Ponkapog Papers, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (page 2)

positively than the captain of the Pinafore said it of himself, that he was hardly ever sick at sea.
Imagine Byron or Shelley, who knew the ocean in all its protean moods, piping such thin feebleness as

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

To do that required a man whose acquaintance with the deep was limited to a view of it from an upper window at Margate or Scarborough. Even frequent dinners of turbot and whitebait at the sign of The Ship and Turtle will not en- able one to write sea poetry.
Considering the actual facts, there is some- thing weird in the statement,

I ‘m on the sea! I ‘m on the sea!
I am where I would ever be.

The words, to be sure, are placed in the mouth of an imagined sailor, but they are none the less diverting. The stanza containing the distich ends with a striking piece of realism:

If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

This is the course of action usually pursued by sailors during a gale. The first or second mate goes around and tucks them up comfort- ably, each in his hammock, and serves them out an extra ration of grog after the storm is over.
Barry Cornwall must have had an exception- ally winning personality, for he drew to him the friendship of men as differently constituted as Thackeray, Carlyle, Browning, and Forster. He was liked by the best of his time, from Charles Lamb down to Algernon Swinburne, who caught a glimpse of the aged poet in his vanishing. The personal magnetism of an au- thor does not extend far beyond the orbit of his contemporaries. It is of the lyrist and not of the man I am speaking here. One could wish he had written more prose like his admirable “Recollections of Elia.”
Barry Cornwall seldom sounds a natural note, but when he does it is extremely sweet. That little ballad in the minor key beginning,

Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream,

was written in one of his rare moments. Leigh Hunt, though not without questionable manner- isms, was rich in the inspiration that came but infrequently to his friend. Hunt’s verse is full of natural felicities. He also was a bookman, but, unlike Barry Cornwall, he generally knew how to mint his gathered gold, and to stamp the coinage with his own head. In “Hero and Lean- der” there is one line which, at my valuing, is worth any twenty stanzas that Barry Cornwall has written:

So might they now have lived, and so have died; The story’s heart, to me, still beats against its side.

Hunt’s fortunate verse about the kiss Jane Carlyle gave him lingers on everybody’s lip. That and the rhyme of “Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel” are spice enough to embalm a man’s memory. After all, it takes only a handful.

DECORATION DAY

HOW quickly Nature takes possession of a deserted battlefield, and goes to work repairing the ravages of man! With invisible magic hand she smooths the rough earthworks, fills the rifle-pits with delicate flowers, and wraps the splintered tree-trunks with her fluent drapery of tendrils. Soon the whole sharp out- line of the spot is lost in unremembering grass. Where the deadly rifle-ball whistled through the foliage, the robin or the thrush pipes its tremu- lous note; and where the menacing shell de- scribed its curve through the air, a harmless crow flies in circles. Season after season the gentle work goes on, healing the wounds and rents made by the merciless enginery of war, until at last the once hotly contested battle- ground differs from none of its quiet surround- ings, except, perhaps, that here the flowers take a richer tint and the grasses a deeper emerald. It is thus the battle lines may be obliterated by Time, but there are left other and more last- ing relics of the struggle. That dinted army sabre, with a bit of faded crepe knotted at its hilt, which hangs over the mantel-piece of the “best room” of many a town and country house in these States, is one; and the graven headstone of the fallen hero is another. The old swords will be treasured and handed down from gener- ation to generation as priceless heirlooms, and with them, let us trust, will be cherished the custom of dressing with annual flowers the rest- ing-places of those who fell during the Civil War.

With the tears a Land hath shed
Their graves should ever be green.

Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly should fame rehearse–
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse.

The impulse which led us to set apart a day for decorating the graves of our soldiers sprung from the grieved heart of the nation, and in our own time there is little chance of the rite being neglected. But the generations that come after us should not allow the observance to fall into disuse. What with us is an expression of fresh love and sorrow, should be with them an ac- knowledgment of an incalculable debt.
Decoration Day is the most beautiful of our national holidays. How different from those sul- len batteries which used to go rumbling through our streets are the crowds of light carriages, laden with flowers and greenery, wending their way to the neighboring cemeteries! The grim cannon have turned into palm branches, and the shell and shrapnel into peach blooms. There is no hint of war in these gay baggage trains, ex- cept the presence of men in undress uniform, and perhaps here and there an empty sleeve to remind one of what has been. Year by year that empty sleeve is less in evidence.
The observance of Decoration Day is un- marked by that disorder and confusion common enough with our people in their holiday moods. The earlier sorrow has faded out of the hour, leaving a softened solemnity. It quickly ceased to be simply a local commemoration. While the sequestered country churchyards and burial- places near our great northern cities were being hung with May garlands, the thought could not but come to us that there were graves lying southward above which bent a grief as tender and sacred as our own. Invisibly we dropped unseen flowers upon those mounds. There is a beautiful significance in the fact that, two years after the close of the war, the women of Colum- bus, Mississippi, laid their offerings alike on Northern and Southern graves. When all is said, the great Nation has but one heart.

WRITERS AND TALKERS

AS a class, literary men do not shine in con- versation. The scintillating and playful essayist whom you pictured to yourself as the most genial and entertaining of companions, turns out to be a shy and untalkable individual, who chills you with his reticence when you chance to meet him. The poet whose fascinating volume you always drop into your gripsack on your summer vacation–the poet whom you
have so long desired to know personally–is a moody and abstracted middle-aged gentleman, who fails to catch your name on introduction, and seems the avatar of the commonplace. The witty and ferocious critic whom your fancy had painted as a literary cannibal with a morbid appetite for tender young poets–the writer of those caustic and scholarly reviews which you never neglect to read–destroys the un-lifelike portrait you had drawn by appearing before you as a personage of slender limb and deprecat- ing glance, who stammers and makes a painful spectacle of himself when you ask him his opinion of “The Glees of the Gulches,” by Popo- catepetl Jones. The slender, dark-haired novel- ist of your imagination, with epigrammatic points to his mustache, suddenly takes the shape of a short, smoothly-shaven blond man, whose conversation does not sparkle at all, and you were on the lookout for the most brilliant of verbal fireworks. Perhaps it is a dramatist you have idealized. Fresh from witnessing his de- lightful comedy of manners, you meet him face to face only to discover that his own manners are anything but delightful. The play and the playwright are two very distinct entities. You grow skeptical touching the truth of Buffon’s assertion that the style is the man himself. Who that has encountered his favorite author in the flesh has not sometimes been a little, if not wholly, disappointed?
After all, is it not expecting too much to expect a novelist to talk as cleverly as the clever characters in his novels? Must a dramatist necessarily go about armed to the teeth with crisp dialogue? May not a poet be allowed to lay aside his singing-robes and put on a con- ventional dress-suit when he dines out? Why is it not permissible in him to be as prosaic and tiresome as the rest of the company? He usually is.

ON EARLY RISING

A CERTAIN scientific gentleman of my
acquaintance, who has devoted years to investigating the subject, states that he has never come across a case of remarkable longevity un- accompanied by the habit of early rising; from which testimony it might be inferred that they die early who lie abed late. But this would be getting out at the wrong station. That the majority of elderly persons are early risers is due to the simple fact that they cannot sleep morn- ings. After a man passes his fiftieth milestone he usually awakens at dawn, and his wakeful- ness is no credit to him. As the theorist con- fined his observations to the aged, he easily reached the conclusion that men live to be old because they do not sleep late, instead of per- ceiving that men do not sleep late because they are old. He moreover failed to take into ac- count the numberless young lives that have been shortened by matutinal habits.
The intelligent reader, and no other is sup- posable, need not be told that the early bird aphorism is a warning and not an incentive. The fate of the worm refutes the pretended ethical teaching of the proverb, which assumes to illustrate the advantage of early rising and does so by showing how extremely dangerous it is. I have no patience with the worm, and when I rise with the lark I am always careful to select a lark that has overslept himself. The example set by this mythical bird, a myth- ical bird so far as New England is concerned, has wrought wide-spread mischief and discom- fort. It is worth noting that his method of ac- complishing these ends is directly the reverse of that of the Caribbean insect mentioned by Laf- cadio Hearn in his enchanting “Two Years in the French West Indies”–a species of colossal cricket called the wood-kid; in the creole tongue, cabritt-bois. This ingenious pest works a sooth-
ing, sleep-compelling chant from sundown until precisely half past four in the morning, when it suddenly stops and by its silence awakens everybody it has lulled into slumber with its in- sidious croon. Mr. Hearn, with strange obtuse- ness to the enormity of the thing, blandly re- marks: “For thousands of early risers too poor to own a clock, the cessation of its song is the signal to get up.” I devoutly trust that none of the West India islands furnishing such satanic entomological specimens will ever be annexed to the United States. Some of our extreme ad- vocates of territorial expansion might spend a profitable few weeks on one of those favored isles. A brief association with that cabritt-bois
would be likely to cool the enthusiasm of the most ardent imperialist.
An incalculable amount of specious sentiment has been lavished upon daybreak, chiefly by poets who breakfasted, when they did breakfast, at mid-day. It is charitably to be said that their practice was better than their precept–or their poetry. Thomson, the author of “The Castle of Indolence,” who gave birth to the depraved apostrophe,

