i 
 
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BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 FROM THE 
 
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 THE GIFT OF 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PS 3342.A3 
 
 Old friends:belno literally recollection 
 
 3 1924 022 229 797 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022229797 
 
OLD FRIENDS 
 
ffe 
 
 ^' '*. ' 
 
 From a drau/in^ hy SoL. Eifhnye 
 
OLD FRIENDS 
 
 BEING LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF OTHER DAYS 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 Tbey are all gone into the world of light. 
 
 And I alone sit lingering liere I 
 Their very memory is fair and bright 
 
 And my sad thonghts doth clear. 
 
 Henby VAuaHAN 
 
 New York 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
 5 
 
COFTEIGBT, 1908, 1909, BV 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 All Bighti Beaerved 
 
 PubUshed, May, 1909 
 Second Printing, September, 1909 
 
To the Memory of My Earliest Friend 
 My Loved and Honored Father 
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES WINTER 
 I Dedicate These Recollections. 
 
 He knew my love, and wheresoe'er it be. 
 His spirit knows ! There is no need of vow 
 
 Of fond remembrance, — ^yet there is for me 
 A kind of comfort to avouch it now. 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 PAaK 
 
 I. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfell 
 
 ow . .17 
 
 II. 
 
 Bohemian Days 
 
 . 62 
 
 III. 
 
 Vagrant Comrades 
 
 . 79 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 
 . 107 
 
 V. 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
 
 . 132 
 
 VI. 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
 . 153 
 
 VII. 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
 . 181 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Wilkie Collins . 
 
 . 203 
 
 IX. 
 
 George William Curtis 
 
 . 223 
 
 X. 
 
 Old Familiar Faces 
 
 . 275 
 
 
 1. Arthur Sketchley 
 
 . 278 
 
 
 2. Artemus Ward . 
 
 . 284 
 
 
 3. Bohemia Again . 
 
 . 291 
 
 
 4. Edmund Clarence Stedr 
 
 nan . 297 
 
 
 5. The Ornithorhyncus CI 
 
 ub . . 308 
 
 
 6. Charles B. Seymour 
 
 . 310 
 
 
 t. WiUiam North . 
 
 . 313 
 
 
 8. Sol Eytinge 
 
 . 317 
 
 
 9. James Russell Lowell 
 
 . 320 
 
 
 10. Donald Grant Mitche 
 
 11 . . 323 
 
 
 11. Albert Henry Smyth 
 
 . 329 
 
 
 12. Philip James Bailey 
 
 . 336 
 
 XI. 
 
 Notes — 
 
 
 
 Longfellow Letters 
 
 . 345 
 
 
 George Arnold . 
 
 350 
 
 
 Selected Letters of T. B. 
 
 Aldrich . 351 
 
 
 Ada Cavendish 
 
 . 377 
 
 XII. 
 
 Index 
 
 . 385 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Charles Dickens . 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 From the portrait by Sol Eytmge, Jr. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow . . Facing Page 18 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe . . . ' 
 
 
 36 
 
 Henry Clapp, Jr. . . . ' 
 
 
 56 
 
 Edward G. P. Wilkins . . . ' 
 
 
 84 
 
 George Arnold . . . . ' 
 
 
 94 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes ... . ' 
 
 
 ' 116 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich . . ' 
 
 
 ' 142 
 
 Bayard Taylor . . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 158 
 
 William Winter (in 1876) . . ' 
 
 
 ' 172 
 
 Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey ' 
 
 
 ' 186 
 
 William Wilkie Collins . 
 
 
 ' 216 
 
 George William Curtis . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 242 
 
 Arthur Sketchley (George Rose) . ' 
 
 
 ' 278 
 
 Artemus Ward (Charles F. Browne) ' 
 
 
 ' 286 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard . . ' 
 
 
 « 294 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman . . ' 
 
 
 ' 306 
 
 James Russell Lowell . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 320 
 
 Donald Grant Mitchell . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 328 
 
 Philip James Bailey . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 342 
 
 Ada Cavendish . . . . ' 
 
 
 ' 378 
 
PREFACE 
 
 My hook of " Othee Days," contammg Chronicles 
 and Memories of Actors, has been received by the public 
 with gratifying favor, and that favor has impelled me 
 to act on a suggestion, coming from several sources, 
 that I should write a companion book, containing 
 Chronicles and Memories of Authors. The result is 
 this book of " Old Friends." / was introduced into 
 the companionship of authors early in life, having 
 published my first book, — which led to acquaintance 
 with some of them, — in 1854, and I have had friendly 
 intercourse with many of them, extending over a period 
 of more than fifty years. Some of my recollections of 
 that intercourse are here expressed, with all the kind- 
 ness that is consistent with truth, and perhaps my 
 readers will find a little pleasure in rambling with me 
 along the grass-grown pathways of the Past, where 
 the idols of my youthful enthusiasm and the comrades 
 of my pen remain unchanged. 
 
 Yet let not those readers suppose that I write as ' 
 a praiser of the Past, in detraction of the Present. i 
 Reverence for that which is old, only because it is old, 
 has often been imputed to jne, always without reason 
 or justice. There is no folly more egregious than that 
 
 13 
 
14 PREFACE 
 
 which judges the Present hy the Past, wnless it be the 
 folly that judges the Past by the Present. Having 
 been a continual writer for the press and for the book- 
 sellers since early youth, much that I have written has, 
 necessarily, been ephemeral; but many themes apper- 
 taining to contemporary periods have been expounded 
 by my pen and celebrated with ardent enthusiasm. In 
 these books of mine, " Other Days " and " Old 
 Friends," the intention is clearly signified, not of the 
 celebration of To-day, but of the reminiscence of Yes- 
 terday; and therefore no reason exists why praises of 
 the Present should be expected in them, or the absence 
 of it be deplored. With regard to the Present, in Lit- 
 erature and Dramatic Art, it is my purpose to publish 
 several books. These sketches only represent a Past 
 that I personally knew. If by chance they should sur-, 
 tfive their little day, they may aid the future historian^ 
 in tracing the literary movement in America, and throw\ 
 some light upon the personality of those who guided it. 
 It should be added that much of the material of this 
 book was first made known in " The Philadelphia Sat- 
 urday Evening Post," hut has been revised and aug- 
 mented for publication in the present form. If found 
 tedious, I would plead Sir Walter Scott's apologetical 
 remark, that " Old men may be permitted to speak 
 long, because they cannot, in the course of Nature, 
 have long to speak." 
 
 W. W. 
 New York, April 23, 1909. 
 
' For precious friends hid in death's dateless night." 
 
 Shakespsare. 
 
 " When musing on companions gone 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 'Shades of departed joys around me rise. 
 
 With many a face that smiles on me no more. 
 With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave. 
 Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave." 
 
 Samuel Bogers. 
 
When now the twiligM hour comes on 
 And Memory hroods o'er pleasures gone. 
 While Joy with Sorrow softly hlends, 
 'Tis sweet to think of vanish'd friends. 
 And dream that, close hehind the veil. 
 They wait to give the welcome hail! 
 Strange hope! almost akin to fear — 
 Yet who would wish to lose it here? 
 
 W. W. 
 
LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The year 1889 brought the centenary of Cooper. 
 The year 1907 brought the centenary of Long- 
 fellow. Those men were the leaders of Amer- 
 ican literature in the nineteenth century, and they 
 remain the two great representative American 
 authors. Longfellow is the foremost of our 
 poets. Cooper is the foremost of our novehsts. 
 Many years ago, in London, in conversation with 
 the most expert, accomplished, and fascinating of 
 story-tellers, Wilkie Collins, that excellent writer 
 said to me: "America has produced one great 
 novehst; I wonder whether you can tell me his 
 name." "The name of him," I said, "is James 
 Fenimore Cooper." "Right " exclaimed Collins, 
 in obvious satisfaction; "the author of Leather- 
 stocking was a man of wonderful genius." 
 Cooper, who died in 1851, when aged sixty-two, 
 I did not know and never saw ; but in boyhood I 
 
 17 
 
18 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 worshipped him, and in age I still read his roman- 
 tic stories, — so pure in spirit, so fine in invention, 
 so beautiful in picture and, aside from some in- 
 flexibility of language in the sentimental pas- 
 sages, so rich, true, natural, and various in char- 
 acteristic dialogue, — with delight and admiration. 
 Longfellow I knew well, beginning my ac- 
 quaintance with him at a time of life when the 
 affections are ardent, when the confiding fancy 
 exults in its ideals, and when the mind is sus- 
 ceptible to the charm of romance. The poet was 
 forty-seven when first we met, and from that 
 time, for twenty-eight years, it was my happy 
 fortune to hold a place in his affectionate esteem. 
 To me, from the first, he was an object of rever- 
 ence. I loved him, and I rejoice to remember that 
 he honored me with his friendship, and that I pos- 
 sessed and enjoyed that blessing tiU the day of 
 his death. Dxiring the years from 1853-'54 to 
 1859-'60 I was often a guest in his house, at Cam- 
 bridge, and I had the rare privilege of his ex- 
 ample, his conversation, and his counsel. In the 
 winter of 1859-'60 I established my residence in 
 New York and could no longer be near to him; 
 
LONGFELLOW 19 
 
 but he frequently wrote to me, and I visited him 
 as often as I could. "Come and sit in my chil- 
 dren's chair," he said to me, on the occasion of 
 my latest visit; "you never forget me; you 
 always come to see me." He knew my love for 
 him, and he trusted it. I saw him as he was; 
 and, within my observation and knowledge of 
 men, which have been exceptionally wide, a man 
 more noble, gentle, lovable and true never lived. 
 In certain musical and beautiful words, writ- 
 ten on a day in March, 1855, Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow hallowed the city of Portland, Maine, 
 where he was born, February 27, 1807, and where 
 he passed his youth. He came of an old family, 
 of Yorkshire, England, and on the maternal 
 side he was descended from John Alden and 
 Priscilla Mullens, of the Mayflower Massachu- 
 setts Colony. He was graduated from Bowdoin 
 College, Brunswick, Maine, in 1825, and, after 
 passing four years in travel and study in Europe, 
 he occupied a chair in that college, as a professor 
 of modern languages. That office he held for 
 more than five years, resigning it in 1835, in 
 order to make another European tour, prepara- 
 
20 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 toiy to the acceptance of a professorship of 
 modern languages in Harvard College. He 
 was married, in 1831, to Miss Mary Potter, of 
 Portland, who died in November, 1835, when 
 travelling with him in Holland. In December, 
 1836, he established his residence in Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, and began his labor as a Harvard 
 professor. In July, 1843, he was married to 
 Miss Frances Appleton, of Boston, with whom, 
 for eighteen years, he hved in perfect happiness, 
 ended by her sudden, tragical death, by fire, in 
 the summer of 1861. He resigned his office at 
 Harvard College in 1854, and from that time 
 till the last he devoted himself exclusively to 
 hterary authorship. In 1866 he visited Europe 
 for the third and last time, remaining there 
 eighteen months. In the autumn of 1869 he 
 returned to his home in Cambridge, — an old 
 Colonial mansion known as the Cragie House 
 and celebrated as having once been occupied by 
 Washington, — and there he resided till the end 
 of his days. He died on March 24, 1882, and 
 his body was buried, beside that of his second 
 wife, in the cemetery of Moimt Auburn, where 
 
LONGFELLOW 21 
 
 rest the mortal relics of so many of his friends. 
 His works, in prose and verse, — the first of which 
 was "Outre-Mer," published in 1835, and the last 
 of which was "Michael Angelo," published in 
 1883, — fill eleven large volumes, and they have 
 been translated, in all or in part, into fifteen 
 languages. His statue, according to present 
 design, wUl be erected in a meadow oppo- 
 site to his former home, overlooking the pleas- 
 ant river Charles, which he loved, and which he 
 has celebrated in felicitous and tender song. 
 His bust, in Westminster Abbey, — the first 
 monument to an American author ever placed 
 in that venerable temple, — stands in the Poets' 
 Corner, near to the effigy of Dryden, and looks 
 across the graves of Beaiunont, Cowley, Den- 
 ham, Tennyson, and Browning, to the hallowed 
 spot where the dust of Campbell mingles with 
 that of Sheridan, Henderson, Cumberland, and 
 Macaulay, and where the remains of Garrick, 
 Doctor Johnson, and Henry Irving slumber side 
 by side. 
 
 A reason for thinking that Longfellow is the 
 foremost of American poets is the belief that he 
 
22 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 was more objective than any of the other bards, 
 and was elementally actuated by an impulse of 
 greater and broader design. Individual lyrics 
 might be named, written by other American 
 poets, that, perhaps, surpass, in the element of 
 passionate inspiration, anything that proceeded 
 from Longfellow's pen. Poe's "Haunted Pal- 
 ace," HaUeck's "Marco Bozzaris," Story's 
 "Cleopatra," and Whittier's "St. John de 
 Matha" are types of ardent poetic emotion; 
 but no other American poet has produced a 
 fabric of imaginative poetry that rises to the 
 height of Longfellow's "Golden Legend" and is 
 sustained with such copious feeling and diversi- 
 fied with such affluence of invention, unflagging 
 interest of material, and perfection of taste. 
 
 Another reason why Longfellow stands fore- 
 most among our poets is that he possessed and 
 manifested a more comprehensive, various, and 
 felicitous command of verbal art than has 
 been displayed by any other American poet; 
 while stiU another reason is that he speaks 
 with a voice that is more imiversal than 
 personal. "Evangehne," "The Building of the 
 
LONGFELLOW 23 
 
 Ship," "The Golden Legend," "The Saga of 
 King Olaf," "Tales of a Wayside Inn," and 
 "Hiawatha" are works that illumine the gen- 
 eral imagination, express the general human 
 heart, and are freighted with the general life of 
 man. 
 
 Longfellow once told me that he sometimes 
 wrote poems which he considered too personal, 
 too delicate, for publication; hut he did not write 
 exclusively for himself; he wrote for others; and 
 more fully than any other American poet 
 he represents the two cardinal principles which 
 are of the highest import to the hiunan race, — 
 nohUity of individual life and faith in the divine 
 government of the world. He is absolutely pure ; 
 he turns to beauty everything that he touches; 
 and he continually imparts that conviction of 
 spiritual immortality which alone can lift man- 
 kind above the dread of death; that absolute trust 
 in a celestial destiny which alone can inculcate 
 patient endurance of our inevitable sorrows, the 
 natural and unavoidable consequence of mor- 
 tality. Much of the possible enjoyment of life 
 is sacrificed in the taking of futile precautions as 
 
24 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 to the future; for, as said by Wordsworth and 
 taught by Longfellow: 
 
 Disasters — do the best we can — 
 Will reach us, great and small, 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man 
 Who is not wise at aU. 
 
 Longfellow's place in hterature is not among 
 the marvels of creative genius, the portents that 
 dazzle and bewilder, such as Milton, Dryden, 
 Byron and Coleridge, but with the benefactors 
 of mankind, that soothe and bless. Lowell 
 associated him with the English poet, Thomas 
 Gray, whose works, beautiful as they are (the 
 immortal Elegy being unequalled by anything 
 of the kind in our language), do not contain a 
 tithe of Longfellow's humanity. To my mind 
 he more resembles, in essential ways, the earher 
 English poet, Abraham Cowley. But, however 
 that may be, his poetry takes a wide range, and 
 it appeals to a vast nimiber of persons, because 
 it expresses for each of them, simply, directly, 
 and admirably, the emotion that each of them 
 feels and would like to express. It does not 
 always elevate the reader, but it always satisfies ; 
 and it always elevates the subject. 
 
LONGFELLOW 25 
 
 An anecdote that is amusing and at the same 
 time significant was told to me by the clever, 
 versatile, popular, lamented James R. Osgood, 
 once prominent as a publisher in Boston and 
 London. Mr. Osgood, who began his career as 
 a bookseller in the shop at "the Old Comer" of 
 School and Washington streets, Boston, was 
 accosted in that shop (so he related) by a 
 stranger, who expressed the wish to buy a volume 
 of poetry, as a Christmas present for a girl. "I 
 don't want Byron or Shelley," he remarked, "or 
 anything of that kind; I want something like 
 Longfellow. He suits the girls and he suits me. 
 He's a good, safe, family poet." 
 
 In one point of view that remark might seem 
 to be a disparagement, an implication of con- 
 ventionality and commonplace. In another point 
 of view it is a tribute. All thoughtful men are 
 aware of the tremendous influence that reading 
 exerts over the mind of youth. The things that 
 we read when we are young sink deep into the 
 memory and are never wholly forgotten. They 
 color our thoughts and they more or less affect 
 the conduct of our lives. Byron's "Don Juan," 
 
26 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 — considered with reference to its scope, its 
 variety of subjects, its feeling, its humor, its wit, 
 its worldly wisdom, its satire, its poetry, and its 
 wonderful mastery of the language, — ^is one of 
 the most colossal fabrics of literary art existent 
 in any literature. Southey's "Curse of Kehama," 
 notwithstanding its supreme felicity of fancy 
 and its exquisite finish of style, is a somewhat 
 arid composition. But there is no father who 
 would not prefer that his child should read "The 
 Curse of Kehama" rather than "Don Juan." In 
 one of his letters Scott has wisely remarked: "It 
 is not passages of ludicrous indehcacy that cor- 
 rupt the manners of a people ; it is the sentimen- 
 tal story, half lewd, half methodistic, that de- 
 bauches the understanding." 
 
 The notion that everything should be generally 
 read only because it happens to have been written 
 is radically mischievous as well as unsound. An 
 idea has long been prevalent, and it happens to 
 be more than conmionly prevalent now (because 
 of a general trend toward luxury and sensuality, 
 combined with the admired publicity of decadent 
 and degenerate authors and actors) , that delirium 
 
LONGFELLOW 27 
 
 is genius, and that without convulsion there can- 
 not be power. It was said of the Scotch essay- 
 ist, Gilfillan, that he seemed to think himself a 
 great painter because he painted with a large 
 brush. "The first time I ever saw that remark- 
 able woman," says Mr. Crummies, in "Nicholas 
 Nickleby," — referring to his formidable wife, — 
 "she was standing on her head, upon the top of 
 a pole, surrounded with fireworks." A certain 
 fine frenzy is, doubtless, a part of the tempera- 
 ment of genius; but just as the sunshine per- 
 meates space without a sound, so does the 
 magical light of genius illimiine the human soul 
 without effort and without strife. The comet, 
 seeming to flash lawless through the untravelled 
 heavens, may prove a momentary wonder; the 
 stupendous, calm order of the solar system, with- 
 out which all life would instantly be hurled into 
 chaos, is not simply a marvel, it is a perpetual 
 blessing. Genius that is erratic and splendid 
 shines but to dazzle, and it soon is quenched. The 
 lasting value of genius is beneficence. "I have 
 been, perhaps," said that great poet and stiE 
 greater man. Sir Walter Scott, toward the close 
 
28 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 of his life, "the most voluminous author of the 
 day, and it is a comfort to me to think that I 
 have tried to unsettle no man's faith, to corrupt 
 no man's principles, and that I have written noth- 
 ing which, on my death-hed, I should wish 
 hlotted." 
 
 Longfellow made himself known to thousands 
 of hearts, and every heart is purer and stronger 
 for the knowledge of him. "Shall there be no 
 repose in hterature?" he once wrote: "Shall 
 every author be like a gladiator, with swollen 
 veins and distended nostrils, as if each encounter 
 was for life or death?" How truly Longfellow 
 was a poet of power, — ^not the power that makfes 
 fireworks, but the power that can rise to the 
 dignity of a great theme and evenly sustain itself 
 in perfect poise, — ^his noble poem of "The Goblet 
 of Life" will testify. Nothing but poetic inspira- 
 tion can account for such poems as his "Sandal- 
 phon," "The Beleaguered City," "The Ballad of 
 Carmilhan," "The Open Window," "The Foot- 
 steps of Angels," and "The Chamber Over the 
 Gate." Time may forget such narratives as 
 "The Courtship of Miles Standish" and such 
 
LONGFELLOW 29 
 
 plays as "The Spanish Student," but never the 
 sublime development of his "Christus"; never 
 the solemn paean of patient will that he uttered in 
 "The Light of Stars." 
 
 Disparagement of Longfellow began early, 
 and, though not now often audible, it has en- 
 dured. The Boston "transcendentalists" could 
 not abide him. Certain foreign critics found him 
 more "mediseval" than American. That eminent 
 Catholic poet, Coventry Patmore, — ^who wrote 
 "The Angel in the House," and who emitted 
 the amazing annotincement that Thomas Bu- 
 chanan Read's autumnal poem of "The Clos- 
 ing Scene" is superior to Gray's "Elegy," — Ele- 
 gantly referred to him, in one of his pubhshed let- 
 ters, as "Longwindedfellow." The complaint, — 
 which is one that more or less touches all Ameri- 
 can literature, — ^proceeds now, as it has all along 
 proceeded, from an irrational disposition, first 
 to revert to the berserker state of feeling, and 
 then to exact, from a new country, new forms 
 of speech. Thus, for example, literary authori- 
 ties in England, some of them conspicuous for 
 station and abihty, have accepted, and, in some 
 
! 
 
 80 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 cases, have extolled beyond the verge of extrava- 
 gance, one American writer, the eccentric Walt 
 Whitman, for no better reason than because he 
 discarded all laws of literary composition, and, 
 instead of writing either prose or verse, composed 
 an uncouth catalogue of miscellaneous objects 
 and images, generally conmionplace, sometimes 
 coarse, and sometimes filthy. That auctioneer's 
 list of topics and appetites, intertwisted with a 
 formless proclamation of carnal propensities and 
 universal democracy, has been haUed as grandly 
 original and distinctively American, only be- 
 cause it is crude, shapeless, and vulgar. The 
 writings of Walt Whitman, in so far as they are 
 anything, are philosophy: they certainly are not 
 poetry: and they do not possess even the merit 
 of an original style; for Macpherson, with his 
 "Ossian" forgeries; Martin Farquhar Tupper, 
 with his "Proverbial Philosophy," and Samuel 
 Warren, with his tumid "Ode," were extant long 
 before the advent of Whitman. Furthermore, 
 Plato's writings were not unknown; while the 
 brotherhood of man had been proclaimed in 
 Judea, with practical consequences that are stUl 
 
LONGFELLOW 31 
 
 obvious. No author has yet made a vehicle of 
 expression that excels, in any way whatever, or 
 for any purpose, the blank verse of Shakespeare 
 and Milton. In the hands of any artist who 
 can use them the old forms of expression are 
 abundantly adequate, and so, likewise, are the 
 old subjects; at aU events, nobody has yet dis- 
 covered any theme more fruitful than the human 
 heart, human experience, man in his relation to 
 Nature and to God. 
 
 Invidious criticism of Longfellow's poetry was 
 written, with pecuhar zest, by Miss Margaret 
 Fuller^ a native of Cambridge, who married an 
 Italian and became Countess d'Ossoli. She was 
 a clever woman, of a somewhat tart temper, and 
 prone to the peevish ill-nature of a discontented 
 mind. In the early days of "The New- York Tri- 
 bune" she was a contributor to that paper and, 
 more or less, to the perplexities of its eccentric 
 founder, Horace Greeley. Both Longfellow and 
 his wife spoke of her, to me, with obvious, though 
 courteously veiled, dislike. Her health was not 
 robust; she suffered from some form of spinal 
 disease that caused her occasionally to wriggle 
 
32 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 when seated. She figures among the writers 
 commemorated by the venomous industry of 
 Rufus Wihnot Griswold, and she is chiefly re- 
 membered as having perished in a shipwreck on 
 the southern coast of Long Island, 
 
 "The poet aims to give pleasure," Longfellow 
 more than once said to me, "but the purpose of 
 the critic is, usually, to give pain." Speaking 
 of the numerous papers that were sent to him, 
 containing notices of his poems, he told me that 
 it was his custom never to read an article written 
 in an unpleasant spirit. "If, after reading a few/,, 
 lines, I find that the intention is to wound," he J 
 said, "I drop the paper into the fire, and that is 
 the end of it." A kindred feeling was expressed 
 by Sir Walter Scott, who, referring to Jeffrey, 
 the eminent Edinburgh reviewer, wrote: "I have 
 neither time nor inclination to be perpetually 
 making butterflies that he may have the pleasure 
 of pulling their wings and legs off" ; and again, 
 remarking on the same subject, Scott said: "I 
 would rather please one man of genius than all 
 the great critics in the kingdom." Longfellow, 
 of course, knew that it is possible for criticism 
 
LONGFELLOW 33 
 
 to be creative (as it sometimes is, and as notably 
 it was when written by Matthew Arnold), and 
 likewise that it can help the right by opposing the 
 wrong; but his preference, always and rightly, 
 was for the creative order of mind. One of the 
 wisest and best of all precepts is expressed in his 
 monition that "he who carries bricks to the build- 
 ing of every one's house will never build one for 
 himself." 
 
 The most acrimonious critic of Longfellow's 
 poetry was his famous contemporary, Edgar Poe 
 (1809-'49). Poe's criticisms of Longfellow are 
 included in the standard edition of his works, 
 edited by Stedman and Woodberry. They are 
 rank with injustice and hostility. In judging of 
 the conduct and writings of Poe, however, allow- 
 ance has to be made for the strain of insanity that 
 was in him, and for the mordant bitterness that 
 had been engendered in his mind by penury and 
 grief. Poe lived at a time when writers were very 
 poorly paid, and furthermore his genius was of a 
 rare and exquisite order, lovely in texture, sombre 
 in quality, monotonous in its utterance, and 
 obviously vmfit for the hack-work of news- 
 
34 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 papers and magazines. His really appreciative 
 audience is a small one, even now, and probably 
 it will long, or always, remain a small one. Such 
 poetry as his "Haunted Palace" — (which is per- 
 fection) — ^is seldom understood. The defects of 
 his character and the errors of his conduct, more- 
 over, were exaggerated in his own time, and they 
 have been absurdly exploited in ours. He was a 
 brilhant and an extraordinary man. The treasures 
 of imaginative, creative, beautiful art, in prose 
 as well as verse, that he contributed to American 
 literature are permanent and precious; and noth- 
 ing in literary biography is more contemptible 
 than the disparagement of his memory that con- 
 tinually proceeds through its pages, on the score 
 of his intemperance. Poe died in 1849, aged 
 forty, leaving works that fill ten closely packed 
 volumes. No man achieves a result like that 
 whose brain is ruined by stimulants. The same 
 disparagement has been diffused as to Fitz- James 
 O'Brien, that fine poet and romancer, who died 
 at thirty-four, — losing his life in the American 
 Civil War, — whose writings I collected and pub- 
 lished. I have known O'Brien to have neither 
 
LONGFELLOW 35 
 
 lodging, food nor money, — ^to be, in fact, desti- 
 tute of everything except the garments in which 
 he stood. The volume of his works that I col- 
 lected, — including the remarkable stories of "The 
 Diamond Lens" and "The Wondersmith," — is 
 one of five hundred pages; and there are other 
 writings of his in my possession which would make 
 another volimie of equal size. He was an Irish- 
 man, and he knew and hked the favorite tipple 
 of his native land; but it is to his genius that the 
 world owes his writings, — ^not to his drams. 
 Poe may have been aflflicted with the infirmity of 
 drink. My old friend John Brougham, the co- 
 median, who knew him well, told me that Poe 
 could not swallow even a single glass of wine 
 without losing his head. But what does it sig- 
 nify, and why should a reader be perpetually 
 told of it, whether he drank wine or not? His 
 writings remain, and they are an honor to our 
 literatiu'e; and that is all we need to consider. 
 As Tennyson wrote : 
 
 He gave the people of his best! 
 
 His worst he kept: his best he gave. 
 
 My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave 
 
 Who will not let his ashes rest. 
 
36 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 The motive of the disparagement of Poe is 
 envy. In an age of mediocrity inferior writers 
 will always strive to degrade an exceptional 
 genius. Shakespeare, who records everything, 
 has happily recorded that. "He hath a daily 
 beauty in his life that makes me ugly." "To 
 some kind of men their graces serve them but as 
 enemies." "Will honor not live with the living? 
 N"o. Detraction will not suffer it." 
 
 Among my valued rehcs is a piece of the coffin 
 of Poe, taken from his grave when his remains 
 were moved and reburied in Westminster church- 
 yard, Baltimore, in October, 1875. He had lain 
 in the earth for twenty-six years. That sombre 
 memorial was sent to me by an old friend, John 
 T. Ford, the once eminent theatrical manager, 
 now dead and gone, and soon afterward I wrote, 
 at his suggestion, and because of the effect of the 
 relic, the poem that was read at the dedication 
 of the monument marking the place of Poe's 
 final burial. 
 
 I once had a conversation with Longfellow 
 concerning Poe. It was on an evening when I 
 was sitting with him, at his fireside, and when I 
 
E<igkr Allan rOE 
 
 .„-rii _.(.„ 
 
 I l»* li H .' H II) I . jtj_ 
 
 ^' ^ ^' i 
 
 EDGAE ALLAN POE 
 /^7'0;» an Elching by Louis Lefcn-t 
 
LONGFELLOTV^ 37 
 
 chanced to observe a volume of Poe's poems 
 on his library table. I inquired whether he had 
 ever met Poe and was assured that he had 
 not. Longfellow opened the book and read aloud 
 a few stanzas of the poem "For Annie," remark- 
 ing that one of them, containing the line "And 
 the fever called living is conquered at last," would 
 be an appropriate epitaph for its writer. There 
 was not a shade of resentment in either his man- 
 ner or voice. "My works," he said, "seemed to 
 give Mr. Poe much trouble; but I am alive and 
 stiU writing." I remember that he mused a little, 
 in sUence, and then began to speak of the inex- 
 pedience of replying to attacks made in the press, 
 ■si "You are at the beginning of your career," he 
 Jadded, "and I advise you never to answer the 
 attacks that will be made on you." It was wise 
 counsel. Only lately, reading in "Herman 
 Boerhaave," I came upon a kindred thought: 
 "Calumny and detraction are sparks, which, if 
 you do not blow them, wiU go out of themselves." 
 The persistent malevolence and misrepresentation 
 with which Poe assailed the personal integrity 
 and the writings of Longfellow might have been 
 
38 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 expected to inspire the elder writer with a lasting 
 animosity: his feeling and tone, on the contrary, 
 when referring to the subject, were those of com- 
 passion and tolerance. He miderstood the "genus 
 irritabile," and he had deep sjonpathy with it. 
 
 I met him one night at a hall in Boston, and 
 sat with him, at his expressed wish, to Usten to a 
 lecture by Charles Mackay, on "Dibdin's Sea 
 Songs." Mackay's verse is not generally read 
 now, but it was popular once. He wrote it 
 fluently and in abimdance. One of his more 
 ambitious fabrics relates to the "Tarantula 
 Dance": there is a fable that a person bitten by 
 that venomous spider becomes delirious and must 
 dance downward toward the sea. His best- 
 known poem begins with the familiar line, 
 "There's a good time coming, boys." He was a 
 compact, burly, ruddy-faced little man, and a 
 commonplace, matter-of-fact speaker, sincere 
 and sensible. He gave a plain narrative of 
 Charles Dibdin's life and quoted several of the 
 songs, notably "Tom Bowline"; and he closed 
 the discourse by reading one of his own graceful 
 poems of sentiment, which he said he had that 
 
LONGFELLOW 39 
 
 day written, — prompted thereto by the sight of 
 some daisies growing on Boston Common. Long- 
 fellow proposed that we shovdd walk home to- 
 gether, it being a pleasant, moonlit night, and that 
 we did, — across the West Boston bridge, along 
 the silent streets of the Port, over Dana Hill, 
 past the red brick buildings of Harvard, and so 
 onward to the gate of his mansion, in the Mount 
 Auburn road, in old Cambridge, where we said 
 good-night and parted. It is a long walk, but it 
 seemed short to me; for the poet whom I so much 
 loved and reverenced beguiled the time with 
 pleasant talk about the sea and about old ballads, 
 — particularly the Spanish ballads of Lockhart, 
 — and, incidentally, about the delights and in- 
 trinsic rewards of poetry; and I recall it as one 
 of the most delightful of rambles. Longfellow's 
 voice was calm and sweet, and his companionship 
 always caused peace. He spoke kindly of Charles 
 Mackay's lecture; said that he had enjoyed it; 
 and added that it was a spirit of comradeship that 
 had led him to be present. "We must always do 
 what we can," he said, "for our brother authors." 
 Mackay came again to America in the early 
 
40 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 days of the Civil War, resided in Staten Island, 
 near to New York, and acted as correspondent 
 of "The London Times." Some readers, no doubt, 
 are acquainted with his useful "Memoirs of Ex- 
 traordinary Popular Delusions." He partici- 
 pated in the hterary turmoil that ensued when 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe stirred up the Byron 
 scandal, and he wrote a book, now out of print, 
 on Medora Leigh. He was the father of the 
 late Eric Mackay, a man of poetic genius, dead in 
 his prime, who wrote several excellent lyrics, and 
 from whom much might have been expected. 
 
 It is not every poet who possesses the sense of 
 humor. The lack of that sense in Wordsworth 
 caused effects that are lamentable. Tennyson 
 mistakenly considered himself to be strongly 
 humorous, and when likened to Shelley he re- 
 plied, almost resentfully, "But Shelley had no 
 humor." Tennyson could, be playful, — some- 
 times grimly and bitterly so, sometimes sweetly 
 and merrily so, — but his humor was lambent 
 Longfellow's sense of humor, on the contrary, 
 though gentle, was acute, and nothing comic 
 escaped him. Among the relics that he especially 
 
LONGFELLOW 41 
 
 treasured was an inkstand once the property of 
 Coleridge. One day, showing that relic to a 
 stranger who had called on him, he said, "Per- 
 haps 'The Ancient Mariner' was written from 
 this." "Yes," said his visitor, "and 'The Old 
 Oaken Bucket' — ^who done that?" Another vis- 
 itor, on asking his age and being told it was 
 seventy, remarked, "I've seen many men of your 
 age who looked much younger than you do." A 
 Newport bookseller said to him: "Why, you look 
 more hke a sea captain than a poet!" An ad- 
 mirer, of the epistolary order, wrote to him, say- 
 ing: "Please send your autograph in your own 
 handwriting." He has recorded a characteristic 
 dialogue with a strange lady, in black garments, 
 who accosted him one surmner morning at his 
 house door. 
 
 "Is this the house where Longfellow was 
 born?" 
 
 "No, he was not born here." 
 
 "Did he die here?" 
 
 "No, he is not dead." 
 
 "Are you Longfellow?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
42 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 "I thought you died two years ago." 
 That recalls the intelligent remark made to 
 Walter Savage Landor by a lady who wished to 
 compliment him on his "Pericles and Aspasia." 
 "Mr. Landor," she said, "I haven't had time to 
 read your 'Periwinkles and Asparagus,' but I 
 hear it is very good." 
 
 Hero-worshippers sometimes act as well as 
 speak in an eccentric manner. Looking from a 
 front window of his dwelling, one day, Longfel- 
 low saw persons approaching across his lawn 
 bearing a piano. The instrument was preceded 
 by a lady who presently greeted him, saying that 
 she had set one of his poems to music, and had 
 now come to sing it to him; which she forthwith 
 proceeded to do. He much enjoyed the humor- 
 ous absurdity of such incidents, and he liked to 
 recount them. I was seldom in his company 
 without hearing from him a comic story or a 
 sportive comment. He was a happy man, and he 
 liked to diif use cheerfulness and to make every- 
 body happy around him. His usual aspect was 
 that of sweet, gentle, pensive composure, but his 
 mood was often playful, and his appreciative en- 
 
LONGFELLOW 43 
 
 joyment of anything humorous, while not de- 
 monstrative, was extreme. That enjoyment ex- 
 pressed itself in suppressed laughter and in a 
 peculiar, low, delighted, caressing tone of voice. 
 Speaking to me once about that admirable gen- 
 tleman and rare poet, Thomas W. Parsons, — 
 who wrote the noble Ode on Dante, which is 
 one of the gems of our language, — ^he related, 
 with peculiar zest, a comic incident of personal 
 experience with him. Parsons was a man of fine 
 genius and of a lovely spirit, and, as sometimes 
 happens with such natures, he was easily con- 
 fused by wine, to the use of which, when care- 
 worn, he sometimes resorted. "One summer 
 evening," said Longfellow, "I found Parsons 
 roaming in my garden. He did not know me 
 at the moment, but he greeted me affably, and 
 he accepted my invitation to take a drive. I 
 ordered my carriage to be brought to the gate, 
 and we drove together to his home. He had not 
 recognized me, and during the whole of the ride 
 he talked to me about the poetry of Longfellow, 
 abusing it as extremely bad and inviting my con- 
 currence in that opinion, — ^which, of course, I 
 
44 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 gave. He was an amiable man and one of my 
 cherished friends, and nothing could have been 
 more ludicrous than both his discourse and the 
 manner of it, — for he was sweetly confidential." 
 
 Stories of that kind Longfellow told with 
 hearty rehsh. I recall his narration to me of 
 the first interview that he had with Mrs. Cragie, 
 when he called at her house, with the purpose of 
 hiring a lodging in it. The prim, formal, dig- 
 nified old lady showed him room after room. 
 
 "This is a pleasant room," he would say to her. 
 
 "Yes," she would answer. "This is a pleasant 
 room, — but you cannot have it." 
 
 After that colloquy had been several times 
 repeated the poet ventured to inquire: 
 
 "But, madam, why can I not have this room?" 
 
 "Well, sir, no students are allowed in this 
 house." 
 
 "But I am not a student, Mrs. Cragie; I am 
 only a professor." 
 
 "Ah, that is different; you can have either of 
 the rooms that you like." 
 
 "And so," he added, "I became a lodger in 
 this house, which afterward became mine." 
 
LONGFELLOW 45 
 
 The disclosure would be remarkable and amus- 
 ing if each author's private estimate of his con- 
 temporaries in authorship, — often his acquaint- 
 ances or friends, — were to be obtained and made 
 known. We know now what Lamb thought of 
 Byron and what Coleridge thought of Moore, 
 and some day, no doubt, when time enough has 
 flown and memoirs have multiphed, the reader 
 will learn what Bryant thought of WilUs and 
 what Stoddard thought of Holmes, and so fol- 
 lowing. It can scarcely fail to be a whimsical 
 chronicle, for bards, as a class, are even more 
 exigent than actors in their judgments of one an- 
 other. Longfellow's nature was radically mag- 
 nanimous. I never heard from his lips a syllable 
 of detraction of any contemporary author. When 
 he could not say praise he said nothing. The 
 American authors whom, in my hearing, he spe- 
 cially extolled, were Dana, Washington Irving, 
 Hawthorne, and Lowell. Of AUston, who was 
 eight years his senior, and who died in 1843, he 
 spoke with peculiar tenderness. "Allston," he 
 said, describing him to me, "often dressed in 
 white garments, from head to foot; he was serene 
 
46 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 and benignant, his hair was silvery, his face was 
 pale, and in white clothing he seemed like a man 
 of snow." One of Longfellow's favorite anec- 
 dotes related to AUston, painter as well as poet, 
 from whom, personally, he learned the incident. 
 One of Allston's model sitters was an elderly 
 Jew, and for some time the fastidious artist could 
 not satisfy himself with the picture that he was 
 endeavoring to paint. There came a moment at 
 last, however, when the Jew's countenance as- 
 sumed an expression of exultant animation and 
 even of venerable majesty, and the painter was 
 able to pursue his artistic purpose. "Your 
 thought must have been on some fine subject," 
 said AUston, speaking to his model; "what were 
 you thinking of?" 
 
 "I was thinking," replied the candid Hebrew, 
 "how much money you would get for that picture 
 when it is finished." 
 
 Many years ago he told me, with an indescriba- 
 bly soft and rich tone of enjoyment in his voice, 
 about a pedler who intruded himself into the 
 house one morning, with a request for some verses 
 in praise of a medicine that he was vending, — a 
 
LONGFELLOW 47 
 
 carminative, for infants, — offering a bottle of it, 
 "price one dollar," in exchange for the lines. At 
 another time he mentioned an amusing instance 
 of the awkward compliment with which famous 
 men are not infrequently favored. "A stranger," 
 he said, "was introduced to me at Newport who, 
 seizing my hand, most effusively exclaimed: 
 'Sir, I have long desired to know you. Sir, 
 1 am one of the few men who have read your 
 'Evangehne' !" And it is to himself that the 
 lover of humor is indebted for record of the in- 
 genuous remark made to him by an English 
 woman who, with a party of fellow-traveUers, 
 called on the American poet: "As there are no 
 ruins in this coimtry," said the felicitous speaker, 
 "we thought that we would come and see you!" 
 "I am sorry you are going away," Longfellow 
 said to me, on a day in 1859, when I had come 
 to his home to say farewell; "I wish that you 
 could have stayed here." Had I been able to 
 discern the future, — ^had I known what I was 
 to encounter of toil and care in the hterary hfe 
 of New York, — I think that he would have had 
 his wish. "In youth," says Sir Walter Scott, 
 
48 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 "we seek pleasure, and in manhood fame and 
 fortune and distinction, and when we feel the 
 advance of years we would willingly compound 
 for quiet and freedom from pain." Longfellow 
 would gladly have used practical influence to in- 
 duce me to remain in Cambridge. I recollect 
 having had the wish to own and edit a newspaper 
 which was published there and which happened to 
 be for sale, and when I spoke to him on that sub- 
 ject he kindly offered to buy the paper for me if 
 its owners would accept in payment a consider- 
 able number of shares of a certain stock that he 
 possessed. The transaction might have been 
 effected, and probably would have been, but that 
 an esteemed city official chanced to interpose, 
 with an offer that was more attractive, and so 
 the project failed and the current of a lifetime 
 was changed. 
 
 In the early days of my acquaintance with 
 Longfellow I observed that he was inclined to 
 bright apparel ; not to the elaborate dandyism of 
 his popular contemporary, N. P. Wilhs, and not 
 to the extravagance of radiant raiment that char- 
 acterized Charles Dickens in early life, but to 
 
LONGFELLOW 49 
 
 such decorative attire as the figured waistcoat and 
 the gay cravat. His dress, however, was always 
 in good taste. Indeed, there was ahout the whole 
 man, — ^his person, his ways and his influence, — 
 an air of exquisite refinement and tranquillity, 
 the natural result of temperamental sweetness 
 and perfect self-possession. He piu-sued his own 
 course. He was a man to inspire resolute but 
 calm devotion to a far-reaching, noble purpose, 
 and thus he was a man to soothe and cheer. That 
 way I love to remember him, — sitting beside his 
 open fireplace, as he often did, late at night, after 
 all his household had retired, watching the flames, 
 listening to the wind in the chimney, musing, 
 smoking his cigar, and occasionally writing 
 whatever came into his thoughts. 
 
 In a number of "Notes and Queries" there was 
 pubhshed a just, graceful and sympathetic tribute 
 to the memory of Longfellow, by John C. Fran- 
 cis, who, in noting "the magnetism which drew 
 all hearts toward him," mentioned that "Mrs. 
 Carlyle remembered his visit to them, at Craigen- 
 puttock, as 'the visit of an angel,' and William 
 Winter, who had been greeted by him as a young 
 
50 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 aspirant in literature, would walk miles to Long- 
 fellow's house, only to put his hand upon the 
 latch of the gate which the poet himself had 
 touched." That act of homage on my part was 
 done in my youth; but, old as I am, the feeling 
 that prompted it has not yet died out of my 
 heart. Such emotions commonly perish when 
 time and experience have shown to us the frail- 
 ties of human nature and the selfishness of the 
 world: but if ever a man has lived whose ex- 
 cellence justified the continuance of them Long- 
 fellow was that man. His character, his life and 
 his writings concur in the diffusion of such an 
 influence and such an example as have helped 
 thousands of human beings, and wUl help thou- 
 sands of human beings hereafter, to meet trial 
 and affliction with imswerving coiirage, and to 
 bear with fortitude every ordainment of fate. 
 The sudden and terrible calamity that well nigh 
 broke his heart was endured without a murmur. 
 The strifes and tumults of the sordid, seething 
 world surged round him in vain. No obstacle 
 of adversity every stayed him in the accomplish- 
 ment of his sacred mission, — ^to bless mankind by 
 
LONGFELLOW 51 
 
 the interpretation of Nature's beauty and by the 
 monition and enforcement of spiritual hope. His 
 exemplar, I think, was Goethe, who, in one great 
 dramatic poem, written without haste and with- 
 out rest, achieved the consummate and final ex- 
 pression of human life, — perfect as a picture and 
 supreme as a guide. It is a kindred achievement 
 that makes the greatness of Longfellow. There 
 is comfort in every page that he wrote, and in the 
 last words that ever fell from his pen there is a 
 precious legacy of faith: " 'Tis daybreak every- 
 where." 
 
11. 
 
 BOHEMIAN DAYS. 
 
 The Boston of to-day presents a strong con- 
 trast with the Boston of fifty or sixty years ago. 
 Now it is an Irish Roman Catholic city. Then 
 it was an American Puritan city. Now it is spa- 
 cious and splendid. Then it was comparatively 
 small and staid. Now it is pervaded with com- 
 motion and the attendant racket. Then it was 
 all tranquillity. Now it does not hold undisputed 
 and indisputable pre-eminence in hterature and 
 journalism. Then it was, — and was rightly 
 called, — the Athens of America. In those 
 days I was familiar with every part of it. As 
 a boy I dwelt and sported on old Fort Hill, — 
 since reduced to a plain, — and made my play- 
 groimd all along the waterside, from Constitu- 
 tion Wharf to Charlestown Bridge. The Com- 
 mon; the Back Bay; the dry docks; the India 
 Wharf warehouses, of which the doors often 
 
 63 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 53 
 
 stood open, liberating delicious, alluring odors 
 of cinnamon and cedar; the T Wharf, with its 
 story of Revolutionary times; the granite Cus- 
 tom House, then new, and seeming wonderful; 
 the Quincy Market, then considered a marvel of 
 architecture, — all those things, and many more, 
 were known to me. Many a time did I gaze, awe- 
 stricken, at the haunted mansion, deserted and 
 silent, frowning behind its huge walls, in High 
 street, called and known as "Harris's Folly." 
 Many a time did I rove through Theatre AUey 
 and look with juvenile curiosity on the theatre 
 in Federal street, — little dreaming that the stage f 
 was to be a principal theme of my thoughts | 
 and writings, throughout a long, laborious life. 
 From the top of Fort HUl there was, in the 
 vicinity of Hamilton street, a mysterious wind- 
 ing stairway, of stone, down which the adventu- 
 rous truant could make his way to the precincts 
 of the docks, where much of my boyhood was 
 spent, in consort with other vagrant lads; and 
 many a happy hour did I pass there, — sometimes 
 practically investigating newly landed cargoes of 
 sugar; sometimes reclining on the stin- warmed 
 
54 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 planks of the silent piers, and dreaming over the 
 prospect of the moving ships and the distant isl- 
 ands of Boston harbor. 
 
 Those were the days in which I began to wi"ite 
 what I thought was poetry; and soon, as years 
 slipped away and golden youth arrived, I began 
 to concern myself with the affairs of magazines 
 and newspapers and the making of books. The 
 publications of that period were singularly diif er- 
 ent from those of the present day. Charles G. 
 Greene, facetious and satirical, was editing "The 
 Post." George Limt, scholarlike, trenchant and 
 independent, was editing "The Courier," a con- 
 servative newspaper, of great dignity and force. 
 The brilhant Charles T. Congdon, afterward so 
 highly distinguished as an editorial writer for 
 "The New- York Tribune," was adorning the col- 
 umns of "The Atlas." Those were among the 
 more important of the newspapers. Among the 
 periodicals to which I obtained access were "The 
 Transcript," "The Olive Branch," and "The 
 Saturday Evening Gazette." "The Olive Branch" 
 was, I think, edited by Louise Chandler, in after 
 years highly distinguished as Louise Chandler 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 55 
 
 Moulton. "The Gazette" was edited by William 
 Warland Clapp, author of that valuable book, "A 
 Record of the Boston Stage," which contains a 
 compact history of theatrical affairs in Boston, 
 from 1849 to 1853: his assistant editors were 
 Adam Wallace Thaxter and Benjamin P. Shil- 
 laber ("Mrs. Partington"), — ^both of them cher- 
 ished friends of mine, to the end of their days. 
 "The Atlantic Monthly," started in 1857, with 
 Frank Underwood as editor, speedily led the 
 field, in literary authority. The august lumina- 
 ries of hterature, — Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes. 
 Emerson, Whittier, Whipple, etc., — clustered 
 around that magazine, and hkewise around the 
 old bookstore at the corner of Washington and 
 School streets, in which the presiding genius was 
 the handsome James T. Fields, then in the zenith 
 of health, happiness and popularity. Epes Sar- 
 gent, who wrote "A Life on the Ocean Wave," — 
 which the popular vocahst, Russell, always sang 
 "A hfe on the ocean sea" — ^was prominent then, 
 and being a townsman of mine, as Whipple was 
 (we were all natives of Gloucester), he was 
 friendly toward me and propitious toward my 
 
56 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 verse. A dapper, elegant little man he was, 
 neatly attired, swinging a thin, polished black 
 bamboo cane, and seeming the embodiment of 
 cheer. Benjamin Muzzey was one of the leading 
 publishers of that time, a fine, portly person, 
 who brought forth several piratical editions of 
 "Festus," and largely profited by them. Many 
 years later (in 1897), at Nottingham, Eng- 
 land, I had the honor to meet the author 
 of that remarkable poem, PhiUp James Bailey, 
 at his home; and I found it mortifying to hear 
 him say that he had never received "even six- 
 pence" from the sale of his book in America, al- 
 though apprised that the sale there had been very 
 large. 
 
 It would be easily possible to descant on the 
 conditions of the "Modern Athens" of fifty years 
 ago. I found them oppressive, and I was eager to 
 make my escape from them, — as presently, after 
 some experience as an author, a joiirnalist, a po- 
 litical speaker, and a member of the Suffolk bar, 
 I did. 
 
 When I made my home in New York, in the 
 winter of 1859-'60, a circle of writers was 
 
HENKY CLAPP, Jb. 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 57 
 
 existent there, called Bohemians. Those writers 
 did not designate themselves by that name, but 
 it had been appKed to them by others, and it had 
 grown to be their distinctive title. Some of those 
 writers had already become personally known to 
 me ; aU of them soon became my companions. I 
 had not been many days in the city before I was 
 engaged, by Henry Clapp, to be sub-editor 
 of his paper, "The Saturday Press," a weekly 
 publication that he had started in 1858, and that, 
 aU along, had led, and was still leading, a pre- 
 carious existence; and with that paper I re- 
 mained associated tiU its suspension, ia Decem- 
 ber, 1860, The purpose of "The Saturday 
 Press" was to speak the truth, and to speak it 
 in a way that would amuse its readers and would 
 cast ridicule upon as many as possible of the 
 humbugs then extant and prosperous in hteratiu-e 
 and art. Clapp was an original character. We 
 called him "The Oldest Man." His age was vm- 
 known to us. He seemed to be very old, but, as 
 afterward I ascertained, he was then only forty- 
 six. In appearance he was somewhat suggestive 
 of the portrait of Voltaire. He was a man of 
 
58 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 slight, seemingly fragile but really wiry figure; 
 bearded; gray; with keen, light blue eyes, a hag- 
 gard visage, a vivacious manner, and a thin, in- 
 cisive voice. He spoke the French language with 
 extraordinary fluency, and natives of France 
 acknowledged that he spoke it with a perfect 
 accent. He had long resided in Paris, and, in- 
 deed, in his temperament, his mental constitu- 
 tion, and his conduct of life, he was more a 
 Frenchman than an American. At the time of 
 our first meeting I knew httle of his mer- 
 curial character and his vicissitudinous career, but 
 Avith both of them I presently became acquainted. 
 He was brilliant and buoyant in mind; impatient 
 of the commonplace ; intolerant of smug, ponder- 
 ous, empty, obstructive respectability; prone to 
 sarcasm ; and he had for so long a time lived in 
 a continuous, bitter conflict with conventionality 
 that he had become reckless of public opinion. 
 His delight was to shock the commonplace mind 
 and to sting the hide of the Pharisee with the 
 barb of satire. He had met with crosses, disap- 
 pointment, and sorrow, and he was wayward and 
 erratic; but he possessed both the faculty of taste 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 59 
 
 and the instinctive love of beauty, and, essen- 
 tially, he was the apostle of the freedom of 
 thought, 
 
 Clapp was bom in the island of Nantucket, 
 November 11, 1814. In early life he associated 
 himself with the chiu-ch, espoused, as a lect- 
 urer and writer, the cause of temperance, and 
 actively labored for the anti-slavery movement 
 in New England, — following the leadership 
 of that foremost abolitionist, Nathaniel P. 
 Rogers, of New Hampshire, a man of brilliant 
 ability, now forgotten, to whom he was devotedly 
 attached, and whose name, in later years, he often 
 mentioned to me, and always with aif ectionate 
 admiration. His early essays in journalism were 
 made in New Bedford, and gradually he drifted 
 into that profession. At one time he edited a 
 newspaper in Lynn, Mass., and once he was 
 arrested and put into prison there, for his audac- 
 ity and severity in attacking the traffickers in spir- 
 ituous liquor. His views, on almost all subjects, 
 were of a radical kind, and, accordingly, he ex- 
 cited venomous antagonism. As to the philosophy 
 of social life he was a disciple of Francois Charles 
 
60 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Fourier, in the translation of whose treatise on 
 "The Social Destiny of Man" he had a principal 
 hand, when working as secretary to Albert Bris- 
 bane. His career, when I was first associated 
 with him, had been, in material results, more or 
 less, a failure, as aU careers are, or are likely to 
 be, that inveterately run counter to the tide of 
 mediocrity. Such as he was, — ^withered, bitter, 
 grotesque, seemingly ancient, a good fighter, a 
 kind heart, — ^he was the Prince of our Bohemian 
 circle. His "Saturday Press," piquant, satirical, 
 pugnacious, often fraught with quips and jibes 
 relative to unworthy reputations of the hour, and, 
 likewise, it must be admitted, sometimes relative 
 to writers who merited more considerate treat- 
 ment,, eventually failed, but, during its brief ex- 
 istence, it was, in one way, a considerable power 
 for good. 
 
 There always has been, in literary life, and not- 
 withstanding the mental alertness and feverish 
 activity of the present day there still is, a ten- 
 dency to inertia and dry rot, — a tendency that 
 shows itself in the gradual establishment of 
 mediocrities as the shining exemplars of poetry 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 61 
 
 and the potential leaders of thought. Just as 
 there are Figureheads now, so there were Figure- 
 heads then; and Clapp dehghted in satire of 
 them. Tupper was more popular than Ten- 
 nyson, sixty years ago, and General George P. 
 Morris was actually accepted as the American 
 Tom Moore. Readers of "Faust" will recall 
 Goethe's satirical comment on the breadth of the 
 summit of Parnassus. The caustic "Saturday 
 Press" found ample opportunity for satire, and 
 the opportunity was improved, — ^with beneficial 
 results; for, in the long run, it is ever a public 
 advantage that the bubble of fictitious reputa- 
 tion should be punctured. A satirist, however, 
 and especially one who writes "satire with no 
 kindness in it," must expect to be disliked. "The 
 Saturday Press" was discontinued after a cur- 
 rency of a little more than two years, and for 
 some time after its decease Clapp wrote for "The 
 New York Leader," a Democratic weekly, edited 
 by John Clancy and Charles G. Halpine, — the 
 latter widely known and much admired, in his 
 day, as "Miles O'Reilly." That was in the war 
 time. About 1866-'67 Clapp resuscitated his 
 
62 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 weekly, in a new form, with the characteristic edi- 
 torial announcement: "This paper was stopped in 
 1860, for want of means: it is now started again 
 for the same reason." The quality of the man's 
 wit is aptly shown in that example of it. His 
 mind was ever ready with quips of that descrip- 
 tion. It was Clapp who described Horace 
 Greeley (with whom he associated and was well 
 acquainted when they happened to be in Paris at 
 the same time) as "a self-made man that wor- 
 ships his creator"; and it was Clapp who said 
 of a notoriously vain, self-satisfied clergyman, 
 
 when asked if he knew what the Rev. was 
 
 doing: "He is waiting for a vacancy in the Trin- 
 ity." Over his signature, "Figaro," the vivacious 
 old Bohemian, for several years, writing about the 
 Stage, afforded amusement to the town ; but grad- 
 ually he drifted into penury, and, although help 
 was not denied to him, he died in destitution, 
 April 2, 1875: and I remember that, after his 
 death, his name was airily traduced by persons 
 who had never manifested even a tithe of his 
 ability or accomplished anything comparable with 
 the service which, notwithstanding his faults and 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 63 
 
 errors, he had rendered to literature and art. His 
 grave is in a little cemetery at Nantucket. His 
 epitaph, — ^written by me, at the request of a few 
 friends, but not approved by his only relative 
 then living, and therefore not inscribed over his 
 ashes, contains these lines : 
 
 Wit stops to grieve and Laughter stops to sigh 
 That so much wit and laughter e'er could die; 
 But Pity, conscious of its anguish past, 
 Is glad this tortur'd spirit rests at last. 
 His purpose, thought, and goodness ran to waste, 
 He made a happiness he could not taste: 
 Mirth could not help him, talent could not save: 
 Through cloud and storm he drifted to the grave. 
 Ah, give his memory, — who made the cheer. 
 And gave so many smiles, — a single tear! 
 
 Our place of meeting, in 1859-'60, was a 
 restaurant, in a basement, on the west side of 
 Broadway, a short distance north of Bleecker 
 street, kept by a German named Pfaff. That 
 genial being, long since gone the way of all man- 
 kind, had begun his business with a few kegs of 
 beer and with the skill to make excellent coffee. 
 Clapp, who subsisted chiefly on coffee and to- 
 bacco, had been so fortunate as to discover that 
 place soon after it was opened. By him it was 
 made known to others, and gradually it came to 
 
64 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 be the haunt of writers and artists, mostly young, 
 and, though usually impecunious, opulent in their 
 youth, enthusiasm, and ardent belief alike in a 
 rosy present and a golden future. The place 
 was roughly furnished, containing a few chairs 
 and tables, a counter, a row of shelves, a clock, 
 and some barrels. At the east end of it, beneath 
 the sidewalk of Broadway, there was a sort of 
 cave, in which was a long table, and after Clapp 
 had assumed the sceptre as Prince of Bohemia, 
 that cave and that table were pre-empted by him 
 and his votaries, at certain hours of the day and 
 night, and no stranger ventured to intrude into 
 the magic realm. Thither came George Arnold, — • 
 handsome, gay, breezy, good-natiu-ed, — one of 
 the sweetest poets in our country who have sung 
 the beauties of Nature and the tenderness of true 
 love; and he never came without bringing sun- 
 shine. Walt Whitman was often there, clad in 
 his eccentric garb of rough blue and gray fabric, 
 — ^his hair and beard grizzled, his keen, steel-blue 
 eyes gazing, with bland tolerance, on the frolic- 
 some lads around him. Charles Dawson Shanly, 
 — a charming essayist and a graceful poet, quaint 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 65 
 
 in character, sweet in temperament, modest and 
 gentle in bearing, — was a regular visitor to the 
 Bohemian table. N. G. Shepherd, — one of the 
 most picturesque of human beings, a man of 
 genius, whose poems, never yet collected, ought 
 to be better known than they now are, — ^was sel- 
 dom absent from the evening repast, a festivity 
 in which, contrary to general belief, the frugality 
 of poverty was ever more clearly exhibited than 
 the luxury of riches or the prodigahty of revel. 
 That singular being, Charles D. Gardette, who 
 wrote "The Fire Fiend," and, for a time, re- 
 joiced in luring the public into a beUef that it was 
 a posthumous poem by Edgar Poe, was conspicu- 
 ous there, for daintiness of person, elegance of 
 attire, and blithe animal spirits. Frank Wood 
 and Henry NeU, young jom-nalists of fine abiUty, 
 were frequently present: both of them died in 
 youth, with their promise unfulfilled. The most 
 fashionable visitor was Edward G. P. Wilkins, 
 then dramatic critic for "The New York 
 Herald"; a prime favorite with the elder James 
 Gordon Bennett; remarkable for extraordina- 
 ry facility in literary composition, for gentle, 
 
66 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 playful humor, for intimate knowledge and 
 keen observation of human nature, and for 
 a quizzical manner, bland and suave, but sug- 
 gestive of arch, mischievous, veiled pleasantry. 
 Wilkins was singularly self-contained, yet it 
 was not difficult, when in his company, to feel 
 that his secret thought was one of satirical banter. 
 Among the artists who came to Pfaff's were 
 Launt Thompson, George Boughton, Edward 
 F. Mullen, and Sol Eytinge, jr., — ^he whom 
 Charles Dickens declared to have made the best 
 illustrations for his novels and the best portrait 
 of himself. The most striking figure of the 
 group was Fitz-James O'Brien. 
 
