POE AND LONGFELLOW

The reason why so few marriages are happy is because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages.—Jonathan Swift.

Though the love of man for woman has been one of the most fruitful sources of inspiration to the poets, verses in which famous authors have sung the praises of women who have become their wives are comparatively rare. The belief is common that the natures of poets are more sensitive than those of other persons. If this is true, it is only reasonable to infer that a poet possesses the power of giving more forceful expression to his sense of bereavement than any other person would be capable of doing.

In the case of Poe, the poem "Annabel Lee," written shortly after the death of his beautiful young wife, is said to have been inspired by the writer's loss. Mrs. Poe, Virginia Clemm, a first cousin of the poet, became his wife before she was fifteen years old. Her wedded life was one of sorrow and hardship, and eleven years later she died of consumption.

The wife of Longfellow died in 1861. Shortly afterward the poem "Via Solitaria" was written. It was not intended for publication, and during Longfellow's lifetime it was not included in any collection of his poems, for the reason that its author regarded it as being too distinctively personal for the public eye.

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.

It was many and many a year agoIn a kingdom by the seaThat a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee,And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee,So that her high-born kinsman cameAnd bore her away from meTo shut her up in a sepulcherIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me.Yes, that was the reason (as all men know),In this kingdom by the sea,That the wind came out of the cloud by nightChilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we,Of many far wiser than we,And neither the angels in heaven aboveNor the demons down under the seaCan ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee,And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And so all the nighttide I lie down by the sideOf my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,In her sepulcher there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.

I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee,So that her high-born kinsman cameAnd bore her away from meTo shut her up in a sepulcherIn this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me.Yes, that was the reason (as all men know),In this kingdom by the sea,That the wind came out of the cloud by nightChilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we,Of many far wiser than we,And neither the angels in heaven aboveNor the demons down under the seaCan ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee,And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And so all the nighttide I lie down by the sideOf my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,In her sepulcher there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Alone, I walked the peopled city,Where each seems happy with his own;Oh! friends, I ask not for your pity—I walk alone.No more for me yon lake rejoices,Though moved by loving airs of June.Oh! birds, your sweet and piping voicesAre out of tune.In vain for me the elm tree archesIts plumes in many a feathery spray,In vain the evening's starry marchesAnd sunlit day.In vain your beauty, Summer flowers;Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes;They gaze on other fields than ours—On other skies.The gold is rifled from the coffer,The blade is stolen from the sheath;Life has but one more boon to offer,And that is—Death.Yet well I know the voice of Duty,And, therefore, life and health must crave,Though she who gave the world its beautyIs in her grave.I live, O lost one! for the livingWho drew their earliest life from thee,And wait, until with glad thanksgivingI shall be free.For life to me is as a stationWherein apart a traveler stands—One absent long from home and nation,In other lands;And I, as he who stands and listens,Amid the twilight's chill and gloom,To hear, approaching in the distance,The train for home.For death shall bring another mating,Beyond the shadows of the tomb,On yonder shore a bride is waitingUntil I come.In yonder field are children playing,And there—oh, vision of delight!—I see the child and mother strayingIn robes of white.Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest,Stealing the treasures one by one,I'll call Thee blessed when Thou makestThe parted—one.

Alone, I walked the peopled city,Where each seems happy with his own;Oh! friends, I ask not for your pity—I walk alone.

No more for me yon lake rejoices,Though moved by loving airs of June.Oh! birds, your sweet and piping voicesAre out of tune.

In vain for me the elm tree archesIts plumes in many a feathery spray,In vain the evening's starry marchesAnd sunlit day.

In vain your beauty, Summer flowers;Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes;They gaze on other fields than ours—On other skies.

The gold is rifled from the coffer,The blade is stolen from the sheath;Life has but one more boon to offer,And that is—Death.

Yet well I know the voice of Duty,And, therefore, life and health must crave,Though she who gave the world its beautyIs in her grave.

I live, O lost one! for the livingWho drew their earliest life from thee,And wait, until with glad thanksgivingI shall be free.

