FOR HER FRIENDS AND MINE FOR HER FRIENDS AND MINE: A Book °f Aspirations, Dreams and Memories BY ERWIN Fv SMITH PRINTED PRIVATELY Washington. D. C. 1915 l^i^^Ulc^/A^ U^spA-^- tf %. -?. s aper of which this is No.-ZA Five hundred and ten copies of this book have been printe* on Italian hand-made paper of which this is or-w+u. Press of Gibson Bros.. Inc. Washington, D. C. ' .•' 3 l 17 IN MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE MAY BUFFETT Sometime Wife of ERWIN F. SMITH Born: October 8, 1871, Cleveland, Ohio Married: April 13, 1893, Easton, Maryland Died: December 28, 1906, Washington, D. C. For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! — Keats. God hath her with Himself eternally, Yet she inhabits every hour with thee. — Cino da Pisloia (Rossetti's translation). Ce que l'homme ici-bas appelle le genie, C'est le besoin d'aimer; hors de la tout est vain. — Alfred de Musset. "The sea she loved makes music here alway, Repeating loud or low, and night and day, Its world-old song of change, and then of sleep!" TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE. Proem, 16 Note, . '7 Baracoa, 47 Naples, 51 In Memoriam, 55 ODES AND SONGS. Fortitude, 61 The Bells of Santo Spirito 62 Cienfuegos, 70 On the Blue Sea 75 A Summer Song, 77 A Child's Song, 79 First Day Out, 80 Nightfall, 81 Fair Weather, 82 Midnight, 83 Innisfree, 84 A Love Song, 85 SONNETS. I. Music at Home 89 II. The Love of Art, 90 III. Summer Seas, 91 IV. Evenings with Books, 92 V. Robert Louis Stevenson, 93 VI. Confucius, 94 VII. Dead Loves, 95 VIII. Migratory Birds, 96 IX. Her Grave and Mine: September, 97 X. An Autumn Storm, 98 XI to XIV. Baracoa: 1904, 99-102 XV. Remembrance, 103 XVI. Her Grave and Mine: Morning and Evening, . . . 104 XVII. The Old Faith and the New, 105 XVIII. Beethoven (I) 106 9 PAGE XIX. Beyond, 107 XX. Thomas Carlyle, 108 XXI. Jane Welsh Carlyle, 109 XXII. The Two Multitudes, no XXIII. Mata Harbor, m XXIV. April Days, ii 2 XXV. The Graveyard at Mata, n 3 XXVI. On Reading Pierre Loti's Pecheur d'Islande, . . 114 XXVII. Baracoa (V), n 5 XXVIII. Insomnia, . 116 XXIX. The Early Light, 117 XXX. Purity, 118 XXXI. The Dark Shadow, n 9 XXXII. Strange Pets, 12 o XXXIII. Summer Polk, 121 XXXrV Woods Hole, 122 XXXV. Grace and Beauty, 123 XXXVI. The Nobska Shore, 124 XXXVII. The Hidden Truth, 125 XXXVIII. Slaughter of Jews in Russia, 126 XXXIX. The Earth Mother, 127 XL. Edwin Booth's Room at the Players' Club, . . 128 XLI. Spring at Elmwood, 129 XLII. The Distant Airship, 130 XLIII. Immanuel Kant, 131 XLIV. Walden Pond, . 132 XLV. Meissonier's Cavalier, 133 XLVI. Beethoven (II), 134 XLVII. Compassion, 135 XLVIII. The Bride of the Sea, 136 XLIX. Wedded Life, 137 L. Her Face, 138 LI. Her Grave and Mine: November, .... 139 LIL De Profundis, 140 LIII. The Divine Love, 141 LIV. Victor Hugo, 142 LV. Louisa May Alcott, 143 LVI. Ralph Waldo Emerson, 144 LVII. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 145 LVIII. Halley's Comet, 146 LIX. Dante, 147 LX. Dante in Ravenna, 148 LXI. Swedenborg, 149 LXII. The Fellowship of Saints, 150 10 PAGE LXIII. Day-Dreams, 151 LXIV. Penzance, 152 LXV. The Wet Street, 153 LXVI. Mutability (I), 154 LXVII. Buddha: A Prayer, 155 LXVIII. Hawthorne's Hillside Walk, 156 LXDC. After Reading Frederic Harrison, 157 LXX. April XIII, 158 LXXI. Eastertide, 159 LXXII. The Arctic Night, 160 LXXIII. To Marie Bashkirtseff, 161 LXXIV. God and the Universe, 162 LXXV. Theodore Parker, 163 LXXVI. The Bridal May, 164 LXXVII. Influence, 165 LXXVIII. Homer, 166 LXXIX. An August Night (I), 167 LXXX. A Summer Lansdcape, 168 LXXXI. Circe, 169 LXXXII. Goethe when Old, 170 LXXXIII. The Dead City, 171 LXXXI V. Rain on the Roof, . . . . . . . . 172 LXXXV. The Harmonies of Life, 173 LXXXVI. The Universal God, 174 LXXXVII. Late Autumn in Washington, 175 LXXXVIII. A Cuban Valley, 176 LXXXDC. Yumurl Gorge, 177 XC. Spinoza, 178 XCI. The Sabbath Before the Passover, . . . . 179 XCII. Vesuvius, 180 XCIII. The Mystery of Life, 181 XCIV. Keats, 182 XCV. Shelley's Grave, 183 XCVI. The Dead Poet, 184 XCVII. Tolstoi when Old 185 XCVIII. Jesus, 186 XCIX. Science, 187 C. Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani 188 CI. (See Proem) CII. Compensation, 189 OIL A Child's Spirit, 190 CIV. Poesy, 191 CV. The Body of God, 192 CVI. Henrietta Retian 193 11 PAGE CVII. The Nile, 194 CVIII. Ygdrasil, 195 CIX. The Twilight of the Gods, 196 CX. Paestum, 197 CXI. An August Night (II) 198 CXII. Self-Renunciation, . . ... . . . . 199 CXIII. Prayers for the Dead, ....... 200 CXIV. The Epic Muse, 201 CXV. Motherhood, 202 CXVI. Race Hatred, 203 CXVII. Old Letters, 204 CXVIII. Sea-Gardens, 205 CXIX. The Hemlocks of My Boyhood, 206 CXX. The Shining Ones, 207 CXXI. Chopin, 208 CXXII. The Palace of Tears 209 CXXIII. April at Woods Hole, - 210 CXXIV. Robert Browning 211 CXXV. Richard Wagner's Autobiography, . . . . 212 CXXVI. A Vase of Opal Glass, 213 CXXVII. Beyond Posilipo, 214 CXXVIII. Fields and Woods, 215 CXXIX. Frederick W. Robertson, 216 CXXX. Reminiscence (Ed. Remenyi), 217 CXXXI. De Imitatione Christi, 218 CXXXII. The Apennines, 219 CXXXIII. Fog on Shore, 220 CXXXrV. Fog at Sea (I), 221 CXXXV. Mystic and Half Mystic, 222 CXXXVI. The Geological Record, 223 CXXXVII. Companionship, 224 CXXXVIII. Wordsworth, 225 CXXXIX. George Gissing, 226 CXL. The Western Alps from Varese, 227 CXLL Winter Days, 228 CXLII. First Love, 229 CXLIII. Sur "L'Intime" de Pierre Lenoir, 230 CXLIV. Persephone, 231 CXLV. Ideals, 232 CXLVI. On the Kahlenberg, 233 CXLVII. The Sonnets of Heredia, 234 CXLVIII. The Wind Harp, 235 CXLIX. The Sleep of Plants, 236 CL. The Vegetarian, 237 CLI. The Darwinian, . 238 12 PAGE CLII. April in the North, 239 CLIII. My Mother's Garden, 240 CLIV. Graves near Baltimore 241 CLV. The Avon, 242 CLVI. Evangeline, 243 CLVII. To Gutzon Borglura, 244 CLVIII. Catullus, 245 CLIX. June, ■ .... 246 CLX. Da Vinci, 247 CLXI. Sister Joseph, 248 CLXII. Grant's Point, Oronoco, Minn 249 CLXIII. My Church, 250 CLXIV. Jane and Thomas 251 CLXV. Tintagel, 252 CEXVI. Richard Jefferies, 253 CLXVII. Beethoven (III) 254 CLXVIII. Baudelaire, 255 CLXIX. Moliere, 256 CLXX. Richard Wagner 257 CLXXI. The Poet, 258 CLXXII. II Cinquecento, 259 CLXXIII. Alpenlander, 260 CLXXrV. SanRemo, 261 CLXXV. Transmutation, 262 CLXXVI. Minerva: A prayer, 263 CLXXVII. (See L'envoi), CLXXVIII. The Pessimists, 264 CLXXIX. To Margery, 265 CLXXX. Helen B 266 CLXXXI. Stonehenge (I) 267 CLXXXII. The Valley of the Danube 268 CLXXXIII. Stonehenge (II), 269 CLXXXIV. Entombment of Christ 270 CLXXXV. Milton, England and Liberty, 271 CLXXXVI. Nature and God, 272 CLXXXVII. Three Voices out of the Past and an Answer, . 273 CLXXXVIII. The Far East, 274 CLXXXIX. The Art of Healing 275 CXC. Alfoxden Wood, 276' CXCI. Shelley's Italy 277 CXCII. Mutability (II), 278 CXCIII. Cenacolo Vinciano, 279 CXCIV. For a Place in the Sun 280 CXCV. A Snow Storm in the Woods 281 CXCVI. Scandal, 282 CXCVII. Vastness, 283 13 TRANSLATIONS. From the German. PAGE I. A May Song — Goethe, 293 II. The Godlike— Goethe, 295 III. The Powers Above Us — Goethe, . . . . . 298 IV. The Wanderer's Night Song — Goethe, .... 299 V. A Fragment — Goethe, ' . 300 VI. Farewell to Life — Koerner, 301 VII. The Dead Maiden— Uhland, 302 VIII. Lotus-Love — Heine, 303 IX. May-time — Heine, 304 X. A Dead Love — Heine, 305 XI. Twilight— Heine, 306 XII. Luck in Love — Heine, 308 XIII. Philosophy — Heine, 309 XIV. A Dream — Heine, 310 XV. The Devil — Heine, 313 XVI. A Warning — Heine, 314 XVII. Night Thoughts— Heine, 315 XVIII. The Weavers — Heine, 317 XIX. Poesie — Kerner, 319 XX. The Heart — Neumann, ■ . . 320 XXI. The Human Will— Hammer, 321 XXII. The Heart's Answer — Halm, 322 XXIII. Co-workers with God — Spitta, 323 XXIV. At Sea— Griin, 324 XXV. The Water Lily— Geibel, 326 XXVI. I Sailed From St. Goar— Geibel, 327 XXVII. The Gipsy Boy in the North— Geibel, .... 329 XXVIII. The Forest— Ambrosius, 332 XXIX. First Love — Ambrosius, 333 XXX. Home Coming — Ambrosius, 334 XXXI. Womanhood — Rodenberg, 335 XXXII. Madchenlied — Nietzsche, 336 From the French and Italian. XXXIII. The Antique Medal — Heredia, 341 XXXIV. Michael Angelo — Heredia, 34 2 XXXV. Oblivion— Heredia, 343 XXXVI. Stoicism— Menard, 344 XXXVII — XXXIX. The Vision of Khem— Heredia, . 345-347 XL. May- time — Marradi, 348 14 PAGE XLI. For Helen — Ronsard, 349 XLII. Marsyas — Heredia, 350 XLIII. Sur le livre des Amours de Pierre de Ronsard — Heredia . 35 1 XLIV. Gilded Vellum— Heredia, 352 XLV. The Conch— Heredia, 353 XLVI. A Gothic Window — Heredia, 354 XL VII. A Rising Sea— Heredia, 355 XLVIII. May-time in Florence — Marradi, 356 XLIX. The Spring — Heredia, 357 L. The Athlete— Menard 358 LI. Homer — Carducci, . . 359 LII. Virgil — Carducci, 360 LIII. Alastor — Menard, 361 LIV. Erinnyes — Menard, 362 LV. Dante — Carducci 363 LVI. The Gulf— Baudelaire, 364 LVII. To Dante Alighieri — Michael Angelo, .... 365 LVIII. The Abyss— Victor Hugo, 367 L'envoi 379 TEXT CUTS. PAGE The Vanishing Sail . 46 Baracoa Harbor, April, 1904 50 Eruption of Vesuvius, April 8, 1906 54 Sunset 58 A farm on the Vesuvian plain after the lava flow of 1906 . . 86 Harbor Entrance at Baracoa — "The ocean thunders at her doors" 284 The Eel Pond at Woods Hole 288 A Corner of the Golf Links at Woods Hole 292 The Buoy Station on Little Harbor at Woods Hole . . . . 338 Fishing Boats on Little Harbor — in the background, at the right, her favorite bank and pine tree 340 Racing Boats on Little Harbor at Woods Hole 366 Fog at Sea 37 8 The Nobska Shore 380 15 PROEM. My words are bubbles tossed from spirit wells; Thin cupfuls dipped from ocean's sounding shore And as libation poured, forevermore, To one who now within the silence dwells; Thin strains that tell, but as faint echo tells, The world of song, in joy and sorrow heard, Ringing within me clear as song of bird, Or notes of deep-toned vibrant golden bells. Yet bubbles oft do mirror heaven's blue, How fugitive soe'er their colors are, And echo's faintest cry borne from afar, Oft thrills the soul with days forgotten long But loved full well : so may my rhymes in you Find echo, stirring deeps of spirit song! At 1474 Belmont Street, Sunday, January 28, 191 2. 16 NOTE. I would present a luminous and beautiful personality so vividly that it shall live again in those who knew it once, and shall become alive to kindred souls who meet it here for the first time. Vain effort, I fear: human nature is so large, life touches life at so many points, and words are so elusive. This is a book about a woman, and written principally for women (her friends and mine). I doubt if any man cares much about it unless he is a poet, or a lover, or some old man dreaming of days that come not again, except in dreams. Of all the women I have known and reverenced, this woman best satisfied my ideals, and of all her traits that which deepest impressed itself upon me was her divine simplicity, a character- istic of all really great souls. This spiritual loveliness which she possessed in no small measure is so precious an inheritance that for the joy of the world I would make her portion of it known more widely and a longer time, in the spirit of one who sings heart songs, gives flowers, paints beautiful pictures, carves marble into forms of lasting delight, or simply offers the cup of cold water to him who is thirsty. Her life was a simple and quiet life. It is interesting not for what it accomplished in concrete measurable products, but for what it was as a spiritual development. She excelled in clear seeing and right thinking, in high ideality and pure devotion to truth. Her unselfish love shone always as a clear flame. The world is not yet so full of the best things that there is not room for more, and of all things love is best. It is blossom and fruit of the tree of life. The man who has not plucked it and eaten and been lifted out of himself and up to the level of the gods is still in his sins. Let him cry mea culpa and ask to be forgiven, not of God, but of womankind. Next to love stands memory, and the record of love. 17 So I shall write briefly and frankly, as best I can, the simple story of one who was dear, and of whom might have been said that which Hugo says of the blind girl, Dea: C'etait une nature rare. * * * Le corps Stait fragile, le coeur non. Ce qui etait le fond de son itre, c'etait une divine perseverance d' amour. This book is a cycle of my life — seven lonely years are in it. The long ode (on page 62) is a cry of pain. It is so intimate that I was tempted at times to leave it out, but could not finally decide to do so, because other verses also, especially many of the sonnets, are intimate, and if I began to discard there appeared to be no good place to stop, and because an author is not always the best judge of his own work. Often what seemed to me good at first became uncertain. Indeed, many times I have been dis- posed to suppress all of these verses, especially after enjoying the noble diction of the great poets, but in the end I decided to publish all, particularly as the judgment of critical friends to whom I showed them differed widely as to which were most interesting. Nothing has been more illuminating to me than these varying judgments. The sonnets in particular have been a labor of love. They were begun without any notion of what they would grow to. After a time, I thought that possibly I might succeed in writing as many as thirty-five, one for each year of her life — these to portray only certain salient phases of her spirit. Eventually, it seemed to me that I might express in this form her whole intellectual life and my own, especially those ideas and feelings we shared in common. With this end in view I jotted down several hundred titles of things most interesting to us and, as the sonnets took form, erased from my sheets one title after another, but as often added others, so that I did not seem to get any nearer to the end. Of late it has become increasingly evident, owing to the scant time at my disposal for literary work, that the scheme cannot 18 be carried out, and perhaps it is better that it should not be, since a part of a thing is very often much better than the whole. There can be no harm, however, in giving the titles of those that remain scrappy or unwritten, as an indication of our likes and dislikes, and also as a sort of supplementary confession of faith, curious in some respects, I am aware, for a scientific man to make. Nevertheless, I have no apologies to offer, literature, philosophy and art being quite as interesting to me as science, and also in my judgment quite as useful to the higher interests of the world. Each has its own place and marches under its own banner. Eventually all may be expected to reach the same camp. Those who are not interested may skip my cata- logue of ships. The translations, particularly those from the German, have also a personal interest not apparent on the surface, since most of them are poems we read together in the original, many times over, especially those of Heine. The photograph prepared by Mr. Edmonston is an enlarge- ment of one I made of her at the sea shore in the summer of 1903 and is very characteristic both in pose and expression. It was my intention to put into type a prose sketch of her life, but the verse has crowded it out. The reader, however, may like to have the appended pages of memoranda and also this brief judgment of her character written by me in the sum- mer following her death, and engraved on the back of the bronze bust of her made by Mr. U. S. J. Dunbar, the sculptor: A large, compassionate soul, patient and brave; self -forget- ful, self-reliant, slow to anger; loyal, companionable; sweet and gracious in all her ways; a skilled house- wife, fond of her own home and the still inner life; devoted to music and art, to lan- guages and literature; a lover of Nature and of all noble and beautiful things; endowed with a large sense of humor; a keen observer; kind to animals, greatly interested in their habits; 19 forgiving easily all vices of human weakness ; resenting bitterly all deliberate cruelty and injustice. "Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure." The following outlines were designed to form the basis of the prose sketch. Ancestry. French Huguenot and English. Father: Dr. Lewis Buffett (183 7-1 901). Mother: Anna Virginia Perry (1836- 1882). Brother: Norman P. Buffett. Both father and mother were born near Troy, N. Y. Early Life. Cleveland, Ohio. Easton, Maryland. Influence of the Case Library. Farm life in Maryland. Mother died early. Lonely repressed life after this. Few girl friends. Equable disposition. Married Life. Housekeeping. Marketing. Cuisine. Marri- age was for her the entrance into a new and rich life. We were well-mated and never had any disputes. She was not cold or formal or lacking in sensibility, but she had great and very unusual control over her feelings. I never saw her angry but once, and only once before her last illness did I see her shed tears. Then she was tortured with inter- costal rheumatism and every breath was a knife-thrust. The fierce and blazing anger was at a man cruelly beating an overloaded horse, and it was effective. Love of Music. Very great, especially for Beethoven. She played mostly what is called classical music. Many of her sentiments and emotions found expression in the music of the great masters. Love of Books. The books we read together: Dramatists, poets, novelists, essayists — Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, Browning, Schiller, Goethe, Heine, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Emerson, Lowell, Whittier, Matthew Arnold, German lyric poets, Theocritus, Homer, and many more. She took great delight in Charles Lamb; Dickens was her favorite novelist (mine also) ; Epictetus her beloved Greek. Longfellow and Washington Irving were favorites of her girlhood. In later life, Heine and Robert Browning were her best loved poets. She thought Browning more spirit- ually robust than Tennyson. At the theater she did not like to hear tragedy. It made her too sad, she said. Fond of folklore. Eager to read about old Egypt. School Training. This was limited to the high school. Eatin and Greek: scanty. Modem Languages. Great facility in their acquisition. German readings with me. French, ditto. Italian readings. The year following her marriage she read all of Grimm's Maer- chen (700 pages) three times: first, alone, then with me, then once more to fix the idioms and new words. This was her first attempt at German. After that she was able to read anything and did read many things, novels, poems, plays. Manual Dexterity. Piano; needle work; basket work. Never had any art training yet made all her own designs. She had short fingers but played the piano very well, though scarcely ever in public. Love of Nature and the Beautiful. Delicate touch and keen audition. Eye for color and form. Love of the open air: field, forest, sky, open water, sunrise and sunset. The flash of lightning, the sound of rain on the roof, the noise of wind among the branches, the wailing of the sea, all spoke to her unutterable things. She was fond of art and eager to see Italy, especially the galleries of the old masters. With this end in view she had read widely on the history of art. Her tastes were simple. She thought that we over decorate our homes and that the Japanese idea of simplicity in household decoration is nearer right. In figure and move- ment she was very graceful. People frequently turned to look at her. She sometimes made her own clothes, and often made and decorated her own hats because she could not find beautiful combinations in the shops. She thought the usual dressmaker