever writers of verse. Four came within 
 four years, one in each succeeding year, Thomas 
 Buchanan Read in 1822, George H. Boker in 1823, 
 Charles G. Leland in 1824, and Bayard Taylor in 
 1825. Two were born in Philadelphia, and two in 
 Chester county. The last two were Buchanan Read 
 and Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Bayard Taylor was born at Kennett Square, Ches 
 ter County, on January n, 1825. I know the old 
 house in which he and his brothers and sisters were 
 born : two girls, who are now mothers, with boys and 
 girls of their own, and four sons, one of whom was 
 slain at Gettysburg as he was leading his men to 
 battle. A brave soldier and a good man was Colonel 
 Frederick Taylor. But I must not tell the story of 
 his life, or the story of the lives of the other Tay 
 lor children. My business is to tell the readers 
 of WIDE AWAKE, about Bayard Taylor. He is 
 descended from one Robert Taylor, a primitive 
 Quaker and a companion of William Penn, who settled 
 at Kennett Square a hundred and ninety-six years ago, 
 and from a Lutheran clergyman who emigrated from 
 Southern Germany about fifty years later. Bayard Tay 
 lor was the fourth child, three having died before his 
 birth, and it was doubtful for a time whether he was 
 destined to live, he was so weak and frail.
 
 Bayard Taylor. 103 
 
 He was sensitive as most delicate children are ; 
 he disliked rough sports, and was a mystery to oth 
 er children, who did not understand his tastes, and 
 could not sympathize with his little ambitions. He 
 began to read poetry as soon as he could read at all, 
 say when he was five or six years old, and was deep 
 ly impressed by the death of two great poets who 
 died in his seventh year, and by their biographies in 
 the newspapers. One was Sir Walter Scott, the 
 other was the German poet Goethe, whose " Faust " 
 he was one day to render into English verse. He 
 struggled into rhymed couplets at this early age, and 
 two or three years later succeeded in writing whole 
 stanzas. "Many other children have done the same 
 and yet have grown up as prosaic as the most practi 
 cal of parents could wish ; but when a child who writes 
 verse is what the others are not a born poet, he goes 
 on writing verse to the end of his days. A poet sings 
 as naturally as a bird, but, unlike a bird, he has to 
 teach himself how, and he can only do this by writing 
 and burning a great many bad verses. Bayard Tay 
 lor wrote poems and stories and essays which 
 delighted him until he discovered that they were bad, 
 when they were straightway consigned to the flames. 
 He was passionately fond of reading, and as there 
 were but few books in his father's house he borrowed 
 from the neighbors when they had any to lend. There
 
 104 Poets' Homes. 
 
 was a library in the village containing about two hun 
 dred volumes which he read through by the time he 
 was thirteen. There were some good books in this 
 little collection. Gibbon, Robertson, and Sterne, and 
 Mrs. Hannah More; and there were elementary 
 scientific works, and sundry volumes of travel. He 
 read for instruction more than for amusement, and 
 the reading most to his taste, after poetry, was that, 
 which related to other countries and quarters of the 
 globe. A set of the Penny Magazine was eagerly 
 devoured, especially the articles on Italy and Greece, 
 and those in which the lives of famous artists were 
 narrated. A taste for poetry, which is the highest of 
 all the arts, is frequently accompanied by a taste for 
 art, which is poetry in its way. It was so accompa 
 nied in the mind of Bayard Taylor, whose greatest 
 desire, after the desire to excell in poetry, was to be 
 a painter. With this object in view he resolved 
 when he was sixteen to learn engraving, in the hope 
 of becoming a painter afterward, and made a journey 
 to Philadelphia, where he spent a week or two trying 
 to obtain a situation in an engraver's office. But it 
 was not to be. So he returned to Kennett Square 
 and poetry. He had already passed six months at a 
 boarding-school, where he studied Latin, French and 
 Spanish. He was bound to have an education some
 
 Bayard Taylor. 105 
 
 ow. His father, who was a farmer, naturally thought 
 
 lat less devotion to books, and more devotion to 
 
 irming, would be better for him in the end, or at 
 
 ny rate would be better for the farm. Most country 
 
 arents thought so forty or fifty years ago, when any 
 
 f their children were given to reading, which they 
 
 sally considered a waste of time ! We know better 
 
 ban that now, but see what our chances are com- 
 
 ared with the chances of our ancestors. Bayard 
 
 Baylor's mother stood by him, like the motherly 
 
 ;oman she was, and is, and his reading went on. I 
 
 now this good old lady, who is now in her seventy- 
 
 ighth year his father is four years older and know 
 
 /hat he owed to her in his youth. But I must not 
 
 /rite about Rebecca Taylor, nor Joseph Taylor, as 
 
 hey call them at Kennett Square, which is a settle- 
 
 ne'nt of Friends. Both were, and I believe still are, 
 
 nembers of this peaceful sect. 
 
 Our poet and would-be painter taught a country 
 chool the next winter after his fruitless visit to 
 Philadelphia, and devoted his spare hours to the 
 ,tudy of languages. At the age of seventeen he went 
 o West Chester, a pleasant town about ten miles 
 rom Kennett Square, and entered into a printing 
 iffice in order to learn the trade of a compositor. It 
 s a tedious labor which is performed mechanically,
 
 106 Poets 1 Homes. 
 
 and it left him no opportunity for study and but little 
 for reading. Still he persisted in it for more than a 
 year, and worked away at his Latin at night. He 
 now began to publish poetry in the country news 
 papers, and when he was eighteen he had enough 
 to make a little volume. Armed with this book 
 let, which opened with a narrative poem called 
 " Ximena," he went again to Philadelphia, and saw 
 the great Dr. Griswold, who wa's the editor of " Gra 
 ham's Magazine," and who advised him to publish it. 
 He did more than that he showed his faith in the 
 printer-poet by accepting one of his poems for his 
 magazine. Another great man of that day, N. P. 
 Willis, published two of his poems which had been 
 sent to him in the " New Mirror," of which he was 
 the editor, with a notice which made the writer of the 
 poems jubilant. He was beginning to be recognized. 
 A few months later, a cousin of Bayard Taylor de 
 termined to go to Germany to study at Heidelberg, 
 and he instantly determined to go with him, and to pay 
 his way by getting engagements as a newspaper cor 
 respondent. It was a bold idea in a rountry lad of 
 nineteen, but it succeeded, for correspondents were 
 not as plentiful thirty-three years ago as they are to 
 day. Money must be raised at once, and to raise it 
 " Ximena " was published by subscription, Chester
 
 Bayard Taylor. 107 
 
 County furnishing nances enough to pay tht expenses 
 of an edition. The Philadelphia papers spoke well of 
 the little poetical venture, which was handsome of them, 
 but somehow they didn't seem to want a European 
 correspondent. Finally, however, the " United States 
 Gazette " and the " Saturday Evening Post " each 
 agreed to take twelve letters from the young poet, 
 and to pay the munificent price of fifty dollars for 
 them. Dr. Griswold accepted four poems, for which 
 he paid the enormous sum of forty dollars. Bayard 
 Taylor went to Europe in June, 1844, with only one 
 hundred and forty dollars, and the money lasted until 
 the next February. He lived eight months, in a 
 strange country, on less than eighteen dollars a 
 month. At the end of that time the " Saturday Even 
 ing Post" sem its correspondent fifty dollars for 
 twelve letters more, and Dr. Griswold sent his poet 
 fifty dollars for four more poems. Poems had risen 
 two dollars and a half each, but letters remained at 
 the old rate of four dollars and sixteen cents and 
 sixty-six one-hundredths of a cent each. If Bayard 
 Taylor ever looks back to this period of his life I 
 think he wonders at the courage he displayed then, 
 and at the prudence which preserved him from starva 
 tion. At any rate I wonder at both. 
 There are events in the life of every man which
 
 io$ Poets' Homes. 
 
 decide his calling, and this visit of Bayard Taylco to 
 Europe decided his calling as a traveler. After -e- 
 maining abroad about two yeas, during which time he 
 mastered German, and became tolerably familiar v ; th 
 Italian and French, he returned to America and to 
 his home in Kennett Square, when he collected nd 
 carefully revised his letters of travel. He then de 
 cided to republish them in a volume, and went to 
 New York to find a publisher. That important per 
 sonage was found with great difficulty, and only 
 on the condition that N. P. Willis would write a 
 preface to the volume. Mr. Willis, who was a kind- 
 hearted man, and noted for his generosity to young 
 authors, wrote the preface at once, and the book, 
 which was appropriately named " Views Afoot," was 
 published, and very warmly praised. It was a com 
 mercial success, or what was considered one at the time, 
 for two thousand copies were sold in six months. Bay- 
 aid Taylor was now twenty -one and was making a 
 name in literature. So far well, but until it was 
 made how was he to live ? He could not live by 
 literature in Kennett Square, where not even a news 
 paper was printed ; nor could he obtain any situation 
 on any newspaper in Philadelphia. What was to be 
 done ? He started a newspaper with a friend, who 
 had been one of his comrades in the printing office in 
 West Chester, a weekly newspaper in Phcenixville,
 
 Bayard Taylor. 109 
 
 Chester County. It was what an ideal newspaper may 
 be neutral in politics, so of course it offended both 
 parties. It was probably not local enough, so the 
 inhabitants of Phcenixville were not interested in it. 
 At the end of a year its enterprising editors and pub- 
 Ushers were twelve hundred dollars in debt. Bayard 
 Taylor resolved to give up his share, and leave the 
 place. He wrote letters to several editors and au 
 thors in New York, and they advised him to go there. 
 It was wise advice, as it proved in the end, though 
 the outlook at first was gloomy. His earliest employ 
 ment was that of assistant editor on the " Literary 
 World" under a brother poet, Charles Fenno Hoff 
 man, who could only afford to pay him five dollars a 
 week. A month or two later he obtained a situation 
 on " The Tribune" at a salary of twelve dollars a 
 week. If going to Europe decided his calling as 
 a traveler, " The Tribune " decided his calling as a 
 writer for many years. It was the beginning of his 
 popularity, for it enabled him to reach a larger audi 
 ence than his books had yet reached, and it was the 
 beginning of his prosperity. Nearly thirty years 
 have passed since he wrote his first editorial in 
 " The Tribune" and he is still writing editorials in it. 
 When I first made Bayard Taylor's acquaintance 
 he had not been in New York long. He was editing 
 " Tfc Union Magazine" for our common frierH.. Mrs.
 
 no Poets' Homes. 
 
 Caroline M. Kirkland, who was spending her holi 
 days in Europe ; and some errand of my own, I forget 
 what, took me down to the Tribune building, and up 
 into the editorial office. It was not in the Tall 
 Tower which then was not, but, as I remember, on the 
 top floor of the old brick building, where the com 
 positors were at work. I cannot exactly place the 
 young editor at this visit, but I think there was a 
 railing round him and a fellow editor. My next 
 remembrance places him at a desk on the floor below 
 the composing room, on the south side of the room, 
 near one of the windows that looked out on Spruce 
 street. I don't quite know how it was, but we were 
 soon friends. Perhaps the fact that we were nearly 
 the same age we were born in the same year and 
 that we both wrote what we thought was poetry ( I 
 am not quite so sure of it now ) may have had some 
 thing to do with it. It was not long before it was 
 our custom to spend the Saturday evenings together 
 in his room in Murray street I think it was Murray 
 street where we read this so-called poetry in MS., 
 where we criticised it, rather too mildly, I am afraid, and 
 where the poet-editor tempted me into smoking 
 strong cigars. Shall I ever pass such evenings again ? 
 Never till youth returns, and the bright enthusiasms 
 of youth.
 
 Bayard Taylor. ill 
 
 'There are no birds in last year's nests." 
 
 .t is Bayard Taylor, the poet, and not Bayard Tay- 
 lt>i the traveler, whom I wish the readers of " WIDE 
 AWAKE " to know now, so I shall pass rapidly over 
 his career as a traveler. His second voyage was to 
 California just after the breaking out of the gold 
 fever in the summer of 1849. He went there as cor 
 respondent of " The Tribune" and the letters which 
 he wrote to it were better than those of any other 
 California correspondent. About two years later he 
 went to Europe for the second time. When he re 
 turned to America his countrymen wanted him to 
 lecture, and he did so, giving ninety lectures during 
 his first season. Then he published a volume of 
 poems, which he had written while in the East, and 
 which are the best Eastern poems ever written by an 
 American ; then a volume of prose describing a 
 journey to Central Africa ; then another volume of 
 prose about the lands of the Saracen, and another 
 about North China and Japan. I pass over the 
 names of these books and the years in which they 
 were published, and the countries that he traveled 
 through at a later period, and come down to his 
 marriage with a German lady, Marie Hansen, the 
 daughter of Prof. P. A. Hansen, a distinguished
 
 ii2 Poets' Homes. 
 
 astronomer of Gotha, Germany. The happj pah 
 proceeded to Greece shortly after their marriage , and 
 the following year Bayard Taylor returned to America, 
 with his wife and an infant daughter, Miss Lilian 
 Taylor, a wild rose-bud of a young lady who is now 
 blooming among the recent girl graduates of Vassar 
 College. When Bayard Taylor was a bachelor it 
 mattered little where he lived; one place was as 
 good as another to a man of his roving disposition. 
 But now that he was a husband and a father it be 
 hoved him to have a place which he could call his 
 home. He had long fixed his eyes on a spot of 
 ground upon which when a boy he built his castles in 
 Spain, and which he meant to buy some day, when it 
 was for sale, and he had money. It was as much a 
 dream at first as his voyage to Europe, but it became 
 a reality at last, as the voyage did, for it was for sale, 
 and he bought it, or rather it was bought for him 
 during his residence abroad. It lies in sight of, and 
 immediately opposite, the old Taylor homestead, from 
 which it is separated by a country road that goes 
 winding up hill and down vale through stretches of 
 beautiful scenery. The border which faces the road 
 is wooded with tall trees, through which you catch 
 yiimpses of an undulating slope of pasture bordered 
 \t the farther side with similar old forestry. It was
 
 Bayard Taylor. 113 
 
 originally what the English call a croft, an enclosed 
 field, and as it was well sprinkled with cedars, Bayard 
 Taylor christened it Cedarcroft. The site that he 
 selected for his house was at the upper end of his 
 grounds, an elevation which sloped away in natural 
 terraces, and, in front, in a gentle declivity of lawn. 
 Nature made the spot for a poet's home, and a poet 
 made it his home. He went to Europe a poor boy, as 
 I have told you ; now he was a prosperous gentleman. 
 Sixteen years of hard work were rewarded in Cedar 
 croft. I am not enough of an architect even to guess 
 what style of architecture is represented in Bayard 
 Taylor's house, nor indeed do I care. It is enough 
 for me to know that it is a large, comfortable country 
 house, with a fine outlook on the surrounding country, 
 which to my mind is the perfection of pastoral land 
 scape. I like the seaside better than any inland 
 scenery, but after the seaside give me Kennett 
 Square from the tower at Cedarcroft. 
 
 When Cedarcroft was finished, Bayard Taylor gave 
 his friends and neighbors what might be called a 
 house-warming. I went there as his old acquaintance, 
 and one pleasant summer day, when the last finishing 
 touches were going on, he or I conceived .the 
 idea of writing a play and producing it in the new 
 house before a country audience. We retired myste-
 
 ii4 Poets' Homes. 
 
 riously into a room by ourselves, in the tower, if my 
 memory serves me, and commenced our wonderful 
 labors. We set to work like another Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, and selected a theme. Then we remembered 
 the capacities of those whom we had chosen to play 
 when the play should be written, and fitted them 
 with parts ; then we began to write. Sometimes 
 Bayard Taylor wrote a whole scene without any 
 help from me ; sometimes I wrote a whole scene with 
 out any help from him ; and sometimes we wrote a whole 
 scene together, he the speeches of one character, I the 
 speeches of another, and so on. We finished the play 
 in two or three days, and gave the actors their parts 
 to learn, I filling the difficult and thankless part of 
 Stage Manager, as well as my own part. The library, 
 which was at the farther end of the house, facing the 
 barn, was turned into a stage by running up a 
 partition of muslin sufficiently far from the walls to 
 allow us to enter unperceived from the green-room, 
 which, by the way, was the dining-room, and to make 
 our exits and entrances properly. When our com 
 pany had learned their parts, and had gone through 
 enough rehearsals to acquit themselves creditably, 
 we went to an old, disused printing office in Kennett 
 Square, and set up and printed bills for the per 
 formance. The important day came, and the guests
 
 Bayard Taylor. 115 
 
 came, some of them, I believe, from miles away, sim 
 ple-minded country folk, many of whom had never 
 entered, or perhaps heard of, a play-house. The par 
 lor, which fronted the library, and the hall between 
 the parlor and the library, were packed with the 
 audience. The bell tinkled, and the curtain rose, 
 or were the library doors run into the partition wall ? 
 I have forgotten, nor does it matter now. The play 
 began. The scene was a country hotel, at which two 
 ladies were stopping, an aunt and a niece, one of 
 whom was wealthy. Bayard Taylor, an army officer 
 on a furlough, was in love with the niece, to whom I 
 made love on account of her supposed wealth. I was 
 an airy, impudent scamp, such as are occasionally 
 found at hotels, living extravagantly on nothing a 
 year. The landlord of the hotel was a tall young 
 man who stuffed himself out into a Falstaff with bed 
 pillows. There was a Yankee servant girl, an Irish 
 servant man, and other characters which I have for 
 gotten. Army officer was jealous of scamp, for mak- ' 
 ing love to his girl : landlord was enraged with 
 scamp, for not paying his board bill : scamp was in 
 a quandary between niece and aunt. You can make 
 the play out of this to suit yourselves, and I have no 
 doubt but it will be as good as the one we made, 
 which appeared to delight our simple-minded audi-
 
 n6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 ence, who laughed at the jokes, but missed the best 
 joke of all, namely, that there was not one original 
 character, situation, speech, thought or word in the 
 whole thing ! That was the joke of " Love in a 
 Hotel," which was played, for the first and last time, 
 one summer day seventeen years ago at Cedarcroft. 
 
 Eight years after this humorous house-warming, 
 Cedarcroft was again the scene of festivity. Fifty 
 years had passed since Joseph Taylor and Rebec 
 ca Way took each other for better or for worse, 
 and their friends were invited there to celebrate their 
 golden wedding. All their children who were in 
 America were present, with a host of friends and 
 neighbors. The house was overflowing with guests. 
 A little literature was served up to them in the 
 shape of a Masque, which was written by the master 
 of the house, and performed by nine young ladies 
 and one young gentleman. Among the characters 
 were three fairies, the Fairy of Domestic Life with two 
 attendant fays, and seven spirits, three being the 
 cardinal virtues of Truth, Charity, and Temperance, 
 and four impersonations of America, Africa, Switzer 
 land and Germany ; Germany being the birthplace of 
 Mrs. Taylor, and Switzerland the residence of one of 
 Bayard Taylor's married sisters. It was a pretty 
 piece of verse, and it went off well. After it was 
 finished, two poetical greetings were read by the
 
 JBayard Taylor. i\) 
 
 writers thereof, one being the poet Boker, the other 
 your humble servant. I ought to remember the 
 the Golden Wedding better than I do, for it occurred 
 only nine years ago, and I see it still in my mind's 
 eye, but somehow two hundred people, young and 
 old, in one house, are too many for me. Cedarcroft 
 was populous that bright October day ; the parlor, 
 the library, the dining-room, swarmed with life and 
 resounded with merriment. 
 
 I would like to describe Cedarcroft, if I knew how, 
 but I do not; I have no talent for description. My 
 favorite room when I am there is the library, where I 
 see Bayard Taylor seated at his desk, translating 
 "Faust" may be, or writing a book of travel. He is 
 busy, but not so busy as to be entirely absorbed in his 
 work. He can smoke and talk without losing the 
 thread of his thought. I leave him writing in the 
 library and pass out on the piazza, the pillars of 
 which are draped with vines ; clown the terrace and 
 past the flower-beds into the green lawn bordered 
 with trees ; down the lawn to the pond at the end j 
 back through the belt of trees on the roadside border 
 of Cedarcroft, and up till I strike the drive and follow 
 it to the arched portico of the tower. Then I stroll 
 off to the orchard, the grapery, or where I will, for 
 Cedarcroft is but another name for Liberty Hall. 
 
 I am not going to describe Bayard Taylor to you,
 
 ti8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 nor to tell you about his books, which you have read, 
 or can read yourselves. Whatever your taste may be, 
 you will be sure to find something in them that you will 
 like. He has published, let me see, eight volumes 
 of poetry, twelve volumes of travel, four volumes of 
 novels and stories, and translations of the two parts 
 of "Faust," twenty-six volumes in less than thirty- 
 three years, to say nothing of the works he has edited, 
 his magazine papers, his lectures, and his thousands 
 of newspaper articles. He loves writing, and is 
 never so happy as when seated at his desk bending 
 over the paper which he covers so calmly with his 
 beautiful penmanship. Such, as I know him, is the 
 poet Bayard Taylor.
 
 I 
 
 W. D. HOWELLS. 
 
 N Cambridge, Massachusetts are the homes of a 
 number of poets, and prose writers, whose names 
 have become more or less famous throughout the 
 world of literature and art. I think I may also say 
 that most of these homes are grouped together, as it 
 were, within the radius of a single square mile, thus 
 illustrating what ought to be an old adage, that au 
 thorship likes close company. 
 
 Be that as it may, if you will take the horse- car at 
 Bowdoin Square in Boston, and get out at Harvard 
 Square, in Cambridge, you will find yourself very 
 nearly in the centre of what may be termed a literary 
 habitation. Whichever way you turn, or whatever 
 street you may choose to follow, you are pretty sure to 
 pass the door of a pen- worker before you have gone 
 on many steps ; and, if you keep going onward a little 
 ways and then swing round the circle, like somebody 
 
 119
 
 120 Poets' Homes. 
 
 of whom Parson Nasby used to tell, you will, by the 
 time you arrive back at your starting place, have 
 caught a glimpse of where Holmes and Everett, and 
 Sparks used to live, as well as where Longfellow, and 
 Lowell, and Howells and a host of others still live 
 and thrive. 
 
 I dare say, when you have beheld all of these 
 wondrous sights, which are not so wondrous after 
 all, when once you have thought about them, you 
 will ask the question, why have so many literary men 
 chosen to make their homes in Cambridge ? I have 
 asked this question over a hundred times, and I fancy 
 that I have not found the answer yet. Perhaps, in 
 deed, Harvard College is the great attraction, or 
 rather the Library which belongs to Harvard College, 
 and which is a precious source of usefulness to a 
 person engaged in literary research. Perhaps, again, 
 it is the old town itself, with its splendid elms, its 
 quaint old houses that have come down from an early 
 day, and its countless other relics of historic times, 
 which lends inspiration to the intellectual worker and 
 keeps him aloof from the busy, bustling world with 
 out. And, perhaps, finally, Cambridge is no more at 
 tractive in itself than many other New England towns, 
 and not half so stirring and so enterprising. I have 
 dreamed at times that, if some great giant were to
 
 IV. D. Howells. 121 
 
 swallow up the venerable institution of learning to 
 gether with all of its traditions and associations, this 
 famous town of Cambridge would be in reality what 
 some of the foes without, have asserted it to be 
 already, a sort of Sleepy Hollow, where half of the 
 people scribble, and the other half read and admire. 
 
 But I fear you may be taking the horse-car back to 
 Boston before I have had my say, if I do not come at 
 once to my subject. To begin again ; if you will ac 
 company me, in a five minutes walk, through Harvard 
 Square, up Garden street, pass the Common, whence 
 the patriots of '75 started on their memorable march 
 to Bunker Hill, and then up the beautiful Concord 
 Avenue which winds onward and onward through sun 
 light and shadow until it loses itself, twelve miles 
 away, in the first battlefield of the American Revolu 
 tion, I will show you the home of William D. Howells, 
 a graceful poet and a writer of deliciously sweet Eng 
 lish prose. 
 
 It stands a little back from the main street, and is 
 hemmed in on all sides by tall, noble trees which, in 
 summer time, fairly embower it with their foliage. 
 The house is newly built in the modern style, and, 
 in its external appearance, does not vary materially 
 from many other similar edifices which are visible 
 around it. Having passed through the gate, a short
 
 122 Poets' Homes. 
 
 narrow path conducts you to the main entrance, which 
 is on the north side of the house. The bell rings ; 
 the door opens ; and, a moment later, you sit down in 
 the study of the poet. 
 
 The picture which the artist has drawn will give 
 you a much better idea of this " study " than it is pos 
 sible for me to convey in words. It is not a very 
 large room, nor, indeed, is it very small. On the 
 whole it is an agreeable compromise between bigness 
 and littleness, whereby is gained one of the snug 
 gest, cosiest and most homelike " quarters " that a 
 poet could desire. 
 
 As you enter the room, the eyes first center on the 
 well planned fireplace, with its polished dog-irons 
 standing out from the hearth and its capital set of 
 mantel shelves, whereon are sundry pieces of old 
 china, enamels, Venetian work, and other knick-knacks 
 of story and interest. Two sides of the room are re 
 served for book shelves, which, at a glance, you will 
 observe are pretty nearly filled. In the centre of the 
 room is the poet's desk, on which many of his poems, 
 and all of his stories, have been penned. Mr. How- 
 ells, it need hardly be said, is a very orderly person 
 age, and I fancy that he will not chide me for saying 
 that almost everything finds a place in his study and 
 is in its place always. There are pictures on the
 
 W. D. Howells. 125 
 
 work long before he could reach up to the composi- 
 itor's case. While at work, he always took a just 
 pride in what he was doing ; and before he left Ham 
 ilton, he was as much an adept in his art as was 
 many an older workman. 
 
 During all these years, he had little or no school 
 ing, and perhaps the best teacher he ever had was the 
 experience he gained at the printer's desk. When the 
 nine years had gone by, his father resolved to journey 
 elsewhere. Sometime before this, the prosperity of 
 his newspaper had suffered from his unstinted ex 
 pression of anti-slavery opinions. He had also dared 
 to oppose the Mexican War, which he believed had 
 been begun and was waged without just cause ; and 
 while clinging to these principles, he could not, of 
 course, prove himself a very staunch supporter of 
 General Taylor for the presidency. He had therefore 
 sold out his newspaper, and, in 1849, removed to Day 
 ton and became proprietor of the Dayton Transcript. 
 
 Hitherto this newspaper had been published as a 
 semi-weekly. The new owner now converted it into 
 a daily, of which the work of editing and printing 
 was wholly performed by Mr. Howells and his three 
 sons. The poet used to work on the paper through 
 the day and oftentimes late into the night, and then, 
 while an elder brother was printing the edition, he
 
 126 Poets' Homes. 
 
 would sleep out the hours until again reminded that a 
 new day had begun, and he must deliver the papers 
 to the subscribers before breakfast. This was a hard 
 school, it will seem to many ; but then the discipline 
 and the experience were invaluable. 
 
 Mr. Howells worked at the printer's trade for about 
 ten years. But meanwhile, he stored his mind with 
 other things. He still continued to read the works of 
 standard authors; and, when he was moved to do so, 
 he wrote an occasional poem, and published it in his 
 father's newspaper. 
 
 In 1850, or thereabouts, his father being then a re 
 porter of Legislative Proceedings for the Ohio State 
 Journal, Mr. Howells also removed to Columbus, 
 where he worked as a compositor on a salary of four 
 dollars a week. Thenceforth till 1858, he was occu 
 pied as compositor, reporter and country journalist, 
 and was then appointed news editor on the State Jour 
 nal, holding the position till August, 1861. 
 
 Some time previous to this appointment, he made a 
 trip to St. Louis by water, in company with his uncle, 
 who was associated with one of the steamboat lines 
 of the day. This excursion pleased him immensely, 
 for never before had he beheld so much of the world. 
 It revealed to him new scenes and incidents, and out 
 pf the materials thus furnished he afterwards wove
 
 W. >. Howells. 127 
 
 that well-known poem, called the "Pilot's Story," 
 which first appeared in the Atlantic Monthly in 1860, 
 and for which he received what seemed to him to be 
 a very large sum of money just twenty-five dollars! 
 
 In 1860, he published in connection with Mr. John 
 J. Piatt, a small volume entitled : " Poems of Two 
 Friends." Most of the contents of this little book 
 were the productions of Mr. Piatt, another poet, and 
 at one time a fellow-worker with Mr. Howells in the 
 printing room of the State Journal. 
 
 In the spring of 1860, the National Republican 
 Convention, which met at Chicago, nominated Abra 
 ham Lincoln for the Presidency. At the time, Mr. 
 Howells was connected with a publishing house in 
 Columbus, and, at the request of the proprietor, he 
 undertook to write a campaign life of the future pres 
 ident. He finished the work in a few weeks, and the 
 book sold tolerably well. By way of recompense, the 
 author received a letter of credit on several Eastern 
 houses, and, thus equipped, he visited the East in the 
 summer of 1860, traveling by way of the St. Law 
 rence river down through New England and, finally, 
 pausing for a while in Boston. 
 
 As I have already said, he had previously sent a 
 number of poems to the Atlantic Monthly, all of 
 which had been graciously accepted by Mr. Lowell,
 
 ia8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 who was then the editor-in-chief. His reception in 
 Boston was most gratifying, and he there met for the 
 first time many of his warmest and most valued friends 
 He had already gained something of a reputation foi 
 himself, by the publication of his poems, all of which 
 showed perfect finish and a crystal-like clearness oi 
 thought. One of them, in particular, was much ad 
 mired, probably because it was so very short and 
 sweet. It is called " The Mysteries," and I quote i! 
 here entire : 
 
 " Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 
 
 Holding my breath, 
 
 There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 
 At the dark mystery of Death. 
 
 " Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 
 
 Spent with the strife, 
 O mother, let me weep upon thy breast 
 At the sad mystery of Life." 
 
 In the autumn of 1861, Mr. Howellswas appointee) 
 United States Consul at Venice. Of his life in tha 1 
 beautiful Italian city, so renowned in history and 
 poetry, he has given us a capital account in his "Ve 
 netian Life," a volume which was first published in 
 London in 1865, and in New York in the following 
 year. la this work one gained an idea of Venice
 
 W. D. Howells. 129 
 
 second only to that which he would gain frorn an ac 
 tual residence there. 
 
 During the first year of his sojourn in Venice, Mr. 
 Howells led a bachelor's life ; but, in 1862, he was 
 married at Paris to Miss Elinor G. Mead, a sister of 
 the sculptor, Larkin J. Mead, of Vermont, and shortly 
 afterward, these " two little people,"(so he himself calls 
 them) went to housekeeping in Venice, in the Casa 
 Falier, a famous old palace, looking out upon the 
 waters of the Grand Canal. 
 
 The " gondoliers," says Mr. Howells, "used always 
 to point out our palace as the house in which Marino 
 Falier was born, and, for a long time we clung to the 
 hope that it might be so ; but, however pleasant it 
 was, we were forced, on reading up the subject a little 
 to relinquish our illusion, and accredit an old palace 
 at Santi Apostoli with the distinction we would fain 
 have claimed for ours. I am rather at a loss to ex 
 plain how it made our lives in Casa Falier any pleas- 
 anter to think that a beheaded traitor had been born 
 in it, but we relished the superstition amazingly as 
 long as we could possibly believe in it. What went 
 far to confirm us at first in our credulity was the res 
 idence, in another part of the palace, of the Canonico 
 Falier, a lineal descendant of the unhappy doge. 
 He was a very mild-faced old priest, with a white
 
 *3<* Poets' Homes. 
 
 head, which he carried downcast, and crimson legs, 
 on which he moved but feebly. He owned the rooms 
 in which he lived, and the apartment in the front of 
 the palace just above our own. The rest of the house 
 belonged to another, for in Venice many of the pal 
 aces are divided up and sold among different pur 
 chasers floor by floor, and sometimes even room by 
 room." 
 
 Mr. Howell's last of four years in Venice was mostly 
 passed under the roof of one of her most beautiful 
 and memorable palaces, namely the Palazzo Grusti- 
 niani. He has designated his abode there as a kind 
 of permanent camping out. 
 
 " When I remember," he says " the small amount 
 of carpeting, of furniture, and of upholstery we en 
 joyed, it appears to me pathetic ; and yet, I am not 
 sure that it was not the wisest way to live. I know 
 that we had compensation in things not purchasable 
 here for money. If the furniture of the principal 
 bedroom was somewhat scanty, its dimensions were 
 unstinted : the ceiling was fifteen feet high, and was 
 divided into rich and heavy panels, adorned each 
 with a mighty rosette of carved and gilded wood, two 
 feet across. The parlor had not its original decora 
 tions in our time, but it once had had so noble a 
 carved ceiling that it was found worth while to take it
 
 W. D. Howells. 131 
 
 down and sell it into England ; and it still had two 
 grand Venetian mirrors, a vast and very good paint 
 ing of a miracle of St. Anthony, and imitation-antique 
 tables and arm-chairs. The last were frolicked all 
 over with carven nymphs and Cupids : but they were 
 of such frail construction that they were not meant to 
 be sat in, much less to be removed from the wall 
 against which they stood; and more than one of our 
 American visitors was dismayed at having these proud 
 articles of furniture go to pieces upon his attempt to 
 use them like mere arm-chairs of ordinary life. 
 Scarcely less impressive or useless than these was a 
 monumental plaster stove, surmounted by a bust of 
 ^Esculapius ; when this was broken by accident, we 
 cheaply repaired the loss with a bust of Homer, which 
 no one could have told from the bust it replaced ; and 
 this, and the other artistic glories of the room, made 
 us quite forget all possible blemishes and defects." 
 
 But it must not be imagined that Mr. Howells was 
 chained down by his official duties as Consul of the 
 United States ; on the contrary, he had many an odd 
 moment of leisure to himself, and such moments he 
 wisely consumed in making short journeys to other 
 places of interest. 
 
 In this way, he visited Padua, Pisa, Ferrara, 
 Trieste, Posaquo, Como, and Mantua; and on the
 
 I 3 2 
 
 Poets" Homes. 
 
 8th of November, 1864, he started on the longest 
 road to Rome. You may read of all these experi- 
 
 W. D. HOWELLS. 
 
 ences in the author's " Italian Journeys," which was 
 published in 1867. 
 
 In the autumn of 1865, Mr. Howells returned 
 home, pausing at London only, as we have seen, to 
 put the manuscript of his " Venetian Life " into the
 
 W. D. Howells. 133 
 
 printer's hands. He did not think it worth while to 
 go back to Ohio, but was disposed to make the ciiy 
 of New York his next place of residence. Having 
 chosen literature as his profession, he at once set to 
 work to achieve success. For a time he wrote arti 
 cles for the columns of the New York Times, a daily 
 newspaper ; and, a little later, he obtained a salaried 
 position as one of the writers for The Nation. Whilst 
 attending to these journalistic duties, he also found 
 time to make another volume, the "Italian Jour 
 neys," out of the materials which he had gathered 
 in his travels. 
 
 He remained about four months on the staff of the 
 Nation. On New Year's day, 1866, he received an 
 invitation from Mr. James T. Fields to become his 
 assistant editor on the Atlantic Monthly. He ac 
 cepted the position, and, in the following March, 
 removed to Cambridge, Massachusetts. In July, 
 1871, Mr. Fields resigned, and Mr. Howells has 
 occupied the position of editor-in-chief of the Atlantic 
 Monthly ever since. 
 
 Since his return to America, Mr. Howells has pub 
 lished a number of books, all of them of more than 
 ordinary interest. In 1869, appeared his hexameter 
 poem of "No Love Lost, A Romance of Travel," 
 happily sketching tourist life amid the fair scenery of
 
 134 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Venice. In 1873 was printed the collected edition 
 of his poems, in one volume of very small dimen 
 sions. 
 
 In 1870, he published the "Suburban Sketches," 
 which presents a very amusing but singular life-like 
 picture of old Cambridge, and of the experiences 
 which may happen to one journeying thitherward in a 
 horse-car to Boston. This book has proven to be a 
 favorite with the author's neighbors and friends, and 
 perhaps not a few would say, if asked, that it is the 
 best piece of prose writing that he had ever done. 
 
 The next book was "Their Wedding Journey," 
 which came out in 1871. This was the author's first 
 novel, ( properly speaking, it is only a novelette ) and 
 has been greatly admired on account of its sparkling 
 and vivacious characterization of a young married 
 couple who are supposed to be making the tour from 
 Boston to New York, by way of the Hudson to Niag 
 ara, and homeward through Canada and down the 
 St. Lawrence. 
 
 This lively book was followed, in 1873, by " A 
 Chance Acquaintance," and, in 1875, by "A Fore 
 gone Conclusion," two other novels of happy char 
 acter. The latest novel, " Private Theatricals," has 
 not yet been put into book form, but has already 
 been perused by a host of readers in the pages of the
 
 W. >. ffowells. 135 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. In 1876, Mr. Howells also wrote 
 a "Life of Rutherford B. Hayes," the Republican 
 candidate for the Presidency. 
 
 Mr. Howells has always been a steady and diligent 
 worker, and never allows a day to go by without turn 
 ing it to some good account. Besides the works 
 enumerated above, he has contributed many articles 
 of interest to the pages of the North American Re 
 view, and delivered a course of lectures on the 
 modern Italian Poets, before the Boston Lowell In 
 stitute. It is to be hoped that he will find time, ere 
 long, to revise these lectures, and to put them in 
 book form, before a wider public. 
 
 Ever since his return to this country, Mr. Howells 
 has been regarded as one of the foremost of American 
 writers. His sketches of travel and of life abroad, 
 have been greatly admired, on account of their ac 
 curacy and winning style, while his stories, which are 
 almost devoid of plot, have attracted by their rich 
 thought, and graceful diction. 
 
 It is not generally known, however, that the authoi 
 would rather wished to be looked upon as a poet, 
 than as a writer of genial prose : and I am not sure 
 that the fact of his writing such prose, in the past 
 four or five years, has not a little destroyed his repu 
 tation as a writer of equally charming verse.
 
 136 Poets' Homes. 
 
 I might, were I so disposed, and the limits of my 
 article expanded, quote in this place many a pretty 
 poem, that the world would not willingly let die. 
 Most of these have a sort of serious tone about them, 
 while not a few are unpardonably sad. Here is one, 
 however, which is neither sad or serious, and which 
 shows the humorous side of the poet. It is entitled 
 " Caprice," and is as follows : 
 
 " She hung the cage at the window : 
 
 ' If he goes by,' she said, 
 ' He will hear my robin singing, 
 
 And when he lifts his head, 
 I shall be sitting here to sew, 
 And he will bow to me, I know.' 
 
 " The robin sang a love-sweet song, 
 
 The young man raised his head ; 
 The maiden turned away and blushed : 
 
 ' I am a fool,' she said, 
 And went on broidering in silk, 
 A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk. 
 
 II. 
 
 " The young man loitered slowly 
 
 By the house three times that day ; 
 She took her bird from the window : 
 
 ' He need not look this way.' 
 She sat at her piano long, 
 And sighed, and played a death-sad song. 
 
 " But when the day was done, she said, 
 ' I wish he would come !
 
 W. D. Howells. 137 
 
 Remember, Mary, if he calls 
 
 To-night I'm not at home.' 
 So when he rang, she went the elf 
 She went and let him in herself. 
 
 III. 
 
 " They sang full long together 
 
 Their songs love-sweet, death-sad : 
 
 The robin woke from his slumber, 
 And sang out, clear and glad. 
 
 ' Now go ! ' she coldly said ; ' 'tis late ; 
 
 And followed him to latch the gate. 
 
 " He took the rosebud from her hair, 
 While, ' You shall not ' I she said : 
 
 He closed her hand within his own, 
 And, while her tongue forbade, 
 
 Her will was darkened in the eclipse 
 
 Of blinding love upon his lips." 
 
 But I must have done ; and to tell the truth, there 
 is scarcely more to tell you. The poet is but a young 
 man yet, and we may all hope that his work is just 
 begun. At home, he is happy, contented, genial, 
 affable, and one of the best and brightest conversa 
 tionalists. He is fond of children, and he has three 
 of them, the eldest, Winifred, having been born at 
 the Casa Falier in 1863. If you were to call upon 
 him, some fine day, you would find him to be very 
 much of a boy, and, though older indeed than most
 
 138 Poets' Homes. 
 
 boys, possessing certainly a very young and jovial 
 heart. 
 
 You should take care, however, not to pay your 
 visit in working hours, that is to say, from nine 
 o'clock in the morning, till one o'clock in the after 
 noon.
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 "T T THOM the gods love die young," was a say- 
 V V ing of the ancients. We moderns know that 
 there are no gods either to love or hate, but we un 
 derstand what these old idolaters meant. They simply 
 meant that a long life was denied to the possessor of 
 great abilities, that the finest geniuses had the 
 shortest lives. Was it true then ? is it true now ? 
 
 Let us see whether it was true of the ancient poets, 
 and is true of the modern poets. Everybody knows 
 that Thomas Chatterton was a wonderful genius, and 
 that he perished young. The poor boy poisoned him 
 self before he was eighteen. Henry Kirke White 
 who was a pleasing poet, died before he was twenty- 
 two, and Michael Bruce, a minor Scottish poet, died 
 in his twenty-second year. Two great poets died at a 
 comparatively early age, Shelley before he was thirty, 
 139
 
 140 Poets' Homes. 
 
 and Byron shortly after he was thirty-six. Five of 
 the British poets, then, may be said to have died 
 young. But let us look further, and not merely at 
 the British, but at the French, the German, and the 
 Greek poets. Passing over Homer, of whom nothing is 
 known (tradition says he was old and blind), we find 
 that Euripides lived to be seventy-four, and Sophocles 
 ninety. The German poet Klopstock lived to be 
 seventy-nine, and Goethe eighty-three. The French 
 poet Beranger lived to be seventy-seven, Corneille to 
 be seventy-eight, and Voltaire eighty-four. The 
 English poet Rogers lived to be ninety-two. Philip 
 Freneau, an early American poet, lived to be nearly 
 eighty-one. Mr William Cullen Bryant is now in his 
 eighty-third year, and Mr. Richard Henry Dana in his 
 ninetieth year. It is not true, therefore, that those 
 " whom the gods love die young." 
 
 I am going to tell you something about Mr. Rich 
 ard Dana, but not much, for there is not much to tell. 
 If Mr. Dana himself were asked to tell the story of 
 his life, he might quote the line which Canning puts 
 into the mouth of his famous needy knife-grinder, 
 " Story ? Lord bless you ! I have none to tell, sir." 
 
 Mr. Dana's family is an old and honorable one in 
 New England. Dr. Griswold traces it back to a 
 William Dana, Esq., who, he says, was Sheriff of 
 140
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 
 
 141 
 
 Middlesex in the reign of Queen Elizabeth ; but the 
 American Danas don't believe in this gentleman, 
 mythical or otherwise. The first Dana that came to 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 America was Richard Dana, who in 1640 settled in 
 Cambridge, Mass. A grandson of the same name, 
 who was the grandfather of Mr. Dana, and an emi 
 nent lawyer, was an active Whig in the troubles in 
 Boston before the breaking out of the Revolution,
 
 142 Poets' Homes. 
 
 His son, Francis Dana, was minister to Russia during 
 the Revolution, a member of Congress, and a mem 
 ber of the Massachusetts Convention for adopting the 
 national Constitution. He, too, was an eminent 
 lawyer, for he rose to be Chief Justice of Massachu 
 setts. He married a daughter of William Ellery, one 
 of the signers of the Declaration of Independence 
 for Rhode Island, who was the mother of our vener 
 able poet. Mr. Dana's ancestors, we see, were men 
 of repute in their day and generation, and if there is 
 anything to be proud of in ancestry, and I am inclined 
 to think there is sometimes, he has a right to be proud 
 of them. 
 
 The ancients had among their games a race, the 
 name of which escapes me, the runners in which bore 
 lighted torches, which were handed on when they 
 became exhausted to their more fortunate comrades. 
 The torch which has been handed on in the Dana 
 family is that of Law, which has descended through 
 several generations, and which to-day is shining in 
 the hands of Mr. Richard Henry Dana Jr., a hale 
 young gentleman of sixty-two. If I were given to 
 fanciful speculations, I might trace the torch of Poe 
 try, which has long expired in the hands of Mr. Dana, 
 back into the hands of our early poetess, but it is not 
 worth while, for she is so obscure that I will wager a
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 143 
 
 trifle say my head that no reader of "Wide 
 \wake " ever heard of her, and few, if any, of their 
 parents either. Who knows who Mistress Anne 
 Bradstreet was, the tenth muse springing up in 
 America ? 
 
 Mr. Richard Henry Dana, was born in Cambridge, 
 November i5th, 1787. A delicate child, of uncer 
 tain health, unable to apply himself to constant study, 
 he passed much of his time in rambling over the 
 rocks at Newport, where he was taken when about 
 ten years old, and where his mind was in unconscious 
 sympathy with his surroundings. If the old woods 
 and bleak hills of Cummington inspired young Master 
 Bryant to write " Thanatopsis," the rocky shore and 
 the wild waves of Newport inspired Mr. Dana to 
 write "The Buccaneer." 
 
 But I must not let myself outrun his childhood 
 which was an out-door one, as I have said, at any 
 rate, until he returned to Cambridge and entered 
 Harvard College, where he pursued his studies until 
 his twentieth year, when he left college, and returned 
 to Newport. So Dr. Griswold says, and adds that he 
 spent two years in studying the Latin language and 
 literature, as if he had not already studied them ! 
 
 This brief paragraph covers the first twenty years 
 of Mr. Dana's life, so you see I was right in saying
 
 144 Poets? Homes. 
 
 that there was not much to tell. Perhaps it will be 
 more interesting later on. 
 
 I have spoken of the ancestral torch of the Dana 
 family. It was now committed to the hands of Mr. 
 Dana, and he may be said to have kindled it in the 
 office of his cousin, Francis Dana Channin<r, with 
 
 O' 
 
 whom he studied law, and with enough success to be 
 admitted to the Boston bar. He was also admitted 
 to the bar of Baltimore, where he resided for a time. 
 At the age of twenty-four he was elected to the legis 
 lature of his native State, and three years afterwards 
 he made his first appearance in Literature, as the 
 author of an oration which he delivered on the cele 
 bration of the Fourth of July, which meant more to 
 our ancestors than it meant to us, especially at that 
 time, when they were wrought up with their second 
 war with England. Orator, politician, lawyer Mr. 
 Dana's chances of becoming a poet were not brilliant 
 at twenty-seven. 
 
 If I knew just how much the majority of the read 
 ers of " Wide Awake " knew about the history of 
 American literature sixty or seventy years ago, I 
 should know what to tell them next ; but, as I do not, 
 I must proceed as well as I can. Briefly, then, 
 America had no literature worth speaking of when 
 Mr. Dana delivered his Fourth of July oration. One
 
 Rifhard Henry Dana. 145 
 
 lovelist had appeared, in the person of Charles 
 Jrockden Brown, who wrote five or six uncanny sto- 
 ies ; and two essayists, James K. Paulding and Wash- 
 ngton Irving, who wrote together a series of papers 
 ailed " Salmagundi." " The Sketch Book " did not 
 xist, none of Cooper's novels were written, and there 
 /ere no magazines, or what we to-day would think 
 /ere magazines. A graduate of Harvard College 
 iad commenced a monthly Anthology when Mr. 
 )ana was sixteen years old. It was managed by a 
 lub of gentlemen, of whom he was one, and when 
 hat publication expired, as it did at the end of eight 
 ears, this club grew into another, which four years 
 ater started the " North American Review." It had 
 our different editors in the first three years of its ex- 
 stence, the last being Mr. Edward T. Channing, who 
 hared his duties with his cousin Mr. Dana, whose 
 iterary life may be said to have begun in its pages. 
 Nobody that I have heard of ever had a lively life on 
 he North American Review, and nobody, I suppose, 
 :ver expected to. 
 