For life to me is as a stationWherein apart a traveler stands—One absent long from home and nation,In other lands;

And I, as he who stands and listens,Amid the twilight's chill and gloom,To hear, approaching in the distance,The train for home.

For death shall bring another mating,Beyond the shadows of the tomb,On yonder shore a bride is waitingUntil I come.

In yonder field are children playing,And there—oh, vision of delight!—I see the child and mother strayingIn robes of white.

Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest,Stealing the treasures one by one,I'll call Thee blessed when Thou makestThe parted—one.

A Series of Papers That Will Be Continued from Month to Monthand Will Include All Players of Note.

As a School Marm She Got Behind Footlightsto Dodge Promotion fromKindergarten to Primary Grade.

I knew that Blanche Bates came of a theatrical family, and that, therefore, she had an open sesame to the stage, but I did not know just when she made her first appearance, and to learn this forThe Scrap BookI sought her out in the brief interval of rest she has, without a costume change, between the first and second acts of "The Girl of the Golden West."

"How did I make my start?" she repeated in answer to my question. "Well, I rather think it was because I balked at the idea of being known as a 'school marm.' I'll tell you about it. Although both my father and mother were on the stage, I didn't care for the life in the least. In fact, in my small young mind, I set up to being a very grand lady.

"'An actress? No, indeed,' I told myself. 'Something much better than that for me.' I was interested in young children and became a kindergarten teacher in San Francisco, where my mother was playing with L.R. Stockwell. But it was my very success with the youngsters that brought about the close of my career as a teacher. If I could do so well in the kindergarten, the committee argued, I was worth promoting, so one day they came to me with the announcement that I had been advanced to the charge of a grade in the primary department.

"I suppose I should have felt duly honored, but I didn't. I sat down and began to look ahead, through the vista of years to come. A teacher, a schoolmistress! That somehow didn't agree with the ideas of the grand lady my fancy had conjured up. And, at that psychological moment mother came home with a proposition from Mr. Stockwell.

"It seemed that they were to give him a benefit, and he suggested to her, by way of novelty in the bill, that I should appear in a one-act play. Coming as it did just as I was wavering in my mind about my prospects in the teaching business, the idea caught me, and I said: 'Yes, I'd like to do it.'

"The play was 'The Picture,' by Brander Matthews, and I was the only woman in it, with the gamut of all the passions to run in the portrayal of the part. But I was too young and inexperienced to be frightened at the notion. I went on, and got through, and with the smell of the footlights possessing me I became thoroughly set upon a New York appearance."

After her experience with the Stockwell forces, Miss Bates secured an opening with the Frawley stock as utility woman at twenty dollars a week, which led to the realization of her hopes in the way of a chance on Broadway. And this came in the shape of an engagement with no less famous a company than Augustin Daly's. She made her début in February, 1899, but lasted only two nights.

"The resignation of Blanche Bates from Augustin Daly's theatrical company will give a good many persons the chance to say 'I told you so,' the dramatic critic of the New YorkSunobserved at the time. "A short career for Miss Bates on that stage was predicted on the opening night of 'The Great Ruby; or, The Kiss of Blood.'

"She was called before the curtain four times after her best scene, and the applause was enthusiastic and genuine. That would have been enough to base the belief on. But there was a second and bigger reason, said the prophets, why her stay would be brief.

"The curtain later fell in silence on what should have been an impressive climax for Ada Rehan, and was lifted a single timeafter the ushers had incited a mild demonstration of personal regard for that favorite.

"It has never been customary to have at Daly's any other actress of dramatic strength than Miss Rehan. The rôles secondary in serious importance have been played by charming but weak young women. As soon as rivalry began, as in the case of Maxine Elliott, it was removed.

"In the sensational melodrama from Drury Lane, with the singularly felicitous title or sub-title of 'The Kiss of Blood,' is a Russian adventuress, who has an honest love affair, though she is a thief, and who is the only female character to figure in the heroics of the play. Miss Bates was assigned to it.