and milliner very destitute of ideas and good taste, and that there ought to be a fine opening in these trades for women who have a true feeling for harmony of colors, and some sense of the eternal fitness of things. Often she said: If I were left alone to earn my livelihood, I would try this. She dressed simply and harmoniously, and loved beautiful and simple adornments. Her face suggested Mary Anderson's. Scientific Side. Phenomenal powers of observation. Interested not in structure or classification, but only or chiefly in the habits of animals : spiders, bees, wasps, ants, reptiles, birds, quadrupeds ; ant battles and slave raids, nesting habits and nuptial flights ; habits of solitary bees and of solitary wasps ; spiders weaving webs, capturing prey; songs of birds, nesting habits, feeding of the young, migrations. She was less interested in plants. Note-taking irksome. Rarely did she record what she saw. Kindness to Animals. This was almost Buddhistic but not wholly consistent since she ate sparingly of animal food. Great love for horses and dogs. Lost dogs. Tired horses. Stray cats. Often I have seen her stop to pet and say a kind word to some forlorn horse or dog or cat and always the animal responded. Her father taught her to love all dumb things. Not an anti-vivisectionist — too level-headed and intelligent. She understood very well what the earnest experimenter is trying to do for afflicted humanity, and also for the domestic animals. Sense of Humor. Very keen. If there was a comical side to a situation she always saw it. A large, tolerant, sympathetic spirit. Very generous. Very considerate. Never sarcastic. Never cynical. Love for Children, and the Poor and Oppressed. The mother heart was strong in her, but no children were born. Always she had sympathy for the poor, the unfortunate, and the aged. Her chief regret was that she had not been able to reach and help more people. Once she said: I think our lives are too selfish. All sorts of people interested her. In Italy the peasants loved her. Social Side. Few friends, but good ones. The Reading Circle. The Eistophos Club. Quiet raillery at the clamorous news- paper- and club-woman forever seeking notoriety. She had a gentle winning voice, but was taciturn rather than loqua- cious. The passionate outcry of women for their "rights," of which we hear so much in these days, passed over her head like a confused clamor of cranes, a noise devoid of sense. She seemed to think her sisters of this type desti- tute of humor, as indeed many of them are, or they would not make such spectacles of themselves. We went out but little in the later years, owing partly to the increasing weakness of her heart, and partly also to my absorption in scientific work, but the house was always open to our friends, and many were the delightful little gatherings we had, especially on Sunday evenings. Generally we had a supper and then readings from the poets. Her quaint and original way of saying things riveted attention. When we were alone one or the other often read aloud. Ethics and Religion. Many talks on man's nature and destiny in the still watches of the night when we could not sleep. Her agnosticism. Her charity towards views with which she had no sympathy. She disliked disputes and was often silent under great provocation, lest her plainly spoken words should give pain to the weaker brother or sister. Very few of her acquaintances knew what she really thought. Self reliant. Philosophy of life: stoic. Endurance of physical pain: very great. Prayer: An outreaching, sym- pathetic, helpful life is the best prayer, and this she prayed daily and continuously. She seldom read the Bible and had no church affiliation. We undertook to read together the Prophet Jeremiah, as literature, but she voted him a great bore, and I believe we did not get any farther with the Prophets, although I had a feeling that she might have liked Isaiah. The Life to Come. Our doubts. She often said : If there is any life after death, I believe we shall begin it as the little child begins this life, groping about and becoming acquainted first with this and then with that new wonderful thing. 23 Last Days. Throughout her last illness which continued for eight months, confining her most of the time to her bed, her fortitude and patience were very great. Messages from the sick bed to her friends. Her thoughtfulness for her friends, even when dying. When we discovered and I told her that she had endocarditis with a streptococcal infection of the blood-stream, her first thought was not of herself but of her Italian friends. She feared lest they should have contracted the disease from her, by way of fleas which infested Varese, where she was ill for a long time, and great was her relief when I told her I did not think it possible and gave my reasons. When on the morn- ing of the last day I said to her that she must die, she re- plied, thinking no doubt of the infinite pain and weariness of it all, "I hope I shall die soon." These were the only words of repining I heard. In that dark hour I cheered her as best I could, bidding her hold out patiently and bravely to the very end, reading to her Browning's Prospice, Milton's sonnet On his blindness, and from her beloved Epictetus these words : "Even as in a sea voyage, when the ship is brought to anchor, and you go out to fetch in water, you make a by-work of gathering a few roots and shells by the way, but have need ever to keep your mind fixed on the ship, and constantly to look round, lest at any time the master of the ship call, and you must, if he call, cast away all those things, lest you be treated like the sheep that are bound and thrown into the hold: So it is with human life also. And if there be given wife and children instead of shells and roots, nothing shall hinder us to take them. But if the master call, run to the ship, forsaking all those things, and looking not behind. And if thou be in old age, go not far from the ship at any time, lest the master should call, and thou be not ready." And later when I spoke to her of God and repeated the lord's Prayer with her, she said: "I trust Him." She was conscious to the very end and these were almost her last words. These, and the difficultly whispered name of a dear friend with the one added word — "love!" There was nothing selfish or petty in this woman's soul and to share her life as I did for thirteen years, was to dwell con- tinuously in the temple of God! 24 A few of the above topics being partly written out, may be given here for what they are worth. Charlotte May Buffett was a slender, delicate child, rather reserved and shy, much given to the reading of books, and often to be found in the children's room of the Case Library, in Cleve- land, deep in some beautiful treasure. Often she spoke to me of this library and the delightful hours she had spent in it. A long and severe arthritis when she was a small girl left her with a weak heart and stiffened joints, but her good father patiently massaged her until finally she recovered entirely the use of her limbs, yet the heart injury remained. She had, therefore, throughout life, in whatever she did, to consider whether her weak heart would permit it. The girl and her father were alike in many ways, and were very intimate during these early formative years. He taught her many interesting and useful things. From him she inherited or acquired broad and tolerant sympathies, and especially a great fondness for animals. He taught her to observe natural objects closely and to reflect on what she saw. The house was always full of pets of one sort or another, often queer ones, e. g., small alligators. After her marriage we had in the house a wild alley cat, a pair of green lizards, a small snapping turtle, two rabbits (my weakness), various fledgling birds, several Australian grass-parrakeets, some Cuban lightning beetles (until the supply of sugar cane gave out), and a nest of ants. Her father must also have shaped her reading, more or less. She read a great deal in those early years, and generally of the best. Early also that rhythmic grace, peculiar to her, began to find its natural expression in music. Under good teachers she became devoted to the piano, playing the things she liked with sure touch and much feeling. Here also the things she liked 25 were the best things. She often spoke very kindly of her Cleveland music teacher, a woman whose name I have forgotten. Attendance at school seems to have been rather desultory, being broken more or less by illness during those Cleveland years. Summers, the family went into the country, which was her supreme delight. Here were woods, and a lake, and all sorts of interesting things to see and do, especially animals to be observed. She finished the grammar school in Cleveland, I believe, and afterwards had three years or thereabouts of a classical course in the high school in Easton, Maryland. The fourth year's work was dropped by the advice of her father on account of delicate health. During these years she read some Latin, and a little Greek, and much English literature. She did not like mathematics. Her Maryland years from 16 to 22 were spent on the Miles River farm, where I first met her. They were lonely years which did much to mature her mind and fix her character. Congenial companions were few and her home life unhappy. She was thrown back, therefore, very much on herself and what she could get out of books, music, and nature. The amusements on the Miles River farm were not very numerous or exciting. Sometimes friends came from a distance to break the monotony of the daily life, or from the village, or from other country houses, but the nearest of the latter were a mile or more away, and the isolation was very real. Indoor she assisted in the housekeeping, and in the entertainment of guests, and there was little time left for music or books. Indeed, most of her reading was done at night after she had gone to her room and was supposed to be in bed. Out of door, in addition to the care of young lambs, chickens, and turkeys, there were wide fields for rambling, and the broad tide-water river for sailing. Inshore were oyster beds and a bathing beach. 26 In these years she communed much with her own spirit, read avidly in books and in the greater book of Nature. Of well-thumbed volumes that were her own and which she brought away with her on her marriage, I recall as specially characteristic of her: Grove's Dictionary of Music, the novels of Dickens, Emerson's Essays, and the poems of Milton, Poe, Longfellow, Bryant and Lowell. Bulfinch's Age of Fable had also made a deep impression on her spirit, and to the end of her life she was always a fascinated and eager student of myths and folk-lore. Her visual powers were remarkable. They far exceeded my own. Out of doors her keen eyes were always prying into the habits of all sorts of living things: ants, spiders, bees, wasps, fish, birds, cats, dogs. Had she cared for classification, which she did not, and been willing to make careful records, she might have become an expert naturalist. Form in nature seemed to interest her little, or at least comparative studies of form. What did interest her tremendously was the grade of intelligence manifested in the lower forms of life. She would spend hours watching the habits of birds and insects, and never without discovering new and interesting things. Whether she looked into the tops of the tallest trees, or the bottom of a stream, or the grass at her feet, she was always finding marvels of adapta- tion to wonder at, and links binding the world of life into a golden whole. She made lists of all the birds that visited her neigh- borhood. She knew most of them by their songs, and some- times distinguished individuals of the same species by little differences in their notes, as once a song-sparrow at Woods Hole, which had two added notes. She knew when they nested and where, how they made their nests, and what food they brought to their young. In studying birds she used an opera glass, not a shotgun. She was, however, a very good shot with the revolver. 27 One summer on our hillside in some young locust trees, a pair of yellow-billed cuckoos built their nest very close to our windows and a little lower so that she could see all the housekeeping operations. Two eggs were laid and one bird was grown and out of the nest before the other was half fledged. In our dooryard she discovered a battle of ants which raged furiously for three days with one day's intermission during which they carried off the dead. This was the only battle of ants we ever saw. But every year upon the sidewalks about town we saw ants in swarming masses big as the crown of one's hat. These ants held each other by the jaws and were pushing and pulling but seemed to be at play. Their Olympic games, per- haps. Another year she discovered a small ant that harvested dandelion seeds, and carried them underground, the slender pappus of the seed waving above the head of the ant like a parasol. At Woods Hole she came running in breathlessly one day to tell me she had discovered a raid of slave-making ants. A nest of some red ant was raiding the nest of a larger but timid black ant. I went out with her and we watched the proceedings the rest of the afternoon. The raiders in large numbers formed two narrow columns each a few inches wide, one going to the nest of the other species, empty-mouthed, the other returning with eggs, larvae, pupae, and mature ants, all carried very gently and without resistance on the part of the black species. We traced them a distance of perhaps 10 or 12 rods across a road, under an old stone wall, and through the tangled grass to an abandoned tennis court where they went into the ground, the whole surface being full of small holes. At another time, also at Woods Hole, she was witness of an interesting fight between a solitary bee and a bee-like parasite. She was sitting on a bank under a favorite pine tree facing 28 Little Harbor, when suddenly a bee disturbed her by an angry buzz. She removed to a distance of a few feet and, watching, saw the bee burrow into the bank where she had been seated. After a little while the bee came out again, minus some pollen masses that had been attached to her body, and then carefully closed up the hole. Shortly after a parasitic bee came along, searched about the bank for some time, and finally, discovering the secret chamber, opened and entered it, or was in the act of entering it when she was rudely jerked out by the other bee that for some reason had returned, perhaps to deposit more pollen along with her egg. Once on our climbing jasmine she discovered a solitary wasp constructing of mud her small egg case, graceful in shape as a Grecian vase. Only the lower tiers were done when she found it, and we watched the insect go and come with mud in its jaws, using them and its feet very skilfully, patting the clay, until the little narrow-necked vase was completed. Then she began to store the jar with small green larvae and finally laid an egg among them, and sealed on a mud cover. After she had gone we removed 27 little green worms, and one white egg, from this vase, but could not begin to get them all back, so exquisitely had they been tucked away. Once [in 1905] she announced that she had seen a small gray spider eat its own web. This was on the wistaria vine at one corner of our back porch. Being rather skeptical I watched with her the next nightfall. The small gray creature spun its web at the usual hour and waited for its prey, but, as none came immediately, we put a small fly into the web, which it bound with its silken cords and devoured. When it had eaten the fly the spider appeared to be satisfied and again took down its precious web, leaving only a stay-line. It rolled the web into little balls with its feet and then did something with these which at first was not clear to me. But on using a hand-lens I too saw 29 it thrust the web into its mouth and swallow it. This spider had a yellowish orange thorax, yellow banded legs, and a gray white line down the middle of the abdomen above and below a broader velvet black longitudinal stripe bordered by interrupted yellow lines all on a gray background. One whole summer she had a nest of fungus-cultivating ants (Attas) in the house, in a large covered glass dish, so that she could watch their habits. This is an ant which grows its own food, that is, makes a fungus garden. It occurs in a forest in the vicinity of Washington, and is perhaps the most northern of the fungus-growing species. It was discovered by Mr. Walter T. Swingle, and together we dug the nest out of the earth and brought it into the city. It is related to the leaf-cutting ants of Central and South America, which also make fungus gardens, but this ant grows its fungus not directly on leaves but on the dung-pellets of small leaf -eating larvae which it collects in the deciduous woods of the District of Columbia. We sub- stituted dry oatmeal, the inner peal of oranges, etc., for the soil of their garden. The ants were very sensitive to an undue amount of moisture. When the garden was destroyed by moving it, they carefully rearranged it and threw out all intrud- ing particles. Several times on warm days in autumn she watched the nup- tial flight of ants and saw the queens return, throw off their wings, and enter the earth. One summer she was very much interested in a wood-boring bee which tried in vain to make a nest in a very resinous hard piece of pine wood forming one of the supports of our back porch. After two or three trials it abandoned the undertaking and flew away. Some weeks later it, or another, returned and made a hole in a softer piece of wood. She said it was the same bee. 30 The following entries I have culled from her notebook: November 27, 1898. A strong wind blowing from the north. The crows are blown out of their course in going home to roost. July 23. Found tonight in the eavestrough a small naked sparrow, not more than two days old. When I approached the old bird flew away. Another small bird appeared to be dead and I did not touch it. Put the bird in a box with a woolen cloth; fed it bread and water. July 24. The little bird is all right and on looking into the trough this morning found that the other bird was still alive. It is smaller than the first and not as strong and does not swallow as easily. The mother must have fed it and kept it warm during the night. The only signs of feather are two dark lines under the skin on the , a patch on top of the head and a line down the middle of the back. The eyes are not yet open. March 19, 1900. English sparrows, crows, and a small woodpecker having a small red spot on the head have been about all winter. Several weeks ago I heard the song of the snow birds but saw them the first time today. March 24. The first flock of blackbirds passed today. April 3. Heard the first robin. April 23. Saw the nickers for the first time. April 29. A pair of song sparrows are in the locust trees, singing almost continuously. The first red-headed woodpecker of the season. A cedar bird in the oak trees. A woodpecker, probably the female busily seeking food. The chimney swallows have come and I saw a buzzard today. The latter stays through the whole winter. April 30. Two birds in the oak trees which look much alike but have different songs. The general color, olive green. May 1. Sparrow hawk with a bird in its claws. July 6, 7 and 8, 1902. A spider has every night spun a web on the porch. It does not come out until dusk and then spins its web very rapidly, taking from 20 minutes to a half hour. Web very fine and 18 inches in diameter. Web entirely gone in the morning. Does the spider gather it up each night and use it again? July 9. Storm coming up about dusk, distant lightning almost con- tinuous. Spider appeared late, 23 minutes after 8. It usually appears from 15 minutes to 8 until 8. It hung about 5 minutes, went back, came out again, spun two short lines, went back, came out again, hung for 15 minutes, went back for good, or at least until 10.30. Storm over then. Did it feel the storm coming? July IS- A spider spun a web in the same place as the one seen on the 6, 7, 8 and 9th. It is slightly larger and looks fresh or clean, as if it had molted. Two hind legs barred with light and dark gray. July 18. Spider behaved tonight just as it did before the storm. Evi- dently a fly a night, as I have been feeding it, is more than it requires. 