 " But you are not telling us about the life of Mr. 
 Dana," the impatient readers of "Wide Awake" 
 nay say. To which I reply I am telling you all I 
 ;now. I have not told you, though, that he was mar- 
 ied before this ; but he was, for the son of whom I
 
 146 Poets? Homes. 
 
 have already spoken, came into the world in the same 
 year that the " North American Review " did. Mr. 
 Dana's connection with this periodical lasted as long 
 as his cousin continued its editor, and when the latter 
 was made a professor at Harvard he left it, and in 
 the following year began to publish, in numbers, in 
 New York, a work entitled " The Idle Man." There 
 was no reason why it should not succeed ; " The Sketch 
 Book" had done so six years before, but succeed 
 it did not, so Mr. Dana stopped with the first number 
 of the second volume, for he was writing himself into 
 debt. He could have afforded this, I have no doubt, 
 for his family was wealthy his father used to ride to 
 court in his coach, and traveled the circuits with his 
 body-servant, but he concluded not to do so. It 
 was enough to lose his work without losing his money 
 also. 
 
 The only eminent man of letters that Mr. Dana 
 associated with as far as I have been able to learn, 
 I mean, was Mr. Bryant, whose poem of " Thana- 
 topsis" was sent to the "North American Review," 
 when he was a member of the club who managed it. 
 He saw its greatness at once, and walked from Cam 
 bridge to Boston, to have a view of its remarkable 
 author. When he reached the State House, a plain, 
 middle-aged man, with a business-like aspect, was
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 147 
 
 pointed out to him. A glance was enough ; the legis 
 lator could not be the author of " Thanatopsis," and 
 he returned without seeking an interview with him. 
 A slight mistake of names had misled his informant. 
 So says Dr. Griswold, who adds that Mr. Dana 
 made the acquaintance of Mr. Bryant when he came 
 to Cambridge to deliver his poem of " The Ages " 
 at Harvard College. The result of this acquaintance 
 was the contribution by Mr. Bryant of several poems 
 to "The Idle Man." They were fine, no doubt ; but 
 they failed to quicken the stagnant circulation of that 
 languid literary personage, whose doom was nigh. 
 
 Another result was the first poem that Mr. Dana is 
 said to have written, " The Dying Raven," which was 
 published four years after the death of the unfortu 
 nate " Idle Man," in " The New York Review," which 
 was edited by Mr. Bryant, his poetical friend. I do 
 not understand how it was that Mr. Dana published 
 no poetry before he was thirty-eight years old, but all 
 his biographers say so, and I suppose we must believe 
 them. " The Dying Raven " certainly was like the 
 work of an unpracticed hand. 
 
 The habit of writing poetry grows upon one when 
 once formed, like other habits, good or bad, and Mr. 
 Dana was no exception to the rule, for within two 
 years after the appearance of "The Dying Raven "
 
 148 Poets' Homes. 
 
 he had written poetry enough to make a volume. It 
 was published in his fortieth year, under the simple 
 title of " Poems," of which there were nine, the most 
 important one being " The Buccaneer." It is a story 
 poem, and as the readers of " Wide Awake " may like 
 to know what the story is, I will try to state the sub 
 stance of it in prose. 
 
 There was once, and of course there is now, an 
 island nine leagues off the shore, which we will sup 
 pose to be the shore of New England, and this island 
 was the haunt of a band of pirates, whose captain was 
 named Matthew Lee. He was a dark, low, brawny 
 man, with thick-set brows, gray eyes, and a mocking 
 laugh, and his heart was as cruel as his arm was 
 strong. Such was Matt Lee, who had made great 
 gains by piracy, but failed to keep them long, for the 
 waste of such men is always greater than their gain. 
 
 So he made up his mind one day to try the mer 
 chant's trade, and sell what he had left. He manned 
 his ship, put a cargo of his spoils on board, and 
 sailed away from the island. A storm soon rose, the 
 sea run high, and the ship sprung a leak. They 
 worked hard at the pumps, and, to lighten the ship, 
 threw all the cargo overboard, and just managed to 
 reach a port with torn spars and sails. 
 
 Lee was in a furious humor, for he had lost his
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 149 
 
 cargo, and his ship was a wreck. There was no 
 chance of his prospering by lawful trade, so he told 
 his men that they would go to their old work again. 
 It was a Spanish port that he was in, and the French 
 were fighting with the Spaniards and the English in 
 the great Peninsular war early in the present century. 
 
 A young Spanish lady wished to leave the country, 
 which was no longer dear to her, because her husband 
 had fallen in battle ; and Lee, who pretended to pity 
 her, offered to take her on board his ship, which had 
 been repaired. The poor young widow trusted in his 
 promises, and came on board, with her servants and 
 her wealth, and a white horse she used to ride in the 
 life-time of her husband. The sun went down on the 
 sea, and the shadows gathered round her home. The 
 stars burned brightly, and she looked towards the 
 shore, beyond the waters black in night. 
 
 "I shall never see thee more," she murmured. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, thou sad one ! The moon rises, and 
 in the shadow of the mast there is a dark man. What 
 does he growl to himself? " It is too still to-night ! " 
 So the life of the Spanish widow was spared for that 
 night. Matt went to sleep at last, and had a dream 
 of her which frightened him, but did not shake his 
 purpose to murder her. " The gold will make all 
 whole," he said.
 
 150 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Another night came, and he made a sign to his 
 men, who crept down into the cabin like shadows. 
 Suddenly there were shrieks and fiendish yells. The 
 servants of the widow were stabbed in their sleep. 
 The cabin lamp shone on pale dead men, on quick, 
 fierce eyes, on hands dripping with blood. A dash, 
 and they forced the door of the lady's cabin. There 
 was a long, shill, piercing scream. It ceased, and 
 like a flash of lightning a loose-robed form with 
 streaming hair shot by. A leap, a splash, and it was 
 gone ! Lee stood like one lost. Was it a spirit that 
 passed him ? There was no tread on the deck. Who 
 heard any ? Poor girl ! And she is drowned ! Did 
 she go down into the depths ? How dark they looked, 
 and cold ! When he came to himself they brought up 
 the dead, and threw them overboard. " We must not 
 be betrayed," said Lee. "An ass, it is said, once 
 brayed strange words. There is a horse on board, 
 her horse, and he is not to be trusted. We will throw 
 him in the waves alive. He will swim." They threw 
 the horse into the sea, and a shriek such as never 
 came to mortal ears rang over the waters. He drifted 
 away at last out of sight, but they heard his dreadful 
 cry all night. 
 
 When morning came they washed away the blood 
 stains and divided the booty. They sang and swore
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 151 
 
 and gambled, they laughed and drank and fought. 
 One stormy night the dwellers on the island I told 
 you of at the beginning saw boats making for the 
 shore. The next day at noon the people of the town 
 were startled by the appearance of Lee and his men. 
 " Here comes Lee ! " the boys shouted. " Where's 
 your ship, Lee ? " 
 
 " It took fire by chance one night, not many leagues 
 from shore." 
 
 This was all they learned. 
 
 They were flush of gold, those grim pirates. 
 
 " You didn't lose your cargo, then, Lee ? " 
 
 "No, heaven prospers true men. Forsake your 
 evil ways, as we forsook ours and took to honest 
 courses." 
 
 So the godless wretch mocked them. After that 
 he lorded it through the island. The people dreaded 
 his power and his smile, and none went within his 
 door, None, that is, except those who had dipped 
 their hands in blood with him, and laughed to see the 
 white horse swim. 
 
 When the anniversary of the murder came round 
 they feasted and caroused together till near midnight 
 
 But what means that red light on the waters ? A 
 ship, and all on fire, hull, yards and masts, and her 
 sheets are sheets of flame! They gazed on each
 
 152 Poets' Homes, 
 
 other in dumb amazement as she rode on, shedding 
 a wild and lurid light around the cove. It scared the 
 sea-birds from their nests ; they darted and wheeled 
 around with despairing screams. What is that com 
 ing above the waves so ghastly white ? It is a spectre 
 horse ! He gains the sands, his ghostly sides stream 
 ing with cold blue light, and his path shining like the 
 wake of a ship. Now he is at Lee's door, where he 
 sends up a neigh which rings along the sky and jars 
 the shore. The revelers know the sound, and their 
 flushed cheeks turn pale with fear. Lee drops his 
 cup ; his lips are stiff with fright. Sit down, Lee, it 
 is your banquet night ! 
 
 The shadow stands with his hoofs on the door-stone 
 of Lee's house. His hair rises as its cold breath 
 chills his frame, and a voice within him bids him 
 mount the horse. He mounts it, and is borne with 
 speed and dread to the hanging steep. It stops sud 
 denly, with its feet on the verge, where it stands like 
 marble. A tall ship is burning, a mass of red-hot 
 spars and crackling flame. She burns up, and yet is 
 the same : 
 
 " Her hot, red flame is beating all the night 
 
 On man and horse, in their cold phosphor light." 
 
 The fearful man sat looking through this cold light 
 on the burning ship. What do you see, Lee ?
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 153 
 
 " I look where mortal man may not, 
 
 Into the chambers of the deep. 
 I see the dead, long, long forgot, 
 
 1 see them in their sleep. 
 
 A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, 
 Save him who leagues his soul with death and woe." 
 
 The low, far west is bright no more. No sound is 
 heard at sea or along the shore but the cry of a pass 
 ing bird. 
 
 " Now long that thick, red light has shone 
 On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, 
 On man and horse that seem of stone, 
 
 So motionless are they. 
 But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : 
 The night is going faint, gray dawn returns. 
 
 " That spectre steed now slowly pales, 
 
 Now changes like a moonlit cloud. 
 That thin, cold light now slowly fails, 
 
 Which wrapt them like a shroud. 
 Both ship and horse are fading into air. 
 Lee, 'mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there 1 " 
 
 The morning air blows on him, the waves dance 
 before him, and the sea-birds wheel and call ; but he 
 does not hear their call, nor see the waves, nor feel 
 the breeze. Noon comes, and the hot sun beats upon 
 his head, but he heeds it not. 
 
 Night comes, the sun goes down, and the gull finds 
 her place on shore, but there he still stands. Go
 
 154 Poets' Homes, 
 
 home, Lee, and call your revelers round you. But 
 they have fled from the island. There was no one to 
 meet him at his house ; the chairs were empty, the 
 fires burnt out. Everybody shunned him. Children 
 stared after him, and ran away frightened to their 
 homes. The crowd pointed at him and said : " There 
 goes the evil man." 
 
 He turned and cursed man and child. Terror and 
 madness drove him to men, and hatred of man to 
 solitude. 
 
 The second anniversary of the murder came," and 
 with it the burning ship, and the spectre horse, which 
 he rode as before. The islanders, who began to pity 
 him, asked him why he wandered so, and he said he 
 wanted to go, but wanted to go by land, and there was 
 no way. They urged him to go on board a sloop 
 which they had, but he said the spectre horse would 
 not allow him to go to sea except with him. 
 
 The third anniversary of the murder came, and 
 \vith it the burning ship, which this time burned up, 
 and settled in the waves. The spectre horse rose 
 from where it sank : 
 
 " He treads the waters as a solid floor : 
 
 He's moving on. Lee waits him at the door." 
 
 He pleads that he did not do the deed alone, but 
 he pleads in vain. His time has come, the spectre
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 155 
 
 horse tells him, and he must go. He mounts the 
 horse again, and is borne to the sea. 
 
 " He's on the beach ; he stops not there. 
 He's on the seal Lee, quit the horse ! 
 Lee struggles hard 'tis mad despair! 
 
 Tis vain. The spirit corse 
 Holds him by fearful spell ; he cannot leap. 
 Within that horrid light he rides the deep. 
 
 " It lights the sea around their track 
 
 The curling comb, the dark steel wave ; 
 There, yet, sits Lee the spectre's back 
 
 Gone, gone, and none to save I 
 They're seen no more ; the night hath shut them in. 
 May heaven have pity on thee, man of sin 1 
 
 " The earth hath washed away its stain, 
 
 The sealed-up sky is breaking forth, 
 Mustering its glorious hosts again, 
 
 From the fair south and north. 
 The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. 
 O, whither on its waters rideth Lee?" 
 
 Such is the outline of " The Buccaneer," which 
 could only have been written by one familiar with the 
 wild and rugged coast scenery of New England, and 
 the ever-changing waters of the Atlantic. No poet 
 in America but Mr. Dana could have written it, for 
 no other poet in America possesses his knowledge of 
 and love for the sea. It grew out of his early life at 
 Newport, and of his years of summer residence in 
 his country house near Cape Ann. 
 
 His house stands on the south side of Cape Ann,
 
 156 Poets' Homes. 
 
 in full sight of the ocean. The lawn upon which it 
 stands shelves off a few rods in front of it, in a steep, 
 gravelly cliff, about sixty feet above a sandy beach. 
 The remains of an old wall covered with bushes and 
 low trees fringe the edge of this cliff, a wild growth, 
 which descends its face to the beach below. The 
 beach, which is nearly a perfect semi-circle, is isolated, 
 on the right by a projecting ledge, which runs out be 
 yond it into the sea, and is called "Eagle Head," and 
 on the left by the precipitous base of a hill, which 
 bears the ominous name of " Shark's Mouth." The 
 house stands nearly south, on a line with the beach, 
 and is sheltered on the north by a hill covered with a 
 thick growth of old trees. A further shelter from the 
 cold winds is a high wooded island, which lies a hun 
 dred rods or so from the base of the hill, and belongs 
 to the estate of Mr. Dana, who has an island of his 
 own, as well as Matt Lee, and a horse, too, though 
 not such a spectral one as carried that grim old pirate 
 to destruction. Of course I mean the horse which all 
 poets are supposed to ride Pegasus ! What else 
 could I mean? 
 
 Mr. Dana sold a portion of the estate which he 
 inherited at Cambridge, and bought this place, and 
 built a house upon it. The grounds formerly belonged 
 to a ship-master, of whom there was a tradition that 
 he had buried doubloons somewhere about there, which
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 157 
 
 money-diggers have tried to find, but without success. 
 
 Mr. Dana's estate contains about a hundred acres 
 of woods, beach, rocks, island and arable land. 
 The trees, as I have said, grow quite down to the 
 beach, and one may stand under their thick foli 
 age, with flowers under feet, and throw pebbles into 
 the ocean, as I have no doubt Mr. Dana has often 
 done, with his grandchildren. 
 
 It is a magnificent site for the house of a poet who 
 loves the sea as Mr. Dana does. From his windows 
 on the right he can see the light-houses at the entrance 
 of the harbors of Salem, Boston and Marblehead. 
 That rocky headland to the eastward is " Norman's 
 Woe," about which Mr. Longfellow has made a ballad, 
 Mr. Dana, poet-like, has left his place in the some 
 what wild state it was in when he purchased it. There 
 are crows there, and hawks, and occasionally he is 
 visited by an eagle. The little bird that he has im 
 mortalized in one of his poems is plentiful there. 
 You know the poem, of course. No ? Then I advise 
 you to get an older reader than yourself to show it to 
 you. Make your acquaintance with Mr. Dana through 
 "The Little Beach Bird," and read at a later period 
 his powerful story of "The Buccaneer." In the 
 meantime join with me in honoring our venerable 
 poet, and repeat with me the words of one of Dickens' 
 characters, " Lord, keep his memory green 1 "
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 THE name of Stoddard has not hitherto made 
 much stir in the world, in arms, arts, or letters. 
 Its derivation is doubtful, though it is believed by the 
 heralds to be a corruption of the French word Stand 
 ard. 
 
 There is, or was some ten or fifteen years ago, a 
 Scotch Stoddart, who published a little pamphlet on 
 the family name, and its different branches in Scot 
 land, especially his own branch, which he traced back 
 through barons and earls and princes to the great 
 Charlemagne himself! Scattered through the p:un- 
 phlet were the coats-of-arms, quarterings, crests, and 
 what nots of the Stoddards, with Latin mottoes, among 
 others " Post Nubes Lux," which is the motto of 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, or will be when the dark 
 ness which has beclouded his fortunes has given place 
 to light. He is the first of his name who has achieved 
 the slightest distinction as a writer, though Mr. Aus 
 158
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 159 
 
 tin Allibone mentions some eight or ten who have 
 dabbled in literature. The only one of the early 
 Stoddards who rose to the writing of verses was Mrs. 
 Lavinia Stoddard, who died comparatively young, and 
 left a poem entitled " The Soul's Defiance," which 
 possesses considerable merit, of an old-fashioned 
 kind. Three later Stoddards have followed the per 
 nicious example of this good dame, the Stoddard of 
 whom we purpose to write, and who has been more or 
 less known as a poet for upwards of thirty years, Mr. 
 Charles Warren Stoddard, a young Californian, with 
 the same and other intellectual weaknesses, and Mr. 
 William O. Stoddard, poet, journalist, and, during the 
 late war, one of the private secretaries of President 
 Lincoln. 
 
 His poetic namesakes are a source of constant an 
 noyance to our Stoddard, who frankly says that he 
 can write all the bad verse which the name is capable 
 of supporting, and who has no wish to rob his fellows 
 of their laurels. 
 
 The family of Mr. Stoddard figures in the town 
 records of Hingham, Mass., the town in which he 
 was born, as early as 1638. Who the first emigrant 
 was he has no means of knowing, and if he had, his 
 want of curiosity would probably prevent his looking 
 into the antecedents of his ancestors. His feeling, if
 
 160 Ports' Homss. 
 
 he has any, may be summed up in the lines of the 
 old poet : 
 
 " Tis poor, and not becoming perfect gentry, 
 To build their glories at their fathers' cost ; 
 But at their own expense of blood or virtue 
 To raise them living monuments. Our birth 
 Is not our own act ; honor upon trust 
 Our ill deeds forfeit, and the wealthy sums 
 Purchased by other's fame or sweat will be 
 Our stain ; for we inherit nothing truly 
 But what our actions make us worthy of." 
 
 Mr. Stoddard's immediate ancestors were sea-faring 
 men, his grandfather Ichabod Stoddard having sailed 
 from Hingham to coastwise ports for many years. 
 He had three sons, Ichabod, Martin and Reuben, who 
 followed the sea, which was "the wild and wandering 
 grave " of the two last. Reuben Stoddard, the father 
 of Richard Henry Stoddard, was a remarkable man. 
 He determined not to grow up in ignorance, as his 
 father had done, and his brothers were doing, but to 
 have an education, cost what it would. 
 
 He obtained his time of his father, who according 
 to the usage of sixty years ago had a right to it until 
 he was twenty-one, and ran in debt for his schooling, 
 which was practical rather than profound. He rose 
 rapidly in his profession, and was soon master and
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 161 
 
 part owner of the brig Royal Arch. About this time 
 he became the master and entire owner of a gallant 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 little craft named Sophia Gurney. Where Captain, 
 or maybe Mate, Stoddard met Miss Gurney the His 
 toric Muse does not relate. 
 
 She was one of a family of at least four sons and 
 four daughters, and was born at Abington, Mass.,
 
 162 Poets' Homes. 
 
 about ten miles south of Hingham. She was re 
 markably beautiful, and tolerably ignorant. Her 
 father, Thomas Gurney, was a man who had seen 
 better days at one time or another, but eight strap 
 ping children, with scriptural and sylvan names, by 
 his first wife, and three more by his second wife, pre 
 vented his rising in the world. He was poor, but so 
 respectable that he was called Deacon ; if he had a 
 weakness it was for swapping horses, and he managed 
 it so that he always got a little money by the exchange, 
 and generally got a worse horse. He would have 
 swapped steeds with the Spectre Horseman if his 
 " ter boot " had teen satisfactory. 
 
 Reuben Stoddard met Sophia Gurney, loved her, 
 married her, and went away on voyages in the Royal 
 Arch. 
 
 Three children were born to them, a son Charles 
 and a daughter Mary, both of whom died in infancy, 
 and a second son, Richard Henry. 
 
 About fifty years ago, while all his children were 
 alive, Captain Stoddard went on board the Royal 
 Arch, and, the crew making sail and weighing anchor, 
 he started for New York. He remained there several 
 days, and, weighing anchor once more, sailed away for 
 the port of Gottenburg, Sweden. 
 
 Weeks, months elapsed, and no tidings of the Royal
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 163 
 
 Arch reached the owners. She was not spoken at 
 sea ; no vessel passed her j she was never more heard 
 of ! A boat that was thought to be hers was picked 
 up somewhere, but no timber from her was ever 
 washed ashore. It was winter at the time, and the 
 supposition was that she encountered an iceberg at 
 night, and was sunk by the toppling mass. However 
 this may have been, Captain Stoddard's young wife 
 was left a widow, with three little children to take 
 care of. 
 
 She was ill, but she rose from her bed, like the 
 resolute woman she was, and began her life of widow 
 hood. It was a tragic one, for two of her children 
 died, and by some hocus pocus, which she never un 
 derstood, she was cheated out of her dead husband's 
 share of the " fatal and perfidious bark" in which he 
 was lost. Her father was too poor to help her, for 
 swapping horses was not a very remunerative pursuit, 
 but she found a home in the house of her husband's 
 father, where she devoted herself to the education of 
 her boy, who never remembered learning to read, 
 though writing gave him a great deal of trouble. 
 
 The recollections of a child are seldom so separa 
 ble from each other that they can be arranged chron 
 ologically. Mr. Stoddard's earliest recollections 
 place him in the first storey of his grandfather's house
 
 164 Poets' Homes. 
 
 in Hingham, a boy of five or six, now teaming the 
 hymns of Dr. Watts, and now reciting the hymn be 
 ginning : 
 
 " The day is past and gone." 
 
 This picture gives place to a high-backed pew in 
 Dr. Richardson's church, as it was then called, which 
 stood on a hill opposite the Stoddard house. This 
 hill was separated from the lower end of the town 
 by a little inlet or " wash " of the sea, and had been 
 the burying-ground of Hingham time out of mind. 
 The church was one of the oldest in New Eng 
 land. 
 
 The fatherless boy was so delicate that his life was 
 despaired of. He was considered clever, a show- 
 child, who was expected to speak a piece when called 
 upon, and who was pointed out among the towns 
 people as " Reuben s boy." His uncles were kind to 
 him, and his grandfather was fond of him. As a 
 great treat he was once allowed to accompany his 
 grandfather to Cohasset, where a hotel was being 
 built, and, as a greater treat, he was allowed to go to 
 Boston with him in his schooner. 
 
 Widow Stoddard was of a roving, restless disposi 
 tion, and the slightest thing was sufficient to make 
 her change her residence. Her relatives, who were 
 as poor as herself, moved nomadically from factory 
 town to factory town, and she frequently accompanied
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, 165 
 
 them with her boy, who still has kaleidoscopic glimpses 
 of Taunton, Valley Falls and Providence, glimpses 
 of factory interiors, of carding-rooms, spinning-rooms, 
 weaving-rooms, and mule-rooms, the slipping of 
 leather bands over revolving wheels, the whizzing of 
 spindles, clatter, clatter, clatter. 
 
 Mixed with these are glimpses of Scituate, Bridge- 
 water, Braintree and Abington. He remembers to 
 have spent two summers and at least one winter at 
 Abington, where he went to school for the first time, 
 and where the towns-people were frightened by a tran 
 sit of Venus, or Mercury, or some other astronomical 
 occurrence, which they thought portended the End of 
 the World ! 
 
 At last his mother went to Boston with him, 
 and opened a little shop at the foot of Hanover 
 Street, near the ship-yards, which were convenient for 
 the gathering of chips. He was sick one whole win 
 ter with the rheumatism, and so helpless that he had 
 to be lifted in and out of bed. His mother main 
 tained herself and him that is, she kept body and 
 soul together in both by making "slop-work" for 
 the Jews, who supplied sailors with clothing at exor 
 bitant rates. The poor woman used to sit up and 
 work all night, and morning used to find her asleep in 
 her chair. 
 
 By and by Widow Stoddard made the acquaintance
 
 1 66 Poets' Homes. 
 
 of a sea-faring-man of about her own age, thirty-two, 
 and, to better her condition and that of her son, she 
 married him. " Reuben's boy " had another father. 
 He was a kind-hearted, well-meaning man, without 
 the art of getting on in the world, and such he con 
 tinued to the day of his death, some thirty-six years 
 later. He worked awhile in Boston as a stevedore, 
 and then migrated to Providence, where a railroad was 
 being made. 
 
 His family followed him as far as Seakonk, where 
 the re-fathered boy went to work in a cotton factory. 
 His step-father paid a visit to his relatives in New 
 York, and the brilliant prospects which were held out 
 to him determined him to remove thither. He 
 brought his household stuff to Providence one autumn 
 day, and shipped it on board a packet, and, with the 
 hostages he had accepted of fortune a wife in her 
 thirties, and a boy in his eleventh year, sailed for the 
 city of his nativity, which he reached after a stormy 
 passage of two days. 
 
 They landed at or near the Battery of a Sunday 
 morning, and wandered up Broadway, which was 
 swarming with hogs. There was not much to choose 
 between the relatives of his mother and the relatives 
 of his step-father, for they were poor on both sides, 
 so the boy was not benefited by his change of resi 
 dence.
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 167 
 
 His early recollections of New York are not over 
 and above pleasant, for they connect themselves with 
 his stepfather's family, who were just the people not 
 to know, and who were the cause of his being sent 
 into the street to sell matches. He has some pleas 
 ant memories of this period, however, for the great 
 fire of 1835 occurred, and he was taken to see the 
 smoking ruins ; and, the circumstances of the family 
 mending, he was sent for a time to a pay school, 
 where the reading-book was Weems's Life of Marion. 
 Who that has once read has ever forgotten the thrill 
 ing episode of the brave partisan leader offering the 
 British officer a meal of roasted sweet potatoes ? It 
 was the great Weems who invented it, the immortal 
 Weems, who forged the little hatchet with which 
 Washington cut down his father's cherry-tree ! Who 
 says that America has no poet ? 
 
 Reading about Marion and Serjeant Jasper, and 
 the rule of three and fractions, were the chief branches 
 of education taught in this school, the master of 
 which may have been a patriot, though he was cer 
 tainly not an arithmetician, for he had to " fish " the 
 answers to sums out of a Key ! 
 
 From this academy of polite learning the boy was 
 sent to a public school, where he learned nothing, 
 though he got his lessons by heart. He had the rep 
 utation of being a clever boy, why, he knew not. He
 
 1 68 Poet? Homes. 
 
 was a fluent reader, it is true, but he was no gramma 
 rian, and no arithmetician ; he had no talent for 
 writing compositions, and was incapable of speaking 
 pieces, though he was compelled to do so. 
 
 The relation between parents and children was 
 more exacting forty years ago than it is now ; and 
 children were taught to consider themselves nobodies, 
 when the will of their parents was in question. Their 
 time was not their own until they were twenty-one. 
 Having the law, so to speak, on her side, and being 
 herself a thrifty, hard-working woman, the mother of 
 " Reuben's boy" resolved, when he was about fifteen, 
 that he was old enough to earn money. 
 
 The morning papers were diligently searched, and 
 the columns devoted to "wants" were studied and 
 discussed. Two lawyers -were finally found who 
 wanted a boy, and the future poet was installed in 
 their offices. His salary was small less than a dollar 
 a week, but small as it was his mother allowed him 
 fifty cents a month oat of it, which large sum was 
 thoughtfully invested in books. He haunted old 
 book-stalls after office hours, and picked up bargains 
 in tb'., shape of odd volumes, mostly of the English 
 j^ets. Among other poets whose acquaintance he 
 made at this time were Beattie and Falconer. He 
 read the story of Edwin, who was no vuigar minstrel
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 169 
 
 boy, but he could not read the story of Palamon. 
 He could see that Seattle had some claim to be con 
 sidered a poet, but he could not see, nor has he 
 ever been able to see, what shadow of a claim Fal 
 coner had. 
 
 The law transacted in these offices was mostly 
 imaginary, so the young quill-driver had leisure to 
 read poetry, and to write it, too. It was wretched 
 stuff, of course, but he tried to have it printed in u The 
 New World," a great weekly newspaper, edited by 
 Park Benjamin, who somehow didn't see the genius 
 of his would-be contributor, who sighed to himself, in 
 the words of Beattie : 
 
 " O, who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar." 
 
 He resolved that he would succeed, however, and 
 as a poet ; and in order to do this he would, if nec 
 essary, win a reputation first as a writer of prose ; he 
 would make himself a novelist, like Dickens, whose 
 " Master Humphrey's clock " he read every Saturday 
 in " The New World." What would youth be with- 
 outits ignorance and its aspiration ? 
 
 The brace of legal gentlemen whose clientless 
 offices were tenanted by our young poet advised him 
 to study the law as a profession, but his modesty led 
 him to think that he lacked the capacity to do so,
 
 tfo Poets' Homes. 
 
 though he would admit the lack of no other capacity 
 whatever! Was he not that man of men, a poet? 
 He saw a live author in the perlieus of Themis, and 
 procured a specimen of his penmanship. It was the 
 novelist Ingraham, whose " Dancing Feather " he had 
 read with delight, and who was a little remiss with 
 his tailor. 
 
 He was a bright, pleasant gentleman, and his little 
 lawyer's note was long treasured up. From law, for 
 which he had no inclination, our dreamer passed to 
 journalism. That is to say, he became a sort of facto 
 tum in the office of a new and shortlived journal which 
 reported the sayings and doings of Dickens, who was 
 then traveling in this country. This distant connection 
 with authorship brought him in contact with another 
 author, in the person of Mr. Lewis Gaylord Clarke, 
 the editor of " The Knickerbocker Magazine," who 
 was a contributor to the journal in question. It 
 was soon moribund, and another situation had to be 
 obtained. 
 
 One was found, or made. It was in a tailor's shop, 
 where the aspiring rhymster cooled his natural ardor 
 by sponging cloth, and encouraged his propensity for 
 commerce by selling slop clothes to sailors. He 
 was next installed as book-keeper in a bankrupt brush 
 and bellows factory. From this he was transplanted
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 171 
 
 to an occupation for which he was most unfit in that it 
 demanded what he never posessed physical strength 
 and endurance. 
 
 What his mother was thinking of when she sent 
 him to learn the trade of a blacksmith, he never 
 knew; but send him she did, and he tried to learn 
 the trade, but without success. He was put at once 
 at the anvil, and before the day was over his right 
 hand was so blistered that he had to open its fingers 
 with his left hand, and detach them from the handle 
 of the sledge hammer that he wielded. 
 
 Clearly he was not intended for a blacksmith. 
 Even his mother saw that at the end of three or four 
 days, and allowed him to find lighter employment. 
 It came to him, he never quite knew how, in the 
 shape of iron moulding, which he was apprenticed to 
 learn, and which he did learn from his eighteenth to 
 his twenty-first year. 
 
 1 1 was hard work for a delicate boy, but it had to 
 be done* for his family was poor, and idleness was 
 discouraged. He had one consolation which could 
 not be taken from him ; the day would end, night 
 would come, and he could write poetry. It was sorry 
 stuff, and no one knew it better than he, but it gave 
 him pleasure, and offended no one. He never offered 
 it for publication, he was not vain enough for that;
 
 i"j2 Poets' Homes. 
 
 but when it had served its turn and he was beyond it, 
 he wisely committed it to the flames. Such was the 
 life of Richard Henry Stoddard down to his twenty- 
 second year. 
 
 Just about the time when the first Stoddard or 
 Stoddards emigrated to New England, four brothers 
 named Barstow concluded to do the same. They 
 were of a good family in the West Riding of York 
 shire, a family that figured in other counties in Eng 
 land under their original name of Burstow, one of 
 them, a certain Robert de Burstowe, having grants 
 made to him in the reign of Edward the Second. 
 The Barstows came to America, as most Englishmen 
 of their period did, in order to better their fortunes. 
 They settled in Massachusetts, at Cambridge, Water- 
 town and Dedham, and pursued their avocations there 
 and elsewhere. We find them as early as 1660 in 
 Hanover, engaged in ship-building on the North 
 River, a little stream which separates Hanover and 
 Scituate from Pembroke and Marshfield. Before 
 many years were over they were settled in Mattapoi- 
 sett, a seaside town in the same county as Hingham, 
 looking out on the Elizabeth Islands. 
 
 Here they lived, fathers and sons, and built ships 
 for the whalers of New Bedford, and schooners and 
 sloops for the West India and coastwise traders,
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, 
 
 173 
 
 lived, and grew rich and died, and left others of the 
 name to succeed them and carry on their business. 
 
 MRS. R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 Here lived and died two Gideon Barstows, the last 
 of whom had a son named Wilson, who married Miss 
 Betsey Drew in his twenty-third year, two or three 
 years before Captain Reuben Stoddard married Miss 
 Sophia Gurney. 
 
 The Barstows were a prolific family, the great
 
 174 Poets' Homes. 
 
 grand-father of Wilson Barstow adding twenty-one 
 children to the population of his county, and Wil 
 son Barstow himself was no exception to the rule. 
 He had nine children, of whom his second daughter, 
 Elizabeth, is the sole survivor. She was born about 
 two years before Richard Henry Stoddard, and that 
 their paths would ever cross each other was the most 
 unlikely thing in the world. They had no possession 
 in common, except such as was attached to the sea 
 through their fathers, and that was of the most unsub 
 stantial kind. One was drifting 
 
 "Where dreadful waves were whirled 
 About the roots of the world," 
 
 the other was alive and well, and as surely a prosper 
 ous gentleman as the Thane of Cawdor was. 
 
 Elizabeth Barstow was one of those irrepressible 
 girls who are sometimes born in staid Puritan fami 
 lies, to puzzle their parents, and to be misunderstood 
 Her spirits were high, and her disposition wilful. She 
 had a passion for reading, but a great disinclination 
 for study. Her inferiors shot past her at school, and 
 she was pronounced a dunce. She was sent to the 
 best educational establishments in New England, in 
 cluding the Wheaton Female Seminary at Norton, but 
 she might as well have remained at home and rocked 
 her brothers and sisters, who arrived pretty regularly 
 at intervals of about two years.
 
 Richard Henry Stodda^d. 175 
 
 The despair of her beautiful mother, who could not 
 help being amused by her vagaries, she was the 
 pride of her good-natured father, who was the mag 
 nate of the town and looked up to by his neighbors. 
 She was not approved of by her schoolmates, for she 
 would not learn ; besides she was very handsome. 
 They could not imagine what men could see to ad 
 mire in her. 
 
 She had one friend, however, a notable man in his 
 way, though he was only the minister of Mattapoisett, 
 where he was considered a queer old fellow. This 
 was the Rev. Thomas Robbins, who was known to an 
 tiquarians as the author of a " Historical Survey of 
 the First Planters of New England," and of several 
 sermons preached on special occasions. He took a 
 fancy to Miss Barstow when she was a child, and 
 gave her the range of his library, which was a large 
 one for a country minister to have, and which con 
 sisted chiefly of the classic works of the last 
 century. 
 
 She read Addison, Steele and Dr. Johnson, the 
 Tattler, the Spectator, and the Rambler ; the delect 
 able writings of Fielding, Richardson, Smollett and 
 Sterne, Tristram Shandy, Peregrine Pickle, Pamela 
 and Tom Jones. She read Sully's Memoirs and the 
 comedies of Sheridan ; if the comedies of Vanburgh 
 and Congreve were there ( but it is to be hoped not )
 
 i 7 6 Poets' ffomes. 
 
 she read those, too. She read hundreds, thousands 
 of volumes in the good doctor's library which was to 
 her a liberal education, and, indeed, the only educa 
 tion she ever had. 
 
 Such was the life of Elizabeth Barstow until her 
 sixteenth birthday, or thereabout, when she saw her 
 first live author. It was Mr. William Gilmore Simms, 
 of South Carolina, poet and novelist, who was being 
 lionized at Great Barrington, and whom she was to 
 know years afterwards. He was a shadowy link be 
 tween her and the foundry poet, if she had only 
 known it, for he wrote his poem of " Atalantas " 
 in Hingham, when " Reuben's boy " was about seven 
 years old. 
 
 Hingham was also the residence of another Ameri 
 can poet in the childhood of this boy, a Miss Fran 
 ces Locke, who lives in our poetical annals as Mrs. 
 Frances Sargent Osgood. 
 
 Mr. Stoddard had no consolation for the hardships 
 of his foundry life except in writing poetry, or what 
 he thought was poetry. He had one virtue not usually 
 possessed by young versifiers, he was in no hurry 
 to see himself in print. He filled a good many little 
 volumes with his metrical effusions, of which no 
 more than one was ever extant at the same time, for
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 177 
 
 as fast as he completed one he destroyed its prede 
 cessor. Finally he wrote something which seemed 
 not too bad to print, and printed it was in a weekly 
 magazine edited by Seba Smith, who was then in 
 vogue as the author of Major Jack Downing's Letters. 
 About this time he made the acquaintance of the Rev. 
 Ralph Hoyt, a minor American poet, who conde 
 scended to read his manuscripts, and contrived to 
 disgust him with them and with himself. This ac 
 quaintance somehow led to his knowing Mr. Park 
 Beiijamin, whose great newspaper he used to read 
 when a boy in the lawyer's offices, and who treated 
 him as an equal. 
 
 He sent one of his little manuscript volumes of 
 verse to N. P. Willis, the poet, who was editing the 
 "Home Journal," and he was kind enough to look 
 over it, and to express his opinion of it. 
 
 " I should think that the writer of this " (he wrote 
 in substance) " had genius enough to make a reputa 
 tion. Pruning, trimming and condensing is necessary 
 to make it what it should be, as the same labor was 
 necessary to Byron's genius, and to Moore's. It is 
 hard work to do, and ill-paid when done." 
 
 The good opinion of Mr. Willis encouraged the 
 foundry poet to do better work than he had yet done. 
 He was further encouraged about this time by Mr.
 
 178 Poets' Homes, 
 
 Lewis Gaylord Clarke, a genial, whole-souled man, 
 who was anxious to bring forward young writers in 
 " The Knickerbocker," and not at all anxious to pay 
 them. It was impecunious to all but the editor, who 
 had to live, even if his geniuses starved. 
 
 A wiser and better acquaintance was next made, 
 and with a notable writer and an excellent woman, Mrs. 
 Caroline M. Kirkland. She was interested in the 
 worker in iron, and as she was editing a magazine at 
 the time she published some of his poems in it. He 
 was a proud man when he at last earned ten dollars 
 by his genius, but a good deal of a donkey, for he at 
 once invested it in an accordeon for a young person 
 with whom he was infatuated. 
 
 His first literary acquaintance of his own age was 
 Mr. Bayard Taylor, who had made his first trip to 
 Europe, and had published an account of it in " Views 
 Afoot," and who was one of the editors of "The 
 Tribune." The acquaintance soon ripened into 
 friendship, as Mr. Stoddard has told the readers of 
 "Wide Awake" in his paper on the home of Mr. 
 Taylor. 
 
 What with writing in Mrs. Kirkland's magazine, 
 "The Knickerbocker," and other periodicals, the 
 simple-minded purchaser of accordeons saved up 
 enough money to do another foolish thing, namely : 
 to publish a little volume of his own verses.
 
 Richard Henry StoddarA. 179 
 
 He called them " Footprints." They were pleasantly 
 noticed in two or three magazines; one copy was 
 sold ; the edition was committed to the flames, and 
 there the matter ended. The foot of the young poet 
 left no print on the sands of time, but many weary 
 prints on the wet sands of the hated foundry. The 
 publication of his little volume, failure though it was, 
 made him somewhat known among literary people. It 
 introduced him to the notice of the great Dr. Rufus 
 Griswold, who sat like another Apollo on the summit 
 of Parnassus, and dispensed crowns to the poets of 
 America, 
 
 " Who wept with delight when he gave them a smile, 
 And trembled with fear at his frown." 
 
 He put the author of " Footprints " in a new edi 
 tion of his " Poets of America," and told the little 
 story of his life, more beautifully than I could ever 
 hope to, complimenting him on a quality which he 
 never possessed, "indomitable energy," and on the 
 impossible art of moulding his thoughts into the 
 symmetry of verse, while he moulded the molten 
 metal into shapes of grace. He was a fine writer, 
 was Dr. Griswold, and a judicious critic, but a knowl 
 edge of foundries was not one of his strong points. 
 He meant well, however, and was friendly to the young 
 man, whom he introduced to the Mrs. Leo Hunter of 
 the period, a young unmarried lady of Celtic and
 
 180 Poets" Homes. 
 
 American extraction, who wrote poetry and gave lit 
 erary reunions. There he became acquainted with 
 an elderly young woman who was somehow a friend 
 of Miss Elizabeth Barstow, of Mattapoisett, Mass., 
 whom he ought to know. He bowed, no doubt, at the 
 distinction in store for him, for was it not a distinction 
 for the son of a sailor to know the daughter of a 
 ship-builder ? 
 
 They finally met one summer evening at the house 
 of the elderly young person, but nothing remarkable 
 happened. It never does when it is expected to, and 
 when match-making minds try to lead up to it. Mr. 
 Stoddard and Miss Barstow were not apparently suited 
 to each other. He was a penniless young man of 
 twenty-five, good-looking, it was thought, with a knack 
 at writing verses, but ill-dressed, careless in his per 
 sonal appearance, and with no manners to speak of. 
 She was a young woman of about the same age, was 
 handsome, though a little faded, had a sharp tongue 
 and off-hand ways, a determination of her own, and 
 had been accustomed to be tenderly cared for all her 
 life. The only thing they shared in common was 
 love of books. 
 
 The young lady invited the young singer to her 
 father's house at Mattapoisett, to spend the Fourth of 
 July. They read and talked and walked and rode
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 181 
 
 together, and very odd riding it was on his part, for 
 he had not been on the back of a horse since he was 
 a boy in Abington. The something that was expected 
 to happen before happened now, neither quite knew 
 how. He thought that he had lost his heart, as the 
 saying is : she knew that she had not lost hers, but 
 she rather liked him, if only for his simplicity. 
 
 To cut the matter short, for courtship is a flat 
 affair, outside of novels, they made up such minds as 
 they had that they might possibly do worse than to 
 marry each other. 
 
 So they went off together one December morning, 
 in New York, and wandered into a fold, the shepherd 
 of which consented to unite these lost lambs. In 
 other words, they went to the Church of the Good 
 Shepherd, the pastor of which was the Rev. Ralph 
 Hoyt, who found it easier to marry the poet than to 
 praise his verses. 
 
 I don't know how the young husband and wife felt 
 when they were made one, but I know what the old 
 dramatist Middleton wrote about the feelings of a 
 husband, and I hope his beautiful lines reflect the 
 feelings of the Stoddards at this and all later times. 
 Here they are. 
 
 "I Tow near am I now to a hnppiness 
 That earth exceeds not I not another like it
 
 182 Poets' 1 Homes. 
 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth I 
 The violet bed's not sweeter." 
 
 Before Mr. Stoddard had married he had become 
 acquainted with that incomparable writer, Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne. He met him in his own house at Con 
 cord with a party of friends, one of whom had come 
 to talk with him about his old college chum, Franklin 
 Pierce, who was a candidate for the Presidency, and 
 whose Life he was to write. Mr. Pierce was elected, 
 and it seemed to Mr. Hawthorne that a young poet 
 who had married on nothing a year might like a sit 
 uation in the New York Custom House, so he ob 
 tained one for him. 
 
 He entered upon his official life the day before he 
 completed his twenty-eighth year, and he continued in 
 it for nearly seventeen years, devoting the best part 
 of his life to a thankless government. He had 
 charge of a room full of the strangest codgers alive ; 
 men fit for no other duties than he found or made for 
 them, and, indeed, most frequently unfit for those. 
 They were old, and lame, and they were incapable. 
 Most of them had seen better days; some of them 
 had been rich, and one or two had been millionaires.
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 183 
 
 Of this motley multitude he was the guide, philoso 
 pher and friend, the commander-in-chief of a very 
 
 MASTER LORIMER STODDARD. 
 
 awkward squad. But he made one friend, a young 
 gentleman whose friendship he still retains. 
 
 Being married, as I have said, he set resolutely to 
 to work to learn the only trade for which he seemed 
 fitted literature. He couldn't hope to live by writing
 
 184 Poets' Homes. 
 
 poetry, so he taught himself to write prose, and found 
 that he was either a slow teacher, or a slow scholar, 
 probably both. 
 
 The habit of writing is sometimes catching, as his 
 wife finally discovered when she caught herself pen 
 ning little essays, and poems, and stories, which she 
 brought to her husband in fear and trembling. She 
 had a fine intellect, but it was untrained, and all that 
 he could do for her was to show her how to train it. 
 She was not cursed with mediocrity, but had the mis 
 fortune to be original. Her growth was slow but 
 sure. She produced with labor, but what she pro 
 duced was worth the labor, and to-day she is the best 
 writer of blank verse of any woman in America. 
 
 Early one June morning, in the third year of their 
 married life, the Stoddards found that a man-child 
 had been sent to them. They thought him the most 
 beautiful boy that ever lived, and were not alone in 
 thinking him so. His face was as lovely as the face 
 of one of Raphael's angels ; his hair was like sun 
 shine, and his eyes there never were such heavenly 
 eyes before. The unfathomable blue of the summer 
 sky was shallow and pale beside them. And the 
 child was as good as he was beautiful. When he was 
 in his second summer he was taken down to Matta- 
 poisett by his mother and his nurse, and his father
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 185 
 
 tried to console himself during his absence by writ 
 ing a poem about a little picture which had been 
 taken of him. 
 
 Few poets' children have been more lovingly 
 hymned than little Willy Stoddard ( he was named 
 Wilson, after a favorite brother of his mother's ), un 
 less it was poor Hartley Coleridge in the frosty mid 
 night musings of his erratic father. 
 
 " I take his picture from my knee," sang the father 
 of little Willy Stoddard, one hot summer night in 
 New York, after he had been thinking of him and the 
 country house to which he had gone: 
 
 " I take his picture from my knee 
 And press it to my lips again j 
 I see an hundred in my brain, 
 
 And all of him, and dear to me. 
 
 " He nestles in his nurse's arms, 
 His young eyes winking in the light ; 
 I hear his sudden shriek at night, 
 
 Startled in dreams by vague alarms. 
 
 " We walk the floor, and hush his moan ; 
 Again he sleeps ; we kiss his brow , 
 I toss him on my shoulder now, 
 
 His Majesty is on his throne ! 
 
 " His kingly clutch is in my hair ; 
 He sees a rival in the glass -,
 
 1 86 Poets' Homes. 
 
 It stares and passes as we pass ; 
 It fades. I breathe the country air : 
 
 " I see a cottage leagues from here ; 
 A garden near ; some orchard trees ; 
 A leafy glimpse of creeping seas ; 
 
 And in the cottage something dear : 
 
 " A square of sunlight on the floor, 
 Blocked from the window ; in the squar? 
 A happy child with heavenly hair, 
 
 To whom the world is more and more. 
 
 " He sees the blue fly beat the pane, 
 Buzzing away the noontide hours ; 
 The terrace grass, the scattered flowers, 
 
 The beetles, and the beads of rain. 
 
 " He sees the gravelled walks below, 
 The narrow arbor draped with vines ; 
 The light that like an emerald shines, 
 
 The small bird hopping to and fro. 
 
 " He drinks their linked beauty in ; 
 They fill his thoughts with silent joy, 
 But now he spies a late-dropped toy, 
 
 And all his noisy pranks begin. 
 
 " They bear him to an upper room, 
 When comes the eve ; he hums for me, 
 Like some voluptuous drowsy bee, 
 
 That shuts his wings in honied gloom.
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, 187 
 
 " I see a shadow in a chair ; 
 I see a shadowy cradle go ; 
 I hear a ditty, soft and low ; 
 
 The mother and the child are there 1 
 
 " At length the balm of sleep is shed ; 
 One bed contains my bud and flower ; 
 They sleep, and dream, and hour by hour 
 
 Goes by, while angels watch the bed. 
 