Falsely luxurious, will not man awake,

was one of the laziest men of his century. He customarily lay in bed until noon meditating pentameters on sunrise. This creature used to be seen in his garden of an afternoon, with both hands in his waistcoat pockets, eating peaches from a pendent bough. Nearly all the English poets who at that epoch celebrated what they called “the effulgent orb of day” were denizens of London, where pure sunshine is unknown eleven months out of the twelve.
In a great city there are few incentives to early rising. What charm is there in roof-tops and chimney-stacks to induce one to escape even from a nightmare? What is more depressing than a city street before the shop-windows have lifted an eyelid, when “the very houses seem asleep,” as Wordsworth says, and nobody is astir but the belated burglar or the milk-and- water man or Mary washing off the front steps? Daybreak at the seaside or up among the moun- tains is sometimes worth while, though famil- iarity with it breeds indifference. The man forced by restlessness or occupation to drink the first vintage of the morning every day of his life has no right appreciation of the beverage, how- ever much he may profess to relish it. It is only your habitual late riser who takes in the full flavor of Nature at those rare intervals when he gets up to go a-fishing. He brings virginal emotions and unsatiated eyes to the sparkling freshness of earth and stream and sky. For him –a momentary Adam–the world is newly
created. It is Eden come again, with Eve in the similitude of a three-pound trout.
In the country, then, it is well enough occa- sionally to dress by candle-light and assist at the ceremony of dawn; it is well if for no other purpose than to disarm the intolerance of the professional early riser who, were he in a state of perfect health, would not be the wandering victim of insomnia, and boast of it. There are few small things more exasperating than this early bird with the worm of his conceit in his bill.

UN POETE MANQUE

IN the first volume of Miss Dickinson’s poet- ical melange is a little poem which needs only a slight revision of the initial stanza to entitle it to rank with some of the swallow- flights in Heine’s lyrical intermezzo. I have ten- tatively tucked a rhyme into that opening stanza:

I taste a liquor never brewed
In vats upon the Rhine;
No tankard ever held a draught
Of alcohol like mine.

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the Foxglove’s door,
When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy caps And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

Those inns of molten blue, and the disreputable honey-gatherer who gets himself turned out-of- doors at the sign of the Foxglove, are very taking matters. I know of more important things that interest me vastly less. This is one of the ten or twelve brief pieces so nearly per- fect in structure as almost to warrant the reader in suspecting that Miss Dickinson’s general dis- regard of form was a deliberate affectation. The artistic finish of the following sunset-piece makes her usual quatrains unforgivable:

This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple traffic Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

The little picture has all the opaline atmosphere of a Claude Lorraine. One instantly frames it in one’s memory. Several such bits of impres- sionist landscape may be found in the portfolio. It is to be said, in passing, that there are few things in Miss Dickinson’s poetry so felicitous as Mr. Higginson’s characterization of it in his preface to the volume: “In many cases these verses will seem to the reader like poetry
pulled up by the roots, with rain and dew and
earth clinging to them.” Possibly it might be objected that this is not the best way to gather either flowers or poetry.
Miss Dickinson possessed an extremely un- conventional and bizarre mind. She was deeply tinged by the mysticism of Blake, and strongly influenced by the mannerism of Emerson. The very gesture with which she tied her bonnet- strings, preparatory to one of her nun-like walks in her garden at Amherst, must
have had something dreamy and Emersonian in it. She had much fancy of a quaint kind, but only, as it appears to me, intermittent flashes of imagination.
That Miss Dickinson’s memoranda have a cer- tain something which, for want of a more pre- cise name, we term quality, is not to be denied.
But the incoherence and shapelessness of the greater part of her verse are fatal. On nearly every page one lights upon an unsupported exquisite line or a lonely happy epithet; but a single happy epithet or an isolated exquisite line does not constitute a poem. What Lowell says of Dr. Donne applies in a manner to Miss Dickinson: “Donne is full of salient verses that would take the rudest March winds of criticism with their beauty, of thoughts that first tease us like charades and then delight us with the felicity of their solution; but these have not saved him. He is exiled to the limbo of the formless and the fragmentary.”
Touching this question of mere technique Mr. Ruskin has a word to say (it appears that he said it “in his earlier and better days”), and Mr. Higginson quotes it: “No weight, nor mass, nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought.” This is a pro- position to which one would cordially subscribe if it were not so intemperately stated. A sug- gestive commentary on Mr. Ruskin’s impressive dictum is furnished by his own volume of verse. The substance of it is weighty enough, but the workmanship lacks just that touch which dis- tinguishes the artist from the bungler–the touch which Mr. Ruskin, except when writing prose, appears not much to have regarded either in his later or “in his earlier and better days.” Miss Dickinson’s stanzas, with their impos- sible rhyme, their involved significance, their interrupted flute-note of birds that have no con- tinuous music, seem to have caught the ear of a group of eager listeners. A shy New England bluebird, shifting its light load of song, has for the moment been mistaken for a stray nightingale.

THE MALE COSTUME OF THE PERIOD

I WENT to see a play the other night, one of those good old-fashioned English comedies that are in five acts and seem to be in fifteen. The piece with its wrinkled conventionality, its archaic stiffness, and obsolete code of morals, was devoid of interest excepting as a collection of dramatic curios. Still I managed to sit it through. The one thing in it that held me a pleased spectator was the graceful costume of a certain player who looked like a fine old por- trait–by Vandyke or Velasquez, let us say– that had come to life and kicked off its tar- nished frame.
I do not know at what epoch of the world’s history the scene of the play was laid; possibly the author originally knew, but it was evident that the actors did not, for their make-ups re- presented quite antagonistic periods. This cir- cumstance, however, detracted only slightly from the special pleasure I took in the young person called Delorme. He was not in himself inter- esting; he was like that Major Waters in “Pepys’s Diary”–“a most amorous melan-
choly gentleman who is under a despayr in love, which makes him bad company;” it was en- tirely Delorme’s dress.

I never saw mortal man in a dress more sen- sible and becoming. The material was accord- ing to Polonius’s dictum, rich but not gaudy, of some dark cherry-colored stuff with trimmings of a deeper shade. My idea of a doublet is so misty that I shall not venture to affirm that the gentleman wore a doublet. It was a loose coat of some description hanging negligently from the shoulders and looped at the throat, showing a tasteful arrangement of lacework below and at the wrists. Full trousers reaching to the tops of buckskin boots, and a low-crowned soft hat– not a Puritan’s sugar-loaf, but a picturesque shapeless head-gear, one side jauntily fastened up with a jewel–completed the essential por- tions of our friend’s attire. It was a costume to walk in, to ride in, to sit in. The wearer of it could not be awkward if he tried, and I will do Delorme the justice to say that he put his dress to some severe tests. But he was graceful all the while, and made me wish that my country- men would throw aside their present hideous habiliments and hasten to the measuring-room of Delorme’s tailor.
In looking over the plates of an old book of fashions we smile at the monstrous attire in which our worthy great-grandsires saw fit to deck themselves. Presently it will be the turn of posterity to smile at us, for in our own way we are no less ridiculous than were our ances- tors in their knee-breeches, pig-tail and chapeau
de bras. In fact we are really more absurd. If a fashionably dressed man of to-day could catch a single glimpse of himself through the eyes of his descendants four or five generations re- moved, he would have a strong impression of being something that had escaped from some- where.
Whatever strides we may have made in arts and sciences, we have made no advance in the matter of costume. That Americans do not tattoo themselves, and do go fully clad–I am speaking exclusively of my own sex–is about all that can be said in favor of our present fashions. I wish I had the vocabulary of Herr Teufelsdrockh with which to inveigh against the dress-coat of our evening parties, the angu- lar swallow-tailed coat that makes a man look like a poor species of bird and gets him mis- taken for the waiter. “As long as a man wears the modern coat,” says Leigh Hunt, “he has no right to despise any dress. What snips at the collar and lapels! What a mechanical and ridic- ulous cut about the flaps! What buttons in front that are never meant to button, and yet are no ornament! And what an exquisitely absurd pair of buttons at the back! gravely regarded, never- theless, and thought as indispensably necessary to every well-conditioned coat, as other bits of metal or bone are to the bodies of savages whom we laugh at. There is absolutely not one iota of sense, grace, or even economy in the modern coat.”
Still more deplorable is the ceremonial hat of the period. That a Christian can go about un- abashed with a shiny black cylinder on his head shows what civilization has done for us in the way of taste in personal decoration. The scalp- lock of an Apache brave has more style. When an Indian squaw comes into a frontier settle- ment the first “marked-down” article she pur- chases is a section of stove-pipe. Her instinct as to the eternal fitness of things tells her that its proper place is on the skull of a barbarian. It was while revolving these pleasing reflec- tions in my mind, that our friend Delorme walked across the stage in the fourth act, and though there was nothing in the situation nor in the text of the play to warrant it, I broke into tremendous applause, from which I desisted only at the scowl of an usher–an object in a celluloid collar and a claw-hammer coat. My solitary ovation to Master Delorme was an in- voluntary and, I think, pardonable protest against the male costume of our own time.