31 1 have counted only 10 chimney swifts at a time in the sky this summer. This afternoon there are 20 or more. The young are probably out, as some seem slightly smaller and I hear occasionally a note higher in key and not at all like the usual chatter of these birds. September 24. Pound a winged ant on front doorstep. Took it into the house and put it into a glass dish with a glass cover. Put in the dish a small piece of wet sponge, a piece of apple, hard boiled egg and bread. Made the dish dark by covering with black cloth. Did not see ant eat anything. As soon as it was put into the dish the ant tore off its wings but so quickly that I could not see how it was done. It spent much of the time cleaning itself. September 25. Found the ant this morning on the sponge which was nearly dry. Cleaned the dish and put in larger piece of wet sponge, apple, bread, lean piece of bacon, and bit of fudge. The ant stayed near the sponge for some time, cleaning itself and then went searching about the dish. Later I found it on the apple. The abdomen is slightly extended, perhaps with the liquids it has taken. 2 p. m. Ant on sponge cleaning itself. Later. Ant escaped and could not be found. December 26, Today Erwin brought home a pair of rabbits, said to be English rabbits. We have put them in the laundry. They look exactly alike in color but one is larger than the other. December 27. One rabbit seems to be boss, for it takes away food from the other which does not object. December 28. Last night the rabbits started to dig a hole through the concrete but made little progress. December 29. The larger rabbit is tamer than the other which is very shy. They seem to care more for eating than anything else and the larger one will let you rub and scratch him if you have something for him to eat while you are doing it. They like carrots, celery, cabbage, grass and potatoes, which they manage to get out of the basket themselves. Turnips they will not touch. January 3, 1903. The rabbits are getting particular about their food. They will only eat celery tops now. May 2. Two weeks ago, found the nest of a large red ant on the hillside. This morning there were many small dark ants around it, evidently feeding on something about 2 inches from the nest. I was much surprised to see a red ant seize a small one, turn under its abdomen as if to sting it, and after a little struggle take it into the nest. Several were thus captured and taken in. Then I noticed that two ants were stationed at one of the entrances to the nest and if a small ant strayed near enough seized it and dragged it down the hole. Why did the small ants insist on staying around the nest? Are the large ants slave makers? One half hour later I looked again. More large ants were to be seen and two were carrying small ants into the nest from some little distance. 32 May 6. Found ants swarming on Staughton Street near alley. Winged ants have been flying around the lamp at night for some days. June 8. In Garnatti's A Recipe for Good Cheere, I find this: "The dog who smiles with his tail," and it brings to my mind a water spaniel at Woods Hole whose master took her and her puppy to swim every day. She was never quite happy in the water until she could get her tail out and then she swam about waving it above the water. It was not easy to get the wet bushy tail to the top but she always managed to do it. June q. About two weeks ago I heard for the first time the kingbird's song. He was sitting on the telephone wire near the house. The song was sweet, not long, and such a surprise to me that I could hardly believe that it was a kingbird. The yellow throated vireo is building in one of the oak trees again. So far I have heard four distinct notes, the two common ones, one a little like a tree toad, and a call of two rough grating sounds. The wood pewee about the house also has four notes. The usual pe-a-wee of three syllables, a call of two syllables with a falling inflexion, a single note, perhaps the first part of the usual song, and a chirp like the sound made by striking two pebbles together. This last I heard when the sparrows were following him and he was scolding at them. June 24. A very small black ant, as small as the little red ant found in houses, was swarming in front of the Holmes' house this morning. There was no loose earth around the entrances which were between the bricks in the walk. October 2. Lasius latipes and Lasius umbratus swarming at Woods Hole. Birds seen at Woods Hole between July 11 and October, 1903: Common tern, king fisher, chipping sparrow, robin, cat bird, barn-swallow, purple grackle, song sparrow, parula warbler, gold finch, chewink, chickadee, king bird, red start, yellow-billed cuckoo, crow, humming bird, chimney swift, wild duck, pewee, Maryland yellow throat, brown thrasher, vesper sparrow, yellow- throated vireo, red-winged black bird, roseate tern, marsh hawk, green heron, Henshaw's sparrow, cliff swallow, semi-palmated sand piper, spotted sand piper, least sand piper, turn stone, black-throated green warbler, flicker, loon, black-crowned night heron, summer warbler, black-billed cuckoo, white breasted nuthatch, prairie warbler, herring gull, bluebird, black and white warbler, chestnut sided warbler, red-eyed vireo, Carolina wren, Baltimore oriole, downy woodpecker, purple finch, oven bird, cedar bird, blue jay, pine warbler, veery, quail, golden crowned kinglet, several hawks that I could not identify. October 10, 11, and 12, 1904. The migratory birds have been going over, and the calls could be heard very distinctly. The nights were somewhat cloudy with mists and the birds must have been flying unusually low. The days were warm but October 13 a cold spell came. May 7, 1905. The Carolina wren and yellow-billed cuckoo were to be heard for the first time this year; also the pewee. The house wrens returned about two weeks ago and so far I have seen or heard robins, purple grackles, 33 flickers, red-headed woodpeckers, least fly-catchers, summer warblers, cat birds, blue birds, vireos. Heard the black-poll warbler for the first time on May 27. He has been in the neighborhood for nearly a month. June 18. For the second time I have seen a sparrow carry rag-weed (Ambrosia) into the nest. In pulling down a sparrow's nest on the porch I found fresh yarrow worked into it [bitter plants]. September — . The Lepisma appears to change its color according to exposure to light. I noticed that those found among the leaves of stored books were nearly white, those running about the house are a dark gray. It would scarcely be credited what eager search I have made through her books for traces of her spirit. She seldom indicated favorite passages by pencil markings as I am in the habit of doing. Here and there, however, I have found precious memen- toes. These fragments so well indicate certain phases of her thought, and some of them bring her back so vividly, that they may properly find a place here. They belong, most of them at least, between her 13th and her 18th year, but a few of the sad ones later, when she saw clearly that her life could not be a very long one. Hyp. Is there no way Left open to accord this difference. But you must make one with your swords? Vict. No! none! — Longfellow: The Spanish Student. The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain. — Longfellow: An Afternoon in February. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices and the sound of bells. — Longfellow: Drift-Wood. 34 The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. — Longfellow: Sandalphon. Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers. — Longfellow: Mai River. All the many sounds of nature Borrowed sweetness from his singing; All the hearts of men were softened By the pathos of his music. — Longfellow: The Song of Hiawatha. He the sweetest of all singers, Beautiful and childlike was he. Brave as man is, soft as woman Pliant as a wand of willow. — Longfellow: The Song of Hiawatha. The hours I count not As a sun-dial; but am like a clock. That tells the time as well by night as day. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. 35 A generation That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food The soul can feed on. There's not room enough For age and youth upon this little planet. Age must give way. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress. And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. — Longfellow: Morituri Salutamus. A man that all men honor, and the model That all should follow; one who works and prays, For work is prayer, and consecrates his life To the sublime ideal of his art, Till art and life are one. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. There are great truths that pitch their shining tents Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen In the gray dawn, they will be manifest When the light widens into perfect day. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. Thou makest full confession; and a gleam As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase. — Longfellow: La Divina Commedia. Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings. — Longfellow: The Children of the Lord's Supper. Serve yourself, would you be well served. — Longfellow: Miles Standish. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept. Were toiling upward in the night. — Longfellow: The Ladder of St. Augustine. 36 Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. — Longfellow: Tales of a Wayside Inn. Take all that it can give or lend But know that death is at the end! — Longfellow: Haroun Al Raschid, Parting with friends is temporary death As all death is. We see no more their faces, Nor hear their voices, save in memory; But messages of love give us assurance That we are not forgotten. — Longfellow: Michael Angelo. Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor. — Bryant: Hymn to Death. Life mocks tie idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre. And of the triumphs of his ghostly foe Makes his own nourishment. — Bryant: A Forest Hymn. They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — Pain dies as quickly : stern hard-featured Pain Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace. Oblivion softly wiping out the stain. Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease; Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: Thus joy o'erborne and bound, doth still release His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes — did it keep A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. — Bryant: Mutation. 37 So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one, who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. — Bryant: Thanatopsis. What though the field be lost? All is not lost: — Milton: Paradise Lost, I. Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou liv'st Live well. — Milton: Paradise Lost, XI. Masters' commands come with a power resistless To such as owe them absolute subjection. — Milton: Samson Agonistes. Compelled to breathe indeed, compelled to strive, Compelled to fear, yet not allowed to hope. — William Morris: The Earthly Paradise. Against the following she had penciled the word "Life." What strange confused dreams swept through his sleep! What fights he fought, nor knew with whom or why; How piteously for nothing he must weep. For what inane rewards he still must try To pierce the inner earth or scale the sky! What faces long forgot rose up to him! On what a sea of unrest did he swim! — William Morris: The Earthly Paradise. And days that ever fall to worse. And blind lives struggling with a curse They cannot grasp! — William Morris: The Earthly Paradise. At her funeral, which was held in our home, and which I conducted myself, believing that she would have preferred it so, since we had scarcely any acquaintances among clergymen or sympathy with their creeds, I read, among other things, part of 38 Tennyson's Holy Grail, which she thought the noblest and most spiritual of all his verse; Edwin Arnold's After Death in Arabia; Whittier's The Shadow and the Light; and from the Buddhist scriptures the following sayings, which I chose rather than pas- sages from the New Testament because they seemed more appropriate to her temper and spirit and also because she had been familiar with all of them and had lived in their spirit: Because he has pity upon every living creature, therefore is a man called "holy." With pure thoughts and fullness of love, I will do towards others what I do for myself. The member of Buddha's order * * * should not intentionally destroy the life of any being, down even to a worm or an ant. Now, said he, I will seek a noble law, unlike the worldly methods known to men, * * * and will fight against the mischief wrought upon man by sickness, age, and death. Watch your thoughts. Control your tongue. Be pure and live with the pure. Pure in word and deed and heart. May I speak kindly and softly to every one I chance to meet. For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time; hatred ceases by love; this is an old rule. Not from weeping or grieving will any obtain peace of mind. The practice of religion involves as a first principle a loving, compas- sionate heart for all creatures. Not by birth does one become low caste, not by birth a Brahmana; by his deeds he becomes low caste, by his deeds he becomes a Brahmana. Whosoever * * * harms living beings * * * and in whom there is no compassion for them, let us know such as a "base-born." At the end of life the soul goes forth alone; whereupon only our good deeds befriend us. Whatsoever a man has done, whether virtuous or sinful deeds, not one of them is of little importance; they all bear some kind of fruit. Be kind to all that lives. Not hurting any creature. What is goodness? First and foremost the agreement of the will with the conscience. The Royal Prince, perceiving the tired oxen, * * * the men toiling beneath the midday sun, and the birds devouring the hapless insects, his heart was filled with grief, as a man would feel upon seeing his own house- hold bound in fetters : thus was he touched with sorrow for the whole family of sentient creatures. Like a * * * flower that is rich in color, but has no scent, so are the fine * * * words of him who does not act accordingly. 39 If only the thoughts be directed to that which is right, then happiness must necessarily follow. I love living things that have no feet, * * * four-footed creatures, and things with many feet. * * * May all creatures, all things that live, all beings of whatever kind, may they all behold good fortune. He who lives far from me yet walks righteously, is ever near me. The Scripture saith: "Be kind and benevolent to every being, and spread peace in the world. * * * If it happen that thou see anything to be killed, thy soul shall be moved with pity and compassion. Ah! how watch- ful should we be over ourselves!" When first I undertook to obtain wisdom, then also I took on me to defend (the weak). All living things of whatsoever sort call forth my compassion and pity. The body may wear the ascetic's garb, the heart may be immersed in worldly thoughts; * * * the body may wear a worldly guise, the heart mount high to things celestial. He who * * * is tender to all that lives * * * is protected by heaven and loved by men. Day and night the mind of Buddha's disciples always delights in com- passion. Hell was not created by any one. * * * The fire of the angry mind produces the fire of hell, and consumes its possessor. When a person does evil, he lights the fire of hell, and burns with his own fire. He who does wrong, O King, comes to feel remorse * * * But he who does well feels no remorse, and feeling no remorse, gladness will spring up within him. The present is an imperfect existence: * * * I pray for greater perfection in the next. The world is afflicted with death and decay; therefore the wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of the world. I also read the following chapter from Rolleston's Epictetus : i. Seek not to have things happen as you choose them, but rather choose them to happen as they do, and so shall you live prosperously. 2. Disease is a hindrance of the body, not of the Will, unless the Will itself consent. Lameness is a hindrance of the leg, not of the Will. And this you may say on every occasion, for nothing can happen to you but you will find it a hindrance not of yourself but of some other thing. 3. What, then, are the things that oppress us and perturb us? What else than opinions? He that goeth away and leaveth his familiars and com- panions and wonted places and habits — with what else is he oppressed than his opinions? Now, little children, if they cry because their nurse has left them for a while, straightway forget their sorrow when they are given a small cake. Wilt thou be likened unto a little child? 40 — "Nay, by Zeus! for I would not be thus affected by a little cake, but by right opinions." And what are these? They are such as a man should study all day long to observe — that he be not subject to the effects of any thing that is alien to him, neither of friend, nor place, nor exercises; yea, not even of his own body, but to remember the Law, and have it ever before his eyes. And what is the divine Law? To hold fast that which is his own, and to claim nothing that is another's; to use what is given him, and not to covet what is not given; to yield up easily and willingly what is taken away, giving thanks for the time that he has had it at his service. This do— or cry for the nurse and mamma; for what doth it matter to what or whom thou art subject, from what thy welfare hangs? Wherein art thou better than one who bewails himself for his mistress, if thou lament thy exercises and porticoes and comrades, and all such pastime? Another cometh, grieving because he shall no more drink of the water of Dirce. And is the Marcian water worse than that of Dirce? — "But I was used to the other." And to this also thou shalt be used; and when thou art so affected towards it, lament for it too, and try to make a verse like that of Euripides — ■ "The baths of Nero and the Marcian stream." Behold how tragedies are made, when common chances happen to foolish men! 4. — "But when shall I see Athens and the Acropolis again?" Wretched man! doth not that satisfy thee which thou seest every day? Hast thou aught better or greater to see than the sun, the moon, the stars, the common earth, the sea? But if withal thou mark the way of Him that governeth the whole, and bear Him about within thee, wilt thou still long for cut stones and a fine rock? And when thou shalt come to leave the sun itself and the moon, what wilt thou do? Sit down and cry, like the chil- dren? What, then, wert thou doing in the school? What didst thou hear, what didst thou learn? Why didst thou write thyself down a philosopher, when thou mightest have written the truth, as thus: / made certain begin- nings, and read Chrysippus, but did not so much as enter the door of a philoso- pher? For how shouldst thou have aught in common with Socrates, who died as he died, who lived as he lived — or with Diogenes? Dost thou think that any of these men lamented or was indignant because he should see such a man or such a woman no more? or because he should not dwell in Athens or in Corinth, but, as it might chance, in Susa or Ecbatana? When a man can leave the banquet or the game when he pleases, shall such a one grieve if he remains? Shall he not, as in a game, stay only so long as he is entertained? A man of this stamp would endure such a thing as perpetual exile or sentence of death. Wilt thou not now be weaned as children are, and take more solid food, nor cry any more after thy mother and nurse, wailing like an old woman? 