 When Clapp started "The Saturday Press," — 
 which he did in association with Edward How- 
 land, October 29, 1858, — ^he engaged T. B. Al- 
 drich to write book reviews and Fitz-James 
 O'Brien to write about the Stage. Neither of 
 those writers long remained in harness. Aldrich 
 had more congenial opportunities, while O'Brien 
 was a man to whom the curb of regular employ- 
 ment was intolerable. Aldrich was associated 
 with the paper during only the first three months 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 67 
 
 of its existence; O'Brien for only a few weelfs. 
 Among those Bohemian comrades of mine, — all 
 dead and gone now and mostly forgotten, — 
 O'Brien was at once the most potential genius 
 and the most original character. As I think 
 of him I recall Byron's expressive figure, "a 
 wild bird and a wanderer." Readers of the 
 present day are, probably, not familiar with the 
 stories of "The Diamond Lens" and "The 
 Wondersmith," written by O'Brien and pub- 
 lished in early numbers of "The Atlantic Month- 
 ly." Those stories were hailed as the most in- 
 genious fabrics of fiction that had been con- 
 tributed to our literature since the day when 
 Edgar Poe surprised and charmed the reading 
 community with his imaginative, enthralling tale 
 of "The Fall of the House of Usher." They 
 revived, indeed, the fashion of the weird short 
 story, and they provided a model for subse- 
 quent compositions of that order. A groimdless, 
 foohsh fable was set afloat, soon after the publi- 
 cation of "The Diamond Lens," to the effect that 
 O'Brien had derived it from one of the manu- 
 scripts of William North, — the fact being that it 
 
68 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 was prompted by a remark made to him by Dr. 
 A. L. Carroll (he who, for a short time, in 
 1865, published the comic paper called "Mrs. 
 Grundy"), relative to the marvellous things con- 
 tained in a drop of water. North, who wrote the 
 novel called "The Man of the World,"— at first 
 named "The Slave of the Lamp," — ^was a com- 
 rade of O'Brien's, but they quarrelled, and in that 
 novel North described and satirized his former 
 friend, under the name of "Fitz-Gammon 
 O'Boimcer." North committed suicide, Novem- 
 ber 13, 1854, at No. 7 Bond Street, New York, 
 by drinking prussic acid, — disappointment in 
 love, and in everything else, being the cause of 
 his deplorable act. He was about twenty-eight 
 years of age; a native of England; a scion of the 
 Guilford family; and, both in London and New 
 York, he had worked incessantly with his pen, — 
 writing stories in such magazines as the old 
 "Graham's" and "The Knickerbocker," and con- 
 tributing in various ways to the press. An en- 
 velope was found on his desk, containing twelve 
 cents, with a few written words, stating that to be 
 the fruit of his life's labor. 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 69 
 
 It was not to WilKam North, however, or to 
 anybody else, that Fitz-James O'Brien was 
 indebted for the inspiration of his writings. 
 Some of them were produced imder my per- 
 sonal observation. Others were made known 
 to me immediately after they had been com- 
 posed. His fine poem of "The Fallen Star" 
 was written in my lodging, and I still pre- 
 serve the first draft of it, which Fitz left on my 
 table, together with the pen with which he wrote 
 it. His singular story of "The Wondersmith" 
 grew out of an anecdote related by Clapp, in my 
 presence. "Once, while I was working for Albert 
 Brisbane" (so, in substance, said the old Prince 
 of our Bohemia), "I had to read to him, one 
 evening, many pages of a translation that I had 
 made, for his use, of Fourier's book on the Social 
 Destiny of Man. He was closely attentive and 
 seemed to be deeply interested ; but, after a time, 
 I heard a slight snore, and looking at him, in pro- 
 file, I saw that he was sound asleep — and yet the 
 eye that I could see was wide open. Then and 
 thus I ascertained, somewhat to my surprise, 
 that he had a glass eye." There was some talk. 
 
70 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ensuing, about the use of glass eyes and about 
 the startling effects producible by the wearer of 
 such an optic who should suddenly remove it from 
 his visage, polish it, and replace it. In his story 
 of "The Wondersmith" O'Brien causes the 
 uncanny keeper of the toys to place his glass 
 eye, as a watcher, — investing that orb with the 
 faculty of sight and the means of commimication. 
 At twilight on a gloomy autmnn day in 1860, 
 when I happened to be sitting alone at the long 
 table under the sidewalk in PfafF's Cave, O'Brien 
 came into that place and took a seat near to me. 
 His face was pale and careworn and his expres- 
 sion preoccupied and dejected. He was, at first, 
 sUent; but presently he inquired whether I in- 
 tended to go to my lodging, saying that he would 
 like to go there with me, and to write something 
 that he had in mind. I knew O'Brien and, thor- 
 oughly imderstanding his ways, I comprehended 
 at once the dilemma in which he was placed. 
 Our circle of boys had a name for it. He was 
 "on a rock"; that is to say, he was destitute. I 
 told him that I had something to do, that would 
 keep me absent for an hour, at the end of which 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 71 
 
 time I woWld return for him. That was a pre- 
 text for going to my abode (it was in Varick 
 Street), and causing a room to be prepared for 
 my friend. He remained in that lodging for two 
 nights and a day. In the course of that time he 
 slept only about foiu" hours: I could not induce 
 him to taste either food or drink: he would not 
 even eat a little fruit that I obtained and 
 contrived to leave in his way. On the morn- 
 ing of the second day he appeared at my bed- 
 side, having a roll of manuscript in his hand, and, 
 formally, even frigidly, took leave of me. "Sir," 
 he said, "I wish you good morning" ; and, so say- 
 ing, he departed. About four o'clock in the after- 
 noon of that day I entered Delmonico's, then at 
 the comer of Broadway and Chambers Street, 
 and there I found Fitz, — ^in glory. He was ar- 
 rayed in new garments; he had refreshed him- 
 self; he was dispensing refreshment to all who 
 would partake of it; his aspect was that of wealth 
 and joy. He had, in the meantime, sold to 
 "Harper's Magazine," for a large price (at least 
 in those days it was considered large) , the product 
 of his vigil at my lodging, and he was rejoicing 
 
72 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 in the sensation of affluence. He was a strange 
 being: I remember that he became angry because 
 I would not borrow some money from him, and 
 at last I was obliged to appease him by accepting 
 the loan of a small banknote. The composition 
 that he had sold was his fabric of narrative verse 
 called "The Sewing Bird," — a singularly in- 
 genious work, blending fancy with satire, which 
 had been suggested to him by the sight of one of 
 those little silver-colored birds, then a recent in- 
 vention, used by sewing girls, to hold cloth. The 
 drift of it is that much of the remunerative work 
 that should be left for women to do is pre-empted 
 and taken from them by men. It meant more at 
 that time, perhaps, than it does now. It was 
 widely read and much admired. The wish that 
 every remunerative work to which women are 
 equal should be reserved for them is, no doubt, 
 general; but there is a ludicrous side to the sub- 
 ject, as noticed by that great novelist Wilkie 
 Collins, who, in one of his dehghtful stories, re- 
 fers to " . . . Maternal societies for confining 
 poor women; Magdalen societies for reselling 
 poor women; Strong-Minded societies for put- 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 73 
 
 ting poor women into poor men's places and leav- 
 ing the poor men to shift for themselves." Still, 
 "The Sewing Bird" is a clever work, and it had 
 a good effect. 
 
 Like many persons of the Irish race, O'Brien 
 was impetuous in temper and "sudden and quick 
 in quarrel." At one time he consorted with a 
 Scotch comrade, Donald McLeod, author of a 
 novel called "Pynnshurst," and they were 
 obliged to occupy the same bed. Once, after they 
 had retired for slimiber, an angry dispute oc- 
 curred between them, relative to the question of 
 Irish or Scotch racial superiority. O'Brien was 
 aggressively positive as to the predominant merit 
 of the Irish. McLeod was violent in assertion 
 of the incomparable excellence of the Scotch. "I 
 win not tolerate your insolence," said McLeod. 
 "You can do as you please," said O'Brien. "I 
 will demand satisfaction!" shouted McLeod; "a 
 friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning." 
 "Very well," answered O'Brien, at the same time 
 pulling the blanket over himself, "you know 
 where to find me, in the morning!" Both the 
 belligerents were sincere in their ferocious inten- 
 
74 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 tion, but neither of them could resist the sud- 
 denly comic aspect of their dispute, and so the 
 quarrel ended in a laugh. The incident was 
 related by O'Brien. 
 
 The following letter, characteristic of O'Brien, 
 and genially expressive of his peculiar humor, 
 was addressed by him to an old friend, the ad- 
 mirable, once eminent, comedian John E. Owens 
 (1823-'86), the most essentially humorous actor 
 that has adorned our stage since the time of 
 Burton: 
 
 November 21, 1860. 
 Is your name Owens? This is a query whieh I wish 
 to have distinctly answered. I remember, on a recent oc- 
 casion, meeting a person whose mental attractions were only 
 equalled by the beauty of his physical development. That 
 person answered to the name above mentioned. As I learn 
 that an individual bearing the same cognomen is now man- 
 aging an insignificant theatre in New Orleans, I address 
 this epistle to that place, in the hope of discovering whether 
 the Knight errant Owens and the manag'er Owens are one 
 and indivisible — which it seems the Union is not. Inde- 
 pendent of the personal interest which I feel in ascertain- 
 ing the welfare and locality of my New York friend, I have 
 a small interest in a comedy of surpassing beauty which he 
 bore away with him from this city, as Jason bore the golden 
 fleece from Colchis. You see this matter is ad-Jasoned to 
 the other. Now, if you are the lovely and fascinating Owens 
 
[BOHEMIAN DAYS 75 
 
 that whilom I knew, I wish you to tell me whether you 
 will take the comedy on the terms named, or any other 
 man? If you take it, please get it copied, and charge me, 
 out of the first instalment, with copying charges as well as 
 with a certain ten dollars, money lent, and forward balance. 
 If not let me have a line, and I will enclose the last men- 
 tioned filthy lucre, and forward at same time express ex- 
 penses for the transmission of the MS. here. I have no 
 other copy of the gorgeous production, and do not want to 
 lose the chances of getting it done here. Please reply at 
 once. If your name IS Owens, I may tell you without 
 breach of confidence that all our friends are well. Tom 
 Placide has multiplied into ten acts instead of his usual 
 five. Wilkins has lately been convicted of a deaf-aleation. 
 Cushman, thank God! is going, and Booth is come. Pre- 
 senting with all due incoherence the assurance of my dis- 
 tinguished consideration, I remain (if your name IS Owens), 
 your sincere friend, j,_ j o'BEIEN. 
 
 Address, Harper Brothers, Franklin Square, New York. 
 
 O'Brien's career was brief, stormy, laborious, 
 sometimes gay, sometimes miserable, and its 
 close, though honorable, was sad. He was a 
 native of Limerick, born about 1828. He was 
 graduated from Dublin University, and after 
 leaving that institution he settled in London and 
 edited a paper there, which failed. In 1852 he 
 came to New York, bringing to such prominent 
 editors as Major Noah and General Morris let- 
 
76 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ters of introduction from Dr. R. Shelton Mac- 
 kensie, then resident in Liverpool, later eminent 
 in the journalism of Philadelphia. On his arrival 
 in America O'Brien entered with vigor upon the 
 duties of the literary vocation, writing for "The 
 Home Journal," "The Evening Post," "The New 
 York Times," "The Whig Review," "Harper's 
 Magazine," and other publications, and sometimes 
 contributing short plays to the New York stage: 
 the elder Wallack and Lester Wallack were 
 among his friends. "When I first knew O'Brien," 
 so wrote Aldrich, in a letter to me, "he was trim- 
 ming the wick of 'The Lantern,' which went 
 out shortly afterward." "The Lantern" was a 
 paper that had been started by John Brougham, 
 the comedian. The best of O'Brien's works were 
 first published in "Putnam's Magazine," "Har- 
 per's" and "The Atlantic." The last article that 
 came from his pen was printed in "Vanity Fair," 
 a comic paper that struggled through much 
 vicissitude, during the war time, and, though its 
 payments were small, was of vital service to 
 our Bohemian circle. When the war began 
 O'Brien promptly sought service in the field, 
 
BOHEMIAN DAYS 77 
 
 at first with the New York Seventh Regi- 
 ment, later with the forces led by General 
 Lander: on whose staff he held the position of a 
 Volunteer Aid. On February 6, 1862, in a fight 
 with the cavalry of the Confederate Colonel Ash- 
 ley, he was dangerously wounded, the shoulder- 
 joint of his left arm being smashed into frag- 
 ments. On April 6, at Cumberland, Virginia, he 
 died, of that wound. Aldrich and O'Brien had 
 applied, almost simultaneously, for the place of 
 Aid to General Lander, and a letter giving the 
 appointment had been addressed to Aldrich, at 
 Portsmouth, but, by accident, it failed to reach 
 him, as he had left that place, and so the coveted 
 position fell to O'Brien. One of Henry Clapp's 
 grim witticisms glanced at that subject: "Al- 
 drich, I see," he said, "has been shot in O'Brien's 
 shoulder." The old cynic did not like either of 
 them. As to O'Brien, friendship had to be char- 
 itable toward infirmities of character and errors 
 of conduct. He lacked both moral courage and 
 inteEectual restraint. He was wayward, choleric, 
 defiant, sometimes almost savage: but he was 
 generous in disposition and capable of heroism, 
 
78 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 and his works afford abundant evidence of the 
 imagination that accompanies genius and the 
 grace that authenticates literary art. Among my 
 iBohemian comrades he was not the most beloved, 
 but he had the right to be the most admired. His 
 poem of "The Fallen Star," already mentioned, 
 contains stanzas in which, unconsciously, he re- 
 vealed the better part of his own nature, with 
 some part of his own experience, and which 
 pathetically indicate the writer's personality and 
 the influence it diffused: 
 
 A brilliant boy that I once knew, 
 
 In far-off, happy days of old, 
 With sweet frank face and eyes of blue 
 
 And hair that shone like gold; 
 
 A figure sinewy, lithe and strong, 
 
 A laugh infectious in its glee, 
 A voice as beautiful as song 
 
 When heard along the sea. 
 
 Like fruit upon a southern slope, 
 
 He ripened on all natural food, — 
 The winds that thrill the skyey cope. 
 
 The sunlight's golden blood; 
 
 And in his talk I oft discerned 
 
 A timid music vaguely heard, 
 The fragments of a song scarce learned, 
 
 The essays of a bird. ■ 
 
III. 
 
 VAGRANT COMRADES. 
 
 It was my fortune, when I was a student at 
 the Dane Law School of Harvard College, 
 to win the favorable notice of that honored Pro- 
 fessor, Theophilus Parsons, and to be treated 
 very kindly by him. On one occasion, after his 
 morning lecture had ended, he called me into his 
 study and imparted to me some serious advice. 
 "I am sorry," he said, "to observe that you are 
 turning your attention to Literature. I have 
 seen your poems in the newspapers. Don't think 
 of living by yom- pen. Stick to the Law! You 
 will be an excellent lawyer. You wiU have a 
 profession to depend on. You can make your 
 way. You can have home and friends. Stick to 
 the Law. I once knew a brilliant yoimg man — 
 Paine was his name — who started much as you 
 have done. He might have had a prosperous 
 and happy Ufa. He had much abihty. But he 
 left the Law. He took to writing. They had 
 
 79 
 
80 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 him here and there and everywhere, with his 
 poems. He was convivial: he wasted his talents; 
 and he sank into an early and rather a dishon- 
 ored grave. Don't make a mistake at the be- 
 ginning. Stick to the Law, and the Law will 
 reward you." 
 
 So spoke my sage and friendly old preceptor, 
 tersely and comprehensively stating the safe, 
 conservative, prudential view of the literary 
 vocation. There has, at all times, been some 
 reason for that view. Macaulay said, of Rich- 
 ardson, the novelist, "he kept his shop and his 
 shop kept him." "Let your pen be your pas- 
 time," said Sir Walter Scott, "your profession 
 your sheet anchor." At the time when Professor 
 Parsons imparted to me that earnest admonition 
 to shim the Muses the reasons for it seemed de- 
 cisive. The conditions of the literary hfe in 
 America, certainly, were not propitious. The 
 really vital literary movement in om- country had, 
 indeed, begun; but that fact was not sharply 
 reahzed. The number of writers who were obtain- 
 ing a subsistence from distinctively literary labor 
 was smaU. Dana was a man of fortune. Halleck 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 81 
 
 was an accountant. Bryant was an editor. Long- 
 fellow was a eoUege professor. Hawthorne 
 was an official in the Federal service. Charles 
 Sprague was a banker. Holmes was a physician. 
 Prosperity such as attended "The Lamplighter," 
 by Miss Cummings, and "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 
 by Mrs. Stowe (I remember seeing boys, with 
 baskets full of copies of the latter novel, running 
 in the streets and selling them, as pedlers sell 
 apples), was extraordinarily exceptional. Poe, 
 notwithstanding his marvellous genius, — or be- 
 cause of it, — ^had lived in comparative poverty 
 and died in destitution. The number of writers 
 had considerably increased since the epoch of 
 Washington Irving, and increase in nimiber of 
 writers had not been attended with increase of 
 emolument from writing. "You young fellows," 
 said that author, addressing George William 
 Curtis, "are not so lucky as I was, for when I 
 began to write there were only a few of us." 
 The payment for literary product fifty years ago, 
 unless in exceptional cases, was very small. A 
 precarious vocation! there could be no doubt 
 about it. 
 
82 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Experience was to teach me what counsel 
 failed to teach. A harder time for writers 
 has not been known in our country than the time 
 that immediately preceded the outbreak of the 
 Civil War; yet that was a time when the sun 
 shone bright on the fields of Bohemia, and the 
 roses were in bloom: a time of frequent hardship, 
 sometimes of actual want: I learned then what 
 it is to lack a lodging, and how it feels to be com- 
 pelled to walk all night in the streets of a great 
 city, alone, hungry and cold: not a time of con- 
 tinuous, unalloyed comfort, and yet almost 
 always a time of careless mirth. It did not last 
 long. By the stroke of death and the vicissitude 
 of fortune the circle of my early artistic associ- 
 ation in New York was broken in 1861, after 
 which year our favorite haunt, Pf aff 's Cave, was 
 gradually deserted by the votaries of the quiU 
 and the brush, and the day of dreams was ended. 
 Writing to me, in 1880, the poet Aldrich said: 
 "How they have all gone, 'the old famiUar faces'! 
 What a crowd of ghosts people that narrow strip 
 of old Bohemian country through which we 
 passed long ago!" Even then, at the distance of 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 83 
 
 only twenty years, that period of freedom and 
 frolic seemed vague and shadowy. Now, at the 
 distance of half a century, it seems, in the 
 dim vista of the Past, like a phantom that 
 wavers in a dream. Not one of my old comrades 
 of 1859-'60 is living now, and, for the most part, 
 the mention of their names would mean nothing 
 to the present generation of readers. Yet it is a 
 fact within the experience of every close observer 
 of his time that men and women of extraordinary 
 abiUty and charm pass across the scene and van- 
 ish from it, leaving a potent impression of char- 
 acter, of mind, and even of genius, yet leaving 
 no endurable evidence of their exceptional worth. 
 Such persons, of whom the world hears nothing, 
 are, sometimes, more interesting than some per- 
 sons, — ^writers and the like, — of whom the world 
 hears much. They deserve commemoration; 
 occasionally they receive it. Browning's poem of 
 "Waring" has done more to preserve the inter- 
 esting memory of Alfred Dommett than any- 
 thing has done that Dommett wrote: Matthew 
 Arnold's poem of "Oberman" has cast a halo 
 around the name of Senancour. 
 
84 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Prominent in the singular group of writers 
 with whom I became associated in 1 859-' 60 was 
 Edward G. P. Wilkins, the journalist, whom I 
 have already mentioned, a man of brilliant talent 
 and singular charm. He was a native of Bos- 
 ton, and his early experience of journalism 
 was gained in that city. When I met him he 
 was associated with "The New York Herald." 
 He had attracted the attention of the elder 
 James Gordon Bennett by writing an excel- 
 lent account of the Crystal Palace exhibition 
 (the building stood where Bryant Park now 
 is, at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 42d 
 Street, New York), and that sagacious editor 
 had rapidly advanced him. He was an edi- 
 torial writer, and also he held the office of musical 
 and dramatic critic. He was a fluent penman, di- 
 rect, exphcit, humorous, ready with a reason 
 for every opinion that he pronounced, and 
 fortunate in the possession of an equable temper 
 and a refined taste. His favorite author was 
 Montaigne, whose works he read in the orig- 
 inal French as well as in the English trans- 
 lation, and he was deeply sympathetic with 
 
EDWARD G. P. WILKINS 
 I'hotogroph by J. Guniey & Son, X. T. 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 85 
 
 the later poems of Whittier: facts worth noting, 
 because every man is perceived, at least in part, 
 by knowledge of his loves in literature as well 
 as by knowledge of his friends. He was a tall, 
 slender man, of delicate constitution, having 
 regular features, dark hair, and remarkably fine 
 blue eyes. He stooped a little, and he was 
 slightly deaf. His deafness, I observed, became 
 peculiarly dense on occasions when he did not 
 wish to hear. Noisy, intrusive persons, angry 
 theatrical managers, and other belligerent indi- 
 viduals, when stating their grievances and mak- 
 ing their complaints to him, were favored with 
 coiu-teous attention; but, with an extreme placid- 
 ity of demeanor, he would request a second or a 
 third recital of their remarks, and often then 
 would misunderstand them. His tact in discom- 
 fiting a bully or quelUng the clamor of a fool was 
 extraordinary. He was scrupulously elegant in 
 attire and carelessly so in manner, and his im- 
 perturbable, humorous aff abiUty was especially 
 attractive. For the discreet management of his 
 talents and professional opportunities, as well 
 as for the polish of his manners, he was some- 
 
86 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 what indebted to the friendship of Mme. Cora 
 de Wilhorst, a popular vocalist of the period 
 (she was the daughter of Reuben Withers, of 
 New York, and it is recorded of her that she 
 made a brilliant first appearance in opera, 
 January 28, 1857, at the Academy of Music, as 
 Lucia), therein being fortunate; because no in- 
 fluence can be more auspicious for any clever 
 youth than that of an accomplished woman, 
 acquainted with the ways of the social world and 
 sincerely desirous of promoting his welfare. 
 
 Wilkins dwelt in a house, still standing, at 
 the northeast corner of Amity and Greene 
 streets, and there he died, in the spring of 1861. 
 On the night but one before his death I sat by 
 his bedside, from sunset tiU morning, and I had 
 reason then to know that, beneath a blandly 
 cynical exterior, his mind was reverent, his spirit 
 gentle, and his heart affectionate. His disease 
 was pneumonia, and he suffered much. It is hard 
 to look upon anguish that you cannot relieve. 
 Once, in the course of that dreadful night, he 
 asked me to read to him, — at first a descriptive 
 passage from Carlyle; then from the Bible. He 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 87 
 
 knew (though I did not) that his last hour was 
 near. A cold, heavy, desolate rain was falling 
 when I left him, which lasted all that day, but the 
 next morning was beautifully clear and bright. 
 I thought that I should find him better, but when, 
 imaware of what had happened, I entered his 
 chamber, all things were in order, and he was 
 dead. His grave is in Chelsea, Massachusetts. 
 Is there any reason why readers of the present 
 day should care to hear of him? I think there is. 
 He was the first among American journalists to 
 introduce into our press the French custom of 
 the Dramatic FeuiUeton. Many writers of this 
 period are, — without being aware of it, — fol- 
 lowing an example that was set by him; writing 
 about the stage and society in a facetious, 
 satirical vein, striving to hghten heavy or barren 
 themes with playful banter, and to gild the 
 dreariness of criticism with the glitter of wit. 
 Wilkins not only attempted that task, but he 
 accomphshed it. His writings are buried in 
 the files of "The Herald," "The Saturday 
 Press" and "The Leader," and they are buried 
 forever. His comedy called "Young New York" 
 
88 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 survives. Laura Keene produced it, in the au- 
 tumn of 1856, and herself acted in it, as also did 
 George Jordan, Charles Wheatleigh, and Tom 
 Johnston, three of the most expert comedians 
 that have adorned the theatre in our time. 
 Wilkins had a hand in other dramatic composi- 
 tions, and he was instrumental in bringing upon 
 our stage the first version that was acted in 
 America of "Les Pattes des Mouche," the most 
 charming of Sardou's comedies, — originally pro- 
 duced by Wallack, under the name of "Henri- 
 ette"; now widely known and popular as "A 
 Scrap of Paper." He did not habitually frequent 
 Pfaff's Cave, but he often came there, and his 
 presence afforded a signal contrast with that of 
 some of our companions. 
 
 The group, seldom complete, included Clapp, 
 Howland, Wilkins, O'Brien, George Arnold, 
 Frank Wood, Charles Dawson Shanly, N. G. 
 Shepherd, Charles D. Gardette, Walt Whitman, 
 Thomas Blades de Walden, W. L. Symonds, 
 T. B. Aldrich, Edward MuUen, and the writer 
 of these words. Once in a while, at night, the 
 table became surrounded. One such occasion I 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 89 
 
 I recall when the humorist Artemus Ward 
 (Charles F. Browne) made his first appear- 
 ance there, accompanied by an acquaintance 
 whose name he mentioned, and whom, with re- 
 assuring words, he gleefully commanded to take 
 a seat. "Don't be afraid," he said: "they won't 
 hurt you. These are Bohemians. A Bohemian 
 is an educated hoss-thief!" On another such 
 occasion, Mr. W. D. Howells, now the volu- 
 minous and celebrated novelist, — ^he whose efful- 
 gent criticism has, to the consternation of the 
 literary world, dimmed the shining stars of Scott 
 and Thackeray, — came into the cave, especially, 
 as afterward was divtilged, for the purpose of 
 adoring the illustrious Whitman. Mr. HoweUs, 
 at that time, was a respectable youth, in black 
 raiment, who had only just entered on the path 
 to glory, while Whitman, by reason of that odor- 
 iferous classic, the "Leaves of Grass," was in 
 possession of the local Parnassus. The meeting, 
 of course, was impressive. Walt, at that time, 
 affected the Pompadour style of shirt and jacket, 
 — ^making no secret of his brawny anatomy, — ■ 
 and his hirsute chest and complacent visage 
 
90 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 were, as usual, on liberal exhibition: and he 
 tippled a little brandy and water and received 
 his admirer's homage with characteristic be- 
 nignity. There is nothing like genius — ^unless 
 possibly it may be leather. 
 
 I have seen a singular reference to that mo- 
 mentous occasion, written and pubhshed, in later 
 years, by the renowned Mr. Howells. "At one 
 moment of the orgy" (so runs that reference), 
 "which went but slowly for an orgy, we were 
 joined by some belated Bohemians, whom the 
 others made a great clamor over. I was given to 
 understand they were just recovered from a fear- 
 ful debauch; their locks were stiU damp from the 
 towels used to restore them, and their eyes were 
 very frenzied. I was presented to those types, 
 who neither said nor did anything worthy of their 
 awful appearance, but dropped into seats at the 
 table and ate of the supper with an appetite that 
 seemed poor. I stayed, hoping vainly for worse 
 things, xmtil eleven o'clock, and then I rose and 
 took my leave of a hterary condition that had 
 distinctly disappointed me." 
 
 The fine fancy and fertile invention that have 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 91 
 
 made Mr. Howells everywhere illustrious were 
 never better exemplified than in these remark- 
 able words ; for, as a matter of fact, no such inci- 
 dents occurred, either then or at any other time, 
 nor did the great novelist ever see them, except in 
 his "mind's eye." Fancy is both a wonderful 
 faculty for a writer of fiction and a sweet boon 
 for the reader of it. I have regretted the absence 
 of Mr. Howells from a casual festival which oc- 
 curred in Pfaif' s Cave, much about the time of 
 his advent there, when the lads (those tre- 
 mendous revellers!) drank each a glass of beer 
 in honor of the birthday of Henry Clapp, and 
 when he might, for once, have felt the ravishing 
 charm of Walt Whitman's colossal eloquence. It 
 fell to the lot of that Great Bard, I remember, 
 to propose the hiealth of the Prince of Bohemia, 
 which he did in the following marvellous words : 
 "That's the feller!" It was my privilege to hear 
 that thrilling dehverance, and to admire and ap- 
 plaud that superb orator. Such amazing ema- 
 nations of intellect seldom occvu*, and it seems 
 indeed a pity that this one should not have had 
 ISIr. IloweUs to embroider it with his ingenious 
 
92 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 fancy and embalm it in the amber of his vera- 
 cious rhetoric. Sad to relate, he was not present; 
 and, equally sad to relate, the "types" whom 
 he met at Pfaff's Cave, and by whom he was 
 "distinctly disappointed," were quite as "dis- 
 tinctly disappointed" by him. They thought 
 him a prig. 
 
 The custom of detraction, which has been ex- 
 ceedingly prevalent in American criticism from 
 the time of the hounds that barked upon the 
 track of Edgar Poe, is not only pernicious but 
 ridiculous, and it is right and desirable that pro- 
 test should be made against it. The men of 
 whom I am writing had faults, no doubt, and 
 many of them: all the angels, of course, lived 
 in Boston, at that time, and were marshalled, 
 by Frank Underwood, aroimd "The Atlantic 
 Monthly": but those old comrades of mine were 
 not sots, nor were they given to "debauchery." 
 Most of them were poor, and they were poorly 
 paid. As an example, I will mention that for 
 my poem of "After All," which has since found 
 its way into almost every compilation of verse 
 made within the last fifty years, I received three 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 93 
 
 dollars — ^and was glad to receive so much. Rev- 
 elry requires money : and at the time Mr. HoweUs 
 met those Bohemians, — ^with the "damp locks" 
 and the "frenzied eyes," — it is probable that the 
 group did not possess enough money among them 
 all to buy a quart bottle of champagne. Further- 
 more, they were writers of remarkable ability, and 
 they were under the stringent necessity of work- 
 ing continually and very hard : and it seems perti- 
 nent to suggest that such a poem, for instance, 
 as George Arnold's "Old Pedagogue," or Fitz- 
 James O'Brien's Ode in commemoration of 
 Kane, or Charles Dawson Shanly's "Walker 
 of the Snow," is not to be produced from the 
 stimulation of alcohol. Literature is a matter 
 of brains, not drugs. It would be equally just 
 and sensible for American criticism to cherish 
 American hterature, and to cease from carping 
 about the infirmities, whether actual or putative, 
 of persons dead and gone, who can no longer 
 defend themselves. 
 
 It would be idle to allege that complete har- 
 mony existed among those vagrant comrades of 
 mine, — for complete harmony among votaries of 
 
94 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 any form of art has never yet existed, and, in- 
 deed, it is impossible. Nevertheless there was a 
 sentiment of fraternity among those Bohemian 
 writers, such as I have not since observed. 
 Grcorge Arnold was the most entirely beloved 
 member of that group. His manly character, his 
 careless good-humor, his blithe temperament, 
 his personal beauty, and his winning manners 
 made him attractive to everybody. His numer- 
 ous stories have not been collected, but his poems 
 (gathered and published under my editorial care) 
 survive, and their fluent, melodious blending of 
 rueful mirth and tender feeling with lovely tints 
 of natural description, — constituting an irresisti- 
 ble charm, — ^have commended them to a wide 
 circle of readers. One of the saddest days of my 
 life was the day when we laid him in his grave, in 
 Greenwood, Another much loved companion 
 was Shanly, — of whose writings scarce any rec- 
 ord exists, — ^modest, silent, patient, reticent — 
 everything that is meant by the name of gentle- 
 man. His poems called "The Briar-Wood Pipe" 
 and "Rifleman, Shoot Me a Fancy Shot" ought 
 long to preserve his memory, and perhaps they 
 
GEORGE AEXOLD 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 95 
 
 will. To him it was a matter of indifference. I 
 have never known a writer who was so absolutely 
 careless of literary reputation : indeed, it was not 
 until after we had been acquainted for several 
 months that I learned that he had written any- 
 thing. He never spoke to me of his writings, 
 till, at the last, when, in 1875, he was leaving 
 New York for Florida (where he died, April 14, 
 that year), he asked me to act as his literary 
 executor, in case any publisher should care to 
 put forth a book of them. The contrasts of per- 
 sonality thus exhibited were fuU of interest. 
 Perhaps the most abrupt of them was that af- 
 forded by the restful, indolent, elegant demeanor 
 of Wilkins and the vital, breezy, exuberant de- 
 meanor of Fitz-James O'Brien, — the most repre- 
 sentative Bohemian writer whom it has been my 
 fortune to know. 
 
 John Brougham, the comedian, expressed to 
 me the opinion that O'Brien never cared much 
 for any person with Avhom he did not quarrel, 
 and as both of them were Irishmen that opinion, 
 perhaps, was correct. O'Brien sometimes in- 
 volved himself, or became involved, in quarrels. 
 
96 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 proceeding to physical violence. Persons whom 
 he disliked he would not recognize, and in the 
 expression of opinion, especially as to questions 
 of literary art, he was explicit. Candor of judg- 
 ment, indeed, relative to literary product was the 
 inveterate custom of that Bohemian group. 
 Unmerciful chaiF pursued the perpetrator of any 
 piece of writing that impressed those persons as 
 trite, conventional, artificial, laboriously solemn, 
 or insincere; and they never spared each other 
 from the barb of ridicule. It was a salutary ex- 
 perience for young writers, because it habituated 
 them to the custom not only of speaking the 
 truth, as they understood it, about the writings 
 of their associates, but of hearing the truth, as 
 others understood it, about their own productions. 
 "I greatly like your poem of 'Orgia,' " O'Brien 
 said to me, "and I like it all the more because 
 I did not think you could write anything so 
 good." 
 
 The quarrels in which O'Brien participated 
 were more often pugilistic than literary ; contests 
 into which he plunged, with Celtic delight in the 
 tempest of combat. He was constitutionally val- 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 97 
 
 orous, but, as his valor lacked discretion and he 
 did not hesitate to engage with giants, he was 
 usually defeated. He came into the cave late 
 one night, I remember, adorned with a black eye, 
 which had been bestowed upon him by a casual 
 antagonist in Broadway, because of a difference 
 of opinion respecting the right of passage on the 
 side- walk; and, producing from one pocket a 
 vial with a leech in it, which, — concealed in a 
 white handkerchief, — ^he apphed to the region of 
 his damaged optic, he produced from another 
 pocket the manuscript of a poem that he said 
 he had that evening written (his residence, then, 
 was the old Hone House), called "The Lost 
 Steamship" ; and he read that poem to our circle 
 in a magnificent manner, with all the passionate 
 vigor, all the weird feeling, and aU the tremor 
 of haunted imagination that its tragical theme 
 requires. 
 
 A steamship had recently been wrecked, on the 
 Atlantic coast, with much loss of life. The poem 
 is the story of the disaster, and that story is told, 
 to a fisherman on the shore, by a person who 
 seems, at first, to be the only survivor of the 
 
98 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 wreck. That speaker declares that all on board 
 the ship were drowned, — ^the last man to go down 
 with her being the Second Mate : then, suddenly, 
 he stands revealed as the ghost of the mariner, 
 the final victim engulfed by the sea. I have 
 heard many readings: I have never heard one in 
 which afflicting reality, hysterical excitement, 
 shuddering dread, and tremulous pathos were so 
 strangely blended as they were in O'Brien's read- 
 ing of his "Lost Steamship." 
 
 Poor O'Brien's combats were, no doubt, seri- 
 ous enough to him, but to most of his associates 
 they seemed comic. His Waterloo, as a fistic 
 belligerent, — a defeat which befell on June 14, 
 1858, at the New York Hotel, — ^was, as to some 
 of its results, playfully indicated to me by the 
 sm-geon who attended the damaged warrior im- 
 mediately after the battle. "He looked" ( so wrote 
 that hvmiorous friend) "like Cruikshank's 
 picture of 'the man wot wun the fight.' Never 
 have I seen the human nose more completely 
 comminuted than in my patient's case. Even his 
 tailor wouldn't have recognized him. I remem- 
 ber that nose particularly, on account of his 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 99 
 
 urgent solicitude that I should make it slightly 
 aquiline, but avoid the Israelitish extreme. 
 Eomans rather than Hebrews furnished his 
 text." 
 
 O'Brien is here portrayed as he was after his 
 incorrigible, gypsy-Uke wildness of temperament 
 had asserted absolute control over his conduct. 
 He had not always been reckless; he had not 
 always been environed with difficulties. The be- 
 ginning of his hterary career, as proved by the 
 number and variety of his contributions to New 
 York magazines and papers, was signalized by 
 steadUy ambitious eifort and fertile industry — 
 not whoUy unrewarded. The poet George 
 Arnold, who met him before I did, wrote: 
 "When I first knew O'Brien, in 1856-'57, he 
 had elegant rooms; a large and valuable hbrary; 
 piles of manuscripts; dressing-cases; pictures; a 
 ward-robe of much splendor; and all sorts of 
 knick-knackery, such as young bachelors love to 
 collect." Other persons, since dead, who knew 
 him soon after his arrival in New York, in 1852, 
 have described him to me as a man of xmcom- 
 monly attractive aspect, — making mention of his 
 
100 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 athletic figure, genial face, fair complexion, 
 pleasing smile, waving brown hair, and winning 
 demeanor. When I first met him a change had 
 occurred, alike in his person and his circum- 
 stances. He had come to Boston, as an assistant 
 to that energetic, resolute, intrepid, tumultuous 
 theatrical manager H. L. Bateman (the H. L. 
 signifying Hezekiah Linthicum), who was then 
 directing the professional tour of the beautiful 
 actress Matilda Heron, — afterward the wife of 
 the accomplished musician Robert Stoepel, — and 
 it was easy to perceive that he had experienced 
 considerable vicissitude and was a confirmed liter- 
 ary gypsy. His countenance bore a slight trace 
 of rough usage; his hair, closely cropped, had 
 begun to be a httle thin ; but his expressive gray- 
 blue eyes were clear and brilliant; his laughter 
 was bluff and breezy; his voice was strong and 
 musical ; his manner was gay ; and he was a cheer- 
 ful companion, — ^making the most of To-day, and 
 caring not at all for To-morrow. 
 
 In a letter to me, written in 1880, Aldrich, in 
 his serio-comic way, mentions facts about 
 O'Brien that help to make more distinct the im- 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 101 
 
 age of his erratic personality and the story of his 
 wayward career: 
 
 I mada O'Brien's acquaintance in 1853. He once told me 
 he was graduated from Dublin University, and that, on 
 leaving college, he inherited from his father some $40,000, 
 all of which he handsomely spent, in the course of two 
 years, in London. 
 
 The article (about O'Brien) I prepared for "Harper's 
 Weekly," in 1862, was returned to me. I distinctly re- 
 member my disgust. The manuscript, which lay in a drawer 
 of my work-table for two or three years afterward, was 
 ^either lost or destroyed at the time (1865) I moved to 
 Boston. 
 
 In the years 1858- '59 O'Brien and I were very intimate; 
 we never let a day pass without meeting. I recollect that 
 I treated this period in detail in the missing paper. I 
 wish you had it, or that I could lay hold of the ghost of it 
 in my memory. 
 
 I enclose to you, as a curiosity, the first letter I ever 
 received from O'Brien. It is the only instance I know of 
 his signing himself "Fitz- James de Courcy O'Brien." You 
 know he was "Baron Inchiquin," or something of the sort. 
 I used to call him Baron Linchpin, when we were merry. 
 
 The merriest days depress me most when I look back to 
 them: — as compensation, I can smile at the saddest. I 
 half smile as I recall how hurt I was on an occasion when 
 O'Brien borrowed $35.00 of me, to pay a pressing bill, and, 
 instead of paying the bill, gave a little dinner at Del- 
 monico's to which he did not invite me! Arnold and Clapp 
 were there, and perhaps you. I gave that dinner! 
 
 Did O'Brien ever finish a short serial story, "The Red 
 
102 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Petticoat," which he began in some New York newspaper? 
 I read the opening chapters in proof slips, but don't remem- 
 ber that I ever saw any more of it. There was a fine 
 description of "a run" on a shabby Bowery bank, in the 
 first chapter. The picture of the grim, half-insane crowd 
 hurling itself against the bank doors lingers in my memory 
 as something wonderfully good. 
 
 O'Brien was not the heir to a title, nor did 
 he pretend to be. The clever, piquant, tart, and 
 rather malicious writer, Charles F. Briggs, once 
 prominent in New York journalism as "Harry 
 Franco," originated and published the incorrect 
 statement, — ^which was accepted by Aldrich and 
 others, — that O'Brien was a relative of Smith 
 O'Brien, at one time conspicuous as an Irish 
 "agitator," and was heir to the title borne by 
 Smith O'Brien's brother. Lord Inchiquin. Fitz- 
 James's father was a lawyer : his mother's maiden 
 name was de Coiu-cy. The story of "The Scarlet 
 Petticoat" (not Red) was begun in a paper 
 called "Leslie's Stars and Stripes," published, 
 for a few months, in 1859, but it was not com- 
 pleted. Some of O'Brien's writings have not 
 been found. In 1881 I caused the publication of 
 a volume of his works, containing forty-three 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 103 
 
 poems and thirteen stories; and of his writings 
 that I have collected, from various sources, for 
 a companion volume there are thirty pieces in 
 prose and fifteen in verse, besides several plays, 
 and many interesting fragments — material 
 enough to make a book of five himdred pages. 
 
 O'Brien's letter to Aldrich, who was then sub- 
 editor of the New York "Home Journal," is 
 characteristic, in its playful vein: 
 
 Waverley House, Madison, N. J., 
 Sept. (something or other), Tuesday. 
 Dear Sir: I send you a poem. If I finish another before 
 I go to bed to-night, I will enclose it also. If you do not 
 find it, conclude that it is not finished. The one I send 
 you is a ballad, horrible and indigestible. 
 
 Make such corrections as you think fit, preserving care- 
 fully, at the same time, the language, spelling, punctuation, 
 and arrangement of the verses. Anything else that you 
 find "out of kilter" you can alter. 
 
 Seriously, if you can improve, do it fearlessly. It is the 
 !A.ugur who speaks to Tarquin. "Cut boldly"; an auger who 
 trusts that he does not bore. 
 
 Paradox as it may seem, "the Fall" has already arisen. 
 I saw her veil fluttering on the hills the other day, and some 
 of the earliest and most servile of the trees have already 
 put on her livery. Come out and be presented. . . . 
 Yours sincerely, 
 PITZ-JAMES DE COURCY O'BRIEN. 
 
104 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 O'Brien had a presentiment of his early and 
 violent death. A letter to me, from the clever 
 and kindly artist Albert R. Waud, long since 
 dead, who was in his company "at the front," 
 intimates this, in words that make a significant 
 picture: 
 
 After O'Brien became Aid on Lander's staff a feeling 
 took possession of him that he would not long survive the 
 commission: under its influence he became, at times, 
 strangely softened. His buoyant epicureanism partly de- 
 serted him. He showed greater consideration for others 
 and was less convivial than was his wont. 
 
 One night I rode with him to the camp of the First 
 Massachusetts Battery, where the evening passed pleas- 
 antly, with cigars and punch. Some one sang the song, 
 from "Don Csesar de Bazan," "Then let me like a soldier 
 die." Next morning he started, to join the General 
 (Lander) at Harper's Ferry. As we rode he kept repeat- 
 ing the words of the song; said he appreciated it the more, 
 as he had a presentiment that he should be shot, before 
 long. He would not be rallied out of it, but remarked that 
 he was content; and, when we parted, said good-by, as 
 cheerfully as need be. 
 
 I heard, afterward, that medical incompetence had more 
 to do with his death than the wound. How true it was I 
 don't know. But the same thing was said of General 
 Lander; and there was, at that, time, a great want of 
 surgical experience in the field. 
 
 There is a temptation, which must be resisted. 
 
VAGRANT COMRADES 105 
 
 to linger on the theme of days before Black 
 Care had claimed acquaintance — of days when 
 Hope beckoned and Youth replied — and of 
 vagrant comrades as heedless and merry as the 
 whitecaps of the sea. Enough, however, has 
 been said to indicate the character of a pectdiar 
 period of literary transition in the chief city of 
 America, — "that unfriendly time" for letters, as 
 the poet Stedman called it, who had dwelt in it 
 and closely observed it, — a period when the age 
 of Annuals and Keepsakes and Friendship's 
 Offerings had not quite passed away, and when 
 the epoch of free thinking and bold expression 
 had not become entirely established. The pro- 
 pulsive influences of that period, greatly broad- 
 ened and strengthened, are splendidly operative 
 now, and the hard vicissitudes of such a case as 
 that of O'Brien would be needless or impossible 
 to-day. Poet, romancer, wanderer, soldier, he 
 sang his song, he told his story, he met his fate 
 like a brave man, giving his life for his adopted 
 land, and dying, — with much promise vmfulfilled, 
 — ^when only thirty-four years old. As I turn 
 away from his grave I turn away, hkewise, from 
 
106 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the whole strange scene of vagrant literary life. 
 The gypsy camp is broken. The music is hushed. 
 The fires are put out. The gypsies are all gone. 
 There is no Bohemia any more, nor ever will be, 
 except in luxury's lap or imagination's dream. 
 
IV. 
 
 OMVEE WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 As I look back to the distant days of my youth, 
 in the old cities of Boston and Cambridge, and 
 recall the reverent devotion to literature and its 
 eminent professors that then prevailed, I am 
 somewhat painfully conscious of a great change 
 that has taken place, either in pubhc sentiment 
 as to those subjects or in my own mind. Those 
 were the days when Dana, Bryant, Halleck, 
 Cooper, and Washington Irving were hallowed 
 names, never thought of without spontaneous 
 admiration nor mentioned without profound 
 respect. Those were the days, also, of Long- 
 fellow, Emerson, Whittier, Lowell, Felton, 
 Holmes, Mitchell, Whipple, and Henry Giles, — 
 to mention only a few of the men then conspicu- 
 ous in the realm of thought, — and around all 
 those names there was an atmosphere of sanctity. 
 We who were young never even dreamed of 
 doubting the authenticity of their greatness. 
 
 107 
 
108 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Reverence for them was a religion, and that 
 religion was generaEy prevalent. No such feel- 
 ing seems to exist now, relative to authors, 
 whether of the past or present. The audacious 
 New Age ignores aU reputations and challenges 
 all claims. When Charles Dickens first visited 
 Boston (it was as long ago as 1842), the girls 
 in the fine mansions that he entered would 
 throng around him and furtively cut hits of fur 
 from his seal-skin overcoat, to be treasm-ed as 
 souvenirs. No writer is idolized now, in any such 
 spirit, or in any spirit at all. In my own breast, 
 I grieve to say, the spring of hero-worship has 
 nearly run dry ; but that, I am wishful to believe, 
 is due to the lapse of time. Wordsworth has 
 noticed the "sober coloring" which, from the 
 eyes of ancient watchers of mortality, is taken 
 by "the clouds that gather round the setting svm." 
 For me, however, a remnant of that old devo- 
 tional enthusiasm stiU remains. There is, for 
 example, as there always has been, a halo aroimd 
 the name of Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 At the time of which I speak Holmes had not 
 yet written "The Autocrat," but his early poems. 
 
HOLMES 109 
 
 published in 1836 and later, were known to us 
 young readers, and we loved them well. Some 
 of them were comic, such as "My Aimt," "The 
 September Gale," and "The Height of the 
 Ridiculous," whUe some of them were martial 
 or pathetic, such as "Old Ironsides" and the song 
 of greeting to Charles Dickens. The poem of 
 "Old Ironsides" had (in 1830) saved the frigate 
 Constitution from being demohshed, and we 
 could see her, stiU afloat, in the harbor, oif the 
 Navy Yard at Charlestown. The Dickens song 
 had given to us one crystal gem of feeling and 
 melody not to be forgotten: 
 
 The Irish harp no longer thrills, 
 
 Or breathes a fainter tone ; 
 The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, 
 
 Alas! no more is blown; 
 And Passion's burning lip bewails 
 
 Her Harold's wasted fire, 
 Still ling 'ring o 'er the dust that veils 
 
 The lord of England's lyre. 
 
 It is not surprising that Holmes charmed us, 
 for he voiced the ardor of youth and he touched, 
 at one and the same moment, the chords that 
 vibrate to laughter and to tears. Time adjusts 
 
110 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the scales in which achievement is weighed and 
 by which reputation is finally determined. Other 
 bards may have excelled Holmes, in later years, 
 and to them may have been accorded a higher 
 rank than has been accorded to him, in the esti- 
 mation of his countrymen : but no American poet 
 of the middle of the nineteenth century, — ^unless, 
 perhaps, it was Longfellow, — was so much loved 
 by the rising generation. 
 
 I saw Holmes many times before I became 
 personally acquainted with him. He dwelt, at 
 one time, in Montgomery Place, one of those 
 short, secluded streets open at only one end, like 
 the back-water eddies in the river Thames, of 
 which, in those days, Boston possessed many. I 
 suppose that, mostly, they are gone now. There 
 was Federal alley, back of the Theatre. There 
 was an alley leading from State Street into Dock 
 Square. There was an inlet to Arch Street, and 
 there was an arch, which I dimly remember. 
 There was a narrow, bleak passage leading from 
 Court Square into Washington Street, in which, 
 as he told me long afterward, Edwin P. "Whip- 
 ple (best of American literary critics) once met 
 
HOLMES 111 
 
 the illustrious lawyer and orator Rufus CHoate, 
 who passed him with a stately bow, merely 
 ejaculating, as a comment on that dingy thor- 
 oughfare, "ignominious, but convenient." I saw 
 Holmes, several times, emerging from "old 
 Montgomery Place." I saw him walking in "the 
 long path," as he afterward called it, in the 
 quaint, tender, eminently felicitous closing chap- 
 ter of "The Autocrat." I saw him (but that was 
 at a later period) slowly and sadly pacing near 
 the old Cragie mansion, on the desolate summer 
 day of the funeral of Mrs. Longfellow. Once I 
 met him on the bridge that spans the Charles 
 river, westward, from Boston to Cambridge, 
 and the encoimter was both singular and amus- 
 ing. It chanced that we were the only persons 
 then on the bridge. We were strangers; we 
 were on opposite sides of the causeway, proceed- 
 ing in different directions; and, of course, he 
 took no notice of me. Upon him, on the contrary, 
 my admiring gaze was riveted. He was walk- 
 ing slowly, was musing, and his face was exceed- 
 ingly grave; but, suddenly, without obvious rea- 
 son, he burst into laughter, and his countenance 
 
112 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 became radiant with mirth. I do not think that 
 a more illuminative indication could be cited of 
 the peculiar constitution of his mind. He was 
 unconscious of being observed. He was oif his 
 guard. He was, at that moment, — although I 
 did not know it, — the veritable humorist of the 
 Autocrat, passing instantly from a serious 
 thought to a merry one, and exultantly happy 
 in the transition and the mirth of it. Much can 
 be learned, if you have the privilege of looking 
 at a great man when he is alone, wrapt in thought, 
 and unconscious of observation. I once saw 
 Daniel Webster, a little after dawn of a sum- 
 mer morning, pacing to and fro, — ^no other per- 
 son in sight and no movement anywhere, — at the 
 extreme end of Long Wharf, in Boston; and 
 the image of that noble figure and leonine face, 
 with its gloomy, glorious eyes, has never faded 
 out of my memory. 
 
 The life of Holmes extended over almost the 
 whole of the nineteenth century. He was bom 
 August 29, 1809, and he died October 7, 1894. 
 I once heard Rufus Choate, — greatest of orators 
 that have been heard in our country! — speak on 
 
HOLMES 113 
 
 "The Last Days of Samuel Rogers," the gentle 
 poet of "The Pleasures of Memory," who lived 
 for ninety-two years, 1763 to 1855, and who, of 
 course, had passed through a seething, tumultu- 
 ous period of tremendous events and startling 
 changes, — events and changes of which, equally 
 of course, the superh speaker painted a magnifi- 
 cent picture, in "thoughts that breathe and words 
 that burn." There is, in the spacious garden of 
 Holland House, at Kensington, an arbor, facing, 
 at a little distance, Canova's superb bust of 
 ISTapoleon Bonaparte, in which cosey retreat an 
 inscription, composed and placed by Lord Hol- 
 land, glances at the friendship of that celebrated 
 nobleman with the equally celebrated poet: 
 
 Here ROGERS sat, and here forever dwell, 
 With me, the pleasures that he sang so well. 
 
 Rogers was contemporary with the war in 
 which England lost her American Colonies; 
 with the terrible French Revolution; and with 
 the entire career of Napoleon; he laiew Garrick, 
 Mrs. Siddons, and all the luminaries who circled 
 around them; he might have talked with Dr. 
 Johnson, and would have done so but for tim- 
 
114 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 idity; his time comprised, as to literature, all the 
 achievements of Bums, Scott, Wordsworth, 
 Southey, Coleridge, Lamh, Byron, Landor, 
 Shelley and Keats; and he lived to see the tri- 
 imiphs of Macaulay and Dickens and to decline 
 the office of poet laureate, in favor of Alfred 
 Tennyson. The period spanned by the life of! 
 Holmes was equally remarkable for social vicissi- 
 tudes and prodigality of marvels, and it was even 
 more remarkable for its amazing discoveries in 
 science, its diffusion of intelligence, its escape 
 from the shackles of superstition, its advance- 
 ment in civilization, and its progress toward a 
 rational fellowship of the human race. It is no 
 part of my purpose to vsrite his life or review 
 his career. I wish only to say that the reader 
 of his books discovers that he was always abreast, 
 and often in advance, of the boldest, clearest, 
 best thought of his day, upon every subject of 
 vital interest to mankind. In youth he studied 
 Law, but he soon turned from Law to Medicine, 
 and from Medicine, — in which he was highly 
 distinguished, — ^he turned to Literature, which, 
 indeed, was his natural vocation. His first pub- 
 
HOLMES 115 
 
 lication was made in 1834; his last in 1888. 
 There are thirteen volumes of his works, thus far 
 collected, — poems, novels, essays, lectures, and 
 scientific papers, — and they are a mine of wisdom 
 and beauty. 
 
 The author of "The Voiceless," "The Cham- 
 bered NautUus," "Under the Violets," and "The 
 Living Temple," — ^those being only exponents, 
 eloquently indicative, in their significance, of 
 the opulent depth of his poetic nature and fac- 
 ulty, — ^has written his name in letters of golden 
 light, clear and imperishable, on the tablets of 
 our national literature. Holmes was a great 
 poet, even though he never wrote an epic, just as 
 [Gray was a great poet, for his Elegy alone. It 
 pleased Holmes, however, to write many poems 
 of "occasion," and he has been designated, some- 
 times a little disdainfully, "an occasional poet." 
 He was more than that. His achievements in that 
 vein, meanwhile, are incomparably fine, and the 
 felicitous verse for "occasions" that he wrote so 
 well was made doubly charming and splendidly 
 effective by his beautiful delivery of it. At times 
 when he had thus to speak he became eagerly 
 
116 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 animated; joyously excited; keenly conscious of 
 the intellectual value of the feat to be accom- 
 phshed and of the effect to be produced. His 
 countenance, pleasingly eccentric rather than 
 conventionally handsome, and more remarkable 
 for intensity and variety of expression than for 
 regularity of feature, would, at such moments, 
 glow with fervency of emotion ; his brilliant eyes 
 would blaze, as with interior light; his little, 
 fragile person, quivering with the passionate 
 vitality of his spirit, would tower with intrinsic 
 majesty; and his voice, clear and sympathetic but 
 neither strong nor deep, woidd tremble, and 
 sometimes momentarily break, with ardor and 
 impetuosity of feeling, while yet he never lost 
 control of either his metrical fabric, his theme, 
 his sensibility, or his hearers. He was a consvrai- 
 mate artist, whether in words or in speech. On 
 May 28, 1879, there was a festival, at the Parker 
 House in Boston, commemorative of the centen- 
 ary of the great Irish poet Thomas Moore (a 
 man of exquisite genius, and one of the chief 
 benefactors of the world, seeing that he set to 
 music, in the sweetest of words and the loveliest 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
HOLMES 117 
 
 of melodies, its most sacred feelings and its best 
 aspirations) , and, as we were going into the ban- 
 quet room, Holmes took me by the arm and said 
 to me: "I shall try, to-night, to do something as 
 nearly as possible in the manner of Moore him- 
 self, and I hope that you will like it." He was 
 as eagerly interested and as tremulously nervous 
 as a young girl might be, going to her first Re- 
 ception, and he was as ingenuous and winning 
 as a little child; yet then he was a man of 70, 
 and he was speaking to a man but little more than 
 half his age. His delivery of his poem was per- 
 fect, — surpassing all expectation. When he rose 
 to speak he gazed steadily, for a few moments, 
 at a bust of Moore, which had been placed at the 
 further end of the haU, immediately opposite to 
 him, and then, without a word of preamble, he 
 ejaculated the first line of that glowing apos- 
 trophe to the dead poet, — that exquisite interpre- 
 tation of his spirit, — that illuminative parallel 
 between the two great representative bards of 
 Ireland and Scotland ("Enchanter of Erin, 
 whose magic has bound us!"), which, to this day, 
 remains the most felicitous and eiFective occa- 
 
118 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 sional poem existent in the English language. 
 The effect of it was magical. A brilliant assem- 
 blage, hushed, almost breathless with excitement, 
 hung, enraptured, upon every syllable and every 
 tone, and when the last words rang from the 
 speaker's Ups there was such a tumult of accla- 
 mation as seemed to shake the waEs. Among the 
 auditors were James T. Fields and the tragedian 
 John McCuUough: both were deeply moved. 
 McCuUough's Irish heart, as might weU be 
 imagined, was thrilled in every fibre. Long 
 afterward, and again and again, he spoke to 
 me of that occasion and of the marvellous charm 
 of the old poet's passionate eloquence. Indeed, 
 he committed the poem to memory, and often, 
 in the course of our wanderings together, I have 
 heard his deep voice murmuring to himself that 
 lovely tribute to his native land and its immortal 
 singer: 
 
 And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided, 
 For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle. 
 
 While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded, 
 While Shajinon and Liffiey shall dimple and smile, 
 
 The land where the staff of St. Patrick was planted, 
 
 Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore, 
 
HOLMES 119 
 
 The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted 
 Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore. 
 
 Another memorable occasion when the vener- 
 able poet put forth his characteristic and excep- 
 tional powers with brilliant effect was that of 
 the festival that was given, December 3, 1879,. 
 by the pubhshers of "The Atlantic Monthly," 
 to signaUze his seventieth birthday. The place 
 was the great hall of the Brunswick Hotel, in 
 Boston. The assemblage, composed mainly of 
 American authors, was one of the most distin- 
 guished that have been seen in this country. 
 Howells, the novelist, gracefully presided, and 
 the tables were surrounded with representatives 
 of letters from almost every state in the Union. 
 Holmes, profoundly agitated by the sense of 
 private friendship and public homage, dehvered 
 his noble, pathetic poem called "The Iron Gate" 
 — that portal which, as he so feh'citously inti- 
 mates, closes behind every man whose work has 
 been done, whose task has been fulfilled, and who 
 no longer appertains to the active movement of 
 the Present Day. The feehng which pervades 
 that poem dimly glimmers, — ^like the tender. 
 