"She had come from California, and was unknown here. She proved to be handsome, fiery, forceful, and very talented. She was a revelation to the first audience, and it was disposed to go wild over her.

"Maybe it would have been better for Miss Rehan if the part had been given to her. Perhaps she had disliked to enact a wicked woman. Anyway, she had chosen instead to appear as a vain, frivolous, but clean and cheerful, wife of a London tradesman.

"This had been written as an eccentric character, and at the Drury Lane it had been played with irresistible drollery by Mrs. John Wood. But Miss Rehan had no mind to look grotesque, and as to low comedy, it is clear out of her line.

"In a serio-comic scene of somnambulism, where Mrs. Wood had been a fright in curl papers and a funny nightgown, Miss Rehan sacrificed nothing to the comic requirements. She was as dignified and stately as anyLady Macbeth. For those reasons the sleep-walking episode, which had been very valuable in London, counted for nothing here, and at its end the actress had good reason to know that it had failed with the audience.

"It was then that experts foretold the withdrawal of the California actress. She appeared at Daly's only one more night. She had not found Daly's Theater comfortable."

Naturally, Miss Bates did not long remain without an engagement. She was snapped up by the Lieblers forMiladiin "The Musketeers," and soon caught the eye of Belasco, who featured her in "Under Two Flags." Her real arrival, however, was with "The Darling of the Gods," which brought her seven hundred and fifty dollars a week salary and a percentage of the receipts, not a mean advance from the twenty dollars she had been getting from Frawley less than five years before.

It Led Him from His Native London,Through Canada, and Finally to theOld Lyceum Stock Company.

Henry Miller was born in London, but brought up in Canada. He was only a schoolboy when he chanced to read a magazine article about Henry Irving. This fired him with the ambition to act, but he set about realizing it in a most matter-of-fact and sensible way.

Instead of running off to join some theatrical troupe as a super, he began the study of elocution under the late W.C. Couldock, best remembered perhaps as the worthy miller, father ofHazel Kirke. This was at Miller's home, in Toronto, and here he had four years of grounding in the text of Shakespeare.

He was barely nineteen when the chance came, at a Toronto theater, for him to show what his studying had taught him. He was assigned to the part of the bleedingSergeantin "Macbeth," and the very fact that the company was merely a scratch affair, not far removed from the barnstorming category, really worked to young Miller's advantage.

He was the first leading man with the old Lyceum stock, in "The Wife," and the second at the Empire. In 1899, he expressed his greatest ambition as being the management of a New York theater. This he has realized the past winter at the Princess, where he organized and produced "Zira" for Miss Anglin.

As a Child of Ten She Excited RoseEytinge's Anger Because SheLacked Experience.

Annie Russell, like Miss Bates, comes of theatrical stock, so the door to the stage was on the latch for her.

Miss Russell's first appearance took place in Montreal when she was ten years old, and was preceded by a heart-breaking episode. Rose Eytinge was playing "Miss Multon" against Clara Morris. Two children are needed in the piece, and when Miss Eytinge ascertained that one of them—Jeanne, assigned to Annie Russell—had never been on before, she was furious.

"Do you want to queer the show when so much depends on it?" she demanded of E.A. McDowell, her manager.

The girl, Annie, chanced to overhear her, and fell to weeping bitterly. Miss Eytinge noticed her, had her heart touched by the spectacle, soothed the child, and allowed her to play the part. Later on she appeared in the chorus of a juvenile "Pinafore" company, and was soon promoted to beJosephine.

Then she made a big jump—to the West Indies, to look out for her small brother Tommy, the "child actor" of the company, later one of the two famousFauntleroysand now a dramatic critic on a New York paper. While with this troupe she was pressed into service to fill a big variety of parts, giving her a good foundation on which to build her big hit in the sun-bonnet of "Esmeralda."

She followed this with another success, in an altogether different line—the poetical one of "Elaine," and then fell ill. For some years she remained off the boards, close to death's door, and returned to them finally in a weakling play by Sydney Grundy, "The New Woman."

She took the taste of this out of the public's mouth by a triumph both here and in London with "Sue," and then went into the background once more with "Catherine," from the French.