41 — "But if I quit them I shall grieve them." Thou grieve them? Never; but that shall grieve them which grieveth thee — Opinion. What hast thou then to do? Cast away thy own bad opinion; and they, if they do well, will cast away theirs; if not, they are the causes of their own lamenting. 5. Man, be mad at last, as the saying is, for peace, for freedom, for magnanimity. Lift up thy head, as one delivered from slavery. Dare to look up to God and say: Deal with me henceforth as thou wilt; I am of one mind with thee; I am thine. I reject nothing that seems good to thee; lead me whithersoever thou wilt, clothe me in what dress thou wilt. Wilt thou have me govern or live privately, or stay at home, or go into exile, or be a poor man, or a rich? For all these conditions I will be thy advocate with men — I show the nature of each of them, what it is. Nay, but sit in a corner and wait for thy mother to feed thee? 6. Who would Hercules have been if he had sat at home? He would have been Eurystheus, and not Hercules. And how many companions and friends had he in his journeying about the world? But nothing was dearer to him than God; and for this he was believed to be the son of God, yea, and was the son of God. And trusting in God, he went about purging away lawlessness and wrong. But thou art no Hercules, and canst not purge away evils not thine own? nor yet Theseus, who cleared Attica of evil things? Then clear away thine own. From thy breast, from thy mind cast out, instead of Procrustes and Sciron, grief, fear, covetousness, envy, malice, avarice, effeminacy, profligacy. And these things cannot otherwise be cast out than by looking to God only, being affected only by him, and consecrated to his commands. But choosing anything else than this, thou wilt follow with groaning and lamentation whatever is stronger than thou, ever seeking prosperity in things outside thyself, and never able to attain it. For thou seekest it where it is not, and neglectest to seek it where it is. Nevertheless, the year after her death I was as one daft, and, either actually or in memory, wandered about all the places we had frequented together, trying to bring back more vividly her rare and beautiful self, her every gesture, look, and word. It was then that I began a series of letters to her, of which the following are parts of two: Woods Hole, Mass., Sunday, August II, IQ07. We came uneventfully yesterday, stopping over for four hours only on Friday in New York. Agnes had never seen the city so I took her about showing her lower Broadway and Fifth Avenue. The Sound was very quiet and the morning across Buzzard's Bay fresh and beautiful — life seemed almost worth living again as the sweet sea air blew over me. Agnes was enjoying every moment of it, all new to her. I was thinking of you, 42 my dear, wondering whether your quiet ghost would miss me from the accustomed home and grieve, knowing not where to find me, or whether your spirit would flit along with me to this other familiar place. I know not whether you now lead a conscious life and if so to what extent you can follow mine. If you haunt the old home I am sure you will remem- ber it is summer time and that we were wont to go away then and so will wait for my return. If you are not tied to places and can follow my goings and comings, as I like to believe, then you will know where to find me. I am in our old room facing the shaded roadway and the Little Harbor. It seemed good to come here again, both because everything in the room reminds me of you, and the dear old days when we were together here, and because it will not seem a strange place to your spirit, if you can come too. It is a windless morning. There was a heavy dew, and sun and fog are now contending. People are going and coming from church. Agnes has just returned from mass. I sit at the west window where we so often sat reading together. The peace of God is in my heart and I feel no need of any church or any mediator. When I have finished this I am going to take my church reading the Idyls of the King. Since you have gone I have been intolerably lonely at times and it has been a kind of solace to re-read the poets. In this way I have passed many an hour. When I was in the hospital I read all of Tennyson's dramas, and since coming out I have begun at the beginning of his works to read all in course. In this way I have got as far as the last of the Idyls, and have found a number of interest- ing things which hitherto, with all my browsings in Tennyson, I had never read carefully. I am planning to read other English poets in the same way, from cover to cover, and not in the old desultory fashion. For this purpose I brought Robert Browning with me — not our old thin-paper edition, but the four-volume one (Tauchnitz edition) which you read in Italy. I shall think many times as I read it how your fingers lingered lovingly over the pages — this summer a year ago, under the shadow of the Alps. Alas, how much of fate may be wrapped up in a little year! I brought many notes and manuscripts relating to scientific things, for I hope to finish, or nearly finish, the second volume of my book while here this summer and autumn, but only a few heart books — Plato's Republic, and Giovanni Marradi's poems being about all. Later I thought I would send for a dainty Italian edition of Dante's La Vita Nuova with illustrations from Rossetti. If I finish Tennyson and Browning this summer I shall do very well, although I hope also to do the same with Plato and Marradi. Yesterday I wandered all about the fields and shore, seeing many pleasant places we have enjoyed together in the vanished years. My heart was heavy and the tears would fall, as they are doing now. I seemed to be the ghost of my old self, seeking in vain for a beloved spirit. Where are you, my dear? I cannot think you have perished utterly. You live at least in my memory as vividly as ever. 43 Woods Hole, Mass., {3 p. m.), October 8, 1907. This is your birthday. A fierce gale tore down branches and vext the sea all night, and still roars, driving the rain and tossing the salt spray wildly. It is a bitter day for sailors and we shall no doubt hear of many wrecks. Some lines from Tennyson's Ulysses have been running through my head: "On shore, and when, thro' scudding drifts, the rainy Hyades vext the dim sea: I am become a name," etc. How we loved these old myths! I write on a table in the laboratory, all alone, with heart fit to break. Alas, how melancholy one can be even in the midst of people! and how miserably alone! Ah, well, we must bear bravely as we can what time and the fates have assigned us, so fulfilling our doom, or our mission, as one looks at it. For days I have looked ahead to this day as peculiarly yours. Now that it is here and I am a part of it, let me send greeting to you by whatsoever far sea or shore you wander. I cannot think of you as utterly dead: so sweet a spirit, so brave and patient a soul, should have a better fate, and, please God, may it be yours. Surely, if He is our Father then are we His children, and if children, heirs, as St. Paul puts it. I have not much liking for St. Paul, but drowning men catch at straws and this thought of his may be something much more substantial than drifting rubbish. I pray daily for the peace of your soul and think of you, when I am not perplexed with doubts, as having entered into some other existence of His, where forever you are to grow in a knowledge of this infinite Universe of God, and into a light and peace of which we in this dim earth-life can have no comprehension. Even if this were true, are you not forever lost to me? You will have made such vast advances, and I am such poor material to begin with, and then, too, space is so infinite, His worlds so many, and the chances of finding you so slight! Unless, indeed, your unseen sweet presence should be very near to me all the time, like the Daemon of Socrates. This feeling offers most comfort, but I am not always firm set in it, but rather tost about, hoping and fearing by turns. I was never very eager for life after death till you went away. Now I long for it inexpressibly for your dear sake, and also I am full of a desire to be joined unto you in that new life whatever it be, dim or bright, good or bad, if the Oversold will only grant it. You are mine still, by the strength of that love which bound us, and I must think of you as not yet so far on in that other spiritual existence, that you do not take interest in what interests me, and in the things which for- merly would have given you joy. So let me confide in you as of old, divide with you all my joys and sorrows, beloved. The sunshine has broken through the storm clouds and irradiates the room. I will take it for a good omen. It almost gives me joy in my loneliness, I am so much a creature of the sun. Indeed, it is no wonder to me that the first men worshipped him as a God. How could they do otherwise! seeing his glory, feeling his warmth, eating the fruit of his harvests! 44 It is many days since I have written to you and many things have hap- pened which you would have enjoyed. I have wandered over your wood- land paths, have sat by the sea in your favorite spots, have listened to the birds, watched all the outdoor life, sailed the seas, and tramped the fields we knew so well, with you always in mind. A thousand things, often very trivial ones, as a cat on a wall, have reminded me of you. I do not like cats, but for your sake I stooped down and petted the creature as I have seen you do so often with tender comforting words for the blind life in the beast, which wrought always such tenderness and wealth of love in your considerate heart. St. Francis of Assisi was not more tender to all that lives than you, my gentle wife: true disciple of Buddha were you, as much as lies in any of us Occidentals to be, and tender hearted toward all the dumb creation, and whatever had no voice, or means of self-defense. Why you should have been so more than myself or another, I know not, only you were, and it is one of the traits that serves to single you out conspicuously from all I have ever known. Where I, not cruel, would have passed by with indifference, your heart expressed itself in a sympathetic word or gesture, showing ever the thoughtful, tender, beautiful soul, unselfish and helpful, beyond most! "O strong soul, by what shore tarriest thou now?" Often since her death I have thought of her in connection with Henrietta Renan and have applied to her what Renan says of his beloved sister. {Lettres Intimes, pp. 77-78) Nous ignorons les rapports des grandes ames avec l'infini ; mais si, comme tout porte a le croire, la conscience n'est qu' une communion passagere avec l'univers, communion qui nous fait entrer plus au moins avant dans le sein de Dieu, n'est-ce pas pour les ames comme celle-ci que rirnmortalite est faite? Si 1 'horn me a le pouvoir de sculpter, d'apres un model divin qu'il ne choisit pas, une grande personality morale, composee en parties egales et de lui et de l'ideal, ce qui vit avec une pleine realite, assurement c'est cela. Ce n'est pas la matiere que est, puis-qu'elle n'est pas une; ce n'est pas l'atome qui est, puisqu'il est inconscient. C'est l'ame qui est, quand elle a vraiment marque sa trace dans l'histoire eternelle du vrai et du bien. Qui, mieux que mon amie, accomplie cette haute destinee? Enlevee au moment ou elle atteignait la pleine maturitd de sa nature, elle n'eut jamais ete plus parfait. Elle etait parvenue au sommet de la vie vertueuse; ses vues sur l'univers ne seraient pas allees plus loin; la mesure du devourment et de la tendresse pour elle etait comble. ******* Elle est morte presque sans recompense. * * * La recompense, a vrai dire, elle n'y pensa jamais. * * * La vertu n'etait pas chez elle le fruit d'une theorie, mais le resultat d'un pli absolu de natur. Elle fit le bien, pour le bien et non pour son salut. * * * Que son souvenir nous reste comme un precieux argument de ces verites eternelles que chaque vie vertueuse contribue a demontrer. 45 Following these fragmentary notes I have placed parts of three of her letters (describing Baracoa and Naples), and an appreciation by two of her neighbors who describe better than I could hope to do it certain of her salient traits. At her request I burned her body, and I have thrown her ashes into the sea and scattered them along the shore of her beloved Woods Hole (vide Sonnet XXXVI). Upon the reverse of the beautiful low relief of her face made by Mr. Victor D. Brenner, the sculptor, he engraved the follow- ing words from Victor Hugo's drama, Les Bur graves, which may fittingly close this introduction : * * * Souffrir, Rever, puis s'en aller. C'est le sort de la femme. 46 BARACOA. [April, 1904.] Baracoa is the most quaint and foreign place we have yet seen. Situated on a small harbor, surrounded by palm-covered mountains, the low, red-tiled, brightly colored houses climbing up the hill, highest of all the old Spanish fort, with blue stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof, and the ocean stretching away to the east and thundering on the coral shore — it has a most picturesque aspect. Last week was Holy Week, and we have had the opportunity of seeing processions and ceremonies which make one think of the Middle Ages. Our hotel faces the triangular plaza at the broad end of which is the Catholic Church, a rude brick building, not very old, and poorly furnished and very dirty. The Cubans are indifferent to dirt to a degree very offensive to northern people. The church has few seats and the people bring their own chairs and rugs. The swallows fly in and out of the building and dogs wander about it at will. Holy Thursday was a quiet day. In the evening the band played on the plaza and the people walked about and chatted and ate sweets. The band has been prominent during all the ceremonies, and to say that it plays out of tune and time is a poor description. I never heard such discord in all my life. Good Friday there was mass in the early morning and at noon a procession. Heading the procession came the band, then from one side of the church came bearing images nearly life-size of the Virgin Mary, dressed in a black velvet robe embroidered with silver stars, and trimmed with gold braid at the bottom, borne on a platform carried on the shoulders of four men. These men walked with slow, short steps, and as the figure of Mary was not very securely fastened, it gave the effect of moving along with a sort of dancing step which was very ridiculous. A third procession bearing an image of Christ 47 started from the other side of the church. This Christ had on a red wig with a crown of thorns, carried a cross over one shoulder and was clothed in a coarse dark green robe. This [image] was carried on a platform preceded by a fat crafty priest. These two images met at the narrow end of the plaza where they were made to bow to each other and then they went down the middle of it into the church, the Christ first. During the parade the people mingled freely in the procession, laughing and talking. Afterward I saw a middle-aged woman go on her knees across the whole length of the gravel-covered plaza, carrying in her hand a bunch of purple artificial flowers. I think she must have been a widow for five small children walked beside her. Late in the afternoon a life-size image of Christ in a glass coffin with big lanterns at each corner followed by the Virgin was carried all around the town and as the procession reached the back part of the church the priest burned red fire, and as the images were carried down the plaza into the church the red fire was burned at intervals. Good Friday is one of the great feast days, and Saturday was comparatively quiet. Early Sunday morning I was awakened by the band and noise of the people. I stuck my head out of the window and saw that there was another procession. I dressed in a hurry but found it had passed. After going all around the town it returned. First in the pro- cession was a life-size standing figure of the resurrected Christ, naked with the exception of a piece of cream satin, embroidered at one end, tied around the waist. The platform on which he was carried was decorated with paper flowers and at each corner was a doll-like angel about three feet high. Two small altar boys with ragged vestments, one carrying a cross, followed; next a dozen small girls walking two and two, then at each side of the street a line of larger girls bearing lighted tapers, then two small boys carrying lighted lanterns. The priest bearing the 4 8 host [came] next, under a red canopy carried by six young girls, and last the band. As this went through the plaza to the church the priest saw a man with a camera trying to take his picture. He stopped the whole procession, made the crowd move back, and saw that everyone was perfectly posed, and after the picture was taken all moved on again. This ended the parade. The people hurried away to the ball of the white people which began at 9 o'clock and lasted until noon. There was a funeral immedi- ately after the procession. The coffin was carried only to the entrance of the church. The priest took his cigar out of his mouth, repeated a short service, put his cigar into his mouth and walked away to the ball. He took so much liquor that he wanted to make speeches continually, and did make four or five. The religious ceremony seemed serious and solemn to the old alone. The young people have a good time and laugh and talk and gossip. Early in the morning a figure of Judas was thrown into the sea and in the afternoon they punished him as badly (this was not a part of the [church] ceremony) . On the open place before the sea he was tied upright on a ladder and was burned to the joy of the people, especially when the big firecrackers inside of him exploded one after another carrying away legs and arms. After dark there were fireworks on the plaza and the band played and the people paraded. The black population had a ball in their clubhouse and the mulattoes in theirs. A large greased pole with a ham at the top was set up in this place also and two coconut-tree climbers tried to get to the top. They did not succeed but we heard that the ham was divided between them to pay for the amusement they furnished the crowd. I expect you will be shocked at this account but we are getting used to shocking things. If you imagine the smaller children of Staughton street (five or six years and under) going about the 49 yards and streets stark naked, you will have a good idea of what we see here every day. We often see ten or twelve in a walk about town, sometimes entirely naked, and again clothed with shoes, or a pair of ear rings or a bracelet of beads. The place is extremely isolated. There is no railroad, nor are there good roads, only mule-trails back into the country, and boats stop at infrequent intervals. If one has good luck he can get a letter to Washington in twelve days. The popu- lation is 4,000, and there is one coach and one cart in town for riding. I don't know any better place to get into a new world than here, if one is after sensations. We shall probably remain here for several weeks as there is much disease among the palms, and everything goes on in the slow Spanish way, manana (tomorrow) being always better than today for going anywhere or doing anything. 