ON A CERTAIN AFFECTATION

EXCEPTING on the ground that youth is the age of vain fantasy, there is no ac- counting for the fact that young men and young women of poetical temperament should so fre- quently assume to look upon an early demise for themselves as the most desirable thing in the world. Though one may incidentally be tempted to agree with them in the abstract, one cannot help wondering. That persons who are exceptionally fortunate in their environment, and in private do not pretend to be otherwise, should openly announce their intention of retiring at once into the family tomb, is a problem not easily solved. The public has so long listened to these funereal solos that if a few of the poets thus impatient to be gone were to go, their de- parture would perhaps be attended by that re- signed speeding which the proverb invokes on behalf of the parting guest.
The existence of at least one magazine editor would, I know, have a shadow lifted from it. At this writing, in a small mortuary basket under his desk are seven or eight poems of so gloomy a nature that he would not be able to remain in the same room with them if he did not suspect the integrity of their pessimism. The ring of a false coin is not more recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a simulated sorrow.
The Miss Gladys who sends a poem entitled “Forsaken,” in which she addresses death as her only friend, makes pictures in the editor’s eyes. He sees, among other dissolving views, a little hoyden in magnificent spirits, perhaps one of this season’s social buds, with half a score of lovers ready to pluck her from the family stem –a rose whose countless petals are coupons. A caramel has disagreed with her, or she would not have written in this despondent vein. The young man who seeks to inform the world in eleven anaemic stanzas of terze rime that the
cup of happiness has been forever dashed from his lip (he appears to have but one) and darkly intimates that the end is “nigh” (rhyming af- fably with “sigh”), will probably be engaged a quarter of a century from now in making simi- lar declarations. He is simply echoing some dysthymic poet of the past–reaching out with some other man’s hat for the stray nickel of your sympathy.
This morbidness seldom accompanies gen- uine poetic gifts. The case of David Gray, the young Scottish poet who died in 1861, is an in- stance to the contrary. His lot was exceedingly sad, and the failure of health just as he was on the verge of achieving something like success justified his profound melancholy; but that he tuned this melancholy and played upon it, as if it were a musical instrument, is plainly seen in one of his sonnets.
In Monckton Milnes’s (Lord Houghton’s) “Life and Letters of John Keats” it is related that Keats, one day, on finding a stain of blood upon his lips after coughing, said to his friend Charles Brown: “I know the color of that blood; it is arterial blood; I cannot be deceived. That drop is my death-warrant. I must die.” Who that ever read the passage could forget it? David Gray did not, for he versified the incident as happening to himself and appropriated, as his own, Keats’s comment:

Last night, on coughing slightly with sharp pain, There came arterial blood, and with a sigh Of absolute grief I cried in bitter vein, That drop is my death-warrant; I must die.

The incident was likely enough a personal experience, but the comment should have been placed in quotation marks. I know of few stranger things in literature than this poet’s dramatization of another man’s pathos. Even Keats’s epitaph–Here lies one whose name
was writ in water–finds an echo in David Gray’s
Below lies one whose name was traced in sand.
Poor Gray was at least the better prophet.

WISHMAKERS’ TOWN

A LIMITED edition of this little volume of verse, which seems to me in many re-
spects unique, was issued in 1885, and has long been out of print. The reissue of the book is in response to the desire off certain readers who have not forgotten the charm which William Young’s poem exercised upon them years ago, and, finding the charm still potent, would have others share it.
The scheme of the poem, for it is a poem and not simply a series of unrelated lyrics, is in- genious and original, and unfolds itself in mea- sures at once strong and delicate. The mood of the poet and the method of the playwright are obvious throughout. Wishmakers’ Town–a
little town situated in the no-man’s-land of “The Tempest” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” –is shown to us as it awakens, touched by the dawn. The clangor of bells far and near calls the townfolk to their various avocations, the toiler to his toil, the idler to his idleness, the miser to his gold. In swift and picturesque se- quence the personages of the Masque pass be- fore us. Merchants, hucksters, players, lovers, gossips, soldiers, vagabonds, and princes crowd the scene, and have in turn their word of poign- ant speech. We mingle with the throng in the streets; we hear the whir of looms and the din of foundries, the blare of trumpets, the whisper of lovers, the scandals of the market-place, and, in brief, are let into all the secrets of the busy microcosm. A contracted stage, indeed, yet large enough for the play of many passions, as the narrowest hearthstone may be. With the sounding of the curfew, the town is hushed to sleep again, and the curtain falls on this mimic drama of life.
The charm of it all is not easily to be defined. Perhaps if one could name it, the spell were broken. Above the changing rhythms hangs an atmosphere too evasive for measurement–an atmosphere that stipulates an imaginative mood on the part of the reader. The quality which pleases in certain of the lyrical episodes is less intangible. One readily explains one’s liking for so gracious a lyric as The Flower-Seller, to select an example at random. Next to the plea- sure that lies in the writing of such exquisite verse is the pleasure of quoting it. I copy the stanzas partly for my own gratification, and partly to win the reader to “Wishmakers’ Town,” not knowing better how to do it.

Myrtle, and eglantine,
For the old love and the new!
And the columbine,
With its cap and bells, for folly! And the daffodil, for the hopes of youth! and the rue, For melancholy!
But of all the blossoms that blow, Fair gallants all, I charge you to win, if ye may, This gentle guest,
Who dreams apart, in her wimple of purple and gray, Like the blessed Virgin, with meek head bending low Upon her breast.
For the orange flower
Ye may buy as ye will: but the violet of the wood Is the love of maidenhood;
And he that hath worn it but once, though but for an hour, He shall never again, though he wander by many a stream, No, never again shall he meet with a dower that shall seem So sweet and pure; and forever, in after years, At the thought of its bloom, or the fragrance of its breath, The past shall arise,
And his eyes shall be dim with tears, And his soul shall be far in the gardens of Paradise Though he stand in the Shambles of death.

In a different tone, but displaying the same sureness of execution, is the cry of the lowly folk, the wretched pawns in the great game of life:

Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame, Plot, and plunder, and disagree!
O but the game is a royal game!
O but your tourneys are fair to see!

None too hopeful we found our lives; Sore was labor from day to day;
Still we strove for our babes and wives– Now, to the trumpet, we march away!

“Why?”–For some one hath will’d it so! Nothing we know of the why or the where– To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow– Nothing we know, and little we care.

Give us to kill!–since this is the end Of love and labor in Nature’s plan;
Give us to kill and ravish and rend, Yea, since this is the end of man.

States shall perish, and states be born: Leaders, out of the throng, shall press; Some to honor, and some to scorn:
We, that are little, shall yet be less.

Over our lines shall the vultures soar; Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry; And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore; And daily the living shall pray to die.

Nay, what matter!–When all is said, Prince and Bishop will plunder still: Lord and Lady must dance and wed.
Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!