 " Sleep on, and dream, ye blessed pair I 
 My prayers shall guard ye night and day ; 
 Ye guard me so, ye make me pray, 
 
 Ye make my happy life a prayer ! " 
 
 Just before Willy Stoddard was four years old there 
 came to keep him company in the flowery garden of 
 childhood, a little brother, with the same hair and 
 eyes as his own. He came on earth, however, only to 
 leave it after a few months' life. His father em 
 balmed his innocent memory in two little stanzas : 
 
 " I am followed by a spirit, 
 
 In my sorrow, and my mirth ; 
 'Tis the spirit of an infant, 
 
 Dying almost at its birth, 
 Unlamented, but how dear, 
 Since unseen, I know 'tis near I 
 
 1 Would, if only for a moment, 
 As I feel it, I could see.
 
 1 88 Poets' Homes. 
 
 In the light of heavenly beauty, 
 
 Sitting on its father's knee I 
 It would dry this hopeless tear, 
 Dropping now, it is so near 1 " 
 
 The Stoddards pursued the even tenor of their 
 way, he attending to his daily duties in the Custom 
 House, and now and then writing a lyric, just to keep 
 his hand in, and she attending to her duties as wife 
 and mother, and carefully cultivating her mind. Her 
 powers struck deeper and shot higher, and her stories 
 of New England life and character were marked by 
 keen insight and strange dramatic power. No other 
 American woman could have written them, for their 
 like was never written before, and has never been 
 written since, except by herself. The index to " Har 
 per's Magazine " will tell you their names, and where 
 to look for them. 
 
 The ninth anniversary of the marriage of the Stod 
 dards came and went, and they looked forward, if not 
 to happy days, which nobody could expect then, 
 for war had broken out between the North and South, 
 at least to a continuance of temperate happiness. 
 Six or seven years before, when Mr. Stoddard was 
 writing the small poems that he published under the 
 title of " Songs of Summer," he wrote from an imag 
 inary sorrow a little poem which he called "The 
 Shadow." Here is the first stanza :
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 189 
 
 " There is but one great sorrow, 
 
 All over the wide, wide world ; 
 But that in turn must come to all 
 The Shadow that moves behind the pall, 
 
 A flag that never is furled ! " 
 
 The great sorrow of his life came to him in Decem 
 ber, 1861. His little boy Willy, who was in his 
 seventh year, was taken ill on a Monday morning. 
 On Tuesday morning his father went down to the 
 Custom House in order to get excused for the day, on 
 account of his illness. He reached home early in the 
 forenoon and found the boy dead. A thunderbolt 
 dropped out of heaven at his feet could not have 
 startled him more than this sudden taking off of his 
 beautiful one. There was nothing serious in mortal 
 ity to him from that fatal day nothing ! For, as he 
 had sung ignorantly in "The Shadow," how igno- 
 rantly ! 
 
 " 'Tis a blow that we never recover, 
 A wound that never will heal 1 " 
 
 His friend Launt Thompson, who had made a me 
 dallion of the lad the previous summer, came to the 
 house that night and took a cast of his little dead hand. 
 That cast, the medallion, and a lock of curly golden 
 hair, are all that remind him that his son Willy ever 
 lived ; onlv these, and a sorrowful but immortal mem-
 
 tgo Poet? Homes. 
 
 ory. What was he was taken to Mattapoisett and 
 interred in an old burying-ground there. 
 
 His death nearly killed his mother, and if the hearts 
 of men could break would have broken the heart of his 
 father, who, at a later period, celebrated his glorious 
 little life and sudden death in the saddest verses that 
 he ever wrote ; verses much too sad for the young 
 readers of " Wide Awake " to see. 
 
 One December forenoon, not quite two years later, 
 Mr. Stoddard, who was excused as before for the day, 
 sat down at his table and wrote a little poem about a 
 bird which had flown to his humble house. 
 
 THE BIRD. 
 
 ' Out of the deeps of heaven 
 
 A bird has flown to my door, 
 As twice, in the ripening summers, 
 
 Its mates have flown before. 
 
 " Why it has flown to my dwelling, 
 
 Not it nor I may know ; 
 And only the silent angels 
 
 Can tell when it shall go ! 
 
 " That it will not straightway vanish. 
 
 But fold its wings with me, 
 And sing in the greenest branches 
 
 Till the axe is laid to the tree, 
 
 " Is the prayer of my love and terror, 
 For my soul is sore distrest,
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 191 
 
 Lest I wake some dreadful morning, 
 And find but its empty nest." 
 
 When I mentioned Mrs. Stoddard's poems and 
 stories I should have spoken of her novels, "The 
 Morgesons," "Two Men," and "Temple House." 
 They are the most original and most powerful novels 
 ever written by an American woman, and, like her 
 shorter stories, grip hold of the stern, hard realities 
 of New England life. She has no superior, unless it 
 be Hawthorne, as a student of character, and as a 
 delineator of live men and women. She can be 
 humorous, and she can be pathetic. She is thought to 
 have more of the quality called genius than her hus 
 band, who certainly has more talent than she. 
 
 His poetry is his best work, but one cannot live by 
 poetry, which must be to most poets its own exceed 
 ing great reward. He taught himself to write prose, 
 and produced two little books for children, " Adven 
 tures in Fairyland," and " Town and Country." The 
 children of twenty years ago liked them, though he 
 could never bring himself to do so. He wrote a " Life 
 of Humboldt," for which he wonders at himself now, 
 and he edited a series of " Bric-a brae " books, which 
 everybody thought good. He has contributed to all 
 the magazines in the country, including "Wide
 
 192 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Awake, and to more newspapers than he can remem 
 ber, and on all subjects, except theology and politics. 
 
 I have said nothing so far of the little bird that 
 flew to his door one December forenoon, fourteen 
 years ago. He has not flown, like his brother Willy, 
 and his nameless little brother, who died so young, 
 but is as live a bird to-day as any that ever twittered 
 from the summer boughs. He is thought to be a 
 clever lad, is Master Lorimer Stoddard, though -he has 
 the good sense not to think so himself. He;-, tall 
 for his age, slight of build, addicted to reading every 
 thing except poetry, for which he cares nothing, 
 greatly to the joy of his father, who thinks that there 
 are altogether too many poets now, especially Stod- 
 Jards. If he has any talent, after that of trying to 
 have his own way all the time, it is probably for paint 
 ing. His father knows that there are too many 
 painters, and hopes that he will never be one. His 
 mother called him "Lolly Dinks " when he was young, 
 and wrote an amusir.g little book about him, and his 
 odd fancies and doings. 
 
 As I have given you a glimpse of Willy Stoddard, 
 as his father saw him in his thoughts, in his second 
 summer at Mattapoisett, it is only fair to Lorry Stod 
 dard to give you a glimpse of him, and his father and 
 mother, in their home in New York.
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 103 
 
 Here is what he was to his father four years ago : 
 
 THE FOLLOWER. 
 
 * We have a youngster in the house- 
 
 A. little man of ten ; 
 Who dearest to his mother is 
 
 Of all God's little men. 
 In-doors and out he clings to her, 
 
 He follows up and down ; 
 He steals his slender hand in hers, 
 
 He plucks her by the gown. 
 ' Why do you cling to me so, child ? 
 
 You track me everywhere ; 
 You never let me be alone.' 
 
 And he, with serious air, 
 Answered, as closer still he drew, 
 4 My feet were made to follow you.' 
 
 "Two years before the boy was born, 
 
 Another child, of seven, 
 Whom Heaven had lent to us awhile, 
 
 Went back again to Heaven. 
 He came to fill his brother's place, 
 
 And bless our failing years ; 
 The good God sent him down in love, 
 
 To dry our useless tears. 
 I think so, mother, for I hear 
 
 In what the child has said 
 A meaning that he knows not of, 
 
 A message from the dead. 
 He answered wiser than he knew, 
 ' My feet were made to follow you.' 
 
 " Come here, my child, and sit with me 
 Your head upon my breast ; 
 
 You are the last of all my sons, 
 \nd you must be the best.
 
 rg4 Poets" Homes. 
 
 I low much I love you, you may guess 
 
 When, grown a man like me, 
 You sit as I am sitting now, 
 
 Your child upon your knee. 
 Think of me then, and what I said 
 
 (And practiced when I could), 
 'Tis something to be great and wise, 
 
 'Tis better to be good. 
 O, say to all things good and true, 
 ' My feet were made to follow you.' 
 
 "Come here, my wife, and sit by me, 
 
 And place your hand in mine 
 (And yours, my child), while I have you 
 
 'Tis wicked to repine. 
 We've had our share of sorrows, dear, 
 
 We've had our graves to fill ; 
 But, thank the good God overhead, 
 
 We have each other still ! 
 We've nothing in the world beside, 
 
 For we are only three ; 
 Mother and child, my wife and child, 
 
 How dear you are to me ! 
 I know indeed, I always knew, 
 My feet were made to follow you I " 
 
 The Stoddards live in New York, as I have said, in 
 an unpretending little house in East Fifteenth Street. 
 If I should attempt to characterize their home in a 
 few words, I should say that it was nearly such a 
 home as all authors ought to have. It is plainly fur 
 nished, but is full of good books, and good pictures 
 most of which were painted by their artist friends. 
 The books are all English, of course, for the Stod
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 195 
 
 dards have only such education as they have given 
 themselves ; but they are all good, " books which are 
 books," as Charles Lamb used to say. 
 
 You see what the library looks like in the spirited 
 drawing which Mr. Alexander Laurie has made of it, 
 though you miss the color in the rooms, in the Tur 
 key rug on the floor, in the pictures on the walls, and 
 in the china vases and the like on the mantel and the 
 writing-desk. 
 
 There is another room over the library which is 
 full of books and engravings. Mr. Stoddard keeps 
 there his collection of English poetry, new and old, 
 which is an excellent one, his friends say when they 
 consult it, as Mr. Stedman did when he was writing 
 his "Victorian Poets." He keeps his autographs 
 there also, and his books which once belonged to 
 great men. He could show you, if he would, the, 
 books of Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Southey, 
 Lamb, Leigh Hunt, Campbell, Gray, Pope, Sterne, 
 Churchill, and many more famous English poets ; and 
 he could show you, if he would, a mahogany box full 
 of manuscripts from Cowper and Shenstone, and 
 Sheridan and Moore, and Shelley and Sir Walter 
 Scott and Burns and Barry Cornwall, and Leigh Hunt 
 and all the famous American poets of the present 
 century. He could also show you the hair of John 
 Milton.
 
 MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD, AND 
 MISS MARY N. PRESCOTT. 
 
 THE valley of the Merrimac is one of the most 
 lovely and blessed regions on the earth. It is 
 also one of the best-beloved. No one who was not 
 bom beside its magic waters can realize the intensity oi 
 affection with which the hearts of its children cling to 
 these broad meadows, rocky clefts, rich intervales, and 
 wooded hills. The sons and daughters of the Merri 
 mac are found through all the wide world, and holding 
 high places in almost every empire ; yet the river of 
 their childhood keeps its charm around them, and 
 wins them back, at last, to sleep upon its shores. 
 Like Whittier, in " Revisited," they come joyfully, 
 chanting : 
 
 "Onct again, O beautiful river, 
 
 Hear our greetings, and take our thanks ; 
 
 Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrims 
 Throng to the Jordan's sacred banks." 
 
 196
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 197 
 
 And no one ever accuses us of extravagant love ; for 
 the charm of our valley falls irresistibly on all who 
 enter its blooming borders. 
 
 The famous Brissot, when standing on Pipestave 
 Hill ; the exiled Louis Philippe, riding by the very 
 spot that is our poets' home ; the late Chief Justice 
 Chase, traveling the same road, numbers of great 
 men, have united in calling the scenery unsurpassed. 
 Bayard Taylor and who has seen more lands ? 
 while gazing from Powow Hill, a lofty mount pitched 
 over against the home of Whittier, says that "for 
 quiet beauty it excels anything I have ever seen." 
 
 From such surroundings poetry flows as naturally 
 as the river waters, and, while the most luxuriant 
 crop of the Merrimac Valley has been its noble men 
 and women, among them all, its poets have taken a 
 lofty rank. Hannah Gould, Lucy Hooper, and a score 
 of tuneful voices, have made its beauty vocal ; and, to 
 crown them all, most loved and revered, comes the 
 sweet and tender Quaker singer, \Y!iittier. 
 
 But not the least of the glories of the Merrimac are 
 the two sisters, of whom I am to tell you, and their 
 home. 
 
 On entering the river from the sea, for our poets' 
 home, like Venice, should be approached by water, 
 we pass the sandy bar between walls of breakers,
 
 igS Poets' Homes. 
 
 which form the white-lipped river-mouth. Once in 
 side, the stream broadens into a great bay, and the 
 scene is one of surpassing beauty. On each side the 
 fragrant salt-marshes stretch far back into the coun 
 try, " the low, green prairies of the sea," covered with 
 picturesque hay-cocks, standing on stilts ; while in and 
 out flow and waver the Black Rock Creek, and Plum 
 Island River, like winding gleams of light, and up 
 the wide stream lies the shining city full in view. 
 
 Few sights are more charming than that of New- 
 buryport from the river, when the Eastern sun is glow 
 ing in its face. The houses rise back from the shore, 
 tier beyond tier, until " The Ridge " is crowned with 
 stately mansions, and all the whiteness is softened 
 by that dense foliage which is the joy and pride of the 
 city. 
 
 The tide is on the flood, and sweeps us swiftly along 
 the narrowing river, past three miles of wharves and 
 rambling buildings ; past the great ship-yards (what po 
 etry there is in a ship-yard ! ) ; past little islands with 
 quaint old houses ; the shore grows wild and rocky, 
 hung thick with woods, when a sudden turn 
 in the river opens a vision that is like a dream 
 of fairyland. Set against a background of forest, 
 hills, and quiet waters, lies a lovely island in mid 
 stream. From the left hand of the river
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 199 
 
 a suspension bridge hung high overhead on immense 
 chains ; while one, partly covered and wholly pictur 
 esque, stretches away to the Salisbury shore. Flank 
 ing the island, beyond it, and high in air, the tower 
 of "Hawkswood " peers over the pines, and Laurel Hill 
 lifts up its castellated mansion. 
 
 The swift tide is parted by a low point of meadow, 
 where the grass is kept beautifully bright and green 
 by being afloat half the time ; and straight back into 
 the heart of the island opens a shadowed glade. 
 God's glory rests on the island : for it is covered with 
 magnificent pines and firs, " an house not made with 
 hands," worthy to be the tabernacle of the Lord. 
 Hiding deep in this loveliness, the quaint roof and 
 broad piazzas of a great brown dwelling throw out 
 their hints of welcome through the trees. 
 
 This is Deer Island, the home of Mrs. Harriet 
 Prescott Spofford and Miss Mary N. Prescott. It is 
 the very spot of which Whittier sings : 
 
 " Deer Island's rocks and fir-trees threw 
 Their sunset shadows o'er them." 
 
 But whether sunset or sunrise, all who pass the 
 island, like " Goodman Macey " and his wife, must 
 come under its delicious shadows ; for all around its 
 rocky rim the great pines drop their cones into the 
 river.
 
 ?<id Poets' Homes. 
 
 Let us hug the bank and, drifting softly up the 
 stream, use neither oar nor sail, for we must not scar 
 the burnished face of the waters. One ripple comes 
 by us from the point, wavering and musical, but its 
 form soon dies along the stream, and its spirit seems 
 to have flown into the pines overhead, where it sings 
 in whispers like one lulling a babe into sleep at 
 the faintest thought of a far-off breeze. 
 
 The water is a magic mirror, for, looking closely at 
 the reflections, we see through them and beneath 
 them, clear depths, cool liquid nooks among 
 sunken rocks waving their bright green flags in the 
 rushing tide. 
 
 A pebbly beach fringes the cliffs for a little way, 
 the pines still shadow it, however ; a rustic seat peeps 
 out from the brink ; a heavy gloom falls athwart the 
 river, and the great bridge glides overhead. Here a 
 bold rock thrusts its face over the stream, and a great 
 fir on its brow leans out, almost horizontal, as if, like 
 Narcissus, it was in love with its shadow, and ready 
 to plunge into the deep below. 
 
 Sloping clefts in the rocks are cushioned thick with 
 pine needles, and little seats hold out their arms and 
 certainly say " Come." 
 
 In one cleft, near the upper point of the island, we 
 will moor our boat and land. Every step now is a
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 201 
 
 delight. Under foot are delicate mosses and soft 
 turf, and overhead the white clouds play hide-and-seek 
 through the trees. The view from this western point 
 falls like the hush of Sabbath evening over the spirit. 
 
 No opening is seen in the river, for half a mile be 
 yond it makes a sudden bend to the northward. On 
 the left bank the perfect beauty of " The Pines," a 
 noble grove, comes down to bathe its feet in the 
 cooling waters ; while, farther up stream, " Moulton's 
 Castle," once the home of Sir Edward Thornton, 
 British Minister at Washington, dominates the whole 
 landscape from its lofty perch, and, far beyond, the 
 rolling hills of Amesbury show their serried fields of 
 corn. Around the foot of the "Castle," too, but 
 out of sight from the island, is the grove of " The 
 Laurels," made famous by Whittier in several of his 
 poems. On the Salisbury bank of the river, also, 
 the trees come down to the water, but here many oaks 
 are mingled with the pines, and the effect is delight 
 ful to the eye. 
 
 One gigantic pine stands on the very point, 
 watching the bending river play the tide ripples 
 around its feet. This is the " Hawkswood " estate, 
 and the tower of the stone chateau lifts its black head 
 over the forest. It was built by Rev. J. C. Fletcher, 
 the author and lecturer ; and here passed many of the
 
 202 
 
 Poets' 1 Homes. 
 
 girlhood days of his daughter, Miss Julia Fletcher, 
 who wrote the recent " Kismet," in the "No Name " 
 series. 
 
 Deer Island is seven acres large, 
 and we have yet trodden but 
 one part. We will cross the 
 highway that cuts it in twain, 
 and enter the grove on the 
 
 DEER ISLAND SUSPENSION BRIDGE.
 
 Mrs. Spofford and Miss Prescott. 203 
 
 eastern side. Just across the river is that perfect 
 model of a school for boys, " Eagle Nest," with its 
 pleasant grounds, and down the stream the striped 
 roofs of Eagle Island's arbors shine through the 
 woods. 
 
 But the glory of this end of our island lies all about 
 us. It is in the towering pines and firs, every one of 
 which is a joy and a wonder. They are most musical 
 poems, grown from God's love and bounty, stately 
 and majestic, for they have "fed on honey-dew, and 
 drunk the milk of Paradise." Everywhere we ram 
 ble, they outspread their arms over us and murmur 
 " Benedicite." It is almost as if we " heard the voice 
 of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of 
 the day;" and surely, they are expecting Him, for, 
 like the throng before the gates of the Holy City, they 
 have cast their garments on the ground for Him to 
 tread upon, and all living things, even the tiny moss- 
 cups at their roots, do cry "'Hosanna! " 
 
 The pine-needles lie everywhere beneath our feet, 
 and our voices take the hint and fall into a hushed 
 whisper. Some of the trees were born twins, and 
 have never been separated by time or tempest, grow 
 ing side by side from the same root. 
 
 Surely no happier spot can be found under heaven 
 where one could lie to dream, and wake, and then to
 
 204. Poets' Homes. 
 
 dream again ; to catch, in his half-unconscious mo 
 ments of awakening, 
 
 "That old voice of waters, of birds, and <_f breeze. 
 The dip of the wild fowl, the rustling of trees ! " 
 
 and then, sliding down the gulfs of sleep, to 
 
 "Hear in his dreams the river's sound 
 Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, 
 The unforgotten swell and roar 
 Of waves on the familiar shore." 
 
 These rocks could tell a wondrous story if they 
 would ; and even now, while we drowse, there come 
 the trumpet-notes of Whittier's song : 
 
 "But harkl from wood and rock flung back, 
 What sound comes up the Merrimac ? 
 What sea-worn barks are those which throw 
 The light spray from each rushing pro\v ? 
 Have they not in the North Sea's bla.-t 
 Bowed to the waves the straining mnst ? 
 Their frozen sails the !ow, pale sun 
 Of Thule's night has shone upon ; 
 Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep 
 Round icy drifts and headland steep. 
 Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters 
 Have watched them fading o'er the waters, 
 Lessening through driving mists and spray, 
 Like white-winged sea-birds on their way." 
 
 For ages before Columbus sat, a fair-haired boy, on 
 the wharf at Genoa, looking into the blue Mediter
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 205 
 
 nmean, and dreaming of new worlds, the fierce 
 vikings of Norseland are said to have sailed past our 
 island ; and, not far from here, a fragment of a statue 
 has been found, which some attribute to their hands. 
 But we want to see the house, although just now we 
 are hardly conscious of it, we are so " steeped in the 
 happy summer weather ; " and if we stay here long 
 we shall forget all care, like the " Lotus Eaters," and 
 feel, with Miss Prescott in her song, that 
 
 " Life is enough, no matter whether 
 One be a bird or a flower 1 " 
 
 The dwelling is one of those grand, old-fashioned 
 farm-houses, built to last as long as the island, and 
 when folks had plenty of room and plenty of timber 
 to put round it. It used to be a tavern, also, and it 
 actually seems to laugh as we come up to it, with 
 memories of the jollity it has seen in days gone by. 
 But there is a different air about it now. It has been 
 remodeled somewhat, without and within ; and, while 
 there is no lack of laughter around it, it stands with a 
 quiet and stately grace. There is store of joy there 
 now, but it is different ; as the song that steals out 
 into the hushed night from the poet's lattice is differ 
 ent from that which makes the rafters ring over the 
 bowl of cider.
 
 io6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 1 1 was hard to pass the piazza before, for surely 
 none ever gave a broader welcome. It actually looks 
 like its master, generous and genial. We cross 
 over and enter the spacious doorway. Sitting here in 
 the quiet, and looking out on the beauty beyond, it 
 would almost seem nothing strange if three shining 
 ones should appear, as they did to Abram when he 
 sat in the door of his tent on the plains of Mamre. 
 
 But we must turn about. What a splendid, hall ! 
 (I know that is a " woman's word," but nothing else 
 will do.) To me it is the noblest part of the house. 
 The staircase is broad and quaint, and above, it is open 
 clear through the house, giving it an air of spacious 
 ness and grandeur. Below, too, it is wide and cool, 
 a most delicious retreat in the heat of the day, a 
 perfect temple for quiet, unspoken worship in the 
 hush of evening. To the left of the hall is the par 
 lor ; and, once within, it is hard to get away, there 
 is so much to feast the eye, and, if I may say it, so 
 much to charm the mind ; for here the family sit and 
 make the home. Of course you would expect choice 
 books and pictures ; and so there are, one of the 
 latter a sketch from Mrs. Spofford's " Sir Rohan's 
 Ghost," drawn and given by the sister of Mr. How- 
 ells; and another, a grand, terrible old painting of 
 the tragic scene in the life of Chris'" a dark piece,
 
 Mrs. Spofford and Miss Prescott. 207 
 
 which glooms impressively by candlelight. Bur the 
 glory of the parlor, which fills the whole breadth ot 
 the house and is very spacious is the fire-place. 
 This is very unique and rich. It is made of the 
 " precious serpentine," a green, veined rock of the 
 loveliest tints, and which takes a very high polish. It 
 was taken from Mr. Spofford's quarry at the " Devil's 
 Basin," in Old Newbury, and it is the first time, I 
 think, that the stone has ever been put to this most 
 appropriate use. 
 
 From the rear of the parlor opens the library, and 
 from that Mr. Spofford's office. The library is well 
 stored from floor to ceiling, and very attractive with 
 books, busts and pictures. Just the place for one to 
 sit in, with a book across the knees, and look out 
 of the window ; for a perfect flood of beauty is out 
 side, and it would be a very interesting volume, or a 
 very hard task, that could keep my eyes from roaming, 
 in there. 
 
 One picture in the library I must speak of, for love 
 of " auld acquaintance." It is an engraving of Hor 
 ace Vernet's " Le Poste du Desert ; " and many a 
 time in my boyhood's days I have stood before it, and 
 forgot all else while I watched the great swing of the 
 camel's feet, and listened to hear their soft fall on the 
 Saharun sands, or gazed into the swart face of the
 
 2o8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Bedouin rider. With the rest of the house we have 
 nothing to do, for you know we were not invited 
 to " bed and board." 
 
 If we go back into the parlor we shall see the 
 family ; and those you are the most interested in are 
 the two poets. Mr. Spofford is himself a poet, and 
 has written strong and graceful verse ; but with him 
 it is only the bead upon the wine-cup ; his profession 
 forces him to drink at other fountains. You and I 
 would not think them as pleasant "Blackstone" 
 and " Coke on Littleton ; " for he is a lawyer, you 
 know. 
 
 There is a brother, too, who is a poet if he 
 would be ; I well remember, in our school-boy days, 
 his reading a poem of rare melody and rhythm. You 
 see it is a family of genius. Indeed, it has been a 
 family of marked intellectuality all the way down. 
 
 The Prescotts can boast but never do of as 
 noble a lineage as any of our good old New England 
 families. Sir William Pepperell, Sir John Brydges, 
 and a host of worthies, were their ancestors. Pres- 
 cott, the historian, was a cousin ; and Mr. Evarts, our 
 Secretary of State, and the famous Hoar brothers, of 
 Massachusetts, are nearer still. 
 
 Miss Prescott has very kindly given you her por 
 trait, for which we are much indebted to her ; so J
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 209 
 
 only speak of her poetry, after telling you that she is 
 tall and slender, with beautiful corn-silk hair, and 
 quiet, charming ways. 
 
 Thousands who regard Mrs. Spofford with love and 
 reverence, and yet can never meet her, long to look 
 upon the semblance of her face. But no entreaties 
 
 Miss MARY N. PRESCOTT. 
 
 can prevail upon her to " have her picture taken." 
 And truly, no hard-lined photograph can fitly repro 
 duce the charm of her face, for this lies largely in 
 its ever-varying and sympathetic expression, and, 
 above all, in its deep spirituality. Having once, in 
 deed, looked into her eyes, you can never forget 
 them.
 
 210 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Have you ever seen the face of Mrs. Browning? 
 I do not say that Mrs. Spofford looks just like her \ 
 but I do say that I never look on the face of the one 
 but the face of the other comes instantly before me. 
 There is a strong resemblance between the cast of 
 head and features in the two poets ; and very much of 
 that tender, spiritual depth which made Mrs. Brown 
 ing so beautiful is seen in the face of our own singer. 
 There is reason for it, indeed ; for Mrs. Spofford 
 has a deep religious nature, making her genius glow 
 like the coal from off the holy altar, which touched 
 the lips of the prophet, and led him to glorious song. 
 
 Mrs. Spofford has a very light complexion, and is 
 of medium height, though her delicate and slender 
 figure makes her seem tall. Or is it a peculiar charm 
 of carriage that gives this impression ? For Milton's 
 verse, 
 
 " Grace was in all her steps," 
 
 may well be applied to her, whose pace is rapid, 
 and yet with so little apparent motion that she seems 
 to glide rather than to walk. 
 
 Mrs. Spofford has not written as much for young 
 folks as her sister, but her stories and poems meant 
 for you I doubt not you have read over and over 
 again. You know she stands at the head of the 
 "word-painters ;" so far, indeed, as to be solitary and
 
 Mrs. Spoffbrd and Miss Prescott. 211 
 
 alone. She writes as your editor says with the 
 brush. Her work has the glow of a New England 
 autumn ; at times it is wild as New England's " Sep 
 tember Gale," and then suddenly there will fall upon 
 it the sacred hush of a New England Sabbath. 
 
 As specimens of the "word-painting" for which 
 Mrs. Spofford is so justly famous, read that account 
 of the night on the lake, in " Midsummer and May." 
 
 P Ever and anon they passed under the lee of some 
 island, and the heavy air grew full of idle night- 
 sweetness ; the waning moon, with all its sad and 
 alien power hung low, dun, malign, and distant, a 
 coppery blotch on the rich darkness of heaven. ( They 
 floated slowly, still ; now and then she dipped a hand 
 into the cool current, now and then he drew in his 
 oars, and, bending forward, dipped his hand with 
 hers. 1 The stars retreated in a pallid veil that 
 dimmed their beams. Faint lights streamed up the 
 sky, the dark yet clear and delicious. They paused 
 motionless in the shelter of a steep rock ; over them a 
 wild vine hung and swayed its long wreaths in the 
 water, a sweet-brier starred with fragrant sleeping 
 buds climbed and twisted, and tufts of ribbon-grass 
 fell forward and streamed in the indolent ripple ; be 
 neath them the lake, lucid as some dark crystal
 
 212 
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 sheeted with olive transparence a bottom of yellow 
 sand ; here a bream poised on slowly waving fins, as 
 
 if dreaming of motion, or a perch 
 
 flashed its red fire from one hollow 
 
 to another. The shadow lifted a degree, the eye 
 
 penetrated to farther regions; a bird piped wanly,
 
 Mrs. Spofford and Miss Fresco tt. 213 
 
 then freely, a second and then a third answered 
 a fourth took up the tale, blue-jay and thrush, 
 cat-bird and bobolink, wings began to dart about 
 them, the world to rustle overhead. Near and far 
 the dark pines grew instinct with sound, the shores 
 and heavens blew out gales of melody, the air broke 
 up in music. He lifted his oars silently ; she caught 
 the sweet-brier, and, lightly shaking it, a rain of dew- 
 drops dashed with deepest perfume sprinkled them ; 
 they moved on. 1 A thin mist breathed from the lake, 
 steamed round the boat, and lay like a white coverlet 
 upon the water ; a light wind sprang up and blew it 
 in long rags and ribbons, lifted and torn, and stream 
 ing out of sight. ""jAll the air was pearly, the sky 
 opaline, the water now crisply emblazoned with a dark 
 and splendid jewelry, the graved-work of a sap 
 phire ; a rosy fleece sailed across their heads, some 
 furnace glowed in the east behind the trees, long 
 beams fell resplendently through and lay beside vast 
 shadows, and giant firs stood black and intense 
 against a red and risen sun ; they trailed with one 
 oar through a pad of buds, all unaware of change, 
 stole from the overhanging thickets through a walled 
 pass, where, on the open lake, the broad silent yellow 
 light crept from bloom to bloom and awoke them 
 with a touch. How perfectly they put off sleep! with
 
 214 Poets' Homes. 
 
 what a queenly calm displayed their spotless snow, 
 their priceless gold, and shed abroad their match 
 less scent ! 
 
 "He twined his finger round a slippery serpent-stem, 
 turned the crimson underside of the floating pavilion 
 and brought up a waxen wonder from its throne to hang 
 like a star in the black braids on her temple. A.n 
 hour's harvesting among the nymphs, in this rich at 
 mosphere of another world, and with a loaded boat 
 they returned to shore again." 
 
 This is poetry that haunts the memory, like a 
 sweet unknown voice heard in the night, weaving a 
 song familiar and filled with some undying joy of our 
 far-off days. 
 
 But I like even better her sea-scenes, and in these 
 she surpasses all women who have ever written. Mrs. 
 Spofford is a genuine product of our New England 
 coaot. The east winds have blown her through and 
 through, not to chill her powers, but to sweep the 
 chords of her heart into a rare, rich melody, now 
 soft and dying, now wild and crescent to which the 
 glorious sea itself delights to thunder its bass before 
 her feet. She rides the sea, that soft, sleek, pur 
 ring monster, with hidden claws and terrible fangs, 
 as Una rode the lion. One can almost hear her say 
 ing, with Byron,
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 215 
 
 " The waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his master." 
 
 Let us turn to Mrs. Spofford's story of " The South 
 Breaker," which is one of those breakers that we 
 passed as we came into the Merrimac on our way to 
 her island home. 
 
 "There was the Cape sparkling miles and miles 
 across the way, unconcerned that he whose firm foot 
 had rung last on its flints should ring there no 
 more ; there was the beautiful town lying large and 
 warm along the river ; here gay crafts went darting 
 about like gulls, and there up the channel sped a 
 large one with all her canvass flashing in the sun, and 
 shivering a little sprit-sail in the shadow as she went; 
 fawning in upon my feet came the foam from the 
 South Breaker, that still perhaps cradled Faith and 
 Gabriel. But as I looked, my eye fell, and there 
 came the sea-scenes again, other scenes than this, 
 coves and corners of other coasts, sky-girt regions of 
 other waters. The air was soft that April day, and I 
 thought of the summer calms ; and with that rose long 
 sheets of stillness, far out from any strand, purple 
 beneath the noon ; fields slipping close in shore, eme 
 rald backed and scaled with sunshine ; long sleepy 
 swells that hid the light in their hollows, and came
 
 116 Poets' Homes. 
 
 creaming along the cliffs. And if upon these broke 
 suddenly a wild glimpse of some storm careering over 
 a merciless mid-ocean, of a dear dead face tossing up 
 on the surge, and snatched back again into the 
 depths, of mad wastes rushing to tear themselves to 
 fleece above clear shallows and turbid sandbars, 
 they melted and were lost in peaceful glimmers of the 
 moon on distant flying foam-wreaths, in solemn mid 
 night tides chanting under hushed heavens, in twilight 
 stretches kissing twilight slopes, in rosy morning 
 waves flocking up the singing shores. And sitting so, 
 with my lids still fallen, I heard a quick step on the 
 beach, and a voice that said ' Georgie ! ' and I looked, 
 and a figure, red-shirted, towered beside me, and a 
 face, brown and bearded and tender, bent above me. 
 "Oh! it was Dan!" 
 
 Much of Mrs. Spofford's work as much of 
 Whittier's also receives thus its local coloring from 
 the peculiarities of our neighborhood. To all who 
 know our woods and waters, our quiet or storm-blown 
 coast, her enthralling pictures carry sweet or terrible 
 secrets to which other eyes must be dimmed. 
 
 The "South Breaker" lies off one end of Plum 
 Island, and is easily reached with dry feet at low 
 tide. Only the other night I stood on the farthest
 
 Mrs. Spqffbrd and Miss Prescott. 217 
 
 point, and saw the moon burst through the fog-clouds 
 in broken masses of lurid red, melting into one per 
 fect globe as the fog moved on. 
 
 But if Mrs. Spofford writes with such terrible vigor 
 of the sea, when she crosses the narrow strip of sand 
 which makes Plum Island she leaves the wildness of 
 the waste of waters behind her, and her voice falls 
 low and musical as the winding river among the 
 sedges. Let us hear her as she sings " Inside Plum 
 Island." It is but half a mile from Plum Island 
 River to the fierce Breaker ; yet how vast a change 
 in the tones of her harp ! 
 
 1 We floated in the idle breeze, 
 
 With all our sails a-shiver ; 
 The shining tide came softly through, 
 
 And filled Plum Island River. 
 
 " The shining tide stole softly up 
 
 Across the wide green splendor, 
 ^reek swelling creek till all at once 
 
 The marshes made surrender. 
 
 'And clear the flood of silver swung 
 
 Between the brimming edges, 
 /xnd now the depths were dark, and now 
 
 The fioat slid o'er the sedges. 
 
 fc And here a yellow sand spit foamed 
 
 ^ mid the great sea meadows, 
 Aiid nere the slumberous waters gloomed 
 
 L icrd in emerald shadows.
 
 ti8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Around the sunny distance rose 
 A blue and hazy highland, 
 
 And winding down our winding way 
 The sand hills of Plum Island 
 
 "The windy dunes that hid the sea 
 
 For many a dreary acre, 
 And muffled all its thundering fall 
 Along the wild South Breaker. 
 
 " Beneath our keel the great sky arched 
 
 Its liquid light and azure ; 
 We swung between two heavens, ensphcrecf 
 
 Within their charmed embrasure. 
 
 ' Broadly the bare brown Hundreds rose, 
 The herds their hollows keeping, 
 
 And clouds of wings about our mast 
 From Swallowbanks were sweeping. 
 
 " While evermore the Bluff before 
 
 Grew greenly on our vision, 
 Lifting beneath its waving boughs 
 
 Its grassy slopes Elysian. 
 
 1 ' Here all day long the summer sea 
 Creams murmuring up the shingle ; 
 
 Here, all day long, the airs of earth 
 With airs of heaven mingle. 
 
 * Singing we went our happy way, 
 Singing old songs, nor noted
 
 Mrs. Sp afford and Miss Prescott. 219 
 
 Another voice that with us sang," 
 As wing and wing we floated, 
 
 " Till hushed, we listened, while the air 
 
 With music still was beating, 
 Voice answering tuneful voice, again 
 
 The words we sang repeating. 
 
 " A flight of fluting echoes, sent 
 
 With elfin carol o'er us 
 More sweet than bird-song in the prime 
 
 Rang out the sea-blown chorus. 
 
 " Behind those dunes the storms had heaped 
 
 In all fantastic fashion, 
 Who syllabled our songs in strains 
 
 Remote from human passion ? 
 
 " What tones were those that caught our own 
 Filtered through light and distance, 
 
 And tossed them gayly to and fro 
 With such a sweet insistence ? 
 
 " One standing eager in the prow 
 Blew out his bugle cheerly, 
 
 And far and wide their horns replied 
 More silverly and clearly. 
 
 " And falling down the falling tide, 
 Slow and more slowly going, 
 
 Flown far, flown far, flown faint and 
 We heard their horns still blowing.
 
 22O Poets' Homes. 
 
 " In vain at night we sought the sound 
 
 Stars over us and under 
 Through all that watery wilderness 
 
 Building a world of wonder ; 
 
 " In vain our lingering halloo, 
 
 Our roundelay untiring, 
 No silver cry chimed far or nigh 
 
 Of all that silver choiring. 
 
 " O, never since that magic morn 
 Those strains the boatman follows, 
 
 Or piping from the sandy hills, 
 Or bubbling from the hollows. 
 
 " Yet long as summer breezes blow 
 
 Waves murmur, rushes quiver, 
 Those warbling echoes everywhere 
 
 Will haunt Plum Island River ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Spofford's descriptions are always faithful to 
 nature. She paints scenes as they are, then calls 
 up their souls for us to commune with. That is a 
 true incident of the echo ; on the way to " The BlulT " 
 this echo was found never noted before among 
 the sand-dunes ; but on the return it refused to an 
 swer, and has been silent ever since. There is one of 
 her poems which has always been a favorite of mine 
 and I want to quote it wholly ; because, like well- 
 woven music, not a tone can be dropped without 
 breaking the chord. It will show you, too, how she
 
 Mrs. Spofford and Miss Prescott. 221 
 
 goes deep down and through the things of sense, 
 piercing to the spirit and turning the light of her 
 luminous eyes upon its secrets. You cannot yet un 
 derstand the full depth of this poem, but as you grow 
 older you will all have the experience no morta! 
 can escape it : 
 
 LISTENING. 
 
 " Her white hand flashes on the strings, 
 
 Sweeping a swift and silver chord, 
 And wild and strong the great harp rings 
 
 Its throng of throbbing notes abroad : 
 Music and moonlight make a bloom 
 Throughout the rich and sombre room. 
 
 "Oh, sweet the long and shivering swells, 
 
 And sweeter still the lingering flow, 
 Delicious as remembered bells 
 
 Dying in distance long ago, 
 When evening winds from heaven were blown 
 And the heart yearned for things unknown. 
 
 " Across the leafy window-place 
 Peace seals the stainless sapphire deep ; 
 
 One sentry star on outer space 
 
 His quenchless lamp lifts, half asleep; 
 
 Peace broods where falling waters flow, 
 
 Peace where the heavy roses blow. 
 
 14 And on the windless atmosphere 
 
 Wait all the fragrances of June ; 
 The summer night is hushed to hear 
 
 The passion of the ancient tune : 
 Then why those sudden tears that start, 
 And why this pierced and aching heart ?
 
 222 Poets' Homes. 
 
 " Ah, listen 1 We and all our pain 
 
 Are mortal, and divine the song I 
 Idly our topmost height we gain, 
 
 It spurns that height, and far along 
 Seeks in the heavens its splendid mark, 
 
 And we fall backward on the dark! " 
 
 Her first captivation of the public was romantic 
 enough. When but a school-girl she wrote a story 
 called " In a Cellar," and sent it to The Atlantic 
 Monthly. The editor was astonished at the talent 
 displayed and at the perfect familiarity with French 
 society life. He would not believe it possible in one 
 so young. He thought it must be a translation, and 
 returned it to her with that rather aggravating, but 
 very flattering, decision. But good Colonel Higgin- 
 son, then a clergyman here, wrote to the editor 
 vouching for the genuineness of her work, and it was 
 instantly received. 
 
 Her published books are " Sir Rohan's Ghost," 
 1859, written while yet a girl, but giving great prom 
 ise ; " Amber Gods and Other stories, " 1863, in 
 which are found the most wonderful displays of her 
 mastery of color and incident ; " Azarian," 1864, and 
 " New England Legends," a collection of tales of the 
 old colony times. Among her writings for children, 
 some of the most charming are " Christmas," a beau 
 tiful hymn of the Saviour-babe, in Our Young Folks 
 for December, 1865; "The Portrait," a powerful
 
 THE LIBRARY.
 
 ^24 Poets' Homes. 
 
 sketch in the same periodical for February, 1865 ; 
 and "Arnold and His Violin," in Sf. Nicholas for 
 November. 
 
 Miss Prescott's first appearance, too, was when a 
 school-girl ; her mother's quick perception detecting a 
 " composition " that was worthy of a wider hearing 
 which it quickly got. In reading the charming 
 poems Miss Prescott has given to the world, you see 
 at once that she looks at all things through Nature, as 
 through transparent glass. All her sweet and tender 
 thoughts are set forth through the medium of flowers 
 and books and trees, "Flower-talk," "Praise," 
 "Waiting," are such; and if she were to teach a 
 school of children it would surely be done in the same 
 way ; as you may see from " Flora's Multiplication," 
 and " Sue's Lessons : " 
 
 " Wait, little one, wait ; 
 The crocus comes in its purple gown, 
 The marigold soon wears its golden crown, 
 
 And the robin will not be late." 
 
 " Twice one are two, 
 Violets white and blue ; 
 Twice two are four, 
 Sunflowers at the door." 
 
 She has a special love for birds, and perhaps it is 
 this that makes her write such sweet songs. She 
 enters into all their joys and sorrows, and seems to 
 understand all their charming ways. You may see
 
 VIEW AT THE WESTERN POINT.

 
 Mrs. Spofford and Miss Prcscott. 227 
 
 this in such poems as " Out in the Shower ; " " Out 
 in the Storm ; " " The Bird's Nest," and " The Bird's 
 Song." She loves even the plain weeds, and sings, in 
 " Summer's Invocation : " 
 
 " Come mullein and sorrel and rue, 
 Fill the humble niche waiting for you," 
 
 and especially in " In Summer : " 
 
 14 While simple weeds seem saying, in grateful transport praying, 
 Unto Him our praises all belong 1 " 
 
 Her heart is full of love and faith and trust in God, 
 not only for herself, but for all her dear friends in 
 nature. These feelings well up like clear springs 
 through beautiful grasses in "Listening," "The 
 Golden-rod," "Why?" "Winter" and "Spring 
 time." There is rare depth and tenderness in heir 
 verse, too,, when dealing with subjects which call it 
 out. Some years ago a little babe came to Mrs. 
 Spofford, a noble-looking boy, with his face full of 
 "that imperial glory whence he came." I can never 
 forget that face ; but he soon fled back again. A 
 glimpse of her sister's thought then, can be caught in 
 " Rest," " Morning-Glory," and " Good-Night, Little 
 Star ; " but one little poem you must let me repeat 
 entire, because it has always seemed to me the most 
 perfect thing of its kind in the English language :
 
 328 Poets' Homes. 
 
 " Sound asleep ! no sigh can reach 
 
 Him who dreams the heavenly dream ; 
 No to-morrow's silver speech 
 
 Wake him with an earthly theme. 
 Summer's rains relentlessly 
 
 Patter where his head doth lie ; 
 There the wild fern and the brake 
 
 All their summer leisure take ; 
 Violets, blinded with the dew, 
 
 Perfume lend to the sad rue 
 Till the day breaks, fair and clear 
 
 And no shadow doth appear." 
 
 Miss Mary Prescott's only book is "Matt's Folly," 
 but her stories for the young folks, if collected, would 
 make a large and very inviting volume. 
 
 One most important member of the family, I must 
 not forget. He was, but is, alas ! no longer ! I mean 
 Hans. Hans was not a Dutchman he was a Spitz 
 dog. " None knew him but to love him," except 
 the boys who made faces at him in the street. He 
 was not made for boys, but for " family use." And I 
 am tempted to add that other remark of advertise 
 ments, "Every family should have one." *He was 
 heroic outside the house ; in the parlor gentle and 
 gallant as any carpet-knight. It might be said of him 
 indeed, as of the old Roman : Suaviter in modo ; for- 
 iiter in re. He was beautiful and wise ; but even 
 such must die. He succumbed to poison a few weeks
 
 Mrs. Spojford and Miss Prescott. 229 
 
 ago, and his demise left a gap in the family, and an 
 empty place in their hearts. " Do doggies gang to 
 heaven when they dee ? " asked the little Scotch boy 
 of his dominie. If you were to ask our poets, they 
 would certainly answer " Yes."
 
 MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 DEAR CHILDREN, would you like me to tell 
 you a word of one whom you, too, doubtlesu 
 have come to count among your own? She that wan 
 the " Spray Sprite " of that enchanting island, will 
 its wealth of deep-sea life that point of rock up 
 lifted from the sea, and crowned with its jeweled light, 
 now golden and then red ? She who, in later years, 
 sang the sweet, brave, matchless songs that the great 
 sea had whispered into her heart ? 
 
 Upon your maps you will find on the wee bit 01! 
 coast of New Hampshire a city called Portsmouth. 
 It is an old, old town, with a great harbor, and ship 
 ping, and a navy yard ; and it is the birthplace of 
 Celia Thaxter. It is a quaint, interesting old town. 
 Down by a small pier of its own is a staunch little 
 steamer, called Appledore. If you step on board of 
 it, you will soon be steaming out on the still waters of 
 
 230
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 3'j 
 
 this fair, wide harbor. To the right and left are fine 
 views wharves, boats, points of land, orchards, old 
 forts, and other picturesque objects, through which 
 the boat winds its way. After you have gone thus 
 two or three miles, you find the land on either hand 
 receding from you, and that you are really out at 
 sea. 
 
 If the breeze is at all stiff, then the stout little 
 steamer, with its flying banners and gay people, is; 
 tossed about on the great, green, white-capped wave; 
 as if it were of very small account. It would make 
 you laugh to see it, yet you wouldn't be a bit afraid 
 Somehow you would trust this funny, stout-hearted 
 determined little boat, that despite the waves seem; 
 to know its own mind and make decided headway. 
 
 By and by several queer little gray moles appea 
 through the haze on the horizon. You approach 
 They grow larger, yet scarcely above the level of the 
 sea, If it is evening, you see the constant twinkle oi 
 the red and golden light. Presently you draw near to 
 one of the islands for such they are with its gray 
 rocks lifted against the sea, and the lights glimmering 
 from the one great house. With music, and waving 
 flags, and merry bustle, the boat steams proudly up to 
 the wharf, and here you are at Appledore. 
 
 You go to sleep that night with the sea singing in
 
 232 Poefs Homes. 
 
 your ears. Next morning you are wakened how do 
 you suppose ? By a bugle horn ! Its notes wind over 
 the rocks, and waters, and slumbering place, 
 
 " Ah, so loud, and wild, and sweet I " 
 
 that you open your eyes, believing life to be some 
 dear, joyous, restful and magical thing. Where are 
 you ? In an Alpine glade ? Or in the deep forests of 
 the Scottish Highlands ? Nay ; rather, away out your 
 window is the limitless sea. It plashes upon the 
 rocks forever. You forget there are such things as 
 great cities, with their toiling multitudes. You forget 
 the clattering mechanism of the world. The millions 
 of households dotted over the land, the schools, the 
 books, all seem so far, far away. You forget all but 
 these little gray rocks in the ocean, with their own 
 peculiar life, until it seems as if you had fallen upon 
 that fabled lotus-land, where those who once go re- 
 membei their own country no more. 
 
