RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”
MONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary preliminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the world of letters—having not this passport through the gateway—it is the more indicative of the “real genius” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an applauding public.
Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father, Rev. Wm. H. Gilder. Mr. Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to study for that profession in Philadelphia; but the death of his father, in 1864, made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, New Jersey, “Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he resigned and founded the “Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as joint editor. The next year, Mr. Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called to New York as editor of “Hours at Home,” a monthly journal.
His editorials in “Hours at Home” attracted public attention, and some of his poems were recognized as possessing superior merit. Dr. G. Holland, editor of “Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, in 1870, it became the “Century Magazine,” Dr. Holland chose Mr. Gilder as his associate editor. On the death of Dr. Holland, in 1881, Mr. Gilder became editor-in-chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes of poems, among which are “The New Day;” “The Poet and His Master’; “Lyrics;” and “The Celestial Passion.”
Aside from his literary works, Mr. Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “spoils-hunting partisan class,” but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. Thus “he was born,” as the saying goes, “with printer’s ink in his veins.” When sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made—running over a period of eight months—vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done much good also in other cities.
Mr. Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no stauncher friend than he. His address on “Public Opinion” has been delivered by invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty as it should be taught by our institutions of learning:—
“Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are scattered throughout our country? They are the responsible press, and the unsensational but fearless pulpit—it is these that must discriminate; that must set the standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes leadership effectual and saving.”
As appears from the above Mr. Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises sham, hypocrisy and all “wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers and enemies of the public. In his own words,—
“He, only, is the despicable one
Who lightly sells his honor as a shield
For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun.
Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yield
For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise
The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”
SONNET.
(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)
From the “Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The Century Co.
KNOW not if I love her overmuch;
But this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her head, with such
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why, for that is a strange art—
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Who long her light have known; but for the rose
She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.
THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co.
HIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day—
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.
SHERIDAN.
From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co.
UIETLY, like a child
That sinks in slumber mild,
No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,
Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.
Though his the power to smite
Quick as the lightning’s light,—
His single arm an army, and his name a host,—
Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.
But in the battle’s flame
How glorious he came!—
Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,
While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.
’Twas he,—his voice, his might,—
Could stay the panic flight,
Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,
And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.
He was our modern Mars;
Yet firm his faith that wars
Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,
And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.
Blest land, in whose dark hour
Arise to loftiest power
No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!
Of such our chief of all;
And he who broke the wall
Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.
And now above his tomb
From out the eternal gloom
“Welcome!” his [♦]chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s knell;
And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”
[♦] “chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”
SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN.[¹]
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
UT then the sunset smiled,
Smiled once and turned toward dark,
Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed
Along the horizon’s edge;
Like hooded monks that hark
Through evening air
The call to prayer;—
Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;
When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,
Brown-gray,
Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,
The interspace, green-blue—
The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,
The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.
Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,
Wondering if thy deep brow
In dreams of me were lifted to the skies,
Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;
If thou didst stand alone,
Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,
But closer and more dear,
Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line
Of blackening pine;
When lo! that second smile;—dear heart, it was thine own.
[¹] Copyright, The Century Co.
“O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THE SEA.”[¹]
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
SILVER river flowing to the sea,
Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!
Poets have sung thy ever-living power,
Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;
Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,
What commerce thine, how many myriads reap
The harvest of thy waters. They have sung
Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung
From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts
Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts
Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—
Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;
The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,
Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains
On either side, far to the salty main,
Like golden coins alternate on a chain.
Thou pathway of the empire of the North,
Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!
I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout
That follows when a hero from the rout
Of battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he,
How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But she
Who knows him best—“How tender!” So thou art
The river of love to me!
—Heart of my heart,
Dear love and bride—is it not so indeed?—
Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.
[¹] Copyright, The Century Co.
“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.”[¹]
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
HERE is nothing new under the sun;
There is no new hope or despair;
The agony just begun
Is as old as the earth and the air.
My secret soul of bliss
Is one with the singing stars,
And the ancient mountains miss
No hurt that my being mars.
I know as I know my life,
I know as I know my pain,
That there is no lonely strife,
That he is mad who would gain
A separate balm for his woe,
A single pity and cover;
The one great God I know
Hears the same prayer over and over.
I know it because at the portal
Of Heaven I bowed and cried,
And I said: “Was ever a mortal
Thus crowned and crucified!
My praise thou hast made my blame;
My best thou hast made my worst;
My good thou hast turned to shame;
My drink is a flaming thirst.”
But scarce my prayer was said
Ere from that place I turned;
I trembled, I hung my head,
My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;
For there where I bowed down
In my boastful agony,
I thought of thy cross and crown—
O Christ! I remembered thee.
[¹] Copyright, The Century Co.
MEMORIAL DAY.[¹]
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
HE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,
The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling;
She saw the tattered banners falling
About the broken staffs, as one by one
The remnant of the mighty army passed;
And at the last
Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.
She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet
As the long line swept round the crowded square;
She heard the incessant hum
That filled the warm and blossom-scented air—
The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,
The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meet
To honor thus the dead,
Who chose the better part,
Who for their country bled!
—The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street,
Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart—
While far away
His grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands to-day.
[¹] Copyright, The Century Co.
A WOMAN’S THOUGHT.[¹]
From “Five Books of Song” (1894).
AM a woman—therefore I may not
Call him, cry to him,
Fly to him,
Bid him delay not!
And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;
Still as a stone—
All silent and cold.
If my heart riot—
Crush and defy it!
Should I grow bold,
Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him—
What to atone
Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning—
That he were lost to me.
Not as a lover
At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure—
Calm and demure
Then must I hold me,
In myself fold me,
Lest he discover;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me—
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.
Pity me, lean to me,
Thou God above me!
[¹] Copyright, The Century Co.