It is only the fear of impinging on Mr. Young’s copyright that prevents me reprinting the graphic ballad of The Wanderer and the prologue of The Strollers, which reads like a page from the prelude to some Old-World miracle play. The setting of these things is frequently antique, but the thought is the thought of to- day. I think there is a new generation of readers for such poetry as Mr. Young’s. I ven- ture the prophecy that it will not lack for them later when the time comes for the inevitable rearrangement of present poetic values.
The author of “Wishmakers’ Town” is the child of his period, and has not escaped the ma-
ladie du siecle. The doubt and pessimism that
marked the end of the nineteenth century find a voice in the bell-like strophes with which the volume closes. It is the dramatist rather than the poet who speaks here. The real message of the poet to mankind is ever one of hope. Amid the problems that perplex and discourage, it is for him to sing

Of what the world shall be
When the years have died away.

HISTORICAL NOVELS

IN default of such an admirable piece of work as Dr. Weir Mitchell’s “Hugh Wynne,” I
like best those fictions which deal with king- doms and principalities that exist only in the mind’s eye. One’s knowledge of actual events and real personages runs no serious risk of re- ceiving shocks in this no-man’s-land. Everything that happens in an imaginary realm–in the realm of Ruritania, for illustration–has an air of possibility, at least a shadowy vraisemblance. The atmosphere and local color, having an au- thenticity of their own, are not to be challenged. You cannot charge the writer with ignorance of the period in which his narrative is laid, since the period is as vague as the geography. He walks on safe ground, eluding many of the perils that beset the story-teller who ventures to stray beyond the bounds of the make-believe. One peril he cannot escape–that of misrepresenting human nature.
The anachronisms of the average historical novel, pretending to reflect history, are among its minor defects. It is a thing altogether won- derfully and fearfully made–the imbecile in- trigue, the cast-iron characters, the plumed and armored dialogue with its lance of gory rheto- ric forever at charge. The stage at its worst moments is not so unreal. Here art has broken into smithereens the mirror which she is sup- posed to hold up to nature.
In this romance-world somebody is always somebody’s unsuspected father, mother, or child, deceiving every one excepting the reader. Usu- ally the anonymous person is the hero, to whom it is mere recreation to hold twenty swordsmen at bay on a staircase, killing ten or twelve of them before he escapes through a door that ever providentially opens directly behind him. How tired one gets of that door! The “caitiff” in these chronicles of when knighthood was in flower is invariably hanged from “the highest battlement”–the second highest would not do at all; or else he is thrown into “the deepest dungeon of the castle”–the second deepest dungeon was never known to be used on these occasions. The hero habitually “cleaves” his foeman “to the midriff,” the “midriff” being what the properly brought up hero always has in view. A certain fictional historian of my acquaintance makes his swashbuckler exclaim: “My sword will [shall] kiss his midriff;” but that is an exceptionally lofty flight of diction. My friend’s heroine dresses as a page, and in the course of long interviews with her lover re- mains unrecognized–a diaphanous literary in- vention that must have been old when the Pyra- mids were young. The heroine’s small brother, with playful archaicism called “a springald,” puts on her skirts and things and passes him- self off for his sister or anybody else he pleases. In brief, there is no puerility that is not at home in this sphere of misbegotten effort. Listen– a priest, a princess, and a young man in woman’s clothes are on the scene:

The princess rose to her feet and approached the priest.
“Father,” she said swiftly, “this is not the Lady Joan, my brother’s
wife, but a youth marvelously like her, who hath offered himself in
her place that she might escape. . . . He is the Count von Loen, a lord
of Kernsburg. And I love him. We want you to marry us now, dear
Father–now, without a moment’s
delay; for if you do not they will kill him, and I shall have to marry
Prince Wasp!”

This is from “Joan of the Sword Hand,” and if ever I read a more silly performance I have forgotten it.

POOR YORICK

THERE is extant in the city of New York an odd piece of bric-a-brac which I am
sometimes tempted to wish was in my own possession. On a bracket in Edwin Booth’s bedroom at The Players–the apartment re- mains as he left it that solemn June day ten years ago–stands a sadly dilapidated skull which the elder Booth, and afterward his son Edwin, used to soliloquize over in the grave- yard at Elsinore in the fifth act of “Hamlet.” A skull is an object that always invokes interest more or less poignant; it always has its pathetic story, whether told or untold; but this skull is especially a skull “with a past.”
In the early forties, while playing an engage- ment somewhere in the wild West, Junius
Brutus Booth did a series of kindnesses to a particularly undeserving fellow, the name of him unknown to us. The man, as it seemed, was a combination of gambler, horse-stealer, and highwayman–in brief, a miscellaneous desperado, and precisely the melodramatic sort of person likely to touch the sympathies of the half-mad player. In the course of nature or the law, presumably the law, the adventurer bodily disappeared one day, and soon ceased to exist even as a reminiscence in the florid mind of his sometime benefactor.
As the elder Booth was seated at breakfast one morning in a hotel in Louisville, Kentucky, a negro boy entered the room bearing a small osier basket neatly covered with a snowy nap- kin. It had the general appearance of a basket of fruit or flowers sent by some admirer, and as such it figured for a moment in Mr. Booth’s conjecture. On lifting the cloth the actor started from the chair with a genuine expression on his features of that terror which he was used so marvelously to simulate as Richard III. in the midnight tent-scene or as Macbeth when the ghost of Banquo usurped his seat at table. In the pretty willow-woven basket lay the head of Booth’s old pensioner, which head the old pensioner had bequeathed in due legal form to the tragedian, begging him henceforth to adopt it as one of the necessary stage properties in the fifth act of Mr. Shakespeare’s tragedy of “Hamlet.” “Take it away, you black
imp!” thundered the actor to the equally aghast negro boy, whose curiosity had happily not prompted him to investigate the dark nature of his burden.
Shortly afterward, however, the horse-stealer’s residuary legatee, recovering from the first shock of his surprise, fell into the grim humor of the situation, and proceeded to carry out to the letter the testator’s whimsical request. Thus it was that the skull came to secure an engage- ment to play the role of poor Yorick in J. B. Booth’s company of strolling players, and to continue a while longer to glimmer behind the footlights in the hands of his famous son. Observing that the grave-digger in his too eager realism was damaging the thing–the marks of his pick and spade are visible on the cranium–Edwin Booth presently replaced it with a papier-mache counterfeit manufactured in the property-room of the theatre. During his subsequent wanderings in Australia and California, he carefully preserved the relic, which finally found repose on the bracket in question.
How often have I sat, of an afternoon, in that front room on the fourth floor of the club- house in Gramercy Park, watching the winter or summer twilight gradually softening and blurring the sharp outline of the skull until it vanished uncannily into the gloom! Edwin Booth had forgotten, if ever he knew, the name of the man; but I had no need of it in order to establish acquaintance with poor Yorick. In this association I was conscious of a deep tinge of sentiment on my own part, a circumstance not without its queerness, considering how very distant the acquaintance really was.
Possibly he was a fellow of infinite jest in his day; he was sober enough now, and in no way disposed to indulge in those flashes of merri- ment “that were wont to set the table on a roar.” But I did not regret his evaporated hilarity; I liked his more befitting genial si- lence, and had learned to look upon his rather open countenance with the same friendliness as that with which I regarded the faces of less phantasmal members of the club. He had be- come to me a dramatic personality as distinct as that of any of the Thespians I met in the grill- room or the library.
Yorick’s feeling in regard to me was a sub- ject upon which I frequently speculated. There was at intervals an alert gleam of intelligence in those cavernous eye-sockets, as if the sudden remembrance of some old experience had illu- mined them. He had been a great traveler, and had known strange vicissitudes in life; his stage career had brought him into contact with a varied assortment of men and women, and ex- tended his horizon. His more peaceful profes- sion of holding up mail-coaches on lonely roads had surely not been without incident. It was inconceivable that all this had left no impres- sions. He must have had at least a faint recol- lection of the tempestuous Junius Brutus Booth. That Yorick had formed his estimate of me, and probably not a flattering one, is something of which I am strongly convinced.
At the death of Edwin Booth, poor Yorick passed out of my personal cognizance, and now lingers an incongruous shadow amid the mem- ories of the precious things I lost then. The suite of apartments formerly occupied by Edwin Booth at The Players has been, as I have said, kept unchanged–a shrine to which from time to time some loving heart makes silent pilgrimage. On a table in the centre of his bedroom lies the book just where he laid it down, an ivory paper-cutter marking the page his eyes last rested upon; and in this chamber, with its familiar pictures, pipes, and ornaments, the skull finds its proper sanctuary. If at odd moments I wish that by chance poor Yorick had fallen to my care, the wish is only half- hearted, though had that happened, I would have given him welcome to the choicest corner in my study and tenderly cherished him for the sake of one who comes no more.