120 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 fading, golden twilight of an autumn day, — ^in 
 Goldsmith's delicious musing on "The Deserted 
 Village"; but nowhere in literature, aside from 
 Holmes's poem, can be foimd such an ample 
 expression of it. He read the lines sweetly, fer- 
 vently, solemnly, and they touched every heart. 
 If I mention my personal participation in the 
 tribute paid to him on that day, it is only that I 
 may preserve his image as I saw it then; for my 
 place was only about twenty feet away from him, 
 and while I was reading my poem in his honor 
 his emotion became so excessive that he half rose 
 from his chair, fixing upon me those brilliant 
 eyes of his, suffused with tears that he could 
 scarcely restrain, lost all consciousness of his sur- 
 roundings, knew only that he was listening to the 
 voice of reverence and love, and seemed more a 
 spirit than a man. 
 
 "Youth longs and manhood strives, but age 
 remembers." I am older now than Holmes was 
 when he wrote that line in "The Iron Gate," 
 and I need not hesitate to use the privilege of 
 age, in recalling the letter that he wrote to me, a 
 few days after that memorable meeting when. 
 
HOLMES 121 
 
 from far and near, the writers of his native land 
 assembled to celebrate their beloved chieftain: 
 
 296 Beacon Street, Dec. 6th, 1879. 
 My Dear Mr. Winter: — 
 
 I did not hurry to write to yon so much as to some other 
 friends, because I had the opportunity of telling you, face 
 to face, what I thought of your exquisite poem. I hardly 
 need say to you, what you must have been told many times, 
 that it touched everybody, and brought tears from not a 
 few eyes. It was most feelingly delivered, and yet, when 
 I come to read it, I am not disappointed in its melody, its 
 finish, its pathos. I was not at liberty to shed a tear that 
 evening, or I should have had a good cry. When I cry I cry 
 in earnest, and I made up my mind to keep a stiff upper eye- 
 lid, in spite of all temptation. If this has to follow you to 
 New York, please remember that I called on you twice to-day, 
 in the hope of seeing you. Believe me, dear Mr. Winter, 
 very sincerely and gratefully yours, O. W. HOLMES. 
 
 Here are two stanzas of my poem; and I have 
 thought that perhaps the old poet was pleased 
 in perceiving that it did not anywhere imply 
 expectation of his precipitate removal to realms 
 of bliss: 
 
 The silken tress, the mantling wine. 
 
 Red roses, summer's whispering leaves, 
 , The lips that kiss, the hands that twine, 
 
 The heart that loves, the heart that grieves — 
 They all have found a deathless shrine 
 In his rich line. 
 
122 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Ah well, that voice can charm us yet, 
 And still that shining tide of song, 
 Beneath a sun not soon to set, 
 ( In golden music flows along. 
 'With, dew of joy our eyes are wet — 
 Not of regret. 
 
 There was a playful incident of that occasion 
 ^vhich lingers in my memory. The feast was a 
 breakfast, beginning about noon and continuing 
 tiU the early twilight of the bleak December day. 
 Many ladies were in the company, making the 
 beautiful scene still more beautiful. It was an 
 occasion of state, and in that respect, as in some 
 others, it was, among literary festivals, almost 
 unique. The privilege fell to me of escorting to 
 the table that accomplished gentlewoman Lucy 
 OLarcom; she who drew so well the pathetic word 
 picture of "Poor Lone Hannah, Binding Shoes" 
 • — a poem that Whittier admired and one of which 
 Wordsworth, had he written it, might well have 
 been proud. I sat at her right, and on her left 
 sat Thomas Wentworth Higginson, — stalwart 
 among progressive thinkers, intrepid iconoclast 
 of intrenched abuses, who, in the serenity of a 
 lovely and honored age, contemporary and kin- 
 
HOLMES 123 
 
 'dred withi that of the lamented Mitchell, rep- 
 resents all that is highest and therefore best 
 in American literature. Our talk, I remember, 
 ranged gayly over many themes, lingering for a 
 moment on wine. The current potation chanced 
 to be claret, and Miss Larcom, who did not taste 
 it, was insistent (in a low tone) that I should ask 
 Mr. Higginson to take a glass of wine with me — 
 as, immediately, I did. His response, most 
 courteously made, was to raise to his lips a glass 
 of water. "But," I said, "you do not honor the 
 toast — which is the health of our fair com- 
 panion": whereupon he swallowed a teaspoonful, 
 perhaps, of claret, with obvious impatience. I 
 was afterward informed that he was a rigid, 
 inveterate, iron-bound apostle of total abstinence ! 
 If his eyes should ever rest on these words he will 
 be amused to learn that Lucy Larcom, notwith- 
 standing aU her demure gravity, was not averse 
 to a joke, and that she was then trying her hand 
 at a httle playful mischief, of which both he and 
 I were to be the victims. It was a merry occa- 
 sion; one of those sweet times that recur to the 
 reminiscent mind, fresh and fragrant, among the 
 
124 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 tenderest memories of Long Ago. Stedman was 
 one of the merriest of the company. The hand- 
 some George Lathrop was in his gayest mood. 
 Osgood, the well-beloved publisher (and it is 
 something of note that a publisher should be well- 
 beloved!), seemed to have brought with him 
 enough of simshine to flood the room. Aldrich, 
 that fine genius, "the frolic and the gentle" (as 
 Wordsworth so happily said of Charles Lamb), 
 was, as ever, demure in his kindly satire and 
 piquant in his spontaneous, playful wit. The 
 gracious presence of Nora Perry and Louise 
 Chandler Moulton charmed the festival, while 
 amply representing the best in poetic art that has 
 been accomplished by the female writers of our 
 land. But for the absence of two or three of the 
 veterans, kept away by illness (who, neverthe- 
 less, sent their tributes), there was not a vestige 
 of a cloud over that bright throng. Some of 
 those happy guests have flitted to ghost-land 
 since, and they will come no more, except, 
 shadow-like, in pages such as this. Dear com- 
 rades, gone before, but not forgotten, I write 
 your names, not with a tear but with a smile I 
 
HOLMES 125 
 
 The world is better and brighter because you have 
 lived in it, and soon we shall aU meet again! 
 
 My divination, as to the veteran's future, at that 
 seventieth birthday festival was amply justified. 
 He survived for nearly fifteen years, and some 
 of his loveliest poems are among the products 
 of those latter days. Even in the vein of Occa- 
 sional Verse the limit of his achievement had not 
 been reached, nor was it reached till near the end 
 of his life. Once, adverting to that topic, he 
 wrote to me (February 20, 1883), as follows: 
 
 I have done my share in paying tributes o£ respect to 
 many poets of our own land and other lands, and the time 
 has come when I must claim the privilege of leaving the kind 
 of tasks I have so often undertaken — grateful and honor- 
 able as they are — to others who can do full justice to 
 occasions. ... I told the gentleman who called me up 
 at a dinner the other day that I was an Emeritus Professor, 
 after more than thirty-five years' service, — but an Emeritus 
 as Occasional Versifier of more than Fifty years' standing, 
 and entitled to plead my privilege. . . . 
 
 Holmes was fond of the Stage, and that was 
 an additional bond of sympathy between him and 
 me. One of the happiest of his achievements in 
 that difficult Queen Anne style of verse which 
 he used with such brUliant facihty (difficult verse 
 
126 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 because, unlike some other rhythmical forms, it 
 will not allow the substitution of melody for 
 meaning, but exacts thought as well as music), 
 is the pictorial, touching poem of "The Old 
 Player." He wrote the Ode for the Shake- 
 spearean Tercentennial Celebration in 1864. He 
 wrote the Address — and a fine one it is ! — for the 
 opening of the lamented Augustin Daly's Fifth 
 Avenue Theatre, in New York, in 1873. Writ- 
 ing to me (April 25, 1893, when he had received 
 my "Shadows of the Stage"), he said: 
 
 I remember Mary Duff well, in the character of Desde- 
 mona. Forrest and Cooper — "the noblest Roman of them 
 all" — used to take Othello and lago, by turns, interchang- 
 ing parts. I remember the elder Booth and others, and, of 
 course, I am glad to know something about them. Many 
 thanks for the book and the pleasure it gives me. . . . 
 
 Many years ago, when, by chance, we met at 
 the old Globe Theatre, in Boston, and he asked 
 me to name the greatest, in my judgment, of the 
 American actors then prominent, he was, I re- 
 member, surprised that I thought Comedy more 
 exacting than Tragedy, and named the comedian 
 Jefferson, then at the zenith of his wonderful 
 career. But, whether comedy or tragedy, the 
 
HOLMES 127 
 
 drama was dear to him, and he wrote from his 
 heart when he wrote that 
 
 The poet's song, the bright romancer's page, 
 The tinsel 'd shows that cheat us on the stage. 
 Lead all our fancies captive to their will: 
 Three years or threescore, we are children still ! 
 
 I recall with sorrow and joy my last meeting 
 with Holmes, — sorrow because it was the last, 
 and joy because it was so pleasant and because it 
 left in my memory such a brilliant image alike 
 of the poet and the man. It occurred at his final 
 home in Beacon Street, Boston, a few weeks 
 after the death of his wife. Mrs. Holmes had 
 been ill for a long time, and, as her mind had 
 become somewhat enfeebled, her death was a 
 blest release from mortal durance. The bereaved 
 husband spoke to me freely about her, with deep 
 tenderness, with sweet gravity, and with that 
 winning gentleness for which he was remark- 
 able. There are some men whose minds pass 
 quickly from solemnity to a kind of wistful play- 
 fulness. The comedian Jefferson was such a 
 man. Holmes possessed the same sensitive, 
 mercurial temperament, the same capability of 
 
128 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 instantaneous perception of the humorous side of 
 serious things. "I don't go much into company 
 now," he said; "because, when a man has suffered 
 such a loss as mine, people observe him curiously, 
 and seem to be wondering whether he looks quite 
 as sorry as he ought to look," As he spoke his 
 face brightened; he glanced around at the teem- 
 ing book-shelves in his study, and then he added: 
 "but my dear daughter has come to live with me; 
 she is putting things in order ; and we have begun 
 the world anew." 
 
 My son Louis, now dead, was present at that 
 interview, and he had timidly expressed the de- 
 sire to possess a signed photograph of the poet. 
 "You shall have it, my boy," said the kind vet- 
 eran; and immediately he produced a picture of 
 himself and began to write upon it. Then, paus- 
 ing, with suspended pen, he looked earnestly at 
 the lad, and said, with an indescribably arch 
 smUe and tone: "Ten — twenty — perhaps even 
 thirty years from now — somebody may be inter- 
 ested to hear you say that you received this pict- 
 ure from the hands of the original; — sometimes 
 writers are remembered even as long as that." 
 
HOLMES 129 
 
 The picture remains, but both the generous giver 
 and the grateful recipient are gone. I tried to 
 lead my old friend to speak of earlier times; of 
 the famous group of New England authors in 
 which he had been the most brilliant figure; and 
 of the first days of "The Atlantic Monthly"; but 
 he was interested more in the Present than in 
 the Past. Once, indeed, he became reminiscent 
 of his youth, and, asking me to come to a window 
 wherefrom could be obtained a wide prospect of 
 the river Charles and the level expanse of coun- 
 try westward of it, he indicated a certain pane 
 through which we looked together, and he said: 
 "It is not every man who can see, at one glance, 
 and through one pane of glass, the house where 
 he was born, the college where he was educated, 
 and the ground in which his ashes wiU rest; yet 
 there they are for me." There indeed they were, 
 golden in the radiance of the afternoon sun; — 
 old Cambridge, in the distance, where his parental 
 mansion still fronts the village green; the quaint 
 buildings, easily discernible, of Harvard Col- 
 lege; and, more remote, but in nearly the same 
 line of vision, the round tower that overtops its 
 
130 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 central hill, among the multitudinous graves of 
 Mount Auburn cemetery. 
 
 Almost immediately then, — ^though not till 
 after a moment of musing, — ^he reverted to in- 
 quiry about my pursuits and labors in the great 
 city. "Ah!" he exclaimed; "New York is a won- 
 derful place! The hydrants are flowing there!" 
 His eyes seemed to blaze, as he spoke, and his 
 person to dilate. He was diminutive ; very slight \ 
 but he was wonderfully vital; his httle figure pos-' 
 sessed extraordinary dignity; and even the slight- 
 est conscious sense of the splendor of power and 
 of action seemed to awaken in him an indomitable 
 spirit of emulative sympathy and creative will. 
 One of his class-mates at Harvard, that fine, 
 erratic genius Charles T. Congdon, — many years 
 afterward one of my colleagues and friends, — 
 told me that Holmes, even in his college days, 
 was remarkable for many peculiarities, and was 
 especially remarkable for the impressive stateli- 
 ness of his demeanor on ceremonial occasions, — a 
 natural statehness, from which physical exility 
 could not detract. Humorist he was, from the 
 first, possessing a faculty of humor more 
 
HOLMES 131 
 
 sprightly than that of Addison, but, like that of 
 Addison, underlaid with noble pride of intellect, 
 purity of heart, and a profoundly reverential 
 spirit. His last word to me was one of blessing, 
 whereof the remembrance has cheered me in many 
 a dark hour and taught patience in many a mo- 
 ment of trial: so that, — ^remembering his ex- 
 ample, for so many years cherished, and his per- 
 sonal kindness, that only ceased with life, — I am 
 moved to re-echo the prayerful apostrophe with 
 which Tickell adjured the shade of Addison, in 
 one of the most beautiful elegies in oiu* language: 
 
 Oh, i£ sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me thine aid, thou guardian genius, lend; 
 When rage misguides me, or when fears alarm, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasures charm. 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart. 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart. 
 
V- 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 In one of the lyrics of Aldrich there is a 
 thought that must have come to thousands of 
 persons, but that only he has expressed. The 
 poet is waiting for his wife, — as she "sets the 
 white rose in her hair," — and they are to drive to 
 a festival: and suddenly, amid the suggested sur- 
 roundings of happiness, the prescience of death 
 comes upon him: 
 
 I wonder what day of the week, 
 I wonder what month of the year; 
 
 Will it be midnight or morning; 
 And who will bend over my bier. 
 
 The day of the week was to be Tuesday. The 
 month of the year was to be March. He died 
 on Tuesday, March 19, 1907, at half-past five 
 in the afternoon. "In spite of all I am going to 
 sleep," he said: "put out the lights." He had 
 lived a little more than seventy years. During 
 the last fifty-two of those years I had the priv- 
 ilege of his friendship, and, although our path- 
 
 138 
 
ALDRICH 133 
 
 ways were different, and we could not often 
 meet, the affection between us, that began in our 
 youth, never changed. We were bom in the 
 same j'^ear, 1836; he in November, I in July. 
 We entered on the literary life in the same 
 year, 1854, when his first book was published, in 
 New York, and my first book was pubUshed, in 
 Boston: and from that time till the last our greet- 
 ings were exchanged across the distance, and 
 there never was a cloud between us. In sending 
 to me the complete edition of his works, — there 
 are eight volumes, — ^he wrote this inscription: 
 
 Kedman Farm, Ponkapog, Mass., 
 
 November 6, 1897. 
 To William Winter. 
 
 Dear Will: I set your name and mine here, in happy 
 memory of a friendship dating from our boyhood. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 An old man, I think, may be glad and proud 
 of such a friendship. Time, care, and trouble 
 tend to deaden the emotions. Affection does not 
 often last for more than half a century. Our ac- 
 quaintance began in almost a romantic way. It 
 happened that in 1854 a part of my employment 
 was the occasional writing of miscellaneous 
 
134 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 articles, — book notices, etc., — for "The Boston 
 Transcript." That paper, — less important and 
 less opulent than it is now, but always a favorite 
 in Boston, — ^was then edited by Daniel N. 
 Haskell, a kindly, somewhat eccentric man, who 
 had abandoned mercantile business in order to 
 adopt the pursuit of journahsm, who knew Bos- 
 ton society well, and who possessed the skill to 
 please mediocrity without disturbing it by any, 
 obtrusion of superfluous intellect. I recall a 
 remark of his that was happily characteristic of 
 him, and that it has often been a comfort to re- 
 member. "There are many people in this town, 
 WiUy," he said, "who think that you and I are 
 fools; but as long as we know that we are not, 
 it makes no diiference to us." He had taken a 
 fancy to me, as the phrase goes, and he was will- 
 ing to encourage my aspirations as a writer. His 
 custom was to give to me some of the volxmies, 
 particularly those of verse, that came to his paper, 
 for review, and one day he gave me a book called 
 "Poems, By T. B. A." I read it with pleasure 
 and reviewed it with praise. The author of it 
 was Aldrich, then residing in New York. "The 
 
ALDRICH 135 
 
 Transcript" containing my little tribute speedily 
 found its way to him, and immediately he re- 
 sponded by publishing, in" the New York "Home 
 Journal," a poem dedicated to "W. W." Then, 
 of course, I wrote a letter to him, and thereafter 
 we had a correspondence lasting several months, 
 in the course of which we explained ourselves to 
 each other, in that strain of ardent, overflowing 
 sentiment which is possible only when hfe is 
 young, and hearts are fresh, and all the world 
 seems beautiful with hope. One day in 1855, at 
 twilight, I happened to be in the editorial sanctum 
 of "The Transcript" (the building was then in 
 Congress Street), waiting for Haskell to finish 
 his labors, as he had asked me to dine with him, 
 at the old Revere House, — a stately hotel then, 
 where he had long been resident. The chair 
 in which I was sitting was one that could be re- 
 volved. Haskell was writing, by a dim light. A 
 young man came into the room and addressed 
 him, saying "My name is Aldrich." Before he 
 could say another word Haskell seized my chair, 
 whirled it around so that I could face the visitor, 
 and said "This is WiUiam Winter." That was 
 
136 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 our meeting, and a very sweet and gracious meet- 
 ing it was. We presently repaired to the Revere 
 House, where the occasion was celebrated, and 
 Aldrich and I became Tom and Will to each 
 other; and so we remained, to the end of the 
 chapter. 
 
 In the season of 1859-'60 I left Boston and 
 found a residence in New York. The nation, at 
 that time, was trembling on the verge of Civil 
 War. New York was seething with indescribable 
 excitement, and a fever of expectancy was every- 
 where visible. There were not many theatres in 
 operation at that time, but there were many 
 "dives." Newspapers were less numerous than 
 they are now, and less wealthy, and the aspect of 
 them was that of singular contrast. Horace 
 Greeley's "Tribune," devoted to Anti-Slavery, was 
 published in a low, common building, at the cor- 
 ner of Nassau and Spruce streets, — ^where its 
 palace now stands. Rushmore G. Horton's "Day 
 Book," devoted to Pro-Slavery, was published in 
 a building close by. "The World," started in 
 1860, was a religious newspaper, specially devoted 
 to the saving of souls. "The Home Journal" was 
 
ALDRICH 137 
 
 a conspicuous literary authority of the hour, con- 
 ducted by the two bards, Nathaniel P. Willis and 
 George P. Morris. Major Noah's conservative 
 "Sunday Times" was in existence. Free Ma- 
 sonry had an organ called "The Dispatch." 
 James and Erastus Brooks were prosperous with 
 "The Evening Express." The poet Bryant was 
 advocating democracy, in "The Evening Post." 
 The elder Bennett led the field of news with "The 
 Herald." The sheet that most attracted me was 
 a paper called "The Saturday Press," published 
 in Spruce Street, where also Charles F. Briggs, 
 — "Harry Franco" being his pen name, — ^was 
 pubhshing "The Courier," a weekly sheet in 
 which Augustin Daly, about the same time, be- 
 gan his career as a writer. "The Saturday Press" 
 had been started in 1858, by Henry Clapp 
 and Edward Howland, and, for a little while, 
 Aldrich was associated with Clapp, in the writing 
 of it. I had already contributed verses to that 
 paper, — among others the poem of "Orgia," — and 
 presently Clapp employed me as a reviewer and 
 sub-editor, and so began my Bohemian life: im- 
 pecunious, but interesting ; impoverished, but de- 
 
138 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 lightful; burdened with labor and hardship, but 
 careless and happy, — ^happier than any kind of 
 life has been since or wiU be again. No literary 
 circle comparable with the Bohemian group of 
 that period, in ardor of genius, variety of char- 
 acter, and singularity of achievement, has since 
 existed in New York, nor has any group of writ- 
 ers anywhere existent in our country been so 
 ignorantly and grossly misrepresented and ma- 
 ligned. I glance at that period now only because 
 the figure of Aldrich momentarily appears in it. 
 He was at that time dwelhng in the abode of his 
 uncle, a portly merchant, named Frost, at No. 
 105, now 331, West Eighth Street, immediately 
 opposite to the northern end of Macdougal Street. 
 That abode, it is interesting to remember, was, at 
 a later time, bought by Douglas Taylor, that able 
 and genial theatrical recorder and antiquarian, 
 who dwelt in it for eight years, and by whom it is 
 still owned (1909). The house is now occupied by 
 tradesmen, and its aspect, like that of its neigh- 
 borhood, is changed; but it will long possess an 
 interest for the Hterary pilgrim, because there 
 Aldrich wrote, among many other things, the 
 
ALDRICH 139 
 
 poem of "Babie Bell," which has had a world- 
 wide circulation; the beautiful poem of "The Un- 
 forgiven"; and the first draft of his "Judith," 
 long afterward wrought into a play; and there, as 
 a passing guest, that briUiant Irishman, Fitz- 
 James O'Brien, wrote the story of "What Was 
 It?" A time arrived when Tom grew weary of 
 Bohemia, and I remember we had a serious talk 
 about it. "Do you mean," he asked me, "to cast 
 in your lot permanently with those writers? Do 
 you intend to remain with them?" I answered 
 yes. He then told me of his piu*pose to leave 
 New York, as eventually he did, establishing 
 his residence in Boston, where, by and by, he 
 became editor of "Every Saturday" and later of 
 "The Atlantic Monthly," and where he had his 
 career, in constantly increasing prosperity and 
 universal respect. There he was happily married ; 
 there his twin sons were born (R. H. Stoddard, 
 after that, jocosely mindful of his initials, T. B., 
 called him "Two-Baby Aldrich") ; and there he 
 died, in the fulness of his hterary fame. No 
 sweeter lyrical poet has appeared in America. His 
 touch was as deUcate as that of Herrick, whom 
 
140 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 he loved but did not imitate, and his themes are 
 often kindred with those of that rare spirit, — 
 the Ariel of sentiment, fancy, and poetic whim, 
 fn my Bohemian days it was my f ortmie — or 
 misfortune, as the case may be — ^to meet often 
 and to know well the American bard Walt Whit- 
 man. It is scarcely necessary to say that he did 
 not impress me as anything other than what he 
 was, a commonplace, uncouth, and sometimes ob- 
 noxiously coarse writer, trying to be original by 
 using a formless style, and celebrating the prole- 
 tarians who make the world almost uninhabitable 
 by their vulgarity:/ With reference to me Walt's 
 views were expressed in a sentence that, doubt- 
 less, he intended as the perfection of contemptu- 
 ous indifference. "Willy," he said, "is a young 
 Longfellow." But I remember one moment 
 when he contrived to inspire Aldrich with a per- 
 manent aversion. The company was numerous, 
 and the talk was about poetry. "Yes, Tom," 
 said the inspired Whitman, "I like your tinkles: 
 I like them very well." Nothing could have de- 
 noted more distinctly both complacent egotism 
 and ill-breeding. Tom, I think, never forgot 
 
ALDRICH 141 
 
 that incident.^ This is one of the "tinkles," — 
 written long afterward, — defining the Poet: 
 
 Kings and Queens 
 Are facile accidents of Fame and Chance. 
 Chance sets them on the heights, they climb 'd not there! 
 But he who, from the darkling mass of men. 
 Is, on the wing of heavenly thought, upborne 
 To finer ether, and becomes a voice 
 For all the voiceless, God anointed him: 
 His name shall be a star, his grave a shrine. 
 
 In those Bohemian days I participated in 
 various talks with Walt Whitman, and once I 
 asked him to oblige me with his definition of "the 
 Poet." His answer was: "A poet is a Maker." 
 
 "But, Walt," I said, "what does he make?" 
 
 He gazed upon me for a moment, with that 
 bovine air of omniscience for which he was re- 
 markable, and then he said: "He makes Poems." 
 
 That reply was deemed final. I took the lib- 
 erty, aU the same, of suggesting to him that no 
 person, poet or otherwise, can do more than dis- 
 close and interpret what Gk)d has made; — seeing 
 that everything in Nature existed, — even the 
 most minute and deUcate impulses of the spirit 
 that is in humanity, — ^before ever man began to 
 
142 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 make poems about anything. The words of the 
 poet occasionally take a form that is inevitable, — 
 seeming to have been intended from the begin- 
 ning of the world: there are examples of that 
 felicity of form in Shakespeare, in Wordsworth, 
 in Byron's "Childe Harold," and in Shelley's 
 "Adonais"; but the word "creative" has been, and 
 continually is, too freely used. Nature is cre- 
 ative, and the Poet is the voice of Nature. It 
 was a raucous voice when it issued from Whit- 
 man: it pipes, like a penny whistle, when it issues 
 from his paltry imitators. 
 
 In one of his earlier letters to me, written be- 
 fore we met, Tom gave me a brief account of his 
 life. I had asked for it, and the story is so 
 fraught with characteristic touches that I find it 
 as delightful now as I found it then. Thus he 
 
 wrote to me, July 25, 1855 : 
 
 I saw the completion of my eighteenth year November 11, 
 1854. I was bom at Portsmouth, and have spent only one- 
 fifth of my life in that beautiful town. I could boast of a 
 long line of ancestors, but won't. They are of no possible 
 benefit to me, save it is pleasant to think that none of 
 them were hanged for criminals or shot for traitors, but 
 that many of them are sleeping somewhere near Bunker 
 Hill. I come in a straight line from President Adams, and 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH 
 
ALDRICH 143 
 
 his son mentions me in his "book of the Adams family." 
 Being only three months of age when Mr. Adams put me in 
 his book, he neglected to mention my gift of rhyme, which 
 was very shabby in him. My genealogical tree, you will 
 observe, grew up some time after the Flood, with other 
 vegetation. I will spare myself, this warm day, the exer- 
 cise of climbing up its dead branches, and come down to 
 one of the lower "sprigs," but by no means "the last leaf 
 upon the tree." My early life was spent in travel. I have 
 been in every State in the Union. My father was a mer- 
 chant at the South and I lived in New Orleans five years. 
 Some six years ago my parents sent me " North," to 
 be educated. WhUe at school at Portsmouth my father 
 died, and my mother returned to Portsmouth. Two years 
 since my uncle, an eminent New York merchant, offered me 
 a place in his counting-room, which I accepted and have since 
 occupied. I am one of his family and he has been to me a 
 brother and a father. I enjoy the lofty and richer pleasures 
 of life keenly, and the love of beauty, in every form, has 
 become a part of my soul. I value money only because it 
 buys books. I have neither brother nor sister. I am an 
 only child, but not a spoilt one, and do not expect to be 
 unless you spoil me, and make me vain, by loving me too 
 much. Such is he who signs himself, in the bonds of friend- 
 ship, T. B. A. 
 
 In another of those early letters he told me of 
 his reverence for the poet Longfellow, whom he 
 had not met but about whom I had written to 
 him, and he described, in a way that is especially 
 interesting and touching, the awakening in 
 
144 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 his soul of the poetic faculty, then dormant, which 
 was destined to make him one of the sweetest 
 voices of the human heart that our time has heard : 
 
 You speak warmly in praise of your poet friend. I join 
 you with my heart, in every word. I think this world 
 must be lovelier in God's eyes for holding such men as 
 Longfellow. ... I will tell you why I like him so much, 
 and how I came to write verse. 
 
 One evening, more than five years ago, I was sitting on 
 the doorstep of "the old house where I was bom," with 
 as heavy a heart as a child ever had. A very dear friend 
 had been borne over that threshold a while before, and, as 
 I watched the shadows of the trees opposite grow deeper, 
 I longed for her. I missed a hand that used to touch my 
 hair so gently! I was not fond of reading poetry, though I 
 feasted on prose. By chance a volume of poems was in my 
 hand: it was the "Voices of the Night." I opened at "The 
 Footsteps of Angels." Never before did I feel such a gush 
 of emotion. The poem spoke to me like a human voice ; and 
 from that time I loved Longfellow, and I wrote poetry — 
 such as it is. Often since I have heard something rustle near 
 me, and I am sure it was not the wind. 
 
 More than half a century has passed since Al- 
 drich wrote those words, and both he and the poet 
 whom he loved have entered into their rest. Their 
 graves are not far apart, in the beautiful ceme- 
 tery of Mount Auburn. It is singular and im- 
 pressive to remember that the last poem that fell 
 
ALDRICH 145 
 
 from the pen of Aldrich was the elegy that com- 
 memorates the centenary of Longfellow. 
 
 There is a peculiarly gentle, aif ectionate spirit 
 in my old comrade's early letters to me, and they 
 reveal him in a charming light. It would be easy 
 to fill pages with rightly selected extracts from 
 them, — ^violating no confidence and wounding no 
 sensibility of surviving relatives and friends, — aU 
 tending to show what manner of youth he was, as 
 manifested in words that came directly from his 
 heart, and that never have been seen by any eyes 
 but mine. His published writings exhibit his soul, 
 as the writings of a poet always do. As to the 
 writing of letters: in after years, like the rest of 
 us, he acquired what we call "worldly wisdom," 
 and he restrained his feelings; but he never lost 
 them. The child was father to the man ; and the 
 man, to the end of his days, was the apostle of 
 beauty and the incarnation of kindness. His 
 character rested upon a basis of prudence, and 
 in the conduct of life he was conventional. There 
 was nothing in his nature of the stormy petrel. 
 Hard experience, — ^bitter, heart-breaking conflict 
 with adverse circumstances, — would, probably. 
 
146 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 have repressed his genius and defeated his ambi- 
 tion. He never was subjected to it. Of all his 
 early troubles he told me, and no one of them was 
 unusual or severe. In the spring of 1856, I re- 
 member, he left mercantile employment, which 
 to him must have been a farce, and became sub- 
 editor of "The Home Journal." "I had no idea 
 of what work is" (so he wrote to me), "till I be- 
 came 'sub.' I have found that reading proof 
 and writing articles on tminteresting subjects, 'at 
 sight,' is no joke. The cry for 'more copy' rings 
 through my ears in dreams, and hosts of little 
 phantom printers' devils walk over my body 
 all night and prick me with sharp-pointed types ! 
 Last evening I fell asleep in my arm-chair and 
 dreamed that they were about to put me 'to 
 press,' as I used to crush flies between the leaves 
 of my speller, in school-boy days." Such an ex- 
 perience was mere child's play in contrast with 
 the habitual experience of the journalist of later 
 years. Good fortune always attended Tom Al- 
 drich. The death of one of his sons was the only 
 cruel blow of affliction that ever fell upon him, 
 and he never recovered from it. His Avritings 
 
ALDRICH 147 
 
 reveal a mind that had the privilege of brooding 
 over its conceptions till it found the best means 
 of expressing them. Some of his short stories 
 are exquisite in their felicitous finished utterance 
 of his fancy, sentiment, and humor. His essay 
 on Herrick is one of the most acute, searching, 
 truthfully pointed, and lightly and rightly 
 phrased pieces of criticism that have been written. 
 His poetry is supreme in the element of grace, 
 and he maiotained precisely the right attitude 
 toward it and toward criticism of it — as shown 
 in his bantering Httle quatrain of " Quits " : 
 
 If my best wines mislike thy taste, 
 And my best service win thy frown, 
 
 Then tarry not, I bid thee haste; 
 There 's many another Inn in town ! 
 
 Those lines aptly indicate his characteristic 
 attribute of playful humor. He possessed a 
 happy faculty of quick rejoinder and quizzical 
 remark. One day, in London, I remember, we 
 went to the grave of the poet Goldsmith and 
 visited the Temple church, in which there is an 
 organ, said to have been given to that place of 
 worship by the infamous Judge Jeffreys, in the 
 reign of James II. The sexton, who showed the 
 
148 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 church, expatiated to us upon its contents, taking 
 many liberties with English history and the letter 
 "h," and dwelt especially upon its age. "That 
 Morgan," he said, " 'as been 'ere as much as five 
 'undred years." "Well," said Tom, "then I sup- 
 pose it could play 'Old Hundred' all by itself." 
 One night, aboard the steamship " Servia," he 
 and Lawrence Barrett and I were pleasantly occu- 
 pied, on the upper deck, discussing Shakespeare, 
 and I remember that he drove Barrett nearly 
 crazy by his playful, but apparently serious, dis- 
 section of Macbeth's soliloquy, beginning "If it 
 were done when 'tis done." "How could a naked, 
 new born babe stride a blast, or stride anything 
 else?" was, I recall, one of the queries that he 
 solemnly proposed to the earnest tragedian, who, 
 for a long time, took the subject very much to 
 heart, — as indeed his custom invariably was when 
 talking about Shakespeare. It is possible only 
 to indicate in words, it is not possible to express, 
 the furtive archness, the demure manner, the 
 nimble spirit with which Aldrich could, and often 
 did, converse with serious persons. On that same 
 " Servia " voyage a notice was posted in the gang- 
 
ALDRICH 149 
 
 way, of the loss of "a petrified eye." It had not 
 been there long before Tom, eluding official vigi- 
 lance as to such matters, managed to post a notice 
 along side of it of his loss of a novel called 
 "Anne," upon which, his placard said, "the owner 
 would hke to cast his petrified eye." Trifles: but 
 it was his way to make trifles droll, and, whUe at 
 heart he was earnest and thoughtful, on the sur- 
 face it pleased him to be gravely gay; and he 
 went through life diffusing sxmshine all around 
 his path. 
 
 Once, in Paris, he invited Mark Twain to take 
 a stroU, saying that he had something to show 
 to him, very interesting and worthy of special 
 attention. The "stroU" proved to be a walk of 
 about a mUe, round and round, along contiguous 
 streets, ending at a book-store, near to the hotel, 
 in the Rue St. Honore, from which the pedes- 
 trians had started. One of the books displayed 
 in the window was a copy of the Poems of 
 Aldrich. "I have asked this shop-keeper," said 
 Tom, "if he has any more of the works of Aldrich, 
 and he says No; so you see the sale has been very 
 large — for this is the only copy left; but he says 
 
150 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 he has several shelves full of the works of Mark 
 Twain, and more of them in the basement, I'm 
 afraid you are not appreciated in France." The 
 sale of Twain's book had, actually, of course, been 
 very large. 
 
 Once at a dinner in honor of Lord Houghton 
 (the poet, Richard Monckton Milnes, whose 
 "Poems of Many Years" include some of the 
 loveliest things in our literature), Aldrich 
 chanced to be seated beside the chief guest, and 
 presently he observed that Houghton had mislaid 
 his napkin and was vainly looking for it. The 
 napkin had, in fact, fallen to the floor. Tom 
 kindly picked it up and restored it to the noble 
 bard, quoting as he did so two lines from one of 
 his lordship's poems: 
 
 A man's best things are nearest him — 
 Lie close about his feet. 
 
 The place of Aldrich in American Literature 
 will be determined by posterity. There can be 
 no doubt that his works will live. The poems that 
 he wrote when under the influence of the genius 
 of Tennyson are echoes of the style of that great 
 poet, — the master as well of blank verse as of the 
 
ALDRICH 151 
 
 lyric form, — and, probably, they will be remem- 
 bered and esteemed as chiefly echoes. The 
 poems, meantime, that bear the authentic signet 
 of his mind are original, individual, characteristic, 
 and of permanent value. The attributes of them 
 are loveliness of sentiment, tenderness of feeling, 
 a fine, rippling play of subtle suggestion, a 
 dream-like atmosphere, pensive sweetness, and 
 delicious spontaneity of verbal grace. In youth 
 his mind was attracted by Oriental themes, such as 
 Moore would have fancied; but in manhood his 
 Muse preferred graver subjects, and often, 
 even beneath the guise of playful whim, he 
 touched the springs of pathos and spoke from 
 the heart. At no time did he become didactic. 
 His poetic sense, in that respect, was unerring. 
 He knew that poetry should not aim to teach, 
 but should glide through the mind as sunbeams 
 glide through the air. Once, in a talk with me 
 about Ohver Wendell Holmes (always, in mj'- 
 thoughts, an object of affectionate admiration), 
 he said, half playf uUy, half in earnest : "In the 
 doctor's poetry there is not enough moonshine/' 
 [By that word he meant the nameless, indefinable 
 charm, the something that hallows every object 
 
152 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 in an exquisite landscape or difflises a sacred 
 atmosphere, half of rapture and half of awe, 
 around the heauty of woman. It is my convic- 
 tion that his poems, sweet and tender, beauti- 
 fully expressive of human affection, — ^which is the 
 immortal part of us, — and lovely in style, will 
 endure as long as anything endures in our lan- 
 guage. The view that he took of them, however, 
 was far more humble, — as expressed in a letter 
 to me, from which I make this extract: "I am 
 not too confident about the fate of these things, 
 in the immediate future. Fashions change in 
 literature, and perhaps our cut of poetry will not 
 be worn at all, twenty years from now. If it 
 isn't, what odds will it make?" 
 
 No odds whatever. The writer who can cheer 
 the time in which he lives, who can help the men 
 and women of his generation to bear their bur- 
 dens patiently and do their duty without wish or 
 expectation of reward, has fulfilled his mission. 
 Such a writer was Thomas Bailey Aldrich. As 
 I think of him I am encouraged to believe, more 
 devoutly than ever, that the ministry of beauty 
 is the most important influence operant upon 
 society, and that it never can fail. 
 
VI. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
 What is Poetry, and what are the faculties 
 that constitute a Poet? In the course of a long 
 life, devoted to the art of writing, I have talked 
 Avith many authors and have read hundreds of 
 books ; but I have not obtained an exphcit, illu- 
 minative, decisive answer to those inquiries. The 
 critic is ready with his theory; the rhetorical 
 treatise is ready with its definition; but neither 
 theory nor definition reveals the heart of the 
 mystery. The thing that is not Poetry, though 
 set forth in verse, is readily recognized, and it 
 can be distinctly defined: the magic that irradi- 
 diates verse and makes poetry out of prose is felt 
 rather than known, and exact specification of it 
 eludes the dexterity of the grammarian. 
 
 Observation likewise perceives, among even 
 expert writers and judges of verse, wide dispari- 
 ties of opinion as to the poetic element. John- 
 
 153 
 
154 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 son, who admired Young, could see no poetry 
 in Gray. Byron, who admired Pope, could see 
 no poetry in Cowper. To Macaulay, the 
 nightingale was Milton, and, comparatively, 
 other singers were wrens. Thackeray, who dis- 
 liked Byron, was charmed with Addison's lines on 
 the Spacious Firmament, and he found John- 
 son's " Ode on the Death of Levett " so poetic as 
 to be " sacred." Carlyle despised Lamb, but he 
 adored Burns. Coleridge, the worshiper of 
 Wordsworth, was contemptuous of Moore. Poe 
 behttled Burns and disparaged Longfellow, 
 but he perceived divine fire in Mrs. Browning. 
 Emerson, usually centred in himself, was able 
 to perceive poetry in Walt Whitman. Aldrich, 
 the disciple of Herrick, was blind to the intrin- 
 sic glamour of Holmes. Great scholars, like- 
 wise, exhibit wide diversities of opinion as to 
 poetry and poets. Fox, the statesman, for ex- 
 ample, who possessed extraordinary scholarship, 
 cared not at all for Wordsworth, esteemed Dry- 
 den before Milton, and ranked Homer above 
 them all. 
 Among the bards themselves there is, further- 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 155 
 
 more, a perplexing disparity of method in the 
 invocation of the Muse. Whence is the impulse 
 derived? Scott affirmed that, while he took no 
 pains with his prose, he wrote his verse with 
 great care. Byron was accustomed to incite in- 
 spiration by reading a fine passage from some 
 other poet, after which he would write at fuU 
 speed, in a fever heat. Moore formd poetic 
 stimulant in looking at the sunset. Wordsworth, 
 keenly susceptible to every influence of physical 
 Nature, walked alone, in the lonely, beautiful 
 Cumberland country, composing his verses, often 
 speaking them aloud, and committing them to 
 memory as he composed them. Burns, appar- 
 ently the most sweetly natural singer since 
 Shakespeare (as long ago was said by William 
 Pitt), himself testified that the influence that 
 most exalted and enraptured him was that of a 
 stormy wind howling among the trees and raging 
 over the plain, and that whenever he wanted to 
 be " more than ordinary in song " he put himself 
 " on a regimen of admiring a fine woman." Rich- 
 ard Henry Stoddard, — whose " Songs of Simi- 
 mer " comprise some of the loveliest and some of. 
 
156 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 apparently, the most spontaneous lyrics existent 
 in the English language, — ^told me that sometimes 
 he wrote the first draft of a poem in prose, and 
 afterward turned it into verse. Edmund Clar- 
 ence Stedman, whose poetic achievement made 
 his name illustrious in American hterature, told 
 me that it was his custom to select with care the 
 particular form of verse that he designed to use, 
 and sometimes to invent the rhymes and write 
 them at the ends of the lines which they were to 
 terminate, — ^thus making a skeleton of a poem, 
 as a ground-work on which to build. To my 
 mind it seems that the poet should be like the 
 ^olian harp, which makes music when its 
 strings were swept by the breeze ; but, in the pres- 
 ence of so much perplexity of fact and opinion, 
 a certain audacity appears to be reqmsite to de- 
 clare that anybody is a poet or that anything is 
 poetry. 
 
 Years ago I had the pleasure of friendly inter- 
 course with one man of letters who possessed, in 
 ample measure, that particular form of intrepid- 
 ity. That man was the Rev, William Rounse- 
 ville Alger, at one time a popular preacher in 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 157 
 
 Boston, and famous for his impassioned elo- 
 quence. Alger wiU be remembered as the biog- 
 rapher (1877) of the tragedian Edwin Forrest, 
 and also because of the service that he did to 
 literature by composing, or translating, or para- 
 phrasing a considerable number of Oriental 
 poems, valuable alike for their meaning and their 
 melody. He vpas a man of acute and copious 
 sensibihty, of a feminine temperament, quickly 
 and keenly appreciative, and easily moved to 
 tears. 'No poet could have vdshed for a more re- 
 ceptive, responsive auditor. The poetic element 
 that especially he recognized and loved vi^as feel- 
 ing ^ and that element he found in the poetry of 
 Bayard Taylor, whom he ranked, and did not 
 hesitate to designate, in several conversations 
 with me, as the " foremost and best of American 
 poets." 
 
 I never had the opportunity of mentioning that 
 opinion to Bayard Taylor, — a fact which I deeply 
 regret ; for the knowledge of it would have been 
 a great satisfaction to him. Taylor was a rapid, 
 disciu*sive, voluminous writer: few American 
 authors have vrritten so much and in such various 
 
158 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 departments of literature: but, of all his writing, 
 that which he chiefly valued, — that in compar- 
 ison with which the rest, in his esteem, was ac- 
 counted nothing, — ^was his poetry. On that sub- 
 ject he often spoke and wrote to me, and always 
 with the candor that was eminently character- 
 istic of his ingenuous, simple nature; — for, with 
 great practical knowledge of the world. Bayard 
 Taylor was simplicity itself. I recall a remark 
 of his to me that seemed to reveal, in a flash, his 
 whole nature: " What a lovely day this is! " he 
 said; "I'm going home to write poetry!" As 
 he spoke he was the personification of exultant 
 happiness. 
 
 Taylor's rank as a poet will be determined 
 after another generation of readers has arisen, — 
 when he is no longer remembered as, specifically, 
 a traveller and a journalist; and that rank will 
 be high. He was, distinctively, a poet, but, 
 under the pressure of necessity, he delved in so 
 many Unes of literary labor that his miscellaneous 
 pubhcity obscured him in the vision of his own 
 period. It has taken America some time to 
 learn fully the exceptional value and abiding 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
BAYAKD TAYLOR 159 
 
 charm of such noble verse as that of William 
 Cullen Bryant and such exquisite prose as that 
 of Donald Grant Mitchell, and to realize that 
 it possessed, in Fitz-Greene Halleck, one of the 
 strongest, sweetest poets that have swept the 
 harp-strings of the human heart. Time will do 
 justice to the fine poetic genius of Bayard 
 Taylor. 
 
 Good fortune attended Taylor's career 
 (1825-'78), but the full recognition that he mer- 
 ited was not accorded till after his death; and 
 possibly it would not have been accorded then 
 but for the indubitable success of his magnificent 
 metrical version of " Faust." It is the conven- 
 tional opinion that a writer who succeeds in one 
 thing must, necessarily, fail in others. Taylor's 
 conceded renown, with the multitude, was that of 
 a traveller and a lecturer on travel. The fact 
 that he was novelist, dramatist, and, — above all 
 else, — poet, was unappreciated, and sometimes 
 even unknown. A humorous incident, related to 
 me by him, illustrates this ludicrous truth. 
 
 " I had delivered a lecture in one of our rural 
 towns," — so said my old friend, — " and several 
 
160 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 of my auditors were accosting me with expres- 
 sions of their satisfaction. One person, in par- 
 ticular, was effusively eager, — saying * I am de- 
 ligJited, Mr. Taylor, to make your acquaintance. 
 I have read everything that you have ever writ- 
 ten, and I have greatly enjoyed it all.' This 
 was pleasant to hear, and, as he grasped my hand 
 with evident friendship, I responded with a re- 
 quest for his opinion of my poetry. A look 
 of overwhelming astonishment and perplexity 
 came into his face. ' Your Poetry? ' he ex- 
 claimed; "have you ever written any Poetry?' 
 This, I need not tell you, satisfied my curiosity." 
 The humor of that incident was not lost upon 
 the poet. Indeed, a sense of humor was one of 
 Taylor's most propitious and most charming at- 
 tributes, and with him, as with all other persons 
 who possess that blessing, it served as a shield 
 against petty troubles and as a cordial stimulant 
 to philosophical views of hfe. He was like a 
 boy, also, in his love of fun. I remember the 
 glee with which he told me of a personal expe- 
 rience at the home of that austere philosopher 
 and preceptor, the Rev. Horace Mann, — a cler- 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 161 
 
 gyman, orator, and refonner, at one time very 
 prominent in New England life, — among whose 
 several enthusiastic propensities of culture was 
 a fanatical devotion to the use, external and in- 
 ternal, of cold water. " Every morning the year 
 round," said Taylor, " he immersed himself in 
 it; he drank nothing else; and he seemed to ex- 
 pect his guests to follow his example. I had de- 
 hvered a lecture in his town, and I was kindly 
 entertained at his home. It was mid-winter and 
 bitterly cold. I found in my bedroom a huge 
 tub of icy water, intended for my morning bath; 
 and my host directed my attention to it, with 
 strong approval of its utiUty. I had a good 
 wash, when the morning came, but not in that 
 tub! He was left, however, in the comforting 
 belief that I had taken the plunge, — for I man- 
 aged to wet all the towels and to scatter water aU 
 over the floor. He was an excellent person, and 
 it would have been a pity to disappoint him." 
 
 A conspicuous product of Taylor's playful 
 humor is the " Echo Club," first published seri- 
 ally and afterward (1876) in a book. It incor- 
 porates imitations of the styles of many of the 
 
162 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 writers of verse who were his contemporaries, 
 and therein it follows the tradition of the " Re- 
 jected Addresses " and is remotely kindred with 
 the delicious comicahties of Calverley. Advert- 
 ing to those squibs, which are, in fact, parodies, 
 he sent this message to me, from Gotha, October 
 6,1872: 
 
 My Deae Wintee: 
 
 I recognize your hand in. the address of two packages of 
 papers which I have received during the last week or two. 
 I was very glad to get them, especially the daily Tribunes, 
 which have so much more of New York and of the Trib. 
 office about them than has the semi-weekly, which I get 
 regularly. I hope you will as kindly remember my needs, 
 every now and then. . . . 
 
 All the papers were welcome, I assure you, and even the 
 sight of your unforgeable MS. was refreshing to mine eyes. 
 Moreover here was evidence that you have already forgiven 
 me for my abominable effort at imitating some of your best 
 poems, making comic the very qualities in them which I 
 most enjoy. I may congratulate myseM, I think, on having 
 finished the series of travesties without having (so far as I 
 know) given lasting offence to any of the victims. Yet, 
 stay! — I almost doubt of being pardoned by Mrs. Howe. It 
 was a perilous undertaking, just at present, and I might 
 easily have had worse luck. . . . 
 
 I am now rejoicing in a general freshness of mind and 
 body, the result of laziness, Alpine air, baths and drinking 
 disagreeable waters. I only perceive now, by the contrast 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 163 
 
 with my condition six months ago, how much I needed the 
 treatment. One can't always tell when one's barometer is 
 low. Mine has risen so much that I have begun to relieve 
 myself of a poetic idea which has been plaguing me for five 
 or six years. I have only 200 lines written, and I foresee that 
 it will run to 2,000. But I am also doing hack work for 
 Scribners, in the hope of purchasing the right to use my 
 own time in my own way. 
 
 We spent August at the baths of Bormio, in the Italian 
 Alps, then went to Como and the other lakes, and over the 
 Simplon to Lausanne, where we stayed a fortnight with my 
 sister. I ran down to Geneva, the last day of the Arbitra- 
 tion. Kalph Keeler and J. K. Young were there, and we 
 had a wonderful breakfast. We reached here just ten days 
 ago, and here we stay until the end of the year. You see 
 the absence has not been eventful thus far. I am slowly 
 collecting material for Goethe's life, and am delighted with 
 its richness and interest. But it will take time to digest 
 such a mass. 
 
 Now what are you all about in New York? In the Trib. 
 office you must be a set of howling dervishes until this furi- 
 ous campaign is over. I count the days, for although I am 
 out of the vortex, some of its unrest reaches me even here. 
 
 I have a strange fancy that something has happened to 
 Stoddard, or Elizabeth, or Lorry. It came upon me the day 
 we reached here, and when I spoke of it to my wife I was 
 startled to find that she had the same impression. As some of 
 my presentiments have come true, this worries me, and I 
 pray that it is a mere freak of the imagination. I shall be 
 only too glad to be laughed at. 
 
 I think I'll inclose a note to Stedman in this, as I'm not 
 certain of his present address, and you'll probably know it. 
 
164 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Do write to me when you have time, and give me all the 
 gossip, literary or otherwise. I don't expect to hear from 
 any one else in the Trib. until after November 8. Give my 
 love to all the good fellows. My wife joins me in best 
 regards to yours. How I wish you could step into this 
 quaint old room, with its view of the stormy sky and the far 
 mountains! Well — ^when we return — as I hope the Lord 
 will let us — ^there shall be amends for much absence. Mean- 
 time, don't forget 
 
 Tour faithful friend, 
 
 Bayaed Taylor. 
 
 Several of the travesties mentioned in this let- 
 ter are notably felicitous, and all of them are 
 amusing. An imitation that he wrote of Long- 
 fellow was not printed, as he feared, needlessly, 
 that Longfellow would be hurt by it and would 
 take offence. It is a parody on " The Psalm of 
 Life," and it gives the reverie of a pensive moral- 
 ist, in a farm-yard. Taylor, in his mood of boy- 
 ish frolic, once repeated it to me. This is the 
 first stanza: 
 
 O'er the fragile rampart leaning. 
 
 Which enclosed the herd of swine. 
 Thoughts of vast and wondrous meaning 
 
 Flitted through this brain of mine. 
 
 And then the philosophic bard, observing the self- 
 ish conduct of the porkers, — ^how the larger ones 
 contend for place at the trough, and how the 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 165 
 
 smaller ones are pushed off and trodden down, — 
 perceives an obvious analogy to the conduct of 
 human beings, and melodiously sets forth that 
 thus it is in human life. 
 
 Taylor's finest poem, in sublimity of theme, 
 grandeur of conception, and spontaneity of 
 rhythmical eloquence, is " The Masque of the 
 Gods." The cherished copy of it that he sent to 
 me is inscribed: " To WilUam Winter, from his 
 old friend Bayard Taylor. New York, May 30, 
 1872." The words that he provides for Apollo 
 to speak express himself: 
 
 Mine the simpler task 
 To build one bridge that reaches to the sky. 
 To teach one truth that brings eternal joy. 
 And from the imperfect world the promise wrest 
 Of one perfection. If than this Man needs 
 A broader hope, a loftier longing, yet 
 This he must have; bereft of it he dies. 
 He cannot feed on cold, ascetic dreams. 
 And mutilate the beauty of the world 
 For something far and shapeless : he must give 
 His eyes the form of what in him aspires. 
 His ears the sound of that diviner speech 
 He pines to speak, his soul the proud content 
 Of having touched the skirts of perfect things. 
 
 In special reference to this poem, Taylor wrote 
 to me a characteristic letter, eloquent equally of 
 
166 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 his affectionate heart and his wonderfully enthu- 
 siastic spirit: 
 
 lEViNa House, N. Y., May 28, 1872. 
 My deae, true Winter: 
 
 ... I hope you'll like the Masque, for it is certainly 
 the best thing I've yet done. The fact of your liking Iris 
 convinces me that you will. I feel that I am only just now 
 getting command of my true speech in poetry. I have al- 
 ways had faith in the Art of Song, a faith as intense as that 
 of an early Christian martyr. I never look back more than a 
 year over my finished work, but always forward, and always 
 occupy my fancy with the new and half-formed conceptions. 
 
 I think I feel more actual poetic " frenzy " now than ever 
 before in my life, and I can only attribute it to the steady 
 drudgery, for years, which now enables me to move freely in 
 all rhythmical shackles, so that the form of poetry is a 
 servant to the mind, not a master, as at first. 
 
 This, with the equally religious faith that a devotion to 
 art, unshaken by the criticism, the whims, or the tastes of 
 the day, will surely reward the believer, in the end, is all 
 the explapation I can give. The trouble is not with our 
 poetical conceptions: we all have them: but we must con- 
 quer language and rhythm and forms of thought before we 
 can represent them with the freedom and symmetry of life. 
 
 Since I have reached this conviction I am happy. The 
 Masque is a dead failure, as a publication: the sale is only 
 about 600 copies: but I do not care one whit. I feel that I 
 have advanced, and (so far as one can judge of himself) on 
 the true path. I will follow it, though I starve. 
 
 I take a certain amount of mechanical hack work, in order 
 to buy the rest of my time for myself, and I mean to use 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 167 
 
 that hard-bought time to do my own work. If good, it 
 be recognized, some time: if bad, it ought to perish. 
 
 Meantime, one must have some support and encourage- 
 ment, and I have enough in the sympathy of a few friends 
 and poets like yourself. Tou are not, and never will be, a 
 failure to me : I find in you the same higher and finer laws of 
 'Art which I am trying to make my own. . . . Remember 
 that I shall always be, as I am now, most faithfully and 
 affectionately your friend. 
 
 Bataed Taylor. 
 
 The year 1876 was, in the general mind of the 
 [American Republic, convalescent after the dis- 
 ease and anguish of hideous civil war, a year 
 of amity and reconciliation. It brought the an- 
 niversary of the Declaration of Independence, 
 and it stimulated, throughout the country, a joy- 
 ous impulse to exult in the triumph of popular 
 government and to celebrate the growth and 
 prosperity of the nation. A jubilee was or- 
 dained, to occur in Philadelphia, on the Fourth 
 of July, and Taylor was asked to participate in 
 it, as the poet of that national occasion. He 
 appreciated the honor and he accepted the duty. 
 The Society of the Army of the Potomac, mean- 
 while, had arranged for its annual reunion to be 
 held in the same city, in the month of June, and 
 
168 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 he had promised to be present and to deliver a 
 poem. At that time Taylor and I were neigh- 
 bors, dwelling in houses almost opposite each 
 other, in East Eighteenth Street, New York, 
 and, as we were also colleagues in " The New 
 York Tribune," our meetings were frequent; 
 and when we did not meet we sometimes ex- 
 changed notes. 
 
 On April 7 he wrote to me: "I have at last 
 hung a string into my dissolved conceptions, and 
 the alum of the Ode is slowly beginning to crys- 
 tallize upon it." The formidable occasion was 
 then distant less than three months, and now he 
 began to consider that he might not be able to 
 produce two poems, of a patriotic character, re- 
 sponsive to the requirements of two occasions 
 occurring so closely together, and he asked me 
 to relieve him of one of those engagements. 
 This I agreed to do, and the result was that the 
 Society of the Army of the Potomac invited me 
 to be its poet in that jubilee year, and Taylor 
 was left free to concentrate his thoughts upon the 
 magnificent Ode, with which, on the Fourth of 
 July, standing in front of Independence HaU, he 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 169 
 
 electrified a vast multitude and gained for him- 
 self a laurel that never can fade: for there is no 
 other poem that so f uUy and so eloquently ex- 
 presses the central thought of American civili- 
 zation and the passionate enthusiasm for Hberty 
 by which that civihzation is permeated and sus- 
 tained. 
 
 Taylor's memory of the Centennial Celebra- 
 tion, and of his own brilhant achievement, was 
 expressed to me, in the following letter, written 
 three days after the dehvery of the Ode: 
 
 142 East 18th Street, N. T., July 1, 1876. 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 I found your whole-hearted note of congratulation at the 
 office this morning. It is one of five already received, and all 
 of the same cheering strain. You don't know — but, yes, you 
 do! — how comforting and encouraging is such recognition. 
 
 As for myself, I don't know how it was, nor can I yet 
 understand, — ^but I did what I never saw done before, and 
 certainly shall never do again: thousands of common people 
 were silenced, then moved, then kindled into a flame, hy 
 Poetry! It was this grand instinctive feeling of the mass 
 which amazed me most. 
 
 I must tell you all about it when we meet : I cannot now. 
 I am suffering the natural reaction after such an immense 
 nervous tension. But let spite and disparagement do their 
 worst ! They can't take away from me the memory of that 
 half -hour ! 
 
170 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow. I am tired and over- 
 worked (having written five leaders and a column of reviews 
 this week, besides the Fourth), and can't go up to you for a 
 few days yet. . . . 
 Thank you, over and over again, dear old fellow! 
 Ever yours faithfully. 
 
 Bayard Taylob. 
 
 Our meeting, which presently occurred, was a 
 Ijovial one, and great was our enjoyment in re- 
 counting to each other the incidents of our expe- 
 rience as patriotic bards. Taylor's delight in the 
 triumphant success of his Ode was almost pa- 
 thetic in its childlike ecstasy of happiness. 
 
 Neither of us had any reason for regret. The 
 poem that I wrote for the Society of the Army 
 of the Potomac and delivered at the Philadelphia 
 Academy of Music is called " The Voice of the 
 Silence," — ^its intention being to indicate the ad- 
 monitions that proceed out of the tranquillity of 
 Nature, in places, now silent and peaceful, 
 that have been tumultuous and horrible with 
 strife, and, incidentally, to declare that there is 
 active spiritual impartment in the seeming quies- 
 cent physical world. The scene, as I recall it, 
 presented a superb pageant of life and color. 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR m 
 
 There was a multitudinous audience. The stage 
 was thronged with men renowned in war and 
 eminent in peace. General Hancock presided. 
 My seat was at the left of that commander, and 
 on my left sat General Sherman. I had not 
 before met those famous chieftains, and pres- 
 ently I obtained an amusing assurance that we 
 had indeed been strangers. General Hancock 
 was visibly sujffiering from nervous trepidation, 
 as he inspected the printed order of exercises and 
 prepared to begin the proceedings. 
 
 " From New York, sir? " he said, turning to 
 me, in a bewilderment of inquiry. Almost at 
 the same moment General Sherman, who also 
 was inspecting the programme, — ^but with a 
 bland composure curiously contrastive with his 
 military colleague's excitement, — ^smote me upon 
 the shoulder and cheerfully inquired: " Do I un- 
 derstand that this is a poem of your own compo- 
 sition that you intend to deliver? " Reassured 
 by a favorable reply as to both those points, the 
 warriors seemed to accept the situation, and the 
 speaking was begun. 
 
 I have addressed many audiences, but never an 
 
172 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 audience more eagerly responsive and generously 
 enthusiastic than that assemblage of members 
 of the Society of the Army of the Potomac. 
 When I returned to my seat, after the delivery 
 of my poem, every person upon the stage was 
 standing; the house was ringing with cheers; 
 General Sherman caught me in his arms, with 
 fervent feeling: and, as to the success of the 
 effort, it is enough for me to remember that, from 
 that day till the day of his death, that great man 
 remained my friend. 
 