50 FLAG OF OUR LAND. By Erwin F. Smith. From The Evening Star, Wash ington, D. C, June 7, 1M7. Flag of our land, flag that it stirs us to see ! Crimson her bars in the sun's white light, And silver her stars on the blue of night ; Glory, Old Glory, symbol of freedom and might, Our past, today, and the mighty realm to be. Whither thou leadest we go, flag of the free ! Banner beloved, flag of our land! Sunlight and starlight twain are her friends, The God of all righteousness energy lends To the ranks of the free when they make their stand, And the years take counsel with her for their ends ; Whither thou leadest we follow, flag of command ! Let Caesars beware of this flag of the free! Now 'tis raised, twill be found in the van of the fight For end of all kings and the coming of right ; Let her folds be flung to the air and the light For the rescue of men and the freedom to be. Glory, Old Glory, draw us to thee ! Cr'iAMM j. \jy^Z^c *\ NAPLES. [March 16, igo6\ A city of contrasts : electric cars, automobiles, donkeys, small horses, oxen; oxen and horses hitched together, horses and donkeys; goats and cows driven through the streets to houses desiring milk, the goats seeming to know the way and the man with them only necessary to keep them from loitering; people clean and dressed in the prevailing fashion, and people dirty, dressed in rags and more picturesque; houses less brilliant in color than in Cuba; men pounding maize in the street at night in great metal vases; everywhere dirt and smells; Vesuvius always beautiful and especially so toward sunset, offering free a most beautiful picture. English daisies are in blossom, mari- golds and oleanders. Some of the trees are just budding. Perhaps the last of April or first of May would correspond to this in Washington. The fruit-stands are gay with lemons and oranges and today we saw from the hotel window a ragged beggar girl of about twelve years buy a glass of some red drink and then bend down and tell her little sister she could drink so much, indicating with her finger, and then by turns the glass was emptied. We were too far away to see if the division was equal but by the care taken we judged it was. This morning we saw some of the coral shops and I was interested to learn that only one kind of coral comes from this vicinity (Sicily), most of it and the best being sent from Japan and worked into commercial shape in Naples. The grass grows on many of the tiled roofs and parts of the Central Station roofs are quite green. All this afternoon a bat has been flying around, very early it would be for American bats, and now there are two instead of one. The English sparrow appears to be missing. The iron posts carrying trolley wires and electric wires are very artistic. There is much improvement to be made in American cities along that line. Street pianos are here. Was this their original home? 51 [April 25, igo6.} Naples is beautifully situated and round about it there are many fine views. The city itself with its narrow streets, many stairs and curious people, is very interesting. All domestic occupations are done out of doors. Women dress and nurse the children, look over their heads as monkeys do, comb each others hair, wash, dress, cook, sew, all outside of their doors, utterly indifferent to the passers by. It is this that makes it appeal so much to the artist. We were very fortunate to be in Naples when the eruption of Vesuvius began, and saw almost the beginning of it from one of the hills near the city. The mountain had been quite normal during the first part of our stay. On the north side of it there were two streams of lava plainly visible at night as two great streaks, changing position each night, and along with this only a little steam-cloud from the crater. That afternoon the mountain began to send up every once in a while great puffs of very black smoke and before we came home the smoke hung over the bay in a long streamer that looked as if it were slowly sifting down ashes as one sometimes sees distant rain dropping from a summer cloud. That night there was a slight fall of sand-like ashes in the city, which continued until nearly noon next day. We went out to see the palace in the morning, carrying umbrellas and with veils over our faces. Thursday night the wind again brought ashes to Naples, and the mountain looked so threatening that we decided to go to Sorrento, which is 7 miles farther from the volcano than Naples, and from here we had an uninterrupted view of the great eruption, the wind always blowing away from us and carrying the ashes the other way. For eight days the city of Naples was hidden in this ash cloud and during that time received an ash fall from 1 to 4 inches, deepest on the side toward the mountain. From Sorrento we saw the volcano sending up a great swirling column of ashes to 52 a height of nearly five miles which then spread out like a great tree-top, extending upward four or five miles more and covering miles in area. At night we saw the red-hot lava run down the sides of the mountain, the volcanic lightning playing in the ash- cloud, and red-hot stones weighing tons thrown high into the air and then rolling down the steep dark slopes. Day and night there was a distant rumbling sound. It was a wonderful sight, awful in its destructive power. After the worst of this eruption was over we drove to Boscotrecasa which had been almost destroyed by lava. My idea of a lava flow had been that it was a smooth stream of melted rock, flowing very slowly, but in- stead of this it was like great chunks of coke, tumbling one over the other, and crushing everything in its way. The stream we saw was about 300 feet wide (the Doctor says 500 feet) and 12 feet high. We climbed up on the hot mass but did not stay long on account of the heat and for fear of burning our shoes. Too much praise cannot be given the Italian soldiers who stood guard in the intense heat along the lava streams while they were still moving. They got the people out of their houses, turned the current aside where they could by blasting, and kept order. We saw so many soldiers in Naples that we wondered what could be their use, little thinking how soon we should see their bravery. Here we saw processions of women and children with hair hanging down their backs, crowns of thorns on their heads, carrying a cross with a cloth on it (the meaning of which I do not know), walking to the lava flow and singing. I suppose this must have been in fulfillment of a vow made before the lava flow ceased. We were told that during the worst day the images were taken out of the churches and carried to the lava with prayers. Saint Januarius many years ago is said to have miracu- lously stopped an eruption, and in one of the squares in Naples is his statue with hand raised toward the mountain. To this saint 53 the people of Naples appealed but this time he was not pleased with them, and the eruption continued. After seeing the lava we drove around to the northeast side of the mountain where the villages were destroyed. At first the fields had a slight coating of dust, then a few cinders, which finally became so deep that we could drive no farther. The vineyards, that a week before had been beautifully green, were now a desert. Men were shovelling so that it would be possible to carry aid to the sufferers. Every once in a while a cart carrying a few of the household goods of some family would pass, the poor little donkey having in some way managed to pull through the ashes. Army wagons, drawn by four strong horses, with picks, shovels and litters for the dead and wounded, and bags for the household belongings slowly made their way past us. I did not go any farther, but beyond were villages without a roof on a house; men, women and children on heaps of ashes with a little sacking for cover; and everywhere cinders and stones from 2 to 6 feet deep. The people in their fright — 54 3fn Mt moriam. It is difficult to find words for the things that stir us most deeply, and in the thought of the life that has gone on before us, I feel most' inclined to say: "Silence here, for love is silent; Gazing at the lessening sail." I shall not incline to speak to you of a dear neighbor or my loved friend, but, as the one who introduced her to membership in this Club, I would like to say a few words as to her rare qualifications for such membership. She was always a student, always eager to learn, with the utmost reverence for the truth, and her study was always a means to some desired end. German, to which she devoted much time, was the gateway to the enjoyment of the rich treasures of its literature; Italian, she put to a similar use, but found also a great pleasure in learning something of the lives of Italian residents, peddlers, fruit-dealers, etc., through her ability to speak to them in their own tongue. She was rarely conver- sant with English literature, having the strength of mind to do what we often speak of as desirable and so seldom do — spend more time with the classics of our literature, when it involves leaving unread the story of the moment. She was always fully conversant with current scientific literature, and there was no one to whom it was more natural to turn for the latest word on those topics. But this student habit of mind was not the quality that sug- gested to me first or most strongly the mutual pleasure that would come from her membership in this Club. Her powers and patience of observation were phenomenal, and her interest in living things always eager and unflagging. She was interested in plants, especially those of peculiar or marked characteristics, but I think she cared little for their classification and seldom 55 used a botanical name, but a peculiarity of growth or a marked individuality always attracted her. Experiments in the crossing of species, little experiments in the conditions of environment, even if it only consisted in moving a plant to the other side of the yard, roused her sympathetic interest. The last time she was in my house, I remember so well her stopping on the steps to look at a vine that was protecting itself from threatened injury by friction by a thick cork-like growth; that was just the sort of thing that she always saw. Her love for all forms of animal life was even more enthusiastic. Her own household pets, and she had some curious ones, always had for her a very distinct personality, and nothing ever roused her anger so quickly and thoroughly as any form of cruelty to a living creature. Birds were a constant delight to her, and it seemed to me that she never missed the flutter of a wing or the faintest note. Some things, some of us learn to see, but with her it never appeared to have to be learned, and the vague indefinite sound of migratory birds at night would waken her, as a child's cry wakens a mother. Birds were only a part of the intensely interesting life that surrounded her, the spiders that spun their webs on her porch, the wasps and bees that made their homes, or sought their food within her sight, the ants that worked or fought or traveled near her path were objects of deep interest, and most painstaking patient study. I have never known a nature in which were so remarkably joined the poise and judgment of maturity, and the eager enthu- siastic outreach of a child. There was never a trace of pedantry in Mrs. Smith, and she shrank from public speech, but when she had something that she wished to tell, she told it with utter unconsciousness of herself, and an absorption in her subject that was beautiful. 56 Her study for her next paper for the Club commenced last winter, and had been a source of much interest and no little amusement to her — it was a view of popular science of two hundred years ago, worked out largely from Dr. Johnson's Dictionary. She had made a long list of curious definitions but when the trip abroad became assured she said: "I shall hope to have something of more live interest for the Club when I come back." She was in Naples last spring, at the time of the eruption of Vesuvius, and her descriptions of the event were most charac- teristic, her interest in the phenomena almost precluding any thought of personal discomfort or danger. All too soon, it seems to us, this charming unusual life came to its earthly close, but it is very easy to think of its continuance beyond our sight, for the childlike spirit is of the Kingdom of God. Gertrude Taylor. Eistophos Club, January n, 1907. Copy of notes from which a few words were spoken in re- membrance of Mrs. Erwin F. Smith, at a meeting of the Eistophos Science Club, shortly after her death. E. C. W. From the time Mrs. Smith came upon our street a girl-bride, nearly fifteen years ago, I felt that she was a beautiful woman, and was drawn to her as an older woman often is to one so fresh and attractive standing upon the threshold of a new life: as I saw her frequently, and learned to know her, this beauty impressed itself upon me more and more. Its visible expression was of the classical type — the low brow about which grew so prettily an abundance of soft, brown hair; her regular features and clear 57 complexion were suited to the tall, slender figure of easy carriage. Her dress was simple but harmonious, browns relieved by touches of soft pink were specially becoming to her. We all recall her sweet expression, and the serenity with which she moved. Her mind, too, as has been said, was of the Greek type — she loved music, art and languages; her favorite writers were the old Greek poets and philosophers. I have a post card sent from Rome last spring, my last direct communica- tion from her, in which she says, "A week is too short in which to see this Imperial City." She enjoyed most thoroughly and intelligently the oppor- tunities for wide culture and travel that came in the latter part of her too short life. I feel that our friend who has just gone from our sight, had a beautiful soul; she loved all things true and good, lived her life conscientiously, and with a thought for others. She faced death bravely, and fell asleep peacefully and I am glad that upon her flower-laden casket, gleamed the words of the Christ — "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God." 58 ODES AND SONGS. Thou art gone, O gracious wife, who didst carry off the palm in bloom of beauty and in bearing of soul; Prote wert thou truly called, for all else came second to those inimitable graces of thine. — Crinagoras, (Mackail's Greek Anthology.) FORTITUDE. Fortitude! thy name should be engraved On pillars of stone set at the gateways of the world, That all who see may read and ponder ! The swinish herd of men know not thy name Nor worship at thy lofty shrines, But the godlike souls who have embraced thee Shine splendid as the stars in heaven! Thou hast another name, great attribute! The fairest known to men, the sweetest on the tongue, Symbol mysterious of earth and heaven : The new heaven and the new earth, Resplendent, seen by John in vision! A name compelling noble deeds, Fragrant with all the blossom-dust of time, And wreathed about with sacred immortelles. Fortitude, thy fairer name is woman ! Johns Hopkins Hospital, May, 1907. 61 THE BELLS OF SANTO SPIRITO.* I. Dreamers by Arno stream in the perfect May time, The world of Florence filled our souls ! For thee, O Bella Bellissima, how long our hearts have yearned ! Thy realm of beauty is now our own — can its charms be told? Old palaces, bridges, gardens, and towers; Old pictures and monuments, churches and fountains; The cradle of villa-crowned hills, the delectable mountains; A vision of cypress and olive, of roses and fleur-de-lys; Galileo's tower; Michael Angelo's house with the Lapithae; The dim old Baptistery Dante extols, Nel mio bel San Giovanni his cadence rollsf ; Taddeo Gaddi's arch; Brunelleschi's dome, Akin to the mightier one of Angelo in Rome; The Bargello grim, to Art's dear uses turned, But echoing still for us, as in days of old, To din of arms, to roar of flames, and many a hopeless cry; Via Tornabuoni; the Market of flowers; The splendid Viale winding o'er the hills; The surly green swirling flood, the soft blue sky; The gay crowds on Lungarno, the somber Cascine; The Madonnas in cardinal, azure and gold: In a dream of wonder these together were ours, Blent with the blossoming, carolling rapture of May. As in those of old when the Master was near, our hearts responsive burned, While ever were ringing the clangorous bells of Santo Spirito — O joyous bells, pealing bells! •Celebrating the six-hundredth anniversary of the patron saint, Nicola di Tolomene, May, 1906. flnferno, XIX, 17. In Dante's time San Giovanni was open to the sky and full of sunshine. 62 II. It is May time again, blossom-fragrant, exuberant May ! I am far from the gray old city of flowers, But my fancies are gray as the gray of her towers. The May time returns, but my love delays, I shall see no more her beautiful face, The smile divine revealing her inner grace, But in spirit I walk with her the accustomed ways, And most of all the paths of the last sad year, Willing with her evermore to abide, On the sunny hills, inclining to Arno strand. So whenever I hear a resonant, deep-toned bell Clang and peal from a church-tower near, The somber hour from my fancy strays, And the floodgates of memory are opened wide: I wander with her the enchanted Tuscan land, The land of all lands to the heart most dear, Beholding girt by our magic mirror's rim, The laughter and tears, the hopes and fears, the wistful faces dim, The sad sweet songs of the vanished throngs of the Mediaeval days . The sonorous bell holds my spirit in thrall, Its undulant tones the glimmering visions recall, The centuries rise and fall, the multitudes come and go, In a tapestry woven of dreams the pageants ebb and flow. Mingled with these runs a sorrowful thread of my own, Of two that were one, and of one who now is alone, And again I hear the bells of Santo Spirito — Mournful bells, tolling bells ! 63 III. I walk with my soul through lonely ways; I keep sad trysts with her spirit dear: In streets which echoed once fierce cries of Guelf and Ghibelin; In fortressed palaces where now the souls of painters dwell Triumphant over time; at San Lorenzo, Santa Croce, somber Santa Trinita, Piazza della Signoria, Palazzo Vecchio; By the Brownings' Casa Guidi, In Santa Maria Novella Where faintly smiles the fair Albizzi, By Giotto's mottled tower and the graves of San Miniato! All these delights untold we share, with eyes suffused or clear, And what more without sin of heart's treasure the heart can win, For our faces shine with the glow of Ideal Beauty's high altar And our lips they have named her sacred name, L name » Where perfect the works of her thrice anointed* ones appear: For lofty thought wed to perfect form must ever man's spirit O joy, to see what master-souls have wrought: [.compel. Donatello's strength, Desiderio's grace, Della Robbia's singing boys, Monna Vanna's happy face,f Botticelli's girl with yellow hair, He painted only one, such grace had his lady fair, *For imagination, purity and creative power. t"She fills the room with sunshine, and all day long she seems to whisper some beloved name." — Edward Hutton. 