Her real arrival as a popular star was made in the autumn of '99, at the Lyceum, in "Miss Hobbs."

He Was Encouraged to Become an Actorby a Prize Which, as a Boy, He Wonfor Proficiency in Declamation.

Mantell, now in Shakespeare, made his professional start as a sergeant. This was in 1874, in the Rochdale Theater, Lancashire, England, under the stage name of Hudson. The play was "Arrah-na Pogue." He was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, on the 7th of February, 1854, but was brought up in Ireland, where he won a medal at school for his proficiency in declamation. This turned his attention to the amateur stage, where his first appearance was made asDe Maupratin "Richelieu."

He came to America in the same year that he began to act professionally, and he procured an engagement with the Museum stock company in Boston. But he soon returned to England, where he remained for four years, acting in the provinces, and when the States saw him again it was in 1878, when he and Miller were with Modjeska.

His first real lift into popularity arrived when Fanny Davenport engaged him forLorisin "Fedora." In this part he was accounted one of the best-looking men who had trod the American boards, and he established a vogue for himself that paved the way for his stellar career of several years in the one play "Monbars."

Abetted by Mark Twain, the Future Playwrightand Star Took to "The Road,"Which He Found a Thorny One.

William Gillette may be said to have reached the stage on the run, for he ran away from home in order to gratify his ambition to become an actor. His family were staid citizens of Hartford, Connecticut, where his father once ran for Governor of the State.

The idea was to make a lawyer of William, but after he got over a taste for mechanics, which led him to construct secretly a steam-engine in his bedroom, he conceived for the stage a craze that refused to be snuffed out by parental opposition.

Mark Twain, a neighbor in Hartford, was on the boy's side. His "Gilded Age" was being dramatized, and the author lent his influence to get young Gillette a place in the cast as foreman of the jury in the company of which John T. Raymond was the head. In this rôle he was entrusted with the onerous task of saying these four words in response to the question of the judge: "We have. Not guilty."

Gillette was barely nineteen at the time, and after the run of "The Gilded Age" was over he found himself in New Orleans without another engagement or the chance of obtaining one. Finally he secured an opening on these magnificent terms—agreeing to play without salary and to furnish his own costumes.

The post was that of leading utility man for a New Orleans stock company, and when, after serving for a while under these humiliating conditions for the sake of the experience it would bring, Gillette mildly suggested that he be paid a small honorarium, he was told there was one alternative that was always open to him—he could leave, which he did.

Thereupon ensued a rough and tumble period of existence for the young actor, who did not arrive at pleasant pastures again until he took to writing plays himself. And yet his first production to reachthe footlights was by no means an overwhelming success. This was "The Professor," produced at the Madison Square Theater, with himself in the leading part, when that house was managed by an Episcopal clergyman and his brother.

It is such a superhuman task to secure a manager's attention for a play that the new playwright is prone to feel that the Rubicon has been passed once the manuscript has been accepted. But in reality this is only a halting-place on the roadside where he may tarry to obtain his second wind. And young Gillette needed all the recuperative powers possible, for when "The Professor" was brought to public attention the critics hurled at it their keenest shafts.

The actor-playwright managed to survive, although his play didn't, and, failing to be discouraged, he went ahead with his work on "Esmeralda." This was a story written by Frances Hodgson Burnett, in which the Mallorys of the theater had become interested, and the dramatization of which, in association with the author, they had entrusted to Gillette. This proved to be a big hit, with Annie Russell in the name-part, and ran to over three hundred performances.

Another adaptation success quickly followed—that of "The Private Secretary," in which Gillette also played. Meantime he was at work on another original piece, "Held by the Enemy," a war drama which almost beat "Shenandoah" on its own ground in the race for popularity.

Inspired by the success he had achieved, Gillette was not content to go ahead on the same lines. He ached to branch out, to astonish folks, to do something big, and with his record behind him he had little difficulty in persuading Charles Frohman to go halves in the production of "Ninety Days."