 Themes of ardor and scenes of tumult were, 
 to Bayard Taylor, the breath of life. No other 
 American poet has surpassed and only Halleck 
 and Whittier have equalled him in the quality 
 of passionate, ecstatic enthusiasm, as it is shown 
 in his " Bedouin Song," his " Nilotic Drinking 
 Song," his " Song of the Camp," his " Sicilian 
 Wine," his " Porphyrogenitus," his " Shake- 
 speare Ode," and " The Bath." Those are typ- 
 ical exponents of a spirit that was forever aspir- 
 ing, forever hopeful, always feeling the impulse 
 and sounding the exultant note of joyous en- 
 deavor: 
 
WILLIAM WINTER 
 (In 1876) 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 173 
 
 Turn not where sinks the sullen dark 
 
 Before the signs of warning, 
 But crowd the canvas on our bark 
 
 And sail to meet the morning. 
 
 Writing to me from Gotha, Germany, Octo- 
 ber 2, 1873, he gave this revelation of his indomi- 
 table mind: 
 
 I have been, until recently, so busy with a History of 
 Germany, for schools, that my purpose to write to you has 
 been postponed until now. ... I was compelled to under- 
 take the History, for the sake of bread and butter. It was 
 a work of eight months, severe and unremitting, and if it 
 does not have a tolerable success I shall infer that no literary 
 work of mine is destined to succeed. " Lars,'' for instance, 
 is a dead failure, in a business point of view. The sales, for 
 the first two months, were just 1,050 copies. 
 
 I believe the book has been praised by the critics (at least 
 Osgood says so), but it seems to have made no impression on 
 most of my friends. McEntee is the sole individual who 
 has mentioned it in his letters. Stedman wrote such praise 
 of my Vienna Letters (the most ephemeral work) as would 
 have seemed ironical from any but an old friend, without 
 even hinting that he had ever heard of a poem which is 
 worth all my correspondence, from first to last. 
 
 However, I am one of those tough souls which cannot 
 be changed either by censure or neglect. I shall go on 
 writing until I either receive the right sort of recognition 
 or am smothered to death under a pyramid of magnificent 
 failures. I have an intense joy and satisfaction in writing 
 a poem, and I never could write so fast as to get ahead of 
 
174 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the accumulating conceptions. A nice prospect for mj; 
 friends ! 
 
 I go to Weimar in about a week, to study the Goethe 
 archives and the localities generally. Gotha, therefore, wiU 
 be my address until Christmas: it is only one hour from 
 Weimar. Our winter plan is still in nubibus; but there is 
 no hurry. Next summer there is the return home, and any 
 amount of sordid drudgery for me. . . . 
 
 I'm getting a little homesick, for the absence, thus far, 
 has been anything but a holiday. I've been fifteen months 
 in Europe, and in that time have compiled a volume for 
 Scribner, written " Lars " and a " History of Germany," 
 and gone to Vienna for the Tribune. The remaining six or 
 eight months of our stay must be devoted to the Goethe plan, 
 for which, principally, I came. 
 
 Iiillian is still at school, developing in a way which glad- 
 dens our hearts; so the main fortune of life has not yet 
 deserted us. How are your wife and boys? Give them our 
 love, and whenever you have an hour to "loaf and invite 
 your soul " tell me how you are getting on. . . . 
 
 There, you are tired of this, and I'll stop. If there were 
 a seashore here I'd wander on it, and look over the waves 
 like Iphigenia in Tauris. But I'm not the less an exile. 
 Ever faithfully yours. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 On another occasion, writing to me from the 
 same German city, he said: 
 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 Your letter of Nov. 11 came like an unexpected and there- 
 f ore-aU-the-more-welcome visit into my G«rman solitude here. 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 1^5 
 
 But, good Heavens! what all has not happened since then! 
 I write now, in a state of the greatest confusion and uncer- 
 tainty, — a condition during which we ought really not to 
 write at all, — ^but I cannot foresee how soon it will end. 
 Greeley's death is a severe blow to me ; for, in spite of many 
 little personal squabbles (for which he never showed me the 
 least sensitiveness), he was one of my best friends, one of the 
 few to be always relied upon, one upon whom I counted in 
 forecasting the future. . . . 
 
 My new poem has been my great consolation, and now that 
 it is finished I miss the diversion of mind sadly. It is a 
 blank verse idyllic story, in three books — something over 
 2,100 lines. The MS. has gone to Osgood, by mail, and I have 
 made another copy for Strahan & Co., London, who, to my 
 surprise, are willing to publish it. I hope their confidence will 
 not be shamed by the result. I can only say that it is quite 
 unlike anything I have 'yet done : it is quaint, simple, un- 
 historical, objectively expressed. The story, which is all 
 mine own invention, seemeth to me good; it is certainly 
 original. AU this will not make the poem popular. I have 
 come to the conclusion that popularity depends on striking 
 some transitory mood or whim of the mercurial public; hence 
 I expect nothing from this venture, except what an interest 
 in the mere story may give. But it will be pleasant if my 
 friends take an interest in the bantling. . . . 
 
 I had a new experience last week. I lectured, in German, 
 on American Literature, for the benefit of the Ladies' Chari- 
 table Association of the city. My friends were a little nerv- 
 ous, but the experiment was a thorough success. The hall 
 was crammed: the ladies made over one hundred thalers 
 profit: and everybody seemed delighted. I read, among 
 other things, a translation of Poe's Eaven and a poem of 
 
176 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Whittier, both of which seemed to make a strong impression. 
 I wrote the Lecture immediately in German, and — to my 
 surprise — ^have received many compliments on account of 
 its style. This " occupation, that never wearies, that slowly 
 creates and destroys not," as Schiller says, is, after all, our 
 best refuge in uneasy times. 
 
 Stedman has just written, in his old, hearty way, and I 
 shall reply to-morrow. Eeid speaks of his poem, on Greeley, 
 being very fine, which makes me all the more regret that 
 the papers have not come. I have sent also some lines, 
 written during the first shock of the news: they have prob- 
 ably been published by this time. 
 
 I don't know of any poem, anywhere, called " The Veiled 
 Muse." I hke the title: why didn't you send me a copy of 
 the poem? As for your poetic activity, this poem proves 
 that you have not given up. I know the despondency under 
 which you are resting, but also I know that the congenital 
 gift never dies out of one's nature. Several volumes of 
 mine sell no longer; not five copies a year; but am I to be 
 silent because of that? Never, my masters! If I live I 
 shall publish several more volumes of poetry. What is in me 
 must out, whether the public like it or not! 
 
 Tou wiU surely write again soon. I shall, probably, from 
 all quarters, not hear a full account of what has taken place 
 in the office since Greeley's death, and you can certainly 
 give me a little more light on the situation, from your point 
 of view. Now I must close, to catch to-day's mail. With 
 hearty greetings to all friends. 
 
 Ever faithfidly yours. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 177 
 
 Of the poetic group in which Taylor was 
 conspicuous not one remains. That group in- 
 cluded, among others, Richard Henry Stoddard 
 and his brilUant wife, EUzabeth Barstow; 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman; George Henry 
 Boker; Fitz- James O'Brien; Christopher P. 
 Cranch; Fitz Hugh Ludlow, and George Will- 
 iam Curtis. The writings of Taylor evince his 
 strong affection for Boker and Stoddard. The 
 home of the latter poet, where I first met Taylor, 
 was, for several years, in a house, still standing, 
 at the northeast corner of Fourth Avenue and 
 Tenth Street, New York. There, on occasion, 
 Stoddard, — the most subtle and exquisite lyrical 
 genius in our poetic Uterature since Poe, — ^would 
 assemble his guests, and there I have seen Tay- 
 lor, as also at his own fireside and at mine, the 
 incarnation of joviality and the soul of mirth. 
 He was in no way ascetic. He loved the pleas- 
 ures of life. No man could more completely 
 obey than he did the Emersonian injunction to 
 " Hear what wine and roses say ! " In the ear- 
 her part of his career he had fancied himself a 
 disciple of Shelley: there is, among his works. 
 
178 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 an ode to that elusive poet, whom he invokes as 
 " Immortal brother " ; but, in fact, he had as little 
 natural sympathy with the rainbow mysticism of 
 that strange being as he had with his proclivity 
 for dry bread. He would have consorted far 
 more readily with Burns or Christopher North, 
 " the jolly bachelors of Tarbolton and Mauch- 
 line " (as Allan Cunningham called Burns's gay 
 comrades), or the genial revellers of the Noctes 
 Ambrosianas. Not that he fancied carousal: but 
 he was very human. Like Shelley, however, he 
 loved Grecian themes: his "Icarus," "Hylas" 
 and " Passing the Sirens " are fine imaginative 
 examples of that love; but, like Burns, he habit- 
 ually treated all themes in a spirit of ardent 
 humanity. 
 
 Neither Taylor, Stoddard, Stedman, nor 
 Boker was associated with the Bohemian group 
 that gathered round the satiric Henry Clapp, in 
 the days of " The Saturday Press " and Pfaff's 
 Cave. None of those poets led a Bohemian hfe 
 or evinced practical sympathy with what is called 
 Bohemianism. Stedman, indeed, wrote a poem 
 about Bohemia, — a poem which is buoyant with 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR 179 
 
 a gypsy spirit and a winning lilt; but it is one 
 thing to write melodious verses about Arcadian 
 bliss, and quite another thing to subsist from 
 week to week on the precarious rations of a pub- 
 lisher's hack. Taylor, roaming up and down the 
 world, — as Goldsmith had done before him, — 
 learning languages, consorting with aU sorts of 
 persons, and earning his bread with his pen, pos- 
 sessed the true Bohemian spirit; but, aU the same, 
 his tastes were domestic, his proclivities were 
 those of the scholar and the artist, and he typifies 
 not Grub Street, but literature ; and in literature 
 he especially represents the rare and precious 
 attribute of poetic vitality; for his many-colored 
 line throbs and glows with life, — ^not alone the 
 life of the intellect, but the life of the heart. 
 
 It is difficult to depict, in the cold gleam of 
 words, the inspiring personality of Bayard Tay- 
 lor and to indicate its value to the general experi- 
 ence. As I think of him I see again the taU, 
 stalwart figure; the symmetrical head, with its 
 crown of dark, slightly grizzled, curling hair; the 
 aquiline, bearded face; the dark eyes, glowing 
 with kindly light; and again I feel the cordial 
 
180 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 clasp of the strong hand, and hear the cheerful, 
 musical, winning voice. In the common life of 
 every day he was the genial comrade, enjoying 
 everything and happy in contributing to the hap- 
 piness around him. In the life of the intellect, 
 in the realm of thought and expression, he be- 
 came transfigured; he was the priest at the altar, 
 the veritable apostle of Art. There is, in the 
 crypt of the Pantheon, in Paris, a tomb, of which 
 the door stands partly open, to allow the passage 
 of an arm of bronze, bearing an uplifted torch, — 
 the emblem of immortal aspiration. No symbol 
 could better denote the personality of Bayard 
 Taylor, the meaning of his life, and the abiding 
 influence of his works. Upon his grave, at Long- 
 wood, Pennsylvania, there is a Greek altar, in- 
 scribed with the words, " He being dead yet 
 speaketh." It is not an idle epitaph. As long 
 as there is beauty in the world, and as long as 
 there are human hearts to receive its message of 
 joy and hope, his voice will be heard. 
 
VII. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 It was my privilege, many years ago, to clasp 
 the hand of Charles Dickens and to hear from 
 his Ups the cordial assurance of his personal re- 
 gard. " If you come to England," he said, " be 
 sure to come to me; and it won't be my fault if 
 you don't have a good time." The great novel- 
 ist said those words as we sat together aboard a 
 little tug-boat, on the morning of April 22, 1868, 
 steaming to the Kussia, which was anchored in 
 the bay of New York, and about to sail for Eng- 
 land. It was a lovely morning. The air was 
 genial, the broad expanse of the Hudson and the 
 bay sparkled in briUiant sunlight, and the whole 
 silver scene was vital with motion and cheerful 
 sound. Dickens had expressed the wish to slip 
 away unimpeded by a crowd, for his many Read- 
 ings, together with much travel and continuous 
 social exertion, had taxed his endurance, and he 
 
 181 
 
182 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 was weary and ill. Accordingly, accompanied 
 by his friend and manager, George Dolby, he 
 drove from his hotel, the Westminster, to the pier 
 at the western end of Spring Street, where a 
 few friends were to meet him and embark with 
 him for the steamship. The party included 
 James T. Fields, James R. Osgood, Sol Eytinge, 
 Jr., A. V. S. Anthony, H. C. Jarrett, H. D. 
 Palmer, George Dolby, and the present writer, — 
 who is the sole survivor of that group. When 
 Dickens alighted from the carriage and glanced 
 at the river he uttered the joyous exclamation: 
 " That's home! " We were soon aboard the tug- 
 boat, — called " The Only Son," — and as we sailed 
 down the river it pleased the novelist to talk with 
 me about many things. I had heard all his Read- 
 ings in New York, and had written about them, 
 and on that subject he had many pleasant words 
 to say. Mention being made of the English 
 poet Matthew Arnold, he spoke warmly, saying: 
 " He is one of the gentlest and most earnest of 
 men." Of the renowned foreign actor Charles 
 Fechter, — ^who had not visited America, but 
 was soon to come, — ^he said: " When you see 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 183 
 
 Fechter you will, I think, recognize a great 
 artist." So the talk rambled on, till presently I 
 ventured to speak of the benefit and comfort that 
 I, in common with thousands of other readers, 
 had derived from his novels. My favorite, in 
 those days, was " A Tale of Two Cities," and 
 in a fervor of enthusiasm I declared to him the 
 opinion that it is the greatest of his works. He 
 seemed much pleased, and he answered, with evi- 
 dent conviction: " I think so too! " Study and 
 thought, in years that since have passed, convince 
 me that we were both somewhat mistaken, for 
 the indisputable supremacy of Dickens is that of 
 the humorist, and surely the foremost of his 
 novels, in respect of himaor, are " David Copper- 
 field " and "Martin Chuzzlewit"; but the 
 avowal he then made affords an interesting 
 glimpse of his mind, and therefore it is worthy 
 to be remembered. 
 
 The humorist not infrequently imdervalues his 
 special gift, and fancies himself to be stronger 
 in pathos than in mirth. Dickens, as shown by 
 many denotements in his writings, was fond of 
 melodrama, meaning the drama of astonishing 
 
184 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 situations, — a branch of art by no means to be 
 despised, but not the highest, — and he hked pos- 
 itive, h^^eral effects rather than suggestions to 
 the imagination: it is known, for example, that 
 he ranked the performance of Solon Shingle, by 
 John E. Owens, which was reality, above the 
 performance of Rip Van Winkle, by Joseph 
 Jefferson, which, in that actor's treatment of it, 
 was poetry. No critical considerations, however, 
 affected our discourse, in the conversation that is 
 now recalled. The novelist had labored through 
 a toilsome season: his work was done, his mind 
 was at ease, and he was blithe in spirits, — only 
 subdued, at moments, by consciousness of im- 
 pending separation from dear friends. There 
 was about him the irresistible charm of ingenu- 
 ous demeanor and absolute simplicity. His ap- 
 pearance, that day, afforded a striking contrast 
 with the appearance he had presented at the 
 reading desk. When before an audience Dick- 
 ens assumed the pose of an actor. He wore 
 evening dress, but he used the accessories of foot- 
 lights and also a colored screen as a background, 
 and he " made up " his face, as actors do. There 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 186 
 
 was, in his reading, an extraordinary facility of 
 impersonation, and he employed aU essential 
 means to heighten the desired effect of it. Now 
 he was himself. The actor had disappeared. 
 The man was vdth us, unsophisticated and un- 
 adorned. He wore a rough travelling suit and 
 a soft felt hat; his right foot was wrapped in 
 black silk, for he had been suffering from gout ; 
 and he carried a plain stick. After he had 
 boarded the steamship, and while he was talking 
 with the captain and other officers, the members 
 of our little party assembled in the saloon with 
 what he afterward jocosely described as " bitter 
 beer intentions." Soon he approached our group 
 and, addressing me, he said: "What are you 
 drinking? " I named the fluid, and, responding 
 to his request, filled a tumbler for him. He 
 shook hands with us, all around, with a grasp of 
 iron, emptied his glass, put it on the table, and 
 turned to greet the old statesman Thurlow 
 Weed, who had just then arrived: whereupon, 
 immediately, I seized that glass, and, to the con- 
 sternation of the attendant steward, put it into 
 my pocket, — ^mentioning, as I did so. Sir Wal- 
 
186 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ter Scott's appropriation of the glass of King 
 George IV, at the civic feast in Edinburgh, long 
 ago. The royal souvenir, it is recorded, fared 
 ill, for Sir Walter sat upon it and broke it. The 
 Dickens souvenir survives and is still in my pos- 
 session. When the farewells had been spoken 
 and we had left the ship, Dickens stood at the 
 rail, his brilliant eyes (and surely no eyes more 
 brilliant were ever seen) suffused with tears, 
 and, placing his hat on the end of his stick, he 
 waved it to us till distance had hidden him from 
 view. I never saw him again. Nine years later, 
 in 1877, when I first went to England, though 
 I could not seek for him at his home, I stood 
 with reverence beside his grave. He rests in the 
 Poets' Comer of Westminster Abbey. As I 
 drew near to that sacred spot I saw a single red 
 rose lying on the pavement that bears his name, 
 and almost at the instant a heedless visitor, in- 
 dolently strolling along the transept, trod upon 
 the flower and crushed it. 
 
 The general heart of mankind was touched by 
 Charles Dickens. Criticism, in its examination 
 of his writings, may refine and discriminate to 
 
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CHARLES DICKENS 187 
 
 the utmost possible extent, but it cannot obliter- 
 ate that solid, decisive truth. His own words 
 tersely and convincingly declare the consummate, 
 conquering principles of his faith and his works: 
 
 Ages of incessant labor, by immortal creatures, for this 
 earth, must pass into eternity, before the good of which it 
 is susceptible is all developed. . . . Any Christian spirit, 
 working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will 
 find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. 
 . . . There is nothing in the world so inevitably contagious 
 as laughter and good humor. 
 
 Upon those principles Dickens continuously 
 acted, and in his literary life, of more than thirty 
 years of conscientious labor, he created enduring 
 works of art, — peophng the realm of pure fiction 
 with a wide variety of characters, interpreting 
 human nature in manifold phases, reflecting the 
 passing hour, demolishing social abuses, teaching 
 the sacred duty of charity, comforting and help- 
 ing the poor, and stretching forth the hands of 
 loving sympathy to the outcast and the wretched. 
 Thus laboring, he enriched the world with a per- 
 petual spring of kindness, of hope, and of inno- 
 cent, happy laughter; he inculcated devotion to 
 
188 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 noble ideals; and he stimulated and strength- 
 ened the spiritual instincts of the human race. 
 Any reUc of such a man is precious, and the 
 Dickens souvenir to which I have adverted, — ^the 
 glass from which he took his parting drink, on 
 the day of his final departure from America, — 
 has been tenderly cherished. Once in a while it 
 is brought forth and shown, for the pleasure of a 
 hterary visitor. On one occasion of exceptional 
 and peculiar interest, when Charles Dickens, the 
 younger, dined with us in our home, March 3, 
 1883, it was placed in his hands, and thus, after 
 the lapse of fifteen years, the farewell glass of 
 the illustrious father was touched by the lips of 
 the reverent and honored son. 
 
 The younger Charles Dickens, a man of un- 
 common talents and of a singularly amiable and 
 winning personality, possessed abundant and 
 deeply interesting recollections of his father, and, 
 naturally, he was fond of talking about him. 
 Adverting to his father's Readings, he men- 
 tioned several picturesque and significant inci- 
 dents, all tending to show the deep interest that 
 the great novelist felt in that branch of his art. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 189 
 
 and the scrupulous care with which he trained 
 himself for the vocation of public reader. The 
 home of Dickens, Gad's HiU Place, a house that 
 he had known and fancied when a boy, and that 
 he bought in 1856, is near to Rochester and Chat- 
 ham, where there is a military and naval estab- 
 Ushment. " Noisy brawls sometimes occurred 
 in the neighborhood," said the younger Dickens, 
 " but we did not regard them. One morning I 
 heard a great din, shouts and screams, as of a 
 violent, drunken quarrel. At first I did not heed 
 it, but after a while, as it steadily continued, I 
 went out to our grove, across the road, where I 
 found my father, alone. ' Have you heard the 
 row? ' I asked. ' Did you hear any noise? ' he 
 answered. ' Yes,' I replied, ' I thought some- 
 body was being killed. What can have hap- 
 pened? Did you shout? ' ' I made the row,' he 
 replied; 'I have been rehearsing the murder 
 scene in " Oliver Twist." It was the wrangle 
 of Bill Sykes and Nancy that you heard; I have 
 just been trying to kill Nancy.' ' Well,' I said, 
 * I should think you have succeeded, for a more 
 damnable racket was never made.' " The ear- 
 
190 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 nest narrator proceeded to tell me that his father 
 was warned against the prodigious exertion 
 necessitated by those Readings of his, and espe-« 
 cially by the reading from " Oliver Twist." The 
 death of Dickens (aged only fifty-eight) was 
 precipitated by his implication in a frightful rail- 
 road accident, which occurred at Staplehurst, a 
 year before he died, but, imdoubtedly, the efforts 
 that he made as a pubUc reader hastened the close 
 of his great career. Indeed, toward the last, his 
 son Charles, acting in obedience to the imperative 
 order of his father's doctor, invariably sat in front, 
 near to the stage, and, — as he told me, — ^had, 
 privately, provided himself with a short ladder, 
 by means of which he could obtain immediate 
 access to the platform, in order to aid his father 
 in case he shoiJd be smitten with a stroke of apo- 
 plexy. Such an end was expected, and such was 
 the end that came; but, happily, not in public. 
 Dickens gave his last reading on March 19, 1869, 
 at St. James's Hall, London. He died, sud- 
 denly, of apoplexy, in his dining room at Gad's 
 Hill Place, June 9, 1870. The younger Charles 
 Dickens long survived his father, dying on July 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 191 
 
 21, 1896, — and so one of the kindest men, one of 
 the gentlest spirits, one of the best speakers in 
 England, vanished from our mortal scene. 
 
 The name of the Dickens house and of its local- 
 ity is speUed both ways — Gad's Hill and Gads- 
 hill. In the second act of the First Part of 
 Shakespeare's great play of " Henry IV " it is 
 spelled Gadshill, and it is used as the name of a 
 place and as the name of a person, — ^the servant 
 of Falstaff. The place is westward from Roch- 
 ester. On a brilliant day in the summer of 1885 I 
 made a pilgrimage to that Hterary shrine, — driv- 
 ing from the BuU, at Rochester, Mr. Pickwick's 
 tavern, and passing many hours among the 
 haunts of Dickens. There is, or was, a quaint 
 little inn, called the Falstaff, near to Gad's HiU 
 Place, on the opposite side of the turnpike road, 
 and from that resort I dispatched a card to the 
 
 owner of the mansion. Major , signifying 
 
 that one of the American friends of Dickens 
 would gratefully appreciate the privilege of 
 viewing the house. The Major received me with 
 cordial hospitality, and so it happened that a 
 stranger spoke, upon the threshold of Dickens, 
 
192 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the welcome that the great author himself in- 
 tended and promised to speak. There was the 
 study, unchanged, — ^the room in which " Great 
 Expectations," " Our Mutual Friend " and 
 "Edwin Drood" were written; there was the 
 writing-desk at which the magician would never 
 sit again; there was the vacant chair; there, on 
 the back of the door, was the painted book-case, 
 with the mock volumes, bearing comic titles, in- 
 vented by the novelist; and over all the golden 
 summer sunshine glimmered and a magic light 
 of memory that words are powerless to paint. 
 I sat in the chair of Charles Dickens and rever- 
 ently wrote my name in the chronicle of pilgrims 
 to his earthly home. The dining room had, on 
 that day, been prepared for a banquet for many 
 persons, but no guests had yet arrived, and the 
 Major kindly permitted me to enter it and see 
 the sofa on which Dickens died; and later he con- 
 ducted me through a tunnel vmderneath the road, 
 giving access to a field and grove where was the 
 Swiss chalet presented to Dickens by friends of 
 his in Switzerland, a snug retreat to which he 
 often resorted to escape interruption when at 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 193 
 
 work, and where he passed his last day as a living 
 man. I recalled his words, as I stood there: 
 " If you come to England be sure to come to 
 tnel' and it seemed to me that he was actually 
 present, and that I felt again the hearty grasp 
 of his hand and heard the ringing tones of his 
 cheery voice. The garden was gay with red 
 roses. " Dickens loved these," said the Major, 
 and, so saying, he placed a cluster of them in my] 
 hands, by way of gracious farewell. 
 
 THE READINGS OF DICKENS 
 
 Dickens was not only an excellent reader but 
 a good actor. The discerning reader of his 
 novels perceives that he possessed a keen dra- 
 matic instinct. The auditor of his Readings was 
 soon convinced that he also possessed a positive 
 dramatic faculty. In reading scenes from his 
 novels he entered into characters that he had cre- 
 ated, and his correct assumption of diverse per- 
 sonalities was decisively effective. Now he was 
 Scrooge; presently Mr. Fizgig; then Boh 
 Cratchitt; and by and by he passed, easily, by 
 the expedient of artistic suggestion, — and by 
 
194 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 something more, which it is difficult to define,^ 
 through the contrasted guises of Serjeant Buz- 
 fuz, the httle Judge, Mrs. Cluppins, Sam Wel- 
 ler, Mr. Winkle, Micataher, Pecksniff, and 
 Sairey Gamp. The skill that merges personality 
 with a fictitious character, and yet does not efface 
 the performer's individual quahty, is indispen- 
 sahle in acting. Dickens possessed it. He knew 
 the effect that he wished to produce. His 
 method was characterized by simplicity and deli- 
 cacy. In the copious, mellow, musical vocalism 
 ^a httle marred by the monotony of rising inflec- 
 tion), the authoritative manner, the unaffected, 
 free gesticulation, and the spontaneous accord- 
 ance of the action with the word the authentic art 
 of the actor was conspicuous. As an interpreter of 
 tragic character and f eehng he was consistent and 
 often impressive, as in his reading of the storm 
 chapter, much condensed, in " David Copper- 
 field," — ^that wonderful blending of the terrors 
 of the tempest with the tragic and pathetic cul- 
 minations of human fate, — but he was, distinc- 
 tively, a humorist, and his humorous embodi- 
 ments, for embodiments, practically, they were. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 195 
 
 and not merely denotements, were his indubitable 
 triumphs of dramatic art. In outbursts of pas- 
 sionate emotion, while he did not lack fervor, he 
 lacked vocal power; but the moment he entered 
 the realm of humor he was a monarch. His 
 whole being then seemed aroused. His clear, 
 brilliant, expressive eyes twinkled with joy; his 
 countenance expressed bubbling mirth that was 
 with difficulty restrained; his tones grew deep 
 and rich; he, manifestly, escaped from all con- 
 sciousness of self; and he completely captivated 
 his auditor. 
 
 At this distance of time, — forty years having 
 passed since last I heard his voice, — it is not 
 easy to name his superlative comic achievements ; 
 but my clearest remembrance of them would 
 specify Micawber, Mrs. Gamp, Sam Weller, Mrs. 
 Raddles, PecJcsniff, Mrs. Gummidge and the lit- 
 tle servant of Bob Sawyer as gems of his hu- 
 morous acting. There was a sweet, gentle strain 
 of humor in his exposition of the delicate episode 
 of poor little Dora Spenlow; but the scenes in 
 which he reveUed and greatly excelled were such 
 as display the festival with Micawber at Canter- 
 
196 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 bury; the supper with Bob Sawyer^ in the lodg- 
 ing-house of the shrill, spiteful Mrs. Baddies; 
 and the tipsy altercation between Mrs. Gamp 
 and Mrs. Prig. His finest impersonations, — 
 finest, because of the dramatic interpreter's abso- 
 lute fidelity to the author's designs, and also be- 
 cause of their integral reveahnent of his genius, 
 — were, as I remember them, those of Dr. Mari- 
 gold and Mrs. Gamp. The latter portrayal was 
 a consummate type of his humor; the former of 
 his pathos. That fat, fussy heathen, that prodigy 
 of eccentric, comic selfishness, that ungainly, sa- 
 gacious, piggish cockney, Mrs. Gamp^ — ^herself 
 possessing no perception, however shght, of 
 either good feeling or mirth, — dehghts by the 
 grotesque comicality of a character, both serious 
 and ludicrous, which is skilfully developed and 
 displayed under ingeniously himiorous condi- 
 tions. All lovers of broad fun have rejoiced in 
 Sairey, — ^in her copious loquacity, her store of 
 anecdote, her appropriate aphorisms, her belief 
 in the utility of regular habits, her talent for sar- 
 casm, her partiality for gin, her naive suggestion 
 of " a bottle on the chimbley-piece, to set to my 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 197 
 
 lips when so dispoged," her ample resources of 
 unconsciously ludicrous illustration, her fecund, 
 inexhaustible vocabulary, her mythical friend 
 Mrs. Harris, her formidable compatriot Betsy 
 Prig, and her ever memorable quarrel with that 
 audacious associate. Dickens must have rejoiced 
 in creating Mrs. Gamp, for he evinced the keen- 
 est artistic enjoyment in depicting her, — ^his por- 
 trayal of her exemplifjdng absolute harmony 
 between the imaginative ideal and the executive 
 intellectual purpose. Our stage was adorned, in 
 old times, by three comedians, George Holland, 
 William Davidge, and Marie Wilkins, any of 
 whom could have personated Mrs. Gamp per- 
 fectly well; but none of them, though aided 
 by the accessories of costume and scenery, could 
 have made the character more actual to the mate- 
 rial vision than Dickens made it to the eyes of the 
 mind. He read it, and, at the same time, he 
 contrived to act it. 
 
 The same felicity of achievement was percepti- 
 ble in the portrayal of Dr. Marigold. No other 
 one of his Readings contained more — ^if so much 
 — of himself. In whatsoever way interpreted. 
 
198 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the story of Dr. Marigold would touch the heart. 
 As interpreted by Dickens, its harmony of humor 
 and pathos was irresistible. The sketch itself is 
 exceptionally representative of the essential char- 
 acteristic of its author's genius — ^vital humanity. 
 No writer has shown himself more capable than 
 Dickens was of pointing those afflicting contrasts 
 which reveal human nature as, at times, so noble, 
 and social conditions as, at times, so tragic. No 
 writer ever was more quick to see or more expert 
 to show the heart that beats beneath the motley, 
 and, therewithal, the masquerade of living, in 
 which so many human beings, of fine feeling and 
 high motive, are doomed to participate, — often 
 through many arid years of smiling endurance. 
 When Dickens assumed Dr. Marigold the for- 
 mal English gentleman, in evening dress, seemed 
 to disappear, while in his place stood the coarsely 
 clad, loquacious pedler, on the footboard of his 
 Cheap-Jack cart, — his dying daughter clasped 
 to his breast, her arms around his neck, her head 
 drooping on his shoulder, — ^vending his wares — 
 voluble, facetious, resolute — chiding his sorrow — 
 the veritable incarnation of heroism — even while 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 199 
 
 the gray shadow of death was stealing over the 
 face of his child. It was an inexpressibly pa- 
 thetic presentment of dramatic contrast: on one 
 side, self-abnegation, the celestial element of hu- 
 man nature; on the other side, innocent, helpless, 
 forlorn childhood, made doubly sacred by misfort- 
 une. I have seen all the important acting that 
 has been shown on the American stage within a 
 past of more than fifty years : I have seen but lit- 
 tle, in the serio-comic vein, that was better than 
 that of Charles Dickens in the character of Dr. 
 Marigold. This humble tribute can suggest 
 only the general character of his art. His Read- 
 ings were the spontaneous expression, wisely 
 guided, of a great nature, in the maturity of its 
 greatness, and those persons who heard them en- 
 joyed a precious privilege, never to be forgotten. 
 Contemporary interest in those Readings, no 
 doubt, was intensified by admiration, — ^then very 
 general, — of the reader's writings; and perhaps, 
 by reason of that admiration, they seem, in 
 remembrance, to have been finer than they act- 
 ually were. I do not, however, credit that con- 
 jecture. I recall, even now, the action of Dick- 
 
200 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ens when, as Boh Cratchitt, he seemed to be 
 throwing a kiss to Tiny Tim, and brushing away 
 a tear, as he prepared to propose the health of 
 Scrooge. Those persons only who have children 
 and fear to lose them, or, loving them, have lost 
 them, could understand how much that simple 
 action meant. I recall his sad tones and direct 
 way when, as Pegotty, he told of the weary 
 search for Little Em'ly, and " the fine, massive 
 grandeur in his face " when he spoke those touch- 
 ing words : " And only God knows how good 
 them mothers was to me." I remember the ex- 
 alted, awe-stricken expression of his countenance 
 when, as he closed his narrative of the storm, in 
 " Copperfield," he spoke of the dead man, whose 
 name is unmentioned, and the pathetic tone in 
 which he said: " I saw him lying with his head 
 upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at 
 school." Those indescribably beautiful strokes of 
 art, and many Hke them, denoted a consummate 
 artist. It is not, however, to be questioned that 
 the intrinsic power and authentic supremacy of 
 Dickens consisted in authorship, and not in the 
 histrionic illustration of it. He enriched litera- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 201 
 
 ture with creations that can never perish. Hu- 
 mor and pathos blend in his works and make an 
 exquisite music. The geniahty of Christmas is 
 nowhere so fully expressed as in " Pickwick " 
 and the " Carol," — ^where great fires blaze upon 
 spacious hearths, and bright eyes sparkle, and 
 merry beUs ring, and simshine, starlight, and joy 
 make a delicious atmosphere of comfort, kind- 
 ness, and ardent good-wiU. There is no terror 
 more ghastly than that on the face of Jonas 
 Chuzzlemt, as he breaks out of the woods, after 
 doing the murder. There is no written tempest 
 more actual and terrible than the tempest in 
 which Ham and Steerforth go to their death. 
 There is no emblem of self-sacrifice more sublime 
 than the figure of Sidney Carton at the guillo- 
 tine. But it is only a ghmpse of a great author 
 that is here intended, — ^not a critical estimate of 
 works long since accepted into the sacrariima of 
 Enghsh Literature. Thq world knows them by 
 heart, and the judgment of the most exacting of 
 human intellect has recognized and celebrated the 
 scope and the opulence of their writer's genius: 
 the vitaUty of his thought; the sincerity of his 
 
202 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 virtuous emotion; the certainty of his intuition; 
 the fehcity of his inventive skill; the rosy glow of 
 his copious, captivating humor; the fineness of 
 his perception of tragic and comic contrast in 
 human experience; the depth of his sympathy 
 with the common joys and sorrows of the human 
 race; the eloquence of his fluent, nervous, forci- 
 ble, convincing style; and the profound, stead- 
 fast, consistent purpose of his life and his art to 
 inculcate the religion of charity and love. The 
 world is happier and better because Charles 
 Dickens has lived in it. 
 
VIII. 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 There is no resemblance of organic structure 
 and mental idiosyncrasy between the works of 
 Charles Dickens and the works of Wilkie Collins, 
 yet CoUins, as a novelist, was a result of the pro- 
 digious influence of Dickens upon the hterary 
 movement of the time in which he lived, and the 
 memory of the one irresistibly incites remem- 
 brance of the other. My acquaintance with Col- 
 lins began long ago, and it speedily ripened into 
 a friendship that was interrupted only by his 
 death. He was a great writer: as a story-teller, 
 specifically, he stands alone, — ^transcendent and 
 incomparable: but his personahty was even more 
 interesting than his authorship. To be in his 
 society was to be charmed, delighted, stimulated, 
 and refreshed. His intellectual energy com- 
 municated itself to aU around him, but his man- 
 
 203 
 
204 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ner was so exquisitely refined and gentle that, 
 while he prompted extreme mental activity, he 
 also diffused a lovely influence of repose. The 
 hours that I passed in the company of Collins 
 are remembered as among the happiest of my 
 life. His views were unconventional, — ^the 
 views of a man who had observed human nature 
 and society widely and closely, and who thought 
 for himself. His humor was playful. His per- 
 ception of character was intuitive and unerring. 
 He manifested, at all times, a delicate considera- 
 tion for other persons, and his sense of kindness 
 was instantaneous and acute. His learning was 
 ample, but he made no parade of it. Sincerity 
 and simphcity were the predominant attributes 
 of his mind. He had seen much of the world, he 
 possessed a copious store of anecdote, and his 
 conversation was fluent, sprightly, and amusing, 
 — the more attractive because of personal pecu- 
 Uarities that deepened the impression of his win- 
 ning originality. His temperament was mercu- 
 rial, — ^his moods alternating between exuberant 
 glee and pensive gloom; but in society he was 
 remarkable for the buoyancy of a youthful spirit. 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 205 
 
 and at all times he dominated himself and his 
 circumstances with a calm, resolute will. In 
 listening to his talk and in reading his novels I 
 derived the impression that he was a fatalist. 
 However that may be, he looked upon the human 
 race with boundless charity. His sensibility was 
 great; his intuition was infallible, and, in par- 
 ticular, his mental attitude toward women was 
 that of ardent chivalry. He understood woman 
 — ^her heroism, her magnificent virtues, her en- 
 thralling charms; he knew her faults also, and 
 he did not hesitate to declare and reprove them; 
 but his works abound with touches of tender sym- 
 pathy with her trials and sufferings, and with 
 lovely compassion for her infirmities and griefs. 
 That exquisite hvimanity, combined with fine in- 
 tellect and delicate, spontaneous humor, made 
 companionship with Wilkie CoUins an inestima- 
 ble privilege and blessing. I have had the fort- 
 une of knowing, intimately, many distinguished 
 persons: I have not known any person, distin- 
 guished or otherwise, whose society, — because of 
 mental breadth, catholic taste, generous feeling, 
 quick appreciation, intrinsic goodness, and sweet 
 
206 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 courtesy, — ^was so entirely satisfying as that of 
 Wilkie Collins. 
 
 The unjustifiable use of private letters, as an 
 element in the biography of deceased persons, 
 has been severely, and rightly, condemned. A 
 judicious and correct use of such documents, 
 however, can neither do injustice to the dead nor 
 give offence to the living. Some of the letters 
 that Colhns addressed to me are more expressive 
 than any description could be of his bhthe alac- 
 rity of mind and his genial spirit. Here is one 
 that pleasantly indicates those attributes and 
 also, — announcing his allegiance to certain splen- 
 did ideals now somewhat out of fashion, — de- 
 clares his hterary taste: 
 
 90 Gloucester Place, Poetman Square, W. 
 London, August 5, 1878. 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 Tour kind and friendly letter found me in a darkened 
 room, suffering again from one of my attacks of rheumatic 
 gout in the eyes. I am only now well enough to use my 
 eyes and my pen once more, and I hasten to ask you to 
 forgive me for a delay in writing to you which has been 
 forced upon me, in the most literal sense of the word. 
 
 Let me get away from the disagreeable subject of myself 
 and my illnesses, and beg you to accept my most sincere 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 207 
 
 thanks for the gift of your last volume of poems. My first 
 renewal of the pleasure of reading is associated with your 
 pages. I ought to warn you that I am an incorrigible heretic 
 in the matter of modem poetry, of the sort that is now 
 popular. I positively decline to let the poet preach to me or 
 puzzle me. He is to express passion and sentiment, in lan- 
 guage which is essentially intelligible as well as essentially 
 noble and musical, — or I wiU have nothing to do with him. 
 You will now not be surprised to hear that I delight in 
 Byron and Scott, and, more extraordinary still, that I am a 
 frequent reader even of Crabbe ! 
 
 Having made my confession, I am sure you will believe 
 I speak sincerely when I thank you for some hours of real 
 pleasure, derived from your volume. Both in feeling and 
 expression I find your poetry (to use a phrase which I don't 
 much like, but which expresses exactly what I mean) 
 "thoroughly sympathetic." "The Ideal," "A Dirge," and 
 "Eosemary" are three among my chief favorites. I thank 
 you again for them — and for all the rest, 
 
 I have been too completely out of the world to have any 
 news to tell you. As to literature, we are in a sadly stagnant 
 state in London. And as to the " British Theatre " the less 
 (with one or two rare exceptions) said about it the better. 
 Writing of the theatre, however, I am reminded that my 
 " New Magdalen," Ada Cavendish, sails on the 24th, to try 
 her fortune in the United States. She has, I think, more 
 of the divine fire in her than any other living English 
 actress of " Drama " — and she has the two excellent qualities 
 of being always eager to improve and always ready to take 
 advice in her art. I am really interested in her well-doing, 
 and I am specially anxious to hear what you think of her. 
 In the "Magdalen," and also in "Miss Gwilt" (a piece 
 
208 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 altered, from my "Armadale," by Eegnier — of the Theatre 
 Frangais — and myself), she has done things which electrified 
 our English audiences. If you should be sufficiently in- 
 terested in her to give her a word of advice in the art she 
 ■will be grateful, and I shall be grateful too. 
 
 I am " bestowing my tediousness " on you without mercy, 
 and my paper warns me that the time has come to say, for 
 the present, Good-by. Let me come to an end by expressing 
 a hope that you will give me another opportunity of proving 
 myself a better correspondent. In the meantime, with all 
 good wishes, believe me. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 WiLKEB Collins. 
 
 When you see Mr. Jefferson pray remember me kindly to 
 him. 
 
 Miss Ada Cavendish (Mrs. Frank A. Mar- 
 shall) was an actress of exceptional beauty, tal- 
 ent, and charm. She first attracted attention on 
 the London stage in 1863, as a performer in bur- 
 lesque, and subsequently she gained distinction 
 in comedy and tragedy, — acting in important 
 dramas and winning fame by fine performances 
 of Shakespeare's Beatrice and Rosalind. In 
 1873 she first impersonated Mercy Merrick, in 
 CoUins's play based on his novel " The New 
 Magdalen " ; and thereafter, until the end of her 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 209 
 
 career, she remained identified with those hero- 
 ines of his creation, Mercy Merrick and Miss 
 Gwilt. Her first appearance on the American 
 stage was made at Wallack's Theatre, New 
 York, on September 9, 1878, and to that inci- 
 dent Collins refers. He was fond of the stage, 
 and his novels, — from several of which he de- 
 rived plays, — are abundantly supplied with orig- 
 inal dramatic incident. One of his effective 
 dramas is based on " The Woman in White," 
 with which Mr. Wybert Reeve, in the character 
 of Count Fosco, traversed Great Britain, the 
 United States, and Canada, acting Fosco more 
 than fifteen hundred times. In the following 
 letter Collins makes an instructive allusion to 
 one of his plays, as viewed by one of the most 
 interesting members of the stage of France, the 
 brillianti much lamented Aimee-Olympe Desclee 
 (1836-'74) : 
 
 90 Gloucester Place, Portman Square, 
 London, February 10, 1882. 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 You were indeed happily inspired when you sent me that 
 generous and sympathetic article in "The Tribune." Still 
 
210 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 tormented by the gout, I forgot my troubles when I opened 
 the newspaper, and felt the encouragement that I most 
 highly value — ^I mean the encouragement that is oflEered to 
 me by a brother-writer. 
 
 If what I hear of this last larcenous appropriation of my 
 poor " Magdalen " be true, what an effort it must have been to 
 you to give your attention, even for a few hours only, to 
 dramatic work so immeasurably beneath your notice ! How 
 did you compensate your intelligence for this outrage offered 
 to it by this latest "adapter" of ideas that do not belong 
 to him? Did you disinfect your mind by reading, or writ- 
 ing, — or did you go to bed, and secure the sweet oblivion of 
 sleep ? 
 
 I wonder whether I ever told you of an entirely new view 
 taken of "Magdalen" by the last of the great French 
 actresses — Aimee Desclee. After seeing the piece in London 
 she was eager to play, on her return to Paris — Grace Rose- 
 terry! "Develop the character a little more, in the last 
 act," she said to me; "I will see that the play is thoroughly 
 well translated into French — and I will make Grace, and not 
 Mercy Merrick, the chief woman in the piece. Grace's 
 dramatic position is magnificent: I feel it, to my fingers' 
 ends. Wait and see ! " She died, poor soul, a few months 
 afterward, and Grace Boselerry will, I fear, never be properly 
 acted now. Don't forget me, my dear Winter — and let me 
 hear from you sometimes. I set no common value on your 
 friendship and your good opinion. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 WiLKiE Collins. 
 
 P.S. I address you as Mr. on this envelope. Our curiously 
 common mock-title of Esquire is declared by Eenunore 
 Cooper to be a species of insult, and even a violation of the 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 211 
 
 Constitution of the United States, when attached to the 
 name of an American citizen. Is that great Master (shame- 
 fully undervalued by Americans of the present day!) right 
 or wrong about Esq. ? N.B. I have just been reading " The 
 Deerslayer " for the -fifth time. 
 
 On the occasion of my last meeting with Col- 
 lins, which occurred at his house, No. 82 Wimpole 
 St., near Cavendish Square, London, not long 
 before his death (on September 23, 1889), we 
 sat together from noon till after midnight, talk- 
 ing of many subjects, — men, women, books, 
 opinions, feelings, and events, — and then, as 
 often before, I had occasion to appreciate his 
 copious knowledge, fine discernment, and vigor- 
 ous, novel thought. At that time, and indeed 
 throughout his later years, he was obliged, occa- 
 sionally, to consume laudanum. He had orig- 
 inally been compelled to use that drug because 
 of excruciating pain, caused by rheumatic gout 
 in the eyes, and it had become to him, more or 
 less, an indispensable anodyne. In the course of 
 the evening that medicine was brought to him, 
 and, naturally, he adverted to its properties and 
 effects. 
 
212 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 " My suffering was so great," he said, " when 
 I was writing * The Moonstone,' that I could 
 not control myself and keep quiet. My cries and 
 groans so deeply distressed my amanuensis, to 
 whom I was dictating, that he could not continue 
 his work, and had to leave me. After that I 
 employed several other men, with the same re- 
 sult : no one of them could endure the strain. At 
 last I engaged a young woman, stipulating that 
 she must utterly disregard my sufferings and 
 attend solely to my words. This she declared 
 that she could and would do, and this, to my 
 amazement (because the most afilicting of my 
 attacks came upon me after her arrival) , she in- 
 dubitably and exactly did. I was blind with 
 pain, and I lay on the couch writhing and groan- 
 ing. In that condition and under those circum- 
 stances I dictated the greater part of 'The 
 Moonstone.' " 
 
 Collins mentioned, I remember, that the acces- 
 sion of pain began at the point where Miss Clack 
 is introduced into the narrative, so that the essen- 
 tially humorous part of that fascinating story 
 was composed by its indomitable author when 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 213 
 
 he was almost frenzied with physical torture. 
 The art of the fabric, nevertheless, is perfect: the 
 invention never flags; the playful, satirical 
 humor, with its vein of veiled scorn for canting 
 hypocrisy, meanness, and spite, flows on in a 
 smooth, silver ripple of felicitous words, and the 
 style is crystal clear. " Opium sometimes hurts," 
 he said, that day, " but also, sometimes^ it helps. 
 In general, people know nothing about it." He 
 then referred to the experience of Sir Walter 
 Scott, in the enforced use of laudanum, when 
 writing " The Bride of Lammermoor," — an ex- 
 perience that is related in Lockhart's noble life 
 of that great author. 
 
 Mention was made of Coleridge and of De 
 Quincey, and of the elder Lord Lytton (Bul- 
 wer) , all of whom had recourse to opiimi. " I 
 very well remember the poet Coleridge," Col- 
 lins said: "he often came to my father's house, 
 and my father and mother were close friends of 
 his. One day he came there and was in great 
 distress, saying that it was wrong for him to take 
 opium, but that he could not resist the craving 
 for it, although he made every possible effort to 
 
214 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 do so. His grief was excessive. He even shed 
 tears. At last my mother addressed him, say- 
 ing: 'Mr. Coleridge, do not cry; if the opium 
 really does you any good, and you must have it, 
 why do you not go and get it? ' At this the 
 poet ceased to weep, recovered his composure, 
 and, turning to my father, said, with an air of 
 much rehef and deep conviction: ' Collins, your 
 wife is an exceedingly sensible woman! ' I sup- 
 pose that he did not long delay to act upon my 
 mother's suggestion. I was a boy at the time, 
 but the incident made a strong impression on 
 my mind, and I could not forget it. Coleridge 
 had brilliant eyes and a very sweet voice." 
 
 The reader must not infer, from what is here 
 said, that Wilkie Collins was a man of weak 
 character, self-indulgent, and subservient to the 
 " opium habit." Such an inference would be 
 unjust to the memory of a great writer and a 
 noble person. The works of CoUins, which fill 
 more than twenty-one volumes, bear decisive tes- 
 timony to the poise of his intellect, the opulence 
 of his genius, the incessancy of his labor, the 
 copious wealth of his invention, the breadth of 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 215 
 
 his knowledge of life, the ardency of his sympa- 
 thetic emotion, and, above all, the sturdy inde- 
 pendence and adamantine solidity of his charac- 
 ter. He possessed an extraordinary mind, and 
 in adding a body of original, vital, imaginative 
 fiction to the literature of his country he accom- 
 plished an extraordinary work. But during the 
 greater part of his life he was an invalid, and, 
 remembering the circumstances under which he 
 wrote, it is amazing that he accomplished so 
 much. One denotement of his potent individual- 
 ity is the uniform texture of his style, — a style 
 that is unique. He portrayed many characters, 
 and it is notable that those characters, with little 
 exception, express themselves in one and the same 
 verbal form: the faculty, possessed in such a mar- 
 vellous degree by Shakespeare and by Sir Walter 
 Scott, of making each person speak in exact ac- 
 cordance with his or her personality, he did not 
 employ: yet every character that he drew is dis- 
 tinctly individual, and, by a certain subtle magic 
 of artistic skill, it is made to seem to be talking 
 in a perfectly individual manner. Consummate 
 art, thus exemplified, is not achieved with a dis- 
 
216 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ordered intellect. Personal observation of Col- 
 lins, furthermore, found him exceptionally self- 
 possessed, firm in mind, clear in thought, digni- 
 fied yet gentle in manner, the embodiment of the 
 sweet gravity and involuntalry grace that fancy 
 associates with the ideal of such men as Cowley 
 and Addison. His aspect was singular and in- 
 teresting. When seated he appeared to be a 
 portly man, but when he stood that impression 
 was dispelled. His head was large and leonine. 
 His eyes were hazel. He wore an ample beard. 
 His body was small, his shoulders were slightly 
 Stooped, and his limbs were, seemingly, attenu- 
 ated. His walk was slow and feeble, — ^that of a 
 person who had been weakened by great pain. 
 His voice, though low, was clear, kindly, and 
 winning, and his demeanor was marked by the 
 formal courtesy that is commonly ascribed to 
 persons designated as survivors of " the old 
 school." That formal bearing, which, in fact, 
 was involuntary distinction, did not lessen his 
 geniality of companionship. He freely partici- 
 pated in social enjoyments, but it was in the com- 
 munion of intellectual taste that he especially 
 
WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS 
 PJiotograph by Lock and Whifjield 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 217 
 
 rejoiced, and it was through the medium of such 
 communion, as his writings prove, that he im- 
 parted the most of pleasure and benefit. As a 
 writer he taught, — not by didacticism but by- 
 suggestion, — purity of living and charity of feel- 
 ing, and as a man he was the inspiration of nobil- 
 ity to every person who came within the scope 
 of his influence, and especially to those who were 
 blessed with his friendship. 
 
 In matters of taste Collins was epicurean. 
 The perfection of enjoyment, he assured me, is 
 only to be obtained when you are at sea, in a 
 luxurious, well-appointed steam yacht, in lovely 
 summer weather. One of his eccentricities re- 
 sulted from his inordinate liking for black pep- 
 per: " It is seldom provided at dinner tables to 
 which I repair," he said, " and therefore I take 
 care to provide it myself." He did; and pleas- 
 urable it was to see the droU gravity with which 
 he produced that condiment. His ways were 
 ever ingenuous and characteristic. His reminis- 
 cent talk was charming, — ^the word-pictures that 
 he made of authors whom he had seen and 
 known, such as Thomas Hood, Douglas Jerrold, 
 
218 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 and Thackeray, being, in effect, like perfect 
 cameos. Here is a characteristic letter, affording 
 a glimpse of his boyhood: 
 
 90 Glouoesteb Place, Portman Square, W. 
 London, September 3rd, 1881. 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 If you have long since dismissed me from memory, you 
 have only treated an inexcusably bad correspondent as he 
 deserves. When I was at school, — ^perpetually getting pun- 
 ished as " a bad boy," — ^the master used to turn me to good 
 moral account, as a means of making his model scholars 
 ashamed of their occasional lapses into misconduct: "If it 
 had been Collins I should not have felt shocked and sur- 
 prised. Nobody expects anything of him. But You!!" — 
 etc., etc. 
 
 In the hope that you, by this time, "expect nothing of 
 Collins" I venture to appeal to your indulgence. In the 
 intervals of rheumatic gout I still write stories — and I 
 send to you, by registered book-post, my latest effort, called 
 "The Black Eobe," in the belief that you will "give me 
 another chance," and honor me by accepting the work. It 
 is thought, on the European side of the Atlantic, in Soman 
 Catholic countries as well as in Protestant England, to be 
 the best thing I have written for some time. And it is 
 memorable to me as having produced a freely offered gift 
 of forty pounds from one of the pirates who have seized it 
 on the American side! ! ! 
 
 I write with your new editions, — so kindly sent to me, — 
 in the nearest book-case. In the Poems I rejoice to see my 
 special favorites included in the new publication — ^"The 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 219 
 
 Ideal," " Eosemary " and the exquisitely tender verses which 
 enshrine the memory of " Ada Clare." 
 
 I have heard of you from Miss Cavendish. May I hope to 
 hear of you next — ^from yourseKI 
 
 Always truly yours, 
 
 WiLKiE Collins. 
 
 His place is with the great masters of English 
 fiction. He did not copy the surfaces of common 
 life, calling the product " nature," and vaimting 
 it as truth. He knew how to select and how to 
 comhine, and he possessed the great art of deli- 
 cate exaggeration. In the telling of his stories he 
 created characters, and he made them Uve. His 
 employment of accessories, — ^meaning scenery, 
 whether civic or rural; climate; atmosphere; 
 cloud; sunshine; rain; the sound of the sea, or 
 the ripple of leaves in the wind; morning or even- 
 ing, or midnight, — ^is exact in its fitness and im- 
 erring in its effect. In that respect, as in his 
 devotion to romance, he followed in the footsteps 
 of the chieftain of the whole inspired band. 
 Sir Walter Scott, — ^whom he designated, in 
 writing to me, " the Prince, the King, the Em- 
 peror, the God Almighty of novelists." He was 
 deeply interested in his own time, in the advance- 
 
220 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ment of civiKzation and the consequent promo- 
 tion of the public welfare. He spoke and wrote 
 with satirical contempt of the obstructive wor- 
 ship of old things, — especially in Literature and 
 Painting, — ^merely because they are old. He 
 cordially recognized and welcomed meritorious 
 achievement in any and every line of contem- 
 porary endeavor, and quite as cordially he con- 
 demned contemporary pretence. He was the 
 soul of honesty. He lived a good life: and he is 
 remembered not only with honor but with love. 
 It happened that I was travelling from Lon- 
 don to Paris when the death of Collins occurred, 
 and I was unable to attend his funeral. A little 
 later, aboard the steamship Aurania, in mid- 
 ocean, October 10, 1889, I wrote the commemo- 
 rative lines which follow. 
 
 Often and often, when the days were dark 
 And, whether to remember or behold. 
 Life was a burden, and my heart, grown old 
 
 With sorrow, scarce was conscious, did I mark 
 How from thy distant place across the sea. 
 Vibrant with hope and with emotion free. 
 
WILKIE COLLINS 221 
 
 Thy voice of cheer rose like the morning lark — 
 And that was comfort if not joy to me! 
 
 For in the weakness of our human grief 
 The mind that does not break and will not bend 
 Teaches endurance as the one true friend. 
 
 The steadfast anchor and the sure relief. 
 
 That was thy word, and what thy precept taught 
 Thy life made regnant in one living thought. 
 
 n 
 
 Thy vision saw the halo of romance 
 Round every common thing that men behold. 
 Thy lucid art could turn to precious gold, — 
 
 Like roseate motes that in the sunbeams dance, — 
 
 Whatever object met thy kindling glance. 
 And in that mirror life was never cold. 
 
 A gracious warmth suffused thy sparkling page. 
 And woman's passionate heart by thee was drawn. 
 With all the glorious colors of the dawn. 
 
 Against the background of this pagan age — 
 
 Her need of love, her sacrifice, her trance 
 Of patient pain, her weary pilgrimage! 
 
 Thou knewest all of grief that can be known. 
 
 And didst portray all sorrows but thine own. 
 
 in 
 
 Where shall I turn, now that thy lips are dumb 
 And night is on the eyes that loved me well? 
 What other voice, across thy dying knell. 
 
 With like triumphant notes of power will come? 
 
222 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Alas ! my ravaged heart is still and ntunb 
 With thinking of the blank that must remain I 
 Tet be it mine, amid these wastes of pain. 
 Where all must falter and where many sink. 
 To stay the foot of misery on the brink 
 Of dark despair, to bid blind sorrow see — 
 Teaching that human will breaks every chain 
 When once endurance sets the spirit free; 
 And, living thus thy perfect faith, to think 
 I am to others what thou wert to me. 
 
X 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 
 
 In my youth I was often privileged to sit by 
 the fireside of the poet Longfellow, and with his 
 encouragement and under his guidance I entered 
 upon that service of literature to which, humbly 
 but earnestly, my life has been devoted. Long- 
 fellow possessed a great and peculiar fascination 
 for youth. He naturally attracted to himself aU 
 unsophisticated spirits; and, as I did not then 
 know, but subsequently learned, he naturally at- 
 tracted to himself all persons intrinsically noble. 
 His gentleness was elemental. His tact was iner- 
 rant. His patience never failed. As I recall 
 him, I am conscious of a beautiful spirit; a lovely 
 hf e ; a perfect image of continence, wisdom, dig- 
 nity, sweetness, and grace. In Longfellow's 
 home, the old Craigie mansion at Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, on an autumn evening more than 
 fifty years ago, was assembled a brilliant com- 
 
 223 
 
224 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 pany; and as I entered the large drawing-room, 
 which now is the hbrary, one figure in particular 
 attracted my gaze. It was a yoimg man, lithe, 
 slender, faultlessly apparelled, very handsome, 
 who rose at my approach, turning upon me a 
 countenance that beamed with kindness, and a 
 smile that was a welcome from the heart. His 
 complexion was fair. His hair was brown, long, 
 and waving. His features were regular and of 
 exquisite refinement. His eyes were blue. His 
 bearing was that of manly freedom and uncon- 
 ventional grace, and yet it was that of absolute 
 dignity. He had the manner of the natural 
 aristocrat — a manner that is born, not made; a 
 manner that is never found except in persons 
 who are self-centred without being selfish; 
 who are intrinsically noble, simple, and true. 
 I was introduced to him by Longfellow: and 
 then and thus it was that I first beheld George 
 William Curtis. From that hour until the 
 day he died I was honored with his friend- 
 ship, now become a hallowed memory. That 
 meeting was more than once recalled between 
 us; and as I look back to it, across the varied 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 225 
 
 landscape of intervening years, I see it as a pre- 
 cious and altogether exceptional experience. It 
 was a hand dispensing nothing but blessings 
 which bestowed that incomparable boon, — ^the 
 illustrious, venerated hand of the foremost poet 
 of America. It was the splendid munificence 
 of Longfellow that gave the benediction of 
 Curtis. 
 