 And this is Appledore, the largest of the Isles of 
 Shoals, with its mile or more of rocks, chasms and 
 cliffs, adorned with short abundant herbage, with its 
 pleasant house for the entertainment of those at 
 tracted thither, with its grassy slope to the wharf, 
 where a fleet of small boats are in waiting to convey 
 one, at will, to the adjacent islands, or whithersoevr 
 you would go.
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 235 
 
 To the right of the great house, and higher up, 
 quite among the rocks, is the cottage where, every 
 summer, Celia Thaxter holds her little court. 
 
 The cottage, which is a detached portion of the 
 hotel, is as plain a house as ever you saw. No bay- 
 tvindows, balconies, or other pretty appendages ; no 
 fanciful gables, or Gothic points; no newness of 
 paint ; no vines or trees. Only a plain, two-storied 
 house, with its dormer-windowed attic. A homely 
 house built on the rock, and perched in severe relief 
 against the sky. 
 
 Across the front, and at one side, is a piazza shaded 
 by canvas awnings. Here, from one of its swinging 
 hammocks, or from the parlor windows, one can look 
 over a peacefully animated scene : the great house, 
 and grassy slope, with knots of people here and 
 there ; the small harbor, the neighboring islands, and 
 the white sails dotting the vast water. 
 
 At the front of the cottage is a small yard, enclosed 
 by a picket fence. It, is full of flowers. I do not 
 mean prim and decorous beds, and flowers staying 
 where they are put, within their well-clipped borders. 
 But a yard///// of flowers full to the fence-top and 
 covering every inch of ground with their glad luxuri 
 ance. Not a weed anywhere quite crowded out by 
 these burning, glowing, starry, gladsome creatures,
 
 236 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Somehow, by reason of the soil and air, all flowers 
 here have a freedom of growth and brilliancy of hue 
 not elsewhere found, an intense loveliness ! 
 
 In this yard nasturtions, pansies, marigolds, sweet- 
 pease, mignonette, and other homely flowers, live out 
 their very best life. It is a pleasure to see something 
 live at its very best gladly, generously, and un- 
 dwarfed ! 
 
 Indeed, you cannot step anywhere there is a bit of 
 soil all over this island, without crushing some sweet- 
 faced eye-bright, pimpernel, or other interesting flower. 
 No wonder Mrs. Thaxter's poems are full of them. 
 Nor is it strange her little parlor is adorned with 
 them ! They, too, like the sea, have whispered into 
 her heart their dear and subtle meanings. 
 
 " The barren island dreams in flowers, while blow 
 The south winds, drawing haze o'er sea and land , 
 
 Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slow, 
 
 Makes the frail blossoms vibrate where they stand." 
 
 Wild morning-glories twine about her chandelier, 
 and bud and bloom every day, nourished by some 
 hidden glass of water. A pearly shell, pendent be 
 low, is always full of the "barbaric splendor" of 
 nasturtion bloom. Single marigolds have their hon 
 ored place. There are oblong cups full of pansy-
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 237 
 
 faces, looking up into your own. Flowers, flowers 
 everywhere in this little parlor ! 
 
 A globe of water by the window holds a star-fish, a 
 sea-urchin, or other strange creatures that the same 
 tender hand has gathered from their secret haunts. 
 
 In one corner of the room is the writing-desk, 
 where now and then, in leisure moments, those unique, 
 rapid notes are dashed off to numberless friends far 
 away. Bright, virile little notes, as clear and com 
 pact as the intellect that indites them. In the corner 
 opposite is an upright piano. 
 
 Curious story-telling sketches and drawings adorn 
 the walls. Over the mantel, at one time, was a 
 sketch of herself, laying drift-wood upon the fire. At 
 die time Harry Fenn drew this sketch, the parlor was 
 severely simple, and charming in that simplicity. It 
 is much changed since then. Now it is filled with 
 harmonious color, and numerous added objects of 
 interest. Yet, happily, it retains its original charac 
 ter. Were this lost, it would be a grief to its many 
 friends. A recent movement to refit the entire cot 
 tage met with a protest from those to whom this par 
 lor had become endeared, and it was left undisturbed 
 tor the present. 
 
 Underneath the mantel is the grate itself, on which, 
 at evening, the drift-wood is piled. In the light of
 
 238 Poefs Homes, 
 
 its cheery flame, countless wise and witty people 
 have, one time or another, been made glad. 
 
 They listen, perhaps, to some thrilling tale of 
 wreck or disaster, or ghostly tradition, or back and 
 forth is tossed a sparkling fire of wit, and quaint or 
 funny anecdote. The most engaging humor it is that 
 touches the heart, or makes so merry, that peals of 
 many-voiced laughter drift out the door and windows 
 into the mysterious twilight, where the sea sighs and 
 the flowers are nodding in the wind. 
 
 Or, may be, there is music from the piano, cr some 
 wonderful melody from the violin; or there is a 
 song. Perhaps it is one of Mrs. Thaxter's own 
 songs, for many or them have been set to music. 
 Maybe "Farewell," "Foreboding," "We sail toward 
 evening's lonely star," or this one of exceeding 
 sweetness : 
 
 '' Sing, little bird, O sing 1 
 
 How sweet thy voice, and clear, 
 How fine the airy measures ring 
 
 The sad old world to cheer ! 
 
 " Bloom, little flower, O bloom I 
 
 Thou makest glad the day ; 
 A scented torch, thou dost illume 
 
 The darkness of the way. 
 
 " Dance, little child, O dance ! 
 While sweet the small birds sing,
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 241 
 
 And flowers bloom fair, and every glance 
 Of sunshine tells of spring. 
 
 ' O bloom, and sing, and smile, 
 
 Child, bird, and flower, and make 
 The sad, old world forget awhile 
 
 Its sorrow for your sake." 
 
 A few miles south from Appledore is the light-house, 
 fixed upon its rock, White Island. This was the 
 childhood home of Celia Thaxter. Hither she came 
 when she was but f ou r years old, sailing across the 
 sea to this lonely rock with her father, mother, and 
 brothers, and all the household gods. 
 
 This little girl, Celia Leighton, with her two broth 
 ers, led a life quite unlike that of other children. They 
 lived very simply and secluded rarely seeing other 
 than their own people at any season ; while in winter 
 they were provisioned like a garrison, and lived iso 
 lated, with the cheery light above, and the tempestu 
 ous sea about them. She knew nothing of schools, 
 nor of the vast machinery of inland life. She had no 
 child books. Shakespeare, it is said, was the lightest 
 reading within her reach. Fancy yourselves, dear 
 young people, without your school-companions, your 
 child papers and magazines, your games and puz 
 zles. 
 
 But do not think this was a demure and lonesome
 
 242 Poet? Homes. 
 
 little girl. Far from it. She had indeed, her child- 
 life. She possessed a young and glad spirit, that all 
 the years since have not been able to filch away. 
 
 The great sea was her beloved companion. She 
 passionately loved the sky, and clouds, and stars, and 
 the sun that made glory in the east and west, the 
 changing moon, the streaming northern lights the 
 very winds seemed human things, that laughed or 
 played with, that chided or caressed her. The waves 
 that whitened the sea, and that broke madly on the 
 bleached rocks, filled her with delight. The thunder, 
 the lightning, and the rain; every bird that floated 
 over, whether sandpiper, gull, the sparrow or the 
 loon every sail that glided across, thrilled her with 
 glad interest. Ah! this was a brave, fearless, and 
 joyous little girl. 
 
 " Under the light-house no sweet-brier grew, 
 
 Dry was the grass, and no daisies 
 Waved in the wind, and the flowers were few 
 
 That lifted their delicate faces. 
 
 " But, O, she was happy, and careless, and blest, 
 
 Full of the song-sparrow's spirit ; 
 Grateful for life, for the least and the best 
 
 Of the blessings that mortals inherit." 
 
 That wee bit of rock in mid-ocean was no prison to 
 her, but a most dear and wonderful home. Every
 
 Mrs. Cetta Thaxter. 143 
 
 inch of it was most precious. There were shells, 
 white, and gray, and gold-colored, and violet. Myri 
 ads of many-colored creatures and plants inhabited 
 the still pools. Much tenderness she felt for these, 
 wondrous and beautiful as they are, that dwelt, each 
 in its own peculiar fashion, among the rocks. Their 
 wisdom was more amusing than the best game ever 
 played. Then there was always something new ap 
 pearing if but the coming and going of the tide, 
 or the drift-wood washed ashore from some sad wreck 
 or far-off coast. 
 
 Here, too, a few flowers and grasses grew. There 
 was one root of fern that she watched and cherished 
 year after year. She gathered the golden-rod, and 
 crowned herself with garlands of wild pink morning- 
 glories, or with a crown of the marigolds that grew 
 on her wee plat of ground ; and the gold-colored 
 shells were strung into necklaces like beads. So 
 adorned, and lithe and graceful as a fawn, she flitted 
 from rock to rock, the sprite of an enchanted island. 
 
 The picture is before us in this song : 
 
 THE SANDPIPER. 
 
 " Across the narrow beach we flit, 
 
 One little Sandpiper and I ; 
 And fast I gather, bit by bit, 
 
 The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
 
 Poefs Homes. 
 
 The wild waves reacli their hands for it, 
 The wild wind raves, the tide runs 
 
 As up and down the beach we flit 
 One little Sandpiper and I. 
 
 " Above our heads the sullen clouds 
 Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
 
 Lake silent ghosts, in misty shrouds, 
 Stand out the white light-houses high. 
 
 Almost as far as eye can reach, 
 I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
 
 As fast, we flit along the beach 
 One little Sandpiper and I. 
 
 " I watch him as he skims along, 
 
 Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 
 He start not at my fitful song, 
 
 Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
 He has no thought of any wrong ; 
 
 He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
 Staunch friends are we, well-tried and strong, 
 
 The little Sandpiper and I. 
 
 " Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, 
 
 When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
 My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 
 
 To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 
 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
 
 The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
 For are we not God's children both, 
 
 Thou, little Sandpiper and I ? " 
 
 But the chief of her pleasures was sometimes al 
 vening to light the lamps in the light-house tower.
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 245 
 
 ft was so great a thing for a litile maiden to light the 
 stately ships upon their way ! 
 
 This strong, lightsome nature loved her freedom 
 well. Wide nature, with its beauty, was far more 
 dear to her than either dolls or " patchwork." Per 
 haps she disliked small, irksome duties even more 
 than do other children. 
 
 Afterward, when she was spirited away to the main 
 land to live, she found everybody so busy it was as 
 tonishing to witness doing all sorts of work under 
 the sun. She that had studied the great out-of-door 
 world so eagerly, now as closely considered this 
 " patchwork " of our every-day living. Slowly, very 
 slowly, she found out a secret worth all the beauty she 
 had lost. Let me tell you it in her own words to the 
 children : 
 
 " I'll whisper it in your ear. This is it : That work 
 i 5 among the best blessings God gave the world ; that 
 to be useful and helpful, even in the smallest ways, 
 brings a better bliss than all the delightful things you 
 can think of put together, and this bliss is within the 
 reach of every human being." 
 
 I will assure you, young readers, one thing is 
 true. She who was the Spray Sprite is able to furnish 
 your Cooking Club with the best and surest receipts 
 they ever found.
 
 246 Poets' Homes, 
 
 And is not good thinking as valuable in the homely 
 as in the fine affairs of life ? I think so. 
 
 One summer day, not long ago, Mrs. Thaxter took 
 a few friends across the water from Appledore to her 
 childhood home. 
 
 There was still the dangerous landing where the 
 little maid once delighted to wait at evening, with a 
 lamp, to light some loved one into the unsafe cove. 
 There were the white-bleached rocks, among which, 
 long ago, the little dun cow caught her hoof, and so 
 came to her death, much to the grief of this same lit 
 tle maid. There, best of all, was the stone cottage. 
 "This," she said, "is the window where my flowers 
 grew in winter." A deep, roomy window it was. 
 Here, doubtless, did the child witness the awful 
 "wreck of the Pocahontas," which you will find 
 among her poems. 
 
 Up from the cottage the near-covered way led to the 
 tower, whitewashed within, and an opening or two 
 looking out upon the sea. 
 
 The tower itself at the base was large enough to 
 hold the winter's stores, that were always provided 
 with as much forethought as if the island were a ship 
 fitting out for an arctic voyage. Everything is en 
 tirely " ship-shape " in and about the light-house. 
 
 Up the winding stairway the party ascended to the
 
 Mrs. Celia ttaxter. 249 
 
 very top, where the light is flashed out over the sea. 
 If you look into the lenses of the lamp, the views 
 reflected are the prettiest pictures you ever saw. You 
 look out the windows, and the views themselves are 
 wonderful, so far above you are, and the sea on every 
 side at your feet. The vast extent of water nowhere 
 broken save by the islands, a fishing-smack, and here 
 and there a sail, 
 
 " As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean.*' 
 
 Once more below, they climb about the cliffs, watch 
 the breakers wash the barnacle-covered rocks; then, 
 just as the sun is seemingly dipping into the waves of 
 liie radiant west, the party, laden with wild morning- 
 glory vines, re-embark for home. 
 
 Nearing Appledore, the rudder gets entangled in a 
 cable that forms a part of trie moorings for the small 
 fleet anchored off the rocky shore. The amateur 
 oarsman must row who is to manage the unshipped 
 rudder? The poet-captain, with a few dexterous 
 movements of her masterly hands, makes all right 
 again, and they merrily go their way. 
 
 And " how does she look ? " you ask ? Ah, that is 
 a hard question, and words are very poor things to 
 paint with.
 
 250 Poefs Homes. 
 
 First, think of all the fretfulness, complainings, dis 
 content, selfishness, narrowness, and ugliness you ever 
 saw in faces then know that this lady of whom I 
 write has a face as far from these as freedom is from 
 bondage. 
 
 And do you not know how pleasant it is to look 
 into a bright room full of pictures, and books, and 
 flowers, and color, and all sorts of lovely furnishings, 
 quaint and surprising ? with a constant fire upon 
 the hearth that sparkles, gleams, and glows, and illu 
 mines the whole ? 
 
 Just so it is to look into this face. It is one to 
 inspire you with the belief that this is a glad and glo 
 rious world. It is a face also that draws a lovable 
 child to itself. This you would know, had I not told 
 you, from this 
 
 SLUMBER SONG. 
 
 " Thou, little child, with tender, clinging arms, 
 Drop thy sweet head, my darling, down, and rest 
 
 Upon my shoulder, rest, with all thy charms ; 
 Be soothed and comforted, be loved and blest. 
 
 " Against thy silken, honey-colored hair 
 
 I lean a loving cheek, a mute caress ; 
 Close, close I gather thee, and kiss thy fair 
 
 White eyelids, sleep so softly doth oppress.
 
 Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 251 
 
 " Dear little head, that lies in calm content 
 Within the gracious hollow that God made 
 
 In every human shoulder, where He meant 
 Some tired head for comfort should be laid. 
 
 " Most like a heavy folded rose thou art, 
 In summer air reposing, warm and still ; 
 
 " Dream thy sweet dreams upon my quiet heart, 
 I watch thy slumbers, naught shall do thee ill." 
 
 Her head is exquisite ; it has the proud grace that 
 queens in our childish dreams possess. This you 
 might have thought from the poem "Courage.'-' 
 About it the dark-brown hair, so early mingled with 
 gray, is snugly arranged, usually in encircling braids. 
 Her eyes are deep blue, and her cheeks are slightly 
 bronzed in summer with the strong sea-breeze. Her 
 figure is tall, full, lithe, and of exceeding grace. So 
 true an artist is she, that, whether she will or not, 
 whatever she touches, however homely, is lovely in 
 the doing, and beautiful when done. 
 
 Dear children, now we have found the spring 
 among the rocks, you would like to know why it is 
 so rich and unfailing ? You, too, would know the 
 secret of this poet's power ? 
 
 I think it comes from a sweet and powerful soul, 
 one that would be sorry to see the least little creature 
 in God's world suffer ; yet one so dauntless that, I
 
 252 
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 truly believe, were the veriest tempest of sorrow in 
 this sorrowing world to sweep across her, this brave 
 cheer would rise above it as steadfast, and helpful, 
 and clear, as that light in mid-ocean that burns and 
 glows always now golden and then red.
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 THERE appeared in the columns of the New 
 York Tribune, in 1859, two poems which at 
 tracted a great deal of attention. The subjects were 
 as different from each other as possible, and no one 
 would have thought that the verse in which they 
 were embodied could have come from the same hand. 
 I will tell you about them in a few words. There was 
 at the time, in New York, a Cuban planter, who was 
 said to be very rich, and who was engaged to a young 
 lady in that city. He had purchased for her, as a 
 bridal present, a number of most expensive jewels, 
 which the newspapers of the day described exten 
 sively, not forgetting, of course, to mention their cost 
 in dollars and cents. If I remember rightly, they 
 also described the young lady's bridal outfit, silks, 
 laces, and so on, and the sums which they, too, cost. 
 Briefly, then, the newspapers made a public fuss over 
 
 253
 
 254 Poets' Homes. 
 
 what should have been a private matter. It seemed 
 to a young gentleman who was working in a subordi 
 nate position on the Tribune that this was a fit sub 
 ject for a piece of satirical verse, and he accordingly 
 set to work and wrote one which he entitled " The 
 Diamond Wedding." It made a great sensation and 
 a great row ; for the father of the young lady, who 
 saw no impropriety in the notoriety which the report 
 ers had heaped upon her in prose, saw a dreadful 
 impropriety in any reference to her wedding in poetry. 
 I think, myself, that he should have been grateful to 
 the poet for not mentioning her name, and the name 
 of her intended husband ; but he thought otherwise, 
 and sent a challenge to the poor poet. I forget ex 
 actly how it was settled, but there was no duel, and 
 no apology on the part of the poet. Such is the 
 history of "The Diamond Wedding," which proved 
 that a new poet had come, and one who could, if he 
 chose, snatch the laurels from the brows of all the 
 humorous poets of America. The other poem that I 
 have referred to displayed a grim kind of humor 
 which was new in American poetry. It was about a 
 stern old man who made this year a memorable' one 
 in the history of the United States, by boldly march 
 ing with a few men into Virginia, and capturing 
 Harper's Ferry. "How Old Brown took Harper's
 
 Edmund Clarence Stcdman, 255 
 
 Ferry " made a great sensation, and ought to have 
 made it, for there was no American poet who might 
 not have been proud to have written it. 
 
 My good friend Bayard Taylor and I were living 
 together in the same house when these poems ap 
 peared, and I remember his coming home one after 
 noon and telling me that he had that day, or the day 
 before, met their author in the editorial rooms of 
 the Tribune, and had had a talk with him, and that 
 be liked him very much. A few evenings afterwards 
 this likable young poet came to see me, and I was 
 charmed with him. He had read much, I discovered, 
 he talked well ; and he was what most poets are not 
 
 modest. His personal appearance you see in the 
 accompanying portrait; for, though some eighteen 
 years have passed since then, I see no change in him. 
 If I could only say the same of myself ! 
 
 Such was my first meeting with Edmund Clarence 
 Stedman. I asked him to show me his poems 
 printed and unprinted, for he told me that he had 
 enough to make a small volume, and he did so. I 
 read them with great care ; I corrected them where I 
 thought they needed it, and I tried to get a publisher 
 for him. I think that my opinion was not without 
 weight with the gentleman who became his publisher, 
 
 the late Mr. Charles Scribner. " Poems, Lyrical
 
 256 Poets' Homes. 
 
 and Idyllic," which was issued in the spring of 1860, 
 was and is the best first book that I ever read. The 
 two poems that opened it showed that the writer had 
 read the greatest poet of our time, Alfred Tenny 
 son ; but they also showed that his own originality had 
 not been overpowered by his admiration for this 
 master. " Penelope," the second poem, was and is 
 worthy to be read with Tennyson's noble poem of 
 " Ulysses." The hand of a fine Greek scholar is 
 visible in every line. That he was familiar with the 
 scenery of New England, and the early life of its 
 people, was evident in " The Freshet," which is still 
 the best example of American idyllic poetry. We feel 
 in reading it that Mr. Stedman knew what he was 
 writing about. 
 
 He is a born New Englander, a native of the land 
 of wooden nutmegs, Connecticut. He comes of a 
 good family, and a poetic family. One of his ances 
 tors, the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, wrote poetry, I am 
 told, though I have never seen any of it, and a 
 cousin, the Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, is well known 
 as a writer of religious verse. He may be said, in 
 deed, to have inherited poetry from his mother, who 
 figured in Dr. Griswold's " Female Poets," and later 
 as the author of a tragedy called " Bianco Caprello." 
 
 Mr. Stedman was born in Hartford on the 8th of
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 25; 
 
 October, 1833. When he was about two years old he 
 was sent to Norwich, where he lived with his great- 
 uncle, Mr. James Stedman, by whom he was strictly 
 trained. At any rate it was the fashion, forty or fifty 
 years ago, in New England, to train young people 
 strictly, and a good fashion it was, too, for some of 
 them. Whether it was the best training for a poet 
 may be doubted. 
 
 Uncle Stedman, who was a jurist and a scholar, 
 looked after the education of his brilliant nephew, 
 who was thoroughly grounded in his native tongue. 
 At the early age of sixteen he was sent to Yale Col 
 lege, where he was among the foremost in English 
 composition and Greek. He wrote an English poem 
 for a periodical which was published by the students, 
 and a very clever poem it was considered. The dis 
 cipline of Yale was stricter than suited the mercurial 
 temperament of the young poet; he fell under the 
 censure of the college authorities, and quitted college 
 without taking a degree. His error, whatever it was, 
 could not have been a very grave one, for the Univer 
 sity afterwards enrolled him among the alumni foi 
 1853, with the degree of Master of Arts. 
 
 When he was nineteen he was managing a news 
 paper at Norwich. In the following year he married 
 a Connecticut girl, and became the owner of Tht
 
 258 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Winsted Herald, which soon rose to be one of the 
 most important of the political papers in the State, 
 and the most influential literary paper ever published 
 in a country town. Of the life of Mr. Stedman dur 
 ing the next five or six years I know nothing, except 
 that the latter part of it was spent in New York. 
 Whether it was ambition which sent him there, or the 
 desire of bettering his fortune, he has never told me, 
 but I imagine it was both. 
 
 I have no doubt but that he had to struggle to 
 obtain a foothold in literature, every unknown man 
 of letters has to struggle in a great city, but he ob 
 tained it, for when I first knew him he was writing on 
 The Tribune, as I have already said. 
 
 Mr. Stedman was living among the Bohemians, 
 five score or otherwise, when I first visited him, and 
 with him were his wife and his children, two boys 
 the youngest of whom, Master Arthur Stedman, is 
 now fitting himself to go to Yale College, where I 
 hope he will take any degree that he wants, even that 
 of the Grand Panjandrum, if they confer it there. 
 
 Mr. Stedman remained on The Tribune until The 
 World was started, when he transferred his talent to 
 that journal. This was in the fall or winter of 1860. 
 He was one of the editors of The World when Fort 
 Sumter was fired upon, and when the news of the
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 259 
 
 firing was sent over the wires he wrote a poem upon 
 it, which was one of the first, if not the very first, poem 
 of any note which the impending war awoke. When 
 the war broke out he went to Washington as the army 
 correspondent of The World, and a very able one he 
 proved himself. I forget whether his letters excelled 
 those of other correspondents for accuracy, but they 
 certainly excelled them in spirit. 
 
 He was at the first battle of Bull Run, where the 
 North was routed, as we all remember. Other cor 
 respondents sent letters to their papers about it, but 
 none came from him. " Where is he ? " his friends 
 asked, but nobody knew. 
 
 Two, or perhaps three, days passed before he 
 returned to New York. The next day there ap 
 peared in The World a long and graphic letter about 
 the lost battle which he had witnessed, a letter 
 which was the town's talk for days. Altogether it 
 was the best single letter written during the whole 
 war. 
 
 Towards the close of the war Mr. Stedman resigned 
 his position on " The World, and entered the office 
 of Attorney General Bates at Washington. In Jan 
 uary, 1864, he returned to New York with his family, 
 and published his second collection of verse, " Alice 
 of Monmouth," which may be described as a little
 
 ^60 Poets' Homes. 
 
 poetical novel. The opening scenes are laid in Mon- 
 mouth Co., New Jersey ; the middle and later ones in 
 the battle-fields and hospitals of Virginia. We are 
 introduced to Hendrick Van Ghelt, a wealthy 
 old farmer of Monmouth; then we pass to his son 
 Hermann, a cold, calculating man of the law; at last 
 we come to his grandson Hugh, a noble, manly youth, 
 in whom the smouldering embers of the Van Ghelts 
 survive, kindling a flame as royal as it is high 
 
 Hugh falls in love with Alice Dale, whom he sees 
 for the first time in the strawberry fields. He marries 
 her, and, being disowned by his father, the young 
 couple settle in an old farm-house which Hugh's 
 grandfather had given him years before. 
 
 The rebellion breaks out, and Hugh is off for the 
 wars with a company of horsemen, as their captain. 
 The quiet house-life of the young wife, and the 
 stirring field-life of the young soldier, are placed in 
 contrast, the latter leading to a picturesque descrip 
 tion of an encampment, and a spirited cavalry song, 
 which is supposed to be sung by the brave troopers of 
 the North. 
 
 Then we have a glimpse of a military hospital 
 in Washington, with Alice therein as a nurse ; and 
 there is a description of the cavalry fight in which 
 Colonel Hugh Van Ghelt is wounded, and from which
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 261 
 
 he is borne away to die in a country hospital, with 
 his wife and repentant grandfather by his side. 
 Such is the story of " Alice of Monmouth." 
 Here is the cavalry song I have just spoken of : 
 
 " Our good steeds snuff the evening air, 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle; 
 The foeman's fires are twinkling there ; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle I 
 
 HALT! 
 
 Each carbine sent its whizzing ball : 
 Now, cling 1 clang ! forward all, 
 Into the fight I 
 
 " Dash on beneath the smoking dome ; 
 Thro' level lightnings gallop nearer ! 
 One look to heaven ! No thoughts of home I 
 The guerdons that we bear are dearer. 
 
 CHARGE! 
 
 Cling, clang ! forward all ! 
 Heaven help those whose horses fall : 
 Cut left and right ! 
 
 They flee before our fierce attack ! 
 
 They fall ! they spread in broken surges I 
 Now, comrades, bring our wounded back, 
 And leave the foeman to his dirges. 
 
 WHEEL ! 
 
 The bugles sound the swift recall : 
 Cling I clang ! backward all ! 
 
 Home, and good-night ! " 
 
 There is a notion about, and many people enter 
 tain it without thinking, that a man cannot be at one 
 and the same time a poet and a man of business. It
 
 262 Poets' Homes. 
 
 is a mistake. Fitz Greene Halleck was for many 
 years a competent clerk of John Jacob Astor. 
 Charles Sprague was for forty-five years teller and 
 cashier in a Boston bank. Samuel Rogers, the Eng 
 lish poet, was all his life a banker, and a very success 
 ful one, too. To these names must be added that of 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman, who put himself at the 
 head of a firm of stock-brokers, which he started 
 shortly after his return to New York. They had a 
 suite of offices in Exchange Place, and dealt in gov 
 ernment securities, railway stocks and bonds, and I 
 know not what besides, including petroleum, in which 
 fortunes were then being made and lost with great 
 rapidity. 
 
 I saw less of Mr. Stedman now than before, for he 
 had his business to attend to and I had mine. I knew 
 nothing of longs and shorts, puts and calls, and he 
 knew nothing of exports and debentures, and other 
 custom-house matters. 
 
 Mr. Stedman, the stock-broker, was still Mr. Sted 
 man the poet, as the readers of our magazines occa 
 sionally saw. Five years passed before he made 
 another collection of his verse, which appeared in 
 1869, under the title of " The Blameless Prince, and 
 other Poems." I shall not tell you the story of 
 " The Blameless Prince " you have already guessed
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 263 
 
 that it is a story poem, nor anything about it except 
 that I think it grew, in some mysterious way, out of 
 a book that Queen Victoria had written about her 
 dead husband, "Life in the Highlands," I think it 
 was called. 
 
 Mr. Stedman looked the subject over with me be 
 fore he wrote it, and I but I must not tell tales out 
 of school. So much, or rather so little, concerning 
 "The Blameless Prince." There are twenty-seven 
 miscellaneous poems in the volume in which it 
 appeared. Among others is a poem about " Country 
 Sleighing," which no other American poet could have 
 written, and which I have always thought the best 
 sleighing-song in the language. Another, entitled 
 " Laura, My Darling," is a poem addressed to his 
 wife. Here is a stanza from it : 
 
 " Laura, my darling, there's hazel-eyed Fred, 
 
 Asleep in his own tiny cot, by the bed ; 
 
 And little King Arthur, whose curls have the art 
 
 Of sending their tendrils so close round my heart ; 
 
 Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both, 
 
 Is the true one who gave me in girlhood her troth ; 
 
 For we, when we mated for evil and good, 
 
 What were we, darling, but babes in the wood ? " 
 
 It is a charming glimpse of the home-life of a 
 roung poet, is it not, this little picture of Mr. Sted
 
 264 Poets' Homes. 
 
 man's wife and children ? Equally charming, but not 
 as true, is this pretty song, for while there is a Fred 
 erick Stedman and an Arthur Stedman, there is no 
 Katherine Stedman and no Elizabeth Stedman that 
 I ever saw or heard of. 
 
 "WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 
 
 " ' Which is the Wind that brings the cold ? ' 
 The North Wind, Freddy ; and all the snow ; 
 
 And the sheep will scamper into the fold 
 When the North begins to blow. 
 
 " ' Which is the Wind that brings the heat ? 
 
 The South Wind, Katy ; and corn will grow, 
 And peaches redden for you to eat, 
 
 When the South begins to blow. 
 
 " Which is the Wind that brings the rain ? ' 
 The East Wind, Arty ; and farmers know 
 
 That cows come shivering up the lane 
 When the East begins to blow. 
 
 " Which is the Wind that brings the flowers ? ' 
 The West Wind, Bessy ; and soft and low 
 
 The birdies sing in the summer hours, 
 When the West begins to blow." 
 
 Four years after the publication of " The Blame 
 less Prince," Mr. Stedman brought out the first col 
 lected edition of his Poetical Works. In 1875 ^ e 
 published his" Victorian Poets," a collection of essays
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 265 
 
 on a number of English singers who have illustrated 
 the reign of Queen Victoria. 
 
 I have mentioned one mistaken notion that many 
 people entertain, namely, that a man cannot be a 
 poet and a man of business ; but I have not men 
 tioned another, namely, that a poet cannot be a critic. 
 If poets are not the best critics of poetry, musicians 
 are not the best critics of music, architects of archi 
 tecture, and painters of painting. The idea is ab 
 surd! 
 
 Mr. Stedman's " Victorian Poets " is the most im 
 portant contribution ever made by an American writer 
 to the critical literature of the English poets. It is 
 not a book to be read, however, by the young readers 
 of WIDE AWAKE j but it is a book which they ought 
 to read when they come to the last of their teens. 
 Mr. Stedman is living in New York, and is still in 
 business as a stock-broker. 
 
 If any reader of this brief paper has any money to 
 invest in stocks, I dare say that he will invest it for 
 him. What money /have I generally invest with the 
 butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker, and other 
 prosaic men of business, and not with my poetical 
 friend, Edmund Clarence Stedman.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 "AS we drove through the quiet old town, I 
 -tV thought Rivermouth the prettiest place in the 
 world ; and I think so still. The streets are long and 
 wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose droop 
 ing branches, interlacing here and there, span the 
 avenues with arches graceful enough to be the handi 
 work of fairies. Many of the houses have small 
 flower gardens in front, gay in the season with china- 
 asters, and are substantially built, with massive chim 
 ney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river 
 goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and 
 twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself 
 into the sea. The harbor is so fine that the largest 
 ships can sail directly up to the wharves and drop 
 anchor. Only they don't. Few ships come to River- 
 mouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. 
 The phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never 
 
 366
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 267 
 
 came back again The crazy old warehouses are 
 empty : and barnai les and eelgrass cling to the piles 
 of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies 
 lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that 
 haunts the place, the ghost of the old dead West 
 India trade ! " 
 
 It is thus that Mr. Aldrich, in his clever book en 
 titled "The Story of a Bad Boy," truthfully charac 
 terizes that once famous old town by the sea, which, 
 on the maps at least, goes by the name of Portsmouth. 
 He has omitted to say, however, that the quaint old 
 city is peopled with the shadowy shapes of many gen 
 erations, and that, like all old towns in New England, 
 it has its queer people, its romantic and eccentric tra 
 ditions, and that antique flavor of aristocratic better 
 days, in comparison with which the snug briskness of 
 a modern town seems cheap and mean. Around lie 
 woody hills and emerald meadows, through which the 
 broad river goes brimming to the sea. At the decay 
 ing wharves, now and then, rest the sea-worn hulks, 
 thither drift the song and story, tradition and adven 
 ture, terror and romance, of the men who " plough the 
 raging main." 
 
 It was in this very same town, which he pictures so 
 well, that Mr. Aldrich was born, on the eleventh of 
 November, 1836 ; but, before he "had a chance to be
 
 268 Poets' Homes. 
 
 come very well acquainted with that pretty New Eng 
 land town," his parents removed to New Orleans, 
 where the first few years of his life were passed, and 
 where, also, he developed some very queer notions 
 with regard to Northern people in general and Yan 
 kees in particular. "To be frank," he says, in the 
 book already quoted, "my idea of the north was 
 about as accurate as that entertained by the well- 
 educated Englishmen of the present day concerning 
 America. I suppose, the inhabitants were divided 
 into two classes, Indians and white people: that 
 the Indians occasionally dashed down on New York, 
 and scalped any woman or child (giving the prefer 
 ence to children ) whom they caught lingering in the 
 outskirts after nightfall ; that the white men were 
 either hunters or schoolmasters, and that it was win 
 der pretty much all the year round. The prevailing 
 style of architecture I took to be log cabins." 
 
 With these singular ideas developed in his mind, 
 and, in truth, " a Northern man with Southern princi 
 ples," young Aldrich returned to Portsmouth to be 
 educated. The sea voyage was comparatively pleas 
 ant, and the boy became wonderfully attracted by an 
 old weather-beaten tar, whose head was quite smooth 
 and flat, as if somebody had sat down on him when 
 he was very young, but which, nevertheless, wa$
 
 TTiomas alley Aldrich. 269 
 
 stored with a rich fund of anecdote and good humor. 
 
 The account of all this, and of his arrival in Bos 
 ton harbor, of the ride to Portsmouth, and of his 
 school-life there, is given in that almost inimitable of 
 books, "The Story of a Bad Boy." This story is 
 about as nearly autobiographical as the author 
 dared to make it ; and, therefore, whoever wishes to 
 know more of Mr. Aldrich's early years than can pos 
 sibly be told in this chapter, should of course take 
 occasion to read this book, that is, if he has not done 
 so already. 
 
 During his stay in Portsmouth, Aldrich dwelt 
 under the roof of his grandfather, " a hale, cheery old 
 gentleman, as straight and as bald as an arrow," 
 whose domestic affairs, however, were under the im 
 mediate charge of a maiden sister, a very philan 
 thropic personage, whose strongest weak point was a 
 belief in the efficacy of " hot drops " as a cure for all 
 known diseases. The boy fared admirably in the 
 company of his elders, and, albeit he had some 
 peculiar whims of his own, he was allowed to do 
 pretty much as he pleased, except on Sundays, 
 which were, indeed, most dreadful days to him ! 
 
 And no wonder, for nothing was done to make 
 these days seem cheerful. Gloom began on Saturday 
 evening and ceased late on Sabbath night, and, during
 
 270 Poets' Homes. 
 
 the hours of its continuance, genial converse, harm 
 less books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all were banished. 
 The Sabbath-school hour was the pleasantest through 
 the day, for young Aldrich liked the Sabbath-school 
 where all was sunshine and everybody had a bright 
 face. The meeting, which followed, was a return to 
 the gloom, as witness this assertion : 
 
 " I go to meeting, joining my grandfather, who 
 doesn't appear to be any relation to me this day. 
 Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us 
 of being saved. Convinced that I am a lost creature, 
 in common with the human family, I return home 
 behind my guardian at a snail's pace. We have a 
 cold dinner. I saw it laid out yesterday. There is 
 a long interval between this repast and the second 
 service, and a still longer interval between the begin 
 ning and the end of that service. After meeting, mj 
 grandfather and I talk a walk. We visit appropri 
 ately enough, a neighboring graveyard. I am by this 
 time in a condition of mind to become a willing in 
 mate of the place. The usual evening prayer meet 
 ing is postponed for some reason. At half past eight 
 I go to bed." 
 
 Of such a direful character were most ot the Ports 
 mouth Sabbaths, dreaded not only by young Aid- 
 rich but by every other boy as well, who chanced
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 271 
 
 some thirty odd years ago, to be a dweller in a New 
 England village. Sunday is a blessed day, and 
 therefore it shouldn't be made a day freighted with 
 awful gloom and terror ; and surely when, if not on 
 the Lord'-;, day, ought young and old hearts to be 
 cheerful, hopeful, and full of life and spirit ? 
 
 Shortly after his arrival at Portsmouth, Aldrich 
 was put to school, at the Temple Grammar School 
 at the farther end of the town. A Mr. Grimshaw 
 kept here, " a quiet, kind-hearted gentleman. Though 
 a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen sense of justice, 
 was a reader of character, and the boys respected 
 him." It was not long before the new comer fell into 
 the ways and notions of his fellows. As he himself 
 admits, these latter took a great deal of nonsense out 
 of him, and forced him to become more manly and 
 self-reliant. In New Orleans, he had labored under 
 the delusion that the world was created exclusively 
 on his account: at Portsmouth, he discovered that it 
 was not ! 
 
 But, as I have already said. I cannot repeat the 
 story of those school-days, though, for us, the interest 
 attached to them exceeds that of any other period of 
 life. You will find the history of them, written by 
 one of the principal actors, in the book already 
 alluded to ; and, if I were to write it over again, it is
 
 272 
 
 Poets 1 Homes. 
 
 to be feared that I should only write in the very same 
 words. 
 
 It is well that you should know that young Aldrich 
 was a diligent and faithful student; that, although 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 fond of sport and an adept in mischief, of which, by 
 the by, there was always much going on, much to the 
 annoyance of the sober and more sanctified citizens 
 of the place, he was yet fond of books, and rarely
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 373 
 
 deserved or received the reprobation of his instruct 
 ors. It is pleasant, after these many years that 
 have lapsed between boyhood and the present, to 
 know that the teacher, of whom mention was made 
 above, still lives, and to me has addressed these 
 words : 
 
 " With the hundreds of pupils who have been under 
 my instruction, there is not one for whom I entertain a 
 higher regard and a purer affection than for Thomas 
 Bailey Aldrich." 
 
 Golden words are these, and I know that they are 
 earnest and full of heart. And, reader, is it not one 
 of the pleasantest thoughts imaginable, the knowl 
 edge that, perchance, we may be so lovingly remem 
 bered by him who taught us in early life, and whom 
 we have supposed gone to dust long years ago ? 
 Such a tribute is more than gold to a man who merits 
 it. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich was in his fifteenth year when his 
 father died, and the circumstances governing his 
 future life were thereby materially altered. All along, 
 he had been hoping to go to Harvard College, to 
 complete the course of education already begun ; but 
 now both the dream and the hope vanished. 
 
 One day, when he was not yet over his disappoint 
 ment, a letter came from an uncle in New York,
 
 274 Poets' Homes. 
 
 offering him a place in his counting-room. He ac 
 cepted the proposal, although it was hard for him to 
 give up becoming a Harvard man. 
 
 But why, it might be asked, was his uncle so urgent 
 in pushing him into a business life ? " The cause was 
 ti'iis," says the historian of these years, " he was 
 afraid that I would turn out to be a poet before he 
 could make a merchant of me. His fears were based 
 upon the fact that I had published in the Riverrnouth 
 Barnacle some verses addressed in a familiar manner 
 ' To the Moon.' Now, the idea of a boy, with his 
 living to get, placing himself in communication with 
 the Moon, struck the mercantile mind as monstrous. 
 ] t was not only a bad investment, it was lunacy." 
 
 With the close of his school-days at Riverrnouth, 
 the "Story of a Bad Boy" not such a very bad 
 boy, either, as one might suppose, also ends. Like 
 a fantasy the past rolls back, and the future begins ; 
 the limit betwixt boyhood and manhood is soon over 
 stepped, and now it is, in the roaring, tearing, and 
 enterprising metropolis, the great New York, that the 
 poet first sees life as it is, instead of as he would 
 have it. 
 
 For three years he remained at his desk in the 
 counting-room. He worked faithfully enough at his 
 task, but each day the task grew more and more dis-
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 275 
 
 tasteful, and poetry had indeed more charm for him 
 than all the figures in the world. 
 
 Occasionally, he took advantage of some leisure 
 moments to weave verses after his own way ; and thus 
 it happened that a very good poem now and then 
 saw the light and set most readers to thinking. 
 " Baby Bell " one of the most popular poems in 
 our literature, was written by Mr. Aldrich while he 
 was yet in his nineteenth year. 
 
 When the announcement of the authorship was 
 made no one was willing to believe that a mere boy 
 could have written so fatherly a poem, for did not 
 the verses betoken a most intimate knowledge of the 
 mysteries of infant life ? Such was the fact, however, 
 and such it must remain. 
 
 " Baby Bell " has always been very generally ad 
 mired by all classes of readers, and deservedly so, I 
 think, for it contains some of the most delicate and 
 sweetest touches in the language. What, for in 
 stance, can be more tender and pathetic than the 
 following : 
 
 " At last he came, the messenger, 
 
 The messenger from unseen lands. 
 And what did dainty Baby Bell ? 
 
 She only crossed her little hands, 
 She only looked more meek and fair J 
 
 We parted back her silken hair.
 
 276 Poets' Homes. 
 
 We wove the roses round her brow, 
 White buds, the summer's drifted snow, 
 
 Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers, 
 And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
 
 Out of this world of ours ! " 
 
 When the three years were up, the poet forsook a 
 business life and chose to follow instead a purely 
 literary existence. He believed that that was his 
 proper field of usefulness, and that there were ways 
 enough open to yield gain to the worker. 
 
 At first, he secured a situation as " reader " for a 
 large publishing house in New York ; and as manu 
 scripts were pretty plentiful in those days, and his 
 literary judgments were usually quite sound, he 
 derived considerable pecuniary advantage from the 
 new employment. 
 
 Reading the works of others, however, did not con 
 sume the whole of his time, and, as occasion offered 
 and the spirit moved, he wrote original articles on 
 every conceivable subject, poems, essays, stories, 
 sketches, and whatever else was prompted. While 
 many of these productions were of an epheme 
 ral character, and scarcely worthy of remembrance 
 now-a-days, a few pieces are still cherished and pre 
 served in the printed works of the author. 
 
 In these years also, Mr. Aldrich was editorially con 
 nected with the New York Evening Mirror, the
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 279 
 
 Home Journal and the Saturday Press ; and at the 
 same time furnished articles for Putnam's Magazine, 
 the Knickerbocker, Harper's Monthly, the Atlantic 
 Monthly, etc., etc. 
 
 In 1854 he published his first book of poems, 
 calling it "The Bells;" and, two years later, was 
 printed " Daisy's Necklace, and what came of it " 
 a work now out of print. In 1858, appeared "Baby 
 Bell, and other Poems," and "The Course of True 
 Love;" in 1861, " Pampina, and other Poems," and 
 in 1865, Messrs. Ticknor & Fields' edition of his 
 poems, in the blue and gold series. 
 
 In 1866, this publishing house, having perfected 
 the plan of an eclectic weekly journal, called Every 
 Saturday, Mr. Aldrich was invited to come to Boston 
 to take charge of it. Everybody, or at least most 
 of our older readers, knows with what admirable 
 ability and success this publication was conducted. 
 In 1874, the favorite weekly was merged into another 
 periodical of a similiar character, and Mr. Aldrich 
 retired from journalism. He still continued his con 
 nection with the Atlantic Monthly, in which, indeed, 
 almost all of his genuine successes have been made, 
 among them, " Margorie Daw," <; Prudence Palfrey," 
 and other short and interesting stories. 
 
 I have omitted to state that Mr. Aldrich was
 
 280 Poefs Homes. 
 
 married to a New York lady in November, 1865, and 
 came immediately to Boston. It was to this young 
 couple that another poet, Bayard Taylor, addiessed 
 the following exquisite sonnet : 
 
 A WEDDING SONNET. 
 TO L. W. AND T. B. A. 
 
 Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown forlorn, 
 
 Put off thy cloak of cloud, thy scarf of mist, 
 
 And dress in gauzy gold and amethyst 
 A day henign, of sunniest influence born, 
 As may befit a Poet's marriage-morn I 
 
 Give buds another dream, another tryst 
 
 To loving hearts, and print on lips unkissed 
 Bethrothal kisses, laughing Spring to scorn I 
 
 Yet, if unfriendly thou, with sullen skies, 
 Bleak voices, or moaning winds, dost menace wrong, 
 
 Here thou art foiled ; a bridal sun shall rise, 
 And bridal emblems unto these belong : 
 
 Round her the sunshine of her beauty lies, 
 And breathes round him the springtime of his song. 
 
 In 1875, Mr. Aldrich and his wife, in company with 
 a party of friends, made an extensive tour abroad, 
 visiting the principal cities and also many of the out 
 of the way places in England, Ireland, Scotland, 
 France, Germany, Italy, Hungary, Austria, Bohemia, 
 etc. He was away from home somewhat more than 
 six months, traveling almost constantly. A rapid 
 survey of the ground passed over by the party is 
 given in an article, entitled "From Ponkapog to
 
 Thomas JBailey Aldrich. 281 
 
 Pesth," published in the Atlantic Monthly for Jan 
 uary, 1877. 
 
 Of course it goes almost without my saying it, that 
 Mr. Aldrich's foreign experiences have furnished him 
 with the motifs for several of his later poems, notably 
 those found in the volume "Flower and Thorn," 
 printed in the present year. This volume, together 
 with the one entitled "Cloth of Gold, and other 
 Poems," contains all the poems on which the author 
 places any value or cares to have remembered. The 
 last half of "The Queen of Sheba" the author's 
 latest fiction also deals largely with Switzerland, 
 and involves some very careful studies of that pictur 
 esque land. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich has several times been honored by 
 republication abroad. A complete collection of his 
 prose writings is published at Leipzig ; and his stories 
 have been translated and republished in Paris. It 
 is hardly necessary for me to add that such honor 
 is richly deserved, for no writer in American literature 
 can write more vigorous and clearer prose, draw such 
 delicate genre pictures, and weave more pleasing and 
 fanciful conceits. His poetry, altogether too choice, 
 it would seem, to win the admiration of a multitude, 
 has in it an oriental depth of color and airiness fox 
 the few who can appreciate the truly poetic.
 
 282 Poets' Homes. 
 
 In respect to personal appearance, Mr. Aldrich is 
 somewhat above the medium height, of slender yet 
 vigorous form, and possesses a pale, brown complex 
 ion and gently wrought features. A stranger would 
 easily, and perhaps rightly, judge him to be a man of 
 the world ; for, while his experience of life has been 
 most varied, neither care nor trouble has left an im 
 press upon his forehead, or stolen from his age the 
 freshness and buoyancy which so right belong tn 
 youth. 
 
 He is to-day "Tom Bailey" still, and as read; 
 to share with any one in having a jolly good time. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich's home, properly speaking, is in Boa 
 ton, where he owns a residence at the West End, 
 For the present, however, and chiefly on account ol 
 the health of his two boys, twins of eight years of 
 age, he lives at Ponkapog, a part of the town o.! 
 Canton, in Massachusetts. Although a very charming 
 place, Ponkapog was never noted for its enterprise 
 and the location of a railroad some two or three miles 
 distant has left it very much in the condition of 
 Bailey's Four Corners, described by Mr. Aldrich in 
 his story of " Miss Mehetable's Son." 
 