THE AUTOGRAPH HUNTER

One that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!–King Lear.

THE material for this paper on the auto- graph hunter, his ways and his manners,
has been drawn chiefly from experiences not my own. My personal relations with him have been comparatively restricted, a circumstance to which I owe the privilege of treating the subject with a freedom that might otherwise not seem becoming.
No author is insensible to the compliment in- volved in a request for his autograph, assuming the request to come from some sincere lover of books and bookmen. It is an affair of different complection when he is importuned to give time and attention to the innumerable unknown who “collect” autographs as they would collect post- age stamps, with no interest in the matter be- yond the desire to accumulate as many as possi- ble. The average autograph hunter, with his purposeless insistence, reminds one of the queen in Stockton’s story whose fad was “the button- holes of all nations.”
In our population of eighty millions and up- ward there are probably two hundred thousand persons interested more or less in what is termed the literary world. This estimate is absurdly low, but it serves to cast a sufficient side-light upon the situation. Now, any unit of these two hundred thousand is likely at any moment to in- dite a letter to some favorite novelist, historian, poet, or what not. It will be seen, then, that the autograph hunter is no inconsiderable per- son. He has made it embarrassing work for the author fortunate or unfortunate enough to be re- garded as worth while. Every mail adds to his reproachful pile of unanswered letters. If he have a conscience, and no amanuensis, he quickly finds himself tangled in the meshes of endless and futile correspondence. Through policy, good nature, or vanity he is apt to become facile prey.
A certain literary collector once confessed in print that he always studied the idiosyncrasies of his “subject” as carefully as another sort of collector studies the plan of the house to which he meditates a midnight visit. We were as- sured that with skillful preparation and adroit approach an autograph could be extracted from anybody. According to the revelations of the writer, Bismarck, Queen Victoria, and Mr. Gladstone had their respective point of easy access–their one unfastened door or window, metaphorically speaking. The strongest man has his weak side.
Dr. Holmes’s affability in replying to every one who wrote to him was perhaps not a trait characteristic of the elder group. Mr. Lowell, for instance, was harder-hearted and rather diffi- cult to reach. I recall one day in the library at Elmwood. As I was taking down a volume
from the shelf a sealed letter escaped from the pages and fluttered to my feet. I handed it to Mr. Lowell, who glanced incuriously at the superscription. “Oh, yes,” he said, smiling, “I know ’em by instinct.” Relieved of its en- velope, the missive turned out to be eighteen months old, and began with the usual amusing solecism: “As one of the most famous of
American authors I would like to possess your autograph.”
Each recipient of such requests has of course his own way of responding. Mr. Whittier used to be obliging; Mr. Longfellow politic; Mr. Emerson, always philosophical, dreamily con- fiscated the postage stamps.
Time was when the collector contented him- self with a signature on a card; but that, I am told, no longer satisfies. He must have a letter addressed to him personally–“on any subject you please,” as an immature scribe lately sug- gested to an acquaintance of mine. The in- genuous youth purposed to flourish a letter in the faces of his less fortunate competitors, in order to show them that he was on familiar terms with the celebrated So-and-So. This or a kindred motive is the spur to many a collector. The stratagems he employs to compass his end are inexhaustible. He drops you an off-hand note to inquire in what year you first published your beautiful poem entitled “A Psalm of Life.” If you are a simple soul, you hasten to assure him that you are not the author of that poem, which he must have confused with your “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”–and there you are. Another expedient is to ask if your father’s middle name was not Hierophilus. Now, your father has probably been dead many years, and as perhaps he was not a public man in his day, you are naturally touched that any one should have in- terest in him after this long flight of time. In the innocence of your heart you reply by the next mail that your father’s middle name was not Hierophilus, but Epaminondas–and there you are again. It is humiliating to be caught swinging, like a simian ancestor, on a branch of one’s genealogical tree.
Some morning you find beside your plate at breakfast an imposing parchment with a great gold seal in the upper left-hand corner. This document–I am relating an actual occurrence –announces with a flourish that you have unan- imously been elected an honorary member of The Kalamazoo International Literary Associa- tion. Possibly the honor does not take away your respiration; but you are bound by courtesy to make an acknowledgment, and you express your insincere thanks to the obliging secretary of a literary organization which does not exist anywhere on earth.
A scheme of lighter creative touch is that of the correspondent who advises you that he is replenishing his library and desires a detailed list of your works, with the respective dates of their first issue, price, style of binding, etc. A bibliophile, you say to yourself. These inter- rogations should of course have been addressed to your publisher; but they are addressed to you, with the stereotyped “thanks in advance.” The natural inference is that the correspondent, who writes in a brisk commercial vein, wishes to fill out his collection of your books, or, pos- sibly, to treat himself to a complete set in full crushed Levant. Eight or ten months later this individual, having forgotten (or hoping you will not remember) that he has already de- manded a chronological list of your writings, forwards another application couched in the self-same words. The length of time it takes him to “replenish” his library (with your books) strikes you as pathetic. You cannot control your emotions sufficiently to pen a reply. From a purely literary point of view this gentleman cares nothing whatever for your holograph; from a mercantile point of view he cares greatly and likes to obtain duplicate specimens, which he disposes of to dealers in such frail merchandise.
The pseudo-journalist who is engaged in preparing a critical and biographical sketch of you, and wants to incorporate, if possible, some slight hitherto unnoted event in your life–a signed photograph and a copy of your book- plate are here in order–is also a character which periodically appears upon the scene. In this little Comedy of Deceptions there are as many players as men have fancies.
A brother slave-of-the-lamp permits me to transfer this leaf from the book of his experi- ence: “Not long ago the postman brought me a letter of a rather touching kind. The unknown writer, lately a widow, and plainly a woman of refinement, had just suffered a new affliction in the loss of her little girl. My correspondent asked me to copy for her ten or a dozen lines from a poem which I had written years before on the death of a child. The request was so shrinkingly put, with such an appealing air of doubt as to its being heeded, that I immediately transcribed the entire poem, a matter of a hun- dred lines or so, and sent it to her. I am unable to this day to decide whether I was wholly hurt or wholly amused when, two months afterward, I stumbled over my manuscript, with a neat price attached to it, in a second-hand book- shop.”
Perhaps the most distressing feature of the whole business is the very poor health which seems to prevail among autograph hunters. No other class of persons in the community shows so large a percentage of confirmed invalids. There certainly is some mysterious connection between incipient spinal trouble and the col- lecting of autographs. Which superinduces the other is a question for pathology. It is a fact that one out of every eight applicants for a specimen of penmanship bases his or her claim upon the possession of some vertebral disability which leaves him or her incapable of doing anything but write to authors for their auto- graph. Why this particular diversion should be the sole resource remains undisclosed. But so it appears to be, and the appeal to one’s sympa- thy is most direct and persuasive. Personally, however, I have my suspicions, suspicions that are shared by several men of letters, who have come to regard this plea of invalidism, in the majority of cases, as simply the variation of a very old and familiar tune. I firmly believe that the health of autograph hunters, as a class, is excellent.