 It is not because he was a friend of mine that 
 I try to assist in the commemoration of him; it 
 is because he was a great person. The career 
 of Curtis was rounded and complete. The splen- 
 did structure of his character stands before the 
 world hke a monument of gold. It is not for 
 his sake that tribute is laid upon the shrine of 
 memory ; it is for our own. Not to express hom- 
 age for a pubhc benefactor is to fail in self- 
 respect. Not to reverence a noble and exem- 
 plary character is to forego a benefit that is indi- 
 vidual as well as social. Nowhere else can so 
 much strength be derived as from the contempla- 
 tion of men and women who pass through the 
 vicissitudes of human experience, the ordeal of 
 life and death, not without action and not with- 
 
226 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 out feeling, but calmly and bravely, without 
 fever and without fear. There is nothing greater 
 in this world, nor can there be anything greater 
 in the world to come, than a perfectly pure, true, 
 resolute soul. When the old Scotch Lord Bal- 
 merino was awaiting the block, on Tower HiU, — 
 in expiation of his alleged treason to the House 
 of Hanover, — he wrote a few great words, that 
 ought to be forever remembered. " The man 
 who is not fit to die," he said, " is not fit to live." 
 That was the voice of a hero. An image of 
 heroism Uke that is of inestimable value, and it 
 abides in the soul as a perpetual benediction. In 
 Shakespeare's tragedy, when the foes of Brutus 
 are seeking to capture him on the field of 
 battle, his friend LuciliuSj whom they have 
 already taken, denotes, in two consummate 
 lines, the same inspiring ideal of superb 
 stability : 
 
 When you do find him, or alive or dead. 
 He will be found like Brutus, like himself. 
 
 That might always have been said of Curtis. In 
 every duty faithful; in every trial adequate; in 
 every attribute of nobility perfect, — 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 227 
 
 He taught us how to live, and — oh, too high 
 
 The price for knowledge! — ^taught us how to die. 
 
 It is not the achievement of Curtis, however, 
 that lingers most lovingly in the memory; it is 
 the character. The authoritative, final word 
 upon his works will be spoken by posterity. 
 
 " When a neighbor dies " (so Curtis wrote, in 
 his wise, sympathetic sketch of the beloved and 
 lamented Theodore Winthrop), "his form and 
 quality appear clearly, as if he had been dead a 
 thousand years. Then we see what we only felt 
 before. Heroes in history seem to us poetic be- 
 cause they are there. But if we should tell the 
 simple truth of some of our neighbors it would 
 sound like poetry. ..." 
 
 The truth about Curtis has that sound now, 
 and more and more it will have that sound as 
 time proceeds. It is the story of a man of genius 
 whose pure hfe and splendid powers were de- 
 voted to the ministry of beauty and to the self- 
 sacrificing service of mankind. The superficial 
 facts of that story, indeed, are famihar and 
 usual. It was the inspiration of them that made 
 them poetic, — ^that profound, intuitive sense of 
 
228 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the obligation of noble living which controlled, 
 fashioned, and directed his every thought and 
 deed. The incidents customary in the life of a 
 man of letters are scarcely more important than 
 were the migrations of the Vicar of Wakefield 
 from the brown bed to the blue and from the blue 
 bed back again to the brown. He moves from 
 place to place; he has ill fortune and good fort- 
 une; he gains and loses; he rejoices and suffers; 
 he writes books: and he is not justly appreci- 
 ated until he is dead. Curtis was a man of let- 
 ters, born, in 1824, in our American Venice, the 
 New England city of Providence; born nearly 
 two months before the death of Byron (so near, 
 in literature, we always are to the great names of 
 the past), and a boy of eight in that dark year 
 which ended the illustrious lives of Goethe and 
 Sir Walter Scott. It has been usual to ascribe 
 the direction of his career to the influence of his 
 juvenile experience at Brook Farm, in Roxbury, 
 where he resided from 1840 to 1844 ; but it should 
 be remembered that the Brook Farm ideal was 
 in his mind before he went there, — the ideal of a 
 social existence regulated by absolute justice and 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 229 
 
 adorned by absolute beauty. In that idyllic re- 
 treat, that earthly Eden, conceived and founded 
 by the learned and gentle George Ripley as a 
 home for all the beatitudes and all the arts, and 
 later, at Concord, his young mind, no doubt, was 
 stimulated by some of the most invigorating 
 forces that ever were liberated upon ' human 
 thought: Theodore Parker, who was incarnate 
 truth; the mystical spirit of Charming; the reso- 
 lute, intrepid Charles Anderson Dana, the som- 
 bre, imaginative Hawthorne; the audacious intel- 
 lect and indomitable will of Margaret Fuller; 
 and, greatest of all, the heaven-eyed thought of 
 Emerson. But the preordination of that mind to 
 the service of justice, beauty, and humanity was 
 germinal in itself. Curtis began wisely, because 
 he followed the star of his destiny. He was wise, 
 in boyhood, when he went to Brook Farm. He 
 was wiser still in early manhood, having formally 
 adopted the vocation of literature, when he 
 sought the haunted lands of the Orient, and 
 found inspiration and theme in subjects that 
 were novel because their scene was both august 
 and remote. On that expedition, consuming 
 
230 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 four precious years, he penetrated into the coun- 
 try of the Nile, and he roamed in Arabia and 
 Syria. He stood before the Sphinx and he 
 knelt at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It 
 is a privilege to be able to add, since he was an 
 American humorist, that he did not endeavor 
 to be comic. Curtis was a humorist, but he 
 was not the hiraiorist who grins amid the 
 sculptures of Westminster Abbey. He was 
 a humorist as Addison was, whom he much 
 resembled. He looked upon life with tranquil, 
 pensive, kindly eyes. He exulted in all of good- 
 ness that it contains; he touched its foibles with 
 bland, whimsical drollery; he would have made 
 all persons happy by making them all noble, 
 serene, gentle, and patient. Such a mind could 
 degrade nothing. Least of all could it degrade 
 dignity with sport, or antiquity with ridicule. 
 He looked at the statue of Memnon, and he saw 
 that " serene repose is the attitude and character 
 of godlike grandeur." " Those forms," he said, 
 " impress man with himself. In them we no 
 longer succumb to the landscape, but sit, indi- 
 vidual and imperial, under the sky, by the moun- 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 231 
 
 tains and the river. Man is magnified in Mein- 
 non." He stood among the ruined temples of 
 Erment, and he saw Cleopatra, glorious in beauty 
 upon the throne of Rameses, and he uttered nei- 
 ther a scrap of moraUty nor a figment of jest. 
 " Nothing Egyptian," he said, " is so cognate to 
 our warm human sympathy as the rich romance 
 of Cleopatra and her Roman lovers." . . . 
 " The great persons and events," he added, " that 
 notch time in passing, do so because Nature gave 
 them such an excessive and exaggerated impulse 
 that wherever they touch they leave their mark; 
 and that intense humanity secures human sym- 
 pathy beyond the most beautiful balance, which, 
 indeed, the angels love and we are beginning to 
 appreciate." 
 
 That was the spirit in which he rambled, 
 and saw, and wrote. " The highest value of 
 travel," he urged, " is not the accumulation 
 of facts, but the perception of their signifi- 
 cance." In those true words he made his com- 
 ment, not simply upon the immediate and local 
 scene, but upon the whole wide stage of human 
 activity and experience. He was wise, when he 
 
232 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 began to labor for the Present, thus to fortify 
 himself with the meaning of the Past. Those 
 early books of his, " Nile Notes," and the 
 " Howadji in Syria," glow with the authentic 
 vitality of nature, — ^her warmth, color, copious 
 profusion, and exultant joy, — and they are 
 buoyant with the ardor of an auspicious, un- 
 saddened soul. But they are exceptionally pre- 
 cious for their guidance to the springs of his 
 character. In the " Syria " there is a passage 
 that, perhaps, furnishes the key to his whole 
 career. He is speaking of successful persons, 
 and he says this: "... Success is a delusion. 
 It is an attainment — but who attains? It is the 
 horizon, always bounding our path, and therefore 
 never gained. The Pope, triple-crowned, and 
 borne, with flabella, through St. Peter's, is not 
 successful, — for he might be canonized into a 
 saint. Pygmalion, before his perfect statue, is 
 not successful, — for it might hve. Raphael, fin- 
 ishing the Sistine Madonna, is not successful, — 
 for her beauty has revealed to him a finer and 
 an unattainable beauty." 
 
 In those words you perceive the spirit of com- 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 233 
 
 prehensive, sweet, and tolerant reason that was 
 ever the conspicuous attribute of his mind. Those 
 words denote, indeed, the inherent forces that 
 governed him to the last, — perception and prac- 
 tical remembrance of what has already been ac- 
 comphshed, and the reaUzation that human life 
 is not final achievement but is endless endeavor. 
 
 Curtis occasionally wrote verse, but to the 
 poetic laurel he made no pretension. In 1863 
 he dehvered before a society, at Providence, 
 called the Sons of Rhode Island, a poem of four 
 hundred and eighteen hnes, called " A Rhyme 
 of Rhode Island and the Times," which incor- 
 porates an impassioned pgean for the flag of the 
 United States, manifests his patriotic ardor, 
 shows the quahty of his diction in verse, and indi- 
 cates that if he had chosen to cultivate the rhyth- 
 mical style that was dominant in the eighteenth 
 century he might have become expert in the use 
 of it. Poetry, however, was not his natural vo- 
 cation. A " fine frenzy," as Shakespeare calls 
 it, is inseparable from the temperament of 
 the poet. He must not yield his mind abso- 
 lutely to its control, but he must be capa- 
 
234 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ble of it and he must guide and direct its 
 course. He must not, with Savage and kindred 
 outcasts, abdicate the supremacy of the soul. 
 He must, with Shakespeare and with Goethe 
 (to borrow the fine figure of Addison) , " ride on 
 the whirlwind and direct the storm." The con- 
 duct of his life must not be a dehrium; but the 
 capability of wildness must, inevitably, be a part 
 of his nature. Conventionality is boimded by 
 four walls. Unless the heart of the poet be pas- 
 sionate he cannot move the hearts of others, and 
 the poet who does not touch the heart is a poet 
 of no importance. Curtis was a man of deep 
 poetic sensibility. In that idyllic composition, 
 " Prue and I," the poetic atmosphere is inva- 
 riably sustained, and it is invariably beautiful. 
 The use of poetic quotation, wherever it occurs, 
 throughout his writings, is remarkably felic- 
 itous, — as in his book " Lotus-Eating," writ- 
 ten in 1851, — and it manifests keen appre- 
 ciation of the poetic element. His analy- 
 sis of the genius of Bryant, in his noble ora- 
 tion before the Century Club, in 1878, is not 
 less subtle than potential, and it leaves nothing 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 235 
 
 to be said. His perception of the ideal, — as 
 when he wrote upon " Hamlet," with the spirit- 
 ual mind and princelike figure of Edwin Booth 
 in that character, — was equally profound and 
 comprehensive, and as fine and dehcate as it was 
 unerringly true. There can be httle doubt that 
 he was conscious, originally, of a strong impulse 
 toward poetry, but that this was restricted and 
 presently was diverted into other channels, partly 
 by the stress of his philosophical temperament, 
 and partly by the untoward force of iron cir- 
 cumstance. His nature was not without fervor, 
 but it was the fervor of moral and spiritual en- 
 thusiasm, not of passion. His faculties and feel- 
 ings were exquisitely poised, and I do not think 
 there ever was a time in all his life when that 
 perfect sanity was disturbed by any inordinate 
 waywardness or any blast of storm. The benign 
 and potent but utterly dispassionate influence of 
 Emerson touched his responsive spirit, at the be- 
 ginning of his career, and, beneath that mystic 
 and wonderful spell of Oriental contemplation 
 and bland and sweet composure, his destiny was 
 fulfilled. Like gravitates to like. Each indi- 
 
236 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 vidual sways by that power, whatsoever it be, to 
 which in nature he is the most closely attuned. 
 The poetic voice of Emerson was the voice not 
 of the human heart, but of the pantheistic spirit. 
 In Curtis the poetic voice was less remote and 
 more himian ; but it was of kindred, elusive qual- 
 ity. It was not often heard. It sounded very 
 sweetly in his tender lyric : 
 
 Sing the song that once you sung. 
 When we were together young, 
 When there were but you and I 
 Underneath the summer sky. 
 
 Sing the song, and o'er and" o'er — 
 But I know that nevermore 
 Will it be the song you sung 
 When we were together young. 
 
 There can be no higher mission than that of 
 the poet, but there are vocations that exact more 
 direct practical effort and involve more imme- 
 diate practical results. One of those vocations 
 early and largely absorbed the mind of Curtis. 
 
 To persons of the present day it would be dif- 
 ficult to impart an adequate idea of the state of 
 political feeling that existed in New England 
 about 1855. The passage of the Fugitive 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 237 
 
 Slave Law, which was regarded as the ciiknina- 
 tion of a long series of encroachments, had in- 
 spired a tremendous resentment, and the com- 
 munity was seething with bitterness and conflict. 
 The effusive, hysterical novel of " Uncle Tom's 
 Cabin " had blazoned the national evil of 
 slavery, and had aroused and inflamed thou- 
 sands of hearts against it, as a sin and a dis- 
 grace. Theodore Parker, that moral and intel- 
 lectual giant, was preaching, in the Boston Music 
 Hall. The passionate soul of Thomas Starr 
 King poured forth its melodious fervor, in the 
 old church in Holhs Street. Sumner, Phillips, 
 Wilson, Giddings, Hale, and Burhngame, in 
 Faneuil Hall, and elsewhere, were pleading the 
 cause of the slave and the purification of the 
 flag. The return of Anthony Burns from Bos- 
 ton, in June, 1854, when the courthouse was sur- 
 rounded by chains and by soldiers, and when 
 State Street was commanded by cannon, al- 
 though perfectly legal, was felt, by every free- 
 man, as an act of monstrous tyranny, and as the 
 consummation of national shame. The murder- 
 ous assault on Sumner, committed, in the United 
 
238 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 States Senate chamber, by Brooks of South 
 Carolina, had aroused all that was best of manly 
 pride and moral purpose in the North, and, from 
 the moment when that blow was struck, every 
 man not blinded by folly knew that the end of 
 human slavery in the Republic must inevitably 
 come. There never had been seen in our polit- 
 ical history so wild a tide of enthusiasm as that 
 which swept through the New England States, 
 bearing onward the standard of Fremont, in 
 1856. Statesmen, indeed, there were, foresee- 
 ing and dreading civil war, who steadily coun- 
 selled moderation and compromise. Edward 
 Everett was one of those pacificators, and Rufus 
 Choate was another. Choate, in Faneuil Hall, 
 delivered one of the most enchanting orations 
 of his life, in solemn and passionate warning 
 against those impetuous zealots of freedom who, 
 as he beheld them, were striving to rend asun- 
 der the colossal crag of national unity, already 
 smitten by the lightning and riven from summit 
 to base. And it must be admitted, and it needs 
 no apology, that the conviction of generous 
 patriotism, in those wild days of wrath and tem- 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 239 
 
 pest, was the conviction that a Union under 
 which every citizen of every free State was, by 
 the law, made a hunter of negro slaves for a 
 Southern driver, was not only worthless but 
 infamous. Conservatives, cynics, mercenary, 
 scheming politicians, and timid friends of peace 
 might hesitate, and palter with the occasion, and 
 seek to evade the issue and postpone the strug- 
 gle; but the general drift of New England senti- 
 ment was all the other way. Old political lines 
 disappeared. The everlasting bickerings of 
 Protestant and Catholic were for a moment 
 hushed. The Know-Nothings vanished. The 
 thin ghosts of the old silver-gray Whig party, 
 led by Bell and Everett, moaned feebly at part- 
 ing, and faded into air. Elsewhere in the nation 
 the lines of party conflict were sharply drawn; 
 but in New England one determination ani- 
 mated every bosom, — ^the determination that 
 human slavery should perish. The spirit that 
 walked abroad was the spirit of Concord Bridge 
 and Bunker Hill. The silent voices of Samuel 
 Adams and James Otis were silent no more. 
 " My ancestor fell at Lexington," said old Joel 
 
240 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Parker, — ^then over threescore years of age, — 
 " and I am ready to shed more of the same blood 
 in the same cause." It was a tremendous epoch 
 in New England history, and those persons who 
 were youths in it felt their hearts aflame with 
 holy ardor in a righteous cause, I was myself 
 a follower of the Pathfinder, and a speaker for 
 him, in that stormy time, assaiUng Choate and 
 Caleb Gushing, and other giants of the adverse 
 faction, with- the freedom and confidence that 
 are possible only to unlimited moral enthusiasm. 
 What a different world it was from the world of 
 to-day! How sure we were that all we desired 
 to do was wise and right ! How plainly we saw, 
 our duty, and how eager we were for the onset 
 and the strife! If we could only have foreseen 
 the beatific condition of the present, I wonder if 
 that zeal would have cooled. Some of us have 
 grown a little weary of rolhng the Sisyphus 
 stone of benevolence, for the aggrandizement of 
 a selfish multitude, careless of everything except 
 its sensual enjoyment. But it was a glorious 
 enthusiasm while it lasted. 
 
 Into that conflict, of Right against Wrong, 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 241 
 
 Curtis threw himself, with all his soul. His 
 reputation as a speaker had already been estab- 
 lished. He had made his first public address in 
 1851, before the New York National Academy 
 of Design, discussing " Contemporary Artists 
 of Europe," and in 1853 he had formally 
 adopted the Platform as a vocation; and it con- 
 tinued to be a part of his vocation for the next 
 twenty years. He was everywhere popular in 
 the lyceum, and he now brought into the more 
 turbulent field of politics the dignity of the 
 scholar, the refinement and grace of the gentle- 
 man, and aU the varied equipments of the zealous 
 and accomplished advocate, the caustic satirist, 
 and the impassioned champion of the rights of 
 man. I first heard him speak on politics, mak- 
 ing an appeal for Fremont, at a popular con- 
 vention in the town of Fitchburg. It was on a 
 summer day, under canvas, but almost in the 
 open air. The assemblage was large. Curtis 
 followed Horace Greeley, with whose peculiar 
 drawl and rustic aspect his princelike demeanor 
 and lucid and sonorous rhetoric were in striking 
 contrast. Neither of those men was worldly- 
 
242 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 wise; neither was versed in political duplicity. 
 Greeley, no doubt, had then the advantage in 
 political wisdom; but Ciurtis was the orator, and, 
 while Curtis spoke, the hearts of that multitude 
 were first lured and entranced by the golden 
 tones of his delicious voice, and then were shaken, 
 as with a whirlwind, by the righteous fervor of 
 his magnificent enthusiasm. It was the diamond 
 morning blaze of perfect eloquence. He contin- 
 ued to speak for that cause, — everywhere with 
 great effect ; and down to the war-time, and dur- 
 ing the war-time, the principles which are the 
 basis of the American Republic had no cham- 
 pion more eloquent or more sincere. He aban- 
 doned the platform as a regular employment in 
 1873; but he never altogether ceased the exer- 
 cise of that matchless gift of oratory for which 
 he was remarkable and by which he was enabled 
 to accomplish so much good and diffuse so much 
 happiness. 
 
 In that domain he came to his zenith. The 
 art in which Curtis excelled his contemporaries 
 was the art of oratory. Many other authors 
 wrote better in verse, and some others wrote as 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CUETIS 
 Photograph by Pack 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 243 
 
 well in prose. Hawthorne, Motley, Lowell, 
 Whipple, Giles, Mitchell, Warner, and Sted- 
 man were masters of style. But in the felicity 
 of speech Curtis was supreme above all other 
 men of his generation. My reference is to the 
 period from 1860 to 1890. Oratory as it existed 
 in America in the previous epoch has no living 
 representative. Curtis was the last orator of the 
 great school of Everett, Sumner, and Wendell 
 Phillips. His model, in so far as he had a model, 
 was Sumner, and the style of Simmer was based 
 on that of Burke. But Curtis had heard more 
 magical voices than those, for he had heard Dan- 
 iel Webster and Rufus Choate; and, although 
 he was averse to their politics, he could profit by 
 their example. Webster and Choate, each in a 
 different way, were perfection. The eloquence 
 of Webster had the affluent potentiality of the 
 rising sun; of the lonely mountain; of the long, 
 regular, successive surges of the resounding sea. 
 His periods were as lucid as the light. His 
 logic was irresistible. His facts came on in a 
 solid phalanx of overwhelming power. His 
 tones were crystal-clear. His magnificent per- 
 
244 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 son towered in dignity and seemed colossal in 
 its imperial grandeur. His voice grew in vol- 
 ume as he became more and more aroused, and 
 his language, glowing with the fire of conviction, 
 rose and swelled and broke like the great ninth 
 wave that shakes the solid crag. His speech, 
 however, was addressed always to the reason, 
 never to the imagination. The eloquence of 
 Rufus Choate, on the other hand, was the pas- 
 sionate enchantment of the actor and the poet, 
 an eloquence in which the listener felt the rush 
 of the tempest, and heard the crash of breakers, 
 and the howUng of frantic gales, and the sobbing 
 wail of homeless winds, in bleak and haunted 
 regions of perpetual night. He began calmly, 
 often in a tone that was hardly more than a whis- 
 per; but, as he proceeded, the whole man was 
 gradually absorbed and transfigured, as into a 
 fountain of fire, which then poured forth, in one 
 tumultuous and overwhelming torrent of mel- 
 ody, the iridescent splendors of description, and 
 appeal, and humor, and pathos, and invective, 
 and sarcasm, and poetry, and beauty — ^till the 
 listener lost all consciousness of self and was 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 245 
 
 borne away as on a golden river flowing to a 
 land of dreams. The vocabulary of that orator 
 seemed literally to have no limit. His voice 
 sounded every note, from a low, piercing whisper 
 to a shriU, sonorous scream. His remarkable 
 appearance, furthermore, enhanced the magic of 
 his speech. The taU, gaunt, vital figure, the 
 symmetrical head, the clustered hair, — once 
 black, now faintly touched with gray, — ^the ema- 
 ciated, haggard countenance, the palhd ohve 
 complexion, the proud Arabian features, the 
 mournful, flaming brown eyes, the imperial de- 
 meanor, and wild and lawless grace, — aU those 
 attributes of a strange, poetic personality com- 
 mingled with the boundless resources of his elo- 
 quence to rivet the spell of altogether excep- 
 tional character and genius. In singular con- 
 trast with Choate was still another great orator 
 whom Curtis heard, — and about whom he has 
 written, — ^that consummate scholar and rhet- 
 orician Edward Everett. There is no statelier 
 figure in American history. If Everett had been 
 as puissant in character as he was ample in 
 scholarship, and as rich in emotion as he was fine 
 
246 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 in intellect, he would have been the peerless won- 
 der of the age. He was a person of singular 
 beauty. His form was a little above the middle 
 height and perfectly proportioned. His head 
 was beautifully formed and exquisitely poised. 
 His closely clustering hair was as white as silver. 
 His features were regular; his eyes were dark; 
 his countenance was pale, refined, and cold. His 
 aspect was formal and severe. He dressed habit- 
 ually in black, often wearing around his neck a 
 thin gold chain, outside of his coat. His elo- 
 quence was the perfection of art. I heard him 
 often, and in every one of his orations, — except 
 the magnificent one that he gave in Faneuil Hall 
 on the death of Rufus Choate, which was su- 
 preme and seemingly spontaneous, — his art was 
 distinctly obvious. He began in a level tone 
 and with a formal manner. He spoke without 
 a manuscript, and whether his speech was long 
 or short he never missed a word nor made an 
 error. As he proceeded, his countenance kin- 
 dled and his figure began to move. With action 
 he was profuse, and every one of his gestures 
 had the beauty of a mathematical curve and the 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 247 
 
 certainty of mathematical demonstration. His 
 movement suited his words; his pauses were ex- 
 actly timed; his finely modulated voice rose and 
 fell, with rhythmic beat ; and his polished periods 
 flowed from his hps with limpid fluency and deh- 
 cious cadence. A distinguishing attribute of his 
 art was its elaborate complexity. In his noble 
 oration on Washington, when he came to con- 
 trast the honesty of that patriot with the aUeged 
 mercenary greed of Marlborough, it was not 
 with words alone that he pointed his moral, but 
 with a graceful, energetic blow upon his pocket 
 that mingled the jingle of coin vsdth the accents 
 of scorn. One speech of his, I remember, — as far 
 back as 1852, — contained a description of the visi- 
 ble planets and constellations in the midnight sky; 
 and his verbal pageantry was so magnificent that 
 almost, I thought, it might take its place among 
 them. 
 
 Such was the school of oratory in which Cur- 
 tis studied and in which his style was formed. 
 It no longer exists. The oratory of a later day 
 is characterized by colloquialism, f amiharity, and 
 comic anecdote. Curtis maintained the dignity 
 
248 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 of the old order. Some of my readers, perhaps, 
 remember the charm of his manner, — ^how subtle 
 it was, yet seemingly how simple; how com- 
 pletely it convinced and satisfied; how it clarified 
 intelligence; how it ennobled feeling. One se- 
 cret of it, no doubt, was its perfect sincerity. 
 Noble himself, and speaking only for right, and 
 truth, and beauty, he addressed nobility in others. 
 That consideration would explain the moral and 
 the genial authority of his eloquence. The total 
 effect of it, however, was attributable to his ex- 
 quisite, inexplicable art. He could make an ex- 
 temporaneous speech, but, as a rule, his speeches 
 were carefully prepared. They had not always 
 been written, but they had been composed and 
 considered. He possessed absolute self-control; 
 a keen sense of symmetry and proportion; the 
 faculty of logical thought and lucid statement; 
 copious resources of felicitous illustration; pas- 
 sionate earnestness, surpassing sweetness of 
 speech, and perfect grace of action. Like Ever- 
 ett, whom he more closely resembled than he did 
 any other of the great masters of oratory, he 
 could trust his memory and he could trust his 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 249 
 
 composure. He began with the natural defer- 
 ence of unstudied courtesy, serene, propitiatory, 
 irresistibly winning. He captured the eye and 
 the ear upon the instant, and, before he had been 
 speaking for many minutes, he captured the 
 heart. There was not much action in his deliv- 
 ery; there never was any artifice. His gentle 
 tones grew earnest. His fine face became illu- 
 mined. His golden periods flowed with more 
 and more of impetuous force, and the climax of 
 their perfect music was always exactly identical 
 with the chmax of their thought. There always 
 was a certain culmination of fervent power, at 
 which he aimed, and after that a gradual subsi- 
 dence to the previous level of gracious serenity. 
 He created and sustained the illusion of spon- 
 taneity. The auditor never felt that he had been 
 beguiled by art, but only that he had been en- 
 tranced by nature. I never could explain the 
 charm that he exercised. I can only say of him, 
 as he said of Wendell Phillips : " The secret of 
 the rose's sweetness, of the bird's ecstasy, of the 
 sunset's glory — ^that is the secret of genius and 
 of eloquence." 
 
250 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 While, however, the secret of his eloquence was 
 elusive, the purpose and effect of it were per- 
 fectly clear. It dignified the subject and it en- 
 nobled the hearer. He once told me of a conver- 
 sation, about poetry and oratory, between him- 
 self and the once eminent United States senator, 
 Roscoe Conkhng. That statesman, having de- 
 clared that, in his judgment, the perfection of 
 poetry was " Casablanca," by Mrs. Hemans 
 ("The boy stood on the burning deck"), and 
 the perfection of oratory a passage in a Fourth- 
 of-July oration by Charles Sprague, desired 
 Curtis to name a supreme specimen of eloquence. 
 " I mentioned," said Curtis, " a passage in Em- 
 erson's Dartmouth College oration, — ^in which, 
 however, Mr. Conkling could perceive no pecu- 
 liar force." That passage Curtis repeated to 
 me. The citation of it is appropriate, not only 
 as showing his ideal but as explaining his devo- 
 tion, not to art alone but to conscience. 
 
 You will hear every day the maxims of a low prudence. 
 You will hear that the first duty is to get land and money, 
 place and name. " What is this Truth you seek ? what is this 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 251 
 
 Beauty ? " men will ask, with derision. If, nevertheless, God 
 have called any of you to explore truth and beauty, be bold, 
 be firm, be true ! When you shall say, " As others do, so will 
 I; I renounce, I am sorry for, my early visions; I must eat 
 the good of the land and let learning and romantic expecta- 
 tion go until a more convenient season " ; — then dies the man 
 in you; then once more perish the buds of art and poetry 
 and science, as they have died already in a thousand, thou- 
 sand men. The hour of that choice is the crisis of your his- 
 tory ; and see that you hold yourself fast by the intellect. 
 
 It was natural that Curtis should adopt 
 that doctrine. He would have evolved it if 
 he had not found it. That divine law was in 
 his nature, and from that diidne law he never 
 swerved. 
 
 How should a man of genius use his gift? 
 Setting aside the restrictive pressure of circum- 
 stance, two ways are open to him. He may cul- 
 tivate himself, standing aloof from the world, as 
 Goethe did and as Tennyson did, — aiming to 
 make his powers of expression perfect, and to 
 make his expression itself universal, potential, 
 irresistible; or he may take an executive course 
 and yoke himself to the plough and the harrow, 
 aiming to exert an immediate influence upon his 
 environment. The former way is not at once 
 
252 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 comprehended by the world: the latter is more 
 obvious. 
 
 In his poem of " Retaliation," Goldsmith has 
 designated Edmund Burke as a man who. 
 
 Bom for the universe, narrowed his mind. 
 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 
 It always seemed to me that Curtis made one 
 sacrifice when he went into business, and another 
 when he went into pohtics. He manifested, in- 
 deed, sterling character and splendid ability in 
 both; yet he did not, in a practical sense, succeed 
 in either. The end of his experiment in business 
 was a heavy burden of debt, which he was com- 
 pelled to bear through a long period of anxious 
 and strenuous toil. His experience was not the 
 terrible experience of Sir Walter Scott, that 
 heroic gentleman, that supreme and incompa- 
 rable magician of romance! but it was an expe- 
 rience of the same kind. He released himself 
 from his burden, justly and honorably, at last; 
 but the strain upon his mind was an injury to 
 him, and the literature of his coimtry is poorer 
 because of the sacrifice that he was obliged to 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 253 
 
 make. On a day in 1860 I met him in Broad- 
 way, and he said to me, very earnestly, " Take 
 advantage of the moment; don't delay too long 
 the fine poem, the great novel, that you intend 
 to write." It was the wise philosophy that takes 
 heed of the enormous values of youth and free- 
 dom. It pleases some philosophers, indeed, to 
 believe that a man of letters will accomplish his 
 best expression when goaded by what Shake- 
 speare calls " the thorny point of bare distress." 
 That practice of glorifying hardship is sometimes 
 soothing to human vanity. Men have thought 
 themselves heroes because they rise early. It 
 may possibly be true of the poets that they 
 "learn in suffering what they teach in song"; 
 but the suffering must not be sordid. Litera- 
 ture was never yet enriched through the pressure 
 of want. The author may write more, because 
 of his need, but he will not write better. The 
 best literatures of the world, the literatures of 
 Greece and England, were created in the gentlest 
 and most propitious climates of the world. The 
 best individual works in those literatures, — ^with 
 little exception, — were produced by writers 
 
254 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 whose physical circumstances were those of com- 
 fort and peace. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, 
 Herrick, Addison, Pope, Byron, Wordsworth, 
 Shelley, Scott, Moore, Lamb, Thackeray, Ten- 
 nyson, — ^none of them lacked the means of 
 reputable subsistence. Burns, fine as he was, 
 would have been finer in a softer and sweeter 
 environment of worldly circumstance. Curtis 
 was a man of extraordinary patience, concentra- 
 tion, and poise. He accepted the conditions in 
 which he found himself, and he made the best of 
 them. His incessant industry and his compo- 
 sure, to the last, were prodigious. He never, in- 
 deed, was acquainted with want. The shackle 
 that business imposed on him was the shackle 
 of drudgery. He was compelled to write pro- 
 fusely and without pause. His pen was never 
 at rest. Once, in 1873, he broke down, and for sev- 
 eral months could not work at all, — his chair in 
 " Harper's " being temporarily filled by that gen- 
 tle, gracious poet the late Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 During more than forty years, however, he 
 worked all the time. Curtis, at his best, had the 
 grace of Addison, the kindness of Steele, the sim- 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 255 
 
 plicity of Goldsmith, and the nervous force of 
 the mcomparable Sterne. Writing under such 
 conditions, however, no man can always be at his 
 best. The wonder is that his average is so fine. 
 He attained to a high and orderly level of wise 
 and kindly thought, of gentle fancy, and of win- 
 ning ease, and he steadily maintained it. He 
 had an exceptional faculty for choosing diversi- 
 fied themes, and his treatment of them was al- 
 ways fehcitous. He wrought in many moods, 
 but always genially and without flurry, and he 
 gave the continuous impression of spontaneity 
 and pleasure. A fetter, however, is not the less 
 a fetter because it is Hghtly borne, and whatever 
 is easy to read was hard to write. It may be, 
 of course, that the troublesome business experi- 
 ence in the life of Curtis was only an insignifi- 
 cant incident. It may be that he fulfilled him- 
 self as an author, leaving nothing undone that 
 he had the power to do. But that is not my 
 reading of the artistic mind, and it is not my, 
 reading of him. For me the mist was drawn too 
 early across those luminous and tender pictures 
 of the Orient, those haunting shapes and old his- 
 
256 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 tone splendors of the Nile. For me the rich, 
 tranquil note of tender music that breathes in 
 " Prue and I " was too soon hushed and changed. 
 Genius is the petrel, and hke the petrel it loves 
 the freedom of the winds and waves. 
 
 AU thinkers repudiate the narrow philosophy 
 that would regulate one man's life by the stand- 
 ard of another. " Be yourself! " is the precept 
 of the highest wisdom. Shakespeare has written 
 his plays. Milton has written his epic. Those 
 things cannot be done again and should not be 
 expected. The new genius must mount upon its 
 own wings, and hold its own flight, and seek the 
 eyry that best it loves. I recognize, and feel, 
 and honor the nobihty of Curtis as a citizen; but 
 I cannot cast aside the regret that he did not ded- 
 icate himself exclusively to hterature. Every- 
 thing is relative. To such a nature as that of 
 Curtis the pursuits of business and politics are 
 foreign and inappropriate. He was undoubt- 
 edly equal to all their responsibihties and duties; 
 but he was equal to much more, to things differ- 
 ent and higher, and the practical service essential 
 to business and politics did not need him. The 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 257 
 
 State, indeed, needs the virtue that he possessed, 
 but needs it in the form not of the poet, but of the 
 gladiator, who, when he goes rejoicing to battle, 
 has no harp to leave in silence and no garlands 
 to east unheeded in the dust. I would send 
 Saint Peter, with his sword, to the primary meet- 
 ing; I would not send the apostle John. The 
 organist should not be required to blow the bel- 
 lows. Curtis was, by nature, a man of letters. 
 His faculty in that direction was prodigious. 
 So good a judge as Thackeray, looking at him 
 as a young man, declared him to be the most 
 auspicious of aU our authors. It is a great voca- 
 tion, and because its force, like that of Nature, 
 is deep, slow, silent, and elemental, it is the most 
 tremendous force concerned in human aifairs. 
 The mission of the man of letters is to touch the 
 heart, to kindle the imagination, to ennoble the 
 mind. He is the interpreter between the spirit 
 of beauty that is in Nature and the general intel- 
 ligence and sensibility of mankind. He sets to 
 music the pageantry and the pathos of human 
 life, and he keeps alive in the soul the holy enthu- 
 siasm of devotion to the ideal. He honors and 
 
258 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 perpetuates heroic conduct, and he teaches, by 
 many devices of art, — by story, and poem, and 
 parable, and essay, and drama, — purity of life, 
 integrity to man, and faith in God, He is con- 
 tinually reminding you of the goodness and love- 
 liness to which you may attain; continually caus- 
 ing you to see what opportunities of nobihty 
 your life affords ; continually delighting you with 
 high thoughts and beautiful pictures. He does 
 not preach to you. He does not attempt to reg- 
 ulate your specific actions. He does not assail 
 you vidth the hysterical scream of the reformer. 
 He does not carp, and vex, and meddle. He 
 whispers to you, in your silent hours, of love, 
 heroism, hohness, and immortahty, and you are 
 refreshed and strong, and come forth into the 
 world smiling at fortune and bearing blessings 
 in your hands. On bleak winter nights, with the 
 breakers clashing on our icy coasts and the trum- 
 pets of the wind resounding in our chimneys, 
 how sweet it has been, sitting by the evening 
 lamp, to turn the pages of " The Tempest," or 
 "The Antiquary," or "Old MortaKty," or 
 " Henry Esmond," or " The Idylls of the King," 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 259 
 
 .while the treasured faces of Shakespeare, Scott, 
 Thackeray, and Tennyson looked down from the 
 library walls! How sweet to read those ten- 
 der, romantic, imaginative pages of " Prue and 
 I," in which the pansies and the rosemary bloom 
 forever, and to think of him who wrote them! 
 
 But whether the choice that Curtis made was 
 a sacrifice or not, we know he made it, and we 
 know why he made it. Prefigured in his char- 
 acter and his writings, at the outset, and illus- 
 trated in all his conduct, was the supreme law 
 of his being — practical consideration for others. 
 The trouble of the world was his trouble. The 
 disciple of Andrew Marvel could not rest at ease 
 in the summer-land of Keats. His heart was 
 there; but his duty, as he saw it, steadily called 
 him away. As Matthew Arnold writes : 
 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, aad fill'd his head. 
 He went; his piping took a troubled sound. 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; 
 He could not wait their passing; he is dead. 
 
 He would have rejoiced in writing more books 
 like "Prue and I "; but the virtuous glory of 
 
260 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the commonwealth and the honor and happiness 
 of the people were forever present to him, as the 
 first and the most solemn responsibility. When 
 his prototype. Sir Philip Sidney, on that fatal 
 September morning, over three hundred years 
 ago, set forth for the field of battle at Zutphen, 
 he met a fellow-soldier riding in light armor, and 
 thereupon he cast away a portion of his own mail, 
 and in so doing, as the event proved, he east 
 away his life, in order that he might be no bet- 
 ter protected than his friend. In like manner 
 Curtis would have no advantage for himself, nor 
 even the semblance of advantage, that was not 
 shared by others. He could not, with his super- 
 lative moral fervor, dedicate himself exclusively 
 to letters while there was so much wrong in the 
 world that clamored for him to do his part in 
 setting it right. He believed that his direct, 
 practical labor was essential and would avail, 
 and he was eager to bestow it. Men of strong 
 imagination begin life with illimitable ideals, with 
 vast illusions, with ardent and generous faith. 
 They are invariably disappointed, and they are 
 usually embittered. Curtis was controlled less 
 
.GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 261 
 
 by his imagination than by his moral sense. He 
 had ideals, but they were based on reason. How- 
 ever much he may have loved to muse and dream, 
 he saw the world as a fact and not as a fancy. 
 He was often saddened by the spectacle of hu- 
 man littleness, but, broadly and generally, he was 
 not disappointed in mankind, and he never be- 
 came embittered. The belief in human nature, 
 with which he began, remained his belief when he 
 ended. Nothing could shake his conviction that 
 man is inherently and intrinsically good. He 
 believed in the people. He believed in earthly 
 salvation for the poor, the weak, and the op- 
 pressed. He believed in chivalry toward woman. 
 He believed in refinement, gentleness, and grace. 
 He believed that the world is growing better and 
 not worse. He believed in the inevitable, final 
 triumph of truth and right over falsehood and 
 wrong. He believed in freedom, charity, jus- 
 tice, hope, and love. The last line that fell from 
 the dying pen of Longfellow might have been 
 the last word that feU from the dying lips of 
 Curtis : " 'Tis daybreak everywhere." 
 Upon the spirit in which he served the state 
 
262 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 no words can make so clear a comment as his 
 own. " There is no nobler ambition," he said, 
 " than to fill a great office greatly." His esti- 
 mate of Bryant culminates in the thought that 
 " no man, no American, living or dead, has more 
 truly and amply illustrated the scope and fidelity 
 of republican citizenship." " The great argu- 
 ment for popular government," he declared, in 
 his fine eulogy on Wendell Phillips, " is not 
 the essential righteousness of a majority, but the 
 celestial law which subordinates the brute force 
 of numbers to intellectual and moral ascend- 
 ancy." And his stately tribute to the character 
 of Washington reached a climax in his impas- 
 sioned homage to its lofty serenity, its moral 
 grandeur, and its majestic repose. The quality 
 of every man may be divined from the objects 
 of his genuine devotion. There could be no 
 doubt of the patriotism of Curtis; and in the 
 conditions confronting the American Repub- 
 lic, — racial antagonism, discontented labor, so- 
 cialism, communism, anarchy, a licentious press, 
 a tottering church, ambitious sectarianism, the 
 foreign vote, boss rule, ring rule, corruption in 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 263 
 
 office, levity, profanity, and a generally low state 
 of public morals, — ^it was no slight thing that 
 such a man as Curtis should have testified, to the 
 last, his confidence in the future of the Amer- 
 ican people, and, to the last, should have devoted 
 his splendid powers more largely to their prac- 
 tical service than to anything else. Fortunate is 
 the man who can close the awfully true book of 
 " Ecclesiastes " and forget its terrible lessons ! 
 Fortunate is the people that has the example, the 
 sympathy, the support, and the guidance of such 
 a man! If the altogether high and noble prin- 
 ciples that Curtis advocated could prevail, then 
 indeed the Republic that Washington conceived 
 would be a glorious reality. When a vdse and 
 final check is placed upon the influence of mere 
 numbers, then, and not till then, wiU the ideal 
 of Waslungton be fulfilled! then, and not till 
 then, will the Republic be safe! There is 
 no behef more delusive and pernicious than 
 the behef that virtue and wisdom are resident 
 in the will of an ignorant, vacuous, frivolous 
 multitude. 
 
 If, therefore, Curtis made a sacrifice in turn- 
 
264 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ing from the Muse to labor for the common- 
 wealth, at least it was not made in vain. Nor 
 must it be forgotten that, — despite his preoccu- 
 pation as a publicist and as the incumbent of 
 many impaid and exacting offices, — ^his contri- 
 butions to literature, especially in the domain of 
 the essay, were extraordinary and brilliant. 
 When, in 1846, he began his literary career, a 
 yoimg man of twenty-two, American literature 
 had begun to assume the proportions of a sub- 
 stantial and impressive fabric. Paulding, 
 Irving, Dana, Bryant, Cooper, and Percival 
 were in the zenith. Longfellow and Whittier 
 were ascending. Hawthorne was slowly becom- 
 ing an auspicious figure. Halleck and George 
 Fenno Hoffman were reigning poets. Poe had 
 nearly finished, in penniless obscurity, his deso- 
 late strife. Holmes, aged thirty-seven, was but 
 little beyond the threshold; and the fine genius 
 of Stoddard was yet unknown. Griswold still 
 held the sceptre, which Willis was presently to 
 inherit. AUston and Paulding were sixty-seven 
 years old; Irving was sixty-three; R. H. Dana 
 was fifty-nine; Sprague fifty-four; Bryant fifty- 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 265 
 
 one ; Drake, Halleck, and Percival fifty. Emer- 
 son was only forty-two. Into that company 
 Curtis entered, — a boy among graybeards. Au- 
 thors were more nvimerous than they had been 
 thirty years earlier, but they were less numerous 
 than they are now, and it was easier then to 
 acquire literary reputation than it is at present; 
 but genuine literary reputation was never easily 
 obtained. Curtis made a new mark. In his 
 Oriental travels the observation was large; the 
 fancy deUcate; the feeUng deep; the touch light. 
 Then came, in " Putnam's Magazine," between 
 1852 and 1854, the satirical " Potiphar Papers " 
 and the romantic " Prue and I," — ^the most im- 
 aginative and the loveliest of his books. After 
 that the hmitations of circumstance began to con- 
 strain him. He assumed the Easy Chair of 
 "Harper's Magazine," in 1854,— receiving it from 
 that Horatian classic of American letters, Don- 
 ald G. Mitchell, by whom it had been started, — 
 and he occupied it till the last. In "Harper's 
 Weekly," in 1859-'60, he wrote the novel of 
 " Trumps," a work which wiU transmit to the 
 future that typical American politician, prosper- 
 
266 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ous and potential yesterday, to-day, and for- 
 ever, General Arcularius Belch. In "Harper's 
 Bazar" he wrote a series of papers, extending over 
 a period of four years, called " Manners on the 
 Road," — ^the Road being life, and Manners be- 
 ing the conduct of people in their use of it. In 
 those papers and in the Easy Chair the Addi- 
 sonian drift of his mind was fully displayed. 
 Those Essays do not excel " The Spectator " in 
 thought, learning, humor, invention, or in the 
 thousand felicities of a courtly, leisurely, lace- 
 ruifle style; yet they are level with The Specta- 
 tor in dignity of character and beauty of form; 
 they surpass it in dehcacy; and they surpass it 
 in fertiUty of theme, sustained affluence of feel- 
 ing, refinement of mind, and diversity of literary 
 grace. "The Spectator" contains 635 papers, and 
 it was written by several hands, though mostly 
 by the hand of Addison, between March, 1710, 
 and December, 1714, — a period of four years and 
 nine months. The Easy Chair contains over 
 twenty-five hundred articles, and it was written 
 by Curtis alone, and was prolonged, with only one 
 short intermission, for thirty-eight years. 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 267 
 
 It was Wesley, the Methodist preacher, who 
 objected to the custom of letting the devil have 
 all the good music. Curtis was a morahst who 
 objected to the custom of letting the rakes have 
 all the graces. Good men are sometimes so insipid 
 that they make virtue tedious. In Curtis, not- 
 withstanding his invincible composure and per- 
 fect decorimi, there was a strain of the gypsy. 
 He had "heard the chimes at midnight," and 
 he had not forgotten their music. He had been 
 a wandering minstrel in his youth, and he had 
 struck the light guitar beneath the silver moon. 
 As you turn the leaves of Lester Wallack's 
 " Memories of Fifty Years," you find Curtis to 
 be one of them ; you come upon him very pleas- 
 antly, in the society of that brilhant actor, and 
 you hear their youthful voices blended, — ^the ro- 
 bust yet gentle genius of Thackeray being a 
 listener, — in the golden cadence of Ben Jonson's 
 lovely lyric: 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes. 
 
 And I will pledge with mine; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 
268 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Throughout his hfe Curtis never lost the ca- 
 pacity for sentiment; the love of music; the wor- 
 ship of art and beauty; the morning glow of 
 chivalrous emotion. He never became ascetic. 
 He was a Puritan, but he was not a bigot. He 
 made the jest sparkle. He mingled in the dance. 
 Without excess, but sweetly and genially, he 
 filled a place at the festival. From his hand, in 
 the remote days of the Castle Garden Opera, the 
 glorious Jenny Lind received her first bouquet 
 in America; and from his lips, in the last year of 
 his hfe, her illustrious memory received its sweet- 
 est tribute. When he heard the distant note of 
 the street-organ his spirit floated away in a 
 dream of " the mellow richness of Italy " ; yet he 
 was a man who could have ridden with Crom- 
 well's troopers, at Naseby, and given his life for 
 a cause. There was no plainness of living to 
 which he was not suited, and equally there was 
 no opulence of culture and art that he could not 
 wear with grace. The extremes of his character 
 explain his power. There was no severity and 
 no sacrifice of which he was not capable, in his 
 scorn and detestation of evil and wrong; but for 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 269 
 
 human frailty he had more than the tenderness 
 of woman. He knelt, with a disciple's reverence, 
 at the austere shrine of Washington: yet his elo- 
 quence blazed, like morning sunlight upon a wil- 
 derness of roses, when he touched the rugged, 
 mournful, humorous, pathetic story of Robert 
 Burns. 
 
 In this evanescent and vanishing world one 
 thing, and only one thing, endures, — ^the spiritual 
 influence of good. Out of nature, out of liter- 
 ature, out of art, out of character, that alone, 
 transmuted into conduct, survives ensphered 
 when all the rest has perished. We are accus- 
 tomed, unconsciously, to speak of our posses- 
 sions and our deprivations as if we ourselves were 
 permanent; not remembering that, in a very 
 little while, our places also will be empty. He 
 is dead who was our champion, our benefactor, 
 our guide! Life is lonelier without his presence. 
 The streets in which he used to walk seem va- 
 cant. The very air of his silent and slumber- 
 ous Staten Island, musing at the mysterious 
 gateway of the sea, seems more brooding and 
 more solitary. Yet, being dead, he far more 
 
270 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 truly lives than we do, and in far more exceed- 
 ing glory, because in that potential influence 
 which can never die. Still in our rambles he 
 will meet us, with the old familiar look that al- 
 ways seemed to say, " You also are a prince, an 
 emperor, a man; you also possess this wonder- 
 ful heritage of beauty, and honor, and immortal 
 life." Still in the homes of the poor will dwell 
 the memory of his inexhaustible goodness. Still 
 in the abodes of the rich will live the sweetness 
 and the power of his benignant example: and 
 still, when we have passed away and have been 
 forgotten, a distant posterity, remembering the 
 illustrious orator, the wise and gentle philoso- 
 pher, the serene and delicate literary artist, the 
 incorruptible patriot, the supreme gentleman, 
 will cherish his writings, will revere his charac- 
 ter, and will exult in the splendid tradition of 
 his blameless, beautiful, beneficent hfe. 
 
 A few days after the death of Curtis "(August 
 31, 1892) I wrote this threnody: 
 
 I 
 
 AH the flowers were in their pride 
 On the day when Kuperfc died. 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 271 
 
 Dreamily, through dozing trees, 
 Sighed the idle summer breeze. 
 
 Wild birds, glancing in the air, 
 Spilled their music everywhere. 
 
 Not one sign of mortal ill 
 
 Told that his great heart was still. 
 
 Now the grass he loved to tread 
 Murmurs softly o'er his head: 
 
 Now the great green branches wave 
 High above his lonely grave: 
 
 While in grief's perpetual speech, 
 EoU the breakers on the beach. 
 
 Oh, my comrade, oh, my friend. 
 Must this parting be the end ? 
 
 n 
 
 Weave the shroud and spread the pall I 
 Night and silence cover all. 
 
 Howsoever we deplore. 
 They who go return no more. 
 
 Never from that unknown track 
 Floats one answering whisper back. 
 
 Nature, vacant, will not heed 
 Lips that grieve or hearts that bleed. 
 
272 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Wherefore now should moTiming word 
 Or the tearful dirge be heard? 
 
 How shall words our grief abate? — 
 Call him noble; call him great; 
 
 Say that faith, now gaunt and grim. 
 Once was fair because of him; 
 
 Say that goodness, round his way. 
 Made one everlasting day; 
 
 Say that beauty's heav'nly flame 
 Bourgeoned wheresoe'er he came; 
 
 Say that all life's common ways 
 .Were made glorious in his gaze; 
 
 Say he gave us, hour by hour, 
 
 Hope and patience, grace and power; 
 
 Say his spirit was so true 
 That it made us noble, too; — 
 
 What is this, but to declare 
 Love's bereavement and despair? 
 
 What is this, but just to say 
 All we loved is torn away? 
 
 Weave the shroud and spread the p,alll 
 Night and silence cover all. 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 273 
 
 ni 
 
 Oh, my comrade, oh, my friend. 
 Must this parting be the end? 
 
 Heart and hope are growing old: 
 Dark the night comes down, and cold: 
 
 Pew the souls that answer mine, 
 And no voice so sweet as thine. 
 
 Desert wastes of care remain — 
 Yet thy lips speak not again! 
 
 Gray eternities of space — 
 Yet nowhere thy living face! 
 
 Only now the lonesome blight. 
 Heavy day and haunted night. 
 
 All the light and music reft — 
 Only thought and memory left! 
 
 IV 
 
 Peace, fond mourner ! This thy boon, — 
 Thou thyself must follow soon. 
 
 Peace, — and let repining go! 
 Peace, — ^f or Fate will have it so. 
 
 Vainly now his praise is said; 
 Vain the garland for his head : 
 
 Yet is comfort's shadow cast 
 From the kindness of the past. 
 
274 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 All my love could do to cheer 
 Wanned his heart when he was here. 
 
 Honor's plaudit, Friendship's vow 
 Did not coldly wait till now. 
 
 Oh, my comrade, oh, my friend. 
 If this parting be the end. 
 
 Yet I hold my life divine. 
 
 To have known a soul like thine: 
 
 And I hush the low lament 
 In submission, penitent. 
 
 Still the sun is in the skies: 
 
 He sets — but I have seen him rise I 
 
XI. 
 
 OLD FAMILIAR FACES 
 
 Suggestion has frequently been made that I 
 should write an Autobiography, — a kind of com- 
 position which is sometimes found deeply inter- 
 esting, but from which I find myself inclined to 
 shrink. It seldom happens to anybody to have 
 such a story to tell as that of Benjamin Franklin 
 or that of William Gifford, or to possess such 
 stores of knowledge and experience as Gibbon 
 was able to communicate, or such recollections as 
 those that enrich the opulent pages of Henry 
 Crabb Robinson. It is, however, possible that a 
 narrative of my experience, from the time when, 
 as a poor boy, I gathered blue-berries on the 
 rocky hills back of Gloucester, or rambled, with 
 other barefooted vagrants, on the wharves of 
 Boston, till this day of active labor as a veteran 
 of letters, might find a little favor; and perhaps 
 it will, one day, be written; for I have seen and 
 
 275 
 
276 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 known many persons and things of exceptional 
 interest, and it would be easily possible for me 
 to dilate upon my remembrance of notable inci- 
 dents and of famous men whom I saw in my boy- 
 hood and youth, — ^that time which now seems so 
 distant, that time of dream and drift and 
 thoughtless enjoyment. Channing, the saint-like 
 preacher, pale and thin, standing in his pulpit, 
 and, even to my childish eyes, an object of awe; 
 Story, the great jurist, riding in the long omni- 
 bus that plied between Cambridge and Boston, 
 and talking with the passengers ; the funeral pro- 
 cession of John Quincy Adams, as, with the 
 black coffin exposed to view, it wound its slow 
 way through Boston streets, to the wailing music 
 of the Dead March. Polk, the President, in his 
 carriage, with long-drawn escort, making tri- 
 umphal progress, bowing right and left to the 
 shouting multitude ; Father Taylor, in his Bethel, 
 rugged and vehement, preaching to sailors, and, 
 as it happened, to me, a sailor's boy; Gough, the 
 stentorian orator of Temperance, who certainly 
 terrified one of his auditors, and probably many 
 others, by his simulation of drunken delirium; 
 
NOTABLE INCIDENTS 277 
 
 the festal adornment of the city, and the general 
 joy of the people, when the Cochituate Water 
 was introduced for common use; the exceeding 
 horror attendant on the discovery of Professor 
 Webster's murder of Dr. Parkman, in the Medi- 
 cal College; Junius Booth, that meteor of trag- 
 edy, whom I beheld as Pescara, and trembled to 
 behold ; Daniel Webster, most imperial of Ameri- 
 can statesmen, uttering his clarion tones from the 
 portico of the old Revere House; Shaw, the 
 august and venerable Chief Justice of the Su- 
 preme Court of Massachusetts, presiding in his 
 place, often apparently slimiberous, but always 
 really alert, watchful, and aware of everything 
 around him; the acclaim that hailed the laying of 
 the first Atlantic cable, — ^to celebrate which event, 
 indeed, I wrote a song, that was sung by a vast 
 audience in the Music Hall; Theodore Parker, 
 the honest but virulent apostle of liberty, ad- 
 dressing a great multitude, in the temple where 
 he preached, and denouncing Daniel Webster 
 with bitterest vituperation; Rufus Choate, the 
 most magnificent, wonderful, and inspiring of 
 orators, pouring forth the diamond torrent of his 
 
278 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 entrancing eloquence from the platform of 
 storied Faneuil Hall, — ^those are a few of the 
 images and scenes that crowd, in wild disorder, 
 upon my recollection, when I think of vanished 
 years. There is more display of enterprise in the 
 hfe of To-Day than there was in the life of Yes- 
 terday; but the Past, as I recall it, was not devoid 
 of action, and it was illustrious with the presence 
 of great persons who, to the eyes of age, seem un- 
 matched in the Present. There would be much to 
 say, but at this moment a fleeting glimpse must 
 suffice of good fellows of a day long past, who 
 once brightened my hfe with the sunshine of their 
 genius, kindness, and humor, and gained my af- 
 fection, and, by me, are not forgotten. 
 
 ARTHUR SKETCHLEY 
 
 One of the bhthest of those companions, as 
 good and kind a man as ever lived, was the 
 humorist Arthur Shetchley. That was his pen- 
 name, and he was commonly known by it, but, in 
 writing to me, he generally signed his actual 
 name, which was George Rose. His personality 
 was exceedingly interesting, and he possessed that 
 
AKTHUR SKETCHLEY 
 George Roue 
 
ARTHUR SKETCHLEY 279 
 
 extraordinary faculty of humor which manifests 
 itself by making its possessor intrinsically funny. 
 He was a stalwart, handsome Englishman, of an 
 aspect at once grave and jovial. His manner was 
 dignified yet gentle. His voice was rich and sym- 
 pathetic, and, beneath the facetious demeanor that 
 he often, and to all appearance unconsciously, as- 
 sumed, there was a reverent spirit, a solemn sense 
 of duty, and a conscientious purpose to use his 
 faculty of humor for the pubKc good. The char- 
 acter with which he chose to invest himself, as- 
 suming it both as a writer and an impersonator, 
 was that of a garrulous female named Mrs. Mar- 
 tha Brown, a representative, in many respects, of 
 the average, conventional, middle-class Enghsh 
 mind. He first made it known in 1863 in London. 
 His method was to subject scenes and incidents 
 of the passing hour, — ^the popular resorts, the 
 popular fads, and occasionally the popular plays 
 and novels, the proceedings of the fashionable 
 world, and the manners of the multitude, — to the 
 shrewd observation and pungent comment of that 
 loquacious dame, and to cause her to talk about 
 those subjects, in a rambling way and cockney 
 
280 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 dialect. In doing that he caused Mrs. Brown, — 
 " a party in the name of Martha," — ^to reveal her- 
 self as a woman of large domestic experience, 
 sound judgment, good sense, and good feeKng; a 
 woman appreciative of the comforts of life, but 
 acquainted also with its trials and sorrows; and, 
 especially, a woman essentially and naturally hu- 
 morous, yet completely unconscious of her gift of 
 humor. In a remote way the character might 
 have been suggested to Rose by the Mrs. Nickleby 
 of Dickens, but probably it was a study of actual 
 life. Mrs. Nickleby is artificial, silly, and tedious. 
 Mrs. Brown is natural, sensible, and entertaining; 
 and her inexhaustible vocabulary, blending truth, 
 ridicule, sense, kindness, and imexpected felicity 
 of illustration with a tangle of words, is delight- 
 fully comic. 
 
 Rose came to America in the autumn of 1867 
 and gave public entertainments in New York and 
 a few other cities, in the character of Mrs. Brown. 
 He did not wear feminine attire, but appeared in 
 the customary evening dress, speaking without 
 manuscript, and, by dint of facile, suggestive 
 impersonation, giving to his auditors a clear and 
 
ARTHUR SKETCHLEY 281 
 
 complete mental image of a voluble, elderly Eng- 
 lishwoman of an eccentric order. As acting the 
 achievement was unique and extraordinary. By 
 the American audiences, however, Mrs. Brown 
 was not understood, and her clever and amiable 
 representative did not long remain in America. 
 In England, on the other hand, Mrs. Brown 
 appeared before more than a thousand audiences, 
 in many cities of the kingdom, and every one of 
 them was delighted. In Australia, also, she met 
 with great favor. Rose was the author of several 
 comedies, some of which were successfully pro- 
 duced and all of which are good. He died in 
 London, at No. 96 Gloucester Place, Portman 
 Square, on November 13, 1882, aged 55, and was 
 buried in Brompton Cemetery, — that peculiarly 
 forlorn place of sepulture, which is so populous 
 with memorials of men and women distinguished 
 in service of the arts. 
 