This was a melodrama of the most lurid type, but the Third Avenue edge of it was supposed to be taken off by the elaborate fashion in which it was staged and the care with which the mechanical effects were looked after. It failed completely, running a bare month, and carrying down all Gillette's savings in its collapse. The disappointment shattered his health, and he retired to a cabin in South Carolina, where, after a time, he set to work on some more adaptations—"Too Much Johnson," "All the Comforts of Home," and "Mr. Wilkinson's Widows."

These were all produced successfully, which could not be said of what eventually turned out to be his most famous work; for "Secret Service," called originally "The Secret Service," was looked upon coldly when it was launched in Philadelphia, with Maurice Barrymore in the lead.

Gillette gave the piece a thorough overhauling, and it was put on in the new form, and with the author as the hero, at the Garrick, New York, in 1896, and made the hit that was really the beginning of Gillette's career of fame as actor-playwright.

He Studied for the Ministry and RanAway to Sea Before He Got Intothe Spot-light.

Kyrle Bellew, soon to follow "Raffles" with "The Right of Way," is the son of an actor who bore the reputation of being the handsomest man in England. He married the daughter of a commodore, and left the stage to enter the church, becoming Bishop of Calcutta. Harold Kyrle (by which name Bellew was then known), being the eldest son, was destined to follow in his father's footsteps, and studied for holy orders at Oxford.

But he soon found that he had made a mistake. His flesh constantly warred against the confining life of the scholar, and at nineteen he ran away to sea, in the old-fashioned way of the story-books.

After five years on salt water he found himself back in England, no further advanced in this world's goods than when he cut stick from Oxford. He wandered about London, not daring to go home, and without money in his pockets. It was at this crisis that he chanced to read an advertisement calling for a light comedian to join a company for the provinces, the salary to be two pounds (ten dollars) a week.

The blood that had come from his actor-father stirred in his veins, and he went at once to apply for the post. His good looks and pleasing address outweighed his lack of experience, and he was transported with joy at being engaged.

While playing in Dublin asGeorge de Lesparrein Boucicault's "Led Astray" his work and appearance so impressed a critic that he wrote to Boucicault, in London, about him. The dramatist at once sent for the unknown actor, and gave him a position in the company at the Haymarket, where in three years' time he rose to be leading man. From there he went to the Lyceum, under Henry Irving, where he first used the name "Kyrle Bellew."

EULOGIES PRONOUNCED AT THE GRAVE BY SIRECTOR ON SIR LAUNCELOT, AND BY ROBERTG. INGERSOLL ON E.C. INGERSOLL.

However unemotional man may be, his deepest sentiments are stirred when he stands face to face with death. The sense of loss; the uncertainty; the vastness of the mystery, which can be solved only by conjecture or the intuitions of faith—all these solemn elements call out the most interior thought and feeling.

Among the recorded utterances of grief we have selected two for our readers. Each is a funeral oration over the body of a brother. In literature we go back to old Sir Thomas Malory for the "doleful complaints" of Sir Ector de Moris over the dead Sir Launcelot, his brother. It will be remembered that after the death of Queen Guinevere, as recorded in the "Morte d'Arthur," Sir Launcelot "ever after eat but little meat, nor drank, but continually mourned until he was dead." They bore him to Joyous Gard, where he had desired to be buried, and thither came Sir Ector, who for seven years had been vainly seeking his brother.

The second utterance is the eulogy which was pronounced by the late Robert G. Ingersoll at the funeral of his brother, E.C. Ingersoll. Under similar conditions of grief no deeper note has been so eloquently sounded. Colonel Ingersoll touched the meanings of life, and, infidel though he was, ventured a noble hope in death.

And then Sir Ector threw his shield, his sword, and his helm from him; and when he beheld Sir Launcelot's visage, he fell down in a swoon; and when he awoke, it were hard for any tongue to tell the doleful complaints that he made for his brother. "Ah! Sir Launcelot," said he, "thou wert head of all Christian knights. And now, I dare say," said Sir Ector, "that Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, thou wert never matched of none earthly knight's hands; and thou wert the courtliest knight that ever bear shield; and thou wert the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever struck with sword; and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights; and thou wert the meekest man, and the gentlest, that ever eat in hall among ladies; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest."

Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust.Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower.He was the friend of heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstition far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of the grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak and with a willing hand gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshiper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: "For justice, all place a temple and all season summer."He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did a loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "I am better now."Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower.

He was the friend of heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstition far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of the grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak and with a willing hand gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshiper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: "For justice, all place a temple and all season summer."

He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did a loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "I am better now."

Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

In the history of literature there are occasionally noted the names of some distinguished writers whose best remembered work was accomplished at the very beginning of their careers. One remarkable illustration is found in the poem "Thanatopsis," which was composed by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) when he was but seventeen years of age.

His father found the poem in his son's desk, together with the manuscript of "The Waterfowl," and was so affected by the discovery of verse so unusual that he hastened to the house of a neighbor, thrust the manuscripts into his hand, and then burst into tears as he exclaimed:

"Oh, read that. It is Cullen's!"

"Thanatopsis" was taken by Dr. Bryant to the editor of the newly establishedNorth American Review; but this gentleman and the friends to whom he showed it were at first unwilling to believe that an American could have written so fine a poem. It was, however, published (in 1817); yet even then, and for a long time after, most persons credited it to Dr. Bryant rather than to his son.

The importance of "Thanatopsis" is at once literary and historical. It is in reality the first original note ever sounded in American poetry. Until that time Americans had merely imitated whatever style of writing happened to be current in England. Bryant, however, attained spontaneous self-expression and distinct individuality. He drew a direct inspiration from Nature itself; and his lines were vivified by the imagination that is unforced. The publication of "Thanatopsis," therefore, is now held to mark the date at which the national literature of America begins.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language: for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty; and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements—To be a brother to the insensible rock,And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good—Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between—The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning; traverse Barca's desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings—yet the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite fantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good—Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between—The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning; traverse Barca's desert sands,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings—yet the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite fantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

A Few Reflections, Pertinent and Impertinent, on the Subject of Clothes, Their Cost, andthe Consequences of Sartorial Splendor.

Dwellers in huts and marble halls—From shepherdess up to queen—Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,And nothing for crinoline.But now simplicity's not the rage,And it's funny to think how coldThe dress they wore in the Golden AgeWould seem in the Age of Gold.

Henry S. Leigh—The Two Ages.

Nothing is thought rareWhich is not new, and follow'd; yet we knowThat what was worn some twenty years agoComes into grace again.

Beaumont and Fletcher—Prologue to the Noble Gentleman.

Dress drains our cellar dry,And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires,And introduces hunger, frost, and wo.Where peace and hospitality might reign.

Cowper—The Task. Bk. II.

He that is proud of the rustling of his silks, like a madman, laughs at the rattling of his fetters. For indeed, Clothes ought to be our remembrancers of our lost innocency.

Fuller—The Holy and Profane States.

I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,And entertain some score or two of tailors,To study fashions to adorn my body:Since I am crept in favor with myself,I will maintain it with some little cost.

Richard III. Act I. Sc. 2.

So tedious is this day,As is the night before some festivalTo an impatient child, that hath new robes,And may not wear them.

Romeo and Juliet. Act III. Sc. 2.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 3.

The glass of fashion and the mold of form,The observ'd of all observers.

Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 1.

Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.

Henry VIII. Act I. Sc. 3.

You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred;only I do not like the fashion of your garments.

King Lear. Act III. Sc. 6.

He is only fantastical that is not in fashion.

Burton—Anatomy of Melancholy.

And as the French we conquer'd once,Now gives us laws for pantaloons,The length of breeches and the gathers,Port-cannons, periwigs, and feathers.

Butler—Hudibras. Pt. I. Canto III.

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.

Beaumont and Fletcher—Honest Man's Fortune. Act V. Sc. 3.

A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat;A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility—Do more bewitch me than when artIs too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick—Delight in Disorder.

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