64 The David of Angelo, the Madonnas of Raphael, The saints and angels of Fra Angelico ! The splendor undimmed of a glorious past Shines on us, beloved, wherever we go, Entranced, in the Florentine treasure-house vast, Beholding her priceless things — the beauty immortal no tongue can tell — While through our souls surge ever the bells of Santo Spiritc Sad sweet bells, sorrowful bells ! 6s IV. With her again I haunt the quaint old shops, And hear the mellifluous tongue, transfigured in poesy old ; Haunt the dim aisles of the peaceful Santo Spirito; Breathe pilgrim vows at Landor's grave; Tread Santa Croce's time-worn floors, Beholding the vacant tomb where atonement is made to the Whom civic throes into lonely exile drove— t s P irit brave > The sunbright one, in golden verse forever and ever alive ! Be praise for his lofty soul unto most high God, the giver! Behold again San Marco's missal treasure- trove, Lorenzo's tomb, Ghiberti's heavenly doors,* Or take once more that last long drive, When at sunset in the dark Cascine, We heard, O wonder, the nightingale's gurgling notes! With silence the Eternal Beauty filled our souls, While the level sun burnished the river And mottled dark forest and road with all Gentile's gold. The sun has set, and the mists on the river are gray, But still the melodious bird its sweet throat pours To its nest and its mate in the forest cold, [rolls The while our hearts keep time as borne on the wind the melody And the river in middle night types the lif e of the city to me : *" Michael Angelo Buonarroti standing to look at these doors, and being asked what he thought of them, and whether they were beautiful, replied in these words: 'They are so beautiful, that they might fittingly stand at the gates of Paradise.'" — Vasari. (Mrs. Foster's Translation.) 66 When I hear in sleepless hours the mournful lap-lap of the hungry flood, I think of the cruel centuries of fire and blood As whelmed in the turbid tide to leave a people united and free ! The shadowy past with its scorn and sin has been swept away, As our own souls sweep to the measureless sea, Yielding place to the new-born day. O deep-voiced bells of Santo Spirito, sound on, sound ever — Solemn bells, tender bells, reverberant bells ! 67 Nature and Art, twin goddesses fair, Walked with her, my beloved, everywhere, Unfolding the beauty in common and lowly things, Till the varied earth, inwoven with mystic light, Darkened and gleamed, a haunting loveliness of form and tone, Proclaiming in rapturous hours the Master Will, The indwelling Soul, whose law unto love is wed. Oh would I could know if the heart's sweet music ends with the broken strings, Or sings to a lordlier harp beyond our mortal sight! With the clogs of the mortal body forever shed, Somewhere I trust, in the cosmic vastness, she liveth still, Wiser and statelier grown, more beautiful there, But finding still in the good of others her own! For stript and broken the heart to its hope still clings, As a man to a spar for his life in a turbulent stream. So whenever I dream a certain dream, Where lost hopes blossom again in a golden clime, Her sweet face blends with faces long dead, Of poets and painters, sages and saints: O masterful sad sweet faces, illuming the pages of Time, 68 I know she belongs to your company fan- By grace of a spirit cast in a noble mold, And often I long for your fellowship there, In the lonely hours when the spirit faints, If so I might touch her garment's fold, As in dreams I hear the bells of Santo Spirito, And brood on the peaceful days that were ours of old. O memory-flooding bells, thronging bells, Farewell, farewell! Johns Hopkins Hospital, May, 1907. Revised, October, 1909. 69 CIENFUEGOS. (March, 1904.) I. Cienfuegos, land of the hundred fires! Land of the Royal palm ! Land of the mountains in purple shadow veiled! Hail to thee, hail ! In vain the spirit aspires To a calm sweet and deep as the calm That broods in thy valleys and rests on thy hills, As ocean the ocean bed fills! But the peaceful now, distilling its balm, Roots deep in a gloomy past Whose umbra cold was o'er man's spirit cast. O land of the palm and the pine! What sinuous coils the serpent hath trailed On thy peaceful shores, in days that are gone! And what dreams of the past thy name recalls : Dreams of the troubled New World's dawn, Of the fierce strong men of old, Flushed with adventure, as men with wine, Broadswording their way till carnage palls, Over this land for love of gold. 70 II. Rejoicing the heart with its fine surprise, Thy beautiful broad blue water lies, A mirror for dappled clouds, whose banners unfurled Are lovely to see Under thine azure and amethyst skies. Blue, blue! thou liest, jewel fair, without a stain, Beside the lonely Carib sea, With room, O noble lake, for the ships of the world, And no hint of escape to the main, Till one comes to that narrow way whose silver span Divides the land from the land To give to the ocean its own. On thy breast what beautiful shadows are thrown, O lovely water! The snowy pelican Sweeps gracefully over thy shining strand, And my spirit soars and sings To the beautiful curves of her broad white wings, That wheel and flash and gleam, More shining than pinions of seraph in dream! 71 III. And that sixteenth century band, So resolute and eager to scheme and plan, What dreams of Empire were theirs! They looked, as we look, on a summer land, But wilder then, with only the brown-skinned man To roam her woods and fields, To climb her cloud-capped mountain stairs. With uplifted appealing hands, The past to the present yields : In the blistering sun, the cane fields he Where once the Indian's wigwam stood, And no shore echoes more to his piercing cry — Gone from this strand are his bands, And gone are his gods, and gone is his wood! Where the lonely forest stood, the city now stands, And white sails come and go, or at anchor ride, Where his lone canoe did o'er these waters glide. Masters on sea and shore were these in the olden day, But now a dream and no more are they. 72 IV. The conquerors too have passed to the land of dreams, With their lust for gold and their love of power — Lost, lost, like trailing meteor gleams; And their far-off children's children, a puny race, Low of stature and brown of face, Now dwell at their ease in the sunhot land, And the stranger who tarries an hour, Wonders how seemed this life to the men of old, When they pushed their prows to the strand Of this multiple-strange new land, In quest of adventures bold, of lands and of gold, Of women and slaves to have and to hold, By the lordly king's command, The king of Spain and the Spanish main, Whose name over all this broad demesne, Was graven ruddy and deep by their desire In letters of blood and fire! Can we judge their hearts as we judge our own, Or were they a law to themselves alone? 73 Those towering Spaniards of old, Those men of blood and fire, Of lust for conquest and gold, They had their desire, And now are dust; As we have ours, For a moment's space, Ere we go to our mother's breast, Twined with the roots of the flowers, Out of the light and into our rest! In the years unborn, not theirs nor ours to command: Strong men and weak, just men and unjust, Past and Present, together shall rust When the Future holds the dominant hand! For the world of men sweeps on apace, And nothing that lives holds long its place! At last, or good or bad, all comes to dust, And a king's command, no more than a beggar's face, Stirs the heart of the new born race. Druid Hill Park, Baltimore, Md., August n, 1910. (A perfect day.) 74 ON THE BLUE SEA: (A song of remembrance.) On the sea, the sea, If my love were with me, To the Fortunate Isles Would we trim our sails, For the Future smiles, Where the sunset trails, Far over the sea! On the sea, the sea, From the Past set free, Siren voices are in our ears; The echoes of other years Sound far away To-day, to-day, On the shining sea! On the sea, the sea, The measureless, free, Blown ever by friendly gales I No room for fears, No place for tears, Where joy ne'er fails, On the shimmering sea! 75 On the sea, the sea, Wind-blown and care-free, Since Love ever smiles And music beguiles, What should we care How long the way there, On the billowy sea! On the sea, the sea, Lovers are we And the wind is fair, Then what should we care How long the way there, Far over the sea? The summer blue sea! On train, Woods Hole to Boston, September 20, 19 10. 76 A SUMMER SONG (Of one who has not found his love.) Ripple of wind on the golden wheat, Murmur of bees in the summer air, Music of birds in the meadows fair, Ripple of waters lapping my feet — These are the gifts I give, Come, O come! Fleeces of feathery clouds in the blue, Wind of the morning blown from the west, Shadows of clouds that are never at rest, Fair as a dream is the earth for you. Everything waits, my Love, Then come, O come! Glory of sun and of shadow thrown, Wonder of hills and of waters fair, Mingled with joy of the pure sweet air, Make of my youth a glory your own. For you, the tender and true, All things are glad! 77 Golden, the hours run on. Will she come? Yea, and my song is the song of the lark. Over the waters I watch for her bark Dreaming, and my heart for joy is dumb. O light, and life, and song, Can her way be long? Pining and grief to the winds shall be blown — Blown by the winds of the morning away, Far, far, to an unremembered day, When she comes, my own, my own ! Till then I sing glad songs, And my heaven is blue! September 12, 1911, At 1474 Belmont Street. (The notes were made in the autumn of 19 10 on a glorious Sunday morning, walking the streets of New York.) 78 A CHILD'S SONG. (To Dorothy) I sing because I am so happy, It bubbles out of me ! The wind is in the trees at play, The brook it sings to me ! Then come away, away, to-day! I sing because I am so happy, Yet know not whence my glee ! The crickets chirp a roundelay, The birds they sing for me ! Then play away, away, to-day! I sing because I am so happy, God made the day care-free, And all the golden hours for play ! Then shout and sing with me, And dance away, away, to-day! At 1474 Belmont Street, Sunday, February 9, 19 13. 79 FIRST DAY OUT. Holla, holla, My heart is singing to-day! For gray is the sea to the starboard, And blue is the sea to the larboard, And gentle the winds that have sway As we sail away! Holla, holla, Still, still, is the mighty sea — The bosom of many a fleecy cloud, But the heart of the man it crieth aloud, For here it is good to be ! Wind swept and free! Holla, holla, Keen, keen is the heart's delight, For straight as an arrow, the path we take, And whiter than snow our foam -flecked wake, As we sail to meet the night, On the sea, sun-bright! Holla, holla, The heart of the world is mine! To find it I go far over the sea And the mighty deep rejoices with me, Alive, pulsating, divine To the horizon line! S. S. Lapland, July 26, 1913. 80 NIGHTFALL. As many stars as the heaven shows, So many lights has the Protean sea! Far over the deep the twilight grows, And the glimmering ocean whispers to me- Sad, infinite things! As many moods as the human soul, So many ways has the shifting sea! For hither and yon its waters roll Under the night, as my thought in me Recurrent swings. As many graves as our hearts enfold, So many dead has the hungry sea! By the swashing waves her dead are knolled, While ever my heart for the dead in me A requiem sings. S. S. Lapland, July 27, 1913. 81 FAIR WEATHER. All day, in undulant, idle play, The mighty ocean ambled away, With never a fleck of foam on its breast, And never a moment of perfect rest. O joy of the heaving sea, The joy of a god to me ! Encircling the dark blue sea as a crown The dome of the pale blue sky dipped down. On our lordly ship the sun gleamed bright, And fleecy clouds were the heart's delight. O joy of the glittering sea, The joy of a god to me! All day we sailed the broad blue main, No ship in sight on the endless plain, But light of heart, as the white gulls there Flashing in sunlight their plumage fair. O joy of the lonely sea, The joy of a god to me! Since only to be on the wave is a joy, Where heart of the man becomes heart of a boy, Enough, I ween, for serenity's sake Are the rainbows flashed in the spray of our wake. O joy of the sunlit sea, The joy of a god to me! S. S. Lapland, July 28, 1913. 82 MIDNIGHT. Dark is the sea 'neath a heaven of stars, Wonderful, glimmering, luminous stars. Far on the horizon's darkening rim, Ghostly and black in the vagueness of night, Drift on the restless tide — cloud-shadows dim, Ghosts in my phantasy, fleeing the light. Far to the west and its bed in the sea, Wonderful, glimmering, darkening sea, Trailing its stars in a luminous chain, Diamond-glittering Scorpio glows; Glorious diadem hung o'er the main Low in the north, solemn, the Great Bear shows. Diamond lights on its foamy breast, Gleaming and vanishing lights on its breast, Noisily rushes the surge in our wake. Endlessly shifting and drifting it goes — Far to the rear like a glittering snake, Undulant, jewelled and crested, it glows. Lonely a meteor flames through the sky, Wonderful, jewelled and infinite sky, Trailing its luminous path like a star, Burning its way to the night and the sea! Bells of the midnight my revery mar — Severed are ocean and ego in me! S. S. Lapland, July 29, 1913. 83 INNISFREE. (To William B. Yeats.) Master, in some lone hour, could I but make One poem like thine "Innisfree," On that one perfect thing I'd stake Fame's immortality, and win : It hath such longing melody Of glamouring woodland, mere, and lea — Avon's "one touch," that " makes the whole world kin !" J. H. H., January 20, 19 14. 84 A LOVE SONG. Io Hymen, Hymenaee. — Catullus. On the red man's prairie, miles from anywhere, The silvery, silky globes of the pasque* unfold In the warm spring air. By men unseen the miracle goes on Till their bridal robes — laced-silver, and purple, and gold — The anemones don. Only the wandering bees and the butterflies know, The meadows, dearer to them than the wings they have on, Where the pasque flowers grow. For in secret the honied blooms have sworn a pact, Since the far-off time of mammoth and mastodon, Together with them to act. And the years of the pact into ages unnumbered have grown And ever the time draws on, when the vernal gleam Is over the prairies thrown. Then under the tent of blue, with its white cloud-roof, Neither the man nor the wolf disturbs their dream, But only the bison's hoof. J. H. H. February 4, 19 14. *NuttalPs anemone. 85 SONNETS. * * * Io mi son un che quando Amore spira, noto; ed a quel modo Ch'ei detta dentro, vo significando. — Dante: Purgatorio, XXIV, 52-54. I. MUSIC AT HOME. When now I hear the harmonies she played, Although her gracious image haunts my brain, The sense of loneliness will not be stayed, And all the chords are blent with subtle pain. The dulcet tones recall the old sweet days: Her dainty fingers sweep the ivory keys; With endless floods of melody she sways My raptured soul. The mighty Masters please Her most, and with her spirit best accord. Wagner and Grieg* and I^iszt with her agree, But most of all she loves Beethoven, lord Of all sweet harmony : the Master he Under whose all-embracing watch and ward, Our souls sail out on an uncharted sea. At 1460 Belmont Street, Washington, D. C. December 12, 1909. *The Peer Gynt suite and Lohengrin were special favorites. 89 II. THE LOVE OF ART. When Michael Angelo his David carved, He took from choice a stone rejected thrice By lesser men; when aged Rembrandt starved, He painted canvases beyond all price: Which proves the common man not master-wise. Indeed, how should he hear the higher voice, Whose throat is overfull of specious lies? But those who walk in Art's high way, from choice, They breathe a purer air than ever blows O'er common ways; and comradeship if rare Is rich beyond compare, and fairer grows With lapse of years. Up rugged steeps and bare The pathway leads, but he who climbeth knows The prospect grows at every turn more fair! At 1460 Belmont Street, December 12, 1909. 90 III. SUMMER SEAS. (Woods Hole, Mass.) O perfect day! I lie beneath the pines, And watch the white sails dot the wide blue sea, Alone I lie, remembering days with thee By sea and shore — days quaffed like rarest wines, Whose perfume lingers long, O vanished wife: Dear golden days, which now return no more To him who roams her wood-paths o'er and o'er — Recalls on kelp-strewn shore her pure sweet life. In countless tender ways I name her worth: She sleeps not unremembered nor alone, The soughing pines her requiem shall sing, The salt seas grieve for her in monotone, And all the winds that blow shall message bring To her whose bones are dust in Mother Earth. On train Boston to Washington, January i and 3, 19 10. 91 IV. EVENINGS WITH BOOKS. "The world of books is still the world" said she Who knew all books so well, both grave and gay.* To us our books revealed the sacred play Of men and women's souls, laid bare to free The prisoned god, with power to move his world! What long still hours we read old tales and new, With now and then sweet interchange of view! From our small nook what vistas were unfurled, What old-time men and maidens trod the boards, How rang out Milton's, Homer's, Heine's lines, How clasped we Shakespeare's, Shelley's hands, crossed swords With D'Artagnan, shared Virgil's corn and wines, To dear Charles Lamb and Dickens showed our hoards, Or delved with Keats in Fancy's Indian mines! January 5, 1910. The library at 1460 (now 1474) Belmont Street (where we read together). *Mrs. Browning. 92 V. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Thou livest still in all our heart's best blood, Dear Robert Louis, prince of all who tell Strange tales of Fortune's power by field and flood. On Apia 's palmy strand, in Scottish dell, Or wheresoe 'er thy wandering footsteps fell, The gods did grant thee Gaelic second-sight, And wondrous power thy clairvoyance to tell. Thy Treasure Island is our treasure bright ; Thine Arabian Nights are tales as weird, as brave Scheherazade told, from night to night, In Arab days of old, her life to save; Thy songs and prayers are ours to be upright; And that lone hill in tropic seas, thy grave, Shall be a holy mount, a beacon light! At 1460 Belmont Street, January 17, 1910. 93 VI. CONFUCIUS. (B. C. 600.) Sincere great Master Kong, of alien race, And ancient time, as our brief record runs, But modern in the light of flashing suns, And modern too in ethic fire and grace, Long years passed by ere I did know thy worth, But now I hold thee dear as Jew or Greek. Thy perfect Doctrine of the Mean I seek, Thine Analects I delve as golden earth. Clear-eyed, serene of soul, in counsel sage, Thy wisdom and thy worth are not alone Cathay's domain but all men's heritage : Therefore, that simple Chefu tomb of thine, Beneath the cedar's gloom, shall be a throne Of righteousness for aye, and great world-shrine ! At 1460 Belmont Street, January 21 and 24, 19 10. 94 VII. DEAD LOVES. 'Helas, je sais un chant d' amour, triste ou gai, Tour a tour": Its sorrows touch all hearts, And, young or old, remembrance ne'er departs; Its music floods the world with songs of May; Its bliss reveals the god within our clay ! O tender love, O bittersweet! Time parts The dearest hearts, and loves are won with smarts As loves are lost, and all things fade away To memories, sad or sweet, recalled by song! Musset, Chopin, Beethoven, Angelo, Sad names are these ! Of Heloise the fair, Of Edith, Rosamond or meek Valliere; Of Lammermoor's or Amy Robsart's woe; O time! What now remains but tender song? At 1460 Belmont Street (evening), January 28, 1910. 