 The house, as is shown by the illustration, is an 
 old fashioned, two story house, built at the beginning 
 of the present century, and is partially screened from
 
 POETS' HOMES. 
 
 PART II.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ... . .7 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 35 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER . . . . . .60 
 
 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS . . . ?6 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT . . . .108 
 NORA PERRY . ... . . . 131 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON . . . .140 
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE ...... 172 
 
 J. BOYLE O'REILLY 196 
 
 REV. DR. S. F. SMITH . . , . .215
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 AS I write, my eye wanders occasionally from the 
 paper, and I look out of my library window 
 towards the Washington Elm, beyond which I see a 
 straight path across the Common that seems to end al 
 the door of a great gambrel-roofed house. It is his 
 toric ground. Under that aged elm tree the Father 
 of his Country first drew his sword as Commander-in- 
 Chief of the army that won freedom for the United 
 States, and on that Common the brave soldiers who 
 composed the patriot army encamped after the battle 
 of Lexington. Of one of these scenes Dr. Holmes 
 wrote in 1875 : 
 
 7
 
 8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 " Just on this very blessed spot, 
 
 The summer leaves below, 
 Before his homespun ranks arrayed, 
 In green New England's elm-bough shade 
 The great Virginian drew the blade 
 
 King George full soon should know." 
 
 Between the Common and the house with the gam- 
 brel roof lies the road on which the red-coats marched, 
 all confident and proud, as they started for Lexington 
 and Concord one April morning in 1775, and down 
 which, all humble and sore, they hurried, pressed bj 
 the militia-men, as they retreated towards Boston the 
 same afternoon, after their astonishing defeat. 
 
 Many a tourist has stopped under the venerable 
 elm, and has read the inscription on the granite mon 
 ument telling the simple story of how the hero hon 
 ored the tree. Many a visitor gazes at the ancient 
 house, too, but he does not honor it because it was 
 the home of " Mr Hastings," or the quarters of the 
 " Committee of Safety," and of General Ward, a hun 
 dred and three years ago. No, he does homage to 
 the spirit of patriotism and the glory of war on this 
 side of the Common ; and when he crosses the straight 
 -path, over which my errant eyes so often wander, he 
 thinks of a gentle poet who drew his first breath be 
 neath that hospitable roof, and whose first years were 
 spent in the midst of these historic scenes. It is no
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. g 
 
 longer the " Hastings House," but the birth-place of 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 Nearly two generations ago, in the year 1807, the 
 minister of the " First Church in Cambridge " moved 
 into the old house for it was old even then. He 
 was the Rev. Abiel Holmes, well known as a labori 
 ous and faithful pastor, and a literary man of promi 
 nence wherever American history and biography were 
 read. He was accompanied by his wife, a daughter 
 of the Hon. Oliver Wendell, an eminent citizen of the 
 neighboring town of Boston. Cambridge was a mere 
 village then, and the common a waste, unfenced 
 stretch of sand and gravel crossed by a number of 
 unshaded country roads. Around it there were 
 ranged a few straggling houses which, for the most 
 part, were black with age, and guiltless of paint. The 
 south windows of the house, which now became the 
 parsonage, opened upon the red buildings of Harvard 
 College, then few in number, and commanded the 
 view over the Common to which Dr. Holmes refers in 
 his " Metrical Essay," though but one church stood 
 there until 1833 : 
 
 " Our ancient church ! its lowly tower, 
 
 Beneath the loftier spire, 
 Is shadowed when the sunset hour 
 
 Clothes the tall shaft in fire.
 
 io Poets 1 Homes. 
 
 Like Sentinel and Nun they keep 
 
 Their vigil on the green ; 
 One seems to guard, and one to weep, 
 
 The dead that lie between." 
 
 The " lowly tower " belongs still to Christ Church, the 
 history of which runs back many years before revolu 
 tionary times, and in it General Washington wor 
 shipped in 1775. The old house and the scenes 
 about it, as well as the history connected with them 
 are evidently dear to Dr. Holmes, and we find 
 them frequently alluded to in his verses, as well as in 
 his prose. In the Atlantic for January, 1872, he de 
 votes several pages to a description of them, in 
 which he says, " It was a great happiness to have 
 been born in an old house haunted by such recol 
 lections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, 
 with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, 
 and that vast territory of four or five acres around il to 
 give a child the sense that he was born to a noble 
 
 principality It seems to me 
 
 I should hardly be quite happy if I could not recall 
 at will the Old House with the Long Entry and the 
 White Chamber ( where I wrote the first verses that 
 made me known, with a pencil, stans pcde in uno* 
 
 * Standing on one foot. The verses were those entitled "Old Iron- 
 ide "
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 13 
 
 jretty nearly) and the Little Parlor, and the study and 
 :he old books in uniforms as varied as those of the An- 
 :ient and Honorable Artillery Company used to be, if 
 ny memory serves me right, and the front yard with 
 the stars of Bethlehem growing, flowerless, among the 
 jrass, and the dear faces to be seen no more there or 
 anywhere on this earthly place of farewells." Again 
 he writes, " We Americans are all . cuckoos we 
 make our homes in the nests of other birds. . . . 
 We lose a great deal in living where there are so few 
 permanent homes." 
 
 But I was not talking of the son, nor of the old home 
 but of the poet's father. He is depicted to us as one 
 of the loveliest characters full of learning, but never 
 distressing others by showing how learned he was, " a 
 gentleman, a scholar, and a Christian " who for forty 
 years walked these classic streets and taught a loving 
 and respecting people the lessons that he first learned 
 himself. He drew children to him by his kindly man 
 ner, and when he appeared before them his cane 
 never frightened them, for they knew that his pockets 
 were filled with sweets for them, and his mouth with 
 pleasant words. One of his last acts was to give a 
 good book to each member of his Sunday-school as 
 they passed before the pulpit where he stood. 
 
 Of such a father and of such a mother, in the old
 
 14 Poets' Homes. 
 
 gambrel-roofecl house, Oliver Wendell Holmes was 
 born, on the twenty -ninth of August, 1809.* Ii 
 seems to me that he fulfils the conditions of " the man 
 of family," as he is described in the Atlantic 
 Monthly for November, 1859, by the " Autocrat of 
 the Breakfast-table." " The man who inherits famil} 
 traditions and the cumulative humanities of at least 
 four or five generations. Above all things, as a child, 
 he should have tumbled about in a library." Every 
 surrounding circumstance gave Dr. Holmes in his 
 youth tendencies towards the culture, wisdom, ge 
 niality, and love of books, which he has since ex 
 hibited. 
 
 He went to school in Cambridge, was fitted for 
 college at the Academy founded by Mr. Phillips 
 in Andover, and took his bachelor's degree at Har 
 vard in 1829. It is not necessary, however, to make 
 the last statement, for all the world knows that he 
 belongs to the class of 1829, he has celebrated it so 
 
 *I am very sure of this date, for I have seen the record of the important fact, 
 that was made by the father at the time. It is on one of those little old '' Al 
 manacks" that were then so commonly used for such purposes. Under the 
 date of August 29, 1809, I found these words ( or letters ) : " Son b." When 
 old Dr. Holmes wrote them he threw a little sand upon the ink, and there it 
 still glistens as the paper is turned to the sunlight ! The map of Europe has 
 been made over since that day, nations have risen and fallen, the United 
 States has passed through three wars, and yet the, !ittle grain of sand, the em 
 blem of thine?! changeable and fleeting, glistens unchanged upon the poet'i 
 birth-record 1
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 15 
 
 often in his poems. It must have been a remarkable 
 class to have so thoroughly inspired the Doctor's 
 muse. He likes to laugh at the regularity with which, 
 since 1851, he has produced poems for its meetings. 
 A few years ago, he spoke of himself thus ; 
 
 " It's awful to think of how, year after year, 
 
 With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here ; 
 
 No matter who's missing, there always is one 
 
 To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun. 
 
 ' Why won't he stop writing ? ' Humanity cries : 
 
 The answer is, briefly, ' He can't if he tries ; 
 
 He has played with his foolish old feather so long, 
 
 That the goose-quill, in spite of him, cackles in song.' " 
 
 After graduation Dr. Holmes studied law for a year 
 at the Dane Law School, of Harvard College. Dur 
 ing this time, he wrote many poems for the college 
 periodical, called " The Collegian," among which 
 were "The Height of the Ridiculous," "Evening 
 by a Tailor," and " The Last of the Dryads," the last 
 having reference to a general and severe pruning of 
 the trees around the college. At the year's end, how- 
 evei, he left this study for that of medicine, which he 
 followed until the spring of 1833. He then went to 
 Europe where he still pursued his medical studies, 
 principally in Paris, until the autumn of 1835, when 
 he returned. In 1836 he was in Cambridge, pre 
 pared to take his degree as Doctor of Medicine. It
 
 1 6 Poets' Homes, 
 
 was in the summer of that year that he delivered, be 
 fore the Phi Beta Kappa society, the remarkable 
 poem, entitled " Poetry : A Metrical Essay," begin 
 ning 
 
 " Scenes of my youth 1 awake its slumbering fire ! 
 Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre I " 
 
 In this poem, he illustrates pastoral and martial 
 poetry, by his lines on the Cambridge churchyard to 
 which I have already referred, and those stirring ones 
 entitled "Old Ironsides," which are in all collections. 
 The government had prepared to break up the old 
 frigate Constitution, and when Dr. Holmes read his 
 verses, into which he put all possible vigor, he ex 
 cited his hearers as if with an electric shock. I wish 
 that I might have heard him as he exclaimed with in 
 dignant and vehement sarcasm : 
 
 " Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! " 
 
 These stirring verses had been published in the 
 Boston Advertiser several years before ( I have told 
 you how they were written ) , and from its columns had 
 been copied by the newspapers all over the country. 
 They had been circulated on hand-bills at Washing 
 ton, and had caused the preservation of the old vessel. 
 This is one of the marked cases in which poetry has
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 17 
 
 shown its power to stir a people's heart, and to 
 accomplish something that prose would have failed to 
 do. 
 
 In 1839, Dr. Holmes became Professor of Anatomy 
 and Physiology at Dartmouth College, and ever since 
 that time he has been lecturing to medical students 
 upon subjects which you would think could not be 
 made interesting; but Dr. Holmes always makes 
 people attentive to what he says, and I have been 
 told that there is no professor whom the students so 
 r,nuch like to listen to. When you read his works you 
 vnll find that he says that every one of us is three per 
 sons, and I think that if the statement is true in re- 
 g;ard to ordinary men and women Dr. Holmes him- 
 si;lf is, at least, half a dozen persons. He lectures 
 si) well on Anatomy that his students never suspect 
 him to be a poet, and he writes verses so well that 
 most people do not suspect him of being an authority 
 among scientific men. I ought to tell you that, 
 though he illustrates his medical lectures by quota 
 tions of the most appropriate and interesting sort 
 from a wonderful variety of authors, he has never 
 been known to refer to his own writings in that way. 
 I will say here all that I wish to about his medical 
 career. 
 
 He did not stay long so far away from Cambridge
 
 1 8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 as Dartmouth is, and in 1840 we find him married 
 and established as a popular physician in Boston. It 
 was at this time that he began again to give instruc 
 tion to young physicians ; for he has never been able 
 to shut up his knowledge and keep it for his own use, 
 and has always been a teacher as well as a learner, 
 as most great and good men have been. 
 
 He wrote about diseases and the causes of them, 
 and upset some of the notions that doctors had al 
 ways thought ought to be respected. There is a bad 
 fever with a long name, that certain leading author 
 ities thought could not be " taken " by touching a per 
 son who has it, but Dr. Holmes proved that it could 
 be, and intelligent doctors agree with him now. In 
 1837, he published a volume containing three Prize Es 
 says on Intermittent Fever, Neuralgia, and the need of 
 Direct Exploration in Medical Practice. Since then, 
 he has written other very important essays of this 
 kind, one of which is on Homoeopathy and Kindred 
 Delusions. Besides this, he has argued against giv 
 ing people as much medicine as doctors used to give 
 when he was taught to practice, and for this we all 
 owe him a debt. 
 
 I must not go on with this subject too long, for you 
 wish to know about Dr. Holmes the poet, and not the 
 physician. It is enough to say that he grew so fa-
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. jg 
 
 mous and learned in this profession that when the 
 celebrated Dr. Warren gave up his professorship at 
 Harvard, Dr. Holmes was chosen to take his place as 
 professor of Anatomy. That was in 1847, and he has 
 been Professor Holmes ever since, and is now teach 
 ing the sons of some of those to whom, years ago, he 
 gave their first lesson in Anatomy. Yet, if you look at 
 his portrait, taken only a few weeks ago, you will 
 say that he is not an old man himself ! 
 
 Having arrived at the point where Dr. Holmes was 
 married and established for life, I will say a little 
 more about the homes he has had. They are three. 
 Of the first one I have told you and have shown you 
 a picture. When I was a small boy, a square old- 
 fashioned mansion used to be pointed out to me as 
 the residence of a poet, whom I knew as having writ 
 ten a poem that I thought " splendid," entitled "The 
 Height of the Ridiculous." It began thus : 
 
 " I wrote some lines, once on a time, 
 
 In wondrous merry mood, 
 And thought, as usual, men would say 
 
 They were exceeding good. 
 * They were so queer, so very quev, 
 
 I laughed as I would die ; 
 Albeit, in a general way, 
 
 A sober man an; t.' 
 
 Do you not remember them ?
 
 zo Poets' Homes. 
 
 The house that I speak of stood upon an elevation 
 overlooking a meadow bordering the Housatonic 
 river in the town of Pittsfield. Dr. Holmes's great 
 grandfather, Jacob Wendell, had had a little farm 
 there of twenty-four thousand acres, and this house 
 was surrounded by what remained of them unsold. 
 ( Let me see : How many acres make a square mile ? ) 
 I have told you how much Dr. Holmes is attached 
 to the homes that he has had. This was no excep 
 tion. He lived here a part of the year only, from 
 1849 to 1856. * In a poem recited at Pittsfield in 
 those days he says : 
 
 " Poor drudge of the city ! how happy he feels, 
 
 With the burrs on his legs and the grass at his heels ! 
 
 In yonder green meadow, to memory dear, 
 
 He slaps a mosquito, and brushes a tear ; 
 
 The dew-drops hang round him on blossoms and shoots, 
 
 He heaves but one sigh for his youth and his boots. 
 
 There stands the old school-house, hard by the old church, 
 
 The tree at its side had the flavor of birch ; 
 
 O, sweet were the days of his juvenile tricks ; 
 
 Though the prairie of youth had so many " big licks." 
 
 By the side of yon river he weeps and he slumps ; 
 
 His boots fill with water as if they were pumps, 
 
 Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed, 
 
 With a glow in his heart and a cold in his head." 
 
 * In the tenth paper of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table," Dr. Holmes 
 refers to this place thus : " In that home where seven blessed summers 
 were passed, which stand in memory like the seven golden candlesticks in 
 the beautiful vision of the holy dreamer.''
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 21 
 
 My readers out West will know what a " lick " is, 
 and all of them will see that Dr. Holmes writes of 
 the tree by the old school-house as feelingly as he 
 could have done if his young ideas had been taught 
 to shoot in Pittsfield instead of Cambridge. 
 
 The third home is the elegant one on Beacon Street 
 in Boston, of the library of which I give you as good 
 a picture as a photographer could make. It is a 
 charming room, with a generous bay-window looking 
 over the broad river Charles, and commanding an 
 extensive view of Cambridge. Even in the picture, 
 you can recognize the lofty tower of Memorial Hall., 
 which is but a few steps from the good Doctor's first 
 home. The ancient Hebrew always had a window 
 open towards Jeiusalem, the city about which his. 
 most cherished hopes and memories clustered, and 
 this window gives its owner the pleasure of looking; 
 straight to the place of his birth, and thus of fresh 
 ening all the happy memories of a successful life. 
 
 I cannot show you two other windows that you 
 would see if you could enter this library. They are 
 circular, and shed the light of day upon the alcoves 
 between the book-cases, and also upon the apparatus 
 connected with a microscope which stands ready for 
 use near one of them. 
 
 [ wish you could all stand with me beside the
 
 22 Poets' Homes. 
 
 writing-table in the center of this room. You would 
 see your face reflected in a large mirror over the 
 cheerful open fire that burns on the hearth, and you 
 would notice that the walls on all sides, except one 
 through which you entered, are lined with books. 
 Beside the broad doors you would see two portraits 
 that would attract your attention and keep it.' The 
 one, of a lady ( which once had a rent in the canvas ), 
 represents " Dorothy Q.," 
 
 " Grandmother's mother, her age, I guess, 
 
 Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
 
 Girlish bust, but womanly air, 
 
 Smooth, square forehead, and up-rolled hair, 
 
 Lips that lover has never kissed, 
 
 Taper fingers anfl slender wrist, 
 
 Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, 
 
 So they painted the little maid. 
 
 On her hand a parrot green 
 
 Sits unmoving, and broods serene." 
 
 This little maiden was a daughter of Judge Edmund 
 Quincy of Boston, and married Edward Jackson. 
 She was an aunt of a second Dorothy Quincy, after 
 ward Mrs. John Hancock, whose husband signed the 
 Declaration of Independence in such a dashing way. 
 The other portrait is a speaking one, by Copley, of the 
 Rev. Dr. Samuel Cooper, a celebrated divine of Revo 
 lutionary times, who was a friend of Benjamin Frank
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 23 
 
 lin, and preached in the Brattle Street Church to Dr. 
 Holmes' ancestors. This home is very elegant, and 
 Dr, Holmes evidently enjoys it very much. Should 
 you not like to see him writing at that table ? I can 
 imagine him engaged in that way. I suppose that 
 he has just come in from a lecture where he has been 
 delighting the medical students with his lucid exposi 
 tion of some anatomical subject. He warms his feet 
 before the fire awhile, and then remembers that some 
 editor has been urging him for a poem. His eyes 
 glance out at the window, he sees the Memorial Tower ; 
 he remembers the old parsonage below it, his mind 
 travels over time as his eye has over space, and he 
 peoples the house and the neighborhood with the 
 men, women and children of many long years ago. 
 He hears the notes of a musical instrument, that came 
 out of the windows looking towards the church of 
 those days, and his imagination is fixed in words, 
 thus: 
 
 " In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen, 
 With the gambrel roof, and the gable looking westward to 
 
 the green, 
 
 At the side towards the sunset, with the window on its right, 
 Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night I 
 Ah, me ! how I remember the evening when it came 1 
 What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame I 
 When the wondrous box was opened that had come from 
 over seas.
 
 24 Poets' Homes. 
 
 With its smell of mastic varnish and its flash of ivory keys. 
 Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, 
 For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, 
 Till the father asked for quiet in his grave, paternal way, 
 But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, 
 play." 
 
 Does this not show that our poet has never forgot 
 ten that home, nor the great excitement caused in 
 the family circle by the arrival of the imported Clem 
 enti piano, which was such a wonder in those days . 
 Is there not something delightfully cordial in the 
 introduction that this gives us to the family circle to 
 father and mother, brother and sisters, and even to his 
 little " Catherine," who ran in to listen to the won 
 drous music, as you will learn if you read the othei 
 verses of the " Opening of the Piano " ? 
 
 Suppose, however, that Dr. Holmes, instead of 
 looking so far for his subject, had cast his eyes down 
 upon the Charles. Then he might have written thus 
 as he did last winter : 
 
 " Through my north window, in the wintry weather, 
 
 My airy oriel on the river shore, 
 I watch the seafowl as they flock together, 
 
 Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar. 
 How often, gazing where a bird reposes, 
 
 Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide, 
 I lose myself in strange metempsychosis, 
 
 And float, a sea fowl, at a sea fowl's side.
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 25 
 
 A voice recalls me. From my window turning, 
 
 I find myself a plumeless biped still ; 
 No beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning, 
 
 In fact, with nothing birdlike but my quill." 
 
 This poem was in the Atlantic for January last, 
 [t contains a touch that is very characteristic of 
 one so kindly in his feelings as Dr. Holmes. As he calls 
 our attention to the fowl he loves to see on the water, 
 he takes advantage of a moment when one of tho 
 ducks is diving, to tell us that it is not valuable to thu 
 hunter a remark which of course he could not makt; 
 in the fowl's presence ! 
 
 By knowing so much as we have now learned o 5 
 the homes of Dr. Holmes, we get an introduction to 
 his mind and heart, and understand something o:l 
 how his poems have grown out of his life and have 
 been moulded by his surroundings. It is not neces 
 sary for us to wander into the other apartments of his 
 present house, though he will gladly show us his 
 drawing-room, just across the hall from the library, 
 and let us feast our eyes upon some of the works of 
 art there. He will call our attention especially to 
 some remarkable reproductions of paintings of the old 
 masters, made by a new process. Here I will say, 
 by way of parenthesis, that we owe to the ingenuity of 
 our poet the stereoscope in its present available shape,
 
 26 Poets' Homes. 
 
 which he gave to the public without burdening it with 
 the additional cost which it would have had if it had 
 been patented. It is one of the few inventions of 
 value that are not patented. 
 
 Thus far we have studied Dr. Holmes as a success 
 ful professional student, writer and poet. Twenty- 
 five years ago he appeared in a new character; He 
 began to lecture on contemporary poets, and showed 
 that he was a most acute literary critic. He knew 
 human nature and was able to manage audiences of a 
 mixed kind as well as those composed of students. 
 Twenty years ago last autumn a new magazine was 
 started in Boston. It was to be of the very highest 
 literary character, and the poet James Russell Lowell, 
 now our minister at Madrid, was called to its edito 
 rial chair. He said that he would not accept unless 
 his friend Oliver Wendell Holmes would agree to be 
 one of the contributors. Dr. Holmes was reluctant to 
 promise. He remembered that he had been writing 
 for thirty years, and felt that a new generation of read 
 ers as well as writers had grown up, and thought that 
 he ought to be allowed to rest. Now, as he looks 
 back, he sees that he was mistaken, and believes that 
 the new magazine came for his fruit just as it was ripe 
 for the gathering. " It seems very strange to me," 
 he says with his quaint frankness, " as I look back and
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 29 
 
 see how everything was arranged for me, as if I had 
 been waited for as patiently as Kepler said he was , 
 but so the least sometimes seem to be cared for as 
 anxiously as the greatest are not two sparrows sold 
 for a farthing, and one of them shall not fall ? If I 
 had been the sparrow that fell in the early part of 
 1853, the world might have lost very little, but I 
 should have carried a few chirps with me that I had 
 rather have left behind me." 
 
 Such was Dr. Holmes's modest opinion of himself 
 in 1857. Mr. Lowell thought otherwise, and so did 
 the public. The magazine wanted a name, and Dr. 
 Holmes called it " The Atlantic Monthly Magazine." 
 As he sat down to write for the first number, he re 
 membered that, just twenty-five years before, he had 
 published two articles entitled " The Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast-Table," and he says that the recollections 
 of these crude products of his uncombed literary boy 
 hood suggested the thought that it would be a curious 
 experiment to shake the same bough again and see if 
 the ripe fruit were better or worse than the early 
 wind-falls. So he began his first article thus : " I 
 was just going to say, when I was interrupted, " 
 and did not explain for a year how long the interrup 
 tion had lasted. 
 
 His papers took the reading public by storm and
 
 30 Poets' Homes. 
 
 successfully established the Atlantic. It was acknowl 
 edged that Dr. Holmes was the best living magazine 
 writer. For a year he sat at the breakfast-table as 
 the Autocrat, and then he began a series of papers 
 entitled, " The Professor at the Breakfast-Table." 
 These were followed by "The Professor's Story," 
 afterwards published as " Elsie Venner ; a Romance 
 of Destiny." In 1867, " The Guardian Angel " was 
 the great attraction of the magazine, and in 1872, the 
 " Autocrat " series was closed with a number of arti 
 cles entitled, "The Poet at the Breakfast-Table." 
 These ended with a poetical epilogue, in which the 
 author represents a buyer in 1972 purchasing the 
 whole of them at a book-store for " one dime ! " 
 
 This series of prose works is overflowing with wit 
 and wisdom, and established the reputation of Dr. 
 Holmes as a writer of prose, as high as it had before 
 stood as a poet. It constituted, however, but a part 
 of his productions for the period. He wrote con 
 stantly upon topics that were uppermost in the peo 
 ple's thoughts ; and especially was he in demand 
 whenever on an occasion of extraordinary importance 
 a poem was required. He became the poet-laureate 
 of Boston, and wrote, himself, 
 
 " Here's the cousin of a king, 
 Would I do the civil thing ?
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 33 
 
 Here's the first-born of a queen ; 
 Here's a slant-eyed Mandarin. 
 Would I polish off Japan ? 
 Would I greet this famous man, 
 Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah ? 
 Figaro $i and Figaro li ! 
 Would I just this once comply ? 
 So they teased and teased till I 
 (Be the truth at once confessed) 
 Wavered, yielded, did my best." 
 
 Thus he has gratified his friends and the public from 
 time to time, ever since the first of February, 1845, 
 when he wrote a song for the dinner given to Charles 
 Dickens by the young men of Boston, at which time, 
 weaving together the memory of the greatest drama 
 tist and the rising story-teller, he spoke of the " dewy 
 blossoms " that wave in the " glorious island of the 
 sea," 
 
 "Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb 
 And Nelly's nameless grave." 
 
 Here, I must leave my subject incomplete, for I am 
 not a prophet, and a prophet only can tell what new 
 laurels Dr. Holmes will yet win. But if he should 
 leave us now, he would always be remembered as one 
 who, in many ways, had distinguished himself above 
 his fellows. As a professional man, he has been 
 thorough and successful ; as a man of letters, versa-
 
 34 Poets' Homes. 
 
 tile, brilliant, of the highest culture ; as a citizen, pa 
 triotic ; as a man, an exemplification of elegance of 
 manner and kindliness of heart. May he live many 
 years, and teach others by his example to practice 
 his virtues ! 
 
 Though / am not a prophet, there was one living 
 in England just three hundred years ago, who, it al 
 most seems to me, had Dr. Holmes in mind when 
 he wrote the following lines, with which I will close : 
 
 " A merrier man. 
 
 Within the limit of becoming mirth, 
 I never spent an hour's talk withal 
 His eye begets occasion for his wit ; 
 For every object that the one doth catch, 
 The other turns to a mirth-moving jest ; 
 Which his fair tongue, ( conceit's expositor ) 
 Delivers in such apt and gracious words 
 That aged ears play truant at his tales, 
 And younger hearings are quite ravished, 
 So sweet and voluble is his discourse. 
 
 " May he live 
 
 Longer than I have time to tell his years. 
 Ever beloved and loving may his rule be I 
 And when old Time shall lead him to his er.d 
 Gocdness and he fill up one monuirert ' '
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 DURING the summer heats of the Centennial 
 year, a little child less than a year old fell ill 
 and died in its house, in Camden, New Jersey. The 
 funeral was different from most funerals no ser 
 mons, no singing, no ceremony. In the middle of 
 the room the dead lay in a white coffin made fragrant 
 with a profusion of fresh geranium leaves and tube 
 roses. For over an hour, the little children from the 
 neighborhood kept coming in silently, until the room 
 was nearly filled. Some were not tall enough to see 
 the face of the dead baby, and had to be lifted up to 
 look. Near the head of the coffin, in a large chair, 
 sat an old man, with snow-white hair and beard. 
 The children pressed about him, one at each side of 
 him encircled in his arms, while a beautiful little girl 
 
 35
 
 36 Poets' Homes. 
 
 was seated in his lap. After gazing wonderingly and 
 intently at the scene about her, she looked up in 
 the paternal face bending over her, as if to ask the 
 meaning of Death. The old man understood the 
 child's thought, and said : 
 
 "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" 
 then added, " neither do we" 
 
 The dead baby was the nephew and namesake of 
 the poet, Walt Whitman, the old man who sat in the 
 great chair with little children gathered about him. 
 So his being a special lover of children, understand 
 ing, and sympathizing with them, perhaps, as only a 
 poet may, and nursing, cheering and helping them 
 when sick, as perhaps poets rarely do, or can, must 
 add a peculiar fitness and charm to a sketch of him, 
 especially for young readers. 
 
 To go back to the beginning of his life, will take us 
 into a farm house at West Hills, Long Island, about 
 thirty miles from New York city, where the poet was 
 born, May 31, 1819. His father was of English 
 descent, his ancestors being among the first English 
 emigrants that settled on Long Island four or five 
 generations ago. The Whitmans were farmers, both 
 the men and women laboring with their own hands, 
 A famous friend of the poet, thus describes his pater 
 nal home:
 
 Walt Whitman. 37 
 
 "The Whitmans lived in a long story-and-a-ha'f 
 house, hugely timbered, which is still standing. A 
 great smoke-canopied kitchen, with vast hearth and 
 chimney, formed one end of the house. The existence 
 of slavery in New York at that time, and the posses 
 sion by the family of some twelve or fifteen slaves, 
 house and field servants, gave things quite a patri 
 archal look. The very young darkies could be seen 
 a swarm of them, toward sundown, in this kitchen 
 squatted in a circle on the floor, eating their suppei 
 of pudding and milk. In the house, and in food and 
 furniture, all was rude, but substantial. No carpets 
 nor stoves were known, and no coffee, and tea or 
 sugar only for the women. Rousing woodfires gavo 
 both warmth and light on winter nights. Pork, poul 
 try, beef, and all the ordinary grains and vegetables 
 were plentiful. Cider was the men's common drink 
 and used at meals. The clothes were mainly home 
 spun. Journeys were made by both men and women 
 on horseback. Books were scarce. The annual 
 copy of the Almanac was a treat, and was pored over 
 through the long winter evenings." 
 
 It was in this home the poet's father, Walter Whit 
 man, was born. He was a large, quiet, serious man, 
 very kind to children and animals. He was a good 
 citizen, parent and neighbor. The poet's mother,
 
 38 Poefs Homes. 
 
 Lousia Van Velsor, was of Dutch descent, her ances 
 tors, a race of sea folks and mariners, being genuine 
 Hollanders. The Van Velsors were all passionately 
 fond of horses, and Louisa, when a girl, was a daring 
 and spirited rider. As a woman, she was healthy and 
 strong, possessed of a kind and generous heart, and 
 good sense ; she was cheerful and equable in temper, 
 qualities which the rearing of her large family of boys 
 and girls tested and developed to an unusual degree. 
 Her son, the subject of this sketch, who was her 
 second child, always speaks of her as the "dear, dear, 
 mother." At the time of her death in 1873, and that 
 of his sister Martha, which occurred at about the 
 same time, he says : 
 
 "They were the two best and sweetest women I 
 have ever seen or known, or ever expect to see." 
 
 It was fortunate that in his earlier life he was 
 under the influence of such women, for they became 
 to him the type and model of all womanhood. " It is 
 the character of the mother" I have heard of him 
 say, "that stamps that of the child." 
 
 But the boy's life on the farm, from the high places 
 of which he could see the ocean, and hear the roar of 
 the surf in storms, was of short duration. While he 
 was still in frocks, his parents moved to Brooklyn, 
 which was then far from being the great city it now
 
 Walt Whitman. 39 
 
 is. Here his father engaged in house- building, while 
 the young Walt went to public school, going every 
 summer to visit the old home at West Hills. Of the 
 events of his childhood, the poet recalls one of pleas 
 ant interest. General Lafayette was then on a visit 
 to this country in 1825, and went to Brooklyn, 
 riding through the town in state, with the people 
 lining the street, cheering, and waving hats and hand 
 kerchiefs. Even the children of the public schools 
 were given a holiday in which to add to his welcome. 
 As the general rode along, he was induced to stop on 
 his way, and lay the corner stone for a building that 
 was to contain a free public library for young people. 
 There the children came thronging, while some of 
 she gentlemen present were kind enough to lift the 
 smaller ones to safe and convenient places for seeing 
 the ceremony. Among these helpers of the little 
 ones, was Lafayette, who took up the five-year-old 
 Walt Whitman, kissed and embraced the child and 
 then set him down in a good and safe place. 
 
 When the boy had reached the age of thirteen, he 
 went to work in a printing office, learning to set type. 
 For three years following, he continued to set type, to 
 read and study, and then, when scarcely seventeen 
 years old, he began to teach school on the Island, in 
 the counties of Queens and Suffolk, and "boarded
 
 40 Poets' Homes. 
 
 round." During this time he made his first essay as 
 a writer, sending a sketch, or story, to the then 
 famous monthly, the "Democratic Review." His 
 article was commended, printed, copied and quoted, 
 a success brilliant enough to quite turn the head 
 of a youthful aspirant. Other contributions followed, 
 with an occasional "shy" at poetry, until he finally 
 left off " boarding round " and went to New York, 
 beginning work there as a printer and writer. His 
 talent for writing was clever, and for a time he wrote 
 reports, editorials, paragraphs, and the like. Occa 
 sionally he attended political meetings, and made 
 speeches. How good an orator he was, I am unable 
 to say. To be brief, during the period from 1837 to 
 1848, he seemed to have led a happy, careless, Bohe- 
 mianish sort of life, making the acquaintance of hu 
 man existence under a multitude of phases, and 
 becoming especially familiar with the life of the 
 lower classes of people, whose society pleased him 
 better than did that of the rich and the learned. All 
 this broadened and deepened his sympathies, and 
 was a part of that "long foreground" in his career 
 which preceded his fame as a poet. 
 
 When about thirty years of age, to use his 'own 
 words, he "went off on a leisurely journey and work 
 ing expedition, ( my brother Jeff with me ) through
 
 Walt Whitman. 41 
 
 all the Middle States and down the Ohio and Missis 
 sippi rivers. Lived a while in New Orleans and 
 worked there. After a time plodded back northward, 
 up the Mississippi, the Missouri, etc., and around to, 
 and by way of, the great lakes, Michigan, Huron and 
 Erie, to Niagara Falls and Lower Canada, finally 
 returning through Central New York and down the 
 Hudson." In 1851 he began the publication of a 
 daily and weekly newspaper in Brooklyn ; then sold 
 that out, and occupied himself in house building, 
 which it will be remembered was his father's voca 
 tion. He continued in this business until 1855, when 
 his father died, a loss he keenly felt, for his love of 
 kindred is strongly and deeply rooted. About this 
 time he began, after a great deal of writing and rewrit 
 ing, to put his poems, which then consisted of one 
 foundation piece, so to speak, and which he oddly 
 enough named for himself, and ten or a dozen shorter 
 pieces, to pi ess. He says of this work, that he had 
 great trouble in leaving out the stock "poetical" 
 touches, but finally did. He was at this time at the 
 meridian of life, thirty-five years old. 
 
 These poems, when printed and bound, formed a 
 thin quarto volume which was labeled, in large let 
 ters, " Leaves of Grass." In the frontispiece was a 
 neatly engraved half length portrait of a youngish
 
 42 Poets' Homes. 
 
 man, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, rather jauntily 
 adjusted, a plain shirt with wide collar left open at 
 the throat, one arm a-kimbo, and the hand of the 
 other stuffed in his pantaloon pocket. The face 
 under the broad-brimmed hat, was, however, a study, 
 and one difficult to describe. The mouth seemed to 
 say one thing and the eyes another. This was a por 
 trait of the author at thirty-five years of age, and it 
 may interest possessors of copies to know that this 
 " shirt-sleeve picture " was daguerreotyped from life 
 one hot day in August, by Gabriel Harrison of Brook 
 lyn, afterwards drawn on steel by McRae, and was a 
 very faithful and characteristic likeness at the time. 
 The large head that follows, and which looks like 
 a study from the old masters, so grand and powerful 
 it is, was photographed from life in Washington, in 
 1872, by Geo. C. Potter and drawn on wood by Lin- 
 ton. A distance of but seventeen years separates the 
 two portraits. One might readily think that half a 
 century had elapsed. But the war lay between, and 
 that was long long, not to be measured by years. 
 
 To come back to "Leaves of Grass," it was issued 
 without the author's name, the printing was poorly 
 done, the publisher was unknown to fame, the style 
 of the poems was different from anything hitherto 
 known under the sun, and altogether the prospect of
 
 Walt Whitman. 
 
 45 
 
 the " Leaves " was a withering one. A few copies 
 were d eposited in New York and Brooklyn for sale 
 but weeks elapsed and none were sold. But very 
 little notice was taken of the book by reviewers, who 
 either thought it beneath their notice, or found it too 
 far beyond their comprehension to attempt a criticism 
 of it, or felt unwilling to hazard a critic's reputation by 
 actually classifying it as literary " fish, flesh or fowl." 
 
 Suddenly, however, from an unexpected quarter 
 came a powerful voice to its rescue. Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson spoke, and his words were a "magnificent 
 eulogium " of " Leaves of Grass." Not even this, 
 however, effected a sale for that first edition. A sec 
 ond, somewhat enlarged, issued in New York, shared 
 the same fate. A third, printed in Boston, in 1860, 
 in a very elegant manner, and still further enlarged, 
 had somewhat better luck. In the financial crash 
 that preceded and followed the outbreak of war, the 
 publishers failed a few hundred copies of the book 
 had been sold everything then was forgotten but 
 the weal and woe of the country, and the poet went 
 off (i86i-'6s) to the war. 
 
 The life of Walt Whitman, during those dreadful 
 years which ensued, and which he spent in unpaid 
 service in hospital and camp among the dead, dy 
 ing, wounded and sick, no one can truly depict. The
 
 46 Poets' Homes. 
 
 poet himself, in his " Memoranda of the War ' written 
 on the spot, has best done it, in a style, which ior 
 simplicity and forgetfulness of self, is yet the most 
 thrilling and powerfully descriptive record of those 
 sad events, that has as yet appeared, or is likely to 
 appear. He seems to have been all things to all 
 men as need demanded. Of powerful physique, 
 magnetic, sympathetic, human to his heart's core, he 
 goes among the wounded dispensing food, cordials, 
 writing letters for them, reading to them, praying with 
 them if they wish it, speaking words of cheer, infus 
 ing new life in their veins from his own abundance of 
 life, bearing always about him a breeziness of health, 
 freshness, and energy, holding an emaciated hand 
 for hours, may be in silence, kissing a poor dying boy 
 for his mother's sake, penning a love letter for an 
 other who will be " gone hence " long before the 
 sadly precious words reach their destination. 
 
 He supports himself for two or three years as cor 
 respondent for northern journals, and in addition to 
 the little he is enabled to expend from his own 
 income, he is the trusted almoner of bountiful hands 
 wealthy women in Salem, Boston and New York. 
 
 In 1864, after three years of assiduous labor, and 
 latterly of most exhausting watching and waiting 
 upon soldiers whose wounds from the extreme heat
 
 Walt Whitman. 49 
 
 and previous neglect have become terrible,his health, 
 which until then had been a marvel of superb robust 
 ness, gave way and he was prostrated by the first 
 sickness of his life was ordered north and lay 
 ill for six months. 
 
 Upon his partial recovery (for he has never re 
 covered), he returned to Washington, and was given 
 a position in the Department of the Interior. A 
 goodly portion of his salary and his leisure hours 
 were devoted to hospital work, and as "prophet, 
 poet, or priest," the tenderest, heartfulest tribute 
 that can be paid to Walt Whitman must come from 
 the suffering soldier boys he nursed back to life, 
 boys who are men to-day, and whose eyes brighten 
 and moisten at his name, and from the silence of 
 those who died in his arms, and whose requiem he 
 has so touchingly chanted. 
 
 Here are some lines from his " Drum Taps " in 
 which the great Mother of All is represented as 
 stalking in desperation over the earth, mournfully 
 crying : 
 
 " Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried I charge you 
 
 lose not my sons ! lose not an atom ; 
 
 And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood; 
 And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly, 
 And all you essences of soil and growth and you my rivers' 
 
 depths ;
 
 50 Poefs Homes. 
 
 And you mountain sides and the woods where my dear chil 
 
 dren's blood trickled, reddened ; 
 And you trees, down to your roots, to bequeath to all future 
 
 trees, 
 My dead absorb my young men's beautiful bodies absorb 
 
 and their precious, precious, precious blood ; 
 Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me 
 
 many a year hence ; 
 
 In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my dar 
 lings give my immortal heroes; 
 Exhale me them centuries hence breathe me their breath let 
 
 not an atom be lost, 
 O years and graves ! O air and soil I my dead are aroma 
 
 sweet ! 
 Exhale them, perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence." 
 
 As a clerk, Walt Whitman did his work well, poet 
 though he was, mechanical as his work was, and 
 modest as was his pay. We never hear him com 
 plaining of the " thankless government." A preju 
 diced official removes him at one time, because he is 
 the author of that " strange book " " Leaves oi 
 Grass." Another official, of broader mental calibre, 
 re-instates him in the Attorney General's office, 
 because perhaps, that he is author of "Leaves of 
 Grass," and a faithful, trustworthy clerk. This posi 
 tion he holds until 1873, when the remnant of strength 
 and health that escaped destruction during the war, 
 yields to nervous paralysis, and helpless and gray, 
 hair and beard by many years prematurely whitened 
 he quits work and goes to Camden, N. J., to live.
 
 Walt Whitman. 5 1 
 
 These later years of illness have undoubtedly been 
 the hardest years in the life of the poet. Helpless 
 and half sick, his ills have been aggravated by pecu 
 liarly trying circumstances. Repeated attempts to 
 secure a small income by writing for the magazines 
 have met with no success. Magazines as well as 
 publishing houses, great and small, have been as so 
 many closed avenues to him, and several of his agents 
 one after another taking advantage of his helpless 
 ness, have put the proceeds of the sale of his books 
 in their own pockets. But under all this, no word of 
 complaint, no tone or look of discouragement, for our 
 poet is withal a philosopher. Always cheerful anj 
 serene he stands fast and strong, like a great rock 
 lashed about by ocean billows ; or like some prophet 
 with gifted sight who sees a-down the vistas of time 
 a shining verdict one which all men read and see 
 to be true. 
 
 Latterly, however, Mr. Whitman has been getting 
 better, and is more resolute and persevering than 
 ever. Many a gleam of sunshine comes to him from 
 friends at home and abroad, especially from England 
 where he is greatly appreciated, and if appreciation 
 be measured by its quality rather than by its quantity, 
 no poet of the century is more read than he. 
 
 During the past twelve months he has prepared
 
 52 Poets' Homes. 
 
 with his own hands an edition of his works, in two 
 volumes, which he himself sells. One is entitled 
 " Leaves of Grass," and the other " Two Rivulets." 
 Both volumes contain his photograph, put in with his 
 own hands, his signature, and are in a way charged 
 with his own personal magnetism " authors' edi 
 tions," indeed. The price for these volumes is nec 
 essarily high, as the edition is very small, not over one 
 hundred and fifty copies. I think he must make a poor 
 agent for himself, for once when a party proposed to 
 purchase, he quite earnestly advised them not to buy ! 
 
 As to Walt Whitman's " home " it must be con 
 fessed that he has none and for many years has had 
 none in the special sense of "home;" neither has he 
 the usual library or "den" for composition and work. 
 He composes everywhere much in the open air, 
 formerly while writing " Leaves of Grass," sometimes 
 in the New York and Brooklyn ferries, sometimes on 
 the top of omnibuses in the roar of Broadway, or 
 amid the most crowded haunts of the city, or the 
 shipping by day and then at night, often in the 
 Democratic Amphitheater of the Fourteenth Street 
 opera house. The pieces in his " Drum Taps " were 
 all prepared in camp, in the midst of war scenes, on 
 picket or the march, in the army. 
 
 He now spends the summer mostly at a pleasant
 
 Walt Whitman. 53 
 
 farm "down in Jersey," where he likes best to "loaf" 
 by a secluded, picturesque pond on Timber Creek. 
 It is in such places, and in the country at large, in 
 the West on the prairies, by the Pacific, in cities too 
 New York, Washington, New Orleans, along Long 
 Island shore where he well loves to linger, that Walt 
 Whitman has really had his home and place of com 
 position. He is now 58 years old, and has his "head 
 quarters," as he calls it, at Camden, where a brother 
 resides. It is understood that he is leisurely en 
 gaged in still further digesting, completing, and 
 adding to his volumes. 
 
 In person Mr. Whitman is tall, erect and stout, 
 and moves about with the aid of a large cane. His 
 white hair, thrown straight back from his brow, and 
 full white beard, give him a striking and patriarchal 
 appearance. His cheeks are fresh and ruddy; his 
 forehead is deeply furrowed with horizontal lines : in 
 conversation his blue gray eyes seem prone to hide 
 themselves under the falling eyelids, which are pres 
 ently suddenly lifted as if by a thought. His voice is 
 clear and firm, his manner free from all affectation or 
 eccentricity, and is eminently natural and social. He 
 is not specially gifted, or fluent in conversation is 
 fond of society, and confesses that as he grows older, 
 his love for humanity has come to be almost a hun-
 
 54 Ports' 
 
 ger for the presence of human beings. He is a great 
 favorite with children, and bachelor as he has been 
 all his life, his nature is as sweet and gentle, his heart 
 is sympathetic and young, as tender and true as if 
 he were the happiest grandsire around whose knees 
 sunny-haired children ever clung. 
 
 In his dress he is very simple, but scrupulously 
 neat and clean. His most intimate friends are plenty 
 of cold water and pure air. He always wears his 
 shirts open at the throat a heathful, but uncommon 
 habit. 
 
 Among his " household gods " are two prized por 
 traits ; one is of himself, painted some years ago by 
 Charles Hine of New York, who, on his death bed 
 gave it to the poet. The other is a photographic por 
 trait of Alfred Tennyson, sent by the " Laureate " to 
 Whitman. In a letter accompanying the picture, Mr. 
 Tennyson says that his wife pronounces it the best 
 likeness ever made of him certainly it is a very 
 handsome one, and few copies were made from the 
 plate, as it was, unfortunately, soon after broken. 
 
 Of the other Whitman children, none have devel 
 oped a poetic talent. According to a good humored 
 remark of himself, " they think writing poetry is the 
 sheerest nonsense." Two of his brothers are engi 
 neers. One of them, Col. George W. Whitman, was
 
 Walt Whitman. 
 
 55 
 
 a gallant army officer during the whole war. 
 
 The portraits given with this sketch are character 
 istic. The third one, with the broad-brimmed hat, he 
 calls his "Quaker picture." His maternal grand 
 mother was a Quakeress. 
 
 The autograph accompanying portrait number three, 
 gives a fair idea of the strong, legible script that comes 
 from his pen. He writes with frequent erasures, show 
 ing a delicacy and keen sense of fitness in the choice 
 of words that are not readily responded to, owing un 
 doubtedly to a lack of suitable discipline in his early 
 education. 
 
 As to his poetry, there are almost as many opinions 
 as there are readers of it. The best judgment one 
 can have of it, is to read it for himself, study it, for 
 there is far more in it, at all times, than may at first 
 appear. For readers with rural tastes here are 
 some lines descriptive of a scene in northern New 
 York : 
 
 THE OX TAMER. 
 
 In a far away northern country, in the placid, pastoral region, 
 Lives my farmer friend, the theme of my recitative, a famous 
 
 Tamer of Oxen : 
 There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds, 
 
 to break them ; 
 
 He will take the wildest steer in the world, and break him and 
 tame him ;
 
 5 6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 He will go, fearless, without any whip, where the young bullock 
 
 chafes up and down the yard ; 
 
 The bullock's head tosses restless high in the air, with raging eyes; 
 Yet, see you 1 how soon his rage subsides how soon this Tamer 
 
 tames him : 
 See you I on the farms hereabout, a hundred oxen, young and 
 
 old and he is the man who has tamed them; 
 They all know him all are affectionate to him; 
 See you ! some are such beautiful animals so lofty looking. 
 Some are buff color'd some mottled one has a white line 
 
 running along his back some are brindled, 
 Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign) See you ! the 
 
 bright hides : 
 See, the two with stars on their foreheads See, the round 
 
 bodies and broad backs ; 
 See, how straight and square they stand on their legs See, 
 
 what fine, sagacious eyes ; 
 See, how they watch their Tamer they wish him near them 
 
 how they turn to look after him ! 
 What yearning expression ! how uneasy they are when he moves 
 
 away from them : 
 
 Now I marvel what it can be he appears to them, (books, pol 
 itics, poems, depart all else departs ; ) 
 I confess I envy only his fascination my silent, illiterate 
 
 friend. 
 