ROBERT HERRICK

I

A LITTLE over three hundred years ago England had given to her a poet of the
very rarest lyrical quality, but she did not dis- cover the fact for more than a hundred and fifty years afterward. The poet himself was aware of the fact at once, and stated it, perhaps not too modestly, in countless quatrains and couplets, which were not read, or, if read, were not much regarded at the moment. It has al- ways been an incredulous world in this matter. So many poets have announced their arrival, and not arrived!
Robert Herrick was descended in a direct line from an ancient family in Lincolnshire, the Eyricks, a mentionable representative of which was John Eyrick of Leicester, the poet’s grand- father, admitted freeman in 1535, and afterward twice made mayor of the town. John Eyrick or Heyricke–he spelled his name recklessly– had five sons, the second of which sought a career in London, where he became a gold- smith, and in December, 1582, married Julian Stone, spinster, of Bedfordshire, a sister to Anne, Lady Soame, the wife of Sir Stephen Soame. One of the many children of this mar- riage was Robert Herrick.
It is the common misfortune of the poet’s biographers, though it was the poet’s own great good fortune, that the personal interviewer was an unknown quantity at the period when Her- rick played his part on the stage of life. Of that performance, in its intimate aspects, we have only the slightest record.
Robert Herrick was born in Wood street, Cheapside, London, in 1591, and baptized at St. Vedast’s, Foster Lane, on August 24 of that year. He had several brothers and sisters, with whom we shall not concern ourselves. It would be idle to add the little we know about these persons to the little we know about Herrick himself. He is a sufficient problem without dragging in the rest of the family.
When the future lyrist was fifteen months old his father, Nicholas Herrick, made his will, and immediately fell out of an upper win- dow. Whether or not this fall was an intended sequence to the will, the high almoner, Dr. Fletcher, Bishop of Bristol, promptly put in his claim to the estate, “all goods and chattels of suicides” becoming his by law. The cir- cumstances were suspicious, though not conclu- sive, and the good bishop, after long litigation, consented to refer the case to arbitrators, who awarded him two hundred and twenty pounds, thus leaving the question at issue–whether or not Herrick’s death had been his own premedi- tated act–still wrapped in its original mystery. This singular law, which had the possible effect of inducing high almoners to encourage suicide among well-to-do persons of the lower and middle classes, was afterward rescinded. Nicholas Herrick did not leave his household destitute, for his estate amounted to five thousand pounds, that is to say, twenty-five thousand pounds in to-day’s money; but there were many mouths to feed. The poet’s two uncles, Robert Herrick and William Herrick of Beaumanor, the latter subsequently knighted <1> for his useful- ness as jeweller and money-lender to James I., were appointed guardians to the children. Young Robert appears to have attended school in Westminster until his fifteenth year, when he was apprenticed to Sir William, who had learned the gentle art of goldsmith from his nephew’s father. Though Robert’s indentures

<1> Dr. Grosart, in his interesting and valuable Memorial-Intro- duction to Herrick’s poems, quotes this curious item from Win- wood’s Manorials of Affairs of State: “On Easter Tuesday [1605],
one Mr. William Herrick, a goldsmith in Cheapside, was Knighted for making a Hole in the great Diamond the King cloth wear. The party little expected the honour, but he did his work so well as won the King to an extraordinary liking of it.” bound him for ten years, Sir William is sup- posed to have offered no remonstrance when he was asked, long before that term expired, to cancel the engagement and allow Robert to enter Cambridge, which he did as fellow-commoner at St. John’s College. At the end of two years he transferred himself to Trinity Hall, with a view to economy and the pursuit of the law– the two frequently go together. He received his degree of B. A. in 1617, and his M. A. in 1620, having relinquished the law for the arts. During this time he was assumed to be in receipt of a quarterly allowance of ten pounds– a not illiberal provision, the pound being then five times its present value; but as the payments were eccentric, the master of arts was in recur- rent distress. If this money came from his own share of his father’s estate, as seems likely, Herrick had cause for complaint; if otherwise, the pith is taken out of his grievance.
The Iliad of his financial woes at this juncture is told in a few chance-preserved letters written to his “most careful uncle,” as he calls that evidently thrifty person. In one of these mono- tonous and dreary epistles, which are signed “R. Hearick,” the writer says: “The essence of my writing is (as heretofore) to entreat you to paye for my use to Mr. Arthour Johnson, bookseller, in Paule’s Churchyarde, the ordi- narie sume of tenn pounds, and that with as much sceleritie as you maye.” He also indulges in the natural wish that his college bills “had leaden wings and tortice feet.” This was in 1617. The young man’s patrimony, whatever it may have been, had dwindled, and he con- fesses to “many a throe and pinches of the purse.” For the moment, at least, his prospects were not flattering.
Robert Herrick’s means of livelihood, when in 1620 he quitted the university and went up to London, are conjectural. It is clear that he was not without some resources, since he did not starve to death on his wits before he discovered a patron in the Earl of Pembroke. In the court circle Herrick also unearthed humbler, but per- haps not less useful, allies in the persons of Edward Norgate, clerk of the signet, and Master John Crofts, cup-bearer to the king. Through the two New Year anthems, honored by the music of Henry Lawes, his Majesty’s organist at Westminster, it is more than possible that Herrick was brought to the personal notice of Charles and Henrietta Maria. All this was a promise of success, but not success itself. It has been thought probable that Herrick may have secured some minor office in the chapel at Whitehall. That would accord with his sub- sequent appointment (September, 1627,) as chaplain to the Duke of Buckingham’s unfortu- nate expedition of the Isle of Rhe.
Precisely when Herrick was invested with holy orders is not ascertainable. If one may draw an inference from his poems, the life he led meanwhile was not such as his “most care- ful uncle” would have warmly approved. The literary clubs and coffee-houses of the day were open to a free-lance like young Herrick, some of whose blithe measures, passing in manuscript from hand to hand, had brought him faintly to light as a poet. The Dog and the Triple Tun were not places devoted to worship, unless it were to the worship of “rare Ben Jonson,” at whose feet Herrick now sat, with the other blossoming young poets of the season. He was a faithful disciple to the end, and addressed many loving lyrics to the master, of which not the least graceful is His Prayer to Ben Jonson:

When I a verse shall make,
Know I have praid thee
For old religion’s sake,
Saint Ben, to aide me.

Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.

Candles I’ll give to thee,
And a new altar;
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my Psalter.

On September 30, 1629, Charles I., at the recommending of the Earl of Exeter, presented Herrick with the vicarage of Dean Prior, near Totnes, in Devonshire. Here he was destined to pass the next nineteen years of his life among surroundings not congenial. For Herrick to be a mile away from London stone was for Herrick to be in exile. Even with railway and tele- graphic interruptions from the outside world, the dullness of a provincial English town of to- day is something formidable. The dullness of a sequestered English hamlet in the early part of the seventeenth century must have been appall- ing. One is dimly conscious of a belated throb of sympathy for Robert Herrick. Yet, however discontented or unhappy he may have been at first in that lonely vicarage, the world may con- gratulate itself on the circumstances that stranded him there, far from the distractions of the town, and with no other solace than his Muse, for there it was he wrote the greater number of the poems which were to make his fame. It is to this acci- dental banishment to Devon that we owe the cluster of exquisite pieces descriptive of obso- lete rural manners and customs–the Christ- mas masks, the Twelfth-night mummeries, the morris-dances, and the May-day festivals. The November following Herrick’s appoint- ment to the benefice was marked by the death of his mother, who left him no heavier legacy than “a ringe of twenty shillings.” Perhaps this was an understood arrangement between them; but it is to be observed that, though Her- rick was a spendthrift in epitaphs, he wasted no funeral lines on Julian Herrick. In the matter of verse he dealt generously with his family down to the latest nephew. One of his most charming and touching poems is entitled To His Dying Brother, Master William Herrick, a posthumous son. There appear to have been two brothers named William. The younger, who died early, is supposed to be referred to here.
The story of Herrick’s existence at Dean Prior is as vague and bare of detail as the rest of the narrative. His parochial duties must have been irksome to him, and it is to be imagined that he wore his cassock lightly. As a preparation for ecclesiastical life he forswore sack and poetry; but presently he was with the Muse again, and his farewell to sack was in a strictly Pickwickian sense. Herrick had probably accepted the vicar- ship as he would have accepted a lieutenancy in a troop of horse–with an eye to present emol- ument and future promotion. The promotion never came, and the emolument was nearly as scant as that of Goldsmith’s parson, who con- sidered himself “passing rich with forty pounds a year”–a height of optimism beyond the reach of Herrick, with his expensive town wants and habits. But fifty pounds–the salary of his benefice–and possible perquisites in the way of marriage and burial fees would enable him to live for the time being. It was better than a possible nothing a year in London.
Herrick’s religious convictions were assuredly not deeper than those of the average layman. Various writers have taken a different view of the subject; but it is inconceivable that a clergy- man with a fitting sense of his function could have written certain of the poems which Her- rick afterward gave to the world–those aston- ishing epigrams upon his rustic enemies, and those habitual bridal compliments which, among his personal friends, must have added a terror to matrimony. Had he written only in that vein, the posterity which he so often invoked with pathetic confidence would not have greatly troubled itself about him.
It cannot positively be asserted that all the verses in question relate to the period of his in- cumbency, for none of his verse is dated, with the exception of the Dialogue betwixt Horace and Lydia. The date of some of the composi- tions may be arrived at by induction. The re- ligious pieces grouped under the title of Noble Numbers distinctly associate themselves with Dean Prior, and have little other interest. Very few of them are “born of the royal blood.” They lack the inspiration and magic of his secu- lar poetry, and are frequently so fantastical and grotesque as to stir a suspicion touching the ab- solute soundness of Herrick’s mind at all times. The lines in which the Supreme Being is as- sured that he may read Herrick’s poems with- out taking any tincture from their sinfulness might have been written in a retreat for the un- balanced. “For unconscious impiety,” remarks Mr. Edmund Gosse, <1> “this rivals the famous passage in which Robert Montgomery exhorted God to ‘pause and think.'” Elsewhere, in an apostrophe to “Heaven,” Herrick says:

Let mercy be
So kind to set me free,
And I will straight
Come in, or force the gate.