95 VIII. MIGRATORY BIRDS. (Probably vireos or warblers.) With joyous eagerness, in midmost night, "Listen, my dear," she said, and I intent, Constraining feebler sense, as best I might, At last, heard faint and far, and downward sent From upper air, the voice of birds, in flight To nesting lands far north, spring's sweet content Within each tiny breast. If heard aright, Your piping notes unto each other meant: 'Yes, comrades, here we are, and all is well, Beneath the quiet stars. " O wandering birds! What knowledge guides you through the pathless air? What simple faith inspires your unknown words? What utter trust is yours in Nature's care! Oh, shamed are we in lesser faith to dwell! At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday evening January 30, 1910. 96 IX. HER GRAVE AND MINE: SEPTEMBER. (Woods Hole, Mass.) Days shorter grow and winds now freer blow, The crickets chirp within the golden grass, On unknown quests the brown ants zigzag pass, Rains seldom fall, and trees begin to show The red and gold of autumn's vesture gay; Within the bush the field mouse squeaks her zest, Or frightened seeks to gain her grass-lined nest At scream or shadow thrown from bird of prey. Oh, two-fold mystery of life and death : Delight in cries expressed, fear holding breath ! The mouse spares not the beetle's tender brood, And keenest hunger wings the hawk's fierce quest ! Each one fulfills the measure of God's mood, And only such as we have perfect rest! At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, March 6, 19 10. 97 X. AN AUTUMN STORM. (Woods Hole, Mass.) O winged storm! The sea to-day is grand! Poseidon's white-maned horses plough the shore ! Among the rocks, close-wrapped and capped, we stand, To watch the foam-clad crooked furrows pour From ocean's heart and wallow toward the land. O'er kelp-clad slippery rocks the waters roar : Resurging, grinding, at the god's command. And pounding and resounding evermore, The thwarted sea in spite upon us throws Its bitter spray, but cannot quench our glee. We joy in every mood the sea god knows, In every wind that blows: of Hellas we, And when the spell is on, her beauty glows Within our souls and brightens stormiest sea! At 1460 Belmont Street, March 10, 19 10. 98 XI. BARACOA: 1904. A palm-clad land whose shores abruptly rise In range on range of rugged sea-scarred hills ! Hemmed in by ocean-shore and mountain rills, Scant is the space where Baracoa lies Beside her quaint round port, in crater guise. On either hand, outstretched to distant hills, A wealth of palmy green the landscape fills, And earth with sea and sky in beauty vies To cast a spell on those who know this strand. O'er all — a cynosure for ships that pass — Afar, flat-topped El Yunque jagged towers, An ocean floor upthrust on slag of glass :* Lone sentinel, and witness mute to powers That linger still within this smiling land. At 1460 Belmont Street, April 15, 1910. "Obsidian. 99 XII. BARACOA (II). The ravined sharks in all her waters swim ; In storms the ocean thunders at her doors ; The trade- winds blow her spice from distant shores; The tropic rains to sudden torrents brim Her mountain streams; the tireless vultures skim Her forest tops and wheel o'er curving shores; From cloudless blue the sudden rainflood pours — Then all again is clear to ocean's rim. O witching, beauteous, balmy, summer land ! O glorious, incurving, sunrise strand! Thy mother dear has been the ocean wave, And she shall be on some far day thy grave, When tidal wave shall sweep from shore to shore* And all again be slimy ocean floor. On train between New York and Washington, April 25, 1910. *The high benches back of the city mark the caverned shore of an ancient sea. 100 XIII. BARACOA (III). In Baracoa's past her present dwells: Here Time in sloth hath stayed the shaping hand! Four hundred years of Spain have kept this land As when Columbus saw his caravels Aground upon her bar — and great oaths swore ! The world moves on, but Baracoa sleeps In sun and squalor on her coral deeps, Content to eat and drink, and sleep once more! Upon her rocks, alone, in April days, How oft our souls by memories were wrung, Desiring lands beyond her lonely sea — Good food, clean beds, home speech and modern ways ! A lonely land, indeed, for such as we, Who know but ill her velvet Spanish tongue! On train New York to Washington, April 25, 1910. XIV. BARACOA (IV). A tender sky is hers : earth never gave More precious gifts than those she holds in fee ! Here summer dwells beside her azure sea, And largess pours of all the senses crave, While cool the trade-winds blow o'er tropic wave. Yet this is not the land for you and me. Of all her sons scarce one is nobly free: A few grow rich, the many starve and slave, And one corrupted church holds ignorant sway, Compelling all to bend to her the knee In servile fear, from cradle unto grave,* Lest wrath of God should burn in judgment day. In leading-strings they fare : they are not free, Nor know they there what means that great word — brave ! Park Avenue Hotel, New York, April 2i, 1910. *And after, if the grave rent is not paid! XV. REMEMBRANCE. Great soul, when I thy martyrdom recall, Those endless nights and days of torturing pain, Thy slowly waning strength, thy beauty slain, Thy stubborn fight with Death from spring to fall And on, till winter days made end of all, A new Gethsemane invades my brain ! It all returns : again my Love is slain, And unassuaged grief holds me in tin-all ! But when I think of all thy fortitude, Thy stoic patience kept, thy gentleness, And most of all thy tender love expressed For others in thy mortal hour, not less Thy trust in God, my soul to gratitude Is moved for nobleness so manifest ! At 1460 Belmont Street, May 29 and 30, 1910. 103 XVI. HER GRAVE AND MINE: MORNING AND EVENING. (Woods Hole, Mass.) The traveler here may pause with kindling eye, Sweeping, at break of day, the prospect wide, With scarce a thought of those that here abide The summer's heat, the winter's cold — for nigh Is far, to one whose sunrise hope leaps high, ' Inspiring him to ride both far and wide; And here may lovers come at even-tide, To watch the sunset glow on sea and sky, Or twilight fade and night reveal her stars : A night of soft gray mists and mysteries, Most fit for deep and pure heart histories; Or one that sometimes follows summer storms, When all the sky is luminous with stars, And God's infinitude the soul informs ! At 1460 Belmont Street, June 2, 1910. 104 XVII. THE OLD FAITH AND THE NEW Of the body of Christ in the bread, Tertullian said : Credo quia impossible est. Herein the Latin Father well expressed The Middle Age : an age in texts well-read, In knowledge weak, and unto Credos wed. The Church hath not as yet the truth confessed, But, in the end, she must disown the test, For all blind faith in thoughtful minds is dead, Or will be by and by, with knowledge grown. We would believe because we cannot doubt, Would make the unknown tally with the known ! But if to Faith you still would cling, nor flout, To read the text in this new way were best : Credo quia non impossibile est ! At 1460 Belmont Street, Midnight, June 15, 19 10. 105 XVIII. BEETHOVEN (I). Devout from youth, thy spirit yearned for light ! Sceptic and infidel they branded thee, Because thou wouldst serve God and still be free From trammels holy men forge day and night To bind their fellow men. For thee the right Lay not in musty creeds, which can agree No jot with souls by righteousness made free, Yet no man more with God walked day and night! In later years, when sound no more was heard, Thy saddened, lofty soul dwelt much alone! Beyond the reach of kindly human word, Thy brooding spirit soared through realms of light, And made its own the mightier organ tone Of suns and systems rolled in endless flight. At 1460 Belmont Street, June 24, 1910. 106 XIX. BEYOND. Brooding and sad o'er loss of loveliness, Since she hath gone, I walk too much alone ; Yet all her soul expressed of gentleness So clingeth unto me it seems my own. I know not where her spirit pure resides, Nor what strange tasks are hers, but this I know, That where she is, there deep sweet peace abides, And neighbored so she cannot lonely grow. And where she dwells there let her husband fare; Although it were at need to deeps of hell, 'Twere greater joy by her companioned there, Than, lone, in heavenly ranges fair, to dwell : So much by loss hath I,ove exceeding grown, So much, her voice unheard, the days are lone! At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday p. m., June 26, 1910. 107 XX. THOMAS CARLYLE. O stormy prophet of God, Thomas Carlyle! Much less from him who is, this tribute falls, Than from the eager youth that was erstwhile, To whom thy sounding words were clarion calls And voices from the higher gods sent down! The world has need of work, thy gospel was — Not he who dreams shall wear the laurel crown, Nor he that cries, "Lord, Lord!" but he that doesl O'er all man's devious and selfish ways, Thy righteous wrath burned fierce, consuming clods. Yet like I best thine earlier hopeful days — The Sartor days, when heroes were as gods : In age thy genius burned with smoky flame And, more and more, fierce praise gave place to blame! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 3, 1910. 108 XXI. JANE WELSH CARLYLE. brilliant woman, proud and sad, whom Fate Decreed should Irving's tender love repel To be a great man's household drudge and mate! To hear eternal grumblings ebb and swell, For such an one as thee, scant recompense Would seem for all the lavished love of years ! Alas, that men should have no finer sense! Too late gruff Thomas owned thy worth with tears. 1 know not sadder fate than such self-scorn And pitiful remorse as made him slave, And moved him, mightily, when old and lorn, To kneel and kiss the grasses on thy grave : Alas, when one is gone, it is too late To make amends, or loose the bonds of Fate! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 3, and 4, 1910. Note: Alex. Carlyle says Thomas Carlyle and Edward Irving were never rivals, and that Carlyle 's fondness for Lady Ashburton was not just ground for jealousy. Whatever may have been the relations between Irving and Miss Welsh when he took Carlyle to meet her, or Carlyle's subsequent relations with Lady Ashburton, Jane Welsh by her own admission was once passionately in love with Irving, and as Mrs. Carlyle she was made very unhappy by the husband who preferred another woman's society to her own. Indeed the latter half of her married life appears to have been one long torture and torment. 109 XXII. THE TWO MULTITUDES. (To W. S. T.) Two multitudes by turns invade my mind : The one that swarms through myriad years unborn, The other stretched to man's dim natal morn. Since both by Fate are strown, as leaves by wind, I know not which most to felicitate : The multitude passed on and out of strife, Or into higher strife, or that whose life Shall find on earth a nobler human state, When man hath looked deep into Nature's heart, From dwarfing selfishness hath purged his own, And upright, free, and happy, shall be thrown A god among the gods to play his part. A million years are in the backward glance, Ten million more perchance, for man's advance! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 4, 1910. XXIII. MATA HARBOR. (To J. B. R.) The sea lies near, and cool the night wind blows, An open deck our bed, we shift in vain, Some place to find less swept by wind and rain ! How strange it is ! The forest overflows With mystery! No sense but what outgoes Toward unknown life! 'Tis chill, but why complain When one may have, wind-blown, so weird a strain Of forest scents and sounds ! At last light grows : No stir on shore, no sound; no neighboring ships; The water laps, the lonely forest drips; And desolate her palm-thatched huts and stores In this gray light, as when the fever erst Swept all the Spanish traders from her shores, And Mata* then was named the place accurst. At 1460 Belmont Street, June and July 7, 1910. 'Probably from the verb "raatar," to kill. 11 1 XXIV. APRIL DAYS. O tender green that's born of April suns ! O myriad tiny hands out-thrust to light ! Life's current now full-coursed within you runs, Till root and shoot forget the winter's night. And myriad million cells to one blind end, In harmony attuned, within each tree, Expand and bud : absorb, consume and blend The gifts of earth and air by sun set free. And life which seemed so dead those winter days, In bud and bloom, by spring's sweet ferment stirred, Now wells and overflows the woodland ways, And nesting songs in every tree are heard. O life within the wood and life in me, The selfsame yearning God must in us be! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 8, 1910. XXV. THE GRAVEYARD AT MATA. (April, 1904.) Mata, loneliest port the sailor knows, When first I stood within thy burial ground, That rough hill-side where one lone cashew grows, And saw each tomb and slab and cross and mound So utterly neglect — so overgrown With spiny weeds and vext with sharp-edged halms, 1 thought: What dreadful spot to call God's own! And turned to glimpse the sea through dying palms. But when I saw thy hut-born squalid race, The brood of ignorance whom sloth has wed, For such, I said: 'Tis good enough grave-place; And loathing then welled up as pity fled. O palm-sick land, what curse hath fallen on thee, That so should dwarf the man and blight the tree? At 1460 Belmont Street, July 10 and 11, 1910. 113 XXVI. ON READING PIERRE LOTI'S PECHEUR D'ISLANDE. To me no picture could more vivid be! A granite land, wind-swept and desolate,* Is this bold strand, where grinds the Channel sea. In winter here her menfolk love and mate, In summer sail to fish rough Iceland's lee Leaving their women lone, to watch and wait Return of ships which oft can never be Because o'erwhelming seas have been their fate. O story filled with mournful sound of sea, And wail of fisher-folk for dear ones lost, Across thy poignant pages, black with fate, A wild and lovely nature wanders free, And sharp salt spray is blown, by winds elate, O'er all its leaves, so sun- and shadow-crossed! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 19 and 20, 1910. *The coast of Brittany. 114 XXVII. BARACOA (V). The blue petraea blows, the flame-tree glows, The bright-eyed lizards flash along the walls, Its waxwhite tube the giant cactus shows, And hot on land and sea the sunshine falls ! From spiny shrubs that line the sandy bay, To pick red seeds, black-tipped, for necklace wear, Through sun and sand, my dear, a weary way, To Cyriaco's hut we slowly fare. Here neath the palms, at mouth of river Miel, We rest an hour or twain as welcome guests : Mud-floored the hut — but those within are leal, Men, women, children all, to friendship's tests. That child-filled Cuban home, where is it now? And where, O tender Love, where now art thou? At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, July 24, 1910. 115 XXVIII. INSOMNIA. For me in this deep night hath sleep no part, The cells which govern dreamless rest appear Or moribund or functionless and sere, O'erwrought, perchance, by grief's incessant smart. The hours run on ! Unbidden memories start In shifting throng. I dwell on dead ones dear, Or those that live but are no longer near, And wild and bitter longings fill the heart. The moon has set, the stars fade one by one; His noisy round the milkman has begun; The clock strikes four impertinent quick strokes; And then within my tall and reverend oaks, Beside his mate and nest, from men withdrawn, I hear a sweet bird sing the golden dawn.* At 1460 Belmont Street, July 25, 1910. *The wood-thrush, which nested again in the trees in 191 5. 116 XXIX. THE EARLY LIGHT. By naught that's innocent can sleep be won ! The night is endless long, the quiet small, For one who turns and turns, a weary thrall To wakefulness : then welcome be the sun ! The growing faint gray light proclaims night done. Our ivied sparrows know it first of all : One timid note of hope, with answering call Of doubt, I hear, then pipings are begun. Bird memory brief, they think: "The night is long, The daylight gone will never come again, Our hunger grows, as grows our fear of night, And now once more appears the long-lost light. " Wherefore their tiny throats are full of song — A prayer more real it seems than prayers of men. At 1460 Belmont Street, July 26, 1910. 117 XXX. PURITY. White soul, that fellowshiped with me a day, My grosser spirit knelt before thy shrine For aye, and yet reveres the spirit fine And high, that templed in too fragile clay! Like crystal waters clear, thy soul's deep lay, Reflecting day-dreams bright, and pale star-shine! Yet tenderness divine was ever thine ! Beholding men, thy spirit said alway: The sweet Lord Buddh, the gentle Nazarene, And all the loftiest souls this earth has seen, The pure white stone have sought, as man, his brother; But neither Christ, nor Buddha, nor another, Can ever, quite, the beast in man dissever From the God that yearns and climbs forever! At 1460 Belmont Street, July 30, 1910. 118 XXXI. THE DARK SHADOW. Our Plato dear, who wrote with golden pen, Bade us fear not with shadowy Death to cope, Since needs must be, he said, beyond Death's slope, A heaven of men ! Indeed, beyond our ken In space, may dwell a race of Godlike men, Earthborn but come to morn of vaster scope ! Our Goethe dying voiced the strong man's hope : Von Aenderungen zu hoheren Aenderungen\ Idlest of dreamers, these! I hear one say: Yet dreams have moved the world to higher things Far more than unaspiring stolid clay ! We are such stuff as dreams are made on — sings Our great Shakespeare, and all good poets pray For faith in God: that song may rise on wings! At 1460 Belmont Street, August 4, 1 9 10. 