 Whom a hundred oxen love, there in his life on farms, 
 In the northern country far, in the placid, pastoral region. 
 
 In conclusion, I select his poem on "Lincoln 
 dead" every line of which sounds like a knell. I 
 am sure no sadder thrills were ever penned by poet, 
 every verse seems to have been drawn through the 
 poet's own bleeding heart :
 
 Walt Whitman. 59 
 
 3 Captain ! my Captain I our fearful trip is done ; 
 'he ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won 
 he port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
 /hile follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ! 
 But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
 O the bleeding drops of red, 
 
 Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 
 ) Captain ! my Captain 1 rise up and hear the bells ; 
 
 Use up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills ; 
 
 'or you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores 
 
 a-crowding ; 
 
 "or you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; 
 Here Captain ! dear father 1 
 This arm beneath your head ; 
 It is some dream that on the deck 
 You've fallen cold and dead. 
 
 Vfy Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still ; 
 
 Vly father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 
 
 Fhe ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 
 
 done; 
 
 From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won ; 
 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells 1 
 But I, with mournful tread, 
 
 Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead.
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 " \ POET without a Home "would not be an 
 -L\. inappropriate title for the present article. 
 The other bards mentioned in this series have all 
 domiciled themselves in comfortable quarters, ranging 
 from aristocratic old mansions like Elmwood, or the 
 Craigie House, to such snug suites of rooms as all but 
 very rich ftrw Yorkers must content themselves with. 
 But Joaquin Miller comes pretty near being, like 
 Goldsmith, a citizen of the world. The other day he 
 was praising the gentle temper and kindly modesty of 
 Mr. Longfellow, and suddenly said : 
 
 " What a home he has ! How I envy him, 1 who 
 60
 
 Joaquin Miller. 61 
 
 have no home ! How I long for a home, some place 
 I can call my own 1 " 
 
 The poet seldom speaks thus, contenting himself, 
 as a rule, with the wild freedom which makes him 
 happy under Shasta to-day and beside the Nile to 
 morrow. Once, however, as he sat in a room in a 
 New York hotel, whose luxuries were his only for the 
 night, he pointed to a box of quills real, old-fash 
 ioned goose-feathers and said : 
 
 " There ! that's all I have in the world, and all 1 
 want." 
 
 Omnia mea mecum porto, he might have said were 
 he not, like Shakespeare, the master of small Latin ; 
 for he can carry all his goods in his pocket, save, per 
 haps his pet saddle, which he would willingly trans 
 port down Broadway on his back. 
 
 The average reader hardly knows how many famous 
 writers have become familiar under other Christian 
 names than those their parents gave them. Mr. 
 Charles John Hougham Dickens quietly dropped his 
 two middle names, probably concluding that the pro 
 duct of the extremes was equal to that of the means ; 
 Mr. Cincinnatus Heine Miller, in like manner, con 
 cluded that he would rather celebrate one name than 
 be celebrated by two, and so invented one for him 
 self. He was born in one of the best parts of Indi-
 
 62 Poets' Homes. 
 
 ana, the Wabash region, on November 10, 1841, and 
 lived there for thirteen years, when Hulins Miller, his 
 father, determined to go to Oregon with his family. 
 That was long before the days of Pacific railroads, 
 and even the weary wagon ride across the plains was 
 neither safe nor expeditious. What with the monoto 
 nous drive across the level country, and the difficult 
 passage of the Rocky Mountains, it was three months 
 before the destination, the Willamette Valley, was 
 reached. Of course as little baggage as possible was 
 taken, but household stores and cooking utensils were 
 a neccessity ; and it not infrequently happened that 
 prowling Indians, or equally covetous wild beasts, mad; 
 a swoop for plunder on such little bands of pilgrims. 
 The long solemn marches by day ; the perilous en 
 campment by night, when watch-fires were built to 
 keep off animals, and muskets were loaded as a pre 
 caution against Indian invasion ; the every-day com 
 panionship of all that is grand and inspiring in natu 
 ral scenery all these things impress a boy quite ai 
 much as a man, and to their existence is doubtless; 
 due much of young Miller's later love of poetry. Ho 
 was thirteen years old, an age, when, if ever, come 
 romantic dreams of adventure and discovery. But 
 what other boys were eagerly reading in the novels o/
 
 Joaquin Miller. 63 
 
 James Fenimore Cooper, was present before Miller's 
 very eyes. 
 
 There were seven in the family, four of the children 
 being sons and one a daughter. Eugene City, in 
 Lane County, Oregon, was their new home, but young 
 Cincinnatus was not long content to remain in a re 
 gion which to most would have seemed sufficiently 
 romantic. The California mining excitement had 
 now been raging for five years, and thither went the 
 lad to try his fortune as a gold-digger. He contrived 
 to make money enough to pay his current expenses, 
 and very likely had, with all the rest, his " flush " days 
 and his months of deepest poverty. 
 
 He went back to Oregon in 1859 without the 
 princely fortune he had pictured to himself in his 
 dreams, and was soon stung by one of the most praise 
 worthy of ambitions, that of getting a little " book- 
 learning." He was still a mere boy, only eighteen, 
 and the books he studied were of an elementary de 
 scription. It is hard for a lad who has been out in 
 the world to content himself long with the restraints 
 of a school-room, and Miller soon got out of that irk 
 some place. 
 
 Artemus Ward once remarked of Chaucer that " he 
 was a great poet, but he couldn't spell ; " and we
 
 64 Poets' Homes. 
 
 shall not hurt Joaquin Miller's feelings if we say that 
 both statements are true in his case. The poet, in 
 fact, takes some pride in his phonetic disregard of 
 current orthography, for, as he himself says, "you 
 can't expect a fellow to write, and spell, and do every 
 thing." 
 
 Then followed a year as pony-express driver, in 
 which the ordinary dangers of a teamster in the west 
 ern wilds were aggravated by the fact that he must 
 carry the United States mails, which were favorite 
 prey both for Indians and whites. Back again in Eu 
 gene City, the miner, express-driver, and school-boy 
 made his belated entry into literature by assuming 
 the editorship of The Eugene City Review, to which 
 he soon began to contribute poems signed " Joaquin," 
 a nickname he had brought home with him from Cal 
 ifornia. The publication of this paper was stopped 
 for political reasons. His habit of scribbling verse 
 had been begun long before, but he printed nothing 
 until he became satisfied that the public, that is, his 
 public, would like it. Miller is a curious union of ut 
 ter independence of, and of suitable deference to, the 
 world at large. He writes what he must, and he 
 prints what he chooses. 
 
 The poet's migrations were continued by a settle 
 ment at Canyon City, in Grant County, Oregon, where
 
 Miller. 6j 
 
 he unexpectedly appeared as an attorney-at-law, though 
 his legal investigations must have been of a some 
 what limited extent. But he was brilliant and indus 
 trious, and soon was honored by an election as Judge 
 of Grant County. The cases tried before him were 
 not less interesting and romantic than everything else 
 in his career, but they were not so many as to leave 
 him no time for writing. Poem after poem was writ 
 ten, to be elaborated or thrown away as pleased the 
 poet's fancy. 
 
 By 1869, after three or four years' rather monoto 
 nous service in his judicial capacity, the poet had ac 
 cumulated quite a bundle of manuscript, and a selec 
 tion therefrom was printed at his own expense in a 
 little volume whose circulation was gratuitous. Joa- 
 quin wished to see what the public thought of his po 
 etical ambition, and so he sent copies of his book to 
 his friends and to the editors of papers in California 
 and Oregon, nearly all of whom returned a favorable 
 verdict. 
 
 Made happy by this expression of opinion in his 
 favor, but longing for the appreciation of a wider and 
 more critical world, Miller went to London in 1870, 
 his family having been broken up in a way that has 
 never ceased to be a grief to the poet. Whether the 
 choice of London was a piece of sagacity or of good
 
 <& Poets' Homes. 
 
 luck, it is not important to discuss, but it was most 
 fortunate that he, of all our poets, went to a place 
 whose literary traditions and fashions were utterly 
 foreign to the themes and the manner of an Oregoni- 
 an's productions. Arrived in London, he had little 
 money, and so he prudently took humble lodgings in 
 a garret, saving his available funds for the printing of 
 a sample volume of verse. His friend Walt Whit 
 man's first book was shabbily printed on cheap paper 
 by Whitman himself, but Miller, wisely guaging the 
 fastidiousness of the London public, produced his 
 thin volume in the handsomest typography of the 
 Chiswick Press. The collection at once attracted at 
 tention, especially of the Rossetti family and other 
 members of the school of poets and artists known as 
 " pre-Paphaelites." Between Miller and these people 
 the Rossettis, Swinburne, Morris, Marston, Payne, 
 and O'Shaughnessy there was near kinship both in 
 tastes and in style. The Englishmen, sick of formal 
 ity and artificiality, liked the breezy freedom of the 
 poet of the far west : and he, in turn, was influenced 
 by them in the improvement of his lyrical expression, 
 which lost none of its fire by being impressed within 
 more careful bounds. 
 
 The old publishing house of the Longmans, in con 
 sideration of the merit of the specimen poems and
 
 jfoaquin Miller, 69 
 
 the recommendations of Mr. Miller's new and power 
 ful literary friends, brought out a volume of poems, 
 "Songs of the Sierras," in 1871. The poet may al 
 most be said with truth, like Lord Byron, to have 
 waked up one morning to find himself famous. Lord- 
 Houghton, that cheery patron of young literary men, 
 clambered up Miller's attic stairs to find him sleeping 
 under a buffalo robe ; and the long-haired poet, with 
 red shirt, and trousers tucked into his boots, was soon 
 the most noticeable figure in many gatherings of Lon 
 don celebrities. Almost all the leading papers and 
 magazines praised his book, and so, like Washington 
 Irving, Miller was enabled to return to his own coun 
 try with a reputation already secured. His book was 
 published in Boston the same year, and made a sen 
 sation scarcely less, though of course Americans were 
 more familiar with his subjects and general manner 
 than Englishmen could be expected to be. 
 
 Since the time of this first great success Joaquin 
 Miller has published six other books : " Songs of the 
 Sun-Lands;" "The Ship in the Desert;" "Life 
 amongst the Modocs ; " " The First Fam'lies of the 
 Sierras ; " " The One Fair Woman," and " The Bar 
 oness of New York." Of these the Modoc volume is 
 a collection of prose sketches of wild life among the 
 Indians, chiefly written for English readers; "The
 
 70 Poets' Homes. 
 
 One Fair Woman " is an Italian novel ; and " The 
 First Fam'lies of the Sierras " is mingled sketch and 
 story. The others are poetry, of which the lesser 
 pieces were for the most part already printed in vari 
 ous periodicals. " The Ship in the Desert " and " The 
 Baroness of New York" are longer single works 
 which first appeared in book form. 
 
 Mr. Miller's poetry is never prosy, but his prose is 
 hardly less poetical than his verse, especially in its 
 descriptive passages. For instance, Mount Shasta is 
 'lonely as God, and white as a winter moon." It 
 would be hard to choose nine words which should 
 be so daring and yet not irreverent, so carelessly 
 chosen and yet so exquisitely fit. Mr. Miller also 
 has a good sense of humor and describes life in the 
 outskirts of civilization with cleverness and power, 
 both in sketch and story. As a social satirist, or a 
 novelist of life under the old civilizations, he is less 
 successful. Cities he began by cordially hating ; New 
 York, when he entered it for the first time, seemed to 
 him " a big den of small thieves." Later, however, 
 he has gloried in hunting out metropolitan by-ways, 
 and London low life has had no more appreciative 
 observer. Nature, he knows thoroughly and loves 
 with a steady affection ; the abodes of man he either 
 curses too malignantly or magnifies too highly.
 
 Miller. 71 
 
 We have said that Joaquin Miller is a poet without 
 a home. Although increasing fame has compelled 
 him to live within reach of his publishers, and large 
 literary revenues as author and playwright for he 
 has written a successful drama, " The Danites " 
 have come to him, he still retains his fondness for 
 travel, and has laid the old world and three continents 
 under contribution for desultory study. In 1873 he 
 sailed for Europe for the second time and returned in 
 1875, in time for the Philadelphia exhibition of 1876, 
 which was to him a scene of the greatest interest. 
 While abroad he passed through the Mediterranean 
 to Egypt, which seldom saw a more suggestive sight 
 than this Oregonian, standing reverently beside the 
 Nile or beneath the pyramids. On the way back he 
 lingered long in Italy, which so charmed him that we 
 half began to fear that a second American poet 
 William W. Story was the first would be stolen 
 from us by the Italian sky. Venice was specially 
 dear to the poet, and for Rome he felt mingled like 
 and dislike, glorying in its age and hating its squalor. 
 The aim of the " pre-Raphselite " poets to whom we 
 have alluded is to be faithful to nature in the minut 
 est particulars, and yet to make the baldest language 
 glow with feeling. Taking this for a test, was their 
 design ever better fulfilled than in this remarkable
 
 72 Poets' ffomes. 
 
 poem on the eternal city ? We are sometimes tempted 
 to call it the best thing Joaquin Miller ever wrote, 
 notwithstanding his Indian maidens, Nicaraguan ad 
 ventures, or Rocky Mountain pictures : 
 
 ROME. 
 
 " Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome 
 
 That lords its gilded arch and lies, 
 
 While at its base a beggar cries 
 For bread and dies ; and this is Rome ; 
 
 " A wolf-like stream, without a sound, 
 
 Steals through and hides beneath the shore, 
 Its awful secrets evermore 
 
 Within its sullen bosom bound ; 
 
 " Two lone palms on the Palatine, 
 A row of cypress, black and tall. 
 With white roots set in Caesar's hall, 
 
 White roots that round white marbles twine ; 
 
 "They watch along a broken wall, 
 They look away toward Lebanon, 
 And mourn for grandeur dead and gone,- 
 
 A.nd this was Rome, and this is all. 
 
 " Yet Rome is Rome, and Rome she must 
 And will remain beside her gate, 
 And tribute take from king and state 
 
 Until the stars be fallen to dust. 
 
 " Yea, Time on yon Campanian plain 
 Mas pitched in siege his battle-tents, 
 And round about her battlements 
 
 Has marched and trumpeted in vain.
 
 Joaquin Miller. 73 
 
 " These skies are Rome ! the very loam 
 Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride ; 
 And Time, outfaced and still defied, 
 
 Sits by and wags his beard at Rome ! " 
 
 But " one touch of nature makes the whole world 
 kin ; " not only that fondness for new-fashioned toys 
 which led Shakespeare to make this famous saying, 
 but also one throb of poetry or one sight of anything 
 that inspires poetry. And so Joaquin Miller, wher 
 ever he is, in a pony-express saddle, in an Oregon 
 judge's chair, fighting with Walker in Nicaragua (we 
 had almost forgotten that episode in his career ), in a 
 poor London attic, beside the pyramid of Cheops, on 
 the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, or with the newsboys 
 in the cheapest gallery of the theatre where his play is 
 produced, is always a sunny and warm-hearted lyrist, 
 who tries to take the world for all it is worth and to 
 increase its happiness. 
 
 Almost every one of our leading American poets is 
 of handsome or striking appearance. But none of 
 them the kindly-eyed Longfellow, the aged and 
 Socratic Bryant, the brown-haired Lowell, the shaggy 
 Whitman is more noticeable on the street than 
 Joaquin Miller. When he first startled London, like 
 a fresh chill breath from his own Sierras, he was a 
 weird object. His hat was of the broadest-brimmed
 
 74 Poets' Homes. 
 
 and most ancient variety, his shirt was violent red, 
 his rough trousers were tucked into his cavalier boots, 
 and it was hard to say whether his hands or his watch- 
 chain were adorned with the greatest quantity of 
 "barbaric gold." His hair was very long and fine, 
 and both his beard and hair were of a curious tawny 
 color, not unlike the red gold now in vogue. In later 
 years, whether from a happy thought or 'the sugges 
 tion of some friend 1 know not, he has assumed less 
 uncivilized apparel, and nowadays, though his coat 
 and cloak are of simple cut, their cloth is of the finest, 
 and a rose or two is apt to bloom in the button-hole. 
 The peculiarity of Miller's face is its sunny smile which 
 is a pleasure to see. In conversation he talks very 
 fast, and with a poet's hatred of too long dalliance 
 with any single subject. 
 
 He has as many eccentricities as a dozen ordinary 
 poets ; and in opinions as in clothes he is not, in 
 Emerson's phrase, "the slave of his yesterdays." 
 But still, with all his whim-whams and foibles, he 
 is a poet, in the sense in which the word is true of Shel 
 ley, and Keats, and Swinburne, and James Russell 
 Lowell. 
 
 He has never written a children's poem, perhaps 
 because it seems to him the hardest of all tasks to do 
 as it ought to be done. But in one of his Palestine
 
 Joaauin Miller. 75 
 
 loems he has given such a pretty picture of the scene 
 /hen the mothers of Judah brought their little ones 
 D Christ for a blessing that every child will be glad 
 3 read it here : 
 
 " They brought Him their babes, and besought him, 
 
 Half kneeling, with suppliant air, 
 To bless the brown cherubs they brought him, 
 
 With holy hands laid in their hair. 
 
 " Then reaching his hands he said, lowly. 
 
 ' Of such is My Kingdom ; ' and then 
 Took the brown little babes in the holy 
 
 White hands of the Saviour of men ; 
 
 " Held them close to his heart and caressed them, 
 Put his face down to theirs as in prayer, 
 
 Put their hands to his neck, and so blessed them 
 With baby hands hid in his hair."
 
 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 
 
 AT the Semi-Centennial of Andover Theological 
 Seminary, on August 4th, 1858, one of the 
 speakers made the following remarks : 
 
 " There is one spot near us which has to me more in 
 teresting associations than any other on these grounds. 
 I refer to the Study of the Bartlett Professor. Tf 
 its unwritten history could be published it would 
 form an interesting chapter in the religious history of 
 our country and of Christendom. It would reveal 
 suggestions of wise forecast, original plans of useful 
 ness, the starting of thoughts and movements and in- 
 76
 
 Elizabeth SHart J 'helps. 77 
 
 ititutions amidst conference and prayer, the influence 
 )f which has gone to the ends of the world. Soon 
 ifter its occupancy by the second Professor of Rhetoric 
 n 1812, there was established in it a weekly meeting 
 'or prayer, and for devising ways and means of doing 
 pod. . . . And in this little meeting there were 
 slanted and cherished into growth many germs which 
 ire now plants of renown and trees of life. In An- 
 dover the scheme of Foreign Missions first assumed 
 the visible and tangible form which gave rise to the 
 American Board, and Mills was one of the four stu 
 dents whose names were signed to that memorable 
 paper drawn up here (in this study) and which, after 
 consultation, was presented to the General Association, 
 and led to the formation of the earliest and largest 
 Foreign Missionary Association in our land. Here, 
 too, was instituted the Monthly Concert. The pro 
 posal of such a union of Christianity in America 
 as had already existed in Scotland was made and con 
 sidered at the meeting in this Study. 
 
 " In 1813, Dr. Porter (the Bartlett Professor) pur 
 chased a little book, when the thought strikes him that 
 by associated action and contribution, religious publi 
 cations might be made cheaper, and more generally 
 diffused. This thought was presented to the little
 
 78 Poet? 
 
 meeting of brethren in this Study, and at once gre\v 
 into the New England Tract Society. 
 
 " The question has been more than once raised 
 ' Who originated and established the first religious 
 newspaper in the world ? ' A witness still living 
 states positively, as a matter of personal knowledge, 
 that the ' Boston Recorder ' had its birth in Dr. Por 
 ter's Study. 
 
 " The want of a Society, national in its operations, 
 for aiding young men in their education for the minis 
 try is felt. It is talked over at the Study-meeting al 
 Andover ; and as the result there arises the American 
 Education Society. 
 
 "That the American Bible Society was originated 
 through any influence proceeding from Andover is not 
 affirmed ; yet certain it is that before it was organized 
 in New York the importance of such a national insti 
 tution, in addition to the Massachusetts Bible Society, 
 was a matter of special consultation in this circle of 
 brethren. And it may be stated with confidence that 
 the American Home Missionary Society was the re 
 sult of thoughts and suggestions that went forth from 
 this place. Encouragement from this Study organ 
 ized an Association of Heads of Families for the 
 promotion of Temperance, and the first name on the 
 pledge is E. Porter ; the six following names are of
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 81 
 
 Professors and resident Trustees. Moreover, about 
 this time there was a consultation at this Study 
 which resulted in the formation at Boston of the 
 American Temperance Society. 
 
 "More recently, while occupying this Study ot 
 hallowed memories, he (Dr. Edwards) determined to 
 devote himself to promoting a better observance of 
 the Sabbath. After laboring only two and a half 
 years he witnessed, as the result mainly of his influence 
 and efforts, a National Sabbath Convention of seven 
 teen hundred delegates from eleven different States, 
 presided over by an ex-President of the Union, John 
 Quincy Adams." 
 
 Imagine entering this august Study a delicate little 
 girl, three years old, with dark-brown hair, large blue 
 eyes, a rather long thin nose, and a mobile mouth 
 never at rest under one arm a kitten with a pink 
 libbon tied round its neck, under the other a large doll 
 (Miss Annie) elegantly attired in clothes of unrivalled 
 splendor, a lamb with a blue ribbon half hidden 
 amid its wool following her, and you have Elizabeth 
 Stuart Phelps when she made her first appearance In 
 her present home. 
 
 What cares the child for all the wonderful wealth of 
 association garnered in this wonderful Study !
 
 82 Poets' Homes. 
 
 On the sofa sits her mother; to reach her before the 
 kitten scratches her hand, or the lamb runs away, or 
 the bits of splendor drop from Miss Annie that is 
 all the child wishes. 
 
 Prayer- meetings, "great movements and influences 
 that have gone to the ends of the world " perhaps a 
 hallowed breath from them all may be lingering here 
 still, and may rest on this young child's head in a 
 benison, who can tell ? The only thing certain is that 
 the kitten, the doll, and the lamb, are not what they 
 seem ; there is a marvellous story to tell mother, how 
 the doll is a queen, and the kitten is her child, and was 
 drownded, and the lamb was a good man who pulled it 
 out of the water, and gave it some milk, and it wasn't 
 dead any more, and the queen was glad and took her 
 hank'chef and wiped her tears, and put on her best 
 gown and told her child never to be drownded again ; 
 so they were happy all together and have come to see 
 their mother. And the mother, looking up and smil 
 ing, draws the child to her, strokes the resuscitated 
 kitten, bestows words of praise upon the valiant lamb 
 and adjusts the flying splendors of "Queen Anne " with 
 deft and tasteful fingers. 
 
 The house occupied by Professor Phelps was orig 
 inally designed by Dr. Griffin, a man of more taste 
 than judgment, at least in house architecture. He
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phdps. 83 
 
 received from Mr. Bartlett the donor of tho 
 house liberty to erect such a dwelling as he 
 pleased ; and with little reference to climate or ex 
 pense he raised a large edifice, handsome and costlj- 
 for the times in which it was built 1812 indeed 
 handsome and costly now. The main part of th 
 house consisted of two large rooms with a wide hal 1 
 dividing them. There was a narrow hall, used parti 
 for closets and partly for passage way, separating th< 
 parlor from a broad, open piazza facing the West. Or, 
 the north and souih ends of the house were two wings 
 one was the study, the other the kitchen. The 
 study was on the southern side, a large, high room 
 with six windows, opening to the east, west and south, 
 and an ample fireplace. 
 
 Transplant that room to Florida, and one can 
 hardly be imagined more perfect ; but for bleak, cold 
 Andover hill one would almost suspect Dr. Griffin to 
 have come to a late knowledge of its possibilities, when 
 we read that he resigned his professorship before the 
 house was ready for his occupancy. His successor, 
 an invalid, at once proceeded to diminish the propor 
 tions of the Study to a livable size. He put in a 
 partition, cutting off four windows, leaving, how 
 ever, the book-shelves with their arched top, which
 
 84 Poets ftomei. 
 
 had been builded into the walls. Thus it remains 
 until the present day. 
 
 Of the room, as it was when Professor Phelps first 
 occupied it, I can give you little idea. Coming into the 
 Professorship, a young man with only a small library, 
 everything was done that could be to give it the home 
 look of a true Study. With limited means, there could 
 be no gathering of costly pictures, statues, or even the 
 more common luxuries of a well appointed library. 
 With his own hands the Professor made some frames 
 of a light wood to hold his few engravings ; but the en 
 gravings were those of the masters, and Mrs. Phelps, 
 with rare taste and skill in all matters pertaining to 
 house decoration, and trained from her babyhood to 
 feel that " the study " was to be made the room of the 
 house, worked assiduously to furnish such little articles 
 as give to a room that look of grace and culture so 
 few can bestow, so many acknowledge. 
 
 Of this mother, who died when Elizabeth was 
 only eight years old, much might be said, but we 
 must content ourselves with the few recollections of 
 her which her child yet retains. 
 
 In due course of time the piazza was enclosed and 
 made into a large, inconvenient dining-room ; but 
 here, every winter evening, when " the children's hour " 
 came and the lamps were lighted, Mrs. Phelps took
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phetps. 85 
 
 her two little ones (there was a brother three years 
 younger than the girl) and read to them from the old 
 English poets ! Think of these children thus enter 
 tained at an age when Mother Goose, or at best some 
 nice, practical story with a good moral, would be con 
 sidered fit milk for such babes ! Stories, too, their 
 mother told them ; stories when they were good and 
 when they were naughty, but always classic stories, 
 tinged deeply with old English lore. 
 
 It was no wonder therefore that the little daughter 
 began early in life to make stories of her own. 
 
 The grounds surrounding Professor Phelps' house 
 are ample, and laid out in keeping with the house. 
 There are two gardens, one designed for the 
 culture of flowers and choice fruit trees, the other 
 for vegetables. In the lower there is a summer-house, 
 and here, more than anywhere else in the world, was 
 the little Elizabeth's home. It was, literally, a small, 
 square house, very unlike what would be called 
 a summer - house now ; but the readers of her 
 juveniles would feel more sympathy with it 
 than with any other of her Homes. Here she could 
 go with her playmates and have a world of her own. 
 A square room with two large windows and a large 
 door offered every convenience and temptation to 
 indulge in any recreation the fancy of the moment
 
 S6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 chose. Such dolls' houses as you might have seen, 
 with such queens and kings and princes and prin 
 cesses ; such weddings and funerals ; such schools 
 and sick beds and nurseries ; such mimic life, 
 not that scholastic life which the children saw every 
 day around them, but a life read of in the story 
 books, or dreamed of in the already affluent imag 
 ination of this young child. Her mother had read to 
 her of the Indians and of the wonderful discoveries 
 that are made by people digging through mounds, so 
 she collects whatever she thinks best resembles the 
 description of those articles, and buries them in a 
 corner of the garden ; then, having roused her com 
 panions to the proper pitch of enthusiasm, she leads 
 them solemnly to the spot and tells them " to dig." 
 Imagine their astonishment when they unearth first 
 one article and then another, until the wonders are 
 all exposed, and the ghosts of the red men seem act 
 ually stirring in the still air around them ! 
 
 Just behind the vegetable garden is a large open 
 field with a pretty little grove of common forest trees 
 in one of its corners. Here was another of our little 
 heroine's Homes ; and here the children spent most of 
 the pleasant summer hours. If this grove could tell 
 tales, I should put up my pen and we would listen to it, 
 for it knows a great deal better than I do what passed
 
 - v 
 
 kllllllHIIEIIIIWW,
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phcips. 89 
 
 under its shadows. It could point out to you the broad 
 branches upon which houses were made with bits of 
 board ; where the squirrels were hunted to their nests, 
 and how the little hands put in rather than took out 
 nuts ; how the boy was " boosted " up long before he 
 could climb, to explore a half hidden nook where they 
 were sure birds were nesting ; how the girls, half 
 shame-faced, yet already with a budding of "equality," 
 followed after, or else went above him, daring him 
 from the slim upper branches to come if he could ; 
 and then, how the three, with torn clothes and 
 scratched hands and faces, sat panting in some deep, 
 cool recess and rested, while the future author peopled 
 for them the whole woods with good and bad fairies 
 until, half scared by the vivid realities she brought, 
 they took to flight, seeking refuge among the grown 
 up people of a more real world. 
 
 When she was eight years old her mother died, 
 and the child's life was changed. Just what it might 
 have been had she lived, who can tell ? Certain it is 
 that in their tastes and aptitudes they were alike. 
 The lonely, dreamy childhood would no doubt have 
 been filled with an active, perhaps rigorous, prepara 
 tion for the life's work. 
 
 For years, now, this child followed nearly the bent 
 of her own will. She was obedient, morbidly consci-
 
 go Poets' Homes. 
 
 entious, affectionate and care-taking of those she loved. 
 Naturally an artist in its broadest sense, she was 
 always busy creating. As the days of dolls and baby 
 houses, kittens and lambs, went by, she made her own 
 world, peopled it with sentimental and tender per 
 sonages, and passed through dramatical experiences 
 as unique as unreal. In costume she took espe 
 cial delight, amusing herself by adjusting bright 
 colors into fantastic dresses, either upon her 
 own slim, tall figure, or upon that of her young 
 play-fellow. Color has always been to her a 
 source of great enjoyment. One of her few remem 
 brances of her mother is of this mother sitting at 
 work with bright worsteds, the shadings of which, as 
 they passed through her thin fingers, lose no jot or 
 tittle of their brilliancy as time goes on. The years 
 of early school-girl life were, as m'ght have been ex 
 pected, not the pleasantest for such a temperament, 
 yet the girl learned easily and ranked high. It was 
 no effort for her to commit a lesson, excepting in 
 Arithmetic. 
 
 But at fourteen years of age a new era in her life 
 began, one to which she looks back, as time goes on, 
 with deeper and deeper gratitude. 
 
 The widow of one of the Andover Professers, a 
 lady of original ability and thorough culture, opened
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 9 1 
 
 a school, and to this the young girl was sent. The 
 :ourse of study upon which she at once entered was 
 thorough and marked by a singular adaptation to the 
 wants of the pupils. While there was, of course, a 
 system, there were generous and skilful departures 
 from it, in order to meet the needs of the different 
 minds under training. Psychology in its various 
 branches soon became her favorite study, and she was 
 led along its difficult and intricate paths with a firm, 
 utrong hand, and in a manner which to this day elicits 
 !i5r warmest admiration. So with English Literature 
 and the Fine Arts. Of her Latin drilling Miss Phelps 
 speaks also with sincere regard, fully appreciating 
 its thoroughness, and the skill which made the dead 
 a living language to her. 
 
 "In short," she says, "with the sole exception of 
 Greek and the higher mathematics, we pursued the 
 same curriculum as our brothers in college." Excel 
 lent tutoring, this, as will readily be seen, for the life's 
 work before her. At nineteen, the ordinary modes of 
 education having been followed and a rather extraordi 
 nary result obtained, she began the work which she has 
 since so successfully carried on. So far she had clung to 
 her Andover home and her Andover life. Beyond that 
 house which Dr. Griffin had built, that Study of won 
 derful memories, those ample grounds growing every
 
 92 Poets' Homes. 
 
 year more and more enchanting under her father's 
 tasteful care, the old summer-house (by turns her stu 
 dio, her study, her parlor and best resting-place), the 
 grove, peopled now by memories instead of fairies, 
 she had no world and no wish to find one. Delicate 
 in health, she could not be induced to exchange the 
 monotony of a very monotonous scholastic life for 
 any other ; and therefore, when most young ladies 
 would have been intent on the enchantments of the 
 " coming out," she turned to writing stories and books 
 for occupation. Would you like a glimpse into the 
 room where she wrote the " Trotty " and the " Gipsy" 
 books, beside many shorter stories, all of which I 
 presume the most of our young people have read 
 without knowing to whom they were indebted for them ? 
 This room was a longTiarrow chamber built over that 
 dining-room where the child first received her lessons 
 in English Literature from her mother. Its one west 
 ern window looks out upon a view seldom equalled in 
 New England. Just below it lies the summer-house, 
 the terraced gardens, and in the soft meadow next 
 them the beloved grove; beyond these stretched a 
 broad, mountain-broken horizon behind which the 
 sun sets in a glory with which Italy's skies can 
 hardly vie. Writing of a visit to Andover, and of 
 this scenery, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes says : " Fai

 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 95 
 
 o the north and west the mountains of New Hamp 
 shire lifted their summits in a long, encircling range 
 )f pale blue waves. The day was clear and every 
 nound and peak traced its outline with perfect defini 
 ion against tue sky. Monadnock, Kearsarge, what 
 nemories that name recalls! and the others, the 
 dateless pyramids of New England, the eternal monu- 
 nents of her ancient rule, around which cluster the 
 lomes of so many of her bravest and hardiest children. 
 [ can never look at them without feeling, vast and 
 emote and awful as they are, there is a kind of in- 
 vard heat and muffled throb in their stony cores that 
 >rings them into a vague sort of sympathy with human 
 icarts. It is more than a year since I have looked on 
 :hose blue mountains, and they ' are to me as a 
 'eeling' now and have been ever since." 
 
 That they have always been to Miss Phelps " as a 
 : eeling " from her earliest childhood, no one familiar 
 jvith the love of nature inwrought into her writings 
 :an doubt. 
 
 The room was simply furnished, but in it, more 
 :han in any other of her Homes, were garnered the 
 treasures we prize so highly when we stand, tip-toed 
 and eager-eyed, waiting for the lifting of the veil that 
 separates childhood from maidenhood. In this room
 
 96 Poefs Homes. 
 
 hung the chromo of the " Immaculate Conception, of 
 which she writes thus : 
 
 " Perhaps you wonder why I chose 
 
 This single- windowed little room 
 Where only at the even-fall 
 
 A moment's space, the sunlight's bloom 
 
 Shall open out before the face 
 
 I prize so dear ; I think, indeed, 
 There's something of a whim in that, 
 
 And something of a certain need. 
 
 I could not make you understand 
 
 That solitude which sickness gives 
 To take in somewhat solemn guise 
 
 The blessings that enrich our lives. 
 
 I like to watch the late, soft light, 
 
 No spirit could more softly come ; 
 The picture is the only thing 
 
 It touches in the darkening room. 
 
 I wonder if to her indeed, 
 
 The maiden of the spotless name, 
 In holier guise or tenderer touch 
 
 The annunciating angel came. 
 
 Madonna Mary ! Here she lives ! 
 
 See how my sun has wrapped her in I 
 O solemn sun ! O maiden face ! 
 
 O joy that never knoweth sin 
 
 How shall I name thee ? How express 
 
 The thoughts that unto thee belong ? 
 Sometimes a sigh interprets them, 
 
 At other times, perhaps, a song ;
 
 Elizabeth Stuart fnelps. 97 
 
 More often still it chanceth me 
 
 They grow and group into a prayer 
 That guards me down my sleepless hours, 
 
 A sentry in the midnight air. 
 
 But when the morning's monotone 
 
 Begins, of sickness or of pain, 
 They catch the key and, striking it, 
 
 They turn into a song again." 
 
 There she wrote " Gates Ajar ; " but not long after 
 the publication of that book she found it necessary to 
 make some changes in her mode of life which would 
 give her hopes of firmer health and more quiet in 
 which to pursue her literary work. The summers she 
 spent at the seaside, East Gloucester, after a few trials 
 of other places, being her chosen resort ; and her win 
 ter Study was removed from her father's house to the 
 next door neighbor's where she spends the working 
 hours of the day, " having learned," she says, " like 
 the ministers who study in their churches, or the 
 carpenters who go to their benches, the value of a 
 workshop out of the house." 
 
 This house is one of the oldest on Andover Hill 
 and its history would be a perfect .epitome of the pe 
 culiar life of a secluded New England literary town. 
 It has been occupied in turn by Professors, Trustees, 
 Agents, Commons, Stewards. Farmers, yet has retained 
 a character of its own through all the changes.
 
 98 Poets' Homes. 
 
 It is a long, low, extremely plain house, painted 
 white, with plenty of little narrow windows filled with 
 little green panes of glass. Miss Phelps' Study is the 
 southeast corner chamber. It has two windows front 
 ing to the east and to the three brick Andover Theo 
 logical Seminaries. The broad gravel walk leading 
 to the old chapel with its fine avenue of trees Is di 
 rectly before them, and the Library with its half med 
 ieval walls is on one side, with the new chapel on 
 the other. All the day the sun shines in as cheer 
 fully as it can, struggling through those little win 
 dows and those little panes. There are subdued 
 green curtains at these windows ; and about the 
 room are books, pictures, a few easy chairs, tables, 
 and many of the nothings which make a study pleas 
 ant. 
 
 Here, Miss Phelps has written all her later books. 
 It is a quaint, old-time room, with big beams coming 
 down from the ceiling, from which a hammock is al 
 ways suspended, and beams coming out of the cor 
 ners which are convenient for out-of-the-way be 
 longings; and here, on the southern broad window 
 sill, lies constantly her blue Skye-and-King-Charles 
 terrier, " Daniel Deronda." Miss Phelps has centered 
 all her early love for pets in devotion to dogs. Cu 
 rious stories might be told of her fondness for a lost
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 99 
 
 dog, named Hahnnemann, and his love for her, did the 
 limits of this article allow; but a sketch of her 
 homes would be incomplete did not " Dan " take 
 
 "DANIEL DERONDA." 
 
 his place as a prominent figure. Dan is not bigger 
 than a medium sized cat, and is altogether, as some 
 one remarked, " so homely that he is almost hand 
 some." Indeed he seems to affect people facetiously
 
 ioo Poets 1 Homes. 
 
 and to occasion a sort of humor which would alone 
 give him a right to live. " That dorg, " said an Irish 
 man pointing to him with a broad smile on his red face, 
 " came jist near being no dorg at all." But, little as 
 he is, he has for his mistress, one of the biggest of 
 hearts. His bark of delight when he finds her. after 
 a short separation is touching to hear, and his jeal 
 ous and chivalric care of her is ludicrous in the 
 extreme. Sitting on his small haunches, he boldly 
 defies the world to molest her, and has been known 
 to attack a dog ten times his size, when he thought 
 l:he Newfoundland's approach meant evil. Noble lit 
 tle bit of a Dan ! It is not too much to say that he 
 could teach lessons of reverence, fidelity and love, for 
 the learning of which the whole human race would 
 I ie better. 
 
 Miss Phelp's Andover home, however, remains 
 with her father and step-mother, the value of whose 
 kind friendship many years have tested. 
 
 The situation of her summer home at Gloucester 
 can find no more fitting description than the one Miss 
 Phelps has herself given in her story, " The Voyage 
 of the America." Writing upon the view of the 
 rocks on which her house stands, she says : 
 
 " Upon the rich and tortured hues which the beating 
 water and the bursting fire opened for my pleasure
 
 Elizabeth Stuart 1 "helps. 101 
 
 ages ago, falls the liquid August sunlight as only 
 Gloucester sunlight falls, I think, the wide world over. 
 Through it the harbor widens, gladdens to the sea ; 
 the tide beats at my feet a mighty pulse, slow, 
 even, healthy and serene. The near waves curve 
 and break in quiet colors across the harbor's 
 width ; they deepen and purple if one can place 
 the blaze of the climbing sun upon them. A 
 shred or two of foam curling lightly against the cliff I 
 of the western shore whispers that far across tha 
 broad arm of the Point the sleeping east wind hai 
 reared his head to look the harbor over. Beneatl) 
 the bright shade of mahy-hued sun-umbrellas th 
 dories of the pleasure people tilt daintily. At thi 
 distance of nearly two miles, the harbor's width, I can 
 see the glitter of the cunners, caught sharply from the 
 purple water, as well as the lithe, light drawing of a 
 lady's hand over the boat's side against the idle tide. 
 All abng the lee shore, from the little reef, Black 
 Bess, to the busy town, the buoys of the mackerel 
 nets bob sleepily ; in and out among them, with the 
 look of men who have toiled all night and taken 
 nothing, glide the mackerel fishers, peaceful and poor. 
 The channel where the wind has freshened now is 
 full. The lumber schooner is there from Machias, 
 the coal bark bound for Boston, the fishing sloop
 
 IO2 Poets' Homes. 
 
 headed to the Banks. The water boat trips up and 
 down on a supply tour. A revenue cutter steams out 
 and in importantly. The government lighter struts 
 by. A flock of little pleasure sails fly past the New 
 York school ship, peering up at her like curious ca 
 naries at a solemn watch-dog. A sombre old pilot- 
 boat, indifferent to all the world, puts in to get her 
 dinner after her morning's work, and the heavily 
 weighted salt sloop tacks to clear the Boston steamer 
 turning Norman's Woe. And Norman's Woe ! the 
 fair, the cruel, the woe of song and history, can 
 it ever have been a terror ? Now it is a trance. Be 
 hind is the Hendsa greens of the rich inhabited shore 
 closing up softly ; upon it the full light falls ; the jag-^ 
 ged teeth of the bared rock round smoothly in the 
 pleasant air, the colors known to artists as orange 
 chrome and yellow ocher and burnt Sienna caress 
 each other to make the reef a warm and gentle tiling. 
 Beyond it stirs the busy sea. The day falls so fair 
 that half the commerce of Massachusetts seems 
 to be alive on its happy heart. The sails swarm like 
 silver bees. The black hulls start sharply from the 
 water line, and look round and full, like embossed 
 designs, against the delicate sky. It is one of the 
 silver days, dear to the hearts of the dwellers by the 
 shore, when every detail in the distance is magnified
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 105 
 
 and sharp. I can see the thin fine line of departing 
 mast heads far, far, far, till they dip and utterly meet. 
 Half Way Rock, half way to Boston from my lava 
 gorge, rises clear-cut and vivid to the unaided eye as 
 if brought within arm's length by a powerful glass. 
 And there the curved arm of Salem shore stretches 
 out, and Marblehead turns her fair neck towards us ; 
 in the faint violet tinge of the outlines I can see pale 
 specks where houses cluster thickly. Beyond them 
 all, across the flutter of uncounted sails which fly, 
 which glide, which creep, which pass and repass, wind 
 and interwind, which dare me to number them, and 
 defy me to escape them dim as a dream, and fair 
 as a fancy, I can distinctly see the long, low, gray 
 outline of Cape Cod." 
 
 The house itself is built upon a lot of greensward 
 which runs down amid some great, beetling rocks. It 
 is the cunningest nook in all the world to hold the 
 home of one who loves the sea you feel inclined to 
 apply to it Miss Phelps own words : 
 
 " If it might only be 
 
 That on the singing sea 
 
 There were a place for you to creep 
 
 Away among the tinted weeds and sleep, 
 
 A cradled, curtained place for two. 
 
 You would choose just this, and no other.
 
 io6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 it is a two story brown cottage, with doors and 
 windows opening out upon a piazza, which is built 
 across the side facing the sea. 
 
 Upon the interior Miss Phelps has bestowed much 
 of the peculiar artistic taste, which distinguishes her. 
 The parlor is a long narrow room tinted with a deli 
 cate green shade, not a sea green, but the green one 
 catches in the opal of a wave as the sunset lights it. 
 
 In the other rooms of the house the same taste has 
 directed that one should be rose pink, another robin's 
 egg blue, another delicate shades of buff and brown, 
 another the native colors of the wood. 
 
 The house is filled with the remembrances of those 
 who love her ; and, with the books and pictures that 
 she loves and with the constant society and sympathy 
 of friends, the lady whom you know as the author of 
 "Gates Ajar" and "The Story of Avis" here draws 
 into her quiet days and invalid life the courage and 
 the calm of the summer sea. 
 
 I cannot close this sketch more happily than by 
 quoting from her " Saturday Night in the Harbor : " 
 
 " The boats bound in across the bar, 
 Seen in fair colors from afar, 
 Grown to dun colors, strong and near, 
 Their very shadows seem to fear 
 The shadows of a week of harms, 
 The memory of a week's alarms,
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 And quiver like a happy sigh 
 As ship and shadow drifting by 
 Glide o'er the harbor's peaceful face 
 Each to its Sabbath resting-place. 
 
 And some like weary children come 
 With sobbing sails, half sick for home ; 
 And some, like lovers' thoughts, to meet 
 The velvet shore, spring daring, sweet ; 
 And some, reluctant, in the shade 
 The great reef drops, like souls afraid 
 Creep sadly in ; against the shore 
 Ship into shadow turneth more 
 And more. Ship, ocean, shadow, shore. 
 Part not, nor stir foreveraore."
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 WHEN William Cullen Bryant was born, Byroi 
 was an active little fellow, six years old , 
 Shelley was learning to walk ; the young Words 
 worth, in the depths of poverty, had contrived to 
 bring out two thin volumes of poetry, bearing the 
 stilted titles of " The Evening Walk, Addresses to a 
 Young Lady," and " Descriptive Sketches taken dur 
 ing a Tour through the Alps ; " Walter Scott was 
 studying German, and thinking of publishing, as his 
 first book, a couple of translations from that lan 
 guage; Coleridge was selling his manuscript poems 
 to a generous friend ; Lamb was happy over the get- 
 ing of a desk in the East India house ; and Goethe 
 was writing the closing chapter of " Wilhelm Meis- 
 108
 
 William Cullen Bryant. ill 
 
 ten" Washington was President of the United 
 States ; Alexander Hamilton was Secretary of the 
 Treasury ; Aaron Burr was in the Senate ; young 
 Andrew Jackson, having married Rachel Donelson, 
 was practising law in Nashville ; John Quincy Adams 
 was beginning his political career as minister to Hol 
 land ; Jefferson, deeming his public life at an end, 
 was cultivating his Monticello farm ; and the whole 
 country was still mourning the recent death of 
 Franklin ; while abroad, George the Third sat 
 on the English throne ; and Napoleon Bonaparte, 
 a young Corsican officer, had just attracted no little 
 attention by his brilliant reduction of Toulon. 
 There is no need to say, therefore, that Mr. Bry 
 ant's literary life, beginning in 1804 and ending in 
 1878, was virtually contemporary with the whole 
 growth of American literature. Of all our eight 
 thousand two hundred and seventy-five periodicals, 
 not a dozen were published in 1794, the year of Mr. 
 Bryant's birth. Surely an author who was the senior 
 of seven presidents of the United States, and whose 
 literary career in New York alone was uninterrupted 
 from 1826 to 1878, might fairly be called a living his 
 tory of American letters. Only Richard Henry 
 Dana, Senior, of all our surviving poets, was born 
 before Mr. Bryant ; but the latter, unlike his Massa-
 
 112 Poets' Homes. 
 
 chusetts friend, who has long lived in retirement, was 
 an active worker up to the day of his death in that 
 most perfunctory and imperious of literary pursuits, 
 the editing of a daily newspaper. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, 
 Massachusetts, in 1794. Cummington, a little Hamp 
 shire County town, was a small village then, and to 
 day it contains barely a thousand inhabitants. But, 
 besides giving birth to Bryant, it is proud to number 
 among its natives Luther Bradish, a New York poli 
 tician of note, in his time, and Henry L. Dawes, one 
 of the present senators from Massachusetts. There 
 seems to be something in its fresh mountain air favor 
 able to longevity; for the Rev. Dr. Snell, one of 
 Cummington's sons, baptized and buried the people 
 of North Brookfield, Massachusetts, for the space of 
 sixty-four years. 
 
 The scenery of Cummington, with its nooks and 
 fields, and dashing Westfield river, gave the boy 
 Bryant his first liking for, and knowledge of, Nature. 
 His father, Dr. Luther Bryant, the village physician, 
 was both guide and friend, teaching his little son how 
 to think wisely and how to write well, as well as lead 
 ing him through the natural scenery which became 
 almost a part of his very self. What was his father's 
 nature, and what the value of his teachings, Mr.
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 115 
 
 Bryant has told us in more than one poem. This is 
 from the " Hymn to Death : " 
 
 " He is in his grave who taught my youth 
 The art of verse, and in the bud of life offered me to the 
 muses. - 
 
 When the earth 
 
 Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes, 
 And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 
 Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 
 When thou wert gone. 
 