 One of Rose's marked peculiarities was exces- 
 sive candor. He uttered disapprobation of many 
 things and persons, sometimes sincerely, at other 
 times in a playful, whimsical spirit, — for he was 
 prone to mystification; as when, in a season of 
 
282 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 much Shakespearean revival, he would cause Mrs. 
 Brown to exclaim, " Shakespeare again! O, 
 that dreadful man ! " One of his intimate friends 
 was Charles Mathews, the famous and ever de- 
 lightful comedian ; and I have heard that as often 
 as they met it was the custom of Mathews to 
 forestall his comrade's impending censure by ex- 
 claiming: 'Now, Rose, damn everything \ and 
 have it done with, — and let's go to breakfast." 
 Rose was not, essentially, a censorious man, but 
 conventionaUty, — the everlasting sameness of 
 persons, thoughts, talk, and customs, — made him 
 impatient and prompted him to satire. When 
 in New York, in the season of 1867-'68, he was 
 often in my company, and he was the cause of 
 much mirth. One morning he came to see me, at 
 the office of a paper called " The Weekly Re- 
 view," of which, amid a multiplicity of occupa- 
 tions, I was the managing editor (for one of the 
 most accomplished and amiable of men, Theodore 
 Hagen, long ago dead) ; and, being in joyous 
 spirits, he suddenly favored me with a signal ex- 
 ample of his humorous aptitude and his pro- 
 pensity for playful satire. A public reading from 
 
ARTHUR SKETCHLEY 283 
 
 Shakespeare, by the famous Fanny Kemble, had 
 occurred, on the previous evening, at Steinway 
 Hall, and, as sympathetically related by the 
 morning papers, it had been interrupted, at a 
 critical moment, by the late, and, naturally, vex- 
 atious, arrival of one of the distinguished per- 
 former's female auditors. Fanny Kemble, as is 
 known to persons who know the truth about her, 
 while possessed of intellect, abihty, and a grand 
 manner, was an arrogant, imperious woman, 
 somewhat of the old Duchess of Marlborough 
 order, and the interruption of her recital, which 
 happened to be that of a lurid apostrophe by 
 King Lear, caused her to pause and to fix a bale- 
 ful gaze of fury on the belated member of her con- 
 gregation. According to one of her newspaper 
 worshippers, " the angry spot did glow on Csesar's 
 cheek." On hearing a remark about that inci- 
 dent Rose instantly assumed the character of 
 Mrs. Brown At The Play, and, pretendinjg that 
 the disturbance had been caused by that worthy 
 dame's incursion into the formidable Fanny's 
 audience, he improvised a performance as fine 
 with truth and humor as anything of the kind 
 
284 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 could be, — a performance such as the most glow- 
 ing of theatrical records attribute to the versatile 
 John Edwin, the incomparable Theodore Hook, 
 or the irresistible Burton. " That ther' Miss 
 Kimbil," he exclaimed, in conclusion; " and a 
 brazen 'ussey as she was, a sittin' in a black velvet 
 gownd and a-glarin' at me ! 'Rumble your belly 
 full ! ' she sings out ; ' blow wind ! ' which I don't 
 'old vith no sich langwige, and me a respectable 
 widdy, and peppermint drops is good for it." 
 
 AETEMUS WAED 
 
 Rose, as might have been expected, was cor- 
 dially sympathetic with the American humorist 
 Artemus Ward, and he was foremost in greeting 
 him, with glad welcome, on his arrival in London. 
 They became intimate friends, and it has been 
 said that Artemus, when on his death-bed, asked 
 Rose to obtain for him the ministrations of a 
 Roman CathoUc priest. Knowing both those 
 men, intimately, and thinking of that death-bed, 
 I surmise that it was Rose, not Ward, who sug- 
 gested the summons of the Romish ecclesiastic. 
 Rose had been educated for the priesthood; he 
 
ARTEMUS WARD 285 
 
 was devout; he lived and died in the Roman 
 CathoKc faith. He, naturally, would have sug- 
 gested the presence of a confessor at the bedside 
 of his dying friend, and he would have considered 
 that proceeding conscientious and necessary. 
 Artemus Ward, Charles Farrar Browne, was a 
 good man, but he was not a sectarian in religious 
 belief. My acquaintance with Artemus began 
 when he came to New York, from the West, in 
 the autumn of 1860, and began to write for 
 " Vanity Fair," of which paper, subsequently, he 
 was, for a short time, the editor. He was comi- 
 cally eccentric, equally as a character and a 
 writer. His person was tall and thin; his face 
 aquihne; his carriage buoyant; his demeanor joy- 
 ous and eager. His features were irregular; his 
 eyes of a light blue color and, in expression, merry 
 and gentle. His movements were rapid and in- 
 elegant. His voice was fresh and clear, and, 
 though not sympathetic, distinctly communicative 
 of a genial spirit. His attire was rich and gay, — 
 the attire of a man of fashion. He possessed, in 
 an extraordinary degree, the faculty of maintain- 
 ing a solemn composure of countenance while 
 
286 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 making comic or ridiculous statements, — as when, 
 in his first lecture in New York, he mentioned 
 the phenomenal skill of his absent pianist, who, 
 he said, " always wore mittens when playing the 
 piano," — and he could impart an irresistible ef- 
 fect of humor by means of a felicitous, unex- 
 pected inflection of tone. There is httle in his 
 published writings that fully explains the charm 
 he exercised in conversation and in public speak- 
 ing. The prominent characteristics of those writ- 
 ings are broadly farcical humor, sportive levity, 
 and comic inconsequence, — as when, in describing 
 his visit to the grim Tower of London, he men- 
 tioned that he saw the " Traitor's Gate," and 
 thought that as many as twenty traitors might 
 go through it abreast. The charm of Artemus 
 Ward was that of a kindly, droll personality, 
 compact of spontaneous mirth and winning 
 sweetness. It is an attribute that words can but 
 faintly suggest. 
 
 In the days of our intimacy I sometimes urged 
 upon the attention of Artemus the importance of 
 a serious purpose in humorous writings, espe- 
 cially commending to him the example of Thack- 
 
ARTEMUS WAED 
 
 Charles Fa-ivar Bioivne 
 
ARTEMUS WARD 287 
 
 eray. Those monitions of mine were always 
 gravely accepted, but with a demure glance and a 
 twinkle of the blue eyes that seemed to betoken 
 more amusement than heed. Late one night, — ^in 
 f iact, about three o'clock in the morning, — ^when 
 we had been merry-making with gay companions, 
 we repaired, upon his invitation, to the hotel in 
 which he then lodged, the Jones House, at the 
 southeast corner of Broadway and Great Jones 
 Street, New York, a pleasant abode, long ago 
 demolished. On reaching his room he hastily 
 summoned a servant, and, after ordering that 
 copious refreshment should be provided, he ear- 
 nestly inquired, with an imposing aspect of 
 solemnity, an aspect by which I was completely 
 deceived, whether it would be possible to arouse 
 the landlord. The servant hesitated. 
 
 " It is late, sir," he said. 
 
 " I know it is late," replied Artemus; " but I 
 have a message for him, of the utmost impor- 
 tance. It is urgent, and I am sure he will be glad 
 to receive it. Do you think you could wake 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; I could wake him, if you " 
 
288 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 " Well — I wiU see that you are not blamed. 
 Will you remember what I say, and be careful 
 to deliver the message exactly as I tell you? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, give him my compliments; be sure 
 you mention my name ; he's an old friend of mine ; 
 he'll be delighted to hear from me. Wake him, 
 and tell him, — and speak distinctly, will you? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Tell him, with my very kindest regards, that 
 — the price of liberty is eternal vigilance." 
 
 Verbal record of that bit of frolic conveys only 
 a hint of the skill with which the humorist main- 
 tained his gravity and the aboimding glee with 
 which he exulted over the accomplishment of his 
 playfully mischievous design. That was one way 
 of signifying to me his assent to the proposition 
 that humor can be made to convey a serious truth. 
 
 I never saw Artemus after he went to Eng- 
 land. He was warmly welcomed in London, — 
 where he became widely popular, by reason of his 
 comic entertainment, given at the Egyptian 
 HaU, and also by reason of his contributions to 
 "Punch"; and he gained many affectionate 
 
ARTEMUS WARD 289 
 
 friends. Among those friends were Mr. and 
 Mrs. Charles Millward and Mr. and Mrs. Fred- 
 erick Burgess, from whom, when I first visited 
 England, in 1877, 1 derived much information as 
 to his London life. Millward related an incident 
 that is signally indicative of Ward's character. 
 The humorist had been overwhelmed vdth Eng- 
 lish hospitality, — a kindness which, once awak- 
 ened, knows no bounds ; he had entered with eager 
 zest into the festivities of the convivial Savage 
 Club and of other kindred coteries, and, conse- 
 quently, his health was beginning to break. Mrs. 
 Millward, equally sensible and kind, warned him 
 of his danger. " You must," she repeatedly said 
 to him, " learn to say 'No.' " The home of Mill- 
 ward was in the northern part of London, far 
 from the Strand and therefore distant from Bo- 
 hemian haunts. " One night, between midnight 
 and morning, we were awakened," said Millward, 
 recounting this occurrence, " by a loud knocking 
 at our door; and, on descending, I found Artemus 
 there, in evening dress, unusually composed and 
 serious. Of course I welcomed him, though at a 
 loss to understand the cause of his untimely call. 
 
290 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 He urgently requested the presence of Mrs. Mill- 
 ward, and would take no denial, — having, as he 
 gravely declared, a most important communica- 
 tion to impart, that only she could appreciate. 
 Yielding to his earnest importunity, I persuaded 
 Mrs. Millward to join us. The moment she ap- 
 peared he greeted her with impressive solenanity. 
 ' It is done/ he said ; ' I knew you would wish to 
 hear of it at once. I have been at the Savage all 
 evening, and I have said Nor The result," 
 added Millward, " was that we sat up the rest of 
 the night, and made a feast of it, — ^in which, it 
 is needless to add, he said ' Yes! ' " 
 
 Artemus died, in the South Western Railway 
 Hotel at Southampton, on March 6, 1867, aged 
 32. A short time before his death a friend tried 
 to persuade him to swallow some medicine that 
 he was reluctant to take. " I would do anything 
 for you" urged that affectionate person. " Would 
 you ? " said Artemus. " Well — then you take it ! " 
 His body rested for a short time in Kensal Green 
 Cemetery, London, but, ultimately it was brought 
 home and buried at Waterford, Maine, his birth- 
 place. Among the tributes which then appeared 
 
ARTEMUS WARD 291 
 
 in print none is more touching than a poem which 
 has heen attributed to that great master of lyrical 
 verse, the lamented Algernon Charles Swinburne, 
 but which was written by James Rhoades, of 
 Haslemere, Surrey, and pubUshed in a London 
 paper. One stanza of it is here given: 
 
 He came, with a heart full of gladness. 
 From the glad-hearted world of the West; 
 
 Won. our laughter, but not with mere madness; 
 Spake and joked with us, not in mere jest; 
 
 Por the Man in our hearts lingered after, 
 When the merriment died from our ears. 
 
 And those who were loudest in laughter 
 Are silent in tears. 
 
 BOHEMIA AGAIN 
 
 In his New York days Artemus consorted with 
 my old Bohemian companions, and the thought of 
 him brings with it a thought of them. In earlier 
 chapters of reminiscence I have adverted to that 
 period and that group of writers, with the pur- 
 pose of providing an authentic record, however 
 brief and incomplete, of an interesting literary 
 episode and a remarkable, though accidental, 
 coterie of authors, the writings of some of whom 
 
292 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 have survived and seem destined to endure. 
 George Arnold, Fitz-James O'Brien, Thomas 
 Bailey Aldrich, Walt Whitman, Charles Daw- 
 son Shanly, Charles D. Gardette, and Nathan 
 G. Shepherd are names that shine, with more or 
 less lustre, in the scroll of American poets, and 
 recurrence to their period affords opportunity for 
 correction of errors concerning it, which have 
 been conspicuously made. On January 13, 1909, 
 a brilliant assemblage convened at the Carnegie 
 Lyceum, New York, to participate in a public 
 service commemorative of the loved and honored 
 poet Edmund Clarence Stedman, and speeches 
 were delivered making allusion to the literary 
 environment of his youth, the time when he began 
 as a writer, and the Bohemian circle of which 
 erroneously he had been supposed, and was then 
 declared, to have been a member. That dis- 
 tinguished man of letters, whose death befell on 
 January 18, 1908, was, in 1860, associated with 
 " The New York World," — ^which was started 
 in that year, beginning as a religious newspaper, 
 — and although he was acquainted with a few 
 members of the Bohemian group then existent, he 
 
BOHEMIA AGAIN 293 
 
 was not associated with it. He knew George 
 Arnold, having met him, in boyhood, at a place 
 called "The Phalanx," at Strawberry Farms, 
 New Jersey, and there is, among his poems, a 
 tribute to the memory of that delightful comrade 
 and charming poet. '^He also knew Aldrich and 
 Whitman ; but with the other persons of that com- 
 pany he had no acquaintance. The literary circle 
 to which Stedman obtained access, and which he 
 pleased and adorned, was that which comprised 
 Bayard Taylor, Richard Henry Stoddard, Mrs. 
 Stoddard (the brilliant Elizabeth Barstow), 
 George Henry Boker, and Lorimer Graham, — a 
 circle distinct from that of the contemporary 
 Bohemia, and not propitious to it. Stoddard, in- 
 deed, who held an official post in the New York 
 Custom House and who was accustomed to con- 
 tribute to various publications of that day, I had 
 made the acquaintance of Henry Clapp, and I 
 remember that occasionally he wrote for Clapp's 
 " Saturday Press," and had difficulty, not un- 
 usual, in obtaining payment ; for the resources of 
 the paper were so slight that its continuance, from 
 week to week, was a marvel. One day Clapp and 
 
294 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 I, having locked the doors of the " Press " office, 
 in order to prevent the probable access of credi- 
 tors, were engaged in serious and rather melan- 
 choly conference as to the obtainment of money 
 with which to pay the printer, when suddenly 
 there came a loud, impatient knocking upon the 
 outer door, and my senior, by a warning gesture, 
 enjoined silence. The sound of a grumbling voice 
 was then audible, and, after a while, the sound 
 of footsteps retreating down the stairs. For sev- 
 eral minutes Clapp did not speak but continued 
 to smoke and listen, looking at me with a serious 
 aspect. Then, removing the pipe from his lips, he 
 softly murmured, " 'Twas the voice of the Stod- 
 dard — I heard him complain!" That incident 
 sufficiently indicates the embarrassing circum- 
 stances under which the paper struggled through 
 the twenty-six months of its existence. Some of 
 its contributors were glad to furnish articles for 
 nothing, being friendly toward the establishment 
 of an absolutely independent critical paper, a 
 thing practically unknown in those days. Among 
 those friendly contributors were Henry Giles, 
 Charles T. Congdon, Edward Howland (by 
 
IJUHAIII) H. STODDARD 
 rhotograph by Sarony 
 
BOHEMIA AGAIN 295 
 
 whom the paper had been projected) , Brownlee 
 Brown, C. D. Shanly, and Ada Clare. T. B. 
 Aldrich was connected with " The Saturday 
 Press " only during the first three months of its 
 existence, and he had not, at any time, any pecu- 
 niary investment in it, so that his biographer's 
 remark about his having " taken the failure with 
 a hght heart " seems comic. 
 
 A point to be noted in making the literary 
 chronicle of those days is that Taylor, Stoddard, 
 Stedman, Boker, Curtis, Ludlow, and others 
 whose names have been commingled with those of 
 Henry Clapp's Bohemian associates were not 
 only not affiliated with that coterie but were 
 distinct from it, and, in some instances, were 
 inimical to it. O'Brien was at one time inti- 
 mate with Taylor and Stoddard, but the intimacy 
 did not continue. After I collected the liter- 
 ary remains of O'Brien, — Poems and Stories, 
 published in 1881, — the most censorious review of 
 them that appeared was, I remember, written by 
 Stoddard, in " The New York Tribune." The 
 time, 1859-'60, was one of turbulence; for the 
 whole land was seething on the eve of the Civil 
 
296 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 War, and animosities were as common as friend- 
 ships. One feature of it, and that peculiarly in- 
 teresting to men of letters, was the survival of ties 
 that bound it to the period that is covered by 
 Poe's account of " The Literati." Epes Sargent 
 and George P. Morris were known to me; N. P. 
 Willis had accepted and pubUshed, with cordial 
 commendation, one of my juvenile poems; Fitz- 
 Greene Halleck, William Wallace, Cornelius 
 Mathews, and Thomas Dunn English were living 
 and writing, and I often saw them; and many 
 times I talked vrith the tart, sprightly, satiric 
 Charles F. Briggs, — ^long ago at rest, in the old 
 Moravian Cemetery, in Staten Island. Those 
 writers, with many others, figure in the pages of 
 Poe, and it is both significant and pleasant to 
 recall that Poe, often and harshly censured for his 
 criticism of his contemporaries, was the first au- 
 thoritative voice to recognize the excellence of 
 Bayard Taylor; haiUng him, 1849, as " xmques- 
 tionably the most terse, glowing, and vigorous of 
 all our poets." 
 
STEDMAN 297 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 Stedman had been known to me as a poet for 
 some time before we met. Our acquaintance be- 
 gan in 1862, and it speedily ripened into a friend- 
 ship that was never marred, notwithstanding our 
 variant opinions as to literary matters and our 
 invariably frank and exphcit criticism of one an- 
 other as votaries of the Muse. That good old 
 story of Gil Bias and the Archbishop, so highly 
 prized by Dean Swift, cleverly enough inculcates 
 the policy of critical lenity or reserve; but it is 
 not true that every man likes to be flattered; and, 
 moreover, that friendship which cannot bear plain 
 speech and good counsel is not friendship at all. 
 One of my most agreeable recollections of early 
 friends in the literary vocation, — such as Francis 
 A. Durivage, James T. Fields, Epes Sargent, 
 Edwin P. Whipple, Benjamin P. Shillaber, and 
 George Lunt, — ^is that the custom of perfectly 
 candid criticism prevailed among them, without 
 even the least surmise that it would give pain or 
 be deemed unkind. Stedman, in his intercourse 
 with authors, whom he knew by the score, may 
 
298 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 have had his patience severely tried. I do not 
 know. I know that in his intercourse with me 
 he was always truthful as well as considerate. 
 There came a time, in the fulness of years, and 
 while he yet lived, when I had the opportunity of 
 bearing my testimony to his fine genius, his lovely 
 character, and his varied and precious achieve- 
 ment. On December 6, 1900, to signalize his 
 completion and publication of that massive and 
 splendid book " An American Anthology," the 
 Authors' Club, of New York, gave a feast in his 
 honor, on which occasion I dehvered the address 
 that here follows : 
 
 Whoso conquers the world. 
 Winning its riches and fame, 
 Comes to the evening at last. 
 The sunset of three score years. 
 Confessing that love was real. 
 All the rest was a dream. 
 
 Those are the words of the loved and honored 
 Poet around whom you have gathered to-night, 
 to congratulate him on the fulfilment of a great 
 work and to crown him with the laurel of a per- 
 fect renown. They sound the keynote of this 
 occasion, and no word of mine could make it 
 
STEDMAN 299 
 
 sound more true. He has lived worthy of love; 
 he possesses it ; and love is the crown of life. 
 
 I have listened here to the sweetest of all 
 music, the music of the voice of friendship; and 
 now, as I gaze over this brilliant company, — 
 " the choice and master spirits " of American 
 literature in our capital, — and consider the motive 
 of this assemblage and the emotion that thrills 
 every heart, my thoughts go back to a memorable 
 personal experience, nearly fifty years ago, when 
 first, consciously, I worshipped at the shrine of 
 ideal intellect and beauty. It was a lovely night, 
 in May. The river Charles, flowing dreamily 
 through the meadows of Cambridge, glimmered 
 in burnished darkness under the faint Hght of the 
 stars. The winds were hushed. The soft air 
 was laden with the fragrance of lilac and wood- 
 bine. At some distance the clock in the old 
 church tower was striking midnight ; and I stood 
 at the gate of Longfellow, whither I had come, a 
 stranger and a pilgrim, to lay my hand upon the 
 latch that the poet's hand had touched. Strange 
 and wild is the heart of youth; but, unperverted 
 by selfish ambition and unembittered by worldly 
 
300 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 distrust, the heart of youth is true. Many a time 
 since then it has been my fortune to meet with 
 great authors of the Present and to stand at the 
 shrines of illustrious authors of the Past. Long- 
 fellow, Holmes, and Wilkie Collins were my dear 
 personal friends. I have clasped hands with 
 Charles Dickens, and Robert Browning, and 
 Matthew Arnold. I have made a pilgrimage to 
 Sloperton Cottage, and worshipped in Bromham 
 church, and stood at the grave of that wonderful 
 singer, Thomas Moore, " the poet of all circles 
 and the idol of his own." I have been privileged 
 to roam in the halls and cloisters and gardens of 
 Newstead Abbey, and to kneel, in awe and rev- 
 erence, beside the tomb of Byron, in Hucknall 
 church. I have stood in the old Castle Street 
 study of Sir Walter Scott, in Edinburgh, and 
 held in my hands the original manuscript of his 
 Journal, and looked upon the almost illegible 
 tracery of the last words that fell from his im- 
 mortal pen. And, many a time, by night and by 
 day, I have mused in Stratford church, and heard, 
 or seemed to hear, the angel echoes, as from an- 
 other world, that float around the sacred dust of 
 
STEDMAN 301 
 
 Shakespeare. But never have I felt more deeply 
 than in my boyhood's dream and rapture, on that 
 magical night at the gate of Longfellow, the 
 glamour and the glory of poetic achievement and 
 poetic renown. 
 
 There were clouds, now and then, over the 
 landscape, no doubt ; but, in the retrospect, poetic 
 sentiment gladdens and glorifies all the Past. 
 Looking back to the middle of the last century 
 and to the old, scholastic city of Cambridge, 
 where some of my early days were spent, I see, as 
 in a vision, a time when the world seemed gentler 
 than now it is, and a place where action had fallen 
 asleep. The broad, white streets were shaded 
 with copious elms, willows, and silver-leaf maples. 
 The houses were, mostly, isolated in gardens. 
 The shining river Charles wound its sinuous way 
 through broad reaches of golden marsh land, — 
 still and solitary in the sunshine, save for the stir 
 of rippling grass and the flight of a wandering 
 gull. Once every hour the long omnibus roUed 
 lazily through the village street, on its drowsy 
 journey to neighboring Boston. Once every day 
 the noiseless tenor of life was faintly stirred by 
 
302 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 the arrival of " The Boston Transcript." The 
 bell was rung, in the church tower, at 12, and 
 the curfew at 9. At intervals the voice of the 
 lecturer became audible, — Emerson, or Philhps, 
 or Parker, or Beecher, or Chapin, or Osgood, or 
 Whipple, or Curtis, or Giles. Once I heard 
 the elder Dana, the author of " The Buc- 
 caneer," — a shght, strange, gray, palUd man, 
 with dark, mysterious, awe-stricken eyes, — dis- 
 course on " Hamlet." Sometimes, rambling 
 among the quaint red college buildings at Har- 
 vard, the gazer might descry the decorous, stately, 
 sable figure of Edward Everett; or the tall, 
 shambUng Felton, with spectacled nose and 
 kindly, preoccupied face; or Pierce, the great 
 professor of mathematics, with his long hair and 
 hirsute visage; or the rough, surly Greek tutor 
 Sophocles, in his cynic mood, which was incessant, 
 and his ancient cloak, which seemed to be per- 
 petual; or the manly presence and thoughtful 
 countenance of Lowell; or the handsome, com- 
 fortable Agassiz, with his beaming face, and 
 dark, observant, benevolent eyes, so intellectual 
 and so sweet. There also might be seen 
 
STEDMAN 303 
 
 the ambient Theophilus Parsons, happy in his 
 legal erudition, happier stiU in his Sweden- 
 borgian faith and his sunny, cheerful, self-con- 
 fident temper, that nothing could sadden. And 
 there, sometimes, came the diminutive but erect, 
 sprightly, vital Holmes, one of the blithest 
 spirits, surely, that ever walked the earth. As 
 I think of those times and persons, — serene in a 
 halo of poetic distance and reverie, — I breathe 
 once more the fragrant syringa and lilac in the 
 half-forgotten springtime that never can return, 
 and hear the patter of the falling leaf in bur- 
 nished autumn woods of Long Ago. 
 
 The wild ardor of youth is chastened and 
 sobered as years drift away, but, if once it has 
 been felt, the emotion of delight in the achieve- 
 ment of poetic genius is never quite extinguished. 
 No realm of memory yields so much to comfort 
 the heart and cheer the mind as the realm that is 
 peopled with the Poets of the Past, — that realm 
 to which your honored guest, throwing wide the 
 portals of song, has made the avenue of access so 
 easy and so pleasant for the generations that 
 are to f oUow him, and in which he will ever re- 
 
304 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 main a noble and an honored figure. From " Bo- 
 hemia " to " The Blameless Prince "; from " Old 
 Brown" to "The Heart of New England"; 
 from the unique, romantic, tender ballad of 
 " Montagu " to the wild and pathetic rhapsody 
 of " The Lord's Day Gale "; from the Bryant 
 Ode to the gossamer, lace-hke, exquisite loveli- 
 ness of " The Carib Sea "; from " Alice of Mon- 
 mouth," — ^with its thrilling, triumphant dirge, 
 — ^to the inspired and beautiful "Ariel" that 
 commemorates Shelley, the same pure poetic 
 thought and feeling flow steadily onward, and 
 the same golden music sounds, — the music of a 
 noble mind and a passionate and tender heart, by 
 nature consecrated to the service of beauty, and, 
 therefore, to the supreme welfare of mankind. 
 The Poet is not, and must not be, a teacher. He 
 does not know, and he need not ask, in what way 
 his spirit affects the world. Longfellow has told 
 you that he found his wandering song in the heart 
 of a friend. Emerson has told you that the sex- 
 ton, ringing his church bell, knows not that the 
 great Napoleon, far off among the Alps, has 
 reined his horse and paused to listen. The songs 
 
STEDMAN 305 
 
 of the poet are sifted into the minds of men as the 
 sunshine is sifted into the trees of the forest. In 
 that way the Muse of Stedman has become a 
 loved companion to thousands of responsive 
 souls ; in that way his influence has wrought and 
 his solid fame has grown. I sometimes think 
 that the deadliest foe of creative impulse in 
 poetry is the faculty of criticism, and that our 
 poetic literature will never, as a whole, acquire 
 the opulent vitality, bloom, and color of old 
 English poetry, until our authors cease to be self- 
 conscious and critical, and, — as that rare poet 
 Richard Henry Stoddard so often and so 
 happily has done, — yield themselves f uUy to their 
 emotions. But the faculty of criticism, as Sted- 
 man used it, becomes creative. Never have I 
 found, in any of his pages, a narrow doctrine or a 
 blighting word. Genius, he has said, is some- 
 thing that comes without effort, and yet impels 
 its possessor to heroic labor. No better word 
 was ever said of it, nor was ever a more explicit 
 example given of it than this which we now con- 
 template and acclaim, in the splendid fruition of 
 his inspired, laborious, and grandly faithful life. 
 
306 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 It is true, as our friend has said, that a " breath 
 of poetry is worth a breeze of comment." It 
 was once my dream that I also might contribute 
 something to the poetry of my native land; some 
 strain of beauty " that the world would not will- 
 ingly let die." That dream has vanished, with 
 many other dreams, — ^the fair beguilements with 
 which young ambition is flattered by delusive 
 hope, — and I can say, with old George Colman: 
 
 My Muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled. 
 Sat up together, many a night, no doubt; 
 
 But now I've sent the poor old lass to bed. 
 Because — because my fire is going out. 
 
 She does not always stay there. Sometimes, 
 long after midnight, I find her in my arm-chair, 
 in the chimney comer, and together we look into 
 the embers and think of our old friends : and this 
 is what we should like to say to one of them, most 
 honored and most prized : 
 
 Comrade and friend! what tribute shall I render? 
 
 Eoses and lilies bloom no more for me. 
 And naught remains of Fancy's squandered splendor 
 
 Save marish flowers that fringe the sombre sea. . 
 
EDMUND CLAKENCE KTEDilAN 
 
STEDMAN 307 
 
 But were each word a rose, each thought a blessing, 
 
 Each prayer a coronal of gems divine. 
 Honor and love and perfect trust confessing. 
 
 My words, my thoughts, my prayers should all be thine 
 
 Por thou hast kept the faith: thy soul, undaunted. 
 Whatever storms niight round thee rage and roll. 
 
 By one celestial passion still enchanted. 
 Has held its course right onward to its goal. 
 
 No sordid aim, no worldly greed, beguiling. 
 Could ever wile thy constant heart astray; 
 
 No vine-clad, Circean, Cyprian Muses, smiling. 
 Allure thy footsteps down the primrose way. 
 
 Thou hast not basely gathered thrift with fawning. 
 Nor worn a laurel that thou hast not won ; 
 
 But, in thy zenith hour as in thy dawning. 
 The good thy nature willed thy hand has done. 
 
 On thy calm front the waves of trouble, broken. 
 Have backward surged and left thee regnant still : 
 
 Nor tempests of the soul nor griefs unspoken 
 Have e'er had power to shake thy steadfast will. 
 
 Thy glory cannot w^ne, — for were thy singing 
 
 Stilled at its source, through all the domes of fame. 
 
 In one great organ burst, superbly ringing. 
 The whole poetic choir would chant thy name. 
 
308 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Thy soul is music: from its deeps o'erflowing, — 
 With the glad freedom of the wild-bird's wing, 
 
 Where icy gales o'er sunlit seas are blowing, — 
 It sings because divinely born to sing. 
 
 No stain is on thy banner: grandly streaming. 
 Its diamond whiteness leads the tuneful host, 
 
 Porever in the front of honor beaming. 
 And they that know thee best must love thee most. 
 
 So rest: thy regal throne thou hast ascended: 
 The standards blaze, the golden trumpets ring. 
 
 And in one voice our loyal hearts are blended — 
 God bless the Poet and God save the King ! 
 
 THE ORNITHOEHYNCrS CLUB 
 
 There was a notable group of writers and 
 artists in New York, of earlier date than the 
 Pfaff Bohemian coterie, comprising, among its 
 many members (as I heard, for I was not asso- 
 ciated with it) , Francis Henry Temple BeUew, 
 Charles Gayler, WiUiam North, Sol Eytinge, 
 Charles G. Rosenberg, Charles B. Seymour, 
 and Fitz-James O'Brien, all of whom are dead. 
 That society, unlike the Pfaflf coterie, was, after 
 a fortuitous fashion, organized, and it had a 
 
THE ORNITHORHYNCUS 309 
 
 name, — ^the remarkable name of the Ornitho- 
 rhyncus Club. In New Guinea there is a four- 
 footed animal, having a bill like that of a duck, 
 known to the inhabitants of that country as the 
 Mulligong, but, scientifically, designated the 
 Ornithorhyncus paradoxus, or Duck-Billed 
 Platypus. The singular aspect of that quad- 
 ruped had attracted the amused attention of 
 Bellew, an excellent artist; and when, as hap- 
 pened, a German widow, poor, and wishful to 
 retrieve her once opulent fortune, opened a res- 
 taurant, in Spring Street, and wanted a name for 
 it, he suggested that of the eccentric Australasian 
 beast, and merrily persuaded her to adopt it ; and 
 he painted a sign for her, which was hung in 
 front of the house, representing the Ornithorhyn- 
 cus in the act of smoking a pipe, while grasping a 
 glass of foaming beer. At that facetious sign 
 the writers and artists constituting the Ornitho- 
 rhyncus Club habitually met, for the pastime of 
 talking, singing, joking, drinking beer, and 
 smoking church-warden pipes. Many of their 
 songs were composed among themselves, — one, 
 written by O'Brien and sung to an air from the 
 
310 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ever popular " Fra Diavolo," having been an 
 especial favorite. 
 
 CHARLES B. SEYMOUR 
 
 In that group an especially attractive person- 
 ality was that of Charles B. Seymour, with 
 whom, later, I had the good fortune of friendly 
 companionship. Seymour, who was an English- 
 man, — ^born in London, December 13, 1829, — 
 came to America at the age of twenty, estab- 
 lished his residence in New York, and, at first, 
 obtained employment as a teacher. Later he 
 became associated with the editorial staff of 
 " The New York Times," which was started in 
 1850, and when first we met he held the office of 
 musical and dramatic reviewer for that paper, 
 a position that he continued to occupy till his 
 death, on May 18, 1869. Some of the qualifica- 
 tions for such an ofiice are learning, judgment, 
 taste, sensibility, discernment, a kind heart, and 
 the habit of incessant industry. Seymour pos- 
 sessed them, and during a period of fourteen yeats, 
 from 1855 to 1869, he recorded the movement of 
 musical and dramatic art in New York, advocat- 
 
CHARLES B. SEYMOUR 311 
 
 ing right principles, fostering worthy endeavor, 
 recognizing merit, and continuously exerting a 
 good influence, — ^the rather that his learning was 
 tinged with playful humor and his incisive style 
 was felicitous with lightness of touch. Few writ- 
 ers have the equanimity and patience to use the 
 critical faculty in a thoughtful, thorough, con- 
 scientious, impartial manner, and singers and 
 actors are indeed fortunate who find themselves 
 recognized in the press with an intelUgent appre- 
 ciation not less sympathetic and hberal than ac- 
 curate and just. Seymour was not content with 
 appreciating artists for himself; he labored to 
 interpret them to others. That service, fully 
 performed, imparts a measure of permanence to 
 those artistic achievements which, otherwise, are 
 wholly ephemeral. The entranced Kstener to 
 music or the enthralled spectator of acting is 
 usually content with declaring that the one is 
 magnificent or the other superb: the efficient 
 critic must justify his verdict of admiration by 
 exact analysis of the effect that has been pro- 
 duced and of the cause that has produced it, and, 
 in thus declaring the reasons for his judgment, he 
 
312 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 must define and designate the powers of an artist 
 and the method hy which they have been used. 
 That professional obligation Seymour always 
 strove to meet, and therefore his writing was a 
 benefit to his readers. 
 
 But it was not only the talent of Seymour that 
 commended him to the Uldng of those sensitive 
 persons, the singers and the actors, of whom he 
 wrote, and to the esteem of his f eUow-workers in 
 the press. His temperament was sweet and his 
 life was gentle. He was simple and sincere. He 
 took his part in the everyday work of life, and he 
 did his best to make it worthy. Continuity of 
 effort in composition had made him an exception- 
 ally facile writer, so that his pen never halted, 
 and in emergencies he was neither dazed nor per- 
 plexed. His style was clear and terse, and a 
 glow of spontaneous mirth often played along the 
 silver threads of his thought. His writings in 
 the press, — " a great-sized monster of ingrati- 
 tudes," which has, in many countries, devoured 
 the product of many briUiant minds, — are lost 
 and gone. He was a correspondent for " The 
 New York Times " at the Paris Exposition, in 
 
WILLIAM NORTH 313 
 
 1868, where his services as a member of the 
 American Commission were recognized by the 
 presentation to him of a medal from the Emperor 
 of France. One memorial of him, though, re- 
 mains in something like a permanent form — a 
 volume of biography that he wrote, called " Self- 
 Made Men," published in 1858. 
 
 WILLIAM NORTH 
 
 Among my relics there is a letter addressed by 
 Seymour to Frank Bellew, not only containing 
 authentic biographical detail, but conveying a 
 peculiarly sympathetic and winning intimation 
 of the character of its writer: 
 
 158 Nassau Street, N. Y., November 17, 1854 
 Dear Bellew: 
 
 You are long ere this acquainted with the melancholy 
 termination of our poor friend North's career. He left a 
 letter for you, which has been forwarded. Other particulara 
 of the event were published in the " Daily Times " and other 
 papers. The cause of death was love, not poverty. He im- 
 pressed that on me, the night before the catastrophe. I little 
 thought that the threat he uttered then, — as he had done 
 many times before, — ^would so surely be carried into execu- 
 tion. 
 
 It is to me, and wiU be to you, a source of inexpressible 
 
314 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 consolation tliat we, at least, of all his friends, understood 
 appreciated, and loved him to the last. To the time of his 
 death I valued him as a brother, and cannot recall an angry- 
 word that ever passed his lips or mine. Poor fellow; my 
 heart bleeds when I think of his sad, sad end. 
 
 I wish to relieve you on one point where you will, I am 
 sure, experience uneasiness. Everything that propriety and 
 love demanded has been done. The corpse now lies in the 
 vault of Greenwood Cemetery. I have not interred it, be- 
 cause I thought it necessary to write to England, to consult 
 North's relations, before doing so. I ask nothing from them, 
 only the privilege of honoring my poor friend's remains here, 
 if they do not wish them there. 
 
 A great amount of sympathy has been elicited by the event, 
 but I have not permitted it to interfere with my action in 
 the matter. Excepting myself and TJnderhill, there was no 
 other friend here from whom North would have accepted a 
 favor. I have not allowed any one to offend his memory by 
 offering assistance now. Underbill insisted, and he alone 
 participated. 
 
 I have ninety days privilege of the vault. If I do not hear 
 from England in that time, I shall purchase a plot of ground, 
 and suitably mark the spot where lies a man of genius, a 
 gentleman, and a kind, brave, well loved friend. 
 
 With best wishes for your happiness, 
 
 I am, dear Bellew, 
 
 Tours in sorrow, 
 
 C. Seymour. 
 
 More than fifty years have passed since the 
 death of William North. Not widely known in 
 
WILLIAM NORTH 315 
 
 his own time, he is not at all known now: yet his 
 writings, notwithstanding indications of a vision- 
 ary, unstable brain, possess poetical enthusiasm 
 and are a part of literature, while his personal 
 story has a place in literary annals. Under the 
 name of Dudley Mondel, he has, to some extent, 
 sketched himself, in his novel called " The Slave 
 of the Lamp," — existent now, though long out 
 of print, as " The Man of the World." He says 
 that he was born at sea, and that he was educated 
 partly in England and partly in Germany. In 
 boyhood he wrote a novel called " Anti-Con- 
 ingsby," for the purpose of controverting the 
 political views of the then young Disraeli. He 
 came from London to New York when about 
 twenty-five years old, and he wrote industriously 
 for "Graham's Magazine," " Harper's Maga- 
 zine," " The Knickerbocker Magazine," " The 
 Whig Review," and other periodical pubUcations. 
 Among his stories are " The Phantom World," 
 " The Usurer's Gift," " My Ghost," and " The 
 Man That Married His Grandmother." North's 
 fantastic, almost delirious " Slave of the Lamp " 
 is not for a moment comparable with " Treasure 
 
316 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Island," but it contains a remote premonition of 
 that remarkable tale, in its account of a voyage 
 to an auriferous isle, somewhere in the Antarctic 
 zone, on which the adventurous Dudley Mondeh 
 the hero of the novel, and his singularly miscel- 
 laneous companions found much gold, and on 
 which, deep in the crater of a vast conical moun- 
 tain, they discovered a broad lake of quicksilver, 
 into which one of the group fell and was con- 
 verted into a silver statue, reposing on the surface 
 of the lake. 
 
 The woman for hopeless love of whom North 
 committed suicide was, in after years, known to 
 me, and certainly she was beautiful enough to 
 have inspired idolatrous passion in the breast of 
 even a marble monument. The fatal, crazy act 
 was done on the night of November 14, 1854. 
 The unfortunate man drank prussic acid and fell 
 dead, across his bed. Henry Clapp, who knew 
 him well, told me that it was one of North's 
 peculiarities that, in whatever room he chanced to 
 be, at night, he could not bear to have the door 
 stand open, even an inch: yet the door of the room 
 in which he died was found to be standing ajar 
 
SOL, EYTINGE 317 
 
 by persons who, at morning, discovered the 
 corpse. One of the letters that he left has drifted 
 into my possession. It is written in blue ink, and 
 it is, indeed, a ghastly souvenir of a ruined Ufe: 
 
 To F. T. Bellew and Mss. Bellew. 
 
 Dear Friends: — ^May you be happy! Do not regret me. 
 I am not fit for this world. I fly to a better life. I am cahn 
 and brave and hopeful. 
 
 Ever afiectionately and truly, 
 
 W. North. 
 SOL EYTINGE 
 
 'A man of original and deeply interesting char- 
 acter, an artist of exceptional facility, possessed 
 of a fine imagination and great warmth of feel- 
 ing, passed from the world, in the death of my 
 old companion of many years, Sol Eytinge, — an 
 event which befeU on March 26, 1905, at 
 Bayonne, New Jersey. In his prime as a 
 draughtsman he was distinguished for the felicity 
 of his invention, the richness of his humor, and 
 the tenderness of his pathos. He had a keen wit 
 and he was the soul of kindness and mirth. The 
 aggregate of his works is large, but, individually, 
 they are widely scattered. The most appropriate 
 
318 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 pictures that have been made for illustration of 
 the novels of Dickens, — pictures that are truly 
 representative and free from the element of cari- 
 cature, — are those made by Eytinge, and it is 
 remembered that they gained the emphatic ap- 
 proval of the novelist. The portrait of Dickens 
 that is included among the illustrations of this 
 volume was made by Eytinge, and it is the best 
 portrait existent of that great author, — ^because, 
 while faithful to physical lineaments, it conveys 
 expression of the mind and soul. The artist 
 loved, reverenced, and understood the man whose 
 semblance he had undertaken to create. 
 
 A hfe dedicated to " the serene and silent art " 
 is seldom eventful. That of Sol Eytinge was 
 exceptionally tranquil. He was born in Phila- 
 delphia, October 23, 1833, and there was edu- 
 cated. In June 1858 he was married, in Brook- 
 lyn, to Miss Margaret Winship, — ^Rev. Henry 
 Ward Beecher performing the marriage service, 
 and the American humorist Mortimer Thomson, 
 whose pen-name was Q, K. Philander Doesticks, 
 P. B., acting as groomsman; a clever writer and 
 a good fellow, almost or quite forgotten now. 
 
SOL EYTINGE 319 
 
 Sol's circle of artistic companionship, then and 
 in after years, comprised Ehhu Vedder, George 
 H. Boughton, Cass Griswold, Charles Coleman, 
 W. J. Hennessey, William J. Linton, Albert 
 and William Waud, and A. V. S. Anthony, — 
 names that tell their own bright story of fine 
 achievement and honorable distinction. It was a 
 gay company, and many a happy hour do I re- 
 member, of festive communion with it. Many of 
 those old friends have passed away. Vedder and 
 Coleman, veterans now, are dwelling at Capri, 
 in Italy, — ^Vedder in the " Tower of the Four 
 Winds," whereto I waft a greeting, across the 
 world. The grave of Sol Eytinge is in New 
 York Bay Cemetery, Jersey City. His widow, 
 who survives, in serene age, long ago made a 
 name in letters, by reason of her exceptional 
 humor and her expert invention, particularly 
 as a writer for the young, and to think of her 
 is to recall many a convivial occasion that her 
 generous hospitality provided and that her kind- 
 ness and her genial wit enriched. 
 
 The pictures that Eytinge made for embel- 
 lishment of the poet Lowell's "Vision of Sir 
 
320 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Launf al " are especially significant of his sense 
 of romantic atmosphere and his sympathetic per- 
 ception of poetic ideals. He was a man of inde- 
 pendent mind and genial temperament; he was 
 devoted to the ministration of beauty; and his 
 conduct and manners had the charm and sim- 
 plicity of genius. He was very dear to me as a 
 comrade, and so I give myself the pensive pleas- 
 ure of gracing my pages with his name. Over 
 his grave might well be written the lines that Dr. 
 Johnson wrote, of Hogarth: 
 
 The hand of him here torpid lies 
 
 That drew the essential form of grace; 
 
 Here closed in death the attentive eyea 
 That saw the manners in the face. 
 
 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 When I was a youth, dwelKng in Cambridge, 
 I sometimes saw James Russell Lowell and often 
 heard of him, but I did not then possess the honor 
 of an acquaintance with him. At the fireside of 
 Longfellow I heard many kind words about ab- 
 sent friends and contemporary men of letters. 
 Longfellow could be stern in rebuking faults and 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 321 
 
 condemning evil, but a gentle consideration for 
 human weakness was one of the traits of his 
 lovely character, and I observed that when he 
 spoke of the absent he spoke kindly. His allu- 
 sions to LoweU were frequent and affectionate. 
 Having asked me, one evening, if I had ever seen 
 Lowell, he exclaimed: " He is one of the manli- 
 est and noblest men that ever lived! " As he said 
 this he rose and playfuUy imitated Lowell's 
 erect, dauntless bearing and manner. Those 
 words made an indelible impression on my mind, 
 and Lowell has always lived in my memory as 
 he was represented by Longfellow. I did not 
 meet him until long afterward, in 1881, when he 
 held the office of American Minister to the Court 
 of Saint James's. Our meeting occurred at a 
 festival in London. He manifested cordial kind- 
 ness, and then and later he was thoughtful in do- 
 ing courtesies. His appearance had undergone 
 a marked change. He was no longer militant 
 nor enthusiastic. His aspect was that of pensive 
 dignity and intellectual concentration. He was 
 invariably gentle, but he was only momentarily 
 playful. From observation, from slight social 
 
322 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 intercourse with him, and from letters that 
 passed between us, I derived the impression that 
 Lowell was a man who broadened and mellowed 
 through every year of his life, and who was more 
 deeply interesting and lovable in his age than in 
 his youth. He died in 1891, in his seventy-third 
 year. Poets, when personally encountered, often 
 disappoint expectation, but Lowell was not a dis- 
 appointment. Few men have been so generally 
 attractive. He is not often mentioned as a poet, 
 but frequently as an essayist, a moralist, and a 
 reformer. If he had been born and reared in Old 
 instead of New England, if his genius had been 
 developed amid the venerable, imposing antiqui- 
 ties and exquisite rural beauties of that dehcious 
 country and clime, perhaps his poetic voice might 
 have sounded a more alluring, decisive, trium- 
 phant note. Puritanical environment seems to 
 have shaped his destiny, while the critical faculty, 
 that all-devouring monster, seems to have ham- 
 pered his creative impulse, — an experience not 
 uncommon, in an age when everybody writes 
 " criticism." But he was a great intellect, a po- 
 tent moral force, a keen satirist, a critic both com- 
 
DONALD GRANT MITCHELL 323 
 
 prehensive and subtle, while the temperament of 
 genius, combining aspiration and sensibiUty, in- 
 vested him with inherent grace, — a quality which 
 has been well designated as an impression of 
 beauty that cannot be analyzed. 
 
 DONALD GRANT MITCHELL 
 
 I had thought of writing a comprehensive re- 
 view of the field of early American Literature, as 
 an appropriate prelude to my sketches of repre- 
 sentative authors, of my own time, whom I have 
 personally known; but I remembered that this 
 had been thoroughly and admirably done by one 
 who was long our hterary chieftain, the wise and 
 gentle Donald Grant Mitchell, in his book of 
 " American Lands and Letters." It was my 
 privilege to be a reader of Mitchell in early life, 
 and for me his writings have not lost their fascinat- 
 ing charm. I did not meet him till he had sought 
 the chimney nook of age, but for years he honored 
 me with his regard, and I should grieve to lose 
 any opportunity of paying my humble tribute to 
 his memory. Mitchell died, at Edgewood, Decem- 
 ber 15, 1908. His excellent book about American 
 
324 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 writers who flourished during the troubled forma- 
 tive period that extends from the time of Captain 
 John Smith to that of the advent of the poet 
 Bryant is minute without being either laborious 
 or prolix, — embodying the ripe conclusions of 
 thoughtful research, and providing both narra- 
 tive and commentary, in that tranquil, meditative 
 spirit, that clarity of judgment, and that gracious 
 facility of style which come only from large ex- 
 perience, and which are possible only to a master 
 of the literary art. Some of the early American 
 writers were bigots, and their writings are harsh; 
 but of all those writers Mitchell, working with fine 
 intuition and a superlatively hght touch, fur- 
 nished a history that is rich with learning, delicious 
 with gleams of playful humor, and charming with 
 grace. Such antique worthies as Roger Will- 
 iams, Cotton Mather, Jonathan Edwards, Sam- 
 uel Sewall, Timothy Dwight, John Trumbull, 
 and Joel Barlow, described by an annalist who 
 read not only their books but their minds, are 
 made as actual as when once they lived. 
 
 Reading Mitchell is like stroUing through 
 the woods on a breezy summer day, with all its 
 
DONALD GRANT MITCHELL 325 
 
 pleasures of fragrant air, rustling boughs, bird 
 notes, and the soft ripple of unseen brooks. His 
 works fill many volumes, ranging backward over 
 many years, but the earliest of them revealed the 
 soul of the writer, and, except that he mellowed 
 in time, he did not change. That same unity ap- 
 peared in the character of Longfellow, — ^with 
 whom, indeed, Mitchell was mentally and spirit- 
 ually kindred. Readers who truly know the 
 " Reveries of a Bachelor " and " Dream Life " 
 comprehend the author of them, and, loving those 
 books, have learned them by heart. Most per- 
 sons, authors included, neither allow peace to 
 others nor find it themselves. The hirnian being 
 who tranquillizes his fellow creatures is rare. 
 Mitchell, from the first, allured his readers with 
 gentleness and made them calm. Washington 
 Irving spoke of having been drawn toward him 
 by the qualities of head and heart in his writings ; 
 but he did not name them. Perhaps he would 
 have mentioned, first of all, that quality of grace 
 which diffuses peace, — ^that blending of dignity 
 and sweetness which is at once the sign and the 
 allurement of natural distinction. Mitchell never 
 
326 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 stood in front of his subject, to ask attention to 
 himself. Washington Irving had the same char- 
 acteristic, and it was natural that they should be 
 drawn together. In early life Mitchell was much 
 under the influence of that veteran. " Dream 
 Life " was dedicated to Irving, and some of the 
 best glimpses that can be obtained of that revered 
 author are found in Mitchell's written recollec- 
 tions of him. The disciple, however, was not an 
 imitator. Mitchell's papers on " The Squire " 
 and " The Coimtry Church " are as characteristic 
 as anything in " The Sketch Book," but their 
 writer's style is his own. Authors, like actors, 
 run in mental families, and the families are not 
 numerous. Mitchell is of Irving's mental family, 
 and both of them consort with Goldsmith. 
 
 Another of his allurements is the great wealth 
 of feeling implied in his works, and still another 
 is his passionate love of Nature. He did not 
 write many stories, but the ingredients of a 
 superb novel are in the English and Italian epi- 
 sodes of the " Reveries of a Bachelor " ; and 
 surely the pen that could describe the touching 
 incidents of the " Rainy Day at Armagh," in 
 
DONALD GRANT MITCHELL 327 
 
 the " Seven Stories," need not have shrunk from 
 the field of fiction. No novelist has shown a 
 deeper knowledge of youth, a keener sympathy 
 with its sentiments, passions, and aspirations, or 
 a broader capacity to see, as a whole, the relations 
 of human beings through the operation of love, 
 and therewithal the elemental experiences of hu- 
 man life. " Every man's heart," he said, " is a 
 living drama. Every death is a drop scene. 
 Every book that records sentiment or passion is 
 only a faint footlight, to throw a little flicker 
 on the stage." It is the contemplative spirit that 
 speaks, rather than the weaver of fiction, and 
 such a character clearly predicates a career of 
 reticence and works of meditation. Mitchell's 
 writings put much in little, and are addressed to 
 persons who can think. They do not attempt to 
 astonish, to dismay, or " to be knowing in bril- 
 hance." They are simple, soimd, and true, like 
 the heart from which they sprang. They have 
 helped many an earnest soul to bear its burdens 
 with cheerful patience, and that is why they are 
 loved. Yet the Mterary art of them might almost 
 equally well account for their fascination. If 
 
328 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 his theme be only the sound of rain upon the 
 roof, Mitchell endears it by some indefinable 
 magic of touch. The fidelity and the quaintness 
 of Izaak Walton and of White of Selborne live 
 again, in the Edgewood books. In no other 
 treasury can be found such sweet, artless, fra- 
 grant memorials of the early and the late poets, 
 who lived close to Nature and were nestled in her 
 bosom, — ^the Greek and Roman bards of rural 
 life, and such moderns as Burns, Crabbe, Hogg, 
 Shenstone, and Bloomfield. Turning the leaves of 
 " Old Story Tellers," the reader seems to be in 
 personal communion with cherished friends. De 
 Foe, Swift, Goldsmith, Scott, — ^they are not 
 merely names, but are living men: and all that 
 body of literature is illumined with a droU, unob- 
 trusive humor, as companionable as the singing 
 of the kettle on the hob, when the lamps are lit at 
 evening, or as the cheery flame of a wood fire on 
 the broad hearth, before which you sit and dream, 
 when all aroimd is in shadow and all is still. 
 
 Among the letters that Mitchell addressed to 
 me there is one, much prized, that affords a sig- 
 
DONALD G. MITCHELL 
 ("Ik Marvel") 
 
ALBERT HENRY SMYTH 329 
 
 nificant example of the sincerity and simplicity 
 of his large mind: 
 
 My Deae Mr. Winter: 
 
 I cannot .forbear thanking you for the very kindly, — ^tiho' 
 much too flattering way, — ^in which you speak of some of my 
 little books. 
 
 I am all the more grateful since you are one of the very 
 few writers of established reputation who have had the 
 hardihood to speak an honest, undisguised word of approval, 
 — without apologizing to the public for having been decoyed 
 into reading books of sentiment, and without shame-faced 
 allusion to the " callow days " or " green salad " days when 
 such reading was permissible! 
 
 I don't mean to quarrel with any of the good friends who 
 put such condescension in their praises : but I mean to thank 
 you for something quite different — and welcomer! 
 
 I hope you have received a copy of " American Lands and 
 Letters,'' with a slip testifying to the " kindly regard " 
 
 With which I am. 
 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 Don'd G. MlTCHELt. 
 
 Edgewood, April 6, 1897. 
 
 ALBERT HENRY SMYTH 
 
 One of the noblest minds and gentlest spirits 
 I have ever known was Albert Henry Smyth, 
 whose affectionate friendship I had the peculiar 
 
330 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 good fortune to possess during the last sixteen 
 years of his life, — a life which was so auspicious 
 to American Literature, and which was so sud- 
 denly and prematurely ended, while yet he was 
 in the prime of his brilliant and beneficent career. 
 Our first meeting occurred on shipboard, in 1891, 
 — ^in the course of a voyage to that England, so 
 dear to us both and in which we passed many 
 days of happy companionship, — and the kindly 
 regard for each other which then began only 
 grew stronger and deeper with each succeeding 
 year. Smyth was a native of Philadelphia, born 
 on June 18, 1863, and in a suburb of that city he 
 died. May 4, 1907, in the 44th year of his age. 
 The ordinance of death, sooner or later, afficts 
 every heart, but it does not often happen that so 
 many hearts are afilicted as were bereaved by the 
 sudden death of Albert Henry Smyth. He was 
 surroimded with affectionate friends. He was 
 dearly loved. He was in the golden affluence of 
 enjoyment and hope. He had only just com- 
 pleted and published his superb edition of the 
 works of Franklin, together with his Life of that 
 statesman. The echoes of his oratorical triumph 
 
ALBERT HENRY SMYTH 331 
 
 at Paris, where he spoke (April 20, 1906), at 
 the international unveiUng of the statue of the 
 great philosoher, had not died away. He had 
 gained an amaranth of fame ; he was dearly loved ; 
 he was richly honored; and the pathway to yet 
 more splendid achievement in letters and a yet 
 wider circle of friends and ampler wealth of 
 honors seemed opening hefore him, in one long 
 vista of golden promise. His vitality, alike of 
 body and mind, was so extraordinary that no 
 thought of death could be associated with him. 
 He seemed formed to lead battalions of thought 
 and to endure forever. His countenance was 
 the beacon light of hope and joy. He animated 
 every mind with which he came in contact. He 
 dissipated doubts of a glorious future and he 
 dispelled dejection. He was a thorough scholar, 
 and he used his scholarship to cheer the onward 
 march, and not to dispense gloom. He was a 
 natural orator. He possessed a wonderful mem- 
 ory, and it was richly stored with knowledge of 
 the classic hteratiu-e of all lands. He was a rev- 
 erent student of Shakespeare, and he was entirely 
 competent as a Shakespeare scholar: among his 
 
332 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 works there is an admirable book on " Shake- 
 speare's Pericles and ApoUonius of Tyre." He 
 wrote a Life of Bayard Taylor and also a com- 
 prehensive and minute history of the magazines 
 of Philadelphia and of the literary movement in 
 that old city, — which he so much loved and in 
 which he is tenderly remembered and deeply 
 mourned. His ambition was to excel in learning 
 and to augment the excellence of American Liter- 
 ature. He abhorred aU " crank " movements and 
 he denounced all efforts to corrupt the pure 
 stream of literature with the erotic mush that 
 parades itself imder the name of " new thought." 
 He was all that is meant by gentleman. Intellec- 
 tual men find the strife of the world very hard, 
 advocating that which is right, but the best that 
 any intellectual worker can do is to follow in his 
 footsteps. The loss of such a righteous force is 
 unspeakable. His example remains, 
 
 I shall yield to the temptation here to preserve 
 one of his letters, characteristic of the writer, and 
 in itself both instructive and amusing, relative 
 to the Bacon Humbug: 
 
ALBERT HENRY SMYTH 333 
 
 The Aet Club, Philadelphia, February 5, 1902. 
 My Dear Winter: 
 
 This afternoon I lectured, to more than twelve hundred 
 persons, upon Lord Byron, and when I stopped at the Club, 
 jaded from a long day of unceasing labor, I found " The 
 Tribune" awaiting me, with your Shakespeare and Bacon 
 article. 
 
 What singular vitality that wretched hypothesis and fraud 
 seems to have. " The worst is not, as long as we can say 
 this is the worst." I thought we had sounded the lowest 
 depth when Donnelly made his audacious bid for the shekels 
 of the credulous. But Owens went far deeper, and now 
 Gallup — Oh, GaUup has simply gone " out of all whooping." 
 What remains? Will not some one prove that the plays 
 themselves do not exist? that it is aU "a phantasma and a 
 hideous dream"? 
 
 Women and weak minds seem attracted to this mighty 
 inquiry. Delia Bacon died in a mad-house. Mrs. Windle 
 (or Swindle) died in a maison de sante. Mrs. Alaric Watts 
 said she had had an interview with Bacon himself, and 
 he told her that he did write the plays but that the truth 
 would not be known for another year. Is all this an argu- 
 ment for, or against, Vassar, and Smith, and Brjm Mawr? 
 
 What a spanking Francis Bacon would have got from his 
 tutor for talking of Titus An-dron-i-cus, or of " the Ne-me-an 
 lion's nerve " ! And how dismayed his master would have 
 been, at Trinity, upon finding Brutus reading, before 
 Philippi, a book with " the leaf turned down." 
 
 " I was much amused, the other day, at Marston's exquisite 
 exposure of the fraud in the Gallup bi-literal. Mrs. G., you 
 know, found that Bacon had, with infinite pains, tucked 
 away a translation of Homer within the texture of Burton's 
 
334 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 "Anatomy." Strange to say. Bacon shows an intimate 
 knowledge of Pope's translation of the Hiad, and quotes 
 freely and liberally from it, wherever Pope canters off on 
 an independent venture. 
 
 "Shakespeare und kein ende" wrote Goethe; and indeed 
 the steady glow of his great fame attracts strange and feeble 
 insects to it. We have books written to prove that Hamlet 
 was a woman; books to explain Hamlet by the phases of the 
 moon; and I possess a laborious German dissertation upon 
 the identity of the chilblains of the courtier in "Hamlet" 
 with the frozen toe of Thor, in the Teutonic mythology! 
 Tou recall the old verses: 
 
 "With songs on his pontificalibus pinned 
 Next Percy the Great did appear. 
 And Parmer, who twice in a pamphlet had sinned. 
 Brought up the empiricial rear." 
 
 That "empiricial rear" stretches on into vague perspec- 
 tive, attended by Olympian laughter. 
 
 Please prove mathematically that Henry Irving wrote the 
 Sketch Book. It is as easy as to demonstrate that the 
 squares of quadrantal ursois are equal to minus unity. 
 
 It gave me a thrill of pleasure to see your handwriting 
 again. I am very busy and have been taxed to the uttermost. 
 I am homeless, and all my books are stored away in a large 
 warehouse, and I am sufficiently miserable in consequence. 
 It would do me a world of good to see you and to be re- 
 freshed and inspired by a talk with you. When you have 
 a spare moment, will you not write me a brief note and tell 
 me how you are and what is happening in your world. 
 
ALBERT HENRY SMYTH 335 
 
 I called at Edgewood during the Christmas holidays. 
 Mitchell is fairly well, but tired and growing feeble. 
 God bless you and give you health and strengtL 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 Albert H. Smyth. 
 