In any event, the poet did not purpose to be left out!
Relative to the inclusion of unworthy pieces

<1> In Seventeenth-Century Studies.
and the general absence of arrangement in the “Hesperides,” Dr. Grosart advances the theory that the printers exercised arbitrary authority on these points. Dr. Grosart assumes that Herrick kept the epigrams and personal tributes in manuscript books separate from the rest of the work, which would have made a too slender volume by itself, and on the plea of this slender- ness was induced to trust the two collections to the publisher, “whereupon he or some un- skilled subordinate proceeded to intermix these additions with the others. That the poet him- self had nothing to do with the arrangement or disarrangement lies on the surface.” This is an amiable supposition, but merely a supposition. Herrick personally placed the “copy” in the hands of John Williams and Francis Eglesfield, and if he were over-persuaded to allow them to print unfit verses, and to observe no method whatever in the contents of the book, the dis- credit is none the less his. It is charitable to believe that Herrick’s coarseness was not the coarseness of the man, but of the time, and that he followed the fashion malgre lui. With re-
gard to the fairy poems, they certainly should have been given in sequence; but if there are careless printers, there are also authors who are careless in the arrangement of their manuscript, a kind of task, moreover, in which Herrick was wholly unpractised, and might easily have made mistakes. The “Hesperides” was his sole
publication.
Herrick was now thirty-eight years of age. Of his personal appearance at this time we have no description. The portrait of him prefixed to the original edition of his works belongs to a much later moment. Whether or not the bovine features in Marshall’s engraving are a libel on the poet, it is to be regretted that oblivion has not laid its erasing finger on that singularly un- pleasant counterfeit presentment. It is interest- ing to note that this same Marshall engraved the head of Milton for the first collection of his mis- cellaneous poems–the precious 1645 volume containing Il Penseroso, Lycidas, Comus, etc. The plate gave great offense to the serious- minded young Milton, not only because it re- presented him as an elderly person, but because of certain minute figures of peasant lads and lassies who are very indistinctly seen dancing frivolously under the trees in the background. Herrick had more reason to protest. The ag- gressive face bestowed upon him by the artist lends a tone of veracity to the tradition that the vicar occasionally hurled the manuscript of his sermon at the heads of his drowsy parishioners, accompanying the missive with pregnant re- marks. He has the aspect of one meditating assault and battery.
To offset the picture there is much indirect testimony to the amiability of the man, aside from the evidence furnished by his own writ- ings. He exhibits a fine trait in the poem on the Bishop of Lincoln’s imprisonment–a poem full of deference and tenderness for a person who had evidently injured the writer, probably by opposing him in some affair of church prefer- ment. Anthony Wood says that Herrick “be- came much beloved by the gentry in these parts for his florid and witty (wise) discourses.” It appears that he was fond of animals, and had a pet spaniel called Tracy, which did not get away without a couplet attached to him:

Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see For shape and service spaniell like to thee.

Among the exile’s chance acquaintances was a sparrow, whose elegy he also sings, comparing the bird to Lesbia’s sparrow, much to the latter’s disadvantage. All of Herrick’s geese were swans. On the authority of Dorothy King, the daughter of a woman who served Herrick’s successor at Dean Prior in 1674, we are told that the poet kept a pig, which he had taught to drink out of a tankard–a kind of instruction he was admir- ably qualified to impart. Dorothy was in her ninety-ninth year when she communicated this fact to Mr. Barron Field, the author of the paper on Herrick published in the “Quarterly Review” for August, 1810, and in the Boston edition <1> of the “Hesperides” attributed to Southey.
What else do we know of the vicar? A very favorite theme with Herrick was Herrick. Scat- tered through his book are no fewer than twenty- five pieces entitled On Himself, not to men- tion numberless autobiographical hints under other captions. They are merely hints, throw- ing casual side-lights on his likes and dislikes, and illuminating his vanity. A whimsical per- sonage without any very definite outlines might be evolved from these fragments. I picture him as a sort of Samuel Pepys, with perhaps less quaintness, and the poetical temperament added. Like the prince of gossips, too, he somehow gets at your affections. In one place Herrick

<1> The Biographical Notice prefacing this volume of The British Poets is a remarkable production, grammatically and chronologi- cally. On page 7 the writer speaks of Herrick as living “in habits of intimacy” with Ben Jonson in 1648. If that was the case, Her- rick must have taken up his quarters in Westminster Abbey, for Jonson had been dead eleven years.
laments the threatened failure of his eyesight (quite in what would have been Pepys’s man- ner had Pepys written verse), and in another place he tells us of the loss of a finger. The quatrain treating of this latter catastrophe is as fantastic as some of Dr. Donne’s concetti:

One of the five straight branches of my hand Is lopt already, and the rest but stand Expecting when to fall, which soon will be: First dies the leafe, the bough next, next the tree.

With all his great show of candor Herrick really reveals as little of himself as ever poet did. One thing, however, is manifest–he understood and loved music. None but a lover could have said:

The mellow touch of musick most doth wound The soule when it doth rather sigh than sound.

Or this to Julia:

So smooth, so sweet, so silvery is thy voice, As could they hear, the damn’d would make no noise, But listen to thee walking in thy chamber Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.

. . . Then let me lye
Entranc’d, and lost confusedly;
And by thy musick stricken mute, Die, and be turn’d into a lute.

Herrick never married. His modest Devon- shire establishment was managed by a maid- servant named Prudence Baldwin. “Fate likes fine names,” says Lowell. That of Herrick’s maid-of-all-work was certainly a happy meeting of gentle vowels and consonants, and has had the good fortune to be embalmed in the amber of what may be called a joyous little threnody:

In this little urne is laid
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid; From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.

Herrick addressed a number of poems to her before her death, which seems to have deeply touched him in his loneliness. We shall not al- low a pleasing illusion to be disturbed by the flip- pancy of an old writer who says that “Prue was but indifferently qualified to be a tenth muse.” She was a faithful handmaid, and had the merit of causing Herrick in this octave to strike a note of sincerity not usual with him:

These summer birds did with thy master stay The times of warmth, but then they flew away, Leaving their poet, being now grown old, Expos’d to all the coming winter’s cold. But thou, kind Prew, didst with my fates abide As well the winter’s as the summer’s tide: For which thy love, live with thy master here Not two, but all the seasons of the year.

Thus much have I done for thy memory, Mis- tress Prew!
In spite of Herrick’s disparagement of Dean- bourn, which he calls “a rude river,” and his characterization of Devon folk as “a peo- ple currish, churlish as the seas,” the fullest and pleasantest days of his life were prob- ably spent at Dean Prior. He was not un- mindful meanwhile of the gathering political storm that was to shake England to its foun- dations. How anxiously, in his solitude, he watched the course of events, is attested by many of his poems. This solitude was not without its compensation. “I confess,” he says,

I ne’er invented such
Ennobled numbers for the presse
Than where I loath’d so much.