 This faltering verse, which thou 
 Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have 
 To offer at thy grave, this, and the hope 
 To copy thy example." 
 
 "O'erlook," in this quotation, is an unfortunate 
 word ; but to supervise, and not to pass by, is its 
 evident meaning. This " Hymn to Death " was not 
 written until 1825. Two years later, Bryant men 
 tioned his father and his loved sister in equally affec 
 tionate language : 
 
 " Then shall I behold 
 Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
 
 And her, who, still and cold, 
 Fills the next grave, the beautiful and young." 
 
 Similar fervent tributes to their fathers, to whom 
 they felt that they owed an equal debt, have been
 
 u6 Poets' Homes. 
 
 paid by other famous American poets ; notably by 
 Holmes in the lines ending : 
 
 " Now, from the borders of the silent sea, 
 Take my last tribute ere I cross to thee ! " 
 
 It was well that Dr. Bryant exercised a critic's 
 wisdom in pointing out his son's defects of style, and 
 physician's discretion in caring for his health ; for 
 the boy was writing verses at the age of nine, and at 
 ten saw one of his poems printed in a local news 
 paper. Those were stirring political times, from 
 1805 to 1815, and the young poet's thoughts, as he 
 grew into his teens, turned to national subjects. 
 "The Embargo," by Bryant, appeared in 1809, and 
 very accurately reflected the hatred commonly felt in 
 New England toward the prevailing policy of the 
 national administration. The little volume which 
 contained this vigorous piece of satire was printed in 
 Boston at Dr. Bryant's expense. It contained a few 
 general poems an ode to the Connecticut river and 
 a poem on Drought, among others. These two are 
 wonderful pieces for a boy of fifteen to write, though 
 to the reader of to-day they seem like clever parodies 
 of the poet's maturer style. Probably the records of 
 literary precocity from the days of Chatterton down 
 to little Lucy Bull and the Goodale sisters have never 
 shown a more remarkable example.
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 117 
 
 The poem of " Thanatopsis " was written in Cum- 
 mington when Bryant was in his nineteenth year, and 
 in 18 1 6 it was published in The North American Re 
 view. That periodical would now seem the last place 
 in which to look for poetry. But it had been started 
 in 1815, the year before it printed " Thanatopsis," as 
 a bi-monthly magazine, devoted to articles in general 
 literature, as well as the reviews and political papers 
 to which it afterwards gave up the whole of its space. 
 As first printed, " Thanatopsis " was somewhat 
 shorter than in its present form ; and the author 
 afterwards changed a few expressions. When the 
 poem was sent to the office of the Review, that peri 
 odical was conducted by a club, of which R. H. Dana 
 was chairman for the time being. With it was sub 
 mitted the lines afterward called an " Inscription on 
 the Entrance to a Wood.'' Somehow, Dana got the 
 impression that " Thanatopsis " was written by the 
 young poet's father, Dr. Bryant, then a member of 
 the State Senate. So he ran over to the State-house 
 to see how the author of so notable a production 
 looked. He was disappointed in his search for partic 
 ular evidences of poetical ability in the face ; but he 
 did not learn of his mistake until 1821, when the real 
 author went to Cambridge to deliver his poem of 
 " The Ages " before the Phi Beta Kappa society of
 
 n8 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Harvard University. For five years, therefore, The 
 North American Review was ignorant of the author 
 ship of the most famous article it ever printed. 
 
 Though the majority of Mr. Bryant's long literary 
 life was spent in and near New York, Massachusetts 
 may fairly be called his literary home. He was the 
 poet of Nature, and the Nature of his poems is that 
 which smiles across New England meadows or frowns 
 behind New England hills. Not until he was thirty- 
 two years old did he leave western Massachusetts. 
 In 1810 he entered Williams College. Williamstown, 
 the seat of the college, lies in the northern part of 
 Berkshire county, in the midst of the peerless hills 
 and the bold scenery which have made the region 
 famous. At Williams, Bryant did not graduate, 
 though the college was afterwards proud to give him 
 his bachelor's degree. Oddly enough, this was also 
 the experience of the venerable Dana at Harvard. 
 After practising law a brief time in little Plainfield, 
 also in western Massachusetts, Mr. Bryant returned 
 to Berkshire and settled in Great Barrington, which 
 was his home for ten years. That town, by its situa 
 tion and scenery, doubtless influenced his poetry 
 more than any other of his places of residences. 
 
 Great Barrington is a fit home for a poet. The 
 gentle Housatonic River, having idly passed by
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 121 
 
 ^enox and Southbridge, saunters through green mead- 
 >ws and hides beneath dark hills until it reaches 
 Sheffield, a few miles below. To the north, rugged 
 md forbidding, rises Monument Mountain, famous for 
 hat wild leap of the Indian girl which forms the sub- 
 ect of one of Bryant's finest poems. Toward Egre- 
 nont on the west and New Marlboro on the east, the 
 country roads ascend gently sloping hills. The town 
 tself lies half hidden beneath tall elms that seem to 
 ;hare the river's calm. 
 
 In Bryant's time, the green growth of grass and 
 eaves was less disturbed than now ; but, even to 
 day, one may easily see what inspiration surrounded 
 :he poet. The modern visitor needs But to walk from 
 :he gray Episcopal church to the silent graveyard at 
 the southern end of the village. This walk beneath 
 generous elms, the path now skirting the street and 
 now climbing the hill above, is enough to make the 
 dullest observer think poetry even if he cannot write 
 it. 
 
 In 1825 Mr, Bryant removed to New York, having 
 concluded, as Longfellow, Lowell, and other famous 
 poets have done, to abandon law for literature. He 
 had accumulated quite a number of poems, for so fas 
 tidious a writer, in his Great Barrington residence ; 
 and when, on his removal, he assumed the editorship
 
 122 Poets' Homes. 
 
 of The New York Review and Athentzum Magazint 
 ( afterwards called The United States Review and Lit 
 erary Gazette} he was able to produce several fine 
 pieces in rapid succession, among which were " The 
 Death of the Flowers," " The Indian Girl's Lament," 
 and "The African Chief." Under Bryant's editor 
 ship, this monthly also contained the new poems of 
 Dana, R. C. Sands and Fitz-Greene Halleck, whose 
 " Marco Bozzaris " first appeared in its pages. 
 
 Between 1827 and 1830 appeared three issues of 
 " The Talisman," a literary annual of the fashion 
 once so popular both in this country and in England. 
 
 It was by far the best work of its kind ; and, to this 
 day, its neat littfe volumes with their green sides, gilt 
 tops, clear type and delicate steel-engravings, are the 
 aristocrats of the old book stands. 
 
 " The Talisman " was wholly written by Bryant, 
 Gulian C. Verplanck and Robert C. Sands, Ver- 
 planck writing about half of the whole. Bryant's 
 prose contributions to it are especially worth hunting 
 out by the curious. They are written in the finished 
 style of the " Knickerbocker School," a style sug 
 gesting comfort and sober luxury both in literature 
 and life ; and they are noted for the delicacy of their 
 humor. Not every modern reader knows that Bryant 
 could write a forcible and interesting prose story ; but
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 123 
 
 ais few writings in that line are really worth compari 
 son with the tales of Irving. 
 
 But the greater part of Mr. Bryant's prose appeared 
 .n The Evening Post of New York, upon which he 
 Look an editorial position in 1826, and with which he 
 was connected up to the day of his death. A daily 
 paper, twenty-four hours after its issue, is a poor 
 dead thing ; but neither its ephemeral value nor its 
 inexorable demands discouraged the active pen of 
 the veteran editor. Mr. Bryant willingly put the 
 same care and honesty into a perishable editorial 
 which he bestowed upon a poem. In a long run this 
 faithfulness tells ; and to it is largely due the solid 
 reputation and influence of the paper he built up. 
 
 The whole body of Mr. Bryant's writings, aside 
 from his uncollected editorial work, is not large. 
 One volume of moderate size contains all his poems ; 
 his books of travel he did not care to retain in print ; 
 and a very small corner of the shelf contained all his 
 books until the appearance of his translations of the 
 Iliad and Odyssy, and the stately first volume of the 
 History of the United States, which he began to pre 
 pare with the aid of Sidney Howard Gray. 
 
 Like Gray and Collins, Bryant chose to write little 
 and to write well. He was always a stern critic of 
 his own work and did not hesitate to change his man-
 
 124 Poets' Homes. 
 
 uscript after it had left his hands. Some stanzas 
 which did not quite suit him would say themselves 
 over and over again until the right word or phrase 
 came at last, and the correction was made. But this 
 revision was, for the most part, before publication ; 
 for when one of Bryant's poems was printed its au 
 thor, as a rule, permitted it to stand. 
 
 It is said that Mr. Bryant hardly shared the popu 
 lar opinion that " Thanatopsis " is the best of his 
 poems ; nor was it unnatural that he should resent 
 the ill-considered praise of those who did not seem 
 to know that he wrote anything in the sixty-three years 
 since the appearance of his famous meditation on 
 death. 
 
 The William Cullen Bryant of 1878, up to the very 
 day of his fatal attack last May, was one of the most 
 familiar figures in the streets of New York. His hair 
 and beard were snowy white, and his overhanging 
 eye-brows and deep-set eyes gave him an air of in 
 tense thought. Not even Longfellow or Walt Whit 
 man so closely resembled some Greek philosopher. 
 
 In one sense Bryant, in his later years, seemed far 
 younger than he was ; in another, one might readily 
 fancy that he had lived for centuries. A man of so 
 reverend appearance seems almost independent of 
 time. His striking face has always been a great fa-
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 127 
 
 orite with photographers and artists in crayon. Per- 
 ons who had only seen his portraits were apt to be 
 isappointed when they met him, to see no more mas- 
 ive a figure. But Mr. Bryant, though slight and lat- 
 5rly somewhat bent with years, had none of the un- 
 hapeliness or haggardness of old age, and his port 
 /as a pleasure to see. 
 
 It is pretty hard to give the outside of a New York 
 louse any of the characteristic attractiveness which 
 o soon becomes apparent in an author's home in a 
 :ountry town. In the city nearly every house is like 
 ts next neighbor, and only its interior becomes at all 
 ndividual. 
 
 For some years Mr. Bryant's city home was num- 
 >er twenty-four West Sixteenth Street, between Un- 
 on Square and the College and Church of St. Fran- 
 :is Xavier. As it was entirely unpretentious without, 
 ;o it was handsome rather than splendid within. It 
 vas a home, not a mere house ; and it was filled with 
 :he paintings, and marbles, and rich books, which a 
 ooet likes to gather about him. 
 
 The death of his wife, ten or twelve years ago, led 
 Mr. Bryant to seek solace in his Homeric transla 
 tions ; since that time the head of his household has 
 been his daughter Julia, who was her father's constant 
 companion. From this Sixteenth Street home Mr
 
 128 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Bryant, to the last, walked to his office every week 
 day and to his church every Sunday. The horse-car^ 
 would pay sorry profits were all New Yorkers as rig 
 orous pedestrians as he. The new office of Tht 
 Evening Post is more than two miles distant from his 
 Sixteenth Street home, but the active old man scorned 
 to make his trips thither on wheels. He even, when 
 the elevator happened to be full, sturdily walked up 
 to the editorial rooms, nine flights above the side 
 walk. Such a pull as this seems formidable to many 
 a man of a quarter of his years. 
 
 This hardihood was the result, in Mr. Bryant's case, 
 of regular exercise before breakfast with Indian clubs, 
 and of abstinence from narcotics and intoxicants. 
 Even tea and coffee he used sparingly, chocolate be 
 ing, on the whole, his favorite beverage. 
 
 One of Mr. Bryant's most agreeable characteristics 
 was his accessibility and his kindliness toward 
 younger and obscurer men. No artificial dignity 
 hedged him about in house or office ; for his natural 
 grandeur commanded respect from the most careless. 
 He was much in company ; he not infrequently pre 
 sided over important meetings, and at the head of 
 social and civic tables he was a great favorite. Be 
 ing popular at such gatherings he was naturally happy 
 thereat, and such recreation proved to him refreshing
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 129 
 
 ather than exhausting. His physician was un- 
 loubtedly wrong in thinking that they predisposed 
 iim to his fatal attack. 
 
 For more than thirty years Mr. Bryant's summer 
 tome was in the Long Island village of Roslyn, in 
 Queen's County on the Sound, some twenty-five miles 
 rom New York. The little village has scarcely seven 
 oindred inhabitants and is a part of the township of 
 forth Hempstead. Its name was given it by Mr. 
 3ryant, who also presented to the village a neat pub 
 ic hall. His local attachment was strong \ and even 
 
 Cummington, after many a long year, he thought- 
 ally gave a well-chosen public library, a mile from 
 iis birth-place which he owned and visited annually. 
 
 " Cedarmere," the poet's home at Roslyn, is a ram- 
 iling old-fashioned house, surrounded by lofty trees 
 nd long reaches of green grass. It is homelike with 
 he generous wealth of cheer which comes only with 
 ears. No mere summering-place would satisfy Bry- 
 nt. Here, within reach of New York and his news- 
 aper (a steamer plies to and fro daily), he sought 
 nd found, in the rare prospect in the distance and 
 
 1 the rich adornment near at hand, both rest and in- 
 piration. His son-in-law, Parke Godwin, was a near 
 eighbor ; but still nearer neighbors were the trees and 
 le very blades of grass he knew so well.
 
 130 
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 And now, as he rests in the little Roslyn graveyard, 
 the grass and the leaves seem still his closest friends. 
 The mourners have gone away, but Nature folds hei 
 poet in her own bosom.
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 k /TOST readers of current literature are familiar 
 VA with the name of Nora Perry, and with some, 
 
 not all, of her poems. 
 
 The grace and the beauty which characterize her 
 ,'rses have made them general favorites, and the 
 imes of some of them, as for example. " After the 
 all," and " Tying her Bonnet under her Chin," have 
 jcome household words. 
 
 When, three years ago, J. R. Osgood & Co., 
 ought out a collection of these poems in a beauti- 
 
 13*
 
 132 Poets' Homes. 
 
 ful volume, one of the critics of the pi ess, alluding to 
 her remarkable facility of musical versification, called 
 her a " fairy singer " ; and Mrs. Harriet Prescott 
 Spofford, who is herself one of the sweetest of our 
 poets, said at that time, " There are many noble poets 
 in this country, but few since Edgar Poe so purely 
 lyrical as Nora Perry. Her songs seem to sing 
 themselves, and their music bubbles up like the 
 notes from the throat of a bird, one phrase answering 
 the other in exquisite melody, till it seems as if tune 
 and echo could do no more." 
 
 If my young readers wonder at these words of 
 lofty praise, they have only to turn to Miss Perry's 
 volume to find them verified. 
 
 Take the opening stanzas of " In June " as an illus 
 tration : 
 
 " So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing ; 
 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and gay the humming bird a-going 
 
 From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee; 
 
 " So sweet, so sweet (he calling of the thrushes, 
 The calling, cooing, wooing everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the waters' song through reeds and rushes; 
 The plover's piping note, now here, now there." 
 
 How charmingly musical is this description of the 
 golden days of early summer ! The poem, like
 
 Nora Perry. 133 
 
 lany of her others, is a picture, nay, more than a 
 icture, for so vividly are the scenes brought before 
 s, we seem to enter personally into their gladness 
 nd beauty. It is summer while \ve read, no matter 
 lough the winds of winter are blowing. And for 
 ic moment we can hear the song of the bird and 
 ic drowsy hum of the bee. 
 
 So, too, as we read "Jane," that gem of a poem 
 r e see the rain-drops lie sparkling upon the leaves, 
 nd we are certain we really smell the fragrance of 
 ic flowers after the refreshing summer shower. 
 
 Nora Perry's poems are especially interesting to 
 ic young, for she, more than most poets, has spoken 
 ) them. 
 
 That swinging, laughing poem of "Polly," which 
 ;as first published in Our Young Folks' Magazine, 
 5 no doubt familiar to many readers of these 
 olumes who may have heard it often recited, per- 
 aps mny have recited it themselves at school exhibi- 
 .ons and festivals, quite ignorant of the author's 
 ame, since it is always to be found in the newspapers, 
 "Oin Maine to Minnesota : 
 
 POLLY. 
 
 " Who's this coming down the stairs, 
 Putting on such lofty airs ;
 
 134 Poets' Homes. 
 
 "With that hump upon her back, 
 
 And her little heels click, clack ? 
 
 Such a funny little girl, 
 
 With a funny great long curl 
 
 Hanging from a mound of hair ; 
 
 And a hat way back in the air, 
 
 Just to show a little border 
 
 Of yellow curls all out of order. 
 
 She's a silly girl, I guess, 
 
 I'm glad it isn't Why, bless 
 
 My soul ! it's our little Polly 
 
 Tricked out in all that folly ! 
 
 Well, I declare, I never 
 
 Was so beat ; for if ever 
 
 There was a sensible girl, 
 
 I thought 'twas little Polly Earl. 
 
 And here Well, it's very queer 
 
 To come back, after a year, 
 
 And find my Polly changed like this. 
 
 A hunched-up, bunched-up, furbelowed mis* 
 
 With a steeple of a hat 
 
 And her hair like a mat, 
 
 It's so frightfully frowzled 
 
 And roughed up and tousled ! 
 
 O Polly, Polly ! Well, my dear, 
 
 So you're glad grandfather's here ? 
 
 And I confess that kiss 
 
 Does smack of the Polly I miss, 
 
 The girl with the soft, smooth hair, 
 
 Instead of this kinked-up snare 
 
 What ! you're just the same Polly, 
 
 In spite of all this folly ? 
 
 And what is that you say, 
 
 About your grandmother's day, 
 
 That you guess the folly 
 
 Hasn't just begun? O Polly, 
 
 If you could only have seen
 
 Nora Perry. 135 
 
 Your grandmother at eighteen I 
 
 What's that about the puffs 
 
 And the stiffened-up ruffs 
 
 That they wore in the time 
 
 Of your grandmother's prime ? 
 
 And the big buckram sleeves 
 
 That stood out like the leaves 
 
 Of the old-fashioned tables ; 
 
 And the bonnets big as gables, 
 
 And the laced-up waists Why, sho, 
 
 Polly, how your tongue does go ! 
 
 Little girls should be seen, not heard 
 
 Quite so much. Polly, on my word. 
 
 O, I'm trying to get away, 
 
 Eh, from your grandmother's day, 
 
 But I'm not to escape 
 
 Quite so easy from a scrape ? 
 
 What, you expect me to say 
 
 That your grandmother's day 
 
 Was as foolish as this ? 
 
 Polly, give me a kiss ; 
 
 I'm beaten, I see 
 
 And I'll agree, I'll agree 
 
 That young folks find 
 
 All things to their mind ; 
 
 And in your grandmother's time, 
 
 When I too was in my prime, 
 
 I've no doubt, Polly, 
 
 I looked at all the folly 
 
 Connected with the lasses 
 
 Through rose-colored glasses, 
 
 As the youths of to-day 
 
 Look at you, Polly, eh ? 
 
 But I've given you fair warning 
 
 How older folk see; so, Polly, good-morning."
 
 136 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Then the two poems, glowing with patriotism, and 
 infused with the bright, impressible spirit of youth, 
 that of the Boston boys who 
 
 " protested, 
 When they thought their rights molested." 
 
 and "Bunker Hill in 1875," which latter was pub 
 lished in the WIDE AWAKE of that year. Both have 
 found an enduring home in the hearts of all New 
 England boys ; while " After the Ball," the piece 
 which gives the title to Miss Perry's volume of poems 
 to which we have referred, has been upon the lips of 
 how many bright, sunny-hearted girls, who, dreaming 
 of the future and what it holds in store for them, 
 after some gay gathering, like Maud and Madge 
 have 
 
 " sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
 Their long, bright tresses, one by one, 
 
 As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
 After the revel was done. 
 
 " Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille. 
 
 Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
 Who over the fire, when all is still, 
 
 Comb out their braids and curls. 
 
 " Robes of satin and brussels lace, 
 
 Knots of flowers and ribbons too, 
 Scattered about in every place, 
 
 Fnr the revel is through.
 
 Nora Perry. 137 
 
 " And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 
 Stockingless, slipperless, s.it in the night, 
 For the revel is done. 
 
 " Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 
 
 Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
 
 Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
 And the little bare feet are cold." 
 
 Although Miss Perry is best known as a poet, she, 
 nevertheless, has been a successful writer of prose, 
 and many of her stories have touched the popular 
 heart; those for younger readers being especially 
 happy in construction and dialogue. " Bessie's Trials 
 at Boarding School " is one of the best. It is a 
 delightful story, indeed, for a reader of any age, its 
 only fault being its brevity. This, with other stories 
 of a like nature, was brought out in a volume by D. 
 Lothrop & Co., in 1876, as a Christmas book. 
 
 Miss Perry's home is in Providence, in little Rhode 
 Island, though she was a Massachusetts girl, and is so 
 much in Boston that many persons have an idea that 
 her fixed residence is there. 
 
 To reach this home we go up over one of the 
 beautiful hills for which Providence is noted, and, 
 entering a quiet street, stop at last before a modest 
 little house shaded by two branching elms. But it is
 
 138 Poets' Homes. 
 
 not the exterior, it is the interior in which we are 
 most interested, for it is there that Nora Perry's 
 individuality has opportunity to express itself. Ad 
 mitted to this interior we are shown into a charming 
 room of which we take fascinated observation while 
 we await the coming of its fair mistress. 
 
 The heavy drapery of the windows gives the room 
 a soft, subdued light, but quite sufficient to enable us 
 to discover its artistic arrangement. If it is winter a 
 bright open wood fire is burning before us. On the 
 walls, all about, are pictures pictures everywhere ; 
 bits of painting, beautiful engravings, and choice 
 specimens of photographic art. In a corner stands 
 a wide writing table, and close beside it a book-case 
 filled with books. 
 
 This corner is our lady's work-shop, the nook 
 where our sweet singer's songs are penned. 
 
 While still interested with our pleasant surround 
 ings the door opens, and our poet enters. She is 
 small in stature, a blonde of the purest type. She 
 comes forward to welcome us with a quiet, graceful 
 manner, reminding us of the graceful movement of 
 her own verses. 
 
 What we notice more particularly about Miss 
 Perry is the bright smile which, as the conversation 
 changes from one interesting theme to another, lights
 
 Nora Perry. 139 
 
 her face with a beauty never found in the features of 
 persons of less highly organized natures ; a smile 
 which indicates the elastic and sympathetic tempera 
 ment, which rises above the annoyances of this world 
 and somehow lifts you with it. 
 
 As you see and feel all this, you do not wonder 
 that the critics have characterized her poems as 
 " healthy," a term full of meaning in these days of 
 lugubrious sentimental rhyming. And as we turn 
 away from our poet and her enchanting work-shop, 
 as we say good-by to the pretty, quaint room, and the 
 poet herself, we naturally recall the words of that 
 eminent critic, E. P. Whipple, who, in summing up 
 the influence of Miss Perry's poems, says : " The 
 trouble with most female poets is that they are apt to 
 use verse merely to celebrate their sombre or discon 
 tented moods. They set wretchedness to music. 
 But here is a poetess who is all alive with the spirit of 
 sweet content and glee. She sings as a bird sings, 
 from an abounding, overflowing joy of heart."
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 THE home of Emerson is in Concord, Mass., as 
 everybody knows. It is a plain, square, wooden 
 house, standing in a grove of pine trees which con 
 ceal the front and side from the gaze of passers. Tall 
 chestnut trees ornament the old-fashioned yard 
 through which a road leads to the plain, yellow barn 
 in the rear. A garden fills half an acre at the back, 
 and has for years been famous for its roses which are 
 the especial pride and care of the mistress of the 
 house and are freely given to all who wish them ; this 
 140
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 143 
 
 garden also has a rare collection of hollyhocks, the 
 lowers that Wordsworth loved, and most of the old 
 rime annuals and shrubs. From the road a gate, 
 which is always open, leads over marble flag-stones 
 to the broad, low step before the hospitable door. 
 
 A long hall divides the centre of the house, with 
 five large square rooms on each side ; a plain, solid 
 table stands at the right of this entry, over which is 
 an old picture of Diana. 
 
 The first door on the right leads to the study, a 
 plain, square room, lined on two sides with simple 
 wooden shelves filled with choice books ; a large ma 
 hogany table stands in the middle, covered with 
 books, and by the morocco writing-pad, lies the pen 
 which has had so great an influence for twenty-five 
 years on the thoughts of two continents. A large fire 
 place, with high brass andirons, occupies the lower end, 
 over which hangs a fine copy of Michael Angelo's 
 Fates, the faces of the strong-minded women frown 
 ing upon all who would disturb with idle tongues this 
 haunt of solemn thought. On the mantle shelf are busts 
 and statuettes of men prominent in the great re 
 forms of the age, and a quaint, rough idol brought 
 from the Nile. A few choice engravings hang upon 
 the walls, and the pine trees brush against the win 
 dows.
 
 t44 Poets' Homes, 
 
 Two doors, one on each side of the great fire-place, 
 lead into the large parlor which fills the southern 
 quarter of the house. This room is hung with cur 
 tains of crimson and carpeted with the same warm 
 color, and when a bright fire is blazing on the broad 
 hearth reflected in the large mirror opposite, the 
 effect is cheerful in the extreme. A beautiful por 
 trait of one of the daughters of the house is hung in 
 this pleasant and homelike room, whose home 
 circle seems to reach around the world; for al 
 most every person of note, who has visited this coun 
 try, has enjoyed its genial hospitality, and listened 
 with attention to the words of wisdom from the kindly 
 master of the house the most modest and most 
 gifted writer, and deepest thinker of the age. Years 
 ago the chatty, little Frederika Bremer paid a long 
 visit here, a brisk old lady, as restless as her tongue 
 and pen. Here Margaret Fuller and the other bright 
 figures of the Dial met for conversation and consulta 
 tion. Thoreau was a daily visitor, and his wood- 
 notes might have been unuttered but for the kind en 
 couragement he found here. The Alcotts, father and 
 daughter, were near neighbors, and it was in this 
 room that Mr. Alcott's earliest " Conversations " were 
 held, now so well known. Here, too, old John 
 Brown was often to be met, a plain, poorly-dressed
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 147 
 
 old farmer, seeming out of place, and absorbed in 
 his own plans until some allusion, or chance remark, 
 would fire his soul and light up his rugged features. 
 Hawthorne, the handsome, moody, despairing genius, 
 there woke from his morbid reveries ; and here Cur 
 tis, the graceful writer, the silver-tongued orator, in 
 dulged in his merry satire, which spared neither 
 friend or foe. 
 
 But a dozen volumes would not give space enough 
 to mention in full the many guests from foreign lands, 
 who have been entertained at this house, which is 
 also a favorite place for the villagers to visit. The 
 school-children of Concord are entertained here 
 every year with merry games and dances, and they 
 look forward with great interest to the eventful oc 
 casion. 
 
 The house was partially destroyed by fire in the 
 spring of 1873, and was rebuilt as nearly as possible 
 like the former. During the building a portion of the 
 family found shelter in the Old Manse, the home of 
 Mr. Emerson's grandfather, while Mr. Emerson him 
 self visited Europe. Upon his return an impromptu 
 reception took place ; the citizens gathered at the 
 depot in crowds, the school children were drawn up 
 in two smiling rows, through which he passed, greeted 
 by enthusiastic cheers and songs of welcome. All
 
 148 Poets' Homes. 
 
 followed his carriage to the house and sung " Home 
 Sweet Home," to the music of the band. A few days 
 afterward he invited all his fellow-citizens to call and 
 see him in his new home, and nearly all the inhab 
 itants availed themselves of the opportunity. 
 
 A general invitation is now very often extended to 
 old and ydiing, to assemble on Sunday evenings in 
 the pleasant parlor for conversation. Many of these 
 talks have been led by Mr. Alcott, as before men 
 tioned. Some have been of religious nature, espe 
 cially those led by the Rev. Mr. Channing, and by 
 Rev. Mr. Reynolds, the pastor of the Unitarian 
 church. 
 
 The house stands on an old country road, up which 
 the British marched on the memorable igth of April, 
 1775. Let us follow their footsteps, which history 
 and legend have kept distinct for over one hundred 
 years. , 
 
 In full "uniform, just from the massacre at Lex- 
 
 - A . .> vJfo-j I ; . 
 
 " ington, they marched in upon the Common, and 
 were drawn up before the old church of which the 
 grandfather of Ralph Waldo Emerson was pastor. 
 The Sunday previous he had preached his famous 
 sermon, on the theme, " Resistance to tyrants is 
 obedience to God," and Hancock and Adams had 
 fired the hearts of the people in the same building
 
 Ralph Waldo Emeison. 151 
 
 which now contains some of the very timber which 
 sustained the famous Continental Congress of that 
 day. Major Pitcairn, who commanded the British, 
 took up his post on the hill opposite, probably near 
 the spot shown in the picture, where the tomb of the 
 patriot preacher now stands. 
 
 The Rev. William Emerson was a very energetic 
 and fearless man, and had assembled his people very 
 early in the morning, and delivered to them a stirring 
 address, advising resistance, at whatever cost, and it 
 is said that his people were so anxious for his safety 
 that they compelled him to remain all day a prisoner 
 it the Old Manse. Soon after he joined the army as 
 :haplain, and died in consequence of the exposure 
 and the fatigues of the camp. His tomb is on the 
 ourying-hill overlooking the old church where he 
 labored so nobly. Tradition declares that he deliv 
 ered his famous speech that morning, under an elm 
 which stands on'the Common, and which is known to 
 lave been in existence at that time. A hundred 
 /ears later, when the descendants of the same men 
 tfho fought that day returned from the bloody battle- 
 ielcls of the south bearing in honor the- same ancient 
 lames and assisted at the dedication of the monu- 
 nent to their comrades who were "faithful unto 
 leath," the present Mr. Emerson delivered an ad-
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 dress, standing in the shadows of the same noble old 
 elm, making true the lines in the ode sung on that 
 day: 
 
 "The patriot-preacher's bugle call, that April morning knew, 
 Still lingers in the silver tones of him who speaks to you." 
 
 This notable tree is an American elm of perfect 
 symmetry of shape, and shades a circle of one hun 
 dred feet in diameter ; and it stands an enduring 
 monument to the valor and eloquence of three gen 
 erations. (Ijnust add that it has been said to have 
 
 been used as a whip 
 ping post, and that 
 the iron rings to 
 which the culprits 
 were fastened, are 
 still buried in its 
 mighty trunk.) 
 
 After a short halt 
 on this Common, the 
 troops proceeded up 
 the street a quarter 
 of a mile, past the 
 Old Manse to the 
 North Bridge, a hun 
 dred rods farther 
 on, and there the fight, ever memorable in American 
 history, occurred. 
 
 ON THE BURYING-HILL. 
 TOMB OF REV. WILLIAM 
 EMERSON.
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 153 
 
 The spot on which the British fought has long been 
 marked by a plain, granite monument, a portion of 
 the inscription upon which was written by Mr. Em 
 erson, who also delivered at its dedication the famous 
 poem, which cannot be too often quoted : 
 
 " By the wide bridge that arched the flood, 
 Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
 
 I lere once the embattled farmers stood, 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 The foe long since in silei.ce slept ; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream that seaward creep-* 
 
 On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
 
 We set to-day a votive stone ; 
 That memory may their dead redeem, 
 
 When like our sires, our sons are gone. 
 
 Spirit, that made these htroes dare 
 
 To die and leave their children free. 
 Kid time and nature gently spare 
 
 The shaft we raise to them and Thee." 
 
 For the side where the Americans fought, Mr, 
 D. C. French, a young sculptor of the town, has de 
 signed a bronze statue of the Minute Man of the 
 day, with wonderful truth and vigor of action ; and it 
 is visited daily by people who come from far and 
 near, and the bridge, which has been built by the cit 
 izens of the town to copy the old North Bridge, is
 
 Poets' Homes. 
 
 constantly being crossed by every description of 
 vehicle, conveying passengers to study the details of 
 the monument, as the costume of the expectant sol- 
 
 YE oib ma 
 
 dier, the old-fashioned plough upon which he leans, 
 and the old flint-lock musket which he grasps, are 
 careful copies of the originals from which the young
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 157 
 
 tist made the closest studies. Upon a granite base 
 2 cut the first lines of the hymn quoted above. It 
 as been well said, " Few towns can furnish a poet, a 
 :ulptor, and an occasion." 
 
 As they pass over the bridge on their return, even 
 ie most careless visitor pauses for a moment at the 
 ave of the British soldiers, who, for a hundred 
 iars, have lain on the spot where they were hastily 
 iried on the afternoon of the fight, by two of the 
 oncord men who made a grave for them just where 
 iey had fallen. No one knew their names, and thej 
 ept unwept, save by the murmuring pines, with the 
 ;ry same rough stones from the wall which have 
 ;en the only marks for a century, until at the cen- 
 nnial anniversary, in April 1875, the town caused 
 e inscription, " The graves of British Soldiers," to 
 : cut in a large granite block, which now forms a 
 irt of the wall near which they lie. The next year 
 i Englishman, the editor of a newspaper in Boston, 
 used iron chains to be placed around, to guard the 
 ugh headstones from the attack of the relic-hunters, 
 10 have had the Vandalism to break off large pieces 
 carry away. 
 
 The Old Manse, which has been at various times 
 e home of Emerson, stands at the left of the battle- 
 ound and is approached by an avenue of noble
 
 158 Poets' Homes. 
 
 trees, which were originally black ash, a tree very 
 rare in this part of New England. Many of these 
 ash trees have died from age, and their places have 
 been supplied by elms and maples. Two high posts 
 of granite mark the entrance to the avenue, which 
 extends for about two hundred feet to the door of 
 the house. Opposite, across the narrow country road, 
 a hill overlooks the village, and gives a fine view of 
 the winding river, and distant mountains. A solitary 
 poplar crowns the summit of the hill, and affords a 
 landmark to the river-voyager, as it can be seen for 
 miles up and down the stream. A romantic legend is 
 connected with this tree, about a party of young girls 
 who were at school in the Old Manse, each of whom 
 caused a tree to be set out, and called by her name. 
 Year by year, the girls and trees grew up together in ; 
 grace and beauty. At length, one by one, the old 
 ladies died, and the trees died too, until one very old 
 lady and this old weather-beaten poplar alone re 
 mained. The lady for whom the surviving poplar 
 was named, has gone to her rest, and the tree seems 
 likely to follow before long. 
 
 The large field at the left of the Old Manse, which 
 divides it from the battle-ground, was, centuries ago, 
 the site of an Indian village, and often rough arrows 
 and spear-heads have been turned up by the plough,
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 159 
 
 The savages probably chose this gentle slope by the 
 river for the sake of the fish with which it then 
 abounded, for the earlier settlers report a plentiful sup 
 ply of shad and salmon, where now poor little brearr.s 
 and horn-pouts alone tempt the idle fisherman. Be 
 hind the house there extends to the river an ancient 
 orchard of apple trees, which is in itself a monument 
 of energy and faith, for it was set by the hoary- 
 headed old minister, for the benefit of his descend 
 ants ; but at the age of ninety he enjoyed a rich har 
 vest to repay him for his disinterested labors. The 
 house, built by him in the year 1765, and occupied by 
 him the next year after his marriage to a daughter 
 of the Rev. Daniel Bliss, with the exception of a few 
 years when it was occupied by Hawthorne, has always 
 been the home of ministers and the descendants of 
 the builder. Nearly all the old New England minis 
 ters have been entertained under its roof, and many 
 questions affecting the beliefs of the age have been 
 here discussed and settled. The room in which this 
 article is written, was the study of the Rev. Ezra 
 Ripley, who married the widow of the builder of the 
 home, and here thousands of sermons have doubtless 
 been written. It is a small, square room with high 
 wainscot and oaken beams overhead, with a huge 
 fire-place where four-foot sticks used to burn on great, 
 high, brass andirons.
 
 160 Poets' ff antes. 
 
 It was in this room, too, that the ghost used to 
 appear, according to Hawthorne, but it probably only 
 existed in his brilliant imagination. Often, on /i 
 winter night, the latch of the old door has lifted 
 without human help, and a gust of cold wind ha'j 
 swept into the room. 
 
 Opposite the study, is a larger room, which is mod 
 ernized by rare photographs and recent adornmentr,, 
 and is used as a parlor by its present owners, th j 
 grandchildren of the original proprietors. From thij 
 apartment a door opens into the ancient dining-roon^ 
 in which the old-time ministers held their solem j 
 feasts, and it is said that they were well able to ap 
 preciate the good cheer which covered the long table 
 that nearly filled the narrow hall. In one corner of 
 this room stands a tall clock, looking across at its 
 life-long companion, the ancient desk of Dr. Ripley ; 
 and a set of curious, old, high-backed chairs recall 
 the days of our upright ancestors. 
 
 Opposite this room is a big kitchen with its enor 
 mous fire-place, which twenty-five years ago was used 
 wholly by the present occupants for all purposes of 
 cooking. The hooks which held the long, iron crane 
 on which the pots and kettles hung still remain, al 
 though a modern cooking stove occupies the chief 
 part of the broad hearth. 
 
 The Old Manse was the principal house of the
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, 163 
 
 town for many years, and, probably the only one v/hich 
 had two stories, as almost all of the houses of its 
 period were built with a lean-to. It was also the only 
 one which was built with two chimneys, thus giving a 
 large garret, which is rich in the curious lumber of 
 two generations, and stored with literature enjoyed 
 only by the spider and the moth. In one corner, on 
 the southern side, is a curious, "^ttle room which has 
 been always known as the " Saints' Chamber," its 
 walls bearing inscriptions in the hand writing of the 
 holy men who have rested there. 
 
 The room over the dining-room is perhaps the 
 most interesting, for it was here that Emerson wrote 
 " Nature " and also many of his best poems. Haw 
 thorne describes this room, which he also used as 
 his study, in his " Mosses from an Old Manse," 
 which was also written there. It has three windows 
 with small cracked panes of glass bearing inscrip 
 tions traced with a diamond, probably by some of 
 the Hawthorne family. From the northern window 
 the wife of the Rev. William Emerson watched the 
 progress of the igth April fight ; and one hundred 
 years later, on the same day, her grandaughter, who 
 now occupies the room, pointed out to her guests the 
 honored men who marched in long procession over 
 the old North Bridge to dedicate the new monument
 
 164 Poets' 1 Homes, 
 
 and celebrate the anniversary of the memorable day. 
 
 In fine weather the house is filled with guests, 
 and nearly every day some curious stranger begs per 
 mission to enter the time-honored hall, which runs 
 directly through the house, as the door opposite the 
 main entrance opens into the orchard, and affords 
 glimpses of the gentle rises beyond. 
 
 At the foot of this orchard, all the renowned guests 
 of the house have been accustomed to enter the boat, 
 which is moored to a great rock at the river-brink, to 
 row up the stream for half a mile to " the Hemlocks." 
 All of the Coneord writers have sung the praises of 
 this romantic spot. After rowing up stream in the 
 sun to Egg Rock, the point where the Sudbury and 
 A.ssabet rivers unite to form the Concord, it is 
 "ery delightful to ascend the Assabet which flows 
 Jilong in the eternal shade of its high, tree-crowned 
 'janks. At a sudden bend, where for years the water 
 lias been forced against a high, sandy bank, which it 
 has washed out in irregular curves, great hemlock 
 trees bend in various angles toward the river and as 
 the roots are washed from their hold, they bend lower 
 and lower, year by year, so that they almost touch 
 the water, until in some spring freshet the last grasp 
 of the tangled roots is loosened from its hold, and 
 the great tree goes sailing down toward the Merri-
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 16; 
 
 mack and the ocean beyond. At present, the lowest 
 one is twenty feet above the river, 
 and the bank beneath offers a lux 
 uriant shade all hours of the day. 
 The quiet river slowly gliding be 
 tween its fair 
 banks has always 
 been loved 
 by Emer 
 
 son and in 
 spired ma 
 ny o f his 
 poems; 
 and in sev. 
 e r a 1 of 
 them he 
 has spoken 
 of it as as- 
 soc i ated 
 with his 
 family and 
 friends as 
 in the 
 "Dirge " in 
 his first col 
 
 lection of poems : 
 
 " The winding Concord gleamed below 
 
 Pouring as wide a flood 
 As when my brothers, long ago, 
 
 Came with me to the wood."
 
 1 68 Poets' Homes. 
 
 And again in the " In Memoriam," in the second 
 volume : 
 
 " Behold the river bank, 
 
 Whither the angry farmers came, 
 
 In sloven dress and broken rank, 
 
 Nor thought of fame." 
 ***** 
 
 " Yet not of these I muse, 
 
 In this ancestral place, 
 
 But of a kindred face, 
 
 That never joy or hope shall here diffuse." 
 
 Among Mr. Emerson's poems are many that chil 
 dren can understand and enjoy. In his first volume, 
 published in 1847, we find the lines to " The Rho- 
 dora," and surely no one who reads them will ever 
 see again the pretty, purple flower, which is one of 
 the very earliest to greet us in the spring, without 
 recalling the lines : 
 
 " Rhodora, if the sages ask thee why 
 
 This charm is wasted on the earth and sky. 
 
 Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
 
 Then Beauty is its own excuse for being. 
 
 Why thou wast there, O, rival of the rose ! 
 
 I never thought to ask. I never knew ; 
 
 But in my simple ignorance, suppose 
 
 The self-same Power that brought me there, brought you." 
 
 Where would you find a truer description of " A 
 Snow-Storm," than in the poem bearing that title ? and 
 indeed, one great charm of all Mr. Emerson's poetry
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 169 
 
 is that his descriptions of nature are always true and 
 real, nothing ever overdrawn. In the same volume 
 is the " Humblebee," " hot midsummer's petted 
 crone," and I venture to say that many a boy who 
 has lain in the grass a hot summer's afternoon, and 
 watched with pleasure one of the little fellows in his 
 " zigzag " course, darting in and out of the flowers 
 "sipping only what is sweet," has, when he grew 
 older, been perfectly delighted to find that the poet 
 had described the very things which he had enjoyed, 
 but could not express ; and while reading, has, in 
 imagination, been carried back again to the fields in 
 which he then played. 
 
 The poem called " Threnody" has touched many a 
 heart, which sermons have, in vain, tried to reach 
 
 "On that shaded day, 
 
 Dark with more clouds than tempests are. 
 
 When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 
 
 In birdl ike heavings unto death, 
 
 Night came, and Nature had not thee : 
 
 I said, 'we are mates in misery.' 
 
 The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 
 
 Each snow-bird chirped, each fowl must crow ; 
 
 Each tramper started ; but the feet 
 
 Of the most beautiful and sweet 
 
 Of human youth had left the hill 
 
 And garden, they were bound and still. 1 ' 
 
 Read, too, the pine-tree song, in " Wood-notes." 
 The second volume, called " May-Day," will for
 
 1 76 Poets' Homes. 
 
 the most part be more interesting to older people 
 than to children, but the "Fourth of July Ode ;" would 
 teach the highest lessons, even to a young child. For 
 instance : 
 
 " Be just at home ; then write your scroll 
 
 Of honor o'er the sea, 
 And bid the broad Atlantic roll, 
 
 A ferry of the free. 
 
 " And henceforth there shall be no chain, 
 
 Save underneath the sea, 
 The wires shall murmur through the main, 
 
 Sweet songs of Liberty?' 
 
 And the " Boston Hymn " is written in much the 
 same strain 
 
 " My Angel his name is Freedom, 
 
 Choose him to be your king. 
 He shall cut pathways east and west, 
 
 And fend you with his wing. 
 
 " And ye shall succor men : 
 
 'Tis nobleness to serve ; 
 Help them who cannot help again; 
 
 Beware from right to swerve." 
 
 In December, 1873, there was a great meeting at 
 Fanueil Hall in Boston, to celebrate the one hun 
 dredth anniversary of the throwing over the tea into 
 Boston Harbor, which incident all children have 
 read in their history of the United States ; and then 
 Mr. Emerson read a poem which has never yet been
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, 171 
 
 published, except in the newspapers at the time. In 
 this brief mention of his poetry an attempt has been 
 made simply to call the attention of children to such 
 poems as they can easily understand and enjoy. Per 
 haps they must wait before they can comprehend all 
 of his works, but the youngest can understand at 
 once his genial nature and kind heart, for everyone, 
 young or old, simple or learned, who has been for 
 tunate enough to know him, loves and honors him. 
 His perfect courtesy never fails. From the humblest 
 he seems anxious to learn. The modest aspirant for 
 literary success finds in him appreciation and in 
 spiration, and in the hearts of his townsmen and 
 friends is the truest home of Emerson. 
 
 Mr. Emerson has an erect, slender figure, rather 
 above the medium height, now slightly bowed by the 
 weight of some seventy years. His appearance, 
 though dignified, is very retiring and singularly refined 
 and gentlemanly. His face has a thoughtful and 
 somewhat preoccupied expression, with keen eyes 
 and aquiline nose. His countenance lights up with 
 a rare appreciation of humor of which he has the 
 keenest sense, but his chief characteristics are benefi 
 cence and courtesy, which never fails, whether ad 
 dressing the humblest pauper or the most distin 
 guished scholar.
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 
 JOHN HAYNE, of Hayne Hall, Shropshire, was 
 the honest and sturdy name of the most promi 
 nent of the English gentry from whom Paul H. 
 Hayne counts his honorable descent. What doughty 
 deeds brightened the records of the English famil) 
 of Haynes there is no need to seek ; for, in America, 
 we do not care to sail across the Atlantic in search 
 of knightly or courtly chronicles, so long as we can 
 look at the reputation won by those members of any 
 family whose names have become a part of our own 
 history. 
 
 172
 
 Paul H. Hayne, \ 73 
 
 The Haynes of South Carolina, like the Adamses 
 and Quincys of Massachusetts, have seemed to rely 
 for fame rather upon the putting forth of some new 
 achievement in each generation, than upon any proud 
 contemplation of past celebrity or renown. 
 
 For instance, there was an old Isaac Hayne, born 
 in South Carolina in 1745, who, having served in a 
 patriot regiment in the Revolution, was made pris 
 oner by the British in 1780 and released on parole. 
 The next year, his family having been attacked by 
 small-pox in Charleston, he was permitted to visit 
 them ; but only to find his wife dying and one of his 
 children already dead. Before being allowed to pay 
 this sad visit, he was forced to acknowledge his alle 
 giance to Great Britain, though under protest, and 
 with an express exemption from bearing arms. But his 
 wife and child were hardly in their graves when Isaac 
 Hayne was bidden to take up arms against his state 
 and country. The British promise being thus broken, 
 Hayne considered himself free and took command 
 of a regiment of South Carolina militia, which he 
 bravely led until again taken prisoner in 1781. The 
 exasperated Royalists hung him without trial on the 
 4th of August in that year. This patriotic Colonel 
 Hayne, who was a wealthy and popular planter and 
 manufacturer, was great-uncle to Robert Y. Hayne,
 
 174 Poets' Homes, 
 
 Webster's famous antagonist in the United States' 
 Senate. 
 
 Governor Robert Y. Hayne, Paul H. Hayne's un 
 cle, was, on the testimony of Edward Everett, gener 
 ally considered to be in 1830 the foremost South 
 erner in Congressional debates, with the single ex 
 ception of John C. Calhoun. Born in Colleton Dis 
 trict, South Carolina, in 1791, he served for a time 
 in the war of 1812 while still a mere youth, and be 
 came Speaker of the South Carolina House of Rep 
 resentatives in 1818, when but twenty-seven years of 
 age. In 1823 he was sent to the United States' Sen 
 ate, where he was the first Congressman to assert the 
 doctrine that a state may arrest or " nullify " the op 
 eration of national laws in her opinion unconstitu 
 tional. 
 