 Soon after the death of Smyth the following 
 interesting letter about him was addressed to 
 me by the poet Stedman: 
 
 2643 Bhoadwat, May 22, 1907. 
 My Dear Will: 
 
 Since your tribute to Albert H. Smyth appeared, — surpris- 
 ing me so much in every way, except in respect of its beauty 
 and fitness, — I have been trying to write to you. Should 
 have done so at once, except that, lately, I am very loth 
 to add a featherweight to the burden which, at your age 
 and mine, I know grows so heavy, — so heavy for you! And 
 soon I was attacked by a brief illness from which I am just 
 picking up. . . . 
 
 The fine memorial notice of A. H. S. startled me, — as well 
 it might; for I had gone to the Century Club on the after- 
 noon of May 5, expressly in response to a letter received 
 from him, and had written him a careful reply, which must 
 have reached his home on the morning of his death! . . . 
 
 Prof. Smyth, long an occasional correspondent of mine, 
 and one who, in youth, had seemed to care for my advice 
 and regard, must have written me almost his last letter, — 
 perhaps his last, dated May 2. He wrote that Mr. Choate 
 was nominating him for the Century; would I write in his 
 favor, etc. So I went straight to the Club, on Friday, May 3, 
 
336 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 found that Choate liad not yet put him up; sat down and 
 wrote him that I would keep watch, and do what he wished, 
 and everything in my power. 
 
 As Smyth's letter, apparently, came from one in perfect 
 health and hope, you can now imderstand how startled I was 
 by your next da^s announcement and eulogium. 
 
 Yesterday I had another such tragedy, — ^the dark shadow 
 of one, — ^the instant killing of young Prof. Eastman, Boston 
 "Tech," on the Back Bay. He was the pride of his pro- 
 fession, and recently married to a Norwich girl, almost a 
 daughter to me. A sheer, reasonless, cruelty of haphazard! 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman. 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 
 
 On the occasion of a visit to the old and deeply- 
 interesting city of Nottingham, England, in the 
 autumn of 1897, I had the privilege, delightful 
 and ever memorable to me, of a meeting with the 
 poet Philip James Bailey, author of " Festus." 
 That poem is not so widely read in our day as 
 it was, many years ago, when it was first pub- 
 lished; yet it is a great poem; magnificent equally 
 with thought, imagery, and feeUng, vital with 
 splendid audacity, and marvellous with eloquence; 
 and it is the most lucid and potent exposition 
 that has been made, in Enghsh verse, of the min- 
 
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 337 
 
 istry of evil. The first edition of "Festus" 
 appeared in 1847, and it was inunediately re- 
 printed in America. Benjamin B. Muzzey, a 
 Boston publisher, early perceived its value, and, 
 ignoring the rights of the author, sent it forth in 
 several shapes, notably with the honors of fine 
 paper, large type, and illustrations by a favorite 
 artist of that day, Hammat BiUings. " In Am- 
 erica," said the poet, in the course of his conver- 
 sation with me, " my ' Festus ' has passed through 
 thirty editions, while in England it has slowly 
 and painfully toiled through eleven; and from 
 America I have never received a sixpence for it. 
 But I am glad to think that I have many read- 
 ers and friends in that great country." 
 
 Bailey, at that time, was eighty-two years old, 
 but, although a httle infirm, his mind was lumi- 
 nous and vigorous. I found him in a pleasant 
 home, in the street called the Ropewalk, not far 
 from the Castle of Nottingham, and we con- 
 versed in his drawing-room and in his study, and 
 strolled in his garden. He was a man of medium 
 height, of a sturdy figure, of a benign aspect, 
 composed in manner, deUberate in movement, and 
 
338 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 remarkable for his fine gray eyes and thick, 
 bushy gray hair. He spoke in gentle tones, 
 sometimes with humor, invariably with kindness 
 and good nature, and he seemed the embodiment 
 of peace. I have not met a person more serene, 
 more content with fortune, more confident of 
 the future. I had just received from an 
 honored and beloved friend. Miss Ada Rehan, a 
 copy of " Festus," — ^the only one that could 
 be found in the bookshops of Nottingham, the 
 poem being boxmd under the same cover with 
 Butler's "Analogy" and Combe's "Physiol- 
 ogy," and upon the fly-leaf of that book Bailey 
 wrote an inscription for me, copying a few fa- 
 vorite lines from his poem; and at parting he gave 
 me a handful of flowers. 
 
 In answer to an inquiry as to Tennyson, he 
 said: "William and Mary Howitt, many years 
 ago, gave a party, at which we were to meet, and 
 I attended it ; but Tennyson did not come. Some 
 time later Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall invited us, 
 and this time Tennyson came, but I was unable to 
 be present ; and so it happened that we never met. 
 But we have often exchanged letters." On the 
 
PHILIP. JAMES BAILEY 339 
 
 mantelpiece of his drawing-room were two gold- 
 rimmed goblets, to which he directed my atten- 
 tion. " Those glasses," he said, " were once 
 owned by George IV and Queen Caroline." He 
 asked me to inspect his hbrary, — about five hun- 
 dred volumes, — composed largely of pocket edi- 
 tions of the old Roman authors, and bearing 
 marks of continual use. On the library table was 
 a httle folding desk, covered with green cloth, and, 
 sitting before it, in the poet's chair, I was hon- 
 ored with a sight of a singular and precious man- 
 uscript that he had made, being a key to " Fes- 
 tus " : in shape a semifcircle, the Knes radiating 
 from centre to circumference, the celestial, inter- 
 mediary, astral, and terrestrial scenes being dis- 
 tinguished by red, blue, and black ink; the whole 
 showing the unity and harmony of his design. 
 " My ' Festus,' " he said, " has too often been 
 viewed as a disconnected and fragmentary work. 
 It is, in fact, the blended result of one clear pur- 
 pose." 
 
 After the death of his wife, in 1896, the poet 
 dwelt in retirement. No mention was made of 
 him during the Diamond Jubilee and no mark of 
 
340 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 honor was conferred on him, — a singular omis- 
 sion, remembering his great achievement and ex- 
 ceptional worth. There are many impressive 
 objects in Nottingham and its neighborhood: 
 the birthplace of the poet Henry Kirke White; 
 the caves beneath the castle, that are associated 
 with the tragic story of Mortimer, Queen Isa- 
 bella, and Bang Edward III; the spot where 
 Charles I unfurled his standard for the fatal war 
 with the Parliament of England; the treasures 
 and the wonders of Welbec; the glories of Sher- 
 wood Forest; the silver cup from which King 
 Charles took the sacrament, on the morning of 
 the day when he was slain; the mournful reUcs 
 of Byron, at Newstead Abbey, and the tomb in 
 which his ashes repose, in the old, towered church 
 of HucknaU-Torkard: but I saw there nothing 
 more significant of intellectual greatness and the 
 mutabiKty of fame than the lonely, almost for- 
 gotten poet, Philip James Bailey. 
 
 The house, in Nottingham, in which Bailey 
 was born, — a four-story brick building situated 
 at Weekday Cross, — was demolished, in 1895, to 
 make way for a railroad. Incidentally, as to the 
 
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 341 
 
 domestic habits of the veteran author, a comic 
 fact was mentioned to me by his nephew, George 
 H. Wallis, Esq., an eminent scholar and a gra- 
 cious gentleman, curator of the fine museum at 
 Nottingham. We had been speaking of the 
 hardy constitution of the poet, unimpaired even 
 at his great age. " What do you think he has, 
 for his midnight supper? " asked my friendly 
 acquaintance. " You could never guess. Hot 
 Scotch whisky and cold suet pudding! " 
 
 At this distance of time since the first publica- 
 tion of " Festus," and considering all, of hterary 
 import, that has come and gone, in the interim, 
 readers can scarcely be expected to realize the 
 extraordinary eflFect that was caused by that 
 book, at the outset of its career in America in its 
 stimulative impulse toward the reading of poetry. 
 Whether because of its semi-sacred character, or 
 its massive, diversified stature, or its happy blend- 
 ing of epical with dramatic form, or its fancied 
 resemblance to Goethe's great poem of " Faust," 
 — ^then much in vogue, — or for whatever other 
 reason, everybody who read anything read " Fes- 
 tus," and in all literary circles it was long the 
 
342 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 theme of interested discussion. Perhaps the pub- 
 lic of sixty years ago was a more thoughtful 
 public than that of to-day: it certainly was more 
 tranquil, and there are observers who venture to 
 believe that the authors prominent in that period 
 made a nobler display than is made by the au- 
 thors prominent now. " Festus " helped its age 
 in many ways — ^in no way more than by satisfying 
 and reinforcing the love of good hterature, foster- 
 ing romantic taste, and inculcating faith and 
 hope: 
 
 Evil and good are God's Tight hand and left. 
 
 By ministry of evil good is clear. 
 
 And by temptation virtue . . . 
 
 Earth is the floor of Heaven; in all we see 
 
 The great world-worker, the eternal Lord . . . 
 
 All ages are His children. 
 
 Philip James Bailey died, at Nottingham, 
 September 6, 1902, aged eighty-six years. These 
 words of his may fitly close this frail memorial: 
 
 Death is another life. We bow our heads 
 At going out, we think, and enter straight 
 Another golden chamber of the King's, 
 Larger than this we leave, and lovelier. 
 

 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 ^^^^^kTl^j^llml^^^^M 
 
 H 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^^^^^^v 
 
 : ^. .^ . / 
 
 J 
 
 
 
 IH 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 ^^^K^g 
 
 1^1 .^^^1 
 
 . , --v;g^_^^B 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 
 
 ^'Om the Bust in the Nottingham Art Museum 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 LONGFELLOW 
 
 At the time of Longfellow's death, in 1882, it 
 was my privilege to offer, in the press, a humble 
 tribute to his memory, and it chanced that I was 
 gratified with many letters, all of them sympa- 
 thetic and tender, relative to the loss of that great 
 poet and noble person. A few of those letters, 
 lovely in spirit and valuable as well for what they 
 suggest as for what they contain, I can, after the 
 lapse of more than a quarter of a century, vent- 
 ure to print, knowing that they will be wel- 
 comed and prized by lovers of Longfellow's writ- 
 ings, and that generous minds will not censure 
 me for including words of personal commenda- 
 tion. It is gratitude, not vanity, that cherishes 
 the approbation of genius and virtue. 
 
 32 Pabk Avenue, N. T., March 3, '82, 
 My Deae Winter: 
 
 Tour article on Longfellow, in this morning's " Tribune," 
 is so excellent that it paralyzed a little attempt of mine which 
 
 845 
 
346 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Dr. Adler asked me to write for his Memorial Service next 
 Sunday. I wish your heautiful, touching, and appreciative 
 notice could have been delivered in a church. A certain air 
 of what I may call " sacredness " is around all your recorded 
 memories, and therefore I think they should have been spoken 
 on a Sunday. You know that I have long been an admirer 
 of your prose style, and certainly no nobler specimen of it 
 can be found than in your last article. The first portions 
 were so good that I began to be critical. I said " Winter can't 
 go on in this way through two columns without slipping into 
 some specimens of bad taste." But, my dear fellow, you 
 never slipped, in a single sentence, a single phrase, a single 
 word. How rejoiced I was as I came to the fine conclusion! 
 In haste. 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 E. P. Whipple. 
 
 Brook;lyn, April 14, 1882. 
 My Dear Mr. Winter : 
 
 Thanks for your kind letter — although it was a long time 
 coming it was none the less welcome — and the Easter cards, 
 which were very pretty — and the article and poem on Long- 
 fellow. I think the "Memoir" one of the best things you 
 have done. I cried as I read, and think you must have cried 
 as you wrote it. The poem I have hidden away with my few 
 treasures, among which are several letters from Longfellow. 
 I think it exquisitely pathetic. How proud and happy the 
 good man of whom you wrote would have been could he have 
 seen what sweet, kind things you have said of him. I spent 
 a morning with him, at his request, just about four weeks 
 before his death, and it was one of the happiest mornings of 
 my life. I can see him yet so plainly as he stood at the 
 
LONGFELLOW 347 
 
 window (he was too ill to hand me to the carriage as he had 
 always done), smiling and kissing his hand till a turn in the 
 road hid him. The new fallen snow and the bright sunlight 
 made him look radiant as he stood there. He had just re- 
 ceived from Cross the inkstand of Tom Moore, which pleased 
 him very much. He spoke of your Trip to England. Try 
 and come to see me this week, and I will tell you all about 
 him then. — ^Don't forget. 
 
 Tour friend, as ever. 
 
 Mart Anderson. 
 
 West New Brighton. 
 Staten Island, March 29, 1882. 
 Mt Dear Winter: 
 
 My heart responds to your sorrowful note. I knew that 
 Longfellow was very frail, but I was not ready for the sudden 
 end. Tortunately I was able to go over on Saturday evening 
 and stand by his coffin as the lid was closed forever. His face 
 was perfectly peaceful, and the right arm was laid across his 
 breast. It was in the large library in which I saw him liv- 
 ing, for the last time, on the 1st of last July. No man living 
 was so widely loved, no author was ever so personally lamented. 
 How spotless his life! How pure and sweet his character! 
 The most famous of Americans, and wholly free from envy, 
 malice, and all uncharitableness. 
 
 If I were at home on Sunday I should ask you to come up. 
 But I am not. Almost any evening but Tuesday and Sunday 
 I am at home and generally by day. But you are a bird of 
 night. 
 
 I do not forget that it was at Longfellow's we met, and our 
 mutual regard has the benediction of his gracious memory. 
 
348 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 The fathers are departing. I saw Emerson stand by the 
 coffin and look at the dead face. But, in his broken state, the 
 dead seemed happier than the living. 
 Yours always, 
 
 George Willum Curtis. 
 
 Boston, April 1, 1882. 
 My Dear Mr. Winter: 
 
 I thank you most warmly for your kind and feeling nota 
 Although for the last few years I have seen comparatively 
 little of Longfellow, he was always a living presence with me, 
 and I have always been hoping that he might yet be able to 
 be with us at the social gatherings where he was often pres- 
 ent and always desired. What a beautiful memory he leaves ! 
 All speak in the same way of him, — so gracious, so gentle, so 
 altogether lovely in his intercourse with young and old. A 
 boy of twelve years old, — a stranger, one of the little army 
 of autograph collectors, — came in just now and is staring 
 round my library as I write. He went a fortnight ago to see 
 Longfellow, who treated him with ^reat kindness, and not 
 only wrote him and his three companions their autograph, but 
 gave them each a piece of cake, as if they had been his own 
 grandchildren. Now, remembering how those visitors must 
 have swarmed about and settled upon him, nothing shows 
 more sweetly the loving-kindness of the dear Poet. 
 
 I have just received a very tender letter from Whittier, who 
 is deeply affected by the loss which saddens us all. For my- 
 self I can truly say that the world is darker for me than 
 before, and life more lonely. Yet I am so pressed upon by 
 my daily duties, and often so fatigued by the burdens which 
 are laid upon me, that I find fault with myself for wanting 
 the vacant hour in which to mourn over our irreparable loss. 
 
LONGFELLOW 349 
 
 This winter Las been a very hard-working one for me, and 
 yet little has been accomplished in it beyond my routine 
 duties. But I find that, at seventy-two years, the thirty-two 
 high stairs at the College are harder to climb than they were 
 at half that age, when I began climbing them. My hundred 
 lectures tire me more than they did. Add to this a corre- 
 spondence which I hardly know what to do with, and you will 
 understand that I can hardly indulge much in the train of 
 saddening remembrances which gather round me with each 
 year, and of which this last sorrow, though not wholly unpre- 
 pared for it, is one of the deepest and most lasting. 
 
 I have read your article as well as your letter. Both over- 
 flow with the tender sensibilities which belong to your deli- 
 cate and impressionable nature: your warm heart will com- 
 prehend what I mean. 
 
 With kindest remembrances I am. 
 
 Very sincerely yourg, 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 23 Monroe Place, Beooklyn, N. Y., April 3, 1882. 
 
 Dear Mr. Winter: 
 
 I write to thank you for your most interesting " Tribune " 
 letter and tender poem in memory of Longfellow. 
 
 The poem I have just mailed to Mr. Whittier. 
 
 It was only for the last few years of his life that I had the 
 pleasure of knowing Mr. Longfellow personally, but that ac- 
 quaintance enables me to understand and appreciate all you 
 say of him. 
 
 In February he wrote me of his feebleness as if it were but 
 temporary; and this gave me such hope and cheer about him 
 that I was quite unprepared to hear of his death. 
 
350 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 I thank you again for your letter and poem, which I have 
 read, as will so many others, with sympathetic tears. 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Edna Dean Peoctoe. 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD 
 
 Among the many letters that Longfellow 
 kindly sent to me there is one that I shaU venture 
 here to print, because of its reference to the 
 poems of my dear old comrade George Arnold, 
 who died in 1865, at the age of thirty-one. Those 
 poems were collected and published by me, with 
 a memoir of the author. 
 
 Nahant, July 23, 1866. 
 My Dear Me. Winter: 
 
 Accept my thanks for the copy of Arnold's Poems, which 
 you were so kind as to send me, and which I have read with 
 great interest and pleasure. He was a true poet; and I do 
 not think that you have overstated his merits in your Intro- 
 ductory Sketch, which is a graceful tribute to your friend. 
 
 I am glad to learn from your note that you are coming in 
 this direction, and I hope you will find time to run down to 
 Nahant, where you will be very welcome. Last smnmer you 
 did not come, though you half -promised me to do so. Pray 
 do not fail this year, as it is a long while since I had the 
 pleasure of seeing you. 
 
 With great regard. 
 
 Tours truly, 
 
 Heney W. Longfellow. 
 
SELECTED LETTERS OF T. B. ALDRICH 
 In the sympathetic yet eminently judicious 
 hfe of Cowley that was written, after the death 
 of that remarkable poet, by his affectionate 
 friend Thomas Sprat, Bishop of Rochester, there 
 is a significant admonitory passage : 
 
 " Letters that pass between particular 
 friends" (so wrote the Bishop), "if they are 
 written as they ought to be, can scarce ever be fit 
 to see the light. They should not consist of ful- 
 some compliments, or tedious polities, or elabo- 
 rate elegancies, or general fancies; but they 
 should have a native clearness and shortness, a 
 domestical plainness, and a peculiar kind of fa- 
 miliarity, which can only affect the humor of 
 those to whom they were intended. The very 
 same passages which make writings of this nat- 
 ure delightful amongst friends will lose all man- 
 ner of taste when they come to be read by those 
 that are indifferent. In such letters the souls of 
 men should appear undressed, and in that negli- 
 
 351 
 
352 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 gent habit they may be fit to be seen by one or 
 two in a chamber, but not to go abroad into the 
 streets." 
 
 The law as to the use of private letters could 
 not be better formulated; yet there are occa- 
 sions when, rightly and beneficially, it can be 
 relaxed. Literature would be much impover- 
 ished, for example, lacking the famihar letters 
 of Thomas Gray, William Cowper, and Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott. It has happened to me, in the course 
 of a long life, to receive many letters from many 
 interesting persons, — some of them the " heirs of 
 fame." That fine poet the late Thomas Bailey 
 Aldrich was an intimate friend of mine during 
 the greater part of his hfe. We first met in 
 1855, and from that time till his death, March 
 19, 1907, our cordial friendship remained un- 
 broken. We had maintained an active corre- 
 spondence for several months before we became 
 personally acquainted, — ^he being then resident 
 in New York and I in Cambridge, Mass. Al- 
 drich was an exceedingly interesting person in 
 his youth, and he retained his youthful spirit and 
 personal charm till the end of his days. Some 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 353 
 
 of my lamented comrade's letters, addressed to 
 me long ago, — before experience, care, and the 
 reserve that comes with years had, in any de- 
 gree, checked his enthusiasm, — show such a gen- 
 tle, affectionate nature, and reveal their writer 
 in such a charming light, that I need not hesi- 
 tate, now that the grave has closed over him, to 
 make them known, at least in part. They de- 
 note him truly, depicting him in words that 
 came direct from his heart, and that never till 
 now have been seen by any eyes but mine. They 
 accomplish a portrait of the poet as he was in 
 his ingenuous boyhood, — a portrait which ob- 
 servers of character and students of hterature, 
 appreciative of the fine achievement of his ma- 
 ture genius, are likely to welcome, since, per- 
 haps, it suggests additional reason why his mem- 
 ory should be cherished. A few of them, in- 
 deed, may seem too much charged with romantic 
 affection for his correspondent; nevertheless, be- 
 cause they show the generosity of his nature, the 
 beauty of his character, and the variety of his 
 mind, they shall be given without modification, 
 and in the belief that the disclosure of them 
 
354 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 will be ascribed to the right motive, and not to 
 vanity. 
 
 In the midsummer of 1855 Aldrich was con- 
 valescent after a serious illness, and on July 9 he 
 wrote: 
 
 How sweet is the letter that comes to a sick-room, fresh 
 from the hand of a very dear though unseen friend! And 
 how sweet it is, when one is just convalescent enough to sit 
 before a comfortable writing desk and languidly hang 
 thoughts, like a week's washing (pardon the homely com- 
 parison), upon a line, to watch " the swell mob of char- 
 acters," as Tom Hood says, creep gradually over the page! 
 This pleasure is mine now, dear Winter, and a sort of 
 dreamy joy comes over me, when I think how very soon 
 your eyes will run over these Hues, — ahnost following the 
 point of my pen. 
 
 How odd that I have never seen you! How strange that 
 we have looked into each other's hearts, and never touched 
 a hand or exchanged a glance! If we should never meet, I 
 shall always think of you as one of the delicious phantoms 
 which have, before now, flitted through the heaven of my 
 fancy, leaving me only a dim conjecture of what it might 
 have been. I cannot see you; but I can send you my mind, 
 the better part of me, which cannot be taken away. This 
 invisible God in us, — ^this living, eternal mind, — is an awful 
 boon. My brain is so heavy that it won't think, but mj] 
 heart iMnks, instead, and if there was ever a letter written 
 from the soul this is one, — so don't read it carelessly. . ., 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 355 
 
 The rest of the letter relates to personal ex- 
 perience, essentially private. The letter that fol- 
 lows is here given because it enables me to place 
 a white rose of honor and constant affection on 
 the grave of a forgotten poet — ^Albert Laighton, 
 of Portsmouth. 
 
 New York, July 17, 1855. 
 My Dear Friend: 
 
 ToTir last was read with peculiar pleasure. I am growing 
 to love your letters and yourself very much. Will Winter 
 has become a fixture in my stock of pleasant thoughts, and 
 I look forward with perfect joy to the time when I shall 
 grasp his hand and hear his voice. It is something more 
 than mere curiosity. It is affection and respect which make 
 me wish to meet him. 
 
 And you, dear Winter, have excited more than a common 
 interest in the bosom of one I love almost as well as life; 
 nay, better, for I would lay down mine to save his. He writes 
 very tender, beautiful verse. ... I enclose a notice which 
 I wrote some time since of his poetry. . . . Observe the 
 beauty in " Joe " and the pathos running through " The 
 Tress of Hair." I sent him one of your early letters to read 
 (he resides in Portsmouth), and, to show in what light he 
 holds you, I will use his own words : 
 
 I read his letter with much pleasure ; in fact I read it three times 
 over, and after every reading I wanted William Winter close beside 
 me, that I might give him a cordial grasp of the hand and say " God 
 bless you and godspeed you in your divine calling ! " I should say 
 of him thus : he has a noble, generous, self-sacrificing spirit ; a gen- 
 tle, trusting, child-like soul. His soul has " imbibed more shade 
 
356 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 than sun." He has a strong desire for friends, and, in his own sim- 
 ple, comprehensive language, " what he loves he loves very dearly." 
 Do I misjudge or overrate him ? 
 
 And I wrote to my friend: "No, you neither misjudge 
 nor overrate him. William Winter is very noble and good, 
 I am sure, and more worthy of your friendship, in a hundred 
 ways, than I am." 
 
 Albert Laighton, — ^whom afterward I met, on 
 the occasion of a visit to the quaint, picturesque, 
 interesting city of Portsmouth, and who became 
 a close friend and a correspondent of mine, — 
 was a native of that place, born in 1829. He 
 passed his hfe in Portsmouth, dying there on 
 February 7, 1887, aged fifty-eight. He was a 
 man of sweet and placid temperament, simple 
 and dignified in manner, self-contained and un- 
 obtrusive in character, — one of the gentlest and 
 best of human beings. He was beloved by all 
 who knew him well, and even those persons who 
 saw him only once imbibed a deep and lasting 
 impression of his innate nobiUty. His name was 
 seldom seen in print, and his writings are, prac- 
 tically, unknown. He was a poet of the affec- 
 tions. His poems are marked by simplicity, 
 grace, fancy, tender feeling, earnest religious 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 357 
 
 sentiment, and melodious versification. A col- 
 lection of them was published in Boston, in 1859. 
 The principal poem, written in the heroic meas- 
 ure, was dehvered, by its author, before the 
 United Literary Societies of Bowdoin College, 
 on August 3, 1858, The book contains forty-nine 
 other pieces, among the most characteristic of 
 which are "The Missing Ships," "To My 
 Soul," " Found Dead," " Joe," " The Tress of 
 Hair," and " The Song of the Skaters." 
 
 Laighton was not the bearer of a great poet- 
 ical message, but he sang sweetly of love, con- 
 fident faith, and resignation; as a verbal artist 
 he was felicitous in phrase; he used rich colors 
 with dainty skill; and his style possesses the 
 merit of simplicity. That sympathetic critic the 
 venerable Andrew P. Peabody, D.D., writing in 
 " The North American Review," of which he was 
 the editor, in 1859, said of Laighton's poems: 
 " They are the unforced, inevitable overflow of a 
 true poetic nature, in harmony with all things 
 beautiful; they are smooth and harmonious in 
 rhythm; choice and polished, yet without con- 
 ceit or mannerism, in diction; rich and glowing 
 
358 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 in imagery; and lofty, while unexaggerated, in 
 sentiment." 
 
 During his last days Laighton suffered much, 
 but a long agony was endured by him with the 
 silent, gentle patience which is ever the denote- 
 ment of a manly character. Citation of a brief 
 passage, representative of his poetic quality, wiU 
 not, perhaps, be deemed inappropriate. These 
 lines depict the midnight sky in winter: 
 
 Go, lift to heaven, at night, thy wondering eyes. 
 
 And read the starry language of the skies! 
 
 See Cassiopeia in her regal chair. 
 
 The golden trail of Berenice's hair; 
 
 The Northern Crown, whose jewels far outshine 
 
 All earthly gems and gleam with light divine; 
 
 The Pleiades and Lyra's shining strings; 
 
 The Silver Swan, the Dove with outspread wings; 
 
 The Twins, that tread their path with one desire. 
 
 The Great Orion with his helt of fire ! 
 
 Or turn from these and watch the Northern Lights 
 
 With jewelled feet ascend the heavenly heights; 
 
 While with fantastic shapes they haunt the brain; — 
 
 A sky of amber streaked with silver rain; 
 
 A blaze of glory, heaven's resplendent fires; 
 
 A Temple, gleaming, with a thousand spires; 
 
 A sea of light that laves a shore of stars; 
 
 The gates of heaven; swift-rolling, fiery cars; 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 359 
 
 'A golden pulse, quick beating througli the night; 
 Contending armies, mailed in armor bright; 
 A gauzy curtain, drawn by unseen hands. 
 Night's gorgeous drapery looped with starry bands; 
 Vast, burning cities that lie far away; 
 Blushes on Nature's face — ^pale ghosts of day; 
 A boundless prairie swept by phantom fire; 
 The vibrant strings of some gigantic lyre; 
 Emblazoned chariots ever skyward driven; 
 God's finger writing in the book of heaven; 
 The flaming banner of the North unfurled, — 
 The mystery that dares a boasting world! 
 
 New York, July 25, 1855. 
 My Kind and Dear Friend: 
 
 Tour letter, with its autobiographical touches at the end, 
 was deeply interesting, and you know, or ought to know, 
 that I thank you sincerely for the pleasure your generous 
 paper gives me. Tou have a way of saying a great deal in 
 a very few simple words, — a condensed style, so suggestive 
 and euphonious to read, and yet so difficult to attain ! Then 
 there is such a heart of kindness in your paragraphs, so 
 noble and strong, that I can feel it, unseen, throbbing against 
 my own. I think we shall be even better friends than now, 
 when we meet. Our tastes, in very many things, are alike, 
 for often, under the cloak of quaint words, I have found 
 the pulses of your thought to agree with mine. 
 
 You wish to make an " apology " for certain bits of truth 
 which you gave me, in your critique of " The Bells." I shall 
 not admit of it, for your strictures were just, and it is not 
 
360 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 your better sense, but your friendship, that would take them 
 back. Love, affection, or gratitude make poor critics. 
 
 I do not know what to say about your making extracts 
 from my poor letters to send to Mr. Longfellow. The deep 
 and growing love I bear him and the earnest words with 
 which I told you of it I never meant for Ms eyes, only yours, 
 dear WiU. But please do not neglect to send me the prom- 
 ised MS. . , . 
 
 It gives me pleasure to know that you think kindly of 
 Albert Laighton. He is modest and noble. I have been inti- 
 mate with him several years, and have not found a grain of 
 dross in his nature. His heart was stamped in God's own 
 mint. Heaven. I make all my friends love each other. 
 
 The period of these letters was opulent in lit- 
 erary harvest. James T. Fields had devised a 
 particularly neat, modest, pleasing style of 
 brown cloth binding for the books that were pub- 
 lished by the famous house of Ticknor & Fields, 
 and volumes of special value, — ^by Motherwell, 
 Alexander Smith, Tennyson, Longfellow, 
 " Barry Cornwall," Henry Giles, E. P. Whip- 
 ple, De Quincey, Mrs. Howe, and other impor- 
 tant writers, — ^were pouring from the press, to 
 be eagerly welcomed and greedily devoured. 
 The letter that follows will indicate the active 
 interest that Aldrich felt in that teeming time 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 361 
 
 of literary activity, and will illustrate the critical 
 bent of his mind in youth. The first allusion is 
 to Longfellow's " Courtship of Miles Standish," 
 which was pubUshed in association with a con- 
 siderable number of lyrics. 
 
 August 15, 1855. 
 . . . Tte announcement of a new volume by Longfellow 
 does not create such a furor as might have been expected; 
 nevertheless his poem will be everything that lofty genius, 
 learning, and a quiet soul, like his, can make it. . . . It 
 is a pleasure to quote his poetry; to tell the world, in prose 
 ever so humble, that it warms the heart like a dream of 
 heaven. "My Lost Youth" is exquisite, — one of those sub- 
 dued twilight poems which he knows so well how to write. 
 The critical objection to his " long, long thoughts " is very 
 " far fetched " : but then, dogs will bark at the moon. . . . 
 
 Some of the extracts from " Maud " I do not like, — ^because 
 the measure is, unfortunately, long. The verses beginning 
 " Come into the garden " and those beginning " Still on the 
 tower stood the vane " are Tennyson himself. Thoughts, to 
 him, must come in swarms. I worship his books. There is 
 one little song of his that haunts me. You know it and have 
 admired it as much as I : " It is the Miller's Daughter." Is 
 not that poem perfect? 
 
 I hope Bailey's "Mystic" will not be mystical in reality, 
 as his writings are very apt to be. " Festus " has embalmed 
 his name. He never can be forgotten while beautiful, pas- 
 sionate poetry has a lover. He is sometimes obscure, and, 
 to my mind. Obscurity is no attribute of Poetry. There are 
 many verses famous among men of letters (I do not refer to 
 
362 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Bailey's particularly) which, to the mere matter-of-fact 
 reader, seem downright dulness; yet an indescribable beauty 
 runs through them, that cannot be analyzed; it can only be 
 felt. Such verses I am not slow to love and praise; but many 
 of Bailey's lines have to be turned, and fingered, and taken 
 apart, like a Chinese puzzle, to get at their meaning; and 
 then, like the puzzle, they are not worth the trouble. This, 
 I think, is a serious fault, and too general among our noblest 
 poets. . . . 
 
 You will think I have grown immensely critical, " all of a 
 sudden," for I have never ventured to give you so much 
 criticism before. I have been re-reading the critiques that 
 you so kindly sent to me, and think you will be a great critic, 
 one of these days. You look into a thing with much judg- 
 ment and "sum up the case " like a lawyer. . . . You speak 
 of giving me another review. If you do I shall read it with 
 joy and gratitude : but let me advise you not to permit your 
 fuU, warm heart to throb in your eyes and blind you to my 
 rhythmic faults. You have received, before this, a copy of 
 " Babie BeU " : it is one I have revised and corrected. Babie 
 has been a very fortunate child. . . . 
 
 Prentice's most poetical poem is in the Knickerbocker 
 Gallery, one of the finest books ever published and a rare 
 tribute to Louis Gaylord Clarke, editor of " The Knicker- 
 bocker Magazine" (who has treated me kindly). . . . 
 
 You were not wrong in your idea of Griswold's " Poets." 
 It is a poor affair. Half of the poetry ( ?) would have been 
 rejected by a country editor, and the biographical notices are 
 weak. I frequently meet him. He says he has a new volume 
 of "Poets" in contemplation. May their shadows never be 
 less! . . . 
 
 Tennyson is a King of simplicity and beauty. I read his 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 363 
 
 "Two Voices" every other day. "The Princess" is a mas- 
 terpiece. The man that fails to appreciate it must have very 
 little soul. . . . 
 
 "The bard" in my book is meant for Gerald Massey. I 
 have some of his poems, in his MS. His ballad of " Babe 
 Cristabel" is wild, and full of Keats-like imagery. . . . 
 
 The wind that comes in at my open window brings the 
 tones of the neighboring clock that has just sounded one. I 
 must stand a few minutes at the window, to look at the camp- 
 ground of the angels, with their starry watch-fires burning, 
 and then — " to sleep, to sleep— perchance to dream." Good- 
 night, my dear friend. 
 
 • • ■• • '•' 
 
 It will be rightly inferred, from the words 
 which follow, that their writer had not yet out- 
 hved the time of hero-worship and romantic en- 
 thusiasm, but even a cynic may be pleased to be 
 reminded that there is such a time, and that the 
 passage through it is not the worst of human 
 experience. 
 
 Writing to me, on September 30, 1855, Al- 
 drich said: 
 
 To exchange words with one who gives gold for dross and 
 pearls for pebble-stones is a pleasure; to examine those 
 thoughts and to measure my correspondent's pulses with my 
 own is a study, in his acceptance who loves to watch the 
 different phases of different lives. . . . 
 
 I must thank you for the MS. and the message which ac- 
 
364 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 companied it. When you write to Mr. Longfellow, say that 
 I am grateful for his kindness and that the few lines he sent 
 are dearer to me than fine gold. I have been re-reading your 
 pen portrait of him — a beautiful and finished picture. No 
 photograph could have given me his features more admir- 
 ably. A fine engraving of him hangs before me, surrounded 
 with those of Willis, Bryant, Morris, Holmes, and Titz- 
 Greene Halleck — who, by the way, says that there is not a 
 line in " Babie Bell " which he could alter, and other things 
 particularly pleasing to me. His kind words were not 
 written to me, however, but in a note to Mr. Cozzens, of 
 "Putnam's Monthly." 
 
 Last Thursday evening I attended the dinner given by 
 New York Publishers to American Authors. It is well 
 enough for them to give the poor dreamy devils something 
 to eat, now and then. Authors, before now, have been hun- 
 gry enough to eat poison. . . . The speeches, as a general 
 thing, were dull. ... It was a glorious sight, and I wished 
 a hundred times that W. W. was with me. . . . 
 
 Remember me to Mr. Haskell, kindly. [The reference is 
 to Daniel N. Haskell, at that time editor of " The Boston 
 Transcript."] Most men have an anatomical arrangement 
 called a heart, which is supposed to be located in the breast. 
 I say supposed to be; for, as they seldom show any, its ex- 
 istence is merely a supposition. But Mr. HaskeU's heart, I 
 am inclined to think, beats in every vein. 
 
 In his early letters to me Aldrich frequently 
 refers to Longfellow, and he discloses, amply 
 and tenderly, a trend of thought and feeling that 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 365 
 
 he never ceased to follow. Thus, on October 27, 
 1855, he wrote: 
 
 I have a thousand things to tell you which I cannot write 
 to my satisfaction, for pen and ink are poor substitutes for 
 lips. There is something in a voice which gives vitality 
 and passion to words; and oftentimes, when I hang over the 
 fine trembles of a line which some dead poet has left to the 
 world, I could weep to think of the dead voice. Why could 
 he not have left us that? I never read Longfellow, but I 
 long to catch the modulation of his voice, and I break one 
 of the Ten Commandments by envying my friend Winter, 
 whose privilege it is to write to him and speak to him. 
 
 In a letter dated November 28, 1855, he wrote: 
 
 Have I ever spoken to you of Miss Alice Cary? I spent 
 last evening with her, and had a cosy talk about books, — 
 she and I alone. She is so beautiful, and simple, and good 
 that I love her. She has written some beautiful poetry. I 
 place her at the very head of American female poets. . . . 
 
 I once saw Mr. Longfellow, in Ticknor's book-store. It 
 was a long time ago ; about the time the " Golden Legend " 
 was published. He was speaking, I think, with Fields, and 
 I did not know who he was until he had left the place. 
 Angels sometimes stand beside us, and we know them 
 not. . . . 
 
 " Daisjr's Necklace " will be bound, in a week or so. Tou 
 shall have an early copy. What do you think of "Dred"? 
 How tame it seems beside Eeade's " Susan Merton " ! I 
 think that novel is one of the noblest I ever read. The 
 prison-scene is beyond anything Dickens has done, in the 
 
366 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 same line. What wonderful vitality and sense of nature 
 run through Eeade's prose! 
 
 In after years Aldrich acquired, — as most men 
 do, — ^the " wordly wisdom," as it is called, which 
 restrains sentiment and cools enthusiasm; but 
 his feelings were not less deep because less freely 
 expressed. Pages could be filled with extracts 
 from his " wise " letters. Selection, however, 
 continues to be attended with embarrassment, 
 because scarcely one letter among hundreds can 
 be found that does not contain words of personal 
 commendation. Soon after our first meeting, 
 which occurred in the autumn of 1855, he wrote: 
 
 I was overjoyed to meet you, but a variety of other causes 
 worked upon me and made me not myself. My meeting with 
 you has not broken a link of my love for you. You are 
 older looking than I had pictured you, and a trifle more 
 thoughtful. 
 
 The letters thus far given show the sweet, in- 
 genuous nature of the poet, as he was in his enthu- 
 siastic youth. The selections that follow, — after a 
 considerable gap of time, during which, however, 
 he wrote to me very constantly, — afford a glimpse 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 367 
 
 of him as he was in after life. On October 31, 
 1880, he wrote to me : " I have just returned from 
 watching at the deathbed of my uncle, Mr. 
 Frost, a faithful, good friend of my boyhood, 
 and am heavy-hearted." 
 
 After he had occupied for some time the posi- 
 tion of editor of " The Atlantic Monthly " Aid- 
 rich wrote: 
 
 March 8, 1881, 
 Deae Will: 
 
 . . . The editorial chair of the Atlantic Monthly is not 
 the piece of furniture I would select for comfort! My old 
 bamboo lounge at Ponkapog is worth a thousand of it. I 
 don't have time to breathe. 
 
 If that is O'Brien's poem, it is the best he ever wrote. 
 Here and there I catch the tone of his voice. That wild 
 fancy, in the second stanza, about the floating yellow hair of 
 the drowning sun, seems like O'Brien at his very best. The 
 poem is wholly new to me. . . . 
 In great haste, as this writing shows. 
 
 Always truly yours, 
 T. B. A. 
 
 I have come to the conclusion, [he wrote to me (1884)] 
 that more than half of the mischief done in this world is 
 done with the best intentions. Look at the shortsighted, in- 
 tolerant prohibitionists, the howling woman suffragists and the 
 roaring maniacs who are banging their heads against both 
 sides of the tariff fence. They all mean weU— confound 
 them I " 
 
368 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 59 Mount Vernon Street, Boston, 
 
 March 7, 1891, 
 Dear Will: 
 
 I have only now got back to my den in Mount Vernon 
 Street, where I find two welcome letters from you. That you 
 like my new book gives me great pleasure, but the earlier 
 letter, in which you express your warm personal affection, 
 will ever be sacred and precious to me. I am glad you wrote 
 those pages, and did not withhold them. There is not an 
 affectionate word in the letter that I might not have spoken 
 these thirty years and more. That night at Barrett's, when 
 I glanced down and saw you sitting there — the one familiar 
 face among all those strange faces — my mind instantly went 
 back to the period when I lived in Portsmouth and you in 
 Cambridge, each standing on the brink of life, ready to 
 plunge, and not knowing whether we could swim or not. 
 That a memory of those old days should have come to you 
 also is not strange; for have we not more than once felt im- 
 pelled, at the same hour and day, to write to each other, after 
 two or three years of silence? I leave unsaid a hundred 
 things which I would like to say here; but I am in the middle 
 of a magazine story, and I must not let my pen run away 
 with me. 
 
 I shall look with interest to the coming of the Douglas 
 book. Those volumes of yours about England are the loveli- 
 est things that have been done in this kind. Your dramatic 
 writings have won you great distinction, but here are your 
 true themes, your destined work, and here you are easily at 
 your best. Irving lived among those scenes you love, but he 
 never nestled so close to the poetic heart of England as you 
 have. Your plan of bringing prose and verse together is 
 good and has a touch of novelty. I've just been rereading the 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 369 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Longfellow, in the English Kambles. 
 It would enrich the collected lyrics of any poet living. The 
 diction is large and pure, and that refrain of the wUd March 
 winds wailing through the stanzas "takes me mightily," as 
 Mr. Pepys would say. And now, good-by, and God be with 
 you. Tour afiectionate friend, 
 
 T. B. Aldbich. 
 
 P. S. — I failed to put my name on the fly-leaf of "The 
 Sisters' Tragedy " because the book was published and mailed 
 during my absence from home. Some day I will do so. 
 
 T. B. A. 
 
 Mount Vehnon Street, 
 October 22, 1891. 
 Dear Will: 
 
 Those dramatic orations of yours are as wise and touching 
 as anything I ever read. The book has been a great pleasure 
 to me, these two days past, up in my workshop under the 
 leads. I am very sorry I did not hear you say all those 
 sensible and prophetic things. 
 
 I sent to you yesterday, to the care of Edwin, at the 
 Players, a proof of the Century portrait. Sometime when 
 you are uptown, look in at the Players and get it. 
 
 I hope that all is well with you and yours. Some one 
 dear to me dies whenever I go abroad. This time Lowell. 
 I have written a poem about him. I trust you will like it 
 when you read it, in the December Scribner's. 
 
 Ever afEectionately yours, 
 Tom. 
 
 There is, probably, no author who has not suf- 
 
370 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 fered from the exactions of strangers who in- 
 sist upon asking all sorts of services — ^the writ- 
 ing of autographs, the reading of manuscripts, 
 the impartment of counsel, the exercise of per- 
 sonal influence, etc. ; innumerable requests being 
 made, all of which require answer. Aldrich, in 
 this letter, murmurs a gentle protest against this 
 form of imposition: 
 
 Boston, October 3, 1892. 
 Dear Will: 
 
 It was very kind and thoughtful of you to send me those 
 Tribunes containing your tender monody on Curtis and the 
 not less admirable tribute in prose. I should have been sorry 
 to miss them, and I should have missed them. Last year 
 Lowell, and now Curtis, and Whittier, and Parsons I How 
 rapidly the world is growing poorer! 
 
 The other day I lounged with a fieldglass on the deck of 
 the City of Paris, and tried to pick out your particular nest 
 on the lovely flank of Staten Island. I wondered which was 
 the New Brighton landing and if Curtis's house was visible 
 from my point of view. And I wanted to come ashore! 
 
 The health officers held us at anchor for eight mortal 
 hours ofE Staten Island. How comfortable the little village 
 looked, and how deliciously cool and green the grass was, in 
 protected dells here and there! The hollows seemed like 
 great goblets of creme de menth! My eye had got tired of 
 drinking sea water and wanted something stronger. I've a 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 371 
 
 great respect for the solid earth. The sea was a mistake — 
 a sort of topographical error! 
 
 I hope you and yours are well. I have a score or two of 
 things to say to you, but not time to say them in. Letters, 
 letters, letters! Those of an old friend are ever welcome, 
 but — ^the stupid strangers who make life a burden to me! 
 Half of my waking hours are wasted on persons who have 
 no business to write to me, and yet must needs be treated 
 courteously, since they are courteous. I forgot to say that I 
 had a joyous after the theatre supper, at the Lyceum, with 
 Irving and Ellen Terry, and la belle Sarah Bernhardt with 
 her unravelled hair. The first two said pleasant things about 
 you to me. I am always ready to listen when folks talk so. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 Tom. 
 
 lAJdrich earnestly wished to excel in the field 
 of the drama. He wrote two plays that were 
 acted, " Mercedes " and " Judith," both of which 
 possess elements of dramatic force and attributes 
 of poetic beauty. 
 
 Milton, liASS., April 18, 1893. 
 Dear Will: 
 
 I am glad that your touching and thoughtful address on 
 Curtis has been put into permanent form. The little book 
 followed me out here, and got an immediate reading, though 
 1 was up to my eyes in a belated piece of fiction. As I went 
 from page to page I regretted that I did not have the pleas- 
 
372 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ■ure of hearing you pronoiince those clear-cut sentences. I 
 know that you spoke them admirably, and they must have 
 helped you, for they have an air as if they would lend them- 
 selves graciously to the lips. Thanks for the volume; it 
 shall have a place with its brothers. 
 
 I closed my house on Monday last, intending to start for 
 Chicago on the 26th; but Mr. Palmer is going to bring out 
 my bit of tragedy (" Mercedes ") on the evening of May 
 1st, and I shall wait over to see it. I hope the thing will 
 not fall quite flat. If Lester Wallack, in 1866, had not kept 
 a play of mine six months, and then returned it to me, with 
 the seals unbroken, I should, probably, have been a writer 
 of dramas instead of a writer of lyrics. Without breaking 
 those seals myself I put that MS. on the coals, in my room 
 in Hancock Street, and gave up the idea of being Shake- 
 speare! I was one of those Shakespeares that get "stuck 
 on the horizon," to use Lowell's delightful phrase. Ever 
 yours, T. B. A. 
 
 I had told my old friend of my intention to 
 publish the Life of Edwin Booth and to dedicate 
 the book to him, as one of that great actor's most 
 intimate and beloved friends, and this was his 
 
 reply: 
 
 Milton, Mass., May 11, 1893. 
 
 Deah Will: 
 
 On returning from New York I picked up a cold on the 
 lungs, and am sitting up to-day for the first time since Sun- 
 day. I can write only a few lines. I saw dear Edwin for 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 3^3 
 
 a momeut, and said farewell to that sweet soul. He did not 
 know me until the instant I touched his hand, and then he 
 smiled, and said "Tom Aldrich!" Immediately his mind 
 was gone again, and he turned vacant eyes upon me. That 
 was our parting. 
 
 To have my name associated with the beautiful studies 
 you have made of his character and his genius will be a 
 great pleasure and honor to me. Tou are Edwin Booths 
 authentic biographer. 
 
 " Mercedes " was a success beyond my hopes. All the 
 leading journals had favorable words for it. The Tribune's 
 criticism was most kindly fair. Tou being absent, not one 
 of the dramatic critics was known to me personally, or even 
 by name. The verdict was influenced by nothing but the 
 evidence. I am happier over it than if I had ten books suc- 
 ceed! Mr. Palmer gave the play a beautiful setting, and it 
 was finely acted. Miss Julia Arthur has passion and insight, 
 and made a personal hit. She will be as fine as the finest, 
 five years from now. 
 
 I've ever so many things to say, but the doctor forbids 
 me to do anything but keep quiet. 
 
 With love, 
 
 Tom. 
 
 I've not thought of much these last few days but Edwin, 
 lying there at the Players, waiting for Death. His face has 
 kept coming to me out of the darkness of my room. 
 
 Edwin Booth died, at the Players, June 7, 
 1893. My memoir of him was published in the 
 following autumn, dedicated as follows: 
 
374 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 To 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 
 
 Remembering Old and Happy Days, 
 
 I Dedicate This Memorial 
 
 Of Our Priend and Comrade, 
 
 Edwin Booth, 
 
 Forever Loved and Honored 
 
 And Forever Mourned. 
 
 "There is a world elsewhere." 
 
 It is to the " Life and Art of Edwin Booth " 
 that the subjoined letter refers: 
 
 PoNKAPOG, Nov. 1, 1893. 
 Dear Will: 
 
 Your book reached me last evening, and I read in it, far 
 into the night, with what interest I need not say. It is a 
 complete record. The man we knew and the man the world 
 knew are here drawn at full length. Hereafter others will, 
 doubtless, attempt to write of Edwin Booth, but they will have 
 to come to your pages for authentic material, whether of 
 biography or criticism. Everything that befell him was on 
 a large scale — ^his triumphs and his calamities. I count it 
 one of his great pieces of good fortune that he had a wise and 
 loving chronicler like you. I was glad to see Launt Thomp- 
 son's noble bust among the illustrations, — which are admi- 
 rable as a whole. I liked Mr. Scott's crayon the best. 
 
 Sargent's portrait comes out well, and the lago is a won- 
 derful bit of photography. Tour volume needs nothing but 
 
T. B. ALDRICH 375 
 
 an alphabetical index of names. I was at first a little doubt- 
 ful of the footnote on page 156, — ^my impression of that 
 burial scene was so inadequately expressed in those few 
 hastily-written words; but perhaps the reader will read be- 
 tween the lines, and let his sympathy fill out the picture. 
 
 I notice that you speak of the Players as " The Players 
 Cluh " ; that is not the name of the association. It was my 
 happy fortune to suggest the name. Booth, Barrett, Bis- 
 pham, Hutton, and Benedict were present at the birth, which 
 occurred on Benedict's steam yacht Oneida. 
 
 When your book passes to a second printing, as it will 
 presently, will you please scrape away the comma after the 
 word sweet in the 19th line of my poem, and change " that " 
 to "whaf'f The line should read: 
 
 May know what sweet majestic face. 
 
 As I closed the volume last night I suddenly felt tired 
 for you, thinking how hard you must have worked, these last 
 three months. But here is your reward — ^you have made a 
 permanent addition to our slender store of biography and 
 our still more slender store of dramatic criticism. I wish I 
 had written the book ! And so, good night ! 
 
 Ever affectionately, 
 
 Tom. 
 
 In the letter that follows there is playful allu- 
 sion to an old associate of ours, long since passed 
 away — Henry Clapp, editor and publisher of 
 " The Saturday Press." That paper was started 
 on October 23, 1858. One of Aldrich's early 
 
376 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 publications was a poem, long out of print, called 
 " The Course of True Love Never Did Run 
 Smooth." A presentation copy, given to Clapp 
 by the author, chanced to come into my posses- 
 sion, and, knowing that he preferred to suppress 
 the work as an immature production, I sent it to 
 Aldrich. Hence the reference to our departed 
 comrade. 
 
 The Crags, Tennant's Haebok, Maine. 
 July 30, 1895. 
 Dear Will: 
 
 I have to thank you for two books, each of which inter- 
 ested me in its own way. I hope that you will carry your 
 " Shadows of the Stage " into many volumes and that I 
 shall live to read them. The series, — ^valuable now, — will be 
 precioiis hereafter. What if we had such a record of the 
 stage in Shakespeare's time! 
 
 My long-forgotten little book, which you were so good as 
 to send to me, is much more unsubstantial and ghostly than 
 the slightest of your " Shadows," — for they are of yesterday. 
 How on earth did that particular copy fall into your hand? 
 Did poor old Clapp express it to you C. O. D., by some 
 supernatural messenger? The yellow leaves have a strange, 
 musty odor: Is it brimstone? 
 
 I wish you were within hailing distance of this place. I 
 should love to have you make us a visit. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 T.B. A. 
 
ADA CAVENDISH 
 
 Reference to the plays of Wilkie Collins and 
 to the actress by whom chiefly they were made 
 known in America affords an opportunity here 
 for a word commemorative of another cherished 
 friend passed away, the English actress Ada Cav- 
 endish. There was, in the personaUty and in the 
 art of that remarkable woman, a potent element 
 of intellectual character. She did not conquer by 
 beauty or authority, although she possessed both: 
 she conquered by a vanning intellectual person- 
 ality, evinced in a charming, if sometimes irregu- 
 lar, method of art. The two parts in which, espe- 
 cially, she succeeded were Mercy Merrick, in 
 " The New Magdalen," and Miss Gwilt, in " Ar- 
 madale." In acting Mercy Merrick she had to 
 impersonate a woman intrinsically good, but pas- 
 sionate and wayward, who, by sin and cruel cir- 
 cumstance, becomes enmeshed in a hopeless tangle 
 of temptation and affiction; and she had to show 
 her as passing through a succession of trials, 
 
 377 
 
378 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 harrowing to the fine sensibility of womanhood, 
 till, redeemed and purified, she found refuge if 
 not peace in a saint-like abnegation of self. Her 
 manifestation of that suffering woman's nature 
 and experience was inspired with intense feeling, 
 and it possessed the artistic merit of gradual 
 development under the pressure of circumstance 
 and of conscience. 
 
 There is so much immaturity and shapeless ef- 
 fort in the acting that is obtruded upon public ob- 
 servation that a performance instinct with clear 
 purpose, invested with simplicity, and finished 
 with even a httle good taste, leaps at once into the 
 favor of those persons who, capable of thought, 
 are diligent in the service of the arts, making them 
 indulgent of defects, because of sympathy with 
 the right spirit, Ada Cavendish was well 
 equipped thus to beguile judgment, for her face 
 was luminous with hope and joy; her brilUant 
 blue eyes were very gentle in expression; she had 
 the sweet English voice; and her Uthe, graceful, 
 alert demeanor was a decisive allurement. As an 
 actress she had not acquired that complete repose 
 which only comes after long and varied experi- 
 
ADA CAVENDISH 
 
ADA CAVENDISH 379 
 
 ence, and sometimes the stress of her emotion 
 made her action precipitate and her speech vehe- 
 ment. But she expressed perfectly well the oper- 
 ation of remorse beneath an aspect of artificial 
 mirth, the anguish resultant from conflict of good 
 and evil impulses, and the submissive meekness 
 of repentance ; and therein she proved herself an 
 actress of authority and skill. 
 
 She was exceptionally peculiar. She acted 
 parts that are strongly contrasted, — Mercy Mer- 
 rick and Rosalind, Lady Teazle and Juliet, for 
 example, — but analysis of her acting, while it 
 found beauties in each performance that she gave, 
 discerned that her supreme fidelity of impersona- 
 tion was elicited by a character strongly tinctured 
 with eccentricity, — ^that, namely, of Miss Chioilt, 
 in Wilkie Collins's "Armadale," To that part 
 she was exactly suited by physical constitution 
 and by sensibility and eccentricity of tempera- 
 ment. The lithe figure, the ruddy golden hair, 
 the eagerly expressive countenance, the rich, sym- 
 pathetic voice, the quick, sinuous movements, the 
 capability of rapid transition from wild excite- 
 ment to icy calm, the energy of mind, and the 
 
380 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 depth of feeling, — all those attributes of the 
 woman harmonized with the author's conception 
 of the character and reinforced the player's ex- 
 pression of it. That personation disclosed and 
 typified a nature essentially dramatic. There was 
 a lack of symmetry in the method of it, but the 
 spirit of it was perfect. The best actors, inevit- 
 ably, are sometimes uneven in their art, but they 
 are, in every fibre, suflPused veith magnetic fire. 
 To see Ada Cavendish as Miss Gwilt was to feel 
 the spell of intense emotion and potent intellectual 
 force. The foaming cataract, the flying cloud, 
 the swirl of angry waves and the rush of the tem- 
 pest are symbols of the spirit that shone through 
 her acting, — a spirit audacious with abounding 
 vitality, tremulous with eager impulse, and pa- 
 thetically suggestive of predestined sorrow. To- 
 ward the close of her life Ada Cavendish suffered 
 much, but she met her fate with gentle resigna- 
 tion and noble fortitude. Her grave is in Kensal 
 .Green. Her memory survives in faithful hearts. 
 
 In closing these recollections I would venture 
 to say that their defects are as well known to 
 
OLD FRIENDS 381 
 
 me as they can be to even the sternest of my 
 critical readers. The chief defect in them, to 
 my mind, is one of omission, — for I have known 
 many fine spirits whom I have not even men- 
 tioned in this chronicle of the Past. When I 
 think of the aflFection that has been lavished on 
 me, in the course of a long life, not free from 
 hardship, trial, and sorrow, I am overwhelmed 
 with a sense not only of gratitude but of un- 
 worthiness, and with a kind of pathetic awe. 
 It is an error to judge harshly of human nature. 
 With all its defects, it contains celestial attri- 
 butes. No estimate that I have made of any 
 human being is extravagant. I wish it had been 
 possible, in this book, to celebrate my loved and 
 revered friends among women, the noble and 
 the gentle, who have brightened life and made 
 it beautiful; — such women as Harriet McEwen 
 Kimball, the author of the loveliest religious 
 poetry that has been written in America; Louise 
 Chandler Moulton, whose rare poetic genius, 
 dimly understood or not even perceived by the 
 social circle in which she moved, wiU grow more 
 and more imposing in the lapse of time; and 
 
382 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Ellen Mackay Hutchinson (Mrs. Royal Cor- 
 tissoz) , whose lyre has sounded a note that is not 
 less original than sweet. I intended to include in 
 this volume a special, elaborate chapter on the life 
 and writings of my old friend the poet Stedman, 
 but I have not done so, being desirous that the 
 first comprehensive memorial of him should be 
 the biography that his beloved grand-daughter, 
 Laura Stedman, is now writing. Many a com- 
 rade's name comes to my remembrance, that would 
 warrant a chapter of reminiscence. Daniel N. 
 Haskell, Frances A. Durivage, James T. Fields, 
 Henry Giles, Benjamin P. Shillaber, Adam 
 Wallace Thaxter, Anson Burlingame, George 
 Limt, Aurelius D. Parker, Stephen Gordon 
 Nash, William Young (of the old "Albion"), 
 WilUam B. Reed, — with each of whom, and 
 with others, I had pleasant communion and 
 frequent and sometimes large correspondence, 
 and each of whom would afford interesting 
 studies of character and amusing chronicles of 
 incident. But it is needful here to pause. There 
 will come another occasion. Life, which is not 
 devoid of romance now, was full of romance in 
 
OLD FRIENDS 383 
 
 those other days, and it was as opulent and as 
 dear to those who are gone as it is to those who 
 remain. Nature is ever generous, providing 
 opportunity to each generation, and remaining 
 indifferent to all. The essential thing is the 
 manner in which opportunity is improved. The 
 present period, wonderful in material achieve- 
 ments and in acquisitions of science, is less re- 
 markable for poetry, romance, and a civilization 
 interfused with the dignity and sweetness of 
 repose. The world, no doubt, is growing better, 
 and not worse, for the liberation and the material 
 comfort of mankind. Yet perhaps it could be 
 declared, with some confidence, that the condition 
 of literature and art fluctuates, — exhibiting at 
 this time, an aspect of decline. There is much 
 animalism in current literature, — notably that of 
 fiction. There is much cynicism in contemporary 
 thought. Among intellectual leaders there are 
 few who cherish belief in anything, or even speak 
 a word of cheer. Deference to the will of 
 the multitude verges upon fear and is almost 
 universal. No prophet can safely predict the 
 next change; but, meanwhile, it seems indubi- 
 
384 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 table that the great authors who enchained the 
 heart and intellect of the community about the 
 middle of the nineteenth century were more 
 original, fertile, and brilliant than those who 
 claim the public attention now. It does not 
 follow that greater minds than those of either 
 period will not presently appear. The com- 
 plexion of American literature has imdergone 
 much change since the caustic, honest pen of 
 Poe depicted the local " Literati " of his period, 
 and much change has occurred since the eve of 
 the Civil War. Other changes, no doubt, are 
 imminent. Into that broad realm of specula- 
 tion I do not venture. Enough if I have here 
 succeeded in depicting at least a portion of the 
 old literary time through which I lived, and 
 some of the old friends whom it was delightful 
 to know, and whose works are worthy of com- 
 memorative remembrance. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Academy of Music, The, Phila- 
 delphia, 170. 
 
 Adams, John Quincy, 143, 376. 
 