119 XXXII. STRANGE PETS. A sweet-faced girl of Beauty's fragile strain, Old for her years, and dowered with noble grace And inborn loveliness, a girl whose face Once seen, remains for days to haunt the brain, In play with two white mice her love made plain For all dumb things ! While daintily a space Within her garment's fold the mice sought place, Some loathed, some stared, and none did know my gain. Dear Love, thine own sweet youth through hers to me Passed greeting debonair. Anon with care I thought how sad her own mid-life might be; And then with joy : The same dear spirit dwells In more than one sweet girl, and ever wells, A heaven of grace, to make this world more fair! On train, Washington to New York, August 1 6, 19 10. Suggested by something seen in a Washington street car. XXXIII. SUMMER FOLK. Once more I roam this old New England shore: The sea-gulls scream, the blue waves dance and gleam, The brown-green islands feel the hot sun's beam, And stately ships go by, like those of yore. The sea and shore — the murmur, wash and roar, Change not, nor are swept away in Time's swift stream, But the men and maids who walked this way in a dream Ten summers gone — for how many the dream is o'er! In a mighty flood of memories, bitter-sweet, Those summers long ago come back to me — The laughter, hope and love of years now fled, Blent with the mournful note of the restless sea : And again for me the dear ones gone and dead, Retrace the long and winding wind-swept street! Woods Hole, Mass., August 28, 1 9 10. XXXIV. WOODS HOLE. The wonder and mystery of the sea speak here, To open eye and ear, their message clear; And the soul of man throws off all doubt and fear, Where vast thy unfathomed starry skies appear; But nothing now seems as it did to me, When first full-grown, I breathed deep and free, This ocean air; and hailed with boyish glee, The many-islanded and wide blue sea, The winding shore, the fields and woodlands fair; And felt on Up and cheek and brow and hair. And on the body pressed, as greeting rare. The bitter kiss of wind-blown salt sea air : For one I loved was with me here of yore But now alone I pace the sounding shore. Woods Hole, Mass., September 2, 1910. Shore of Big Harbor — on Penzance. XXXV. GRACE AND BEAUTY. A rare elusive beauty was her dower, With touch of tender melancholy shown In gracious word and gesture all her own — A grace compelling one to feel its power. Her beauty was the image of her soul ! In vain the sculptor strives to limn her face, In bronze he cannot prison the subtle grace, Swift changed, as clouds unfold or waters roll. In vain I strive for jeweled words to make Her beauty live again. No words can paint The perfect image of my aureoled saint — That all in her pure soul delight should take : Best then to say: Each fleeting thought to grace And loveliness was wrought in her sweet face ! Woods Hole, Mass., Sunday, September 4, 1910, A. M. in the hot sun on the high bluff of Crow Hill over- looking Buzzards Bay. 123 XXXVI. THE NOBSKA SHORE. Seul avec I'ocean, seul avec la nature, Seul avec vous, Seigneur! — Hugo: La I,6gende des Sificles. Upon her Mother's breast here let her sleep, O 'er-blown by salt sea winds, o'er-washed by spray ! On the sounding shore, among the boulders gray, Her bed is made; lone, where the white sails sweep A broad deep sea, and stars their vigils keep ! The sea she loved makes music here alway, Repeating loud or low, and night and day, Its world-old song of change, and then of sleep ! The earth was hers, she loved all joyous things, Yet tenderly would touch where sorrow clings; St. Francis like, she found some form of good, In all the denizens of field and wood : Now evermore, on Mother Earth's rough breast, A part of sea and shore, she lies at rest. Nobska Shore facing Woods Hole, Sunday, September n, 1910. 124 XXXVII. THE HIDDEN TRUTH. In hopeful youth one settles doubt offhand ! 'Tis easy then to show how this is sage And that absurd, and battle royal wage With all forthwith who fail to understand Our point of view and logic's strict demand: Quite otherwise it is in doubtful age When search hath shown in many a trusted page Gross error linked with truth, as hand joins hand: Then suddenly some dreary morn we know Full sure that time is short, and we shall go To silence and the dark before we find That hidden Truth of which things seen are rind Or outer garment's fold ; and sorrow then Sometime hath place among the sons of men. Boston Common, September 27, 28, 1910. 125 XXXVIII. SLAUGHTER OF JEWS IN RUSSIA O God of Justice and of Vengeance high, How long, how long, shall blood of guiltless slain, Beneath thine heaven cry to Thee in vain! Awake, and smite the wicked hip and thigh, 'Till cursed priest and Romanoff shall sigh To Judah's God to smite no more for pain ! Lord God of Sabaoth, the bloody stain Makes to Thee night and day its mournful cry! In vain the cry! For Israel's God is dead, Or works his will alone through daring men ! Not till the awful power of Church and State In bloody ruin falls, and knowledge spread, Shall Russian man be master of his fate, And woman safe from tyrant's sword and den! Streets of New York, Evening of October i, 1910. 126 XXXIX. THE EARTH MOTHER. (To Victor D. Brenner, on seeing for a second time his "Return to Nature.") A miracle of love in marble wrought Reveals the sculptor's soul : Earth Mother young, And fair as Dawn, from the rude earth hath sprung, To give to man new strength and joyous thought; To bring her peace to him who lies distraught, And weary unto death of discords flung Him from the knees of higher Gods, unsung — Unsolvable in terms of human thought. Here all the tenderness of woman's soul, Clothed in the perfect form so rarely seen, Outflows to comfort him of noble mien By sorrow overthrown ! It is his goal ! Man finds alone in woman's spirit rest, Till great Earth Mother folds him to her breast! New York, October i, 2, 3, 1910. 127 XL. EDWIN BOOTH'S ROOM AT THE PLAYERS' CLUB. It is the Master's room ! His great soul here, In darkness drear, did brave Death's bitter rage Kingly to move upon some vaster stage In this great Universe. Thank God ! No fear That souls like his should sleep the eternal year ! It must be that they move from age to age Among the sons of God in heritage Of dramas vaster planned than dreamed of here! Since Booth made Hamlet's sorrow seem bis own, Not yet so many shadowy years have flown That they should dim the luster of his fame. Himself hath gone, but love enshrines his name, And makes this room, unchanged since it was his, The symbol of eternal verities! New York, October 9, io, 1910. 128 XLI. SPRING AT ELMWOOD. At Elmwood now the lilac hedges bloom, As for the poet's joy they bloomed of old; His velvet lawns their dainty shoots unfold, The crows from his elm-tops call. The spring has room For all sweet things — the hyacinth's purple gloom, The bluebird's call, the tulip's heart of gold. All things are glad as when the brave song rolled From the Master's lips, yea, spring would deck his tomb ! For man he spoke brave words, he did brave deeds, His words roll through the soul like organ peals, Awak'ning tenderness for human needs : Therefore he lives in every heart that feels, And each new spring the lilac's fragrance shed Shall float in benediction o'er his head! New York, Sunday evening, October 9, 19 10, except first line which was at Cambridge three weeks ago passing by the hedges. The old house where Lowell was born stands far back from the street surrounded by the lilacs. 129 XUI. THE DISTANT AIRSHIP. (Fort Myer, Va., September 10, 1908.) wonder, which the poet said should be ! From other years be set apart this year Which marks an era new in man's career, Since air is added unto earth and sea As his domain! Treasured the name shall be Of Orville Wright! An hour I watched him veer His airy craft above the forest clear Till twilight's deepening gloom blurred man and tree. As ship on some fair bay 'twixt wooded shore And cloudy headland sails through calm or flaw, So sailed this craft, its pinions flashing bright ; Or like that mighty Roc of Arab lore, With neck and legs out-thrust, which Sinbad saw, In flight across the sun, obscure the light. At 1460 Belmont Street, October 20, 19 10. 130 xun. IMMANUEL KANT * * * und nur so fern glauben, dem g&tllichen Willen gent'dss zu sein, als wir das Sittengesetz * * * heilig halten, ihm dadurch allein s« dienen glauben, dass wir das Weltbeste an uns und an Andern befordern. ■ — Kant: Kritik der Reinen Vernunft His will was strong, hearing man's age-long cry, To ponder day by day the swarming earth, And night by night, alone, the starry sky, Seeking through all the maze of death and birth Some harmony of underlying laws : The irreducible antinomies (Of time and space and of the primal cause) Within the human mind, not less were his ! A subtle spirit, strong: he stood upright Where other men had bent: his highest need Without, he said, the cloudless sky of night — The moral law within, his only creed. Would all might love pure truth as much as he And find stern duty's joy, which made him free ! At 1460 Belmont Street, October 21, 26, 27, 1910. 131 xuv. WALDEN POND. (September 22, 1910.) "The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it." — Thoreau. Here dwelt, remote from men, a soul with wings ! For him was the growing world an open book Wherein he read delectable fair things ! His altar, Earth, on him god Pan did look ! He searched for Truth afield, as all men should, Read deep the mystic book of human life; Scorned civic shams; found Nature ever good; And lived his inner life, through calm and strife ! This is the shore he loved, here stood his cot. The blue lake gleams, the autumn woods are fair; Warm shines the sun, crows call, bees murmur here; The Master's spirit fills the quiet air, And all the land holds memory of the seer Whose cairn high-piled marks here a sacred spot. At 1460 Belmont Street, October 30, and November 1, 1910. 132 XLV. MEISSONIER'S CAVALIER. (In the Wallace Collection in London) The Flower of France her chivalry displays, Those knights who knew not fear nor bore reproach : And best she had this artistry portrays ! Here is a moving figure whose approach We hail with joy, as down the somber stair Gaily he trips, to palace hall perchance, Humming the while a careless merry air. Some worthy son is this of ancient France : It well might chance Vicomte de Bragelonne, So frank and manly is his handsome face, Raoul himself, with all his trappings on, And every movement full of strength and grace ! Great painter, thou canst make a vanished age As much alive as Dumas' stirring page! At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, November 6, 1910. 133 XLVI. BEETHOVEN (II). Great symphonist, and dear! whose tones unlock The soul of rhythmic sound ! thy precious name Is writ on high in lordly hall of Fame, Where lesser names for entrance vainly knock! Low-born, ill-bred, of Rhenish common stock, Thy simple forbears all unknown to Fame — Nathless thy name tops highest German name — A sunlit soaring crag, rock piled on rock! As Dante trod the ways of Heaven and Hell, Among the dead unscathed by Poesy led; This lonely soul, through Music's heavenly door Entered, a mortal man, God's citadel, The Holy of Holies named; and there was wed To Heaven-heard noble tone-forms evermore. At 1460 Belmont Street, November 12, 19 10. 134 XXVII. COMPASSION. No lowliest life made sad by circumstance, But caught her eye and moved her tender heart ! How oft did words and deeds of love upstart At sight of child cast down by luckless chance, Or bird with broken wing, O tender glance ! Or sad-eyed hungry beast in toilsome cart ! And hence her life is sacred and apart From selfish lives of sad irrelevance. For most great loves cast out all lesser ones, Like grief to selfish ends unwitting brought, But dearer loves have wider range of thought To all include who need their magic touch, Their winsome grace ! Alas, not over much Such breadth of love finds place among Earth's sons. At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, November 13, 19 10. 135 XI, VIII. THE BRIDE OF THE SEA. (Vide Ovid's Metamorphoses.) The watery sport hath been fair Caenis' doom, Her slender form the rude god presses sore, O'erwhelmed, borne down, for cries she hath no room. Poseidon works his will! A maid no more, In coral groves for him she now must bloom. The god has fled the mocking, cruel shore, But deep within sea caverns' twilight gloom, His raucous laughter echoes o'er and o'er! And ships and bones of men that here find tomb, Dreaming Apollo comes with shafts of light To break at last the sea god's vengeful doom, Irresolutely stir the deep sea floor, To hope a moment moved in fateful night, Then sink forlorn to heavy rest once more. At 1460 Belmont Street, November 15, 1910. 136 xux. WEDDED LIFE. "The woman's cause is man's; they rise or sink Together, dwarf' d or godlike, bond or free." — Tennyson. He doth forget his wife whom self makes blind ! And though there are high souls, an honored few, The mass take happiness for just their due, Making but scant amends to womankind, Or to the Gods, for wedded peace of mind ! "Tis strange how soon the vulgar cynic's view Supplants high chivalry the lover knew! Is then first state, or last, more grossly blind? Whose will is strong and pure, with womankind May walk among the Gods, year in, year out! For wedded bliss to some is foolish theme, As cuckoo cloudtown every man may doubt, Yet there are those to whom it marks no dream A high, pure joy in others' joy to find! At 1460 Belmont Street, November 17, 1910. 137 HER FACE. What bliss to me it brought words cannot tell ! A simple old-time face, divinely quaint, Refined and pure and strong, without a taint Of lowborn selfishness, or brooding hell Of restlessness our age knows all too well, Which wholly woman dear is yet half saint : Such faces fair Luini loved to paint, And such in highest moments Raphael. In lonely hours her face comes back to me, Bearing the faint sweet smile it knew so well ; I hear no voice, but love beams in her eyes, And moving lips would speak I know if free ; So I am comforted, and daily dwell In high sweet thoughts and deeds, by grief made wise. At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, November 27, 1910. 138 u. HER GRAVE AND MINE: NOVEMBER (Woods Hole, Mass.) November days begin with sun and wind ! The autumn lingers still on this loved shore As loath to yield to winter blasts unkind A spot so fair. Of wealth what priceless store : Where now the fringe of marsh grass golden glows, Beside the bright blue sea — where now the hills Are robed in royal purples, gold and rose! A brooding haze the peaceful landscape fills, As though the mild September hours were here, And sunny days would never cease to be. All this to Nature-lover's heart is dear As once long since 'twas dear to you and me ; But now the golden round counts not at all, For us 'tis ashen gray — from spring to fall. Lines i, 5, 6 and 7 in October at Woods Hole, The remainder at 1460 Belmont Street, November 27, 1910. 139 UI. DE PROFUNDIS. As worn I stumble down the sunset slope, O'er brevity of life despondent grown, I think sometimes we cheat ourselves with hope, As foolish children some pet bird has flown, Who think it will return another morn, But never find again their precious bird. We are but fleeting cries of sorrow born, The tempter saith — that lower self oft heard When sorrow walks abroad and hope is faint; We are but ripened leaves upon life's tree, And winter days are near with their shrill plaint: We shall be swept away, nor new life see ! Who knows? The whole world groans in bitter plight, Yet hope, divine, will not be silenced quite. At 1460 Belmont Street, November 29, 1910. 140 hill. THE DIVINE LOVE. All tends to good, all life is one in span : The Love Divine beneath its brooding wings, Tender as mother's love, enfolds all things That live and move, from monad unto man; And what to us seems wrong in God's vast plan, To our disturbed and faulty vision clings, As low-hung clouds obscure the lark that sings, Or blot Polaris and Aldebaran. Cross-questionings most terrible arise, And few there are of those to knowledge wed, Who will admit such faith as aught but lies; Yet is not this Great Love the one sole thing To satisfy a hungering world? To bring A deep sweet peace? To wake the sordid dead? At 1460 Belmont Street, November 27, and 30, 19 10. 141 LIV. VICTOR HUGO. (On reading Les Travailleurs de la Mer.) Somber painter ! The immensities of space Beat procreant hammer strokes upon thy brain Till thou couldst scarcely bear the parturient strain, And light and darkness thrown across Earth's face, On myriad forms of life, moved thee to trace Time linked to Space in endless moving chain Of circumstance, enfolding joy and pain With all their subtle shades in one embrace! On such a moving background didst thou paint The somber tragedy of human life : Of evil dominant, of bloody strife, Of strong hearts overcome and beating faint, Of youth and hope made sick by long delays, Of Destiny's black form shadowing man's ways! At 1460 Belmont Street, December 2, and 4, 1910. 142 IV. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (Concord, September 22, 1910.) Pale sunshine floods the quiet country side, The autumn hours a summer memory keep, Birds call, bees hum, the grass-hid crickets cheep : There, yellowing sunward, stretch her meadows wide, Here hillside pines their old sweet music make. A sacred silence holds me brooding near This desolate old place to her once dear, And dear to us in turn for her sweet sake. Her apple trees are gone but not her elms : Beneath their mighty shade she welcomed friends Who loved and used this world for lofty ends, Which have not fled with them to unknown realms. Mock-orange blossoms still about the door,* But not for her do bees its nectar store. Evening of December 7, 1910. *Variant: In girlhood's heart her words were impulse sown, Nobly to play life's part when woman grown. Note: Miss Alcott died March 6, 1888. A very pleasing bust of her by F. Edwin Elwell may be seen in the Concord Library. The Alcott house, tenantless and fallen to ruin, stands by the roadside at the extreme end of Concord village, and just below the wooded hillside mentioned as "Hawthorne's Walk" in Sonnet LXVIII. On the southeast side, thehouse is screened partly from the highway by a clump of ragged old spruce or fir trees, and immediately in front of the old wooden house on either side of the dooryard path are the two ancient elms under one of which, surrounding the trunk, is a rude wooden seat used by the family. In the dooryard are lilies of the valley, day-lilies, mock orange and white waxberry bushes. Bees were storing honey in the gable. On the other side of the highway is a wide brook-traversed meadow. The apple trees were in a small open space to the west of the house between the road and the wooded hillside. On the east side of the house is a wooded lane rising into the near forest, and separating the place from the Hawthorne house. The forest consists of many sorts of trees: pine, spruce, tamarack, locust, oak, chestnut, ash, birch, cherry, elm, maple, linden. Under foot grow Clintonia, Celandine and Smilacina bifolia. Along the hillside path in the woods are rude seats, fixed between the tree trunks probably by Hawthorne himself. 143 LVI. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. High-placed lone pine in our bleak northern land, Thy fragrant boughs distill a healing balm, And chant their mystic runes in storm or calm ; Thy roots strike deep beyond the shifting sand To living wells ; thy sun-flecked shadow thrown Across the world makes joy of men more bright; Thy star-crowned branches front the silent night ; And all the pure sweet winds of heaven blown Find entrance large to greet the winged things And frailer forms that love to shelter here. An elemental strength, to Nature near, Pervades thy trunk and in each fiber clings. And dead in part wert thou, like such a tree, Long, long ere Urdar Norns did set thee free. At 1460 Belmont Street, December 16, 1910. 144 IvVII. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. (In memory of his Early Italian Poets.) Brother, if thou hadst done no dearer thing Than make this one small book of golden verse, Thy name to latest days should men rehearse, Of few, as one who knew heart's deep to sing. The fierce impassioned joy and grief that spring From old Italia's heart, in prayer and curse, Transplanted here to noble English verse, Quiver and rise upon high soaring wing. Sweet songs touching the heart are these old lays, And fair the company by Dante led. I see their proud sweet foreheads wreathed with bays, And worthily among the crowned dead, Moves on, as in a dream, stately and slow, Our painter-bard, to Dante bending low. At 1460 Belmont Street, Sunday, December 18, 1910. H5 LVIII. HALLEY'S COMET. (April, 1910.) Vast streamer, ghostly pale in eastern sky- Preceding dawn ! No thrill of terror now Thy apparition stirs, no pious vow! Grim war, hushed pestilence, gaunt famine's cry O'er earth with thee no more their courses fly. Science hath shorn thy crest! Man fears not now, But questioning uplifts his starlit brow To ether where thy vapors wasting lie. Measureless ways and cycles of time are thine, I