 In the defence of this doctrine he had, the year 
 previous, while Governor of South Carolina, narrowly 
 escaped coming into collision with President Jack 
 son. In January, 1830, his great speech in the Senate 
 was delivered, a speech not only notable in itself, 
 as a masterly presentation of the political doctrine in 
 question, but forever to be famous as having evoked, 
 in reply, the speech which Daniel Webster's latest 
 biographer calls " the greatest and most renowned ora 
 torical effort " of the New England statesman. It was
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 175 
 
 Greek meeting Greek ; and both Hayne and Webster 
 felt that they had worthy antagonists. Indeed, as 
 the story-books say, they " lived happily ever after," 
 as far as their affectionate personal relations were 
 concerned ; for men truly great never cherish petty 
 personal resentments, however strong their political 
 opinions. 
 
 Governor Hayne visited Webster at Marshfield, 
 and once said of Webster's argument : " A man who 
 can make such speeches as that ought never to die." 
 The governor died in 1839, at tne a S e f forty-eight, 
 having, during the latter part of his life, been Mayor 
 of Charleston. 
 
 Colonel Arthur P. Hayne, his brother, was a brave 
 soldier in the war of 1812, and also fought in the 
 Creek and Florida Indian wars. In 1858 he en 
 tered the United States' Senate and lived through the 
 Civil war of 1861 - 1865, dying in 1867. 
 
 Of such a family, eminent in the political councils 
 of South Carolina, and always ready to fight for its 
 cherished principles, came the poet Paul H. Hayne. 
 His father, true to the martial instincts of the family, 
 was a lieutenant in the United States' Navy. 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne (such is the poet's full 
 name) was born at Charleston, South Carolina, on 
 New Year's day of 1831, and grew up in that famous
 
 176 Poets' Homes. 
 
 port, perhaps unequalled in the South for its curious 
 combination of commercial activity and stately and 
 aristocratic ease. Lieutenant Hayne died at Pen- 
 sacola, Florida, while Paul was an infant, leaving his 
 son to be brought up in the affectionate care of his 
 widowed mother. 
 
 The boy was a happy, hearty, enthusiastic lad, 
 quick to think and no dullard at his books, though 
 not " precocious," in the sense in which many young 
 poets delight their parents and their future biog 
 raphers. But, after all, it is a greater pleasure to see 
 a wholesome, cheery little boy, with a warm heart 
 and a natural mind, than a pale little book-worm 
 accumulating a store of phenomenal sayings and 
 doings. 
 
 We always hear of the precocious boys whose 
 future brings the fame of a Milton or a Macaulay ; 
 but who shall keep the record of the " infant phenom- 
 enons " who become matter-of-fact merchants or ma 
 trons, or whose careers end in early death ? 
 
 Thus young Hayne's teachers, while they soon 
 saw that they were instructing a boy of more than or 
 dinary ability, would hardly have foretold the literary 
 life he has since led ; though, to be sure, he had the 
 poets' traditional hatred of mathematics. 
 
 .In the college of Charleston, however, which
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 179 
 
 Hayne entered in 1847 at the age of sixteen, he 
 proved himself a master in elocution and composi 
 tion, easily surpassing his fellows in both branches. 
 The Hayne family are born orators, and Paul might 
 perhaps, have equalled his uncle's reputation in that 
 particular had his life been a public one, and had 
 his voice been stronger. In his student days his 
 manner as a public speaker was graceful, his ges 
 tures were fit, and his personal presence before his 
 audience was of that winning quality which is some 
 times called magnetic. His voice is soft and musical, 
 and, while it lacks sufficient power to fill a large 
 room, its effect is manifest, marked as it is both by 
 emphasis and sympathy. 
 
 But the lad, after the usual fashion of Southern 
 youth, learned other things than those which his 
 tutors could teach him. When but eight years of 
 age, his uncle, the famous Governor, taught him to 
 shoot; and from that time he has always had a 
 hearty liking for field sports, accounting it by no 
 means his feeblest power that, on a return from the 
 field, he can show at least as many trophies as the 
 majority of skillful huntsmen. 
 
 Of course there came with this devotion to the 
 field, an accompanying fondness for horse-back rid 
 ing. One favorite horse of his was a handsome gray
 
 180 Poets' Homes. 
 
 whose name of Loyal fitly described the faithful nat 
 ure which the horse and dog, alone of our domestic 
 pets and servants, seem to possess. Loyal would ill 
 brook any attempt of a stranger to mount the saddle; 
 but to his master he was always gentle, eating out of 
 his hand and following him about the yard like a 
 dog. 
 
 Hayne graduated at the College of Charleston in 
 1850, and soon after studied law and was admitted to 
 the bar, though he never practiced. As to Long 
 fellow, Lowell and Bryant, literature seemed fairer 
 than law, and whiffs from Parnassus persistently blew 
 through the office window. At that time Mr. 
 Hayne's fortune was such that he was not compelled 
 to "work for a living," so that he was enabled to 
 write poems without thoughts of the butcher and the 
 baker. 
 
 In 1852, the year after he attained his majority, 
 the young poet was married to Miss Mary Middleton 
 Michel of Charleston, the only daughter of Dr. Wil 
 liam Michel. Her own descent is worthy of remem 
 brance, her father having been, when but eighteen 
 years of age, a surgeon in the army of Napoleon Bon 
 aparte. Dr. Michel was wounded at the battle of 
 Leipsic, and received a gold medal at the hands of 
 the late Emperor, Napoleon the Third. Miss Michel's
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 18 1 
 
 mother was a descendant of the Frasers of Scot 
 land. 
 
 In pursuance of his literary work, Mr. Hayne was 
 at various times, connected with many periodicals iV 
 his native city. In 1854 he visited the North, and b 
 the following year his first volume of poems was pub 
 lished in Boston. Harper & Calvo, a Charlestoi 
 publishing firm, put forth his second volume in 1857, 
 under the title of " Sonnets and Other Poems ;" and 
 the young poet began to command recognition in his 
 more immediate home and in the North. 
 
 The literary tastes of South Carolina are both 
 severely critical and warmly appreciative. Critical, be 
 cause, to an extent almost unknown in other parts of 
 the country, the literary diet of the educated classes 
 consists of Addison's "Spectator," Fielding's "Tom 
 Jones," and other standard books of the eighteenth 
 century. And appreciative, because the Southern 
 reader, however severe, is always quick to acknowl 
 edge any newly-discovered merit. 
 
 The " Ode to Sleep, " in the Charleston volume, 
 certainly deserved the warm reception awarded it; 
 while the sonnets of which the book was chiefly com 
 posed were, in conception and elaboration, worthy of 
 comparison with the similar work of any contempo 
 rary American poet.
 
 1 82 Poets' Homes, 
 
 It was not, however, until the appearance of his 
 third book that Mr. Hayne won general recognition 
 at the North as a leading contemporary poet. This 
 was a slender volume with a long title : " Avolio, a 
 Legend of the Island of Cos ; with Poems Lyrical, 
 Miscellaneous and Dramatic." It was published in 
 Boston in 1859. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Hayne had been intimately con 
 nected in Charleston with an ambitious attempt to 
 establish, in the South, a literary magazine of the 
 first mark. RusseVs Magazine was its title; in size 
 and typographical appearance it was not unlike 
 13lackwood's, and it was sustained for three years 
 (1857-1860) with good ability. Hayne wrote for 
 it constantly, and so did Henry Timrod, William Gil- 
 more Simms, William J. Grayson, Samuel H. Dick- 
 son, and many another Southern author. Despite the 
 hearty enthusiasm of its conductors, the magazine 
 failed to win a financial success, and it died the year 
 before the war. 
 
 In 1861, when hostilities broke out between the 
 North and the South, Hayne espoused the Southern 
 cause, following whither he was led by conviction and 
 feeling, by personal friendship and local attachment, 
 and by all the inherited political tendencies of the 
 family blood. His health was not rugged, but he was
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 185 
 
 Assigned, early in 1861, to a position on the staff of 
 Governor Pickens of South Carolina. 
 
 One of the New York illustrated papers at that 
 time, published a portrait of " Paul H. Hayne, Poet 
 and Litterateur ; Aide-de-Camp to Governor Pick- 
 ens." It was the face of a sensitive, thoughtful, deli 
 cate, impetuous young man, of the kind so familiar 
 in both armies; for the poet's study and the pro 
 fessor's chair furnished many a recruit to either side 
 in our great Civil war, as they likewise did to the Ger 
 man arms in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. 
 
 Hayne, too ill to go to the field, was compelled to 
 give up his military ambition, and for the next few 
 years wrote almost constantly in support of what was 
 so soon to become the " Lost Cause." His numer 
 ous war lyrics bore such titles as these : " The Ken 
 tucky Partisan"; "My Motherland;" "The Sub 
 stitute ; " " The Battle of Charleston Harbor ; " 
 "Stonewall Jackson;" "The Little White Glove;" 
 "Our Martyr;" and "Beyond the Potomac." The 
 last named was singled out for praise by Dr. Oliver 
 Wendell Holmes, in a Jecture on the poetry of the 
 war. 
 
 The close of the struggle found Hayne poor and 
 sick, but not utterly disheartened. His beautiful 
 home in Charleston was burned just before the victo-
 
 1 86 Poets' Homes. 
 
 rious Northern army took possession of the city, by 
 the bursting of a bomb-shell ; and the next year the 
 poet removed with his wife, boy, and mother, to a se 
 cluded spot on the Georgia Railroad, a few miles out 
 of the city of Augusta, Georgia. Here he has since 
 made his home. 
 
 With peace assured Mr. Hayne once more took 
 up his pen and went diligently to work, in a brave 
 endeavor to win support from what, in earlier years, 
 had been a pastime. He assumed, in 1866, the 
 editorship of The Augusta Constitutionalist, but 
 utterly broke down after eight months' work. Dur 
 ing 1867 and 1868 he was associate editor of The 
 Southern Opinion, a semi-political paper published 
 at Richmond, Virginia, by Henry Pollard. Hayne 
 revised for this journal a long series of "Reminis 
 cences and Anecdotes of the Late War," and wrote 
 all the book notices. About the same time he wrote 
 numberless editorials and reviews for Southern 
 Society, a literary weekly published in Baltimore. 
 This industrious habit of work has never since been 
 remitted. 
 
 In 1873 Mr. Hayne, accompanied by his son 
 William, paid a visit to the North, spending a consid 
 erable time both in Boston and New York, and meet- 
 'ng many old literary friends, as well as those whom
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 187 
 
 he had come to know by correspondence. One of 
 the most pleasant episodes of this trip was the visit 
 paid by Mr. Hayne to John Greenleaf Whittier, 
 who was then living at his old home in Amesbury. 
 
 For Whittier's personal character, as well as his 
 poems, Hayne had always felt the sincerest admira 
 tion ; and the meeting of the two poets was not the 
 less cordial because the one had been the life-long 
 advocate of freedom for the slave, while the other 
 had borne arms on the side of the Confederacy. 
 
 " Legends and Lyric," the poet's fourth and best 
 collection of poems,* appeared in 1872 ; and a fifth 
 volume was published in 1876, entitled "The Moun 
 tain of the Lovers and other Poems." In 1873 Mr. 
 Hayne edited, with an appreciative memoir, an 
 edition of the poems of his friend, the late Henry 
 Timrod. 
 
 All his books have now been mentioned, save a 
 small volume, published during the present year, 
 containing biographical sketches of his uncle, Robert 
 Y. Hayne and Hugh S. Legard, the eminent scholar 
 and reviewer. These biographies were written some 
 years ago and published in The Southern Review. 
 Mr. Hayne has also written a memoir of William 
 Gilmore Simms, and a revolutionary story in thirteen
 
 j88 Poets' Homes. 
 
 chapters, neither of which has yet been published in 
 book form. 
 
 Having briefly sketched the personal and literary 
 life of the poet, a word is demanded concerning his 
 position in the literature of the time. On the whole, 
 taking into view the extent and variety of his work, 
 Hayne must justly be called the chief living South 
 ern writer. In his poems there is a fine feeling and 
 a daintiness of expression which greater poets in 
 standard English literature have missed. 
 
 His sonnets delighted Leigh Hunt ; his poems of 
 sentiment and affection go straight to the heart ; and 
 in his longer poems of classic or mediaeval theme 
 he has produced narrative verse of high rank. He 
 is content to be simply a poet ; and scarcely a living 
 writer, in an age commonly called " utilitarian," 
 more serenely pursues, his own path. 
 
 It is no wonder that so many kindly things have 
 been said of him by the critics. Thus, the late John 
 R. Thompson, himself a fair poet, said : 
 
 " Hayne is a knight of chivalry, a troubadour, a 
 minnesinger, misplaced and misunderstood, who 
 should have lived ages ago in Provence or some 
 other sunny land. What I admire in him most is I is 
 loyalty to his vocation and the conscientiousness with 
 which he gives voice to his poetic impulses whether 
 the world heeds him or not."
 
 Paul If. Hayne. t$t 
 
 The volume of "Legends and Lyrics" undoubt 
 edly contains the poet's best work ; and in it the 
 pieces entitled "The Wife of Brittany" and 
 " Daphles " deserve chief mention and praise. 
 " Daphles " has been especially fortunate, having 
 won the cordial approval of Jean Ingelow, Long 
 fellow, Holmes, Whittier, Whipple, and Richard 
 Grant White. Mr. Hayne's approving critics seem 
 divided into three classes ; the first giving to his son 
 nets the highest place, while the second prefer his 
 lyrics, and the third his narrative poems. 
 
 " Copse Hill " is the name of the home which the 
 poet has occupied for the past twelve years; and, 
 certainly, the little house shows that romance has 
 not yet died out of the world, and that all the poets 
 do not house themselves in brick walls or brown- 
 stone fronts. 
 
 Mr. Hayne's cottage, made of unseasoned lumber 
 and neatly white-washed, stands on the crest of a 
 hill in the midst of eighteen acres of pine lands, 
 utterly uncultivated and affording the solemnity and 
 seclusion which nature alone can give. Many of 
 Hayne's poems show the influence of the Southern 
 scenery at his very door. 
 
 The interior of the cottage is cheery ; for it has 
 been patiently decorated in a fashion at once artistic 
 and homelike by the hand of Mrs. Hayne. The
 
 192 Poets' Homes. 
 
 walls were so uninviting that she determined to 
 paper them with engravings, carefully selected from 
 the current periodicals of the day. 
 
 The room in which Mr. Hayne works, as now 
 adorned, is fairly entitled to be described by that 
 most aristocratic of adjectives, unique. Pictures of 
 eminent men, views of noted places, and scenes of 
 public interest are so arranged as to leave no break 
 on the walls. The mantel and doors, even, are cov 
 ered with pictures, some of them framed in paper 
 trimmings cut from the journals of fashion. 
 
 Mr. Hayne's library consists of some two thousand 
 volumes, partly saved from his original valuable col 
 lection of books, but accumulated for the most part 
 by his labors as a book-reviewer. His desk, at 
 which he always stands while writing, is made out of 
 the two ends of the work-bench used in building the 
 cottage. Mrs. Hayne has contrived to transform it 
 into an antique bit of furniture. The little book 
 cases near by are made of boxes, partly covered with 
 pictures like the walls of the room. 
 
 In person, Hayne is of slight figure and medium 
 height, having piercing eyes, full lips and a dark 
 complexion. In manner he is inclined to be quiet 
 and reserved. All his life he has been in somewhat 
 feeble health, especially as regards his lungs.
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 193 
 
 "I have never known," he says, "since I was six 
 teen, what it is to feel perfectly well." But he works 
 assiduously, even to the indulgence of that -habit of 
 enthusiastic poets getting up at night to capture a 
 fleeting idea. 
 
 It will not be an unwarrantable intrusion into this 
 happy home most inaccessible of all the abodes of 
 American authors to copy here Mr. Hayne's 
 hearty and helpful lines to his only son. " Will " is 
 a boy no longer ; but advancing years have no power 
 to dim such affection between father and son : 
 
 "MY SON WILL. 
 
 " Your face, my boy, when six months old 
 
 We propped you, laughing, in a chair, 
 And the sun-artist caught the gold 
 
 Which rippled o'er your waving hair, 
 And deftly shadowed forth, the while, 
 That blooming cheek, that roguish smile, 
 
 Those dimples seldom still ; 
 The tiny, wondering, wide-eyed elf ! 
 Now, can you recognize yourself 
 In that small portrait, Will ? 
 
 " I glance at it, then turn to you, 
 
 Where in your healthful ease you stanJ 
 No beauty, but a youth as true, 
 As pure, as any in the land ! 
 For Nature, through fair sylvan ways, 
 Hath led and gladdened all your days,
 
 194 Poets' Homes. 
 
 Kept free from sordid ill ; 
 Hath filled your veins with blissful fire, 
 And winged your instincts to aspire 
 
 Sunward and Godward, Will ! 
 
 " Long-limbed and lusty, with a stride 
 That leaves me many a pace behind. 
 You roam the woodlands, far and wide, 
 
 You quaff great draughts of country wind 
 While tree and wild-flower, lake and stream, 
 Deep shadowy nook, and sunshot gleam, 
 
 Cool vale and far-off hill, 
 Each plays its mute mysterious part 
 In that strange growth of mind and heart 
 I joy to witness, Will. 
 
 " ' Can this tall youth,' I sometimes say, 
 ' Be mine, my so n ?' It surely seems 
 Scarce further backward than a day, 
 
 Since, watching o'er your feverish dreams 
 In that child-illness of the brain, 
 I thought ( O Christ, with what keen painl ) 
 
 Your pulse would soon be still, 
 That all your boyish sports were o'er, 
 And I, heart-broken, never more 
 Should call or clasp you, Will ! 
 
 " But Heaven was kind, Death passed you bj 
 
 And now upon your arm I lean, 
 My second self, of clearer eye, 
 
 Of finer nerve, and sturdier mien ; 
 Through you, methinks, my long-lost youth 
 Revives, from whose sweet founts of truth 
 
 And joy I drink my fill ; 
 I feel your every heart-throb, know
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 195 
 
 What inmost hopes within you glow ; 
 One soul's between us, Will ! 
 
 " Pray Heaven that this be always so ; 
 
 That even on your soul and mine, 
 Though my thin locks grow white as snow, 
 
 The self-same radiant trust may shine. 
 Pray that while this, my life, endures, 
 It aye may sympathize with yours 
 
 In thought, aim, action, still ; 
 That you, O son ( till comes the end ) 
 In me may find your comrade, friend, 
 And more tlian father, Will I "
 
 J. BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 y Mac and O' "" v : - 
 
 Ye well may know 
 True Irishmen alway." 
 
 Thus says the old proverb ; and true 
 Irishman, from his crown of black hair to 
 the feet which take him over the ground 
 in soldierly strides, is John Boyle O'Reilly, 
 the poet whose name heads this paper. 
 
 It is natural enough that his step should be soldierly ; 
 for it is not many years since the fingers that now hold his 
 pen were familiar with the sabre hilt, and since the feet, that 
 196
 
 y. Boyle O'Reilly. 197 
 
 now tread the quiet streets of Boston, obeyed the call 
 of the bugle in an English barrack. That was in 
 the days when the poet-editor was a Revolutionist, 
 working for Ireland's independence, and working as 
 many another Irishman has done in vain. 
 
 He was but nineteen years old in those days. He 
 is thirty-four now, graver and calmer in manner, but 
 scarcely less eager to enter into a fight for principles 
 and for men that he loves. 
 
 He was born in 1844 in Dowth Castle, County Meath, 
 and grew up there, studying from books with his father 
 and mother, and from their store of legends and 
 songs with the peasantry of the neighborhood, and 
 learning from both to love Ireland, the oppressed, 
 the beloved, the little black rose or dark Rosaleen, of 
 whom her sons sing in the ballad : 
 
 "The judgment hour must first be nigh 
 Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
 My dark Rosaleen." 
 
 He did not stay at home many years. Irish boys 
 are worse than Yankees for running away and estab 
 lishing themselves in life ; and when very young he 
 found himself in England, working sometimes as a 
 printer and sometimes as a reporter on the papers in 
 the manufacturing districts, and acquiring that inti 
 mate knowledge of workingmen, and that sympa-
 
 198 Poets' Homes. 
 
 thy with them which still clings to him, and is only 
 less strong than his national enthusiasm. 
 
 - But his native land was still, first in his heart, and 
 in 1863 he devoted himself entirely to her service, 
 and enlisted in the Tenth, Prince of Wales' Hussars ] 
 not to fight for England, but to plot for Ireland. At 
 that time, wherever half a dozen Irishmen were gath 
 ered together, one of them, at least, was sure to be a 
 Fenian, or Irish Republican, pledged to secure liberty 
 for his country. For three years O'Reilly worked 
 with these men, and, while outwardly a well-drilled, 
 obedient soldier, clothed in "England's cruel red," 
 he never ceased to plan for the day when the ' wear 
 ing of the green" might again be permitted. 
 
 The time came when it seemed as if the blow 
 might be struck, and Ireland might be free. But, as 
 has happened scores of times before in her history, 
 the plot for her deliverance was betrayed by a spy, 
 and the men who would have broken her chains 
 were arrested for high treason and thrown into prison. 
 For days all Ireland was in a state of terror, as 
 warrant after warrant was served and cell after cell 
 filled by her patriot sons. And then came the trials 
 and the sentences, and Mr. O'Reilly found himself 
 doomed to imprisonment for life. His punishment was 
 afterwards commuted to twenty years. But when one
 
 J. Boyle O'Reilly, 199 
 
 is young one does not see much difference between 
 a score of years and the rest of one's days on earth, 
 and he hardly recognized the change as merciful. 
 
 England's prisons were crowded that year, and he 
 was successively an inmate of Chatham, Portsmouth, 
 Portland and Dartmoor, before he was sent to Aus 
 tralia. At Dartmoor, he and his brother Republicans 
 had the sad pleasure of performing the last offices 
 for the American prisoners-of-war, who were shot in 
 cold blood in 1814 by their British guards. The 
 bodies of the slain had keen flung into shallow 
 graves, and when O'Reilly and his comrades were in 
 the prison, the bones of the Americans lay bleaching 
 on the ground in one of the prison yards, having 
 been dragged from their resting-place by the prison 
 pigs. The Irish Republicans collected and buried 
 them, and carved " Dulce et decorum est pro f atria 
 moriri" on the rude stone with which they were 
 allowed to mark the grave, perhaps wondering, as 
 they did so, whether anyone would do as much for 
 them should they die while in prison. 
 
 In 1867 they were sent to Australia, " a land 
 blessed by God and blighted by man," as Mr. O'Reilly 
 says ; and there they were set to work in gangs mak 
 ing roads. But the sturdy young fellow whose 
 boyhood was passed in sight of the Boyne with
 
 200 Poets' Homes. 
 
 its bitter memories of defeat by the English, and 
 whose youth had been given to plotting against 
 England, did not sit down contented as her prisoner. 
 From the day when he first set foot on Australian 
 soil he began to make plans to escape ; and over 
 and over again he tried, only to be defeated. 
 
 He learned to love " that fair land and drear land 
 in the South," with its soft climate and strange scent 
 less flowers and bright songless birds. But he could 
 not be content in captivity, and at last, in February, 
 1869, he put to sea in an open boat, and, after days 
 of privation and peril, was picked up by the Ameri 
 can whaler, Gazelle, of New Bedford, Captain David 
 R. Gifford. 
 
 Now began a new life for the young Irishman. A 
 life made up of long days of watching for whales and 
 spinning yarns, such as only whalers can spin, and 
 other days that seemed too short for all the work and 
 adventure that were crowded into them, while whales 
 were captured and their precious oil stored away in 
 the hold. He remained on the whaler until August, 
 and then an American ship, the Sapphire, of Boston, 
 bound for Liverpool, hove in sight, and Captain Gif 
 ford put O'Reilly aboard her, giving him the papers 
 of a shipwrecked sailor, and lending him twenty guin 
 eas, all the money that he had.
 
 y. Boyle O'Reilly. 201 
 
 " But if I'm recaptured in Liverpool you'll never 
 get the money again," remonstrated the Irishman. 
 
 "All right," said the Yankee ; "if they take you I 
 can do without it. If you reach America I think I'll 
 get it again." 
 
 In September O'Reilly landed in Liverpool ; but 
 soon found himself in danger and sailed for America, 
 landing in Philadelphia and going to New York. 
 Here he lectured once or twice, and sold some maga 
 zine articles to buy clothes, and in 1870 came to 
 Boston, not knowing a soul in New England. 
 
 Looking about for something to do, Mr. O'Reilly 
 naturally found his way to the newspaper offices, and 
 soon had a position on the Pilot, at a salary which, 
 although small at first, was soon increased. His 
 countrymen made him welcome to their homes, and 
 his poems, which he soon began to publish, made 
 him friends among Americans ; and in a year or two 
 he found himself prosperous and growing famous. 
 Then he married a wife, whose sole care since her 
 wedding-day has been to make her poet's home what 
 it should be. And since then, it has seemed as if for 
 tune were striving in every way to make up to him 
 for the pain of his enforced exile. 
 
 He is now the owner of one-fourth of the Pilot, the 
 Other three-quarters belonging to the Archbishop of
 
 2O2 Poets' 
 
 Boston, and is its sole editor ; so that he enjoys an 
 independence that makes him the envy of all his 
 brother journalists. Among Irishmen the influence 
 of the paper is wonderful, and is used with the aim 
 of making them good American citizens. 
 
 This year Mr. O'Reilly has been chosen President 
 of the Papyrus Club, the organization to which the 
 younger poets, magazine writers, and editors in the 
 city of Boston belong ; and also of the Press Club, 
 of which all the newspaper men are members by 
 right of office. 
 
 Change of fortune has not altered him much in 
 manner, and seems to have made little difference in 
 his disposition. He still sits silent in company, 
 immovable except as to his restless dark eyes, until 
 somebody asks him a question ; but then the heavy 
 brows are lifted, the head is raised, and the answer 
 comes usually in the Milesian form of another ques 
 tion, sometimes paradoxical, sometimes a little dog 
 matic, but always striking. Unless one wants to 
 rouse him to vehemence, it is best to avoid say 
 ing anything snobbish, and, above all, not to insin 
 uate that his beloved workingmen are not perfect ; 
 and it is also well not to say anything against Ireland. 
 Of his country he sings :
 
 y. Boyle CfReilly. 305 
 
 " My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 
 My land that has no peer in all the sea 
 For verdure, vale or river, flower or leaf 
 If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
 New loves may come with duties, but the first 
 Is deepest yet the mother's breath and smiles ; 
 Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed 
 Is my poor land the Niobe of Isles." 
 
 Mr. O'Reilly's home is in the Charlestown district 
 of Boston, in a house facing Winthrop Park and the 
 soldiers' monument, the work of his countryman, 
 Milmore. Most of his poetical work is done in his 
 study, a long room occupying half of the first floor. 
 
 The arrangement of the room shows a hundred 
 signs of womanly taste, and its planning is really 
 more his wife's work than his own, although it suits 
 him perfectly. The moldings and panelings of the 
 walls are of a warm crimson, repeated in the heavy 
 curtains and the cover of the long desk at one end 
 of the room, and in the comfortable lounge that in 
 vites him to rest when he has worked too long. A 
 book-case, containing the volumes that he needs for 
 reference, stands at the left of his chair, and another 
 fills the space between the chimneys. Upon the top 
 of the latter are statuettes, vases and small pictures 
 innumerable, and others line the walls ; each one 
 having a history for its owner, not ancestral, but 
 of his own talent and energy.
 
 206 Poets' Homes. 
 
 
 
 At his right hand, where he can see it whenever 
 he glances up, is a little picture of Dowth Castle, 
 made for him by his brother poet, Dr. Joyce ; and
 
 J. Boyle O'Reilly. 209 
 
 not far off is an engraving of a French picture of mil 
 itary life, on which his eyes rest fondly now and 
 then, as he recalls the old days of peril and plotting. 
 
 Here come his three black-haired little girls to ask 
 papa's advice on various profound topics, and are 
 chased out by mamma, only to return again and 
 coax for an answer, and to receive it, no matter what 
 becomes of the rhymes meanwhile. Here, too, in 
 the evening, come the Papyrus men to chat, to dis 
 cuss their coming poems and books, and, if the truth 
 must be told, to smoke while they talk until long 
 after midnight. 
 
 Up-stairs are his wife's parlor, the nursery whither 
 his babies beguile him as often as they can, and the 
 bed-rooms. But the study is the favorite resort of 
 all the family, and there Mrs. O'Reilly does her own 
 literary work ; for she has her share in her husband's 
 labors, and edits a department in the Pilot. 
 
 His journalistic work is done in the queerest little 
 den ever seen a tiny room in the fourth story of 
 the Pilot building ; made tinier by being lined with 
 book-cases, and by a litter of old newspapers and 
 magazines. " His desk is a wild confusion of first 
 proofs, "revises," copy, slips cut from exchanges, 
 old letters, poems, and leading articles for the Pilot, 
 and piles of dust ; for the office-boy would sooner
 
 aio Poets' Homes. 
 
 think of dropping out of the window than he would 
 dare to touch anything in the room higher than the 
 floor. 
 
 Once, when Mr. O'Reilly was away, one of hie 
 assistants, struck by the forlorn appearance of tin 
 den, had it put in order. " And what do you think," 
 says the poet, " he had the paint washed ! And I 
 had a lot of valuable memoranda scribbled on my 
 window-frame, and he had them all washed off, and 
 I haven't the least idea what they were 1 " 
 
 This sad affair happened three years ago, and 
 since then, if office tradition can be credited, no gim 
 ilar vandalism has been committed. 
 
 The first volume of Mr. O'Reilly's poems, " Soiiga 
 from the Southern Seas," was published in 1873 ; 
 his second, " Songs, Legends and Ballads," which 
 includes the first, in 1878. The title of the latter is 
 a very good description of its contents ; for Mr. 
 O'Reilly's poetry is of many kinds. The longest is 
 "The King of the Vasse," an Australian legend, into 
 which are woven descriptions of that scenery which 
 makes Northern lands seem cold and pallid to him 
 who has once beheld it. This is the picture of the 
 forest : 
 
 "The shadows darken 'nealh the tall trees' screen, 
 While round their steins the rank and velvet green
 
 y. Boyle O'Reilly. 211 
 
 Of undergrowth is deeper still ; and there 
 Within the double shade and steaming air, 
 The scarlet palm has fixed its noxious root, 
 And hangs the glorious poison of its fruit ; 
 And there, 'mid shaded green and shaded light, 
 The steel-blue silent birds take rapid flight 
 From earth to tree and tree to earth ; and there 
 The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air 
 Like flying fire, and huge brown owls awake 
 To watch, far down, the stealing carpet-snake 
 Fresh skinned and glowing in his changing dyes, 
 With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes 
 That glint like gems, as o'er his head flits by 
 The blue-black armor of the emperor-fly. 
 
 And high o'erhead is color; round and round 
 The towering gums and tuads closely wound 
 Like cables, creep the climbers to the sun, 
 And over all the reaching branches run 
 And hang, and still send shoots that climb and wind 
 Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, 
 And miles of trees, like brethren joined in love, 
 Are drawn and laced ; while round them and above, 
 When all is knit, the creeper rests for days, 
 As gathering mignt, and then one blinding blaze 
 Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength 
 Of scarlet flowers, o'er the forest's length." 
 
 Among the other poems are several that relate 
 horrible stories in a powerful fashion, such as " The 
 Dukite Snake, " the tale of a poor settler who killed 
 one of the 'dreadful red serpents of Australia, and 
 came home the next day to find that its mate had
 
 212 Poets' Homes. 
 
 killed his wife and child, "The Dog Guard," and 
 " Haunted by Tigers." Then there are " Uncle 
 Ned's Tales," soldiers' stories of fighting; poems 
 written for St. Patrick's day and for the Emmet Cen 
 tennial ; and a fierce outburst of wrath published a 
 short time ago, when some of his brother Fenians 
 were released, some of them only just in time to die. 
 The pieces entitled " The Wail of Two Cities," and 
 commemorative of the Chicago and Boston fires are 
 very good, and the latter was selected by Mr. Long 
 fellow for his " Poems of Places " as the best thing 
 written on the subject. It runs thus : 
 
 "O broad breasted Queen among Nations I 
 
 O mother, so strong in thy youth ! 
 Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire, 
 And willed thou be chastened with fire, 
 
 Without any ruth ? , 
 
 " Has the Merciful tired of His mercy, 
 And turned from thy sinning in wrath, 
 
 That the world with raised hands sees and pities 
 
 Thy desolate daughters, thy cities, 
 Despoiled on their path ? 
 
 " One year since thy youngest was stricken ; 
 
 Thy eldest lies stricken to-day. 
 A h, God I was thy wrath without pity, 
 To tear the strong heart from our cfty, 
 
 And cast it away?
 
 y. Boyle CFReitty. 213 
 
 'OP aiher, forgive us our doubting ; 
 
 The stain from our weak souls efface ; 
 Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten ; 
 Thy hand has but fallen to hasten 
 
 Return to thy grace. 
 
 " Let us rise purified from our ashes, 
 As sinners have risen who grieved ; 
 
 Let us show that twice-sent desolation, 
 
 On every true heart in the nation 
 Has conquest achieved." 
 
 A few of the songs are freighted with a moral, and 
 of these the best ends thus : 
 
 " Like a tide our work should rise, 
 
 Each later wave the best. 
 To-day is a king in disguise, 
 
 To-day is the special test. 
 
 ' Like a sawyer's work is life, 
 
 The present makes the flaw ; 
 And the only field for strife 
 
 Is the inch before the saw." 
 
 There is only one more thing to be told about Mr. 
 O'Reilly, and that is, the reason why, for the last few 
 years, his countrymen have seemed to put more faith 
 in him than in anyone else. It is not his poetry or 
 his patriotism that has won him this regard, although 
 both count for much with Irishmen. Higher than 
 genius, more difficult in the tasks that it imposes than 
 devotion to one's country, is the unselfishness that 
 can give up wealth without a hope of reward. And 
 Mr. O'Reilly has shown, and is showing, that he pos 
 sesses that gift.
 
 214 Poets' Homes, 
 
 When the Pilot fell into his hands and the Arch 
 bishop's, its former owner was indebted to hundreds 
 of poor persons, and, having lost all his property, had 
 no hope of paying them. But the prelate and the 
 poet assumed the task, and the profits of the paper, 
 instead of going to its rightful owners, are used for 
 defraying the claims of these poor creditors. Is it 
 any wonder that, throughout the diocese of Boston: 
 the Archbishop is regarded with double reverence . 
 and that next to him, in the hearts and the prayers 
 of the poor, stands John Doyle O'Reilly, the poet?
 
 REV. DR. S. F. SMITH. 
 
 SAMUE1 
 Francis 
 
 Smith, the authoi 
 of our National 
 Hymn "America," 
 was borri at the 
 North End, Boston, 
 under the sound oi 
 old Christ Church 
 chimes, October 2 1, 
 1808. He attended 
 
 the Latin School, from which, in 1825, (having been 
 a medal scholar) he entered Harvard College, in the 
 same class with Oliver Wendell Holmes, the late 
 Judges B. R. Curtis and G. T. Bigelow, -James Free 
 man Clarke, and Chandler Robbins. Josiah Quincy 
 became President of the College in their last 
 
 215 
 
 THE FAVORITE CORNER.
 
 216 Poets' Homes, 
 
 year. George Ticknor was one of their teachers, 
 and Charles Sumner (1830), John Lothrop Motley 
 and Wendell Phillips (1831) were in the classes 
 next below them. Mr. Smith passed from Cam 
 bridge to the Andover Theological Seminary, in 
 the beautiful town of that name. This was an out 
 growth of the famous Phillips Academy, at whose 
 centenary, last summer, Dr. Holmes delivered the 
 poem, and about which he and others have, of late 
 years, told such interesting stories. Professor Stuart 
 and his early colleagueb in the Seminary were then at 
 the height of their usefulness and fame. In the class 
 above Mr. Smith was the since renowned theologian, 
 Professor Park ; in the class that entered next, the 
 late Professor Hackett. 
 
 Upon graduating, in 1832, Mr. Smith engaged for 
 a year in editorial labor. He was ordained to the 
 ministry in February, 1834, and went to Waterville, 
 Me., preaching as pastor in the Baptist church, and 
 becoming Professor of Modern Languages in the 
 college there. After eight years thus spent, he moved 
 to the village of Newton Centre, Mass., which has 
 ever since been his home. For seven years he was 
 editor of the "Christian Review," and for twelve years 
 and a half, until July, 1854, he was a pastor there. 
 
 During his subsequent residence he has been occu-
 
 Rev. Dr. S. F. Smith. 2'ig 
 
 pied in general literary pursuits, and in editorial labor, 
 largely in the service of Christian Missions, to which 
 he has also seen a useful and honored son devote 
 himself in India. 
 
 Mr. Edwin P. Whipple has observed that : "Some 
 of the most popular and most quoted poems in our 
 Uterature are purely accidental hits, and their authors 
 are rather nettled than pleased that their other pro 
 ductions should be neglected while such prominence 
 is given to one " instancing T. W. Parsons, and his 
 " Lines on a Bust of Dante." It was once intimated 
 to me by a member of Dr. Smith's family, not that the 
 author of "America" desired prominence for other 
 strokes of his pen, but that he was sometimes a little 
 weary with that accorded to the one which is so often 
 and so heartily sung. But Dr. Smith has probably 
 settled down to his fate, with which, indeed, it would 
 be particularly vain to strive, since the .frequent occa 
 sions of using the national hymn furnished by the 
 war, have been so quickly followed by those of patri- 
 totic centenary observances. Very appropriately, too, 
 the effort to save the Old South has enlisted our 
 poets, drawing attention to the history of some of their 
 early famous poems, and thus seated these all the 
 more firmly in popular interest. 
 
 Long will be remembered, by all who were so fortu-
 
 220 Poets' Homes. 
 
 nate as to attend it, the entertainment given in those 
 old walls, on the evening of May 4th, 1877. Gover 
 nor Rice presided, and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Ralph 
 Waldo Emerson, and Drs. J. F. Clarke, S. F. Smith, 
 and O. W. Holmes, the three college classmates, read 
 and spoke on the occasion. 
 
 Dr. Smith told the story of "America." The late 
 Mr. William C. Woodbridge, he said, brought from 
 Germany many years ago, a number of books used in 
 schools there, containing words and music, and com 
 mitted them to the late Dr. Lowell Mason, who placed 
 them in Dr. Smith's hands, asking him to translate 
 anything he might find worthy, or, if he preferred, to 
 furnish original words to such of the music as might 
 please him. It was among this collection that on a 
 gloomy February day in 1832, the student at Ando- 
 ver found its present music for the song he had there 
 composed in that year. It may here be observed that 
 much discussion has occurred in England, within a 
 year, as to the origin of this air, which, in 1815, it is 
 said, served for the national anthem in England, in 
 Prussia and in Russia, it being superseded in the 
 latter country only about a generation ago. " Like 
 the English constitution," remarked the Daily News, 
 "it has gone through a series of developments, and 
 such a history is not unbecoming in the case of a truly
 
 Rev. Dr. S. F. Smith. 221 
 
 national air." It has sometimes been claimed that 
 Handel composed and introduced it into England, 
 but the researches of Chappell, and of the Germans, 
 Fink and Chrysander, Handel's biographer, agree in 
 ascribing the original strain to the Englishman, Henry 
 
 Carey (169 1743)* who has another title to fame 
 
 in the authorship of " Sally in our Alley." 
 
 Before Dr. Smith fulfilled his part on the pro 
 gramme at the Old South entertainment, by reciting 
 "America," he said that on returning from a year's 
 wandering in Europe, some time since, he was asked 
 if any country had supplanted his own in his regard. 
 To this inquiry he read to the audience a poetical 
 reply entitled "My Native Land." It contains six 
 stanzas, of which the following are the first and third : 
 
 We wander far o'er land and sea 
 
 We seek the old and new, 
 We try the lowly and the great, 
 
 The many and the few ; 
 O'er states at hand and realms remote, 
 
 With curious quest we roam, 
 But find the fairest spot on earth 
 
 Just in our native home.
 
 222 Poefs' Homes. 
 
 We seek for landscapes fair and grand, 
 
 Seen through sweet summer haze, 
 Helvetia's mountains, piled with snow, 
 
 Italia's sunset rays, 
 And lake, and stream, and crag, and dell. 
 
 And new and fairer flowers 
 We own them rich and fair but not 
 
 More grand, inore fair than ours. 
 
 These stanzas have been given as a natural preface 
 to a slight sketch of Dr. Smith's surroundings in the 
 town where he dwells ; for though he speaks in them 
 of the beauties of his whole country, yet it may well 
 be believed that the landscape charms of Newton 
 Centre, as well as nearly forty years of residence 
 there, conspire to make it for him the dearest spot of 
 the land. 
 
 The landscape tempts us out of doors, but first we 
 ?vill glance about the poet's home. Leaving the parlor 
 NQ cross the hall and pass into a drawing room, in 
 rear of which is a side-entrance passage, beyond 
 which is another pleasant apartment. In the 
 rear of the room first entered, containing various 
 interesting souvenirs of European travel, and one 
 book-case, is the library proper, which has its walls, 
 where the books allow them to be seen at all, covered 
 with a warm scarlet paper. The heat diffused over
 
 Rev. Dr. S. F. Smith. 225 
 
 the house by a furnace, can at any time, for comfort or 
 delight, be reinforced by the open fires which poets 
 especially love for their reveries. Whoever is wel 
 comed to the dining-room of this hospitable home will 
 find good cheer and quaint china. The mention of 
 the last recalls to me that in the parlor is a relic of 
 that possessed by Charles Sumner, and given to Dr. 
 Smith by his friend, the Hon. William Claflin. When 
 Dr. Smith alluded, in his modest way, to the atten 
 tions paid him in his visit to Washington in October, 
 1877, about which I had read in the papers, I could 
 only think, "Who, if not he, should be an honored 
 guest in the capital of the nation ?" 
 
 Certainly there is no other man among us whose 
 words are so often read and sung east and west, north 
 and south thrilling all the instincts of patriotism. 
 The study is full of interesting objects. The 
 large picture suspended above the open grate is 
 a very old and beautiful painting of the Holy Family 
 by one of the old masters probably a Murillo in 
 excellent preservation. The stone lion on the right 
 side of the grate is a carving, a foot and a half in 
 height, brought from the steps of an idol temple in 
 Burmah, where it stood guard in former years. On 
 the opposite side is a reclining Burldh, of polished 
 marble, rare and very beautiful, from the same coun-
 
 226 Poets' Homes. 
 
 try. On the top of the bookcase on the opposite side 
 of the library is a small, but very fine, bust of Milton \ 
 on the right, a massive elephant's tooth, and on 
 the left, the skull of a man-eating tiger, which in 
 his life time was known to have feasted on the flesh of 
 several victims. On one of the two bookcases on 
 the intermediate side of the library is a sitting 
 Buddh, carved in white marble. The tall, old-fash 
 ioned clock in one of the corners has been ar 
 heir-loom in the family a hundred and fifteen years 
 The most-used chair in the room was the property 
 more than a hundred years ago, of a clergymar 
 of the northern part of Middlesex county. The 
 straw chair with projecting arms did service several 
 years in the town of Rangoon in Burmah. A very 
 beautiful slipper, of Dresden china, does duty as a 
 pen-holder on the centre-table. Engravings covei 
 most of the walls not hidden by the bookcases ; the 
 most interesting being Pe're Hyacinthe and Heng 
 stenberg, the commentator on the Psalms. 
 
 This dwelling " hath a pleasant seat." It faces th<: 
 east, is moderately retired from the street, and is upo: 
 an elevation gently rising for some distance, up which 
 sweeps, in a graceful curve, the public road. Follow 
 ing this in its descent, and then almost to the top of 
 a lesser acclivity, one comes to a rural church ideally
 
 Rev. Dr. S. F. Smith. 229 
 
 situated, and forming, amid its trees, an attractive 
 sight across the pretty vale from the northern side of 
 Dr. Smith's home. This view is English in its quiet 
 grace and natural beauty. 
 
 Returning now by the. road, and going on past the 
 house again, a spacious village green is passed, and 
 you come to another church, the one over which Dr. 
 Smith was many years settled, fit in position to glad 
 den an American George Herbert. It is embowered 
 in a corner where roads cross on the broad plain 
 from which rises, on the left of the main road we have 
 trodden, a long and high hill. This is crowned by 
 the buildings of the Newton Theological Institution 
 of which the Rev. Dr. Hovey is President. One who 
 toils up the winding tree-lined avenue, will be reward 
 ed by reaching an eminence which will bear compari 
 son with that where was once the old Ursuline Con 
 vent of Charlestown, or with Andover's plateau and 
 elegant shades, or the delightful crests of Amherst. 
 On the west, the view is particularly fine. Dr. Hackett 
 used to compare it to that from the Acropolis of 
 Athens. On the horizon rise Monadnock and Wachu- 
 sett, with many a town and village between. At 
 your foot are the churches and a beautiful little sheet 
 of water, which, with the mount on which we are 
 standing, gives the situation some claim to be regard-
 
 230 Poets' Homes, 
 
 ed as an American miniature "Lake District." Sail 
 ing or rowing out upon it, and looking up the height, 
 the scene is German or Italian in its bold and roman 
 tic character. The hues in the stone of the chapel, 
 and its architecture, embracing a heavy tower, give it, 
 set upon the wooded hill, an air of age, and recall 
 the castle sites on Como, or one of those still inhabit 
 ed religious establishments which rise upon the banks 
 of the Danube. 
 
 Not very far from the water is the former home oi 
 Dr. Hackett, and following west the road upon which 
 it lies, towards Brooklawn, the country-seat of Gov. 
 Claflin, the traveller first comes to the portal of the 
 cemetery in which the scholar now reposes. Dr. 
 Smith has chosen a final resting place here among 
 the urns of this and other friends. Sure we are that 
 none could wish for them, or for himself, a fairer spot 
 to rest one's head upon the lap of earth. It is a good 
 place for the dawn of the immortal morning on him 
 who wrote, years ago, " The morning light is break 
 ing." 
 
 There is little, in meeting Dr. Smith, to remind one 
 of such thoughts ; but, in four years more, the famous 
 Harvard class of " Twenty-nine," will have sung the 
 words, " My Country, 'tis of thee," a half-century, 
 and Dr. Holmes is beginning to speak of his own
 
 8ev. Dr. S. F. Smith. 
 
 231 
 
 tailing voice. Gently may he and his classmates fail 
 and fade from their activities, distant yet be the day 
 when those who knew him of whom this paper has 
 spoken, shall stand and muse : 
 
 Here lies who hymned America ; to sing or preach, 
 Dante's suggestive words our question's tribute teach, 
 Where was " a better smith of the maternal speech ? " 
 
 Since the main part of this was written, Dr. Smith'.* 
 home has lost one who, for nearly forty years, was its 
 honored and beloved inmate. Mrs. Ann W. Smith, 
 
 the mother of 
 his wife, died 
 August 20th, 
 1878. Born 
 July 28, 1786 
 a sister of the 
 eminent judge, 
 the late Hon. 
 Daniel Apple- 
 ton White, and 
 OUTSIDE THB STUDY WINDOW. . married almost 
 
 seventy years 
 
 since, this venerable lady carried one's thoughts back 
 to the early days of the elder Quincy and Webster, 
 Dana and Bryant, and Madame Patterson Bonaparte.
 
 232 Poets' Homes. 
 
 At ninety-two, however, her interest in life was keen, 
 and her beauty of spirit, fitly enshrined in a noble 
 figure, looked forth from a face round, full and fair. 
 The writer will ever remember the honor and pleasure 
 of handing Madame Smith to breakfast, in her son- 
 in-law's home, two months previous to her death, just 
 before the family left Newton for their cottage by the 
 sea. It was there, where she was accustomed to 
 bathe with much zest, that, a few weeks later, she had 
 a fall which soon proved fatal to the body, and freed 
 the soul, of the aged Christian.
 
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