 Adams, Samuel, 339. 
 
 Addison, Joseph, 131, 154, 
 230, 234,, 2fi4, 266. 
 
 "Adonais," 142. 
 
 " After All," low price for, 92. 
 
 Agassiz, Louis; eminent natu- 
 ralist, 302. 
 
 ALDRICH, THOMAS 
 BAILEY, employed on 
 "Saturday Press," 66; refer- 
 ence of, to O'Brien, 76; Aid 
 to General Lander, 77; com- 
 ment of, in letter, 82, 88; 
 letter from, 100; biographi- 
 cal details, 101; sub-editor 
 of "The Home Journal;" 
 unique letter to, from P. J. 
 O'Brien, 103, 124; sketch of 
 his life, 132, et seq.; last 
 words, death, 133; author's 
 friendship with, 132-133-134; 
 author's first meeting with, 
 134-135; among "The Bo- 
 hemians," 138; his poem of 
 "Babie Bell"; removal to 
 Boston; marriage; editorial 
 positions ; Stoddard's nick- 
 name for; attributes of his 
 poetry, 139; remark about. 
 
 by Walt Whitman, 140; his 
 definition of the Poet, 141; 
 characteristic letter from, 
 143, 143; Longfellow's influ- 
 ence upon, 144; his best 
 poem, 145; nature, writings, 
 and experience; death of his 
 son, 145, 146; critical ability; 
 quality of his poetry; atti- 
 tude toward it, 147; visit, 
 with author, to Temple 
 Church, London, and whimsi- 
 cal comment, 147; talk with 
 Lawrence Barrett, 148; quiz- 
 zical anecdote of, and Mark 
 Twain, 149, 150; anecdote of, 
 and Lord Houghton, 150, 
 154; influence on, of Tenny- 
 son, and place in American 
 literature, 150, 151, 153; re- 
 mark about Holmes, 151; 
 temporarily takes place of 
 George William Curtis, in 
 Easy Chair of "Harper's," 
 354, 393, 393; connection with 
 "The Saturday Press," 395; 
 selected letters of, written in 
 youth to the author, 351- 
 376. 
 Alger, Rev. William Rounse- 
 ville, on Bayard Taylor, 166- 
 157. 
 
 385 
 
386 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Allston, Washington, anecdote 
 of, related by Longfellow, 
 45, 264. 
 
 American Anthology, An, by 
 E. C. Stedman; Authors' 
 Club festival; speech by the 
 author, 298. 
 
 "American Lands and Let- 
 ters," by Donald Grant 
 Mitchell, description of, 333, 
 et seq. 
 
 Anderson, Mary, letter by, 
 about death of Longfellow, 
 348. 
 
 Anthony, A'. V. S., distin- 
 guished engraver, 182, 319. 
 
 Arnold, George, at PfafPs, 64, 
 88, 93; character of; burial, 
 94; description of F. J. 
 O'Brien, by, Q9, 101, 292, 
 293; letter about his poems, 
 by Longfellow, 350. 
 
 "Armadale," 208. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, his criticism, 
 33; his "Oberman," 83; ear- 
 nestly commended by Charles 
 Dickens, 182, 259, 30a 
 
 Arthur, Julia, tribute to, by T. 
 B. Aldrich, for her acting, 
 373. 
 
 Atlantic CablCi the first one; 
 mention of song by the au- 
 thor, 377. 
 
 Atlantic," " The, early con- 
 tributors to, 55, 76, 92, 139; 
 Stories by Fitz-James O'Brien 
 in, 67. 
 
 AUas," "The Boston, 54. 
 
 Authors, exigent judgments of 
 each other, 45. 
 
 Bacon-Shakespeare Humbug; 
 letter by Albert Henry 
 Smyth, in ridicule of, 333. 
 
 Bailey, Philip James, author of 
 "Festus"; refers to piratical 
 editions of that poem in Am- 
 erica, 56; account of visit to 
 him by author, 336, et eeq.; 
 his "Mystic," 361; Aldrich's 
 view of his mystical lines, 
 362. 
 falmerino, Arthur Elphinstone^ 
 Lord, epigram by, 226. 
 
 Barlow, Joel, 324. 
 
 Barrett, Lawrence, 368, 375. 
 
 Barstow, Elizabeth, Mrs. R. 
 H. Stoddard, 293. 
 
 Bateman, HezeMah Linthicum, 
 100. 
 
 Beaumont, Francis, 31. 
 
 Beecher, Henry Ward, Rev., 
 302, 318. 
 
 BeU, John, 239. 
 
 Bellew, Francis Henry Tem- 
 ple, artist, 308; letter to, 
 from C. B. Seymour, about 
 suicide of William North, 
 313; letter to, from North, 
 317. 
 
 Benedict, E. C, 375. 
 
 Bennett^ James Gordon, the 
 elder, 84, 137. 
 
 Bernhardt, Sarah, 371. 
 
 Bible, 86. 
 
 Billings, Hammat, artist, his 
 
INDEX 
 
 387 
 
 illustrations of " Festus," 
 337. 
 
 Bispliam, William, 375. 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert, 338. 
 
 Bohemia, so called, in New 
 York, ceased to exist, 105, 
 106. 
 
 BOHEMIANS," " THE, of 
 New York, so called; sketch 
 of, 57, 63, 76, 78, et seq.j also 
 in chapter "Vagbant Com- 
 BADEs," 79, 80, 106; circle 
 broken, comment on, in letter 
 from Aldrich, 82; writers who 
 composed that group, 88; 
 William Dean HoweUs's refer- 
 ences to, 89, 90; poverty of, 
 93; fraternity and dissen- 
 sions among, 93, 94; con- 
 trasts afforded by, 95; can- 
 dor of literary judgment 
 among, 96; summarized, 138, 
 178. 
 
 Boker, George Henry, 177, 293, 
 295. 
 
 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 113. 
 
 Booth, Edwin Thomas, 75; 
 Aldrich's parting from, 373; 
 dedication of "Life and Art 
 of Edwin Booth," by the 
 author, to T. B. Aldrich, 374, 
 376. 
 
 Booth, Junius Brutus, the 
 elder, as Pescara, 277. 
 
 Boughton, George H., artist, 
 66, 319. 
 
 Boston, of to-day and sixty 
 years ago, contrasted, 53. 
 
 Brook Farm, 228, 329. 
 Bromham, and visit to Sloper- 
 
 ton Cottage and grave of 
 
 Thomas Moore, 300. 
 Brooks, Erastus, 137 
 Brooks, James, 137. 
 Bryant, William Cullen, 45, 
 
 81, 107, 137, 234, 263, 364; 
 
 Stedman's Ode on, 304, 324, 
 
 364. 
 Browning, Mrs. Robert, 154. 
 Browning, Robert, 21; poem 
 
 of "Waring," 83. 
 Brunswick Hotel, Boston, 119. 
 Brown, J. Brownlee, art critic, 
 
 295. 
 Browne, Charles Farrar, de- 
 scription of, 285. See also 
 
 under ARTEMUS WARD. 
 Brougham, John, actor; state- 
 ment by, about Edgar A. 
 
 Poe, 35; his opinion of F, 
 
 J. O'Brien, 95. 
 Brisbane, Albert, 60; anecdote 
 
 about, related by Henry 
 
 Clapp, Jr., 69. 
 Brooks, Preston S., assault 
 
 on Charles Sumner by, 
 
 238. 
 Briar Wood Pipe," "The, 
 
 94. 
 Burns, Anthony, "the return 
 
 of," into slavery, 237. 
 Briggs, Charles F. {Harry 
 
 Franco), originated hoax 
 
 about P. J. O'Brien, 102, 137; 
 
 place of burial, 296. 
 Burns, Robert, 114, 154; his 
 
388 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 method of composition, 155, 
 178; oration on, by G. W. 
 Curtis, 369, 398. 
 
 Bunker HiU, 239. 
 
 Burgess, Mr. and Mrs. Fred- 
 erick, 389. 
 
 Burke, Edmund, 343. 
 
 Burlingame, Anson, 237. 
 
 Burton, William, actor, 74. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 
 34, 25 ; his " Don Juan " con- 
 trasted with Southey's 
 "Curse of Kehama," 25, 26, 
 45, 67, 142; as to poetry, 154; 
 his method in composition, 
 155, 254, 333, 340. 
 
 Calverley, Charles Stuart, 162. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, 21. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, mention of his 
 writings, 86; as to poetry, 
 154. 
 
 Carroll, Dr. Alfred L., 68. 
 
 Cary, Alice; early friendship 
 of, and T. B. Aldrich, 365. 
 " Casabianca," 250. 
 
 Cavendish, Ada, actress (Mrs. 
 Frank A. Marshall), 206, 
 307, 208; sketch of, 208, 377, 
 et seq; analysis of her act- 
 ing, 378, 380. 
 
 Centennial Celebration of 1876, 
 in Philadelphia, 169. 
 
 Century Club, The, of New 
 York, 234. 
 
 Channing, WUliam Ellery, 
 Rev., 329, 276. 
 
 Chapin, Rev. Edwin H., 302. 
 
 Charles I, King of England, 
 his sacramental cup, 340. 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 254. 
 
 "ChUde Harold," 142. 
 
 Choate, Rufus, statesman and 
 orator, meeting of, with B. 
 P. Whipple, 111; on "The 
 Last Days of Samuel Rog- 
 ers," 113; delivers oration in 
 Fanueil Hall, and beauty of 
 it, 338, 240, 243; method and 
 effect of, in oratory, 344, 
 345, 277. 
 
 Civil War, 82. 
 
 CLAPP, HENRY, JR. {Prince 
 of Bohemia in New York), 
 sketch of (in " Bohemian 
 Days"), 57, et seq.; ias char- 
 acter, age, appearance; en- 
 gages WUliam Winter as 
 sub-editor of "The Saturday 
 Press"; his birth, 57, 60; 
 writes for "The New York 
 Leader"; resuscitates his 
 "Saturday Press," 61; char- 
 acteristic editorial announce- 
 ment by; his pen name; 
 satirical remark by; death 
 and the aspersion of, 62, 64; 
 place of his burial; epitaph, 
 63; "The Saturday Press" 
 started, Fitz-James O'Brien 
 and T. B. Aldrich engaged, 
 66; working for Albert Bris- 
 bane; anecdote about; trans- 
 lation of book by Fourier, 
 69; comment of, on O'Brien 
 and Aldrich, 77, 88; Walt 
 
INDEX 
 
 389 
 
 Whitman at the celebration 
 of birthday of, 91; 101, 
 137, 393, 394, 39S; as to Wil- 
 liam North, 316, 375, 376. 
 
 Clapp, William Warland, of 
 Boston, 55. 
 
 Clancy, John, editor, 61. 
 
 Clare, Ada (Jane McElheney), 
 319; contributor to "The 
 Saturday Press," 395. 
 
 Clarke, Louis Gaylord, editor 
 of " The Knickerbocker Mag- 
 azine," 362. 
 
 Cleopatra, 231. 
 
 Coleman, Charles, artist, at 
 Capri, 319. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 24, 
 45, 114; as to poetry, 154; an- 
 ecdote of, told by Wilkie Col- 
 lins, 213, 314. 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM WIL- 
 KIE, novelist; his high opin- 
 ion of Fenimore Cooper, 17; 
 on women's societies, 72; ac- 
 count of, 203, et seq.j let- 
 ters to the author, from him, 
 306, 309, 318; his residence 
 in London, and author's last 
 meeting with him, 311; es- 
 timate of his works and his 
 character, and description of 
 his personal appearance, 
 214, 315, 316, 217; his allu- 
 sions to his boyhood; refer- 
 ence to his novel of " The 
 Black Robe," 318; elegiac 
 sonnets in memory of, by the 
 author, 320; 300, 377, 378. 
 
 Colman, George, dramatist, 
 
 306. 
 Cooper, James Fenimore, 107, 
 
 264. 
 Cooper, Thomas (A.), actor, 126. 
 Canova, his bust of Napoleon, 
 
 113. 
 Concord Bridge, 239. 
 Congdon, Charles Tabor, 54; 
 
 his remark about Holmes, 
 
 130, 294. 
 Conkling, Roscoe, his peculiar 
 
 idea of poetry, and elo- 
 quence, 250. 
 " Cormwall, Barry" pen name 
 
 of Bryan Waller Proctor, 
 
 360. 
 Courier," "The New York, 
 
 137. 
 "Courtship of Miles Stand- 
 
 ish," by Longfellow, its first 
 
 publication mentioned by 
 
 Aldrich, 361. 
 Cowley, Abraham, 21; com- 
 pared with Longfellow, 24. 
 Cowper, William, 154. 
 Cozzens, Frederick, author of 
 
 "The Sparrowgrass Papers," 
 
 364. 
 Crabbe, George, Rev., 328. 
 Craigie mansion. The, 223. 
 Craigie, Mrs., and Longfellow, 
 
 44. 
 Cranch, Christopher Pearse, 
 
 177. 
 Criticism, right course of, 
 
 93. 
 Cromwell, Oliver, 268. 
 
390 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Cniikshank, George, 98. 
 
 Crystal Palace (New York), 
 Exhibition, 84. 
 
 Cumberland, Richard, 31. 
 
 Cunningham, Allan, 178. 
 
 Cummings, Miss, author, 81. 
 
 CURTIS, GEORGE WIL- 
 LIAM, orator and author, re- 
 mark to, by Washington Irv- 
 ing, 81, 177; his appearance in 
 youth; sketch of his life, 323, 
 et seq.; at home of Longfel- 
 low, 334; author's first meet- 
 ing with him; introduction 
 by Longfellow, 234; reason 
 for commemoration of, 325; 
 character of, 226; his sketch 
 of Theodore Winthrop men- 
 tioned, 227; Brook Farm, 
 228; influences which affected 
 him; wisdom of; conduct of 
 life, 229; visits the Orient, 
 229, 230; visits England, 
 230; a humorist; nobility of 
 his mind, 230; in Egypt; and 
 impressions of, on his mind, 
 231; his early books, 232; 
 poetry not natural vocation, 
 233; poetic sensibility of; 
 his analysis of the poet Bry- 
 ant, 234; particular books of, 
 334; nature and faculties of; 
 prose writings, 235; early 
 lyric faculty, 236; participa- 
 tion in the anti-slavery move- 
 ment, speaks in public with 
 Horace Greeley, and con- 
 trast with the latter, 241; 
 
 power as an orator, and pre- 
 eminence as such, 243; the 
 last great orator, 243; influ- 
 ences affecting his develop- 
 ment as an orator, 243, 344, 
 245, 246, 247; his method 
 and manner in public speech, 
 248, 249, 250; conversation 
 with Roscoe Conkling, 250; 
 example of supreme eloquence 
 mentioned by, 250; sacrifi- 
 ces made by him in his life; 
 his experience, 252; wise ad- 
 monition by, 253; his patience 
 and industry, 254; quality of, 
 254, 295, 302; letter from 
 him, about death and funeral 
 of Longfellow, 347; his resi- 
 dence, 370. 
 
 Cushman, Charlotte, great ac- 
 tress, 75. 
 
 Gushing, Caleb, 240. 
 
 " Daisy's Necklace,'' early 
 
 novel, by T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 365. 
 Daly, Augustin, begins career 
 
 as a writer, 137. 
 Daly's Fifth Avenue Theatre, 
 
 126. 
 Duff, Mary, 126. 
 Dana, Charles Anderson, 229. 
 Dana, Richard Henry, the 
 
 poet, 45, 80, 107, 204; his 
 
 lecture on "Hamlet." 
 Dane Law School, Harvard 
 
 College, 79. 
 Davidge, William P., actor, 197. 
 
INDEX 
 
 391 
 
 Day Book," "The New York, 
 136. 
 
 Declaration of Independence, 
 anniversary of, celebrated in 
 1876, in Philadelphia, 167, 
 168, 169, 170, 171, 172; au- 
 thor delivers poem; anecdote 
 of General Hancock and 
 General Sherman, 173. 
 
 De Foe, Daniel, 328. 
 
 Delmonico's Restaurant, old, 
 71. 
 
 De Quincey, Thomas, 213, 360. 
 
 Descl^e, Aimde-Olympe, French 
 actress, 209, 21Q.;_ her view 
 of the character of Grace 
 Boseberry, 210. 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES, the 
 elder, dress of, 48; his opinion 
 as to his portrait and illustra- 
 tion of his novels, 66; feel- 
 ing manifested about, 108; 
 109, 114; sketch of, 181, et 
 seq.; invites the author to 
 visit him in England; em- 
 barks aboard the Russia, 
 181; his opinion of "A Tale 
 of Two Cities"; fondness 
 for melodrama, 183; his man- 
 ner when before an audience, 
 and his manner in private 
 life, 184; description of him 
 and farewell to America, 
 185; farewell glimpse of; 
 visit to his grave, 186; the 
 glass out of which he took 
 his parting drink, on leaving 
 America, 188; his readings; 
 
 involved in a railway acci- 
 dent; his son's care of him, 
 when reading; death, and 
 that of his son, 190, 191; his 
 house, at Gad's Hill, 193; 
 critical examination of his 
 public readings, 193, 202, 
 280, 300, 365. 
 
 Dickens, Charles, the younger; 
 his anecdotes of his father, 
 188, 189; his death, 191. 
 
 Durivage, Francis Alexander, 
 297. 
 
 Dwight, Timothy, 324. 
 
 Diamond Lens," "The, by F. 
 J. O'Brien, 67. 
 
 Disraeli, reply to his "Con- 
 ingsby" by William North, 
 316. 
 
 Dolby, George, manager for 
 Dickens, 182. 
 
 Dommett, Alfred, 83. 
 
 "Don Caesar de Bazan," 104. 
 
 Donnelly, Ignatius, and the 
 Bacon Humbug, 333. 
 
 Douglas, David, eminent pub- 
 lisher in Edinburgh, 368. 
 
 "Dred," novel, by Mrs. Har- 
 riet Beecher Stowe, 365. 
 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman, 26 
 
 Dryden, John, 21, 24, 154. 
 
 Easy Chair, The, in " Harper's 
 
 Magazine," 265, 266. 
 Ecclesiastes, 263. 
 Edinburgh, 300. 
 Edwards, Jonathan, 324. 
 Edwin, John, actor, 284. 
 
392 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 65, 
 107, 177; influence of, on 
 Curtis, 335; quality of his 
 expression in literature, 236; 
 passage from his Dartmouth 
 College Oration, repeated hy 
 Curtis, 350, 265, 303, 304; 
 at the funeral of Longfellow, 
 mentioned in letter hy G. W. 
 Curtis, 348. 
 
 Erment, Temples of, 231. 
 
 Everett, Edward, statesman 
 and orator, 338, 239, 243, per- 
 sonal appearance ; method 
 of, and effect in, oratory, 
 245, 246, 347; at Harvard, 
 302. 
 
 Eytinge, Sol, 308; artist, 182; 
 Dickens' opinion of portrait 
 by, 66; brief sketch of his 
 career, 317, et seq.; burial 
 place of, 319. 
 
 Express," "The New York, 
 137. 
 
 Fallen Star," "The, 69; stan- 
 zas of it applicable to its 
 author, F. J. O'Brien, 78, 79. 
 
 Fall of the House of Usher," 
 "The, 67. 
 
 FaneuU HaU, 237. 
 
 "Faust," Goethe's, 341. 
 
 Fechter, Charles, praise of, by 
 Charles Dickens 183. 
 
 Felton, Cornelius, 107, 302. 
 
 "Festus," by Philip James 
 Bailey, 56, 336, 337, 338, 
 339, 340, 341, 361. 
 
 Fields, James Thomas, pub- 
 
 lisher, 55, 118, 182, 297, 360, 
 365. 
 
 Figureheads, in literature, sa- 
 tire of, 61. 
 
 First Massachusetts Battery, 
 104. 
 
 Ford, John T., theatrical man- 
 ager, relic of Poe received 
 from, 36. 
 
 Forrest, Edwin, 126. 
 
 Fourier, Francois Charles, 
 translation of his treatise on 
 "The Social Destiny of 
 Man," 60, 69. 
 
 Fox, Charles James, on poetry, 
 154. 
 
 Francis, John C, tribute to the 
 memory of Longfellow by, 
 49. 
 
 Franklin, Benjamin, 275, 330. 
 
 Fremont, General John C. 
 
 Frost, William, merchant, unr 
 cle of T. B. Aldrich, 
 138. 
 
 Fuller, Margaret (Countess 
 d'Ossoli), her criticism of 
 Longfellow; contributes to 
 "The New York Tribune," 
 31; death of, 32, 229. 
 
 Fugitive Slave Law, 236, 237. 
 
 Gad's Hill, home of Charles 
 
 Dickens, 189, 191; visited by 
 
 the author, 192. 
 Gallup, Mrs. Elizabeth Wells, 
 
 and the Bacon Humbug, 333. 
 Gardette, Charles Demerais, his 
 
 deception of the public with 
 
INDEX 
 
 393 
 
 "The Fire Fiend," 65, 88, 
 292. 
 
 Garrick, David, 113. 
 
 Gayler, Charles, dramatist, 308. 
 
 George IV and Queen Caro- 
 line, souvenirs of, 339. 
 
 Gibbon, Edveard, 275. 
 
 Giddings, Joshua R., 237. 
 
 Giflford, William, 275. 
 
 Gil Bias and the Archbishop, 
 297. 
 
 Giles, Henry, essayist, 107, 
 243, 294, 302, 360. 
 
 GilflUan, George, Scotch essay- 
 ist, 27. 
 
 Goethe, John Wolfgang von, 
 exemplar of Longfellow, 51, 
 61, 228, 234, 251. 
 
 Gloucester, Mass., birthplace 
 of author, 275. 
 
 Globe Theatre, The, in Boston, 
 126. 
 
 Goldsmith, Dr. Oliver, 147, 179, 
 252, 255; Washington Irving 
 and Donald Grant Mitchell 
 of the same "family," 326, 
 328. 
 
 Gough, John B., "temperance 
 orator," 376. 
 
 Graham, Lorimer, 298. 
 
 "Graham's Magazine," 68. 
 
 Gray, Thomas, Longfellow as- 
 sociated with, by Lowell, 24; 
 his "Elegy" and Thomas 
 Buchanan Read's " The Clos- 
 ing Scene," as compared by 
 Coventry Patmore, 29, 154; 
 his letters, 352. 
 
 Greeley, Horace, founder of 
 "The New York Tribune," 
 31; designation of, by Henry 
 Clapp, 62, 136; death of, 
 mentioned in letter from 
 Bayard Taylor; appearance 
 of, 241, 243. 
 
 Greene, Charles G., 54. 
 
 Greenwood Cemetery, 94. 
 
 Griswold, Cass, artist, 319. 
 
 Griswold, Rufus Wilmot, 32, 
 264. 
 
 Grundy," "Mrs., comic paper, 
 68. 
 
 Guilford family (Lord North), 
 
 Hagen, Theodore, editor and 
 musician, 283. 
 
 Hall, Mr. and Mrs. J, C, 
 338. 
 
 Hale, John G., 237. 
 
 Hancock, General Winfield 
 Scott, 171. 
 
 Hanover, House of, 226. 
 
 Halpine, Charles Graham 
 {Miles O'Reilly), poet, edi- 
 tor, soldier, 61. 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene, his 
 "Marco Bozzaris," 22, 80, 
 107; his appreciation of Al- 
 drich's "Babie Bell," 264, 
 296. 
 
 Harvard College, 129. 
 
 Harvard College, Dane Law 
 School of, 79. 
 
 "Harris's Folly," Boston, 53. 
 
 Harper's Ferry, 104. 
 
394 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 "Harper's Bazar," 266. 
 
 " Harper's Magazine," 71, 76, 
 354, S65. 
 
 "Harper's Weekly," 101, 265. 
 
 Haskell, Daniel N., once editor 
 of "The Boston Transcript"; 
 employs the author in youth; 
 characteristic remark of, 134, 
 135, 364. 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 45, 81, 
 229, 243, 264. 
 
 Herald," "The New York, 84, 
 87, 137. 
 
 Heron, Matilda, Mrs. Robert 
 Stoepel, 100. 
 
 Herrick, Robert, poet, 139, 
 154, 254. 
 
 Hemans, Felicia, 250. 
 
 Henderson, John, actor, 21. 
 
 Hennesey, William J., , 
 
 artist, 319. 
 
 Higginson, Thomas Went- 
 worth, 122, 123. 
 
 History of Germany, by Bay- 
 ard Taylor, 174. 
 
 Hoffman, George Fenno, 264. 
 
 Hogarth, Willliam, 320. 
 
 Holland House, 113. 
 
 HoUand, Lord (Henry Rich- 
 ard Vassal Fox), 113. 
 
 Holland, George, comedian, 
 197. 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WEN- 
 DELL., poet, novelist, and 
 physician, 45, 55, 81; sketch 
 of, 107, et seq.; characteristic 
 poems of, designated, 109 ; ad- 
 miration of the young for him. 
 
 110; illuminative indication 
 of hischaracter, 110, 111, 112; 
 remarkable period spanned by 
 his life, 112; variety of his 
 accomplishments, 114; his 
 rank as a poet, 116; his ap- 
 pearance, and method when 
 speaking in public, 116; his 
 fine delivery of his poem on 
 Moore, 117; "Atlantic 
 Monthly" festival in honor 
 of him, 119; remarkable ef- 
 fect of his delivery of "The 
 Iron Gate," 120; poem in his 
 honor, by author, delivered 
 on same occasion; effect of, 
 120; letter from, about that 
 poem, 121; anecdote of 
 Lucy Larcom, T. W. Hig- 
 ginson, and author, at that 
 festival, 122; characteristic 
 letter from, 125; his liking 
 for the stage, 125, 126; let- 
 ter from, about old actors, 
 126; his poem "The Old 
 Player," and Shakespeare 
 Ode, 126, 127; author's last 
 meeting with him; character- 
 istic attributes; anecdotes of, 
 and his interest in con- 
 temporary life, 127-131 ; qual- 
 ities of mind and heart, 
 121, 151, 154, 264, 300, 303; 
 letter by, about death of 
 Longfellow, 348, 364. 
 
 Home Journal," "The New 
 York, 76, 103, 136, 145. 
 
 Homer, 154. 
 
INDEX 
 
 395 
 
 Hone house, the, in New 
 York, 97. 
 
 Hook, Theodore, 384. 
 
 Hood, Thomas, 354. 
 
 Horton, Rushmore G., editor, 
 136. 
 
 Houghton, Lord, Richard 
 Monckton Milnes, 150. 
 
 Howells, William Dean, novel- 
 ist; his views of Scott and 
 Thackeray mentioned, 89; ap- 
 pearance in youth; visits 
 Charles Pfaffs restaurant; 
 admiration for Walt Whit- 
 man; his incorrect state- 
 ments as to the old " Bo- 
 hemians," 89-91. 
 
 Howe, Mrs. Julia Ward, 360. 
 
 Howitt, William and Mary, 
 338. 
 
 Howland, Edward, 88; 
 founder, with Henry Clapp, 
 of "The New York Satur- 
 day Press," 137, 293. 
 
 Hutton, Laurence, 375. 
 
 Inchiquin, Lord, 103. 
 
 "Iris," 166. 
 
 Irving, Sir Henry, actor, 31, 
 371. 
 
 Irving, Washington, 45; remark 
 by, to G. W. Curtis, on au- 
 thorship, 81, lOr, 264; his 
 friendship with D. G. Mitch- 
 eU, 325, 326. 
 
 James II, King of England, 
 147. 
 
 Jarrett, Henry C, theatrical 
 
 manager, 182. 
 Jefferson, Joseph, actor, 126, 
 
 184, 206. 
 Jeffreys, George, Lord 
 
 (Judge), 147. 
 Jerrold, Douglas, 217. 
 Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 21, 113; 
 
 on poetry, 153, 154; his lines 
 
 on Hogarth, 320. 
 Johnston, Thomas, acts in 
 
 "Young New York," 88. 
 Jonson, Ben, his famojis lyric 
 
 sung by George William 
 
 Curtis and Lester Wallack, 
 
 267. 
 Jordan, George, acts ia 
 
 "Young New York," 88. 
 
 Kane, Elisha, 93. 
 
 Keats, John, 114, 259. 
 
 Keeler, Ralph, 163. 
 
 Keene, Laura, produces, and 
 
 acts in, "Young New York," 
 
 68. 
 Kemble, Fanny, anecdote of, 
 
 283. 
 King, Rev. Thomas Starr, 239. 
 Knickerbocker Magazine," 
 
 "The, 68. 
 Know-Nothings, the, 239. 
 
 Laighton, Albert, his letters to 
 T. B. Aldrich, 355; brief 
 sketch of, 356, et seq. 
 
 Lamb, Charles, 45, 114, 124, 
 154, 254. 
 
 LampUghter," "The, 81. 
 
396 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Lander, General Frederick W., 
 77; rumor of cause of his 
 death, 104. 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage, anec- 
 dote of, 42, 114. 
 
 Lantern," "The, 76. 
 
 Larcom, Lucy, at "Atlantic" 
 festival to Holmes, 123, 123. 
 
 "Lars," by Bayard Taylor, 
 173, 174. 
 
 Last Days of Samuel Rogers," 
 "The, oration by Rufus 
 Choate, 113. 
 
 Lathrop, George Parsons, 124. 
 
 Leader," "The New York, 87. 
 
 "Leaves of Grass," 89. 
 
 Leslie's " Stars and Stripes," 
 102. 
 
 " Life on the Ocean Wave," S5. 
 
 Lind, Jenny, at Castle Garden, 
 268. 
 
 Linton, William J., poet, artist, 
 319. 
 
 Lockhart, John Gibson, his 
 Life of Scott, 213. 
 
 Longwood, Pa., Bayard Tay- 
 lor's grave at, 18. 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY 
 WADSWORTH, sketch of 
 his life, 17, et seq.; friend- 
 ship of author with, 18, 19; 
 birth, ancestry, and educa- 
 tion, 19; accepts professor- 
 ship at Harvard; marriage to 
 Mary Potter; her death; 
 marriage to Frances Apple- 
 ton; her death; his last visit 
 to Europe; his death and 
 
 burial, 20; his works; bust, 
 in Westminister Abbey, 21; 
 poetic rank of, and reason 
 for, 31, 22; mention of 
 works, 21, et seq.; 22, 23, 28, 
 29; some poems he thought 
 too personal for publication; 
 represents principle of high- 
 est import, 23; monition of 
 his life; place in literature; 
 range and variety of his 
 poetry, 24; significant anec- 
 dote of, told by J. R. Os- 
 good, 25; a poet of power; 
 effect of his writings, 28; 
 disparagement of, by Ck)ven- 
 try Patmore, Margaret Ful- 
 ler, and Edgar Poe; general, 
 29, 35; motive of disparage- 
 ment, 36; dislike of, and also 
 Mrs. Longfellow's, for Mar- 
 garet Fuller, 31; purpose of 
 poet and critic contrasted by; 
 custom of treating reviews, 
 32; conversation with, about 
 Poe, and comment; assailed 
 by Poe, 37; at Charles Mac- 
 kay's lecture on Dibdin's 
 Sea Songs, 38; midnight 
 walk with; characteristics; 
 comment on Mackay's lect- 
 ure, 39; keen sense of hu- 
 mor; anecdotes denoting 
 same, 40, 41, 43, 43, 44; 
 never uttered detraction; 
 anecdote related by, about 
 Washington Allston, 45; 
 anecdotes of him, 46, 47; of- 
 
INDEX 
 
 397 
 
 fers to buy a newspaper for 
 author; apparel of, 48, 49; 
 personal appearance of, 49; 
 his character and patient en- 
 durance, 50 ; achievement 
 kindred with that of Goethe, 
 51; 55, 81, 107, 143, 144, 145, 
 154, 164; fascination of, for 
 youth; Curtis at home of, 
 S23, 335; his last line, S61; 
 S64, 399, 300, 304, 330, 331, 
 335, 345, et geq.; 358, 360, 
 361, 365, 369. 
 
 Lost Steamship," "The, poem; 
 story of; extraordinary read- 
 ing of, by its author, F. J. 
 O'Brien, 97, 98. 
 Lowell, James Russell, as- 
 sociates Longfellow with 
 Thomas Gray, 34; mentioned, 
 45, 55, 107, 343, 303; his 
 "Vision of Sir Launfal," il- 
 lustrated by Sol JEytinge, 
 319; described to author by 
 Longfellow, 321 ; meeting 
 with him, in London, 331; 
 impression made by, 333; 370, 
 373. 
 
 Lucia di Lammermoor, Mme. 
 Cora de Wilhorst as, 66. 
 
 Ludlow, Fitz-Hugh, author of 
 "The Hasheesh Eater," 1T7, 
 395. 
 
 Lunt, George, poet, 54, 297. 
 
 Lytton, Edward Lytton Bul- 
 wer, first lord, 313. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 
 
 Lord, 31; remark of, 80; 114; 
 on poetry, 154. 
 
 Mackay, Charles, his lecture 
 on Dibdin's Sea Songs; his 
 poems, 38; facts about; book 
 by, on Medor^ Leigh, 40. 
 
 Mackay, Eric, poet; son of 
 Charles Mackay, 40. 
 
 Mackenzie, Dr. R. Shelton, 
 
 mentioned as literary spon- 
 sor for F. J. O'Brien, 76. 
 
 Macpherson, James, his "Os- 
 sian " forgeries, 30. 
 
 Madonna, the Sistine, 333. 
 
 Man of the World," "The, 
 novel, 68, 315. 
 
 Marvel, Andrew, 369. 
 
 Masque of the Gods," "The, 
 165. 
 
 Massey, Gerald, his " Babe 
 Cristabel," 363. 
 
 Mather, Cotton, 334. 
 
 Mathews, Cornelius, author, 
 396. 
 
 Mathews, Charles, comedian, 
 283. 
 
 McLeod, Donald, author; com- 
 rade of F. J. O'Brien; lu- 
 dicrous quarrel between, 73. 
 
 McCullough, John, actor, effect 
 on, of poem about Moore, 
 delivered by Holmes, 118. 
 
 Memnon, statue of, 330. 
 
 Milnes, Richard Monckton, 
 Lord Houghton, ISO. 
 
 Milton, John; his blank verse, 
 31, 154, 354, 356. 
 
 Millward, Mr. and Mrs. 
 
398 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Charles; anecdote of, and 
 Artemus Ward, 389, 290. 
 
 MITCHELL, DONALD 
 GRANT, 107, 123, 243; 
 founder of Easy Chair in 
 "Harper's," 26S; sketch of 
 and tribute to, 323, et seq.; 
 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329; 
 letter from, 329; mentioned 
 by Albert Henry Smyth, in 
 letter, 33S. 
 
 Montaigne, Michael de, his 
 works mentioned, 84. 
 
 Moonstone," "The, CoUins's ac- 
 count of circumstances un- 
 der which it was written, 
 312. 
 
 Moore, Thomas, 45; commem- 
 oration of centenary of, 116, 
 117, 118; 151; his method of» 
 composition, 155, 254, 300. 
 
 Motherwell, William, 360. 
 
 Motley, John Lathrop, 243. 
 
 Moulton, Louise Chandler, 54, 
 124. 
 
 Mount Auburn, 130, 144. 
 
 Mullen, Edward F., artist for 
 "Vanity Fair," 66, 88. 
 
 Muzzey, Benjamin B., Boston; 
 piratical publisher of " Fes- 
 tus," 56, 337. 
 
 Nantucket, 59. 
 
 Napoleon, listening to the 
 
 sound of distant beUs, 304. 
 NeUl, Henry, journalist; death 
 
 of, 65. 
 New England States; anti- 
 
 slavery movement in, 238; 
 state of politics and par- 
 ties; popular excitement in, 
 239. 
 
 New York Tribune," "The, 
 Margaret Fuller a contribu- 
 tor to, 31. 
 
 New York Hotel, 98. 
 
 New York Leader" "The, 61. 
 
 New York, period of literary 
 transition in, 105; condition 
 of, in 18S9-'60. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, visited by au- 
 thor; relics of Lord Byron; 
 his tomb in Hucknall Tork- 
 ard church, 300, 340. 
 
 Noah, Major Mordecai Manuel, 
 75, 137. 
 
 North, Christopher, (Prof. John 
 Wilson), 178. 
 
 North, William, relations with 
 O'Brien, 67,68; account of his 
 career; writings; suicide; 313 
 to 317; his last letter, 31 T. 
 
 " Notes and Queries," tribute to 
 Longfellow in, 49. 
 
 O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES, poet 
 and soldier; vicissitudes of a 
 stormy life; frequent pov- 
 erty; disparaged, as Poe was; 
 short association with "The 
 New York Saturday Press"; 
 remarkable short stories of, 
 67, 68; his method in compo- 
 sition; anecdote, told by 
 Clapp, suggests incidents in 
 a story, 69; peculiarities of 
 
INDEX 
 
 399 
 
 his behavior; poem of "The 
 Sewing Bird," 71, 72; fiery 
 temper of; quarrel with Don- 
 ald McLeo^, 73; character- 
 istic letter of, 74; nativity, 
 education, early experience; 
 comes to New York, liter- 
 ary career, 75; his varied and 
 extraordinary career; allu- 
 sion to, by T. B. Aldrieh; 
 the best of his works, 76; 
 joins the New York Seventh 
 Regiment, in Civil War; ser- 
 vice as Aid to General Lan- 
 der; fatally wounded, 77; 
 death; comment by Henry 
 Clapp, on hearing of wound; 
 character and attainments, 
 77, 78; appearance of, de- 
 scribed, 79, 88, 100; his Ode 
 on Kane, 93; quarrels of, 95; 
 his opinion of the poem of 
 " Orgia " and of its author, 
 96; remarkable reading by, 
 at Pfaffs, 97, 98; "fistic 
 Waterloo" of ; his nose 
 broken; comments of Doc- 
 tor, 98; description of him 
 by George Arnold, 99; his 
 writings collected, edited, and 
 published by this author; 
 unpublished remains, 102, 
 103; characteristic letter 
 from, to Aldrieh, 103; refer- 
 ence to, in letter from Al- 
 drieh, 100, 101; author's first 
 meeting with, 100; not heir 
 to any title; origin of hoax 
 
 about that; his parentage; 
 letter of A. W. Waud de- 
 scribes his conduct and 
 death, 104; his story of 
 "What Was It?" 139; 
 177, 292, 295, 308, 309, 
 367. 
 
 O'Brien, Smith, Irish "agita- 
 tor," 102. 
 
 " Ode on the Death of Levett," 
 Dr. Johnson's, 154. 
 
 Old Pedagogue," "The, poem, 
 93. 
 
 Olive Branch," "The, Boston, 
 54. 
 
 Ornithorhyncus Club, descrip- 
 tion of, 309. 
 
 Osgood, James Ripley, pub- 
 lisher, Boston, anecdote by, 
 of LongfeUow, 25; 121, 175, 
 124, 182. 
 
 Osgood, Rev. Samuel, 302. 
 
 Otis, James, 239. 
 
 Owens, John E., actor, letter 
 of O'Brien to, 74, 75; his per- 
 formance of Solon Shingle 
 admired by Dickens, 184. 
 
 Paine, Theophilus, 79. 
 
 Pantheon, The, in Paris, 180. 
 
 Palmer, Albert M. , theat- 
 rical manager, 182, 372, 373. 
 
 Palmer, Henry D., theatrical 
 manager, 182. 
 
 Parker House, the, Boston, 
 116. 
 
 Parker, Joel, warlike decla- 
 ration of, 239, 240. 
 
400 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Parker, Theodore, Rev., 229, 
 237, 277, 302. 
 
 Farkman, Dr. Francis, mur- 
 dered, 277. 
 
 Parsons, Theophilus, professor 
 at Dane Law School, Har- 
 vard College; his advice to 
 the author, in youth, 79, 80; 
 character of, 303. 
 
 Parsons, Thomas William, his 
 "Ode on Dante" mentioned; 
 anecdote of him and Long- 
 feUow, 43, 370. 
 
 Patmore, Coventry, Catholic 
 poet; " The Angel in the 
 House" mentioned; his 
 opinion of Thomas Buchanan 
 Read's "The Closing Scene," 
 and of Gray's "Elegy," and 
 of Longfellow, 29. 
 
 Pattes des Mouches," "Les, by 
 Victorien Sardou, 88. 
 
 Paulding, James Kirke, novel- 
 ist and poet, 264. 
 
 Peabody, Andrew, Rev., editor; 
 his praise of Albert Lwgh- 
 ton's poems, 357. 
 
 Percival, James Gates, 264, 
 26S. 
 
 Perry, Nora, poet, 124. 
 
 PfafF, Charles, his restaurant 
 (" PfaflPs Cave," name given 
 to it by the author), dis- 
 covered by Henry Clapp, 63; 
 description of, 64; literary 
 and artistic frequenters of, 
 64, 65, 66, 70, 82, 88, 91, 93. 
 
 Phillips, Wendell, orator, 237, 
 
 243; comment on, by G. W. 
 Curtis, 249, 262, 302. 
 
 Pierce, Prof., famous mathe- 
 matician, 302. 
 
 Pitt, William, statesman, on 
 Burns, 155. 
 
 Placide, Thomas, actor, 75. 
 
 Plato, 30. 
 
 Players, The, Club, founded by 
 Edwin Booth in New York; 
 name suggested by T. B. 
 Aldrich, 375. 
 
 Plays of T. B. Aldrich; "Mer- 
 cedes" and "Judith of Be- 
 thulia," 371, 372. 
 
 Pleasures of Memory," "The, 
 by Samuel Rogers, 113. 
 
 Prentice, George Denison, poet 
 and editor, 362. 
 
 Press," "The New York Sat- 
 urday, 87, 137. 
 
 Proctor, Edna Dean, letter by 
 her, about death of Long- 
 fellow, 349. 
 
 Psahn of Life," "The, Bayard 
 Taylor's parody of, 164. 
 
 "Putnam's Magazine," 76, 265. 
 
 Pygmalion, 232. 
 
 "Pynhurst," novel, 73. 
 
 POE, EDGAR ALLAN, men- 
 tion of his " Haunted 
 Palace;" 22; his acrimonious 
 criticism of Longfellow; 
 works of, edited by E. C. 
 Stedman and George Ed- 
 ward Woodberry; allowance 
 necessary, in judging his 
 character and writings, 33; 
 
INDEX 
 
 401 
 
 quaUly of his "Haunted 
 Palace," 34; achievement; 
 disparagement of works; his 
 death, 34; statement of John 
 Brougham about; mention of 
 his stories, 35; motive of 
 much vindictive censure of 
 him; relic of; poem of 
 author's read at dedication 
 of moniunent to, 36; con- 
 versation of author with 
 LongfeUow about; burial of, 
 36, 37; mention of alleged 
 posthumous poem by, 65, 67; 
 experience of, 81; reference 
 to detraction of, 92; as to 
 poetry, 154, 176, 177, 264; 
 his account of " the Literati " 
 mentioned; his early recog- 
 nition of Bayard Taylor as 
 a poet, 296. 
 
 "Poems of Many Years," ISO. 
 
 Poetry — ^what it is and is not, 
 153, 154. 
 
 Polk, James K., 276. 
 
 "Poor Lone Hannah Binding 
 Shoes," poem, 122. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, 154, 254; dis- 
 covery, by Mrs. Gallup, that 
 his translation of the Iliad 
 was introduced by Francis 
 Bacon, by means of cipher, 
 into Burton's "Anatomy of 
 Melancholy," 334. 
 
 Post," « The Boston, mentioned, 
 54. 
 
 Post," "The New York Even- 
 ing, 76, 137. 
 
 "Potiphar Papers," by G. W. 
 Curtis, 265. 
 
 Rameses, 231. 
 
 Raphael, da Urbino, 232. 
 
 Raven," " The, by Poe, trans- 
 lated into German by Bay- 
 ard Taylor, 75. 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan; C. 
 Patmore's opinion of "The 
 Closing Scene" by, 29. 
 
 Reade, Charles, novelist; Al- 
 drich's opinion of " It's Never 
 Too Late To Mend." 
 
 Reeve, Wybert, actor, as Count 
 Fosco, 209. 
 
 Record of the Boston Stage," 
 "A, 55. 
 
 Rehan, Ada, actress, 338. 
 
 Reid, Whitelaw, editor, orator, 
 statesman, 176. 
 
 " Rejected Addresses," men- 
 tioned, 162. 
 
 " RetaUation," 252. 
 
 Revere House, Boston, 135, 
 136. 
 
 Rhoades, James, his elegy on 
 Artemas Ward, 291. 
 
 Rhyme of Rhode Island ancj 
 the Times," "A, by G. W. 
 Curtis, 233. 
 
 Richardson, Samuel, novelist^j 
 80. 
 
 " Rifleman, Shoot Me a Fancj' 
 Shot," 94. 
 
 Ripley, George, at Brook 
 Farm, 229. 
 
 Robinson, Henry Crabb, 275. 
 
402 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Rogers, Samuel; Rufus Choate, 
 on; lines about by Lord 
 Holland; memorable events 
 spanned by his life, 113, 114, 
 115. 
 
 Rogers, Nathaniel P., noted 
 "Abolitionist," 59. 
 
 Rose, George {Arthur Sketch- 
 ley); death, burial at Bromp- 
 ton, 281. See Arthur Sketch- 
 ley. 
 
 Rosenberg, Charles G., drama- 
 tist and journalist, 308. 
 
 Russell, vocalist, 55. 
 
 Russia, the old steamship on 
 which Charles Dickens sailed 
 from New York, 181. 
 
 St Peter's, Rome, 333. 
 
 Sargent, Epes, 55, 296, 297. 
 
 Saturday Evening Gazette," 
 "The Boston, 54, 55. 
 
 Saturday Press," "The New 
 York; author becomes sub-ed- 
 itor; its purpose, 57; F. J. 
 O'Brien and T. B. Aldrich 
 employed on, 66; character 
 of, 60; satire of figure- 
 heads in literature; discon- 
 tinued, 61; 178, 395. 
 
 Savage, Richard, 334. 
 
 Scarlet Petticoat," "The, story, 
 102. 
 
 Scrap of Paper," " A, play, 88. 
 
 Schiller, John Christopher 
 Frederick von, 175. 
 
 Scott, portrait of Edwin Booth 
 as Hamlet by, 374. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, wise remark 
 of, 26; his comment on his 
 writings, 28; refers to Lord 
 Jeffrey; views of poetry and 
 criticism similar to those ex- 
 pressed later by Longfellow, 
 33; 80, 89, 114; method of 
 composition, 155, 207; men- 
 tion of mishap to glass of 
 King George IV, 185, 186; 
 mental similiarity of to 
 Shakespeare, 215; estimate 
 of, as novelist, by WiUde 
 Collins, 319, 328, 352, 254, 
 300; original MS of his Jour- 
 nal, 328, 353. 
 
 Scribners, the, mentioned by 
 Bayard Taylor, 163. 
 
 " Self-Made Men," biographical 
 sketches, by C. B. Seymour, 
 313. 
 
 Senancour, Stephen Pivert de, 
 83 
 
 Seventh Regiment, New York, 
 Fitz-James O'Brien with, 77. 
 
 Sewall, Samuel, 324. 
 
 Sewing Bird," "The, its inspi- 
 ration and drift; singular cir- 
 cumstances of its composi- 
 tion, 72, 73. 
 
 Seymour, Charles B., 308; 
 brief account of his life, 310, 
 et acq.; "Shadows of the 
 Stage," 126, 376. 
 
 Shakespeare, Ter-Centennial 
 Celebration of, 136; blank 
 verse of, 31; 143, 165, 191, 
 219, 226, 333, 334, 353, 354, 
 
INDEX 
 
 403 
 
 256, 276, 282, 331, 332, 333, 
 334, 372. 
 
 Shanly, Charles Dawson, essay- 
 ist and poet; at P faffs, 64, 
 88, 93; writings of and mod- 
 esty about, 94, 95; death, 95, 
 292, 295. 
 
 Shaw, Lemuel G., distinguished 
 judge, 277. 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 25; 
 Tennyson likened to, 40, 114, 
 142, 177, 178, 254; Stedman's 
 poem commemorative of him 
 mentioned, 304. 
 
 Shillaber, Benjamin P., 297. 
 
 Sherman, General William Te- 
 cumseh, 171. 
 
 Shenstone, William, 328. 
 
 Shepherd, Nathan Graham, 
 poet; at Pfaff's, 65, 88, 292. 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 21. 
 
 Siddons, Sarah, 113. 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip, 260. 
 
 Sketchley, Arthur (George 
 Rose), sketch of his career, 
 278, et seq. 
 
 Slave of The Lamp," "The, 
 novel, 68. 
 
 Smith, Alexander, 360. 
 
 Smith, Captain John, 324. 
 
 Smjrth, Albert Henry, brief 
 sketch of his life and career, 
 329, et seq.; his "Life and 
 Works of Franklin," 330. 
 
 "Social Destiny of Man," by 
 Fourier, 69. 
 
 Society of the Army of the Po- 
 tomac, The, 167, 168. 
 
 Sophocles, eccentric Greek tu- 
 tor at Harvard, 302. 
 
 Southey, Robert, his "Curse 
 of Kehama '' contrasted 
 with Byron's "Don Juan," 
 26. 
 
 "Spacious Firmament" (Addi- 
 son), 154. 
 
 Spectator," " The, description 
 of, 266.. 
 
 Sprague, Charles, 81, 250, 
 264. 
 
 Sprat, Thomas, Bishop of Roch- 
 ester, his Life of the poet 
 Abraham Cowley; view as to 
 posthumous publication of 
 personal letters, 351. 
 
 Staten Island, 296. 
 
 S T E D M A N, EDMUND 
 CLARENCE, works of Poe 
 edited by, and George Ed- 
 ward Woodberry, 33; 105, 124; 
 one of his methods in com- 
 position, 156, 163, 173; poem 
 on Greeley mentioned, 176, 
 177; poem of " Bohemia," 178, 
 179, 243; meeting in com- 
 memoration of, 292, 293, 295; 
 friendship of fifty years with 
 the author; wide knowledge 
 of authors, 297, 304, 305; let- 
 ter from, about death of Al- 
 bert Henry Smyth, 335. 
 
 Steele, Sir Richard, 254. 
 
 Sterne, Laurence, Rev., 255. 
 
 Stoddard, Lorimer, 163. 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry, 45, 
 139; method in composition. 
 
404 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 ISS; 163, 177, 178, 264, 293, 
 
 294, 295, 305. 
 Stoddard, Mrs. Richard Henry 
 
 (Elizabeth Barstow), 163, 177. 
 Stoepel, Robert, 100. 
 Story, William Wetmore; his 
 
 "Cleopatra," 22. 
 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher, 
 
 21. 
 Strahan & Co., London, 175. 
 Sumner, Charles, assault on, 
 
 237, 243. 
 Swift, Rev. Jonathan, 297, 328. 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 
 
 291. 
 Symonds, Willliam Law, 88. 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD, poet, 
 novelist; anecdote of; " Echo 
 Club " by, 161, letter from, 162 ; 
 parodies Longfellow's " Psalm 
 of Life," 164; iinest poem 
 of, 165; characteristic letter 
 from, about his poems, 166; 
 participates in Declaration 
 of Independence jubilee, at 
 Pliiladelptiia, 1876 ; delivers his 
 Ode, with great effect, Phila- 
 delphia, 1876; characteristic 
 letter from, about that event, 
 169, 170; quality of his poetic 
 expression; themes congenial 
 with; particular poems of, 
 mentioned, 172; characteris- 
 tic letters from, about his 
 poems and travels, 173, 175; 
 lectures in Germany, in the 
 German language, on Ameri- 
 
 can literature, 175; hopeful 
 quality of his mind indicated, 
 176; group of writers to 
 which he belonged; strong 
 affection of his nature, 177; 
 spirit of his poetry, 178; ten- 
 derness of, 178; was not of 
 the " Bohemian " group, 178 
 spirit and personality of, 179 
 personal appearance, 179 
 grave of and epitaph, 180 
 293, 295; characterized by Ed- 
 gar Poe, 296; Life of, by Al- 
 bert Henry Smyth, 332. 
 
 Taylor, Douglas, antiquarian 
 and publisher, N. Y., 138. 
 
 Taylor, Lillian, daughter of 
 Bayard, 174. 
 
 Taylor, Rev. " Father," Boston, 
 276. 
 
 Temple Chufth, London, 147. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, first Lord, 
 21; on Shakespeare, 35; 
 thought himself humorous; 
 his allusion to Shelley, 40; 61, 
 254, 360, 361. 
 
 Thaxter, Adam Wallace, dra- 
 matic critic, 55. 
 
 Terry, EUen, actress, 371. 
 
 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 
 89; as to poetry, 154; 218, 
 254; his early high estimate 
 of George WiUiam Curtis, as 
 a writer, 257; 267. 
 
 Thomson, Mortimer, humorist, 
 (pen name Q. K. Philander 
 Doeitieki, P. B.), 318. 
 
 Thompson, Launt, sculptor; his 
 
INDEX 
 
 405 
 
 bust of Edwin Booth as 
 
 Hamlet mentioned, 66, 374. 
 Threnody on the death of 
 
 George William Curtis by W. 
 
 W., 370, et seq. 
 Tickell, Thomas, his apostrophe 
 
 to Addison, 131. 
 Ticknor, William D., publisher, 
 
 360, 365. 
 Times," " The New York, men- 
 tioned, 76. 
 Tower of the Four Winds, home 
 
 of Elihu Vedder, at Capri, 
 
 Italy, 319. 
 Tower Hill, London, 226. 
 Transcript," "The Boston, Si, 
 
 134, 135. 
 Tribune," " The New York, 136, 
 
 162, 168, 174. 
 Trumbull, John, 324. 
 Tupper, Martin Farquhar, and 
 
 his "Proverbial Philosophy," 
 
 30; popularity of, 61. 
 
 " Uncle Tom's Cabin," men- 
 tioned, 81; effect of, 237. 
 Underwood, Francis H.,editor, 93. 
 
 "Vanity Fair," comic paper of 
 vital service to the "Bohe- 
 mians," 76. 
 
 Vedder, Elihu, 319. 
 
 Veiled Muse," " The, 176. 
 
 Voice of the Silence," "The, 
 read at Philadelphia, by au- 
 thor, 170, 171, 172. 
 
 Webster, Prof. John W., cele- 
 brated murder case of, 277. 
 
 Webster, Daniel, statesman and 
 orator; first seen by author, 
 112; oratorical power of, 243, 
 277. 
 
 Weed, Thurlow, statesman, 185. 
 
 Wesley, Rev. John, 267. 
 
 Westminister Abbey, mention 
 of, 31 ; grave of Charles Dick- 
 ens in. 
 
 Weekly Review," "The New 
 York, 283. 
 
 Wheatleigh, Charles, actor; in 
 "Young New York," 88. 
 
 Whig Review," " The, 76. 
 
 Whipple, Edwin P., 55, 56, 107; 
 meeting with Rufus Choate, 
 110; 343, 297, 303; letter by 
 him, about author's com- 
 memoration of Longfellow, 
 
 • 245, 360. 
 
 White, Henry Kirke, his birth- 
 place, 340. 
 
 White, Gilbert, Rev., of Sel- 
 borne, 328. 
 
 Whitman, Walt, (originally 
 Walter), English admiration 
 of; unoriginal style, 30; at 
 Pfaffs; his appearance and 
 demeanor, 64, 88, 89; speci- 
 men of his peculiar "elo- 
 quence," 91 ; acquaintance 
 with, and remark about au- 
 thor; also about T. B. Al- 
 drich, 140; 154, 393, 293. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf; his 
 " Mantle of St. John de Ma- 
 tha," 22; his poetry, 85, 107, 
 123; poem by him translated 
 
406 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 into German hy Bayard 
 Taylor, 176; 264; mention of, 
 by Holmes, 348; and by Edna 
 Dean Proctor, 349, 370. 
 
 Wilhorst, Cora de, first appear- 
 ance of, in opera, 86. 
 
 Wilkins, Mrs. Marie, actress, 
 197. 
 
 Wilkins, Edward G. P.; early 
 experience in journalism; 
 joins staff of " The New York 
 Herald," wins favor of James 
 Gordon Bennett; friendship 
 of Mme. Cora de Wilhorst 
 for; prominent among the 
 "Bohemians," 84, 85, 86; in- 
 troduces the dramatic feuil- 
 leton, in " The Saturday 
 Press," 87; his dramatic com- 
 positions, 88; fatal illness; 
 author's last hours with; his 
 death, 86, 87; 95. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Parker, poet; 
 45; dandyism, 48, 136, 139, 
 264, 296. 
 
 Wniiams, Roger, 324. 
 
 Wilson, Henry, senator, 337. 
 
 Winship, Margaret, Mrs. Sol. 
 Eytinge, 318. 
 
 Winter, Captain Charles; au- 
 thor's father (1800-'78), death 
 and burial at Cambridge, 
 Mass.; see dedication. 
 
 Winter, Louis Victor, author's 
 son, mentioned, 128. 
 
 Winter, William; author; refer- 
 ence to, by J. F. Francis; his 
 homage to Longfellow, 50; 
 
 member of the Suffolk Bar, 
 Mass., 56; personal experi- 
 ence with F. J. O'Brien, 70, 
 71; student at Dane Law 
 School, Harvard College; ad- 
 vice to, by Theophilus Par- 
 sons, concerning Law and Lit- 
 erature, 79; early experience 
 of hardship. New York liter- 
 ary life, mentioned, 82; on 
 the comparative requirements 
 of Comedy and Tragedy, in 
 Acting, 126; early employ- 
 ment of, 133, 134; removes to 
 New York City, 136; asso- 
 ciated with "The New York 
 Saturday Press," as sub-edi- 
 tor, 137; on poetry, 156, 165; 
 agrees to deliver poem at 
 Centenary Celebration of the 
 Signing of the Declaration of 
 Independence, 168; delivers 
 poem before the Society of 
 the Army of the Potomac, 
 170, 171, 173; speaker for 
 Fremont, 340. 
 
 Winthrop, Theodore, reference 
 to, by G. W. Curtis, 227. 
 
 Withers, Reuben, 86. 
 
 Woman in White," "The, 
 209. 
 
 Wondersmith," " The, story, 67, 
 69, 70. 
 
 Wood, Frank, journalist, death 
 of, 65; 88. 
 
 Wordsworth, William, 24; lack 
 of humor, 40; 108; 114, 122, 
 134, 155, 254. 
 
INDEX 
 
 407 
 
 World," "The New York, 
 started (1860), 136, 293. 
 
 Writers, increase of, men- 
 tioned, 81; hard time for, on 
 eve of Civil War, 82; those 
 who are never heard of, 83; 
 detraction of their merit fre- 
 quent in American criticism, 
 92. 
 
 Walden, Thomas Blades de, 
 dramatist, 88. 
 
 Walker of the Snow," "The, 
 by Shanly, 93. 
 
 Wallack, Lester (John John- 
 stone Wallack), actor, 76; 
 produced " Henriette " (" A 
 Scrap of Paper"), 267; his 
 treatment of MS. play by 
 T. B. Aldrich, and conse- 
 quence, 372. 
 
 Wallace, William Ross, 296. 
 
 Wallis, George H.; curator of 
 the Museum at Nottingham; 
 anecdote by, about Philip 
 James Bailey, 341. 
 
 Walton, Izaak, 328, 
 
 WARD, ARTEMUS (Charles 
 Farrar Brown, see also under 
 that head), at PfafTs; desig- 
 nation by, of the " Bohe- 
 mians," 89; sketch of his 
 career, with anecdotes, 284, 
 et seq., 285, 290. 
 
 "Waring" poem, mentioned, 83. 
 
 Warner, Charles Dudley, 243. 
 
 Warren, Samuel, his "Ode" 
 mentioned, 30. 
 
 Washington, George, 262, 263, 
 269. 
 
 Watts, Mrs. Alaric, her alleged 
 spiritual impartment from 
 Francis Bacon, 333. 
 
 Waud, Albert R., artist, letter 
 from, about O'Brien, 104; 319. 
 
 Waud, William, artist, 319. 
 
 Young, John Russell, 163. 
 "Young New York," comedy, 87. 
 Young, Edward, Rev. Dr., 154. 
 
 Zutphen, Sir Philip Sidney at 
 battle of, 260. 
 
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