A man is never wholly unhappy when he is writing verses. Herrick was firmly convinced that each new lyric was a stone added to the pillar of his fame, and perhaps his sense of relief was tinged with indefinable regret when he found himself suddenly deprived of his bene- fice. The integrity of some of his royalistic poems is doubtful; but he was not given the benefit of the doubt by the Long Parliament, which ejected the panegyrist of young Prince Charles from the vicarage of Dean Prior, and installed in his place the venerable John Syms, a gentleman with pronounced Cromwellian
views.
Herrick metaphorically snapped his fingers at the Puritans, discarded his clerical habili- ments, and hastened to London to pick up such as were left of the gay-colored threads of his old experience there. Once more he would drink sack at the Triple Tun, once more he would breathe the air breathed by such poets and wits as Cotton, Denham, Shirley, Selden, and the rest. “Yes, by Saint Anne! and gin- ger shall be hot I’ the mouth too.” In the gladness of getting back “from the dull con- fines of the drooping west,” he writes a glow- ing apostrophe to London–that “stony step- mother to poets.” He claims to be a free-born Roman, and is proud to find himself a citizen again. According to his earlier biographers, Herrick had much ado not to starve in that same longed-for London, and fell into great misery; but Dr. Grosart disputes this, arguing, with justness, that Herrick’s family, which was wealthy and influential, would not have allowed him to come to abject want. With his royal- istic tendencies he may not have breathed quite freely in the atmosphere of the Commonwealth, and no doubt many tribulations fell to his lot, but among them was not poverty.
The poet was now engaged in preparing his works for the press, and a few weeks following his return to London they were issued in a sin- gle volume with the title “Hesperides; or, The Works both Humane and Divine of Robert
Herrick, Esq.”
The time was not ready for him. A new era had dawned–the era of the commonplace.
The interval was come when Shakespeare him- self was to lie in a kind of twilight. Herrick was in spirit an Elizabethan, and had strayed by chance into an artificial and prosaic age– a sylvan singing creature alighting on an alien planet. “He was too natural,” says Mr. Pal- grave in his Chrysomela, “too purely poetical; he had not the learned polish, the political al- lusion, the tone of the city, the didactic turn, which were then and onward demanded from poetry.” Yet it is strange that a public which had a relish for Edmund Waller should neglect a poet who was fifty times finer than Waller in his own specialty. What poet then, or in the half-century that followed the Restoration, could have written Corinna’s Going a-Maying, or ap- proached in kind the ineffable grace and perfec- tion to be found in a score of Herrick’s lyrics? The “Hesperides” was received with chilling indifference. None of Herrick’s great contem- poraries has left a consecrating word concerning it. The book was not reprinted during the au- thor’s lifetime, and for more than a century after his death Herrick was virtually unread. In 1796 the “Gentleman’s Magazine” copied a few of the poems, and two years later Dr. Nathan Drake published in his “Literary Hours” three critical papers on the poet, with specimens of his writ- ings. Dr. Johnson omitted him from the “Lives of the Poets,” though space was found for half a score of poetasters whose names are to be found nowhere else. In 1810 Dr. Nott, a physician of Bristol, issued a small volume of selections. It was not until 1823 that Herrick was reprinted in full. It remained for the taste of our own day to multiply editions of him.
In order to set the seal to Herrick’s fame, it is now only needful that some wiseacre should attribute the authorship of the poems to some man who could not possibly have written a line of them. The opportunity presents attractions that ought to be irresistible. Excepting a hand- ful of Herrick’s college letters there is no scrap of his manuscript extant; the men who drank and jested with the poet at the Dog or the Triple Tun make no reference to him; <1> and in the wide parenthesis formed by his birth and death we find as little tangible incident as is discover- able in the briefer span of Shakespeare’s fifty- two years. Here is material for profundity and ciphers!
Herrick’s second sojourn in London covered the period between 1648 and 1662, curing which interim he fades from sight, excepting for the

<1> With the single exception of the writer of some verses in the Musarum Deliciae (1656) who mentions

That old sack
Young Herrick took to entertain
The Muses in a sprightly vein.
instant when he is publishing his book. If he engaged in further literary work there are no evidences of it beyond one contribution to the “Lacrymae Musarum” in 1649.
He seems to have had lodgings, for a while at least, in St. Anne’s, Westminster. With the court in exile and the grim Roundheads seated in the seats of the mighty, it was no longer the merry London of his early manhood. Time and war had thinned the ranks of friends; in the old haunts the old familiar faces were wanting. Ben Jonson was dead, Waller banished, and many another comrade “in disgrace with for- tune and men’s eyes.” As Herrick walked
through crowded Cheapside or along the dingy river-bank in those years, his thought must have turned more than once to the little vicarage in Devonshire, and lingered tenderly.
On the accession of Charles II. a favorable change of wind wafted Herrick back to his former moorings at Dean Prior, the obnoxious Syms having been turned adrift. This occurred on August 24, 1662, the seventy-first anniver- sary of the poet’s baptism. Of Herrick’s move- ments after that, tradition does not furnish even the shadow of an outline. The only notable event concerning him is recorded twelve years later in the parish register: “Robert Herrick, vicker, was buried ye 15″ day October, 1674.” He was eighty-three years old. The location of his grave is unknown. In 1857 a monument to his memory was erected in Dean Church. And this is all.

II

THE details that have come down to us touch- ing Herrick’s private life are as meagre as if he had been a Marlowe or a Shakespeare. But were they as ample as could be desired they would still be unimportant compared with the single fact that in 1648 he gave to the world his “Hesperides.” The environments of the man were accidental and transitory. The significant part of him we have, and that is enduring so long as wit, fancy, and melodious numbers hold a charm for mankind.
A fine thing incomparably said instantly be- comes familiar, and has henceforth a sort of dateless excellence. Though it may have been said three hundred years ago, it is as modern as yesterday; though it may have been said yesterday, it has the trick of seeming to have been always in our keeping. This quality of remoteness and nearness belongs, in a striking degree, to Herrick’s poems. They are as novel to-day as they were on the lips of a choice few of his contemporaries, who, in reading them in their freshness, must surely have been aware here and there of the ageless grace of old idyllic poets dead and gone.
Herrick was the bearer of no heavy message to the world, and such message as he had he was apparently in no hurry to deliver. On this point he somewhere says:

Let others to the printing presse run fast; Since after death comes glory, I ‘ll not haste.

He had need of his patience, for he was long detained on the road by many of those obstacles that waylay poets on their journeys to the printer.
Herrick was nearly sixty years old when he published the “Hesperides.” It was, I repeat, no heavy message, and the bearer was left an unconscionable time to cool his heels in the ante- chamber. Though his pieces had been set to music by such composers as Lawes, Ramsay, and Laniers, and his court poems had naturally won favor with the Cavalier party, Herrick cut but a small figure at the side of several of his rhyming contemporaries who are now forgotten. It sometimes happens that the light love-song, reaching few or no ears at its first singing, out- lasts the seemingly more prosperous ode which, dealing with some passing phase of thought, social or political, gains the instant applause of the multitude. In most cases the timely ode is somehow apt to fade with the circumstance that inspired it, and becomes the yesterday’s edito- rial of literature. Oblivion likes especially to get hold of occasional poems. That makes it hard for feeble poets laureate.
Mr. Henry James once characterized Al- phonse Daudet as “a great little novelist.” Robert Herrick is a great little poet. The brev- ity of his poems, for he wrote nothing de longue
haleine, would place him among the minor
singers; his workmanship places him among the masters. The Herricks were not a family of goldsmiths and lapidaries for nothing. The accurate touch of the artificer in jewels and costly metals was one of the gifts transmitted to Robert Herrick. Much of his work is as ex- quisite and precise as the chasing on a dagger- hilt by Cellini; the line has nearly always that vine-like fluency which seems impromptu, and is never the result of anything but austere labor. The critic who, borrowing Milton’s words, described these carefully wrought poems as “wood-notes wild” showed a singular lapse of penetration. They are full of subtle simplicity. Here we come across a stanza as severely cut as an antique cameo–the stanza, for instance, in which the poet speaks of his lady-love’s “win- ter face”–and there a couplet that breaks into unfading daffodils and violets. The art, though invisible, is always there. His amatory songs and catches are such poetry as Orlando would have liked to hang on the boughs in the forest of Arden. None of the work is hastily done, not even that portion of it we could wish had not been done at all. Be the motive grave or gay, it is given that faultlessness of form which distinguishes everything in literature that has survived its own period. There is no such thing as “form” alone; it is only the close-grained material that takes the highest finish. The struc- ture of Herrick’s verse, like that of Blake, is simple to the verge of innocence. Such rhyth- mic intricacies as those of Shelley, Tennyson, and Swinburne he never dreamed of. But his manner has this perfection: it fits his matter as the cup of the acorn fits its meat.
Of passion, in the deeper sense, Herrick has little or none. Here are no “tears from the depth of some divine despair,” no probings into the tragic heart of man, no insight that goes much farther than the pathos of a cowslip on a maiden’s grave. The tendrils of his verse reach up to the light, and love the warmer side of the garden wall. But the reader who does not de- tect the seriousness under the lightness misreads Herrick. Nearly all true poets have been whole- some and joyous singers. A pessimistic poet, like the poisonous ivy, is one of nature’s sar- casms. In his own bright pastoral way Herrick must always remain unexcelled. His limitations are certainly narrow, but they leave him in the